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1-' 1-.J

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

1/ ,....,.

MONTHLY MAGAZINE

General Literature and Science.

VOL. IX.
APRIL, 1869, TO SEPTEMBER, 1869.

• • •

• ■ • •
- ♦ - .

■ s *

NEW YORK:
|THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE,

126 Nassau Street

1869.

bbUbb/

•

W, GREXN, PRINT**,
i6ndi8JaoobSt.. N. Y.

CONTENTS.

ibrey de Vere in America, 364.

Qunese Husband's Lament for his Wife, 379.

fda. 634, 756.

idqdties of New York, 653.

1 for the Faith, 684.

i■^» of Rome, 86.
«ellM?en, 533, 607, 783.

^*duAic anj Protestant Countries, Morality of, 5a.

C^xtbdlidty and Pantheism, 355, 554.

Qiiaeie Husband's Lament for his Wife, 379.

Comcil of the Vatican, The Approaching, 356.

Colvbos at Salamanca, 433.

Cawcil of Baltimore, The Second Plenary, 497.

'^"cb, Our Elstablished, 577.

^■n* of Nativity, 660.

'^■>»Biion of Rome, The, 790,

^y^»«k» 37. »57. 303, 44^1 588, 731.
^''atioD of Life, Influence of Locality on, 73.
"^ Vere, Aubrey, in America, 364.
''^Can, Hon. Thomas, 767.

*>OjrLindcr, 98, 321.
'^>cational Question, The, Z3X.

U] Affection, as Practised by the Chinete, 416.
'^ign Literary Notes, 429, 711.
ith. All fur the, 684.

leral Council, The Approaching^ 14.
od Old Saxon, 318.

itcmore Brandon, 63, x88.

eland. Modem Street Ballads of, 32.
«h Church Act of 1S69, The, 338.
^gration, The Philosophy o^ 399.
!^d, A Glimpse of, 738.

**iih Church, Letter and Spirit in the, 69a

j"der, Emily. 98, 33 x.

^Aj 00 Morals 539'

4tter and Spirit in the Jewish Church, 6901,

40 X. and his Age, 699.

kk Flowers of Spain, 70^

Morality of Catholic and Protestant Coantriesb 5X

My Mother's Only Son, 349.

Man, Primeval, 746.

Moral Aspects of Rooianism, 845.

Matanxas, How it came to be called Matanttii Sfx

New*York, Antiquities oi, 653.
Nativity, The Charms o( 660.

Omnibos, The, Two Hundred Years Ago, 135.

Our Established Church, 577.

Pope Joan, Fable o( z.

Problems of the Age and iU Critics, 175.

Pope or People, ax a.

Physical Basis of Lifie, The, 467.

PrixzMTal Man, 746.

Paganina, 803.

Rome, The Bishops of, 86.
Ravignan, Xavier de, xxa.
Ruined Life, A, 385.
Roses, The Geography of, 406.
Religioa Emblemed in Flowers, 541.
Rome, Conversion ot, 79a
Recent Scientific Discoveries, 8x4.

Spain, Two Months in, X99, 343, 4771 675.

Spiritism and Spirits, 389.

Supernatural, The, 335.

St Mary's, 366.

St. Peter, First Bishop of Rome, 374.

Spanish Life and Character, 4x3.

Sauntering, 459, 613.

Sister Aloyse's Bequest, 489.

St Thomas, The Legend o^ 5x2.

Spiritualism and Materialism, 6x91

Spun, Little Flowers (^, 706.

Scientific Discoveries^ Raoent, 8x4.

St Oxen's Priory, 839^

The Woman Question, X45.
The Omnibus Two Hundred Years Ago, x3|.
To those who tell us what Time it is, 565.
The New Englander on the Moral Aqtedt of Ro-
manism, 845.

Wonan Question, The, 145.

Contents.

A BCaj Flower, aSx
A May Carol, 373.

Faith, 54a

Lent, 1869b 31.

March Omens, 97.
May Flower, aSa.

May Carol, 373.
Maxk IV., 587.

Mother's Prayer, A, 673.

POETRY,

Oar Lady's Easter, 197.

Sic]c.85x

To a Favorite Madonna, 564.
The Pearl and the Poison, 7za
The Flight into Egypt, 766.
The Assumption of Our Lady, 789.

V%il.40S.

When, 73.
Waiting, 323.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Alliea's Fonnation of Christendom, 983.

Anne S^verin, a86.

Anerbach's Black Forest, 494.

Aric of the Covenant, The, 427.

Ark of Ehn Island, 428.

Alice's Adventures in Wooder Land, 43^

Alice Murray, 57a

Af^eton's Annual Cydopxdia, 719.

Alt American Woman in Europe, 856.

A German Reader, 859.

Bridunose's Travels, 140.
Bacon's False and Time Definitbmi of Faith, 43a.
I's Life and Works, 716.

Cottellob John M., 143.
Conyngham's Irish Brigade, yaa
Cantarinm Romanuro, etc, 856.

Dahlia Review, The, 426.

Dolby's Chorch EmbroideTy and Va a Uiwula , 437.

Dotty Dimple Stories, 438.

Die AUe and Neue Welt, 575.

Die Jenseitiige Welt, 715.

Divorce^ Esny ooi 8601

£iidoda,a86i

Fkce Masons, The^ 436^

FcnediSiB, 438.

Finfloo's Convenadont with de Ramaai, 573.

GlimpaeB of Pleasant Homtsb 433.

Hcwif a Medical ProiesaioQ and the Ed«cat«l daat-

Heibert's, Lady, Love : or, Self-Sacrite 574-
Heat, The Laws of, 576.
Habermeister, The, 7x9.

Joliette» 439.

life and Works of /Cngussios, X4x.
Little Women, 576.
leaver's Poetical Works, 859.

Mootaiges Legacy, 386.
McQure's Poems, 388.
Manual of General History, 388.
Martineau's Biographical Sketches, 435.
Mailer's Chips from a German Workshop, 571.
Mental Photographs, 576.
Mother Margaret M. Hallahan, Life of, 7r4«
Meditations on the Suffering of our Lord Ji
Christ 856.

Nature and Grace, 574.

Notre Dame, Silver Jubilee of| 858.

Nora Brady's Vow, 859.

Oxenham on the Atonement, 568.

Pastoral of the Archlnshop of Baltimore, lit.
Problematic Characters, 717.

Reminiscences of Mendelssohn, 428.
Report on Gun-shot Wounds, 857.

Sunday-School Qass-Book, 387.
Studious Women, 387.
Salt-Water Dick, 438.
Sogarth Aroon, 719.
Service Manual, Military, 857.

Thunder and Lightning, 384.

Twelve Nights in a Hunter's Camp, 437.

Taine's Italy, Florence, etc, 574.

The Fisher Maiden, 576.

The Two Schools, 859.

The Irish Widow's Son, 860.

Veith's Instruments of the Passion, 141.

Wonders of Optics, The, 384.

Why Men do not Believe, 384.

Wiseman's Meditations, 431.

Winifred, 575.

Warwick, 716.

Walter Savage Landor, 718.

Wandering Recollections of a Busy Life, 718b

Way of Sahradoa, l*he, 859.

McShOTry's Essays, 143.

Young Christian's Library, 719.

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. IX., No. 49^—

- .-»:r -Vrt^

THE FABLE OF POPE JOA^JhZ:. ^

•*Biit avoid fiwUdi nd old irivW fiiblML**— i Tfan. It. 7.

Every one is more or less ^miliar
widi the story of a female pope,
nUdiruns thus: Pope Leo IV. died
m Sss, and in the catalogue of Popes
Benedict III. appears as his succes-
sor. Thisy claim the Joan story-td-
kn, is incorrect ; for between Leo and
Benedict the papal throne was for
Boie than two years occupied by a
voman. Her name is not permitted
to appear in the list of popes, for the
reason that historians devoted to the
interests of the church desired to
throw the veil of oblivion over so sac-
degious a scandal, and here, say they,
is the true account of the affiur.

On the death of Leo IV. the clergy
snd people of Rome met to elect his
snccessor, and they chose a 3roung
priest, a comparative stranger in
Rome, who during his short residence
&ere had acquired an immense repu-
tation for learning and virtue, and
who, on becoming pope, assimied the
name of John VII., or, according to
some, John VIII.*

BanMd John, and sC
to tpfcad tlwfv okI

*AaditwMthe
fcn tss then wtn seren
IW period when the story
MWitwcaty BD>

Now, the pope so elected was, in
&ct, a woman, the daughter of an
English couple travelling in Germany.
She was bom in Fulda, where she
grew up and was wdl educated. Dis-
guised as a man, she entered the mo-
nastery at Fulda, where she remain-
ed undiscovered for years, and torn
which she eventually doped with a
monk. They fled to Eng^d, thence
to France and Italy, and finally to
Greece. They were both profoundly
versed in all Uie science of the day,
and went to Athens to study the lite-
rature and language of that country.
Here the monk died. Giovanna (her
name was also Gilberta or Agnes,
according to the fency of the writer)*
then left Athens and went to Rome,
where her reputation for learning and
the &me of her virtue soon spread.
She gave public lectures and disputa-
tions, to which she attracted immense
crowds of heaters, all delighted with
her exemplary piety and astonished
at her matchless learning. All the
students of Rome, and even profes-

* Rtr aaidtn BB
<adafi4riicwititiy.

A^Mtibr tho fint ikM gb«B it

VOL. IX. — I

Tlu Fable of Pope Joan.

son, flocked to hear her. On the
death of Leo, she was elected pope
by the clergy and people of Rome
fix>m among many men preeminent
for their learning and virtue. After
governing with great wisdom for more
than two yean — these being, not the
lightest suspicion of her aes--«he left
the Vatican on a certain festival at
the head of the clergy, to walk in pro-
cession to^tbe Lateran; but on the
way was seized with the pains of la-
bor, and in the open street, amid the
astounded bishops and dergy and
surrounding concourse of people, then
and there gave birth to a child — and
died. After this occurrence, it was
determined that the pontiff in proces-
sion should never pass that desecrated
street, and a statue was placed on the
spot to perpetuate the infamy of the
fiu:t, and a certain ceremony, minute-
ly described, was ordained to be ob-
served at the consecration of all future
popes, in order to prevent the poasi-
Ulity of any similar scandal.

Of course there are numerous ver-
sions of the narrative, infinitely varied
in every detail, as is apt to be the
case with any story starting fiom no
place or person in particular and con-
tributed to by everybody in general

As told, this incident is supposed to
fill every polemical Protestant with
delight, and to fill convicted Catho-
lics with what Carlyle calls '' astonish-
ment and unknown pangs.*'

Now, granting every tittle of the
-story as related to be true, we see no
good reason for delight on one side
nor pangs on the other. We repeat,
•conceding its entire truth, there is
nothing in the story that necessarily
entails injury or disgrace on the Ca-
tholic Church. Why should it? Ca-
tholic morality and doctrine do not
■depend upon the personal qualities of
popes. In this case, supposing the
: story true, who was elected pope ? A
.man — as all concerned honestly be-

lieved—of acknowledged learning
and virtue. There was no intrigue,
no improper influence; and those
who elected him had no share in the
imposture, but were the victims, not
the participators, of the deceit prac-
tised. The cunning and the impos-
ture were all hers, and her crime con-
sisted, not in being delivered in the
streets, but in not having lived chaste-
ly. True, it was a scandalous acci-
dent; but the scandal could not add
to the original immorality of which,
in all the worid, but two persons
were guilty, and guilty in secret — for
there is no pretence, in all the ver-
sions, that the outward life of the pre-
tended she-pope was otherwise than
Uameless and even edifying. Those
who elected her were totally ignorant
of her sex — an ignorance entirely ex-
cusable-— an error of fact brought
about by artful imposture. To their
honor be it said, that they recognized
in their choice the sole merits of piety
and learning, and wished to reward
them.

But a female pope was once the
head of the church 1 Dreadful re-
proach to come fix>m those who call
themselves Reformed, Evangelical,
and Puritans, who have not only U^e-
rated but established, nay, and even
forced some queens and princesses
to declare themselves Head of the
Church or Defender of the Faith to
their own dominions, and dispose-^as
one of them does to this day— of
church dignities and benefices, and
order other matters ecclesiastical ac-
cording to their personal will and
pleasure.

Let us now look into the story and
examine the testimony on which it is
founded. The popess is said to have
reigned two years and more. Rome
was then the greatest city and the
very centre of the civilized worid, and
always full of strangers fix>m all paitB
of the earth. The catastrophe of the

7Xr Fabk rf P0p$ Jotm.

SK O ff tiy bcou^ about by the street
ddhroy took plice under the ejres of
a vast multitude of people, and must
have been known on the same day to
the entire dty before the sun had set
An event so strange, so romantic, so
astounding, so scandalous, concerning
the most exalted personage in the
world, must surely have been written
about or chronided by the Italians
who were there, and reported by let-
ter or word of mouth by foreigners to
their fi^ds at home, and foimd its
way fiom a thousand sources into the
wiitings of the time; for it must be
lemembered the pope, of all living
men, was of espedal interest to the
daas who at that period were in the
liabit of writing. Such testimony as
this, being the evidence of eye-wit-
nesses, would be the highest testimo-
ny, and would settle the fact beyond
&pute. Where is it? Silence pro-
foimd is our only answer. Nothing
of die kind is on the record of that
period. Ah! then in that case we
must suppose the matter to have
been temporarily hushed up, and we
win consent to receive accounts writ-
ten ten, twenty — ^well, well not haggle
ibout a score or two— or even fifty
jous later. Silence again! Not a
scrap, not a solitary line can be
found.

And so we travd through all the
Uttory which learning and industry
kave been able to rescue from the re-
cords of the past down to the end of
the ninth century, and find the same
onbioken silence.

We must then go to the tenth cen-
tnry, where the murder will surdy out
Silence again, deep and profoimd,
dmnig^ all the long years firom 900
to 1000, and all is blank as be-
ht!

And now we again go on beyond
anodier half-century, s^ void of all
mention of Pope Joan, until we reach
the year 1058, just two himdred and

three years after tlie aangned Joan-
ide.

In that year- a monk, Marianus
Scotus, of the monastery of Fulda,
commenced a universal chronide,
which was terminated in 10S3.
Somewhere between these dates, in
recording the events of 855, he is
said to have written: ^ Leo the Pope
died on the ist of August To hun
succeeded John, who was a woman,
and sat for two years, five months,
and four days." Only this and no-
thing more. Not a word of her age,
origin, qualities, or circumstances of
her death. So £ur it is not much of a
story; but little by litde, link by link,
line by line, like unto the veridical
and melodious narrative of Tkf
Hbuse that Jack built^ well contrive
to make a good story of it yet The
statement first appears in Marianus.
So much is certain. For during the
seventeenth century, when the Joan
controversy raged, and cartloads of
books and pamphlets were written on
the subject — a mere list of the titles ot
which would exceed the limits of this
artide — every library and collection in
Europe was ransacked with the fiiri-
ous industry of which a polemic wri-
ter is alone capable, for every— even
the smallest — fragment or thread con-
nected with this subject Neverthe-
less, this ransacking was neither so
thorough nor so successfid as during
the present century; for, as the learn-
ed Dollinger states, '' it is only within
forty years that all the European col-
lections of mediaeval if ss. have been
investigated with imprecedented care,
every library, nook, and comer tho-
roughly searched, and a surprising
quantity of hitherto unknown histori-
cal documents brought to light"

Comparing the so-called statement
of Marianus with the latest sensation-
al and circumstantial relation, it is
plain that the story did not, like Mi-
nerva, spring fiill-armed into life, but

Tki FahU of Pope Joan.

that it » the result of a long and
gradual growth, fostered by the ge-
nius of a long series of inventive
chroniclers.

But where did the monk of Fulda
get the story ? Ah I here is an inte-
resting episode. His chronicle was
first printed at Basle (1559) from the
text known as the Latomus ifs.
Its editor was John Herold, a Cal-
vinist of note, who, in printing the pas-
sage in question, quietly left out the
words of the original, " ut asseritur " —
that is to say, " as report goes," or
" believe it who will " — ^thus changbg
the chronicler's hearsay to a direct
and positive assertion.

But the testimony of the Marianus
chronicle comes to still greater grief.
And here a word of explanation.
The original ms. of Marianus is not
known to exist, but we have numerous
copies of it, the respective ages of
which are well ascertained. DDllinger
mentions two of them well known in
Germany to be the oldest in existence,
in which not a word concerning the
popess can be found. The copy in
which it is found is of 15 13, and the
explanation as to its appearance there
is simple. The passage in question
was doubtless put in the margin by
some reader or copyist, and by some
later copyist inserted in the text.
And so we return to the original
datk silence in which we started.

A feeble attempt was made to
claim that Sigbert of Gembloux, who
died in 1 1 13, had recorded the story ;
but it was triumphantly demonstrated
that it was first added to his chroni-
cle in an edition of 1513. The
same attempt was made with Gott-
fiied's Pantheon and the chronicle of
Otto von Freysingen, and also lamen-
tably fiuled. In 1261, there died a
certain Stephen of Bourbon, a French
Dominican, who left a work in which
he speaks of the popess, and says he
got the statement from a chronicle

which must have been that of Jean
de Mailly, a brother Dominican.

To the year 1240 or 1250 may
then be assigned, on the highest au-
thority, the period when the Joan
story first made its appearance in
writing and in history — neariy four
hundred years after its supposed date.

In 1 261, an anonymous inedited
chronicle, still preserved in the libra-
ry of St Paul at Leipsic, states that
" another false pope, name and date
unknown, since she was a woman, as
the Romans confess, of great beauty
and learning, who concealed her sex
and was dected pope. She became
with child, and the demon in a con-
sistory made the iaxX known to all by
crying aloud to the pope :

" Pspa Pater Ptmm
£t tibi tunc edam de

pftndito
quando

Some chroniclers relate it diflerendy,
namely, that the pope undertook to
exorcise a person possessed of an evil
spirit, and on demanding of the devil
when he would go out fix)m the pos-
sessed person's body, the evil one re-
plied in the Latin verses above given,
that is to say, " O Pope ! thou father
of the fathers, declare the time of the
pope's parturition, and I will then tell
you when I will go out fix>m this
body."

llie demon always was a fellow
who had a keen eye for the fashions,
and he appears to have indulged in
alliterative Latin poetry precisely at
the period when that sort of literary
trifling was most in vogue among
scholars who recreated themselves
with such lines as

"Rnderiboi r^)ectit Rofiis Ftstos fieri fcdt;**

** Roma Rnet Romali Ferro Flammaqoa FameqM.**

A few years later, Martinus Polac-
CQS or Polonus, Martin the Polack, or
die Pole, (Polack is now disused.
Shakespeare makes Horatio say, '< Hi

Th$ Fabli of Pope ^o<m.

fmoie fAe sledded Polack on the ice!*)
who died m 1278, the author of a
chronicle of popes and emperors
down to 1207, says: ^John of Eng-
land, by nation of Mayence, sat 2
years, 5 months, and 4 days. It is
said that this pope was a woman."
The chronide of Polonus is merely a
synchronistic history of the popes
and emperors in the form of dry
biographical notices. Nevertheless,
from the &ct that he had lived many
years in Rome and was intimate with
the papal court his book had, to use
a modem phrase, an immense run.*
It was translated into all the princi-
pal languages, and more extensively
copied than any chronicle then exist-
ing. The number of copies (lis.)
still in existence £ur exceeds that of
any other work of the kind, and this
fact suggests an important reflectioxL
Great stress is laid by some writers on
the multitude of witnesses for Joan.
But the multitude does not increase
the proof when they but repeat one
another, and they suspiciously testify
in nearly the same words. ^^ The ad-
vocates for Pope Joan," says Gibbon,
'^ produce one himdred and fifty wit-
nesses, or rather echoes, of the four-
teenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centu-
ries. They bear testimony against
themselves and the legend by multi-
pl]ring the proof that so ciuious a sto-
ry must have been repeated by writers
of every description to whom it was
known.**

The various versions that copy one
another must necessarily b^ur a
strong famfly likeness. Their number
can add nothing to their value as
proof, and is no more conclusive than
the endeavor to establish the doubted

* Ths tnfidon amcerniaff (ha retlKiiBdoB of Pope
^riacoB m iIm widely wpntA by the mbm chrooi-
dc The itarf ran that Pope Cfnaem ree^foed the
m the year e.^S, and int took ita liee a
eaim after that data. It «■» pore ictaom
coaaected with theli^aadof Su Uiaola and
Mo

existence of a man by a great variety
of portraits of him, all — as Whate^
so well remarks in his Historic Doubts
— ''all striking likenesses— of each
other."

In this case the most ancient testi-
mony is posterior to the claimed oc-
currence some four hundred years,
and is utterly inconsistent with the
indisputable facts related by contem-
porary authors. The erudite Laimoy,
in his XxtdiositDeAuctoritateNegcmiis
Argumentiy lays down the rule that a
fact of a public nature not mentioned
by any writer within two hundred
years of its supposed occurrence is
not to be believ^ This is the same
Launoy who waged war on the le*
gends of the saints, claiming that much
fabulous matter had crept into them.
On this account he was called
"Ddnicheur des Saints" — the Saint-
hunter or router — and the Abb6 of St
Roch used to say, '' I am always pro-
foundly polite to Launoy, for fear he
will deprive me of SL Roch." The
general rule (Launoy's) so important
in historical criticism is in perfect har-
mony with a great and leading prin-
ciple of jurisprudence. In the Pope
Joan incident the silence of all the
writers of that age as to so remarka-
ble a circumstance is to be fairly re-
ceived as z prerogative argument (Ba-
conian philosophy) when set up
against the numerous modem repeti-
tions of the story. It may be taken
as a general rule mat the silence of
contemporaries is the strongest argu-
ment against the truth of any given
historical assertion, particularly when
the fact asserted is strange and inte-
resting, and this for the reason that
man is ever prone to believe and re-
coimt the marvellous; and in the ab-
sence of early evidence, the testimony
of later times is, for the same reason,
only weaker. Now this is in strict
accordance with the principle of £ng<
lish common laW| which demands the

TXr PaiU of Pope yam.

highest and rejects hearsay and se-
condary evidence; for scores (rf* wit-
nesses may depose in vain that they
have heard of such a &ct; the eye-
witness is the prerogative instance.
This is the logic of evidence.

And now we find that what hap-
pened to Marianus Scotns also befell
Polonus. He was entirely innocent
df any mention of Joan ! The pas-
sage exists in none of the oldest
copies, and is wanting in an that fol-
low the author's dose and methodical
plan of giving one line to each year
of a pope's reign, so that, with fifty
lines to the page as he wrote, each
page covered predsdy half a centuiy.
This method is entirdy broken up
in those m ss. which contain the pas-
sage concerning Joan, and the rage
to get the passage in was such that in
one copy (the Heidelberg ms.) Bene-
dict III. is left out entirely and Joan
put in his place. Dr. DOllinger and
the learned Bayle concur in the opin-
ion that the passage never had any
existence in the original work of Po-
lonus.

And just at this junctiue the testi-
mony of Tolomeo cK Lucca (1312) is
important He wrote an ecclesiasti-
cal history, and names the popess
with the remark that in all the histo-
ries and chronicles known to him
Benedict III. succeeded Leo IV.
The author was noted for learning
and industry, and must necessarily
have consulted every available autho-
rity, and yet nowhere did he find
mention of Joan but in Polonus, In
1283, a versified chronicle of Maer-
landt (a Hollander) mentions Joan :
<'I am neither dear nor certain
whether it is a truth or a fable; men-
tion of it in chronides of the popes is
imcommon."

And now, as we advance into the
fourteenth century, as manuscripts
multiply and one dironider copies an-
other, mention of Joan increases ; and

successivdy and in due order, as the
malt, the rat, the cat, the dog, and all
the rest appear in turn to make per-
fect the ntu-seiy ditty, sio the statue,
the street, the ceremony, and all the
remaining features of the story come
gradually out, until we have it in fixll
and detailed description, and our
popular papal ''House that Jack
built " is complete.

Then we have Geoffroy of Comlon,
a Benedictine, (1295,) B^ard Guido-
nis and Leo von Orvieto, both Do-
minicans, (131 X,) John of Paris, Do-
minican, (first half of fourteenth centu-
ry,) and several others, all of whom
taikt the story torn Polonus.

In 1306, we get the statue from
Segfiied, who thus contributes his
quota : '' At Rome, in a certain spot
of the dty, is still aJiown her statue in
pontifical dress, together with the
image of her child cut in maible in
a wall" Bayle says that Thierry di
Niem (fifteenth century) " adds out of
his own head " the statue. But it ap-
pears that it was referred to twenty-
three years earlier than Siegfried by
Maerlandt, the Hollander, who says
that the story as we read it is cut in
stone and can be seen any day :

** En daer Icfet toe, als wyt leten
NochakovptMi Staen i^bdioaira^
Bat men Mw dacr mug I **

Amalric di Angier wrote in 1362,
and adds to the story her ** teaching
three years at Rome." Petrarch re-
peats the version of Polonus. Bocca-
do also rdates it, and was the first
who at that period asserted her name
was not known.

Jacopo de Acqui (1370) says that
she reigned nineteen years.

Aimeiy du Peyrat, abbot of M(n»-
sac, who compiled a chronide in
i399f P^^ ''Johannes AngUcos** in
the list of popes with the remark,
^ Some say that she was a woman.**

In 1450, Martin le Franc, ia hii

Ttf Fabk 4ff P^ Jomi.

CkMftfitm des Dama^ c x pr eaB ca sar-
priae that Provideiice should have
permitted such a scandal as to allow
the church to be governed by a
woman.

Qw fnant rifaMlds «t ;

Sst rS^M en (OttwnwBMBti

HaOam (LUeraiure of £mv^
mentions as among the most remark-
able among the Fastnadit's Spide
(carnival plays) of Gennany the
apotheosis of Pope Joan, a tragic-
comic legend, written about 1480.
Bouterweky in his History of German
Poetry, also mentions it

In i48r, ''to swell the dose," as
Bayk says, the stool feature of the
story first comes in.

In the Nuremberg Chrcmkle of
r493 (Astor Libiaiy copy) Joan is
put down as Joannes Septimus, and
the page ornamented (?) with a wood-
cut of a woman with a child in her
arms. It relates that she gained the
pontificate by evU arts, ''maUs arti-
bus."

In the beginning of the same cen-
tury there was seen a bust of Joan
among the collection of busts of the
popes in the cathedral at Sienna.
And, more astonishing still, the story
was related in the MtrabiUa uriis
Rofna^ a sort of giiide-book for stran-
ga:s and pilgrims visiting Rome, edi-
tions of which were constantly re-
printed for a period of eighty years
down to 1550 1

In the middle of the fifteenth century
we find the story related at fiill length
by Fdix Hammerlein, and later by
John Bale, then Bishop of Osscny,
who afterward became a Protestant
He pretty well completes the tale.

According to Tolomeo di Lucci^
the Joan story in 131a was nowhere
ibund but in some few copies of Pdo-
nus. Neverthdessi it is notorious

that at that time countlesB fists and
historical taUes of popes were in ex-
istence, in none of which was thcve
any trace of the popess.

Suddenly we isA extraordinary in-
dustry exercised in multipljring and
qnreading die copies of Polonus con-
taining the story, and in inserting it
in other chronicles that did not con-
tainit As the editors of the JER^iMnr
JJtUraire de Fratue aptly remark:
^ Nous ne saurions nous eiq)liqQer
comment il se fait que ce soit predsi-
ment dans les rangs de cette fidUe
milice du saint-sifcge que se rencoop-
trent les propagateurs les plus naift,
et peut-tee les inventeurs, d'une hia-
toire si injurieuse k la papauttf."*

Dr. D&llinger answers this by stat-
ing that those who appeared to be
most active in the matter were Do-
minicans and Minorites, particularly
the former, (Sie waren es ja, bescm-
ders die ersten.) This is specially to
be remarked under the primacy of
Bonifiice VIII., who was no friend
of either order. The Dominican hb-
tcnrians were particulariy severe in
thdr judgments <m Boni&ce in the
matter of his difficulty with Philip the
Fair, and appear to dwell with satis-
fiurtion upon this period of the weak-
ened authority of the papal see.

In r6ro, Alexander Cooke pub-
lished in lAmdon, Po^ loane^ a DiO"
logue Bettveene a Protestant and a
Pd^ist^ manifestly promng that a wo-
man ealUd loane was Pope of Rome i
against the surmises and objections
made to the contraries eta Cooke has .
a preface, ''To the Popish or Catho-
lidce reader^— chuse whether name
diott hast a miixi to;" wluch is very
handsome indeed of Mr. Cooke.

The papst in the Dialogue has a
dreadful time of it fiK>m one end of

•••W^caMWt udcntMidlMfw it kthat. pracMf
■noi^ thft nudw of the finthinl loldien of the bolf
•tm, IV* Sad the OMet cradaloiis propegaton and, pe
kiqk iMMtton of a aioiy w ii4«rio« to the PH«9<

Tlu FabU of Pcpe Joan.

die boot to the other, and Gregory
VII. is efEectually setded by calling
him "^ that firebrand of helL" Bayle
grimly disposes of Cooke's work
Sius : ^ It had been better for his
canse if he had kept silence."

Discussion of the story comes even
down to this century. In 1843 and
1845 ^^ woiks appeared m Holland :
one, by Professor Kist, to prove the
existence of Joan; the other, by Pro-
fiesior Wensing, to refute Kist In
184s '^'^^ ^^ puUished a very able
wodL by Bianchi-Giovini : Esame cri-
Hm deigH otH e DocumepUi relativi aUa
fittfoia deUa Pupissa Giovanna^ Di
A. Bianchi-Giovini Milano.

It is doubtful if in all the annals of
literature there exists a more remark-
able case of pure fiaUe growing, by
small and slow degrees t}m>ugh seve-
ral centuries, until, in the shape of a
received fact, it finally effects a lodg-
ment in serious history. Taking its
rite no one knows where or how,
full four hundred years after the pe-
riod assigned it, and stated at first in
tbe baldest and thinnest manner pos-
aUe, it goes on bom century to cen-
tury, gathering consistence, detail,
and incident; requiring three centu-
ries fiir its completion, and, finally,
comes out the sensational affidr we
have related. All stories gain by
time and travel; scandalous stories
most of alL These last are particu-
larly robust and long-lived They
•appear to enjoy a fi«edom amounting
to immunity. Just as certain noxious
.and foul-smelling animals firequently
'Owe their life to the unwillingness
-men have to expose themselves to
:inch contact, so such stories, looked
•upon at first as merely scandalous
dmd too contemptible for serious refu-
tation, acquire, through impunity, an
importance that, in the end, makes
diem seriously aimoying. Then, too,
wdl-meaning people thoughdessly ac-
•oesH repofta and repeat statement

that, through mere iteration, are sup-
posed to be well-foimded. Let any
one, be his or her experience ever so
small, look aroimd and see how fully
this is exemplified every day in real
life.

Moreover, there was no dearth of
writers in the middle ages who used,
to the extent of license, the hberty of
criticising and blaming the papacy.
By all such the Joan story was inva-
riably put forward by way of illustra-
tion; and they appear to have gone
on unchecked until it was found that
the open enemies of the chiuch began
to avail themselves of the scandal.

In 145 r, iEneas Sylvius Piccolo-
mini, (Pius II.,) in conference with the
Taborites of Bohemia, denied the sto-
ry, and told Nicholas, their bishop,
that, " even in placing thus this wo-
man, there had been neither error of
feith nor of right, but ignorance of
fact." Aventinus, in Germany, and
Onuphrius Pauvinius, in Italy, stag-
gered the popularity of the story.
Attention once drawn to the subject,
and investigation commenced, its
weakness was soon apparent, and tes-
timony soon accumulated to crush it

Ado, Archbishop of Vienne,
(France,) who was at Rome in 866,
has left a chronicle in which he says
that Benedict III. succeeded immedi-
ately to Leo IV.

Prudentius, Bishop of Troyes at
the same period, testifies to the same
fact

In 85s, the assigned Joanide peri-
od, there were in Rome four indivi-
duals who afterward successively be-
came popes, under the names of Bene-
dict III., Nicholas I., Adrian II., and
John VIII. During the pretended
papacy of Joan these men were aH
either priests or deacons, and must
have taken part in her election, and
have been present at the catastrophe.
Now, of aJl these popes there exist
many and various writings, but not a

Th€ FabU of Po^ Jpm.

word concerning the popess. On the
oontrary, they all represent Benedict
III. to have succeeded Leo IV.

LupOy Abbot of Ferribesy in a let-
ter to Pope Benedict, says that he,
the abbot, had been kindly recdred
at Rome by his predecessor, Leo IV.

In a council held at Rome, in
S63, wider Nicholas L, the pontiff
^>eaks of his predecessors Leo and

Hincmar, Archbishop of Rheims,
writing to Nicholas L, says that cer-
tain messengers sent by him to Leo
IV. had been met on their journey
by news of that pontiff's death, and
had, on their arrival at Rome, found
Benedict <m the throne. Ten other
contemporary writers are cited who
an testify to the same immediate suc-
cession, and afford not the slightest
hint of any story or tradition diat can
throw the least light on that of the
female pope. **The time of Pope
Joan," sajfs Gibbon, " is placed some-
what earher than Theodora or Ma-
rozia; and the two years of her imagi-
nary reign are forcibly inserted be-
tween Leo IV. and Benedict III.
But the contemporary Anastasius in-
dissolubly links the death of Leo and
tfaedevation of Benedict; and the ac-
curate chronology of Pagi, Muratori,
and Leibnitz fixes both events to the

year 857."

But there is no smoke without fire,
it is said; and the wildest stories
most have some cause, if not founda-
tion. Let us see. Competent critics
find the story to be a satire on John
VIII. ** Ob mmiam ejus animtfaciH-
iaiem ei mollUudinemi^ says Baronius,
particulariy in the zSak with Photius,
by whom John had suffered himself
to be imposed upon. Photius, Patri-
arch of Constantinople, was known to
be a half-man, and yet so cunning as
to overreach John. Therefore they
said John was a woman, and caHed
him Joanna, instead of JoanneSy in

that tone of bitter raillery constandy
indulged in by the Roman Pasquins
and Marforios, and this raillery, natu-
rally enough, in course of time came
to be taken for truth.

And again : Pope John X., elect-
ed in 914, was said to have been
raised by the power and influence of
Theodora, a woman of talent and un-
scrupulous intrigue. In 931, John,
the son of Marozia and Duke Alberic,
and grandson of Theodora, was said
to be a mere puppet in the hands of
his mother. "Their reign," (Theo-
dora and Marozia,) says Gibbon,
"may have suggested to the darker
ages the fiUde of a female pope."

Again, in 956, a grandson of the
same Marozia was raised to the papal
chair as John XII.* He renounced
the dress and decencies of his profes-
sion, and his life was so scandalous
that he was degraded by a syiKxL
Onuphrius Pauvinius and Liutprand
are quoted to show that a woman,
Joan, had such influence over him
that he loaded her with riches. She
is said to have died in childbed.

Long series of years preceding and
following these events were anything
but times of pleasantness and peace
to the successors of St. Peter. Even
Gibbon says, "The Roman pontifi
of the ninth and tenth centuries were
insulted, imprisoned, and murdered
by their tyrants, and such was their
indigence, after the loss and usurpa-
tion of the ecclesiastical patrimonies,
that they could neither support the
state of a prince nor exercise the cha-
rity of a priest"

Now, with such materials as these,
a Pope Joan story is easily construct-
ed; for, with the license of speech

* At this period the diorch was as yet without tha
adrantage of the great reform effected by Gri^ory
VIL in 1073^ and the dtoice of a pope by the bishops
or cardinals waa ratified or rejected by the Roman
people, too often, at that ttaae, the dupes or tools of
sodk men aa the maiqniaes of Tuscany and tht
counts of Tuscnium, who, says Gibbon, **held th«
apostolic see in a long and disgraceful servitude.*'

Tikr FaUe of Pcpe y9mL

that has always existed in Rome in
the fonn of pasquinades, it is more
than likdy to hare been satirically
remarked by the Romans mider one
or all of the three popes John, that
Rome had a pq;>e8S instead of a pope,
and that the chair of St Peter was
virtually occupied by a female. These
things would be repeated from mouth
to mouth by men who, according to
their temper and ability, would com
ment on them with bitter scoff, irreve-
rent comment, snarling sneer, or ribald
leer, and they might readily have been
received as matter of &ct assertions by
German and other strangers in Rome.

Carried home and spread by wan-
dering monks and soldiers, it is only
wonderful that they did not sooner
come to the surface in some such
fiible as the one under consideration.
Diffused among the people, and ac-
quiring a certain degree of consistence
by dint of repetition through two cen-
turies, it finaUy reached the ear of the
individual who inserted it in the Ma-
rianus chronicle in the form of an ^»
dit^ and so he put it down ^ ut assert"
tuf^—^ they say."

Certain it is Uiat no such story was
known in Italy imdl it was spread
from German chroniclers, and the ab-
surdity was too monstrous to pass
into contemporary history even in a
foreign country.

But, it is answered, by Coeffetau
and others, we do not hear of it for
so many years afterward because the
church exerted its omnipotent au-
thority to hush up the story. There
needs but slight knowledge of human
natine to decide that such an attempt
would have only served to spread and
intensify the scandal. As Bayle wise-
ly remarks, " People do not so ex-
pose their authority by prohibitions
which are not of a nature to be ob-
served, and which, so ^ from shut-
ting their mouth, rather excite an itch-
ing desire to speaL"

Then, too, it k (laimed diat fior a
period of several hundred years after
855, writers and chroniclers, by agree>
ment, tadt or express, not only main-
tained a profound silence on tfie sub-
ject of the scandal, but, in all Chris-
tian countries of the worid, con^iied
to alter the order of papal successkm,
forge chronicles, and fidsify historical
records. And yet those who use
this argiunent tc^ us that in the dty
of Rome, under papal authority, a
statue was erected, an order issued,
tummg aside processions from their
time-consecrated itinerary, and cus-
toms as remarkable for their indecen-
cy as their novelty were introduced,
m order to perpetuate the memory of
the very same events tjrrannical edicts
were issued to conceal and blot oatl
Comment is not needed.

The total silence of contemporary
writers, and the immense diasm d[
two himdred years (taking die earliest
date claimed) between the event and
its first mention, was, of course, found
fiitaL Consequently, an attempt was
made to prop up the story by the as-
sertion that it was chronicled by An-
astasius the Librarian, who lived in
Rome at the alleged Joannic period,
was present at the election of all the
popes fix)m 844 to 882, and must,
therefore, have been a witness of the
catastrophe of 855. The testimony
of such a witness would certainly be
valuable — indeed irrefutable. Acccht-
dingly a ms. of the foiuteenth centu-
ry, a copy of the Anastaaian ms.,
was produced, in which mention was
made of Pope Joan. But this men-
tion was attended with three suspici-
ous circumstances. First, it was qua^
lifted by an '* ut dicUuri^ ^ as b satd.**
Anastasius would scarcely need an
on dit to qualify his own testimony
concerning an event that took place
under his own eyes, and must have
morally convulsed all Rome. Sec-
ondly, it was not in the text, but in a

The FMe of P0p$ yiMm.

mari^ial note. Thirdly^ and ^tally,
the entire sentence was in die very
words of the Polonns chronicle. Na-
turaHy enough, it was found singular
that Anastasius, writing in the ninth
oentury, should use the identical phra-
seology of Polonus, who was poste-
rior to him by four hundred years.

But, in addition to these reasons,
Anastasius gives a circumstantial ac-
count of the election of Benedict III.
to succeed Leo IV., absolutely filling
t^ the space needed for Joan. In
view of all which the critical Bayle is
moved to exclaim, ^Therefore I say
what relates to this woman (Joan) is
qnirious, and comes from another
hand." A zealous Ph>testant, Sarru-
rius, writes to his co-religionist, Salma-
sius, (die same who had a controversy
with Milton,) after examining the
Anastasian ms., ''The story of the
she-pope has been tacked to it by one
who had misused his time." And
Gibbon says,'' A most palpable for-
gery is the passage of Pope Joan
which has been foisted into some
Mss.'and editions of the Roman An-
astasus."

V^th regard to the eariy chronicle
Mss., it must be borne in mind that
It was common for their readers (own-
ers) to write additions in the margin.
A professional copyist — the publisher
of those days — usually incorporated
the marginal notes with the text
Books were then, of course, dear and
scarce, and readers frequently put in
the margin the supplements another
book cotdd furnish diem, rather than
buy two books. Then again — ^formen
are alike in all ages — ^those who pur-
chased valuable books wanted, as
diey want to-day, the frdlest edition,
with all the latest emendations. So
a dironide with the Joan story would
ahrajTs be more saleable than one
without it

But one of the strongest presump-
tions against the truth of the story is

seen in the profound silence of the
Greek writers of the period, (nindi
to fifteenth century.) All of them
who sided with Photius were bitteily
hostile to Rome, and the question of
die sujnemacy of the pope was pre*
dsdy the vital one between Rome
and Constantinople. They wouki
have been only too fjoA to get hold
of such a scandaL Numbers of
Greeks were in Rome in 855, and
if such a catastrophe as the Joanine
had occurred, they must have known
it "On writers of*the ninth and
tenth centuries," sbjs Gibbon, "die
recent event would have flashed with
a double force. Would Photius have
spared such a reproach? Would Lhit-
prand have missed such a scandal ?"

We have disposed of the absurdity
of the supposition that the power and
discipline of the church were so great
as to enforce secrecy concerning the
Joan affiur. But— even granting the
truth of this assertion — that power
and discipline would avail naught
with strangers who were Greeks and
schismatics. In 863, only eight years
after the alleged Joanide, the Greek
schism broke out under Photius, who
was excommunicated by Nicholas I.
There was no period frdn 855 to 863
when there were not numbers of
Greeks in the city of Rome — learned
Greeks too. Many of them agreed
with Photius, who claimed that the
transfer of the imperial residence, by
the emperors, fit)m Rome to Constan-
tinople, at the same time transferred
the primacy and its privileges. Yet
not only can no allusion to any such
story be found in any Greek writer of
that century, but there is found in
Photius himself no less than three
distinct and positive assertions that
Benedict III. succeeded Leo IV.

The Greek schism became perma-
nent in X053, imder Cerularius, Patri-
arch of Constantinople, who under-
took to excommimicate the legates

TkiJ^aUi of P^ JomL

of the pope. With Cenilarius, as
with PhotiuSy the ps^ supremacy
was the main question, and neither he
nor Photius would have failed to
make capital of the Joan fable, had
they ever heard of it So also with
an the Byzantine writers, and they
were numerous. It was not until the
fifteenth century that the first men-
tion of the story was made by one of
them, (Chakocondylas,) an Athenian
of the fifteenth century, who, in his
Di Jiebus lidrcuis^ states the case
very singulariy/^'Formeily a woman
was in the papal chair, her sex not
being manifest, because the men in
Italy, and, indeed, in all the countries
of Uie West, are dosdy shaved." It
is true that Barlaam, a Greek writer,
mentioned it in the fourteenth centu-
ry; but Bailaam was living in Italy
when he wrote his book.

And now, as we reach the so-called
Reformation period, we find the tale
invested with a value and importance
it had never before assumed It was
kept constantly on active duty with-
out relief, and compelled to do fin-
tiguing service in a thousand contro-
versial batdes and skirmishes. Angry
and over-zealous Protestants found it
a handy thing to have in their polemi-
cal house. And, although the more
judicious cared not to use it, the story
was generally retained. Spanheim
and Leiifiuit endeavored to think it a
worthy weapon, and even Mosheim
afifects to cherish suspicion as to its
falsity. Jewell, one of Elizabeth's
Inshops (1560) seriously, and with
great show of learning, espoused
Joan's claims to existence.

Nor were answers wanting; and,
including those who had previously
written on the subject, it was fully con-
futed by Aventinus, Onuphrius Pau-
vibius, Bellarmine, Serrarius, George
Scherer, Robert Parsons, Florimond
de Rtfmondy Allatius, and many
ochen.

The first Protestant to cast doubt
on the finble was David BlondeL A
minister of the Reformed Church,
Prdessor of Histoiy at Amsterdam,
in 1630, he was hcdd by his co-reli-
gionists to be a prodigy of learning
in languages, theology, and ecclesias-
tical history. In his JFadU de la Pa-
pesse yeanne^ with invincible logic
and an intelligent apjdication of the
true canons of historical critidsm, be
demonstrates the absence of founda-
tion for the story, the tottering and
stuttering weakness of its early years,
the suspicions whkh stand around its
cradle ; and, instead of disputing how
fax the Pope Joan story was believed
or credited in this or that centuiy,
shows that by her own contempor-
aries she was never heard of at all;
the whole story being, he says, '* an
inlaid piece of work embellished with
time." Blondd was bitteriy assailed
by all sections of Protestantism, and
accused of '' bribery and corruption,"
the question being asked, ''How
much has the pope given him?"
Blondd's woric brought out a crowd
of writers in defence of Joan, fore-
most among whom was the Protes-
tant Des Marets or Maresius, whose
labors in turn called out the CenoUh
phhtm Papasa yaanna by the learned
Jesuit Labbe, the cdebrity of whose
name drew forth a phalanx of writers
in reply.

But the worst for Joanna was yet
to come. Another Protestant, unde-
terred by the abuse showered upon
Blondel, gave Joan her coup de grace.
This was the learned Bayle, who,
with rigid and judicial impartiality,
sums up the essence of all that had
been advanced on either side, and
shows unanswerably the altogether
insufficient grounds on which the en-
tire story rests. More was not need-
ed. Nevertheless, Eckhard and Leib-
nitz followed Bayle in the extinguish-
ing process, and made it disreputable

Tie Fable if Pope yoan.

for any scholar of respectability to ad-
vocate the conyicted ^dsehood.

There was no dearth of other Pro-
testant protests against Joan. Casau-
bon, the most learned of the so-called
reformers, laughed at the &ble. So
did Thuanus. Justus Lipsius said of
ity '^Revera &bella est baud longfc
ab audada et ineptis poetarum."*
Schookius, professor at Groningen, to-
tally disbelieved it. Dr. Burnet, Bishop
* of Salisbury, said, V I don't believe
the histoiy of Pope Joan," and gives
his reasons. So, also. Dr. Bristow.
Very pertinent was the reflection of
Jorieu, (a &natical Ph>testant, if ever
there was one — the same noted for
his controversy with Bayle, who was
a ** friend of the family " — so much
80, indeed, as to cause the remaik
that Jurieu discovered many hidden
things in the Apocalypse, but could
not see what was gomg on in his own
household,) in his Apology for the Re-
formatum, ^1 don't think we are
much concerned to prove the truth
of this story of Pope Joan."

The erudite Anglican, Dr. Cave,
says : " Nothing helped more to make
that Chronicle (Polonus) famous than
the much talked of fable of Pope
Joan. For my own part, I am tho-
roughly convinced that it is a mere
fid>le, and that it has been thrust into
Martin's chronicle, especially since it
is wanti-^g in most of the old manu-
scripts."

Hallam calls it a fable. Ranke
passes it over in contemptuous silence.
So also does Sismondi ; and Gibbon
£uxly pulverizes it with scorn.

A favorite polemical arsenal for
Episcopalians is fotmd in the works
of Jewell, so-called Bishop of Salis-
bmy. Let them be warned against
leaning on him concerning the Joan
story. Listen how quiedy yet how
effectually both Joan and Jewell are

ddfcnqg froHittM

disposed of by Henry Hart Mihnan,
D.D., Dean of St Paul's, m his Hh-
tary of Latin Christianity: "The
eight 3rears of Leo's papacy were
chiefly occupied in restoring the plun-
dered and desecrated churches erf* the
two apostles, and adorning Rome.

'' The succession to Leo IV, was con-
tested between Benedict IIL, who com-
manded the suffrages of the clergy
and people, and Anastasius, who, at
the head of an armed faction, seized
the Lateran,* stripped Benedict of
his pontifical robes, and awaited the
confirmation of his violent usurpation
by the imperial legates, whose influ-
ence he tiiought he had secured.
But the commissioners, after strict in-
vestigation, decided in &vor of Bene-
dict Anastasius was expelled with
disgrace from the Lateran, and his
rival consecrated in the presence of
the emperor's representatives." t Like
Ranke, Milman also passes over the
Joan story with contemptuous silence.

In his Papst'Fabdn des Afittelal-
terSf the learned Dr. D5llinger has
exhausted the erudition of the subject,
and not only demonstrated the utter
imworthiness of the invention, but—
what is for the first time done by him
— points out the causes or sources of
all the separate portions of the narra-
tive. Thus, the statue story arose
from the fact that in the same street
in which was found a grave or monu-
mental stone, of the inscription on
which the lettq;s P. P. P. could be
deciphered, there was also seen a sta-
tue of a man or woman with a child.
It was simply an ancient statue of a
heathen priest, with an attendant boy
holding in his hand a palm-leafl
The P. P. P. on the grave-stone, as
all antiquarians agreed, merely stood
for I^'t^ria I^cunia Posuit; but as
the marvellous only was sought for,
the three P's were first coolly dupli-
cated and then made to stand for the

t»

* 8«pt A.D. Sss«

t8cpt->»S5S.

Tk0 Afff9mddmg Gemtml Cfmmcil

woids of die liiie already reiened to
— J}t^ AiruM, etcw — much in die
same waj as Mr. Jonadian Oldbadc
insisted diat A. D. L. L^ on a
utensil of imaginaiy antiquity he had
ibund, stood for Agricola Dicavit
LiBENs LuBEMS, when it only meant
Aiken Drum's Lang Ladle.

The controversy concerning the
existence of Joan may be considered
as long since substantially dosed, and
Joan, or Agnes, or Gilbcrta, or lone,
as she is called in the En^^ish (Lond.
1 6 fa) edition of Philip Momey's
(Du nessis Momay) Mysterk of Ini-
quUie^ to stand convicted as an im-
postor, or, more properiy speaking, a

nonentity* Her stoiy is long rince
hanishfd from all i cspcc U Me sodety,
aldiOQ^ it contrives to keep iq> a
disreputable and precarious existence
in the outskirts and waste places of
vagrant literature. We are even in-
fonned that it may be found printed
under the auspices and sponsorshqp
of societies and individuals c<msidered
req>ectable. If this be true, it is, for
thdr sake% to be regretted; and we
b^ leave severaDy to admonish die
societies and individuals in question,
in the words of the apostle : ^AvM
fooliskandMwive^fabUs:and€Xtr-
dsetkysdftopieiyP

TSAMSX^TBD FBOM TRS FWDfCR.

THE APPROACHING GENERAL COUNCIL.

BY MGR. DUPANLOUP, BISHOP OF ORLEANS.

THE HELP OFFUUED BY THE COUNCIL.

This is the reason why that church,
which is the friend of souls and which
was never indifferent to the evils in
society, is now so deeply moved.
Undoubtedly the church and society
are distinct; but journeying side by
side in this world, and enclosing
within their ranks the same men, they
are necessarily bound together in their
perils and in their trials. The church
has called this assembly, therefore,
because she feels that in regard to the
evils which are common to both, she
can do much to forward their remo-
val.

However, let us be careful, as care-
ful of exaggerating as of diminishing
the truth. Does it depend upon the

church to destroy every human vice ?
No. But in this great work, in this
rude conflict of the good against the
bad, she has her part, an important
part, and she wishes to perform it
Man is free, and he does good of his
own free-wilL But he is also aided
by divine grace, which assists him
without destroying his liberty; for as
the great Pope St Celesdne said,
" Free-will is not taken away by the
grace of God, but it is made free.**
Being the treasury of celestial goods,
the church is man's divine assistant,
and lends him, even in the temporal
order, a supernatural aid. If to-day
she is assembling in Rome, and, as it
were, is collecting her thoughts, it is
only in order to accomplish her task,
to work more successfully and power*
fully for the welfiure of mankind.

7Ar Afprooehit^ Gtmml CaitmiL

^Who can doubt," ezdaims the
Holy Father, ^that the doctxine of
the Catholic Church has this virtue,
Aat it not only serves bx the eternal
alvation of man, but that it also
hdps the temporal welfare of society,
their zeal proq)efity, good order and
tranquillity?'' And who will deny the
Kxaal and refinmg influence of the
duirch? ""MehgioH/ jReUgwmr an
eminent statesman* has recendy said,
^ His the very life of humanity/ In
eveiy {dace, at all times, save only
certain seasons of terrible crisis and
ihameAil decadence. Religion to
restrain or to satisfy human ambition
-teiigion to sustain or to reconcile
vs to our sorrows, the sorrows both
of our worldly station and of our
iouL Let not statesmanship, though
kbe at once the most just and the
most ingenious, flatter itself that it is
capable of accomplishing such a work
without the help of religion. The
more intense and extended is the agi-
tation of society, the less able is any
state policy to direct starded human-
ity to its end. A higher power than
the powers of earth is needed, and
views which reach beyond this world.
For this purpose God and eternity
are necessary.**

Then, too, the Holy Father, after he
laa alluded to the beneficent influence
of religion in the temporal order, pro-
daims anew the concord, so often af-
firmed by him, between fkith and rea-
son, and the mutual help which, in the
designs of Providence, they are called
to laid one to the other. '< Even,"
he says, ^ as the church sustains soci-
ety, so does divine truth sustain hu-
Bum science; die church supports the
yfxj ffoanA beneath its feet, and in
pievcnting it firom wandering she ad-
vances ks progress." Let those who
vainly strive to claim science as an
antagonist to the church understand

•n

these wofdsl The head of the duirch
does not fear science, he loves it, he
praises it, and with pleasure he re-
members that the Christian truths
serve to aid its progress and to estab-
lish its durability. The most illustri-
ous scholars who have i^peared upon
the earth, Leibnitz, Newton, Kepler,
Copernicus, Pascal, Descartes, before
whom the learned of the present time,
if their pride has not completely
blinded them, would fed of very litde
importance, think the same about this
question as does the Soverdgn Pon-
tifll This is demonstrated, adds the
Pope, by the history of all ages widi
unexceptionaUe evidence. This too
is the meaning of the well-known
phrase of Bacon, ^A litde learning
separates us fix)m rdigion ; but mu(^
learning leads us to it" Presump-
tuous ignorance or blind passion may
forget it; but the greatest minds have
alj^ays recognized the agreement of
faith and science, the harmony be-
tween the church and sodety, and re-
jected this antagonism of modem
times, which is so contrary to the
testimony of history and the interests
of truth.

But let us not allow an ambiguous
expression to become the pretext fer
our opponent's attacks; how then
does die church attempt to reform
sodety ? History has answered this
question. Prejudice alone £uides
that it has discovered some secret at-
tack upon the legitimate liberty of the
human mind. The Council of Rome
will be the nineteenth Ecumenical
Council, and the forty or fifty nations
which will be represented there have
all been converted in the same way;
that is, they have been brought fix>m
barbarism to dvilization by the au-
thority of her words, by the grace of
her sacraments, by the teaching of
her pastors, and the examples of her
saints. Stuch are the ways of God
and the action of the churdi, some-

Tie Approaching GeninU CammiL

times seconded, but more frequendy
attacked, by human powers.

Instructor of souls, the church uses
the method of all good education —
authority and patience. Where there
is doubt, she affirms ; where there is
denial, she insists ; where there is di-
vision, she unites ; she repeats for ever
the same lessons, and what grand les-
sons they are I The true nature of
God, the true nature of man, moral
responsibility and free-will, the im-
mortality of the soul, the sacredness
of marriage, the law of justice, the
law of charity, the inviolability of pri-
vate rights and of property, the duty
of labor, and the need of peace.
This always, this everywhere, this to
all^men, to kings and to shepherds,
to Greeks and to Romans, to Eng-
land and to France, in Europe and in
Australia, under Charlemagne or be-
fore Washington.

I dare to assert that the continuity
of these affirmations creates order in
society and in the human mind, just
as certainly as the repeated rising of
the same sun makes the order of the
seasons and success in the culture of
the earth. O philosopher, you who
disdain the church ! be candid and tell
me what would have become of the
idea of a personal God among the
nations, had it not been for her influ-
ence ? O Protestants and Greeks !
admit that without the church the
image of Jesus Christ would have
been blotted out beneath your very
eyes! O philanthropist and states-
man ! what would you do without her
for the family and the sanctity of mar-
riage?

What the church has once done,
she is going to do again; what she
has already said, she is going to re-
peat; she will contmue her life, her
course, her work, in the same spirit
of wisdom and charity; she will con-
tinue to affirm Ito man's reason those
great truths of which she is the guar-

dian, and it is by this means, by this
alone, thou^ by it most energetical-
ly, that she will act on society.

It has been said that the rdigion
of the masses of the people is the
whole of their morality. Then nnce
morality is the true source of good
statesmanship and good laws, all the
progress of a people must consist in
making the first principles of justice
influence more and more their private
and public life. From this it follows
that every people which increases in
its knowledge of Christian truth will
make substantial progress, while at
the same time every pec^e which at-
tempts to solve the great questimis
that perplex mankind in any way op-
posed to the gospd of Christ inll be
in reality taking the wrong road
which can only end in their utter de-
struction. Who expelled pagan cor-
ruption from the worid, who civilixed
barbarians by converting them?
Look at the East when Christiam^
flourished there ; and look at it now
imder the rule of Islam 1 The influ-
ehce of Christianity upon civilization
is a fact as glaring as the sun. But
the principles of the gospel are &r
from having given all that they con-
tain, and time itself will never ex-
haust them, because they come out
of an infinite depth.

Now, although the centuries have
drawn from the Christian principle of
charity, equality, and fraternity of man
consequences which have revolution-
ized the old worid ; still all the social
applications of this admirable doctrine
are very frur from having been made.
It is even, as I believe, the peculiar
mission of modem times to make this
fiiiitful principle penetrate more com-
pletely than ever the laws and cus-
toms of nations. If the cenlury does
not wander from the path of Christian
truth, it will establish political, social,
and economic truths which will re-
flect upon it the greatest honor. But

Ti^ Approaching General CounciL

it is the missioii of the church and her
council to preserve these truths of
revelation free from those interpieta-
tioDS which falsify their meaning.

Then every great declaration of the
truths of the Bible, every explanation
of the doubts and errors concerning
it, every true interpretation of Chris-
tianity by the masses of the people is
a work of progress, which is at once
social and religious. This then is
why the church is using every effort,
or, as says the Holy Father, why she is
exerting her strength more and more.
This is the reason why Catholic
bishops win come from every part
of the woild to consult with their
chieC

It IS in vain you say in your un-
just and ignorant prejudice, the
church is old, but the times are new.
The laws of the world are also old;
yet every new invention of which we
are jusdy proud would not exist, and
could not succeed, were it not for the
application of those laws. You do
not understand how pliant and yet
how frrm is the material of which her
Divine Founder has built his church.
He has given her an organization at
once durable and progressive. Such
is the depth and the fruitfulness of her
dogmas, such too is the expansive
character of her constitution, that she
can never be outstripped by any
human progress, and she is able to
fpamtam her positiou under any poli-
tical system. Without changing her
deed in the least, she draws from her
txcasiiry, as our divine Lord said,
things both new and old, fix>m centu-
Tf to century, by measiuing carefully
the needs of the time. You will find
diat she is ever ready to adapt her-
self to the great transformations of so*
cietyy and that she will follow man-
Idnd in all the phases of hb career.
The Christian revdadon is the light of
die world, and alwsvfs will be; be as-
sored tiiat this is tlie raaaon #by the

OF THE

coming coimdl will be the dawn, not
as many think the setting, of tibe
church's glory^

THS Vi^AUllWfil/ FEARS 1^ TIOfSDBJXCT

What lhii:^J^^i^^J ^hA
distrustfid pohticiafC'lear? Ahl
rather let mankind rejoice over the
magnanimous resolution of Pius IX.
It should be a solemn hope for those
who believe, as well as for those who
have not the happiness of believing.
If you have the ^th, you know that
the spirit of God presides over such
coimcils. Of course, since it will be
composed of men, there may be pos-
sible weaknesses in that assembly.
But there will also be devoted service
to the church, great virtues, profound
wisdom, a pure aiid cotuugeous zeal
for the glory of God and the good of
souls, and an admirable spirit of chari-
ty; and, besides all this, a divine and
superior power. God will, as ever,
accomplish his work there.

"God," says Frfnrflon, "watches
that the bishops may assemble when
it is necessary, that they may be suf-
ficiently instructed and attentive, and
that no bad motive may induce those
who are the guardians of the truth to
make ah untrue statement There
may be improper opinions expressed
in the course of the examination.
But God knows how to draw fix>m
them what he pleases. He leads
them to his own end, and the con-
clusion infallibly reaches the precise
point which God had intended."

But if one has the misfortune not
to be a Christian and not to recognize-
in the church the voice of God, fit)m
amply a human point of view, can
diere be anything more worthy of
sympadiy and respect than this great
attempt of the Catholic Church tOi

I Of

^m aiii

l8 TAe Afproacking General Council.

work, so far as it is in her power, for dation stone of the building. ]

the enlightenment and peace of the Babylon and Jerusalem; Ne

world ? And what can be more au- and WcatminBter j Ephesus j

gust and \enerable than the assembly tioch; Carthage and Sidon ; Miu

of seven or eight himdrcd bishops, and Dublin; Paris and Pekin; Vicfl"

coming from Europe, Asia, Africa, na and Lima; Tokdo and Malines;

the two Americas, and the most dis- Cologne and Mayence. ^\nd added

taiU islands of Oceanica ? Their age, to this, they are called Peter, Paul,

their virtue, and their science make John, Francis, Vincent, Augustin, and

them the most worthy delegates from Dominic; names of great men who

the countries in which they dwell, have established or enlightened van-

and the recognized representatives of ous nations that profess Christianity,

men of the entire globe with whom They do not bear the naines of the

they come in contact every day of past and present only, they also beat

their lives. It is a real senate of man- those of the future. One comes &tiDl

kind, seen nowhere but at Rome, the Red River, another from Daho-

And although our mind should be mey, others from Natal, Victoria,

filled with the most unjust prejudices, Oregon, and Saigon. We are working

what conspiracy, what excess, what for the future, although we are called

manifestation of party feeling need be men of the past. We are working

feared fitun a meeting of old men for countries which to-day cannot

coming from very different parts of boast a single city, and for peojde

the earth, almost every one a com- who are without a name. We go

plete stranger to the others, having farther than science, even beyond

no bond of sympathy but a common commerce itself, until we find ottr-

&ith and a common virtue ? Where selves alone and beyond them alL

will we fold on earth a more perfect When we cannot precede your most

•expression, a more certain guarantee adventurous travellcre, we tread eagcr-

of wisdom, of wisdom even as men ly in their footsteps; and why? To

understand it ? I have ventured to make Christians — that is to say, to

say that modem times, disgusted by make men, to make nations. ^Vhal

etperience with confidence in one then do you fear? WTiy do you o l^'

man, have faith m their assemblies, ject to such a council when you e

But what gathering can present such tie yourselves, with such proud o

a collection of the intelligent and the dcnce, the men of progress and (

independent, such divereity in such heralds of the future ?
unity ? Who are these bishops ? Will it be nations who ar« disturbed

Read their mottoes: by the council? How can nations

" In the name of the Lordt' " / be menaced or betrayed by men who

Mng Peace!" "I whh for Light t' represent every nation of die civiliied

" I diffuse Charity !" "/ shrink net globe? The bishops love their coun-

Ato» ToilF' "IiertvGod/" "/hunv tries; they live in them by their own

enfy Christ/" "All things to ail free choice, and for the defence of

men!" " Overcome Evil by Goodf their faith. Will the bishops of Po-

"Jtaeein Charity J" land meet the bishops of Ireland to

As to themselves, they have lost plan the ruin of nations and the op-

. their proper names. Their signature pression of a fadierland? And is

:!■ the name of a saint and the name there a single French bishop, or one

of a city. Their own name is buried, from England, or from any otha

3ike that of an architect, in the foun- country, who will yield to any one il

OUfltf^l

doo^H
md tfl^

any one il|fl

Tke Approaching General CouneU.

patriotism, who does not daim to be
as good a Frenchman, or Englishman,
or citizen, as any one of his fellow-
countrymen?

Is our liberty placed in jeopardy ?
What can you fear from men who,
from the days of the Catacombs up to
the massacre of the Carmelites, have
established Christianity only at the
SKrifice of their life, and whose blood
flowed freely in the days that liberty
and the church suffered the same per-
secution ? Win the bishops of Amer-
ia join, those from Belgium and Hol-
Itad in a conspiracy against liberty ?
Win the bishops from the East unite
with die bishops of France, and so
my other European countries, in
sonding the praises of despotism ?

No, no ; there is nothing true in all

theK feais; they would be only silly

phantoms were it not that they are

diexesolt of a hatred which foresees

the good which will be done, and

vidies to prevent it What will the

oonndl do? I cannot say; God

alone knows it at this hour. But I

can say diat it is a coimcil, because

e^teen centuries of Christianity and

drflication know and affirm it; a

coimdl, hence it is the most worthy

exemplification of moral force, it is

the noblest alliance of authority and

liberty that the human mind can con-

oeire; and I may boldly assert that it

never would have conceived it by its

9fni power.

I am not going to marie out the
Ennts of liberty and power. I do not
intend now to show the characteristics
of schism and heresy, of English or
German Protestantism, or of the &lse
Oitiiodoxy of Russia. I will say only
one word, and then proceed to make
ny condusions. It is this. If the
Cliristiaui churches wish to. become
again sisters, and if men wis^ to be-
coine brothers, they can never do it
aoie certainly, more noagnificently,
or moie teadcity dian in a council,

under the auspices and in the breast
of that church which is their true mo-
ther.

Do you imagine that you ^discover
different opinions in the church, and
make this an obstacle? I would
have the right to be astonished at
your solicitude, but I will suppose you
to be sincere, and I answer, You
know very little about the diurch.
Her enemies daily declare that our
faith is a galling yoke, which holds us
down and prevents us from thinking.
And therefore, when they see that we*
do think, they are perfectiy amazed.
This is one of the conditions of the
church's life, and the greatest amount
of earnest thinking is always widiin
her fold. It is true that we have an
unchanging creed, that we are not
like the philosophers outside of the
church, who do little more than seek
a doctrine, and endlessly begin again
their searches. They are always call-
ing everything in question, they are
continually moving, but never reach
any known destination. With us
there are certain established definite
points, about which we no longer dis-
pute. And thus it is that the church
has an immovable foundation, and is
not built entirely in the air. Yet
liberty also has its place in the church.
Our anchors are strong and our view
is unlimited; for beyond those doc-
trines which are defined there is an
immense space. Even in dogma the
Christian mind has yet a magnificent
work to accomplish, which can be
followed for ever, because, as I have
already said, our dogmas, like God,
have infinite depths, and Christian in-
tdligence can always draw from them,
but never drain them.
' No one should therefore be aston-
ished to see that Catholics argue
about questions not included within
the definitions of faith, many of which
are difficult and complex, and which
modem pdemics has only made more

obscure. The sfiirit of Christianity
was long ago defined by St. Augiis-
tine in these memorable words; In
ntetssary things unity, in doubtful
things liberty, in all things tharity.
The course of centuries has changed
nothing. Besides, I have before said,
and 1 now repeat, that the council,
prediiely because it is ecumenical —
that is, composed of representatives
from all the churches in the world —
bishops living under every political
system and every variety of social
customs — excludes necessarily the
predominance of any particular school
of a narrow and national spirit and of
local prejudices. It will be the great
catholic spirit, and not such and such
jiarticular notions, which will inspire
its decisions ; and whatever may hap-
pen to be the peculiar ideas of differ-
ent schools or parties, the council
will be the true light and unity.
There will be complete liberty left in
regard to all things not defined. But
these definitions will be the Catholic
rule of faith, and they should not dis-
turb any one in advance. Again, tliey
threaten nothing which is dear to you,
men of this age, ihey threaten only
error and injustice, which are your
enemies as well as ours. If you wish
to know the real opinions of this mag-
nanimous pontiff who is the object of
so m.iny odious and ungrateful ca-
lumnies, and of the bishops, his sons
and his brothers; if you wish to con-
jecture the spirit of the future coun-
cil, you will find it completely slated
in these few words of Pius IX., which
were addressed to some Catholic pub-
licists, scarcely a year ago, and which
have been inscribed on their standard
as a sacred molio : " Christian charity
alone can prepare the way for thaf
liberty, fratemily, and progress which
souls now ardently desire,"

I cannot repeat too often, and you,
my brethren of the holy ministry,
cannot repeat too often, that great is

the mistake of those who c
the future council as a menat
work of war. We live L
which we are condemned to U
all. But nevertheless . _ _,
bound to believe all. When, |
ago, the Pope announced to d^
ops assembled in Rome his dl
nation to convoke an ecua
council, what did the bishopsd
whole world see in this ? A
work of illumination and pacq
— these are the precise words d
address. The papal bull ia|
same language. In this ecm
council, what does the Pope \
brothers, the bishops, to cw
invesrigate with all possible c
to decide with him } BeforS
thing else, it is that which t
the peace of all and to imivei
cord.

And when I read the bull \
ly, what do I see on every p
in each line ? The expressioi
licitude well worthy the f
souls, and not less for civil -J
than for the church. He nevd
rates them. He is careful ain
say that their evils and their pi
mutual The same tempetf
them both with the same wavi
this tinrie, which is called a pflj
transition, religion and soc^j
both passing through a foi^
crisis. There are men to-d(^
would wish to destroy the ch
they could; and who, at tha
time, would shake society fiq
very founilations. And it is ^
purpose of bringing help Um
both, and to avert the evils ,(
menace them together, tliat tU
lather has conceived the ide|
council. The reason given by ]
the bishops is precisely to a
this critical situation, and suggi
remedy for this double v
These are his words : " It is i
ry that our venerable ,j

Tke Approiiching General Council.

fed and dq>lore as we do the critical

atuation of the church and society,

should strive with us and with all

their power to avert from the chiuch

and society, by God's help, all the

cvib which are afflicting them.*'

It has been told that the Pope
wished to break off friendly relations
inth modem society, to condemn and
pioscribe it, to give it as much trouble
as lies within his power. Yet never
bave the trials which you endure.
Christian nations, more sadly moved
the head of the church, never has his
sod poured forth more sympathetic
accents, than for your perils and your
sotrows. And it has been noticed
by erery one, pillaged of three-fourths
of his little, territory, reduced to
Rome and its surrounding country,
placed between the dangers of yes-
terday and those of to-morrow, sus-
pended, as it were, over a precipice,
the Pope seems never to think of
these things ; he does not seek to de-
fend hb menaced throne ; not a sen-
tence, not a single word, about his
own interests; no, in the bull of
convocation the temporal piJIMfC is
fcrgotten and is silent — ^the^fltatitifF
ilone has spoken to the world. '^

€

vii.

THE COUNCIL AND THE SfiPA&ATED
CHURCHES.

But all has not yet been said.
Odier hopes may be conceived of the
fatnre council. We delight in antici-
pating other great results. The letters
of the Holy Father to the Eastern
bobops and to our separated Protes-
tmt brethren give us good ground
isrhope.

At two fatal epochs in the history
of the world, two great divisions have
been made in this empire of souls
viiich we call tbe church — ^twice has
die fa«iii#K« robe «f Christ IxA iient

by schism and heresy. These are the
two great misforttmes of mankind,
and the two most potent causes
which have retarded the world's
progress. Who does not admit this ?
If the old Greek empire had not so
sadly broken with the West, it would
have never been the prey of Islam-
ism, which has so deeply degraded it,
and which even now holds it under
an iron yoke. Nor would it have
drawn into its schism another vast
empire, in whose breast seventy mil-
lions of souls groan beneath a despo-
tism which is both political and reli-
gious.

And who can say what the Chris-
tian people of Europe would be to-
day, were it not for Lutheranism,
Calvinism, and so many other divi-
sions? These unhappy separations
have made Christianity lose its active
power in retaining many souls in the
light of divine revelation which have
since been wrested from it by incre-
dulity. And who can tell us how
much they have retarded the difilision
of the gospel in heathen countries ?

Sorrowful fact! There are even
now millions of men upon whom the
light of the gospel has never shone,
and who remain sunken in the sha-
dows of infidelity. Think of the poor
pagans on the shores of distant isles !
They are vaguely expecting a Sa-
viour; they stretch their arms toward
die true God; they cry out by the
vdce of their miseries and their suf-
ferings for light, truth, salvation.
Eighteen centuries ago, Jesus Christ
came to bring these good tidings to the
world, and spoke tiiese great words
to his aposdes, *' Preach the gospel
to every creature!" The church
alone has aposdes of Jesus Christ,
emulators of that Peter and Paul who
landed one day upon the coa^t of
Italy to preach the same gospd to
our fathers and to die together for the
samefidth.

Tie Afptvaching General Couneil.

But poor Indians I poor Japanese !
Following the apostles of the Catho-
lic Church sent by the successor of
bim to whom Jesus Christ said,
" Thou art Peter, and on this rock I
will build my church," we see other
missionaries who come to oppose
thetn. But who sends them ? Is it
Jesus Christ ? What, then, is Christ,
as St. Paul asked of the dissidents of
the first century, divided 7 Is not
this, I ask you, a dreadful misfortune
for the poor infidels? And is it
not enough to make every Christian
shed tears ?

And union, if it were only possible,
{and why should it not be, since it is
the wish of our Saviour) — union, espe-
cially because now the way is open
and distance has almost vanished,
would it not be a great and happy
step toward tliat evangelization of
every creature which Jesus charged
his apostles and their successors to
begin when he had left the earth ?

Yes, every soul in which the spirit
of Jesus dwells should feel within a
martyrdom when it considers these
^^ divisions, and repeat to heaven the
^^L.|)rayer of our Saviour and the cry for
^^Us,unity, " My Father, that they may
^^H in all one, as you and I are one."
^H..Tbis is the great consiileration which
^H tnfluenced the bead of tlie Catholic
^H' Church when, forgetting his own
^H dangers, and moved by this care for
^K all the churches which weighs so hea-
^H vily upon him, he convoked an ecu-
^P menical council. He turns toward
the East and to the West, and ad-
dresses to all the separated commu-
nions a word of peace, a generous
call for unity. Whatever may be the
way in which his appeal is received,
who does not recognize, in this most
earnest effort for the union of all
Christians, a thought from heaven,
inspired by Him who willed that his
church should be one, and who said,
^_ as the Holy Father has been pleased

to recall, " It is by this that you i
be known to be my disciples " i

But will our brethren of the £
and West respond to this thougt
this wish ? 'Ihe East 1 \W)\o i
moved before this cradle of the i
cient iaith, from whence the light h
come to us? I saw the Cathtd
bishops of the East trembling \
joy at the aiuiouncement of the tiitil
council, and expecting their drnr
to awake to a new life and to a fruitli
activity. But will the Eastern cbui
es refuse to hear these " words of p<
and charity" that the Holy Father li
lately addressed to ihera '* from X
depths of his heart"?* And wlj
should they be deaf to this i
For what antiquated or chimer
fears ? Who has not ret _
been deeply touched by the got
of the ponti/r? How deUcatcly, a
with what accents ot particular tf
demess, does the Holy Father speak
of our Oriental brethren, who, in the
midst of Mohammedan Asia, "recog-
nize and adore, even as we do, on
Lord Jesus Christ," and who, "je-
deemed by his most precious bio
have been added to his churcbj
What consideration does he q
foi; these ancient churches, to-day •
unfiinunatcly detached from the c
tre of unity, but who ioraxAy
"showed so much lustre by thdr
sanctity and their celestial dot
and produced abundant fruits for t
glory of God and the salvatioa <
souls 1" t

And, at the same time, \
admire his gendeness, his forgetfi
ness of all his irritating grievancK
The Holy Father speaks only i
peace and charity. He asks i
one thing, and that is, that " the c
laws of love should be renewed, i
the peace of our fathers, that salutai

• Apnitolic Letter of Rm IX,, Scplcrabct t

TM£ Afpfoacking GenenU Council.

and heavenly gift of CSiristp which
for so long a time has disappeared^
may be fizmly re-established; that the
pure light of this long-<iesired union
may appear to all after the douds of
todi a wearisome sorrow, and the
sombre and sad obscurity of such
long dissensions.'* *

But let the Eastern bishops know
tihat this deep longing for peace and
union is not foimd in the heart of the
Holy Father alone; the bishc^ and
an the Christians of the West, how
can they help dearing this most hap-
py event? Can there be any good
gained in keeping the robe of Christ
locn asunder ? And what — I ask it
ia charity and for information — ^what
can the churches of the old Orient
gun by not communicating with
ttose of the entire universe? Who
prevents them? Are we yet in the
time of the metaphysical subdeties
and cavils of the Lower Empire ?

I have already alluded to the infi-
dd nations. Let my brethren, the
Eastern bishops, permit me to recall
to them what is at this moment the
Hate of the entire worid and the situ-
ation of the church of Christ ||i all its
various parts. If in every time the
dmrch of Christ has had to struggle,
11 she not now more than ever wfore
lesisted and fought against ? Is not
the ^irit of revolution — and, unfortu-
oately, it is an impious one — arising
against her on every side? And
you. Eastern churches, whether you
are united or not, have you not also
your dangers ? Is not your spiritual
liberty unceasingly threatened? Is
not Christianity with you surrounded
by determined enemies — at your
sight, at your left, on every side?
And win not the storm of impiety
which now disturbs Eiurope, since dis-
tance is no more an obstacle, burst
qx)n Asia, and wiU not the Chns-

tian races of the East become conta-
minated by the repeated efforts of an
irrdigious press ?

In such a critical situation, when
every danger is directed against the
dunch of Jesus Christ by the misfof-
tunes of the time, the first need of att
Christians is to put an end to divisioa
which enfeebles, and to se^ in recon-
ciliation and peace that union which
is strength. What bishop, what true
Christian, wiU meditate upon these
things, and then say, ** No, division
is a good; union would be an evil**?
On the contrary, who does not see
that union, the return to unity, is die
certain good of souls, the manifest
win of God, and win be the salvation
of your churches? What foUowi
from this? Can there be any per-
sonal considerations, any human mo*
tives whatsoever, superior to diese
great interests and these grave obli-
gations? Your Others, those inus-
trious doctors, Athanasius, Gregcny
of Nazianzen, Basil, Cjrril, Chryso»-
tom, did not find it hard to bend
their glorious brows before him whom
they can ''the firm and solid rock
on which the Saviour has built his
church."* If they were living to-day,
would they not, as Christians, and
most nobly, too, trample upon an in-
dependence which is not according to
Christ, but which is merely the sug-
gestion of a blind pride? If past
centuries have committed &ults, do
you wish to make them eternal ?

But the time, if you win hear its
lessons, win bring before your mind
the gravest dudes. You who aie
surrounded on one side by despotism,
and on the other by Mohammedan-
ism, surely, you caimot foil to feel the
peril of isolation, ancT the fetal conse-
quences of disunion.

May God preserve me fix>m utter-

^IHitm; words of St OngfKj of N;
qioMdlqr tfao Holy Fathar.

The Approaching General Council.

word which can be, even in the
most remote way, painful to you ; for
I come to you at this moment with
aU the charity of Jesus Christ.

Indeed, whether I think of those
Buhappy races whose souls and whose
country have become sterile under
die yoke of the religion of Moham-
med, or whether I turn my eye toward
those great masses of Russians, grave
in their manners, religious, who have
remained in the faith, notwithstand-
ing the degradation of their churches,
nnd notwithstanding the supremacy of
a war whose pretended orthodoxy has
oevcr inspired even the least pity and
justice for Poland I equally do I feel
the depths of my soul moved to pray
for those many nations who are wor-
thy of our interest and our sincere
compassion. O separated brothers
of the East 1 — Greeks, Syrians, Arme-
maiiE, Chaldeans, Bulgarians, Rus-
nans, and Sclavonians, all whom I can-
not call by name — see the Catholic
Church is coming toward you, she
Stretches out her arms to embrace
you ! O brothere I come !

She is going to assemble, as the
whole church, from all parts of the
dvilized world. From our West, from
your East, from the New World, also,
and from far distant islands, her bi-
shops are now hastening to answer
the call of the supreme chief, to meet
at Rome, the centre of unity. But
ah! she does not wish to assemble
her council without your presence.
O brothers ! come 1

This is one of those solemn and
infrequent occ.isions which will take
centuries before its equal is seen.
The church offers peace. " With all
our strength we pray you, we urge
you, to come to this General Council,
as your ancestors came to the Coun-
■cil of Lyons and the Council of Flo-
rence, in order to renew union and
peace."" But, on your side, will you
tefuse to take a single step toward us,

and allow this most favorable oppor-
tunity to escape ? ^Vho will venture
to take this formidable responsibiliiy
upon himself? O brothers ! come I

The heart of the church of Jesus
Christ does not change; but the
times change, and the causes which
have, unhappily, made the efforts of
our fathers fail, now, thank God, no
longer exist. Then I say to you all,
brothers ! come !

In regard to ourselves, we are frill
of hope ; and, whatever may be the
resistance that the first surprise, or
perhaps old prejudices, have made^
everything seems to us to be readjr
for a return. " Rome," said Bossue^
in former times — " Rome never ceases
to cry to even the most distant peo-
ple, that she may invite them to the
banquet, where all are made one;
and see how the East trembles at her
maternal voice, and appears to wisli
to give birth to a new Christianity I"

O God ! would that we could sec
this spectacle 1 What joy would it be
for thy church on earth, in tlie midst
of so many rude combats, and such
bitter affliction ! What joy for the
church in heaven! And what joy,
churches of the East, for your doctors
and your saints, " when from the
height of heaven they see union esta-
blished with the apostolic see, centre
of catholic truth and imity; a union
that, during their life here below, thq
labored to promote, to teach 1
their studies, and by their indc
gable labors, by their doctrine i
their example, inflamed as they n
with the charity poured into their
hearts by the Holy Spirit, for Him
who has reconciled and purchased
peace at the i)rice of his blood; who
wished that peace should be the mark
of bis disciples, and who made this
prayer to his Father, ' May they be

•i. uiiiua
3W, ihtt^^

indcGk^H
ine an4^

Tk^ Approaching General Council.

Oh ! then, listen to the language of
the church, the true church of Jesus
Christ, who alone, among all Chris-
tian societies, raises a maternal voice,
and demands again all her children,
because she is their true mother!
This is the reason why the Sovereign
Pontiff, after he has spoken to the
separated East, turns toward other
Christian yet not catholic commun-
ions, and addresses to all our brothers
of Protestantism the same urgent ap-
X>eal.

Protestantism! **Ah!" exclaimed
Bossuet, in his ardent love, in his
zealous wish for unity, "our heart
beats at this name, and the church,
alwa3rs a mother, can never, when
she remembers it, repress her sighs
and her desires." TTiese are sighs
and desires which we have heard from
the Holy Father in an apostolic letter
mitten a few days after the Brief ad-
dressed to the Eastern bishops, to
''an Protestants and other non-Catho-
Kcs," and in which he deplores the
misfortunes of separation, and shows
the great advantage of the unity de-
srcd by our Lord " He exhorts, he
begs all Christians separated from
him to return to the cradle of Jesus
Christ ... In all our prayers
and supplications we do not cease to
hmnbly ask for them, both day and
nig^t, light from heaven, and abun-
dant grace from the eternal Pastor of
souls, and with open arms we are
waiting for the return of our wander-
ing diildren." •

See, then, what the Holy Father
says, and, together with him, the
whole church. Shall we hope and
pray always in vain ? Will the work
of returning be as difficult as many
dunk it ? I know that prejudices are
jet deep; and the difficult that the
work of tardy justice meets with in
England is one proof among others ;

Ltllan of SepteflBber tjth, z86&

but it is the business of a council to
explain misunderstandings, and, by
appeasing the passions, prepare the
mind to return to the church. And,
should any one be tempted to think
me deluded, I will answer that among
those of our separated brethren who
are not carried away by the sad cup-
rent of rationalism, there is a daily in-
creasing number who regret the loss
of unity. I affirm that this is true of
America, that it is true of England.
I will answer, too, that more than
once I have been made the recipient
of grief-stricken confidence, and heard
from suffering hearts the longing de«
sire for the day in which will be frd«
filled the words of the Master,
"There shall be one fold and one
shepherd." Will this day never come ?
Are divisions necessary? And why
should we not be the ones destined to
see the days predicted and hailed
with joy by Bossuet? Here, un-
doubtedly, the dogmatic objections are
serious. But they will disappear, if
the gravest difficulty of all, in my
opinion, is removed; and that diffi-
culty is the negation of all doctrinal
authority in the church, that absolute
liberty of examination, which, willing-
ly or unwillingly, is certain to be con-
founded with the principles of ration-
alism. It is for this reason that Pro-
testantism bears in its breast the ori-
ginal sin of a radical inconsistency,
which is lamented by the most vigor-
ous and enlightened minds of their
commimion. And it is upon this
that we rely, at least for numerous
individual conversions, and, by God's
grace, perhaps for the reconciliation
of a large number.

If this essential point is solved—
and the solution is not difficult to
simple good sense and courageous
faith — all the rest will become easy.
Reason says, with self-evident truth,
that Jesus Christ did not intend to
found his church without this essen-

Ths Approaching Getuml Onmcil.

tial principle of stability and unity.
He did not propose to found a reli-
gion, incapable of living and perpetu-
ating itself^ abandoned to the caprice
of individual interpretations. This is
so clear of itself that it does not need
to be supported by any text of the
Bible.

But there are texts which, to per-
sons of candid mind, and without any
great argument, are equally convinc-
ing. I will repeat only three; the
first, " Thou art Peter," the primacy
of St Peter and the head of the
chinch; the second, ^This is my
body," the most blessed sacrament;
the third, " Behold thy mother," be-
hold your mother, the Blessed Virgin.
Are you able to efiace these three sen-
tences from the Gospel ? Have you
meditated upon them suffidendy, and
upon many others which are not less
decisive ? Then from the Bible pass
to history, and from texts to facts.

Do not facts tell you plainly that
the living element of complete Chris-
tianity is wanting in you? For, on
the one hand, you have had time to
understand thoroughly the authors of
ruptiure ; and, on the other, you are
now able to consider its results. For
three centuries you have been reading
the Bible; for three centuries you
have been studying history. Have
not these three three centuries taught
you a new and solemn lesson ? The
principle of Protestantism, by devel-
oping, has borne its fruits; and the
predictions of catholic doctors in an-
cient controversies are realized every
day beneath your eyes. Contempo-
raneous I'rotestantism is more and
more rapidly dissolving into rational-
ism ; many of her ministers acknow-
ledge that they have no longer any
supernatural faith ; and recently a cry
of alarm, proceeding from her bosom,
has resounded even in our political
assemblies. But a cry lost in the air !
Dissolution will go on, notwithstand-

ing noUe eflbrts and Chxistiaii resb-
tance, always increasing and ruining
more thoroughly this incomplde
Christianity, which needs the essential
power that preserves and mamfaina^
and which is nothing else than autho-
rity. To lose Christianity in pure
sophistry, this is the tendency of mo-
dem Rx)testants, whether they are
willing to admit it or not But good
may come from an excess of evil
And what is more calculated to en-
lighten many deceived but well-mean-
ing souls concerning the radical £3iult
of Protestantism than this spectacle
of disintegration by the ade of the
powerful unity of the Catholic Chuxch,
and the council which is going to be
its living manifestation ?

There is another hope, little in ac-
cordance with human probabilities, I
know, but which my faith in the Di-
vine mercy does not forbid me to en-
tertain, and that is, that even the
Jews themselves, the children of Is-
rael, who, associating with us, lead
to-day the same kind of social life,
will fed something touch their hearts
and bring them, docile at last, to the
voice of St Paul, to the fold of the
church. In the Jews, indeed, so long
and so evidendy punished, I cannot
help recognizing my ancestors in the
faith; the children of Moses, the
countrymen of Joseph and Mary, of
Peter and Paul, and of whom it is
written, that they " who are Israelites,
to whom belongeth the adoption as
of children, and the glory and the
testament, and the giving of the law
and the service of God and the pro-
mises : whose are the fathers, and of
whom is Christ, according to the
flesh, who is over all things, God
blessed for ever. Amen."* I beg
them, therefore, to believe in Him
whom they are yet expecting ; I beg
them to beUeve eighteen hundred

Ti4 Affroaching Gemral

yeais of Wstory; for history, like a
fifth goqpely proves the coming and
divinity of die Messiah.

Do not fed astonished, then, to see
me fiill of compassion for Protestant,
Greek, and Jew, while I am accused
of being severe toward the abettors of
modem scepticism. I recognize the
difference between enx>rs which are
nearly finished, and errors which are
just beginning; between responsible
and guilty authors who knowingly
^read false doctrines, and their inno-
cent victims, who, after centuries, still
ding to them. How can I help be-
ing moved to tears when I see the
people of my country, its mecha-
nics and its farmers, so industrious
and so worthy of sympathy, or the
young men of our schools, whose ac-
tive minds call for the truth, both
£01, almost before they are aware of
it, into the hands of teachers of error ?
When the reawakening of faith was
so perceptible a few years ago, and a
deosive progress toward good seemed
to be accomplished, how quickly did
the shadows gather around us; dis-
mal precipices opened beneath our
feet, the breath of an impious science
and violent press became most po-
tent, and the beautiful bark of faith
and French prosperity seemed ready
to sink before she had fairly left her
port I Ah ! I do, indeed, execrate the
authors of that cruel wreck, while I
kd myself full of pity for the many
siiicere souls I see among our sepa-
nted brethren, living in error, it is
true, but they have never made ernw
live I With warmth I extend to such
captive souls a friendly hand Let
them come back to the church; for
die it is who guards Jesus Christ, the
God of the whole truth, and invites
them to this great banquet of the Fa-
ther of the £unily, where, as Bossuet
has well said, '' all are made one."

May the coming coimdl, in its
wock of enlightenment and padfica-

tion, reconcile to us many souls who
are already ours by their sincerityi
their virtue, and, as I know of many,
even by their desires. Let, at lea^
this be the heartfelt wish of every
Catholic 1 Yes, let us open our
hearts with more warmth than ever
to these beloved brethren; let us wish
— 4t is the desire of the Holy Father
— that the future council may be a
powerful and happy effort, and let us
repeat unceasingly to heaven the
prayer of the Master, <' May they be
one, as we are one."

VIIL
THK CATHOUC CHUECK.

And you, whom the duties of my
position compel me to address persis-
tently — in time and out of time, sa3rs
St Paul — adversaries of my ^Ui,
though I speak to you with austere
words upon my lips, still know that it
is with charity in my heart toward
you all, whether philosophers, Protes-
tants, or indifferent to all rdigion, yea,
I would wish my voice could resudtt
the most wretched pagan lost in the
diadow of the superstition which yet
covers half the globe. O brethren!
I would that you could taste for a
single moment the deep peace diat
one feels who lives and dies in the
arms of the church! Bear witness
with me to this peace, my brethren
of the priesthood, and every Chris-
tian of every rank and of all agesl
When one knows that he is surround-
ed by this light, assured by her pro-
mises, preceded by those sublime
creatures who are called saints, and
whose glory in heaven the church of
the earth salutes, bound by tradition
to all the Christian centuries by the
successors of the apostles, and foimd-
ed, at hstf upon Jesus Christ, what
joyl wnat a company I whatpowerl

The Approiuhing General OmndL

and what repose in light and certain-
tyl

I am firmly convinced, and each
day brings forth a new proof, that the
enemies of the church do not really
detest her. No ; the dominant senti-
ment among our enemies is not al-
ways hatred. There is another feel-
ing which they do not admit, which
is far more frequent among them.
This is envy. Yes; they envy us;
the atheist, at the moment he is in-
sulting a Christian, says secretly to
himself, " Oh ! how happy he is !"

Let us not credit that which we
hear said against the church, that her
majestic face has been for ever dis-
figured by calumny, and that hence-
forth men can only see in her a mis-
tress of tyranny and ignorance. These
violent prejudices certainly do have an
influence ; our faults and our enemies
undertake the business of propagating
them. But the church, in spite of
this — and the ecumenical council
will prove this again to the world —
will not be any less the church of
Christ, " without blemish and without
spot," notwithstanding the imperfec-
tions of her children ; and there is not
one among those that attack her who
can tell us what evil the church has
ever done to hinu " MypeopU^ what
have I done to thee f*

What evil! Citizens of town and
country, you owe to the Catholic
Church the purity of your children,
the fidelity of your wives, the honesty
of your neighbor, the justice of your
laws, the gay festival which breaks in
upon* the monotony of your daily
Hves, the little picture which hangs
upon your wall ; and, more than these,
you owe her the sweet expectation
which waits by the cemetery and the
tomb ! This is the evil she has done
you — this enemy of the human race !

And if you can raise your thought
above yourself, above your Offm inte-
rests, above your homes; if you allow

your thoughts to soar higher than the
smoke which curls above your roo6,
what a grand spectacle does the Ca*
tholic Church present ! She is great
and good, even in the little history of
our life — ^greater and hi better does
she appear in the history of the labo*
nous developments of human socie-
ty. Inseparable companion of man
upon this earth, she struggles and she
suffers with him ; she has assisted, in-
spired, guided humanity in all its
most painful and glorious transforma-
tions. It was she who made virtues,
the very name of which was yet un-
known, rise up from the midst of pa-
gan corruption; and souls, so pure,
so noble, so elevated, that the worid
still falls upon its knees before them.

It was she who tamed and trans-
formed barbarians; and who, during
the long and perilous birth of modem
races in the middle ages, has coura-
geously fought the evil, and presided
over all progress. And it must be
again the Catholic Chinrh which will
help modem society to disengage
from the midst of its confused ele-
ments that which disturbs its peace,
the principles of life from the germs
of death, by maintaining firmly those
truths which alone can save it

Ah ! we do not know the Catholic
Church well enough* We live within
her fold, we are a part of her, and yet
we do not understand her. We ig-
nore both what she was and what she
is in the worid, and the mission God
has given her, and the living forces,
the divine privileges, bestowed upon
her, so that she may accomplish eter-
nally her task upon the earth, to
maintain immutably here below truth
and goodness, and to remain for ever,
as an apostle said of her, << the pillar
and the ground of truths

Surely, we never hear it made a
matter of reproach that a pillar re-
mains imchanged; what would be-
come of the edifice, if the pillar were

Tk4 Approaching General CtmnciL

to leave its place? why, then, re-
proach the church for being immov-
able, and why is not this immobility
salutary for you ? What will you do
when there are tremblings in regard
to the truth like the trembling of the
earth ? While you must disperse, we
are imiting. What you are losing, we
are defending. We can say to mo-
dem doctrines, ''We knew you at
Alexandria and at Athens; both you,
your mothers, your daughters, and
your allies.'' The church can say to
die nations, when the Pope has ga-
thered their ambassadors: ''France,
thou hast been formed by my bi-
shops; thy cities and their streets
bear their names 1 England, who
has made thee, and why wert thou
ODce called the isle of saints ? Ger-
many, thou hast entered into the civi-
liiation of the West by my envoy, St
Boniface. Russia, where wouldst tiiou
now be, were it not for my Cyril
and my Methodius ? Kings, I have
known your ancestors. Before Haps-
borg, or Bourbon, or Romanoff, or
Brunswick, or HohenzoUem— before
Bonaparte or Carignan, I was old;
for I have seen the Ca^ars and the
Antonies die ; to-morrow I will be, for
I am ever the same. Do you answer
that it will be without money, without
dwelling, without power ? It may be
so, for I have endured these proofe a
hundred times, always ready to ad-
dr;ss to nations the little sentence
Jesus once spoke ,to Zaccheus, ' This
day I must abide in thy house.' If
I leave Rome, I will go to London,
to Paris, or to New York." It is only
of the church and of the sun that it
can be said that to-morrow they will
certainly rise ; and this is the reason
that the church, in the midst of the
disturbances of the present time, bold-
ly announces her council.

Admirable ^^ectade, that our cen-
tury would wish not to admire, but
whose grandeur it is forced to ac-

knowledge. Yes, many a wearied
eye rests with irresistible emotion
upon this stately pillar, standing alone
in the midst of the ruins of the past
and of the actual destruction of all
human greatness. The indifferent
feel troubled, surprised, attracted at
the sight of the church testifying her
immortal power by this great act;
and after they have exhausted all
their doctrines, they are tempted to
exclaim to the Supreme Pontiff that
which Peter, the first pontiff, once
said to Jesus, "Master, to whom
shall we go ? you have the words of
eternal life."

Hear the words of life, you who
doubt, who search, who suffer I Hear
them also, you who triumph, who re»
joice, who lord it over your fellow-
man! Hear the words that the
church calls her litde children to re-
peat at every rising of the sun : Credo^
I believe ! I believe in one God, the
Creator. See, savants^ here is the
answer to your xmcertainties. CredOf
I believe I I believe in a Saviour of
the world who has consecrated purity
by his birth, confounded pride by his
precepts, rebuked injustice by his suf-
ferings, and proved his divinity and
our immortality by his resurrection.
I believe in Jesus Christ ! See in him,
poor, afflicted humanity, poor, op-
pressed people, an answer to your de-
spair. Credo^ I believe ! I believe in
the Holy Ghost, in the Holy Catho-
lic Church, the communion of saints^
the forgiveness of sins, in the judg-
ment, and in a life of everlasting hap-
piness to those who have fought the
good batde. See in our creed, O
Protestants and philosophers ! so di-
vided in your affbmations, so narrow
in your hopes, the response to your
disputes. See in it, oppressive mon-
arch, the answer to your iniquities!
And see, also, O pitiless death 1 the
answer to your terrors.

To love, to hope, to believe I Eve-

TA^ Approaching General CounciL

lything is contained in these words;
and it is the church who alone can
preserve in unshaken majesty and in
the universal truth this CredOy that
tfie nineteenth century, now in the
dawn of the twentieth, is going to re-
peat with the two hundred and sixty-
second successor of the fisherman
Peter, first apostle of Jesus Christ.

But, brothers, let us cease speaking;
let us cease disputing, let us cease
fearing, let us bend the knee and
pray!

O God ! who knows the secret of
your Providence, and who knows the
wonders which the church will yet
display to the world, if men's faults
and their passion do not retard her ?
If religion and society, leaning one
upon the other, should advance, with
mutual concord, on their blessed
course, what great steps would there
be toward the establishment of your
reign upon the earth, toward the pro-
gress of nations, toward liberty by the
way of truth, toward the real frater-
nity of men, toward the extinction of
revolution and of war, toward the
peace of the world. Then a new era
would open before us, and a new
great century appear in history. Let
us throw open our souls to these
hopes ; let us beg these blessings of
God, and let us foresee possible mis-
fortunes only to prevent them. Let
it be known at least that Catholics are
not men of discouragement, of dark
predictions, or of peevish menaces;
but men of charity, of noble hopes, of
peaceful effort, and, at the same time,
of generous struggle.

Let us invoke St Peter and St
Paul ; let us invoke the Virgin Mary,
Mother of Jesus, the honor and the
heavenly guardian of the race of
man ; and, imited to the souls of all
the saints, let us pray to the adorable
TVinity reigning in heaven !

Let us pray that the council may
be 9ltAt to fulfil its task; that the

Christian woild will not repel this
great effort which the church is mak-
ing to help them ; diat light may find
its way into their minds, and that
dieir hearts may be softened ! That
misunderstandings may be explained,
prejudices removed; that unreason-
able fears may disappear, and that
Christianity, and consequendy civi-
lization, may flourish with a new and
more vigorous youth. May the re-
tinm to the church, so much desired
and so necessary, take place 1

Let us pray for the monarchs of
the world, that the wish and formal
request that the Holy Father made
them in his letter may be granted.
May they cast aside all silly objec-
tions, and favor by the lib«ty they
give the bishops the fixture assembly
of the church, and let her coundl
meet in peace.

Let us pray, too, for their people,
that they may understand the mater-
nal intentions of the church; and,
closing their ears to calumny, may
hear with confidence and accept with
docility the words of their mother.

Let us pray even for the avowed
enemies of the church, that they
make a truce with their suspicions
and their anger until the church has
annoimced, in her council and under
the inspiration of the Holy Ghost,
her decrees whose wisdom and cha-
rity can hardly fail to touch them.

Let us pray for so many men of
good faith, men of science, statesmen,
the heads of families, workmen, men
of honor, whom the light of Jesus
Christ has not yet enlightened, that
they may now receive its beneficent
rays.

Let us pray that the anxious wishes
of so many mothers, sisters, wives,
and daughters, who, in obscurity, are
maintaining purity and holiness in
their femilies, often without being
aMe to bring our holy feith there,
may at length be heard

Lmt, 1869.

3«

ad
tec-

Let us praj for the East and the
West, that thejr may be reconciled;
and for our separated brethren, that
they may leave the division which is
destroying them, and answer the ur-
gent app^ of the holy church, and
come to throw themselves in those
arms which have been open to receive
them for three centuries.

Let us pray for the church, for her
fiddiful cluldren, and for her ministers,
that each day may find them more
pure, more holy, more learned, more
charitaUe; so diat our foults may not
be an obstacle to the rdgn of that

God whose love we are appointed to
make known.

Let us also pray for die Holy Fa*
ther. Deign, O God! to preserve
him to your church, and enable this
great pontiff, who has not feared,
even amid the trouUes of the age, to
undertake the laborious work dl a
council, to see its happy issue!
May he, after so many trials, bravely
borne, r^oice in the triumph of the
church, before he goes to receive in
heaven the reward of his labors and
his virtues!

LENT, 1869.

We like sheep have gone astray,

Kyrie eleison !
Each his own misguided way,

Kyrie eleison !
Wandering farther, day by day,

Kyrie eleison I

II.

Shepherd Idnd, oh ! lead us back;

Christe eleison !
Wrest us from our dangerous track,

Christe eleison !
Lest the wolves thy flock attack ;

Christe eleison I

in.

Ope for us again thy fold,

Kyrie eleison !
Nig^t approaches, drear and cold;

Kyrie eleison I

Death, perchance, and woes imtold;

Kyrie eleison !

Richard Storrs Willis.

9»

The Modem Street-BaUads of Inland.

THE MODERN STREET-BALLADS OF IRELAND.

The home of the street-ballad,
pure and simple, is in Ireland. It
has nearly vanished in England, de-
stroyed by the penny newspaper,
which contains five times as highly
spiced food for the money. In Ire-
land it still exists and supplies the
place of the newspaper, not only in
appeals to the passion or reason, but
as a general chronicle of every event
of importance, local or national
Very often both are combined, and
the leading article and the account of
political insult will be run into rude
rhyme together, and the story of a
murder be interspersed with reflec-
tions on its sin. The quantity of bal-
lads is, of course, enormous, and to
expect that any but a small portion
should possess more poetry than a
newspaper article would be unreason-
able. But all are not of this prosaic
class, and some possess the genuine
spirit of poetry under their rude but
often spirited diction.

The first question naturally asked
is. Whence comes this enormous flood
of ballads ? Who are the poets who
produce them on every imaginable
subject, even the most verse-defying
public meeting, or in praise of the
humblest of politicians? Like the
immortal Smiths and Joneses, that
make the thunder of the Times, their
names never appear, and though the
ballad or the leading article — and
both have done so— may influence
the fate of nations, it will bring to the
author only his stipulated hire. At
present, the street-ballads of Ireland
are mostly composed by the singers
themselves. In ancient days, the
weavers and tailors and the hedge-
schoolmasters used to be a finidul
source of supply, the sedentary occu-
pations of the former being popularly

supposed to foster the poetic taknt
The latter class has vanished, and
if here and there one exists, it is in
the shape of a red-nosed, white-haired
veteran, who is entertained in farmenf
houses and country sheheens^ in mem-
ory of his ancient glory, when sesqui-
pedalian, long words and "cute"
problems made him the monarch of
the parish next to the priest Um-
sel£ However, the singer of the
ballad is, in most instances, the
writer, who is only anxious for a sub*
ject of interest on which to exercise
his muse, and generally turns out
half-a-dozen verses of the established
pattern in half an hour. This he
takes to the publisher, who not only
allows him no copyright, but does not
even make a discount in the price of
his stock in trade, for which he pays
the same as his brother bards, who,
finding his ballad popular, will
straightway strain their voices to it
But then he has the same privilege
with their productions, so that it is
all right in the long run. The bal-
lads are printed on the coarsest of pa-
per with the poorest of type, and
generally with a worn-out woodcut of
the most inappropriate description at
the head. Thus, for instance, I have
one, where a portrait of Jerome Bona-
parte does duty over the " Lamenta-
tion of Lawrence King for the mur-
der of Lieut. Clutterbuck."

The ballad-singers are of both
sexes, and are very dilapidated speci-
mens. The tone in which they send
their voices on the shuddering air is ut-
terly indescribable — a sort of droning,
pUUlu falsetto, at once outrageousl/
comical and lugubrious. They sing
everything in the same melancholy
cadence, whether lamentation or love-
song. Very often, two, more espe-

The Modem Street-Ballads cf Ireland.

dally of women, will be together.
The first will sing the first two lines
of a quatrain alone, and then the se-
cond will join in, and they rise to the
height of ^scord together. Fair-days
are their days of harvest, although in
dties like Cork or Waterford they
may be seen on every day except
Sunday. A popular ballad will often
have a very large sale, and will find
its way all over the coiintry.

The greater portion of ballads com-
posed in this way are, of course, des-
titute of anything like poetry — ^mere
pieces of outrageous metaphor and
Malapropoian long words, for which
last the ballad-singers have a ridicu-
loQS fondness. The singers sing in a
foreign language; they have lost the
sweet tongue peculiarly fitted for im-
provised poetry, in which their prede-
cessors the bards, down to the date
of kss than one hundred years ago,
sang so sweetly and so strongly, with
sudi dramatic diction and happy
boldness of epithet The language
of the Saxon oppressor is firom the
tongue, and not from the heart As
the mother of the late William Carle-
ton used to say, '^ the Irish melts into
ike timer the English doesn't, and so
many of the finest of the ancient
mdodies are now songs without
words. " Turlogh O'Carolan,"
''Dcmogh MacConmara," and the
'ICangaire Sugach" have not left
their successors among the *' English "
poets of the present day. Among a
people naturally so eloquent as the
native Irish, not even the drapery of
an incongruous language can entirely
obscnre the native vigor and strength
of tfiought A ballad is sometimes
seen which, though often unequal and
rode, is alive with impassioned poetry,
fierce, mdancholy, or tender, and it ^
almost always becomes a general fa-
vorite, aixl is preserved beyond its
day to become a part of the standard
itocL The songs of so genume a

VOL. DL — ^3

poet as William AHingham, who is
the only cultivated Irish poet who
has had the taste and the spirit to re-
produce in spirit and diction these
wild flowers of song, have been
printed on the half-penny ballad-
sheets, and sung at the evening
hearth and at the morning milking all
over Ireland. "Lovely Mary Don-
nelly " and the " Irish Girl's Lamen-
tation " have become, in truth, a part
of the songs of the nation, touching
alike the cultivated intellect and the
untutored heart

The street-ballads may be divided
into five classes : patriotic, love-songs,
lamentations, eulogies, and chronicles.

The patriotic songs are disappoint-
ing. There are few to stir the heart
like the war-notes of Scodand. The
reason is obvious. The triumphs
were few and fleeting, and the song
of the vanquished was only of hope
or despair. They must sing in secret
and be silent in the presence of the
victors. In niost of the political
songs allegbry is largely used. Ire-
land is typified under the form of a
lonely female in distress, or a venera-
ble old lady, or some other figure is
used to disguise the meaning. Of
coiuse the street ballad-singers dare
not sing an3rthing seditious, and even
the whistling of the " Wearing of the
Green " will call down the rebuke of
the "peeler." The ballads that ex-
press the hatred of the people to their
rulers are sung in stealth and are of-
ten unprinted. They are not usually
the production of the hackneyed pro-
fessional ballad-singers, and are con-
sequently of a much higher order.
The foUowing is a good specimen.
It is entitled

THE irishman's FAREWELL TO HIS
COUNTRY.

** Oh 1 fivewell, Ireland : I am going acroM th« ttonny
mainy
Where and ftrife wiD end ray life, to ite fw i

The Modem Street-Ballads of Ireland.

Twill break my heart from you to part ; mauJUm

ms^rt mackme.
Bat I must go, luU of pief and woe, to the shoroa

of America.

'* On Irish toil my frthera dwelt tinee the day* of

Brian Borne.
They paid their rent and lived content cooTenient

to Carricmore.
But the landlord sent on the mart my poor father

and me.
We most leave our home fitr away to roam in th«

fields of America.

*' No more at the churchyard, asi^rt mtackrte, at my
mother's grave lyi kneel.
The tyrants know but little of the woe the poor man

has to feeL
When I look on the spot of ground that is so dear
• lome,

I could curse the laws that have given me cause to
depart to America.

" Oh I where are the neighbors, kind and true, that

were once my country's pride ?
No more will they be seen on the iace of the green,

nor dance on the green hillside.
It is the stranger's cow that is grazing now, where

the people we used to see.
With notice they were served to be turned out or

starved, or banished to America.

** 1 Erin machree, must our children be exiled all

over the earth ?
WUl they evermore think of you, tu/ort, as the

bnd that gave them birth ?
Must the Irish yield to the beasts of the field ? Oh I

no-^acttsAla Mstore ttuuhru.
They are crossing bade in ships, with vengeance on

their lips, firom the shores cmT America."

The songs which were in vogue
among the young and enthusiastic
Fenians were, as might be supposed,
of an entirely different nature. They
were not peasants, but half-educated
artisans. The proscribed National
Cork Songster contains probably more
rant and fustian than any similar num-
ber of printed pages in existence.
The verses, of course, bear a family
resemblance to those that appeared in
the Nation for a couple of years pre-
vious to the events of '48, and in
many instances are reproductions.
Those of a modem date are still more
extravagant, if possible, than that de-
luge of enthusiastic pathos; for among
the Nation poets were Thomas Da-
vis and James Clarence Mangan,
while among those of the Fenians of
1866 there is but one that deserves
the slightest shred of laurel. Charles
J. Kickham, now under sentence of

fourteen years' penal servitude in her
Britannic Majesty's prisonSi has
written two or three pieces of genuine
ballad-poetry of great merit, which
the people have at once adopted as
household songs. ^Rory of the
Hill " is of remarkable spirit It be-
gins:

" That rake up near the rafters^

Why leave it there ao long?
The handle of the best of ash

Is smooth and straight and atrons.
And mother, will yoa tell me

Why did my frther firown,
When to make hay in sununer-tima

I climbed to take it down ?
She looked up to her husband's efe%

While her own with light did fin,
' You'll shortly know the reason iHiy*'

SaidRoryoftheHiU."

The love-songs, that are sung by the
colleens at the soft dewy dawn, as they
sit beside the sleek cows just arisen
from beneath the hedge, the nimble
finger streaming the white milk into
the foaming pail, while the lark's
song melts down from that speck be-
neath the cloud, and the blackbird
and thrush warble with ecstasy in the
hedge, the morning light shinmg
across the dewy green fields; or at

" EIvc's pensive air,"

when the shadows are growing long,
although the tops of the swelling up*
lands are bright, and the crows are
winging home, and the swallows dart-
ing in the still air; or, in the winter
evenings, when the candles are light-
ed in the kitchen, and busy fingers
draw the woof, while the foot beats
time to the whirring wheel, are very
numerous, and generally of a higher
order of merit than the patriotic
songs. The pulses of the heart are
fireer and its utterance dearer in hu-
man love than in love of country,
llie beauties in which the Irish girls
excel all others — the blooming cheeks,
and brilliant eyes, and wealth of flow-
ing hair, are the main objects of com-
pliment, and are often transformed

Tk* Modtm Strut-Ballads of IreUtnd.

35 •

pexsonifications of endeaiment.
!, the iiniveisal tenn for young
iens, seems but a corruption of
S«yf , which means a head of curls
ibundant tresses. Grey and blue
; are especially objects of endear-
it, and even in the ancient Irish
US, green-^tA is not imfrequently
[, which is not so unnatural as the
^ish reader may suppose, the
1 word expressing the indefinable
of some lighter blue eyes, being
anslatable into English *
Ithough the modem love-songs
inferior to those in the Irish Ian-
gey for the reason that has been
itioned, that English is not yet
language of the Irish heart, they
n possess a simple power, and,
ii(^ seldom sustained throughout,
MKh of natiure's genius, which the
)kest poet cannot reach with all his
. How exquisite is the following :

" At Katty and I were <

She smfled npon me bow and then.
Her apron strii^ she kept foulding.
And twisting all round her ring.*'

ts of poetry can be picked out of
Qost every love-ballad, as witness
', foDowing :

y loffc ttfiurer than the lilies that do grow,

li has a Toice that*s dearer than any winds that

*' With mild eyes like the dawn."

Dm pleasant evening, when junks and daisies
rVrd in their bosoms one drop of dew."

■ hair dunes gold rerired by the san,

id he takes his denomination from the drien dtrnJ'*

a linnet, how I would sing and fly.
a corn-crake, Td ung till morning

sing to Molly, for once I held her dear.*'

. on a bright morning in summer.
That I first heard his Toice speaking low.
As he aud to the colleen beside me.
Who's that pretty pri milking her cow?"

emerald eyea.**— Massingck.
b that young and green-eyed Gaditana ?*'
IxmcrBLLAw's S/amisk SUkUmL

The hands of my love are mora miiBy aad mJk
Than the snowy sea foam.**

" My lore will not come nigh me^
Nor hear the moan I inake ;
Neither would she pity me.
Though my poor heart should bnak."

There is not one, however, that would
bear quoting entire, and none that
comes anywhere near the flowers of
the ancient Irish love-songs which are
some of the finest in the world. The
principal theme and delight of the
ballad-singers are romantic episodes,
where a rich yoimg nobleman courts
a farmer's daughter in disguise, and,
after marriage, reveals himself, his
lineage, and his possessions to his
bride; or where a noble lady falls in
love with a tight young serving-boy.
Such a ballad will be as great a favorite
among the colleens as the novels of ro-
mantic love are said to be among mil-
liners' apprentices. One thing is especi-
ally noticeable among the love-ballads,
and that is the total absence not only
of licentiousness, but even of coarse-
ness. The Irish peasant-girls at home
are the most virtuous of their class in
the world, owing to the influence of
the confessional, the strong feeling of
family pride, and the custom of uni-
versal and early marriage. Not but
there are unfortunates who have made
a "slip;" and when the ballad relates
of such a tragedy, it shows of how
deep effect is the scorn of the parish,
and how wretched the fate of the un-
fortunate and her base-bom offspring.
The " lamentations " or confessions
of condemned criminals are highly
popular. Premeditated murder is rare
among the Irish peasantry, in com-
parison with the records of ruffianism
among the English laboring classes,
and the interest excited by the event
is deeper, and extends to a larger
space of local influence. These la-
mentations are the rhymed confes-
sions of the criminals, giving an ac-
count of the circumstances of the tra-
gedy, sometimes in the third person,

3<S

The Modem Street-Ballads of IrekauL

and sometimes in the first, always
concluding with a regret at the dis-
grace which the criminal has brought
on his relations, and imploring mercy
for his soul. They are of unequal
merit, and, as a whole, not equal to
the love-songs. Once in a while,
there is a touch of untaiight pathos ;
but being without exception the pro-
duction of the hackneyed writers, they
are as little worth preservation as the
" lives " of eminent murderers which
supply their places among us.

The narrative ballads tell of every
event of interest to Irish ears, from
Aspromonte to the glorious steeple-
chase at Namore ; the burning of an
emigrant ship, to a ploughing-match
at Pilltown, the same language being
used for the one as the other. Dur-
ing the late war in this country, every
great batde was duly %ung by the
Irish minstrels. The sympathies of
the peasantry were usually with the
majority of their kindred in the
North, but not universally so. Thus
does a bard give an account of the
batde of New Orleans, which would
astonish General Butler :

*' To Me the streets that evening, the heart would

rend with pain.
The human blood in rivert ran, like any flood or

stream.
Uen*s heads blown off their bodies, most dismal

for to see;
And woonded men did loudly cry in pain and

agony.
Tb« Federals they did adyanoe, and broke in

throqgh the town.
They trampled dead and woanded that lay upon

tlMgnMuid.
The wounded called lor mercy, but none they did

receive —

•t

The eulogies of pers<Mi or phoe^
some patron or his residence, are in-
numerable, and inefl^ly absurd.
Some years ago, an idle young law-
yer at Cork happened to be visiting
Blarney Castle, when one of these
wandering minstrels came to the gate,
and asked to dedicate a verse to
" Lady Jeffers that owns this station.**
The request was granted, and the
laughter of the guests, as the bard
recited his "composition," may be
imagined. The occurrence and the
style of verse were common enough,
but an idle banter incited the gay
youth into a burlesque imitation.
The result was the &mous " Groves
of Blarney," that has been sung and
whisded all over the world. Those
who have not seen the originals might
imagine the " Groves of Blarney ** to
be an outrageous caricature. But it
is not so. It hardly equals and can-
not surpass some of the native floweis
of blunder. The original is still sold
in the streets of Cork, and some ex-
tracts, in conclusion, will show how
much Dick Milliken was indebted to
his xmwitting model :

" There are fine walks in those pleasant gardeot.
And spots most charming in shady bowers.
The gladiator, who is bold and darings
Each night and ouMming to watch the

" There are fine horses and stall-fed oxen,
A den for foxes to play and hide,
Fine mares for breeding, with foreign sheep^
With snowy fleeces at Castle Hyde.

*' The buck and doe, the fox and eagle,
Do skip and play at the river side.
The trout and nlmon are ahvajrs sporting
In the clear streams of Castle Hyd*.**

Daybreak.

DAYBREAK,

CHAPTER I.

O jewel in the lotos: aanenr*

A WIDE, slow whitening of the
east, a silent stealing away of sha-
dows, a growing radiance before
which the skies receded into inefiable
heights of pale blue and gleaming sil-
ver, and a March day came blowing
in with locks of gold, and kindling
glances, and girdle of gold, and gold-
en sandals over the horizon.

Louis Granger, standing in the
open window of his chamber, laughed
as he looked in the face of the morn-
ing, and stretched out his hands and
cried, *' Backsheesh, O Howadji !"

Not many streets distant, another
pair of eyes looked into the brighten-
ing east, but saw no gladness there.
Margaret Hamilton remembered that
it was her twenty-fifth birthday, and
thrat she had cried herself to sleep the
night before, thinking of it. But she
would not remember former birth-
days, celebrated by father, mother,
and sisters, before they had died,
one after one, and left her alone and
aghast before the world. This, and
some other memories still more re-
cent, she put out of sight; and, since
they would not stay without force,
she held them out of sight. One
who has to do this is haunted

The woman looked haunted Her
eyes were unnaturally bright and
alert, and shadows had setded be-
neath them; her cheeks were worn
thin ; her mouth compressed itself in
dosing. At twenty-five she looked
thirty-five.

And yet Miss Hamilton was meant
for a beauty— one of the brilliant
kind, with dear gray eyes, and a
creamy pallor contrasting with pro-

fuse black hair. The beautiful head
was well set; something vivid and
spirited in the whole air of it Her
height was only medium, but she had
the carriage of a Jane de Montford«
and there were not wanting those
who would have described her as
tall.

While she looked gloomily out, a
song she had heard somewhere float-
ed up in her mind:

" The yean they come, and the yean they go,
Like winds that blow from sea to lea ;
From dark to dark they come and go^
All in the dew-fidl and the rain."

It was like a dreary bitter wind
sobbing about the chimneys when the
storm is rising. 9ie turned hastily
firom the window, and began coimt-
ing the hideous phantoms of bou-
quets on the cheap wall-paper, think-
ing that they might be the lost souls
of flowers that had been wicked in
life; roses that had tempted, and lilies
that had lied. The room, she foimd,
was sixteen bouquets long, and four-
teen and a half wide.

When her eyes began to ache with
this employment, she took up a book,
and, opening it at random, read :

" A still small Toioe said mito me,

' Thou art so full of misery, ^

Were it not better not to be?* '*

Was everything possessed to tor-
ment her? She dropped the book,
and looked about in search of dis-
traction. In the window opposite
her stood her little easel with a part-
ly finished cabinet photograph on it
a man's face, with bushy whiskers,
round eyes, an insignificant nose, the
expression full of a weak fierceness
superficially fell and determined, as
though a lamb should try to look like

Daybriok.

a lion. One eye was sharply finished ;
and, as Margaret glanced at the pic-
ture, this stared at her in so grotesque
and threatening a manner •that she
burst into a nervous laugh.

" I must turn your face to the wall,
Cyclops, till I can give you another
eye," she said, suiting the action to
the word.

A pile of unfinished photographs
lay on a table near. She looked
them over with an expression of
weariness. " O the eyes, and noses,
and mouths! Why will people so
misuse the sunbeams ? And diis in-
sane woman who refuses to be toned
down with India ink, but will have
colors to all the curls, and frizzles,
and bows and ends, and coundess
fly-away things she has on her ! She
looks now more like an accident than
a woman. When the colors are put
in, she will be a calamity. Only one
face among them pleases me — this
pretty dear."

Selecting the picture of a lovely
child, Margaret looked at it with
admiring eyes. "So sweet 1 I wish I
had her here this moment with her
eyes, and her curls, and her mouth."

A sigh broke through the faint
smile. There seemed to be a thorn
under everything she touched. Lay-
ing the picture down, she busied her-
self in her room, opened drawers and
dcteets and set them in order; gather-
ed the few souvenirs yet remaining
to her— letters, photographs, locks of
hair — and piled them all into the
grate. One folded paper she did not
open, but held an instant in fingers
that trembled as they clung; then,
moaning faintly, threw it on to the
pyre. Inside that paper were two
locks of hair — ^both silver-threaded —
twined as the two lives had been;
her father's and her mother's.

The touch of a match, and the
smoke of her sacrifice curled up into
the morning sky.

I1ien again she came to a stand-
still, and looked about for something
to do.

" I cannot work," she said. " My
hand is not steady enough, and my
eyes are dim. What was it that Beet-
hoven wrote to his fiiend ? * At times
cheerful, then again sorrowfiil; wait-
ing to see if fate will listen to us.'
Suppose I should drop everything
since I am so nerveless, and wait to
see what fate will do."

Here again the enemy stood.
The picture of waiting that came t^)
before her mind was that of Judge
Pyncheon in the House of the Seven
Gables, sitting and staring blankly as
the hours went by — a sight to shriek
out at when at length he was found
With a swift pencil this woman's
imagination painted a companion
picture : the door of her room open-
ing after days of silence; a curious,
firightened face looking in ; somebody
sitting there cold and patient, with
half-open eyes, and not a word of
welcome or questioning for the in-
truder.

A clock outside struck ten. Mar-
garet rose languidly and dressed for
a walk, after pausing to rest Rais-
ing her arms to arrange her hair and
bonnet, she felt so faint that for a mo-
ment she was obliged to lean forward
on her dressing-table.

At length she was ready, only one
duty left unperformed. Miss Hamil-
ton had not said her prayers that
morning, and had not even thought
of saying them, or of reproaching her^
self for the omission — a scandalous
omission, truly, for the granddaughter
of the Rev. Doctor John Hamilton,
and daughter of that excellent but
somewhat diluted deacon, John Ha-
milton, his son. But to pray was to
remember; and beside, God had for-
gotten her, she thought.

Miss Hamilton was not a Catholic
To her, Christ died eighteen centuries

Daybreak.

ago, and went to heaven, and stayed
there, only looking and listening down
in some vague and far-away manner
that was easier to doubt than to be-
lieve. The church into which, at
every dawn of day, the Beloved de-
scends with shining pierced feet and
hands ; with the lips that spoke, and
the eyes that saw, and the locks
through which had sifted the winds
of Olivet and the dews of Gethse-
mane ; with the heart of infinite love
and pity, yes, and the soul of infinite
power — this church she knew not.
To her it was an abomination. The
temples where pain hangs crowned
with a dolorous majesty, and where
die path of sorrows is also the path
of delights, her footsteps had never
sought To her they were temples
of iddatiy. Therefore, when troubles
came upon her, though she faced
tbem intrepidly, it was only with a
homan courage. What wonder if at
last it proved that pain was stronger
dianshe?

With her hand on the latch of the

. door she paused,, then turned back

into her chamber llgain. 'llie society

&:e she had assumed dropped off; a

sigh vent shivering-over her lips, and

widi it a half-articulated thought, silly

and womanish, " If I had some one

to come in here, put an arm around

me — I'm so tired! — and say, 'Take

courage, dearl' I could bear up yet

longer. I could endure to the end,

perhaps."

A silly thought, but pitiful, being so
ntin.

Miss Hamilton was not by nature
one of those who, as Sir Thomas
Browne says, looked asquint upon the
fiure of truth.* But she had not dared
to fully realize her circumstances, lest
an courage should die out qf her
heart. Now you could see that she
pat aside the last self-delusion, and
boldly looked her life in the face. It
was Medusa.

One of the bravest of soldiers has
said that in his first battle he would
have been a coward if he had dared
Imagine the eyes of such a fighter, a
foe within and a foe without, and but
his own right arm and dauntless will
between the two I

Such eyes had this woman. Of
her whole form, only those eyes seem-
ed to live. But for them ^e might
have been Margaret Hamilton's star
tue.

At length she moved; and going
slowly out, held on to the railing in
descending the stairS. Out doors,
and down Washington street, then,
taking that direction involuntarily.
It was near noon when she found
herself in a crowd on Park street,
hastening through it, without caring
to inquire what the cause of the ga-
thering was. Coming out presently
in firont of the state house, and seeing
that there was space yet on the steps,
she went up them, and took her stand
near a gendeman whom she had long

"known by «ight and repute. Mr.

' Louis Granger also recognized her,
and made room, quiedy placing him-
self between her and the crowd.
Miss Hamilton scarcely noticed the
movement. She was used to being
attended to.

This gendeman was what might be
called fine-looking, and was thorough-
ly gendemanly in appearance. He
was cast in a large mould, both form
and features, had careless hazel eyes
that saw everything, and rather a
lounging way with him. Indeed, he
owned himself a little lazy, and used
laughingly to assert his belief that
inertia is a property of mind as well
as of matter. It took a good deal to
start him; but once started, it took
still more to stop him. His age
might be anywhere fix)m thirty to
forty, the few silver threads in his fine
dark hair counting for nothing. You
perceived that they had no business

Daybreak.

whatever there. He was not a man
who would catch the eye in a crowd ;
but, once your attention was directed
toward him, you felt attracted. The
charm of his face depended chiefly on
expression; and those who pleased
him called Mr. Granger beautiful.

He stood now looking attentively
at the lady beside him, finding him-
self interested in her. Her eyes, that
were fixed on the advancing proces-
sion, appeared to see no more than
if they had been jewels, and her
mouth was shut as if it would never
open again. The pale temples were
hollow, the delicate nostnls were
slighdy pinched, the teeth seemed to
be set hard! He studied her keenly,
secure in her perfect abstraction, and
marked even the firail hand that
clinched, not clasped, the iron rail-
ing. Mr. Granger could read as
much in a hand as Washington could ;
and this hand, dazzlingly fair, full-
veined, pink-palmed, transparent,
dewy, with heart-shaped finger-tips
that looked as though so^ie fin^r pei^
ception were rbaohin^ oift through^
the flesh, was to him an epitome of
the woman's character.

It was the 17th of March, and the
proce^on in honor of St. Patrick an
unusually fine one. It flowed past like
a river of color and music, with many -
a silken rustling of the flag of their
adoption, but everywhere and above
all the beautiful green and gold of
that most beautifiil banner in the
world — a banner which speaks not
of dominion, but of song and sun-
shine and the green earth. While
other nations, higher-headed, had
taken the sun, the star, the crescent,
the eagle, or the lion for an emblem,
or, with truer loftiness, had raised the
cross as their ensign, this people, with
a sweetness and humility all the more
touching that it was unconscious,
bent to search in the grasses, and
smilingly and trustfully held up a

shamrock as their symbol Those
had no need to inscribe the cross
upon their escutcheon who, in the
fisice of the world, bore it in their faith-
ful hearts, and upon their bowed and
lacerated shoulders.

A pathetic spectacle — a countless
procession of exiles ; yet, happily for
them, the generous land that gave
them a home grew no dark willows
to rust their harp-strings.

The music was, of coiu^ chiefly
Irish airs; but one band in passing
struck up " Sweet Home."

Margaret started at the sound, and
looked about for escape. She could
not listen to that. Happening to
glance upward, she saw a company of
ladies and gendemen in the balcony
over the portico. Governor A—
was there, leaning on the railing and
looking over. He caught her glance,
and beckoned. Margaret immediate-
ly obeyed the summons, getting her-
seif in hand all the way, and came
out^n the balcony with another fsLce
than that she had worn below. She
had put OQ a smile : some good fairy
had add^a fauft^bluslv and\Mia#**
Hamilton was presentable. The gov-
ernor met her with a liearty smile
and clasp of the hand.- '' I am glad
to see you," he said, "Will you
stand here, or take that seat Mr. Sin-
clair is offering you ?"

" Yes, sir," he exclaimed, as Mar-
garet turned away, continuing his
conversation with a gendeman be- €
side him, " the English treatment of
the Irish is a clear case of cussed-

ness."

"Our good chief magistrate is
slightly idiomatic at times," remarked
a lady near by.

A poetess stood in the midst of a
group of gendemen, who looked at
her, while she looked at the proces-
sion. "It is Arethusa, that bright
stream," she said with soft eagerness.
" Pursued and threatened at home, it

Daybrtak.

has crept through shadowy ways,
and leaped to light in a new land."

Margaret* approached Mr. Sinclair,
who sat apart, and who made room
for her beside hinL

Even now she noticed the splendid
beauty of this man' in whom every
physical attraction was perfected. Mr.
Maurice Sinclair might have posed for
a Jupiter ; but an artist would scarcely
have taken him for a model of the
prince of the apostles. He was su-
perbly made, with a haughty, self-
(xmsdous beauty; his full, bold eyes
were ^ a light neutral tint impossible
to describe, so transparent were they,
so dazzling their lustre; and his face
was delicately smooth and nobly-
featured. One could scarcely regret
tfiat the long moustache curling away
from his mouth, then drooping below
his chin, and the thick hair pushed
back fit>m his forehead, were of sil-
very whiteness. It did not seem to
be decay, but perfection. Mr. Sin-
dair used to say that his head had
blossomed.

He smiled as Miss Hamilton step-
ped slowly toward him, the smile
of a man entirely pleased with him-
seU:

" Own now," he said, " that you
ire wishing to be Irish for the nonce,
that you might feel the fuU efiferves-
cence of the occasion."

She shook her head lisdessly.

Mr. Sinclair perceived that she need-
' ed to be amused " See the governor
wave his handkerchief!" he said.
''That man has been bom twice, once
into Massachusetts, and the second
time into all creation."

She ^bmced at the object of his re-
maiksy noting anew his short, rotund
figure, his round head with all its
crow's-nest of black ringlets, his
prompt, earnest face that could be so
kind. "There isn't a drop of mean
blood in his veins," she said. " He
is one of those laie men in whom

feeling and principle go hand in
hand."

Mr. Sinclair gave his shoidders a
just perceptible shrug. " Do you
know all the people here ?" he asked,
observing that Margaret looked
searchingly over the company. Let
me play Helen on the walls of Troy,
and point out the notables whom you
do not know. That antique-cameo-
faced gendeman whom you are looking
at now is the Rev. Mr. Southard. He
is misnamed of course. He should
be called after something boreal.
Does not he make you shiver ? He lives
with my cousin, whom I saw you
standing beside down there. Louis
likes him, or pretends to. Mr. South-
ard is not so much a modem minista:,
as a theological reminiscence. He
belongs among the crc^heads; I have
somewhere heard that he was a wild
lad, and is now doing penance. It is
likely. One doesn't bar a sheep-fold
as one does a prison. He appears to
be a litde off guard now, for a breath
seems to have forgotten predestina-
tion. When he looks like that, I am
always reminded of something pagan.
He'd be horrified, of course, if he
knew it. Mark that Olympian look
of painless melancholy, and the blue,
motionless eye. What a cold, marble
face he has! Being too polished to
retain heat, he remains unmoved in
the midst of enthusiasm. That's phi-
losophy, isn't it ? He is cme of those
who fancy that ceasing to be human,
they become superhimian. They mis-
take the prefix, that's all But Mr.
Southard bristles with virtues. I must
own that I never knew a man so for-
giving toward other people's enemies.**

"I know Mr. Southard well by
reputation," Margaret interrupted
rather warmly. "He is hiunan, of
course, and so, fellible; but every
mountain in his soul is a Sinai t"

" Oh ! he has his good points," Mr.
Sinclair admitted tranquilly. "I have

4«

Daybreak.

known him to be surprised into a glo-
rious laugh, for which, to be sure,
he probably beat himself afterward;
and he has a temper that peeps out
now and then in a delightfully human
fashion. I have detected in him, too,
a carnal weakness for French choco-
late, and a taste for pictures, even the
pictures of the Babylonians. Once I
saw him stand five minutes before a
faded old painting of Cimabue's; I be-
lieve it was a virgin standing between
two little boys who leaned to kiss each
other, a hand of hers on either head.
I don't condemn the man in toto, I
like his faults; but I detest his vir-
tues!

"That stout, consequential person
with his chin in his cravat, who as
Suckling says of Sir Toby Mathews,
is always whispering nothing into
somebody's ear, is Mr. ex-councilman
Smith. He was thrown to the sur-
face at the time of the Know-Nothing
ebullition, and when that was over,
was skinned off with the rest of 'em.
He considers himself a statesman,
and looks fon^-ard with prophetic
goggle eyes to the time when his
party shall be again in the ascendant
He comes here to nurse his wrath,
and I haven*t a doubt that he feels
as though this procession were march-
ing down his throat. He used to be
a joiner, then a house-builder, then
he got to be a house-OHner. Twenty
years ago, my aunt Betsey, who lives
in the countn*, paid him two dollars
to build a tjvllis for her grape-vine,
and he did it so well that she gave
him his dinner after the familv had
got through. Now ho has a nian-
&k>n near hots that dwarfe her cottage
to a birvUago, His plioe is ixully
fine, grounds worth Kx^kinj; at, and a
stone house with brvMi^e lums at the
do^>r. T dont know what ho h,is
lions there fl>r. unless to indu^ato that
Snug the jvMner lixos within. Tin
not afraid of >nL You've ne^er

heard of him here; but out there he
is tremendous. ^ Imposieur d la
Mecque^ etproplAte d Mkdifie!

"Still there are people even here
who blow about him. Psaphon's
birds, of course, fed on Smith's oats.
He hates me because he thinks that
I laugh at him; but I don't doubt
that it soothes his sod to know that
the roses on his carpets are twice
as large as those on mine, and that
he has ten pictures to my one. The
first thing you see when the vesti-
bule door opens is a row of por-
traits, ten of 'em. Smith and his wife,
and eight children. Ames painted
'em, and he must have had the night-
mare regularly till they were done.
They are larger than life, and their
eyes move. I am positive that they
move. I guess there are little strings
behind the canvas. There they hang
and stare at you, till you wish they
were hanged by the necks. The
first time I went there, I shook my
fist at 'em behind Pith's back, and
he caught me at it I couldn't help
it The spectacle is enough to excite
any man's worst feelings. The parlor
walls are covered with landscapes
painted from a cow's point of view,
strong in grass and clover, with plea-
sant drinking-places, and large trees
to stand under when the sun gets
high. I never see such trees and
water in nature, but I dare say the
cows do. Mv wife and I dined there
once. The eight children sat in two
detachments and ate Black Hamburg
grapes, skins and all; and the
peaches were brought in polished
like apples. My wife got into such
a giggle that she nearly strangled
I SCO, you sharj>-eyed Bedouin, you
want to remind me that I have eaten
of this man s s:ilt. True, but he made
it x^ bittor as anv that Danie c\'cr
tastoil

"That s^>!>er. nudvUo^aj^evl man in
a coin|v]ete suit of |vpp<r and salt.

Dayhnak,

hair and all, is Mr. Ames, the mem-
ber from N , Polliwog Ames they

can him, from his great speech. Is it
possible you have never heard of it ?
It was the speech of the session.
Some one had introduced a bill ask-
ing an appropriation of ten thousand
dollars toward building a new mu-
seum of natural history. There was
a little palaver on the subject, then
Ames got up. All winter nothing
had been heard from him but the
scriptural yea and nay ; so, of course,
cveiy one was attentive, 'Gentie-
mcn/ he said, * while thousands of
moi, women, and children, in the city,
and tens of thousands in the common-
wealth, are hungry to-day, and will
be hungry to-moirow, and are and
will be too poor to buy food; while
paupers are crowding otu: alms-
houses, and beggars are swarming in
our streets; while all this poverty is
staring us in the frice, and putting to
OS the problem, how are we to be fed
and clothed and sheltered, and kept
from crime, and taught to read and
to pray ? it would seem to me, gen-
tlemen, an unnecessary not to say
icprdiensible act, to appropriate ten
thousand dollars of the public money,
in order that some long-nosed pro-
fessor might be enabled to show us
how poUiwogs wiggle their tails.'
Having said this, Mr. Ames shut his
mouth, and sat down covered with

Margaret's only comment was to
look eamesdy at this man who had
lemembered the poor.

They were silent a litde while;
then Mr. Sinclair spoke again, in a
lover voice. '^ I am going to Europe
in a few weeks."

^le had nothing to say to this.
His going would make no difference
with her.

*• You know, and everybody knows,"
he went on hastily, " that my wife and
I have not for yeaxs lived very hap-

pily together. I think that few blame
me. I would not wish all the blame
to be thrown on her, either. The
fact is, we never were suited to each
other, and every day we grew more
antagonistic We had a litde sensi-
ble talk last week, and finally agreed
to separate. She will remain here,
and I, as I said, shall go to Europe
for an indefinite time, perhaps for
ever."

At any other time Margaret might
have felt herself embarassed by such
a confidence. As it was, she hardly
knew what rejJly to make ; but, since
he waited, managed to say that if peo-
ple could not live peacefully together,
she supposed it was best they should
separate.

He spoke again abruptly.
"Margaret, you cannot, if you
would, hide your misery fix)m me.
You are fitted to appreciate all that is
beautiful in nature and art, yet are
bound and cramped by the necessity
of constant labor for your daily bread.
You suffer, too, what to the refined is
the worst sting of poverty, the being
associated with, oflen in the power of,
vulgar and ill-natured people, who
despise you because you are not rich,
and hate you because, being poor, you
yet will not and cannot be like them-
selves. I know that there are those
who take delight in mortifying you,
in misinterpreting your every act and
word, and in prejudicing against you
persons who otherwise might be your
fiiends. What a wretched, double life
you live; petted by notable people on
one hand, and insulted by injferiors on
the other 1 How long is it to last?
You must be aware that you are slip-
ping out of the notice of your early
fiiends. You cannot accept their in-
vitations, because you have not time,
and moreover, are not suitably dressed.
By and by they will cease to invite you.
Do you look forward to marriage?
Every day your chances are lessening.

Daybreak, ^

You are growing old before your time.
I cannot see that you have anything
to look forward to but a life of ill-paid
toil, a gradual dropping out of the
place that you were bom and edu-
cated to fill, a loss of courage and
self-respect, a lowering of the tastes,
and at last, a sinking to the level of
what you must despise. If you should
be taken ill now, what would become
of you?"

" I ^ould probably go to the char-
ity-ward of the public hospital," Miss
Hamilton replied coldly.

" What do you hope for ?" he asked.

" I hope for nothing," she answered.
" I know all that you tell me, and far

more."

Mr. Sinclair's eyes brightened.
" What good are your fine friends to
you ? You would never ask them to
help you, I know ; but if you could
bring yourself to that, would you not
feci a bitter difference? It is not
mean to shrink fi^m asking favors,
when they are for ourselves. Walter
Savage Landor was neither mean nor
a fool ; yet he makes one of his best
characters say that the highest price
we can pay for a favor is to ask for it,
and everybody who has tried knows
that You would sink at once fiom
a friend to a dependent. Now your
friends ask no questions, and you tell
them no lies. If they give the subject
a thought, they fancy you in some
quiet, retired, and highly genteel
apartment, if rather near the eaves,
then so for a pure northern light,
leisurely and elegantiy painting photo-
graphs, for which you receive the high-
est prices, and thanks to boot They
don't see an upstartly assistant criti-
cising your work, or a stingy employer
taking off part of the price for some
imaginary flaw. And if they did, they
would only tell you that such annoy-
ances are trivial, that you must rise
above them. I've heard that kind of
talk. But those who go down to bat-

tle with the pigmies know how tor-
menting their bites are. The wont
of it is, too, that you cannot long
maintain the dignity and purity of
your own character in this petty strife.
It isn't in the nature of things, I dont
care what may be said to the contraiy
by parlor ascetics and philosophen.
lliey have no right to dogmatize on
the necessary influence of circumstan-
ces in which they have never been
placed. Moreover, constant labor is
lowering to the mind, and any work is
degrading to the person who can do
a higher kind of work. It may be
saving to him whose leisure would be
employed in fiivolity and license ; but
that person is already base. The time
you spend in studying how to make
one dollar do the work of five makes
a lower being of you. I can see this
in you, Margaret Your manners and
conversation are not what the\' were.
You have no time to read, or think,
or look at pictures, or hear lectures,
or listen to music — none. You have
only time for work, and, the work
finished, are too weary for anything but
sleep ; perhaps too weary for that even.
How long do you expect to keep up
with such a life dragging at you ?"

Miss Hamilton Med between her
finger and thumb a fold of the dress
she wore. ''All the time I could
spare from my painting in the last
three weeks has been devoted to the
task of making this dress out of an
old one," she said. <' It was a difficult
problem ; but I solved it I was al-
ways fond of the mathematics. Of
course, during those three weeks my
universe revolved around a black
bombazine centre. O sir! I know
better than you can tell me, how de-
grading such labor is. God in the
beginning imposed it as a curse; and
a curse it is ! "

There was again a momentary
pause, during which Mr. Sinclair^
merciless eyes searched the cold &ce

Daybreak.

beside him. Margaret did not ob-
serve that all the company had gone,
that the procession had disappeared,
the crowd melted away. She had
sat there and listened like one in a
dream, too dull and weary to be angry,
or to wonder that such words should
be addressed to her, and such bold
assertions made, where her most inti-
mate fiiends had never ventured a
hint even.

When Mr. Sinclair spoke again, his
voice was soft and earnest. " Have
you any friend so dear and trusty, that
bis frown would make your heart ache
yet more? In all the world, do you
know one to whom your actions are
of moment, who thinks of you anxious-
ly and tenderly, for whose sake you
would walk in a straight path, though
it might be full of thorns ? Is there
one?"

"There is not one," she said.

" Come with me, then !" he exclaim-
ed. « Think of Italy, and what that
name means, of the east, of all the
lands that live in song and in story.
Drop for ever from your hands the
necessity for toil, and let your heart
and mind take holiday. ' Not one,'
you said; but, Maud, you mistook, I
thought of you all the time, and got
your troubles by heart Leave this
miserable, cramping life of yours, and
come with me where we shall be as
fiee from criticism as if we were dis-
embodied spirits. Forget this paltry
Boston, with its wriggling streets and
narrow breaths. Fancy now that
tfic breeze in our faces blows off the
Uue Mediterranean, the little dome
above us rises and swells to St. Peter's,
that last flutter of a banner over the
hill is the argent ground with golden
keys. Or Victor Immanuel has got
Rome for his own, and there floats the
led, white, and green of Italy. How
you would color and brighten like a
rose under such sunshine! Come
with me, Margaret, come! "

She looked at him with troubled,
uncomprehending eyes, groping for
the meaning under the flowery speech.
His glance dazzled her.

" It is like a fairy-tale," she said.
" How can it come true ? I am poor,
yet you bid me travel as only the rich
can. How am I to go with you?
who else is going?"

He smiled. "O silly Margaret!
since there is no other way, and since
in all the world there is no one to
care for or to question you, come with
me alone."

Then Margaret Hamilton knew
that her cup of bitterness had lacked
one poisoned drop. She got up from
the seat, shrinking away, feeling as
though she lessened physically.

But when she reached the door,
Mr. Sinclair was there before her.

" At least, forgive me I" she heard
him say.

" Let me go !" she exclaimed, with-
out looking up.

"Remember my tenderness and
pity for you," he urged.

" You have none !" she said. " Let
me go."

"And you are not indifferent to
me," he continued.

She lifled her face at that, and
looked at him with eyes that were
bright, gray, and angry as an eagle's.

" Maurice Sinclair," she said haugh-
tily, "I thank you for one thing.
Weary, and miserable, and lonely as I
have been, I could not have been
certain, without this test, that such a
temptation would not make me hesi-
tate. But now I know that tempta-
tion comes from within, not fh)m
without, and that infamy attracts only
the infamous. I care for you, you
think? My admiration and my
friendships are free ; but I am not a
woman to tear my hands on other peo-
ple's hedges. Let me tell you, sir,
that I must honor a TPan before I can
feel any affection for him. I must

Daybreak.

know that, though being human he
might stumble, his proper stature is
upright If I cared for you, I could
not stand here and scorn you, as I do ;
I should pray you to be true to your
noble self, to give me back my trust
in you. I should forgive you; but
my forgiveness would be coals of fire
on your head. If I could love a man
well enough to sin for him, I should
love him too well for that. Oh! it
was manly, and tender, and generous
of you, was it not ? I had lost all but
self-respect, and you would have taken
that from me. But, sir, I have wings
which you can never entangle !"

"You have nowhere to turn," he
said.

She stood one instant as though
his words were indeed true, then
threw her hands upward, " I turn to
God ! I turn to God ! " she cried out.
When she looked at him again,
Mr. Sinclair stepped aside and let her
pass.

But the strength that passion gives
is brief, and when Margaret reached
the street, she was trembling with
weakness. Where to go? Not
home ; oh ! not to that gloomy place !
She walked across the Common, and
thence to the Public Gardens, every
step a weariness.

" I must- stay out in the sunshine,"
she thought, taking a seat under the
great linden-tree that stands open to
the west. " Darkness, and chilly,
shadowed places are terrible. Oh!
what next ?"

ITiough she had called on God,
she yet believed not in him, poor
Margaret! Hers had been the in-
stinctive outcry of one driven to des-
peration ; and when the impulse sub-
sided, then darkness fell again.

Sitting there, she drew from her
pocket a little folded paper, opened
it in an absent way, and dreamily ex-
amined the delicate white powder it
contained. More than once, when

life had pressed too heavily, the en«
chanter hidden under this delusive
form had came to her aid, had loo-
sened the tense cords that bound her
forehead, unclasping them with a
touch as tfght and tender as love's
own, had charmed away the pain
from flesh and spirit She recollected
now anew its sinuous and subtile
ways. First, a deep and gradually
settling quietude of mind and body,
all disturbing influences stealing away
so noiselessly that their going was im-
perceptible, a prickling in the anns, a
languor in the throat and at the roots
of the tongue, a sweet fainting of
the breath, an entire and perfect
peace. Then a slowly rising percep-
tion of pleasures already in possession
yet unnoticed before.

How delightful the mere involun-
tary act of breathing! How airily
intoxicating the full, soft rush of
blood through the arteries, swinging
noisily like a dance to a song, never
lost, in whatever labyrinthine wind-
ings it might wander. How the uni-
verse opened like a folded bud, like
myriad buds that bloom in light and
color and perfume ! The air and the
sunshine became miracles; common
things slipped ofi* their disguise, and
revealed undreamed-of glories. All
this in silence. And presently the
silence would be found rhythmic like
a tune.

She went no farther. The point at
which all these downy influences be-
came twined into a cord as potent as
the fabulous Gleipnir, and tightened
about both body and soul with its
soft, implacable coils — that her
thought glanced away from.

She carefully shook the shining
powder into a little heap in the paper.
There was ten times as much as she
had ever taken at once; but then
she had ten times greater need of
rest and f rgetfulness. Her head felt
giddy, as u a wheel were going with-

Daybreak.

in it Catching at that thought of a
wheel, her confused memory called
up strange eastern scenes, a temple
in a gorge among rocky mountains ;
outside, the dash of a torrent foaming
over its rough bed between the palms ;
not fiur away, the jimgle, where the
tiger springs with a golden flash
through the shadows; within, hid-
eous carved idols with vestments of
doth of gold, and silvef bowls set be-
fore them, the noiseless entering of a
lading lama, the bowed form and
band outstretched to twirl the pray-
ing-wheel, whereon is wound in mil-
lion-fold repetition the one desire of
his soul, *' Um mam panee^ haum /"
jewel in the lotos ! Rest and for-
getfulness ! So her thought kept mur-
muring w^ith weary persistency.

As she raised Uie morphine to her
Hps, some one touched her arm.

" Madam !'' said a man's voice just
behind her shoulder.

She started and half turned. <«Well,
arr

"What have you there ?" he asked,
without removing his hand.

^e shook herself loose from him.
" Wll you go on, sir ? you are insolent !"
^ I cannot go while you have such
a £iice, and while that paper is in
your hand," Louis Granger said firm-
ly; and reaching, took the morphme
from her.

Her glance slid away from his face,
and became fixed.

"O child 1 what would you do?"
he exclaimed.

She did not appear to hear him.
She was swaying in her seat, and her
breath came sobbingly.

Mr. Granger called a carriage that
was passing, and led her to it She
made no resistance, and did not ob-
ject, scarcely noticed, indeed, when
be seated himself opposite her.

Walk your horses till I find out
the lady wants to go," he said
to the driver*

When, after a few minutes of sick-
ening half-consciousness, Margaret
began to realize who and where she
was, and looked at Mr. Granger, she
met his eyes fiill of tears.

"I have no claim on your confi-
dence," he said, "but I desire to
serve you ; and if you can trust me,
I assure you that you will never have
reason to regret it."

Margaret dropped her face into her
hands, and all the pride died out of
her heart.

"I was starving," she said. "I
have not tasted food for twenty-four
hours ; and for a week I have eaten
nothing but dry bread."

Mr. Granger leaned quickly and
took her hand in a strong grasp, as
we take the hands of the dying, to
give them strength to die.

"I worked day and night," she
sobbed; "2uid I only got enough to
make me decent, and pay for my
room. I have done all I could ; but
I was losing the strength to do. I
have been starving so for more than
a year, growing worse every day. I
wasn't responsible for trying to take
the morphine. My head is so light
and my heart is so heavy, that every-
thing seems strange, and I don't quite
know what is right and what is
wrong."

Mr. Granger's sympathy was pain-
fully excited. He was not only
shocked and hurt for this woman,
but he felt that in some way he was
to blame when such things could be.
He had also that uneasiness which
we all experience when reminded
how deceitful is the fair surface of
life, and what tragedies may be going
on about us, imder our very eyes,
yet unseen and unsuspected by us.
"What if my own Httle girl should
come to this !" he thought.

" What was Mr. Sinclair saying to
you up there ?" he asked abruptiy.

She told him without hesitation.

Daybreak.

" The villain !" he muttered.

** No," Margaret replied sadly, " I
think that according to his light, he
had some kind meaning. You know
he doesn't believe in any religion,
that he denies revelation; yet you
would not call him a villain for that.
Why then is he a villain for denying
a moral code that is founded on rev-
elation ? He is consistent If God
and my o^-n instincts had not for-
bidden me to accept his proposal,
nothing else would have had power."

She sighed wearily, and leaned
against the back of the carriage.

" Promise to trust all to me now,"
Mr. Granger said hastily, " I am not
a Maurice Sinclair."

"Have I not trusted you?" she
asked with trembling lips. " Besides,
it seems that God has sent you to
me, and trusting you is trusting him.
I didn't expect him to answer me;
but I called, and he has answered."

CHAPTER II.
A LOUIS D*OB.

With the exception of that perfect
domestic circle not often beheld save
in >Tsions, there is perhaps no more
delightful social existence than may
l>e enjoyed where a few congenial
poisons are gathered under one roofi
in all the fineedom of private life, but
without its cares, where no one is
obliged to entertain or be entertained,
but is at liberty to be si>ontaneously
charming or disagreeable, accorxiing
to his movxi, where comfort is taken
thought of, and elegance is not for-
gotten.

Into such an establishment Mr.
Grangers home had ex|\mdcvl alter
the death of his wife, h cv>uld not l>e
called a boan.ling-house. since he ad-
mined only a lew near inetKls; »md
he recused to corridor himself as hocst.
Tbc only %-isibIe authoriue» in the

place were Mrs. James, die house-
keeper, whose weapon was a duster,
and Miss Dora Granger, whose scep-
tre was a blossom.

The house was a large, old-&shioned
one, standing with plentihil elbow-room
in a highly respectable street that had
once been very grand, and there were
windows on four sides. All these win-
dows looked like pleasant eyes with
spectacles over them. There was a rim
of green about the place, a tall horse-
chestnut-tree each side of the street,
door, and an irrepressible grape-vine
that, having been planted at the rear
of the house, was now well on its way
to the front This vine was unpruned,
an embodied mirth, flinging itself in
every direction, making the slightest
thing it could catch at an excuse for
the most profuse luxuriance, so happy
it could never stop growing, so full of
life it could not grow old.

In the days when Mr. Granger's
grandfather built this mansion, walls
were not raised with an eye chiefly to
the accommodation of Pyramus and
Thisbe. They grew slowly and solidly,
of honest stone, brick, and mortar,
lliey had timbers, not splinters; there
wasn't an inch of veneering from attic
to basement ; and instead of stucco,
the)' had woodwork with flutings as
fine as those of a ladv's ruffle. When
you see mahogany-colored doors in
one of those dwellings, you may be
pretty sure that the doois are maiiog-
any ; and the white knobs and hinges
do not wear red. Cannon-balls fired
at these houses stick in the outer wall

Such was Mr. Louis Grangei's
home. Miss Hamilton had looked at
that house many a time, and sighingly '
contrastvxl it widi the dingy brick de-
clivity in which she had her criic.
Now she was to live here.

*' Hv>w wishes do sometimes come
fiilnllevl. if ^-t? only wrsh long enough !"
she thought, 05 the carriage in which
she had come drew up before the steps^

Daybreak.

Mr. Granger stood in the open door,
and there was a glimpse of the house-
keeper behind him, looking oat with
the utmost respect on the equipage of
their visitor — ^for one of Miss Ham-
ilton's wealthy friends had offered her
a carriage.

But as the step was let down, and
the liveried footman stood bowing be-
fore her, Margaret shrank back with a
sudden recollection that was unspeak-
ably bitter and humiliating. In spite
of die mocking show, she was coming
to this house as a beggar, literally ask-
ing for bread. On the impulse of the
moment, she could have tinned back
to her attic and starvation rather than
accept friendship on such terms. In
diat instant all the petty spokes and
wheek in the engine of her poverty
combined themselves for one wrench
more. •

"I have been watching for you,"
said Mr. Granger's voice at the car-
siage-door.

Margaret gave him her hand, and
stq)ped out on to the pavement, her
£ice downcast and deeply blushing.

" I hope I have not incommoded
you," she said coldly.

He made no reply, and seemed not
to have heard her ungracious com-
ment; but when they reached the
threshold, he paused Uiere, and said
earnestly, " I bid you welcome to yoiu:
new home. May it be to you a happy
oner

She looked up gratefully, ashamed
of her bitterness.

Mr. Granger's manner was joyful
and cordial, as if he were receiving an
oU friend, or meeting some great good
fortune. Bidding the housekeeper wait,
he conducted Margaret to a room
near by, and seated her there to hear
one word more before he should go to
his business and leave her to the ten-
der mercies of his servants. As she
sat, he stood before her, and leaning
on the high back of a chair, looked

VOL.

smilingly down into the expectant and
somewhat anxious fsice that looked up
at him.

" I am so cruel as to rejoice over
every circumstance which has been
influential in adding to my household
so welcome and valuable a friend,"
he said. " I have worlds for you to
do. First, my little Dora is in need of
yotu- care. It is time she should be-
gin to learn something. I have also
consented, subject to yoiu: approval,
to associate with her two Hide girls of
her age, who live near, and will come
here for their lessons. Besides this,
a friend of mine, who is preparing a
scientific work, and who does not un-
derstand French, wishes you to make
some translations for him. Does this
suit you?"

" Perfectly !"

'' But first you must rest," he said.
" And now I will leave you to get ac-
quainted with the house under Mrs.
James's auspices. Do not forget that
your comfort and happiness are to be
considered, that you are to ask for
whatever you may want, and mention
whatever may be not to your liking.
Have you an3rthing to say to me now?"
pausing with his hand on the door-
knob.

" Yes," she replied, smiling, to hide
emotion ; '^ as in the Koran God said
of St John, so I of you, * May he be
blessed the day whereon he was bom,
the day whereon he shall die, and the
day whereon he shall be raised to
life !' "

He took her hand in a friendly clasp,
then opened the door, and with a ges-
tiure that included the whole house,
said, " You are at home !"

Margaret glanced after him as he
went out, and thought, ** At home !
The French say it better ; I am chez
vous r I

" You have to go up two flights.
Miss Hamilton," the housekeeper be-
gan apologetically, with the footman^

Daybreak.

still in her eye. ''But Mr. Granger
said that you want a good deal of
light Mr. and Mrs. Lewis occupy
that front room over the parlor, and
die next one is the spare-chamber, and
that one under yours is Mr. Granger's,
and that htde one is Dora's, and the
long one back in the L is Mr.
Southard's. Up this other flight. Miss
Aurelia Lewis has the front chamber.
She likes it because the horse-chestnut
tree comes up against the window. In
summer you can hardly see through.
It's like being in the woods. There,
this is your chamber," flinging open
the door of a large, airy room that had
two deep windows looking over the
house-tops straight into the eyes of the
east, llie coloring of this room was
delightfully fresh and cool, the walls
a pale olive-green, the wood-work
white, and the wide mantel-piece of
green marble. There were snow-
white muslin curtains, Indian matting
on the floor, and the chairs were all
wicker, except one« a crimson-cush-
ioned arm-chair. The old-£ishioned
bun^au and wardrobe weie of solid
mahogany adorned with gUttering
brass knobs and handles, and the black
and gik frumeil kx>king-glass had brass
caniUcss^vkets at each side. The open
grate was tilkxi with sa\*in-boughs«
and a bright shell set in the midsL In
the centre of the montle-pieoe was a
white rase running o\>rr iuU of glisten-
ing siuiUx s|va\^ and at each end
stvxxl a brass candlestick with a green
wax cind'e in it. Thcie were three
pictures \Yi thechree blank walls: one
a maternX'^or ol QK>ds^iv>ses and buvls
dew 5^-rlr.kl<vU the satwnd, a chrvvoo of
a >e-"ow .^nv cat stretched o« ia on
attiaxie o<' $Iun^^cvHxs rejx^w^ her tad
oxicd aVct her Udte haxuK Kcj; her
b<Mvi a.;\juvxxl and tesciog on hst
|vi«Sw hsTC e\« >jLt shut, be: sho%-J5^
a siy Jtrw vX" wa^hftd gyik^ hscrv.
Tb* axi «Jt* a \er% $^>od eo^nixus^

closet with drawers and shdves, de-
lightful to feminine eyes, led back finom
this quaint and pleasant chamber.

Margaret glanced around her pretty
nest, then flung ofl' her bonnet and
shawl, and, seating herself in the arm-
chair by the window, for the first time
really looked at the housekeeper. Tin
that moment she had not been con-
scious of the woman.

Mrs. James was hospitably making
herself busy doing nothing, moving
chairs that were already well placed,
and wiping off* imaginary specks of
dust She looked as though ^e would
be an excellent housekeeper, and put
her whole soul in the iMisincss; but
appeared to be neutral otherwise.

'' Ev^ything here was as dean as
your eye this morning," she said,
frowning anxiously as she stooped to
bring a suspected table-top between
her vision and the light

" £ver)'thing is exquisite," Miss
Hamilton rephed. ^ One can't hdp
ha\ing a speck of dust now and then.
The earth is made of it, yon know."

The housekeeper sighed wofrtDy.
" Yes. there's a great deal of dirt in
the worid.''

When she was left alone, Margaret
still sat there, letting the room get
acquainted with her. and settling her-
self into a new and ddicious content
Happening atte a while to glance
toward die door, she saw it slowly
and notsdessly moving an inch or
two. stopping, then again opening a
litile way. She continued to look,
wvHKtering what singular current of
air cc evxentrkitr of hinge produced
that intermittent mooao. Presently
she s^wvL disped around the edge
o< the ..kxv. at oboct two feet from
the car^>et iour i-rrrttesanjl finger-
tip^ ivt?>-mhire a^i£3st the yeflow-
mh::e o( the ^v&iz:. M^ Hamfltoia
ch<\^vxl the bttroii a Ixtle oo her
SKu-J>a;t^ 0^^ and awa;£evi

Daybfvak.

After a moment^ there appeared
just above the fingers a half-curled,
flossy lock of pale gold-colored hair,
and softly dawning after that aurora,
a beautiful child's face.

** Oh ! come to me 1" exclaimed
Margaret.

Immediately the face disappeared,
and there was silence.

Miss Hamilton leaned back in her
chair again, and began to recollect
the tactics for such cases made and
provided by the great law-giver Na-
aire. She affected not to be aware
that the silken locks reappeared, and
after them a ^^impse of a low, milk-
white forehead, then a blue, bnght
eye, and finally, the whole exquisite
Etde form in a gala-dress of white,
with a gay sash and shoulder-knots.

Dora came in looking intently at
die mantel-piece, and elaborately un-
conscious that there was any one
present but herself. ^Miss Hamilton's
attention was entirely absorbed by
the outer world.

"I never did see such a lovely
ibwer as there is in that window,"
she soliloquLeed. '' It is as pink as
ever it can be. Indeed, I think it is
a little pinker than it can convenient-
ly be. It must have to try hard."

Dora glanced toward the stranger,
and listened attentively.

" And I see three tiny clouds scud-
&ng down the east I shouldn't be
soiprised if their mother didn't know
they are out. They run as if they
didn't mean to stop till they get into
the middle of next week."

Dora took a step or two nearer,
looked warily at the speaker, and
peeped out Uie window in search of
die truant cloudlets.

"And there is another cloud over-
head that has gone sound asleep,"
Hiss Hamilton pursued as tranquilly
as if she had been sitting there and
taDdng time out of mind. '' One side
of it is as white as it can be, and

the other side is so much whiter than
it can be, that it makes the white
;side look dark. If anybody wants to
see it, she had better make haste."

" Anybody," was by this time close
to the window, looking out with all
her eyes, her hand timidly, half
unconsciously touching the lady's
dress.

" Oh ! what a splendid bird !" cried
the enchantress. "What a pity it
should fly away! But it may come
back again pretty soon."

Silence, and the pressure of a dim-
pled elbow on Margaret's knee.

"I suppose you don't care much
about sitting in my lap, so as to see
better," was the next remark, address-
ed, apparendy, to all out-doors.

The child began shyly to climb to
the lady's knee, and was presently as-
sisted there.

"Such a birdl" sighed Margaret
then, looking at the litde one, think-
ing that by this time her glance could
be borne. " It had yellow specks on
its breast," illustrating with profuse
and animated gestures, " and a long
bill, and a glossy head with yellow
feathers standing up on top, and yel-
low stripes on its wings," pointing to-
ward her own shoulders, her glance
following her finger. Then a break,
and an exclamation of dismay, " What
has become of my wings ?"

Dora reached up to look over the
lady's shoulder, but saw only the back
of a well-fitting bombazine gown.

" I guess they's flied away," said the
child in the voice of a anguid bobolink.

" Then 111 tell you a story," said
Margaret " Once there was a lady
who lived in a real mean place, and
she didn't have a good time at all.
She was just as lonesome and home-
sick as she could be. One day she
brought home the photograph of a
dear little girl, and that she liked.
And she wished that she could see
the real little girl, and that she could

33 Comparative Morality of Catholic and Protestant Countries.

talk to her; but she had only the pa-
per picture. Well, by and by she
went to live in a delightful house;
and while she sat in her chamber, the
door opened, and who should come
in but the same dear child whose pic-
ture she had loved 1 Wasn't the lady
glad then ?''

<" Who was the little girl ?" asked
Dora with a shy, conscious look and
smile.

The answer was a shower of kisses
all over her sweet face, and two teats
that dropped unseen into her sunny
hair.

TO BS COMllMUEO.

COMPARATIVE MORALITY OF CATHOLIC AND PROTES-
TANT COUNTRIES.

It is truly refreshing to read in AA
nam^s Mai^zine for January, 1869, the
article entitleil," The I-iterature of the
Coming Controversy," written, as we
now know, bv Rev. Leonard W. Ba-
con, a Protestant minister of Brooklyn.
In it. he c;i5tigates most soundly the
well knoMTi anti-ix>per\' society called
"The Americin and Foreign Christian
Vniv'»n/' ••numbering." as he saj-s,
anuMxg its \ ioe-prwiidents and direc-
u^rss some of the mv>c?t eminent pvastoTs,
Mshojvis ihev^io^l,ir.x onvl Chilians of
the American IV^tesMr.t churches."
S».vne of it? publications he calk- wick-
cvl iin^v^UR*s " ar.d •• shameful scan-
dals.** and wonvler? - how they con
st.;:^^. frv^in vcar to veor. avvrx\!::evi u>

0..r >»or'..kT ■;> s::'.l jirvatcr how >.e can
vm". I't^cn mi^,^ oour,^:r.ar.of such thinp^
" .•x.v'V.':;.'' Ho sa\^ "^ A" the :::::»

..... ...-> >kV > .1 ..A> .Xxii •«...•• w.;^ ««>

^.»,»r^ O^ .^.X.,vW7> Jk-.N. SvA..-

* ^^c > >• . *■ v^ * c?*.»*«

. ■ .X

'V*

Vk.»w.,» . .V,* ••.*^^v.^^ ^fc

^ - «• *» • v*^ V J». *'v x- ^V^. AxV

or not" We honor Mr. Bacon for
his manly, straightforward conduct,
and thank him for this act of justice.
It is the first we have had to rejoice in
for a long while, but we h(^ it irill
not be the last The time seems to
be approaching, when calumny and
abuse will no longer be recei\-ed with
£ivor by the public, and the Catholic
Church be allowed to speak in her own
defence, and listened to, and judged
of, accorviing to her own intrinsic mer-
its. All we ask is fair play, and we
are cv^nndenc the tnxth wiQ make it-
sdf known.

Put the Rev. Mr. Bacon, after de-
nouncing the hir-g and scunikKis at-
tacks agains; the church, goes on to say :
** I: is a pUroson: relief :o uke ^x^ another
authv»r — the Rev. M. Hoboit Seymour,
of the Ohunrh of Eac-orui His two
Kx>ks. er.r::!^ .V.^^V s^* the y^tsm-

M«> *<■ «\. tC. « .k^N* ^ . .^CTcT SCVfill Em€

A'*-m:«ir":ji\ ire ruxxi? cc n^gioos
Ox\:'-:rv^\e:^v. I^ laitir os* tiie two,
esiW":,;!*\. N:-^ rhe nc« popular,

. . ,_

si*f<'**::N. v'iN:r-s:r\-;. and in?

Nvi. >^< <:vr< ,*w: .•« rrrL* ... It
?.• jl'UxXV": cvt o-cs %!ui a oory of

Comparativt Moratity of Catholic and Protestant Countries. 52

ity, and rdigious feeling," we procured
a translation into Spanish, entitled,
Hccfus con los Romanistas^ issued by
The American Tract Society, for the
use of benighted Spaniards.

We have read the opening chapter,
and found it enough. We are tempted
to exclaim with bitter disappointment,
Is this all the fairness and justice we
are to expect from one who is de^
scribed as the '' model " of a Protes-
tant controversialist ? We prefer the
McGavins, the Brownlees, or the Kir-
wans whom Mr. Bacon so jusdy holds
up to public scorn. This man stabs
you in the dark ; he is a Titus Oates,
who swears away your life by false tesd-
mony — by telling just enough to con-
vict you, when he knows enough to
give you an honorable acquittal.

This opening chapter has for its
theme the relative effects of Protes-
tantism and the Catholic religion upon
the morality of those under their re-
spective influence ; and to show that
Catbohc coimtries, in comparison to
Pkotestant, are sinks of crime and im-
pnity. This, if fairly proved, would
beapractical argument of overwhelm-
ing force, sufficient to close the mind
against all that can be said in favor
of the Catholic Church ; and be a suf-
fideut reason, with most people, for re-
fising even to entertain her claims to
be the Church of God. We know
that she is Christ's Church, and that
jiBt in proportion* as she exerts her in-
ibcDce, virtue and morality must pre-
vail; and that it is impossible to prove,
anleB through fraud and misrepresen-
tation, that the practical working of
her system produces a morality in-
fieiior to that of any other.

We know all the importance of the
question; it is one that touches our
good name, and we feel indignation
agamst any one who shall attempt to
ic^ us of it, by any mean or unfair
tricks. Let us see how our " model "
controversialist deals with this matter.

" In order not to cause a useless waste
of time by going over all sorts of
crimes," he selects the greatest one,
that of murder or homicide. Then
he selects England, and compares it
with nearly all the Catholic countries
of Europe, and shows it to be at least
four times better than the very best of
them. We do not propose to ferret
this out; we cannot lay our hands
upon the statistics of this particular
crime, which seem to be everywhere
very loosely given; but we can show
shorUy, that his conclusions are utter-
ly false. He gives the number of
persons imprisofud on this charge of
homicide in England and Wales, du-
ring 1852, as 74, and the annual meaa
for three years as 72. This will strike;
every one as simply ridiculous. Lucki-
ly, the Statistical yourtial of 1867^
gives the following tables of this crime
for 1865, as follows :

VBBDICTS or COIONBSS' JURIES.

Wilful murder, %vi

Manslaughter, ata

Total, jsf

POLICE RBTUXMS.

Wilful murder, X3S

Manslaughter, 979

Concealment of birth, 33a

Total, 64ft

CRIMINAL TABLES.

Wilful murder cases tried.
Manslaughter, '* *'
Concealment of birth, "

Tqtal, .

143
519

If 519 were tried, we may judge of
the number imprisoned. The author
of the article in the youmal says:
«*The police returns do not corre-
spond with the coroners', and the dis-
crepancy is so great that I can only
account for it on the supposition that,
according to the police view of it,
infanticide is not murder." The num-

54 Ccmfaraih€ M^mUity 0f QMolu and Pf&tiUcmt (^^

ber of coroners' inquests held in 1865,
in England and Wales, was

Total, ....

Verdict of aocidenUl dflfttfas.

»»397

He continues, '' Open verdicts, as
Aey are termed, such as, < found dead,'
or ' found drowned,' are rendered in
many cases when a more accurate
knowledge would have led to the
verdict of * wilful murder.' "

It is just as easy to compare the
total of first-class criminals of all sorts,
as to select homicide.

Alison* says, "The proportion of
crime to the inhabitants was twelve
times greater in Prussia (Protestant)
than in France, (Catholic,) and in
Austria, (Catholic,) the proportion of
convicted crime is not (me fourth of
what is found in Prussia." The
Statistical ybumals for 1864-65 show
that France is better than England.

There were no less than 846 deaths
of children under one year old, in 1857,
in England and Wales from violent
causes,t from which we may form
some little idea of the extent of only
one sort of homicide. ^

Only 74 incarcerations for homi-
cide in all England and Wales for the
year 1852 ! ^^lly, it is stated in the
^ew York Herald of February 4th,
that 78 persons were arrested last year
for murder in New York alone. We
can easily imagine what the grand
total for the United States must be,
and how much better is England, i%ith
its paui>erism and crime, than the
United States ?

Mr. Seymour undoubtedly is
•' sprightly'* enough, but only " instruct-
ive " by showing us the amount of non-
sense which the public is expected to
swallow without examination, where
the Catholic Church is concemeil, and
the amount of fair play to bo expecteii
from a " moilel " of a Protestant con-
troversialist.

• HiMi«rj 0/ Eurtft^ Tol. ui. chap. xxtL v^ ti.

But as a comparison based on " ho«
micide " alone would prove nothing,
any more than one based on drunken-
ness or robbery, Mr. Sejnnour insti-
tutes another^ in respect to unchastity,
or immorality, and here he sets up as
his criterion the amount of iUfgitimaiy
among Catholics and Protestants re-
spectively. In any community, the
mcMral condition is to be estimated by
the greater or smaller proporti<m of
illegitimacy. We object to this as a
very unreUable test In some com-
munities, an illegitimate birth is ahnost
unknown, and yet they are the most
corrupt and Hcentious on the face of
the earth. Infanticide and foeticide
replace illegitimacy. A young woman
falls from virtue ; but in spite of the
finger of scorn which will be pointed
at her, her sense of religious duty
restrains her from adding a houiUe
crime to her sin. What is her moral
' condition in the sight of God, compar-
ed with that of the guilty one whom
no fear of the Almighty has restrained
from the commission of this crime?
The absence of illegitimacy may be
the most convincing proof of a state
of moral corruption, as in Persia and
Turkey, where no children except in
wedlock, are suffered to see the light
oftheworid.* There are good rea-
sons why more illegitimate children
might be expected to be bom among
Catholics than among Protestants^
and yet the former- be much more
moral than the latter. " The doctrine
of the Catholic Church," says Bishop
Fitzpatrick, "her canons, her ponti-
fical constitutions, her theologians,
without exception teach, and constant-
ly have taught, that the destruction of
the human fcetus in the womb of the
mother, at any j>oriod from the first
instant of conception, is a heinous
crime, etjual at least in guilt to that
of municr." f lliis is understood by

Comparative Morality of Catholic and Protestant Countries. 55

Catholics of all classes, and inspires
a salutary horror of the crime. Pro-
testantism does not teach morality in
this definite way, but leaves people
to reason out for themselves the de-
gree of criminality of particular offen-
ces. Let us listen to Dr. Storer, an
eminent Protestant physician. '<It
is not, of course, intended to im-
ply that Protestantism, as such, in any
way encourages, or indeed permits,
die prac ice of inducing abortion ; its
tenets are uncompromisingly hostile
to all crime. So great, however, is
ttie popular ignorance regarding this
offence, that an abstract morality is
bere comparatively powerless; our
American women arrogate to them-
idves the setdement of what they
consider, if doubtful, purely an ethical
question ; and there can be no doubt
that the Romish ordinance, flanked
(m the one hand by the confessional,
and by denouncement and excommu-
nications on the other, has saved to
to the world thousands of infant
fivo,"* Rev. Dr. Todd, a Protestant
minister of Pittsfield, Mass., to his
hooor be it said, has had the courage
to declare the same thing in similar
words.t Dr. Storer proceeds, " Dur-
ing the ten years that have passed
since the preceding sentence was
vikten, we have had ample verifica-
tioa of its truth. Several hundreds
of Protestant women have personally
acknowledged to us their guilt, against
whom only seven Catholics, and of
these we found, aipon further inquiry,
that but two were only nominally so,
not going to the confession.**} Two
communities exist, in which, say, an
equal amount of unchastity occurs.
In one, religion restrains from the
commission of further crime, and there
is much illegitimacy apparent; in the
other, criminal abortion destroys all

* Crimimal Ahvriicn^ p. 74.
t SerpenU m Mr Dffvt*t N*si.
% Critmmmi Akorti^mt p. 74.

the evidence, and though horribly cor-
rupt in comparison, the appearance is
all the other way. Some such com*
parison might be made between
Paris and Boston; with what truth,
each one can determine for him$el£
And there is another reason which
adds force to what has been said. In
Catholic countries, fbimdling hospitals,
established for the very pturpose of
saving infant life, exist everywhere.
Knowing that the temptation to con-
ceal one's shame will, in many cases,
be too strong to be resisted, and thus
one crime be added to another, the im-
pulse of Christian charity has caused
the founding of these hospitals, so
that the infant, instead of being killed,
may be provided for, and the mother
have a chance to repent, without
being for ever marked with the brand
of shame. Scarcely any such exist
among Protestants. To set up, then,
illegitimacy as the best criterion of
the morals of a community, is a palpa-
ble injustice to Catholics.

But let us, nevertheless, follow Mr.
Seymour on his own chosen ground.
He thinks the Catholic country peo-
ple may, in the absence of peculiar
temptations, be as good as the Pro-
testant; and that the state of great
cities will show more the influence of
religion on the morals of the people.
We think the opposite; for in great,
cities there are immense masses of
degraded people, who abandon the
practice of religion, never go to church,,
and for whom the Protestant church, ,
at least, would be apt to disclaim aU
resp>onsibility. The country people
are within the knowledge and the
voice of the preacher or the priest,
and religion exercises its proper influ-
ence upon them.

He selects London, on the Protes-
tant side, as the largest city in the
world, the richest, and where there are:
"the most numerous, the strongest,
and the most varied temptations;"

56 Comparative Morality of Catholic atid Protestant Countries,

and, Qf course, where there should
naturally be the most vice and crime.
But facts contradict theory. The
percentage of illegitimate births in
LcHidon is 4.2, while that for all Eng-
land and Wales is 6.5, and in the
country districts, where the "nume-
rous, strong, and varied temptations "
are wanting, it varies from 9 to over
ii.^ London is compared with
Paris, Brussels, Munich, and Vienna ;
and the rates are given as follows :

PROPORTION OP ILLEGITIMATE BIRTHS.

Ib Paru, Roman Catholic, thirty^hree per cent

InBnnseli. " " thirty-five " "

iBlfonich, •« ** iorty-eight " **

laVieniuu " *« fiftroo*

Id I^ondon, Protestant, four

(I (t

(4 ««

and then, to show that this fearful
disproportion exists not only in the
capitil cities, but also in other small-
er ones, we have another table :

Pr^UsiatU Eniland, R. C. Austria,

Bristol aiid Gifton, 4 per ct. Troppau, • 26 per cL

BradfWrd. ... 8 " " Zani, . . 30 " "

BirminKlam, . 6 ** " Innxpruck, aa *' **

Brinhton,

«( M

I.aybach, . 3S

II 41

Cheltenham, . . y " " Brunn, . . 4a " ••

Eseter. ... « " •• Lint. . . 46 " "

Liverpool, . . 6 " " Prague, . 47 " "

Manchester, . . 7 •» " LembeiK, . 47 ** "

Plymouth, . . 5 " " KURenfort, 56 " "

, . 5 " " Grat«, . . 65 " "

POffti«k

The inference ftom these figures,
drawn with manv exclamations of
surprise and horn>r, is, that the Pro-
testant religion is ten times as power-
ful against crime and vice as the
C'aiholic, and to create an overwhelm-
ing ri^nviction of the essential comip-
tion t>f the latter. Nothing is further
frt^m tlu» tnith. London, l.iveriKX)!,
liirininj;hain, oto., an.* as romipt as
any tiiios t>f iho worM. The rities
of I'V.ii^i m\k\ Austria wcck\ not foar
thr roinp.ni-.on. mv\ \\\k- moro iho-
roughlv It 1'. in.hlr ilu» lu'iirr.

J. l>. l'lKnnl.riN. kotudn of S.ilis-

" And here a few words on the unhappy
reason why London and other large towns of
Great Britain and also Holland are com-
paratively moral in this respect, and that in
their cases the average of this species of
immorality is (ar below that of the great
cities of the continent ; the fact that in this
respect the urban population of Great Bri-
ain appears to be what it most certainly is
not, comparatively pure, the rural the most
corrupt ; whilst on the continent the reverse
is evident There can be no doubt, as Mr.
Lumley, in his able Poor-Law Reports^ has
often hinted, that this difference is owing to
the prevalence of what has been justly called
the ' social evil ;' to the license, it may, in
truth, be called encouragement, which, in
the populous districts of this country, and
notoriously in Holland, is given to public
prostitution. Of course there will be no il-
legitimacy among Mohammedans and Hin*
doos, in Japan and China, or the Afiricas
tril)es, nor also among those who live much
in the same manner." And, we might add,
who practise infanticide and foeticide ai
they do. He goes on, " In London, the fall*
en women may be taken, at the mean of
the estimates, at 40,00a ... In Bir-
mingham, in 1864, there were 966 disrepu-
table houses where they resorted ; in Man-
chester, iiii ; in Liverpool, 1578; in
l^ecds, 313 ; in .Sheffield, 433.* And here
we have revealed a plague-spot in English
society which runs through every gradep
especially the artisan, manufacturing, and
lower commercial classes, who, as we have
seen, in general never enter a church. . • •
There is no need, in addition, to dwell on
the revelations of the divorce court, which
prove that Englishmen are nearly as bad
in this respect as the northern Germans^
There is no one who is acquainted with the
condition of the families of artisans who
does not know the sad frequency with which
they abindnn their wives, and how frequent-
ly they live in a .state of concubinage.**

Alison corroborates^his : " In Lon-
don the proijx)rtion (of illegitimacy)
is one to thirty-sbc, the effect, it is to
Ik* feared, of the immense mass of
coiuubinai^e which there prevails,
untlor rin. umstances where a law of
nature renders an increase of the
po| million from that source impossi-
i>U\*'t •• In London, however, and
iho l\ni;Hsh cities, there are more ille-

• StiMfitfirmiy^mmmi, 1864.
t Vol. ii. cka|v jnril laa.

C^mfarative Morality of Catholic and Protestant Countries. 57

gitimate births than appear on the
registers, because children of people
who live together without being jnar-
ried are registered * legitimate.' "• So
much for London, Liverpool, etc.

In Paris, a great proportion of the
children reckoned illegitimate are
bom in the lying-in hospitals, or
Inought to the foundling hospitals,
and the greater proportion of the
mothers are from the provinces, as
will be seen from the following table
for 1856:

If ochen known.
Department Seine,
Oilier departments,

3383

aS5o

aSa

Children bom in concubinage are
nckoped illegitimate, and about one-
ninth of such children, on an average,
axe afterward legitimated. The pro-
portion of illegitimacy, then, for Paris
proper, on the best calculations, is not
over 12 per cent; and that of Lon-
don, calculated on the same data,
would probably be quite as large, if
Aot larger.

The same considerations apply to
Brussels, Vienna, and Munich. Large
foundling and lying-in hospitals exist
in all these places, and are resorted
to by all the country round, llie
figures for these cities are in no sense
a criterion of their morals.

In Munich and Vienna, there is
another important thing to be taken
into account, which we shall explain
when we come to speak of countries.
We see, then, how much value is to
be attributed to the heavenly purity
of Protestant London, Liverpool, etc.,
in comparison to the "astonishing,"
" horrible *• corruption of Catholic
capitals on the continent. Moreover,
in the latter the " social evil " is kept
within strictest limits, and under the
complete control of the government,
and is not allowed to flaunt itself in

• SUUiakal JmtmaJ, t86a. ^

public, as in London and New York.
These considerations are strengthened
by the case of Protestant Stockholm',
where, public prostitution being pro-
hibited, the rate of illegitimacy is
over fifty to the hundred— quite equal
to that of Vierma.* Why did not
Mr. Seymour cite Stockholm, which
is notorious ? I will answer : It was
not convenient to spoil a good story.

Now as to the smaller cities of
Austria, which, according to Sey-
mour, beat the world for corruption,
what is to be said? Simply, that
they are no worse than their neigh-
bors. What we have said of the
foundling and lying-in hospitals of
Paris explains the whole matter. " In
Austria, excluding Hungary, there
are forty foundling and forty lying-in
hospitals, and the number of found-
lings provided for by the government
is over 2o,ooo."f

These hospitals exist, without
doubt, in all these cities ; and if we
subtract their inmates who come from
the country, we should find that they
do not compare imfavorably with
their neighbors. They include the
chief cities of the German provinces
of the empire; and allowing only
4273 foundlings from the country to
be in their hospitals, which is certainly
a very moderate calculation, their
own proper rate of illegitimacy would
not exceed ten per cent. This would
be the case in Innspruck, for exam-
ple, if 53 only were received. Our
" model of fairness " from such data
draws his main conclusions, which
prove that he is very " sprighdy " at
the figures, if nothing else. Shall, we
excuse him on the plea of ignorance ?
No ! he was bound to verify his state-
ments, and the conclusions from
them ; and if he had chosen to take
the pains, the sources of information
were open to him. An infamous cal-

58 CampamHv€ Morality of Gaelic and ProUstant Gmnirm

umny against the Catholic Church is
invented by somebody, and the whole
tribe of popery-haters forthwith swear
roundly that it is " undoubted," " no-
torious," etc, and, by dint of clamor,
force the public to give credit to it

But, seemingly aware that compar-
ing London with cities so different in
climate, position, language, etc., has
rather an un&ir look, he says he will
take cities of two adjoining countries
of the same race, and gives us the
following table :

AmMtria, R»m, Caik,

Pntttim, PrwUtUmi*

Vieona, . . 51 per cL

BeniDi > . • 18 per ct.

Prasue. . . 47 " •*

Bredau ..36****

LiBi, . . . 46 " "

Cologne, . . 10 *' **

Milan, . . aa " *•

Kooigsberi, . aS *' **

Kltgeufort, . 56 " "

Dantiig, . . ao " ••

Grit., . . . 65 *• -

Magdeburg, . it *« **

LenUch, . 47 " "

AizUChapelle, 4 " "

layboch, . . 38 '* "

Stettin. ... 13 " "

Zm, . . . 30 " ••

Poeen. . . . 19 •* "

Brunn, . . aa '* '*

Potsdam, . . la " '*

The only thing this table proves is,
that in Prussia the two Catholic cities
of Cologne and Aix la Chapelle are
better than any of the ftrotestant
ones. They show excellently well in
the Protestant column; but then the
reader who is not well-posted or ob-
servant might suppose that, being in
Protestant Prussia, they are Protes-
tant cities. We can hardly suppose
Mr. Seymour, who is a traveller, to
be ignorant of so well known a fact.
And how comes it that Protestant
Prussia makes so poor a show along-
side of the pure and virtuous cities
of Birmingham and Liverpool, where
there are " so many and varied temp-
tations "?

" If, then," he says, " the question
of the comparative efficacy of Ro-
manism and Protestantism to restrain
vice and immorality is to be decided
by the comparison of Austria and
Prussia, we have as a basis of a cer-
tain judgment this notable fact, that
in ten cities of Austria we find forty-
five illegitimate births in the hundred,
and in ten cities of Prussia, sixteen

only." We have seen what
worth. It seems to us that il
be mpre satisfactory to compai
tria and Prussia at once than
out cities here and there to su
purpose. And this seems tc
our author ; for he says, " The
assure us that some Protestant
tries, as Norway, Sweden, £
Hanover, and Wurtemberg arc
moralized as Roman Catholic
tries. I shall not deny the alle;
but if a profound demoralizat
ists in some Protestant countri<
in Catholic countries is much ^
Then he goes on in this style t(
his assertion good :

PrtU^mtU*

CaikoUc,

Norway, . . so per ct. Styria, . .

Sweden, .

Saxony, . . 14

Denmark, , 10

Hanover, . . 10

Wurtembeig, la •• "

44 t(

«« »i

Up. & L. Austria,
Carinthia, . .
Salzburg, . .
Prov. of Trieste^
Bavaria, . . .

Here we have Styria, Uppe
Lower Austria, Carinthia, Sa
Trieste, which are not separate
tries at all, but simply the G
provinces of the Austrian empii
Bavaria, compared with counti
different and wide apart as Ni
Sweden, Saxony, Hanover, and
temberg. lliis is tricky in tl
treme. Moreover, there is m
ance to be placed on the :
which express their rate of i
macy, for a very good reason,
riage is forbidden to great nu
in German Austria and Bi
" No person in Austria can mi
he does not know how to read,
and cipher." • Besides, in both
tries, a man, before being pen
to marry, had to possess a su
money quite out of reach of a
many. AppUtorCs Cyclopadia^
^^ In some German states the obe
to legal marriage are so greai

* AiisoHt Tol. iii. cfa^ szviL ^
t Article Europe.

Coit^raihe Morality of Catholic and ProUstant ComniriiS. 59

XKombers of people prefer to live to- journals of the Statistical Society of
gether in what would be perfectly London of the years 1860, 1862,
^egal wedlock in Scodand and Ame- 1865, 1867, the principal portions
nca, but is only concubinage by the being compiled by Mr. Lumley, Hon-
bcal laws of the state." They mar- orary Secretary of the society, and
ly, but the state will not recognize contained in that of 1862, to be seen
die children as legitimate, and the in the Astor Library. It will be in-
official registers are no criterion of teresting to the general reader, apart
the real state of the case. Mr. J. D. from its controversial bearings.
Chambers sajrs,* " In Bavaria, more- In Prussia, we have statistics ac-
over, where the population is one- cording to the religious creed of the
thiid Protestant, there exists an atro- people. We shall, therefore, divide it
dous state of law which forbids mar- into Catholic and Protestant. We wish
liige unless the contracting parties the same could be done for Holland
satisfy the authorities that they are and Switzerland. Where there is a
capable of maintaining a family with- large minority differing from the ma-
out extraneous aid. This, of course, jority, it would be most interesting ;
'leads to many secret marriages and but it cannot be done except in Prus-
illidt connections, so that this coim- sia. The number of illegitimate births
try ought to be excepted from the in the hundred is as follows, accord-
a?erage." The Bavarians are as ing to the latest accounts given :
good a people as any in Germany, ^^^^ ^^^^^^^
and it is a shame to libel them. If

ooontries are to be compared — and it 18*8-37, Kingdom of Sardinia, ... 2.1
is the only fair and honest way to ;|j* |^'„y, ; ; ; ; ; ; ; ; f

proceed — ^why not compare them in x8s«. CaihoHc Pruswa, 6.1

a straightforward, obvious way— Ig^^ ^^^ '. ',',','.',[ '. l'.\

Fnmce and England, Prussia and »8s8. France. 7*

Aostria — in fsuct, all the countries we * ^'' '***™' *"

can get the statistics of, and show the Pr^tesimmi c^mUrUs.

result in a tabular form, so that we ,3^ England and Waies, . ... 6.5

can understand the whoie thing at a 1855* Norway, 9*3

glance? This would eflfectually put ;»j^ l:::^."^"^ i ! ! ! V*

a stop to the cry of the vice of Ca- »85S. Hanover, 9-9

tholic countries, which the Chicago J|^ IS^^ .' .' .* \ '. \ \ u.J
/Vwj, of January nth, declares to be X838-47. Iceland 14-

" notorious throughout the country." \%^j^ WuJtemberi, *. ! ! '. l6.x
It is '^notorious," because statements , t i- 1

Eke Seymour's, cooked up for a pur- ,. Mixed countnes, where tiieCatho-

pwe, give rise to utterly felse conclu- ^^ Papulation approaches the half:

sioQs, which are easily caught up and 1859, Holland, 4.1

tnanpcted, through the pulpit and the 185a. Switzerland. 6.

press, all over the country. Lest we be deemed to wish to con-

We shall now, leaving out Bavaria, ceal the depravity of Ireland, we

fcf the reasons above given, give the give what is given by Mr. J. D.

latest and best statistics, in respect to Chambers,* who probably has access

ifl^itimate births, which it is possible to the registrar's reports, which, of

to get They are taken from the course, we have not :

•Ckmxh mmd IV^Hd, 1867. • Cfmrtk mnd WarU, 1867.

60 Comparative Morality of Catkolie and ProtnUutt Cotmimt.

iK»-«6, cuhoHc iniud, i Rev. T. W. Wodaejr, of Yalc Col-

and these, we remark, are mcstfy in l^ge, New Haven bean testimony to

/>l. «,;,f/J. which is Proiestant Aisrelahve state of morakm regard to

The ^icula.^ of the sUtistics *!. '^**'^/"^J!? °C^*7''*' ^?S

throw a^od deal of light on the »Jlress before the W«tan Soc«J

morality of the different countries, fnence Convention, at CJucago^ a,

for ins4ice. in France and England. f°no'«: ^Z^^\^tnT^

The rate of illegitimacy in all compar^ons bebjreen the frequenq^

^ ' of divorce m this country and m

SSSf.Sj*'^" :::::: t1 other parts of protestantism. Prus-

Binamgham, 4-7 sia had the icputation of having the

^''*''*** ^' lowest system of divorce laws any-

In ^te of the "numerous and ^^ere to be found. But the ratio

varied tempUtions" of the large ^^^e of annual divorces to annual

towns, the rate is much less in them carriages in 1855 was, among non-

than in the country, which runs after Catholics, one to twenty-nine, or

this fiishion : about 3.5 per cent less than in Ver-

Nottii«iiam. 8.9 mont or Ohio, and fiur less than in *

Vori^ . Riduf. . . ... «j Connecticut, where it is 9.6 per cent

wwimordand. 9? The greatest ratio nearly thbty years

o^riiin<C *".*!!! ^\ ago in the judicial districts of Prussia

In France, it is just the other way. ^^^ 57 divorces to 100,000 inhabi-

The rate is, \xdXs\ the least, 16 to 100,000: nay

more, in the Prussian Rhenish pro-

u PstfiT^ . '. '. I ! iji vinccs, where die law is based on Ae

I fhm &«iicts la. Code Napoleon, and where the Ca-

La v«ide«. ».a thohc mhabitants, being numerous,

BiittoBy, D«p*t. Gat* D*cw. . t a must have some influence on the

Brittany and La Vendee remained social halxts of Pro t est a nts, there

Catholic through the stonn of the were but four £iir divorces to 100,000

Ftrench Revolution, and at this mo- Protestants, or twenty-four in aU

ment are thoroughly sa In Austria, aoKMig 600,000 of that dassof inhab-

the rate is : whole empire* only 9 ; itants. I write this in paiiv being a

urban districts* from 25 to 65 : there- Protestant iC as the Aposde Paul

fore, rural districts cannot be more says, ^I may piovoke to emulatioa

than 5 or 6. them which are my flesh, and might

Prussia gi\"es us. perhaps, the most save some of them.' "

coQcI'jLsive tesc of the e&cts ot reh- Scodand might be supposed by our

^v'Q oa merits: for the cextsiis has Protestant triends to be high up on

Nxn oarctully taken according to the Itst^ having always been so com-

vivevL for mjiny years, with unifonn {^ely uzKkr the influence of the pure

resuh thus, l>.cn? are o\'er ii.coo,- ^^vl of Calvin aad Knox; but the

ceo rcctestiacs, jukI c^wr 7,000,000 raw K.>r Sootlorivi k lo.i.

Cadhotosv rrrK-i'jMlIy in itve Rhine In the Lo^Uads* where Pcesbyte-

rrovinces, Wcs::hal-a, and rvx^eu.* ranism carrevi aH before it. the rate

rhe raw is tK^ix 10 ^> 15. In the HigbLuKis»

A.-*!* v^^s^^. »♦* *.^««ni FK^w^mcK -^ > >fchiich rviv-oji^evi to a coc&kkrab&e

w«£;jji*i* t • rs,.^^ ir»>»^^ . x» e\tct»t Ca:S.vc, th^ a^erjL;re '^ t 6c

,* !M«nJk«^^ . w* 5<;^^v>>tn^ :S* tmcQ^T-oIrcy of the

CmmparoHvt Morality of Catholic and Protestant Countries. 6i

to be the same, though it is pretty

sure the Catholic are much the best,

tnd confining our comparison to the

mass of the rural popiilation, which

s the fairer test, and the coimtries

would stand in the following order,

beginning with the most favorable :

Catholic

Irehnd.

Hollaiid,

Mixed.

Spain,

Catholic.

Switierlaiid,

Mixed.

Toaamy,

Catholic

atholic Pruau,

««

«<

Fnnce,

SkUy.

England,

Protestant

Norway,

««

Protestant Proasia

Scodaad,

Denmark,

((

Sweden,

rlanow.

<«

Iceland,

Saxony,

«(

Tbus, to sum up, the Catholic
countries of Europe, perhaps without
an exception, are above the Protes-
tant, if the number of illegitimate
births is accepted as a criterion of
morality. Could we get the sta-
tstics of infanticide, and of a still
more common and destructive crime,
feticide, and add them to the above,
then we could form a more just idea
of the benefit the Catholic religion,
with her divine ordinance of Con-
fession, has conferred on the human
race. But of course it is impossible to
c!etcmiine with exactness the amount
of this crime which hides itself in pro-
found darkness ; we can only conjec-
ture from sure indications that it is
one of fearful magnitude.

We need not go abroad; the evi-
dence is at our own door. Take the
State of Rhode Island as a specimen.
The number of children annually re
cciving Catholic baptism exceeds the
half of all the children bom in the
State, although the Catholic popula-
tion does not exceed the third part ;
in other words, there are two Protes-

tants to every Catholic, and yet there
are more Catholic children bom than
. Protestant. Illegitimacy is almost un-
known among Catholics, and the birth-
rate is at least i to 25, which demon-
strates that criminal abortion cannot
exist to any extent worth speaking o£
The birth-rate among Protestants is i
to over 50. What becomes of the
children who ought to be bom ? Let
Dr. Storer speak :• " Hardly a news-
paper throughout the land that does
not contain their open and pointed
advertisements. . . . The profits that
must be made from the sale of the
drugs supposed abortifacient, may be
judged firom the extent to which they
are advertised and the prices willing-
ly paid for them." "We are com-
pelled to admit that Christianity itself,
or, at least, Protestantism, has failed to
check the increase of criminal abor-
tion." t To the same effect we have
a writer in Harper's very anti-popery
Magazine : " We are shocked at the
destruction of human life upon the
banks of the Ganges, as well as on
the shores of the South Sea Islands;
but here in the heart of Christendom,
foeticide and infanticide are extensive-
ly practised under, the most aggrava-
ting circumstances. ... It should
be stated that believers in the Roman
Catholic faith never resort to any
such practices ; the strictly Americans
are almost alone guilty of such
crimes." And Bishop Coxe, of the
Protestant Episcopal Church, has pub-
lished to his people the following : " I
have hitherto warned my flock against
the blood-guiltiness of ante-natal in-
fanticide. If any doubts existed here-
tofore as to the propriety of my wam-
ings on the subject, they must now dis-
appear before the fact that the world
itself is beginning to be horrified by
the practical results of the sacrifices to
Moloch which defile our land."

* Criminal A h^rti^Ht p. 55«
tPase69.

62 Comparative Maraliiy of Catholic and Proiesiani Couniries.

How is it with Protestant England ?
Dr. Lankester, one of the coroners of
London, declares that there are 12,000.
mothers in London alone, guilty of
infanticide.* In Prussia, Mr. J. Laing
says that, " Chastity, the index virtue
of the moral condition of the people,
is lower than in almost any part of
Europe."t Let us look at home.
Our attention has been so diverted to
the vice and immorality of our Catho-
lic neighbors, that we have begun to
imagine ourselves the most moral, the
most virtuous, the most enlightened
people on the face of the earth, while,
in reality, we are fast getting to be
the most corrupt and abominable.
It would be well to call to mind a
little oftener the saying of our Lord,
" First pull the beam out of thine own
eye, and then thou shalt see clearly to
pull the mote out of thy brother's
eye."

We have thus exposed the untrust-
worthiness of Mr Seymour's Nights
among the Romanists, With the evi-
dence before him, he has kept back
any honest and fair statement of it,
and only put forward such portion as
would serve to substantiate an utteriy
false conclusion, most injurious to us
Catholics, both religiously and per-
sonally; for we cannot be looked upon
in the mass as corrupt and vicious,
without a great deal of personal ill-
will and contempt and hatred being
engendered.

• Ckmrck and iV0rld, 1866^ p. 57.
\Spald.MUctU.^^^

We call the attention of the Rer.
Mr. Bacon to this. He has taken t
noble stand against base and unfair
practices in the controversy with the
Catholic Church, and we hope he wiU
persevere in spite of the opposition
he has raised against himselfl We
feel inclined to forgive him for some
sins of his own, in this respect ; for ex-
ample, in speaking of the " Tax-Book
of Roman Chancery," when Bishop
England has so clearly shown it to be
a base forgery. We hope our ex-
posing of Mr. Seymour will be met
in a generous and Christian spirit,
and that he will promptly disavow
all connection with him as an amende
honorable for having recommended
him.

We see, by TTie Christian World
of September, that the American and
Foreign Christian Union are going
to reissue this book, and we hope
these " eminent and excellent" men,
now that their attention is called to
it, will clean this out with the rest of
the filth of their Augean stable.
And also the directors of the Ameri-
can Tract Society are requested to
consider seriously whether defamation
is exacdy the most Christian weapon
to fight with, or the one most likely
in the long run to overcome the
Catholic Church, and whether they
should not withdraw fix)m circulation
a book so damaging to their reputa-
tion as lights of the pure Protestant
Gospel, shining amongst the daikness
and moral corruptions of Popery.

Henrnou-Bmndon.

HEREMORE-BRANDON; OR, THE FORTUNES OF A

NEWSBOY.

CHAPTER VIII.

As might have been supposed,
Dick was at Mr. Brandon's office
long before that gentleman made his
iq)pearance down-town. It was a
sultry morning, with occasional
snatches of rain to make the gloomy
streets more gloomy, and the depres-
sing atmosphere more depressing.
Mr. Brandon was sensitive to heat;
he had no cool summer retreat to
go to in the evenings, and return
from with a rose in his button-hole in
tiie mornings; and as, instead of be-
ing grateful for the many years in
which he had enjoyed this luxury, he
vas disposed to consider himself de-
cidedly ill-used in not having it still,
10 soon as he found Dick waiting
fcr him, he began his repinings in the
most querulous of all his tones :

"Pretty hard on a man who has
had his own country-place, and been
his own lord and master, to come
down to this blistering old hole every
movning, isn't it, Mr. Heremore?
WeD, wdl, some people have no feei-
ng! Hiere are those old nabobs
itowere hand and glove with me,
mil^ity g^d of a dinner with me, and
where are they now ? Do they come
around with ' How are you, Brandon /'
and invitations to their dinners ? In-
deed not !"

"Mr. Brandon, I have come to
tdk to you about some business,"
began Dick, who had prepared a
dozen introductions, all forgotten at
the needed moment; then abrupdy,
" Mr. Brandon, did you ever hear my
name, the name of Heremore before ?"

It would be &lse to say that Mr.
ftcandon showed any emotion beyond

that of natural surprise at the abrupt*
ness of the question ; but it is safe to
add that the surprise was very great,
almost exaggerated. He replied,
coolly enough, as he hung up his hat
and sat down, wiping his face with
his handkerchief: " Heremore ? It is
not, so to«say, a common tiame ; and
I may or may not have heard it be-
fore. One who has been in the world
so long as I have; Mr. Heremore,
can hardly be expected to know what
names he has or has not heard in the
course of his life. I suppose you ask
for some especial reason."

*' I do," said Dick, a litde staggered
by the other's unembarrassed reply.
" Did you not once know a gentleman
in Wiltshire, called Dr. Heremore ?"

"This is close questioning from a
young man in your position to an old
gendeman in mine, and I am slighdy
ciuious to know your object in asking
before I reply."

" I believe you were married twice,
Mr. Brandon, and that your first
wife's maiden name was Heremore ?"

« Well— and then ?"

"And that she died while you
were away, believing you were dead ;
and that she had two children," said
Dick, who began to feel uneasy under
the steady, smiling gaze of the other
— " and diat she had two children, a
son and a daughter."

" Almost any one can tell you that
my family consists of my first wife's
daughter, and two sons by my second
wife. But that's of no consequence.
Two children, a son and a daughter,
you were saying."

" Yes, two ; although you may have
been able to trace only one. She
died in great poverty, did she not ?••

Heremore-Btandim.

** I decline answering any questions.
I am highly flattered — charmed, in-
deed — at the interest you show in my
family by these remarks; and I can
only regret that my fortunes are now
so low that I know of no way in
which to prove my grateful apprecia-
tion of the manner in which you must
have labored in order to know so
much. In happier times, I might
have secured you a place in the po-
lice department; but unfortunately,
I am a ruined man, unable to assist
any one at present" «

At this speech, which was delivered
in the most languid manner, and in a
tone that was infinitely more insulting
than the words, Dick was on the
point of thrusting his mother's letter
before the man*s eyes, to show by
what means he had obtained his
knowledge ; but the cool words, the
indifferent manner, had a great effect
upon our hero, who found it every
moment more difficult to believe in
the theory that fix)m the first had
seemed so likely to be the real one,
and so he answered respectfiilly :

** I assure you, I mean no rudeness
to you, Mr. Brandon; but I am •en-
gaged in the most serious business in
the world, for me. I may be mistak-
en in you, and shall not know how
to atone for. the mistake, should I
come to know it; but I hope you
will be sure of my respectfiil inten-
tion, however I may err."

Mr. Brandon bowed, smiled, and
played with his pen, as if the conver-
sation were drawing to a close. Dick,
heated and more embarrassed than
ever, was obliged to recommence it.

" But was not your first wife's name
Heremorc? I beg you to answer
me this one question, for all depends
upon it"

"A very sufficient reason why I
should not answer it. But as you
seem to have something very interest-
ing to disclose, periiaps we had better

imagine that her name was He
before it was Brandon. Permit
ask if, in that case, I am to
relation in you ? I certainly
make such a connection as ac
geous as I could a year or s<
but though I cannot prove tt
uncle of the romances, I shall 1
to know what scion of my wif
ble house I have the honor of i
sing,"

It seems easy to have an
^^your sorij^ but the words woi
come. More and more the
thing seemed a dream. Wl
man so hardened that he co
before his own son, whom 1
time he must have known to
son, and talk after this fashion
dead wife's house ! Impossibl
then, he should tell his tale, a
it to an unconcerned listener,
sacrilege he would commit !

"A very near relative," Die
at last "I know that Dr.
more's daughter married a (
Brandon about twenty-five
ago."

"Ah! I see! And you tl
there was but one Charles Bi
in the world ! You see I shal
to learn a lesson in politenes
you; for I could conceive tha
should be room in this worU
for two Richard Heremores."

Poor Dick was silenced f«
moment. He knew he was
up Mr. Brandon's time, and
time of his employer. He wall
and down the little office and tl
it all over. Certain passages
mother's letter came to his min
this way, perhaps, had her a
been sneered at in the olden tir

" Mr. Brandon," he said, st
in firont of his tormentor, his
appearance changed from tl
the hesitating, embarrassed I
the resolute, high-spirited r
" Mr. Brandon, there has been c

Htremort-BrandoH.

trifliDg* I insist upon knowing if

you were or were not the husband of

)Aiss Heremore. If you were not, it

v& a very simple thing to say so.

There are plenty of ways by which I

can make myself certain of the fact

without your assistance; but out of

consideration for you, I came to you

first"

**I am deeply grateful," with a
mock ceremonious bow.

^But if you persist in this way of
treating me, I shall have to go else-
where."

"And then?"

"Heaven knows I do not ask any-
Aing of you, beyond the information
I Gune to seek. I wondered yester-
day why she should have given me
her father's name instead of mine ;
DOW I can understand it I had
doabts while first speakmg to you,
but now they are gone. I believe it
ii so. If you will not tell me as
noch as you know of Dr. Heremore,
I can go to his old home for it It
wooki have saved me time and ex-
pense if you had answered my ques-
tions; but as you please."

He was deariy in earnest Mr.
ftandon saw it, and stopped him at
die door.

*My wife's name was Heremore,"
he said very indififerendy, ^ and her
father has been dead tiiese twenty
yeais. You have your answer. Per-
mit me to ask what you mean to do
ibtmt it ?"

"Dr. Heremore was my grandfa-
ther," said Dick, coming back and
itting down.

"Ah I indeed !" politely ; " he was a
voy excellent old gendeman in his
vay; it is much to be regretted that
heaiid you should have been unable
to make each other's acquaint-

"When my mother— your first wife
—died, yoa knew she left two chil-
dn."

VOL. IX. — s

''One — a daughter. I think you
have met her."

"There were two. I was the
other."

" Are you quite sure ?" asked Mr.
Brandon in the same languid tones ;
but, for the first time, it seemed to
^ick that they faltered.

"I am quite sure. You would
know her writing."

"Possibly. It was a great while
ago, and my eyes are not as good as
they were."

"You would recognize her por-
trait?"

" If one I had seen before, I might"

" I should say this was a portrait
of the first Mrs. Brandon," he said,
taking that which Dick handed him
and looking at it, not without some
signs of embarrassment, " or of some-
one very like her. And this is not
unlike her writing, as I remember it""
Oh ! you wish me to read this ?"

Dick signed assent, watching him
while he read. Whatever Mr. Bran-
don felt while reading that letter, he
kept it all in his own heart.

" This is all ?" he asked when he
had read and deliberately refolded it

"It is all at present," answered
Dick.

Then Mr. Brandon arose, handed
the paper back, and said very quiet-
ly but deliberately :

"My first wife is dead and gone;
her daughter . lives with me, and, as
long as I had the means, received
every luxury she could desire. The
past is past, and I do not wish it re-
vived. Understand me. I do not
wish it revived I want to hear no-
thing more, not a word more, on this
subject If I were rich as I once
was, I could understand why you
should persist in this thing. I am
not yet so poor that the law cannot
protect me fix)m any fiirther persecu-
tion about the matter. Your mother,
you say, named you for your grand-

H^nmore-Bmndim.

fiither, not for me. If .you wish pa-
ternal advice — all that my poverty
would enable me to give, however I
were disposed — I advise you to go
for it to her father, for whom she
showed her judgment in naming you.
Good morning."

"You cannot mean this! Yoi%
must have known me as a child, and
known my name before, long, long
ago, and surely consented to it, or
she would not have so named me.
Of course, it was by some mistake
the Brandon was dropped at first, not
by her, but by those who took care
of me when she died; she could never
have meant such a thing ; it was un-
doubtedly an accident. You cannot
mean to end all here — ^that I am not
to know, to see, my sister !"

" I tell you I wish to hear not ano-
ther word of this matter; do you hear
me? Have I not troubles enough
now without your coming to bring up ,
the hateful past ? You shall not add
to your sister's, whatever you may do
to mine.**

" I insist upon seeing her."

"You shall not I positively for-
bid you to go near her. Now leave
me ! I have borne enough."

" But I cannot let the matter rest
here ; you know I cannot. The idea
of it is absurd ! If you do not wish
me for a son, I have no desire to
force myself upon you. I do not
know why you should refuse to own
me ; I am not conscious of any cause
I have given you to so dislike me.**

" I don't dislike you, nor do I like
you particularly ; I have no ill-feeling
against you, but I don't want this old
matter dragged up. I am not strong
enough to bear persecution now."

" But I do not want to persecute
you. I want — "

" Well, what do you want ?"

" I hardly know. I may have had
an idea that you would welcome your
ddest child after so many years of

loss, however unworthy of yoa be
might be. I may have thou^t diat
if you once were not all you should
have been to one who, likely, was at
one time very dear to you, it might
be a satisfaction to you, even at this
late day, to retrieve— "

" You thought wrong, and it is not
worth while wasting words on the
matter. I have got over all that, and
don't want it revived. I can't pot
you out, but I beg you to go; or, if
you persist in forcing your words
upon me, pray choose some other
subject."

"I will go, since you so heartily
desire it ; but I warn you that I will
not give up seeing Miss — ^my sister."

" As you please. You will gel as
little satisfaction there, I fancy]
though it may not be quite as annoy*
ing to her as to me."

" I shall try, at all events."

" Try. Go to her ; say anything to
her; make any arrangement with her
you choose; take her away altoge-
ther. I don't care a button what
you do, so you only leave me."

" I will leave you willingly, and am
indeed sorry to have put you to so
much pain."

" Not a word, I pray you," answer-
ed Mr. Brandon, now polite and smil-
ing. "You have performed. a disa-
greeable duty in the least disagreeable
way you could, I do not doubt. AU
I ask is, never to hear it mentioned
again."

Dick stayed for no more ceremony.
Glad to be released from such an at-
mosphere of selfishness and cowar-
dice, he hardly waited for the answer
to his good-morning before turning to
the street

In less than an hour he was in the
dreary room, with boarding-house
stamped all over its walls, saying
good-morning to a stately young lady,
very pale and weary-looking, wIk)
kindly rose to receive him. The lit-

H€KtfH0TC'BfUHdOH*

de loom was hot and close; there
were no shutters to the windows ; the
shades were too narrow at the sides ;
besides being so unevenly put up that
the eyes ached every time one turned
toward them, and the gleaming light
was almost worse than the heat

" I have been trying for the doz-
enth time to straighten them," said
Mary, drawing one down somewhat
Sower, " but it's of no use."

** Are they crooked ?" asked Dick
innocently.

" Well, yes, rather," answered Ma-
ry, smiling. "I think I never saw
anything before that was so near the
perfection of crooked."

" I have seen your father this morn-
ing," Dick began, taking a chair near
the table.

"There is nothing the matter, I
hope ?" she questioned nervously.

*^ Nothing that any one but myself
need mind« I made some discoveries
about m3rself last evening that I would
like to tell you. Have you time ?"

" I have nothing to do. I shall be
very glad if my attentive listening can
do you any service." She moved her
diair, in a quiet way, a little farther
from his, and looked at him in some
smprise. She saw he was very ear-
nest, excited, and gready embar-
rassed She could not help seeing
that hb eyes were anxiously follow-
ing her every movement, eagerly try-
ing to read her face.

"I am afraid I shall shock you
voy much, and you are not well ; I
am Sony I came. I thought only of
my own eagerness to see you ; not,
antil this moment, of the pain I may
cause you."

** Do not think of that I do not
dmk, Mr. Heremore, you are likely
to say an3rthing that should pain me.
I tfamk you too sensible — I mean,
too gentlemanly for that"

** I hope you really mean that I
am sure I must seem very rude and

unpolished in your eyes ; but I would
have been far more so, had it not
been for you."

« For me ?"

" Yes." And he told her about the
Christmas morning in Fourteenth
Street

"And you remembered that litde
thing all this time !" Mary exclaimed.
" And you were once a newsboy I"

" Yes ; I was once a great, stupid,
ragged newsboy. I do not mean to
deny, to conceal anything. I am so
very ?orry, for your sake ; but I hope
you will like me in spite of it all. If
just those few words and that one
smile did so much for me, what is
there your influence may not do ?"

" Mr. Heremore, I do not in the
least understand you."

"I don't know where to begin;
this has excited me so that I do not
know what I am saying, and now I
wish almost that you might never
know it; there is such a difference
between us that I cannot tell how to
begin."

" Is it necessary that you should
begin ?" asked Maiy. " You told me
you wished to speak to me of some
discoveries you had made in regard
to yourself. To anything about your-
self I will listen with interest; but I
do not care to have anything said
about myself; there can be no con-
nection between the two subjects that
I can see; so pray do not waste
words on so poor a subject as myself;
but tell me the discovery, if you
please."

" But it concerns you as much as
it does me. Do you know much
about your own mother ? She died,
you told me, long ago."

" I know very litde about her. 1
presume her death was a great grief
to papa; for he has never permitted a
word to be said about her, and any-
thing that pains papa in that way is
never alluded to. The little I do

Heremore-Brandan.

know I have learned from my old
nurse."

" You do not remember her ?"

" Not in the least ; she died when
I was a mere baby."

" Did you ever see her portrait, or
any of her writing, or hear her mai-
den name ?"

" No, to all your questions. Does
papa know you are here, this morn-
ing?"

" Yes ; I went to him at once. At
first he was very determined I should
not see you; but in the end, he
seemed glad to get me silenced at
any price, and I was so anxious to
see you tfiat I did not wait for very
cordial permission."

" You did not talk to papa about
my mother ?"

" Yes, that is what I went for."

"How did you dare to do it?
Was he not very angry ? I am sure
you know something about mamma."

" Yes, I do. I have her portrait ;
this js it."

" Her portrait ! My mamma*s
portrait! O what a beautiful face!
Is this really my mamma? Did
papa see it ? Did he recognize it ?"

" I showed it to him. He did not
deny it was hers."

" D^y it was hers / What in the
world do you mean, Mr. Heremore ?
Where did you get it ?"

Then Dick, in the best way he
could, told the whole story of the
box, and gave her the letter to read.
When Mary came to the part which
said, " Will you lave your sister aU
ways^ let what may be her fate f Re-
member^ always ^ she had no mother to
guide her^^ she turned her eyes, full
of tears, to Dick, saying no words.

" She did not know that it would
be the other way," Dick replied to
her look, his own eyes hardly dry.
" She would have begged for me if
«he had known that — ^" farther than
this he could not get Mary put

her hands in his, and said ear-
nestly :

"No need for that; her pleading
comes just as it should. Will you
really be my brother — all wearied,
sick, and worn-out as I am? Oh!
if this had only come two years ago,
I could have been something to
you !"

But Dick could not answer a word.
He could only keep his eyes upon
her face ; afraid, as it seemed, that it
would suddenly prove all a dream.

But the day wore on and it did not
prove less real The heat and the
glaring light were forgotten, or not
heeded, while the two sat together
and talked of this strange story, and
tried to fill up the outlines of their
mother's history.

" I feel as if our grandpapa were
living, or, if not living, there must
be somebody who knows something
about him," she said.

" I think I ought to go and see.
Mr. Stofl& was very particular in urg-
ing that."

" I think so ; even if you learned
nothing, it would be a good thing for
you just to have tried."

^> I know I can get permission to
stay away for a few days longer;
there's nothing doing at this season.
Would it take long ?"

" I don't know much about it ; not
more than two days each way, I
should think. There is a steamer,
too, that goes to Portland, and you
can find out if Wiltshire is near there.
-The steamer trip would be splendid
at this season. Are you a good
sailor ?"

" I don't know. You have got a
great ignoramus for a brother. I
have never been half a day's journey
from New York in my life."

" Is that so ? Well, you must go to
Portland. How you will enjoy the
strong, bracing sea-breezes; they
make one feel a new life !"

Hiremore-Brandon.

Then suddenly Dick's face grew
very red, but bright, and he said ea-
gerly: "Would you trust me — I
mean could your father be persuaded
—would you be afraid to go with
me?"

"Oh! I wish I could! I would
enjoy it as I never did a journey be-
fore ! Just to see the sea again, and
with a brother ! I can't tell you how
I have all my life envied girls with
great, grown-up brothers. Nobody
dse is ever like a brother. Fred and
Joe are younger than I, and have
been away so much that they never
s^med like brothers. A journey
with you on such a quest would be
somediing never to be forgotten."

*' It doesn't seem as if such a good
thing could come to pass," answered
Dick. "I don't know anything
about travelling ; you would have to
train me; but if you will bear with
me now, I will try hard to learn. Do
you think your fkther would listen to
the idea ?"

**No; he would not listen to ten
words about it. He hates to be
troubled ; he would never forgive me
if I went into explanations about an
affidr that did not please him ; but if
I say, ' Papa, I am going away for a
coa^e of weeks to New England,
unless you want me for something,'
he will know where I am going, what
for, and will not mind, so he is not
made to talk about it; that is his
way."

" Win you really go, then, with me ?
You know I shall not know how to
treat you gallantly, like your grand
beaux."

•* Ah ! don't put on airs, Mr. Dick ;
you were not so very humble before
you knew our relationship. Remem-
ber, I have known you long."

** I wonder what you thought of me."

** I thought a great deal of good
of you; so did papa, so does Mr.

** You know Mr. Ames ?"

" Ah ! very well indeed ; he comes
to see us every New Year's day; he
actually found us out this year, and I
got to liking him more than ever; he
has come quite often since, and we
have talked of you ; he says you arc
a good boy. I am going to be
grande dame to-day, and have lunch
brought up for us two, unless Ma-
dame the landlady is shocked."

'^ Does that mean I have staid too
long ?"

" No, indeed. Mrs. Grundy never
interferes with people with clear con-
sciences, at least in civilized commu-
nities ; in provincial cities, and coun-
try towns she will not let you tiun
around except as she pleases ; that's
the difference. There are no bells in
this establishment, or, if there are, no-
body ever knew one to be answered,
so I will start on a raid and see what
I can discover."

In course of time she returned
with a servant, who cleared the littie
rickety table, and then disappeared,
returning at the end of half an hour
with a very light lunch for two ; but
that was^ot her fault, poor thing !

Then hour after hour passed and
still Dick could not leave her; he
had gone out and bought a guide-
book, which required them to go all
over the route again, and there was
so much of the past life of each to be
told and wondered at, that it was late
in the afternoon and Mr. Brandon's
hand was on the door before Dick
had thought of leaving. Of course
he must remain to see Mr. Brandon,
who, however, did not seem any too
glad to see him. Nothing was said
in regard to the matter which had
been all day under discussion. Mr.
Brandon talked of the n^s of the
day, of the weather, and the last book
he had read, accompanied him to the
door, and shook hands with him
quite cordially, to the surprise of the

Heretttore-Brandon.

landlady, who was peeping over the
banisters in expectation of high
words between them. Mr, Brandon
even went so far as to speak of him
as a very near relative, as several of
the boarders distinctly heard. Mr.
Brandon hated to be talked lo on
disagreeable subjects, but he knew
the worid's wa)-s all the same.

" Come very early to-morrow
morning," Mary said in a low voice
as they parted, '■ and I will let you
know if I can go."

Dick did not forget this parting
charge, and early the next morning
had the happiness of hearing that her
father had consented to let her go.

" Papa isn't as indifferent as he
seems," she said. " When it is all
fixed and settled, he will treat you
just as he does the rest of us, only he

P bates a scene and explanations. I
suppose he was unkind to poor
mamma, and now hates to say a
word about it ; but you may be sure
he feels iL And now you must take
everything for granted, come and go
just as if you had always been at

Phome with us, and he will take it so."
" Bat what will people say ?"
" Why, wc will tell the truth, only
as simply as possible — as if it were an
everyday affair — that papa's first wife
died while he was away from home,
and that when he returned from Pa-
ris, where he says he was then, tlie
people told him you were dead too.
I don't know why that old woman
i' should have told such a story."

^^^ " Nor I, but perhaps, poor, igno-
^^H rant soul, she thought the boy was
^^B better under her charge than given
^^ over to a ' Protestant,' who had acted
(o like a heathen lo the child's nio-
Iher; but good as was her motive,
■*iA perhaps her judgment, I hope
she did not reaily tell a lie about it,
so peace to her soul. Who knoM-s
i how much Dick owes to her pious

^^M sprayers?"

A very proud and happy man wi
Dick in these days, when he jour-
neyed to Maine with his newly-found
sister. It is true that the change in
Mr. Brandon's circumstances did not
enable Mary to have a new travelling
suit for the occasion, and tlkal she
was obliged to wear a last year's
dress; but last year's dress was a veiy
elegant one, and almost " as good as
new;" for Mary, fine lady that she
was, had the taste and grace of her
station, and deft lingers, quick and
willing servants of her will, that
would do honor to any station;
her dress was all h ia mode, and
had reason to be proud of escoi
her, She had, however, somel
more than her dress of which to be
proud, or Dick would not have been
so grateful for finding her his sister;
she had a kind heart, which enabled
her always to answer readily all who
addressed her, to make her constant-
ly cheerful with Dick, and lo keep
everything smooth for the inexperi-
enced traveller, who otherwise would
have suffered many mortifications;
she had, too, a womanly dignity, ft
sense of what was due to and from
her, not as Miss Brandon, but as a
woman, which secured her from any
incivility and made her always gentle
and considerate to every one. Dick
could never enough delight in the
quiet, composed way in which she re-
ceived attentions which she never by
a look suggested ; for the gentle
firmness, the self-possession, the quiet
composure, the perfect courtesy of a
refined and cultivated woman were
new things to him ; and to say be
loved the very ground she walked on
would be only a mild way of expres-
sing the feeling of his heart toward
her.

Added to all this, giving to every-
thing else a greater charm, Mary's
mind was always alive ; she had been
thoroughly educated, and had mia-

Heremore-Brandon.

gied an her life with intelligent and
often intellectual people, whose influ-
ence had enabled her to seek at the
proper fountains for entertainment
and instruction. Whatever passed
before her eyes, she saw ; and what-
ever she saw, she thought about In
her turn, Mary already dearly loved
her brother; although two years
younger than he, she was, as general-
ly happens at their age, much more
mature, and she could see, as if with
more experienced eyes, what a true,
honest heart, what thorough desire to
do light, what patience and what spi-
rit, too, there was in him, and again
and again said to herself, "What
would he not have been under other
drcumstances r' But she forgot,
when saying that, that God knows
how to suit the circumstances to the
character, and that Dick, not having
neglected his opportunities, had put
his talent out to as great interest as
he could imder other influences.
There was much that had to be
broadened in his mind, great worlds
of art and literature for him to enter;

but there was time enough for that
yet; he had a character formed to
truth and earnestness, and had proved
himself patient and energetic at the
proper times. It now was time for
new and refining influences to be
brought to bear; it was time for gen-
tleness and courtesy to teach him the
value of pleasant manners and self-
restraint ; for the conversation of cul-
tivated people to teach him the value
of intelligent thoughts and suitable
words in which to clothe them; for
the knowledge of other lives and
other aims to teach him the value
or the mistake of his own. These
things were imconsciously becoming
clearer to him every day that he was
with his sister, who, I need hardly
say, never lectured, sermonized, or
put essays into quotation marks, but
whose conversation was simple, re-
fined, and intelligent, whatever was
its subject. Others greater than
Mary would come after her when
her work was done, we may be sure ;
but at the present time Dick was not
in a state to be benefited by such.

TO BB COMTINUSDw

73 WHtent

WHEN?

Come, gentle April showers,
And water my May flowers.

The violet-
Blue, white, and yellow streaked with jet-
Thiddy in my bed are set;

Gay dafibdillies,
Tulips and St. Joseph's lilies ;

Bethlehem's star.
Gleaming through its leaves afar ;
Merry crocuses, which quaff
Sunshine till they feirly laugh;
And that fragrant one so pale,
Meekest lily of the vale,
All are keeping whist, afraid
Of this late snow o'er them laid.
Come, then, gentle April showers,
And coax out my pretty flowers.

I am tired of wintry days,
Have no longer heart to praise
Icicles and banks of snow.
When will dandelions blow.

And meadow-sweet.
And cowslips, dipping their cool feet

In little rills
Gushing from the mossy hills ?
I am weary of this weather.
Vernal breezes, hasten hither,
Bringing in your dappled train.
Tearful sunshine, smiling rain.
And, to coax out all my flowers,
Fall, fall gently, April showers.

Infiuittct of Locality' on Human Lift,

TSANSLATBD FSOM THS PBBNCH OV LS CORKXSrONDANT.

INFLUENCE OF LOCALITY ON THE DURATION OF

HUMAN LIFE.

In every place there are influences
^hich are favorable or unfavorable to
t^e duration of human life. The na-
ture of the soil, the atmospheric
crhanges, the variations of the temper-
ature, the position of one's abode with
xiespect to the points of the compass
and its elevation above the level of the
sea, act in a powerful manner upon
tiie organization.

A vast forest is one the grandest,
znost enchanting and enlivening scenes
in nature. What an inefl^ble and
touching harmony comes from the
varieties of foliage, and what a sweet
perfume they lend to the caressing
'breeze ! What a soothing charm in
their cool shade, calming the fever of
life, purifying the soul from all passion,
expanding and elevating the mind,
and making man realize more fully his
celestial origin. All men who are '
widowed with superior mental facul-
ties have a natural and powerful in-
clination for solitude— especially the
solitude of a vast forest. The soft
Kght of its open spaces, the deep
shades, the endless variety of tones
from the quivering leaves, the pun-
gent sweetness of the odors, the air
fon of vibrations and sparkling light,
surround and penetrate them. It
seems to them a glimpse of a worid
of mystery to which they have drawn
near, and which harmonizes perfectly
with all the thoughts and feelings in
which they love to indulge.

Not only persons capable of read-
ing the divine lessons written on ^ace,
love to wander in the shades of vast for-
estSy but great noble hearts that have

been wounded, also find here a balm.
The soothing melancholy they drink
in, the divine presence they feel, fill up
the void left by some charming illu-
sion that has been dispelled. There
are special places where the air we
breathe, and every exterior influence^
tend to nourish and develop not only
physical but intellectual life. A be-
neficent spirit seems to watch over the
-safety of humanity and to promote
its happiness. The fluids, the emana-
tions that surround us, penetrate our
organization and become a part of
our being; and in consequence of the
wonderful sympathy between the body
and soul, it is evident ^t they als<>
influence our intellectual faculties.

Umbrageous forests are especially
favorable to our existence; trees are
devoted and faithful firiends that never
reproach us for their benefits, and their
love is susceptible of so change*
Plants are for us a real panacea. They
are the natural pharmacies which
Providence has established on earth
for the prevention or cure of our dis-
eases. From their wood, baiks, leaves,,
flowers, and fiiiits^ are exhsded essen-
ces which strengti'ien our organic puri-
fy the blood, and neutiafize the nox-
ious air around us.

The history of A ages i^ows that
those regions whidt are fatvored with
vast forests have always been heaMiy
and propitious to man; but where the
forests have been cut down, those
same regions haice become marshy
and the source of deadFy miasmas.
The maish fevers which now prevail
in certain parts of Asia Minor reodter

Influiftce of Locality on Human Life.

them uninhabitable. Nevertheless,
ancient authors speak of marshes of
small extent, but not of marsh fevers,
because then the forests still remained.

A thousand years ago. La Brenne
was covered with woods, interspersed
with meadows, lliese meadows were
watered by living streams. It was
then a country famous for the fertility
of its pastures and the mildness of its
climate. Now the forests have disap-
peared. La Brenne is gloomy, marshy,
and unhealthy. The same could be
said of La Dombe, La Bresse, La So-
logne, etc

The following is a permanent ex-
ample exactly to the point. In the
Pontine marshes, a wood intercepts
the current of damp air laden with
pestilential miasmas, rendering one
side of it healthy, while the other is
filled with its destructive vapors. The
places where forests have disappeared
seem as if inhabited by evil genii, who
eagerly seek to enter the human frame
under the form of fevers, cholera, dis-
eases of the lungs and liver, rheuma-
tism, etc. For example, it is sufficient
to breathe for only a few seconds in
certain regions of Madagascar, or some
of the fatal islands near by, for the whole
organization to be instantly seized with
mortal symptoms. The most robust
and vigorous young man, who goes
fiill of ardor to those shores with the
hope of a bright future, affected by
these miasmas, feels as if dying with
the venom of the rattlesnake in his
veins; and, if he recovers firom his
agony, it is often to drag out in sor-
row the small remnant of his days.
How many unfortunate people of this
class have I not met during my voy-
age in the Indian Ocean. What a
sacrilege to think of destroying these
delicious and mysterious forests, with
their atmosphere full of celestial vibra-
tions, and their divine orchestra, where
the breeze murmurs in a thousand tones
the hymn which reveals the Creator

to the creature ! Every sorrow is sooth-
ed in the depths of those beneficent
shades. There the soul, as well as the
body, finds a repose which regenerates
it. The divinity descends; we feel its
presence. It moves us to the depths
of our souls. It caresses us like the
breath of the mother we adore !

Man may live to an advanced age
in almost every climate, in the torrid
as well as the fiigid zone; but he
cannot everywhere attain the utmost
limit of human life. The examples
of extreme longevity are more com-
mon in some coimtries than in others.
Although, in general, a northern cli-
mat may be favorable to long life,
too great a degree of cold is injuri-
ous. In Iceland, in the north of
Asia — that is, in Siberia — ^man lives,
at the longest, but sixty or seventy
years. The countries where people
of the most advanced age have been
found, of late years, are Sweden, Nor-
way, Denmark, and England. Indi-
viduals of one hundred and thirty,
one hundred and forty, and one hun-
dred and fifty years of age, have
been found there. Ireland shares
with England and Scotland the rq>-
utation of being favorable . to the
duration of life. More than eighty
persons above fourscore years of age
have been found in a single small
village of that coimtry, called Dums-
ford. Bacon said that he did not
think you could mention a single vil-
lage of that country where there was
not to be found at least one octoge-
narian. Examples of longevity are
more rare in France, in Italy, and
especially in Spain. Some cantons
of Hungary are noted for the ad-
vanced age to which their inhabitants
attain. Germany also has a good
many old people, but few who live
to a remarkable age. Only a small
number are to be found in Hol-
land. It is seldom that any one
reaches the age of one hundred in

If^uence of Locality on Human Life.

iintry. The climate of Greece,
is as healthy as it is agreeable,
idered now, as it formerly was,
>le to longevity. The island
Kos is specially noted in this
. It was generally admitted
ece that the air of Attica dis-
liose who breathed it to philo-

mples of longevity are to be
in Egypt, and in the East

principally in the caste of
ins and among the anchorets
limits, who, unlike the rest of
ihabitants, do not abandon
Lves to indolence and excesses
^ kind.

leful computation of the com-
e longevity, in the different de-
nts of France, has been made
So and the preceding years,
^um annual number of deaths
ice, at the age of one hundred
tnd upward, is 148. The fol-
Meen dipartements, given in
ang order, are those which
he greatest number: Basses-
es, Dordogne, Calvados, Gers,
-Dome, Ari^ge, Aveyron, Gi-
Landes, Lot, Ard^che, Cantal,

Seine, Tam-et-Garonne. It

seen that a great number of
dnous districts are to be found
e departments. It is surpris-
see that of la Seine on this
fevertheless these departments
hold the same rank in respect

ordinary duration of life;
would seem to prove that
xamples of extreme longevity
a sufficient index that a coun-
ivorable to long life. I give
imbers in order: Basses-Pyr^-
; Dordogne, 42 ; Calvados, 2
1; Puy-de-D6me, 30; Ari^ge
Lve)Ton, 34; Gironde, 18
,52; Lot, 33; Ardbche, 43

23; Doubs, 25; Seine, 53
-Garonne, 13.
fifteen departments in which

ordinary life is most prolonged are:
Ome, Calvados, Eure-et-Loir, Sarthe,
Eure, Lot-et-Garonne, Deux-S^vres,
Indre - et - Loire, Basses - P)rr^n6es,
Maine -et- Loire, Ardennes, Gers,
Aube, Hautes-Pyrfenfees, et Haute-
Garonne.

It is evident that places need not
be very remote firom each x>ther to
produce a different influence on the
duration of life.

That cold is injurious to the nerves,
remarks M. R6veill6-Parise, is a truth
almost as old as the medical art A
low temperature produces not only
a painful effect upon the skin, but it
benumbs and paralyzes the nerves of
the extremities, and diminishes the
circulation of the fluids, and this gives
rise to all sorts of diseases.

Men of intellectual pursuits, hav*
ing an extremely nervous stiscepti-
bility, are particularly affected by
change of temperature. It is not
surprising, then, to find that the menr
tal faculties have attained their ut-
most deg[ree of perfection in certain
climates. Choice natures, such as
poets and other men of genius, only
produce the finest firuit under the in-
fluence of an ardent sun and a pure
and brilliant atmosphere. It is only
in warm and temperate climates that
nature and life are most lavish of
their treasures ; there we find genuine
creations; elsewhere are imitations
only, with the exception of the physi-
cal sciences, which depend on con-
tinued observation. It is remarkable
that, if the men of the North have
conquered the South, the opinions
of the South have always held sway
in the North. Besides, fertility of
the soil and a mild temperature set
man firee, in southern countries, finom
all present care and all anxiety
specting the future, and infuse I
blissful serenity of soul so favorabl'
the flights of the imagination. In
misty climate of the north, he has

Influence of Locality fim Human Life:.

struggle incessantly against the influ-
ence of the weather, which so greatly
diminishes the powers of the mind.
This struggle is almost always a dis-
sdvantage to the minds of i

]

We read in the Journal of En;
de Guerin :

" With llic rain, cold winds, winlrT side*,
the nighlingilcs tinging from lime to time
under the dead Icuvci, w« have a g\aantj
are particularly impressible and often month of May. 1 wbh my »oul were not to
reduced to a state of muscular ener- •>""^'> influenced by the itaie of the atino.
vation. Cold, dampness, fogs, vio- ^^^^J^ "d variations of the season.. «,»
, . , . , 1 .. oe like a flower that opens or dose* with

lent wmds, sudden changes of tern- ,he cold and the sun. Ii is something I d»
peraiure, frequent rains, endless win- not understand, but so it is as long aa my
ters, uncertain summers with their so"! " imprisoned in this frail body."
stonns and unhealthy exhalations,

are (earful enemies to an organiEation
which is delicate, nervous, irritable,
Buffering, and exhausted.

The state of the atmosphere, then,
acts powerfully on the mental facul-
ties. There arc really days when the
mind is not clear. The thoughts,
sometimes so free and abundant, are
suddenly arrested. The sources of
(he imagination are expanded and

Ask the poets, artists, and men of
thought, if a lively feeling of energy
and of joy, prompting to action and
labor ; or, otherwise, if a certain si
of languor — of strange and uitdcC
ble uneasiness — does not make t'
dependent on the state of the atn
sphere.

It may be considered, then, as an
established principle, that a temperate
climate, mild seasons, and pure sir

ion a nd
inst^H
xle^H
e th^H

contracted accordme to the deerees . , . ' . '

, ,, . . °. . , constantly renewed, con.stitule not

of the hammrter nnn thermomptpr. , , ,- , . . i

only the highest physical enjoyment
but the indispensable cont^duns of

of the barometer and thermometer.
The different seasons of the
have more influence than may be
thought, upon the master-pieces of

health.

Ilie physical character of places

art, upon the afiections, the events of . _ i . ■ u- a- . _,

,., ' '^ , '. , has a truly astonishine effect upon man.

life and even tinnn nolitirnl rataslrn- .... '. . ■?. . - S. .

ind even upon political
phes. History relates that Chancel-
lor de Chevemy warned President de
Thou that if the Duke de Guise irri-
tated the mind of Henry III. during
a frost, (which rendered him furious,)
the king would have him assassina-
ted ; and this really happened on
, the twenty-third of December, 1588.
The Duchess d'Abrantfe says :

** Napoleon could not endure th« least
cold without Imtnediale suRcring. lie had
fires made in the month of July, and did
not understand why others wetc not equally
■ifccted by the least wind from the north-
east. .... It was Napoleon's nature to
tore air and eierciie. The privation of

tbcH two things threw him into a vjoleivl smallest limits, offer the greatest var-
cmdicion, The slate of the weaiher toulij dy of formations, allowing the most
be pez«.ved by the temper he displayed at ^^^^j to predominate, and, in a sub-
Olnncr. Urain or anvoiher cause had pre- ... '^ . ^1. r j

Mnled him from taking hi. iceusiomed S'^'SH' manner, to the most favortd
Wilk, he was not only iiom but sulIcrinE." climatCS. 'Jhe type ts also mfluenccd

A distinguished traveller, M, Trt^maux,
has endeavored to prove, in several
ffKWfiVMto the Academic des Sciences,
that man may be changed from the
Caucasian to the negro type simply by
this influence. He calls attention to
the coincidences that exist between the
physical types and the geological na-
ture of the countries acting especially
through their products. The least
perfect, or rather, the type which is
farthest removed from our own, be-
longs to the oldest lands, and, in a
subsidiary manner, to climates the
least favored. The most perfect be-
longs to the countries which, within the

Infiuence of Locality on Human Life.

^y other causes of a more secondary
natiire which are vexy complex.

The geological chart of Europe, says
Mr. Trimaux, shows that the greatest
siirfece of primitive rock formations is
in Lapland, which possesses also the
most inferior people; going to the
south of Scandinavia, gneiss and gran-
ite occupy also a great part of the
country, but that region is also con-
nected with others more varied. It
contains many lakes, and its climate is
more favored, as well as its inhabitants.
As to the Scandinavians of Denmark,
they have a purely Germanic type and
aie, in effect, upon the same soU.

Russia possesses different formations
of a medium age, but the extended sur-
Cace of each kind does not permit its
people to profit by the resources of
those adjoining, and, consequently,
they are but indifferently favored. If
we turn to the countries which are in
the best condition, we distinguish in
Senexal all the west and south of
Europe, and more particularly France,
Italy, Greece, the eastern part of Spain,
3iMi the ncyth-east of England. It is
here, in truth, that civilization and the
intellectual faculties have most sway.
Race does not change while it re-
mains upon the same soil and under the
same natural influences: whereas, it
IS gradually modified, according to its
new position, when it is removed to
another place.

The physical influences of a region,
ViA of mixture of race, have a dis-
tinct maimer of acting. By cross-
breeding, the features are at once
strongly modified in individuals, but
especially according to the region in
which it takes place. Thus, in Europe,
the mixed race is more strongly in-
clined to the type of the white man;
inSoudan, to that of the negro. A type
seems to be more readily improved
than degenerated. The physical cha-
racter of a place does not act in detail,
but in a general mannery beginning by

modifying the complexion more and
more in each generation. It acts less
quickly upon the hair, and more slow-
ly still upon the features. Cross-breed-
ing is considered the principal modi-
fying agent only because its effects are
at once perceptible, but it can explain
evident facts only in an imperfect
manner.

The elevation of a place above the
level of the sea has a radical influence
upon phthisis. With the design of in-
dicating the regions and the degrees
of elevation within which this malady
is rare or completely imknown. Dr.
Schnepp has made a compilation firom
a series of meteorological observations,
made in the Pyrenees and at Eaux
Boimes, and from analogous docu-
ments furnished by travellers who have
lived upon the elevated and inhabited
plateaux of the old and new world.

The document on this subject which
he sent to the Academy of Sciences
shows that, in the choice of a healthy
locality for invalids, people are too ex-
clusively influenced by a warm temper-
ature, disregarding the more formal in-
dications of nature in distributing the
maladies of the human race over the
surface of the globe. For instance,
phthisis exists in the tropical zone. In
Brazil, it causes one fifth of the cases
of mortality ; in Peru, three tenths, and
in the Antilles, from six to seven, in
every thousand inhabitants. In the
East Indies, the greater part of the
English physicians report, among the
causes of death, two cases from phthisis
to every thousand people. In the tem-
perate zones, phthisis is one of the most
devastating of diseases. It generally
attacks firom three to four in every
thousand inhabitants. The three coun-
tries in which it was not to be found,
Algiers, Egypt, and the Russian step-
pes of Kirghis, have also been invaded
by it, although in a smaller proportion.
In Algeria, the deaths from phthisis are,
to those fix)m other causes, in the pro-

7«

Influence of Locality on Humem Life.

portion of one to every twenty-four or
twenty-seven ; in Egypt, in the pro-
portion of one to eight.

This old malady becomes more
rare as we approach the higher lati-
tudes. It is supposed not to exist at
all in Siberia, in Iceland, and in the
Faroe Islands. Thus, diseases of the
lungs seem to be more rare in certain
cold countries than in warm countries.
It is also observed that at a certain
altitude the number of cases greatly
diminish, and even completely dis-
appear. Brockman testifies that phthi-
sis is rare on the plateaux of the
Hartz mountains at the height of
two' thousand feet above the leve
of the sea; and C. Fuchs, stating
the same fact concerning certain ele-
vations in Thuringia and the Black
Forest, was the first to advance the
theory that phthisis diminishes accord-
ing to certain altitudes.

Dr.Briiggens, also, has since testified
to the infirequency of this disease in the
Swiss Alps, at the height of 4500 to
6000 feet in the Engaddine; nor is
it found among the monks of the
Great Saint Bernard at the altitude
of 6825 feet. According to M. Lom-
bard, it completely disappears among
these mountains at the height of 4500
feet

The populous cities of the Ameri-
can continent, which are situated in
the tropical zone at an altitude of
six thousand feet above the level of
the sea, are exempt from lung dis-
eases ; although, in the same latitude,
phthisis is common in lower regions.
'ITiis immunity exists on the other
hemisphere in the same zone— on the
elevated plateaux of Hindostan and the
Himalaya. In examining the state
of the climate on the heights in which
phthisis is seldom or never found, we
find there, even on the equator, a
medium temperature sufficiently low
throughout the year; between twelve
and fifteen degrees on the heights be-

low 9000 feet; between three and
five degrees on those between 9000
and 12,000 feet.

In the temperate zone it is still low-
er. But the warmest months upon
tropical heights do not vary more
than six or eight degrees fit>m the
medium temperature. It is the same
on the plateaux of the Alps and in
Iceland, and is a general and com-
mon characteristic of the regions in
which phthisis is not found. The de-
viations below the annual medium,
appear even to increase this immu-
nity. If sufficient observations have
not been made to decide upon the
degree of comparative humidity on
the heights above 12,000 feet, we
know that the elevation at which
phthisis is wanting, is in a hygrometri-
cal condition more nearly approach-
ing saturation than the lower regions,
and that the rains are also more
abundant there.

It is desirable that the heights of
C^vennes, the Pyrenees, the Alps,
and, above all, the elevated parts of
our Algerian possessions should be
carefully studied, with a view to the
treatment of lung diseases, which are
the great scourge of the human race,
and which annually cause the death
of more than three millions of its
number.

It is useful, not only to study dif-
ferent countries with respect to their
salubrity, but also to observe the dif-
ferent situations in the same locality,
and the different quarters of the same
city. M. Junod presented to the
Academy of Sciences, some years
since, an essay on this subject, which
is full of interest In considering the
distribution of the population in large
cities, we are struck by the tendency
of the wealthy class to move toward
the western portions, abandoning the
opposite side to the industrial pursuits.
It seems to have divined, by a kind
of intuition, the kxrality which would

Ii^tunc* of Locality oh Human Life.

have the greatest immunity in the
time of sore public calamities. For
example, let us speak first of Paris.
From the foimdation of the city, the
opulent class has constantly directed
its course toward the west. It is the
same in London, and generally, in
all the cities of England. At Vienna.
Berlin, St. Petersburg, and, indeed,
in all the capitals of Europe, this
same fact is repeated; there is the
same movement of the rich toward the
west, where are assembled the palaces
of the kings, and the dwellings for
which only pleasant and healthy sites
are desired.

In visiting the ruins of Pompeii
and other ancient cities, I have ob-
served, as well as M. Junod, that
this custom dates from the highest
antiquity. In those cities, as is seen
at Paris in our day, the largest ceme-
teries are found in the eastern parts,
and generally none in the western.
M. Junod, examining the reason of so
general a fact, thinks it is connected
with atmospheric pressure. When the
mercury in the barometer rises, the
smoke and injurious emanations are
quickly dispelled in the air. When
the mercury lowers, we see the smoke
and noxious vapors remain in the
apartments and near the surface of
the earth. Now every one knows
that, of all winds, that from the east
causes the mercury in the barometer
to rise the highest, and that which
lowers it most is from the west. When
the latter blows, it carries with it all
the deleterious gases it meets in its
course from the west. The result is,
that the inhabitants of the eastern
parts of a city not only have their own
smoke and miasmas, but also those
of the western parts, brought by the
west wind. When, on the contrary,
the east wind blows, it purifies the
air by causing the injurious emana-
tions to rise, so that they carmot be
thrown back upon the west. It is

evident, then, that the inhabitants of
the western parts receive pure air
from whatever quarter of the horizon
it comes. We will add, that the west
wind is most prevalent, and the west
end receives it all fresh from the
country.

From the foregoing facts, M. Junod
lays down the following directions:
First, persons who are free to choose,
especially those of delicate health,
should reside in the western part of a
city. Secondly, for the same reason,
all the establishments that send forth
vapors or injurious gases should be
in the eastern part. Thirdly and
finally, in erecting a house in the
city, and even in the country, the
kitchen should be on the eastern side,
as well as all the out-houses from
which unhealthy emanations might
spread into the apartments.

M. Elie de Beaumont has since men-
tioned some facts which tend to prove
the constancy and generality of the rule
laid down by M. Junod. He noticed
in most of the large cities this ten-
dency of the wealthy class to move to
the same side — generally, the west-
em — unless hindered by certain local
obstacles. Turin, Li^ge, and Caen are
examples of this. M. Moquin-Tan-
don has observed the same thing at
Montpellier and at Toulouse. Paris
and London also present analogous
facts, although the rivers which tra-
verse those two great centres flow in a
diametrically different direction. Paris
increased in a north-easterly direction
at the time when the Bastille, the Pa-
lais des Toumelles, the Hotel St. Paul,
etc., were built; but the inhabitants
were then influenced by fear of the
aggressive Normans, whose fleets as-
cended the Seine as far as Paris, and
were only arrested by the Pont-au-
Chaiige. At that time, and as long
as this fear lasted, they must have felt
unwilling to live in Auteuil or Crenelle.
But since the foundation of the Louvre,

Influence of Locality on Human Life.

and especially since the reign of Hen-
ri Quatre, the current has resumed its
normal direction. M. £lie de Beau-
mont is inclined to believe that, among
the causes of this phenomenon, we
should reckon the temperature and the
hygrometrical state of the air, which
is generally warmer and more moist
during the winds from the west and
south-west than during the east and
north-east winds.

What most contributes to prolong
existence is a certain uniformity in heat
and cold, and in the density and rari-
ty of the atmosphere. This is why the
countries in which the barometer and
thermometer are subject to sudden
and considerable changes are never
favorable to the duration of life. They
may be healthy, and man may live a
long time there; but he will never at-
tain a very advanced age, because the
variations of the atmosphere produce
many interior changes which consume,
to a surprising degree, both the strength
and the organs of life.

Too much dryness or too much
humidity are equally injurious to the
duration of life; yet the air most fa-
vorable to longevity is that which con-
tains a certain quantity of water in dis-
solution. Moist air being already part-
ly saturated, absorbs less from the
body, and does not consume it as soon
as a dry atmosphere; it keeps the or-
gans a longer time in a state of supple-
ness and vigor; while a dry atmosphere
dries up the fibres and hastens the ap-
proach of old age. It is for this rea-
son, doubtless, that islands and penin-
sulas have always been favorable to
old age. Man lives longer there than
in the same latitude upon continents.
Islands and peninsulas, especially in
warm climates, generally offer every-
thing that contributes to a long life :
purity of air, a moist atmosphere, a
temperature often at one's choice,
wholesome fruit, clear water, and a
climate almost un variable. I had an

opportunity, long desired, of travels-
ing the ocean as far the Tristan Islands,
and of retiuning to the Indian Ocean
by doubling the Cape of Good Hope
with a captain who wished to observe
the different islands on the way. I
was thus able, in going as well as re-
turning, to visit these numerous islands,
and I can speak of them from reason-
able observation. But it is sufficient
to mention, from a hygienic point of
view, the Isle of Bourbon, (where I
lived for many years,) to give an idea
of the sanitary condition of islands in
general. Like most isles, the Isle of
Bourbon has a form more or less pyra-
midal. The shore, almost on a level
with the sea, is the part principally
inhabited. There are few villages in
the interior of the island, but many
private residences. The temperature
on the shore, though very high, is less
intense than is supposed: the medium
temperature being between 40° and
50^ The sea and land breezes, which
succeed each other morning and eve-
ning, refresh the atmosphere and main-
tain a healthy moisture. It hardly
ever rains except during the winter.
Besides, it is very easy to choose the
temperature one prefers. As the moun-
tains are very lofty, they afford every
season at once. On the summit are
seen snow and ice, while at the foot the
heat is tropical ; so that it is sufficient
to ascend for ten or fifteen minutes to
find a marked change of temperature.
And the colonists of but little wealth
are careful to profit by this precious
favor of nature. They select two or
three habitations at different heights,
in order to enjoy a continual spring.
During the cool season, they reside on
the sea-shore. Then they go to their
dwelling a little above, where the tem-
perature is mild. And in the hot sea-
son, they ascend to still higher regions.
It is impossible to express the plea-
sure of thus having several dwellings
at one's cl.oice, in some one of which

htfbuHC$ 9f Locality m Hmmtm Ltfs.

•l

^fiainbfe temperature can be enjoyed
^afijseasoD. I had three: one at St.
t^enisy capital of the colony, one at
La Rivi)bre-des-Pluies, and another
<t La Ressource. La Rivibre-des-
fluiesy belonging to M. Desbassayns,
< renerable old man and president of
the general council, is the finest situa-
tion on the island It was fonnerly
called the Versailles of Bourbon. I
inhabited a summer-house above which
tut surrounding trees crossed their
tufted branches, forming a dome of
verdure in which the birds came to
waiUe. Regular alleys, extending as
fu as the eye could reach, formed
by superb mango-trees, were enclosed
\s^ parterres, groves, gardens, woods,
iA all the surroundings of a small
village. Each large habitation in the
cokmy had every resource within itself,
aiKl was the faithful copy of the old
feudal casdes.

La Ressource, a dwelling for the
iM)ttest season, belonging also to M.
I)€sbassa3ms, presented another kind
of beauty. There was less artistic
juxury about it, but nature had lav-
ished on it all her splendor. After
dinoer, admiring the panorama which
^ spread out as &r as the horizon,
I remarked to M. Desbassayns that
I did not believe it possible for the
CQdre world of natiure to furnish a
nuve beautiful perspective. '' I have
travelled a great deal," said he, "and
in troth I have never seen anything
like it, not even firom the most magni-
ficent points of view in America.''
The venerable old man then took me
bjr the arm and invited me to visit
his estate. He made me first look
at his woods, with their tufted foliage ;
the cane-fields ; the deep ravines ; the
streams, with their windings rising one
above the other in such a manner that
the lower ones were perfectly visiUe,
and extending in successive circuits
moft <Mr less varied to the shore of
die lea, which gleamed like a mirror

VOL. UL-4

as &r as the eye could reach, and
upon the azure smface of which stood
clearly out, like silver clouds, the
white sails fix)m all parts of the w<xkl
which had given each other rendet-
vtms here, and were constantly ap-
proaching this isle of lava, flowenfi
shadows, and light, which they had
taken as the centre of rhtnum.

He made me afterward notice the
verdant fields which had formerly
belonged to the parents of Virginia,
the heroine of the romance of Bemar-
din de St. Pierre. He related to me
the true history of Virginia, who waa
his cousin. Her death happened
neariy as described by the celebrated
romancer. He made me notice, upon
his genealogical tree, the branch that
bore upon one of its leaves the name
of Virginia!

M. Desbassayns had promised me
fi^me reliable notes respecting her, and
I was glad to offer them to my illus*
trious fiiend, Count Alfi^d de Vigny,
who, in giving me a farewell embrace,
had commissioned me to bear his
most tender expressions of love to the
region which had inspired the touch-
ing narrative of St. Pierre. But alai I
remorseless death warns tis to re-
member the uncertainty of life, even
when everything disposes us to for-
get it

He took me to one after another
of the most interesting trees, particu-
larly to the arh'e du voyageur^ a kind of
baiiana, the leaves of which are in-
serted within one another like those
of the iris, so as to form, at the height
of eight or nine f^, a vast £eul
Rain-water, and particulariy dew,
accumulates at the bottom of these
leaves, as in a natural cup, and b
kept very firesh; and if the base is
pierced with a narrow blade, the
liquid will flow out in a thread-like
stream, which it is easy to receive in
the mouth. The venerable old man
opened one of their vegetable veins^

fhJ^Meref' Lveatity OM Human Lift.

by way of example, aii<I 1 soon
kneed a great number of these provi-
dential trees, snd refreshed myself
with their limpid streams.

Finally, he conducted me by a nar-
row path to the edge of a deep ravine
Jn which flowed an abundant toirent,
'forming capricious ctscades as it
wound its way. Afler passing over a
tuslic bridge, an admirable spectacle
*a9 presented to our view. An alley
was formed through a wilderness of
bamboos, so sombre, so nanow, and
high, that it would be difficult to give
an idea of it. It was as if pierced
'through a forest of gigantic pipes ;
■and when they were agitated by a
«tomi, they produced a harmony so
pl^live, so languid, and at the same
lime so lerrible and full of poetry, that
I often passed the entire night in
listening to it. 1 am not astonished
by what is related of these tall and
KKiorous atlms.

In those fortunate countries that
are shaded by the bamboo, it is said
Aat happy lovers and suffering souls
make holes in these long pipes and
combine them in such a way that,
when the wind blows, they give out a
Euthful expression of their joy or their
grief. Nothing is sweeter than the
tones that are thus produced by the
evening breeze which attunes these
harmonious leeds, rendering them at
once Kolian harps and flutes. As
soon as I found out this magical
pathway, I beloolc myself there every
day at the dawn, lo read, to meditate,
and to take notes till the hour of din-
ner. The next day after this visit, I
had the curiosity to destroy one of
the a>^rti du veya§eur. It inundated
'me with its fresh stream, but I came
(Bear being punished for this profana-
tion of nature, at the moment 1 ex-
pecleil it the least A most formi-
dable centipede escaped from the
i^linters which I made fiy, smd only
: lacked a little of falling directly on oiy
.face, M. Dcsbassayiu was greatly

astonished to see it; for it is genenllf
believed, he said, that these venomoui
insects avoid this beneficent tree.

The enchanting heavens of that
privileged region arc always serene,
and the air is so pure that no gray
tint ever appears on the horizon; the
mountains, hills, meadon^ every re-
mote object indeed, instead of £i^ii|
away in a dim atmosphere, beam
out against a sky of cloudless acoRL
This is what renders the equatorid
nights so resplendent. The astonish-
ed eye thinks it beholds a new heaveta
and new stars. How charming il
the moonlight that comes in shoi "^^
of light through a thousand quivf
leaves which murmur
of the perfumed breeze! and wh^lfl
that is joined the lar-off moan of the
sea, and the sounds that escape from
the ivory keys or resounding chords,
which accompany the sweet accents
of a Creole voice, we feel as if in one
of those islands of bliss which surpaa
the imagination of the poets.

One of the things that travdlen
have not sufficiently noticerl, and
which gives us a kind of homesick-
ness for that "beautiful region, is the
enchanting harmony which results
from the noise of the sea and the
murmur of the breeze in the diflcrcnt
kinds of foliage, a harmony whid)
calms the agitation of the soul as well
as the fever of the body. As there is
every variety of temperature, so there
is a great variety of trees. There U
one especially remarkable, namely,
the pandaaus, which resembles bod)
the pine and the weeping wfllow.
Its summit is lost in the blue sky, and
its numerous branches, borne by a
pliant and elegant stem, sup|K>rt large
tassels of leaves, long, cylindrical, and
fine as hair; and when the breeze
makes them tremble in its breath,
they murmur in plaintive melancholy
notes that, when cwice heard, we long
lo hear again and again.

Ttx cocoanut or palm-trces, with

^iW^pmf^W^m. 9ff

eaves long, hard, and shining
edy give out a sound like the
[if aims. The gigantic leaves
banana are the echo of the
)f an overflowing torrent, pierc-
e air like the vast pipes of an

The bamboos, with their tall
vhich moan and grind as they
littering long groans which,
ig with the tones, the wailing,
e murmurs of a thousand other
of foliage, with the deep roar
agitated sea afar o% and the
of the waves breaking on the
form an immense natural or-
y the varied sounds of which,
toward heaven, seem to bear
lem, in accents without num-
the joys and all the grie& of
rkL

le trees with their tall, slender
and thick foliage, are contin-
ending in the incessant breeze,
brilliant light of that climate
hadow looks black; and, as it
itinually moving, you would
everything animate, and that
and fairies were issuing forth
ddes.

re is a constant succession of
1 with the strongest perfume;
ben those of the wood are in
you would think that every
of grass, every leaf and every
)f dew gave out an essence
the wind, in passing, absorbed
X to perfume with it the happy
-s in this Eden.

se enchanted regions have in-
Its worthy of their abode,
ispitality of the Creoles is pro-
Every family is glad to re-
he stranger and soon considers
\ a friend and brother. The
women have the elegance of
talm-trees. They are as fresh
looming as the corolla that
Is at the dawn« Their kind
\j envelops you like the pene-

odors which come from the

MHumsmL^.

wonderfiil v^;etation that suooiumIi
them. A Frenchman who mee|fi
another Frenchman in these £sur-o^
coimtries regards him as a part of
France which has come to smile O0
him, and the intimacy, which is fonn-
ed, is indissoluble.

The traveller can never foiget the
touching scenes of the varanpie^ the
enchanting evenings passed thev^
and the joyous cup of friendsh^
there interchanged; sweet emotioiip
contributing to longevity mom tha^
is commonly believed.

One finds one's self in that fortu-
nate land surrounded by hygieniojl
influences which are most &voraUf
to a long life. Let us add that the
alimentary productions are of the
first quality. The water in the stonf
basins is limpid, and the succulent
fruits are varied enough to almoift
sufHce for the nourishment of the ii^
habitants. How can one be a fiir
vorite of fortime and a prey to q)lee&
without going to visit these places
which exhale a sovereign balm ?

Nevertheless, under that sky brilr
liant with pure light, in that atmo*
sphere of freshness of perfume and of
harmony, it seemed to me that a tiot
of infinite melancholy was eveiy^
where difiused. I regarded the gloi>-
ous sky, I listened to the trembling
foliage, I breathed the penetrating
odors, but something was everywhere
wanting. When I sought what k
was that I missed, I found it was the
trees of my native land, which do not
grow in every zone, and where they
do grow are not so fine as here. I
instinctively sought the wide^nread-
ing oak, the lofty walnut, the chestnut
with its tender verdure, the tall slen-
der poplar, the modest willow, and
the birch with its light shadow. I
recalled the odor of their foliagei
associated with my dearest remen^-
brancesi but in vain. I felt then an
immense and inexpressible void that

teitce of Locality on Human

•othing could fin, and tears naturally
^ang from these vague anil pro-
found impressions. I hungered, 1
thirsted for the odor of the trees that
had overshadowed my infancy — on
insatiable hunger, a thirst nothing
could satisfy. On returning from
that remote voyage, especially during
the first weeks, I went to the nur-
Cery of the Luxembourg, (alas I poor
nursery !) I sought the fresh shades
of the Bois de Boulogne, and there,
during long rambles, I crushed the
leaves in my hands and inhaled the
perfume they gave out. I felt my
lungs expand, as if a new life was
infused into them with the odor I
breathed. This invisible aliment
which we derive from the exhalations
of the plants to which we have been
Rccustotned from infancy, had become
for me an absolute necessity, a con-
dition of health.

A climate, a couniry may not at
lis, times be favorable to longevity,
or at all times unhealthy. The pre-
dominance of one industrial pursuit
over another, the choice of one ma-
terial instead of another for building
houses, or a sudden change in the
general habits, necessarily modifies,
in a great degree, the conditions of
longevity. This is what has hap-
pened in the Isle of Bourbon. Till
Within a few years, no epidemic or
contagious malady was known in
thai fortunate island; no fever, no
cholera, no throat complaints, no
smaU-pox, etc. But all these dis-
eases have attacked its inhabitants
since our manures, our materials for
building, and our products in general,
have been used by them in large
quantities.

The dr\-ing up of a marsh, the cut-
ting down of a forest, the substitu-
tion of one crop for another, may
eflect atmospheric changes through
extended radius, which will
■tiengthen or weaken the vitality of

the people. Some years since, 1
was a marsh behind the city of C
which was separated from the doett
by a hill. It was always noticed
that the pestilential epidemics ap-
peared to spring from that unhealthy
spot and finally to spread throughout
the east. The Pacha of Egypt,
without thinking of this coincidence,
noticed, on the other hand, that the
hill behind the marsh entirely coa-
cealed the fine view which he would
have from his palace, if it were re-
moved. He gave ordere to cot the
hill down and to till up the marsh with
its dibris, so that the winds which
were formerly checked, had free circu-
lation and purified the atmosphere,
while the soil, thoroughly modified,
ceased to emit the pestilential effluvia.
Since that event the plague has not
reappeared. A caprice of the Padia
effected more than all the quann-
tines and all the efforts of science.
He has freed the world, perhaps
for ever, from the most terrible of
scourges.

It is known that the cholera comes
from India. It is- engendered in the
immense triangular space formed by
two rivers: the Ganges and the Brah-
mapootra. It is the East India Com-
pany according to M. le Comie dc
Woren, that should be accused of trea-
son to humanity. It is that power
which has destroyed the canals and the
derivations of the two finest rivers in
the worid. During the last Iwcntjr-
five years of English occupation the
number of pools in a single district^
that of Nert Anoth, which burst or were
destroyed, amounted to eleven hun-
dred. In the time of the Mogul con-
querors.afine canal, the Doab^exlend-
ing from Delhi, fertilized two hundred
leagues in its course. This canal is
destroyed, and the lands, once so fer-
tile and healthy, are now the infectious
lair of wild beasts, having lieen depo-
pulated by disease and death.

Injbunee cf L&iKiKty om Human Life.

Tlie hygienic condition of different
countries, then, may be modified in
various ways. In 1698, Bigot de
Molville, president i 'marHer of the
Parliament of Normandy, found, after
cueful research, that, of all the cities
of France, Rouen possessed the great-
At number of octogenarians and cen<
tenarians. Toward the middle of the
bat century this superiority was
ckimcd by Boulogne-sur-mer, whichi
Riained it for nearly fifty years, and
ms dien called ihtfatrU des vieiUards.
In a recent communication to the
Academy, M. de Garogna remarked
fiiat, in the printed or manuscript ac-
coonts we possess respecting the for-
ner eruptions of Santorin, many very
interesting details are found concern-
ing the difiisrent maladies occasioned
bjr these eruptions, and observed at
that epoch in the island, which support
that we have said of the variable
hygienic state of different places. Ac-
conling to these reports, the pathologi-
cal result of the different eruptions
ioduded especially alarming complica-
tioDSi serious cerebral difficulties, suf-
ibcadon, and derangement in the ali-
mentary canaL He proved that mor-
bid influences were only manifest when
tbc direction of the wind brought the
volcanic emanations. The parts of
the island out of the course of the wind
diowed no trace of the maladies in
fMstioo. Moreover, the sanitary con-
dkion of the places within reach of
the wind became worse or improved
according to the rise and fall of the
wind. It should also be noticed that
the morbid influence of the volcanic
emanations extended to islands more
or leas remote finom Santorin.
Fiom this report the following con-

clusions are to be drawn: i. The
eruption in the Bay of Santorin, while
in action, had a manifest influence on
the health of the people in that island.
2. It especially occasioned complicat-
ed diseases, Uiroat distempers, bron-
chitis, and derangement of the diges- ;
tive organs. 3. The acidiferous ashes
were the direct cause of the compli-
cations, while the other morbid com-
plaints should be attributed to sul-
phuric add. 4. Vegetation waslike-
wise affected by the eruption while
active, and particularly plants of the «
order Siliacea, 5. The changes in the ;
vegetation were probably produced by .
hydrochloric add, at the beginning of
the eruption. 6. The hydro-sulphuric
emanations appear, on the contrary, to .
have had a beneficial effect on the dis-
eases of the grape-vine. It perhaps
destroyed the ctdium.

It is evident that the question of
local influences upon the duration of
life is a most comprehensive and fiiiit- .
fill one. Nature gives us some formal^
indications, in dividing the maladies of
the human race; and the study of
places and climates in a hygienic point
of view, although in its infancy, has
already brought to our notice many
valuable facts. This study is full of
interest. We shall doubdess arrive at
a knowledge of the exact relation
between such a malady, such an
epidemic, and such a place, or site^
or position with respect to the pointi
of the compass, as well as of the bene-
fidal and special influence exercised
upon our principal organs by the ex-
halations from different places, which
might well be called the genii of those
regions.

Tke Bisheps of Rome.

THE BISHOPS OF ROME*

Jfarpff't Maj^sine, we are told,
has a wide circulation, and some
merit as a magazine of light literature;
but it does not appear to have much
aptitude for the scholarly discussion
of serious questions, whatever the
matter to which they relate, and it is
guilty of great rashness in attempting
to treat a subject of such grave and
tmporlant relations to religion and
dnlization, society and the church,
KS the history of the bishops of Rome,
The subject is not within its compe-
tence, and the historical value of its
essay to those who know something
of the history of the popes and of me-
diieval Europe is less than null.

Of course, Harper's Ma^zine
Oiows no new light on any disputed
passage in the history of the bishops
of Rome, and brings out no fact not
well tnown, or at least often repeated
before; it does nothing more than
compress within a brief magazine ar-
^e the principal inventions, calrnn-
Aies, and slanders vented for centuries
Against the Roman pontifls by person-
al or national antipathy, disappointed
•inbition, political and partisan ani-
mosity, and heretical and sectarian
Wrath and bitterness, so adroitly ar-
nnged and mixed with facts and pro-
bobiUdes as to gain easy credence
Wth persons predisposed to believe
(bem, and to produce on ignorant
■id prejudiced readers a totally false
■npreuion. The magazine, judging
bom this article, has not a single
qualification for studying and appre-
ciating the history of the popes. It
has no key to the meaning of the
frets it encounters, and is utterly una-

ble or indisposed to place itsdf at the
point of view from which the truth b
discernible. Its ammuc, at least in
this article, is decidedly an ti- Christian,
and proves that it has no Christian
conscience, no Christian sympathy,
no faith in the supernatural, no le-
verence for our Lord and his apoa-
lles, and no respect even for the au-
thority of the Holy Scripttires,

The magarine, under pretence of
writing history, simply appeals to
anti-Catholic prejudice, and repeats
what Dr. Newman calls " the Protes-
tant tradition." Its aim is not histo-
rical truth, or a sound historical judg-
ment on the character of the Rotnan
pontifls, but to confirm the unrounded
prejudices of its readers against them.
It proceeds as if the presumption
were that every pope is antichrist or
a horribly wicked man, and therefore
every doubtfid fact must be interpre-
ted against him, till he is proved in-
nocent Everything that has been said
against a pope, no matter by whom
or on what authority, is presumptively
true; everything said in favor of ■
Roman pontiff must be presumed lo
be false or unworthy of considerstiao.
It supposes the popes to have had
the temper and disposition of t>on-
Catholics, and from what it believca,
perhaps very justly, a Protestant
would do — ■^, fer impessihile, he were
elevated to the papal chair, and
clothed with papal authority— cora-
cludes what the popes have actuall]^
done. It forgets the rule of logic,
Arpimtntum a gfnere ad gemtu,
noH valet. The pope and the Protes-
tant are not of the same genus. We
have never encountered in history a
single pope thai did not sincerely be-
lieve in his mission from Christ, and

Tht Bishops nf. R

wenooAj. We have encoun-
eakness; too great complai-

> the dvil power, even dow-
orushing out, in its very incep-
I insurgent error; sometimes

great a regard to the tempo-
he real or apparent neglect of
ritual, and two or three in-
in which the personal conduct
pe was not much better than
the average of secular princes ;
er a pope who did not recog-

important trusts confided to
, and the weighty responsibili-
is high office.
ave studied the history of the

ponti& with probably more
1 diligence than the flippant
I Harpef^s Magazine has done,
died it, too, both as an anti-
nd as a papist, with an earnest

> find facts against the popes,
li an equally earnest desire to
a the exact historical truth;
; reject as unworthy of the
oatic sectarian the al»urd rule
ing them which the magazine
if it does not avow and hold
e presumption is the other
d that everything that reflects
sly on the character of a bish-
Rome is presumptively false,
be accepted only on the most
ible evidence. We can judge
matter more impartially and
stedly than the anti-catholic,
peccability of the pontiff or
is infallibility in matters of
maan prudence, is no article of
: faith. The personal conduct
itifl" may be objectionable ; but
he officially teaches error in
\ or enjoins an immoral prac-

the faithful, it cannot disturb
tiere are no instances in which

has done this. No pope
r taught or enjoined vice for
error for truth, or officially
led a &lse principle or a false
of action. With one excep*

tion, we mi^^ then, concede aH AA
magazine alleges, and tsk. What then ?
What can you conclude? But, lA
fact, we concede nothing. What it
alleges against the bishops of Rome is
either historically hUsc, or if not, i%
when rightly understood, notfaing
against them in their ofiicial capaci^

The exception mentioned is that of
St Liberius. The magazine repeali^
with some variations, the exploded fii^
Ue that this Holy Pope, won by ft«
vors or terrified by threats, consulted
to a condemnation of the dociritu of
Athanasius, that is, signed an Ariu
formula of faith. It has not invented
the slander, but it has, after what hit-
t(»ical criticism has established on thd
subject, no right to repeat it as if ft
were not denied. We have no q>ace
now to treat the question at lengthy
but we assert, after a very full investi»
gation, that St Liberius never signed
an Arian formula, never in any shape
or manner condemned the dactrimi
defended by St Athanasius, and coih
sequendy never recanted, for he bad
nothing to recant The most, if so
much, that can be maintained is, that
he approved a sentence condemning
the special error of the Eunomians, in
which was not inserted the word
« consubstantial," because it was no!
necessary to the condemnation of
their qpedal error, and the error thq^
held in common with all Arians had:
already been condenmed by the coon-
cil of Nicaca. Not a word can be^
truly alleged against the persistent or«-
thodoxy of this great and holy pontile
who deserves, as he has always re-
ceived, the veneration of the church.

The magazine repeats the sland^-
of an anonymous writer, a bitter ene^
my of the popes, against St Victor^
St Zethyrinus, and St CallistU£.
three popes whom the Church <tf
Rome has hfcld, and still holds, im
high esteem and veneration for dheit.
virtues and saintly character. It zb-

n^ Biskops of Rome.

fen to the f^losophoumena, a work
published a few years ago by M. E.
Miller, of Paris, variously attributed
Id Origen, to St. Hippolyius, bishop of
Porto, near Rome, to Caius, a Roman
presbyter, and to TertuUian. The laic
Abb^ Cruice — an Irishman by birth,
we believe, but brought up and natu-
nlized in France, where he was,
lliortly before his death, promoted to
Hoe episcopate — a profoundly learned
nun and an acute critic, has tinan-
■wcrably proved that these are all
Unsustainable hypotheses, and that
bistorical science is in no condition to
lay who was its author. Wlio wrote
it, or where it was written, is absolute-
ly unknown, but from internal evi-
dence the writer was a contemporary
of the three popes named, and was
probably some Oriental schismatic,
of unsound faith, and a bitter ene-
my of the popes. The work is
not of the shghCest authority against
the bishops of Rome, but is of very
freat value as proving, by an enemy,
dtat the papacy was fully developed —
if that is the word — claiming and ex-
ercising in the universal church the
Same supreme authority that it claims
iind exercises now, and was as regular
m its action in the last half of the se-
cond century, or within fifty or sixty
jears of the death of the apostle St.
John, as it is under Pope Pius IX.
BOW gloriously reigning."

When the magazine has nothing
else to allege agfunst the popes, it ac-
cuses them of " a fierce, ungovernable
pride."

"The fourth century brought impoKani
.dunfci in the condilion of the biihops at
'■ome. It is a singular ttail of the cortupl
■CkrlMianilT of this period that the chief cha-
.fXCterinticof the eminent pidalca wu afierce
aad angoveriiable pride. Humility had long
«eaae<l ta b« numbered among the Christian

tv V.

VUt HMtirw d, rEr'ia A Stm, mh tti P4m-

ii Si. Viiltr, lU St. ZtflUrut, r< ^f. CaUUU.

L'AbU U. P. CnuR. Pant; Didot Friiw

virtues. Thefour great rulers af the Chut^
ihe Biihop of Rome, and the Patriarch* of
Const antino pie, Antjuch, and Alexandtii,
were engaged in a constant struggle for su-
premacy. Even the inferior bishops assum-
ed a princely atate, and surroundeid (hen-
selvet with their sacred courts. The vicu
of pride and arrogance descended to llw
loner orders of the clergy j the cmpenir
himself was declared Id be inferior in digni-
ty to the simple presbyter, and in all public
cnlertainmcnis and ceremonious usemblia
the proudest layman was expected to tain
his place below the haughty chutchmaih
As learning declined and the wcrld »nk
into a new barbarism, the clergy elevated
themselves into a ruling caile, and wen
looked upon as half divine by the rude Gotbt
and Ihe degraded Romans. It i« even wld
ihat Ihe pagan nations of Ihe west trans-
ferred to the priest and monk the same awe>
struck reverence which they had lieen icott-
toined lo pay to their Druid teachers. The
Tope took the place of their Chief Onid,
and was worshiplied with idolatrous dero-
lion; the meanest presbyter, however vi<
dous and degraded, seemed, lo the jgnomi
savages, a true tnessenger from the akica."

There was no patriarch of Constan-
tinople in the fourth century, and it
was only in 330 that the city of Con-
stantinople absorbed Byzantium. The
bishop of Byzantium was not a patri-
arch, or even a metropohtan, but was
a suffragan of the bishop of Heractea.
It was not till long after the fourth
century that the bishop of Constanti-
nople was recognized as patriarch,
not, in fact, till the eighth general
council. There w.is no strut'gle ia
the fourth nor in any subsequent cen-
tury , for the supremacy, between
Rome and Antioch, or Rome and
Alexandria; neither the patriarch of
Antioch nor the patriarch of Ale>
dria ever claimed the primacy; l|
both acknowletlged that it belcn;
to the bishop of Rome, a
schismatic churches of die East evd
now, though they lake the libcrtT^fl
disobeying their lawful superior,
the fifth century, when St. I,eo t
Great was pojie, the bishop of C
stantioople claimed the second r.

TJit Bishops of Rom*.

^ ttie first after the bishop of Rome,
^ the ground that Constantinople
^ die new Rome, the second capi-
tal of the empire. St. Leo repulsed
Is daim, not in defence of his own
D^ts, for it did not interfere with his
jqvemacy, or primacy, as they said
(ten, but in defence of the rights of
the churches of Antioch and Alexan-
dria. He also did it because the
daim was urged on a &lse principl^^
that the authority of a bishop is de-
rived firom the civil importance of the
dty in which his see b established.

It is not strange that the magazine

ihould complain that the pontifical

figDity was placed above the impe-

nl, and that the simple presbytei

took the step of the proudest layman ;

jct whoever believes in the spiritual

Older at all, believes it superior to the

Modar order, and therefore that they

vfao represent the spiritual are in dig-

mtj above those who represent only

the secular. When the writer of this

was a Protestant minister, he took,

and was expected to tal^e, precedence

of the laity. The common sense of

mankind gives the precedence to

those held to be invested with the

sacred functions of religion, or clothed

with spiritual authority.

That St Jerome, from his monastic
cell near Jerusalem, inveighs against
the vices and corruptions of the Ro-
auui clergy, as alleged in the para-
graph fc^owing the one we have quo-
ted, is very true; but his declama-
tians must be taken with some grains
of allowance. St Jerome was not ac-
cnstomed to measure his words when
denouicing wrong, and saints gene-
nlly are not St Peter Damian re-
ported, after his official visit to Spain,
tiiat there was but one worthy priest
wk the whole kingdom, which really
■leant no more than that he found
only one who came, in all respects,
«p to his lofty ideal of what a priest
should be. Yet there might have

been, and probably were, large num-
bers of others who, though not fault-
less, were very worthy men, and upon
the whole, faithful priests. We must
never take the exaggerations of saint-
ly reformers, burning with zeal for the
&ith and the salvation of souls, as
literal historical facts. St. Jerome, in
his ardent love of the church and his
high ideal of sacerdotal purity, vigi-
lance, fidelity, and zeal, no doubt ex-
aggerated.

There can be nothing more offen-
sive to every right and honorable feel-
ing than the exultation of the maga-
zine over the abuse, cruelties, and
outrages inflicted on a bishop of
Rome by civil tyrants. The writer,
had he lived imder the persecuting
pagan emperors, would have joined
his voice to that of those who ex-
claimed, Christianos ad leofus ; or had
he been present when our Lord was
arrested and brought as a malefactor
before Pontius Pilate, none louder
than he would have cried out, Cruci-
figeeumi crucifige eum ! His sympa-
thies are uniformly with the oppressor,
never, as we can discover, with die
oppr^sed; with the tyrant, never
widi his innocent victim, especially if
that victim be a bishop of Rome.
He feels only gratification in record-
ing the wrongs and suflferings of Pope
St Silverus. This pope was raised to
the papacy by the tyranny of the
Arian king Theodotus, and ordained
by force, without the necessary sub-
scription of the clergy. But after his
consecration, the clergy, by their sub-
scription, healed the irregularity of
his election, as Anastasius the Libra-
rian tells us, so as to preserve the
unity of the church and religion. He
appears to have been a holy man and
a worthy pope; but he was not ac-
ceptable to Vigilius, who expected, by
favor of the imperial court, to be
made pope himself, nor to those two
profligate women, the Empress Theo-.

The Bishopt of Home.

dora and her (Hetid Antonina, tlte
wife of the patrician Betisarius. Vj-
giliuE and these two infamous women
compelled Belisarius to depose him,
■trip him of his pontifical robes, clothe
him with the habit of a monk, and
send him into exile; where, as some
say, he was assassinated, and, as oth-
«ia say, perished of hunger. The
magazine relates this to show how
low and unworthy the bishops of
Rome had become ! Vigilius suc-
ceeded St. Silverus, and it continues :

"Stained with crime, a fxlse witneu and
» murderer, Vigiliai had obtuned his holy
office thiough Ihc power of two profligate
women who now ruled ^he Roman norld.
TbeodoTa, the dissolute wilie of Justinian,
and Antonina, her devoted servmi, asiumcd
lo determine the Euth and the destinies of
the Cbriilian Church. Vigiliiis failed to
MtiEfy the exacting demands of his caiuis-
tlcal mistresses ; he even ventured to diRer
from them upon some obscure points of
doctrine. His punishment soon followed,
■nd the bishop of Rome is said to have been
dragged through the streets of Constantino-
ple with a rope around his neck, lo have
been imprisoned in a common dungeon and
fed on bread and water. The papal chair,
filled by such unworthj occupant*, must
have sunk low in the popular esteem, had
■ot Gregory the Great, toward the dose of
the *iith century, revived the dignity of the

We know of nothing that can be
said in defence of the contiuct of Vi-
gilius prior to his accession to the pa-
pal throne. His intrigues with Theo-
dora to be made pope, and his pro-
mises to her lo restore, when he
■hould be pope, Anthemus, deposed
from the see of Constantinople by St.
Agapitus for heresy, and to set aside
the council of Chalcedon, were most
scandalous; and his treatment of St.
Slvenis, whether he actually eidled
him and had a hand in his death or
not, admits, as far as we arc informed,
<rf'na palliation; but his conduct thus
&r was not the conduct of the pope ;
«nd after he became bishop of Rome,

at least after the deaili of his iJ
predecessor, his conduct was, t^Mti
the whole, irreproachable. He conix-
ded much for the sake of peace, and
was much blamed; but he conceded
nothing of the faith ; he refused U
fulfil the improper promises he had
made, before becoming pope, to the
empress, confessed that he had laade
them, said he was wrong in making
them, retracted them, and resJBlcd
with rare firmness and persistence the
emperor Justinian in the matter ti
the three chapters, and fiilty expiated
the otfences committed prior to his
elevation, by enduring for seven long
years the brutal outrages and indigni-
ifcs offered him by the half-savage
Justinian, the imperial courtieis, and
intriguing and unscrupulous prclalei
of the court party — outrages and
suflerings of which he died ^cr his
liberation on his journey back liXHB
Constantinople to Rome.

We have touched on these detaSs
for the purpose of showing that tlw
principal offenders in the transactions
related were not the bishops of Rome,
but the civil authorities and their ad-
herents, that deprived the RonuD
clergy and the popes of their proper
freedom. If the papal chair was filled
with unworthy occupants, and had
sunk tow in the public esteem, it wM
because the emperor or emprcjB at
Constantinople and the Arian and
barbarian kings in Italy sought to
raise to it creatures of their own.
They deprived the Roman clergy, I
senate, and people of the free exa'
of their right to elect the pope; i
the pope, after his election, of his I
dom of action, if he refused to <
form to their wishes, usually crimina],
and always base. Yet Ifarpei's J^apt-
sinir lays all the blame to the popes
Ihemselws, and seems to hold than
responsible for the crimes and tyraD-
ny, the profligacy and lawless will of
which they were the victims. If M^

The Bishops of Romo.

wolf devoured the lamb, was it not
tbe lamb's &ult ?

St Gregory the Great was of a
wealthy and illustrious ^unily, and
theielbre finds some favor widi the
magazine; yet it calls him «a half-
maddened enthusiast," and accuses
him of ^ unsparing severity/' and ^ ex-
cessive cruelty " in the treatment of
Us monks before his elevation to the
p^pal chair. But his complaisance to
the usurper Phocas, which we find it
haid to excuse, and especially his
Adaiming the title of " Universal
ttshop^" redeem him in its estimation.

"A fidnt trace of modesty and humilitj
iti8 cfaaraderuBed the Roman bishop*, and
tfay expressly disclaimed any right to the
■pnenucy of the Christian world. The
piriaich of Constantinople, who seems to
kre looked with a polished contempt upon
Ui western brother, the tenant of fallen
lone and the bishop of the barbarians, now
dedued hinuelf the Universal Bishop and
tkkead of the subject Church. But Gre-
lory repelled his usurpation with vigor.
'Whoever calls himself Universal Bishop
ii Antichrist*' he exclaimed ; and he com-
fucs the patriarch to Satan, who in his
pride had aspired to be higher than the an-

John J^imator, bishop of Constan-
tinopley did not claim the primacy,
wUdi belonged to the bishop of
Xome, nor did Gregory disclaim it;
but called himsdf <' oecumenical patri-
flch." The title he assumed dero-
pted not from the rights and privi-
leges of the apostolic see, but from
of the sees of Antioch and Al-
It was unauthorized, and
riiowed culpable ambition and an en-
crosching disposition. St. Gregory,
dierefore, rebuked the bishop of Con-
rtmtinople, and alleged the example
of his predecessor, St Leo the Great,
who refused the title of " oecumenical
bUiop " when it was ofiered him by
the Fathers of Chalcedon. It is a
title never assumed or borne by a
bishop of Rome, who, in his capa-

city as bishop, is the equal, and only
the equal, of his brother bishopsi*
All bishops are equal, as St John
Chrysostom tells us. The authority
which the pope exercises over the
bishops of the Catholic Church is not
the episcopal, but the apostolical
authority which he inherits from Pe-
ter, the prince of the apostles. St
Gregory disclaimed and condemned
the title of " universal bishop,'* which
was appropriate neither to him nor
to any other bishop ; but he did not
disclaim the apostolic authority held
as the successor of Peter. He actu-
ally claimed and exercised it in the
very letter in which he rebukes the
bishop of Constantinople. The ma-
gazine is wholly mistaken in asserting
that Gregory disclaimed the papal
supremacy. He did no such thing;
he both claimed and exercised it, and
few popes have exercised it more ex-
tensively or more vigorously.

The magazine is also mistaken in
asserting that St Leo lU. crowned
Charlemagne " Emperor of the West**
Chariemagne was already hereditary
patrician of Rome, and bound by hit
office to maintain order in the city
and territories of Rome, and to de-
fend the Holy See, or the Roman
Chturch, against its enemies. All the
pope did was to raise the patrician to
the imperial dignity, without any ter-
ritorial title. Charles never assumed
or bore the title of Emperor of the
West His official title was "Rex Fran-
corum et Longobardorum Impera-^^
tor." The tide of " Emperor of the
West," or " Emperor of the Holy Ro-
man Empire," which his German suc-
cessors assumed, was never conferred
by the pope, but only acquiesced in
after it had been usurped. The pope
conferred on Chariemagne no autho-
rity out of the papal states.

We have no space to discuss the
origin of the temporal sovereignty of
the bishops of Rome» nor the ground

72r Bi$ktft pf Raau.

of diat azfoitTatonlup vhidi the popes^
doiiiig sercral ages, imqacsdoaaUf
cxcicised with legaid to the soverdgB
piinces bound by their professkn and
the constitution of their states to pio-
fess and protect the Cadiolic reh^on.
We have already done the latter in
an article on Ckitrck amd State in our
magarine for Apri!, 1867. Bat we
can tefl Harpefs Magnsime that it
entirely misapprehends the character
of Sl Gregory VII., and the natnre
and motive of the stnig^ between
him and Henry III., or Henry IV^
as some reckon, king of the Ger-
mans, for emperor he never was
Gregory was no iimovator; he intro-
duced, and attempted to introduce,
no change in the doctrine ^ disci-
pline of the church, iK>r in the rela-
tions of church and state. He only
sought to correct abuses, to restore
the ancient discipline which had,
through various causes, become re-
laxed, and to assert and maintain the
freedom and independence of the
church in the government of her own
spiritual subjects in all matters spirit-
iiaL

"His elcTition was the signal for the
most wonderful change in the character and
purposes of the church. The pope aspired
to rule mankind. He claimed an absolute
power o^-cr the conduct of kings* priests, and
nations, and he enforced his decrees by the
lerrible weapons of anathema and ezcomma-
nication. He denv^anced the marriages of
the clergy as impious, and at once there
aro«e all over Kurope a fearful struggle be-
tween the ties kA natural afiection and the
iron will of ilregory. Heretofore the secu-
lar priests ir.d bishops had married, raised
families, and lived blamelessly as husbands
or fathers, in the enio)-ment i^f marital and
6lial love. But siuUIenly ali this was chang-
ed. The mariicti priests were declared pol-
luted and i*>0]:i 4xled. aiul weie Wamied mith
ignominy and .<«hainc. \Vi\eA ineie K^m from
their tlevoied hu»l>dind*, children inere de-
claie^l lu>iAi\U, and the ixitMess nuH)k. ni
the U\e «M the fiei\^»t op|y>Mti%y). made ce<
likwi\v the lule %4 ihe chuivh. The mx'«4
paiuKd *\M\«e»pu*n*'>e» KUlo^tsl The ^t^uh*
•d w\utt9n. ihu» «lc|ita«Usl *i^d A«\m^*e\(, im«i«

driven Id siddde in their despaur.
threw themselves into the ftames ; oth*
fiDond dead in their beds, the tio-
lims of grief or of their own resolution not
to surrtve their shame, while the monkish
chranjdeis cznit orer their misfortunes, and
triumphantly consign them to eternal woe.
*Thas the clergy under Gregory's gui-
danoe became a monastic order, wholly lepa*
rated from all temporal interests, and bound
in a perfect obedience to the churdi. He next
forebade aJl lay inrestitnres or appointments
to bishoprics or other clerical offices, and
dedared hioH^ the supreme mler of tho
~iin of nariom. No ten-
coold fill the great Europe-
or daim any dominioo orer the ez-
territories held by ^">««*^«*» chnrch-
I in right of their spiritual power. It
against this daim that the Emperor of
Henry IV^ rebelled. The great
bi sb u v i i i * of his empire, Cologne, Brmen,
TVrrci.and many others, were his most im*
poctant iewdatories, and should he sufler tho
i m peri on s pope to govern them at will, his
own dominion would be reduced to a sha-
dow. And now began the fiunous contest
b tfeen Hihkhrand and Henry, b e tween ths
carpenter's son and the s o cc eiMor of C harle-
magne, btf ten the Emperor of Germany
and the Head of the Church."

I
This heart-rending picture is, to
a gneat extent, a Uxxj piece. The
celibacy of the clergy was the law of
the church and of the German em-
pire ; and evety^priest knew it before
taking ordeis. These pretended mar-
riages were, in both the ecclesiastical
cotuts and the dvil courts, no mar-
riages at all; and these despairing
wives of priests were simply concu-
bines. \\liat did Gregory do, but
his best to enforce the law which the
emp)erors had suffered to fall into
desuetude ? The right of investitiue
was alwa>*s in the pope, and it was
only by his authority that the empe-
rors had ever exercised it. The pope
had authorized them to give investi-
ture? of bisho]>s at a time of disorder^
and when it was for the good of the
chuTvh that they should be so autho-
rired. Hut when they abused the
tnist. and useil it only to fill the sees
with cit'Atures of their own, or scM

7)ir Biskaps of R^wu.

ihe JDvestitiire for money to the un-
voidiy and the pn^igate, and in-
truded them into sees, in violation
of the canons, and sheltered them
from the discipline of the church —
caosingy thus, gross corruption of
morals and manners, the neglect of
religious instruction, and dangers to
souls— it was the right and the duty
of the pontiff to revoke the authoriza-
tion given, to dismiss his unworthy
agents, and to forbid the emperors
henceforth to give investiture.

The magazine says that if the em-
peror should suffer the imperious
pope to be allowed to govern at will
Ac great bishoprics of Cologne, Bre-
men, Treves, and many others, which
vcre the most important feudatories
of his empire, his own dominion
voold be reduced to a shadow. But
if the emperor could fill them with
aettures of his own, make bishops at
his will, and depose them and seques-
ter their revenues if they resisted his
tTranny, or sell them, as he did, to
tfie hi^est bidder — ^thrusting out the
lawful occupants, and intruding men
who could have been only usurpers,
and who really were criminals in the
eye of the law, and usually dissolute
and scandalous in morals — where
would have been the rightful freedom
and independence of the church?
How could the pope have maintain-
ed order and discipline in the church,
and protected the interests of religion ?
At worst, the imperious will of the
pontiff was as legitimate and as trust-
worthy as the imperious will of such
a brutal tyrant and moral monster as
was Henry. The pope did but claim
his rights and the rights of the faith-
id people. It was no less important
that the spiritual authority should
govern in spirituals than it was that
die secular authority should govern
B temporals. The pope did not in-
terfere, nor propose to interfere, with
dw emperor in the exercise of his

authority in temporals; but he daim-
ed the right, which the emperor could
not deny, to govern in spirituals ; and
resisted the attempt of Henry to ex-
ercise any authority in the church,
which, whatever infidels and secular-
ists may pretend, is of more impor-
tance than the state, for it maintains
the state. He never pretended to
any authority in the fiefs of the em-
pire, or to subject to his will matters
not confessedly within his jurisdiction.
Does the writer in the magazine
maintain that the Methodist General
Conference would be wrong to claim
the right of choosing and appointing
its own bishops, and assigning the
pastors, elders, and preachers to their
respective circuits ; and that it could
justly be accused of seeking to domi-
nate over the state if it resisted, with
all its power, the attempt of the state
to take that matter into its own
hands, and appoint for all the Metho-
dist local conferences, districts, and
circuits, bishops and pastors, itinerant
and local preachers, and should ap-
point men of profligate lives, who
scorned the Book of Discipline^ Uni-
tarians, Universalists, rationalists, and
infidels, or the bitter enemies of Me-
thodism; those who would neglect
every spiritual duty, and seek only to
plunder the funds and churches to
provide for their own lawless ples^
sures, or to pay the bribes by which
they obtained their appointment?
We think not And yet this is only
a mild statement of what Henry did,
and of what Gregory resisted. The
pope claimed and sought to obtain
no more for the church in Germany
than is the acknowledged right of
every professedly Christian sect in
this country, and which every sect
fully enjoys, without any let or hin-
drance finom the state. Why, then,
this outcry against Qregory VH. ?
Do these men who are so bitter
against him, and gnash their teeth at

TAf Sishofs tf Rome.

him, know what they do f Have
they ever for a moment reflected how
much the modem world owes for its
freedoni and civilisation to just such
great popes as HildebraDd, who as-
serted energetically the rights of God,
the freedom of religion, and made
the royal and imperial despots and
brutal tyrants who would trample on
all laws, human and divine, feci that,
if fliey would wear their crowns, they
must study to restrain their power
within its proper limits, and to rule
justly for the common good, accord-
ing to the law of God f

What Germany thought of the con-
duct of Henry is evinced by the fact
that when Gregory struck him with
the sword of Peter and Paul, every-
body abandoned him but his deeply
injured wife and one faithful atten-
dant. The whole nation felt a sense
of relief and breathed freely. An
incubus which oppressed its breast
was thrown off. The picture of the
Bufferings of Henry traversing the
Alps in the winter and standing shi-
vering with cold in his thin garb, as
a penitent before the door of the pon-
tiff, is greatly exaggerated, and the
Attempt to excite sympathy for him
and indignation against the pontiff
can have no success with those who
have studied with some care the his-
tory of the limes. Henry was a bad
man ; a capricious, unprincipled, ty-
rannical, and brutal ruler, and his
cause was bad. The pope was in
the right; he was on the side of truth
and justice, of God and humanity,
pure morals and just liberty. Leo
the historian, a Protestant, and Voigt,
a Protestant minister, both Germans,
have each completely vindicated Gre-
gory's conduct toward Henty of
Germany, though Harper's historian
U probably .ignorant of that fact, as
he is of some others.

As to the pope's subjecting Henry
to the discipline of the church, and

dq)riving him ^ hb crown, all \
need say is, that all men arc cqud
before God and the church, and
kings and kaisers are as much araco-
able to the discipline of the church,
acknowledged by them to be Christ's
kingdom, as the meanest of thdr
subjects. The po|>e assumed no
more than the kirk session assumed
when it sent their King Charles li.
to the " cuttie stool." The revolutioB-
ists of Spain have just deprived Isa-
bella Segunda of her crown and
throne, with the general applause of
the non-Catholic world, and no pope
ever deprived a prince who denieil
his jtirisdiction, or his legal right (o sit
in judgment on his case, nor, till
aOer a fair trial had been had, and >
judicial sentence was rendered ac-
cording to the existing laws of hii
principality. We see not why, then,
the popes should be decried for doing
legally, and after trial, what revolu-
tionists are applauded for doing with-
out trial and against all law, human
and divine — unless it be because the
pope deprived only base and profli-
gate monsters, stained with the worst
of crimes ; and the revolutionist!
deprive the guiltless, who violate ns
law of the state or of the church.
The pope deprived for crime; the
revolutionists usually for virtue or
innocence, only under pretence of
ameliorating the slate, whicli they
subvert.

But our space is nearly exhausted,
and we must hurry on. Innocent
111. is another of (hose great bishops
of Rome that excite the wrath oijfar-
Ptf's Magaiine — probably because he
was really a great pope, energetic in
asserting the faith, in removing scu-
dals, in enforcing discipline on klngi
and princes as well as on their sub-
jects ; m repressing sects, like ihc
Albigcnses, that struck at the vof
foundations of religion and society,
or of the moral order ; in defending

TJi^ Bisko^ tf Rmki.

•5

ty of morals and the sanctity
iage, and in espounng the
' the weak against the strong,
essed innocence against op-

giult This is too much for
urance of the magazine. It
docs not say that Innocent

espouse the cause of justice
ise of Philip Augustus and his
^ueen, Ingeburga; but it con-
lat he did it from unworthy

for the sake of extending
sdidating the papal authority
1^ and princes. Though he
John Lackland was a moral
f and opened negotiations with
nmedan prince to the scandal
tstendom, oflfered to make

a Mussulman, and would
ilxaced Islamism if the infidel
tiad not repelled him with
ion and contempt; it yet
at Innocent was altogether
in taking effective measures
lin his tyranny, cruelty, licen-
s, and plunder of the diurches
)bery of his subjects. His
was simply to monopolize
ind profit for the papal see.
I, for like reasons, was wrong
ing Frederic II. of Germany,
\ says, prefeired Islamism to
nity, as itself probably prefers
tholicity.

article closes with a tirade
Alexander VI., and his chil-
!xsar and Lucretia Borgia.

a Protestant or rationalist,
iicated the character of Lu-
iiat accomplished, capable,
et grossly calumniated wo-
lo, in her real history, appears
been not less eminent for her
iian for her beauty and abili-
assar Borgia we have no dis-

to defend, though we have
[rounds for believing that he
no means so black as Italian
Lnd malice have painted him.
ler was originally in the army

of Spain, and his mannen and monli
were sudi as we oftener aasociale with
military men than with ecclesiastics.
He lived with a woman who was
another man's wife, and had two or
three children by her. But this was
while he was a soldier, and before he
was an ecclesiastic or thought of tak-
ing orders. He was called to Rome
for his eminent administrative ability,
by his uncle, Pope Callixtus III.;
took, in honor of hb uncle, the name
of Borgia; became an ecclesiastic;
was, after some time, made cardinal,
and finally raised to the papal throne
under the name of Alexander VI.
After he was made cardinal, if^ in-
deed, after he became an ecclesiastic,
nothing discreditable to his morals
has been proved against him; and
his moral character, during his entire
pontificate, was, according to the best
authorities, irreproachable. The Bor-
gias had, however, the damning sin
of being Spaniards, not Italians; and
of seeking to reduce the Italian
robber barons to submission and obe-
dience to law, and to govern Italy in
the interests of public order. They
had, therefore, many bitter and po-
werful enemies ; hence the aspersions
of their character, and the numerous
fables against them, and which but too
many historians have taken for au-
thenticated facts. The alleged poi-
sonings of Alexander and his daugh-
ter Lucretia are none of them proved,
and are inventions of Italian hatred
and malice^ Yet, though Alexan-
der's conduct as pope was irreproach-
able, and his administration able and
vigorous, his antecedents were such
that his election to the papal throne
was a questionable policy, and Sa-
vonarola held it to be irregular and
null.

The magazine jpdulges in the old
cant about the contrast between the
poverty and humility of Peter and
the w^th and grandeur of his sue-

Tkf Bzth^s of Rome.

cessors; the simplicity of the primi-
tive worship, and the pomp and
splendor of the Roman service.
There is no need of answering this.
When the Messrs, Hatper Brothers
started the printing business in this
city, wc presume their establishment
was in striking contrast to their pre-
sent magnificent establishment in
Clitr street. When the world was
converted to the church, and the
supreme pontifiT had to sustain rela-
tions with sovereign princes, to re-
ceive their ambassadors, and send tiis
legates tu every court in Christendom
to look after the interests of religion
— the chief interest of both society
and individuals — larger accommoda-
tions than were afforded by that
"upper room" in Jerusalem were
needed, and a more imposing estab-
Ibhment than St. Peter may have
had was a necessity of the altered
state of things. Even our Methodist
friends, we notice, find it inconve-
nient to observe the plainness and
simplicity in dress and manners pre-
scribed by John Wesley their foun-
der. He forbids, we believe, splendid
churches, with steeples and bells; and
the earliest houses for Methodist
meetings, even we remember, were
very different ftom the elegant siruc-
tures they are now eteciing. We heatd
a waggish minister say of one of them,
"Call you this the Lord's house?
you should rather call it the Lord's

I'he Catholic Church continues
and fiilfils the synagogue, and her
service is, to a great extent, modelled
after the Jewish, which was prescrib-
ed by God himself. The dress of
the pontiff, when he celebrates the
Holy Sacrifice, is less gorgeous than
that of the Jewish high-priest. Sl
Peter's is larger tjian was Solomon's
temple, but it is not more gorgeous;
and the Catholic service, except in
the infinite superiori^ of the victim

immolated upon the aJtar,!
more splendid, grand, or t|
than was the divinely p4
temple service of the Hebrenj
magazine appears to think 4
das Iscariot, that the costly q
with which a woman that haf|
sinner anointed the feet of Je4
she had washed them with hi
and wiped them with her hj
a great waste, and might ha4
put to a better use. But oq
did not think so, and Judas^
did not become the prince-
apostles. We owe all we \
God, and it is but fitting I
should employ the best wc j
his service. i

Here we must dose. W
not replied to all the misstal
misrepresentations, perveisiol
insinuatiotis of the article in ^
Magaiine. We could not d
a brief article tike the preac
would require volumes to do |
have touched only on & feiM
points that struck us in glandj
it ; but we have said enough 1
its animus and to expose its \
worthiness. Refuted it we hd
for there really is nothing in it t|
It lays down no principles, al|
premises, draws no conclusid
leaves all that to l>e supplied!
ignorance and prejudices of I
ers. It is a mere series of st4
that require no answer but
denial. It is not strange 4
magazine should calumnist
popes, and seek to pervert tU
tory. Our Lord built his dn
Peter, being himself the chief |
stone; and nothing is morel
than that they who hate the
should strike their heads agail
papacy. The popes have '
been the chief object of attai
have had to bear the brunt-
battle. Yet they have labcm
fercd, been persecuted, imp*

March Onuns. g^

xiled, and martyred for the salva- justice, and hated iniquity ; therefore

tion of mankind What depth of I die in exile.'' Alas! the world

meaning in the dying words of the knows nOt its benefactors, and cruci-

exiled Gregory VII., " I have loved fies its redeemers !

MARCH OMENS.*

On ivied stems and leafless sprays

The sunshine lies in dream :
Scarcely yon mirrored willow sways

Within the watery gleam.

In woods far off" the dove is heard,
And streams that feed the lake :

All else is hushed save one small bird,
That twitters in the brake.

Yet something works through earth and air,

A sound less heard than felt,
Whispering of Nature's procreant care,

While the last snow-flakes melt.

The year anon her rose will don ;

But to-day this trance is best —
This weaving of fibre and knitting of bone

In Earth's maternal breast.

•IroB Iridk Odtt amd ^tker PMms^ by Aubrey De Vere, just iasoed by the Catholic Publication Sodely.
VOL. IX. —

Emily Linder,

TRANSLATSD FXOM THS GBKMAN BY KICHAKD STOXXS WILLU.

EMILY LINDER.

A LIFE-PORTRAIT.

The circle of those who were wit-
ness to the blossom-period of the city
of Munich, that glorious epoch of
twenty or thirty years which dawned
upon the Bavarian capital when
Louis I. ascended the tljirone, is
gradually narrowing, and every year
contracts it still further. The name
of her to whom this sketch is dedica-
ted belonged to this circle, and is
closely associated \Hth the best of
those who aided in inaugurating this
brilliant epoch, and rendering Munich
a hearthstone of culture which at-
tracted the gaze of the educated
world. Sunny period of old Munich I
They of that time speak of it with
the same enthusiasm as of their own
youth. Yet to a futiu-e generation
will their testimony sound like some
beautiful tradition.

To not a few, the name of Miss
Emily Linder appeared for the first
time, as the intelligence of her death
passed through the public journals of
February, 1857. Yet was her life no
ordinary one ; and though it never
tended to publicity, she accomplished
more in her great seclusion than
many a noisy and feted celebrity.
Hers was a quiet and unassuming
nature; she belonged to those who
speak little and accomplish much. It
is therefore befitting, now that she
has gone to her home, here to speak
of her. Not so much to praise her,
for she shrank from all earthly praise ;
but to keep her memory fresh among
her friends and to present to a selfish,
distracted age, poor in faith, the ani-
mating example of a pure, faith-in-

spired, and symmetrical character-
life full of fidelity, imsdfishness, and
enthusiasm.

Swiss by birth and unchangeably^
devoted to her circumscribed home,
Emily Linder little dreamed, proba-
bly, when in early life she wandered
to Munich, that she would yet close
a long life there. But over this life,
swiftly as it glided along, there
watched a special, directing Provi-
dence ; and no one could more cheer-
fully have recognized this Providence
than did she. What originally at-
tracted her to Munich was Art : she
probably contemplated, at first, only
a brief and transient visit there ; but
the metropolis of German art became
a second home to her--even more
than this.

Emily Linder belonged to a
wealthy mercantile family of Basle,
and was bom at that place on the
I ith of October, 1797. She received
a careful religious education, (in the
reformed faith of her parents,) and
that varied instruction which rendered
her unusually wakeful mind suscep-
tible to topics of deeper import She
seemed to have inherited firom her
grandfather, who was a lover and
collector of artistic objects, a fondness
for fine art. Following this predilec*
tion, the gifled girl decided to seize
the pallet and devote hersdf to
painting as an occupation. Sudi was
her entirely independent position as
to fortune, that nothing but inwaid
enthusiasm could have led her to diis
step, or have confined her from
thenceforth to the easel.

Emily Under.

home of Holbein's genius of-
ler at first, doubtless, inspiration
1. But a new star had arisen
man art, and the youthful Swiss
•awn powerfully by its leading
rem home — to Munich. The
t city on the verdant Iser began
t period to prove the goal of
lage to every ambitious disciple
Miss Linder also heard of
^ instead of going to Dresden,
had intended, she turned for
ther improvement to Munich.
T arrival in this city she had
d to an age of twenty-seven
but her devotion to her chosen
ion was so earnest, that she en-
IS a simple pupil the Academy
I Arts. In the catalogue of the
Qy, Emily Linder is inscribed as
:2d painter, on the 4th of No-
r, 1824. But she fi^quented
idios only a few weeks. At that
it was customary to accept
as pupils; but she soon per-
that the position was hardly a
ing one, surrounded by so
young people of various char-
and all beginners like herself,
erefore had recourse to Profes-
ilotthauer for private instruction,
the guidance of this excellent
, " a veritable house-father in
inter's academy," as Brentano
teristically termed him, she
d her studies in good earnest,
ccording to the representation
teacher, made rapid progress in
'crer style of drawing, in which
d hitherto been less practised
n painting. She soon per-
herself to such an extent that
s enabled to complete her own
sitions, and thus derived double
tion fi-om her profession.
Tis indeed a pleasure in those
a)mp>eting with so many en-
tic young artists and with the
appearing works in constant
o labor and strive onward with

the rest. This was the time, too,
when Cornelius assumed the director-
ship of the Munich Academy and in-
augurated, in grand style, the new
era of German art. A wondrous life
dawned upon Munich art at that
period. Cornelius himself, in his old
age, recalled with emotion and en-
thusiasm this youthful period of new
German art. At Rome, thirty years
later, on the occasion of the Louis
festival of German artists, 20th May
1855, while he was delivering an ad-
dress so celebrated for its many
piquant flashes, he thus painted the
joyous industry of those days :

"But when King Louis ascended the
throne of his Others, then began the sport
Zounds 1 what moulding, building, drawing,
and painting !.. With what eagerness, with
what hilarity each went to his work I But
it was an earnest hilarity : . .nor was Munich
at that time a mere hot-house of art. The
warmth was a healthy and vital one, bom of
the flaming fire of inspiration, the evidence
of which every work, whatever its defects,
bore upon its very face. Those men who
worked together in brotherly unity knew
that there confronted them the art tribu-
nal of posterity and of the German nation.
It concerned them, now, that German genius
should open a new pathway in art, as it had
already so gloriously done in poetry, in mu-
sic, in science."

In this glorious time of youthful
aspiration, bold conception, and joyful
industry. Miss Linder began her artis-
tic career in Munich. Is it a wonder
then that the city pleased her daily
better, and imperceptibly gained a
home-like power over her ? Nor had
she, by any means, a lack of intellec-
tual incitement Her independent
position and rare culture secured to
her the most agreeable social posi-
tion. In the family of Herr von
Ringseis, to which she had brought
an introduction from Basle, and where
gathered the nobility of the entire
fatheriand, she came into contact
with the most eminent artists and

JOO

scholars. Chief among these was
Comdius, who welcomed her to his
family circle. The old master of
Cernian art remained a life-long
friend of hers and warmly attached to
her. Among her more intimate com-
panions, she numbered also the two
Eberhards, Heinrich Hess, Franz von
Baader. Somewhat later, by the
transfer of the university to Munich,
were added to these Schubert, Gotres,
Schclling, Lasaulx. Also the two
Boiserce, who in the autumn of 1827
came to Munich with their art collec-
tion, which had been purchased by
King I.ouis, were soon numbered
among her nearer acquaintances.

Amid 80 choice a circle there unfold-
ed itself for the young artist a spirit-
ual and intense life, to which she aban-
doned herself with all the joyous sim-
plicity and freshness of an artistic na-
ture ; a nature which was susceptible
also to the beaudfiil and the grand in
other things — in poetry, in music, and
in science. The quiet, friendly lady-
artist became everywhere a favorite.

Rut, amid all these manifold occu-
pations, there was ever a certain ear-
nestness, a striving out of the temporal
into the eternal Even art was not to
her a mere amusement. Genuine art
possesses an ennobling power, and she
experienced what Michael An gel o
once said to his friend Vitloria Colon-
na, " True painting is naturally relig-
ious and noble ; for even the struggle
'oward perfection elevates the soul to
devotion, draws it near to God and
imites it with him." Attracted by the
pure and lofty in art. Miss Linder gave
preference to religious painting, a taste
whicli was encouraged by her sterling
master: and it caused her, though a
Protestant, special gratification, while
ever seeking the best studies, to paint
orcopy, whenever she could, devotion-
al church pictures.

In order to become acquainted,
through actual observation, with the

Emily Linder.

principal works of Christian art, f
determined on a joumej to Italy.
Her first visit she decided to confiiie
to the cities of upper Italy, and In
company with Professor Schlotthauei
and his wife, this plan was carried out
during the summer and autumn 01
1815. Milan, Verona, Padua, Venice,
Bologna, were visited, and, led by the
hand of her intelligent roaster, they all
passed under her examination. The
goal of her travel was to be Floi
But the long-continued, fine »
weather attracted the travellers fiirt
and further, and at length they c
to Perugia, the middle point of the
Umbrian school, and thence to die
neighboring, picturesque-lying AssisL
At this place a little circumstance €>c-
curred which became of deep signifi-
cance in the after life of the artist.

The vetturino, familiar with the land
and the people, called the attention
of the travellers to the fact that in As-
sisi there was a monastery of German
Franciscan nuns. A colony of pooi
German women in the middle of Ital-
ian lands I That was enough to de-
cide the party to visit the monastery
and greet their pious countrywomen
in the language of home. But they
found the sisterhood in evident dis-
tress. As they stood before the lattice^
the history of the monastery was brief-
ly related to them by the superior. It
owed its origin to the patrician b
Nocker of Munich, and accordingji
the terms of its establishment wasf
tended only for Germaiis, and B
particularly for Bavarian m
der Napoleon Lit wassuspended,!
the nuns were cared for in ptii^
dwellings, where, hoping for betti
times, they still continued, as well as
they could, the practice of their voca-
tion. These better times came. After
the fall of the Napoleonic djnasty, the
purchasers of the monastery consent-
ed to relinquish it, and the poor Fran-
ciscans could at least reoccupy the

Emily Linder,

lOt

ig. But it went so hard with
that they were sometimes
i to ring the distress-bell, and
aiber of inmates diminished. At
ne of the arrival of our three
ers, they numbered but twelve,
n-ease of numbers under such
(Stances was hardly to be hoped
id the existence of the monas-
aned again endangered. Mu-
abolishment was threatened,
le unavoidable prospect to the
f being distributed among the
5 Italian monasteries. Now to
in themselves as a German or-
s everything to these Francis-
and thus the superior represent-
) her travelling country-people,
I simple-heartedness, closing her
on with the entreaty that, on
turn to Munich, they would not
the litde German monastery in
but care for it as they might be
id cause younger sisters to come
1 fix)m Bavaria, in order to save
iblishmentfrom utter extinction,
three travellers took their leave
ith sympathy, and promising to
I mind the petition of the supe-
They commenced their home-
avel from Assisi, passed through
and reached Munich again in
iber. Miss Linder vigorously
nenced her artistic occupations,
irith animation at her new ex-
res. But during the i^inter eve-
he Italian trip often formed the
f conversation in the Schlott-
amily, and generally closed with
stion. How shall we manage to
e the number of candidates in
»nastery at Assisi ? But at that
tfiis was not so easy. The sec-
irit had spread itself broadly in
n lands : the current of fresh,
ic life flowed mostly in hidden
;. But with surprise they soon
1 of its continued activity.
jji one of those invisible chan-
hach Providence avails itself of,

in its own good yua^g^m. every-day
life termed accident-U^j^'cry for help
of the superior at Assisi'penetydted to
to a village where pious hearts ^.wcrfe
prepared for it. One day th^}dq^c^,
a letter for Professor Schlotthauer fip^ '"
Landshut, addressed to him by an urf-.
known maiden of the humbler class
named Therese Frish, stating that she
had heard of the monastery at Assisi,
and the request of the superior: in
Landshut was a goodly number of
young girls who had long cherished
the desire in their hearts for convent
life, and only waited for an opportu-
nity to realize their wishes : several of
them, some possessed of means, were
ready at any moment to leave for As-
sisi. This was welcome intelligence,
and the friends of the superior in Mu-
nich were not backward in performing
their part. Thus in the spring they had
the happiness of seeing a little band of
candidates departing for Assisi. The
monastery was rescued, and commen-
ced from that time, through the ever-
increasing sympathy in Germany, a
new and beneficent career. From
year to year, assisted by the people
ofMunich, there wandered true-heart-
ed though indigent maidens to this
quiet asylum of piety, to reach which,
as Brentano wrote twelve years later,
(1838,) was the dearest wish of these
pious children.

Her art trip had thus recompensed
the maiden of Basle in a manner lit-
tle dreamed of or counted on. The im-
pression which this peculiar experience
made upon her susceptible nature
could not well be a transient one. The
little monastery at Assisi — what could
be more natural? — from thenceforth
lay very closely to her heart, and its
memories became most dear to her.
The personality of the superior her-
self, her simple worth and naturalness,
gratefully appealed to her ; and several
years later, on making her second Ital-
ian trip, she gladly revisited Assisi. A

Emify Under.

friendly relation^ resulted, which, fos-
tered by a regiiisr correspondence, be-
came more tnttmate every year. She
now. began to understand the true
iji^asipig' of a voluntary Christian
•'rito^»"t>' '■ ^^ contemplation of which
■-.must naturally make a profound im-
■,' ijrcssion upon a nature like here.
She had frequent occasion, by active
assistance, to prove herself a warm
friend of the monastery. Particular-
Jy at the timeof the great earthquake,
(iSji,) when this monastery of women
was in great want and distress, she
stood by the nuns most generously.
Ever after, indeed, she remained a.
constant benefactress of the German
daughters of the holy St. Francis; and
there, in the birth-place of the saint,
was she most assiduously prayed for.
In Assisi lay the earliest germ of her
quietly-ripening, late-maluring convcr-

I In the year 1818, Miss Linder re-
F turned to her native city, Basle, in or-
der to prepare for a more lengthened
visit to Rome. Like every genuine
artist-heart, a ]Xiwerfu] influence at-
tracted her to the ancient capital of
art, to the eternal city. On her jour-
ney thither, she touched at Assisi,
having the happiness to escort to the
monasteiy of the Franciscans a new
candidate from Munich and to find the
nuns there in happiest tranquillity,
Cornelius and Schloithauer reported
the same of them, when they passed
through, a year and a half later. They
received permission from the bishop lo
hold an interview with the Gcnnan sis-
ters in tlie claustral. The innocent joy-
ousness and deep peace of the German
nuns was very touching to them. The
bishop gave the t»o artists the best
testimony of them in his assurance
that he constantly presented these
pious Germans to their Italian sisters
OS an example for imitation.

Accompajiicd with the nuns' bless-
iDg Miss Linder hastened toward the

a frien d-
y w»^H
lerst^^H
Genfl^H
h eqt^^"

eternal city, where a new
opened itself to her. Bright, bliss-
ful days did she pass in Rome, and so
well did it please her, that she re-
mained there nearly three years. Here
again her associates were the brightest
spirits of the German art circle, and
their similarity of aim induced a friend-
ly geniality which in many '
enhanced the pleasure of her si
Scholars and artists of the Ger
colony sought her society with eqtd
delight. Here she met Overbeck —
that SL John among the artists — whose
friendship to her and to her subse-
quent life was of such significance.
Neher and Eberle received from her
commissions. With the painter Ahl-
bom she read Dante, The vcner
Koch was charmed with the s
of the genial Swiss, and passed m^
a winter's evening with her,
Tliorwaldsen, Bunsen, and Platen w
among her intimate acquaintance I
Italy.

From Rome Miss Linder madel
trip to Naples and Sorrento. Witlji
party of Germans, among whom *
Platen, she passed there the si
1830. The wondrous poetry of the
landscape and skies of Sorrento im-
pressed wiih their fullest power the
sensitive soul of the artist. All three
arts, poetry, music, and painting, were
brought into requisition to give ade-
quate expression to her enchantmCT
and delight. She became herself^
poetess under the influenceof all the(
glories, and described lo her frien^
who remained behind at Rome, i "
veritable southern warmth of col 01
her " captivating paradise."
Rome she listened with the ven
of an intelligent musician to the i
cient classic music of the Sistine d
pel, so at the Bay of Naples
stowed her attention upon the p
lar Italian ballads. Theirs was a geid
company,and theysangmuch togetb
of their songs and melodies she \axL

Emily Linder.

103

a collection, and took home with her.
Platen, in his subsequent letters, re-
minded her of those days, and, writing
from Venice, requested of her the
music of " triads and octaves," which
they had sung together in Sorrento.

On her retiun to Rome, late in the
autumn of the same year, she found
Cornelius and his family there, and
the friendly relations which subsisted in
Munich were warmly renewed. The
presence of the honored master creat-
ed, in the Roman art world, an ani-
mated and exhilarating activity, and
the rest of her stay was thus enlivened
in the most agreeable manner. The
following year, in company with Corne-
lius, she started for home. It was
hard parting, as finally, in July, 1831,
with a wealth of beautiful and deep
impressions, she bade farewell to the
Hesperian land which had become so
dear to her, to return to Basle ; and we
must not censure the artist that she
foand it difficult, as her letters indicate,
to forget the blue skies of Italy and
accustom herself again to the gray
hues of the German heaven. The
sharpness of the contrast gradually
softened, however, and the old home
Ming asserted itselfl But the life in
Rome remained a bright spot in her
memory, and even in later years, when
the conversation turned upon it, the
habitually quiet lady became warm and
ammated.

In Rome, on the other hand, the
artists were equally loth to part with
the aesthetic Swiss. The venerable
Koch sent her word, through the
the painter Eberle, how much he re-
gretted that he could no longer pass
1« winter evenings with her. Over-
beck and others held with her an
animated correspondence. But she
remained in hallowed remembrance
wkh the German art-colony, firom the
aaistaoce she rendered to youthful
talent, and her encoiuragement by
actual commisacHis. The historical

painter Adam Eberle, particularly,
a pupil of Cornelius, friend and
countryman of Lasaulx — a highly
gifled and lofty mind, but struggling
in the deepest poverty — to him she
proved a generous benefactress ; and
we can truly say, that through her
goodness his last days — he died at
Rome, 1832 — were Ulumined with a
final gleam of sunshine. The letters
which she received from the youthful
departed, partiy during her stay in
Rome, partly after her departure,
give ample testimony of this, and in-
dicate the manner, generally, of her
benevolence in such cases. Immedi-
ately on their first meeting in Rome,
and learning of his condition, she gave
him a commission for an oil painting ;
with deep emotion he thanked the
friendly lady " for the confidence she
had thus reposed in a nameless
painter." Subsequentiy she purchas-
ed also several drawings of Eberle,
each, like the oil painting, of a reh-
gious nature ; among others, one that
she particularly prized, and afterward
caused to be engraved, "Peter and
Paul journeying to the Occident."

On forwarding this drawing to
Basle, together with another, the sub-
ject of which was taken from the Old
Testament, "as the product of his
muse since her departure," Eberle thus
writes:

" What chiefly attracts me to these Bible
subjects is the healthy and unaffected lan-
guage, which I endeavor to translate into
my art Regard this work of mine as a
study which is necessary for my taste.
That which is lacking in it, I know full well,
without the power of supplying it Accept
it, therefore, as it is. Altogether had it is
not At a very sad period was it under-
taken, and many a tear has fallen upon it,
which, like a vein of noble metal, seven
times purified in its earthen crucible, glis-
tens through it. I have, indeed, some assu*
ranee that I have not fruitlessly worked, in
Overbcck's judgment upon it, whom you
saw at Bunsen's : and this not a little cheers
me."

104

Emify Linder.

Her generous watchfulness wearied
not in rescuing him, at the times of
his greatest need, and Eberle, with
overflowing gratitude, testified to
these constant proofs of her goodness,
and, even more, to the great delicacy
and the kindly words which accompa-
!)ied every act.

Her personal intercourse at Rome
seemed also to have exerted a fiivora-
blc influence upon his religious senti-
ments. The taste for mystical writings
which, encouraged by Baader, she was
cultivating at that period, grew also
u]H)n him ; and when, shordy after
her departure, Lasaulx came to Rome,
Kberle was very happy that he could
continue with him this favorite and
elevating study. He writes to her at
Ikislo on the 25th of September, 1831 :

** An old friend of my youth and country-
man of mine, C. l^asaulx, is now my almost
exclusive ivmiunivm : he will probably re-
main the winter here and share my dwell-
ing with me. He is, as >*ou know, a zeal-
ous disciple of Schelling, is deeply versed
in the new phiUvk^phy, and* what to me is
of still more value, in the mvstidsm of the
midvlle j^es. I rejvMce to have gained in
him s^nnc cvympensation for the loss of your
•iviety ; x^et 1 cannot share the expectations
which he Uises ujvn the new phiK>sophy.
AlthvHi^h my acquaintance with him has
dixe^LtevI me 1^' many a former prejuilice. I
fiuv*. m\^wV^ ne\Trthele«fc attracte\l only the
m^^n^ tv> the *one thing needful.* assured
tSa: v^r.'v at the fountain v^* livin^: waters*
Icsu* OhtiM. can iHir thirst be ^iuencheU."

He jtdos, ho>fc"c\*«r, tvaceming hs

" I aM.:'\ \a* nevertVele** a very ssSKaa-
til* 0>'"i»: i« Njtt^ atk! if ever V,» AV-orr^
#r-N^ ^^'N* '.rt hiT^t with >.» JtlV:^^. aTxI
V« •»'•: ^^- m»:N. K*« A'wtevrj^ m^ naav cfr»
tA-.'N cvjxvt *k\-*e;\;:!^ >if:x sser»^ tv*at

again the sheltering wing of his ma^^
ter, Cornelius, in Munich, there t ^
close his art-wanderings. Thus h ^
himself wrote in a letter of the 7th c^
March, 1832. But a month later h^e
was no more. He succumbed to :^k
disease of the stomach. Shortly be-
fore his death. Miss Linder had
cheered the invalid by a remittance-
On the 24th of April, 1832, Lasaubc
thus wrote from Rome :

*' Our friend Adam Eberle, at five o'dodc
in the afternoon of the 15th of April, after
a hard death-struggle, recovered firom the
malady of this life. Good- Friday momiog
we bore him home. Three days before hit
death he had the great joy of reoeiring
your last letter, and that which your love
enclosed with it. He was one of the few
whose souls are washed in the blood of the
Lamb, offered from the beginning of the
world. The Lamentations and the Miserere
of the divine old masters Palestrini and
Allegri, which you b^ged our fnend to
listen to for you, I have listened to for both
of you."

Munich had now so grown upon
the affections of the artiste that she
again remo\-ed thither from Bask in
1832. After her life in Rome, a resi-
dence in the German ait-metropolis
cotild not but be a necessity to her,
and the Ba\-arian capital was thence-
iorth her home. Her hoiBe became
more and more the peaceful abode of
the fine aits^ Her fortime enabled her,
by a succession of commissions, grad-
ujuly to collect a wealth of pictures
and lirawin^ in which the Cory-
pheans of Chnsdan ait were re-
piexnted. Among diese O i ci betJL
took the KxvoKist pbcc; vitfa a seiies
of $ubfects frvcn the Ewigdisls, the
ohox->»( of itnwings^ which dmii^ a
T<nkxi o< th^ 5«ais fendvuDT cune
i^.^^ Ser iv>s$esK«. Abeiatifiil ofl

i^"r.rr.c bv i>ns5^^eck. vhkh die e»-

^. K^^-^..^ w-js: xbo fwdaocd at dns
r.rr^e. jl=: dio x^^i iSeSkBCttMi of the
KVi:>. c< Ae «c Froa Condhis

Emify Linder.

105

s in the Louis-church, (" The
m,") in which this mighty intel-
as worthily represented. In
inner an altar-piece by Conrad
urd, one of the most thoughtful
sitions of this admirable master,
ended originally for one of the
lurch edifices of King Louis,
5 place among the gems of this
— just as the venerable master
r, in all his purity of soul and
simplicity, took his place high
friendship of the hostess.
t to painting, the two sister arts,
and music, were specially cul-
i in the home of the artist She
dear perception of the true and
d in poetry, and kept pace, even

age, with the literary pioduc-
f the new era. Her own poet-
ions were confined to the eye of
N:e intimate friends; but there
ome poems upon which Bren-
imself placed high value. Her
was a choice one, and her kno w-
f languages kept her acquainted
e best productions of the mod-
Itivated nations. Her aesthetic
*ntific acquirements became her
asmuch as the cultivation of the
md of the heart with her kept
ace.

Linder applied herself to music
tamest. She not only practised

instruments — the seolodicon
up were always seen in her
5-room — but she had herself
ed by Ett in thorou^-bass and
tory of music. She followed
ructions in harmony with prac-
ercises. In musical history it
e religious department again
nost appealed to her : her re-
s went back to the earliest times,
irelopment of the true church
nd for the unfolding of this
she had found in Ett the right
Moreover, she stood in friendly
gc of views with Proske of
Imrgy a profound student of

ancient church music Sometimes mu-
sical gatherings were held, to which Ett
brought singing-boys from the choir
of St. Michael's Church : ancient religi-
ous cantatas, the compositions of Or-
lando di La^, Handel, Abb^ Vogler's
hymns, and the like, were performed.
Conrad Eberhard, an enthusiastic ad-
mirer of music and of the master Ett,
who with Schlotthauer regularly at-
tended the historical lectures on mustc,
in his ninetieth year spoke with loving
recollection of these ennobling eve-
nings at Miss Linder's.

By this varied and earnest devotion
to art, as well as artistic and scientific
enterprises, to which she constantly
brought willing and generous ofifer-
ings, her life began to assume more
and more an ideaf significance, and to
gain that expansiveness of horizon and
completeness which seemed for her a
position in society as peculiar as it was
agreeable. If we would ask what it
was that identified this quiet spirit
with so distinguished a circle and
made her house a rendezvous for
scholars and artists, in which the most
brilliant and the most profound so
gladly met, the explanation would be
just this — it was the awakened intel-
ligence which she brought to all intel-
lectual topics, the simple-hearted aban-
donment to the views of great minds,
the readiness with which she recog-
nized and admired the true and the
beautiful in all things. It was equally
the unselfish, tmcalculating enthusi-
asm, and the perfect purity of soul,
which compelled the respect of all.
An unvarying geniality blended with
a quiet earnestness; a dear intelli-
gence with a golden goodness; a pro-
found view of life in all its phases,
from the very heights of a sunny ex-
istence — herein resided the gentle
attractiveness with which she drew to
herself the sympathies of the noblest
souls and held them fast

A character of such a type is best

io6

Emily Under.

reflected in its friends. Her life for the
most part flowed on so quietly and
evenly that it rose clearly to the view
of only those who were nearest to her.
It seems, therefore, befitting that from
among her many friends we should
select a few who, like her, are now at
rest, and mention some of their sa-
lient characteristics.

I'he foremost place is due to the
j)ainter-prince of the new art-epoch
himself, Cornelius — who was a friend
from her very youth, and only a few
months after her, even in these latter
days, closed his earthly pilgrimage.
The fame of the man and die sense of
his loss, still so freshly felt, will justify
us in dwelling somewhat more at length
on him and his letters. It was, in-
deed, the opinion of Emily Linder,
toward the close of her Hfe, that the
letters which she had received from
Cornelius might some day be of use
in his biography.

At the time Miss Linder started
from Munich upon her journey to
Switzerland and Italy, her relations
with the familv of the celebrated
[vainter had already become so inti-
mate, that it was continued in cor-
respondence. Ordinarily it was an
Italian-Gorman or double letter, fit>m
Carolina and Peter Cornelius, which
grceteii her; they lx>th recall, with
friendly wannth, her residence in
Munich, and the message, " We miss
you :*' was rejxMtedly wafted after her
as she remaincii longer away. Frau
Carolina Cornelius evincevi for her
a ver>- tender attachment. The ge-
ni.d master himself honorevi her with
confiden^xs frv^m lime to time, as to
his anistic ]>lans and undertakings,
ranicularly was this the cxse when
he was cc^mmissionevl to [prepare
designs for the l.ouis- church vtx Mu-
nich, whereby he saw the early reali-
zation of a Ion i -cherished and fiivor-
ite idea ot his : when the histor>' ot
mankind in grand oudine. the crea<

tion, the redemption, the sending of
the Holy Ghost to the f hiurch, the
last judgment, presented itself to his
mind. Then he felt impelled to open
his heart to his absent friend, and
the postscript, which he appended
to a letter of his wife, rises into a
veritable dithyrambic He writes on
the 2oth of January, 1829:

" I cannot better close this letter than bj
communicating a thing which transports
me and in which you, my dear friend, win
sympathize. Fancy my good fortune!
After completing the GlyptoUuk^ I am to
paint a church. It is now sixteen years
that I have been going about with the idea
of a Christian epic in pauiting — a painted
comcedia divina — and I have had hours, and
longer periods, when it seemed I had i
special mission for this. And now my
heavenly love comes like a bride in all her
beauty to meet me — what mortal after this
can I envy? The universe opens itself
before my eyes: I see heaven, earth, and
hell ; I see the past, the present, and the
future ; I stand on Sinai and gaze upon
the new Jerusalem; I am inebriated and
yet composed. All my friends must pray
for me, and you, my dear Emily. With
brotheriy love greets you CoucEUUS."

The artistic heroism of this soul»-
thts man whose ideas grasped the
worid — breathes in these lines with
certainly wonderful freshness. In
other letters of this happy period his
natural himior gains the ascendant,
and he indulges in sallies of mirth,
afterward begging her indulgence
and a friendlv remembrance of ^ the
crazy painter Peter Cornelius." Her
replies were in a simpler and graver
tone, but full of that refreshing inde-
pendence, which appeared to a nature
hke his more than aught dse. She
allowed his geniality tiiU play withoat
corapK>mising her sincerity, or her
dignity. He is thus both ^charmed
and eilitievi " by her letters, and once
made the remark of theoau "* All that
yv^ur [Hfrsooality led me to Cincy of
the Ivautidul and the good finds more
jurtlc^ss^ laoce K>ivibie and vivid ex-

Emify LimltK

««r

n your letters. It becomes
mmonly well, whenever you
It youiself."

; year 1831 the cholera
i, for a time, to visit Mu-
le preparations of the sani-
drities to meet this uncom-
guest were already com-
tfiss Linder was in Basle,
thence a friendly invitation
ius and his ^unily to take
her domestic hearth. The
response of the master,
inich, isth of November
s follows :

iendly suggestion from the shelter
Mtable hearth to laugh at the cho-

the same opportunity, perhaps,
» a Decameron^ corresponding
. an indescribable attraction for
hould have acted upon it had I
raid to be afraid. From sheer
at the possible death of my
ust stand the cartridges of the
•>om the spot where my king
y admirable and honorable men

ground, must Cornelius never
You yt'xW take in good part the
of this letter from your £uiciful
le craves of you an indulgenxa
ile he ends with the bold decla-
he indescribably loves and hon-
P. v. Cornelius."

period an idea seized Cor-
ich long occupied his atten-
;1y, to record the notewor-
mts of his own eventful
a plan which certainly
re enriched literature by at
original work and have
inestimable value to the
modem art. Unfortunate-
in was never carried out;
►rds a proof of his high es-
his friend that Cornelius
he memoirs to be written in
a letters addressed to her,
lear from the two following
hey are written under the
of the same exuberant
rhich th^ grand conception

of his '* Christian epic " had idaced
him:

" Munich, February 12, 1832.

" Very Dear Friend : This is not meant
as an answer to the welcome and beautiful
letter which you sent me through H. Hau-
ser; it is only a slight expression of my
gratitude and my great delight at the kind-
liness and the loyal friendship which your
dear letter breathes for me, unworthy. I
have lately been asking myself why this
letter-writing, which, as you and all the
world knows, is a horror to me, since my
correspondence with you has set me back
into that happy period when one can write
an entire library and yet not be satisfied.
Had I more leisure, I would carry out an
old project to write the histpry of my life
in letter-form, after the manner of many
French memoirs, and addressed to you.
Although for the present this is not to be
thought of, I by no means abandon* the
plan.

^ Heroes and artists— in the most liberal
way of viewing it — ^have their truest and
dearest appreciation in the pure souls of
women. Only Hebe might serve the nectar
to Alcides ; only Beatrice conducts the singer
into Paradise ; Tasso^s delirium is a vague
searching in a labyrinth where Ariadne's
thread is broken; Michael Angelo would have
been as great a painter as was Dante a poet
had Beatrice opened heaven to him \ Kapha-
ePs thousand-feathered Psyche bore a ma-
terial maiden into the realm of the stars ; her
human blood enkindled his and slew him.
When I write my memoirs, you will see how
it has gone with me in this respect In the
mean time I allow you a peep through the
keyhole of my private drawer— it is a popr
poem of my youth, which as penance you
must read, because you mockingly called me
a poet ♦

" I know not why I send these poor stanzas
to you ; it appears to me as though you exer*
cised some charm over the spirits of my life,
who must perforce appear before you. Per-
haps one of these days this letter might serve
for a dedication to the book in .question, be-
cause, like an overture, it contains in itself
the leading motive. Now ferewell, and take
no offence at this gay carnival-arabesque.
The ladies of my family heartily greet you :
we have good news from Rome. Heaven*

• It is trnly a very youthfbl poem, addrMied ** To tlM
Muse," connncndnt :

••CoiMed have I alone
lBUie%OIC«te,"«ic-

Emily Linger.

bltss you youcl«>fe you chMrfulness and 0,ese periods of creative axA

bins, and bring you joon to us, MeaiHim- j ■■ ■ , , h.i; i«»

h„.,v.,..rt..L,n,„d.ta„jMrg^ wedding time? I, sevnj J

■ ' - ■ nowever, we discern both sida

lit devoled fticnd,

"P. CORNEI-IUS.'"

Four months later, he reverts to the
same subject, on the occasion of send-
ing to her, while at Basle, a sketch of
his latest composition for the walls of
the Louis-church, ( " The Epiphany,")
accompanying which he writes :

" Munich, June at, 1832.
" Herewith you find a liltlBskeleh ofadraw-
ing just completed for a large cartoon, (the
corresponding^iece to the Crucifixion,) and
instead of interpreting it to you, I beg your
own interpretation of it ; it would have such
acharmfor me to read in your mind my own
conctptionsennobled andbeautifie4 What
coquetry I I hear you laughingly say; and
yet I hope to be pardoned. If it l>c true
that arliiu haye many frelings in common
with women, those which prompt us to try
10 please Ihoae we love should meet with
some indulgence.

'•I occupy myielfoften, on my lonely walks.
with the plan of my intended memoirs ; the
material begins lo assume shape ; but un-
less you apply lo it the finishing touch, it
will not be presentable. I never could bring
myself to entrust it to other hands. In the
retrospect of my life 1 find the material
more abundant than I had supposed. Very
difficult will be the shaping of much of it.
How easily does many a tie and relation in
this liCelose its tme coloring and signilicance
by omissions ; and yet must these very
ofien occur, if the work is lo appear during
my lifetime. Before beginning to write, I shall
communicate to you, orally, dearest friend,
some portions of the mcmoin, and we can
then discuss them at leUure-ji welcome
pUn to me. ftw thus will the underuking
aulrripen. With Inmost respect and love,
rw devoted

" PUM vo.\ CoksKLn,-s."

Finally, it may be allowable to make
jnention of a letter which he addresses
to her from Rome, on the 11th of Oc-
tol>«r. 1833, while he was worldng on
his drawing ofthe Last Judgment. Id
this letter we recogni« his playful
working humor— and does he not tcnn

that charming letter from Salibi

'■ thus I heat Schlotthaner ndd(
Schubert ominously shakes his X
you are silent and thoughlfuL I 1
in despair for an excuse for myx:
already shot off my best arrows 1
similar occasions, exhausted my 1
tenns— my best rhetoric I say I M
in despair, if that stupendous, that
dous thinfe 'The Last Judgment,*;
lake me under its proteciingwing. J
a man. prolubly. with more subUn
pardon of a lady ! And now, b
universe at your feet, I await conpl
sentence. From this moment is m
loosediand tcansay toyou tballi
brating my blissfullest lime-— «y
time — ^ihe harvest season of my hi
piraiiuns. How few mortal* atlan
happiness t and how ill-ca]culate||
worid to afford it I .

" Gladly would t show yon the wQ
at present engaged upon. Yet fot^
so quiet as yours, you appear to m
forcible and positive. Overbeck a
you a thousand Ibid more than 1 i
you suffer indulgence to lake the
impartial justice How I once frcti
such things !

■' What a treasure is a deep, _
curable pain ! Belter than the
loved bliss which this poor wl__
offer, it brings us near to the Hdy
is more Euihful, bx less variable.
us into solitude, into ourselves.

"Vou surmise, doubtless, wlwt
Daily do I thank Heaven thai "
such knowledge was to cook I .
IS bitter medidne. adminislerctL
upon sweet fruit. But why do I
you with such trivialities? In dl
all natioRs we read the i
when the poor human heart is
its heavy burthen, it feclj
and acutely as in the vc
■elf; and the utterances
like those of pain, atr 1
tnethod mexhaustibtc 1
himMlf upon the breast of a bvia^S
tketic soul. *

".\nepi fo> the mantui

Emily Liuder.

109

bit aid remain friendly and well-disposed

tovard ote. Continue to peep through my

%en, and leave me just five of them. I

daiin to myself however, the privilege of an

oolifflited love and veneration for you. My

eodre household and all your friends send

iievtfelt greeting ; foremost of all, however,

four P. V. Cornelius.'*

The correspondence was interrup-
ted when Comelitis removed to Ber-
lin; but not the friendship, which en-
dured to the end. Nor did the ex-
diange of letters cease entirely; so
that die ink-shy master once asserted
in Beriin, that he had written to no
hdy so often as to her.

Among the earliest acquaintances
of Emily Linder, was Father Franz
VOD Baader ; as the nine letters indi-
cate, which were addressed to her, and
published in the complete works of
Baader. The first of diese was dated
aseariy as the asth of May, 1825,
therefore at the commencement of her
lesklence in Munich; and the contents
indicate the immediate cause of their
mntual attraction. This letter has
somewhat the nature of a memorial,
m which the philosopher draws a par-
allel between the art of painting and
the God-like art of benevolence ; clos-
bg with the following words :

"Herewith commends himself to Miss
Emily linder — she who rendered her memo-
ly so dear, to imperishable to him by an act
air kindness performed at his request to a
poor £unily— Franz Baader."

The tie between them therefore lay
in the admirable activity of that quali-
ty by which Emily Linder quietly ac-
oonqplished so much— a high-hearted
bve for her neighbor.

From that time forward Baader
Kgulaxly sent her his pamphlets and
«€ik8| and we can appreciate to what
eitent he tasked her intellect when he
ibrwarded her a copy of his Specula-
6ot Dogma; or^ Sodal-PhilosophU
TuaHsf^ He regarded it as a plea-

sant duty to acquaint her from time
to time with his literary labors ; and
she spared herself no trouble to follow
even such grave and abstruse topics.
He succeeded in specially interesting
her in Jacob Bohme. Her intelligent
remarks on Baader's article upon the
doctrine of justification led him to
remark that her letter afforded him a
more satisfactory proof than many a
criticism that he had succeeded in
reaching both the head and the heart.
In the year 1831, Baader dedicated
to her a philosophic paper entitled
Jwfy lyo/osi/wns from a Religious
Exotic^' (Munich: Franz, 1831.) In
the brief dedication of this "little
work on great subjects" we read,
"While you in ancient Rome are
dedicating heart, soul, eye, and hand
to art, it may not be unwelcome to
you to hear over the stormy Alps a
fiiendly voice, reminding you of that
holy alliance of the three graces of a
better and eternal life. Religion, Spec-
ulation, and Poetry, adding to these
also. Painting." In the letter which
accompanies this pamphlet he places
before her the leading thoughts of the
little work in a lucid manner :

" When the teachers of religion say that
the whole Christian faith rests upon the
knowledge and conviction that God is love ;
and that in this religion the love of God, of
man, of nature, is made a duty ; so that, in
&ct, a oneness of love and duty is announc-
ed, it would seem seasonable in this unlov-
ing and duty-forgetful age so to present the
identity of these two, love and duty, that
mankind can discern the laws of religion in
those of love, and those of love in religion ;
which, I trust, has been done in this pam-
phlet in a new, albeit rather a homceopathic
manner."

Next to Baader is to be named his
intellectual son-in-law, Ernst von La-
saulx. He started, in the same year
that Emily Linder left Rome, upon
his long journey through Italy and
Greece, to the Orient. They met in
Florence, the 27th of July, 1831, and

Emify hinder.

he promised the artist a description
of his travels. In conformity with
this promise ensued a series of letters
recording his experiences and impres-
sions in Greece and the promised
land, fresh and warm to a degree sel-
dom found, and full of classic beauty.
By whom could antiquity be better
r«ilized to this art-enthusiast than by
Lasaulx, the zealous student of Gre-
cian art-history, and equally a master
of artistic prose ! Poetic sensibility
and literary clearness go refreshingly
hand in hand in these letters; now in
a description of his rides to that " elo-
quent rock-architecture" of Cyclo-
pean edifices, the Titanic walls of the
Acropolis of Tiryns and Mikene; or
his solitary wanderings among the
prostrate, ruined glories strewn from
Corinth to Magara and Athens. At
the first view of distant Athens, the
Acropolis and the Parthenon, the
temple of 'ITieseus and the city be-
hind the dark olive-woods he ex-
claims :

" Here U Greece, all of a departed glory
worthy of [he name, which the noiseless
wulc or time and the insane fury <A man
lu* left to the after-world. Never in my
experience, and in no other dty, have I
known such cmotioiis. Il is as though my
heart were turned into an ^olian harp, and
the night winds were sighing through its
broken strings."

Despite all his predilections, how-
ever, for the classic land, he did not
suflTer himself to be deceived as to a
' new Greece by the occasion of the
lath of April, 1^33, when he was
present at the formal surrender of the
Acropolis to the Bavarian troops,
when Osman Etfendi witlidrew the
Turkish forces, and the Bavarian
commander, Baligand, planted the
Greek flag upon the northern ram-
part. He remarks, in this descrip-
tion:

" It WM a rematkable spectide ; the

noisy, csnrused Crowd of TutlcK dnt
Bavarians, and whatever other inquiiltf
Franks had collected in the dusky colon-
nadef of the Parthenon. As I could tioc
bring myself to any faith in Ihe regeneration
of Greece, the rampant irony of this insww
funeral wake only added to my deep dcpns'

Written in the year 1S33, and. hard-
ly ten years later, what confirmation;

Glorious passages does the travelln
indite to his distant friend over bis
pilgrimage through Palestine ; pro-
found melancholy at the present con-
dition of the holy land; devout
emotions amid holy places. On en-
tering Jerusalem, Sunday, Septemkff
iSth, 1833, he says:

" Burning tears and a cold shudder
heart were the firat, God grant not th<

tributes which I oSercd for bis love and|
of his Son."

d ffifl

His delineations inspired his fi
with a holy longing, and she «
tained for some time afterward (
idea of a journey to the holy land.
She had, indeed, made preparations
(1836) for a pilgrimage thither i
company with Schubert, and 1
considerations of health compt
her at last to abandon the plan.

Subsequently, at the close of J
life, Lasaulx crowned his fricn<^
for Miss Linder with a spedal li
tribute. He dedicated to her \
last great work. The I^iloso^^k
Ihe Fine Arts, Architecture, Scut^
/hinting, Musi<, J\^try, Jhaf,
nich, i860.) As though from ad
sentiment of his death, he fch |
pelled to bring his aesthetic studicM
a close, sensible as he was that 1
and there were stilt omissions to j
ply. Cut the book is the thon^
lalwr of many years, and a ma)
work of style. In the dedication,
which serves as preface, and which was
written in the Bavarian inn, at Castle
Lcbenberg, in the Tyrol, on the ^S^H

Emily Under.

Ill

of Sqjtember, 1859, after speaking of
the origin of the work, he refers, in
tkiollowing words, to his friend:

"That I dedicate this work particularly
to jw will be found natural enough on a
■ooMDt's self-ezaraination. I met you, for
tte first time, thirty years ago, at Munich,
ii a delightfiU drde of friendly men and
voneo, so many of whom are constantly
departiiig from us, that those who are still
left hare to move nearer and nearer to each
other at your hospitable table. A few
)can later, I saw you in Florence again, as
joa came from Rome and I went thither.
The death of our early-maturing friend,
Adam Eberle, resulted in an association
lith yon as a correspondent, and since then
jot hiTe proved to me, my wife and daugh-
ter, both in bright and gloomy days, so dear
asd true a friend, that it is now a necessity
lith me to express my gratitude to you,
eien with this very work, whose subjects
are so akin to your own studies, and in wri-
ting which, at this fortress of Lebenberg, I
have so often thought of you and our mu-
tual friends, dead and living, chiefest among
whom should to yourself this book be a tri-
bute."

A year and a half later, the noble
and true soul of Lasaulx had passed,
and his grateful friend founded for
him a memorial afler her own pecu-
liar taste, the pious memorial of a
stated mass for his soul.

An eariy friend, also, and one true
tin death, was Gotthilf Heinrich von
Sdmbeit, who met Miss Linder short-
l]r alter he was called to the University
of Munidu The amiable personality
of this satfont of child-like nature par-
ticdaily appealed to her. His fun-
damental views of religion accorded
vidi her own; and therefore, the
dements of a spiritual harmony were
already at hand. Miss Linder was
aaodated with his frunily during the
pctiod of an entire human life, in
the dosest and purest friendship,
vhich particularly one test safely
vi^ood — that of her conversion.
In his autobiography, Schubert al-
hdes, m a few words, to this friend
of his household ; and the comparison

he draws between her and the Prin-
cess Gallitzin shows how high a posi-
tion he accorded her. Speaking of
the circle of friends in which he chief-
ly moved, he mentions the names of
Roth, PuchU, Schnorr, Cornelius,
Ringseis, Schlotthauer, Boisseree,
SchwanUialer, and then remarks :

" The gathering-point of many of these
friends was the house of the noble Swiss,
Emily. At all times and in all places, in
larger as in smaller social circles, will each
with pleasure thus recall that grand life-
picture, which was similarly presented to a
former generation at Miinstcr, in the fair
friend of Hamann, of Stolberg, of Claudius."

Emily Linder was certainly the
first, in her deep humility, to depre-
cate such a comparison; but it is for
both equally creditable that the vene-
rable sage felt constrained to bear
such testimony, even afler her union
with the Catholic Church.

Next to the testimony of scholars
and artists, we will finally quote an
opinion from a female writer, a Ute-
rary lady of the higher walks of life.
In the summer of 1841, came Emma
von Niendorf to Munich. She was
in fiiendly relation with Schubert and
Brentano, and, several years later, re-
corded her reminiscences of those
sunny days at Munich in a lively and
imaginative little work. At Schu-
bert's she formed the acquaintance
of Emily Linder, and was attracted
closely to her. She refers to her in
glowing and expressive terms, depict-
ing this art-loving woman in the re-
pose of her home :

" A noble Swiss, and for this reason re-
markable, that, fortified by exterior means
and the most positive convictions, she pre-
sented to me an ideal existence in a ripe
and unwedded old age, having achieved
happiness. She lived only for science, for
art, for all that is beautiful and good. But
everything was illumined with the glory of
a genuine Christian spirit And how this
spirit reflected itself in all her surroundings I
I shall never forget it; the sitting-room,

Xavier de Ravigriati.

with waik-basket, books, tloweis, harp,
dranrings by Oveibeck ; a driwing-room
separating Ihese from a Ultlc housc-chapcl,
which a. painting o( Overbeck also embel-
lished. And, whete the organ awaited the
Bldllbl Gngers, a Madonna of the school oS
Leonardo da Vinci smiled from the wall,
while the litlle side-altar encased a drawing
oT Albrecht IXircr, I foand, also, in Ihe
house of this lady a portrait of Maria Mori,
in (he Tyrol, admirably drawn by her
friend, Ihe well-knonrn lady artist, Kllenric-
der, somewhat idealized ; a profile, with
folded hands i long, brown, down-flowing
hair ; the large, dark eye fall of devotion,
full of sensibility, the stigmata in (be hands
not to be forgotten. . . . This lady is a
Protestant. The deepest coloring of her
soul is, perhaps, shading toward Catholi-
cism ; yet she doubtless tinds satisfying
haimonies in the GospeL By one of those

wonderfiil providences which lit
of, this earnest sout was planM
two strongly pronounced nature*
posite polajilies of friendship,
and sincere — Clemens lircnlano
bert, who were on equal terms*
with her."

At the very time Emma ?

dorf put her work to press, !
not that the lady to whom tl
referred had already attaii
toward which "the deepest
of her soul seemed to be \
Emily Linder had sought
"satisfyLag harmoDies" is
of the one, universal, apostoU

XAVIER DE RAVIGNAN."

Father de Ponlevoy's life of his
friend and colleague, the celebrated
orator of Notre Dame, violates many
of the canons of biographical compo-
sition, and is nevertheless an admira-
ble book. As a narrative, it lacks
clearness and symmetry ; but as a pic-
ture of the interior of a great and
beautiful soul, it is wonderfully vivid.
It could only have been written by
one who sympathized completely
with the subject, and understood the
interior illuminations and trials, and
the complete detachment from the
world, which distinguished the illustri-
ous preacher whose fame at one time
filled all Catholic Europe. Father
dc Ponlevoy hag given us therefore a
valuable work. He has looked at
De Ravignan's life ft^m the right

Tew. By FalhiT dc Punleror, of ihe luu Sodrly.
Tnubied II Si Bcuiut Cnl1»p^ Nonh Walo.
line., pp. tw Ntw YoA ; Tta CiibcilH PuWies-
Xioa Sodcly. iSAg.

point of view — the only poii
from which it offers any
material to the biographfiJ
worldly sense, the life waa
eventful one. He came of
yet hardly a distinguished &■
presen-ed their faith in the )
Ihe storm of revolution, and
up their children to love iha
Gustavc Xavier was bom at \
on the ist of December, 179
child he was remarkable for 1
and intelligence far beyond l|
a warm affection for his pan
a very pious disposition. All
pleting his school and colicgf
tion in Paris, he resolved til
himself to the law, and at thi
eighteen entered the office
Goujon, a jurist of some distil
the capital. He had scarcQ||
his studies, however, when Fm
thrown into confusion by the I
Napoleon from Elba. Theyo*

Xaviir de Ravigftan,

113

Ihnrdown his books, enlisted in a
onpiflj of royalist volunteers, and
afcr jHcparing himself for the cam-
\AffL bf receiving holy communion,
nuched with his command toward
Ac Spanish frontier. His company
bekmged to that unlucky detachment
Dder General Barbarin, which was
Mprised and cut to pieces at H^ette,
■ the Lower Pyrdn^es. General
M>arin fell, severely wounded, and
vouki have fallen into the enemy's
klIldl^ when De Ravignan rushed
fiirward through the fire and attempt-
ed to carry him off the field. It was
1 generous but desperate act, which
voold have led to the sacrifice of
both. Barbarin saw the danger of
the young hero, and, freeing one of
his arms, shot himself through the
head Covered with the blood of his
unfortunate commander, Gustave
sought safety in flight, wandered
afoot and alone through the Basque
country, in the disguise of a peasant,
and, alter many hardships and escapes,
rqdned the army on Spanish soil.
He now received a commission as
lieutenant of cavalry, and was at-
tached to the staff of the Count de
Damas, who sent him on a confiden-
tial mission to Bordeaux. Before he
had any further opportunity of win-
ning distinction, the war was over, and
ahhoug^ tempting offers were made
him to continue in the army, he de-
tennined to adhere to the law, and
was soon hard at work again. The
indomitable resolution, amounting
even to sternness, which distinguished
him in after life, was already one of
hii most remarkable characteristics.
Whatever he did, was done with all
jns might He studied with the most
intense application, and, not satisfied
*U) the reading necessary for his pro-
fc>non, applied himself dosely to the
Genntn and English languages, and
^lighter accomplishments as draw-
ing and music In due time he was

VOL. IX — 8

appointed a conseUler auditeur in the
royal court of Paris, then under the
presidency of Siguier. The influence
of the Duke d*Angoul^me got him
the appointment — ^not, however, with-
out some difficulty — and his colleagues
received him coldly. He awaited his
time in patience, beginning each day
by hearing Mass, and studying
thoroughly, systematically, and in-
defatigably. At last, one day when
the advocates happened to be out of
court, a civil cause of a very tedious
nature was unexpectedly called. The
president turned, rather maliciously,
to De Ravignan, and handed him the
papers, saying, " Let us see for once
what can be done by this young
gentleman, whose acquaintance we
have yet to make." On the appoint-
ed day the " young gentleman " pre-
sented a clear and logical report, and
delivered it with a perfection of utter-
ance which caused the whole court to
listen with astonishment. His success
at the bar was assured from that mo-
ment, and soon afterward he was
appointed ^^t'^yxX.y procureur ghtkraL

His life at this time presents a curi-
ous and instructive study. He devo-
ted a part of each day regularly to
religious exercises ; he was a zealous
member of a Sodality of the Blessed
Virgin ; he had already in fact formed
the idea of entering the priesthood, if
not of joining the Society of Jesus.
But while he remained in the world,
he never neglected his professional
pursuits, he mingled freely in society,
and showed himself, in the true sense
of the term, an accomplished gentle-
man. He was a great favorite in
company. " In him," says Father de
Ponlevoy, " interior and exterior wer^
in perfect harmony. It would be im-
possible to imagine a more perfect
type of a young man : the expression
of his countenance was excellent, his
forehead high and full of dignity, his
features fine and characteristic, his eyes

114

deep and blue, by turns animated and
KfTectionaie, his figure slight and grace-
ful. To this picture must be added
scrupulous attention to person and
dress, perfect politeness, and a name-
less something, the reflection of a lofly
mind, a great intellect, and a pure and
aflectionate heart," Many years after-
ward, when he visited London, to
preach at the time of the World's
Fair, one of the principal Protestant
noblemen of England said of him,
" He is the most finished gentleman
J ever saw." His modesty, like many
of his other virtues, leaned toward
severity. At a great dinner-party
one day, before he had embraced the
Tehgious life, he was placed next a
young lady whose dress was rather
too scanty, He sat stiff and silent
until the unlucky girl ventured to ask,
" M, de Kavignan, have you no ap-
petite?" He replied in a half-whisper,
"And you, Mdlle., have you no
shame?"

He was twenty-six years of age
when, after a retreat of eight days, he
entered the Seminary of Saint Sulpice.
The resolution had been gradually
formed, yel it took everybody except
his mother and bisspiritual director by
surprise. His professional friends and
associates did all they could to draw
him back to the world. They sought
out his retreat, and went after him in
crowds. "Ahl" he exclaimed, when
he saw tliera, " I have made my es-
cape from you."

De Ravignan remained only sbt
months in the seminary, and then re-
rao^-ed to the novitiate of the Society
of Jesus, for which he had made no
secret of his preference. The life of
a novice offers little matter for the bi-
ographer. We are only told that his
course here was distinguished by a
devotion which approached heroism,
X aeal that tended toward excess,
dnd a strictness that was often too
liard and stem. Throughout his life.

XavUr de Ravignan.

difB oite ;

severity toward himself, i.u more d
toward others, was iiis pnnci|)a] de-
fect ; but as years went on, this rigid-
ity of character, always more appa-
rent than real, disappeared tittle by
little in the sunshine of divine love.
He never spared himself in anything.
He surpassed all \n his ambition Cor
humiliation and suffering; the only
trouble was, that he sometunes went
too far in attempting to lead weaker
brethren by tlie hard path he himself
had trodden, A novice once asked
somebody for advice, and was recom-
mended to apply to Brother de Ravig-
nan, " In that case," he rejoined, " I
know beforehand what 1 must do: I
have only to choose the most difB oill
course." Jn the scbolasUcatet ha^^^
known by the sobriqtui of '
Bar." When the time came 9si\
admission to holy orders, after n
four years passed in the scholasticate
at Paris and at Dole, he was sent
with five other candidates to the Dio- M
cesan Seminary at Orgdet, where the
sacrament of ordination was to be
administered. Before the party set
out, Brodier de Ravignan was ap-
pointed superior for the journey. His
companions were seized with fear
when they heard who had been plac-
ed in charge over them; but their
alarm was groundless. "Nothing,"
said one of the company, "could ex-,
ceed the kindness, the sffabilily, the
atteniiveness to small wants, the sim-
ple joy of the young superior. He
availed himself of his character only
to claim the right of choosing the last
place, and of making himself the ser-
vant of all." He was ordained priest
on the 25lh of July. i8i3.

The war against the Jesuits in
France was approaching its crisis,
and the ordinance which deprived
them of the liberty of teaching and
shut up all Ibeir colleges was pro-
mulgated just about the time of
Father de Ravignai* " '

rdinatiod^

Xavier de Ravignan.

IIS

Cut off from the privilege of secular
instruction, the society resolved to
devote itself more zealously than ever
to the theological ti^aining of its own
members. Father de Ravignan was
assigned a chair of theology at Saint
Acheul, near Amiens; for he was not
only a thorough scholar, but he pos-
sessed a rare talent for teaching, and
according to the testimony of his pu-
pQ, Father Rubillon, fully realized
" the idea of a professor of theology
such as is depicted by St. Ignatius."
The poor Others, however, were
qot to be left here in peace.
In 2829, they received notice to sus-
pend their classes; but Father de
Ravignan hastened to Paris, saw the
Minister of Public Instruction, and
caused the order to be set aside.
Jhe next year came the revolution
of July. Late in the evening of the
29th, a mob, led by an expelled pu-
pfl, attacked the college, burst in the
gates, and with cries for " The King
and the Charter !" " The Emperor !"
"Liberty!" and "Down with the
priests !" and " Death to the Jesuits !"
proceeded to sack the building.
Hliile some of the fathers took
refuge in the chapel, and others,
expecting death, were busy hearing
one another's confessions^ Father de
Ra\ignan went upon a balcony, and
tried to make himself heard by the
rioters. He persisted until a stone
struck him on the temple, and he was
led away bleeding. To what lengths
the fury of the mob would have gone
it is impossible to say; but fortunately,
in the course of their devastation they
stumbled into the wine-cellar, and all
got drunk. The arrival of a troop of
cavalry dispersed the reeling crowd
in the twinkling of an eye, and the
Jesuits were left to mourn over the
ruins. The next day it seemed cer-
tain that the attack would be renewed.
The college was deserted, and its
inmates scattered in difierent direc-

tions. Father de Ravignan being
sent to Brigue in Switzerland to re-
sume his courses of theological in-
struction.

It was not until the close of 1834
that he came back to France. Then
we find him once more at Saint
Acheul, where, since classes were
prohibited, a house had been opened
for fathers in their third year of proba-
tion, lliree years later, he was ap-
pointed superior of a new house at
Bordeaux. There he remained until
1842.

In the mean time he had entered,
imperceptibly, so to speak, upon the
great work of his life. He had
preached many retreats at different
times to his own brethren, and to
other religious communities, but had
rarely been heard in a public pulpit
until, during the Lent of 1835, while
he was living at Saint Acheul, he was
selected to preach a series of confer-
ences in the cathedral of Amiens.
He was forty years of age when he
began this apostleship, and he had
been withdrawn from the world ever
since he was twenty-seven; yet he
had not been forgotten.. There was
a lively curiosity among his old friends
to hear him ; the members of the bar
in particular were constant in their
attendance ; and the impression pro-
duced in Amiens was not only deep,
but rich in spiritual fruit. In Advent,
he was appointed to preach a similar
course at the same place; and in Lent
of the next year, we find him preach-
ing in the church of St. Thomas
Aquinas, in Paris. Nothing exactly
like these conferences and courses of
sermons, so common in France, has
ever been known to our country, and
some of our readers may find it diffi-
cult to appreciate the magnitude and
importance of the labor in which
Father de Ravignan was now en-
gaged. The audiences whom he had
to address were not only poor, un-

Xavitr 4e Ravignaa.

ii6

lettered sinoeis, tvhosc consciences
needed arousing ; to these of course
he must speak, but with them canie
hundreds of the most cultivated and
critical listeners, who studied tlie
speaker's language and manner as
ihejr would a literary- essay or an
exercise in elocution. The court,
the anny, the learned professions, and
the leaders of fashionable society
crowded around the Lent and Ad-
vcnl pulpits. The appearance of a
new preachei was the sensation of
the metnjpolis. The newspapers
criticised the perfotmance as they
would criticise a play at the theatre.
To satisfy the exactions of such an
audience as this, and yet to preserve
that unction without which preach-
ing is a waste of breath — to please the
critical ear, and yet to move the
callous heart, required qualifi cat ions
which few men combined. The most
famous of all tlie series of confer-
ences had liecn those in the great
cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris.
Father Lacordaire had there roused
on extraordinary enthusiasm, and at
the height of his fame had abandoned
the pulpit and gone to Rome for the
purpose of restoring the Dominican
order to France. He earnestly de-
sired that Father de Ravlgnan should
he his successor at Notre Dame, and
it is interesting to know that it was
pardy through Lacordaire's agency,
that the Jesuit was obliged in 1837
to begin that grand series of discourses,
extending over ten years, by which he
will be chiefly remembered, " No
one could claim to be the apostle of
such an assembly as met in Notre
name," says Father de Ponle\oy,

" unlns he were first of alt a philmoiiher.
The subject chosen for the fitat ycai wa» ac-
cordingly a kind of Catholic phitoiophj oT
history, depiclitig the broad oullinci of Ihc
struggle between truth ind ciroi. Thiiidea
ii iiulogoui to that which intplied ttic Giff
</ Qed of St. Augiutiiic j it vu carried on

o reciU a1

in die station of 1838 tiy an

fundamental doctrines, beginning
personality and action of God, *
iron to the abstractions of the
the ill-defined forms of deitm an
proceeding on lo lilicrty, tb« ii
of the soul and the end of
materialism.- For all this,
lo go to first principtea,
belief lo Irle, and again
trinei which had been cwrtii
berlcss errors. Some porlJon
era were from this lime forward 1<
brace the last practical conclui
ilipadr F. de Ravlgnan had lonie
returns 10 the laith to report. At
of the station of I S38, he wrote :

■■ ' The attendance has been lar^
markabk for the great nombcr a
guisbed persons, mcnit>crs of (lin.
and former ministries, pectl, \
academicians, well known Proteit|
cigncrs of rank, and a troop of yM

"'There have been symptoms of 1|
sometimes too freely manifested -, <
sioDS, > few, but not many. Mors
expressions of hoatilitf, either in U
papers or among the ,
praised !

" • r have been forced to have
course with a great many people,
of them persons of note. H. dt
briand paid me a visit ; two Inl
arranged for me with hi. de
several phj-sicians and men of
sought to see mc % some hai
feision. How many great
ignorant of the (aith, and sick in
heart

" ' God has supported ...^ . „■>•«
grace, his help to our sociely, and til
fit of the prayers' offered fur my ^
look C2rc that none of the joumaU |
employ short-hand writers, that u|
might not be published in adittorteol

From the very outset, Fad)
Ravignan had contemplated d
tablishment of an annual rctrc
way of a complement to his q
ences; but wishing to give hi&.
ence time to work before he e
out this plan, he waited until
and then resolved to begin il
small church uf the Abbaye-au4
which with great crowding holi
more than i ooo

I lao^J

XofuUr de Ravignan.

Should tfie attendance be too large
(or this diurch, it was arranged that
he duMild remove to St. Eustache.
He describes the result of his expen-
Bent as follows :

^Xpxt notice of a retreat for men dur-
iBig Hdij Week, only on Palm-Sunday at
Kotre Ihune before the conference ; an in-
stTBctioa every evening at eight o'clock till
Hdj Saturday inclusively. On the Monday
ercoi&g I went to the Abbaye-aoz-Bois
aboQt half-past seven. I found an extraor-
(fioarj aowd, and difficulty in getting pla-
cet; and there was not a single woman. I
bd kept them all out For nearly two
hem the whole church had been full, and
aheadj a hundred people had gone away
vible to get in. I wanted to cross the
bottom of the church, but I could not get
along. I was recognized, and with great
onestness, bat withont uproar, I was
niud to adjourn elsewhere. I promised to
do ¥k From the pulpit I was struck by
^ throng of men, almost all young, who
fined the doorways, the altars — and no dis-
tafbanoe. After having warmly congratula-
ted them, I appointed Saint-Eustache for the
aextday. Then I bade them all rise for
pnyer. They all rose like one man. We
recited the Vent Creator^ and the instruction
followed on these words : Venite seormm et
^ftVittciU puriUum^^Come aside^ and rest a
IMi, I advised them all to remain for
benediction. All remained.

"Next day Saint -Eustache was filled five
boon before the service, and the following
days they came even earlier.

"My heart is fuU of gratitude to God.
His help has been plain. I do not know
^ such a churchful of men was ever seen.
The iron gates at the doors, the bases of the
pfibrs, the rails, everything, was covered
vith people hanging on; the nave and
wks iillciid and crowded beyond conception,
ttd the deepest, most religious silence — not
one disturbance, no police — ^3000 or 4000
■eD*s voices singing the Miserere, the Stabat
^^ter. The sight affected me deeply.

"I at once adopted perfect apostoUc free-
don of language, and, without preface, be-
PB to speak of sin, of hell, of confession,
etc I delivered my address, and appointed
*tt hours every day which I would devote to
■ea who -might wish to see me. They have
eoQe in ahosUsi I have been hearing con-
fcsBons an the week, six or seven hours a
<hy» of men of all ages and positions in life
*^ very moch behindhand. God has
fpKh nc conioiation. The prayers offered

on all sides for this work have had a visiUe
effect There has been a marked movement
in Paris. More Easter Communions every-
where. Our fathers have received many
more confessions of men. I have not de-
clined a single one, and I. am still busy in
finishing them.

" A good many came to tell me of their
difficulties, and I said to them, ' Well, be-
lieve me, there is but one way ; take your
place there ;* and all, with a single excep-
tion, made their confessions.

**On Good-Friday the Passion sermon
exhausted my strength ; the following day I
had no voice left I was unable to give tlie
closing instruction of the retreat on Holy
Saturday. I wrote a scrap of a note to in-
form the Cur6 of Saint-Eustache, and he be-
thought him of reading it from the pulpit.
All went off quietly ; the people waited for
benediction and went home."

Lacordaire was a far more brilliant
and poetical preacher than De Ra-
vignan, but the styles of the two men
were so entirely different that there
can be no comparison between them.
The conferences of the Jesuit orator,
studied in the cold light of print, lack
color and imagination; but they can
only be judged feirly by those who
hesuxl them delivered. The princi-
pal characteristic of his delivery we
should judge must have been force —
a force which amounted to majesty.
He spoke with a commanding air of
authority, as one whose convictions
were as fixed as the everlasting hills.
His power of assertion was tremen-
dous; with all this he was animated
and impassioned, although he gen-
erally commenced with a slow and
measured cadence. His style was
a litde rough, but nervous and strik-
ing. He did not captivate, but he
conquered. His gestures were dig-
nified and impressive; his attitude
was modest but commanding; his
personal presence was noble. When
he entered the pulpit, he remained a
long time motionless, with eyes cast
down, waiting until the assemblage
became perfectly stilL Then he
made the sign of the cross with a

Ii8

Xavier de Rav^mM.

pomp and stateliness which became
famous. A Protestant minister who
witnessed this solenm exordium ex-
claimed, *' He has preached without
speaking a word!" It used to be
said, "\Vhen Father de Ravignan
shows himself in the pulpit, no one
can tell whether he has just ascended
from earth or come down from
heaven." One day he had been
describing the wilful misery of the

S believer — ^his doubts, fears, melan-
oly, repinings, and despair; the
picture was drawn with a terrible
force; the audience sat as if para-
lyzed. Suddenly, want of breath
compelled the orator to pause. He
folded his arms, and with inimitable
emphasis brought the climax to an
end with these words: "And we —
we are believers!" The effect was
overpowering. The people forgot
themselves, and a signal of applause
ran through the church. The priest
was indignant With glowing coun-
tenance and arm raised in air, he
cried, ".Silence !" in a voice of awful
reproof, and the assembly was instant-
ly hushed.

Still more effective, though less
celebrated than the conferences, were
Father de Ravignan's retreats. In
these he was unapproached. He
followed stricdy the exercises of St.
Ignatius, to which he gave such un-
remitting study that he might well
be called a man of one book. His
conferences were prepared with great
elaboration, but the retreats were
improvisations. As years went on, he
devotctl himself more and more close-
ly to these latter exercises, until they
became at last his proper work in the
ministry ; and when sickness, and the
loss of his voice had compelleil him
to abandon formal preaching, he con-
tinued to conduct the retreats at
Notre Dame, while Lacordaire re-
sumeil his place in the pulpit.

It must not be supposed that the

success of the Jesuit's oratory ^
indication of a growing favor
society in France. The opp
to its existence lyas stDl active, s
government refused to ackno'
that as a society it had any ex
in the kingdom at all. The '
stories about it were publish<
believed. One day, in the mic
distinguished party assembled
Tuileries to celebrate the king's
day, a person of influence disci
horrible plot: the Jesuits hac
stored in the cellars of Saint S
and only the day before. Fat
Ravignan had been there con<
measures with his accomplices,
yes," interrupted a lady of the
" I was at that meeting. W<
drawing a raffle for the poor,
were two or three hundred fami
lucky as to be set up with a cofl
or a sauce-pan." As a general
however, whatever .might be s
the society. Father de Ravignj
treated with respect. Guizot
no secret of his esteem for
and Royer-Collard used tc
" Father de Ravignan is
enough to imagine himself a J
In the little book which De ]
nan accordingly i^Tote abou
time — On the Existence and t

•

stitute of the ycsuits — ^there
double purpose to be gained
wished to identify himself as thoi
ly and as publicly as he could w
society to which he had giv<
heart, and he wished to share
gallant battle which Lacordaii
fighting for the right of the rel
orders to exist in France und
protection of the laws. The o
tion in the legislative chamber
been insisting that they ought
exist; the ministr)' replied that th
not exist ; and right in the midst
dispute ap]>ears Father de Rav
like the poor prisoner who ca
law)-er to get him out of jail

Xaviir de Ravignan.

dm is [ffeposterous/* said the counsel ;
*'you can't be arrested on such a
charge as that!" "I don't know,"
said the prisoner, '^ but I am arrest-
ed" "Why, I tell you, you can't be :
it is sot leg^ > they have no right to
put you in jail." " Well, I only know
that I aw in jail, and I want you to
get me out." Father de Ravignan
showed dearly enough that they did
exist, and had a right to legal protec-
tion. If they were to be driven out of
the kingdom, the government must
&ce the responsibility, and do it
openly. A few days after the appear-
ance of the book, Lacordaire, being
present at a meeting of the CathoUc
Club tinder the presidency of the
Archbishop of Paris, exclaimed, " If
ve were in £ngland, I should pro-
pose three cheers for Father de
Ravignan." The cheers were given
witha wilL

We have no space to follow Fa-
ther de Ravignan in the varied oc-
cupations of the next ten years. His
healdi, always precarious, broke down
completely in 1847, and for the rest
of his life he was condemned to alterna-
tions of intense suffering, and of forced
inaction which was worse to him than
pun. He was tormented with chro-
nic neoralgia, with dropsy on the chest,
and a severe affection of the larynx,
that for long periods deprived him
Oitirdy of the power of preaching.
During these ten years of suffering, he
wrote his history of " Clement XIII.
and Qement XIV.," a book which
under the guise of an apology for the
course of the latter pontiff in the sup-
pression of the Jesuits was in reality
an apology for the society, and a reply
to tiie recently published work of Fa-
ther Theiner on the same subject. He
founded the sodality known as the
Children of Mary, assisted in the es-
tablishment of the Congregation of the
Oratory, and was zealously and con-
stantly employed in the direction of

souls and the guidance of converts —
gathering up, as Father de Ponlevoy
well expresses it, the fruit of his ten
years' preaching. There is hardly a
distinguished name in the history of
France at that day which does not ap-
pear in coimection with his. Madame
Swetchine was one of his co-laborers.
Madame de la Ferronnays, whose
charming life has recently been told
under the tide of A SisUr^s Story, was
his devoted friend. Chateaubriand,
Count MoW, Walckenaer, Camper
the celebrated navigator, Marshal St
Amaud, General Cavaignac, Prince
DemidofF, Montalembert, De Fal-
loux, and Bishop Dupanloup — these
are some of the illustrious names which
occur most frequently in his corre-
spondence. A celebrity of a very dif-
ferent sort with whom he had some
intercourse is thus alluded to in Father
de Ponlevoy's Life:

" We cannot conclude this chapter with-
out making some mention of that well-
known American Medium^ who possessed
the unfortunate talent of turning other
things besides tables, and of calling up the
dead for the amusement of the living. Much
has been said, even in the newspapers,
about his dose and pious Intimacy with F.
de Ravignan ; and it seems that an attempt
has been made to use an honored name as a
passport to introduce into France, and es-
tablish there, these wonderful discoveries of
the new world.

" The facts, in all their simplicity, are as
follows : It is quite true that, after the young
foreigner had been converted in Italy, he
was furnished at Rome with an introduction
to F. de Ravignan ; but by this time he had
given up his magic at the same time that he
gave up his Protestantism, and he was re-
ceived with the interest which is due from a
priest to every soul ransomed with the blood
of Jesus Christ, and especially, perhaps, to a
soul which is converted and brought back to
the bosom of the church. On his arrival in
Paris, he was again absolutely forbidden to
return in any way to his old practices. F.
de Ravignan, agreeably to the principles of
the faith which proscribe all superstition,
prohibited, under the severest penalties he
could inflict, all participation in or presence
at these dangerous and sometimes guilty

I30

Xavier de Hav^gHOM^

piooted'mgB. Once the unhappy Medium^
beset by I Know not what man or devil, was
im£uthnil to bis promise ; he was received
with a severity which- prostrated him ; I
chanced at the timei^to come into the room,
and I^aw^him. rolling on the ground, and
writhing* like a worm at the feet of the
priest, s^ righteously indignant The fa-
ther was touched by a repentance which led
to such bodily agony, raised him up, and
pardoned him ; but, before dismissing him,
exacted a written promise confirmed by an
oath. But a notorious relapse soon took
place, and the servant of God, breaking off
all connection with this slave of the spirits,
sent him word never again to appear in his
presence."

We shall not undertake, in the brief
8{>ace that remains, to describe the
beauty of Father de Ravignan's chara-
acter — ^his touching humility, his rare
sweetness of soul, his complete de-
tachment from earth, his patience, his
■charity, and his unflagging zeal. He
\. as once asked how he had attained
such mastery over himself. " There
were two of us," he replied; " I threw
one out of the window, so that only I
remained where I was." Father de
Ponlevoy applies to him the descrip-
tion which St Francis Xavier gave
of St Ignatius : " His character is
made up of three elements; a humil-
ity of mind which we can scarcely
understand, a force of soul superior
to all opposition, and an incompara-
ble kindness of heart"

In the spring of 1857, a u
tack of sickness obliged him to
to Saint Acheul. He came
Paris in the autumn, appare
stored to as good health as
experienced of recent years,
was already far gone in const
On the 3d of December, he ]
long time at the Convent of
cred Heart, conversing with
person who wanted to enter the
Then he went into the conft
and remained there until physi<
hausted. One of his penitents
occasion remarked that he spo!
than ever like a man who nc
belonged to this world. He g(
with great difficulty. This 1
last of his ministry. On the \
the Immaculate Conception, ]
brated mass for the last time;
was not until the 26th of F
that he passed to that blessed
which he had yearned so long
eagerness that he used to call '
sickness." The account of 1
days is too beautiful to be al
With the awe inspired by the
narrative, we prefer to drop <
at the opening of this final <
wherein the gates of heaven s
stand ajar, and our eyes are '
by the awful light which streai
the divine presence.

THE EDUCATIONAL QUESTimif,,

121

The articles upon popular educa-
tion which have heretofore appeared
ffl this journal seem to have produced
the effects which were anticipated by
the writer. The public interest has
been unusually excited by the discus-
and two classes of antagonists

has fallen even before the iSse. pto-
phet had time to secure a victim I or,
to speak more in accordance with
scriptural analogies, the cloven foot
has discovered itself under the clerical
robe and the wickedness of the heart
has burst out from the tongue. Quart
have ventured to make an issue with fremtierunt gentes / Why, indeed,

the advocates of a just distribution of
the school fUnd. The first in order,
but much the least important in all
other respects, is that confessed fossil,
the ** no-popery " party, which ever
md anon intrudes itself upon the un-
willing attention of our republican
society, braying itself hoarse with rage
because it can neither command the
confidence of enlightened and liberal
Protestants nor escape the galling ridi-
cule of six millions of its Catholic fel-
low-dtiEens. Hiis class is well repre-
sented in an elaborate tract lately issued
from the office of the American and
Foceign Christian Union, 27 Bible
House, New York City, and purport-
ing to be a review of the article in

shall they rage and devise vain things ?
Have they not fulfilled this prophecy
of the royal David for three hundred
years ; and have they not suffered the
derision threatened in the fourth verse
of the second Psalm ? Where shall
we find a more convincing proof than
this very tract of what the enemies of
the Catholic faith and people design
to accomplish by a school system
which they insincerely profess to ad-
vocate on account of its intrinsic mer-
its, in the face of the historical fact
that, wherever and whenever they have
had the power to control the state— as
in the early days of all New England
and of several of the other American
States — they never failed to use the

the January number of 7^ i&/i^^/^/Mr/ school-room as an ante-chamber to

Mtnthfyy presenting Th€ Roman Catho- the conventicle I Afler they had been

k View of Eiituadon in the United stripped of this power by such men as

States, It requires no great amount Jefiferson, Madison, Hamilton, and the

of logical acumen to enable the least
intelligent of men to see that this
tnct affords the most apt illustration
of one of the principal arguments we
have advanced in support of the
Catholic claim. We have remained
dent for the last three months, rest-
ing satisfied that it would be impossi-
ble for ^ the stereotyped class of saints
md philosophers" to rush to the
rescue of a cherished injustice, without
forthwith exposing its odious features
m tiieir struggle to carry* it victorious-
ly through the battle-field of a public
ooDtroveny. The veil of Mokanna

liberal founders of American institu-
tions, they still struggled for many years
to accomplish by indirect means the
injustice and iniquity which could
not be openly maintained under
the constitutions and the laws of the
federal government and the several
States. We all well remember how the
poor Catholic boys and girls of the
firee schools were harassed by colpor-
teurs and proselytizers, who carried
baskets filled, not with bread for the
hungry children of poverty, but with
oleaginous tracts, cunningly devised
to destroy in those little pupils oi the

122

• ^Pw ^m^wft^^9^0WWWw9rwW&9'^ a^^^^^^^^ WW^^^W^

State the faith of their fathers and the
religious practices of their devout
mothers. Teachers were selected with
especial regard to their bitter hatred
of the Catholic Church and their zeal
for *' Evangelical " propagandism.
When this failed to make any very
perceptible impression upon the nu-
merical strength of the Catholic people,
then commenced the wholesale child-
stealing, under the pious pretext of
cleaning out the moral sewers of
society; and tens of thousands of
little children, stolen or forcibly wrest-
ed from the arms of Catholic parents —
too poor and friendless to protect
the natural and legal rights of them-
selves and their of&pring — ^were hur-
ried off to the far West, their names
changed, and their temporal and eter-
nal ho|x» committeil to the zealous
charge of pious and vigorous haters
of the |>opish anti-Christ 1 In spite
of all this, the Catholic population of
the Uniteil States continued steadily
to rise hke a tlood tide, not only
through foreign immigration, but by
reason of virtuous weillock and the
watchful and severe faith and disci-
pline of a church which ibrbids and ef-
fectually prevents child-murder ! The
reader will find this matter discussed
in an article elsewhere in this num-
ber, entitleti, " Comparati\*e Morality
c^ Cathi^ic and Pirotestant Coun-
tivn^

'I1\e writer of the tract issueil frvnn
^7 Kil>le Hv>use is annoyetl by the
cxHwivirtA^n which the author of the
artsic ::\ TV K*M^Jii*^i M^xtiJy
xix$x\\yxvc\\ bctxkccn the vi^Jent crimes
\>t' our ancx^v>r!s and the stiipendoiB
«ns ^huh hawr suiH^Untevl thera in

cKxi^t;:::^.^: *> the shirt ol Nc^ssus*

I^N-;^ 1L\^T5C wvvs ^^ :h» m-,;h ji

the United States, and every
Protestant country, in the nine
century, and the debasement
people of Spain, Italy, Mexio
South America. In the first
we reply that our present conti
concerns popular education i
United States now and for a
ful future, and not the past n
present of European or South
ican nations. In the next pla
say that this is but another ev
of the malignant spirit to whi
are required to intrust the ti
of our Catholic youth. They
be taught that the church ol
fathers is the nursery of ign<
and vice; and that all the
ledge, civilization, and virtue
the world enjoys are the ofl
of the so-called Reformation,
are to learn nothing of the tn
tory of Spain, Portugal, France,
Belgium, Switzeriand, Austria,
ria, and the Catholic princi|
of Continental Europe. Th<
never to hear of the vast libra;
Catholic learning; the rich e
ments of Catholic education a]
the worid for ages ; the innuiv
uni\*ersdties, colleges, academie
free schools established by
church, or by governments und
auspices, throughout Christe
ITiev are not to be told how <
aiKi Carabriilge were founded b
Catholic forefathers ar.d plui
from their lawfiil poissessiorL
Bil4e Hous« rraaarion woul*
willingly read tv> ihem froi
.\;^hf ••/ *i 7>--rc-.'>'' by thai
nent Scv*tch l>esr\ter-in. S
Laing. sach yosssii^'^ as these

5cvcvr4 vierpr ,*£ tK» rrswr: j^ea
t^: w tv> *iv, tie r <«i\oci:3cc o.>cb;

Tlu Educational Question.

123

swl saperioriCy by keeping the people in
poss ignorance. But this opinion of our
churchmen seems more orthodox than cha-
ritible or correct The Popish clergy have
in reality less to lose by the progress of
edoation than our own Scotch clergy;
because their pastoral influence and their
cburch services being founded on ceremo-
nial ordinances, come into no competition
or comparison whatsoever in the public
nund with anything similar that literature
or education produces; and are not con-
nected with the imperfect mode of convey-
ing instruction which, as education ad-
fances, becomes obsolete and falls into dis-
use, and almost into contempt, although
essential in our Scotch church. In Catho-
Ec Germany, in France, Italy, and even
Spain, the education of the common people
in reading, writing, arithmetic, music, man-
ners, and morals is ar least as generally
diffused, and as fiuthfully promoted by the
derical body, as in Scotland. It is by
their own advance, and not by keeping
back the advance of the people, that the
Popish priesthood of the present day seek
to keep ahead of the intellectual progress
of the community in Catholic lanids ; and
they might, perhaps, retort on our Presby-
terian clergy, and ask if they, too, are in
their countries at the head of the intellec-
toal movement of the age ? Education is
in reality not only not repressed but is
encouraged by the Popish Church, and is a
nighty instrument in its hands and ably
ved. In every street in Rome, for in-
ftance, there are at short distances public
primary schools for the education of the
duldren of the lower and middle classes
la the neighborhood. Rome, with a popu-
lation of 158,678 souls, has 372 public pri-
laary schools with 482 teadiers, and 14,-
099 children attending them. Has Edin-
burgh so many puUic schools for the in-
ttmction of those classes? I doubt it
Berlin, with a population about double
that of Rome, has only 264 schools. Rome
btt also her university with an average
Attendance of 660 students ; and the Papal
States with a population of 2,500,000 (in
i^) contain seven universities. Prussia
vidi a population of 14,000,000 has but
•CTen."

Neither would our Bible House
tractarian teach his Catholic pupils
to discriminate between times, circum-
sUDceSy opportunities, characteristics
ci race, influences of climate, ancient
traditional habits, and the complicated

causes which affect the life and devel-
opment of each nation ; so as to con-
trast Protestant England with Protes-
tant Denmark, and Catholic France
with Catholic Portugal; or, again, to.
compare each of these with itself at
different epochs of its own history.
They are hot to be told that Spain
was never as powerful, covering the
seas with her commerce and the earth
with her conquests, and lighting up
Europe by her genius, as at the time
when she was the most thoroughly
Catholic and the least tainted with
that revolutionary infidelity which was
bom of Calvin and has grown to be
a giant destroyer under Mazzini and
Garibaldi. They are to be told, how-
ever, that the glory of aChristian nation
is to be measured by its national debt,
its fleets and armies, its opium trade,
its Coolie traffic, its bankrupt laws, its
work-houses, its prodigious fortunes
mocking squalid poverty, its twenty
millions of people who own no foot of
land and its vicious nobles and gentry
who firmly grasp it all, its telegraphic
wires and cables, its huge ships and
thundering factories, its luxiuious mer-
chants who toil not, and its starving
able-bodied paupers who can find no
work to do, its grotesque mixture of
the beautiful and the vile, of the grand
and the infamous, of the light of the
skies and the darkness of the obscene
coal-pits, of the pride of science and
the ignorance of barbarism, of the
perfume of fashionable churches and
the stench of gin-shops, of the indus-
trial slavery of great towns and the
rotting idleness of vast lazar-houses,
which make up the boasted civiliza-
tion of haughty England, and extort
from the Bible House the prayerful cry,
" Thank Gady we are twt like unto these
Romish Publicans /" Happy Phari-
sees ! we certainly do not desire to dis-
turb their self-complacency; but we
wish to teach our Catholic children
that the simple habits, the earnest

The Educational QutitwH.

piety, the manly truth and courage of
the little Catholic Republic of San Ma-
rino, which has preserved its liberties
and independence for over eight hun-
dred years without losing its religion,
are for the citizens of this great demo-
cratic empire a more profitable study

ously defended Ws the^ in viflflicaBWl
of Julian the Apostate, his own apos-
tasy was foretold by his master. His
death was the answer to his life. In
his agony he called for a priest ; Inl
ihree-score years of blasphemy had
I him the avenging disciples who

than the doctrines of Malthus or the then encircled his bed like a wall of
history of cotton-gins. As we have fire ; and no priest could reach flit
•aid in our former articles, wc already dying enemy of Chttst!
have here quite enough of the mate- This tract would also teach out
rial, and a superabundance of animal children in the schools that it was the
spirits and vigor ; and that what we teachings of the " Romish Church"
Stand in need of is a well-defined faith, which drove revolutionary Franccfrom
moral duties clearly understood, and thealtarsofGod It would not be ex-
habits of practical virtue firmly fixed plained to them how that revolution-
in the daily hfe of all the people, ary rage was but the oulbuist of B
Without that, even temporal prosperi- volcano of pasHon which had smat"
ty must be evanescent ; as it was with dered during ages of long s ~ ^
all heathen nations that have success- under the rule of kings and i ^^

ively ruled the worid and perished, and that the instincts of the peojie
Without that, temporal prosperity is a remained so true, that in the very satnc
cuisc, and not a blessing; for what generation they returned, like the pco-
willit profitamanifhegain the whole pie of Israel, to the worship of God;
world and lose his own soul ? Men and rushed to the altai? of ihcir faih-
make nations ; and nationalities are of ere with tears of repentance and joy.
no value before God, except only in T7ify did not brcome ProtcilanU ! How
so far as they conduce to the end of has it been with the descendants of the
each individual man's creation. The godly men of Plymouth Rock? Quiet-
Indian who goes to heaven from his \y and with exquisite decorum ihey
wigwam in the forest attains his end. jja^e settle*! down into deists, |>anl!ie-
Thephilosopher who goes to hell fiwm jsis^ freethinkers, free-lovcts, spiritu-
his palace in London or Paris has aiigts, and philosophere! Will Uwy
wofully miscalculated the worth of all gg ^ack to Puritanism ?
human philosophy, statesmanship, and

national grandeur, as the idols of his ■■F.dibd«cei«uAve

worship. The pagans measured hu-
man life and society by die standard The tract tells our children that q
of the Bible House, No. aj, if we are bon left the Protestant Church fi
to judge it by Uiis tract ! Catholic, and finally landed in |

So also, according to this tract, our delity. Why did he not go I
Catholic chUdrcn should be taught in Protestantism ?
the schools thai Voluire became ai
infidel bftattst he had been a Catholic

and was trainetl at a Jesuit college, means that all its glories are P
It will nowhere appear in the lesson and that the Catholic, with Itft
that he becimc an infidel liecAuse he ^ain before his eyes, shoiildbeli
rriielled against the teachings of his ful thai he is tolerated here,
chuicb, and renounced the niaxinu of children to learn this lesson at I
his Jesuit mto«. When h« » leaJ- schools ? Now, in the first plac«, if

The tract also tells o
this is a Protestant <

The Educational QHestion.

I2S

> Coxe and other Protestant
ses are reliable,* our Bible

friends may as well begin to
e their nerves to see our great
^ become Catholic, at least as
of it as will remain Christian

Perlu^ they will then value
dom and liberality of that ad-
cy sentence in the article of
Itidaumal Monthly which reads

ire quite sure that if the Catholics
i majority in the United States, and
attempt such an injustice," (as that
1 in this school question,) "our
nt brethren would cry out against
ippeal to the wise and liberal exam-
Pmssia and £ngland, France and
! Now, is it not always as unwise
unjust to make a minority taste the
ss of oppression? Men governed
law of divine charity will bear it
and seek to return good for evil;
men arc not docile ; and majorities
lides rapidly and often, in this fleet-
Id ! Is it not wiser and more politic,
mere regard to social interests, that
tntions intended for the welfaire of
lie should be firmly based upon ex-
equal justice ? This would place
ider the protection of fixed habit,
n a nation is as strong as nature ;
ould save them from the mutations
tj. The strong of one generation
the weak of the next ; and we see
uring with political parties within
ef spaces of presidential terms,
we wisely inculcate moderation and
A political nujorities, under the law
mtion."

the next place, although the
: majority of the American

are non-Catholic, we deny
ey are Protestants, as a nation,
ilitical sense. The institutions

country are neither Catholic
otestant They recognize no
th more than another. Chris-
oiality is accepted as the basis
lie and private duties by com-
onsent; that is all. Religious
was not bom of the theocracy

^Sm

«to£

of New England. Hancock and
Adams, imder the lead of Jefferson,
departed very far from the instincts
of Calvinism and the traditions of Ply-
mouth Rock when they laid the foun-
dations of this government ; and this
is one of the things which we certainly
intend to have our children taught
We do not intend that they shall be
^^faor hoys at the feast^^ humbly
thankfril for such crumbs as our Bible
House friends may magnanimously
bestow upon the ^^ Romish aliens;'*
but they shall be told to hold up
their heads, with the fbll conscious-
ness that they are American citizens,
the peers of all others, and in no way
disqualified, by the doctrines or mo-
rals of their church, to perform every
duty as faithfully and as ably as any
other men of any other creed. They
shall not be terrified with the " raw
head and bloody bones " of '* degraded
Italy," "besotted Spain," and the
other terrible examples of the destroy-
ing influence of their old mother
church. We shall teach them not to
trust any morality which does not
rest upon a clear faith ; and we shall
show them how that faith commands
obedience to lawful authority, purity
of motive in all public acts, and uni-
versal charity for all men.

Some of our readers may be sur-
prised that we have devoted so much
space to this tract. Our motive
should be apparent We said, in the
beginning of this article, that this
tract sounds like the voice of one of
the two classes of opponents who are
arrayed against us on this question ;
and that in itself it affords a perfect
illustration of our main argument,
which is this, clearly stated in the
following paragraph from the article
in The Educational Monthly :

" And more than this, Catholics know by
painful experience that lustory cannot be
compiled, trayets written, poetry, oratory,
or romance inflicted ypoa a dcduloos pub-

136

Tki Ed$$cational QMStiotu

lie, without the stereotyped assaults upon
the doctrines, discipline, and historical life
of their church. From Walter Scott to
Peter Parley, and from Hume, Gibbon, and
Macaulay to the mechanical compilers of
cheap school literature, it is the same story
told a thousand times oftener than it is re-
futed ; so that the Englibh language, for the
last two centuries, may be said without ex-
aggeration to have waged war against the
Catholic Church. Indeed, so for as Euro-
pean history is considered, the difficulty
must always be insurmountable; since it
would always be impossible for the Catholic
and Protestant to accept the same history of
the Reformation or of the Papal See, or the
poUtical, social, and moral events resulting
from or in any d^pree connected with those
two great centres and controlling causes.
Who could write a poUtical listory of
Christendom for the last three hundred
years and omit all mention of Luther and
the pope ? And bow is any school compen-
dium of such history to be devised for the
use of the Catholic and Protestant child
alike r

Now, it is very wdl understood
that, yfVCti all their doctrinal differences
and sectarian antipathies, all the Pro-
testant sects can ne^-ertheless, as a
general rule, accept any Protestant
history of the so-called Reformation,
and of the wars, diplomacies, public
events, and moral results springing
fiom or connected with that episode
in the rdigious aimals of our race;
but can Catholics accept such? Will
you compel Catholic parents to ac-
cept for their children histories writ-
ten in the spirit of this Bible House
tract, which tells us (p. 3.) that the
Cathi^ic £uth "« ttmgki tke fe0f4e ikai
a AtmisA friesi is $0 ikem m tkefiace
«y' OW; tkai a JR^misA /nest •*»« or-
ait kis Oraier/^

The ver>- encyclopiedia« quoted
bv our tractarian is another Round-
hejul trvK^^^n* armed against the pa-
}\il anti-Chrisi ! And so, the bright
Catholic bov will be amuseii with the
antiv-^ of the tcju^ing ami fighting
monk in Auviiv: whilsi gnvcr cal-
umnies will i.vnvince him that the
dranii of hst feuhcfs^andof the gnut-

grandfathers of her mode
is truly a den of thieves an
of abominations.

It may as well be distin
stood, once and for all, th
not consent that our chi
receive secular education
ligious training; and that
stand very well that sue
knowledge as we desire th
sess cannot be imparted by
are hostile to us. We int<
teach them to respect and
the rights, social, political,
ous, of their fellow-citizens
plain injimction of the Scri
they shall do unto others ]
they would have others do
selves. At the same tin:
teach them to love and r
ancient mother church, as
dian for fifteen hundred y<
Bible which she is filsely j
this tract of "/ranVi^/" as
cent patroness of every 2
mistress of every science
friend and supporter of li
imited to order and justi
enemy of pride, license, an
ence to lawful authority ; a
dian of the sanctity o
against the pagan concup
the divorce courts; as
of vengeance uplifted ove
of the child-murdering
of populations ; in fine, a
and future salvation of tl
and all its precious endo
personal manhood, honor,
£iith. and all its national
of self-go\-eming popular 5
equal rights* and fiiithful
based« not ufx^n infidel re
- AuiWirih/' but upon a r
tian bfv»therhood. Certai
we wtfv mistaken in our
the fruittulne^and power o
lie faith, it wvMild be no
dence of our sincere pan
^-e are aaxiotts to impne

The

Question.

127

childreii of the church the conviction
that in faithfully serving their country
they are only obeying the commands
of their religion.

As we do not intend that our chil-
dren shall be either untaught or mis-
taught in regard to this sublime know-
ledge and duty, we shall insist on edu-
cating them ourselves, with or with-
out receiving our just share of the
public taxes, to which we do contri-
bute very largely, the declaration of
tA B3>le House tract to the contrary
notwithstanding.

We have devoted more space to
diis first class of objectors than they
could claim fix>m our coiutesy, be-
cause we believe that they nominally
represent many honest men who will
cheofully admit the truth when they
Me it

There is another and a far different
dass kA persons who take issue with
OS upon this question, £^d for whom
we entertain a perfect respect — first,
because they treat the subject with
evident £sumess and commendable
civility; and secondly, because from
their stand-point, there would appear
to be much good reason in their ob-
jections to our claim. It gives us
vwy great pleasure to use aU our
honest endeavors to remove their dif-
icQlties. This class is represented by
the editorial articles which appeared
in The Chic^o Advance ^ The IVay
Dmfy /Vsffx, and several other papers,
ciiticising the article of The Education"
d Monthfy, The objections may be
ammcd up as follows :

/irxf, (and the most important) That
denominational education would pre-
vent the complete amalgamation or
"unification" of American citizenship,
nd tend to increase sectarian bitter-
BCK, to the prqudice of republican
tttitiitioin.

Semulfy. That it would destroy the
htnaony and efficiency of the general

XSOOI SySKOBL

Thirdly. That the Catholic people
are richer in the jewels of the Roman
matron, their childreny than they are
in the images of Ccesar^ the coin of
the country 1 and that therefore they
would draw from the common fund
an amount much in excess of the
taxes paid by them; which would
not be just

We shall candidly consider these
objections in the order in which we
have stated them.

As to the first : It would be fortu-
nate, in a temporal point of view, if all
the people were of one mind in reli-
gion, especially if they happen to have
the true &ith ; inasmuch as nothing so
conduces to the general harmony and
good will as the total absence of all
religious strife. But we see that such
a state of things cannot be hoped for
here. Not only is the community di-
vided into Protestants, Catholics, and
a large body of citizens professing no
&ith at all, but the Protestant com-
munity itself is subdivided into innu-
merable conflicting sects. In defiance
of any system of public education,
these various religious organizations
will always be widely separated fix>m
each other, and fix)m the Catholic
Church, on questions of doctrinal be-
lief. The issue then remains nakedly
before us, Shall public education be
entirely divorced firom revealed reli-
gion, and shall we commit the morals
of our children to the saving influ-
ences of a little " reading, writing, and
arithmetic;'* or, shall we have them
educated in some form or another of
practical Christianity ? The arguments
on this point have been so fully elab-
orated in our articles heretofore pub-
lished, that it would be superfluous
to repeat them now. We may, how-
ever, recall to mind the conclusive
evidence afforded us of the correctness
of our theory by the actual experience
of such governments as those of Eng-
land, France, Prussia, and Austria;

128

The EducaHoHtU QugsiuttL

under which, as we have shown in
those articles, the denominational sys-
tem is cairied out to the fullest extent,
producing harmony, instead of discord,
in populations composed, as here, of
numerous religious bodies. It is an
old adage that one fact is worth a
dozen arguments.

We find that, after long years of
earnest study of this difficult question,
and after exhausting every half-way
expedient, the statesmen of the coun-
tries we have named adopted with
singular unanimity the views which we
are presenting for the serious and
candid consideration of the American
public. We shall quote briefly from a
few of those statesmen who are well-
known leaders of opinion in the Euro-
pean Protestant worid.

Lord Derby : " Public education
should be considered as inseparable
from religion;" the contrary system
is declared by him to be " the realiza-
tion of a foolish and dangerous idea."

Mr. Gladstone : " Every system
which places religious education in
the background is pernicious."

Lord John Russell insisted that in
the normal schools, which he pro-
|)osed to have established, *' religion
should regulate the entire system of
discipline. "

M. de Raumer : " They have ac-
quired in Prussia a conviction, which
becomes daily more settled, that the
fitness of the primary school depends
on its intimate union with the church."
In 1854, he ^-rites that "education
should repose upon the ba^ of Chris-
tianity, the true support of the family,
of the commune, and of the state."

M. Guizot the former very emi-
nent Protestant prime minister of
France, deser\*es to be specially quo-
ted, although we are but repeating the
extracts which we gave in another arti-
cle. His words ^ould be written in
letters of gold. Let the enemies of
religious cducatkHi» if they caa» pie-

sent a satisfactoiy answer to this superii>
declaration :

" In order to make popular education truly
good and socially useful, it must be funda-
mentally religions. I do not simply mean
by this, that religious instruction should hold
its place in popular education, and that the
practices of religion should enter into it ; lor
a nation is not religiously educated by such
petty and mechanical devices. It is neces-
sary that national education should be giveii
and received in the midst of a religioos
atmosphere, and that religious impressioos
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 hith and
a law, which ought to be felt everywhere^
and which after this manner alone can exer-
cise all its beneficial influence upon our
minds and our lives.**

The first Napoleon, the restorer of
order and religion in France, influ-
enced, at the time, merely by human
considerations, and spealung only as
a wise lawgiver, and not as a practi-
cal Christian, insisted upon the neces-
sity of making the precepts of religion
the basis of education in the univer-
sity, whose halls had echoed the blas-
phemous unbelief of the disciples of
Voltaire.

At our very door, we have likewise
the judgment and example of our
Canadian neighbors, demonstrating
the feasibility of connecting secular
educarion with the most thorough
instruction in the doctrines and prac*
tices of the different churches. Sudi
opinions and facts should have some
weight with our firiends here who are
fearful of the proposed experiment

We know, by our own personal ex-
perience, that young men educated at
the exclusively Catholic College of
Mt St Mary's, in Maryland, and
other young men, graduates of Yale
and Princeton, where Catholics are
rarely if ever seen, meet afberward in
the worid of business or politics^ and
immediately learn to value each odwr
according to intrinsic peoottid woctliy'

Tlu Educaiiottal Question,

J 29

and to exchange all the mutual cour-
tesies and discharge all the reciprocal
duties of social life. It is the same
with Cathohcs and Protestants edu-
cated together at the many Catholic
colleges in the United States, where
the Catholic pupils are nevertheless
invariably instructed, with the utmost
exactness, in all the doctrines and
practices of their church. There are
thousands of such living witnesses
throughout tne country, ready to attest
the correctness of our statement. It
proves this, (what we know to be true
nithout the proof, ) that the education
received by Catholics at their own
schools, whilst rigidly doctrinal, uni-
formly inculcates charity, urbanity, and
every duty of good citizenship. There
is not, therefore, and never can be any
difficulty, on the part of Catholics, to
meet their Protestant fellow-citizens in
afl the relations of life, private and
public, with the utmost frankness, fra-
ternity, and confidence, provided that
they are not repelled by harshness or
chiJIed by distrust. Their religion
teaches them that such is their duty.
Certainly, if such happy results are
realized even in England, Prussia, and
Austria, where all barriers, whether
social or religious, are traditionally
more difficult to surmount, how can
it be that we must expect animosities
to be engendered under the free action
and the liberal intercourse of our re-
publican society ?

We must, therefore, consider the
far expressed by this first objection
as wholly grouncUess. But even were
it otherwise, what then ? Should we,
thcreft)re, sacrifice to such an appre-
l^on the far more momentous con-
SKkrations that our republican, self-
SOveming community can never safe-
!f tmst itself in the great work of
popetuating the liberties of a Chris-
tiu nation without planting itself
■pon the morality of the Grospel;
tbt the revealed doctrines of Christ

VOL. IX.— 9

are the foundation of his moral code ;
and that to practise the one faithfully
the people must be taught to believe
the other firmly ; and tliat religion so
taught, as M. Guizot admirably ex-
presses it, " is not a study or an exer-
cise, 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 that " national education
should be given and received in the
midst of a religious atmosphere !"

What would the advantage of a
more perfect amalgamation or unifi-
cation of citizenship avail us, if, to
obtain it, we were to strike from un-
der our institutions the only solid
basis upon which they can rest with
any hope whatever of being able to
withstand the rude shocks of time, to
which all mortal works are subject,
and which destroyed the grandest
structures of pagan power, solely be-
cause they rested upon human wis-
dom and human virtue, unaided by
revealed religion and supernatural
grace ? We cannot, therefore, admit
any force in the first objection.

As to the second : How can the
harmony or efficiency of the school
system be disturbed by permitting a
school to be organized for Catholic
children in any district or locality
where the requisite number may be
found to render it practicable, in ac-
cordance with the general policy of
the law? It is presumed that the
law contemplates the education of all
these children, and we cannot see
that the harmony of the system con-
sists in putting them into any one
school-room rather than another. It
is not proposed to withdraw them
from the general supervision of the
state, or to deny to the state the au-
thority to regulate the standard of
education, and to see that its require-
ments are complied with. ITiis is
done in every one of the countries of
which we have spoken. No one is

130

The Educational Question,

so unreasonable as to expect that
separate schools shall be organized
where the number of pupils may be
below a reasonable uniform standard ;
as it is not proposed to increase the
expense of the system. On the con-
tr^, as far as concerns the educa-
tion of our Catholic children in the
city of New York, we propose to re-
duce the cost considerably, as we
shall explain before we close this arti-
cle. It is said that the several Pro-
testant denominations may demand
the same privilege. Suppose that
they do. If they have a sufficient
number of children in any particular
locality for the proper organization
of a separate school under the law,
and are willing to fulfil its require-
ments, how can the general system
be impaired by allowing them to do
so ? This is the condition annexed
to the privilege in all those countries
which have adopted this liberal poli-
cy. The proposition seems too plain
for argument. When a college con-
tains five hundred boys, two hundred
may be classed in the higher division,
three hundred in the lower, and
each may have separate playgrounds
and recitation halls. So, if a district
contains two hundred of one faith,
and three hundred of another, or of
several other creeds, surely the two
hundred may be organized into one
school and the three hundred into
another, or into several others, ac
cording to the standard of numbers,
as may be required by the law. The
whole question, therefore, is purely
one of distribution, not at all above
the capacity of a drill-sergeant ! The
same number of children would be
educated, probably in the same num-
ber of schools, and at the same cost,
as now. The course of secular edu-
cation prescribed by the state could
be rigidly enforced in all such schools
without assailing the conscience of
any one, because we suppose that the

state would not object that
should learn English hist
I^ingard, whilst others mig
Hume and Macaulay. We
that there would be no disa
in regard to reading, writii
metic, mathematics, natural
phy, and those things whic
tute the general studies oi
and high schools. It is (
such that the state has an
intermeddle, and it is only
the state professes to sect
pupils. The state may say, "
lie welfare requires that th'
of a self-governing nation
ceive sufficient intellectual <
enable them to discharge th
understandingly ;" but ^e
no right to say that its pu
take their knowledge and f<
opinions of the great moral >
history from D'Aubignt? or f
dinal Bellarmin. It was this
bled the great Catholic and I
governments of Europe, unl
ence discovered to tlicm tl
solution of the difficulty whi<
so earnestly endeavoring to <
to the acceptance of the .
people. Have we not at ler
tp expect that our motives
be misrepresented ; and thai
be believed when we say th;
not hostile to the public sch
on the contrary, most eame
ous to secure for them the w
fulness and the greatest k
We know that that cannot
gion be excluded; and tha
be excluded where so man)
ing creeds confront each oth
As to the third: If it ^
that the Catholic people cc
almost nothing to the schod
is no doubt sincerely belie vec
who are not disposed to do
ticc, a very serious qucstio
nevertheless, be suggested I
statement as this, which

Tk€ Educational QuestiofL

131

from the article in The Chkagtf Ad-
vance already referred to : " Our Ame-
rican population is principally Protes-
tant, partly Romish, slightly Jewish,
and increasingly rationalistic or infi-
delP Now, it is unquestionably true
that the infidels in this country can
count but very few amongst their
number who ever knelt at a Catholic
altar. Still, it is the theory of our
opponents that ignorance is, in itself,
the source of all evil, and the parent
of impiety. It would certainly, there-
fore, be a terrible calamity for the
country if the children of six millions
of CaUiolics were deprived of educa-
6011 because their fathers paid no
taxes! To educate them would be
nnanimously regarded as a public
necessity ; just as our police authori-
ties remove contagion at the public
expense. If this view of public econ-
omy be true, (and we need not dispute
it in this argument,) then it follows
that the question of educating the
Catholics is altogether independent
of what they do or do not contribute
to the treasury. Educated they
oust be; but suppose that they stea-
(% refuse to receive the knowledge
ofiered, except upon the condition
that their consciences shall not be
violated, and their parental responsi-
bilities disregarded, by subjecting
their children to a training inconsis-
tent with the spirit of their religion;
how then? Will you consign the
six millions to what you call the
inoial death of ignorance, and suffer
their carcasses to putrefy upon the
highway of your republican progress,
poisoning the fountains of your nation-
al He ? Or will you prefer, in the spirit
<tfyour institutions, to respect tiieir
conscientious opinions, and to enable
them, in the manner we have already
io&ated, to coOpeiate with you in
ihe fiill development of your great
nd noUe policy of univenal popular
cdocatioQ?

But, is it true that the Catholic
people have no substantial claim as
tax-payers? Such might have been
the case twenty-five years ago; but
every well-informed man knows that
it is not so now. Wealth, amongst
the Catholic population, may perhaps
be less perceptible, because it is more
diffused than it is amongst some other
bodies of our citizens ; but no man
who is familiar with the cities of New
York, Brooklyn, Baltimore, St. Louis,
Chicago, Milwaukee, and all others,
from the sources of the Mississippi to
the Gulf, and fh)m the Atlantic to the
Pacific, or with the Catholic farm-
settlements of the Western States, can
shut his eyes to the fact that our
Catholic people are thrifty and well-
to-do in the world; and that very
many of them possess large wealth.
A member of the British Parliament,
in a recent work upon the Irish in
America, has demonstrated this by
undeniable statistics. The same is
true of Catholics here of all other
nationaHties. We have not the time
nor space, neither is it necessary, to
go into the details of this question.
We suppose our readers to be intelli-
gent and well-informed, and that they
can readily recall to their minds the
facts which substantiate the truth of
our assertion.

Are there those, sharp at a bargain,
who will say, "Well! the Catholics
have the resources to educate them-
selves, and are doing so now; let
them continue the good work with-
out calling upon the state for any
portion of the public fiinds, to which
they contribute by their taxes " ? The
dishonesty of such a proposition is
shown in the simple statement of it
It is true, as we have said over and
over again, that the Catholic people,
afler paying their taxes to the state,
have, with a generous self-sacrifice
amounting to heroism, established all
over this country more universities.

132

The Educational Qu€Stion.

colleges, academies, free schools, and
orphan asylums than have ever been
founded by all the rest of the nation
through private contributions. A
people capable of such great deeds in
the cause of civilization and religion
are not to be despised, can fiever be
repressed^ and certainly should not be
denied justice, when they ask no
more!

We hope that we have satisfactorily
answered the objections of those hon-
est adversaries, with whom we will
always be happy to interchange opin-
ions in a spirit of candor and sincere
respect.

In order that our readers may ob-
tain some idea of what the Catholic
people, unaided by the state, have
done and are doing for popular edu-
cation in this country, we shall now
present a brief summary or synopsis
from Sadlier's Catholic Directory for
1868-9.

In the archdiocese of Baltimore,
there are ten literary institutions for
young men, twelve female academies,
and nine orphan asylums. We shall
include the latter, in all instances,
because they invariably have schools
attached for the instruction of the
orphans. There are in the same
archdiocese about fifty parish and
free schools, the average attendance
at which, male and female, exceeds
ten thousand.

In the archdiocese of Cincinnati,
comprising a part of the State of
Ohio, there are three colleges, nine
literary institutes for females, two or-
phan asylums, and seventy-six paro-
chial schools, at which the average
attendance is about twenty thousand.

In the archdiocese of New Orleans,
there are twenty academies and paro-
chial schools for females, and ten
academies and free schools for males,
attended by seven thousand five hun-
dred scholars ; and one thousand four
hundred (Mphans in the asylums.

Hie archdiocese of New Y(»k
comprises the city and county of New
York, and the counties of Westches-
ter, Putnam, Dutchess, Ulster, Sulli-
van, Orange, Rockland, and Rich-
mond. We have lately examined a
carefully prepared list of schools,
more complete than that given in the
directory, by which it appears that
there are forty-nine, with a daily at-
tendance of upward of twenty-three
thousand children. Of these schools,
twenty-six are in the city and county
of New York, and have a daily atten-
dance of over nineteen thousand pu-
pils. We shall have occasion to spe^k
more particularly of New York City at
the close of this article.

In the archdiocese of San Fran-
cisco, there are three colleges, three
academies, thirty-two select and paro-
chial schools, and two orphan asy-
lums, providing for nearly .seven
thousand children, of whom about
four hundred are orphans in the asy-
lums, and upward of three thousand
are free scholars.

In the archdiocese of St. Louis,
there are three literary institutions for
males, nine for females, and twenty
parochial or fi^e schools, with seven
thousand five hundred pupils in daily
attendance, besides nine hundred or-
phans in four asylums.

In the diocese of Albany, com-
prising that part of the State of New
York north of the forty-second degree
and east of the existem line of Cayu-
ga, Tompkins, and Tioga counties,
there are sue academies for males, and
six for females, seven orphan asylums,
ten select schools, and fifty-eight pa-
rochial schools, with an average atten-
dance of between ten and eleven
thousand.

The diocese of Alton, comprising a
portion of the $tate of Illinois^ has
two colleges for males and six acade*
mies for females, one orphan asylum,
and fifty-six parochial schools, with an

The Educatiottal Question.

133

attendance of about seven thousand
five hundred scholars.

The diocese of Boston comprises
the State of Massachusetts, and has
two colleges, three female academies,
thirteen parochial or free schools, five
thousand eight hundred scholars, and
five hundred and fifly orphans in the
asylums.

The diocese of Brooklyn comprises
Long Island, and has one college
in course of erection, eight female
academies, nineteen parish schools,
attended by over ten thousand scho-
lars, and three asylums, and one in-
dustrial school, containing seven hun-
dred orphans.

The diocese of Buffalo comprises
twdvc counties of the State of New
York, and has five literary institutions
for males, sixteen for females, three
orphan asylums, and twenty-four pa-
rochial schools, the attendance on
whidi is specifically set down at
something over eight thousand; but
it is stated (page 137) that between
eighteen and twenty thousand chil-
dren attend the Catholic schools of
that diocese.

The diocese of Chicago comprises
a portion of the State of Illinois, and
has eight academies for females,
seven colleges and academies for
males, two orphan asylums, and
forty-four parochial schools, attend-
ed by over twelve thousand children.
The diocese of Cleveland, com-
prising a part of Ohio, contains one
academy for males and six for fe-
males, four asylums sheltering four
hundred orphans, and twenty fi'ee
schools educating six thousand scho-
lar.

The diocese of Columbus, com-
prising a part of Ohio, has one fe-
male academy, twenty-three paro-
chial schools, with over three thou-
sand pupils ; the exact number is not
given.
The diocese of Dubuque com-

prises the State of Iowa, and con-
tains twelve academies and select
schools, and parochial schools at
nearly all the churches of the dio-
cese, educating ten thousand children.

The diocese of Fort Wayne com-
prises a part of Indiana, and has one
college, one orphan asylum, eleven
literary insritutions, and thirty-eight
parish schools.

The diocese of Hartford com-
prises Rhode Island and Connecti-
cut, and contains three literary insti-
tutions for males and six for females,
twenty-one male and twenty-three
female firee schools, the former attend-
ed by forty-two hundred, and the latter
by fifty-one hundred scholars, besides
four hundred orphans in four asy-
lums.

The diocese of Milwaukee has
two male and four female academies,
and thirty-five fi-ee schools, attended
by between six and seven thousand
children, and four orphan asylums,
containing over two hundred or-
phans.

The diocese of Philadelphia con-
tains eight academies and parochial
schools, under the charge of the
Christian Brothers, with twenty-five
hundred scholars; forty-two other
parochial schools, attended by ten
thousand pupils; twenty-four acade-
mies and select schools for females ;
three colleges for males; and five
asylums, now containing seven hun-
dred and seventy-three male and fe-
male orphans.

The above statement embraces but
nineteen of the fifty-two dioceses and
archdioceses in the United States,
as it would extend this article to an
unreasonable length were we to
imdertake to give the statistics of
each; which, in regard to many of
them, are not sufficiently full in the
Directory to enable us to present
satisfactory results. Although in
many of them the Catholic popula-

134

The EdmcatioHol Qtusiiom,

tion is small and spaxse, our readers
would neverthdess be surprised, no
doubt, to see how each one has
i^truggled to supply itself with schools
and charitable institutions; and how
amazingly they have succeeded,
when we consider the comparative
scantiness of their resources. We
have, however, given enough to afford
some idea to our Protestant brethren
of the vast interest which their Cath-
olic fellow-citizens have in this ques-
tion of the public-school fund, and
of the great daim to the sympathy
and good-will of the countiy which
they have established by their unpar-
alleled efforts in the cause of popular
education.

As we have shown above, the
Catholics of the archdiocese of New
York are educating twenty-three
thousand of their children, nineteen
thousand within the city limits. The
value of their school property is
placed at eleven hundred and fifty
thousand dollars. For the education
of thcHe twenty-three thousand, it is
cHtinuited that their annual expense
does not exceed one hundred and
thirty thousand dollars, llie actual
cost of the Catholic free schools in
New York City is put down at
$104,430 for nineteen thousand four
hunda'd and twenty-eight scholars;
whii'h is alK>ut five doltan and a half
for each. We have before us the
Rtpoii of the BMni of Education for
1867, fn)in which it ap|)ears that
**thc cost |)cr head for educating
the childrcn in the public schools
under the control of the Hoard of
Education for the year ending 1867,
l>ased u|Hm the a^t for teachers'
salaries, fliel and gas, was $19*75 on
the average attendance, or $8,50
on the whole nuniber taught."
Adding the cost of Inx^ks and sta-
tioner>\ each pupil ci^t $21.76 on
the average attendance, or $9.40 on
the whole number taught. I'he basis

of the above calculation is :
salaries, $1,497,180.88;
mated in a gross amount of
$163,315.12, and ffis, j
making a total of $1,6
But in fact the actual expei
1867 were $2,973,8774
cover items that enter ec
the estimate we have gi>
Catholic expenditures for s
poses. In that year New
paid to the state as its pre
school tax $455,088.27; 01
it received back by app<
$242,^80.04, a little more
half, the rest being its cont
the counties; at the sami
city raised for its own schc
$2,500,000 ; being the ten
for each scholar taught, a:
twentieth of one per cent o
ation of the real and persoi
ty of the city. From this c
will gather some idea of wh
education can cost, even
best management.

It is well known that th
people, through their chur
izations, and by the unpaid
of their religious orders, s
Christian Brothers, posses.*
advantages, which enable
conduct the largest and bes
schools at the smallest po!
Why will not the state pe
do it ? Or, rather, why wi
state do us the justice to
the actual expenses which
in doing it ? For it is a th
we have already accompl
great extent. Supjwse th:
of New York was now edu
nineteen thousand childrei
tend our schools; at $ic
it would cost $375,250; 01
each it would c\.^t $161,
last sum being sixty thousa
more than we j>ay for the s;
have shoikTi, however, that
lation cannol be made to

The Omnibus Two Hundred Years Ago.

135

die basis given by the board, when
you come to institute a comparison
between the expenditures for the pub-
lic schools and for ours. We are will-
ing, nevertheless, to rest our claim even
upon such a contrast as those figures
show ; and we ask the tax-payers of
New York whether they are willing
to follow the lead of our adversa-
ries and add a few hundred thou-
sand dollars extra to the annual .taxes,
kx die satisfaction of doing us injus-
tice?

It is universally conceded that the
school-rooms of New York are dan-
gerously over-crowded ; and the Board
of Education finds it almost impos-
sible to meet the growing necessities
of the city. There are still thousands
of Catholics and Protestants unpro-
vided for. Give us the means, and
wc will speedily see that there is no
Catholic child in New York left with-
out the opportunity of education.
We will do this upon the strictest terms

of accountability to the state. We
will conduct our schools up to the high-
est standard that our legislators may
think proper to adopt for the regula-
tion of the public school system.
We shall never shrink firom the most
rigid official scrutiny and inspection.
We shall only ask that, whilst we lite-
rally follow the requirements of the
state as to the course of secular edu-
cation, we shall not be required to
place in the hands of our children
books that are hostile to their faith,
or to omit giving to their young souls
that spiritual food which we deem to
be essential for eternal life.

In all sincerity and truth we tnust
say, that we have not yet heard an ar-
gument which could shake our faith
in the justice of our cause ; and that
it will ultimately prevail, by the bless-
ing of Providence, we cannot possi-
bly doubt; for, we have an abiding
confidence in the integrity and gene-
rosity of the American people.

THE OMNIBUS TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

"I ALLAYS thought till to-day,"
Rsnarked elegant John Thomas to
Jcames, as they were clinging to the
had of their mistress's carriage du-
ring a shopping drive in Bond street,
Ixmdon, ''that them 'air nuisances
& l>usses was inwented in this 'ear
nineteen centry."

"/ allays thinked so," responded
Jeuoes sententiously.

" Not a bit," resumed John Tho-
nus, " tfiem air celebrated people the
Romans, the same as talked Lat'n,
yoiknow, 'ad plenty of 'em."

"'Owd'you know that?" inquired
Jeames.

''I seed it this blessed morning in

one o' master's Lat'n books. I was
a tryin* what I could make out of La-
t'n, and I seed that word * omnibus '
ever so many times ; and that's the
correc' name for 'bus — 'bus is the wul-
gar happerlation."

"/know that," growled Jeames.
• "'Ow true it is, as King David
singed to 'is 'arp, there's nothing new
under the sun!" exclaimed John
Thomas enthusiastically.

The carriage stopped at this mo-
ment and the interesting conversation
was interrupted.

But although people who under-
stand more Latin than John Thomas

136

The Omnibus Two Hundred Years Ago.

have not yet discovered that the Ro-
mans were acquainted with that
cheap and convenient mode of con-
veyance, they may have believed, like
him, that omnibuses were a modem
invention, and may be surprised to
learn that, niore than two hundred
years ago, in the reign of Louis the
Fourteenth, Paris possessed for a
time a regular line of these now indis-
pensable vehicles.

Nicolas Sauvage, at the sign of
St. Fiacre, in the Rue St. Martin, had
been accustomed for many years to
let out carriages by the hour or day ;
but his prices were too high for any
but the rich ; and so in the year 1657,
a certain De Givry obtained permis-
sion to ''establish in the cross ways
and public places of the city and su-
burbs of Paris such a number of two-
horse coaches and caleches as he
:,.iould consider necessary ; to be ex-
l)Osed there from seven in the morn-
ing until seven in the evening, at the
hire of all who needed them, whether
by the hour, the half-hour, day, or
othenvise, at the pleasure of those
who wished to make use of them to
be carried from one place to another,
wherever their affairs called them,
either in the city and suburbs of Pa-
ris, or as far as four or five leagues in
the environs," etc., etc.

This was a decided step in ad-
vance ; but the prices of these hackney
coaches were still too high for the
public generally, and they conse-
quently did not meet with the success
anticipated. At length, in 1662, ap-
peared the really cheap and popular
conveyance — the omnibus — under the
patronage of the Duke of Roan^, the
Marquis of Sourchcs, and the Marijuis
of Crenan. I'hcse noblemen solicited
and ol)taino<l lotlcrs patent for a
great s|)cHulalion — carriages to con-
tain eight ])ersons, at five sous the
seat, and nmning at fixed hours on
specifier 1 routes.

"On the 1 8th of March, 1662,"
says Sauval, in his Antiquities ofBctris^
"seven coaches were driven for the
first time through the streets that lead
from the Porte St. Martin to the pal-
ace of the Luxembourg; they were
assailed with stones and hisses by the
populace^^

This last assertion is much to be
doubted ; more especially as Madame
Perier, the sister of the great Pascal,
has described in an interesting letter
to Amauld de Pomponne, the general
joy and satisfaction that the appear-
ance of these cheap conveyances gave
rise to in the people ; a state of feel-
ing which seems far more probable
than that which stones and hisses
would manifest

Madame Perier writes as follows:

"Paris, March 21, 1662.

" As every one has been appointed
to some special office in this affair of
the coaches, I have solicited with ea-
gerness and have been so fortunate as
to obtain that of announcing its suc-
cess; therefore, sir, each time that
you see my writing, be assured of re-
ceiving good news.

" The establishment commenced last
Saturday morning, at seven o'clock,
with wonderful pomp and splendor.
The seven carriages provided for this
route were first distributed. Three
were sent to the Porte St Martin,
and four were placed before the Lux-
embourg, where at the same time
were stationed two commissaries of
the Chatelet in their robes, four
guards of the high provost, ten or
twelve of the city archers, and as
many men on horseback. When
everything was ready, the commissa-
ries proclaimed the establishment, ex-
plained its usefulness, exhorted the
citizens to uphold it, and declared to
the lower classes that the slightest in-
sult would be punished with the ut-
most severity; and all this was dc-

The Omnibus Two Hundred Years Ago.

Kvcred in the king's name. After-
tenrard they gave the coachmen
thdr coats, which are 6lue — the king's
color as well as the city's color — with
the anns of the king and of the city
embroidered on the bosom; and
then they gave the order to start.

" One of the coaches immediately
went off, carrying inside one of the
high provost's guards. Half a quar-
ter of an hour afler, another coach
set off, and then the two others at
the same intervals of time, each car-
rying a guard who was to remain
therein all day. At the same time
the dty archers and the men on
horsd)ack dispersed themselves on
the route.

"At the Porte Saint Martin the
same ceremonies were observed, at
the same hour, with the three coaches
that had been sent there, and there
»ere the same arrangements respect-
ing the guards, the archers and the
men on horseback. In short, the
afeir was so well conducted that not
the slightest confusion took place,
and those coaches were started as
peaceably as the others.

"The thing indeed has succeeded
perfectly; the very first morning the
coaches were filled, and several
women even were among the pas-
sengers; but in the aflemoon the
crowd was so great that one could
not get near them; and every day
since it has been the same, so that
we find by experience that the great-
est inconvenience is the one you
apprehended; people wait in the
street for the arrival of one of these
coaches, in order to get in. When it
comes, it is full ; this is vexatious ; but
there is a consolation ; for it is known
that another will arrive in half a
quarter of an hour ; this other arrives,
and it also is full; and after this has
been repeated several times, the aspi-
nmt is at length obliged to continue
his way (Hi foot That you may not

think that I exaggerate I will tell
you what happened to myself. I
was waiting at the door of St. Mary's
Church, in the Rue de la Verrerie,
feeling a great desire to return home
in a coach ; for it is pretty far from
my brother's house. But I had the
vexation of seeing five coaches pass
without being able to get a seat ; all
were full : and during the whole time
that I was waiting, I heard blessings
bestowed on the originators of an
establishment so advantageous to the
public. As every one spoke his
thoughts, some said the affair was
very well invented, but that it was a
great fault to have put only seven
coaches on the route ; that they were
not sufficient for half the people who
had need of them, and that there
ought to have been at least twenty.
I listened to all this, and I was in
such a bad temper from having
missed five coaches that at the mo-
ment I was quite of their opinion.
In short, the applause is universal,
and it may be said that nothing was
ever better begun.

" The first and second days, there
was a crowd on the Pont-Neuf and in
all the streets to watch the coaches
pass ; and it was very amusing to see
the workmen cease their labor to
look at them, so that no more work
was done aU Saturday throughout
the whole route than if it had been a
holiday. Smiling faces were seen
everywhere, not smiles of ridicule,
but of content and joy ; and this con-
venience is found so great that every
one desires it for his own quarter.

" The shopkeepers of the Rue St.
Denis demanded a route with so
much importunity that they even
spoke of presenting a petition. Pre-
parations were being made to give
them one next week; but yesterday
morning M. de Roanbs, M. de Cre-
nan, and M. the High Provost (M.
de Sourches) being all three at the

IS«

Tlu Omnibus Two Hundred Years Ago.

Louvre, the king talked very plea-
santly about the novelty, and ad-
dressing those gentlemen, said, ' And
our route, will you not soon establish
it?* These words oblige them to
think of the Rue St. Honord, and to
defer for some days the Rue St.
Denis. Besides this, the king, speak-
ing on the same subject, said tliat
he desired that all those who were
guilty of the slightest insolence
should be severely punished, and
that he would not permit this estab-
lishment to be molested.

" This is the present position of the
undertaking. I am sure you will not
be less surprised than we are at its
great success; it has far surpassed all
our hopes. I shall not fail to send you
exact word of every pleasant thing
that happens, according to the office
conferred on me, and to supply the
place of my brother, who would be
happy to undertake the duty if he
could write.

'^I wish with all my heart that I
may have ^matter to write to you
every week, both for your satisfaction
and for other reasons that you can
well guess. I am your obedient ser-
vant, G. Pascal."

Postscript in the handwriting of
Pascal, and very probably the last
lines he ever traced: he died in
August of the same year :

** I will add to th« abo\*e, that the
day befoiv )*esterday, at die king's
fHit (omclur^ a dangerous assault was
maxle against us by two courtiers dis-
tinguisheil by their rank and wit,
which would ha\'e ruined us bv turn-
ing us into ridicule, and would ha\*e
given rise tv^ all sorts of attacks* had
not the king answcreil so obligingly
and so ilr>ly wiih rx^s^^ect to the ex-
cellence ot the undertokiivg, so tlut
they si^revlilv put up their wej|x»nsL
1 have no moir pa^^er. Ad)eu--en-
tiitly yours."*

Sauval affirms that Pascal
inventor of this cheap coa
Madame de SMgn^ seems 1
to the enterprise in a passag
of her letters which cod
^^ apropos of Pascal." It is
that he and his sister were
rily interested in the speculat
it is more than probable that i
who induced his rich friend tl
of Roanbs, to take so pron
part in the undertaking,
must not consider Pascal in i
of a vulgar speculator — earth
ests affected him but litde pt
—deeds of charity, the many
pains of premature old age,
sad task of watching ovc
always on the brink of ex
almost wholly engrossed his 1
during his last years. He sa*
affiur an advantage to the p
general, and if any pecuniar]
resulted, his share was inter
the benefit of the pK)or, as is '
dent by the following extract l
little work Madame Perier d
to the memory of her brothei

''As soon as the affair
coaches was settled, he told
wished to ask the farmers fo
vance of a thousand francs to
the poor at Blois. Wlien I t
that the success of the enterp
not sufficiently assureti for
make this request, he replied
saw no inconvenience in it, 1
if the affiiir did not prosper, h
repay the money from his est
he did not like to wait until
of the year, because the neces
the poor were too urgent t
charity. As rw amngemen
be made with the ^irmers, h
not gratify his desire. On th
sion we i^erceivevl the truth
he had s*> often told me,
wtsheil K>r riches onlv that h<
be able to help the poor; for
ment Gvxl gav^ him the bqpe

The Omnibus Two Hundred Years Ago.

139

sessmg wealth, even before he was as-
sured of it, he began to distribute it/'
In the ninth volume of the Ord&n-
nances de Louis XIV,, we find, con-
cerning the establishment of coaches
in the city of Paris, that these cheap
conveyances are permitted " for the
convenience of a great number of
persons ill-accommodated, such as
pleaders, infirm people, and others,
who, not having the means of hiring
chairs or carriages because they cost
a pistole or two crowns at least the
day, can thus be carried for a moder-
nte price by means of this establish-
ment of coaches, which are always
to make the same journeys in Paris
from one quarter to another, the
kmgest at five sous the seat, and
the others less; the suburbs in pro-
portion; and which are always to
start at fixed hours, however small
the number of persons then assembled,
and even empty, if no person should
ixcsent himself, without obliging those
who make use of this convenience to
pay more for their places," etc.

These regulations are similar to
tiiose of our modem omnibus; but
tlie quality of the passengers was
more arbitrary ; for in the tenth vol-
rnne of this same Register, we find
it enacted that "Soldiers, Pages,
Lacqueys and other gentry in Livery,
>iso Mechanics and Workmen shall
not be able to enter the said
coaches," etc, etc.

The first route was opened on the
18th of March; the second on the
nth of April, running fi'om the Rue
Saint Antoine to the Rue Saint
HoDoi^, as high as St. Roch's church.
On this second opening, a placard
announced to the citizens that the
directors "had received advice of
tome inconveniences that might an-
noy persons desirous of making use
of their conveyances, such, for in-
stance, when the coachman refuses to
>top to take them up on the route,

even though there are empty places,
and other similar occurrences; this
is to give notice that all the coaches
have been numbered, and that the
number is placed at the top of the
moutons, on each side of the coach-
man's box, together with the fleur de
lis — one, two, three, etc., according to
the number of coaches on each route.
And so those who have any reason to
complain of the coachman, are pray-
ed to remember the number of the
coach, and to give advice of it to the
clerk of one of the offices, so that
order may be established."

The third route, which ran firom the
Rue Montmartre and the Rue Neuve
Saint Eustache to the Luxembourg
Palace, was opened on the 2 2d of
May of the same year. The placard
which conveys the anouncement to
the public, gives notice also, " that to
prevent the delay of money-changing,
which always consumes much time,
no gold will be received."

Every arrangement having thus
been made to render these cheap
coaches useful and agreeable, they
very soon became the fashion; a
three act comedy in verse, entitled,
"The intrigue of the coaches at five
sous," written by an actor named Che-
valier, was even represented in 1662
at the Theatre of the Marais. An ex-
tract fi'om this play is given in the
history of the French Theatre, by the
Brothers Parfaict.

But the ingenious and useful inno-
vation on the old hackney-coach sys-
tem, though so well conducted and
so well administered, so highly pro-
tected, and so warmly welcomed, was
not destined to live long. After a very
few years, the undertaking failed, and
the omnibus was forgotten for nearly
two centuries ! Sauval tells us that
Pascal's death was the cause of this
misfortune; but the coaches continu-
ed to prosper for three or four years
after that event

I40

New Publications,

" Every one," says Sauval, in a cu-
rious page of his Antiquities^ " during
two years found these coaches so con-
venient that auditors and masters of
comptesy counsellors of the Chatelet
and of the court, made no scruple to
use them to go to the Chatelet or to
the palace, and this caused the price
to be raised one sou ; even the Duke of
Enghien* has travelled in them. But
what do I say ? The king, when pass-
ing the summer at Saint-Germain,
whither he had consented that these
coaches should come, went in one of
them, for his amusement, from the old
castle, where he was staying, to the new
one to visit the queen-mother. Not-
withstanding this great fashion, these
coaches were so despised three or
four years after their establishment
that no one would make use of them,
and their ill success was attributed to
the death of Pascal, the celebrated
mathematician; it is said that he was
the inventor of them, as well as the
leader of the enterprise ; it is more-
over assured that he had made their
horoscope and given them to the pub-
licunder a certain constellation whose
bad influences he knew how to turn
aside."

We can give no description of this
ancient omnibus ; no drawing or en-
graving of it is believed to exist ; but

* Henri-Jules de Boorboa-Coad^t mo of the great
CoikW.

it is probable that it resembled the
coaches represented in the paintings
of Van der Meulan and Martin.

It is impossible to attribute to any
other cause than that of the arbitra-
ry choice of passengers, the failure of
an undertaking which appeared to
possess every element of success. The
people who needed the cheap coach
were debarred from the use of it ; the
tired artisan returning from his hard
day's work ; the jaded soldier hurrying
to his barrack before the beat of the tat-
too that recalled him had ceased; the
pale seamstress with her bundle ; each
was refused the five sous lift, and had
to foot the weary way ; while the aris-
tocracy and rich middle class enjoyed
the ride, not as a social want, but as
a fashionable diversion, and tired of
it after a time, as fashionable people
even now tire of everything fashion-
able. It was reserved for the mar-
vellous nineteenth century, so fruitful
in good works, to endow us with the
true onmibus, that is, a carriage for
the use of every one indiscriminately,
in which the gentleman and the labor-
er, the rich man and the poor man can
ride side by side. This really popular
conveyance has now become in all
highly cinlized communities so veri-
table a necessity and habit that it can
never again ^ and be forgotten like
its &ulty forerunner, or the omnibus
of two hundred years ago.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Travels ix the East-Indian Archi-
pelago. By Albert S. Brickmosc,
M..A. With Illustrations, i \*ol.
8vo, pp. 553. New York : D. Apple-
ton & Co. 1S69.

This elegantly j;ot up volume of travel
the author tells us, in his preface, is
taken from his journal, -kept day by
day/* while on a visit to the islands

described, the object of which visit
to re-collect the shells figured in Rom-
phen*s Pariteit Kamer. The author
travelled from Bata^-ia, in Java, along
the north coast of that island to Sama-
rang and Suraba}-a ; thence to Blacas*
sar, the capital of Celebes; thence
south through Sapi Strait, between
Sumbawa and Floris, and eastward to

New Publications,

141

the southern end of Timur, (near the
northwestern extremity of Australia ;)
thence along the west coast of Timur
to Dilli, and north to the Banda Islands
and Amboina. Having passed several
months in the Moluccas, or Spice
Islands, he revisited the Bandas, and
ascended their active volcano. Return-
ing to Amboina, he travelled in Ceram
and Buru, and continued northward to
Gilolo. Thence he crossed the Moluc-
ca Passage to the Minahassa, or north-
em end of the Island of Celebes, proba-
bly the most beautifiil spot on the sur-
face of our globe.

Returning to Batavia, he proceeded
to Padang, and thence made a long jour-
ney through the interior of the island to
the land of the cannibals. Having suc-
ceeded in making his way for a hundred
miles through that dangerous people, he
came down to the coast and returned to
Padang. Again he went up into the
interior, and examined all the coffee-
lands. From Padang he came down
toBencoolen, and succeeded in mak-
iog his way over the mountains and
down the rivers to the Island of Banca,
and i^-as thence carried to Singapore.
This work opens a new field, hitherto
but Htde known, to the reader of books
of travel and adventure. His descrip-
tions, if not always very vivid, are told
in a clear, unaffected manner, without
that egotism so often found in books of
travel.

The Instruments of the Passion
OF Our Lord Jesus Christ. By
the Rev. Dr. J. E. Veith, Preacher at
the Cathedral of Vienna. Translated
by Rev. Theodore Nocthen, Pastor
of the Church of the Holy Cross.
Albany, N. Y. Boston : Patrick
Donahoe.

Dr. Veith, a convert from Judaism, is
one of the most distinguished writers
and preachers of Vienna. The present
work is rich in thought and original in
siyle. It is one of a series which the
translator proposes to bring out in an
Eoglssh dress, if he receives encourage-
ment, as we hope he may. F. Noethen,
altiKMigh a German, writes English re-
mariobly well, and deserves great credit
for his seal and assiduity in translating
«> many excellent and practical works
of piety. In point of excellence in ty-

pography and mechanical execution, this
book deserves to be classed with the
best which have been issued by the
Catholic press.

The Life and Works of St. ^xgus-
sius Hagiographus, or Saint Mxi-
gus the Culdee, Bishop and Abbot at
Clonenagh and Dysartenos, Queens
County. By the Rev. John Q-Han-
lon. Dublin : John F. Fowler, 3
Crow street. 1868. For sale by the
Catholic Publication Society, New
York.

This tract is a treatise on the life and
writings of an humble and laborious monk
of the early ages in Ireland, who pub-
lished, if we may use the expression, his
Felirey Fessology, or Calendar of Irish
saints, as long ago as 804. From the
biographical and historical value of this
poetical work, St. iCngus ranks among
the ver}' earliest of the historical writers
of modern Europe. In this view, no
less than to draw attention to one whose
holy life induced the Irish church to
ascribe his name on the dyptics, it is
well that the present generation should
be asked to pause and look upon this
life, so humble, laborious, and holy,
and which so strongly commended him
to the veneration of succeeding ages.
The Rev. Mr. O'Hanlon treats his sub-
ject systematically, displaying great
research and sound criticism, and it is
to be hoped that his treatise will induce
.some of the publishing societies in Ire-
land to issue an edition of the works
of this venerated father of the Irish
church.

The Felire of St i^ingus consists of
three distinct parts : the first, the Invo-
cation, containing five stanzas, implores
the grace of Christ on the work ; the
second, comprising 220 stanzas, is a
preface and conclusion to the main
poem ; the third part contains 365 stan-
zas, one for each day of the year. They
comprise not only the saints peculiar to
Ireland, but others drawn from early
martyrologies. This poem was regard-
ed in the early Irish church with great
veneration, and the copies that have
descended to us have a running gloss
or commentary on each verse, making
it a short biography of the saint briefly
mentioned in the poem. In this form
its value has long been known to schf

14^

New Publications.

larSy whose frequent use of it shows the
light it frequently helps to throw on
I rish history and topography. We trust
that the work of the Rev. Mf. O'Hanlon
will not be fruitless.

Essays and Lectures on, i. The
Early History of Mar}'land ; 2.
Mexico and Mexican Affairs ; 3. A
Mexican Campaign ; 4. Homceopathy;
5. Elements of Hygiene ; 6. Health
and Happiness. 13y Richard Mc
Sherry, M.D., Professor of Principles
and Practice of Medicine, Univer-
sity of Maryland. Baltimore : Kelly,
Piet& Co. 1869. Pp. 125.

THE EARLY HISTORY OF MARYIJ^ND.

The sketch of colonial Maryland is
drawn with a masterly hand, showing,
in the first place, the author-s thorough
knowledge of its history ; and, secondly,
the iK)ctic language in which his ideas
are couched tell plainly how completely
his heart is imbued with love for his
native Terra Mariac.

Dr. McSherry is right when he calls
his State **the brightest gem in the
American cluster." To the Catholics
of this broad land it is surely so; and
the names of Sir George Calven and
his noble sons, the founders ot this
" Land of the Sanctuary," should be en-
shrined with love and reverence in the
hearts of all who ])rofess the old fciith
and a])preciate our religious liberty.

MEXICO AM) MEXICAN AFFAIRS.

The article on ** Mexico and Mexi-
can Affairs" was written at the siigges
lion of the editor of The Southe^ti Re-
viciu^ and is a synopsis of the political
history of Mexico from the time of the
conquest to the tragical end of the ill-
fated Prince Maximilian.

As a colonial possession of Spain,
Mexico enjoyed a more quiet existence
and a more st.ible government than
either l)cfore or since that perio<l of its
history. ** Churches, schools, and hos-
pitals wiTi- distrihuied over the land ;
i^oml roads were made, and, without
{•oing into drtail, industrial pursuits
were generally in honor, and were re-
wanled with nuocoss."

J'olitual rrvolutiim again agitated the
country in the commencement of this
century, followed by the establishment
of an empire under Iturbidc; this in

turn gave place to a republican form of
government in 1824.

No stronger proof of the belief of our
order-loving and law-abiding neighbors
in the republican doctrine of rotation in
office can be given than the fact that
during the forty years of the Republi-
can government *'M^ record shows forty^
six changes in the presidential chairP
The accounts of revolution and coun-
ter-revolution among the dominant spi-
rits of that time beggar description, and
leave us to conclude that a frightful
condition of strife, desolation, and mis-
ery reigned throughout the entire pe-
riod. " The rulers of Mexico kept no
faith with their own people ; none with
foreigners or foreign nations. They
gave abundant cause fdt the declaration
of war made against them by England,
France, and Spain, and for the provoca-
tion of the war by France, when the
other powers withdrew." The author
describes the inducements held out by
the assembly of notables to Maximilian,
after tlie French occupation, to accept
the throne ; and how at last he unfortu-
nately acceded to the request, and sailed
for Vera Cruz in May, 1864. The sub-
sequent career of this nobleman, who
had thus linked his fate with that of
Mexico is feelingly depicted. It was
but a short period of three years from
his "splendid reception at Guadalupe,
when about entering his capital, to his
fall by Mexican treachery, and subse-
quent murder on the 19th of June, 1867.
The author blames ex-Secretary Sew-
ard for not preventing this tragical end
of the amiable and highly cultivated
prince, and thinks that as the Indian
Juarez had l^een enabled to prosecute
In's illegal claim to the presidency by
the support and comfort derived from
the United States, he would not ha\ie
dared refuse a claim for this boon,
made in a proper spirit, by Mr. Sew-
ard.

The names of Maximilian and his
devoted, beautiful Carlotta will always
bring moisture to the eyes of those
who can sympathize with the affiictioDS
and sufferings of their fellow- beings.

Mexico has commenced a new chap-
ter of her history. True, the prefiue
so far is not encouraging; but let ns
hope her experience in the past may
cause a better record for the lutmre.

New Publkations.

143

:an campaign sketch.

1 interesting account of the
trels, as surgeon, with the
y in 1847, under General
t its way through the his-
!S of Contreras, Churubus-
del Rey, to Chapultepec :
il entrance, on the 14th of

to the Mexican capitaL
tion o( the appearance of
* Mexico, as the army de-
i mountain side, is very
The author says, " The val-

of Mexico lay spread out
ima of fairy land ; opening,

shifting, according to the
isitions of the observers,
thing would be visible but
iS in the mountain, or the
hat shaded the road ; when
t a sudden turn would un-

magic, a scene that looked
3 be real. It was an en-
1 nature ; for, knowing as
we beheld bona ^iU lakes
is, plains and villages, cha>
ilets, all so bright, so clear,
;iful, it still seemed an illu-
•nses, a dream, or a perfec-
tiay, in the mountain circle

the very picture-frame."

the mixed races of this
ntry are to continue their

at times ludicrous efforts
nment is a problem to be

future.

n.E ON HOMOEOPATHY.

>r*s logical arguments in
c would recommend to the
ur- friends who prefer the
le medicine of that school,

HVr.IKNE. — A LECTURE O.N
TH AND HAPPINESS.

ures contain many sound

ts for the general reader

nay avoid many causes of

jrolong his life to a natural

ive the doctor's testimony

sting points. He says :

at table are disastrous

in this they are worse

votion to Bacchus ; name-

indermine more .slowly and

isly ; but otherwise, strong

astly worse. There are

think wines and liquors

health ; but as the rule,

they are useless at best ; and at worst,
destructive to soul, and body, and mind.
Strict total abstinence is generally, I
might say universally safe ; while even
temperate indulgence is rarely safe or
salutary." (P. 119.)

"Tobacco deserves the next place.
It is most marvellous how this nauseous
weed has taken hold upon the affections
of man. It surely is of no benefit to
health, but I dare not say it conduces
nothing to happiness. When I see an
old friend take his pipe, or cigar, after
the labors of the day, and the evening
meal ; when his good honest face beams
beneath the fragrant smoke which rises
like incense, making a wreath around
his gray hairs ; when his heart expands,
and he becomes genially social and con-
fidential, I can hardly ask Hygeia to
rob him of his simple pleasure. A good
cigar is almost akin to the 'cup that
cheers, yet not Inebriates.' But hon-
estly, tobacco is pernicious in all its
forms ; not like whiskey, indeed, but
still pernicious." (P. 121.)

As an entirety, the doctor's book pre-
sents a charming diversity of subjects,
each in itself of sufficient interest to
chain the earnest attention of the read-
er, and well repay him for its perusal.

John M. Costello ; or, the Beauty
OF Virtue exemplified in am
American Youth. Baltimore : John
Murphy & Co. 1869.

This neat little volume contains a
well-written memoir of a young aspirant
to the priesthood who died a few years
ago at the preparatory seminary of St
Charles.

There is a peculiar charm about the
life of a pious Catholic boy whose heart
has always yearned after the realizatioD
of the highest type of Christian virtue.
Such a life presents a picture of simple
beauty, in which the smallest details
present points of more than common in-
terest One sees here how truly the
supernatural life of grace illumines and
adorns the commonest actions of the
Christian, and clothes them with a merit
that purely human virtue would never
gather from them. There is nothing in
the life of a St Aloysius or a St Stan-
islaus, however insignificant or common-
place in the eyes of the world, that can
be deemed trivial or unworthy oC i^

144

New Publications.

cord. Whatever they do is a saintly
act Their words are the words of a
saint This is the secret of the wonder-
ful influence which the history of these
pure souls has exerted on the minds
and hearts of the thousands and tens of
thousands to whom it has become
known. This thought was constantly
before us while perusing the present
beautiful tribute to the memory of
young Costello. It is impossible to
read the description of the most ordina-
ry events of the life of this holy child of
God without emotion. What in others
of his age and general character might
justly be unworthy of note in him be-
comes worthy to be written in letters of
gold. We would say to all Catholic pa-
rents, among the hundreds of volumes
standing on the bookseller's shelves in-
viting purchase by their gay bindings
and prettily illustrated pages, and al-
most forcing themselves into your hands
as birthday or holiday presents to your
darling children, choose this one, and
teach them, by the winning example of
such virtue as they will here see pre-
sented to them, to emulate, not the dar-
ing exploits of some lion -killer or wild
adventurer, or, it may be, the imagi-
nary success of some fortunate youth
in the pursuit of riches, but rather the
heroism, the piety, the humility, the
chastity, the self-renunciation of the
Christian saint. All who love God and
have the spiritual interests of our Ca-
tholic youth at heart will feel deeply
grateful to the reverend author for hav-
ing given to the world his knowledge
of a life so well calculated to edify and
inspire its readers with admiration of
what is, afler all, the highest and best
within the sphere of human aim, to lead
a holy life, and die, tliough it be in the
flower of youth, the death of a saint.
Let us have more books like this one,
that with God's blessing on the lessons
they impart, we may have more such
lives.

P. F. CtTNNiNr.HAM, Philadelphia, is about to pub-
lish l*he Monurges Leg^acy, and llie Life of St.
Stanislaus.

BOOKS KBCRn-BD.

From John Mukphv & Co., Baltimore: New edi-
tions ot the following; books: Practical Piety set
foffth bjr St. Fraocb de Sales, Bishop and Princeof
Gweva. s vol. lamo^ ppw 360^ |i. A Spiritual

Retreat of Eight Days. By the Right \
M. David, D.D., z vol. izmo. %\. Ky
Ordinary of Mass : a Complete Liturgksi
with Gregorian Chants, etc ; in round
notes, each %\.2S» The Holy Week: <
the Offices of Holy Week, from the Ron
ary and Missal, with the chants in mod
tion. $1.35. Roman Vesi)eral: conta
complete Vespers for the whole year, wi
rian Chants in modem notation, ^t.50.

From W. a Kblly, Dublin : The Cathol
in America. A Lecture delivered before
torical and ^sthetical Society in the Cat
versity of Ireland. By Thaddeus J. BaC
Chicago. For sale by the Catholic P
Society, ia6 Nassau street 25 cents.

From Kbi.ly, Pibt & Co., Baltimore : Tt
of Eglantine, and other Poems: Editi
part composed by Daniel Bedinger Luc
ismo, $1.50. Eudoxia ; a Picture of
Century. Translated from the German
Countess Hahn Hahn. x vol. z2mo, %

From D. & J. Sadlibr & Co. : St. Domit
ual ; or, Tertiary's Guide. By two Fatli
Order. 1 vol. i8mo, pp. 533.

From C. Darveau, Quebec, C. E. : St.
Manual, for the uite of Voung People, pr
the Christian Brothers, i vol. 24mo, pp.

From LrvfOLDT & Hoi.t, New York : T
Maiden : a Norwegian Tale. By B}
Bjornson. From the author's German <
M. E. Niles. i2mo, pp. 317, 51.25. Tl
a Ixws : a Novel. By the author of Tl
the Cavaliers, i vol. iimo, pp. 439, $1.7

From Clark & Mavnard, New York : >
of General History : being an Outline Hist
World from the Creation to the Present Th
illustrated with maps. For the use of a
high-schools, and ^milirs. By John J. .
A.M. Pp. 401.

From IvisoN, Phinnev, Bi.akkman & 1
York : A Dictionary of the EngliRh 1
Explanatory, Pronouncing, Etymological,
nonymous. Counting-House Edition,
appendix containing various tisrful tables,
abridged from the latent edition of the Qi
tionary of Noah Webster, LL D. By W
Webster and William A. Wheeler. I
with more than three hundred engravinjca
Pp. 630.

From Longmans ('RRRn, Reader & D^
don : 'l*he Formation of Christendom.
By T. W. Allies. 1 vol. 8vo, pp. 495. Tl
lie Publication Society having made am
with Mr. Allies to supply his book in Am
soon have this volume for sale. Price, $&

From Jambs Duffy, Dublin : The \Xit a
ings of the Rev. Arthur O'Leary. By the
B. Buckley, i vol. zamo, pp. 410. —

From W. W. Swavnf, New York ai>d I
The Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott
paper, 25 cents.

From Harpex & Brothrr.s : Tlie Poetk
oTCharlesG. Halpme. With a Biograpmi
and Explanatory Notes. Edited by 1
RooMvelt. X vol. pp^ 3sa.

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD

VOL. IX., No. 50.— MAY, 1869.

THE WOMAN QUESTION.*

Thb Woman Question, though not
yet an all-engrossing question in our
own or in any other country, is excit-
ing so much attention, and is so vi-
gorously agitated, that no periodical
can very well refUse to consider it.
As yet, though entering into politics,
it has not become a party question,
and we think we may discuss it with-
out overstepping the line we have
maiked out for ourselves — that of
stodioudy avoiding all party politics ;
not because we have not the courage
to discuss them, but because we have
jums and purposes which appeal to
aE parties alike, and which can best
be efiected by letting party politics
akme.

In what follows we shall take up
pt question seriously, and treat it
candidly, without indulging in any
aieos, jeers, or ridicule. A certain
number of women have become, in
>Qoie way or other, very thoroughly
convinced that women are deeply
viODged, deppved of their just rights

H ntM4P9biiim: NcwYock. Weekly. VoL

a. Xfmt RijfkiM /tr W^mrmt. A Speech hy
Q«V Waii«» Oi^tiek k the CoMtkntieDel Conwn-
■n«i AOwy, Jjdy 19, 2868.

1. Atf«r Wsmm U Umm ika Ai/JkaMf By

by men, and especially in not beings
allowed political suffi^ge and eligibil-
ity. They claim to be in all things
man's equal, and in many things his
superior, and contend diat society
should make no distinction of sex in
any of its civil and political arrange-
ments. It will not, indeed, be easy
for us to forget this distinction so long
as we honor our mothers, and love
our wives and daughters ; but we will
endeavor in this discussion to forget
it — so far, at least, as to treat the
question on its merits, and make no
allowance for any real or supposed
difference of intdlect between men
and women. We shall neither rough-
en nor soften our tones because our
opponents are women, or men ymo
encourage them. The women in
question claim for women all the pre-
rogatives of men ; we shall, therefore^
take the liberty to disregard their pri-
vileges as women. They may expect
fix)m us civility, not gallantry.

We say firankly in the outset that
we are decidedly opposed to female
suffrage and eligibility. The wo-
man's rights women demand them
both as a right, and complain that
men, in refusing to concede them^

VOL. IX. — 10

t46

Tke Woman Question.

withhold a. natural right, and violate
the equal rights on which the Ameri-
can republic professes to be based.
We deny that women have a natural
right to suffrage and eligibility; for
neither is a natural right at all, for
cither men or women. Either is a
trust from civil society, not a natural
mid indefeasible right; and civil soci-
ety confers either on whom it judges
trustworthy, and on such conditions
as it deems it expedient to annex.
As the trust has never been conferred
by civil society with us on women,
they are deprived of no right by not
dicing enfrnnchisc<l.

We know that the theory has been
lirooched lattcriy, and defended by
several political journals, and even by
rqjresentatives and senators in Con-
gress, as well as by The Revolutioti,
t)ie organ of the woman's rights
movement, that suffrage and eligibility
arc not trusts conferred by civil soci-
ety on whom it will, but natural
and indefeasible rights, held directly
from God or nature, and which civil
society is bound by its very constitu-
tion lo recognue, protect, and defend
for all men and women, and which
they can !« deprived of only by
crimes which forfeit one's natural life
or liberty. It is on this ground that
nuny have defended the extension
of the elective franchise and cligibltiiy
lo negroes and the colored races in
^e United States, and hold that Con-
gress, under that clause of the Con-
stitution authorizing it to guarantee
to the several States a rq>ublican form
of govirrnment. is bound to en&an-
diisc them. It may or may not be
wi«e and expedient to extend suflragc
und eligibility to negroes and the co-
knwl races hitherto, in most of the
Slates, excluded from the sovereign
people of the country : on that qucs-
we express no opinion, one way
or the other : but w« tleny that the
wcgrocs and colored men can claim

admission on the ground either of
natural right or of American republi-
canism ; for white men themselves
cannot claim it on that ground.

Indeed, the assumption that either
suffrage or eligibility is a natural right
is anti-repubiican. The fundamenlii
principle, the very essoice of repulili-
canism is, that power is a trust to be
exercised for the public good or com-
mon weal, and is forfeited when not
so exercised, or when exercised for
private and personal ends. Su&age
and eligibility confer power to govent,
which, if a natural right, would imply
that power is the natural and inde-
feasible right of the governors — the
essential principle of all alisolulism,
whether autocratic, aristocratic, mon-
archical, or democratic. 1 1 woulil
imply that the American govemmenl
is a pure, centralized, absolute, un-
mitigated democracy, which may be
regarded either as tantamount to no
government, or as the absolute despo-
tism of the minority for the time, ot
its right to govern as it pleases in all
things whatsoever, spiritual as well as
secular, regardless of vested rights or
constitutional limitations. This cer-
tainly is not American republicanism,
whidi has alwaj's aimed to restrain
the absolute power of majorities, an<)
to protect minorities by cpnstitutiotial
provisions. It has never recognized
sufimgc as a personal right which a
man carries with him whithersoever
he goes, but has always made it a
territorial right, which a. man am v-
crcise only in his own State, hb own
county, his o«-n town or city, and his
own ward or preancL If .\^meifcsn
republicanism recogniied suffrage as
a right, not as simply a tnist, why
does it plaice testrklions on its evcr-
cisc, or treat bribery as a crime ? If
"my natiua] right, my voM
my property, and I may do what I
please with it; dispose of ii in the
market (or the hi^iest price I can gel

The Woman Question,

for it, as I may of any other species
of property.

Suffrage and eligibility are not na-
tural, indefeasible rights, but fran-
chises or trusts conferred by civil
society ; and it is for civil society to
determine in its wisdom whom it will
or will not enfranchise ; on whom it
will or will not confer the trust.
Both are social or political rights,
derived from political society, and
subject to its will, which may extend
or abridge them as it judges best for
the common good. Ask you who
constitute political society? They,
be they more or fewer, who, by the
actual constitution of the state, are the
sovereign people. These, and these
alone, have the right to determine who
may or may not vote or be voted for.
In the United States, the sovereign
people has hitherto been, save in a
few localities, adult males of the white
race, and these have the right to say
whether they will or will not extend
suffrage to the black and colored
races, and to women and children.

Women, then, have not, for men
have not, any natural right to admis-
sion into the ranks of the sovereign
people. This disposes of the ques-
tion of -right, and shows that no in-
justice or wrong is done to women
bf their exclusion, and that no vio-
feDce is done to the equal rights on
which the American republic is found-
ed. It may or it may not be wise
and expedient to admit women into
political, as they are now admitted
into dvil, society; but they cannot
daim admission as a right. They
can daim it only on the ground of
expediency, or that it is necessary for
the common good. For our part, we
have an our life listened to the argu-
ments and declamations of the wo-
man's rights party on the subject;
have read Mazy WoUstonecraft, heard
Fanny Wri^t, and looked into T^
J^evffbuiifn, conducted by some of our

old friends and acquaintances, and
of whom we think better than many
of their countrymen do; but we re-
main decidedly of the opinion that
harm instead of good, to both men
and women, would result from the
admission. We say not this because
we think lightly of the intellectual or
moral capadty of women. We ask
not if women are equal, inferior, or
superior to men ; for tfie two sexes are
different, and between things different
in kind there is no relation of equa-
lity or of inequality. Of course, we
hold that the woman was made for
the man, not the man for the woman,
and that the husband is the head of
the wife, even as Christ is the head
of the church, not the wife of the hus-
band ; but it suffices here to say that
we do not object to the political
enfranchisement of women on the
ground of their feebleness, either of
intellect or of body, or of any real
incompetency to vote or to hold
office. We are Catholics, and the
church has always held in high honor
chaste, modest, and worthy women
as matrons, widows, or virgins. Her
calendar has a full proportion of fe-
male saints, whose names she pro-
poses to the honor and veneration
of all the faithful. She bids the wife
obey her husband in the Lord; but
asserts her moral independence of
him, leaves her conscience free, and
holds her accountable for her own
deeds.

Women have shown* great execu-
tive or administrative ability. Few
men have shown more ability on a
throne than Isabella, the Catholic, of
Spain; or, in the affairs of govern-
ment, though otherwise faulty enough,
than Elizabeth of England, and Ca-
tharine II. of Russia. The present
queen of the British Isles has had a
most successful reign; but she owes it
less to her own abilities than to the wise
counsels of her husband, Prince Al-

148

Tlie Woman Question.

bert, and her doDiestic virtues as a
wife and a mother, by which she has
won Jhe affections of the English
people. Others have shown rare ad-
ministralive capacity in governing
religious houses, oOen no less diflicult
than to govern a kingdom or an em-
pire. Women have a keener insight
into the characters of men than have
men themselves, and the success of
female sovereigns has, in great mea-
sure, been due to their ability to dis-
cover and call around them the best
men in the state, and to put them
in the places they are best fitted
for.

What women would be as legis-
lators remains to be seen ; they have
had little experience in that line ; but
it would go hard, but they would
prove themselves not much inferior
to the average of the men we send
to our State legislatures or to our na-
tional Congress.

Women have also distinguished
themselves in [lie arts as painters and
sculptors, though none of them have
ever risen to the front rank. St. Ca-
tharine of Egypt cultivated philoso-
phy with success. Several holy wo-
men have shown great jiroficiency in
mystic theology, and have written
works of great value. In lighter
literature, especially in the present age,
women have taken a leading part.
They almost monopoUie the modem
novel or romance, and give to con-
temporary popular literature its tone
and character; yet it must be conced-
ed that no woman has written a fii^t-
class romance. The influence of her
writings, speaking generally, has not
tended to purify or exalt the age, but
rather to enfeeble and abase it. The
tendency is to substitute sentiment
for thought, morbid passion for
strength, and to produce a weak and
unhealthy moral tone. For ourselves,
we own, though there are some wo-
men whose works we read, and even

re-read with pleasure, we do not, 4i«>
general, admire tlie popular female
literatm^ of the day ; and we do not
think that literature is that in which
woman is best fitted to excel, or
through which she exerts her mo^I
purifying and elevating influences.
Her writings do not do much to
awaken in man's heart the long dor-
mant chivalric love so rife in the
romantic ages, or to render the age
healthy, natural, and manly. We uy
awaken ; for chivalry, in its true aixi
disinterested sense, is not dead in the
coldest man's heart ; it only stecpeih.
It is woman's own fault, more than
man's, that it sleeps, and wakes not to
tile and energy.

Nor do we object to the political
enfranchisement of women in the
special interest of the male sex. Men
and women have no separate interesB.
What elevates the one elevates the
other; what degrades the one de-
grades the other. Men cannot de
press women, place them in a false
position, make them toys or drudges,
without doing an equal injury to
themselves ; and one ground of onr
dislike to the so-called woman's rights
movement is, that it proceeds on the
supposition that there is no inier-de-
penilence between men and women,
and seeks to render them mutually
independent of each other, with en-
tirely distinct and separate interesB.
There is a truth in the old Greek
fable, related by Plato in the Banquet,
that Jupiter united originally both
sexes in one and the same person.
and afterward separated them, and
that now they are but two halves of
one whole. " God made man after
his own image and likeness; male
and female made he them'' Each,
in this world, is the complement of
the other, and the more closely iden-
tified ate their interests, the better is
it for both. We, in opposing the politi-
cal enfranchisement of women, seek

The Woman Question.

149

the interest of men no more than we
do the interest of women themselves.
Women, no doubt, imdergo many
wrongs, and are obliged to suffer
many hardships, but seldom they
alone. It is a wodd of trial, a world
in ^ich there are wrongs of all sorts,
and suflferings of all kinds. We have
lost paradise, and cannot regain it in
this world We must go through the
valley of the shadow of death before
re-entering it You cannot make
earth heaven, and there is no use in
trying ; and least of all can you do it
by political means. It is hard for the
poor wife to have to maintain a lazy,
idle, drunken vagabond of a husband,
and three or four children into the
bargain ; it is hard for the wife deli-
cately reared, accomplished, fitted to
adcmi the most intellectual, graceful,
and polished society, accustomed to
e?eiy luxury that wealth can procure,
to &id herself a widow reduced to
poverty, and a family of young chil-
dren to support, and unable to obtain
any employment for which she is fit-
ted as the means of supporting them.
But men suffer too. It is no less
haid for the poor, industrious, hard-
votking man to find what he earns
wasted by an idle, extravagant, in-
competent, and heedless wife, who
pcefas gadding and gossiping to tak-
ing care of her household. And how
iBiich easier is it for the man who is
icdnoed fiom affluence to poverty,
a widower with three or four mother-
less diildren to provide for? The
leductkm from affluence to poverty is
soniedmes the fault of the wife as
veO as of the husband. It is usually
tfadr joint fiiult Women have wrongs,
10 have men; but a woman has as
much power to make a man miserable
as a man has to make a woman
ntteraUe; and she tyrannizes over
him as often as he does over her. If
he has mcHe power of attack, nature
has gprcn her more power of defence.

Her tongue is as formidable a weapon
as his fists, and she knows well how,
by her seeming meekness, gentleness,
and apparent martyrdom, to work on
his feelings, to enlist the sympathy of
the neighborhood on her side and
against him. Women are neither so
wronged nor so helpless as The Revo-
lution pretends. Men can be brutal,
and women can tease and provoke.

But let the evils be as great as they
may, and women as greatly wronged
as is pretended, what can female suf-
fhtge and eligibility do by way of re-
lieving them ? All modem methods
of reform are very much like dram-
drinking. The dram needs to be
constantly increased in frequency and
quantity, while the prostration grows
greater and greater, till the drinker
gets the delirium tremens^ becomes
comatose, and dies. The extension of
suflfrage in modem times has cured or
lessened no social or moral evil ; and
under it, as under any other political
system, the rich grow richer and the
poor poorer. Double the dram, en-
franchise the women, give them the
political right to vote and be voted
for ; what single moral or social evil
will it prevent or cure ? Will it make
the drunken husband temperate, the
lazy and idle industrious and diligent ?
WUl it prevent the ups and downs of
life, the fall from affluence to poverty,
keep death out of the house, and pre-
vent widowhood and orphanage?
These things are beyond the reach
of poUtics. You cannot legislate men
or women into virtue, into sobriety,
industry, providence. The doubled
dram would only introduce a double
poison into the system, a new element
of discord into the family, and through
the family into society, and hasten
the moment of dissolution. When a
false principle of reform is adopted,
the evil sought to be cured is only
aggravated. The reformers started
wrong. They would reform the

ISO

The Woman Question.

church by placing her under human
control. Their successors have in
each generation found they did not
go far enough, and have, each in its
turn, struggled to push it farther and
farther, till they find themselves with-
out any church life, without faith,
without religion, and beginning to
doubt if there be even a God. So, in
politics, we have pushed the false
principle that all individual, domes-
tic, and social evils are due to bad
goveranient, and are to be cured by
political reforms and changes, tiU we
have nearly reformed away all govern-
ment, at least, in theory ; have well-
nigh abolished the family, which is
the social unit ; and find that the evils
we sought to cure, and the wrongs
we sought to redress, continue undi-
minished. We cry out In our deli-
rium for another and a larger dram.
When you proceed on a true princi-
ple, the more logically and complete-
ly you carry it out the better; but
when you start with a false principle,
the more logical you are, and the
farther you push it, the worse. Your
consistency increases instead of di-
minishing the evils you would cure.

The conclusive objection to the
political enfranchisement of women
is, that it would weaken and finally
break up and destroy the Christian
family. The social unit is the family,
not the individual; and the greatest
danger to American society is, that
we are rapidly becoming a nation of
isolated individuals, without family
ties or affections. The family has
already been much weakened, and is
fast disappearing. We have broken
away from the old homestead, have
lost the restraining and purifying asso-
ciations that gathered round it, and
live away from home in hotels and
boarding-houses. We are daily los-
ing the faith, the virtues, the habits,
and the manners without which the
family cannot be sustained ; and when

the family goes, the nation goes too,
or ceases to be worth preserving.
God made the famDy the type and
basis of society; "male and feToale
made he them." A large anil influ-
ential class of women not only ne-
glect but disdain the retired and sim-
ple domestic virtues, and scorn to Ik
tied down to the modest but eastntial
duties — the drudgery, they call it — of
wives and mothers. This, coupled
with the separate pecuniary interests
of husband and wife secured, anti the
facility of divorce a vinculo matrimo-
fiii allowed by the laws of most of
the States of the Union, make the
family, to a fearful extent, the mere
shadow of what it was and of what
it should be.

Extend now to women suffrage and
eligibility ; give them the political
right to vote and to be voted fot;
render it feasible for them to enter the
arena of political strife, lo become
canvassers in elections and candi-
dates for office, and what remains of
family union will soon be dissolved.
The ivife may espouse one political
party, and the husband another, and
it may well happen that tlie husband
and wife may be rival candidates for
the same office, and one or the other
doomed to the mortification of defeat.
^Vill the husband like to sec lus wife
enter the lists against him, and tri-
umph over him ? Will the wife, fired
with political ambition for place or
power, be pleased to see her own hus-
band enter the lists against her, and
succeed at her expense ? Will politi-
cal rivalry and the passions it never
fails to engender increase the mutual
aiTection of husband and wife for estdi
other, and promote domestic union
and peace, or will it not cany into
the bosom of the family all the strife,
discord, anger, and division of the poli-
tical canvass ?

Then, when the wife and mother
is engrossed in the political canvass,

The Woman Question.

151

or in discharging her duties as a re-
presentative or senator in Congress, a
member of the cabinet, or a major-
general in the field, what is to become
of the children? The mother will
have little leisure, perhaps less incli-
nation, to attend to them. A stran-
ger, or even the father, cannot supply
her place. Children need a mother's
care ; her tender nursing, her sleep-
less vigilance, and her mild and lov-
ing but unfailing discipline.* This she
cannot devolve on the father, or turn
over to strangers. Nobody can sup-
ply the place of a mother. Children,
then, must be neglected; nay, they
will be in the way, and be looked
upon as an encumbrance. Mothers
will repress their maternal instincts;
and the- horrible crime of infanticide
before birth, now becoming so fear-
fuUy prevalent, and actually causing
a decrease in the native population
of several of the States of the Union
as well as in more than one European
country, will become more prevalent
still, and the human race be threatened
with extinction. Women in easy cir-
cumstances, and placing pleasure be-
fore duty, grow weary of the cares of
maternity, and they would only be-
come more weary still if the political
arena were opened to their ambition.
Woman was created to be a wife
and a mother; that is her destiny.
To that destiny all her instincts point,
and for it nature has specially quali-
fied her. Her proper sphere is home,
and her proper fUnction is the care
of the household, to manage a family,
to take care of children, and attend
to their eariy training. For this she
is endowed with patience, endurance,
passive courage, quick sensibilities, a
^pathetic natiu:e, and great execu-
tive and administrative ability. She
was. bom to be a queen in her own
iKnisehold, and to make home cheer-
ful, bright, and happy. Surely those
women who are wives and mothers

should stay at home and discharge its
duties ; and the woman's rights party,
by seeking to draw her away from
the domestic sphere, where she is
really great, noble, almost divine, and
to throw her into the turmoil of poli-
tical life, would rob her of her true
dignity and worth, and place her in
a position where all her special qua-
lifications and peculiar excellences
would count for nothing. She cannot
be spared from home for that.

It is piretended that woman's gene-
rous sympathies, her nice sense of
justice, and her indomitable perseve-
rance in what she conceives to be
right are needed to elevate our poli-
tics above the low, grovelling and
sordid tastes of men ; but while we
admit that women will make almost
any sacrifice to obtain their own will,
and make less than men do of obsta-
cles or consequences, we are not
aware that they have a nicer or a truer
sense of justice, or are more disinter-
ested in their aims than men. All his-
tory proves that the corruptest epochs
in a nation's life are precisely those
in which women have mingled most
in political affairs, and have had the
most influence in their management.
If they go into the political world,
they will, if the distinction of sex is
lost sight of, have no special advan-
tage over men, nor be more influen-
tial for good or for evil If they go
as women, using all the blandish-
ments, seductions, arts, and intrigues
of their sex, their influence will tend
more to corrupt and debase than to
purify and elevate. Women usually
will stick at nothing to carry their
points; and when unable to carry
them by appeals to the strength of
the other sex, they wiU appeal to its
weakness. When once they have
thrown off their native modesty, and
entered a public arena with men, they
will go to lengths that men will not
Lady Macbeth looks with steady

IS2

The Woman Qutstion.

nerves and itnblanched cheek on a
.«rime from which her husband shrinks
with honor, and upbraids him wilh
his cowardice for letting " I dare not
wait upon I would." It was not she
who saw Banquo's ghost.

We have heard it argued that, if
women were to take part in our elec-
tions, they would be quietly and deco-
rously conducted; that her presence
would do more than a whole army
of police officials to maintain order,
to banish all lighting, drinking, pro-
fane swearing, venality, and corrup-
tion. This would undoubtedly be,
to some extent, the case, if, under the
new rigimf, men should retain the
same chivalric respect for women that
they now have. Men now regard
women as placed in some sort under
their protection, or the safeguard of
their honor. But when she insists
that the distinction of sex shall be
(Ikregarded, and tells us that she
asks no favors, regards all otTers of
protection to her as a woman as an
insult, and that she holds herself com-
petent to take care of herself, and to
compete with men on their own
ground, and in what has hitherto
been held to be their own work, she
may be sure that she will be taken at
her word, that she will miss that defe-
rence now shown her, and which she
has been accustomed to claim as her
light, and be treated with all the in-
difference men show to one another.
She cannot have the advantages of
both sexes at once. When she for-
gets that .^ihe is a woman, and insists
on being treated as a man, men will
forget that she is a woman, and allow
her no advantage on account of her
When she seeks to make her-
self a man. she will lose her influ-
ence as a woman, and be treated as
a man.

Women are not needed as men;
they are needed as women, to do, not
what men can do as well as they, but

what men cannot do. There is
thing which more grieves the
and good, or makes them tremble
the future of die country, than
growing neglect or laxity of famil
discipline; than the insubordination,
the lawlessness, and precocious de-
pravity of Young America. There
is, with the children of this genera-
tion, almost a total lack of filial reve-
rence and obedience. And whose
fault is it?" Jt is chiefly the fault of
the mothers, who fail to govern their
households, and to bring up their
children in a Christian manner. Et^
ceptions there happily are; but
number of children that grow
without any proper training
pline at home is fearhilly large,
their evil example corrupts not a fe*
of those who are well brought up.
The country is no better than
town. ^V'ives forget what they
to their husbands, are capricious
vain, often light and frivolous, exi
vagant and foolish, bent on having
their own way, though ruinous to the
family, and generally contriving, by
coaxings, blandishments, or poutings,
to get it. They set an ill example to
their children, who soon lose all re-
spect for the authority of the mother.
who, as a wife, forgets to honor and
obey her husband, and who. seeing
her have her own way with him,
insist on having their own way with
her, and usually succeed. As a rule.
children are no longer subjected to
a steady and fimi, but mild and
judicious discipline, or trained to ha-
bits of filial obedience. Hence, our
daughters, when they become wives
and mothers, have none of the habits
or character necessary to govern their
household and to train their children.
Those habits and that character
acquired only in a school of ol
ence, made pleasant and cheerful
a mother's playful smile and
ther's love. We know we have

rdJg^B

^e, and^^

a few

it up.

ex«B

dren.

The Woman Question.

153

the S3rmpathy of the women
organ is The Revolution, They
bedience in horror, and seek
> govern, not their own hus-
mly, not children, but men, but
tJty but the nation, and to be
i of household cares, especially
i-bearing, and of the duty of
g up children. We should be
o do or say anything which
in their present mood, could
hize with. It is that which is a
's special duty in the order
idence, and which constitutes
culiar glory, that they regard
' great wrong.

duty we insist on is especial-
sssary in a country like ours,
there is so little respect for
ty, and government is but the
F public opinion. Wives and
V, by neglecting their domestic
ind the proper family disci-
ul to offer the necessary re-
\ to growing lawlessness and
aggravated, if not generated,

fidse notions of freedom and
r so widely entertained. It is

home discipline, and the early
of reverence and obedience
ch our children are trained,
t license the government tole-
nd the courts hardly dare at-
to restrain, can be counter-
a&d the community made a
ing and a law-abiding commu-
rhe very bases of society have
ipped, and the conditions of
government despised, or de-
d under the name of despo-
Social and political life is poi-
in its source, and the blood of
ion corrupted, and chiefly be-
rives and mothers have kiled
r domestic duties, and the dis-
of their families. How, then,
t community, the nation itself^

if we call them away from
and render its duties still more
e to them, instead of laboring

to fit them for a more faithful dis-
charge of their duties ?

We have said the evils complained
of are chiefly due to the women, and
we have said so because it grows
chiefly out of their neglect of their
families. The care and management
of children during their early years
belong specially to the mother. It is
her special function to plant and de-
velop in their young and impressiUe
minds the seeds of virtue, love, reve-
rence, and obedience, and to train
her daughters, by precept and escam-
ple, not to be looking out for an eli-
gible partiy nor to catch husbands
that will give them splendid establish-
ments, but to be, in due time, modest
and affectionate wives, tender and
judicious mothers, and prudent and
careful housekeepers. This the &-
ther cannot do ; and his interference,
except by wise coimsel, and to honor
and sustain the mother, will generally
be worse than notliing. The task
devolves specially on the mother; for
it deman<^ the sympathy with chil-
dren which is peculiar to the female
heart, the strong maternal instinct
implanted by nature, and directed by
a judicious education, that blending
of love and authority, sentiment and
reason, sweetness and power, so cha-
racteristic of the noble and true-heart-
ed woman, and which so admirably
fit her to be loved and honored, only
less than adored, in her own house-
hold. When she neglects this duty,
and devotes her time to pleasure or
amusement, wasting her life in luxu-
rious ease, in reading sentimental or
sensational novels, or in following the
caprices of fashion, the household
goes to ruin, the diildren grow up
wild, without discipline, and the hon-
est earnings of the husband become
speedily insufficient for the family ex-
penses, and he is sorely tempted to
provide for them by rash speculation
or by fiaud, which, though it may be

154

The Woman Quation.

carried on for a while without de-
tettioH, is sure to end In disgrace
and ruin at last Concede now to
women suffrage and e!igibUity, throw
them into the whirlpool of politics,
' set them to scrambling for office, and
' you aggravate the evil a hundred-
fold. Children, if suffered to be bom,
which is hardly to be especled, will
be still more neglected ; family disci-
h plinc still more relaxed, or rendered
I Btili more capricious or inefficient ;
' our daughters will grow up more
I generally still without any Eidequate
I training to be wives and mothers, and
I our sons still more destitute of those
habits of filial reverence and obedi-
ence, love of order and discipline,
without which they can hardly be
sober, prudent, and worthy heads of
families, or honest citizens.

We have thus far spoken of women
onlyaswivesandmothers; bulweare
told that tliere are thousands of women
who are not and cannot be wives and
mothers. In the older and more
densely settled States of the Union
there is an excess of females over
males, and all cannot get husbands
if they would. Yet, we repeat, wo-
man was created to be a wife and a
mother, and the woman that is not
foils of her special destiny. We hold
in high honor spinsters and widows,
and do not believe their case any-
where need be or is utterly hopeless.
There is a mystery in Christianity
which the true and enlightened Chris-
tian recognizes and venerates — that
of the Virgin- Mother, Those women
who cannot be wives and mothers in
the natural order, may be both in the
Gpiiitual order, if they will. They can
be wedded to the Holy Spirit, and
be the mothers of minds and hearts.
The holy virgins and devout widows
who consecrate themselves to God in
or out of religious orders, are both,
and fulfil in the spiritual order their
proper destiny. They are married

to a celestial Spouse, and become
mothers to the motherless, to the
poor, the destitute, the homeless.
They instruct the ignorant, nurse the
sick, help the helpless, tend the ageil,
catch the last breath of the dyinj;,
pray for the unbelieving and the cold-
hearted, and elevate ihc moral tone
of society, and shed a cheering
ance along the pathway of life
are dear to God, dear to the chui
and dear to Christian society.
are to be envied, not pitied. It is
only because you have lost faith in
Christ, faith in the holy Catholic
Church, and have become gross in
your minds, of "the earth, earthy,"
tl;at you deplore the lot of the women
who cannot, in the natural order, find
husbands. The church provides bet-
ter for them than you can do, even
should you secure female su&agc
eligibility.

We do not, therefore, make an
ceplion from our general remarks
favor of those who have and can get
no earthly husbands, and who have
no children bom of their flesh lo care
for. There are spiritual relations
which they can contract, and pmdy
feminine duties, more than they can
perform, await them, to the jjoor
ignorant, the aged and infirm,
helpless and tlie motherless, or, Wl
than motherless, the neglected,
der proper direction, they can lavis
on these the wealth of their affections,
the tenderness of their hearts, and
the ardor of their charity, and And
true joy and happiness in so doing,
and ample scope for woman's no-
blest ambition. They have no need
to be idle or useless. In a world of
so much sin and sorrow, sickness and
suffering, there is always work enough
for them to do, and there are always
(;hances enough to acquire merit in
the sight of Heaven, and true glory,
that will shine brighter and brigbtcs
for ever.

to ne
Th^

ari

The Woman Question.

I5S

We know men often wrong women
and cause them great suffering by
their selfishaess, tyranny, and brutali-
ty; whether more than women, by
their follies and caprices, cause men,
we shall not imdertake to determine.
Man, except in fiction, is not always
a devil, nor woman an angel. Since
the woman's rights people claim that
in intellect woman is man's equal,
and in firmness of will far his supe-
rior, it ill becomes them to charge to
him alone what is wrong or painful
in her condition, and they must recog-
' nize her as equally responsible with
him for whatever is wrong in the
common lot of men and women.
There is much wrong on both sides ;
much suffering, and much needless
suffering, in life. Both men and wo-
men might be, and ought to be, bet-
ter than they are. But it is sheer
folly or madness to suppose that
either can be made better or happier
by political suf&age and eligibility;
for the evil to be cured is one that
cannot be reached by any possible
political or legislative action. *

That the remedy, to a great extent,
must be supplied by woman's action
and influence we concede, but not by
her action and influence in politics.
It can only be by her action and
influence as woman, as wife, and mo-
ther; in sustaining with her affection
the resolutions and just aspirations of
her husband or her sons, and forming
her children to early habits of filial
love and reverence, of obedience to
law, and respect for authority. That
she may do this, she needs not her
political enfianchfaement or her entire
independence of the other sex, but a
better and more th(m>ugh system of
education tot daughters— an education
that specially adapts them to the des-
tmy of their sex, and prepares them
to find their happiness in their homes,
and flie satisfaction of their highest
ambition in discharging its manifold

duties, so much higher, nobler, and
more essential to the virtue and well-
being of the community, the nation,
society, and to the life and progress
of the human race, than any which
devolve on king or kaiser, magistrate
or legislator. We would not have
their generous instincts repressed,
their quick sensibilities blunted, or
their warm, sympathetic natiu'e chill-
ed, nor even the lighter graces and
accomplishments neglected; but we
would have them all directed and
harmonized by solid intellectual in-
struction, and moral and religious
culture. We would have them,
whether rich or poor, trained to find
the centre of their affections in
their home; their chief ambition in
making it cheerful, bright, radiant,
and happy. Whether destined to
grace a magnificent palace, or to
adorn the humble cottage of poverty,
this should be the ideal aimed at
in their education. They should be
trained to love home, and to find
their pleasure in sharing its cares and
performing its duties, however ardu-
ous or painful.

There are comparatively few mo-
thers qualified to give their daughters
such an education, especially in our
own country; for comparatively few
have received such an education
themselves, or are able fully to appre-
ciate its importance. They can find
litde help in the fashionable boarding-
schools for finishing young ladies;
and in general these schools only
aggravate the evil to be cured. The
best and the only respectable schools
for daughters that we have in the
country are the conventual schoob
taught by women consecrated to
God, and specially devoted to the
work of education. These schools,
indeed, are not always all that might
be wished. The good religious some-
times follow educational traditions
perhaps better suited to the social

1S6

The Woman Question,

- armngeraents of other countnes than
of our own, and sometimes under-
rate the value of intellectual culture.
They do not always give as solid an
intellectual education as the American
woman needs, and devote a dispro-
portionate share of their attentidn to
tlie cultivation of the aflfections and
sentiments, and to exterior graces and
accomplishments. The defects we
hint at are not, however, wholly, nor
chieflyj their fault ; they are obliged

. to consult, in some measure, the
tastes and wishes of parents and guar-
dians, whose views for their daughters
and wards are not always very pro-
found, very wise, very just, or very
Christian. The religious cannot, cer-
tainly, supply the place of the mother
in giving their pupils that practical
home training so necessary, and which
can be given only by mothers who
have themselves been properly edu-
cated; but they go as far as is possi-
ble in remedytng the defects of the
present generation of mothers, and in
counteracting their follies and vain
ambitions. With all the faults that
can be alleged against any of them,

, the conventual schools, even as they
re, it must be conceded, are iniinite-

[ ly the best schools for daughters in

. the land, and, upon the whole, worthy
of the high praise and liberal patron-
age theii devotedness and disinterest-
edness secure them. We have sel-
dom found their graduates weak and

[ Bckly sentimentalists. They develop
"d their pupils a dieerfu! and healthy
tone, and a high sense of duty; give
them solid moral and religious instruc-
tion ; cultivate successfully their moral
and religious affections; refine their
manncis, purify their tastes, and send

, them out feeling that life is serious,

life is earnest, and resolved always to

^ -«ct under a deep sense of their person-

, al Tcsponsibilities, and meet whatever
nay be their lot with brave hearts and
without murmuring or repining.

We do not disguise the fact t
our hopes for the future, tn great inea
sure, rest on these conventual schools.
As they are multiplied, and the num-
ber of their graduates increase, and
enter upon the serious duties of life,
the ideal of female education will be-
come higher and broader; a nobler
class of wives and mothers will exert
a healthy and purifying influence; re-
ligion will become a real power in
the republic; the moral tone of tl
community and the standard of p
vate and public morality will be A
vated; and thus may gradually 1
acquired the virtues that will eru'
us as a people to escape the dangx
that now threaten us, and to save t
republic as well as our own ;
Sectarians, indeed, declaim against
these schools, and denounce them as
a subtle device of Satan to make their
daughters " Romanists ;" but Satan
probably dislikes " Romanism " even
more than sectarians do, and is much
more in earnest to suppress or ruin
our conventual schools, in which be
is not beld in much honor, than he is
to sustain and encourage them. Al
any rate, our countrymen who have
such a horror of the religion it is our
glory to profess that they cannot call
it by its true name, would do wcUm
before denouncing these schools, ifl
establish better schools for daughU^H
of their own. ^H

Now, we dare tell these woroen
who are wasting so much time, ener-
g)-, philanthropy, and brilliant do-
quence in agitating for feroale i
frage and eligibility, which, if (
ceded, would only make matti
worse, that, if they have the reol ii
rest of their sex or of the c
at heart, they should turn their «
tion to the education of datigf
for their special functions, not '\
men, but as women who are one (T
to be wives and mothers — worn
true destiny. These modest, 1

Daybreak.

IS7

sisters and nuns, who have no new
theories or schemes of social reform,
and upon whom you look down with
haughty contempt, as weak, spiridess,
and narrow-minded, have chosen the
better part, and are doing infinitely
more to raise woman to her true dig-
nity, and for the political and social
as wen as for the moral and rehgious
progress of the country, than you with
all your grand conventions, brilliant
speeches, stirring lectures, and . spirit-
ed journals.

For poor woriring-women and poor
woddng-men, obliged to subsist by

their labor, and who can find no em-
ployment, we feel a deep sympathy,
and would fevor any feasible method
of relieving them with our best efforts.
But why cannot American girls find
employment as well as Iridi and Ger-
man girls, who are employed almost
as soon as diey touch our diores, and
at liberal wages? There is always
work enough to be dooe if women
are qualified to do it, and are not
above doing it. But be that as it
may, the remedy is not political, and
must be found, if found at all, else-
where than in suffiage and eligibility.

DAYBREAK.

CHAPTER III.

CHBZ LUI.

Miss Hamilton did not go down
to dinner the first day ; but when she
heard Mr. Granger come m, sent a
line to him, excusing herself till eve-
ning, on the plea that she needed rest.
The truth was, however, that she
shrank from first meeting the family
at table, a place which allows so little
escape fix>m embarrassment.

Her door had been left ajar; and
m a few minutes she heard a silken
rustling on the stain^ dmi afaint tap;
and at her summons there entered a
small, lily-faced woman who looked
like something that might have grown
out of the pallid March evening. The
silver-gray of her trailing dr«s, the
uncertain tints of her hair, deepening
fiom flaaun to pale brown, even the
cobwebby Mechlin laces she wore, so
tUn as to httve no cobr of their own
*-aU were Eke Kght, cool riiadows.
This lady entered with a dainty ti-

midity which by no means ewduded
the most perfect self-posBaniun, but
rather indicated an extreme solicitude
for the person she visited.

<< Do I intrude ?" she asked in a
soft, hesitating way. '' Mr. Granger
thought I might come up. We feared
that you were ill."

Margaret was annoyed to feel her-
self blushing. There was something
keen in this lady's beautiful violet
eyes, imdemeath their superficial ex-
pression of anxious kindness.

<' I am not ill, only tired," she re-
plied. '' I meant to go down awhile
after dinner."

<< I am Mn. Lewis," the stranger
announced, seating herself by the bed-
side. ^' My husband and I, and my
husband's niece, Aurdia Lewis, live
here. We don't caH it boarding, you
know. I hope that you will like us."

This wish was expressed in a man-
ner so na'Hfe and earnest that Mar-
garet could but smile in making an-
swer that she was quite prepared to

158

Daybreak.

he pleased with everything, and that
■ her only fear was lest she might dis-
, turb the hannony of their citde —
, not by being disagreeable in herself,
\ but simply in being one more.

With a gesture at once graceful
, and kind, Mrs. Lewis touched Mar<
garvt's hand with her shght, chilly fin-
gers, " You are the one mote whom
I we want," she said; "we have been
I rejoicing over the prospect of having
you with us. You do not break, you
complete the circle."

Her quick ear had caught a linger-
ing lone of pain ; and she had already
found something pathetic in that thin
face and those languid eyes. Miss
Hamilton did not appear to be a per-
Bon likely to disturb the empire which
this lady prided herself on exercising
over their household.

" I know very little about the fam-
ily," Margaret remarked. " Mr. Gran-
r mentioned some names, I am
* not sure if they were all. And men
' nevCT think of the many trifles we
like to be told."

Her visitor sighed resignedly.
"Certainly not — the sublime crea-
' tures! It is the difference between
fteKO and miniature, you know. Let
me enlighten you a little. Besides
those of us whom you have seen,
there are only Mr. Southard, my hus-
band, and Aurelia, We consider
ourselves a very happy family. Of
course, being human, we have occa-
sional jars ; but there is always the un-
derstanding that our real fliendship is
Unimpaired by them. And we defend
each other like Trojans from any out-
Bide attack. We try to manage so as
to have but one angry at a time, the
others acting as peacemakers. The
only one who may trouble you is my
husband. I am anxious concerning
him and you."

With her head a Uttle on one side,
the lady contemplated her companion
with a look of pretty distress.

'■ Forewarned is forearmed,"
gested Miss Hamilton.

" Why, you see," her visitor
confidentially, " Mr. Lewis is one
those provoking beings who take
mischievous delight in misrepi
ing themselves, not for the belter,
the worse. If they see a person 1<
ing very much in one way, ihey
sure to lean very much the other
Mr, Southard calls my husband
infidel, whatever that is. There cdr-
tainly are a great many things which
he does not believe. But one half of
his scepticism is a. mere pretence to
tease the minister. 1 hope you won't
be vexed with him. You won't when
you come to know him. Sometimes
I doo't altogether blame him. Of
course we all admire Mr. Southard in
the most fatiguing manner; but it
cannot be denied that he does inter-
pret and perform his duties in the pre-
raphaelile style, with a pitiless adher-
ence lo chapter and verse. Still, I of-
ten think that much of his appareni
severity may be in those chiselled fea-
tures of his. One is occasionally sur-
prised by some sign of indulgence in
him, some touch of grace or tendi«-
ness. But even while you look, the
charm, without disappearing, frceies
before your eyes, like spray in winter.
I don't know just what to think of
him ; but I suspect thai he has mis-
sed his vocation, that he was made
for a monk or a Jesuit, It would
never do to breathe such a thought
to him, tliough. He chinks ihat dw
Pope is Antichrist."

" And isn't he ?" calmly
granddaughter of the Rev, Doctor
mil ton.

Mrs. Lewis put up her hand to
refasten a bunch of honey-sweet
tuberoses that were slipping from
the glossy coils of her hair, and by
the gesture concealed a momentary
amused twinkle of her eyes.

"Oh! 1 dare say I" she repKoA

Ldte

Daybreak,

159

lightly. " But such a dear, benig-
nant old antichrist as he is! Ages
ago, when we were in Rome, I was in
the crowd before St. Peter's when
the pope gave the Easter benedic-
tion. Involuntarily I knelt with the
rest ; and really, Miss Hamilton, that
seemed to me the only benediction I
ever received. I did not understand
my own emotion. It was quite un-
expected. Perhaps it was something
in that intoxicating atmosphere
which is only half air ; the other half
is soul."

Margaret was silent. She had no
wish to express any displeasure ; but
she was shocked to hear the mystical
Babylon spoken of with toleration,
and that by a descendant of the pu-
ritans.

Mrs. Lewis sat a moment with
downcast eyes, aware of, and quietly
submitting to the scrutiny of the
other — by no means afraid of it, quite
confident, probably, that the result
would be agreeable.

This lady was about forty years
of age, delicate rather than beautiful,
with a frosty sparkle about her. Her
manner was gendeness itself; but
one soon perceived something fine
azul sharp beneath; a blue arrowy
gjbmce that carried home a phrase
otherwise light as a feather, a slight
emphasis that made the more obvi-
ous meaning of a word glance aside,
an unnecessary suavity of expression
that led to suspicion of some pun-
gent hidden meaning. But with all
her airy malice there was much of
genuine honesty and kind feeling.
She was like a faceted gem, showing
her little glittering shield at every
turn; but still a gem.

" Aurdia is quite impatient to wel-
conae you," she resumed softiy.
'*You cannot fail to like her, when
you hqjpen to think of it She is
sweet and beautiful all through.
** Now I wfll leave you to take your

rest, and read the note of which Mr.
Granger made me the bearer. I
hope to see you thij evening."

Margaret looked after the little
lady as she glided away, glancing
back from the door with a friendly
smile and nod, then disappeared,
soundless save for the rustling of her
dress. She listened to that faint
silken whisper on the stairs, then to
the soft shutting of the parlor door,
two pushes before it latched. Then
she read her note. It was but a line.
" Rest as long as you wish to. But
when you are able to come down, we
all want to see you."

She went down to the parlor after
dinner, and found the whole family
there. There was yet so much of
daylight that one gentleman, sitting
in a western window, was reading
the evening paper by it; but the
stream of gaslight that came in fix)m
some room at the end of the long
suite made a red-golden path across
the darkened back-parlor, and caught
brightly here and there on the carv-
ing of a picture, a curve of bronze
or marble, or the gilding of a book-
cover, and glimmered unsteadily over
a winged Mercury that leaned out
of the vague dusk and sparkle, tiptoe,
at point of flight, with lifted face and
glinting eyes.

Mr. Granger stood near the door
by which Margaret entered, evident-
ly on the watch for her ; and at sight
of him that slight nervous embarrass-
ment inseparable from her circum-
stances, and from the unstrung con-
dition of her mind and body, instantly
died away. To her he was strength,
tourage, and protection. Shielded by
his friendship, she feared nothing.

Mrs. Lewis and Dora met her like
old friends; that florid gendeman
with English side-whiskers she guess-
ed to be Mr. Lewis ; and she recog-
nized that fine profile clear against
the opaline west.

I60

Daybreak.

Mr. Southard came forward at
once, scarcely waiting for an intro-
duction.

"A granddaughter of the Rev.
Doctor HamiltoD ?" he said with
emphasis. "I am happy to see
you."

Miss Hamilton received tranquilly
his cordial salutation, and mentally
consigned it to the manes of her
grandfather.

Mr. Lewis got up out of his arm-
chair, and bowed lowly, " Madam,"
he said with great deliberation, " I do
not in the least care who your grand-
father was. I am glad to sce^'ow."

"Thank you!" said Margaret.
^ The gentleman settled rather hea-
vily into his chair again. He was
one of those who would rather sit
than stand. Margaret turned to
meet his niece, who was offering her
hand, and tnumturing some word
of welcome. She looked at Aurelia
Lewis with delight, perceiring then
what Mis, Lewis had meant in say-
ing that her husband's niece was
sweet and beautiful all through. 'I'he
girl radiated loveliness. She was a
blonde, with deep ambers and browns
in her hair and eyes, looking like
some translucent creature shone
through by* rich sunset lights too
soft for brilliancy. She was large,
suave, a trifle sirupy, perhaps, but
sweet to the core, had no salient
points in her disposition, but a
charmingly liquid way of adapting
herself to the angles of others. If
the looks and manners of Mrs. Lewis
were faceted, those of her husband's
niece were what jewelers call en
eabockon. What Aurelia said was
ttotbing. She was not a rq>onablc
person. What she vias was deli-
cious.

" I remember Doctor Hamilton
very well," Mr. Lewis said when the
ladies had finished their compli-
ments. " He was one of those men

who make religion respectable. He
held some pretty hard doctrine;
but he believed every one of 'tm,
and held 'em with a grip. The list
time I saw him was seven or eighl
years ago, just before his death.
They had up their everlasting pdi
tion before the legislature here, fur
the abolition of capital punishment,
and a committee was appointed i"
attend to the matter. I went up i"
one of their hearings. There were
Phillips, Pierpont, Andrew, Sp<ai,
and a lot of other smooth -ton gutd,
soft-hearted fellows who didn't want i
the poor, dear murdereis to be hang- I
ed; and on the other side were Doc-
tor Hamilton with his eyes and hU
cane, common sense, Moses and the
decalogue. They had rather a rough
lime of iL Andrew called youi
grandfather an old fogy, over some
one else's shoulders; and Phillilis
tilted over Moses, tables and all, witii
that sharp lance of his. But DoOi^
Hamilton stood there as firm as I
rock, and beat them all out. He
had the glance of an eagle, and a
way of swinging his arm about, when
he was in earnest, that looked as if
it wouldn't take much provocation
to make him hit straight out. Phil-
lips said something that he didn't
like, and the doctor stamped at him.
Well, the upshot of the matter was,
that capital punishment was not
abolished that year, thanks to ooc
tough, intrepid old man."

" My grandfatlier was ^xty reso-
lute," said Margaret, with a slight,
proud smile.

" Yes," answered Mr. Lewis, " he
would have made a prime soldio,
if he hadn't made the mistake of be-
ing a doctor of divinity."

"The church needed his authoriia-
rive speccb," said Mr. Southard, vritb
decision. " To the minister of God
belongs the voice of denunciation U
well as the voice of praye^^^^^^^—

Daybreak,

I6i

iris gave his* moustache an
twitch.

inger seized the first oppor-
speak aside to Margaret
J these people? You are
?" he asked hastily.
nd yes," she replied,
hink that you will feel at
n you have become better
I with them ?" he pursued,
ms to me that I have al-
l here," she answered, smi-
bere is not the least strange-
leed, surprising things, if
ileasant, never surprise me.
lys expecting miracles. It
nfiil or trivial events which
icredulous and ill at ease."
andeliers were lighted, and
»ws closed; but, according
»leasant occasional custom,
ns were not drawn for a

If any person in the street
sure in seeing this &mily
they were welcome,
cwis broke a few sprays
usk-vine over-starred with
Dssoms, and twined them
ath as she slowly approach-
o who were standing near
je. " Vrve U roi /" she
\ the wreath to the marble

Shakespeare that stood on
shelf.

^t glanced along a row of
brown covers, and exdaim-
Browningsl all hail! there

Iso !" said Mrs. Lewis, with
. "Own, now, that they
ly — that the Browning Pe-
racker, and that the Brown-
up Parnassus is macada-
b— well, diamonds, if you
diamonds in the rough,
hoofs do make dents ; they
ver the ground with a four-
impling; but — ^ a shrug
er completed the sentence,
bowning needs a lapidary,"
roL, IX. — XX

Mr. Granger said; "but her hus-
band's constipated style is a necessity.
His books *are books of quintessences.
At first I thought him suggestive ; but
soon percdved that he was stimulat-
ing instead. He seems to have
brushed a subject Look again, and
you will see that he has exhausted it"

Margaret read the titles of the
books, and in them read, also, some-
thing of the minds of her new asso-
ciates. There were a few shining
names fix>m each of the great nations,
and a good selection of English and
American authors, the patriarchs in
their places. She had a word for
each, but thought, " I wonder why I
like Lowell, almost in silence, yet
like him best"

Near this was another case ot
books, all Oriental, or relating to the
Orient. There were the Tahnud and
the Koran ; there were hideous my-
thologies fUll of propitiatory prayers
to the devil. There were Vaihek^
The Arabian Nights, Ferdausiy and a
hundred others. Over this case htmg
an oval water-color of sea and sky
with a rising sun blazing at the hori-
zon, lighting with flickering gold a
path across the blue, liquid expanse,
and flooding with light the ethereal
spaces. On a scroll beneath this was
inscribed, " Ex Oriente Lux."

"Light and hasheesh," said Mr.
Southard laughingly. " Don't linger
there too long."

Mr. Granger called Dora to him.

"What has my little girl been
learning to-day ?" he asked.

The little one's eyes flashed With
a sudden, glorious recollection. " O
papa I I can spell cup."

The father was suitably astonished.

" Is it possible ? Let me hear."

The child raised her eyebrows, and
played the coquette with her erudi-
tion. " You spell it," she said taun-
tingly.

Mr. Granger leaned back in his

Daybreak.

cbnir, and knitted his brows in intense
study. " T-a-s-s-e, cup."

" No-o, papa," said the faiiy at his
knee.

" T-a-E-z-a, cup t" he essayed again.

Dora shook her flossy curls,

" T-a-z.a, cup !" he said desperate-

ly-

The child looked at him with tears
in her eyes.

"Oh!" he said, "c-u-p, cup I" at
which she screamed with delight,

" How blue it sounds," said Mar-
garet. " Like a Canterbury bell with
a handle to it."

A iray was brought in with coffee,
which was Dora's signal to go to bed.
She took an affectionate leave of alt,
but hid her face in Margaret's neck
m saying good night,

" Who was the little girl in the pic-
ture ?" she whispered.

" It was you, dear," was the reply.

" I keeped thinking of it this ever
so long," said the child.

Her father always accompanied
her to the foot of the stairs; and the
two went out together, Dora clinpng
to his hand, which she held against
her cheek, and he looking down upon
her with a fond smile.

Margaret shrank with a momen-
tary spasm of pain and terror, as she
looked after them. How fearful is
that clinging love which human be-
ings have for each other! how terri-
ble, since, sooner or later, they must
part; since, at any instant, the hand
of fate may be outstretched to snatch
them asunder !

'• PvK you ill ?" whispered AureUa,
touching her arm.

Margaret started, and recollected
herself with an effort; then smiled
without an effort; for the door open-
ed, and Mr. Granger came in again,
glancing first at her, tiien coming to
sit near her.

" I have found out the origin of
coffee," Mn*- Lewis said. " It is, or

is capable of being, a Mohai
legend, I will tell you. Wl
ther Eve, to whom be peata
after her sin, from the sevi
ven, and was precipitated to
as she slipped over the verge
disc, she instinctively flung
arm, and caught at a shrub wi
white blossoms that grew tfa
broke in her hand. She )
Arabia, near Mocha. The
that fell with her took root ai
and had blossoms with five f
white as tlie beautiful Mothfl
fingers. And that's the bit
coffee. Aura, give me a cup
delay. That story was salt" i

"Why should we not haW
ments with so wonderful a
Mr, Granger said, " PropOl
thing. Shall I begin ? I haf
reading the European news. 1
Emmanuel is dawning like aa
Italy. I propose Rome, tb
lion, with honey for Samson."

Mr. Lewis pushed out Hi
lip. He always scouted at I
cars, red or black.

" I follow you," he said imq
ly, with a sly glance at Mr. Sfl
" Rome, the rock that does na
though all the bores blast it,"

There was a tnomentaiyj
during which the eyes of thej
scintillated. Then he esq
" Luther, the Moses at the M
whose rod the rock was rent, I
gospel waters loosed," ■

" Ah I Luther !" endorsed V^
with an affectation of endi
"Greater than Nimroti, he ;
Bibel which babbles to the
the earth."

Mr, Southard flashed out«
and every tongue can spell
Bible, sir!"

" And deny its plainest te
was the retort ; " and vilify
that preserved it I"

" Now, Charles," interpnaa

Daytreai,

163

Lewis, toaching her husband's arm,
"why will you say what you do not
mean, just for the sake of being dis-
agreeable ? You know, Mr. South-
ard, that he cares no more for Rome
than he does for Pekin, and knows
no more about it, indeed. The fact
is, he has the greatest respect for our
church — may I say Militant /"

"Sweet peacemaker!" exclaimed
Mr. Lewis, delighted with the neat
litde sting at the end of his wife's
speech.

Aurelia lifted her cup, and in-
terposed with a laughing quota-
tion:

" ' Here's a health to all those that
we love. Here's a health to all them
that love us. Here's a health to all
those that love them that love those
that love them that love those that
bve us.' ".

This was drunk with acclamations,
ttd peace restored.

After a while Mr. Lewis managed,
or happened, to find Margaret apart.
"I protest I never had a worse
ojanion of myself than I have to-
a^t," he said. " There I had pro-
niked Louis and my wife to let reli-
gioQ alone, and not get up a skirmish
with the minister for at least a week
ato you came ; and I meant to keep
my promise. But you see what my
itsolutions are worth. I am sincerely
swryif I have vexed you."

He looked so sorry, and spoke so
frankly, that Margaret could not help
giving him a pleasant answer, though
she had been ds^leased.

"The furt is," he went on, lower-
ing his voice, " I have seen so much
cant, and hjrpocrisy, and inconsisten-
cy in religion that it has disgusted
nie with die whole business. I may
go too &r. I don't doubt that there
^ honest men and women in the
dmrches; but to my mind they are
^ and fiu* between. I've nothing
to say against Mr. Southard, and I

don't want any one else to speak
against him. I say ugUer things to
his face than I woidd say behind his
back. He's a good man, according
to his light ; but you must permit me
to say that it is a Bengal-light to my
eyes. I can't stand it. It turns me
blue all through."

"Perhaps you do not understand
him," Margaret suggested. " May be
you haven't given him a chance to
explain."

" I tried to be fair," was the reply.
"Now Southard," said I, "tell me
what you want me to believe, and I'll
believe if I can." Well, the first
thing he told me was, that I must
give up my reason. * By George, I
won't !' said I, and there was an end
to the catechism. Of course, if I set
my reason aside, I might be made to
believe that chalk is cheese. Perhaps
I am stubborn and material, as he
says ; but I am what God made me ;
and I won't pretend to be anything
else. I believe that there is some-
where a way for us all — a way that
we shall know is right, when once we
get into it These fishers of men
ought to remember that whales are
not caught with trout-hooks, and that
it isn't the whale's fault if there's a
good deal of blubber to get through
before you reach the inside of him.
St Paul let fly some pretty sharp har-
poons. I can't get 'em out of me for
my life. And, for another kind of
man, I like Beecher. His bait isn't
painted flies, but fish, a piece of your-
self. But the trouble with him is,
there's no barb on his catch. You
slip ofi* as easily as you get on.''

Margaret was glad when the others
interposed and put an end to this
talk. To her surprise, she had no-
thing to reply to Mr. Lewis's objec-
tionis. And not only that, but, while
he spoke, she pw^ved in her own
mind a faint echo to his dissatisfac-
tion. Of course it must be wrong.

|64

Daybreak.

»n<l she was glad to have the conver-
sation put an end to.

They had music, Aurelia playing
with a good deal of taste some per-
iectly harmless pieces. While she
listened, Miss Hamilton's glance wan-
dered about the rooms, folding ihem
quite to her lastc. The first impeni-
nent gloss of everything had worn off,
and each article had mellowed into
its place, like the colors of an old
picture. There was none of that look
we sometimes see, of evcr)'thing hav-
Big been dipped into the same paint-
pot. The furniture was rich in mate-
rial and beautiful in shape; the up-
holstery a heavy silk and wool, the
colors deep and harmonious, nothing
too fine for use. Tlie dull amber of
the walls was nearly covered with
pictures, book-cases, cabinets, and
brackets; there was every sort of ta-
ble, from the two large central ones
with black marble tops, piled with
late books and periodicals, to the tiny
teapoys that could be lifted on a fin-
ger, marvels of gold, and japanning,
and ingenious Chinese perspective.
On the black marble mantel-piece
near her were a pair of silver candele-
Iira, heirlooms in the family, and
china vases of glowing colore, purple,
and rose, and gold. There was more
hronie than parian ; there were cur-
tains wherever curtains could be; and
wilhal, there was plentiful space to
get about, and for the ladies to dis-
play their trains.

All this her first glance took in
with a sense of pleasure. Then she
looked deeper, and perceived friend-
ship, case, security, all that make tlie
soul of home. Deeper yet, then, to
fl>e vague longing for a love, a secu-
rity, a rest exceeding the earthly.
One who has suffered much can never
tgain feel quite secure, but shrinks
from delight almost as much as from
pain.

She turned to Mr. Southard, who

sat beside her. " I am thinking h
miserably we are the creatures of cir-
cumstance," she s^d, in her earnest-
ness forgetting how abrupt she might
seem. " When we are troubled,
everything is dark; when we are hap-
py, everything that approaches casts
its shadow behind, and shows a suns;
front."

He regarded her kindly, pleased
with her almost confidential manner.
'■ There is but one escape from such
slavery," he said. " When we set the
sun of righteousness in the zenith of
our lives, then shadows are annihilat-
ed, not hidden, but annihilated."

When Margaret went up-stairs that
night, she knelt before her open win-
dow, and leaned out, feeling, rsihei
than seeing, the brooding, starlea
sky, sofi and shadowy, like wingi
over a nest. Her soul uplifted itsdf
blindly, almost painfully, beating
against its ignorance. TTicrc was
something out of sight and reach,
which she wanted to see and to
touch. There was one hidden whom
she longed to thank and adore.

"O brooding wings!" she whis-
pered, stretching out her hands. "O
father and mother-bird over the nest
where the little ones lie in the y
sweet dark I"

Words failed. She knew not i
to say. " I wish that I could |
she thought, tears overflowing i
eyes.

Margaret did not know that I
had prayed.

CHAPTER IV.

The days were well arranged in the
Granger mansion. Breakfast was a
movable feast, and silent for the most
part. The members of the family
broke their fesc when and as they
liked, often with a book or paper 6it
company.

Most pereons feel disinclined to
oik in the morning, and are social
only from necessity. This household
recognized and respected the instinct.
One could always hold one's tongue
there. If they did not follow the old
Per^an rule never to speak till one
had something to say worth hearing,
they at least kept silence when they
felt so inclined.

Luncheon was never honored by
the presence of the gentlemen, except
that on nre occEuions Mr. Southard
tame out of liis study to join the la-
ilics, who by this time had found their
tongues. They preferred his usual
custom of taking a scholarly cup of
m in the midst of his books.

To the natural woman an occa-
nul goGsip is a necessity ; and if
mt these three ladies indulged in
Ikitpardoiuible weakness, it was over
Adr luncheon. At sl\ o'clock all
net It dinner, and passed the evening
together. This disposition of time
1^ [he greater part of the day free,
fcff each one to spend as he chose,
adbnmght them together again at
AtdoK or the day, more or lest tir-
0^ dmys glad to meet, oflen with
stneihing to say.

Ma^aret found herself fully and
jileuBlitty occupied. Besides iransla-
DBg she had again set up her easel,
nd qient an hour or two daily at her
fc»mer pretty employment. The
nl« of her services increased, she
fcuod, in proportion as she grew in-
^iflctent to rendering them; and she
"wW now select her own work, and
flicate tcmis. But her most delight-
W occupation was the teaching her
IhiK litile pupils.

Ihere are two ways of leaching
dwldien. One is to seek to imjiose
"0 them our own individuality, to
<lognutixe, in utter unconsciousness
Hut they arc the most merciless of
tatics, frequently the keenest of ob-
wvns, and that they do not so much

lack ideas, as the power of expres-
sion. Such teachers climb on to a
pedestal, and talk complacently down-
ward at pupils who, perhaps, do not
in the least consider them classical
personages. We cannot impose on
chiUlren unless we can daz/le them,
sometimes not even then.

The otlier mode is to stand on
their own platform, and talk up, not
logically, according to Kant or Ham-
ilton, but in that circuitous and in-
consequent manner which is often
the most effectual logic with children.
We all know that the greatest preci-
sion of aim is attained through a spiral
bore; and perhaps these young minds
oflener reach the mark in that indirect
manner, than they would by any more
formal process.

ITiiswas Miss Hamilton's mode of
leaching and influencing children,
and it was as fascinating to her as to
them. She treated them with respect,
never laughed i ' their crude ideas,
did not require of them a. self-control
difficult for an adult to practice, and
never forgot that some ugly duck
might turn out to be a swan. But
where she did assert authority, she
was absolute ; and she was merciless
to insolence and disobedience.

" I want cake. I don't like bread
and Witter," says Dora.

Mrs. James fired didactic platitudes
at the child, Aurelia coaxed, and Mrs.
Lewis preached hygiene. Miss Ham-
ilton knew better than either. She
sketched a bright word-picture of
waving wheat-fields over-buzzed by
bees, over-fluttered by birds, starred
through and through with little intru-
sive flowers that had no business
whatever there, but were let stay ; of
the shaking mill where the wheat was
ground, and the gay stream that
laughed, and set its shining shoulder
to the great wheel, and pushed, and
ran away, blind with foam ; of the
yeasty sponge, a pile of milky bub-

I
■

bles. She told of sweet clover-heads,
red and white, and the tow and the
bees seeing who should get them first.
' I want them for my honey,' says the
bee. 'And I want them for my
cream,* says Mooly. And they both
made a snatch, and Mooly got the
clover, and perhaps a purple violet
with it, and the cream got the sweet-
ness of them, and then it was chum-
tfdl, and there was the butter] Slie
described the clean, cool dairy, full
of a ceaseless flicker of light and
shade from the hop-vines that swung
outside the window, and waved the
humming-birds away, of pans and
pans of yellow cream, smooth and de-
licious, of fresh butter just out of the
chum, glowing like gold through its
bath of water, of pink and white pe-
tals of apple-blossoms drifting in on
the soft breeze, and settUng — "who
knows but a pink, crimped-up-at-the-
edges petal may have settled on ibis
very piece of butter? Try, now, if
it doesn't taste apple-blossomy."

Nonsense, of course, when viewed
from a dignified altitude ; but when
looked up at from a point about two
feet from the ground, it was the most
excellent sense imaginable. To these
three little girls, Dora, Agnes, and
Violet, Miss Hamilton was a god-
Margaret did not neglect her own
mind in those happy days. Mr.
Southard marked out for hera course
of reading in which, it is true, poetry
and fiction, with a few shining excep-
tions, were tabooed ; but metaphysics
was permitted ; and history enjoined
tome upon tome, striking octaves up
the centuries, and dying away in tink-
ling mythologies. She read conscien-
tiously, sometimes with pleasure,
sometimes with a half- acknowledged

Deybriak.

edbffi

Mr, Southard was a severe Mentor.
As he did not spare himself, so he did
not spare others, still less MargaxBL

She failed to perceive, what was plain
to the others, that, by virtue of hn
descent, he considered her his espe-
cial charge, and was trying to fom
her after his notions. She acquiesctd
in all his requirements, half from in-
difference, half from a desire to pkasc
everybody, since she was herself »
well pleased; and then forgot aO
about him. It was out of his powef
to trouble her save for a roomcDt.

" You yield too much to that man,"
Mrs. Lewis said to her one day. " He
is one of those positive persons who
cannot help being tyrannical."

" He has a fine mind," said 1
garet absently.

" Yes," the lady acknowledged n
pettish tone. " But if he would «
a few pulses up to irrigate his btain,
it would be an improvement"

Of course Mr. Southard spoke of
religion to his pupil, and urged on her
the duty of being united with the
diurch.

" I cannot be religious, ss the
church requires," she said tmeasily,
dreading lest he might overcome her
will without convindng her reason.
" I think thai it is something caba-
listic"

"Your grandfather, and your £i-
iher and mother did not find it so,"
the minister said reprovingly.

Margaret caught her breath with
pain, and lifted her hand in a quick,
silencing gesture, " I never bury
my dead I" she said; and after ft
moment added, "It may be wrong,
but this religion seems to me like a
strait-jacket. I like to read of
David dancing before the ark, of
dervishes whirling, of Shakers clip-
ping their hands, of Methodists sing-
ing at the tops of their voices ' Glory
Hallelujah!' or falling into trances.
Religion is not fervent enough for
me. It does not express my feelings-
I hardly know what I need, rerhaps
I am all wTong." ,^_

Daytrtai.

167

She stopped, her eyes fUling with
tears of vexation.

But even as the drops started, they
brightened ; for, just in season to save
her from still more pressing exhor-
tation, Mr. Granger sauntered across
the room, and put some careless ques-
tion to the minister.

Mr. Southard recollected that he
had to lecture that: evening, and left
the room to prepare himself.

" I am so glad you came 1" Mar-
garet said, '^ I was on the point of
being bound, and gagged, and blind-
folded."

Mr. Granger took the chair that
the minister had vacated, and drew
up to him a little stand on which he
temed his^ arms, " I perceived that
I was needed," he said. "There
was no mistaking your besieged ex-
pression; and I saw, too, that look
in Mr. Southard's face which tells
^ he is about to pile up an insur-
mountable argiunent I do not
think that you will be any better for
having religious discussions with him.
You will only be fretted and uneasy.
Mr. Southaid is an excellent man,
ffid a sincere Christian ; but he is in
danger of mistaking his own tempera-
ment for a dogma."

«If I thought that, then I
shouldn't mind so much," Margaret
said. "But I have been taking for
granted that he is right and I wrong,
and trying to let. him think for me.
The result is, that instead of being
convinced, I have only been irritated.
1 must think for myself whether I
vidi to or not Now he circum-
acr3)e8 my reading so. It is miscel-
hmeoos, I know; but I am curious
>bout everything in the universe. I
don't like closed doors. He thinks
my curiosity trivial and dangerous,
^ reminds me that a rolling stone
gathers no moss." '

"And I would ask, with the canny
Scotchman, 'what good does the

moss do the stone ?' " Mr. Granger
replied. " The fact is, you've got to
do just as I did with him. He and
I fought that battle out long ago,
and now he lets me alone, and we
are good friends. Be as curious as
you like. I heard him speak with
disapproval of your going to the Jew-
ish S3magogue last week, and I dare
say you resolved not to go again.
Go, if you wish ; and don't ask his
permission. He frowned on the
Greek anthology, and you laid it
aside. Take it up again if you like.
Even pagan flowers catch the dews
of heaven. Your own good taste
and delicacy will be a sufficient cen-
sor in matters of reading."

"Now I breathe!" Margaret said
joyfully. "Some people can bear
to be so hemmed in; but I cannot
It does me harm. If I am denied a
drop of water, which, given, would
satisfy me, at once I thirst for the
ocean. I cannot help it It is my
way."

" Don't try to help it," Mr. Gran-
ger replied decisively; " or, above all,
don't allow any one else to try to
help it for you. I have no patience
with such impositions. It is an in-
sult to humanity, and an insult to
Him who created humanity, for any
one person to attempt to think for
another. Obedience and humility
are good only when they are volun-
tary, and are practised at the man-
date of reason. There are people
who never go out of a certain roimd,
never want to. They are bom, they
hve, and they die, in the mental and
moral domicil of their forefathers.
They have no orbit, but only an
axis. Stick a precedent through
them, and give them a twiri, and
they will hum on contentedly to the
end of the chapter. I've nothing
against them, as long as they let
others alone, and don't insist that to
stay in one place and buzz is the end

Sof^hwSi.

' humanity. Other people there

; who grow, they are insatiably

irious, they dive to the heart of

ings, they take nothing without a

They are not quite satis-

1 with truth itself till they have

mpared it with all that claims to

: truth. Let them look, I say.

It's a poor truth that won't bear any

test that man can put to it. The

first are, as Coleridge says, ' very

^_ positive, but not quite certain' that

^L-lhey are right; to the last a convic-

^^M tion once won is perfect and inde-

^H-4lmctible. Rest \\ith them is not

^^( vegetation, but rapture.

^H " Fly abroad, my wild bird I don't

^HiIjc afraid. Use your wings. Thai

^^Mb what they were made for."

^^1 Margaret forgot to answer in lis-

^^f tening and looking at the speaker's

^f animated face. When Mr. Granger

was in earnest, he had an impetuous

way that carried all before it. At

Ae end, his shining eyes dropped

Ion her and seemed to cover her with
|l^t; the impatient ring in his voice
IDflened to an indulgent tenderness.
Margaret felt as a flower may feel
Ibat has its fill of sun and dew, and
!lws nothing to do but bloom, and
then fade away. She had no fear
Of this man, no sense of humiliation
Trith regard to the past. Her grati-
tude toward him was boundless. To
him she owed life and all that made
Bfc tolerable, and any devotion
which he could require of her she
was ready to render. Her friend-
ship was jjerfect, deep, frank, and
full of a silent delight. She did not
deify him, but was satisfied to find

I him human. He could speak a
cross word if his beef was over-done,
kii coffee too weak, or his paper out
of the way when he wanted it. He
could criticise people occasionally,
ind laugh at their weakness, even
when his kind heart reproached him
fcr doing it. He liked to lounge

on a sofa and read, when he had
better be about his business. He
needed rousing, she thought; wis
too much of a Sybarite to live in a
world full of over-worked people.
Perhaps he was rusting. But how
kind and thoughtful he was; hcnr
full of sympathy when sympathy wu
needed; how generoudy he blamed
himself when he was wrcmg, awl
how readily forgot the faults d
others. How impossible it was fbt
him to be mean or selfish ! His ikf
sweet, slow nature reminded her 4
a rose ; but she felt intuitively tb
under that silence was bidden a h
roic strength.

Mr. Southanl's lecture was on tl
Jesuits; and all the family were i
go and hear him.

"Terribly hot weather for such
subject," Mr. Lewis grumbled. " B
it wouldn't be respectful not to g
Don't forget to take your smciUai
salts, girls. There will be a stnt
odor of brimstone in the cotcrtu
ment,

Margaret went to the lecture wj
a feeling that was almost fear. 1
her the name of Jesuit was a tenc
The day of those powerful, guiled
men was passed, surely; and y«
what '\i, in the strange vicissitudes I
life, they should revive again ? Si
was glad that the minister was goil
to raise his warning voice; yet sli
she dreaded to hear him. "The so!
ject was too exciting.

The lecture was what Ui^it I
expected. Beginning with Igtutni^
of Loyola, the speaker traced the
progress of that unique and poweffid
society through its wonder&l
crease, and its don-nfall, to tlie
sent time, when as he said,
braised serpent was again raising

Mr. Southard did full
their learning, their
their zeal.

JD/^iirtai.

dninkfaig admirarion how men
pos s eas e d of tastes and accomplish-
ments which fitted them to shine in
the most cultivated society, buried
themselves in distant and heathen
lands, far removed from all human
sjrmpathy, hardened their scholarly
hands with toil, encountered danger,
sufEered death — ^for what? That
their society might prosper! The
sahject seemed to have for the
spoker a painfiil fascination. He
bigered while describing the unpar-
aOded devotion, the pernicious en-
droaasm of these men. He acknow-
ledged that they proclaimed the
name of Christ where it had never
been heard before;, he lamented
that mmisters of die gospel had
not emulated their heroism; but
there the pictm-e was over-clouded,
was vailed in blackness. It needed
so much brightness in order that the
daiimess which followed might have
its fiill effect

We all know what pigments are
Qsed in that Plutonian shading —
meDtal reservation, probableism, and
the doctrine that the end justifies the
means; the latter a fiction, the two
farmer scrupulously misrepresented.

Here Mr. Southard was at home.
Here he could denounce with fiery
indignation, point with lofty scorn.
The dose of the lecture left the cha-
nuiers of the Jesuits as black as their
robes. They had been lifted only to
be cast down.

Miss Hamflton walked home with
Mr. Granger, scarcely uttering a
word the whole way.

"You do not speak of the lecture,"
he said when they were at the house
steps. "Has it terrified you so
DJuch that you dare not ? Shall you
*ut up firom sleep to-night fancying
Aat a great black Jesuit has come to
««ny you off ?"

•Do you know, Mr. Granger,"
Aetnd dowiv. ''those men seem to

me very much like the apostles; in
their devotion, I mean? I would
like to read about them. They are
interesting."

" Oh ! they have, doubtless, books
which will tell you all you want to
know," he replied.

" TA^ ./" repeated Margaret " But
I want to know the truth."

Mr. Granger laughed. "Then I
advise you to read nothing, and hear
nothing."

" How then shall I learn ?" de-
manded Miss Hamilton with a touch
of impatience.

" Descend into the depth of your
consciousness, as the German did
when he wanted to make a correct
drawing of an elephant."

"No," she replied remembering
the story, " I will imitate the French-
man; I will go to the elephant's
country, and draw from life."

" That is not difficult," Mr. Gran-
ger said, amused at the idea of Miss
Hamilton studying the Jesuits;
"These elephants have jungles the
world over. In this city you may
find one on Endicott street, another
on Suffolk street, and a third on
Harrison avenue."

They were just entering the house.
Margaret hesitated, and paused in
the entry.

"You do not think this a foolish
curiosity?" she asked wistfidly.
"You see no harm in my wishing
to know something more about
them ?"

Mr. Granger was leaving his hat
and gloves on the table. He tinned
immediately, surprised at the serious
manner in which the question was
put.

"Surely not!" he said promptly.
"I should be very inconsistent if I
did."

She stood an instant longer, her
fece perfectiy grave and pale.
" You are afiraid ?" he asked smiling.

170

D^hwak.

" No," she replied hesitatingly, " I
don't think that is it. liul I have all
my life had such a horror of Catho-
lics, and especially of Jesuits, that
to resolve even to look at thern de-
liberately, seems almost as momen-
tous a step as Cassar crossing the
Rubicon,"

THE SWORD OF THS LOKD AKD OF GIDEON.

Boston, at the beginning of the
war, was not a place to go to sleep
in. Massachusetts politics, so long
eminent in the senate, had at last
taken the field; and that city, which
is the brain of the State, effervesced
with enthusiasm. Men the least he-
roic, apparently, showed themselves
capable of heroism ; and dreamers
over the great deeds of others looked
Up to find that they might them-
scWcs be " the hymn the Brahrain
sings."

Eager crowds surrounded the bul-
letin, put out by newspaper offices,
or ran to gaze at mustering or de-
parting regiments. Windows filled
at the sound of a tife and drum ; and
it seemed that the air was fit to be
breathed only when it was full of the
flutter of flags.

Ceremony was set aside. Stran-
geis and foes spoke to each other;
and the most disdainful lady would
smile upon the roughest uniform.
From the Protestant pulpit came no
more liic exhortation to brotherly
love, but the trumpet-call to arms ;
and under the wing of the Old South
meeting-house rose a recruiting office,
and a rostrum, with the motto,
" The sword of the Lord and of
Gideon."

The Lord of that time was he at
the touch of whose rod the flesh and
LGOnsumed with fire ;

who sent for a sign a drench of dc*
on the fleece; at the comnund o(
whose servant all Ephraim ^aoutcl
and took the waters before the flying
Midianites, with the heads of Ureh
and of Zeb on their spears.

Of course there was a good deal
of fi'Oth; but underneath glowed the
pure wine. It is true that many
went because the savage instina
hidden in human nature rose from iu
unseen lair, and fiercely shook itself
awake at the scent of blood. But
others came from an honest sense of
duly, and offered their lives knowing
what they did; and women who
loved them said amen. )t was a
stirring time.

It is not to be supposed that our
friends were indifferent to these
event;. It was a doubtful point with
them, indeed, whether they could be
content to leave the city that sum-
mer. Mr. Southard was decidedly
for remaining in town; and Mr.
Granger, though less exdtcd,
inclined to second him. But
Lewis had, early in the spring;,

gaged a cottage at the seaside,

the understanding that the -whole
family were to accompany him there,
and he utterly refused to release
them from their promise. As if to
help his arguments, the weather be-
came intensely hot in June. I'lnally
they consented to go.

" We owe you thanks for your per-
sistence," Mr. Granger said, as they
sat together the last evening of their
stay in town. " I couldn'
months of this."

Mr. Lewis was past answi
Dressed in a complete suit of lii
seated in a wide I'^^i^^
palm-leaf fan in oa^^nnd VfA^
handkerchief in the wK
cd what his wife called an illTten]
ed dissolving view. At that
the only desire of his heart
one of Sydney Smith's, that he

am,

Daybreak,

III

f his flesh and sit in his

ia and Margaret sat near by,

smiling, and languid, trying

cool in their crisp, white

Hamilton would scarcely be
ed by one who had seen her
ree months before. Happi-
1 done its work, and she was
L Her face had recovered
)th curves and bloomy white-
id her lips were constantly
ing with the smile that was
dy to come.

rranger contemplated the two
idies with a patriarchal admi-

He liked to have beautiful
in his sight; and surely, he

no other man in the city
oast of having in his family
li girls as those who now sat

him. Besides, what was
jy were friends of his, and
. him with confidence and

•

Lewis glanced from them to
I back to them, and pouted
a httle. "He is enough to
)atience of a saint !" she was
"Why doesn't he marry
ose girls like a sensible man ?
ure, it is their fault. They
friendly and frank with him,
letons! There they sit and
I him with affectionate tran-
as if he were their grandfa-
d like to give 'em a shaking."
outhard was walking slowly
o from the back-parlor to the
i he, too, glanced frequently
)fa where sat the two uncon-
auties. But no smile soflen-
ale face. It seemed, indeed,
Jian usual. The war was
be minister to the depths,
-.ewis opened a blind near
beam of dusty gold came in
west ; he snapped the blind
e.

** Seems to me it takes the sun a long
time to get down," he said crossly. " I
hope that none of your mighty Joshuas
has commanded it to stand still."

No one answered. They sat in the
sultry gloaming, and listened dreamily
to the mingled city noises that came
from near and far; the softened roll
of a private carriage, like the touch
of a gloved hand, after the knuckled
grasp of drays and carts; the irritating
wheeze of an inexorable hand-organ ;
and, through all, the shrill cry of the
news-boy, the cicada of the city.

The good-breeding of the company
was shown by the perfect composure
of their silence, and the perfect quies-
cence of their minds, by the fact
that their thoughts all drifted in the
same direction, each one after its own
mode.

Mrs. Lewis was thinking : *' Those
poor horses! I wish they knew
enough to organize a strike, and all
run away into the green, shady coun-
try."

The husband was saying relentmgly
to himself, " I declare I do pity'^e
poor fellows who have to work dur-
ing this infernal weather."

The others were still more in har-
mony with Mr. Granger when he
spoke lowly, half to himself:

" If that beautiful idyl of Ruskin's
could be realized; that country and
government where the king should
be the father of his peojde ; where all
alike should go to him for help and
comfort; where he should find his
glory, not in enlarging his dominion,
but in making it more happy and
peaceful ! Will such a kingdom ever
be, I wonder? Will such a golden
age ever come ?"

Margaret glanced with a swift smile
toward Mr. Southard, and saw the
twin of her thought in his face.
He came and stood with his hand on
the arm of her sofa.

"Both you and Mr. Ruskin are

r^2

Di^brrak.

\ t vnconsciously thinking of the same
I ' thing," he said, with some new sweet-
ness in his voice, and brightness in
his face. " What you mean can only
be the kingdom of God; and it will
come! it will cornel"

Looking up smilingly at him, Mar-
garet caught a smile in return ; and
then, for (he first time, she thought
that Mr. Southard was beautiful.
The cold purity of his face was light-
ed momentarily by that glow which
it needed in order to be attractive.

Aurelia rose, and crossing the
room, flung the blinds open. The
sun had set, and a slight coolness was
creeping up.

" This butchery going on at the
South looks as if the kingdom of God
were coming with a vengeance," said
Mr. I^ewis, fanning himself.

" It is coming with a vengeance !"
exclaimed Mr. Southard. " God does
not work in sunshine alone. Job
saw him in the whirlwind. Massa-
chusetts soldiers have gone out with
tiw Bible as well as the bayonet."

Mr. Lewis coniemplaled the speak-
er with an expression of wondering
admiration that was a little overdone.

" What i/(i/ God do before Massa-
chusetts was discovered ?" he ex-
claimed.

" I was surprised to hear, Mr.
Granger, that your cousin Sinclair
had joined a New York regiment,"
Mrs. Lewis said hastily. " Only the
day before the steamer sailed in which
he had engaged passage, some quix-
otic whim seized hiro, and he volun-
teered. 1 cannot conceive what in-
duced him."

" I think the uniform was becom-
ing," Mr. Granger said dryly.

" I pity his wife," pursued the lady,
sighing. " Poor Caroline 1"

"She has acted like a fool!" Mr.
Lewis broke in angrily. " It was her
fault that Sinclair went off. She
tfaomed him perpetually with her cs-

actions. She forgot that lovers |
only common folks in a state of eva-
poration, and that it is in the nature
of things that they should get con-
densed after a time. She wanted
him to be for ever picking up her
pocket-handkerchief, and writuig
acrostics on her name. A nuin can't
stand that kind of folderol when he'i
got to be fifly years old. We begin
to develop a taste for common sout
when we reach that age."

" He showed no confidence in her," '
Mrs. Lewis said, with downcast cfes
'■ He often deceived her, and there-
fore she always suspected him."

■' I think that a man should have
no concealments from his wife," i
Mr, Southard emphatically,

"That's just what Samson's 1
thought when her husband prop<
his little conundrum to the V
tines," commented Mr, Lewis.

Margaret got up and Iblloired
Aurelia to the window.

" I am very sorry for Cousin Ciro-
linc," said Mr. Granger, in his state-
liest manner, rising, also, and putting
an end to the discussion.

" He is always sony for any one
vho can contrive to appear abused,"
Mr. Lewis said to Margaret. ■' If you
want to interest him, you must be as
unfortunate as you can,"

Margaret looked at her friend with
eyes to which the quick tears started,
and blessed him in her heart.

He was passing at the momeot,
and, catching the remark, feared ka
she might be hurt or embarrassed., i
" Don't you want to come out.^
to the veranda ?" he asked, ^ai;
back as he stepped from the ]
window.

The words were nothing ; but I]
were so steeped in the kindnei
the look and tone accompanji
them that they seemed to be \
of tenderness.
She followed him out into the t

die othcre came too, and they

looking into the street, saying
Uule, but enjoying the refreshing cool-
ness. Other people were at their
windows, or on their steps ; and occa-
Bonally an acquaintance passing
Ktopped for a word. After a while
G— — , the liberator, came along, and
leaned on the fence a moment — a
man with a ridge over the top of his
baH head, that looked as if his back-
liene didn't mean to stop till it had
RUhed his forehead, as probably it
didn't; a soft-voiced, gently*speaking
lion; but Margaret had heard him

JOB,

"lb. G ," said Mr. Granger,
"hoc w a bdy with two dactyls for a
lam:, Miss Margaret Hamilton. She
iH add another, and be Miriam, when
yonr people come out through the
Red Sea we are making."

*■ Have your cymbals ready, young
Jirophetess," said the liberator, " The
ntea are lifting on the right hand
lad on the left."

The aeM day ihey went to the sea-
iile, the ladies going in the morning
VKt things in order; the gentlemen
Ml permitted to make their appear-
ince tin evening.

After a pleasant ride of an hour in
'it cars, they stepped out at a little
i^F-stalion, where a carriage was
initing them. About half a mile
fam this station, on a point of land
Uddca from it by a strip of thick
nods was their cottage.

The place was quite solitary ; not
1 house in sight landward, though
tmaa cottages nestled all about
VDmg (he hills, hidden in wild green
looks. But across the water, towns
■CR visible in all directions.

Tlwy drove with soundless wheels
iNtr a moist, brown road that wound
"td CMled through the woods. Tliere

E shower in the night that
ing washed, and the sky

Daybreak. 173

cloudless. It was yet scarcely ten
o'clock ; and the air, though warm,
was fresh and still. The morning
sunshine lay across the road, motion-
less between the motionless dense tree-
shadows; both light and shade so
still, so intense, they looked like a
pavement of solid gold and amber.
If, at intervals, a slight motion woke
the woods, less like a breeze than a
deep and gentle respiration of nature,
and that leaf- and-flower- wrought
pavement stirred through each glowing
abaciscus, it was as though the solid
earth were stirred.

A faint sultry odor began to rise
from the pine-tops, and from clumps
of sweet-fern that stood in sunny
spots; but the rank, long-hemmed
flowers and trailing vines that grew
under the trees were yet glistening
with the undried shower ; the shaded
grass at the roadside was beaded,
every blade, with minute sparkles of
water; and here and there a pine-
bough was thickly hung with drops
that trembled with (illness at the
points of its clustered emerald nee-
dles, and at a touch came clashing
down in a shower that was distinctly
heard through the silence.

The birds were taking their fore-
noon rest; but, as the carriage rolled
lightly past, a fanatical bobolink, who
did not seem to have much common
sense, but to be brimming over with
l!ie most glorious nonsense, swung
himself down from some hidden
])etch, alighted in an utterly impossi-
ble manner on a spire of grass, and
poured forth such a long-drawn,
liquid, impetuous song, that it was a
wonder there was anything of him
left when it was over,

Three pairs of hands were stretched
to arrest the driver's arm; three smi-
ling, breathless faces listened till the
last note, and watched the ecstatic
little warbler swim away with an
undulating motion, as if he floated

174

Daybreak.

on the bubbling waves of his own
song.

In a few minutes a turn of the road
brought them in sight of the blue,
salt water spread out boundlessly,
sparkling, and saiJ-flecked ; and pre-
sently they drove up at the cottage
door.

This was a long, low building, all
wings, like a moth; colored, like
fungi, of mottled browns and yel-
lows; overtrailcd by woodbines and
honeysuckles, through which you
sometimes only guessed at the win-
dows by the white curtains blowing

"Why, it is something that has
grown out of the earth!" exclaimed
Margaret. " See ! the ground is all
uneven about the walls as it is about
the boles of trees."

This rural domicil faced the east
and the sea; and an unfenced lawn
sloped down to the beach where the
tide was now creeping up with bright
ripples chasing each other.

The house was pleasant £nough,
large and airy ; and, after a f«w hours'
work, they had everything in order.
Then, tired, happy, and hungry, they
sat down to luncheon.

" Isn't it delightful to get rid of
men a little while, when you know
that they are soon to come again ?"
drawled Aurelia, sitting with both
elbows on ihe table, and her rich
hair a litde tumbled.

Margaret glanced at her with a
smile of approval. " That sweet
creature!" she thought. And said
aloud, "You know perfecdy well.
Aura, that all the time they are gone
we are thinking of them and doing
something for them. Whom have we

been working for to-day ba
tlemen, pray ?"

To her surprise, AurcU
eyes dropped, and her bd
turned a sudden pink.

" I never could carve a
Mrs. Lewis plaintively. "
must be a bcgiiming in lea
thing. I wish I knew wht
ginning of this duck is. i
you go look in that Aud
see how this creature is put
We are likely to be won
Mr. Secretary Pepys, when
son pasty turned out to b«
mutton.' ^Ve shall have a

Margaret started up, '
purpose, give me the cai
cried; and seizing the It
moment of inspiration, iri
carved the mysterious duo
trayed its hidden articuladc

Mrs. Lewis contemplata
great respect. " My dear,
" I have done you injustio
believed that though you t
ceed admirably in the t
and the extraordinary,
no faculty for common '
acknowledge my error,
favors genius,' as Disrad
Burke."

After luncheon and a s
dressed and went out onto
to watch for the gentlemen
sently appeared.

Mr, Granger presented
with a spike of beautiful
thusa set in a ring of fealj
" It came from a swamp ml
he said. " I wanted to '
something bright the first d

"You always bring me
bright," she said.

Problems of the Age, and its Critics.

PROBLEMS OF THE AGE, AND ITS CRITICS.

The article from The Independint
of August solh, which we quote in
Fiill below, has been sent to us by the
writer of it, with an accompanying
note, requesting us to take notice of
its observations. Our remarks will,
therefore, be chiefly confined to this
(laniculai criticism on the Problems
iif the Age, although we shall em-
brace the opportunity to notice also
nme other criricisms which have
been made in various periodicals.

"The putorof the Broadway Tabernacle,
BHi|iytacs ago, taking i hint from Arch-
bitlwp Whately. ' traced the errors of Ro-

Ulute,' bat in Old School iheology, The
tltn-Calfiniit doctrine of original sin, he
vped, necc*HUled the dogma of baplis'
«d t^neration; and the doctiine of
li^Hcal inabilily brought in the notion of
BDUtentat grace. Mr. Hewit is a living
miaple, and his boolt is documentary proof,
it the justice of tlus theory. Mis early
tnining was under the serereBt of school-
OMcTi, in the oldest of schools. The
prcitdcma on which his mind has been ex-
croKd froni his birth are such as ihis :
Hm men can be 'born depraved, with an
RtMtible propensity ta sin, and under the
Joom of eternal wiaery.' With admirable
■fclidly, a treatise on questions like this —
Ike frcsbest uf which are as old as Chiis-
i*t dieotogy, and the others as old, if not
lUu.tkan the fall of man— has been enli-
Mi'nilem4 of iKe Agi, on the ground (as
*c tie informed in the preface) that they
'<K'ub)ects of much interest and inquiry
i" one own time.' From his hereditary
wJwTatsmenls on these subjects, the wri-
M Bikes bis wny out to a new theodicy,
•taioB the subject at the enislence of sin
* tVrloriim, word tat word; on the sub-
leaoftutural depravity is something like
hb^aniim ; and on the sul^ect of original
■" ii a curious notion. wWch he strives
"duDir to represent as the sentiment of
^fUKine. "Hie whole series of ideas is
'•ttlled 'Catholic Theology,' and repre-
■ratal as the antagonist of Protestant opin-

"The volume deserves no small praise as
a sjiecimen of lucid, consecutive argument
on difficult questions, conducted in pure
English. The only serious blemish upon
the author's style is his habit, when he has
said a thing once in good English, of saying
it over again immediately in bad Latin.
But this, wc suppose, is less the fault of his
tisie than of his position. The logic of
the book, also, has not more faults than are
commonly incident to such discussions ; it
is strong for pulling down, feeble in building
up. It reduces to absurdity the statements
of some of his antagonists, with wonderful-
ly complacent unconsciousness thai a smart
antagonist could get exactly the same hitch
about the neck of ili statement, and drag it
to the same destruction.

"The plan of the work is curious. It
begins with the primary cognitions of the
mind, and goes forward with an iprinri ar-
gument for the existence of God j that if
God exists, he must necessarily exist in
Trinity ; must create just Such a universe ;
must be incarnate in the Second Person ;
must redeem a bllen race ; must institute
tlie Roman Catholic Church, its sacraments
and ritual. The second part is devoted to
finding in Augustine the ideas of the for-
mer part — ideas some of which, unless that
lucid author has been hitherto read with a
veil upon the heart,

" Besides the limits of space, which are
imperative, two reasons suffice to excuse us
from examining in detail the course of tlus
ingenious and protracted argument ;

" Finl. It is a matter of comparatively
little interest to scrutinize severely the/n.
ceties of a reasoner to whom one half of his
canclMtions are prescribed beforehand, un-
der peril of excommunication and eternal
damnation, while he holds the other half
under a vow to repudiate them at a mo-
ment's notice from the proper authority.

"SaiinJ. It is profoundly unsatisfactory [o
argue against any such book, whatever its
origin or pretensions, as representative of
the Roman Catholic Iheology. From page
to page the author challenges our respect
and deference for his views as being the
teachings of the church. 'This is Catho.
lie truth ; this is Catholic theology.' But,
once let us give chase to one of his propo-

ty6

Problems of the Age, and its Critics.

Eiiions, and hunt il down into tlie ronicr of
an absurdity, and wc are sure la hear same
of the aulhor's confederates trying to call
off the dogs with the aaaurance, ' Oh 1
thai is only a notion of Hewit'a ;' or, ■ only
a private opinion of theologians ;' or, • onTy
the declaration of an individual pope ;' or,
'only a decree of council which never waa
generally received : the church is not ic-
poniible for such things as these.' So
slippery a thing is 'Catholic doctrine'!
So uniestliil is Ihe ' repose ' oilered to in-
quiring roindi by that church, which di-
vide) all subjects of religious thought into
two classes : one, on which it ts forbidden
to make impattial inquiry; the other, on
which it is forbidden to come to seltled
Gonclusioiu."

We confess that it appears lo us
a very puzzling " probleni " to find
out how to answer the foregoing criti-
cism, or the others from non-catholic
periodicals which it has been our hap
to fall in with. Not one of them has
seriously controverted the main thesis
of the book they profess to criticise,
or to make any well-motived adjudi-
cation of the several portions of the
argument by which the thesis is sus-
tained. Some, like the one before us,
attempt to set aside the whole ques-
tion ; others content themselves with
a round assertion that the arguments
are inconclusive; and the residue
confine themselves to generalities ; or,
at most, to the criticism of some mi-
nor details. We should not think it
worth while to trouble oiu^ves or
our readers with a formal replication
to such superficial critics, were it not
for the opportunity which is afforded
us of bringing into clearer light the
total lack of all deep philosophy or
theology in the non-catholic worid,
and the value of the Catholic philoso-
phy which we are striving to bring
before the minds of intelligent and
sincere inquirers after truth.

The critiiusms begin with the title
Of the work. The critic of The In-
dtpendent objects to our catling old
quesfioDS problems of the age. The

Southern Review coincides with I
and suggests- that they should r
have been called "problems of m
fl^j/' while another critic, in TheS
ning Ibst, gives his verdict thai li
are all to be classed as " problems of
a bygone age." This last criticism it
the only one founded upon a reason ;
and is, at the same time, a full justi-
fication of the appropriateness of the
title before all those who stifl profes
to believe in the revelation of God.
The different classes of protcsteit
against the leaching of the church
have wearied themselves in vmb JB
searching for a satisfactory solut
of the problems of man's condii
and destiny; either in some new r
dering of divine revelation, or^
some system of purely rational p
sophy. The despair produced *
their utter failure vents itself i
denial that these problems are i
ones, capable of any solution i
and in the attempt to relegate t
finally into the region of the
knowable. Tliis is a vain effort
They have forced themselves upon
the attention of the human mind
ever since the creation, and they wiD
continue to do so, in spite of all efforts
to exorcise them. 'Jlie relations of
man to his Creator, the reason of mo-
ral and physical evil, the bearing of
the present life on the fiJlure, the
significance of Christianity, and such
like topics, can be regarded as obso-
lete questions only by a most impar-
donable levity. ITie so-called Liberal
Christian and the rationalist may in-*
deed proffer the opinion thai the so-
lutions we have given are already an-
tiquated. Btii, with all the hardihood
which persons of this class possess in
so remarkable a degree in claiming lor
themselves all the light, all the intelli-
gence, all the spiritual vitality existing
in the world, we must persist in think-
ing that their triumphant tooe is some-
what prematurely assumed. Wc tlMi|^

Problems of the Age^ and its Critics.

177

that the problems of bygone ages are
the problems of the present ages, and
that the solutions of bygone ages are
the only real ones, as true and as neces-
sary at the present moment as they
have ever been. The restless mind
of the non-Catholic world, having
broken away from its intellectual cen-
tre to wander aimlessly in the infinite
void, has pltmged itsdf anew into all
the puzzle and bewilderment from
which Christianity with its divine phi-
losophy had once delivered it, and,
wearied with its wanderings, longs
and yet delays to return to its proper
orbit Hence the great pr#blems of
past ages have become emphatically
the problems of the present, and must
be answered anew, by the same prin-
ciples and the same truths which past
ages found sufficient, yet presented in
part in modified language, in a new
dress, and with special application
to new phases of eiror. The title
Problems of the Age is therefore fiilly
justified as the most felicitous and ap-
propriate which could have been chos-
en for a treatise intended to meet the
wants of those who are seeking for
hdp in their doubts and difficulties
respecting both natural and revealed
religion. Any believer in the Chris-
tian revelation who cannot recognize
this, and heartUy sympathize in any
vdl-meant effort to present the Chris-
tian mysteries in an aspect which may
attract honest and candid doubters or
unbelievers, shows that he has mis-
taken his side, and has more intellec-
tnal sympathy widi unbelief than he
would willingly acknowledge, even to
himselfl

Another anonjrmous critic sets aside
with erne sentence the entire argument
of the book; because, forsooth, it
begins with the assumption that the
Ctthdic doctrine is the only true one,
aid demands a preliminary submis-
sioii of the reader's mind to the autho-
% of the Catholic Church* Noth-
VOL. DL— 12

ing could be more superficial and in-
correct than this statement of the
thesis proposed by the author. The
whole course of the argument sup-
poses that an unbeliever or inquirer
after the true religion begins with the
first, self-evident principles of reason ;
proceeds, by way of demonstration,
to the truths of natural theology, and
by the way of evidence and the mo-
tives of credibility advances to the
belief of Christianity and the divine
authority of the Catholic Church.
The thesis proposed or the special
topic to be discussed by the author is,
Supposing the authority of the Cath-
olic Church sufficiently established by
extrinsic evidence, is there any insur-
mountable obstacle, on the side of
reason, to accept her dogmas as in-
trinsically credible? The implicit or
even explicit affirmation that Catholic
philosophy is the true and only philo-
sophy, that it alone can satisfy the de-
mands of reason, is no begging of the
question ; for it is not stated as the da-
turn or logical premiss from which the
logical conclusions are drawn. It is
stated as being, so far as the mind of
the sceptical reader is concerned, only
an hypothesis to be proved, an enunci-
ation of the judgment which is made
by the mind of a Catholic, the mo-
tives of which the non-catholic reader
is invited to examine and consider by
the light of the principles of reason,
or of those revealed truths of which
he is already convinced.

A most sapient critic in the London
Athenceum^ venturing entirely out of
his depth, makes an observation on
the statement that absolute beauty is
identical with the divine essence, which
we notice merely for the amusement of"
our theological readers. The state-
ment of the author is, that beauty is
to be identified with the divine es-
sence, by virtue of its definition as the
splendor of truth, and because truth,,
being identical with the divine es-

17*

Problems of the Age, and its Critics.

sence, its splendor must be also.
This consummate philosopher argues
that beauty must be identified, not
with the divine essence, but with its
splendor, because it is the splendor
of truth. The splendor of Goil is,
then, something distinct from God;
and he is not most pure act and most
simple being ! We cannot wish for a
more apposite illustration of the total
loss of the first and most fundamental
conceptions of philosophy and itatural
theology out of the English mind — a
natural result of that movement which
began with Luther, when he publicly
burned the Summa of St, Thomas.

JTte Mtrcershirg Review denies the
demonstrative force of the evidences
of natural religion and positive revela-
tion; referring lis to conscience, or the
moral sense, as the ground of belief
in God and in Jesus Christ. This is
another proof of the truth of ourjudg-
iBScnt, that the radical intellectual dis-
ie4)se which Protestantism has pro-
iduord requires treatment by a tho-
■rough dosing with sound philosophy.
'The corruption of theology has
; brought on a corruption of philoso-
■phy, and heresy has protluced sccpti-
icism, so that we can hardly find a
. sound spot lo begin with as a point
. d'appid for the reconstruction of ra-
tional and orthodox belief We do
not despise the argument from con-
science and the moral sense, or deny
its validity. We did not specially
. draw it out, because we were not
writing a complete treatise 6n natural
theology; but it is contained in the
metaphi'sical argument establishing
the firet and final cause. Apart from
that, it has no conclusive force.
What is conscience ? Nothing but
a. practical judgment reipecting that
■which ought to be done or left un-
done. What is the moral sense, but
an intimate apprehension of the rela-
tion of the voluntary acts of an intcl-
! Ugent and free agent to p final cause ?

It is only intellect which can I
cognizance of a rule or principle 4
recting a certain act to be dun«<l
omitted, or of the intrinsic ncca
of directing all acts toward j
cause or ultimate end. The ii
cannot do this, or deduce an
ment from conscience and the i
sense for the existence of God, \
it has certain infallible principles gl
it in its creation; and with these p
ciples, the existence of God i
natural theology can be proved &
metaphysical demonstration, )
ing from which, as a basis, we |
Christianity and the Catholic Chifl
by a moral demonstration whid
reducible to principles of metapl
cal certitude. Deny this, and <
science, or the moral sense, is a mere
feeling, a sensible emotion, a habit
induced by education, a sul^ecliTf
state, ^^'hich is just as available iT
support of Buddhism or Mohi
medanism as of Christianity.
Mercfrsburg Rn'ifw is trying to si
itself midway down the declivil]^
a slippery hill, afraid to descend wM
the mangled remains of Feiier"
lie bleaching in the sun, and unwi
to catch the rope which the CaU)
Church throws lo it, and ascentfl
the height from whence LuiherJI
his pride and folly, slid. Kanf s n
rable expedient of practical 1
may suit those who are content K
such an insecure position ; but it %
never satisfy those who look for t
science, and certain, infallible faith
The Round Table, in a notice wl^
is, on the whole, very favorable I
appreciative, complains that we 1
accused Calvinism of being a
tic or Manichxan doctrine. V
not only affirmed, but proved t
is so. By Calvinism, however, \
mean the strict, logical Calvi
of the rigid adherents of the s
The moderated, modified
which approaches more nearly to 4

Problems of the Age^ and its Critics,

179

doctrine of the most rigorous Catholic
Bchool, we do not wish to censure too
severely. Neither do we charge for-
mal dualism, or a formal denial of
the pure, unmixed goodness of God
even upon the strictest Calvinists.
WTiat we affirm is, that, together with
their doctrine respecting God, which
is orthodox, they hold another doc-
trine respecting the acts of God
toward his creatures, which is logi-
cally incompatible with the former,
and logically demands the affirmation
of an evil and malignant principle
qually self-existent, necessary, and
eternal with the principle of good,
and thus leads to the doctrine of dual-
ism in being. Many orthodox Pro-
testants have spoken against Calvin-
ism much more severely than we have
done ; and, in fact, while we cannot
too strongly reprobate its logical con-
sequences, we alwa3rs intend to dis-
tinguish between them and the true,
interior belief which exists in the
minds of many Calvinists, excellent
persons, and really nearer to the
church, in their doctrine, as practi-
cally apprehended, than they are
aware ofl

Our Ind€p€ndent critic is displeased
with the Latin quotations from scho-
lastic theology which we have some-
what freely employed, and compli-
ments us, as he apparendy supposes,
1^ suggesting that this violation of
good taste is to be ascribed, not to
any lack of judgment on our part,
but to the &ult of our position. It is
somewhat amusing to notice the pa-
tionizing air which this well-meaning
gentleman assumes, and the evident
complacency with which, from the
W^t of his litde, recendy construct-
ed eminence, he looks down with a
smile of pitying forbearance upon our
mifbrtunate ** position." We will con-
sent to waive, once for all, all claims
^ a personal nature to any conside-
f<tioQ which is not derived .from our

position as a Catholic and a humble
disciple of the scholastic theology.
That theology is the glory and the
boast of Christendom and of the hu-
man intellect. We are firmly con-
vinced that there is no true wisdom,
science, illumination, or progress to
be found, except in following the
broad path which scholastic theology
has explored and beaten. Although
our nice critic — ^who seems to have
more admiration for the effeminate
classicism of Bembo and the age of
Leo X. than the masculine veroe of
St. Thomas — may call the scientific
terminology of the schoolmen "bad
Latin," we shall venture to retain a
totally different opinion. It is un-
equalled and unapproachable for pre-
cision, clearness, and vigor. We have
employed it because our own judg-
ment and taste have dictated to us
the propriety of doing so. We have
not been led by servile adhesion to
custom, or the affectation of making
a display, but by the desire of mak-
ing our meaning more clear and evi-
dent to theological readers, especially
those whose native language is not
English, and of introducing into our
English theological literature those
definite and precise modes of reason-
ing which belong to these great
schoolmen. We can easily under-
stand the aversion of our opponents
to the schoolmen, in which they are
only following after their predecessor,
Martin Bucer, who said, albeit in
Latin, TolU Thomam et delcbo EccU-
siam Romanam, "Take away Tho-
mas, and I will destroy the Roman
Church." To the personal remarks
of the critic in regard to the author
and the history of his religious opin-
ions we give a simple transeat^ and
pass to what semblance of argument
there is in rejoinder to the thesis de-
fended in the Problems of the Age,

The critic says that the same pro-
cess of logic which the author em-

Problems of the Age, and its Critics.

]

ploj's against his opponents would sbg himself an orthodox Chnstiaa J

destroy his own sUtemenis. This is Does this inconsiderate wri

• mere assertion, without a shadow what a dilemma he has reduced htith

of proof, and we meet it with a simple scif ? Either he must admit that Jfr

denial. It is, moreover, a piece of sus Christ, the apostles, the Bihl^

triviality with which we have no pa- teach him with authority, and pUioj

ticnce. It is the language of the ly and unequivocally, certain don

most wretched and shallow scepti- trines which he is bound lo believ(|(

cism, conceived in the very spirit of under peaalty of being cast out IroB

the question of Pontius Pilale to our the communion of true bclic*cre, aoA

Lord, " What is truth ?" Vie have incurring eternal damnation ; or \d'

been engaged for thirtj- years in the must deny it. In the first c»se, i

study of phitoso])hy and theologj-, must retract his words, or give tte

and have carefully examined and full benefit of them lo the rationalirt

weighed the matters we have underla- and the infidel, against himself! Il^

ken to discuss. The substance of the the second case, he must lay aaidehi

doctrine wc have presented is that in mask, and step forth widi the t "

which the greatest minds of all ages vered lineaments of an open i

hever. W't receive the dogmas <
faith proposed by the church because

liavc been agreed ; and it has been
proved and defended against every

assault in a manner so triumphant they are revealed by Jems Chriit

through his Holy Spirit, who is
dwelling in the body of the churdl.
We cannot revoke these dogmas intfltv
an examination or discussion of doufa^
any more than we can doubt our

that its antagonists have nothing
say, but to deny the first principles
of logic, the possibility of science, the
certainty of &ich. There are, un-
doubtedly, certain minor jioints which

are open to question and ditfercnce existence, or the first principle of
of opinion. But, as to our main the- soning. Nevertheless,
sis, that the Catholic dogmas are not
contradictory to anything which is
known or demonstrable by human
science, we defy all opponents to re-
fute it

aipje against a person who douM
these first principles, or give prooA
and evidences to an ignorant i
of facts or truths whose certainty i
known to us ; so we can ^ve |

By another subterfuge, equally of dogmas of faith which we are I

miserable, our critic shakes off all
sponsibility of even noticing the seri-
ous, calm, and well-motived state-
ments which we have made respect-
ing Catholic doctrines. We hold, he
says, one half of our doctrines as pre-
scribed by authority, under p:u]
excommunication and damnation ;
and the other half, under an obliga-
tion to renounce them, at a moment's
warning, from the same authority;
therefore, no attention is to be paid

to our arguments. This is one of the dences in order to ascertain the tmd),
most remarkable and most discredita- and does not sin by keeping his judg-
ble Ntatcments we remember ever lo ment in suspense until it obtains the
have come iicross in a writer profes- data, sufficient to make a dedson

permitted to doubt for an instant
one who does not believe these dog-i
mas, or understand the motives upon
which their credibihty is established
It is unlawful to doubt the being and
perfections of Cod, the immoHalitjr
of of the soul, the truth of revclati<»i
Yet we may examine thoroughly all
these topics to find new and confir-
matory proof and answers to objec-
tions. One who is in doubt or igno-
rance may examine and wd^ cvi-

Problems of the Age, and its Critics.

i8l

reasonable and obligatory. In argu-
ing with such a person, it is necessary
to descend to his level, and reason
from the premises which his intellect
admits. In like manner, when it is a
question of the Trinity, the Incarna-
tion, the divinity of Jesus Christ, the
canonidty and inspiration of the
Scriptures, and all other Catholic
dogmas; although a CathoUc may not
doubt any one of these, and would
act unreasonably if he did, since he
has the same certainty of their truth
that he has of his own existence or
the being of God; yet he may ex-
amine the evidences which are confir- ,
matory of his faith for his own satis-
fiiction, and reason with an unbeliever
in order to convince him of the truth.
The subterfuge by which our critic
and some other writers, especially one
in The Churchman^ attempt to evade
the inevitable deductions of Catholic
logk:, which they cannot meet and
refute — ^namely, that we cannot, with
consistency, argue about doctrines
defined by infallible authority — ^is the
shallowest of all the artifices of sophis-
tij. When the Son of God appeared
on the earth in human nature, and in
ibnn and fashion as a man, claiming
infallible authority, and demanding
unreserved obedience, it was neces-
sary for him to give evidence of his
divine mission. A Jew, a Moham-
ntedan, or a Buddhist cannot, in rea-
son OT conscience, believe in Jesus
Christ imtil this evidence has been
poposcd to him. When it is sufh-
oendy proposed, he is bound to be-
fcvc; and, once becoming aware
tlut Jesus is the Son of God, he is
t^oond to believe all that he has re-
pealed, simply upon his word. But,
^(ipposing he has been erroneously
o^finmed that the teaching of Jesus
Christ contains certain doctrines or
statements of fact which are in con-
tjadiction to what seems to him to be
^t reason or certain knowledge, it

is unquestionably both prudent and
charitable to correct his mistakes upon
this point, and thus remove the obsta-
cles to belief from his mind. Pre-
cisely so in regard to the Catholic
Church. The demand which she
makes of submission to her infallible
authority, as the witness and teacher
established by Jesus Christ, is accom-
panied by evidence. It is upon this
evidence we lay the greatest stress;
and in virtue of this it is that we pre-
sent the Catholic doctrines as certain
truths which every one is bound to
believe. Undoubtedly, the infallibili-
ty of the church once established, it
is the duty of every one to believe
the doctrines she proposes, putting
aside all diffrculties and objections
which may exist in his own imperfect,
limited understanding. Yet, if these
difficulties and objections do not lie
in the very mysteriousness, vastness,
and elevation of the object of faith
itself, but in merely subjective misap-
prehensions, it is right to attempt to
remove them, and to make the exer-
cise of faith easier to the inquirer.
Moreover, although it is sufficient to
prove the infallibility of the church,
and then, from this infallibility, to
deduce, as a necessary consequence,
the truth of all Catholic teaching ; it
does not follow that each separate
portion of this teaching cannot be
proved by other and independent
lines of argument. The divine lega-
tion of Moses is sufficiently proved
by the authority of Christ ; but it can
be proved apart from that authority.
So, the Trinity, the real presence,
baptismal regeneration, or purgatory,
are sufficiently and infallibly proved
from the judgment of the church ; but
they may be also proved from Scrip-
ture, from tradition, and, in a nega-
tive way, from reason. In the Frob-
lems of the Age our principal intention
has been to clear away difficulties
and misapprehensions from the object

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'1 he whole ifl a tissue oi

Problems of the Age, and its Critics.

183

iriiich a stroke of the pen can sweep
airay. The Holy See is not accus-
tomed to condemn suddenly and by
the wholesale the probable opinions
of grave and learned theologians,
much less the doctrines of great and
long-establLshed schools. In the
BrobUms of the Age, we have been
careful to follow in the wake of theo-
logians of established repute, and not
to lay down propositions whose tena-
bility is doubtful or suspected. It is
possible that some definitions or de-
crees may be made hereafter which
may require us to modify some of our
opinions in theology or philosophy,
and we shall undoubtedly submit at
once to any such decisions. But
there is no probability that we shall
ever be called upon to change radi-
cally and essentially that system of
dieology which we have derived from
the best and most esteemed Catholic
authors. There is certainly no reason
to think that the tenets distinguishing
the Dominican from the Augustinian
school will ever be condemned in a
mass. Those which distinguish the
Jesuit school from either or both of
these have been through a severe
onleal of accusation and trial long
ago, and have come out unscathed.
The same is true of the doctrines of
Cardinal Sfondrati. Suarez, St. Al-
phonsus, Pcrrone, and Archbishop
Kenrick are certainly respectable au-
thority, and a good guarantee of the
orthodoxy of opinions sustained by
their judgment. Perrone, whom we
have followed more closely than any
other author in treating of the most
dehcate and difficult questions, has
taoght and published his theology at
Kome. It has passed through thirty-
seven editions, and is more popular
as a text-book than any other. He
is a consultor of the Sacx^ Congrega-
tbns of the Council and the Index,
IMiect of Studies in the Roman Col-
lege, and, together with Fathers

Schrader and Franzlin^ eminent theo-
logians of the same Jesuit school, a
member of the Commission of Dog-
matic Theology, which is preparing
the points for decision in the coming
Coimcil of the Vatican. The doc-
trines advanced in the Problems of the
Age in opposition to Calvinism, in
accordance with the theological ex-
position of Perrone, cannot, therefore,
be qualified as peculiar or curious
opinions of the author, as pseudo-
Catholic or Americo-Roman tlieories,
or as liable to any theological censure
of unsoundness.

Nevertheless, we have not, as the
critic asserts, set forth these or other
opinions indiscriminately, and in so
far as they vary from the opinions
of other approved Catholic authors,
as being exclusively the Catholic doc-
trine. We have used extreme care
and conscientiousness in this respect,
although our critic is incapable of
appreciating it, from his lack of all
thorough knowledge of the contro-
versy he has unadvisedly meddled
with. We do not qualify as Catholic
doctrine, in a strict sense, anything
which is not de fide obligante, or ad-
mitted by the generality of theolo-
gians, without opposition from any
respectable authority, as morally cer-
tain. We censure no really probable
opinion as contrary to Catholic doc-
trine, and are disposed to allow the
utmost latitude of movement to every
individual mind competent to reason
on theological subjects, between the
opposite extremes condemned by the
church. It does not follow from,
this, however, that our doctrine is
mere hypothesis, and that we are for-
bidden or unable to come to any
positive conclusions beyond the for-
mal definitions of the church. The
substance and essential constituents
of the doctrine are certainly Catholic,
and common to all schools. The
Council of Trent condemned the

l84

Problems fif the Age, and ilt Critics.

heresies of Calvin and Luther, and

the Holy See, the whole church con-

CUrriDg, has condemned the heresies

of Jansetiius and Baius. We know,

also, what was the theology of the

I who framed and enacted the

I decrees condemning those errors, or

! affirming the opposite truths, what

I was the spirit animating the church

[ At that time, and continuing in it

I limit the present; and we have in the

I episcopate, but especially in the Holy

See, the living, authentic teacher and

fateipreter olf the doctrine contained

the written decrees. There is,

I therefore, a solid and common basis

Upon which all Catholics stand, and

I upon which it is possible and allowa-

' ble to construct theological theories

1 or systems. Learning, logic, the in-

[ tnitivc power of genius, and the spe-

f rial gifts imparted by the Holy Spirit

ertain favored men, have their full

I «copc in carrying on this work.

I Through their activity, conclusions,

I 'deductions, expositions, elucidations,

I «My be attained, which have a value

I Tuying all the way from plausible

I 'Conjecture and hypothesis up through

I the diiTcrent degrees of probability,

['to moral certainty. For ourselves,

' -Wc have always studied to find in the

I Tiiost approved authors those opio-

] 'ions which approach as nearly as pos-

■sible to moral certainty; or, in default

•of such, those which are admitted to

. !be probable, and to our mind appear

lintrinsically more probable than their

■ oppositcs. We write and speak,

therefore, not with an economy, or as

presenting opinions likely to captivate

our readers, but with an interior con-

vicrion, in accordance with that which

I »we believe to be really the revealed

[ -and rational truth ; or else we indicate

that we are speaking under a reserve

of doubt and suspended judgment

As for the insinuation that we arc

concerned in any artful scheme for

palming off a plausible pscudo-Catho-

■Aaa

licity in lieu of the Catholicity of
Pope, the Roman Church, and of
faithful people of Ireland, we
ate it as false, groundless, and
ous. We hold unreservedly to tlie^
Pope and all his doctrinal decisions:
to (he genuine, thorough, uncompro-
mising Calhohcily of Rome and the
universal church; to the faith for
which the martyred people of Ireland
have dared and suffered all, Nothing
could be more opposed to that astute-
ness for which Catholic ecclesiastics
generally obtain extensive credit, than
to attempt such a foolish scheme in
this country and age of the world aj
some persons attribute to us for the
piupose of nullifying the effect of
influence and arguments upon
minds of candid inquirers after
For what purpose or end could
desire to propagate the Catliolic
gion in this country, unless we ar«
convinced that it is the only true
religion established by JesuS Christ,
and necessary to the salvarion of
the human race ? With tins con-
viction, it would be the most sa-
preme folly to preach any other doc-
trine but that genuine and sound Ca-
tholic doctrine which is sanctioned
by the supreme authority in the
church, and which we desire to pro-
pagate. Individuals may, no doubt,
err, even with good intentions, in
attempt to discriminate between
permanent and die variable, the
tia! and the accidental, the
and the local elements in Cathol
and in the effort to adjust the relation
between the doctrine and inslilutioof
of the church and new conditions of
human scienct, or political and
order. But it is impossible
individual or clique either to r
resist the general Catholic
and thus to cause the
any form of pseudo or neo-Cal
cism as genuine Catholicity. Ji
over, there is the vigilant eye

i, m toe
een ^n

loUulf^

Problems of tJie Age^ and its Critics,

1 8s

Strong arm of ecclesiastical authority
ready every moment to detect and
restrain the aberrations of private
judgment, and to condemn all opin-
ions or schemes which cannot be tole-
rated without endangering either doc-
trine or discipline. The voice of the
Holy Father is heard throughout the
world, and the voice of the whole
Catholic Church will reverberate to
the uttermost parts of the earth from
the approaching Ecumenical Council.
All intelligent persons, more especially
all inquisitive, shrewd, and cool-head-
ed Americans, have the means of
knowing what genuine Catholic doc-
trine is. Whoever should attempt to
set forth a dilution of Catholicity with
Grecism, Anglicanism, rationalism, or
any other kind of individualism, as a
lure to non-catholics, would, there-
fore, simply gain nothing, imless a lit-
tle unenviable notoriety should seem
to his vanity a gain worth purchasing
by the betrayal of his trust The
people of this country want the genu-
ine Catholicity, or nothing. They
will not be deluded a second time
by a counterfeit, and become follow-
ers of a man, a party, or a sect. Nor
do we wish to deceive them. We
desire to set before them the doctrine
and law of the Catholic Church in
their purity and integrity, that they
may have the opportunity of embra-
cing them for their temporal and eter-
nal salvadon. We have had this end
in view in writing and publishing the
Probtems of the Age; and, knowing
well the delicacy and difficulty of the
task, we have spared no pains to
study the decisions of councils and
the Holy See, to compare and weigh
the statements of the most approved
theologians, and to make no explana-
tions which we were not satisfied are
tenaUe, according to the received
(literioQ of orthodoxy. We do not
^fSBBty however, or exact diat any of
^ itatements should be taken upon

trust by any one. We have written
for thinking and educated persons,
who have need of light upon certain
dark points of Christian doctrine ; who
are in earnest, and willing to take the
time and trouble necessary for learn-
ing the truth. Such persons, if they
read only English, will find all that is
requisite, in addition to the citations
made in the Problems of the Age^ in
MohUf^s Symbolism, Scholars and
theologians may satisfy themselves
more fully by the aid of the collection
of dogmatic and doctrinal decrees
contained in Denziger's Enchiridion^
and of the theologies of Billuart, Per-
rone, and Kenrick, the first of whom
is a strict Thomist, the second a Jesuit,
and the third of no particular school.
In the exposition of the more antique
and technically Augustinian tenets,
the works of Berti, Estius, Antoine,
Cardinal Noris, and Cardinal Gotti
can be consulted. There are many
other books relating to the Jansenist
controversy, in Latin, French, and
English, firom which the fullest infor-
mation can be obtained in regard to
the history of the desperate struggle
which that pseudo-Augustinian here-
sy — so nearly allied to the more mode-
rate Calvinism and to one form of
Anglicanism — ^made to gain a foothold
in the church, and its thorough and
complete discomfiture by the learning
and logic of the great Thomist and
Jesuit theologians, and the authority
of the Holy See.

There remains but one more point
to be noticed, closely connected with
the topic just now discussed, the
charge of Pelagianism made by our
critic against our own doctrines, and
of semi-Pelagianism made by The
Mercersburg Review against the same,
which the latter does not distinguish
from the doctrine of the Roman
Church. The learned Professor Em-
erson, of Andover, long since called
the attention of his co-religionists to

I •.-:

^/7- XT-i izs CrizL's.

T ---vl-

*-- -

_ . Z .. I*-. - --

■S-ll'Ll ll-tT

i . . 1 « -

t- ... .

i^:-j V-i"^

»i m m A

i'-;!:'_-- "^- ''■^Tz:.Tr: we arc ly :-.:rr.s
i '.'-■•. : ' .:' ri en -."ir. :f l- : :h- I :: :r.e
pr-; ■::.: :.\-:incr, we are accusc-i of
C'::.:\:.'^ 'jT 'limiai-shT.j zr?.*:^. The
i.^^ J »»•.;•. ri is fooliih. aril shows a
v»:rv -.!i. .: fir.owle-l^e of iheoliD^- in
t'lO-/: V. -.o mike it. The Peia-;idn
K';."';,/ ^ -:rs that human nature is

y •• r '. - I..

'.f attaining tht; beatitmie

v.i.'/.\i i:.': holy angels and saints
],'/.'/:.. •.'..*h Jesus (Jhri-st in" Cloil. by
il> o'Aii l:.trin->ic power, and is in the
f.ririi': / ite now as that in which Adam
w.'ii ori.(iri.'i]Iy constituted. The con-
tr.iry rJo» trine is so c:) early stated and
r.o fully d<rveloi>ed in the JVoblems of
ihr A 'i\ tliat it suflK.es to refer the
r*:id<r to its i>a;5es. The semi-Pela-
Si'vAW Icp- iy ,'i.sserts that human nature
ii c.ip.iM'.' of the bef^inninfj of faith
by ii . own *-fforts, an<l also of merit-
in;^ j;r.i( e iiy a merit of rongruity.
'Iliii luT<-sy is unequivocally con-
d« .Tjiirfj by tlir ( liurc ii, and rejected
\>y ' .f-rv s( liool njirl t-very theolo-
y\M\. 1 III ir is iif>t :i trace of it in a
♦.in;;!"- Iinr \v<' have written.

'Mil. li'.ids us to notiie a misap-
prelicti.iuii itilo whiih the editor of

- '- -^- "^..■^•-- M::T2zini of Boston
^-^ ^^-'=^ i. -li Uni Luiin periodical

re esieem vcr\' muth,
:* i:::-z: :: :i5 exc client and trulv

■ •

:-T-. :.•: ?:-r::: 2^i its contribuior>
:•::■: -z :: i cLiss cf iiboral Christians
T^rsc :ec:ez~es inspire us with
— -— _ -'-J'^- I: is with pleasure.
n-=r=c:r±. tza: we rtcognize the can-
1. : i^i inic-irle :oce of the notice
**■— — •- ^^-^ C-ven of ihat which we
r^ve -rr.ri^L esp-evrially for those
"i^-:se mit-ccr-Lii direction is in the
-r:e t->::i :: f;llows. (jiir Unitarian
»^-' '^:-^- h:wcver. made the greai
~:s->iie :: s-r rosing that we uac an
cr:>.>i?x r'rrosejlogw without anv
: irzs :c.i:r*'i i: dinerent from iliose ol'
--•STi- LrjisraiLs or ranonalists. He
5ii>?. " Setdn^ aside what we cannot
r.e.p cjl!:r-^ theological technicalities,
't:s acco'jr.: of man's moral being ac-
cor.is almost entirely with that which
our ::r-erai Chrisiianit}- would give."
- Perhaps the criticism uj^on our
author must be, that he only retains
in word and form much which he has
abandi>ned in fact.'* The writer of
this has In^en so accustomed to as>o-
ciate certain Catholic formulas an^
words with Calvinistic ideas, that they
seem to him to mean nothing whet^
dissociaieii from them. A\'ith hin^'
the logical alternative of Calvinism ^
Unitarianism ; and whoever agre^*^
with him in rejecting the former, mt*^
substantially agree with him in hol-^
ing the latter, however his languri. ^
may var)* from that which ho hims«^
uses. The reason of this is, that ^
fails to ajjprehend the Catholic idea ^'
the supernatural order ; that is of «: ^^
elevation of the rational creature ^
the immediate intuition of the di\'X*^
essence in the beatific vision. "V"^'<?
fear that in the last analysis it will ^
found that Unitarians have lost tJi^
di.stin(t conception of the personaJ/O''
of (iod, and retain only a vaguc*
confused notion of him as abstract

Problems of the Age, and its Critics,

187

and therefore not an object of
irision. Hence, they conceive
highest contemplation and be-
ef man in the future life as a
volution and extension of our

intelligence and spontaneity,
they do conceive of heaven as
in which the soul attains to a
personal fellowship and con-
dth God as a friend, a father, a
e, intelligent, living, and loving
with whom the human spirit
into immediate relations, like
f man with man on earth, they
lieve that we are capable of
ig to this by the mere devel-
; of our natural powers, and
ely natural acts. There is,
re, a great chasm between the
an and the Catholic doctrine,
ter teaches, in the mystery of
nity, the only real and possible
tion of personal subsistence
divine essence, and sets forth
icrete, living, active, imperson-
rod, in whom is infinite, self-
g beatitude, without any neces-
create for the sake of complet-
reason, and relations, and end
>eing. This infinite beatitude
ng in the contemplation and

his own essence which is act-
1 the Trinity, presents the idea
latitude infinitely superior to
tinct from any felicity to which
e any natural aptitude or im-
Its cause and object is the
essence, directly and immedi-
jheld by an intellectual vision,
'Ji our corporeal vision of ma-
bjects is but a faint shadow,
atholic doctrine teaches that
nature must be elevated by a

supernatural gratuitous grace in order
to attain to this vision of God; that
in Christ it is so elevated, even to a
hypostatic union with the second per-
son of the Trinity; that in Adam it
was elevated to a lesser or adoptive
filiation; that the angelic nature is
also elevated to a similar state ; and
that men, under the present dispensa-
tion, are subjects of the same grace.
The church teaches, moreover, that
this grace is granted to men, since
the fall, only through the merits of
the sacrifice of Jesus Christ upon the
cross ; that without divine grace they
cannot even begin a supernatural
life; that no merely natural virtue de-
serves this grace; and that it is by
faith, which is the gift of God; by
the sacraments, and by good works
done in the state of grace, in the
communion of the Catholic Church,
that we can alone obtain everlasting
life with Christ. There is as much
difference between this doctrine and
any form of Unitarianism as there is
between the sun and the earth; the
star-studded sky and a neat, well-
kept flower-garden. Catholics may
differ from each other in regard to
certain questions concerning the state
of human nature when destitute of
grace; but we are all agreed in re-
gard to the need of grace for attain-
ing the end we are bound to strive
after, the conditions of obtaining this
grace, and the obligation of comply-
ing with them, as well as in regard to
the insufficiency of all media for bring-
ing the human race even to its acme
of temporal progress and feUcity, ex-
cept the institutions and teaching of
the Catholic Church.

HEREMORE-BRANDON; OR, THE FORTUNES OF

NEWSBOV.

CHAPTER IX.

When they arrived at the Wilt-
shire depot, Dick and Mary were
stiU undecided what slep to take
next ; for neitlier of ihem favored the
idea of asking at once for Dr. Here-
more, feeling certain that the proba-
bilities of his being alive would van-
ish the moment that such an inquiry
was proposed.

It was a nice enough town, with
fine breezes irom the sea blowing
througli its streets, and a quaint look
about the houses that made Dick, at
least, feel as if they were in a foreign
land. Dick and Mary stood on the
depot platform together, undecided
still.

" Let us walk a. UtUe way up and
see what we can see," Maty pro-
posed.

All that they found at first were a
few lumber -wagons, a market- wagon,
and now and then a group of tioys
playing; but finally they came upon
3 store, at the door of which several
long-limbed countrymen were talking
and chewing tobacco. I should have
said " cliewing and talking ;" for the
chewing was much more vigorously
prosecuted than the talking. The
presence of the strangers, one a lady
in a plain but very stylish dress,
attracted some attention; the men
surveyed tliem in a leisurely, undaa-
zled way, hardly making room for
Ihem to pass; for, having seen the
sign Post-Office in the window of
this store, Dick and Mary concluded
to enter and make inquiries. The
aflcmoon sun streamed in upon the
floor: the flies buzicd m the win-

dows; and a man, with his H
and his chair tilted back, was ({
back of the store. He made ti
of changing his position when ^
saw the strangers, not becaua^
Wilkes was any less well dlM
toward " the ladies " than a cin
chant would be, but because aS
people fancy it is more dignifij
show indifference than polili|
In time, however, he tilted do4
chair, freed his great mouth litq
load of tobacco, and lounged i
the counter where Mary and \
were standing. i]

" I want to ask you a quefl
Dick answered to the storefcd
look ; " I suppose you know thi4
pretty well ?" Dick was so afi^
the answer that he did not knoi"
to put a direct question in reg
Dr. Heremort

" Rather," was the laconic ^
with no change of the speaker's.)
,e„anc=. i|

" Do you know if a Dr. Heti
lived here once, twenty-five ye*
so ago ?" J

" I wasn't here in them 4
for Mr. Wilkes was a young mal
did not care to be old. 1

" I did not suppose you d
of your own knowledge ;
you nught have heard."

" I suppose you have c

" Or to hear of him," added ]

'■ Come firora Boston or Yi^
suppose ?" \

" From New York,"
Dick ; " can you tell us who
to give us information ?"

"About the old doctor?" I

^ou did I

je; ltd

e come i

Heremore-Brandon,

189

Mr. Wilkes in the same impassive

manner.

"Yes," said Dick, rather impa-
tiently.
"I suppose you are relations o'

his?"

" We came to get information, not
to give it," Dick replied in a quiet
tone but inwardly vexed.

"Well," answered the storekeeper,
not in the least abashed by this re-
buke, " there's an old fellow lives up
yonder, who knows pretty much
everything's been done here for the
last forty years; you'd better go to
him; if any one knows, he does.
Better not be too techy with hiniy I
can tell you, if you want to find out
anything; people as wants to take
must give too, you know. That
there road will take you straight to
the house ; white house, first on the
left after you come to the meeting-
house."

"Thank you; and the name ?"

"Well, folks usually calls him
'The Governor' round here; you,
being strangers, can call him what
you please."

"Will he like a stranger's calling ?"

"Oh! tel him I sent you — Ben
Wkcs — and you are all right."

"Thank you!" Mary and Dick
replied and turned away. " Ben
Wilkes," who, during this conversa-
tion, had seated himself on the coun-
ter, the better to show his ease in
the strangers' society, which — Mary's
especially — secretly impressed him
▼cry much, looked leisurely after
them as they passed out of the store ;
then took out some firesh tobacco,
suui retumed to his chair.

"I don't like to go," said Mary,
" it may be some joke upon us."

^ I am afiraid it is," answered Dick ;
"hut, after all, what can happen that
^ need mind ? If it is a gentleman
to whom he has sent us, no matter
W angiy he is, he will see that you

are a lady, and you will know how
to explain it; if he has sent us to
one who is not, I guess I shall be able
to reply to him."

Their walk was a very long one,
but the meeting-house at last came
in sight, and next it, though there was
a goodly space between, was a large
white house, irregular and rambling,
with very nicely kept shrubbery
around.

Dick opened the gate with a hand
that was a little nervous ; but Mary
whispered as their feet crunched the
neatly bordered gravel walk to the
low porch, " It is all right, I am sure ;
there is an old gentleman by the win-
dow."

"Will you be spokesman this
time ?" asked Dick.

Mary nodded, and as the path
was narrow and they could not well
walk side by side, she was in fi-ont,
so that naturally she would be the
first to meet the old gentleman.

A very fine old gentleman he was ;
a large man with a fine head, and, as
his first words proved, a remarkably
full, sweet voice. Seeing a lady com-
ing toward him, he rose at once firom
his arm-chair, dosed his book and
advanced a step or two to greet her.
Mary was one of those women
toward whom courteous men are
most coiuteous fi-om the first glance ;
and this old gentleman, who moved
toward her with all the grace and
ease of a vigorous young man, was
one of those men to whom gentle
women are gender, from the first,
than to others.

" Good-evening," he said, as Mary
looked up to him with a smile at
at once pleasant and deferential.
" Good-evening," and as she did not
say more than these words, the gen-
tleman continued, " I will not say,
* Come in,' for it is too pleasant out
of doors for that ; but let me give you
chairs."

" Tliank you, sir, we are strangers,
but, we hope, not intruders," she re-
plied.

■' Certainly not," he answered.
"It is a great pleasure for me to
receive my o!d friends, and a
pleasure to me to make new ones;
and strangers, even if they remain
strangers, bring with them great in-
terest to the quiet lives of us old peo-
ple." This he said in a tone not in
the least formal, or as if " making a
speech," and still looking more at
Mary than at her brother. They
were not j'Ot seated, and no expres-
sion but that of kindly courtesy
crossed his face while looking into
the sweet, gravely smiling one be-
fore him; his tones were hardly
altered when he added, " I have
waited for you these many long
years, Mary; but I never doubted
you would come at last. Vou must
not play tricks upon ray old heart ;
it has suffered too much to be able
to sustain its part as it did in old
times."

Mary drew back a step, at this
strange address, but she could not
withdraw her eyes from his, as in
tender, gentle tones he spoke the last
words. Dick stood closer to her, but
said nothing.

" Indeed, you mistake," Mary
said, with great earnestness ; " I have
told you the truth, I am really a
stranger, although you have called
me by my name, Mary. I am Mary
Brandon, and this — "

" Is your husband. Well, Mary,
are you not my daughter? If you
were changed, why come lo see me ?
I heard you were changed. I spent
four years in Paris and Rome, follow-
ing up the trace given me in New
York, and then I came back disap-
pointed but not despairing. ' Mary
will not die without sending for me
or coming to me,' I said ; and I have
taken care always to be ready for

thought yoiij
mc with coldness o
I was prepared for '
anything — to see you poor ai
ken-hearted; no shame, no \
sorrow that would part us.
not think to see you cona|
beauiiful, happy, rich," a, gl|
her dress, " and without a w
greeting." J

" Dr, Heremore?" said Di
because he believed or thoai
but because the words came
by some inward power great)
his knowledge. <

" Well, Charles," answered 1
gentleman, sadly but con^
turning at this name, "can j
phinit?"

And then Mary understood
The years were nothing to hi
had waited for his child's
She was in his arms before Di
recovered from his first bewildl
now, by this act of hers, tn
creased.

"Ah my child! if I spoke
ly, it was only because I cm
be.ir the waiting. I knew ywj
of old, darling; but when o
wailed so long for ihedear
loves, the last moments seem'
than all tlie years. I will i
questions. I see you two an
ihcr, and it is all right. You (
me all at your leisure. Now,
I must kill the fatted calf
though you and Charles haf
returned as prodigals," he act
if he would not, even in pU
hurting Ihem.

" Not yet, please," said
'■ Let us have it all to ourscK
a few minutes." And they
themselves on the sunny port
old gentleman's delight now'
ning to show itself in the a
way he moved his hands, d
disjointed sentences, MaryM
her hat at once, and threw j

Heremore-BraHd<m,

191

rather more of gayety than was quite
natural to her, upon one of the short
branches, looking like pegs, which
had been left in the pUlars of the
porch.

"You haven't forgotten the old

ways— eh, Mary?" Dr. Her^ore

asked, as he saw the movement. " I

remember well how proud you were

the day you first found you could

reach that very peg, and you are as

much a child as you were that day,

is she not, Charles ?"

"Pretty nearly," answered Dick,
who coidd not fulfil his part with
Mary's readiness.

" How deliciously fi:esh everything
looks!" exclaimed Mary.

" You should have seen it in June.
I never saw the roses thicker. O
pet, how I did wish for you, then !
The time of roses was always your
time."

"And I love them as much as
ever!" exclaimed Mary, telling the
truth of herself. " Next year, if I
am alive, I will be here with them ;
we will have jolly times looking after
ihem. I have learned a great deal
about flowers lately, but I shall never
love roses like yours." This indeed,
Maiy felt to be true.

" Flora has had to be replaced,"
said her grandfather observing her
eyes resting on a statue in the garden
in front " I will show you the alte-
rations I have made, and a few are
ini{Mx>vements. But you must have
SOTiething to eat now. I cannot let
you go a minute longer. You came
up by the boat, I presume ?"

**Yes, and had a hearty dinner,"
Maiy answered, having a dread of
a servant's entering, and getting
things an wrong again, " To eat now
win only spoil our appetite for tea,
smd I want you to see what an appe-
tite I have."

•* Perhaps you are too tired to go
Mound the garden ?"

« Tired ! No, indeed."
"I am aftuid it will not interest
you much, Charles," the old gentle-
man said to Dick. " You never did
care much about the little place."

"Oh! I assure you, I would be
delighted to see it all," Dick answer-
ed, eagerly; but Mary had noticed
the constraint in her grandfather's
voice whenever he addressed the
supposed Charles, and said quickly :

" Oh ! we don't want you, you
don't know a rose from a sunflower;
pick up a book and read till we come
back."

" This way, dear ; have you forgot-
ten ?" Dr. Heremore said, looking
at her in a perplexed manner as
naturally enough she turned away
from the house. "This way, dear,
you lose the whole effect if you go
around. Come through the house.
There, dear old Mary," he added,
smilingly handing her a glass of wine
which he poured out from a decan-
ter on the sideboard in the dining-
room. "Drink to *The Palms' and
no more jokes upon old hearts."

"To our happy meeting and no
more parting," added Mar>% drinking
her wine with him. He poured out
a glass for Dick, or Charles, as he
thought him, and, rather formally,
carried it to him. It was very clear
that " Charles " was no favorite.

AU through the trim garden, and
then through the whole house, Mary
followed her grandfather, her heart,
as it may be believed, full of love
for the tender father of her lost mo-
ther. She stood in the room which
that mother had occupied, and could
not speak a word as she gazed reve-
rently around. It was a thorough
New England bedroom — a high
mahogany bedstead, a long narrow
looking-glass with a landscape paint-
ed on the upper part, in a gilt frame,
.a great chintz-covered ann-chaur by
the bed, a round mahogany table.

with a red cover and a Bibie, a stiff,
long-legged washstand in the comer,
a prim chest of drawers under the
looking-glass between the windows,
composed the furniture of the room ;
a badly painted picture of a young
girl in the dress of a shepherdess,
and a pair of vases on the mantel,
were the only ornaments ; a crimson
carpet and white window-curtains
were plainly of a later date than the
furniture.

" I have had to alter some things,"
said Dr. Heremore, as they came
out of the room, " but 1 got them as
much hke the old ones as I could,
that you might feel at home here.
Your baggage should be here by this
time, should it not? How did you
send it ?"

" We left it at the station," answer-
ed Mary. " Vou know we were not
sure — not certain sure that we should
find you."

"1 suppose not, I suppose not.
These have been long years, Mary, but
they have not changed us, after all.
But I must send for your trunks. I
suppose Charles has the checks."

"We brought but very littie with
us," Mary said, considerably embar-
rassed, and, seeing the change in his
countenance, she hastened to add,
" But now that it is all right and we
have found the way, we will stay
with you until you turn us out; at
least, I will."

"Then you will send for more
things, and how about the children ?"
with the same perplexed look at her.
Mary knew not what to say. Was it
not better to tell him the real truth
at once ? How could she go on with
this deception, as innocent as any de-
ception can be, and yet how break
down his joy in its very midst ? Si-
lently she stood beside him, at a hall
window, looking upon the prospect
he had pointed out to her, consider- ,
ing what answer to make him. He,

too, was silent; for a long %
two stood there, and then it }
doctor who spoke first

" Mary, your children D
and women now. 1 had I
how long it was; but I n
wer^here last the year the i
house over there was put itn
just was thinking that was ow
ty years ago. Richard waJ
months old, tlicn. Mary, df
ceive me. Tell me the tiuthJ
Mary turned sadly towad
and laid her hands in his. J

" Grandpapa, I will," waij
said. .1

It was a great blow to a
something had been hoverii^
fusedly before his mind evfl*
they came out together, aodj
was clear. He turned abrupd
from her at the first shock, "Calk
to her more kindly than ever. J
give me, dear," he apologili
mournful courtesy ; " I did nd
to be rude, but it is a grealj
You are very like her, very H
but I should have kjiown a
that those ye.ars could not H
her a prl like you. 1 will J
more — your mother — " 3

" My father is living," Mn
with tears streaming down tad
as, he stopped, "and that is nn
er down-stairs." i

"Is he your only brother I
you sisters ?" he asked. "I

" We are your only gntndcM
she answered: and he una
that his child was dead , andJ
woman had filled her place, i

"You arc a noble ff'il," N
with lingering tenderness im
word. " We will go down ■
will greet Richard, and then, di
will let me be alone for a littla|
I shall have to send for youM
you know." J

"If it is any trouble — .'3

Heremore-Brandon.

193

"None, I win see about it at
once."

They went down, and he greeted
Richard, then went away slowly, still
begging them to excuse him for the
inattention to them. Soon after, a
barefooted boy of twelve or fourteen
or so went whistling down the road
past the house, staring at them as he
went by ; an hour after, the same boy
refumed with their bags ; these were
taken up-stairs by a thin, severe-look-
ing, very neatly-dressed woman, who
quickly and with only a word or two
diowed them their rooms, and told
ihem that, as soon as they were dress-
ed, tea would be ready.

Mary dressed in her mother's room
with a sense of that mother's spirit
around her. She fortunately had
brought a dress with her, so that she
was able to make a slight change.
Then slowly and with great reverence
die went down the stairs, meeting
Dick in the hall, to whom she whis-
pered, "O Dick! how I love him;
but I am afraid it will kill him ; the
purpose for which he has lived these
twenty years is taken from him. Can
we give him another ?"

"It may be that you can," Dick
leplied, looking tendeily into her
sweet &ce, all aglow with the bright
soul-fife' which had been kindled so
activdy in the last hours. " If you
can, Mary, try it; do not think of any-
thmg else; stay with him, do anything
you think right and good for him; he
deserves more from us than — ^" Dick
hesitated, not willing to speak unkind-
ly of Mr. Brandon, who certainly had
been a father to Mary — ^** than any
other."

* I win try," Mary answered speak-
ing quickly and in a low voice. '' If
it leems best that I should stay a lit-
de while, you wiU explain to papa ?
But pohaps, after all, it will be you
whowill be aUe to replace her best."
''We riiaU see," Dick said, and

VOL. ML— 13

then Dr. Heremore was seen coming
toward them, with less lightness in
his step than they had noticed before ;
otherwise there was but little change,
except that his voice was more moum-
ftilly tender than at first.

" It is a long time since I saw that
place filled," he said, arranging a chair
for Mary before the tea-urn. " And
it is very sweet to me to see yomr
bright young face before me ; a long
time since I have had so strong an
arm to help me," he added, as Dick
eagerly offered him some little assis-
tance, " and I am very gratefiil for it."

There were no explanations that
night ; he talked to Dick and Mary as
to very dear and honored guests, of
everything likely to interest them, and
was won by their eager attention to
tell them many little things about his
house and grounds, which were his
evident pride and pleasure, all in the
same subdued, courteous way that
had attracted them ftx)m the first.
There seemed, in the beginning, a far
greater sympathy between Mary and
him than he had with Dick, which
was the reason, undoubtedly, why he
devoted his attention more especially
to his grandson, whose modest replies,
given with a heightened color and an
evident desire to please, were very
winningly made.

" I have two noble grandchildren,"
he said to them as they stood up to
say good-night. " My daughter, short
as her life was, did not come into
the world for a small purpose; she
did not live for little good; she has
sent me two to love and esteem, and
to win some love from them, I trust
—yes, I belUvey

The next day, he set apart a time
and then there were full explanations
firom both sides. Dick's story we
know already. Dr. Heremore's can
be told in a few words. His daugh-
ter married, when very young and on
a short acquaintance, a gentleman

who was spending his summer holi-
days in the vicinity of Wiltshire, and,
immediately upon her maiiiage, had
gone to N lo reside; they re-
mained there until Richard was a
month old, when his daughter made
him a long — her last — visit; from there
to New York, whence a letter or two
was all that came for some little time ;
then one written evidently in great
depression of spirits. Dr. Heremore,
on receipt of this, went at once to
New York to see her, only to hear
that she had gone with her husband
lo Europe. A h'ttle further inquiry
proved to his satisfaction that Mr.
Brandon was in the South, and that
his wife was not with him ; his letters
were unanswered, and his alarm was
every day greater and more painful
At last, he followed a lady — described
to be somewhat of his daughter's ap-
pearance, bearing the same name, who
had joined a theatrical company,
though of this last he was not aware
for a. long time — to Europe. As he
had said before, he came back disap-
pointed but not despairing, to hear of
Mr. Brandon's death — the same false
report, perhaps intentionally circulat-
ed, which his daughter had heard.
Her lettSB to him, of which she
spoke in her letter to Dick, were lost
while he was away searching for her.
He had not been rich, then ; but com-
ing home, he had resumed his prac-
tice, and lived patiently awaiting
news of her, energetically laboring to
secure a small fortune for her should
she ever come lo claim it. This little
fortune he would divide at once, he
said, between her two children; for
" what," he argued with them, " what
is the use of hoarding it to give lo
you later when, I trust, you will not
noed it half as much ? A few hun-
dreds in early youth are often worth
as many thousands in after-years."

"That will do for Dick." Mary
conceded, "because it kiouU be a.

great thing for him to have i
start just now; and besides.
Somebody Else for Aim to th
but I will take my share in
here. You will not drive me

" Your father ?"

'■ Papa would — it's a shabby
say — be very wilhng to have m
in his present circumstances. .
been wishing and wishing for Fi
Joe constantly ever since they
but for me — he thinks girls ar^
of nuisance, I know he does; ai
be very grateful to you if you
the burden with him."

'• But if— just as I got used |
ing you, there should be
Somebody Else besides Dick's?
about this out of civilization
then ?"

Mary grew very red Indee(
answered readily, "Oh! that's
way oft'; and besides, he nu
think this out of civilizatiom

So it was settled. One of the
who had been from early boybt
Ames and Narden's store haj
long intending to start out on hi
account, and Dick was very
they could fulfill their olden dra
partnership, now that Dr. Hen
was willing to give them a starL.
went down to New York the d
ter this conversation, and there
long talk between the membetv
firm, and the two clerks, whid
minated in a dinner and llie agro
that all was to go on as it had
going, until the hist of May,
there would be a new bookselle^
in the New York Directory, tq
Barnes and Heresjore.

After a brief conversation
Brandon, Dick hurried to Cd
and was not long making his fi
the shadowy lane. To her
and glory be it said. Trot w
first to see him; and without i
for a greeting, not even for tfi

Heremore-Brandon.

195

pcctcd " dear 'ittle Titten," ran with
all speed into the house, crying,
"Thishter! Thishter! Mr. Dit ith
loming!" at the top of her voice;
and Rose, all blushing at being caught
*'just as she was,** had no time to ut-
ter a word before " Mr. Dit," was be-
side her. There was great rejoicing
over Dick; the children pulled him
in every direction, to show him some
new thing he had not yet seen, imtil
he began to tell the story of his ad-
ventures, when they stood around in
perfect silence. Mrs. Alaine and Mrs.
Stoflfe wiped their eyes between their
smiles and their exclamations of de-
light ; old Carl once held his pipe in
one hand and forgot to fill it for near-
ly a minute, so absorbed was he; but
Rose alone did not say a word of con-
gratulation when Dick's good fortune
and his brightened future were an-
nounced. I even think she had a
good cry about it, after a litde talk
with Dick by herself, that evening, so
hard it is to leave one's home.

"There's not a thing to wait for
now," Dick had said, with beaming
eyes; and poor Rose's ideas of
"youth," and " time to get ready," and
all that sort of remark, were put aside
vithont the least consideration. '' We
win have a little house of our own,"
Dick continued, ^ we will not go to
boarding, as some people do ; you are
too good a housekeeper for that^ I
am sore; and as New York has no
houses for young people of moderate
means, we will have a home of our
own near the city. Shall we not.
Rose?"

Dick was a very busy young man
for a couplejof months after this. One
tUng Dr. Heremore did that seemed
hard, bat not so very unnatural, and
of which no one who has never felt
a wrong to some one deaizly loved
dKNdd judge. He begged that he
QQI^t never see Mr. Brandon, nor
be asked to hold any communication

with him. He gave Mary a certain
sum of money, which he wished her
to use for her father and step-brothers;
but beyond that, he left Mr. Brandon
to help himself.

After attending to all his grandfath-
er's requests and suggestions, Dick, as
he had been invited to do, returned
to Wiltshire to give an account of his
management, and to take up some
things for Mary's use. He was on
his way to thQ boat when he suddenly
started and exclaimed, " Mr. Irving !"
for no less a person than his ^'Sir
Launcelot " was standing beside him.
Mr. Irving, not recognizing him,,
bowed slightly and passed on, and
Dick began to be relieved that Mary
was so far away ; perhaps, after all, it
was a great deal better.

But another surprise was in store
for Dick, who— an inexperienced trav.-
eller even yet, and always in advance of
time — ^had gone on and waited long
before the boat prepared to leave; for
at the last moment a carriage drove
rapidly to the pier, and a gentleman
sprang from it in time to catch the
boat. It was " Sir Launcelot."

" Mr. Heremore, I believe," he
said to Dick, when they met some-
what later on the boat. " I called on
Mr. Brandon to-day, just after you
met me, to pay my respects to him
on my retiun from Europe. I found
him in a different business from that
in which I had left him, and very re-
served. I asked after the ladies of
his family, who, he told me, were at
your grandfather's and his father-in-
law's, in Maine, adding that there was
a long story, which I had better come
to you to hear, if you had not already
left. I have business in Maine, so
followed you up."

So they made acquaintance, and
the new-found relationship with Mary
was explained, as also the reverses
Mr. Brandon had met with.

" His wife dead, too, you tell me !

How shocked he must have been at
my questions of her I How like him
not to give me a hint I " exclaimed
Mr. Irving.

The new friendship progressed well,
as it often will between two gentle-
men, one of whom is in love with tlie
other's sister, although there was a
wide difference between their charac-
ters. Mr. Irving was many years
^ older than Dick, as his finished man-
nets and his manly presence attested,
without the aid of a few gray hairs
on his temples, not visible, and half a
idozen or so in his heavy moustache,
■very visible and adding much to his
good looks, in the eyes of most of the
l&dies who saw him. It seemed as
natural to Dick that this travelled
.man, so polished, so princely as he
was, should be just the one to please
his high-bred sister, and he captiva-
ted by her, as that he himself should
belong to Rose and she to him. Con-
sequently he did not put on any of
the airs in which broUiers, especially
when they are very young, delight to
appear before their sister's admirers.

Dick had even tact enough, when
ih^ reached Dr. Heremore's house
— for, of course, Mr. Irving's " busi-
ness in Maine" did not interfere with
his acoompan)'ing Dick to Wiltshire —
to be very busy with the carriage and
trunks, while Mr. Irving opened tlie
httle gate, and announced himself to
the young lady on the porch. When
Dick, a few minutes after, greeted his
aster, he had no need, though Mary's
color did not come as readily as
Rose's, to say with Sir Lavaine :

1 think that Dr. Heremore, though
the very soul of courtesy, looked
rather sadly upon Mr, Irving; but be
Wts not long left in any uncenainly
io regard lo thai gentleman's wishes ;
for the' very next day tu> story was

told; how he had known and
Mary from her very earliest g|
but that he was afraid of his .{
age, and, anxious that she sho
be influenced by their long m
tance and tly advantages his
ed years had given liim oic
mirers more suited to her in i
had gone to Europe, but laclt
courage to remain half the time
allotted, and now was back, g

" And, ah I yes, I understand;
to lose her," said her grandfati;
ly. " I knew I could not keep

" Giving her to me will not i
ing her- We talked about
night, and we are both delightl
tliis place; and as I am bounj
especial spot, (Mr. Irving i
author,) and she loves none ]
much as this, we can well pilf
tent here,"

But when further acquaintaa
enabled the man of " riper yea
take a place in Dr, Heremoc
which neither Mary nor Dick
fill, it was settled that the old
was large enough for the thiei
as Mr. Irving was wealthy, h
and wise, the sun of Mary's
ness shone very brightly.

There's noUiing more for
say except that Dick went dl
Carlton still once again, and
its church there is a little altar
Blessed Virgin, whereon Rc|
the unspeakable delight — so p
lo ci-oy pious heart — of lj|
beautiful veil — Mary's gift 1
"sweet little sister" — whicb
looks critically at every Sunda
may be a little oftener, and ]
her small head wondering if i|
catc texture — the veil's — wi|
the wear and tear of the yeai
must pass before she can ref
with hets ; which always rnaks
Carl laugh. And Rose has pen
Iktary to dedicate her own :
same way, and Mary has Ua|

Our Lady's Easter.

197

complied, a little shame-^ced, too, at
her own secret pleasure in doing it,
at the same time half wondering
"what will come of it" Rose does
not wonder; she thinks she knows.

As for Dick, there is every reason
to believe that this coming Christmas

there will be two or three glad hearts
travelling around in company with two
or three rough, ragged, shaggy boys;
that he will carve his own Christmas
turkey at his own, own table; and
that there will be a caulcur de Rose
over all his future life.

OUR LADY'S EASTER.

She knelt, expectant, through the night :
For He had promised. In her face
The pure soul beaming, full of grace.

But sorrow-tranced — a frozen light

But, ere her eastward lattice caught
The glimmer of the breaking day.
No more in that sweet garden lay

The buried picture of her thought

The sealed stone shut a void, and lo !

The Mother and the Son had met !

For her a day should never set
Had burst upon the night of woe.

In sudden glory stood He there.
And gently raised her to his breast :
And on his heart, in perfect rest,

She poured her own — a voiceless prayer.

Enough for her that he has died.
And lives, to die again no more :
The foe despoiled, the combat o'er,

The Victor crowned and glorified

198 Our Ladys Easter.

II.

What song of seraphim shall tell
My joy to-day, my blissful queen ?
Yet truly not in vain, I ween,

Our earthly alleluias swell.

It is but just that we should thus
Our Jesus' triumph share with thee.
For us he died, to set us free.

Thou owest him risen, then, to us.

But thouy sweet Mother, grant us more
Than here to join the festive strain :
To hymn, but never know, our gain

Were ten times loss for once before.

Thy fiEuthful children let us be.
Entreat thy Son, that he may give
The wisdcHn to our hearts to live

In hiS| the lisai life, with thee.

For so, amid the onward years.
This feast shall bring; us strengdi renewed
To pass secure, o'er self subdued.

To Easier in the sinless qiheres.

1869.

Two Months in Spain during the late Revolution. 199

NO MONTHS IN SPAIN DURING THE LATE

REVOLUTION. .

September 9, 186S.
, while they are yet cele-
le Nativity of the Blessed
i enter Spain, that mysteri-
l behind the Pyrenees, so
om all others, and of which

so little! To-day is also
ersary of my birthday into
)lic Church, and now it is
lay into Catholic Spain!
. de Maria Santisima."
J Perpignan (in the Pyr^-
itales) by diligence, we pass
most tropical looking coun-
: hedges of aloe, and olean-

pomegranates, (reminding
xas in the character of the
productions, and even the
'e soon begin the ascent of
ains ; and, before it is quite
•e across the Pyrenees. By
f a beautiful sunset we have
d mountain views, and en-
group of Spanish gypsies,
;ed, and dirty, but highly
e. All along these moun-
3rk-trees of prodigious size,
, twisted trunks, from which
has been stripped — ^their
hapes taking the form of
lonks — great ghosts in the

Perthus, on the other side
itains, is the last French
b above which towers the
Bellegarde, built by Louis
1679. Just outside this
)ass a granite pyramid, on
ritten ** Gallia. " A fellow-
tells us we are on Spanish
ly, "Viva Espafia!" and we
ipon a solemn-Iookmg sol-
stands by a cantonnier,
:h floats the red and yel-

low flag of Spain, La Junguera is
the first Spanish town ; and here is a
rival fort to the towering French one
so lately seen. Here our luggage is
visited, and we have our first experi-
ence of Spanish courtesy. The gen-
tlemen passengers all come to ask,
"Will the ladies have fiiiit ?" " Will
they have wine ?" And one of our par-
ty, wishing to give alms to a blind beg-
gar, and asking change for a fi*anc, one
of the gentlemen gives her the mon-
ey in coppers, and refiises to take the
franc; wWch, it seems, is the Spanish
custom.

At Figueras we eat our first Span-
ish supper ^ no inconsiderable meal,
if we may judge by this one. First
came the inevitable soup, (pucheray)
then, boiled beef; next in course, cab-
bage and turnips, eaten with oil and
vinegar, and the yellow sweet-pep-
per which is the accompaniment to
everything, or may be eaten alone, as
salad. The third course was stewed
beef; next, fiied fish, (fish, in Spain,
never comes before the third course ;)
and now, stewed mushrooms ; but, as
they are stewed in oil, (and that none
of the sweetest,) we pass them by.
After this, lobster; then cold chicken
and partridge; and now the delicious
fiiiits of the country, and the toasted
almonds which are universal at every
meal, and cheese. Coffee and cho-
colate terminate this repast, for which
we pay three and a half firancs, and
after which one might reasonably be
expected to travel all night

Gerona appeared with the early
dawn; a curious old town of 14,000
inhabitants, on the river Ofia, and
looking not unlike Rome with its jA-

low river, its tall houses, and balco-
nies. Both this town and Figueras
have made themselves memorable in
wars and sieges. Indeed, what Spa-
nish town has ool Its tale of heroism
and brave defence during the French
invasion of 1809-11 ? Tliese towns
were both starved into capitulation,
after sieges which lasted seven or
right months, the women loading
and serving the guns during the siege,
and taking tiie places of their fallen
husbands or lovers, like the " Maid
of Saragossa." We were glad to
leave the diligence for tlie railway
which runs by the lovely Mediterra-
nean coast, passing many pretty towns
with ruins of old Moorish fortresses
and castles on the hills beyond. In
one of these towns, Avengo de Mar,
the dock-yards are very famous,
and a naval school was here estab-
lished by Charles III.

Mataro, a place of 16,000 people,
seemed very busy and thriving. This,
too, has its tale of siege and slaugh-
ter. The French have left behind
them in Spain a legacy of hate. Of
the ruins of a monastery near one of
these towns a pretty story is told.
Two Catalonian students passing by
this beautifiil site, one exclaimed,
"What a charramg situation this
would be for a convent I When I
am pope, I will build one here."
"Then," said the other, " 1 will be a
monk, and hve in it." Years after,
when the latter koi! become a monk,
he was sent for to Rome, and being
presented to the pope, (Nicholas V,,)
recognized in him his old friend and
companion, when in the act of receiv-
ing his blessing. The pope embraced
bim; reminded the monk of his pro-
mise ; built the convent, in which, we
presume, the latter lived and died.
The beautiful convent was utterly de-
stroyed in the civil wars of 1835,
when the monks were all driven from
^>ain.

"ThElone-ribbtd ijilu ORbiinlii
Deputed i> Die ploiu naak :

How charming looks this a
city, with its shady streets, ^
gardens and fountains, the se^
it, the mountains behind, fortil
on every side, seemingly inqmi
Our hotel is on the " Rambla,"
boulevard, like those of Pj
which most of the fine bull)
situated, and which is the
promenade. In the evening,-
to one of the theatres, and
French opera beautifully sung.

The books tell us that 1
was founded by Hamilcar, t
thaginian, B.C. 237. Cassar t
tus raised it to a Roman
Ataulfo, the first king of thel
chose it for his court In 71;
into tlie hands of the Mot
were expelled by Charlei
Soi, From this time, it bdoi
the Duchy of Aquitaine,
governed by counts, until 1
the liold made it an indq
kingdom, to reward Count 1
el Velloso, who had
against the Normans. Coui
mond Berenguer IV. united K
nia with Arragon, by raai
heiress of that kingdom, from'^
time it was the rival of Gew
Venice. It has always been d
tre of revolutionary movemei]
lessly andeavoring to regain itai
pcndcnce. The Catalans i
trious, bold, and enter
deed, so much do ihcy sui

Two Months in Spain during the late Revolution, 2Qi

people of other parts of Spain in ac-
tivity and enterprise, that they are
called the Spanish Yankees, and Bar-
celona is termed the Manchester of
Spain. Manufactories of cotton and
silk; the most famous laces of Spain ;
a most flourishing trade, as well as
fine schools and public libraries, are
to be found here. They boast that
the first experiment with steam for
navigation purposes was made in
Barcelona, the inventor having dis-
played his steamboat before Charles
V.and Philip II., in 1543. Charles,
being occupied in foreign conquests,
took kttle notice of this, and, through
fear of explosion, the discovery was
abandoned, and the secret died with
the inventor.

Barcelona has a very large French
population. In the Calle Fernando,
we see shops handsome as those of
Paris. Already we find most tempt-
ing Spanish fans for a mere trifle;
and at every turn the delicious choco-
late is being made into cakes by
oachinery. There are many fine
diurches. The cathedral is a grand
specimen of the Gothic Catalan of
the thirteenth century — one of the
BBost imposing churches we have seen
in Europe. " Sober, elegant, harmo-
nioas, and simple," as some traveller
dcsaibes it The Moors converted
the old cathedral of their Gothic pre-
decessors into a mosque. James II.,
"d conquistador," one of the greatest
of the Catalan heroes, commenced
this in 1293. The cloisters are very
interesting; have a pretty court, with
onnge-trees and flowers, and a curi-
001 old fountain of a knight on horse-
hack; the water flowing from the
bigiifs head, his toes, and fix>m the
tul ari mouth of the horse. In the
oypt is the body of St £ulalia, the
FatroQ saint of Barcelona; removed
fcm St. Maria del Mar, where it had
^ kept since the year 87$^ Be-
^ this ahEine Francis I. heard

mass, when a prisoner in Spain, after
the battle of Pavia. In the choir,
over each finely sculptured stall, is
painted the shield of each of the
knights of the Golden Fleece. Here
was held a "chapter," or general
assembly, presided over by Charles
v., March 5th, 1519. Charles, then
only king of Spain, occupied a throne
on one side hung with damask and
gold ; opposite was the empty throne
of Maximilian, first emperor of Ger-
many, (his grandfather,) hung in
black. Around the king were assem-
bled Christian, King of Denmark;
Sigismund, King of Poland; the
Prince of Orange, the Dukes of Alba,
Friaz, Cruz, and the flower of the
nobility of Spain and Flanders.

There are some curious old monu-
ments in the church, and a crucifix
called " Cristo de Lepanto," which
was carried on the prow of the flag-
ship of Don John, of Austria, in the
battle of Lepanto. The figure — of
life size — is aJl inclined to one side ;
and the faithful of that day assure us
that the sacred image turned itself
aside, to avoid the Moslem bullets
which were aimed at it. Certain, it
was never struck.

While in the church, we see a fune-
ral mass, which is peculiar in some
of its ceremonies, and very solemn in
the dim religious cathedral light,
where every kneeling figure, with its
black mantilla, seems to be a mour-
ner. After the credo, litde tapers are
distributed, and, at a certain part
of the mass, are lighted. The priest
comes to the foot of the altar. Each
person, bearing a lighted taper, goes
forward in procession, the men on
one side, the women on the other.
Each one kisses the cross upon the
stole of the priest, as if in submission
to the will of God. The candles are
extinguished, and deposited in a plate.
Walking on the Rambla this even-
ing, we hear a drum, and, following

202 Two Motitfis in Spain during the late Revolution.

the crowd, witness the performance
of a Spanish mountebaQlc, whose say-
ings must have been very witty, to
judge by the plaudits of the crowd.
He had a learned dog, which so far
surpassed all the dogs we had ever
seen that I am persuaded he was
cleverer than his master.

Saturday, September iz.
A rainy day. But we take a long
■walk through the crooked, nar-
row streets; going into the Calle de
la Plateria (the street of the jewel-
lers) to see the curious long filagree
earrings worn by the peasants. We
are as much objects of curiosity
to tliese people, as they are to us,
{bonnets and parasols being rarely
seen in Spain.) An old man, touch-
ed my blue veil, yesterday, asking,
" Quests paese ?" and when 1 told
him we were "Americanos," he re-
joined, " Me speak Kngland; me like
Americanos." Even the poorest peo-
ple here are courteous and respectful;
and their language seems to have
borrowed so much that is flower)- and
poetic irom their Arab progenitors,
that it would seem exaggerated and
insincere, were it not accompanied
by a grave and earnest manner as well
as gesticulation. We ask a beggar the
way to a certain street He accom-
panies us all the way, declines any
remuneration, and at parting says,
" Go, and may God go nith you !"
A policeman, seeing us endeavor to
enter the Phua Real, to look at the
monument to the king, opens the
gate, though the public are not »A-
mittcd. ^^'e thank him for making
an exception in our favor; and upon
going out, he bids us *■ Adios," ad-
ding. " May your beauty ttc^'cr be
less." At the «J* rf"**, everr
Spaniard bow« as we enter, and all
me irfaen we lea\-e the taUc. In the
COMR of the taHe is a pyramid of
cigm and matches most bntasiicaUy

arranged ; and it is the custom for
gentlemen to smoke at every meal!
We visit St. Maria del Mar, a churd
considered by many to be superior
to the cathedral, architecturally, li
was built in 1329, on the site of a
former church, erected to contain the
body of St. Eulalia. llie arched
roof is of immense height ; the main
altar of black and yellow matUe.
The church is hung with many pe-
tures by Spanish artists, and has Hk
usual amount of stucco and plding
for which Spanish churches have bcw
remarkable since the days of Colum-
bus, when gold was so plentiful mA
them,

Sunday, ijdi. 1

We hear mass in the little Godac
church of St. Monica, hard by, tnd
go afterward to the cathedral, whidi
is even more impressive upon .t second
view. Several baptisms are going on,
and the very babies are dressed io
mantillas — the white mantillas woio ■
by the lower classes, which are ittf 1
pretty. White silk, trimmed with
white lace, or of the lace alone; die |
silk, which is a long strip, is pinned
to the hair on top of the head, u>d |
the lace falls over the face, or is foil-
ed back. Young ladies wear thai
of black lace, in the street or far
visits; silk, for the churches; and 1
these with the never-tailing accom- |
paniment of tjie fan, belong to ■!!
alike ; rich and poor, cdd and young, i
The fan serves as parasol, and sHaQgt
10 say, that, with this alone to shdMT I
thero from the sun, these women ibodl
be so beautiAilly (air ; and in Valvh
cia they are &med for ibeir wJlK
complexions I Surely the sun in Spali
is kindei than in America, fat freck-
les and sun-bum are never seen.

The men wear a red or purple cap,
which they call "gocro;" a sort of
bag which hangs down behind, or it
the side, or is more gmerally li
flat across the forriKwl;

ly Ibldoy

^wo Months in Spain during the late Revolution, 203

I, (fq/a;) a short jacket;
nrdinya) of hemp or straw,
jings. We drive through
and find most of the shops
iday;) and see through the

that every house, even the
ty looks nice and clean,
vening, we drive upon the

Gracia, which terminates
e town of Gracia, where
villas, and stop at a con-
ic evening service. It is
Y convent that they tell
I Moorish invasion of Al
rhen his soldiers were re-

the harems of the Balea-
, (Minorca and Majorca,)
uns, thinking to avoid so
ite, heroically cut off their
isfigiu'e themselves ; but it
ail to save them ; for his-
Is that they were carried

of their noses, or, rather,
he want of them,
eta is a suburb where live
len, and where we find
ded with shipping. From
TC a fine view of .the Fort
built upon a high rock.
Iso a citadel near the sea,
autiful promenade upon
Muralea del Mar.) And
3 public buildings is a uni-
I to be the finest in Spain ;
itals and charitable insti-
i a theatre (the Lycrfe)

claim to be larger than

in Naples, the Scala, in
ven the new-opera house
Barcelona is the birthplace

the author of that great
esiantism and Cathoiicity
m their Influence upon

ALENCIA DEL CiD, Sept. I4.

$r, at six in the morning,
Barcelona for " the City of
irriving at ten o'clock at
ig, fotiguing, but interesting

day. The railway runs by the blue
Mediterranean, with stem, bleak
mountains dose on the other side;
or through vineyards, and fig and
olive groves, with which are mingled
peaches, apples, and quinces, show-
ing that all varieties of fruits meet
together in this favored dime. In
passing Martorell, the third or fotirth
station firom Barcdona, we have a fine
view of Montserrat; a picturesque,
jagged mountain looo feet high,
where is a monastery, one of fiie
most celebrated pilgrimages in Spain.
On the opposite side is a famous old
Roman bridge (over the Llobregat
rivo-) called "del Diablo," built in
531 B. c, by Hannibal, in honor
of Hamilcar. At one end is a trium-
phal arch. Here the views are par-
ticularly fine.

Villafranca comes next, the earliest
Carthaginian colony in Catalonia,
founded by Hamilcar. Next we see
Terragona, an ancient city, on a steep
and craggy eminence, founded by the
Scipios. It was long the seat of the
Roman government in Spain; now
famous for its fine wines.

Here the costume of the peasants
begins to look more eastern. The
full, short linen pantaloons, (on each
leg a petticoat;) a red handkerchief,
worn as a turban ; sometimes leather
leggings, but more firequently legs
red fi-om the wine-press, where they
have been treading out the grape-
juice. The peasants are simple and
friendly, and, seeing few strangers,
look upon them as guests, and seem
never disposed to speculate upon our
ignorance of the prices of things.
One of our party offered to pay for
a tempting bunch of grapes which we
saw in a man's basket, who pressed
to look at us in one of the stations.
With difficulty he was prevailed upon
to take a real, {^y^ cents.) He then
offered more, which we in turn de-
clined. Waiting till the train moved

off, he sprang forward, and dropped artists, both ancient and

into my lap a bunch which must have two of Spagnoletto, and

weighed several pounds, and I looked RibaJta and Juanes — two

back to sec him smiling most trium- artists of whom they are vem

phantly. At another station (a poor The last is especially hxaei

place in (he mountains) a modest, beautiful pictures of our L4

clean-looking woman came forward saw here the ancient altiiri

with glasses of water. No one paid James the Conqueror, " Da

anything for drinking it. But when as he is called — Uie gn

she came to our carriage, one of the of Catalonia, son of Pedio

party gave her two reals, (ten cents was one of the first sovcidi

in silver.) The poor thing shook her established standing armies

head sadly, saying, " No tengo cam- rope. Amongst other wi

bia." (But I have no change.) When tions, the municipal body

she was made to comprehend that lona was his work. He (Ufl

she was to keep it a//, her face glowed lencia, 1176,00 his way to tl

with delighted surprise; and as we tery of Poblet to become

moved off, we saw her showing the confiding his goodly sword,*'

money to all around her. No doubt zona," to his son Don Pedro,

slie took my friend for the queen her- favor he had abdicated that
selfl In this museum are raxiq

At Tortosa, on the Ebro, we begin of the ancient Saguntum, (n

to see the palm-trees. And here we Murviedro,) which is but a'

enter the province of Valencia, the from Valencia, and a modd

brightest jewel in the crown of Spain. Roman theatre. In the <

The Moors placed here their para- building are some palm-

dise, and under their rule it became hundred years old.
the garden of Spain. From them We next visit an aodeni

the Cid rescued it in 1094, and here the Jesuits to see one at'

he governed like a king, and died "Immaculate Conceptions,"

here in logg. It was then annexed very beautiful. Then the

to Castile and Arragon. It is a forti- da," an ancient building of

fied town, about three miles from the teenth century, where are the

sea ; and with its narrow streets, tall justice and other courts. '

houses, balconies, with curtains and some wonderful old carving,)

blinds hanging outside into the ous portraits of Inquisitors;.

street, looks perennially southern and one side, ecclesiastical on dll

Spanish. We come up from the sta- We were glad to see that dMi

tion in a " tartana," a vehicle peculiar greatly outnumbered the latia

to Valencia, a sort of omnibus on this, we go to one of the &M

two wheels, made to hold six persons; tals in the world; with maitaj

without springs, and with one horse, and pillars supporting a lofl

The driver sits on the shaft, with his the great windows opening

legs danghng down, or supported by dens of orange, and myrtle, n

a strap. This vehicle jolts horribly, mine 1 all clean, fresh, and ct

but is very cheap and convenient an altar so placed in the
under a lofty dome, that evo

Tuesdiy, Seplember 13. could see and hear the lUvi

To-day we first see the museum, in The whole building was a

which are many pictures of Spanish arranged; the kitchen large

7«w Months in Spain during the late Revolution, 205

and the dispensary grand.
', in all our experience — and
visited hospitals everywhere
ve seen nothing so inviting^

elegant, as this. Here we
5 two loveliest women we
n in Spain; both sisters of

one having charge of the
y, and the other of the found-
itution connected with the

Such white complexions;
jlor; such eyes, and eye-
id teeth I Specimens of the
f Valencia, And such char-
►ups of children as we saw

these unhappy disowned
Jnconscious of their fate,
ed merrily in the cool court,
ig strangers, many ran to
r beautiful eyes behind the
apron. The school-room
ive done honor to the noost
ned natiotty' iriuch might
; a lesson from ^benighted

Great placards hold the
* Slates hang in order by

benches against the wall;
if betsts and birds, fbr natu-
ijr; maps, for geography;
, for mathematics; balls
1 wires, for counting; large
ed with colored engravings
history, from the birth of

the end of the Apocalypse,
i neatness and order ! There
ipartment for the little ones
3thers leave them each mor-
al they go out to work, re-
wr them at night Their tiny
lUng in a row. Some, who
« babies, were bdng greatly
xause it was their first day
a the mother.

in the school-room, one of
' began examining a large
)pain with reference to our

route. The sister seeing
red the map by a cord, and
little fellow of five years, he
out the oceans by which

Spain is surrounded, named the rivers
and mountains, the provinces of
Spain, and the principal towns ; never
once making a blunder, though he
often paused to recollect himself.

We drive to see the queen's gar-
den, where is every tropical tree and
flower. This, with other gardens,
borders upon the Alameda, a broad,
shady promenade extending three
miles to the sea. There is another
promenade called the "Glorieta,"
where the band plays every morn-
ing from nine to eleven. We see,
also, the Plaza de Toros, (the arena for
the bull-fights,) one of the finest in
Spain, capable of holding twenty thou-
sand people; built so exactiy like
a Roman amphitheatre that we feel
as if we looked upon the Colosseum
in the days of its gloiy. It is evident
that these people inherit the love ot
this their national pastime fix>m their
Roman ancestors. Happily, the
fashion is dying out In Valencia,
the buU-fights occur but once or
twice a year. They are now making
preparations for a three days' "fun-
cion," to begin on the 24th. We saw
the poor horses doomed to death.
Forty a day is the average number.
The men are rarely killed, but often
badly hurt

Wednesday, September 16.
This mommg we go to the markets
to see the wonderful display of firuits
for which Valencia is so famous.
Never were such grapes and peaches,
melons and figs, oranges and lemons,
apples and pears, the last as fine as
could be seen in all New England;
the nuts and vegetables equally
good. Potatoes, and tomatoes, and
peppers, of mammoth size, and even
the Indian com and rice as good as
those of America. But even the Spa-
nish gravity is here upset at sight
of our round hats, short veils, and
parasols. The women hold their

2o6 Two Months in Spain during tfie late Revolution,

I
I

sides with laughter, and we are driven
to resolve upon wearing mantillas
and fans, which fashion we soon after,
in self-defence, adopt. We go to the
shops to buy fans, which are a spe-
cialty of Valencia, as are also the
beautiful striped blankets, (mantas,)
which are as indispensable to a Va-
lencian as the fan is to the Valen-
cienne ; and is at once his cloak, his
bag, his bed, his coverlet, and his
towel. They say of a Valencian,
that he has two uses for a water-
melon — to eat his dinner, and make
his toilette. After eating the melon,
he washes his lace with the rind, and
wipes upon his manta. They wear
it slung gracefully over the left shoul-
der, or over both shoulders, the ends
falling behind; and over the head-
hanc^erchief is often worn the point-
ed hat of Philip II. 's time, with wide,
tumed-up brim.

To-day we visit the cathedral and
San Juancs. Like most of the great
churches of Spain, the cathedral occu-
pies the site of a Roman temple.
'I1us, made into a church by the
Goths, was changed to a mos<|ue by
the Arabs, and now (since 1340) it
is again a Christian church. Some
of the doois, and many of the orna-
ments, are Moorish. The gratings — -
of brass — are very handsome; as are
the altars and screen, of marble and
alabaster. This last is most abundant
in Spain. A palace opposite to our
hotel ((hat of the Marquis de los
AgUQs) is beautifully adorned on the
outside with statues, and vases, and
flowers of alabaster in relievo.

All these Spanish churches are
much ornamented with stucco and
gilding, according to the taste of the
time in which they were builL The
cathedral has some good pictures in
the sacristy ; and within the sanctuary
hang the spurs of Don Jaime upon
his shield. His body is in one of the
chapels.

In an old chapter-house we
shown some great chains taken
the Moors, and a series of
of all the archbisho[)s of Vali
and so much is it the habit to gi
late in this country, that even thoe
dignitaries, instead of being painted
in eeclesiastkal attitudes, have their
fingers in every imaginable postion.
One must know their expressive lan-
guage to read what each of ihoc
worthies may be saying.

Alter some shopping, we go to all
upon the present archbishop, a glac^
ful and dignified person, who received
us most kindly, and presented ui
each a chapelette and scapular. He
has a grand old palace, very plaiolj
furnished ; a pretty chapel ; ami, in
a fine old hall, with groined roof, iren
portraits of his predecessors from ibt
sixth century to the present day.

We have a visit from the En^
consul, to whom we brou^t letteit
He is very kind and Mcndly,
full of offers of service. The "_
sun seems to have warmed the
lish heart, which seldom gives
much, save in its own foggjrjb
He sends us some fine wioCf
with some iced orgeat, sccine
merry evening.

This morning we hear mass '
Church of the Patriarch, into
no woman may enter without
veiled. Then we visit the h<
which Sl Vincent Ferrer, the
of Valencia, was bom, and
is a fountain greatly esteemed
miraculous powers.

While at breakfast, a young
enters, whom we take for a S[
but who proves to be :
and from Maine ! He has lin
Cuba, however, and il
tliat his father is a friend of the
nish ladies with whom we ate
ling. He gives a pleasant
of his travels in the north of

Two Months in Spain during the late Revolution, 207

e wonders of Burgos ; of the
•etween that and Miranda,
)ws such extraordinary engi-
kill ; and of the fine scenery
¥hich he has passed. Yes-
n the mountains, he saw
sets; or rather, saw the sun
times, in descending from
range.

elightful to meet an Ameri-
instead of complaining of
mforts of travelling in Spain,
)f our people do, sees only
pleasant. For ourselves, we
Q most fortunate ; good ho-
t obliging people, and, so
being extortionate, (as we
to expect,) we find Spanish
leaper than those of any
rt of Europe. To-day we
poUo con arroz," one of the
dishes, (rice with chicken
in,) and find it very good,
^dersen, in his little book
says:

;ted with Valencia, are several
Spanish romances about the Cid
I all his battles, and on occasions
ras misjudged, remained true to
s people, and himself; he who,
ime, took rank with the monarchs
nd down to our own time is the
e country which he was mainly
il in rescuing from the infidels.
ueror he entered Valencia, and
with his noble and heroic wife,
d his daughters, Dofia Sol and
ra; and here he died in 1099.
aroond his bed of death all who
to him. Even his very war-
ieca, was ordered to be called
I song, it is said that the horse
I lamb, and gazed with his large
his master, who could no more
the poor horse himself. . • .
be streets of Valencia passed at
uctraordinary cavalcade to San
ordofia, which the departed chief
d should be his burial-place.
9IIS colors of the Cid were carried
Four hundred knights protected
a came the corpse. Upright
w-horse sat the dead; arrayed
ir with his shield and his helmet,

his long white beard flowing down to his
breast.

'* Gil Diaz and Bishop Jeronymo escorted
the body on either side ; then followed Dofia
Zimena with three hundred noblemen. The
gate of Valencia toward Castile was opened,
and the procession passed silently and slow-
ly out into the open fields, where the Moor-
ish army was encamped. A dark Moorish
woman shot at them a poisoned amrow, but
she and a hundred of her sisters paid the
forfeit of their lives for that deed. Thirty-
six Moorish princes were in the camp ; but
terror seized upon them when they beheld
the dead hero on his white charger.

* And to their vessel* they took flight,
iknd many sprang into the waves.
Two thousand, certainly, that night
Amid the billows found their graves.*

'' And the Cid Campeador thus won, after
he was dead, good tents, gold and silver ;
and the poorest in Valencia became rich.
So sa}'s the old ' Song of the Cid in Valen-
cia.'"

CORDOVA — PROVINCB OF ANDALUSiA —
FONDA SUIZA — HOTEL SUISSE.

September i8b
After a long night journey, (by
rail,) we reach a hotel rivalling the
cleanness and comfort of the genuine
Swiss hotel, and find ourselves in the
ancient capital of the Moorish empire,
and in that lovely, bright Andalusia,
so famed throughout the world.

From the time we leave Valencia
imtil we reach Jativa, (about fifty
miles,) we pass over the " Huerta "(the
" garden") of Valencia, one continu-
ous plain of verdure ; pastures which
are cut from twelve to seventeen
times a year. Golden oranges, and
other fruits hang above these green
fields ; and dates, and figs, and
peaches, and pears, and quinces,
pomegranates, plums, apples, melons,
and grapes, and olives, with Indian
com, rice, and every vegetable in
equal perfection. Well might the
Moors term this plain (with Anda-
lusia) "the Paradise of the East."
For centuries after their expulsion,
their poets still sang verses expressive

Tim M^mths in ^airt during the late RevehitUH.

of their grief for iu loss, and it is said
they still mention it in their evening
prayers, and supplicate Heaven to re-
store it to them.

And this fertility is all their work.
Every stream has been turned from
its channel into numberless litde ca-
nals, which water this luxurious soil;
and these are arranged with such
skill and care that crop after crop
has its share of irrigation, and in its
just proportion. I-'rom Jativa the
country becomes more mountainous.
AVe pass the ruins of an old chateau
on a high hill, (Montesa,) seat of an
ancient order of chivalry which exis-
ted after the suppression of the Tem-
plars. We next pass Almanzar, Chin-
chilla, Albacete, where they sell the
famous " Toledo blades," now hardly
so famous. Here we are in La Man-
cha, and when wc stop in Alcazar at
midnight, we are near the village of
Toboso, which Cervantes makes the
dwelling of Don Quixote's Dulcinea.
Alcazar is claimed as the birth-place
of Cervantes,

Here we leave our road for the
grand route between Madrid and
Cordova; and here we are crowded
into carriages with other ladies, a fate
from which we have hitherto been
defended; each conductor treating
us as if we had been especially com-
mitted to his care, and sparing us all
aimoyance. Fortunately, at Mania-
nares two of these ladies leave us,
and we make acquaintance with the
third, who is very kind and polite ;
offers us a share of her luncheon,
and gives us much information of
people and things in Spain. She is
a Portuguese, and tells us how much
larger and finer are the olive-trees in
her country than in Spain; she re-
members one tree which eight men
could not clasp. From her we hear
much of the queen as &om an un-
prqudiccd source, and leam, what we
gathered afterward from many cre-

dible sources, that this po«
a good woman, a very pioi
full of talents and accomjd
generous to a fault, with i '
ings and affections, which
to reward to excess those n
loves or who hai'c served
this has given rise to the
reports which have found '
to every foreign newspaper, 1
no j^i/ people in Spain betii
From Andujar the count
uninteresting, more of a grad
try, where we see immense
cattle, sheep, horses, and
picturesque shepherds min
The men wear short tiousc
ed several inches at the ank
ing the untanned leathern bl
is seen in the old pictures
H.'s time,) a red sash, and
hat turned up all around,
we come upon the Gauda]<jul
which Cordova is »tuated,
is crossed here by a brit^
marble. \Ve drive up the
dy streets, catching glimpsei
open doors and curtains, of
paradise «-ithin — the maiU
with fountain, and onmge-l
flowers, and vines — a vesti(
old Moorish time. In fact, e
here so preserves its Arabic I
that one is transported six
back, into the palmy daj-s d
lifs, when this city was said
contained half a million of
tants, zoo,ooo houses, 60,000
700 mosques, 900 baths, jo 1
and a public Ubrary of 6oc^
umes. Of all these glories
mosque remains to show by
ni&cence that these account
be exaggerated.

Saturday, Sept

Wc hasten to see the mi

cathedral now,) and, enterii

dooT-way in the wall whkh 1

it, you find yourself in a

Two Months in Spain during the late Revolution, 209

d court, with fountains, and
f tall palms, and ancient orange-
ad cypress. This is called " the

of ranges." Open colon-
surround the coiirt on all sides
me, from which twenty doors
)pened into the mosque; only
r these is now open. Enter
ad you find yourself in a forest
ars — a thousand are yet left —
ry hue and shade, no two alike,
per, and verde antique, and
ay, and alabaster, and every
i marble, fluted, and spiral;
^er these, rises arch upon arch
^ping each other. These di-
he mosque into twenty-nine
from north to south, and nine-
xxax west to east; intersecting
>ther in the most harmonious
eautiful manner. The Moors
it these pillars from the ancient
s of Rome, and Nismes, and
ge. The mosque was built in
^th century, by Abd El Rah-
rbo aimed to make it rival those
oascus and Bagdad. It is said
ked upon it an hour every day
is own hand, and it is certain

ranked in sanctity with the
■.*• of Mecca, and the great
5 of Jerusalem. Ten thousand
illuminated it at the hour of
; the roof was made of arbor
rhich is considered imperisha-
id was burnished with gold,
lapel, where is the holy of ho-
rhere was kept the Koran —
me an idea of what the oma-
of the whole must have been.
he carvings are of the most ex-
fineness, like patterns of lace;
d enamel, the beautiful mosa-
as bright as if made yesterday.
I holy of holies — a recess in
apel---the roof is of one block
tUe, carved in the form of a
iBpported by pillars of various-
1 marble. Around this wall a
\ worn in the marble pavement,

VOL. IX. — 14

by the knees of the faithful making
the mystic " seven rounds ;" and our
guide tells us that, when a few years
ago, the brother of the king of Mo-
rocco came here, he went round this
holy of holies upon his knees, seven
times, crying bitterly all the while.
The chapel of the Kalife is also re-
markable, from the floor to the ceil-
ing, the marble being carved in these
beautiful and delicate patterns.

From the cathedral, we go to visit
the old Roman bridge of sixteen
arches, which spans the Guadalquivir.
This looks upon some ruins of Moor-
ish mills, and the orange-gardens of
the Alcazar, (now in ruins,) once the
palace of Roderick, the last of the
Goths. As we pass the modem Al-
cazar, (used as a prison,) an old cav-
alry officer comes out of the govern-
ment stables, and invites us to look
at the horses — ^the ^ilky-coated Anda-
lusians of which we have heard so
much, and the fleet-footed, gracefid
Arabians. Each horse had his name
and pedigree on a shield over his
stall. Returning to our hotel for
breakfast, we go out again to see the
markets and the shops; visit some
churches, and the lovely promenade
by the Guadalquivir. Our costumes
excite great remark ; one woman says
to another, " They are masqueraders ;"
another lifts her hands and exclaims
" Ave Maria ;" and but for the inter-
vention of om: guide, who reproves
their curiosity, we should be followed
by a troop of children.

Sunday, 2a

Coming to breakfast, we are charm-
ed to find our young American
fiiend whom we had left in Valencia ;
and, in spite of a pouring rain, we all
set out to hear high mass in the cathe-
dral. The mosque was consecrated,
and made the cathedral, when the
city was captured by St, Ferdinand
in 1236. Several chapeb and altan

were then added, and in igii, the
transept and choir were begun, to
make room for which, eighty pillars
were sacrificed. Charles V., who
gave permission for this act of van-
dalism, was deeply mortified when he
saw what had been done, and reprov-
ed the canons of the church, saying,
they had destroyed what was unique
in the world, to raise that which could
be found anywhere.

While we are at mass, our young
American arrives with the guide, to tell
us that a rfvoluthn has broken out,
.and entreats us to return to the hotel.
Some of the ladies are much alarmed ;
■but my friend and myself, remember-
ing that revolutions are chronic in
Spanish countries, and are generally
bloodless, we maintain our ground,
too old soldiers to be driven from the
field before a gun is fired ; and the
result justifies our faith.

Nobody quits the church. We have
a solemn procession of the Blessed Sa-
crament after mass, winding through
these beautiful aisles, accompanied
by a band of wind instruments, the
whole congregation following. We
reach home to find our fellow-travel-
lers very much frightened and annoy-
ed at the prospect of a long deten-
tion; but we are assured that the
worst which can befall us is a delay
of a few days, to which we can
well submit in this comfortable inn.
Making acquaintance with our fellow-
prisoners, we grow jolly over our mis
fortunes. The railways are all cut
General Prim and his colleagues (th(
exiled generals) are besieging Cadiz
and the queen has fled to Biarritz, to
claim the intervention of the Empe-
ror Napoleon. These are some of
the rumors which are rife during the
day. Hosts of red umbrellas parade
the town — the most formidable wea-
pon which we encounter ; a few
voices faintly cry " Libertad !" and
"Viva!" some damp- looking soldiers

pass by, with lances from ■
pend little red flags, lookinfu
hopeless in the heavy raiiu
troops declare for the people.4
one of these what they iv
answer is, " Liberty." (Of
" And what is that ?" " Wi
King. We will not be gov!
a woman." Inflammatory )
are distributed amongst tin
very vague in their demaa
empty Ihrottt" being the fid
site on the li.st.

One man is killed, (a fis
officer of the queen's troops ]
ly shot down,) and another
wounded. In the evening
that the revolution is accom
Cordova ; the insuircciioo
the city !

All is peaceful in appew
we go out to shop, to find
the filagree jewelry for whic
va is remarkable— ^n ait
from the rime of the Mo<
rain drives us in, and we s
day with music, books, and i]
sation with our new friends^
ish lady of rank, who ha<
Cordova about a lawsuit, i
shakes with fright, and go
with a glass of water and >
vinegar to quiet her nerves;,
lady neither eats nor sleeps,
ers are of different calibre;
Scotch lady, and her com
sweet and charming Ccc
" Who's afeard !"

Tim

We are roused by the
military music, and find thai
the queen's troops are en||
city. Such splendid-lookin|
Such handsome officers! It
the city is taken in eami
The inconstant populace cl
shout ; all is enthusiasm ; t
is, that the insurrecrionists a
Seville; the roads are repi

Two Montlis in Spain during the late Revolution, 211

: allowed to leave the city,
icrs of war! Later in the
ear that the troops we saw
ing are those which had

insurgents at Seville. The
oops, commanded by the
ie Novaliches, are outside

fearing to be too few for
in, and waiting the turn of
t is supposed there will be
ipromise entered into; a
I patched up; and no
The prime minister, Gon-
^o, has fled from Madrid,
> anarchy. This man, who
lie author of all the oppres-
res, and all the banishments
e made the queen's govem-
^pular, now, in her hom: of
s her to her fate, after cni-
ing her. When she feared
r of revolution, he assured
ght leave the country with-
xiety ; and she went to Biar-
rance of the truth ; thus giv-
lemies the very opportunity
<L Even now, (they say,)
:o return, and throw herself
enerosity of the people, she
■eceived kindly; such is the

Spaniards to their mon-
le influence of Bravo ban-
Montpensicrs, (the queen's

her husband, the son of
lippe,) who were naturally
friends, and to whom she
ed every kindness. He
many of her most popular
ind now they return, with
nns, and British and Prus-
; the people sympathize

the troops join them ; we

Cadiz, that there was a
ition upon their landing,
we have a fine walk in a
[)ark, on one side of the
whence we have a charming
e mountains; on one side,
nd bold, with olive groves,

country houses sparkling

in the sunshine; on the other side,
the hills are low, and their graceful,
wavy outlines have the peculiar pur-
ple hue belonging to Spain, and form
a striking contrast to the others. Be-
tween the two, lies the city, and the
fertile plains about it. We lose our
way in the tortuous streets, and spend
the morning peeping into the beauti-
ful patios, (courts,) which open to the
heavens, or have sometimes a linen
awning over them; with marble
pavements, over which the cool foun-
tains play; with orange-trees, and
flowers, amongst which sofas, and
chairs, and pictures are disposed ; and
around which often runs a marble
corridor, with pillars and curtains,
communicating with the other apart-
ments. Here the family sit, and here
take place the "tirtulias," the meet-
ings for talk and music. A picture
of one of these patios is thus charm-
ingly translated from one of Feman
Caballero's beautiful tales by a late
English traveller; and which any one
who has been in Spain will recog-
nize : " The house was spacious, and
scrupulously clean: on each side
the door was a bench of stone. In
the porch hung a little lamp before
the image of oiu: Lord in a niche
over the entrance, according to the
Catholic custom of putting all things
under holy protection. In the mid-
dle was the * patio,' a necessity to
the Andalusian. And in the centre
of this spacious court an enormous
orange-tree raised its leafy head from
its robust trunk. For an infinity of
generations had this beautiful tree
been a source of delight to the family.
The women made tonic decoctions
from its leaves ; the daughters adorn-
ed themselves with its flowers; the
boys cooled their blood with its fiiiits ;
the birds made their home in its
boughs. The rooms opened out ot
the * patio,' and borrowed their light
from thence. This 'patio' was the

212

Pope or People.

centre of all the *home;' the place
of gathering when the day's work
was over. Hie orange-tree loaded
the air with its heavy perfume, and
the waters of the fountain fell in soft
showers on the marble basin, fringed
with the delicate maiden-hair fern.
And the father, leaning against the
tree, smoked his * cigarro de papel ;'
and the mother sat at her work, while
the litde ones played at her feet, the
eldest resting his head on a big dog,
which lay stretched at full length on
the cool marble slabs. All was still,
and peaceful, and beautiful.''

We close the day with a farewell
visit to the cathedral. Surely it is
the most wonderful building in the
world. Even St. Peter's hardly fills
one with greater astonishment. This
is altogether unique; and its grace,
and elegance, and harmony win one

to love it We lingered by the cha-
pel of the holy of holies, finding beau-
ties which we had not before seen,
and bade farewell to it with deep
regret; then wandered to the bridge
over the Guadalquivir, and gazed
upon the truly eastern prospect it
reveals.

To-day, a great robber from die
mountains, upon whose head a price
had been fixed by the late govern-
ment, comes boldly into town. The
people cry, "Viva PachecoT In
half an hour after, we hear he has
been shot — the victim of private ^^
venge.

Cordova is the birthplace of Ln-
can, the author of the Pkarsaiia; of
the two Senecas; of many eminent
Moslem poets and authors, and d
the famous Gonzales de Cordova,
" El Gran Capitan."

POPE OR PEOPLE.*

We confess to having read with
no little siuprise an elaborate article
in the Congregationalist and Boston
Recorder entitled Ibpe or Btople,
Had w^ met the artide in a profess-
edly Unitarian journal or periodical
we should have thought litde of it ;
but meeting it in the recognized or-
gan of the so-called orthodox Con-
gregationalists of Massachusetts, we
have read it with no ordinary interest
It shows that the Protestant, espe-
cially the old Puritan mind of the
country, is profoundly agitated with
the church question under one of its
most important aspects. He who
reads with any attention the leading

*The Coi^^rtgationaliH mmd Botipm Rgc^rdtr^
Botton, March 4th, 1869.

American sectarian journals caa
hardly fail to perceive that there ii
a growing dismast in the Protestant
world of the Protestant role of fiuth,
and a growing conviction that the only
alternative, as the journal before
expresses it, is either pope or pcopit
Of course the journal in questioii hai
no clear apprehension of either of
the alternatives it suggests, but it
does see and feel the need of oe^
tainty in matters of religious bdie(
and is in pursuit of it It says :

" One of our great men once dedttedlfti^
the thing most to be desired in this vorii
by an intelligent mind, 11 an iintiUtBiipf
religious belief In the senae in which fei
meant it, his remark is onqnestioiirii^
true ; and it explains the philosophy 01

Pope or People,

ai$

be f uocess of the Romish Church.
crave certainty in their convic-
ii certainty demands infallibility

to found itself, and the pap^
fers the promise of just that in-

And thousands upon thousands
rest in that ; and being able to

it meets that innate and inextin-

craving of the soul for stability
I feet, and gives them a great
it be a fallacious — peace,
laltitudes, and some even among
lal adherents of the papacy, are
so to receive that doctrine, and
quently driven to seek for some
k on which to found the house of
i; too often with the result of
t on the sand, with its seductive
)r fair weather, and its terrible
lediable fall when the tempestu-
•time of death shall come. But
who reject the pope and that cer-
conviction which he offers, what
md is there on which to stand

J writer knew the Catholic
better, he would know that
« we find in believing is not
•us," for " we know in whom
ve and are certain;" but he
f that to an unfaltering reli-
:lief infallibility of some sort
itely indispensable, and that
lolic Church promises it ; yet,
ar unwilling to accept the
the church, he looks around
f he cannot find elsewhere
ifaliible authority in which
confide, an immovable rock
solid ground on which one
nd and feel that his footing
Does he succeed ? We
)t He finds an alternative
but not an infallible autho-
he has proved very condu-
it outside of the church there
an be no such authority for
le says :

J look at it, oniy two alternatives
>le in this matter of an infallible
ler the conditions of it exist out-
be soul in some constituted and
ttthority, or within the soul in the
d loftiest exercise of its reason —

and we use this word as incttuUng con-
science — under the enlightenment of God*s
Spirit through his Word. If outside of the
soul, in any central and constituted autho-
rity, then in the pope ; for it may as well
be in him as anybody, nobody else claims
it, and he does. If inside the soul, then
any pope is an impossibility and an insult,
and God remits every man to those condi-
tions of secure decision which he has es-
tablished in his breast, and holds him
responsible for a judgment and a life found-
ed upon them. And this latter, precisely,
is God's way with men. He never com-
mands them to hang their faith on the
pope or the bishop ; but rather inquires^-
in that tone of asking which is equivalent
to the highest form of injunction — *• Why,
(aph^ heautoftt) out of your own selves^ do ye
not judge what is right ?' Even in that pre-
cept which many will be swift to quote
against us in this connection, *■ Obey them
that have the rule over you, and submit
yourselves,' it is first true that these 'ru-
lers,' as the context proves, are mere
(hegoumendn) leaders, and men of example
who were already dead, with no flavor of
potentiality therefore about them; whose
* faith ' is to be imitated rather than whose
commands are to be submitted to; and
true, in the second place, that the entire
appeal of the apostle is to the tribunal of
the Hebrews' reason as the court of ulti-
mate decision, inasmuch as he declares
that for them to fail thus to follow the good
example of the illustrious and holy dead
who had walked before them in the hea-
venly way, would be 'unprofitable' for
them; leaving the necessary inference
that men are bound to do what is for their
highest profit, and therefore bound to
decide, in all solemnity, what will be for
that profit, and, so deciding, by inevitable
necessity, to assume in the last analysis
the function of positive masterhood over
themselves and their destiny."

The alternative here presented is
not pope or people, but pope or no
external authority for faitfi. But
why, supposing the mtemal or sub-
jective authority to be all that is here
alleged, is the pope an impossibility
or an insult? Why may there not
be two witnesses, the one internal,
the other external? Is the revela-
tion of God less credible because
confirmed by two witnesses, each

214

worthy of credit ? The external and
the internal do not necessarily ex-
clude, and, If both are infallible, can-
not exclude each other, or stand op-
posed one to the other. I do not
deny or diminish the need or worth
of reason by asserting the infallibility
of the church, nor the importance
and necessity of the infallible church
by asserting the full power and free-
dom of reason. The Catholic as-
serts both, and has «i] the internal
light and authority of reason that
our Puritan doctor can pretend to,
and has the infallible church in addi-
tion.

We may say the same when is
added to " the purest and loftiest
exercise of reason " the enlightenment
of God's Spirit through his Word.
This word, on the hypothesis, must
be spoken inside of the soul, or else
it is an authority outside of the soul,
which the writer cannot admit. His
rule of faith is reason and the interior
illumination of the Holy Ghost. The
Catholic rule by no means excludes
this; it includes it, and adds to it
the external word and the infallible
autliority of the church. Catholics
assert the interior illumination and
inspiration of the Holy Spirit as fully
and as strenuously as the Puritan does
or can. The authority inside the
soul, be it more or be it less, does not
exclude the external authority of the
church, nor does the external autho-
rity of the church exclude the in-
ternal authority of reason and the
Spirit Cathohcity asserts both, and
interprets each by the authority of
the other. Catholics have all the
reason and all the interior " enlight-
enment of God's Spirit " that Pro-
testants have, and lay as much stress
on each, to say the least, as Protes-
tants do or can.

The great mistake of non-catho-
lics is in the supposition that the
assertion of an external infalhble

Pope or People.

authority necessarily excludes, or al
least supersedes, reason and the inte-
rior illumination of the Spirit. This
is false in logic, and, as every tiDc
who understands Catholic tlieology
knows, is equally false in fact. Thm
is a maxim accepted and insisted on
by all Catholic theologians, tlul
settles, in principle, the whole cua-
trovcrey ; namely, ^alia strJipanU m-
turam. Grace supposes nature, rtw-
lation supposes reason, and the ex-
ternal supposes the internal; mhI
hence no Catholic holds that lailli
is or can be produced by the exia-
nal authority of the church oloM.
diough infallible, or without Ihc
grace of God, that illuminates iht
understanding and inspires the wdL
Hence our Lord says, '• No man
cometh to me, unless the Father
draws him." In our controvecsiei
with Protestants we necessarily in-
sist on the external authority, be-
cause that is what they deny; hence
is produced an imiucssion in many
minds that we deny the internal, or
make no account of it. Nothing ran
be more untrue or imjust, as any
one may know who will make him-
self at all familiar with the writings
of Catholic ascetics, 'or with ihc
Catholic direction of souls.

But while we assert the internal
we do not concede that it is alone
sufficient. " Dearly beloved, be^i
not every spirit, but try the a "
whether they be of God," (i
iv. I.) Saintsmay mistake thcil'^l
imaginations or enthusiasm for I
inspirations of the Spirit, and ercn
in their case it is necessary to try
the spirit, and, in the very n&tureji'
the case, the trial must be by a
temal test or authority. The \
of the internal by the
is simply no Iwt at all. 'V\»-\
loved aposde in this same i
of his first epistle gives two tests,!
one doctrinal and the other ape

Pope or People,

215

By this is the Spirit of God
every spirit that confesseth
ZhnsX to have come in the
of God, and every spirit that
th Jesus (by denying either
oanity or his divinity) is not
L" "We are of God. He
loweth God heareth us; he
not of God heareth us not;
we know the spirit of truth,
i spirit of error." The inter-
;n, must be brought to the
apostoHc doctrine and of
stoUc communion or the apos-
thority, both of which are ex-
rt outside of the soul. The as-
3f the external does not super-
internal, nor does the assertion
itemal supersede the necessity
external infallible authority.
tir of our Puritan journalist
pposing that if the one is ta-
' other must be rejected ; he
know that no one is obliged
use between them, and that
ach in its proper place and
^ may be and must be ac-
It is true, neither reason
inspiration of the Spirit can
or mislead us; but we may
ived as to what reason really
, and as to whether the inter-
aomena really are interior in-
is of the Spirit ; and therefore
safety and certainty of our
vcn subjectively considered,
snal infallible authority of the
church is indispensable.
s evident enough of itself, and
•re so from the article before
le insufficiency of reason and
itual light, either in the writer
, appears in his understanding
ext of St. Paul, Hebrews xiii.,
IS he cites it, reads, " Obey
lat have rule over you, and
yourselves ;" but as we read
»bey your prelates and submit
l" Which of us has the true
of the words of the apostle ?

The Puritan interpreter says these
prelates, or " these rulers," were mere
leaders, and men of example, who
were already dead, with no flavor of
potentiality, (sic,) therefore, about
them ; and whose " faith " is to be im-
itated, rather than whose commands
are to be submitted to. We are dispos-
ed to believe that they were not dead
men, but living rulers placed by the
Holy Ghost over the faithful, to whom
the apostle commands them to sub-
mit; and we are confirmed in this
view by the reason which the apos-
tie assigns for his command: "For
they watch as having to give an ac-
count of your souls, that they may
do this with joy, not with grief."
Which of us is right ? The journalist
tells us, moreover, that " the entire ap-
peal of the aposde is to the tribunal of
the Hebrews' reason as the court of ul-
timate decision." We hold that the
apostle, from beginning to end, ap-
peals to the revelation held by the
Hebrews, and argues from that and
the character of their sacrifices and
the levitical priesthood, that both were
types and figures of the real and ever-
lasting priesthood of Christ and his
one all-sufficient sacrifice. Christ hav-
ing come in the end of the world, and
offered himself once for all, the types
and figures must give way to the real-
ity they prefigured and announced.
TTierefore the Hebrews should accept
Christ as the fulfilment of their law.
He undoubtedly reasons, and reasons
powerfully, but from revealed prem-
ises. Here we and the journalist are
at odds; we cannot both be right:
who shall decide between- us? While
we thus differ, supposing us equally
able, learned, and honest, how can
either find his cravings for certainty
satisfied ?

It is a very common prejudice
among Protestants <uid rationalists
that Cathohcs eschew reason, and
assert only an external authority

which operates only on the will. Il
seems to be forgotten that it was the
reformers who denied reason, and set
up the authority of the written Word
against jt, No one, as far as out
knowledge extends, ever spoke more
contemptuously of reason than did
Doctor Martin Luther; and the old
Puritan and Presbyterian ministers to
whose preaching we listened in our
boyhood were continually warning us
to beware of the false and deceit-
ful light of reason, which " dazzles
but to blind." This was in accord-
ance with the doctrine of total de-
pravity with which the reformers start-
ed; man being dean gone in sin and
totally corrupt in his nature, his rea-
son, as well as his will, must lie corrupt,
turned against God and truth, and
therefore worthy of no confidence.
N'o doubt, Protestants have softened
the harshness of many of the doc-
trines of the reformers, and in several
respects have drawn nearer to what
has always been the teaching of the
church; but it is hardly. fair in them
to charge the errors of their ancestors,
which they have outgrown or aban-
doned, upon the church which has al-
ways condemned them. The Bishop
of Avranches, Pascal, the Tradition-
alists, and some others, commonly re-
garded as Catholics, yet for the most
pan tinctured with Jansenism, have
indeed seemed to depreciate reason
in order the better to defend faith ; but
the church has expressly or virtually
condemned them, and vindicated the
rights of reason. WhoeverVnows Cath-
olic theology, knows that the church
never opposes faith or authority to
reason, but asserts both with equal
earnestness and emphasis, and denies
tha' there is or can be any antagonism
between them.

The reformers did not assume that
no external infallible amhorily is ne-
cessary to faith. They denied the infal-
lible authority of popes and coundls,

but asserted that of thewriti
interpreted by private judg
rather, by the private illumii
the Spirit, called by some ii
the Christian conscience,
sciousness. Our Puritan }
though he rejects not the SI
very ably refutes this iheoi
reformers :

" There lies before us a recent

a religious quarterly conuining
rate article entitled 'An IiiUlilt
or ail inbUible Bonk— iriiieh !■'
object of which li to dethrone tlM
enthroue the BiUc, u ibc Mibja
bitable laith, with ihu religiaut
with which it may logirally eomfir^
To quote its own language, it <l
the Bible ' the supreme and orit
things spiritual.' And this, it tbi
cause ' divisions to cease among i
i3ut this forgets that the Bible I*
the mercy of its Interpreter*, ■!
unity iMcomei continual dtvn
all thing* to all men, ax th«7 oa
tbe manner in which they rec«n
LI not true merely in the extt«s
those who are — and who know ll
— ' handling the Ward of God 4
it is true, as well, or those who en
it with extremcsi rcvereace aiul
receptive faith. Here, (or exso^
meek and luwiy, yet wonder&illy
ed diaciplea, like Frands Wftylan
Dates Ednaids; both alile M'
patient students of ihe Word ;
a) human eyi; can judge, eiuii
ing and securing the lutt^tu*! ,
Ihe Hn'v Spirit; and f et, a* <
fact, reaching, upon certain pd
iMth reel to be of serious impol
elusions as to what is taught ia
diametrically opposite, and be]
Ulityof recondliatioru And w(
thai Ihe one — seeming to hinM
them in Ihe Bible — was as sact
to hold, practise, and lead) Baf
other, fedobaptist views."

We need add nothing to
tation, Protestants have 1
the first all the Bible, all th
judgment, or jirivate illuminK
now have or can hope to
yet they have never been
agree among themselves on
dogma of faith. The only p

Pope or People. 217

they have been unanimous is is a truth of love and life through

osttlity to the Catholic Church, dogma, it seems to us absolutely

lave no standard by which to necessary that the dogma should be

I spirit; and the Bible, not absolutely true; but, whether the

among them are accustomed dogma is absolutely true or not, the

, profanely, " is a fiddle on writer concedes that those who reject

a skilful player may play any the infellibility of the church have

le pleases." Protestants may no certain means of determining. If

he Bible to prove the doctrines it be said that the true love and life

ave been taught by their pa- are practicable with contradictory

>r ministers, or held firom Pro- dogmas, as is said in the last extract

tradition; but they never, or made, then dogmas are indifferent;

rver, obtain their doctrines fit>m and whether we believe the truth or

udy of the Holy Scriptures, falsehood of God or Christ; of the

, sects the most divergent ap- human soul ; of the origin and end of

like to the Bible ; and each man ; of man's duties, and the means

to find texts in its favor. How of discharging them, — can make no

ny thinking Protestant, i^ho difference as to the truth of our love

this, not be perplexed and un- and life. The truth of love and life

as to what he should believe ? is not, then, an intellectual truth ;

riter admits the difficulty, and a truth apprehended by the mind ;

but must be a mere affection of the

, , heart, or, rather, a mere feeling, depen-

: we to understand, then, that Christ j^„,. ^„ ^^ ^^^.^^^^ ^c «.i,^ ...^^^

ed? Is there no such thing as abso- ^^"^,.^^ '^^ Operation of the under-

th? This cannot be admitted, and standmg, but on some mternal or

id the admission of it by the claim external affection of the sensibility.

Ki's absolute truth is a truth of love The love will not be a rational affec-

r, through dogma yet not of dogma ; ^ ^^^ ^ simple sentiment, sensitive

It may be reached and realized by «. ' . -t , . ,

Acs not only from different but affection, Or sensible emotion, and as

acs from opposite' directions." far removed fi-om charity as is the

sensuous appetite for food or drink.

this does not, as far as we can The Omgregationalist and Recorder

^ the matter. Concede that seems aware that it has not yet found

r or love is the fulfiUing of the a solid ground to stand on, and fairly

id that nothing more is required abandons its pretension to be able

r one than perfect charity, yet to arrive at absolute truth at all with-

ve here asserted is, though not out the pope. It says :
gma, "through dogma." Un-

len, we are sure of the absolute " ^* ^^» ^^^"» ^*^ ^"^^ privilege and the

>f the dogma, how can we be dutyofeveryman tobe alawunto himself;

- , 1? r t_ 1 J ir and out of his own reason and consacnce,

t the truth of the love and life, enlightened from all knowledge that can be

there are many sorts of love ? made available by his own researches and

iogma, according to the Puritan ^^^^ ^^ ^** fellows, and more especially by

. is not the principle, indeed, ^^e patient and docile study of the Bible-

. .. J- r ^1^ t \ all m the most profound, uninterrupted, and

IS the medium of the love and prayerful dependence upon the Holy Spirit

WUl a false medium be as effec- —to judge what is right. From the deci-

1 relation to the end as a true sion which he thus reaches there can be, for

m ? Can a fabehood be, in ^*'"' ?® appeal. Whether it is anybody's

aHiro r»f 1^>\r^rr^ ««« ^^A\..^ ««. *^*® ""*y ^^ foUow the course prcscribcd

ature of thm^ any medium at .herein, or not, it is his duty to di so. He

if we say the absolute truth has plead his cause before his infallible tri-

■

ziS

Papt or Peoph.

buna], and its decision over him ia nec«*-
larily supreme and inexorable. Nol to
obey 11, woulil be lo be falie equally to
God and to himself. If it it net ahiolult
right Teiiek he hiu r/iuAnf, il itntdi it thi
fiste ef abielHlt right pr him ; and tuiy
aiaig ill road, haW€vtr Ih^ay, and stitf,
mid high, can ht climb up taviarJ Acartn.
Practically, then, wc insitt upon it, there is
no in&llitnlily [MMsible to man, but [hat
which i> resident in his own soul."

The conclusion is that to which all
who seek ihcir rule of faith in private
judgmem and private illumination, or
inside the soul, must come at last ;
namely, the man is a law unto himself;
that is, is his own law, and, therefore,
his own truth. Out of his own reason
and conscience, enlightened by the
best EtuHy he c»n make, he is to judge
supretnel)r what is right. This, we
ne«d not say, is pure rationalism, tt is
man's duty to abide by the conclusion
at which he arrives; for although it
may not be the absolute right, yet il is
the absolute right for him. This makes
truth and duty relative; what each
one, for himself, thinks them to b<?-
What infallibiiity is here lo oppose to
the infallibility of the church ? Sup-
jxise it i( announced to a man that
God has established a church which
he by his presence renders infallible,
to teach all men and nations ; wilt it
not be the duty of that man to listen
to the announcement, and to investi-
gate to the best of his ability, and
with all diligence, whether it be so
or not? If, through prejudice, indif-
ference, or any other cause, he fails
tu do so, will bis conviction against
tiuch church be excuiable, and abso-
lute truth or right, even for him ?

The artide continues ;

"Aod. in the malter of tptcmi, me sub-
mit that there is no logical pause possible
lielwBen the (wo exlrcmes (o which we re-
ferred, near the beginning of [his article —
Ihal cuh nun's own con*cientJou* tcason
Ic his umpire, or that that reason be im-
[ilidlly surrendered to soiue loic arbiter

wilboat. Il must be pope or people ; the
absolutism of the papacy or the dcmocrac|r
of Congregational iim. There is no ialU'
mediate stand-point on which the ariitocii>
cy of Pteshyterianism, or the limited tnon'
archf of Methodiun. or EpiKcoiracy, c»
votidly build iucIC And this Ui-in pominl
fact, the unintended confession iif actioni
that are louder than words, in >lt these ip-
tcm» : inasmuch us an appeal to the peopU
in their individuality is iheir quick, sharp
sword which cuts every knot thai dran
hard and cannot be untied."

But we do not see how this fol-
lows. The writer, if he has prtJicil
anything, has proveil, not thai Con-
gregationalism is a ground on which
one can stand, but that the individual
is. He places the InfalliUe tribund
in the inside of the individual »onl ;
Congregationalism places it, if anr-
where, in the congregation or brother-
hood. He should have said, there-
fore, that it is either pope or individu-
alism. We readily agrve that there
is no solid ground between the po{)e
and the people, taken individual,
on which any third or middle [
can stand ; hut is ini
the individual soul, a solid groin
which any one can stand, i "
danger of its giving way u
We have seen that it is not, 1:
an external standard is i
which to try the internal; and i
writer himself concedes it, if he imdcr-
stands the force of the terms be usa
He confesses that a r
investigation, with al! the hdpi J
can derive &om the Holy S ' '
and the Spirit, rjnnot be
of arriving at absolute truih-
b, at truth at all ; he can only "I
rive at what is true and rigjit r
him, though it may not be so for ^
one else. At best, then, he ato'
only 10 the relative, and no man i
stand on the relative, for the p
itself cannot stand except in the d
lute. His whole doctrine ;
simply to this: What 1 honestlyJ
conscientiously think le true and if

Pope or PtopU.

219

B true and right for me; that is, I
may follow what I think is true and
right with a safe conscience: but
whether I think right or wrong ; in
accordance with the objective reality
or not, I do not and cannot know.
What is this but saying that infalli-
bility is both impossible and unneces-
sary ? Relying on what is inside of
* die soul, then, without any authority
outside of it, we cannot attain to that
certainty the writer began by affirming
to be necessary, and craved by the
soul ; and which he proposed to show
us could be had without the pope.
All the writer does, is to show us that
without the inMibility of the pope
or church, we cannot have infallible
€uth; and to attempt to prove that
we do not need it, and can do very
veil without it What does he esta-
bfish,then, but what Catholics have
always told him, that there is no
alternative but pope or no infallibil-
ity? He says:

"We are even prepared to go so far as to
daim that, as human nature has been di-
vinely constituted, it is a psychological im-
ponbility for any man to waive this pre-
ngathre of being the supreme authority over
kiiBself in regard to his religion ; for if he
ikcides to accept the pope and his dictum
tt oooveying to him the sure will of God,
that infallibility can only be received as
ndi by an express volition of his own thus
to receive it ; that is, the man in&llible
Mands behind the pope infallible, and de-
oca that he shall become to him an infalli-
^ pope ; so that all the infallibility which
^ pope can have is just only what the
*a& had before, and gives to him by his vo-
fitim.'*

In this it isi not only conceded that
^ internal, as we have seen, does
^ give infallibility, but asserted that
Btan is so constituted that he is inca-
pable of having an infallible faith.
Consequently, there can be no infalli-
bfe teaching. It goes farther, and
^cnies the supreme authority of God
^ matten of religion ; and, like all

error, puts man in the place of God.
It sa3rs : '* It is a psychological impos-
sibility f6r any man to waive his pre-
rogative of being the supreme autho-
rity over himself in regard to his reli-
gion." This is the necessary conclu-
sion from the writer's assumption in
the outset, that the infallible authority
is inside the soul, not outside of it ;
therefore, piu^ely subjective and hu-
man. Consequendy, man is his own
law, his own sovereign; therefore
independent of God, and the author
and finisher of his own faith. This
is pretty well for a Calvinist, and the
organ of New England Puritanism!
But we charitably trust that the i^Titer
hardly understands the reach of what
he says. He confounds the action
or office of reason in receiving the
faith, or the internal act of believing,
with the authority on which one be-
lieves, or on which the foith is re-
ceived. The act is the act of the
rational subject, and therefore inter-
nal. The authority on which the act
is elicited is accredited to the subject,
and therefore necessarily objective or
external. I believe on testimony
which comes to me from without, or
a fact or an event duly accredited
to me. I believe the messenger from
God duly accredited to me as his
messenger, although he announces
to me things far above my own per-
sonal knowledge, and even mysteries
which my reason is utterly unable to
comprehend. Hence, Christians be-
lieve the mysteries recorded in the
Holy Scriptures, because recorded by
men duly instructed and authorized by
God himself to teach in his name.

The Puritan writer will hardly deny
that St. Peter was a duly accredited
apostle of our Lord, and therefore,
that what he declares to be the Word
of God is the Word of God, and
therefore true, since God is truth
itself Suppose, then, the pope to be
duly accredited to us as the divinely

220

Pope or People,

authorized and divinely assisted teach-
er and inteq)reter of the teaching of
our Lord, whether in jjersdn or by
the mouth of the apostles, would rea-
son find any greater difficulty in be-
lieving him than in believing St. Peter
himself? Of course not Now, Ca-
tholics look upon the pope as the
successor or the continuator of Peter,
and therefore as teaching with precise-
ly the same apostolic authority ^\ith
which Peter himself would teach if
he were i)eTSonalIy present. It is not
more difficult to prove that the pope
succeeds to Peter than it is to prove
that Peter was an apostle of our Lord,
and taught by his divine authority.
'I'he same kind of evidence that suf-
fices to prove the one suffices to prove
the other. Suppose it proved, should
we not then have an infallible autho-
ritv for faith other than that which is
inside the soul ? Should we not be
lK>und by reason itself to believe
whatever, in the case supposed, the
]>ope should declare to be *' the faith
once delivered to the saints " ?

C>ur Puritan psychologist, and Pro-
testants vcr>- generally, contend that,
since iho authority of the pope is ac-
crcdiioil to reason, and we bv reason
juil^o of the crevleniials, therefore
wo ha\e in the iwjk* only the autho-
rity of our own rcas*.^n. This is a mis-
t.ikc. We miiihi as well argue that
an atnbassador aocrcvhievl to a foreign
cv^urt lan spcak onlv bv authority of
r.u* ivurc lo which he is accTe\li;ed,
>::u i: iuvlgcs of iho sutr.oienoy of the
v:v\U:r.:.ils ho i^K'scnts. and not at all
Vx ;>.v'.»ii:lu^:::y k>!":he c.'^art :ha: sends

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• t t .1

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« » • _ S

<V ., ••> 11 .« .( ,v ,N ^y ,, V • «1\V-Vn«<.VV..

■ ■» V ■ \ \ .\ N ^^, « .V . % .

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• • « ^ 1 ■ » ■
, ■ ■ • * ■ « 1

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V • » ^ •«.

the authority of our own judgment,
but on the authority of the ambassa-
dor. The pope is not, indeed, com-
missioned to reveal the truth, for the
revelation is already made by our
Lord and his apostles, and deposited
with the church. The poj^e simply
teaches what is the faith so revealed
and deposited, and settles controvezsks
respecting it Our own reason, opcrat- *
ing on the facts of the case, judges
the credentials of the pope or the
evidences of his divine commissioD,
but not of the revelation to whidi
he bears witness. The fact that God
has revealed and deposited with the
church what the pope declares God
has so revealed and deposited, we
take on his authority. It is a mistake,
then, to say that there can be no au-
thority in ^ith or religion but the au-
thority which every man has evea
of himself. To deny it is simply to
deny the ability of God to make us a
revelation through inspired messen-
gers, or otherwise than through ou^
natural reason.

It is equally a mistake to suppose
that belief or an external infallible au.^
thority is simply a volition or an ac^
of the will, without any intellectual-
assent. We might as well argue tha<^
the credit a jur}- }'ields to the testimo^
ny of a competent and credible wit--
ness is simply a volition without any^
conviction of the understanding. In^-
fallible authoritv conWnces the under-
standing as well as moves the will.^-
We do not believe the revealed trutl:^
on the authority of the pope ; we be-^
liove i: on the word of God, whc^
can neither deceive nor be deceived ^
but wo Iviiove on the authority of the^
|X'r-c or church the fact that God ha^
rcyca'.cvl ::. The church or the popeb=^
a:::hon:v for the truth cf what i. — •
.:lv\: — for God's word suffices f<
:>..:: : a::d we believe it on his v
\\\ — * u: i> the infallible witness of
f.w: :::a: God has revealed or said i^*^

».^v-«

Emify Linder.

221

as made a revelation of super-
truth, as all Christians hold,
that he has made it, since it
ily is not made to us individ-
jst be received by us, if at all,
^mony of a witness. This
s meant by believing on au-

If we believe the fact at all,
believe it either on some au-
r on no authority. If on no
% we have no reason for be-
;,and our belief is groundless.
ne authority, then either on a
ran infallible authority. Afal-
lority is no authority for faith.
I infallible authority, and as
lority must be duly accredi-
s— therefore, be itself outside
must be an infallible external
\ The Puritan journal should

have headed its article, not
• People, but. Pope or no
i^ithout the infallible authority
ss, we may have opinions,
res, guesses, more or less pro-
it not faith, which excludes
dd is the substance of things
r and the evidence of things
. The Puritan is able, but
nastered his subject. There

are many things for him yet to
learn.

We have called attention to the ar-
ticle we have reviewed, as one of the
signs of what is going on in the Pro-
testant evangelical world. It is be-
ginning to learn that there is no rest-
ing in the infallible Book without an
infallible interpreter. It begins to see
that it has therefore no authority for
dogmas, and it is gradually giving
them the go-by. Dogmas discarded,
Christianity, as a revelation of myste-
ries or of truth for the intellect, goes
with them, and Christianity becomes
a truth only for the heart and coa-r
science. Then it is resolved into love,
and love without understanding, there^
fore a sentimental love, and, with the
more advanced party, purely sensual
love. This is whither Protestantism
is undeniably tending, and well may
Dr. Ewer say that, as a system of rdi-
gion, it has proved a failure. It has lost
the church, lost practically the Bible,
lost faith, lost doctrine, lost charity,
lost spirituality, fallen into a sickly
sentimentalism, and is plunging into
gross sensuality. Here endeth the
" glorious reformation."

TRANSLATED PROM THB GBRMAN BY RICHARD STORRS WILLIS.

EMILY LINDER.

II. — HER CONVERSION.

re now arrived at the most
t period of her life. Miss
)ften referrred with thankful
God's guiding providence;
the steady progress of her
life thus fkr is this not to be
. Naturally religious, and
with an unaffected yearning
sntire truth, she was happily

conducted into a circle of friends
where her dawning faith received
both impulse and guidance. Exterior
incidents strengthened a certain inte-
rior magnetic bias, ^ce the day
which rendered Assisi so dear to her,
an invisible power had drawn her
toward the visible church, and her
leaning to Catholicity was impercep-

tilily slrengthenetl. Her activity In
art deepened her sympathies with
a church in which art finds its true
place and consecralion. An intellec-
tual intercourse of many years with
friendly Catholic men and families
could Dot Tail to remove many a pre-
judice. Thus had an unexpected
but powerful combination of circum-
stances conspired to lead a mind
ingenuously seeking the truth to
Catholicity. It would be quite a
mistake, however, to suppose, as has
been thought by some, that the per-
sonal influence of any friend whatever
had worked decisively upon her de-
termination to take the final step.
No one could do this; not even Bren-
lano, strong as was his interest in her
spiritual life.

Clemens Brentano had come to
Munich in October, 1833, and made
his domestic atrangements in his
usual characteristic style at Professor
Schloithauer's, " in one of the most
[HOUs and genial of Noah's arks,"
as he facetiously describes it. His
associations led him into the same
social circle in which Miss I.inder
moved, and soon after his arrival
he made her acquaintance. Her
pious earnestness, her cultivated,
artistic nature, her charming and
judicious benevolence, enchained his
interest ; and he believed, as is staled
in his biography, to have found in
her just the nature for the Catholic
laith. One knows with what strength
and zeal Brentano devoted himself
(and in increasing ratio with increas-
ing years) to such friends as were
dear to him in the matter, particu-
larly, of their aojuaintance with the
faith of his own church, and their
participation in her blessings. His
animated desire lo instruct, which
was ever »-ithout aflcctalion or con-
cealment, expressed itself in just such
cases with the utmost freedom and
frankness. Whoever reads that cle-

ver letter, " To a I^dy Frieai
ten during these years at i
can tolerably well judge of d
and style with which he i
home to a pious Proiesta
warmth and depth of his I
convictions. r

Certain is it that Miss Lind
ed, through Brentano, a deej
into the inner life of the chv
the hidden graces and forca
stream through her. He t
power, as she said, " of maldl
things intelligible which mi^
wise remain for ever dosed '
The life and the visions of K
Emmerich, which he read si
her weekly reading-evening
a profound impres.ston upon t
though in confirmation of 9
heard, she saw with her owtit
Kaidem a similar phenontal
Maria von Mori, that asM
living wonder, and was pa
with the atmosphere of tiui
which, as Gorres expresses i|
von Mori seemed envelops
caused a portrait of thb phea
to be executed by her lad]
Ellenrieder; and always glad
her visitors (as is slated by)
Niendorf) a full descriplioa
stigmaleJ, just as Brentano w
to do in hU letters. In thi
other ways, was her intercom
Brentano of scr\'ice to her. 1
an outwork of knowledge
build a bridge, a ponttfex m
as he once jestingly applied ti
to himself. Finally, hts owl
tian death made a profound I
ing impression upon her.

.\ny other influence thai
patient instruction was, once
excluded by her. Even the
teal, if it sought, in any way, t
in upon her, could only force I
like hers into antagonism, a
everything like quiet i'
With all her humilibi

uiet dcvd

Emily Under,

223

the sdf-rdiance and genuine
independence of a Swiss. She sought
the way of truth with such deep long-
ing that she willingly accepted gui-
dance ; but with such severe scrutiny,
that she was not to be confused, and
was inaccessible to every kind of
coaxing from any side. For, from
the quarter of her old theological
standpoint there was no lack of
fiiendly advice, or of opinions bring-
ing great weight with them, — sup-
posing that mere human opinions
could ever have decided such a ques-
tion. Even raillery was not lacking.
Platen gave his particular attention
to this kind of weapon, and put him-
self to no little trouble to ridicule her
out of her Catholic proclivities. The
theological tendency she had taken
since the days passed at Sorrento had
become to the poet of the Abassiden
altogether ''too romantic," and he
Hoped to cool her religious zeal with
a cold irony. Thus, he once satiri-
cally addressed himself to her from
iTorcnce, (February 34th, 1835,)
^ Might one be so bold as to enquire
what progress you have made in your
Conversion to tiie only saving church ;
Or is this a secret ? In case of a
<^liaoge of religion, I trust you will
ibUow the advice of a frienil, and
turn, rather, to the Greek Church,
^or, if you jmze Catholicism on ac-
count of its antiquity, the Greek
Church is doubdess older. And is it
the ceremonial which particularly
attracts you; then here, too, is the
Crtoek service £Eir more aesthetic and
unposing." Count Platen doubtless
fth that in a theological controversy
^ was no match for his well-informed
fiend; and therefore, in his letters
^ qypealed to her as an artiste.
1^, the banennesB of Protestantism
^ art he quiedy admitted; but all
^ better success he promised him*
*tf m an attempt to belitde the
'^ "of the chvrdi in the field of

art by certain cunning sophistries.
In several of his letters he stumbled
upon the neither very bright nor
novel idea of presenting the church
as at an obsolete standpoint. " Cer-
tainly," he admonishes the artist, " Ca-
tholicity, as a thing of a former age,
is highly to be esteemed, but not for
the present. Her time is past, even
for art. Perhaps by and by an art-
era may dawn upon her, but this will
be of a purely aesthetic nature; for
a blending of art with religion is no
longer among the possibilities," etc.
The thought that his friend, after all,
might take some such fatal step evi-
dently gave the poet much uneasi-
ness ; for even in his last letter to her,
written but two weeks before his
death, he makes another attempt at
the same style of argument. It is
contained in a description of Paler-
mo, written at Naples, September
7th, 1835 : " I received yoiu* welcome
letter shortly after my return from
Calabria. I know not how my mo-
ther could write you that Palermo
did not please me ; or, if so, to what
extent this was the case. I simply
remember saying that the location ot
Palermo bore no comparison with
that of Naples. There are certainly
lacking the islands, Vesuvius, and
the coast of Sorrento ; although the
mountain background of Palermo is
very beautiful. The Rogers chapel,
there, is something that would please
you — a church of the twelfth century,
in perfect preservation ; its style that
of the old Venetian and Roman
churches ; and although of smaller di-
mensions, yet the finest of them all.
It is the more interesting to attend a
service there, because one sees that
Catholic culture was calculated solely
for the Byzantine style of architec-
ture; for with such surroundings,
only, could it be effective. Thus
does Catholicity, even as to architec-
ture, prove itself a thing of the past"

Emily hinder.

Enough of this. Such platitudes
as these were not calculated to en-
tangle a nature far too deep for them,
or check the development of a work
so earnestly undertaken. Emily Lin-
der wfU knew that the church has
already outlived many just such " ob-
solete standpoints," and many such
prophets of evil, who have mistaken
their wishes for reality, and phrases
for axioms. How dignified and how
welcome, in comparison witli this
sophistry from Naples, must have
seemed to her the greeting of an old
friend and art companion addressed
lo her from Rome, in the spring of
1833 : " Be a.ssured that I often fer-
vently remember you to our Lord,
Do you the same by me. May a
holy unrest and impatience till us to
take 'by violence' the kingdom of
heaven !"

This holy unrest had indeed for
some time possessed her, and on many
an occasion broke forth in expres-
sions of touching and yearning expec-
tancy. While viewing the cathedral
of Cologne, in the year 1835, she
ardently exclaims, " Ah 1 of a certain-
ty an age whose lofty inspirations
{and of no transient kind) could pro-
duce such monuments as this, de-
served neither the epithet of rude nor
dark. There resided in it a light
which we. with our (gas!) illumina-
tion, could never produce." Again,
as to the interior of the grand cathe-
dral — " I know not why, but I cannot
repress my tears. An irrepressible
melancholy and yearning seizes me
here." The same year, after viewing
with Schubert the minster at Ulm,
she makes this notewortiiy observa-
tion in her journal, " It almost pained
me that the old cathedral is no longer
used for Catholic service, and that
the choir and sanctuary are now so
desolate." Already had she adopted
many Catholic views. At an early
period she believed in an active sym-

pathy between this and
world, and a purification
in that world. The churc
lion was highly priced 1
which reason, even as Pre
was in the habit of bet
with her on her travels .
of holy water. Many o
were as yet very unde
strong and irrepressible w
ing for that truth which s
her peace. This clung b
her wanderings, and ofter
her a deep cry of the I
notes which she made dl
to Holland, in company
bert, in the year 1835,
the following words, "T
days of travel have left
time for meditation. To-(
of thoughts and emot
thronged upon me. I sai
To what purpose all t
ther is this invisible powi
us? Are we really adva
or made the happier?
affluence of emodon rises
of transport ; then, again,
pain, for I know not the »
whither. Is there a coi
in all this? Is it cnduri
more, then, why ? DunD
ney of mine I have oft
O Lord, let me know Ihj
me follow the path which
to thee. Lead me but
and in any way ihou ma
Let it become clear what
desirest of me. By this i
perienced great relief, an
certainty that He, who wi
nal fidelity had thus larlec
clearly make known to n
would guide me into his

As the interior moveou
ed, Nhe was impelled to <
intelligent friends in the di
ceming this most moment
of her life. EspeciaUjl
beck there ensued*

hinder.

22S

continuing for ytior&y was of
issistance in attaining to re-
clearness. Overbeck took
interest in her doubts and
u He had formerly gone over
e ground, and could therefore
with her about such matters
brother." His letters grew
>nnected vindication of Catho-
rine, and the truth and beauty
:hurch, expressed in the mild,
rvent, and touching language
equally worthy of respect as
d artist. Widi a nature Uke
:k's, where the man and the
e not two distinct individuali-
are united in a higher form
tianity — words have a more
[ significance; and a corre*
ice with him must have neces-
ossessed an import more than
edifying. Emily Linder deep-
lis. We take her own testi-
hen we say that Overbeck's
ontributed largely toward her
\ development; and, by the
aiming conviction of his words,
than by his own deep spiritu-
le attained to a knowledge
vital truths. She viewed the
:e he rendered her in the light
srpetual obligation; and in
ars, long after she became a
:, she breathed, in her letters
admirable master, a " God
^ou for it."

time, however, she had to
ough many a severe struggle,
sstling and testing which her
idousness imposed upon her
OTg continuance. The dread
ty step which might afterward
her into the deepest unrest,
ler to advance but cautiously,
ntal vacillation continued for
period, during which she was
thimsatisfied spiritual yeam-
ihe stood just on the portal of
ich, afiraid to enter. Many
r, fax and near, ascended in

VOL. IX. — 15

her behalf to heaven. Brentano lived
not to witness the conversion he so
longed for. But the hope which
gladdened his last days attained a
realization the year after his death.

In 1842, she wrote to an artist
friend in Frankfort, '' I am fully satis-
fied that I entertain no prejudices,
and honesdy wish to know God's
will. He has already cleared away
many a spiritual obstacle, and trans-
fcHmed much within me. When it
is his holy will to lead me into the
church, I am confident that he will
remove every remaining hinderance
to my conviction." She thought,
however, that the church did not
give Protestants a very easy time.
Their acceptance of the Tridentine
confession 6f faith was a hard matter.
Still, her mind had already attained
to such clearness that she now desired
the instruction of some competent
priest Through the instrumentality
of Diepenbrock, a theological teacher
was brought to her, who gained her
confidence. She eamesdy began her
task, zealously and perseveringly de-
voting to it several hours a week for
an entire year. The structure of Ca-
tholic ^th began to open itself to her
now with all its interior consistency
and harmony. One scruple after
another vanished, including those
which finally troubled her ; as, for in-
stance, the expression, '' Mother of
God;" the alleged mutilation of the
holy sacrament, by withdrawal of the
cup from the laity, etc. In the words
of her spiritual guide, she learned to
distinguish that whidi is divine, and
essentia], and immutable in the
chiu-ch, from that which is human,,
and incidental, and mutable; and
what had hitherto proved an insur-
mountable obstacle, the seemingly
mechanical, and often rude devotions,
of the common people, as also the-
woridly splendor of the hierarchy-—-
this ceased to trouble her more.

226

Emily Lindir.

In the autumn of 1843, Miss Lin-
der made another tour to the Tyrol
and Upper Italy, and few could sur-
mise that she was so near to the de-
cisive step. She ^tes from Munich,
on the 1 6th of October, " I have just
made with the Schuberts a somewhat
fatiguing trip as far as Verona, where,
by the way, I had almost come to a
standstill, to copy a picture there.
We then remained for a couple of
weeks in Botzen, where all was so
quiet, and reposeful, and secluded,
that it was right grateful to me."
Amid this stillness and seclusion to
which she abandoned herself, still
more than in Munich, was finally
brought to maturity *' the great work
of redemption."

Toward the end of November,
4 843, on the approach of Advent,
there burst upon her spiritual life a
new era, and her long suspense and
yearning resolved itself into the cry,
** 1 1*411 enter the church !'* The final
word of decision was immediately
winged to heaven on a prayer. Upon
the threshold of that expectant sea-
son, when the church sings, " Drop
down dew, ye heavens, from above,
and let the clouds rain the just,** she
participated, one morning, with the
most ardent devotion, in a low mass
celebrated in conformitv with her
intern ion. This was the decisive
hour. She left the chapel with the
joyous and unalterable resolve to
entLT into fellowship with the Catho-
lic Church. All w;is overcome, aid-
eti and enlightened by the grace of
Vj\y\. Standing before her little
h-^u--.- altar, she rehearsetl, for the
f.r?: tixr, the Catholic cree^l.

'Vt.-z nrr»t to whom the glad intelli-
i'tr-.t ric'A- was a nobie pair, Apol-
l"jr..i IJicronbrxk and her brother,
i-.- '-:::tr of whom was subsequently
Lr.-t: ■- •-!-.. rated cardinal and bii^hop
if i;r-r-ia.:. l ;: a: that time, the vicar-
*tr.-:rU of kcgensbur^. Both were

associated with the pious artiste in
a friendship of many years, and had
been long familiar with the course of
her rehgious development. Melchior
von Diepenbrock, during just this last
period, had been a faithful and intelli-
gent adviser to her. The disciple
of Sailers responded to the joyous
intelligence with a peace-greeting
befitting a shepherd of the church
He iivTOte on the 29th of Novembet,

1843:

^ Hindered by very unweloime business,
\ was unable, either j-esterday or the dar
before, to express my heartfelt sympathr
and delight over the surprising intelligence
of your note of Saturday. Surprising, tx*
cause I had not anticipated so sudden a
loosening of the fruit, ripe as it was. Bat
the wind ' which bloweth where it listeth,'
stirred the tree, and the ripe, mellow fruit
iell into the lap of the true mother, where
it will now be well cared for, growing mel-
lower and sweeter until the coming of the
Bridegroom. My hope and prayer for too
now is, that peace and rest may be >'oiirs
after a suspense and unrest which has thus
loosed itself in the simple and welcooie
words, • I will enter the church/ Kut yon
have every reason to be at re9t ; for a
church which has given birth to a Win-
man, a Sailer, a Fenclon, a Vincent de
Paul, a Tauler, a Suso, a Tberese, a Ber-
nard, an Augustine, an Athaiusius, a Poir*
carp, and so on, up to the apostles them-
selves, and which has nursed them on her
breast with the self-same heavenly doc-
trine ; from whose mouth and from whoie
life, in turn, this same identical doctrine
has been breathed down like a fragm>^
aroma, through a course of eighteen boD'
drcd years ; in such a church b there saK
and good travelling companionship ^
heavecL Following their guidance, you
need not fear going astray. I therefore
from my very soul, bid you welcome to
this noble company to which yoo have M
since, through your intense yeamingi s^d
by anticipation, belonged, iMit now ha^t
ideniified yourself with openly, by a gr**P
of the hand and a kiss of recondliatioo ;
with whom you will soon fully and finally
be incorporated by that most sacred 1^
and covenant, that highest coosecra^
cf love, the holy eucharisL You hate tod
a roujh and thorny path to travel, >■"
passed through long yean of stragr^
doubt, and conflid^ to airive at tbb fO*'

Emily Under.

227

V, the olive wreath of peace cool-
>und your heated temples. Let
3f the brain, all strain of the intel-
subside. Live a life bf tranquil-
en your heart to a reception of
gifts which the church, as you
3ffers you. And above all, ban-
nxiety and doubt, for therewith
nothing, and spoil all. Let your
safled by the breath of God, glide
IT down the broad stream of the
life. Revel in the stars, and the
rhich mirror themselves therein,
zens that disport there ; and,
3w and then an uncouth, repulsive
catch your eye, reflect that the
of God is still entangled in the
tions of developement. Think
it great world-net which gathers
every description, and upon the
3, upon the great day, will separate
And now I commend you to
nee more, may peace and joy in
Ghost be your morning-gift."

>oon this " morning-gift " pos-
Her soul. Being fully pre-
tier admission, as she had
could be immediate. But she
to take the step in all quiet-
d only a few of her friends,
ofessor Haneberg and Phil-
•e informed of it the evening
ihe desiring to secure for her-
r prayers.

he 4th of December, 1843,
Linder, accompanied by her
Apollonia, in the Georgian
y chapel made solemn pro-
)f the Catholic faith. On the
lowing, the papal nuncio,
rel^, administered to her, in
ise-chapel the sacrament of
ition ; delivering, at the same
eloquent address in German.
2nd before mentioned was
tier, and, as one present re-
by her faith, her love, her
and her efforts, she had in-
roved her spiritual mother.
)any with this friend, she went
nsburg, in order to withdraw
irement, and to be alone with
-bom joy.

Her letters during this period give
animated testimony to what extent,
and with ■ what daily increase, this
joy was experienced. A jubilant rap-
ture pervades the letters which an-
nounce the event to distant friends,
particularly those addressed to Over-
beck in Rome and Steinle in Frank-
fort; both friends and companions in
art These and a few others had
been admitted to her confidence in
spiritual matters. To the latter,
whom, of her younger friends, she
particularly prized and respected, she
thus announces the circumstance,
" This time I come to you with but
few words; words no longer condi-
tional, but right conclusive. I am a
Catholic. Could I have written to
you, as I wished, to ask your prayers
for me before the eventful hour, even
then you might have been taken by
surprise; but now the news has
doubtless reached you from Munich,
and I write this letter simply as con-
firmation, and because I wish that
you should be informed of it by me
personally. You have lately hardly
thought, I suppose, that it would
come so soon; and yet I was long
prepared for it. After many a strug-
gle, particularly of late, it had become
to me a positive necessity, a natural
and necessary development of my
spiritual life. When I had once an-
nounced my determination to the
clergyman who for some time had
been instructing me, my desire was
to take the step right quickly. My
good Apollonia left Regensburg im-
mediately for Munich, to be present
at my reception into the church ; and
the day following this I was confirm-
ed. I have now accompanied my
friend hither to escape from all excite-
ment and pass some days in retire-
ment ; needed opportunity of fortifying
myself against much that must neces-
ces sarily come, that is hard and disa*
greeable. Yet has God been inex<»

Emily Liruter,

pressibly kind and gentle in bis deal-
ings with mc thus far."

A letter to the same friend on the
i9lh of January thus reads:

" My last letter was yety, very brief j but
the glad lidingi had to came first, and Ibc
thU rew words were needed. IIiil now six
weeks have Hown, and it may give you plea-
sure to heai that I am daily newly blest,
newly affected by the great goodne^B of
Uod. You may not have doubted this, yet
you may be gl^ to be assured of it, having
always taken inch interest in my welfare.
Ah dear Steinle ! how sweet, how sweet
a thing to be in the church 1 I ask my-
BClf every day, Why then, I p Why just
to myself has this grace been vouchsafed,
in preference to ottiers so much worthier
of it? How can this have come about?
For no other reason, surely, than because
so many faithful aouls living close to God,
have interceded, so untiringly interceded
for me, that God could not resist ihejr
impoflanity. How often, how very often
must I exclaim, as you have done, Cod
be praised and extolled for ever. Now (or
the first lime do 1 understand that deep
longing and incessant yearning of th« hcaiL
Oh I would that all, all were in God's one,
great house; would that all could experi-
ence the friendliness, the inexpressible
friendliness of the Lord, he whose mercy
traMcends all understanding and cimcep-
tion. Ah dear friend t supplicate and im-
plore God for mc, that this grace — I will
not say may be deserved, how could this
ever be } — but that I may daily more deeply
comprehend and appreciate it, and that my
life may become one song of thankfulness
and benediction. I am still like a happy
lillle child at rtal in the lap of its mother.
71ie cross will yet come, and perhaps must
necessarily do so ; yet am 1 not dismayed ;
for well 1 know where, at any hour, cou-
rage, and strength, and consolaiioa are to be

" Hitherto has God tnadc it very easy to
me. My sister — the only one I have — was
•aiprised and grieved «t the first intelli-
gence ; but rather, I think, from a loving
diead that I might be estranged from her.
Now (hat she finds this is not the case, I
hear no complaint from her. My nieces
•ml my intimate friends at home are all
unchanged. Juit here, too, my friends
Iiare tetnained the ume ; only two of my
foong lady acquaintances thought It due
to theii Tclifiiouf convictions to break with
DM i bat lo t on New Year's day they both
icune and threw their arms around my

life eternal,
to God for mt^ Joi
thanks to him fur his ineipi
ness. With heartfelt fricndsh

From this time forth i
sessed for her a peculi
significance. She celeb
recurring anniversary
of the humblest gratitude
a threefold festival, and
■H-ith the joyousness and
child who had received
the costliest of gifts; for
anniversary of her day of
sion, her recqjtion into t
and her confirmation, f
of December, 1844, she
again to the same friend

the pure mother-milk of
grace and go^idness. Such,
the intciuily of my joy, that it
I must bold fasX my heart with
I have been celebrating of late
vals of the soul ; for at advent
tercd the church, but included
tional intention, also, was the
of my decision and confimatic
were accisions of spiritual la
entire year of grace and

. . . The kind Tony F i

pet-child of the Lord.' This
but when 1 enquire, Wbeoce
obi then I must deeply, dce^
self, and with prufouadtit shai
still enquire of my Lord, Whi
mc ? . . • Nor will I ent
bodings for tbe fiiture. He
such rapture into the heart, c»
— imparl strength and coorag
lays tbe cross upon our slioi
will do It, too— benedictions

How idle, now, appear
feais and anxiety as to a
step, which had rendered
deci^on so difficult, while
ing at the diverging pathi
a trace more of the u

Muvjrf

Emily Linder.

229

so troubled her. The morning-gift
of peace and joy in faith, which
Diepenbrock's kind wishes bespoke
her, had become indeed her assured
inheritance. A song of thankfulness
warbled unceasingly in her heart.

A few more expressions which
escaped her, will show that the trans-
port she experienced was not the
effect of transient excitement. On
one occasion she thus addresses a
Mend: "You may be assured, of
course, without written proof, that
1 often think of you : but how often
I breathe to you spiritually my joy,
my exceeding joy— do you know
this? My heart often sings like
Aat of a little child before a Christ-
mas-tree, over the inexhaustible good-
ness of God, and knows not how
it should demean itself in the pos-
session of such imperishable gifts.
How good, how very good has God
been thus to call me into his holy
church!" On the recurrence of
advent she writes again on the 8th
of December, 1845, ^ ^^ *^^ celebra-
tion of this festive period of hers:

"Daring the past wesk I have been cele-
Ivatipg my apparently quiet but really
peat and momentous festival, the anniver-
*trf of my reception into the church.
Ah! dear Steinle, what can I say more
tbn. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all
tUt is within me bless his holy name ! How
iKxpitssibly great his mercy and grace,
W past all thinking and conceiving!
• . . To be safe-sheltered in the church
in times like these, when no hold and no
^ footing outside of her can be found !
Ob! if oar brethren but knew what peace
K iKn^f they could but imagine what they
ut thrusting away from them ! It is
(AQogh to make one's heart bleed. But
^ I can assure them, that only in the
^orch can one really know her ; only by
i>viB| her life can one understand that life.
Oitskle of the church can one learn much
^t her, of course, and to a certain ex-
tent inform liimself ; but then, she is not
^a something that kas been— an histo-
ded chuich she is a present-existing, iiv-
i% dnrch, becaaae Christ is still alive in
ber, and sdll active in his work of recon-

ciliation. Of such a church-life we can
have no outside idea, just because we do
not live it How often should I like to
tell Clemens how it is with me now. But,
God willing, he surmises it and rejoices
thereat In all things be praise to God !"

In these words there rings out,
certainly, the genuine, clear tone of
a heart happy in its faith. Equally
evident in these passages is the fact,
that her personal relations with her
Protestant friends and relatives knew
no change. With a certain pious
fidelity of friendship, which was pe-
culiar to her, she sought to hold
fast to the old ties which had be-
come so dear, and always met her
fonner companions in faith with the
same simple, trusting affection. Cor-
nelius, who welcomed her conversion
with heartfelt interest, afler his re-
turn fi-om Rome writes to her fh)m
Berlin, on the 4th of June, 1844:
" In Rome I learned that you had
at last fully tak^n heart. It did not
surprise me. God bless you, and
protect you hereafter both from spi-
ritual pride and indiflference." Cer-
tainly no one could less need this
admonition than Emily Linder, who
was a pattern of lowly humility. No
one was more sweetly considerate
and liberal than she; and Abbot
Haneberg most jusdy remarked at
her grave, that, after her conversion,
she was scrupulous to discharge all
the duties of fiiendship toward her
former companions in faith, and
never Tailed fully to appreciate all
who proved worthy of her respect.

This unchanging fidelity induced
her to make a trip, the very summer
after her conversion, to her native
city of Basle, and to Lucerne, where
resided other relatives of hers. A
personal visit just at that rime seems
to her then more a duty than ever,
in order that her relatives might have
ocular evidence "that the Catholic
Church is not an estranging one,
dnd cherishes no feeling like that of

230 ErnUy Littdfr.

hate." This sentiment regulated her dotiment of her soul. How well she
CDDdiict throughout. A longing for now appreciated the truth of the words
a universal religious reunion strong- addressed to her on joming the
ly possessed her, and she was deeply church by the noble Cardinal Die-
grieved to see many honest Pro- penbrock, " You press now the
testants standing so near Catholicity, ground which, not only Christ's own
who did not recognize ■' llie historic footsteps, but his very hands, betokeii-
church in the existing one," mainly ed as the foundation of his church;
(judging by her own experience) which his spirit consecrated, which,
from 3 lack of proper information his love hallowed: the soil whence
and from a certain shyness, wjiich all those vines should spring, which
they could not explain even to them- dinging around and clambering over
selves, "The emergency is great; his cross, may literally by and od him
souls are hungering and thirsting; bear fruits of love, of humility.irf
but the more sensitive of the Pro- fidelity, to all eternity I" And follo*-
testants shrink from that shock to ing his faithful precepts, she forthwith
the feelings and social relations launched her barque, and, wafted by
which they fear will ensue — a great the breath of God, it glided pe3C^
mistake; for love will experience no fully over the broad stream of the
diminution; it will be increased, church-life.

But outside of the church they know Amid the deep peace which flowed

nothing of this. Alas! how much in upon her, she now recommenced

do they not know !" with fresh vigor her artistic oecupa^

This was written in 1846. Three tions, devoting herself with more fer—

years later she recurred again to her vor than ever to religious painbn^'

favorite idea in a charming letter ad- The forenoon was regularly passed »-"

dressed to Professor Steinle from the easel. What a pleasure it ttn^'

Regensburg, on Ascension-day, May have been to her now to produce 10^

17th, 1849: "As I stood gazing at lar and other pictures for the houf*

the people thronging up the steps and of the I^rd I 'ITiese she donated li^

tlirough the grand old portals of our poor churches, sending them soin^

superb cathedral, my heart was times to great distances, even to poo^

strangely moved, I saw in spirit the Catholic communities in Greece aiitf<

time when all people, united again Paris. Whenever a call for assistanc-^

and happy, would stream with songs reached her, according to her capac^

of hallelujah through these portals ty she was ready with her offering

and proclaim the wonderful works of Her great industry in art enabled h^S

God. Could I but see this and then to respond to numerous retiuests, an*"*

depart in peace I Such may not be in the course of a long life she ree^

my lot, but in eternity the intel- dered many a poor parish happ^

ligence may yet reach me and be a which would otherwise have be^s

theme of thanksgiving to God." long compelled to dispense wt^i

As though from her very childhood churchly embellishment Free frg'"^

a member of the church, she felt from all artistic fastidiousness, she nor*

the first moment entirely at home in disdained to make copies of oti*'*

her precincts and in the blessed activ- pictures. Thus with great iBiere=

ity of her communion, becoming quick- and ability she made a copy of a P*5

ly and easily wonted to all Catholic lure by Overbeck, which she had W

practices, to which she gave herself her collection, for the chapel of tfte

up with all the intelligence and abai- Sisters of Mercy in Munich. Witt* *

Emily Lindet.

^3^

esteem for her own abilities,
^ays worked under the super-
)f an old master, whose judg-
lever failed to have its weight
er. A deep and tender sensi-
>ervades her pictures; and if
rays a certain timidity in the
al execution, there is evidence
t industry and attention to de-
)ne of her best works, perhaps,
trait of Brentano, an oil paint-
^markable for likeness and
lity of expression. After his
she had this lithographed by
1, and copies struck off. It is
n the first volume of his com-
orks, and is accompanied by a
'hich serves as a burthen to one
most beautiful legends, as it
to the legend of his life, com-

* O star and flow^, soul and clay,
Love, sufiering, time, eternity."

ancient and laudable habit
lovers of art to enrich, by
orders and purchases, their
>mes — that noble privilege of
xl wealth ! — she practised to a
extent. Her collection of pic-
ambraced gradually works of
St eminent artists. Besides the
\ already mentioned, (Over-
Cornelius, Eberhard,) Steinle
presented in a series of glo-
•eations. Several of these, like
ianger-Festival of St. Francis,"
-rCgend of St. Marina," were
iirce of some of Brentano's
il inspirations and are now in-
in his sacred poems. In ad-
to these artists were Schnorr,
dolph, Schwind, Fuhrich, Ne-
)erle, Ahlbom, Koch, etc. In
r respect, also, she approved
a true artist, namely, by ren-
constant assistance to such
of the distinguished masters
'horn she was friendly, as gave
ce of talent Her helping hand

alone rendered, indeed, many an artis-
tic undertaking possible; and not a
few artists had occasion, in such in-
stances, to admire not only the liber-
ality but delicacy with which she dis-
pensed orders and bore with trying
delays. She exhibited an extraordina-
ry degree of patience in the fiiendly
manner with which she would con-
form herself to personal circumstances
and private relations which did not
at all concern her, even in cases of
work delayed for years and paid for
in advance. She would even heap
coals of fire upon their heads by sur-
prising them with further money ad-
vances — a charity which at times was
exceedingly opportune. By this and
similar methods Miss Linder, without
any display, accomplished much good,
and constantly experienced the pure
pleasure of making others happy. And
in yet another manner she showed a
noble liberality. With rare unselfish-
ness she would allow copies to be
made and disseminated of the most
valuable drawings in her collection,
her own private property. She not
only encouraged efforts of this kind,
but sometimes at her own expense ac-
tually initiated them. By this multi-
plication of fine works of art she
shared prominently in that noble task
undertaken by Overbeck and his com-
panions — ^the establishment of a more
dignified and elevated art standard.

True art seemed to assume with
her, year by year, a graver aspect.
In judging of a work, she deemed its
intent just as important as its execu-
tion. She discerned in art a reflect-
ed radiance firom the world of
light : and all that did not tend up-
ward to this she regarded as idle ef-
fort and labor lost She observed
with pain an increasing tendency to
the material, particularly since the
year 1850; and nothing more deeply
incensed her than a demeaning of art
to low and base uses. Even in Mu-

»3»

Emify Lmder,

nich, after Cornelius left and Louis. I.
descended the throne, there existed
no longer the ancient standard. What
is now lefl of that school of sacred
art, once blossoming out with such
inspiriting vigor ? It now leads the
existence of a Cinderella. Even in
the year 1850, Miss Linder remarked ;
" Our academy affords me no longer
any very great pleasure: the period
of love and inspiration has passed.
Shall we ever see its return ?"

The gathering clouds in the politi-
cal horizon and the disturbance of
social relations were sot encouraging
to any hope like this. But at just
such a time, when outside life was for-
bidding, she found how grateful a de-
finite aim and mission may be, and
experienced the quiet delight of art
and art-occupation more than ever.
She thus writes from Pohl, a favorite
resort of here in summer, adjacent to
the Ammersee, " I shall yet make a
little tour in the T>to1 and then en-
sconce myself in winterquarters, where
I shall be happy in a work already
commenced and which will immedi-
ately engross me. It is a source of
the greatest happiness in these days
to have a given task. How much it
■enables one to get rid of!" On
viewing Gallail's picture of " Egmont
and Horn" in the exhibition, she re-
marked, " I should not care to own
■the picture, and yet there is much to
admire vn it. The sphere of art is so
'extensive and yet so limited — after all,
-one cannot but feel that everything
not in God's service is, to say the
least, superfluous."

An evening quiet ovetspread her
relations with the outside world. But
■uninterruptedly until her death she
kept up, in her own home, the accus-
tomed hospitality. Her house was
always a central point of really good
society. No literary or artistic celeb-
rity could long tarry in Munich with-
(H)( ^ ifi^t^on to h^ t^^ aiw^

which every week a litde circle \
gathered. Privy -Counsellor von Ruq
seis usually acted as host, a man
whose varied knowledge, ripe experi-
ence, and inexhaustible humor betia
befitted him than any other to blend
the most opposite characteristics of
the guests. With friends in the dis-
tance she m^untained an extensin
correspondence, and also cultivated
her friendly relations with them by
regular summer trips: a passion for
travel and a love ol nature remaining
true to her into advanced old age.

A nature so profound, so trucand
so enlightened was constituted foi
friendsliip, and Emily Linder served
as a model in this regard. She pos-
sessed those two qualities by which it
is best retained — candor and disinter-
estedness. What she was capable of U
to the latter quality has already been
sufficiently shown. An open fratik-
ness was the groundwork of her (Ju-
racter. She possessed a kind but im-
partial judgment, and in the Hghl
place she knew how to assert it The
same sincerity was expected of othen,
and nothing with her outwei|lud
truthfulness, Whoever offended ill
this point came to conclusions witb
her speedily and once for all A
half-and-half sincerity or prevaiicfc
tion could force even her dovclik*
mildness to resentment. When adW
to pass judgment upon the work of *
friendly artist, there arose a noble coo-
test between frankness and kinUneA
Her opinions were always to the point
and by the soundness of her judg-
ment she gave food for reflcclion-
But in cases of a change of opinioo
after more mature consideration, she
was quick to acknowledge heiself ^
iault. A single incident may UlustisK
this. On occasion of a defence, by
an artist, of a celebrated master, W
one of whose works she had taken ex-
ceptions, she replied I '■ My first jud£-
piail, iheo, was unquestfpoably h^s?;

Emily Lindgr,

233

nong friends I shall never like
?gree of caution always insisted
rhich admits of no quick and
ive word; for thus would all
eartedness be repressed ; a thing
no amount of shrewdness or
^liberation could ever replace.
for myself the privilege there-
ereafler, just as often, and per-
iist as hastily, to express my

reposed the same confidence

judgment of others. All the
reighty art matters about which
icemed herself were submitted
counsel and decision of intelli-
riends of art. She took the
ivdy interest, also, in every im-
: event or crisis in the families
se friends. Her thoughtful
nation loved to express itself
sant souvenirs and pla)rful sur-
Df gifts ; and her fidelity often
ed even to the departed,
a fiiend, after having passed to

home, was endowed with a
ial Mass which she established
repose of his soul. The Klee
ohler memorial, a composition
nle, copies of which she caused
own expense to be made, she
d (an intention, mdeed, never
t)as an aid to the establish-
»f a Klee and Mohler fund;

lasting monument it would
roved to the memory of these
»ble men. For any expression
ility toward herself she was

grateful; particularly in her
idvanced years, after she be-
lore and more aware how rare

is disinterested attachment in
)e of unprincipled selfishness,
instance of loyal attachment,"
5, " moves me the more deeply
;e times, when truly it is no
able virtue.**

pecial object of her loving
tfulness was her beloved Assisi,
le convent of the German sis-

ters of St. Francis. In times of great
distress, particularly during the ra-
vages of the Revc^ution, it was no small
consolation and delight to receive
thence, after a long interval, reassur-
ing intelligence. Particularly was this
the case during the Mazzini terrorism
of 1849. In the autumn of this year,
she announced to a fiiend, with some-
thing like motheriy pride: "I have
received tidings lately firom our Ger-
man nuns at Assisi. Appalling things
have happened at Rome, and indica-
tions of die same have threatened else-
where, even at Assisi. But the good
women bravely set at naught all in-
timidation and threat, and have come
out entirely unharmed. Yes, even
the gangs themselves are reported to
have said : One cannot get the better
of these Germans, they pray too much.
May we all of us lay hands upon the
same trusty weapon !" The burgher-
maiden whom she took with her as
candidate to Assisi on h^ journey to
Rome in 1829, has already been, for
the last twenty-four years, Superior of
the German convent; it so chanced
that she attained to this position the
very year that Emily Linder became
a Catholic. During that time, more
than twenty Bavarian maidens follow-
ed her to Assisi. If the gratitude of
happy people, who praise God daily
that they have found "the true aik
of peace," ever proved a blessing,
this blessing accrued, in rich measure,
to the artist from Assisi. Her name
is entered in the memorial book of
the convent, and, so long as this spi-
ritual order exists, she will live there
as their "best benefactress, and as
their dear, good mother in Christ."
Thus is she spoken of in the nume-
rous and touching letters of the pious
sisters.

Seldom has a human being made
a more magnanimous use of a large
income than the departed Emily
Linder. Her benevolence was on a

«34

Bmify UmUr.

grand scale. Her whole nature was
generosity itself; but that which at
first was but natural good will to all
became afterward, by the pious spirit
which jjervaded her, an element of
her rdigious worship. She consider-
ed herself but as the almoner of the
riches God had entrusted to her.
Her goodness was of that serene
character which never showed aught
of impatience toward those begging
or initiating charities. She gave to
both with cijual fiiendliness. She
contributed lavishly to public institu-
tions for the sick and suffering. And
yet what she gave to the individual
poor, and such special families as
were commended to her, must also
have been a very considerable sum.
In these simpler distributions of cha-
rity she showed a marked delicacy.
I'he modest poor who came to her
house she never allowed to be waited
on by her servants, but administered
to their wants herself. In some in-
stances she bore her gifts on certain
specified days to their dwellings ; and
in these cases she was just as syste-
matic, and as punctual to the day
and the hour, as in all things else.
ChrisL-iias in her house was a festival
of the poor. The lines of Clemens
Brentano in his collection of sacred
poems, entided To the Belief actress,
(»« the Occasion of her Presentation to
the /bor, refer to this incident. To
what extent and in what instances
she served as unknown guardian an-
gel, her intimate fiiends rather guess-
ed at than knew. The character
of her benevolence, generally, was
piously-noiseless and still. Through
hidden channels she often reached
far in the distance, sustaining and
rescuing {both physically and spiritu-
ally) where the need was very ur-
gent. Often, thus, a gift flowed
forth from her and sped like a sun-
beam into some languishing heart.
Many an obstacle has she removed

from the path of a struggling child
of humanity; into many a stout bat
wounded spirit has she infused new
life and energy. Clemens Brentano
termed this a ■' heavenly Utile piece
of strategy,"

This noiseless activity in art and
benevolence did not withdraw her
attention ftom what was going on
outside, and although she ne%cr step-
ped beyond the natural boundariesoi
her position, and was of too quiet a
nature to mingle generally in the
strife of parties, she nevertheless, lo
the last year of her life, maintained i
lively interest in all the great church
and political questions of the di):
The prodigious changes which took
place in the world during the foimli
period of her life, what heart wouM
not have been profoundly stirred bj
them ? But, however painful lo h^
the prevjuling Machiavelism of (he
age, the insanity of the revolutiooMy
leaders, the pitiable confusion of tk
people, and the undermining of oU
conservative bulwarks in stale anJ
society, courage and hope still iuiuei-
tained the upper hand. The pf«-
sure upon the church and the Pope ,
filled her perhaps with concern, biil
did not dismay her. She had the
right standAl, and the consolation
which it brought, in judging of lie
desrinies of the nations. \Vhen the
revolutionary storms of 1848 mJ
1S49 burst upon them and sw^'
over Germany and Italy, she renwrt-
ed: "The experience of all history,
and the consolation it imparts, isjuS
this : God allows men their way "•
a certain point, and where the 1^^
seems just achieved. But then is ifr
scribed with an almighty hand, l**
' 7»«f /tf/-.' And though his churdi
be shaken, this is far better for *
than to be reposing upon cushions 01
ease."

Her confidence was similarly inw!*
turbed during the succeeding mod''''-

Emily Under.

»a5

ears. During her attendance
the drama of The lUssion, at
nmergau, in the year i860,
as occupied with reflections
lie stupendous drama of pas-
f our own times. "There is
ing so fearfully- grand in the
: events of the world," she
x> her friend in Frankfort, " that
in elevation fills the soul, rais-
e above this little life of ours
arth. The image in our mind
holy father is already so
ilized that it begins to be in-
with the sanctity of the martyr,
oany may have to follow in his

footsteps? Shall we live to

victory ? At my time of life,
kd yet a secret joy often pos-
ne at the thought of this glori-
. But I say with you, the great
: us all is to gain heaven. God
afe this!" The latest period
man distress she Uved through
he intensest sympathy. She
h1 the appalling catastrophe as
e trial, even to her own person-
ngs and hopes, and recognized
calamity the initiation of a still
. " For me," she wrote to the
iriend, " the hope of any kind
ture is now past. I must sub-
y heart to no more disappoint-
but the mercy of God for the
ual is still attainable and great ;
y one accessible and possible,
rlong, of course, to the younger
ion, and can still dream of a

for our German fatherland.
»ult of the present calamity,
as it may seem to be plunging
\ irremediable ruin, will, never-
, never go the length intended

Prince of Evil. God stands
him ; that is certain. The fu-
ill be a different one, a very
It one, from that which we
sver surmise or guess, even the
of the church. And this future
iOM's. Let that content us."

Her life was a bright contrast to
the demoralization, the unrest, the
arrogant selfishness of our age. She
presented to those among whom she
lived the picture of a self-sustained,
unselfish, reposefiil soul. Humility,
trust in God, and compassion, this
was the fundamental hannony of her
daily life. Old age, which often, in-
deed, smooths away from the good all
little imperfections and blemishes of
character, rendered her still more con-
siderate, patient, and gentle. Her
love of simplicity was as great as
were her means. In her own house-
hold, well systemized, careful eco-
nomy j outside of this, severe, almost
noticeable plainness. But to her ap-
plied the line of the poet :

" A bleaaing she could see in lowliness to be.**

While denying herself, she gave
with lavish hand to poverty and dis-
tress, to art and to the church. She
moved with measured, dignified pace ;
but a certain religious harmony of
action imparted to her being and
doing an indescribable grace, which
is always the accompaniment of in-
ward purity, and a religion based upon
humility.

The Abb^ Haneberg, in his beauti-
fiil tribute at her grave, remarked,
" She seemed, during the last twenty
years of her life, to emulate the most
pious of her fiiends and daughteri
of Assisi, and to aim even to outdo
them, so systematic and untiring was
her service to God." Of this, how-
ever, her fiiends knew but little.
How much she thus quietly accom-
plished was never fully known until
after her death. It will suffice here
to state that in the year 185 1 she
informed herself, through the Superior
at Assisi, of their daily regulations,
and the usual succession of religious
exercises. Her everyday life was
identified with the daily life of the
church. She appreciated the si^iifi-

336

Emily Limter.

canl beauty and expressive symbol-
ism of churchly ordinances, and in
close observance joined in their cele-
bration. To this end, she followed
the Orifo of her diocese, and her
favorite prayer-book was the Missal.
Her knowledge of languages stood
her in good stead here; for, in addi-
tion to the modem languages, she
had also learned Latin, and had be-
come sufficiendy familiar with it to
follow intelligently the language of
the church. Cardinal Diepenbrock,
in 1850, wrote to her of a lady who
was occupying herself with the Latin,
or church, language ; " A worthy
study," he remarked, " Have you
not also begun it? It strikes me
that Clemens was saying something
about it But perhaps you were able
to get no farther than the mtnaa ; the
mensa Domini would naturally be
enough for you." But she went far-
ther than this. In her manuscripts
were found Latin exercises, written
under the guidance of the worthy old
BrGber. One room of her spacious
residence was arranged as a chapel,
in which was the superb altar-piece
"by Eberhard, " The Triumph of the
Church." 'ITiis chapel was favored
by the ordinariat with a Mass licence.
On the anniversary of her union with
the church she was accuslomed to
receive holy communion here; and
here the departed Bishop Valenrin,
of Regeasburg, once celebrated Mass.
Here, also, she devoted daily a cer-
tain time to meditation and the peru-
sal of the Holy Scriptures. Her favo-
rite place of devotion, however, was
the little chapel of the ducal hospital
which she frequented twice a day;
early in the morning, and again at
evening. She had for years a quiet
little place in the organ gallery where,
day by day, in all weather, and at all
seasons of the year, she consecrated
a couple of hours to prayer.

As the years flew by, she withdrew

herself more and more from
worid, and sought to l»e ■' hid :
God." The departure to their final
home of so many friends, togclhrr
with other events, served as slight
admonilions, which by her thoughtful
heart were not unheeded. She recog-
nized in this matter fresh cause of
gratitude to God, who was dealing
so tenderly with her to the very end.
" I consider it," she wrote, " a special
favor of the Lord that he grants me
so long a preparation for my final
hour." Years previously, she had
put herself in Chrisrian readiness lot
her last journey, and only hoped ihst
it might prove " a good death hour."
With customary precision, she had
ordered all her temporal nfiairs. She
had even made provision as to hei
intenneni, and the final burial service.
Her arrangements for the l.itler of
these, written in a bold and beautiful
hand, were dated the 7th of October,
1865.

On the festival of the Epiphany,
1867, she was for the last time in hei
favorite little chapel of the ducal hos-
pital. Only a few weeks previously,
she had begun to feel ill, and now
symptoms of dropsy suddenly devel-
oped themselves. The invalid recog-
nized her condition with Christian re-
signation, but did not yet relinqutsh
hope of a recovery. " The task now
is, to resign myself and to be {atieni.
God help me to this," she wrote al t
the dose of January. It was hef
last letter. Her friend Apollcmii
hastened from Regensburg, and she,
who, twenty-three years before, had
stood at her side when received t
the church, was now to stasd at -1
death-bed. The invalic
that her friend should remain 1
her one week ; and exactly at ^
close of the week she died. Diu"
het illness she found spedal i
rion in the house-altar, where, to I
great spiritual comfort, her '

Emily Linder.

337

or repeatedly cdebrated mass,
this JBbeifaard altar, where she
lade profession of Catholic
id where she yearly commemo-
liat happy event, she now re-
the viaticum and extreme unc-
In conformity with her wish,
festival of St^ Apollonia mass
ain celebrated in her little cha-
t was her last mass, and the
lion of the two friends in holy
ent. She seemed now to re-
1 her approaching dissolution
ugh it were a return home,
loming as her priest entered,
fetched out her arms and ex-
j, "May I — oh I may I go
'* **Yes, the guardian angel
sanies you, he guides you thith-
as the reply. Thereupon she
ent, remained in deep medita-
k1 spoke but little after. Yet
nned to participate in all that
red; if prayer were uttered,
ayed also; to all who drew
ie gave a friendly glance, but,
most part, remained absorbed
11.

the day preceding her death,
nimoned all her strength, and
fficult eflfort gave expression to
wishes, the fast of her earthly
he recalled an admirable artist,
she held in high personal es-
rem whom she had long desir-
>icture as an addition to her
tOB. She directed a very con-
le sum to be sent to him for a
al picture, which was now to
ited for the museum at. Bale,
ture of her poor, also, such as
m accustomed to receive little
s, engaged her thoughts; she
I that these charities should
itinued until they had found
bene^ctors. Her last words
I allusion to Jerusalem. She
ig^t hersdf of the <' Watch-
the Holy Sepulchre," (of the
af 8t Fiands,) and abo of the

" Zion Society," to both of which she
had made yearly contributions, and
which she now similarly remembered.
Thus had her life its characteristic
close. Her last mental activity was
exercised in works of charity, of art,
and of religion. With a glance at
Jerusalem and the sepulchre of her
Savioiu", she now went forward to-
ward the new Jerusalem. Her end
was the falling asleep of a child. In
the early morning of the 1 2th of Feb-
ruary, 1867, without a single death-
struggle, she sank into slumber-—
quietly, painlessly, peacefully.

A gentleman, intimately befriended
with hcf, remarked, "After her
death, I had occasion to observe the
intense grief of those who had been
recipients of her bounty, and then
first became aware what a truly royal
munificence had been hers, which
all were ignorant of, save God and
the poor." Such were the teais
that followed her, together with
those countless others, which during
her life she had already dried.

On the afternoon of the 14th of
February a long funeral procession,
composed of the best Cadiolic soci-
ety of Munich, and throngs of the
poor, together with the superinten-
dent of public charities, (then repre-
sented by the mayor of the city,)
moved from the pleasant mansion
on the comer of Carl street toward
the cemetery, to render their last
homage to this noble friend of art
and the poor. The Abb^ Haneberg,
an old friend of hers, pronounced the
benediction of the church over her
grave, which was located not far
from the grave of M5hler. In her
written instructions^ £mily Liuder
desired only a simple stone cross
above her, the pedestal of the cross
bearing the inscription :

The dmnberer, Iwr^ eoofidet in the mtrcf of God ;

the simplest^ but in its simplicity, the

238

The Irish Church Act of 1869,

most touching testimony 10 a being
whose interior life was all humility
and mist in God, and whose exterior
activity had been the purest mercy
itself. To her might be applied a
verse of the beautiful requiem ad-
dressed by Brentano to another de-
poned friend :

" He, far wlicKii Dm willing gidi

li>nm hii ciRhl beililuelM
Singled Uttr^ oui far btr."

The whole spirit which accompa-
nied her through a life of seventy
years still lived on in her bequests.
The half of her large fortune she left
to benevolent and charitable.objects;
chiefly to schools and hospitals.
True Swiss that she was, she was
specially mindfiil of her native city.
The largest amount donated — 100,-
000 florins — was bequeathed to the
Bishop of Bale, for the benefit of his
diocese. Her art-treasures were,
with few exceptions, incorporated
with the museum of Bale, to whose
first establishment she had originally

contributed \ia small amount, sod
which, with true patrician feeling.
she had lavishly endowed during het
life.

In these bequests to an and lo
the church, Emily Linder rearei! for
herself a monument which will k«ii
her in blessed remembrance; and
this monumetit is only the last nlil^
stone of record on the pathway of
a life thickly studded with wariis of
charity. Truly a significant, il«d-
fast existence, harmonious from its
commencement to its verj* close.

In days of depression and pw-
plexity would we gaic upon a I"*-
trait of true humanity, ennobled vA
enlightened by Chrjsrianity, (a jw-
trait we might well present as a Hudf
to the young,) we may point li*
quiet confidence to the depmrf
Emily Linder, and exclaim: BehoW
here a character noble, unselfish, and
complete — a nature of rare pun^
and depth — a transparent and beiB-
tiful spirit, who verified her toll M I
her love.

THE IRISH CHURCH ACT OF

"TmT" (ihe Antficu 1

The measure for the discstablish-
inent and disendowment of the Eng-
lish Church in Ireland, recently intro-
duced by the English premier into
the British Parliament, is one of the
most startling and boldest steps
which has yet been taken by that
body to rectify the criminal blunden
of three hundred years of mistaken
legislation. Mr. Gladstone, in mov-
ing the first reading of the act, in a

very long speech, evidently |
with great care, while admitdnjfl
be "the most grave and
work /}f legislature that everj
been laid before the House of 9
mons," fell the necessity of cain
ly and almost ngiologetically i'
the case and explaining the i'
those with whom he acted,
raeli, ihe leader of the i
while agreeing with his did
successor in office in notl
was forced to allow the sc^WimI
" one of the most gigwuic that 1

The Irish Church Act of 1869.

Zi9

brought before the house" —
m which, judging from the
* all parties inside and outside
nent, appears to be unani-
atertained.

lends of the act are numer-
igland as well as in Ireland,
g all the Catholic population
ry large portion of dissent-
estants of more advanced
al \iews in both countries,
lolics of Ireland see in it the
•n of that infamous system
s not only robbed them of
irs and the graves of their
, but compelled them to
n idleness and luxury what
raeli himself long since de-

as " an alien chiu-ch."
the partial restitution con-
l at this late day by this act

corresponding comparison
oagnitude of the evils borne,
restitution, and a most signi-
1, in a sense, abject admis-
e utter failure of the experi-
the English government to
•testantism on an unwilling
The successful passage of
rill also necessitate the ex-

of large sums of money
Y charitable purposes, and
I national sense, is of more
:e, it will remove one of the
ent and fruitful causes of
:ontent. But it is in Eng-

the question assumes the
tentous magnitude; for it
me apparent to every one

the fall of the Irish Estab-
s but the first ac| in the dra-
5 total severance of church
in the entire British empire,
ing wedge well driven home
i, the results in other parts
Jnited Kingdom become
matter of time. Sir John

of the strongest supporters
Gladstone's bill, himself a
ty hints at this, in an article

in a late nimiber of his paper, the
Dublin Freeman's yburna/, in which
he says : " He (Gladstone) will soon
have powerful auxiliaries in the Eng-
lish curates, and they have more in-
fluence in forming public opinion in
England than the bench of bishops
and the ten thousand incumbents.
The Irish curates will be in M^r.
Gladstone's favor, and if ever dis-
establishment should be the lot of
England — an/i he would be a rash
politician who would negative such a
proposition — the EngHsh curates
would have in Mr. Gladstone's Irish
measure a precedent for an equal
measure of justice to themselves."

The opposition to the act comes
in the first place from the whole
body of Anglican bishops and cler-
gymen in Ireland, if we except the
Bishop of Down and a few badly
paid curates who would benefit by
its passage. The Orangemen, that
most pestiferous of all social and po-
litical scourges, of course sustain
their reverend fiiends, and their loy-
alty on this occasion has culminated
in a remonstrance signed, it is said,
by over two thousand noblemen
and landed "gentry." Hostility to
the policy foreshadowed by Mr.
Gladstone was very active and viru-
lent in England during the late elec^-
tions, and is now exhibited in the
Commons by a large and active tory
minority. The English ecclesiastics
have also taken up the cry with equal
earnestness and scarcely less vehe-
mence. At the last sitting of the
New Convocation of Canterbury in
London, an address to the queen in
opposition to the provisions of the
act was proposed and carried by the
upper house, and upon being sent,
down to the lower house for adop-
tion, the following and similar amend-
ments were enthusiastically added:
" Above all," say those reverend gen-
tlemen, " we are constrained by our

The Trisk Church Act of 18S9,

sense of duty to yout majesty and to queen from signing the act,
the Refonned Church of England and not assured by the confidi
Ireland, humbly to represent to your and even the express word
majesty that disestablishment of the Gladsmne that her majesB
church in Ireland cannot be had were entirely in accord
without repudiation, on the part of of her lir^t minisiiT, and
the nation, of the necessity and va- that she had already place
lue of the Reformation." This Ian- hands of parliament her
guage is explicit and forcible enough, ecclesiastical appointmcntft
but the Synod of both Houses of land.
Convocation of the Province of The history of the Irisl
York, held on the same day, goes a Establishment, now hapin
little farther, "This convocation,"
they affirm, "view with sorrow and
alarm the proposed attempt to dis-
establish and disendow the Irish its birth at a so-called Iria
branch of the United Church of Eng-
land and Ireland, as seriously affect-
ing the interests of the church in
that part of the British dominions;
as a fatal encroachment on the pre-
rogatives of the c

1 of church and stale
guaranteed by engagements entered
into by acts of union, and confirmed
to members of the church by the
solemn sanction of the coronation
oaih."

That part of the coronation oath
prescrilied by the first William and
Mary, chapter sixth, to which allu-
sion is here made and which is the
straw that the drowning Anglicans
are endeavoring to grasp, reads

3 disappear for ever,

lost intelligent readers thi

quires but a passing notica

a so-called Iria

summoned by Lonl>

1536, down to the presenb

unjust have been its procM

rapacious its ministers,

press! ve its exactions c

nsetiling emed and neglected peo]

whom it never had the
pathy, that Christendom li
aghast in mingled wonder
Not only were the Catholic
land despoiled of their
abbeys, and convents, th<
ments of piety and leaming'
dispensaries of Christian
reared by the hands of b
ancestors for over a. thousai
but the very humblest a
worship were handed over

" Qiuslion : Will you, to the eign cler^', preaching a net
at the point of the swoid,.
of the very language of tliei
and by birth and trainiOB
hostile to every interest,

follow!

utmost of your powi

laws of Qod, the profession of the

Gospel, and the Protestant Reformed

Religion established by law ? And

will you preserve unto the Irtshops and temjioral, of the pCfl

and clergy of this realm, and to the were sent [o teach. Nor

churches committed to their charge, all. The despoiled masMS «

all such rights and privileges as by pelleii to pay. and StiU pa|

law do or shall appertain unto them support of this "alien"

or any of them? King and Queen: tithe on every foot of cuUtVJ

Ail this 1 promise to do, (king and in tlie kingdom, and npoa{

queen lay hands on the holy Gospel.

saying.) so help me God." The

condition of this solemn oath would

dace and stock denved fi
n the same.
The amount of

at first sight appear to preclude the filched from the 01

Th€ Irish Church Act of 1869.

241

OS and peasantry of Ireland under
color of law, and the additional an-
mial revenue wrung from that half-
^mished nation, is thus estimated by
no less an authority than the English
premier :•

''The commissioners appointed in 1868
estimated the annual value at ;f 6x6,000,
but, with all respect for their long labors,
he must differ from them, for they had
placed it too low ; for one of their bodj, in
a subsequent publication, estimates it at
1^835,000^ but for the present purpose he
would take it at ;f Too^ooa The capital-
amount was as follows :

Tithe rent charge, • • • . ;f 9,000,000

Idud, • 6,250,000

Other property in money, etc., 750,000

Total,

;f 16,000,000

The result is that the whole value of the
ecclesiastical property of Ireland, reduced
and cut down first of all by the almost un-
bounded waste of life tenants, and secondly
by the wisdom or unwisdom of well-inten-
tioiied parliaments— the remaining value
ii DO leas than ^'16,000^000 of money, con-
■denbly more than on a former occasion
I Tentuied to estimate, but then my means
of informatioii were smaller than they now
nt."

From the contemplation of past
justice we can now turn with a
Knse of relief to the provisions of
the act itself, and which, under such
peculiar circumstances^ are perhaps
ai wisdy and judiciously framed as
am be expected. On its passage
it may be slightly altered in some
of its minor details, but there is litde
loom for doubt that the act substan-
tially as first presented will become
hw.

And first, those parts of the Acts of
Ufiioo of the Irish and English par-
EttnentSi passed at the beginning of

*lliib «f CNHi^ ithit a vwy anil pofftiott iadaad
<f ^ fHHHj tthM from tht CMholic Chaich in
k*ii«dw H«my VIIL and •nceMdbg OMBardit.
^^ As dbb^fbodt wm fim ipwtdl ia tht

^^S HM WMB I^SHImI IO COOTOifS ttd OUMfS
^« MMMi IMS ■■ UM iviism 01 hMW niuiiiiy»

jbf rfflit iiMJitim inrfUM ia Iivlnd dirif*
^ Mis t» HirirtaBdi ftMB ihoM acM «r ipdia-

this century, permitting certain Irish
bishops to sit ex officio as lords spi-
ritual in the British House of Peers,
and giving to the decrees, orders,
and judgments of certain ecclesiasti-
cal courts in Ireland the force and
authority of law in that part of the
realm, are unconditionally repealed
The thirteenth section of the act pre-
scribes: '< On the ist day of Janu-
ary, 187 1, every ecclesiastical cor-
poration in Ireland, whether sole or
aggregate; every cathedral corpora-
tion in Ireland as defined by this act
shall be dissolved, and on and after
that day no archbishop or bishop of
the said chiux:h shall be summoned to
or be qualified to sit in the House
of Lords,"

Thus we see that Irish Anglican
bishops will no longer be considered
worthy to sit beside their right reve-
rend brethren of England on the
benches of that respectable but rather
sleepy conclave known as the House
of Lords, and that the Protestant
Church in Ireland ¥rill be resolved
into a mere voluntary body consisting
of clerics and laity, whose regulations
will only affect themselves as matters
of mutual contract, but who will
have no legal jurisdiction nor recog-
nition except such as may be con-
ferred by subsequent acts of parlia-
ment on local corporations. When we
reflect that the prelates thus so un-
ceremoniously thrust out of the Lords,
and who with their eon/rires are
stripped of all extrajudicial authority,
were, and still are, the most active
promoters of the Act of Vnion and
the fiercest opponents of itt repeal,
we cannot help admiring the poetic
justice which now offers the bitter
draught to their lips. Like Macbtth,
ihey but taught "bloody instructionii
which, bemg taught, return to plague
the inventor.**

The act next provides for the ap-
of a commission whidi

rtlMMliTwII

VOL. CL— >l6

^all exist for ten years from the
commencement of its operations,
and lie clothed with full power to
reduce to its possession all the pro-
perty, lands, tenements, and interests
of or now belonging to the Estab-
lished Church of Ireland, and to
Tcconvey, sell, or dispose of the same
according to the provisions of the
act, after the ist day of January,
1871. The church-buildings now in
use by the Established Church wi!! be
handed over, with all their rights, to
the " governing body " of the par-
ticular church under the voluntary
system of organization ; those not in
general use or so dilapidated as to be
incapable of repair, being from their
antiquity or the beauty of their archi-
tecture, like St. Patrick's, Dublin,
to the number of twelve, will be
transferred by the commissioner to the
care of the Board of Public Works,
with an adequate appropriation in
money for their proper care and pre-
servation. Against this latter ar-
rangement we entirely and emphati-
cally protest. St. Patrick's Cathedral
at least, if not every one of those
twelve churches which the Anglicans
have neither the numbers to decent-
ly fill nor the generosity to keep
in repair, instead of being put in
care of poor-law commissioners or
any other secular body, should be
handed over to the Catholics of the
country, the real owners and spiritual
heirs of their founders. This, after
all, would be nothing rnore than an
act of tardy justice, and a reproof
not only fo the sacrileges committed
in them by the " Reformers " of the
sixteenth century, but to Anglican
poverty and niggardliness in the
nineteenth century. In the hands
of the poor-law commissions, who
have shown litde reverence and less
antiquarian lore, those mognificctit
tnnplcs will become simply objects
bf wonder to the passing tourist;

surrounded by all the artti
beautiful graces of our hoi
they would be living, breath
dences, as it were, of the uns
devotion to and the glorious
nation of that fjith in the U
Saints. If not too late, we
see this pordoc of the aa cj
if this cannot be done, we ,
see the Catholic and the
members of parliament tnovj
matter by the means of su^

See and glebe houses aa
curtilages antj gardens vesle^
commissioners may be sold
governing body oif any chi
which they are attached, for
equal to twelve tinies" the
value of the house and land^
veyed, payment to be made
Etallmcnts within twenty-twOi
quarter years. Upon apnl
from the same or a similar gql
body, the commissioners maj
the case of a see house, thti^
and of any other ecclesiastic
dencc, ten acres, contiguous b
such sum as may be agreed it
arbitration. It is further pi
that, whenever any church or
sites vest in the commissionc
subject to the at^vc conditio^
shall dispose of the same by
sale at their discretion. Thi
clause, though simple in ita
and apparently unimportant,.
tutes in reality one of the motj
esting features in the act Ki
as we do the intense devoC
the Irish Catholics for the cm
ruins of the old churches bl
their brave and zealous aiy
where in the olden time waj
many holy men now with tho
in heaven, and the cold indifll
or ignorance of the Anglioui ■
in relation to such sanctified ■
we can confidently predict dM
many years will elapse ere'T

The Irish Cltkrch Acl of 1869.

predous memorials of the past will
be in the possession of the people
who have so watched in silence and
in tears their desecration by the fol-
loi^ers of the religion of Henry and
Elizabeth. It will also be remarked
in this part of the act the constant
recurrence of the term "governing
body," so expressive of the total re-
uluction of the once proud Church of
England in Ireland as by ^' law esta-
blished" to the same condition as
that occupied by mere Methodists
and Presbyterians.

Graveyards, a subject scarcely less
attractive than churches, is next dealt
with in this elaborate act When a
church having a burial ground attach-
ed to it is vested in the commission-
ers, and the church-building is subse-
qucndy reinvested in the " governing
body," the burial ground will be in-
dnded in the order conveying the
same; otherwise the burial grounds
viH be transferred to the poor-law
guardians within whose district the
same may be situated, to be used by
tbem in a manner similar to those al-
ready taken or purchased by such
guaidians. This clause when carried
out will change many graveyards now
otdusiYely controlled by Itetestants,
but which in reality are and formeriy
were the property of Catholics, into
phces of pubUc burial, and, afartiori^
Catholic.

Having disposed of the materia}
intaests and franchises of the Irish
Quuch, we next come to the most im-
portant part (only, however, as &r as
the parties immediately affected are
QODccmed) of die act, though the
hmen, evidently wkh a keen eye
to the pockets of the disestablished,
place it ^moog the first in general in-
tait It appeazB mider the nnosten-
ItfoQi snb-tide of ^Cooipensatioii to
pc&QDS depmed of Incc^."^ It pio-
vifa that, on and^after the nt of
Jumaijr, X871, tbfs imnimisfaancrt,

having in the niiean time ascertained
the amount of annual income of the
holder of any archbishopric, bishop-
ric, benefice, or cathedral prefermeiit,
curacy, etc., shall pay to the holder
of the same an annuity equal in
amount to such income for Ufe, or
as long as such incumbent continues
to perform the duties of such office;
or such incumbent may commute his
annuity in return for a certain pay-
ment in bulk, upon his own applica-
tion and at the discretion of the com-
mission. For these purposes the
sum of about ;^5,ooo,ooo, or twen-
ty-five millions of dollars, will be re-
quired to be paid out of the assets
in the hands of the commissioners.
This amount divided between two
thousand ecclesiastics would give an
average of twelve thousand five hun-
dred dollars for each, but as ' that
number includes the curates, the most
numerous and worst paid of the An-
glican clergymen, the archbishops and
other high dignitaries will find theni-
selves in receipt of. enormous reve-
nues during the term of their natural
lives. Then there are other persqns
who are to become pensioners on Uxe
public bounty to the amoimt of four
million five hundred thousand dollars;
such as parish clerks, sextons, officers
of cathedrals and ecclesiastical courts^
parochial school-masters, organists,
and all that sanctimonious and useless
tribe whose mock gravity and un-
bending advocacy of diurch and
state so firequently proved a source
of amusement and derision to their
less orthodox and perhaps less mer-
cenary neighbors. With a sigh we
part with that grave, shabby-gente^
lifik between the Ftotestant cunLj^
and the seldom-met poor pauper of
the Anglican Church, well xemember-
ingin our «uiy. boyhood with what
awe we gazed upon theit long, jiidlbw
visages as they- stalked by', tneoita-
, tiyely, clothed in all the little \^i^

Tht Irish Church Act of 1869.

'fliority of quasi-clerical life. Thirty
millions of dollars may be considered
8 large sum with which to pension off
the dergy and their followers of a
church which does not count three
quarters of a million of souls, of all
degrees, sexes, and ages; but it will be
money well spent if it heep to era-
dicate an evil which has so long af-
flicted a patient people."

The holders of advowsons, or the
right to appoint to church livings —
with the exception of the queen, cor-
porations sole and aggregate dissolv-
ed by the act, and trustees, officers,
and persons acting in a public capaci-
ty — are entitled to certain compensa-
tion to be ascertained by arbitration ;
one million five hundred thousand
dollars being allowed for the liquida-
tion of this description of claims. As
no Catholic can exercise this right,
even though the owner of the land in
fee from which the right to appoint
arises, it follows that whatever com-
pensation is made will go to Protest-
ants only. It would seem to any
person other than an Anglican land-

•A lilt numbs of

Tht Cilfuilk finis

n (London)

r!y« <u lb. foUowi,

rtg lUbilia: 'riicK an. it 1>

Hid. r^^ Anglic

liainFn«tu ADglioai in [rtlitid. Th< budg.!

hould be <I

which Ite-

l»ahMbB~>b= vi.

dim. The Ptubrte

iling ID tip.i^i. M

„j.«.b.idr

of j£»3D isB Ih&T theologiad coUcfEU
w\<M\at l^iL,tm- PnKeicinldiwcmeniureiiom-
domnenf, dw yd Calholto. acepling ■ aubtidjr lo
■be concm I' MornooUi of ilifi.j'a. lliui Ihe An-
j^iao Eiublishnwiit id Ireland hu 1 rcrenue if
HekhX jfSn.noa far 700,000 penon^ orabmt jf 1 31.
per head. ITie Preibytenani receive from the goTem-
menl i4j,j97 for s«3,«?i persona, M •boul la jXd.
pBhuiL C'llholio. j£>e,3fia foi 4.soj,3«i penoat,

AccorJiflf to Uk ian cennn llial of iMi. there
■cte m Inland :

t^r Cent of (tie

whole PopulatiocL

».)oS.>«s Cafholica, that i

•9HW "wmbwuif ihe

5aj,avi PteabyttnaiH,

Tt.Ui ProWatanl ditK

lord that this clause is r
in harmony with the eqi
of the body of the act, t
manifestly unjust Ad
as much a relic of ancier
barism as any that were
law under the coram
Charles II., and shoulc
swept away when all tl
vices for defrauding the
poor were abolished ce
We waive altogether Ihe
their simoniacal character ]
so convenient for the Ian
so profitable for younger
tocratic families would ha
demned on that accou:
who so largely profit by ii
tion to all the money whi
missioners are to reinibur
mentioned, we find thai u
perty of the Irish Churc
building debt of some
and a quarter dollars fo
of churches, glebes, etc.,
commissioners arc instnit

Thus we see that the si
thirty-two millions of doll
set aside as an inducen
loosening of the grip of
and mercenary ikction o:
purse ostensibly, but in n
very vitals of the indust
of tlie country. Let us n
corresponding compensati
made for the Catholics
ters.

It is well known thai
century the Presb)fleriani
have been annually in tl
a limited sum of mone)
reg^tim donum. At fit
term indicates, this was :
fi-om the crown, but of 1
has been regularly votc<
ment, and last year it a
£aI,<ooo. This grantis
drawn ; and as an equiv:
of about four nriUions of
be capitalized by the coi

The Irish Church Act of iS6g.

245

the annual interest of which wiH be
rieaily equal to the present donation.
Xo addition to this, seventy-five thou-
sand dollars are to be bestowed on
The Presbyterian college of Belfast

But the Catholics, who, notwith-
standing the vast emigration of the
last twenty-five years, form three
fourths of the entire population, fare
even worse than their dissenting
l)fethren. The paltry grant of ^26,-
000 to Maynooth College is to cease,
^md a sum equal to less than a half of
that appropriated to the Presbyteri-
ans is to be substituted, the interest
cnly of which will be devoted to the
support of that distinguished nursery
of Catholic learning. The building-
<!ld)t of some twenty thousand pounds
which the college owes to the Board
of Public Works is to be paid off by
^ commissioners; but, apart from
tius trifling sum, the Catholics of Ire-
land gain no direct material advan-
tage from the enforcement of the new
act; and it is to be hoped that, when
time confirms the sagacity of the
statesmen who have suggested the
introduction of the present reform,
and has done fiill justice to the
mond courage of the men who have
proposed it to the imperial parlia-
ment, the 8elf-dei)ial and dismterest-
edness of the Irish Catholic hierar-
dijr, clergy, and people will be duly
appreciated. However little flatter-
ing such unequal distribution of fimds
may be to the rightfiil daims of Ca-
dK)licSy we presume they will not
ftink it worth their while to object
to it Many of them, we are disp<^ed
to flunk, would be willing to dispense
altogether with state aid^ if the rule
vcre made general as fiir as regards
Pkotestant sects. The Catholic
Church in Ireland has never been
toons of leaning for support on
fte aim of the British government,
sud flie experience of its members
>t home amd in this country has

amply proved that the church is
always more prosperous and more
powerfiil for good in inverse propor-
tion to its reliance on the secular ann.

There is no provision made fbr
Trinity college, that being left for
fiiture legislation, with an intimation
fix)m the premier that, while its inte-
rests will be properly attended to, it
shall be deprived of its exclusively
sectarian character. This is well
'Wnity was endowed with many
thousand broad acres violently taken
from the rightfiil owners, the Irish
chiefe, by Elizabeth, which must now
yield an enormous revenue. It has
been in times past, to a great extent,
the nursery of enlightened intolerance
and philosophic indifference; but
when we recall the names of Swift
and MoUineux, Grattan, Curran, the
Emmets, Petrie, and McCullough,
and many other illustrious friends
of Ireland, who studied in its venerar
ble halls, and there partially deve-
loped the germs of that keen wit,
fiery eloquence, and scientific lore
which graced a nation even in it9
darkest hour of humiliation, we can
forgive their old a/ma mater a great
many backslidings. Trinity should
be allowed to retain her revenues,
and when her wide gates are thrown
open for the reception alike of the
Catholic, the Anglican, arid the Dis-
senter, her sphere of usefulness will
not only be enlarged, but douUy
increased by the competition between
the diverse elements of which the
population of Ireland is composed.
She will then cease to be sectarian,
and become, in the truest sense, na«
tionaL

We now come to the matter of
assets to be reduced into posses-
sion by the commissioners, out of
which the several sums above men-
tioned are to be paid — assets which,
according to Mr. Gladstone's esti-
mates, will amount to ;^x6,ooo,ooo.

T^JirStk-CbuickAa «/■ 1^69..

or eighty million dollars. Of this
sum, ^^g.ooo.ooo, it is expected, will
be derived from the commutation or
obliteration of tithe rent charges; thai
A to say, the owners of lands from
which tithes are now derived can, by
the payment of a fised sum to the
commissioners, be for ever relieved
Horn [he tithe exaction; and, should
they be unable to pay the whole sum
down, they are to be allowed forty-
five yeais wherein to pay it by instal-
ments. Tithes, it must be remem-
bered, have not, for nearly forty
yeare, been collected directly from
the cultivator of the soil, but from
the owner, who, of course, added it
to the rent, and thus, though the ob-
jectionable adjuncts of distrain and
imprisonment for tithes, as such, were
doi^e away, the tenant had still to
pay the o'L'ous tax in another form.
As the clause of the act regulating
this branch of the duties of the com-
missioners is perhaps the last of such
a nature that will ever be allowed to
encumber the statute-book of the
British pariiament, we quote it en-
tire, simply premising that it seems
&ir enough, and in terms decidedly
favorable to the landlords. Section
3a recites :

- "The commissioners may aX any lime
after the 1st diy of Jmiiaty, i87t, sell any
rent charge in lieu of litbes bestowed on
tliem under this act to llie owner of the
tand charged (herewith, in cons! deration of
a sum equal to Iwenty-two and » half limei
the amount of such cent diarge, and upon
any such sals being so made, the commis-
sioners shall, by order, declare (he rent
diarge to 1m merged in the land out of
whtch it inEucd, and the same shall merge
and be en(inguiBhcd aecordioEly, Upon
the appliotion of any owner so purchising,
tlie commissioners may, by order, declare
his purchase money, or any pjrt (hereof,
to be payable hy instalments, and the land
•ut of which such lent charge issued lo be
accotdingly charged as from a day to be
BWnl'oned in such order, fur forly-five years
Hienee neii ensning, with an annual sum
•^Bd.to foor gvuntls ttaaUllinga for evein

one hundred poondsof the pare
or part thereat^ so payable in
The annual sum charged by
shall have priority over all <
incnmbrxnces, except quit or c
and shall be payable by the sai
and be recoverable ia the n
as the rem charge iu lieu of til
fore payable out of the same liitl
for the purposes of this section
the person for (be time being I
rent cliarge in lieu of tithes une
visions of the acts o( the ArM
years of the reign of her presi
chap. 109."

\Vhen all the charges i
on the commissioners are
for, including one million 1
themselves, a matter which
not be likely lo neglecl, th
tefr of the effects of the defui
lishment the handsome su
seven million pounds slerlh
disposition lo make of tl
was a puzzling question i
time among the legislative
Uatora. That it was to b
to some Irish purpose w
stood from the tirst; but
money to Ireland have
turned out to be mere jobs, 11
beneficial to government *
than to tlie supposed rec
tlie bounty. Besides, as I
stone says, they wanted to
measiu-e a finality, and t
of the money once and for
have divided it among al]
denominations /fz-iTtf^ija, wc
the bulk of it into possessi
Catholics, to the great chag
sects; and to have expcn*
one or two local internal
menls would have created
jealousy, and given rise to \
favoritism. Appreciating ti
culties, the friends of the
resolved, and, we think, ve
to devote it to the geoerai
of the island, not directly 1
widi any particular deoc
as follows : \„it

The Irish Church Act efiZfy).

rhe support of infinnarics, hospitals^
latic asylums in connection with the
iiiry cess or other assessment in lieu

!n support of reformatory and indua-
hooU Ireland acts, and ia aid ox
rants for that purpose.
The salaries of trained or skilled*
for poor persons in sickness or in

*he suitable education and mainte-
f the blind and of the deaf and dumb
separate asylums.

*he suitable care, training, and main-
, in separatef asylums, of poor per-
weak intellect, not requiring to be
ider restraint The commissioners
sm time to time, during their trust,
to her majesty whether there is any
aTailable for the purposes mention-
bis section, and, upon such report
lade, it shall be lawful for her majes-
rder in council, to direct such availa-
tion of income to be applied for the
d purposes, or any of them, under
uiagement and control as aforesaid.*'

poor-law commissioners are to
:rusted with this capital sum,
le distribution of the annual
e arising therefrom, which is
ited at ;^3io,ooo. There are
ly patent reasons for this dis-
)n. Already the sum of ;£ 1 40,-
»r similar purposes is annually
by a tax called " county cess ;"
avy tax, an increasing tax,"
Ir. Gladstone, *' and a tax not
i, like the poor law, between
wner and the occupier, but
r'holly by the occupier ; and a
)t limited, like the poor law,
upations above four pounds in
but going down to the most
ble huts and cabins. The
s of these most wretched tene-
are now required in Ireland,
xjuired increasingly from year
U-, to pay, not that which is
by the wealthier portion of the
mts who contribute to the poor
ut to pay for that class of want
jffering which ought undoubt-
> be met, which in every Chris-
ountry should be liberally met.

but which can only be met by the
expenditure of considerable funds in
comparison with those which are
paid to support the pauper." llie
frightful increase of those classes of
unfortunates to be thus provided for
in view of the decrease of the entire
population by emigration* calls loud-
ly for some legal interposition. From
185 1 to 1 86 1 the number of deaf and
dumb persons increased from 5x80
^^ 5^53 i ^i^d during the same de*
cade the blind increased from 5787
to 6879, while the number of lunatics
increased from 9980 to i4,098» pr
nearly fifty per centi

With this last act of Christian chor
rity, we hope to see the traces of for-
mer injustice gradually fade away from
the public mind, and the bitter memo-
ries and sectarian jealousies of the
past give place to a new era of good
feeling and brotherly affection, lime
is not only a great healer of wounds,
but a great reformer of ideas. Tak-
ing a retrpspective glance at the. his-
tory of Ireland for the past hundred
years, and watching how, step by
step, the church in Ireland, from the
veriest depths of despondency and
contumely, has risen in power,
strength, and numbers by its own
innate vitality, we are not too san-
guine in believing that it has a glori-
ous future before it, unsurpassed bj
that of any country in Europe,
Though its members embrace the
great majority of the poorest classy
in the land, they have, in that short
period, studded the country with
magnificent cathedrals and substan-
tial parish churches ; though unaided
by a government which, if not posi-
tively hostile, was certainly indifferent^
they have built and are gener^i^lj
sustaining, hundreds of colleges, con-
vents, hospitals, and asylums, where

*The emigration from Irdand from May xsU
185 1, to December xst, 1865, amoanted to i,63a^7as

tools.

ra48

The Irish Ckutvh Act of 1869.

learning flourishes as in the pristine
ages, and where the poor, the needy,
and afflicted arc comforted and con-
soled. And though famine has deci-
mated the hardy peasantry, and emi-
gration has torn millions of the " bone
and sinew " from their native shores,
the Catholics of Ireland are still, as
they always will be, the people of
Ireland.

It is true that a great many chan-
ges have yet to be effected through
the means of legislation before the
Irish or English Catholic is placed
on an equal footing with his more
favored fellow- subject. In Ireland,
he must eventually have equal repre-
sentation in the British parliament.
The laws controlling the marriage
of persons of different religious beliefs,
those relating to tlie tenure of lands
;md spiritual devises, and to the dis-
qualification for office on account
of religious opinions, must be re-
pealed and sent to dwell with all
the other legal rubbish of a bygone
age of bigotry. The Ecclesiastical
Titles Bill, which is a disgrace to an
enlightened government and a stand-
ing insult to the bishops and people
of the countr)', must share the same
fate before the crown can expect or
ought to receive that heartfelt loyalty
which springs from good and impar-
tial government. The times in which
we live imperatively demand those
teforms, and we are very much mis-
taken in the strength and spirit of
our co-religionists in the United
Kingdom if they do not also quickly
and pertinaciously demand them.

We are gratified, in looking over
our files of leading English journals,
to find that they all with one voice,
t few old and obscure tory papers cx-

ano^

cepted, support the liberal ]>arty i^
its leading measure, and ore waging
war with their trenchant pens against
the effete anti-Catholic party in the
Commons. We hope, also, to see
our brothers of the American press,
secular and religious, who so gene-
rally advocate the support of churchet
by voluntary contributions, giving
word of encouragement to their
sins across the Atlantic.

Granting that the passage
proper execution of the present act
will be a most important step in the
right direction, it still seems to us
unfortunate that it was not taken
years ago. With a fatality that so
generally attends English political
and religious concessions, it has been
so long delayed that it now appears
to be more the offspring of fear and
intimidation than the result of wise
and mature conviction. If British
statesmen will yield only to force
what they refuse to sound argumau
and the logic of facts, they must
expect the same motive power to be
again applied when demands neither
so reasonable nor so well foi
are to be put forward. In
with our brethren in every
the world, we view with great sai
tiou this awakening sense of pi
jusrice in the English mind;
it not falter now, as if exhausted
one solitary effort. Let a good
lord and tenant act be passed
out unnecessary delay, and
comprehensive measures be ad<
for the development of the in<
resources of the nation, ai
indeed, that chronic state of
tion which has afflicted every
tion in Ireland since the invauoa
be radically cured.

Mfy MoiMs Onfy Som.

249

MY MOTHER'S ONLY SON.

A is Ming heavily, to-night
li^, desolate, lonely sound,
re bent upon reminding me
: night more desolate, dull,
y even than the present
t have I, who have so much
about me now, to be search-
aik annals of past soirow,
arth a hidden misery, that
like a blighting shadow be-
and all the pleasures that
nine ? Yet^that rainy, dis-
does come back to me with
d terror I would rather not

I rather not remember it,
ly son, just buddmg into
has left me to-night, for the
and gone to take his place
firm in a neighboring city.
1 and its allurements are
^ laid out before him. He

handsome boy, so bright
sing. They teU me he will
^e friends, plenty of friends;
s all the elements of popu-
1 is destined to become a
vorite. Dangerous attrac-
I] they have made wiser
I yours, my dariing, very
rery light ; hearts, too, have
;ht to mourning, while the
friends of yesterday could
L look of pity on their lost
they passed by.
I brother was all this ; gift-
ninent degree with energy
courage to sustain him in
nis undertaking. We had
to hope from him ; he had

to hope from himselfl
wets fiur and bright, an old
friend of my frither's, gave
pUe situation. It was an

office of trust ; he was proud of the
confidence placed in him, and left
home with the full resolve of filling it
with honor to himself and credit to
the good man who had placed him
there. His letters were pleasant and
joyous, fiill of the new pleasures he
had never dreamed of in our quiet
life at home. His graceful manners
and natural gentleness soon establish^
ed him as a favorite in society; his
social pleasures were daily increasing,
and his attention to business was both
active and energetic

My mother had a slight misgiving.
It was only the shadow of a thought^
she said— -that Arthur, in the new
pleasures that suirounded him, might
become weaned firom us or might
learn to be happy without us. In her
deep love for her gifted boy she had
never thought such an event possible,
and instantly reproached hersdf for
the thought

In going from home, my brother
had left a great waste, an empty place
behind him, and his letters were our
only comfort.

What light and pleasure they
brought to our quiet fireside, that
would have be«i so dreary without
them. There were only three of us,
and while his letters were so firesh and
vigorous, they almost kept up the de-
lusion that we were not separated;
but there came a change.

We may have been slow in discov*
ering it, but we did discover it, and
then to miss him as we missed him
through the long winter nights seem-
ed like losmg a star that had ledui^
that we had followed, until it passed
under a doad and left us, still wait-
ing, still watching, for it to oome

Iili Millui'l Oulf Sm.

again. He paid us a flying
and then, and my mother, \
of the cause of his disquietude — for
he was both anxious and disturbed —
would redouble her exertions to bring
back his waning love, making every
Rllowance for the indiflerence, the
coldness, and the neglect tlut were so
glaringly apparent to other eyes, yet
80 delicately obscured from her moth-
erly vision. Not that my brotlier
made any effort to conceal his rest'
less desire to leave us, or that his in-
terests and pleasures were centred
elsewhere. I was very young, yet old
enough to see that there was a mercy
in this, my mother's blindness.

Her beautiful boy seemed to carry
the sunshine of her life with him;
she thought htm caressed and pet-
ted, the favorite of society, and the
embodiment of all that was noble.
He has seen so much of the luxury
and elegance of life in the great city,
how can we expect him to be con>
tented with our home, where every-
thing is so different ? Thus she
would reason with me, and thus, I
sometimes thought, she would reluc-
tantly reason with herself.

One day, a letter came to us from
Ihc banking-house, where my bro-
ther had gradually risen to an ho-
nored position. It was from the
banker himself, our dear old (Hend ;
he told, in the tenderest manner,
that Arthur had acquired habits
which rendered him unfit for an of-
fice of trust. He deeply regretted
the necessity of making this known
to her; he ended by suggesting that
the gentle influence of home might
do much toward bringing him to a
dense of his condition.

My mother read the letter, folded
it catcfuU]', reopened it, and read it
i^piin. She then handed it to me
without speaking a word. When
I bad finished reading it, I looked
at her; she was still immovable, help-

less as a child in this her pat
despair. Her apathy w.is the more
distressing to me as 1 »-as entirely
alone. I dare not consult any ow,
dare not ask the advice of our kinJ
neighbors. She had roused howlf
just enough to lelt me it must be
kept as secret as death. I was onl;
sixteen, 1 had never acted for myfdf
— there had been no occasion in m
quiet life for a display of indiviihiil
courage or independence I bad
grown up under my mother's go-
dance, had never been five
away from home, where every i
was like all the yesterdays i'
gone before it. And now this J
journey lay before roc-
no one else to go; / must t

We were both ignorant of llw I
nature of my brother's
Mr. Lester had made n
it further than to say that he n
keep him no longer in the haat
I could only conjecture in ray ws
mind what it might be. Of WuiK
I thought of dishonesty; what tlst
could have driven him from a 4
Cion where he was s
trusted ?

The railroad was some i
tant from our lilUc viUa^;
was necessary ; I must
evenit^ train. My brother »
I was going to him ; this \
quiet our neighbors and put a
to curious speculations,
was not far from the truth — hs-j
have been ill indeed when bisjj
head was brought down so lov^

Again and again i
mother that I would bring h
telling her in all sincerity thst I^
he would be able lo dear 1'
in her eyes so that not a i
blonish would be left o
name, (Heaven knows
tbis might be. Let him lay kol
on her faithful breast, and tvilU

My . Mot/let's . 0»fy S^jk

9Sl

>6ut her neck, and lovingly
', ** Mother, I am innacenty
ght;" the world might sit in
nt and cry " Guilty J^ she
heed it not,) I became s6
pied, so entirely absorbed
e object of my journey, that
mey itself had no novelty for
ugh everything was new and
;. Now I was hurrying to
at city that I had so ofteif
and dreamed about It
y in a confused way that I
^ttle it in my mind that I was
joing there. That .1 was.
and new, and unused to the
:enes that lay before me
no part of my business. My
—would he come home with
le might be angry that I had
Could I ask him to tell me
li ? No, I could not see him
iliated; I would rather hear
^ of his shame from other lips
•

IS near midnight when I
his lodgings.

^hur Graham at home ?" I,
g, asked of a kindly looking
who opened the door,
is, miss, and sorely in need of
e to look after him."
it come to this? Was my
u object of pity, even to her ?
to see him, not wishing to
this painful interview. She
me to enter, and we ap-
1 his room. I opened the
idously. The woman's man-
; so mysterious, I trembled
an to be afraid ; she had told
was not sick. Of course I
he was a prisoner and per-
lined in his own room. The
5 very dim, and, as I advan-
:umbled and was near falling
hat ? — over the prostrate form
ymii brother, lost, degraded,

iMDt down to see why he did

not speak to me, I discovered the
truth. He, the pride and hope of
our lives, had sunk into a drunkard.
I uttered no cry; I was no longer
terrified ; I thought only of my mo*
then

I was all that was left her now,
and, as I bent over him, wondered if
that face was his, so changed, so sick-
ening; neglect and ruin had already
settled there. I tried to smooth the
heavy hair, that lay in thick, dank
masses about his reeking forehead.
How old, how terribly old, he had
grown in &o short a time ! I dare not
cherish a feeling of loathing ; he was
my brother, and needed my love as
he had never needed it before. For
him — for in him I was protecting
my mother — I must set aside all
youth and girlhood. A woman was
needed now, a woman calm, firm, and
resolute. Of myself I was weak,
but Heaven would help me. A con-
viction setded upon me, as I sat
there, with my travelling wrappings
still unremoved, that his case wa^
hopeless. I could see a lonely, dis-
honored grave, far away from us in a
strange land. I know not why this
sight should rise before me, my bro-
ther was yoimg, and others as de-
based as he had risen to a good and
noble life. Thus I reasoned with
myself, and yet that lonely mound o£
earth would come before me, and I
felt powerless.

But I had no time for misery. I
had come to protect and assist My
girlhood was passing away with the
shadows of the night, for to-morrow's
sun must find me a woman, prepared
to meet the stem duties that were
now mine.

The rtight was far advanced, and I
was trying to gather up my new-
found energies, when I felt a kindly
hand removing my bonnet It was
the good woman who had met me at
the door; she was waiting to show

My Mothers Only Son,

me my room and to offer me some
refreshment.

" You can do no good here," she
continued, as she assisted me to arise,
" until morning."

She shook her head doubtfully as
she whispered, " You arc very young,
yes, quite too young to undertake it
even then. But if you are afraid he
will give you the slip before you are
up, (he often does that,) just lock the
door."

She did so and put the key in her
own pocket,

The little room assigned me was
cleanly; it had an air of comfort
about it greatly in contrast with the
slovenly chamber I had just left.
The gentle creature made nothing of
undressing me, lamenting the while
as if I had been a stricken child that
had unexpectedly fallen into her mo-
therly hands.

f had made no allusion to my
brother as yet. I could not speak
of him. and only ventured to ask the
woman as she was leaving me how
long he had been in this condition.

" I might ask you the same question,
miss, for surely it is not a day nor a
month that has brought him to this''

To fhis! What a world of misery
there was in that one simple word !
It seemed to carry with it the low
waiting of a lost soul.

Wc were to have paid my brother
a visit soon, my mother and I. It
was to have been a surprise, and 1
had gone so far as to arrange the
dress I should wear, for I was anx-
ious to appear at my best before
Arthur's friends. And here I was
spending my first night in New York.
No kin of mine had bid me welcome.
No brother had folded me in his
loved embrace, and held me out to
see how pretty I had grown, proudly
kissing me again and again, and tell-
ing me how happy my coming had
nude him.

In my peaceful days I had
of all this ; and oh I bow
might have been !

I arose early; but, early i
the woman had apprised A]
my arrival. I found him mq
sullen. He demanded my
for coming so abruptly upi
He had not asked after m/
nor given me one word d
greeting ; and when, in a h;
he asked why I thus intruded
my great reserve of womanly
fled from me, and I cried 1<
bitteriy.

He was naturally kind aoj
He came to me, wiped the te
my cheek, and told mc he
intend to be cruel. His haa
bled violently, as he laid it
head, and his whole frame it)
quivered, though I could see
a desperate effort to control
When he had recovered his
sure, he seemed to know wl
come, and implored me no(
one word to him; he was
enough already.

" Come home with m^
dear," I whispered. " You
change your life, and be j
self again."

I ventured to tell him thj
nad been taken very ill, wh
a look, he begged me to
more. He could not bear
allusion to his condition, asi
no wish to harass him. Wha
he had become to the one ni
sion of his life!

Regardless of my presoi
drank again and again front-
near him. Once when I I
hand upon the glass, he told
he needed it to steady his ncT
he would be all right soon,
in vain that I urged him to
pany me home. He told vaii
another situation in view,
thing like the one he had J

Mfy M^hef^s Onfy Sam.

7 good in its way. I could
mother this; it might comfort
fwas all the hope I had to
xne.

■flTS went by our sorrows were
L We had become accus-
to Arthur's manner of life,
s he seemed changing for the
md again he would go back
Id habits.

s in early summer time, when
Ing on our little farm was at
. The solitary womanly ha-
t had come so early upon me
iU very strong with me. I
t yet old, only twenty-two;
this lovdy summer night I
jming our quiet future, when
^ stopped before the door,
diur came in, leading, or ra-
rying, a delicate young giii.
ther," said he, ''this is my
Srace, this is my mother and

ir wife !" we repeated.
! yes," he replied. " We have
carried neaily a year, and I
to better my circumstances
should make the fact known

aw that the poor child, for
e seemed, was sadly in want
an's kindly care. So pale, so
»tricken, so yoimg, yet so
down and disappointed! I
othing of her story, but she
r brother's wife, and I gave
sister's love. That night I
I by her bed ; and, as the pale
jht fell upon her rippling hair,
ered what art, what witchery
or my brother had used to
lis delicate creature to be a
f his misery and shame. She
rith a sudden start, and called
Id, frightened way for help.
I really ill, now, and before
; the doctor laid a feeble baby
lather's arms,
ew^imd sister and her wailing

in£mt had all our tenderest care. We
were glad that she had come to us
that we might, in the love we gave
her, make up in some degree for the
sorry life the poor unfortunate child
had taken upon herselfl She staid
with us ; oiu: home was hers. Arthur
returned to New York.

Her history was soon told. She
was an orphan, entirely dependent
upon the bounty of an aunt who had
daughters of her own to be setded in
life. She met Arthur. The fescina-
tion of his manners and the interest
he took in her friendless condition
won her heart The misfortune of
his life was well known to her, but
she trusted to htr love, feeling sure
that a life's devotion must redeem
him. A dangerous experiment, this ;
too often tried, and too often found a
hopeless failure. For her sake, he
did try to be firm and strong, and
manfully combated his besetting sin;
but an hour of weakness came; cMl
associates retiuned, and old habits
with them. In a moment of hilarity
and pleasure all his firmness gave
way; his delicate young wife was for-
gotten, and she awakened all too
soon to the knowledge that her hus-
band's love for liquor was greater than
his love for her. The dear, sweet girl
and her pretty infant had lived with
us neariy a year, when, one cold, driz-
zly night like this, Arthiu: came home.
He had grown so reckless of late, that
we were not surprised when he came
reeling into oiu: presence. He be-
gan by demanding a small amount
of money which Grace had been
husbanding with care. She made no
reply to any of his angry threats, nor
did she give him the money. Dead
to all sense of manhood, he rose to
strike her. Her infant was sleeping
on her breast She leaped to flee
firom him, but before we could save
her, he struck her. She fell heavily;
the sleeping babe was thioim against

254

the iron fender. It uttered one fee-
ble cry, and closed its tyes far ever.

The mother rose, and with a des-
perate effort snatched her dead child
from my amis, pressed it to her
breast, rocked it to and fro, and
tried to give it nourishment. My
raotlier and I spent that terrible
night with a dead infant, a fren^ted
mother, and a father lost in hopeless
despair. Every rustle in the trees,
every sound in the air, brought the
horror of death upon us, for each
murmur seemed fraught with ven-
geance. Was my brother a mur-
derer? His own tender infant had
fallen dead at his feet The act
must pass without a name, for in our
woe we had none to give it.

He sat there through the weary
hours of the night, a haggard, des-
perate fear settling upon him. He
dare not approach his wife; the
sight of him increased her frenzy,
and she prayed that she might never
see his face again.

Misery had made my mother
strong and she could help me. Calm,
cool, and deliberate action was neces-
sary now.

Arthur must leave us before morn-
ing. No one had known of his
coming. The child's sudden death
must be in some way accounted
for, in what way I knew not. My
mother whispered God would help

IS.

Arthur slunk away in his guilt and
misery. He took no leave of us,
but sUenUy crept out in the darkness.
There was dajlmess on every side,

JT^ Mfftker'i mfy 5i&i.

it was bearing down upon hiio »_
the weight of an avenging fury.
watched him, bowed and desolate,
stealing away from us, away from ai/
that was dear to him, from all itai
had loved hiro, and could not, even
now, cast him off, I lingered until
the last sound of his footsteps dieJ
away. 1 knew then as I know now.
that we should never see him again
The rain fell upon him as he pUKd
out. It fell upon me as I HsM
there, and I thought it was lalliiij
far away where 1 had seen a loDd|
grave,

I washed our martyred babe loJ
dressed it for the burial. There wu
a mark upon its little neck that tbt
solemn wrappings of the grave muji
cover. It might be bared befoic
the judgmcnt-scat to plead for in
erring father.

My mother died soon after of i
broken heart. She never rccovercd
the shock of that terrible nighL The
curse that settled upon her poor,
misguided son made him none ibe
less her child; and she would try,
with all the tenderness of ber wound-
ed spirit, to think of him as he iras>
innocent, true, and noble, when fiiS
he left her. When we learned thtt |
he had died on foreign shores, ij
was buried on a lonely islandrj
thanked God that he was n
a homeless wanderer.

My sister Grace is with mc |
loving and cherishing my yd
children, leading them and i
better life by the chastened I
of het own Christian cbaracicr. .

Caikolicify and Pantheism.

255

CATHOLICITY AND PANTHEISM.

NUMBER SIX.

THE FINITE.

pantheistic theory, the finite
«al existence of its own. It
lification, a limit of the infi-
le sum of all the determina-
ch the primitive and germi-
ity assumes, in the progress
vclopment, constitutes what
cosmos. The interior and
r movement of the infinite,
atninates in all these forms
rminations, is creation. The
e appearance of all these
this necessary development
lesis of creation. The finite,
, in the pantheistic system,
exist as something substan-
tinct fix)m the infinite, but
TO or other which it assumes
ntaneous evolutions.
5 reader may observe, this
sts entirely upon the leading
of the system that the infi-
mething undefined, impeiso-
tenninate, and becomes con-
d personal by a necessary,
lovement ; a principle which,
in reference to the finite,
\ to two others, first, that the
L modification of the infinite ;
that the finite is necessary
finite, as the term of its spon-
dcvelopment Now, in the
g articles, we have demon-
Bst, that the infinite is actu-
If; that is, absolute and com-
fection ; second, that in order
*isonal, he is not impeDed to
\ any modification or limit
two other principles concern-
fimte, quite antagonistic to
' ptnthebm. Finti the finite

cannot be a modification of the infi-
nite, because perfection, absolutely
complete, cannot admit of ulterior
progress. Second, the finite is not
necessary to the infinite, because the
interior and necessary action of the
infinite does not terminate outside
of, but within himself, and gives rise
to the mystery of the Trinity, explain-
ed and vindicated in the last two
articles. Consequently, his necessary
interior action being exercised within
himself, he is not forced to originate
the finite to satisfy that spontaneous
movement, as Cousin and other pan-
theists contend. The finite, there-
fore, can neither be a modification
nor a necessary development of the
infinite. And this consequence sweeps
away all systems of emanatism, of
whatever form, that may be imagined.
Whether we suppose the finite to be
a growth or extension of the infinite,
as the materialistic pantheists of old
seemed to imagine; or mere pheno-
menon of infinite substance, with Spi-
noza ; or ideological exercise of the in-
finite, as modem Germans seem to
think — according to the principle laid
down, the finite is impossible in any
emanatistic sense whatever. To any
one who has followed ns closely in
the preceding articles, it will appear
evident that these few remarks abso-
lutely dispose of the pantheistic theo-
ry concerning the finite, and dose the
negatite part of our task respecting
this question.

As to the positive part, to give a
full explanation of the whole doctrine
of Catholicity concerning the finite.

Catkolidty and PoMtkeism.

we must discuss the following ques-
tions :

In what sense is creation to be
understood ?

Is creation of finite substances pos-
sible?

What is the end of the exterior
action of God ?

What is the whole plan of the exte-
rior action of God ?

Before we enter upon the discus-
sion of the first question, we must lay
down a. few preliminary remarl^
necessary to the intelligence of all
that shall follow.

God's action is identical with his
essence, and this being absolutely sim-
ple and undivided, his action also is
absolutely one and simple. But it is
infinite also, like his essence, and in
this respect it ^ves rise, not only to
the eternal and immanent originations
within himself, but also may cause a
numberless variety of effects really
existing, and distinct from him, as we
shall demonstrate. Now, if we re-
gard the action of God, in itself origi-
□atiag both ad intra and ad extra,
that is, acting within and without
himself, it cannot possibly admit of
disrinction. But our mind, being
finite, and hence incapable of perceiv-
ing at once the infinite action of
God, and of grasping at one glance
that one simple action originating
numberless cfiTects, is forced to take
partial views of it, and mentally to
divide it, to facilitate the intelligence
of its different effects. These partial
views and distinctions of our mind,
of the same identical action of God,
producing the divine persons within
himself, and causing differenl effects
outside himself, we shall call mo-
ments of the action of God.

There are, therefore, two supreme
moments of the action of God, the
interior and the exterior. Whenever
we shall speak of the action of Cod
producing an effect distinct from and

outside of him, we shall dk
rior action, to distinguish l|
interior, which originates fl
personahties. Moreover, '
call exterior action of Goj
moments of it which pro<U
ent effects. We shall cd
that particular moment of |
nal action which, as we {
causes the existence of l|
stances, together with theii
properties and attributes, ij
Now, as to the first q^
what sense can creation \
stood; or, otherwise, what a^
ditions according to whidj
may be possible ? On thej
Fii^t, the terms laid down I
tion of God must be in ■
tinct from him. Second, I
be produced by an act «■
not cause any mutation inJ
Third, therefore, they mtaj
substances. For, suppose m
of the first condition, cread
be an emanation of the!
sence; since, if the tena
were not different from thJ
God, they would be ideoda
and consequently crcatioa-l
an emanation or developisl
substance of God. The ■
the second condition woud
render it an emanation ol
stance of God — because, i
implied a mutation in him,i|
his own modification — bun
render it altogether impoM
no agent can modify itself |
aid of another. If, iher
cannot be either an e
modification of God, it n
tinct fiwm his substance.
thing distinct from the i
God, and really existing, %
modification, cannot be a
finite substance. Finite, b
substance of God being ii
ing can be distinct from J
finite; substance, I

Catholicity and Pantheism.

257

istingy and which is not a
don, gives the idea of sub-
Creation, therefore, cannot
stood in any 4ther sense ex-
implying the causation of
istances. But is creation of
stances possible ? In answer
[uestion, let it be remarked
sssence of a thing may have
net states: one, intelligible
rtive ; the other, subjective and
ice. In other words, all things
ode of intelligible existence,
rom the being by which they
themselves ; the one may be
)jective and intelligible; the
ibjective. To give an in-
L building has two kinds of
le, intelligible, in the mind of
tect; the other, subjective,
txists in itself.

iie possibility of a thing to
ubjective existence in itself,
upon the intelligible and ob-
^te of the same thing. Be-
it only is possible which does
Ive any contradiction. But
:h does not involve any re-
j, is intelligible. Therefore
>ility of a thing implies its
Hty, and its subjective exis-
*pends upon its objective
igible state. This is so true,
transcendental truth of be-
heir subjective state of ex-
lonsists in their conformity
ir intelligible and objective
s the truth of a building con-
conformity with the plan in
of the architect,
these principles it follows
order to establish the possi-
the creation of finite sub-
ve must prove three different
First, that they have an in-
state; in other words, that
. does not involve any repug-
Second, that there exists a
act of intelligence, in which
igible sute of all possible
VOL. IX. — 17

finite substances resides. Third, that
there exists a supreme activity, which
may cause finite substances to exist
in a subjective state conformable to
their objective and intelligible state.

When we have proven these three
propositions, the possibility of crea-
tion will be put beyond all doubt

Now, as to the first proposition,
pantheists have denied the possibility
of finite substances. Admitting the
general possibility of substance, they
deny the intrinsic possibility of a finite
one; and, as everything which is finite
is necessarily caused^ the whole ques-
tion turns upon this— whether, in the
idea of substance, there is any de-
ment which excludes causation and is
repugnant to it Every one acquaint-
ed 'with the history of philosophy
knows that Spinoza coined a defini-
tion purposely to fit his system. He
defined substance to be that which
exists in itself, and cannot be con-
ceived but by itself.* This definition
is purposely insidious. That which
exists in itself may have a twofold
meaning; it may express a thing, me
cause of whose existence lies in itself,
a self-existing being; or it may imply
a thing which can exist without in-
hering in or leaning on any other.
Again, that which cannot be conceived
but by itself may be taken in a double
sense — a thing which has no cause,
and is self-existent, and consequendy
contains in itself the reason of its.
intelligibility; or it may signify a
thing which may be conceived by
itself, inasmuch as it does not lean
upon any other to be able to exist
Spinoza, taking both terms of the de-
finition in tAe first sense, had the way
paved for pantheism ; for if substance
be that which is intelligible by itself
because self-existent, it is evident that
there cannot be more than one sub-
stance, and the cosmos cannot be any*

• Kth. s, Dd: I.

2^8

datJ^k

thing but phenomenon of this sub-
stance. Hence the question we have
proposed : Is there, in the true idea
of substance, any dement which ne-
cessarily implies self-existence, and ex-
cludes causation? Catholic philoso-
phy insists that there is none. For
the idea of substance is made up of
two elements ; one positive, the other
negative. The positive element is
the permanence or consistence of an
act or being — that is, the existing real-
ly. The second element is the exclu-
sion or absence of all inherence in
another being in order to exist.

Now, every one can easily per-
ceive, that to exist really does not
necessarily imply self-existence, or
contradiction to the notion of having
been caused by another. Because
llie notion of real existence or perma-
nence of a being does not necessarily
imply eternity of permanence, or, in
oUier words, does not include infinity
-of being. If the permanence or real
existence of a being included eternity
0^ pcmi.inence, then it could not
have a cause, and should neces-
sarily be self-existent. But we can
conceive a being really existing.
which did not exist always, but had
a beginning, The better to illustrate
this concq>tion, let it be remembered
that duration or permanence is one
and the same thing with being; and
that, ontologiatlly, being and dura-
tion differ in nothing. The perma-
nence and duration of 3 being is,
therefore, in proportion to the inten-
sity of a being. If the being l>e
infinite, the highest intensity of
reality, the b«ng is infinitely per-
manent ; that is, etenlU, without
beginning, end, or succession. If
the being be finite and created, the
pennanence or duration is finite
also ; that is, has begirming, and mar,
absolutely speaking, have an end.
Eii-erjthing. therefore, really existing
•without inhering in Another, whether

it be infinite or finite reality — thai is,
whether it have a cause ai be idf-
existent — is a substance^ If it be
self-existent, if is infinite subsianCG;
if it be caused, it is finite substance.

This is so evident that none,
slightly accustomed to reflect, cm
fail to perceive the difference l«-
tween being self-existent and existing
really. The two things can go seja-
rately without the one at all* includ-
ing the other. A thing may tM
as really after being caused, as ih*
snbstance which is self-existent tnd
eternal, so far as existing reaQy n
concerned.

To show that the idea of sab-
stance, however, is ?uch as we lunv
been describing, it is sufiicieni to ciA
a glance at our own souL It is evi-
dent from the testimony of consdiws-
ness, that there is a numberless vari-
ety of thoughts, volitions, sensatioM;
alt taking place in tlie me, all H-
lowing and succeeding each otho
without interruption, like the wivo
of the ocean rolling one upon the
other, and keeping the sea alwtyi in
agitation. We arc conscious to <W
selvcs of this continual influx of
thoughts, volitions and sensations;
but, at the same time that ire act
conscious of this, wc are cnnsciou
also of the identity and permanence
of the me amid the fluctuations of
those modifications. We ore cco-
scious that the mr, which yesteidajr
was affected with the passions oiF
love and desire, is the same idcnticil
me which is to-day under the passim
of hate. This permanence oc reality
of tlie mf, juuid the pas&ing and
transitory affections, gives the idea
of substance or real cxistaicci
whilst the numberless variety of
thoughts and feelings which oBexX
it, and which come and go while
the mt t«inains, gives the idea of
modification, or a thing whi^ inbetti
toexisL

Catholicity and Pantheism.

2S9

above remarks must put the
ity of finite substance beyond

But before we pass to the

question, we remark that
le sooner than a pantheist
:all in question the possibility
e substance ; because if, as we
lemonstrated in the second
the infinite of the pantheists
an absolute nonentity, a pure
tion, it is nothing but the
f finite being or substance.

to prove the possibility of
ibstance to the pantheist, we
make use of the argument
in^m. That which is intelli-

possible, by the principle of
iction. But the idea of finite
ce is intelligible to the pan-
being the foundation of their

therefore, finite substances
able.

id question: Is there a su-
act of intelligence, in which
Ul possible finite substances
r objective and intelligible

demonstration of the second
ion follows from that of the

the idea of finite substance
t involve any repugnance, by
ciple of contradiction. There-
s necessarily possible, as we
monstrated. But that which
sarily possible, is necessarily
>le; because everything that
le may be conceived. There-
idea of finite substance is
ly intelligible, and may be
d by an intelligence able to
le whole series of possible
stances. But God is infinite
ice, and as such is capable
shending all: possible finite
es. Therefore in God's in-
e resides the whole series of
finite substances, in their
le and objective state,
mder this argument more

convincing, let us look into the onto-
logical foimdation of the possibility
of finite substances. Finite sub-
stances are*nothing but finite beings ;
consequently they are not possible,
except inasmuch as they agree with
the essence of God, which is the
infinite, tJie being, and as such is tjie
type of all things which come under
the denomination and category of
being. God, therefore, who fully
comprehends his essence, compre-
hends, at the same time, whatever
may agree with it ; or, in other words,
comprehends all possible imitations,
so to speak, of his essence; and
consequently, all the possible imita-
tions of his essence residing in his
intelligence, there dwells at * the same
time the intelligible and objective
state of all possible finite substances.
St. Thomas proves the same truth
with a somewhat similar argument
"Whoever," he says, "comprehends
a certain universal nature, compre-
hends, at the same time, the manner
according to which it may be imi-
tated. But God, comprehending
himself, comprehends the universal
nature of being; consequentiy he
comprehends also the manner ac-
cording to which it may be imi-
tated." Now, the possibility of
finite substance is a similitude of the
universal being. Hence, in God's
intelligence resides the whole series
of possible finite substances.

Third proposition: There exists
a supreme activity which may cause
finite substances to exist in a subjec-
tive state. For St. Thomas argues
that the more perfect is a principle of
action, the more its action can ex-
tend to a greater number and more
distant things. As for instance, if a
fire be weak, it can heat only things
which are near it ; if strong, it can
reach distant things. Now, a pure
act, which is in God, is more perfect
than an act mixed of potentiality, as

it is in us. If therefore by the act
which is in us we can not only pro-
duce immanent acts, as for
to think and to will, but also exterior
! by which we effect something;
with much greater reason can God,
by the fact of his being actuality it-
setf, not only exercise intelligence and
will, but also produce effects outside
himself and thus be the cause of be-
ing.* The great philosopher Ger-
dil, appropriating this reason of St.
Thomas, develops it thus : " In our-
selves, and in particular beings, we
find a certain activity; therefore ac-
tivity is a -reality which belongs to
the being or the infinite. The effect
of activity when the agent applies it
to the patient, consists in causing a
mutation of slate. The intensity of
acts, depending on intelligence, has
a force to introduce a mutation of
state in the corporal movements.
This may be seen in the real tiiough
hidden connection of which wc are
conscious to ourselves, between the
intensity of our desires and the effect
of the movements which are excited
in the body; and better still, in cer-
tain phenomena which sometimes
occur, though rarely, when the ima-
pnation, apprehending something vi-
vidly and forcibly, produces a muta-
tion of state in the body which cor-
responds somewhat with the appre-
hension of the imagination, t Now
this change in the body, correspond-
ing to what takes place in the fancy,
that is, in the objective and intelligi-
ble stale, shows that there exists a
certain, though hidden, force and
energy by which, from what exists in
an intelligible state, may be introdu-
ced a mutation in the corresponding
state of subjective existence. There-
fore the efficacy of the supreme in-

t Aq ifnminfiir dioiter of beinir boratd le ddth,

Tividlr jipprvheailnl. hu Hnclia*! cntir^y curvd

telligence, being flie
the highest, in force of the]
mlensity of being which resfj
may not only effect a chafi
formable to a relative, 'fi
state in things already exifl|
abo cause them to pass at
from the intelligible state J
state of existence. And, aj
if the finite intensity of desifl
imagination may produce an.i
corporal movement, the sup^
tensity of the Infinite Beii
certainly, produce a substaa^
ting being ; since the suprent
sily of the Being beats j|
greater proportion to the ^
of a thing, than the IntcDsiA
sire does in relation to a '
movement The term,
the supreme activity, is I
side of itself, the existeti
which had only an intclli]
objective being in itself." •
to remark here, that the sv
tivity is not by any means
ed necessarily to create ; for
vity may be detcrmmed to a I
ry operation, in that case oiJ
the agent is actually applied
subject capable of receiving «
of state. But creation is noB
suit of the application of j
preme activity to a subject i
ing with itself; because noiB
exists originally with the sum
tivity. Therefore creation cai
an action determined by any |
ty, but must depend ouly tqj
energy or will of the supremflj
gence in which the highest j^
dwells. Hence it follows, thij
tion, as to its term, is not nei
cither because there is any u
in God impelling him neceM
create, as we have seen, or 1
there is any principle outside fl
forcing him to create; becai^

Catholicity and Pantheism.

26t

f the supreme activity nothing
What is necessary about the
>n of finite substances, is their
pble and objective state, or
ntrinsic possibility. For every-
which does not imply any re-
nce by the principle of contra-
1, is intrinsically possible and
[ible. That which is intrinsi-
Dossible is essentially, necessari-
[ eternally so. Consequently,
ijective state of finite substan-
uecessarily so.

theists, confounding the objec-
id intelligible state of the cos-
ith its state of subjective exis-
in ofher words, identifying the
vith the real, the ideological
he ontological, have been led
nit the necessity of creation.
5 particularly remarked in the
s of Schelling and Hegel ; the
imitting, as first principle, the
te identity of all things; the
identifying the idea with being.
:x)nfounded the objective and
;ible state of the cosmos with
te of subjective existence ; and
be two are identified, it follows
5 the one, which is the intelligi-
necessary, eternal, and abso-
he other, the subjective, be-
also necessarv and eternal:
Mice the necessity of creation,
icity, on the contrary, carefiilly
uishing between the ideal and
al, the objective and the sub-
, and admitting the necessity
tcmity of the first, because
ling intelligible necessarily and
ly resides in the supreme intel-
;, denies the necessity of the
[, because of that very intelligi-
te which it admits to be neces-
ind eternally so.
a finite substance is not, and
; be conceived as possible or
;ible, except it is supposed to
itingent or indifferent in itself
or not to be, not having in

itself the reason of its existence.
This is the only condition according
to which finite substances can be pos-
sible. Were it otherwise, were a finite
substance supposed to be necessary,
it would be self-existent, and have in
itself the reason of its existence ; and
in that case it would no longer be
finite, but infinite. To suppose, there-
fore, a finite substance not contin-
gent is to suppose it necessary, is
to suppose a self-existing finite sub-
stance, or, in other words, an infinite
finite substance, which is absurd, and,
therefore, unintelligible and impossi-
ble.

The intelligibility, therefore, or ob-
jective state of finite substances,
which is necessary, eternal, and abso-
lute itself, requires the contingency
of their existence in a subjective
state ; and, consequently, their contin-
gency is necessary because their
intelligibility is necessary; and their
creation is firee, because whatevo:
is indifferent in itself to be or not to
be, absolutely depends, as to its exis-
tence, upon the will kA the supreme
intelligence.

An objection is here raised by panr
theists impugning the possibility of
the creative act. It is as follows:
Given the fiiU cause, the effect exists.
Now, the creative act, the fiill cause
of creation, is eternal; therefore, its
effect must exist eternally. But, an
eternal effect is a contradiction in
terms ; because it means a thing cre-
ated and uncreated at the same time.
Therefore, creation is impossible in
the Catholic sense, and can be no-
thing more than the eternal develop-
ment and unfolding of the divine
substance. Given the cause, the
effect exists. Such an effect, and in
such a manner as the cause is natu-
rally calculated to produce, it is
granted; such an effect and in such
a manner as the cause naturally is
not intended to produce, it is denied

CatAelKtty and Pantheism.

Now, what is the cause of crtation
but the will of God ? And how docs
the will naturally act, except by a
free determination, and in the manner
according to which it determines it-
self? Consequently, creation being
an effect of the will of God, it will
follow just when -and how the will
of God has determined it shall.
Hence the will of God being eternal,
it does not follow that the effect
should be eternal also, In other
words, given the full cause, the effect
exists when the cause is impelled to
act by a necessary intrinsic move-
ment. But when the cause is free,
and perfectly master of its own action
and energy, the cause given is not
a sufficieni dement for the existence
of the effect, but, two elements are
required, the cause and its detennina-
tion, and the free conditions which
the cause has attached to its determi-
nation. Nor does this imply any
change in the action of God when
creation actually takes place. For
that same act which determines itself
from eternity to create, and to cause
Bulwtances and time, the measure of
their duration, continues immutable
until the creation actually takes
place; and the creation is not an
effect of a new act, but of that same
immutable and eternal determination
of God.

We conclude, finite substances are
intrinsically possible; they have an
intelligible and objective slate in the
infinite intelligence of God. God's
infinite activity may cause them to
exist in a subjective state conforma-
ble to their intelligible mode of exis-
tence. Therefore, creation in tiie
Cathohc sense is possible.

Before we pass to the next ques-
tion, we must draw some corollaries.

Fii^t. God can act outside him-
self, since he can create finite sub-
Stances with all the properties and
Realties which are necessary dements

of their essence, and natufll
necessarily spring from it. '

Second. The creative ad)
itwo secondary moments; o^
preservation, and the other,^
rence. Hence, if God do4
he must necessarily preserv^
fccts, and concur in the dcv*
of their activity. PreservdJ
plies the immanence of thej
act, or the continuation of H
tive act of God, maintaii^
substances m their existent
necessity of this movement \
by the following reason : i

Every finite being is, in fi
nature, indifferent to be or n
that is, every finite bong c
intrinsic reason necessarily i
its existence. Hence,
of its existence hcs in
agent or cause. But the I
ing once existing, does nol
its nature, but intrinsically <
to be contingent, that is, i

) be (

. be. Thet

reason of the continuation a
tence cannot be found in itaj
nature, but ii
is, in the action of the Cre
long, therefore, as the actioit
continues to determine tha4
indifference of contingent bd
or not to be. so long does.fl
exist. In the supposition ol
ceasing, the finite would a
ously cease lo be. ,

Nor does this argument I
the luhtance of finite bdni
as we have seen, sub8tan<j
which exists really, though tV
of its existence lie in the creiB
whereas, what we deny heA
argument is the condnuatiodj
tence by an intrinsic reasoj
would change the essence of j
and, fi^m contingent, render!
sary. \

The second moment of tl
act is concuiienc& l«

noment of tlMj

Catholicity and Pantheism.

263

is a being in the way of develop-
ment; a being capable of modifica-
tion. Now, no being can modify
itself, can produce a modification of
which it is itself the subject, without
the aid of another being who is pure
actuality. Therefore, finite sub-
stances cannot modify themselves
without the aid of God. The action
of God aiding finite substances to
develop themselves, is called concur-
rence. We have already proved, in
the second article, the principle upon
which this moment of the action of
God is foimded. We shall here add
another argument A finite substance
is a bemg in the way of develop-
inent; a being in potency of modifi-
cation; and when the modification
takes place, it passes fi-om the power
or potency to the act Now, no
being can pass fi'om the power to the
act except by the aid of being already
ii act Consequently, finite sub-
ttances cannot modify themselves
except by the aid of being already in
act Nor can it be supposed that
finite substances can be at the same
time in potency and in act with re-
gard to the same modification; for
this would be a contradiction in
terms. It follows, then, that having
power of being modified, they cannot
pass ftoia the power to the move-
ment without die help of another
being already in act. This cannot
.be a being which may itself be in
power and in act, for then it would
itself require aid. It follows, there-
fore, that this being, aiding finite
substances to modify themselves,
must be one which is pure actuality,
*atis,God.

Third coroDaiy : From all we have
^ follows, also, the possibility of
^ acting upon his creatures by a

new moment of his action, and put-
ting in them new forces higher than
those forces which naturally spring
fix)m their essence, nor due to them
either as natural properties, attributes
or faculties. For, if God can act
outside himself, and efiect finite sub-
stances distinct from him ; substances
endowed with all the essential attri-
butes and faculties springing fi-om
their nature; if he can continue to
maintain them in existence, and aid
them in their natural development,
we see no contradiction in supposing
that he may, if he choose, grant his
creatures other forces superior alto-
gether to their natural forces, and,
consequently, not due to them as
properties or attributes of their nature.

For the contradiction could not
exist either on the part of God or on
the part of the creature. Not in the
former, because God's action being
infinite, may give rise to an infinity
of effects, one higher and more sub-
lime, in the hierarchy of beings, than
the other. Not in the latter, because
the capacity of the creature is indefi-
nite. It may receive an indefinite
growth and development, and never
reach a point beyond which it could
not go. Therefore, the supposition
we have made does not imply any
repugnance either in God or in the
finite, the two terms of the question.
Now, that which involves no repug-
nance . is possible. It is possible,
therefore, that God may act upon his
creatures by a moment of his action
distinct firom the creative moment,
and put in them forces higher than
their natural forces, and not due to
them as any essential element or £1,-
culty.

The other questions in the next
article.

AUBREY DE VERE IN AMERICA*

The first if not the strongest at-
traction this book will have for
American curiosity is not in its con-
tents, but in their selection. The
poems presented are culled from a
much greater number, especially and
expressly for the American market,
and the choice interests us vividly
as indicating an English authoi^s
deliberate business opinion of that
market. This edition has not been
prepared without thought : Mr. De
Vere does not often do anything
without thought. Moreover, it has
been, if wc are not misinformed,
somewhat unusually long in press,
and several of the poems already
published have been actually revised
and improved on by their painstak-
ing author to the very last copy, and
differ in (juite a number of minutise
from their former selves. Hence
Americans must be all the more sur-
prised at the singular estimate of
taste and the singular conception of
their character, which appear to under-
lie this book. We cannot help think-
ing — nay, we cannot help seeing —
that Mr. De Vere has not selected
so well as he would have done if
he had ever lived in America, or, if
he had had intelligent, practical, and
experienced American advice. There
was only one way to do this thing
rightly. It was to consider either
what we, the Americans, ought to like
the bes^ or what we would like the
Itest ; to weigh the facts well, to settle
on some definite plan or theory of
selection, and carry this out with
some little sternness to the end, only
leaving the path for the very choicest

• Iritk Od/i M^ arirr Ftrmi. By Aabtef D«
Vm Nnr York : TtH (jiholii; Piib][(iliai Sod-

flowers. We cannot trace anj
ness of system in this book i
neither spinal column nor spim
but is made up of miscellaneoi
pies — disjecta membra fatta.
times we imagine it to be a c
mise of plans, and sometime!
dom jumble. Too many of i
poems we miss, and some
author's most tailing H/ies of |
stated nearly, and some toti
represented. On the other
some mediocxe pieces aboun
which we seek but cannot fint
trinsic cause for their reproi
Our own suggestion to Mr. I
would have been to make
iiitereit his prime criterion in
ing. We are a very heteroj
nation, and it is not every to
can unite our various tasii
any wide or national success
book must have at least a k
thought or sentiment whit
appeal directly to almost ti
thing we have in common hi
humanity. Next to sudi {
and Mr. De Vere has writ
a few — we should have tal
best expressed ; the boldest
beautiful. This indeed is bat 1
corollary of the other p
because we all love fine ex(
of ideas. On these two pi
we think we couJd have a
bom the copies of Mr, De
poetry one of the most a
books of the year. We thini
missed this in several v^ay
begin with, we cannot see aj
that he ever once grasped 1
of addressing himself to thi
American people. There is [
enough for Boston, and iat
Catholics everywhere ; but 1

A«6ny de Vert in America.

165

nee of Georgia, or Cali-
)hio in his estimates for
ty of this volume ? Some
IS err in the direction of
, many in being founded
facts; a few embody the
f being occasional pieces
;t and most surely flat of
forms of dulness. That
e could forget himself to
ree is to us proof positive
r thought of pleasing the
ican reading community.
\ heard this praised as
ice this work's appear-

ground that, as an out-
holic and Irishman, he

have succeeded. To
merican observer says,
' Mr. De Vere is too
I refined a thinker to be
le people anywhere; but
liing, his religion, not his
rsts, that stand in his way
ire — heaven knows with
n — tolerably well past
idices against foreigners,
ithor, having no fiiends
, no clique nor counter-
g the critics here, will
lial by American public
ys, on the one condition
ot stand upon his being
and insist on cramming
down our throats.
) question whether there
i measure of truth in the
[lat Mr. De Vere, here
re, is too conspicuously
r popularity. We see
Parian prejudice among
i-Catholic men ; perhaps
tnany of them are firee-
ndifierentists in religion,
ant prejudice controls
rise first-class criticism,
)f lower grade, ind very
uy readers and buyers
eriiaps Mr. De Vere is
ced for these — too full

and too proud of his feith. Many a
bigoted Protestant who can just bare-
ly make up his mind to hear a man out
in spite of his being a " Romish idola-
ter," etc, etc, lays down a book the
instant he suspects — ^what Protestant-
ism is always peculiarly quick to sus-
pect — propagandism. Such men
might know that if proselyte-making
were Mr. De Vere's aim, his obvi-
ously shrewder plan would have been,
first to gain influence and popularity
by neutral poems, and then, en-
trenched on the vantage-ground of
public favor, to bombard the commu-
nity with his explosive Catholic no-
tions to some purpose. But this
would be far too much thinking for
a bigoted man to go to the trouble
of, especially when it is so much
cheaper, as well as more sweet to the
deacons and elders, to be unjust and
slurring. So we fear that many Pro-
testant organs of opinion will reject
the poetry for the religion, and so
do Mr. De Vere's book harm as an
American venture so far as the non«
Catholics are concerned.

On the other hand we do believe
that his Irish pieces would be his
best hold on public favor; for he
certainly is one of the best-informed
men in Irish history of all the late
writers ; and if there is one thing an
American admires more than another
— ^in literature or anything else — ^it
is a man that knows what he is talk-
ing about

But this is all of the dead past
now; the book is upon us. We go
on to this question — since Mr. De
Vere did not aim to please us all,
what was his aim ? He has not told
us in the natural place— the preface-—
and we can only ask the reader to
decide for himself whether it b, as we
said, compromise or jumble. The
selection of the Irish pieces is infinite-
ly the worst of alL The best, because
the most truly Irish, of these, are in In*

Aubrty de Vert in America.

isfail. There are very many Irishmen
indeed who would not appreciate
the sonnet to Sarsfield and Clare,
and who could make neither head
nor tail of "The Building of the
Cottage;" but take up Inisfaii and
read out "The Malison," or "The
Bier that Conquered," or the " Dirge
of Rory O'More," to any Irish audi-
ence, and see if they understand it or

There lay one main element of
strength of a book like this; and yet
we do not recall a single piece from
" Inisfaii " in the entire collection 1 It
is inconceivable to us except upon the
very well-known and extremely ill-
understood principle that an author
always differs with his readers, and
generally with posterity, as to what is
his best. In our own humble opinion,
for instance, "The Bard EtheU"
or "The Phantom Funeral," as his-
torical pictures, or (he " Parvuli Ejus "
or " Semper Eadem " as pure poetry,
is singly worth the whole fifty pages
of Irish Odes, sonnets, and interludes
that begin this new volume : and we
doubt as little that Mr. De Vere would
smile in benign derision at our notion.
So we will not dispute about tastes,
and simply say that we do not un-
derstand the classification of the
main body of the Irish jjieces. Es-
pecially is this hard to discover the
reason for omitting Inisfaii in the
light of the following passage from
the preface : " I cannot but wish that
my poetry, much of which illustrates
their history and religion, should
reach those Irish ' of the dispersion,'
in that land which has extended to
them its hospitality- Whoever loves
that people must follow it in its wan-
derings with an earnest desire that it
may retain with vigilant fidelity, and
be valued for retaining, those among
its characteristics which most belong
to the Ireland of history and relt-

The remainder of the selededpl
ems are purely miscellaneous, i
are chiefly remarkable to us as again
showing how curiously authors e<ti-
mate themselves. We do iadetd
meet with much of the best there i*;
but we miss, as we have said, «r(
much more. And having, as we haw,
a personal intimacy with many of Mr.
De Vere's peons, we feel really resent
ful to see our favorites slighted and
supplanted by others which —
seems to us, be it remembered — non
could ever like half so well.

After all, Mr. De Vcre may it I
right and we wrong; but we fcxiiftfl
interested in his success, and so <l-
nestly desirous of recognition jbr IhI
high abilities, that — we do wishbt|
had done it our way !

The first sixty pages of the pntfltl
volume are composed mainly of ^
sort of rosary of ten odes, all s
on Ireland and the Irish. Now,
we disbelieve in generally,
they contain more commonpbtf
which we imagine we admire, anJ
which we don't and caji't ailtniK.
than any other variety of compoiilion
in English literature. They ate the
supremely fit form of a few peculiar
orders of thought. The cause of
Ireland is not one of these, and
Mr. De Vere has tried hard and fail-
ed, to prove the contrarj-, Irish
griefs are too human, Irish sympi-
thies too heartfelt, to be reached by
this road in the clouds. One good
ballad or slogan is worth practically a
million odes. As Ode I. in this vtay
series beautifully puts it,

" Uke Mvered locki thul 1(Kp tbcir tisbl.

When all Iht miclr fnuni a dual.

A luKion'i lOnp pcnerve ftnn bI)(M

Temple »d pyrunid elcmc
Uiy ide<DoTiic ha deeds t£ powm ;

8u1 only frrni her wid^ m leflrd
Hm IhrDbbed hn Ufr-bloaa haw br hem.'

But, waiving their final cause, three
of the odes are good, the first twg^
and the seventh— the best of all^

Aubrey de Vere in America,

267

Iso the ninth, is republished
00k of 1 86 1. The close of
^arly touching and true,
vorth recalling even to ma-
ust have admired it before.

I breadi of sighs to breathe,
not onto singling ;

paves, yet drop no wreath
in darkness lying.

ite and true, a little while,
ioar*s flock and Mary's,
their reliqaes well, O Isle,
itf c/rtUquarUt t

t they that daim no part
•orid^s pomp and laughter :
s pure ; the meek of heart
■« : more blest hereafter.

1 mourners.^ Earthly goods
I, the master preaches :

ly sad beatitudes,
ignize thy riches !

ttery land the guest,

lie back returning

one land unlike the rest,

led, disgraced, and moomin|b

s I Thy flowers, to 3ronder skies

«dL pore airs are tasting ;

by stone, thy temples rise

m everlasting.

tmsung by idle rhymes,

ers late and lowly ;

ad seers of earlier times,

11 in cloisters holy I

r bed the bramble bends,

tree and the alder :

lathers and O friends I
our silence moulder 1**

i about between these odes
niscellany of minor pieces
:tion seems to be that of

or thin partitions. Of
-iTcaivres some are new,

the majority, for Mr. De
(imonplace. He cannot
\t, without hitting on some
ase or just thought, but
ittle more than this to be
ost all. The best is this
ich we do not remember
Q before :

CLESIASribAL TFTLES ACT.

n of ttOM day I deem a tribe
ke stmt, a pageant on a stage
pomp and outward equipage,
f the herd, or hireling scribe.
lb skill, the dreaded Power to bribe :
, war upon die weak to wage :
fldf a Nation*8 ignorant rage :

1 old woonds with edict or with jibe.
vnrise one amr thee in the dust,

k tfiiiMt. ani nnasitffid with nighty

And in his heart he said, ' For her no day I*
But thou long stnoe hadst placed in God thy trust,
And knew'st that in the onder'Worid, all light.
Thy sun moved eastward. Watch t that East grows
grayr

We have also a long series of selec-
tions fipom the entire body of our
author's published works. Here we
are glad to welcome to America
many of his best poems. The son-
nets especially are as a rule well
chosen. We miss many a lovely one,
but we should miss these that are be-
fore us just as much. Mr. De Vere
has also with excellent judgment hon-
ored with a place in this book his
three charming idylls, "Glaucfe,"
"lone" and "Lycius" — among his
very finest pieces of word-painting,
and which have more of the old clas-
sic mode of expression than any mod-
era poems in our language save
Landor's, and perhaps Tennyson's
" CEnone." We wonder, by the way,
why a man who could write ^ese idylls
has never given us any classical trans^
lations. We are sure they would be
remarkably good. The long poem
of "The Sisters " is also reprinted in
full. It is good, and we will not say
that it is not a good piece here; but
on reading it over, the discussion and
description which frame the picture
seem to us better than the picture it-
selfl Indeed, we have begun to sus-
pect more and more that Mr. De
Vere's strength lies in his descriptive
powers. It might surprise many oth-
er readers of his, as much as it did
us, to examine for themselves and
discover how many of their most ad-
mired passages are portraits. In mere
verbal landscape-painting he stands
very high. His very earliest books
abound in felicities of this sort, and
the May Carols are fairly replete with
them, and in fact contain a whole
little picture gallery in verse. " And
firom the "Autumnal Ode — one of
the very latest in his latest book * —

^ Diltd in Octobtr, 1867.

Aubtvy de Vere i

ts, Mr. Del
make a hit 1^

we select one of many passages which out to paint

amply prove that Mr. De Vere's hand quite as sure to make

landscape sketches. This
chances to afford us one strikil
examples of this. There
three several summaries of tin
teristics of different nations.
the remarkable epitome of
in the sonnets on coloniiatj
been published in this magi
fore, (Vol. iv. No, 19, p. 77.) '
we take from the ■' FareweO
pies," (p. 70.) We think it '
quoting, though it has been
since 1855, and was written.'
ago as 1844.

«n h«r who. tn the cr

refill, and. udlr tobcr,

This is very vivid, and the dosing
fancy extremely graceful and pleasing.
Poplars, by the way, seem to be a
favorite theme of our author. Every
one familiar with his poems will recall
another beautiful description in his
idyll of " Glauci," in which occur
these lines:

ik mukFn, ind liiclr (

Thn wpaof ih

u Miy 10

And the diud mU»F

AihI (UI doI las with ruin. Ii«* (o (hO)

TIiK wDTH itutn «iMd wai i> nMtd^

Is this not stingingly true?
1 Byrort

And there are other instances also.
But it is waste of argument to go
on giving illustrations of Mr. De
Vere's power to depict the external
world ; it is like proving Anacreon a
love-poet. ^Vhat we wish to call at-
tention to is the nature, not the exist-
ence, of his talent for description. It
seems to us that, throughout his works,
the faculty of delineation is not the
ordinary sensuous susceptibility of the critics found it
poets, but rather a clear, tender truth- it not be inevitable in all t1
fulness in reproducing impressions readers and speakers, and nu||
alike of thought and sense. The the "Noleson France," "Led
somewhat unusual resuh from which Italy," "Thoughts while i
we deduce this opinion is, that he etc., which ministers are so
describes quite as happily in the moral write, and which we hope Ct
order as the physical. This has not tions buy?
been adequately noticed by his critics. The other is a stDl strong
His beautiful gffirr pictures appear to coming from Mr. De Vere, a »
have absorbed almost all of the public as well as trenchant portraio
attention. We think this is more than less than the English idea of ]
their due. Indeed, whenever he sets True, Mr. De Vere docs not

Aubrey de Ver$ in America,

26g

tend to agree with it, but that, an
Irishman himself, and a devoted pa-
triot, he can see her so exactly as oth-
ers see her, makes it wonderfully
good, and raises what would other-
irise have been a mere success of ex-
act expression, to the rank of a high
imaginative effort.

* How ibance a race, more apt to fly than walk ;
Sauiaf jret ■li^; mianiigthe good things roond

them.
Yet etcr cot of asbea raking gems ;
hiMtiBCtsky]ral,yetreq)ecting law
Fir ktt than usage : changeful yet unchanged :
Tiaidyetenterpriung: fiank yet secret :
VatraUifn] oft in speech, yet Ixring truth.
And truth in tlungs divine to life preferring :
Scnce men ; yet possible angels I — * Isle of

Suatsr
Sndi doubtless was your land— 4gain it might be —
Strong, p ro sp erous, manly never ! ye are Greeks
la btellect, and Hebrews in the soul :
Tbe wild Roman heart, the corporate strength
UEufbndrsdower!'

i»»

We cannot devise an addition that
could complete this picture of the
Sassenach's view of the Gael It is
to the life — the ^* absolute exemplar of
the time." Only we fear that Mr.
Be Vere has furnished those who do
not particularly love his country with
nther an ugly citation against her,
aid Irishmen may perhaps complain
of him for giving to such a powerful
ddm^on the sanction of an Irish
same. If so, it will be the highest
compliment in the world; yet it has
ever been a dangerous ^;ift to be able
to see both sides of the shield.

We have only suggested our belief,
Bot asserted it as a fact, that Mr. De
Vere's fullest power b in descrip-
tion; but the idea grows on us every
year, and we wish he would set the
fiettion finally at rest in some future
lodL Let him for once in his life
BMke this great gift of his the essen-
tia, instead of the incident, and write
iOQiething purdy descriptive.

Tliere IS another thing—- rather a
carious thing, perhaps—that we note
Bi &t choice of the old poems. In
Afikmer review, aome Uttte time since,
«e tock oocuiaa to qpeak of the

chameleon-like way in which Mr. De
Vere's style — always in its essence his
own — ^unconsciously reflects his read-
ing of certain of our best authors.
There are poems that recall Shake-
speare, and Wordsworth, and Landor,
and Tennyson, and Shelley. But
there are also others — ^many of them
among his best — ^which are all him-
self. Consciously or unconsciously,
Mr. De Vere has come back to these
at the last, and they constitute a no-
table majority of those he has picked
out for this volume. The ode on the
ascent of the Apennines, the " Wan-
derer's Musings at Rome," the " Lines
written under Delphi," the beautiful
" Year of Sorrow," " The Irish Gael
(a/ias Irish Celt) to the Irish Norman"
— all these are of this class. Perhaps
the poet has come to love the best
those of his poems which hold the
purest solution of his own nature, or
perhaps it may be mere chance ; only
certain it is that the most characteris-
tic of his pieces predominate very
largely throughout

We cannot, however, pass on to
the new poems without expressing
our profound disrespect for one selec-
tion in this volume. It is notorious
that, as we hinted before, authors are
poor judges of the relative excellence
of their own works. To this rule there
are, apparently, no exceptions. Let
us take one rankling example. No
lover of Tennyson but groans inward-
ly with disgust over that insane hoot
called " The Owl," with its noble de-
scription of the very witching hour of
night:

** tVi^m cats run A^mt, and n^t is cone,**

and the impotent beauty of the poet's
ejaculation :

" I would mode thy chant (0 anew.
But I cannot mimic it.
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo,
Thee to woo to thy towhit,*' etc, etc.

— human nature can stand no more
of it

270

Aubrey de Ven in America.

We had long loved to believe that
this was a sceptred hermit of an
example, wrapped in the solitude of
its own unapproachable fatuity. It
has gone blinking and tu-whooing
through edition after edition, with
the muffy solemnity characteristic of
the eminent fowl, its subject But
Mr. De Vere has paralleled it at last
with a certain " Song " which we find
in this volume. On the 4th of Sep-
tember, 1^43, in a preface to his first
book of verses,^ he tells us that this
poem was written considerably earlier
than 1840.

Three years ago, we remember
observing and laughing at it, and
thinking whether it would not be well
to speak of it as the one blemish in
all his works, on his elsewhere perfect
grammar. Deeming it a mere Ho-
meric dormitation, we passed it by.
And now, after thirty years face to
face with it, comes Mr. De Vere, at
last, and drags firom utter and most
laudable oblivion this hapless

'* SONG.

** He found me sitting among floweiSi
My mother's, and my own ;
Whiting away too happy hours
With soi^ of doleiul tone.

** My sister came, and laid her book
Upon my Up : and he.
He too into the page would look.
And asked no leave of me.

** The little frightened creature kid

Her face upon my knee—
* Ycm teach your uster, pretty maid :

And I wtiuld fiun teach tktt*

'* He taught me joy more blest, more brief
Than that mikl vernal weather :
He uught me lore : he taught me grief:
He taught me both together.

** Give me a sun-warmed nook to cry in I
And a wall -flower's perfume —
A noi^k to cry in, and to die in,
'Mid the rtiin's gloom.**

If Mr. De Vere had only attended
in 1S40 to the ver>' reasonable re-
quest of the young i^rson in the last
verse, we should have l>een spared
one of the ver\- silliest little things in

the English language. And yet Id
thus haling it fitnn the

** nook to aigh in and to die in
*Mid the nun's gkxxn,**

where public opinion had long since
left it in peace, he has done good
It is ^tructive to- his admirers to see
for themselves how very badly he
could write before the year 1840. If
intended as a public penance of this
nature, it is perfect of its kind, and
the humility of it will rejoice ill
Christian souls, excepting, perliaps,
the indignant shade of Lindley Mur-
ray.

Not far behind this in inanity
is die " Fall of Rora," all the good
part of which was published yeais
ago, and all the bad part of whidi is
raked up and added for this edition.
But from this to the end of the book
are new poems of a very different
order. To begin with, we have a
number of miscellaneous sonnets.
They are none of them poor, but the
first that particularly arrests atten-
tion, by its fine harmony and happf
illustration, is

KIRKSTALL ABBKY.

Ouui>l and

** RoU on bj tower and ardi, antumnal rhrer;
And ere about thy dusk yet gleaming tide
The phantom of dead Day luth ceased to gfidfl^
Whisper it to the reeds ^at rottDd thee quiver:
Yea, whisper to those ivy bowetv that shiver
Hard by on gusty choir and doister wide,
* My bubUes bneak : ny weed-flowers s ea w ar d i&its
My fireshncsa and my misakm last lor ever f
Young moon from leaden tomb of dood that lOi^

est.
And whitcnest tfioee boar dm-trecs, wrecks Sa^it^
Of olden Airedale's hcmit-baimtcd forest.
Speak dms, * I died : and lo^ I am rdwra f
Blind, patient pile, sleep on in radiance I HvA.
Dies not: and finth, that dwd, ahaD riaebct**

youth.**

The arrangement of die doubk
rhymes, which gives the peculiar,
rh)thm, is a very unusual one
these sonnets. In the whole two
hundred and fifty beftnc this, we od^
recall one or two odier instanoeSi
notable among which is die £unoai
one beginning,

** FVwm I wiMli hra« y 1

Aubrty de Vere in America,

271

flfect is almost always excel-

heels of this treads another
me rhythm also) too good

SPIRITUAL CIVILIZATION.

BO piping. Lord ; ire have been singing I
id yean have passed o'er lawn and lea
Jw blowiinc bud and fidling tree,
e ways wiUi melody were ringing :
ts, h^-stationed and flower-flinging
xl down on conquering chivalry ;
ie wise the nations ; Laws made free ;
angel ever onward winging,
the world. But O great Lord and Fa-

thy bounties, drawn to thee man's race

bsr aloof? Have they not rather
>jected ? with a blind embrace

1 sense? Prime blessings changed to

and man can set God's universe."

perhaps, than either of
ombining the best qualities
the one on

"COMMON LIFE.

reen two mountain warders lies
it man must till. Upon the right,
Dged, with summit hid by its own

ide range of the theologies:

(t the hilts of science rise

1 cold : nor flower is there, nor blight :

38e ranges twain through shade and

)w vale wherein the meek and wise

be knowledge that excludes not doubt

e arts that beautify man's life :

the choral psalm, the civic shout,

evel, and the manly strife :

: bridal rose the cypress waves ;

the all-blest sunshine softest fidls on

J think, one of the author's
It evolves a happy alle-

neatly with a happy de-
to express a thought too
5 true, for development in
' space, but highly sugges-
; question, how far wisdom
on, may be raised in a son-
emain unsettled by a thou-
ises.

versions from Petrarch's
•e admirable, and serve to
IT already expressed opinion
De Vere could give us ex-
Dslations.
> however, readers of our

author will be most interested by the
following, which is in an altogether
different vein from the general run
of these sonnets, and indeed is per-
haps rather a curious subject for a
sonnet to be made about at all. Still
there is no accounting for these poets.
Here it is^ with all its oddities upon
its head :

A WARNING.

" Why, if he loves yon, lady, doth he hide
His love? So humUe is he that his heart
Exults not in some sense of new desert
With all thy grace and goodness at his side?
Ah I trust not thou the love that hath no pride,
The pride ndierein compunction claims no part,
The callous calm no doubts confuse or thwart,
The untrembling hope, and joy unsanctified 1
He of your beauty prates without remorse ;
You dropped last ni^^t a lily ; on the sod
He let it Ue> and £ide in nature's course ;
He looks not on the ground your feet have trod.
He smiles but with the lips, your form in view ;
And he will kiss one day your lips— not you.'*

Where did our pious philosopher, of
all men, learn to discourse thus sagely
and plainly of the uncertainty of all
things amorous ? We think he makes
a very good case, and only add our
emphatic indorsement, if that can
serve the young bdy, and join in
warning her to find a warmer lover,
unless the untrembling and unsancti-
fied is very, very handsome, in which
case we know better than to advise
her at all.

The next particularly good piece
is the opening one of a miscellany,
and is called

"THE world's work.

*' Where is the brightness now that long

Brimmed saddest hearts with happy tean?
It was not time that wrought the wrong :

Thy three and twenty vanquished yean
Crouched re v erent, round their vpo/liitu priie^

Likt Iwtu awed that tpart a $ahU ;
Forbore that bicc — a paradise

No toudi autumnal ere could taint

'* It was not sorrow. Prosper o us love

Her amplest streams for thee poured forth.
As wAm tAe taring m iottu rich grcve

With hhm-hills MpTHuU a sky oh tartA,
Subverted Virtue 1 They the most

Lament, that seldom deign to sigh ;
O worid 1 is this fur wreck thy boast?

Is this thy triumph, Tsnity ?

** What powar is that which, being aoogfaC,
Can unmake stateliest works of God?
What brainless thmg can vanquish dioaght?
What haartkiB, leave the heart a ck>d?

We wish to call attention here to
the very curious image italicized in
the second verse. Every one is struck
by it at once ; every one sees the great
beauty of it at once ; and yet the
code of a narrow and merely rhetorical
criticism would weed it out like a vnld-
flower shyly intruding in " ordered gar-
dens great." The simile is not at all
a particularly happy one in relation to
the preceding idea ; it is well enough,
but there have been apter simQes, and
there will be. And reducing it to fact,
probably it is one of the most exagge-
rative images ever written. But yet it
is beautiful — really beautiful, not a
verbal juggle that entra|)s the imagi-
nation in fine words. The force lies
in the bringing into juxtaposirion in a
new way those old emblems of beauty,
flowers and sky, and the daring inac-
curacy of it only adds a charm. It
does a poetical thought sometimes no
harm to be loose. Nature can do
clear-cut work enough when she
makes things for use ; but all the visi-
ble loveliness of this world is in vague
outlines, formless masses, incomplete
curves, The law that softens the dis-
tant mountain-tops is the same that
makes the beauty of these lines.
Theirs is the rarer excellence that rises
above rule. We notice it the more in
Mr. De Vere that his strength lies
generally in the other direction, of
photographic exactness in reproduc-
tion. We like the very looseness of
such expressions ; they are like the
flowing robes of beautiful women.
The third verse also is excellent
throughout, especially in the fine

metaphor in the sixth line, H|
intensity of "merciless in m
This makes it so much the mod
voking that the end is weak, ^
licant, and abrupt, and in a II
style that seems to be more an^
the fashion of to-day. Still, thcM
been worse things; does not F
end an ode with " Menumuf^
The next short song, ihoHl'
thing remarkable, perhaps, ,
poetr^', we cite because it if ^
the author — Aubrey Dc Verc aL
and the shortest epitome of tuj
we have yet seen in any of hii.^

Tbii unh will circle round thi un
When Cod »ke> birk the fife he |

To ench hi. Iljni I Ewn ninr 1 lid
The feet at children prh mjr frm

We like the honesty and ea||
ness of this none the worse forl|
ing that Mr. De Verc is no |
a young man. And yet donl
seem hard to realise that so ■
writer has been before the g
nearly thirty years, and seen *j
ration of flimsy reputations V
fi'om the eyes of the herd ?
only with difficulty realize,
that any one with so romand
novel-like a name can ever 1
And will he ever be? Is it n
in a deeper and other !
whom the gods love die young:

The " Lines on Visiting a, )
of Coleridge's " are not exct"
anything in all the volume, bul
so closely together, that,
to quote all or nothing, w« a

Auhvy de Vere in America,

?7J

ttraioed by their length to pass on
to an interpolated copy of verses by
& £. De Vere, which gives us a mo-
ment's pause. We do not know
whether the unknown S. £. is a gen-
tleman or lady \ whether the mysteri-
lioos initials stand for Saint Elmo
or Sdah Ebenezer, Sarolta Ermen-
garde or Sarah Elizabeth. But we
do know that in this poem, " Chari-
ty," (p. 276,) is one passage of some
beauty, as Uius :

"Oorad mockery, to call that love
Whidi tiie world's firown can wither 1 Hypocrite I
Fabe friend I Base selfish man ! featfing to lift
Tlqr KilU fellow firom the dust I Ftpmiku
Tht I09* 0/Jriendst the Mjtmpathy 0/kmd
XftM? like hr»ken waves frmm m kare cliffy
Vma that /rem /mr terns ceme wMk ueiseleu

tup

S^tUalirng'te seme lemefy eeemn uie ;
^iikwkm£ tummltmcms jey attdfearteu trust
"^/Umg themselves mpen its blackened Breast
^ni wmd tkeir arms effeam aremmd its feet,
^ttkmg a kame ; hstjiadiaf meae, retam
^iktlew, sadripplet attdrefretu^ul miurmmr f*

We find concluding the work a set
of sonnets called " Urbs Roma," dedi-
cated to the Count de Montalembert ;
2O smooth, polished, elegant, and
Ai/ with no salient beauties any-
viiere that distftguish one above
aiochcr — golden means. The real di-
tttz of die vohmie is at the ^ Autum-
BalOde." This is (iar the best of the
Mv poems, and one of the best of
any of its author's, new or old. In
ftncture it bears a general resem-
libnce to the rest of Mr. De Vere's
knger odes; and the style is ripe,
kfty, easy, and well-sustained. We
km abttdy given one citation from
iHrKfa stores, but there are two more
CipeciaDy worthy of attention. The
^ ii a detcription like Ae one dted,
«d quite in Mr. De Vere'sbwn vein.

OB tMir RMUttf

'fciH>niiiiml<iiiilirfthi

^ Wkemkagf9Atfur^
^tkatdn^Aprtttiyikt

^nti^tmB%^mtit^km'

Tke ceetns falls /rem Hai/e wtfw> wedded
Silent they stand beside dead SumBier''s bi^.
With folded palms, and fiKes to the west.
And their looee treases sweep the dewy groond.**

III.

" A sacred sdllness hangs npon the air,

A sacred deamess. Distant Shapes draw ni|^ :
Glistens yon elm-grove, to its heart laid bare^

And an articulate in its symin e uy.

With here and there a branch that from on high
Far flashes washed as in a watery gleam ;
Beyetuf, ike gies^y lake lies cahee—a beam
V^ke ave dt as if its sie^ /rem its slaw eeutral

The images, and the way the alle-
gory is sustained, are the beauty of
the first stanza. The second is per-
haps more artistic still. The adjec-
tive " sacred " is an artful and inge-
nious one. Without any apparent
particular propriety in its places — a
hundred other words might be effec-
tive as qualifications of ^stillness''
and "clearness" — ^yet, we find, on
passing to the next thought, that it
has had its result in preparing the
mind for a more vivid and imagina-
tive view of the whole scene. The
remaining delineation is exact and
cumulative, as our author^s descrip-
tions always are; and the closing
lines are a singularly true and acute
observation of an effect of light that
veiy few would notice in the actiial
landscape, or will appreciate even
now their attention is called to it.
But people who are sensible enough
to hask now and then in the ripeness
of an autumn day will feel an electric
contact of recognition.

Perhaps we cannot do better than
to close this rambling notice with the
closing lines of this elegant and
thoughtful poem :

)

▼OU IX. — 18

Man was not made for things that leave w^

For that whidi goeth and retuneth*
For hopes that Uft as yet deceive as,

For love that wean a smile vet ■ o w uetli
Not lor fresh ferests from the dead leavea

Hie qrdic re-craatioB which* at beat,
Yields oa— betrayal stiU to

But tremoloua shadows of tht rcalaa
Vor thiai^ faunoital ■

God's image, htest from hie han^
Co-heir with Hian. wiio in Ban'*

Holds o*«lbawoildbthi

About Several Things.

His portion this— mblinM

To stand where Mcess none hath space or time,

Above t!ie starry host, the cherub band,

To stand—to advance— and after all to stand t**

These lines are the real end and
culmination of a book which will, on
the whole, do much to raise Mr. De
Vere's reputation in this country to
a level nearer his deserts. With its
human share of faults, it is a: truer,
an abler, and a more scholarly book
than often issues from an American

press, and contains everywhere loftf
and pure thought, with never a taint
of evil, and never a morally doubtfid
passage. And we only wish for our
country, that, of his readers, there
may be many in whom these his
poems may sow motives as unsdfish
and aims as noble as those which, we
sincerely believe, inform the inner life
of the true poet and Christian, An*
brey De Vere,

ABOUT SEVERAL THINCa

And, to begin with, about the pov-
erty and >nce of London ! Hood and
and Adelaide Anne Procter, Dickens,
James Greenwood,* have made these
more familiar to us than the streets
of our own cities. We have talked
with Nancy on London bridge and
skulked with Noah Claypole beneath
its arches — swept crossmgs ^7th
poor Joe and starved with (he litde
ragamufRn in Fr>'ing Pan Alley.

The poor of London are represen-
tative beings to us all. As we walk
through the streets, each ragged or
threadbare wanderer tells' us a story
heard long ago and half forgotten.
That miserable woman huddled up
in a doorway is a brickmaker's wife,
and the thin shawl drawn about her
shoulders hides the onlv marks of at-
tention she ever receives fix)m her pi-
tiful husband. Her baby is dead,
thank God! safe beyond the reach
of blows and hunger and cold. Her
stor>- win soon be ended, if we may
judge by her thin fecc, and the eager

tTAt TrmHutmy ^m Littif Rmgmmmjfbu

look in her eyes, and the short, had-
ing cough. The shilling 3roit s&p into
her hand will only prolong her misay^
but it gives you a moment's coosoU-
tion, and brings a flash of gntitude
into her poor face Good-by, Jen-
ny ! When we met! you at the judg-
ment-seat of God, we wonder if it
will occur to us we might have doae
more for you to-day than give yoo &
shilling and a fjaikot of iccognitif'

** Alas for tttt wily

OrCkiMincteritr

Uwkrtkaav.
OhlhwMpiiiMI
la a vink o^rUI

We wonder tf Thomas Hood
much better dian odier people?
he found hcnnes for the
food for the Irangiy? We
get Jenny out of oar
wants would be so eaaly
In all London is there no
lodging and fire and food
ed for the decent poor?

The portiy [inlirfi— wk Ae
comer saj-s
refuges, but die

About Several Things,

275

• Sisters of Mercy, in Crispin
io. 30 or thereabouts. Ask-
)r Jenny to follow us, (she
ts a mild surprise at our sym-
we cross Finsbury Circus, pass
gate street, without ; and soon
selves in Crispin street, stand-
the modest entrance of the
>f Mercy. We are not the only
Its for admission this dreary
yet afternoon. Women with
I and women without them
ng on the steps or leaning
the wall, waiting for the hour
X) strike, blessed signal for the

open. It is only half-past
•w, says the sister portress,
lust join the throng lingering
[le house ; but we as visitors
ne in and see the preparations
•r their entertainment,
then is the refuge described

Procter, and her pretty gar-
verses is still sold for its bene-
1860, there was no Catholic
Q England, and excellent as
5se supported by Protestants,
d not supply all demands.
r. Gilbert of Moorfields Cha-
id in a block of buildings, call-
pleasant coincidence, " Provi-
Low,"a large empty stable sep-
j a yard from No. 14 Fins-
uare. The Sisters of Mercy
m seeking a house more suit-
leir needs than the one in
treet. The two projects fitted
lerlike mosaic; No. 14 Fins-
uare should be the convent-
ble should be the refuge,
t and beds were provided at
fourteen persons only ; but in
y, 1861, additional provision
de for forty-six women and
. Before ^e month of April,
1,785 lodgings, with breakfast
per, had been given,
iiaiity is as unsatiable in its
ag sdf-indulgence, and Dr.
i ideas sooii outgrew the

stable in Providence Row. The
present refuge, giving accommoda-
tion to three hundred adults and
children, was opened last autumn.
It will be in operation from October
to May of every year, on week-days
from five P.M. to half-past seven a.m. ;
on Sundays, throughout the twenty-
four hours.

In this room on the ground floor,
with its blazing fire, the women are
received for inspection. If any one
shows herself unworthy of assistance,
either by intoxication or by the use
of bad language, she is turned away.
Without doubt many sinners are ad-
mitted to the refuge, and the sisters
rejoice in being able to check their
course of evil for twelve hours; but
no one receives hospitality here
imless she can conform outwardly
to the habits of decent persons.
This is the only refuge where admis- •
sion de]>ends on the good character
of the appticant. It has proved an
efficient preventive of the contami-
nation so much to be dreaded when-
ever the poor and ignorant are
brought together in large numbers.

The selection of guests being
made, their dresses and shawls, wet
with London fog and mud, are dried
by the fire; and the fixture basins
round the room are placed at their
service with a bountiful supply of
water.

From the inspection-room they
pass to a large apiutment, where they
have supper, and sit together in
warmth and comfort until bedtime.
The supper consists of a bowl of
excellent gruel and half a pound of
bread for each person. It is to be
observed that, though the accommo-
dations are good of their kind, afford''
ing a decent asylum to the homeless,
they are not calculated to attract
those who can find comfortable shd-
ter elsewhere.

At an early hour ni^t-prayers are

276

AbiWt Sevtral Thttigs.

said by a sister, and the women are
shown to the dormitories. The beds
are constructed in an ingenious man-
ner, economizing space and mak-
ing perfect cleanliness practicable.
Two inclined planes, fastened to-
gether at the higher end, pass down
the middle of the dormitory. Two
more inclined planes pass down the
sides of the room with die higher
end next the wall. These platforms
are partitioned off by planks into
troughs about two feet wide and six
feel long, (that is to say, the length
of the slope of the platform,) looking
much like cucumber frames without
glass, These are the beds, and at
the foot of each is a little gate, which
can be opened to admit of drawing
out a sliding plank in the bottom of
the trough. Tliis is done every
morning by the sisters in charge of
> the dormitories, and the floor be-
neath is swept. But now the little
gates are dosed and the beds are
ready for their forlorn occupants.
Each is furnished with a thick mat-
tress and pillow covered with brown
enamel doth and with a large co-
verlet of thick leather. As the
women go to bed llioroughly warm
and wear their clothing, they sleep
comfortably under these odd-looking
quilts; especially the mothers, who
often hold one little cliild in their
arms while another nestles at their
feet The bedding is wiped care-
fully every morning, and thus the
dormitories are kept free from ver-
njin, A cell partitioned off at each
end of the dormitory, with two or
three windows, provides the sisters
in charge with a private room and
at the same- time with a post of
observation. The arrangements for
water throughout the house are
excellent, including a hose fixed in
the wall of every dormitory, ready
to be used in case of fire.

At half-past six in Uie morning, the

sleepere are routed; at se\ai they
have breakfast, consisting, like the
supper, of a basin of grud and half
a pound of bread. At half-paS
seven, they leave the refuge, iio^t-
times to be seen no more, sometiin«
to return night after night for weeb
together. On Sunday they can
remain all day. But, as persons ite
admitted without distinction of ated,
they are allowed to leave the rtfuge
during the bouts of morning serrioe
to go to church, A shorl leson in
the catechism is given every evening
at the refuge; but only Catholics aK
allowed to attend the dasses unlos
occasionally by especial permissioD.
They have, for their Sunday dinna,
as much strong beef soup as they can
eat with bread.

The arrangements for men arc »irn-
ilar to those for women, though less
extensive. The entrances are «<p«-
rate, and there arc watchmen in the
male dormitory. The ttfuge pro-
vides thirty-two beds for men and
one hundred and fifty for women.
It is by packing in children with their
parents that so many individuals aid
lodged.

The survey of the building ended,
we pass out of the front door just ai
five o'clock strikes, and the Uttered
throng, Jenny among them, prevent
themselves for admission.

This institution could be copied
with good effect in several America
cities. Its system of managciacol
guards against two evils. Provisktt
being made only for the bare n
tics of life, no temptation is
impostors. Propriety of behaviorl
ing ensured by strict surveillaiu
chance of contamination b n
lessened, perhaps wholly r^novMl

It is no unusual thing, even ii
United States, for men and boy^a
men and girls, to spend * 1 " "
the station-house because tbcf I
no other place to sleep.

Aio$ft Several Tkmga.

»eninve tiian other charitable
unents. The first cost of a
; is conskleral^e; the annual
in provisions; fUel, and light,
itivdy trifling. The money
very year in indiscriminate
Ing in a large city would serve
ort a night refuge for several
I persons.

irhile providing for the house-
CMT of to-day, we should re-
r that their numbers are in-
\ with every successive gene-

The children of our poorest
jst be rescued fi-om their pre-
gratory life, divided between
lil, and penitentiary.
I has been done for girls, and

only desire an extension of
nrk. With an increase of
le Sisters of Charity, of Mer-
the Good Shepherd, and of
>ame could accomplish a mis-
great importance to the future
ity of our country. These
levote their lives to saving
lisery and degradation the
I of those who cannot or will
form a parent's duty. They
oney to accomplish this. We
sn dole it out to them as if
d asked alms for themselves.

give them not only money
mpathy and encouragement
a good work has failed for
f friendly words to give the
1 for one final vigorous ef-

what is to be done for the
They may be divided into
Jasses. First, children guilty
one crime than fnendlessness.
p small boys obnoxious to the
for petty infringements oi the
dmd, newsboys, bootblacks,
itermongerB, more or less fii-
ridi the -vices of dty life. The
vm is devd(^)ed fipom the other
nwse neglected poverty natu-
iBvitates to.vice and crime.

The development of a true ragar
muffin is a process painfully interest-
ing to watch. At an age when the
children of the rich take sober walks
attended by nursery-maid or gover-
ness, he knows the streets as well as
any watchman. At seven years old,
he is arrested by some energetic
policeman for throwing stones, ba«
thing, stealing a bunch of grapes,
or some other first-class felony.
Once in the hands of the law, there
is no redress for him unless he is
"bailed out" He must go to jail
to wait for trial-day — ^periiaps three
or four weeks. The tumke]rs do
their best for him ; find him a decent
companion if he is frightened, or, still
better, give him a cell to himself,
where he looks more like a squirrel
in a cage than a criminal offender.
I have seen in one day four mere
babies in prison for "breaking and
entering!"

But, with all the precautions used
in a well-ordered jail to prevent mis-
chief, our infant ragamuffin comes
out older by many years than he
went in. He has been in prison, and
his tiny reputation is gone for ever.
A few years later he comes back,
arrested for some grave misdemea-
nor ; a sly, old-fashioned litde rogue
by this time, gifted with an ingenuity
fitting him admirably to be the XocA
of some professional thief. Then
begins a course of sojourns in work-
houses and juvenile penitentiaries.
By and by he reappears in jail with
a smart suit of clothes, the fruit of a
successful burglary, and you are in-
formed with an air of conscious supe-^
riority diat this time it is a house
of correction or State's prison offence.
There is ambition in crime as wdl
as in other careers, we may be sure.
He grows up to be a drunkard, a
libertine, a bad husband, and the
father of children more degraded than
himsdC We know of an entire fiuni-

Abmt Several Things.

ty having been in prison at one time,
father, mother, and all the chil-
dren.

Who is to blame for this career
of vice and crime ? Not the officers
of the jail, who bitterly regret the
necessity of receiving children, but
cannot set them free. Not the
judges, who are swoni to administer
the laws as they stand, not to improve
upon them.

The police are to blame for exer-
cising their enthusiasm for ordiT ufton
babies, instead of making examples
of grown men guilty of similar misde-
meanors, but harder to catch.

The public is to blame for making
insufficient provision for the reclama-
tion of juvenile offenders. Above
ail, we Catholics are to blame, be-
cause these are usually the children
of foreign parents, and Catholics, at
least in name.

Let us build an asylum in the air

for these poor littie urchins. Aerial

philanthropy requires no funds, and

jTOy httle executive ability. Who

Ksnows but our plan may be carried

li^ut in earnest, one of these days, by

wme Dr. Gilbert, trustful of small

lings, and content to let his

f Jjroject first see the light in a stable ?

J We would have tme division devot-

p«d to little orphans, and children

J Hrhose parents are willing to resign

[ fhem for a time or for ever.

A second division should be given
' to the infant criminals of whom we
L Juive just spoken. Their offences are
j always bailable. A trustworthy person
\ ihould be employed to go bail for all
• children under ten years of age, and
' bring them to the asylum to await
their trial. -The judges gladly sen-
tence children to serve out a term at
a juvenile home instead of sending
them to penitentiaries. Thus we
should recover them afier their trial,
for a length of time proportioned to
the importance of severing old associ-

ations. Their circumstaaf
be thoroughly investigate^
ported to the judge — cbl
parents, place of residency

These two divisions sho|
der the charge of femalfl;
with several male attendl
menial work and enforce <q
the few instances where BJ
sures might be necessaiy, b
possessing any authority )
rejected one of acting und
tron's orders. The neccaq
lance can hardly be exaggd
child of vicious habits d
many more. But since d^
lance is irritating even to i
routine of light and Ercqim
occupation would be founj
giving vent to restless actii
is at the root of many chiU
meanors. The superinteof
leam to distinguish fun froa
energy from insubordinatiq

A third division should
refuge for newsboys and
the same tribe. These (
should be uodec the cha]
Christian firothcis. All
school, a library of botd
boys enjoy, and a collectifi
cent games would form anj
clement in the pUn of mi
They should be persuado^
portion of their earnings .|
vings bank, and induced if j
alti;r their roving life aa
trade. Preference should,
to lads of correct life ovem
have been in prison, but ^
ment and countenance giiM
boy willing to confonn to.|
the refuge. We lay lesa i|
separating the good froH
among the lads for two l^
boy of fourteen or fifteoi
not been corrupted by OrJ
be temptation-proo£ It !■]
judge tlie respective inori^
that age or to lean) thctlij

A Chimse Hustamts Lcm^nt for his Wife. 2fg

rhey must to a great extent be
m trust

he coune of a few years a
division would become neces-
> provide for the little boys
too old for petticoat govem-
This division should also be
the charge of the Christian

institution would be very ex<
y unless it were made partially
porting. There is a good
f light work cozmected with
that might be done by boys
; in the house. Perhaps in
ty governments would wake
the fact that it costs less to
jTS a good plain education than
ort rogues and paupers; but

our dream of charity is rudely dis-
persed by a yawn from our compan-
ion and a suggestion that we should
reach Piccadilly sooner by the under-
ground railroad than on foot The
gaslights stare despondingly at me
through the yellow fog. A London
Arab solicits a penny for clearing the
slimy crossing, and wonders at the
glow of charity with which we press
sixpence into his grimy palm. Where
are we ? In London ? Yes, but there
are orphans wandering homeless
about the streets of American dties,
too; bootblacks going to destruction
by scores; tiny children falling vic-
tims to the misplaced zeal of police-
men ; and not even the comer-stone
of our asylum is laidl

CHINESE HUSBAND'S LAMENT FOR HIS WIFE.

LTED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. STANISLAS JVLIEV, PROFESSOR OF

THE CHINESE LANGUAGE, PARIS.

s in the fifth watch of the first
le year, when the winter's cold
(t intense, that my tender wife
^an there be on earth a man
ihappy than IPO my wife !
wert still here, I would give
lew robe for the new year;
is me, thou art gone down to
ibre abode where flows the
>untatn. Would that husband
I could see one another again !
me in the night—- <:ome to
e third watch — let me renew

for a little while the sweetness of the
past.

II.

In the second moon, when spring
l^as come, and the sun stays each day
longer in the sky, every family washes
its robes and linen in pure water, and
husbands who have, still their wives
love to adorn them with new garments*
But I, who have lost mine, am wasting
my life away in grief; I cannot even
bear to see the little shoes that en-
dosed her pretty feet ! Sometimes I
think that I will take another coinpanr

A Chinese Huibatuts Lameta for his Wife.

ion ; but where can I find another i
beautiii]!, wise, and kind!

In the third moon, the peach-tree
opens its rose-colored blossoms, and
the willow is bedecked with green tress-
es. Husbands who have still their
wives go with them to visit the tombs
of their fathers and friends. But I
who have lost mine go alone to visit
fier grave, and to wet with my hot
tears the spot where her ashes repose.
I present funereal offerings to her
shade ; I burn images of gilded paper
in her honor. "Tender wife," I cry
with a tearful voice, " where art thou,
where art thou ?" But she, alas !
hears me not. I see the solitary tomb,
but I caimot see my wife I

In the fourth moon, the air is pure
and serene, and the sun shines forth
in all his splendor. How many un-
grateful husbands then give themselves
up to pleasure and forget the wife they
have lost ! Husband and wife are like
two birds of the same forest ; when
the fatal hour arrives, each one flies off
a different way. I am like a man,
who, beguiled by the sweet fancies of
an enchanting dream, seeks, when he
awakes, the youngbeauty that charmed
his imagination while he slept, but
finds around him only silence and so-
litude. So much loveliness, so much
sweetness vanished in one morning!
Why, alas ! could not two friends, so
dearly united, live and grow gray to-
gethcrt

In the fifth moon, the dragon-head-
ed boats float gaily on the waters. Ex-
quisite wines are heated, and baskets
are filled up with dehcious fruits.
Each year at this season, I delight-
ed to enjoy the pleasures of these sim-
ple feasts with my wife and children.

But now I am weary and i
prey to the bitterest anguish. I »
all day and all night, and my hran
seems ready to break. Ah 1 wh»l do
I see at this moment ? Pretty dlil-
drew at merry play before my doa.
Yes, I can understand that they ire
happy ; they have a mother to pro
them to her bosom. Go away, den
children, your joyous gambols teaim;
heart,

VI.

In the sixth moon, the burning heit
of the day is almost unbearable, TTw
rich and the poor then spread their
clothes out to air. I will expose one
of my wife's silken robes, and hereia-
broidered shoes to the sun's wim
beams. Seel here is the Artm she
used to wear on festal days, here are
the elegant little slippers that fitted ba
pretty feet so well. But where is my
wifei" Oh! where is the mother of
my children ? I feel as if a cold fled
blade were cutting into my heart.

In the seventh moon, my eyes ova-
flow with tears; for it is then that Nieiu-
Ian visits his wife Tchi-niu in heavm-
Once I also had a beautihd wife, but
she is lost to rac for ever. That fjif
face, lovelier than the flowers, is con-
stantly before me. Whether in mow-
ment or at rest, the remembrance of
her that is gone from me never cetsO
to rack my bosom. What day havcl
forgotten to think of my tender *ifc
— what night have I not wept li"
morning?

vm.

On the fifteenth day of the eighll'
moon, her disk is seen in its grcattS
splendor, and men and women thffl
offer to the gods melons and cakes, b^
like in form as the orb of night. Hut-
bands and wives stroll together in the
fields and groves, and enjoy the soft
moonlight But the round disk of the

A Chinest Hu^iamFs. Lament for kis Wife.

~i»i

a only remind fne of the wife
1st At times, to solace my
itaff a cup of generous wine;
I take my guitar, but my
I band can draw forth no
Friends and relations invite
eir houses, but my sorrowful
Kises to share in their plea-

IX.

ninth moon, the chrysanthe-
ms its golden cup, and every
exhales a balmy odor. I
ther a bunch of newly-blown
' I had still a wife whose hair
Id adorn ! My eyes are weary
ping — my hands are withered
[^ and I beat a fleshless breast
le tasteful room that was once
s; my two children follow
come to embrace my knees.
:e my hands in theirs, and
me with choking voices; but
ears and sobs I know they
>r their mother.

\ first day of the tenth moon,
and poor present their wives
XX clothing. But to whom
fer winter clothing ? I, who
vife ! When I think of her
d her head on my pillow, I

weep and bum images of g3ded pa-
per. I send them as offerings to her
who now dwells beside the yellow
fountain. I know not if these fune-
real gifts will be of use to her shade;
but at least her husband will have paid
her a tribute of love and regret

XI.

In the eleventh moon, I sahite win-
ter, and again deplore my beautiful
wife. Half of the silken counterpane
covers an empty place in the cold bed
where I dare not stretch out my legs.
I sigh and invoke heaven ; I pray for
pity. At the third watch I rise with-
out having slept, and weep till dawn.

XIJ.

In the twelfth moon, in the midst of
the winter^s cold, I called on my sweet
wife. " Where art thou," I cried; " I
think of thee unceasingly, yet I can-
not see thy face 1" ^ On the last ni^t
of the year she appeared to me in a
dream. She pressed my hand in hers ;
she smiled on me with tearful eyes ;
she encircled me in her caressing arms»
and fiUed my soul with happiness. ^ I
pray thee," she whispered, " weep no
more when thou rememberest me.
Henceforth I will come thus each
night to visit thee in thy dreanxs."

082 A May Flawir^

A MAY FLOWER.

A LOOK and a word, my sweet lady;

A thought of your kind heart, I pray,
. For a flower that blooms by the roadside.
This beautiful morning in May.

I know that engagements await you ;

I know you have many to meet;
Yet, pray, linger here for a moment.

And look at this flower of the street

Tis but May, my sweet lady, and hardly
Has spring had the time to look bright;

Yet this flower it called into being
Already is smitten with blight

Already upon its &ir leaflets
Lie heavy the grime and the dust ;

Its shrivelled and lack-lustre petals,
Tell a story — stop, lady ! — ^you must

For a soul is in danger, my lady.
The soul of this drooping s treet flower;

And you by a look can recall it
To life, or 'twill die in an hour.

Ah me ! if you knew but the power
Of one word of kindness from you ;

Could you see what a tempest of passioQ
A glance of your eye would subdue!

Wliat hope once again would awaken
To arm this po(Mr soul for ^e right !

Thanks, my lady ! Go hapfnly onward.
The tempted is strengthened with mid

Niw PubliaiHms.

a83

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

ElMATION OF CHRISTENDOM.

By T. W. Allies. London :
ins, Green, Reader & Dyer.
>rk : The Catholic Publication

)]uroe is the dictation of a
mind and the work of an ex-
pen. It forms the second
a work not yet complete, the
»f which appeared in 1865. In
hapters which composed the
le, as the author tells us in his
lent to the present one, he
Christianity creating anew, as
ad purifying and introducing
ral principles into the indivi-
; showing how the new reli-
red the fallen dignity of man
ng on his individuality and
esponsibility, by consecrating
d and counselling the virginal
; vile secrets ot that viler
iety are partly revealed, and
ice of the Gospel is shown in
parallel between St Augustine
0. The author further says,
g examined the foundations,
w reached the building itself
5 ''to consider the Christian
its historical development as
n of truth and grace ; for
soul of man is the unit with
3rks, ' Christendom ' betokens
It is then the first epoch of
igdom that the author would
n the present volume. Ac-
we have a graphic account
lytheism which, at the birth
reigned throughout the world,
ne of its most insignificant
frightful power of this false
ts relation to civilization, to
al constitution of the empire,
1 feeling in the provinces, to
and slavery, and its hostile
IS for the advent of the " Se-

cond Man.'' Then follows the teaching
of Christ and the institution of his
church, a statement of the nature of
the latter, its manner of teaching and
propagation, its episcopacy and pri-
macy. Then, a picture of the history
of the martyr church through the first
three centuries, its sublime patience
under persecution, and its struggle with
swarming heresies that menaced from
within. After this, the author prepares
for a dissertation on that strife between
Christianity and heathen philosophy,
which terminated on the downfall of
the Alexandrian school, by sketching
the history and infiuence of Greek phi-
losophy until the reign of Claudius ;
and, reserving this dissertation for a
future volume, the author closes the
present number of his contemplated
series. It is a serious disadvantage to
any work to be published piecemeaL
Nevertheless, English readers, interest-
ed in the study of the early ages, and
especially those who have read with
pleasure Mr. AUies's former productions,
will be glad to notice the publication of
this volume. But Mr. Allies's work,
also, belongs to a class, small indeed,
but all the more worthy of encourage-
ment, namely, that of original Catholic
histories in the English language. It isy
therefore, an attempt to partially supply
a want which no one book, however
popular, can adequately meet In the
face of an ungrateful heathenism that
to-day secretly sighs af^er the Augustan
age, and openly asks, '' What has been
gained by all this religion ?'' daring to
draw unjust parallels between the heroes
of Christian tradition and contemporary
pagan models, it is the duty of aJl who
love the Christian name to encourage
true historical criticism ; that men may
know all that they at present owe to the
Catholic Church ; and if they will not
acknowledge her to-day as the guide to

Htw PuBHiMiMit,

true civiliKition, may learn from the re-
cord of the past how her genius has
presided over all that is greatest and
noblest in the past history of mankind.

Thunder and Lightning. By W.
De Fonvielle. Translated from the
French, and edited by T. L. Phip-
son, Ph.D. Illustrated with Ihirty-
m'ne engravings on wood. i voL
j2mo, pp. 216. — The Wonders of
Optics. By F, Marion. Translated
from the French, and edited by
Charles W. Quinn, F.C.S. Illus-
trated with seventy engravings on
wood. I vol iimo, pp. 248. New
York; Charles Scribnei- & Co. 1869.

These two volumes are the first issues
of the " Illustrated Library of Wonders,"
to be published by Messrs. Scribner St
Co. They are highly interesting to the
general reader, as well as to persons
of scientific atuinments. The accounts
given of the peculiar and novel freaks
of lightning are curious and instructive.
The illustrations in both volumes are
well executed, and make these books
specially attractive to young people.
In the work on optics, the telescope,
magic lantern, magic mirror, etc., arc
fully explained.

Why Mew do not Believe ; or. The
Principal Causes op Infidelity.
By N. J. Laforct, Rector of the Catho-
lic University of Louvain. Translated
from the French. New York: The
Catholic Publication Society, 126
Nassau Street. Pp. 252. 1S69.

Whoever has had the happiness of
attending the Catholic Congress of Bel-
gium must have noticed among the dis-
tinguished gentlemen seated by the siile
of the president the prepossessing, in-
tellectual countenance of Mgr, Laforet,
the Rector Magnificusof the University
of Louvain, Although still a young
man, he holds a high place among the
writers who adorn European Catholic

literature. His best known aod
elaborate work is an excellent A
of Philosophy. In the present «|
which ia quite unpretending in na
written in such a simple and ea^
as to be easily readable by any|
of ordinary education, he has, pi
rendered even a greater servic^j
cause of religion and sound sdeaq
by his more elaborate works. iT
excellent little treatise on the cni
infidelity, which has already prti
happy fruits among his own conn
by bringing back a number of li
to the Christian faith, and we H
destined to accomplish a still aj
amount of good in its £Dgliah all
its French dress. J

Mgr. Laforet assigns as thefl
of the inlidelity which prevaiU,fl
pily, to such a considerable extefl|
days, ignorance of the real gToaf
nature of the Christian religion
rialism, and the consequent niJ|
gradation which it has producol
denies in a peremptory maaner J
has been caused by progress iall
or the more perfect development!
reasoning faculty, and suppora fl
nial by abundant and conclusive]
The origin of modem infidelity be]
historically and logically to Pn^
ism, showing that it has been
planted into France and other Q
countries from England and G*
Anti-Catholic writers are fond of
ing upon us the charge that Proij
ism breeds infidelity by the oi
charge that Catholicity breeds \xA
They say that it lays too great &!
on reason by teaching, as Christhl
trine, dogmas that intelligent edi
men cannot receive without doUi
lence to tlieir reason. They pa
the infidelity that prevails to kB
extent among educated men in C^
countries as a proof of this a
The writer of an article ii
ber of Putnam' I Mtmthfy, entitle
Coming Controversy," hu
this charge, and alleges the I
some of the educated laymeo b
lo the Catholic Church tn t*
States do not approach the K
as an evidence that ^tj b

yhavcli

New Publicatiom.

385

rfaich is a corroboration of the
cfaai^ against the Catholic relt*
breeding infidelity in intelligent,
g minds. The whole of this spe-
rgument is a hbnc of sand. In
t place, it is no proof that men
St their £uth because they do not
accordance with it The entire
' negligent Catholics are not to
Esed among infidels, any more
egligent Jews or Protestants,
beless, we would call the atten-
those Catholic {;entlemen of high
g who neglect the practice of
sligious duties, and fail to take
:tive part on the side of the
and of God which they ought to
the scandal they thus give and
occasion which the enemies of
arch take kom their criminal
to revile that fi&ith for which
icestors have suffered and con-
so nobly. Neither is it true
ywhere in the world the apos-
3m the faith are superior in intel-
and culture to its loyal adherents.
ir too much of this boasting from
[ikers and infidels of their intel-
superiority. On the field of phi-
' and positive religion they have
t)mpletely discomfited by the
ons of religion. Some of their
men have passed over to our
onvinced by the pure force of
nt, as, for instance, Thierry,
de Biran, Droz, and to a certain
Cousin. Many others, and re-
one most notorious individual,
[avin, the chief editor of the in-
Si}cUj of Paris, have repented at
ir of death. D'Holbach, one of
!fs of the infidel party in France,
ites : '* We must allow that cor-
of manners, debauchery, license,
en frivolity of mind, may often
irreligion or infidelity. . . .
)eople give up prejudices they
lopte^ through vanity and on
'; these pretended free-thinkers
amined nothing for themselves ;
J CO others whom they suppose
weighed matters more carefully.
ia men, given up to voluptuous-
ddebrachery, plunged in excess,
i% ialffgdimf frivdousy and dis-

sipated—or depraved women of wit and
fiishion — how can such as these be capa-
ble of forming an opinion of a religion
they have never examined ?"* La Bruy-
^re says, " Do our esprits forts know
that they are called thus in irony ?" f It
is no argument against either Catholicity
or Protestantism that infidelity exists
in Catholic or Protestant countries.
Before this fact can be made to tell in
any way against either religion it must
be proved that it contains principles
which lead logically to infidelity, or pro-
poses dogmas which are rationally in-
credible, and thus produces a reaction
against all divine revelation. This has
never been done, and never can be dona
in respect to the Catholic religion. So
far as Protestantism is concerned, it has
been done repeatedly and can be done
easily. We do not rejoice in this ; on
the contrary, we grieve over it, and our
sympathies are with those Protestants^
such as Guizot, Dr. McCosh, President
Hopkins, and others who defend the
great truths of spiritual philosophy, of
Theism, the divine mission of Moses
and Christ, and other Christian doc-
trines against modem infidelity. Never-
theless, we cannot help pointing out the
fact that they are illogicsd as Protestants
in doing this, and are unable, after giv-
ing the evidences of the credibility of
Christianity, to state what Christianity
is in such a manner as completely to
satisfy the just demands of human rea-
son, or to justify their own position as
seceders from the genuine Christendom.
Our own youth are exposed to the
temptation of infidelity on account of
their imperfect religious education, and
the influence of the Protestant world in
which they live, saturated as it is with
the most pestilent and poisonous influ"
ences of heresy, infidelity, and immoral-
ity. Good Protestants they will never
become. They can only be good Ca-
tholics, bad Catholics, or infidels. Our
friends of the Protestant clergy have no
reason, therefore, to count up and exult
over those who are lost fiom the Catho-
lic fold» for Satan is the only gainer.

^ SysAtmt it la Naturt^ lem. ii. c %%, CStod oa
ftge rat.
. t Lm CmrmcAnt^ di. xvi. Ciltd on pift iSS.

286

New Publications.

: us have a sufficienl number of clergy
of Ihe right sort, an ample supply of
churches, colleges, schools, and Catholic
literature, and we will engage that the
desire for a purer and more spiritual
religion will never lead our Catholic
youth to become Protestants, or the
desire fur a more elevated and solid
science make them infidels. Such books
as the one wc are noticing are of just
tiie kind we want, and we recommend it
warmly to all thinking young men and

nen, to all parents and teachers, and
I to all readers generally.

The Montarges Legacv, A Tale.
By Florence McCoomb. Philadel-
phia: P. F. Cunningham. Pp. 394.
1869.

We thank the gentle author of this
charming story for the satisfaction de-
rived from its perusal. Not wishing, by
entering into detail of plot or incident,
to diminish the pleasure in store for
its readers, we will merely say that,
while sufficiently exciting, it is by no
means morbidly sensational ; that the
characters are well portrayed ; the inci-
dents varied ; Ihe dialogue not strained,
' ytX not monotonous ; the descriptive
portion easy and natural ; and that, per-
ndittg all, is a true Catholic spirit

Anne Sevehin. By Mrs. Augustus
Craven. New York : The Catholic
Publication Society. 1 vol. i2mo,
pp.411. 1S69.

We do not like the controversially
religious novel. There is generally loo
much pedantry ; too great an adminture
of theology, politics, and love, to suit
our taslc. But (he slorj- of Annt Seve-
rin, by the gifted author of A Sis-
ter's Story, is not of this kind, it is
permeated throughout with a purely reli-
gious feeling ; just enough, however, lo
make it interesting, and to give the rea-
der to understand that the writer is
tnily Catholic in all she writes. The
■cene of the story opens in England,
about the beginning of this century.

when there were "troublous timec^
France," and changes to the latter coin-
try, where Ihe thread of the narrative Vk
spun out. The heroine, Anne Severin,
is not an ideal character. It is one that
is not rare in Catholic countries, or In
Catholic society. She is a true womaa,
in the truest sense of the word, a
model for our daughters. The con-
trast between her and the English-
reared giri, Ev^leen Devereux, is dear'
ly drawn. The one truthful, religi-
ous, conscientious in all her actions,
kind, amiable, and loveable ; the other,
fickle-minded, constantly wavering. *ni
3. flirt, courting admiration for admira-
tion's sake, yet intending to do right
in her own way, but failing because she
did not have the true religious leaching
that Anne Severin had. No better
book of the kind could be put in the
hands of Catholics as well as non-Ca-
tholics of both sexes. No one cm helfk
for amomenttoseein what consists the
difference between these two woraoi.
Anne Severin had a positive, soul^us-
taining failh lo fall back upon in ber
troubles, Eveleen Devereux had o»-
thing but the emptiness of a religioa
of the world which failed her
of tribulation.

EuDOXiA : A Picture of thr f
Century. Freely translated I
the German of Ida, Countess F
Hahn. Baltimore : Kelly, Pict \
Co. Pp. 287. 1869.

This historical tale, which has al. .

appeared as a serial in an English pui-
oclical, and also in an American ncnpt'
per, has been very favorably n
both sides of the Atlantic It >1
issued in handsome book form, ai
no doubt, have, as it deserves, an ei
sive circulation.

The Illustrated Catholic Sum
School Lidrary. Third S
vols. pp. 144 each. New York :
Catholic Publication Society, Ij6 M
sau SirecL 1869.

The titles of the volumes coni

New Publicatums,

a$f

I are : Bad Example ; May-
other Tales ; The Young As-
and other Tsdes ; James Chap-
;el Dreams ; Ellerton Priory ;
ind Industry; The Hope of
skopfs ; St. Maurice ; The
nigrants ; Angels' Visits ; and
/ener's Daughter, and other
hat in the variety of its con-
•eries is fully equal to its pre-
is evident from the above list ;
aureful supervision to which
: is subjected renders it unne-

say another word in its
^e can safely promise a rare
ir young friends when, either
ving at school, or an indulgent

1 have made them happy in its
u

«DAY-SCHOOL ClASS-BOOK.

n-k: The Catholic Publication
1869.

ast work of The Catholic
m Society will be appreciated

Sunday-school teacher who
-ienced the torments of an
d and poorly-made class-
le chief characteristics of this
important work are clearness
feieness. Its new feature is
brief, but very decided rules
d on the inside of each coven
t allows a goodly space for
ietaiL In binding and quality
t is far in advance of anything
id to the Catholic Sunday-
icher. It provides a "regis-
sighteen or twenty scholars,
ihould be plainly and neatly
t names, etc., of each member
ss. Then comes a monthly
tending across two pages, in
wance is made for '* the fifth "
\nd a space for a '' Monthly

And in this we have the
irovement on all other class-

such double pages are fur-

11 covering the space of one

on the bst half-page there

ns provided for a yearly re-

port, in which plain figures most be
placed by every teacher to the satis&c-
tion of superintendents, who have so
often experienced the mortifying neces-
sity of declaring teachers' methods of
marking more mysterious than hierogly^
phics.

What has long been needed is not a
class-book fitted for the educated, few
who devote their spare hours to Sunday-
school teaching, nor a mere record
book for large and continually changing
classes of beginners, but a plain, com-
prehensive book which any teacher can
understand at a glance, and which will
enable him to influence the conduct, it
not the studious habits, of those com-
mitted to his charge, instead of calling
for an extra waste of time, in order to
mark with precision in perhaps a bad-
ly lighted school-house. Let every
teacher send for a copy, examine it for
himself and see how simple this often
neglected duty can be made. If the
rules which are contained therein be
attended to, there will be no necessity
of carrying the book away from the
school, which arrangement insures the
double object of marking while the im-
pression of each recitation is fresh and
of having the book in readiness to mark
at the next recitation* And, until
every teacher attends to both these
duties, in spite of qualifications in other
respects, he will still have much to
learn before he becomes a perfect Sun-
day-school teacher.

This little book is substantially bound
in cloth, and is sold for twenty cents
a copy, or, to Sunday-schools, at tico
dollars per dozen.

Studious Women. From the French
of Monseigneur Dupanloup^ Bishop
of Orleans. Translated by R. M.
PhiUimore. Boston: P. Donahoe.
Pp. 105. 1869.

This able essay of the Bishop of Or-
leans was translated for and appeared
in The Catholic World very soon
after its appearance in France, nearly
two years ago. We see Mr. Donahoe
has used the London translation.

New Puhtications.

POEMS. By James McClure. Ne»
Vorlc: P. O'Shea. J'p. 148. 1869.

We cannot praise ihe "poema " con-
tained in this volume, and the modesty
of the author's preface

A Manual of General Historv :
beittg an outline history of the world
from the creation to the present time.
Fully illustrated with maps. For the
use of academies, high-schools, and
families. By John J. Anderson, A.M.
New York : Clark & Maynard. Pp.
401. 1869.

This compendium is in some respects
inaccurate ; much that is comparatively
trivial is admitted, while really important
events are entirely ignored j and on cer-
tain points there is, if not an actual anti-
Catholic bias, an absence, at least, of
that strict impartiality to be demanded,
as of right, in all compilations intended
for use as text-books in our public
■chools.

The Catholic Publication Society lias
now in press the Chevalier Rossi's fa-
mous work on the Koman Catacombs —
Roma SoUerranea. It is being com-
piled, translated, and prepared for the
English reading public by the Very
Rev. J. Spencer Northcote, D.D., presi-
dent of Oscott College, Birmingham,
And author of a small treatise on the
catacombs. The present work will
make a large octavo volume of over five
hundred pages, and will be copiously
illustrated by wood-cuts and chromo-
lithographs — the latter printed under
Dc Rossi's personal supervision. This
will be an important addition to our

literature, and will, we doubt ■
tract considerable atlcntion H
country. The same Society nil
ready about May ist. Why 1^
not Belitvt — a library edition as4
a cheap edition j Climptts *>/ ^^
Homes, by the author of Malkm
Canity, with four full-page illusn
Jmprtssions of Spain, by Lady B|
with fifteen full-page illustratio
two last -mentioned books will I
appropriate forcollege and school
urns. In HtavcH we kitaio 0%
will be ready in June. The
Series of the IHustrtUed CalhM
day-Sckool Library is a]»o in ]
tion. TJit Lift 0/ Molker I'
Mary Hallahan, O.S.D., foi
the Dominican Conventual Tl
in England, is announced, and 1
ready in June or July,

Messrs. John MtmPHr & 1
timore, announce as in press Tl
AND Letters of the Rev.
HICK William Faber, D.D™ '.
the Oratory of St. Philip [*
Rev. John E. Bowden, priest
same oratory.

P. F. Cunningham,
has in press, and will soon |
Femcliffe.

From Jouni SxaxifoK. Ocfk tt dS
Cbundl, N» Vnt. UuinJ of Ac t
dT ihc Cilf uf Nn> Ynk far itU

From F. UoHAHm. Brami: Anaia )■
tion ID Irkb Emifnltiiii. Br J<
luire, Mmha o( PiirlaB(M ler dM O^
Swd. Pp. M-

Frarn KiiLDS. Oscodo ft Co., BaMsB .
liJudi: An wtboimd inbaaar U |
Br June* FuloD. Sird. I^ T«. I

THE

rHOLIC WORLD

VOL. IX., No. 51.— JUNE, 1869.

SPIRITISM AND SPIRITISTS.*

•:r, in his dictionary, gives
id meaning of the word

"the doctrine that de-
ts hold communication
ind gives as his authority
wnson. We think this
istake; for Dr. Brownson

Spirit- Rapper, the term
lich is the more proper

avoids confounding the
he spiritists with the phi-
octrine which stands op-
terialism, or, more strictly,
I the moral doctrine op-
nsualism. We generally
d spiritual in religion as

natural, or for the life
of the regenerate, who

te; or, the Despair of Science.
count of Modem Spiritualism, its
th« various Theories regarding
rey of French Spiritism. Boston :
w 1S69.

'is eU r Homme avee le Dimon.
5 ct Philosophique. Par Joseph
t. Paris : Gaume Frfcrcs et J. Du-
64. Tome VI., 8vo.
'Rapper. An A utobiography. By
I. Boston: Little, Brown & Co.

Facts in relation to Spirit Life
ions. By Judge EUimonds. New
Magnetic Tdegmf^ic Agency.
n Unveiled, at$d skoton to be the
t$o By Miles Grant Boston : The

ju n.—- 19

walk after the spirit, in opposition
to those who walk after tfie flesh,
and are carnal-minded. To avoid
all confusion or ambiguity which
would result from using a word
already otherwise appropriated, we
should use the terms spiritism^ spirit-
ists, and spirital.

The author of Pianchette has
availed himself largely of the volu-
minous work of the learned Joseph
Bizouard, the second work named
on our list, and gives all that can be
said, and more than we can say, in
favor of spiritism. He has given
very fully one side of the question,
all that need be said in support of
the reality of the order of pheno-
mena which he describes, while the
French work gives all sides; but he
passes over, we fear knowingly and
intentionally, the dark side of spi-
ritism, and refuses to tell us the
sad effects on sanity and morality
which it is known to produce. A
more fruitful cause of insanity and
immorality and even crime does not
exist, and cannot be imagined.

We have no intention of devoting
any space specially to Hanchette^ or
the "little plank/' which so many

\,*.

290

spiritism and Spiritists.

treat as a harmless plaything. It is
only one of the forms through which
the phenomena of spiritism are mani-
fested, and is no more and no less the
"despair of science," than any other
form of alleged spirital manifesta-
tions. Contemporary science, in-
deed, or what passes for science, has
shown great ineptness before the
alleged spirit- manifestations; and its
professors have, during the twenty
years and over since the Fox girls
began to attract public attention and
curiosity, neither been able to dis-
prove the alleged facts, nor to ex-
plain their origin and cause; but
this is because contemporary science
recognizes no invisible existences,
and no intelligences above or separate
from the human, and because it is
not possible to explain their produc-
tion or appearance by any of the
imintelligent forces of nature. To
deny their existence is, we think,
impossible without discrediting all
human testimony; to regard them
as jugglery, or as the result of trick-
ery practised by ^e mediums and
those associated with them, seems to
us equally impossible. Mr. Miles
Grant in his well-reasoned little work
on the subject, says very justly, it
" would only show that we know but
litde about the facts in the case.
We think," he says, p. 3,

"No one, after a little reflection, would
venture to say of the many thousands and
even millions of spiritualists* [spiritists,]
among whom are large numbers of men
and women noted for their intelligence,
honesty, and veracity, that they are only
playing tricks on each other ! . • .
Can any one tell what object all these
Others, mothers, brothers, sisters, chil-
dren, dear friends, and loved companions
can have in pretending that they have com-
munications from spirits, when they know,
at the same time, that they are only deceiv-
ing each other by means of trickery* ?"

In our judgment such an assump-

tion would be a greater viol
the laws of human nature
human mind and belief, tl
most marvellous things rel
the spiritists, especiaUy since
der and form of the phenomi
relate are nothing new, b
been noted in all lands ai
ever since the earliest recorc
race, as is fully shown by 1^
ard.

ITie author of Planchette
Catholic Church concedes '
alleged by spiritists. This
states it, may mblead his
The church has not, to ou
ledge, pronounced any offic
ment deciding whether these
lar facts are real facts or not ; f
not aware that the question
come distinctly before her :
sion. She has had before \
the first, the class of facts \
the alleged spirit-manifestat
long, and has had to deal wi
in some place, or in son
every day of her existence;
are not aware that she has e
and pronounced judgment
pardcular facts the modem
allege. She has, undoubte
clared the practice of spiritisn
tion of spirits, consulting t
holding communication wit
— that is, necromancy — to be 1
and she prohibits it to all ]
dren in the most positive nu
may be seen in the case
American, or rather Scotchn
niel P[ome, the most famous
em mediums, and the most da

For ourselves, we have n
of the order of facts to whic
view the spirit-manifestations
belong; we have no difiiculti
ori^ in admitting them, thoug
not accept the explanation t
ists give of them ; but when
to any particular fiict or n
tion alleged, we judge it aca

Spifitism and Spiritists,

291

nerally received rules of evi-
and we require very strong
:e to convince us of its reality
.ct. We adopt, in regard to
he same rule that we follow
:ase of alleged miracles. We
)t a doubt, nor the shadow of
:, that miracles continue to be
t in the church, and are daily
t in our midst ; but we accept
t this or that alleged miracle
ig to the evidence in the
Lnd, in point of fact, we are
K:eptical in regard to most of
pularly received miracles we
Credulity is not a trait of
:holic mind. It is the same
in relation to this other class
ed facts. We believe as firm-
the fact that prodigies are
t as we do that miracles are ;
not ask us to believe this or
irticular prodigy, unless you
)ared with the most indubita-
lence. We are far from be-
every event which we know
s to explain is either a mira-
prodigy.

have examined with some
\ so-called spirit-manifestations
the spiritists relate, and we
ome, according to our best
to the conclusion that much
1 is trickery, mere jugglery;
jch is explicable on natural
es, or is to be classed with well-
morbid or abnormal affections
m nature ; but, after all abate-
that there is a residuum inex-
without the recognition of a
man intelligence and orce.
superhuman^ not supernatural,
pematural is God, and what
; immediately or without the
diation of natural laws, as has
lore than once explained in
gazine. The creation of Ad-
supematural; the generation
from parents is not super-
for it is done by the Creator

through the operation of natural laws
or second causes. What is done by
created forces or intelligences, how-
ever superior to man, is not super-
natural, nor precisely preternatural,
but simply superhuman, angelic, or
demoniac. There is a smack of pa-
ganism in calling it, as most contem-
porary literature does, supernatural;
for it carries with it the notion that
the force or intelligence is not a crea-
ture, but an uncreated nunun^ or an
immortal.

Now, what is this superhuman in-
telligence and force revealed by
these spirit-phenomena? We know
that many who admit the phenome-
na refuse to admit that they reveal
any superhuman force or intelligence.
They explain all by imagination or
hallucination. These, no doubt, play
their part, and explain much ; but the
author of Planchette^ as well as M.
Bizouard, have, it seems to us, fully
proved that they do not and cannot
explain all, even if they themselves
did not need explanation; others
again, to explain them, have recourse
to what they call animal magnetism,
or to a force which they call od,
odyle, odyllic, or odic force ; but these
explain nothing, for we know not
what animal magnetism or what odic
force is, nor whether either has any
real existence. These terms do but co-
ver our ignorance. Mr. Grant ascribes
them to demons, and endeavors to
show that the demon mesmerizes the
medium who wills with his will, and
acts with his force and intelligence ;
but our modem science denies the
existence of demons.

The spiritists themselves pretend
that the phenomena are produced by
the presence of departed spirits. But
of this there is no proof. It is ac-
knowledged on all hands that the
spirits can assume any outward form
or appearance at will What means,
then, have we, or can we have, of

292

Spiritism and Spiritists.

identifying the individuals personated
by the pretended spirits? The au-
thor of PlanchetU says, in a note, p.
62:

" If spirits have the power, attributed to
them by many seers, of assuming any ap-
pearance at will, it is obvious that some
high spiritual sense must be developed in
us before we can be reasonably sure of the
identity of any spirit, even though it come
in bearing the exact resemblance of the
person it may claim to be. We think,
therefore, that the fact tliat the spirit . . .
bore the aspect of Franklin, and called it-
self Franklin, is no sufficient reason for dis-
missing all doubts as to its identity. It
may be that we must be in the spiritual
before we can really be wisely confident
of the identity of any spirit."

That IS, we must be ghosts our-
selves before we can identify a ghost,
or die in the flesh, and enter the
spirit-land, before we can be sure of the
identity of the spirits, or of the truth
of anything they profess to commu-
nicate not otherwise verifiable !

It is pretended that the spirits have
latterly rendered themselves visible
and tangible. Mr. Livermore, of
this city, sees and embraces his de-
ceased wife, who caresses and kisses
him, and he feels her hands as warm
and fleshlike as when she was living.
Suppose the phenomena to be as
related, and not eked out by Mr.
Livermore's imagination; the visible
body in which she appeared to him
could have been only assumed, and
no real body at all, certainly not her
body during life— that lies mouldering
in the grave. And all the spirits
teach that the body throi^Ti oft at
death docs not rise again. They
nowhere, that we can find, teach the
resurrection of the flesh, but uniform-
ly deny it. If the spirits, then, do
really render themselves visible and
tangible to our senses, it must be in
a simulated body ; and why may they
not simulate one form as well as
another? The senses of sight and

touch furnish, then, of th<
no proof that a departed sf
human spirit once alive in 1
is present, communicating
the medium with the Hving.

Tlie assertion of the p
spirit of its identity counts
thing, whether made by ki
table-tipping, by writing or
ble voice and distinct artw
for the spiritists themselves
that some of the spirits, at
great liars, and that they ha\
terion by which to disting
lying spirits firom the others,
there are, that seek to comi
with the living. Concedin]
phenomena alleged, there
absolutely no proof or evidc
there are any departed sp
sent, or that any communical
them has ever been receive
spirit of a person may be s
as well as his voice, featur
handwriting, or anything else
teristic of him. Spiritism, tl
trary to the pretension of tl
ists, proves neither that the <
again, nor that the spirit sun
body. It does not even pi
there is in man a soul or spin
from the body. We call th<
attention of our readers to tl
which is worthy of more c<
tion than it has received.

The spiritists claim that th<
spirit-manifestations have pr
spirituality and immortality
soul, in opposition to mal
This is their boast, and he
that they call their doctrine
ism, and seek to establish £
authority of a revelation, suj
tary to the Christian re
Their whole fabric rests on
sumption that the manifesta
made by human spirits th
once lived in the flesh, and
in the spirit-world, whatever
be. Set aside this assum]

Spiritism and Spiritists.

293

it nothing in the alleged
lifestations sustains it, and
le edifice tumbles to the
There is nothing to support
option but the testimony of
at often prove themselves
its, and whose identity with
dual they personate, or pre-
3e, we have no means of

Unable to prove this vital
spiritists can prove nothing
irpose. The spirits all say
lO resurrection of the dead,
.'fore deny point-blank the
that the dead live again,
unable, as we are, to iden-
with spirits that once lived
th bodies that have moul-

are mouldering in their
lat proof have we, or can
that they are, or ever were,
)irits at all ? If they are
?d to be or to have been
irits, they afford no proof
)ul is distinct from the body,
t is not material like the

perishes with it. If, then,
f science have shown them-
e able to explain the ori-
luse of the phenomena, the
ave shown themselves to be
tive as inductive reasoners.
le phenomena warrant the
that they are produced by
»me sort, or that there are
es not clothed with human
:ween whom and us there
less communication." Of
s alone they warrant no
at all, but are simply inex-
henomena, the origin and
yhich lie beyond the reach
ic investigation ; but, taken
t of what we know aliunde^
tnt the conclusion that they
rom a superhuman cause,
there are spirits which are,
aspects, stronger and more

than men; but whether
ular spirits to whom the

spirit-manifestations in question are
to be ascribed are angelic or demo-
niac, must be determined by the spe-
cial character of the manifestations
themselves, the circumstances in
which they are made, and the end
they are manifestly designed to effect.
We make here no attack on the
inductive method followed in con-
structing the physical sciences. We
only maintain that the validity of
the induction depends on a princi-
ple which is not itself obtained or
obtainable from induction. Hence
Herbert Spencer and the positivists
who follow very closely the induc-
tive method, relegate principles and
causes to the "unknowable." The
principle on which the inductive pro-
cess depends cannot be attained to by
studying the phenomena themselves,
but must be given immediately, ei-
ther in a priori intuition or in revela-
tion. Books have been written, like
Paley's Natural Theology and the
Bridgtivater TVeatises^ to prove, by
way of induction, from the phenome-
na of the universe, the being and
attributes of God, and it is very gene-
rally said that every object in nature
proves that God is, and that no man
ever is or can be really an atheist;
but no study of the phenomena of
nature could originate the idea or the
word in a mind that had it not
Men must have the idea expressed
in language of some sort before they
can find proofs in the observable
phenomena of nature that God is.
Hence, those savants who confound
the origination of the idea or belief
with the proofs of its truth, and who
see that the idea or belief is not ob-
tainable by induction, are really athe-
ists, and say with the fool in his heart,
God is — ^not We do not assert that
God is, on the authority of revelation ;
for we must know that he is before
we have or can have any means of
proving the fact of revelation; yet

if God had not himself taught his
own being to the firet man, and given
him a sign signifying it, the human
race could ne\er have known or con-
ceived that he exists. The phenome-
na or the facts and events of the uni-
verse which so clearly prove that
God is, and find in his creative act
their origin and cause, would have
been to all men, as they are lo the
atheist, simply inexplicable pheno*

So it is with the spirit-manifestations,
whetlier angelic or demoniac. The
existence of spirits must be known to
us, either by intuition or revelation, be-
fore we can assign these phenomena
a spirital origin and cause. We do
not and cannot know it intuitively;
and therefore, without recurring to
what revelation teaches us, these
manifestations, however striking, won-
derful, or perplexing they might be,
^would be to us and to all men inex-
plicable, and we could not assign
them any origin or cause. Revela-
tion — become traditionary, and so em-
bodied in the common intelligence
through language as to control, un-
consciously and unsuspected, the rea-
sonings even of individuals who pride
themselves on denying it — furnishes
the principle needed as the basis of
the induction of the principle and
cause of the spirit -manifestations.
Revelation teaches that God has cre-
ated an order of intelligences sujierior
to man, called angels, to be the mes-
sengers of his will. Some of these
remained faithful to their Creator,
always obedient to his command ;
others kept not their first estate, re-
oelled against their sovereign Lord,
were, with their chief, cast out of
heaven into the lower regions, and
became demons or evU spirits.

The spiritists complain of our sci-
entific professore. but without just
reason; for, on the principles of mo-
dern science, the proofs they offer

of their doctrines prove noi
their own logical ineptncss. '
if it will accept no revdoj
recognise no principle not
by the inductive method, has
native but either to deny th^
taiions as facts, or to admit t
as inexplicable ph en omen
class of facts are as well autb4
as facts, as any facts can be
explanation of them by the
is utteriy inadmissible, ani
inductive reasoners, who eX
revealed principles, must ■
The professors are not wro
jecting that explanation as
rific; for it would lie evert'
scientific lo admit it; and'
if compelled to do one or I
we should h<ild it more unit
to admit it than to deny out
facts themselves.

The fault of the profesal
denying the necessity to thi
of induction of principles ai
tainable nor provable by tl
and in supposing that we <
struct an adequate sdcncri
universe without the pnndpl
are given us only by divine r(
Without these principles wtf
plain nothing, and the univ
vast assemblage of inexplicj
nomenaj for it is only in th(
ciples we do or can obtaiii|
its meaning. Hence, mod
cnce, which excludes both il
and intuihon a priori, expl
tiling, reduces nothing to it
I>le and cause, and only g<
and classifies observable ph<
which, we submit, is no a
all. Certainly, we do not
that science is built on faHi
traditionalists do. or are ad
doing ; but we do say thaJi
the light of revelation, we cafl
struct an adequate science
universe, or explain the vaii
and events of history. If f

Spiritism and Spiritists,

29s

revelation that the devil
ds exist, I might obsen'e
atanophany, but I should
lence they came, or what
I might be tempted,
sed, besieged, possessed,
s as the spiritists are ; but
J ignorant of the cause,

unable to explain my
o ascribe it to any cause,

Satanic invasion. The
ould be for me simply

prodigies. But, taught
>n that the air swarms
irits, the enemies of man,

of man because enemies
can see at once the ex-

the spirit-manifestations,
them their real principle

V that many who call
Christians are disposed
not to deny, the personal
satan, and to maintain
rd, which means an ene-
rsary, is simply a general
sum of the evil influences
: are exposed, if not sub-
if a generalization were
;re there is nothing con-
get rid of no difficulty
lanation. Influence sup-
person or principle from
om which proceeds the
' the in-flowing. If you
5 personal existence, you
)tion but either to deny
ler or to admit an origi-
principle of evil warring
principle of good, that
tism, or Persian dualism,
igh Calvinism, indeed, in
It evil or sin is something
y imply it, is neither good
nor sound Christian theo-
^rding to sound philoso-
eology, God alone hath
d by his word has cre-
i and earth, and all things
3le and invisible. All the

works of God are good, very good ;
and as there is nothing in existence
except himself that he hath not
made, it follows necessarily that evil
is not a positive existence, but is sim-
ply negative, the negation or absence
of good. It originates and can origi-
nate only in the abuse of his faculties
by a creature whom God hath cre-
ated and endowed with intelligence
and free-will, and therefore capable
of acting wrong as well as right To
assert that man is subjected or ex-
posed to evil influences leads neces-
sarily to the assertion of a personal
devil who exerts it. You must, then,
either deny all evil influences from
a source foreign to or distinguishable
from man's own intrinsic nature, or
else admit the personal existence of
satan and his hosts.

Satan and his hosts having rebelled
against God, and in refusing to wor-
ship the incarnate Son as God, were
cast out of heaven, and became the
bitter enemies of him and the human
race. Satan, as the chief of the fallen
angels, evil demons, or devils, carries
on incessant war against God, and
seeks to draw men away from their
allegiance to him, and to get himself
worshipped by them in his place.
Hence, he seeks by lying wonders
to deceive them ; by his prodigies to
rival in their belief real miracles;
and, by his pretended revelations of
the spirit-worid, to substitute belief
in his pretended communications for
faith in divine revelation, and thus
reestablish in lands redeemed by
Christianity frx>m his dominion the
devil-worship which has never ceased
to obtain in all heathen coun-
tries. The holy Scriptures assure
us that all the gods of die heathen
are demons or devils. These took
possession of the idols made of wood
or stone, gold or silver,* had their

* This explains Ptonchette, which is a step towaidi
the reviTal oTheatheii idol-wonhip.

temples, theii priests and priestesses,
their service, and were worshipped
as gods. They gave forth oratles,
and were consulted, through their
mediums, in all great affaiis of stale,
and their omens and auguries, which
the people consulted to leam the
future, as the spiritists do their medi-
ums. Spiritism belongs to the same
order. The spirits, as Mr. Grant
well proves, are demons, and the
whole thing has for its object to re-
establish, perhaps in a modified fonn,
the devil -worsliip which formerly ob-
tained among all nations but the
Jews or chosen people of God,
and still obtains among all nations
not yet Christ ianiited. It began in
the grand apostasy of the Gentiles
from the patriarchal religion, which
followed the confusion of tongues at
Babel; and the spiritists are doing
their best to revive it in the grand
apostasy from the Christian church,
which took place in the sixteenth cen-
tury, and of which we have such clear
and immistaltable predictions in the
New Testament So adroitly has sa-
lao managed, that, if it were possible,
the very elect would be deceived.
So much we say of the origin and
cause of the spirit-manifestations.

If we examine more closely these
manifestations, we shall fmd evidence
enough of their satoiiic character.
All Satanic invasions bring trouble
or perturbation, while the angelic
visitations always bring calm, peace,
and order. Tlie divine oracles are
clear, precise, distinct, free from all
.ambiguity ; for he who gives them
knows all his works from their begin-
Jiing to their end, Satan's oracles
.are alwaj-s ambiguous, stammering,
ajid usually deceive or mislead those
who trust them. Satan is a creature,
and his power and intelligence, though
superhuman, are not unlimited. The
universe has secrets he cannot pene-
'trate, and he can do no more than

his and our Creator permits. J
no prophetic power, for C*
his own counsels. He
or infer the future from his k
of the present He has no
power, and can never prodf
thing as first cause. Henci
operate only with materials ,
his hand. The spiritists t^
it is not every one that ci
medium. It is only pasq
certain temperament, found )
lener among women than ant(
and, among men, only wi|
of a feminine character, and
alike in manly vigor and
health. The spirits can conti
only through such as nature*
has lilted to be mediums, j
communications have alwa]
thing of the character of the;
through which they arc mai
limited power of satan, his
to know the future, which ei
in the divine decree, and
of power to form his own i
render tlie spirit-communicaf
tremely vague, uncertain, i
and feeble.

The dependence of sataa
medium is manifest The Sp
not communicate if anything:
the medium, or puts the pi
out of humor, like the pre^
hard-beaded sceptics, or a to(
examination by keensighteii
fie professors determined ni
deceived. Their commun
oral or written, from the pi
spirits of distinguished authol
philosophers, statesmen, VQ
means creditable to satan a|
lar or a gentleman. Then a|
spirits really tell us noth^
amounts to anything of thl
world. Their reprsraitatioa
it a dim and shadowy re
which the spirits of Ute i
wander about hitha and
without end or ai

Spiritism and Spiritists,

297

; Elysian fields of the an-
resemble more the Chris-
the Christian's heaven,
air of unreality about
are the umbrae of hea-
hy, not living existences ;
jion, or, more properly,
uld be distressing, if one
U in the representations
;m. One thing is evi-
rits know or can say no-
beatific vision, which
hey are not blessed an-
io not see God, and are
bed from his presence,
t the light nor the bless-
eir state. They seem,
ghosts, to linger around
here they lived in the
lin, shadowy, miserable,
mmunicate with the liv-
occasionally permitted
even then only to a fee-
Friends and acquaintan-
* may recognize, we are
:her in the spirit-world,
with pleasure or pain, it
) say. The picture of
died life is very sad, and
soul finds it dark, hope-
, and depressing ; as the
those doomed to take
e with the devil and his
lecessarily be.
nes the spirits teach and
lying wonders are what
::alls "the doctrines of
ly are imanimous in de-
there is no devil and no
lay not be absolutely de-
personality is obscured,
ars only in the distance,
abstraction, being only
in which, Hegel might
id not-being are identi-
from all contemplation,
» what is going on in
low him, asking neither
worship, love nor venera-
tor thanksgiving, and re-

ceiving none. The spirits echo the
dominant sentiments of the age, and
especially of the circle with which
they communicate. They are, where
they are not held in check by the lin-
gering respect of the circle for Chris-
tianity, furious radicals, great sticklers
for progress without divine aid, and of
development without a created germ.
Yet the doctrines they teach are such
as they find in germ, if not develop-
ed, in the minds of their mediums.
They sometimes deny every distinct-
ively Christian doctrine, and are sure
to pervert what of the faith they
do not expressly deny. In general,
they assert that the form of religion
called Christianity has had its day,
and that there is a new and snblimer
form about to be developed, and that
they come to announce it, and to
prepare the way for it. The new
form of religion wiU firee the worid
firom the old church, firom bondage
to the Bible, to creeds and dogmas,
the old patriarchal systems and gov-
ernments, and place the religious, so-
cial, and political worid on a higher
plane, and moved by a more energet-
ic spirit of progress. This is the mis-
sion of spiritism. It is destined to
carry on and complete the work
commenced by Christ, but which he
left unfinished, and inchoate.

The special object of the spirits, it
is pretended, is to convince the world
of the immortality of the soul ; but in
what form, what condition, what
sense ? The immortality of the soul,
or its survival of the body, was gene*
rally believed by the heathens, how-
ever addicted to demon-worship they
might be; but the life and immortal-
ity brought to light by the Gospel
they did not bdieve, and the spirits
do not teach it or aflirm it The spir-
its seem to know nothing of immortal
life in God, and into which the sanc-
tified soul enters when it departs this
life, and is purified fix)m all the stains

it may have contracted in the
flesh.

The only immortality tliey offer is
the immortality of evil demons or the
angels who kept not their first estate.
But even of such an immortality for
the human soul, they ofler no proof.
They are lying spirits, and their word
is worthless, and their identity with
human souls once united to human
bodies which they personate, is not
and cannot be established. They
deny the resurrection of the dead,
which St, Paul preached at Athens,
and they give, as we have seen, no
proofe that the soul does not die and
perish with the body. Their doc-
trines are simply calculated to de-
ceive the unwary, to draw them away
from their allegiance to the I.ord of
heaven, and to drag them down to
the region where dwell the angels
that fell

The ethical doctrines of the spirits
are as bad as can be imagined, and
the morals of the advanced spiritists

no virtue. The seniimcnls.
tions should be as free as I
breathe, and to attempt U
them is to war against natuv
They are not voluntary eitW
origin or nature, aiul thei
not and should not be sut
an outward law. Love, th
tells us, is the fulfilling of til
bond of perfection. Hoi
then, to undertake to put
love, to constrain it, or to
to the petty convcntionali
moribund society,
antiquated morality I Takil
of the distinction between '
natural love, which Chiis
charity, and love as a
ment, and as little of the (
between the diflerent sort
even as a natural sentim«
love of parents for children
dren for parents, the love I
the love of country, the lom
and justice, and the love of
for each other, or simply sd

would appear to be of the lowest and sataa lays the foundation.

most revolting sort,
that the spirits give, now and then,
some good advice, and say some true
things; for the object of satan is to
deceive, and his practice is usually to
lie and deceive by telling the truth.
The truth he tells gains him credit,
and secures confidence in him as a
guide. But he takes good care that
the truth he tells shall have all the
effect of falsehood. He gives good
moral advice, but he removes all mo-
tives for following it, and takes away
all moral restraints. He wars against
authority in matters of faith and mo-
rals, as repugnant to the rights of rea-
son, and in pohtical and domestic life
as repugnant to liberty and the
rights of women and children. All
should do right and seek what is
good, but no one should be con-
strained ; only voluntary otiedience
is meritorious ; forced obedience is

easily see, if not blinded by
sions, for the grossest comi
the most beastly immorality
Hence the spiritists vcrf
look upon the marriage 1
Tannical and absurd, and I
doctrine of free love. Th6
is in the love, and when tl
no more, the marriage is
None of our sentiments ■
the will ; hence, self-denial
tural, and immoral. Prosl
wrong, for no love redeem
lows it; and for the sa
it is immoral for a man
man to live together as h
wife, after they have cea
each other. It is easy to
this leads, and we cannot X
<h1 to find conjugal fidelity
oned as a virtue by spiritisl
wives leaving theit
husbands tlicii

their Iwsb

Spiritism and Spiritists.

299

new husband as often as

or wills ; and the husband
5w wife when tired of the
. additional wife or two,
ke, when one at a time
ugh. Indeed, Mormonism

form and the most stricdy
form, of contemporary spi-

woman's-rightism is only
roduct of the same shop,
Libtless many of the women
ay by it are pure-minded
;. But the leaders are spi-
ntimately connected with
le animus of the woman

is hostility to the marriage
he cares and drudgery of
md home life. It threatens
;he least of the corrupting
rous forms of spiritism,
nt, who is a staunch Protes-
hates Catholicity with a
ty hatred, gives, on ade-
lority, a sketch of the im-
)f spiritists which should

community : we make an

3 to notice some further facts
he moral tendency of spiritual -
ave read its claims^ and found
high; but there is abundant
►w that, instead of its being * an-
:ianity revived,* it is the worst
»tianity ever had to nieet We
be satan*s last grand effort to
false for the true Christianity.
ire laid most ingeniously ; and,
watchful, ere people are aware
rill be caught in some of his
usands and millions are already
victims, and, like a terrible tor-
sweeping with destruction on
Occasionally we hear a warn-
om one who has escaped from
ke a mariner from the sinking
most, after they once get into
list 'drcle,' are like the boat-
he control of the terrible whirl-
coast of Norway— destruction is

t witness we introduce is Mr. J.
editor of the New York Path-
was formerly a warm advocate

of spiritualism, and published much in its
favor. He says :

" * Now, after a long and constant watch-
fulness, seeing for months and years its pro-
gress and its practical workings upon its
devotees, its believers, and its mediums, we
are compelled to speak our honest convic-
tion, which is, that the manifestations com-
ing through the acknowledged mediums,
who are designated as rapping, tipping, wri-
ting, and entraiiced mediums, have a bane-
ful influence upon believers, and create
discord and confusion ; that the generality
of these teachings inculcate false ideas, ap-
prove of selfish, individual acts, and endorse
theories and principles which, when carried
out, debase and make them little better than
the brute.'

** Again he says : ' Seeing as we have the
gradual progress it makes with its believers,
particularly its mediums, from lives of m^
ralt'ty to those of sensuality and immorality^
gradually and cautiously undermining the
foundation of good principles, we look back
with amazement to the radical change
which a few months will bring about in in-
dividuals.'

** He says in conclusion : * We desire to
send forth our warning voice ; and if our
humble position as the head of a public
journal, our known advocacy of spiritual-
ism, our experience, and the conspicuous
part we have played amdng its believers;
the honesty and the fearlessness with which
we have defended the subject, will weigh
anything in our £ivor, we desire that our
opinions may be received, and those who
are moving passively down the rushing ra-
pids to destruction, should pause, ere it be
too late, and save themselves firom the blast-
ing influence^ which those manifestations
are causing.'

((

FORBIDDING TO MARRY.

"Among other instructions of the spirits^
the apostle Paul has assured us that they
will be opposed to the marriage laws, ' for-
bidding to marry.' i Tim. iv. 5.

"At the Rutland <Vt) Reform Spiritualist
Convention, held in June, 1858, the follow-
ing resolution was presented and defended :

" * Resolvedy That the only true and natu-
ral marriage is an exclusive conjugal love
between one man and one woman ; and the
only true home is the isolated home, based
upon this exdosive love.'

"The careless reader may see nothing
objectionable in the resolution ; but please
read it again and observe what constitutes
marriage^ according to the resolution, 'an
exclusive coojugal love between one man

Spiritum and Spiritists.

The poison Bcnlimcnl is
covered up by the word 'ant.' Whai con-
■tllulC!) marriage now, according lo the laws
of the land } Do wc undeistand that, when
we see a nolice of a matrtage in a paper,
which took place at a certain time and
place, that Ihcn the parties began to love
each other exclusively i Certainly not ;
but It that time their love was sanctioned
by the proper authorities, and thus they be-
came husband and wife. But ihe resolu-
tion slates that the marriagt should consist
in the 'exclusive conjugal Imie.' Then it
follovfs, when either party loves another ix-
tluiivtly, the first marriage is dissolved, and
Ihey are married again ; and if the other
one does not happen to find a spiritual ' af-
finity," then there is no alternative left but
to make the best of it, aa many have been
compelled to do. According to this resolu-
tion, one is married as often ax his love he-
comes 'exctiun// for any particular individ-
ual. I'his is one item in the boasted ' new
Bodal order,' which the spirits propose 10
establish when the political power is in
their hands. It is called by them the ■ Di-
vine L^aw of Marriage.' A large number of
spiritualists are already carrying out this
resolution practically, regardless of the laws
of the land.

" A similar resolution was presented at
the National Spirilital Convention held in
Chicago, bam Aug. 9th to t4th, 1864. It
was offered by Dr. A. G. Parker, of Boston,
chairman of the committee on social rela-
tions. Thii point is strongly urged by the
spitils and spiritualists.

"At the Rutland Reform Convention,
which closed Jane »7ih, 1858, the resolution
under consideration was earnestly advoca-
ted by able men and women. Said Mrs.
Julia Branch, of New York, as rep'^ried in
Tilt Banner of Light, July lolh, 1858, when
speaking on Ihe resolution : 'I am aware
that 1 have chosen almost a forbidden aul?-
jcct; forbidden from the fact that any one
who fan or dan look the marriage question
in ihe face, candidly and openly denouncing
the institution as the sole cause of woman's
degradation and misery, are objects of sus-
picion, of scorn, and opprobrious epithets.'
" She further remarked in the defence of
the resolution, and the rights of women,
' She must demand her freedom ; her
tight to receive the equal wages of man in
pajinent for her labor ; htr right la halt
thi/lirtn vihtH lit taiU, and by vjpnt.' "

Much more to ihe same effect, and
even more sUrtling, we might tiuoie;
we might give ihe account of the

s]iiritisi commtinily at Bei!
but we have no wish to di
readers, and this is enougt
purpose ; it is sufficient to pn
not under the delusion, that
is of Satanic origin, and to h
ed by all who wish to rem^i
sane, and to lead honest an<
lives. We are not dispo*
alarmists, and. like the major
countrjmen, are more likely
the side of o]>timism than
mism; but we cannot coi
the rapid spread of spiriti
1S47, when it begaji with
girls, without feeling that
great danger threatens the
world, and that there is amp
for all who do not wish to se
worship supplanting the w
God throughout the land,
their guard. Mr. Grant, w
to be well informed on thi
tells us that since that peri
ism "has become world-w
influence, numbering amor
dent supporters many of
men and women of both c
Ministers, doctors, lawyen
congressmen, governors, j
queens, kings, and emperc
religions, are bowing to its
and showing their sympari
teachings."

Mr. Grant should not ss
religions;" some Catholics
become spiritists, but th<
become so, and persist in
spiritism without severing t
from the church. Some
have been told by the spi
come Catholics; but the c
required them to give up
and they have either done
her communion, like Dani
and returned to their o
with the demons. The c
bids her children to have
ings with devils. But
reclificatbn the sta:

spiritism and Spiritists.

301

mL The spread of spiritism
n prodigious, and proves not

I power and cunning of satan,
\, the way for his success had

II prepared, and that no small
of the modem world were in
sd condition of the old world
epoch of the great Gentile
', and ready to return to the

darkness and superstition,

and corruption, from which
pel had rescued them, or, at
d rescued their ancestors,
now not the number of spir-
3ur country. We have seen
that they reckon their num-
millions; but there can be no
lat they include a very large

of our whole population.
; feet anything to do with the
ng increase of vice and crime
country within the last few
le undeniable corruption of
nd manners, and the growing
y of murder and suicide ?
Sprague, an honorable and an
lan and a true patriot, stated,
r day, in his place in the Sen-
ile United States, that our

is morally and politically
rrupt than any other country
vilized world. We hope he is
I, but we are afraid that he is
lly wrong. It is idle to attri-

corruption to the influences
ate civil war, and still idler

than idle, to attribute it, as
, to the heavy influx of for-
for, though among those are
d-world criminals, the great

the foreigners, when they
?, are far more moral, honest,
conscientious, than the ave-
ative Americans ; and though
n prove that " evil communi-
omipt good manners," much
triot's hope for the future de-

them, especially the Catho-
>n of them, if, in due sea-
r children can be brought

under the influence of the church,
and receive a proper Catholic train-
ing.

Unhappily, the simple, natural vir-
tues of former times, such as existed
in ancient Greece and Rome, and ex-
ist even now in some pagan and Mo-
hammedan countries, have, to a fear-
ful extent, been lost with us, and the
sects have nothing with which to sup-
ply their place, or to oppose to this
terrible satanic invasion. They have
indeed done much to prepare the
way for it, and are doing still more,
by their opposition to the church, to
render it successful. But, though the
danger is great and pressing, we are
not disposed to think, with Mr. Grant,
that we are in what he calls the
"world's crisis." The danger is fer
less than it was ; because the satanic
origin and character of the so-called
spirit-manifestations are widely sus-
pected, and are beginning to be ex-
posed. Satan is powerless in the open
day. He is never dangerous when
seen and known to be satan. He
must always disguise himself as an
angel of light, and appear as the de-
fender of some cause which, in its
time and place, is good, but, mis-
timed and misplaced, is evil. He has
done wonders in our day as a philan-
thropist, and met with marvellous suc-
cess as a humanitarian, and will, per-
haps, meet with more still as the
champion of free love and women's
rights. But he has no power over
the elect, and, though he may besiege
the virtuous and the holy, he can
captivate only the children of disobe-
dience, who are already the victims
of their own pride, vanity, lust, or
unbelief.

The end of the world may be
at hand, and these lying signs and
wonders may be the precursors of
antichrist; but we do not think the
end is just yet. Faith has not yet
wholly died out, and the church has

302

Spiritism and Spiritists.

seen, perhaps, darker days than the
present. The power of Christ, or
his patience, is not yet exhausted ; the
gospel of the kingdom has not yet
been preached to all nations; three
fourths of the human race remain as
yet unconverted, and we cannot be-
lieve that the church has as yet fulfill-
ed her mission, and Christianity done
its work. Too many of the sentinels
have slept at their posts, and there
has been a fearful lack of vigilance
and alertness of which the enemy has
taken advantage. The sleepers in
Zion are many; but these satanic
knocks and raps, and these tippings
of tables, and this horrid din and
racket of the spirits to indicate their
presence, can hardly fail to awaken
them, unless they are really sleeping
the sleep of death. The church is
still standing, and if her children will
watch and pray, she can battle with the
enemy as succesfully as she has done
so many times before.

Many Catholics have had their
doubts of the reality of the alleged
spirit-manifestations, and, even con-
ceding them as facts, have been slow
to recognize their satanic origin and
character. But those doubts are now
generally removed. The fearful mo-
ral and spiritual ravages of spiritism
have dispelled or are fast dispelling

them, and it will go hard but h
now as always and everywhei
satan regards as a splendid
shall turn out against him an
him to shame. Thus far in
against the Son of God all h
ries have been his defeats.

One thing is certain, that 1
power there is to resist this
invasion is the Catholic Chur<
there is, unless we greatly
ourselves, a growing interest
Catholic question far beyo:
that has heretofore been felt
ing and well-disposed men \
feel the impotence of the seci
they have no divine life, and
vine support; that they st
human folly, rather than ever
man wisdom. Eminent Pn
ministers eloquently proclai;
conclusively show that Protes
was a blunder, and has pn
failure ; and there springs up «
ing feeling among the more
gent and well-disposed of oi
Catholic countrymen, that th
ment rendered against the chi
the Reformers in the sixteenth
ry was hasty, and needs n
perhaps a reversal. This feelii
continues to grow, can augur
for the ultimate success of sat
his followers.

Daybreak.

303

DAYBREAK.

AFTER VI.
INTIMENTS.

er's family took the full
holiday at the seaside,
re the lark, and watch-
me in : radiant, solemn
jht and silence; tender,
ms, less like day than a
and angry, magnificent
I with stormy colors all
3on to be quenched in
of rain.

hammocks slung out
trees, till nature adopt-
er own, and little wild

and went about them

Mrs. Lewis called, one
r hammock over to the
member how the foxes
icis — wasn't it St. Fran-
out their paws to shake
J, and said, * How do
Yancis?' and he gave
1, and said, * How do

r nothing of the kind,"
.nt reply. " But I know
Cru— "

;s the little lady. " Why
m that my legend is
sublime, whether true
it will be true when the
js for which all good

For the last hour I
ing to get acquainted
; but just as I thought
tood me, and as I was

my hand to him, the
larted away. At this
perched in the very top
, and peering down at
e a hyena. Alas !"

They wandered on the beach at
evening, singing, talking, silent ; or if
in merry mood, skooning little flat
stones over the water, and counting
how many wave-tips they would trip
before falling.

^^ Mon aniant nCaime — un peu —
beaucoup — passionnkment — pas du
toutr laughed Mrs. Lewis, seeing •
Miss Hamilton coimting to herself.
"You must only try that oracle in
flower petals, my dear. To count it
in salt water signifies tears."

Sometimes they floated out in the
harbor, and felt the fi^esh breath of the
ocean, while the treacherous waters
lapped, and fawned, and gurgled
about the bows of their boat, and
overhead the sky was thick with stars.

All this was not with the ladies
mere idle pleasure, but was as serious-
ly planned as it was heartily enjoyed.
They had resolved that whatever ex-
citing discussions and differences the
gentlemen should have abroad, at
home they should find nothing but
peace. Politics were banished; and
they sometimes even restrained their
impatience to hear the war-news when
they suspected that the relation was
likely to produce any unpleasant en-
tanglement. Without being religious,
they yet had some perception of a
pathway lying changeless and peace-
ful, far above parties and nationali-
ties, and they felt that woman's pro-
per place is there.

The gentlemen soon learned to
submit to a restraint which they would
never have imposed on themselves.
When they stepped out at the little
station near their cottage, their discus*
sions were at an end.

" There is our flag of truce," Mr.

304

Daybreak,

\ ■

I
I

Lewis would say, pointing to the
-thread of smoke that showed, over the
trees, Mrs. James's kitchen-fire just
kindled to prepare their dinner. " Un-
derstand, Mr. Southard, I oppose
both you and Louis tooth and nail,
and I'd hlte to fight it out with you
now. But our time is up; and there
are three little girls behind the trees
there who would break their hearts if
we should go home with cross faces.
Let's shake hands till next time,"

The only news of which they could
all speak fearlessly and with pleasure
-was what concerned Mr. Granger's
cousin. Scarcely a week passed that
did not bring some laudation of him.
He was one of those men who, with-
out effort, are always conspicuous
wherever they go. Opportunities that
others sought with pain presented
themselves unsought to him j and he
had a gallant, dashing, and, withal, a
lordly way that embeUished even bril-
liant exploits.

" Upon my word," his cousin said,
" at this rate it is not impossible that
he may be made lieutenant-general."

Mr. Southaid was, perhaps, the
hardest to keep within bounds, proba-
bly because he felt himself religioasly
obliged to "cry aloud and spare not."
But even he was subdued after a
wliile. He seemed indeed too de-
pendent on the ladies lo willingly
offend them. All tlie time he was
not in the city he spent in their com-
pany, unbending as much as was pos-
sible to him, that his presence might
not be a restraint on their pleasures.
He brought his books to the parlor,
and had his special comer there, the
" lion's den," he called it, with a slight
toui^h of reproach in his voice, when
he saw how the others kept away
from its vicinity. He rendered him-
self agreeable in many ways. He
read aloud to them, he played and
sang for them, sometimes he took the
brush fi-om Miss Hamilton's hand.

and helped her with a bolder Iik
than she could achieve.

" It takes a strong hand to give a
fine stroke," she said, " Where I
woiUd be delicate, 1 am only soft."

" Let me finish this for you, since
the stippling is done," he said, as she
paused to contemplate a major-gcnt-
ral reposing pacifically on her easd,
" I will not touch the face. Say what
you will, there is a softness and tidi-
ness in your shading which I can
never attain. I may have a fine as
bold touch, but it is hard. Shall I
deepen this background a little to
throw the figure out? And may 1
intensify his shoulder-straps ?"

Margaret left her work to him,
and, taking possession of his dm,
divided her attention between a book.
and watching Dora at play with Ktr
relia outside.

Since they left the city the clnld
had been set loose from all city ifr
straints, and turned out lo coniion
with bees and grasshoppers, harro*-
ing the soul of Mrs. James by iHe
number and heinousness of her soiled
frocks and stockings, but drawing in
full draughts of health. Both Uoa
and her father were bankers. Bat )n>
bank in the city dealt in pa|>ct and
specie; hers was a flower-bank. When
she wanted him to buy \\ei anything
she brought him buttercups, nhicb
were gold dollars with handles lo
them, and he scrupulously kept ac-
count and returned her change No
lover could wear in his buttonhole Ihe
rosebud presented by his lady's band
with a more tender pride than thit
father cherished for the bunch of wiW-
flowers given him by his little <laagh-
ter.

Mrs. Lewis approached the inii»-
ter's table, and began turning o«f
his books. " I don't know anything"
she said moumfullr, opening a Gredi
copy of Homer, and passing her fin-
gers caressingly over the dear liale

Daybreak,

305

tors. " Wallace, wasn't it ? —
Horace Binney —

' Doubly dead,
!n that he died so young,'

he * arrowy certainty of Gre-
jes.' Woe is me ! I cannot
e point. I can only see the

»•

■et looked up with an ex-

from the book in her hand.

Coleridge, dpropos of hav-
ished his earlier poems with-
:tion, writes, * I was afraid of
ling the weed for fear of

the flower.' Snapping !
►et would have chosen that
he flower-stem that you can

be of sudden and luxuriant
lade up of water and color,
fibre enough to hold the two

As I read that, I thought
of a red tulip bursting up
d hasty through the moist,
>uld. That sends me out-
want to see weeds and flow-
ig tangled together."
a little and let me go with
r. Southard said. "And

let Mrs. Lewis read us one
rms, as she promised to do."
2wis had been for years one
pretty lady writers of which
ly is full, by no means an
dreaming of any such dis-
3ut writing acceptably to
s, and sometimes pleasing a
itical public. But she had
le pen from the day when a
iblisher, meaning to compli-

issued a volume of "Ex-
m her writings.
lime !" she cried in dismay.
: a bottle ? There were my
* fancies torn from their
d set up in rows, like flies
transfixed on pins. I shud*
wrote no more."
ivc you for asking me," she
[f. Southard. " I dare say
; to hear my rhyme, and

VOL. EK. — 20

will think it very pretty. And she
read:

BEATING THE BARS.

O mornbg air I O pale, pure fire I
Wrap and consume my bonds away.

This stifling mesh of sordid flesh
Shuts in my spirit firom the day.

" Through sudden chinks the radiance blinks,
And drives the wingid creature wild.
She hears rejoice each ringing vdcn,
She guesses at each happy child.

'* In fleeting glints are shining hints
Of freer beings, good and glad ;
Her dream can trace each lovely face.
Each form, in lofty beauty clad.

" She hears the beat <^ joyous feet

That break no flower, fear no thorn ;
And almost feels the breeze that steals
From out the ever-growing mom.

" She hears the flow of voices low.

And strains to catch the half-known tongue.
She hears the gush of streams that nisli
Their tlirilling waters into one.

" With longing sighs, her baffled eyes
She sets where bum the unseen stars.
With fhmtic heats her wings she beats,
And breaks them on the stubborn bars..

CI I

(• (

O light I* she cries, * unseal mine eyes.
Or blind me in thine ardent glow.

OUfe and breath I O life in death I
O bonds I dissolve, and let me go.

Let drop this crust of cankering rust.
The only crown my brow hath won ;

Shake off the sears of briny tears.
And diy my pinions in the sun 1* '*

'*You don't mean it!" exclaimed
Margaret

" My dear," said Mrs. Lewis, " I do
not mean it as a rule, but as an ex-
ception. That was written during
my equinoctial."

Miss Hamilton waited for an expla-
nation.

" You don't know it yet,*' the lady
continued, " but you will learn in time
that every woman has her line-gale.
It usually comes between thirty and'
forty, sooner or later, and is more or
less violent. After that, we settle-
down and let the snows fall on us."

Ending, she laughed a little; butr
there was a tightening of the lines
about the mouth that showed at least
remembered pain.

Margaret, going out, stopped to
look over Mr. Southard's shoulder,
drawn thare by the absent, dreamy

306

Daybreak,

expression of his face. If he was
painting backgrounds, she thought,
what mountains of melting blue,
what far-away waters, half cloud, half
glitter, must be stealing to life beneath
his hand !

He had placed a blank sheet on the
easel, and was idly covering it with
fragmentary improvisations. Under
the heading of " synon)rms " he had
written, " Cogito quia sum, etstim quia
cogito,^' the text illustrated by a draw-
ing of a cat running round after her
own tail.

'* Or a mouse going in at the same
hole it came out from," thought Mar-
garet.

He drew steady, straight lines, cross-
ing them oflf with wonderful regular-
ity; then some airy grace stole down
to the tips of his firm white fingers,
and the ends of the lines leaved and
budded out, audacious tendrils draped
the severest angles, and stars and cres-
cents peeped through the spaces.
Half impatiently he returned to geo-
metrical figures ; but pentagons group-
ed themselves to look like five-petaled
blossoms or star-crystals of fix^t, and
hexagons gathered themselves into a
mosaic pavement whereon a sandalled
. foot was set

"This is the Nile," he said, going
over all with bold, flowing lines ; " and
here comes Cleopatra's barge, the
dusky queen dropped among her cush-
ions, a line of steady glow showing
under each lowered eyelid, cords of
cool pearls trying in vain to press into
quiet her untamable pulses.

"This is a close-shut forest solitude,
with a carpet of greenest, softest moss,
whereon I lie IJce Danae while the
heavens shower gold on me."

Then, with a start, came recollec-
tkuif and the rush-tip became an asp
to the Egyptian, and the Greek was
drowned in ink.

"Come out!" he said abruptly.
^The air is dose here."

"Will you come, Mi
asked Miss Hamilton, k
h-om the door.

The lady shook her he
hausted manner.

" Aura," said Margaret
reached the veranda, ** w
down to the beach with i

"Thank you, dear," j
gently, " I do not care to

Miss Hamilton's eyes ]
tie impatiently. She did
way in which they witli
selves when she was with
ard But after going a A
glanced back at Aurelia,
smiled. At the moment
that there was something
Lewis's expression, an i
ousness and dignity unde
ness.

The day was sultry, b
perfect, the green as fresh
the harbor purple and sp
the sky a deep azure, exc
rim of darkness lay piled
north and west, cloud-pe£
showing as hard and shai
of stone, but illuminate
then by lightnings that st
ly widiin them, changing
shadows to molten gold, <
dazzling crinkled flashes fi
point. It seemed a gala
ture, so wide, so brilliant, s
ly beautiful was everythin

"'Visibly in his gard
God ! * " quoted Marga
abroad with deliglit.

" The god Pan, you
the minister, whose little
gayety seemed to have 1>
ly extinguished.

" The Creator prone
work good," she said.

"Yes; but we have <
that," was the reply. " V
the heart in the wrong pk

" Moses and Molib^
Miss Hamilton, amused a

Daybreak.

307

; then added aloud, " Christ
to the lilies of the field."
a moral and a reproof, yes.
e them not a text, but the il-

1 of a text. This delight in
e nature is not harmful if
ate to the thought of God;

2 it is a lure. It leads to iha-
, or to sentimental religion
'orse than none, since it bars
to a true piety."

iret made no reply. In spite
f, his remarks depressed her,

some faint shadow over the
f the scene.

breakers are coming in," Mr.
I said presently, in a tone of
It showed his regretful sense
g been disagreeable. "We
e a tempest."

had reached the shore, and
joking off over the water,
id emerald wave they watch-
rolling toward them, paused
it, then rose and flung itself
feet, rustling away in foam
ng, silky water, no longer a
but a broken.

Southard," Margaret said
ninute, "you know that I
Ice to be religious, if I knew
t it doesn't seem possible. I
>ne who, in the dark, wanting
to a house, knocks all about

without finding a door. I

g — in a sort of way — " She

What would he say if

in what way she was try-

; up all," he said ; " forget self;
k only of God."
t you propose to me is not a
t a pedestal 1" she exclaimed,
from him to go back to the
" And I am not marble."
llowed her, looking both hurt
oyed. Outside the door she
and bending toward a little
>f violets that grew there,
warning finger in their inno-

. cent blue eyes. " Don't look at me,"
she said. " You're wicked !"

" Do not give all your kindness to
those who think only of your tempo-
ral welfare," said the minister hastily.
" Remember those also who care for
your souL"

"Oh! why should I remember
those who do me good for God*s
sake?" said Miss Hamilton coldly.
" Let him reward them ; I shall not"

There was no one in the pailor
when they went in ; but they did not
perceive that at first it was so dim.
The sky had darkened rapidly, the
clouds rolling up as if self-impeUed ;
for there was scarcely a breath of air
stirring. A shadow had swept the
sparkle off the water, and all the wes-
tern view was shrouded in gloom.
Southward a single point shone out
like a torch amid the surrounding
obscurity, a beam of sunlight drop-
ping on it through a cleft cloud, and
showing in a golden path visible
across the heavens. Suddenly, like a
torch, it was quenched ; and all was
darkness.

Mr. Southard stood before an open
window, with his hands clasped be-
hind him, and his clear eyes lifted
heavenward. Margaret heard him
repeating lowly, " * Canst thou send
lightnings, and will they go, and will
they return ariQ say to thee, Here we
are ?' "

" After all," she said, " God is love.
And however circumstances may
hem us in fix)m each other, he looks
down on all. Perhaps some day,
lifting us, each after his own way, he
will show us not only himself, but
one another, face to face. I think
that there are more mistakes than sins
in the world ; and God is love."

" God is justice I" said the minis-
ter austerely.

His woids were almost lost in a
low rumble of thunder that curdled
all about the heavens. Margaret

stood beside liim, and looked out at
the piled-up blackness shot through
by flying thunderbolts.

"Ossa upon PeUon," she said,
"It is the battle of the gods over
again, and Jove is eitry where, ' tread-
ing the thunders from the doilds of

As she spoke, a flash sprang from
the north and a flash from the west.
and caught in their glittering toils the
grouped inky crests of the tempest,
that for an instant stood out against
the pale blue of the zenitli, a stupen-
dous, writhing Laocoon. Then the
lightnings leaped from that height to
the midst of the harbor, and stung
the his.sing waves till far and wide
they quivered with a froth of flame.
As they fell, the heavens seemed to
burst in one awful report.

There were cries through the
house, and the whole family, servants
and all, came rushing into the parior.
Mr. Southard was leaning against the
wall, with both hands over his face.
The shock had been severe, and for a
littie while he was stunned.

" Are you hurt ?" asked Aurelia,
going to him at once.

He recovered himself, and looked
up. "No. Where is Miss Hamilton?"

Miss Lewis drew back immediate-
ly, and showed him Margaret hold-
ing the frightened Dora in her arms
and hushing her cries.

"God be thanked!" he exclaimed.
" We have all escaped."

" Are tlie skies falling ?" cried Mrs.
Lewis.

It seemed indeed as though they
were. That thunder-clap had loos-
ened the pent rain, and it came pour-
ing down in floods, veiling them in
grayncss, the multitudinous plash and
patter mingling with a sound like my-
riad chariot wheels drii'ing overhead.

They closed the windows, which
immediately became sheeted with
water, the servants went back to their

places, Dora took course,
tureil to uncover one blue
which she looked askance at
dow. Mrs. Lewis began tO'
ossthetic view of the mat
Miss Hamilton a practical, i^
carried out by setting hersd
die a fire against the conrifl
absent ones. They were si
drenched.

She had wood brought,
the pine boughs from the
and, kneeling on the hearf
arranging the pile after d
scientific country fashion,
back-log, back-stick, and
then the finished pyramid,
smoothly with the chimneyj
pretty enough to bum, built'
amber and golden-hearted, 1
of silver and cinnamon.
else in woods so beautiful
birch colors. '

Then it must be lighted i
mony, being their first fire, I
tane a little belated. Fresh,
roses were snatched in out o!
to crown the pyre, and the b
the temerity to desi>atch the
as officiating priest, with a ^
to bring sacred fire from th(
grate. Lucifer matches wi
be thought of.

The lambent flame shot
out through the chinks, thei
ed and grew broader, tongu
lapped the sticks, and
and reappeared, becomi
each time, blistering brownl]
very bark, catching at the
rolling it uj) and off the stic]
umns of milk-white smoke
pod by half-sheathed fl;
curled over, mimicking cv<
of convolution.

Mr. Southard recited

Daybreak,

309

e shut thickly down, a
jn a broad blaze burst

the logs, and began to

roaring like a lion.

s gathered about the

which was reflected in

but Margaret glanced
►rm, then went up to the
T entry from which a
ed down the townward
jan walking to and fro
ng her hands, and
the wind and the rain
lows. A sudden dark-
er had settled upon her.

than that atmospheric
vhich many are suscep-
lan a mere vague im-
dl; it was a thought as
d as if some one had
given it utterance in
and it held her like a
Some one whom she

that instant dying, or

grew cold; she shook
ue fit.

been too happy. She
:nown that it could not
id known it. In all

months, had she not
sweet moment with ea-
lad felt, and must again
imess of thirst? Had
tantly said to herself, It
:o last ?

meant for earthly hap-

thought, wringing her

shook in the clutch of

oises came up from the

i voices answered them

I rocks and from out

s^roods. A great wall

ave risen between her

with a ceaseless swing

Harding the entrance.

her knees and prayed,

terrible, voiceless pray-

i heart strains upward,

but utters no petition, because it
dares not think what it fears or what
it desires.

Leaning exhausted then against
the window frame, whom should she
see but her great drenched hero strid-
ing down the road, no form but his,
she knew, though a slouched hat cov-
ered his face, and a long cloak wrap-
ped him fi-om neck to heel.

In a flash, the great wall changed
its fi'ont, and now shut her inside
paradise. She ran joyfully down-
stairs to open the door, and caught
the wind and rain in her face, but
caught also with them a smile.

" Where is Mr. Lewis ?" she asked,
thinking of that gentleman by a hap-
py inspiration.

Mr. Granger stepped in and shook
himself like a hailf-drowned New-
foundland dog. " Mr. Lewis stopped
to drink General Sinclair's health. He
will come down in the next train."

" General ?"

"Yes; Maurice is made a briga-
dier. He doesn't have to climb the
ladder, you see, the ladder comes
down to him. And truly he is a
gallant fellow. He goes in fi-ont of
his men, ancf laughs at danger as he
laughs at fortune."

"I've got a fire in the parlor for
you," she said.

He looked at her smilingly, pleased
at the childish delight in his coming
which she did not try to hide. Why
should she? "Have you? That's
pleasant. Now help me off with my
cloak. I cannot unfasten that buc-
kle at the back of the neck. Stand
on the stair with the railing between
us, that you may not get wet."

As she stood near him, she caught
a sweet breath of English violets.

" I brought them out for you," he
said, giving them to her. " See ! not
a stem is broken."

She ran upnstairs to put the flowers
in her chamber— they were too sa^

310

Daybreak.

cred to be shared with others — and
coming down, entered the parlor
just after Mr. Granger. Presently
Mr. Lewis appeared, and they had
dinner.

The conversation chanced to turn
on presentiments; and since they
were all in very friendly humor, Miss
Hamilton told of her afternoon ter-
ror, making it as presentable as pos-
sible. " I suffered a few minutes of
mortal fear,'* she said. " I seemed
to know that some dreadful accident
had happened to one of the family.
What is the meaning of those im-
pressions that are often false, but
sometimes true, and that come to us
so suddenly, uninvited and imex-
pected ?"

"They are the conclusion of
which a woman is one of the pre-
mises," Mr. Lewis said in his rough
way. " Did you ever hear of a man
having presentiments? Of course
not. He may have if his liver is out
of order; not otherwise."

"Fm not bilious," pouted Miss
Hamilton.

Mrs. Lewis had been listening
with interest She was one of those
persons who believe that there are
more things in heaven and earth
than are dreamed of in most philoso-
phies. Her husband called her su-
perstitious.

"I believe in those presentiments
which come to us unexpectedly,"
she said. " We may know tiiat they
come from outside by the shock of
their coming. We may not be
clear. We may think that they
point to the past or the present,
when really they indicate the future.
I think that what we call a true pre-
sentiment is a communication from
some outside intelligence."

Margaret started and looked un-
easily at the speaker. Mr. I-e^-is
regarded his iR-ife ^ith affectionate
contempt. '^lliere's the woman

who always wishes wnen
two white-faced horses cor
ward her, and when she sees
moon over her right shoul<
who won't wear an oi>al bee
an unlucky gem, though i
favorite. That's the way i
men. Their manner of an
conclusions is a caution to
sense.

Mrs. Lewis sugared her s
ries, and seemed to so!
"*Two wings are better 1
legs,' says the butterfly to t
pillar."

Mr. Granger good-nature<
to the rescue. " It is my <
he said, " that these excessi
sonable people make as m;
takes as the most imaginati
their mistakes are not so
though often far worse. Tl
fresh spontaneous feeling, th
pen enthusiasm, they wouni
that they cannot heal. In
matters, I set reason above
when we would measure tl
of the new Jerusalem, we m
a reed of gold, and it must t
hand of an angel."

Mr. Southard had also his
say in defence of woman aga
Lewis's slighting remarks,
serious defence was more i
than the others' laughing attai
spoke honorably, and often tr
in the tone of one who und
the subject, root and branc
three ladies listening felt as
were three primers with pn
tures, and nice litde good h
large print, which Mr. Soutl
read with edification to hi]
the intervals of more serious

"Woman," he said, •
is — " And paused there, cat<
impatient sparkle in Miss Hs
eyes.

"Oh! I know," she <a
with the stammering eagem

Daybreak.

can spell a big word — ^** I
lat woman is ! * Hominis con-
[ — I read it in a book."
ninbter sat silent and con-

opose the health of General
' said Mr. Lewis,
dinner the party gathered
e parlor fire, and as it fell
ne to coal, told stories of
IS, and tornadoes, and ship-
the fearful recitals intensi-
eir sense of comfort and

they talked, the storm pass-
', and there was only the
' vines swinging against the
id the ceaseless murmur of
When they opened the
clouds of perfume came in.
was quite clear, and there
nge of orange yet lingering
est. In the east was a still
aurora, and the full moon,
up, feathered with a crest
:very crisp, bright wavelet,
all went out and strolled
the beach. Every leaf and

1 blossom, and the long line
ves, were hung full of glitter-
<irops, and the grass shone
Lthed in burnished silver,
sighed and were silent. A
t lovely and peaceful is al-
\ a rebuke.

CHAPTER VII.

march, so great, so powerful, must die,

ist die."

le to him who liveth for ever.'*

g that whole summer there
uiet but potent influence at
nder Margaret Hamilton's
il life ; ever at work, yet si-
carcely recognized by her-
le spark struck out by Mr.
I in his anti-Catholic lecture
dy kindling in the depths
sing.

There was not a thought of con-
troversy in her mind. As she read,
one doctrine after another appeared,
and showed its harmony with some
need of hers; or if not needed, it was
not antagonistic, like the pleasant
face of a stranger who may become
a friend. Fortunately, no person
and no book had said to her, You
must believe ; and so awakened oppo-
sition. Or if the obligation had
been insinuated, she had not per-
ceived it. She felt that it was for
her alone to say what she must be-
lieve, as long as she invited truth
generously, and was ready to accept
it when it appeared to her with a
truthful face. Of course she was not
one to make syllogisms at every step,
and, being a woman, was not likely
to think that necessary. She looked
up to find one truth after another
standing smiling and confident on
the threshold of her heart, and as
smilingly she bade them welcome.
Reason gave up the reins to intui-
tion, and light came without a cloud.
She realized nothing, till, startied by
some outside call that woke a many-
voiced stir of hitherto silent guests,
she opened her eyes, and found her-
self a Catholic

ITie first emotion was one of incre-
dulity; then followed delight, min-
gled with a fear which was merely
the shadow cast by old bugbears that,
looked at fearlessly in that new light,
faded and fled like ghosts at dawn-
ing. Then all surprise faded away.
She recognized her proper place.
She was at home.

But how to tell Mr. Granger!
For she must tell him without de-
lay. It was not an easy task. If he
had suspected, perhaps she could
have spoken; but he never dreamed
of the change in her. If the subject
had been introduced, she must have
spoken ; but for some reason, the " pa-
pists" were allowed to rest unscathed

in the family conversations. It was
the war; it was General Sinclair,
sabre in liand, riding into battle as
if it were &fite; it was the weather,
a whole month of persistent and most
illogical rain, jjouring down through
west winds, through dry moons,
through red sunsets, tluough every
sign that should bring clear skies,
Taurus being clerk of the weather,
they concluded ; it was when they
should go back to town — " Not till
the trees should resume specie pay-
ment," was Mr. Granger's professional
dictum; it was any and everything
but theology. And so the weeks
went past, and October came, and
the story was not told. But he must
know before they returned (o town,
for then she was to be baptized.

Her uneasiness did not escape Mr.
Granger, and in some measure it
communicated itself lo him. He per-
ceived that she wished to say some-
Uiing to him, yet was alraid to speak.

" After all," he thought, ■' why
should I wait for her to begin ? She
is as timid, sometimes, as much of a
baby, as my Uora, I ilare say it is
some foolish thing, only tit lo laugh
aL I must help her."

It was Sunday. Mr. Southard was
in town, Mr. and Mrs. Lewis and
Aurelia taking theii farewell walk in
(he pine woods, for the family were
Jo leave the seashore that week, and
JJora was in the kitchen, hushing lo
iileep an interesting family of kittens.
Miss Hamilton walked up and down
ihe piazza, and Mr. Granger sat just
inside one of the windows, looldtig at
her. He saw that she occasionally
glanced his way, and hesitated, and
4hat with some suspense or fear her
face had grown very pale.

He leaned on the sill, as she came
IMist, and regarded her anxiously.

"You are not looking well," he
said. " I hope that nolliing troubles

JQK."

to him imi
eagerly; a faint smile just
her lips, and fading again.

" I wanted to tell you; bi
alraid," she said, speaking |
out of breath.

"I am sorry that you av
of me. Have 1 ever given 3
son to be ?"

Margaret could not look
but leaned against a pillar j|
window, and averted her fku

"I was afraid only becj|
might think — "

She stopped.

" My dear child, what a
you are ! " he exclaimed, hat
ing. " You are worse tbaf
She had not such an air a
when she broke my precious
plate. Must lapply thcthumbi

She turned toward him s
and will) a look stopped his

" Would you be much diq
Mr. Granger, if I should be \
lie ?" she asked; tlien held h<
while she awaited his reply.

His first expression was \
utter astonishment-

" But you are not ia
said, after a moment ''Thti|
a fancy,"

" Don't believe thai I" sd
garet. " I am so firmly a (
that I would die for the faith.
been growing in my mind
time ; and now the work is I
I could not go back, even tc
you, Mr. Granger. I must fo)

" Certainly," he said very
looking down. " No one bii
to interfere with your coW
Do you intend lo become Q
Catholic, and leave youi Oira
for that ?" ,

" I do not know how to
one thing and say another,"
plied. " 1 am lo be baft;
as I go in town.''

Daybreak.

313

ibrupt, almost defiant ;
ily because she was

r drew himself up

mind is so fully made
rangements perfected,
urse, no more to be
: matter. I am sur-
lave not been led to
I of the sort; but I
le right nor the desire
r religious opinions,
iscience is free in this

ire displeased !" she
lulously ; for every
n like ice upon her

t expect me to be
am not a Catholic,"

lied heavily under the
)f her cross. "You
way ?"

: her in astonishment.
When I say that I
yz desire to interfere
I, I mean that I am
te you or to make
vith you on account
\ is to be changed
it."

cted him to ask some
It not a word more
le seemed to think
was disposed of.
vrung her heart like
(Terence; but he was
He thought, "She
lis without confiding
s me only when she
\ for me to question
m to know she must
)luntarily."

moment, then turned
ent in at the door,
her chamber.
aet again, Mr. Gran-
quite as usual. He

was even more scrupulously respect-
ful than formerly. But she felt the
chill of all that courtesy that had
once been kindness. The next day
she went in town, and was baptized.
The sooner the better, she thought
But, if she had expected any delight
or conscious change to follow the
reception of the sacrament, she was
disappointed. There was only that
calm which follows the consciousness
of being in the right way. The bap-
tism was strictly private; no one
present but the two necessary wit-
nesses; and after it was over, she
took the cars back to the country.

" Everything is peaceful," she
thought, walking through the silent
woods, now burning with autumn
colors. " Everything is sweet," she
added, as, coming in sight of the
house, she saw little Dora running
joyfully out to meet her.

"When you come back, I'm glad
all over," said the child.

• That evening Mr. Southard came
home alone, and with a very grave
face. "I have bad news for you,"
was his first greeting on entering the
parlor.

Mrs. Lewis started up with a cry.
Miss Hamilton sank back in her
chair.

" General Sinclair is killed."
"Thank God!" exclaimed both
ladies.

They thought that some accident
had happened to Mr. Granger or
Uncle Charles," explained Aurelia,
seeing the minister's astonishment

" Some people never know how
to tell bad news !" cried Mrs. Lewis,
her face still crimson with that first
terrified leap of the heart "Can't
you see, Mr. Southavd, that you
ought to have begun by saying that
our family were all well? Look at
that girl ! She is like a snow image.
Oh! well, excuse me; but you did
give me such a start Now tdl us

314

Daybreak.

the whole, please. I am very sor-

Poor Mr. Southard took his scold-
ing with the greatest humility, but
was so disconcerted by it that he
could hardly finish the recital.

Mr. Granger had received a tele-
gram from Washington, and had
gone on immediately to bring the
remains of his cousin home for burial.
He wished them to go into town, and
have the house open for the funeral.
General Sinclair's wife was ill in
Montreal, and could not be present
Mr. Granger had telegraphed her
before starting.

ITiey went to town the next day,
and hastened to put the house in
order; and on the second day Mr.
Granger arrived.

It was impossible to have a private
funeral. Mr. Sinclair had a host of
friends, his reputation was a brilliant
one, and he had died in battle.
Military companies offered their es-
cort, and the public desired to honor
the dead by some demonstration.
Finally, Mr. Southard opened his
church, and consented to preach the
sermon.

One would have thought that some
public benefactor had died. The
church was crowded, and crowds
lined the streets through which the
procession passed. Many a great
and good man has died, yet received
no such o>'ation.

A militar)' funeral is the sublime of
mourning. We may not know whose
memory is thus honored, whose si-
lence thus lamented ; but those wail-
ing strains of music touch our heart-
strings as the wind sweeps the wind-
harp, and tears start at the obsequies
of him whose name we never heard,
whose face we never looked upon.
Perhaps it is that requiem music
mourns not that one man is dead,
but that all men must die.

Mr. Southard had felt a temporor)*

embarrassment as to the nc
which he should treat his
He could not hold the dead
model, for Mr. Sinclair had
unbeliever and a man of tl:
There was but one way, and
was congenial to the spea
welcome to the hearers. 1
must be, as much as was poi
nored in the cause.

From the moment when tl
ter rose in the pulpit, the
which he would speak was
be seen. His mouth was st(
was a steel -like flash in his <
his voice was clear and ringij
he announced his text :

" And he said to Zebee ana
na : What manner of men ^
whom you slew in TJiabor f
swered: They were like thee^
of them as the son of a king,
swered them : They were my
the sons of my mother. As
livethy if you had saved them,
not kill you. And he said i
his eldest son : Arise, and sk

There was a pause of uttei
then the minister extended h
toward the open, flag-draped
crowned cofhn in front of th<
and exclaimed, " One of thei
son of a king !"

Instantly every eye was tu
that white and silent face,
princely form extended there,
ly beautiful as a marble g(
seemed regicide to kill such
After that look, scarcely one
revolted at the tone of the
which echoed throughout the
fill call, " Arise, and slay thei

As the family sat that evi
home, tr>*ing to throw off the
impressions of the day, and
quite as usual, the conversa
some chance, turned on t
and settled upon Catholicis
Granger, who had been sitdi
and silent, roused himself

Daybreak.

31S

introduce some other
dthout success. Miss
s mute, feeling that her
ne. If only her friend
ide, she would not have
h ; but he was far from
Idness that had arisen
I at first had increased
liminished. Perhaps it
r own fault ; but it hurt
less.

its are certainly gaining
is country," Mr. South-
Ve have hard work be-
y know how to appeal
IS tastes of the times, as
ppjcaled to the supersti-

music pleases opera-
ir ceremonies amuse the
>rse than that, their so-
iive the romantic and

and let live," interposed
hastily. "There are a
)ads to heaven."
of God said that there
replied the minister.
is but one," Mr. Gran-
ig, " he is a bold man
that he is right, and all
>ng."

a Catholic, Mr. Gran-
ded Mr. Southard with

the reply; "but some
to me are Catholic."

heart gave a bound.
. an aspiration. Her
me. She was sitting
J them all, and they all

as she leaned forward
: gesture that checked
I.

atholic, Mr. Southard,"
was baptized this week."
ter started up with an
the others stared in as-
but Mr. Granger took a
sd himself at Margaret's

O generous heart ! She did cot
look at him, but she began to ti;emble,
as the snow-wreath trembles in the
sun before it quite melts away.

*' You cannot mean it !" Mr. South-
ard found voice to say.

O joy ! She wasn't afraid of him
now.

" I am quite in earnest," she replied.

He leaned against the table near
him, too much excited to sit, too
much overcome to stand unsup-
ported.

"You mean that you are pleased
with their ceremonies, that some of
their doctrines are plausible, not that
you accept them sdl, and pay alle-
giance to the pope of Rome. It can-
not be !"

" I honor the pope as the head of
the church, and I can listen to no
teacher of religion whom he does not
approve," was the reply.

" My God I" muttered the minister.
He stood one moment looking at her
as if he saw a spectre, then turned
away with drooping head, and went
toward the door, staggering so that
he had to put his hand out for sup-
port. To that sincere but mistaken
man it was as if he had seen the pit
open, and one he loved drawn into it.

The others sat silent and embar-
rassed, till Aurelia, biusting into tears,
started up and lefl the room.

Margaret glanced at Mrs. Lewis,
and found that she had quite recov-
ered from her surprise.

" The programme seems to be flou-
rish of trumpet, and exeunt omneSy*
the lady said. " But I mean to stand
my ground. I don't find you in the
least frightful. You look to me pre-
cisely as you did an hour ago, only
brighter perhaps. My only fear at
this instant is lest we may have to tie
you up to keep you out of a con-
vent."

" I have no thought of a convent,"
said Margaret

" Oh ! well, I don't sec but we
can get along wilh everything else.
There's fish on Fridays, and the
necessity of holding one's tongue oc-
casionally. I think we can manage.
Mr. Lewis, can you shut your
mouth sufficiently to give an opin-
ion ?"

Thus called upon, Mr. Lewis found
voice. " What in the world did you
want to go and turn Catholic for?"
he demanded angrily, " Couldn't
you like 'cm welt enough at a dis-
tance, as 1 do? That's just a wo-
man's romantic, headlong way of
doing things up to the handle.
You've upset your own dish com-
pletely. Nobody will marry you
now."

Miss Hamilton smiled. " That Is
a ^^ew of t^e matter which I never
thought to take," she said.

" But you must think of that," Mr.
Lewis persisted, perfectly in earnest.

" No, thank you ; I won't," she re-
plied, rising. "1 thank you all" —
with downcast eyes and a little tre-
mor in her voice — " I thank you that
you are not too angry witli me for wliat
I could not help. I could not have
Ijome — " There words faileil her.

She glanced at Mr. Granger as she
went out, and caught one of those
heartfelt srailes which lighted his face
when he was thoroughly friendly and
pleased.

There was little rest for her that
night Hour after hour she heard
Mr. Southard's step pacing to and
fro in his chamber beneath, not ceas-
ing till near morning. But afier she
went to bed, Aurelia came softly in,
and, liending, put her arms around
Margaret, and kissed her.

" I am sorry if I made you feel
bad by going away so," she said in a
voice stilled by long weeping. '• But
you know I was so taken by sur-
prise. Of course we are all the same
ftiends as ever. Good-night, dear!

Go to sleep, and don't won
anything. Mr, Granger
and uncle told me to say go
to you for them."

" How good everybody
and everybody !" thought H

In the morning all appc
usual, except that there wat
Southard at the table. Li
time came, and Mrs. James
the minister to have loclccd
and decline";! refreshment, li
dinner-bell rang, still Mr. 1
had not come down.

" If he doesn't come to
Miss Hamilton thou^t, thi
vexed, " I will send him a ni
will give him an appetite.
sheer nonsense,"

But as they entered the
room they heard his step
stairs, and he followed them I

Hearing him greet the olh
in his usual manner. Margaret
at him, and found hira waitiq
to her. He looked as if he
a long ilbess.

"What I you desert y<
too ?" he said, seeing bet
the other end of the table.

■■ I thought you mi^t I
to sit by me," she replied
Then, a.^ he dropped his gh
colored faintly, she repcri
went back to her seat by hid

When they rose, he sptA
aside. " May I see you
brary now, or at your compi
I would gladly speak with

" Now, if you fJease," ^
ed, thinking it best to have
view over at once, since it H
table.

It would be worse than
repeat the minister's
With more of patience and
than she had expected, he I
and listened to the story of i
version. But his calmness

Daybreak,

317.

e and more as he perceived truth. If you can convince me that

!y grounded was her convic- I am wrong, I will renounce my

I how hard would be the

claiming her.

Lcal discussions were always

but not always convincing,
ted. She could not trust
> engage in them, even if
capable. She did not want
I that such a man had been
hat such an abuse had ex-
^hen treason had found a
ong the apostles, it might
t some of their successors,
red not; her faith was not
I any individual. Let Mr.

take the doctrines of the
as she had learned them,
» church itself, and then
van false if he could. Let
the books that had satisfied
answer their arguments,
tt to theologian. With her
St would be unequal; but
1 gladly listen to his refuta-
assured him.

; books have you read?"
I, resting his head on his
concerted to find that, in-
being opposed to an unin-
young woman, he was to
yed against him the flower
ic theologians,
med them, an imposing list,
)etition of which a slow red

into the minister's cheeks,
ly the young woman was
uninstructed as he had

Southard," she concluded,
no desire but to know the

errors as promptly as I adopted
them. If you are thoroughly con-
vinced fhat you are in the right way,
then you ought to be fearless. But
if it is too much trouble for you to
study the subject, if I am not worth
it, then let the matter drop."

"I will read the books, and go
over their arguments with you," the
minister said, looking at her keenly
as if he suspected some hidden mo-
tive in her proposal.

" I am honest !" she said, hurt by
his expression. " What have I to
gain, if not heaven? What have I
not to lose? I feel surely that our
happy household will never again
be the same that it has b^n."

" I must believe you Kncere," he
replied. " But I cannot imagine what
should have set you, of all persons,
on this track."

Miss Hamilton smiled as she rose.
"It was you, sir. You should be-
ware of the flattery of abuse."

The next morning after break^t
the minister found on his study table
a pile of controversial works that
the housekeeper had been instructed
to leave there for him. Beside them
lay a crucifix. He touched it, and
it seemed to bum his fingers. He
pushed it away, and it burned his
heart.

" After all, it is the image of my
crucified Redeemer," he said; and
took it in his hand again. Looking
at it a moment, his eyes filled with
tears.

TO BB CONTlNUBa

GOOD OLD SAXON.

BY AN ENGLISH CATHOLIC.

During the last five years an admi-
rable society, fonned in London, and
called the Early English Text Socie-
ty, has been reproducing at a. cheap
rate a large number of curious and
valuable works niitten in the thir-
teenth, fourteenth, fifteenth, and six-
teenth centuries. Many of these ex-
isted in manuscript only, while others
were out of print, and very difficult of
attaiHrnent. They range over a va-
riety npf»di^erent subjects, and being
beautinn^f^jrinled, amply supplied
with -notes .and glossaries, and each
edited by an accomplished Anglo-
Saxon scholar, they afford clergymen,
antiquarians, and men of letters in
general an excellent opportunity of
becoming familiar witli the earlier
forms of the English language, and
the best authors during a literary pe-
riod hitherto regarded as obscure.

Thae publications synchronize
with, and have partly grow-n out of,
a movement which, though retro-
grade, has been really an improve-
ment and an advance — a movement,
namely, from Latinized to Saxon
English. We may perhaps date its
commencement Crom the time when
Dr. Johnson was approaching his
suitieth year. He had, for a long
time, been lending the weight of his
great name So the practice of using
very long words, and those chiefly of
Latin origin. In doing this he had
not merely followed a crowd of clas-
sical English writers, but had put
himself at their head. The genius of
the language was being lost, and
when it seemed to be gaining
strength, it was in reality growing

weaker. Its original lend)
been toward words of one
but under Shaftesbury, Boll
and a multitude of essayists
phleieeis of the eighteenth o)
tended strongly toward th<
worfls of many syllable
sound was frequentiy substij
sense, and sentences, thoughj
more smoothly, had in them
fibre. An air of pedantry wai
over expressions, when sudj
as " tremulousness" was su
for "quivering," and "ex^
for "drying." Mannerism ]
tainly the mildest epithet tin
be applied to such chui|
they became frequent and
tic An instance of the ^
question is often quoted fro)
son's Dictionary, where, iQ
"net" and "network," he
first, " anytliing made with i
vaiiiities," and tlie second
thing reiiciilated or deius\
equal distances, with inUn,
twcen the inUriecllonsi

Vet Johnson himself \iai.
grammar prefixed to hb Di
pointed out clearly how
syllabic English was oiij^
" ouc ancestors were studioia
borrowed words, however h
monosyllables;" how they ci
mtnations, cropped the ftrst
rejected vowels in the mi^
weaker consonants,
stronger, which seem "tbe 1
words," Thus, from "exciu)
made "screw;" (rom "e
" scour;" from " excortico," "*
from "hospital," "spittle:"

Good Old Saxon,

319

ch processes, performed
g to rule, but by the un-
orking of national in-
forefathers produced a
greement between the
ir words and the thing
ueak^ crush, brawl, whirly
are but a few among a
instances which will oc-
•ne who gives attention
. Wallis, indeed, a wri-
►ted in the grammar re-
iblishes the fact of a
lent subsisting between
jrs, in the native words
,ge, and the thing signi-
analysis of the meaning
sn, str, st, thr, wr, sw, cl,

combinations is highly
, on the whole, satisfac-
►mes to the conclusion
)ur monosyllable words
f expresses what in oth-
::an scarce be explained
mnds, or decompounds,

a tedious circumlocu-

igh Dr. Johnson, like
:iated highly the Saxon
character of English,
fully recognized the
1 it derives from its na-
is opposed to southern
lis own practice was
ilty, and sure, in the
imitators, to degenerate
and stilts. It was well,
when his career was
close, an obscure but
)oy in Bristol ransacked
room of St. Mary Red-
, and found, or pretend-
md, in its old. chests, the
•wley, who was said to
in the time of Edward
•ems were not without
selves, but, when Chat-
mid the pangs of hun-
id to his short and wea-
they attracted attention

in consequence of the antiquated
form in which they appeared. They
were like the fossil remains of extinct
animals, and spok e of a literary pe-
riod little known at that time even
to the best English scholars. They
breathed the language and the spirit
of Chaucer; and from the moment
of their appearance may be traced
the reaction in favor of Saxon phra-
seology which marks the literature of
the present day. The boy-author
saw by intuition wh at Dr. Wallis had
reduced to rules. Perhaps he had
never analyzed very closely his own
reasons, nor traced attentively the
process of nature in the formation of
words, so as to produce in them an
agreement between the sound and
the thing signified; but his youthful
ear was charmed with the native en-
ergy of what Byron called our " nor-
thern guttural," and he loved to imi-
tate, in such lines as these, the rugged
sweetness of the early English poets :

" The rodie welkin sheeneth to the eyne ;
In dasied mantles is the mountain dight,
The neshe young cowjlip bendeth with the dew.

««

In these lines, all the words are of
the pure Saxon type; and the same
may be said of almost every Stai^ in
Chaucer's Tales.

" The flown of many divers hue
Upon their stalkis gonin for to spread.
And for to splay out their leavis in breie,
Again the sun, gold*bumed in his sphere,
That down to them y-cast his beamis dear.'

And again, as we read in "The
Clerke's Tale :"

" And whanne sche com horn sche wolde brynfo
Wortis and other herbis tymes ofte.
The which sche shred and seth for het lyryng
And made her bed fial hard, and nothiag softe.**

This, as regards language, is the
mould in which the Tales are cast.
The same Saxon stamp imprinted on
the verse of Spenser, though the
Fairie Queen came two centurie3
after the Canterbury Tales, One
stanza shall suffice as a specimen :

In I thill >ilkfli cau«
That HuunlyiKd all. R

A bvw and iJutlct ; ■

The habits and tastes of Ben Jon-
son and of Milton were largely influ-
enced by their classical studies. The
best authors of ancient Greece and
Rome filled their memories, and it
was only natural that iheir writings
should betray at every turn the
sources from which they had been
fed. Yet a multitude of passages
might be cited from these poets in
which the genuine ring of the early
English rhymers only is heard. Thus
Ben Jonson, in a favorite piece of
advice to a reckless youth, says :

The last line has more than one
word of Latin origin; but in Mil-
ton's Miiik of Comus we find long
passages entirely free fi'om the fo-
reign element Thus, Sabrina sings :

" Bj Ihe niahj-IHiigcd bank
Wlicre ^fivn the willow And ihe oaif i (Luik,

M; tlidins dunol ilayi.
Thick Kt nith agat. and the aiun sheen
Of tnlkii bine and en-nld green,
lint in Ihc chinnd Onft -.
WhilK liiim off the walen Heel
lliui I HI my piinilMi feet

Thii bendi not u 1 Irud."

Now it must not be supposed that
in calling attention to the Saxon cha-
racter of English as opposed to, or
distinct from, its Latin and Norman
aspects, we are advocating any ex-
clusive system. We rejoice in our
language being a compound; and as
some of the most esquisiie perfumes
are produced by distilling a variety
of difierent flowers and leaves, so

languages formed by the mi
several races, and influenced
merolfc changes and chanca
history of the people whq
them, are often, in their waj
gorous and beautiful as anyi
simple origin. 'ITiis is especj
case with that tongue whi<4
our own, is dearer to us thai
sides. But because it cons
must ever consist, of vani
ments, there is no reason i
should be indiflerent to the,
proportions in which these 4
are mixed together; nor is il
means su^>erfluous to inquird
the tendency of a coropOH
guage may not, at any p
period, be toward comipti
decay, and, at another um<f
health, consistency, majcsiy,<
and strength.

We have assumed that 9
the basis of English, and th4
years there has been among]
writers a tendency to rease
stream to its source, (O fres
invigorate their diction by tl^
native, as distinct from foreigl
We have mentioned Chattert^
ing, perhaps unconsciously,^
in this movement; and we w<
that Bums also fostered the j
taste for pure English j for»
he wrote in the Scottish diaJ
dialect liad, and has still, a t
points of contact with our 1
in the days of its youth. Tl
peculiarities were of Gaelii
than Saxon origin, yet they n
old English in this, that th
marked by short words an
consonants. Hence Robert
verse revolts instinctively fl
many liquid syllables of tbt
and is wild and rjgged as t
and glens which were his
haunts. So far as it influei)
literature, it recalled it ft
smoother and less vigoroui

Good Old Saxon.

321

of Latinized or Johnsonian English
to the sharper, simpler, and clearer
notes of less artificial times.

"Your critic-folk may cock their nose
And say. How cxayou e'er propose.
You who ken hardly verse frae prose,

To msik a sang ?
Ba^ by your leaves, my learned foes,

Yc*re may be wrang."

The touch and racy dialect of the
Border Minstrelsy^ which Walter
Scott edited, Mr. Evans's Collection
of Old Ballads^ and Percy's Reliques
of Ancient English JFbetry, guided
public taste into a direction opposed
to the tame mediocrity of the imita-
tors of Dryden and Pope. The ear
and the mind alike were charmed
by the exceeding simplicity of the
style of these old ballads, and their
aknost exclusive use of monosyllables.

Here are a few notes from one of
those Jacobite songs which resounded
so freely among the Highlands when
Prince Charles Edward came to re-
cover the crown of his fathers. Wal-
ter Scott compares such ballads to
the ** grotesque carving on a Gothic
niche:"

" It's nae the battle's deadly stoure
Nor friends pruived fiiuse that'll gar me cower,
But the reckless hand o' povertie.
Oh I that alane can daunton me I

" High was I bom to kingly gear,
But a coif came in my cap to wear,
But wi* my braid sword I'll let him see
He's nae the man will daunton me."

The Lake school of poetry, being
fiwrnded in a deep love of nature
and a dose scrutiny of her works,
had a concurrent influence in restoring
Ac liberal use of the older forms of
«peech. Writers like Charles Lamb,
^'hose minds were richly stored with
^ treasures of Elizabethan lore,
^ sometimes accused of affecta-
^in enipio3ring archaisms, but " the
oU words of the poet," as the author
of <* Summer Time in the Country"
observes, ** like the foreign accent of a
*wcet voice, give a charm to the tone,
without in any large degree obscur-

VOU JUL— 21

ing the sense." Indeed, if the most
popular passages in Wordsworth,
and in his great master Shakespeare,
be examined, they will be found to
answer on the whole to that ideal
of English phraseology \<fhich is here
formed — one, namely, in which the
Saxon element largely predominates.
Thus, almost at random, we quote
from The Midsummer Nighfs
Dream :

" What hempen home-spuns have we swaggering
here.
So near the cradle of the fairy queen?"

And from Wordsworth's " Idle Shep-
herd Boys :"

" Beneath a rock, upon the grass.

Two boys are sitting in the sun :
Boys that have had no work to do,

Or work that now is done.
On pipes of sycamore they play

The fragments of a Christmas hymn ;
Or with that plant which in our dale
We call stag-horn or fox's tail,

Their rusty hats they trim :
And thus, as happy as the day.
Those shepherds wear the time away."

Shakespeare's description of Queen
Mab, in Romeo and yuliet^ may
also be pointed out as a signal
example of pure Saxon English
throughout; but it is too long and
too familiar to our readers to be
quoted here.

There are not wanting men of tal-
ent and research, who have remark-
ed the change which has come over
the national literature in its rebound
toward Saxon diction, and who have
recommended it very distinctly. Dean
Swift, though in point of time he pre-
ceded the movement, held as a prin-
ciple that no Saxon word should be
allowed to fall into disuse. Dean
Hoare has, in our own time, express-
ed his decided conviction that those
speakers and writers impart most
pleasure whose style is most Saxon in
its character; and this remark ap-
plies, as he believes, especially to po-
etry. It is in accordance with the
spirit of the age that we recoil from

i^cod Old Saxon.

that " fine writing" which is general-
ly mere declamation. In proportion
as we become practical, the racy style
— pointed, suggestive, and curt — rises
in value. By the exercise of thought
and cultivation of science we become
exact, and through plenty of busi-
ness we become brief-spoken. Vague
talking and writing is now at a
discount, and persons express them-
selves with more substance and
strength because they are trained in
tile love of truth, historic and scien-
tific, and have contracted a hatred of
shams of every kind. Directness of
statement is what is now most valued
in a writer, and such men as Dr.
Newman among Catholics, and Car-
lyle and Emerson among non-Catho-
lics, have contributed in an immense
degree to promote reverence for this
quality. Circumlocution and over-
expansion are faults which no one
will now tolerate, and this jealousy
for the clear and ready conveyance
of ideas has a great deal to do with
recurrence to the pregnant mono-
syllables, the picture- words, the gnarl-
ed and knotted strength of Saxon
EngHsh.

It is, however, to Tennyson, more
than to any other modem writer, that
the public owes the more frequent
use of short and sinewy words al-
ready known to most readers, and
the enrichment of the language by
the revival of many words which
had become obsolete. Enoch Ar-
den, though a poem consisting of
two thousand linos, contains scarcely
a word that is not of Saxon origin.
It is, as far as language is concerned,
simplicity almost in excess. Thus, to
Uke but one example, it is not till
we reach the last word of the follow-
ing passage that we are reminded of
the partly Latin origin of out tongue :

Eiiodi't while lit

Nut tif u Ihe ni

And pcKDck-inwnn ofihe Iwivlj I

Whi^e Fritby Jan wu Eiwcli'* mi

In this passage all the i
in common use, but in othc
the same volume, and, indi
wliich the laureate has pub
perceive a strong tendenc
tique and grotesque forms i
derived from long and dt
tachment to the old writers,
were introduced by desig
because they are archaismt
fice would be apparent, ant
antry complete. But when
a genuine part of the autl:
life of thought and memorj
is different, and what wc
been formal and stiff bccon
and easy. They comport
the idea one forms of a gre
and indicate a thorough m.
the mother tongue. They
doubt, easily degenerate in
tion, but when employed
ment and skill, they are
in a well-anunged c^bin
china in a well-fumished n
sembling, as they do, the i
luous olive-tree, they ap
signs of a people's mental
as surely as the " soft basti
of the Apeimines indicates
tion less martial than the ]
old — as surely as the sof]
lant Romaic tells of a
from the higher walks of C
losophy, history, science, a
so surely would Latinized
a sign that the people *
speaking it, were falhng
the marked characta of 1
thers, and contrasting wi
strongly as the silken sea
Chatham denounced com
the iron barons of the da
John.

Waiting. 3^3

WAITING.

Flame, rosy tapers, flame !

Though flushing day
Is mounting into heaven, it cannot shame
The weakest rush-light burning in his name
Who soon will say,
" Peace to this house !" Consoling word,
Which patient ones have heard.
Then meekly sighed,
" Now let thy servant. Lord, depart in peace I"
And, granted swift release,

Next moment died.

Flame, rosy tapers, flame I
No garish day can shame
Your ruddy wax a-light in Jesus' name !

Close, giddy honeysuckles, clambering free,
Close your moist petals to the wandering bee,
That with your cloistered dews you may adore
My Lord, when he shall enter at the door.

O blossoming sweet-brier !
Now flushing like a seraph with desire

To do him homage, send abroad
Your aromatic breath, and thus entice.

With innocent device.
His quickening steps imto ray poor abode.
Calm lilies for his tabernacle sealed,
O spicy hyacinths ! now yield
Your odors to the waiting air
His welcome to prepare ;
Nor fear that by my haste
Your perfumes you will waste ;
For each expectant sigh
Is dearer, to the Holy One so nigh,
Than all your honeyed nectaries exhale.
Young rose and lilac pale.
And every flow'ret fair.
Incense the blissful air,
And bid him, hail I

Flame, rosy tapers, flame !
No garish day can shame
Your ruddy wax a-light in Jesus' name!

324 Waiting.

Sing, lark and linnet, sing

The graces of this King,

Who, in such meek array,

Will visit me to-day :
Young swallows, twittering at my cottage eaves,
Shy wrens, close-nested in the woodbine leaves,
Blithe robins, chirping on the open gate,
Upon his coming wait :
Glad oriole, swinging with the linden bough,
I do entreat you, now
With gushing throat
Repeat your most ecstatic note.

Afar I hear.

With instinct quick and clear.
His step who bears, enshrined upon his breast,
The God who soon within my own will rest.

Angelic choirs

Are touching their exultant l)Tes :
Sing, lark and linnet, sing.
And with your artless jubilations bring
Their joy to earth ; and you, melodious thrush.
While my glad soul keeps hush,

Attune your song

My silent rapture to prolong.

Flame, rosy tapers, flame !
No garish day can shame
Your ruddy wax a-light in Jesus' name !

The Supernatural.

335

PBOH TMS XIVISTA UNIVBKSALB, OT GENOA.

THE SUPERNATURAL.

BY CESAR CANTU.

"ULANT tyranny of science I It
)t allow us to say that two and
e three ; that there can be more
he sum of two right angles in
gle ; or that the radii of a circle
t equal. What arrogance thus
fine my liberty; to deny me

assert that there is an exact

1 between the diameter and
ference of a circle; that the
tion of the cube is possible,
section of an angle, and per-

motion ! Why should not
ave the same rights as truth ?
I is mistress of the world ; un-
mistress of herself. She can
that yes is identical with no;
ling and nothing are all one.
re ourselves with the science
nate reasons? We must re-
e effects without ascending to
ses ; we accept only what can
ind seen. What is substance ?
s cause? What are ideas?
m pass ; we hold only to phe-
»n and effect

ould not dare to express these
is with such boldness, and
^ are necessary inferences from
rent sophisms and phrases of
e which stains its tyranny by
:e and bald negations. Ex-
! Experience I it cries daily,
tceeds to invent theories on
nation of the universe which
or meet the approval of expe-
it repudiates every truth a
nd yet establishes, a priori^
h is contradictory to reason.
oame of free-will it demands
radion of free-will; as if man

were more free while seeking than
after having found the truth; as if
true liberty did not consist in willing
what is right

And nowadays a multiform war is
waged against ancient belief by a
contracted and intolerant science, and
a system of retrogressive and egotisti-
cal politics. Arguments and buffoon-
ery, decrees and violences, alternate,
not only against the priests, but
against Christ Some disfigure dog-
mas, and then throw them to the
fishes, or abandon them to the anger
of a mob dressed in black waistcoats
or in red caps. Some resuscitate
ancient errors imder modem phraseo-
logXi or excite the demon of curiosity.
Some, faithfid to the system of de&-
mation and intimidation, libel as cleri-
cals or obscurantists those Christians
who loved liberty when it was not a
mere speculation, if they are unwill-
ing to believe that the Italy of the
future must deny the Italy of the past,
to become strong. One party in the
name of authority attacks its chief
source. Some drag into the lists a
conventional nationality and an ex-
clusive patriotism, against the univer-
sality of faith and charity, and hurl
the partial reasons of a state against
ecumenical reason. Some fight in.
the garb of doctors, striving to apply
the methods of observation to what
is super-sensible, confounding the
proximate with the first cause, and
thus arriving at scientific scepticism^
positivism, which repudiates ideas^
or at a criticism which considers
generations as succeeding each other

Tkt Supernatural.

without a connecting law — by
evolution — without seeking what ab-
solute truth corresponds to the succes-
sive rise of nations, or clearing up
the future by the past — that which is
going to happen with what is peima-
nent. And thus they whirl in a pan-
theism which either accepts no God
but the human mind, or makes every-
thing God except God himseir; leav-
ing him the splendor of his idea, the
sovereignty of his name, but depriv-
ing him of the reality of his being
and the consciousness of his hfe.

There are others who, with frivo-
lous argumentation, produce excel-
lent pillows for doubt, and refuse to
examine, contenting themselves with
repeating the affirmations of the most
accredited organs of the press. Let
us pass over those who flatter the
animal instincts of nature by writings
and images which Sodom would con-
demn, and proclaim the divine reign
of the flesh, saying, with Heine, " The
desire of all our institutions is tlie
rehabilitation of matter. Let us seek
good in matter; let us found a de-
mocracy of terrestrial gods, equal in
happiness and holiness; let us have
nectar and ambrosia; let us desire
garments of purple, delights of per-
fumes and dances, comedies and
■children,"

Hence comes the deplorable de-
gradation of minds plunged not only
in ignorance but in base adulations
to slaves and to the slaves of slaves,
to the rabble hailed by the people,
to a debasement called progress, to a
freedom which consists in robbing
■ othcre of liberty.

In such a state of affairs, what
ought a priest or Christian to do who
reserves to himself the right of not
calling evil things good ? Grow low-
spirited, reproach the century, grow

mias over the woe of
and await the rock which
the day-footed colossus ?
like compelling ProvidencK
refuse to co-operate with
conflict between good am
less on conditions which SU
egotism, or please our friw
ty. The timid comproi
character with strange o
between truth and enor, l»
oscillation between liberty ]
tism, resigning themselves
as a hypocrite may act I
atheist.

Christ came to carry ti
and the time has come wfai
has one should draw and
it. Certainly, God will
church. He alone will
glory, but will man have
of it ? Where silence iS|
death; and, outside of wbi
touches revealed truth, dil
useful, even when held i|
who err; it teaches us, at I
we are not to act or think, I
else,

Some say, " It is enough
morality. What have rigon
to do with good sentioiQ
aspirations of the heart wid
duction? of cold reason ?"

Superlicial questions! ^
should say, " What has the |
with the soul ?" Do not <
pend on dogma ? do not oi
follow from metaphysical co
Every doctrine becomes ai
of life or a principle of dcat
soul. A sophist may, indc
of a new code of ethics, <
law ; as if truth could be O
and relative as well ss i
eternal, necessary, and, as I
produced by man, who is a
limited. International ass
conspiring to assassinate
civilization, will soon KSp,

The Supernatural.

327

■quent acts to such inconse-
ces of literature.

ben the system of attack is
^ed, we must change the system
fence. Preaching can no longer
infined to mere prones, or exhor-
is to the good and inculcating
uks carbofiaria ; * but we must
)n the sword of science and elo-
:e, and attack resolutely those
issail us resolutely. Truth can
?ed only by victory ; and in this
as in war, the best defence is an

•

errors fortify themselves in the
)apers, and come on in serried
, protected by gazettes, decrees,
and sciences, we must meet
with the same means, humble
with the truths rejected or dis-

by the sophists, turn their own
)ns against them ; for error,

is a stumbling-block for the
ious, may become a ladder for
ise to ascend higher. Nowa-
nrhen all the arguments of imbe-
e allied in an invisible church

has fraternities, missionaries,
::es, and even martyrs, to as-
he visible church in the name
igress, enlightenment, morality,
, and the future, we must draw
I the reasons of belief in oppo-
The manifestation of truth,
hough it may not destroy error,
ns its power. It is not enough
3w that our adversaries are
; we must be right ourselves,
s not allow men to think that
are truths incompatible with
or outside of its dogmas; but
notwithstanding exaggerations,
lities, erroneous and culpable
8, those truths obtain from faith
nr reality, vitality, and durabi-
ind diat he who looks well will
It every incontestable and posi-

bidl <tf dw coal-betvcr who believes without

tive progress comes from the organi-
zation of Christian society.

In this labor, can reason ask the
aid of revelation? And why not?
The rationalists might complain if we
attempted to overwhelm the question
with the weight of revealed authori-
ty ; but when revelation is united to
reason, the power of the latter is dou-
bled. Mysteries are above reason,
not contrary to it. Faith is only the
most subhme effort of reason, which
is persuaded to believe by arguments,
convinced of its impotence without
faith, as well as of its greatness with
faith. Faith is a grace, because it is
not sensible certainty. It springs
from the desire of a pure heart and
of a right mind that the harmonious
structure of revelation should be true.
Reason by itself cannot obtain the
knowledge of a mystery, any more
than it can comprehend a mystery
when revelation makes it known.
Reason, however, understands that a
mystery is above it, but not opposed
to it; and recognizes the necessity
of the supernatural to explain even
the mysteries of nature. In like
manner, though we cannot look at
the sun, yet by its light we see all
things.

Some, seeing our adversaries use
the sciences and politics against reli-
gion, work with the arts, speak with
ability, begin to vituperate civilization,
attack its acts and writings, deplore
the times, deny the stupendous pro*
gress of the age — the fruit of so much
study, fatigue, and genius.

This is not only an evil; it is a
danger. Instead of repudiating natu-
ral truths, we must seek to reconcile
them with the super-sensible, show
ourselves just toward what is new,
use it to rejuvenate the decrepit, and
apply it to the branches which have
lost vitality. The time will never
come when all objections will be
conquered. They will always arise

328

The Supernatural,

with new forms and new phases.
Great thinkers give the word of com-
mand for new revolts against truth;
it is therefore necessary for great
theologians to combat them. Every
Catholic is not fit to enter the list
as a champion, but every Catholic
ought to know why faith is necessary
in general, and what he ought to
believe in particular. The least that
can be expected of him is not to be
less ignorant than the curious, the
learned, and the railers who, on
every side, pick up arguments for
not believing. And how few know
their religion, not only among the
common people, but even among the
educated classes! The fault lies in
the fact that, while we Catholics are
so superior to our adversaries, we
do not know how to use our advan-
tage, because we know not in what
this superiority consists. Otherwise,
every educated person would find by
himself as many new, ingenious, and
brilliant proofs to defend the religion
of his ancestors as others invent to
destroy it — original, personal proofe,
as light, perhaps, as the objections,
but sufficient for the discussion of
circles, to answer presumptuous con-
tempt, false ideas, and false principles,
which are published in seductive
garb, with specious propositions, au-
dacious negations, and intrepid affir-
mations,* and which penetrate into
politics, science, art, repugnant not
only to logic, but even to the in-
stincts of common sense.

l^ut, moreover, who does not feel
the deficiency in scientific and really
practical education in that science
which satisfies the reason, the heart,
nnd f:iith.

The religious element should form

*See a golden work of the Princess Wittgenstein
Iwanowska, SifH^licifi des CclombfSs PrutLnce lies
Ser^niSf where she refutc« the most common objec-
ti-tns, and exhorts es}Kci.i]ly ladies to prudence and
Simplicity in controversy and conduct.

a great part in education, and it
would suffice to change the tone of
controversy, fi-om being sour, con-
temptuous, diffident, discourteous,
provoking, and partial, the result of
the usual impoliteness of journalists,
to a courageous yet prudent, con-
scientious as well as learned, indul-
gent yet immovable, method; aban-
doning a phraseology which did not
formerly shock men's feelings, those
sarcasms which neither heal nor con-
sole, and remembering that our ad-
versaries are probably men of high
intelligence, in error precisely on thL«
account; perhaps p>er5ons of ligh
mind, unimpeachable morals, and
even of delicate sensibility.

This is the arena of confirmes,
Fraysinnous began the work of uni-
ting reUgion with science in the pul-
pit Those of Wiseman did better
at Rome. Then arose the famous
names of Lacordaire, Kavignan, and
now of Fathers Felix and Hyacinthe,*
and in Italy, Fathers Maggio, Fabri,
Rossi, Giordano, and others. Among
these must be named Alimonda, jxo-
vost of the cathedral of Genoa, who
gave a course of lectures, all depend-
ing on one proposition, and has just
published them in four volumes, widi
the tide Man under the Law of tht
SupematuraL Genoa, 1868.

But four volumes cost more than
a box of cigars! How much tiio^
it takes to read them I some will e%'
claim who have, perhaps, read I^
MistrabUs of Hugo, or La Steil^
d^ Italia ; have a copy of Thiers ; sut^
scribe for four or five magazines, a*^
who require a hundred or a hundred
and fifty pages to be printed on ^
question of finance or railroads, bi^
find that number too great where tl» *
discussion is about man's ^ being, C^'
his power of working, on the essenc^^

* At this time Father Hyacinthe istreatiiiirof
Church under her most genera] aspect,'* in K
Dame, at Paris. lie treats of the providettoe of

The Superttatural.

329

\ immortality of the soul,
^ of virtue, and the neces-
on to create it, the divini-
ianity, or belief in its dog-

; who do not merely as-
ud the human intellect,
; sublime desires under
of self-interest, passion,
ranny of prejudice, and
n, with Linnaeus, ^^OhJ
Ua res est homo nisi super
erexerit^^* know that to
: ideas becomes a nobler
/"ialities become common \
isential truths, which are
" place or time, are based
\ systematic method which
[eny them entirely.

III.

atheism asserts that
;ense is the test of belief
imatural," and that the
" every religious concep-
3le to this standard is
iced by the greatness of
nceptions on nature and
J. Whoever, then, does
\o the party of those who

differ with the atheist,
perceive how unaccepta-
ise on the supernatural
ince Alimonda began by
ng that it is true, and
nd that it imports us
the next life but even in
;ve it. To desire to in-
ichanical theory of the
material origin of human
and liberty, originates the
;:onception of giving the
of the cosmological
means of every special
liichner and Vogt modi-
rtesian ideas by teaching

is no force withoift mat-
ter without force; that

itemptible a thing is man if he cannot
ftbanunr*

matter thinks as well as moves; and
that all things are but dynamic trans-
formations of matter.'* Hence comes
intelligent electricity, cogitating phos-
phorus; and Moleschott was in-
vited to teach in our universities
that "thought is a motion of cere-
bral matter, and conscience a mia-
terial property." Rognero taught
that "conscience dwells in the cir-
culatory system." These doctrines
have been preached in every revolu-
tionary tavern with all that personal
exaggeration which we always find
in those who retail second-hand dog-
mas.

Weill granted these hypotheses,
we still ask. What is this force ? What
is this primary motion? Where is
the mover ? Would an activity ante-
rior to existence have ever created
itself imperfect and subject to evil?
Can the relation of necessary succes-
sion be confounded with the relation
of causality ? Does the metaphysical
conception of cause remain indistinct
from the conditions of existence?
If the order of ideas be distinguished
from the order of facts, everything
leads us to a first cause, to the most
real of realities, to the will of a su-
preme artificer which determined in-
ert matter to motion rather than to
rest.

If, then, this motion endures with
fixed laws ; if, in so great a diversity
of infinite bodies, I recognize a sys-
tem according to which no one in-
terferes with the other, but all agree
in a supreme harmony of mode; if,
for instance, the destruction of one
of the celestial bodies would discom-
pose the marvellous structure of the
universe; if from the alteration of
the orbit of a planet the man of
science can conclude the existence
of another, thousands of miles distant,
it is not the holy fathers but Voltaire
who will exclaim, "If the clock
exists, there must necessarily be a

330

clock-maker." It is impossible to
kill a moral being, a. univeisal sen-
timent, by arms, or books, or de-
clamations.

The Deity does not offer himself
to sensation, oliseiration, or experi-
ence; hence the sensists and per-
ceptionists see in him but a hj-poth-
esis, and reject all theology and
all metaphysics. They abuse the
method of obseiration by applying
it to what is not observable. No
object of experiment can be God;
nor can any perception reach him in
this world, since he can only mani-
fest himself to us ideally; that is to
say, by the reflection of thought on
itself, under the pure form of an
idea; and an idea necessarily sup-
poses an existence. Reason must
come to God through the medium
of the idea of God: whence an
illustrious writer defending religious
philosophy adopted the appropriate
title of " Idea of God."

Nowadays, when the series of
generations are brought to laugh
and dance at the funeral of God
and the evaporation of Christ, it is
not superfluous to accumulate psy-
chological and social proofs on the
existence of a first necessary Cause,
on its reality, and on its di\'ine life
reverberating in the great labor of
creation ; on those laws of phe-
nomena which others call the ideas
of nature, and we call the Creator.
The word must be personified, and
substantiated to express something
real.

Among these laws I have always
found that those regarding the origin
of language had great influence on me
and are of great help against the athe-
ists. The more we study, the more
we are convinced that the languages
have a common source. How did
man cv*r discover that ideas couid
be represented with sounds, or real
thought by the medium of words,

The SttpematttTttl.

and then invent symbolical, |
or alphabetic signs to reprei
ideas and sounds? Or is I
only the means of exprei
thoughts, or the essential
them, the indispensable \
necessary lo our having thct
sensation draw anything a
word but a material sound
is it that all the human racc»
Semitic, Gallic, or Black — sp
only men speak? How d
although there is a commoa
in all languages, yet sudi I
exists among certain groupj
more we study this indll
complement of cre.ttion, tU
tion of our intellectual devij
the more wc are led lo col
there are mysteries in the
word as well as in the diva
and all this reveals the nam^

When we have prored tU
we must investigate the cm
God. And here we meet difl
of unity and trinity, wIucIl
ered in itself, explains beiq
sidered outside of itself, expj
ings. Because, if we rep
supernatural God, we must I
another in his place — a tl
reason and abstraction, or |
rial god, or a god of pleasi)
these insane hypotheses i
made to explain the existem
universe. They are either I
nity of matter or emanatis
put into matter we know 9
bom, we know not how, 1
spontaneous productitMis, fl
formations of species, as }
and Darwin maintain; but til
show that these theories are-
ble both as to soul and bo^
then no one of these natun
plains the end of man, nor I
precious gift — liberty. •

The God of the Bible all
tains the true explanation
and the universe. He vh0

The Supernatural.

331

ing his omnipotence into
liout material elements,
rid out of nothing ; and
he is good, and wills the
e beautiful.

IV.

prodigious part of crea-
i, destined for eternity;
ere be in him a tendency
:ope, an end without a
I merit without a recom-

world is for his use, but

t forget that eternity is

For the purpose of

material origin of the
lect philosophers reject
Id give to life a distinct
lolated from organism,
lat life, at least in its ru-
n, could spring from the
•ganic liquids. Virchow
htde cell, the only one
itomic elements which
rds called organical, and
mcleus of various forms,
by a protoplasm of or-
r without figure. From
I formed the embryos,
ally become perfect and
5, until the ape changes

1 interrogating life in its
harmonies, in its cause
its full and substantial
nd that it does not con-
a causal unity which is
it; and the great modem
Bernard says : " The
physiology does not
minting out the physico-
ws which living beings
3mmon with inorganic
in discovering the vital
characterize them." By
mtal diseases, and per-
il atrophy of a certain
brain will cause the loss

of certain faculties, and that the in-
jection of oxygenated blood will
reawaken them, and with similar
experiments, it has been attempted
to prove the materiality of cogitation,
and to show that the soul is a chi-
mera. These are irrational material-
istic interpretations of physiological
facts, for the cause of the fact is con-
founded with the conditions of the
phenomenon.

This same Virchow, who seemed
to have discovered such a powerful
argument against spiritualism in his
theory of the cell, cannot explain
with physics and optics alone the
phenomena of vision ; becomes con-
founded before the mystery of life,
and declares : " Nothing is like life,
but life itself. Natiu^ is twofold.
Organic nature is entirely distinct
from inorganic. Although formed
by the same substance, fipom atoms
of the same nature, organic mat-
ter offers us a continued series of
phenomena which difl^ in their na-
ture fix)m the inorganic world. Not
because the latter represents dead
nature — ^for nothing dies but what
has lived; even inorganic nature
possesses its activity, its eternally
active labor — but this activity is not
life except in a figurative sense." •

We do not think it superfluous to
oppose these reflections, added to
those of Alimonda, to the negations
of the materialists, which have weight
only because they have been often
repeated; and we conclude with
Alimonda that man is an inexplica-
ble mystery if we do not accept the
other mystery of cniginal sin. Hence
the conflict between reason and the
passions; the indination to evil and
bloodthirstiness; the necessity of
wars and prisons. If we admit the
intrinsic goodness of man, there is no
guilt and thore can be no chastise-

• " The Atom and dw Indiindna],*' a ditfount
proDoooced it BcfUn Sb i866b-

33«

T&f Suprmatural.

ment; society can Institute no triliu-
nals, but only hospitab to cure dis-
eases. This has been said in our
age; and common sense rejected it.
The primitive fall and successive
activity show how man progresses
indefinitely, according to nature, not
according to socialistic Utopias. This
explains the inequality of the facul-
ties and of labor, and hence of goods,
of property, which otherwise would
be a theft.

The whole of ancient sgciely at-
tests iliis degradation ; but a Redeemer
was promised; he was confusedly
expected by all natJotis; he was
clearly predicted by the prophets of
Judea, in order to console mankind,
that they might believe in him to
come, hope in him, and love him by
anticipation.

These promises, and tlie figures
wliich personified ihem, are deposi-
ted in the Bible ; that divine history
whidi clears up the origin of huma-
nity and the changes of civilization,
and whose witnesses, though appa-
rently contradictory, only make the
thesis and the antithesis of a great
synthesis, interpreted by an infallible
authority. The unity of the human
species asserted in that book has
been proved by the sciences, even by
paleontology, which some pretended
to arm against the biblical affirma-
tions; and while the frivolity of the
last century thought it had mock-
in^y dissipated truth, we have sci-
entific progress proving the Bible to
be wonderfully in accord with the
least expected discoveries.

The continual intervention of
Providence in the Bible is repug-
nant to human pride, which would be
the centre and creator of all events ;
yet this providence it is which satis-
fies, at tlie same time, the wants of
the humnn heart, gives a legal con-
stitution to society, a sanction to
human acts, widiout which we

should only ha\c cutthroats and A
gallows.

Thus far we nave presented n
in relation lo God; let u;
man in relation to Jesus
theme by far more important, u W
can say with the psalmist: '■Conrfr
nerunt in unum adversus DotninuiB
et adversus Christum ejus."* In
this most corrupt world rqianiioa
was expected from humanity, but
who could fulfil it but the incamuc
Word? Greater than all the great
ones of the earth, he established ^
providential kingdom, making it tht
social centre of men and centuritt.

Our first parents aspired (o 1>ecomc
gods, and their pride was tTaTumilted
to their posterity ; but l>ehul(l ho* .
God really unites himself to niant i

Men felt a, secret want of cxiiiaboOi I
expressed by their sacrifices and mot- '
tifications; and Christ saiisiitij tln-ii
desire by uniting in himsi;lJ" ihriun
natures, and by fecundating "i'^' ''"'
ly merits the suiferings of iiniimlii.ils
and of nations.

Yet men wish to make a mythi*
him! And after the encyclojuediits
have derided him, now they hypo-
critically try to crown him with h*
man greatness and beauty, to V^
him of his divinity ! But how CM
you explain bis influence on ll*
most cultivated nations, lasting so
many centuries, and through iU) U)-
cessant wax from Simon Magus »
Renan ? Is not his immcasuralfc
influence over the human race di-
vine? With the light of his doc-
trine he created the life of inKHi-
gence and of conscience. His is W
hidden and recondite word, but cuo*
mon and popular; not mcthodiico
into a philosophical sjstem, ujuippnl

The Supernatural.

333

Dfe; not even robed in elo-
His scope is not to invent,
rveal — that is, lift the veil
vered primitive truths, and
good. He is virtue person-
model of men, with grace
«rhich charity triumphs over
'grace^ the most profound
beautiful word in the dic-
' religion. But here human
>els, because Christ taught

then, are mysteries but our
, and the insufficiency of
m? Thus the vulgar be-
: the sun goes around the
ause the senses show it;
y man would deny the ex-
f the imponderable fluids
[le does not see or touch
ough he feels their effects,
nples rise in the world : of
f reason, and of religion;
all there are mysteries,
mysteries in space, atoms,
% forces, life, thought, the
tion, idea, limits : in every-
ler the form which passes
re is a mystery which re-
f a miracle is humanly con-
t ought to be divinely pos-

exclude the idea of the su-
, nothing is left but nature,
:haracter of necessity which
lies it ; with a series of mon-
d gratuitous affirmations
istitute pantheism,
ne will say, "Yes, there is
isrinct from nature; he is
ous and free, but he is
j: while the supernatural
him as changeable and

^ason those who, led by an-
rphic illusions, subject the
God to succession. The
an, who is ephemeral and
are necessarily successive;
ise the results of divine ac-

tivity are manifested to our eyes in
time and space, they seem new and
wonderful. But God is not limited
by time or space ; his act is one, eter-
nal, immanent like his will ; every-
thing which proceeds from that act is
the act itself, one, eternal, and imma-
nent, and thus the differences between
the natural and supernatural disap-
pear.

To defend the idea of the super-
natural is not, therefore, to attack
science or smother intelligence; but
to defend the idea of God, who is the
hinge of all science. This, indeed,
banishes the supernatural from its
domain; but if every reality is not
reducible to natiwe, it is impossible
not to admit a higher principle of the
laws which nature reveals, and of
which nature is not the necessary
principle. Christianity pronounces
nothing on the science of nature, ex-
cept that the supernatural is above
natural laws ; that there is a God, as
St. Augustine says, ^^ pater luminum et
rvigi/ationis nostra,*'^ Is this a mys-
tery? But is not everything which
exists an incomprehensible manifesta-
tion of the supernatural ? Is not the
free-will of man an incomprehensible
mystery ?

But revealed mysteries, much more
than dry theorems which restrain
reason, are fruitful in meditation, hu-
mility, gratitude, and aspiration after
a life of bliss : they are light to the
intellect, motives for virtue; all have
a comprehensible side; they have
their wherefore ; and this is sufficient
for the happiness of individuals, and
works efficaciously on the whole of
society.

Miracles, which are extraordinary
to man, are natural to God, and he
uses them to manifest Christ the Re-
deemer. But the diminishers of
great things wish to make Christ a
mountebank, or a magician working

* ** The Father of Hghts and of our awaking.**

' 334

7^ SuperttaturaL

by natural means like the mesmer-
izers, in whom they believe rather
than in Christ. They deny Christ
and offer incense to Hegel, who said
that ■• the universe is a simple nega-
tion." Every religious, moral, or po-
litical doctrine must stand the test of
actualization : the idea must be real-
ized; the thought must become life;
and the result is the criterion. But
the greatest miracle of Jesus Christ
was the establishment of the new
kingdom of grace on the ruins of the
kingdom of the world ; to substitute
the eternal edifice of the church for
corrupt institutions; instead of proud
science, to put the holy word of the
aposlolate; charity, generous even to
martyrdom, in the place of brute
force. Martyrdom! this is another
word which shocks the free-thinkers
who retail cheap heroes, and deafen
us with hymns to the martyrs of fa-
therland, ennobling with this title
assastiins on the scaffold. Christ is a
martyr for humanity; he is a God
of order, wisdom, and charity.

But here they stop lis again, and
pretend that he aimed at an impos-
sible perfection, and was a utopist j
and as such, they reject him, al-
though they are admirers of such
dreamers as More or Giordano Bru-
no, Fourier or Saint-Simon.

But is it true that Christ's doctrine
cannot be realized ? There are pre-
cepts and counsels in it; and you, by
confounding them, condemn Chris-
tianity, as if it commanded all to ob-
serve what is counselled only to a
few exceptional existences called by
God. To observe the counsels spe-
cial virtue is required, and those
monks who deserved so well even of
society practised them, Rather than
deride and destroy them, they diffu-
sed the evangelical counsels which
they practised in their own lives —
obedience, abstinence, purity ; those
virtues which would give that /luilt-

fas impfrii — that self-control — wl^
is so hard to keep ; that \-irtuc wha
is the order of love. Those i
peopled the Thebaid, lived in tbt
poverty of SL Francis, in the austeji
ties of Sl Bruno, awaited deatli in
caverns, and ate only herbs; atbea
fled the world to pray for it, but iJie
church never gave them phorisaiciJ
faces; life, soul, talents, imaginilion I
characterized them ; the hap|>inest of
their existence was increased bjr llic
blessing of the church ; feasts, muiic,
and sacred rites abounded; social,
domestic, and scientific life wtre
nourished by Christian virtue and td-
ucation ; patriotism had its hjiniii if
fortunate; audits, litanies, if unsuccess-
ful ; art and poetry became incorpo-
rated with worship; admiration fbf
natural beauties was aroused ; activi-
ty and prudence stimulated and eu-
logized, progress approved, and civili-
zation encouraged.

Yet the rationalists would give tbt
glory of this civil society of which we
boast to man alone, while it is in fiA
the work of the supernatural gospel.
In this we find light, virtue, hnnnoRjr;
that is, power, subjection, and a^iee-
menl. The gospel establishes a re-
spected and vigilant authority in dee |
of n policy which traffics in opiniodl
Kings are bound by the same mo-
rality as the least subjects. Rulcn
swear to observe the law of God;
that is, never to become tyrant%
Power is exercised after the cximyk
set by God; and the head of the
state is the first-bom among l>rothcn>
Subjects are children who obey noi
propter timorem sed propter ecmseim-
tiam — not firom fear but for c«i-
science' sake ; an obedience to Cod
rather than to men. Christianity a*-
erted the true doctrine of equal lighs
with inequality of rank when it pro-
claimed that we are all brothcn;
it broke the chains of the slave; >b(^|
ishcd hereditary enmity betwe^

Tlu Supernatural.

335

I all superiority save that of

ly that these advantages are
rom Christianity would now
ity ; but they say that while
ly worked wonders, there is
r any necessity for religion,
t, or Christ: morality has
Lcclimated ; necessary truths
red ; and so man can pro-
i laws, tradition, and social
ion.

who speak in this way do
)rehend the connection be-
letaphysical and practical
> not realize that the most
maxims which we drink in
mother's milk would become
obscured by separation
r source; as the necessary
would be wanting to them.
;n the merely honest man
Christian, there will always be
ence which exists between
that can only hop and the
:d bird which flies. Let us
»ven, that the learned of the
U govern themselves better
philosophers of antiquity;
)nly religion that can say to
itude, " Hope always and
ain." If there is no heaven,
id pleasure are the only as-
why not enjoy them ? Let
tionist arise and promise
will obtain a hearing much
.dily than the philosopher
promise only a doubtful
But then what will become
? If you preach resignation
oor without giving them
1 not hope arise without re-
?

the gospel which humanly
I the child, woman, and the
Y it alone were exposed
and orphans gathered to-
it founded hospitals and
eats for every disease of the
I mind. Vincent of Paul,

Girolamo Miaili, Calasanctius, and a
host of others never ceased in the
church; and even the world blesses
their name, blesses their work, that
of the holy infancy, and that for the
education of Chinese children, and
for the redemption of captives among
the Moors. Entire religious congre-
gations have been founded to save
children from death, from penury,
and from ignorance; so that at the
destruction of these religious orders,
we ought to say, as Christ to the
mothers of Jerusalem, "Weep not
over me, but over your children."
We should weep the more when we
see their intellects and souls entrust-
ed to state officials who fashion them
to suit their masters.

And woman? From what base
degradation and turpitude has she
been raised by Christianity. But the
state law wills that she should be thus
addressed : " Thou hast been brought
up to purity ; to avoid every impure
act and look; but henceforth I, the
mayor, command thee to give thyself
up to the man whom I, the mayor,
designate as thy husband." On the
other hand, the socialists wish to take
her out of the domestic sanctuary to
take part in business, in government,
in war ; she must become a woman
of letters, a politician and a heroine.
Ah ! the heroism of woman consists
in fulfilling her domestic duties, in the
apostleship of doing good; let her
have the heroism of faith and virtue,
and she will save the world, as she
helped so much to do in the person
of Mary over eighteen centuries ago.

" Blessed are the poor, for theirs is
the kingdom of God," said Christ;
and his chief followers took care of
the poor, instructed them, supplied
their wants with alms; made them
noble with blessings; and, since it is
necessary to suffer, the poor were
taught to bear their ills wiUi the hope
of immortal recompense. But die

336

The Supernatural.

strong-minded of this age fiercely
scream about the rights of the poor ;
and yet rob spontaneous and virtuous
charity of the means of supplying
the wants of the poor. The necessity
of official aid is created, and thus pride
and rancor against the rich are excit-
ed, while suffering remains without
consolation.

VI.

All these points have their objec-
tions and suitable answer well devel-
oped in our orator's work. Alimon-
da examines man in relation to the
church and shows how himian reason,
while it strives to rebel against her, is
obliged to bless her, even by the
mouth of her most determined ene-
mies, as happened to the prophet
Balaam. This church was not estab-
lished by the power of man or by
progressive development ; she was bom
beautiful and perfect, the same in the
upper room at Jerusalem as in the
Council of Trent; she underwent
every species of hostility, violent and
puerile, of kings and people, of rogues
and editors, and yet always remained
whole and alive.

While human institutions regulate
man, the church aspires to the gov-
ernment of souls. Although she aim-
ed at so much, she was listened to ;
she defined what good meant; re-
stricted authority; gave the law of
work ; and was believed. Even the
ancient churches by their very nature
were spiritual societies ; but they ex-
ercised no influence on consciences,
little on men's conduct, less even than
the schools of philosophy. Later
heresies and schisms could not spread
or establish themselves, except by
force and war, or by allowing every
one to be the judge of his o\i'n con-
science and reason ; that is, heresy did
not pretend to direct souls. Our
church has a perfect and unchangeable

order for the govemmenf
science, an order which doe
according to opinion. The
say with Thierry that the <
are always right; with G
Thiers, that it is the conquei
is always right Which is <
lieve ? It will be said that
of the people is the voice of
that common sense ought
rule of out actions. Well, \
is ; how can we interrogate i
is its decision? Where it
They will tell us to-day ii
versa! suflfrage." We shall
on such nonsense : we mere!
must I ask its advice in rei
my private actions ? I need
safe, well expressed, and <
principles.

The church answers every
and her answers are always
generous, the most human,
most kind to the weak. She
ed government — monarch
tocratic, and democratic; h
crats are poor fishermen. I
is the type of modem go>
which have the representati)
Rationalism wants to substiti
tion for this ; takes away fi-or
pie the good conditions p
them, acquired by them, !
and independent of govemm
makes atheism the lever witl
subvert politics. The apostles
alism adore liberty, providec
her priests and sacrificators \
new author of civilization-
ble; oblige kings to divide
thority ^ith the mob ; the m
its creatures; kings run aw
men hide; the ownere of
menaced by the dogma of
avidity, oppose the bayoni
knife of the rabble until '
overcome.

Precisely because the tem]
sion of the church is great a
tress and legislator of nati

The Supernatural.

337

ecause she is authority, the
t violently, and the powerful
', attack her at a time when
nt rights without duties, the

as well as the citizen, the la-
well as the legislator.
:hurch alone has saints; she
rsal, perpetual, irrefbrmable :
rs which manifest her divine
id divine actuation,
livinity of the church is found
»licism, not in Protestantism,
ity alone has positive unity
ove, civilization; that is, light,

virtue, which Protestantism
VU history and statistics, not
ically false or officially disfig-
ich looks further than merely
ears, show that civilization
progress so well with Protest-

The Catholic Church had
xl the world and formed
civilization before the unity
md charity was broken ; and
d have done more had there
rupture; and had not the re-
ars impeded her power, men-
rope with a new barbarism,
i it again to the scourge of
id conquests, which prevent
jret from considering our age

to the most deplorable of
luries.

VII.

laihdlic Church established
acy in Rome by three mira-
conquering Rome when she
ress of the whole world ; by
me, her language, civilization,
lation, to defend Christianity ;
perpetuating the primacy in
Everything that exists has a
)r existence; resurrection is
f divinity. Christian Rome,
often driven to agony, has
evived. Exiled kings die in
mt, abandoned and despised ;
daily ^)ectacle to our age;

VOL. IX — 22.

the popes become more glorious with
persecution; a pope in exile at Avig-
non or in a prison at Savona is as
powerful as in the Quirinal palace.
If the most powerful emperor, the
most iron will of our century, like the
acrobat who kicks away the ladder
after using it to ascend, robbed the
pope who assisted him to rise, insult-
ed and imprisoned him, all Europe —
Catholic, Protestant, and schismatic
— took arms to restore the pontiff.
Thrones crumble, dynasties disap-
pear ; but the old man always returns
to his seat, from Avignon or Salerno,
from Fontainebleau or from Gaeta.

Modem servility may grow indig-
nant to see Henry V. at the feet of
Gregory VII. ; but it could not see
Pius VI. kiss the hand of emperors,
as Voltaire did with Catharine or with
Frederic of Prussia; in vain will it
hope to see Pius IX. at the feet of
diplomatists or demagogues; but he.
wUl say with St Augustine, Zto vuim-
est scBviendo ; Agnus vidt patiend^

The church lives immortal, neitho:
in nor above but with the state. Her
relation with the state may be either
of protection, limitation, or separation.
Protected as in the beginning and as
she was often under the ancient king^,
the church would not be degraded.
She had her autonomy in her laws,
ordinances, and hierarchy ; she was
not the slave or the flatterer of the
power under which she lived..

She does not seek limitation or re-
strictions, but supports them without,
changing her nature. By degrees, as
kings prevailed in modem society,
and abridged the power of the people,
of the lords and corporations, they
became jealous of the. authority of ^
the church, restricted' her action and
obstmcted her freedom. Powerftd
in armies, money, and slaves, kings
imposed on the dkurch; she became-

* The lion «m coaquMcd by fiffy ; tht binb tii-^
omplitd by mfleiiiig.

Tlu St^frnatoriil

resigned, sacrificed some minor points
in order to guard tlie chief ones in-
tact; but notwithstanding all the
chains of concordats, she remained
sovereign in her freedom.

Separation from the state is like the
separation between soul and body;
hence the church is opposed to a
state that is unchristian.

The church, destined to illuminate
the world with her divine liglit, and
not to govern it politically, is by na-
ture conservative. She was so even
when the Roman emperors oppressed
her; when they went away from
Rome, she respected them at Con-
stantinople, until she found it neces-
sary for her defence Jind for the
cause of national freedom to with-
draw herself and Italy from imperial
control. When she absolved na-
tions from tiieir oaths of allegiance, it
was in the name of morality, and not
of a political or social idea ; to pre-
serve for God what belongs to him,
and not to deny to Cesar what belongs
.to him."

Thus although we may find no
-constitution which abolishes slavery,
no one will deny that it ceased
thrcugh the influence of Christiani-
ty, which modified customs and
habile, and these influenced the laws.
Thus the time will come when all
that is good in modem society wil!

. nisd. One U ihli Crcgo; XVI.. while Portuial wi
diviilcd bctw«n Don PidiD iDd Dm Miguel, tried I
HiUe Ihe dispoie bf ntalUoi llic Hdciinlicil md

he wUhed u icnle Ihi dUpuu btlmui Ihc amlending
ftttir^: far Ibt €hunh ttfAi ftm C/tralinnU, fvc
aJ Ifirltinltm mtrrtuimqia fnftUtrmm /tHrilalrm
/mcuita tvHitnaiU, ("LfadH Ihin^ whidi art dT
CbiiH. ttbich onduee ■» Ihe ipintuil ud cictmI
hippinm of pcopio.") Tlw olhtr in irhidi PEut
Vll,, in the ciiDiiMDi7 of Jolf 18U1. iSir. auihoriiEd

10 Ion which kill

lam which he tiiil
lichiBa Hiuthos. '.

«t Ibf bine* have na
ion ncardioat Fnna

bu assured to it, 4
fluence of Christiai
manifest in purif)'ing j
ting all that came from ii
or from needs which il <
fdt; so that the !
wil! see that it is not nee
tack Christianity in 1
the acquisitions of their ag^
the faithful atlack the age ai
concilable enemy. Docs M
thing happen by tlie wUI on
sion of God ? Arc not aU|
changes and social inuisfti
providential facts ? If the 1
cannot praise them, he becj
signed to them : he does not!
the evil by anger; he trustn
who can change the stones in
rcn of Abraham ; and wc, Sfl
ouTselves Irom those whose^
ism consists in dcnoimcing i|
enemies of their country, $M
men of good-will of otiidnyl

How can you who have|
the watchwords of "
" Go-ahead," expect hasty "a
at Rome, so slow in her mot

Napoleon boasted that II
done in three hours what |
nieriy look three months to I
Ves, he ran from Alexandriijl
na,lo Madrid, to Moscow, asfl
Helena; while Rome i
her post Those who do i
superficially admit that she-|
splendidly her wisdom in c
cumstances by not closing I
to future wisdom. In the^^
exuberance of fungous ian
new systems easily sprout UpB
few years; and the heroes (
become the objects of hM
row. Rome, elemal guaf

The SupertUttural,

339

onot make and unmake in
:e up and lay down, like hu-
eties ; but she proceeds slow-
itiently, yet she advances,
ily the church will find a
I in which she can co-ope-
the state to preserve for hu-
lO longer the antique forms
n^e letter given by Catholics
t the Christian spirit ; a new
)f protecting Catholic truth
ries open to every people,
y worship ; deprived of the
force and decrees, she will

other support but truth;
e this is greater and more
1 Catholicism, it will always
in propagating itself. Will

be the object of the ap-
g Council? The General
will not have to destroy
Temovable, or what derives
ly from eternal truth ; but it
us worldlings to separate, in
, the substance from the
essence from the application,
ily the hate which inspires
lese times against true liber-
s governments justify and
rry attack against the church,
ive her of every right, even
y pretend to protect her.
lese governments want to
onal churches ? This would
\ back in civilization, which
s toward union; to deny
y or the universality of the
give up souls as well as bo-
le power of kings, as before
ity; to give the direction of
xs and the judgment of mor-
e civil power, which should
bodies.

would tolerate Catholicity
there be liberty of conscience
orship ; let there be no tem-
iwer in the church; no re-
»rporations ; and let the secu-
r be raised to the height, as
of the age.

What is meant by liberty of con-
science has been sufficiently explained
by the pamphleteers, and the popes
have given solemn decisions on the
subject. Conceive a society in which it
would be unlawful to expel those who
violate its laws or disturb its order!
The church simply expels from the
communion of prayers and sacrifice
those who are obstinate in violating
her dogmas. How! You insult our
community; refuse to communicate
in our rites ; you will not accept the
pardon which the church always
offers you; and yet you pretend to
force her to comfort your last mo-
ments with sacraments which you re-
pel and deride even then; to force
her to bless your corpse, and biuy it
in the holy ground where repose
those with whom you refused to asso-
ciate during life !

As to temporal goods or the right
to possess them, and as for religious
corporations — that is, the liberty of
community life, of prayer, benevo-
lence, of wearing a peculiar dress,
and of worshipping according to your
conscience— what could Alimonda say
which had not been said by all the
independent men of our century ?

As to those who assert that the
clergy are not educated up to the stan-
dard of modem civilization, we need
only appeal to those who have any
knowledge to see if the ecclesiastics
do not rank high in every part of the
encyclopedia; nor do we hesitate to
say that the most educated man in
every village is ordinarily the priest ;
the priest who is compelled to make
a regular course of study, to pass re-
peated examinations, and assist at
conferences.

vn.

It is very strange that at a time
when the love of show has become a
mania; when kings, ministers, jour-

nalists, and myriads of ephemeral he-
roes are honored with canticles, po-
ems, and ovations; when some but-
ton-holes have more decoraiions than
our altars; when there is hardly a
name to which pompous titles are not
appended, it should be deemed ne-
cessary for the benefit of religion to
abolish external worship in our
churches. Is not our century espe-
cially vain of its investigations in mat-
ter ? Is not the aspiration of the age
after physical comfort ? Why, then, try
to restrict religion to the spiritual, to
prevent the erection of temples which
would please the senses of that dou-
ble being — man ?

When Constantinople, austerely in-
terpreting the evangelical ordinances,
attempted to destroy reverence for
holy images, the church fought for
the right to cultivate the fine arts;
and sustained martyrdom and exile
to maintain the privilege of guarding
the fine arts in her sanctuaries.
When the reform of the sUteenth cen-
tury called the Catholic Church Baby-
lon, because she asked Michael An-
gelo and Raphael to immortalize the
grandeurs of Christianity, she resisted
again — knowing how to distinguish
tlie exceiHional life of the voluntary
anchorite from the social life of the
merely honest man ; exacting virtues
from all her children, but virtues suit-
able to their state, to the mystic life
of Mary and to the external life of
Martha, to the viceroy Joseph and
to the shoemaker Crispin.

The same church defends, to-day,
love and art from the modem icon-
oclasts and spurious Puritans.

Discoursing about worship, our au-
thor begins by that of Mary, showing
it to be a religious principle in accord
with reason; a public fact, approved
by history; a most tender affection,
sanctioned by the heart. It is not
long since the chief of the English
, Doctor Pusey, made the

most honorabh
ence to the Catholic do|
ceremonies, excejiting, hoi
reverence which CatholicS'
the Mother of God.
Manning's' reply is OM
most beautiful and rational
for this worship for which
remarkable. For all rept
consecrated to her; she wa
sen patroness of our chieti
likeness was impressed on
and seals ; our first poets
praises, and tliefr echoes
yet died ; our paintw-rs coul
higher or sweeter model;
tecls competed in erecting ;
pies to her honor; our m
comiX)se canticles to her pi
expeditions were underlaki
name; colonies were cona
her, where now Italian p
not Italian Influence, h«
And it is Mary who will
Italy from humiliations, i
that degradation which set
the only aspiration of her'
sons.t

The intolerant repeat ti
decrees, and social organic
sufficient to regulate civil s '

They are sul&ient; bi
quire science to prepare
virtue to apply them ; botil
voked from on high. The
one's coimtry, the fulfilmeiil
pirations, the triumph of juj
come from heaven, Foa
Italians marched to battle
standard of the saints or of
the heroes of Legnano, of
and of Curzolari prostrated
in prayer before fighting ;
Italians of those times contji
gave thanks to God for h&i
to them a beautiful, g

The Supernatural,

341

»us country. But now we
pular tumults and the ravings
)apers.

trong-minded heroes consid-
rading to bow before the Au-
di things. Yet, passing over
wise men of antiquity, the
J nation in Europe opens its
nts with prayer, and obeys
Ts of the queen to fast in
disaster, or feast in time of
:cess. The President of the
states, no matter what may
eed, orders a day of thanks-

God, and he is obeyed,
le telegraph from America
: to carry a message to Eu-
August 17th, 1858, the first
hich leaped along the wire
Europe and America are uni-
.ory to God in the highest;

1 earth ; to men, good-will."
rander spectacle can there be
»ee a whole people united in
s imposed by its religion in
ig great anniversaries ? What
outbursts, how many noble
, were expressed in the mo-

of holy days ! What high
and magnificent concep-
«e in the souls of philoso-
d poets! How many gene-
)lutions were taken! When
n-ance of the Sunday was
I, the last spark of poetic fire
iguished in the souls of our
t has been truly said, with-
ion there is no poetry. We
i, without external worship
: days there is no religion,
luntry, where the people are
ceptible of the religious sen-
le Sunday still keeps a part
i^ influence. The sight of
population united as one
the voice of its pastor, and
i in silence and recollection
e invisible majesty of God,
Ig and sublime; is a charm
es to the heart "
peaks in this way ? Proud

hon. And Napoleon says, " Do you
want something sublime ? Recite your
Fater noster,^^

The most sublime prayer is the
mass — the culminating point of wor-
ship ; the perennial expiation of pe-
rennial faults. From the mass Ali-
monda passes to confession ; then to
communion; and thence to the re-
sponsibility of present life. He ex-
horts all to understand and believe.
This is the creed of the Christian:
Credere et intelligere,

VIII.

We have thus far followed the illus-
trious Alimonda, repeating or deve-
loping his arguments. Let us now
examine his manner of treating the
questions which he discusses.

The classic Greek orators had won-
derful simplicity of style, in which the
familiarity of their expressions enno-
bled their sentiments and gave force
to their reasoning. The Eastern fa-
thers followed in their footsteps. The
Latins ornamented eloquence so as
to make it a special art, assigning it
a measured cadence, a peculiar into-
nation of voice, a system of position
and gesture. Hence, the Latin fa-
thers studied speech even to affec-
tation, sought after rhetorical fig-
ures, yet always more attentive to
the practical than to the abstract
The French formed themselves rather
according to the Greek models ; and
the noble simplicity of Bossuet, Mas-
silon, and F^nflon renders them still
models for one who would discourse
before a polished people.

The Italians, if you except some
of the very earliest preachers, pre-
ferred to ornament their speeches
and indulge in artificial figures. In
the ages of bad taste, the worst dis-
play of metaphors disgraced the pul-
pit; whence the custom passed to the
bar and parliament, where there have
been and still are so many exaAfi:g\e&

342

The Supernatural.

of unnatural oratory. Hence, in so
great an abundance of literature, we
have no good preachers except Leg-
neri. In modem times, the style
of the pretentious Turchi has been
changed to that of the academic Bar-
bieri; but that style of preaching
"whose father is the Gospel, and
whose mother is the Bible," is rarely
heard in our pulpits. Our very best
eloquence, that of the pastorals and
homilies of our bishops, is spoiled by
too frequent citations, and is often
devoid of that sentiment which comes
from the heart and goes to it. We
do not want to borrow the French
style. It is a mistake to steal the
language of another nation, either in
writing or preaching. Peoples have
different dispositions. It would not
do to address the Carib in the same
way as the Parisian, or the contem-
poraries of Godfrey as the subjects
of Napoleon.

Our author, beside being familiar
with the first propagators and defen-
ders of Christianity, is highly educat-
ed in the classics, and has always
ready phrases, hemistichs, and allu-
sions which display his erudition.
His method is prudent, his divisions
logical, and the train of ideas well fol-
lowed up ; his language correct, and the
clearness and marvellous beauty of his
style show him to be a finished orator.

He draws an abundance of mate-
rials from the most diverse and recon
dite sources. He adduces the most
recent discoveries of science regard-
ing the essence of the sun, nebulae,
aerolites, and on the nature of matter.
Without mentioning the biblical and
legendary portions of his work, there
are in it traces of every part of both
ancient and modem history : Camo-
ens and Napoleon, Abelard and Re-
nan, Isnard and Jouflfroy, Donoso
Cortes and Cagliostro, Marie Antoi-
nette and Madame de Swetchine,
Ireland and Poland, the discourses
o{ Napoleon III. and of Cavour.

The author brings us thi
byways of London to the
Thomas More, to the sc
St. Helena, and to the lai
the missionaries are laboi
quotes even the heroes of
" Renzo " and the " Unkn<
nato, Werter, St. Preux, t
of George Sand, Wiseman':
and Victor Hugo's Valje;
the spoils of the Egyptians
builds a tabernacle to the li
Who will censure him,
Holy Father, in a brief of J
2oth, 1867, approves his lal
The nineteenth century
saved only by means suital
nineteenth century; and S
lites or Torquemada, the
or the Flagellants, would b
out of place to-day as ca
the theory of uncreated 1;
must fight with modem

i«

Clypeo0( Danaumqoe insignta nobi

We must Study Catholicity
bearings, and reconcile d
human traditions with mc
gencies; authority establisl"
immovable pedestal, wil
which is always developing.
Courage 1 Let us arouse
firom lethargy, and not suffe
tion of affairs for which 1
sponsible. Let us remen
Bacon, that prosperity was
of the Old Testament; ad
the New ; persuaded, witl
Cortes, that " it is our du
tholics, to struggle, and
should thank God who h
us to fight for his churc
display that energetic will
so rare among good peoj
charity and faith, by assoc
perseverance, we can conqi
and unbelief, the di\'isions
and the onslaughts of en
strongholds of Catholic tml

* "We must use the weapons aai

Two Montlis in Spain during the late Revolution, 343

TWO MONTHS IN SPAIN DURING THE LATE

REVOLUTION.

VILLE, FONDA DE PARIS.

September 23, 1869.

train leaves Cordova at six
[id we are delighted to be
yci our journey. The route
of little interest between Cor-
nd Seville; the Guadalquivir
3n one side of us and then on
er; the hills and mountains
each side of the plain, where
e groves, and peaceful flocks,
)ughnien, as if no revolution
curring around them. At Al-
(situated on a high hill,) we

ruins of a Moorish castle
that half- Moor, Peter the
onfined his sister-in-law, Dofta
ie Lara. Carmona is anoth-

which has the same celebrity,
e imprisoned many of his fe-
Lvorites when tired of them.
)w very hungry in spite of
agic histories, and our young
an bu>'s a great melon de
which, proving very delicious,
:e a good breakfast i Vespag-
t are not sorry to see the towers
jiralda, and soon after we en-
lle — the most charming of all

towns ; the city of Don Juan
garo; the gayest, the most
ed for its beautiful women, its

men, its bull-fights, its gyp-
tertulias, its fandangos, its ca-
;, its Murillos, its cathedral,

rival St Peter's,) and its Al-
hich is almost as wonderful
Llhambra.

dinner, we hasten to the
il through busy, crowded
by handsome shops; passing
aally a pretty Sevillian whose

black dress, bare arms and neck seen
through the black lace mantilla, with
the dainty pink rose peeping from
beneath it, harmonize exactly with
one's idea of the Spanish woman.
And presendy, upon a terrace as-
cended by several steps, we see be-
fore us this wonderful pile of build-
ings : the Giralda (Moorish tower) on
one side; the Sagrario (the parish
church) on the other; the chapter
house, and offices facing the cathe-
dral ; and in the centre of all these
the court of oranges ! The cathedral
is entered from this court by nine
doors. We scarcely know how to
describe this magnificent gothic build-
ing, which has affected us more than
any we have ever seen. Coming
upon us so immediately ailer the mos-
que of Cordova, (each of these a per-
fect specimen of its kind,) one sees in
each the reflection of the different
faiths they represent. The graceful,
elegant mosque seems to appeal more
to the senses, to speak of a faith
which promises material joys, while
the grand and majestic gothic cathe-
dral carries one's heart to the heaven
in which these lofty arches seem to
be lost. In despair of being able to
do justice to so high a theme, I must
borrow from O'Shea's guide-book the
following description of this building :

"The general style of the edifice is goth-
ic of the best period of Spain, and though
many of its parts belong to different styles,
these form but accessory parts, and the
main body remains strictly gothic In-
deed all the fine arts, and each in turn, at
their acme of strength, have comUned to
produce their finest inspiration here. The
Moorish Ginlda,the Gothic cathedral, the

344 "^^^ Months in Spain during tite late Rn'olution.

:o- Raman exterior, produce variety, and
repose Ibe eye. Inside, its numerous p^nl-
ingB are by some or (he greateal painleis
that ever breathed ; (he stained glass,
aiDDnBSl the finest known ; the sculpture,
beauurul : the jeivellers' and silversmiths'
work unrivalled in composition, executiua,
and value. The cathedral of Leon charms
us by the chaste elegance of its airy struc-
ture, the purity of its hornlonious lines;
the fairy-worked dmborio of that at Bur-
gos, it* filagree spites, and pomp of orna-
mentation are certainly more striking ; and
at Toledo, ire feel already humbled and
crushed beneath the majesty and wealth
displayed everywhere. But when we enter
the cathedral of Seville, there is a sublimity
in these sombre masses and clusters of
spires whose proportions and details are
somewhat tost and concealed in the myste-
rious shadows which pervade the whole,
a grandeur which quickens the sense, and
makes the heart throb within us, and we
stand IS lost among these lofty naves and
countless gilt altars, shining dimly in the
dark around us, the lights playing across
them as the tays of the glorious Spanish
sun stream through the painted windows.
Vast proportions, unity of design, sever-
ity and sobriety of ornament, and that sim-
plicity unalloyed by monotony which
stamps all the works of real genius, render
this one of the noblest piles ever raised
to God by man, and preferred by many
even lu Sti Peter's at Rome."

It is saiU that the canons and cliap-
tei resolved to make this church the
wonder of the world; and with this
view, sent for the most celebrated ar-
chitects and artists of the world to
■adorn it, denying themselves almost
the necessaries of life to accomplish
,thc great work.

The pillars are one hundred and
Jifty feet high ; the church, four hun-
-dred feet long, two hundred and nine-
ty-one wide, with nmety-five win-
■dows and thirty-seven chapels; and
nearly each one of these contains
5ome pictures of Murillo, Cespedcs,
Campana, Koelas, or some Spanish
painter of celebrity. We go from
chapel to chapel, gazing upon these,
lingering before the altar '* Del Angel
de la Guarda," where is Murillo's ex-
qui^te picture of the guardian angel

with the young child by the
(so often reproduceil.) and lost in awe
before his grand picture of Sl Antho-
ny of Padua, to whom the icfant J^
sus descends, amidst angels and flow-
ers and sunbeams, into the arms ec-
statically extended toward hira. In
a little chapel we come upon a lovt
ly Virgin and ChDd, by Alonso C) '
called N. S. de Belem, (Beihleht

But the sun declined, and we _
cended the Giralda to see his laX
beams shine upon so much btrauty,
^Vhat a strange and chamiing scenel
The forest of white houses jaiated
with delicate blue and green; the
eat roofe decorated with gardens;
the four hundred and seventy-seven
narrow streets, some hardly admit-
ting two people abreast, through
which toiled the patient mules belt-
ing burdens of stones, mortar for
building, wood, and vegetables; die
one hundred ornamented ii]uarcs
and promenades; the orange gar-
dens ; the plaza de Toros ; the CJ-
thedral just beneath us, with its hun-
dreds of turrets ; the Torre del Ow,
(Tower of Gold,) so named from iS
yellow hue; tlie Lonja, (Exchange,)
with its pmk color; the grey .Mc*-
lar; the palace Sao Telmo by (be
Guadalquivir, which winds ihrou^
the city and over the plain; «nd
convents, and churches, and p.i!:icc»;
and, beyond all, the verdant iilsil*
and the blue mountains! As ll«
sun sank, the convent bells rang the
" Ave Maiia."

'■Uewdbelhebmrt
The lim^ ilw chiokc, the «pcL^'

Certainly we alt " felt that motnail
in its fullest power" I

Thursday, i^

Our first visit to-day U to Sin
Telmo — the royaj palace given bf
Queen Isabella to her sister, flw
Duchess de Montpensier — on the

Two Months in Spain during the late Revolution. 345

the Guadalquivir, with en-
gardens, palms and citrons,
a;e-trees ; and within, all ori-
its style and decorations.
e some lovely pictures —
[urillo's most beautiful Vir-
eral splendid Zurbarans, a

del Piombo, Holy Fam-

ve visit the great tobacco
ory, where 4000 women are
. making cigars. As all these
ing at once, we were glad
scape. And then the Alca-
wonderful Moorish palace,
ch not even the Alhambra
Dre beautiful — as it seems to
wander in delicious gardens
«e described in the Arabian
md then enter the enchant-
*! Passing several courts,
:he great door of entrance
1 and painted in arabesque.
I long hall, with exquisitely
id painted roofi ^oxti which
into a square marble court,
writh double rows of marble
ind a foimtain in the centre.

four sides of this patio you

immense doors, carved and

to the apartments beyond.

Hall of the Ambassadors,

ommunicates with others

elegant arches profusely
ed, supported by marble pil-
^ery color with gilded capi-
e walls and dome are oma-
with sentences from the
1 gilt letters upon grounds
nd crimson. Every cham-

difFerent decorations, all
egant

opening fix)m the garden,
shown some subterranean

to have been the prisons
tian captives, and above

luxurious baths of Maria
a-*the famous mistress of

Cruel. It was the custom
ing and courtiers to sit by

and see her bathe, and for the latter
to pretend to sip the water of the
bath. Seeing one of these fail in
this gallant duty one day, the king
asked why he omitted it. " Because,
sire," (said the witty courtier,) " I am
afraid to like the sauce so well that
I shall covet the bird." Peter the
Cruel lived much in this palace, and
did much to embellish it through
the Moorish artists whom he employ-
ed. Many of the Spanish kings
lived there, and Charles V. was
married in one of the upper rooms.

These we did not see, and learned
afterward that they were inhabited
by "Feman Caballero," one of the
most popular writers of Spain —
whose delightful books we learned
later to admire. Feman Caballero
is the nam deplume of this lady, who
has had many misforttmes, and who
by permission of the queen lives in
the Alcazar, devoting her life to deeds
of benevolence amongst the poor,
whose traits and trials she records
in many delightful works. It is a
pity that out of France these books
should be unknown. One of our
party determines to take some of
them to America, that they may be
translated and bring to the know-
ledge* of our people these charming
scenes of Spanish home life so in-
imitably described.*

In the evening we go to a ball, to
see the Andalusian dances in their
proper costume. Boleros, and ca-
chuchas, and seguidillas, and man-
chegas! Such graceful movements,
such litde feet in such dainty satin
shoes ! Generally to the accompani-
ment of the guitar, with most pecu-

• One of •'Feman Caballtro't ** (Mr& Fabrt)
books. The Alvartda Family^ bu already been
tntnalated here and pabBshed in Tmb Catholic
World three jtMx% ago; and two others, Tke
Sgdi GmU, and TAe Castle a$ul Cottage in S/aim,
have appeared in an English dress in Loodoo, and
Lttcia Gan-m is already transhued and nill aoon
appear in this majcaiine.^Ea Oath. W.

liar and monotonous music, singing
at the same time, dapping the hands,
stamping the feet, and the dancer
always with castanets. AH the
dances were peculiar, solos, often in
couples, or three at a time, some
of these coquettish — one, especially,
danced by a man and a woman, he
in hat and cloak, she with fen and
mantiila. How she wielded this lit-
tle " weapon " ! — now hiding her face,
now peeping from l>ehind it, which
he also did with his mania. By and
by he takes off his hat and humbly
lays it at her feet She dances over
it scornfully; without ever losing the
step, he recovers it She flies; he
pursues, opening his manta entrcal-
ingiy; she relents; again he throws
down the hat; she stoops and gives
it to him, and eventually they dance
away with the manta covering both.

Friday, 25.

We go again to the wonilerfu!
cathedral; examined many pictures
which yesterday escaped us. In the
chapter house is one of Murillo's
"Conceptions," and eight charming
heads (ovals) painted by him, in the
same room. In the chapel of the
kings lies the body of St. Ferdinand,
and of Murillo; who asked to be
buried at the foot of a picture (The
Descent from the Cross) of which he
was particularly fond, which is above
the main altar.

Near the great entrance of the
cathedral a stone in the pavement
marks the spot where lies Fernando,
the son of Christopher Columbus,
with the motto upon it, "A Castilla y
a Leon, mundo nuevo did Colon."
From his tomb we go to the great
Columbine Library given by him to
his countT)', containing some interest-
ing MSS. of his father — one, a book
of quotations containing extracts
from the psalms and prophets, prov-
ing the existence of the new world.

There are a scries of porti^
the room, of Columbus, h]
Ferdinand, Cardinal Men
Cardinal Wiseman, (who |
live of Se»ille.) There isi
servK^d here the great (
sword of FcTdinand Uonsal|

Some of our party go U
archbishop, in the hope M
mission to see the tnrasiQ
church, which arc very vaft
the jjresence of the rcvoIut)|
him to deny us this as l|i
enirie to the convent of %
which is said to be exactly
as when she founded it &
she underwent such grd
and persecution, and wheij
she had but two or tltifl
with which to begin a giq
tion) she said to her nuq
mind, two cents and Til
nothing; but two cents anij
everything."

And this interesting c^
could not see." Indeed, ^
our visit to Sp^ was i^
for seeing the inside oj
houses. A former revolud
deprived them of their proj
have now the fear of being,*
of their convents. I

While we wait in the ij
the return of our fiiends, 1|
to conver^tion with two dj
boys of the choir, whoseJ
tracts us, begging them to oj
style in which they danuj
Blessed Sacrament on Co^
ti, which is said to be 1
most solemn, grave, and J
These children evinced {
ty about us, and whca loj
of the party was "a
been a Protestant,) could ^

liirMlk PubliciiinB swtaV <j

, iDutiniioiiaal'cathednltk^

T'VbO Months in Spain during tlie late Revolution, 347

to comprehend what it meant; for
they confound all Protestants with un-
believers. " And did not know about
our dear Lord !" said one little fellow
with a look of sorrowful compassion, re-
minding one of the scene in one of
Feraan Caballero's tales {The Alva-
reda Family) where the hero comes
home from his travels and describes
a country covered with snow so that
people are sometimes buried under it.

We go to see the house in which
Murillo lived and the spot where he
was first buried — passing the house
in which Cardinal Wiseman was bom,
upon which is a large tablet with a
beautiful and appropriate inscription.
In Murillo's house is an extensive
gallery with many of his loveliest
pictures, and some of the pictures of
monks for which Zurbaran is so fa-
mous.

Here we see the Infant St John
with the Lamb, and the Infant Sa-
viour, so often repeated by Murillo,
apart and together an exquisite Ec-
ce Homo; several Madonnas, and
Samts.

On our way we are shown the
shop where dwelt the original Figa-
ro, and also the house of Don Juan !

The Casa de Pilatos, one of the
residences of the Duke of Medina
Coeli, next claims us — a curious old
palace, built in the sixteenth century
in imitation of Pilate's House in Jeru-
salem, which was visited at that time
by the founder. The patio is fine,
with a beautiful fountain, and double
low of columns, (one above another,)
^th statues at the four comers. The
''Mible staircase and halls — ^lined with
■''Jlejos, (colored porcelain tiles,) uni-
^[^Rally used in this country — are par-
ticularly handsome.

Next we go to the " Caridad," one
^ the most celebrated hospitals in
^worid, founded by a young noble-
■Mn of Seville in the seventeenth
^tury, upon groimd which belong-

ed to a brotherhood whose duty it
was to give consolation to those
about to die on the scaffold. This
young man (Don Miguel de Maiia-
ra) was distinguished for his profli-
gacy, but also for his bravery, gene-
rosity, and his patronage of art. One
of our friends told us some most in-
teresting anecdotes connected with
his conversion.

Returning firom some orgies, one
night, he saw a female figure upon a
low balcony beckon him. Thinking to
have an adventure, he sprang into the
open window and found a dead body
with lights about it alone in the
room. Another time, returning at
midnight through the streets, he saw
a church lighted, and, wondering
what could be going on at such an
hour, entered. Before the altar was
a bier upon which was extended a
body covered with the mantle of the
knights of the order to which he be-
longed, the priests about it singing
the office for the dead. Asking
whose funeral it was, he was answer-
ed, " That of Don Miguel Maftara,"
and going to the corpse and uncover-
ing it, saw his own face. The morn-
ing found him stretched upon the
pavement, the vision gone. But the
impression remained, in which he
recognized a call from God to a bet-
ter life, which he soon after entered,
giving his whole fortune to found this
institution for the sick, the aged,
and " incurables ;" and here he lived
and died an example of humility,
piety, and penitence. Murillo and
other eminent artists were also mem-
bers of this confraternity, and a letter
of the former is here shown in which
he asks permission to join the bro-
therhood. To the friendship of Don
Miguel for Murillo the hospital i» in-
debted for some of the finest pictures
in the world. In the church are two
of his grandest and largest pictures,
<< Moses striking the Rock," called

■-here the "Sed," (thirst,) and the
" Mbacie of the Loaves and Fishes," a
Visitation, an Infant Sanour, and a
St John. There are also several
mo^t remarkable pictures by Valdes
Leal ; one, " The Triumph of Time,"
in which the skeleton Death stands
triumphantly above crowns and scep-
tres and " all there is of glory," Op-
posite to this is "The Dead Prelate,"
a picture made at the suggestion of
Mafiara. From the top of the pic-
ture a pierced hand holds the scales,
le side of which a kingly crown,
jewels, and sceptre, weigh
I against the mystic " I. H. S." and a
I book, the Word of God. Below lies
I a dead prelate, in mitre and crosier,
half eaten by the worms; on the
other side, Don Miguel Mafiara,
wrapped in his knightly mande, upon
which also the worms run riot. On
I one of the scales is written "nor
Lmore;" upon the other, "nor less."
' MuriJlo lold the painter that he
could never pass this picture without
involuntarily "holding his nose."
Under the pavement, near the door,
lies the body of the founder; "the
' ashes of the worst man thai ever
■ lived," so he styles himself in his
I epitaph ; and he requested that he
' ' t lie where the feet of ei'cry pas-
f ser should walk over him. The sis-
1 tere conduct us over the clean and
airy wards. On the wall of the patio
are these words, from the pen of
Maflara himself, "This house will
last as long as God shall be feared
in it, and Jesus Christ be served in
the pcreons of his poor. Whoever
enters here must leave at the door
both avarice and pride." And over
his own cell is inscribed, " What is it
we mean when we speak of death ?
It b being free from the body of an,

IJUjd from the yoke of our passions.
Therefore, to live is a bitter death,
Wd to die is a sweet life."
Another of the charoiing historic

■ *

told us by the umc lady was of SL
Maria Coronel, wliose body it jm-
ser\ed in the convent of Sl Ina,
which we could not be permilleil U
see. Peter the Crud, because ena-
mored of her great beauty, coniicmn'
ed her husband lo death, bul offered
to save him if she would yield
wishes. I'he hu)>band was actimlf
executed, and Maria fled to this cuo-,
vent, where the king pursued kt
One night he entered her cell ; ui^
seeing no other way to escape bin^
she seized the burning lamp, sod
empried its boiling contents ova
face. The poor lady lived (he life
of a saint, and die<l la this cmvenL
Her body is as fresh as if she
died yesterday, and the marks of the
oil upon her face as clearly visible V
upon the day when the heroic dee4;
was commilted-

In the evening we walk io
crowded streets, and find spLcD<S4
shops filled with lovely women, wl"*^
go at this hour to walk or dtof
never stirring out in llie day. /
laie as eleven, when we came in, U
streets and shops were yet filled tn
ladies.

SMurdif , a6

We spend the morning in the f
lery, which is considered the finest
Spain, after that of Madrid, This
especially rich in Murillos, and t»
se\eral Zurbarans, the Spanish Caf
vaggio so famous for his pictures *
monks. Here is " The Apotheosis C
St. Thomas Aquinas," considered \*
masterpiece; and of Muiillo there aJ
about twenty-four of his greatest pi"
tures: the " St. Thomas of Villanuov
giving Alms," which was the piuc^
ter's own favorite ; the ~
of Padua kneeling before the Ii
Saviour," who stands upon bb bool
the most perfect type of a child Go^^
and the ecstasy, the fervor, the hura^
lity, in the paJe, attcnuatetl face o-^
the monk brings the tears

W Months in Spain during the late Revolution. 349

so feel with him. Next
lire preferred to the other
sons, " St. Felix of Canta-
the infant Saviour in his
blessed Mother leaning
receive him. The beauty
in Mother and the grace
ide is said by critics to be

praise. Then comes a
Innunciation," a " St. Jo-
he child Jesus," "Saints

Justina," (the patrons of
lints Leandro and Buona-
veral " Conceptions," and
J " Virgin de la Sevilleta,"
[le Napkin,) said to have
1 on a dinner napkin, and
resent to the cook of the
Te Murillo worked. The
Baptist in the Desert"

be mentioned, as well as

ling we bid farewell to
ville, with all its delights,
for Cadiz.

it is the Spaniards, not
, who are "the politest
le world." The conduc-
lie railway carriage with
ling, ladies. May I trou-
^our tickets ?" concluding
ippy night to you." In
eet, the other day, a gen-
. whom we had crossed
!ns, and whose name we
1 know, rushes from his
y, "Ladies, is anything
Here is your house."
pretty exaggerated Spa-
Leaving Seville, we
groves and fields divided
I cactus hedges, but the
It and uninteresting ; and,
rija, which has a tower,
the Giralda, and Jerez,
wns of any size or interest
r Cadiz. "Jerez de la
the fi*ontier town) has al-
t importance ; one of the
nidan colonies. Close to

this took place the battle of the Gua-
delete, which opened Spain to the
Moors. St. Ferdinand recovered it
in 1 251; but it was retaken, and
again recovered by his son, Alonzo
the Learned, in 1264, who granted to
it many important privileges, peopling
it with forty of his hidalgos — the
source of the present Jerez nobility.
It has an Alcazar of great interest — ^its
Alameda — some fine old churches, and
near it are the ruins of a fine old Car-
thusian convent upon the Guadelete,
which the Moors called the River of
Delight. Jerez is now celebrated for
its wines; the sherry so prized in
England and America, which occu-
pies palaces rather than wine-cellars.
These are called "bodegas," and
sometimes hold ten thousand casks.
As we near Cadiz we see Puerta San
Maria, at the mouth of the Guade-
lete — a pretty town, looking upon
the sea, with a suspension bridge
looking most picturesque in the moon-
light ; then Puerto Real, San Fernan-
do, Cadiz.

CADIZ, FONDA DE PARIS.

Sunday, 27.

The guide takes us first to hear
high mass in the new cathedral — a
handsome building, entirely of white
marble, within and without. Some
good pictures, (copies of Murillo,) fine
music, and the most devout of con-
gregations. The loveliest of women,
in modest black dresses, mantillas,
and fans, sat or knelt upon the mat-
ting, which is spread upon the space
between the high altar and the choir.
No seats are provided. A few bring
little black camp-stools. The bishop
(who gave the benediction) is a most
dignified and elegant-looking person ;
and the guide tells us he is much be-
loved and respected. Already the
new order of things pulls down
churches and banishes the Jesuits, as
the first proof of that " liberty of wor-

350 Two Months in Spain dnrhig the late Remfution.

i
I

ship " which is one of the most popu-
lar of the war cries, Such bandit-
looking fellows as we saw yesterday !
Catalan soldiers, in red cap, short
pantaloons with red stripe, half-gai-
ters, and a red blanket on the left
shoulder, a leathern belt, with pistols
and a great rifle.

The revolution spreads everywhere,
" peacefully," as they say. We see a
handbill posted, in which the queen
is spoken of as " D&Ha Isabella of
Bourbon," to whom they wish "no
harm,"

Some Spanish ladies who had once
lived in America, and are friends of
ours, came to visit us. They are in-
tensely loyal, as are all the women
of Spain whom we encounter. From
these we learn that, as in all revolu-
tions, the dregs of the people come
to the top, and are most conspicuous.
It is only they make it who have
nothing to lose, and all to gain.
These "juntas," who now rule in each
city under the provisional govern-
ment, are composed of people of low
birth and bad morals. Here they are
taken from the low trades-people, who
are noted drunkards and unbelievers.
Into such hanils are committed the
destinies of this lovely city. Their
first work has been to try and kill the
Jesuits, who, with a hundred little
boys under their care, had lo defend
themselves from these men and the
rabble they encourage. And but for
the officers of the fleet, who, with
pistols in hand, thrust themselves be-
tween them, they must have been
murdered. These officer? took them
on board the ships for safety, and
some are yet secreted in the town,
waiting an opportunity to escape.
To-day our guide takes us to several
curious old churches which were for-
merly convents, with pretty cloisters
and marble courts. These, he says,
are doomed by the junta to be torn
down to build houses and theatres,

thus destroying these beautiful old
monuments of a post time in
blind fury against religion.

In the evening wc change ora
to the " Fonda de Cadi*," on the
"plaza San Antonio." After dinnir
walk by the seashore on the wills.
As we pass the streets, we enter !«v^
ral churches, where the peopie m
hearing sennons, or saying prayen
with the priests. Such picturesque
groups!

To-night we see from our wintjo**
a procession carrying the Blosed
Sacrament to the sick, from the^iaiiilj
church opposite. A carriage is al-
ways sent, and a long procession,
beating lights, precedes and foUoift.
One of the ladies present tells us thil
last carnival, in the midst of the ga]»
tics on this square, men and women,
in every variety of ridiculous cosiame^
were dancing to merry music, »hffl
suddenly the bell was heard juvccdiug
the Blessed Sacrament, which i*
being carried to a sick officer, living
upon the square. In an instant evay
knee was bent of the motley thronR,
and the band struck up the Kojnl
March in the most effective manna,
and accompanied the procession lo
the house ; returning, the fun recoo-
raenced. This lady says there vn
never anjlhing witnessed more affcflK
iiig. " And," added she, " this is the
faith these revolutionists would
from us. Already thej- talk of
ducing every religion, and ihcyi
build a mosque and a synagogue.

Tlie morning is given
to see the lovely mantillas of I
shape and style; fans of wondj
workmanshij) and exquisite [
on kid or silk ; the beautiful fi|[j
in every variety of Spanish <
made in Malaga, of a particular J
of clay for which Spain is fan
ihe pretty mattings of Cadiz, etc ^

Two Months in Spain during the late Revolution. 351

ig we walk with our friends
: "Alameda," a charming
e by the seaside, where
Im-trees wave above marble
i columns. Entering the
Mount Carmel we find it
people saying prayers and

•

it we are kept awake by the
are marching with drums
g the church bells in honor
ry over the queen's troops
ova.

Tuesday, 29.
t o'clock we set out upon
yci to Jerez, to visit the bo-
taste the fine wines. Pass-
salt-meadows we see the
imids of salt glistening in
It, which had so puzzled us
last saw them by moon-
e bay of Cadiz is on one
)road ocean on the other,
ince the mountains of the
Pinal. A friend joins us at
al, and takes us to one of
: bodegas in Jeoez, where
casks of wine — each cask
^500 ! The proprietor (a

of English or Irish de-
ost kind, shows us this ex-
• place, and gives us to
Jie finest wines — brown
pale sherry, fifty years of
the most delicious of all
jet wines — which are also
nd are called " Pedro Xim-
1 the name of the person

introduced this grape.
es are rich and oily, (per-
ar,") and are made from
when almost as dry as rai-
e days from off the vine.
St of these oceans of fine

Graves (the proprietor)
rarely tastes them, only oc-
aking a glass of the sweet

aid to be the richest town

in Spain, the richest of its size in the
world. Beautiful plazas planted with
palms, and fine old palaces. We vis-
ited an ornamental garden belonging
to one of these wine princes, where
were lakes, and streams, and grottoes,
and bridges, and groves, and flowers
of every variety, birds and fowls, and
model cattle, etc. And then we saw
San Miguel, one of the finest churches
we have seen, (gothic interior,) of the
fifteenth century, (1432,) elegantly or»
namented. There is also a cathedral
and another most interesting church,
(St. Dionisius,) built by Alonzo the
Learned in the thirteenth century, said
to be a particularly fine specimen of
the gothic moresque of that period.
After a fine breakfast of the delicious
Spanish ham, chocolate, cakes, and
sherry, we return to Cadiz. Pass-
ing " Puerta San Maria," we see the
Jesuit college, from which they have
just been ejected, the broken trees,
the trampled gardens telling their own
story of violence. One of the gen-
tlemen in the train tells us there were
two hundred and fifty bo)rs cared for
here, and that the Jesuits fed five
hundred poor each day with soup
from the leavings of the table. The
great building looked a picture of
desolation.

To-night we have another ringing
of bells and marching to the sound
of the odious revolutionary hymn.
One of the gendemen of our party
goes out to hear the speeches in the
square. Some of the speakers pro-
pose to offer the crown to the father
of the King of Portugal, (of the
Catholic branch of that lucky Coburg
family who, possessing nothing, gain
everything by marriage,) others are
for the Duke of Montpensier. Some
cry " Vive Napoleon." In fact, they
are in great embarrassment — have
caught the elephant and do not know
what to do with him, like another
nation we know of.

Tiao Months in Spain during the late Revobtttetu

Wednesday, 30.
To-day ive hear that all Catalonia
has " pronounced," aud even Madrid,
and that the rejoicings of last night
were for the victory of "Alcolea,"
just won, over the queen's troops, in
which, however, the liherals have lost
three thousand men. These troops
were commanded by Serrano, (Duke
de Torres,) who owes everything to
the queen's favor; and on the queen's
side by the Marquis de Novaliches,
" faithful found amongst the faithless."
We hear of one of her officers {the
young Count de Cheste) who has
shut himself with his men in the for-
tress of Montjuich, at Barcelona, re-
solving to die rather than submit.
One must admire such devotion, in
whatever cause it is shown, "Loyal-
ty 1 the most pure and beautiful feel-
ing of the human breast. It is a
love which exists without requiring
the usual nourishment of return ; a
feeling void of every shade of ego-
tism ; tiiat desires and requires nolliing
but the happiness of loving, that
causes one joyfully to sacrifice life
and property for the exalted object
whose voice, perhaps, never reached
his ear. This feeling, in its highest
purity, is the very triumph of human
capacity." Such is the true definition
of" Loyalty," which, like " Liberty," is
often profaned and constandy misun-
derstood. With our pretty Spanish
friends we go to see a church called
the "Cave," a church only for gen-
tlemen, where they may go privately
lo their confession and devotions.
The confessionals are unlike those
used for women, for the men go in
front and kneel fece to face with the
priest. It is a beautiful chapel, won-
derfully rich in marbles and fine vest-
tnenCs and bassi-relievi, and below it
is a gloomy chapel from whence the
church derives its name. Overthealtar
is represented the crucifixion. It is
diinly lighted through a dome, and

the figures {large as life) *
Here the men go for medital
for the Good Friday and (
lemn festivals. At one cndl
chapel is a carved chair, t
platform, upon whicli the
to give his instructions, wh9
is so arranged that the light J
upon the speaker's &ce, Icai
rest of the chapel in darlcna
young priest who showed
church had the face of an t
fair and young and holy; (
such a face as is represented
lure of St. Aloysius GoQzagi
tron of youth.

As we wander from shop
one of our pretty friends r
of the beaux of Cadiz, whoic
ty " she suspects and whom si
most wolenlly for deserting h
in her need, and helping to ei
his country. The pretty '
which she shakes her fan at 1
gesticulates with her hands,
pressive eyes and play of fi
altogether charming and^fl

Late ll\is evening, we hear
lars of the late battle. N(
fought against fearful oddl
thousand men to sixteen '
He was severely if not
wounded, and was can'
men to Portugal, the only n
treat open to them. This i
suppose, will put aa cod to,

Thw
This is the feast of the
Angel of Spain, so we h
where the devotion of the (i
begins. As in Italy, two
kneeling and holding lights,
of the congregation keep 1
fore the Slewed Sact&mes
these forty hours, while 1:
adorers continually coining ai
attest the devotion of this p'
pie. The Church of the f
Angel is near that belong

Two Montlis in Spain during the late Revolution. 353

hospital; and on the oppo-
; of the square is an asylum for

founded many years ago by
rted Moor — a most interesting
>n. Widows of all ranks and
ns find shelter here when
x:essities require it. Each
; her own chamber and sit-
m, and each one her little
apparatus separate. The
ith its open corridors on
3ry, its pretty flowers, its fine
ide on the roof, makes it a
riting abode; and, with the
anish courtesy, the old widow
Dwed us about (the widow
fficer, who had been there
rty years) placed it at our
tion." These poor women
to walk, and to church when
sh, though there is also a
1 the house.

next to see the "Albergo
eri," a magnificent charity,

and endowed by one man
>ry of his mother, and dedi-
St Helena. Here five hun-
lildren of both sexes are
weaving, sewing, washing,
ing, etc., and there is also an
or five hundred old men and
len. The school-rooms and
ies are large and airy; the
courts, where the children
d the sewing-room, where a
girls sat at work, looked out
e sea, and were deliciously
i comfortable. The school-
'cre decorated with pictures
history, and seemed to have
modem inventions which
sy the way to learning. The
Id us how much they had
turbcd by this {"evolutionary
nt Her litdc orphan boys
i been taught music with the
snter the anny as musicians)

1 carried off at night to play
>liitionary hymn, kept out
I over the town tUl two

VOL. IX. — 23

o'clock in the mommg, and then
sent home foot-sore and with aching
heads.

The most interesting thing of all
was to see the old men at dinner —
that helpless thing, an old man.
Placed by the nice table, a man with
snow-white apron served the soup,
a sister gave round the meat, and
then came a pudding. The bread
was as white as is all the bread of
Spain, (even the poorest people have
bread of this very white flour,) and
there seemed about a hundred of
these men over sixty years of age.

The rain drives us home, but by
and by we go out again to buy
some of the boots and shoes of Cadiz,
which are the prettiest in the world
and cover the prettiest of feet

FEAST OF THE GUARDIAN ANGELS.

Friday, Oct 2.

We go to the lovely church of
the Rosary for high mass. The de-
corations are very tastefiil and beau-
tiful, and hundreds of men and
women, in their grave black garments,
assist most devoutly; the men have
benches on each side, the women
sit or kneel upon a bit of matting
before the altar.

From this we go to the "Capu-
chinos," where we see three of Mu-
rillo's finest pictures, the '' Marriage
of St Catherine," over the altar,
which he left unfinished and which
is surrounded, in five compartments,
by five {Mctures of Zurbaran, almost
equal to the centre piece. There is .
here another " Conception," and that
pictiu-e of pictures, " St Francis re-
ceiving the Stigmata," which is cer- |
tainly the most extraordinary of all "
the works of this great master. The
face of the saint seems to come en-
tirely out of its dark suiroundingiB, .
and 80 do the wonderful hands.
These all look like the living flesh,,
and move us as if they were so.

Twa Months in Spain duritig- tke laJe Revolution.

This Capuchin convent, wliich
Murillo loved to adorn, and in paint-
ing for which he lost his life, is now
2 hospital for lunatics — the monks
all gone; the present Bishop of
Cadiz was one them. And to show
the devotion of the common people
to Murillo, they will not allow the
bishop to move this picture of St.
Francis to an opposite altar, where
it would lie in a better light and pre-
served from the smoke of the altar
candles. "No; the place for which
Murillo painted it must be the best
place, and there it shall stay." In a
chapel near by is a lovely picture of
■" Our Lady of the Rosary," which
must be a copy of the one in t!ie
.-gallery of Madrid so celebrated. In
this chapel and everywhere here we
■see statues or pictures of the " Mar-
tyrs of Cadiz," (Ser\-ando and Ger-
-mano,) two young Roman soldiers
-who, becoming converts, died for
the faith on a spot near the present
city gates. It is said that on the
occasion of the terrible earthquake
which occurred here November isl,
I7SS. when the sea rose and threat-
ened to devour the city, two young
men in strange garments appeared
on the spot of their martyrdom and
were seen by hundreds of the inhabi-
tants to stay the waves, speaking to
the people and bidding them pray to
■God. On another side of the city the
Dominican priests bore the favorite
•statue of" Our Lady of the Rosary."
with many prayers, to the waters'
blink, and " the waves receded and
there was a great calm."

On the third side, where Cadiz is
most exposed to the sea, is a little
church in which the priest was say-
ing mass on the eventful morning.
The people ran to him saying, " Re-
told ! the sea ts at the very door."
He made ha.ste to consume the con-
.secralcd Host, then seiiing the cruci-
fix and the baoneT of " Our L^dy of

Mere)-," went out upon the
where the waves already I
feet: " My Mother, let Ihemi
further" — and they did notl
What is so remarkable ii
counts of this earthquake
there had been no storm to
it, but on a sod sunshiny d
this terrible convulsion of'
ments. We went to sec this
where is yet shown the cm
the banner which played ■
tant a part on this occad
see the point to which the «l
and an inscription on the 1
house recording the event (
here related. Next wc ]
church of San Lorenzo, I
ward that of the ScaUi,
fiiars,) where to-day was
"last mass;" the "junta" It
creed that it be torn dovnV
a theatre. The work of i
had already commenced.
strong old walls resisted 1
carpenters were taking down
ed altars and curiously car»
bios," which, belonging to
when Spain had her argo)
the new world laden with
made to resist "all tirm
men with iron crowbars wi
to dislodge an angel suspea
an altar, which posltivdy ■
come down ; while below h3
floor, stood saints and tnaitg
ed with dust and ilihris, \
lodged from the pedestals
they had rested for centutic
ful group! No wonder tl
wept, and eyed resentfiiUy
cious-looking revotutionietsl
to order the work ; while d
diers, with the hateful red |
the arm, (the revoluiionai
kept off the populace, whoi
get in at the dooi^, by the a
bid farewell to these ancii
It had been the church cfl
ket people, the cradle of sd

Two Months in Spain during the late Revolution. 355

r saints, the scene of the " first
nion," the " nuptial mass," the

1 of their children, the funeral
r their dead. Great is the cla-
itside! Old people kiss the
nd the young gather bits of
)ken altars, while sorrowful-
priests are permitted to carry
le mutilated statues and gild-
convent of the Good Shep-
)ening into the church, is also
•m down, and its unhappy in-
Iriven elsewhere to seek shel-
ley are putting into the same
these, with Carmelites, Ursu-
d others; crowding together
ho teach with those who save
gdalens in strange and pain-
usion. Such are some of the

revolution ! And this is the
" which England and Ame-
c for the Spaniard !
ght we hear that the Mar-
Novaliches has died of lock-
face having been dreadfiiUy
i by a ball. The Conte de
te, who held Monjuich at
la, has gone to join the
bandoning his " forlorn hope"

quest.

Saturday,* October 3.

y we hear the high mass in
edral, and go to see the jew-

2 sacristia. They have a re-
• " custodia," (the gift of an

of the Calderon de la Bar-
n pearls and emeralds of im-
alue ; a superbly chased cru-

gifl of Alonzo the Learned ;
but exquisitely worked taber-
gold with beautiful amethysts
a cross, given by the same
Liter the mass we go to buy

the famous Cadiz gloves,
1 drive on the ramparts to
fine sea view. In the even-
the church of the Carmel.
the eve of the feast of " Our

the Rosary," the church of

the Rosary is illuminated, and most
of the houses throughout the city.

Sunday, Oct 4.
In the church of the Rosary is a
beautiful ceremony. The music is
lovely ; the wind instruments, in cer-
tain parts of the mass, most effec-
tive, and the whole one of the most
solemn services at which we have as-
sisted

The sermon is delivered with such
grace and unction that we could but
realize the truth of that saying of
Charles V., that Spanish is the lan-
guage in which to speak to God!
So grand, so sonorous ! And there is
something in the grave dignity of
the Spanish priest which makes him
seem the perfection of ecclesiastical
character. We are all struck with
the decorum of the people in the
churches, the quiet and devotion;
none of the running in and out and
the femiliarity witli holy things
which in Italy makes one see that
the people regard the church as their
father's house, in which they take
liberties. Here, it is alone the house
of God, as is seen in the reverential
manner and careful costume. All
wear black, and not even is a lace
mantilla usual, but the Spanish man-
tilla of modest silk. The men are
alike reverential, and nowhere have
we seen so many men in church, par-
ticularly at night.

To-day we hear the good news
that the government of the city is
taken from the* hands of the junta
and given into the care of the former
military governor of Cadiz, in con-
junction with the admiral of the
fleet This is received with great
favor by the people of moderate
opinion of both sides, as putting
a stop to extreme measures. Thejr
have countermanded the destruction
of the two old churches, the Francis-
can and the Scalzi; of the last*

J56

The Approaching Council of the Vatican.

named they tell a most extraordi-
nary story to-day. Yesterday the
destroyers had knocked down a por-
tion of the thick old wall. This
morning it was found rebuilt as if by
invisible hands, with the same heavy
masonry, as strong as before, and
even the white plaster upon the out-
side dry and barely to be distinguish-
ed from the rest of the building.
Everybody runs to look at it. The
people cry <' a miracle," and say that
the Blessed Virgin, whose feast it is
to-day, had a hand in it,

Monday, Oct 5.
We go for the last time to the
shops, and to hear our last mass in
San Antonio ; for to-morrow we leave
beautiful Cadiz and the dear friends
who have made our stay so delight-
ful. The political horizon to-day is
a little clearer. In consequence of
some outrages upon priests and
churches one man has been banished
to Ceuta, and large placards are
upon the streets threatening with like

punishment every one who
priest or injures a church. 1
ished man had harangued t
assuring them that a Domii
ther in the convent of that c
some instruments of torture,
used in the Inquisition, and
applied them to his peniten
unthinking mob, guided by h
ed to search the convent, \
church windows, and not fine
was promised them, turned 1
upon the man who had decei>
In the war of 1835, wh
gossa began the work of
the monasteries and murde
monks, Cadiz gave her mc
hours to get away, and arme
saved the monasteries. To
the populace burned the
and furniture ; but as Cadiz
more moderate than her sist
she will not now be less k
then. How impossible to
in looking out upon a city sc
and so lovely, that evil possio]
lurk in it anywhere !

TO BB COKTINUBOl.

THE APPROACHING COUNCIL OF THE

VATICAN. *

The preparations for the approach-
ing council continue to be made on
a grand scale, and with the greatest
diligence. From the Chronicle of
Matters relating to the future CouncU,
which is regularly published at the
office of the Civilta Caitolkh^ in
Rome, we copy the list of the differ-
ent commissions and their members
which are preparing the matters to be
discussed and decided upon by the
bishops assembled in ecumenical
oounciL

The supreme directive c
tion is composed of the most
cardinals, Patrizi, de Reisacl
bo, Panebianco, Bizarri, Bilic
ni, and Capalti. To these ai
as secretary, Mgr. Giannelli
consulters, Mgr. Tizzani, Mg
ini, vicegerent of Rome, Mgi
(an Englishman,) Don Mdd
eotti, of the seminary of Pal
Sanguineti, S. J., professor
law in the Roman College
sor Feije^ of the University

The Approaching Council of the Vdtiean.

357

id Professor Hefele, of Tubin-
rhe commission of ceremonies
posed of prelates who have
leral supervision of the grand
IS which take place in the
1 churches of Rome. The
•ecclesiastical commission is
ed of Cardinal de Reisach,
It, Mgrs. Marini, del Parco a
e, Bartolini, Jacobini, Fer-
ssi, Gtzzi, (a judge in one of
t courts,) Guardi, (vicar-general
eligious congregation of min-
' the sick,) Canon Kovaes, of
L in Bohemia, Canon Molitor
I in Germany, the Abb^ Ches-
LT-general of Quimper, Canon
g of Mayence, the Abb^ Gi-
caj-general of Moulins, and
inchieri, secretary. The com-
for eastern affairs is compos-
Zardinal Bamabo, president,
[in Simeoni, of the Propagan-
Bollig, S. J., professor of San-
d Oriental languages in the

university and Roman col-
Vercellone, (Bamabite religi-
ice deceased,) F. Theiner, of
tory, the Most Rev. Leonard
, prefect of Carmelite missions
the Right Rev. Joseph David,
bishop, Canon Roncetti, pro-
1 the Roman seminary, Don
Piazza, Don Francis Rosi, F.
rg, abbot of St Boniface and
r of theology in the universi-
lunich, F. MartinofT, S. J.,
oward, (an Englishman,) and
retoni, secretary. The com-
on the religious orders and
aitions is composed of Car-
Earri, president, Mgrs. Marini,
i, and Lucidi, F. Capelli, (Bar-
F. Bianchi,(Dominican,)F. Ci-
Minorite Franciscan,) F. Cre-
ugustinian,) F. Costa, (Jesuit,)
ruisasola, arch-priest of the
il of Seville, and Don Fran-
pani, secretary. The commis-

dogmatic theology is com-

posed of Cardinal Bilio, president,
Mgr. Cardoni, president of the eccle-
siastical academy, F. Spada, (Domini-
can,) master of the sacred palace and
professor of dogma in the Roman uni-
versity, F. de Ferrari, (Dominican,) F.,
Perrone, S.J., Mgr. Schwetz, professor
of theology in the university of Vien-
na, F. Mura, ex-general of the Ser-
vites, rector of the Roman university,
F. Adrogna, definitor-general of the
conventual Franciscans, Mgr. Jac-
quenet,curd of St Jacques at Rheims,
the Abbd Gay, vicar-general of
Poitiers, F. Martinelli, (Augustinian,)
professor of Scripture in the Roman
university, Don Joseph Pecci, pro-
fessor of philosophy in the same, F.
Franzlin, S. J., professor of theology
in the Roman college, F. Schrader,
SwJ., professor in the imiversity of
Vienna, Professor Petacd, of the Ro-
man seminary, Professor Hettinger, of
Wurtzburg, Professor Alzog, of Friburg,
the Rev. Dr. Corcoran, of Charles-
ton, S. C, Canon Labrador, professor
of philosophy and theology at Cadiz,
and Canon Santori, rector of the pon-
tifical lyceum in the Roman semina-
ry, secretary. The commission of
ecclesiastical discipline is composed
of Cardinal Caterini, president, Mgrs.
Giannelli, Angelini, Svegliati, Simeo-
ni, Nina, Nobili, Lucidi, de Angelis,
professor of canon law in the Roman
university, F. Tarquini, S.J., Canon
Jacobini, Professor Hergenrcsther, of
Wurtzburg, Professor Feije of Lou-
vain, the Abb6 Sauv^, of Laval, Ca-
non Giese, of Munster, Professor
Heuser, of Cologne, Professor de Tor-
res, of Seville, and Mgr. Louis Jaco-
bini, secretary. Several other extin-
guished men have been added to
these commissioners since this list
was published. Dr. Newman was
invited to assist, but declined on ac-
count of his infirm health. Dr.
D5llinger was also invited.
The sessions of the council will be

3S8

Tilt Afipivachiug Council of tftt Vatican.

helil in one of the large chapels of
St. Peter's Church, which is capable
of conuiining several thousand per-
sons. The principal architects of
Rome are already engaged in prepar-
ing the proper accommodations, un-
der the immediate supervision of the
Holy Father liimselC The altar of
the council is at one end of the chap-
el, the throne of the sovereign pon-
tiff at the opposite end. On the
right and left of the throne are plac-
ed the seats of the cardinals, patri-
archs, and ambassadors of sovereigns.
The seats of the prelates are ranged
in two semicircles, each tier being
elevated above the one before it;. the
tribune of the orators is placed in the
middle of the open space between,
and there are also tribunes prepared
for those who will be admitted as
spectators of the public sessions.

A large and beautiful piece of
black marble, which was found among
the treasures of the Emperor Nero,
at the recent exhumation, is to be
made into an obelisk commemora-
tive of the council, which will be
erected near the spot where St. Peter
was crucified. The base of [he co-
lumn is to be made of a number of
small blocks of white marble, equal
to the number of prelates assisting at
the council, each one placing his own
block, with his name and title engrav-
ed upon it.

The bishops alone are entitled to
a scat in the council by divine right.
Cardinals, abbots, and generab of
religious orders are entitled to a seat
also, by ecclesiastical law or privilege.
The question of the right of bishops
itt fartibus mfidelium to a seal is
now under discussion, and wc have
not learned whether "it has yet been
decided or not.

This circumstance has given the
Roman correspondent of the Neii'
York Hei-aid a chance of furnishing a
Specimen of llie ridiculous and reck-

less falsification of matters rdoiiiigta
the Catholic Church, by wiuii ik
ordinary readers of newspapen le
perpetually befooled and myitifiei
The tloubt respecting the tight of
tliese bisliops is represented u. hiv-
ing been raised in order to keep out
those who are not sufficiently subser-
vient to the holy see, and the cun-
ciusion drawn — nilh the usual fli|)|iaDl
impertinence of this class of writers—
that Rome will admit none who u£
not prepared to carry out fully Iw
own policy. The truth is, howcw,
that these bisltops in partii-ui — who
are prelates holding meicly titulu
sees which are in fact extinct or is
the possession of schismatics, manj- rf
them having been decoi.Ui. ' ' ' '
episcopal character by \\"
for the sake of honor — .: i
the men who have the Ji. . ,
of opposing the holy_see aiiJ ibe
greatest interest in procuring iu &•
vor. Some of them arc \'lcjRJp'»-
tolic governing mission.ir> ■ i
others are coadjutors ui
bishops, others are prelate- ■
resigned tlieir sees, and tlit ;, .— "
der are prelates filling cenolii biffb
offices in the Roman court. It ii
evident enough that if tliL/e wst
any reason to apprehend iii.|"-itA>n

to the pontifical authoiiij (r i'}

portion of the hierarchy, ii >. "■■ '■"
rather from the primates .inti ■.wi'i'-''
politans of old and powerful kc^
who have been nominated by sow-
reigns, and who would have all d*'
support and authority to suiiun
them. There is no reason, howsvet,
to apprehend that any collisiuQ ">''
take place between the holj f
and the hierarchy, who have ncveiio
tlic whole history of the chuiih iKf
more completely united ilian ^
are at jiresent.

I'he bishops take do thcolo^W)*
A-Ith them, and, besides the j>n^i>^
tliemselves, only the tfaeologuuit o(

The Approaching Council of the Vatican.

359

see and the representatives
(vereigns will participate in
orations of the council,
ard to the matters which
-oposed for the adjudication
)reme tribunal, we find many
», more or less plausible,
!atholic and secular periodi-
; prefer to wait until the
le council are made known
lentic manner, before speak-
this subject. We remark
at there is not the slightest
n for the rumors which are
in certain newspa{>ers re-
proposed changes in the
d discipline of the church,

matters which have long

definitely settled,
npression made upon the
^ilized world by the convo-

an ecumenical council is
iversal, and continually in-
as the time for its assem-
.ws near. The infidel and
lican party in Europe mani-
' and dread which is certain-
:able, and very encouraging
^nds of religion and order,
icians of the old regime of
•emacy over the church also
a terrible and perfectly well-
darm, lest the church should
d regain her perfect liberty
^pendence, and condenm,
any hope of appeal, those
ind opinions by which they
lerto held a certain number
e Catholics in alliance with
cs«

xreption given by the empe-
Lussia and the patriarch of
inople to the po{>e's invitation
^11 known to need any fi^h
Of course, the great body
oriental prelates follow the

of these two potentates — a
commentary upon the value
cerity of the protest which
ke Against the tyranny of the

Roman patriarch. There are not
wanting, however, certain instances
showing the impression which the
pope*s invitation has made upon the
more sincere and conscientious mem-
bers of these separated communions.
The bishop of Trebizond, a man of
venerable age, received the encyclical
letter with marks of great respect,
raising it to his forehead and pressing
it to his bosom, exclaiming at the
same time with emotion, " O Rome !
O Rome I O St. Peter I O St. Peter !"
He would not, however, declare
any decisive intention either to at-
tend the council or to absent him-
self. The bishop of Adrianople re-
turned the letter, saying, "I wish
first to reflect I wish to decide for
myself." Letters firom the east testify
that many of the Greek schismatics
openly blame the patriarch and the
bishops who have refused to attend
the council, saying, that by this re-
fusal they have shown that they are
afiraid to en^ into discussion with
the Latin bishops. It is believed
that the Armenian bishops who were
summoned by their patriarch, residing
at Constantinople, to advise with him
respecting the pope's invitation, were
in &vor of accepting it, firom the
fact that he afterward sent the en-
cyclical to the patriarch of Esmiasin
with the report of the doings of the
synod. A strong unionist party has
been formed among the Armenians,,
and one of their prelates, Mgr. Nar-
ses, has published a long letter ad-
vocating union with the Romani
Church. The Ottoman government
favors union as a means of weaken-
ing the influence of Russia, and has
separated the Bulgarians, who num^-
ber four millions, from the jurisdictioa
of the patriarch of Constantinople.
It has also refused to recognise a
prelate sent by the patriarch of Es-
miasin to act as his nuncio at Con-
stantinople for the purpose of coun-

The Apptoaching Coutuit of the Vatican.

[eracting the efforts of the unionist
party, sod has giixn a semi-offidal
warning to one of the most violent
RvssophiiUt jounials.*

It is an interesting fact that the
king of Birmah, when made ac-
fjuainted with the desire of the Holy
Father that sovereigns should place
no obstacle in the way of the attend-
ance of the bishops in their dominions
at the council, exclaimed: "What I
can there be any princes who would
oppose such a just and holy desire P
For my part, I not only promise to
interpose no oI»stacle, but 1 engage to
pay ilie travelling expenses of the
bishops of my kingdom both going
and returning." He has also an-
nounced the intention of sending by
each of the bishops a jewelled cross
ns a present to the pope.

The Jansenbt bishoja of Holland,
who are five or six in number, each
one having two or three priests and
about a thousand people under his
jurisdiction, find themselves com-
pelled, by their own professed princi-
ples, to submit themselves to the
judgment of the council. They have
appealed, ever since the condemnation
of Janscnius, from the pope to an
ecumenical council. Now they find
an ecumenical council on the eve of
assembling, before which they have
full liberty to appear, and plead their
■case. They acknowledge the infalli-
ibility of iJie oibunal, and therefore
c&n have no choice but to submit to
fits decision, which they openly pro-
fess their readiness to do, so that
without doubt they will all be recon-
■ciled to the church.

Among Protestants we find evety-
■where a great excitement respecting

the council, a full recognif
immense importance of |
which it must incritaHy b
Protestantism ; in genenil, >
tion to rouse up for the d
their losing cause, and (
obstinate renewal of tlieir <
to the admonition of their
tor to return to their ollq
occasionally a mantfettatiod
ferent sentimeni—a disposit
ten, to hope for good rest'
welcome the thought of
reconciliation.

On the tenth day of laa
ber, M. (iuizot uiteted the,
words at a reunion of eo
and laymen, at Nolie Dan
zulfe, in Normandy : " Y*
have faith; it is iotth whii
you ; and even when you
imprudently, success alwaf
you in the end. . , . i
that the Catholic Chuiclf
itself, happily for France'
world. . . . Theclergj
the papacy does not fall.
IX. has exhibited an admil
<lom in convoking this _
biy. from which, perhaps, w3
salvation of the world; fiat-
ties are very sick; but, far |
there are great remedies,'

I'he German publicist,
Meniel, in the number of hi
Lem'es lax last Oclobex, tb
" We are far from wiehing
reunion of all good Christ
though the same authority
tants who are truly Chiisd
sufficiently recognized. E¥
tivc of reunion, however
may be, must be hailed wit)

Reinhold Baumstark, in
phlet upon the pontilkal \i
" It is the Catholic Church
directed and accomplished :
tion of humanity during

The Approaching Council of the Vatican,

361

ige. Since the Reformation,
istained without succumbing
nturies of violent struggles,
he eternal truth of God lives
\ shall see the realization of
1 of its founder, that " there
me fold and one shepherd ^
lite a different spirit writes
benkel, of Heidelberg: "It
able to deny that the Protes-
•ch of Germany is at present
I very great danger. The dif-
nfessions are becoming daily
posed to each other. Theo-
arties engage in mortal com-
* liberal party is combated
ervile party. The bond of
with deliberate purpose torn
:en and a large portion of
lan people, witnesses of these

fall into .discouragement,
and indifference. The an-
malign enemy laughs at our
It, after having bitten one
we shall finish by eating one
ip. . . Let us say it, to
le, we have no remedy to
' this evil. Interiorly divided,

in party disputes, deprived
omy, the sport of political
ns, and politico-ecclesiasti-
iments which are perpetually
, torn by theological hatred,
<1 by the populations, thrust

all classes of citizens, our
sembles only too much a
:ed vessel which lets in wa-
rry side. How can we face
it tempest which is brewing,
lack unity of direction, when
1 head, are destitute of any
rior or exterior organization,
are consuming our forces in
lual wars of one confession
mother?" We are sorry,

Schenkel, that we really
j11 you how you can do it.
Dr. Bellows, the American
ign Christian Union, or the
k Observer might suggest

something a little consoling or encou-
raging to the unfortunate gentleman.

The official replies made by vari-
ous Protestant bodies in Europe are,
as we might expect, a reiteration of
their old protests against the Roman
Church, and a declaration of their
contentment with their present state.
The most courteous and well-reason-
ed of these papers which we have
seen is that of the Unitarian pastors
who sit in the seat of Calvin at Ge-
neva. It makes the issue between
rationalism, liberalism, and humani-
tarian progress, on one side, and the
supernatural revelation of doctrine
and law, on the other, very distinctly —
imputing, in the usual style, servility,
formalism, tyranny, and obscurantism
to the Catholic Church, and claiming
for Protestantism the merit of protect-
ing and promoting true liberty, intel-
ligence, and happiness. There is
more of the same kind in the number
of the lAberal Christian (February
6th) in which we have read this ad-
dress. As statements of the position
and opinions of the parties issuing
them, these documents may pass.
We are to expect that those who are
challenged in the way they have been
will reply in just such a manner.
These are only the preliminaries of
an earnest controversy which must be
carried on for a long time before any
result can be looked for.

Dr. Hedge, of Harvard University,
has rendered himself supremely ridi-
culous by denying that St. Peter was
bishop of Rome, or even visited
Rome at any time; from which he
concludes that the pope has no right
to issue encyclicals as his successor. *

The Liberal Christian, with a kind
of audacious valor, backs him up,
and declares that " the whole dahn
of the bishop of Rome is an absurd-
ity." Suppose it to be so to the su-
perior and enlightened minds of this

* See article on this point in the pveeent numbe*.

The Approaching Council of the VatimH.

editor and liis compeers; the asser-
lioa of it carries no weight, and can
have no eflect upon any other per-
son's mind. Another Unitarian, the
Rev. Samuel Johnson, of Massachu-
setts, says : "If I behevcd in his
(Christ's) authority even as Matthew
presents it, not to say Paul orjolin,
I should regard the principles of the
papacy as in substance right, whatso-
ever I might think of the conduct
of its representatives." ■ Considering
the very great importance of the sub-
ject, the great tearaing and number
of those who differ from our enlight-
ened friends, and the curious circum-
stance that almost ■ every person
thinks that no opinion or sect but his
own can uphold itself against the
claims of Rome, would it not be in
better taste to have patience a litde
longer, and speak with a little more
moderation ?

The Ckrhtian Quarterly, which is
a ferocious young Campbellite peri-
odical published at Cincinnati, thus
addresses the Protestant community :
" Are you able to feel the sting in the
following words of ■ Pius, sovereign
ponlifi; ninth of the name, to all Pro-
testants and non-Catholics?' In
speaking of the midtitudinous sects
of the Protestant world, and of the
restlessness, instability, and uncertain-
ty that everywhere characterizes Pro-
testantism, he says," etc. '■ The very
fact that the Pope of Rome should,
in the last half of the nineteenth cen-
tury, have occasion to pen such a
paragraph, ought to call the blush
of shame to every Protestant cheek 1
Protestantism lias been experiment-
ing for three hundred years, and the
pope of Rome has summed up the
resuit! Let Protestantism try the
force of its logic upon this papal di-
lemma I" t

We take the following
news from the Loruion TbiUti

" There are aigns around lu Ihi
mcnt ii begliiniim. The l>ifii
vmp, a peculiar and certainly a ti
journal, published ihe first Wedl
every month, in London, contiina.
tant address to the pope, and nod
readen iii town and country that
far fflguatuie at tis office till the <
month. The purport of the
implore the pope to proclaim agi
own authori^ or by that of the ed
observance of the laws of natural j
Christian and civilized aalions '~
latiuns with the heathen and the
In an article written In French \
journal aayg : ' We
of the pope like texts, we draw
lion from his maxims, :
complishtnenl of bis work ttic onlf
the preservation of European
The strength of the po|

•Ji

law;'

Ir this truth, Christianily nust be
anew.' In addition to this r
licclarallon, we have the public i
of the Rev. E. W. Urqnhart, at ;
of the 'English Church Union,'
over by the Hon. and Rev. C. L. Q
in Soulh-Devonihirc. He awi
separation of church and state if
ilistant, and suggested thai Ihe
parly should seek reunion with l1
of Rome, and that tepieaenlativt
lie sent to the coundt, to stipuUM
dilioua of their submission
Rome. This language may .
in the mouth of an Angliom ell
bul we expect Ihe courage of M
han's utlerance will unlooae i
Of course, Ihe only Biipulati<
made U that of unqualified
the holy see. To a humai
authority you maybrinj; [omlittoil
that is divine and infallible, yon fl
only £ulh and docility."

The comments of the secul
upon the coimcil, in man]
would seem as if their audu
aiming to carry burlesque to
farcical extreme. Their sfril
of the mocking ridicule of Art
infidelity without its show of
together with the

The ApproachUig Council of the Vatican,

363

d the systematic disavowal of
nciple higher than self-interest
deal exj>ediency. It is suffi-
absUrd when such writer^ at-
to express, under the protec-
of their anonymous cloak, any
s whatever in religious mat-
»fuch more, when they offer
dicrous advice to the prelates
leologians of the Catholic
, and pretend to understand
B nature of Christianity and
>ion upon earth better than
urch herself. In itself the
is only laughable, and of
the really intelligent and well-
d would only receive with a
* derision the notion that any
meaning or value could be
I to such lucubrations. But
mes serious and lamentable
e reflect how small this class
;. The proofs are continually
upon us of the fact, that a
X)portion of those who are in-
: enough to make money, to
le run of politics and the ex-
to dress well, and to make a
leally read nothing but the
ipers, look to them for their
if religion as well as every
)pic, and are actually possess-
le grossest ignorance, and the
ense and stolid prejudice, in

to everything relating to
itholic Church and to all
: nations. Any convert
Catholic Church, who mixes
rdinary men of business or
meral society, will testify to
: that they are frequently ac-
with expressions of surprise
:sons intelligent and reputable,
they are, can possibly be Ca-
and with the assertion, as of a
that only the ignorant, the de-
and the vicious, which with
ins is generally a synonym
: people or foreigners, believe

doctrines of the Catholic

Church. Those who read the secta-
rian newspapers suffer themselves to
be swept along by the lying current
which runs through them, like the fil-
thy stream of a sewer. We happen
to have just read a description from a
London paper of a visit to the sewers
of that city which presents an apt and
forcible illustration of what we are
saying: "Under Farrington street
west," says the writer, "the Fleet
Ditch was running in two swifl, black
streams; almost below the footway
upon each side, some three feet six
inches deep, and with so strong a cur-
rent that we were assured it would be
impossible to save the life of any one
who stepped or slipped into them.
These foul streams recalled the an-
cient Styx and made one hold back
with something like a shudder."

The following extract from the Bos-
ton Traveller has just fallen into
our hands in good time to serve as
an instance in point :

"THE NEW LIGHT OF THE CATHOLIC
CHURCH.

" Mr. Editor : Sabbath evening, April
4th, Father I. T. Hecker, editor of the
Catholic Worlds delivered a lecture in the
Music Hall on ' The Religious Condition
of the Country.'* As it has been reported
by the press, it would seem to be little
more than a tissue of misrepresentations of
New England in particular, and of Protest-
antism in general. It would be a sufficient
reply to the exaggeration and conceit of
the reverend padre to say, that if Protes-
tantism had done nothing more than to en-
able h.m to rail for an hour and a half at
the most cherished and sacred feelings of
our people, its mission would not be in
vain. And herein is its eminent supe-
riority to that cast-iron system which holds
the reviler of our &ith. Can Catholicism
do what Protestantism did on Sunday
week ? Will Rome, or any other Catho!ic
dty, permit a Protestant minister, pla-
carded and advertised days in advance, in
in a public hall, to burlesque and hold up
to contempt the Catholic faith ? This lec-
turer knows that Rome is mean enough to
forbid the exerdse of Protestant womhip
to travellers, or visitors from Protestant

364

The Approaching Council of the Vatican.

lands sojourning temporarily within her
walls. And yet he comes to the largest
hall in the capital of New England and
has the impudence to undertake to tell our
people that they are adrift on two tides,
one of which is to Rome and the other to
infidelity. And if his statements are relia-
ble, infidelity makes altogether the better
stand. But we insist that he is either wil-
fully false or wilfully ignorant, or he would
not have said that * not one in ten of the
people of New England accepts as funda-
mental, the truths which his fore&thers
held.'

** Father Hecker knows, if he knows any-
thing, that the evangelical churches of
New England hold for substance the same
doctrines that their fathers held ; and he
knows, too, that there is not a doctrine held
or advocated in any Protestant Church in
Christendom which does not have its ad-
vocates in the bosom of the Catholic
Church. He must be aware that biblical
criticism has made sound progress within
two hundred and tiity years; and we can
hardly believe that even he would be nar-
row cnvHigh to deny that certain doctrines
mav l>e rc-$tateit and re-explained without
l^un^iiti; into infidelity, least of all pushing
Kx Koine.

** l^uc a$ he has cho6cn to attack New
En^UiKi ill ivKitioiljr, it is no more than
Xwu )>crKji('^ that New England should
ha\c ih<* i»«i\iJ<'»:e of bcinu ciHnjKired with
tUc ttiv^ UxorvU Cath^tlic cv^mniries. He
\xitAm(Y wiU Rv>( objCK'-t to Fraiice, which
Ikjtf jil>ftA«<» tven ovvrwhclraingly Catholic,
«t\>C vt'< iti ^rn ot h«r |vi>aIatioti bein^ Tro-
tcrti*^ Aiikl wc scarvYly fifty jvars have
|^ft»^9c^Jl »»:s.v tb« «bv>k natioo voced Ciod
nv: .'k cv^a^rtKx.. JMM ^ificti rejtsiKi in the

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vv.v:v ju:\iN\\xL N\v i»eed

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xes' * nn-v*.* X 'v'lfcik Si a j»«c:'«|j^ mx^fji-
!».. •. N'lii.s Vfyi S»M ■»— >ii*r5«tioi« *o
«\vv,i» \. «'! I \; ,k«kc Cac^s.^h: *;*.cea :>

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Catholic Church has been supi
the result been the Catholic 6
country is Ireland. And if Fathc
is willing to compare the Irish, wl
best fruits of the Catholic Church
people of New England, who are
fruits of Protestantism, we are ent
tent But it is not a little sing
these best children of the Catholi
should have immigrated to this o
the million, and are still coming, t<
their condition ? And we think
ther Hecker himself will not c
these favorite sons of Rome have
fully improved in intelligence, ro
thrift in this infidel New England.
" But what would this reviling pr
Would he make of New Engl am
Ireland or Spain, another in fid*
or Italy? What would he hav<
Blot out our public schools, take
from the hands of our people, sul
consciences to the priests, esta
inquisition, raise up a generation
tains like those of his church who
negroes to the Iamp-p«~jstj> in N*
and roll back this land into the
of the middle ages, when Rom*
a nightmare upon all the p<
Christendom? Docs this priesi
that our people will swallow sue
was offered them at the Music H.
common school has not diffuse
intelligence here for two hundrec
years, that our people should n
to a Catholic schoolmaster to \\
own histor\-, or the historv of th
which has made an Ireland am! a

••Pci

We do not expect that
dense darkness ot' ignorance
judice as that which exist
Protestant world will be imn
dispelled by the light whkh
diate ^m the citv of God
the council of bishops a
about their august chid; t
oc Jesus Christ. We hj>ve i
expect a great number of
sions. among those who an:
^'jLTually enlightened, as its ii
rx^sult. and the mere zeal'
succTrtsdJ j^rosecucon ot I
ot Irjrgicg back all naiioii
tv.>id cc tnuh Jffci grace as
dunc^ a Icog perloc to oon

The Approaching Council of the Vatican.

36s

bt, the greater number of
10 are thoroughly committed
nti-Catholic cause will perse-
the last in their hostility, and
r a long time a multitude of
s under their influence. It
s to argue with such men in
; of convincing or converting
They will be forced, however,

the Catholic question fairly

arely, and no longer be able

themselves behind vague

^s and immeaning generalities.

ill be obliged, also, to give

of their own systems, what-
y may be, which they put
as substitutes for the Catho-
ion, and thus undergo the
tests of logic, history, and
science. For ourselves, we
loubt for a moment that, as
nate result, everything like
c or positive Protestantism
7-ound into dust between the
)osing forces of Catholicity
lelity, leaving the great con-
>e waged between these two.
xl to this last great issue
ire to make no prognostics,
re reasons both for fear and
; but the only course for us to
\ to aim for as much good as

leaving the rest with God.
Tisis approaches in the con-
B^een tl)e universal divine
id universal lawlessness, be-
e church and the world, that
wicked world or concrete
all false and wicked princi-

mundus positus in malignos^

the apostle speaks ; and that
s will be hastened and ma-
ifTected by the coimcil, can-
ioubted. We desire to im-
erefore, upon all the really
nd upright lovers of truth and
kity, the importance of their
areful attention to the doings
Duncil and of looking to cor-
x:es for their information.

All Catholics must look forward to
the council with sentiments of the
most profound veneration and ardent
expectation of the incalculable good
which it will produce in the bosom of
the church. An ecumenical council
is the representative Catholic Church,
the entire episcopate with its head
and supreme bishop, the highest tri-
bunal on earthy with plenary authority
to define doctrines and enact laws,
with the spiritual presence of Jesus
Christ in the midst of it, and the
plenitude of the Holy Spirit to en-
lighten and assist its dehberations and
judgments; infallible in all its decrees
respecting faith and morals, sovereign
in all its enactments, with full power
to bind all minds and consciences to
an implicit and unreserved obedience
in the name of God. The church is
always infallible, and is perpetuaDy
teaching the faith and the rule of
morals; the holy see is always in-
vested with authority to decide con-
troversies and make laws; and is
competent to make even definitions
of faith, to which the assent of the
dispersed bishops gives the same
force of concuirent judgment which
their conciliar action possesses. Never-
theless, the pope with the episcopate
assembled in ecumenical council can
do more than when they are dispersed.
The gift of active infkllibility is in a
higher and more intense exercise,
because the common intellect and
will of the church is prepared by
common counsel and communion to
receive a morc abundant illumination
and vivification of the Holy Spirit
It is by the councils, from that of
Nice to that of Trent, that heretics
have been condemned, and the dear,
explicit definitions of the faith once
delivered to the saints have been
made. The council of the Vatican
will possess the same infallible au-
thority with that which met at Jerusa-
lem under St. Peter, or that which at

366

St. Ufaryt,

Nice, under the presidency of the
legates of St. Sylvester, condemned
the Arian heresy and defined the Son
to be consubstantial with the Father.
This august tribunal will therefore
have full power to terminate all
controvereies and differences among
Catholics in regard to which it shall
judge that the interests of the faith
and the well-being of the church
require a definite judgment to be
made. The result will be both a
more perfect concordance in doc-
trine and principles of action, regard-
ing all the matters which will be de-
cided, and a more perfect recognition
of liberty in reference to all opinions
which are left as open questions.
That this will be a great gajn no truly
loyal Catholic can doubt. Another
result to be expected is a more pre-

cise, definite, and unifonn ■
ecde^astical law and admid
providing a more perfect i
of all the multiform relatioi
church and her hierarch)
portions of the church whidi
an apathetic and torpid i
may hope will be roused up ; i
tude of sluggish and unfaitbffll
lies become reanimated i
spirit of faith ; and the unity^
catholicity, and ^)Ostolicii
church — the immortality of I
the divine authority of her ll
the irresistible and universal i|
that spirit which is in he;— "
fested with a brightnc
make for ever glorious the ^
the nineteenth century, whoi
ing was so very dark and J

ST. MARY'S.

Xr there is one spot in our coun-
try to which the American Catholic
turns with special interest, it is cer-
tainly to the landing-place of Lord
Baltimore's colony in Maryland and
the site of St. Mary's City. New
Englandere are never weary of boast-
ing of " our pilgrim forefathers," who
landed on Plymouth Rock to obtain
freedom to worship God according
to their own peculiar notions. To
have an ancestor who came over in
the Mayflower is equivalent to a
patent of nobility — it sets the fortu-
nate individual above his fellows,
and makes him a member of & caste
truly Brahminical.

The Catholic can turn with far
greater pride to those spiritual fore-
fathers who, with no Self- righteous-
ness, sought in the new worid not

only liber^ of consdoic^l
it to others; who were so jud
dealings with the natives d
never took an inch of land
paying for it ; and who, by th
tian kindness, won over so
the Indians to genuine Ot
We truly have reaioti to »ay,'

I had always wi^cd to
consecrated spot so dean
Catholic heart, and embrai
first convenient opportunity)
so. I rode down from Leo|
during the pleasant Indian-*
time. My most vivid rema
of the ride is of passing
quent succession of whtt ;

St. Mar/s,

367

id to call " sarvent-mad-
idden depression, as if be-
• logs, which unceremo-
ched you forward in the
id then brought you up
len jerk, thus forcing you
n impromptu bow which
to the pleasant name of
adams." This sort of exer-
)e novel, but a continua-
i not at all amusing, and
^hen, after a ride of about
es, we emerged from a
1, crossed a stream, and
elves on the high plain
stood the city. of St. Ma-
is siuprised — pained — to
stone left upon another of
lent AVhen the seat of
was removed, nature re-
iway and avenged herself
ages of man by oblite-
of his traces and recloth-
;e with her own freshness
There are now a few
>elonging to the farmer
this historic site, a barn-
belonging to the Episco-
to have been built of the
i old State-house, and a
building that stands drea-
ess, looking like a factory,
is really a seminary for
s, the monument erected
y^land legislature to com-
he landing of the first
[t would be an excellent
convent of Carthusians;
h lively girls to this lone-
vely though it be, so far
Dwn, several miles fit)m
ce, and with no literary
must have been the con-
x>me malicious and dys-
achelor. The young are
of nature. Those whose
een chastened and wean-
world alone find a balm
is a great defect in the
our youth that they are

not made more observant of natural
objects. Insects, vegetation, the vety
stones beneath the feet, are a source
of unceasing pleasing to the heart in
sympathy with nature in all her infi-
nite variety. But this requires teach-
ers who are capable of opening to
youth the great treasiu^e-house of na-
ture. It is not always the most in-
tellectual people who are the most
fond of the country. Madame de
Stael preferred living in the fourth
story of a house on the Rue du Bac in
Paris to a villa on the enchanted
shores of Lake CJeneva. And Dr.
Johnson thought there was no view
that equalled the high tide of hu-
man beings at Charing Cross.

This seminary is intended to edu-
cate the young ladies of prevailing
religious sects of the country, each of
which is represented by a teacher.
I have understood that at times there
have been serious conflicts between
those who were for Paul and those
who were for Apollos; but this is
not at all surprising in a place where
they must be driven to desperation
for a little excitement The only
church near is the Episcopal, where
the savices are very intermittent in-
deed, whicii obliges the teachers to
play the part of chaplain.

This uninviting church is in a yaid
fiill of old graves, shaded by dumps
of hollies and gloomy cedars. There
is a venerable old mulberry-tree in
the midst, now quite decayed, but
stiU putting forth a few leafy branches,
said to have been planted (a twig
from old England) by Leonard Cal^
vert's own hands. There is a tradi-
tion that he was buried m this yard
— perhaps near his tree, familiaily
known as Lord Baltim(»e*s tree— but
there is nothing to indicate the pce>
else spot It is more probable that
he was buried near the CathoUie
church, which was about a quarter of
a mile ferther down. Relic lovers

have nearly killei:! this vfiieraLle tree,
by cutting out pieces for canes, cross-
es, etc. falsing tliraugh llie grassy
graveyaril, and descendirg a steep
bank, you come to a narrow line of
sand, a miniature beach on tlie shore
of St. Mary's River, the place where
the colony landed. The water is as
salt as the sea, and the broad river
deep enough for the Dove and the
Ark to anchor, A gentle ripple came
up over (he yellow sand and cr)-stal-
line pebbles. The broad exjwnse of
water lay like a lake, with undulating
hills in the background all covered
with woods in their gorgeous autumn
foliage. The whole scene was as
calm and peacefiil as if these waters
had never been disturbed by Indian
canoe or white man's trait.

A quarter of a mile south of the
seminary was a tiimip-fietd, where
once stood the church the colonists
hastened lo build. You would not
imagine jou stood on consecrated
ground where holy rites were once
performed. This was not the place
where the holy sacrifice was first of-
fered. Their first chapel was an In-
dian wigwam, which a friendly native
gave up to Father White; for the
colonists founded an Indian village
here which owned the pacific rule
of King Yaocomico, and established
themselves in peace beside it. Op-
posite the place where the ctiurch
stood, and east of it, are some traces
of the lord proprietary's residence.
The old cellar is nearly filled with
rubbish, in which are found fiag-
ments of crockery and bricks — bricks
brought from the old country.
There were grand doings here once.
Hilarity and merriment had their
hours in that miniature court, amid
those of grave deliberations. But, at
last. Pallida Mors, ■' that at every
door knocks," came in the train, and
brought mourning to all the selders ;
tu here died Leonard Calvert. He

was nursed in his last mq
his relatives Margard
Brent. He died on the ^tb
1647. '^^'^ place of his bu
known. In these days of'
rights, it may not be amiss to,
fitsC woman in this country,
who asserted her claim to |
privileges of the stronger ss
garet Brent was appointed B
nor Calvert his sole adinj
which is certainly a proof of]
city for biudness. By virt^
appointment she claimed tj
attorney of the lord proprie|
claims were admitted by tlu
She then appeared in the ff
sembly, and claimed the rigfe
as Lord Baltimore's repre^
This was not permitteil. 9
large land-owner, and disjitl
energy in laying out her est^
she quelled a mutiny amoi
Virginia soldiers who had se
dor Leonard Calvert. It il
ing the strong-minded wonMl
day have not brought fortf
fine precedent, who has bedl
with the famous Margaret 0^
regent of the Nethedands.
hope, with all her fine alrili|
she retained her sweet womal
and that modesty which is th
of her sex. I fancy she iH
would never have subdued tb
ly representatives of the gaQ
ginia chivalry. \

Close by the lord pR^
place is a spot charming enQ
Egeria. It is a spring of t
water bubbling up from dd
that flows otf in a streamlet, 0)
of the thickest and grcouj
It is shaded by a dense 4
cedars and holly bushes— a I
for the dryadcs and all th«
deities. The warm noonli<W
fanned into this cool and leaM
where the birds still sang and
floated, bringing wi^j^d

Sf. Mar/s.

369

Q the crushed leaves of the
rom a distance came the
cadence of some negro
:ched up at the hour of
est, which harmonized with
id the atmosphere. There
in undertone of melancholy
jrest songs of the colored
I lulls the heart, as sorrow
all gayety in the heart of
was a place to be alone
re, poetry, God, and just
or an old hermit to set up
id pass his days in sympa-
tiature and in communion
e*s God.

I its beauty, this plain of
s is full of melancholy,
in the fall of the year,
with memories, its loneli-
such contrast with its past
It it touches the spring of
he autumn winds, the slight
e that hangs over the land-
full of sadness. One seems
5 wail of the forsaken lares
rs have so long been level-
e rest.

I oooseorated earth,

id on the holy hearth,

d lemures moan with roidn^ht plaint.**

lings of Jeremiah come to
'e wander over the site of
at was once full of people,
itteth solitary. **The city
:tuary is become a desert,
ouse of thy holiness and
wherein thou wert praised,
«>late." Perhaps, after all,
holy was in my own heart ;
Y was clear, the earth smil-
before us lay, glad and
the bright waters of the St.
er,

' lake that the breeze is upon,

eaka into dimples and laughs in the

5 this peculiarity about the
irindings are so abrupt that
rou IX — 24

from certain points there seems to be
no oudet, and it has the appearance
of a succession of lakelets ; pellucid
gems set at this autumn time in
bosses enamelled with every shade of
crimson and gold, which I loved to
think a bright rosary strung by nature
in honor of Our Lady.

Two or three miles from St. Mary's
is Rose Croft, a charming old place
at the very point between St. Inigoes
Creek and St Mary's River. In old
colonial times it was the residence
of the collector of the port of St
Mary's, and here lived the heroine
of Kennedy's jRod of the Bawl. As
I rode up to it, I half expected to sec
the fair Blanche peeping out of the
window to see if the carriage did not
contain the secretary.

The house is a low, broad one,
with verandas and porches, andl arge,
airy rooms, which look out upon a
lovely water view. There is a good
deal of wainscoting about it, and
some carvings in the large parlor that
witnessed the birthday festivities.
The lady of the house told me that,
in making some repairs, a few years
ago, a ring and a pair of velve( slip-
pers were found, peiiiaps once worn
by Blanche. All around the yard
grows spontaneously the passion
flower, winding over every shrub and
tree, and trailing along the ground.
Everything was left very much to
nature, and she had thrown over the
grounds a certain sad grace of her
own, which harmonized with the an-
tiquity of the house, and the echo
of past times that lingered in its
rooms. A spruce garden and well-
trimmed trees and shrubbery would
have ill accorded with such a spot
And there was a certain melancholy
in the large, sad eyes of the mistress
of this charming place that spoke
more of the past than of the present,
as if she had imbibed something of
its spirit

On the point between the nvnr
and creek, opposite Rose Croft, is St.
Inigoes manor-house, belonging to
the Jesuit (athers. St. Inigo, or St.
Ignatius, was considered, firom the
first, as one of the patrons of the
colony. This house is built of brick
brought from the old country, per-
haps two hundred years ago or more.
It has quite a foreign look, with its
high pitched roof and dormer win-
dows. I have seen similar houses
in the valley of the Loire. At a
distance it looks, as Kennedy says,
like a chateau with its dejjcndencies
around it. There is a huge windmill
at the very point, around which are
washed up fine black sand and sorae
spiral shells. On the gable of the
southern porch of the mansion is the
holy naine of Jesus, in large black
letters — the cognizance of the Jesuits,
The yard is a garden of roses. They
grow in bushes, cover the cottages,
and climb the trees, blooming often
as late as Christmas tide. And the
whole place is like an aviarj' — a ren-
dezvous of all the martins, wrens,
whippoorwiJls, etc., of the country —
the very place for poor Miss Flite,
who would never have found names
enough for them. There are martin-
houses, dove-cotes, and trees full of
the .American mocking-birds. When
the windows of the chapel are open
in the morning, it is filled with their
musical variations, and with the per-
fume of the roses and honeysuckles.
That chapel always seemed to me a
little comer of heaven itself, full of
the divine presence of which one
never wearies. 1 often betook my-
self to that sweet solitude. There
were memories that haunted me, an
image between me and God, which
1 sought there to consecrate to him.
I loved to think the little lamp could
be seen all night from the very Poto-
mac and miles up the St. Mary's
River; perhaps lighting up in some

dark and sinful soul soroi
thought of him before whom
ed.

A religious air pnrvails at
goes. Everything is quiet a
dued, and favonUile to met!
The day commences with M:
chapel. The Angelus is Tm
times a day, which every ont
to say. Even Nimrod.the doj
while it is ringing, as if infet
devotion. And they told me
decessor would pull at the be
sounded, if it was not rung at
ment. Such devotional dogs
ly deserve a place — if it is not
to say so — among those fin
dogs whom Luther declared
be among our companions in|
whose every hair would be
with precious stones and wt
lars be of diamonds.*

Everything about the houa
tremely tidy and well preacn
garden trim, the walks
whole house a temple of put
cleanliness. One could sit for
that southern porch rcadin
dreaming life away. Thoughl
flow on for ever with that
whose waters are as changei
their aspect as our own varied '
When so many live merely )
body, why should not some
the imagination and fancy?
the very place (or Mr. St
who had no idea of time, no
money ; who only wished to
have a litde sun and mr, ai
about like a butterfly from fl
flower; who loved to see I
shine, hear the wind blow, wi
changing lights and shadoi
hear the birds sing. Heaske
ciety only to feed him, to givf
landscape, music, papers, :
fee, and to leave him at pew
the sordid realities of the wi

■ See Aadio-t Lffi nfLlkT.

St, Marys.

In the dining-room is a large oval
ble of solid oak which once belong-
i to the house of the lord proprie-
ry. It is not misplaced in Uiis hos-
Uble house. Daniel Webster, when
Piney Point, used to sail over to
. Inigoes and sit at Leonard Cal-
Tt's table. And he taught tjx^ coojc
»w to make a genuine New ]^g-
ad chowder.

There is, hung up. in one of the

oms, a picture of tbe famous Prince

ohenlohe which interested me. I

^d not account for its being there

I I learned that Father Carberry, a

nner incumbent, was a brother to

is. Mattingly, of Washington, who

many years ago was miraculously

ted by the prayers of the holy

bee — an occiurence that caused a

eat excitement at the time.

The parish church is about a half

mile from the manor-house. On

ndays and other festivals you can

boats full of people sailing up the

dL Others come flocking in on

'teback or in carriages. A grave-

! surrounds the church, which is

d among the trees that it is not

aved till you are close upon it.

73id is filled before service with

^untry-people, who fasten their

around the enclosure, and stand

; in groups, or go wandering

I among the grassy mounds, re-

g you of the English country

yards. Our northern churches

lost so exclusively filled up

signers that it seemed strange

dp in a congregation almost

onerican. A gallery was ap-

d to the colored people, and

»wded. They seemed quite

id kept up a great rattling

• large rosaries. I noticed

father, in preaching, was

make them feel that his

s addressed as particularly

s to the others. I was

iterested to see the number

that came filing down the aisle to
ceive holy communion. Sunday af
Sunday it was the same, and I was ;
ways affected to see these " imag
of God carved m ebony," as old Fu
ler calls them, at the holy table to rt
ceive Him who is no respecter of per
sons. In talking with the fathei
about their devotional tendencies, he
told me there was one saintly old ne-
gro who walked fifteen miles every
Sunday to worship the Word made
flesh. What an example to the cold
and lukewarm in cities who daily pass
our churches with scarcely a thought
of the Presence within! This little
chiuxh is a substantial one of brick,
with arched windows, but no preten-
sion as to architecture. When the ser-
vices were over, the ladies all follow-
ed the priest into the sacristy to pay
their respects to him, and there is a
pleasant exchange of greetings which
is pleasing and family-like. And
many of the men, too, stroll around
the building to the rear door to take
part in it.

Wandering off into the church-
yard, I came upon a large cross
around which were clustered the
graves of several priests. There is
a large monument to the memory
of Father Carberry, a genial old
priest renowned throughout the
country for his hospitality. Among
those buried here is Mr. Daniel Bar-
ber, of New Hampshire, who be-
came a convert to the Catholic
Church, together with his son's whole
family, at a time when converts were
more rare than at the present time.
The son, Rev. Virgil Barber, who was
an Episcopal minister, with his wife
and five children, embraced the reli-
gious life. One of the latter took the
white veil at Mount Benedict, near
Boston, and was remarkable for her
beauty and accomplishments. She
made her profession in Quebec,
where she died young. I have-

St. Jlfar/s.

heard a nun of that house tell, and
with great fecHng, of her descending
every morning to the chapel before
the rest of the community, ei'en in
the rigorous winter of that latitude,
to make the \Vay of the Cross, that
touching devotion to the suffering
Saviour.

The grandfather, Mr. Daniel Bar-
ber, who was also a minister, only
look deacons' orders in the church
on account of his age. He loved
to visit the old Catholic families of
Sl Mary's, but was ill pleased when
he did not find the cross — the sign
of our salvation — in the apartment.
"Where's your sign?" he would
abruptly ask. He rests in peace in
this quiet country church -yard.

The father at St. Inigoes has to
possess a variety of accomplishments
not acquired in the theological semi-
nary. Priest, farmer, horseman, and
boatman must all be combined to
form the fine specimen of muscular
<;hristianity required in this exten-
sive mission. The place is no sine-
cure.

Good Father Thomas, obliged to
visit a sick person at the very head
of St Mary's River, invited me to
accompany him, and I gladly did so.
Two colored servants went to man-
age the sail, or to row if necessary.
The boat was black as a gondola of
Venice. SaiUng over these waters,
where passed the Dove and the Ark,
reminded me of the Pire Jean and
the novice Ren^ on the St. Lawrence.
The whole country was, as we set
out, glorified by the setting sun,
The long points of land around
nfhich the river wound were bathed

on one side by a golden i
on the other in a faint lila
the gorgeous woods hun|
pie haze that faded everj
The amber clouds grew crin
then faded away Into grc
father said his l»e\iaiy. lei
to my own reflections a pa
way. There was not a ripp
broad sheet save the rcced
left by our boat. Now and
would stop to drink in the 1
the scene — the sky, the wa(
reflected it, the lights and
on the banks, the melancha
the whippoorwill, and the gs
of the laborers just Ihroi
their day's work. As it gre
the deep coves -were filled »
terious shades ; the ripples It
seemed tipped with a phos[^
light. We glided at last ini
tered cove just as the nio
out, giving enchantment to i
scene. In such bright waie
Diana when Actxon beheld
was punished for his pre
One of us repeated the beau
of Shelley:

" My Mml iftBumdunlfd boat,
Which, like a •l«piBg mo, dodi t
Upffl) ibecUvs wfvefl of tby amti

And thine d«h lika an uiiil ■(.

Bnidc the helm cooditctinf il.
WhtUl ill the <nndi with nelndf «i

It K«n> le toil nm, tar evtr

UiwalhunUD,

A few days alter, I saOdt
the Pavilion to take ab<Mt>j

A May Carol. 373

v*-.

A MAY CAROL.

She hid her face from Joseph's blame,
The Spirit's glory-shrouded bride.

The Sword comes next ; but first the Shame :
Meekly she bore, and naught replied.

For mutual sympathies we live :
The outraged heart forgives, but dies:

To her, that wound was sanative,
For life to her was sacrifice.

At us no random shaft is thrown

When charged with crimes by us unwrought;
For sins imchallenged, sins unknown.

Too oft have stained us — ftct and thought

In past or present she could find
No sin to weep for; yet, no less,

Deeplier that hour the sense was shrined,
In her, of her own nothingness.

That hour foundations deeper yet
God sank in her; that so more high

Her greatness — spire and parapet —
Might rise, and nearer to the sky :

That, wholly overbuilt by grace.

Nature might vanish, like some isle
In great towers lost — the buried base

Of some surpassing fortress pile.

AUBRBY DE VeIUL

St. Peter, First Bishop of Rome.

ST. PETER, FIRST BISHOP OF ROME.

^Mbottl;

The question of which we purpose
treat in this article is one of those
that are sure to receive prominence
whenever the claims of the Roman
see are discussed with more than
ordinary interest and warmth. Just
now the " Anglo- Catholic " mind Is
exercised to find some way of estab-
lishing tlieexistenceof a one holy ca-
tholic and apostolic church, without
admitting the supremacy of the bishop
of Rome ; besides, the approaching
ecumenical council directs men's at-
tention to the eternal city, and the high
prerogatives of its pontilfe. Not unfre-
quently we meet with a broad denial
that St. Peter ever was at Rome at
all, or at least that he was ever bishop
of Rome, This is not, indeed, the
course pursued by the most learned
or thoughtful amongst our opponents ;
they know history loo wcU to stake
their reputation for erudition or fair-
ness on any such denial; but it is
in favor with a lower or less instructed
class of minds, and is adopted in
itext-books for theolopcal seminaries,
as well as in some popular works in-
tended chiefly for the perusal of per-
sons who, in all likelihood, may never
have the opportunity, even should
they have the inclination, of recur-
ring to those more learned authori-
ties by consulting whom the impos-
ture would soon be delected. Thus
it has come to pass that in popular
wortts, lectures, magazine and news-
paper articles, and the like, one fre-
quently meets with the flippant asser-
tion that it is very doubtful whether
St. Peter ever was at Rome, that the
place of his death is uncertain ; all
that we know for certain being that,
ly before his demise, he was in

Babylon, whence he wrote his fir a. j ^
letter. We shall endeavor to cslabli^^^^
as a historical truth beyond all rr j
sonable doubt, supported by endcn^_ce
that must be admitted as sufficie^— mt
by any imprejudiced critic, that ^^St
Peter visited Rome, dwelt there, ^j

first bishop of the Roman chui*:^
and there, together with SL P^>.„(il,
laid down his life for his Master^, ia
fulfilment of the lattcr's prophe^^v:)',
"When thou wilt be old, thou ^«*Tlt
stretch forth thy hands, and anotitin
will gird thee, and lead Ihce whicSier
thou wouldsl not;" words whicb^ ii
the inspired writer tells us, signl^Sed
"by what death he should glcwsifr
God."* The question has becr». so
fully discussed, that we may not l».«pe
to say anything that will be cc^nsi-
dered new; to the learned rea.*Jcr,
indeed, we can but repeat a " th«r^ce-
told tale;" but, as the adversaries of
the holy see do not disdain to fit-
bish up the arms which have alre^^ady
been stricken from the hands of «^ Icir
predecessors, we shall be conterM t to
draw from the same arsenals wh^^"^
our fathers drew the weapons "^^
they knew how to wield so skil ^^1
and successfully. All that we *^
of the non-Catholic reader is. lhs«-t ^
approach the question as a ra^^^'f
historical one, to be judged on ^^
ordinary rules of historical eviderST^c-
All dogmatical preoccupations ag:*^*
the supremacy of the Roman por*'"*
should be laid aside. This is ''^
manded by fairness and a sincere lo**
of truth ; besides, although wc *^
knowledge that to establish Si. Pet>*^
Roman bishopric is, if not an indiS'

5/. Peter^ First Bishop of Rome,

375

least a very important,

the successful assertion
ji primacy, yet the ablest
•testant theologians have
t, even admitting the his-

they could successfully
dogma. Our inquiry,
•e purely historical, to be
)urely historical grounds,
jginning of this century,
ig any pretensions to his-
ling attempted to deny
;er had really lived and
le. Such high names in

1 Church as Cave, Pear-
odwell had given their
id positive testimony to
Vhiston had said : " That
s at Rome is so clear in
tiquity, that it is a shame
tant to confess that any
ever denied it." But,
)eriod, the rage for the
of biblical interpretation
)ts about the accepted
the word Babylon in the
;rse of the fifth chapter
epistle of St. Peter, and
whether the apostle ever
e again came up for dis-
jry little new has been

litde remains to be con-
repeat, we have merely
what has been well and

said before. We have
v'ork entitled An Exposi-
niirty-nine Articles, Ifis-

Doctrinal, by Edward
wne, lord bishop of Ely,
the author endeavors to
J position of the Roman
: St. Peter was bishop of
5 this work is used as a
I the New York Protes-
pal Seminary, and may,
►e supposed to furnish
lets on church questions
ige Episcopalian clerical

*Art. zxxvii. sec ix.

mind, we shall follow the author in
his argument, and show how a plain
tale can put down all his ingenious
explanations and evasions.

The plain statement is as follows :
The earliest and most reliable docu-
ments of Christian antiquity, with a
clearness and unanimity that leave no
room for doubt or cavil, state that St.
Peter was at Rome, took a >special
care of the Roman Church, and died
there. The bishops of Rome are al-
ways represented as his successors,
not merely in that inheritance which
has come down to all bishops from
the apostles, «but as his successors
in his Cathedra^ or episcopal chair.
Our witnesses are numerous; their
knowledge and fidelity are unim-
peachable; their statements cannot
be evaded or explained away; and
thus the Roman bishopric of St.
Peter is as undoubted a fact of
ecclesiastical history as any other in
the earlier ages. We shall give the
proofs one by one, confining ourselves
to the first three centuries.

St. Clement, who was certainly
bishop of Rome, and who, according
to Tertullian was ordained by Peter,
in his epistle to the Corinthians — ad-
mitted as genuine by the best authori-
ties — referring to the late persecution
of the Roman Church under Nero,
mentions among other troubles the
recent martyrdom of SS. Peter and
Paul, alleging them as noble examples
of patience imder tribulation. We
have here a witness on the spot, who
had seen the apostles, and been a
special disciple of St. Peter.

We have next another apostolic
father, St. Ignatius of Antioch, who
suffered martyrdom about a.d. 107,
and in a letter to the Romans speaks
of SS. Peter and Paul as their special
preceptors and masters : " I do not
command you as Peter and Paul ; I
am a condenmed man." It is to be
remarked that no one attempts to

376

Sr. Ptter. First Sh^ of Roau,

deny that St Paul was at Rome, as
one of his journeys thither is related
in the last chapter of the Acts, and he
speaks of himself as in that city ;■ the
union of St. Peter's name with his,
as both commanding the Romans,
shows that the former apostle had
been with them in person as well as
Paul

Papias, Bishop of Hierapolis, proba-
bly a disciple of St. John the Apostle,
Ds quoted by Eusebius, says that St.
Mark wrote his gospel from the
preaching of St. Peter at Roine.t and
that the apostle wrote his first letter
from the same place, calling it Uaby-
lon.J

St. Dionysius of Corinth wrote a
letter to llie Roman Cliurch under
the pontificate of Soter, (a.d. i6i-
170,) which is also quoted by Eusebi-
us,g hi which he says that SS. Peter
and Paul, after planting the faith at
Corinth, went into Italy, planted the
feith amongst the Romans, and there
sealed their testimony with their
blood.

St. Irenasus, (Bishop of Lyons a.d.
178,) a disciple of Polycarp. who was
himself a hearer of the Apostle John,
speaks of the Roman Church as " the
greatest and most ancient church,
known to all,foimded and established
at Rome by the two most glorious
apostles, Peter and Paul.|| He adds:
"The blessed apostles having found-
ed and arranged the church, delivered
its bishopric and administration to
Linus. To him succeeded Anacletus,
after him Clement, to him Evaristus,
and to Evaristus, Alexander. The
sixth from the aposdes was Sixtus,
after him Telesphorus, next Hyginus;
then Pius, after whom came Anicelus.
Soter succeeded Anicetus, and now

nen dm long btfon Uh ipoule'i deiUi, Sh ch.
ir. 6. 7.
t Eia. ftiil. Bat. lib. iU. c, ]» "
t lUd. lU). iii. c I.
I ItiJ. lib. >L t. >].
lUb. lil. aih. Har. t iii.

the bishopric is held by Eleuihetini
the twelfth from the apostles," Tti
is an authentic list of the bishopit
Rome from the apostles
writer's lime, placing the date lA lij
work between a.d. 170 and i"_
the fifteen years of the pootlficatt <
Eleutherius.

Cajus, a priest of Rome
Zephyrinus, who governed the tlmn
during the iirst seventeen yean of ^
third century, says, in a work quoti
by Eusebius,* but now lost : " '
show you the trophies of the a
for wliether we go to the Vaiicaai
the Ostian way, we shall meet willi tbt
trophiesofthe founders of this church.'
I'his is remarkable testimony to ti|
acciu-acy of the tradition that pnni
to this day of the places where ll
apostles were buried — St. Peter sttl
Vatican, St. Paul in the Ostian w ^^
which now are marked by ** irophif^
greater in splendor and magniticeDi
but raised by the same spirit of rr*
ence and love as those which this &
man priest pointed out in the til
century.

TertuUian flourished about I
same period, for he died a.d. II
Speaking in his great worit Os /
serif lions f of apostolic churches
says; " If you are near Italy,
have Rome, whence we also [tl
African Church] derive our
How ha|)py is this church on wlii
the apostles poured forth their w'
doctrine with their blood; whereft
by his martyrdom is made like I
Lord ; where Paul is crowned with
wreath like that of Johnl" AS<
" Let us see ... what the K
mans proclaim in our ears, they I
whom Peter and Paul left the C«(
sealed with their blood. "I

And speaking in the book Onl^
scripiions of the origin of apoM)
churches, he calls on heretics tg "

t C. jii. '

t lib. iv. idT. Martian.

5/. Peter^ First Bishop of Rome.

377

ies of their bishops, coming
the beginning in succes-
Lt the first bishop was ap-
i preceded by any one of
*s, or apostolic men in
I with the apostles.* For
^ the apostolic churches
ir origin; . . as the
iome relates that Clement
ed by Peter."t Clement
Iria (who died a.d. 222)
St. Paul wrote his gospel
lest of the Romans, who
have a written record of
lad heard from St Peter.J
(a.d. 185-255,) who visit-
under the pontificate of
says that St. Peter having
> the Jews in Pontus, Ga-
lia, Capp>adocia, and Asia,
end of his life § came to
I was crucified with his
ivard.||

ian, (Bishop of Carthage
)ut to death for the faith
speaking of the irregular
I of some local schismatics
►pealed to Pope Cornelius,
jy venture to set sail, and
s from schismatical and
1 to the chair of Peter^QxiA
cipal church, whence sa-
lty has arisen."** And in
er he speaks of the election
s, " when the place of Fa-
is, the place of Peter, and
the priestly chair, was va-
Even Bishop Hopkins,
friends cannot blame for
icility in his concessions,
St Cyprian acknowledged
er was bishop of Rome,
ot wish to go beyond the

ille ep b c o pm aliquem ex Apostolus
un et auiteceHorem."

^cei. lib. tL c 14.

Euaebius, Hist. EccL lib. iii. c. i z.
id CcmeU

ad Aatomiantiffl.

three hundred years immediately fol-
lowing the death of the apostle, and
shall therefore omit here the clear
and unmistakable statements of Op-
tatus, Jerome, Epiphanius, Augus-
tine, and others, closing with the ac-
count given by Euscbius of Csesarea,
(bishop A.D. 31S-34P,) who is justly
regarded as the father of ecclesiastical
history, and of the greatest weight in
historical matters. His accuracy and
research are universally acknowledg-
ed, and his authority alone is generally
regarded as conclusive.* He says
that Simon Magus went to Rome,
and that " against this bane of man-
kind, the most merciful and kind
Providence conducted to Rome Pe-
ter, the most courageous and the
greatest among the apostles, who on
account of his virtue was leader of
all."t He adds in his chronicle : " Hav-
ing first founded the Church of Anti-
och, he goes to Rome, where, preach-
ing the gospel, he continues twenty-
five years bishop of the same city.**

We have here a continuous series
of witnesses, ftoxsa those who had
seen and conversed with the Apostle
St. Peter to the date of the first work
on ecclesiastical history now extant,
all of whom clearly testify to the fact
that he visited Rome, took special
charge of the Roman Church, and
there died a martyr, as our Lord had
foretold he would die. After the
apostolic writers, who, from the
proximity of the events to their own
time, could not be mistaken, the most
important witnesses are Irenseus and

* '* In qoestiotit of crittcal inrcstigation regardtaS;
the early ^ttrch, no writer beai» with bim greater
authority than that of the learned Eusebiua, bi^op of
CjBsarea. ReuMived only by two hundred yean from
the apoctolic ttmea, and being attadied to the inperial
court, and having at his command all the literary
treasures of the Cesarean lilnrary, he ever displays a
profound knowledge of the earlier Christiaa writersp
and at the same time a truly refined critical acumen
in discriminating b e tween their genuine prodoclkms
and those wisely aesignfd to them.*'— Z>aiMMi Revkm^
June, 1858, art. vii.

t /fa/. BccL lib. ii. c. nv.

378

St. Peter, First Bishop of Rome.

Origen, Terlullian and Cyprian, The
two former had visited Rome, and
are competent witnesses of the tradi-
tion of the Roman Church, the most
important of all in this matter; the
two latter can testify to the same tra-
dition, both because missionaries from
Rome planted the faith in Africa, and
because the constant intercourse, as
well in ecclesiastical as in civil affairs,
between the capital of the empire
and Carthage, must necessarily have
brought about a community of tradi-
tions between the two churches. The
whole ancient church thus bears wit-
ness to what some Protestants now
vainly affect to deny. Greece, Asia
Minor, Syria, Egypt, Northern Africa,
Gaul, Palestine, repeat what Clement,
ordained by Peter, tells. The second
century takes up the fact from those
who had seen the apostles; the third
leams it from the second, and the
father of ecclesiastical history relates
it lis a matter beyond doubt, found
by him in those ancient records, for
the greater part since lost, the gist of
which he has fortunately preserved
to posterity. Scarcely any matter of
fitct — and this is a nure matter of fact
— connected with the early age of
the church, leaving out those record-
ed in the sacred pages, is better at-
tested.

To these written records we must
add the expressive testimony of the
catacombs. It is impossible to visit
them without feeling that the Roman
Christians looked on the apostles Pe-
ter and Paul as the founders of their
local church. Eusebius was struck
by the " monuments marked with the
names of Peter and Paul," which he
saw in the cemeteries at Rome, and
these have been discovered, in mo-
dem times, by the indefatigable in-
dustry of Christian antiquarians ; they
are a living testimony to the fact that
St. Peter, as well as St. Paul, labored
in Rome. The illustrious Cardinal

Borgia has traced the tiadititm in rc
gard to the presence of Sl Pettt's
body in the Vatican from the begm-
ning of tlie third century," when, a
we have seen, Cajus, a priest of
Rome, in a work against hcrctiat
spoke of the trophy of Peter in ihe
Vatican, down to the days of Pope
Urban VIII. And thus the most
splendid monument Christianity hu
erected to the worship of the lining
God is also an authentic record of the
fact that the chief of the aponlo
selected the city of Rome, in a spedrf
manner, as the scene of his labon,
and there consummated his plurious
career in the senice of his Masta
No wonder learned Protestanii m
ashamed to join with their more ign»
rant brethren. One learned Gennil
writer of this century says: "There
is, perhaps, no event in anrienl
(church) history 50 clearly pUad
beyond doubt by the consenting testi-
mony of ancient Christian writoiB |
that of Peter having been at Rome."!
Another more forcibly, if puBiWn
remarks! " Nothing but the [lolenua
of faction have induced some I'tot* I
tants, especially Spanheim, in imit» [
tion of some mcdiaival opponent* li
the popes, to deny that IVter ever
was at Rome."5

A caviller may, indeed, say thil A
these witnesses prove, at most, dm
Peter was at Rome, not that he "•
bishop of Rome. And this is t^
point made by Bishop Browne, in the
work to which we have referred.

" It is not lo be doubted," he says. " iW
a tradiiion did exist in early time* th»t St
Peter was bishop of Rome. But if tW
tradition be eubniiited, like oihcn of Ac
same kind, to the lesl of historical inrtW'
gjtion, il will be found to teat on • »<T
slender foundation, la the fini pLM

•iDIhewnk I'Mkivut Ctfftait B. PfK

tDathald, HiHrriKk-KrU. EbilM. ^ A. iM
N. r. .fml Pcrront.
f GJCKlcr. LtHiimiJt iir Kin

St. Peter, First Bishop of Rome.

379

silent about his having been at
tmarkable silence, if his having
> there was a fact of such vital
to the church as Roman divines
it to be. Then, the first tradi-
laving been at Rome at all does
for more than a century after iiis
s nearly two centuries after that
ire meet with anything like the
t the Roman bishops were his

It is three centuries before we
poken of as bishop of Rome.
re reach three centuries and a
told that he not only was bishop
It that he resided five and twen-
lome ; a statement utterly irre-
ith the history of the New Tes-

s, indeed, no good reason to
>t Peter was at Rome ; that he
Paul to order and establish the
: ; that, in conjunction with St.
ained one or more of its earliest
1 that there be suffered death
of Christ. But there is no rea-
'c that he was ever, in any pro-
sense, bishop of Rome." f

'e aside for the present the
ence of the New Testa-

the first place, it is not
the first tradition of Peter's
2n at Rome does not ap-
nore than a century after

Clement of Rome, Igna-
itioch, Papias, Dionysius
, belong to this period, and
akably testify to Peter's
n at Rome. Irenaeus may
»unted also, as he was sent
is to Rome in a.d. 177.
Bishop Browne mentions
[as and Irenaeus. He
pias's opinion about the
Ion in St. Peter's first Epis-
ies to set it aside. But,
he exegetical value of the
is proof that Papias held it
>ubted fact that St. Peter
ae ; besides, he also states
wrote his gospel at Rome,
^e of Peter. Nor is it at
t to say that Eusebius tells

mid.

us that Papias was a narrow-minded
man, and an enthusiast about the
Apocalypse. Neither narrow-mind-
edness nor enthusiasm prevents men
from being competent witnesses to
simple facts, and the one about which
we are now inquiring is a simple fact.
The only question is — Could Papias
have known for certain whether St.
Peter was at Rome or not ? He lived
in the apostolic age, not half a cen
tury after the death of the apostle.
This is a sufficient answer, and his
views about either Babylon or the
Apocalypse cannot impair its sufficien-
cy. As to Irenaeus, our lord bishop
quibbles in a way that is not hand-
some. He tries to break down his
and other writers' testimony by alleg-
ing, first, that they disagree as to the
first bishop of Rome after St. Peter ;
second, that they disagree about the
tim£ St. Peter came to Rome.

We are ahnost ashamed to have to
answer such quibbling. Neither dis-
agreement at all touches the substan-
tial part of the narrative. Neither is
as great as our expounder of the arti-
cles, in his despair, tries to make it
Neither could ever have been alleged
in ordinary controversy. All authors,
save Tertullian, mention Linus as
first bishop of Rome after Peter. The
Afiican father in reality says only
that Clement was ordained by Peter;
the context, however, would suggest
that he supposed he was the immedi-
ate successor of the apostle. The
truth appears to be that Linus, Cle-
tus, and Clement were consecrated
bishops by one or the other of the
aposties. This was commonly done
in the first age; only one person in
every city possessed episcopal juris-
diction, but more clergymen than one
were firequently invested with the epis-
copal order. This was done in the
Roman Church. St. Peter was its
first bishop; after his death, Linus,
Cletus, Clement governed it in sue-

Jfc

'jr/'^MS^atL ic aL sz

usais of "LnriB*

m.J

tj^ ^^ a. pcarj»& viica x b

tr* to^/pRiM. Aft to tae dacrr^anirr

^^fii the tbne </ the asKode s cccfr-
)7.;r v> K'vrryt. k is cashr fifiirir^ oi
the r/y«irfl/>rJy RTjdred farpodbeBS
that Sc. Porter twice viaied K:
huv^AUY !fc2y« that be vent fie
do' f^laodius. He v» oUi^ed to
kave luly m c/jiMequcnce of thar
em{jer'yr'<^ decree lianwhtag tfacace
the Je«!L He returned thither, to-
ward the iinA of his life, and there
ftuffiered rnajtyrdonL But it is plain
that »tu;h divTepandes cannot afiiect
the %\x\Mznrjtf namely, that Peter was
at K^mic ; indeed, they arc inteiligi-
\}\i: orily on the supfK/sition that all
the authors quoted held the main
far,t as fXTtain. It Is plain also that
there in not the slightest foundation
for the lord bishop's assertion that *' at
whatever time St. Peter came to
Kome, there was some one else hysti-
0|> of Rome then." The courage re-
quirerl for this assertion can be meas-
ured from another statement, just
four lines alK)ve : " All (the early writ-
en*) agree in saying that the first bish-
oj) of the see was Linus." This Is
simply shameful. Put after "see"
the words a/f^r PtUr^ and the quota-
tion will be correct. But then what
becomes of the bishop's argument?
He says Linus was bishop of Rome
when Peter went thither; and he al-
so admits that " some (early writers)
say that St. Paul, others that St. Pe-
ter and St. Paul, ordained him." These
latter writers surely did not suppose
that St. Peter ordained a man in Rome
Iwfore he himself ever went to Rome.
The bishop dearly does not stick
at trifles. His chnmology is also en-
tirely at fault. He says that it " is

ofdlM

* '"^^^ fiH"? mrcyis, 1

XL » ]

based oc an earlier ;

the great hEfionn Eusebi

plain

diaxfas poiemx: s}3tei

phrfuidoQs: be i^aonss son

imes,

nuscocksccues others,

lates

datek and mistakes me

sories lor the principal £aci
comse is not oohr a crime z\
torical truth, it is also a bl
it can mislead oolv the uiil<
the miwarv reader.

The writers of the first a^
it b true, assert in so maj
that St Peter was bishop <
The reason is obvious. Ti
other matters, their alius
merely incidental, such as
expect immediately after t
of SS. Peter and Paul, an«
chiefly to the fact of the
connection with the Romai
or his martyrdom there,
facts they are unanswerable
These are a necessary prdii
the assertion of St. Peter's
bishopric This fact is broa
as soon as we meet with th
cal development of the dc
apostolic succession. Tert
the text we have quoted
book On Prescriptions^ when
rately defines in what this f
consists, namely, that the fb
was appointed and prec^

St. Peter, first Bishop of Rome.

3ffi

or an apostolic man, (Aposto-
habturit auctarem et antecessor
ys that in the Roman Church
t was ordained by Peter. Tra-
ns the succession in Rome
'eter, not from Paul, whose
Q the imperial city he men-
e shows that he knew Peter
» bishop of the see. St. Cy-
;es unmistakable language on
le subject, and Eusebius as-
ositively that St Peter was
of Rome. We might quote
italogues, but, though of great
y, they are of a more recent
But we shall give two more
ies which can be connected
e period to which we have
i ourselves. St. Jerome*
ly states that St. Peter held
K:opaI chair {caihedram sacer-
I of Rome for twenty-five
His historical knowledge and
swrnmen give to his words the
y of a statement based on the
St records of the early age.
\ can deny that in the latter
the fourth century there were
cords at Rome. St. Optatus
rvi, in Africa, (a.d. 370,) in a
ersial work against the Dona-
»eaks of St. Peter's Roman
c as a matter of notoriety,
no one would dare deny,
ug^t to know," says he to the
t leader, Parmenian, "and
r not deny, that Peter estab-
t Rome an episcopal chair,
le was the first to occupy, in
lat through (communion with)
e chair all might preserve
' A statement made so posi-
wo mihesitatingly, so boldly,
ive been founded on the very
itorical evidence. And the
■A century must accept the
Dt of competent writers of the
cat snch a subject. Unless,

then, we wish to deny all authority to
authentic record of the early age of
the church, we must conclude, with
the good leave of the lord bishop of
Ely, that there is excellent reason to
believe that St. Peter was bishop of
Rome.

Nor is there any force in the bi-
shop's remark that all the apostles
had the world for their diocese, and
were not confined to any particular
city. We do not, of course, mean to
say that St. Peter confined his preach-
ing to Rome. He was apostle as
well as head of the church. As apos-
tie, he preached chiefly to the Jews.
As head of the church, he chose for
his episcopal see the capital of the
world, in order that there might be
no doubts about the legitimate heir
of his great dignity. For this reason
we find him in Rome among the
Gentiles, though St. Paul had a spe-
cial mission to them. Dr. Browne
says Peter was St. Paul's assistatit at
Rome ; and this, in the face of the
facts that every writer, fit)m Clement
down, puts him before the great ves-
sel of election, and that St. Paul
himself, as we shall see, speaks of his
ministry to the Romans as one mere-
ly of mutual consolation, a tone he
never adopted toward a church which
he himself had founded.

We have purposely left to the last
the argument based on the alleged
silence of the New Testament, be-
cause we wished to clear an historical
question of all purely exegetical diffi-
culties. We have established our the-
sis on indubitable evidence ; we might
rest here and simply say that, inas-
much as no one pretends that the
New Testament contains the entire
history of the apostles, its silence
cannot affect the certainty of our pro-
position. This silence may puzzle
the curious reader ; it may be various-
ly interpreted, according to the theo-
logical bent of the student ; but \\.

cannol cftsprove facts which are pro-
ved by historical authorit)'. Bishop
Browne feels the force of this, and
does not insist much on the silence
of the New Testament. He merely
remarks that this silence is strange, if
Si, Peter's Roman bishopric be as
important as Roman divines make it
out to be. Strictly speaking, v^
might let this pass, as we are not
now concerned in establishing the
supremacy of the Roman pontiffs, but
merely treating the historical (jues-
tion, \Vho was first bishop of Rome ?
We may observe, however, that no
believer in the doctrine of ajjosiolical
succession can consistently urge this
silence. How does Dr. Browne trace
his succession in the office of bishop
from the apostles ? Is it from St.
Peter? Then he has to meet the
same objection about the silence of
the New Testament on what, from
his point of view, is a vital matter.
Is it from St. Paul ? But there is no
scriptural evidence that St. Paul ever
ordained a bishop in Rome, or any-
where in the west, Is it from any
other apostie ? The same remark
holds good. No claim to apostolical
succession can be established for any
see in the western church unless on
the evidence of tradition. This is
virtually admitted by Dr. Browne
himself.

Since, however, the silence of the
New Testament is commonly urged
as affording presumptive evidence
that Sl Peter never was at Rome,
we shall examine all that Protestants
have to say on the subject. The
principal text — the only one having
direct reference to the subject — is r
Peter v. 13 : "The church which is
in Babylon, elected together with
you, saluleth you, and so doth Mark,
my son." Nearly all ancient writers,
commencing with Papias, say that
this letter was written at Rome,
which city St. Peter designates under

the name of Babylon. C
tant opponents, of course,
interpretation. Now, we
be understood that we do nd
this text to prove that St Pea
from Rome. We admit tfafl
in itself, apart from traditia
obscure, and can affcml, 4
gronnd but for conjecture. 4
ing established beyond all dcH
fact that St. Peter was ai Rll
follow the interpretauon of \
spectable ancient writers lAi
have quoted. When the lei
written, old Babylon of Am
in ruins, according to Stn
Pliny; and the Jews, to %
Peter wrote, had been banid
Assyria, according to Joseph
though Seleucia was ^terwa]
Babylon, it had not reed
name at this early period
think that the Babylon rm
was in Egypt, the place IMM
Cairo. But it was then bol
or fortified village, (ivuilr/dB
the Christian church of E;
always looked on Alexandl
birthplace. St. Peter,
warns the Christians of the
ing persecution, and exhort
be subject to the emperoc
subordinates. These allusio
very naturally from the p«
writing at Rome, but are ala
telligible if we suppose the
Babylon of Assyria, out of
man empire. The opinion
letter was written at Ron
Babylon by St. Peter for
which we can only coi^
based on excellent andent
agrees with well-known &cC
tory, and with the internal I
of the letter itself. Leftvinf
bearings on the main qnestii
discussing, it is by ^ the i
bable view, and, in any of
would be accepted without (S

Sf. Pfter, First Bishop of Rome.

38i

estants, moreover, commonly
the absence of any mention
Peter's voyage to Rome in the
' the Apostles, and the absence
reference to him, either in St
Epistle to the Romans or in
e wrote from Rome. The si-
f the Acts is easily explained.
he council of Jerusalem, the
relates only the missionary
of St. Paul, so that we could
ect any mention of St. Peter's
;. Dr. Browne infers from
xviii. 22, that "the Jews of
had had no communication
ly chief teacher among the
ns.'* This inference is not
ut by the text, " We desire to
)m thee what thou thinkest;
onceming this sect, we know
s everywhere opposed." The

meaning is that the Jews of
jiowing that Paul was a Pha-
imed in the law, wished to
at he had to say in favor of

religion. They must have
on St. Peter as a Galilean
in, who had no right to at-
o expound the law and the
5. It is puerile for Dr.

to allege that they should
ard him with respect because
the apostle of the circumci-
r, of what importance could

be in their eyes, if they did
ievc in Him who sent the.
?

Peter went to Rome in the

Claudius, he certainly was

iter to differ from hU brethren. This is
th Hog, who holds that we cannot admit
nes in the letters of the apostles, as there
oe of their use, save in this disputed case,
cwn based on internal evidence run ntad.
■appose that there was a perfect course of
xiuy literature in the New Testament,
ed rales, insteaKl of a few detached letters,
iflercnc aathors at diflferent times, without
nication or a^peement with one another
7 style. There is BoChinf more ialtadous
i t sf pst Oa tioo of any of the letters of the
■•re internal evidence> Hug*s remark at
AttI iaiernal evidence does not afford any
5l Brter meaat Rone, which no one will

afterward absent from the city, as we
find him after this period at the coun-
cil of Jerusalem. His absence from
Rome accounts for the fact that St
Paul does not salute him in his Epis-
tle to the Romans, a straw at which
some Protestant writers clutch with
great avidity. The great respect
with which St.|^ul speaks of the
Roman Church, whose faith, he says,
was spoken of in the whole world,
agrees with the supposition that St.
Peter had already preached there.
On these words,* "For I long to
see you, that I may impart to you
some spiritual gift, that ye may be
strengthened ; that is, I may be com-
forted together with you, by that
which is common to us both, yoiu:
faith and mine," Theodoret remarks
as follows : " Because the great Peter
had first given them the doctrine of
the gospel, he said merely, *that ye
may be strengthened.* I do not wish,
he says, to bring a new doctrine to
you, but to confirm that which you
have received, and to water the trees
which have already been planted." t
The words certainly indicate that the
faith had already been firmly estab-
lished by some teacher of high rank,
and are a very apposite commentary
on Dr. Browne's reason why the
Jews, some years afterward, were
anxious to hear St. Paul. We can-
not really understand what hallucina-
tion led him to quote these words
to show that St Paul writes much
as "if no aposde had ever been
amongst the Romans." But we
admire his prudence in giving purely
a reference, not the words of the text.
His other reference to Rom. xv. 15
-24 is even more unlucky. St. Paid
therein says plainly that he generally
preached, "not where Christ was
named," lest he should build on an-
other man's foundation. " Far which

* Ch. L II, la.

I w ^^ W^^^^^^^^W

St. Peter, Pint Bishep of Rtmr.

cause" he aJds, ■' I have been much
hindered from coming to you."
Therefore some mher apostle /lad
[ireached to the Romans. He even
goes on to say that he hoped to be
gratified in his desire of seeing them,
U'/ien on his way to Spain, so that it
is plain that he, though apostle of
the Gentiles, conswl^ed there was no
necessity for his making a journey to
Rome on puq>ose to instruct the Ro-
man Church. Sl Paul, then, writes
very much as if an aposde /laii been
with the Romans. Whatever else
Dr. Browne does, he ought to quote
Scripture fairly. St. Paul's allusions,
obscure though they may be to us,
were, of course, clear to those to
whom they were written. No fami-
liar letter can be fully understood
without taking into account the facts
which, being well known to those to
whom he writes, the author merely
alludes to in a passing way.

'ITie letters which Sl. Paul wrote
from Rome were all written during
his first stay there, with the probable
exception of the second to Timothy.
Colossians iv. ii, and 2 Timothy iv.
16, are quoted to show that St. Peter
was not at Rome, else he would
have stood by SL Paul. But the
epistle to the Colossians was written
during St. Paul's first imprisonment,
when St. Peter, as we have seen,
must have been absent, and in the
second to Timothy bespeaks expressly
of his " first defence." Most writers
think he r^;fers to his first imprison-
ment. Others suppose him to speak
of a preliminary hearing before Nero,
during his second imprisonment.
Admitting this interpretation, he can-
not include St. Peter, who was his
fellow-prisoner, in the list of those who
had forsaken him. The words apply
to persons at large, who had influ-
ence with the authorities, which tliey
did not use.

We have thus fully e.xamined all

that Protestants allege
the silence of the New "B
The candid reader will ■
there is nothing in the saa
lo contradict the historical
have estahlished ; the allusif
Paul lo the instruction of
mans in the faith by a t
high rank, and the interpi
the wonl Bahlon in St, Pi
letter, which has come doi
from the apostolic age,
counted in their favor.

It is on historical evidl
the case must rest; and ofl
ha\e rehearsed it, wc ai
submit it to unprejudiced \
The testimony of the ai)od
and the two immediatdy idL
conclusive ; it cannot be
away ; much less can it be :
ed. We must give up all
well -authenticated history,
mit that St. Peter went
founded the church there, i
first bishop, and there die
of Christ.

TIkw, (hu empurpled, u1 m

Eusebius says that SL \
tablished his see at Antiol
last year of Tiberius, who di
fifteenth, a.d, 37. It WM ;
Uierefore, in the year 36; ai
natius, the second succetw
Peter in that see; St JcJio
lom, who had been a pri<
Origen and St. Jerome, al
Eusebius, state that he govfl
church seven years ; which
means, not that his epbco

A Ruined Life.

38s

)( that length, but, that seven
lar years were included (the
nd the last partially) in it. At
te, this would make the estab-
nt of his see in Rome in a.d.
43 ; and the day celebrated by
lurch is January i8th. Now,
[us, St. Jerome, Cassiodorus,
diers say that SS. Peter and
rere put to death in the four-
year of Nero, that is, in a.d.
id their mart)nrdom is celebra-
June 29th. This gives twen-
and a half or twenty-five and
years for St. Peter's Roman
>ate, or twenty-five years in
nse that the Antiochan was
if he came to Rome in 43 ; in
case he may even have estab-
his see at Antioch in 37.
fohn Chrysostom says that St.

Paul's life after his conversion was
thirty-five years ; which would make
that event to have occiured in a.d.
32 or 33. He himself says (Gal. i.)
that three years afterward he went to
Jerusalem, and thence to Tarsus, as is
also stated in Acts ix. From this
place he was called to preach to the
church at Antioch, as mentioned in
Acts xi. ; and this visit, which could
not have much preceded the estab-
lishment of St. Peter's see there, may
well have been in a.d. 35 or 36,
agreeing with the chronology given
above.

These dates do not agree with that
commonly assigned for the cruci-
fixion ; but numerous evidences show
that this occurred in the year 29.
As late a date as a.d. 31 mighty
however, be allowed.

A RUINED LIFE.

as the saddest, saddest face I
w.

stood before the stove in my
fice,on that dark December day,
; steam fi'om her wet, heated
ts almost concealed her fi'om
ht. Yet the first glimpse I
of her, through the partition
iccited my interest to an unu-
gree ; and, though I saw her
lin for a half hour, that one
fixed her features in my mem-
indelibly as they are printed
Miay.

as term time, and the second
lay of the term. For ten days
es and brain had both been
d with all that varied detail
Qess which sessions aggregate
le hands and conscience of a
iwyer ; and the musty retinue
VOL. IX. — 25

of assumpsit, ejectment, and scire-fa-
das had nearly vexed and worn out
the little life I had at the beginning.
But the criminal week, which was my
peculiar sphere, was close at hand,
and I looked to its exciting, riskfiil
cases as a relief from the dull, dreary
current of civil forms and practice.

The little room I dignified with
the name of ^^ front office** was fiUed,
as far as seats went, with rough back-
woodsmen, witnesses on behalf of a
gentleman who occupied with me the
snugly carpeted " sanctum " in the
rear. While we discussed together
the points of strength or weakness to
be tested at the impending trial, the
voices of the rude laborers reached
us brokenly, and more than once
words fell upon my ear which made
me tremble for the sensibilities of the

386

A Ruined Life.

lonely woman who was with them.
They meant no harm, those bluff,
hearty men. A tear from her droop-
ing eyes would have unmanned them.
But they were not well-bred, nor ten-
der to the weakness of the other sex.
My poor client, as she afterward be-
came, stood while they sat, kept si-
lence while they laughed and jeered
each other. It was not their fault
that they never minded her. They
were not hypocrites, that's aU.

At length I had the happiness to
see the door close on the last of
them, and, after arranging the maps
and diagrams which would be needed
on the morrow, I called to the stranger
to come in. She obeyed, hesitating-
ly, and then, for the first time, I saw
that she belonged to that most for-
lorn and pitiable of all the many
classes who throng around our mining
districts, the recent Irish emigrant.
The very clothes she wore were the
same with which she dressed herself
in the green isle far away, and her
voice and manner had not yet caught
that flippancy and pertness which pass
among the longer landed for tokens
of American independence and equal-
ity. She was certainly very poor, or
the rough, wintry winds would not
have been permitted to toss her long,
black hair in tangled masses around
her shoulders, or drop their melting
snowflakes on her uncovered head.
My chivalric interest died without
time to groan, and whatever thought
of profit or romance in assisting her
I might have had, at the first sight
of her, perished at the same instant.
But I saw poverty and sorrow, and I
determined in my heart, before she
told her errand, tiiat my life of legal
labor should embrace at least one act
done thoroughly and for nothing.

Her story was a short one. Her
husband and herself had lived in a
neighboring village. Others of their
own people dwelt around them, and

among these was an old w<
her son. No difficulty, that
of, had ever risen between 1
and theirs. But, a few da
as her husband was gatherii
the roadside, these two hi
out on him, and in cold bl
dered him. The son had
the murderer's mother, wii
doors and windows, forbade
nage of friend or foe. Th
hearted wife, urged on to 1
vengeance as the law affoi
come to me and asked m)
and assistance.

It was of little use to que
Like most of her peculiar
mind could entertain but <
and that, in some form or
curred in answer to every
could make. Satisfying my
ever, that a murder had re
committed, and taking dc
names and dates as were :
for the initial steps of prose
sent her home, with the ;
that justice should be done
her dead husband's ghost av

The warrant was issued, 1
made, the indictment found,
finished. There was no c
guilt. The murder was o
in the broad light of day, a
eyes had seen it. The co
the defence had felt the un^
of his position before a tithe c
dence was in, and slipped d<
innocence to justifiability,
last hope for the prisoner W5
allegation of insanity, late s
and faindy urged. It was
The twelve inexorable men
in their verdict of " wilful ;
and Bridget Davanagh was
ed to be hanged by the ned
was dead.

It has never been my a
follow cases, on which the
judgment of the law has b
nounced, beyond those in

A Ruined Life,

Z^7

lences of that judgment which
nection between a lawyer and
It has compelled me to super-

But there was something in
se which both attracted and
:ed me, and one day in vaca-

found myself at the grated
loor, seeking admission to the

the condemned. The old

received me quietly. She

to have forgotten me, or, at
)w active a part I had taken
roceedings which had ended
ling her to a shameful death,
s taciturn and moody; and,
jer I remained, the more sat-

became that her mind was
settled, if it had not been be-

went several times after that,
dually, by kind words and the
uch simple comforts as aged

most desire, I won her confi-
o far that, in her faltering,
!Cted way, she told me all
\ history of woe and wrong
fering which had brought an
' grave to Michael Herican,
Ion's fate to her. It was one

tales of falsity and sorrow
e cannot hear too often, and
Qoral none of us can learn

ittie village of Easky, in the
Sligo, was, when this present
was young, one of those
5, scanty-peopled hamlets
ery loneliness and isolation
hem more dear and home-
their few inhabitants. The
* the Northern Ocean foamed
e rocks where its fisher-boats
KMred. The feet of its ram-
ildten trod the rough paths
mpled the grey masses of
Slieve-Gamph hills. Thus
in between the mountains
sea, it was almost separated
e world. The white sails
f and then flitted across the
»n, and the slow, lazy car

that twice a month brought over his
majesty's mail-bags ftom Dromore,
were all that Easky ever had to tell
it that there were nations and king-
doms on the earth, or that its own
precipices on the one side, and its
weed-stTQwn rocks ujyon the other,
did not embrace the whole of human
joys and sorrows.

In this solitary village the fore-
fathers of Patrick Carrol had dwelt
for immemorial years. So far back
as tradition went they had been fish-
ermen, and the last remaining sdon
now followed the ancestral calling.
He was a sort of hero among his fel-
low-villagers. True, he was as poor
as the poorest of them all, and had
no personal boast save of his vigor-
ous arms and honest heart. But his
father, contrary to the custom of his
race, had reftised to lay his bones
within an ocean bed, and had died
fighting in the bloody streets of Kil-
lala. All victims of '98 were can-
onized by those rude fi-eemen, and
the mantle of honor fell fi'om the &-
ther upon the children, and gave to
Patrick Carrol a deserved and well-
maintained pre-eminence. And so,
when Bridget Deery became his wif6,
the whole hamlet agreed that the vil-
lage favorite had found her proper
husband, and, when the little Mary
saw the light, the christening holiday
was kept by every neighbor, old or
young.

Four years of perfect happiness
flew by. Death or misfortune came
to other families, but not to theirs.
The little hoarded wealth, hid away
in the dark comer, grew yearly great-
er. Health and affection dwelt un-
remittingly upon the hearthstone,
and the hearts of the father and mo-
ther were as full of gratitude as the
heart of the child was of merriment
and glee. But the four years had an
end, and carried with them, into the
trackless past, the sunshine of then

A Ruined Life.

lives. One long, long summer day
ihe ivife sat among the rocJjs, watch-
ing for her husband's boat, and play-
ing with the prattler at her side. The
boat came not. The sun went down.
The gathering douds in the offing
loomed up threateningly. The hoarse
northwesters felt their way across the
waters, and whistled in her ears, as
she clasped the child to her bosom
and hurried home out of the storm.
As the gale strengthened with the
darkness, she fell upon her knees,
and all that wakeful night besought
the Mother and the saints to keep
her baby's father from the awful dan-
ger. In vain; for when the morn-
ing dawned, the waves washed up
his oars and hehn upon the beach,
and an hour later his drowned corse
was found beneath the broken crags
of Anghris Head.

For the first few years after that
fatal shock the widowed mother liv-
ed she knew not how. One by one
the treasured silver pieces went, till
destitution stared her in the face.
The charity of her neighbors outdid
their means, but even that could not
keep her from actual suffering, and
work for the lone woman there was
absolutely none. AVTiat wonder was
il, then, that, when the flowers had
bloomed three times above the peace-
ful bed of Patrick Carrol, his widow,
more for her child's sake than her
on-n, consented to violate the sancti-
ty of her broken heart, and become
the wife of Bernard Davanagh ?

Bernard was a bold, reckless, wQ-
ful man, and both the mother and
tlie child soon felt the difference be-
tween the dead father and the living.
As time passed on, and the toy Ber-
nard wasbom, the passions of the man
grew stronger, and cruel words, and
still more cruel blows, became the
daily portion of the helpless three.
Oh ! how often did the ividow yearn
to lie down with her children by her

dead husband's side, in tb
churchyard, and be at peace'
But not without them. No,
to be united with the lost, a
have left them, and so th(
together, closer and dosei)
years rolled on — knowing
life except its dark page of «

There never yet was a Ufil
some ray of joy, and, cvej
midnight darkness which hun;
the childhood of Mary Cafl
were faint gleams of happina
door but one to their poor |
James Herican. He too wi
ennan, and, in better days, 1
Patrick Carrol's most iniin
faithful friend. He had |
such to the widow and the fi
and, but for him, the lamily
nard Davanagh also might s(
have perished from want a
He was the father of one (
boy Michael, older by tn
than Mary, and doubly end
his heart by the mother's eai
The gossips of Easky had
ed, in their simple way, wfa
Herican and Bridget Carrot
marry, but the memory of |
wife and his dead friend rod
one ever to entertain the [
and the poor widow was asi
wishing it as he. They wew
as they were; he, by his I
and true Christian charity, 1(
heavenly treasures, which, U
ond husband of a second I
never could accumulate; all
ing ever fresh and pure the (
of her maiden's heart, the fl
of reunion in the skies. V^
how dilTerent, the end hod:
they had married, the eye ef I
nal can alone discern. |

The triendship of these:
descended to the childreiJ
their sports, their rambles, I
bors, (for in that toiling haa
tender childhood lab(wcd,)|

A Ruined Life,

389

Q and Mary Carrol were to-
When her half-brother, eight
ounger than herself, grew into
d, Michael was his champion
the impositions of larger
nd taught him all those arts
d and water craft which vil-
luth so ardently aspire to, and
f learn. It could not happen
Ise than that these constantly
ig kindnesses should beget
id fast affection, and knit to-
these young hearts in bonds
:, if not impossible, to sunder,
lay have been the law of na-
may have been the chasten-
God, that Michael Herican
!ary Carrol should come, in
;ars, to love each other. It
iply fitting, to all human sight,
should be so ; and it was so.
ther and the mother thanked
r it, day by day, and bestowed
hem such tokens of encour-
t as the bashful lovers could
ably receive. The boy Ber-
hen he heard of it, (and there
e no secrets in E^ky,) threw
cap for joy, and the old vil-
Dnes for once smiled on the
ts of a happiness they had
:nown. Only Davanagh ap-
displeased, but his abuse of
)r girl had been so extreme
s that it could scarcely suffer
aiease, and all the influence
rted over her or them was
ruthless fist and cursing
This at last ceased; for ears
ient than her own received
iging insults, and a^ blow,
than his drunken arm could
tretched him upon the ground
10 more.

' Carrol reached her twentieth
f. She was a firail, delicate
bw the middle height, and
It beautiful but strange union
5 blue eyes and pearly com-
widi jet black hair and lashes

which tells at once of the pure Irish
blood. We should not have called
her handsome; perhaps no one
would, except those who loved her,'
and in whose sight no disfigurement
or disease could have made her
homely. But she was one of those
superior natures which solitude and
suffering must unite with Christian
culture to produce; and the whole
neighborhood, for this, and not for
her beauty, claimed her as its favor-
ite and charm. Michael had grown
to be a stalwart man, half a head
taller than his sire, and his fellows
said that none among them promised
better for diligence and success than
he. His devotion to Mary Carrol
knew no bounds, and she, in turn,
cherished scarcely a thought apart
fix)m him. Her mother had rapidly
grown old and broken. Grief, and
that yearning for the dead which is
stronger than any sorrow, had made
her an aged woman long before her
time, and the fond daughter, between
her and the one hope of her young
life, had no third wish or joy. Her
only trouble was for her brother.
The wild elements of his father's na-
ture became more apparent in him
every day, and, though he loved his
mother and half-sister with an almost
inhuman passionateness, they fre-
quently found it impossible to re-
strain his turbulent and curbless will.
The stem control of a seafaring life
seemed to be their only chance of
saving him, and so, at little more
than twelve years old, he was torn
away firom home and friends and
sent out on a coasting merchantman
to be subdued. This parting neariy
broke his mother's heart, but her
discipline of suffering had been borne
too long and patiendy for her to re-
bel now. It was only another drop
to her full cup of bitterness, when, a
few months later, news came, by
word of mouth from a sailor in Dro-

390

A Ruined Life.

more, that the merchantman had
foundered in the stormy Irish Sea.

It would be beyond the power of
human pen to describe how these
lone women now clung to Michael
Herican. His father went down to
the grave in peace, and he had none
but them, as they had none but him.
Already the one looked on him as
a husband and the other as a son.
When a few more successful voyages
were over, and when the humble
necessaries, which even an Easky
maid could not become a wife with-
out providing, were completed, the
benediction of the church was to
fulfil the promise of their hearts, and
give them irrevocably to each other
in the sight of God and man.

It was an ill-starred day for
Michael Herican and the Carrols
when the Widow Moran and her
daughter came to live in Easky.
Pierre Moran, deceased, had been
a small shopkeeper in Sligo, where
he had amassed a little competence,
and, now that he was dead, his
widow returned to her native tillage
to pass her remaining life among her
former neighbors. There were few
among them who had not known
more or less about the reckless girl
who ran away with the half-French
half-Irish shopman, twenty years
ago, and her name and memory was
none of the best among those virtu-
ous villagers. But she cared less
for this because she had enough of
filthy lucre to command exterior
respect, and it was better, so she
thought, to be highest among the
lowly than to be low among the
high. In coming to Easky she had
had two ends in view: to queen it
over her former associates, and to
secure a steady and good husband
for her daughter. Kitty Moran was
like her mother, but without her mo-
ther's &ults. I%e was a giil of dash

and spirit, and with a prid<
and a nature as impressit
mother was emotionless,
thorough brunette, with a
violence and passion, wit
nette's power to love and
hate. In actual beauty n
of the neighborhood could
her, and she had just enou
polish and refinement to g
appearance of superiority
around her. Between her
Carrol the angels would
hesitated in choosing — imle
they were those ancient soi
who took wives from ac
daughters of men because
that they were fair, and
men, they would have
wrongly.

It was not many days 1
Widow Moran heard of
Herican, or many weeks I
had decided that he shoul
husband of her child,
knew of his betrothal, for
was rarely spoken unconnq
the name of Mary Carrol,
made no difference. The ]
step-daughter of the drunki
nagh was of no consequenc
and to the right or wroE
designs she never gave a
Whatever she wished, she d<
to have. Whatever she d
to have, she set herself ind
to secure. So when she i
it was Michael's boat fro
she purchased. When the
message to send to Sligo,
ages flbm thence to be
home to her, it was Michj
that carried it. When she
to be done around her c^
waited until Michael had an
and then he was hired t
Well skilled, as every won
arts like these, she used h
ledge and her chances all tc

It is but just to say tl

A Ruined Life,

391

Moran had no share in her mother's
'Wicked plans. She was young and
gay. Michael Herican was the
finest young man in the village. It
was not disagreeable to her to watch
him and to talk with him, as he
worked by her directions in the little
garden, or to sit beside him at their
noontide meal. Unconsciously, she
grew to miss him when he was away
at sea, to have a welcome for him in
her heart when he came home, to
look for him with impatience when
she knew that his vocation brought
him back to her. Before she was
aware of it, she loved him ; and when
she realieed her love, she threw her-
self into it, as her one absorbing pas-
sion, without a dream of its results
or a suspicion of her error. She
would not, for an empire, have de-
liberately wronged the patient girl
whom, by the stem law of contraries,
she had already learned to cherish,
hut to her love there was no limit,
no moderation. She could not help
loving Michael Herican, and no
more could she mete out or restrain
her love. So, when it mastered her,
rt um her master, and her reason
^nd her conscience were whirled
away before the rushing tide of pas-
^n like bubbles on the bosom of a
cataract.

How Michael Herican came to

love this new maiden not even he

himself could tell. Rochefoucault

^ys, " It is in man's power neither to

*^^e nor to refrain from loving."

^^ false as this may be as a gene-

^ law of life, there are cases in

^hich it appears almost divinely true.

^^ ^as so in his. He simply could

^^^ help it When he compared the

5^*^, deep, tried affection of the

^^ that had been his for years

^^^ the tumultuous outburst of this

??Pctuous soulyhis judgment taught

^^ there ought to be no such com-

^*^^n between them. He never

had one doubt as to his duty. He
fought nobly and manfully against
the spell that seemed to be upon
bim. He would gladly have left
Easky, and have stretched his voya-
ges beyond the northern seas; but
he could not leave Mary and her
mother there alone. He thought of
hastening his marriage, thereby to
put an end to all possibility of faith-
lessness, (and this is what he should
have done,) but he had no reason
for it that he dared to give. It was
a fearful trial for him, and would
have bred despair in stronger hearts
than his, if such there be. He be-
came lax and careless in his business,
harsh and moody in his intercourse
with others. A few tattling croakers,
here and there, wiser than the rest,
laid the evil at the Widow Moran's
door; but they could give no proof
when asked for it, and the frowns
and chidings of the neighborhood
soon put them down.

In this way things went on for
months. The day drew near when
the wedding-feast should usher in a
new life to the waiting pair. It was a
drawing near of doom to him. The
enchantment had not weakened by
indulgence. The siren's song was
as soft and seductive as when its
first notes took possession of his soul.
Feeling as he did toward Kathleen
Moran, he would not marry Mary
Carrol, although from his heart of
hearts he could have sworn that his
love for her had known no change or
diminution. Nor did he dare to tell
her that the fascinations of the stran-
ger had enchained him ; for he knew
that he was all she had, and all she
loved. But it could not go on thus
always, and he knew it Something
must be done. Had it been the mere
sacrifice of himself, he would not have
hesitated for a moment As little
did he hesitate between marrying
where he did not love supremely, and

A Riiiaed Life.

not inanying at all. He had a con-
science, and when his conscience de-
dded between these, and told him
that he must not marry Mary Carrol,
it compelled him also to go to her
and in plain words tell her so.

It almost killed her. The shock
was so great, at the moment, mightily
though she strove to command her-
self, that her life was in immediate
danger. After a while she rallied
again, a very ghost lo what she had
been, though little else befDre. Her
mother bore the blow less calmly.
She cDuid not understand the power-
lessness of the one to save himself, or
the self-sacrifice of the other, which
gave up her life's last greatest hope
without a murmur. She felt the dis-
appointment keenly, but the injury
more. Dispositions, that through al!
her sorrows had never been apparent
in her character, began to show them-
selves. She grew stem and vengeful
in place of her old meekness and sub-
mission, and brooded over their cruel
wrong until it became a second na-
ture with her to impute to Michael
Herican all her troubles, and curse
him in her heart as the destroyer of
her child.

Of course all Easky soon knew
the grief that had come to Bridget
Davanagh's household ; and, not un-
naturally, most of them aded with
her in her condemnation of Michael
Herican. They could not under-
stand, they would not have believed,
that he was under the dominion of a
passion whit;h he could neither es-
cape nor resist To them there was
iio fascinaUon in the Widow Moran's
daughter, and they loved the mother
too little for lliem to suppose that
any one could love the child. It
was a hard lot for her, poor girl, to
hear their cutting censures passed
upon her as the cause of Mary Car-
rol's sufferings ; for the people of that
uncultivated neighborhood did not

care to conceal their biltenM
neath soft-spoken words, andj
hesitate to tell her to her {
that they felt concerning he^
spared they Michael Hericai
men and young greeted htl
with looks askance and coldj
of the warm welcomes wbidl
hearth had had for bim a rod
fore. And every woman ia]
except the few old crottd
grudgingly had wished hii
when all was well with him, ■
him on the other side, and]
the saints to deliver their yoid
dens from such faithless loved
Intolerable as all this was i
and unjust as it would Hain
even in their sight who did fl
they have known how he ham
against his destiny, it still haJ
evilable effect upon him. A|
was but one house in Easkj^
he met a cordial greeting, thai
became his continual reson
there was but one heart istoj
he could look and find rcn
love, he sought his consoUl
that heart alone. To MaiyJ
he would gladly liave contiq
be a friend and brother, but 1
ther would not suffer him to
side the doors, and if ti>e 1
hearted maiden could have i
his kindnesses, they would hx
to her a mockery worse thaa
Thus Kathleen Moran's was
times the only voice he he
days, her smile the only smj
bestowed upon him, and she I
in time, as necessary to his e]
as Eve to Adam. They t
most always together. H«
longer voyages, and took long
and, when on shore, rsirely f
roof under which she dwelt,
had no definite aim and i
for which to earn, or to layj
earnings. He never Hus^J
to plan for, or look It — ~ '**■

A Ruifted Life.

393

yet had dreamed of marry-
Moran. The light had fal-
of his life as effectually
f Mary Carrol's; and it
ve seemed to him as boot-
ve heaped together money
Jd to her to have finished
ged her bridal gear,
like this told terribly upon
e indignation of the villagers
late with time, and more and
Vlichael Herican become an
It was strange that an event
the swift whirl of our metro-
reer, we meet almost every
d have made such an im-
n the minds of sturdy men
:n. But it was the first time,
nory of man, that an Easky
proved faithless to an Eas-.
md these rude hearts were
in their hate as in their
; bore it as long as he
he was only human ; and
^Vidow Moran, herself made
omfortable by the active
r her neighbors, determined
to Sligo, he was only too
go with her. He sold the
ige where his forefathers
and died for many genera-
bade farewell for ever to
where he had known so
? of happiness, such months
uffering.

Carrol suffered less in con-
id in self-respect than Mi-
ican, her suffering made far
ul havoc with her bodily
al health. The privations
Idhood had sown the seeds
ire decay ; and, at her best
;est, she was fi'ail and weak-
shock she had sustained
life's hopes were shattered
Uy unsettled her mind, and
isease, now slowly develop-
ter into hopeless imbecility,
ot violent or peevish. She
led any restraint, and, usu-

ally, but litde care. She would sit all
day in the sunlight, listening to the
roaring of the sea, her hands folded
in her lap, and her great blue eyes
gazing out vacantly into the sky.
She knew enough to keep herself
from danger, and, at long intervals
would go alone into the narrow street,
and wander up and down, groping
her way like a blind person, yet tak-
ing no notice of anything that passed
around her. It was a sad sight, in-
deed, for any eyes to see, but far
more so to those who knew her his-
tory, and could repeat the story of
the cruel wound she bore. There
was not among them a heart that did
not bleed for her, and scarce a hand
that could not have been nerved to
vengeance, if the blood of her de-
stroyer could have put away her
doom.

The old woman — God knows how
old in sorrows l^became more firm
and resolute as her daughter grew
more helpless. She never wearied in
doing all that a mother's heart could
prompt, but it was gall and bitterness
to her that Mary suffered so uncom-
plainingly. If she could once have
heard her say one hateful word of
Michael Herican, it would have satis-
fied her, but she never did. She
learned that Michael had left his
home, and had gone with the Mo-
rans, and she felt as if she were rob-
bed of her prey. Not that she ever
purposed ill to him, but she did wish
it, and the scof& and denunciations
of his neighbors seemed to her so
many weapK)ns in her hands against
him. Alas ! for her that this should
be the lot of Patrick Carrol's bride.

It might have been a half year
since the widow and her victim lefb
Easky, and the midsummer days had
come. Mary Carrol had been so
long an invalid, and, in her many
wanderings, had been so singularly
free firom harm, that her absence from

394

A Ruined Life.

the cottage caused her mother no sur-
prise or fear. The village children,
as they met her rambling in the
fields, would sometimes lead her
home, and the seaward-going fisher-
men would often watch her footsteps
on the beach with fond solicitude;
but they became accustomed to it by
and by, and let her have her way.

One cloudless day in July she had
strayed out at early dawn, while the
dew was scarcely dry, and wandered
off along the shore, beyond the fur-
thest cottage. The matron of that
house, as she went by, sent out her
little boy to see that she came to no
danger, but in a moment he returned
to say that she was sitting on a bro-
ken rock out of the water*s reach, and
so for the time she was forgotten.
The day wore on, and Bridget Dava-
nagh grew lonely in her desolate
home. A dread of coming evil fell
upon her, and, though her cup al-
ready so ran over that she could
hardly realize the possibility of further
misfortune, she could not shake off
the new shadow. Restless and un-
easy, she started out to seek her
child. She hurried past the village
eastwardly along the sands. She
peered into every crevice of the rocky
coast that was large enough to hide
a sea-gull's nest, and hunted behind
every fallen fragment that might con-
ceal the object of her quest. Slowly,
for it was severest toil to her aged feet,
she groped over one mile afler an-
other, until the lofty cap of Anghris
Head rose up before her. She had
never been so near it since that fear-
ful day, long years ago, when she
came out to see the mangled body
of her young husband lying under-
neath its stormy crags. And now
there came over her an impulse to go
there once again; again to visit the
place where the waves cast him in
their murderous wrath ; the place whi-
ther she went last to meet him when

he last came home to her.
climbed over the huge bould
by one, in the declining sun)
she stood directly undemes
ragged spire which Anghris 1:
above the waves, and there
the spot where her beloved I
in his sad hour of death. Th
she found her daughter, lyin^
same rocky couch where he
lay before her, one arm bene
head, her face turned up to
in the unbreaking slumber
dead.

This same midsummer
brought news, fix)m Sligo to
that Michael Herican had
Kitty Moran, and that the
heartless schemes had been
plished.

The house of Bridget Dj
was now desolate indeed. I
lost for ever in the unknown
Her daughter sleeping in the
churchyard, bearing the bui
her cross no more. There
cheer for her in the well-mean
of her neighbors. There i
comfort for her in the prom
land, beyond this mortal, of
ual rest. If her religious i
and principles were still ali\
remained dumb and dorman
could not read. She loved n<
pany. Her few personal ne
rendered much bodily toil supe
and, when her work was do
had no other occupation thai
down and brood over her $
The range of her thought i»
row. She had no future to 1<
ward to. Her eyes were only
past, and the past held for 1
two figures — ^her murdered M
her Mary's murderer. It was
that the good parish priest
to divert her mind and lead
better things; for, though she
little and that quietly, he co
like all who now came kit

A Ruined Life.

395

lat her faculties were
ler control over her will
ion almost totally de-
she might have lived
becoming fully crazed
ly, never tested. A let-
ter one evening, bearing
-mark, and dotted over
r colored stamps which
ys upon sea and land,
it letter she had ever re-
•elative or friend, no ac-
cept Michael Herican,
of Easky, and she was
1, as she broke the seal
le pages up and down
, in the useless attempt
whence it came. She
passing school-child to
and, as he blundered
eary lines, she sat with
i in her hands, rocking
elessly to and fro. He
nd and read the signa-
lard Davanagh." The
still lived. She lifted
i out of her hands and
ed each other down her
ly eased her throbbing
: bade the child go over
of its first reading she
leard a word except the
low she learned that he
ca. He had been left
, at the last voyage of
ssel, and escaped alive,
le had been tossed on
lich bears a name, till,
I and danger, he had set-
r-off mining regions of
Dntinent. He now sent
Mary to come out to
g money and passage
• each, and saying that
s time he hoped to have
:h him in his new home,
time before the old wo-
mprehend the message;
; once really understood

that Bernard was alive, she would have
started on the instant to reach her
boy. Her idea of the distance was,
that America lay somewhere out be-
yond Dromore, as far, perhaps, as
that was from Easky, and it was with
difficulty that the neighbors, who
came flocking in when the news went
flitting up and down the street, could
control her. Those who stayed with
her through the night, and those who
went back homeward, had settied it,
however, before morning dawned,
that, though the journey might be
fearful and the chances few, it was
better she should go and perish by
the way, than stay at home to grieve,
and craze, and die.

There was not much preparation.
Her cottage sold, her furniture dis-
tributed among her friends, the other
passage-paper given to a woman in
Dromore, who eagerly grasped the
chance of going out to seek her hus-
band, and Bridget Davanagh left
Easky and its graves for ever. The
emigrant best knows the weariness
and hardship of a steerage passage
in a crowded ship, and this old and
worn-out woman endured them as a
thousand others, old and feeble, have
done since then and before. But
the long voyage had an end some
time, and, in a day after the ship was
moored at New York wharves, the
mother had found her son. He had
\ cabin built and furnished, deep in
the wild gorge of a mountain, out of
whose sides the glittering anthracite
was torn by hundreds of tons a day ;
and here he took her to live and
care for him. Not a face around
her that she ever saw before; the
dialect of their language so diflfering
from her own that she could only
here and there make out a word;
Bernard himself grown up into a
tall, stout, buiiy man, black with
dust and reeking with soot and oil,
she longed almost fiercely for her

home by the green sea, and wished
herself back again a score of times
a day. When her homesickness
wore off, as it slowly did, and she
formed new acquaintances, and grew
familiar with the scenes around her;
above all, when she began to realize
the comforts which the new world
gave beyond the old — she became
reconciled to her strange life, and
seemed almost herself again. Only
when, now and then, her spite and
hatred to the name of Herican broke
out again did her mind reel with
its fury; otherwise, she was more
like Bridget Davanagh in her early
days of second widowhood than she
had been for years.

Meanwhile, of Michael Herican.
He had married Kitty Moran, as
the Easky story said. It was, on his
part, an act of sheer despair. Not
that he did not love her. His pas-
sion had grown stronger and more
absorbing every hour, and she well
returned it. But it was no calm
conclusion of his judgment that led
him to unite his life with hers. It
was more Hke the suicide of a felon
who sees his fate before him, but
would rather die by his own free act,
to-day, than anticipate inevitable
death to-morrow. When the Widow
Moran " went to her own place," her
fortune fell to them. He opened a
little store, and, for a while, life,
cheered by business, seemed more
bearable; but misfortune followed
him and, by one loss and another,
both his credit and his stock were
sacrificed, Honest to the last far-
thing, he stripped himself of ever)--
thing to pay his debts, and turned
himself and his young wife, to whom
privation had ever been a stranger,
into the streets — to work, or beg, or
starve. Then, for a time, he went
to sea; but the lone houts of watch-
ftil idleness upon the deep gave him
too many opportunities for recollec-

tion, and he could not q
As a common hireling be
about the docks, and eamoi
chance toil a meagre pittanfi
bare necessities of life. But
not settle permanently to I
Of good abilities, with strc
and a nilling heart, it was thi
burden only which unmam
and this pui^ued him evi
and always, like an avengil
Then he began to wandd
Siigo they went to BalU
thence to Galway, and ih
Dublin, living awhile in e
evermore a restless, wavetin)
man. His poor wife suffi*
fully. Deprived of all the
she had ever known, and Q
sometimes to a mere ap<i
food and clothing, she rued
when she was bom; but d
blamed her husband. Thn
she clung [o him faithful
when she found herself, at Uij
lowest portion of the cap]
living among those whoa
in other days would have 1
fection, however else she mi
it was never against ium.
stayed in Dublin for a y
more. A child was bora tl
it soon died from exposurs
sufiicient food, and this ii
mother's heart uneasy, and i
ed lo move. A berth fid
way on board a homewai
Canadian timber-ship, and h
to go. He also paid the,
of his wife with labor, andj
time, their weary feet were !
on the shores of a new wod
for other joumej'S and, peill
ter paths.

But it did not so eveniufl
was the same man still,
under other skies. There
doom upon him. His bat
on his hands and opened
heart new chambers of alfte

A Ruined Life.

397

lid give no ballast to his
ie could not anchor any-
The weird ship that sails
down antarctic seas in an
oyage is no more harbor-
was he. He fought the
ce in hand, and smote down
ars of the olden fane. He
board the river-craft that
Jid fro upon the broad St.
;. He was a stevedore in

1 laborer in Montreal. So he
n from one town to another,
iway his own existence,
)ut the health and strength
roied wife, until he reached
;es," and, by some mysteri-
ty, came into the very vil-
re Bernard Davanagh and
er lived. Here he found
genial to his tastes. The
•m of the long tunnels un-
l, the ghastly lamps, and,
n all, the exciting danger
)or, kept his mind on the
nd drowned his memory
ctually than it had ever
re. He did not know the
of Mary Carrol's mother.

as soon have dreamed of
his dead children in the
ler, and his work late and
: him out of sight, so that
lot hear of him.

happened on one Sunday
is he went to Mass in the
n, two miles away, that he
name of " Bernard " called
one in the throng. He
ixiously around him, and
ifficulty in recognizing, in
s of the man addressed, the

2 detested Bernard Dava-
his youth. Had he not
e contrary, he might have
: that very father stepped
s grave. The recognition
lUtual, but the unquiet heart
il Herican recked little of
ice that day, for thinking

where this new phase of his life would
end. He feared no bodily injury.
He had not lost his animal courage
by his suflferings. But he felt like
Orestes at the banquet, when he dis-
pels with wine the knowledge of the
ever-present furies, and then sudden-
ly beholds the gorgon face pressed
closely up to his. He saw in this an
omen that, go where he would, the
wrongs of Mary Carrol must live on
outside him, as they did within.

How Bridget Davanagh and her
son became aware that Michael Heri-
can and his family were near them,
it is of litde consequence to know.
When they did find it out, however,
it was an evil greater in its results
to them than to their enemy. Ber-
nard had warmly espoused his mo-
ther's hatred, and added to it the
natural fierceness of his own disposi-
tion. The discovery of her child's
betrayer, and an occasional glimpse
of him as he went by, revived all the
old woman's vengefulness, and aggra-
vated it beyond control. If Kathleen
Herican had known all this, sick of
her wandering life as she might be,
she would not have stayed near them
for a single hour. But she did not
know it. Bernard and Bridget she
had never seen in Easky, and Mi-
chael never told her they .were here.
Thus she, at least, lived on uncon-
sciously, while vengeance sharpened
its relentless sword for retribution,
and hung it by an ever-weakening
hair over the head of him she loved
most of all.

Up to the morning of the fatal day'
no word or sign had passed between
Michael Herican and either of the
Davanaghs. But, as he went by to
his work that morning, they both
stood in their cabin door. The old
woman could not resist the impulse
to curse him as he passed her, and
Bernard was as ready with his mali-
son as she. Michael turned up the

398

A Ruined Life.

path that led toward them, and tried
to speak in friendliness, but they
would not hear him. At last, exas-
perated by their violence and abuse,
he told the mother she was mad — mad
as her daughter had been before her.
It was a cruel word for him to speak,
cruel for them to hear ; but he did
not mean it It smote upon him as
he hurried oflf to his work, and the
image of the dead Mary came back
and upbraided him many times that
day. He left his work early, and
went home. There was a strange
look in his eye which made the timid
heart of Kathleen beat faster when
she saw it, and he was more than
usually kind and tender to her and
his child. His half-eaten supper
over, he took his woodman's basket,
and went out to gather fagots for the
morning's fire. On his way home
with others who had been on the like
errand, as he came opposite the Da-
vanagh cottage, the mother and the
son came out and rushed upon him.
One struck him with a stone, and
felled him to the earth. The other
smote him with an axe, and cleft his
skull. It was all over in an instant.
Not a word was said. The horror-
stricken neighbors stood aghast a mo-
ment. When they came to their
senses, Bernard Davanagh was climb-
ing up the mountain on the further
side of the ravine, and Bridget Dava-
nagh, with bolted doors, kept ward in
her devoted house alone.

They would have lifted Michael
Herican from the roadside where he
lay, but he was dead. The red

blood oozed out of the
wound. It trickled on i:
streamlets down the path,
on the feet of men and wo
came to gare upon the
corpse. It stained the hs
face, and garments of his
baby as they lay sobbing ar
ing on his pulseless breast
up in the purple sunlight of
day, and soaked away into
and ashes of the trampled si

I have littie else to telL
cumstances of the story, as
them, piece by piece, left on
an impression which woulc
me stand by and do nothing
satisfied that, if not absolute!
the murderess had acted in s
of exceeding passion, no dou
ing firom the rankling words
tim spoke to her on the mo
that day ; and, in her unsettle
mind, the ordinary presump
the law, that passion can
were not reliable. It seeme<
to me, that she should si
highest penalty known to
when probably her guilt was
less than that of hundreds
few years in the state prison {
due. I therefore drew up a
which the presiding judge ar
all of the convicting jury sign
ing a commutation of her sei
imprisonment for life. The
was granted, and Bridget D
lives and will die an inmat(
Eastern Penitentiary of
vania.

The Philosophy of Immigration,

399

THE PHILOSOPHY OF IMMIGRATION.

ige that while so many
nlightened minds of the
ngaged in the investiga-
mysteries of social and
mces, so few, if any, ap-

the least attention to
non of American immi-
udy which is equal in
:o any that can come
rview of the economist,

more practical value to
', than most of the de-
►f nature, considered in
ispect.
•ches of geologists and

often supply us with
pleasing discoveries, and
ich regulate commerce
anufactures and capital,
\ well worth the atten-
ligent public men; but

than the habits, quali-

destiny of the millions
who of late years have
homes among us, and
1 annually coming in
ir shores.

ely be said that neither
nodem history presents
this American immigra-

emigration from the
nar was a dispersion of
)ver the surface of the
:egration of a nation into
lents, each particle the

separate and indepen-
laking a peculiar tongue,
1 to establish distinct
us of religion. Ours is
nee of many peoples to

centre, silently arraying
nder a uniform system
)lity, yielding up their

predilections, and to a

certain extent their creeds and lan-
guage, and destined eventually to
profess one faith and speak one lan-
guage. Subsequent migrations in
the old world offer points as striking-
ly dissimilar as the first great exo-
dus. Those were nothing else than
succeeding waves of population
borne firom one portion of the earth
to the other, generally preceded and
heralded by fire and sword, and end-
ing in the subjugation and spoliation
of the inhabitants of that country over
which they swept with irresistible
violence. Our immigrants, on the
contrary, come to us in detail, peace-
ably to enjoy the benefits of our laws
and to respect our institutions, with
no thought of conquest but such as
may be suggested by our yet untilled
fields of the west and our compara-
tively undeveloped mineral treasures.
Viewed in tfiis light, our know-
ledge of the past gives no rules of
guidance in our relations with this
new and very important element of
our population, and it becomes the
duty of every patriot jealous of the
welfare and reputation of his land
to draw lessons of wisdom firom
every-day, experience, in order to
help direct this perennial flood of life
into the most proper and useful
channels. A country's true wealth
lies primarily in its population; the
product of its soil is its surest and
most permanent concomitant. To
give a helping hand and a word of
cheer and advice to those future citi-
zens and parents of citizens is the com-
mon duty of humanity and patriotism ;
to protect themimtil sufficientiy domi-
ciled to be able to protect themselves,
is the absolute duty of our legislators.

{

'I'hu (.ity of Ntw York, bting the
centre of the commerce of the coun-
try, is necessarily the objective
point of European emigration, though
many of our neighboring seaports
receive their proportionate share of
the precious human freight. Itwill be
scarcely credited that in the space of
twenty-one years, ending with 1867,
there arrived al this city alone no
less than three million eight hundred
and thirty-two thousand four hun-
dred and four immigrants, or a num-
ber almost equal in amount to the
entire white population of the coun-
try at the' time of the Revolution.*
Those arrivals included natives of
every country in Europe, China,
Turkey, Arabia, East and West In-
dies, South America, Mexico, and the
lower British Provinces. Emigrants
from Ireland and Germany were of
course largely in excess of all others.
Until 1861, these two countries were
nearly equally represented, the num-
bers from them for fourteen years
previously being respectively 1,107,-
034 and 979,575. or nearly four fifths
of the whole arrivals. Since that
year the German element has largely
preponderated, and is now equal to
one half the entire immigration.
England, Scotland, France, and
Switzerland follow next in rotation,
the northern countries of Europe
supplying a respectable number in
proportion to their sparse population,
and the southern countries, like
Spain and Portugal, comparatively
few.

efficimi Cmcnl S

'<4T.

i»4* . . . . UD,N'

i<*4 .... iii.6g]

■SSI, .... lB».ftal

'j!3 "^tmi

''S4. .... J.9,"J

rtii ■ ■ * ■ ''^'"

:!S: : : : : 5i

Seminl Ciuerl^r, Eiq., Ihe

Iht followin

oSdJnport

;ig- ■ ■ ■ - L'jii!

1<M\ .

. J.S11.404

It were beyond the scO]
article to enter into an est
quiry as to the cause of thii
abandonment of nationality
part of our new denizens. '
government of Ireland, wbi<
nated in the terrible famine 1
7-8, and the natural afliml
people of that country for ll
tages afforded by free govt
will easily account for the il
of their numbers who hai^
political and social indepen
this republic; while the ]o«
of labor and the heavy bu
taxation experienced by th«
in his own home, form poil
centives in his ecdnomicil 1
change his condition and 1
the fatherland of which he i)
!y proud. The same rcaso
lesser extent perhaps, opi
Englishmen and Scotchmen,
additional one of the mpii]
of our infant manufactures I
the experience of the wort
Leeds, Birmingham, and (
Spain and Portugal, the pia
immigration in former age^
now not essentially an emig;B
p!e, as a general rule jirefa
and South America, where ti
gunges are spoken and thcti
univerrially established; whil
of all European countries 1
disposed to colonizarion, ha
count of political troubles,
many of her best mechan
Italy some of her finest aitisi

With the influx of such
organized masses of stnuig
resenting all conditions, a{
degrees, into one port, ^nd
ing the unusual trials and dl
a long sea-voyage, it is n
wondered at that a {^<eat
of ^ckness and distress d
developed; but we are ^ad
that all that private t
judicious legislation ^

The Philosophy of hnm igration.

401

r tne unfortunate. Refu-

destitute and hospitals
lave been established in
hood. Employment for
)d for the hungry, and
1 for the penniless have
<i by the Commissioners
>n with a free and even
ality. Nearly thirty per
he total arrivals, each
een thus benefited with-
: whatever to the state,
required being derived
I created mainly by a
itation-tax on each erai-
ger. Though this fund,
said, is especially inten-

protection and support
ts, a portion of it has
)een expended in the

purchase of valuable
quisite for the purposes
lission, all of which will
z state when no longer

their original objects.*
ot the only direct pecu-
:age which we derive
ation. In 1856 it was
that the average cash
very person landing at
rn was about sixty-eight
(1 which, considering the
)ndition of those who
rrived, must amount to
per capita ; still, taking

of that year, we find
ty-one years over three

twenty millions of dol-
m brought to the coun-

into direct circulation.
I our shipping interest
eciated when we learn

, besides some on Staten Island,
adred and eight acres of land with
1 Ward*s Island, in the East River,
wnmissioners have built very spa-
al structures, such as five hospitals
nodating eight hundred patients;
Se for destitute males and females :
isjrlum, and two chapels, besides a
xs for the o6kers of these institu-
te — Set Comnuuioners* Revert,

. IX. — 26

that during 1867 there were engag-
ed in the passenger business alone,
at this port, two hundred and forty-
five sailing vessels and four hundred
and four steamships, requiring large
investments of capital and employing
thousands of men.

It would be impossible .to estimate
the indirect stimulus given to the
general interests of the Union by the
acquisition of so much skilled labor
and brawny muscle. We can see its
developments, however, in the rapid
rise of our towns and cities, the supe-
rior condition of arts and manu^c-
tures, and the extraordinary increase
of our agricultural productions. Com-
ing from so many lands, each hereto-
fore celebrated for some peculiar ex-
cellence, the European artisan, while
he does not necessarily excel his
American feUow-workmen in the ag-
gregate, contributes his special know-
ledge to the general stock of indus-
trial information. The Swede brings
his knowledge of metallurgy, the
Englishman of woolens, the Italian
of silk; the German, of grape cul-
ture, and the Frenchman, of those
finer fabrics and arts of design for
which his country has been so long
famous. When the ancient Grecian
sculptor designed to make a represen-
tation of the human form in all its per-
fection, he selected, it is said, six
beautiful living models, cop3ring fix>m
each some member more perfect than
the rest, and thus, by the combina-
tion of several excellences, modelled
a perfect and harmonious whole, in
which were combined grace, beauty,
and harmony. So the republic, avaU-
ing itself of the genius and skill which
every country sends us so superabun-
dandy, may attain that general supe-
riority in the arts of peace which was
formerly divided among many nar
tions.

The destination of this flood of
knowledge and strength forms not the

403

The Philosophy of Immigration.

least interesting phase of ihis subject.
From the data before us, we find that
the Stale of New York retains about
forty- four per cent ; the WestemStates
receive over twenty five ; the Middle
States, eleven; the New England
States, eight; the Pacific slope, two,
and the Southern Slatesaliltk less tlian
two per cent, the residue being scat-
tered among various portions of the
continent outside of our jurisdiction.
The comparatively small number who
have sought homes in the Soulh may
be accounted for partly by the occur-
rence of our late civil war, but princi-
paUy by the peculiar organization of
labor in that section before the aboli-
tion of slavery. In future we may
expect a much greater percentage of
people, particularly from Southern
Europe, to assist in developing the
almost ineshaustible wealth of such
states as Georgia and Tennessee. It
is to be regretted that no record has
been kept of the narionaUties and
occupations of those who so instinc-
tively choose their favorite sections
of our country ; but our own every-
day experience, and the laws of labor
■ and climate, enable us to form a suffi-
ciently accurate general opinion.
Irishmen, though not adverse to agri-
cultural pursuits, generally prefer large
dries and towns, like those of New
England, where skilled labor is least
required in the production of fabrics.
The Germans, on the contrary,
though quite numerous in New York,
Philadelphia, and St. Louis, avoid
New England, and prefer farming in
the WestcTO States, in some of which
they already form a majority of the
rural population. Englishmen are to
be met with either tn the Eastern
bctories or in the Atlantic cities,
keeping up a business connection
with their countrymen at home.
Frenchmen find a market for their
superior mecbanical skill amid the
luxury- of large dties, and are sddoiB

tillers of the sofl, while a H
ner (if he do not find his wi
Lake) goes as naturally lo'
vania, and the slate quarrii
York and Vermont, as the Si
Norwegian do to the non
Michigan and Wisconsin
of emigration may have
do with these selections. 1
nental narions, particulafly
muis, understand migratii
than their insular ndghbon
leaving home in families am
and settling down in small'
where, as in all new coun
is strength ; but the inhabil
land and the other islands oil
ted Kingdom too frequently i
one member of a family a
without system or organia
the great disruption of thos
relationship which are alnraj
of unity and a source of
amid the hardships attendant
changes of habitatJoiL

Considering the various
habits, and opinions of so :
lionalities, some of them,
pugnant, at least strange to di
bom of America, the powfl
sorption possessed by the
the United States is astonisbii
lumbia, taking lo her amjJ
the fiery Celt and the pi
Teuton, the self -asserting ""
the dibonttitire Gaul, smileS'
ccnily ai their peculiarities^
membering the good quatii'
underlie such eccenttidtia
pariently for lime and cxampi
them ; and we venture to 3
the German feels himself i
indulge in his national gs
festivals in New York or Bu
he were in \'ienna or
Irishman can dance as tit
attend a wake or a weddini
light a heart, and as free i
<bance as if he had never lefl|
green isle. In justice, -^-'^

The Philosophy of Immigration.

403

t, it must be said that, once
; America, he gives to its
nt his hearty and unquali-
iance, notwithstanding the
1 spasmodic attempts of a
I few to subject him to ridi-
social ostracism. How
ances do we find of worthy
having gained a competen-
cting upon that natural and
love of native land, return
)mes of their childhood to
days, but who almost inva-
11m to us and the scenes
anhood's toils and triumphs 1
are two other sources of
to our population, indepen-
hat of acquisition of terri^
h are worthy of notice. The
ssent importance, is the pas-
r borders by natives of Low-
a, and which, though now
n usually remarkable, has
g on quiedy but steadily for
lundred years.* The French
s are a decidedly unique peo-
iginally from Normandy,
rived of the protection of
id practically cut oflf from
jir-countrymen by the cessa-
ligration, they have still re-
. the primitive simplicity,
and hardiness of their an-
Increasing in numbers with
;ary rapidity, they have te-
adhered to their faith, lan-
d manners of life, in face of
ition of a dominant and in-
master. They have not
far, held their own against
iws and customs ; but, de-
increase of British colonists
em, they have nearly, if not
, kept pace in numbers with
sh-speaking inhabitants of
Canadas. They have like-
tandy shot forth numerous

Ired French Canadians took passage at
E., for the United States, in one week,
,1869.

hardy ofi^oots which have taken root
and flourished in the far west De-
troit, La Salle, Dubuque, St. Louis,
St. Paul, Sault Ste. Marie, and many
other western centres of wealth and
population, were first selected and
settled by those enterprising followers
of Jacques Cartier and the missionary
fathers, and their names are still ho-
nored in those places. Many of the
later immigrants from Canada find
emplo)rment in our seaboard cities^
but the majority either still seek the
northwest, as being more congenial in
climate, and offering more opportuni-
ties for that spirit of adventure which
distinguishes the race, or go directly
to California, where so many of the
French people have already settled.
The Chinese immigrarion to the
Pacific coast is one of the most unac-
cotmtable events in the history of
that section of our country, and one
which may well attract serious public
attention. Those people, remarkable
for centuries for their ingenuity and
industry, as well as for their exclusive-
ness and dislike to foreigners, have
at last crossed the Rubicon that con*
fined them within the limits of the
Celestial empire, and when we reflect
that that empire contains within itself
nearly half the population of the
world, we can readily suppose that a
few millions, more or less, transplanted
to the new world would not very per-
ceptibly diminish its influence or
strength. The Chinamen are repre-
sented as quiet and docile, economi-
cal in their way of living, and working
for small wages, and as being emi-
nendy adapted for the building of
railroads, and the development of
the mineral wealth with which nature *
has so lavishly enriched the territory
on both slopes of the Rocky Moun-
tains, and, being as yet only a moiety
of the population, are easily control-
led. But, should the tide of Asiatic
emigration conmience to flow freely-

404

eastward, the gravest fears are enier-
tained by many that it would lead
either to the systematic oppression
or even partial enslavement of the
Chinese themselves, or to the deteri-
oration of the Caucasiaas of that
beautiful region, soon destined to be-
come the garden of America.

Taking into account, however, the
great adaptability of ail classes of im-
migrants in this country to the condi-
tion of affairs by which they find
themselves surrounded, the fears of
even a Chinese invasion appear
groundless. Every day and year
bring with them large accessions of
-energetic and healthy minds to the
ranks of the native-bom Americans —
some the children of the sons of the
soil; others, of adopted citiicns; but
all American in spirit and purpose,
SO matter what their parentage.
Even this uniformity extends to their
Physique, and it has been remarked
by viators to our shores that the na-
tive-bom boyor girl, however dissimi-
lar the peculiar physical traits of their
progenitors, presents strong points of
resemblance in figure and face to each
Other. Something of this may be ac-
counted for by food and climate,
training and association, but much
more by the fact of the admixture of
races constantly going forward. The
heavy features of the northern Euro-
pean are more or less elongated and
brightpned into thoughtful cheerful-
ness in his American child, while the
angularity and pugnadty supposed
to be characteristic of the Celtic
countenance are reduced to finer lines
of grace and repose in their cis-Atlan-
tic descendants.

Taking American character as it
stood at the beginning of this centu-
ry, we cannot deny our admiration
of its essential features, though many
of its details were susceptible of im-
provement. Our statcliness had a
tendency to what is now generally

The Philosophy of Immigratioit.

called Puritanism, and our ^
was apt to degenerate into J
niousness. Our ancestors ij
little more breadth of view,
leaven of the poetry of Ii6(j
with its stem realities, and]
deal more love for innocent;
ments, and taste for tiie fil
which make man feel more k
his fellow, and raise him J
above irrational animals. J\
tion has done much for u3|
way, and we have done sQj
for ourselves. If we have (|
to the strangers within our gq
pitality, protection, and the |
of labor, they have paid i
the sculpture of Italy, the IS
Germany, the melodies of |
and the fashions of France: ^
not only done this, but it ha
duced and naturalized the 1
them, and made them "rag
soil." But what is of raore
lance tlian all, it has dScienth
the spread of true religious lk|
this portion of the continent.,
there were Catholics and ve(
ones here, even in colonial litq
they were few in number, and|
tered over the country iliat tb
in constant danger either tA
their faith for want of spiritu^
tration or were powerless tg
their proper pwsition before tl^
sing sects. We have now q
numbers, but the influence tlif
from numbers, and generou^
judiciously has our immigrant;
tion used the power inhereq
During the late ci^-il strife n,
afflicted our country, and end|
the Union, citizens by adop^
with citizens by birth in ticf
our institutioas, and in ihor a
tions to works of piety, chai
eilucation they have been $a
that to others the results of tb
rilics seem little short of tnoi
Even those who have come'

VigiL

40s

us of a different creed, or no creed at
all, have here a better opportunity of
learning the truth than they have had
in their own countries. Unfettered
by statecraft or sectional laws, the
Catholic priesthood have a field of
labor in America such as the whole
of Europe cannot present, and an
audience composed of as many races
as the sons of Adam represent.

Realizing the great things done by
our immigrants, and what may yet
be expected fit)m them, we hope to
see their protection and welfare occu-
py a portion, at least, of the attention

of our national and state authorities.
But it is not enough that the law has
so completely thrown its protecting
shield over them. Individual charity
can do much to supply ihe deficien-
cies which every general law presents.
In the city of New York, especially,
where a great deal has already been
done by the commissioners to whose
especial care the immigrants are en-
trusted by law, much remains still to
be performed, in view of the hundreds
of thousands of strangers who may
annually be expected among us, for
the next decade, at least.

VIGIL.

Mournful night is dark around me.
Hushed the world's conflicting din;

All is still and all is tranquil —
But this restless heart within !

II.

Wakeful still I press my pillow.
Watch the stars that float above,

Think of On€ for me who suffered ;
Think, and weep for grief and love !

III.

Flow, ye teaxs, though in your streaming
Ofb yon stars of his grow dim t

Sweet the tender grief he wakens,
Blest the tears that flow for himi

Richard Storss Wixxis.

THE GEOGRAPHY OF ROSES.

Whkrkvi!r mnn lias foumladwell-
ing-pliice, bounletjus nature has con-
ferred on him pat only the necessaries
of life, t>ut a share also of its plea-
sures. From "sultry liitJia to the
imle," the useful and the beautiful ore
m« with side by side. The bright
[JOpp)' and the blue cornflower rise
with the wheat-car in the same broad
field ; the sweet-smelling amaiyllisand
the delicate iris unfold their variegated
l>etals among the thick stalks of
the Alricuii maiic, while the m.irsh-
rose and the water-lily flait on the
surface of t)ie waieis that inundate
tltc rice-grounds of Egj'pt and India.

It is evident that nature regards
these fair blossoms as indispensable to
man's happiness as those other more
sultttaniial gifts arc to his comfort and
existence; and so, with !a\-ish hand.
she scatters them on ihe mountain and
in the valley, amidst plains of burn-
ing sand, or half-buried in snow and

"Pknl iiKMlal Ihu in dcwf qilcnA
Wkp viiknat iHH. nod UiDh »ilba
Oh 1 Duy I imiij Itsn. ud Bt'a ta
Y«ai kaw feibliiiif.

tt foimt at bt/pa."

The rose, fairest of the floral train,
has been said by some botanists to
lake its birth in Asia. "The east,
the cradle of the first man," writes
a French author, ■' is also the native
place of the rose ; the flowery hill-
sides near the chain of the frowning
Caucasus were the first spots on earth

adorned with tlus charminj
We do not incline to this of
the researches of science bai
that Ihe lovely flower is i
every clime, from the aiciic^
the torrid zone, and that nm
sun it seems to be endowed }
different grace. The samcr
sometimes met with over,
continent; another is unlQj
yond the limits of a certain |
while another again never b
mountain or dale where it j
its sweetness on the air. 1
lin's rose (rvsa JW/maris) \
found but at the foot of Hat
in Italy, not the Lyon n
Lyonii) outof the State ofTI
while the field-rose (ntM
trails its long brandies utd i^
white flowets all over £■
the dog-rose (mianutM*) A
pale pink petels and scadtt'
only throughout EvrafK, \^
northern Asia and a pan of i

So numenmts, iadced, sM
rieties of this &Tonte of ad
we will not attetnpc M dd
that are peculiar to oA i
we will confine
only most remaikaUc fiir Al
and most easj" of

Fust on the Est cf
and far away anm
ice that covers tbe
gions which lie
and seventy-fifth
tude, blooms now
ing seft-tfflered tase,
the suD has mdted d
valleys opens its lar^
sohtary on hs graced ai
wann breathings ~
can picture to

The Geography of Roses.

407

unted, amphibious Green-
len, the long months of
winter past, he suddenly
expanding blossom. He
e remembers how his young
led last year over the death
^ers, and he plucks the first
•eenland*s short summer to
; to her as a proof that she
hope and trust.

nust the flowers die?
oned they lie

3ld tomb, heedless of tears and raia.
Mibting heart 1
only sleep below
>ft white ermine snow ;
winter winds shall blow,
he and smile on you again I"

^andd!s nearest neighbor is
' rosa rap of Hudson's Bay,
ider, graceful branches are
:he early summer with co-
pale pink double flowers,
rself has doubled rosa ra-

coroUa, as if she had fore^
:he wandering tribes of Es-
vho inhabit those inclement
uld have too much to do
;ver-ending struggle to pick
carious existence ever to
iselves with the culture of
myielding soil
landa and rosa rapa are
me in Labrador and New-
, but with them two^remar-
ieties — the ash-leaved rose,
xinifoiia,) with small red
>ed petals, and the lustrous
: nitida^ which shelters its
;d cup-like flower and finit
he scraggy trees that grow
dong the coast. The lus-

is a great favorite with the
Esquimaux maidens, who
r black hair with its shining

wear bunches of it, " em-
in its own green leaves," in
a of their seal-skin robes,
nited States possess a great
of different roses. At the
Imost every rocky acclivity

we meet the rose with diffuse branch-
es, {rosa diffusa^ whose pink flowers,
growing in couples on their stem, ap-
pear at the beginning of the summer.
On the slopes of the Pennsylvanian
hills blooms the small-flowered rose,
{rosa parvtflora,) an elegant little
species bearing double flowers of the
most delicate pink ; it may fairly vie
in beauty with all other American
roses. In most of the Middle States,
on the verge of the " mossy forests,
by the bee-bird haunted," we find
the straight-stemmed rose, {rosa stric-
ta^ with light red petals, and the brier-
leaved rose, {rosa rubifolia^ with
small, pale red flowers, growing gene-
rally in clusters of three.

The silken rose {rosa setigerd)
opens its great red petals, shaped like
an inverted heart, beneath the " clois-
tered boughs" of South Carolina's
woods, and in Georgia the magnifi-
cent smooth-leaved rose, {rosa loeviga"
tay) known in its native wilds as the
Cherokee rose, climbs to the very
summit of the great forest trees, then
swings itself off" in festoons of large
white flowers glancing like stars
amidst their glossy, dark green leaves.

When we leave the hills and wood-
lands, we find the marshes of the Ca-
rolinas gay with the rosa cvraMna^ the
rosa Carolina^ and the rosa luciday the
resplendent rose, whose corymbs of
brilliant red flowers overtop the reeds
among which they love to blossom ;
while, nearer to the setting sun, we
see the pink petals of Wood's rose
(rosa Woodsii) reflected in the wa-
ters of the great Missouri.

The last American rose we shall
note in this slight sketch is the rose of
Montezuma, {rosa Montezuma^ a
solitary, sweet-scented, pale red flow-
er with defenceless branches. It was
discovered by Humboldt and Bon-
pland on the elevated peaks of the
Cerro Ventoso, in Mexico, and is per-
haps the very rose of which the im-

hippy Guatimozin thought when
writhing on his bed of burning char-
coal,

'i'hexe are dome of the species yet
known to belong pciruliarly to the
wcstcrii hemisphere; but it is highly
probable that many otlicra remain
still to be discovered. When we re-
member the prodignlity with which
nature lavishes her gifts, we cannot
behcve that while France alone pos-
sesMca iwfnly-four varieties of roses,
xll described by 0c Candollc in his
FloTt Fratt^aiit, ihc great American
continent owns but fifteen.

We will coinnience our European
row search in that most unpromi.sing
of oil Rpols, Iceland 1 there, where
volcanic fire and polar ice seem to
dispute possession of the unhappy
soil. So scarce is every kind of veg-
etation in this nidc clime, that die
miserabte inhabitants are frequently
comiielletl to feed their cows, sheep,
and horses on dried fish. And yet
even here, growing from the fissures
of the l«nx;n iwcks, a solitary cujv
shaped mse opens its pale jieials to
the inuHtent snnbe«ns of summer.
'lliM hanly little pUnt is, as its name,
raw sfimntsm»i incticMcs, co\-efed
aU ovct with prickles. lu crcam-
caIovkI lknr«n; BUDerous and solita-
vji vo aooMOOKS bngcd with pink
«B ibe a<M»d^ aad its fnnt,at ficst
ndL iKCoatet perfectly Uack wbcn

mosses and bchens afldrd a
nourishment to the flocks
deer, sole riches of the land.

The May rose is also ft
Norway, Sweden, Denmark,
sia, together with the rinnan
{rina einnamomfo,) and seven
species.

England claims ten iai
roses, many of thera, howc
ceedingly difficult to distingul
eacli other. The most con
the dog-rose or Eglantine,
every hedge and thicket,
precious to rose-ciiltivatori^
gant, straight, vigorous M
admirable for receiving gral
light pink corolla is slighllf
ed. In olden times the '.
was made into conserre,
esteemed in tarts, but it
to be abandoned to tbe I
nsa arcmm, a small dmilt 1
trailing branches asA wlni
and the bumet-Ieared Kwe,
sembles tbe fva sfimmnim
land, are also veij ficqM
But the pride of tbe sonAi
lies is the naa watigimm,
sweet-briar, with deep pi
and leaves of the aoot dd
grance; a flovec Ajc ^xm
long as pecaSwIr to Ae Sit
spring^ the
like dKm to he
Eaglith gH

: \if —ft KB Ice- as a lBMgp t ew «f ^aile i

Lth«fMRf)MekU3rnMe<mv SkH. M km. n» *»

niMbt n^m^ te hn^ nd c» fin milfiij jimi ^^, i

Kdk «w«k WkMlh* tinkr »B has tb« hoop aai tMM

The Geography of Reses.

409

B rubbed between l!ie fin-
!brth a strong smell of tur-
n odor the plant has proba-
red from the resinous trees
;r it. All the rugged moim-
cotiand possess their roses ;
^bini, with clustering flow-
le villous or hairy rose, {ro-
,) with white or deep red,
3st worthy of notice,
ily in the environs of Bel-
re encounter the Irish rose,
miea,) a species somewhat
{ both the spinosissima and
•a. The other roses of
Ireland are identical with
England.

rids and forests of France
I richly endowed with na-
rite flower. Our now well-
end caniiia flourishes there
very hedge and by every
ktogether with a pretty
KvM alba^ which has been
Hsfully cultivated in gar-
I smiling hill-sides around

gay with the lovely little
>uble flowers of the rose of

the yellow rose {roia nglan-
1 its varieties surpass all
he richness of their color-
petals sometimes gleaming
brightest gold, sometimes
into a brilliant orange red,
reproducing both hues in
s and streaks. The woods
ne are bedecked wth the
oUtory corollas of the cin-
t, (rfsa Hitnamomea) so call-
le color of its stalks; and
jpartment of the eastern
he musk-rose blooms spon-
in magnificent corymbs.
isitely scented species is
ivdy cultivated for its aro-

Ei oil; one of its kin-
Dutmeg rose, a pretty
ells of the spice,
w tcee, so often remark-

able for its variegated petals of white,
crimson, and pink, is a variety of
the rose of France, {rosa gallica.) a.
species that has given horticulturists
a great number of beautiful offshoots.

Crossing the Pyrenean mountains,
we again meet with the musk-rose,
but this time in close companionship
with the rose of Spain, (rosa Mspani-
ca^ whose bright red petals expand
in the month of May.

In the Balearic Islands the climb-
ing branches of the evergreen rose
{rosa semper-virens^ are seen con-
standy arrayed in lustrous green
leaves mingled with innumerable
white perfumed flowers. This beau-
tiful rose is also found in other parts
of the south of Europe, and in Bar-

W'e have already mentioned Po-
lin's rose, a sweet Italian blossom
which never strays fi-om the foot of
Monte Baldo.in the neighborhood of
Verona. Its large crimson corollas
open in handsome clusters.

Sicily and Greece possess the glu-
ey rose, {rosa gliitinosa^ a small, red,
solitary flower, with glandular, vis-
cous leaflets.

Germany is poorer in native roses
than any other part of Europe; never-
theless nowhere do the blossoms of
the field -rose display such beauty,
unless, indeed, among the mountains
of Swit^eriand. Nowhere else are
they so large, so deeply tinted, and
double. Germany also gives birth to
the curious turbinated rose, {resa tur-
binata,) whose double corolla rests on
a lop-shaped ovary.

The whole chain of the Alps
alwunds with roses. The field-rose,
and the ruby-red Alpine rose, {rasa
alpina.) an elegant shrub which has
contributed many esteemed varieties
lo our gardens, bloom in admirable
luxuriance in every forest glade and
mountain dingle; while the red-leav-
ed rose, {rosa rvbri/olia,) with red

stalks and dark red petals, stands out
in the summer landscape, a channing
contrast to the greeii foliage of the
surrounding trees.

The leaves of another species
growing among the pines and fits of
these elevated regions, the rose witii
prickly leaflets, (ivsa spinulifclia^
emit when rubbed the same odor of
tur])entine that we have already no-
ticed in the rosa involuta of Scotland.
It is singular to observe that the only
two roses we know with this smell
are both natives of pine-covered
mountains.

The east has for ages been esteem-
ed the home of flowers ; almost as
soon as we can lisp, wc are taught
that

*' In eulem Iindi Ihex t^ vilh flcnnn,

Eich bloBoin that bloomi in Ihcir garden bowcn
On iu Iciid a myriic lingiugc 'ban."

And in joyous youth who has not
dreamed of that "bower of roses by
Bendemeer's stream," so sweetly sung
by the Irish bard? The very name
of India reminds one of Nourmahal
and of that most enchanting of al!
feasts, "the feast of roses."

It will then scarcely surprise any
one to be told that Aaa, the birth-
place of the great human family, is
also the birthplace of more varieties
of roses than all the other parts of
the world put together. Thiny-nine
species have been discovered indige-
nous to this favored portion of the
globe, fifteen of which belong to the
Chinese empire.

t>ne of the prettiest of these fifteen
is the I.awTencerose,fr«ti»ZtfKwrwi-^
ana.) a fairy-like bush, six inches
high, with flowers not much larger
than a silvn dinw, blooming all Uw
year round. By the side of this
pigmy tree, which ww nnist not fijr-
gct to obeerve h Tcauifcable fix (lie
sjTOmeny of its pn^MiiioBSr is often
fcwnd the waaxy^bgnKoA rose, (ntm

mullifiora,) whose flexible
rising sometimes to the b
sixteen feet, are covered xai
summer with magnificent dl
pale pink double flowers

Among the many doabla
roses, the small- leaved a
mkrnphylla) is hi^y pc
most assiduously cultivated
tive land. Its delicate fd
pale pink very double Sq
well known also to the roM
of the United States. Anod
tiful variety, the rosa
climbs the rocky fells of d
ing their rugged barrcnnc
living curtain of verdure,
with multitudes of little
flowers of a yellowish whil
exhale the sweet odor of via

Cochin- China, with 1
species, lays dajm to two
we must notice ; the very thi
(nsa sfiiwtissima^) with
flesh-colored petals, and
rose, (rosa alia,) which wi
indigenous in France, I
and other parts of Europe^
besides the roses of China,
the rosa rugosa, the only (I
liar to the clime.

Passing on to HindostoD,
believe that the tiger whio
along the burning shores of
of Bengal ofttimes crouchi
the boughs blooming
lovely white corolbis o^ d
bracled rose frosa anvAt
make his deacSy spring, ani
crocodiles of the Gangs til
hiding-places to lie in wait
prey, beneath the evcr-n
rod blossoms and De%'er-CMl
riant [bltage of thentM a*^
How ofien. «U the votld i
sweetest diings but InrU
for pain aod fleatb I

Among ihe hilts of ibe^
m meet liie brge-leaved I
mKn^ijUmJ tbe tqs of «4

The Geography of Roses.

ire each stained with a small
red spot; and on the margin
nmny lakes of cool Cashmere,
t-white flowers of Lyell's rose,
Lyelliiy) a beautiful species
; been successfully acclimatized
ce.

le gardens of Kandahar, Sa-
i, and Ispahan the rose tree
rhorea) is cultivated; a real
Ith wide-spreading branches,

in the spring with snowy
of the richest perfume, mak-
rant the surrounding hill and
In Persia we also find the
^-leaved rose, (rosa berberi-
\ singular variety which dis-
star-like yellow corolla mark-
e centre with a deep crimson
3o unlike is this flower to all
3f the family that one feels
inclined to deny its claim to
itionship with the queen of

Science, however, has de-
lat the rosa berberifoHa is a

er on to the west, beneath
Itry blue of Syria's heaven,"
unter the lovely corymbs of
lask rose, (rosa datnascenay)
imson velvet or variegated
and gold-colored stamens,
id that the vahant knights
iompanied the French king
)uis to the Crusades brought
h them to France this beau-
irer, an ever-living witness of
)wess in the Holy Land. It
loved by the honey-bees of
as its wilder sisters on the
nks of Jordan have ever been
lossom-rifling rovers of Pales-

e rose-seeker wanders forth
ria toward the north he is
for a moment by the vivid
iouble flowers of the rosa
but has scarcely time to
them, graceful though they
re he catches sight of the

loveliest and most fragrant of all roses^
the rosa cenHfolia^ the hundred-leavr
ed rose, the rose of the nightingale,
the rose of the poet I

*'RoBeI what dost thoo here?
Bridal, royal roae 1
How, 'midst grief and fear,
Canst thoa thus disdoee
That fervid hue of love which to thy heart-leaf glofWB ?

** SmDest thou, gorgeous flower?
Oh I within the spells
Of thy beauty's power
Soinething dimly dwells
At variance with a world of sorrows and fiuewdU

" An the soul forth-flowing
In that rich perfume.
All the proud life glowing
In that radiant bloom.
Have they no place but here^ beneath th* o'enhadoir>
ing tomb?

*' Crown^st thou but the daughters
Of our tearfiil race ?
Heaven's own purest waters-
Well might wear the trace
Of thy consummate form, meltii^ to softer gracet

" Win that dime enfold thee
With immortal air ?
ShaU we not behold thee
Bright and deathless there ?
In spirit-lustre dothed, transcendently more fiur t"

The valle3rs of Circassia and Geor*
gia are the birthplace of this most
beautiful of flowers, of whose exquir
site form, color, and perfume even
Mrs. Hemans's raptiurous verses can
give no idea.

The fierce rose (rosa ferox) is
sometimes found mingling its great
red flowers with those of rosa centi-
foiia, and the pulverulent rose (rosa
puherulenta) dwells near them on
the declivities of the Peak of Man-
zana.

As we hasten on through the
dreary steppes of Russian Asia, we meet
the sad-looking yellowish rose, dis-
mal in aspect as the land it lives in,
and more remarkable for its great
pulpy hip than for its flower. A lit-
tle nearer to the north, the handsome,
large-flowered rose (rosa grandh-
flora) expands its elegant corolla in
the form of an antique vase, and on
the plains lying at the foot of the
Ural mountains the reddish rose,
(rosa rubella^) with petals sometimes

412

rich and deep in color, but more
often fabt and faded-looking, glad-
dens for a moment the heart-sore
Polish exile as he wends his weary
way to his living grave, faint and
faded-looking as the flower that re-
minds hina of his distant home.

Despite the cold breath of the
frozen ocean, the acicular rose (rosa
adailaris) lives and thrives on its
shores, and regularly opens its pale-
red solitary blossoms at the first call
of the short-lived Siberian summer.
The icy breezes of the frigid zone
may have done much, however, to-
ward developing the ill-natured ten-
dency to long, needle-like ihoms to
which this rose owes its uncouth
name.

Omitting ten or twelve other va-
rieties, we will conclude the list of
the indigenous roses of Asia with
the rose of Kamtschatka, (rosa Kamt-
tcAalica,} a beautiful solitary flower
of a pinkish white color, and bear-
ing some resemblance to the rosa
rugesa of Japan.

The roses of Africa are still to be
discovered ; its vast unexplored re-
gions perhaps contain many as beau-
tiful as those we possess, but at pres-
ent we are only acquainted with four
or five species, one of which, the

The Geography of Roses.

all t

■ Eu-

rope, is a native of Egypt Among
the mountains of Abyssinia blooms
a pretty red variety with evergreen
foliage, and on the borders of thai
"wild expanse of lifeless sand," the
great Sahara in Egypt, and on the
plains of Tunis and of Morocco,
the corymbs of the white musk-rose
(rosa masfhala) perfume the ambi-
ent air. This charming flower is
also indigenous to th^ Island of Ma-
ddra.

We have thus taken a bird's-eye
view of the rose's habitat, passing
over much of interesting, much of

curious that has been writtt
the favorite flower. We i|
on and mention the singi
marvellous virtues ntlributed
the ancients; we might ('
learned) learnedly discoursa
Island of Khodes, whose C
found bearing the effigy of t
of the rose-noble, and the <
lish fashion of wearing a roai
the ear; we might describe-
dens of Ghazipour and di
process of extracting the i
attar of roses ; we might hifl
mysterious influence the scetf
som appears to exercise at,
strangely organized individid
seem capable "of dying ol
in aromatic pain ;" but we ]
conclude here our sketcli of
graphy of roses.

Unii;amed and superfici^
well know it is, it may shq
pleasant meanings to the yoi
er of flowers, and awaken ii
sity to examine for himself lj
treasures that bloom in en
garden, and grove. Such '
will do more toward filling 1
with a spirit of love and pa
elevating his mind above pn
terial cares, than any other
for j

" Where don ihe Wltdom ud Ihe M|
Is I more blight lod met reSRiical

" From nature up to i
God " is the natural result fA
entific investigations which \
ried on with a real capacitj
servation and a sincere love \
Feeling and thought, puril
sanctified by constant inteico|
the high objects of life, with!
during things of nature, &l|
recognize the " Wisdom anA
rit of the universe " in his wo3

churcUoA lamb M

Spanish Life and Character.

413

SPANISH LIFE AND CHARACTER*

"Ierbert strikes the key-note
arrative of Spanish travel
I middle of the book. " Ca-
in Spain," she remarks, " is
ly the religion of the people :
r> lifeT Precisely because

this life, and, despite her
:omraon sense, sympathizes

Spanish people in their
jligious sentiment, she de-
em with a rare fidelity, and

if not a highly colored, a
I picture. No traveller who

Catholic can paint Spain

Mr. Bryant looked at the
ith a kindly eye; but he did
jrstand them. From him,
J from the common run of
and American tourists, we

surface sketches — ^pleasant
) read, perhaps, but that is all.
t travellers see no more of
ar life and character than if
id over the country in a

They find the diligences
of antiquated discomfort ;
lys, miracles of unpunctuali-
lowness; travel, a hardship
sre is little attempt to alle-
hey find that in Spain no

is ever in a hurry, and no
is allowed to be so either,
re kept shivering at a road-
on three or four hours in the
the night, waiting for some
\ railway train, on a seadess,
jd platform, they get no com-
a from the surly officials but

ms of 5>Mii. By Lady Herbert.
The Catholic Publication Society. 1869.
>w Spain. By WiUiam Cullen Bryant.
' York : D. Appleton & Co.
Espagtu. Par M. Eugene Poitou. 8vo,
art: A. ManM et Filt. 1869.

an exhortation to " paciencia." If gov-
ernment is bad and robbers are bold,
the Spaniard goes on sipping his su-
gared water and repeats, " Paciencia^
paciencia I" If the country is two or
three generations behind the rest of
Europe in all the appliances of
material comfort, why, ^^ Fadencia,
paciencia /" That is the great pana-
cea for all the ills of human life.
These peculiarities, the wretchedness
and extravagant charges of all the
hotels, and the horrors of the Spa-
nish cuisine, fill most of the travellers*
journals. But Lady Herbert found
a plenty of religious beauty under-
neath this dilapidated exterior. God
and the church are so near to the
people's, hearts that the mixture of
religion with the language and bua-
ness of every day shocks a stranger at
first as something irreverent. Pious
traditions are familiar to every Spa-
niard fix)ra his cradle. They come up
every hour of the day. They color
every man's conversation, they affect,
more or less intimately, everybody's
conduct; nay, it is difficult sometimes
to separate them from the Spaniard's
faith, for he clings to a pious legend
almost as stoutly as he holds to an
article of the creed. The peasant
woman plants rosemary in her gar-
den, because there is a story that
when our Lord was an infant the
Blessed Virgin hung out his clothes
upon a rosemary bush to dry. Red
roses get their color from a drop oi
the Saviour's blood which fell on liiem
from the cross. A swallow tried to
pluck the thorns from the head of
the crucified Christ, and therefore no
Spaniard will shoot a swallow. The

Spanish Life and Otamcter.

414

owl was present when our Lord ex-
pired, and since then has ceased to
sing, his only cry being " C/KJc, *-/T/jr/"
Half the dogs in Spain are called
Melainpo, because that was the name
of Lhe dog of the shepherds who
came to Bethlehem. Protestants
may laugh at the credulity which lis-
tens to such legends, but to our
minds there is the simplicity of real
piety in ihf national belief, and we
cannot think that God will be angry
with the people if they believe a little
too much in his honor. Protestants
may sneer at the public reverence
which is paid to sacred things, and
c^l it a gross mark of superstition to
show as much resiiect to the Blessed
Sacrament as to a governor or a gene-
ral in lhe army; but we confess our
sympathies are with I.ady Herbert
when she describes the sentinels at
San Sebastian presenting amis as he
passes before the chapel door, or the
shopkeeper who interrupts a bargain
to rush out into the street and kneel
down before the Viatacum, exclaim-
ing "Sua mofsta vieiie.'" What a
sweet flavor of real piety there is in
the popular term for alms, "ia l»lsit
de Dtos" "God's purse"! — a purse,
by the way, which is never empty.
Beggars are treated with a tenderness
that is felt for ihcm nowhere else but
in Ircl.tnd. The poor peasant may
have tittle or nothing to give; but if
he refuses, he begs pardon for doing
sa There is no city without its
charity hospitals, marvels of deanti-
ncss, comfort, and order, Tliere is
hanlly a town without its asylum,
where relisious men or women tend
the unfortunate, shelter the destitute,
feed the hungrj-. and rvar the orphan
and the fouudling. Convents have
been depopulated and monasiicorden
banished throughout the kingdom, but
the more active brntherboods and
nBeihoocb are >|>ate<t, and an doing
roagnifkxnt work. The de^vied cm-

vents, magnificent in thci
s{>eak eloquently of thezeal ai
of the people, whose greater
is as a nation that they have
too much to weak and unw<
lers. Every one of these 1
monuments is the scene of so
legend, and most of thcni aia
ed by incidents in the lives <!
of whom Spain has been tl
place and home of so many U
I.ady Herbert tells a signiAdj
which shows how closely rf
bound up with lhe thoughU
people. She was visiting IhC
palace of Toledo, when a J
woman, sitting by the gate, ij
guide if the strange lady I
£nglishwom:in, " because shd
so fast." On being answcrd
affirmative, she exclaimed, " Q
a pity. I liked her face, adA
is an infidel!" The guide'
to a little crucifix which hua|
rosarj- at Lady Herbert's sidi
at the peasant sprang &om
and kissed both the cross :
visitor,

Spanish courtesy twa hi
gious flavor. A^ a Spsnian
out the road, and nothing wi
he must go with you on yi
and pray God's blessing on J
when he leaves you. No ml
poor he may be, you must '
money for such services ; h|
either grieved or indignatu,
seems to him an insult. '
pietj- also in the Spanish r
for age. If an old man pi
peasant's door at meal-time^
fcred a place at the tabic, an
to ask a blessing 00 the Kpl

Thetv k, in tat, a lonlil
gaging tide to S^Monh (Aan
which we cannot bat tXfM
and beneficial influence vpa
tional destiiues. Faith In
wards c\ta in this Kfie, wL
not believe that a natJon 1

Spanish Life and Character.

4IJ

I SO firmly to religion will be
)wn without some very grave
of its own. The reverential
y of Spanish character has
bt overpassed, in political af-
legitimate barriers, and loyal-
tone some mischief as well as
lesj>ect for legitimate authority
\ always been distinguished
anatical devotion to the per-
bad or incompetent rulers.
; a great deal of truth, albeit
falsehood likewise, in Mr.
1 explanation of the causes
ish greatness and Spanish de-
rive the kingdom a great sove-
ke Charles V., and with an
t and devoted people the na-
^ be raised to the pinnacle of
s and prosperity. But no
yhich has not been taught to
upon itself can long keep in
Greatness is not inherited
:les and possessions; weak
re sure to come sooner or
d then the country finds that
upon a broken reed. Spain
s now that she has suffered
s to monopolize the responsi-
rhich ought to have been di-
nong the whole people, and
tries have not been fulfilled,
ion has slept a sleep of cen-
. the comfortable confidence
emment would take care of
ng, do all the thinking, make
needed improvements, and
the country as a father edu-
i children. It seems to have
gotten that this was a task
)nly those mighty geniuses
)ear once in a century are
aough to perform. An indo-
ak, and careless ruler under
lish system allows his people
?hind in the struggle for na-
preeminence; a bad ruler
them into misery and dis-
Spain has suffered terribly
h these afiHicrions; we do not

believe, however, that her case is
desperate. While there is much in
the present condition of the kingdom
to fill all thoughtful men with darm,
there is promise in the awakened ac-
tivity of national life, and in the very
spirit of revolution which is driving
the liberal party into such lamentable
excesses. It is dirty work to clean
up the dust of three or four centuries.
Great political changes are almost
always accompanied by disorder ; but
when the uproar subsides, and new par-,
ties crystallize out of the firagments of
the present tumult, when the people
feel that to be great and prosperous
they must use their own power, and
cease to be fed with a spoon, we be-
lieve that there is so much faith and
piety at the bottom of the Spanish
heart, and so much real nobleness in
the national character, that a brighter
destiny will be within their reach
than has beamed upon them since
the days of Charles and Philip.

We have wandered idx away fit)m
the volume with which we began our
remarks, and left ourselves little room
to praise Lady Herbert's narrative as
it deserves to be praised. We shall
content ourselves here with citing
a description of a man who has oc-
cupied a prominent place in the re-
cent history of Spain. We mean
Father Claret, the queen's confes-
sor:

" One only visit was paid, which will ever
remain in the memory of the lady who had
the privilege. It was to Monsignor Claret,
the confessor of the queen and Archbishop
of Cuba, a man as remarkable for his
great personal holiness and ascetic life as
for the unjust accusations of which he is
continually the object. On one occasioiH
these un^vorable reports having reached
his ears, and being only anxious to retire
into the obscurity which his humility
makes him love so well, he went to Rome
to implore for a release from his present
post ; but it was refused him. Returning
through France, he happened to travel with

4l6 Filial Affection, as taught and practised by the Chinese.

■
I

certain gentlemen, resiJents in Midrid, but
unknown to him, aa l>e was to Lhem, who
began lo speak o( all Ihe evils, leal or ima-
ginary, which reigned in the Spanish court,
(he whole of which tliey unhesitatingly at-
tributed (o Monsignot Claret, very much in
the sliiril of the old ballad against Sir Ro-
bert Feci :

■ Who filled Ihe bulcben' ibopt with big lilue Oici ?*

He listened without a irord, never attempt-
ing either excuse or justificalion, or betray-
ing his identity. Struck with his salm-IIke
manner and appearance, and likewise very
much charmed with his conversation during
the couple of days' journey together, Ihe
strangers begged at parting to know his
nime, expressing an earnest hope of an
increased acquaintance at Madrid. He
gave them his card with a smile 1 Let us
hope ■they will be less hasty and mOtc
charitable in their judgments, fot the fu-
ture. Monsignor Claret's room in Ma-
drid is a fair type of hlmsetf. Simple
even to severity in its fittings, with no fur-
niture b'lt his books, and some photo-
graphs of Ihe queen and her children, it
contains one only priceless object, and that
i« a wooden crucifiji, of the very finest
Spanish workmanship, which attracted at
once the attention of his visitor. ' Yes, it is
very beautiful,' he replied in answer to her
words of admiration; 'and I like it be-
cause it expresses so wonderfully vidmy
ffver mfferittg. Cnidfixei generally repre-
sent only the painful and human, not the
triumphant and divine view of the redemp-

tion. Here, he is truly vidor o
and hell.'

"Contrary lo the generally received idea,
he never meddles ia politics, and oaai|ila
himself entirely in devotional and Mtttuj
works. One of his books, Caminn rttis j
ugurofara IltgBr al Ciclff, would rank witb
Thomas i Kempis's Imtla/ian in (Ofiges-
tive and practical devotion. lie ket;*
a pcrpetuai fast ; and, when compelled Ef
his posilion to dine at the palace, still kcefi
to his meagre bre of ' gatbanzos,' m the
like. Ife has a great gift of proacblngi
and when he accompanies the qaeeq ig —
of her royal progresses, is generally la'
each town when they arrive l>y e:
titions lo preach, which be does It
without rest or ippaicnl prepatatioa, m
limes delivering four or f
one (lay. In truth, he is always 'pre'*
pared,' by a hidden life of |«rp(liMj
praycrand realisation of tlie unseen,"

For the rest, it Js only necessai)' Iff
add a word upoti the admiralile nun-
ner in which the American jiutilfihea
have presenlt^ Lady Herbert's book
to their patrons. It is beamifiif
printed upon ihicV, rich paper, Hi |
illustrated with excellent woo "
and will easily bear compaiison*
the choice productions of the w
press, as a book for the patlot n
and for holiday presents a
for the library.

FILIAL AFFECTION AS T.
BY THE

" Honot thy faUwr and Ihf mcUia-, lh>l ihoi
Hi} Cod will p« line,"

In a remarkable work, entitled
Mhnmrfi concemant rhlsloire, lei
iiiencts, les arts. Us maurs. Us usages,
etc., etc., des C/iinois, written by two
natives of China who had spent
dieir early years in Europe, and had
there added Ihe sciences of the west
to the learning of the east, and hal-

AUGHT AND PR.\CTISED
CHINESE.

nu^Hl be long^lifod in (1l« land

lowed their knowledge wiili " Acll
of Christ which surpasseth all *
ledge," the greater part of aqi
volume is devoted to the " Tea '
of the Chinese concerning fiSil *
feet ion."

What follows is taken from U-H-
a very ancient Chmese woik, wrilW

^ial Affection^ as taught and practised by the Chinese. 417

i the time of the great
Confucius was bom in
r the world 3452, before
in the twenty-eighth year
ne of Cyrus.

enetrated by religion and your
bespeak a man whose regard
vard upon his soul ; and your
the language of one who con-
ions." . . .

alone can render indissoluble
ttach the subject to his prince,
) the superior, the son to the
mger brother to the elder."
lied with filial affection hears
his father and mother, even
not speaking with him, and
even when he is not in their

St call of a father, all should
order to go to him."
for parents should continue

id murdered his father in the
Tochu. The authorities re-
ime to King Ting-kong. He
mat ; sighed, Alas ! the fault
now not how to govern ! He
t for the future. Such a mur-
: instantly put to death ; the
yt razed, and the governor
rom wine during a month."
e of the realm depends on
ction entertained for parents
:t shown to elder brothers."

wing are extracts from a
ook of the Chinese enti-
ng, the last work of Con-
en 480 years before the
rist, during the time of

:tion is the root of all virtues,
in head of all teaching."
:r loves his parents can hate
jever honors them can despise
ruler evinces unlimited re-
:tion to his parents, the virtue
f his people will be increased
:n barbarians will submit to

ntertainest toward thy father
hast for thy mother, and the
hast for thy ruler, thou wilt
r with filial affection."
isity of filial affection 1 how
»L, IX — 27

wonderful thou art ! What the revolotioiis
of the planets are for the citadel of heaven,
what fertility is for the fields of the earth,
that, filial affection is for nations. Heaven
and earth never deceive. Let nations fol-
low their example, and the harmony of the
world will be as indefectible as the light of
heaven, and as the productions of the
earth !"

"A prince who causes himself to be
loved, and who improves the morals of men,
is the father and mother of nations ! How
perfect must be the virtue which guides na-
tions to that which is greatest of all, whilst
they are following the inclinations of their
hearts !"

The emperors of China have
been giving examples of filial affec-
tion from time immemorial. It is an
ordinance of the ancients that the
new sovereign shall, during the fiorst
three years, make no changes in the
administration of his father. The
emperors of China, the mightiest po-
tentates of the earth, show the most
profound reverence to their mothers
before the eyes of the whole people.

The great Emperor Kang-hi pub-
lished, in 1689 of our chronology, a
large work, in one hundred volumes,
on filial affection. In the preface,
written by himself, he says, amongst
other things :

" In order to show how the filial affection
of an emperor should be constituted, it is
here shown to what tenderness for his peo-
ple, interest in the public good, solicitude
for health, contentment, and the happiness
of his parents bind him. Everything in life
is filial affection, for everything refers to re-
spect and love."

What a beauty and depth of mean-
ing in these words !

Together with filial affection this
comprises the corresponding love of
parents for their children, and the re*
ciprocal duties of both. From these
are also deduced the reciprocal obli*
gations of rulers and subjects.

All is ultimately referred to God^

«i

Who is to be feared, who is to be lenre^

4l8 Filial Affection, as taught and practised by the Ckitust

And who is to be regarded as the Father and
the Mother of all men."

China is the only empire in which
public censors of the acts of the em-
peror are appointed. Their number,
which originally was seven, has been
increased to forty. Their office is to
warn the emperor when he has trans-
gressed or neglected his duty, and
to admonish him. In a work com-
posed by the Emperor Kang-hi, and
published in 1733, several instances
of these admonitions and remon-
strances are mentioned :

'*It Is the cry of all ages, O Sovereign I
that it is the most imperative duty of the
son to revere his parents !*'

After explaining how one must
prove himself concerning the fulfil-
ment of this duty, and describing va-
rious evidences by which to judge,
the sage continues:

** Such, O Sovereign I is the nature of
genuine filial affection, of the filial affection
of great souls, of the kind of filial affection
that makes the world pleasant, gains all
hearts, and secures the favor of heaven. . .
Thy subject, O Sovereign ! has heard that a
good rjulcr attributes to himself whatever
disturl)s good order in the realm ; that he
is made sad by the smallest misdemeanors
of his subjects, and that he devotes the best
days of his life to the sole object of obvia-
ting whatever might interfere with the pub-
He weal.'*

This remonstrance was presented in
the year 1064, of our chronology, to
the Emperor Ing-tsong by the Censor
See-ma-kuang, one of the greatest
statesmen China has ever had, who
was at the same time a historian, a
philosopher, and a ])oet The people
loved him so that after his death the
entire realm was disposed to go in
mourning. Another censor very
baldly reprimanded the Emperor
Kuang-tsong, because in a journey to
liis country chiteau he had passed by
the villa of his mother without calling
to see her.

At a later period this o
braided the same emperor
of the dee]>est sorrow for n<
panying his mother's fun
wearing mourning in her
notwithstanding that all the
of the empire had been plu;
the most profound grief by
of that excellent woman. T
accused him of having feigr
position on that occasion, wl
generally known that he was
in his customary pastimes.

Another emperor was re
with a noble intrepidity, fb
weakly permitted a ^vorite
to squander a part of the re\
the state in embellishing hei
residence and gardens.

The Emperor Kang-hi, 01
wisest and greatest rulers t
has ever seen, practised filia
a most perfect manner to
grandmother and mother dui
lifetime and after their death
ap]K)inting one of his sons ht
throne — a right accorded
the constitution — he dcclarei
was guided in his choice by
dom of the two empresses, hi
and his grandmother.

When his grandmother v
this emperor wrote to one
grandees of the realm, Hing-
was probably minister of just

" My cares do not quit me, whetl
or by night I have no relish k
sleep ; my only consolation lies i
my thoughts to Tien, (Heaven, o
of Heaven.) With tearful eyes I
strated myself on the ground, ai
myself in meditation on the mannc
surely obtaining his holy assistanc
appeared to me that the preservatic
the objects of his love, would be t
means of obtaining, from his iniii
ncss and mercy, the prolongatior
that we would all be willing to pure
our own."

Hereupon he reprieved all c
not excluded from the (avoi

Filial Affection^ as taught and practised by the Chinese. 419

laws of the state. He concluded with
thes^ words :

** I pray Tien that he may be pleased to
bless my wish.**

walked in solemn procession,
accompanied by the nobles, and of-
fered sacrifices for the empress. As
her condition grew more alarming,
he spent day and night at her bed-
side, where he slept upon a mat, in
order to be always near to attend to
her irants. To the remonstrances
of his court and the requests of the
invalid herself, he replied by answer-
ing them that he could not control
Us grief, and could find consolation
only in nursing his beloved grand-
tnother, who had nursed him in youth
with so much wisdom and tender-
ness.

Many a reader may consider this
Btense and openly acknowledged
sentiment of filial devotion as exag-
gerated ; in China, men thought dif-
ferently. And the man of whom it
is related was one of the greatest
princes that ever liv.ed, a great savant^
a philosopher upon a throne, an un-
^unted hero, and during the whole
of his long reign the father of his
<»nntry, the admiration and joy of
his numerous people. When he was
^ught by the princes of the royal
house and by the nobles of the realm
to permit the sixtieth anniversary of
^is birthday to be solemnly com-
"ieniorated, he replied :

** I have never had any taste for and have
^^ found any pleasure in grand festivi-
^* and entertainments. Yet I feel reluc-
**t to refuse what the love of the princes
^nobles requests from me. But as these
"•tivities would (all upon the days whereon
"^^nch revered father and mother died,
™^ memory is too vividly present in my
^'^ to suffer me to allow them to be con-
'^'^cd into days of rejoicing.**

At the Chinese court it is custom-
1^ fo the emperor, on New Year's
^y» to go in company with the

princes and nobles to the palace of
his mother. A master of ceremonies
called a mandarin of Lizu, walks in
fit)nt and reverently prays that it
may be her serene pleasure to ascend
her throne, in order that the emperor
may throw himself at her feet. She
then takes her place upon the throne.
The emperor enters the hall and
remains standing with his arms hang-
ing down and his sleeves pulled over
his hands — a mark of reverence
amongst this people. The imperial
retinue remain below in the ante-
chamber. The musicians sound some
thrilling notes, whereupon the man-
darin cries in a loud voice, " Upon
your knees!" The emperor and re-
tinue fall upon their knees. " To the
floor!" The emperor bows his head
to the floor, as also the entire court
"Arise!" And all rise up together.
After performing three prostrations
in this manner, the mandarin again
approaches the throne of the empress
and reaches her a written request
from the emperor to be pleased to
return to her apartment.

During the ceremony the sound
of the bell fh)m the great tower an-
nounces to all the inhabitants of
Pekin that the emperor of China,
"the ruler of the thousand king-
doms," as they style him, is paying
homage to humanity.

When the empress has returned to
her apartment, the ringing of the bell
ceases, and then the emperor receives
the felicitations of the court in his
own palace.

The idea of the relation between
parents and children is, in fact, the
soul of the constitution of China, a
constitution that has continued un-
changed for more than three thou-
sand years. Through this idea the
chains of despotism, so galling in other
countries of the east, are rendered
tolerable ; by it a powerful influence
is exercised over the rulers of the

420 Filial Affection^ as taught and practised by the C

mightiest empire of the earth, so that
most of them, even in modem times,
devote themselves to their exalted
duties with the greatest care, and
look upon the empire not as their
own possesion, but as a trust com-
mitted to them as vicegerents of
heaven. This idea is so deeply
rooted that even the victorious Tartars
were forced to respect it and adopt
it as their principle of government,
as we are shown by the example
mentioned of the great Kang-hi.

We subjoin some selections from a
number of Chinese moral proverbs
relating to this subject,

** Filial afiection produces the same sen-
timent, the same solicitude, under every
dime. The barbarian, compelled by want
to wander through wildernesses, learns
more easily from his own heart what a son
owes to his fiither and mother than sages
learn it from their books.*'

"The most invincible army is that in
which fathers are most mindful of their
children, sons of their parents, brothers of
their brothers.'*

" The filial piety of the ruler is the inher-
itance of the aged, of widows, and of
orphans.*'

*' Whosoever raises the staff of his father
with reverence, does not strike the father's
hand. Whosoever yawns at the old man's
oft-repeated tales, will hardly weep at his
death."

"All virtues are threatened when filial
a£Rection is sinned against"

" A good son never looks upon an enter-
prise as successful until it has received the
approbation of his father."

"Rocks are converted into diamonds
where father and son have but one heart ;
harmony between the elder and younger
brothers changes the earth into gold."

"Subjects revere their parents in the
person of the emperor ; the emperor must
revere his parents in the person of those of
his subjects. The love of princes for their
parents guarantees to them the love oj
their subjects.'*

" The Emperor Gin-tsong was counselled
by his minister to declare war. What, re-
plied the emperor, am I to answer fathers
and mothers when they ask their sons of
■M? and to the widow who mourns her
kMbaiid? and to fetherless orphans? and

to so many disconsolate i
willingly sacrifice a pro^
life of one of my own chil
jects arc my children.**

" Whosoever cuts dowr
by his father, will sell th
built by him."

" It is not the threats, n
nor the violence of a fathc
ed by a dutiful son. He
A father is silent eithei
ceased to love or because i
is no longer loved."

"The one who first si
unhappy father."

"Much to be pitied is
displeasing to his parents
piest of all is he who does

" A good son is a goo<
husband, a good father, :
good friend, a good neigh
zen. A wicked son is f
son.**

" Reverence and tenden
of filial afiection.'*

" When brothers will
agreement before the scnt(
public morals have aire;
If father and son go befc
that he may decide betwee;
is in danger. If childrei
life of their parents, and
that of each other, all is lo

This tender reveren
instils into the Chines<
gard for aged persons,
and for national custon
pire has been in existei
four thousand years !

The contrary disp<
denies to old age its
ference, which impels ;
temn the experience of
to wish, in its inunat
ment, to pass sentence
jects, destroys social
undermines and ultima
pires. It robs youth of
destroys the modesty
knowledge of the yo
well as the blushing difi
maiden ; defirauds age <
renders customs and U
powerless.

New Publications.

431

Quid leges t time merihu

•ace.

^oung man trifles with the
splay of ever-changing fash-
5t of our country from which
serious east never languish-
philosophy is of the fashion
; his clothes; and though, at
he considers them as the
, he is nevertheless ready to
lem both and decry them as
e, reserving the liberty, how-
?suming them as soon as the
" the enchantress Fashion
given the sign,
jligion of Jesus Christ con-
re dignity upon the worthi-
most tender relations of na-
teaches us to revere a fath-

er in the Being of all beings, to love
him tenderly whose eternal Son did
not disdain to become our brother,
to become the Spouse of his church.
It sanctifies every relation of nature,
every relation of society. But in at-
tempting to picture to ourselves a
state of the world in which the great
majority would be doing homage to
the religion of Jesus Christ, not mere-
ly in words, but in spirit and in deed,
a feeling of sadness takes possession
of the soul like to that which might
come upon a prisoner, highly gifted
with musical genius, while reading
with the eye the harmonies of Han-
del and Cluck, when his ear was de-
nied the rapture of hearing their en-
chanting melodies.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Ieditations, by his Emi-
the late Cardinal Wiseman.
Dublin, James Duffy, 1869.
e at the Catholic Publication
126 Nassau Street

s a peculiar charm about all
e:s of Cardinal Wiseman. It
ich of genius, and of a great
lose loss the world mourns,
nt volume, now published for
:ime, comprises a series of
s useful for all classes of
rsons, but more especially
for the clergy and students
lesiastical seminaries. They
en, as the Most Rev. Archbi-
^estminster informs us in a
ice, when the cardinal entered
irst responsible office as rec-
I English college in Rome.
cts for the first six months of
ire taken from and arranged
rtain number of heads, gene-
ited each week. These are,
d of Man," « Last Things,"

" Mystery of our Saviour's Life," " Per-
sonal Duties," " The Passion," " Sin."
" Means of Sanctification," " Self-Exa-
mination," "The Decalogue," "The
Blessed Eucharist," " The Blessed Vir-
gin.'* Each meditation consists of two
or three reflections, and closes with an
affective prayer. " Preparations " are
given, after the method of St Ignatius,
before the meditations upon the myste-
ries of our Lord's life. As a book of
meditations, or for spiritual reading, we
could earnestly commend it to the laity,
who will find the greater part of it emi-
nently suitable for these purposes, while
to the clergy it will be especially accep-
table, furnishing, as it does, subjects
sufficiently amplified to aid them in the
ready preparation of a sermon or pious
conference. We have few works in
good English of this kind, and the read-
ing of authors whose style is reinarka-
ble for purity and vigor cannot fail of
improving the style of a speaker. The
works of the great cardinal need no
praise fi^m us on these points, and we

New Publications.

are sure that it is only necessary to call
attention to a new work from his master
hand to ensure its rapid sale.

We cannot refrain from transcribing
one of the many beautiful affective
prayers. The meditation is on the
crowning with thorns.

*' Jesus, King and Lord of my heart and
soul, what crown shall I give thee to ac-
knowledge thee as such t Alas I gold and
silver in my poverty I have none : my gold
hath been long since turned into dross, and
my silver been alloyed. I have no roses
like thy martyrs, who returned thee blood
for blood ; nor lilies, like thy virgins, who
loved thee with an unsullied heart My
soul is barren, my heart is unfruitful, and I
have placed thee to reign, as the Jewish
kings of old, over a heap of ruins. Long
since despoiled and ravaged by the enemy,
every flower hath been ploughed up, and
every green plant burned with fire, and
thorns alone and brambles spring up there.
Of these, then, alone can I make thee a
crown, my dear and sovereign Jesus. Wilt
thou accept it ? I will pluck up my unruly
affections, that they may no more have
roots, and, weaving them together into a
wreath, will lay them as a sacrifice at thy feet.
I will gather the thorns of sincere repentance
which there each day arise and prick my
heart with a sharp but wholesome smart,
and with these will I make a crown fur thy
head, if thou wilt vouchsafe to wear it Or,
rather, thou shalt take it from my hand,
only to place it with thine around my heart,
that it may daily and hourly be pricked with
compunction. .\nd may the thorns of thy
crown be to my soul so many goads of love.
to hasten it forward in its career toward
thee."

False Defixitioxs of Faith, axd
THE Tri-e Defixitiox. Bv Rev. L.
\V. Bacon. Reprinted from the Xtw
£'i»^*Af«f At* for .April, 1869^

Mr. lUcon denncs faith to be trusting
one's self for s.dv.\tion to Jesus Christ
" The act of faith— <m* intrusting: one's
self for salvation to the Lord Jesus
Christ — mcludes, not as a remote con-
sequence, but in itself, repent.ince.
ol)etiience« h\^Iine:^s, ar.vi ci'^*:/.-*:vr
things hetM are dcmanv'.Cii in the Scrijv
tunes as c\>ndi!ious s^fsaK ation.** l>roi>-
pinjf all dispute aN^u; tiTmino\v>^ we
will take fiiiih a* ocnucvl In- Mt, Vuvvn.
«Dd prove that ii is invVnccivaWc >Kiih-

out the act of intellectual ai
divine revelation, which the chi
quires. Jesus Christ must be
ted as the Messiah by God the
in such a way as to give rationa
ble evidence to the intellect, I
man can reasonably or conscie
trust himself to him for ss
When he is convinced that C
the Saviour, and trusts himself
he must receive from him cert
infallible instruction as to the
of repenting and obtaining pa
to the nature and extent of th<
ence and holiness required, ao
whcLteiter things beside are de
as conditions of salvation. If b
ter teaches him certain doctrii
requires his assent, he must giv
part of his obedience. If he pn
sacraments and communion w
certain \nsible church as a cond
salvation, he must obev. The c
with Mr. Bacon is, therefore,
specting the indispensable oblig
believing what (lod has revea
specting the way of salvation,
specting the medium through
that revelation is communicat<
the actual subject-matter of its c<
Mr. Bacon very reasonably re'
the tyranny of imposing mere
and probable opinions derive
private judgment on the Script
necessary to be believed for sa
He has an independent spirit
active mind which will not sul
to acquiesce tamely in the di
which certain great names am
tional formulas ha\'e hithert
among the orthodox Protestan
thinks for himself and expres
thouvht< in a bold and manlv w
the brochure which he has n
from the .\>a' Englander^ the
of the old-fashioned Puritan t
respecting justification are poii
with distinctness, and a far be
more reasonable \-iew presentee
includes the moral element in th'
sition of the soul for receiving
thus rejecting the most fund;
and destructive of all the erron
ther.

Tnr Rel itioxs axd RECt
Oblig ATioxs between thi

New Publications.

4^3

CAL Profession and the Educat-
ed AND Cultivated Classes. An
Oration delivered before the Alumni
Association of the Medical Depart-
ment of the University of the City of
New York, Feb. 23d, 1869. %
Henry S. Hewit, M.D. Published
by order of the Association.

This pamphlet contains a great deal
of matter within a very short compass.
It shows the relation of medicine to
philosophy and intellectual culture, re-
ntes the wretched materialism by which
the profession has been too much in-
fected, castigates with merciless severi-
^y that charlatanism by which some
ignorant pretenders practise on the
sedulity of the public, and that crimi-
**al malpractice by which others more
skilful^ but equally without conscience,
P^stitute their science to complicity
''''^th licentiousness and child-murder.
A higher standard of education in
Medical science, a more liberal prepara-
tory culture, and a distinction in medical
•degrees are advocated. These are mat-
ters of the deepest moment to society,
^tt ^hich Catholics have especial rea-
^ns to be interested. The physician
^s next to the priest, and, in his sphere,
very like the priest in the responsibili-
ties of his office, his power of doing
good or evil, and in the necessity of re-
sorting to him under which all men are
placed in those dangerous and painful
• crises of life where he alone can give
effectual help. According to Catholic
theok>gy, no one can pretend to prac-
^^ tnedicine or surgery, without grie-
^'^^^ sin, who has not received a com-
P^tent, education, and who does not fol-
, ^ ^rhat, according to the judgment of
^!c^^^ and skilful men, are truly scien-
^ *^ethods. Ignorance, carelessness,
Qf Empiricism, or violation of the laws
jjjJ*^^^Tality as laid down by the church,
gj ^^^ grievous sins. They are follow-
fjj^^^ the most fatal consequences to
5j ^ who become their victims, cau-
Iq^ ^ven the loss of life and the priva-
l" ^^f baptism, which involves the loss
Ij ^ ^tual life, on a vast scale. It is of
^^^tmost consequence that we should
^J^^ a body of Catholic physicians
^^^^« scientific culture is the highest
^•^"Ue, and whose professional code

of morals is strictly in conformity with
the moral theology of the church. If
we are ever so happy as to possess a
a Catholic university, it is to be hoped
that Dr. Hewit's suggestions in regard
to medical education may be carried
out The author has rendered a great
service to the profession and to the
cause of morals and religion by the pub-
lication of this able and high-toned
oration, and we trust it may receive
a wide circulation, and exert an equally
wide influence. Dr. Hewit served witli
great distinction as chief of medical
staff to Generals C. F. Smith, Grant,
and Schofield during the late war, and
contributed some valuable papers to the
medical journals. We are indebted to
him for some of the best literary notices
which have appeared in our columns,
and the present oration not only shows
scientific culture and sound principles,
but also a capacity for producing lite-
rary composition of many varied and rare
excellences, combining terse and close
logical reasoning with a vivid play of the
imagination. The closing sentence is
remarkably beautiful, and speaks of the
adventurous life which the author led
during his military career, "The sun
has crossed the meridian, and tends
toward the western horizon ; the tops
of the distant mountains are bathed in
purple light, and the black shadows at
their base d^^'n to creep in a stealthy
and hound-like manner over the plain;
a rising murmur in the branches of the
forest warns us to lift up again our bur-
dens, and take our respective roads.^'
We should like to see a volume from
the pen that wrote this sentence, in
which the descriptive power of the au-
thor would have full scope, and another
in which the sound principles of philo-
sophy and morals contained in the ora-
tion in an aphoristic form would be fully
developed.

Glimpses of Pleasant Homes ; or,.
Stories for the Young. By the-
authoress of Mother McAuley. Il-
lustrated. I vol. i2mo, vellum cloth.
Catholic Publication Society, 126 Nasr
sau Street 1869.

No one can read a sentence of the pre*-
&ce to this volume without becoming.

f 424

New Pvblieatiena.

deeply interested in ihe book ilself. Every

line [ells us that the author hits sometiiing
important to aay, and that her wliole
soul is In the work of educating llie mo-
ral faculties of children simullaDcously
with their physical and menial powers.
Her aim is to enlist all heads of families
in the work, by making their homes
pleasant refuges from Ihe troubles of
busy life, in which their few leisure
hours may be spent in " fitting a!! those
under their charge for the duties of this
earth, without unfitting them for hea-

The responsibility of forming and di-
recting the tastes of children is often
thrown upon the school-teacher ; and,
while the father builds gorgeous busi-
ness palaces for the benefit of his family,
their future welfare is perilled and their
whole life embittered by the system of
education " which assumes the obliga-
tions of priest and parent, and is gradu-
ally driving filial piety from the face of
the earth."

This book contains not only good ex-
amples of the practical working of kind-
ness and love, but points out the man-
ner In which the parents make many
blunders in Ihe management of young
and boisterous children. Some regard

' their mechanical toys as causes of trou-
ble, and wish their children would play
outside, "and keep their noise, dust,
and confusion out of sight and hearing
of their seniors," Experience among
families where such is the fact has
taught the author to depict with truth
the results :

"These parents who should have aided
in developing and cultiraiing the tastes of
tlicir children, may possibly find, ere long,

* tlial there i.re no tules to be developed
I save tliiwe acquired in tlie streets, where
babilE have been formed which it is now all

\ but impossible to root out. Their children
have, as Ihc jihtase is, got beyond them 1

' -nut liccaiise, as is often falsely asserted,
juvenile human naluie is different now from
what it was in other ages, ui because its lot
happens to becait in Ihe United Stales of
America, but because parents have not done
their part to muhipty and slreiigthen the
sweet and poneriul lies that could and
shuuld bind llieir children indissolubly to

Tow

1 parents against this evil, tt

cause them to be Idnd to tficir chilffi
and 10 bind the child more closely |g
home, the author has written 1I
Giimpset of Pltasant Hemes. In iA
mothers, fathers, sons, and daugit
are made to speak and act in so nab
a nianner that every reader will
forced to love them.

In those happy homes, we I
full of life and tun, but always cagM
listen to interesting and useful Initr
tion ; girls who are not dolls, 11
to act and speak by machine;
fathers and mothers whose exal
will force every parent to give a lit
thought to Ihe manner in wh' '
treat their olTspring. The storyuHU
Frank will be long reniembcred l)y ibi
who read it, and all will like the ma
little fellow, who gravely saji :

•■ ' I should rather be whatever it b ri
to be,' returned the boy. ■ The Catlw
have the lilcssed Virgin, and I think (
must be light, for every one knows Ux L
would not let hia own mother stay In
wrong place. I a-sked Mr. Griffin «»
a Calvinist or a Unitarian, and he nM I
that she was a Catholic. Now, I want H
of her church, and I don't see why I OH
receive the sacramenls as well at TiM
and Bernard. Please, mamma, allow I
and I'll be ever so good and steady.' '
.\nd immediately after tells u& ihatj4
CrifUn is a fin>t-rate fellow, bccaust *
gives me lots of fruit, and tells m
sant stories about birds and angeb,"

Every story in this book will a
the young, interest the old, and Imti
all In the secret ways of showing ki
ncss to those with whom they may ctl

Kindness is the author's watdiMI
every line bears witness to her lotn
her fellow-beings : she fulfils her I
sion of kindness In a delightfully p
sant manner, and few will finish rm*
Thi Glimpses without wishing (or a
more such pictures, and hoping that
author may enjoy a little of ilMt hq
ness on this eanb, which she wa lavii
bestows on her reatlerE.

Black Forest. Village Storia,
Berthold Auerbach. TraitsLued,
Charles Cri>e[)p. New York :
poldt & Holu
This volume is a collection of S

■ • • •

New Publications,

425

rman, filled with quaint
f peasant life in the Black

representations are well
e-like ; but the tales, with
exceptions, fail to interest,
itrations of strange phases
!, and odd customs retain-
to age by people who sel-
ir own hamlets, or heard
r world.

carries through some of
rs introduced before, so
in intimate connection be-
lli. In general, they have
loral teaching, but there
le exceptions, in the story

Gentleman," and "The

f these, " Ivo the Gentle-
s to give the life of a Ca-
and the story of a student
ation for the priesthood,
il to be interested in the
le collegian, and anxiously
velopment of doubts and
his path ; but there is a
hardness in the analyza-
plexities and his religious
t lead one to feel that
vitality in the creed of the

r of " The Lauterbacher,"
nany striking thoughts
^ith such charming fami-
make one wonder why
^er before seen them on
noral of this tale is clear
>Iow and then, however,
;h a touch of the mystical
lism with which many of
this author abound ; but
lis volume less of these
n anything we have seen

» are interspersed with
»od-cuts as illustrations,
ling of fantastic rhymes,
us forcibly of our child-
itroduction to the muses
himsical measurei o£ Mo-
Melodies.

L Sketches. By Har-
eau. New York : Ley-
It 1869.

«il fiiiniliar with the men-

tal characteristics and proclivities of
Harriet Martineau could exfiect from
her pen a more liberal view of the cha-
racters which she has here attempted
to delineate than the volume before us
actually presents. The ordinary rea-
der, ignorant of or not fully appreciat-
ing the standpoint from which the
authoress judges the dispositions and
achievements of mankind wiU, however,
experience a feeling of disappointment'
and dissatisfaction. The tone of many
of her sketches is depreciatory. The
time-honored maxim, ^^ Nil de mortuis^*
etc., is rigidly ignored, and the shadows,
in the lives of the personages she noti*
ces are brought into striking contrast
with the sunlight of their virtues and
accomplishments. We remark this es-
pecially in regard to those whose work
in the world was of a religious or chari-
table nature. It g^tes upon our in-
ward reverence for men, whose toil and
self-sacrifice have resulted even in a tran^-
sient benefit to mankind, to be told that
they were mere creatures of an q>heme-
ral occasion, or the unconscious agents
of political aspirants ; that the seed
which they sowed had no root, and the
plant has withered away. It seems like
an aspersion on the moral capabilities
of the human race when those men who
reach the highest ranks of ecclesiastical
and religious preferment are represent-
ed as untrue to their convictions, and
recreant to the principles confided to
their propagating and protecting care.
Miss Martineau does good morals and
large charity no service, by showing
that their outward exercise may coexist
with hypocrisy, tergiversation, and sor*
did self-seeking. Nor is it absolute
justice to the dead that, having daring
life received from her no admonition to
correct their faults, they should at last,
when such correction has become im-
possible, be held up to posterity as
being, after all, but frail and fiuling spe-
cimens of human kind.

With this exception, we have found
the work before us worthy of the enco*
niums bestowed upon it by the press both
of this country and England. It is a
handbook to read and remember, to
take up with interest and lay down with
pleasure, and, after the first reading, to

consult, from time lo time, as a gallery
of portraits painled from subjects of
unusual eminence by a skilful hand.

The Free-Masons. What theyare—
What they do— What ihey are
aiming at. From the French of
Mgr. S6gur, author of Plain Titik,
Boston: Patrick Donahoe. 1B69.
The best notice we can give of this
book is to reproduce an extract from
the translator's preface ;

"This short treatise, written, not liy
the archbishop of Paris, as carelessly
staled by some newspapers, but by
Mgr. de S^gur, the author of the work
lately translated and published under
the title of Plain Talk, was composed
to unveil and show Free-Masonry as it is
in tit old world. Its strictures, there-
fore, are not wholly applicable lo Free-
masonry as it is in the United Stales.
Yet Masons here may read it with pro-
fit 10 themselves; and those who are
not Masons, but might be templed to
join some lodge, will, it is hoped, aban-
don the idea if they read this book.
Even here, Free-Masonry is a secret
society, and to become a member of it,
one must take at least an oath, and
swear by the name of God to do so and
sa Now, God's command is, ' Thou
shaltnot take tlie name of the Lord ihy
God in vain.' And surely it is taken
in vain by American Free-Masons, be-
cause they lake it without any sufficient
and justifiable cause. For, apart from
Other ends of their society, and
especially that of affordiag members
a chance never to want what a-ssis-
tance they may need in .case of » mo-
mentary difficulty in their aHairs or loss
of means or health, ihe main object
seems to be to meet at times, in order
to spend an afternoon In a merry way,
and to par lake of banquets provided
for the occasion. But where is the
necessity to bind one's self by an oalh,
to gather now and then round a bounti-
fully supplied table, or even to be chari-
table, and, for such purposes, to be a
member of a secrd society ,' We have
many benevolent societies ; there is no
•ecret alraut them, no oath to be taken
by those who wish to be members of
them. Their object is lo carry out tlie

principles of Christian cliariiy
they bind themselfes slm{dy \
mise, as also to contribute m
the purposes of the society. 1
other objections to joining Frci
r)-, even here ; but this " ""*
to discuss tlial subject."

The Dublin Review, for A^
London, Brown, Oales & Co

on. WAKI) ON AHKRICAN

The Dublin Rcvitio for Apt
a notice of F. Wenlnger'« liui
Papal InfalUbilitv with the
sentence -. '■ In tbe United Slat
than in these islands, a lii|
more orihodoic type of
trine seems rapidly gaining tt
danl. To God be the praise
Implies that hitherto a low
dox type of doctrine has had
dant among us — an '— '—
very complimentary t
clergv, professors of theolog/f
tholic writers. We deny t!«
emphatically, and affirm pooSd
no type of doctrine, whatevei
gaining the ascendant over an]
one which has formerly had
danl. The maxims o( that 9
canonists, who maintain the i
of the episcopate in council
pope, and deny the superioril
pope over a general council, b)
prevailed or been advocated
country. The dogniaiic dccrt
holy see have always been.
here as binding on the iaied
to the full extent to which lh«
intends to impose them ; and
obedience to the pontifical ai
matters of discipline, Gregory,
pressed the true sUte of tbe a
he said that he was nowhere
plctely pope as in tbe UniU
The encyclical of Plus IX.
without a whimper of o|
our college of bishops, in tbelr
loyally to the holy &iber,
struggles with the assaiianu
poral authority, havt
universal seniiment nf tbeir
laity. The spirit of the the
has always been taught fat
ries, and pre^'alent

u amMHn

New Publications.

437

It of the glories of both Ire-
the United States, the late
>p Kenrick. A large number
ihops and leading clergymen
n thoroughly educated and
he doctor's cap at Rome, and
re that they have never come
sion with any body of their
holding contrary opinions, or
ecessary to make any imputa-
heir orthodoxy. We esteem
e great services which Dr.
» rendered to religion, and the
le qualities of mind and heart
has exhibited from the begin-
I Oxford career to the present
We think, however, that the
ty of his zeal needs a litde
nd that if he were somewhat
*ing of reproofs and admoni-
s brethren and fathers in the
lich savor more of the novice-
lan the editor, his review
much more useful, as well as
erally acceptable. We know
pinion on this point is shared
•f our most distinguished pre-
3 are as thoroughly Roman
leolog)' as Dr. Ward can pro-
j, and we think there are few
ide the water who would dis-
it

EMBRoroERY, Ancient and

N, PRACTICALLY IlLUSTRAT-

j Anastasia Dolby, late Em-
;ss to the Queen.

/ESTMENTS ; THEIR ORIGIN,

iD Ornament. By the same.

; by the Catholic Publication

126 Nassau St., New- York.

;wo elegant volumes furnish a
and practical description of
i of ecclesiastical vestment,
Roman collar to the Fanon,
Miss Dolby informs us, ** ap-
nly to the vesture of the sove-
itiff." The authoress is a
," and, as will be seen, of the
der of that formidable sect of
sh Church, as by law estab-
[er books are full of costly
s, the volume on church em-
»eing adorned with a fine iliu-
rontispiece — an antependium

and frontal for high festivals — and Ihe
one on church vestments, widi one re-
presenting a Pontifical High MasSy in
which the deacon is a little out of place
for such a mass, according to the rite as
celebrated by the *' Roman obedience,"
but which, we presume, is strictly in
accordance with the ^Anglican obedi-
ence." We smile at the pretty piece
of assumption, but forgive Miss Dolby
from our hearts, for we have derived
the greatest pleasure and benefit from
the use of her valuable books. Al-
though the volumes are costly, yet the
information they contain would be con-
sidered cheap at treble the price by
those who are interested in furnishing
the holy sanctuary with all things ap-
pertaining thereto, in good taste. The
authoress is a practical workwoman,
and not only tells us what to do, but
also, what is of the highest moment to
many of us, how to do it

The Ark of the Covenant; or, a
Series of Short Discourses upon the
Joys, Sorrows, Glories, and Virtues
of the Ever Blessed Mother of God.
By Rev. T. S. Preston. New York :
Robt Coddington.

This is a new edition of a work alrea-
dy, we are sure, widely known and
much admired. It is prepared by the
reverend author to suit the beautiful
devotion of the month of May, and wc
do not hesitate to say that it is the best
one for that purpose yet written. It is
truly refreshing to meet with a book
like this, when one has had a surfeit (as
who has not) of the many namby pamby
Months of Mary y from whose pages we
have been expected to cull flowers of
piety for our spiritual enjo3rment of the
sweet season dedicated to the Blessed
Virgin.

The General ; or. Twelve Nights
IN THE Hunter's Camp. A Narra-
tive of Real Life. Illustrated by G.
G. White. Boston: Lee & She-
pard.

This is an account of the doings of

the D Oub, on one of its annual

excursions. It is interspersed with sto-
ries told round the camp-fire, by *' the

New Publications.

generJl," of his own adventures in [he
west, wlien it was still the home of the
Indian, ;ind immigrants and land-sur-
veyors were slowly finding iheir way
through the forests and over the prai-
ries. The club were encamped near
Swan Lake, two miles cast of the Missis-
sippi, and for twelve days gave them-
selves up to all the pleasure and excite-
ment of hunting and fishing. They
had a good time, and one almost envies
them the fresh, pure air, the freedom.
the invigorating sport, and enjoyment
of nature. The author thinks that
**more tents and less hotels in vacation
would make our professional men more
vigorous. Moosehead and the Adiron-
dacks are better recuperators than Sara-
toga, Cape May, and the Rhine ; and
fishing-rods and fowling -pieces are
among the very best gymnastic appara-
tus for a college." Summer is coming,
and the advice could be tried. The
adventures of the general, and of the
hunters at Swan Lake, would while
away most pleasantly the hours of a
warm summer afternoon on the Adiron-
dacks or Lake George.

Remimscencf.s of Feux Mendels-
sohn Bartholdv. a Social and
Artistic Biography. By Elise Polko,
Translated from the German by Lady
Wallace. New York; Leypoldt &
HolL 1869.

A woman's book in every page and
line, charming for its simplicity and
pleasant gossip. Madame Polko was a
friend and enthusiastic admirer of the
great musician. All that he ever did,
said, or wrote she tells us with an air
of pride and earnestness only equalled
by the naxvt recital of all baby's won-
derfiil pranks and precocious intelli-
gence peculiar to young mothers.

These remini.icences will do to be-
guile a dreamy summer hour, when the
mind needs relaxation, and is not able
to bear anything heavier than the inno-
cent prattle of children, and the sooth-
ing sound of the seaside waves.

Fesncliffe. t vol. iimo, Philadel-
phia: P. F. Cunningham, 1869.

FerncUffi is an interesting lale of

" English country fife." T
has been fortunate enough
scenes and characters nrhici
all respects very natural, an
are exceedingly iniercstlng. .
dom we find a book con
many characters, each posi
peculiarity, and all kept itt
pictu subordination to the pi:
which is so necessary to thi
lopment of the plot

The book is neatly prim
paper, and is a credit ta
prising publisher who, we 1
sec, is accepting the "siW
making his books in confi
the improvements of the !
and manner of getting up.
all our publishers wotdd do*
for it is high time that Citl
appeared in as good a drei
Catholic books,
Salt-Water Dick.. By Mi

ing. Boston : Lee ft Shfl

Thk Auk op Elm Ist-AHO
Klljah Kellogg, Boatoi
Shepard. Pp. 288. l86f
In these volumes we hai
tion to llic usual amoi
incident and startling advent
sable from sea voyages, a w
interesting descriptioa of \
Chincha Islands, the grest
pot; pleasant glimpses into
Janeiro, and Havana; grapl
of encounters with sea-liOR
dreadful storm in the Gulf
with a wonderful escape :
wreck by literally " pooring
troubled waters," the «rhoI«
diversified with numerous
tural history. ^

Combining amusement wj
tion, books such as thest
fascination for boys, and 1
cases, be safely recoranieiM

Dotty Dimple
Dimple at School.
May, Author of Uttk Pn
Illustrated. Boston: L

This story is one ot I
though quite complete ia it!

Foreign Literary Notes,

429

admirably written ; for chil-
stories, they are almost perfect,
ach important lessons without

the children feel that they are
Jiem, or giving them an inclina-
skip over those parts. If the
ics get hold of these books, they
certain to read them, and ever
•d count Miss Dotty Dimple
J little Prudy among their very
nds. Such a pen only needs to
ed by Catholic faith to make it
for children. We do not say
h any want of appreciation of
is already, for its moral lessons
utifully given ; but what might
t be, enlightened by the truth,
less, and the beauty of Catholic

Adventures in Wonder-
By Lewis Carroll. With for-
Illustrations by John Tenniel.
1 : Lee & Shepard, 49 Wash-
Street 1869.

adventures are most wonder-
for Wonderland. One cannot
retting that children should be
ed in this way instead of by
^bable or possible adventures.
i well written, and the illustra-

excellent.

z; OR, Now AND Forever.
s. Madeline Leslie. Boston :
Shepard. Pp.416. 1869.

;ious tale, strictly Protestant,

plentifully besprinkled with scriptural
texts, allusions, etc., which will, no
doubt, prove deeply interesting to those
for whose special delectation it is in-
tended.

The Catholic Publication Soci-
ety have purchased all the stereotype
plates and book stock of Messrs. Lucas
Brothers, Baltimore. Some of these
books have been out of print for some
years, or have not been kept constantly
before the public. The society will soon
issue new editions of all of them.

Messrs. Murphy & Co., Baltimore,
have just issued an edition of Milner's
E/td of Controversy^ in paper covers,
which is sold for seventy five cents a
copy.

Mr. p. F. Cunningham, Philadel-
phia, will soon publish Catholic Doc-
trine^ as defined by the Council of
Trenty expounded in a series of confe-
rences delivered in Geneva during the
Jubilee of 185 1, by Rev. Father Nam-
pon, of the Society of Jesus ; proposed
as a means of reuniting all Christians.
It will make an octavo volume of some
600 or 700 pages.

From RoBBRTS Brothbus, Boston : Handy-vohime
Series. Realities of Iri^ Life. — Little Women :
or, Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. By Louisa M. Al-
cott a vols. Illustrated.

FOREIGN LITERARY NOTES.

Abb^ Sire, Superior of the
r of St. Sulpice, some time
lertook to procure the transla-
thc bull ''Ineffabilis " into all
;n languages of the world. In
enterprise he has made great
, and more than a year ago his
ived the honoring recognition
)ly father in a letter addressed
eginning : *' Hinc gratissimum
:idit, Dilecte Fili, consilium a
iptum curandi, ut Apostolicse
le dogmatica Immaculati ejus-
Genitricis Conceptus De^ni-
;erse e latino idiomate in omnes
ttur linguas.''

Catholic Ireland has made a hand-
some contribution to M. Sire's work
in a volume published in Dublin, con-
taining the Bull and its translation into
the French, Latin, and Irish languages.
The Irish translation is by the Rev.
Patrick J. Bourke, President of St Jar-
lath's College, Tuam, where, alone In all
Ireland, under the auspices, and, we
may say, the national enthuMasm - of
the Rt Rev. Dr. McHale, the language ot
Ireland is taught, and endeavored to be
preserved. We say endeavored ; ibr it
seems that, excepting amoqg the hills
of Connanght, the mother tongue of
the Celtic race has died, or is rapidly

dying out in the green island. Dr.
Bourk«'s volume, published in Dublin, is
3. fine specimen of typography.
We believe, allhough we have never

Journal and Indicator, a semi-monthly
commenced at Manchester, (England,)
in January last- Why it is called Kel-
tic, instead of Gxlic or Irish, we do
not know, nor can we understand why
it should be published in England rath-
er than in Ireland. Two other Cxlic
races, the Welsh, and the Bretons of
France, have pieriodicals in iheir native
dialect : the latter, the Feiz he Breiz,
and the former, several.

The dying out of Ihe Irish language
on the lips of a million of people who
speak it, may be attributed mainly to
two causes— emigration, and the indif-
ference of its own race.

There is still another difficulty. Its
pronunciation no longer accords with
its received orthography, and, as writ-
ten, it is encumbered with a quantity of
unpronounced Iciieis. If the language
is 10 continue to exist as a written one,
a radical reform similar to that effected
by the Tcheks in tlie Bohemian dialect
at Ihe end of the last century is abso-
lutely necessary. Meantime, Dr. Hourke
is enlilled to great praise for his un-
ceasing efforts in the cause of Ireland's
national literature.

The publishing house of Adrien Le
Clerc (Paris) announces an important
work in press. It is L'Hhtoire das
ConciUs, in ten volumes 8vo, (large,)
of 640 pages each. The first voliune
appeared on Ihe 31st of January. It Is
a translation, by the Abbes Goschler
and Delarc, from the German of Dr.
Ch. Jos. Hefele, Professor of Theology
at the University of Tubingen. The
Messrs. Clarke, of Edinburgh, have an-
nounced an English translation of ilie
same work from the German.

The Femall Glory, er tke Lift and
Dfolh of our liUsnd Lady, ihe Holy
VirgiH Mary, God's owHt immaailalt
Mother, etc. tic. By Anthony Staflbrd,
Gent London, 1635. Reprinted in
1869, An exact typographical rcpw-
daclioii of the original, in all its quainl-

ness of ancient characters ani
ly of English, preceded by thi
of the author (Staflbrd) antt 1
the cultus of the Blessed Vi
Edited by the Kev. Orby Shi|

Independently of its intrin
this work has alwnys attracted
tention, from the fact that it '
ten by a member of the Engl
copal) Church, and approved
lales of that denomination
guished as Laud and Juxon.

As a matter of course, sut
was found to be " egregioml
lous" by the Puritans, wlio Im
it as nothing shortof a devlcei
And Henry Burton, minister
street, London, in a semioni'
and the King, denounced '■
travagant and popish passage)
and advised the people to b<
it." This was the begtnnin{
Iroversial war concerning Mil
Glory" that mnde it one of
notable works of the day.
pist should have written sud
might have ]>asscd without
but that a noble SUffonl of I
tonshire, a graduate of Ori
Oxford, and a staunch Char
land man, should have done I
was an irremissible sit

Staflbrd was distinguished
of letters, and wrote var~
works, most of them with qi
according to the taste of thai

yiobe dissolved into a A
his .igc drmvned in her
1611.

Heavenly Dogge: a Life
of thai Great Cynitk Ditgttb
Laertiiis slyled Cants Cat
Heavenly Dogge. 1615.

Tiie attacks of Burton
brougljt out A Short Apoi^
dication of a book eHtUUi
Glory, lie., which is repnUisl
fourth edition of 1S69.

The Femall Glory is > bool
uine English growth, entirely
imitation or adaptaiioDof find
and, beyond mere sketches of
meagre character, the ooly
the Blessed Virgin. It la *
a controversial point of vie

Foreigti Literary Notes,

43 »

tn&ting the clear and distinct acknow-
ledgment of the dignity and sanctity
oithe mother of God, as recognized by
English Protestants of that, with the
Episcopal Low Church views of the
present day. Citations might be made
from such men as Jeremy Taylor,
Bbhop Bull, Bishop Pearson, Archdea-
con Frank, and Archbishop Bramhall,
to show this conclusively. Not the
smallest charm about the book is the
odor of its quaint seventeenth century
tone of thought and expression. Thus,
in the preface " To the Feminine Rea-
der" she is told, " You are here present-
ed, by an extreme honourer of your Sexe,
with a Mirrour of Femall Perfection.
• . . By this, you cannot curie your
toes, fill up your wrinckles, and so
alter your Looks, that Nature, who made
yoo, knowes you no more, but utterly
fcfgets her owne Workmanship. By
tiiis, you cannot lay spots on your
&ces; but take them out of your
Soules, you may." Then there is
"The Ghyrlond of the Blessed Virgin
Marie."

" There are five letters in this blessed N ame,
Which, changed, a five-f(^ Mysterie designe ;
The M, the Myrtle, A, the Almoads clame,
R, Rose, I, Ivy, E, sweet Eglantme." '

That such a book should not find
^vor in the eyes of the London Athe-
^um^ is not surprising. The author
^ spiritual IVives and the recognizer
^ the Pope Joan fable as veritable his-
tory could scarcely be expected to re-
^gnize merit in such a work as the
-^^^/a// G/ory,

. -^ Slavonian Version of the Bible

'^^ow in preparation at Rome. The

^J'S^nal Slavonian text was the work

^ ^t Cyril and St. Methodus, apostles

.^ the Slavonians in the ninth century.

, ** "the lapse of years, the original text

*^ been seriously tampered with by

^Oallcd emendators and incompetent

^ ^l^jists, so that it is now very difficult

determine several important ques-

.^*^ concerning it Was the transla-

made from the Latin, the Greek,

^c Hebrew ? What class of manu-

y^^pts were used by these apostles ?
^ *^ich of the Slavonian dialects was
g^^ vehicle of the translation? And,
Ij^^^By, was the original version written
i^^lltlc or cyriUlc characters ?

The Staple of Biographical Notices
of Pope Sixtus v., is usually made
up of a series of stories, to the effect
that he was the son of ignorant parents
and himself a swineherd ; that he rose
by his talents to the dignity of cardinal,
and that, feigning extreme illness to the
point of appearing to be on the verge of
the grave from debility and disease, was
no sooner elected to the papacy than he
threw away his crutches and declared
himself perfectly restored to health.

These stories have found such favor
with compilers of historical books that
they have been carefully preserved in
spite of their want of confirmation by
contemporary historians. M. A. I.
Dumesnil has lately written a life of
Felix Peretti, Pope Sixtus V^, in
which he shows that his origin was not
low, and that he was allied to the best
families, short of nobility, of his province.
The stories of his illness, simulated
feebleness, and affected use of crutches,
be pronounces to be all fabulous, and
quotes Tempesti, one of the historians
of the conclave which elected Sixtus,
thus : *^ In electing Montalto pope,
still vigorous of years, since he had
reached only sixty-four and enjoyed a
robust and vigorous constitution, it was
felt certain that be would live long
enough to bury Famese and his parti-
sans.'' M. Dumesnil does not appear
to have added anything by research or
discovery to the materials already
known to be in existence, but has sim-
ply used the matter furnished by Tem-
pesti, Guerra, Fontana, and other Italian
historians, with skill and judgment
He bears testimony to the extraordi-
nary talent, judgment, and energy of
the great pontiff, whose reign of less
than five years was, unfortunately, too
short to complete the extensive reforms
commenced by him in the temporal
government of his territory. Sixtus V.
was remarkable for his energy in the
suppression of abuses, order and econo-
my in the public finances, and unbending
severity toward criminals, encourage-
ment of industry, an enlightened fond-
ness for the arts, as shown by numerous
monuments and his patronage of the
great architect, Fontana, and an inflexi-
ble determination to raise the holy see
from any dependence upon foreign
princes.

Fbrtign Littraty NaUs.

There is another Li/t of Sixtus in bilum anno 410. Tcxtum
preparation by Baron Hubner, formerly edidit Utine vertit notisque

Austrian Ambassador to France,
which he promises nuraerous documents,
French, Spanish, and English, never
yet published.

It will be remembered that in the
fifth century the Priscillinnisls, in those
countries infected with ihe Arian here-
sy, took unfair advantage of the special
ineation made by the Council of Con-
stantinople of thu first person of ihe
Trinity and of the omiiied mention of
the Son, Id maintain that the Son was
not consubstanlial with the Father.

Then followed the express insertion
of the word FiLiOQUE by decree of a
general council.

The history of the Greek schism
turns upon this point, and students of
church history will find high interest
and solid instruction in tracing the rea-
sons and circumstances connected with
the (act that, although this addition of
tilioqie really made no change in the
doctrine of the church, although in the
ninth century the western churches
usedJt,aRd yet I'ope Leo III. insisted
on the use in Rome of the form adopt-
ed by the fathers of Constantinople,
and although between the Greek and
the Latin churches there was no diver-
gence on this doctrinal point, neverthe-
less it was not until after the consum-
malioa of the schism of Photlus and
of Michael Ccrularius that the Greeks
liegAO to pretend that they had never
professed (his dogma.

Then follows the treatment of this
question by the councils of fourtti La-
terat), (izi$,) third Lyons, (1374,) and
that of Florence, (1439.)

Of course it will be seen that the im-
portance of the action of the Council
of Seleuda lies in the fact that it tt-as
composed of forty bishops, of whom
one, at least, was a member of the first
ecumenical council of Constantinople,
and that It was oUlcd at the instigation
and through the initiative of the Greek
Church herself

So thai, as the lawyers say, it docs
not lie in the moutli of the Greek
Church, at the present day, 10 say th.it
it is simply opposing a Latin innova-
tion.
0»uiJtlim Seleuda tt Ctetipkonli, ha-

T. J. Lamy. Lovanii, 1868.

From ancient Syrian lite
rich in works relative to the c
history, its discipline, and iti
the Abl>d Lamy, Professor at
versily of Louvain, has here
one of its most predous m
for translation and comment
remarkable for the charm of
tique simplicity of language L
fulness of ductritie, these fci
alone would almost suffice to
the complete symbolism of lh<
" Confitemur eliara "—thus
fathers of the Council of Se
'' Spiritum vivum et sanctum,
tum vivum. Qui EX PaTRE ET

un3 Trinitate, in una essentia
voluntate, ampteclcoles fidem
torum decem elocto Episcopor
definita fuil in url*e Nicca.
confessio nostra cl fides nosu
accepimus a Sanctis Patribi

In almost iraniediatc connect
what we here remark on the If
Lamy's book, we may mention!
Jaeobi Episcopi Edeiiem iif^^
Georgium Episeepum Sarugik
Ortkographia Syriaca, so wel^|
at least by reputation, to orlenq
lars, has at last been pubU
Leipsic, Assemanni and Mid^
quendy urged its printing, and I
Wiseman, who took astrong nai
dative interest in the work, sa
it at length in the first roluH
Hora Syriacir, (Rome, 1S18.) ]

Monsignor Giuliani, of Ven
published a work on public litJ
which he shows that the liba
Italy possess a greater numbd
umes than the libraries of any a
lion in the world. The Itslianl
number 6,000.000 of volumes ;i
4,389,000; Austria, 1.400,0001 I
2.040,ooo,Great Britain, 1,774,^ '
Ha, t.368.000; Russia, 881,09a 3
509,100. Collections of bocto if
scattered in Italy. Paris ht
all the library books in Fia
of the E»ro])ean capitals arc rl
most as great a propordon. I
not the case in Italy. Milan f
z;o.ooo volumes In the 1
and 155,000 in the AmblMlULl

THE

PHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. IX., No. 52.— JULY, 1869.

COLUMBUS AT SALAMANCA.

-« di te solo

Basti ai posteri tuoi ch'alquanto accume :

Che quel poco darii lunga memoria

Di poema dignissima e d'istoria.* GUrusaUmme LtberaiOt Tasso.

years since, a large his-
g was exhibited at the
Artists* Fund Associa-
ty of New York. Its
lounced, was " Colura-
; Council of Salaman-
ture was said to be a
:, and attracted much

represented the great
iding in the large hall

surrounded by monks
tics, foremost among
ree Dominican friars,
apparently worked
3 a paroxysm of anger,
s with gestures of vio-
ion. Grave, dignified,
stands the great Geno-
• among them, appa-
y reasonable being in
ge of ignorance and

victim he is evidently
ne. The pictorial les-
be conveyed was, clear-
as another Galileo busi-
i <f /«r si mturue sen-
jtition of the favorite

ne will pour diviner light ^
pages ; and thy feme inspire
e yet unborn, with more celestial
/isso*s JtTHuUtm DdtvereeL

IX— 28

amusement of all churchmen, which
every one knows to be the persecu-
tion of discoverers and the crushing
out of knowledge. And the warrant
for all this misrepresentation was said
to be found in the pages of Washing-
ton Irving*s History of Columbus,

Now, a perusal of those pages
shows that, although Mr. Irving com-
mitted a grave historical blunder in
describing a << council of Salamanca "
that had no existence, he neverthe-
less expressly excepts from any charge
of ignorance and intolerance that
may be implied from his language
these very Dominican monks who,
in Mr. Kaufifman's historical picture,
are made the foremost and most vio-
lent in their denunciation of Colum-
bus.

"When Columbus," says Irving,
"began to state the grounds of his
belief, the friars of St. Stephen's (Do-
minicans) alone paid attention to him^
that convent being more learned in
the sciences than the rest of the uni-
versity. The others appear to have
intrenched themselves behind (me
dogged proposition."

In the entire range of Eng^Ush art

494

ColMtnius at SalamoMea.

and literature so fimily have some
of the most offensive forms of anti-
Catholic prejudice become rooted,
that, whenever any prominent histo-
ricql character or incident comes in
contact with the Catholic Church the
o(^:asion is seixcd, right or wrong,
with or without authority, and often
in the very teeth of history, to exem-
phfy some phase of what people are
pleased to call popish ignorance and
persecution. Under the dark pall
of bigotr)- that has so long oversha-
dowed the genius of English litera-
ture, events which, in: honest truth,
should and do redound to the honor
of the CaihoSic Church and its hier-
archy as protectors of knowledge and
promoters of nohle enterprises have
been, by a species of literary legerde-
main, wrested into so many evidences
of their intolerance.

More than any country, England
has furnished astounding and rqiul-
rive proijfs of the truth of Count De
Maistre's assertion that " History is
a vast conspiracy against truth."
With uplifted hands, dripping with
the blood of the innocent, she accuses
other nations of murder. With a sta-
tute-book black with intolerance and
suppression of knowledge, she talks
complacently of the rights of con-
science and the blessings of educa-

In a lecture on Daniel O'Connell,
delivered in Brooklyn on the fifth
of March last, the distinguished ora-
tor, Wendell Phillips, of Boston, with
all his eloquence, appeared almost
2t a loss fittingly to qualify, by dc-
■cription and illustration, the frightful
tyranny of Protestant England against
Catholic Ireland, as eiLemplified in
the diabolical ingenuity of the means
by which she sought to '■ stamp out "
Irish nationality and annihilate Ca-
tholicity. And, Mr. Thillips might
have added, she was as consistently
bigoted at home as in Ii:elaDd.

> taught i

Here, the poor hedge

if a Catholic, who

a b c, was, for the first ol

ject to banishment, and
cond, to be ium^rd ai a/eU
when (he Univcrsily of
aaked to confer tl^e h^noi
of A.M. on Alban F
Uenedictine, he was rudd
back, solely for the reason
was a Catholic, And yet ]
university had shortly befoc
red the same degree on — a
medan ! The old dbtich
trite, but on that occasion it
true:

■• TxttV. ;«■. «

Hulnola

It is a memorable fact
Isaac Newton particular!
guished himself by active
tion in this piece of bigi
actually suspended the pi
for the juress of his liii
lent all the influence of hi
and his great name in ordi
Englishman, distinguished
virtues and his learning,
because he was a Catholi<
the cheap recognition of
rary degree of a Protestai
sily. And Newton's Engli
phcr coolly states that
circumstance, perhaps, as
the personal merit of Ni
induced the univeisity to
the following year, to serve
representative in parliamenL'

But space fails us to dird
subject, and we desire merdj
die fact that, so thorough!
spirit of intolerant and-Ci
permeated English literaturt
expression, in some shap^
slantly found at the point
pens of many who ore p
unconscious of any such inl
'Ilie spirit we refer to so tb
pervades every department ;
ture — history, ' '

story, biogTODta^^fl

Columbus at Salamanca,

435

^^ philosophy — that from youth to
o\d. age it is unconsciously infiltrated
into the mental processes of every
one «rho uses the English language
as a means of acquiring or communi-
cating knowledge. Even ' as we
write, an instance of this presents
itselfl Here is a passage from the
editorial columns of a leading daily,
published in Brooklyn, the third city
of the Union : " — ^the church so long
deemed the enemy of human freedom
and intellectual progress, which im-
prisoned Galileo, atid tried to thwart
Columbus in putting the girdle of her
ancient faith around the world"!
And yet the article from "which this
extract is made is evidently written
in a spirit that its author honestly
supposes to be one of entire freedom
from religious prejudice. The church
tried to thwart Columbus! That is
the main idea of the passage quoted,
as it was also the inspiration of the
Kauffinan painting. Such ideas and
sadi inspiration are the result of
general prejudice and a foregone
conclusion.

Of course we are aware of the ac-
commodating pliability of the term
**the church," as used by writers
who have anything disagreeable or
fekc to say of Catholicity. "The
church" b, by turns, a council, the
Pppe, the cardinals, the inquisition, a
"^op or two, a knot of priests,
betimes only one, a king, a vice-
^y> a barefooted friar, a dying nun,
^ even a simple layman. It is real-
V difficult and discouraging to deal
*Jth people who either cannot or
^ not abide by some standard of
leaning for words whose proper ac-
^tance is well defined and recog-

.^n the case of Columbus these

^^representations are the more re-

°^^>fcible for the reason that there is

^ Wstory of the discovery of Ameri-

^ no biography of Columbus, how-

ever imperfect, however prejudiced
it may be, from whose perusal the
student can arise with any other con-
viction than that Columbus, so far
from being thwarted, was, on the
contrary, enabled to succeed in ob-
taining from Spain the means to fit
out his expedition only, wholly, and
solely by reason of the encourage-
ment and aid he received from friars,
priests, bishops, and cardinals !

From the moment he set foot on
Spanish soil until he sailed from Pa-
los the generous sympathy and brave
advocacy of churchmen never for-
sook him. Never for a moment did
they waver in their appreciation of
his noble nature, his sincere piety,
and the merit of his enterprise. From
the Dominicans cloistered in St. Ste-
phens to Luis de St. Angel, high trea-
surer at the royal court; from the
saintiy hermit of La Rabida to the
grand Cardinal Mendoza, ("a man
of sound judgment, quick intellect,
eloquent and able," says Washington
Irving,) in all are found the same
generous enthusiasm and unwavering
boldness in their support of the
strange sailor's enterprise.

And now, should Mr. Kauffinan,
or any other artist, desirous of paint-
ing a great picture without pander-
ing to a taste as false in art as in his-
tory, desire to select a striking inci-
dent from the history of Columbus,
we beg leave to suggest that, without
flying in the face of truth, he may
find it among the following historical
incidents :

First. Pedro Gonzalez de Mendo-
za, in appearance lofty and venera-
ble, of generous and gende deport-
ment, pleading the cause of Colum-
bus before the queen.

Second. The fiiar Diego de Deza
aiding Columbus in sore necessity
from his own scant piu'se.

Third. Juan Perez, prior of the
convent of La Rabida, remonstrating

with Columbus against abandoning
his great enteqirise and quitting
Spain.

Fourth. The same prior saddling
a mule at midnight to confront the
dangers of mountain passes, and an
enemy's country, in order to intercede
for Columbus mth the queen at San-
ta Vi.

Fifth. The same noble monk
pleading the cause of Columbus be-
fore the queen with such chivalrous
enthusiasm that "Isabella never
heard tlie proposition urged with
such honest zeal and impasaoned
eloquence."

Sixth. Another noble ecclesiastic,
Luis de St Angel, who, rivalling
Isabella's magnanimity, met the
queen's noble offer to pledge her
crown jewels to raise the necessary
funds for Columbus's expedition with
the assurance that she need not, for
lie would advance the money.

But to return to the " council of
Salamanca." The word council pre-
sents the idea of a solemn ecclesiasti-
cal assemblage : not a committee, not
a board, not a junto ; but something
grand, elevated in dignity and large
in numbers. When you say " coun-
cil." every one, instinctively, imag-
ines a crowd of mitres and episcopal

With that "fatal facility" which
is the banc of historical composition
Irving has given us an entire chap-
ter of nine pages describing this
famous " council," its debates, and
its proceedings, and from this chap-
ter has gradually, although — we
must in justice to Mr. Irving say —
Mnwarrantably, grown up a story
that, by dint of thirty years' repetition,
has almost acquired the dignity of
.an historical fact. That Prescotl
dlould have followed Irving is not
surprising. That Lamartinc should
have disdained reference to histori-
cal sources and spoken of Spain of

the fifteenth cent
derful Siifu gene
form and subsUnce,th^
iheosis of Robespierre and
history of the Girondins, in
is, of course, a florid da
" the last banquet," (vfh
took place,) is still less ,
But that a Spaniard and
historian, Don Modesto
should have written an
page in the history of lu
on the word of an entire i
astounding.

The whole of chapter
part of chapter fourth o
Zi/e and Voyages pf Chrisi
/uml'Us are devoted to " the
Irving represents Ferdlnao
mined to take the opinii
most learned men in the
and be guided by their
Ferdinand de Talavera, " i
most erudite men of Spain
in the royal confidence,"
manded to consult the mo
astronomers, etc. After
informed themselves full J
subject, they were to comull
and make a report to the
their collective opinion. Al
disquisition on the condition
and science at that time, Ir
on to say ; " Such was 1
when a council of derical
convened in the collegiatQ
of St. Stephen to invcsti
new theory of Columbus,
composed of professors of aj
geography, mathematics, 3
branches of science, togel
various dignitaries of the
learned fnars. . . . Al
number who were convince
reasoning and wanned bjr
quence of Columbus was ]
Deaa, a worthy and Icsmet!
the order of St. Dominick.
ed for Columbus a
not an unprejudiced

Columbus at Saiamanca.

437

speab of the assembled body as
"this learned junto," and says that
occasional conferences took place,
but without producing any decision.

** Talavcra, to whom the matter
was specially entrusted, had too little
esteem for it, and was too much
occupied to press it to a conclusion,
and thus the inquiry experienced
continual procrastination and neg-
lect."

So far the third chapter of Irving.
It is a remarkable fact that, for all
the important statements concerning
the "council," Irving cites but one
autliority, Remesal, referring to book
il chapter 27, and book xi. chapter
7. In an endeavor to verify these
citations we find that book ii. has but
twenty-two chapters, and the pas-
»-ge referred to in book xi. chapter 7
is not there, but in book ii. chapter
7* But it is more than singular that
Irving should refer to Remesal at
aB on that subject. Remesal was
& learned Dominican monk and his
work is a History of the Provinces of
Ckiapa and Guatemala, (America.)
His book was completed in 1609,
*nd first published in 16 19. Person-
lily, he was separated from the
events at Salamanca by a space of
one hundred and twenty years. He
^ not writing the history of Spain
jtt 1487, and what he says concern-
ing Salamanca is merely incidental,
unquestionably correct though it be.
Thus, he states that, with the aid of
^ Dominicans, Columbus brought
^*w the most learned men of the
nniversity^ and among the numerous
*^laims to greatness of the convent
^ St Stephen was that of ha\ing
"^^ the principal cause of the dis-
^ery of the Indies.*
"To return to Irving. He relates

^. . » con el fiivw des los Religiotos rediuo a su
?~^V»iia]ftofm Letndot delactcuela. . .
r"? ^ mndnt gnindoas . . una es arer tido
•^acipdocMioo dd deacubriimeiito de las Indiaa.'*

in chapter 4 that the ** consultations
of the board (first it was the council,
then "this learned junto") at Sala-
manca were interrupted by the Spa-
nish campaign against Malaga, be-
fore that learned body could come
to a decision, and for a long time
Columbus was kept in suspense,
vainly awaiting the report that was to
decide the fate of his application."
It thus appears that the opinion of
the council was not sufficiently ad-
verse to Columbus to report at once
and unfavorably of his project Then
followed the spring campaign of
1487, the siege of Malaga, August,
1487. "In the spring of 1489,"
says Irving, "Columbus was sum-
moned to attend a conference of
learned men to be held at the city of
Seville."

But if a firesh conference is to de-
cide, what then was the value of the
Salamanca council by whose deci-
sion, as Mr. Irving informed us a few
pages back. King Ferdinand had re-
solved to be guided ?

" In 1490, Ferdinand and Isabella
entered Seville in triumph. Spring
and summer wore away. At court
was Fernando de Talavera, the pro-
crastinating arbiter of the pretensions
of ColumbusP So then the arbiter
was Talavera, not the council, which,
so far from condemning, have not
yet, at the end of four years, given
any decision concerning the affair of
Columbus.

The higher we remount with the
authorities toward the epoch of " the
council" the less do we find concern-
ing it and concerning Salamanca.
The chroniclers of their CathoHc
majesties, Hernando del Pulgar,
Galindez, Carvajal, and others, make
no mention of it, and Peter Martyr,
Lucio Siculo, Gonzalez de Oviedo,
Lopez de Gomara, and Sohs are
equally silent on the subject

It must be borne in mind, with re-

Coiumimr at Saimmanfa.

gard to Columbus, that historical cer-
tainty begins really with the siege of
Granada, in 1492. Everything pre-
ceding that epoch is traditi0n.1l. often
vague and uncertain, and seldom sup-
ported by documentary evidence. A
council at Salamanca hdd by royal
order would have been authorued hy
special edict or decree. There was
none. Neither was there any regular
delegation to the univereiiy, no com-
luission oiScially installed, no interro-
gatories, nor regLsters, nor records,
followed by a definitive decree. The
college and convent of St. Stephen
(Etominican) was only one college of
the many at Salamanca constituting
the university. If such a council as
Irving describes had ever been held
there, reference to recorded proceed-
ings, and a final decision in its ar-
chives, or in those of St. Stephen, could
long since have been made.

The truth is that the only authority
for any statements concerning a com-
mittee of cosmographers is a pos-
eage in the life of the grand admiral.
written by his son Fernando Colimi*
bus. As already remarked, the
nearer we approach the period of the
pretended *' council " the less we hear
about it. Herrera. whose sagacity,
impartiality, and fidelity are univi--fs;il-
ly recognized, thus relates the matter
of the cosinographers, but not once
does he mention " council " or " Sala-
manca," He says (ist Dec book i,
chap, vii.) "that Columbus's suit was
so home pressed (y tanto se porfi6
en ello) that their Catholic majesties,
giving some attention to the affair,
referred it to fether Ferdinand dc T.1I-
avera. He (Talavera) hdd a meeting
of cosraographers who debated about
it, (qui confirieron en ello,) but there
being few then of that profession in
Castile, and those none of the best
in the world, and besides Columbus
would not altogether explain himself,
lest he should be served as he had

been in Portugal," they
resolution nothing answerable
he had expected."

Herrera follows FerdinanrI
bus very closely ; adopting, id
passages, his very woitk. Vt
makes no mention of SalamaiM
expressly that the cosmog
were called altogether by T\
and that Columbus held ti
most important proofe lest v
happened him in Porti^al mi
happen him in Spain, {ah ia
raglio si volea lasciai tamo
che gli avenissc quel, che
gallo gli avvennc et gli urbai
beniditione.)

Fernando Columbus w
learning and ability, and his hi
of great value. Unfortunatl
work, as he wrote it, is lost,
of course, in the Sjiani^ la
It is said that a son of ins
Diego took the MS. to Geito*
it was translated into Italian
version now used in Spam b
laied from the Italian, and ab
errors. There is a very go(
of the Italian edition (Vcnic
in the Asior library.

Munoz, the Spanish nation
nan who followed HHTera
cedes Navarelte.wasa scholat
merits, talents, and liberal acrii
He was indefatigable in reseai
being royal historiographer I
access to all the records ol
He says that Talavera 1
sioned to examine the enterpi
cosmographers, and gtv«

of PoUupU tolunibu

Ihc cQnudrnitiDq <if Ibi n

ofhii propqtrd tart^^m... .^^

Columbus at SalamoHca.

439

ion. As the court happened that
winter to be at Salamanca, they met
there. It is to be regretted that no
record exists of the conferences that
took place in the Dominican convent
of St Stephen, fix)m which to form
an opinion of the condition of mathe-
matics and astronomy in the univer-
sity so famous in the fifteenth cen-
tury. // is clear^ nevertheless^ that
Ca/itmbtis established his propositions^
pragiitced his proofs, and niet every ob-
jc4:/ion*

Alunoz {Historia del Nuevo Mundo,
pp. 57, 58, 59) continues : " Los domi-
nie anos poner entre sus glorias el
hal>er hospedado en San Esteban al
descubridor de las Indias, dadole de
comer y otros auxilios para seguir sus
pretensiones; y sobra todo el haber
estado por su opinion en equellas dis-
putas, y atraido k su partido los pri-
Hieros hombres de la escuela. £n lo
qual attribuyen la principal parte d
Yray Diego Deza. . . . cuyo autori-
dad. . . . contribuy6 mucho para
los creditos y acceptacion de la em-
presa."f

Only a few 3rears since, in 1858,
Don Domingo Doncel y Ordar, of
Salamanca, published a memoir in
vUch he refiites the statements of
Inring.

A conference of cosmographers
doubtless was held, but it was not of
the nature described by Irving and

** TaUven i quien los rejes encar^ron la comi-

"*i^ jonUr i los tujetis habiln in cosmojcrafia, para

^■■Mr U empresa, y dar su paraceo. Formose la

J<||IU e& Salamanca, quixi per el invierno estando

""^coite. Es lastima quo no hayan quidado docu-

^'"^xde las ^putas que ae tuYieroa en el convento

^KUdominiicnios d« San Eatel>an para formar jnicio

"I ""lido de las nufeematicas y astronomia en aquella

^^H^f^dad ftinosa en el aiglo XV. Coustu que

7 *'* »en taban sua proposiadones, ezponla sus fun-

^*J*»*i« y salis&di i las dificoltades.

*Tiie Dominicans are justly proud of the hospltali-

/|***^ by them in their convents to the discoY

I^^Annrica, entertaining bin, and providing him

^ «1 ihings necessary to pursue his projects ; and

^**> ofhaving declared for him in the argument,

^'•^—tr to his sfde the first men of the univer-

^ ^«U which the great merit is due to Diego de

^"^OK influence contribntad greatly to the appre-

'"^adopikm of tlw caiMpme.

those who copy him, nor was it a
" council " with which the university
of Salamanca had any official con-
nection whatever.

The archives, documents, and regis-
ters of the university have been
searched with the most thorough dili-
gence, and not a trace of the council
is on record. The registers in particu-
lar, admirably kept and carefully pre-
served, were commenced in 1464 and
record incidents almost insignificant
in interest, but make no mention of
such a meeting or council as Irving
speaks of. In this connection it is
matter of surprise that such writers as
Rosselly De Lorgues and Cadoret
should still be chasing the phantom
of this Salamanca council. The lat-
ter says that its decree was rendered
five years after its first meeting, and
De Lorgues supposes it probable
that its records may yet be found in
the archives of Simancas. If there
had been any decision against Co-
lumbus by a body at all approaching
the dignity and importance of the
university of Salamanca, he would
have immediately quitted Spain, nev-
er to return. But we find him leav-
ing Salamanca strong in the support
of its first scholars, of the entire body
of Dominicans, and of the papal nun-
cio.

That King Ferdinand should have
directed Talavera to take the opinion
of cosmographers is perfectly natural.
This temporizing and shufiiing treat-
ment of Columbus v^ould lead him
to do anything that would gain time
and put Columbus off. Even Isa-
bella was evidently desirous of pro-
crastinating until a successful termi-
nation of the siege of Granada should
enable them to act in the matter.

Reference to a committee or a
board for the sake of delay indefinite
is not an invention of the nineteenth
century. It is as old as, if not older
than, the period of Columbus. That

Columbus should, an his son Fernan-
do relates, have hcsitate<l to explain
himself fully, was natural, and indeed
inevitable. And with that hesitation
there must have been a shade of dis-
dain in his manner. It looks very
much as though he had reserved his
best, most cogent reasons for the pri-
vate ear of his special friends the
Dominicans, who were endiusiasti-
cally the advocates of his enterprise.

We see Columbus leaving Sala-
manca not cast down and defeated,
but serene and with all the courage
of confirmed conviction. The noble
Piego dc Deia conducts him to the
presence of Ferdinand and Isabella,
and we soon afterward hear the
hum of preparation at Palos.

The latest historian of Columbus,
Mr, Arthur Helps, separated from
Washington Irving by a period of
some forty years, is credited with
ability, and great industry and re-
search. He certainly has the advan-
tage of extensive and successful dis-
coveries of documents concerning
Columbus made in Spain wldiin that
period, It would be but reasonable,
therefore, to look for the throwing of
much additional light and interesting
details on so capital an incident as
■' the council of Salamanca." Here
Is the account given of it by Mr,
Helps in his Li/ir of Columiius, pub-
lished since the commencement of the
present year ;

"Amid the clang of arms and (he bustle
.of warlike pteparation, Coiumbiit was not
likely to Dbtain more than a slight and su-
pcrlicial altcniion lo a matter wbich must
Olive seemed temrite and uncertain.

•■Indeed, when it b considered that the
jDoat pressing internal afEurs of kingdoms
are neglected by the writcst rulers in times
of war, it is wonderful thai he succeeded in
nbtaining any audience at all. However,
'he was fortunate enough to find at once a
friend in the treasurer of the househotd,
Alonio de Quintilla, a man who, like hintself,
toiA. delight in great things -uid who obtiin-
.ed a hearing far htm from the Spaniiti mou-
srchs. Ferdinand »ud Isabella did not dis-

miss him abruptlf. On the

said iliey listened kindly i Mtd tl
ence endc J *cM«> re/emng ikt &m
guetn't eoii/isior, Fra Hirnatde de
who WRS aftcrwArds archbishop of
This impottanc Aniclionary aui
junta of cosmographcn (not a pr«
semlilage 1] to consult about ikc
this junta wu convened at Salam^
summer of ihe yew 1487.

" Here was a Me|) gained ; thv 1
phers were to consider his scheia
merely to conuder whether it 1
taking into consideration. But I
possible for the jury to be im(
All inventors, to aceitajn extent, I
contemporaries by accusing them'
ly and ignorance And the coantj
pedants, accustomed to beaten
Rented the heresy by whith this
was attempting to overthrow thd
centuries. They thonght ihal so '
soni, wise in nautical mattei^, «s
ceded the Genoese mariner, n
have overlooked such an idea u
had presented itself to his ntlc
over, as the learning of the niidd
sided for the most part in the a
members ofthe junta were princ
cal, and combined to crOsh Col)
theological objections. , . ,
displays his usual scuteness «rh
that Ihe great difficulty of Coli
not that of teaching, but that of u
not of promulgating his own thei_
eradicating the erroneous convicti
judges before whom he had to
cause. In line, the junta dcdda
project wu ' vain and impoctibli
it did not belong to the maje«
great princes to determine anjrt
such weak grounds of infoimatioi

Slender materiat, all diis, f
er Kautfman painting! H<
council sunk to a junta — a
cosmographers — ntrt an aa
of theologians to decide 1
church thought about ihc pn
a junta of men supposed
something of geography and
formation of the globe I 1^
logical objections " referred
Helps were precisely the op
of Columbus's greatest triutn
ing him occasion to reveal h
friends and enemies in a
ver suspected to exist in

Columbus at Salamauca,

441

^t many traditions in Spain concern-
ing "Palmirante"* — traditions support-
ed by his own writings and the testi-
mony of such men as Las Casas —
none are so well established as those
that recount the eloquent inspiration
of Columbus in citing or commenting
the Scriptures. His perfect familiarity
with them was not more admirable
than his majesty of manner in de-
claiming their grandest passages.

Luther, as we learn from that re-
markable book, D'Aubign^'s History
of the Reformation, discovered, unex-
pectedly discovered, to his great joy
and surprise, a Bible chained to a
window in the conventual library!
Could not some modem D'Aubign^
inform us how it was that an obscure
Italian sailor could have happened
^OQ a Bible in such countries as
Italy, Portugal, and Spain, could have
^«en permitted to read it — more than
^ that, could have had the temerity
to quote it to the very face of monks,
^d priests, and, worse still, show
Aem that he knew as much about it
fs they did ? We commend the sub-
ject to the D'Aubignfe editors.
^ In saying that, in our belief, the
•ifc of Columbus has yet to be writ-
ten, we express no new opinion.

In this connection it is well re-

**^ed by the Marquis De Belloy,

Aat the best history of Christopher

0)lumbus would be the collecdon of

"B own writings accompanied by

^^mentaries. Literary and biblio-

gaphical research and labor in Spain

^ve succeeded in collecting nearly

*^foything that Columbus wrote from

^ year 1492 up to the period of

^ death, and their publication is

**^^ to show this truly grand char-

^ in his true light. Were Colum-

°* simply a man of genius, an or-

^'Mwldi nyt that whenever a Spaniard men-
iJ^ Almimmif, he refiera to but one, namely, Co-
^w'VJvik at Ae Mexicant, when they tpcak of
■J?***** Bcan Corteii and the Florentiae^ wken
^^^UStfrHmri^ mean Maochiavelli.

dinary history would suffice to recount
his life. But his soul was as great as
his genius, and such a soul is its own
best revelation. Next to the accom-
plishments of his great project, the
discovery of a new world beyond the
ocean, a world he distinctly saw, his
dominant thought was — with the
wealth that must necessarily be ob-
tained from it — to reconquer and
deliver from pagan hands the sep-
ulchre of our Saviour !

Profane history and modem im-
piety instinctively smile at such sim-
plicity. Mr. Rosselly De Lorgues is
one of the very few who have ren-
dered justice to the religious phase of
the character of the great mariner,
and he shows that in Columbus con-
stancy, perseverance, braver)', and
honor were not more marked than
elevated Catholic piety.

To conclude with Salamanca, there
is no more searching, truthful, and elo-
quent commentary on its results than
the language of Columbus himself,
for he has recorded it. We quote
from Navarette (Madrid edition) vol.
i. p. xcii. :

" Diego de Deza " — the Dominican
monk — " was his (Columbus's) special
protector with Ferdinand and Isabel-
la, and mainly contributed to the suc-
cess of his enterprise; referring to
this, Columbus himself said that from
his coming into Castile that pre-
late (Deza) had protected him, had
striven for his honor, and to him was
it due that their majesties possessed
the Indies."*

For this passage Navarette quotes
Remesal, Historia di Chiapa e Gua-
temala, A very characteristic per-
formance in Navarette! It was im-
possible for him to avoid referring to
what Columbus had said, and he
weakens the force of it by not cre-

* " Por lo cual decia el mismo Colon que dttde que
vino i CastUla le habia favoreddo aquel prelado y
deaeado «i honora, y qua el (ue causa v>e S& AA«
tuviesen lai Indiaa.*'

443

Daybreak.

diting it at once and directly to the
proper authority, Las Casas — citing
Las Casas*s own words.

For Remesal expressly says that he
takes it from Las Casas, (lib. i. al
medio del cap. 29 :) *' Y assi (dize) en
carta escrita de su mano de Christobal
Colon vide que dezia al Rey : Que el
suso dicho Maestro del Principe, Arco-
bispo de Sevilla D.F. Diego Dezaavia
^do causa que los Reyes ahrassen las
IndiasJ^

. It is one thing to be told that
Remesal uses the language cited by
Navarette, and quite another thing

to learn from Las Casas
had seen a letter written li^
bus himself^ in which he told
of Spain that their majest
their possession of the Itidii
Dominican monk Diego de D
Nothing, however, need su
from a historian who underl
desperate task of extenuat
notorious injustice of Ferdii
ward Columbus. In its e
Navarette has needlessly and
fully outraged the truth of
and the memoiy of the Gr
coverer.

DAYBREAK.

CHAPTER VIII.

TUX LORD ANSWERED JOB OUT OF A
WHIRLWIND.

Mr. Southard was perfectly confi-
dent in his expectation of being able
to convince Miss Hamilton of her
mistake. He knew her well enough
to be sure that she would fearlessly
acknowledge her error as soon as it
should be made plain to her; and he
did not doubt that the power to pro-
duce that conviction on her mind
would be given him.

He would not allow that first
twinge of wounded personal pride
and dignity of office, with which he
had seen how light she held his au-
tliority in matters of religion, to stand
in the way of his endeavors. The
first dignity of his office was to per-
form its duties. Exacting respect was
secondar)'.

Mr. Southard had one confident:

his journal. The day the boc
left on his table he wrote in it
night I am to read Milner's
Controversy. O my God ! ma;
it by the light of thy Gospel !
ray of heavenly truth fall c
page, expose its hidden falsehc
teach me how best to prove th
hood to this stray lamb who 1;
lured from thy fold into the
the wolf."

Two or three days pass
book was read, and read aga
the refutation was not read
Southard was too honest a
manly to think that persona
was a proper answer to the<
argument. He remembere
when St. Michael set his foe
the neck of Satan, and chain
to the rock, he did not use
weapons, or walk in loathsom<
but his sword was tempered
ven, and there was no mire u
sandals.

Dayhredk.

443

•'When I fight for the Loid," the
mixiister said, " I will use the weapons
xiT the Lord."

Be laid aside the first book, and
took another. Again a few days,
atxmci yet he was not prepared to un-
d<:?x-mine his adversary.

'''I am astonished at the ingenuity
airici subtlety of these writers," was
thft^ record he made in those days.
" AJl the resources of minds richly
do'^vered by nature, highly cultivated
by- education, and inspired by some
stira.nge infatuation for what they call
tb^ church, have been brought to
beaj upon this question of polemics.
How skilfully they mingle truth with
felschood! What beautifiil, what
t<>\aching, what sublime sentiments they
<irop in places where one would not
P> save so lured I It reminds me of
iDt^y boyish days, when the scarlet blos-
•o»n of a cardinal-flower would entice
Ae down steep banks, and into dan-
gerous waters, or some bloomy patch
^ ripe berries would draw my feet
iiUo a treacherous swamp. I begin
to perceive the attraction which the
^oman Church exercises on the un-
wary."

It will be perceived that Mr. South-
^ had the rare courtesy not to use
^e word ** Romish." He was so
i&uch a gendeman that he could not
call nicknames, not even in theologi-
cal controversy.

But as his days of study lengtheh-
^ bto weeks, a change came over
^ The obstacles in his way made
nnn nervous, feverish, and, it must be
^J^ned, rather ill-tempered. His po-
etical opposition to Mr. Lewis was
, *^res8cd with unusual asperity. He
i ^ very haughty with Miss Hamil-
^ He entirely absented himself
"•*> luncheon, and he sometimes
**^ out, rather than sit beside that
•^g papist who was doubtless tri-
•**phing over him in her heart, tak-
) t Us silence for defeat He groan-

ed as he heard her light step pass his
door every morning on her way to
eariy mass. That step was his tiveil.
Should he, the Gospel watchman,
sleep while the foe was awake and at
work?

" Why cannot truth inspire as much
ardor as error awakens?" he wrote
one morning. "Why cannot we bring
back the old days of faith, when God
was to man a power, and not a
name; when the tables of the law
were stone to the touch; when he
who made flood, and fire, and death
was more terrible than flood, fire, or
death ? The author of Ecce Homo is
right; no virtue is safe that is not en-
thusiastic. A cold religion is a worth-
less religion. O Lord ! have mercy
on Zion; for it is time to have mercy
on it."

But, angry as he was with her eve-
ry morning, when Mr. Southard met
Margaret coming in again fl-om mass,
her face smiling, her cheeks red fix)m
the cold, he could but forgive her.
It is hard to frown on a bright face,
happiness looks so much like good-
ness.

Mr. Granger took notice of these
early walks, Mr. Lewis alternately
scowled upon and laughed at them.
Mrs. Lewis and Aurelia exclaimed.
How dared she go out alone before
light !

The wicked people, if there were
any, were all asleep, Miss Hamilton
said, sitting down to breakfast with a
most unromantic appetite, and a gen-
eral preponderance of rose-color and
sparkle in her countenance. At six
o'clock on wmter mornings no one
was abroad but papists and police-
men. It was the safest hour of tlie
twenty-four.

"My good angel and I just go
about our business, and nobody mo-
lests us," she said with a spice of
mischief; for the mention of anything
peculiarly Catholic usually had the

444

Daybreak.

effect of producing a blank silence,
and a general elongation of visage.

" But such a magnificent spectacle
as I saw this morning ! I came home
round the Common. The sleet-stonn
of last evening had left all the trees
crusted with ice to the very tips of
their twigs, and set an ice-mitre on
every individual arrow-head of the
iron fence. There were the ghosts
of all the bishops from Peter down.
There wasn't any sky, but only a vast
crystalline distance. I took my
stand on the Beacon and Charles
street comer. Every other person
who was so happy as to be out look-
ed also. Then the sun came up.
Park street steeple caught fire at the
ball, and flamed all the way down.
There was a glimmer on the topmost
twigs, then the trees all over the Com-
mon were in an instant transfigured
into flashing diamonds. The malls
were enough to put your eyes out —
nothing but glitter from end to end.
It was a grand display for the frost-
people. The trees will talk about it
all next summer."

The winter slipped away ; and Mr.
Southard had not fulfilled his promise
to Miss Hamilton. Neither had he
relinquished his studies. Shut up with
his books hour after hour and day af-
ter day, in silence and soHtude, he
scarcely knew how the world fared
without. For him the war had sud-
denly dwindled. Through long and
weary vigils that wore his face thin
and his eyes hollow, he studied, and
thought, and prayed, not the humble
petition of one who places himself
before God, and passively awaits an
inspiration, but the impassioned and
fiery petition of one who w^ill not
doubt the justice of his cause, and
will not be denied. Then, leaning
from the window to cool his heated
eyes and head in the fresh early
dawning, a peace that was half ex-
haustion would settle upon him.

Sleep came pitifully in those
and pressed on the throbbing
too much expanded by though
for a little while soothed the toi
ed heart.

His journal bore traces c
conflict.

" I will resist the seduction !
is my time of trial; but I wil
quer! In the name of God,
yet confound the doctors of th
man Church. O God! who
nerve the arm of David again;
liath, strengthen thou me !'*

At every step he was b
Catching at what appeared a
theological weed, thinking to 1
out of his way, he found it i
like an oak. Approaching d(
with the expectation of cutting
down like men of straw, he wa
fronted by mailed giants.

He found himself among c
and clouds of Catholic saints-
do ws, he called them — that woi
from his path when he should h<
the torch of truth. But, looking i
light, he saw steadfast eyes, and
ing foreheads, and palm-bra
that brushed his shrinking, k
hands. And out from among
with a look of gende humilit)
smote him like a blow, and v
tremulous radiance gathering
her pure forehead, came one ^
he had frowned upon, and strii
discrown. What was she sa
'' All nations shall call me bles
Not great, not glorious, not
lovely, but blessed!

" Well — she — ^was blessed," s
ted the minister.

The next moment he starte<
of his chair, muttered some kii
exorcism, caught his hat, and
out for a walk. Though it wa*
April, a north wind was blc
thank heaven for that! Nc
murky about the north wini
would soon blow away all thes

Daybreak.

44S

tifential vapors that came up from the
sun-steeped lowlands of his soul ; pa-
gan places where, though his icono-
clastic will had again and again gone
about breaking images, no sooner did
it rest than there they were again, Bac-
chus, and Hebe, and Diana, and the
rest. Or from yet more dangerous
beoause more deceptive regions, wide,
brig^ht solitudes of the soul, arid and
dsLzzling, where the unobstructed sky
secMned to lean upon the earth — the
regrion of mirages, of New Jerusalems,
tha.t shone and crumbled — of sacred-
seeming streams that fled from thirs-
ty lips— of cool shadows that never
were reached.

Xn one of these impetuous walks,

Kir. Southard came across an old

minister, and went into his study

willi him, and told him something of

bis difficulties. . He was too well

airare of his own excitement to ven-

tGLTe on a full explanation. More-

wer, there was something soothing

Uid silencing in the look of this man,

i& his tranquil, rather sad expression,

^ noble face, and snowy hair.

The old doctor leaned back in his
Aair, and calmly listened while his
younger brother spoke, smiling indul-
SCQtly now and then at some vivid
^um of expression, some flash of the
^es, some impatient gesture.

Elderly ministers were always
Pfeased with Mr. Southard, who
^^d ask advice and instruction of
^^^cm with a docility that was almost
^*3dlike. Such respect was very
Pheasant to those who seemed to
■*vc &llen upon evil days, who saw
^ prestige of the ministry departing,
^ Whom boys had ceased to take off
"^^ caps, to whom even women did
^ look up as of yore.

**Myd«ur brother," said the doc-

** gently when the other had ceased

I TP^'^Sy '' you have made a mistake

I * ittempting this work. I tell you

K *^BUy, we can never argue down the

Catholic Church. All the old theo-
logians know that, and avoid the
contest For perfect consistency
with itself, and for wonderful com-
plexity yet harmony of structure, the
world has not seen, and will not
again see its equal. It is the master-
work of the arch-enemy."

" So much the more reason why
we should attack it with all our
might !" exclaimed the other.

" No," replied the doctor, " That
does not follow. There are dangers
which must be shimned, not met;
and this is one. As with wine, so
with Romanism, < touch not, taste
not, handle not !' "

" That might be said tp the laity,"
Mr. Southard persisted. "But for
us who teach theology, we ought to
search, we ought to examine. It is
essential that we know the weapons
of our adversary in order to destroy
them."

" Truth has many phases, and so
has belief," was the *quiet reply.
"We begin by believing that the
doctrines we hold are the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth,
and that everything else is unmitiga-
ted falsehood. But after a while, ac-
cording to the degree of candor of
which we are capable, we begin to
admit that every religion on earth
has something reasonable to say for
itself. There is a grain of good in
Mohammedanism, in Brahminism, in
Buddhism. We are now credibly as-
sured that the old story of people
throwing themselves under the wheels
of Juggernaut is a myth. Hindu
converts say that there were some-
times accidents at these religious cele-
brations, on account of the crowd,
as we have accidents on the fourth
of July ; but that Juggernaut was a
beneficent deity who took no pleasure
in human pain, and whose attributes
were a dim reflection of Christianity.
I used to tell that story in perfect

440

Daybreak.

good faith whenever a collection was
wanted for the missionaries. I don't
tell it now. At last we learn to
choose what seems to us best, to pre-
sent its advantages to others, but not
to insist that all shall agree with us
under pain of eternal loss. When
I hear a man crying out violently
against the purely religious opinions
of others, I always set him down as a
man of narrow heart and narrower
head. The principal reason for my
well-known hostility to Catholicism
is a political one.

" The fact is, brother, God's light
falling on the mind of man, is like
sunlight falling on a prism. It is no
longer the pure white, but is shatter-
ed into colors which each (me catch-
es according to his humor. We mi-
nisters are not hke Moses coming
from the mountain with the whole
law in his two hands, and a dazzling
face to testify for him that he had
been with God, he alone. I wish we
were, brother! I wish we were!"

**But faith," exclaimed the other,
" is there no faith ?"

" We believe in the essentials; and
they are few."
" How shall we prove them ?"
"As the Catholic Church proves
them. She holds the whole truth
tangled in the midst of her errors,
like a fly in a spider's web."

Mr. Southard sat a moment, look-
ing steadily, almost sternly, at his
companion.

" Then you and I have no mission,"
he said. " We are not divinely
called."

" Wliithersoever a man goes, there
is he called," said the doctor, sighing
faintly. "We among the rest. We
have a mission, too, and a noble one.
^^'e make peoj)le keep the Sabbath,
which, without us, would fall into
disuse ; we remind them of their
duties ; wc check immorality ; we
keep before the eyes of woridlings

the fact that there is anothe
than this. In short, we spc
breath in keeping alive the sat
on the desecrated altar of the
soul. Is that nothing ?"

In speaking, the doctor li;
head, and drew up his state!
His voice trembled with feelL
his eyes were full of indignan
His look was proud, almost c
yet seemed. directed less aga;
companion, than combating
voice in his own soul. All the
siastic dreams of his youth,
they had long since been subd
he thought, by common sen
necessity, stirred in their gra
sound of the imperious quest
at sight of the clear, searchin
of this young visionary who i
that in the troubled spirit of u
full orb of truth was to be re
unblurred.

"In short," Mr. Southard
rising to go, "you believe tli
spirit of evil can propose a px
which the Holy Spirit cannot :

" Not so !" was the reply ;
the spirit of evil may prop
problem which the Holy Spiri
not choose to solve for us till tl
of time."

CHAPTER IX.

NOBLESSE OBLIGE

On his way home that da
minister met Mr. Granger, ar
two stopped to look at a Ve
regiment that was marching th
the city fix)m the Maine depot
New York depot. As they stc
the regiment also was stopp
some obstruction in the street.

The attention of the gentleme
presently attracted to a boy i
rank nearest them, a bright, ra
looking lad, with a ruddy £10
smiling lips. But it ne^ied

Daybreak.

447

keen observer to see in that
SQiile the pathetic bravado of a boy
wHo had just torn himself away from
home, and was strugglmg to hide
the grief with which his heart was
sw-elling.

**\Vhat is a boy like you in the
amay for ?" Mr. Granger asked.

niie young soldier looked up, his
bright eyes bold with excitement
** When men won't go, the boys have
got to go," he answered. " Do you
wajnt to take my place ?"
^Ir. Granger said no more.
Seside this boy stood a middle-
aged man who had an uncommonly
good &ce. He was tall, somewhat
awkward, and had that look of un-
sophisticated manliness, honest can-
dor, and plain common sense, which
is found only in the country. One
could not fancy him a dweller among
jnasked city faces, breathing air pent
in nanow streets, walking daily on
pavements, and knowing no shades
but those of brick and stone. His
place was tramping through wild
ftrests, not with any romantic intent,
*>ut measuring with practised eyes the
ttunk of some tree in which he saw
"^te woodsmen call a " good stick,"
^JMi chopping steadily at it while the
^Wps flew about him, and above him
"^le spreading branches shivered at
^yfSY stroke; or plodding slowly
though still country roads beside his
*fcw oxen ; or, in the sultry summer
^ys, swinging the scythe through
*Kck grass and clover, mowing them
^^<>wn ankle deep at his feet. He
^ad the flavor of all that about him.
^wr he had to wade through other
^^ that fragrant summer sacrifice, to
^*^ through other ranks thin serried
^Wrand Ma3rweed, and those strong
•^ of his were to lay low something
Plater than pine or cedar. You
2|ild see that this thought was in
7>ii&nd, that he never lost sight of
^boty also, that he would not shrink.

Such men have not much to say ; but
in time of need they put into action
the heroism which others exliale in
glowing language.

This man had been looking straight
before him ; but at the sound of a
childish voice he turned his head
quickly. A little girl leaning from
the curbstone was admiring the bunch
of flowers on the soldier's bayonet,
and stretching longing hands toward
them.

The fixed look in the man's face
broke up instantly. " Do you want
them, little dear ?" he asked.

" Oh ! yes."

He lowered his rifle, removed the
flowers, and gave them to the child,
looking at her with a yearning, home-
sick smile that was more pitiful than
tears. At that moment the drums
began to beat. The soldier laid his
bronzed hand on the happy little
head, then, with trembling lips and
downcast eyes, marched on, and out
of sight for ever.

Mr. Granger turned abruptly away.
"I feel as if I were a great lazy
coward !" he exclaimed. " I can't
stand this any longer !"

The minister looked at him with a
starded expression ; but any rejjly was
prevented ; for just then they met Mrs.
Lewis coming out of U flower-store,
with her hands full of Mayflowers
done up in solid pink bunches, with-
out a sign of green.

" Poor things !" she said. " The
sight of them always reminds me of
the massacre of the Innocents. See !
they look like so many pretty little
pink and white heads cut off. Mass-
ed so, without any green, they are
not at all like flowers. Are we going
home to dinner? My husband will
be late, and we are not to wait for
him. He has gone to see who is
drafted in our ward."

The family had nearly finished din-
ner when Mr. Lewis came in. " Oui

house is favored," he said immediately.
" Granger, both you and I are drawn."

Mr. Granger looked up, but said
nothing.

" I got my substitute on the spot,"
Mr. Lewis continued. '■ He is a de-
cent fellow whom I can depend on.
I asked him if he knew of any one for
you, and he thought he could get
somebody."

Mr. Granger made no reply, seem-
ed to be occupied in waiting on his
little girl who sat beside him.

" How sober he is !" thought Miss
Hamilton ; but did not feel troubled,
his gravity was so gentle.

Dora looked up in her lather's face,
and laughed, half with love, half with
delight. ■• You nice papa !" she cried,
and gave his arm an enthusiastic hug.

He laid his hand on those sunny
curls, a-i he had seen the soldier do in
the street, but did not smile.

Glancing at Mr. Southard, Marga-
ret met a look at once anxious and
searching. His eyes were instantly
averted, but his expression did not
change. What could it mean ? After
dinner, he went directly to his room.

Mr. Granger sat apart in the parlor
with Dora, petting her, and telling
herstories, When her bed-time came,
he went out with her, and was gone
longer than usual. The evening was
cool, and they had a fire in the
grate. Mr. Lewis sat before it read-
ing the evening paper, and the three
ladies gathered in one comer, and
talked in whispera.

" How sober and strange every-
thing seems this evening!" Margaret
said, shivering. "I feel cold. It
isn't like spring, but like fall. Hold
■ny hand, Aura dear. What does
chill me so?"

" It is because Mr. Southard looked

at you in such an odd way," Aurelia

said gravely, holding Margaret's cold

hatkd between her warm dh«.

" I know what ails me," Mrs. Lew-

is said, in a tone of vexation. \
that substitute. My busbi
preach poverty for six
come. Chaiies," raising Kerl
"does your sulistitute look i
had swallowed a new black si
with little ruffles .ill over it?"

" He has very much that c
of countenance," growled 3
from behind his newspaper.

" O dear! And does he J
if Niagara Falls hod (lisa
down his throat, and i
just chewing up a little trip,
mountains ?"

'■ You describe him perfeO
husband rcpLed with grim t

Mr. Granger came in pi
and stood awhile by one of I
dows, looking out into tlic I
Then he took a seat by the fi

It was getting too ikric i
without a light, and Mr. Lei
his paper a»de. " I will st
your substitute to-morrow,"
" and send him up to the banlq
wish." J

" Thank you," Mr, Granger q
" And as soon as I get a subcl
shall immediately volunteer." i

There was an exclamation E|
ladies, and a sound as if onci
her breath.

Mr. Lewis stared at the 4
turned very red, then started I
went out of the room
door behind him, A mtnute I
flung open the door of Mr Sn
study, and marched in wilb
least ceremony. " What is til
ing of this nonsense of Mr. Ol
volunteering?" he demaiKle4
mering with anger.

Mr. Southard had been si
a Bible open before him. andi
bowed forward and resting
He rose with cold statdinei
abrupt invasion.

" Will you sit, sir ?" he saj
ing to a chair.

Daybreak.

449

r, I will not !" was the an-
want you to go down and
> to his making a fool of
won't say a word to him ;
latience to."

Granger thinks it his duty
all nt)t attempt to dissuade
the minister calmly, reseat-
f. " He is his own master,
in no way responsible for
n the matter."
a man plants an acorn, we
responsible for the oak,"
ort. " You have indirectiy
^ou could to make him
f staying at home, and to
believe that the more
in gets cut into the more of
;. If you don't prevent his
ball hold you responsible
*r may happen."
loment the minister's self-
ierted him, and a just per-
url touched his lip with
]an you see no nobler des-
man," he asked, " than to
neals a day, make money,
whole skin ?"

vis's face had been red:
ery hands blushed with
I opened the door to leave
and turned on the thresh-
;, sir, I can!" he replied
asis. "But it is not in
lome and sending another
) die, especially when that
€ in your way !"
the door behind him, Mr.
against his niece who was
g up- stairs. She looked
She had overheard her
ing speech.
ow could you!" she ex-

* Aunt was afraid that you

• to say something to Mr.
md she sent me to beg
e down. How could you,

i a good deal easier than
' he replied. " Come into
OL. IX. — 29

the chamber here and talk to me.
I don't want to be left alone a min-
ute. I §han't go down-stairs again
to-night ; and I would advise you and
your aunt to get out of the way, and
give Miss Hamilton a chance to talk
or cry a little common sense into Mr.
Granger."

Meantime Mr. Granger liad been
explaining somewhat to the two la-
dies left with him, and exonerating
Mr. Southard from all responsibility.

" I know that Mr. Lewis will blame
him," he said; " but that is unjust to
both of us. It is paying me a very
poor compliment to say that in such
a matter I would allow another per-
son to think for me."

" You must remember tliat my hus-
band's excitement will be in propor-
tion to his regard for you," Mrs.
Lewis said, with tears in her eyes.
" He has a rough way of showing
affection; but he is fonder of you
than of any other man in the world ;
and I'm sure we all — ^" Here her
voice failed.

Mr. Granger turned hastily toward
her as she got up to go out. " I don't
forget that," he said. "I know he
thinks a good deal of me, and so do
I of him. We shan't quarrel. Don't
be afraid. I found out long ago that
he has a kind and true heart under
that rough manner."

"I'm going to bring him back,"
Mrs. Lewis said, and went out, wip-
ing her eyes.

Mr. Granger had not dared to look
at Miss Hamilton, or address her
directly. After having spoken, the
thought had first occurred to him
that he should have been less abrupt
in announcing his intention to her.
She might be expected to feel his
departure more keeoly than the others
would. He waited a moment to see
if she would qpeak. She sat perfectly
quiet in the dim light, her cheek sup-
ported by her hand, her elbow on the

4SO

Daybreak.

arm of her chair, and her eyes fixed
on the fire.

There is an involuntary calmness
with which we sometimes receive the
most terrible news, and which even
an acute observer would take for per-
fect indifference, but which, though
not assumed, is utterly deceptive.
Perhaps it is incredulity ; perhaps the
sudden blow stuns. Whatever it may
];)e, no human self-control can equal
it Fortunately, this phenomenon
worked now for Miss Hamilton. She
would scarcely have forgiven herself
or Mr. Granger if she had lost her
self-possession.

" Nothing will be changed here,"
he said presently, slightiy embarrassed
by the continued silence. " All will
go on just as it has. In case of any
uncertainty, when it would take too
long to hear from me, you can con-
sult Mr. Barton, who is my lawyer.
He knows all my wishes and inten-
! tions. Of course you have full autho-
! rity regarding Dora. I feel quite at
ease in leaving her to you."

So Mr. Barton had known all
about it, and so had Mr. Southard,
. and others, perhaps. Miss Hamilton
recollected herself with an effort.
She was in Mr. Granger's employ-
ment ; he was, in some sort, her pa-
tron. She had made the mistake of
thinking that they were fiiends. But
that is not friendship where the confi-
dence is all on one side.

" I shall try to do my duty by
Dora," she said rather coldly. '* But
what does * full authority' mean ?"

" She is too young to learn theolo-
gy," he replied ; " but everything else
is fi-ee. I spoke lest some one might
interfere during my al>sence. though
that isn't likely."

Margaret waited a moment, then
said, " Dora tells me that you hear
her say the Our Father every niglit
and morning. Of course, I shall
hear it when you are gone. If you

are willing, I would like to t
to bless herself before pray
to say a little prayer to the
of Christ for your safety,
make her say * Mother of Go

Mr. Granger was touched,
cannot hurt her nor nie,"
" Do as you please."

Presently he six)ke again
ceived yesterday a letter w
cousin Sinclair wrote me
before he was killed. It w
to a soldier who was taken
and is only just exchange<
letter surprised and affected
if I had a lingering doubt 2
own course, it was dispell
He was driving to the st<
seems, when he met the Sev
giment marching through E
to take the cars south,
marched, they sang * Glor
lujah' with a sound like a
He was electrified. There h
the point of going abroad fo
tion when here at home was t
toward which the eyes of tl
civilized . world were tume
blushed for the slothful ease
lessness of his life. Here wii
employment. He took no
for the causes of the war,
was not responsible for th(
circumstances had decided w
he was to take. To him i
great gymnasium in which
ervated by wealth, or crar
petty aims, were to wake
nobler powers, string anc
courage, ' ventilate their sou
expressed it, and, finding w!
were themselves capable of a
take back thus their faith ii
When he saw those gallani
march singing off to bal
dusty, stale old life broke
him, and a new golden age
out. He did not feel that t
rejoicing over the shedding <
or the winning of victories;

Daybreak.

451

emancipation from little-
sang because they caught

a higher air, they sang
ey had found out that

were greater than their
hen first it seemed credible
at the Son of God took
lied for man; for then he
/ed that man at his best is
creature. * I am happy,'

* It is like getting out of
n into the fresh air. I am
igh a picture-gallery more
\ than any in the old

listening to strains of an
er than Homer's. I feel
: just made new.' "
ital was to Margaret like
ing essence to a fainting
[er heart, drooping inward
:panded again,
new him now !" she said,
lid come to me now !"
s something that will in-
' Mr. Granger added ; " I
fi*om the letter."
ited the gas and read:
ime I was in Washington,

je Lieut. A ,who is laid

of the hospitals in charge
iters of Charity. Every-
[uiet and orderly. A. was
: about the sisters, calls
s of peace and charity,
onnets look like wings of

birds. I talked with one
en I went out.

can you, who are the
f peace, bear to come
vho are the sons of strife ?'

; can the children of peace

go than among the sons

he returned.

e must seem to you cruel,

:hy of gentle ministrations,'

ou must think that we de-

ains.'

t, almost childlike smile

xi her lips, * We cannot be

everything,' she replied. * Each has
his place; and the judgment-seat
belongs to God. I am only the nurse.'

" * You must look upon war as the
carnival of Satan,' I said.

" * God permits it,' she replied
tranquilly. *And the thought has
occurred to me that it may be some-
times a preparation for religion. In
the army men learn to suffer, and to
sacrifice, and to be patient and obe-
dient — lessons which perhaps they
would not learn in any humbler
school. And having acquired these
virtues, they may use them in nobler
ways, perhaps in preventing war.
But,' she added hastily, * it is not for
me to explain the designs of the Al-
mighty. Here is my mission !*

" She bowed, and glided away. A
minute later I saw her raising the
head of a d3ring soldier, and as his
eyes grew dim, repeating for him,
* Jesus, Mary, and Joseph !'

" As I went away, I said to my-
self, *I have seen one wiser than
Solomon !' "

As Mr. Granger finished reading,
the door opened, and Mr. Southard
came in, but stopped on seeing the
two alone.

" I am glad you have come," Miss
Hamilton said quickly, " I want you
to assure Mr. Granger that, though
we shall miss him, and be anxious
about him, we will not let our
weakness stand in the way of his
strength."

No matter if she had been slight-
ed ! No matter if the confidence had
been all on one side !

" Will you not bid me also God-
speed ?" Mr. Southard asked.

" You ?"

'<I have asked, and am likely to
receive, a year's leave of absence from
my congregation," he said. "I do
not know how it will be ; but I hope
to go in the same regiment with Mr.
Granger."

452

Daybnak.

''WelV Margaret sighed as she
climbed wearily up-stairs, " I have had
one happy year. But could I have
dreamed that Maurice Sinclair would
be the one to reprove my weakness
at such a time ?"

CHAPTER X.
A BROKEN CIRCLE.

Having made up his mind to go,
Mr. Granger lost no* time. He who
had been the most leisurely of men,
whose composure and deliberateness
of manner had often given him the
appearance of haughtiness, was now
possessed by a spirit of ceaseless ac-
tivity. His slow and dignified step
became prompt, he spoke more
quickly, his misty eyes cleared up,
and a color glowed in his swarthy
cheeks.

There was no more lounging on a
sofa, and reading; no more theatre
nor concert; no more lingering in
picture-galleries, and looking about
with that fastidious, dissatisfied ex-
pression of his till his eyes lit spark-
ling on something that pleased him ;
no more dreaming along, with a
cigar in his mouth, under the trees at
twilight. He was busy, happy, and
full of life.

It did not take long to complete
his arrangements. Like Madame
Swetchine, he thought those obsta-
cles trifling which were not insur-
mountable.

The family found themselves in-
fected by his cheerfulness. Mr.
Lewis's lugubrious visions of wooden
arms and legs, and patches over the
eye, he swei)t away with a laugh.
The wistful glances, often dim with
tears, with which the ladies looked at
him, following his every step, listen-
ing to his every word, he chid more
gently, and also more eamesdy.

'* How women can wpaken men with

a tear or a glance!" he !
will be hard for me to lea'
love you alL I have,
happy here, and hope to l>
here again. But I must g<
see poor men leaving thei
and boys torn away from th
and not go. I should n<
respect myself if I staid at h
there is something else,
ing that draws me is some
I cannot explain. It is
The breeze has caught me, \
move. Margaret has a sm
I know. It's in her. She
a Spartan stock."

Could she disappoint hi
tion ? No. Henceforth,
ever cost to her, he shou
sign of weakness. But,
thought, sometimes those w
home fight harder battles t
who go.

"And my little girl," sa
ther. " She wants me to h
tiful gold straps on my
and splendid large gilt buttc
coat"

Dora was enchanted,
were to her the most magn
beings. " Yes, papa ! ^
gold cuflfe to your sleeves, ai
on your pantaloons."

"I^recisely. And a swoi
belt, and spurs at my hee
feather in my hat. Pai)a ^
fine as a play-actor. And ii
have all these things, my p
ing that I should go away a

The chUd said nothing, bi
steadily at het father. T
still lingered on her lips, b
slow tears were filling her e>

" Not for a very great ii
added. " You know we mu
some way for all we get.
money for your dresses, ai
for your education, and f
shoulder-straps of mine yi
pay by letting me go a little

Daybreak.

453

3d struggled hard to keep

swelling in her throat, and

[ler eyes to hide the tears in

», papa," she said, nervous-
g his watch-chain as she
ainst him, " I guess it's no
)ut the shoulder-straps. I'd
e you without *em."
?d to laugh. "And the
id the sash, and the sword,
mrs, do you forget them ?"
oke down completely at
don't want 'em ; I'd rather
than everything else in the

than stripes on my panta-

pa!" she sobbed, "what
u laugh at me when I'm

uret," exclaimed Mr. Gran-
*t let this child miss me !"
' I can help it," she replied.
5 to do staff duty till the

his ignorance should be
r, Mr. Granger said. One
e idea of a wlieel was that
nething round with spokes
se only fonvard had been
f the dancing-master, and
r no worse charge than the
such a person could scarce-
jcted to lead men in battle
e was going down there to
of the little boys to teach

impossible to resist his
humor. Even Mr. Lewis

r the doing of a thing could
n for the sake of the man-
lich it is done," he said,
could forgive you. But I
nise to turn back all at
n bonny-clabber to new

cold ai;^y," was the laugh-

"I begin to think that

. certain pleasure in being

abused in a discriminating man-

ner."

"Your going to Fortress Monroe
helps to reconcile me," Mr. Lewis
continued. "It's a pleasant place,
and a strong place. My wife calls it
Fortissimo. I supposed that you
would insist on going straight to the
front to do picket-duty, or post your-
self in a tree as a sharpshooter. I'm
glad to see that you've got a little
ballast left aboard. I wish that Mr.
Southard were to be with you, in-
stead of going to New Orleans at
this time of year. I spent a year at
New Orleans when I was a young
man, and I know all about it. It
isn't a city, it's a deposit You have
to hold on with hands and feet to
keep from being melted away by the
heat, or washed away by the water."

"O the oleanders.^' sighed Mrs.
Lewis in an ecstasy.

Almost before they knew, Mr.
Granger was gone. TTiey had heard
his last pleasant word, met his last
smile, and seen the carriage that bore
him away disappear down the street.
Both Mr. Southard and Mr. Lewis
accompanied him as far as New
York.

When they had seen him off, the
three ladies returned to the parlor,
and the servants went sorrowfully
back to their places. The neighbors
who waved him away left their win-
dows, and the friends grouped on the
steps and the walk went each his
way.

Dora, repulsed by Miss Hamilton,
went to Aurelia for comfort. Mar-
garet walked uneasily about the
room, putting books in their places,
pushing intrusive vine-leaves out the
windows, arranging and rearranging
the curtains. Then she seated her-
self by a table, and began cutting the
leaves of a new magazine.

Presently Mrs. Lewis approached
her, and after leaning on die arm of

454

Daybreak.

her chair a moment without bemg
noticed, touched her on the shoulder.

"Margaret," she said, "why will
you be so terribly proud? I think
you might be willing to shed tears
when Aurelia and I do. Why
shouldn't you grieve over the ab-
sence of your friend ? He is a kind
and true friend to you."

Aurelia rose quiedy, and led Dora
from the room.

Margaret persisted a moment long-
er in her silence and her leaf-cutting.
But the book and the knife shook
in her hand, and presently dropped
from her grasp. Turning impulsive-
ly, she hid her face in that kind bo-
som, and sobbed without control.

"He will soon come back, I am
sure of it," Mrs. Lewis said soothing-
ly. **And you know we shall hear
from him constantly. We all feel bad.
Mr. Lewis choked up whenever he
thought of it, and the only way he
had of turning off his emotion was in
scolding. I dare say his last word to
Mr. Granger will be an abusive one.
And you are almost as bad."

" I can't bear to be misunderstood,
and watched, and commented on,"
Margaret saidj trying to control her-
self. " Most people seem to think
hate more respectable than affection,
and if they see that you care about a
person, they sneer."

" I know all about it, dear," Mrs.
Lewis said. " You can't tell me any-
thing new about meanness and ma-
lice. I have suffered too much from
them in my life. But we arc friends,
real friends, here. We respect each
other's reserve. But too much re-
serve is not good nor whplesome."

Margaret looked up, and wiped
her tears away. "How you help
me !" she said. " I don't feel very
bad now," with a faint smile. " It is
suppression that kills me. If we
could say just what we think and feel,
and act with perfect openness, how

good it would be! Loc
my life seems to me a a
stifled emotions. My heai
their bones and ashes. It'
weight! You are very %
Lewis. You do beauti
sometimes. I grow fond
every day. By and by
again, " I shall not be able
out you. And now, that j
I must go to her. Wasn't
put her away ? But it is
to have to comfort others
are yourself in need of coi

The next day the two
came home with the last n
Granger, and they spent tl
more cheerfully than they <
expected. Mr. I^wis had
for his rudeness to the mj
had begun to perceive that
ard had, as he said, some (
So they were all harmonioi

" Mr. Granger's genera
position would lead him
unnecessarily, if he were no
Mr. Southard said, as tl
gether that evening. " I tall
very plainly about it. The
times an unconscious selfi
der those impulses. Exult
sense of their own fearless
put themselves in peril, wit!
ing what others may suffJ
loss, and that the real good
tained does not, perhaps, c
ance the evil done. All t
complished is a generous d<

"It is something to aa
generous deed," said Miss
" I own, I have not the h
miration for that * rascally
discretion."

"But when the real co
* sublime indiscretion* falls
other than the hero, then I
it," said the minister firml
Mr. Granger agreed with n

There are times ^hen to \
dear to us praised is painful

Daybreak,

455

presses the heart, by placing the be-
loved object too far above us. But
a gentle blame, which hints at no
serious fault, while it does not wound
our feelings, soothes our sense of un-
worthiness, and, without lowering the
Mend, brings him within our reach.
Listening to such gende censure, we
get a comfortable human feeling to-
ward one whom we were, perhaps, in
danger of apotheosizing.

Speaking of the much that they
woidd hear from these soldier friends
of theirs, both Margaret and Mr.
Southard urged Mrs. Lewis to resume
her long unused pen. It seemed
that every one who had the talent to
do it ought to preserve thus some of
the many incidents of the war. But
she was resolute in refusal.

"Of writing many books there is
BO end," she said. *And I have a
terrible vision of a coming deluge of
war-literature. Everybody will write,
soldiers, nurses, chaplains, (all but
you, Mr. Southard!) philanthropists,
W)velists, rhymsters — all will write
without mercy. The dilemma of the
old rhyme will seem to be on the
pwnt of realization :

'If all the earth were paper.
And all the sea were ink.
And all the trees were bread and cheese,
What should we do for drink V

^ No, don't ask me to join in that
iwit Besides, no one but a scrib-
Mer knows a scribbler's, afflictions.
No 'Heavenly Goddess' has yet sung
^fcose direful woes. First, there is
fte printer. You spend all your
powers on a certain passage which
^ to immortalize you, and under
Ws hands, by the addition, or the
*l^straction, or the changing of a
^oid, that passage has taken the one
*^> more which carries it from the
*Mime to the ridiculous. Put in a
w bit of color; he changes your
'BAer to amber, and the picture is
V2t Refer to the well-known fact

that Washington Allston put a great
deal of character into the hands and
feet he painted, and this fell patriot
drops the Allston, and gives the cre-
dit to the father of his country.
Then there are your dear friends.
They know all your virtues, so their
sole effort is now to find out your de-
fects. It won't do to praise you, lest
you should become vain ; so, with a
noble regard for your truest good,
they dissect your writings before
your eyes, and prove clearly their ut-
ter worthlessness. Then, there are
your gushing acquaintances who .want
you to write about them, and tell you
their histories, insisting that they shall
be put into print. As if you should car-
ry cherry-stones to a cherry-tree, and
say. Here, grow cherries round these !
If you should answer ever so humbly,
Thank you ! but I grow stones to my
own cherries, such as they are, people
would be disgusted. Of course, if I
had a great genius, it would scorch
up all these little annoyances. But I
have only a pretty tadent Perhaps
the worst is, that they will apply your
characters. When I was a girl, I
wrote a rhymed story, and everybody
pointed out the hero. I stared, I be-
thought myself, I re-read my ro-
mance. Imagine my horror when I
found that the description fitted the
man perfectly, even to the wart on*
his nose. Then, not long ago, I
wrote a litUe idyl addressed to my
first love, and my husband came
home with the face of an Othello.
You know you did, Charles. The
fact was, I never had a first love !"

Mr. Lewis laughed. " And she
twitted me with Diana. Diana was
a tall, superb, serene woman whom I
got acquainted with in Washington,
before I was married. I admired her
excessively. I didn't know that she
was a goose. I would talk, and she
would listen, and smile at all my
jokes; and I thought that she was

456

Daybrtak.

very witty. I spoke of books, and she
smUed and said 'Yes!' and I was
sure that she was a well-read person.
I ranted about music, and she smiled
and] said * Yes !' and I was positive
that she was a fine musician. Pre-
sently I began to grow bashful in the
society of such a superior woman.
I couldn't talk, so she had to. Well,
at first I admired her simplicity, then
I stared at her simplicity. And at
last I saw that there was

' No end to all she didn't know.'

"One day I'd been there, up in
the parlor, and when I left, she went
dolvn to the door with me. There
was a large hat on the entry-table,
and we heard a man's voice in the
sitting-room.

" 'Who's talking with pa?' she ask-
ed of a servant.

"'Daniel Webster, miss,' was the
answer.

" Daniel Webster was my hero.
If our hats had been of the same
size, I would have swapped fervently,
though mine was new, and Daniel's a
little shabby. I remembered what
somebody had said of Samuel John-
son ; and pointing to the table, I ex-
claimed with enthusiasm, 'That hat
covers a kingdom !'

"Diana looked at it with a mild,
idiotic perplexity, and stretched her
long neck to see on the other side.
* Hat covers a kingdom,' she repeated
vaguely to herself, as if it were a
conundrum.

" ' When it's on his head !' I cried
out in a rage.

" * Oh !' she said, and smiled, but
without a particle of speculation in
her eyes.

" I bounced out of the house, and
I never went to see Diana again.
Shortly after, I met that little woman,
and I married her because she is
smart."

CHAPTER XI.
THE MOUNTAINS WHENCE HELP C

Mr. Granger was one of th
sons whom we miss more t
expect to, their influence is s<
their stability has so litde of h
As has been beautifiilly sai
characters are "like the wj
fixed yet floating." We <
know how much we rest on t
the support is withdrawn.

They heard fi'om him cor
the letters being directed
Lewis, but intended for ;
family.

Evidently his good spirits 1
deserted him. Never before
been so much alive, he \aoXx
excitement, the uncertainty, tl
restraints which reminded of
and of great interests at st
kept his thoughts in a brisk
tion, and threw the bile off his

Miss Dora had, however, he
rate correspondence, letters c
to herself, which Miss Hamilt
to her, and answered from hei
tion.

In those days the child le;
new prayer : " O Mother in \
take pity on me who have no
on earth, and whose father h;
to the wars. Watch over him
may not be left an orphan. I
him, and for me, and for m
loves us best. Do not forget
Mother ! for if you do, my h©
break."

"Who is it that loves us
the child asked the first time s
this prayer.

" I do not know," was the
" We can never be sure who 1
best. But God knows, and th
Mother can find out."

" I thought it was you," saic

Margaret's voice sank to a i?
" Perhaps it is, dear."

Daybreak.

457

^ks Mr. Southard also
cheerfully, but with a
he took no pains to

V weeks grew to many
Dnths multiplied. The
^one, and the autumn
1 winter melted like a

the mantle of time,
js are fixed in anxious
ae future day, the inter-
slip through our fingers
ugh an hour-glass, and
of their passage,
spring campaign open-
he absent ones were in

our fiiends watched
iking of the heart for
3 more than happened
usands of other homes.

was by no means a
those days.

in charge of the sol-
m on Kneeland street
luch interested in one
dtors who used to go
immer. Nearly every
ry day when there had
. pale-faced young lady
le door, enter quickly,
>oking to right or left

the frames that held
ed and wounded, and
)ugh from end to end.
)t to have an anxious
this lady. Unnoticed
:hed her face while she
hed his breath till he
)le look go out of her
ts finished, she would
lowTi, sigh wearily, and
:tly as she had entered,
finds the name she is
hall see her drop," he

It did not drop, though
he was in danger of it,
on some blurred name,
I very like the one she

It was too wearing. Both flesh
and spirit were sinking under this
constant strain. Where was the help
that religion was to give her ? Leave
everything to God, trust all to him,
she was told. But how? Her
thoughts were clenched in these inte-
rests ; and, in spite of faith, it seemed
as though, if she should let go her
hold, they v/ould fall. She found
that her religion was only of the sur-
face. It had grown in the sunshine,
and was not rooted against the storm.
She tried to put into practice the pre-
cepts she listened to, but the daily
distractions of life constantly neutra-
lized her eflforts. There was but one
way, and for the first time Margaret
made a retreat.

The place selected was a convent
a little out of the city.

Here in this secluded asylum was
all that her soul needed for its resto-
ring ; quiet, leisure, the society of those
whose lives are devoted to God, and,
to crown all, the presence of the bless-
ed sacrament of the altar.

One feels very near heaven when
one hears only praying voices, sees
only happy, peaceful faces, is looked
upon only by kind eyes, and can at
any hour go before the altar, alone,
undisturbed by those distractions
which constantly environ our ordi-
nary worship. How still we become I
In that presence how our little trou-
bles and sorrows exhale, as mists lift
fi-om the rivers at sunrise, and leave
all clear and bright ! How cramped
and feverish all our past life has been !
Everything settles into its true place.
Sorrow and death lose their sting.
We are safe, for we partake of the
omnipotence of God. To think that
the same roof that shelters our heads
when we lie down to sleep shelters
also the sacred head of the Son of
God — that drives every other thought
fi-om the mind. It is marvellous, it
seems incredible, and yet the wonder

458

Daybreak.

of it is lost in the sweetness. The
moonlight coming in at the window
lies white and silent on the bare white
floor. You rise to Idss that luminous
spot, for just beneath is the altar.
Peace rises to exultation, for you per-
ceive more and more that the Father
holds us all in his hands, those near
and those afar, and that we have but
to lift our eyes, and we shall behold
the mountains whence help cometh.
We want to run out and tell every-
body. It seems as if we have just
discovered all this, and that no one
ever knew it before. We forget that
we are sinners. It isn't much matter
about us any way. We will think of
that afterward. We will make acts
of contrition when we get away from
here. Now we can make only acts
of adoration and of joy.

The superior of the convent direct-
ed Margaret's retreat, and on the last
morning of it she and all the nuns
received communion, and there was
the benediction after mass.

The others had gone out, but Mar-
garet still lingered before the altar.
Out in the early sunshine, the trees
rusded softly, and the breeze waved
the curtains of the chapel windows.
Occasionally, one of the nuns would
come to the door, look in, and go
away again smiling, though Miss Ha-
milton's breakfast was spoiling over
the fire, and there was a gentleman
waiting in the parlor for her.

" She is in the chapel at her devo-
tions," the sister had told him.

" Don't disturb her on any ac-
count," he had answered. "There
is no haste."

Margaret was not praying, was not
thinking ; her soul was silent, lost in
God, like a star in the day.

Presently she came out, and, meet-
ing one of the nuns in the hall, em-
braced her tenderly. "Sister," she
said, " this is the most beautiful world
that ever was made."

The gentleman had be<
some time when he heard i
in the door there stood a sli
robed lady with a veil th
her head, a bright face, ar
of incense lingering about
lifted both hands when sh<

" My cup runneth over !*

" You are not a nun ?" ;
Granger.

"You're not an appari
returned. " Oh ! welcome

" And now," he said, dc
see her so happy, " if you
we will go home. I have •
days* furlough, and I wani
the most of it."

Margaret went to tak(
leave of the nuns, and ah
into the chapel for one

Then she went out from i
happy portal, and down th
the carriage that was wj
them. One of the sisters
the door looking after her, i
here and there in the groun
up with a pleasant word <
as she passed. She stooped
from the lower terrace a hu
venir, two or three grass-bla
clover-leaf, then stepped int
riage. As they drove sloi
the avenue, she looked u]
overhanging branches and

'* * Above him the boughs of the hen
Waved, and made the sign of the
And whispered their Bcnedicitis.

The family were in rap!
Mr. Granger's return. Tl
not look at him enough, list
enough, do enough for him.

" And how nice you loc
uniform!" said Margaret,
if she were about six vears (

" And how nice you loo
thing !" he retorted, at whic
laughed. It took but littl<
them laugh in those days.

Mr. Granger, on his pa

Sauntering,

459

iBcrry as a boy. He was full of ad-
ventures to tell them, glad to be at
home, happy in their confidence and
affection, and hopeful of the future.

Margaret could s<iarcely believe
her own happiness. She would turn
away, shut her eyes, and think, " I
have imagined it all. He is hundreds
of miles away, I do not know whe-
ther he is sick or well. He may be
in peril. He may be dead. O my
friend! come home, come home!
Are we never to see you again ?"

Then, when she had succeeded in
tonnenting herself sufficiently, when
her heart was sinking, and her eyes

overflowing with tears, she would turn
quickly, trembling between dream and
reality, and see him there alive and
well, and at home.

" Oh ! there he is, thank God !"
And so every day she renewed in
her vivid imagination the pain of his
absence and the delight of his return,
till too soon the day came when she
no longer dared to play such tricks
with herself, for he was again gone
out of their sight.

But the lessons of the retreat were
not forgotten, and every morning
brought refreshment.

TO BB CONTINUED.

SAUNTERING.

Sauntskkk, (from saint ierre^) a pilgrim to holy lands or places. — Tk^tau,

Would that I were, if not like the
Hng of Ava — ^lord of the twenty-
four umbrellas — at least the owner of
one, was my thought. I was in Paris,
^at paradise of many good Americans
who are not defunct Three thousand
^ odd miles from home, in the
streets of a strange dty, with an im-
perfect knowledge of any foreign
tongue, not daring to ^a.y parapluie to
the most obsequious shopman, and
the rain was pouring down like a
douche.

I had no devotion to St. Swithin —
'^ot a particle. I respected him in a
^^e way as a successor of the
*P05tles, whose name is in the cal-
endar; but I was always inclined to
ii^tion him with a smile on account
^ his hydropathic propensities. I
*® a perfect Oriental as far as a
w«nn bath is concerned, but I never
*ouId endure the gentlest shower-
••ft, and the thought of St. Swithin,

in his wet grave under a waterspout,
.always made me shudder. This pe-
culiar sensitiveness always made me
suspicious of the lightest summer
cloudlet, and led me to make for
years a series of minute observations
on the weather, till I became deeply
versed in mackerel clouds, mare's
tails, and such sinister prognostics.
I used to imagine myself so sensitive
to the dryness and moisture of the
atmosphere, and to its density and
rarity, that I was quite above baro-
meters. I was a barometer to my-
self. A foreknowledge of the weather
was my strong 'point, or one of my
strong points, when at home in the
new world. There I had a full view
of the heavens that bend over us all,
down to the very horizon on every
side. The rarity of the American
atmosphere, its lofty heavens, with its
luminous spheres, are full of skyey
influences, which tell not only upon

460

Sauntering,

the very plants, if we observe them,
but upon ourselves, if we heed the
silent lesson. I always knew what
those clouds meant, gathering over
the far-off north-wood hills at the
west, and I felt the very mist as it
began to rise around Mount Agamen-
ticus, in the east, like sacrificial clouds
around that altar of the renowned St
Aspinquid. I seldom made a false
prediction, and was consequently ap-
proached with considerable deference
by provident neighbors, especially be-
fore a storm. But somehow, I lost this
prestige as soon as my foot was off my
native heath. Here, in a compact
city, with the tall houses and narrow
streets shutting the great blue eye of
heaven till it became a mere line,
like a cat's eye at mid-day, I felt
myself utterly at the mercy of nature ;
I gave myself humbly up to St

Swithin, to whom of old I was rather
defiant. A haughty spirit goes before
a fall. Humiliations are good for the
soul. I think I must consider mine
a case of special providence ; for there
is nothing more soothing to mortified
vanity or spiritual pride, or even in
dire calamity, than the conviction
that ours is an instance of special
providence.

On one of those doubtful days in
October, when the air is murky and a
light mist from the Seine pervades
every part of the city, but which were
not always, as I had found, indicative
of rain, I sallied forth from the
Hotel Meurice to wander around the
French capital with no special object
in view. I discarded my guide-book,
tired of being the victim of square and
compass. To be told to admire,
whether an object appealed to my
peculiar tastes or not, was quite
opposed to my notions of American
^independence, and sure to rouse a
certain spirit of contradiction in me —
a bad trait, I fear, but a fault ac-
knowledged is half cured; so I

make a clean breast of it to test th*
truth of the old saying. I turned
therefore, a blind eye to all th
palaces, and gardens, and fountain*
and went around feasting my eyes 01
the forbidden vanities of the wori<
which my god-parents had renounce*
for me at baptism, but which wer
glittering delightfully in the booth
of this Vanity Fair; not that I care<
much for them, to tell the truth, bu
from a sheer feeling of pcr\'ersity
There must be some powerful chare
in them, or they would not be pu:
down in every religious chart ^
quicksands to be avoided. Perha^^
I was in danger of being strandts
among them, and it w^as, after all^
case of .special providence, when, as
was pursuing my way, or rather an)
way in my ignorance of the city, and
moralizing on these things, or de-
moralizing, of a sudden it began to
pour. For an old weather-wise like
me to be thus .caught, was ve7
humiliating; and in my constemntioo,
I found myself enjoying one of the
high and mighty prerogatives of the
king of Ava, as aforesaid. Que fain f
I should have said, being in France.
Looking around, I saw the open door
of a church, in which I gladly took
refuge. In benighted, " popish " biA
mother church often aflfords a place
of bodily refuge, as well as moral. It
was the church of St Germain TAW'
errois, to which I had wandered hack,
and which irom this time became nJJ
favorite church in spite of the bad
repute of the bells. Passing frotft
the gay streets into these cool shade«
is like passing for a moment, as ^
were, from time into eternity. -A*
light and firivolous thought*-aD
vanity and littleness die away wiA
the noise of the worid, at the sfXf
entrance. The mind is clevaieA
We partake of the grandeur of the
edifice, and, for a few moments «*
least, our nature is ennobled. Oolf

Sauntering.

461

ty ideas should wander
I arches. Only souls
and magnificent ideas
iesigned them. There
ons in these stones, of
;ver grows weary — ^ser-
grand old vitraux, rich
)rms, and in the gloom,
t and solemn reverie.

I love the white-robed throng ;
most relifpous song
:±K)ric waves afar
I each quaint-carved crevice there,
to each singing star,

to heaven's own upper air,
lappy tears ; but chiefly where
broods above clasped hands cf

lie is no longer in a
'hen he enters a church.
e cross, the Madonna,
e tabernacle, with it^
ip of olive oil, are his
ends, and all there, and
at home. He feels a
ersal brotherhood with
lippers before the altar,
dear old Latin service !
ughly realized at home

of a universal language
►vhole church could lift
, as with one accord,
he world. That lan-
f those w^hich were con-
i the head of the dying
ssociated with all the
inderest memories of a

cannot remember when
it from the lips of holy
1. It is one of his mo-
Each word has a new
I this foreign land, and
rvice a new meaning.

people exclaim at the
le opening service of
lowing its significance,
d word in our sublime

meaning to him that
5 spirit. Dr. Newman
Ti beautiful way :

othing is so consoling, so
ning, 90 overcoming, as the

mass, said as it is among us. I could at-
tend masses for ever and not be tired. It is
not a mere form of words; it is a great
action, the greatest action there can l^ on
earth. It is not the invocation, merely, but,
if I dare use the word, the evocation, of the
Eternal. He becomes present on the altar
in flesh and blood, before whom angels bow
and devils tremble. This is that awful
event which is the end and is the interpreta-
tion of every part of the solemnity. Words
are necessary, not as means, but as ends.
They are not mere addresses to the throne
of grace ; they are instruments of what is
far higher, of con.<;ecration, of sacrifice.
They hurry on as if impatient to fulfil their
mission. Quickly they go; the whole is
quick, for they are all parts of one integral
action. Quickly they go, for they are awful
words of sacrifice ; they are a work too great
to delay upon, as when it was said in the
beginning, * What thou doest, do quickly.'
Quickly they pass, for the Lord Jesus goes
with them, as he passed along the lake in
the days of his flesh, quickly calling first one
and then another. Quickly they pass, be-
cause, as the lightning which shineth from
one part of the heaven unto the other so is
the coming of the Son of Man. Quickly
they pass, for they are as the words of
Moses, when the Lord came down in a
cloud, calling on the name of the Lord as he
passed by, * The Lord, the Lord God, mer-
ciful and gracious, long-sufiering and abun-
dant iuagoodness and truth.'

V And as Moses on the mountain, so do
we too ' make haste and bow our heads to
the earth and adore.' So we all around,
each in his place, look out for the great
advent, ' waiting for the moving of the
water.' Each in his place, with his own
heart, with his own wants, with his own
thoughts, with his own intention, with his
own prayers, separate but concordant,
watching what is going on, watching its
progress, uniting fn its consummation ; not
painfully and hopelessly following a hard
form of prayer from beginning to end, but,
like a concert of musical instruments, each
different, but concurring in a sweet harmo-
ny, we take our part with God's priest, sup-
porting him, 3ret guided by him."

The words being, then, only used
as means, as instruments of consecra-
tion, it is not at all necessary for the
people to follow the words of the
priest; but, entering into the spirit
and meaning of each part of the sacri-
fice, abandon themselves each one to

462

Sauntering,

his own devotions. While the church
is exceedingly particular about the
exact following of the liturgy by the
clergy, it allows the greatest latitude
to the devotions of laymen. All the
sects that have a form of prayer, or
extempore prayers, afford far less
liberty to those who join therein than
the church. Their service is nothing
to you unless you join in its forms,
which leave no fiberty of soul.
Wher«as at mass, while some use a
prayer-book with a variety of beauti-
ful and touching devotions in harmo-
ny with the service going on at the
altar, others simply say the rosary,
and others again use no form what-
ever, but, following the celebrant in
spirit, abandon their hearts in holy
meditation and mental prayer accord-
ing to the inspiration of the moment.
Thus our holy services never become
a mere form. They are always new,
new and varied as our daily wants,
as our fresh conceptions of what wor-
ship is due Almighty God, and of the
nature of the holy oblation in which
we are participating.

The church of St Germain I'Xuxer-
rois was once the" frequent recipient
of royal munificence, being for a long
time the royal parish, and it was the
most sumptuously adorned in Paris.
Sculptors and painters vied in filling
it with the choicest worlds of art. It
was not much injured at the revolu-
tion, but narrowly escaped destruc-
tion in 1 83 1. The anniversary of the
death of the Due de Berri was to be
commemorated by services for the
repose of his soul ; but a mob sur-
rounded tlie church, and destroyed
everything in it. It was afterward
closed till 1838, when it was reopened
for public worship.

It has some poetical associations
as well as historical ; for here M. de
Laniartine is said to have hung up
the long locks that Graziella had
shorn firom her beautiful head, and

sent to be suspended in on
churches of his belle Franc
perhaps this was the one to v
referred in the following won

"When the last hour of the
sounded from thy lofty towers,
last beam has faded away from t
when the sigh of the distant o
away with the light, and the nave is
by all but the Levite attentive to t
of the holy place, then I come
under thy obscure arches, and to s(
nature sleeps, Him who never s
The air which the soul breathes in
is full of mystery and peace. Let
anxious cares seek shade and soliti
the green shelter of groves to soc
secret wounds. O darkness of th
ary ! the eye of religion prefers th
wood which the breeze disturbs,
disturbs thy foliage. Thy still sh;
image of eternal peace."

I loved to think the poet
here the source of the insp
which are embodied in his Ha
Reli^euses which are the del
every tender and religioits sou

There is in one of the tran
beautiful font of pure white
executed by M. Jouffi-oy J
model by Madame de Lai
and presented by her to this •
The basin is surmounted bj
expressive figures. Faith, Ho]
Charity, supporting a cross.

This church with its perfun:
its subdued light, and its quie
ses incentive to piety, so cl
me by its contrast with tl
world without, and revived \
fervor of early religious impn
that I did not leave it till I
solved to commence each ren
day of my stay at Paris, by
to a different church till I ha(
ed them all, like Horace W
And should I even visit the
him as a mere amateur of art, J
not fail to receive some insj
that would leave me better i
rest of the day. The houi
passed in the churches seei

Sauntering.

463

:e the day, and left a per-
my heart that nothing in
d could wholly dissipate,
ame the happiest and most
of my life, both morally
ectually.

lost soothe the heart, thou Church of

iwearied watch, and varied round

in thy Saviour's holy home.

ivalk the city's sultry streets,

ride porch invites to still retreats,

lion's thirst is calmed, and care's un-

dful gloom/*

foreign shore,

esick solitary finds a friend :

irisoned long for lack of speech, outpour

rs, and doubts in resignation end."

>ming I went to St. Merri's,
Edmund, Archbishop of
y, when a young student
jsed to go to assist at the
office. A friend had given
ractical little book entitled
yr of the Churchy and I took
: to read in a place he had
'n reading it I was struck
e says of the Lord's Prayer,
prayer of the middle ages,
)rominence he would have
t in our devotions. He

ter Noster surpasses all other
excellence, dignity, and utility.
; by God himself; hence the in-
> Jesus Christ the Son of God
us or rhymed pra3rers are pre-
at composed by him who knows
the Father, and better than we
r is most acceptable to him,
'e most need. How many de-
ceives in multiplying the forms
They think they are devout,
I only carnal in their affections,
imally-minded person naturally
he vain curiosity of words. Be
It and discreet in this respect.
I will bring forward St Augus-
▼ory, and other saints to oppose
ayed according to the affections
arts. I am certainly far from
;m. I only blame the practice
o, from a spirit of pride or curi-
lon the prayer made Ijy the
:1f for those which the saints
Med. Our Lord himself says,

And when you are pra3ring, speak not much
as the heathen do, for they think they are
heard for their much speaking. You
therefore shall pray in this manner, Our
Father, etc"

We Catholics are offen accused
of elevating the creature above the
Creator, and reproached for saying
ten Hail Marys to one Our Father
in the beautiful devotion of the Ro-
sary, as if we had no other. This
extract from St. Edmund does not
support the accusation, and he was
a prelate of the dark ages — the thir-
teenth century. But then he was an
Englishman, and we all know the
Anglo-Saxon race did not fall in
Adam, and only a little way in Peter !

In justice to St. Edmund I will
add that he was so devout to Our
Lady that, early in life, he conse-
crated himself to her, and wore, in
memory of this consecration, a ring
with Ave Maria upon it. He related
this on his death-bed, that his example
might be followed by others, and was
buried with the ring on his finger.

There is an interesting chapel in
St. Merri's Church, dedicated to St.
Mary of Egypt, which is beautifully
frescoed by Chasserian, depicting the
touching old legend, with its deep
moral significance, of

*' That Egyptian penitent whose tears
Fretted the rock, and moistened round her cava
The thirsty desert."

The poet tells of a miraculous drop
which fell in Egypt on St. John's day,
and was supposed to have the effect
of stopping Uie plague. Such a drop
fell on the soul of this renowned peni-
tent.

•' There's a drop, says the Peri, that down from the
moon
Falls through the withering airs of June
Upon Egypt's land, of so healing a power.
So balmy a virtue, that even in the hour
That drop descends, contagicm dies.
And healh reanimtes earth and skies t
Oh ! is it not thus, thou man of sin.

The prednus tears of repentance fall.
Though foul th« fiery plagues within.
One heaYcnly drop hath dispelled them all !**

464

Sauntering,

St. Mary of Egypt is one of a long
line of penitents who, after the exam-
ple of Magdalen, have given proofs
of their repentance in proportion to
their sins and to the depth of their
sorrow, and thus rendered the very
scars on their souls so many rays of
light.

Le Brun painted one whose frail-
ties are '^ linked to fame " as Magda-
len, and at her own request. ITie
universal interest felt in her story, and
the sympathy it always excites, in-
duced me to visit a place that cannot
be disconnected from her memory —
the chapel of the Carmelites in the
Rue d'Enfer, where she took the
veil. I refer to Madame de la Val-
li^re, whom Madame de Sevign^
calls " la petite violette qui se cachait
sous rherbe."

A priest was just commencing
mass when I entered the chapel. I
knelt down by the tomb of the Cardi-
nal de B^ruUe, who used to come
here to pray in the chapel of St.
Magdalen, having a great devotion
to that saint. It was difficult to
resist the distractions that were inevi-
table in such a spot, but in which I
would not indulge till the holy sacri-
fice was over. The choir of nuns
was separated from the chancel by a
grating which was closely curtained.
There is always a certain charm in
everything that savors of mystery.
Whatever is hidden excites our
curiosity and interest. That for-
bidding grate, that curtain of ap-
palling blackness, were tantalizing.
They concealed a world in which
we had no part. Behind them were
hearts which had aims and aspi-
rations and holy ambitions, perhaps,
we know not of. They led a life
which Ls almost inexplicable to the
world — hidden indeed in God.
The chapel was so still, save the
murmur of the officiating priest, that
you might have supposed no one

else there. But after the A|
came out from that m>'steri(
a murmur from unseen li]
voice from another world,
that of the nuns all saying t
teor together before going
communion. That murmu
culpdy mea ailpd^ seemed
voice of penitence from I
Beaume, or the voice of p
repeating the accents of the
La Vallifere. • There she 1
prayed and did penance for
years, longer than Magdal(
cave, " son ccsur n^ respirai
cbti du ciely^ thus displayi
markable strength of volil
therefore of character; foi
is character but a perfecd
will ?" says Novalis. Bel
altar she used to come ti
before the rest of the comi
pray, and in cold weather
had been brought up in lu:
often found senseless on t
ment of the choir when th<
the nuns came to the chapel
We read that the tears
falling into the water brou|
pearls, and we cannot doubt
tears through which our
viewed her past life helpe
for her the pearl of great pri(
instance of her austerity
known. One Good- Friday,
ing in the refectory, during 1
gre repast of the day, on th<
and gall given to the dying
when he was athirst, she rec
pleasures of her past life and
larly of the time when, returr
the court from the chas<
thirsty, she drank with pie;
some delicious beverage wl
brought her. This immort
so in contrast with the vin(
gall of the Saviour, filled
lively sentiments of repent:
humiliation, and she resolved
drink again. For three wed;

Saufttefing,

4fi5

ven a drop of water, and for
> she only drank half a glass
is severe penance, which
pected, brought on a fit of
d caused violent spasms
lach, which reduced her to
great feebleness. Besides
juffered gready from rheu-
ut she never ceased to
e labors in the community,
in 17 lo, aged nearly sixty-
having passed thirty-six
le convent. Her life here
long Miserere which was
ird in heaven. Her soul
ss through the deep waters;
)ok fast hold of that " last
r shipwreck " — repentance.
I went to feed the stream
)rrow. Every new grace
a new conception of the
n and awoke new regrets
lory. So she shut herself
J garden of myrrh. She
herself in the cnux du ro-
the waves of memory that
T her soul. In that dark
ler soul she looked trem-
t over the wide sea of her
ith a heart like the double-
us, looking into the past
d the future, memory and
ggling in her heart. Over
sea rose the moonlight of
e — our Lady of Mount Car-
irrow crescent at first, but
arger and brighter every
i the great luminous starry
I their different degrees of
ded the heavens that open-
view. And so the mom-
when the voice of Jesus
lany sins are forgiven her
le hath loved ipuch.
» an accent of sincerity, with
of cant, in the well-known
teur Louise de la Miseri-
gn asked if she was happy
nvent: "I am not Jiappy,
satisfied." How few in the
VOL. IX. — 30

world can even say with sincerity
that they are satisfied. Dr. Johnson
said, "No one is happy," but satis-
faction is certainly reasonable happi-
ness. Carlyle says, "There is in
man a higher than love of happiness.
He can do without happiness, and in-
stead thereof find blessedness." That
happiness alone is real which does •
not depend on contingencies. It is
reasonably satisfied with the present,
and has a constantly increasing hope
in the future. Such was the happi-
ness Madame de la Vallifere found
among the pale-eyed votaries of the
cloister, a satisfaction of the soul
which became perfect happiness
when death came to her after so
many years of dying.

I wonder if there was no perfume
left in the dried rose leaves in her
heart causing it to faint ofttimes by
the way. A person of so much sen-
sibility must have had a wonderful
capacity for suffering. That her
memory was ever alive to the past is
evident fi-om the unrelenting austerity
of her life, from her well-known reply
when informed of the death of her
son, and firom her requesting Le Brun
to paint her as Magdalen.

Remembering so many proofs of
her conversion, we, too, say. Nei-
ther do I condemn thee. No stone
will I cast on thy grave ; no reproach
on thy memory: for repentance ef-
faced every earthly stain, and thou art
now sharing the joy there is in hea-
ven over one sinner that repenteth.
Tears of penitent love mingled with
^ those of virgin innocence at the foot
of the cross. Let them still mingle
there ] we will not regard them with
distrust or disdain. We too have
need to cry :

" Drop, drop, slow tears I

And bathe those beauteous foet.

Which brought from heaven
The news and Prince of peace.

Ce«M not, wet eyes,
For mercy to entreat :

4«

Sauntering.

To cry fin* vengeance

Sin doth never cease*
In your deep floods

Drown all my fiiulta and fean :
Nor let his eye

See sin but through my tears."

Every one who looks deeply into
his own heart finds a motive of chari-
ty for the faults of others. A monk
. of Cluny hung up in his cell the pic-
ture of a famous debauchee under
which he placed his own name. The
surprised abbot asked the reason.
It was to remind him what grace
alone prevented him from becom-
ing. We are all miracles of
grace. It may be restraining or
transforming. We are not the less in
need of it than those who have appa-
rently sunk to lower depths.

All these things passed through
my mind while lingering in the cha-
pel of the Carmelites. In that cha-
pel had resounded the grand tones
of the great Bossuet at the profession
of Madame de la Vallifere, with his
usual refrain — the emptiness of all
earthly things. " Away, earthly hon-
ors !" he said on that occasion, " all
your splendor but ill conceals our
weaknesses and our faults; conceals
them from ourselves, but reveals
them to others." — "There are two
kinds of love," he added, " one is the
love of ourselves, which leads to the
contempt of God — that is the old life,
the life of the world. The other is
the love of God, which leads to the
contempt of ourselves, and is the new
life of Christianity, which, carried to
perfection, constitutes the religious
life. The soul, detached firom the
body by mortification, freed fi-om the •
captivity of the senses, sees itself as
it is — the source of all evil. It there-
fore turns then against itself Hav-
ing fallen through an ill use of liberty,
it would be restrained on every side,
by frightful grates, a profound soli-
tude, an impenetrable cloister, perfect
• obedience, a rule for every action, a
motive for every step, and a hundred

observant eyes. Thus he
on all sides, the soul can onl
venward. Elk fu peut piu
que du cdtS du del'' — a bea
pression, recalling the lines
old manuscript poem in tl
th}que RoycU :

" Li cuers doit estre
Semblans i Tencensoir
Tous doe envers la terre
£t overs vers le cieL"

The heart should be like ;
closed toward earth and op€
heaven ; and such is the lie:
real spouse of Christ.

When Bossuet had finishe
course and the black veil ws
upon the head of La Vail
whole audience wept aloi
Duchess de la Valli^re ii
Louise de la Misdricorde, \
the rigorous life of the Cam
fasts and vigils, to sackcl
ashes.

Philosophers say no motjc
lost, and that every act L
graphed somewhere in the
Think of swelling the cho
that will go on vibrating ir
for ever ; of sighs of penitenc
on sighing through space fo
the ears of a merciful God
tudes of adoring praise ai
which are somewhere image
revealed at the last day as a
the great book that will dc
eternal fate. How much bet
thus perpetuated than idle
vain songs', and all the graces
ion only intended to please
of a fellow-mortal.

After all, there is something
a life that appeals to the ins*
our nature. Even those w
demn it cannot but admire,
they find it poetical. Who <
feel an increased sentiment ol
for Dr. Johnson as he star
bared head, in the rain, whei
ther's book-stall was, in the

The Physical Basis of Life,

dfifj

t Uttoxeter, to expiate an act
disobedience to his father?
)icture of Samuel Johnson,"
jlyle, "standing bare-headed
market-place is one of the
t and saddest we can paint,
imory of old Michael John-
ig from the far distance, sad,
ng in the moonlight of me-

mory. Repentance! repentance! he
proclaims as with passionate sobs —
but only to the ear of heayen, if
heaven will give him audience."

** O heavy laden soul I kneel down and hear

Thy penance in cakn fear ;
With thine own lips to sentence adl thy sin ;

Then, by the judge within
Absolved, in thankful saioifioe to part

For ever with thy sullen heart T*

THE PHYSICAL BASIS OF LIFE.*

know this rather remarkable
se only as republished in the
s of The New York World,
it had a sensational title
jve have abridged. Professor
*s name stands high among
1 physicists or scientists, and
:ourse indicates considerable
ability, and familiarity with
dem school of science which
he explanation of the uni-
ind its phenomena without
zing a creator, or any exis-
ut ordinary matter and its va-
)mbinations. The immediate
r of the professor is to prove
^ical or material basis of life,
It life in all organisms is iden-
riginating in and depending
at he calls the protoplasm,
protoplasm is formed of ordi-
latter ; say, carbon, hydrogen,
, and nitrogen. These ele-
combined in some unknown
ive rise to protoplasm; the
asm gives rise to the plant,
rough the plant, to the animal ;
mce all life, feeling, thought.

Tht^y ef Life. Identity of the Powers
Um of all Living Matter. A Lecture by
T. H. Hiudey. Ntm VptA H^ifrid, Feb.

and reason originate in the peculiar
combination of the molecules of or-
dinary, inorganic matter. The plant
differs from the animal, and the ani-
mal from man, only in the different
combinations of the molecules of the
protoplasm. We see nothing in this
theory that is new, or not as old as
the physics of the ancient Ionian
school.

The only novelty that can be pre-
tended is the assumption that all
matter, even inorganic, is, in a certain
sense, plastic, and therefore, in a rudi-
mentary way, living. The same law
governs the morganic and the orga-
nic world. But even this is not new.
Many years ago, Ralph Waldo Em-
erson asserted the identity of gravita-
tion and purity of heart, and we our-
selves are by no means disposed to
deny that there is more or less ana-
logy between the formation of the
crystal or the diamond and the
growth of the plant. It is not, per-
haps, too much to say that the law
of creation is one law, and we have
never yet been convinced of the
existence of absolutely inert matter.
Whatever exists is, in its order and
degree, a vis aciiva^ or an active
force. Matter, as the potentia nuda

468

The Physical Basis of Life.

of the schoolmen, is simple possibility,
and no real existence at all. There
is and can be no pure passivity in
nature, or purely passive existences.
We would not therefore deny a cer-
tain rudimentary plasticity to mine-
rals, or what is called brute matter,
though we are not prepared to accept
the plastic soul, asserted by Plato, and
revived and explained in the posthu-
mous and unfinished works of Gio-
berti under the term methexis, which
is copied or imitated by the mimesis^
or the individual and the sensible.
Yet since, as the professor tells us,
the animal can take the protoplasm
only as prepared by the plant, must
there not be in inorganic matter a
preparation or elaboration of the pro-
toplasm for the use of the plant ?

The professor speaks of the diffi-
culty of determining the line of de-
marcation between the animal and
the plant; but is it difficult to draw
the line between the mineral and
the plant, or between the plant and
the inorganic matter from which it
assimilates its food or nourishment?
Pope sings,

" See through this air, this ocean, and this earth.
All matter fuickf and bursting into birth ;"

but we would like to have the pro-
fessor explain how ordinary matter,
even if quick, becomes protoplasm,
and how the protoplasm becomes the
origin and basis of the life of the
plant. Every plant is an organism
with its central life within. Virchow
and CI. Bernard by their late discover-
ies have proved that every organism
proceeds from an organite, ovule, or
central cell, which produces, directs,
and controls or governs the whole
organism, even in its abnormal de-
velopments. They have also proved
that this ovule or central cell exists
only as generated by a pre-existing
organism, or parent, of the same kind.
The later physiologists are agreed

that there is no well auth
instance of spontaneous ge
Now this organite must e
before it can avail itself of
toplasm formed of ordinar]
which is exterior to it, no
it, and cannot be its life,
moves from within outward,
centre to the circumfereno
cede, then, all the facts the
alleges, they only go to prove
organism already living sus
life by assimilating fitting
from ordinary matter. But
not show at all that it de
life from them ; or that the
protoplasm is the origin, sour
or matter of organic life ; oi
generates, produces, or give
the organite or central cell ;
it has anything to do with i
it. Hence the professor
throw any light on the ori^
ter, or basis of life itself.

It may or it may not be di
the lower organisms to draw
between the plant and the ani
we shall urge no objections
the professor says on that pc
will only say here that the
organism, like the vegetable
duced, directed, and contro
the central cell, and that thi
ovule is generated by animal
There is no spontaneous gei
and no well authenticated
of metagenesis. I^ike g
like, and even Darwin's doc
natural selection confirms rati
denies it. It is certain that t
table organism has never, a
science goes, generated an
organism. Arguments based
ignorance prove nothing. 1
toplasm can no more pnx
vitalize the central animal tlui
the central vegetable cell, and,
still less; for the animal cai
the professor himself asserts,
its life by the protoplastic <

The Physical Basis of Life,

469

have been prepared by the
le organism. Whence, then,
lal germ, organite, or ovule?
alizes it and gives it the power
ilating the protoplasm as its
hout which the organism dies
ppears?

I the professor the fullest
)r exact science in all his
its, he does not, as far as we
prove his protoplasm is the

basis of life, or that there is
ny physical basis at all. He
)ves that matter is so far
s to afford sustenance to a
i organic life, which every
ho has ever manured a field
)r grass, or reared a flock of
a herd of cattle, knows, and
IS known, as well as the illus-
)fessor.

n find a clear statement of
r the conditions of life, both

and animal, but no demon-
if the principle of life, in the
s very elaborate discourse,
f we examine it closely, we
that he does not even pretend
istrate anything of the sort.
5 all means of science except
experience, and maintains
ae that we have no sensible
e of causes or principles,
?, he asserts, is restricted to
facts with their law, which,
:em, is itself only a fact or a
Ion of facts. The conditions
; we observe them, are for
essential principle of life in
sense in which the word
has, or can have, for him,
;ible meaning. He proves,

physical basis of life, by
hat it has any intelligible
,1. He proves, indeed, that
plasm, which he shows, or

to show, is universal— one
ime, always and everywhere
nt in the already existing life
jC plant and the animal ; but

that, whatever it be, in the plant or ani-
mal, which gives it the power to take up
the protoplasm and assimilate it to its
own organism, which is properly the
life or vital power, he does not ex-
plain, account for, or even recognize.
With him, power is an empty word.
He nowhere proves that life is pro-
duced, furnished, or generated by the
protoplasm, or has a material origin.
Hence, the protoplasm, by his own
showing, is simply no protoplasm at
all. He proves, if anything, that in
inorganic matter there are elements
which the living plant or animal assi-
milates, and into which, when dead,
it is resolved. This is all he does,
and in fact, all he professes to do.

The professor makes light of the
very grave objection, that chemical
analysis can throw no light on the
principle or basis of life, because it is
or can be made only on the dead
subject. He of course concedes that
chemical analysis is not made on the
living subject ; but this, he contends,
amounts to nothing. We think it
amounts to a great deal. The very
thing sought, to wit, life, is wanting in
the dead subject, and of course can-
not by any possible analysis be de-
tected in it If all that constituted
tlie living subject is present in the
dead body, why is the body dead, or
why has it ceased to perform its vital
functions ? The protoplasm, or what
you so call, is as present in the corpse
as in the living organism. If it is the
basis of life, why is the organism no
longer living ? The fact is, that life,
while it continues, resists chemical
action and death, by a higher and
subtler chemistry of its own, and it is
only the dead body that falls under the
action of the ordhiary chemical laws.
There is, then, no concluding the
principle or basis of life fi-om any
possible dissection of the dead body.
The professor's answer to the ob-
jection is far fix)m being satisfactory.

" ObjedoTS of this class," he says, " da not
Mcni to rcfiect . . . tluit wc know
DOlhing about tha composition oT any body as
it is. The statement that a crystal of calc-
spar consists of carbonnle of lime is quite
true, if we only mean that, by appropriate
processes, it may be resolved into carbonic
add and quicklime. If you pass the same
carbonic acid over the very quicklime thtts
obtained, you will obtain carbonate of lime
again ; but it will not be calc-spar, nor
anything like it. Cati it therefore be said
that chemical analysis teaches nothing about
the chemical composition of calc-apai?
Such a statement would be absurd; but it
U hardly more so than the talk one occasion-
ally hears about the useiessneas of applying
the results of chemical analysis to the living
bodies which have yielded them. One fact,
at any rate, is out of reach of such icfine-
mentB and this is, that all the forma of pro-
toplasm which have yet been examined
contain the four elements, carbon, hydrogen,
oiygen, and nitrogen, in very complex
union, and that they behave similarly
toward several reagents. To this complex
combination, the nature of which has never
been determined with exactness, the name
of protein has been applied. And if we
use this term with such caution as may

property arise out of comparative ignorance
of the things for which it stands, it may be
truly said that all protoplasm is prcrteinace-
ousi or, as the while, or albamen, of an
egg is one of the commonest examples of a
nearly pure proleine miller, we may say
that all living matter is more or les! al-
buminoid. Perhaps it would not yut be
safe to say thai all forms of protoplasm are
affected by the direct action of electric
shocks 1 and yet the number of cases in
which the contraction of protoplasm is shown
to be effected by this agency increases every
day. Nor can it be affirmed with perfect
confidence that all forms of protoplasm are
liable to undergo that peculiar coagutatioti
at a temperature of 40 degrees — 30 degrees
centigrade, which has been called " hcal-
stiHcning," though Kuhne's beautiful re-
searches have proved this occurrence to
fake place in so many and such diverse
living beings, thatit is hardlyrash to expect
that the law holds good lor all."

This long extract proves admira-
bly how long, how leamedty, how
scientifically, a great man can talk
without saying anything. All that
is here said amounts only to this ; the
conclusions obtained by the analysis of

the dead body
applicable to the living bod
we know nothing of the ci
of any body ot^nic or in>
it is. Therefore all tife hail
cal basis! Take tlie tvhoh
and all it tells you la. that
nothing of the subject it prt
treat. " All the forms of pi
which have yel been exami
tain the four elements, cai
drogen, oxygen, and nitrogc
complex imion." When chen
solved into these four clcui
protoplasm still ? Can you bj
cal process reconvert them
toplasni ? No. Then what
analysis show of (he natui
physics] basis of life ? " To
)klcx union, the nature of
never yetbefft determined, th(
protein has been applied."
portant to know that. Yel
protein names not something
but something the nature
is unknown. Uliat then does'
"Jf we use this term [prol
such caution as may prop
out of our comparative ipi
the things for which it stan^
truly be said that all prou
proteinaeeous." Be it so,
vancc in knowledge, sno
ignorant of what protein
wonderful what a uagnitie
ture our scientists ate aU<
on ignorance as the fouiukt
The professor, after hai
fessed his ignorance of
alleged protoplasm really

"Enoaghhas, perhaps, been I
the existence of a general imlA
character of the protopIjtSRl,
basis of life, in whatever group
ings il may be studied, But ft
derslood that this getters' anil:
means excludes any amoanl
modifications of the fin
The mineral, carbonate oJ
an immense diversity of iftai

tflM

The Physical Basis of Life.

471

>ubts that under all these protean
t b one and the same thing. And
t is the ultimate fate, and what the
f the matter of life ? Is it, as

the older naturalists supposed,
throughout the universe in mole-
lich are indestructible and un-
le in themselves ; but, in endless
ation, unite in innumerable per-
V, into the diversified forms of life
? Or is the matter of life compos-
inary matter, differing from it only
nner in which its atoms are aggre-
s it built up of ordinary matter,
ti resolved into ordinary matter
rork is done ? Modem science does
.te a moment between these alter-

Phj'siology writes over the por-

Debemur morti nos nostraqae,*

)founder meaning than the Roman
hed to that melancholy line. Un-
ever disguise it takes refuge,
bngus or oak, worm or man, the
>toplasm not only ultimately dies
olved into its mineral and lifeless
ts, but is always dying, and,
( the paradox may sound, could
iless it died."

se all this to oe precisely as

it only proves that there is
through the whole material
ements which in certain un-
and inexplicable combina-
ord sustenance to plants, and

plants to animals, or from
e living organism repairs its
id sustains its life. It does

us how carbon, hydrogen,
and nitrogen are or must be
i to form the alleged proto-
hence is the living organism,
)rigin or principle of its life.
:t, shows us neither the ori-

the matter of life, for it is
ictually living organism that
ssimilates the alleged proto-

There is evidently at work
'ganism a vital force that is
ihable firom the irritability or
lity of the protoplasm, and
red from or originated by
loubtedly, every organism
s under our observation,

whether vegetable or animal, has its
physical conditions, and lives by
virtue of a physical law; but this,
even when we have determined the
law and ascertained the conditions,
throws no light on the life itself. The
life escapes all observation, and sci-
ence is impotent, if it leaves out the
creative act of God, to explain it,
or to bring us a step nearer its secret
Professor Huxley tells us no more,
with all his science and hard words,
than any cultivator of the soil, any
shepherd or herdsman, can tell us,
and knows as well as he, as we have
already said.

In the last extract, the professor
evidently prefers, of the two alterna-
tives he suggests, the one that as-
serts that " the matter of life [proto-
plasm] is composed of ordinary mat-
ter, is built up of ordinary matter,
and resolved again into ordinary
matter when its work is done." This
the professor applies to man as well
as to plants and animals. Hence,
he cites the Roman poet,

^'Debemor morti not nottnque.'*

But we have conceded the pro-
fessor more than he asks. We have
conceded that all matter is, in a cer-
tain sense, plastic, and living, in the
sense of being active, not passive.
But the professor does not ask so
much. We inferred from some things
in the beginning of his discourse that
he intended to maintain that his pro-
toplasm is itself elemental, and p»-
vading all nature. But this is not the
case ; he merely holds it to be a che-
mical compound formed by the pecu-
liar chemical combination of lifeless
components. Thus he says :

«Bat it will be observed that the exis-
tence of the matter of life depends on the
pre-existence of certain compounds, namely,
carbonic acid, water, and ammonia. With-
draw any one of these three from the world,,
and all vital phenomena come to an end.
They are related to the protoplasm of the

plant, as the protoplasm of the plml U to
that of the animitl. Carbon, hydrogen, oxy-
gen, and nitrogen are all lilelcM bodies.
or these, carbon and oiijgcn unite in certain
proportions and under certain conditions,
to give rise to carbonic acid ; hydrogen and
oxjigen produce water ; nitrogen and hydro-
gen give rise to ammonia. The«e new com-
pounds, like the elementary bodies of which
they are composed, are lifeless. But when
they arc brought toeether, under certain
conditions they give rise to the still more
complex body, ptotoplaam, and this proto-
plasm exhibits the phenomena of life. I see
no break in this scries of slepy in my secular
complication, and I am unable to under-
stand why the language which is applicalilc
to any one term of the series may not be
used to any of (he others."

But here is a break or a bold leap
from a lifeless to a living compound.
No matter how different are the seve-
ral chemical compounds known from
the simple components, the new com-
pound is always, as far as known, as
lifeless as were the several compo-
nents themselves. Hydrogen and
oxygen compounded give rise to wa-
ter, but water is lifeless. Hydrogen
and nitrogen, brought together in cer-
tain proportions, give rise to ammo-
nia, still a lifeless compound. No
chemist has yet, by any combination
of the minerals, carbon, hydrogen,
oxygen, and nitrogen, the constituents
of protoplasm, been able to produce
a living plant or a living orgSnism of
any sort. How then conclude that
their combination produces the mat-
ter of life, or gives rise to the living
organism ? There seems to us to be
a great gulf between the premises and
the conclusion. Certain combina-
"tionG of carbon, hydrogen, oxygen,
and nitrogen produce certain lifeless
compounds different from themselves,
therefore a certain other combination
of these same elements produces the
living organism, plant, or animal, or
originates the matter, and forms the
physical basis of life. If the profes-
sor had in his school daj's reasoned

in ihis way, his logi<
peKt, would have set a
against his name, or, more lil
rajiped him over the luiutj
over his head, and told hii^
argument that has no mid<Qj
no argument at all, and that "j
a genere ad genus," as front
less to the living, is a sophid

The professor is misled q
posing that what is true ofl
body must be true of the livi
cause chemical analysis real
dead body inio ccnain Klj
ments, he concludes that ^
body is, while living, onlw
pound of these same lifeless.
That is, from what is true \
he. concludes what must bj
life. But for this fallacy, J
never have fallen into the o^
cy of concluding life is only 1
of a certain aggregate or anu
lifeless minerals. Our sda
seldom good logicians, and
rarely found them able, whe^
traditional science, to dravfj
logical induction from the fa^
them. This is wherefore th^
so little respect from philosD|
Iheologians, who are ain'nysl
accept their facts, but, for j
part, unable to accept iheir in
The professor has given ussoa
ble facts, though very well Iq
fore ; but his logical incptnd
best argument he lias as yet \
support of his favorite thd
man is only a monkey deveU

In the extract ne«t befurfl
the professor revives an oltl]
long since abandoned, ibfl
generated from comiptioD. ]
whatever disguise it taltf"
whether fungus or oak,
the living protoplasm
mately dies and is resi
mineral and lifeless coi
is always dying, and, SI
faradax may 'sourul, t^ittd

The Physical Basis of Life,

473

died,^^ We know that some
legists regard the waste of the
«rhich in life is constantly going
i which is repaired by the food
e, as incipient death ; but this
r because they confound the
s or molecules of matter of
the body is externally built up,
lich change many times during
inary life, with the body itself,
ppose the life of the body is

the resultant of the aggrega-
' these innumerable molecules
ncles. But the life of the or-
;, we have seen, is within it,
1 action from the centre, and
ily its life, not its death, that
off or exudes as weU as assimi-
le material particles. The exu-

as well as the assimilation is
>ted by death. Why the pro-
a could not live unless it died
: we do not understand.

professor, of course, not only
the immortality of the soul, but
istence of soul itself. There
im no soul but the protoplasm

of ordinary matter. All this
lerstand very well. We under-
too, that on his theory the pro-
1 assimilated by the organism
lir its waste, renews literally,
iratively, the life of the organ-
3ut how he extracts life from
and concludes that the proto-
must die, as the condition of

passeth our comprehension,
ppose, however, the professor
t necessary to assert it in order
able to reason from the dead

to the living. If the proto-
wrere not dead, he could not by <
al analysis determine its con-
ts; and if the death of the pro-
tt were not essential to its life,
Jd not conclude the constitu-
f the living protoplasm from
le finds to be the constituents

dead protoplasm. But this
ot help him. In the first place,

the waste of the living organism is ^
not death nor dying, though death
may result fi"om it. And the supply
of protoplasm in the shape of food
does not originate new life, nor reple-
nish a life that is gone, but supplies
what is needed to sustain and invigo-
rate a life that is already life. In the
second place, the vital force is not
built up by protoplastic accretions, but
op)erates from within the organism, fix>m
the organite or central cell, without
which there could be no accretions or
secretions. The food does not give
life; it only ministers sustenance to
an organism already living. No che-
mical analysis of the food can disclose
or throw any light on the origin, na-
ture, or constitution of the organic
life itself.

It is this fact that prevents us fix>m
having much confidence in chemical
physiology, which is still insisted on
by our most eminent physiologists.
In every organism there is some-
thing that transcends the reach of
chemical analysis, and which no
chemical synthesis can reproduce.
Take the professor's protoplasm itself.
He resolves it into the minerals, car-
bon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitro-
gen : but no chemist can by any
possible recombination of them re-
produce protoplasm. How then can
one say that these minerals are its
sole constituents, or that there are not
other elements entering it which es-
cape all chemical tests and, indeed,
are not subject to chemical laws?
Chemistry is limited, and cannot
penetrate the essence of the material
substance any more than the eye
can. It never does and never can
go beyond the sensible properties of
matter. Life has its own laws, and
every physiologist knows that he
meets ift the living organism phe-
nomena or facts which it is impossi-
ble to reduce to any of the laws
which are obtainable from the analy-

474

, sis of inorganic or lifeless matter. It
is necessary then to conclude that
[here is in the living organism pre-
sent and active some element which,
though using lifeless matter, cannot
be derived from it, or esplained by
physical laws, be they mechanical,
chemical, or electrical. The law of
life iii a law siii generis, and not re-
solvable into any other. We must
even go beyond the physical laws
themselves, if we would find their
prindple.

As tar as human science goes, there
is, where the nucleus of life is wanting,
no conversion of lifeless matter into
living matter. The attempt to prove
that living organisms, plants, animals,
or man are developed from inorganic
and lifeless matter, though made as
long ago as Leucippus and Deraoc-
ritus, systematized by Epicurus, sung
in rich Latin verse by Lucretius, and
defended by the ablest of modern
British physico -philosophers, Mr.
Herbert Sjwncer, in his BibIo^; has
by tlie sane part of the human race
in all times and everywhere been
held to be foolish and absurd. It
has no scientilic basis, is supported
by no known facts, and is simply an
unfounded, at least, an unsupported
hypothesis. Life to the scientist is
an insolvable mystery. We know no
explanation of this mystery or of any-
thing else in the universe, unless we
accept the creative act of God ; for
the origin and cause of nature are
not in nature herself We have no
other explanation of the origin of
living organisms or of the matter of
life. God created plants, animals,
and man, created them livtng organ-
isms, male and female created he
them, and thus gave them the power
to propagate and multiply each its
own kind, by natural generation.
The scientist will of course smile su-
perciliously at this old solution, in-
sisted on by priests and accepted by

The Physical Basis ef Life.

the vulgar; but though n
entist, we know enough q
to say trom even a scicnt!
of view that there b no all
either this or no solution at i
ablest men of ancient or
times, when tliey reject it,
into endless sophisms and si
dictions.

Professor Huxley admits I
material existences, conccdei
terms of his proposition an
tionably materialistic, and y
that he is individually a mat

" It may leeni * sunt] ihinc to,
the dull vital aciiona of a fiiiigu^
minifer, are the propcnics of d
ptasm, and arc the direct rctiilB
lure of the matter of which Un
(losad. But if, » I have cud
pr(i« tu you, their prutupUmi ii
identical with, and most rtadilf
into, ihal of anr aninul, I caj
no loelcal halting place botwetj
miHion Ihal such is the cnf
further cancession tliat all vital I
with equal piopriety, be uld
result of the molecular farcet of
plasm which displays iL And if
be true, in the «ame sense and a
Client, that the IhouebERlo whjd
giving utterance, and your ihi
gaiding thera, are the esrprenio
cular changes in the mailer of
is the louice of other vital p
Past experieace leads me *a hi
certain thai, when the propraltic
jflsl placed before you are ao
public comment and criticisni, ll
condemned by many lealooa pt
peihips by some of Ibe wiie u
ful. I should not wonder if '
brulal materialism' were \\
phrase applied to (hem in ceilid
And most undoubledir Ihe tel
propositions are dislinoljr in
Neveriheiess, lira thines ue a
one, Ihat I bold the stalenwat
suntialty true; Ihe other, thM !
ally, am no materialist, bat on d
believe materialiini to inv^vs fl

If what he has been i
first endeavoring to prove,
distincdy asserts, is not tW

The Physical Basis of Life.

475

consequently by his own confes-
**a grave philosophical error,"
Qow not what would be. " This
I of materialistic terminology
the repudiation of the material-
)hilosophy," he says, further on,
liare with some of the most
;htful men with whom I am ac-
ted." His terminology is, then,
• fitted to conceal his thought
» express it He may repudiate
>r that materialistic system; he
repudiate all philosophy, which
' course does, yet not his termi-
/ only, but his thought, as far as
ht he has, is materialistic. No-
can be more materialistic than
onception of life, sense, senti-
affection, thought, reasoning,
e sensible, intellectual, and mo-
snomena we are conscious of, as
roduct of the peculiar arrange-
or combination of the mole-
a the protoplasm, itself resolva-
to the minerals, carbon, hydro-
xygen, and nitrogen.
: scientific professor defends him-
om materialism, by asserting
>th materialism and spiritualism
hout the limits of human sci-
ind by denying the necessity of a
Qce, whether spirit or matter, to
ie and sustain — we should say,
:e — the phenomena, and the
ary relation of cause and effect,
t we do or can know things un-
ly relation but that of juxtapo-
in space and time. He falls
m the skepticism of Hume, and
refuge behind his ignorance,
too ignorant either to assert
ieny the existence of spirit, and
ti he may not be able to prove
lenomena in question are the
ct of material forces, nobody
i enough of the nature and es-
of matter to say that they are
ind in fine, he in the first part of
(course is only stating the direc-
i which physiology has for some

time been moving. After all, what is
the difference, or rather, what matters
" the difference between the concep-
tion of life as the product of a certain
disposition of material molecules, and
the old notion of an Archaeus gov-
erning and directing blind matter
within each living body ?"

But if matter lies out of the limits
of science, and the professor is un-
able to say whether it exists or not,
what right has he to call anything
material, to speak of a material ba-
sis of life, or to represent life and its
phenomena as the product of " a cer-
tain disposition of material mole-
cules" ? What, indeed, has he been
laboring to prove through his whole
discourse, but that the phenomena of
life are the product of ordinary mat-
ter ? After this, it will hardly answer
to plead ignorance of the existence
and properties of matter. If matter
be relegated to the region of die un-
knowable, his whole thesis, terminol-
ogy and all, must be banished with
it, for it retains, and can retain, no
meaning.

Nor will it answer for the professor
to take refuge in Hume's skepticism,
and say he is not a materialist, be-
cause he admits no necessary relation
between cause and effect, or that
there is within the limits of science,
any power or force, or vis activa^
which men in their ignorance call
"cause," actually producing some-
thing which men call " effect" If he
says this, what becomes of his thesis,
that life and even mind are the pro-
duct of a certain disposition of mate-
rial molecules, or of "the pccnfiar
combination of the molecules of tfie
protoplasm " ? If he denies the ex-
istence, or even the knowledge of
causative, that is, productive force,
his thesis has no meaning, and all his
alleged proofs of a physical basis
of the vital and mental phenomena
must count for nothing. Every pzooi.

476

The Physical Basis of Life.

every argument, presupposes the re-
lation of cause and effect When
that relation is denied, and the two
things are assumed to have with each
other only the relation of juxtaposi-
tion, no proposition can be either
proved or disproved. The professor,
after having asserted and attempted
to prove his materialistic thesis, can-
not, without gross self-contradiction,
plead the skepticism of Hume in his
defence. If he holds with Hume, he
should have kept his mouth shut,
and never stated or attempted to
prove his thesis.

Whether we are or are not able to
prove that life, sense, and reason do
not originate in the peculiar " combi-
nation of the molecules of the proto-
plasm," is nothing to the purpose.
It is for the professor to prove that
they do. He must not base his sci-
ence on our ignorance, any more
than on his own.

But our space is exhausted and we
must close. Taken, as we have taken
him, on what he must concede to be
purely scientific ground, and brought
to a strictly scientific test, the pro-
fessor's thesis must be declared not
proven, and to be destitute of all sci-
entific value. We have met him on
his own ground, and have urged no

arguments against him dra
religion or metaphysics ; we 1
ply corrected one or two mi
his science, and assailed hi
tions with pure logic If h<
reasoned logically, that is 1
not ours, and neither he nor h
have any right to complain <
showing that his inductions i
cal, and therefore unscientif
we are bound tor say that th
sor reasons as well as any of
of scientists that we have n
No man can reason logical)}!
jects the Aoyo^, that is, lo|
and nothing better than Profes
ley*s discourse can be expec
a scientist who discards all ca
seeks to explain the existe
phenomena or facts of the i
without rising from second c
the first and final cause of al
Two questions are raised
discourse, of great and vita
tance. The one as to the n
tween cause and effect, in ai
Hume's skepticism, and the
to spirit and matter, and the
rocal relation. We have not at
the discussion of either in this
but should a favorable occasi
we may hereafter treat them
some length.

o Months in Spain during the late Revolution, 477

> MONTHS IN SPAIN DURING THE LATE

REVOLUTION.

3IBRALTAR.

October 7.
r hour yesterday we left
did indeed look like a
loating on the water,"
irds say of it. As the
as away, the rising sun

1 towers and cathedral
ilvideres which adorn
every house, (making

2 a church,) the lovely
, the distant moimtains,
ite towns on the shore,
of vessels in the spark-
made an enchanting

'hich we were recalled
rries of sea-sickness !
) time, we crept upon
:he fine sea view, and
(le to Tarifa, near the
:ene was magnificent,
he mountains of Afiica,
he distance; on the
)untains of Spain and
ooking town of Tarifa,
[ on which is the light-
ences standing directly
of the straits ; so that
r a long line of vessels
te sails spread were en-
le island. In sight, at
re eighty sail. Every
the sun seemed repre-
y saluted one another
gs. Among the rest,
Norway. We landed
under a glorious sun-
ivell beams lighted the
I a tint of gilded bronze,
osite these, was like
mountain, and behind
s of the palest rose co-
to blue where it touch-

ed the water. The town is on the
side and at the foot of the " Rock,"
(a place of sbcteen or twenty thou-
sand inhabitants,) and above it are
the famous galleries cut through the
rock, from which we could see the
noses of the great guns peeping from
the port-holes, range after range, one
above another, till the top is reached,
where is the Signal.

The Rock of Gibraltar is 1430 feet
high, and about three miles long — a
great gray sphinx jutting into the
water. It is joined to the mainland
by a narrow slip of sand, capable of
being submerged if necessary. Up-
on this neck of land is the " neutral
ground," (a narrow strip,) where, side
by side, the fair British sentinel and
the sunburned Spaniard keep their
"lonely round." We mount upon
donkeys to ascend the " Rock,"
passing through the wonderful " gal-
leries" which, at an immense expense,
have been cut into the solid rock,
where, with the guns, are depositories
for powder, balls, etc. Some of these
galleries are over a mile and a quar-
ter long, lighted by the port-holes,
which, in passing, gave us glimpses
of the loveliest of landscapes. Leav-
ing the galleries, we ascend by zigzag
paths to the Signal; at every turn
feasting our eyes upon the wonderful
panorama spread out below us,
which is seen in perfection fi-om the
summit. Here we looked down
upon two seas, the Atlantic and the
Mediterranean, and two worlds, Eu-
rope and Afiica ! Spain on one side,
with the snowy heights of the Alpu-
jarras and Sierra Nevada ; at our feet,
the town of Gibraltar, with the lovely

478

Two Months in Spain during the late Revolution.

alameda, its green trees and bright
gardens, the glorious bay crowded
with shipping — men-of-war, school-
ships, steamers, and every small craft ;
and, seemingly, but a stone's throw
across lay Ceuta, at the foot of that
other " Pillar of Hercules" which ri-
ses 2 200 feet, and looks like a moun-
tain of bronze, while Gibraltar is of
gray granite. These two great pil-
lars were considered in the olden
time the end of the world — the Tar-
shish of the Bible; the Calpe of the
Phoenicians, who erected here Calpe
(carved mountain) and Abyla.

Tarik, the one-eyed Berber chief,
took Gibraltar in 711, and called it
after his own name, Ghebal Tarik,
from whence comes Gibraltar.

While upon the " Signal," we sig-
nalize the event by taking a lunch of
delicious English cheese, bread and
butter, (the first butter we have had
in Spain,) and such ale ! And while
thus agreeably engaged, we hear that
an American man-of-war is coming
intOLport, which proves to be the flag-
ship of Admiral Farragut ; so we re-
pair to the rampart to see the ship sa-
luted by the town, and then by the
British frigate Bristol, to both of
which the Yankee replied in gallant
style. It was a fine sight, and, alto-
gether, the scene a most remarkable
one. Down by the neutral ground,
some English officers playing cricket
looked like ants in the sunshine ; the
blue guard-tents of the English senti-
nels, and the white ones of the Span-
iards, were little specks, and the
Christian and Jewish cemeteries were
like checker work on the greensward.

How longingly we looked toward
the puq)le mountains of Africa, and
that beautiful city of Tangier which
we had hoped to visit ! but the quar-
antine, still in force, obliged us to
abandon the idea. It would have
been something to set foot in another
continent! Ceuta, which belongs to

Spain, and is but a prisor
could not tempt us. Tearir
selves from this wonderful sc
descended by the other side
mountain and entered the
beautiful gardens near the al
seeing below us the govc
houses, store-houses, magazin
many fine residences embow
gardens of tropical trees and
whole hedges of geraniums a
tus lined the roadside, and a
trees, dates, and oranges. We
a convent-school with beauti
extensive gardens. In the 1
there is music on the alameda
are trees and statues, and
benches, on which sit the
population of this strange
Moors in turbans, bare-legged
landers, officers in scarlet, ^
sians in the red faja, Irishme
from their native isle, lad
French bonnets and English
hats next the Spanish mantil
ever-moving fan. Gibraltar is
port, and every people and \
meet here for trade. The gar
very large, about three thousai
in time of peace ; for the Sp
see the occupation of this imi
point in their countiy with gre
ousy, and would gladly seek o<
to win it back. And every n<
then the subject is mooted in tli
lish parliament of giving it up,
a most expensive appendage
English people, and can brin
benefit save to their pride.

MALAGA HOTEL ALAMEDA.

Octd
Leaving Gibraltar at an earl
and passing the forest of ships
bay, we soon see the last of 1
lars of Hercules and the
coast. The sea is calm, ai
coast of Spain along which wi
is most beautiful I'liere is

rwo Months in Spain during the late Revolution, 479

iliarly interesting in the
of Spain; they seem to
>n hill till they grow to be
and instead of the blue
►uthem countries they are
berry hue — seldom with
reminding one of the pur-
)f Scotland. The steamer
I with families returning
Itar, whither they had fled
of the way of the revolu-

a busy, crowded city, a
with mountains in the
1, an old Moorish castle
\ the city, and a beautiful
ith trees, and statues, and
ts, upon which we look
nndows of our delightful

October 9.
thing to-day is to drive to
la, (that of the Marquis de
g,) in whose garden we see
and flower and tree of the
ananas and mangoes, the

the magnolia and India-
ns, and among all these
md ate, ripe persimmons !
lely fruit of old Virginia,
1st all these oriental splen-

sweeter were they than
ranges which we gathered
overladen trees. Return-
used to see another villa,
:e is a more extensive and
iew of the mountains, the
e sea, and the fertile pla-

which Malaga lies, and
aid to rival even the fa-
as of Valencia and Murcia
and luxuriance of vegeta-
: cemetery gives another
int of view, and the old
istle (Gibralfaro) has even
; but the day is too warm
: the ascent. The castle
1279, and the lower por-
Ucazaba,) which is connect-
is supposed to be of Phoe-

nician origin; Malaga having been
first a Phoenician colony, and after-
wards Roman. Of the remains of
the Roman period, we saw two inter-
esting bronze slat» in a pavilion of
the Villa Loring this morning, one
of them containing the municipal laws
of Malaga under Domitian, and the
other those of a city (Salpense) now
unknown.

The interior of the cathedral, which
rises upon the site of an ancient
mosclue, is not at all remarkable. It
was begun in 1528. The church of
" El Cristo del Victoria *' is interest-
ing, from the circumstance of its be-
ing built on the spot where stood the
tents of the Catholic kings during the
siege of 1487. On the right of
the altar hangs the royal standard of
Ferdinand, and on the left the one
taken from the Moors. When the
city surrendered, the former was hoist-
ed on the castle, or alcazaba. Oppo-
site this chuDch is a small church, San
Roque, the first Christian edifice built
here by Ferdinand and Isabella. The
crucifix which was formerly here was
the one brought by their majesties,
is highly revered, and is now over the
high altar of Santa Victoria.

Malaga is famed for its climate,
the best in Spain. It is considered
drier, warmer, and more equable than
that of Rome, Pau, Naples, or Nice,
even superior to Madeira. Invalids
flock here, and it will soon be as
crowded as Nice. The extreme dry-
ness of the air is its marked feature,
and it is said that there are not ten
days in the whole ^ear when an inva-
lid may not take out-door exercise.
The evaporation is so great, the rain
has no influence on the air. During
nine years, it has rained only two hun-
dred and sixty times. The " oldest in-
habitant " does not remember to have
seen snow, and the cold winds from
the Sierra Nevada are kept off by the
mountains immediately surrounding

480 Two Months in Spain during the late Revolution.

the city. To show the longevity of
the inhabitants, in the year i860,
twenty-nine out of five thousand
deaths were of people who had lived
to the ages of ninety or a hundred.

GRANADA.

October la
This morning we leave Malaga at
an early hour by rail, the road being cut
through extraordinary mountam passes
to Antiquera, an old Roman and Moor-
ish town; from thence by diligence
to Loja, where we again take the rail-
way. The journey is altogether de-
lightful, the day being cool and bright,
and the mountain scenery on either
side grand and beautiful. Loja is in
a narrow valley, through which runs
the Genii river, on one side the Peri-
quete Hills (Sierra Ronda) and the
Hacho. The Manzanil unites here with
the Genii, both rapid and clear moun-
tain streams fertilizing a lovely valley.
Soon after leaving Loja, we reach
Santa F<^, (Holy Faith,) built by
Queen Isabella to shelter her army
in winter during the siege of Granada
in 1492, and called " Santa F^ " because
she looked upon the war as a struggle
for the faith, and believed piously in
its happy issue. This litde town has
been the scene of many important
operations and political acts. It >ait-
ncssed the signing of the capitulation
of Granada, and it was to this
town that Columbus was recalled by
Isabella when he had already reach-
ed the bridge of Pifios, behind the
mountains, determining to ask aid
elsewhere for his great undertaking.
Darkness now fell upon us, and
except one cxciuisite view which the
setting sun gave of the snow mount-
ains over Ciranada, we saw nothing
till we rcacheii this last stronghold
of the Moors in Spain, and found lodg-
ings inside the Alhambra grounds in
the Hotel Washington Ir\'ing.

Octo
We go first to the Cathedral,
the high mass, and pay our res
the remains of Ferdinand and 1
which rest there. Driving
beautiful ornamental ground*
the Alhambra gate, douTi a si
in the old Moorish looking (
find the cathedral, like that o
ga, gready ornamented, (in the
Roman style,) built in 1529.
the sanctuary are eleven pict
Alonzo Cafto, and two of h
celebrated pieces of sculptu
heads of Adam and Eve ca
cork. Cafto was a native of G
and is buried in the Cathed
canegra. Another of the eel
artists of Spain was also a nati^
and the cathedral has several
pictures. But everything coi
with the church sinks into ii
cance when one enters into th
chap>el, where all that can pe
the great Ferdinand and 1
lies (a small space for so much
ness, as Charles V. said.) In s
below the chapel, in plain
coffins, with but the simple in
each king and queen upon th<
the coffins of Ferdinand and I
and their daughter Joanna, w
husband Philip I. (the hands<
the last — that very coffin whi
poor crazed Joanna carried
with her for forty-seven yeai
braced with such frantic gri<
would never be parted fi-om. >
was so affecting as the sight of
not even the remembrance
Isabella's glories and goodnes
does an instance of heart d<
touch one more than even th
of greatness. Above the va
the four beautiful alabaster
ments, made by order of Charl<
the memory of his father and
and his grandparents. Fei
and Isabella, with their stat
side by side ; and poor Joanne 1

Two Months in Spain during the late Revolution, 481

ely and placid (all her jeal-
er) beside the husband she
its if at last sure that she
)t be divided from him,
iied at Medina del Campo,
govia, about thirty miles
Irid,) but desired to be buried
he bright jewel which she
as well for her crown as for
Her body was taken to
in December, journeying
:kless moors amidst storms
*nts, of which the faithful
led Peter Martyr gives ac-
10 accompanied his beloved

her last home,
scription which runs around
ce tells : " This chapel was
by their most Catholic Ma-
)on Fernando and Dofia
Qg and queen of las Espafias
s, of Sicily — of Jerusalem —
quered this kingdom, and
it back to our faith; who
the Canary Islands and In-
Bvell as the cities of Oran,
and Bugia; who crushed
tpelled the Moors and Jews
r realms, and reformed reli-
he queen died Tuesday, No-
26, 1504; the king died
23,151 6. The building was
din 1517."

issi relievi on the altar in
)el are very interesting, from
ts they represent — Ferdinand
jella receiving the keys of
from Boabdil, etc. At each
le altar are figures of the king
» in the costume of the day,
ner of Castile behind the

1 the sacristy is the crown of
the sword of Ferdinand, the
I w^hich she gave the jewels
mbus, some vestments em-
1 by her own hand, and the
le used on the altar where
rd mass, on which is a picture
ioration of the Magi, by that
il old painter Hemling of

VOL. IX. — ^31

Bruges. Lord Bacon has said of
Isabella: "In all her relations of
queen or woman, she was an honor to
her sex, and the comer-stone of the
greatness of Spain — one of the most
faultless characters in history — the
purest sovereign by whom the female
sceptre was ever wielded."

We hear mass in the chapel of the
Sagrario, a beautiful church in itself.
It was on one of its three doors that
the Spanish knight Heman Perez
del Pulgar (during the siege of
Granada) nailed the words, "Ave
Maria ;" to accomplish which feat, he
entered the town at dusk, and lefr it
unharmed — nay, even amidst the
plaudits of the Arabs, who appreciated
the deed. He is buried in one of the
chapels called " Del Pulgar."

From the Cathedral we visit the
" Cartuja," once a wealthy Carthusian
convent, built upon grounds given to
the monks by Gonzales de Cordova
— " El gran Capitan." In the refec-
tory is shown a cross, painted on the
wall by Cotan, which so well im-
itates wood that the very birds fly to
it, and try to perch there. The
church has a beautiful statue of St
Bruno upon the altar; and a larger
one in the chapel of the Sagra-
rio, by Alonzo Ca&o, is especially fine.
The sacristy is rich in marbles from
the Sierra Nevada, and the doors and
other wood-work of the church and
chapel are made of the most curious
and beautiful inlaid work — tortoise-
shell, ebony, silver, and mother of
pearl — all done by one monk, who
took forty-two years to accomplish it ;
and after so adorning this chapel, be-
hold 1 the monks are driven from it

In the church are several lovely
pictures — a head of our Lord by Mu-
rillo ; a copy, by Alonzo Cafio, of the
Viergo del Rosarlo in the Madrid
gallery, and a copy of one of the
" Conceptions " of Murillo^^that one
with the fair flowing hair,so very lovdy.

Returning home, we have our first
view of ihe snow mountains, (Sierra
Nevada.) How strange and how
charming to be twneaih a tropical sun,
and with all the beautiful vegetation
of Africa and tlie Indies, with peo-
ple all eastern in dress and man-
nets, and see above one snow-capped
mountains like the glaciers of Switzer-
land! 0\ving to the proximity of
these glaciers, the heat is never in-

of Phcenician origin, Th«
entered by several gates, sod
and others more modem, f
gales, you wander among
nues of trees, with flowers i
and channiiig paths, throB
now and then is seen a gUn
yellow lowers, or some p
ruin, altogether a scene of a
beauty. And when upon oj
'miradors" (look-outs) oi

tolerable here, and yet the winters are which crown ihese towerj >

nild they seldom need fire in their
sitting-rooms or parlors.

there hes the Moori(
your feet, the grand snow i
on the east, the beautiful ve(
ing to the mountains on
down which marched the O
Christians; and on the Boul

October la.
To-day is made memorable by our
first visit to the Alhambra. Situated

on a high hill, on either side of which mountain so jwetically cri

flows the Darro and the Genii, this last sigh of the Moor," fri

space, which occupies several hundred Boabdi! looked his last 1

acres, was formerly surrounded by kingdom he was leaving foi

walls and towers, and contained within where his mother made H

it the palaces and villas of the Kalifs mous reproach which has p

of Granada ; and so numerous were history, that he did well

these that it was called a city, Medina as a woman over that kin

Alhambra. Of all these, there now could not defend as a maOJ
remains but that portion of the Al- And how venture 10 da

. hambra known as the summer-palace, Alhambra, which has been '

(the winter-palace having been lorn by such men as Prescoit

-down by Charles V, to make mom how give to any one- an id

'for a palace which he never finished.) which is unique in the

Besides this summer-palace, there is grace and beauty and wo(

the " Generalife," (a summer-palace riety of its adornments— ill

■built — later than the Alhambra — in like lace, the bright colors

1319;) the remains of the Alcazabar, and azu el os.( tiles, )the transp

.(fortress,) the Torre de la Vega, where co work and filagree, the '

the bell strikes the hours in the same wood roofs, the pillars,the (

manner as in the Moorish days, to fountains, the t^ourts, th

•signify upon whom devolves the duty ful arches! We enter

of irrigating the " vega," the beautiful Court of the Myrtles, in

and fertile plain below ; the tower of large square pool, filled by
the captive ; tower of the princesses;
the tower of the "Siete Suetos,"
(seven stories;) and the Torres Ber-
mujas, (RedTowers.) Thelastnamed
are outside the Alhambra walls, but

.are on the same hill, and claim to

Ibelong to an older date than even the
Moors or the Goths — supposed lo be

either end, is sunoun
hedge of fragrant myrtle,
turn by a marble colo&a
which is a second gallery,
siei, through which we «
the dark eyed be«ttties to I
ed. The roofs of these gl
of cedar-wood inlaid, and

Two Months in Spain during the late Revolution, 483

of exquisite wreaths and
tucco, with shields of the
cings, mottoes and verses
Coran, etc. This court was
ablutions for the kalifs.
the Court of the Myrdes,
le Tower of Comares, (call-
lie name of its Persian ar-
md within this tower, open-
:he Court of Myrtles, and
by its "antesala" is the

the Ambassadors, the
best, and most beautifully
" all the Alhambra. Here
Itan's throne and reception
I three sides, arched win-
down into the deep ravine
I the tower rises ; and, be-
1 an enchanting prospect,
)orish city and the verdant
mountains. The roof of
a sort of imitation of the
laven, and that of the "an-
lled " La Barca,** from be-
. like a boat) is also very

her side the Court of Myr-
famous Court of the Li-
ts one hundred and thirty-
•f white marble, its twelve
centre, supporting an ala-
n, (a fountain.) At each
vilion projects into the
I arabesque patterns so
raceful that the very day-
i through the stucco,
from the Court of the Li-
flall of the Abencerrages,
name from the legend ac-
ivhich Boabdil invited the
e illustrious family of that
east, and had them taken
one and beheaded. 0th-
at they were murdered in
d show the stains of blood
ble of the fountain. As
een nminly instrumental
lim upon the throne, this
titude helped to his ruin,
is generally believed, but

Washington Irving has rescue<l the
name of this "unlucky" one {el
chi^o) from this unjust aspersion.
His investigations prove that the
crimes laid to the charge of Boabdil
were in reality committed by his fath-
er, Aben Hassin. He it was who
murdered the thirty-six Abencerrages
upon suspicion of having conspired
against him, and it was he who con-
fined his queen in the " tower of the
captive," etc.

On the east side of the Court of
the Lions is the " Sale del Tribunal,"
(the hall of justice,) where the kalifs
gave audience on state affairs. Three
arches in the centre and two at eith-
er end lead into this hall, which is
ninety feet long by sixteen wide, with
a dome thirty-eight feet high. This
is divided by arches into seven rooms,
all profusely ornamented, and in the
ceilings of several recesses are paint-
ings of Moors, with cimeters, castles,
etc. In one of these rooms is the fa-
mous Alhambra vase of porcelain, four
feet three inches high, which was
found full of gold. In another small
room are three tombstones, one of
Mohammed IL, and one of Yusef
III., found in the tomb-house of the
Moorish kings, near the Court of the
Lions, in 1574. They have long and
elaborate inscriptions, one of which
reads thus :

" In the name of God, the most merdful
and clement I

"May God*8 blessing for ever rest with
this our king I

" Health and peace !

" Gentle showers from heaven come down
on this tomb, and give it freshness, and the
orchard spread its ]>erfume upon it What
this tomb contains is wine without admix-
ture, and myrtles. Reward and pardon be
granted to him who lies within.

"It was God's pleasure that he should
dwell amid the garden of delights.

" Those that inhabit those happy regions
come forth to meet him with palms in their
hands.

*' If thoo wouldst know the story of him

wlio lit* in ihe Icmb, listen. He was a
prince above all in excellence. tUy God
give him satictiij t

" He was cut down into the dust. Yet
tbe Pleiades themselves are not his eijuils.

"Unavoidabte late look up arms, and
aimed at the very throne of the empire.

" Oh ( how great was his fame. His ex-
cellence, how high '. and unbounded his vir-

"For Abul Hadjaj was like the moon
iliat pfunta out the road to take, and when
tbe $un went down its brightness beamed
no less from his eyes,

"Abul lUdjaj showered down tokens of
his liberality. But drought is come ; his li-
berality has teased ; his crops are gatheted.

" His gcnero^ty is forgotten ; 4us halls
atelODesome; his ministers silent, and his
taoms deserted.

"But it was God's pleasure, the merciful
one, (niay he be glorilied,) to take him into
the eternal dwelling when he deprived him
of life.

" Here lies he softly, within this narrow
tomb, but his real dwelling is the heart of

"Why should I not pray God that the
rain should moisten his tomb with its abun-
dant dewf for the rain of his liberality
showered down upon all without ceasing.

'■ Was he not filled with the fear of God,
with gentleness and wisdom f Amongst his
qualities, were not virtue, liberality, and
magniScence one part?

" Was he not the only one that with his
science cleared up all doubts P

" Was not poetry one of his attributes,
and did he not deck his throne with verses
like firings of pearl?

"Was he not always stout, and held his
ground in the battle-field f

" How many enemies his sword repelled I

" Bui Ebn Nasr, his successor, is certain-
ly the greatest among all monaichs of the

" May God protect him I

'■ For he is moat generous and victori-
ous ; besides, he dijtiibutcs rewards gene-
rously. He has saved the kingdom from
ruin, and restored it to its former great-

The Hall of ihe Two Sisters lakes
its name from' two white slabs of
equal size in the pavement. Here
are beautiful arches, windows with
painted j.ilousies, a fountain, and a
wonderful roof, composed of three

thousand pieces in little n
domes and vaults, all colore<n
cate blue and red with w)m
gold. From thi; halt, indCfl
from the Court of the Lions, i
through a series of arched at
into the " Corredor de LindaB
which room are thirteoi little j
and the Mirador dc Linda
boudoir of the sultana) loold
the garden of Lindaraja, with ]
and fountains, and orange-trod

On the opposite of this low
den, and looking into it, il|
rooms occupied by Washing
ving, tliose built by PbQip V,
beautiful queen, Elizabeth of
whom the Spanish call "Isal
nese." Several corridors hi
to modernized parts of the '
— " the queen's boudoir," x
made by Charles V. out
mosque, and a loily tower, i
the Arabs as an oratory for I
ning prayer, and from wli
view is superb — the " Gd
with its white towers, the wi
the Alhambra, the Darro bl
in the deep gorge, and, bey<
above all, the snow-capped Sii
vada.

'ITie " Patio de la Mosquil
court of the mo§que) has c
remains of its bcautiriil root

From this to the baths iSj
corridor leading to the Chai
Rest, which has just beco :
by Sig. Contreras, the able |
who is repairing the whole )
by order of the queen. Th
fountain in the centre, maiU
all round, a galleiy above, W
musicians played and sung «
bather inclined upon the i
below ; within were the mart
of the sultan, the sultana, eta

"Generalife" means gai
pleasure, and here garden ab
den rises upon the
til rough which the,

he wxat
he j9

vo Montlis in Spain during the late Revolution. 485

g brought by a little

through the mountain.

e rooms are some inter-

lits of the kings and

Spain. Ferdinand and

ip the handsome, Jeanne

larles V. and Isabella,

' Austria, etc.; and in a

a series of portraits of

Df Granada, whose de-

«r married to an Italian

Genoa, owns this lovely

founder of this house

jrted Moor, and to his

(the houses of Venegas

i) Philip IV. made this

grant. In one of the

s are some cypress-trees

the Moors, seven hun-

d. Under one of these,
is said to have been en-
ich the beautiful Sultana
the heroine. Amongst

in the picture gallery is
idil, fair and handsome,
lair, and a gentle, amia-
e may not have had the
:d to the terrible emer-
ch he was placed, when
itention and misrule had

his empire as to make

struggle against the
itness of Ferdinand and
t he must have possessed
ch won for him the love

e, for many years after
Moors who still lingered
ida sung the plaintive
have been composed by
self, relating his misfor-
is sorrows, spoke of him
nd lamented his fate.

he lived to see his child-
their bread at the door
ques in Fez. He was
irica, fighting the battles
J who gave him shelter.

1 fix)m the Generalife to
et firom the Torre de la
1 is the finest view we

have had of the city — ^the Vega with
the lovely rivers winding through
it, and the grand mountains beyond
As the sun declined, fi*om the many
church bells came the " Ave Maria,"
soft and musical fi-om the great dis-
tance below.

The guide points out the hospital
founded by St. John of God, (a Por-
tuguese saint,) the founder of the bn>
thers of charity now spread all over
Europe. According to the guide, the
saint asked the king for as much
land, on which to build this hospital,
as he could enclose in a certain num-
ber of hours. Of course he was mi-
raculously assisted ; and by working
all night, he took in so great a space
that the kirig became alarmed. Here
he built this hospital and the church
in which he is buried. He lost his
life rescuing a drowning man, and
died blessing Granada.

Tuesday.

Spent the whole morning in the
Alhambra, wandering amid its beau-
ties, feasting upon its romantic me-
mories, and reading at intervals the
charming legends connected with
every spot so delightfully ^ told by
Washington Irving.

In the hall of the tribunal, we read
his account of the entrance of the
triumphant Ferdinand and Isabella,
and fancy the scene when Cardinal
Mendoza celebrated the first mass here.

Seated in the Court of the Lions,
we meditate upon the cruel death of
the noble Abencerrages, and lean
firom the window of the Tower of
Comares, down which the good Aye-
sha let her infant son Boabdil escape,
to save him from the jealous fury of
her rival Zorayda.

And then, in the later days of the
beautiful Elizabetta of Parma, we
recall the scene where the hypochon-
driac Philip persists in being laid out
for dead, and can only be brought to

,d liis conquerors acceded to his
request. Returning through c
thu maity bcauliful paths leadiai
our hotel, wc diverge to look i
view which presented Itself, atull
we are near the villa of Sebora C
ron. Here, terrace above
rises in view of the mountains, I
OD the summit is an anilicial |
with bridges and boats, and «
walks, and flowers and fruits, ai
lues and fountains — everylh

486 Two Months in Spoilt during the late RtvolutioH.

life by the voice and lute of the iair might be walled up, so that no

maiden, "the Rose of the Alham- should ever pass through it after'
bra."

In contrast to the Alhambra are
the remains of the palace begun witii
such magnificence by Charles V., of
which only the walls remain. Within
their vast area and amongst its mar-
ble pillare, muleteers were deposit-
ing their billets of wood, and burdens
of dirt and ashes 1 Sk transit ghna
tnundi.

We go to look at that which has
lasted longer, the church built by

him near by, and called Sta. Maria make a perfect paradise,
del Alhambra. Wandering on, we At night, wC have a gypsy-daiue.

find ourselves amongst the ruins of 'fhe chief of his troop is the finei

the Frandscan convent (still within guitar player in Spain — there cm

the Alhambra walls) which was des- be no belter in the worlil — a till.

troyed by the French in 1809-1S11, dark, grave man, who received oir

when so much of the Alhambra was plaudits with kingly grace; he tocA-

injured. ed as if in sorrow over the dcgndi-

Led by a little boy, and following tion of his people, who are here io

the wall, we come upon a plantation great numbers, living in HTetthtd

of cactus, widi its red and yellow quarters on a hillside, in hole* «

fruit, which a man is gathering with caves in the ground,
great scissors, to prevent its prickings. The dancers were four lovdy,

A woman politely cuts and pares graceful girls, modestly drcao!, V^

some for us to taste. It is sweet several men, all dark, with large. «oS

and juicy; is mucli eaten by the poor, eyes and white teeth. A youti in

who call it "Tuflos." They also short jacket, with broad reJ t»)»

make from it a palatable drink — a (sash) and the peculiar Andalaw"

sort of beer. Hans Andersen has hat, danced a solo of strange CidKSj

written a pretty sonnet to the cactus, with many movements of the bodj,

which seems especially applicable to and the extraordinary gestum »1k1i

e and occasion.

" y«. relloif Did ml in ihe colon b( Spaio :

In banner* ind Ktip Itwjr »re waving on higl'
And (he odua flowor \a% adopted tbem too,

la ilw tarn, uuuhin* u dinle Iha tye.
I'hn lymbol of Sfoid. Ihnu Binta of the tun.

When Iha Uom of old Hm diiven mr,
Thni didu iwl, like them. *l»pdaB Ilqr huBe.

Bui auyed with ihrftuUuidihirjlDiRnaD gi

Here we find ourselves at the

belong to all. The feet movt n
short steps — a sort of " heel and tut'
— while the body sways to and frft
and Uie hands and arms move giai^
fully and expressively. The ik=
had tambourines and the wnm«
castanets, and the wild airs 10 wtiifi
they danced were accompanied »i^
their voices. Hie variety of danW*
and songs was curious and inta^
ing, and often descriptive. Al *•
lower of the " Siete Suelos," through end of each dance, ttie giria cflW
which Boabdil passed when he left round and saluted ail, gentlemen aoi
the Alhambra for ever. It is said that ladies, by passing one ann over ih*
be asked of Isabella that the door neck.

rwo Months iu Spain during tlu late Revolution. 487

Wednesday,
bout the city, the public
:., and visit the remains of
oorish bazaar which occu-
are intersected by narrow
f one of which is beauti-
mented with pillars and
iirork.

imeda, planted in long
f trees which meet over-
»nd which one catches a
; Snow mountains, and be-
flows the Genii river, can
illed in beauty,
irch and hospital of St.
3od is most interesting,
oor are these words of the
bor, without intermission,
the good works in your
le time is allowed you."
uil is built round a large
fountains and gardens,
able row of corridors in
the sick poor, clean and
2. It communicates with
, which has several good
id a head of St John the
ved by Cafio.
ily ornamented chapel be-
,Teat altar is the body of
I a silver casket. The re-
t. Feliciana are also here,
many other relics. In an
00m is seen the identical
rhich the saint carried pro-
he poor.

rch was built by contribu-
by one of the order from
lerica. The cedar-wood
^id to be made from the
lich the concealed treas-
)rought over.

b to the top of the " Torres
outside the Alhambra
whence is another splen-
a curious old ruin, dating
time of the Phoenicians.
o have been a stronghold
s,,who made a colony here
ir persecutions by the Ro-

mans ; and being treated with equal
cruelty by their Gothic conquerors,
they invited in the Moors, betrayed
the city to them, made terms for
themselves, and thus brought upon
themselves the eternal enmity of the
Spaniards, who treated them with
great rigor after the conquest, and
finally banished them. In the story
of the three beautiful princesses, this
tower plays an important rbU; here
were confined the captive Spanish
knights who eloped with the In-
fantas, (daughters of Mohammed
the left-handed,) and beyond, rising
above the deep, romantic ravine, is
the Tower of the Princesses, beneath
which the knights sang their tales of
love.

MADRID, HOTEL DE PARIS.

Friday, October i6u
Yesterday (my feast) and the feast
of the great %)anish Ssunt Teresa was
celebrated by our most sorrowfiil de-
parture from Grenada! At three
o'clock in the morning, we descend
the hill of the Alhambra, and ruefully
mount to the top of a Spanish dili-
gence, and squeeze into what they
call the "coup^* — an exalted place
behind the coach-box, fix)m whence
one looks down upon the ten mules
who drag this lumbering vehicle,
see all their antics, observe the rash
manner in which they tear down pre-
cipitous heists, and mount steep as-
cents, having the comfortable cer-
tainty that in no event of danger
could we possibly descend from ^is
lofty perch and save ourselves !

A " special providence," however,
guards the Spanish diligence, to say
nothing of the three "conductors" —
the postillion who rides in front,,
the individual who sits on the
box with gold lace and red on his*
cap, and who smokes leisurely, let
what will happen, only occasionally
speakmg to the mules, calling them

MfiS

Two MantAs ia Spain dttrioffwi iait 1

by name, and urging them on with a
. Bound like " ayah 1" and the boy who
runs alongside shouting, screaming,
and plying the whijt, now jumping on
the front of the diligence to rest a
moment, now hanging on by one
hand to the side doors or behind;
active as a cat he springs up and
down while the vehicle is at full
speed, keeping one all the while in
terror for his safety.

Such is the Spanish diligence from
the "coup^." In the interior, shut
out from the front viaw, one only
hears the united voices of the " con-
ductors," and it is less exciting. We
who are above, however, have the
advantage of a fine view of the
mountains, (the Sierra Morena,) over
which we pass by a smooth and
beautiful road,

Jaen is the only place of import-
ance which we see, an old Moorish
town with histories and legends, a fine
cathedral, and a Moorish castle on
■ the height above. From this, a few
hours brings us to Menjibar, where we
take the railway at six p.m., and reach
Madrid about eight the next morn-
ing. At Menjibar, we bid adieu to
oin- young American friend, who had
journeyed with us since leaving Cor-
dova, and parted with the Scotch
and German ladies whom we had en-
countered at various points.

Madrid is filled with people. Gene-
ral Prim is in this hotel, is modestly
refusing to be made dictator, and pro-
posing that Spain shall have, as
heretofore, a king. We shall see how
long it will be before (like Caesar) he
IS overpersuaded, and reluctantly as-
-Eumes power,

Topete (the admiral who, at Cadiz,
brought over the fleet) is also in
Madrid; and Serrano, the prince
of the traitors, is president of the
provisional government. The table
d'hfitc is crowded with men of the
press, (letter-writers of all nations,)

giving their several impressions J
matters to the guUJblc " pubric," I
interpreting events lo suit
their readers. We ask one of thi
(a witty Frenchman) if he writes!
"Le Monde, "Oui, Madainc, p
tout le monde." Amongst ihc mot
crowd, wc distinguish the letter-w
of the Landon Times, and him of 9
New York Tlmfs, with whom we
make acquaintance, and who having
lived a long time in France, and being
of Irish CJCtraction, is verylitde of an
American in appearance and manner.
Saturday, (Jctobcr 17.

Madrid is a modem city with fi
buildings and shops, many handsg
streets and squares, and i
promenade, called Uic Prado, (m
dow.) Theprincipalofthcsesqiu
the " I'uerla del Sol," upon whi^ Q
hotel opens, and which is alia
thronged with people, and is alt J
and bustle. This being the head ■
front of the revolution, and (
Prim being in the house, the ij
are besieged by beggars and t
tionists. As we walk ibe streeb^
many shop-windows arc vulgar <
catures of the queen and the priests.
'I'his is adding insult to injury, and
the very essence of meanness — to take
away her throne, and then aim at her
character as a woman. It is refrctli-
ing to find that the best people ((c
see — the best bom, the best bred, if^m
the best educated — defend her G^^|
these aspersions, and are loyal to fe^H
and to the throne. ^^|

Sunday. Octflber IS

We hear high mass in the chuicfa
of the " Calatra\-a," (an ancient ot&a
of knighthood.) where ait crowd* of
pious looking men. Certainly it will
be difficult for the revolution to rob
these people of their religion. For S
time they may be intoxicated with'
the escitement of the change, but the
reaction must come, when the sober

Sister Aloyse's Bequest.

489

I thought will bring them back
r true friends. Now, the ban-
it of the Jesuits, the best and
earned teachers, the confisca-
f church property, and the
3tion of churches initiates the
rder of things. Yesterday, an
h gentleman (one of the noisi-
>porters of the revolution) told
w the junta had given two
of great trust and importance

into the hands of two of the lowest and
most vulgar and ignorant of the bull
fighters ; and thus this class of people
who have helped on the revolution
must be rewarded. We hear, to-day,
that General Prim has offered to pro-
mote, one grade, every officer of the
army lately opposed to him. To
their honor be it spoken, every one
refused such promotion.

TO BB CONTINUEIX

trAnilatxd from THB FRBNCK.

SISTER ALOYSE'S BEQUEST.

1 delightful it is to sit under
tnd old trees of the courtyard
; charming mid-summer even-
lie light breeze is redolent with
grance of the new-mown hay,
le leaves seem to quiver with

an atmosphere heavy with
le. The swallows pursue each
TL play with short, wild cries,

the foliage of the linden-tree
own bird, the nightingale, tries
Qliant cadences, drowned at
t)y the shouts of the children
r sports answering her in the
5, whom without doubt they
tood and admired. The child-
appy as the birds, dance and
bout, just like those motes one
itly sees rising up in a sun-

The nuns, sombre and silent
, watch them, contemplating

its flower and carelessness.
»urt-yard where the children
nd the birds sing belonged
ly to a monastery of the order
Benoit; but now to a cloister
ut of its ruins, where the vir-
f ancient days flourish under
dter of modem walls, which

are hallowed by the memories of the
past.

Some young girls, no less pleased
with the gambols of the children,
were walking in groups to and fro
under the vaulted arches which en-
circled the court, talking and laughing
merrily ; but whenever they approach-
ed a nun reclining in an easy chair,
by an involuntary impulse they low-
ered their voices. She was a poor
invalid, who had been brought out to
enjoy the sweet odors and the pleas-
ant warmth of the evening. She ap-
peared to be nearing the end of life,
though still young. For the paleness
of her cheeks, the emaciation of her
body, and the transparent whiteness
of her hands, all proclaimed the rava-
ges of a long and incurable illness.
There was no more sand in the hour-
glass, no more oil in the lamp, and
her heart — like a timepiece about to
stop— was slacking its pulsations. One
could not help but see that Sister
Aloyse retained a very powerful fasci-
nation in the beauty which her terri-
ble illness had not been able to effece.
Her dark blue eyes had not lost their
almond-shape or sapphire hue. Her
figure was still elegant, seen under

Sister Aloyse's Bequest,

491

but go and listen carefully to
he tells you."

lille with agitated heart (for
Dor heart is so quickly stirred
een years !) ascended the stair-
rhich led to the cells of the
She passed through a long cor-
)ut of which opened the little
all of which, instead of a num-
design, bore some holy image
us inscription. At the end of
>rridor she found the infirmary,
; room, quiet and retired, whose
ws opened upon the court and
I below. At this moment it
[most vacant ; she found only
)ed occupied, that of Sister
J, who, as she had no fever,
)een left by the infirmarian
she attended vespers in the
Caraille noiselessly ap-
led the bed, the curtains of
were half drawn so that Aloyse
see out. She was sitting up
rted by her pillows, and her
were joined before her on the
of her rosary. She smiled on
•ung girl, who timidly embraced
md then Camille very earnestly
her why she had sent for her
ne to her bedside instead of
Jier of the girls, or her friends
mpanions; for she was afraid,
3 naturally dreads what is un-
1. The nun fixed upon her
searching eyes which seemed
3k through and beyond any-
present, and said with much
less,

t down, Camille; I have some-
to say to you." She hesitated,
lally said, "You have never
any one of your family speak
?"

ever," answered the child, some-
iurprised.

have known something of your
— ^your father," she said with
ort. " But it was a long time
I very long time — before you

were bom. I was related to your
grandmother, Madame Reville."

" I never saw her, but I have seen
her great portrait," said Camille.

" Yes, it hangs in the red drawing-
room, does it not?" asked Sister
Alo)'se with a sad smile. " Ah ! well.
Madame Reville received me into her
family as a lady's companion — a
reader — for I was poor, and needed
some home. Your father did not
live at home with his mother, but he
came there very frequently."

Here she paused, breathing with
difficulty, but continued :

" He wished to marry me ; Ma-
dame Reville was opposed to it ; he
insisted. I saw he would disobey
his mother ; I was afraid for him ; I
was afraid for myself. So I prayed to
the good God. He did not reject my
afflicted and desolate heart, but he
— the Divine Consoler — called me
into this home, and placed this holy
veil as a barrier between the world
and myself. Here I found peace,
purchased sometimes with bitter suf-
fering, but real ; for it filled the depths
of my heart ; it was the price of my
sacrifice. And I was able to see, in
the clear light which streamed firom
the cross, how all joy is deceitful,
and all pleasure empty and false.
After two years had passed, I came
to consecrate myself with irrevocable
vows to God's service, when the
fHends who now and then came to
see me, and public report, which in
our day finds its way even into the
cloister, told me of the only thing
which had still power to afflict me.
For, Camille, your father — ^but what
can I say to you who bear his name !
M. Reville, angry at my departing,
and grieving for the loss of the poor
creature that I am, sought forgetful-
ness in dissipation. Undoubtedly, he
forgot me — I trust and hope he did
— but he also forgot his God ! Your
father is not^a Christian; nay, he is

^.> ■«

.. ■*■-

'■^ . . /'. ''/

.-rrr: uror. her ahar!
: k-niness thar h.ul ir^"ea

Sister Aloyses Bequest,

493

this all-powerful Mediatrix I
ther's guardian angel, what

conversation did she hold
m! How she labored and

for that of which he never

•

sars pass, Camille's piety be-
more rigid; self-denial joins
) acts of earnest charity, in
m supplemented by generous

would naturally ask why
, rich and young, charming
nired, should rise so early in
ming, should spend so many
X)n her knees in church ? Why
t with the Sisters of Charity to
t sick, why her attire was so
id simple, why her room was
ornamented, why she labored

any relaxation, and finally,
th so interesting an appear-
id conversation she preferred
e a life ? No one upon earth
nswer these questions except
rdian angel who wTites down
Dble acts to the account of
getful subject, her unrepentant

he accomplished nothing, al-
the rigors were not for herself,
>he maintained, for her father,
ty united with a tenderness
Dnly made her more sweet
"ectionate. His hard heart
open to the rays of divine
or to the timid smiles of his
The taste for amusement,
a desire for forgetfulness, had
from his heart, at the same
th a pure love, the belief in
lings. The heavenly flame
?n quickly extinguished be-
he ashes of pleasure ; and,
ny other children of his age,
neglected to believe through
being compelled to be good,
ciety and bad literature had
ed the work of headlong dis-
; and neither marriage nor

paternity had reclaimed him. His
birth, fortune, and indisputable ta-
lents raised him to public offices.
And, to be consistent with his princi-
ples, and congenial to his friends, he
had to be inimical to all religion.
The seminaries ; the Brothers of the
Christian Doctrine ; the Sisters, hos-
pitallers or teachers; the fi-ee esta-
blishments; the Carmelites, who ask
nothing of a person; the Clarisses,
who ask only a piece of bread; the
Little Sisters of the Poor, who gath-
ered food for their old men ; the for-
eign missions ; the sermons in Lent
in the parish ; the general indulgences
granted by the pope ; the cardinals in
the senate; and the Capuchins who
went barefooted — were all equally the
objects of his strong aversion. He
read continually the ydurnal des DS-
bats, the Revue des Deux Mandes,
and the liberal journal of his depart-
ment—of that department in which
he played a prominent -part. Shall
we say, in excuse for him, that his
impiety had never been tried by ad-
versity; and that he had found the
world so delightful that he had wish-
ed to live for ever in it ? In youth
he had lived in the midst of noisy
pleasures. In more advanced life
he lived for comfort, for his house —
cool in summer, warm in winter,
splendid at all times — for his grand
dinners, his good wine, his fine
horses and elegant equipages. He
enjoyed exqvdsitely those excellent
things which the public generally es-
teem, but in which divine grace does
not much appear. The memories of
youth he did not often recall. He
now scarcely recollected the name of
that poor cousin whom he had once
loved so passionately, but who had
never forgotten him, who, even in the
arms of death, had displayed an anr
gelic love. One day Camille spoke
of Sister Aloyse, and added,
" Was she not related to us, father?"

494

Sisfcr Aloyses Bequest.

'•Yes

I romantic
She threw herself imo a convent;
;;he became weary even there !"

He took several lums through the
room with a preoccupied air, and
finally stopping before tlie great pic-
ture of his mother — a withered and
haughty figure — he said,

" My mother did not love this
poor Aloyse much I Poor girl I
^Vhat a charming voice she had ! A
voice which ought to astonish the
convent when sbe chants the Misere-
re! She will sing no more; she has
a pain in her chest. Zounds ! The
discipline of the convent 1 What a pi-
ty for this pretty Aloyse to be buried
alive ! On the stage she would equal
Malibran !"

And this was all! The remem-
brance of Aloyse was only that of a
young girl who could sing charming-
ly, and who, perhaps, might have
commanded a situation in a theatre !

He loved his daughter; but, for all
that, she troubled him, and he was
, anxious that she should marry, so
that he might be relieved from the
care and responsibility. Slie did not
oppose his wishes, for she did not feel
that God appointed her to lead the
life of a nun ; but she wished her hus-
band to be a Christian, and said so
to her father. He only shrugged his
slioulders and cried.

" Still these absurd ideas !"

The Christian, however, presented
himself, and at Iwenty-lwo Camille
Reville bircame Madame de Laval.

Camille is now no longer twenty.
Her youth has passed on swift wings,
and while is beginning to streak her
dark hair; but her pleasant face pre-
serves the repose of ibnner days. She
has been blessed with mixed and im-
perfect happiness, such as every one
tastes in (his world. For in this life

cdictiM

the black squares are never far diili
from the white ones; and in iis ti
gled skein the dark threads are woven
in by the side of brighter colon.
She had lived most happily with her
husband. Together they had laughed
over their little children's gambob,
and together wept over them in sick-
ness. They had brought them up
with the labor and care which, in our
day especially, accompanies all true
Christian education. Their eUlcsl
daughter, Amelia, had been marrioi
about a year; and they were now
very happy in Mfiectation of lier a
preaching maternity. The
daughter was finishing her cduc
in the same convent of Bencdicd
where her mother had been i
youthful days. Their son Andrtf «i
in a polytechnic school, and that
youngest, Maurice, was pursuing hii
Latin studies in his native rillage.

I'hrough the disappotntmenu iitJ
joy of her life, through days of rain
and days of sunshine, Camille had
pursued one thought faithfully — ih*
grand aim which she had propoied to
herself in early life, her father's CM-
vetsion. As a young wife ibe tud
prayed with her husT>and, for his hart
beat in unison with hers. As a young
motiier, she had taught her children
to pray with her .\nd now. havinj
reached the autumn of life, she iuU
prayed — prayed constandy ; but as J*
lier prayers had received no ammt

The old man lived with her; and«-
ery moment she surrounded him wilH
caa" and temlemess. She watched
him and brooded over him more I*'
a mother than like a daughter, hn^
it was hard indeed for her, that j
old man of sixty-six years would |
listen to any serious conveml^
would only rail at holy thingi, I
would learn no lesson from eiiher^
or death. And she was ever obhgi
turn his words from their rc«l o
ing, and inteqiret his jeets and \

Sister Aloyses Bequest

495

so that they would not shock
locent little children.
lis moment we find Camille in
iwing-room with her father,
half asleep before a great fire,
le Dkbats at his feet. She is
on some linen for the coming
but twice stops to read two
letters received that morning
wo of her absent children.
. thousand details about board-
on the compositions in history,
he new piece of tapestry which
e had just begun, upon the ser-
lelivered by a new father whose
ihe did not know, she went on
: " I never forget, dear mother,
f with you — you know why!
ns to me that the moment is
ching when the gentle God
nswer us — as if grandpapa
)ing to be astonished that he
en able to live so long without
g of God !"

second letter was fix^m Andr^,
ould have been unintelligible
one who did not possess the
a school-boy's language. But
2nd there was a passage which
I kissed again and again:
mamma, I love you, and I
pray with you, just like you."
c of wood which just now
iown with a great noise awoke
jville, who, after rubbing his
sked his daughter, " Where is
:e?''

J is skating. Do you wish me
his place, and do anything to
you ?"

>, thank you. But stop, you

!ad instead; read this discus-

the Chambers upon the mili-

ar.

lille took the paper and read
; and the old man's eyes were
)sed when the violent ringing
door-bell woke him up com-
» and made Madame de Laval

"What is the matter with you?"
asked her father.

" I do not know ; only the sudden
ringing frightened me."

She jumped up and ran into the
hall, and at the same instant her hus-
band entered frbm the street. She
moved toward him,- but suddenly
stopped, fix)zen with an inexplicable
horror. M. de Laval's face was of
an ashy paleness ; he tried to speak,
he stammered — the words died upon
his lips, and his wife, in one of those
quick transitions which thought makes,
believed he was going to fall dead at
her feet.

" What ails you ?" she cried, reach-
ing out her arms toward him.

"Do not be fiightened, Camille,"
said he ; " but Maurice — "

He was unable to finish.

" Maurice !" she echoed. " Where
is he? Why does* he not come
home? O great God! he is dead.
He is drowned !"

M. de Laval had now somewhat
recovered himself, and he explained :
" He rescued a child who was drown-
ing, and was wounded in the head.
They are bringing him home. My
dear Camille, keep up heart! He
lives ! God will restore him to us !"

She staggered and looked at her
husband with fixed eyes.

" Have courage," he cried.

The servants, already called togeth-
er by the sad news, had opened the
gates to the relatives and the fiiends
who were coming in every direction,
and also to those who were bringing
Maurice. They bore him on a litter,
covered with a mattress, and his
head, all bloody, with eyes wide
open, rested upon a pillow made of
the coats of the brave men ; while be-
hind the litter walked a man all cov-
ered with blood. He was the father
of the child whom Maurice had
saved at the price of his own life.

The boy was quickly placed upon

496

Sister Aloyse's Beqiust.

the bed, and the physicians were soon
by his side, followed by the parish
priest. Camille, kneeling beside him,
saw, as in an evil dream, the surgeon
dress the wound which Maurice
had in the temple, and afterward
talk in a serious manner to the other
physicians behind the curtain. She
saw the priest go up to Maurice, and,
after talking to him in a low voice,
bend over him and raise his hands in
the benediction of the dying, and im-
mediately after give him the holy oils.
As in a dream she heard her hus-
band's voice saying, " Dear wife, the
good God wants him ! Look at our
Maurice."

She then looked at him. Maurice,
aroused by the words of the priest,
had regained complete consciousness,
and knew that he was dying. He
seemed more than tranquil — ^happy;
and, looking around on all present,
said,

" Good-by, papa ; I only did what
you taught me."

He then discovered the father of
the rescued child, who had concealed
himself behind M. de Laval. " Give
my love to your little boy," said
he.

His eyes then sought for hb moth-
er. She got up, and, bending over
him, took him in her arms. " Dear
mamma, make me an offering for
dear grandpapa's conversion. Say to
him — " He stopped. His mother saw
the light fade from his eyes, and knew

that his breath was hushed in death.
For a long time she remained hold-
ing him in her arms, like that more
desolate of mothers, bathing him with
her tears, and unable to listen to the
comforting words of either husband
or fether, both of whom were over-
whelmed with griefl At last, her pi-
ety, those religious sentiments which
had always animated her life, pre-
vailed, and she said aloud,

" Yes, my God I I accept the sa-
crifice, and I sacrifice him for my
father. Save him, Lord, save him !"

Two days later they buried poor
Maurice, the whole village attending
his funeral.

The same evening the priest, who
had been with him in his last mo-
ments, presented himself to Madame
de Laval, and said :

" You are afflicted, but your pray-
ers are heard. Divine grace has
pursued your father, and this veiy
morning, when the body of your
child was yet in the house, he called
me to him and made his confession.
He could hold out no longer, he
said to me. Rejoice then, madam,
in the midst of your griefl"

She did indeed rejoice, though she
still wept

" O Aloyse," said she, "and mjr
dear Maurice ! They are then taken
away, but at what a price I"

"Thank God!" cried the priest
" He separates a family here only to
reunite them in eternity 1"

The Seamd Plenary Council of Baltimore.

49f

FROM LBS KTVDBS XBUGIKUSBS.

ND PLENARY COUNCIL OF BALTIMORE, AND EC-
5TICAL DISCIPLINE IN THE UNITED STATES*

TORY Note — The peri-
iich the following article
mslated is one of the
cter, published at Paris
tonal supervision of the
The account which it
i late Council of Balti-
e doubly valuable from
is the work of a foreign,
s an impartial, judge.
1 obliged to make a few
the article. Several of
uggestcd by the Most
It of the Council, and
required by obvious and
inaccuracies of a writer
eign country.]

yc of the Grand Seminary
las recently done us the
jmitting, in the name of
p,t a copy of the Acfs
il held in that city in
sks us to make known
to the readers of the
ves us pleasure to accede

,'e of the great event
tholic world expects at
his year, it seems to us
i few subjects more in-
lore worthy to be treated
present. The very or-

rii Battimorensis II. Ada et

Archbishop of Baltimore, is the
iteresting publications on the rcli-
United States. He has published
ng the lej;islition of the early Pro-
jecting divine worship. In their
found intolerance running to the
V, and this almost until the Revo-
•sides these, he is the author of
ikity^ Sketches of Early Catholic
:ky^ and Spalding* s Misceliarua,

. IX.— 32

ganization of the present council, ai
which forty-six bishops were present,
will give us a fair idea of what is to
be done when all the prelates of all
countries and churches are convened.
Moreover, the decisions made in such
an imposing assembly will not fail to
clear for us some obscure points.
But, better than all, the collection of
decrees will make us comprehend the
situation of Catholicity in the im-
mense territories of the new world,
where it is called to such a lofty
destiny.

On the 19th of March, 1866, the
Feast of St. Joseph, Mgr. Spalding,
using the powers received for this
purpose from the sovereign pontiff,
convoked at Baltimore a Plenary
Council,* to be opened on the
second Sunday of October, in the
same year. If any bishops were pre-
vented from appearing personally,
they were to be represented by
proxies furnished with authentic
powers. The day having come, after
a preliminary congregation, held the
evening before to clear up certain
details, the council opened with a
grand, solemn, and public procession ;
in which figured forty-four arch-
bishops and bishops, one adminstrator
apostolic, two mitred abbots, together
with the most distinguished of the
American clergy. It was a spectacle
alike new and imposing for that
great city. More than forty thousand
people met to witness it. In the

* A coandl is called plenmry at which the bialiopt
of sevwral provinces are asiembled. After a genenl
or oecumenical coundl there is nothing more solemn.
The present is the KOood of this character which Ina
been held at Baltimon. Tbe first took place ia x^ga.

498

The Second Plenary Ccwtcil of Baltimore.

streets through which the procession
passed, there was scarcely a house
which was not decorated. This was
undoubtedly one of the grandest and
most beautiful Catholic demonstrations
which has yet been seen in that land
of liberty, where all sects and commu-
nions find a rendezvous. The council
furnished one of those striking lessons
which the good sense of Americans
does not forget, and which by little
and little will lead them to understand
that where there is unity there is also
life.

Every deliberative assembly has
need of order; the fathers began by
tracing a plan for themselves ; these
are its principal dispositions.

Every day the particular congrega-
tions of theologians were to meet
together. These were to discuss
among themselves and judge, in a
preliminary manner, the measures
proposed. The result of their delibe-
rations, gathered by a notary, with
the votes and motives alleged for or
against, in case of a disagreement,
was then to be transmitted to the
bishops. These, again, held private
congregations where they occupied
themselves solely with questions al-
ready debated by the theologians.
A proch verbal was made, by the
secretaries, of what passed in these
meetings. A new examination and
judgment was made in this second
instance; yet these preliminary dis-
cussions decided nothing ; all was to
be referred to the general congrega-
tions, and, finally, to the sessions of
the council, where the decrees received
their last form, and the sanction
which makes them obligatory.

As to the order which was to reign
in their deliberations, the bishops
found nothing better fitted to their
purpose than a small portion, clearly
stated, and well defined, of the rules
called parliamentary, and consecrated
under that name in the public assem-

blies of their land. Each had t
of proposing whatever he wou
vided he did so by writmg an<
Latin tongue ; but a motion r
a member could not become a
of deliberation, unless another
joined the first in making the d
None was at liberty to depart f
prearranged schedule, nor fp
title which formed the ob
present discussion. As to tl
the greatest liberty of opinion
only accorded, but counselled,
as the orators confined themst
the limits of propriety. If a
transgressed these, or prolon;
discourse uselessly, any menilx
demand a call to order ; the /
was charged with executing t
of order, but, in cases of doul
decision belonged to the presi<

Before publication in the s(
the decrees were submitted to
congregations; when not on
bishops but also the tlieo"
might set forth their opinion
only this provision, namely, tha
should be first heard who font
commission on which had pre
devolved the consiileration •
subject then under discussion,
are the simple and precise <
tions which served to maintair
in so great an assembly.

llie apostolic delegate had I
four theologians; the archt
three ; the bishops, two ; some, h(
contented themselves with on
They were divided into seven <
gations or bureaux, among whi
divided the matter which ^
occupy the attention of the cc

• This matter comprised the foMovring w
De Fidf Orthtnioxa^ tirgue rrrorihus serfe
Dellurarchia et re/i^imiHr Ecclesitt ; 3. l^
EccUsiasticis ; 4. Dt EctUsiis honisqiu to.
tenemiit tMiandUque; 5. Dt Seicrumtmi
CultM Dhnuo ; 7. De Disciptitut nni/^rm^
moi'fnda; 8. Dt Regidarihu ti m^mm.
De jHventuit institiitHd't pif^^e fmdm
De Salute aniMtamm ^ffkiuhu ^v ^w H m
De Lihru et efhewuribut ; is. ZV Si

The Second Plenary Council of Baltimort,

499

ngregation was presided over
bop ; it had, besides, a vice-
: and an ecclesiastical notary,

as we have seen, with the

transmitting to the prelates
It of these deliberations.

council itself were chosen a
)r archdeacon, a secretary
Istants, a notary, who was to
«e who discharged the same

in the particular congrega-
ro promotors^ one a bishop,
: a priest, charged with main-
>rder and observance of rule
ssions and public meetings;
judges, who were to pro-
)n motions of absence, or on
es which might arise. Severe

were laid on all who should
bre the work of the council
•e finished.

•apid glance at the organiza-
his assembly and at its plan
tions seems to us necessary,

to understand the labor ac-
ed bv it.
hief task of the council was

had almost said to create,*
tical discipline throughout
e extent of the United States,
population so diverse in ori-
nners, character; amid the

influences produced by the
neous mixture of conflicting
which each Catholic congre-
s obliged to live, it would
ficult to establish uniformity,
jr, the spirit of modem times
jry respect so different firom
ygone ages, private and pub-
utions have undergone such

iSvcral cnngre;ntions occvipied themselves
these subjects at once because of their
In i!i: aiuncil wcr^' add.'d a thirteenth
I, on the creation of new bishoprics, and
. oo the execution of the decrees,
rriter h id said this, he would have made
uke While the United Stites formed
C many provincial councils were held at
and since the creation of the other pro-
have been regularly held in each one, and
1 points of discipline have thus been long
aUy Mttled-Eo. C W.

modifications, that the application of
the canon law meets on all sides
obstacles apparently insurmountable.
The prelates of North America have
legislated with such prudence, with
such a perfect union of ideas and sen-
timents, that their churches will here-
after possess in the collection of their
decrees a complete code of laws.*
These " acts," printed in a convenient
form, are to be used as a text-book
in all the seminaries, and this text,
with the comments of the professor
will, we are assured, suffice for the
entire course of canon law. Apart
from some inconsiderable differences
regarding days of fasting and feasts
of obligation, f all the churches will
hereafter have a common law and
the same customs. Assuredly, one
can scarcely comprehend the vastness
of this result, and we are undoubtedly
convinced that the Second Plenary
Council of Baltimore is destined to
a memorable place in the history of
Catholicity in the United States.

The dogmatic part of the acts has
not and could not have the same im-
portance, since a national council,
however numerous, generally does
naught but state the faith already
defined; nevertheless, on this very
ground, we find declarations very
interesting, and which deserve to
command the attention of the Chris-
tians of Europe.

It is to the united fathers, and,
after them, to the assisting theologi-

* The present oouncil had at heart to re-collect in
its acts the legislation fixed by preceding councils.
The decrees taken from these are recognixed by a dif
ferent style of print Aa appendix gives in txiento
all the important portions, above all, those which
have come firom Rome. Thus all the ecclesiastical
legislation of the United Sates is to be found in a
single volume.

\ The prelates had addressed a petition to Rome
that uniformity on this point might be established.
The answer which had been returned was, that it was
better to respect the existing customs of each diocese*
and that, if modifications were to be made therein,
each bishop might have separate recourse to the holy
see. But the feast of the Immwnlate C u noep tfc m «H
declared a feast of patronage and oWigiUion thiuvrii
out the whole of the United States.

Tke Second Pienary Couucil of BaldiMore.

500

ans, thai the merit of this great work
is due. Still, we cannot refrain from
noticing Mgr, Spalding, Archbishop
of Baltimore and apostolic delegate.
Called to the presidency of the coun-
cil by a special brief of the pope,
daicd February i6th, i366, instructed,
moreover, by the Propaganda, which
recommended to his zeal several im-
portant points, he it is who has pre-
pared the matter of the decrees, and
has brought together in advance all
the elements which have entered into
this vast construction. Under his
wise and prudent direction, his breth-
ren in the episcopate have made their
choice. With the assistance of the
secretaries and other officer? of the
council the edifice rises, to which
Rome gives the finishing touch, chan-
ging a small number of the materials,
and consecrating it with her supreme
authority.

Into this sanctuary, built with so
much care, I invite the readers of the
Etudes to enter, persuaded that we
shall find therein much to admire
and at the same time much to learn.

The first chapter is consecrated to
dogma. It treats of the faith and of
the errors which are contemporane-
ously opposed to it. The prelates
here recall the precept, imposed on
all, of embracing the truth, and enter-
ing the haven of the true church.
No safety is to be hoped for outside
of this ark which God guards and
conducts. However, they add, as to
those who are plunged invincibly in
error,' and who have not been able to
see the light, that the Sujirenie Judge,
who condemns no man, save for his
own faults, will assuredly use mercy
toward them, if, although strangers
to the body of the church, they have,
nevertheless, with the assistance of
grace, fulfilled the divine command-

ments, and professed thoae Chrodia
truths which ihcy were able to knot.*

Such is the Catholic doctrine nd
the just principle to which alt our
pretended intolerance is reduod
The council recognizes the righliof
reason as well as those of sound bilk.
It inserts at length in its decreet the
four propositions formulated in iBjj
by the Congregation of the Indo,
against traditionalism. At the vm
time it restates the cnndcmnatioD
pronounced by Gregory IX. agUKl
the system of Raymond LuUe, wbld)
expresses a thought too common '
our day, namely, that faith ii
sary to the masses, to vulgar and
lettered people, but that rcuOB4|rit
fices for the iniciligent man of
and constitutes true Christianity.

We notice m this chapter thei
tude of the bisho|>s to place il
hands of the faithful a venion of ibt
Bible in the vulgar tongue. To ihii
end they recommend the Dou>f
translation, already approved i*i
circulated by their predecesson. F*
from opposing these eflbris, the 0*
gregation of the Propaganda, in tt
response addressed to the ArcblnlKV
of Baltimore with the reviiuon of *i
acts of the council, lays great SR*
on the necessity of doing thii. Tk
congregation directs the preUU 1*
compare anew the different En^
editions, to avail himself of (MhS
Catholic translations, if there be ufi
in order that we may have in EJifhl''
a faithful and irreproaehabk let a'
all our sacred books, and th*t ^
version may be spread ihronifc'"''
all the dioceses of America. Hat
we have a pcrempiorj' answer lothos^
Protestants who, at thin late liMf-
reproach Catholics with interdictDig
the reading of the Holy Scriptim

On 4hc question of foltitr Bfc *^
Others declared against those •t*'

The Second Plenary Council of Baltimore,

SOI

le eternal duration of punish-
►r so mitigate its severity that
^roains no longer any propor-
jtween the chastisement and
ivity of the offence. Then
pidly review that multitude of
s sects and errors, which are
e so numerous or so different
lat classic land of free thought
entism, which considers all
s as equal ; Unitarianism,
•ejects the divinity of our Lord
Christ ; Universalism, which
the eternity of punishment
eath; finally, pantheism and
identalism, which destroy the
lity of God, such are the latest
ind last consequences of free

What a contrast to these is

jctacle which Catholic truth

that full, complete, and un-

ig Christianity, affirming it-

th full consciousness of its

I the face of a thousand sys-

hich cannot withstand it and

and communions that fail to

hend what it really is! All

hearts in America must be

)y such a difference. The

of Baltimore has again made

t where lies the strength that

mph over all, and what is to

"church of the future."
cesses of "Magnetism" and
sm" have been carried be-
hat the fathers consider the
f morality. With regard to
i, they undertake to promul-
; well-known decisions of the
:ongregation of the council.*
the second, not finding any
precedent in acts emanating
ome, they express their own
and doctrine thus : "It seems
* they say, " that many of the
ing phenomena which are
be produced in the spiritual

■ ad omnes ei^ioopoi contra magnetismi
4th, X8561 Dedsiont of July aStb,

meetings are inventions; that others
are the result of firaud, or are to be
attributed to the imagination of the
mediums and their assistants, or, pos-
sibly, to slight of hand. Nevertheless,"
they add, " it can scarcely be doubt-
ed that some of these facts imply a
Satanic interference; since it is al-
most impossible to explain them in
any other way." Then, after a mag-
nificent exposition of the action of
good and bad angels, the prelates re-
mark that, in a society of which so
large a portion remains unbaptized, it
is not surprising if the demon regains
in part his ancient empire. They
severely censure those Catholics who
take part even indirectly in the spirit-
ual " circles." Such is the decision of
the council ; and, for our part, we arc
happy to see what we have written
on this subject* fiiUy confirmed by
so imposing an authority.

II.

The second chapter treats of the
hierarchy and government of the
church. The fathers begin with a
profession of filial loyalty to the holy
see, whose privileges they recognize
and enumerate with St. Irenaeus, St.
Jerome, and St. Leo the Great. They
protest with what respect and love
they receive all the apostolical con-
stitutions, likewise the instructions
and decisions of the Roman congre-
gations, given for the universal
church or for their own special pro-
vinces. After Pius IX. they rebuke
the manner of thought and action of
those who count for nothing all that
has not been expressly defined as of
Catholic faith, and who, embracing
opinions contrary to the common
sentiment of Christians, fear not to
shock their ears with scandalous pro-
positions. The temporal power of

• L€t Mftii H in Vwaittt* VwAt^ Lt Cfen^
Bimdes 186a, p. 41.

Tht^Smmi PImiry Cemdlaf BtMmm.

the pope, its necessity under the pres-
ent circumstances, in order to assure
the mdependence of the head of ihe
church, is idso the subject of a solemn
declaration.

Paseing then to the bishops, the
council affirms iheir double right of
tearhing and governing Christendom
in union with the Roman pontiff, the
Buccessor of St. Peter and die vicar
of Jesus Christ. According to the
advice of the fathers of Trent, pro-
vincial councils are to be held every
three years throughout the whole ex-
tent of the United States; for the
bishops are persuaded that in these
reunions are to be found the most
efhcacions remedies for the evils which
afflict all parts of the church, when
the pastors of dioceses, afier having
invoked the Holy Spirit, unite their
wisdom to take measures most iitting
to procure the salvation of souls.
Accident.i! forms are ever changing.
Formerly, the "synodal witnesses'"
were everj-where in use. After the
time of Benedict XIV. this function
fell into disuse and was su!>plied by
somethmg else. The grave and
learned pontiff makes use of these
remarkable words, which the council
has thought proper to reproduce:
"The customs of men are modifietl
and circumstances are continually
changing; that which is useful at one
period may cease so to be, and may
become even pernicious in another
age. The duty of a prudent pastor,
unless otherivise obliged by a high-
er law, is to accommotlate himself to
times and places, to lay aside many
ancient usages, when by his judgment
and tlie light of God he deems this
to be for the greater good of the dio-
cese with which he is entmsied," f
As a natural corollary to provin-

cial councils, the prdates tccommoid
frequent holding of diocesan syooU
If the extent of the diocese will nut
permit the priests who obey the siot
bishop to unite yearly, Uic bishop
should at least convoke a synod liter
each |>rovincial or plenary council, to
promulgate the decrees and iirni.Td(
for their observance. In the rocm
time, ecclesiastical conferences, isgi-
nized in districts, can supply, at [em
partly, the place of the synod, "nii:
fathers ejcpress a wish that such coo-
fcrenccs should meet quartctty la
cities, and at least yearly in mal
districts, where pastors cannot easilv
assemble-

I pass hastily over some details lo
arrive immediately at a. maiia u
once very delicate and importiuit,
that of ecclesiastical judgmriiB. ll
is well known Chat the form cnjuitel
by canon law has become wry difi-
cult of application throughout the
greater part of Christendom. The
Council of Baltimore does not ianu-
vate, After an eKpcrience of W
ycaiB it feds bound to renew n deoee
made tn the Council of !]t. Louis in

■sss*

" Priww *D»pendrd by Kntence rf lit
ordinary h»vo do right to deiiimcJ i^""'
nance rrom him, since )x] l\.c..
Ihey haxt b«n rendered int.i;
ciaing their ministry. Bui, ir;
sliotlalt complaints, the failiM -
opinion thai it Is more ex|r'
cases of priests and clerics, to i
of trial approaching as near ,
the requirements of t!ie Cmri
The bishop— <rr his vicar-gcni > .
dcr — shall choose in (he epi.i.
two Qierabers — oot always lii.;
shaJI serve him as ct)unMltor^. '>
cused shall Iw called to ansnci : .
and his aecrclaty.

"Together, these assislanls shall ta"
tut one virice, but either can rangi falmsd'
on llic side of the pielate ^liii^t tii» t"^'
Ici^c If, however, boti »tc .1 . '

The Second Plenary Council of Baltimore.

503

im that of the bishop or his vicar,
r may take into his counsel a third,
t judgment shall be rendered to
i shall incline. If it happen that
consultors named by the ordinary
opinion contrary to his, the case is
msfcrred to the tribunal of the me-
.n, who shall weigh the motives for
inst, and himself deliver sentence.
the process refers to a subject of
ropolitan, and all his assistants are
. to him, the cause shall be evoked
he oldest bishop of the province,
hall have the right to decide, saving
:he privileges and authority of the

:e.

>»

I we see reappearing the ju-
yci of metropolitans, which in
other churches is little exer-
Lt the present day. On the
n of their authority the coun-
lishes another subject worthy
irk.

numerating the rights of arch-
j in reference to their ecclesi-
provinces, the fathers have de-
d but three :

3 make known to the holy see
f their suffragans as do not ob-
:he laws of residence. 2. To
le said suffragans to a pro-
council, at least every three
3. To have their cross
before them in their province,
wear the pallium therein on
ys when they can wear it in
ictropolitan church,
letter written from Rome for
rrection of the acts orders two
rivileges of metropolitans to be
^lished : I. To supply what is
:ntly omitted by their suffra-
i the cases determined by law ;
to receive appeals from the
:e of their suf&agans according
canonical rules. If we do not
; ourselves, there is in this cor-
. a significant tendency.

III.

numnar of the decdon of

bishops had already been determined
by an instruction emanating from the
Propaganda, dated March i8th, 1834.
Since that time, at the desire of coun-
cils, several changes and modifica-
tions had been made. This is the
practice consecrated and universally
established since 1861 : Every three
years, each bishop sends to his me-
tropolitan and the congregation of
the Propaganda the list of subjects
whom he judges worthy of the epis-
copate, with detailed information of
the qualities which distinguish them.

A see becomes vacant, the bishops
of the province meet in synod, or
any other way, and discuss the apti-
tude of the candidates presented by
each of them. After a secret exami-
nation, three names are sent to Rome
with ihtproch verda/ of this election.
On the representation thus made, the
sovereign pontiff designates the one
to be promoted to the episcopal dig-
nity.

This portion of Christendom, still
so new, has not yet had time to set-
tle itself into regularly divided pa-
rishes. If our memory is faithful, we
think there is no such thing as a pa-
rish, properly so called, in the whole
United States. The prelates of the
council express a desire to establish
some, especially in the great cities;
but they add that, in conferring them
on the priests who administer them,
they would not exempt the latter
from removal; this never having
been the custom in America.

Many of the dioceses have no
seminaries. The fathers wish that» if
they cannot be everywhere establish-
ed, each province, at least, should
have its own, for the formation of
which the bishops will imite their
resources. Following the custom
adopted in France, they separate the
Little Seminary, where boys who pre-
sent the conditions required by. the
Council of Trent are received, from

I 5<H

tid SteondPUiuay CetmeUt^'

I
I
I

the. Grand Seminary, where clerics
study dogmatic and mor;il theology,
c&jion law, henneneutics, and sacred
elo<[uence. The council orders the
greatest efforts to be made in order
to secure eminent professors, if
there is an cstablislimciit common to
an entire province, it should not be
confined to leaching the mere ele-
mentary ecclesiastical studies, but a
thorough course of exegesis and ori-
ental languages should be commen-
ced ; and the modem systems of phi-
losophy should be explained in such
a manner that graduates should be
able to resolve all the difficulties and
objections of the day.

"We have now lo conlcnd," say [he fi-
IhcTBi " no longer nich the often refuted hc-
ft*ice and errors of a byeone agCi but with
new adversaries, unbelievers of a pagan
rather thin a Christian character, with men
who cniint as naught God and his divine
promises — and yet are not thereby prevent-
ed from having cultivated minds. Accord-
ing to Ihem, the things of heaven and earth
have no other meaning or value tlian that
whidi reason alone assigns them. Thus,
they llaner pride, so deeply rooted in
our nature, and seduce those who ate not
on their guard. If truth cannot persuade
them, since they do not care to hear, it
must, at least, close their moullis, lest their
vain discourse and sounding words delude
the simple." "

Do not these sage reflections dis-
dose the true plan for renewing ec-
clesiastical studies P

We will not enter on the dct^iils
of the rules established for the gene-
ral life and manners of the clergy,
according to their difierent functiCMis.
We confine ourselves to remarking
Lthat the chapter on preaching alone
•coDtmns a complete little treatise on
the proper manner of annotmcing the
word of God ill our times.

Questions relating to church pn>-
pfflT^ atUHCt the attention of llie

wilitngiD

;ious.^^|
IbylH
tton;tii^

council. In ordei to comprehend
the arrangements determined on in
regard to tiiis mailer, we must fonna
correct idea of the situation in which
the different Christian commimioiK
stand before the American civil Uv.

It is well known that the legisla-
tion of most of the States is willing id
accord legal personality to i
tions, commercial or religious. |
religious society represented by B
tees easily obtains incorporation ; I
is to say, is recognized as a pcnM
having the right to own property, lo
receive gifts and legacies, to a certu
amount, generally far su^icnor J
what is necessary. If this i
ever exceeded, it is easy lo fulfill
requirenfents of the law by c
a new centre, btiilding a new chm

Nothing then would seem i
favorable than these ammgemennj
American law. But, as they i
conceived from a Protestant pointl
view, they recognize the parish
and not the diocese, which is, n
thelcss, the Catholic unit. M^
over, the trustees, invested
church property, have on several %__
casions made otjtrageous and ei-
travagant pretensions. More tliffl
once, they have believed that lliqt
possessed the right of choosing d
pastors, and dismissing them, if it
did not suit; they have held t
they at least have the right of ji
senting to the bishop a priest of tl
own choice, and thus forcing his ol
sent Hence, the fi«iuent conn
between the parochial element J
the episcopal administration,
first Council of Baltimore fom
protested against this lay inlc:r(en
which it declared contraiy I
teaching of tlie church and the dl
pline of every age ; it decided thai II
compensation assigned lo tnetnbJT
of the clergy, to be provided from
the funds of the pariA. or by tlie
alms of Hie laithful. conicircd tf

The Second Plenary Council of Baltimore.

S05

le right of patronage. Subse-
councils return incessantly to
ne question; and it has even
ed before the civil tribunals,
diocese of New York, particu-
le disputes between the Catho-
istees and the bishop were
jed with various results, but
t interruption, from 1840 to
Finally, an arrangement was
ied, and on this model the pre-
ish to organize all ecclesiasti-
perty.

e, in the United States, it is per-

every citizen and foreigner to live
id without molestation, according
precepts of the religion which he
s — for the laws recognize and pro-
is right — nothing seems to hinder
obser\''ing, in all their rigor, the

ablishcd bv councils and the sove-
mtifTs for the acquisition and pre-

1 of church property. The fathers,
i, desire to expose and set clearly
le eyes of the state the true rights
church with regard to accepting,
ig, and defending sacred property,
cample the land on which a church

or presbyteries, schools, ceme-
nd other establishments, in order
ay be legally permitted to Catholic
to follow exactly the laws and re-
its of their church."*

:e, one of the principal dispo-
of this legislation is, that the
trators of ecclesiastical pro-
fi parishes shall do nothing
the consent of the bishop. In
lat this law may be observed,
t nothing more may be feared
le intervention of the secular
s, there is no other plan than
bishop to place himself before
1 power, as having the right
full administration of all pro-
elonging to his church as a
tion sole. Some of the states
xognized this right for the
In others it is not yet recog-
Hence they provide the best
for avoiding, or, at least, di-

^Act tit«ir. pbiij.

minishing the inconvenience result-
ing from this state of things.

This requires that mutual securities
be taken on the part of the bishop
and the trustees. As soon as appoint-
ed, the prelate will make a will, and
place a duplicate in the hands of his
metropolitan. Besides the property
of which he is sole proprietor, he will
be ex-officio president of all boards
of trustees, who possess, in the eyes
of the law, the parochial properties.
Rules are established for the purpose
of ensuring a conscientious choice of
these, in order that they may not in-
fringe on the rights of the parish
priest, nor take any profit from the
revenues of the church. Such are the
principal measures relative to this im-
portant matter.

In the chapter entitled De Sacra-
mentis we notice the prudence which
the council wishes to be used in ad-
ministering baptism to Protestants
returning to the Catholic Church.
Although the greater portion of the
sects regard what transpires at the
baptismal font as a mere ceremony,
and frequently, through carelessness,
baptize invalidly, nevertheless the
priest must not proceed hap-hazard,
nor decide on general principles, but
must in each case examine carefully
into particulars. Only when certain
of the nullity or probable invalidity
of the baptism, can he confer the
sacrament, either absolutely or condi-
tionally.

In France, discussions have lately
arisen as to the proper age for admin-
istering the holy communion. Al-
though the American child is much
earlier developed than the European,
the fathers of Baltimore establish as a
rule that he shall not be urged at too
early an age to present himself at the
holy table. Ten and fourteen years

506

Tit SteemdJ^iiatary Cautidltf BaJtimon.

are the hvo extreme limits to which
one must ordinarily be confined.
Nevertheless, this rule leaves room
for all legitimate exceptions, and par-
ticularly, in case of danger of death,
it would be a grave iault in the pas-
tor U'ho would not administer the
eucharist to a child capable of discern-
ing the grace which it contains.

As their country is not a vine-grow-
ing land, and one can nowhere be
fully certain of the purity of wines
imported from Europe, the fathers
express a desire to establish in Flori-
da a community which shall be espe-
cially charged with the care of prepar-
ing the matter for the administration
of the different sacraments, wine, oil,
etc This community can also keep
swarms of bees, and furnish the differ-
ent dioceses with pure waxen tapers.
Meanwhile they caurion priests to be-
ware of using for the holy sacrifice
the wines which are commonly sold
under the names of port, shcny, Ma-
deira, Malaga, and to choose, rather,
Bordeaux, Sauterae, and others less
subject to adulteration or fraudulent
imitadon. Moreover, as the culture
of the vine progresses, it will be inex-
cusable to neglect having recourse to
the products of the soil, or at least,
not to have a moral cenainly of the
purity of the wines which are used.

In districts where a few Catholic fa-
milies find themselves, as it were, lost
in the midst of Protestants, the scarcity
of priests causes many children to re-
main unbaptized" until after marriage ;
an impediitientum diriincns which ren-
ders the marriage null in the eyes of
God and the church. They live to-
gether in good faith, notwithstanding,
and when the priest, discovering the
radical fault, speaks to them of re-
newing their agreement, it frequently

ftWt^f..

happens that the unbapciud pun
refuses to do it. The Others unite in
requesting from the holy sec \yQia
to communicate to miasionarici ils-
pensations in radie€, of which they
can make use to rehabihtate nich
marriages.

As preceding councils liave reuurk-
ed, it is certain that, in most of tbe
provinces of the United States, tlic d^
cree of the Council of Trwnt rega»dtng
clandestine marriages luts not yet bctn
promulgated. In some districts it>
promulgation is doubtfuL Besides, W
require the presence of a certain piipi
for the validity of a niarriagc npjKan
to the fathers a measure atleodol
with great inconvenience, '^^eyd^
mand. dierefore, in order to rcaaure
consciences, and establish unifonni-
ty, to return everywhere, except lo
the province of New Orlc.ins, W i!ii-
ancient discipline, alreaiK n :
in force. But llie holy ■
seen fit to accede to thi^ \ .
appears frwn the answer a.liL<.»>.'< ^^
the Propagantb to the fiostHiitu d liic
council.

On other points unifoniiiiv i* w
premely desirable. For lu r ■
bishops earnestly dcsirt- •
which pertains to Christi:iii
and in prayer-books. A i
to be composed after th.it ■
Bellarmlne, adapted to il
situation of Catholics in C
States, When this catethL-.™ t"
been approved by the holy see, il •"H
be adopted in all the dioceses.

As to prayer-books which do l>«
bear the express approbation (rf ll"*
ordinary, they ought not 10 he ioBsi
in the hands of the faithful.

The solicitude of the ■ -
extends to various classc
Following the example if ■
they recommend to Go,:
govern; but the fonn ..
church are alone to bt ■.
these prayer^ and ^fl

The Second Plenary Council of Baltimore,

S07

ertain sects and temples, wherein
:al passions and partisan rancor

accents which dishonor God
- than contribute to his worship.

one will neglect any precaution
le Catholic soldiers and sailors
[>eing obliged, against their con-
ey to assist at the rites of dis-
g sects. The oq)hans are an ob-
f special solicitude. They must
thered into the Catholic asylums

already exist or are yet to be

This necessity is most pressing,
ppeals to the charity of all who
rovide against it.

VI.

entire chapter is consecrated
ular orders of men and women,
recalling the immense advan-
which their churches have de-
from the labor of religious, the
state certain precautions which
to be taken in order that foun-
s may be stable and not preca-
Circumstances do not always
canonical erection or establish-
n a permanent manner; hence,
agreement made between the
and the religious community,
luse must hereafter be added,
that the latter will not quit the
school, college, or congrega-
th which it is charged, without
ig the ordinary at least six
; in advance. This relates only
:esan work, properly so called,
>t to that which the religious
ike up of their own accord,
t any obligation to continue.
3ps shall conform to the ca-
laws, defending the rights and
cs of the religious whom they
the territory submitted to
iurisdiction, and they will
^ving them subjects of corn-
er motives for going else-
Regtdars and seculars work
the sune end, namely, the

glory of God and the salvation of
souls; hence, no dissension ought
ever to arise between them, but har-
mony, unity, and fraternal loye should
ever reign supreme.

The council passes a magnificent
eulogium on those '* sisters " who pre-
serve, in their schools, tlie innocence
of so many young virgins, and who,
during the late war, have known how
to turn public calamity to the glory
of God and the advantage of reli-
gion.

Who of the dissenting sects has not
admired their zeal, charity, and pa-
tience in the hospitals, and may not
say, " the finger of God is here " ?

Various measures were adopted to
assure the observance of the rules of
the church on the part of the religious.
The fathers have heretofore consult-
ed as to the nature of their sacred
engagements. The answers received
from Rome state that, in several spe-
cially designated monasteries of the
Visitantines, the vows are solemn.*
Henceforth, afler the. novitiate, sim-
ple vows are to be made, and ten
years later the solemn profession will
be permitted. As to other monas-
teries and religious houses, simple
vows alone are permitted, except by
special rescript from the holy see; the
same rule applying to all convents of
women which may be hereafler erected
in the various dioceses of the United
States. The fathers severely censure
those who leave their monasteries
and travel through the country,
under pretext of collecting money
for houses pressed with debt or for
new foundations; they declare this to
be an intolerable abuse and contrary
to the true character of the religious
life.

Everywhere, to-day, but in no
country more than in America, the

* TheM ai« the mooastenes of GeoixeCown, Mo-
bile. KaskMkii. St. Aloysius, and Baltimore. The
mUmDity of the vows i« there preserved aocordins ta
rescripti ffarmerly obtained firom Rooit.

/ ft6 jifff&Htf Pitit^yjf t fiUfttif' &f St^i9nc99,

i^uestion of schools appears most im-
portant, and claims the most lively so-
licitude on the part of the episcopate.

Here ihe council begins by firmly
asserting the rights of the church.
Jesus Christ said to his apostles,
"Euntcs docete," "Going, tea^h all
nations." Since that time, this utter-
ance has been understood in [he
sense of a mission, to be fulfilled by
instruction and the exercise of s|iirit-
ual maternity toward all, but especial-
ly toward youth. Frequenting such
public schools as exist in the United
States offers a thousand dangers.
There indifferentism reigns : corrup-
tion of morals is engendered in early
}-outh; the habit of reading and re-
citing authors who attack religion
and heap insults on the memory of
saintly personages weakens the failh
in the souls of the young, while asso-
ciation with vicious companions sti-
fles virtue in their hearts. The only
remedy is to create other institutions,
to open further opportunities to Cath-
olic youth. Parochial schools ate
highly recommended, as well as the
sodalities or congregations which de-
vote tliemselves to the instruction of
the youth of either sex.

While speaking of houses of re-
fuge and correction, the fathers no-
tice the numerous abductions of
children which are daily made by
the ditferent sects. These are or-
phans, or disobedient children whom
parents despair of managing. They
are taken to places where their rela-
tives can neither find nor hear from
them, and their names arc changed,
so as not to recall them at some fu-
ture day to their religion or family.
Comfortably nourished, they are rear-
ed in the principles of heresy and in
hatred of Catholicity. * Moved with
pity, several bishops have already

*ActRhtTe rvcentfy Iwen pasted in Ihe LcgiiUIuiv

duck M Ihe man ne&riniu uu of IhCK klilBi|i]Mn

Ulhit Suic— Ed. C. W,

opened houses to gather in I
tie unfortunates ; the coundt
them to be everywhere estj
for if one ought to applaud J
of those who raise magnifii^
pies to God, much inore ^a
praise those who prepare fO
spiritual dwelling of th^e
and living stones.

Here follows a tribute of!
tion of the services rendered
various colleges and acadctnit
already exist in the Unitct
The American establi^nif
Kome, at Louvain, and is
are now furnishing pinests a
sionarics. When will it be
to the bishops to found a gran^
lie university, which mil con
the good accomplished \>y
stitutions? Yet this is not
desire ; it is ardently expn
the council ; we hope the ful
bring about its speedy realiial

The missions are one of tl
efRcacious means of procui
salvation of soub. Regulars'
culaiB are alike called to thi
work. The council deman
a house of missionaries be I
in each diocese, for giving
exercises in tlie parishes, a
during Lent, Advent, at the
first communions, and the (
visitations. The parish pried!
co-operate cordially with thi
liaries, and if any refuse 10
they will be constrained bj
bishop. On the other hand,|
cautions are taken to avoid J
pearance of intcrestedoess,
interference in the parochial;
ment on the part of the iptu]

The idea of association, M
at the present day, ia esscMi
originally Catholic. If aoa
used it against us, we know
reclaim and avail ouisclva
Hettce, the fathers recomm

• AacD I-£d. C W.

The Second PUftary Council of Baltimore.

509

:mities approved by the
such as those of the Blessed
int, the Sacred Heart, the
Virgin Mary, St. Joseph, and
y Angels. They recommend
K>stolate of Prayer," also, an-
ions association, which prays
ly for the conversion of non-
s; they seek to develop the
erving undertakings of the
gation of the Faith" and
Childhood ;" they accord the
praise to the arch-con frater-

St. Peter; finally, they add
^orks of piety and mercy,
:hem the " Society of St. Vin-

Paul," so well adapted to
?s, and which has already pro-
ich great results.

this great encouragement,
rstrictions no less called for.

associations are. to be created
ncient confraternities suffice,
any priest desires to institute
Dnc, he must have a written
on from his bishop; the lat-
>rbidden to approve a new
on unless he is sure that its
ind aim are truly Catholic,
•e truly desirable to give such
ter to the mutual aid socie-
ay so numerous among the
classes,
k'elfare of the negroes greatly

the American episcopate.
Iiarvest Ls here to be gathered
these poor souls, purchased
>lood of Jesus Christ, and so
pared by their emancipation
to the Gospel. Heresy
effort to assure herself of
g them — another reason
lestly seconding the desire
i by the Congregation of the
ida in this respect. But the
i adopted for this end cannot
where the same, and general
, therefore, hard to determine,
groes must have churches
. common with or separate
5 other faithful; they must

have schools, missions, orphan asy-
lums. Laborers are wanting to this
haiVest. The superiors of religious
orders are requested to designate
some of their subjects for diis purpose,
and secular priests, who feel this to be
their vocation, to fly to the succor of
this class, so destitute and so interest-
ing. As to particular measures, pro
vincial councils will determine in
those regions where the negroes are
more numerous.

VII.

Books and journals exercise such a
great influence on society, both for
evil and for good, that they could
not fail to be the object of a special
decree. After noticing the disastrous
efiects of an immoral press, the pre-'
lates call on all the servants of Jesus
Christ, especially those who are fa-
thers of families, to rid their houses
of all noxious and dangerous books.
They do not hesitate in this instance
to employ the severe words of the
apostle, " If any man have not care
of his own, and especially of those of
his house, he hath denied the faith,
and is worse than an infidel." i Tim.
V. 8. School-books must be careful-
ly revised, expurgated, when neces-
sary, and submitted to episcopal ap-
probation. A sort of permanent
committee is created for this purpose,
composed of the superiois of three
colleges existing in the arch-diocese
of Baltimore.

As to good books, their circulation
should be favored as much as possi-
ble. It is desirable that associations
should everywhere be formed, to em-
ploy themselves in this work. The
fathers particularly recommend the
" Catholic Publication Society " of
New York, which has existed for
some years, and has already done
immense good. Committees in every
city are to be formed, and afiUii
to the central society, and colkct

The Setond^Pienary Ceuneit'ef Sanimat^.

are orrierei! to he made yearly for as-
sisting this good work.

Prayer-books ought iilways to be
examined by theologians, and none
should be printed without the appro-
bation of the ordinary. This has hith-
erto been only a wish; hereafter it
shall be a law obh'ging ail bishops.

Among current periodicals there
are many impious and immoral, some
more tolerable, but very few deserv-
ing eulogy and full recommendation
to the faithful. The prelates continue;

"Journals edilcd or direcled by Catholics
indirecily contributing to (lie advantage of
religion, mnsE exist. Hut for fear lest the
poUtical o[un)inii of the writers may be at-
irlbutcil la ecclcffiastical authority, or to
Cbrislianity itself, aa often bappens, thanks
to th« Ind fiith of adversaries, we desire
that at! should be duly warned not to recog-
nize any journal as CatkolU unleu it bean
(he expre&s approbation uf the ordinary.

"Ill several dioceaes, there are journals
fumislied nith this appralnlion, under one
' form or another, because the bisho])s re-
quire Ihem as a means of conveying their
orders or ideas to their dergy and gieaple
Hence tliey are assumed to have an oftitial
character, a£ if the voice of the pastor were
la be heard &om every page and line. This
is 1 mi sunders t nil dliig, although quite gen-
eral, chic Ay propagated by sectarianfi.
From h result grave and intolerable incon-
veniences. For, whatever may be written
by these editors, who may often be eoiilrol-
led by passions private and political, is laid
to the account of the bishop, and aeems to
form a part of his pastoral teaching.

" In ordar that such a responsibility may
ccaie to weigh upon the episcopate, and in
order clearly to set forth the relations
lictween the nrdtniry and the ccclesiasiica]
journals, the Others declare (hat the appro-
bation accorded by a bishop to a Catholic
journal merely signifies that he hiii found
in it nuihinR contrary to faith or moraU ;
and that he hopes such will be the e»se in
future ; and moreover, that the editors are
well -deserving men, and their writings
useful and edifying. The bishop, then, is
only responsible for what appears in the
paper as his own teaching, counsel, exhorta-
tion or command ; and for this, only when
signed with his own hand." (Act. (jt. xl,
p. as*')

They spoke of establishing a journal
or revieWj solely devoted to the expo-

sition and defence of Calbi^
of which the archbishope
more, New York, and perhi
metropolitans with them, wo
the owncrahip. The qticslj
submitted by the cotmdl
judgment of the ordinaries.
]f the fathers wish to be
a soliilarity ollen conipromia
none the less rccogniite iha
of Catholic writers. The G^
which they address to them
rowed from the pontifical i_
of April 30th. 1849. and Groa
ters apostolic of February

llie church has frcqiicnilj
severe condemnations of scci
ties, engaged in acts forbu
religion and justice. After hi
called to mind and publish)
these conrlcmnations, the fiitf
that they do not sec any
applying thein to societies of
which have no other object
mutual support and protcctioi
pie of the some calling.

These must not favor the ]
o( condemned sects, nor profi
trary to ei|iiity and the ti
patrons. No one tnasi
even tolerated, associationt
demand of those entering t
do whatever the chiefs con
which woulil maintain an
secrwry in the face of lawful
ing. If there be doubt of ih
of an association, the holy \
be consulted. No person,
high his cccicsiastica] digttit;
to condemn any society wl
not fall under the
apostolical constitutions,*

In the thirteenth eii _
bishops request the erection 4
newe|Mscopal sees; lotnt,
province of Baltimore,

tupprcucd. ]1

iifim RtaM.

The Second Plenary Council of Baltimore,

5«l

lis, one in each of the pro-
Cincinnati, Oregon, San
, and New York. They
; the churches of Philadel-
Milwaukee to be raised
olitan dignity. Excepting
^inand, this chapter has met
reception at Rome ; and at
it moment, America counts
jw bishoprics or vicarates

I not speak of the pastoral
•essed by the bishops of the
the faithful of their dioc€;ses.
blished at the time in many
umals. Moreover, it mere-
:ulates the measures and
hich ought to be brought
jwledge of all the Catholic
IS. In it one perceives the
ardent zeal for the salvation
Amid the felicitations
y address to their flock, the

prelates mingle cries of
: the sight of the abuses

exist and the souls which
A warm appeal is made to
o favor the development
iastical vocations; in this
lore than in any other in
, the harvest is immense,
alone are often wanting to

the relations between the
nd the state, the fathers
lat, apart from a few brief

of over-excitement and
the attitude taken by the
er and its non-interference
is matters is a matter for
ition ; they complain only
t according the necessary
s for church property, ac-
3 ancient canons and dis-
But several States have
one what is reasonable in
ct; it is hoped that others
bilow their example.

the incomplete but at least
mnih of the decrees of this

great assembly. In reading, one is
struck with the wisdom and prudence
which characterize them. After the
divine assistance, certainly not de-
nied to so holy an undertaking, one
here finds something of that American
good sense, eminently exact and
practical, which, in dealing with lofty
things, seizes them principally by
their positive side, and, without los-
ing sight of principles, adapts them
always to times and circumstances.

If doctrine is greatly represented
in this volume, pure theory occupies
but a small space. Above everything
else the council has wished to be a
work of organization. No less re-
markable for what it has not said
than for what it has said, it seems to
embody the device of the poet,
"Semper ad eventum festinat;" no
superfluous details, no useless erudi-
tion ; all bears the seal of a legislation
soberly but firmly motived, wherein
nothing is omitted which can enlight-
en and convince the mind, and
nothing allowed to lengthen a text
by right short, or to complicate a
simple matter ; a majestic monument,
of simple and severe proportions, art
seems therein neglected, but is by no
means wanting.

If it were permissible in presence
of so great a work to recur to a
secondary detail, we would say that
pupils of the seminaries, in studying
these acts, will find in them a model of
that beautiful Latinity unfortunately
too rare in theological treatises.

Their task ended, the prelates had
only to congratulate themselves on
the success obtained. After having
announced to their children that
they would be more fully notified of
the result in provincial councils and
diocesan synods, they have been able
to add, with lawftil pride, that they ex-
pect all manner of good from the prac-
tical organization given for the future
to the churches of this vast continent

Tke Lrgmd of St. Thomas.

THE LEGEND OF ST. THOMAS,J

And it catne to pass, in those
days, that Thomas abode at Jeru-
salem. And in a dream the Lord
appeared to him, and said, Behold,
Gondaphoms, who rulelh in India,
hath sent Abbas his servant into
Syria, that he may find men skilful
in the art of building, Go thou,
therefore, and I will show thee unto
him. But Thomas answered, and
said. Lord, suffer me not to go into
India. But the Lord answered, and
said to him. Fear not, but rise up
and depart ; for behold, I am with
thee, and when thou shalt have con-
verted the nations of India, thou
shalt come to me, and I will give
unto thee the recompense of thy re-
ward. And when Thomas heard
tliis, he said, Thou art my Lord and
I am ihy servant. Let it be as thou
hast said. And he went his way.

And it came to p.tss that as Abbas,
the servant of Gondaphorus the king,
stood In ihe market-place, the Lord
met him, and said. Young man,
what seekest thou ? And Abbas an-
swered, and said, Behold, my mas-
ter hath sent me hither, that 1 might
bring to him cunning workmen who
shall build for him a palace like
unto those that are in Rome. And
when he had spoken these things,
the Lord showed unio him Thomas,
as that skilful and cunning workman
whom he sought.

And slrai^litway Thomas ihe
apostle, and the servant of Gonda-
phoriLS the king, departed. And as
they journeyed, the word of the Lord
spake by the mouth of Thomas, and
great multitudes of the Gentiles were
converted and baptized. And when
they came lo Aden, which lielh at

the going in of t
tarried many days.

And departing theocCt t
into the coasts of India.
hoU, there was a marriage)
city, and both Thomas and
were called to the raairiag|
the whole city was with ihe^
while they rejoiced togeihei^
Thomas spake to the ped
word of the Lord, tuul j
many mighty works before l|
so that great multitudes bclitf
were baptized. And the ^
of the king, (whose feast it m
her husband, and the king a^
among thera. And this 4
who, after a long lime, wi^
Pelagia, and took the holy a
suffered manyrdom. fiul tU
groom was called Denis, and]
the bishop of that city. j

And going firom thence, l|
parted, and came to Gon^
the king. And to him was!
the apostle brought, as a i
workman, skillct.1 in all nia^
building. And tite king coiM
him to build for him a royEilJ
and gave him vast Ireasin^
with to build it, and havia
this, he went into another cod

And it came to pass, tiri
Thomas received the treasii^
king, he put ;
palace of the king, but n
throughout the kingdom, J
space of two years, [
Gospel, healing the sidt, a
his treasures to the poor.

And after the spac« of lid
Gondaphorus the king r
his own city, and v
concerning his pali

The Legend of St Thomas,

513

1 said, Behold, O king!
IS builded ; but thou shalt
in only in the world that
;. Then was the king
vroth, when he had heard
fs, and commanded his
cast Thomas into prison,
him alive, and afterward
body with fire,
une to pass, that in those
he brother of Gondapho-
nd the king commanded
repare for him a goodly
And on the fourth day,
ie lamentation over him,
that was dead sat up and
speak. And they were
:ed and amazed. But he
: king, Behold, O king!
hou hast commanded to
and burned is the friend
or lo I the angels of God,
him, took me into para-
ihowed to me a palace
ith gold and silver and
Dnes. And when I was
at its beauty, one cried

and said. Behold, this is
i^'hich Thomas has build-
ing, thy brother. But he
t unworthy; yet, if thou
Idst dwell therein, we will
J Lord, that thou mayest

and redeem it of thy
' paying unto him the
has lost.

len Gondaphorus had
e things, he was sore
A he straightway ra4i to

and came in unto the
d smote off his chains,
ig a royal robe, he would
t on him. But Thomas
said, Knowest thou not,
It those who would have
leavenly things care not
ich is carnal and earthly ?
he had said this, the king
It his feet, confessing his

Thomas baptized both
-. IX. — 33.

him, and his brother, and all his
house, and said to them. In heaven
there are many mansions, prepared
from the foundation of the world.
But these are purchased only by
faith and almsgiving. Your riches
are able to go before you into these
heavenly habitations, but thither they
can never follow you.

And after these things, Thomas
arose and departed, and came into
all the kingdoms of India, preaching
the Gospel, and doing many mighty
miracles. And all the nations of
India believed and were baptized,
hearing his words, and seeing the
wonders which he did.

And it came to pass that Mesdeas
the king heard thereof. And when
Thomas came into his country, he
laid hands upon him, and command-
ed him to adore his idols, even the
images of the Sun, which he had made.
And Thomas answered, and said. Let
it be even as thou hast said, if at my
word the idol bow not its head into
the dust. And when he had said this,
the idol fell down prostrate to the earth.

And there arose a great sedition
among the people, and the greater
part stood with Thomas. But the
king was exceeding angry, aod cast
him into prison, and delivered him
up to the soldiers, that they might
put him to death. And the soldiers,
taking him, led him forth to the top
of a mountain over against the city.
And when he had prayed a long
time, they pierced him with their
spears, and, falling down, he yielded
up the ghost And his disciples,
which stood by, wept for him with
many tears, and, taking up his body,
they wound it in precious spices, and
laid it in a tomb. But the church
grew and waxed mightily, and Sifo-
rus the priest, and Zuganes the dea-
con, whom Tliomas had ordained as
he went forth to die on the mount^
taught in his stead.

Such is the Icgenil o{ St. Thomas,
as reciitd in ihe name of Abdias of
Babylon, "bishop and disciple,"* in
his " ien boolui upon the confiicts of
the apostles." Whatever we may think
of the individual events therein detail-
ed, the great outline of the story has
much intrinsic prabability, and is of
no slight interest to the student of
Christian history. Especially is this
so in the present age, when the vast
and mystic East opens her gales
once more to the knock of the evan-
gelist, and when the whole Christian
world is agitated with a missionary
zeal which must be comparatively
fruitless, unless guided by a know-
ledge of the people whom it ap-
proaches, and of the reUgious tradi-
tions with which it must combat or
agree. It is our intention in this
article to suggest some of the chief
facts in the ecclesiastical annals of
tliese unknown lands, and to trace,
so far as we may be able, the dogma-
tic genealogy of those religious no-
tions with which the Gospel has been,
and will be, there forced to contend.

In the legend which we have re-
pealed, and the discussion of which
will occupy the present article, the
scene of the labors of SL Thomas is
laid in India. The tradition that he
preaclied in Parthta and other coun-
tries of the east, and that he perished
by martyrdom, is nearly as old as
Christianity itself. All nf the early
writers are agreed that his ajDostolic
province lay north and east of Pales-

' Abdiu of Babylon. lo wtiom

li«cip^ of our Lard.

jixfc bio p™* >Dd

Btbylon. The mnk

li.rth. and one at rhe Mvenly
He «eol wiik SS. Simoa and

whlrh bvan hi" nanw wa* fir
1531, [11 allrccd aotboTthip.
' tiom, and for flomd tHher mii
' denkd bf Ihe leame^ Od I

■ Iht tnditjun. ai OHiaLnHJ hi nr t-tftrnJ ^ St
T%VKu, i> ulHlanliiillT tne. and hu cdued in Ih
U ouiliDt &«D the eadJoL pariodB a

tine, and that the Pctsians,
Scythians, and other Iudi
were entrusted to his spud
But in regard to the puti
gions over which he trtve
the extent of his missiunain
as embraced in modem geoj
divisions, there appears IQ
small discrepancy bctwe^
Thus, while certain anclen^
ascribe to him the cvange^
the entire East, Socrates and,
ret expressly state ihat th«
was not preached in Indil
fourth centiuy, when Fi
carried thither the knowIed|
true faith, and establislicd a^
of which he himself beconu
shop; while some extend bi%
ings to the Ganges, or cv^
Celestial empire itself, 0th
him within the eastern bou
Persia, and place his death an
place near the city of Eik
than two hundred miles n
from Antioch.

Much of. this apparent )
ment, however, is expl^neJ ^
the acknowledged ajnbiguit]
phrases under which these
countries were anciently q
"India" and "Ethiopia" j|
have been terms as louseljr
in that age as •' the East," iq,
and " the \Ve5t," in America
day; and it is not at all unlS
as has been the case with li
phrase in this country, the ag
of the former was gradually 1
as their nearer frontiers b«^
tei known, and were localiM
distinct and peculiar names. .
dia of Socrates and Theotlf
or may not emlirace the dil
eluded in the India of G«
and Sophronius; and each, if
toric statement, may be cniia
rate in fact, though coomdl
the others in his language. ,

Moreover, in those early if

The Legend of St, Thomas,

SIS

irere less knovn than nations,
icients spoke of "Persians,"
Jis," " Jews," " Egyptians,"
:han of the countries in which
sre supposed to dwell; while
day, on the contrary, the ex-
ns of geography have ren-
he regions far more definite
2 nations which inhabit them.
s reason, what would be com-
ply a safe guide to any given
in modem usage, would be
reliable in writings of a thou-
?ars ago. Thus we may well
whatever doubts this seeming
rment at first sight throws
the post-scriptural account of
ostle, or at least hold it in
:e, to be obliterated if subse-
nvestigations should disclose
t evidence of the toils and
s of St. Thomas in the vast
of oriental Asia,
in this get uric sense of the
lat " India" and " the Indies"
)loyed by the author of this
and under the* singular as
under the plural name a>e in-
nany kingdoms through which
►stle travelled, from that in
e preached the Gospel at the
of a king to that in which
i the mountain of his martyr-
Each of these seems to have
own court and king, and to
?en so far independent of the
hat the same religion which
ntained and promulgated by
e in one, was persecuted and
ned by the rulers of the other.
5t, therefore, to these names
can look with any confidence
ig such vestiges of the apos-
>tsteps as shall afford us a
clue to the countries or the
which enjoyed the fruits of
nous love.

however, is not the case with
le of King Gondaphorus to
larticularly, according to the

legend, the mission of St Thomas
was directed. Until within a few
years, the age, the residence, even the
existence of this personage has been
matter of serious controversy. The
opinion most commonly received
among the learned was, that " Gon-
daphorus " was a corruption of " Gun
dishavor " or " Gondisapor," a city
built by Artaxerxes, and deriving iu>
name f^om Sapor or Schavor, the son
and successor of its founder.* As
the city could have acquired this
title only in the fourth century, this,
among other reasons, has generally
led historians to deny the substantial
authenticity of the legend itself, and
to regard it as the fabrication of some
later age..

Recent investigations among In-
dian antiquides have thrown new
light upon this subject, and, in this
particular, at least, seem to have
cleared the legend fi'om all suspicions
of fraud. Among the many coins
and medals lately discovered in the
East are those of the Indo-Scythian
kings who ruled in the valley of the
Indus about the beginning of our
present era. One of these kings bore
the name of "Gondaphorus," and
pieces of his coinage are now said to
be preserved in different collections
of Paris and the Eastt This striking
corroboration, in the nineteenth cen-
tury, of a tradition which, in one
shape or another, has been current in
the Christian world for eighteen hxm-
dred years, can hardly fail to satisfy
the most critical examiner that the
legend ascribed to Abdias is, in its
grand oudine, entitled to a far higher

* Gundlsapor was the efnsoopal and metropolitan
dty of the province of Sarac, situated on the Tigris,
six leagues from Susa. It is said to hare been built
by Hormis^ba, the con tem porary of the Emperor
Constantine, and to have been called by the name of
Sapor, his son, by whom u was afterward i mm ens e ly
enridied and beautified with 'he treasures which he
ravished from the Roman empire.

t Vide L* Chrutimnimu «m Ckkm^ etc., par IL
Hue Paris, 1857, p. aS, etc.

S-6

The Legend of St. Thomas.

■
■

degree of credit than it has been ac-
customed lately to receive.

The course of the apostle and his
companion toward the east, so far as
this tradition and its modem hmita-
tions have defined it, may thus be
traced. Leaving Jerusalem, they jour-
neyed by the usual route to tlie Red
Sea, and thence along the coasts of
Arabia Pctriea and Arabia Felix lo
Aden, then, as now, a city of much
commercial importance, on account
of lis excellent harbor and command-
ing situation. Here they remained
for a considerable period of time, the
apostle preaching the Gospel and
laying foundations on which other
men might build. Embarking thence,
they sailed around the southern bor-
ders of the Arabian peninsula, and,
crossing the Gulf of Oman, landed
at one of the then flourishing cities
near the mouths of the Indus. After
some delay, of which St. Thomas
made good use in the service of the
Gospel, they pushed north-easterly
into the interior to the immediate
province of King Gondaphorus, where,
after the labors of two yeare, the
apostle brought the monarch and his
family under obedience to the yoke
of Christ. His special work thus ac-
complished, St. Thomas travelled into
many other kingdoms on the same
divine errand, and terminated his de-
voted and fruitful life by holy mar-
tyrdom. Thus far, the legend ; and
that il agrees with and is in fact the
interpreter of all other traditions of
St. Thomas, as well as of those vari-
ous monuments which, until recently,
have been unknown as teachers of
Christian history, will shortly be made
manifest.

The holy apostle, having once es-
tablished Christianity in those parts
of India which lie nearest to Jerusa-
lem, would naturally extend his jour-
jwy into more distant regions, rather
than retrace his steps, and occupy, as

his field of labor, a territory to
the Gospel would, without hi*
vcntion, probably be soon proci
For, having in himself powere
poteniiary for the or;gani£atioD
peqietoation of the church, wherci'n
he might plant it, xnd being asKuitd,
as a Christian and disdple, that the
zeal and pereevurance of his &lb«-
workers might safely be entntsteil
with the conversion of the nations
adjacent to the centres of Chiisiiaii
doctrine, it was simply manlike, aoi-
ply apostolic, for him to set his lice
steadfastly toward those who, but for
him, might not in many gcncralioiit
obtain the light of faith. If, there-
fore, the footsteps which we luve al-
ready traced lie genuine, we mij
with reason look for traces of ihi:
same unwearied feet in other tunl
still more unknown lands.

And herein also, the traditions of
the early ages will not disappoint ui
Still reckoning by nations, wha
than by kingdoms, the ancient wnim
tell us that St. Thomas preachml ihe
Gospel to the Parthians, Medo, Po-
sians, Hyrcanians, Bactrians, GeriBi-
nians, Seres, Indians, and Scythian
Thus in a fragment of St. DorothaB
(a.p. 254,) " The aposdc Tlion«
having announced the Gospel to th<
Parthians, Medes, Persians, Gen»
nians, Bactrians, and Mages, sulfeei
martyrdom at Calamila, a city of !"■
dia." Theodore!, speaking uf lb'
universality of the preaching of tiw
apostles, says, "They have rauasi
not only the Romans, and those -f^
inhabit the Roman empire, but tht
Scythians, . . the Indians, . . '^■
Persians, the Seres, and the Hjra
nians to receive from them the liw "I
the Crucified." Origcn, and from him
Eusebius, relates that St, ThfTi;- "
ceived Parthia as his allot;..
and Sophronitis mcntioii^
planted the faith among iJi. '•■
Persians, Carmanians, (Genn-.r; i»^

Tlu Legend of St. Thomas,

S17

inians, Bactrians, and other na-

3f the extreme east. Both the

and St. Gaudentius declare

le suffered at Calamina in In-

* same traditions are faithfully
ved among the Christians of
In the breviary of the Church
ilabar, it is stated that St. Tho-
onverted the Indians, Chinese,
Ethiopians, and that these differ-
ations, together with the Per-

offer their adorations to God
mmemoration of this devoted
e, from whom their forefathers
ed the truth of Christ. The
nption of fact, which arises out
:h a mass of testimony as these
ther witnesses which might be
1 offer us, existing for so many
nd in countries so widely sepa-
from each other, is purely suffi-
to justify a careful study of
realities to which these different
is belonged, as indicative of the
md more extended missionary

of St Thomas.

wording to the best authorities
J subjects of ancient geography
:hnology, all the various territo-
hich were inhabited by the na-
whose conversion has been at-
?d to St. Thomas lie east of the
:ates, and, with the single ex-
n of the Scythians, below the
h parallel of latitude. The
s occupied the districts between
aspian and Persian seas. The
inians lay on the south-east of
aspian, the Parthians and the
ans lying east of them ; and all
)eing included in the present Tur-
. TTie Persians held the north-
Q borders of the Persian Gulf,
:o the kingdom of the Medes;
ermanians, or Carm'anians, ly-
txt on the south-east, in part of
is now known as Beloochistan,
le lower comer of modem Per-
Ihe "Seres" was a name given

to the Chinese in the earliest historic
ages, and embraced the vast and cul-
tivated people who dwell beyond the
Emodi, or Himalaya, mountains, and
east of the sources of the Indus.
The Indians and Scythians — the for-
mer occupying from the Indian Ocean
and the latter from the Arctic zone
— met together between the Bactri-
ans and the Seres, and formed the
Indo-Scythian races of the ante-
Christian age. Calamila, or Calami-
na, the city near which the apostle
finally rested from his labors, is on
the eastern coast of Hindostan, a
short distance from Madras, and has
been known, at different periods, by
the names of Meliapour, Beit-Thoma,
and St. Thomas.

The connection of these ancient
nations and countries with, and their
successive propinquity to, each other
enables us to form a tolerably correct
idea of the course of the ap>osde's
missionary work, from the baptism of
Gondaphorus to the close of his own
career. For although our guide is
simply the intrinsic probability which
grows out of the nature of the work-
man and the work God had appoint-
ed him to do, yet, to whoever takes
the map of the various regions which
we have described as the scenes of
the apostolic life and death, it will
appear that one of two courses must
have been adopted. The first starts
from the valley of the Indus, and,
leading westward, reaches in tum the
Germanians, Persians, and Medes;
then, turning toward the north and
flexing eastward by the southem bor-
der of the Caspian Sea, it penetrates
the land of the Hyrcanians, Parthians,
Bactrians, Indo-Scythians, and Seres ;
where, again met by the upper Indus,
it bends southwajrd, and, striking
through the heart of Hindostan, ends
in the lower portion of the peninsula
at or near Madras. The second, be-
ginning at the same point, follows up

Tke Legetid of St. Tkomas.

the Indus in a path directly opposite
to the former, until the place of de-
parture is again reached and the
final journey through modem India
begins. It is scarcely possible to say
which of these two routes is most
probably correct. Future research-
es may throw light upon the extent
of the region over which King Gon-
daphorus reigned, upon the relation
of the dialects of these bordering na-
tions to each other, and thus afford a
clue to the more exact path of the
apostle. But in either case, the dis-
tricts over which he travelled, and the
races into contact with whom he car-
ried the Gospel, are distinguished
with a high degree of certainty, and
the triumphs of the cross under his
leadership may thus be clearly under-
stood.

Indeed, the work of scarce any
apostle of the twelve can now be
better followed than that of Thomas.
The chief indefinJteness attaches to
his mission to the Seres; for here lit-
tle is extant to show, with any great
conclusiveness, whether his labors
terminated with the borders of Indo-
Scylhia, or penetrated to the Yellow
Sea. Some monuments of antiquity
have, it is true, been found, which
point strongly to the spreading of the
Gospel over a large part of China by
primitive if not by apostolic mission-
aries; but nothing has as yet been
discovered which would justify the
conclusion that St. Thomas actually
attempted the evangelization of that
immense and thickly-populated em-
pire. If such had been the case, it
is hardly possible that India should
have received hjm back again, and
given him the distant Calamina for
his martyrdom.

The area of territory over which
the apostle Thomas must thus have
journeyed e-nbraccs over three mil-
lion two hundred and fifty thousand
square miles, and the people to whom

he opened the doors of hei
through the Gospel, numbered ■
than two hundred millions of ■
The linear distance of his own l^
sonal travels probably exceeded^
thousand miles, and this, for the Bp
part, necessarily on foot. The i
^deration of these facts, and of 4
results which followed from the
apostle's labors, will give us wtnc
idea of the work which our Divint
Lord committed to his immediate dit-
ciples, and of the untiring teal an'!
superhuman endurance with which
they were endowed. It has become
far easier for us to say, " The Laii
hath shortened bis hand," than la go
and do hitewise.

Yet it is still true that Thomas wd
an apostle; that it was the will of the
Master that all nations should ai
once almost receive some knowledge
of his Gospel ; that the miraeui«u
gift of tongues swept out of die
way one of the greatest obsiadesto
missionary labor; and that St. Tli>-
mas had received the gifts of 6J4
and charity to such a degree as ali-
bied him to co-operate, to the utmort.
with the graces of his work. Anilil
is also true that, had not he aid
the others of the twelve been i
as they were and accomj
what they did, the promises of C
would have been unfulfilled, a:
church have suffered fiom theirj|
ure to its latest day. But in I
they were apostles, in that ih«f 1
their work, the seed of the Gaf
can scarcely fall, to-day, mi 1
which has not been already waten^
by the blood of martyrs, or auiO>g_|
people in whom it has not, long ■!
sprung up and brought fortii f
abundantly.

There were, however, in ibe fl
of St. Thomas, other and natunl if
sons why his work should hare h
so vast and his success :
nary. The facihty of intercouiwl

The Legend of St. Thomas.

S19

the east and the west was far
r in his day than in our own.
uccessive conquests of Alexan-
id led him beyond the present
•n boundary of China* The
n empire, at the beginning of
a, reached beyond the Euphra-
id the intimate connection of
nth part, and the ease of inter-
\ between the imperial city and
arthest military outpost, can
ly be exaggerated.* Up to
venth century, this unity contin-
> a great degree unbroken, and
-.count not only for the presence
I minister of Gondaphorus in
Jem and for the results which
ed it, but for the diffusion and
vation of the traditions which
landed down those events to us.
r was this unity altogether that
iquest Beyond the empire of
►tus lay the realms of Poms, of

history relates that he held six
ed kings beneath his sway,
en these emperors there seem
e been two formal attempts at
mate political alliance. Twen-
r years before the birth of
, an embassy from Poms fol-
Augustus into Spain, upon this
I, and another some years after-
met with him at Samos. In
Igns of Claudius, Trajan, Anto-
Pius, and succeeding emperors,
me royal courtesies were inter-
ed, and it was not imtil the
ilman power, sweeping like a

fire between the east and the
became an impassable barrier
her, that these relations had an

uiy the same may be said of
lercial unity. The trade in silk,
which substance the Seres, or
se, derived their name, was car-
>n between the Romans and
listant nation on no inconsider-
cale. Numerous caravans per-

De Qaincey's Cmzmrt, (Introduction.)

petually journeyed to and fro through
the wilds of Parthia and along the
southern border of the Caspian Sea;
while the Erythrean, Red and Medi-
terranean waters glittered with sails
from almost every land. The whole
inhabited world (if we except this
continent, the date of whose first set-
tlement no one can tell) was thus
providentially brought close together,
and a higher degree of unity and as-
sociation established between its dif-
ferent nations than had existed since
the dispersion at Babel, or than has
now existed for over twelve hundred
years.

How vast an advantage to apos-
tolic labor this unity must have been
can easily be seen. While it remov-
ed almost entirely the difficulties of
travel, it assured for the traveller
both safety and good-ydli upon the
way. While it conciliated in ad-
vance the people among whom they
labored, it gave weight and human
authority to the Gospel, when ac-
tually preached. And, when the
church had been established and
little colonies of Christians mariLed
the track of the apostles, it enabled
them to maintain a constant inter-
course with their spiritual children
by messengers or by epistles, and to
keep watch and ward over the mil-
lions entrusted to their care.

Those prophetic traditions of a
coming Saviour, which pervaded the
east, as well as the south and west,
also effected much toward the rapid
spread and wide espousal of Chris-
tian tmth. The origin of these tra-
ditions is shrouded in the mystery
of an unchronicled antiquity. They
may be attributed to the promise in
paradise, to the transfusion of Mo-
saic teachings, or to direct revelation
by means of pagan oracles. But
that they existed, in a dear and
well-defined prophetic form, is estad-
lished beyond question; while that

520

Tht Legend of St. Thomas.

I
I

they were in the first instance of
divine disclosure, it becomes no
Christian to deny. The Itamed and
contemplative minds of Asia espe-
dally delighted in this stale of ex-
pectation. Sons of a soil whereon
the feel of God had trodden in pri-
meval days, the very atmosphere
around them still throbbed with the
echoes of that voice which walked in
Eden in the cool of the day. The
mountains that overlooked them had
aforetime walled in the garden of
the Lord from a dark and half-devel-
oped world. The deserts of their
meditations lay like a pall above the
relics of those generations to whom the
deluge brought the judgment wraUi
of God. Children of Sem, the eld-
est son of Noah, it had been theirs
to see, even more clearly than God's
chosen Israel, the coming of the In-
carnate to the world, as it was also
theirs to win from heaven the first tid-
ings of his birth through the glowing
orient star.

Among the many forms which
this tradition assumed, there is one
so beautiful and so theologically ac-
curate, that we cannot omit to cite
it here. While the swan of Man-
tua, on the banks of -father Tiber,
chanted the glories of the golden
age, a Hindoo poet, on the borders
of the Ganges, thus painted to the
wondering eyes of Indian kings the
grand event in which the disorders
and miseries of that present age should
have an end :

" Then shall a Brahmin be bom in
the city of Sambhala. Tliis shall be
Vishnu Jesu. To him shall the
divine scriptures and all sciences
unfold themselves, without the use
of so much time in their investiga-
tion as is necessary to pronounce a
single word. Hence shall be given
to him the name of S,irva Buddha,
as to one who fully knoweth all
tlungs. Then shall Vbhnu Jesu,

nan

dwelling with his people, pcrfoa
that work which he alom '~

He shall purge the world from
he shall set up the kingdom of
and justice; he shall offer the
fice; . . . and bind anew the
univeree to God, , . . But when
the time of his old age draws nigh,
he shall retire into the desert to do
penance ; and this Is the order which
Vi^nu Sarva shall establish among
men. He shall fix virtue and trotb
in the midst of the Br.-vhmins, and
confine the four castles within the
boundaries of their laws. 1'hcn shaS
return the prime\'a! age. Then wc-
rifice shall be so common that ihe
very wilderness shall be no more i
solitude. Then shall the Bralimim
confirmed in goodness, occupy them-
selves only in the ceremonies of
religion ', they shall cause penance,
and all other graces which folkiw
in the path of truth, to flourish, tsiA
shall spread everywhere tlie low*
ledge of the holy scriptures. Tbtn
shall the seasons succeed each whtf
in unbroken order; the tains ^
their appointed time, sha!! wiio
the earth; the harvest, in in vm,
shall yield abundance; tlie mitt
shall flow at the wish of those "iw
seek it ; and the whole worlil. being
inebriated with prosperity and peacft
as it was in the beginning, all oi-
tions shall enjoy ineffaUe dehghl

The well-known policy of Sl
who, preaching on Mars' hill
Athenians, seized the inscriptiOQ
their altar, "To the unknown
as the text of his most
sermon, is a dime
the important part which God'
tendetl that these far-reaching
tions should play In the codvi
of the world. St. Thomu, in the
had but to repeat the announi
Him whom ye ignorantly

■ U CAriiliuiamt n Ciim, f. J.

The Legend of St. Thomas.

S2I

ire I unto you. He, for
X have waited — he, Vishnu
already come ; his wisdom
unsels I reveal to you.
nong the clear-thoughted
hearted sages of the east,
t Magi of Persia, the Brah-
ndia, and the philosophers
among such as those who
e bidding of a voiceless star
it to the world's end — to
)f Betlilehem — these decla-

the apostle must have
signal of salvation. In
re were no prejudices to
% no new and strange ideas
oused The Gospel was
m, as to the Jews, the sub-
anticipated glory. It was
ation of expectation, the
y which had so long shot
light into the darkness of
age. And so it was that,
ea could give to Christian-
nple fishermen, or at most
the synagogue, India and
thought not too highly of
and sages to yield them up
Jesu, and offered on his
wealth of all her realms,
year 152 1, certain excava-
ig place under the ruins of
d ancient church at Melia-
"e were found, in a sepul-
: great depth beneath the
the earth, the bones of a
deton, in a state of remark-
teness and preservation.
1 were also found the head
!, still fastened in the wood,
ents of an iron-shod club,
e of clay filled with earth,
rs later, near the same spot,
)t was made by the Portu-
3uild a chapel ; and in dig-
the foundations, the work-
\ upon a monumental stone

was sculptured a cross,
> feet long by eighteen
de, rudely ornamented and

surrounded by an inscription in cha-
racters which, to the discoverers, were
totally unknown. The authorities
of Meliapour, being desirous to as-
certain the meaning of the letters
engraved around this cross, made
diligent search among the native
scholars for an interpreter, and finally
obtained one in the person of a Brah-
min of a neighboring city. His trans-
lation was as follows :

" Thirty years after the law of the Chris-
tians appeared to the world, on the 25th of
the month of December, the apostle St
Thomas died at Meliapour, whither he had
brought the knowledge of God, the change
of the law, and the overthrow of devils.
God was bom of the Virgin Mary, was
obedient to her during thirty years, and was
the eternal God. God unfolded his law to
twelve apostles, and of these, one came to
Meliapour, and there founded a church.
The kings of Malabar, of Coromandel, of
Pandi, and of other different nations, sub-
mitted to the guidance of this holy Thomas,
with willing hearts, as to a devout and
saintly man."*

The same inscription was afterward
laid before other oriental scholars,
each of whom, without conference or
collusion with the rest, offered the same
rendering of this forgotten tongue.

Thus, again do the discoveries of
later ages verify the traditions of early
Christian history. That SS. Doro-
theus, Sophronius, and Gaudentius
possessed reliable evidence for their
statement that St. Thomas died at
Calamina, we can no longer doubt
That the original firamer of ^ The Le-
gend of St Thomas " recited events
which, in his day, were well known,
and could be easily substantiated, is
almost beyond dispute. The won-
drous tales of heroism, built out of the
deeds of martyrs and apostles and
evangelists are not all foolish dreams.
The <* Legends of the Saints " are not,
as the wiseacres of the day would
lead us to bdieve, altogether idle

522

Tlte Legaid of St. Thomas.

words. Men, who could traverse sea
and land, without companions, without
aid, converting nations, building
churches, founding hierarchies, setting
their faces ever farther on, looking
for no human sympathy, having no
mother-country, toiling for ever toward
the martyr's crown, were not the men
to fabricate childish stories, full of
false visions and falser miracles. Nor
were those who stood day by day
on the brink of doom ; who, in the
morning, woke perhaps to meet the
lions, perhaps the stake, but certainly
the burden of the cross of Christ i who
lay down at night without hope of
day, the men to listen to wild tales of
falsehood from some cunning tongue.
Traditions of those early days were
all too often written in blood. They
come to us sealed with the lives of
saints. They have stood the lest of
ages of investijtation. They remain,
to-day, monuments, engraved in many
languages, and on many lands, assert-
ing the achievements of our fathers,
white modem science adds to ancient
story the corroboration of her unde-
niable deductions, and vindicates the
traditions of Christian antiquity both
from the sneers and the indifference
of self-exalted men.

It is almost needless to remark, as
the conclusion of this sketch, that
modern missionaries, who would rival
the success of St. Thomas, can fairly
expect it from no less exertion, no less
singleness of heart. Those who from
this or other countries sally forth, with
missionary societies behind them to
supply their needs, burdened with the
double cares of family and church,
with boards of directors at home, as
well as consciences within, to satisfy,
with a support to some extent con-
ditioned on their apparent success,
can scarcely be expected to compete
widi him who, bidding farewell to
home and friends, goes out alone,
wifeless and childless, looking to God

for everything, and seeking notb
but an endless crown. The history
of missions proves, by indispulaUe
statistics, which of these two nwthods
is effective, which has borne with ir
the divine prestige of success, and
which remains, in spite of i>CTsecu-
tions and oppressions, vigorous and
undismayed after the conflicts of
eighteen hundred years. If it wae
a simple tjucstion of policj', between
the -Catholic Church and her oppo-
nents, the event would indicate her
wisdom. If it were one of precedent.
she has the whole apostolic coU^
and the missionaries of fifteen centu-
ries upon her side. But if the touch-
stone of the Master be still reliable.
and we may know his workmen by
their ihiits, then Joes this history of
the great missionary church bear >rit'
ness, that not only her vocation but
her operations are divine, and xatf
assure her children, that, though
heaven and earth should fail, no jot
or tittle of her power or triumph can
ever pass away. The throne of Pftct
may be smitten by the thundcrboltof
war ; the hoary head of his succow
may be bowed with grief; the trijilc
crown may once more be tiampW
under the feet of men ; the laitbfcl
may again be overwhelmed with fc«;
but, in the lar wilderness, beyond th*
glittering deserts, across thefrtMenM"
the burning seas, her sons are gailw-
ing strange nations to her bosom, 0*"
whom, in her coming days of victOJT
and peace, she may renew her jo^

For the same Lord who bade h"
go into the whole world anil teacl'*''
his commandments gave, in Ihc »««
breath, its people to her baptistn ; «»
he who promised her the nalioiit v
her inheritance, and the utteB**
pans of the earth for her poaM«io*
was the same God who said n Si-
Peter, "Super banc petram adit
cabo ecclesiam meam, et | ' *^
non prevalebunt."

Beethoven.

BEETHOVEN.

HIS BOYHOOD.

:ober afternoon, in 1784, a
coming down the Rhine
at point where the city of
n its left shore. The com-
)ard consisted of old and
)ns of both sexes, returning
:ursion of pleasure,
pany landed full of gayety
the young people walking
while their seniors foUow-
adjoumed to a public gar-
3n the river side, to finish
social enjoyment by par-
collation. Old and young
d ere long around the

set under the large trees,
n faded in the west, the
2d her soft light glimmer-
i the leafy canopy above
»ras reflected in full beauty
■s of the Rhine.
)oys are merry fellows,"
/olent-looking old gentle-
ssing Herr van Beethoven,
;er in the electoral chapel,

the same time to his two
)f ten and fourteen years
But tell me, Beethoven,
Du not bring Louis with

J," answered the person
:d, " Louis is a stubborn,
ipid boy, whose trouble-
dor would only spoil our

turned the old gentleman,
ways finding fault with the
md perhaps impose too
ipon him. I am only sur-
he has not, ere this, bro-
om your sharp control."

" My dear Simrock," replied Beet-
hoven, laughing, " I have a remedy
at hand for his humors — ray good
Spanish cane, which, you see, is of the
toughest. Louis is well acquainted
with its excellent properties, and
stands in wholesome awe thereof.
And trust me, neighbor, I know best
what is for the boy's good. Carl and
Johann are a comfort to me; they
always obey me with alacrity and
affection. Louis, on the other hand,
has been bearish from his infancy.
As to his studies, music is the only
thing he will learn — I mean with good
will; or, if he consents to apply him-
self to anything else, I must first
knock it into him that it has some-
thing to do with music. IT^en he
will go to work ; but it is his humor
not to do it otherwise. If I give him
a commission to execute for me, the
most arrant clodpoll could not be
more stupid about it."

Here the conversation was inter-
rupted, and the subject was not re-
sumed. The hours flew lightly by.
It struck nine, and the festive compa-
ny separated to return to their homes.

Carl and Johann were in high glee
as they went home. They sprang up
the steps before their father, and pull-
ed the door-bell. The door was
opened, and a boy about twelve years
old stood in the entry with a lamp in
his hand. He was short and stout
for his age, but a sickly paleness,
more strongly marked by tfie contrast
of his thick black hair, was observable
on his face. His small, gray eyes
were quick and restless in their move-
ment, very piercing when he fixed
them on any object, but softened by

524 Beeth

the shade of his long, dark lashes.
His mouth was delicately formed, and
the compression of the lips betrayed
both pride and sorrow. It was Louis
Beethoven,

He came to meet his parents, and
baric ihem " Good-evening."

His mother greeted him aifection-
alely. His father said, while the boy
busied himself fastening the door,
" Well, Louis, I hope you have finish-
ed your task."

" I have, father."

" Very good ; to-morrow I will look
and see if you have earned your
breakfast." So saying, the elder Beet-
hoven went into his chamber. His
wife followed him, after bidding her
sons good night, Louis more tenderly
than any of them. Carl and Johann
witlidrew with their brother to their
common sleeping apartment, enter-
taining him with a description of their
day of festivity. " Now, Louis," said
little Johann, as they finished their
account, " if you had not been such
a dunce, our father would have taken
you along'; but he says he thinks that
you will be little better than a dunce
all the days of your life, and self-
willed and stubborn besides."

" Don't talk about that any more,"
answered Louis, "but come to bed."

" Yes, you are alwaj-s a sleepy-
head I" cried they both, laughing;
but in a few moments after getting
into bed both were asleep and snoring
heartily.

Louis took the lamp from the (able,
left the apartment softly, and went
Up-stairs to an attic chamber, where
he was wont to retire when he wi^ed
to be out of the way of his teasing
brothers. He had fitted op the little
room for himself as well as his means
permitted. A table with three legs,
• leathern chair, the bottom partly
ovt, and an old piano which he hail
d from te jwascssion of the nus
• ' ■ :,and

here, in company with his Woved
violin, he was accustomed to paa hii
happiest hours.

The boy felt, young as he was, thai
he was not understood by one of hii
family, not even excepting his mo-
ther. She loved him tenderly, and
always took his part when hii bilur
found fault with him ; but she ne^^er
knew what was passing in his miotl,
because he never uttered it. But hii
genius was not long to be unapprt
elated.

The next morning a messenger
came from the elector to Beethoven's
house, bringing an order for him to
repair immediately to the paUce, and
fetch with him his son Louis. Tlit:
father was surprised; not more to
than the boy, whose heart beat with
undefined apprehension as ihcy en-
tered the princely mansion. A »•
vant was in waiting, and conditcKiI
them, without delay or futihcr m-
nouncement, to the presence of thf
elector, who was attended by r»o
gentlemen.

The elector received old Bceihoi«i
with great kindness, and said. "' We
have heard much, recently, of tbe«-
troordinary musical talent of your »on
Louis. Have you brought him akos
with you ?"

Beethoven replied in the aSnu-
tive, stepped back to the door, >iA
bade the boy come in.

" Come nearer, my little lad," criisl
the elector graciou^y ; " do not be
shy. This gentleman here is out n**
coun organist. Hen Neefc ; the otlm
is thelamous composer, Hctt Vunkfl.
&om Cologne. We promise*! t:^^
both they should hear %-oa play soaic-
thing."

The princ« hide the boy tike Vii*
scat and b^o, while be sat dcivra in
a large easy-chair. Louis wnit t'
the piano, and, witliout examining
the pde of cotes that lay awaiting Ini
selection, f^yed a shun piece, AQiJ

Beethoven.

525

: and graceful melody, which
2uted with such ease and spirit,

so admirable a manner, that
tinguished auditors could not

expressing their surprise, and
lis father was struck. When

off playmg, the elector arose,
ip to him, laid his hand on his
md said encouragingly, " Well
ny boy ! we are pleased with
Now, Master Yunker," turning

gentleman on his right hand,
say you ?"

•ur highness," answered the
;er, " I will venture to say the

had considerable practice with
;t air to execute it so well."
s burst into a laugh at this re-

The others looked surprised
ive. His father darted an an-
nce at him, and the boy, con-
that he had done something
became instantly silent,
d pray what were you laugh-
my litde fellow?" asked the

boy colored and looked down

jplied, " Because Herr Yunker

have learned the air by heart,

occurred to me but just now

was playing."

?n," returned the composer,
really improvised that piece,
ght to go through at sight a
I will give you presently."
:er wrote on a paper a diffi-
tive, and handed it to the boy.
ead it over carefully, and im-
ly began to play it according
rules of counterpoint. The
er listened attentively, his as-
lent increasing at every turn
music; and when at last it
shed, in a manner so spirited
surpass his expectations, his
arkled, and he looked on the
I keen interest, as the posses-
genius rarely to be found,
le goes on in this way," said
. low tone to the elector, " I

can assure your highness that a very
great contrapuntist may be made out
of him."

Neefe observed with a smile, " I
agree with the master ; but it seems
to me the boy's style inclines rather
too much to the gloomy and melan-
choly."

" It is well," replied his highness,
smiling ; " be it your care that it does
not become too much so. Hen van
Beethoven," he continued, address-
ing the father, " we take an interest
in your son, and it is our pleasure
that he complete the studies com-
menced under your tuition, under
that of Herr Neefe. He may come
and live with him after to-day. You
are willing, Louis, to come and live
with this gentieman ?"

The boy's eyes were fixed on the
ground ; he raised them and glanced
first at Neefe and then at his father.
The offer was a tempting one; he
would fare better and have more
liberty in his new abode. But there
was his father/ whom he had al-
ways loved ; who, in spite of his se-
verity, had doubtless loved him, and
who now stood looking upon him
earnestly and sadly. He hesitated
no longer, but, seizing Beethoven's
hand and pressing it to his heart, he
cried, " No, no ! I can not leave my
father."

" You are a good and dutiful lad,"
said his highness. " Well, I will not
ask you to leave your father, who
must be very fond of you. You
shall live with him, and come and
take your lessons of Herr Neefe;
that is our will. Adieu! Herr van
Beethoven."

From this time Louis lived a new
life. His father treated him no
longer with harshness, and even re-
proved his brothers when they tried
to tease him. Carl and Johann
grew shy of him, however, when they
saw what a favorite he had become.

' 526 BeHi

Louis found himself no longer re-
strained, but came and went as he
jileased; he took frequent excursions
into the country, which he enjoyed
with more than youthful pleasure,
when the lessons were over. His
worthy master was astonished at the
rapid progress of his pupil in hia be-
loved art.

" But, Louis," said he one day, " if
you would become a great musician,
you must not neglect everything be-
sides music. Vou must acquire for-
eign languages, particularly Latin,
Italian, and French. Would you
leave your name to posterity as a
true artist, make your own all that
bears relation to your art."

Louis promised, and kept his word.
In the inidsi of his playing he would
leave off, however much it cost him,
when the hour struck for his lessons
in the languages. So closely he ap-
plied himself, that in a year's time he
was tolerably well acquainted not
only with Latin, Frgnch, and Italian,
bm also with the English. His fath-
er marvelled at his progress not a lit-
tle ; for years he had bbored in vain,
with starvation and blows, to make
the boy learn the tiret principles of
those languages. He had never, in-
deed, taken the trouble to explain to
him their use in the acquisition of
the science of music.

In 1785, appeared Louis' first so-
rata.s. They displayed uncommon
talent and gave promise that the
youthful artist would, in future, ac-
complish something great, though
scarcely yet could be found in tliem
a trace of that gigantic genius whose
death forty years afterward filled all
Europe with sorrow.

" We were both mistaken in the
lad." Simrock would say to old
Beethoven. " He abounds in wit
and odd fancies, but I do not alto-
gether like his mixing up in his music
all sorts of strange conceits ; the best

way, to my notion, is a plai
Let him follow the great Moiart, 1
by step ; after all, he is the only
and there is none to come up lo
— none!" And Louis' father,
also idolized Moiart, always agreed
with his neighbor in his judgment,
and echoed, " None !"

It was 3 lovely summer at^crnoon
about 17S7; numerous boats with
parlies of pleasure on boarti were
passing up and down the Rhine ; nu-
merous companies of old and young
were assembled under the trees in
the public gardens, or along the
banks of the river, enjoying tlic
scene and each other's conversatiun,
or partaking of the rural banquet.

At some distance from the c'
wood bordered the river;
was threaded by a small and s
ling stream, that flung itself ovtfl
ledge of rocks, and tumbled into I
most romantic and quiet dell inn
nable, for it was too narr
called a vaJley. The trees ovcrln
it so closely that at noonday this stU
nook was dark as twilight, and \
profound silence was only
by the monotonous miumur of \

Close by the stream half sat, b
reclined, a youth just emerging i
childhood. In fact, he could hai
be called more than a boy ; (or I
frame showed hut little develc^ni
of strength, and his regular featu
combined with an excessive palen
the result of confinement, gave I
impression that he was even of D
der years. His eyes woul'l
have given him the credit of or
mon beauty \ they were large, <
and so bright that it seemed thcl
feet of disease, especially in * f
that rarely or never smiled.

A moat unusual thing was a I
day for the melancholy lad.
whole soul was given up to one

Beeihovefi.

527

-the love of music. Oh 1 how
)us to him were the moments of
de. He had loved, for this, even
x)r garret room, meanly furnish-
It rich in the possession of one or
nusical instruments, whither he
1 retire at night, when released
irksome labor, and spend hours
light stolen from slumber. But
alone with nature, in her grand
s, under the blue sky, with no
,n voice to mar the infinite har-
' — how did his heart pant for
ommunion ! His breast seemed
pand and fill with the grandeur,
eauty, of all around him. The

breeze rustling in the leaves

to his ear laden with a thou-
melodies; the very grass and
rs under his feet had a language
m. His spirits, long depressed
saddened, sprang into new life,
ejoiced with unutterable joy.
e hours wore on, a dusky sha-
fell over foliage and stream, and
Dlitary lad rose to leave his cho-
retreat. As he ascended the
w winding path, he was starded
»ring his own name ; and pre-
r a man, apparently middle-aged
dressed plainly, stood just in
of him. " Come back, Louis,"
the stranger, " it is not so dark

seems here; you have time

gh this hour to return to the

The stranger's voice had a

ng though melancholy sweet-

and Louis suffered him to take
land and lead him back. They
d themselves in the shade beside
rater.

have watched you for a long
:," said the stranger,
fou might have done better,"
[led the lad, reddening at the
jht of having been subjected to
nage.

*eace, boy," said his companion ;
3ve you, and have done all for
good."

"You love me?" repeated Louis,
surprised. " I have never met you
before."

" Yet I know you well. Does that
surprise you ? I know your thoughts
also. You love music better than
aught else in the world ; but you de-
spair of excellence because you can-
not follow the rules prescribed."

Louis looked at the speaker with
open eyes.

"Your masters also despair of
you. The court-organist accuses you
of conceit and obstinacy ; your father
reproaches you; and all your ac-
.quaintance pronounce you a boy of
tolerable abilities, spoiled by an ill
disposition."

The lad sighed.

" The gloom of your condition in-
creases your distaste to all studies
not directly connected with music,
for you feel the need of her consola-
tions. Your compositions, wild, me-
lancholy as they are, embody your
own feelings, and are understood by
none of the connoisseurs."

" Who are you ?" 'cried Louis in
deep emotion.

" No matter who I am. I come to
give you a little advice, my boy. I
compassionate, yet I revere you. I
revere your heaven-imparted genius.
I commiserate the woes those very
gifts must bring upon you through life."

The boy lifted his eyes again;
those of the speaker seemed so bright,
yet withal so melancholy, that he
was possessed of a strange fear. " I
see you," continued the unknown
solemnly, "exalted above homage,
but lonely and unblessed in your
elevation. Yet the lot of such is fix-
ed ; and it is better, perhaps, that one
should consume in the sacred fire
than that the many should lack illu-
mination."

"I do not understand you," said
Louis, wishmg to put an end to the
interview.

' 528 Btet^

"Tliat is not strange, since you
do not understand yourself," said the
stranger. " As for me, 1 pay homage
to a future sovereign!" and he sud-
denly snatched up the boy's hard
and kissed it. Louis was convinced
of his insanity.

"A sovereign in art," continued
the unknown. " The sceptre that
Haydn and Moiart have held shall
pass without interregnum to your
hanils. When you are acknowledged
in all Germany for the worthy suc-
cessor of these great masters — when
all Europe wonders at the name of
BMlhevtn — remember me.

" But you have much ground to
pass over," resumed the stranger,
" ere you reach that glorious summit.
Reject not the aid of science, of lit-
erature: there are studies now disa-
greeable that still may prove serious
helps to you in the cultivation of
music. Contemn not any learning:
for art is a coy damsel, and would
have her votaries ail accomplished I
Above a!! — trusl yourself. Whatever
may happen, give no place to de-
spondency. They blame you for your
disregard of rules; make for yourself
higher and vaster rules. You will
not be appreciated here; but there
are other places in the world; in Vi-
enna — "

" Oh ! if I could only go to Vien-
na," sighed the lad.

" Vou shall go there, and remain,"
said the stranger ; " and there too you
shall see me, or hear from me. Adieu,
now — <tuf Wiedtrsekeny ("To meet
again.")

And before the boy could recover
from his astonishment the stranger
was gone. It was nearly dark, and
he could see nothing of him as he
walked through the wood. He could
not, however, spend much time in
search ; for he dreaded the reproaches
of his father for having stayed out so
late. All the way home he was try-

ing to remember where he h-id via
the unknown, whose features, though
he could not say to whom they b^
longed, were not unfamiliar to him.
It occurred to him at last, that while
playing before the elector one d^
a countenance similar in bencvolad
expression had looked upon him
from the circle surrounding the sove-
reign. But known or unknown, the
" auf Wiedersehen " of liis late com-
panion rang in his ears, while the
friendly counsel sank deep in bis
heart.

Traversing rapidly the streets of
Bonn, young Beethoven was soon at
his own door. An unusual buale
within attracted his attention. To
his eager questions the servanK re-
pbed that their master was dnng,
Shocked to hear of his danger, Loun
flew to his apannient. His broiben
were there, also his mother, weeping;
and'the physician supported hit &■
iher, who seemed in gnrat pain.

Louis clasped his fh tiler's cold hand,
and pressed it to his lips, but could
not speak for tears.

" Go<l's blessing be upon you, 107
son !" said his parent " PromiK
me that throughout life you will
never forsake your brothers, I know
they have not loved you as thcj
ought; that is partly my fault; pro-
mise me, that whatever may happen
you will continue to regard and cher-
ish them."

" I will — I will, dear father!" died
Louis, sobbing. Beethoven ptcsMd
his hand in token of satisfaction. The
same night he expired. The grief of
Louis was unbounded.

It was a bitter thing thus to lose >
parent just as the ties of nature were
strengthened by mutual appreciation
and conlidence; but it was necesaiy
that he should rouse hinudf to mbis-
ter support and comfort to his sufa-
m other.

Lecky on Morals,

529

LECKY ON MORALS. •

ECKY divides his work into
ters. The first chapter is
ry, and discusses "the na-

foundations of morals/' its
1 and motives ; the second
the morals of the pagan em<
* third gives the author's
he causes of the conversion

and the triumph of Chris-

the empire ; the fourth th*
md deterioration of Europe^
. from Constantine to Charle-
and the fifth the changes
•om time to time in the po-

women. The author does
le himself strictly within the
med, but, in order to make
int intelligible, gives us the
f what preceded and what
wed it; so that his book
, from his point of view, the
y and the entire history of
I morals fif)m the earliest
,Ti to the present,
bject of this work is one of
ortance in the general histo-

race, and of deep interest
) are not incapable of seri-

sustained thought. Mr.

a man of some ability,
srable first or second hand
and has evidently devoted
\ and study to his subject,
is clear, animated, vigorous,
ified; but his work lacks
ion and true perspective.
s too long on points com-

unimportant, and repeats
things over and over again,
;s proofs after proofe to es-
lat is mere commonplace to

f Emroptnn Mfrmis^ frtm Augudtf
(n«r. By William Edward Har^^oda
London: LoiigiiiapSkGfeen& Ox 186^

VOL. IX. — 34

the scholar, till he becomes not a little-
tedious. He seems to write under
the impression that the public he is
addressing knows nothing of his sub-
ject, and is slow of understanding.
He evidently supposes that he is
writing something very important,
and quite new to the whole reading
worid. Yet we have found nothing
new in his work, either in substance •
or in presentation, nothing — not even
an error or a sophism — that had not .
been said, and as well said, a hundred
times before him ; we cannot discover
a single new fact, or a single new
view of a fact, that can throw any
additional light on European morals <
in any period of European history.
Yet we may say Mr. Lecky, though ■
not an original or a profound thmker,
is above the average of English Pro-
testant writers, and compiles with •
passable taste, skill, and judgment.

We know little of the author, ex-
cept as the author of the book before
us, and of a previous woric, on Ration-
alism in Europey and we have no
vehement desire to know anything
more of him. He belongs, with
some shades of difference, to a class
represented, in England, by Buckle,
J. Stuart Mill, Frank Newman, and
James Martineau ; and of which the
Westminsier Review is the organ ; in
France, by M. Vacherot, Jules Si-
mon, and Ernest Renan; and, in
this country, by Professor Draper, of
this city, and a host of inferior wri-
ters. They are not Christians, and
yet wouldt not like to be called anti-
Christiaxisi; they are judges, not ad-
vocates^and, seated on the high judi-
cial benoh, they pronounce, as they
flatter ithemsdves, an impartial and
final judgment on all moral, religious,

S30

Ltxky on Morals.

and philosophical codes, and assign
to each its part of good, and its part
of evil. They aim to hold an even
balance between the church and the
sects, between Christian morals and
pagan morals, and between the se-
veral pagan religions and the Christian
religion, all of which they look upon
as dead and gone, except with the
ignorant, the stupid, and the super-
stitious. Of this class Mr. Lecky is
a dihtinguished member, though less
brilliant as a writer than Renan, and
less pleasing as well as less scientific
than our own Draper.

The writers of this class do not
profess to break with Christian civili-
zation, or to reject religion or morals,
but strive to assert a morality without
God, and a Christianity without
Christ. They deny in words neither
God nor Christ, but they find no use
for either. They deny neither the
possibility nor the fact of the super-
natural, but find no need of it and no
place for it. They concede providence,
but resolve it into a fixed natural law,
and are what we would call natur-
alists, if naturalism had not received
so many diverse meanings. In their
own estimation, they are not philoso-
phers, moralists, or divines, but really
gods, who know, of themselves, good
and evil, right and wrong, truth and
error, and whose prerogative it is to
judge all men and ages, all moralities,
philosophies, and religions, by the in-
fallible standard which each one of
them is, or has in himself. They are
the fulfilment of the promise of Satan
to our mother Eve, " Ye shall be as
gods."

Mr. Lecky, in his preliminary chap-
ter, on the nature and foundation of
morals, refutes even ably and con-
clusively the utilitarian school of mo-
rals, and defends what he calls the
"intuitive" school. He contends
that it is impossible to found morals
• on the conception of the usefiil, or on

fears of punishment and hopes of re-
ward; and argues well, after Henr)-
More, Cudworth, Clark, and Butler,
that all morality involves the idea
of obligation, and is based on the
intuition of right or duty r or, in other
words, on the principle of human
nature called conscience. But this,
after all, is no solution of the prob-
lem raised. There is, certainly, a
great difference between doing a
thing because it is useful, and doing
it because it is right ; but there is a
still greater difference between the
inttiitive perception of right and the
obligation to do it The perception
or intuition of an act as obligatorjr.
or as duty, but is not that which makes
it duty or obligatory, llie obligation is
objective, the perception is subjective.
The perception or intuition appre-
'hends the obligation, but is not it,
and does not impose it. The intui-
tive moralists are better than the
utilitarians, in the respect that they
assert a right and a wrong independ-
ent of the fact that it is useful, or
injurious, to the actor. But they are
equally far from asserting the real
foundation of morals; because, though
they assert intuition or immediate
perception of duty, they do not as^
sert or set forth the ground of duty
or obligation. Duty is debt, is an
obligation; but whence the debt?
whence the obligation ? We do not
ask why the duty obliges, for the as-
sertion of an act as duty is its asser-
tion as obligatory; but why does
the right oblige ? or, in other words,
why am I bound to do right ? or any
one thing rather than another ?

Mr. Lecky labors hard to find the
ground of the oUigatian in some
principle or law of human nature,
which he calls conscience. Bat con-
science is the recognition of the obli-
gation, and the mind's own judgment
of what is or is not obligatory; it is
not the obligation nor its creator.

Lecky on Morals,

531

ike proceeds from his at-
found morals on human
supreme law-giver, and is
to all moralists who seek
L system of morals inde-
f theology. Dr. Ward, in

on Nature and Grace^
:he same mistake in his
md a solid foundation in
luty, without rising to the
All these moralists really
:iie, the falsehood told by
ur first parents, " Ye shall
, knowing good and evil ;"
I order to know good or
.11 not need to look beyond

nature, nor to recognize

as subject to, or depen-
ny authority above or dis-

it. It is the one funda-
Tor that meets us in all
lilosophy, and all modem
' and science, speculative,

political, that holds itself
nt of God. The school-
rstood by morals, when the
IS duty, or anything more
lers and customs, what is
•al Theology, or the practical
I of speculative and dogma-
y to the offices of Hfe, indivi-
istic, and social or political,
lorality" meant that portion
hole duty which is prescrib-
latural law and promulgated
as distinguished from reve-
hey based all morals on the
:iple of theology, and there-
called theology the queen
:nces. We have made no
n them.

als, three things — first, the
; second, the regula or
, the end — are essential, and
irefully distinguished. Why
nd to do one thing rather
:her? that is, why am I

all? What am I bound
:o avoid ? For what end ?
ee questions are fundamen-

tal and exhaustive. The intuition-
ists hold that all morals involve the
idea or conception of duty ; but they
omit to present the reason or ground
of duty or obligation, and therefore
erect their moral fabric without any
foundation, and make it a mere cas-
tle in the air. They confound con-
science with obligation, and the rule
or law with the reason or motive for
observing it Suppose we find in
human nature the rule or law; we
cannot find in it either the obligation
or the motive, for the simple reason
that human nature is not independ-
ent, is not sufficient for itself, does
not belong to itself, and has in itself
neither its origin nor its end, neither
its first nor its final cause. The rule
— regula — is the law, and the law
prescribes what is to be done and
what is to be avoided ; but it does not
create the obligation nor furnish the
motive of obedience. Mr. Lecky
himself maintains that it does not,
and is very severe upon those who
make an arbitrary law the ground of
moral distinctions, or the reason of
duty. The law does not make the
right or the wrong. The act is not
right because commanded, nor wrong
because prohibited; but it is com-
manded because it is right, and pro-
hibited because it is wrong. Whence
then the obligation? or, what is it
that transforms the right into duty?
This is the question that the inde-
pendent or non-theological moralists,
no matter of what school, do not and
cannot answer.

There is no answer, unless we give
up the godship of man, give Satan
the lie, and understand that man is
a dependent existence; for an inde-
pendent being cannot be bound or
placed under the obligation of duty,
either by his own act or by the act
of another. If man is dependent, he
is created, and, if created, he belongs
to his Creator; for the maker has a

532

Lecky on Morals,

sovereign right to that which he
makes. It is his act, and nothing is
or can be more one's own, than one's
own act. Man, then, does not own
himself; he owes himself, all he is,
and all he has, to his Creator. As it
has pleased his Creator to make him
a free moral agent, capable of acting
from choice, and with reference to a
moral end, he is bound to give him-
self, by his own free will, to God to
whom he belongs; for his free will,
his free choice, belongs to God, is
his due ; and the principle of justice
requires us to give to every one his
due, or what is his own.

Here, then, in man's relation to God
as his creator, is the ground of his duty
or obligation. It grows out of the di-
vine creative act. Deny the being of
God, deny the creative act, deny man
is the creature of God, and you deny
all obligation, all duty, and therefore,
according to Mr. Lecky's own doc-
trine, all morals.

The irrational cannot morally bind
the rational. All men are equal, and
no man, no body of men has^ or can
have, a natural right to bind or govern
another. Only the Creator obliges, as
the owner of the creature; and if I owe
myself, all I am and all I have, to God,
I owe nothing to another in his
own right, and only God has any
right over me, or to me. Here is at
once the basis of obligation and of
liberty, and the condemnation of all
tyranny and despotism. From this,
it dearly follows that every system of
morals that rests on nature, the state,
or any thing created, as its foundation,
is not and of itself cannot be obliga-
tory upon any one, and that with-
out God as our creator, and whose
wc are, there is and can be no moral
obligation or duty whatever. Pan-
theism, which denies the creative act,
and atheism, which denies God, both
alike deny morals by denying its basis
or foundation. Either is fatal to

morals, for obligation is only the
correlative of the right to command.

Having found the ground of obli-
gation, and shown why we are moral-
ly bound, the next thing to be consid-
ered is the rule by which is determin-
ed what we are bound to do, and
what we are bound to avoid. Mr.
Lecky makes this rule conscience,
which, though he labors to prove that it
is uniform and infallible in all ages and
nations, and all men, he yet concedes
varies in its determinations as to what
is or is not duty according to the
circumstances of the age or nation,
the ideal or standard adopted, public
opinion, etc. That is, conscience as-
sures us that we ought always to do
right, but leaves us to find out, the
best way we can, what is or is not
right. Conscience, then, cannot be
itself the rule ; it is a witness within
us of our obligation to obey God,
and the judgment which we pass on
our acts, usually, in practice, on our
acts after they are done, is at best
only our judgment of what the rule or
law is, not the rule or law itself The
rule or regula is not conscience, but
the light of conscience, that by which
it determines what is or is not duty ;
it is the law which, according to St
Thomas, is ''quxdam est regula et
mensura actuum, secundum quam
inducitur ad agendum, vel ab agendo
retrahitur ;" • or, in the sense we here
use the term, the rule, or measure of
duty prescribing what is to be done,
and what avoided. It is, as St
Thomas also says, an orduiatio ratio-
fiis, and as an ordination of reason,
it can be only the rule or measure of
what is obligatory to be done or to be
avoided. It defines and declares what
is or is not duty, it does not and can-
not make the duty, or create the oUi-
gation. The author and his school
overlook the fact that reason is per-
ceptive, not legislative. Thqr coQ'

Lecky on Morals.

533

I the obligation with the rule
neasures and determines it, and
le that it is the reason that
s the duty. They are psycholo-
not philosophers, and see noth-
«hind or above human reason,
; highest and distinguishing facul-
;^ertainly without reason man
not either perform, or be bound
rform, a single moral act ; and yet
lot the reason that binds him;

* he is bound to follow reason,
undoubtedly is, it is only because
1 tells him what is obligatory,
nables him to do it.

ce only God can bind morally,
[jod can impose the law which
ures, defines, or discloses what
endent of the law is obligatory,
ule of duty, of right and wrong,
^refore the law of God. The
»f God is promulgated in part
7h natural reason, and in part
jh supernatural revelation. The
r is called the natural law, Ux
ilisj' the latter, the revealed law,
supernatural law. But both are
al parts of one and the same law,
ich has its reason in one and the
order of things, emanates from
nd the same authority, for one
e same ultimate end. There are,
mbt| in the supernatural law,
''e injunctions, and prohibitions,
are not contained in the natu-
', though not repugnant thereto ;
hese have their reason and

I in the end, which in all cases
lines the law. All human laws,
iastical or civil, derive all their
as laws from the law of God,

II the positive injunctions and
dtions of either are, in their
, disciplinary, or means to the
in which is the reason or

* of the law. Hence there is,
in be, nothing arbitrary in duty.
ig is or can be imposed, under
the natural law or the supema-
VKf in either church or state, in

religion or morals, that does not
immediately or mediately grow out
of our relation to God as our creator,
and as our last end or final cause.
As a Christian I am bound to obey
the supreme Pastor of the church,
not as a man commanding in his own
name, or by his own authority, but as
the vicar of Christ, who has commis-
sioned him to teach, discipline, and
govern me. As a citizen I am
bound to obey all the laws of ray
country not repugnant to the law or
the rights of God, but only because
the state has, in secular matters, au-
thority from God to govern. In either
case the obedience is due only to
God, and he only is obeyed. It is
his authority and his alone that binds
me, and neither church nor state can
bind me beyond or except by reason
of its authority derived from him.

The law is the rule, and is pre-
scribed by the end, in which is the
reason or motive of duty. The law
is not the reason or motive of duty,
nor is it the ground ofthe obligation.
It is simply the rule, and tells us
what God commands, not whence
his right to command, nor wherefore
he commands. His right to com-
mand rests on the fact that he is
the Creator. But why does he com-
mand such and such things, or pre-
scribe such and such duties? We
do not answer, because such is his
will ; though that would be true as we
understand it For such answer would
be understood by this untheological
age, which forgets that the divine
will is the will of infinite reason,
to imply that duties are arbitrary,
rest on mere will, and that there
is no reason why ^ God should
prescribe one thing as duty rather
than another. What the law of
God declares to be duty is duty be-
cause it is necessary to accomplish
the purpose of our existence, or the
end for which we are created.

S34

Lecky on Morals.

Everything Uiat even God can en-
join as duty has its reason or motive
in that purpose or end. The end,
then, prescribes, or is the reason of,
the law.

The end for which God creates
us is himself) who is our final cause
no less than our first cause. God
acts always as infinite reason, and
cannot therefore create without crc'
ating for some end ; and as he is self-
sufficing and the adequate object of
his own activity, there is and can be
no end but himself. All things are
not only created by him but for him.
This is equally a truth of philosophy
and of revelation, and even those
theologians who talk of natural beati-
tude, are obliged to make it consist
in tbe possession of God, at least, as
the author of nature. Hence, St.
Paul, the greatest philosopher that
ever wrote, as well as an inspired
apostle, says, Rom. xi. 36, " Of him,
and by him, and in him are all
tilings ;" or, " in hira and fur him
they subsist," as Archbishop Kenrick
explains in a note to the passage.
The motive or reason of the law is in
the end, or in God as final cause.
The motive or reason for keeping or
fulfilLng the law is, then, that we
may gain the end for which we are
made, or, union with God as our final
cause. This is all clear, plain, and
undeniable, and hence we conclude
that morals, in the strict sense of the
word, cannot be asserted unless we
assert God as our creator and as our
last end.

Mr. Lecky and his school do not,
then, attain to the true philosophy of
morals, for they recognize no final
cause, either of man or his act ; and
yet there is no moral act that is not
done fi-eely propter finem, for the
sake of the end. ^Ve do not say
that all acts not so done are vi-
cious or sinful, not do we pretend
that no acts are moral tliat are not

done with a distinct and dclib
reference to God as our last ewl
The man who relieves suffering be-
cause he cannot endure the paiu
of seeing it, performs a good deed,
though an act of verj- imjierfcci vir-
tue. \Ve act also from habit, and
when the habit has been formol In
acts done for the sake of the cnil, or
by infused grace, the acts done from
the habit of the soul without an ex-
plicit reference to the end are monL
virtuous, in the true sense of cither
term ; nor do we exclude those Gen-
tiles who, not having the law, do the
things of the law, of whom SL P»ul
speaks, Rom. ii. 14-16.

Mr. Lecky overlooks the end, wd
presents no reason or motive fin
performing our duty, distingtnshabk
from the duty itsdf. He atk^B die
philosophy of the Porch, except tlm
he thinks it did not make enoiij^ Af
the emotional side of our tutm
that is, was not sufficiently senti-
mental. The Stoics held that «
must do right for tlie sake <A rigfu
alone, or because it is right. TifT
rejected all consideration <'\ \- ■ '
advantage, of general ll .
honor of the gods, future );■
or hell, or the happiness ol ;i.:. .
They admitted the obligaiiun w
serve the commonwealth and to A)
good to all men, but because it w»
right. The good of the state or of
the race was duty, but not the rrJioti
or motive of the doty. The profe-
sedly disinterested morality cm fhich
our author, alter them, so eamoDf
insists, closely analyzed, will be fouBil
to be as selfish as that of the Carfw.
or that of Paley and Benlham. Vr.
Epicurean makes pleasure, tlut il
the gratification of the senvs, ihc
motive of virtue; the Stoir v-^-r^ <^'
motive the gratification of i
tual nature, or rather hii j:
is as much a man's self j.^ ■■ ■
apostle calls concupiscence, or iIk

Lecky an Morals,

535

tellectual selfishness, in

Stoics abounded, is even
gnant to the virtue of the
\ the sensual selfishness of

of pleasure. We care not
ftrords the Stoic had on his
stem of pagan morals was
moved firom real disinter-
e than that of the Porch.
:ky denoifhccs the morali-
hurch as selfish, and says the
em triumphed with Bossuet
Ion ; but happily for us he
mpetent to speak of the
joined by the church. He

understand the question

at issue, and entirely mis-^
Is the matter for which
ras censured by the Holy

doctrine of F^nelon, as he
[plained and defended it,

condemned, nor was that
:, which, on several points,

unsound, ever approved,
ssagcs of F6nelon's Maxims
fits were censured as favor-
>m, already condemned in
:mnation of Molinos and
Its — a doctrine which F6ne-
held, and which he sought
vims to avoid without run-
the contrary extreme, but.
See judged, unsuccessfully,
jht was orthodox, but the
he used could be under-
a quietistic sense; and it
inguage, not his doctrine,
ondemned.
Tor favored by F^nelon's

though against his inten-
:hat it is possible in this life
I remain habitually in such

charity, or pure love of
lis own sake, of such per-
with him, that in it the soul

hopes or fears, ceases to

of virtue, and becomes in-
> its own salvation or dam-
hether it gains heaven or
rhe church did not con-

demn the love of God for his own
sake, nor acts of perfect charity, for
so much is possible and required of
all Christians. The church requires
us to make acts of love, as well as
of faith and hope, and the act of
love is : " O my God ! I love thee
above all things, widi my whole heart
and soul, because thou art infinitely
amiable and deserving of all love ; I
love also my neighbor as myself for
the love of thee; I forgive all who
have injured me, and ask pardon of
all whom I have injured." Here is
no taint of selfishness, but an act of
pure love. Yet though we can and
ought to make distinct acts of
perfect charity, it is a grave error
to suppose that the soul can in this
life sustain herself, habitually, in a
state of pure love, that she ever at-
tains to a state on earth in which acts
of virtue cease to be necessary, in
which she ceases fi-om pure love to
be actively virtuous, and becomes in-
different to her own fate, to her own
salvation or damnation, to heaven or
hell — ah error akin to that of the
Hopkinsians, that in order to be saved
one must be willing to be damned.
As long as we live, acts of virtue, of
faith, hope, and charity, are necessa-
ry; and to be indifferent to heaven or
hell, is to be indifferent whether we
please God or offend him, whether
we are united to him or alienated
from him.

It is a great mistake to represent
the doctrine the church opposed to
quietism or to Ftoelon as the selfish
theory of morals. To act firom sim-
ple fear of suffering or simple hope
of happiness, or to labor solely to es*
cape the one and secure the other, is,
of course, selfish, and is not approved
by the church, who brands such fear
as servile, and such hope as mercena-
ry, because in neither is the motive
drawn from the ^d, which is God,
as our supreme good. What the

536

Lceky on Morals.

church hids us fear i;
from God, and the happiness she
bids us seek is happiness in God,
because God is the end for which
we are made. Thus, to the ques-
tion, "Why did God make you?"
the catechism answers, "That I
might know him, love him, and
serve him in this world, and be hap-
py -wilk him for ever in the next,"
With him, not without him. The
fear the church approves is the fear
of hfi!, not because it is a place of
suffering, and the fear of God she
inculcates is not the fear of him be-
cause he can send us to hell, but
because hell is alienation f^om God,
is offensive to him ; and therefore the
fear is really fear of offending God,
and being separated from him. The
hope of happiness she approves is the
hope of heaven, not simply because
heaven is happiness, but because it is
union with God, or the possession of
God as our last end, which is our su-
preme good.

Here neither the fear of hell nor
the hope of heaven is selfish ; for in
each the motive is drawn from the
end, from God who is our supreme
good. It therefore implies charity or
the love of God. And herein is its
moral value. It may not be perfectly
disinterested, or perfect charity, which
is the love of God for his own sake,
■w because he is the supreme good in
himsflf; but to love him as our su-
preme good, and to seek our good in
him and him only, is still to love hira,
Hnd to draw from him the molive of
•our acts. TTie church enjoins this
reference to God in whicli, while she
Tecognizci faith and hope as virtues
in this life, she enjoins charity, with-
out which the actor is nothing.

If Mr. Lecky had known the prin-
ciple of Catholic morals, and under-
stood the motives to virtue which the
church urges, he would never have
accused her of approving the selfish

theory, n'hich proposes in no sast
God, but always and everj-whcre jtf,
as the end. He will allow us no
molive to virtue but the right ; thai b,
in his theory, duty has no ruisoti or
molive but itself No doubt hi> cm-
ception of right includes bencvolenct,
the love of mankind, and steady, pa-
severing efforts to serve our comtiT
and the human race; but he on K
sign no reason or motive why ox
should do so without falling dAct
into the selfishness or the utilitariai'
ism which he professes to reject, .TTit
sentimental theory which he swm
to adopt cannot help him, for now
of our sentiments arc disiniere«d;
all the sentiments pertain to self, and
seek alwaj-s their own gntitTKation.
This is as true of those called Ac
higher, nobler sentiments as of Ibc
lower and baser, and, in point of bt
sentimentalists, philanthropists, mJ
humanitarians are usually ihc iiKKt
selfish, cruel, heartless, nnd least imnl
people in society. Men who act frwn
sentimental imtead of rational moliw
are never trustworthy, and ore, i»
general, to be avoided.

Mr. Lecky maintains that riglU '^
to be done solely because it is right.
without any considerations of its p«-
tirular or general utility, or rcgwd to
consequences. But he shrinks frooi
this, and appeals to utility when hani
pressed, and argues that Miii-.i^i(r-
tions of advantage to socu-'i -r m
mankind, or a peculiar ctmiliirj.iLiii^
of circumstances, may sometimes jus-
tify us in deviating from the righi—
that is, in doing wrong. He con-
tends that it may be our duty to saoi-
fice the higher principles of our UKR
to the lower, and appears shocked «
Dr. Newman's assertion tliai "it*
church holds that it were l>ctter fe«
sun and moon to drop from hoawn,
for the earth to fail, and fiir all tk
many millions of its inhabitints 10
die of starvation in extreme agon;.

Lecky an Morals,

537

rj temporal affliction goes^ than
e soul, I will not say should
but should commit one venial

one wilful untruth, though it

no one, or steal one poor far-
nthout excuse." This is too
• Mr. Lecky. He places duty
rs acting from the higher prin-
f our nature ; but thinks there
cases when it is our duty to

them to the lower ! He sup-
:hen, that there is something
bligatory than right, or that

right obligatory when obliga-
s.

his doctrine of doing right for
; of the right is utterly untena-
ight is not an abstraction, for
re no abstractions in nature,
stractions are simple nullities.
; be either being or relation.
1 as a relation, it can be no

no end, because relation is
ly in the related. If being,

is God, who only is being,
•iends, the Stoics, placed it
he divinity, and taught us in
is and Marcus Aurelius that

under one and the same law
)d and man. But an abstrac-
lich is formed by the mind
ig on the concrete can bind

for it is in itself simply no-
The weaker cannot bind the
•, the inferior the superior, or
ich is not that which is. But
10 being stronger than God or
im ; for he is, in every respect,
J. Nothing can bind him,
bt must either be identified
n or held to grow out of the
; of his creatures to himself. In

case, right is God, or God is
ind the obligation to do right
:he obligation to do what God
ids. Right, as being, cannot
tinct from God, and can bind
ly in the sense in which God
binds them. Their sovereign, ,
case, is God, who, by his crea-
\^ is their lord and proprietor.

But right and God are not identical,
and, consequently, right is not being,
but a relation. What binds is not the
right or the relation, but he who, by
his creative act, founds the relation.
Rejecting, then, right as an abstrac-
tion, we must understand by the right
what under this relation it is the duty
of the creature to do. Right and
duty are then the same. Ask what
is man's duty ; the answer is, what is
right. Ask what is right, and the
answer is, whatever is duty.

But right does not make itself right,
nor duty itself duty. Here is the
defect of all purely rationalistic mo-
rals, and of every system of morals
that is not based, we say not on reve-
lation, but on theology, or the crea-
tive act of God. Right and duty are
identical, we grant; but neither can
create its own obligation, or be its own
reason or motive. To say of an act,
it is duty because it is right, or it is*
right because it is duty,. is to reason,
as the logicians say, in a vidous circle,
or to answer idem per idem^ which is
not allowable by any logic we are
acquainted with. We must, then, if
we assert morals at all, come back to
theology, and find the ground of obli-
gation or duty — which is simply the
right or authority of God to com-
mand us — ^in our relation to God, as
our creator or first cause, and the rea-
son or motive in our relation to him
as our last end or final cause.

No doubt the reason why the ra-
tionalistic moralists in modem times
are reluctant to admit this is, because
they very erroneously suppose that it
means that the basis of morals is to
be found only in supernatural revela-
tion, and is not ascertainable or pro-
vable by reason. But this is a mis-
take, growing out of another mistake;
namely, that the creative act is a truth
of revelation only, and not a truth of
science or philosophy. The creative
act is a fact of science, the basis, rather,
of all science, as of all \\C^ m cka.-

538

Lecky on Morals.

tiires, aii<l uiusl be recognized and
held before revelation can be logically
asserted. That God is, and is our
creatori our first cause, and our 6nal
cause, are truths that do not depend
on revelation to be known; and the
theological basis of morals which we
assert, in opposition to the rationalistic
moralists, is within the province of
reason or philosophy. But the ra-
tionalists, in seeking to escape revela-
tion, lose God, and are forced to as-
sert a morality that is independent of
him, and doesnot suppose or need him
in order lo be obligatory. They are
obliged, ihcrpfore, to seek a basis of
morals in nature, which in its own
right has no legislaliv* authority ; for
nature is the creature of God, and is
nothing without him.

The intuition of right, obligation,
duty, which, according to our author,
is the fundamental principle of mo-
rals, is only, he himself maintains, the
immediate apprehension of a principle
or law of human nature, or of our
higher nature, from which we are to
act, instead of acting from our lower
nature; but our higher nature is still
natuTe,and no more legislative than our
lower nature. Nature being always
equal lo nature, nothing is more cer-
tain tiian that nature cannot bind na-
ture or place it under obligation.

Besides, when the author places the
obligation in nature, whether the high-
er or the lower, he confounds moral law
with physical law, and mistakes law in
the sense in which it proceeds from
God as first cause for law in the
senseinwhichitproceeds from God as
final cause. The physical laws, the
natural laws of the physiologists, are
in nature, constitutive of it, indistin-
guishable from it. and are what God
creates: the moral law is independent
of nature, over it, and declares the
end for which nature exists, and from
which, if moral nature, it must act
It is supernatural in the sense that
Cod is superoatuial, and natural only

in the sense that it is giromulgit^d
through natural reason iiulependentlf
ofsupematural revelation. Naiuralita-
son asserts the moral law, but affictu
it as a law fur nature, not a law in
nature. By confounding it with jAjr-
sical laws, and placing it in tu-
ture as the law of natural activity, the
author denies all moral distintiiuo Ik-
tween it and the law by which tlK
liver secretes bile, or the blood ciitu-
lates. He hokls, therefore, with W»l-
do Emerson that gravitation and pu-
rity of heart are identical, and, with
our old ininscendenialisi friends. iLu
the rule of duty is expressed id the
maxims, Obey thyself; Aa W
thyself; Follow thy instincts. So
doubt they meant, as our author
means, the higher instincts, the noUd
self, the higher nature. But the lit
recognized and asserted is ao idor
the moral law than is the physical tiw
by which the rain falls, the winds
blow, the sun shuies, the flowcs
bloom, or the earth revolves on iB
axis. Physical laws there are, no
doubt, in human nature ; but ik
theologians tell us that an act doK
from them is not an /Ktus humama.
but an a^tui homirtii^ whidi has W
moral character, and, whatever il
tendency, is neither virtuous i

Mr. Lecky, ns nearly «U i
philosophers, denies God
cause, if not as firet cause. Thei^
ral law has its reason and t
him as our hnal cause, and this itfl
difference between it and phj^ol
taw. The pagan Greeks denied l)Mh
first cause and final cause, fot UwjT
knew nothing of creation ; but I
a finely organized race and I
ing in a country of great naB
beauty, they confounded die i
with (he beautiful, as s
confound an with religion, lliai
thor so far agrees with ll
as to place duty in the bcMtoty A
nobility of the act, or ia i

Lecky on Morals,

539

ng from the beauty and nobility
r nature — what he calls our high-
Lture. We do not quarrel with

when he defines beauty to be
>*plendor of the divinity, and
ore that all good, noble, and
lus acts are beautiful, and that
v^er performs them has a beauti-
>ul. But there is a wide differ-
between the beautiful and the
, though the Greeks expressed

by the same term; and art,
* mission it is to realize the
iful; has of itself no moral char-
; it lends itself as readily to
s to virtue, and the most artis-
;es are very far from being the
moral or religious ages.* The
ce is in overlooking the fact
very virtuous or moral act must
me propter finem^ and that the
:he reason, the motive of duty
ds on the end for which man
lade and exists.

: the author and his school have
;amed that all things proceed
God by way of creation, and re-
to him without absorption in
s their last end. Morals are all
; order of this return, and are
9re teleological. Not knowing
nd rejecting this movement of
, they are forced to seek the ba-
morals in man's nature in the

of its procession from God,

it is not. The intuition they

would be something, indeed, if
e the intuition of a principle or
3t included in man's nature, but
lich his nature depends, and to

it is bound, by the right of God
ed in his creative act, to subor-

its acts. But by the intuition of
which they assert, they do not

anything really objective and
indent of our nature, which the

really apprehends. On their
1 they can mean by it only a
1 conception^ that is, an ab-
on. We indeed find men who,
ologians, understand and defend

the true and real basis of morals,
but who, as philosophers, seeking to
defend what they call natural morali-
ty, only reproduce substantially the
errors of the Gentiles. This is no less
true of the intuitive school, than of the
selfish, the sentimental, or the utilita-
rian. Cudworth founds his moral
system in the innate idea of right, in
which he is followed by Dr. Price;
Samuel Clarke gives, as the basis of
morals, the idea of the fitness of things;
WoUaston finds it in conformity to
truth ; Butler, in the idea or sense of
duty; Joufiroy, in the idea of order;
Fourier, in passional harmony — only
another name for Jouffroy*s order.
But these all, smce they exclude all
intuition of the end or final cause,
build on a mental conception, or a
psychological abstraction, taken as
real. The right, the fitness, the duty,
the order they assert are only abstrac-
tions, and they see it not.

It is the hardest thing in the world
to convince philosophers that the real
is real, and the unreal is unreal, and
therefore nothing. Abstractions are
formed by the mind, and are nothing
out of the concrete fix)m which they
are generalized. A system of philo-
sophy, speculative or moral, built on
abstractions or abstract conceptions
of the true, the right, the just, or duty,
has no real foundation, and no more
solidity than " the baseless fabric of a
vision." Yet we cannot make the
philosophers see it, and every day we
hear people, whose language they
have corrupted, talk of "abstract
principles," "abstract right," "ab-
stract justice," "abstract duty,"
" abstract philosophy," " abstract
science ;" all of which are " airy no-
things," to which not even the poet
can give "a local habitation and a
name." The philosophers who au-
thorize such expressions are very se-
vere on sensists and utilitarians; yet
they really hold that all non-sensible
principles and causes, and aU vtea&XkON.

S40

Faith.

derived from the senses, are abstrac-
tions, and that the ' sciences which
treat of them are abstract sciences.
Know they not that this is precisely
what the sensists themselves do ?
If the whole non-sensible order is an
abstraction, only the sensible is real,
or exists a parte rei^ and there is no in-
telligible reality distinct from the sen-
sible world. AH heathen philosophy
ends in one and the same error, which
can be corrected only by understand-
ing that the non-sensible is not an
abstraction, but real being, that is
God, or the real relation between
God and his acts or creatures. But
to do this requires our philosophers
to cast out from their minds the old
leaven of heathenism which they
have retained, to recognize the crea-
tive act of God,and to find in theology
the basis of both science and morals.
Mr. Lecky proves himself, in the
work, before us, as in his previous
work, an unmitigated rationalist, and
rationalism is only heathenism re-
vived. He himself proves it. He
then can be expected to write the
history of European morals only from
a heathen point of view, and his
judgments of both heathen and Chris-

tian morals will be, in spite of himselJ
only those of a respectable pagax*
philosopher and in the latter period o#
pagan empire, and attached to th^
moral philosophy of the Porch,
is rather tolerant than othernise o\
Christianity, in some respects ever*
approves it, lauds it for some doc-
trines and influences which it pleases
him to ascribe to it, and to which it
has no claim ; but judges it from a
stand-point far above that of the fa-
thers, and from a purely pagan point
of view, as we may take occasion
hereafter to show, principally from
his account of the conversion of
Rome, and the triumph of the Chris-
tian idigion in the Roman empire.

But we have taken up so much
space in discussing the nature and
foundation of morals, to which the
author devotes his preliminary chap-
ter, that we have no room for any
further discussion at present What
we have said, however, will suffice, wc
think, to prove that rationalism is as
faulty in morals as in religion, to \'in-
dicate the church from the charge of
teaching a selfish morality, and to
prove that the only solid basis of mor-
als is in theology.

FAITH.

Faith is no weakly flower.
By sudden blight, or heat, or stormy shower
To perish in an hour.

But rich in hidden worth,
A plant of grace, though striking root in earth.
It boasts a hardy birth :

Still from its native skies
Draws energy which common shocks defies.
And lives where nature dies !
Oratokv, Birmington. E. Caswail.

Religion emblemed in Flowers,

541

RELIGION EMBLEMED IN FLOWERS.

" Wondrous truths, and roanifiild as yrooAmoM,

God hath written in the stars above ;
But not leas in the bright flowerets under ua

Stands the revelation of his love.
And with childlike, credulous affection

We behold their tender buds expand —
Emblems of our own great resurrection.

Emblems of the bright and better land."

the poetic and suggestive
that linger with us from the
; — those ages when art re-
>ugh religion, and symbol-
iths of eternity by the crea-
pplication of such esthetics
ler the dominion of heathen-
been perverted to purely
ioyment— of all these tradi-
we find few more beautiful
ious types, more elevating
ealization, or which form a
mnecting link between the
rations and our material

than those frailest children
utiful that belong to the
;dom. Coeval with the
le solace, companions, and
)ur first parents, they shar-
ishment, Hkewise, of man's
)n, in the flood ; but when

subsided, they were the
ibols to announce to Noah
on of omnipotent ven-
l the first to greet the weary
as their feet again touched
raising their lowly heads
md the tree-roots, and
\ rocky fissures, as emblems
mmortal that springs from

those which seem to be

ones, as most expressive

sentiment, both in the Old

Testament as well as in

idary lore, are the rose,

olive, and the palm.

of these has been given a

significance, from the earliest times,
that has made them cherished with our
households and associated with our
faith. Although the rose was per-
verted by the heathen into a type of
sensual love and luxury, yet, through
the marvellous beauty and variety of
its creation, it was reclaimed by the
Christian poets, to be the attendant
of the pure and holy, wherever an
ornament was needed to paint a
moral victory, or glorify decay.

That this flower was largely culti-
vated by the Jews, and used in their
religious festivals as an ornament, is
made clear by the frequent use we
find of it, as a simile in the Bible.
Solomon, in hb song, compares the
church to the "rose of Sharon and
lily of the valley." Again, in the book
of Wisdom, we see their appreciation in
the admonition, " Let us crown our-
selves with rosebuds ere they be
withered." Also, in Ecclesiasticus, oc-
curs this metaphor, " I was exalted
like a palm-tree in Engaddi, and as
a rose-plant in Jericho." Again,
"Hearken to me, ye holy children,
and bud forth as roses growing by
the brook."

It was a belief among the Jews,
according to Zoroaster, says Howitt,
" that every flower is appropriated to
a particular angel, and that the hun-
dred-leaf rose is consecrated to an
archangel of the highest order." The
same author relates, that the Persian
fire-worshippers believe that Abraham

Religion tmblemttl-m Flowers

was thrown into a furnace by Nim-
rod, anil the flames forthwith turned
into a bed of roses.

In contradistinction to tliis in sen-
timent is the belief of the Turk, who
holds [hat this lovely flower springs
&om the perspiration of Mohammed,
and, in accordance with this creed,
they never tread upon It or sufl'er one
to lie upon the ground.

I think it was Solon who held the
theory Uiat the rose and the woman
werecrtated at the same time, and in
conse<juence thereof, there sprang up
a contest among the gods, as to which
should be awarded the palm of superi-
or beauty. Certainly there may yet
be traced a close resemblance be-
tween these native queens, not only
in the matter of beauty, but also in
the variety and fragility for which the
rose, above all others, is distinguished.
Everywhere has God planted this
exquisite work of his hand. In the
bleak polar regions, where the days of
sunshine are so short, and so few,
there is seen among the fiisl breath-
ings of the summer zephyrs the
" Rosa rapa" its slender stem covered
with pale double flowers, lifting its
head to greet those ice-bound prison-
ers as tliey issue from the stifling air
of their winter huts. Degraded as
are that people in their tastes, the
magic of these silent messengers from
God is so forcible, that they greet
them with a poet's joy, and dcch
iheir heads and rough sealskin cloth-
ing witli their tender blossoms. Even
to the broken-hearted Siberian exile,
there come a few short days in hb
life when tliese frail comfortere rise
from the frozen earth to greet him,
like messengers from his lost home
and friends. . . , It is not to be
wondered, then, with all the associa-
tions of Eden ever clinging about
these eloquent voices, that the early
Christians transferred their ornamen-
tal and suggestive beauties from the

satumalian rites of heathendom to
the honor of God and hts saintt.
Hence it is, that, in so many of the
beautiful legends that have come down
to us, we find these frail memorials w
often associated as types of some
noble deed accompUshcd, or the
given reward of some heai-y bunian
sacrifice. To those who look upon
these legends as myths, or uiii|ily
religious tairy talcs, we can only ay,

sincerely pity all such sceptics Cram
our heart ; for, where they uuutrip
the bounds of e*-cn miraculous prub*-
biiity, there may yet be found in
their pages both entertainment and in-
struction. And after all, i*liy should
not religion have her tairyLud, U
well as material life ? Why should tMX
the soul enjoy the [irivilcgc of v
occasional transport into a *o iM
of poetical \-isions, as well as J
imagination, which fiiulE i
fairy-dreanis of childhood
dim vista of annual blooms, u
which the breath of heaven can n
blow? Weary with the luimoilj
life, with the noise and whirl of |
shifting scenes that open con tinui
upon a vista of pain, and 9
unrealiied hopes, such legends t
to the soul auroral gleams of c
hood's purity, and transport hct iole
fields that are redolent with tbt
flowers of that eternal Und when
earthly woes can never come, in
this Dodona grove, the soul bolkMl
the heart; the im|M>siible becima
the real ; and as all the aspintionsisi
the higher life possess it, the dot*
seem to open, we catch a dutttf (if
ihe angels' robes, the perfume of ihe
flowers of paradise, and a gliniwt
even of the golden g.itca shoots mi-
antly across the uplifted, tcar-<IiBUiwd
eye; and we feel, for these few
moments at least, that God vA
heaven are very nigh, ay! ncn i&
our heart of hearts. What ■

Religion emblemed in Flowers,

S43

t be not all truth, since it
5 purpose, and for the time
ks the soul in regal splendor,
js the unattainable and dim
e longest toil and hardest
.t the short span of human
mipass ?

)se early ages, when the
dols were tottering on their
md the voice of Pan had
in a mighty wail at the
a feeble infant's cry — ^in
vning Christian days there
le need of mental food of a
I and elevating kind for the
Heretofore, they had been
pied by public games, peri-
umalian revels, gladiatorial
md other heathen abomina-
rder to allow the philosopher
his subtle theories in quiet,
heels of government to run
3n. As years and numbers,
increased the Christian
the first fervor began to
ler the influence of human
ind the need of life's varie-
ame evident that some food
sary to meet the hunger of
ng mind. The time and
of the philosophers and
is were too deeply engross-
le abstruse problems of the
esoteric and exoteric — to
r time beyond that of the
lediate requirements to the
Hence it was, that, as hu-
i was poured out like water,
IS to the true God, when
nd innocence, rank and
wealth and poverty, found
Q centre wherein to pray
r — hence it was, that the
3oetic heart of the people
and beatified these deeds
sanctity; and the church,
ing to repress extravagance,
med and fostered a taste
saw, in her mighty wisdom,
; productive of elevating

thought and emulative example.
"And it is a mistake," says Mrs.
Jameson, "to suppose that these
legends had their sole origin in the
brains of dreaming monks. The
wildest of them had some basis of
truth to rest on, and the forms which
they gradually assumed were but the
necessary results of the age which
produced them. They became the
intense expression of that inner life
which revolted against the desolation
and emptiness of the outward exis-
tence ; of those crushed and outraged
sympathies which cried aloud for rest,
and refuge, and solace, and could
nowhere find them." Mrs. Jameson
disclaims any idea of treating these
legends save in their poetic and artis-
tic aspect. But as religion is the root
from whence all have their source, so
it is insensibly transmuted throughout
the whole work. And how could she
do otherwise, Protestant though she
was ? For the great trunk, the massive
'column, around which all these deli-
cate fibres of poesy ding, is religion.
Withput such sup]3ort, they would
fall, and be trailed in the dust,
and long, long ere this, their epheme-
ral life would have been crushed out,
as were the oracular voices of the
marble gods.

This literature, then, " became one
in which peace was represented
as better than war, and sufferance
more dignified than resistance ; which
exhibited poverty and toil as honora-
ble, and charity as the first of virtues ;
which held up to imitation and emula-
tion self-sacrifice in the cause of good,
and contempt of death for conscience'
sake — a literature in which the ten-
derness, the chastity, the heroism of
woman, played a conspicuous part ;
which distinctly protested against
slavery, against violence, against im-
purity in word and deed; which re-
freshed the fevered and darkened
spirit with images of moral beauty

• 544

Religion embltpud in Fhwtrs,

and truth, revealed bright glimpses of
a better !and, where the wicked cease
from troubling, and brought down the
angels of (jO(I with shining wings, and
bearing crowns of gloiy, to do bailie
with the demons of darkness, to
catch the fleecing soul of [he triumph-
ant martyr, and carry il at once into
a paradise of eternal blessedness and

Under tlie influence, then, of these
new inspirations, art likewise revived,
and the brush and the chisel lent the
aid of their immortal touch to give
force and perpetuity to these crea-
tions ; and birds, and flowers, and the
dements were introduced as types or
allegories of the subjects thus inter-
preted. Each one possessed a signi-
ficance and symbolism that united
the soul to the eternal source of Uiese
gifts, and kept aHve in the common
heart those principles which the peo-
ple could admire if not emulate.
The rapidity with which anists mulli-
plied at this period belongs to the mar-
velous, (jod needed artisans for his
work, ami truly the old masters seem-
ed, judging from their deeds and spi-
rit, to have risen, like Adam, from the
clay moulding of the almighty hand.
Possessed by a sense of the lofty na-
ture of their calling, they not only
strove for perfection in detail, but
also for a religious spirit, which
should so inspire the work as to move
every heart to piety, and embody for
inslruction the full force of the sol-
emn truths Uierein portrayed. They
emerged from the impure influences
of the old religion and literature, like
the chrysalis, into the golden-hued
glory that shone in the lives of the
ancient patriarclis and prophets; in
the auroral beams that hung like sea-
foam over the angels as they walked
or talked as God's messengers on
earth, until, bathed in a glory borrow-

•Mn.

cd from the very smile of the Cm
lor, they saw the divine Son i"
like the morning star, and dwell u|mni
earth among men.

In all their work a confession i£
faith by embodied; and feelq
themselves called to this
hearing the voice and seeing in ij
enthusiasm of their ferv-oi
ing bush, they purified i
by prayer, and fasting, ami loj
meditation upon the subject
was lo grow into life under i
glowing tints of the brush or the n
gic stroke of the cliisel. This n
ticol spirit so elevated and ennob^
the soul-work of those grand 4
masters that faults in mechanical e
cution and anachronisms i
are, even to this day, overlooked,!
the sake of that evn amore ical wfa|
pervades the vital treatment of d
subjects. Fra Angelico, a Doe
can monk, de\-oled his art life exti
sively to the religious m^'stidnn J
Ills subjects. " Whenever he painl
Christ upon the cross," saya Jar
"the tears would roll dovrit I
cheeks as if he were an actual (
witness of his Savioiu-'s agony,
is a celestial glow in all his beat
faces that seem to radiate from \
own soul." Lippo Dalmasio, an «
ly painter of Bologna, was also doI
for his piety in art.

•■ He never painted the holy Virgin w
uut bsling the pieviuus erentng, and
ceiving absolulion and lb« titvai of \
gels in ihc morning iftct ; and. finalin M
er consented to paint for htic, but eMij ■

Add to these, Luini, of
Francia, of Bologna; GcntJk :
John Bellini, of Venice; Fra Ii»
meo, the Florentine monk, and fi
of Savonarola ; Perugino, and fc
Raphael — and we have the list i
those who led the vanguard in r

•Laid Llndoy'i Ck-itia* *

Religion emblemed in Flowers.

545

' of those heaven-toned
>ns that yet greet the eye
r beauty and animate the
I emotions of grateful hom-

rt has left us, and can never
:vivcd until artists believe and
1 those men of old ; until they
i feel as they did at all hours,
rejoicings or as they slept, holy
saints, and virgins, apostles and
martyrs, and the symbolized
ich they died. Virtues, and not
els, and not muses ; types of spi-
, and not expressions of sensuous
Ltstful passion-^-these were their
ctual food. Amid all things — in
}, or bedroom ; on the roadside
palace ; at every street corner,
ery threshold — were the figures
:mcr and his holy mother to di-
oughts still higher heavenward,
all events, in its external form,
Tr//, was confessed by all men
places. Youth were taught to
ritual powers for their earthly
id sole sustenance. Charity,
e subjection of the body to the
t of its perfect strength, human-
:or of the oppressed, the relief
tunate, devoir^ duty to all men
the doctrines of chivalry in the

om the palm and olive, we
icntion in the New Testa-
owers, save that exquisite
le lilies, made by our Sa-
self; and there can be
»ther instance wherein such
ion is rendered with more
athos and force. That he
I these frail emblems is
nade apparent in this, but
roved by his choice of the
>e and soothing influence
ent sympathizers on Geth-
light of woe. No human
ship, no human eye or
d aid him then, in that
test of humanity over di-
id nature's voiceless com-
i flowers that were bent
:he weight of their tears,

Art Hifist by Janres.

the great shifting sky above, with the
eloquent calm of its silver stan^
through which floated clear and lu-
minous the angel comforters. Our
Saviour proved in all the suflering
episodes of his life that lovely groves,
and dim funereal forests speak more
forcibly to a heart in pain than do
the wilder and grander convulsions
of nature.

*' It is in quiet and subdued passages of
unobtrusive majesty, the deep, the calm, and
the perpetual ; that which must be sought
ere it can be seen, and loved ere it is under-
stood ; things which the angels work out
for us daily, and yet vary eternally ; which
are never wanting, and never re|)eated ;
which are to be found always, yet each
found but once — it is through these that
her lesson of devotion is chiefly taught and
the blessing of beauty given '**

Nowhere have these beautiful ac-
cessories in life's pilgrimage been
more glowingly and successfully used,
not only as an abstract religious em-
blem, but as a divine allegorical
poem, than in the representations of
the life and attributes of the blessed
Virgin. To this type of all that was
pure and noble in woman; to the
humanity which was a link in the
chain of divinity, a partaker of all
human woes, and yet the chosen of
the Godhead — to her were specially
dedicated those early labors in reviv-
ed art, and of which she was the in-
spiration. Herein, as elsewhere, we
find the historical, mystical, and de-
votional treated with every conceiv-
able adjunct that can typify a being
so elevated and benign. The beauty
and variety of the rose, the purity
and fragrance of the lily, were devo-
ted to her special honor, wherever
her name was venerated and loved.
Even before it was safe for the early
Christians to make an open profes-
sion of faith, they expressed their de-
votion to the mother conjointly wjth
the Son, in the darkness and solitude

# Ruikin*! MhUth PaimUn.

S46

Reliffii?n emblemed in Flowers.

of the catacombs. Therein it was,

that the first Christian artist dared
^ve hfc to his heart's bchef; and
therein it was, that her image with
that of her divine Son and the apos-
tles were impressed upon the wails
and sarcophagi of that grand subter-
ranean temple.

As the Annunciation was the door
through which all future blessings
flowed, so it became a most fruitful
theme to the faith and imagination
of those great religious artists whose
work was a labor of love ; and we
find it treated from the fifth to the
sixteenth century by Byzantine, Ital-
ian, Spanish, and German art with a
variety, beauty, and significance that
only an enshrined saint could inspire.
In the earliest representations of this
subject, the angel appeared holding a
sceptre, but this mark of authority
giadualiy gave way to the more sym-
bolic lily. This was introduced uni-
versally, either held in the hand of
the angel as he salutes her, or seen
growing in a ]>ot placed in some part
of the room. Others again, repre-
sent an enclosed garden, upon which
the filcssed Virgin is looking fixim a
window. In all, from the crudest to
the most finished, some floral adjunct
gives beauty and significance to the
subject. The Assumption — that fit-
ting climacteric of a life whence
sprung the Eternal Word — was like-
wise a theme of devotional and sub-
ilimated art-worship, which gathered
pathos and beauty from the belief
that her body was worthy the care
■ of the seraphim and cherubim, who
transported it with angelic harmonies
linto the home of her glorified Son.
Here, too, we find, according to the
legend, her floral emblems springing
up in the tomb from whence her in-
- corruptible body had just been raised.

In an Annibale Carracci, die apos-
tles are seen below, one of whom is
Ming, with an astonished air, a hand-

:emte^
Ncstq^l

irgin, Mr

ful of roses out of llie sepulchre
another, by Rubens, one of the
men exhibits the miraculous fli
held up in the folds of her
Dominico di Barlolo, who painti
1430, (according to Mrs. Jamc
omits the open tomb, but clothes the
holy mother in a white robe
dered with golden flowers.

From the lime of the Ni
heresy, when the title of J)fi
was denied the Blessed Virgin,
votaries became even more lealoui to
corroborate her right to the title avl
privileges of motlier of llic
God; and under the
this test of devotion and
sprang those multitudinous
sentations of the woman glorifii
the enthroned Madonna,
thence the descent was natural
gradual to those charnctetistics
distinguished her life in its daily
istrations to her divine Son
touchingly natural, so bcai
their tenderness, are many of tfaca
more human portraitures, tkil the
coldest heart cannot witlihold is
homage, though it may its dcvoiioB.
Even Mrs. Jameson, hcrwlf .i IVj
lestant. says, "We look, .im! ibr
heart is in heaven ; and it is dilfji^ult
to refrain from an Ora J'lv oitHt'
In a large number of these inspin-
tions of fiiith and love, we meet iIk:
various floral emblems that typify h"
beauty and purity. Some of ihf
eariiest representations arc found i"
many of the old Gothic calhcJrjb.
executed in sculpture. She is thcrdn
portrayed in a standing position,
bearing the child on her left Utn,
while in the right hand slie Boldi >
flower, or sometimes a sceptre. I"
a holy family in the academy of Ven-
ice, by Bonifazio, "The virgin ii
seated in glory, witli her infant oq lifl
knee, and encircled by chcrubiin.
On one side an angel ap|in»cho
with a basket of flowers on his hc»4

Religion emilemed in Flowers.

$47

he is in the act of taking these
-s and scattering them on the
who stand below."
i Arcadian and pastoral life, with
many of the Italian artists en-
the mother and child, is cer-
both poetical and natural.
Jameson gives many instances
s treatment; among them, one
ilippino Lippi, which is a beauti-
a. " Here," she says, " the myS"
;arden is formed of a balustrade,
d which is seen a hedge, all in
with roses. The virgin kneels
! midst and adores her infant;
igel scatters rose leaves over
while the little St. John also
, and four angels, in attitudes of
on, complete the group," " But
re perfect example," continues
me author, " is the Madonna of
ia in the Munich gallery, where
vine infant lies on the flowery
nd the mother standing before
nd looking down on him, seems
; point of sinking on her knees
•ansport of tenderness and de-
With all the simplicity of
latment, it is strictly devotional,
lother and her child are placed
the mystical garden enclosed
treillage of roses, alone with
►ther, and apart from all earth-
^ciations, all earthly commun-

•se who are familiar with the
el series of Madonnas will re-
i this connection, his exquisite
il La yardinih-e. There is also
nilarly entitled by a French ar-
ough differently treated. The
is enthroned on clouds, and
the infant, whose feet rest on a
Both mother and child are
jd with roses; and on each side,
sing from the clouds, are vases
with roses and lilies. Titian
ISO left many beautiful and
exaggerated works of the Arca-
chool. There is an old Coptic

tradition which is very beautiful, and
bears somewhat on this subject of
natiure's aid in glorifying these two
lives. Near the site of the ancient
Heliopolis, there still stands a very
pretty garden, in which (runs the tra-
dition) the holy family rested in their
flight into Egypt. Feeling oppress-
ed with thirst, a spring of fresh water
gushed at their feet, and on being
pursued into their retreat by robbers^
a sycamore-tree opened, and hid
them from sight " The spring still
exists," says a recent traveller, ^' and the
tree yet stands, and bears such unmis-
takable marks of antiquity as to make
this tradition and faith of the present
generation of Coptics at least plausi-
ble." But these floral emblematical
tributes are as inexhaustible as are
the sentiments of love, homage, and
tender pity that fill the heart from
the contemplation of the Mater Dei
Genitrix down to the appealing an-
guish of the Dolorosa. '* Thus in highest
heaven, yet not out of sight of earth;
in beatitude past utterance; in blessed
fruition of all that faith creates and
love desires; amid angel hymns and
starry glories," we will leave enthron-
ed the ''blessed amongst women,"
and turn to other legends, wherein
the saints who followed her stand
crowned with flowers celestial, await-
ing a share of our praise and venera-
tion.

PART SECOND.

In Thuringia, one of the provinces
of (Jennany, the traveller is attracted
by a species of rose that is universal-
ly cultivated by the poorest peasant,
as well as the richest land-owner.
When the question as to its origin is
asked, the answer invariably is, " Oh !
that is the rose of the dear St Eliza-
beth, our former queen; and was
grown from one of the sprigs given
to her by the angels." One might as

548

Religion emblemed in Flowers.

well trj- to turn the faith of these sim-
ple people from their behef in the
sanctity of her life as from the truth
of the miraculous roses. According
to Montalembert and others, thus
runs the substance of the legend.
Elizabeth loved the poor, and was
specially devoted to relieving their
necessities, frequently caiT)'ing with
her own hands goods of various kinds,
to distribute among them. At one sea-
son, there was a great scarcity of
crops throughout the land, and cau-
tion and economy in the use of the
royal stores had been advised even
in the palace.

Elizabeth couUI not bear to know
of unrelieved suffering among her
people; so, by close economy in her
own wants, she managed to furnish
food for many others. On one occa-
sion, a very pressing case of necessi-
ty reached her; and not wishing to
encourage her servants in disobedi-
ence to the general command, she
started alone on her errand of mercy,
with some lighter articles of food
concealed in the folds of her dress.
Just as she reached the back steps of
the chateau, however.she met her hus-
band, with several gentlemen, retum-
tng from the chase. Astonished to
Bee his wife alone, and thus bunlened,
he asked her to show him what she
was carrying; but as she held her
dress in tenor to her breast, he gent-
ly disengaged her hands, and behold !
" It was filled with white and red
roses, the most beautiful he ever
«iw."

Wandering in thought over these
•cenes wherein the air is redolent
with their fragrance, the form of the
young and lovely Dorothea, with the
radiant boy-angel at her side, rises
in dtaphonous light before the vision.
We see her as she stands confronting
her heathen judge Fabricius, who
longs to possess her chamvs ; and to his
command, "Thou must serve our

gods or die," she mildly answers, '\
it so ; the sooner shall I stand ial
presence of Him I most de^r^
behold." Then the governor j
her, "Whom meanest thou?"
replied, "I mean the Son of (
Christ, mine espoused. His dwcl
is in paradise; by his side arc |
eternal, and in his garden grow j
lestial fruits, and roses that
fade." And resisting all temptatn
all entreaties, she went forth t
lure and to death. "And as 1
went," (continues the legend,) j
young man, a lawyer of the i
named Theophilus, who had
present when she was first I
before the governor, called 10 f
mockingly, ' Ha ! f-iir maiden, {
thou to join thy bridegroom ? 1
me, I pray thee, of the fruits I
flowers of that same garden of wH
thou hast spoken. I would
taste of them I' And Dorothea, Idj
ing on him, inclined her head wiq
gentle smile, and said, ' Thy r<
O Theophilus! is granted.' \i\
at he laughed aloud with his t
panions; but she went o
to death. When she came to j
place of execution, she knelt t
and prayed; and suddenly at I
side stood a bright and beautiful b'
with hair bright as sunbcans.
his hanih, he held a basket contq
ing three apples and three lresh-|{
ered fragrant roses. She said li
' Carry these to Theophilus; say q
Dorothea hath sent them, and t
go before him to the garden whc^
they came, and await him
^Vith those words, she bent her n^
and received the stroke of i
Meantime, the angel went to i
'rheojihilus, and found Mm
laughing in merry mood over j
idea of the promised gift, ITic \
gel placed before him the baskcLfl

celestial fruit and tlowcn, ! '

' Dorothea sends thee these,' and \t^

Religion emblemed in Flowers,

549

ished." Amazement filled the mind
of Theophilus, and the taste of the
firuit and fragrance of the roses
pervaded his soul with a new life, the
scales of darkness fell, and he pro-
claimed himself a servant of the same
Lord that had won the heart of the
gentle maiden. Carlo Dolci, Ru-
bens, and Van Eyck have given the
most poetical illustrations of this
subject. Many other artists have
also treated it, but more coldly.

With the name of St. Cecilia arise
visions of angels poised in mid- air,
enthralled by seraphic music, which,
through the power of its voluminous
sweetness, has pierced even the gates
of heaven. But the flowers of para-
dise, as well as its celestial harmonies,
are also associated with the name of
this beautiful virgin — ^flowers that
were sent to her bridal-chamber, as
a reward for her angelic purity and
the eloquence which had moved her
young heathen husband to respect
her vow of chastity. Returning
from the instructions of St. Urban,
to whom she had sent him, he heard
the most enchanting music, and on
reaching his wife's chamber he " be-
held an angel, who was standing near
her, and who held in his hands two
crowns of roses gathered in paradise,
immortal in their freshness and per-
fume, but invisible to the eyes of
unbelievers. With these he encircled
the brows of Cecilia and Valerian;
and he said to Valerian, "Because
thou hast followed the chaste counsel
of thy wife, and hast believed her
words, ask what thou wilt, it shall
be granted thee."

I stood, eariy one morning late in
the month of June, looking sadly
upon the dead, white, upturned face
of one who had seemed to walk,
while on earth, more with angels
dian with men. A mystery of sad-
ness had enveloped her life, but, like
the dood in the wilderness, it proved

a power that drew her in the foot-
prints of the " Man of sorrows."

As I meditated upon the calm
etherealized beauty that now absorbed
the old earthly pain, and wondered
what this secret of a heart-life could
have been, her mother entered with
tear-dimmed eyes, and placed upon
her brow of auburn hair, through which
glinted here and there a streak of
gray — " dawn of another life that
broke o'er her earthly horizon" — in
her hands, and over the white fleecy
robes, crowns and sprays of mingled
crimson and white roses, all glistening
with the morning dew.

"Red roses for the dead!" I ex-
claimed in surprise. " White alone
can surely typify such a life and
death as hers."

"So you think, my friend, be-
cause you with others saw only
the outward calm that marked her
way. But I — I who loved her so,
knew and saw the thorn-crown
that pressed her brow, and the hard
stones and barbs that strewed every
step of her way through life — I place
them then here, because she loved
them, and because they express, in
conjunction with their sister's white-
ness, the sorrow and purity of the
angelic life now closed to pain and
open only to joy.

** Well done of God, to halve the lot.

And give her all the sweetness;
To us, the empty ixxxn and cot :

To her, the heaven*s completenesB.
For her to ^adden in God's view ;

For us to hope and bear on.
Grow, Lily, in thy garden new

Beside the rose of Sharoo.**

I turned away sadly, marvelling
upon the mystery of this life now
closed so happily, and involuntarily
arose to my mmd the exquisite le-
gend of the sultan's daughter.

Eariy in the morning;
The sultan's daughter
Walked in her fiithfer's gardta,

F»«

ReHgimt embi fined in Flovfen.

CalluriDg lli« brighl totien.
All £ill at dew.
And u «hc galhervd ihem,
Sho woadend ibdh ud mora
Who nu ihe hui^ct dT the iluw

Clll to her froDi Ihe gudeb.
And, tookinc lonh from bef wiDdov
She nw a buuliful youlh
SundlifiC ttBOR% Ihe HflflMiR* ;
Aod t1t« went down lu him.
And opened Ihe door for hitn ;
And he aid lo her, - O noiden I
Tbou bul thfiucbl of be witK lovfl,

Ool cf niy Gklher't kin^dofti
U»e I coiDe hilher.

My giirdeii Ei in pintliiei

And Lhcn be iqok &did hU ^ger
A gnlden rinx.

And i^ed Ibt luHm*! dmchler
If ihe wDuld bcbifbnde-

HIl MHmdi b^n to blii«l.

And the Hid ig bun.
>OLov(l hnwnd ihy heart ih

And ih]' hawb wefiill liliamcs.'
' For Ibyoke,' aniwered he.

yoc Ibae 1 brln| Umh roea.

Followed iiim 10 bi. filhor^ girdefu"«

Throughout all the early church
legends, we find whatever is pure and
beauliful in sentiment and exalted in
art carefully cherished, and constant-
ly presented to the contemplation
f the votary in some glowing form
t could act as a counterpoise to
! corrupting influence of heathen
5 and pursuits.
yWhen the holy mother stood on
alvary, her heart steeped in agony
mutteraNe, not the least cause of
r anguish was to see the waste of
e precious drops of blood as they

'Cififnr Lrgt^ \j Longl^nDir.

hedcwed the hard insensible ground.
But behold! as she gaxes, and 1
tears fall, delicate bell-sha[ied <
son blossoms spring up, and i
the human dew ; and thus, throui
these frail beautifiers of suffering a
consolers of grief, the heart of I
mother was comforted, and the ■
is drawn to look upward, away fi
the agonizing ignominy of the <
to the beatified giory to which be-i
translated at the price of so miM

Thus also, in the hotiid detil
of the early martyrdoms, we i
siantly meet these compensatii
suggestive metaphors of the ]
won. The painful agony of the dotrt
ward crucifixion of St. Peter, the w
of bloixl from that congested bc4
springs into a fountain
guigting water, from which flowsbi
ing for all sutfering flesh that seek i|
miraculous aid. As St. Grata I
the decapitated head of her 1
St. Alexander to the lomb, to ! floi
ers spring up as the blood tJulb, a
are gathered by the moumerB to 6
his grave.

Among the little band that f
ed Mother Seton more than i
years ago, in her divine i
self-abnegation and Christian
was a delicate young woman whl
life had been spent in ease, amid ll
devoted love and admiration of'l
large family circle. Dreamy
poetical by nature, her talent, I
rare among American women, '
revered and looked up to by s
young brothers as something i
vcllous ; and no implement p
tiguing than the pen or necdk i
ever allowed to weary her <
fingers. One day as she sat i
her flowers and books, tonnnig4
new inspii^ition, suddenly the <
door of heaven seemed (o
before her. and she felt a voice t
ing, "He who would come i

ReligMH emblemed in Flowers,

SSI

must take up his cross and follow
me.'* And believing that her hea-
venly spouse had called, she closed
her books, and turned her face stead-
fastly away from her weeping friends,
and went cheerfully forth to privation
and labor. Faithful to her new
vows, religion yet did not forbid the
exercise of the talent God had given
her; only now her themes had be-
come more exalted, and the love and
perennial sublimity of heaven took
the place of the perishable and annual
blooms of time. The privations and
labors spent in the service of suffering
humanity soon reduced her delicate
frame to patient helplessness; but
the beauty and love of God in his
works and ways triumphed over all
her bodily infirmities, and her strength
was never too fiail to raise a sursum
corda in his praise. Whitsuntide of
1813 rose in the light of a glorious
May morning, and the sufferer lay
panting for breath, afler a night of
exhausting hemorrhage, and she
knew that the angel, with palm in
hand, stood by her side ready to con-
duct her to God. In blissful hope of the
fruition that now dawned upon all those
past sacrifices, labors, and sufferings,
she fell, to the music of those unseen,
undulating wings, into a sweet sleep.
Mother Seton, who had left the suf-
ferer's bed for a breath of the fresh
morning air, just then returned from
the garden, bearing in her hand the
first rose of the season, knowing how
refreshing and suggestive such a gift
would be to the weary sufferer. Re-
joiced to find her in repose, she
Igently laid the flower upon her
bosom, above the white, folded hands,
and quiedy left the room. The fitful
fever sleep was soon ended, and as
Mary opened her eyes, first the fra-
grance, then the beauty of thk hea-
venly symbol, caught her eye.
Wasted and dying though the earthly
icneinent was, the soid, the poef s

soul, yet glowed with vital power;
and raising from a little table at her
side a pencil and paper, she thereon
breathed her last pean of poetic ut-
terance in these lines :

**' The mornmg vm beautiful, mild, md sereM«
All nature had waked fix>m repose ;
Maternal affection came dlently in,
And placed on mj bosom a rose.

" Poor nature was weak, and had almost prevailed.
The weary eyelids were doeed :
But the soul rose in triumph, and joyfiilly hauled
The sweet queen of floweri--the rose.

'* Whiuuntide was the time, the season of lore :
Methought the blest spirit had ch<»e
To leave far awhile the nuld form of a dove.
And come in the blush of a rose.

** Come, Heftvenly Spirit, descend on each bieast,
And there let thy blessing repose.
As thou once didst on Mary, thy temple of rest ;
For Mary's our mystical roae.

'* Oh I may every rose that blooms forth evermore^
Enkindle the spirit of tboae
Who see it, or wear it, to bless and adore
The hand diat created the rooe.^

When Mother Seton returned, she
found the lines with the rose still lying
on her bosom ; and looking into the
sweet upturned face, she saw the sig-
net of death stamped upon the lumi-
nous eyes, and knew by her short,
heavy breathing that ere long she
would be singing her songs in the
rose-gardens of paradise.

Suggestive of peace and lowliness
as are these creations, yet even they
have been perverted by the passions
of man into insignia of blood and
shame. The thirty years' war of the
houses of York and Lancaster make
the white and red rose ever associated
with the sorrows and humiliations,
the heroic endurance, and true wo-
manly nobility of Margaret of Anjou.
We see her as she stands under her
rose-banner, on the heights of Tewks-
bury, with dauntless courage in her
heart, and a mother's wild prayer upon
her lips ; standing there, amid the wild
havoc, unflinchingly, until the wailing,
weird blast of the trumpeters telh her
that her beautiful white rose is broken .

t«Sa

Msii^n- imiimSmt

I
I

at the stem, and its leaves scaltered,
trampled, and bathed in the life-blood
of her only son.

Tracing, then, these exquisite
adumbrations throughout the spirit-
ual aspect of life, is it strange that
■we have learned to look upon tliese
frail children of the beautiful as one
of the connecting links with heaven ?
Of such every heart has its conserva-
tory ; every home its storehouse of
withered, scentless mementoes, that
recall, when the gales of the sanctu-
ary are unbarred, memories deep and
voicdess, and faces whose beauty has
paled, like them, in dust. Here is
theremnant of a cross of white iinmor-
tflUs. It was taken from the breast
of a loved one who died far away
in a foreign land, among strangers.
It was sent with the last spoken
words to comfort and uplift the heart
of the mourners; and as we lift it from
the sacred casket, the echo of those
words seems to take form in the rus-
tle of its blighted leaves, and the old,
subdued sorrow breaks out afresh be-
fore the multitudinous memories and
images evoked by a withered flower.

Here lie together a sprig of orange
blossom and a white rosebud, double
memorial of a happy bridal and an
early grave. Ere the perfume of the
grange blossom had faded from her
brow, the while rose lay on her pulse-
less heart. Ere the echo of the wed-
ding mirch had died on the air, it
■was merged into a requiem dirge of

Ah this spray of brown leaves!
what memories lie folded in its veins!
iK picture of a tone, far away grave
ffses, and by its side kneel a wife and
.daughter, come from a great distance
40 i>ay some tribute to a beloved
«ne's last resting-spot in a land of
tstrangere. Desolate looked the bare,
uncultivated mound \ but at the head
»eome tender stranger's hand had
,^dac<d % plain .wooden cross to mark

die spot for the absent ones, i
planted a wild rose which twincdi<|
arms over and around the i
graceful beauty, as if to offer a \
substitute for the visits of luvfj
friends. How warmly the prayer
the widow went forth for that 1
known one who had thus filled .|
place and though tfulness of the \

A prisoner walks rapidly up i
down the parapet of the Capitcd p '
in Washington, ^e wild throbt
of his heart keeping time to tlie u
tramp of his rcstle^ feet, wtuch 1
for space, for liberty, and the i
of the brother voices that send I
wild echo from the other side of l|
Potomac. Suddenly the lau^htct
a child's voice sounds above 1
and, as he in surprise raises his e^
lo I a cherub head looks from a «
dow down upon him, and the 1
hands drop at his feet a halt-bt
rose.

" ^Var's wild alarum call "
dies out, and the soldier's
glory gives place to the man'* <
love. The wide blue Eca no li
rolls between him and home, I
over and aliove the din of
floats the voice of mother and s
in loving prayer for tlie diluent |
wlio, impelled by a noble peopke'H
ibr aid, hastened to the rescue, |
found instead of the i/ai of battlel|
cold, dark walls of a prison ]
Lo ! the iKJwer and pathos of a li
child and a fragile dower within 4
walls of a dungeon.

A father kneels in grief unutten
by the soulless body of a little dan
tcr. In the agony of his reb<"'
grief, be prays to God to send t
one ray of comfort, one gleantld
hght, to see and know that the ti
tion is at least well for her. As h
raises his head, his eyes (oil upon the
family Bible, and with Ihc prafer slill
in his heart he opeos its lexvo, aai

Religion tmblsmid in Fkwers.

553

his finger, as if guided by an angel,
falls upon these lines, ^' And he took
the damsel by her hand, and said
unto her, I say unto thee, arise/'
With the sacred verse, there came
shining down into his heart a clear,
sweet perception of the fact that at
that very moment our Lord Jesus
Christ, who alone is the resurrection
and the life, was raising up out of her
cold and lifeless form that beautiful,
spiritual body in which little Lucy
will exist as an angel for ever. He
plucked some white and green leaves
fircxn the flowers which lay in the dead
child's hands, and placed them on
that verse of the sacred volume.

'* Years have passed away» and they are
there still, pale and withered, sacred little
mementoes of the consolation which came
like a voice from heaven in his hour of
need. When he is haunted by sorrowful
memories, and £Uls into states of desolation
and despair, he opens that holy book, and
kisses those feded leaves, and his spirit is
sometimes elevated into that mount which
the three disciples ascended with their
Lord, and there, by the permission of the
same Redeemer who makes every child an
image of himself, he sees the body of his
little daughter transfigured in glory !" *

In a white alabaster box, yellowed
by the mould of years, are lying, side
by side, a crisp, golden curi, a sprig
of lily of the valley, and a tuberose.
Through the mist of tears that fill the
eye rise the angelic features of a little

• Omr CkOdrm m Htavtih by W. H. Holcombe^
M.D.

girl, the first-bom of her mother. The
joyous laughter, the music of the little
feet, the endless activity of the waxen
fingers, ere they closed lifelessly over
those tender lily sprays, all take form
and life in presence of these mute
memorials. Other children God sent
to console the mother for the loss of
this little one, and long, long years
have ripened them into men and wo-
men, and sent them forth to fill the
various missions of life that separate
them fi-om mother and home. Biit
to the long and early lost, the mater-
nal heart now yearningly turns, as
still, above all others, the child of her
love. No stronger earthly ties stand
between them even now; the mother
holds her place supreme here^ and
feels that for her, above all others on
earth, those litde hands are folded in
prayer, and that sweet-toned voice
raised in songs of supplication.

" Yet still, in all the tinging,
Thinks haply of her song,
Which in that life's first spriqging
Sang to her all night long.'*

Comforted by such memories, she
kisses the mute and withered memen-
toes, and, as she folds them again
reverendy, lovingly away in their cas-
ket, she prays that

" When her dying couch ahont
The natural mists shall gather.

Some smiling aogd dose shall stand
In old Corr«ggio*s fiuhion.

And bear a liiy in his hand
For death's amrandatioii.*'

Cathelkity and Pantkmsm,

CATHOLICITY AND PANTHEISM.

NDUBER SEVEK.

THE FINrrs. — CONTtNUKD.

We pass to the next question :
■What is the end of the exterior action
of God?

God is infinite intelligence. An
agent who acta by understanding
must always act for a reason, which
is as the lever of the intelligence. This
reason is called the end of the action.
Therefore, the external act, being the
*ct of an infinite intelligence, must
"3iave an end, an object, a reason. So
fer everything is evideni ; but a very
difficult question here arises: What
«an t!ie end of the exterior action
!« ? In the first place, it cannot be
-an end necessarily to be attained ;
for llie necessity of the end would
imply also the necessity of the means,
luid the external act in that supposi-
tion would become necessary. But
suppose the end not necessary. God,
in tlial case, would be free to accept
it ; and in that supposition he would
either act without a reason, or have
Another reason or object for accepting
JUi end not necessary to be attained ;
which second reason would, in its
turn, be either necessary or not n
aary. If the former, the same ii
venience would exist which we have
pointed out before ; if the latter, it
would require a third reason to a
count for the second; and soon adi
finitum. The answer to this difficul-
ty consists in the following doctrine.
TTje reason by which an agent acts
may be twofold: one, efficient or
determining ; the other, qualifying the
action without determining it. On-
tologically speaking, every intelligent
Agent must act for a reason, but not

always be determined to act by tfcf
reason. This is eminently true wh«i
the agent or efficirot cause is the
frist and universal agent. In thit
case there would be a contradiction,
if the firet and unii'ersal agent weit
to act by a reason determining him
to the act. For then the pr«dicatt
would destroy the subject; that is,
if the first and universal agent woe
to act by a determining reason, he
would no longer be firet, but second
agent; no longer universal, but par-
ticular, liecause in that case the
final cause would move him, and
thus he would neither be the fint
nor the cause of everything. 'ITiiS
theory resolves the question of the
end of the external act, Thew e»-
ists neither an rntrinsic reason on
the part of the agent to detenaiDc
him to act outside himself, nor U
exterior reason on the part of tbt
term to impel him to act, a£ «
already demonstrated. Coiu
ly, there can be
son for the external act, and t
must determine ilselC The <
or determining reason of the e
act is the choice of the act «
absolute master of itself; ;
its liberty : and here apptie
strict truth that saving. '
tatione voluntas." And nee
so, since the lii^t agent (
mines himself without ;
reason, or he is dctcttuincd 1
reason; and in that i
longer first, but second.
God acts outside '
any reason ? Wiifaott 1

CatkoHeity and Pantheism.

555

etermining reason, indq)endent
own act, it is granted ; without
icient reason to make the act
il, it is denied. If there be a
which qualifies the act, it is
;nt and rational. Now, for in-
, to create finite substances is
?ate substantial good; hence
:t of creating them must be
and therefore rational. And
every finite being, or its perfec-
s good, inasmuch as it resem-
be infinite goodness and per-
i of God, it follows that, as St.
as saj-s, the goodness of God is
d of the external act. Divina
r est finis omnium rerum.
determination of the end of
tenor act, which is the good-
f God, as we have explained it,
rise to another question, which
ccupied the highest intellects
\ philosophers and theologians,
■ which we must speak, to pave
ly to lay down the whole plan
exterior action of God, as pro-
d by the Catholic Church,
te beings are capable of in-
e perfection. An assemblage
:e beings would form a cosmos,
verse ; and as they are capable
definite perfections, we may
>e an indefinite number of
one more perfect than the
all arrayed in beautiful order
intelligence of the Creator, in
the intelligibility of all possi-
ings resides. The question
here, suppose God has deter-
to act outside himself, which
whole series of the ideal worlds
g in his intelligence shall he
t? Can he choose any of
' Is he boimd to choose the

reader will remark that this
)n is different from that of the
' creation. The one establishes
}od cannot be forced by any

to act outside himself, else he

would not be the first and imiversal
cause. The other question that is
proposed now, supposes that God
has determined freely and independ-
ently of any reason to act outside
himself, and asks whether God can
choose any of the possible ideal
worids residing in his intellect, or is
he forced to choose the best in the
series?

Some philosophers, among whom
are Leibnitz and Malebranche, contend
that God is absolutely free to create
or not to create; but once he has
determined to create; he is bound
to choose the best possible cosmos
in the series. We shall let them
expound their system in their own
words.

" God," says Leibnitz, " is the su-
preme reason of things, because
those which are limited, like every-
thing which comes under our vision
and experience, are contingent and
have nothing in them which may
render their existence necessary; it
being manifest that time, space, and
matter, united and uniform in diem-
selves, and indifferent to everything,
may receive every other movement
and figure and be in another order.
We must, therefore, seek for a reason
for the existence of the world, which
is the whole assemblage of contin-
gent beings, and seek it in that sub-
stance which carries within itself the
reason of its own existence, and
which is consequently necessary and
eternal.

" It is necessary also that this cause
should be intelligent, becauie the
world which exists now, being con-
tingent, and an infinity of other
worlds being equally possible, and
equally claiming existence, so to
speak, it is necessary that the cause
of this worid should have looked in-
to all such possible worlds to deter-
mine upon one. This look or rda-
tion of an existing substance to sim-

CatAo/ici/y and Pantiuism.

pie possibilities can only be ibe in-
telligence which possesses their ideas ;
anci to determine upon one, can only
be the act of a will which chooses.
'I'he power of such substance renders
its will efficacious. Power has rela-
tion to being; intelligence, to truth;
the will, to good. This cause, more-
over, must be infinite in every possi-
ble manner, and absolutely perfect
in power, in wisdom, in goodness; be-
cause it reaches all possibility. And
as all this goes together, we can
only admit one such substance. Its
intelligence is the source of metaphy-
Bical essences ; its will, the origin of
existences. Behold, in a few words,
the proof of one God with all his
perfections, and of the origin of things
by him !

" Now, this supreme wisdom, allied
to a goodness no less infinite, could
not fail to choose the best. For as a
lesser evil is a kind of good, so a less-
er good is a kind of evil; and there
would be something to correct in the
action of God, if there were a means
to do belter. And as in mathematics
when there is neither a
a minimum — in fact, n
all — all is done equally,
is impossible, nothing is done,* so we
may say the same in respect to per-
fect wisdom, which is no less regula-
ted than mathematics, that if there
had not been a best one among all
possible worlds God would not have
created any. I call world the whole
series and collection of all existing
things, that none may say that several
worlds might exist in different times
and places. Forinthatcasctheywould
be counted together as one world,

a difference at
or, when this

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mtnacd eqully to

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in J diieoion. bm reouint »i

—En.

or, if you prefer, univosc
though one might fill xU time i
space, it would always be true Ctal
they could be filled in an infinity of
manners, and that there is an infiniljr
of worlds possible; among which it
is necessary that God should hAvcE^
lected the best, bcc-tuse he does
nothing without acting according to
supreme reason." " Malcbranchc, in
his ninth metaphysical conversatioo,
after having laid down the piinciple
that the end of creation is the gloiy
of God, concludes that Goil mua
choose the best i>ossible counM,
because thereby he would gaiD great-
er glory than if he chose any of [be
series, "That which God walirt
solely, directly, and absolutely ia his
designs, is to act in the roost divine
manner possible ; it is to impress up-
on his conduct, as well as upon im
work, the character of his attribt
it is to act exactly according to «
and to all he is. God has i
from all eternity all possible i
and all possible ways of prodoc
them; and as he does not act b
his own glory and according to i
he is, he has determined ti
work which could be effected I
maintained by ways which must b
or him more than any oih^ 1
produced in a different manner."

The principles of this theory I
two. One is to admit a neccssitf 4
the part of God to choose the hm
possible world in the series ; the oth-
er is to suppose from reaton that
there is a best possible cosnuM^ ■
Leibnitz does; in other a
to limit the question only to lh«
tive moment, and not t
external action of God. Nnw, 1
think that both propositions are fi
As regards the first, why should (
choose the best? For tliree n*'
sons, according to the Gciman |di-
losopher. The first is as foilows : A
• Ltlbnin. Thnd. t. ■., p« %.

nw, ^^H

Id G^l

It*'

3 |Ai-

s: A

Catholicity and Pantheism.

SS7

^ood is a kind of evil, if it be
d to a greater good But if
hose any worid of the series
erence to the best, he would
a lesser good to a greater;
he would prefer a kind of evil
1, and the world chosen would
nd of evil. The major of the
m might be granted, though
fectly correct, if a lesser good
ipposed to a greater which
ecessarily be effected, but not
se. Suppose, among a num-
actions, one more perfect than
er, of which I am not bound
Drm any, I choose to perform
the series, rejecting all others ;
>uld the action which I choose
Drm be a kind of evil ? If I
und to perform the best, and
d one which is less so, in a
sense we might grant that the
select is a kind of evil. But
[ am not bound to perform
e one I choose, though not
st perfect, cannot change its
Df good because I might, if I
d, perform a more perfect one.
jument, therefore, of Leibnitz,
s what is to be proved, that
as bound to effect the best
cosmos; for only in that
night be said that he prefer-
:ertain kind of evil to good,
cond reason is not more
an the first: If God did not
the best, we might find some-
correct in his action, because
3uld be a means to do better,
jht find something to correct
ction of God, if, in the world
se in preference to the best,
as something wanting in the
s and properties required by
ire. But if the world that
X)ses is endowed with all its

I attributes and proper ele-
«rtainly there would be noth-

II to correct in it. When that
alian artist drew a fly upon

the pictiure of his master, so true to
nature that the master on coming
home went right up to the canvas to
chase it away, if any one holding the
opinion of Leibnitz had told him,
"There is something to correct in
your fly, because you could have
painted a madonna or a saint," the
painter would certainly have been
astonished, and his answer would
have been, " I might do a greater and
l)etter work ; but you cannot discover
any defect in my fly, because you
cannot deny that, though a fly, it is a
masterpiece of art." The same rea-
son holds good with regard to the sub-
ject in question. God might cer-
tainly do better; but if he prefers not
to create the best possible cosmos,
and selects any of the series, if the
one selected is endowed with all the
elements its nature requires, it is per-
fect in its own order; and no one
could discover any- flaw or defect in
it, but every one would be obliged to
call it a masterpiece. The last rea-
son of Leibnitz has much less foun-
dation, and savors very strongly of
pantheism : If there haid not been a
best possible world in the series of all
the possible ones, God would not
have created any. This means neith-
er more nor less than that the world,
or the aggregate of all contingent
beings, unless it had a kind of abso-
lute perfection, would be impossible.
It is tantamount to denying the very
possibility of creation. Because a
best possible world cannot be had;
for the nature of all contingent be-
ings is like number, which progresses
indefinitely, without ever reaching to
a number beyond which you cannot
go. Consequently, the nature of
contingent things, though capable
of indefinite progress, is altogether
incapable, ontologically speaking, of
absolute perfection; a perfection
which would be required to efiect a
world truly the best. If, therefore,

5S8

Catholicity and Pantheism.

such ultimate perfection is required
in order that God may create, it is
evident that creation is impossible,
and that optimism runs into panthe-
ism. Ilie argument drawn from the
sufficient reason also fails. If God
were to choose a cosmos less perfect
in preference to one more perfect, he
would have no sufficient reason for
ihe preference. This argument fails,
first, because a cosmos, the very best
and most perfect, cannot be had, as
we have hinted just now. Therefore,
there is no necessity for any suflicient
reason for choice. Suppose a series
of worlds, one more perfect than
the other, arrayed in the mind of
God according to numerical order.
If God were to choose the tenth in
the seiies, there would be no suffi-
cient reason for his preferring it to the
eleventh; and if he were to select
this last, there would be no sufficient
reason for his preferring it to the
twelfth, and so on indefinitely; and
as we cannot reach' to a cosmos
which would be the last and the
highest in perfection, so there never
could be a sufficient reason for the
preference of any. Consequently,
there being no sufficient reason for
preferring any cosmos of the series,
God is free to choose any.

In the second jilace, even if there
could lie a best possible cosmos, the
reason alleged by Leibnitz would not,
on that account, oblige Ciod to
choose it. For a reason may be ob-
jectively or subjectively sufficient; that
is, its sufficiency may emerge from
the object to be created, or from the
agent. Now, granting the principle
of the German jihilosopher, God
might have a subjective reason to
make him act according to the re-
quirements of wisdom, even in pre-
ferring any cosmos of the series and
rejecting the best. This subjective
Tvason might be to sliow and to put
beyond any possibility of doubt his

absolute freedom and inde|>ciiilcnc!:
in the creative act. No optimist can
deny that this may have been a suffi-
cient reason for the creative act
Consequently, even granting the pofr
sibility of a best possible world, Cai
was not bound to create it.

The reason of Malebranchc is noi
more conclusive than those wc have
just refuted. God must prefer the
best possible cosmos, because thti
alone would manifest his glory in ihf
best possible manner. The argu-
ment would be conclusive if it wen;
proven that God does wish to, ut
must manifest his glory in the best pos-
sible manner. But this Ihe Fn^vJi
philosopher docs not And caoiKit
prove. Because the best posnble
manner for God to mamfcst hb infi-
nite excellence is, to cause an infinite
effect. Now, this is a contradiction
in terms.

The second position of the opti-
mists CO which we object is, to bssuok
the possibility of a best possible coc
mos, as LeibnitE dues, Irani realm.
Now. we contend tkit reason alooc,
unaided by revelation, proves dedd-
edly the contrary; it proves lliat, on-
tologically speaking, a best possible
cosmos cannot exist, and that if then
be a way by which to raise the cos-
mos to a certain ultimate pcricctioc,
or perfection beyond which V '^'^
not be supposed to go, this is ilii>
gether outside and beyonil the p>^
vince of reason atone, and tnusi be
determined by revelation. We hiTt
already alluded to tliis in the CKUni'
nation of the third argument of Leib-
nitz. The best possible cocBOia im-
plies a certain ultimate axvX absoloic
[lerfection. Now, ontolo^cally speak-
ing, this is impossible in finite bctnffL
For the question here is between two
extremes, the finite and the infinite.
Between the two lies the indcfiiute.
The first extreme, or the finite, nwj
be supposed to ascend the Uddaof

Catholicity and Pantlteism.

559

tion, or quantity of being, inde-
jr, without ever reaching the
e; because its nature is essen-
immutable, as every other es-
Hence, suppose it as great
rfection as you can, it will be
s finite, and consequently you
always suppose a greater still,
e, admitting a series of number-
worlds one ontologically more
t than the other, and you can

arrive at one of which you
ay this is the best, because you
Iways suppose a better still.
Thomas with his eagle glance
enturies before, the birth of op-
1, and refuted it triumphantly,

following argument, similar to
rhich we have just given. Ask-
le question, whether the divine
ct is limited to certain determi-
•ifects, he denies it thus : " We
proved," he says, "the infinity
e divine essence. Now, how-
you may multiply the number
ite beings, they can never ap-
nate the infinite, the latter
sing any number of finite be-
even if it be supposed infinite,
le other hand, it is clear that,
rs God, no being is infinite,
se every being comes under
category of genus or species,
fore, no matter of what quality
vine effects are supposed to be,
at quantity of perfections they
:ontain, it is in the nature of
ivine essence infinitely to excel
and hence the possibility of an
lite number of them. Conse-
ly, the divine intellect cannot
lited to this oi that effect."
s argument might be abridged
The nature of the infinite and
I finite being immutable, the
e must always surpass, infinite-
e finite. Hence there can be
^ite term assigned to the per-
1 of the finite, and consequently
cannot be a cosmos ultimate

and absolute in perfection. Our
reason, therefore, does not support
the optimists in supposing a most
perfect cosmofj on the contrary, it
shows that, as to essence and nature,
there cannot be a cosmos the per-
fection of which can be supposed to
be ultimate, and in a certain manner
absolute; in other words, limiting
the question to the creative moment
which effects ontological perfection
only, a best possible cosmos cannot
be had. Moreover, if there be a way
by which to raise the cosmos to a
certain ultimate and absolute perfec-
tion, reason can tell us also that it
must be altogether supernatural, and
to it superintelligible. In other words,
this way must be a moment or mo-
ments of the action of God, distinct
from the creative moment, and caus-
ing effects above and beyond the
nature and essential attributes of
every possible cosmos, ontologically
considered.

For if this way of raising the cos-
mos to an ultimate perfection were
the same moment of the action of God
which creates essences and proper
attributes, it could not correspond to
the effect desired — that of raising the
cosmos to a certain absolute perfec-
tion. Because, when we speak of
a creative moment effecting essences
and attributes, we consider the cos-
mos ontologically ; and ontologically
the cosmos cannot have an absolute
and ultimate perfection. The creative
moment creates substances and essen-
tial attributes; hence if the moment
of raising the cosmos to an ultimate
perfection were identified with the
creative moment, it would always
effect substances and essential attri-
butes — that is, a cosmos indefinitely
progressive — and could not give us a
cosmos absolute in perfection. There-
fore the moment or moments of the
action of God raising the cosmos to
a certain absolute perfection must be

560

Catholicity and Pantheism.

distinct from the creative raoment,
and must produce effects above and
beyond every possibly cosmos, onto-
logically considered.

Now, that which implies a moment
of the action of God, distinct from
the creative moment and causing
effects above and beyond every pos-
sible cosmos, is called supernatural,
because beyond and above nature or
essence. Therefore, the way of rais-
ing the cosmos to a certain absolute
perfection must be supematiu-al in
its cause and in its eflects.

If supernatural in its cause and in
its effects, it is evident that this way is
superintelligible to reason. Because
reason, being an effect of the creative
moment, cannot understand that
which is above and beyond it in its
cause and in its effects.

Hence, reason cannot determine
whether there is such a way, or what
this way is ; and must necessarily
leave these two questions to be de-
termined by revelation.

Anotherproblem, closely connected
with the one which we have just dis-
cussed, presents itself here. It is as
follows : In the supposition that God
could find a way by which to raise the
cosmos to a certain ultimate perfec-
tion, it is asked whether the divine
goodness, which is the end of the ex-

Iterior action of God, contains in itself
a principle of fitness and agreeable-
ness to incline it to effect this best
possible cosmos. This question, as
the reader Is aware, is altogether dif-
ferent from optimism. This opinion
contends that God must create the
best possible cosmos. The question
we propose now asks whether divine
goodness, which is the end of the ex-
ternal action of God. may be inclined
to eflirct it in force of reason of fitness
End agreeableness between divine
goodness and the best possible pro-
duction of it, a reason of fitness which
implies no manner of obligation or
necessity whatever.

We answer it affinnatively ; i
ing the support of all Catbobc
tion, and the proof of it is to be foi
in the very force of the ter
is infinite goodness; in acting o
himself, he effects finite gooc
Now, finite goodni
goodness are agreeable to each o
therefore, if there be a way of k
finite goodness to a certain abaol
gooilncss, it will be most i
to infinite goodness.*

Before we enter upon the explflf
tion of the whole plan of the e
works of God, it is necessary to |
tice another point altogether
the reach and proviace of i
this is, to as^gn some general li
which must govern the exterior a
of God,

Reason, as we have seen, ■
of itself tell whether there may b
way of exalting the cosmos to a «i
tain ultimate perfection, and
rendering it the best pos»ibIco
again, reason cannot tell wh«ri
God has or has not cliosen to d
it. But, admitting (he suppoi
that there is such a way, and 4
(iod has preferred it. reason caaa
sign some laws, wiiich it conoc"
must necessarily govern hb cxta
action, if he chooses to effect the bat
possible cosmos. Nor is this goiof
beyond the sphere or province o(
reason, or infringing upon the r
of revelation. Because, although i
premises are supcrintclligiblcr a
be declared by revelation, yet 1
premises once given, reason m*y
lawfully and safely deduce some con-
sequences, evtdendy flowing
tliose premises. In this case, I
premises would be s
the consequences springing from ll
altogether intelligible.

Reason, therdTorc, affinns tluu if
God chooses to make the best posii-
lile cosmos, the effectuation of such
cosmos must be govoned by tht

• S, Til. S. T. p. J. »!.

ncc 01

aadil^H

ret «^B

ccaa-

Catliolicity and Pantheism,

56r

)f variety y of unity ^ of hierarchy ^
ttinuityy oi communion y of secon-
igency. The first imports that,
1 intends to effect the best possi-
mifestations of himself, to which
2st possible cosmos would cor-
id, he must effect a variety of
ints, a variety of species, of in-
lals under each species, except

the nature and the object of
noment admits no variety or
)licity. St. ITiomas proves the
iity of such a law by the foUow-
rgument : " Every agent," he
* intends to stamp his own like-
n the effect he produces, as far

nature of the effect will permit,
le more perfect the agent, the
;er is the likeness he impresses
his effect."

i is a most perfect agent; it was
therefore that he should impress
TXi likene.fs on his exterior works
rfectly as their nature would

Now, a perfect likeness of God
t be expressed by one moment
cies of effects; because it is a
pie of oniology that, when the
is necessarily inferior in nature
J cause, as in the present case
: cosmos with regard to God,
jrfections, which in the cause
lited and, as it were, gathered
ler into one intense perfection,
t be expressed in one effect,
k for a variety and multiplicity
cts. The truth of this principle
e seen in the following example,
is the reason that we must fre-
y make use of a variety of

to express one idea? The

lies in the objective and on-
:al difference of the nature of
ro terms. The idea is simple,
al, intelligible; words are a
al sound. The one in its nature
iuperior to the other; the idea
essed of more being, more per-

than words. Hence the one
; be expressed and rendered

OL. IX. — 36

by the other, except through a variety
and multiplicity of terms. Conse-
quently this example illustrates the
principle that, when an effect is in-
ferior in nature to its cause, whatever
perfections are found in the cause,
as united and simplified in one per-
fection, cannot be rendered or ex-
pressed except by a multiplicity and va-
riety of effects. What we have said of
language may be affirmed of every fine
art, as painting, scylpture, music, etc.
The type which creates them is al-
ways one and simple; it cannot be
expressed except in a variety and
multiplicity of forms.

The best manifestations, therefore,
of God's transcendental excellence
cannot be rendered and mirrored
except through a variety of moments,
of species, and of individuals.

The law of variety asks for the law
of hierarchy. For variety cannot exist
except by supposing a greater or less
amount of perfection in the terms
composing the series, one being vary-
ing from the other by possessing a
greater amount of ontological per-
fections. Now, by admitting a great-
er or less amount of being, we admit
a superiority on the part of that which
is endowed with more ontological
perfection, and an inferiority on the
part of that which is endowed with
less ; and each being composing the
cosmos, keeping its own place accord-
ing to the general order, and in rela-
tion to other beings, it follows that
this superiority on the part of one,
and inferiority on the part of the
other, founded on the intrinsic worth
of their respective essences, establish-
es and explains the law of hierarchy.

The third law is that of unity,
which irnplies that the variety of the
different moments composing the cos-
mos must be brought together so as
to form a perfect whole. For, first,
if the variety of moments, of species
and individuals, is requisite in order

CatlwHcity ami Pantheism.

to express the intensity of the ontolo-
gical perfection and excellence of the
type of the univeree, which is the infi-
nite grandeur of God, unity, also, is
rc<)uired, in order to express the sim-
pUdly and entirety of the type. In
the second place, wJiat would be the
cosmos without unity but a number-
less and confused assemblage of be-
ings ? Hence, whatever may be the
variety of the moments and sjiecies
of the cosmos, they must necessarily
he brought together as parts and
compontaits of one harmonic whole.
The nature of this unity will be ga-
thered from the explanation of the
other laws. And first, it begins to be
sketched out by the law of continuity.
This implies that there shotild he a
certain proportion between each mo-
ment of the cosmos, between one
species and another, and between the
degrees and gradations within the
-species, all as far as the nature of die
terms will permit. Hence, tlie law
embraces two parts :

ist The necessity of the greatest
number of moments and of species,
as much as possible alike to each
other, without ever being confounded.
3d. The greatest piossible numlier
of gradations within die same species,
in proportion as individuals partake
more or less fully of the species.

To give an instance : the lirsi part
Qf this law explains why substantial
creation is composed of, ist, atoms
'%hich do not give any signs of sensi-
tive life; 2d, of brute animals; 3d, of
'Intelligent animals; 4th, of pure spi-
rits. The second part of this law ex-
plains why each of the four species
just mentioned is developed in grada-
'tions almost infinite — minerals com-
fwseil and recomposed in all possible
■ays, manifesting forms, properties,
Knd acts altogether diferent, an<l
) constantly as to defy any
lange from the force of nature so
\T known to man \ hence, in force of

that immutable t>'pe, they i
by naturalists as so many scientific
species, and the 5l\y-nij]e or sixty ele-
ments which chemistry so far enui
rates ; animals also, extending so a
dually that the ladder of fixed n
taken by natural philosophers »
many species, begins where the §
of life are almost insensible and a
ous, and ends with man ; nor U %
wanting, as far as it may be \
any of the intermediate steps.

The pure spirits, as v
revelation, are divided inlochoiisfl
legions innumerable, whose sacce^
gradations in quality and i
us unknown but certain, ai
mable ; and it is most probable J
the ladder of pure spirits ts 1 '
beyond measure, than that wbi
observe in tlie sensible univcise,!
that one spirit is far more superiorj
distant from another spirit than V
star from another.

The necessity of iliis law s
from that of unity. For, if tlie tj^pe
of the cosmos be one, eadi inomcni
and species representing, as it were,
a side of that type, there must be i=
much atifinity and proportion bclirccn
each moment and each species v ^
pave the way for the law of tt
represent and mirror the entirctjr ll
oneness of the type. We say at n
oihnity as it is pos^ble t
because between each m
each species there is nece
chasm which no continuity
can fill up. For instancy I
pure animality and pure i
there is necessarily a chasm,
placed between the tW9, draws th
together as much as |*assible ; yd A
necessary distance markins the f
distinct natures cannot by any pi
tion be eUminatcd, else llic nsiafl
would be confounded and dc«rojHl

But variety, brought logelha \
the law of continuity) cannot v>
ciendy exhibit unity. RcBCC I

Catholicity and Pantheism.

563

necessity of a fourth law, that of com-
munian.

This law implies, ist, that the terms
of the cosmos should be so united toge-
ther as to act one upon the other, and
serve each other for sustenance and
development; 2d, that, founded on
the law of hierarchy, inferior beings
should be so united to superior ones
as to be, in a certain sense, trans-
formed into them, the distinctive
marks of their respective natures being
kept inviolate.

This law, in both its aspects, we see
actuated in the visible universe.
Thus man has need of food, which
is administered to him by brutes
and the vegetable kingdom; he
has need of air, to breathe; of light,
to see ; of his kind, to multiply and
to form society. All other animals
have need of beings different from
themselves to maintain their own ex-
istence ; and of their like, to multiply
their species. The vegetable king-
dom needs minerals, earth, water, and
the different saps by which it lives
If vegetables did not expel oxygen
and absorb carbonic acid, air would
become unfit for the respiration of ani-
mals ; and these sending back, by re-
spiration, carbonic acid, supply that
substance of which plants stand in
need. Everything, moreover, in the
world serves for the development and
perfection of man, both as to his body
and as to his intellectual, moral, and
social life. Every inferior creature is
transformed into man. The same
animal and vegetable kingdom which,
transformed into his blood, sustains
his life, helps him for the development
of his ideas and his will. The rea-
son of this law, which may be called
the law of life, is, that the unity of
the cosmos should not be only appa-
rent and fictitious, but real. Now, a
real union is impossible if the terms
united exercise no real action upon
each other, and do not serve for the

maintenance and development of each
other.

Finally, the law of communion calls
for the law of secondary agency;
that is, the effects resulting from the
moments of the exterior action of
God should be real agents. For no
real union and communion could ex-
ist among the terms of the external ac-
tion unless they really acted one upon
another ; any other union or commu-
nion being simply fictitious and im-
aginary. Hence Malebranche, in his
system of occasional causes, where he
deprives finite beings of real agency,
has not only undermined the liberty
of man, but destroyed the real com-
munion among creatures, and marred
the beauty and harmony of the cos-
mos. To represent the cosmos as
a numberless series of beings united
together by no other tie than juxta-
position, and by no means really act-
ing upon each other, is to break its
connection, its real and living unity;
is to do away with the whole beauty
and harmony of that hymn and can-
ticle which God has composed to his
own honor and glory.

We come now to tl\p last question :
What is the whole plan of the
exterior action of God? We have
seen that if there be a way by which
to efifect a cosmos endowed with a
certain absolute perfection, that it
would be most agreeable to infinite
goodness, the end of the exterior ac-
tion of God. We have seen, more-
over, that whether there be such a
way, and what this way is, must be
determined by revelation. The Ca-
tholic Church, therefore, the living
embodiment of revelation, must an-
swer these two problems.

It answers both affirmatively.
The most perfect cosmos is possible.
God has effected it, because most
agreeable to his infinite goodness.

What is this cosmos? We shall
give it in the following synoptic table.

S64

To a Favorite Madonna.

God's exterior action divided into :

The hypostatic moment;

The beatifiCy or palingenesiacal
moment;

The sublimative moment ;

The creative moment.

The terms corresponding to each
moment of the action of God are :

The Theanthropos, or Jesus Christ,
God and man, centre of the whole
plan;

Beatific cosmos ;

Sublimative cosmos;

Substantial cosmos.

Individual terms of each cosmos :

1. Beatified angels and men ;

2. Regenerated men on the earth;

3. Angels, or pure spirits;
Men, or incarnate spirits ;

Sensitive beings ;

Organic beings ;

Inorganic beings.

As each moment of the action of
God, as the creative, implies two sub-
ordinate moments, preservation and
concurrence, it follows that each mo-
ment of the action of God implies
its immanence and concurrence,
though in the Theanthropos it takes
place * according to special laws.
Hence,

Hypostatic immanence and con-

currence;

Beaidfic immanence and concur-
rence;

Creative immanence and concur-
rence.

TO A FAVORITE MADONNA.

Lady Mary, throne of grace.

Imaged with thy Child before me I

Softly beams the perfect face,

Fragrant breathes its pureness o'er me.

I but gaze, and all my soul

Thrills as with a taste of heaven.

Passion owns the sweet control ;
Peace assiu-es of sin forgiven.

Oh I then, what thy loveliness
Where it shines divinely real,

If its strength has such excess
Feebly shadowed in ideal I

From thy arms thy Royal Son

Waits to fill us past our needing :

Hears for all, denied to none.

Thy resistless whisper pleading.

Dream, say they, for poet's eye ?

Thou a dream ! Then truth is seeming.
Only let me live and die

Safely lost in such a dreaming !

R D. H.

To those who tell us what Time it is.

56s

TKAKSLATBD FROM THB FRBNCH.

TO THOSE WHO TELL US WHAT TIME IT IS.

Before introducing our subject,
my dear reader, let me give a mo-
ment to a little person whose capri-
ces equal those of any woman living.

Brilliant as the most fashionable
beauty, she* never goes without her
diamonds and rubies in their golden
setting, and of which she is equally
proud.

Her little ];)abbling is heard continu-
aUy ; and whUe she boasts her indepen-
dent movements, like any prisoner or
slave she always wears her chain.

I call her a little person, because
she accompanies me everywhere;
though sometimes she stops while I
walk, and goes again when I am in-
clined to stop.

This delicate, fantastical organiza-
tion, so difficult to discipline, and as
subject to the influences of cold and
heat as any nervous lady or chilly
invalid, is Mademoiselle — ^my watch*

You have nearly all, my dear rea-
ders, a watch of silver or gold in your
vest-pocket, and you can have tiiem
of wood or mother-of-pearl, with one
great advantage: they cannot be
pawned.

Ladies wear watches whose cases
shine with their diamonds like the
decorations of a great officer of the
Legion of Honor. And they can
have them inserted in bracelets, in
bon-bon boxes, and in buckles for
sashes and belts.

But I must tell you, the first accu-
rate instruments, after the sun-dial and
hour-glass of the ancients, were huge
docks ; and these clocks, so immense,
led artists insensibly to construct
smaller ones for apartments, in form

of pendulums, and which were in the
beginning very imperfect

Then others still more skilful con-
ceived the idea of portable clocks, to
which they gave the name of montres^
(watches, in English,) from montrery to
show.

But at first the^ ornaments were
very awkward, and of inconvenient
size for the pocket to which they
were destined.

Finally, however, they were lessen-
ed to such a point that they graced
the heads of canes, the han^es of
fans, and even the setting of rings,
and were about the size of a five-
cent silver piece.

It is to Hook, a physician and
English philosopher, bom in 1635,
died in 1702, tfxat we owe the in-
vention of pocket watches.

In 1577, the first watches were
brought fi'om Germany to England.
They had been made at Nuremberg
for the first time in the year 1500,
and were called the eggs of Nurem-
berg, on account of their oval form.

At last a man appeared who, not
content to enchain time, endeavored
to force matter to represent with
greater accuracy the flight of years.
This was Julien le Roy, the most
skilful practical philosopher that
France ever had. Always on the
qui vive for everything useful and
curious, as soon as he heard of the
watdies of the celebrated Graham, he
imported the first one seen in Paris,
and not until he had proved it would
he relinquish it to M. Maupertuis.
Graham, in turn, procured all he
could from Julien le Roy. One day
my Lord Hamilton was showing one

S66

To those who tell us what Time it is.

I of these wonderful repeaters to seve-
ral persons. " I -ft-ish I were young-
said Graham, " to be able to
make one a/ier this model."

This illustrious Maupertuis, who
accompanied the king of Prussia to
the battle-field, was made prisoner
at Molwitz and conducted to Viemia.

I The grand-duke of Tuscany — since

I emperor — wished to see a man with

f BO great a reputation.

He treated him with respect, and
asked him if he had not regretted

I much of the baggage stolen from
him by the hussars. Maupertuis,
after being urged a long time, confes-

I Bed lie would gladly have saved an
old watch of Graham's, which he used
for his astronomical observations.

The grand-duke, who owned one
by the same maker, but enriched
with diamonds, said to the French
mathematician, " Ah ! the liussars
have wished to play you a trick;
they have brought me back your
watch. Here it is; I restore it to

[ yo"-"

To-day, as formerly, the handling
of watches is an art. It is much

■e difficult to measure time than
wine or cider. Therefore, among the
■ members of the Bureau of Longi-
" s, by the side of the senator Le-
l verrier, tlie manhal of France, (M,
Vaillant,) the Admiral Matthieu, is
I placed the simple clock-maker, M.
[ Brugnct.

And for these artists who give us

I ■|hc means of knowing the hour it is,

l~tiiere is a publication as serious as

I 'the Journal of DebaUs, called the

I Chri'twmetrkal Jiiniieiv. It certainly

f -should be regularly sent lo its sub-

! -Bcribers. If the carrier is late, it

I icannot be for want of knowing if he

has to-day's or yesterday's jiaper;

and the subscribers are never exposed

to (kfrther miiiii gu^orze /itures.

M. Claudius Saurrier, the chief edi-
tor of this Chrvnometriat! Hci'ieie, has

also a dock-maker's annua) almaiU
for 1869. This appears very abstn
at the first glance ; but if we exai
tlie little volume with the s
ly as a watchmaker his mainspring-
thai is to say, with a powerful ma
fying glass — we will find some I
to greatly interest us. For cxamjM
a sketch of different attainable s:

UUspcriM
The uldja in onlinuy Hep make!,.

The tuldicr is Romuiic aaaac.

The hmt mlkiBg,

Tht hone no (he Itol. ....
Tha hsru OB Ihe (lUsi^ .....
'■'hcboneofiUunct-coDTM. . .
The Idcomodve at wiSjary tpeud,

A nilmd Iniii nikbig Iblnr mBm iltt b

appear aii«l diBf>pur dimng the tranaiL

But nothing can more surely mti
sure speed than the man who says||
his watch, " Thou givesl me sixty ■!
conds a minute, and lliou canst |
no farther,"

The little book which has si
ihily occupied my attention ;
contented with simply describing p
fessional instruments. It plunges it
old curiosity shops, and brings out t]
watch of Marat !

Kiidently it does not tell us if ti
watch was hung in the bathing t
where the friend of l/u f<ftifU \
struck by the poignard of Cluuiol
Corday. But it gives :
description of the jewel, or ratlier d
the Mien of the celebrated and t
doubtable tribune.

It was, indeed, a curious irstt^H
that Marat possessed ; and, if wc c '
not imagine the fashion of the e
whidi gave lo every one an ii
gewgaw, requiring a counter-weiglu M
support it, it win be imjiossible to C
plain the oddity of its form.

It was a massive silver pear,
ing into two equal parts,
lower pan of the fruit was (bund IN

To those who tell us what Time it is.

567

dial; the upper contained engraved
designs of foliage. The case of the
pear reproduced the same model ; the
artist evidently had but one idea.
Its size was that of an English pear
of medium dimensions, and, thanks
to its density, this jewel has been able
to pass without any deterioration
through the most stormy periods of
the world.

The almanac for clock-makers also
contains its good stories. It relates
that a thief introduced himself into a
watch-store as a workman seeking
employment, but with the design of
abstracting the pocket-book of the
proprietor. The scene is dialogued
as the two parts of a clock containing
the chimes of the north, the solemn
stillness of the night broken by ques-
tion and response, until they mingled
in a naive cotitre-point

" Thy purse," said the thief.

" I have forgotten it."

" Thy chain."

" I only wear a ribbon."

" Pshaw ! no more ceremony.
Look at thy watch. What hour' is
it?"

" The hour of thy death !" replied
the young man in a thundering voice,
presenting at the same time a double-
barrelled pistol at his head.

" Oh ! oh !" said the thief, " I was
only joking."

"So much the worse. Come, thy
purse."

The thief handed it to him.

« Thy chain."

And the chain followed the purse.

" Thy watch.**

The thief, trembling from head to
foot, drew out a package of watches,
entangled one in the other.

" Oh ! oh ! I have you now. Get
out, file to the left, turn thy dial, and

go-"
And the pickpocket withdrew.

The young watch-maker, perfectly

astonished) went immediately to the

mayor. They counted twenty-two
watches ; and the grateful proprietors
handsomely indemnified him for his
trouble, while at the same time he
found himself, by this one stroke,
with twenty-two good jobs and a pa-
tronage.

Had I time, I could extract many
more interesting things from this littie
work.

For example, a description of a
watch made by the grandfather of
the present Bregnet — the perpetual
watch, so called because it winds it-
self through some simple movement
inserted by the maker. And I could
give, also, good advice to wearers of
watches.
Where to put them at night.
The manner and time to wind
them, and the management of the
little needle that makes them go
slower and faster.

Then, again, the injiuy done watch-
es by trotting horsemen, especially
physicians, who thereby lose an accu-
rate guide for the pulse of their pa-
tients.

llien I should like to consider how
Abraham Bregnet made the sympa-
thetic clock, upon which it is only
necessary to place before midday or
midnight a pocket repeating- watch,
advancing or retarding it a little to
allow for the time consumed, and by
simple contact it regulates the pendu-
lum.

If M. Claudius Saurrier wants
something curious for his almanac of
the coming year, he has only to take
the chapter on clock-making from The
Arts of the Middle Ages^ by Paul La-
croix. There he will see the three
primitive methods of measuring time,
namely, the sun-dial or gnomon that
Anximandre imported from Greece;
the clepsydra, where the flowing
water indicated the flying minutes;
and the hour-glass, where the sand
took the place of the water.

568

New Publications,

He will find there a watch of the
house of Valois placed in the centre
of a Latin cross, and moving with it
symbolical figures, Time, Apollo, Dia-
na, etc.; or, again, the Virgin, the
apostles and saints.

Time has not always been lost
through the instruments that indicate
its flight. Ages have changed even
palaces ; and the Palais Royal, whose
cannon gives us still the exact hour
of mid-day, once knew no hours for
its habituis^ and vice and immorality
consumed the time that virtue now
gives to better purposes. The poet
of 1830 said :

" The palace lives in better days,

And virtue holds its court supreme ;
The sun that lent to vice its rays
Nonr gives to time its potent beam.**

But now that I have rendered
every tribute to M. Qaudius Saurrier
that his special science can demand,
may I not be equally frank with
him ?

I don't like to know what time it
is ; I am seized with profound melan-
choly when the clock strikes and as
the hands of my watch indicate the
rapidity with which my life is passing.

If there had never been an hour-
glass, a clepsydra, a dock, a regula-
tor, a Swiss cuckoo, or a French
chronometer, what with the variations
of the seasons which are no longer
regular — the trees leafing in January,
and the house-tops iced in April —
we might never be sure of anything,
and lead the existence of those who
frequented the balls of the tenor
Roger. With shutters closed and
curtains drawn, the sun excluded for
four days, his guests could have
doubted whether time had anything
to do with their existence.

Then we could so long believe our-
selves young I The dreaded question
How old are you f could be answered
in all sincerity, I do not know.

One word more, however, for our
pretty watch. How often has it been
the symbol of gallantry.

A lady asked a poet why he used
two watches. He replied immedi-
ately :

madam, dull I tdlyoa why?
One goes too £ut, and one too slow;
When near yon I would fondly fly,
I use the first ; the other, when I (o.*

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

The Catholic Doctrine of the
Atonement. An Historical Inquiry
into its Development in the Church.
With an Introduction on the Princi-
ple of Theological Development By
Henry Nutcombe Oxenham, M.A,
formerly Scholar of Balliol College,
Oxford. Second Editidh. London :
Allen & Co. 1869^

This is a very scholarly treatise on an
important subject. It is not a dogmatic

work, but a work on the history of dog-
ma. The author possesses a remarla-
\At insight into die deep and sublime
mysteries of faith, especially that of the
Incarnation, and writes like one whose
whole mind and soul have become im-
bued with the spirit of scriptural and
patristic theology. His manner is re-
markably calm, impartial, and dignified ;
his method of statement, clear and suc-
cinct ; and his style is that of an accom-
plished English and classical scholar,

New Publications.

569

ig to passages of high poetic
1 beauty. So far as the exhi-
:he true doctrine of the atone-
onoerned, beyond the critical
of different schools of opinion,
alue consists in the refutation
inistic doctrine, and its discri-
»f the modem prevalent Catho-
derived from St Anselm from
. properly so called. The es-
relopment is one of the ablest
>f the book. Mohler, in his
iSy has accused Petavius of
I or pressing too far, in his
ial zeal, the well-known points
sis respecting the doctrine of
icene fathers against Bishop
ippears to us that Mr. Oxen-
overstepped the mark in the
in regard to development in
* at least has used language
Tiisapprehension. We think,

the character of his mind,
lot adapted to metaphysical
.tive inquiries, and the influ-
:r which his opinions have
ed, lead him to undervalue

theology. There are here

also, indications of a bias
I opinions of a certain class

writers of the last century,
^ars to us to be out of harmo-
e genuine spirit of docility to
ng of the church, and the
i with which the author is
mimated. We will specify
ice of this, where Mr. Oxen-
exposed a most vulnerable
s defensive armor. It is on
of the introductory essay,
s rebutting the famous state-
'hillingworth, that there are
;ainst popes, councils against
etc. In reply to this, he says,

have to observe, as to popes
pes, waiving the question of
judgments, when resting on
authority alone, if maintained
leologians to be infallible, are
isly denied to be so by others,
ely open question. Councils
»y no one to be in&llible ex-
atters of doctrine, and there
of doctrinal contradiction be-
ncils universally received in
li as ecumenical." The au-

thor, in this specimen of most faulty
logic, by waiving the question of feet
respecting the dogmatic judgments of
the popes, concedes everything which
Chillingworth asserted on that point,
and leaves him master^f the field. He
confines himself to one point of defence,
that there are no dogmatic decisions of
ecumem'cal councils which are contra-
dictory to each other. But suppose
there are dogmatic decisions of popes
to which obedience is required as a
term of communion and under pain of
excommunication, which are contrary
to dogmatic decisions of councils, what
then ? Suppose one pope requires sub-
mission to a dogmatic decision as a term
of communion, and his successor re-
quires the same to aa opposite decision,
what then? Can Mr. Oxenham sav
iranseatf If Mr. Ffoulkes should
write a letter to Mr. Oxenham contain-
ing an argument based on an affirmation
that those suppositions are fects, against
the actual position of the holy see and
the Catholic episcopate, as against Con-
stantinople and Canterbury, could Mr.
Oxenham answer it conclusively with-
out defending that point which he so
easily gives up ? That the question of
the infallibility of the pope is not entire-
ly closed is, of course, true ; but it is
not so wide open as an ordinary reader
would infer it to be from the author's
very inconsiderate and unsatisfactory
way of stating the matter ; nor has it
ever been so wide open at any time
since Sl Peter received from our Lord
the charge to confirm his brethren in
the feith. Bossuet would never have
exposed bis fiank in the unguarded
manner that our author has done. The
indefectibility of the Roman see in doc-
trine, and the duty of obedience to its
dogmatic judgments, were always main-
tained by that great theologian, and by
all orthodox Galileans. The doctrine
of what may be called passive infallibili-
ty is logically contained in this doctrine
of Bossuet and in that doctrine of Ca-
tholic feith, that the pope is always the
supreme head of the church. By pas-
sive infallibility, we mean a security
against the separation of the pope and
the Roman Church in doctrine from the
universal church, either by apostasy

New PuhlieaHoKS.

from dogmas already defined, or by ihe
enforcement of any new and false dog-
mas. The active power of llie pope, as
the teacher and defender of the faith
which he perpetually proclaims to the
world, and protects by denouncing and
condemning heresy, which no Catholic
questions, is necessarily secured by
this indefeclibility or passive infailibility
from being perverted to the service of
heresy or immorality. The only ques-
tion that can be discussed between Ca-
tholics regarding this matter relates (o
tbe conditions and extent of the active
infidlibility of the pope. The gifl of
infallibility must necessarily preserve
the dogmatic unity of the pope and the
Catholic episcopate, and must therefore
influence both. They are both factors
in the sum of Infallibility. What is pre-
cisely the force of each as distinct from
the other is not yet fully and clearly
detiaed as a canon of faith, and we are
willing to await the result of the ap-
proaching council which will, probably,
ai least consider the question of the
propriety of making such a canon, before
appl)'ing any theological formula as a
criterion of the orthodoxy of writers, or
written statements. Nevertheless, we
have a right to expect that every writer
should so guard his language and state-
ments that they be not open to a mis-
conception that furnishes a convenient
door for the enemy to enter in by.

I'erhaps Mr. Oxcnharo will not essen-
tially dissent from the view we have
expressed ; and we have the best reason
to expect that whatever there may be
that is defective or inconsequent in his
theological system will be tilled up and
harmoniied by the result of riper thought
and study. His work, as a whole, is
one of the best and most valuable of
those which have been produced by the
sound scholars and devoted sons of the
church who have been won to the an-
cient faith of England within the classic
halls of Oxford. Every clergyman or
scholar addicted to theobgical' studies
will find it well worlliy of a place in his
library, and of a careful perusal.

AucE Murray ; a Tale. Dy .Mary I.

Hoffman, authoress of A^iirt Hilton.

. I vol izmo. Pp. 49a. NewYortrP.
O'Shea. tSe?.

We like this story for its perfect pic-
ture of American country life. We^
but one glimpse, and that a very Impct-
fecl one, of the city. We have plcniyof
books, good, bad, and indiflcrcnt, de-
scribing city life, its manners and cbv
toms, its frivolities and follies, and va»
its vices. It was, therefore, with a tui-
ing of relief that we rend this volame;
for, even if one can but tcldotn visit tin
country-, still one likes R> read aljoatln
green fields, rippling brooks, giwhtog
springs and dark, cool woods, the \aviti\
kine, and bleating sheep, and in ibn
book we gel a goodly dose. Miu
Hoflman seems to be a practical &^
mer, and is as much at home wlili the
butler-ladle as with the pen. and hu
a thorough disgust, as all good Utratn
must have, for what city foDc oftes
cultivate as flowers — the "pesky wWte
daisy."

The first chapters of the sMryatt'
little dull, and the place in which iti
scene is laid is not definitely stated : hil
further on, we learn that it is in Wat-
crn New York. There Is notbitigci-
traordinary or intrfcnie in the plol e(
of the slory. Every scene and iacldeBl
may have occurred just as it U rdatti
It is the old story of innocence aod *
tue being oulgeneralled for a wl>llt tr
craftiness and vice. And while wr
have such timid girls as Alice Me^
ray, such acts of wrong arc pos-
sible. It is very well to folio* iht
gospel precept, and when struck upnn
one cheek to turn the other ; but the
gospel nowhere requires us to gin 1>
addition our own hand with wMdi to
smite our cheek.

Alice Murray w.is the niwc of Mr
Elbray's first wife. Her parents 6^
while she was quite jnoung, aai Hf
Elbrny brought her up as his cUui^
ter, as he had no children of his o«o-
He was rich, a self-made man, oA 1
worldly-minded Catholic, paid Utile «■
tention to (he duties or rcquircmenM »(
his religion, but made money his C«S'
He became acquainted with a stroDt
minded, designing widow, whonttmija
to make him marry her, luid front d0

New Publications.

S7t

It Alice Murray had actually no
The ambitious wife had her own
er to provide for, and her whole
is were bent on getting rid of
which she succeeded in accom-
g. From her adopted home
Mrent to her uncle Bradley — her
*s sister's husband — who procur-
a district school. Even here,
miles away from her, the new
.Ibray, beside intercepting^ all let-
tween Alice and her imcle, got
irge against her of having stolen
chain presented to her by her
parted husband. This was done
ent Alice returning to her uncle,
is ever regretting her absence,
crafty woman succeeded ; Alice
xdedy and the result is, that Mrs.
s daughter makes a brilliant
and all the Elbray family move
ff York, where old Elbray is
by his wife and her daughter's
d, and has to go to the alms-
where he is discovered by a
vho knew him, and Alice is in-
of the poverty of her uncle. She
s not a moment, accepts the
f the lover she had previously
, because she wished to pay
ir uncle all the money he had
n her, and the new^married cou-
traight to New York, rescue the
rom the almshouse, and take
ne with them, where he lives in

picture of the Bradley family is
tiful one — just what a good
: fomily should be ; in foct, all
: Hoffman's family pen-pictures
L Her great weakness lies in her
:s ; they need more animation
rightliness ; and her very dad
srs are better drawn than her
e7//ones. For instance, in Mrs.
an ambitious, proud, self-willed
Idly woman, we have decidedly
: depicted character in the book,
ors for a purpose, a bad purpose
xe, and succeeds, although the
was her ruin. Had Alice used
od purpose one half the energy
bray did for a bad one, a world
ring would have been saved her,
in A/ic€ Murray would not
een written. We wish the

writers of our Catholic stories wouW
allow their good characters to act like
living men and women, not mere ma-
chines, throwing the responsibility of
all their troubles and tribulations upon
God, and leaving it all in his hands to
see justice done ; but teach them to use
the means God gave them to help them-
selves.

We have said that Miss Hofl5nan's
descriptions of American country life
and scenery are good. There is one
pen-picture on page 170 that will remind
many of similar scenes. The story is
thoroughly Catholic in tone and senti-
ment, but is not of the belligerant
class. There are no religious discus-
sions indulged in for the sake of display-
ing one's theological knowledge; but
the whole atmosphere of the b<M)k — the
whole sentiment is Catholic, and the
reader feels it, just as one in reading k
Kempis would know* and feel that the
writer was a devout, practical Catholic.

The typographical execution of the
book might easily be improved by em-
ploying a better proof-reader and the
use of better type.

Chips from a German Workshop.
By Max Miiller, M. A. 2 vols, crown
8vo, pp. 374, 402. New York:
Charles Scribner & Co.

These two volumes consist of various
essays, lectures, etc., which Professor
Miiller has published from time to time
during the intervals of his long years
of labor on the Rig-Veda. They are all
more or less closely connected with the
great work to which he has devoted bis
life, and are all illustrations of a syste-
matic religious philosophy. The first
volume is devoted to essays on <' The
Science of Religion." The author re-
marks that in religion ''everything new
is old, and everything old is new, and
there has been no entirely new religion
since the beginning of the world." St
Augustine says that '' what is now call-
ed the Christian religion has existed
among the ancients, and was not absent
from the beginning of the human race
until Christ came in the flesh ;" and
the design of these essays is to show

572

Nctv Publications

how Ihe radical ideas of religion reveal-
ed by Almigiity God at the beginning
have undergone various changes, cor-
ruptions, and combinations, yet, though
frequently distorted, tend again and
again to their perfect form. Professor
Miiller traces these primitive ideas
through the ancient religions of India
and Persia, and extracts from the for-
bidding obscurity of Sanscrit literature
a wealth of illustration, which, with his
charming style and incomparable happi-
ness in selection, he makes attractive to
nearly all classes of readers. He studies
the matter not as a theologian but as a
coldly critical man of science ; and his
reasoning is. of course, directly in sup-
port of the truths of revelation. The
second volume contains an essay on
Comparative Mylhclogy, and papers on
early traditions and customs, all bear-
ing upon the subject of the first, and
many of tbem highly curious. At
some future day, if opportunity permits,
we hope to recur to these valuable
"Chips," and give our readers a few
specimens of their excellence.

Pastoral Letter of the Most
Rev. Archbishop and Suffragan
Prelates of the Province of Baltimore,
at the close of Ihc Tenth Provinciiil
Council. May, 1869. Baltimore: J.
Murphy 5: Co.

This letter of the fathers of the coun-
cil of Baltimore is a renewed evidence
of the paternal al^Ction and ceaseless
vigilance with which the pastors of the
church watch over their flock. On
many most important points, they have
spoken out with a clearness that mu.st
be gratifying to every Catholic heart.
First among tliem is Education. We
quote a portion :

"Hitler eiperience convinces us daily
more and more that a purely secular educa-
tion, to the exclusion of a religious training,
{■ not only an imperlect gritcm, bat is at-
tended with the most disastrous conse-
quences to ihe individual and to society.
Among Catholics, there cannot be two opin-
ions about this subject. And we arc happy
to sec that this practical truth is beginning

to find acceptance also in the nUiidacfte-
flccting men among our separated bretfawi

" The catechetical iiuliucDom p<re> can
a week in our Suaday-schoob, IlxHiek t»
ductive of Ihe most beneficial lesi^ tR
InsulBcicnl to satisfy ihe rctieion* mm
of our children. They sbould every h^
breathe a healthy leJigious almoiphtrs U
those schools, where not only ihcii «a^
are cniishtcncd, but where ibc Mcdi 'i
faith, piety, and sound morality are nsoi-
ished and invigorated.

" Children have not only kroM lu lie tdt^-
tened, but, what is mote Inipvrunt, iiVA
to be formed to virtue."

The most reverend archbishop Dii
been from the first one of the most e«r-
nest supporters of the Catholic I'obllci'
tion Society, and, with the prelates of tJit
council, again commends fi to the pairo-
nage of clergy and hiiiy.

" We desire lo renew," say Ihej, 'ok
cordial approbation of the Catholic PkUi
cation Society, recently estalillahcd in Nr«
York, and we earnestly hope It nuy recon
from our clet^ and laity all the fUtmtf
it so well deserves.

" This sodety is laudably en^a^cd intti
puhticalion of such Catholic works m m
peculiarly adapted tothe WEUitsofevrtiivt
and it serves as a powerful auiilisy n tt
prupa^ion of Catholic Inilh.

" Short religious iracw arc. li . 1
dcr the auspices of the same -
tracts arc dally growing in ,
usefulness. In one year, abn!'
thousand of them were ptinr. .'
buied. Their brevity ret.in:
peruul lo many who have 1
nor disposition lo read book? ■ :
same sulijecL Their shon l< >'
arguments always make a fjv< . 1
sion on sincere minds; whi]<.
familiar style renders them itir .
lowest capadly. The very m ■ : ■
at which they are sold places ilir'natiir'
the reach of all.

" We trust that our lealous nUsska^T
dergy will adopt some effectual and lyOc-
matic means by which the tnoka, and ff^
dally the tracts of this excellent s"^*?^
be regularly drculalcd throagho«t Aw
missions, and distributed among ^^ '~'
dren attending our bcIioo1s.~

These words are very tneovt^H
and opportune ; for one thini; I* MK
and that is, " The Cathobc Ptiblici**
Society," without this co-opentlon »•

N€W Publicatiofis.

s;3

thy, both on the part of the cler-

the laity, cannot accomplish the

rork that is before it in our coun-

1 follow some timely words of
ition to Catholics lest they imbibe
►se notions which prevail among
around them in regard to the
>f infanticide.

:, are condemned round dances,
It publications, and the obscene
:al performances which are be-
so abundant.

remainder of the letter contains
3f encouragement to the clergy
y in the various charitable works
h they are engaged, as the erect-
>rotectories and orphan asylums,
ividing churches and schoob for
ored brethren, etc.

oN's Conversations with M.

AMSAI ON THE TRUTH OF ReLI-

, With his Letters on the Im-

ality of the Soul, and the Free-

of the Will Translated from

French by A. E. Silliman. 1869.

Ion was a genius and a saint,
d, moreover, the fiiculty of ex-
g his thoughts in a remarkably
tyle, and throwing a peculiar
abo.ut every subject he handled,
nversations with Chevalier Ram-
m a short treatise, proving that
\ no medium between deism and
cism. It is very admirable, and
lliman has done a good service
slating it, with the two other
>ut excellent treatises which are
ed. The translator's preface,
IS perfectly calm and passion-
its tone, gives a brief but inter-
sketch of F^ndon's character,

some of the events of his life,
ites the circumstance which gave
n to the conversations with Che-
Ramsay. As it alludes to the
ination of the Maxims by the
nd states that this condemnation
en reluctantly and under threats
e king of France, it may be well
ain this matter in a few words,
le that the accusation of Fenelon
le was made through enmity

his person, and in a manner

discreditable to the parties concerned,
and very displeasing to the pope. It is
not true, however, that the decision was
given in accordance with the wishes of
the king 6n account of his entreaties or
threats. The pope did not wish to have
the matter brought before him, because
he preferred to leave the errors of Fd-
n^lon's book to be corrected by milder
methods than a public condemnation,
and desired to spare so great and holy
a prelate— who had erred only through a
mistaken judgment of the true sense of
certain statements of the most approved
mystic authors— the mortification of a
public censure and a formal retracta-
tion. The action of F^ndlon's enemies
made the matter so public and noto-
rious, and brought his erroneous state-
ments into such a clear light that it was
impossible to avoid an examination and
judgment without scandal The judg-
ment was impartial, and was necessarily
against F6n61on, whose doctrine was
clearly irreconcilable with the teaching
of the church. At the same time, a
sharp reproof was given to his accusers
for the spirit which they had shown in
pushing matters to extremes, and the
personal respect and esteem of the pope
for F6n61on were clearly manifested.

The translator has added a very judi-
cious note to the treatise on the immor-
tality of the soul, justly censuring cer-
tain statements of the author on the na-
ture of the connection between soul and
body. Like many other writers of that
time, F6neIon was too much influenced
by the philosophy of Descartes whose
ridiculous theory of occasional causes
appears in the passages criticised by
Mr.. Silliman. On this point^he lan-
guage of the Protestant translator is
much more in accordance with the Ca-
tholic doctrine that the soul is forma
corporis than that of the Catholic arch-
bishop.

We recommend this most beautiful
specimen of reasoning and persuasive
eloquence most heartily to all readers,
especially to those who fancy they can
find a halting-place somewhere between
the rejection of all positive revelation
and the acceptance, pure and simple,
of Catholicity. The translation is well
done, and the mechanical execution of

S74

Ntw Puhtieations.

the liook, which is a medium belwcen a
volume and a pamphlet, is elegant. If
the translator finds sufficient encourage-
ment in the reception which it meets
with to induce him to continue, we re-
commend lo him the translation of F6-
nelon's admirable treatise on the
existence and attributes of God, as a
work which we should welcome as a
timely and valuable aildition to our
English religious h'lerature.

La Natura e La Grazia. (Natubk
AND Grace.) Discourses on Modern
Naturalism delivered in Rome during
the Lent of 1865. By Father Charles
M. Curci, S.J. 2 vols. Rome, Turin,
and Venice,

We are greatly indebted to the cour-
tesy of F. Curci in sending us a c«py
of this admirable collection of dis-
courses. With the greatest modesty,
the distinguished author apologizes in
his preface for the defects of his work.
To his readers, however, his name will
be asuRicieotguarantee of its excellence
and ability ; nor will a careful examina-
tion give them any reason to change
their opinion. These are no ordinary
Lent sermons upon the commonplace
themes of exhortation which preachers
are wont to handle during this holy sea-
son. They are profound, eloquent, and
classically written discourses upon all
the great Catholic doctrines and prac-
tices which are disputed or denied by
modem infidels and rationalists ; a spe-
cimen of that high, intellectual, philo-
sophical, and, at the same time, tho-
roughly spiritual preaching which is .so
necessary in our day for the educated
citisses. If it were possible, it would
be highly desirable and benclicial to
have these volumes translated into Eng-
lish. If we are not able, at present, to
have this done, it is only because of the
very great cost of translating and pub-
lishing in this country a work of such
a high class, the circubtlon of which
would be necessarily limited to the
clergy and a small portion of the most
highly educated among the laity.

Italy. Florexck, ani> Venice. From
the French of H. Taine. By j. Du-

rand. Svo, pp. 385. New York;
Leypoldl & Holt

This is a companion volume to H.
Taine's book on Homt and tVt^la,
which appeared in sn Engllih drtts
about a year ago. The author visited
Italy in 1864, (though the date, bj a
strange overMght, is not mcniioned in
the volume now before ns,) and hit ob-
servations upon the political aituatieiD
of the country and such social pecnltiri-
ties as arose Irom political causo, hin
now lost much of their value. Theaeot-
servations are fortunately few. nor were
they ever very profound. M. T^ae ii
not a student of public aflairs, norafccen
observer of popular characteristics. Of
Italian life and manners, he Icvnedno
more than the mere guide-book toariii
can see in hotels, galleries, and public
convejunces, and what he saw he nUi
ao better than many have told the nmr
things before him, and not so well at at
least one or two American tnvcUen
whom ne could mention. It ii u 1
critic of art that he demands iiur atiui
tion, and in this particular he bi *ur*
passes nine tenths of all the wrtiers nn
such topics with whom English rmiin
are familiar. The eloquence and rapi-
dity of his style, the refinement of lii>
esthetic sense, and the k«eniiK( ol ht>
philosophy, invest his pages with wll-
tcrcat and a brilliancy which must etnTB
every body. Vet there is somelUiV
lacking in his appreciation of paintiiip.
there isacoldness even in tbe miilttof
his enthusiasm, which leave the niaJ
unsatisfied. The fact is, he writ»lilie
a man of the world, to whom the tow
religious sentiment of art is only hiK re-
vealed. He judges of punringi orff
with the head ; but there «re ttfoin
works— above all, for instance, ftw ■'
Fra Angelico — which most be judgxl
by the hein.

LiWE ; OR Sklt Sacrifice : a SwT
bv Lady Herbert. publUbcd bf D-
& J. Sadlier & Co. Price, 75 Ofc

The life of GwUdys, the bcniiMV'
Lady Herbert's story, is nude up ft
three im)X)rtaat events ; two nun^*

New Publications.

575

le death of her lovely boy ; and
uired all of Lady Herbert's expe-
: as a writer to fill a volume cov-
the space of eighteen years, with
ys and sorrows of her monotonous
The book abounds in exquisite
iptive scenes and truthful narra-
of the fatigues and incidents of
; but there is a striking resem-
2 between many of the leading
cters, and the episodes, in general,
inaturaL

ese faults can only be accounted
1 the supposition that the over-
ed mind of the heroine did not
rv-e a perfect picture of each indi-
l ; their virtues and faults appear-
:> Gwladys in proportion to the
Qt of kindness they heaped upon
Thus Lady Herbert was unable
int them as they were in reality
ontented herself by coloring them
it the ideas of her much-loved
. The external appearance of the
we cannot praise. The proofs
have been read by the " printer's
' with malice prepense^ for a more
ily printed book it has never been
lisfortune, as a reviewer, to have
compelled to read.

Alte und Neue Welt. Vots.
IL HI. New York and Cincin-
i : Benziger Bros.

are indebted to the publishers
the three volumes, beautifully
1, of this excellent German illus-

I magazine. We have already
;d the admirable character both of
eading matter and of the illustra-
of this periodical, which is an in-
;ive and at the same time highly
taining family magazine, decidedly
est of its class we have ever met
in any language. For those who
ead the German language, these
les form as pleasant a companion
e could desire of a rainy afternoon,
any leisure hour when one is desi-
of some pleasant and innocent
\\ relaxation. It is also profitable

II as pleasant, chiefly on account
* charming pictures it presents of
)lic life in ancient and modern
lany. To all who read German,

we cordially recommend the purchase
of these volumes, both for the sake of
the reading matter, and also of the ex-
cellent illustrations. As for our Ger-
man fellow-Catholics, they ought to be
proud of possessing in their own rich
and grand mother-tongue a magazine
which does them so much honor, and
ought to give it their universal support
For the clergy, for parish libraries, for
the family, and for young people who
have a taste for reading, it is invaluable.
We fear that the children of our Ger-
man fellow-citizens are too much dis-
posed to forget the glorious fatherland
of their parents, which is in them a
great folly, to be checked and discou-
raged in every way. It is not neces-
sary, in order to become good Ameri-
cans, to disown and forget the country
and the literature of one's ancestors. If
it is worth while for those whose mother-
tongue is English to spend years in ac-
quiring a knowledge of the language
and literature of Germany, it is surely
a great piece of folly for those whose
early education has given them the
means of attaining this knowledge with-
out any trouble to throw it away as of no
value.

We think that the American part of
the magazine, that is, all that represents
the life of the German population in the
United States, might be much better
sustained than it is. We cannot blame
the editors for this defect, which is no
doubt entirely due to a lack of contribu-
tors living in this country ; but it ap-
pears to us that a more extensive and
zealous co-operation of the clergy here
with the European editors would, with-
out difliculty, supply it, and make the
Alte und Neue Welt really, as its name
imports, a magazine of the new as well
as of the old world. We wish the
enterprising firm of the Messrs. Benzi-
ger abundant success in their laudable
and skilful efforts to promote the cause
of Catholic literature in the German
language.

Winifred ; Countess of Nithsdale.
By Lady Dacre. New York : D. &
J. Sadlier & Co.

This story has appeared in The Ta»

576

-Vcw PMblicaliont.

Met, and has nothing remnrkablc in it
to praise or blame, if we except ihe
numerous typographical errors, wliich
are the more noticeable on account of
the dulness of the narrative, and Ihe
low order of tlie curious dialogues,

Little Women ; or, Meg, Jo, Beth,
AND Amy. By Louisa M. AlcoiL
Illustrated by May Alcott. Boston :
Roberts Brothers. 1869.

This is a charming story, fiill of life,
full of fun, full of human nature, and
therefore full of interest The little
women play at being pilgrims when they
are children, and resolve to be true pil'
grims as they grow older. Life 10 them
was earnest ; it had its duties, and they
did not overlook them or despise them.
Directed by the wise teachings and
beautiful example of agood mother, they
became in the end true and noble wo-
men. Make their acquaintance; for
Amy will be found delightful, Beth very
lovely, Meg beautiful, and Jo splendid ;
that there is a real Jo somewhere we
have not the slightest doubt

The Phekomeka asd Laws or HtAT.
By Achille Cuiin, Professor of Phy-
sics in the Lyceum of Verjaillev
Trauslatcd and edited by Elihu Kich.
I vol. i2mo. lUastntcd. Pp. 365.
New York: Charles Scribner 4 Co.

This volume belongs to the Library
of Wondtrs, and its aim is to present
in a summary the principal phenomena
of heal, as viewed from the standpuiot
afforded by recent discoveries in phy-
sics. The illustrations are excellent,
and give the reader a complete elucida-
tion of the text

The Fisher- Mai hen. A Norwegian

an F^ili^i y
Wk: L^H

" An artist, not a photog.
BjOmson draws souls more than facM^
" In these times of blai.-int novelist*, H
is no ordinary treat to get a slnry wliith
afTecla one almost as finely as a poem."

Mbmtal Photographs. An Album
for Confessions of Tastes, Habits,
and Convictions. Edited by Robert
Saxton. New York : Leypoldl &
Molt

We have here a
for the amusemen
and one which is capable of affording
a good deal of merriment and interest,
provided smart and sensible people take
part in it. The album contains places
for photographs, and by the side of each
a series of forty questions, Kuch as
" What is your favorite book ? color ?
name ? occupation ?" etc., to which
answers are to be written by the original
of the picture. In this way, the editor
says, as complete a portrait as possible
is obt^ned both of the inner and outei
Most of the questions are pert!'
and suggestive.

The Catholic Publication Socb-
TV will soon publish Tk4 History tf A^^
Catholic Church m Ike Itltuid ef Jlj^"
York. By the Rt. Rev. J. R. Ba|fl
D.D., Bishop of Newark. This i"

many important doc
relating to llie history of the chare
this city, not heretofore published.

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. IX., No. S3.— AUGUST, 1869.

"OUR ESTABLISHED CHURCH."*

The title, Our Established Church,
given by Jhttnam to a bitterly and-
Catholic article in its number for last
July, is too malicious for pleasantry
and too untrue for wit The writer
knows perfectly well that we have in
this State of New York no established
church, and that, of all the so-called
churches, the Catholic Church is the
furthest removed from being the state
church. In no city, town, or county
of the State are Catholics the majori-
ty of the population; and even in
tfiis city, where their proportion to the
whole population is the largest, they
probably constitute not much, if any,
over one third of the whole. Public
opinion throughout the State, though
less hostile than it was a few years
ago, is still bitterly anti-Catholic. In
this dty, the numbers and influence
of naturalized, as distinguished from
natural bom citizens, is, no doubt,
very great; but these natiualized citi-
zens are by no means all Catholics,
and a large number of those who may
have been baptized Catholics are
wholly uninfluenced by their Catholi-
city in their public, and, we fear, to a

Pmimmmi't Mmikfy Mtttgawhu, Onr EstaUUhed
New Yoric G. P. Putnam & Son. July,

great extent, even in their private life.
It is simply ridiculous, even by way
of irony, to speak of our church as
the established church, or as exerting
a controlling influence in the State or
city.

Moreover, no church can be the
established church, here or elsewhere^
unless it concedes the supremacy of
the state, and consents to be its slave.
This the Catholic Church can never
do. The relations of church and
state in Catholic countries have for
many centiuies been regulated by
concordats ; but in this country, since
the adoption of the Federal constitu-
tion, the civil authority has recognized
its own incompetency in spirituals,
and, as before it, the equal rights of
all religions not contra bancs mores^ as
also its obligation to protect the ad-
herents of each in the free and full
enjoyment of their entire religious
liberty. The state guarantees, thus,
all the freedom and protection the
church has ever secured elsewhere by
concordats. She much prefers free-
dom to slavery, and her full liberty,
though shared with hostile sects, to
the gilded bondage of a state church.
She neither is the established churchy
nor can she consent to become so;

VOL. DC — 37

578

" Our EslabHshed Church"

for a state church means a church
governed by the laity, and subordi-
nated to secular interests, as we see
in the case of the Anghcan establish-
ment. Her steady refusal to become
a state establishment Is tlic key to
those fearful struggles in the middle
ages between the diuich and the em-
pire; and the secret of the success of
tjie Protestant Reformation is to be
found in its ready submission to the
secular prince, or its practical asser-
tion of the supremacy of the civil
power and the subordination of the
spiritual.

There is always great difficulty
in discussing such questions as the
writer tn J\t/nam raises with our Pro-
testant fellow-citizens ; for we and
they start from opposite principles
and aim at different ends. We, as
Catholics, assert the entire freedom
and independence of the spiritual or-
der; but they, consciously or uncon-
sciously, assume that the state is su-
preme, anil that the spiritual should
be under the surveillance and control
of the secular. We understand by
religious liberty the fi-eedom and inde-
pendence of the church as an organic
body; they understand by it the free-
dom of the laity fixira all authority
claimed and exercised by the pope
and clergy as ministers of God or
stewards of his kingdom on earth.
If each Protestant sect claims, in its
own case, exemption from secular con-
trol, every one insists that the Catho-
lic Church shall be subject to C^sar,
and all unite to deprive her of her
spiritual freedom and independence.
Hence, they and we view tilings fiiam
opposite poles. They regard' them
6«ro the point of view of the Gen-
tiles, with whom religion was a civil
fiinction, and the state supreme alike
in spirituals ctnd temporals; we, from
the point of view of the Gos|)d, or
the New Law, which asserts tlie divine
sovereignty, and requires us to obey

God rather than men. They would
secularize the church and education,
abolish the priesthood, explain away
the sacraments, and reduce the wor-
ship of God to the exercise of preach-
ing, praying, and singing, which can
be performed by laymen, or eren
women, as well as by consecrated
priests. What they call their religion
is a perpetual protest against what we
call religion, or the Christian religion
as we understand, hold, and practise
it. It is especially a protest against
the priesthood, priestly functions and
authority.

Hence the difficulty of a mutual
understanding between Ihem and as.
What they want is not what we want
We are willing to let them have tbeir
own way for themselves, but iliey an
not willing that we should ha\e oui
own way for ourselves; and ihcy tiy
all manner of means in thcii power
to force us to follow tlicir way and
to fashion ourselves after thdi edoUcL
They do rot concede tliat we haTC,
and are not wilting that we ^ouM
have, equal rights with thcro&clves in
the state. If the state treats us at
citizens standing on a footing of cqoi-
lity with them, they arc indignant,
and allege that it treats us as a piin:
leged class, and to their great «
If it does not subordinate us to il
they pretend that it makes oura i
established church, and places I"
in the attitude of dissenters from J
state religion. They are not sati)
with equality; they can tee no d
lity where tiiey are not (he i
They cannot endure that Mord
should be allowed to sit in the 1'
gate. This is the real sense of 1
nam's article, and the meaiung of J
clamor of tlie sectama i
portion of the secular press, ngi
the State and city of New Voik, far
their alleged iibctality to the church.

The complaint in /ii/mam h, that
the Stale and city of New York luiTC

'*Our Established Church^

579

granted aid to certain Catholic chari-
table institutions, such as hospitals,
orphan asylums, reformatories or pro-
tectorates for Catholic boys, etc., out
of all proportion to its grants of
aid to similar Protestant institutions.
Also, that the Legislature has autho-
rized the city to appropriate a certain
percentage of the fees received for
liquor licenses to the support of pri-
vate schools for the poor, some por-
tion, even the larger portion, of which,
it is assumed, will go to the support
of Catholic parochial schools, and
therefore, it is pretended, to the sup-
port of sectarian schools ; for in the
Protestant mind whatever is Catholic
is sectarian. But is it true that the
State or the city does proportionably
less for non-Catholic charitable or
educational institutions — ^not a few of
which are well known to be formed
for the very purpose of picking up,
we might say kidnapping. Catholic
poor children, and bringing them up in
some form of Protestantism or infide-
lity — than it does for Catholic charita-
ble institutions ? Most certainly not
It does far less for Catholic than for
non-Catholic institutions ; and yet, be-
cause it does a little for institutions,
though for the benefit of the whole
community, under the control and
management of Catholics, the State
and dty are calumniated, and we are
insulted by its bemg pretended that
our church is made the state church.
In this matter of State grants or
city donations, the Protestant mind
proceeds upon a sad fallacy. The divi-
sions of Protestants among themselves
coimt for nothing in a question be-
tween them and Catholics. Protes-
tants overlook this fact, and while
they call all grants and donations to
Catholic institutions sectarian, they
call none sectarian of all that made to
Protestant institutions which are not
under the control and management
of some particular denomination of

Protestants, as the Episcopalian, the
Presbyterian, the Baptist, or the Me-
thodist ; but this is a grave error, and
cannot fail to mislead the public. All
grants and donations made to institu-
tions, charitable or educational, not
under the control and management
of Catholics are made to non-Catho-
lics ; and, with the exception of those
made to the Hebrews, to Protestant
institutions. There are but two reli-
gions to be counted. Catholic and
Protestant. The true rule is to count
on one side whatever is given to iristi-
tutions under Catholic control and
management, and on the other side
all that is given for similar purposes
to all the institutions, whether public
or private, not imder Catholic control
and management. The question,
then, comes up. Have the State and
city given proportionately greater
amounts to Catholic charitable and
other institutions than to Protestant
institutions ? If not, we have ' no
more than our share, and the Protes-
tant clamor is unjust and indefensible.
Of the policy of granting subsidies
by State or city, to eleemos)mary in-
stitutions, whether Catholic or Protes-
tant we say nothing; for being, even
now, at most not more than one fifth
of the whole population of the State,
we are in no sense answerable, as
Catholics, for any policy the State
may see proper to adopt. But, if it
adopts the policy of granting subsi-
dies, we demand for our institutions
our proportion of the subsidies grant-
ed. Have we received more than
our proportion? Nay, have we re-
ceived anything like our proportion ?
We find firom the official report
made to the State Convention,
that the total of grants made by
the State to charitable and other in-
stitutions — ^including the New York
Institution of the Deaf and Dumb, the
New York Institution for the Blind,
the Society for the Reformation of

S8o

" Our Established Church^

(

Juvenile Delinquents of New York,
State Agricultural College, State Nor-
mal School, the Western House of Re-
fuge for Juvenile Delinquents, State
Lunatic Asylum, the Asylum for Idiots,
the Willard Asylum for the Insane,
academies, orphan asylums, etc., hos-
pitals, etc., colleges, universities, etc.,
and miscellaneous — have amounted,
for twenty-one years, ending with
1867, to $6,910,881.91. Of this
large amount. Catholics should have
received for their institutions certainly
not less than one million of dollars.
Yet, all that we have been able to find
that they have received out of this
large sura is a little less than $276.-
000; that is, not over one fourth
of what they were entitled to; yet
PutiMJiCs Mdgasine has the effrontery
to pretend that our churdi is favoted
at the expense of Protestantism.

So much for the State subsidies.
In passing to the city, we find its do
nations to charitable institutions, Irora
1847 to 1867 inclusive, amount to
$1,837,593.17; of which, Catliolic
institutions, including $45,000 for
parochial schools, have received, as
nearly as we can ascertain from the
returns, a little over three hundred
thousand dollars. All the rest has gone
to non-Catholic, and a large part to
bitterly anti-Catholic associations and
institutions. Of the aggregate grants
and donations of the State and city
of $8,754,759.18, Catholic institu-
tions, as far as wc have been able
to discover from the official tables
before us, received, prior to 1868, less
than $Goo,ooo, not, by any means, a
fourth of our proportion. Yet we are
treated as the established church !

But we have not yet stated the
whole case. We do not know how
many millions are appropriated annu-
ally for the support of public schools
throughout the Slate; but in this city
the tax levy, this year, for the public
schools, is, we are told, $5,000,000 or

le the leu
ished mtttm
ithoriiy ijlii
pnctixafl|
lutions MS I

over. Catholics pay their proportion
of this amount, and they are a third
of the population of the diy. The
sum appro|)riated to the aid of private
schools, we are told, is estimated 41
$100,000 ; and if every cent of it is
applied in aid of our school, as it will
not be, it is far less than the la:ic we
pay for schools which wc cannot use.
The public schools are anti-Catholk
in their tendency, and none the 1
sectarian because established
managed by the public authority 4
the State. The State is pn
Protestant, and all its InstilutionE n
managed almost exclusively by {W-
testants. St, Jolm's College Ford-
ham, or Sl Francis XavieT*s, ia thb
city, is not more exclusively Catholic
than Columbia or Union is cxdusivE-
ly Protestant. These latter arc open
to Catholics, but not more than the
former are to Protestants. We count
in the grants and donations tu Pro-
testant institutions the whole amount
raised by public ta.^, together with
that appropriated from ihc idiool
fund of the State for the support of
the public schools. Thus wc daim
that Catholic charities and tchoob
do not receive, in grants and dona-
tions, a tithe of what is hoDcsily
or jusdy their share — whether estima-
ted according to their numbers ot
according to the amount of public
taxes, for sectarian charitable and
educational purposes levied on tlicm
by the State and its rounicipalitic
How false and absurd, then, to [
tend that this State specially f
our religion, and treats us as a p
legcd class ! The writer in J^
is obliged to draw largely o
tarioA imagination fur lads to render
his statements at all plausible. Hii
pretended facts arc in most cases no
facts at ail. We wish his estimate of
the value of the real estate owned by
the church were true; but he exagge-
rates hugely the amount, aiul tfacD

to pie-

-Our EstablUhed Church^

581

says it is held, for the most part, in
fee-simple, by one or another of five
ecclesiastics, which shows how ill-
informed he is. We subjoin the brief
but spirited contradiction, by the
bishop of Rochester, of several of his
misstatements.

To ike Editor of the Rochtstir Democrat :

<* In your paper, of June 16, appears an
article with the caption, ' Our Established
Church.' The article is based on one with
the same title in Puitiam^s Magasune for
July. I do not wish to review the article
in Putnam, but claim the privilege of cor-
recting some of its misstatements.

" I am one of the ' five ecclesiastics ' in
the State of New York holding property
worth millions. Yet, strange to say, there is
not to my knowledge one foot of land in the
wide world in my name. All the church
sodeties in the diocese of Rochester not
organized as corporate bodies under the
laws of the State of New York, previous to
my appointment as Bishop of Rochester,
have organized or are completing their or-
ganization under those laws. So soon as
these societies comply with the law of the
State, Bishop Loughlin, of Brooklyn, will
transfer to them, by quit-claim deeds, what-
ever property of theirs he inherited from
the late Bishop Timon. Had I had ever so
little desire to hold property in my name, I
might have held in fee-simple the lots on
which I am building the bishop's house ;
but I have placed the title in the name of
• St Patrick's Church Society.'

" The other * ecclesiastics ' in the State of
New York, who have not already transfer-
red the property which they held in fee-
simple, are engaged in making such transfer
of the ' fifty millions ' said to be held by
them.

^'The chief trouble, it seems to me, is in
the hxX that the Catholic Church is allowed
to hold property in any shape or form.
But the Catholic Church does hold proper-
ty, and she will continue to hold it to the
end of the chapter, and ' What do you pro-
pose to do about it ?*

« * The (Catholic) Nursery and Hospital
on Flfty-fint street and Lexington avenue,'
is a Protestant institution.

"The new St Patrick's Cathedral stands
on ground purchased by Catholics about
sixty years ago, and ever since in their pos-
session. This &ct spoils Parton's compli-
ment to the Archbishop Hughes's foresight,
mnd a nice bit of irony b Putnam^s Moffi'
Mime.

" The CathoUcs in New York City, in
181 7, opened an orphan asylum, which they
maintained, without assistance from the
dty or State, until some time after the year
18140, when they received on a perpetual
lease the block of ground between Fourth
and Fifth avenues and Fifty-first and Fifty-
second streets, at that time of very litde
value. On these lots they have erected two
vast and magnificent buildings, in which
they support over a thousand children, at
an annual cost to them, and not to the dty
or State, of from 1^70,000 to |i90,ooa

" I make these corrections to show that
the writer of the artide in Putnam is far
astray in his facts. There are many other
objectionable statements in the article, but
a magazine contribution without a little
spice in it would be tame and unreadable.
Thus, the allusion to the church trouble in
Auburn, and the pretty play on the name
of the church, would lose their point if the
history of that afiiair were properly under-
stood.

" Catholics do not claim to have rights
above any one else, but they know they have
equal rights with others. They have no
notion of their church ever becoming the
' Established Church,' and they are just as
certain that no other church shall ever as-
sume to be the ' Established Church ' in
the United States. B. J. McQuatd,

" Bishop of Rochester."

This is conclusive as far as it goes.
We do not know the money value of
our churches, the sites and buildings
of our schools, colleges, orphan asy-
lums, hospitals, religious houses, and
academies ; but it is possible that in
the five dioceses into which the State
is ecclesiastically divided it may be
half as much as the value of the real
estate owned by Trinity Church in
this dty; but be it more or be it less,
the property of the church has been
bought and paid for, so far as paid
for at all, widi very slight exceptions,
by the voluntary ofiferings of the
faithful, and none of it has been
obtained by the despoiling of Pro-
testant owners. Very little of it is
due to public grants, and the few lots
leased us by the dty at a nominal rent
for a term of years, though of great
value now, were of little value when

582

"Our EstaNishtd Church"

^
^

leased. Nor have these lots io any
case been leased for sites of churches,
but in all cases for purposes in which
the city itself is no less deeply inter-
ested than the Catholics themselves,
The grants to the reformatory for Ca-
tholic boys, though apparently large,
are measures of economy on the part
of the city ; for we caji manage refor-
matories and take care of our juvenile
delinquents far more economically
than the city or Protestant institu-
tions can. The industrial school of
the Sistere of Charily is a public bene-
fit, and llic city and the State would
save money were all their hospitals
and asylums placed under the charge
of these good sisters, or of the kin-
dred congregation of the Sisters of
Mercy. Our hospitals, again, are as
open to Protestants as to Catholics,
It is never a Catholic practice to in-
quire what is a man's religion before
rendering him assistance. Whoever
needs our help, whatever his religion,
is our neighbor.

The city has made donations, as
far as we are aware, only to such
Catholic institutions as are established
for really public objects, and which
in their operations save the city from
what would otherwise be either a
public nuisance or a public charge.
Take the case of Catholic orphan
asylums. The orphans they receive
and provide for would otherwise be
a charge on tlie city treasury. Take
the institute of the Sisters of the
Good Shepherd. It has for its ob-
ject a noble charity, that of rescuing
and reforming fallen women. These
victims of vice and propagators of
cofTuption, received and cared for by
the Sisters of the Good Shepherd,
and generally restored to health, vir-
tue, and usefiilness, would, if not
taken up by them, fall into the hands
of the correctional police, and the
city would have the expense of ar-
resting, punishing, and providing for

cd^
dlred^l

them in the house of correc^on,

the penitentiary, or its ho^iitals.
Catholic charity not only accoia-
pltshes a good object, confers a ]>ulr-
lie benefit, but saves a heavy expef
to the Commissioners of Public C
ties and Correction, It is only a
Catholic institutions as tend dire _
to promote a public good, and I
lighten the public expense, that the
city aids with its grants and dou-
tions. It aids in the same way, 9
to a far greater extent, similar f
tant institutions, such as the Hoj
of the Friendless, the House \
Mercy, the Sodeiy for the 1
tion of Juvenile Delinquents, i
Christian's Aid Society, the Mage'
Society, the Nursery and {
Hospital, etc., for the most part, atS^
tutsans founded with an anti-Cotho-
lic intent.

The Magazine asserts, the " Stale
paid out, in 1866, for benedactiou
under religious control, $i29/>i5.49.
... of which the trifling sum of
$134,174.14 went to the re^ioBK
purposes" of the Catholic Omrdi.
We have not been able to fitul«0
tide of proof of this, and the i
of reckoning adopted by J
so false, and its general i
is so great, that, in the s
specific proof, we must presume 9
be untrue, and made only Ibi a t>
tional effect The n ' " "
seems to count as Catholic suckfl
slitutions and associations as the]^
dies' Mission Society, The New V
Magdalen Benevolent Sodeiy,
dies' Union .\id Society, Nursery xai
Children's Hospital, Ladies' lloroe
Missionary Society, Five Points C
pel Union Mission, Five T
House of Industry, Young
Christian Assodation, and we
not how many more, all Prote
and not a few of them designed, m
pretext of charily, and by really M
dering some physical rdief to 1

"Our Established Church^

583

poor and destitute, to detach the Ca-
tholic needy, and especially Catholic
children, from the church, and yet
an of them are beneficiaries of the
State or city. No institution sup-
ported, even for proselyting purposes,
by a union of two or more evangeli-
cal sects, is reckoned by Putnam as
Protestant or sectarian. We hold them
to be thoroughly Protestant, and ra-
bidly sectarian.

TTie sensational writer in Putnam
complains of the city for leasing to
Catholics valuable real estate, at a
nominal rent, for a long term of years.
Only one such lease, that for the
House of Industry for the Sisters of
Charity, has been made in this city
since 1847. Th^ site of St. Patrick's
Cathedral, which he pretends is leased
by the city, at a rent of one dollar a
year, has been owned by Catholics
for over sixty years, and was bought
and paid for by them with their own
money, as the venerable Bishop of
Rochester asserts. The only other
instance named, that of the Nursery
and Children's Hospital, Fifty-first
street and Lexington avenue, is a
Protestant, not a Catholic institution.
The writer should not take grants
and donations made to Protestants
as grants and donations made to
Catholics. Between Catholics and
Protestants there is a difierence !

The writer's statement of the huge
endowments the church will have, at
the rate the city and State are endowing
her, in 1918, we must leave to the
consideration of the fiiture Putnams.
Sufficient for the day is the evil there-
o£ We will only say that the church
has had, thus far, in this country, no
endowment, and has no source of
revenue but the unfailing charity of
the faithful. The magnificent reve-
nues of our churches, colleges, hos-
pitals, asylums, etc, so dazzUng to the
writer in Putnam^ are all in his eye.
We have not a single endowed church,

convent, college, school, hospital, or
asylum in the Union! We do great
things with small means, and what
to Protestants would seem to be no
means at all, because He who is
great is with us, and because we rely
on charity, and charity never faileth.

We have sufficiency disposed of
the property question, and vindicated
the State and city from the charge
of undue favoritism to our church.
No charge can be more untrue or
more unjust. A few words on the
common school question, and we dis-
miss the article in Putnam^ which has
already detained us too long.

The writer in Putnam attempts to
be so ironical and so witty, and so
readily sacrifices sobriety and truth
to point, that he must excuse us
from following him step by step in
his account of our relation to the
common schools. We know well
the common school system of this
and other States. We — ^we speak
personally — received our early educa-
tion in tiie public schools, were for
five years a common school teacher,
and for fifteen years had charge of
the schools in tiie place of our resi-
dence, as school commitee-man. We
have not one word to say against
them as schools for the cMdren of
those who are willing to secularize
education. We make no war on the
system for non-Catholics. If they
wish the system for themselves, we
ofier them no opposition. Indeed,
for those who hold the supremacy
of the secular order, and believe that
every department of life should be
secularized, no better system can be
devised. We oppose it not when in-
tended for them, but only when in-
tended for us and we are taxed to
support it We hold the spiritual
order superior to the secular, and
wish our children to be educated
accordingly.
We hold that education, or the

584

"Our Established Chunk"

instnictioD and traioing of children
and youth, is a function of the church,
a function which she cannot dis-
charge except in schools exclusively
under her management and control.
This education and training can be
successfully given only in the Catholic
family and the Catholic school. In
this country, for reasons we need not
stop to enumerate, the Catholic school
is especially necessary. We do not,
by any means, oppose what is called
secular learning, and in no country
where they have not been prevented
by a hostile or anti-Catholic govern-
ment, have Catholics failed to take
the lead in all branches of secular
learning and science. All the great
literary masterpieces of the world,
since the downfall of Pagan Rome,
are the productions either of Catho-
lics or of men who have received a
Catholic training. Few as we are, and
great as are the disadvantages under
which we labor in this country. Catho-
lics even here compare more than favo-
rably, at this moment, in secular learn-
ing and science, with non-Catholics.
The religious training they receive
from the church, the great catholic
principles which she teaches them in
the catecliism and in all her services,
tend to quicken and purify the mind,
and to fit it to excel even in secular
science and learning. The Catholic
has the truth to start fix>m, and why
should he not surpass all others ?
No! we do not oppose, we favor secu-
lar learning and science; but we op-
pose separating secular training from
rehgious training, and can never con-
sent to the setulariiation of educa-
tion. Here is where we and the
present race of Frotestants ditfer.
It is because the common schools
secularize, and are intended by
their chief supporters to secularize,
education and to make all life secu-
lar, that we oppose them, and refuse
to send our children to them where we

can possibly avoid it Even if religions
education is given elsewhere, in the
family or in the Sunday-school, the
evil is only partially neutralized. The
separation of the secular from the
religious tends to create a. fcatfid
dualism in both individual and social
life, to place the spiritual and the
secular in the relation of antagonism,
each to the other, which rendt-is icD-
practicable that concord between the
two orders so necessary to the har-
monious development of the indivi-
dual life and the promotion of the
well-being and progress of society.
We insist, therefore, on having our
chQdren and youth trained in scbods
under charge of the church, that in
them the spiritual and the secular
may be harmonized as necesnty
parts of one dialectic whole.

Such are our views and wisbei,
and such our conscientious coavic-
tion of duty. Whether wc arc rigbt
or wrong, is no question for the state
or civil authority to settle. 'Ilic Male
has no competency in the matter.
It is bound to respect an4 protect
every citizen in the free ami fuU t»-
joyment of the freedom of hb coo-
science. We stand before the state
on a footing of perfect 0()ualjty wilh
non-Catholics, and have the same
right to have our Catholic conscience
respected and protected, thai ihqr
have to have their non-Catholic and
secularized conscience respected aod
protected. We do not ask the MUe
to impose our conscience on \hiex&,KM
to compel them to adopt and fuUow
our views of education ; but we deny
its right to impose thein on us, of
even to carry out their views of edu-
cation in any degree at our expense.
The Catholic conscience biO(^ tbe
state itself so far, but only so far. aa
Catholics are concerned. Non-Co-
thohcs are the great majoiily of the
population, ai least five to our ODc^
throughout tbe State, and ihey hniH

"Our Established ChurchP

585

the power, if they choose to exercise
it, to control the State and to deny us
our equal rights; but that does not
alter the fact that we have equal
rights, and that the State is bound to
respect and cause them to be respected.
The State no doubt is equally bound
to respect and protect the equal rights
of non-Catholics, but no more than it
is bound to respect and protect ours.

On this question of education, we
and non-Catholics no doubt stand at
opposite poles. We cannot accept
their views, and they will not accept
ours. Between them and us there
is no common ground on which we
and they can meet and act in concert
They feel it as keenly as we do. Now
as the State owes equally respect and
protection to both parties, and has
no right to attempt to force either to
conform to the views of the other, its
only just and honest course is to
abandon the policy of trying to bring
both together in a sjrstem of common
schools. Catholic and non-Catholic
education cannot be carried on in
common. In purely secular matters,
Catholics and Protestants can act in
common, as one people, one commu-
nity; but in any question that in-
volves the spiritual relations and du-
ties of men, we and they are two
communities, and cannot act in con-
cert; and as both are equal before the
State^ it can compel neither to give
way to the other. This may or may
not be a disadvantage; butitisa&ct,
and must by all parties be accepted
as such.

The solution of the problem would
present no difficulty, were the non-
Catholics as willing to recognize our
ri^ts as we are to recognize theirs.
They support secular schools, and
wish to compel us to send our chil-
4]ren to them, because they hope thus
to secularize die minds of our chil-
dren — enUghUn them, they say; darken
them, we say— and detadi them from

the church, or, at least, so emascu-
late their CathoUcity that it will dif-
fer only in name from Protestantism.
They regard common schools, in
which secular learning is diverted
from religious instruction and train-
ing, as a most cunningly devised
engine for the destruction of the
church ; and therefore they insist on it
with all the energy of their souls, and
the strength of their hatred of Cath-
olicity. It gives them the forming
of the character of the children of Ca-
tholics, and thus in an indirect way
makes the State an accomplice in
their proselyting schemes. Here
arises all the difficulty in the case.
But, whether they are right or wrong
in their calculations, the State has no
more right to aid them against us,
than it has to aid us against them.
If it will, as it is bound to do, respect
and protect the rights of conscience, or
real religious hberty, the only solid
basis of civil liberty, it must do as the
continental governments of Europe
do, and divide die public schools into
two classes; the one for Catholics,
and the other for non-Catholics; that
is, adopt the system of denomination-
al schools, or, rather, as we would
say, Catholic schools — ^under the man-
agement and control of the church —
for Catholics, and secular schools — un-
der its own management and control,
— for the rest of the community. Let
the system stand as it is for non-Ca-
tholics, by whatever name they may
be called, and let the State appro-
priate to Catholics, for the support of
schools approved by their churdi,
their proportion of the school fund,
and of the money raised by public
tax for the support of public schools,
simply reserving to itsdf the right,
through the courts, to see that
the sums received are honesdy
applied to the purposes for which
they are appropriated. The State
may, if it insists, fix the minimum of

586

" Our Establislud CkmrckT

secular instruction to be given, and
withhold all or a portion of the pub-
lic monep from all Catholic schools
that do not come up to it

This, if the State, for public reasons,
insists on universal education, is the
best way of solving the difficulty,
without violence to the equal rights
of either Catholics or non-Catholics.
The State would thus respect all con-
sciences, and at the same time se-
cure the education of all the children
of the land, which is, no doubt, a
public desideratum. Another way
would be, to exempt Catholics from
the tax levied for the support of the
public schools, and give to the
schools they maintain their propor-
tion of the school fund held in trust by
the State, and leave Catholics to estab-
lish and manage schools for their own
children in their own wav, under the
super\'ision and control of the church.
Either way of soK-ing the difficulty
would answer our purpose, and we
venture to sav that one or the other
method of dealing i^ith the public
school question will ere long have to
be adopted, whate%*er the opposidon
excited.

The American sense of justice al-
ready begins to levoh at the manifest
wrong of taxing us to support schools
from which our conscience wiQ not
permit us to derive any benefit At
present, we pay our quota to the
support of the public schools, whkh
we cannot with a good conscience
use. and are obliged to support our
o«Ti schools in addition. This is
grcrssly unjust, and in direct violadon
of the equal rights guaranteed us by
the co-i5~jrion, and the reli^I^us
liberty which is the load bcvis: of
tht cour.tr^-. The rjbsidies granted
to i'^me cf our parochial schools in
thi^ c::v zzt an arremii:, and an ban-
cr*:,!,- o.r.e-ni'L to mitizate the in^us-
t:<,e »■>.:: h is cone us bv the cj-mm^n
sc^>^. sts.-rm. ij.

priatcd. as cocsu5enbIe as they maj
seem, are isi \A3w the sums coQea-
ed from 3s« »:t tiie sizpptDrt of die
public scboos. The pcincic:4e on
niiich the CGcxmfr^a scho^Dl system is
foimded xs^ chat the weakh of the
Scale sbocld cdarare die chzldrm of
theScase. Oae third, ar lease, of die
childreD ob tss cdt. sze the childrBi
of CadH)33C pznesaL and bdoo^ to die
Caux^K Ccuicii. Tlfic sum appnv
priaxed f jr rise pc:&r schools in tUi
dty.die presess: year. & Ef we are ca^
lecily mioRae^ soczaetcin^ over tfaice
milhoiis oc dcIJErsL *y^ f ^rf^-J^ ait
cntided to cce :£2d of ic or to one
milhon of dcTjg^ Tbey do not it*
OQve for taes* scSkmks eiui a diird of
one ncSoaa— etea a ocor dip ^ to die
most fTJggeraapd satwnfflts of
Fubums Jii^msamt zsA rise sects-
as — a2>i sMchiztg Eke die
cf rie *?cbo: scaod tu
dscy JCT cotc^eSed to pay;
it B urcoesSec i^ir oas is uk

bcs are

Sate and dar: We

br tbe
no ttvon.

bat ve demod i^scxaeL j^i that our
equal n^jiss wzfh dc&-Cac20tic dn-
zess be re sy pragd. az»i rrrcected.

tne snms ajrr:-

tha: ve s3M»dd nfcr lo a-rcice — poincs
viiSch are imimaed. xad 9>x m^csed,
to t^ an 1^ Tnrnas <3f saaonnt anti-
Ijixtqs axkc a^i^cs ; but oar

ji^esice. is ci-

DO can55eDce in xsy cf his staK-
mess. He pr7>««r eSbcrsoIIy that
k is xmime ihg Seizes caxmoc he;
for n5er has '»*«"^'l'"^-»'^^ thev net
Goh- be, bis lie bi^pgqr. Even the
£=ii-CarbQbr Aabot 2&&s re*baked him
for his }nity, aoid ^ Ls even dis-
gnscsd aH iur-iina5ed a^ moderate
PrarfsgnDtt; He hss osite overshot
his n£fL Bnt he &k as k nuv. we
have cmmdcBoe m ^e j^zscce and
luih: sezxse of die pes body of oar

Mark IV.

S87

countrymen and fellow-citizens, and
we do not believe, however much
they dislike the church, that they will
persevere in a course manifestly un-
just to Catholics, and repugnant to
the first principles of American liber-
ty, after becoming once aware of its
bad character.

As to the subsidies granted by the
Legislature to Catholic charitable and
educational institutions, they have
been far less than are difb--as the Hoil
John £. Devlin justly remarked in the
Convention, not ten per cent of the
amoimt granted. And it has been
no crime on our part to accept what
has been offered us ; for we have re-
ceived and accepted them only for
purposes of public utility and com-
mon humanity. Nor are we responsible
for the action of the State Legislature ;
iot it is composed chiefly of non-Ca-
tholicS; and by a large majority

elected by non-Catholics. Catholics
are by no means the majority
of electors in the State. We insti-
tute no inquiry into the motives that
have influenced the members of the
Legislature ; we never assign bad or
sinister motives, when good and pro-
per motives are at hand. We presume
the motive has been a sense of jus-
tice toward a large and growing
class of the community, whose rights
have for a long time been trampled
on or disregarded. To condemn them,
is not at all creditable to the rabid
Protestant press, and, in our judg-
ment, is very bad policy. However
it may be with the Protestant leaders,
the majority of the American people
are sincerely and earnestly attached
to the American doctrine of equal
rights, and will no more consent to
its manifest violation in the case of
Catholics than of non-Catholics.

MARK IV.

WHY an ye afraid, O ye of little fiuth?**

As if the storm meant Him ;
Or 'cause Heaven's face is dim.

His needs a cloud.
Was ever fix)ward wind
That could be so unkind.
Or wave so proud?
The wind had need be angry, and the water black,
That to the mighty Neptime's self dare threaten wrack.

There is no storm but this
Of your own cowardice

That braves you out :

You are the storm that mocks

Yourselves ; you are the rocks

Of your own doubt

Besides this fear of danger there's no danger here,

And he that here fean danger does deserve his fear.

Crashaw.

$88

Daybreak.

DAYBREAK.

CHAPTER XII.

80 AS BY FXRI.

When spring came again, the let-
ters from Mr. Granger were less fre-
quent, and as weather and work grew
warmer, the family had to content
themselves with a few lines at irre-
gular and sometimes long intervals.

They were not to be anxious, he
wrote, even if they should not hear
from him for several weeks. As the
newspapers and the speech-makers
had it, we were making history every
day, and he must write his litUe para-
graph with the rest It took both
hands to wield the pen, and he
must have a care to make no blots.
Which was a roundabout way of
saying that his military duties requir-
ed all his time. They must remem-
ber that "no news is good news,"
and try to possess their souls in pa-
tience.

On his next furlough he would

" Shoulder his crutch, and tdl how fields were won,'*

or lost ; but till then a hasty scrawl
must suffice. He thought of them
whenever he lay down to rest; and
sometimes, when he was in the midst
of the hurry and noise of battle, he
would catch a flitting vision of the
peaceful fireside where friends sat
and thought of him. That home
was to liim like the headland beacon
to the mariner far away on the rough
horizon, and threw its p)oint of tender
light on every dark event that surged
about him.

"I shall be there before long.
Meantime, good-by, and don't
worr}'."

From Mr. Southard they had
heard less frequently, and less at

length. His monthly letters to hii
congregation were usually accompa-
nied by a few lines addressed to Mr.
or Mrs. Lewis, telling them in rather
formal fashion where he was, and as
little as possible of what he was do-
ing. At present, the regiment of
which he was chaplain still had tbdr
quarters at New Orleans.

'^I am afraid he thinks that we
don't care much to hear from him,'
Margaret said, the three ladies sitdns
together, and talking the matter ova,
'' Suppose we all write just as freeijr
as we do to Mr. Granger ? We can
tell him all the little housdMU
events, and how his chair and Ins
place at the table are still called \a^
and kept for him. I think he would
be pleased, don't you. Aura ?"

" I do. It isn't a wonder that he
writes formally to us when he gets
such ceremonious answers."

" To complain of cold replies to
cold letters is like the wolf accusing
the lamb of mudd3ring the brook,*'
retorted Mrs. Lewis. '* I shall waste
none of my sweetness on the desot
air, and you will be a pair of simpk-
tons if you do. We might expend
ourselves in those gushing episdes to
him, and after a month or two we
should probably get about three
lines apiece in return, each line cool-
er than the last, and not an intima-
tion, that he wasn't bored."

" But I think he would be pleased,"
repeated Margaret doubtfully, begin-
ning to waver.

" What right or reason have yon
to think so when he never says that
he is ?" Mrs. Lewis persisted. ** For
my part, I think that friendship is wor-
thy of acknowledgment from king or
kaiser— that is, if he wants it; and if

Daybreak.

589

Mr. Southard isn't an iceberg, then
he is a very selfish and arrogant man,
that's all. You may do as you like.
But I shall never again try to get a
simbeam out of that cucumber. I
have spoken."

The entrance of Mr. Lewis put an
end to their discussion. He came in
with a very cross face.

<" Here I've got to start for Balti-
more, with the thermometer at eighty
degrees, and the Confederates swar-
ming up the Shenandoah by tens
of thousands, and ready to pounce on
anybody south of New York ! * Why
have I got to go ?' Why, my agent
is on the point of absconding with
the rents, and the insurance policies
on my houses are out, and I can't re-
new them in Boston or New York for
love or money; and if things are not
seen to there, we shall be beggars.
You needn't laugh, madam ! It's no
joke. I've just seen a man straight
from Baltimore, and he says that ras-
cal is all but ready to start on a Eu-
ropean tour with my money in his
pocket. I shall get a sunstroke, or
have an apoplexy ; I know I shall."

^' A cabbage-leaf in your hat might
prevent the sunstroke," his wife said
serenely. "As to the apoplexy, I am
not so safe about that, if you keep
on at this rate. When do you
start ?"^

''To-night; and now it is two
o'clock. The rails may be ripped up
at any hour. You see now, Mrs.
Lewis, the disadvantage of living in
one town and having your property
in another. You would come to
Boston. Nothing else would suit
you. And the consequence is, that
I've got to go posting down to Balti-
more in July, to collect my rents."

Mrs. Lewis laughed merrily.

" * The woman whom thou gavest
me' — that's the way, fix)m Adam
down. Who would think, girls, that
this is the very first intimation I ever

had that Mr. Lewis would rather live
in Baltimore than Boston ! But, bless
me! I must see to his valise, and
have an early dinner. As for the
raid panic, I will risk you. I don't
believe there's much the matter."

Margaret had been looking stead-
ily at Mr. Lewis ever since he began
speaking. She said not a word while
the others exclaimed and questioned,
and finally went out to prepare for
his journey; but some sharp work
was going on in her mind, an electric
crystallization of vague and floating
impressions, impulses, and thoughts
into resolve.

It had been weeks since they
heard fix>m Mr. Granger. She had
not been very much troubled about
it-— had, ind^d, wondered that she
felt so little anxiety ; but her quietude
was by no means indifference or se-
curity. She could not have defined
her own feelings. For the last week
she had not uttered his name, had
shnmk with an unaccountable reluc-
tance firom doing so, and, worse yet,
had foimd it impossible to pray for
him.

Her other prayers she said as usu-
al ; but when she would have prayed
for his safe return, the words died
upon her lips. She was neither ex-
cited nor distressed; she was, per-
haps, more calm than usual. Her
hands were folded, her face upraised,
she had placed herself in the presence
of God; but if a haiid had been laid
upon her lips she could not have
been more mute. A physical weak-
ness seemed to deprive her of the
power of speech. This was not once,
but again, and yet again.

Margaret had the most absolute
faith in the power of prayer. She
believed that we may sometimes ob-
tain what we had better not have,
God giving for his word's sake to
those who will not be denied, but
chastening the petitioner for his lack

"590

Daybrmi.

of submission by means of the very
gift be grants. She had said to her-
self, " If a sword were raised to strike
one I love, it could not fall while
I prayed. He has promised, aud I
believe."

But now, if the sword hung there
indeed, she could utter no word to
stay its falling. She felt herself for-
bidden, bound by a restraint she
could not throw off.

"Well, Margaret," Mr. Lewis said
at length, "what are you thinking
of? You look as if your brain were
a galvanic battery in full operation,
sending messages in every direction
at once. The sparks have been com-
ing out of your eyes for the last five
minutes."

The crystallizing process was over,
and her resolution lay there in her
mind a.s bright and hard as though it
were the work of years.

"I'm going to Washington," she
said. " I have been thinking of it
this week. I wQI go with you to-
night, if you please."

Of course there were wonderments,
and questions, and objections. Ac-
cording to all the canons of proprie-
ty, it was highly improper for a lady
to go South under the existing state
of things, unless there were bitter
need. It was warm, and it was hard
travelling night and day, as he would
have to do. He would like to have her
company, of course, but he didn't
see —

" No matter about your seeing,"
interrupted Miss Hamilton, rising.
"If you won't have me with you,
I'll go alone. Please don't say any
more. Cannot you understand, Mr.
Lewis, that there are times when
trivial objections and opposition may
be Very irritating? We will not dis-
3ns of propriety just now.
I have something of more consc-
ience to attend to."

Well, don't be cross," he said

good-naturedly. " I won't
other word. If you can si
journey, I shall be glad to hai
go, But you will have to be
in getting your traps ready
wife and Aurclia ever arc"

" I can be ready in fifteen nimita
to go anywhere," was tbc nplf-
" Now I will go tell Mr. l^wi*."

Mrs. Lewis saw at a glance tkc
opposition was useless. Morcom,
she was one of those penoat uto
can allow for exceptional cases, aj
distinguish between rashness ouil »
spi ration.

" I know it seems odd," Mxijue
said to her; "but I must go. I fed
impelled. I would go if I had to
walk. You will be good, ami nfac
my part, won't you? Don't xAmf-
body where I have gone — nobodftet
any right to know — and take cuerf
my little Doia. I'm going op UiIk
State House now, but will be tei
by the time dinner is ready,"

" I wouldn't venture to stop fcff iJ
I could," Mrs. Lewis said. " Mi^-
ret is not given to flying off on tiD-
gents, and this start may mcu lDa»
thing. She has perception ■ax eWf
pore of her,"

In the messenger's room at Ac
State House a score of persoo) «ttt
in waiting.

" I would like to see the gcnaoa
a few minute," Margaret saJi£

" You will have to wait your taa.

ma'am," answered a very authoriutin

individual. " ITic gov'ner's Uawa

douslybusy — ovcrwhclnicvl "uli • ■"*

— hasn't had time to get ':■■.•■ '^"'

yet Just sit down and «a :. ..i ' 1

will let him know as soon ai liiae u

a chance. If you tell mc your b«B»-

ness, I might raenbon it to him.**

"Thank you! Which is hii nrani ?"

He pointed to a door. " Hot yoa

can't go in now. I'U icll him pro-

ently. if you ^ve me yoor name,"

^'^'ith ^e most suUtme diac;ganJ w

Daybreak.

S9I

formalities, Miss Hamilton walked
straight toward the door indicated.

" But I tell you you can't go in
there," said the messenger angrily,
attempting to stop her.

For answer, she opened the door,
and walked into the room where the
governor sat at a table, with a sec-
retary at each side of him. He
looked up with a frown on seeing
a visitor enter unannounced, but
rose immediately as he recognized
her.

"That's right I'm glad you did
not wait," he said. Then as she
glanced at his companions, added,
" Come in here," and led her through
a small ante-room where two young
ladies sat writing, and into the va-
cant council-chamber.

" I will detain you but a minute,"
she said hastily. "I am going to
start for Washington to-night, and I
want to visit the hospitals there.
Will you give me a letter to some
one who will get me permission? I
am not siure that I shall find an ac-
quaintance in the city at this season,
except the family to whose house I
shall go, and they are people of no
influence. Besides, I do not wish to
have any delay."

"Certainly; with pleasure! I will
give you letters that will take you
through everything without a ques-
tion. But what in the world are you
going there now for? It is hardly
safe. My autograph will stand a
pretty good chance of falling into the
hands of Mosby."

" I am uneasy about MY. Granger,**
she replied directly. "We haven't
.heard fi:om him for weeks, and I
must know if there is anything the
matter. He has been a good friend
to me. He saved my life once, and
I owe him everything. We are only
friends, you know; but that word
means something with me. Do you
think there is any impropriety in my

going ? Mr. Lewis goes with me as
far as Baltimore."

" Not the least impropriety in life,"
was the prompt reply. " I won't say
a word against your going. I always
think that when any person, man or
woman, gets that raised look that I
see in your face, slow coaches had
better roll oflf the track. Come, now,
and I'll write your letters."

"You are worth a million times
your weight in gold !" Margaret ex-
claimed. "You are one of the few
persons who don't carry a wet blanket
about in readiness to extinguish peo-
ple. I cannot tell how I thank you !"

The gentleman laughed.

" Rather an extravagant valuation,
considering the present percentage,
and my poimds avoirdupois. As
for wet blankets, I never did much
believe in 'em."

While the governor wrote, Marga-
ret stood at his elbow and watch-
ed the extraordinary characters that
grew to life beneath his pen.

"Are you sure they will under-
stand what those mean ?" she asked
timidly.

"They will know the signature,"
he replied, making a dab over a let-
ter, to indicate that an i was some-
where in the vicinity. " You can use
them as cartes — ^well — noires^ I sup-
pose, on the strength of which you
are to ask anything you please.
Choate and I" — ^here a polysyllable
was dashed across the whole sheet —
"had a vocation for lettering tea-
boxes, you know. There! now you
had better use either of these first, if
it is just as convenient, and keep Mr.
Lincoln's till the last. But aren't you
afraid of being stopped on the way ?
Everything is in a heap down there."

" So I hear ; but I feel as if we
shall get through."

" Don't mention to any one about
my going, will you ?" she whispered,
as they went to the door.

Daybreak,

593

know but I'd as lief stand my chance
of a minie-ball as run the risk of be-
ing knocked into raiboad-pi. A slug
is a neat thing; but these smash-ups
are likely to injure a fellow's personal
appearance."

" There they are !" exclaimed an-
other, who had been watching
through a glass ever since they left
Balthnore. "I should guess that
there's only a score of cavalry; but
they may have more behind. Do
you see? Just over the hill. It's
a pretty even thing which of us
reaches the crossing first. Not above
a mile ahead, is it ?"

He of the drawl, a cavalry captain,
turned to Margaret. "Do you ob-
ject to fire-arms, ma'am ?" he asked,
in much tlie same tone of voice he
would have used in asking if she ob-
jected to cigar-smoke.

" Not when there is need of them,"
she replied.

He pulled a beautiful silver-mount-
ed revolver out of his pocket, and
carefully examined the barrels.

"This has been like a father to
me," he said with great tenderness.
**It's all the family I have. The
barrels I call my six little sisters.
Each one has a name. They've got
pretty sharp tongues, but I like the
sound of 'em ; and they always speak
to the point. Jennie is my favorite
— seel her name is engraven, with
the date — ever since she helped me
out of a hobble at Ball's Bluff. I
was playing cat and mouse with a
fellow there, he with his rifle aimed,
waiting to get a shot at something
besides my boot or the end of my
beard, and I hanging on the off-side
of my horse, clinging to saddle and
mane. I was brought up on horse-
back, and have spent a good part of
my time scouring over the Southwest,
Missouri, Texas, and thereabouts;
but of course I couldn't hang there
for ever. Well, just as I was think-

VOL. IX— 38

ing that I should have to drop, or
straighten up and take my slug like
a man, I managed to spare a finger
and thumb, and got Paterfamilias
here out of my belt. Where can one
better be than in the bosom of his
family ? says I. I didn't hurt the
fellow much; I didn't mean to.
When two men have been dodging
and watching that way for some time,
they get to have quite an affection
for each 6ther. I spoilt his aim,
though; and I fancy that he will
never be a very good writer any
more."

"Aren't you sorry now that you
came ?" Mr. Lewis asked Margaret.

" No," she said brighdy ; " I feel
as though we shall get through."

A new spirit was beginning to stir
in her veins. The speed of the cars
was of itself exciting — those long
strides at the full stretch of the iron
racer, when the wheels, instead of
measuring the track with a steady
roll, rise up and drop again with a
sharp click, as regular as verse; not
that cantering line of Virgil's, "Quad-
rupedante " and the rest, but a hard,
iambic gallop. Besides this, the
sense of danger and power combined
was intoxicating. For, after all, dan-
ger is intolerable only when we have
nothing to oppose to it.

There had been trees and rocks,
but they were changed to a buzz, the
road became a dizziness, and the
whole landscape swam. There was
something near the track tliat looked
about as much like horsemen as the
shadow of the same would look in
broken, swift-running water; a few
shots were heard, there was a little
rattle of shivered glass; then all the
men broke into a shout.

" Did you hear Jennie smile ?"
asked the captain, as he put Pater-
familias carefully into his belt again.

Margaret laughed with delight,
and gave her handkerchief a little

594

Daybreak,

flutter out the window. "I can
guess how chain-lightning feels," she
said; "only it can't go on minutes
and minutes."

CHAPTER XII.
THE COURT OF THE KING.

After their little adventure, our
travellers rode triumphlandy into
Washington, and Miss Hamilton
found her friends glad to receive her
the more so that she came as a
boarder, and their house was nearly
empty.

The Blacks had, in their younger
days, been humble followers of Doc-
tor Hamilton; and though their ac-
quaintance with Margaret was slight,
as they felt a kind of duty toward all
the connection, they were proud to
receive her.

'* I am anxious about friends whom
I have not heard from for some time,"
she explained; "and I have come
here to look round a little."

"Who do you know in the army ?"
Mrs. Black inquired, not too delicate-
ly, considering the reserve with which
her visitor had spoken.

Miss Hamilton was not learned in
the slippery art of evasion. She sim-
ply ignored the question.

" I am exhausted," she said. " Of
1 course I did not sleep any last night;
.and the ride has been fatiguing. I
have but one desire, and that is to
rest. Can you show me to my room
at once ? I feel as though I should
drop asleep as soon as my head
touches the pillow. When I do sleep,
please don't wake me."

When she lay down to rest the
. afternoon sun was gilding the trees in
the square opposite, flaring on the
long white-washed walls of the hos-
pital in their midst, and brightening
momentarily ithe pale faces pressed

close to the window-bars of the jail
beyond. When she woke from the
deep and dreamless sleep that seemed
to have almost drawn the breath
from her lips, it was night Some
one had set a star of gas burning in
her room, and left a plate of coke
and a glass of wine on the stand at
her bedside.

Margaret raised herself like one
who has been nearly drowned and
still catches for breath, gathered her
benumbed faculties and recoUeaed
where she was. All was quiet within
the house; and without there was
stillness of another sort, a silence that
was living and aware, a sense as
of thousands waking and watching.
Now and then there came from die
hospital across the street some vokse
of a sleepless sufferer, the long, low
moan of almost exhausted endonmce,
the broken cry of delirium, or the
hoarse gasp of pneumonia.

After a while these soimds became
deadened, and finally lost in another
that rose gradually, deepening like
the roll of the sea heard at night

Margaret went to her window and
leaned out The sultry air was bca«-
ly-laden with fragrance from the flow-
er-gardens around, and in the skr
the large stars trembled like over-full
drops of a golden show^cr descending
through the ambient purple dusL

That sea-roll grew nearer as she
listened, and became the measured
tramp of men. Soon they appeared
out of the darkness at the left march-
ing steadily line after line, and com-
pany after company, to disappear
into darkness at the right Thcjr
moved like shadows, save for that
multitudinous muffled tread, and save
that, at certain points, a street-lif^
would flash along a line of riflfr-bar
rels, or catch in a flitting q>aiUe ot
a spur or shoulder-strap. Theo.li>e
a dream, they were 9V^
and distance had sw

Daybreak,

595

from sight and hearing; and again
there was that strange, live stillness,
broken only by the complaining
voices of the sick.

As Margaret looked, the dim light
in one of the hospital-wards flared
up suddenly and showed three men
standing by a bed near one of the
windows. They lifted the rigid form
that lay there, and placed it on a
stretcher ; two of the men bore it out
and the light was lowered again,
After a little while the men appeared
outside bearing that white and silent
length between them, through the
dew and the starlight, and were lost
from sight behind the trees. When
they returned, they walked side by
side ; and what they had carried out
they brought not back again.

The watcher's heart sent out a cry :
"O Father in heaven! see how thy
creatures suffer."

In the excitement of the last part
of her journey, and the exhaustion
following it, she had almost forgotten
her object in coming; but this sight
brought it all back She remember-
ed, too, that she had been dropping
into the old way of taking all the
burden on her own shoulders; and
even in crying out for pain, she rec-
ollected the way of comfort. How
sweet the restfulness of that recol-
lection ! As though a child, wander-
ing from home, lost, weary, and terri-
fied, should all at once see the hearth-
light shinuig before him, and hear the
dear familiar voices calling his name.
She thought over the lessons learned
during that blessed retreat, that Mec-
ca toward which henceforth her
thoughts would journey whenever
her soul grew faint by the way. The
half-forgotten trust came back. Who
but He who had set the tangles of
this great labyrinth could lead the
mqr out of it ? Who but He whose
■'^ had itninK the chords of every
** ^tnun-

ing, and bring back harmony to dis-
cord? Where but with Him, the
centre of all being, could we look for
those who are lost to us on earth ?

When, long after sunrise, Mrs.
Black entered her visitor's chamber,
she found Margaret kneeling by the
window, fast asleep, with her head
resting on the sill.

There was plenty of news and ex-
citement that morning. All commu-
nication with the North was cut off,
the President and his family had come
rushing in at midnight from their
country-seat, and there was fighting
going on only a few miles out of
town. It was altogether probable
that the Confederates would be in the
city before night.

Mrs. Black told all this with such
an air of satisfaction in the midst of
her terror that Margaret made some
allowance for embellishment in the
story. Evidently the good woman
enjoyed a panic, and was willing to
be frightened to the very verge of
endurance for the sake of having it to
tell of afterward. She went about in
a sort of deUghted agony, gathering
up her spoons and forks, and giving
Httle shrieks at the least unusual
sound.

" If they should bombard the city,
my dear," she said, " we can go down
cellar. I have an excellent cellar.
It is almost certain that they will
come. We must be in a strait when
the treasury-clerks come out And
such a sight ! They passed here just
before I went up to call you, all in
their shirt-sleeves, and looking no
more like soldiers, dear, than I do
this minute. Half of them carried
their rifles over the wrong shoulder,
and seemed scared to death lest they
should go offl And no wonder; for
the way the barrels slanted was
enough to make you smile, even if
there were a bomb-shell whizzing past
your nose. The muzzles looked all

Daybreak,

597

The smaller the warrior, the greater
the martinet. Doubtless this young
man regarded his present adversary
with £ir more fierceness than he
would have shown toward a six-foot
Texan grey coat, with a belt bristling
with armor, and two eyes like two
blades.

Margaret retreated with precipi-
tance, hiding a smile, and took the
other road.

" Your pass, ma'am," said a second
soldier at the step.

" I haven't any," she said pitifully,
and looked with appealing eyes at an
officer just inside the door.

He came out immediately.

" What is your pleasure, madam ?"
he asked, touching his hat

She told her errand briefly, and
handed him the letters she had
brought.

Mrs. Black had not overrated the
power of the winsome lady. The
surgeon in charge, for this was he,
merely glanced over the letters to
learn the bearer's name and State.
He had already found her face, voice,
and gloves such as should, in his
opinion, be admitted anywhere and
at all times.

" Please come in," he said courte-
ously. '' It is almost inspection time
now, and I must be on duty. But
if you will wait in my ofiice a little
while, I shall be happy to escort you
through the wards."

^ Thank you! But cannot I go
now, by myself?" said Margaret.

He drew himself up stifl[ly, in high
dudgeon at the little value she set on
his escort " Certainly ! You can do
just as you please."

She thanked him again, and went
up the hall, utterly unconscious that
■he had been greatly honored.

The hall was very long, so long

that die docv at the furthest end look-

KmmAsmi^ only a child could go

ing^ and the

wards were built out to right and
left. She visited every one, walking
up and down the rows of beds, her
eager glance flashing from face to
face. There was no face there that
she had ever seen before. With a
faint voice she asked for the names
of those who had lately died. The
names were as strange as the faces.
Finally she sat down in one of the
wards to rest.

Ilie inside of the hospital was al-
together less gloomy than the outside
had appeared. They were in a bus-
tie of preparation for inspection, put-
ting clean white covers on the beds
and the stands, regulating the medi-
cine-table and the book-shelves,
squaring everything, looking out that
the convalescents were in trim, belt-
buckles polished, shoes bright, hair
smooth, jackets buttoned up to the
chin.

The ward looked fresh and cheer-
ful. The white walls were festooned
with evergreen, green curtains shaded
the windows,' and the floor was as
white as a daily scouring could make
it Nearly half of the patients were
dressed, and eagerly talking over the
news; and even the sickest there
looked on with interest, and brighten-
ed occasionally.

" Fly round here !" cried the ward-
master, a fair-faced, laughing young
German. " They've gone into the
next ward. Hustle those clothes out
of sight somewhere. Tumble 'em
out the window! Kohl, if you
groan while the surgeons are here,
I'll give you nothing but quinine for
a week. Can't somebody see to that
crazy fellow up there ! He's pulling
the wreath down off the wall. Pitch
into him! Tell him that he shan't
have a bit of ice to-day if he doesn't
lie still. And there's that other light-
head eating the pills all up. I'll be
hanged if he hasn't swallowed twen-
ty-five copper and opium pills ! Well,

Daybreak,

599

obstacle to her coming, had been, af-
tet all, but a vain whim.

Looking up presently, she found
that they were in the midst of what
seemed to her an army, soldiers
crowding close to the carriage, and
stretching forward and backward as
far as she could see. It was the
Sixth corps, one of them told her,
going out to meet Early and Breck-
inridge.

They were marching in a mob,
without order, plodding wearily
through the rain that just served to
wash from them the stains of their
last battle. Their faces were brown-
ed and sober, their clothes faded and
stained; many, foot-sore with long
inarches, carried their shoes in their
hands. They were little enough like
the gay troops she had seen march
away from home.

When they came to the college
hospital, it was found impossible to
reach the side-walk through that
crowd, and Margaret ordered the
driver to wait till they should pass.
As she leaned back in her carriage
and watched the living stream flow
slowly over the hill, a gentleman came
out of the hospital, and, standing on
the sidewalk opposite her, seemed to
be looking for some one among them.
Presendy his face brightened with a
recognizing smile, and he waved his
handkerchief to one who was riding
near. As the horseman drew up
between her and the sidewalk, Mar-
garet's heart seemed to leap into her
mouth. He was wrapped in a cloak,
and a wide-brimmed hat, still drip-
ping from the spent shower, shaded
his face; but she knew him at the
first glance.

« O Mr. Granger!"

A shout from the convalescents
collected outside the tent wards
drowned her glad cry, and the next
inttant she would not for the world
bave repeated it ^R« <> mdden re-

vulsion of feeling, the face that had
flushed with delight now burned
with unutterable shame and humilia-
tion.

For the first time she looked on
what she had done as the world
might look upon it — ^as Mr. Granger
himself might look upon it. Friends
or foes, he was a gentleman, and she
a lady, and not a baby. She, wan-
dering from place to place, unbidden,
in search of him, weeping, praying,
making a fool of herself, she thought
bitterly, and he sitting his horse
there gallantly, safe and merry, within
reach of her hand, showing his white
teeth in a laugh, stroking down his
beard with that gesture she knew so
well, taking off his hat to shake the
raindrops from it, and loop up the
aigrette at the side !

She had time to remember with a
pang of envy the quiet, guarded
women who sit at home, and take no
step without first thinking what the
world will say of it

" If he should thmk of me at all,"
she said to herself, " he would fancy
me at home, trailing my dress over
his carpets, making little strokes
with a paint-brush, having a care
lest I ink my fingers, or teaching
Dora to spell propriety — as I ought
to be! as I ought to be! I need a
keeper!"

But still, with her veil draAvn close,
she looked at him steadily ; for, after
all, he was going into battle, and he
was her friend.

As she looked, he glanced up at
one of the hospital windows, and im-
mediately his glance became an ear-
nest gaze. He ceased speaking, and
his face showed surprise and perplex-
ity.

"What do you see?" his fiiend
asked.

"Strange!" he muttered, half to
himself. " It is only a resemblance,
of course, but I fancied I saw there

6oo

Daybreak,

a face I know, looking out at me.
It is gone now."

AVhatever it was, the sight appear-
ed to sober as well as perplex him.
He took leave of his friend, and,
drawing back to join his regiment,
brought his horse round rather rough-
ly against Miss Hamilton's carriage.

" I beg your pardon, madam !** he
said at once, taking ofif his hat to the
veiled lady he saw there.

He must have thought her scarce-
ly courteous ; for she merely nodded,
and immediately turned her face
away.

He rode slowly on, looking back
once more to the hospital window,
and in a few minutes was out of sight

" Will you get out now ?" asked
the driver.

Margaret started.

" Why, y^s."

She went in and seated herself in
the hall. " I want to rest," she said
to a soldier who stood there. "I
don't feel quite well."

A slight, elderly lady in a black
dress, and with her bonnet a little
awry, came down the stairs, and
stood looking about as though she
expected some one.

" Can you tell me where Miss
Blank is to be found?" she asked of
the soldier to whom Margaret had
spoken.

"She has been out in the tent
wards, and there she comes," he said,
nodding toward a young woman who
came in at the door furthest from
them, and, with a face expressive of
apprehension, approached the waiting
lady.

" You wished to see me ?" she ask-
ed tremulously.

" Yes," was the reply. " You will
be ready to return home to-morrow,
or as soon as communication is re-
established. I will send your trans-
portation papers to-night. You need
not go into the wards again."

The young woman stared in speech-
less distress and astonishment, ks
eyes filling with tears.

"Is that Miss Dix?" Margaret
asked of the soldier.

"Yes," he replied. "She makes
short work of it That is one of the
best nurses, and the best dresser in
the hospital."

" Why is she dismissed ?"

"Miss Dix has probably heard
something about her. She*s a good
young woman, but the old lady is
mighty particular."

Margaret rose to meet Miss Diz
as she came along the hall.

" I am going to stay in WashingtoD
a few days," she said, " and I would
like to be useful while I am here.
Can I do anything for you ?"

" Who are you ?" asked the lady.

Margaret presented her credentials,
and Miss Dix glanced them o^-er,
then looked sharply at their owner.

" I am afraid you are too young,"
she said.

" I am twenty-eight, and I fed a
hundred," said Margaret

" Do you know anything about
nursing ?"

" As much as ladies usually know.*

" Will you go to a disagreeable
place ?"

" Yes, if it is not out of the city."

" Come, then ; my ambulance is at
the door."

In two minutes the carriage was
dismissed, and Margaret was seated
in the ambulance, and on her way
down to the city again.

" You will be very careful who you
speak to," the lady began ; " you will
dress in the plainest possible manner,
wear no ornaments, and, of course,
high necks and long sleeves. Your
hair — are those waves natural ?"

"Yes'm!" said Margaret humblyv
and was about to add that peiluqis
she could straighten them oo^ InC
checked herselC

Daybreak.

6oi

" Well, dress your hair very snug-
ly,, wear clean collars, and don't let
your clothes drag. It looks imtidy.
Is that dress quite plain ?"

Margaret threw back the thin man-
tle she wore, and showed a gray dress
of nunlike plainness.

" That will do," the lady said ap-
provingly.

Here they turned into the square,
and got out at the door of the hospi-
tal Margaret had visited the day be-
fore. She was introduced to the offi-
cer of the day, received an astonished
bow from the surgeon-in-charge in
passing, caught a glimpse of Doctor
A — : — , and was escorted to her ward.

"Be you the new lady nurse?"
asked Long Tom.

" So it seems ; but I am not quite
sure," she said.

" I'm proper glad," said Tom, with
an ecstatic grin. " I liked the looks
of you when I saw you yesterday."

" And so here I am * at the court
of the king,' " she thought.

CHAPTER XIV.
OUT OF harm's way.

Common sense goes a great way
in nursing; and when there is added
a sympathetic heart, steady nerves, a
soft voice, and a gentle hand, your
nurse is about perfect, though she
may not have gone through a regular
course of training.

Ward six considered itself highly
^Lvored in having Miss Hamilton's
ministrations, even for a few days.
The nauseous doses she offered were
swallowed without a murmur, fevered
eyes followed her light, swift step,
and men took pride in showing how
well they could bear pain when such
appiedative eyes were looking on.

Mis. Black, rushing over to expos
tnbte and entreat, became a convert
It iras certainly vecy romantic, she

said ; and since her young friend was
not treated like a common nurse, but
had everything her own way, it was
not so bad. And without, perhaps,
having ever heard the name of
Rochefoucauld, the good lady added,
" Anything may happen in Washing-
ton now."

Moreover, Miss Hamilton would
sleep and take her meals at Mrs.
Black's, which was another palliating
circumstance.

Mr. Lewis, with a fund of gibes
ready, came also to see the new
nurse. But the sight of her silenced
him.

Bending over a dying man to
catch the last whisper of a message
to those he would never see again;
speaking a word of encouragement to
one who lay with his teeth clenched
and with drops of agony standing on
his forehead ; mediating in the chro-
nic quarrel between regulars and vol-
unteers; hushing the ward, that tlie
saving sleep of an almost exhausted
patient might not be broken — ^in each
of these she seemed in her true plaf e.
As he looked on, he began to realize
how impertinent are conventionalities
when life and death are in the ba-
lance.

"I don't blame you, Margaret,"
he said seriously, '^ though I am glad
that you don't think of staying any
longer than I do. I will give you
till Friday afternoon. If we start
then, we can reach home by Sunday
morning. The track is open, and I
am just off for Baltimore. Good-
by."

She accompanied him to the door.
" If you should see Mr. Granger, or
write to him," she said, with some
confusion, "don't mention why I
came here. I am ashamed of it.'*

" Oh ! you needn't feel so," he re-
plied sooUiingly. "We have had a
nice litde adventure to pay us for
the journey; and you were breaking

602

Daybreak.

your heart with inaction and anxi-
ety."

" Women should break their hearts
at home!" she said proudly, her
cheeks glowing scarlet

That was Wednesday. Thursday
morning, as she rose from a five
o'clock breakfast to go over to the
hospital, a carriage stopped at the
door, and, looking out, she saw Mr.
Lewis coming up the walk.

O God! The blow had fallen!
No need even to look into his white
and smileless face to know that.

He stopped, and spoke through
the open window. " Come, Marga-
ret !"

Morning, was it ? Morning ! She
could hardly see to reach the car-
riage, and the earth seemed to be
heaving under her feet.

As they drove through that strange,
feverish world that the sunny summer
dav had all at once turned into, she
heard a long, heavy breath that was
almost a groan. ** O dear !" said
Mr. Lewis.

She reached out her hand to him,
as one reaches out in the dark for
support. " Tell me !"

"It is a wound in the head," he
said ; " and any wound there is bad.
I got the dispatch at Baltimore last
night, and c^me right back. They
fon^'arded it from Boston. WTiy did
not you tell me that you saw him
Monday ?"

" Saw him !"

" Then you didn't know him ?" Mr.
Lewis said. "I thought it strange
you shouldn't mention it. Louis says
that when they were going out past
Columbia College, he glanced up at
one of the windows, and saw you
leaning out and looking at him.
You were very sober, and made no
motion to speak; and after a mo-
ment your face seemed to fade away.
It made such an impression on him
that he asked to be carried there and

to that room, though it isn't an of-
ficers' hospital. He was almost so-
perstitious about it, till I told him that
you were really here."

It was true then. The intenatr
of her gaze, and the concentration of
her thoughts upon him at that no-
ment had by some mystery of nature
which we cannot explain, thoagh
guesses have been many, impressed
her image on his mind, and throvn
the reflection of it through his eyes,
so that where his glance chanced to
fall at that instant, there she had
seemed to be.

" You must try to control youisd^
Margie," Mr. Lewis went on, his
own lip trembling. " There is dan-
ger of delirium. He is afraid of it,
and watches every word he saji
He can't talk much. 1*11 give you i
chance to say all you want to; and
whenever I*m needed, you can caO
me. I will wait just outside the
door. Give your bonnet and shavl
to the lady. There, this is his lOom,
and that is yours, just across the
entry."

Then they went in.
The pleasant chamber was dean,
cool, and full of a soft flicker of light
and shade from trees and vines cot-
side. On a narrow, white bed oppo-
site the windows lay Mr. Granger.
Could it be that he was ill? His
eyes were bright, and his face flushed
as if with health. The only sign of
hurt was a little square of wet doth
that lay on the top of his head. Bnt
in health, in anything short of deadly
peril, he would have smDed on see-
ing her after so long a time, and
when she stood in such need of re-
assuring. His only welcome was an
outstretched hand, and a fixed, ear-
nest gaze.

She seated herself by the bedside.
"I have come to help take cneof j
you, Mr. Granger." Tha
faintly, << You don't look t

Daybreak,

603

" I was in high health before I got
tliis," he said, motioning toward his
head.

Perhaps he saw in her face some
sharp springing of hope ; for he clos-
ed his eyes, and added almost in a
whisper, " It isn't as wide as a barn-
door, nor as deep as a well; but it
wiU do."

The room swam round before her
eyes a moment, but she kept her seat.

Presently the surgeon came in,
and she gave place to him. But as
he removed the cloth from his pa-
tient's head, she bent involuntarily,
with the fascination of terror, and
looked, and at the sight, dropped
back into her chair again. She had
looked upon nature in her inmost
mysterious workshop, to which only
death can open the door. It was
almost like having committed a sacri-
lege.

Mr. Lewis wet a handkerchief with
cologne, and put it into her hand.
The others had not noticed her agita-
tion.

When the surgeon left the room,
he beckoned Margaret out with him.
" All that you can do is, to keep his
head cool," he said. " Don't let him get
excited, or talk much without resting.
He has kept wonderfully calm so
fer; but it is by pure force of will. I
never saw more resolution."

There was nothing to do, then, but
to sit and wait; to make him feel that
he was surrounded by loving care,
and to let no sign of grief disturb his
quiet.

She returned to the room, and Mr.
L.ewis, after bending to hold the sick
man's hand one moment in a silent
dasp, wen* out and left them to-
gether.

After a little while, when she had
resumed her seat by him, Mr. Gran-
ger spoke, always in that suppressed
Toice that told what a strain there
on- eterf nerves ^I should

have asked you to marry me, Marga-
ret, if I had gone back safe," he said,
'looking at her with a wistful, troub-
led gaze, as if he wished to say more,
but could not trust himself.

" No matter about that now," she
replied gently. "You have been a
good friend to me, and that is all I
ever wanted."

" We could be married here, if you
are willing," he went on. "Mr.
Lewis will see to everything."

Margaret lightly smoothed his fe-
verish hands. "No," she said, "I
do not wish it I didn't come for
that We are friends; no more.
Let me wet the cloth on your head
now. It is nearly dry."

He closed his eyes, and made no
answer. If he guessed confusedly
that his proposal, and what it impli-
ed, so made, was little less than an
insult, it was out of his power to help
it then. And if for a breath Marga-
ret felt that all her obligations to him
were cancelled, and that she could
not even call him friend again, it was
but for a breath. His case was too
pitifiil for anger. She could forgive
him anything now.

" I shall always stay with Dora, if
you wish it," she said softly. "Do
not have any fears for her. I will be
faithful. Trust me. I could gladly
do it for her sake, for I never loved
any other child so much. But still
more, I will take care of her for
yours."

"I arranged everything before I
came away," he said, looking up
again. And his eyes, she saw, were
swimming in tears. " I looked out for
both of you. Your home was to be
always with her, and Mr. Lewis to
be guardian for both."

Margaret could not trust herself to
thank him for this proof of his care
for her.

"Have you seen the chaplain?**
she asked) to turn the subject

6o4

Daybreak.

" Yes ; but I don't feel like seeing
him again. He does me no good,
and his voice confuses me. You are
all the minister I need" — smiling
faintlv — " and yours is the only voice
I can bear."

While he rested, she sat and stu-
died how indeed she should minister
to him.

Mr. Granger had never been bap-
tized ; and, though nominally what is
called an orthodox Congregationalist,
he held their doctrines but loosely.
He had that abstract religious feeling
which is the heritage of all noble na-
tures, the outlines of Christianity even
before Christianity is adopted, as
Madame Swetchine says ; but his ex-
perience of pietists had not been such
as to tempt him to join their number.
If a man lived a moral life, were
kind, just, and pure, it was about all
that could be required of him, he
thought. Such a life he had Hved;
and now, though he approached
death solemnly, it was with no per-
ceptible tremor, and no painful sense
of contrition.

She watched him as he lay there,
smitten down in the midst of his hfe
and of health. He was quiet, now,
except that his hands never ceased
moving, tearing slowly in strips the
delicate handkerchief he found within
his reach, pulling shreds from the
palm-leaf fan that lay on the bed, or
picking at the blanket. It was the
only sign of agitation he showed. His
face was deeply flushed, his breathing
heavy, and his teeth seemed to be set.

Once he raised himself and looked
through the open window at the tree-
tops, and the city spires and domes.
Margaret wondered if they looked
strange to him, and what thoughts he
had ; but she never knew.

After waiting as long as she dared,
she spoke to him. " Can I talk to
you a little, Mr. Granger, without
distiurbing you ?" she asked.

" Speak," he said ; " you never dis-
turb me."

She began, and without any use-
less words, explained to him the fun-
damental doctrines of the church, ori-
ginal sin, the redemption, the neces-
sity and effects of baptism. What
she said was clear, simple, and con-
densed. A hundred times during
the last two years she had studied
it over for just such need as thi&

"You know of course," she con-
cluded, " that I say this because I
want you to be baptized. Are yoa
willing ?"

" I would like to do anything that
would satisfy you," he said presenilv.
" But you would not wish me to be
a hypocrite ? You cannot think thai
baptism would benefit me, if I re-
ceived it only because you wanted
me to. I don't think that I have led
a bad life. I have not knowm^r
wronged any one. I am soit)- iax
those sins which, through human
frailty, I have committed. But if 1
were to live my life over again, I
doubt if I should do any better. No,
child, I think it would be a mod-
ery for me to be baptized now."

She changed the cloth on his bead,
laid the ice close to his burning tem-
ples, and fanned him in silence a fev
minutes.

Then she began again, repeadog
gently the command of our Savioar
regarding baptism, and his charge to
the church to baptize and teach.

" It is impossible to force convic-
tion," he said. "I cannot profes
to believe what I do not."

The words came with diffi-
culty, and his brows contracted as
if some sudden pain sbot through
them.

" I am not careless of the fixture,
dear," he said after a while. "I
know that it is awful, and uncertain;
but it is also inevitable) It b too
late now for me to change. Bm I

Daybreak.

605

wish that you would pray for me.
Let me hear you. Pray your own
way. I am not afraid of your
saints."

Margaret knelt beside the bed, and
repeated the Our Father. He listen-
ed reverently, and echoed the Amen.
She repeated the Acts, and there was
no response this time; the Creed,
and still there was no answer. She
could not rise. In faltering tones
she said the Memorare, with the re-
quest, " Obtain for this friend of mine
the gift of faith, that though lost to
me he may not be lost to himself."

Still he was silent.

All the pent emotion of her soul
was surging up, and showing the
joints in her mail of calmness. He
was going out into what was to him
the great unknown, and she, with
full knowledge of the way, could not;
make him see it. One last, vain ef-
fort of self-control, then she burst
forth with a prayer half drowned in
tears.

"O merciful Christ! I cannot
live upon the earth unless I know
that he is in heaven. Thou hast
said, Knock, and it shall be opened
unto ypu. With my heart and my
voice I knock at the door. Open to
me for thy word's sake ! Thou hast
said that whatever we ask in thy
name, we shall receive. I ask
for faith, for heaven, for my friend
who is dying. Give them for thy
word's sake! Thou hast said that
whoever does good to the least of
thy children has done it imto thee.
Remember what this man has done
for me. I was miserable, and he
comforted me. I was at the point
of death, and he saved me. I was
hungry, and he fed me. I was a
stranger, and he took me in. Oh!
look with pity on me, who in all my life
have had only one year of happiness,
but many full of sorrow ; see how my
is breakingi and hear me for

thy word's sake! for thy word's
sake!"

As her voice failed, a hand touch-
ed her head, and she heard Mr. Gran-
ger's voice.

"I cannot make you distrust the
truth of God," he said. " I do not
believe; but also, I do not know.
I am willing to do all that he requires.
Perhaps he does require this. Such
faith as yours must mean something.
Do as you will."

"May I send for a priest right
away ? And will you be baptized ?"
" Dear little friend, yes !" he
said.

"O Mr. Granger! God bless
you ! I am happy. Doesn't he keep
his promises? I will never distrust
him again."

His grave looks did not dampen
her joy. Of course it was not ne-
cessary that he should have much
feeling. The good intention was
enough. She wet his fece with ice*
water, laid ice to his head, put the
fan in his hand, in her childish, joy-
ful way, shutting his fingers about it
one by one, then went out to send
Mr. Lewis for a priest.

He stared at her. " Why, you look
as if he were going to get well," he
said almost indignantly.

"So he is, Mr. Lewis," she an-
swered. " He is going to have the only
real getting well. I shall never have
to be anxious about him any
more. He will be out of harm's
way."

She went back to the sick-room
then, quiet again. "Forgive me if
my gladness jarred on you," she said.
"I forgot everything but that you
were now all safe.. You will go
straight to heaven, you know. And
of course, since it is to be now, then
now is the best time."

He said nothing, but watched her
with steady eyes, wherever she mov-
ed. What thoughts were thronging

Beethoven,

607

BEETHOVEN.

HIS YOUTH.

lighteen, Louis Beethoven be-
:onscious of new perceptions,
w capacities for joy. A young
man of his mother, a beautiful,
ly girl, whose parents lived in
e, came on a visit to Bonn,
oice and smile of Adelaide
his genius into full life, and
he had power to do as he had
done. But Adelaide could
iderstand him, nor appreciate
lodies, which were now of a

and higher, yet a tenderer

He never declared his love
guage; but his brother Carl
jred it, and one evening, Louis
ird him and Adelaide talking
boyish passion, and laughing
The girl said she " was half
i to draw him out, it was such
al joke !"

and trembling, while he lean-
inst the window-seat concealed

folds of a curtain, Louis lis-
to this colloquy. As his bro-
tid cousin left the room, he

past them to his own apart-
locked himself in, and did not
forth that night. Afterward
k pains to shun the company

heartless fair one; and was

out alone in his walks, or in
Dm, where he worked every
:ill quite exhausted. The first
ns of chagrin and mortifica-
>on passed away; but he did
:over his vivacity. His warm-
ehngs had been cruelly out-
; the spring of love was never

to bloom for him; and it
di too, that the fair blossoms

of genius also were nipped in the
bud. The critics of the time, fettered
as they were to the established form,
were shocked at his departure from
their rules. Even Mozart, whose
fame stood so high, whose name was
pronounced with such enthusiastic
admiration, what struggles had he
not been forced into with those who
would not approve of his so-called
innovations ! The youth of nineteen
had struck out a bolder path ! What
marvel, then, that, instead of encou-
ragement, nothing but censures
awaited him? His master, Neefe,
who was accustomed to boast of him
as his pride and joy, now said, coldly
and bitterly, his pupil had not ful-
filled his cherished expectations-
nay, was so taken up with his new-
fangled conceits, that he feared he
was for ever lost to real art.

" Is it so indeed ?" asked Louis of
himself in his moments of misgivings
and dejection. " Is all a delusion ?
Have I lived till now in a false
dream ?"

Young Beethoven sat in his cham-
ber, leaning his head on his hand,
looking gloomily out of the vine-
shaded window. There was a knock
at the door; but wrapped in deep
despondency, he heard it not, nor an-
swered with a " come in."

The door was opened softly a little
ways, and in the crevice appeared
a long and very red nose, and a
pair of small, twinkling eyes, over-
shadowed by coal-black bushy eye-
brows. Gradually became visible

6o8

Beethoven.

the whole withered, sallow, comical,
yet good-humored face of Master
Peter Pirad.

Peter Pirad was a famous kettle-
drummer, and was much ridiculed
on account of his partiality for that
instrument, though, he also excelled
on many others. He always insisted
that the kettle-drum was the most me-
lodious, giand, and expressive instru-
ment, and he would play upon it alone
in the orchestra. But he was one of
the best-hearted persons in the world.
It was quite impossible to look upon
his tall, gaunt, clumsy figure — which,
year in and year out, appeared in the
well-worn yellow woolen coat, buck-
skin-colored breeches, and dark
worsted stockings, with his peculiar
fashioned felt cap — without a strong
inclination to laugh ; yet, ludicrous as
was his outward man, none remained
long unconvinced that, spite of his ex-
terior, spite of his numerous eccen-
tricities, Peter Pirad was one of the
most amiable of men.

From his childhood, Louis had
been attached to Pirad; in later
years, they had been much together.
Pirad, who had been absent several
months from Bonn, and had just
returned, was surprised beyond mea-
sure to find his favorite so changed.
He entered the room, and walking
up quietly, touched the youth on the
shoulder, saying, in a tone as gentle
as he could assume, "Why, Louis!
what the mischief has got into your
head, that you would not hear me ?"
Louis started, turned roimd, and, re-
cognizing his old fnend, reached him
his hand.

" You see," continued Pirad, " you
see I have returned safely and happi-
ly from my visit to Vienna. Ahl
Louis ! Louis ! that's a city for you.
As for taste in art, you would go mad
with the Viennese! As for artists,
there are Albrechtsberger, and Hay-
dn, Mozart, and Salieri — ^my dear

fellow, you must go to Vienna.'
With that Pirad threw up his anm,
as if beating the kettle-drum, (he al-
ways did so when excited,) an(i made
such comical faces, that his young
companion, spite of his sorrow, couki
not help bursting out laughing.

" Saker !" cried Pirad, " thai ii
clever; I like to sec that you can
laugh yet, it is a good sign; and
now, Louis, pluck up like a man, and

tell me what all this means. \\Tif

do I find you in such a bad humor,
as if you had a hole in your skin, or
the drums were broken — out with it?
My brave boy, what is the matta
with you ?"

"Ah!" replied Beethoven, "mud
more than I can say ; I have lost al
hope, all trust in myself. I will tdl
you all my troubles, for, indeed, I
cannot keep them to myself anf
longer!" So the melancholy youih
told all to his attentive auditcH*; bii
unhappy passion for his cousin; hii
master's dissatisfaction with him, and
his own sad misgivings.

When he had ended, Pirad re-
mained silent awhile, his forefinger
laid on his long nose, in an attimde
of thoughtfulness. At length, raising
his head, he gave his advice as fol-
lows: "This is a sad story, Lods;
but it convinces me of the truth of
what I used to say ; your late esxi-
lent father — I say it with all respect
to his memory — and your other
friends, never knew what was really
in you. As for your disappointment
in love, that is always a business
that brings much trouble and little
profit. Women are capricious crea-
tures at best, and no man who has
a respect for himself will be a slatv
to their humors. I was a little
touched that way m>'5elf, when I
was something more than yoor
age ; but the kettle-drum soon jw* i
such no • <ense out of my head A^f J
advice ib, that you sdck to f

Beethavefi.

609

and let her go. For what
ns the court-organist, Neefe,
more vexed; his absurdity is
; did not precisely expect. I
f nothing of Herr Yunker ; he
music in his zeal for counter-
as if he should say he could
the wood for the tall trees, or
T for the houses ! Have I not
liim assert, ay! with my own
ears, slanderously assert, that
jttle-drum was a superfluous
lent ? Only think, Louis, the
Inim a superfluous instrument !
r and — ! Did not the great
— ^bless him for it! — ^under-
. noble symphony expressly
jference to the kettle-drum?
:ould you do with * Dies irce^
ij,* without the kettle-drum ?
jd it at Vienna in Don Gio-
the chapel-master Mozart

directing. In the spirit
Louis, where the statue has
his first speech, and Don Gio-
n consternation speaks to his
nts, while the anxious heart
appalled sinner is throbbing,
tie-drum thundering away — "
irad began to sing with tragi-
sticulation. '* Yes, Louis, I
e kettle-drum with a witness,
ji icy thrill crept through my
and for all that the ket-
n is a useless instrument!
blockheads there are in this

To return to your master —
er at his stupidity, and yet I
> cause to wonder. Now, my
s, that art is a noble inheri-
;ft us by our ancestors, which
: duty to enlarge and increase
honest and honorable means.
LT boy, I hold you for an hon-
", who would not waste your
ce ; who has not only power,
to perform his duty. So take
J, be not cast down by trifles ;
ce my advice and go to Vi-
There you will find your mas-

VOL. IX. — ^39

ters : Mozart, Haydn, Albrechts-
berger, and others not so well known.
One year, nay, a few months in
Vienna, will do more for you than
ten years vegetating in this good
city. You can soon learn, there,
what you are capatte of; only mind
what Mozart says, when you are play-
ing in his hearing."

The yoimg man started up, his
eyes sparkling, his cheeks glowing
with new enthusiasm, and embraced
Pirad warmly. " You are right, my
good fiiend I" he cried. " I will go to
Vienna ; and shame on any one who
despises your counsel! Yes, I will
go to Vienna."

When he told his mother of his
resolution, she looked grave, and
wept when all was ready for his de-
parture. But Pirad^ with a sympa-
thizing distortion of coimtenance, said
to her, " Be not disturbed, my good
Madame van Beethoven 1 Louis
shall come back to you much livelier
than he is now; and, madame, you
may comfort yourself with the hope
that your son will become a great ar-
tist!"

Young Beethoven visited Vienna
for the first time in the spring of the
year 1792. He experienced strange
emotions as he entered that great
city; perhaps a dim presentiment of
what he was in future years to ac-
complish and to suffer. He was not
so fortunate this time as to find
Haydn there ; the artist had set out
for London a few days before. He
was disappointed, but the more anx-
ious to make the acquaintance of
Mozart Albrechtsberger, Haydn's
intimate fiiend, undertook to intro-
duce him to Mozart.

They went several times to Mo-
zart's house before they found him at
home. At last, on a rainy day, they
were fortunate. They heard him
fi^m the street, playing ; our 3roung
hero's heart beat wildly as they went

Beethoven.

6ii

Ty, and informed him of his plans;
concluding by asking his advice.

Mozart listened with a benevolent
smile ; and when he had ended, said,
** Come, you must let me hear you
play." With that, he led him to
an admirable instrument in another
apartment; opened it, and invited
him to select a piece of music.

" Will you give me a theme ?" ask-
ed Louis.

The master looked surprised ; but
without reply wrote some lines on a
leaf of paper, and handed it to the
young man. Beethoven looked over
it ; it was a difficult chromatic fugue
theme, the intricacy of which de-
manded much skill and experience.
But without being discouraged, he
collected all his powers, and began to
execute it.

Mozart did not conceal the sur-
piise and pleasure he felt when Louis -
first began to play. The youth per-
ceived the impression he had made,
and was stimulated to more spirited
efforts.

As he proceeded, the master's pale
cheek flushed, his eyes sparkled ; and
stepping on tiptoe to the open door,
he whispered to his guests, '' Listen,
I beg of you ! You shall have some-
thing worth hearing."

That moment rewarded all the
pains, and banished all the apprehen-
sions of the young aspirant after ex-
cellence. Louis went through his
trial-piece with admirable spirit,
sprang up, and went to Mozart;
seizing both his hands and pressing
them to his throbbing heart, he mur-
mured, " I also am an artist !"

" You are indeed I" cried Mozart,
''and no common one! And what
may be wanting, you will not fail to
find, and make your own. The
grand thing, the living spirit, you bore

within you from the beginning, as all
do who possess it. Come back soon
to Vienna, my young friend — very
soon! Father Haydn, Albrechtsber-
ger, friend Stadler, and I will receive
you with open arms ; and if you need
advice or assistance, we will give it
you to the best of our ability."

The other guests crowded round
Beethoven, and hailed him as a
worthy pupil of art ! Even the silly
impressario looked at him with vastly
increased respect, and said, '< I can
tell you, I know the public — well, we
will talk more of the matter this even-
ing over a glass of wine."

" I also am an artist 1" repeated
Louis to himself, when he retumed
late to his lodgings.

Muclv improved in spirits, and rein-
spired with confidence in himself, he
retumed to Bonn, and ere long put
in practice his scheme of paying
Vienna a second visit

This he accomplished at the elec-
tor's expense, being sent by him to
complete his studies under the direc-
tion of Haydn. That great man fail-
ed to perceive how fine a genius had
been intmsted to him. Nature had
endowed them with opposite quali-
ties; the inspiration of Haydn was
under the dominion of order and me-
thod ; that of Beethoven sported with
them both, and set both at defiance.

When Haydn was questioned of
the merits of his pupil, he would an-
swer with a shrug of his shoulders —
"He executes extremely well." If
his early productions were cited as
giving evidence of talent and fire, he
would reply, " He touches the instru-
ment adnurably." To Mozart be-
longed the praise of having recog-
nized at once, and proclaimed to his
fiiends, the wonderfiil powers of the
young composer.

Sauntering.

613

twice for that purpose. And at the
head of the Britons he was the instru-
ment of the great Alleluia victory in

430-

Whatever other people discover, I

found a great deal of piety in Paris.
The numerous churches and chapels
are frequented at an early hour for
the first masses ; and all through the
day is a succession of worshippers.
I particularly loved the moming
mass in the Lady Chapel at St Sul-
pice, at which a crowd of the com-
mon people used to assist and sing
charming cantiques in honor of the
Madonna or the Blessed Sacrament.
And at Notre Dame des Victoires,
one of the most popular churches in
the city, and renowned throughout
the world for its arch-confraternity to
which so many of us belong, there is
no end to the stream of people. The
wonderful answers to prayer and the
many miracles wrought there draw
needy and heavily-laden hearts, not
only from all parts of the kingdom,
but of the world. The altar of No-
tre Dame des Victoires looks pre-
cisely as it is represented in pictures.
The front and sides are of crystal,
through which are seen the relics of St
Aurelia, from the Roman catacombs.
Seven large hanging lamps bum be-
fore it, and an innumerable quantity
of tapers. On the walls are ex voto
and many marble tablets with in-
scriptions of gratitude to Mary ; such
as : **y^ai invoqui Marie, et elle m^a
exauciP ^^Reconnaissance d Marie"
etc. It is extremely interesting and
curious to examine all these, and they
wonderfully kindle our faith and fer-
vor.

Among them is one of particular
interest — a silver heart set in a tablet
of marble fastened to one of the pil-
lars of the grand nave. On it are
the arms of Poland and a votive in-
scription. This heart contains a por-
tion of the soil of Poland impregna-

ted with the blood of her martyred
people — hung here before her whom
they style their queen, as a perpetual
cry to Mary from the bleeding heart
of crushed and Catholic Poland.
This was placed here on the two
hundredth anniversary of the conse-
cration of that country to the Blessed
Virgin Mary, by King John Casimir,
on the first of April, 1656. On the
same day, 1856, all the Polish exiles
in Paris assembled at Notre Dame
des Victoires, to renew their vows to
Mary and make their offering, which
was received and blessed by M. TAbb^
Desgenettes, the venerable cur^, and
founder of the renowned arch-confra-
temity of the Immaculate Heart of
Mary. A lamp bums perpetually be-
fore this touching memorial, emblem
of the faith, hope, and charity of the
donors.

In the national prayer of the Poles
is the following touching invocation :

" Give back, O Lord I to our Poland her
ancient splendor. Look down on our
fields, soaked with blood! When shall
peace and happiness blossom among us ?
God of wrath, cease to punish us. At thy
altar we raise our prayer ; deign to restore
us, O Lord I our free country."

This prayer is a Hirce nolns which
will be echoed by every one who
sympathizes with the down-trodden
and oppressed.

Coming out of the church of No-
tre Dame des Victoires I heard the
words, " Qudques sous, pour Tamour
de la Sainte Vierge," and looking
around I saw an old man holding
out his hat in the most deferential
of attitudes — one of the few beggars
I met in the city. I could not re-
sist an appeal made in the holy name
of Mary, and on the threshold of one
of her favorite sanctuaries. I thought
of M. Olier, the revered founder of
the Sulpicians, who made avow never
to refuse anything asked in the name
of the Blessed Virgin — a resolution

Sauntering,

615

ther portion of the true cross
lied the Palatine cross, because
3nged to Anna Gonzaga of
, a Palatine princess, who left
her will to the Abbey of St.
in des Pr^s, attesting that she
en it in the flames without be-
imt. 'I'his relic was enclosed
ross of precious stones, double,
le cross of Jerusalem. This
lad belonged to Manuel Corn-
Em peror of Constantinople,
esented it to a prince of Po-
It is eight inches high, without
ing the foot of vermeil of
the same height, ornamented
►recious stones. It has two
ieces, like the crosses of Jerusa-
hich are filled with the wood
true cross. It is bordered
amonds and amethysts. The
e princess received it from
Jasimir, King of Poland, who
with him when he retired to
. It was preserved by a curd
J, and restored, in 1828, to No-
me.

e are two portions of the holy
t Notre Dame de Paris— one
y at the abbey of St. Denis,
le other at St. Germain des
The first was brought by
> the Bald from Aix-la-Chapelle,
ng been given Charlemagne
Patriarch of Jerusalem.
793, M. Le Li^vre, a member
Institute, begged permission to
from the commission des arts
mine and analyze it as a speci-
mineralogy. He thus saved it
rofanation, and restored it to
:hbishop of Paris in 1824.
second portion was given to
rmain des Prfes by the Prin-
alatine, who had received it
)hn Casimir of Poland,
•e are many curious old legends
ing the wood of the cross,
hn Mandeville says it was
>f the same tree Eve plucked

the apple from. When Adam was
sick, he told Seth to go to the angel
that guarded paradise, to send him
some oil of mercy to anoint his limbs
with. Seth went, but the angel would
not admit him, or give him the oil of
mercy. He gave him, however, three
leaves from the fatal tree, to be put
under Adam's tongue as soon as he
was dead. From these sprang the
tree of which the cross was made.

One of the first portions of the
holy cross received in France was
sent by the Emperor Justin to St.
Radegonde. It was adorned with
gold and precious stones. When it
arrived with other relics, and a copy
of the four Gospels richly ornament-
ed, the archbishop of Tours and a
great procession of people went out
with lights, incense, and sound of
holy chant to bear them into the city
of Poitiers, where they were placed
in the monastery of the Holy Cross
founded by St. Radegonde. The
great Fortunatus composed in honor
of the occasion the Vexilla Regis, now
a part of the divine office. I quote
two verses of a fine translation of
this well-knoivn hymn :

O tree of beauty, tree of light I
O tree with royal purple dight I
Elect on whose triumphal breast
Those holy limbs should find their rest I

" On whose dear arms^ so widely flung.
The weight of this world's ransom hung,
The price of human kind to pay,
And spcA the spoiler of his prey V

i»»

One pleasant morning I took the
cars to visit St. Denis, the old burial-
place of the kings of France. As
Michelet says, "This church of
tombs is not a sad and pagan necro-
polis, but glorious and triumphant;
brilliant with faith and hope; vast
and without shade, like the so:d of
the saint who built it ; light and aiiy,
as if not to weigh on the dead or
hinder their spring upward to the
starry spheres."

Mabillon was at one time the visi-

tor's guide to the tombs of St. Denis,
1 do not know whether I should jjre-
his learned details and sage reflec-
ns over the ashes of the illustri-
lus dead, or be left as I was to
"wander alone with my own thoughts
tiirough the church of the crypls.
'■What a great chapter of history may
:'hc read in this sepulchre of kings!
Wliat a commentary on the text,
ZHeu seiil est grand" is that stained
page of the revolution, when the
ibones of the mighty dead were torn
from their maguificeDt tombs and
cast into a trench ! It was then earth
lo earth and ashes to ashes, like the
meanest of us. What a long stride
may be made here from King Dago-
bert's lomb at the entrance, ail sculp-
tured ivith legendary lore, to the
clere-stoty window, all emblazoned
with Napoleon's glory ; from the re-
cumbent Du Guesclin to the lomb of
Turenne, and from the chair of St.
Eloi to the stall of Napoleon III, !
A fit place to moralize, among these
Statues of kneeling kings and queens,
rflrith their hands folded as if they
had gone to steep in prayer.

I sought out the tomb of one of
my favorite knights of the middle
ages — that of Bertiand du Guesclin,
who, by his devotion lo his country
and his prowess, merited a place
here among kin^ and to have his
ashes mingled with theirs in 1793.
There are four of these knights of
the olden lime in this chapel, all in
stone, lying in armor on their tombs.
1 sat down at the feet of Du Gues-
clin to read my monographie before
{Ding around the church.

My visit was in the octave of the
"ival of St. Denis and his corn-
ions, and their relics were ex-
■•^osed on an altar covered witli crim-
' «on velvet. Huge wax la|xrrs burned
wound them, and the chancel was

hung arouotl with old t
the de»gns of Ra[4uiel —

This church is a roonuinent ti tk
genius and piety of Sugei, one d tfe
most noble an<i veneral>}c figuts u
French history, the Abbot of Sl D»
nis, and 3 statesman. He ku b^
styled " the true founder of the Cip-
lian dynast)'." He was odc of dut
eminent men so often foand in iIk
church of the middle ages who wot
raised from obscunty to jioRtionsd
authority, In his humility, vim
regent of France, he oliea alluded
to his lowly origin, and once a thr
following words : '- KecaIltD{; in «fat
manner the strung hutul of Cod iMf
raised me from the dunghSI mA
made me to sit among the prince
of the church and of tlic kingdon.*

'I'hc princes of Frafn.e used to le
educated in the abbey of Sl Doiv
and it was here Louis VI. (onatAi
lasting friendship for Sugcr, which led
him afterward to make him his fBW

Tlie monk Sugcr was on his «q
home from Italy in 1122 when h
heard of his election as abbot of St
Denis. He burst into teai^ throu^
grief for the death of good old iUit
.\dam, who had cared fof him in h<
youllL That very moroing he bd
risen to say matins Itefore leaving te
hostelry where he lodged, and. fiiwb-
ing the office before it was light, be
threw himself again on his conch V>
await the day. Falling into a Aatt,
be dreamed he was in a ski? on the
wide raging sea, at the mercy trf the
waves, and he i>rayed God >o span
and lo conduct him into port. He
felt, on awakening, as if threatened
with some great dinger, but, as he
aftenvard said, he tnisted the good-
ness of God would deliver him fma
it After travcUing a few leagoob ^

Sauntering.

617

met the deputation from St. Denis
announcing his election as abbot.

When Louis le Jeune, with a
great number of nobles, decided to
go to the Holy Land, it was resolved
to choose a regent to govern the
kingdom during his absence. The
Holy Spirit was invoked to guide
the decisions of the nobles and bi-
shops. St. Bernard delivered a dis-
course on the qualities a regent
should possess. The Count de Ne-
vers and Abbot Suger were chosen.
The former declined the office, wish-
ing to enter the Carthusian order.
Suger accepted this office with ex-
treme reluctance, and only at the
command of the pope. He showed
himself an able statesman. St. Ber-
nard reproached him for the state
in which he lived while at court,
but he proved his heart was not
in such a life by resuming all his
austerities when he returned to his
monastery.

He rebuilt the abbey church of
St. Denis in a little more than three
years. He assembled the most skil-
ful workmen and sculptors from all
parts. But he himself was the chief
architect. The very people around
wished to have a .share in the work,
believing it would draw down on
them the blessing of Heaven. They
brought him marble from Pontoise,
and wood from the forest of Chev-
reuse, sixty leagues distant. But he
himself selected the trees to be cut
down. Bishops, nobles, and the king
assisted in laying the foundations,
each one laying a stone while the
monks chanted, '^ Fundamenta ejus in
mantibus sanctisP While they were
singing in the course of the service,
" Lapides pretiosi omnes muri iui^^ the
king took a ring of great value from
his dnger and threw it on the founda-
tions, and all the nobles followed his
example.

When the church was consecrated,

the king and a host of church digni-
taries were present Thibaud, Arch-
bishop of Canterbury, consecrated
the high altar, and twenty other
altars were consecrated by as many
different bishops.

Suger had a little cell built near
the church for his own use. It was
fifteen feet long and tfen wide. When
he built for God his ideas were fujl
of grandeur, but for himself nothing
was too lowly. This little cell beside
the magnificent church was a con-
tinual act of humility before the
majesty of the Most High. " What-
ever is dear and most precious
should be made subservient to the
administration of the thrice holy
Eucharist," said he. We read how
Peter the Venerable, Abbot of Cluny,
came to visit St. Denis. After ad-
miring the grandeur of the church,
they came to the ceU. "Behold a
man who condemns us all !" exclaim-
ed Peter with a sigh. The cell had
neither tapestry nor curtains. He
slept on straw, and his table was set
with strictest regard to monastic
severity. He never rode in a car-
riage, but always on horseback, even
in old age.

When Abbot Suger felt his end
approaching, he went, supported by
two monks, into the chapter room
where the whole community was as-
sembled, and addressed them in the
most solemn and impressive manner
on the judgments of God. Then he
knelt before them all, and with tears
besought their pardon for all the faults
of his administration during thirty
years. The monks only answered
with their tears. He laid down his
crosier, declaring himself unworthy
the office of abbot, and begged them
to elect his successor, that he might
have the happiness of dying a simple
monk. There is a touching letter
from St. Bernard written at this timCi
which commences thus:

'«t8

Sauntmng.

- Fii»r Bernard to his veiy dear and in-
tinule ftiend Suger, by the giace of God
•bbot of SL Denis, wishing him the glory
tbal slmngs from ■ good conscience, and
Ike grace which is a gift of God. Kc»r not,
O man of God 1 to put off the earthly majt
tlijit nan of sin which tormenis, op-
presses, persecutes you — the weight of
which sinks you down lo earth and drags
you almost lo the abyss ! What have you
in part with this mbtul frame — you who arc
about 10 be clothed with glorious immor-
tality }"

Toward Christmas Suger grew so
weak that he rejoiced at the prospect
of his deliverance, but fearing hia
death would iatemipt the festivities
of that holy time, he prayed God to
prolong his tife till they were over.
His prayer was heard. He died on
ihe twelfth of January, having been
abbot of St. Denis Iweoty-nine years
and ten months, firom iii3 to 1152.
His tomb bore the simple inscription:

The charter for the foundation of
the abbey of St. Denis was given by
ClovLS. It was written on papyrus,
and among others the signature of
St. Eloi was attached to it. Pepin
and Charlemagne were great bene-
feclors of the abbey. Pepin was
buried before the grand portal of the
old church with his face down, wish-
ing by his prostrate position to atone
for the excesses of his father Charles
Martel. Charlemagne with filial rev-
erence built a porch to the church,
as a covering over his father's tomb,
and that lie might not lie without ihe
church. In rebuilding it, Suger had
Ihe porch removed and the body
transfened into the interior.

The treasury of the abbey was once
exceedingly rich. 'I'lie old kings of
France left their crowns to it, and on
grand festivals they were suspended
before the high altar. Here were
the cross and sceptre of Chariemagne,
and the crown and ring of the holy
Louis IX. Philip Augustus gave the
abbey in his will all his jewels and

crosses of gold, dearing tveatf
monks to say masses Tor bis soA
I'he chess-board and chcss'iuen d
Charlemagne were kept here for ago.
Joubert, the Coleridge of trance, says:

"The pomps and magiuflc«iioe iritk
which the church ia repmacbH an h
iTuth the result and prirof nf her incuatfar-
able excellence. Whenoe ame. let m
ask. this power of hers and iheiie eaccuirc
riches, except fiom the enchant mcnl into
which she threw all the wortJf Raritkd
with her beiuty, millians of men Iran ly
lo age kept loading her wilh gins, (»■
quesis, and cessions. She bad tbe olefl
of making herself loved and the titeol of
making men happy. It is ilurt wMeft
wrought prodi^es for her. it H thence ikt
drew her power."

Sixty great wax candles ukiI 10
bum around the high alur of Sl
Denis on great festivnls. Dagotet
left one hundred livres 3 year to ob-
tain oil for lights, and Pepin aRoml
six carts to bring it all tlie way fioo
Marseilles without toll.

In tlie middle ages there wtn
fairs near the abbey which laswd fac
a month. Merchants came 6cb
Italy, Spain, and ail parts of Earope,
and, to encourage them to be wieA
ful of their souts as well as of that
purses, indulgences were granted Kt
all who visited the church.

These are a few notes of my swn-
terings. Each one of these Mf
places, as well as every chardb n
those old lands, has its history MA
is interesting, and its legends thatn
poetical and full of meaning, lliqr
would fill volumes. Travetliog H
like eating; what gives plcastue tO
one only aggravates the bil« of v
other. Some only find tjranoy in
the authority of the churcli, a love of
pomp and display in her splendor,
and superstition in her piety. Tho
rcau says, "Where an angel tread),
it will be paradise all the wny; ba
where Satan travels, it will be bumif
marl and cinders." ■

Spiritualism and Materialism.

619

SPIRITUALISM AND MATERIALISM.

Professor Huxley, as we saw in
a late number of this magazine, in
the article on The Physical Basis of
U/e, while rejecting spiritualism, gives
his opinion that materialism is a phi-
losophical error, om Ae ground of
our ignorance of what matter is, or is
not. There is some truth in the as-
sertion of our ignorance of the es-
sence or real nature of matter or ma-
terial existence, though the professor
had no logical right to assert it, after
having adopted a materialistic termi-
nology, and done his best to prove the
material origin of life, thought, feel-
ing, and the various mental phenome-
na. Yet we are far from regarding
what is called materialism as the
fundamental error of this age, nor do
we believe that there is any necessary
or irrepressible antagonism between
spirit and matter, either intellectual
or moral. In our belief, a pro-
foimd philosophy, though it does not
identify spirit and matter, shows their
dialectic harmony, as revelation as-
serts it in asserting the resurrection
of the flesh, and the indissoluble re-
union of body and soul in the futiure
life.

The fundamental error of this age
is the denial of creation, and, theolo-
gically expressed, is, with the vulgar,
atheism, and with the cultivated and
refined, pantheism. Atheism is the
denial of unity, and pantheism the
denial of plurality or diversity, and
both alike deny creation, and seek to
explain the universe by the principle
of self-generation or self-development
What is really denied is God the
Creator.

There are, no doubt, moral causes
that have led in part to this denial,
bat with them we have at present

nothing to do. The assertion of
moral causes is more effective in pre-
venting men from abandoning the
truth and falling into error than in
recovering and leading back to the
truth those who have lost it, or know
not where to find it. We lose our la-
bor when we begin our efforts, as
philosophers, to convert those who are
in error by assuring them that they
have erred only through moral per-
versity or hatred of the true and the
good, the just and the holy, especial-
ly in an age when conscience is fast
asleep. We aim at convincing, not
at convicting, and therefore take up
only the intellectual causes which
lead to the denial of creation.
Among these causes, we shall, no
doubt, find materialism and a pseudo-
spiritualism both playing their part;
but the real causes, we apprehend, are
in tlie fact that the philosophic tradi-
tion, which has come down to us
from gentilism, has never been fully
harmonized with the Christian tradi-
tion, which has come down to us
through the church.

Gentilism had lost sight of God
the Creator, and confounded creation
with generation, emanation, or forma-
tion. Why the gentiles were led into
this error would be an interesting
chapter in the history of the wander-
ings of the human mind; but we have
no space at present for the inquiry.
It is enough, for our present purpose,
to establish the fact that the gentiles
did fall into it The conception of
creation is found in none of the
heathen mythologies, learned or un-
learned, of which we have any know-
ledge ; and that they do not recognise
a creative God, may be inferred
from the fact that in tiiem all, so flu

spiritualism and Materialism.

621

; more inclined to Plato than to
:otle, but none of these, not Cle-
s Alexandrinus, Origen, or even St.
ustine, had harmonized through-
Plato's philosophy with Christi-
', and we should greatly wrong St.
ustine, at least, if we called him
;tematic Platonist.
ith the study of Plato was reviv-
i western Europe a false and ex-
rated spiritualism, and a philoso-
which denied creation as a truth
hilosophy, and admitted it only
doctrine of revelation. The au-
ty of the scholastic philoso-
was weakened, a decided ten-
y in pantheistic direction to
ght was given, and the way was
ared for Giordano Bruno, as well
>r the Protestant apostasy. We
tpostasy^ because Luther's move-
t was really an apostasy, as
listorical developments have am-
proved. With Plato was reviv-
he Academy with its scepticism,
lis Empiricus, and after him Epi-
5; and before the close of the
enth century, Europe was over-
with false mystics, sceptics, pan-
ts, and atheists, who abounded
[iTOUgh the seventeenth century,
ite of a very decided reaction in
: of faith and the church. What
>rthy of special note is, that in all
period of two centuries and a
it was no uncommon thing to
men who, as philosophers, denied
mmortality of the soul, which as
vers they asserted; or combin-
i childlike faith with nearly uni-
d scepticism, as we see in Mon-
le.

radually, however, men began to
:hat, while they acknowledged a
epancy between what they held
lilosophy and the Christian faith,
could not retain both ; that they
; give up the one or the other,
land, in the latter half of the seven-
h century, swarmed with free-

thinkers who denied all divine re-
velation ; and France, in the eigh-
teenth century, rejected the church,
rejected the Bible, suppressed Chris-
tian worship, rebuilt the Pantheon,
and voted death to be an eternal
sleep. But the eighteenth century
was bom of the seventeenth, as the
seventeenth was bom of the sixteenth,
as the sixteenth was bom of the revi-
val of Greek letters and philosophy,
thoroughly impregnated ytV^ pagan-
ism, supposed by unthinking men to
be the most glorious event in modem
history, saving, always, Luther's Re-
formation.

In the seventeenth century, Des-
cartes undertook to reform and recon-
struct philosophy after a new method.
He undertook to erect philosophy
into a complete science in die rational
order, independent of revelation. If
he recognized the creative act of God,
or God as creator, it was as a theolo-
gian, not as a philosopher ; for cer-
tainly he does not start with the crea-
tive act as a first principle, nor does
he, nor can he, arrive at it by his
method. God as creator cannot be de-
duced from co^to^ ergo sum; for, with-
out presupposing God as my creator, I
cannot assert that I exist. Gentilism
had so far revived that it was able to
take possession of philosophy the mo-
ment it was detached from Christian
theology and declared an independent
science ; and as that has no concep-
tion of creation, the tradition preserv-
ed by Jews and Christians was at once
relegated from philosophy to theo-
logian, from science to faith. Hence
we fail to find creation recognized as a
philosophical tmth in the system of his
disciple Malebranche, a profounder
philosopher than Descartes himself.
The prince of modem sophists, Spino-
za, adopting as his starting point the
definition of substance given by Des-
cartes, demonstrates but too easily that
there can be only one substance, and

spiritualism and Materialism.

623

it is capable of transporting the
ir of being transported by the
tut of the body, and to a great
:e from it, and that the body
will bear the marks of the
s that may be given it. In
ay he also explains the prodi-
bilocation.

however this may be, the ghost
then superstition is never the
etumed to earth, nor is it the
hat is doomed to Tartarus, or
s received into the El)rsian
the heathen paradise. Hades,

includes both Tartarus and
n, is a land of shadows, inha-
ly shades that are neither spirit
dy ; for the heathen knew no-
and believed nothing, of the
ction of the flesh, and the re-
of soul and body in a future
"he spirit at death returns to
itain, and the body, dissolved,
tself in the several elements
hich it was taken, and only the
or shadow of the living man
s. Even in Elysium, the ghosts
)ort on the flowery banks of
ir, repose in the green bowers,
ue in the fields the mimic
and pastimes that they loved,
le, thin, and shadowy. The
is a mimic scene, if we may
ther Homer or Virgil, and is

real and less attractive than
ppy hunting grounds of the
n of our continent, to which
od, that is, the brave Indian
sported when he dies. The
stinction we find, with the hea-
*tween spirit and matter, is, the
ion between the divine sub-

or intelligence, and an eter-

cisting matter, as the stuff of

3odies or corporeal existences,

ly existences recognized, are

or generated.

Descartes distinguished them
idly that he seemed to make
ach independent of the other.

Why, then, was either necessary to
the life and activity of the other?
And we see in Descartes no iLse that
the soul is or can be to the body, or
the body to the soul. Hence, philoso-
phy, starting firom Descartes, branch-
ed out in two opposite directions, the
one toward the denial of matter, and
the other toward the denial of spirit ;
or, as more commonly expressed,
into idealism and materialism, but as
it would be more proper to say, into
intellectism and sensism. The spiritu-
alism of Descartes, so far as it had
been known in the history of philoso-
phy, was only the Neoplatonic mys-
ticism, which substitutes the direct
and immediate vision, so to speak,
of the intelligible, for its apprehension
through sensible symbols and the ex-
ercise of the reasoning faculty. From
this it was an easy step to the denial
of an external and material world, as
was proved by Berkeley, who held
the external world to consist simply
of pictures painted on the retina of
the eye by the creative act of God ;
and before him by Collier, who main-
tained that only mind exists. It was
an equally short and easy step to take
the other direction, assert the sufficien-
cy of the corporeal or material, and
deny the existence of spirit or the
incorporeal, since the senses take
cognizance of the corporeal and the
corporeal only. Either step was fa-
vored by the ancient philosophy re-
vived and set up against the scholas-
tic philosophy. It was hardly possi-
ble to follow out the exaggerated and
exclusive spiritualism of the one class
without running into mystic panthe-
ism, or the independence of the cor-
poreal or material, without falling
into material pantheism or atheism.
These two errors, or rather these two
phases of one and the same error,
are the fundamental or mother error
of this age — ^perhaps, in principle, of
all ages— and is receiving an able re*

624

Spiritualism and Materialism,

futation by one of our collaborateurs
in the essay on Catholicity and Pan-
theism now in the course of publica-
tion in this magazine.

It is no part of our purpose now to
refute this error; we have traced it
from gentilism, shown that it is essen-
tially pagan, and owes its prevalence
in the modem world to the revival of
Greek letters and philosophy in the
fifteenth century, the discredit into
which the study of Plato and the
Neoplatonists threw the scholastic phi-
losoi)hy, and especially to the divorce
of philosophy from theology, declared
by Descartes in the seventeenth cen-
tury. Yet we do not accept either
exclusive materialism or exclusive
spiritualism, and the question itself
hardly has place in our philosophy,
as it hardly had place in that of St.
Thomas. It became a question only
when philosoi)hy was detached from
theolog}', of which it forms the ra-
tional as distinguishable but not sepa-
rable from the revealed element, and
reduced to a mere Ulssenchaftsi€hre^
or rather a simple methodology. True
philosophy joined with theology is
the response to the question, What is,
or exists? What are the principles
and causes of things ? What are our
relations to those principles and
causes? What is the law under
which we are placed ? and what are
the means and conditions \i-ithin our
reach, natural or gracious, of fulfilling
our destiny, or of attaining to our
supreme good? Not a response to
the question, for the most part an idle
question. How do we know, or how
do we know that we know ?

Many of the most difficult problems
for philosophers, and which we con-
fess our inability to solve, may be
eluded bv a flank movement, to use a
military phrase. Such is the question
of the origin of ideas, of certitude, and
the passage from the subjective to
the ohiective, and this very question

of spiritualism and materialism.

these are problems which no phil<

pher yet has solved from the poio

view of exclusive psychology*, or of

elusive ontology, or of any philoso

that leaves them to be asked.

we £u% much mistaken if they do

cease to be problems at all, when

starts with the principles of thing*

if they do not solve themselves.

do not find them, in the modem se

raised by Plato or Aristotle, nox

St Augustine or St. Thomas. W

we have the right stand-point, if

Richard Grant Wliite will allow us

term, and see things from the poin

view of the real order, these proWi

do not present themselves, and

wholly superseded. Professor Hu.>

is right enough when he tells us t

we know the nature and essei

neither of spirit nor of matter.

know from revelation that there i

spirit in man, and that the inspirati

of the Almighty giveth him und

standing, but I know neither byrr

lation nor by reason what spirit

God is a spirit ; but if man is a spi

it must be in a very different sa

from that in which God is a spi:

Although the human spirit may \a

a certain likeness to the Di\'ine ^ii

it yet cannot be divine, for it is aeate

and they who call it divine, a spa

of divinity, or a particle of Gc

either do not mean, or do not hu

what they literally assert. They or

repeat the old gentile doctrine of t

substantial identity of the spirit vi

divinity, from whom it emanate

and to whom it returns, to be \

absorbed in him — a pantheistic co

ception. All we can say of spirini

existences is, that they are incorpore

intelligences; and all we can say i

man is, that he has both a corpora

and an incorporeal nature ; and p(

haps without re%*e]ation we should 1

able to s ~ y not even so much.

We kiiow, again, just as lilde c

spiritualism and Materialism,

625

er. What is matter? Who can
er? Nay, what is body? Who
:ell ? Body, we are told, is com-
i of material elements. Be it so.
t are those elements ? Into what
itter resolvable in the last analy-
Into indestructible and indisso-
atoms, says Epicurus; into en-
[leia, or self-acting forces, says
otle; into extension, says Des-
s; into monads, each acting
its centre, and representing the
e universe from its own point of
, says Leibnitz; into centres of
ction and gravitation, says Fa-
Boscovich ; into pictures painted
le retina of the eye by the Crea-
ays Berkeley, the Protestant bish-
f Cloyne, and so on. We may
and ask, but can get no final
er.

ike, instead of matter, an organic
; who can tell us what it is?
extended, occupies space, say
Cartesians. But is this certain ?
nitz disputes it, and it is not easy
tach any precise meaning to the
tion "it occupies space," if we
any just notion of space and time,
tfons asinorum of psychologists,
t is called actual or real space is
relation of co-existence of crea-
; and is simply nothing abstracted
the related. It would be a great
enience if philosophers would
that nothing is nothing, and that
God can create something from
ing. Space being nothing but rela-
to say of a thing that it occupies
?, is only saying that it exists, and
5 in a certain relation to other
:ts. This relation may be either
ble or intelligible ; it is sensible, or
is called sensible space, when the
:ts related are sensible. Exten-
is neither the essence nor a pro-
of matter, but the sensible rela-
Df an object either to some other
ts or to our sensible perception.
as Leibnitz very well shows, only
vou IX — 40

the relation of continuity. Whirl a
wheel with great force and rapidity,
and you will be unable to distinguish
its several spokes, and it will seem
to be all of one continuous and solid
piece. Intelligible space as distinguish-
ed from sensible space is the logical
relation of things, or, as more com-
monly called, the relation of cause
and eflfecL When we conform our
notions. of space to the real order, and
understand that the sensible simply
copies, imitates, or symbolizes the in-
telligible, we shall see that we have
no authority for saying extension is
even a property of body or of niatter.
That extension is simply the sensi-
ble relation of body, not its essence,
nor even a property of matter, is evi-
dent from what physiologists tell us
of organic or living bodies. There
can be no reasonable doubt that the
body I now have is the same identical
body with which I was bom, and yet
it contains, probably, not a single
molecule or particle of sensible matter
it originally had. As I am an old
man, all the particles or molecules of
my body have probably been chang-
ed some ten or twenty times over;
yet my body remains unchanged.
It is evident, then, since the molecular
changes do not affect its identity, that
those particles or molecules of matter
which my body assimilates from the
food I take to repair the waste that is
constantly going on, or to supply the
loss of diose particles or molecules
constantly exuded or thrown off, do
not compose, make up, or constitute
the real body. This fact is com-
mended to the consideration of those
learned men, like the late Professor
George Bush, who deny the resurrec-
tion of the body, on the ground that
these molecular changes which have
been going on diuing life render it a
physical impossibility. This fact also
may have some bearing on the Ca-
tholic mystery of Transubstantiation..

626

Spiritualism and Materialisnt.

St. Augustine distinguishes between
the visible body and the intelligible
body — the body that is seen and the
body that is understood — and tells
us that it is the intelligible, or, as
he sometimes says, the spiritual, not
the visible or sensible, body of our
Lord that is present in the Blessed
Eucharist In fact, there is no change
in the sensible body of the bread and
the wine, in Transubstantiation. The
sensible body remains the same after
consecration that it was before. The
change is in the essence or substance,
or the intelligible body, and hence
the appropriateness of the term tran-
substantiation to express the change
which takes place at the words of
consecration. Only the intelligible
body, that is, what is non-sensible in
the elements bread and wine, is
transubstantiated, and yet their real
body is changed, and the real body
of our Lord takes its place. The non-
sensible or invisible body, the intelli-
gible body, is then, in either case,
assumed by the sacred mystery to be
the real body ; and hence, supposing
us right in our assumption that our
body remains always the same in
spite of the molecular changes — which
was evidently the doctrine of St. Au-
gustine — ^there is nothing in science
or the profoundest philosophy to
show that either transubstantiation or
the resurrection of the flesh is im-
possible, or that God may not effect
either consistent! v ^nthhis own immu-

table nature, if he sees proper to do it
Nothing aids the philosopher so much
as the study of the great doctrines
and m^'steries of Christianity*, as held
and taught by the church.

The distinction between seeing
and intellectually apprehending, and
thenefoTe bet^'een the visible body
and the intelligible IxkIv. asserted
and alwavs carefullv obser\-ed bv St

• • •

Augustine when treating of the Bless-
ed Eucharist, belongs to a profound-

er philosophy than is now geneiaDf
cultivated. Our prevailing philon-
phy, especially outside of the chunh,
recognizes no such distinctioa It
is true, we are told, that the senses
perceive only the sensible proper-
ties or qualities of things; that diej
never perceive the essence or sab-
stance; but then the essence cr
substance is supposed to be a meR
abstraction with no intelligible pro-
perties or qualities, or a mere substo-
tum of sensible prop>erties and quali-
ties. The sensible exhausts it, and
beyond what the senses proclaim the
substance has no quality or proper-
ty, and is and can be the subject
of no predicate. This is a great mis-
take. The sensible properties and
qualities are real, that is, are not
false or illusory; but they are real
only in the sensible order, or the mi-
mesis, as Gioberti, after Plato and
some of the Greek fathers, calls it ia
his posthumous works. The intdligi-
ble substance is the thing itself and
has its own intelligible properties and
qualities, which the sensible onlr
copies, imitates, or mimics. All
through nature there runs, above the
sensible, the intelligible, in which is
the highest created reality, with hs
OU71 attributes and qualities, whidi
must be known before we can claim
to know anything as it really is or
exists. Wc do not know this in the
case of body or matter ; we do not
and cannot know what either rcallr
is, and can really know of either on^
its sensible properties.

We know that if matter easts ai
all. it must have an essence or sub-
stance : but what the substance really
is human science has not learned and
cannot leam. We really know, then,
of matter in itself no more than «e
do of spirit except that maner has
its sensible copy, which ^irit has
not Matter, as to its substance, is
supersensible, and as to tbe cscDoe

Spiritualism and Materialism,

627

ature of its substance is superin-
jible, as is spirit; and we only
V that it has a substance; and
ibstance itself, we can only say,
exists, it is a vis activay as oppos-
D nuda potentia^ which is a mere
bility, and no existence at all.

1 being the case, we agree with
jssor Huxley, that neither spi-
lism nor materialism is, in his
I, admissible, and that each is a
sophical error, or, at least, an
Dvable hypothesis.

It here our agreement ends and
divergence begins. The Holy
las required the traditionalists to
tain that the existence of God,
immateriality of the soul, and
iberty of man can be proved
certainty by reason. We have
r's found the definitions of the
:h our best guide in the study
ilosophy, and that we can never
athwart her teaching without
ig ourselves at odds with reason
Tuth. We are always sure that
our theology is unsound our
jophy will be bad. There is a
ction already noted between
and matter, which is decisive
t whole question, as far as it is
^tion at all. Matter has, and
has not, sensible properties or
ies. These sensible properties
ualities do not constitute the
:e or substance of matter, which
Lve seen is not sensible, but they
guish it from spirit, which is
2nsible. This difference, in re-
to sensible qualities and proper-
proves that there must be a
jnce of substance, that the ma-
substance and the immaterial
ince are not, and cannot be one
the same substance, although
low not what is the essence or

2 of either.

\ take matter here in the sense
it which has properties or quali-
jerceptible by the senses, and

spirit or spiritual substance as an
existence that has no such properties
or qualities. The Holy See says
the immateriality^ not spirituality^ of
the soul, is to be proved by reason.
The spirituality of the soul, except
in the sense of immateriality, cannot
be proved or known by philosophy,
but is simply a doctrine of divine
revelation, and is known only by
that analogical knowledge called
faith. All that we can prove or
assert by natural reason, is, that the
soul is immaterial, or not material
in the sense that matter has for its
sign the mimesis, or sensible proper-
ties or qualities. We repeat, the sen-
sible is not the material substance, but
is its natural sign. So that, where
the sign is wanting, we know the
substance is not present and active.
On the other hand, where there is a
force undeniably present and opera-
ting without the sign, we know at
once that it is an immaterial force or
substance.

That the soul is not material, there-
fore is an immaterial substance, we
know; because it has none of the sen-
sible signs or properties of matter.
We cannot see, hear, touch, smell,
nor taste it. The very facts materi-
alists allege to prove it material,
prove conclusively, that, if anything,
it is immaterial. The soul has none
of the attributes or qualities that
are included, and has others which
evidendy are not included, in the
definition of matter. Matter, as to
its substance, is a. vis aetiva, for what-
ever exists at all is an active force;
but it is not a force or substance that
thinks, feels, wills, or reasons. It
has no sensibility, no mind, no intelli-
gence, no heart, no soul. But ani-
mals have sensibility and intelligence;
have they immaterial souls? Why
not? We have no serious difficulty
in admitting that animals have souk,
only not rational and immortal

628

Spiritualism mid Materialism.

souls. Soul, in them, is not spirit,
but it may be immaterial. Indeed,
we can go further, and concede an
immaterial soul, not only to animals
but to plants, though, of course, not
an intelligent or even a sensitive soul;
for if plants, or at least some plants,
are contractile and slightly mimic
sensibility in animals, nothing proves
that they are sensitive. We have
no proof that any living organism,
vegetable, animal, or human, is or
can be a purely material product
Professor Huxley has completely
failed, as we have shown, in his effort
to sustain his theory of a physical
or material basis of life, and physi-
ologists profess to have demonstrated
by their experiments and discoveries
that no organism can originate in
inorganic matter, or in any possible
mechanical, chemical, or electrical
arrangement of material atoms, and
is and can be produced, unless by
direct and immediate creation of
God, only by generation from a pre-
existing male and female organism.
This is true alike of plants, animals,
and man. Nothing hinders you, then,
from calling, if you so wish, the imi-
versal basis of life anima or soul, and
assertii\g the psychical basis, in .op-
position to Professor Huxley's physi-
cal basis, of life ; only you must take
care and not assert that plants and
animals have human souls, or that
soul in them is the same that it is in
man.

There are grave thinkers who are
not satisfied with the doctrine that
ascribes the apparent and even strik-
ing marks of mind in animals to
instinct, a term which Serves to cover
our ignorance, b\kt tells us nothing;
still less are they satisfied with the
Cartesian doctrine that the animal is
^ply a piece of mechanism moved
or moving only by mechanical
springs and wheels like a clock or
watch. Theologians are reluctant

chiefly, we suppose, to admit thit
animals have souls, because they se
accustomed to regard all souls, as to
their substance, the sanae, and became
it has seemed to them that the ad-
mission would bring animals too nes
to men, and not preserve the essential
diflerence between the animal natoR
and the human. But we see noiSSr
ficulty in admitting as many di&itot
sorts or orders of souls as there aie
different orders, genera, and speds
of living organisms. God is ^)ffit,
and the angels are spirits; are the
angels therefore identical in substance
with God? The human soul b
spiritual; is there no difference in
substance between hunum souls and
angels ? We know that men some^
times speak of a departed wife, child,
or friend as being now an angel in
heaven; but they are not to be lai-
derstand literally, any more than the
young man in love with a channing
young lady who does not absolntdj
refuse his addresses, when he caQs
her — a sinful mortal, not unlikdy—an
angel. In the resurrection men are
like the angels of God, in the respect
that they neither many nor are given
in marriage; but the spirits of the just
made perfect, that stand before the
throne, are not angels ; they are stOl
human in their nature. I^ then, ve
may admit spirits of different natnie
and substance, why not souls, and,
therefore, vegetable souls, anioul
souls, and human souls, agreeing
only in the fact that they are imma-
terial, or not material substances or
forces?

It perhaps may be thought that
to admit different orders of souls to
correspond to the different ordeis,
genera, and species of organisms,
would imply that the human soul
is generated with the body ; ooDtivf
to the general doctrine of theologiaBii
that the soul is created iinnifiP****r
ad hoc. The Holy S«e.or A»-

spiritualism and Materialism.

629

fessor Frohshamer's doctrine on the
subject; but the point condemned
was, as we understand it, that the
professor claimed creative power for
man. But it is not necessary to sup-
pose, even if plants and animals
have souls, that the human soul is
generated with the body, in any
sense inconsistent with faith. The
church has defined that "anima est
forma corporis," that is, as we under-
stand it, the soul is the vital o'* in-
forming principle, the life of the body,
without which the body is dead mat-
ter. The organism generated is a
living not a dead organism, and
therefore if the soul is directly and
immediately created ad hoc, the crea-
tive act must be consentaneous with
the act of generation, a fact which
demands a serious modification of
the medical jurisprudence now taught
in our medical schools. Some have
asserted for man alone a vegetable
soul, an animal soul, and a spiritual
soul, but this is inadmissible; man
has simply a human soul, though
capable of yielding to the grovelling
demands of the flesh as well as to
the higher promptings of the spirit.

But we have suffered ourselves to
be drawn nearer to the borders of the
land of impenetrable mysteries than
we intended, and we retrace our steps
as hastily as possible. Our readers
will imderstand that what we have
said of the souls of plants and ani-
mals is said only as a possible con-
cession, but not set forth as a doc-
trine we do or design to maintain ; for
it lies too near the province of revela-
tion to be settled by philosophy. All
we mean is that we see on the part
of reason no serious objection to it
Periiaps it may be thought that we
lose, by the concession, the argument
for the immortality of the soul drawn
from its simplicity; but, even if so,
we axe not deprived of other, and to
onr mmd, much stronger arguments.

But it may be said all our talk about
souls is wide of the mark, for we have
not yet proved that man is or has a
soul distinguishable from the body,
and which does or can survive its disso-
lution, and that our argument only
proves that, if a man has a soul, it is
immaterial. The materialist denies
that there is any soul in man distinct
from the body, and maintains that the
mental phenomena, which we ascribe to
an immaterial soul, are the effects of ma-
terial organization. But that is for him
to prove, not for us to disprove. Or-
ganization can give to matter no new
properties or qualities, as aggregation
can give only the sum of the indivi-
duals aggregated. Matter we have
taken all along, as all the world takes
it, as a substance that has properties
and qualities perceptible by the senses,
and it has no meaning except so far
as so perceptible. Any active force
that has no mimesis or sensible quali-
ties, properties, or attributes, is an
immaterial, not a material substance.
That man is or has an active force
that feels, thinks, reasons, wills, we
know as well as we know anything;
indeed, better than we know anything
else. These acts or operations are not
operations of a material substance.
We know that they are not, from the
fact that they are not sensible proper-
ties or qualities, and therefore there
must be in man an active force or
substance that is not material, but im-
material. Material substance is, we
grant, a vis activa; but if it has proper-
ties or qualities, it has no faculties. It
acts, but it acts only ad finem, or to
an end, n^-^^ propter finem, or for an
end foreseen and deliberately willed
or chosen. But the force that man
has or is, has faculties, not simply
properties or qualities, and can and
does act deliberately, with foresight
and choice, for an end. Hence, it is
not and cannot be a substance inclu-
ded in the definition of matter.

630

Spiritualism and Materialism.

That this immaterial soul, now
united to body and active only in
union with matter, survives the disso-
lution of the body and is immortal, is
another question, and is not proved,
in our judgment, by proving its im-
materiality. There is an important
text in Ecclesiastes, 3:21, which
would seem to have some bearing on
the assumption that the immortality
of the soul is really a truth of phi-
losophy as well as of revelation.
"Who knoweth if the spirit of the
children of Adam ascend upward,
and if the spirit of the beasts de-
scend downward?" The doubt is
not as to the immortality of the soul,
but as to the ability of reason without
revelation to demonstrate it Cer-
tainly, reason can demonstrate its
possibility, and that nothing warrants
its denial. The doctrine, in some
form, has always been believed by
the human race, whether savage or
civilized, barbarous or refined, and
has been denied only by exceptional
individuals in exceptional epochs.
This proves either that it is a dictate
of universal reason, or a doctrine of
a revelation made to man in the be-
ginning, before the dispersion of the
human race commenced. In cither
case the reason for believing the doc-
trine would be sufficient ; but we are
disposed to take the latter alternative,
and to hold that the belief in the immor-
tality of the soul, or of an existence
after death, originated in revelation
made to our first parents, and has
been perpetuated and ditTused by tra-
dition, pure and integral with the
patriarchs, the s>-nagogue, and the
church; but mutilated, corrupted, and
travestied with the cultivated as well
as with the uncultivated heathen.
With the heathen Satan played his
pranks with the tradition, as he is do-
ing wth it with the spiritisis in our
own times.

But if the belief originated in reve-

lation and is a doctrine of faidi ra'j»
than of science, yet is it not rtrpig-
nant to science, and reason has mud
to urge in its support. The imnute-
riality of the soul implies its unity
and simplicity, and therefore it can-
not undergo dissolution, which is *Jis
death of the body. Its dissolution is
impossible, because it is a monad,
having attributes and qualides, but
not made up by the combination of
parts. It is the form of the body,
that is, it vivifies the organic or cen-
tral cell, and gives to the organism its
life, instead of drawing its own 2i£:
from it Science, then, has no'Jiing
from which to infer that it ceases
to exist when the body dies. Th:
death of the body does not necessa-
rily imply its destruction. True, we
have here only negative proou^bu:
negative proofs are all that is netiloL
in the case of a doctrine of tradiuon,
to satisfy the most exacting reason.
The soul may be extinguished nth
the body, but we cannot say that ii )s
without prooC Left to our unassist-
ed reason, we could not say that the
soul of the animal expires with its
body. Indeed, the Indian does no;
believe it, and therefore buries with
the hunter his favorite dog, to ac-
company him in the happy hunting
grounds.

The real matter to be proved is
not that the soul can or does survive
the body, but that it dies with the
body. We have seen that it is dis-
tinguishable from the body, does not
draw its life from the body, but im-
parts life to it; how then conclude
that it dies with it ? We have not a
particle of proof, and not a single fact
from which we can logically infer
that it does so die. What right then
has any one to say that it does.'
The laboring oar is in the hands of
those who assert that the soul did
with the body, and it b ibr them to
prove what thcj wmat^ not far ns

Spiritualism and Materialism.

631

disprove it The real affirmative in
the case is not made by those who
assert the immortality of the soul, but
by those who assert its mortality.
Tlxe very term immortal is negative,
and simply denies mortality. Life is
always presumptive of the continu-
ance of life, and the continuance of
the life of the soul must be presumed
in the absence of all proofs of its
death.

We have seen that the immateriali-
ty, imity, and simplicity of the soul
prove that it does not necessarily die
with the body, but that it may sur-
vive it. The fact that God has writ-
ten his promise of a future life in the
very nature and destiny of the soul,
is for us a sufficient proof that the
soul does not die with the body.
That God is, and is the first and final
cause of all existences, is a truth of
science as well as of revelation. He
has created all things by himself, and
for himself. He then must be their
last end, and therefore their supreme
good, according to their several na-
tures. He has created man with a
nature that nothing short of the pos-
session of himself as his supreme
good can satisfy. In so creating
man, he promises him in his nature
the realization of this good, that is,
the possession of himself as final
cause, unless forfeited and rendered
impossible by man's own fault. To
return to God as his supreme good
without being absorbed in him, is
man's destiny promised in his very
constitution. But this destiny is not
realized nor realizable in this life, and
therefore there must be another life to
fulfil what he promises, for no promise
of God, however made, can fail. This
argument we regard as conclusive.

The resurrection of the flesh, the

reunion of the soul and body, future

h^>piness as a reward of virtue, and

tbie miseiy of those who through their

;JK*& Suitt M of their destiny, as a

punishment for sin, etc., are matters
of revelation or theology as distin-
guished fix}m philosophy, and do not
require to •be treated here, any further
than to say, if reason has little to say
for them, it has nothing to say against
them. They belong to the mysteries
of faith which, though never contraiy
to reason, are above it, in an order
transcending its domain.

We have thus far treated spiritual-
ism and materialism firom the point
of view of philosophy, not from that
of psychology, or of our faculties.
The two doctrines, as they prevail
to-day, are simply psychological
doctrines. The partisans of the one
say that the soul has no faculty of
knowing any but material objects,
and therefore assert materialism ; the
partisans of the other say that the
soul has a faculty by which she ap-
prehends immediately immaterial or
spiritual objects or truths, and hence
they assert what goes by the name of
spiritualism, which may or may not
deny the existence of matter. Des-
cartes and Cousin assert the cogni-
tion of both spirit and matter, but as
independent each of the other ; Col-
lier and Berkeley deny that we have
any cognition of matter, and there-
fore deny its existence, save in the
mind. The truth, we hold, hes with
neither. The soul has no direct in-
tuition of the immaterial or intelligi-
ble. We use intuition here in the or-
dinary sense, as an act of the soul —
knowing by looking on, or immediately
beholding ; that is, in the sense of in-
telligible as distinguished firom sensi-
ble perceptions — ^intellection, as some
say, as distinguished firom sensation.
This empirical intuition, as we call it,
is very distinct firom that intuition
a priori by which the ideal formula is
affiraied, for that is the act of the
divine Being himself, creating the
mind, and becoming himself the light
thereof! But that constitutes the

spiritualism and Materialism,

633

ifallible living teacher to preserve
infallibility of the language in
li it is made. We may see here,
the reason why the infallible
ch is hardly less necessary to the
»sopher than to the theologian,
re faith and theology are preserv-
\ their purity and integrity, philo-
y will not be able to stray far
the truth, and where philosophy
lund, the sciences will not long
nsound. The aberrations of phi-
)hy are due almost solely to the
set of philosophers to study it in
lation with the dogmatic teaching
e church.

►me of our dear and revered
ds in France and elsewhere are
ng, as the cure for the materialism
h is now so prevalent, to revive the
ualism of the seventeenth century,
the materialism they combat is
the reaction of the mind against
exaggerated spiritualism which
would revive. A\^ere there are
real forces, each equally evident
equally indestructible, you can
alternate between them, till you
the term of their S)aithesis, and
ible to reconcile and harmonize
. The spiritualism defended by
in in France has resulted only
le recrudescence of materialism,
trouble now is, that matter and
: are presented in our modem
ms as antagonistic and natiu^ly
jncilable forces. The duty ot
sophers is not to labor to pit
against the other, or to give the
the victory over the other; but
Lve both, and to find out the
le term which unites them. We
' there must be somewhere that
le term; for both extremes are
ions of God, who makes all
s by number, weight, and mea-
and creates always after the
of his own essential nature. All
rorks, then, must be logical and
rtically harmonious.

Whether we have indicated this
middle term or not, we have clearly
shown, we think, that it is a mistake
to suppose the two terms are not in
reality mutually irreconcilable. No-
thing proves that, as creatures of
God, each in its own order and place
is not as sacred and necessary as the
other. We do not know the nature
or essence of either, nor can we say
in what, as to this nature and essence,
the precise difference between them
consists; but we know that in our
present life both are united, and that
neither acts without the other. All
true philosophy must then present
them not as opposing, but as harmo-
nious and concurring forces.

We do not for ourselves ever apply
the term spiritualism to a purely
intellectual philosophy. We do
not regard the words spirit and soul
as precisely synonymous. St Paul,
Heb. iv. 12, sajrs, "The word of
God is living and effectual, . . .
reaching unto the division of the soul
and the spirit," or, as the Protestant
version has it, " quick and powerful,
. . . piercing even to the divid-
ing asunder of soul and spirit"
There is evidently, then, however
closely related they may be, a dis-
tinction between die soul and the
spirit Hence there may be soul
that is not spirit, which was generally
held by the ancients. The Greeks
had their ^rox^ and Ilveiffia, and the
Latins their anima and spiritus. The
term spirit, when applied to man,
seems to us to designate the moral
powers rather than the intellectual,
and the moral powers or faculties are
those which specially distinguish man
from animals. St Paul applies the
term spiritual uniformly in a moral
sense, and usually, if not always, to
men bom again of the Holy Ghost, or
the regenerated, and to the influences
and gifts of the Holy Spirit; that is,
to designate the supernatural chaiac-

634

Angela.

ter, gifts, graces, and virtues of those
who have been translated into the
kingdom of God and are fellow-citi-
zens of the commonwealth of Christ,
or the Christian republic Hence,
we shrink from calling any intellec-
tual philosophy spiritualism. If it
touches philosophy, as it undoubtedly
does — ^since grace supposes nature,
and a man must be bom into the
natural order before he can be bom
again into the supernatural order,
or regenerated by the Spirit — ^it rises
into the region of supematiu^l sanc-
tity, into which no man by his natu-
ral powers can enter; for it is a sanc-
tity that places one on the plane of a
supernatural destiny.

But even taken in this higher sense,
there is no antagonism between spirit
and matter. There is certainly a
«truggle, a warfare that remains
through life; but the struggle is not
between the soul and the body; it
is, as is said, between the higher
and inferior powers of the soul,
between the spirit and concupis-
cence, between the law of the

mind, which bids us labor for spizitBil
good which will last for ever, and die
law in the members, which looks onlr
to the good of the body, in its eazdt-
ly relations. The saints, who chastise,
mortify, macerate the body by their
fastings, vigils, and scourgings, do not
do it on the principle that the bodf
is evil, or that matter is the source of
evil. There is a total difference in
principle between Christian ascetidsB
and that of the Platonists, who hoU
that evil originates in the int^actabi^
ness of matter, that holds the sod
imprisoned as in a dungeon, and
from which it sighs and stmggles for
deliverance. The Christian knois
that our Lord himself assumed flesh
and retains for ever his glorified bodf .
He believes in the resurrection of tbe
body and its future everlasting reunioQ
with the souL Christ, dying in a ma-
terial body, has redeemed both matter
and spirit Hence we venerate the rel-
ics of our Lord and his saints, and b^
lieve matter may be hallowed. In our
Lord all opposites are reconciled, and
universal peace is established.

TBANSLATBD PROU TUB GBR MAN OP CONRAD VON BOLAKOKir.

ANGELA.

CHAPTER I.

CRINOLINE.

An express train was just on the
eve of leaving the railway station
in Munich. Two fashionably dress-
ed gentlemen stood at the open
door of a railway carriage, in
conversation with a third, who sat
within. lliese two young men
bore on their features the marks of
youthful dissipation, indicating that
they had not been sparing of pleasures.

The one in the carriage had a hand-
some, florid countenance, two dear,
expressive eyes, and thick locks of hair,
which he now and then stroked bad
from his fine forehead. He scarcely
observed the conversation of the two
friends, who spoke of balls, dogs,
horses, theatres, and ballet-girls.

In the same carriage sat another
traveller, evidently the father of the
young man. He was reading the
newspaper — that is, the report of the
money market — ^whilc his fleshy left
hand dallied with the heavy gold

Angela.

6is

■ his watch-chain. He had
attention to the conversation
bservation of his son brought
mous reflection,
the by," said one of the
nen quickly, " I was nearly
g to tell you the news,
! Do you know that Baron
is engaged ?"

;aged ? To whom ?" said
carelessly.

Bertha von Harburg. I re-
i card this morning, and im-
y \iTote a famous letter of
ilation."

rd looked down earnestly and
s head.

tmmiserate the genial baron,"
" What could he be thinking
>h headlong into this misfor-

father looked in surprise at
the hand holding the paper
his knee.

nit me, gentlemen," said the
)r; the doors were closed,
ds nodded good-by, and the
ved off.

r observation about Linden's
astonishes me, Richard,
laps you were only jesting."
no means," said Richard,
more earnest in my life. I
i my conviction, and my
)n is the result of careful ob-
. and mature reflection."
ther*s astonishment increased,
jrvation — ^reflection — ^fudge !"
; father impatiendy, as he
le paper and shoved it into
cet. "How can a young
wenty-two talk of experience
*rvation! Enthusiastic non-
vlarriage is a necessity of
fe. And you will yet sub-
is necessity."

, if marriage be a necessity,

iuppose I must bow to the

destiny. But, father, this

does not exist. There are

intelligent men enough who do not
bind themselves to woman's capri-
ces."

" Oh 1 certainly, there are some
strange screech-owls in the world —
some enthusiasts. But certainly you
do not wish to be one of them. You,
who have such gre^t expecutions.
You, the only son of a wealthy house.
You, who have a yearly income of
thousands to spend."

"The income can be enjoyed
more pleasantly, free and single, fa-
ther."

"Free and single — and enjoyed!
Zounds! you almost tempt me to
think ill of you. Happily, I know
you well. I know your strict morali-
ty, your solidity, your moderate pre-
tensions. All these amiable qualities
please me. But this view of mar-
riage I did not expect; you must put
away this sickly notion."

The young man made no answer,
but leaned back in his seat with a
disdainful smile.

Hen Frank gazed thoughtfully
through the window. He reflected
on the determined character of his
son, whose disposition, even when a
child, shut him out from the world,
and who led an interior, meditative
life. Strict regularity and exact
employment of time were natural to
him. At school, he held the first
place in all brandies. His ambition
and effort was to excel all others in
knowledge. His singular questions,
which indicated a keen observation
and capacity, had often excited the
surprise of his father. And while
the companions of the youth hailed
with delight the time which released
them from the benches of the school
and from their studies, Richard
cheerfully bound himself to his ac-
customed task, to appease his long-
ing for knowledge. Approaching
manhood had not changed him/in
this regard* He was punctual to the

636

Angela.

hours of business, and labored with
zeal and interest, to the great joy of
his father. He recreated himself
with music and painting, or by a
walk in the open country, for whose
beauties he had a keen appreciation.
The few shades of his character
were, a proud haughtiness, an im-
yielding perseverance in his deter-
minations, and a strength of convic-
tion difficult to overcome. But per-
haps these shades were, after all, great
qualities, which were to brighten up
and polish his maturity. This obsti-
nacy the father was now considering,
and, in refei^nce to his singular view
of marriage, it filled him with great
anxiety.

"But, Richard," began Herr
Frank again, " how did you come
to this singular conclusion ?'*

"By observation and reflection —
and also by experience, although you
deny my years this right."

" What have you experienced and
observed ?"

"I have observed woman as she
is, and found that such a creature
would only make me miserable.
What occupies their minds ? Fineries,
pleasures, and trifles. The pivot of
their existence turns on dress, orna-
ments, balls, and the like. We live
in an age of crinoline, and you know
how I abominate that dress ; I admit
my aversion is abnormal, perhaps
exaggerated, but I cannot overcome
it When I see a woman going
through the streets with swelling
hoops, the most whimsical fancies
come into my mind. It reminds me
of an inflated balloon, whose clumsy
swell disfigures the most beautiflil
form. It reminds me of a drunken
gawk, who swaggers along and car-
ries the foolish gewgaw for a show.
The costume is indeed expressive.
It reveals the interior disposition.
Crinoline is to me the type of the
woman of our day — an empty, vain,

inflated something. And this type
repels me."

" Then you believe our women to
be vain, pleasure-seeking, and deso-
tute of true womanhood, because thej
wear crinoline ?"

" No, the reverse- An overween-
ing propensity to show and frivofitj
characterizes our women, and there-
fore they wear crinoline in spite of
the protestations of the men."

"Bahl Nonsense; you lay too
much stress on fashion. I know
many women myself who complain
of this fashion."

"And afterward follow it This
precisely confirms my opinion. Wo-
men have no longer sufficient moral
force to disregard a disagreeable re-
straint Their vanity is still stronger
than their inclinations to a natiual
enjoyment of life."

" Do you want a wife who wooki
be sparing and saving; who, byher
frugality, would increase yourw^th;
who, by her social seclusion, would
not molest your cash-box ?"

"No; I want no wife," answered
the young man somewhat pettishljr.
" And I am not alone in this. The
young men are beginning to awaken.
A sound, natural feeling revolts
against the vitiated taste of the wo-
men. Alliances are forming e^er}-
where. The last paper announced
that, at Marseilles, six thousand young
men have, with joined hands, vowed
never to marry until the women re-
nounce their ruinous costumes and
costly idleness, and return to a plain
style of dress and frugal habits. I ob-
ject to this propensity to ease and plea-
sure — this desire of our women for
finery and the gratification of vanity.
Not because this inclination is expen-
sive, but because it is objectionable.
Every creature has an object But,
if we consider the women of our day,
we might well ask, for what are they
here ?"

Angela,

637

' " For what are women here, fool-
ish man?" interrupted Herr Frank.
" Are they to go about without any
costume, like Eve before the fall?
Are they to know the trials of life,
and not its joys ? Are they to exist
like the women of the sultan, shut up
in a harem? For what are they
here? I will tell you. They are
here to make life cheerful. Does not
Schiller say,

" * Honor to woman I she acattera rife
Heavenlj roseSi 'mid earthly life ;

Love idle weaves in gladdening bands ;
Chastity's veil her charm attires ;
Beautiful thoughts' eternal fires,
Watchfiil, she feeds with holy hands.'

Richard smiled.

"Poetical fiancy!" said he. "My
unhappy friend £mil Schlagbein
often declaimed and sang with pas-
sion that same poem of Schiller's.
Love had even made a poet of him.
He wrote verses to his Ida. And
now, scarcely three years married, he
is the most miserable man in the
world — ^miserable through his wife.
Ida has still the same finely carved
head as formerly ; but that head, to
the grief of Emil, is full of stubborn-
ness — full of whimsical nonsense.
Her eyes have still the same deep
blue ; but the charming expression has
changed, and the blue not unfre-
quendy indicates a storm. How
often has Emil poured out his sor-
rows to me ! How often complain-
ed of the coldness of his wife ! A
ball missed — ^missed fh>m necessity —
makes her stupid and sulky for da3rs.
In vain he seeks a cheerful look.
When he returns home worried by
the cares of business, he finds no con-
solation in Ida's sympathy, but is
vexed by her stubbornness and of-
fended by her coldness. Emil sprang
headlong into misery. I will beware
of such a step."

''You are unjust and prejudiced
Most all women, then, be Ida Schlag-
beini?"

"Perhaps my Ida might be still
worse," retorted Richard sharply.

Herr Frank drummed on his knees,
always a sign of displeasure.

" I tell you, Richard," said he em-
phatically. "Your time will come
yet You will follow the universal
law, and this law will give the lie to
your one^ded view — ^to your con-
tempt of woman."

" That impulse, father, can be over-
come, and habit becomes a second
nature. Besides — ^"

" Besides — ^well, what besides ?"

"I would say that the time of
which you speak is, in my case, hap-
pily paked," answered Richard, still
gazing through the window. "For
me the time of sentimental delusion
has been short and decisive," he con-
cluded with a bitter smile.

" Can I, your father, ask a clearer
explanation ?"

The young man leaned back in his
seat and looked at the opposite side
while he spoke.

" Last summer I visited Baden-Ba-
den. On old Mount Eberstein, which
is so picturesquely enthroned above
the village, I fell in with a party.
Among the number was a young la-
dy of rare beauty and great modesty.
An acquaintance gave me an oppor-
tunity of being introduced to her.
We sat in pleasant conversation un-
der the black oaks imtil the ap-
proaching twilight compelled us to
return to thie town. IsabeIla-«-^uch
was the name of the beauty — ^had
made a deep impression on me. So
deep that even the detested crinoline
that encircled her person in large
hoops found favor in my sight. Her
manner was in no wise coquettish.
She spoke with deliberation and spi-
rit. Her countenance had always
the same expression. Only when the
young people, into whose heads the
fiery wine had risen, gave expression
to sharp words, did Isabella look up.

638

Angela.

and a displeased expression, as of in-
jured delicacy, passed over her coun-
tenance. My presence seemed agree-
able to her. My conversation may
have pleased her. As we descended
the mountain, we came to a difficult
pass. I offered her my arm, which
she took in the same unchanging,
quiet manner which made her so
charming in my sight. I soon dis-
covered my affection for the stranger,
and wondered how it could arise so
suddenly and become so impetuous.
I was ashamed at abandoning so
quickly my opinion of women. But
this feeling was not strong enough to
stifle the incipient passion. My mind
lay captive in the fetters of infatua-
tion."

He paused for a moment. The
proud young man seemed to re-
proach himself for his conduct, which
he considered wanting in manly in-
dependence and clear penetration.

" On the following day," he con-
tinued, " there was to be a horse-race
in the neighborhood. Before we
parted, it was arranged that we would
be present at it. I returned to my
room in the hotel, and dreamed wa-
king dreams of Isabella. My friend
had told me that she was the daugh-
ter of a wealthy merchant, and that
she had accompanied her invalid mo-
ther here. This mark of love and
filial affection was not calculated to
cool my ardor. Isabella appeared
more beautiful and more charming
still. We went to the race. I had
the unspeakable happiness of being
in the same car and sitting opposite
her. After a short journey — to me,
at least, it seemed short — we arrived
at the grounds where the race was to
take place. We ascended the plat-
form. I sat at Isabella's side. She
did not for a moment lose her quiet
equanimity. The race began. I saw
litde of it, for Isabella was constant-
ly before my eyes, look where I

would. Suddenly a noise — a V»d
cry — roused me fiT>m my dream. Noc
twenty paces firom where we sat, i
horse had fallen. Tlie rider was id-
der him. The floundering animd
had crushed both legs of the unfortu-
nate man. Even now I can see Us
frightfully distorted features befoR
me. I feared that Isabella's deFicatt
sensibility might be wounded by the
horrible sight. And when I looked
at her, what did I see? A smiling
face ! She had lost her quiet, wean
manner, and a hard, unfeeling sool
lighted up her features !

« < Do you not think this change in
the monotony of the race quite mag-
nificent ?' said she.

" I made no answer. With an apo-
logy, I left the party and rciuincd
alone to Baden."

" Very well," said the father, "yonr
Isabella was an unfeeling creature-
granted. But now for your applica-
tion of this experience."

"We will let another make the
application, father. Listen a moment
In Baden a bottle of Rhine vine,
whose spirit is so congenial to sad
and melancholy feelings, sened to
obliterate the desolate remembrance.
I sat in the almost deserted dining-
room. The guests were at the thea-
tre, on excursions in the neighbor-
hood, or dining about the park. An
old man sat opposite me. I remark-
ed that his eyes, when he thought
himself unobserved, were turned in-
quiringly on me. The sudden cool-
ing of my passion had perhaps left
some marks upon me. The stranger
believed, perhaps, that I was an un-
lucky and desperate player. A play-
er I had indeed been. I had been
about to stake my happiness on a
beautiful form. But I had won the
game.

" The wine soon cheered me up and
I entered into conversation with the
stranger. We spoke of various things,

Angela.

63a

finally of the race. As there
a friendly, confiding expression
le old man's countenance, I re-

to him the unhappy fall of the
> and dwelt sharply on the im-
ion the hideous spectacle made
^bella. I told him that such a
:e of callousness and insensibility
new to me, and that this sad
rience had shocked me greatly.
This comes,* said he, * from per-
ng yourself to be deceived by
arances, and because you do not
r certain classes of society. If
consider the beautiful Isabella
sensual eyes, you will run great
er of taking appearances for
— the false for the real. Even
plainest exterior is often only
I. Painted cheeks, colored eye-
s, false hair, false teeth; and
if these forms were not false, but
-if you penetrate these forms, if,
r the constraint of graceftil re-

we see modesty, purity, and
humility — there is then still great-
mger of deception. A wearied,
'ated nature, nerves blunted by
rnjoyment of all kinds of plea-
, are frequently all that remains
)manly nature.

Do you wish to see strikmg exam-
of this? Go into the gaming
ns — into those horrible places
e fearful and consuming passions
e ; where desperation and sui-
lurk. Go into the corrupt, poi-
is atmosphere of those gambling
and there you will find women
'' day and every hour. Whence
disgusting sight? The violent
ement of gambling alone can
i sufficient attraction for those
have been sated with all kinds
leasures. Is a criminal to be
ited ? I give you my word of
r that women give thousands
ancs to obtain the best place,
t they can contemplate more
emently the shocking spectacle

and read every expression in the dis*
torted features of the struggling male-
factor.

'* ' Isabella was one of these exhaust-
ed, enervated creatures, and hence
her pleasure at the sight of the man-
gled rider.'

''Thus spoke the stranger, and I
admitted that he was right. At the
same time I tried to penetrate deeper
into this want of sensibility. Like a
venturesome miner, I descended into
the psychological depth. I shudder-
ed at what I there discovered, and at
the inferences which Isabella's con-
duct forced upon my mind. No,
father, no," said he impetuously , " I
will have no such nuptials — I will
never rush into the miseries of matri-
mony!"

" Thunder and lightning ! are you
a man?" cried Herr Frank. "Be-
cause Emil's wife and Isabella are
good-for-nothings, must the whole
sex be repudiated? Both cases are
exceptions. These exceptions give
you no right to judge unfavorably of
all women. This prejudice does
no honor to your good sense, Rich-
ard. It is only eccentricity can
judge thus."

The train stopped. The travellers
went out, where a carriage awaited
them.

"Is everything right?" said Herr
Frank to the driver.

" All is fixed, sir, as you required."

" Is the box of books taken out ?"

" Yes, sir."

The coach moved up the street.
The dark mountain-side rose into
view, and narrow, deep valleys yawn-
ed beneath the travellers. Fresh
currents of air rushed down the
mountain and Herr Frank inhaled
refireshing draughts.

Richard gazed thoughtfully over
the magnificent vineyards and luxu-
rient orchards.

The road grew steeper and the

640

Angela.

wooded summit of the mountain ap-
proached. A light which Frank be-
held with satisfaction glared out from
it. Its rays shot out upon the town
that, amid rich vineyards, topped the
neighboring hill.

" Our residence is beautifully loca-
ted," said Herr Frank, "How
cheerful it looks up there 1 It is a
home fit for princes."

" You have indeed chosen a mag-
nificent spot, father. Everything
unites to make Frankenhohc a de-
lightful place. The vineyards on the
slopes of the hills, the smiling hamlet
of Salingen to the right. In the
background the stem mountain with
its proud ruins on the summit of
Salburg, the deep valleys and the
dark ravines, all unite in the land-
scape: to the east that beautiful
plain."

These words pleased the father.
His eyes rested long on the beautiful
property.

" You have forgotten a reason for
my happy choice," said he, while a
smile played on his features. " I
mean the habit of my fiiend and deli-
verer, who, for the last eight years,
spends the month of May at Frank-
enhohe. You know the singular
character of the doctor. Nothing in
the world can tear him fi*om his
books. He has renounced all plea-
sure and enjoyment, to devote his
whole time to his books. When
Frankenhohe entices and captivates
the man of science, so strict, so dead
to the world, it is, as I think, the high-
est compliment to our place."

Richard did not question his fa-
ther's oi)inion. He knew his un-
bounded esteem for the learned doc-
tor.

The road grew steeper and steeper.
The horses labored slowly along.
The pleasant hamlet of Salingen
lay a short distance to the left. A
single house, separated fix>m the vil-

lage, and standing near the road la
the midst of vineyards, came into
view. The features of Hen Frank
darkened as he turned his gaze from
Frankenhohe to this house. It vas
as though some unpleasant recollec-
tion was associated with it Richaid
looked at the stately mansion, tbe
large out-houses, the walled cooiOi
and saw that everything about it is
neat and clean.

" This must be a wealthy profW-
tor or influential landlord who lira
here," said Richard. " I have ifi*
deed seen this place in former }-eais,
but it did not interest me. How m-
viting and pleasant it looks. Hie
property must have undergone con-
siderable change ; at least, I remember
nothing that indicated the place to
be other than an ordinary £um-
house."

Herr Frank did not hear these
observations. He muttered some
bitter imprecation. The coach gaio*
ed the summit, left the road, and
passed tlirough vineyards and chest-
nut groves to the house.

Frankenhohe was a handsome two-
story house whose arrangements cor-
responded to Frank's taste and meaz&
Near it stood another, occupied bj
the steward. A short distance from
it were stables and out-houses for
purposes of agriculture.

Herr Frank went directlv to the
house, and passed from room to room
to see if his instructions had been car-
ried out

Richard went into the garden and
walked on paths covered with yellow
sand. He strolled about among
flower-beds that loaded the air vith
agreeable odors. He examined the
blooming dwarf fruit-trees and orna-
mental plants. He observed the
neatness and exact order of e^tiy-
thing. Lastly, he stood near the
vineyard whence he could bdioU n
extensive view. He •dniBBd dft

Angela.

641

itiful, fragrant landscape. He
d thoughtfully reflecting. His
irersation made it evident to him

his feelings and will did not
e with his father's wishes. He
that between his inclinations and
ove for his father he must under-
. severe struggle — a struggle that
t decide his happiness for life.

strangeness of his opinion of
len did not escape him. He
d his experience. He tried to
\y his convictions, and yet his
jr's claims and filial duty pre-

CHAPTER II.
THE WEATHER-CROSS.

le next morning Richard was
vith the early larks, and returned

a few hours in a peculiar frame
lind. As he was entering his
I, he saw through the open door
*ather standing in the saloon.

Frank was carefully examining
arrangements, as the servants
cvLuymg books into the adjoin-
room and placing them in a
case. Richard, as he passed,
ed his father briefly, contrary to
5ual custom. At other times he
to exchange a few words with
ither when he bid him good-
ing, and he let no occasion
of giving his opinion on any
T in which he knew his father
an interest.

e young man walked to the
window of his room, and gazed
he distance. He remained mo-
ss for a time. He ran his fin-
hrough his hair, and with a jerk
e head threw the brown locks
from his forehead. He walked
5sly back and forth, and acted
L man who tries in vain to es-
from thoughts that force them-

vpon him. At length he went

to the piano, and beat an impetuous
impromptu on the keys.

" Ei, Richard !" cried Herr Frank,
whom the wild music had brought to
his side. " Why, you rave ! How pos-
sessed I One would think you had
discovered a roaring cataract m the
mountains, and wished to imitate its
violence."

Richard glanced quickly at his fa-
ther, and finished with a tender, plain-
tive melody,

" Come over here and look at the
rooms."

Richard followed his father and
examined carelessly the elegant
rooms, and spoke a few cold words
of commendation.

" And what do you say to this flo-
ra ?" said Heir Frank pointing to a
stepped firamework on which bloom-
ed the most beautiful and rare flow-
ers.

"All very beautiful, father. The
doctor will be much pleased, as he
always is here."

" I wish and hope so. I have had the
peacocks and turkeys sent away,, be-
cause Klingenberg cannot endure
their noise. The library here will al-
ways be his favorite object, and. care
has been taken with it. Here are the
best books on all subjects,, even, theo-
logy and astronomy."

** Frankenhohe is indeed cheerfuli
as the heart of youth and quiet as a
cloister," said Richard. "Your friend
would indeed be imgiateful if this at-
tention did not gratify him,"

" I have also provided that excel-
lent wine which he- loves and enjoys
as a healthful medicine. But, Rich-
ard, you know Klingenberg's peculi-
arities. You must not play as you
did just now;; you would drive the
doctor fix)m the house."

" Make yourself easy about that,
father; I will play while he is on the
mountain."

Richard took a book from the

Angela,

643

tly in a silk net and partly
Dver the forehead and around
d, as is sometimes seen with
. Her countenance was ex-
' beautiful, and her light eyes
sted full and clear on the

who approached her. She
at him with the easy, natural
veness of a child, surprised to
ich an elegant gentleman in
:e.
: looked furtively at her, as

he feared the fascinating
)f the vision that so lightly
:efully passed him. He raised
itiffly and formally. This was
y to meet the requirement of
I, Were it not, he would per-
,ve passed her by without a
>n. She did not return his

with a stiff bow, but with a
" good-morning;" and this too
►ice whose sweetness, purity,
slody harmonized with the
I echoes of the morning.
: m©ved on hastily for some
. He was about to look
It did not do so ; and continu-
s way, with contracted brows,
;m in the road hid her from
w Here he stopped and
he sweat from his forehead,
rt beat quickly, and he was

by strong emotions. He
•aning on his cane and gazing
: shadows of the forest. He
ntinued thoughtfully, and as-
some hundred feet higher till
ed the top of the mountain.
I trees ceased; a variegated
►od crowned the summit,
brmed a kind of platform.

hands had levelled the

and on the moss that cov-

grew modest little violets,
iie border of the platform

stone cross of rough mate-
fear this cross lay the frag-
)f another lafge rock, that
ia¥e been shattered by light-

ning years before. A few steps back
of this, on two square blocks of stone,
stood a statue of the Virgin and
Child, of white stone very carefully
wrought, but without much art. The
Virgin had a crown of roses on her
head. The Child held a little bunch
of forget-me-nots in its hand, and as
it held them out seemed to say,
" Forget me not." Two heavy vases
that could not be easily overturned
by the wind, standing on the upper
block, also contained flowers. All
these flowers were quite fresh, as if
they had just been placed there.

Richard examined these things,
and wondered what they meant in
this solitude of the mountain. The
fresh flowers and the cleanliness of
the statue, on which no dust or moss
could be seen, indicated a careful
keeper. He thought of the young
woman whom he met. He had seen
the same kind of flowers in her hand,
and doubdess she was the devotee of
the place.

Scarcely had his thoughts taken
this direction when he turned away
and walked to the border of the plot,
and gazed at the country before him.
He looked down toward Franken-
hohe, whose white chimneys appear-
ed above the chestnut grove. He
contemplated the plains with their
luxuriant fields reflecting every shade
of green — the strips of forests that
lay like shadows in the sunny plain
— numberless hamlets with church
towers whose gilded crosses gleamed
in the sun. He gazed in the dis-
tance where the mountain ranges
vanished in the mist, and long he
enjoyed the magnificence of the view.
He was aroused from his dreamy con-
templation by the soimd of footsteps
behind him.

An old man with a load of wood
on his shoulders came up to the
place. Breathing heavily, he threw
down the wood and wiped the sweat

644

Angela.

from his face. He saw the stranger,
and respecirully touched hU cap as
he sat down on the wood.

Frank went to him,

" You are from Sa]ingen, I sup-
pose," he began.

" Yes, sir."

" It is very hard for an old man
I like you to cany such a. load so far."

" it is indeed, but I am poor and
I must do it."

Frank looked at the patched clothes
of the old man, his coarse shoes, his
stotkingless feet, and meagre body,
I and felt compassion for him.

" For us poor people the earth
I beare but thistles and thoras." After
1 a pause, the old man continued,
" We have to undergo many tribu-
lations and difficulties, and sometimes
we even suffer from hunger. But
thus it is in the world. The good
God will reward us in the next world
for our sufferings in this."

These words sounded strangely to
Richard. Raised as he was in the
midst of wealth, and without contact
»-ith povert}', he had never found
.occasion to consider the lot of the
poor; and now the resignation of the
old man, and his hope in the future,
seemed strange to him. He was as-
tonished that religion could have
such power — so great and strong — to
comfort the poor in the miseries of a
hopeless, comfortless life.

" But what if your hope in anoth-
er world deceive you ?"

The old man looked at him with
astonishment.

" How can ! be deceived ? God
» faithful. He keeps his pro-
mises."

"And what has he promised
. you?"

" Eternal happiness if I persevere,
latient and just, to die end."
^ " I wonder at your strong faith I"

" It is my sole possession on earth.
I IVliat woiiid support us poor peoplCj

what would keep us from despai
religion did not ?"
Frank put his hand into his pocket
" Here," said he, " perh^iis ihj»
money will relieve your wants."

The old man looked at the bright
thalers in his hand, and the lean
trickled down his cheeks.

"This is too much, sir; I cannM
receive six thalers from you."

" That is but a tnflc for mc; pat il
in your pocket, and say no more
about it."

" May God reward and bless you a
thousand times for it !"
" What does that cross indicate?"
" That is a weather cross, *ir. We
have a great deal of bad weathei
to fear. We have frequent Btonnt
here, in summer; they hang over the
mountain and rage terribly. Eveiy
ravine becomes a torrent that da!dwi
over the fields, hurling rocks anil
sand from the mountain. Our 6cfcll
are desolated and dcsiroyed. TTic
people of Salmgen plac«l that cross
there against the weather. In qiimg
the whole community come here in
procession and pray God lo protect
them from the storms."

Richard reflected on this pheno-
menon; the confidence t>f these
simple people in the protection of
God, whose omnipotence must inter-
vene between the remoiBcless clemcDts
and their victims, appeared to him
as the highest degree of siini>licity.
But he kept his thoughts to biiRsvtf,
for he respected tlic religious senti-
ments of the old man, and would not
hurt his feelings.
" .'Vnd the "^'irgin, why isshe there ?"
" .\h ! Iliat is a wonderful slofKi^
sir." he answered. apparcnUy « " " '
to evade an explanation.

" Which every one ought not 4
know ?"

" Well — but perliaps the gentS
mnn would la^gh, and I would i
like that !'•

Angela.

645

"Why do you think I would laugh
at the story ?"

" Because you are a gentleman of
quality, and from the city, and such
people do not believe any more in
miracles."

This observation of rustic sincerity
was not pleasing to Frank. It ex-
pressed the opinion that the higher
classes ignore faith in the superna-
tural.

" If I promise you not to laugh,
will you tell me the story ?'*

"I will; you were kind to me,
and you can ask the story of me.
About thirty years ago," began the
old man after a pause, " there lived a
wealthy farmer at Salingen whose
name was Schenck. Schenck was
young. He married a rich maiden
and thereby increased his property.
But Schenck had many great faults.
He did not like to work and look af-
ter his fields. He let his servants do
as they pleased, and his fields were, of
course, badly worked and yielded no
more than half a crop. Schenck sat
always in the tavern, where he draiik
and played cards and dice. Almost
every night he came home drunk.
Then he would quarrel with his wife,
who reproached him. He abused
her, swore wickedly, and knocked
everything about the room, and
behaved very badly altogether.
Schenck sank lower and lower, and
became at last a great sot. His pro-
perty was soon squandered. He
sold one piece after another, and
when he had no more property to
sell, he took it into his head to sell
himself to the devil for money. He
went one night to a cross-road and
called the devil, but the devil would
not come ; perhaps because Schenck
belonged to him already, for the
Scripture says, * A drunkard cannot
enter the kingdom of heaven.' At
last a suit was brought against him,
and the last of his property was sold,

and he was driven from his home.
This hurt Schenck very much, for he
always had a certain kind of pride.
He thought of the past times when
he was rich and respected, and now
he had lost all respect with his neigh-
bors. He thought of his wife and
his four children, whom he had made
poor and miserable. All this drove
him to despair. He determined to
put an end to himself. He bought a
rope and came up here one morning
to hang himself. He tied the rope
to an arm of the cross, and had his
head in the noose, when all at once
he remembered that he had not yet
said his three "Hail! Marys." His
mother who was dead had accustom-
ed him, when a child, to say every day
three" Hail 1 Marys." Schenck had
never neglected this practice for a
single day. Then he took his head
out of the noose and said, * Well, as I
have said the " Hail ! Marys" every
day, I will say them also to-day, for
the last time.* He knelt down be-
fore the cross and prayed. A\Tien
he was done, he stood up to hang
himself. But he had scarcely stood
on his feet when he was snatched up
by a whirlwind and carried through
the air till he was over a vineyard,
where he fell without hurting him-
self. As he stood up, an ugly man
stood before him and said, *This
time you have escaped me, but the
next time I will get you.' The ugly
man had horses' hoo& in place of feet,
and wore green clothes. He dis-
appeared before Schenck's eyes.
Schenck swears that this ugly man
was the devil. He declares also that
he has to thank the Mother of God,
through whose intercession he escap-
ed the claws of the devil. Schenck
had that statue placed there in mem-
ory of his wonderful escape — and
that is why the Mother of God is
there."
"A wonderful story indeed!" said

646

Angela.

Richard. " Although I do not laugh
at it, as you see, yet I must assure
you that I do not believe the story."

" I thought so," answered the old
man. " But you can ask Schenck
himself. He is still living, and is now
seventy. Since that day he has
changed entirely. He drinks noth-
ing but water. He never enters a
tavern, but goes every day to church.
From that time to this Schenck has
been very industrious, and has saved
a nice property."

"That the drunkard reformed is
the most remarkable and best part of
the story," said Frank. " Drunkards
very seldom reform. But," contin-
ued he smiling, "the devil acted very
stupidly in the affair. He should
have known that his appearance
would have made a deep impression
on the man, and that he would not
let himself be caught a second time."

" That is true," said the old man.
" But I believe the devil was forced
to appear and speak so."

" Forced ? By whom ?"

" By Him before whom the devils
must believe and tremble. Schenck
was to understand that God deliver-
ed him on account of his pious cus-
tom, and the devil had to tell him
that this would not happen a second
time."

" How prudent you are in your su-
perstition !" said Frank.

" As the gentleman has been kind
to me, it hurts me to Jiear him speak
so."

" Now," said Richard quickly, " I
would not hurt your feelings. One
may be a good Christian without be-
lieving fables. And the flowers near
the statue. Has Schenck placed
them there too ?"

" Oh ! no — ^the Angel did that."

"The Angel. Who is that?" said
Frank, surprised.

" The Angel of Salingen — Siegwart's
angel."

" Ah! angel is Angela, is it not ?*•

" So she may be called. In Salin-
gen they call her only Angel. And
she is indeed as lovely, good, and
beautiful as an angel. She has a heart
for the poor, and she gives with an
open hand and a smiling face that
does one good. She is like her fa-
ther, who gives me as many potatoes
as I want, and seed for my little
patch of ground."

"Why does Angela decorate this
statue ?"

" I do not know ; perhaps she does
it through devotion."

"The flowers are quite fresh; does
she come here every day ?"

" Every day during the month of
May, and no longer."

" Why no longer ?"

"I do not know the reason; she
has done so for the last two years,
since she came home from the con-
vent, and she will do so this year."

"As Siegwart is so good to the
poor, he must be rich."

" Very rich — ^you can see from his
house. Do you see that fine build-
ing there next to the road? That
is the residence of Herr Siegwart."

It was the same building that
had arrested Richard's attention as
he passed it some days before, and
the sight of which had excited the ill-
humor of his father. Richard re-
turned by a shorter way to Franken-
hohe. He was serious and medita-
tive. Arrived at home, he wrote in
hb diary :

" May 13th.— Well, I have seen her. She
exhibits herself as the * Angel of Salingen.*
She is extremely beaatifuL She is fall of
amiability and purity of character. And
to-day she did not wear that detestable cri-
noline. But she will have other foibles in
place of it. She will, in some thiQgs at
least, yield to the soperfidal tendencies of
her sex. Isabella was an ideal, until she
descended from the height where my inu^-
nation, deceived by her charms, had placed
her. The impression which Angela's ap*
pearance produced hat rests on the same

Angela.

647

foundation— deception. A better acquain-
tance will soon discover this. Curious I I
long to become better acquainted !

" Religion is not a disease or hallucination,
as many think. It is a power. Religion
teaches the poor to bear their hard lot with
patience. It comforts and keeps them from
despair. It directs their attention to an
eternal reward, and this hope compensates
them for all the afflictions and miseries of
this life. Without religion, human society
would fall to pieces."

A servant entered, and announced
dinner.

" Ah Richard !'* said Herr Frank
good-humoredly. " Half an hour
late for dinner, and had to be called !
That is strange; I do not remember
such a thing to have happened before.
You are always as punctual as a re-
peater."

" I was in the mountain and had
just returned."

" No excuse, my son. I am glad
the neighborhood diverts you, and
that you depart a little from your re-
gxilarity. Now everything is in good
order, as I desired, for my friend and
deliverer. I have just received a
letter from him. He will be here in
two days. I shall be glad to see the
good man again. If Frankenhohe
will only please him for a long
time !"

"I have no doubt of that," said
Richard. " The doctor will be receiv-
ed like a friend, treated like a king,
and will live here like Adam and
Eve in paradise."

" Everything will go on as former-
ly. I will be coming and going on
accoimt of business. You will, of
course, remain uninterruptedly at
Frankenhohe. You are high in the
doctor's esteem. You interest him
very much. It is true you annoy
him sometimes with your unlearned
objections and bold assertions. But
I have observed that even vexation,
when it comes from you, is not disa-
greeable to him."

"But the poor should not annoy
him with their sick," said Richard
" He never denies his services to the
poor, as he never grants them to the
rich. Indeed, I have sometimes ob-
served that he tears himself from his
books with the greatest reluctance,
and it is not without an eflfort that he
does it."

" But we cannot change it," said
Herr Frank; "we cannot send the
poor away without deeply offending
Klingenberg. But I esteem him the
more for his generosity."

Afler dinner the father and son
went into the garden and talked of
various matters; suddenly Richard
stopped and pointing over to Salin-
gen, said,

" I passed to-day that neat build-
ing that stands near the road. Who
lives there ?"

" There lives the noble and lordly
Herr Siegwart," said Herr Frank de-
risively.

His tone surprised Richard. He
was not accustomed to hear his fa-
ther speak thus.

" Is Siegwart a noble ?"

" Not in the strict sense. But he
is the ruler of Salingen. He rules in
that town as absolutely as princes
formerly did in their kingdoms."

"What is the cause of his influ-
ence ?"

"His wealth, in the first place;
secondly, his charity ; and lastly, his
cunning."

" You are not favorable to him ?"

" No, indeed ! The Siegwart fami-
ly is excessively ultramontane and
clerical. You know I cannot endure
these narrow prejudices and this ob-
stinate adherence to any form of re-
ligion. Besides, I have a particular
reason for.disagreement with Siegwart,.
of which I need not now speak."

" Excessively ultramontane and
clerical 1" thought Richard, as he!
went to his room. "Angela is un«

648

Angela.

doubtedly educated in this spirit.
Stultifying confession alism and reli-
gious narrow-mindedness have no
doubt cast a deep shadow over the
* angel.* Now — ^patience ; the decep-
tion will soon banish."

He took up Schlosser's History, and
read a long tune. But his eyes wan-
dered from the page, and his thoughts
soon followed.

The next morning at the same
hour Richard went to the weather
cross. He took the same road and
again he met Angela; she had the
same blue dress, the same straw hat
on her arm, and flowers in her hand.
She beheld him with the same clear
eyes, with the same unconstrained
manner— only, as he thought, more
charming — as on the first day.
He greeted her coolly and fonnally,
as before. She thanked him with
the same affability. Again the temp-
tation came over him to look back
at her; again he overcame it When
he came to the statue, he found fresh
flowers in the vases. The child Jesus
had fresh forget-me-nots in his hand,
and the Mother had a crown of fresh
roses on her head. On the upper
stone lay a book, bound in blue satin
and clasped with a silver clasp.
When he took it up, he foimd beneath
it a rosary made of an unknown ma-
terial, and having a gold cross festen-
ed at the end. He opened the book.
The passage that had been last read
was marked with a sUk ribbon. It
was as follows :

" My son, trust not thy present affection ;
it will be quickly changed into another.
As long as thou livest thou art subject to
change, even against thy will ; so as to be
sometimes joyful, at other times sad ; now
easy, now troubled ; at one time devout, at
another dry ; sometimes fervent, at other
times sluggish ; one day heavy, another day
lighter. But he that is wise and well in-
structed in spirit stands above all these
changes, not minding what he feels in him-
self, nor on what side the wind of insUbility
Jilows; but that the whole bent of his soul

may advance toward its due and wished-ibr
end ; for thus he may continue one and the
self-same without being shaken, by directing
without ceasing, through all this variety of
events, the single eye of his intention to-
ward me. And by how much more pure
the eye of the intention is, with so much
greater constancy mayest thou pass through
these divers storms.

" But in many the eye of pure intention is
dark ; for men quickly look toward some-
thing delightful that comes in their way.
And it is rare to find one who is wholly free
from all blemish of self-seeking."

Frank remembered having written
about the same thoughts in his diar}'.
But here they were conceived in an-
other and deeper sense.

He read the title of the book. It
was The Following of Christ,

He copied the title in his pocket-
book. He then with a smile exam-
ined the rosary, for he was not with-
out prejudice against this kind of
prayer.

He had no doubt Angela had left
these things here, and he thought it
would be proper to return them to
the owner. He came slowly down
the mountain reading the book. It
was clear to him that 77ie Following
of Christ was a book full of very ear-
nest and profound reflections. And
he wondered how so young a wo-
man could take any interest in such
serious reading. He was convinced
that all the ladies he knew would
throw such a book aside with a sneer,
because its contents condemned their
lives and habits. Angela, then, must
be of a different character from all
the ladies he knew, and he was very
desirous of knowing better this cha-
racter of Angela.

In a short time he entered the
gate and passed through the yard to
the stately building where Herr Sieg-
wart dwelt He glanced hastily at
the long out-buildings — the large
bams ; at the polished cleanliness of
the paved court, the perfect order
of everything, and finally at the ocna-

Angela.

649

mented mansion. Then he looked
at the old lindens that stood near the
house, whose trunks were protected
from injury by iron railings. In the
tops of these trees lodged a lively fa-
mily of sparrows, who were at present
in hot contention, for they quarrelled
and cried as loud and as long as did
formerly the lords in the parliament
of Frankfort The beautiful garden,
separated from the yard by a low
wall covered with white boards, did
not escape him. Frank entered,
upon a broad and very clean path ; as
his feet touched the stone slabs, he
heard, through the open door, a low
growl, and then a man's voice saying,
" Quiet, Hector."

Frank walked through the open
door into a large room handsomely
furnished, and odoriferous with a mul-
titude of flowers in vases. A man in
the prime of life sat on the sofa read-
ing and smoking. He wore a light-
brown overcoat, brown trousers, and
low, thick boots. He had a fresh,
florid complexion, red beard, blue
eyes, and an expressive, agreeable
countenance. When Frank entered
he arose, laid aside the paper and
cigar, and approached the visitor,

"I found these things on the
mountain near the weather-cross."
said Frank, after a more formal than
afiable bow. "As your daughter
met me, I presume they belong to
her. I thought it my duty to return
them."

" These things certainly belong to
my daughter," answered Herr Sieg-
wart "You are very kind, sir.
You have placed us imder obliga-
tions to you."

"I was passing this way," said
Frank briefly.

" And whom have we the honor to
thank?"

« I am Richard Frank."

Herr Siegwart bowed. Frank no-
ticed a slight embarrassment in his

countenance. He remembered the
expressions his father had used in re-
ference to the Siegwart family, and it
was clear to him that a reciprocal ill
feeling existed here. Siegwart soon
resumed his friendly manner, and in-
vited him with much formality to the
sofk. Richard felt that he must ac-
cept the invitation at least for a few
moments. Siegwart sat on a chair
in front of him, and they talked of
various unimportant matters. Frank
admired the skill which enabled him
to conduct, without interruption, so
pleasant a conversation with a stranger.

While they were speaking, some
house-swallows flew into the room.
They fluttered about without fear, sat
on the open door, and joined their
cheerful twittering with the conversa-
tion of the men. Richard expressed
his admiration, and said he had never
seen anything like it.

" Our constant guests in summer,"
answered Siegwart. "They build
their nests in the hall, and as they
rise earlier than we do, an opening is
left for them above the hall door,
where they can go in and out undis-
turbed when the doors are closed.
Angela is in their confidence, and on
the best of terms with them. When
rainy or cold days come during
breeding time they suffer from want
of food. Angela is then their pro-
curator. I have often admired An-
gela's friendly intercourse with the
swallows, who perch upon her shoul-
ders and hands."

Richard looked indeed at the twit-
tering swallows, but their friend An-
gela passed before his eyes, so beau-
tiful indeed that he no longer heard
what Siegwart was saying.

He arose ; Siegwart accompanied
him. As they passed through the
yard, Frank observed the long row
of stalls, and said,

"You must have considerable
stock ?"

6so

Angela.

"Yes, somewhat. If you would
like to see the property, I will show
you around with pleasure."

" I regret that I cannot now avail
myself of your kindness; I shall do
so in a few days," answered Frank.

" Herr Frank," said Siegwart,
" may the accident which has given
us the pleasure of your agreeable
visit, be the occasion of many visits
in ^ture. I know that as usual you
will spend the month of May at
Frankenhohe. We are neighbors —
this tide, in my opinion, should indi-
cate a friendly intercourse."

" Let it be understood, Herr Sieg-
wart ; I accept with pleasure your in-
vitation."

On the way to Frankenhohe Rich-
ard walked very slowly, and gazed
into the distance before him. He
thought of the swallows that perch-
ed on Angela's shoulders and hands.
Their sweet notes still echoed in his
soul.

The country-like quiet of Siegwart's
house and the sweet peace that per-
vaded it were something new to him.
He thought of the simple character
of Siegwart, who, as his father said,
was " ultramontane and clerical," and
whom he had represented to himself
as a dark, reserved man. He found
nothing in the open, nattiral manner
of the man to correspond with his
preconceived opinion of him. Rich-
ard concluded that either Herr Sieg-
wart was not an ultramontane, or the
characteristics of the ultramontanes,
as portrayed in the free-thinking
newspapers of the day, were erroneous
and false.

Buried in such thoughts, he reach-
ed Frankenhohe. As he passed
through the yard, he did not observe
the carriage that stood there. But
as he passed under the window, he
heard a loud voice, and some books
were thrown from the window and
fell at his feet He looked down in

surprise at the books, whose beautiful
binding was covered with sand. He
now observed the coach, and smiled.

" Ah 1 the doctor is here," said he.
" He has thrown these unwelcome
guests out of the window. Just like
him."

He took up the books and read
the titles, Vogt's Figures from Ani-
mal Ufoy Vogfs I9tysiological Ld-
terSj Colb^s Sensualism.

He took the books to his room
and began to read them. Herr Frank,
with his joyful countenance, soon ap-
peared.

" Klingenberg is here !" said he.

" I suspected as much already,"
said Richard. " I passed by just as
he threw the books out of the win-
dow with his usual impetuosity."

" Do not let him see the books;
the sight of them sets him wild."

" Klingenberg walks only in his
own room. I wish to read these
books ; what enrages him with inno-
cent paper ?"

" I scarcely know, myself. He ex-
amined the library and was much
pleased with some of the works.
But suddenly he tore these books
from their place and hurled them
through the window."

" ' I tolerate no bad company among
these noble geniuses,' said he, point-
ing to the learned works.

" * Pardon me, honored friend,' said I,
' if, without my knowledge, some bad
books were included. What kind
of \*Titings are these, doctor ?"

"'Stupid materialistic trash,' said
he. 'If I had Vogt, Moleschott,
Colbe, and Biichner hero, I would
throw them body and bones out of
the window.*

" I was very much surprised at this
declaration, so contrary to the doc-
tor's kind disposition. *What kind
of people are those you have nam-
ed ?' said I.

" * No people, my dear Frank,' said

Angela.

(>i^

he. 'They are animals. This
Vogt and his fellows have excluded
themselves from the pale of humanity,
inasmuch as they have declared apes,
oxen, and asses to be their equals.' "

" I am now very desirous to know
these books," said Richard.

" Well, do not let our friend know
your intention," urged Frank.

Richard dressed and went to
greet the singular guest. He was
sitting before a large folio. He
arose at Richard's entrance and pa-
ternally reached him both hands.

Doctor Klingenberg was of a
compact, strong build. He had un-
usually long arms, which he swung
back and forth in walking. His fea-
tiu^s were sharp, but indicated a
modest character. From beneath
his bushy eyebrows there glistened
two small eyes that did not give an
agreeable expression to his counte-
nance. This unfavorable expres-
sion was, however, only the shell of
a warm heart.

The doctor was good-natured —
hard on himself, but mild in his judg-
ments of others. He had an insa-
tiable desire for knowledge, and it
impelled him to severe studies that
robbed him of his hair and made
him prematurely bald.

"How healthy you look, Rich-
ard I" said he, contemplating the
young man. " I am glad to see you
have not been spoiled by the seeth-
ing atmosphere of modem city life."

" You know, doctor, I have a natu-
ral antipathy to all swamps and mo-
rasses."

"That is right, Richard; preserve a
healthy naturalness."

" We expected you this morning."

"And would go to the station to
bring me. Why this ceremony? I
am here, and I will enjoy for a few
weeks the pure, bracing mountain
air. Our arrangements will be as
formerly — ^not so, my dear friend ?"

" I am at your service."

" You have, of course, discovered
some new points that afford fine
views ?"

"If not many, at least one — the
weather cross," answered Frank. " A
beautiful position. The hill stands
out somewhat from the range. The
whole plain lies before the ravished
eyes. At the same time, there are
things connected with that place that
are not without their influence on
me. They refer to a custom of the ul-
tramontanists that clashes with mod-
ern ideas ; I will have an opportunity
of seeing whether your opinion coin-
cides with mine."

" Very well ; since we have already
an object for our next walk — and
this is according to our old plan — to-
morrow after dinner at three o'clock,"
and saying this he glanced wistfully
at the old folio. Frank, smiling, ob-
served the delicate hint and retired.

TO BB CONTIMUXD.

6s 2

Antiquities of New York.

ANTIQUITIES OF NEW YORK.

It is as true of nations as it is of
individuals that they "live more in
the past and the future than in the
present ;" and when either are young
and have a very Hmited past, their
thoughts dwell most upon the future.
This is one marked difference be-
tween the peoples of the old world
and us on this continent. Our past
is so small in comparison with theirs,
that antiquarian societies, so com-
mon with them, are quite unknown
among us, and it is not often that we
throw our thoughts back.

Yet in that respect, as in others, we
are daily improving, and we begin,
now and then, to find something to
think upon in the days of our fore-
fathers.

These thoughts have arisen in our
mind from having come across a
book recentiy published by the
State of New York : " Laws and Or-
dinances of New Netherlands, 1638-
1674, compiled and translated from
the original Dutch records in the of-
fice of the Secretary of State. Alba-
ny, N.Y. E. B. O'Callaghan." From
that book a good deal can be learn-
ed of the manners and customs in
our goodly city some two hundred
years ago, that cannot fail to be in-
teresting.

It was in 1621 that the States
General of the United Netherlands
incorporated a West India Company,
with power to establish colonies in
such parts of America as were not
already occupied by other nations.

Under this authority, the company
established a colony embracing the
land from the present State of Mary-
land to the Connecticut River, and
called New Netherland.

The Amsterdam Chamber of the

company exercised supreme govern-
ment over this colony until 1664,
when it was captured by the Eng-
lish, but recovered by the Dutch in
1673, but was finally ceded to the
English.

It was in 1609 that Hendrik Hud-
son discovered the country, and in
1623 it was that the West India Com-
pany sent its first colony of families,
who settled at what was then Fort
Orange, now Albany, and settled a
colony of families at New Amsterdam,
now New York.

The colonial government, includ-
ing legislative and executive powers,
was administered by a director-gene-
ral and council ; and it is from the
laws which they enacted that we can
gather much knowledge of the man-
ners and customs of our Dutch pro-
genitors and from which we now pro-
ceed to make some extracts.

SLAVERY.

On the 7th of June, 1629, the West
India Company granted what we
would call a charter to all settleis in
the new world, but which they called
'^fi-eedoms and exemptions," to all
patroons, masters, or private persons
who would plant colonies in New
Netherland.

They consisted of thirty-one arti-
cles; and among them was that
which, if it may not be considered
the origin, in this country, of that
slavery which it took us some two
hundred and fifty years to get rid of,
was, by one of the articles, not only
tolerated, but was actually establi^ed,
with a covenant on the part of the
home government to supply the set-
tlers with slaves.

Antiquities of New York.

6S3

ARTICLE XXX.*

C<'

The Company will use their endeavors
to supply the colonists with as many Blacks
as they conveniently can, on the conditions
hereafter to be made, in such manner, how-
ever, that they shall not be bound to do it
for a longer time than they shall think pro-
per."

On the 19th of November, 1654,
the Amsterdam board allowed the
importation of negroes direct from
Africa, by the ship Witte Paert, and
on the 6th 6i August, 1655, the di-
rector-general and council of New
Netherland imposed an ad valorem
duty of ten per cent on the exporta-
tion of any of the slaves brought in
by that ship.

THE YANKEES.

The discord between the quiet,
stolid Dutchmen of those days, and
the restless "Yengees," of whom
they had so much dread, soon began
to show itself, and every once in a
while we find a paper bomb-shell
fired off at them, in the shape of a
law, and hitting them in a tender
spot, by forbidding trade.

Take this, the first instance :

" ORDINANCE

Of the Director and Council of New Neth-
erland, prohibiting the purchase of pro-
duce raised near Fort Hope. — Passed 3
April, 1642.

" Whereas our territory which we pur-
chased, paid for, and took possession of,
provided in the year 1633 with a Block-
house, Garrison, and Cannon, on the Fresh
River of New Netherlands a long time be-
fore any Christians were in the said river,
hath now, for some years past, been forci-
bly usurped by some englishmen, and given
the name of Hartford, notwithstanding we
duly protested against them; who, more-
over, treat our people most barbarously,
beating them with clubs and mattocks even
unto the shedding of blood ; cut down our
com, sow the fields by night which our
people ploughed by day ; haul home by
force the hay which was mowed by our
people ; cast our ploughs into the river, and
forcibly impound our horses, cows, and
hogs, so that no cruelty, insolence, nor vio-
lence remains which is not practised to-
ward nSy who yet have treated them with

all moderation ; Yea, even at great hazard,
have redeemed and sent back home their
Women, who were carried off by the In-
dians; And although we are commanded
by the States-General, his Highness of
Orange, and the Honorable West India
Company to maintain our Limits and to as-
sert our Right by every means, which We,
also, have the power to do, yet rather have
We chose patiently to suffer violence, and
to prove by deeds that we are better Chris-
tians than they who go about there clothed
with such outward show, until in its time the
measure shall be entirely full.

" Therefore, our order and command pro-
visionally is, & We do hereby Ordain that
our Inhabitants o( Nfto Netherlands^ most
expressly forbidden from purchasing, either
directly or indirectly, by the third or second
shipment, or in any manner whatsoever,
any produce which has been raised on our
land near Fort Hope on the Fresh River,
on pain of arbitrary correction, until their
rights are acknowledged, and the sellers of
the produce which shall arrive from our
Fresh River of New Netherland and from
New England shall first declare upon oath
where the produce has been grown, where-
of a certificate shall be given them, and
thereupon every one shall be at liberty to
buy and to selL"

And finally the quarrel went so far
as to give rise to the following

" ORDINANCE

Of the Governor-General and Council of
New Netherland further prohibiting the
entertainment of Strangers, forbidding
intercourse or correspondence with the
people of New England. — Passed, 12 De-
cember, 1673.

" Whereas, it is found by experience that
notwithstanding the previously published
Ordinance and Edicts, many Strangers,
yea enemies of this State, attempt to come
within this government without having pre-
viously obtained any consent or passport,
and have even presumed to show them-
selves within this city of New Orange ; also
that many Inhabitants of this Province,
losing sight of and forgetting their Oath of
Allegiance, presume still daily to corre-
spond, and exchange letters with the Inhabi-
tants of the neighboring colonies qI New
England and other enemies of this State,
whence nothing else can result but great
prejudice and loss to this Province, and it
is, accordingly, necessary that seasonable
provision be made therein.

"Therefore, the Governor-General of
New Netherlands by and with the advice

6S4

Antiquities of New York.

of his Council, reviewing the aforesaid Or-
dinances and Edicts enacted on that sub>
ject, have deemed it highly necessary
strictly to order and command that all
Strangers and others, of what nation or
quality soever they may be, who have not
as yet bound themselves by Oath and pro-
mise of fealty to the present Supreme go-
vernment of this Province, and have not
been received by it as good subjects, do
within the space of four and twenty hours
from the publication hereof depart from
out this province of New Netherland, and
further interdicting and forbidding any per-
son, not being actually an inhabitant and
subject of this government, from coming
within this government without first having
obtained due license and passport to that
end, on pain and penalty that the contrave-
ners shall not be considered other than open
enemies and spies of this State, and conse-
quently be arbitrarily punished as an exam-
ple to others. And to the end that they
may be the more easily discovered and
found out, all Inhabitants of this Province
are interdicted and forbidden from hence-
forth harboring or lodging any strangers
over night in their houses or dwellings un-
less they have previously given due com-
munication thereof to their officer or Magis-
trate before sun-down, under the penalty
set forth in the former Edict.

" Furthermore, the Inhabitants of this
Province arc strictly interdicted and for-
bidden, from this day forward, from holding
any correspondence with the neighboring
Colonies of ATczu E/t^^and, and all others
actual enemies of our State, much less af-
ford them any supplies of any description,
on pain of forfeiting the goods and double
the value thereof, likewise from exchanging
any letters, of what nature soever they may
be, without having obtained previous special
consent thereta Therefore all messengers,
skippers, travellers, together with all others
whom these may in any wise concern, are
most expressly forbidden to take charge of,
much less to deliver, any letters coming
from the enemy's places, or going thither,
but immediatelv on their arrival to deliver
them into the Secretary's office here in
order to l)e duly examined, on pain of being
fined One hundred guilders in Beaver, to
1)0 paid by the receiver as well as by the
deliverer of each letter which contrary to
the tenor hereof shall be exchanged or de-
livered."

THEIR CURRENCY.

Gold and silver were scarce among
them. The modem device of paper

money had not then come in vogue,
and so they had to use wampum —
the Indians' currency or medium of
exchange.

This was made from oyster-shells,
and was worn by the natives as orna-
ments, and had no intrinsic value,
but only a conventional one. And
it seems to have been hard work to
keep it uj) to its standard. Every
body could make it that could
catch oysters, and its plenty or scar-
city causing a fluctuation of prices,
gave them a great deal of trouble,
especially when their old rock of
offence, " the Yankees," began to
manufacture it and buy away from
them all they had to sell, for what
was actually of no value.

So we find every once in a while
" Ordinances " passed on the subject,
which in their quaint and simple way
show the state of things. Beti»een
April 1 8th, 1641, and December 28th,
1662, we find in this book twelve dif-
ferent ordinances on the subject:
some of them fixing their value, some
punishing frauds, some making them
a legal tender, some declaring them
merchandise, some providing that
they shall be paid out by measure,
some exempting them from import
duty, and some providing for iheir
depreciation.

The following extracts will aifoni
an idea of their difficulties on the sub-
ject.

" RESOLUTIONS

Of the Director and Council of Xe»
Netherland respecting loose Wampum.—
Passed, 30 November, 1647.
" Resolved and concluded in Council at
Fort Amsterdam^ that, until further Order,
the loose Wampum shall continue current
and in circulation only that, in the mean
while, all imperfect, broken, or unpierccJ
hcnds can l)e i>icked out, which are declared
Biillion, and shall, meantime, be recci^td
at the Company's countinp-honse as heft-
toforc. Provided that the Company, or
an\' one "n its part, sh.ill, in return, be at
liberty to trade therewith among the Me^
chants or other Inhabitants, or in larger

Antiquities of New York,

6SS

IS may be agreed upon and stipula-
ny individual, or on behalf of the

ORDINANCE

Director and Council of New

•land further regulating the cur-

— Passed 14 September, 165a

Director-General and Council of

iherlandy To all those who hear,

read these presents, Greeting.

;, on the daily complaints of the

Its, we experience that our previous

:e and Edict relative to the poor

Wampum, published under date

A^ 1650, for the accommodation

ection of the people, is not obscrv-

ibeycd according to our good inten-

meaning ; but that, on the contrary,

y, even for small items, is rejected

scd by Shopkeepers, Brewers, Tap-

adespeople, and Laboring men, to

.t confusion and inconvenience of

ibitants in general, there being, at

no other currency whereby the In-

s can procure from each other small

of daily trade ; for which wishing to

as much as possible, for the relief

tection of the Inhabitants, the Di-

.nd Council do hereby Ordain and

id that, in conformity to our previ-

linance, the poor strung Wampum

; current and accepted by every one

distinction and exception for small

ly necessary commodities required

isckeeping, as currency to the

of Twelve guilders and under only,

strung wampum ; of twelve to twen-

guilders half and half^ that is to say,

)or strung and half good strung

im ; of twenty guilders to fifty guil-

le third i)oor strung and two thirds

trung wamj-tum, and in larger sums

ng to the conditions agreed upon be-

3uyer and Seller, under a penalty of

ders for the first time, to be forfeited

sal by contraveneor hereof ; for the

time nine guilders, and for the

ime two pounds Flemish and stop-

\ his trade and business, pursuant to

;vious Edicts.

us done and enacted in Council by
ector and Council, this 14 Septem-
50, in KrM Amsterdam ^^

" ORDINANCE

• Director-General and Council of
Netherland regulating the currency,
ssed 3 January, 1657.
e Director- General and Council of
fetherland.

''To all those who see or hear these
presents read. Greeting, make known.

** Whereas they, to their great regret, are
by their own experience daily informed, and
by the manifold complaints of Inhabitants
and Strangers importuned, respecting the
great, excessive and intolerable dearness
of all sorts of necessary commodities and
household supplies, the prices of which
are enhanced from time to time, principally
among other causes, in consequence of the
high price of Beaver and other Peltries in
this country beyond the value, which, by
reason of the great abundance of Wampum,
is advanced to ten, eleven and twelve guil-
ders for one Beaver ; And Wampum be-
ing, for want of Silver and Gold coin, as
yet the most general and common currency
between man and man. Buyer and Seller,
domestic articles and daily necessaries arc
rated according to that price, and become
dearer from time to time ; the rather, as not
only Merchants, but also, consequently.
Shopkeepers, Tradesmen, Brewers, Ba-
kers, Tapsters, and Grocers make a differ-
ence of 30, 40, to 50 per cent when they sell
their wares for Wampum or for Beaver. This
tends, then, so far to the serious damage,
distress and loss of the common Mechanics,
Brewers, Farmers and other good Inhabi-
tants of this Province, that the Superior
and inferior magistrates of this Province
are blamed, abused and cursed by Stran-
gers and Inhabitants, and the Country in
general receives la bad name, while some
greedy people do not hesitate to sell the
most necessary eatables and drinkables, ac-
cording to their insatiable avarice; viz.,
the can of Vinegar at 18 ® 20 stivers ; the
can of Oil at 4 0^ 5 guilders ; the can of
French wine at 40 ® 45 stivers ; the gill of
Brandy at 15 stivers, and two quarts of
home brewed Beer, far above its price, at
14 ^ 15 stivers, &c., which the greater
number endeavor to excuse on the ground
that they lose a great deal in the counting
of the Wampum ; that it is partly short
and partly long ; that they must give \\ %
12 and more guilders before they can con-
vert the wampum into Beaver."

So that, at last, the home govern-
ment took it up, and in 1659 they
wrote to the council at New Amster-
dam, among other things :

" From this particular reduction of the
Wampum a second general reduction mist
necessarily follow, if the depreciation
thereof is to be prevented. This arises in
consequence of the great importatioa of

Antiquities of New York.

6S7

of the Gospel, deemed it expedient
that a sermon shall be preached
from the sacred Scriptures, and the
usual prayers and thanksgivings
offered from this time forward in the
afternoon as well as the forenoon,"
etc., and forbid all tapping, fishing,
hunting, and business during divine
service.

26 October, 1656. — Repeating their
complaints, they enact an ordinance
against performing on Sunday any
work, such as ploughing, mowing,
building, etc., and, as they term it,
"much less any lower or unlawful
exercise and amusement. Drunken-
ness, frequenting Taverns or Tip-
pling-houses, Dancing, Playing ball,
Cards, Trick-Track, Tennis, Cricket
or Nine-pins, going on pleasure par-
ties in a boat, car or wagon, before^
between or during Divine Service^^
and forbidding the sale of liquor
^ before^ between or during the ser-
ffumSy* etc.

12 June, 1657. — ^They forbid all
persons, " of what nation or rank he
may be," to entertain any company
on Sunday or during divine service.

18 November, 1661. — ^ITiey ibrbid
all work on Sunday under " the pen-
ally of ;^i Flemish for tlie first time,
double as much for the second time,
and four times double as much for
the third time." (Silent as to the
fourth time.)

And they forbid all entertamments
in taverns, and any giving away or
selling any liquor.

10 September, 1663, — The director-
general and council of New Am-
sterdam passed an ordinance against
which the burgomasters and sche-
pens of New Amsterdam rebelled,
and which they refused to enforce,
for the reason that it was " too severe
and too much in opposition to the
Freedoms of Holland."

That law extended the former
lawi to the whole of Sunday firom

VOL. IX— 42

sunrise to sunset, and in addition
prohibited any riding in cars or
wagons, any roving in search of nuts
or strawberries, and the "too unre-
strained and excessive playing, shout-
ing and screaming of children in the
streets."

16 June, 1 64 1. — ^They began by se-
curing to all Englishmen who might
settle with them "the free exercise
of ReHgion."

16 November, 1644. — ^They grant-
ed to the town of Hempstead the
power of using and exei^cising " the
Reformed Religion with the Eccle-
siastical discipline thereunto belong-
ing."

10 October, 1645 — ^They granted to
the town of Flushing the " Liberty of
Conscience according to the Custom
and manner of Holland, without mo-
lestation or disturbance fi-om any ma-
gistrate or any other Ecclesiastical
minister."

19 December, 1645. — ^They made
the same grant to Gravcsend.

At a later day a change seems to
have come over them, as witness the
following :

" ORDINANCE

Of the Director and Council of New Ne-
therland against Conventicles. — Passed i
February, 1656.

** Whereas the Director and Council of
New Ncthcrland arc credibly inibriped and
apprized that here and there within this
Province not only are Conventicles and
Meetings held, but also that some unquali-
fied persons in such Meetings assume the
ministerial office, the expounding and ex-
planation of the Holy word of God, without
being called or appointed thereto by eccle-
siastical or civil authority, which is in direct
contravention and opposition to tlie general
Civil and Ecclesiastical order of our Fa-
therland ; besides that many dangerous He-
resies and Schisms are to be apprehended
from such manner of meetings. Therefore,
the Director General and Council aforesaid
hereby absolutely and expressly forbid all
such conventicles and meetings, whether
public or private, differing firom the custo-
mary and not only lawful but scripturally

6s8

Antiquities of New York.

founded and ordained meetings of the Re-
formed Divine service, as this is observed
and enforced according to the Synod of Dor-
drecht," etc

On 21 September, 1662, they en-
acted that "beside the Reformed
worship and service, no conventicles
or meetings shall be kept in the pro-
vince, whether it be in houses, bames,
ships, barkes, nor in the woods nor
fields." •

In December, 1656, they enacted
an ordinance containing this, among
other things :

" Further, whenever, early in the morn-
inpf or after supper in the evening, prayers
shall be said, or God's word read, by any
one thereunto commissioned, every person,
of what quality soever he may be, shall
repair to hear it with becoming reverence.

" No man shall raise or bring forward any
question or argument on the subject of reli-
gion, on pain of being placed on bread and
water three days in the ship's galley. And
if any difficulties should arise out of the said
disputes, the author thereof shall be arbitra-
rily punished."

They repeatedly passed ordinances
requiring their officers to be of the
refonned religion.

ORDINANCE

Of the Director-General and Council of

New Netherland prohibiting the bringing

of Quakers and other Strollers into New

Netherland. — Passed 17 May, 1663.

"The Director-General and Council of

New Netherland, To all those who shall

see or hear these Presents read, Greeting,

make known. -

" Whereas we daily find that many Vaga-
bonds, Quakers and other Fugitives are,
without the previous knowledge and consent
of the Director General and Council, con-
veyed, brought and landed in this Govern-
ment, and sojourn and remain in the respec-
tive Villages of this Province without those
bringing them giving notice thereof, or such
persons addressing themselves to the gov-
ernment and showing whence they come, as
they ought to do, or that they have taken
the oath of fidelity the same as other Inha-
bitants ; the Director General and Council,
therefore, do hereby Order and command
all Skippers, Sloop Captains and others,
whosoever they may be, not to convey or
■ brin£^ much less to land, within th» govern- .

ment, any such Vagabonds, Qnaken and
other Fugitives, whether Men or Womeii,
unless they have first addressed themselves
to the government, have given informatkn
thereof, and asked and obtained coMeaT
on pain of the importers forfeiting a fine d
twenty pounds Flemish for every penaa,
whether Man or Woman, whom they will
have brought in and landed without tbc
consent or previous Knowledge of the Di-
rector General and Council, and, in addi-
tion, be obliged immediately to depart oitf
of this government with such persons^"

17 March, 1664, they ordained
that the schoolmasters shall appear in
church with their scholars, on Wed-
nesday before divine ser\'ice, and be
examined after service by the minis-
ter and elders, " as to what they have
committed to memory of the Chiis-
tian Commandments and Catechism,
and what progress they have made."

On I October, 1673, 8 November,
1673, and 15 January, 1674, they
passed ordinances that the sheriff and
magistrates, or the schout and magis-
trates, each in his quality, take care
that the reformed Christian religion
be maintained in conformity to the
Synod of Dordrecht, (or S^nod of
Dort,) without suffering or permitting
any other sects attempting any thing
contrary thereto, or suffering any at-
tempt to be made against it by any
other sectaries.

On 12 November, 1661, they pass-
ed a law imposing "a land tax at
Esopus to defray the expense of
building a Minister's House there."

On 13 February, 1657, the court
of Breuckclcn (Brooklyn) imposed
an assessment on that town to pay
"the Rev. Minister De J. Theodons
Polhemius fl 300," as a supplement
of his promised salary and yearly al-
lowance.

MISCELLANEOUS.

A few more instances of the man-
ner in which our staid and quiet
Dutch progenitors managed their af-
fairs will suffice for this paper, already
long enough.

Antiquities of New York.

659

e Ferry, — In an ordinance regu-
; the ferry at the Manhattans,
d I July, 1654, it was among
things enacted :

!m. The Lessee shall be bound to
modate the passengers on summer
»nly from 5 O'clock in tl.e morning
D*cIock in the evening, provided the
till * hath not taken in its sail.
:m. The Lessee shall receive ordinary
ge during the Winter from 7 O'clock
morning to 5 O'clock in the evening ;
shall not be bound, except he please,
kvey any one over in a tempest, or
:he windmill hath lowered its sail in
[uence of storm or otherwise."

tges. — In 1653, the director and
:il of New Netherland passed
linance fixing the rate of wages
paid to carpenters, masons, etc.
he directors at Amsterdam dis-
•ved of it " as impracticable."
r/ Driving. — Here, now, is a
hich would illy enough suit oiu:
, and which shows us how queer
the times when such a regula-
ould exist

" ORDINANCE

: Director and Council of New Ne-
land regulating the driving of Wa-
!, Carts, etc., in New Amsterdam. —
led 27 June, 1652.

le Director-General and Council of
VetAeriandy in order to prevent acd-
do hereby Ordain that no Wagons,
or Sleighs shall be run, rode or dri-
a gallop within this city oi New Am-
9; that the drivers and conductors
Wagons, Carts and Sleighs within
ty shall not sit or stand on them, but
mceforth within this City (the Broad
'ay alone excepted) shall walk by the
IS, Carts or Sleighs, and so take and
le horses."

figer from Fires, — ^They passed
a number of ordinances on this
:t

January, 1648, they recite that
eople do not keep their chim-
:lean, whereby '* greater damage
be expected in future from fire,
ther as the houses here in New

windmill here q>oken of stood on the old
and seemed to senre u a barometer or iDdi-
bad weather to all the people.

Amsterdam are, for the most part,
built of wood, and thatched with reed,
beside which the chimneys of some
of the houses are of wood, which is
most dangerous;" and they forbid any
more wooden chimneys, but those al-
ready built may remain.

They appoint as fire wardens to
see that the chimneys are kept clean,
"firom the Hon. Council, Commissa-
ry Adriaen D'Keyser ; fsoxa the com-
monalty, Thomas Hall, Marten Cri-
gier and George Wolsey."

On 28 September, 1648, they di-
rect the fire wardens to visit every
house, "and see that every one is
keeping his chimney properly clean
by sweeping."

And finally, on 15 December,
1657, they passed a law which com-
plains, as usual, of the non-observance
of former laws, and recites that " di-
vers calamities and accidents have
been caused,' and are still to be appre-
hended, firom fire; yea, a total ruin of
this city, inasmuch as it daily begins
to be compactly built," etc. ;

And enact that '' all thatched roofe
and wooden chimneys. Hay ricks and*
hay stacks within this city shall be
broken up, and removed within the
time of four consecutive months,"
" to be promptly put in execution for
every house, whether small or large.
Hay rick, or hay stack, or wooden
chimney, hen houses, or hog pens,"
etc.;

And then, after reciting that
"whereas, in all well ordered Cities
and Towns it is customary that Fire
Buckets, Ladders, and Hooks be
found provided about the comers of
the streets and in public houses," they
authorize the burgomasters " to send
by the first opportunity to Fatherland
for one hundred to 150 Leather Fire
Buckets," etc.

Marriages, — On 15 January, 1658,
after reciting that " the Director Ge-
neral and Council not only are in-
formed, but have even seen and re-

66o

The Chamts of Nativity,

marked that some persons, after the
proclamation and publication for the
third time of their bans, or intention
of marriage, do not proceed further
with the solemnization of their mar-
riage, as they ought, but postpone it
from time to time, not only weeks,
but some months, which is directly
contrary to, and in contravention of,
the good order and custom of our
Fatherland :"

They enact that marriage must be
solemnized within one month after

the last publication, or appeii
council and show cause :

And that "no man and vo
shall be at liberty to keep hous
married persons before and until
are lawfully married, on pain of
feiting one hundred guilders, moi
less, as their quality shall be fc
to warranty and all such persons
be amerced anew therefor e
month by the officer, accordinf
the order and the custom of our
therland."

THE CHARMS OF NATIVITY.

In this day, when a spirit of resdess-
ness seems to have seized upon the
various peoples of the world, and ope-
rates to produce great movements from
one locality to another, or from one
country to another, we propose to de-
vote some pages to the discussion of
this intei-esting subject. The world
may l)c said to be grossly material; for
«urely no land of flowering beauty,
however rich in the wealth of nature*s
charms, can, to a sentimental and spi-
ritual soul, be at all comparable to
those heavenly flowers of love which
bloom in the vicinage in which we
were reared. In leaving a cold and
bleak country even, we may go to
one where nature has stamped her
own warmth, as she is sure to do, on
the hearts of her inhabitants; but
those scenes to which we were earli-
est used are, by far, dearer to the
sensitive soul, than others which, in
distant lands, crop out more gorgeous-
ly ; and the playmates, the associates
of our hearts, our early lives, even
though it may be in the very chill
and frost of barren rocks and dreary
plains, are far dearer to us than the
welcome of strangers, let it be as
warm and as sunny as genial and
glowing hearts can make it llie stran-

ger, with soul, in a strange land,
fully felt the truth of these renu
These are considerations which six
operate powerfully with us to \
us to our homes and our own o
munities. But the benefits of s
ing at home, or of enlarging the i
of ** civilization '' and of settlor
but slowly, are not confined, by
means, to our feelings. To prei
the loneliness which we natm
feel in a strange country is not
only object to be gained by mig
ing, when we migrate at all, sloi
and but little at a time, (say a
milts only,) and by making our h:
tations as permanent as possil
There are, perhaps, weightier c
siderations, even, which should g
cm in the matter than the londiii
and the estrangement which we o
suffer for years, when we make <
tant removals.

Home is, in its full meaning
most heavenly word. It b a v
that is allied with every princx{}le
our natures. It is the nurseij
which our spirits are trained II
the seat of our religion and
abode of our loves. There can
to us but one home, that is, in
full sense of the term. And i

The Channs of Nativity.

661

home is a locality, a place, where,
with the kindred ideas^ elements, and
social and spiritual partnerships of
our earlier lives and beings, we can
enjoy life pure and perfect as we at
first received it. Any local or social
estrangements from these pure ele-
ments of life, no matter how com-
plete the surrounding appointments
of comfort may seem to be which
draw us away from them, do not
constitute and make up the bulk of
what, properly, is to the human spirit
to be considered home.

The loss of home, then, by remov-
al to a distance from those earlier
scenes, localities, peoples, ideas, and
customs of which we are a part, is a
far greater loss to us, considered in
the aggregate, than is at first appa-
rent by any mere feelings of loneliness
or estrangement which we may suf-
fer in a strange community. Be-
cause, while these feelings undoubt-
edly indicate to us the part of oiu:
lives with which we have parted in
leaving those scenes and associations
of which we were a part, they do
not always reflect back to us the
painful vacuum which is created at
home by our absence; and therefore,
our feelings are not always an accu-
rate measurement of the full injury
done by the detaching of human
elements from their proper places,
to be thereafter located in strange
and distant lands. And it may pro-
perly be said that the suffering of
these feelings by those who have
removed is not the greatest injury
done by such removals. For, while
feelings represent some of the injury
done to us by such removals, they
certainly do not represent all of it.
The strongest powers of a man, natu-
rally considered, are in the locality
or in the society in which he was
rsused. He may, in distant commu-
nitieSy where social life is just taking
root, or where, indeed, it has already

taken root, be, to outward appearances,
a more prominent person than at
home, where he was raised. He
may be called into public life oftener,
and be made to assume offices of
trust which at home he never would
have assumed, and, perhaps, never
could have assumed. But, after all,
he is really not so important a per-
sonage in his new locality, and
in his new offices, as he would have
been at home in his natural offices.
This statement may appear, to some
minds, paradoxical. But it really is
not so, examined by the light and
the law of uses and of natural adapta-
tions. We shall not go into any ex-
tended discussion, however, of this
particular question, but we shall as-
sume, at the outset, that the circle
of "civilization" or of settlement,
should be but slowly and gradually
enlarged. There are a great many
strong reasons for this plea of widen-
ing and enlarging the circle of " civi-
lization " or of settlement Tlie same
reasons which operate to show that
no single individual can be as useful
(in the scale of nature) in a commu-
nity distant and remote from his
birthplace, as he could in serving
out his natural uses in his birthplace,
will operate equally to show that
such distant removals are not healthy
for whole communities of people. Our
border States, some of which are very
far out from the centres of settlement,
have been peopled by persons leav-
ing the older and denser communi-
ties where they were born and raised,
and repairing to these new "settle-
ments." The effect of it has been, in
many instances, to change the wheel
of individual fortune, and to place
some in high positions who, in their
native communities, would never
have reached those positions. But
we shall argue that this result has not
always been beneficial to the parties
so elevated. The natural growth^of

The C/tarfPis of Nativity.

663

thing which is peculiar to particular
localities independent of the people of
those localities. This is an absurdity
which we will not utter. But we
merely mean to say that the morali-
ty of localities, or of the people of par-
ticular localities, is influenced, more or
less, by the surrounding circumstances
of locality. This remark will be
strongly verified in the different social
habits and moral sentiments of peo-
ple whose occupation, from natural
causes, differs \ circumstances, for in-
stance, of different situation, such as
make some people nautical and sea-
faring, while others are agricultural
and domestic. It is in this wise that
locality may be said to have its mo-
rality, and that the peculiar phases
of morality developed by the natural
and unavoidable circumstances of situ-
ation are the best for the people of
that locality. This is a proposition
which we imagine no one will dispute.
But there are very often carried into
a particular locality certain phases of
morality, or rather the want of it,
which have no connection with the
locality, and with which the genius
of the locality has nothing to do.
These are positive conditions of vice
and immorality which may be en-
gendered in any community.

Sensibilities are the most delicate
and refined things conceivable. They
are the result of the most delicate
nurture of the feelings, the associa-
tions, and the relation^ips of life.
The peculiar modes of association of
a people — the peculiar frame and
structure of their domestic relation-
ships — has a great deal to do with the
t3rpe and kind of their sensibilities.
In a new country, where everything
is rough, the sensibilities cannot be
as nice and as refined as in an older
community where they are nursed.
SensibilitieSy then, depend for their
flexibility, and for the grain of their
qiialideSy on the fineness— on the nice-

ness — of the social food on which they
have been fed. This is constantly be-
ing illustrated to us in the treatment
of animals, even, which certainly have
sensibilities of a certain kind.

Where the finer threads of society,
then, are preserved, and where there
are close-knit sympathies between the
people, without too much of the
rough work of a rough country to
harden them and to dry up the foun-
tains of the sensibilities, we may always
there expect to find the flowers of
love blooming in the greatest abun-
dance. New countries, then, are not
as favorable to the development of
these feelings as older ones are, and
the moral havoc in such countries is, us-
ually, very great But, apart from the
rough circumstances of a new coun-
try, which have upon the feelings a
hardening effect, the mental sensibili-
ties are greatly influenced by scenery,
and by the natural effect of air, tem-
perature, etc ITiese refined ele-
ments are just as much a part of the
mental food on which we feed as
anything else is. All our ideas of
comfort, of beauty, and of healthiness
do not come from artificial surround-
ings and from the fiame-work of
society which we may have con-
structed. Mental emotions are ex-
cited in us by scenery; and that of
the particular kind to which we have
been used, though in reality it may,,
to some extent, be barren and bleak, .
is to us the most chamiing. The
appearance of things in nature is in-
dissolubly associated with our eariier -
lives, memories, incidents, occur- -
rences, and sentiments ; and so we, in^
the very nature of things, must love
this earlier record better than any
subsequent one which we may make.
It necessarily follows that we love those
peculiar featiures in nature the best
which are ^e closest associated with
our earlier experiences of life. The
analyring spirit will detect, at a slight

Thr ekanm efHativity.

glance, even ihc minute and particu-
lar differences between the outward
features of different )ocs]ities. The
eye of the student of nature will at
, once perceive the smallest shades of
I diHeicnce in the leaves of trees of the
same class in ditferenc localities. To
the sen»tive mind the rain, even, of
different localities will have a differ-
ent spirit, and its fAlling will tnalce a
different iiupression upon the mind.
We are a wonderfuUy constructed
batiery, and the efiect of these mani-
fold things in nature upon the or-
ganism cannot be estimated, or cor-
L rcctly judged of, by any but those
■ who, by living in new and etrange
l-countries, have had full experience
The cliemisiry of the soul is
'. more marvellous than that of flesh
and matter, and the effect of scenery,
of air, of the ^irit of the air, and of
I all the vast and grand combinations
I of matter on the brain, and on the
I life principles of man, cannot be judg-
ed of until, to him, some foreign coun-
try has written its strange history on
his organism, and he discovers that,
^^^ though in reality he is the same indi-
^^L viduai, still he does not see nature
^^V tiirough the &ime eyes tlirough which
^^P he was wont to see it, and does not
^^ fed ils refreshing spirit as he was wont
to feel it. These are some of the sad
mental impressions made by great
^^^ changes from one distant locality to
^^L another. Could anything be more
^^V hurtful or injurious to the human
^^f spirit ? Could anything be more ob-
literative of morality, than not to re-
spect and act out, every day of our
lives, its sacred lessons in dose con-
^^_ nection with those old school asaocia-
^^L tions with which we linked life the
^^H fondest, and through which we en-
^^B joyed it the dearest? The early
^^H dawn as it come to us shaded by the
^^H Ulla and the forests common to tbe
^^B localities in which we were bom and
^^H reared ; out parting \vith the gicat

companion of the day, inflacoced bf
the same surrounding? ; the fundiif
notes of the night-birds riNnmon m
our localities ; the peculiarities of the
very gusts of wind there ; tKc p
liar haie of the atmotphcK; i
methods in which the very
droop their branches; these, 1
are all familiar scenes and I" "
us all, and are, we may saf,-^
school-house associates of oar <
lives, when our spirits
learning the great lessons of 1;
those lessons under which \iSc%
us was organised and under n
has spread it-s richest and its %
panorama. Change ihese I
and tliese scenes, and wo t
though we had paited with
friends whose association is occd-'
sary to our lives, and for ye.iis afio^
ward, they ibrm, in our minds, m
ever present picture of ihcii ap-
pearance. These Euutliar kom
are the old oaken trees, so lo ipet^
under whose umbrageoun bowsi
we learned our first lessons of »
and of life; and we cannot
them up, and part from ibctn, w
also surrendering some of ihc si
lessons which, in their midst i
their hallowed shadow,
ItiLt, throughout, the porting i
home, and going into i
makts a new era in our live*.
village boy, who is the object of ^
rity, and who lias no ties to bind H
but those of the guardia
feels it. He even feels, whcnij
parts with the de^r scenes of En '
n.-itivity, almost as though he had
taken leave of the very God, whan
be had been taught to wonhip, aad
that he lay Launched out U|ioti s
great wide ocean of uaeertatntia,
there to hunt for another God, md:
other friends. How must ii,
l)c with (hose who are n put dl
household and the inh(
litnnan .Hfrciions ? Mother,

The Charms of Nativity.

66s

brothers and sisters are gathered for
the sad parting. Tears of deep grief
fall thick and fast. There is, indeed,
occasion for them. The heir of the
possession, or the mate of fraternal
friendship and love, is about to be-
come a stranger. He is about to
seek a home ! (ah ! sad word, in this
connection,) it may be in the midst
of olive-groves and of vineyards
— away from the home of his inheri-
tance, and the family are summoned
to bemoan their loss. Years are to
pass between him and them before
they meet again, and when they do
meet they are to ^ach other strangers.
This is indeed a sad picture. Can
the growth and the building up of
** a new country " compensate for it ?
I say not. I say that the planting
of empire e\'en, in the name and
under the tides of the home govern-
ment, it may be in some grandly
tropical country, will not repay
for these losses and for these sacri-
fices. Political grandeur is not the
only object to be attained in this
world. In fact, it is but an epitome
of the grand and the beautiful objects
of life. The comforts of home, and
its solid connections, are worth more
to us than all the offices in the world
could be without them. And how
few are there who nowadays appre-
date and enjoy the comforts of
home, even in their own natural
communities, who are weighed down
with the shackles and the plunder
of office ? How much more deplora-
ble, then, the fate of the poor office-
holder at a distance from his natural
home, and those associates of his
early life, found nowhere outside of
home, which make life agreeable,
and give to it its charms and its zest ?
His fate must indeed be pitiable and
deplorable in the extreme. It is
only, then, viewed generally, in the
interests ''of the public," (a most false
"public interest,") that we heretofore

have been enabled to find so much
heroism in the spirit of venture and
of distant emigration that the almost
entire press of the country have laud-
ed it, and have praised it ^' as a spirit
of public enterprise ;" which praise has
done much toward exciting in the
people of the world that restlessness
and feverish spirit of excitement,
which has led so many men and
families to leave their natural attach-
ments, and to seek location either in
foreign and distant countries, or in
States, at least, remote fi-om those in
which they were reared. These re-
movals have always, when viewed in a
moral and social light, been more pro-
ductive of harm to the parties con-
cerned than of good. Avoid them,
in the future, would be our earnest
advice to all good people. The best
and greatest men of the world have
invariably staid at home.

But are not the boundaries of
ci\nlization to be extended, may be
asked? Most assuredly they are;
but only slowly and by degrees, like
waves as they spread and enlarge
from a centre of disturbed waters.
This is, undoubtedly, the true method
of enlarging the area of setdement
and of " civilization."

The parties immediately concerned
are not alone the parties injured
by distant removals. ITiey affect,
more or less, the world at large. The
bad morals, engendered by innumera-
ble people leaving their homes, where
the sediments of society have set-
tled to the bottom, and repairing to
new and remote localities where there
is no strongly constructed web of so-
ciety, are not confined alone to the
localities where the social connections
are loose ; but they spread like some
terrible plague, and seize upon the
minds of people of the denser and
older communities. A reciprocal in-
terchange in morals is finally establish-
ed between these remote and unlike

Tkf Charms ef NiUivity.

communities, until the lone of the one
measurably improved, while that of
the other is gradually reduced, and
made worc by the inlcrchange than
it was before. These are sotne of the
damaging effects of " new settle-
ments," at a distance from the older
ones. The law perfected b to be found
only in the close and tight connections
of society, with all of the social interests
well defined, and (villi social rights so
clear that one person will Dot inter-
fere with those of another. This de-
gree of social security and comfort is
the perfection of the law ; and no civi-
lized government has any interest in
upholding a system of "settlement "
and of colonization which impairs
the strength of the social structure.

Society has been built under the
guardianship of the church, and any
system either of "settlement," or of
politics, which threatens the integrity
of society, is against the interests of
government, and equally against the
interests of the Christian religion.
Government is the secular means
which we employ to enfoTe those
wholesome moral inspirations of the
church which have constructed soci-
ety on sure foundations. Anything
which attacks this wholesome system
is at war with the Christian religion,
and, consequendy, against the higher
civilization of the age. The sacred
affinities and congenialities of home
should not be disturbed, and society
debauched, by a mania amongst the
people for septarations and removals.
"Those whom God hath joined togeth-
er let no man put asunder," applies
also to the firm welding together
of those wiiose lots he has made
similar by nature, as it docs to
that holy matrimonial alliance by
which a man takes to himself a con-
sort and a mate, and by which a
woman takes to herself a husband.
That government is not truly and icli-
ably built on Uie foundations of the

Christian religion wbidi i
any of these sound inaxinu of utal
life, and which makes provisioo far
scattering those members of socict]
who arc the most natural to odi
other, and which holds oat lo tl)^
the very strongest inducvmcoB U
scatter and to form new ossociaiioBL
Such is certainly not a. bcaltliy b«
of society, and is In direct (.untraim-
tion of the great natural onlcr. We
must pay attention, in this a» in il
other things, to the assodalioos ouuk
by nature. It is a monstrosity lo i^
pose that there is not power cDOUgb
in nature to adapt those to c4di
other who were bom logcthcr. It it
a faith in this sort uf power «hic^
associates people togethtr ta &iiu)>
groups, and which upltolds iIk tki
system of paternal and fratcmal na-
tions established ihrougli<<Lii tV
world. If it were not f"i
in the perfect natural .til .
each other of peisons !■
same parent;), we would u^a ,^^\^ »
strong a systeia for rearing theia to-
gether, and for imposing upon Oimc
who are responsible for tlieir bdag
so large a duty to keep them tojteilia
whilst taking care of them. NiUic
it is true, would suggest this duty, te
society has strengthened it. It «»
the perfect fitness, naturalnen, and
adaptation of beings fur each ol^
who were bora together, which inikei
the family system strong, and whitk
imposes upon parents the tuoril dutf
of keeping their oSsjiring lognhs
while they take care of them; Lj
which means the beautiful and saocd
relations of brother and sister are «•
tabli&hed in something more thu in
the mere name. But wc wSl not div
cuss a proposition which is so pUin.
It is not necessary for ui to do it
The main feature which, in this «►
nection, it is the most necesui^ fot

us to notice, is the necessity ft* mn

system by which violerw s

The Chatins of Nativity.

667

between members of the same com-
munity and family may be avoided,
and by which society may be
strengthened in its foundations. For,
if these separations tend, as they
most assuredly do, to the weakening of
the family ties, it is necessary for us to
take some strong measiires in order
to bind families more closely togeth-
er ; or else, the whole system of so-
ciety, through these very means of
neglect, will ultimately be disorgan-
ized, and will go to pieces. Indeed,
we are rather verging on such a con-
dition in this country now. We have
what we call homes, it is true; but we
now have really very little of the
true family system. Nearly one half
of the time of the younger members
of the family — if not more — is not
now spent, in the great majority of
cases, under the patemal roof; and
there is now in American society a
perfect mania for being anywhere else
except at home, and there may be
said to be no family law. This
is certainly a most deplorable state
of things, and if pushed to further
extremes, will ultimately disorganize
society altogether. Whenever that
may be done, government will then
be impossible. So it behooves the
public men of this country to look about
for some remedy for this most distres-
sing evil. Where can it be found ?
is the important inquiry of to-day.
Our opinion is, that emigration,
the restless spirit of movement,
which our system of legislation has
developed, is the fruitful source of
the evil, and consequently, to correct
it, we must change our migratory
habits and policy. We have organ-
ized too many " territories," and have
encouraged the buildmg of too many
railroads in far distant and remote
regions from the centres of setdement,
thereby causing our people to emi-
grate and to move about from one
place to another. We have not suffi-

ciently encouraged stability in the
people. We have pursued a course
of legislation which has made them
restless, speculative, and venturesome.
In this way we have not developed
the real wealth which we might have
developed had our people staid at
home, and preserved their even, tem-
perate avocations. But the material
injury done by this system of remo-
vals has not been the principal evil
of it by any means. Society has been
unhinged by it. The strong attach-
ments of home have been violendy
rent asunder, and by that means,
our people have been compelled to
look for their amusements, their en-
joyments, and their entertainments,
more in public than in private. This
has had upon their dispositions, their
habits, and their monds a most un-
balancing effect, until now very lit-
tle indeed is held by them to be any
longer secured. These are the gigan-
tic evils of the day with which we
now have to batde, and the impor-
tant question of the hour is, How
are they to be met ?

The question is much more easily
asked than answered. A huge evil
is upon us, however, and we must
devise ways of ridding ourselves of
it. Indeed, we do but develop the
strength of the human, by devising
means for the overthrow — the com-
plete overthrow— of all of our evil
conditions. No condition, then,
however bad, may be supposed to be
too gigantic for our efforts. Let us
but keep steadily in view the great
and important aims of life, and we
certainly can make all else succumb
to them. In working out the great
problem of life, we must expect often
to have to go back, and work it over
again. We must often undo much
of the work which we may suppose
ourselves to have done, and must do
it over again, in order to avoid errors
and to correct mistakes. It may be

The Channs of Nativity.

669

nature of the circumstances, 'expect
these results for it in distant and re-
mote regions from the centres of set-
tlement, where the population is
sparse, and where, on account of the
formidable difficulties of a new coun-
try and new fields of labor, there is
but littie time on the part of the peo-
ple to devote to social improvements.
These are difficulties, certainly, to be
considered, in estimating the scale of
civilization of a people. We natural-
ly look for a much healthier tone in
an old community than we do in a
new one. In an old community there
is a much larger surface firom which
to choose an occupation, and. the va-
rious interests of society are much
better connected than they are in the
new communities. These are impor-
tant things to be considered by the
adventurer after a home — if so para-
doxical a thing is to be allowed as
that a home may be found by adven-
ture I In fact, the thing is impossible.
Adventure can never make a home.
A home is the product of continuing
possession, and of careful culture.
It is not necessarily a particular
house, or a particular piece of land,
which has been in the same hands for
generations, which makes a home.
But it is a continuous abiding of the
same family and its members for seve-
ral generations in the same neighbor-
hood, the same locality, which makes,
in the fullest sense, a home. They
are then a part — ^incorporated as such
by nature— of the community and of
the locality in which they may chance
to dwell. It is this, more than the
continuous possession of a particular
house or a particular piece of ground,
which makes home. The woods, the
streams, the outer walls of nature to
which people have been accustomed,
must have been the same, or similar
and kindred ones, for at least several
generations, in order to make for
Aem a home. Where this has been

the case, there nature is fully incorpo-
rated in those beings. There is not,
then, in their own peculiar locality, a
leaf, or a tree, or a flower, or a bird,
that is not fully understood, and in-
teriorly possessed by them. Through
the manifold processes of nature,
they, in this time, have made acquain-
tance with things in nature, and have
become a much stronger part of the
creation. Any traveller will tell us
that, when he first begins to wander,
things in nature at a distance firom
home appear strange to him, and that
he never does become as well ac-
quainted with them as he is with those
correspo;iding things which he has
left behind, that have been not only
his, but also the familiar associates of
his parents before him. This, we
will venture to say, will be the testi-
mony of all travellers. There is, in
this testimony, a great lesson to be
learned by us. It is the lesson that,
if we want to be a part — absolutely a
part— of creation, so as to have im-
mediately under our control, at all
times, a commanding sense and con-
sciousness of our power in nature, and
over it, as a part of it, we must stay
where our organisms command the
elements the best, and where, by long
residence, they have become the
strong masters of things in nature.
This is certainly no new philosophy.
If it has not been fully heretofore eli-
minated as a philosophy, in this form,
it certainly has in other forms, just as
substantial and far more practical.
What are our feelings connected with
our return to the earth but a confir-
mation of this doctrine ? Every man
who has a soul in him loves his own
native soil ; and when the solemn
hour of dissolution approaches, he
feels, as one of the last of his earthly
hopes, that he would like to be ga-
thered to the graves of his fathers, in
the land of his and of their wander-
ings. This is an event which iscapa*

The CftMTHs 9f f^ifiviff:

all I

i1)le of testing the matter, and of prov-
ing the attrnctions which our earliest
hor»es have for our spirits. When
all nature is dissolving in us, we natu-
rally look for support to those locali-
where life was organized in us,
id which have fortified us the strong-
it with those forces on which we
ust rely the most to ward off disso-
s our minds and our af-
fections are naturally carried back to
the land of our birth, in a way to
make us love it above all other spots
of earth, and in a way to cause us
to desire it as our last resting-place.
,If these last trials do not show to the
[ijiuman spirit — drawing upon all of its
^resources for support — where its chief
strength in nature lies, whether in die
new home, or the old one, then per-
haps our theory that we lose many
of the essential elements of life by
migrating, and by going to a great
distance from the home of our nativi-
ty, may not, indeed, be a sound one.
But we must take the case of the nor-
mal spirit to prove it. The moods
of the spirit that has been debauched
and made common ; that has lost the
Jove of its sanctuaries by dishonora-
|T)le and aimless wanderings, are not
a lair lest of our philosophy. We
must take some spirit who has gone
into a distant land seeking fortune,
with the love of home in his heart,
and with die responsibilities of family
upon him ; and let the trial of dissolu-
tion come upon him, even after years
of absence, and see if his last thoughts
are not directed to the home of his
childhood, and if the last appeals
which he makes in his mind to na-
ture to save him are not addressed to
the genius, the localities, the scenes,
the cherished associations, of his ear-
her home. This must be so. It is
unavoidable. The cool stream from
which we drank in our boyhood thirst
often has power, when vividly called
lo mind, to abate the rage of some

terriblcTever ; and the maternal b
as we see it in imagination laid upon
us, long years, even, after that hand
has been stilled, has power to ucthe
us. Thus fancy makes medicine bOBKm
the past, and the chosen spots of diM
spirit's earlier wanderings are inH
]ilaces to which she goes for Ivcr hol^
ing arts.

The maternal breast has attmctjim
for us as long as we live. Its tat-
rows are our sorrows, and it is t:
the same principle and by At s
laws of correspondence that we |i
our earlier homes the best, and t
they have over our morals 3 s
control and a more salutary infioc
than any other society or commm
can have. In (iict, a removal f
our own community and our t
home is too often looked upon liM
license to do as we please, and t
terpreted as a relaxing of the S
traces in which we had been 1
It is not worth while, at present,!
explore the philosophy of this f
but it is a fact, and we therefore i
with it accordingly. We know thai d
white man is the representative j
civilization, and that he carries 1
him a Christian inlieritance «
he goes. We know that in any silfl
lion in which he may be placed, 1
will strive to ally himself with bit
God. We know that he has fixed ibc
cross of his worship upon manjrj
bleak mountain of this land, and il ~
he has planted the vineyard of p
in the remote regions of the \
demess. We know that he has e
lished government, erected sch«
built churches, and planted the s
of society in far and distant
gions from the centres
zation. We Icnow all this, and JVtm
know, or believe, that if ihs s
potent mass of human beings, t
scattered and toiling separate <
apart from each other, had bdd (
gethcr under the strong covenutl 4

The Cliarms of Nativity.

671

^erful society, and had advanced
»ody to occupy and possess the
holding together at every step,
linbow of God's favor would
spanned over them in such lu-
is light that we of this continent
I now have been a strong and
rful and united people, in the
ment of a civilization and in
►ossession of a purity of social
either enjoyed nor possessed by
ther people on the earth,
may be supposed by some that
>osition assumes too much ; but
»wn opinion is, that it may be
;ht almost down to a demonstra-

Such a social wreck as follows
iolent segregation of members
* same family or community, to
in new communities, must be
ired by a corresponding civil
ration. But wild and incohe-
deas of government will be en-
ned, and the strength of the
^ in such communities, or in old

either, that have been much
ed by these separations, may,

any wild and great excitement,
ugh in reality springing but from
1 causes, be organized to over-
rather than to sustain a govern-
Without intending in the
to be sectional, or even to verge,
e slightest degree, on the brink
Jitics, we will venture to say that
listory of events in this country
n the last few years will sustain
position. Too much liberty —
as is usually enjoyed in new
nunities free from proper social
lints — confuses the reason. Law,
centre of action, is the only safe-
1 of any people ; and to be law,
ist be firmly planted in constitu-
beyond the reach of the passions
le populace. To maintain law

centre, there must not be too
^ flying forces connected with it
distance from those regular and
ly communities which have deve-

loped it For, imless the system of
law is equally developed, and the struc*
ture of society (upon which the law
is founded) is equally perfected in eve-
ry part of a coimtry where the cen-
tral source of labor is equally con-
trolled by law-givers from every part,
we must expect a general deteriora-
tion of morals, corresponding to the
mixture of good and bad elements
which are the active forces of the law-
making power. Too many " territo-
ries," and too many new States at a
distance frx>m the older communities,
tend, in our judgment, to unsettle the
morals of the country, and, through
the morals, the laws, and ultimately
through the laws, the government it-
self. We have divided our people
into fractions too fast. It would
have been better for our own, and
for the interests of humanity, if we
had held more firmly together in bet«
ter connected and more contiguous
communities. Our people would not
then have had the same wild ideas
about ''law" that many of them
have to-day, and the better united
interests of the country would have
made a more loving and united peo-
ple.

Unity, in the affairs of men, is cer-
tainly a great desideratum. Im-
mense geographical and social divi-
sions between people usually pro-
duce a spirit of alienation, and, in
many instances, of absolute hostility.
Mere navigable streams of water and
railroad connections cannot so con-
nect a people at the distance of many
hundreds of miles from each other as
to make them but one people. The
nearest possible approach that can be
made to a close social and sympa-
thetic connection between peoples
who are separated frx>m each other
by so much space, is to bridge the
space over by densely packed masses
of human beings, and then we estab-
lish lines of mental and social sympa*

672

The Ckanns of Nativity.

thy whidi will make them but one
people. This is the only method,
aside from the bond of religious unity,
by which a close and hearty co-
operation can be secured between
people even of one blood and living
under the same laws. The human
bridge connecting together remote
parts of a country is the most com-
plete.

The true policy, then, is not to plant
colonies or '' settlements" at distances
from the centres of settlement, and to
bridge over, with human beings, the in-
tervening space, by degrees. But on the
contrary, for us to advance in a body,
closely connected, and to cany, im-
broken, our civilization with us as we
go. There will then be no spasmodic
disturbances of the law. The wild
passions of the wild tribes who roam
our borders will not then be incorpo-
rated (as is now too oflen the case)
by our people, who go in fragmentary
bodies to great distances from the so-
lid settlements, and there make their
dwellings amidst the rude timbers of
nature. There would be, under this
plan of settlement, an equipoise and
a balance. It would be regular,
steady, and not as now fragmentary.
The arrargemcnt of the State divisions
— as a form of government — would
not, in the leasi, be interfered with. We
only propose that, instead of disjointed
masses of human beings going off by
themselves at great distances from tlie
main setdements, people hold, as
they go, more together as a body,
and that we encourage wild schemes
of emigration less. They have had
upon our people, upon our laws, and
upon society, a most disastrous and
unsettling effect. The policy which
we propose does not interfere with
commerce or with healthy travel, but is
only against the wild spirit of emigra-
tion which has seized upon the worid,
and which moves those not engaged
in commerce to seek new homes.

The charms of nativity w

greatly increased by educatin

mind to look upon our eaiiier 1

as the theatres in which we are

our parts in life. It will deve

us a more conformatory spirit i

and will secure for us the mt

less blessings of a compact an'

ted society. A different trainir

a different practice are the l

sources of those wild idiosvni

in society which teach us that a

should be to us alike, and that

are no sacred fountains of the

tions where the faith of the

ever beams bright, and whcx

hallowed altars of love and

dence have established their 1

worship. In a word, the home

ing, continuing through a lift

ending, for the most part, whe

gun, that is, under the genius (

same state laws, and amongst ]

of a kind, is indispensable to 1

ness, and to the natural cnjo;

of life. It is e<iually, alas ! ind

sable to a full understandinix <

genius of law and to the de"

ment of that conservative spi

us which will teach us to valt

blessings of social life far tiio

for us ever to interfere i:. their s

enjoyment by othci p..''0|.le\

man of home, then^ as -xjiixvrs

emigrant and the \v::.i(lerer. is a

of peace, a man of law, a ma

religion, and a man of society.

does not go with his rifle to dft

nor with his individual will to nw

the law of the surrounding coui

but he is content to stay at h

and he accej^ts the developmen

society there as he finds them,

labors conscientiously, when impi

ment is needed, to improve il:

but always within the boundarit

those banriers whjdi Christianity

conscience have set uj) as the 1

marks of his lal)ors. If we w

preserve our stability, then, as a

A Mothef^s Prayer.

673

pie, and make our government and
society what they ought to be, we
must change our wandering habits,
and must cultivate the flowers of
home-love as the only sure guaran-
tee of peace and happiness. We
must not allow our wandering ambi-
tions to stretch away into other do-

mains; but we must put upon our-
selves the bridle of wisdom, and
must be content to people our fields
at home with the laborers which we
now offer to other lands, to other
climes, and to other states. This
policy will make us truly great.

A MOTHER'S PRAYER,

The regent of a goodly realm,

A sovereign wise and fair,
Gazed fondly on her youthful son,

And breathed her earnest prayer;
The one wish of her loving heart,

Her ceaseless, solemn thought,
Sole boon her love had craved for him,

The only prize she sought

Was it new conquests ? blood-bought gems

To deck his kingly hand ?
Fair realms by cruel triumphs wed

Unto his rightful land ?
Rich trappings? robes of royal state?

A fawning courtier throng ?
Or minstrels* ringing lays, to pom:

The flatteries of song ?

Nay, nay, no earthly leaven base.

No worldly dross could cling
Unto that pure, maternal prayer

For France's youthful king.
* My precious son ! more dear than life.

More prized than aught on earth.
In all this false and fleeting world

My only gift of worth !

VOL. IX. — ^43

Two Montlis in Spain during the late Revolution. 675

'WO MONTHS IN SPAIN DURING THE LATE

REVOLUTION.

MADRID.

Monday, Oct 19.
t the " Museo " to-day — the
cture-gallery in the world.
phaels, forty-six Murillos,
Rubens, sixty-four Velas-
:y-three Titians, etc. But
)haers "Perla," (that holy
lied the Pearl,) even his
de Sihcia," (Christ falling
he cross,) even Guido's ex-
[agdalen and Spagnoletto's
Dream," even these great
iink to nothingness beside
'* Annunciation," his " Ado-
he Shepherds," " Eleazar at
' " The Martyrdom of St.
the " Divine Shepherd,"
it Saviour giving St. John
from a shell, called " Los
la Concha," the " Vision of
ird," and those wonderful
ions " which embody " all
ost sublime and ecstatic in
and in the representation
love."

)re one sees of Murillo, the

is convinced that he is the

ainter of the world. Others

points of excellence supe-

; but his subjects are so full

id tenderness, so fascinating

g, and appeal so at once to

and the common sense of

that they please at once

d and the unlearned. The

say of him that he painted

che y sangre," with milk

], so wonderful are his flesh

Spasmo de Silicia" is so
m the convent for which it
ted, "St. Maria della Spa-
Palermo. " " The Virgin's

Trance on the way to Calyary" is
considered by some critics only second
to the " Transfiguration."

The " Perla " is so named because
Philip IV., beholding it for the first
time, exclaimed, " This is the pearl of
my pictures." It belonged to the
Duke of Mantua, was bought by
Charles I., and was sold with his
other pictures by the " tasteless puri-
tans and reformers."

Tuesday, Oct. 2a
Spend another hour in the '' Mu-
seo," looking at the pictures of the
Flemish and Dutch schools — fifty-
three Teniers, twenty-two Van Eycks,
fifty-four Breughels, twenty-three Sny-
ders, ten Wouvermans, etc A won-
derful gallery, so rich in great mas-
ters.

We then go to see the " House of
the Congress," which is handsomely
decorated. The ministers' bench is
here blue, while the others are red.

The library is small but very hand-
some. From this we go to the inter-
esting artillery museum, and then to
see the coach-houses and stables of the
palace, begim by Charles III. and fin-
ished by Ferdinand VII. One felt
more than ever sorry for the poor
fugitive queen, at sight of all this ma-
jesty. Beautiful Arabian and Anda-
lusian horses and mules, over a hun-
dred carriages of every hue and
shape, firom the black, cumbrous
thing in which poor Jeanne la Folle
carried about the coffin of her hand
some husband, to the beautiful modern
carriage in which the lovely Infanta
went so lately to her bridal I All had
a personal sort of interest \ but most
touching of all was the sight of the

676 Two Months in Spain during the late Revolution.

little carriages and perambulators
which bore evidence of having been
long used by the royal children.

The state carriages are vexy grand,
many of them gifts from crowned
heads : one from the first Napoleon ;
atiother from the present emperor to
Queen Isabella; and a handsome
plain English coach fix)m Queen Vic-
toria to her majesty. But even more
than the carriages do the saddles and
embroidered housings, the plumes,
and harness, and trappings, and live-
ries, give one an idea of this splendor-
loving court, especially those belong-
ing to the days of Charles III. and
Pljilip V. Above all these stood the
crowned lion, with his feet on two
worlds, significant of the greatness
of Spain. And where is she, so lately
the mistress of all this grandeur?
The people told us that there had
been thirteen thousand people de-
pendent upon the queen's privy
purse; that she had a school in the
palace for all the children of her ser-
vants ; and that there was no end to
her generosity and kindness ; and that,
had she not been away, the revolution
would never have occurred.

And just here we meet a long line
of troops, horse, foot, and artillery,
who proved to be the men who had
fought so bravely for their queen
at Alcolea, and at such fearful odds.
The men of Novaliches I

And no man cried, " God bless
them!" as they passed, weary and
dispirited, through the streets; their
enemies would not do them honor,
and their fiiends dared not.

When we reached the hotel, Gen-
eral Prim was making a speech to a
ragged, dirty mob, who were shouting
for "Libertad." He told them it
was his saint's day — that they need
not work, he would give them money.
So, after distributing some coppers, he
got into a fine carriage and drove off.
While we struggled to get in, one of

our party heard some of the poor
women exclaim softiy, " Our poor
queen!" and then the usual piteous
exclamation, " Ay Dios mios!" "Ay
Dios mios !"

Wednesday, Oct 21.
Go this morning to "finish" the
pictures in the Museo — if such a
thing could be done — but the more
one looks, the more one feels it im-
possible ever to finish with them.

The sculpture-gallery (galleiy of
Isabella II.) is very handsome, but
contains only a few antiques of inte-
rest and a beautiful modem statue of
St. John of God carrying a sick man
out of his burning hospital. Next
we go to the gallery of the Belli Arti,
where, among other good pictures,
are four of Murillo's, and first of
these "St Elizabeth of Hnngaiy
washing the Lepers," one of the
greatest pictures in the woild— bf
some considered Murillo*s very best
It was painted for the " Caritad" of
Seville, for which its subject made it
peculiarly appropriate. The beauti-
ful saint is the centre of a group of
nine persons, plainly dressed in black,
an apron before her, the crown upon
her head, and above and around a
soft luminous halo seems to beam
from her whole person. Her white
hands are washing the head of a rag-
ged boy who leans over the basin,
and writhes with pain. A lovely
young girl holds a pitcher, another
the ointments, and an old woman widi
spectacles peers between them. In
firont of the picture, a beggar-man b
taking off the dirty bandage from his
leg, ready for his turn to be washed
On the other side, a withered old
crone, with stick in hand, gazes
eagerly on the saint, who speaks
with her. A lame beggar on crutches
is behind, and in the distance is the
palace and a dinner-table upon the
terrace, surrounded by beggars, upon
whom the queen waits, showing her

Two Months in Spain during the late Revolution. 677

ty in another form. An artist
was copying the picture made
tmark the wonderful variety and
ony in the figure, the tender
of the saint's expression, the
■al and graceful grouping, and
oft light over all. Many critics
the sores too truly painted to be
jable to look upon; but (as

Protestant traveller says of it)
saint-like charity ennobles these
>rs, on which her woman's eye
1 not look; but her royal hand

not refuse to heal, and how
y! The service of love knows
^gradation."
another room are two semicir-

pictures, taken also from Se-

(from the church of St. Maria

Blanca,) representing the legend

e founding of the great church

. Maria Maggiore in Rome, in

ear 360.

he first picture represents the
;am" of the Roman patrician
his wife, in which he sees the
ed Virgin in the heavens, point-
mt the spot where the church
be built — upon which spot t^e

will fall in August. In the
►anion picture, the founder and
ife are kneeling before the pope
ng the vision, while in the dim
ice is seen a procession advan-
:o the appointed place,
ming from the Museo, we go
:e the palace of the Duke of
na Coeli, one of the richest
IS of Spain and one of the high-
1 rank. A regal establishment,

a greater air of comfort than
tils in most palaces. Gardens
picture-galleries, a theatre, suites
lagnificent rooms— one in rose-
ed satin, with walls hung in gray

Thursday, Oct. 22.
t out for Toledo; pass the pal-
of '" Aranjuez,'' the St. Cloud
>pain, as la Grandja, built by

Philip v., is its Versailles. We mis-
take our way, and are left on the
plains of la Mancha in a miserable
" posada,*' or rather a " venta," (the
lower grade of inn,) where we
remain all day with nothing visible
save one of Don Quixote's wind-
mills, which we are sorely tempted to
battle with after the fashion of that
redoubtable hero. How truly it has
been said of this sterile-looking coun-
try, the " old Castile of la Mancha,"
by a witty traveller — ^**the country
is brown, the man is brown, his jack-
et, his mantle, his wife, his stew, his
mule, his house — all partake of the co-
lor of the saffron, which is profusely
cultivated, and which enters into the
composition of his food as well as his
complexion."

At length we are cheered by the
arrival of a lovely Spanish woman
and her daughter, who are returning
from their estate near by, and come,
like ourselves, to wait the train for
Madrid.

The daughter had been educated
in the Sacr^ Coeur Convent near
Madrid. Spoke French well. She
told us in her lively way that, though
these plains looked so brown and
desert-like, they brought good crops
and ** put money in the pocket," and
that back from the roads were fine
plantations of olive and vine.

Saturday, Oct. 24.
Some Spanish fiiends come to show
us some of the hospitals and other
great charities of Madrid, which num-
bers forty in all. First, to the gene-
ral hospital, attended by the Sisters
of Charity — a city in itself, where are
over eighteen hundred sick poor.
It covers an immense extent of
ground, and, like all Spanish hospitals,
has shady courts, and gardens, and
corridors running around the courts.
All was clean and comfortable, the
sisters tenderly feeding the sick chil-

'6y9 Tws Months in Spain during the tat* Jtiw(iiti

dren and old people, and reading or
praymg beside the beds,

From this we go to ihs most inte-
resting of all, called the " Maison dc
la Providence," supported by the
.Ifidies of rank in Madrid, and under
the care of the French Sisters of
Charily, who wear the familiar "cor-
finette." Here, beadcs en/anfs Irmivis
and orphans, they have (or had)
six hundred poor children, taken out
of the streets. Many of these are
kept for the day, the parents seeking
them at night: all of them are taught
gratuitously- We were shown a
loom in which forty of the smallest
.(not one over two years) had been
put to bed for the noonday sleep,
perfect littie dienibs, side by side, on
the tiniest and whitest of beds, wiUi
fringed curtains alxtve them. The
sister opened the window -shutters to
, give us a look at this lovely iiicturej
.and the hght woke many of them,
who sat up rubbing their blight cj-es,
and looking with wonder at the
strangers, but not one cried. In one
comer were great basins and toHcls
showing why the faces were so clean
and rosy.

The sister then took us to the play-
ground, where hundreds of littk
things, from the ages of three to sw
years, were playing; the boys on
one side, the girls on the other; the
sisters with thera. We were invited
to remain and see them go into
school, that we might see the system
of uniting instruction with amusc-
tnent, which has been so successfully
employed by these charitable teach-
ers. At the sound of an instrument,
(something like a cnstanet,) the little
things fell into ranks, one behind the
other, the hindmost holding on with
both hands to tlie shoulders of tlie
ne who preceded him. In this
■ay, and slowly keeping time with
their little feet, they marched into the
toom, marching and countermarch-

ing with admirable pi
divisions of eight, headed hf
tain," {a well-driUed soldiei;
and go to their scats; eadi
helps to seat his division, af
counts to see if he has the cooed
number, llie children then rat to
say the Lord's Prayer, all in con-
cert, dowly and reverently, preced-
ing it with the " sign of the ctob,'
made with, some, such tiny fingcn
The sister next [jfoceeds to giTc a
lesson. Great black letters, on wood-
en blocks, (so large as to be setn b]r
al),) are one by one laid in groots
upon an inclined ]i!anc, the chikkcn
all (together) ralhng out ihe !ctt«
as it is placed, spelling thiC wcsd,
then readiiig (or railier, singing) the
sentence. If the aistct makes a m*-
take, a dozen little voices coma ii
A child of six is next chosen to s|nB
a sentence, and severt were the lillk
critics when he misplaced a ktW.
Next came a lesson in Scriptuie "
lory. A book of colored prints
opetK'd here and there, and the
ries were told by (he children in
own pretty way, of Adam and
David and At^lom, etc Wcwoe
presently shown the chUdTen old
enough to be taught to work, Utile
things of five and six years, kniuiii;^ -.■!
sewing; and then a class m.ik III, il > -
sewing; and then the larj;-.-^ "!,.i^ "
girls, working the finest m.xdkw.Tk
and embroidery.

And this is one of eight such insti-
tutions in Madrid! It is ke])t up
individual charity; and tbclisarii,
it must be curtailed if not closed
account of the revolution ; the
who contributed most lo it tu<
been forced to leave with the
party, or having absented tin
from fear of getting into troubla
high-born ladies have bad also many
schoob in different p.irts of the citj-,
where they taught the poor evoy
Sunday, as in our Sunday<«cboal||

Two Months in Spain during the late Revolution. 679

5 provisional government has
Dped all these, on the pretext that
jr are " incendiary," as they have
) that of the " Conferences of St.
icent de Paul " I

)ur Spanish friends tell us of the
ling, yesterday, of the "royal
Dol," (founded many centuries

by one of the kings of Spain,
. supported from the privy purse
he reigning king or queen,) for

daughters of the nobility who
e met with reverse of fortune,
lans and others of good birth but
10 means. Yesterday these poor
; were turned out, homeless,
seless ; and as they passed along,
brutal rabble insulted them with
> of, " Come out, you thieves; you
2 eaten our bread long enough;
le out, and let us have place."
day, we see them tearing down

building. And this is "pro-
s!"

^e hear that the carriage of the
hess Medina Coeli has been as-
ted to-day, the crown upon her
iage pelted, the glasses broken,

the cry of " Down with the aris-
its !"— that fatal cry, which (with
y other bad things) they borrow
I the French, and which was the
il to spill so much "good"
d

TOLEDO.

October 25.
nly three hours' time (by rail)
rate Toledo and Madrid, the old
new world of Spain ! What a con-
between the two ! Toledo tow-
ike an eagle's nest on the steep
, the " dark, melancholy " Tagus
ling below, with walls and Moor-
jates and steep crags, with Ro-
and Gothic and Arabic ruins,
glorious memories of the fierce
wrariike Goths, and of its imperial
wn under Charles V. ; while the
em upstart, Madrid, has nothing
hich to boast, save fine houses.

and shops, bustle and traffic, noise
and dirt, "progress" and revolu-
tion!

Toledo is said to have been a
Phoenician or Grecian colony, then
conquered by the all-absorbing Ro-
mans, 146 B.C., and the favorite re-
sort of the Jews who fled from Jeru-
salem after its fall, and who became
here rich and powerful, and exer-
cised an important influence in the
history of the coimtry until expelled
by Ferdinand and Isabella, in 1492.

In the fifth century, the Goths con-
quered Spain and foimded that splen-
did and powerful kingdom which, af-
ter three hundred years, ended with
Roderick in 712, when the Mooi^,
imder Taric, overthrew the Goths in
the batde of the Guadalete, and over-
ran all Spain. In 1085, it was recon-
quered by Alonzo V., and Toledo
was the seat of the court imtil re-
moved by Philip II. to Madrid in 1 560,
and (for a few years) to Valladolid.

Our first duty is to the cathedral,
considered by many persons to be
the finest building in the world. It
was commenced by St. Ferdinand in
1227, on the site of a mosque, which,
in turn, had been built upon a church
founded in 587 by St. Eugenius, the
friend and disciple of St. Denis, who
introduced Christianity into Spain. It
employed one himdred and forty-nine
of the greatest artists of the world two
hundred and sixty-six years to com-
plete and render it the masterpiece it
now is. The cathedral of Seville is
grander, higher, more impressive fix>m.
its austere simplicity ; but this, from its
greater lightness, the mingling of the
early Gothic with the later and more
florid style, fix)m the Moorish carvings .
on the wJiite stone of which it is built,,
is more graceful and beautiful';,
and fix>m the thousand memories of
great men and great deeds with,
which it is associated,, its royal tombs
and statues, its MuzBtnybtic chapel, its

Two Months in Spain during the late Revolution. 68 1

ncient liturgy of the Muzarabes,
sarabes — mixed Arabs,) who
the Goths who, after the con-
: of Spain by the Moore, agreed
e under the Moslem rule, retain-
he Christian worehip. This is
)ldest ritual in Spain, introduced
by the apostles of this country,
i'orquatus and his companions.
LS at firet, in most respects, simi-
► the Roman liturgy ; but under-
many changes after the con-
of Spain by the Visi-Goths and
lals, who were Arians, and
jht with them to Spain their lit-
which was Greco-Arian, written
tin.

is Gothic liturgy was almost ex-
ely adopted in Spain, after the

1 council of Toledo in d^^^
St. Isidore of Seville and other

rated Spanish bishops of this
1, to put a stop to the disordere

2 churches, arranged the ritual
Dbliged all to follow it. Even
the introduction of the Grego-
iturgy, the Spaniards retained
own, and it was universal up to
ghth century, when the Moore
lered Spain. By those Goths
submitted to the Moore, and
were promised freedom of their
)n, it was guarded with the ut-
vigilance ; and even after Spain
onquered by the free Spaniards,

had meantime adopted the
)rian rite,) the Muzarabes retain-
cir own Gothic rite, and it was
id to them in six parishes, just
had existed during the six hun-
reare of Moorish domination,
t as the Muzarabic families dis-
red or mingled with othere,
venerable and ancient liturgy
ally disappeared ; and but for
lals Mendoza and Ximenes, it
^ave been lost entirely. The firet
d the design which Ximenes
i out — gathered up all the
jcripts of their liturgy, had them

revised by their own priests, and
printed a great number of the mis-
sals, and built this chapel in his
own cathedral, (called "ad Corpus
Christi,") and founded a coUege^of
thirteen priests to serve it, confiding
to the chapter of the cathedral the
protection of this religious foundation.
Other bishops followed his example,
and in the sixteenth century a chapel
was founded in Salamanca, and an-
other in Valladolid; but the one in
Toledo seems to be the only one now
existing : here the mass is said every
day at nine o'clock ; but few attend
it, and it has become a mere liturgic
curiosity.

It commences with a prayer very
little different firom the Roman litur-
gy; then the same psalm "Judica
me," the introit,the " Gloria in Excel-
sis/' a lesson from the Old Testament,
then the gradual and epistle. The
prayere of the offertory are almost
identical with those of the Roman
liturgy \ then follow prayere like the
Greek and Milanese liturgies; then the
preface. But the canon of the
mass is different ; the trisagion is fol-
lowed immediately by the consecra-
tion, and the credo is said at the
" elevation." The host is divided
into two parts ; the priest then divides
one part into five, and the other into
four small bits; places them upon the
paten, upon which is engraved a
cross composed of seven circles, so
that seven pieces of the host are
placed in the seven circles. He then
places (on the right) at the side of
the cross upon the paten, the other
two parts ; each of these nine parts
has a name corresponding to a mys-
tery in the life of Christ, and they
form, placed upon the paten the fol-
lowing figures.

Incarnation, Passion,
Nativity, Dea^h,

Circumcision, Resurrection,
Epiphany, Ascension,

Eternal Kingdom.

■Tw^- Mmtths in Spain during tht latt Rtvolmtitm.

After tliis division, follows ihe
"Paler," a prayer for the afflicted,
I for prisoners, the sick and the dead.
The priest then takes a. particle of
ihc host corresponding to the words,
" Eternal Kingdom," and lets it fall
into the chalice, pronouncing the ap-
propriate words ; then he blesses the
people, and communicates ; then the
particle of the host corresponding to
the word " Ascension," recites a
prayer for the dead, says the " Domi-
ne, non sum dignus," and communi-
cates with the particle of the host
just nientioned, and so successively
with all the others; empties the cha-
lice, takes the ablutions, says the
post-communion, the " Sulva Re-
gina," blesses the people, and leaves
the altar.

Over the altar of the Muxarabic
chapel is a picture of the taking of
Oran, {in Africa,) which Ximenes con-
quered at his own risk and his own
expense, and made a gift of it to the
crown of Spain.

Opposite the cathedral is the arch-
bishop's palace, where is a library
open to the public, and adjoining
this is the " Casa del Ayunlamiento, "
house of the municipality, built by
Del Greco, a Greek who came to
Toledo in 1577, where he became fa-
mous as painter and architect.

We now travel through the narrow,
precipitous streets, visiting curious
and beautiful architectural remains of
the Gothic and Moorish limes, found
in public and private buildings,
strange projecting doot-posis, with
cannon-ball ornaments ; traverse
tlie " Zocodover," the market square,
which is most Moorish looking, with
irregular windows and baiconies, and
is as well the fashionable promenade,
and lounging place as place of traffic.
Among the many churches, two are
especially interesting in arabesque
remains— St. Maria dc la Blanca
and El Transitu, built in 1316, which

were once synagogues; the btta im
afterward given by Queen laafatfli
to the order of Calalrava.

Ne.\t to the cathedral in inicnst »
the churuh of St. Juan dc los Rq^
(St. John of the Kings,) St John b^
ing the special patron <rf the kings a
Spain. This was built by Kcrdinaml
and Isabella in 1496, in thanksgiTiDg
for the victory of Toro, when: lh«y
defeated the king of Portugal, nho
had set up a rival to the tbrow
of Castile, in (he person of JeiiuM
Beltranea, the natural daughter of
Jeanne of Portugal, wife of Hctuy li-
the elder brother of Isabella. Of)ca
the outside walls of this church hoof
the chains taken off the Chrktixni
found in captivity in Granada. Tlu
interior has been much changed ; tin
there stiti remain the high tribisie
used by the royal family, and madi
of the curious and elaborate carving
whose richness was once piost all de-
scription. 'ITic doistere of the ad-
joining convent of Franciscaiu. now
in ruins, were oocc one of the xaaa
splendid specimens of florid Gothic
art in the world. The fim- pi-Lntd!
arches and delicate anibi.-^ ,
ings are now half covered I ■
vine and ivy, and the pn,:. .
is a desert wild. In this <:uti><.iLi i.i>
great Cardinal Ximenes made his no-
vitiate as a Franciscan monk, finv
which retirement he was called, bjr
Cardinal Mcndoza. to be tlte cuofes-
sor of Queen Isabella ; and tliis won-
derful woman, who had the diMxrn-
ment to know and choose men viio
could aid her in her great designs,
when Mendo/a died, named as (ac-
cessor to die "great cardinal" ibc
poor monk Francis Ximenes, who
became at one lime bishop of Toledo^
primate of Spain, and grand duncd-
lor of Castile; and though, in thii
position, the first personage of the
court, and the greatest grandee of the
kingdom, he still retained t"

Two Mont/is in Spain during the late Revolution, 683

habits of the Franciscan ; and it was
necessary to have an order from the
pope to induce him to assume the
appendages belonging to his rank.
Indeed, it is said that under his robes
of silk and velvet he wore the " ci-
lice " and the coarse brown habit of
his order; and after his death was
found the little box with the needles
and thread with which the great pri-
mate of Spain mended his own gar-
ments. He concluded the treaties
which made Spain at this time the
greatest power of the world ; and it is
wonderful how this man, already old
— for he was sixty when he assumed
the primacy — how he could at once
attend to the various and multiplied
duties of which he is said never to
have neglected anything. He lived
in the age of great men, of Mendoza,
(el gran cardinal,) of Gonzales de
Cordova, (el gran capitan,) of Chris-
topher Columbus, and many others,
and took part in all the great events of
this great age. Immediately upon the
invention of printing, he had printed
the celebrated polyglot Bible of Al-
cala, which cost him 500,000 francs
of our money, and was in itself
enough to immortalize him. He
founded universities, built colleges,
endowed professorships and scholar-
^ips, and built convents and schools
for the education of poor children.
Raumer, in his History of Europe^
says of him, " His sagacity and his
activity were equal to his sanctity.
Embracing all the branches of admin-
istration, nourishing the grandest
plans and projects, he neglected for
these neither piety nor science. As
a warrior, he commanded in 1509
the crusade which made a descent in
Africa, and conquered Oran. He
founded, upon principles which do
honor to his intelligence, the univer-
sity of Alcala, and directed the print-
ing of the celebrated Bible to which
this city gives its name. He is the

only man admired by his contempo-
raries as a poUtician, a warrior, and a
saint at the same time."

From the esplanade in front of the
church of St. Juan de los Reyes is a
fine view. The great manufactory
of the "Toledo blades" lies below
upon the wild and melancholy Tagus,
which winds through the plain; be-
yond are the mountains. The bridge
of St. Martin spans the Tagus on one
side, with its Moorish towers at either
end. The tower of Cambron, one of
the great Moorish towers, is in front,
in which is a lovely statue of St. Leo-
cadia, and near the bridge of St.
Martin, on the city side, is the site of
the palace of the Gothic kings. Here
are some arches of a ruin called " Los
Vafios de Florinda" — ^she who was
the daughter of the apostate Don
Julian, and with whose unhappy fate
is involved that of tlie last of the
Gothic king^.

The Alcazar, which overlooks the
whole city, was a Moorish palace,
then a fortress, with additions made
by Alonzo VI., in 1085. Improved
by Don Alvarado de Luna, and then
by Charles V. in 1548, and by Phi-
lip II.'s great architect, Herara, there
only remains the great patio, with its
fine columns and the magnificent
staircase for which Philip sent direc-
tions from England. Burned in the
war of the succession, it was repaired
by Cardinal Lorenzana, a munificent
patron of arts, and whose whole life
was devoted to good works, who
made it a silk factory for poor girls.
The French injured it again in 1809,
and it has been a ruin until now,
when some repairs seem to be going
on by order of the queen.

The esplanade in front commands
a fine view. Just below is the milita-
ry college, formerly the great hospital
of Santa Cruz, founded by Cardinal
Mendoza. On a height near are the
ruins of the castle of Cervantes, not

684

All for the Faith.

the author Cervantes, but one which
belonged to the Knights Templars.
We pass through the Puerta del Sol,
one of the great Moorish gates, fol-

low the steep and winding way bj
the remains of an old Roman bridgie
and fortress, cross the bridge of Al-
cantara, and so— -leave Toledo.

ALL FOR THE FAITH.

There is a mystery, an evangel, in
suffering; and this fiery evangel,
God*s message to our immortality,
prepares and perfects the soul for the
long hereafter.

In a humble room sat Sir Ralph
de Mohun and the Lady Beatrice.
The soft sunlight of Provence was
fading, and athwart the rose leaves
the dying flush rested on this fairest
type of girlish loveliness. Absorbed
in her rosar)% she sat at the open
window; while, bending near, Sir
Ralph watched the gorgeous heavens,
gazing with no thought of the sur-
roundings, and thinking — thinking as
we so often do in the hours that fate
allows us for decision.

Glimpses of his proud English
home stole upon the old man*s vis-
ion; of the shadowy oak -lined halls
and stately corridors where, as a boy,
he had looked with childish pride
upon portraits of a brave line that had
j)asse(l their own childhood there;
the cross of the old chapel glittered
in his dreams, for beneath it the mo-
ther of his children slept. But now,
homeless and an alien, he would
never again see the white cliffs of the
land his heart loved best.

The battle of the Boyne had
crushed the lingering hopes of the
Cavaliers who had forsaken home and
kindred to follow the last Stuart king.
If James had only possessed average
tact, he might have retained the affec-
tion of his subjects ; but strong-willed

without discrimination, zealous with-
out wisdom, his whole reign was a
succession of errors which could doc
but alienate the middle classes, all
ways practical and struggling against
the encroachments of the aristocraqr.
Nobly did the Cavaliers rally to the
rescue of this last Catholic king,
when, forsaken even by those of to
blood, he stood alone, held at bay bf
the same subjects who had swocn
him fealty. All through the darkncB
of his mistaken flight, through the
changeful, disastrous campaign, and,
so trying to their haughty spirit, c\*«Q
unto the court of Louis, where snec-
ing courtiers dared to greet them
with slights and contumely, they
neither swerved nor varied. All this
had tested their loyalty, tried their
faith ; yet they neither changed nor
fbrsook him : and of this band none
had suffered more than gallant Sir
Ralph de Mohun.

A very pleasant life was that of the
Catholic gentry in England ; they
hunted, they were jovial at their meet-
ings, but devout in the chapel; and
no class of the English subjects were
more orderly and refined. But when
the old crown rested on other than
the brow of a Stuart, they left the
broad moors and sunny downs, and
fled with the monarch who represent-
ed not only their government, but
their faith, in old England

Stripped of the wealth that had
given him comfort, despoiled of all

All for the Faith.

685

kes a man's position a bless-
brave knight steadily, defiant-
m adverse fate. " Noblesse
spoke in every phase of his
ife ; he would suffer, ay, die,
itleman, with no murmur to
Id of the sorrow and strife
But an uncontrolled, unsub-
ling warred with the iron re-
lich supported him, and this
devotion to the last bairn left
lis fair Scottish wife.
:y summers had deepened her
into that rare womanhood,
irough suffering, strengthened
pline; and the sweet eyes
dth a softer light, a more
oveliness, as they gazed fh)m
I long, dark lashes ; while the
)w voice owned a subdued
y different from the light-
•ol that had gladdened bluff
h at the gay meet in old Suf-
Lit times were diflferent now,
table was becoming scantier,
* silver grew very low; and
ier who had rallied the dra-
t the Boyne, had stood im-
^hen advancing squadrons of
ILsh, his own blood in the
iks, swept on to attack him,
*yes dim as he watched his
blossom, and knew that soon
Id b^ in a strange land all

iftemoon faded into night,
scanty fire could not warm
and bare chamber in which
nan lay. He was dozing in
; arm-chair, and Beatrice was
1 on a low cushion near,
)ftly the door opened. Was
ag girl dreaming, as with her
'es larger still, she rose in-
ly, rose as though swayed by
«n spirit, and walked out
; terrace ?

xice, I have risked life, al-
nor for this."
ip Stratheme, life belongs to

honor, and honor should never be
risked."

The speech cost her an effort, for
her voice was faint and very low.

" I have come to offer peace and
comfort, my darling, and— dare I
whisper the story which you used to
listen to, imder the elms at home ?"

"Sir Philip Stratheme, you forget
the past ; you will not remember the
blood that lies between us."

"My darling! my darling I we
hav^ no past save what you gave
to me. Life belongs to honor, your
own sweet voice has told me, and
we are commanded to < love without
dissimulation;' therefore the logic of
courts and battle-fields shall claim no
power here."

"PhiHpl PhiUp!" was all the mai-
den could find speech to answer,
uttered in a tone meant to be re-
proachful.

Two years of sorrow had passed
since the fatal battle of the Boyne,
and the heart of the maiden was
very sore, very lonely, very hungry
for the one love that made her life.

" Beatrice !" called from the room,
and she entered.

" Come and sing to mfe, little one;
for I have been dreaming sad dreams
of the old home," And so she sat
on her cushion at his feet, and sang
in her soft alto :

'* It was a* for our rightful king.
We left fair Scotia's strand :
It was a* for our rightfol king,
We e*er saw Irish land.
We e'er saw Irish land I

** The sodger frae the war returns,
The sailor frae the main ;
Bat I hae' parted frae my lore.
Never to meet again,
Never to meet again.

" When day is done, and ni^t is come.
And a* things wrapt in sleep ;
I think o^ one who's fiur away,
The lee lang night, an' weep,
The lee lang night, an' weepb"

"Will Sir Ralph Mohun welcome
the son of an old fiiend ?"

flSr

All for the Faith.

'c :ii c^in luraed hastily, and
>.. '*r.!L:'.'rnic <\i\^^ before him.
c :-ac ^tasv Sir Philip, when
-<• '^'j. li^e jiTisped your hand
's^ J. nc fwiing which my love
IX -.'.c -x>% :n>uirevL Now, you are
j:?Ai :'t ^i^'t ^*« ^hat is left me, and
T-i-^-^tc 1 -tut sient.'*
. :c'c *-'j> ^ stately courtesy in
'•> t-uca embarrassed and
.... -.v. :n: >-c»ung man.

v-ss. cvrtiiialy, is not my former
•5.1^ •.■.»: :mc the times have chang-
■ I ::c n-atitcrs. Sir Ralph, and we
j»^ .v\\:«.c :he change."

• V.V Sir Philip. There is little
-»4i.i .-I orttfr you now; yet me-
X -»6- :x« s a seat for you."
X ''v>iRi; iif^an hesitated, and

^ ^t^ not learned diplomacy
a '^vv'siv.-tvis. Sir Ralph, therefore
% U •ciout preamble tell you what
V K«««« on my heart. First, to be
s^i!i9«K> <d^cr. I have come to ask
.•u v»t %hjit you j)romised years ago
..^it oau^htor. Sir Ralph de
V^aviir. wHi were once young, and
svNv NV!Jirsk\l as fiery then as now.
^"^ii ^vNJL nnvl it in your heart to
>^,;.%jttJivK' tts? Then, secondly, your
XV rc»\» at court offer entire resti-
uvTi-xt .1 NX lurvlon, if you will accept
,iv ♦v'* •o:««««'. ^'ith Kngland's faith."
• ;: ; h.i\o U^cn true to my coun-
ts. VM'. must 1 siill be true to my
v\\l I'h'.hp Stratheme, if I had not
■\v,^x; \v*u twm your boyhood, ifie
%v«\?s th^t would come to my lips
%vNjM.i u*U yvm what my heart wills
;j»^ sfvak to all who have proved
u\i:i!< * Koc the rest, my daughter has
vV Mohun blood, and she knows
%Ju: her church teaches."

Aiul Beatrice sat silent, crushed
j» a Wv ix)werless from the storm.
She knew her duty, she felt her love.
Rcas^>ii— hufcor told her that even
love could not span the chasm
ihwugh which the Wood of her gal-

lant brothers flowed. They,
had followed the fortunes of
Stuart king, and one lay dead be
the bastions of Londondem*, w
another gave up his young life ^
the war-shout on his fearless lips
the van of his father's regimeni
Xewtown-buder.

It was Philip Stratheme who
the detachment of Enniskillen hi
that rode down the mere ham
of Irish dragoons, inspired by (
Mohun's ringing cry ; and Sir Ra
had listened to Philip Strathen
voice, as, clear and steady, it rallied
Enniskilleners to the charge that h
snatched that last son from hi
Not only for the Stuart had he yvt
ed his glorious life, but for the crc
for the faith, in the defence of whi
centuries had borne brave testimo
for the Mohuns, not only in bom
England, but on every battle-field
Christendom.

A stem self-control subdued ti
old man ; but the girl, the waiu
was suffering; honor commands
duty pleaded, but a wilder, strongi
stormier feeling fought within h
now. The color crimsoned the f:
face, and the sweet eves tume
rested for one moment on the youi
man with all the girl's tendcme
all the woman's passion-r-a mute a
j)eal, a dying cry for help ; then wi
the delicate hands clasped tightly ot
her breast, as though to keep doi
the heart's mad struggling, she spo)
so low that the words seemed almc
inarticulate, yet to the man listenii
with such painful eagerness eai
sound knelled the death which knoi
no " resurgam !" Only the simp
words came faltering forth, came so
bing as the wind soughs the {irelw
to destruction, ere the lightnii
scathes its fiery death ; and so in tl
whisi:)er he heard,

" Were I a false Mohun. I cod
not be a true Stratheme."

All for the Faith.

687

1 without a word she left them ;
len the old man sought her,
id her lying as one dead be-
r crucifix. Tenderly he raised
id from his lips sounded the

ly the Lord receive the sacri-

)m thy hands, to the praise

ory of his name, and to the

both of us and of his holy

len !" whispered a low voice,
e soft eyes unclosed all dim
ars.

murmur escaped her lips, no
was ever spoken, but fairer
.iler in her rare loveliness, the
n trembled as he watched her,
; cried in the bitterness of his

ve me, O God ! for the waters

ne in even unto my soul."

as Holy-week, the most solemn

Lenten season, and Beatrice

I knelt in the old cathedral

the impressive Tenebrcs^ and

fourteen candles were extin-

I, and the solemn Miserere

rom the depths of her heart

he prayer:

t not the tempest of water
me, nor the deep swallow me

the pervading gloom corre-
d with her own spirit; her
tied no brightness, and the one
her seemed fast wearing away,
e had weakened the iron con-
n of Sir Ralph; for more ex-
ig than mere physical pain is
aseless care that preys upon
lis, claiming life as its tribute,
felt that he could buy back
id comfort for his darling, and
iw that for him earth held but

few years; but to obtain all
; must barter his honor, yield
*ed, and the old blood still

the fierceness of a changeless
•. No Mohun had ever swerv-

ed, not even in the dark days of the
last Tudor, nor after, when his grace-
less daughter held the sceptre. And
now, though bereft of home, with
his gallant sons lying far from their
kindred, his fair young daughter life-
wrecked, his own existence a burden,
when even starvation mocked them,
the loyal spirit knew no change ; but
staunchly by the old faith, true to
the weak king, the brave knight still
fought his adverse destiny.

And Beatrice came back through
the darkness, and leaned against the
couch on which her father lay.

" Come to me, little one ; for I fear
that you are not as strong as in the
days when wild Bess bore you to the
hunt. Have you any regrets for the
past, my darling ?"

"Duty gives us discipline, papa,
and it would not be right to question
Providence."

"Bravely spoken, my daughter;
you nerve a courage which was grow-
ing too human to be strong. But
you grieve at the choice which has
kept you the slave of an old man's
caprice ?"

"O papa!" and a low quick
sob stopped her; then with more
control she quietly said, "You for-
get that it was not only to be with
you, but to remain firm and loyal to
holy church; and papa, I often
think that earth is only the high road
to a better world; therefore I only
pray that the end may be very
near."

" Little one, bring the light nearer
— let me look upon your face ; hold it
nearer, darling. Ah God ! this is the
dimness which brings my warning.
Quick, daughter mine, send for Fa-
ther Paolo. Now, O God ! my eyes,
darkened with the mist of death, fix
their last dying looks on thy cruci-
fied image. Merciful Jesus, have mer-
cy on me!"

Father Paolo did come, and in the

All for the Faith,

689

near. The angelus was sound-
and over the hills, up the broad
•, the holy prayer-call echoed, for
Easter season rejoiced the eiuth ;
iubilate for the blessed link con-
ing the God-man with human-
lade, and leaf, and blossom glo-
in the new life, and the spring
spread over the natural world the
J light with which the resurrec-
gladdened the soul; but to all
was the young man blind and

and dumb — for surging and
ing within his heart was the
ny, o*er-mastering human feeling,
only knew that the woman to
n he bent the knee in this mad^
trous love was lost to him, he
felt that fate had snatched her
him for ever ! The sister started,
is deathly face presented itself.
I scarcely human utterance, he
1 for the Lady Beatrice, and after
1 moments, the messenger retum-
md a folded paper was put in
land. Reread:

lie Lord keepeth thee from all evil :
iie Lord keep thy soul !"

id she, with her intenser passion,
ing steadily, loving unselfishly,
dy a woman can, gave him up^;
ed her costly tribute to the faith

VOL. IX. — ^44

which taught her that loyalty to God
demands, if need be, all that life and
love can give. Then, faint and wea-
ry, bruised and suffering, yet staunch
and true to her faith as she was, the
holy church opened its arms to her,
cocnforting the broken spirit, healing
the bleeding heart, and blessing her
with the precious benediction that
brings its calm to those who seek
the life that dieth not In deeds
of unselfish love and sacrifice, she
passed her days; all the strength
within her clinging to the cross, all
the human passion purified, glorified
into the worship of the Lamb whose
blood had made her whiter than
snow. And safe in her haven, the
dove of peace rested upon her heart ;
for the <' fellowship of the Holy
Ghost" had sanctified her: and thus,
when her summers were yet in their
flush, she passed away to God.

But he forgot her in the years that
came after, and found happiness in
the £ur English Protestant, whose
children heired the broad lands of
the brave Mohuns. Verily man's
love is fleeting, but in God is eternal
life; and while we pay our tribute to
one who was so strong in resisting,
we pray that all who are thus tempt-
ed may likewise prove ready to yield
all for the feith.

690 Struggle betwem Letter and Spirit in the yewish Church.

THE STRUGGLE BETWEEN LETTER AND SPIRIT IN THE

JEWISH CHURCH.

CONFERENCE PREACHED IN THE CATHEDRAL OF NOTRE DAME, IN PARIS, BY I.

PERE HYACINTHS, JANUARY 3, 1 869.

Littera ocddit, spiritat autnn vivificat ** The letter kiUeth ; but tin qmit givcth JaStT

[It is due to R. P. Hyadnthe to
say that the following translation is
made from a short-hand report, pub-
lished in the Semaine Religjieuse de
jRzris. In style, in development of
ideas, the compte rendu is incomplete.
Bjut to us who cannot listen to the
great Carmelite's eloquence, in the
nave of Notre Dame, even an outline
of this conference, so full of fresh and
healthy thought, will be acceptable. —
Trans.]

Rev. p. Hyacinthe takes this text
from St. Paul, at once as the basis
and the summary of his entire con-
ference. On previous occasions he
had pointed out two elements in the
Jewish Church, opposed to each
other yet equally essential to the
aims of that church; the one exclu-
sive, securing the preservation of the
sacred deposit of revelation; the
other universal, insuring the diffusion
of this deposit throughout the whole
human race. These two elements he
now calls, in the language of the apos-
tle, letter and spirit. According to
the letter, the Bible — that is to say,
the Old Testament, is exclusive ; ac-
cording to the spirit, it is universal.
The internal struggle of these two
elements forms the history of Judaism,
thoughtfully viewed. Their startling
rupture during the life of Jesus Christ
introduced the Christian era, inaugu-
rated the Catholic Church. As sons
• of that holy and infallible church,
we need not fear the triumph of the

letter; but as members of a church
composed of and governed by imper-
fect men and sinners, we should not
disregard the struggles of the letter
for predominance. Let us, then, re-
view the profitable history of thoe
combats between letter aad spirit ii
the bosom of Judaism, consideriDg
successively the representatives of the
letter and the representatives of the
spirit in the Jewbh Church.

I. THE representatives OF TBI

letter.

These were the kings and priests.
The kings represented the letter a
the political order; the priests, in the
religious order.

I. David prophesied, "He shaD
rule from sea to sea, and from the
river unto the ends of the earth.
And all kings of the earth shall adoR
him; all nations shall serve him."
And discerning in the far-off radiance
that one among his sons whom he
called the Anointed, the Christ/*''
excellence^ he said, or let the Lad
say by his lips : " Sit thou at my right
hand until I make thy enemies thy
footstool. With thee is the princi-
pality in the day of thy strength: b
the brightness of the saints : from the
womb before the day star I begot
thee."

In the throne of the son of David.
the God-engendered, two royalties
were united : a temporal royalty, crea-
ted to reign over the house of Jacob,
confined within the narrow limits of

Struggle between Letter and Spirit in the ycwish Church. 691

vn blood, regnahit in domo Jdcob }

a royalty destined to extend
ighout all humanity, within the

boundary of the feith of Abra-
, regnahit in atemum,
le danger lay in confounding
; two royalties, in absorbing the
tial in the terrestrial royalty — an

so frequent in similar unions,
his danger succumbed the syna-
e.

a national church, or in a reli-
; nation, no peril is more immi-

none more fatal, than the con-
1 of religious and political forms.*
^y great while remaining hu-

for such it is in character and
1, political thought becomes still
er in ascending to the heavenly
es of morality and religion. But
3n shrinks in dimensions, abdi-
l its true position, revolting
St human instinct, and wounding
attributes of Divine Majesty,
it assumes political forms,
:ing the ideas, the habits, the
' interests of politics.
:h, however, was the kingdom
I kings, and the partisans of
, persistently dreamed of giving
manity. For one single instant,

: those who may be anaoquainted with prerious
tees of Pire Hyadnthe should interpret this

as referring to the temporal power, we sub-
piotation from a conference delivered by him
e Dame in the year 1867. Speaking of the
itioni caosed by placing political power and
I power in the same hands, R. P. Hyadnthe
Nowhere under the sun of the Catholic world
1 this dreadful confusion. If you bid me look
Rome, it is not the confusion, it is the excep-
lliance of the two powers that I hail in that
self excejiiional as a miracle. Beneficent al-
ikot of the liberty of consdence, never to be
aecause it unites there what it must separate
re, never were you more fiearfiilly necessary to

now I You have received the testimony of

blood, shed by those who have been called

ries while they are simply heroes 1 You are

1 by the eloquent words, the national words

rators, by the energetic imd loyal declarations

>vemmenL"

onference preached at Rome during the Lent

R. P. Hyadnthe compares those who urge
rch to throw aside the temporal power, and
Nirely supernatural existence, to SaUn tempt-
ist to cast himself from the pinnade of the
that angels may bear lum up.

under David, that prophetic ideal
foreseen and pictured by the prophet
king shone with unblemished purity,
soon to be veiled under the worldly,
(we will speak in plain terms,) under
the pagan ideal of Solomon.

Solomon was a great king, espe-
cially at the outset of his career. He
was always great, even in his errors
and crimes. But intoxicated with
the science of nature, which he pos-
sessed, says the inspired text, from the
cedar growing on the summit of
Lebanon to the hyssop piercing the
cracks of the walls, Solomon, not
content with knowledge leading to
God, wished to possess all the riches
and the loves of earth. He built
him palaces bearing little resem-
blance to the palm-tree beneath
which Deborah administered justice,
or to the tents where David camped
with his soldiers; palaces so sumptu-
ous that the queen of Sheba came
from the depths of Arabia to admire
them. He had harems filled with
women, chiefly foreigners and idola-
ters; seven hundred sultanas and
three hundred concubines ! Then let-
ting this inebriation mount, I will not
say fi-om heart, but from sense to
brain, he fell down with his women
at the feet of all their idols, venerat-
ing, under poetic S3rmbols, that great
nature which is the work of God and
so easily takes the place of God.

Such was the spectacle presented
by Jerusalem under the successor of
David — a hideous spectacle, but
made less repulsive in the days of
Solomon by a glory he had no power
to bequeath to his heirs in Judah
and to his Israelitish emulators. He
left them only his pride, his sensu-
ality, his idolatry ; and when the two
inimical yet analogous monarchies
succumbed at last beneath the blows
of powerful neighbors, of those north-
em conquerors whose favors they had
so often solicited, and whose arms

Struggle between Letter and Spirit in the yervish Church. 693

ume of its censers, we listened
larmony of its canticles. The
A.aron had not blossomed in
ds in vain, and in the ancient
cle we almost adored the body
ist Jesus prefigured in the
, the word of Christ Jesus
d in the decalogue. But
r respectable in origin and
the Levitical priesthood, it no
merits respect, corrupted as
is ; or, at least, corrupted as
Dst of its members. This
on bears a special name,
sm.

>harisaism hypocrisy ? No.
er the dictionary may say, in
lical sense pharisaism is not
sy, unless in that subtle form,
I most innocent and most
that unconscious h)rpocrisy
believes itself sincere. Jesus
aid, " Pharisees, hypocrites,"
f, hypocrita ; but he ex-

this expression by another,
guides," phariscee ccece. And
;at apostle Paul, himself a
J, reared, as he says, at the
the pharisee Gamaliel, bears
in a striking manner to their
ceal for God, habent zelum Deiy

according to knowledge, sed
tndum scientiam.
isaism, thoughtfully consider-
ligious blindness, the blindness
)tly depositaries of the letter,
mk they guard it best by ex-
\ it least; blindness bearing
)oints of the sacred deposit —
ss in dogma, predominance of
over truth ; blindness in mor-
dominance of external works
iterior justice; blindness in
)y predominance of external
er religious feeling. Blindness
na. They taught the truth.

scribes and pharisees sit

chair of Moses," said Christ;

therefore, whatsoever they

ly to you, observe and do:

but according to their works do ye
not ; for they say, and do not."

There is no revealed idea enlighten-
ing and vivifying the world that has
not words to contain it : huema
verbum tuum, domine. But when
speech compresses itself, when it en-
closes the idea as in a jealously nar-
row prison, obscuring and choking
it, that is Pharisaism. That is what
the apostle Paul called guarding the
word, but keeping it captive in ini-
quity. That is what forced from the
meek lips of our Saviour Jesus the
terrible anathema Va vobisl " Wo to
you who have taken the key of know-
ledge, and will not enter, and all
those who would try to enter, you
prevent"

In morals, it is exterior works, it
is a multiplicity of human practices,
resting like a despicably tyrannical
load upon the conscience, making
it forget, in unhealthy dreams, that
it is an honest man's conscience,
a Christian conscience. The phari-
sees said to Jesus Christ, " Why do
thy disciples transgress the traditions
of the ancients? for they wash not
their hands when they eat bread."
And our Saviour replied, "Why do
you trample underfoot the command-
ments of God, to keep the command-
ments of men ?" Rites are essential
to wqrshjp, as formula is essential to
dogma — ^wo to him who tears the
formula of biblical revelation, or the
formula of the definitions of the
church; and, since works are essential
to mondity, wo to him who sleeps in a
dead and sterile faith, without works.

Worship! but worship is the ex-
pansion of the religious soul ; it is the
heart's emotion rising odorous and
harmonious to God. It is action
working from within outward; it is,
also, the not less legitimate reaction
fix>m without inward. Rites elevate
religious feeling, and arouse inspira*
tion in heart and consdence.

Struggle between Letter and Spirit in the Jewish Chutch. 695

and fat of fatlings, and blood of calves, and
lambs, and buck-goats. Offer sacrifice no
more in vain : incense is an abomination to
me. The new moons, and the sabbaths,
and other festivals, I will not abide ; your
assemblies are wicked. My soul hateth
yonr new moons, and your solemnities :
they are become troublesome to me ; I am
weary of bearing them. And when you
stretch forth your hands, I will turn away
my eyes from you : and when you multiply
prayer, I will not hear : for your hands are
full of blood.

'* Wash yourselves, be clean, take away
the evil of your devices from my eyes : cease
to do per\'ersely, learn to do well : seek
judgment, relieve the oppressed, judge for
the fatherless, defend the widow. And then
come and accuse me, saith the Lord : if
your sins be as scarlet, they shall be made
as white as snow : and if they be red as
crimson, they shall be white as wool."

This is the voice of Mosaic spiritu-
ality in all its energy and light How
difTerent from the pharisaism we were
speaking of just now ; fix)m the letter,
smothering beneath its murderous
weight reason, conscience, and heart!
How like the gospel, the law of
Christ, with its two commandments :
an insatiable hunger, an inextinguish-
able thirst after righteousness, and a
heart ever open to mercy! Ah! I
feel that this is no local law, no na-
tional organization, no restricted or
temporaxy code. It is the law of all
people and of all ages. It needs but
the breath of St. Paul to bear it from
one end of the world to the other.

But the voice of the Spirit still
^[leaks — ^no longer, now, of the carnal
law^ but of the earthly kingdom :

"And in the last days, the mountain of
the house of the Lord shall be prepared on
the top of mountains, and it shall be exalted
■bofe the hills : and all nations shall flow
into it^ fiuni ad eum omnes gentes. And
many people shall go, and say : Come and
let 118 go up to the mountain of the Lord,
and to the house of Jacob, and he will
teach ns his ways, and we will walk in his
paths: fiff the law shall come forth from
SiflOt aad the word of the Lord from Jeru-
glkm%^madiSiamexibitl€X€tverbum Do-
'mi$fd$%ru9aitm. Come^ let us break our

swords and make ploughshares ; let us shat-
ter our lances and turn them into sickles,
for the anointed of the Lord will reign in
justice and peace ; all idols shall be broken,
et idolapenitus conterentur^ and in those days
the Eternal shall alone be great"

Such was the future disfigured by
kings and the successors of kings.
Understand it well; this is not oppres-
sion, but deliverance ! It belongs to
the letter to impose itself by force;
this is its necessity ; it has no other
way, if this can be called a way. To
the spirit belongs the appeal sum-
moning us to the liberty of man and
the liberty of God. Ubi spirituSj ibi
libertas. "Where the Spirit of the
Lord is, there is liberty." Therefore,
I do not see in the Messiah's hands
a sword besmeared and gory. I see
nations rise up spontaneously, like a
sea shuddering to its deepest abjrsses.
Fluent ad eum amnes gentes ; this is
not servitude ; it is deliverance. This
is not the reign of the Messiah victor;
but it is the reign of the Messiah
liberator.

But you ask me whose is this voice
preaching a spiritual kingdom to
priests, a divine royalty to kings and
nations? The voice shall interpret
itself; it shall tell its origin and mis-
sion.

Here Pire Hyacinthe relates the
famous vision in which Isaiah receives
bis mission after a seraph has piuified
his lips with a burning coal. This is
prophecy.

And were not prophets and saints
necessary to the Jewish Church, as
they are necessary to the Catholic
Church? The two beggars in the
dream of Innocent III. upholding
the crumbling Lateran basilica, as
if sjrmbolizmg the decadence of the
hierarchical church in the middle
ages; those two mendicants, Dominic
de Guzman and Francis of Assisi,
what were they but prophets of the
New Testament, sprung not from the

StruggU betwetn Letter and Spirit in the Jewish Omnk.

I
I

hereditary tradition of ages, but from
the living kiss of Jehovah? Yes, we
tieed saints, we need prophets — that is
'to say, men of love, martyrs j men of
vision who read not only according
to the letter but according to the
spirit, who see God in the vision of
their reason enlightened by faith ; in
the ecstasy of their conscience eleva-
ted by grace. " I have seen the Lord
with my eyes" — Ociilis vieis vidi Donti-
num. We need men who speak to
him face to face like Moses, and,
above all, men who love him heart
to heart, and pass through the strug-
gles of days and ages, struggles only
to be fuUy understood by contempla-
_ting them in the final future. Vidii
ultima, ei consolafm est lugentes in
SioH. Such men were the prophets.

They were seers. They saw the
fiiture. They did not look only upon
the present, so accurately fitted to the
measure of narrow minds and hearts.
They did not return with cowardly
tears toward the past, never to be
bom again. It was for Gentiles, for
pagan antiquity, to dream of a golden
Bge for ever lost. The prophets, gai-
ing into the future, saw the golden
age of Eden reappear, under a form
more full and lasting, at the gates of
heaven, yet still upon the earth.

The prophets believed in the fu-
ture because they believed in God.
They believed in progress; they were
in all antiquity the only men of pro
gress. Antiquity did not believe in
it, not even knowing its name. But
the prophets believed in the most in-
credible and the most necessary of all
progress, moral and religious progress.
They beUeved in it despite the fall,
or rather because of the fall and of
the redemption. To them evil did
not lie in radical vice, e^endal to our
nature, or in the inflexible decree of
destiny ; it was in the liberty of man,
and must find its remedy in the liber-
ty of God. If God had allowed the

starting-point of man to recoil, W
cause of sin, into the ab^-si, it «a b
order to raise, tlirougb the redeiaptiiA
his goal to the very hcavcfii, Fiqb
the sumraitB to which their fudkUcd
them, they saw salr^ition spread ftm
individuals to nations, from nauot
to the human race, from the hamB
race to all nature.

Such was progress to the pn){iho.
such the future universal Sioa ilxf
hailed in the future? Isaiah pto{:^
sied it in the existence and in the r-
lative prosperity of Jerusalem. Jm-
miah mingled it with tears bJied om
the smoking ruim of his bctovcd eij.
Ezechiel in the bosom of optintF
pictured Sion, no longer Jcwid^bv
humanitarian, where all nations wnt
to find their pi;
upon the pediment of the gate*
immortal device, " The Lord is tliac;'
Dominus ibidem.

ir. This was what the profteb
men of faith in vision and ma i
vision in (kith, believed and retpedci
This was the object of ihdr lore, fc»
they were men of understzBdiog.iaii
also men of heart.

I do not love UtopiaiK, I do not
love thought which dwells eniu>i>e!f
in the future, feeding on sierik wl
chimerical dreams. I love men a(
the future who are also men of tJie
present ; contcmplatives, but mwfcet
too. The prophets were "ortav
They did not love the future m tb«
future, but in the present wboe 't.
germinates. They did not to« bfr
manity in humanity — too alsuiuaif
it be an idea, too vast if it entnce
all individuals; they lorcd humnilT
in their nation ; they loved the tjp'
cal Jerusalem of their vision in ibM
terrestrial Jerusalem of their ed»-
tence.

I love to follow them in their wifr
ings ; to see them ri.ie up ia the 1^
of every national fact, cvcty fi '
faa of that gross \ ~ '

Struggle between Letter and Spirit in the yewish Church, 697

meet every evil deed with anathema,
to consecrate in the Lord's name
every moral or religious act tending
toward true progress. I love to see
them go down into the deep ravines,
to the borders of the torrent of Ce-
dron, where the Messiah was to drink
before lifting up his head; climb the
abrupt acclivity to the citadel, to the
temple where Jesus was to teach;
traverse the public squares where ever
and anon the wind from the desert,
as if to mock their hopes, caught up
the dust beneath the burning sun and
flung it in their faces.

Now, in the ravine, in the cita-
del, and in the temple of Sion, in
the streets possessed by the whirl-
wind, everywhere in that city envi-
roned with their love and their devo-
tion, they saw that Sion which was to
grow up in its bosom and embrace
the world. They k)ved the future;
they loved humanity in God; they
loved them in the house of Abraham
and in the church of Jesus Christ.

In the presence of these great ex-
amples, let me say to you of the love
of country all that I have said of
domestic love. We no longer know,
or rather we no longer rightly know,
what it is to love country and people ;
to see and love, in them, the city of
humanity, the city of Jesus Christ,
the dty of time and eternity.

III. Men of vision and of love,
the prophets were also men of com-
bat, and, when necessary, martyrs, sol-
diers, and victims. No man passes
without effort that Red Sea which
separates present and future. The
prophets crossed it bearing with
them on their vigorous shoulders the
aric of God and the ark of mankind.
But what combats and struggles ! —
struggles majestic as their visions and
their love. They shrunk from them
pk their infirm himian nature; they
jtoHfd these struggles. They knew
Alt the word of God ends by slay-

ing those who hear it: "I have slain
them, saith the Lord, in the word of
my mouth." " Ah Lord God !" cried
Jeremiah, "behold I cannot speak,
for I am a child;" and the Lord an-
swered, "Say not, I am a child; for
thou shalt go to all that I shall send
thee: and whatsoever I shall com-
mand thee thou shalt speak. Behold, I
have given my words in thy mouth.
Lo, I have set thee this day over the
nations, and over kingdoms, to root
up and to pull down, and to waste and
to destroy, and to build and to plant.
For, behold, I have made thee this
day a fortified city, and a pillar of iron,
and a wall of brass, over all the land,
to the kings of Judea, to the princes
thereof, and to the priests and to the
people of the land. And they shall
fight against thee and shall not pre-
vail, for I am with thee to deliver
thee."

And to Ezechiel, colleague and
successor of Jeremiah, God ever
spoke the language of struggle:
" Fear not ; I send thee to an apos-
tate people that hath revolted from
me, ad gentem apostatricem\ but I
have made thy face stronger than
their faces, and thy forehead harder
than their foreheads; I have made
thy face like an adamant and like
flint. I will set thee up like a wall
of iron and like a city of brass, for I
will be with thee."

Thus did the prophets struggle for
that Sion which fought against them,
repudiating them. They never for-
sook it, they always loved and always
served it

We are about to part for another
year. Let me entreat you now to
unite yourselves with me in a conse-
cration .to that kingdom of God, to
that church whose courts we have
traversed. Christianity is not of to-
day nor of yesterday. It belongs not
merely to the historical period of
Jesus Christ and his apostles. It

698 Struggle behoem Letter and Spirit in the yewish Ckufrh.

comes from David, from Abraham, it
comes to us from Adam, our father,
our king, our pontiff. In this unique
reUgion, this church changeable in
form, immovable in foundation,
friends, brothers — let me use words
which come from my heart — let us
consecrate ourselves, following the
example of the prophets, to the love
and service of God's kingdom. The
kingdom of God is for ever establish-
ed in Christianity, in the Catholic,
Apostolic, Roman Church. Bui, as
I said just now, this church must
ever pass from form to form — tie
forme en forme — from brightness to
brightness — tntusformamur claritate
in (laritatem — until her pacific em-
jare shall cover the whole earth, until
with humanity she shall attain the age
of the perfect man in Christ Jesus.

Do we not wish to work for this
kingdom ? ^^'hat are we to do if not
that ? What are the works of our
public and private life if they do not
relate finally to the kingdom of truth,
justice, charily, to all which consti-
tutes Christianity, to the Catholic

-and Apostolic Roman Church i> I do

*not ask you to love her as she does
not wish to be loved — to love her
as a sect is loved, as the gross Jews
loved the synagogue, with a heart
and mind restricted to the letter. I
do not ask you to love our grand
CaihoUc Church by glorifying the in-
firmities of her life, which are your in-
firmities and mine ; or by condemn-

•,ing all the truths professed and aB the
virtues practised outade of her by
men who are often her sons without
knowing it. No; let us have no

'sectarian love! I ask you to love
the church with the heart of the
church herself; with a heart com-
mensinrate only with the heart of Jc-
E Christ, dilatamini et vos. " You
I not straitened in us," said St.

'Paul to the Corinthians ; " but in yota-
own bowels you arc straitened.

tetdlfM

But having the same rcrompcDsc, (I
speak as to my own children.) be }«
also enlarged." J?i/aiammi tt w.
Before leaving you, let me tdl fM
the secret of my youtb. Ld '
speak to yon of the day of loy f
ly consecration, when in this naUl
crowded then than it
stretched upon that icy paremcn^
ed with burning palpitatkms, I m
sustained, I was inebriated widi out
thought — the conviction tliai ] bd
but one love and one sca-vtce, the
kingdom of God and humanity.

Yee, let us love die church ta eroy
roan, and every man in the cfaaidi:
What matters condition ? Rich or
poor, ignorant or learned. omnUm
debitor sum, I am every man'i debtor,
says St- Paul. What matters coua-
try? AVhether Frenchman or fcr-
eigner, Greek or barbarian, (Mnihi
debitor sum, I ^swer u-icli St. Pcd
I am the debtor of barbarisa at d
civilization. In a oeil^ souc, vliK
matto^ even religion, if wc wmU
love a man ?

Ah ! if he is not a son of the Caift-
olic Church in the body, by extoKi
union, he is so, perhaps — he is. I hopt,
in the soul, by invisible tmioa, II Ic
is a son of the Catholic Chutck do-
ther according to the body nor is the
spirit, nor in the letter, he is m> U
least by preparation In the, design (^
God. If the Water of baptism b act
on his brow, I grieve to know it; fact
I see there the blood of Jcsob Chmtr
iat Jesus Christ died for all. ofKsia$
nide his arms to all the worU ttpOB
the cross I The world belongs to Je-
sus Christ, therefore the woild b^
longs to the church, if not in ad,*!
least in power. Let me, then, lote all
men ; and you, too, love all moi wilb
me — not only in person, not onljr in
their narrow earthly tndividuabiy . tM
in the great Christian communtty.io
the great divine community «Uci
summons each and all.

A Sketch of Leo X. atid his Age.

699

When Moses, founder of the Jew-
ish church, died on the mountain
within sight of the land of promise,
the Hebrew text says that he died in
the kiss of Jehovah. Before dying
let us learn to live in the kiss of Je-
hovah, which is also the kiss of all
humanity. O holy Church! thou
art more than man and thou art

more than God — than God alone in
heaven, than man alone on earth.
O holy Church! thou art the kiss
of God to man, the kiss of man to
God; the embrace of all men, all
races, all ages, in the flame of univer-
sal and eternal love. " He who abi-
deth in love abideth in God, and God
abideth in him."

A SKETCH OF LEO X. AND HIS AGE.

In the annals of literature and art,
the name of Florence peers above that
of any other Italian city, Rome ex-
cepted. Here were the poets who
tuned the Italian language and made
it the most musical of modem
idioms; here was the illustrious as-
tronomer, who was not the discoverer
of a planet, but the revealer of the
whole celestial machinery ; and here,
too, were the artist and politician
who were not only the first ^^culptors
and statesmen of their time, but the
inventors of the very art and baft
'in which they excelled. Every day
the pilgrim scholar arrives at her
gates and requests to be shown the
monuments of her great men, and
every day genius worships at the
shrine of genius.

At the time of which we write,
the middle ages had seen their
palmiest days, when a Charlemagne
courteously entertained ambassadors
firoiQ the Mussulmans of Florence
and the Caliphs of Bagdad, and
when the flower of chivalry, headed
by a valiant Philip, a lion-hearted
Richard, and a sainted Louis, rushed
to the plains of the east to battle
with the Moslem foe; they had pre-
sided over the erection of those great
Gothic piles whose sublime architec-

ture towered to the clouds, and had
beheld the pontifls of Rome issuing
orders for the foundation of univer-
sities not only in Italy, but on the
very outskirts of the civilized world ; •
and fijaally they had seen the labori-
ous and prolific genius of the school-
men multiplying inventions and dis-
coveries, fathoming the profound
depths of theological science, and
disserting on those great metaphysi-
cal problems, which, like so many
apples of discord, have caused end-
less dissension and controversy
among modem philosophers.! But
before these great mediaeval ages
had reached their terminus, they
again shone forth with brilliant splen-
dor. That, indeed, was a glorious
epoch in the worid's history, when
the most important invention record-
ed in the annals of mankind came
forth fix)m the brain of Guttenberg;

* Gibbon tellt us in a foot-note to his DeclUu and
Fall ^ tlu Roman Empirt that, " at the end of the
fifteenth century, there were about fifty universities
in Europe." Though this is indeed a j^orious tri-
bute, considering from whom it came, paid to the
mediaeral ages, we are, however, more inclined to
believe with the Ntw American Cyclopttdia that,
"before the year 1500, there were over sixty-four
iiniTersities in Europe."

t Mackintosh says, *' Scarcely any metaphysical
controversy agitated among recent philosophers was
unknown to the schoolmen." {Diisertatitm on the
Progrtsi of Ethical Philosopkf,)

Li.

A Sketch of Lee- X. and Ms Agr.

the stormy Allaniic was first
aughed by adventurous keels, and
new worlds discovered ; when letters,
philosophy, and -the fine arts were
cultivated in such schools as the Me-
dicean pabces, and were patronized
by such men as Cosmo and Lorenzo
de' Medici.

Under the enlightened patronage
of these princely merchants, Florence
became the Athens of Italy, and one
of the favorite retreats of the muses.
Her public halls were crowded with
youths eager to listen to an elofjuent
hellenist, expatiating upon the beau-
ties of Homer; her poets sang in the
idiom of the great Mantuan; her
philosophers were smitten with love
for the divine Plato ; and her scho-
lars were so well read in antiquity,
that students from every country
came thither, to slake tlieir thirst at
what was then considered the foun-
tain-head of ancient lore. The gar-
dens of the Medici recalled the
groves of the Academies in which
the Athenian philosopher descanted
upon human and di^-ine things, and
the shady pordics of the Lyceum,
in which the Stagiiite perambulated
whilst delivering his sublime lessons.
A great bustle might have been ob-
ser^'ed in these gardens on the 1 1 Ih
of December, 1475; artists and hu-
manists were vieing with one another
in congratulating Lorenzo the Magni-
ficent on the birth of his second son,
who, in memory of his paternal uncle,
was christened Giovanni. Lorenzo was

Eoud of his little Benjamin, and he
tened with complacency to those
who admired his keen, restless eye,
his pure and noble forehead, his flow-
ing hair and snowy neck. In con-
templating the sweet expression of
bis countenance, the poet declared
that he would revive classic litera-
ture; and the Neoplatonician predict-
ed a bright era for philosophy ; whilst
a fiigitive Hellene read in the Greek

profile of the infant happ)- day? for
his di^ersed counuyincri ■ — ' —
old sage, endowed with s
prophecy, exclaimed,
praise the Lord 1 Giovan:i!
the honor of the sanctuarj."

The education of the young cHId^
heart and the embellisbmeDt of !■
mind were, for his entighteacd p»-
rents, objects of supreme impurtunx
The former duty necessarily det-oiv
ed upon themselves ; and how wdl
they succeeded was best shown by dw
mild and placable temper, putiifaed
manners, and kind and affable dispo-
sition of their little favorite ; ihc liWo
they entrusted toscholars whose nama
even then were running through tbe
schools of Europe, especially [o P ~
tiano, one of the best classicil «
ers of the rfnaisianee, and the ]
ceptor ot a pleiad of illustrious
Naturally docile, wcU endowed ^
parts, in constant intercourse '
men of rank and talent. Gio'fl
acquired a dignity of deport
facility of conversation, and a i
of knowledge, much beyoad j
years. At sixteen, he had o
the curriculum of Pisa, was g
doctor and invested with the ]
signia of the cardinilate, oad I
entitled to lake his seat il
princes of the church.
cious acquirements atid (

menls ought to have ; "

days of serenity ; but no, Aiqr ij
more like the calm that precede* d
storm. Brought up in the school ■
prosperity, he was to aciuirc hs b
finish amidst the rude trials of adve*-
sity. Before attaining the higbes
dignity that can adorn the brow of
man, he was destined to c
the instability of human :
the fickleness of n "^

his father, and the demise of h
nificcnt protector, Innocent \
dieted deep wounds on his s
heart. In the mean t'

A Sketch of Leo X, and his Age,

701

was gathering in Florence,
tihabitants of this metropolis,
rated at the seemingly unpa-

conduct of Piero de' Medici,
er brother, expelled from with-
ir walls even the last scion of
Qoblest family ; something like
igrateful Athenians, who ostra-
the very man on whom they
Dnferred the tide of just To
the dreary hours of exile, no
an to enrich his mind with use-
^wledge, the expatriated cardi-
solved upon visiting the prin-
cities of Europe. Even here,
[ties and disquietudes unfore-
irked in the background of the
^ ideal that he had formed of
lerary. The suspicious autho-
►f Ulm and Rouen arrested the
:aravan, and ordered him and
mpanions to confinement; the
ig billows deterred him firom pro-
ig to England, and thus depriv-
m of the pleasure of visiting
nd of Bede and of King Al-

On his return, he was cast by
m on the Genoese coast, and,
ng it advisable to relinquish his
e, proceeded by land to Savona,
he met the celebrated Cardinal
Rovere — a remarkable coinci-
, if we consider that Delia Ro-
Giulio de' Medici, and he him-
vere afterward raised to the
y of the tiara. Notwithstand-
1 the afflictions that poured in
m, the future pontiff invariably
ved that equanimity of mind
imenity of manners which were
rominent features in his charac-
Better and brighter days were
ibout to dawn. The premature

of Piero, partially disarmed
ostility of the Florentines, and
inally threw open their gates to
lustrious representative of the
lonored family of the Medici.
IT had hardly elapsed after his
ation before Rome was plunged

into mourning by the death of that
wary and energetic pontiff, Julius II.
The conclave assembled immediately
after the obsequies, and Cardinal de'
Medici was called by the unanimous
vote to the see of St. Peter. Gio-
vanni de' Medici was now Leo X., and
the choice of that name, as Erasmus
spiritually remarks, was not without
its significance. If Leo I. saved the
eternal city from the ravages of the
" scourge of God;" if Leo IV. again
repelled from her walls the barbaric
bands of Saracens, Leo X. was to
make her the capital city of the re-
public of letters, as she was already
the starry centre of the Christian
world.

Italy had already taken the lead
in the restoration of ancient learning,
and supplied the fire fi-om which the
other nations lighted their torches.*
As may easily be fancied, the eleva-
tion to the pontificate of the son of
Lorenzo the Magnificent spontane-
ously awoke the most sanguine ex-
pectations of the artists and literati
In their fervor, they imagined that
genius, worth, and talent could not
remain unnoticed or unremunerated.
"Under these impressions," says a
Protestant writer,t "Rome became,
at once, the general resort of those
who possessed or had pretensions to
superior learning, industry, or ability.
They all took it for granted that the
supreme pontiff had no other objects
of attention than to listen to their
productions and to reward their la-
bors." That their hopes were to be
realized, was evident to all from the
very first act of the new pontift's
administration, the selection as apos-
tolic secretaries of Bembo and Sado-
leti, two scholars who resume in
themselves the intellectual life of the
time — Sadoleti, a profound philoso-

* Hallacn, LiUnUun of Eurofe^ toL L cfa. L

t RoKoe^ Lift and PmiificaU tf Zrtf, Yol. L p^

106.

A Sketch of Lee X. end His Age.

702

pber and the best exegcle or his age ;
and Bembo, who emulated Virgil and
Ckcro with equal success, and recall-
ed in his writing the elegance of
Pdrarch and Boccaccio.* A new
era in hteiature and art was aboirt
10 da»'n; its fiist bright raj-s were for
Italy, that " land of taste and sensi-
bilixy," A\'ith a pontiff who could
say, " I ha\-e always loved accom-
plished scholars and bcUcs-kttres ;
this love was bora with me, and age
has but increased it; for literature is
the ornament and glory of the church ;
and I have always remarked ihat it
knits its cultivators more firmly to
the dogmas of our faith ;" with such a
pontifi^ tlie intellectual movement that
then pen'xded Italian society was
nobly sustained and enlivened, until
at last the golden age again reap-
peared on earth. Ail sorts of encou-
ragements, such as honorary employ-
ments, lucrative offices, pecuniary
gratuities, and even ecclesiastical pre-
(emicnts, were lavished upon talent
and genius, Every latent energy
luxuriantly budded forth and blossom-
ed in the genial sunshine of such mu-
nificence

The academies of literary men
philosophized on ttrc banks of the
Tiber or in the cool recesses of a
Irngtnnl villa. The lovers of (he arts,
the votaries of the muses, and the
cultivators of polite literature sat side
by side at the sumptuous banquets
frequently given in the Vatican, At
these grand entertainments all topics
were convivially canvassed, and fancy
soared aloft to delight the guests by
her sublime improvisations. Popu-
lar javoritci, like the poet of Arei-
10 and the " celestial " Accolte, read
their productions in public halls to
admiring multitudes; while the best
fcholars of the age, yielding to the

invitation of Leo, filled the prcfa-
sorships of the great tuuvenilki.
Italy was then, in the beautiful wo»A
of Audin, " the promtsied Land of the
intellect;"" and Rome the centre of
jeanung and the nursery cd* gicai raa.
No wonder, then, that the saow-a^
ped Alps presented but a fi^btc bo^
rier to the iraiisa]|iiae scboUr, aod
that every day some new HaraiM
descended their craggj- flanks ad
pushed forward to the seveiy-hiBtd
city, to pay a courlcous »isit to tbe
accomplishcti pontid*, and gratiff 1
long-entertatncd dcMSC of convcna^
ivith the cdebrities of the age. The
whole world thus recogniMd thjt

Since the da)* of Petmrch, the
Italian muse had all but bushed krr
lovely strains; her lyre was sikatiaj
unstrung. Politiano came, «wept in
music-breathing chords, and sent iB
sweet notes on the i«*ings of the a-
phyrs throughout the Italian pcniiMdL
All listened with rnpiure to ibe »■
chanting strains of the Tascaa flits,
and, after a moment of hattatkn,
prepared Uieir pens to »Tile on cwy
theme and to illustratc every dnod-
ment of science and Icitcre. TV
classic models of heroic poetry, fas*
from the Aldine presses or half a»
sumed by the dust of ages, wen; taken
down from their shelves .ujd ttndi^
with passionate ardor. TIil' . lulita
of song were dclighteii v,w
muse, and were now har
their great poems. Mn.:..,
rates his Porstftna ; Qucrnci. int sna
poet, cadences the twenty thowd
verses of his AUxixu; Vida, lib
Horace of old, draws up the rula of
the metrical art, atid sings his CM-
tiad m verses of Augustan puiiiy sod

A Sketch of Leo X, and his Age,

703

elegance; Ariosto, the Homer of
Ferrara, condenses into his Orlando
JTUrioso a vein of poetry so remarka-
ble for its grace and energy as to
leave it doubtful whether the palm
of superiority should be awarded to
him, or to the author of the yerusalem
Delivered,^ The terrible eventuali-
ties of tragedy and the more pleas-
ing casualties of comedy were
brought upon the stage by Trissino,
Ruccellai, and Bibbiena; the protean
burlesque assumed its most humor-
ous forms under Bemi's magic pen,
and the shafts of satire were keenly
pointed by Aretino, whose virulent
epigrams drew upon him such an
amount of physical retaliation that a
contemporary writer calls him "the
loadstone of dubs and daggers."!
Guicciardini wrote the history of*his
country with the elegant diction of
;the great historians of Rome ; Giovio's
periods were so flowing as to make
Leo X. declare that next to Livy he
had not met with a more eloquent
writer. The Prince of Macchiavelli
enjoys a world-wide reputation, and
his History of Florence is so remarka-
ble for the beauty of its style, that it
is said to have had more influence
on Italian prose than any other work,
except the Decameron of Boccaccio.
Besides these reigning stars, there was
a host of other literary celebrities
who shed a brilliant lustre on Leo's
golden reign. There was Fracastoro,
who, at the early age of nineteen,
had won the highest academic degree
. of the Paduan university, and was
nominated to the professorship of
logic; Navagero, whose aversion to
an affected taste was so intense that
he annually consigned to the flames
a copy of Martial; Aleandro, who
was only twenty-four when the cele-
brated Manuzio dedicated to him
his edition of the Iliad^ alleging as a

* Labarpe, Ctmrt A Liitirmhirg^ vol. L pw 435.
t Sm AddiMO. S^tctaUr^ Na 13.

reason for conferring this honor on
a person so young, that his acquire-
ments were beyond those of any
other person with whom he was ac-
quainted, and it is well known that
the Venetian typographer was the
friend and correspondent of almost
all the literary characters of the day ;
Augurelli, whom a contemporary his-
torian calls the most learned and
elegant preceptor of his time ; Casti-
glione, who was called by Charles V.
the most accomplished gentleman of
the age; Leonardo da Vinci, who,
long before the philosopher of Veru-
1am, proclaimed experiment the base
of the physical sciences, and, before
the astronomer of Thome, taught the
annual motion of the earth; and
Calcagnini, who wrote an elaborate
work to defend this startling thesis.
The correction of the calendar was
investigated by Dulciati, and even
hieroglyphics found an expounder in
the encyclopedic Valeriaro, who
wrote no less than fifty-eight books
on that abstruse subject. Literature,
indeed, was a universal hobby; it
was the royal road to distinction in
an age when the love of the well-
turned period and the mellifluous son-
net was epidemic. The lady cultiva-
tors of polite letters were numerous,
and not only accomplished profi-
cients but formidable rivals. The
sonnets of Veronica Gambara rank
among the best ; Vittoria Colonna, in
lively description and genuine poetry,
excelled all her contemporaries with
the sole exception of the inimitable
Ariosto; and Laura Battifera is rep-
resented as the rival of Sappho.

Notwithstanding this general enthu-
siasm for the amenities of literature,
great attention was bestowed upon
the more arid study of languages.
Already the Latin muse had come
to dwell again beneath the beautiful
sky of Ausonia; and the humanists,
fleeing from the savage fury of d

A Skdtch of Leo X. and his Age,

TTi-ziT.:::^'. rtomans, sang, in the
—r--"^ : Ivorcnce and on the
-v. : r.:: Tber. the fall of Troy
^1 z-s -cv«:::nires ot Ulysses. Leo
1 r-^ :■. : iniy i Latin scholar, he
^z= ^. 1 renned hellenist. More-
•n^- :r iizcnr v'zjz vast treasures of
vsiTz^- .'. rt ire contained in the
.f==i zLz.ittr5^ izd hence, as a lover
: ii-r^i i:i»i pro£uie literature, he
-;Ti;:—: ut ntisures on the revival
- n^ "ici^rful tongue. A little
: ^,7z- -Enric. cr»3m the Morea, was
-7s:::1ei. :=. i magnificent mansion on
ii*i Z.>rr' .11 hill, and a Greek sem-
Hiarr- ^-i? oji^ed to impart to the
IiaiiLus :he mt pronunciation and
int *. snr ccnias of the Homeric idiom.
Tnt fr.'nc'us Lascaris, at the in\-ita-
n3ii cif Leo X., relinquished his posi-
lion i: the French court, in order to
dineci the studies of his young coun-
tr^inen and superintend the editions
of the Greek classics that were issued
frozn the Roman press. ITie He-
brew was taught at Rome by Guida-
cerio. who published a grammar of
that language and dedicated it to
Leo X.; the Syriac and Chaldaic
were taught at Bologna by Ambro-
zio, a regular canon of the Lateran,
who at fifteen could converse in
Greek and Latin with as much ease
and fluency as any of his contempo-
raries, and who subsequendy mas-
tered eighteen languages. A useful
and authentic lexicon was first given
to the learned world by Varino. A
new Latin version of the Bible from
the Hebrew having been announced
by Pagnini, Leo X. requested an in-
ter\iew with the author, and was so
well pleased with his competency as
well as with the elegance and accu-
racy of the work, that he defiraved
all the expenses of transcription and
publication. Erasmus, wlio corre-
s^Txieii with Leo, and, more than
ir.y one else, knew his great desire to
'iEOdOVt \i^\cali ^\Mdves^ inscribed to

him his ^Wia Testament in Greek
Latin wiih corrections and an;
tions. Giustiniani commenccc
1^1 6. L iirw edition of the Bit
GrcrJL I j..--^, Hebrew, Arabic,
Chilli..^ If to this we add th:
£ain:-::s Cjiriinal Ximencs dedi
13 Le: X. bis herculean work
CorL-I-:e!i<ijLn Polyglot, we
have >::ne idea of the efiorts
in the beginning of the sixteentli
lui^- reward the promotion of
lural and philological studies. •

I: has been said that a ge
love of literaiure invariably e^
:*>s existence bv an insatiable
for l:-»ks, •" those souls of ages ]
This love Leo X. possessed i
emizer.t degree ; he was a s«
Nicholas V. At liis request
under his patronage, sterling b:
f hies Set out firom Rome to ovi
the world in quest of manusc
The monasteries of Britain and
manv and the ruins of the Taih
libnries were diligently seorcl
ample pecuniary- remuneration
everjTkhere offered for unpubli
works; and as kings and ] rJKCS
courajed this hunt after boob
mav easflv be fancied thai vcJa
teemed in from eveT\- quaner.
Vatican was made the recir-iat
these literary- treasures; and, ria
to the zeal of the popes, i: now I
sesses the most valuable collLX^icQ
manuscripts in the world

Leo X. was not only a nun
letters* he was also well versed is •
tiquiiies. Prior to his elevriaB
the pontificate, his greatest deb
was to shot himself up in his lilc
or musemn. and there pore orff -
hoarvkd treasures. This ar.bqaib
ta>:e be inherited from his iuis
cus ancestocs. whose coliecMS it

A Sketch of Leo X. and his Age,

70s

oughout all Italy. One
he was yet a cardinal, a
Lucretia was exhumed ;
; supreme, and in the heat
usiasm, he strung his lyre
emorated the happy event
il iambics. On another
. piece of sculpture, repre-
! ship of -^sculapius, was,
lis exertions, discovered in
This was considered by
iking friends as an augury
re dignity. The discovery
lous group known as the
was an epoch in Rome.
ing, the bells were rung to
the event; the poets,
hom was Sadoleti, lucu-
11 night, preparing their
onnets, and canzoni, to
the reappearance of the
:e. Next morning, all
s on foot, and the public
:e suspended while the an-
e, festooned with flowers and
as carried processionally to
1, amidst the sound of vocal
mental harmony. Such was
f the Roman artists on the
of a relic of ancient art.
in arts painting and sculp-
ed largely in the munifi-
the pontiff. Bramarte, Mi-
;elo, Raphael, and Leonardo
the princes of modem art,
worthy emulators of Phidias
les. In immortalizing their
d that of their patron, they
zed their age and their
At their call, genius again
to earth, and exhibited, in
led marble and on the glow-
s, such animated representa-
filled the eye with wonder
d the deep foundations of
t. Bramarte planned and
ed St. Peter's, which, in the
1 of the sceptic Gibbon, is
glorious structure that has
applied to religion ; for

VOL. IX.— 45

** Majesty,
Power, i^Uny, strength, and beauty, all are aisled
In the etenud aric of worship undefiled."

Michael Angelo, whose very frag-
ments have educated eminent artists,
continuing the noble structure, placed
the pride of Roman architecture in
the clouds, and drew the design of
the Last Judgment, which connois-
seurs pronoimce a miracle of genius.
Raphael covered the Vatican with
his inimitable frescoes and sketched
his Transfiguration, which was hailed
by the Roman people as the type of
the beautiful, a paragon of art, and
the masterpiece of painting. The
profound Da Vinci painted the Last
Supper and thus afforded Christian
families a neat ornament for their
refectories and a piece of artistic fin-
ish for their drawing-rooms. Sanso-
vino's productions, according to the
historian of the arts, were among the
finest specimens of the plastic art,
and Romano's were worthy of his
" divine " master.

Such was the flourishing state of
the arts and the great impulse given
to all branches of learning just be-
fore the memorable epoch when the
fetters of the human intellect were,
forsooth, burst asunder by the great
Saxon hero, the unfix>cked monk of
Wittemberg, against whom Leo X.
hurled the bolt of excommunication.
If this grand impetus was not follow-
ed up, if the pen was forgotten for
the sword, and the altars of ApoUo
were deserted for those of the homi-
cide Mars; if the era of the reforma-
tion '* was truly a barbarous era," * it
most certainly was not owing to in-
capacity on the part of the Roman
pontiff, since sectarians themselves
proclaim them "in general superior
to the age in which they lived," t
while historians of the depth of Ne-
ander are struck with admiration to
find the popes "ever attentive to the

^VLaKmtLi/9m$tdP0Hti/Uai*^LMXi

r/^

...t I^ m. mm i^»

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... y*

■ ••• ••.. ^

and r.. :.'--:'--*::* 'lays, our.r-g £.1 wh:r..i
tiriie h': had Liiir.filly ^-uirded ihe
iuvzz'f'.u fji :h': cr*urch agaiaai royal
crir.roar,hrr.'jr.:=., and the liberty of his
dorriir.Ior.s agains: foreign agression ;
he had pr'j-sid'yl over the last seven
ve^sio.'i-. of the a-curaenical council of
La:';rj.r., and conferred on an Knglish
moraich tr.'j title of Defensor Jidci ;

. . .- T

. — ... i

U ..

nan ^Tjte trie ^r.na^ , r .~ _i rzi,
the j.-c-rt c:i:i:Llnir*i r..^ men;
unm:*ri2l ver^e. K:r.2e er^-ct
monument, and p-.5:cr.:y. ad
the vinues of the Chrl*::an. re
cing the eminent qiialiiies of Lh
tiff, and idolizing the jT::eci
letters and art. has called the \
which he lived the golden age (
the Tenth.

TXANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH.

LITTLE FLOWERS OF SPAIN.

BY FERNAN CABALI.ERO.

1 " f1t7M«if.K flowcn of rcli(ii"ti5 p'iclry, and derivatinns of pnptilar ezpressinns and iimvf r**." :« i
■4pvcn by the uutliorrs^ to tlie article headed ** Cosas (humildes) de EspaOa" — /InmHc TAtvfi c/Sfat

If lliere exists an indiviclual who
has read all that wc have written —
and the case, though not ] probable,
is nevertheless not impossible — he
must have noticed that our zeal, our
labor, ami our specially is to find
out origins and causes, draw infer-
ences and conclusions, and trace
things to tlieir why and wherefore.
Wc are really apprehensive lest in
this branch we may become loo nota-
ble.

Our svstem is the same ili.it is fob
loweil now.xdavs bv writers of his-

• Nfir.VT. utmf9}tl HiUj^

re/ Ck»u:ixm Kf

tor)'. Let it be understood th;
do not meddle with such we
subjects, nor venture into proi'
deplhs, and that our t-niploy
of the aforesaid modem syste:
solely in questions of the bu
schools. Our information is al
tained from popular traditions
mances, and beliefs. The
which it is our delight to pb<
relief, all the world has h.\ndie
the Indians did gold l»c:'one
conquerors gave it value; as ti
generations will give \alae to
thintiT^ of which we near vfaa
lament their los&.

JLittU Flowers of Spain.

707

Our explorations in these rich
mines have been rewarded. We
have ascertained that the first tree
that God planted was the white pop-
lar ; therefore the white poplar is the
most ancient of trees — the vegetable
Adam. We have learned that the
serpent went straight, erect, and
proud of his triumph in Paradise,
until the flight into Egypt, when,
encountering the Holy Family, he
attempted to bite the child Jesus,
and the indignant St. Joseph pre-
vented him with these words, " Fall,
proud one, and never rise again!"
From that good day to this he has
crawled. We have learned, moreover,
that snakes and toads are permitted
to exist solely for the purpose of ab-
sorbing the poisons of the earth.
We have found out that the ever-
green trees are endowed with their
privileges of life and beauty in recom-
pense for having given shelter and
shade to the Mother and Child
whenever they stopped to rest in
their flight from the sword of Herod ;
that the rosemary enjoys its fhigrance
and always blossoms on Friday, the
day of Our Lord's Passion, because
the Blessed Virgin, when she washed
the little garments of the babe, used
to hang them to dry upon its
branches ; also, that for this very rea-
son it has the gift of attracting peace
and good-hap to the dwellings that
are perfumed with it on Holy-night
That everybody has sympathy, aflec-
tion, and even reverence for the
swallows, because compassionately
and with such sweet charity they
pulled out the thorns that were pier-
cing the temples of the divine Martyr.
That the red-owl, which, grieved and
appalled, witnessed the cruel cruci-
fixion of the God-man, has done
nothing ever since but repeat the
melancholy cry " Cruz ! Cruz !"
That the rose of Jericho, which was
white before, owes its purple hue to
a diop.cf the wounded Saviour's

blood that fell into its cup. That on
Mount Calvary, and all along the
way of agony, tiie gentle plants and
fresh herbs wilted and died when
our Lord passed by bearing his
cross, and that these places were
presently covered with briers. That
the lightning loses its power to hurt
in the whole circumference that is
reached by the sound of praying.
That at High Mass on Ascension-day,
at the moment of the elevation, the
leaves of the trees incline upon each
other, fomiing crosses, in token of
devotion and reverence. When new-
bom infants smile, in dreams or
waking, we know that it is to angels,
visible only to them. A murmur in
the ears is the noise made by the
falling of a leaf from the tree of life.
When silence settles all at once upon
several persons forming a company,
it is not, as the wise ones say, be-
cause '' the carriage is running upon
sand," but because an angel has
passed over them, and the air that
is moved by his wings communicates
to their souls the silence of respect,
though their comprehension fails
to divine the cause. Likewise,
we have ascertained that the ta-
rantula was a woman extravagantly
fond of the dance, and so inconside-
rate that when, on one occasion, she
was dancing, and His Divine Majesty *
passed by, she did not stop, but
continued her diversion with the most
frightful irreverence. For this she
was changed into a spider with the
figure of a guitar delineated upon its
back, and possessed of a venom that
causes those who are bitten by it to
dance and dance until, fainting and
exhausted, they fall down in a swooa.
In effect, we have learned many
other things : some of them we have
already written ; the rest we mean to
write; that is to say, <'If the rope
does not break, all will go on as
usual."

•Thtlllimi

7o8

Little Flowers of Sfain.

But, among these things, there is
one which we are going to commu-
nicate immediatdy, for fear lest we
die of cholera, and it descend with us
into the tomb ; for it barely survives
at present, and with it would perish
its remembrance.

In times when faith filled hearts
to overflowing, offerings and ex-votos
were brought by thousands to the
house of God Now that we are
enlightened, we have other uses for
our gold, our rare objects, and fine
arts ; for, as the poet says,

** £a el sigh diez y nncve
Nadie i tener ik vt atreve,
Y no buy qve en milagrot cred.***

It is well— or, better said, it is ill

The first ostrich eggs procured by
the ^wmiards, in their voyages to
Africa, were regarded as marvels, and
deposited, either as offerings or ex-vo-
io5^ in the churches, where, bound
and tied with gay ribbons, they hung
before the altars and were looked
upon as ornaments of great value.
And even now, before modest altars
in humble villages are sometimes
seen these enormous eggs; present-
ing with their worn and faded deco-
rations the appearance of porce-
lain melons. By whom were they
brought? where were they found?
who hung them here ? are questions
that assault the mind of the beholder,
and send his thoughts and fancy into
the vast field of conjectures impossi-
ble to verify, but all sweet, romantic,
and holy.

The imagination of the Spanish
people is an instinct Hiey cannot
see a material object without attach-
ing to it an ideal. Out of the fervor
of their own heart they made a sym-
bol of this.

The belief adapted to the ostrich
^gg, hung in fi:ont of the altar, is one
IhAt ¥rill be sagely qualified by sancti-
monious devotees of literal truth as

• U thb w»et«enlK ceatory, no one dare* to have

superstitious and fanaticaL We ofier
it to the Protestant missionaries who
favor us with their propaganda, as
a killing weapon against the benight-
ed and malignant papists.

It is said that the mother-bird can-
not hatch these eggs, which appeal
to be of marble, because it is impossi-
ble for her to cover them, and be-
cause there is not heat enough in her
body to warm them through; bat
that she has in her look such fire,
kindled by her great desire to free
her offspring, that by keeping her
eyes continuedly and without distrac-
tion fixed upon the eggs, the ardor
and concentration of her love pene-
trates the hard shell and deliven
her little ones. And they hung these
eggs before the places where the holy
sacrifice of the mass is offered, to
teach us to keep our eyes fixed up-
on the altar with equal desire, eqtul
love, and exclusive attention and
devotion. O poets! if you would
fulfil your mission, which is to move
the heart, learn less in palaces, and
more firom the people who fed and
believe.

Among sayings and proverbs that
have been accepted everywhere with-
out having to show their parentage,
is the well-known expression, Aki
me las den todas : May I get them all
there.

One of the creditors of a certain
dishonest feUow, that owed all the
worid and paid nobody, laid his com-
plaint befc»e the judge, who sent an
alguadl to suggest to die debtor the
necessity of paying at once.

For re^MMOse to the intimation, the
debtor ga\'e the alguacil, who was a
ver)' dignified man, a slap on his
face. The latter, returning to the tri-
bunal, addressed the magistrate thus :
'' Sir, when I go to notify an individu-
al on the part of your worship, whom
do I represent?** ''Me,'* answered
the judge. '* WcH, sir,"* proceeded the
alguadl, touching hk cheeky *toAis

Little Flowers of Spain.

709

cheek of your worship they have
given a slap." " May I get them all
there," replied the judge.

Here is the etymology of another
s*^y"*g> Q«A(r« no te conozea tc compre :
Let some one buy you that don't
know you. Three poor students
came to a village where there was a
fair. "What shall we do to amuse
ourselves?" asked one as they were
passing a garden in which an ass was
drawing water from a well " I have
already hit upon a way/* answered
another of the three. " Put me into
the machine, and you take the
ass to the fair and sell him.'' As it
was said, so it was done. When his
companions had gone, the student
that had remained in the place of
the ass stood still. " Arre !"• shouted
the gardener, who was at work not
far off! The improvised ass neither
started nor shook his bell, and the
gardener mounted to the machine, in
which, to his great consternation, he
found his ass changed into a student.
" What is this ?" he cried. " My mas-
ter," said the student, "some ill-na-
tured witches transformed me into an
ass, but I have fulfilled the term of
my enchantment and returned to my
original shape."

The poor gardener was disconso-
late, but what could be done ? He
unharnessed the student, and, bidding
him go with God-speed, set out sor-
rowfully for the fair to buy another
beast The very first that presented
itself was his own, which had been
bought by a company of gipsies,
The moment he cast his eyes upon it,
he took to his heels, exclaiming, " Let
some one buy you that don't know
you."

Yo te cono ci ciruela — I knew you
when you were a plum-tree — is a
common saying. The people of a
certain village bought a plum-tree of
a gardenefi for the purpose of having

•Gebol

it converted into an effigy of St
Peter. When the image was finished
and set up in the church, the garden-
er went to see it, and, observing the
somewhat lavish coloring and gilding
of its drapery, exclaimed :

*' Gloriotuimo San Pedro,
Yo te cono d druelo^
Y de tu fruta comi ;
Los miiapros que tu hagas
Que me me los cuelgaa i mi I

iti

*' Most glorious Saint Peter ! I knew
you when you were a plum-tree, and
ate of your finit ; the miracles you do,
let them hang upon me."

Ya saco raja — He has got a share —
is often said, and we trace it to £s-
tremadura, where the live-oak groves
are divided into rajas; raja being
the name of an extension yielding
acorns enough to feed a given num-
ber of hogs. When the rajas are
public property, they are distributed
at a trifling rent to the poorer house-
holders, who are, as will be supposed,
very anxious to have them. But to
obtain one is difficult, for the ayunta-
mientoSy or town councils, generally
give them to their protigks and
hangers-on; and, from this circum-
stance, " He has got a hog-pasture,"
has come to be said of any person
that by skill, cunning, audacity, or
good luck succeeds in obtaining an
advantage difficult to get, or of which
the getting depends upon some one
else.

El que tiene capa escapa — He that
wears a cloak escapes — dates fix)m
die giving way of the new bridge at
Puerto Santa Maria, under the weight
of the great crowd that had collected
upon it To prevent thefts and dis-
turbances, Captain-General O'Kelly
issued an order to the effect that no
person wearing a cloak should be al-
lowed to cross the bridge. In conse-
quence of this order, no one wearing
a cloak fell into the river.

It is usual to indicate that a per-
son is poor by saying, El esta d la

Foreign Literary Notes.

711

FOREIGN LITERARY NOTES.

The testimony of so distinguished an
authority as M. E. Littrd,of the French
Institute, is now added to that of Dig-
by, Maitland, Montalembert, and so
many others, to show that the middle
ages were not " barbarous." M. Littrfe,
as is well known, is very far from being
a Catholic; but, treating the subject
with his great erudition from a purely
historical point of view, he shows, in
his Etudes sur les Barbaresetle Moyen
Age, that, after the frightful degenera-
tion of the Roman world — a degenera-
tion aggravated and precipitated by the
violent immixtion of barbarous peoples
— ^the period of the middle ages was an
era of renovation in institutions, in let-
ters, and in morale ; a renovation, slow,
it is true, but certain and continuous ;
a renovation entirely due to Catholicity,
revivifying by powerful and fecund im-
pulsion the antique foundation formed
by pagan society, and augmenting it by
all that Christianity possesses superior
to paganism. On this beneficial and
constantly civilizing influence of the
church, which formed the moral unity of
a world whose material unity had disap-
peared, re-educating people fallen into
infancy, rescuing letters by her schools,
clearing the forests by her monks, found-
ing social and political institutions wor-
thy of the name, and the like of which the
Roman empire had never seen — for the
reason that all its conceptions of man and
of liberty were false, and it could never
raise itself to the idea of a spiritual
power that was independent of the lay
power— on all these points, so worthy
the attention of the historian, there are,
particularly in the first two chapters,
some admirable pages. M. Littr^
speaks with admiration of the spread of
monachism in the west, and distinctly
recognizes the many great blessings
that followed in its train. He (p. 3) re-
proaches Gibbon with having ignored
the importance of the religious fact of
Christianity. And yet his '* naturalism "
has led him astray from the conclusion

to which the invincible logic of his own
presentation of £ax:ts must bring him.

A valuable addition to biblical criti-
cism is, unquestionably, the lately pub-
lished Saint PauPs Epistle to the Phi-
lippians. A revised text, with introduc-
tion, notes, and dissertations. By J.
B. Lightfoot, D.D., Hulsean Professor
of Divinity, and Fellow of Trinity Col-
lege, Cambridge. London, Macmillan.
8vo, 337 pp. This book forms the
second volume of an exegetical work
that is to embrace all the epistles of St.
Paul Galatians has already been pub-
lished. The present volume is particu-
larly valuable for its introduction of the
results of the latest archaeological and
historical research. The commentaries
on Seneca and the doctrines of the
Stoics are interesting, as also the re-
marks on the rci> vpaiTopio in verse 13
of first chapter.

A distinguished priest of the Oratory,
H. de Valroger, has recently published
an able and learned disquisition on
biblical chronology. He terminates it
thus : " No more than the Bible has the
church laid down a dogmatic system of
precise dates strictly connected and
confining the primitive history of the
world and of man within narrow and
inflexible limits. No more than the
Bible does the church deprive astrono-
mers, geologists, palaeontologists, archae-
ologists, or chronologists of the liberty
of ascertaining scientifically tlie period
of time elapsed since the creation of
the world and of man, or since the
deluge, which terminated the first of
the reign of humanity."

In the Foreign Literary Notes of our
number for June, we noticed an impor-
tant publication by the Ahh6 Lamy on
the Council of Seleuciae, a translation
from one of the numerous productions
of early Syrian literature, so rich in
works relative to the church, its history,
its discipline, and its dogmas. And, iW

I4ua

this conneciion, it may be proper here
to note a typographical Iransposilion
seriouNly interfering with a correct read-
ing of the notice in question, namely,
the six paragraphs of the first column
of p. 431 thai precede " Concilium 5e!eu-
ci« el Ctesiphonli," etc., should follow
the second paragraph on the second
column of the same page. This work
of the Abb6 Lamy is one out of many
recent publications showing the great
attention lately given to the monuments
of early Syrian literature by theologians
of Europe. Especially in Germany is
the activity great in this new field.

It has long been known that a serious
chronologicalbreak existed in ihislilcra-
ture, covering a period of nearly three
hundred years, stretching from the
translation of the Scriptures to the clas-
sical period of Syrian patristic literature.

Only of late years has tills void been
partially filled by the important work of
Cureton, (W.,) entitled, Amietti Syriae
Docittnenls relative to the earliest Es-
MliskmtHt of Chrislianily in Edessa,
With a preface by W. WrighL London :
Williams & Norgate. 1864. This work
of Cureton was preceded by his Spici-
Itgium Syriacum, containing remains
of Bardesan, Meliton, Ambrose, and
Mara bar Serapion. London: Francis
ft Rivington. 1S55.

Id connection with these may be
mentioned Cardinal Wiseman's Horec
Syriaar, Rome, 1838 ; Pohlmann, S.
Ephraemi Syri CommeHtariorum in
S. Scriptarum ; Lamy, Diii. de Syro-
nuttfide et disciplina in re eucharittica;
S. Ephraemi Syri Jiabulce, Balaei
^^^_ siiarumgue opera itieeta. Oxford,
^^K Clarendon. 1865.

r "

r •

Fortigti Littmry Ilftues,

tioo, and declares that he transUl
with the most conscientious c

I question, "such as ikey
to me at Rome. «uch as
them in Kss. at Paris,
ne is free to lest bj ex-

Ab interesting historical controversy
ii Sias for some time been going on be-
tween M. Cretinean Joly, of Paris, and
the Rev. Father Theiner, Prefect of the
Archives of the Vatican, concerning the
amheniiciiy of the memoirs of Cardinal
Consalvi, published by M. Cretlneau
JoIy, in 1S64, Father Theiner, in his
History of the Concordat, throws seri-
4Ka doubts upon the genuineness of
these memoirs. On the other hand,
M. Joly, in his lately published Bona-
^rte, Ike Concordat of 1801, and Ike
y /^ardtHsl Censalvi, defends his posi-

Lejp<it, Metaphysics, Ethiea trntH-

tuliones guas Iradebal Francisau &/-
tagliniMs, SiMirdos, Pkilosophia Lttlor.
Bologna, typogr. Felsinea. 1869. t raL
in 8vo, 713 pp. This work is a coUee-
tJon of the lectures delivered ai the
Seminary of Bolc^na, by Professor Bat-
taglini. The spirit of the learned pro-
fessor's philosophy is, as he hinuelf
slates, secundum divi Thoma dMtriaat, ~.
No slight task, certainty, 10 bring ^
"Angelic Doctor" within th« %
tlie young theological studeiU.

The work has attracted the sltCD^
of many of Ilic French clttgj, a
highly approved by them.

There appears to be s
that the French people arc in a way
soon to know all almut the Bible.
Besides the numerous copies of dw
sacred Scriptures already in exist
in France, the publishor Letbid
now has in press the first vi '

new edition of the entire liible, 1

will give the Latin text of the \'ulgat4
with the French translation, and a lull
body of commentaries — theolcigifal, mo-
ral, philological, and historical, edited
so as to include tiie results of the boat
works in France, Italy. Gernuuiy, and
elsewhere, with a special iotrodiKtion
for each book, by the Abb* Drach, D-D^
and the Abbe Bayle, Protessor of tb«
Faculty of Aix.

The mantle of Mai and of Mcxrabnti
has fallen upon Cardinal Pitra, rEcenilf
appointed to the important puwtiaa n
librarian of the Vatican. Th« oAm
could not be filled by one more eradfte
and worthy of it in every respect, and
his holiness could hardly have mad* ■
better choice. Cardinal Pi Ira is wdl
known as the author of sevenU lewned
works in theological and canouical
science. Like a true Bcnedictiae, U*
life hat been devoted to studj«wlaGi-
cnlific researdi.

Foreign Literary Notes,

713

succession of articles lately given in
Revue des Deux Mondes^ by M.
ussonville,* has thrown fresh light
le long and interesting struggle be-
n Pope Pius VII. and Napoleon ;
een moral and physical force, be-
1 the inspiration of heaven and the
ration of the world. M. d'Haus-
He, by the publication of numerous
nents until now unpublished, and
le letters and despatches of Na-
►n the First, lately given to the
I by the present imperial govem-
, has added a new interest to the
itory of the captivity of the holy
% and the negotiations at Savona.
e dignity, firmness, and elevated
of the noble pontiff stand out in
striking relief from their necessary
arison with the rude and merciless
ny of his oppressor, and have
% the strongest expression of admi-
I from sources the most unexpect-
n an article entitled, " The Papacy
ie French Empire," the Edinburgh
"w (October, 1868) says :

he meek resistance of Pius VII. to

erwhelming force which had crushed

independent power on the continent

rope, was therefore a protest worthy

sacred character of the head of the

Church in favor of the dignity and

' of man ; and, by the justice of

in, the victim survived the conqueror,

«ble endured, the mighty one per-
il

»at activity prevails throughout
pe in the search for and publica-
►f documents, long buried in libra-
md private collections of mss.,
I are calculated to throw light
the history and workings of the
led Reformation. And this activi-
probably greatest in Switzerland,
I every canton, separately or with
Ijoining canton, has its historical
y in active and industrious opera-
German and French, Catholic and
stant, vie with each other in their
fworthy efforts to rescue from decay
un old parchments, chronicles, pro-
, and letters, that are calculated to
any light on the events of past
ries. In this direction works the
stant Bemer in the Helvetia Sacra,

tly elected a member of Uie French Academy.

and the Pius Verein promises great re-
sults in a coUection of which the first
volume has lately appeared, entitled,
Archiv fUr die Schweizerische Refor-
matiansgeschichte, Herausgegeben auf
Veranstaltung des Schweizeriscken
Piusvereins, Erster Band. Solo-
thum. 8vo, 856 pp. The central com-
mittee of this society consists of Count
Scherer Beccard, of Lucerne, and Pre-
bendary Fiala and Professor Barmwart,
both of Solothurn. The volume an-
nounced contains chronicles, mono-
graphs, and extracts from the archives
of Lucerne, the mere enumeration ot
which would be too much for our space.

The old Benedictine abbey of La
Cava, in Italy, has long been known to
possess in its archives a mass of docu-
ments and MSS. said to contain trea-
sures of diplomatic and archaeological
erudition. They cover the period from
Pepin le Bref to Charles V. Father
Morcaldi, one of the most distinguished
savants of Italy, has undertaken their
classification and publication. They
will fill, when printed, eight or ten folio
volumes, and require from five to seven
years for publication.

A recent number of the Literarischer
Handweiser, edited at Munster by Dr.
Franz Hulskamp and Dr. Herrmann
Rump, contains an article on Catholic
journalism in the United States. Here
is an extract :

" Since the cessation of the well-known
Quarterly, edited by Dr. Brownson, Ameri-
can Catholics possess but one really first-
class periodical, namely. The Catholic
World, founded some four years since,
and published at New York, in handsomely
printed monthly numbers. This monthly,
founded by Father Hecker, of the Congre-
gation of the Paulists, a zealous convert,
distmguished for bis effective dialectic and
polemic ability, is one of the most welcome
manifestations in the field of North Ameri*
can periodical literature. Already, during
the short period of its existence, it has
gained numberless friends, and bears fevor-
ablc comparison with the best productions
of the European press. The influence and
writings of Father Hecker and bis collabo«
rators are sufficient warrant that The Ca^
THOLic World has an important future be*
fore it in the field of defence and polemici,

714

New Publications.

and that it will ino«t probably be for many
the guide to the bosom of the church."

Among new English books announced
is Mary^ Queen of Scots, and her Ac-
cusers ; embracing a Narrative of
Events from the Death of James K, in
1552, until the close of the Conference at
Westminster, in 1569. By John Ho-
sack, Barrister in Law. The work is
to contain the " Book of Articles " pro-
duced against Queen Mary at Westmin-
ster, which, it is said, has never hither-
to been printed, and will be published
by Blackwood & Sons, Edinburgh.

If this work be in Mary's defence, it
is not the first one— to their credit be
it said— produced by the Protestants of
Scotland. We confess to some sur^
prise that some one of the many Eng-
lish Catholic writers, with their peculiar
facilities for reference to authorirics,
have not taken up and exposed the
scandalous malice of Mr. Froude's at-
tack on the memor>' of the unfortunate
queen. His desperate attempt to advo-
cate the genuineness of the silver casket
letters, bold and ingenious though it be,
is nevertheless a failure, and its nn£ur*
ness and sophistry should be exposed.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Life of Mother Margaret Mary
Hallahan, O.S.D., Foundress of
the English Congregation of St
Catherine of Sienna, of the Third
Order of St. Dominic. By her reli-
gious children. With a preface by the
Right Rev. Dr. Ullathorne. New
York: The Catholic Publication
House, 126 Nassau street 1869.

All who are interested in the extraor-
dinary, not to say miraculous, revival
of the Catholic faith in EngliRh-speak-
ing countries, will hail with delight the
appearance of this book. It is a simple
and evidently a truthful narrative of the
life of one of those providential per-
sonages who, in all great movements,
stand out as beacon lights to mark their
progress. Margaret Mary Hallahan
was born in London in 1802, of Irish
parents, who had fallen from a respecta-
ble position in life to honorable poverty.
She was their only child, and became a
complete orphan at the age of nine
years. Her education had been pro-
vided for, as well as circumstances
would permit, by her kind-hearted fa-
ther, in the schools established in Lon-
don by the Abb^ Carron, a refugee
priest of the French revolution. Slen-
der, indeed, were the prospects of a

poor Catholic orphan girl in the capitd
of a country so full of bigotry as was
England in 1 8 1 1 . Having spent a short
time in the orphan asylum at Somers-
town, she was placed under the care of
a Madame Caulier, whose harsh disci-
pline was hardly compensated by occa-
sional acts of kindness. In her twenti-
eth year, she was introduced by this bdy
to the family of Doctor Morgan, once
physician to George III. Being then
an invalid, he was attended by Margaret
during the last six months of his Kfe ;
and after his death she became the
bosom friend of his daughter, Mrs.
Thompson, whom she served, rather as
a sister than as a domestic, for twenty
years. Five years of this time were
spent in England and fifteen in Belginn*
In the latter country she became i
member of the Third Order of St Domi-
nic, on the feast of St Catherine of
Sienna, in the year 183$.

On her return to England, in 1842, she
took charge of the Catholic schoob of
Coventry, where Father Ullathorne. of
the Benedictine order, was pastor. Her
days were spent in the education of
young children, and her evenings in the
instruction, religious and secular, of the
poor factory girls of the place. In a
short time, there was a visible impfove*

New Publications.

715

he Catholic community of Co-
and Sister Margaret had the
; of beholding a religious pro-
the first of the kind seen
id since the change of reli-
:he head of which was borne
image of the Blessed Virgin,
treasure she had carried
from Belgium. A few pious
ns, having united with Sister
in the performance of good
e and three others, by the ad-
►ther Ullathorne, and with the
tion of the general of the Do-
►rder, received the habit of the
der of St. Dominic, with a view
in community, on the nth of
4. On the 8th of December,
1 made their religious profes-
>n after this. Father Ullathorne
inted by the holy see vicar
of the western district; and,
:ablished his residence at Bris-
deemed advisable for the young
y, of which he was the father
ctor, to remove to Clifton, near
)pal city. This was in 1848 ;
, in 1850, the Catholic hierar-
eestablished in England, Bi-
thorne, now transferred to Bir-
founded the second convent
ninican Sisters at Stow. This
le general novitiate of the or-
^land, and here were establish-
3ther Margaret her boarding
schools, her orphanage, and
or incurables. In 1858, she
^ome to obtain of the holy
inonical erection of her com-
ito a congregation governed
incial prioress. Her request
ited by a brief given in
which she was named pro-
:ioress, which office she re-
til her death, in 1868. Here
e allowed to quote the words
:nd, Bishop Ullathorne, in his
\ her life : " And now behold
yr and poor woman, made ripe
d wisdom and in human ex-
returning, a stranger and un«
► the land of her birth. Yet
already prepared a way for
she begins a spiritual work
wly rises under her hands,
ble beginnings, into the high-

est character, and surrounds itself with
numerous institutions of mercy and
charity. Foundress of a congregation
of the ancient Dominican order, she
trained a hundred religious women,
founded five convents, built three
churches, established a hospital for in-
curables, three orphanages, schools for
all classes, including a number for the
poor ; and, what is more, left her own
spirit in its full vigor to animate her
children, whose work is only in its
commencement" The history of her
life will amply repay perusal. 1 1 is a con-
tinual exemplificatiqn of her great max-
im. All for God, The most prominent
feature in her administration of the af-
fairs of her order was, that she never
allowed external employments, under-
taken for the benefit of her neighbor,
to encroach in the least upon the hours
assigned for prayer and meditation.
Her zeal in decorating altars, and in
providing all things necessary for the
decency of divine worship, knew no
bounds.

We heartily recommend the life of
Mother Mai^garet Mary to all our read-
ers.

Die Jenseitige Welt. Eine

SCHRIFT UBER FeGEFEUER, H6LLB

UND HiMMEL. Von P. Lco Keel,
Capitular des Stiftes Maria Ein-
siedeln. Einsiedeln, New York, and
Cincinnati: Benziger. 1869.

The first two books of this work are
out, and we anxiously expect the third,
on Heaven, a topic on which it is very
difficult to write anything worth readings
and on which very little has been writ-
ten in our modem languages. German
books are generally better than others,
and a work which merits the praise
of German critics is sure to be solid.
The present work is highly esteemed in
Germany, and we have examined the
part which treats of purgatory suffi-
ciently to convince lis that the author
has written something far superior in
learning, and vigor of thought, to the or-
dinary treatises on religious doctrines
which are to be met with. To those
clergymen who are Germans, or wh6
read the language, we can recommend

Ntm PuNifaHemt.

s book as well worth its price. It i:
r priDted in Ihe neatest and most altrac
live style.

Warwick ; or, the Lost Nationalities of
America: A Novel. By Manslield
Tracy Walworth. New York; Carle-
ton. .869.

This novel is a remarkable produc-
tion, exhibiting vivid imagination, ex-
tensive and curious research, descrip-
tive power of a high order, chivalrous
Ken time n Is, and a lofty moral ideal, in
the aullior. Its principal scenes, events,
and characters belong to an ideal world
entirely beyond the possibilities of real
and actual life, with an intermingling of
some minor sketches drawn from nature
which show the author's power to de-
pict llie real if he pleases to do so. It
seems to us that the serious arguments
which are interspersed through the
book, and the curious speculations re-
specting Ihe original inhabitants of
America, which are not without at least
historical and scientific plausibility,
would be presented with far greater ef-
fect if they were detached from a plot
which is too absorbing to leave the
mind leisure to give them due attention.
The moral effect intended to be pro-
duced by the story itself would be also
greater if the characters were more real,
the events more natural and probable,
and the scenes drawn more from real
life. The great praise, so seldom de-
served, must be given to the author,
that he inculcates high moral and re-
ligious principles in an eloquent and at-
tractive manner, and will therefore un-
doubtedly exercise a refining and eleva-
ting influence over the mind of many a
young reader who would reject graver
lessons. Highly- wrought works of fic-
tion have become a necessity to a targe
class of readers, and here is one which

young and accomplished author of
Wanokk, will, we trust, follow up
his literary career, and produce other
and maturer fruits of his genius, which
will add more renown to the illustrious
name he bears.

Thc Like of John Bahih, the triik
novelist, author of JJamoit amd Py^
Ikias, etc, and one of th« writers <f
TaUt by Ike O'Hara Family. Wilt
extracts from his cOfTCMpotidcMi^
general and literary. By Patrick Jo-
seph Murray. Also selection* frn
his poems. New York: D. & ^
Sadlier& Co. 1S69.

The Ckost-Huxtex and ins Faio-
LV- By the O'Hara Familj. Nw
York : D. & J. Sadlicr & Co. 1U9.

John Banim was bom in the dtjcf
Kilkenny, on the 3d day of April. i^iL
His parents were in humble life, ba^
through industry and ecoDomjr, were
enabled to bestow upon their son the
inestimable advantage of a good lilerar;
education, while their precepts and ex-
ample united to secure for liioi > \'M^
rough Christian training. Ills ge*na
for novel writing manifested ittclf at it
early age. While in his sixth year, ha
ready fancy gave birth to a story of M
little merit.

"He wu not sufficiently taU to win
conveniently at a tahlc, even when teati.
and having placed the paper up- ' '■-'
loom floor, he lay duwn t>c%i'1'.
mcnced the conslriiction vi h
ring three monliis he de»oteil ■
hoursofplsy to IhecompTeiii"' ■
and when at lenglh he hid <
writing was 10 execrable ihai h
decipher iL In this dilemin.;
the assistance of his brother .M' -
a school -fellow ; they acted as jnnriij^Ti.r.,
relieving each other when weary d( uritiil
from John's dictation. When the t»le ■»
fully transcribed, it wii «itehei! in » Nut
cover, and John determined thsi it (boaJd
be printed. But here the Impoitani qv»
tion of expenie uom to mind, and, »*«f
long deliberation, the youthful iuAm
thought of resorting to a subscription (loU^
cation. Accordingly the manutcripi M*
shown to several of his bthei'* Iiienil*, ind.
in Ihe course of a week, the lulMixibtii
amounted to thirty, at b pijnnent U •■*
shilling each. Disappoinuneni was «pi*
llie lot o{ our little genius ; tor in all Kil>
kenny he could noi induce a
dccUke ihe issuing of his slory.
I heavy blow tu his hopes; h
even as a child, he tii
could not publish 111
upon hii lubsaiben for ite |

New Publicatiotis.

717

r shillings. All rcceiv-
cfuscd the money, tell-
ere quite satisfied with
ipt."

Ident of his boyhood,
s of the character of
man and the author,
ble. His extreme fa-
n, his hurrying ener-
lis confidence in the
uctions, his indomit-
i commanding public
ince and courage un-
appointment, and his
:y of purpose, which
lis writings and his
are all contained and
:he circumstances of
tile enterprise. Ma-
lened the shadows,
les, heightened the
character; but such
* ran home from his
eir hours of play, " to
the Robber ' had not
" such also was he,
urs, he begged of his

and by while his grave
at, when his body was
resting place, I should
f his coBin was in close
his beloved parent."

ife and achievements
rivations and discou-

physical sufferings,

decay and death, the
ray's book contain a
ription. It is to be
r, that the task did
lands of Michael Ba-
and co-laborer in the
'he work before us is
accomplishment of
f one who draws his

letters, from books,
i and descriptions of

one who "knew his
ktes the results of his
it and hearing. John
n whose biographer
his most intimate and
)se choicest qualities
him most thoroughly
ately value, and whom

a distant public can be taught fully to
appreciate only by a writer who himself
has learned the Irtson through long
and close association.

Of the works of Banim, (one of the best
of which we have also just received,) it
is needless for us to make particular men-
tion. They are worthy to be classed
among the standard fictions of the cen-
tury, whether for their rhetorical or dra-
matic power, and are almost wholly free
from the loose sensationalism which
disgraces the pages of so many modem
tales. We have found them to incul-
cate virtue and industry, to do honor to
purity and devotion, to abound in filial
affection and religious fidelity to duty ;
and there is no half-heartedness in our
wish that they, and such as they, may
supplant, at least among Catholic read-
ers, the noisome volumes which come
swarming faster and faster both from
the American and English press.

Problematic Characters : A Novel.
By Freidrich Sptelhagen. New York :
Leypoldt & Holt 1869.

It seems unnecessary, to say the least,
to translate from the German pictures
of life like those contained in this ro-
mance, since there are innumerable En-
glish and American novels, filled with
the same sensuous details, and teem-
ing with shameless descriptions of
illicit love. In all the family life intro-
duced to our notice in the course of
this thick volume, the only married
pairs that are described as living com-
fortably together are objects of ridi-
cule, while men who make love to their
neighbors' wives, and the married wo-
men who respond to these advances,
are made to appear exceedingly inter-
esting and lovely, and their wicked
words and deeds justified on the ground,
so popular in these days, incompatibili-
ty in the conjugal relations.

As might be expected from such im-
moral teaching, utter infidelity follows
in its wake.

Responsibility to God or man is ig-
nored throughout these pages, though
much is said about the great eternal
laws of nature, which seems to mean,

718

New Publications,

according to this author, unbelief in
the God of revelation ; since the only
persons who profess to have any faith
in the life beyond are proved arrant
hypocrites, and excite only our disgust
by their assumed piety.

Such reading should be condemned
without qualification, although the style
may be, as in this volume, graceful and
polished, the language vigorous, often
piquant, the descriptions of natural
beauties glowing with light and warmth,
social questions discussed with equa-
nimity and calmness — but the trail of
the serpent is over them all. We un-
hesitatingly pronounce this a dangerous
book — ^not prohUmatically^ only, but
positively bad reading.

Walter Savage Landor. A Bio-
graphy. By John Forster. 8vo, pp.
693. Boston : Fields, Osgood & Co.

Mr. Forster has led us to expect so
much from him, by his excellent
biography of Goldsmith and other
works, that we are not only disappoint-
ed but a great deal surprised by the
defects of the present bulky volume.
Landor's life was a tempting theme to
one who knew it so well as Mr. Forster.
Stretching far beyond the ordinary
limit of human longevity, crowded not
perhaps with very stirring incidents,
yet with figures of deep historical and
literary interest, and curious for its ex-
traordinary manifestations of a strong
character, it was a subject of which an
accomplished writer might have made
one of the best biographies in the lan-
guage. Mr. Forster has committed a
grave feult, however, in being too dif-
fuse, and, valuable as his book must be
to the student of Landor's history and
times, it certainly cannot be called very
interesting. What with the prolixity
of the narrative, and the prolonged
summaries and analyses of Landor's
writings, the reader is too often tempt-
ed to close the book from utter weari-
ness. Yet there is a remarkable attrac-
tion in the life of that violent, wrong-
headed, wonderful old man of genius,
who left so many enthusiastic friends,
fhoogVii il Vi»a Vxwi truly said, nobody

could possibly live with him, and
has enriched English literature
poetry worthy of the classic ag<
Greece, and prose among the p
and most eloquent in the lang
though there is probably no
author of equal pretensions of f
the mass of readers are so conipl
ignorant. For this reason, Mr. Fon
biography, cumbrous as it is, des4
an extensive circulation, and it con
so much merit, that we hope he nu
induced to bring it into better sha;

Wandering Recollections o
SOMEWHAT Busy Life : An li
biography. By John NeaL Bos
Roberts Brothers. 1S69.

If the Messrs. Roberts had desire
issue a book "/<;r the season,^* I
could hardly have selected one n
appropriate than this pleasant auto
graphy of John Neal. Like the lift
its author and subject, it is full of
riety, *• cverj'thing by starts, and m
ing long,'' and runs as naturally 6
the piling up of bricks and mortar
the resurrection of Portland from
ashes of 1866, to the traditions and
cidents of two centuries ago, as I
Neal himself seemed to slip from sb
keeping into authorship, and from p
dling into law.

It is a book that one can take
anywhere, and find somewhat of am«
ment and instruction ; and can \
down anywhere without fearing to V
the train of thought or the thread
narrative. There is method enoagb
it to entitle it to be called an autofc
graphy ; there is also a complete j«
fication of the title which its author 1
appropriated to it It is the pleas
chat of an old man of seventv-thr
over events and personages into
tact with whom extensive travel am
long life have brought him: a**^
PourrV* of the memories and obs
vations of two continents and of c
three-score years. Its publishers hi
done for it in print and paper what 1
matter and the manner of the work 1
serveil ; and if it finds its way into '
portmanteau of the

New Publications,

719

whether by mountain-side or sea-side,
it will hardly fail to be read, and so put
to good use otherwise perhaps wasted
hours.

SoGARTH Aroon ; OR, The Irish
Priest. A Lecture. By M. O'Con-
nor, SJ. Baltimore : Murphy & Co.
1869.

The author of this lecture was once
the bishop of Pittsburg, a prelate hard-
ly second to any member of the Ameri-
can hierarchy in learning and all the
highest qualities of a bishop ; and, as
all know, he resigned his dignity to be-
come a simple Father in the Society of
Jesus, where, in spite of his broken
health, he has ever since been zealously
laboring for the salvation of souls.
Father O'Connor has always been re-
markable for his intense devotion to his
native country and to the best inter-
ests of Irishmen. More than once, his
learned and powerful pen and voice
have been employed in their cause.
In this lecture he has once again given
a just and glowing tribute to the Irish
priesthood. There are some, both here
and in Ireland, who are fearing lest the
tie which has bound the Irish people to
their priests should be weakened by
the efforts of demagogues seeking po-
litical influence, and by other causes of
like nature. We trust this may never
be the case ; but it behooves all who
love the Irish people truly to imitate
Father O'Connor, and do everything in
their power to strengthen this tie, and
keep alive the spirit of Catholic faith in
the bosoms of the children of the Mar-
tyr Church of Ireland. We recom-
mend this lecture to general circulation
both here and in Ireland, as an antidote
to the poison which some traitors to
their race and their religion are seeking
to disseminate.

Young Christian's Library, contain-
ing the lives of more than eighty
eminent saints and servants of God«
12 vols. Philadelphia: Henry Mc-
Grath. 1869.

This miniature library should be

found in every Catholic household.
While necessarily abbreviated, *' The
Lives " it contains are by no means
mutilated condensations, and can be
read, not alone with much spiritual
benefit, but with real pleasure, in so
admirable a manner has the editor per-
formed his allotted task.

Hence, although specially designed
for youth, we have no hesitation in re-
commending it to persons advanced in
years as an excellent substitute for the
Rev. Alban Butler's more elaborate work,
from which they are severally abridged.
The series is very beautifully got up,
and reflects great credit on the taste
and liberality of the publisher.

Appleton's Annual Cyclopedia
FOR 1868.

This well-known annual sustains its
reputation as a valuable repertory of
contemporaneous history. One great
merit it has, is the careful manner in
which authentic documents are repro-
duced in exUnso, In regard to Catho-
lic matters, it is, as usual, guardedly
respectful, evidently intending to be
impartial to every. body. This is, of
course, attempting the impossible, and
it is easy to see which way the drift and
current of the work do run. We say
this in order that the younger and more
inexperienced Catholic students may
understand that works of this kind, pro-
ceeding from non-Catholic sources, are
only to be used as lexicons and books
of reference, but never to be trusted as
guides or authorities for forming their
opinions.

The Habermeister. Translated
from the Gernuui of H. Schmid.
New York: Leypoldt & Holt
Price, $1.50.

In this novel we have a vivid picture
of German peasant life. The plot rests
upon the assumption of unlawful au-
thority, in the name of an ancient cus-
tom, the necessity of which has long
since disappeared ; and the catastrophe
is brought about by the use made of it

720

New Publications.

by infamous persons. The characters
are well delineated. The rag-picker's
ride and the grave scene will be found
to exhibit to advantage the talents of
an author whose greatest success lies
in his description of men. The denoue-
ment is satisfactory, although brought
about by slightly distorting the truth in
regard to the convent reception-room.
But the changes in the butcher's cha-
racter were impossible, if we regard ter-
ror as the cause, for terror brings only
degradation.

The Irish Brigade, and its Cam-
paigns : with some account of the
Corcoran Legion, and sketches of
the principal officers. By Capt D. P.
Conyngham, A.D.C. Boston : Patrick
Donahoe. Pp. 559. 1869.

In this, the second edition of Cap-
tain Conyngham*s well-known work, the
publisher has left nothing to be desired,
but has given us a book which, with its
clear type, good paper, handsome and
substantial binding, will compare not
unfavorably with any recent issue of
the press.

The Catholic Publication Socie-
ty will have ready, in a few days, a new
edition of St, LiguorTs Way of Salva-
tion^ and a new edition of the Douay
Bible, i2mo, printed on fine paper.
Also an 8vo edition, on superfine paper,
illustrated.

The Catholic Publication Socie-
ty is now printing a cheap edition of
Challoner's Catholic Christian Instruct"
ed^ 24mo, to be done up in strong paper
covers, and sold at 20 cents per copy, or
ten dollars for one hundred copies. This
will enable clergjrmen and others to dis-

tribute this valuable book among doo-
Catholics. The Society will also print
a cheap i2mo edition (large type) c£f the
some book, which will be sold at a low
price. At the same time, cheap edi-
tions will be issued of The Poor Mans
Catechism^ (two editions,) Poor Man's
Controversy ^ Bossuet*s Exposition, Gal-
litzin's Defence of Catholic Prindpies,
and Gallitzin*s Letters on the BibU.
Also cheap editions, bound, of The Fol-
lowing of Christ are in press. These,
with several other new editions of valoa-
ble books, will be printed during the fafl.
The new edition of Bishop Bayleys
History of the Church on New York Is-
land will be enriched by several nev
notes, and portraits on steel of Bishops
Concannon, Connolly, Dubois, and
Archbishop Hughes.

Messrs. John Murphy & Co., Bal-
timore, will soon publish The Life of the
Very Rev. Frederick IV. Faber^ DJ),

Mr. Patrick Donahoe, Boston, has
in press a Life of Christopher Colunt-
buSy translated from the French.

D. & J. Sadlier & Co. are preparing
for publication Ten Working Designs
for Catholic Churches. The work if
highly recommended by several ardi-
bishops and bishops.

From LsYPOLDT ft Holt, New York :
Novel. By Heaxy Kiogaley. Whh
Pp. 250. 1869.

From 1mm. & Sheparo, Boston: Cicdo: a
can Woman in Europe. Paoty Gray^
firom Boston to BaitunofCb

From Bekzicbs Bbos., Now York

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD

VOL. IX., No. 54,— SEPTEMBER, 1869.

DAYBREAK.

CHAPTER XV.
^^THB COMING OF THE MESSENGER."

All through that terrible day, the
two staid by Mr. Granger's bedside,
holding his hands, cooling his fevered
face, and watching for a sign of con-
sciousness that came not. At even-
ing there was a struggle, short but
sharp, and before they had breathed
forth the breath they caught as he
started up, the soul had broken loose,
and a lifeless form sank back upon
the pillow.

Do they listen to us when they are
gone ? Could he, in the first surprise
of sudden fireedom, hear the cry, like
that of a bereaved Lear, that sought
to follow him, " Oh ! stay a little !"
or the weeping testimony of the
other, "There stopped the noblest,
kindest heart that ever beat "?

But, listen though he might, from
one he heard no word of mourning
or appeal after that Since he was
happy, and had no longer any need
of her, and since she had done all in
her power to do for him, she could
now remember herself That his hu-
miliating offer of an empty hand had
been kindly meant, did not lessen her
X€Sentmen^ but rather increased it.

VOL. IX. — ^46

However confident he had been that
his interpretation of her perfectly
frank conduct was the true one, he
should never have allowed her to
know it, she said. Her heart seemed
hardened toward him, and all her
fiiendship dead. "How I have
wasted myself!" was the bitter com-
ment with which she turned away
from taking her last look at him.

More than once, in the first days
of their loss, that fiery anger of an
insulted heart broke forth. On their
way home, as she sat on the steamer-
deck at night, slowly touching bead
after bead of her rosary, not praying,
but waiting for a prayerful feeling
that might come, there came, instead,
a Recollection of the year before. It
rose and painted itself, like a picture,
between her and the wide, cool shad^
and sparkle of midnight sea and sky.
There was the home parlor, the win-
dow where she sat that day after
her retreat was over, so happy, half
with heaven and half with earth, the
curtain fanning her, the vines swing-
ing in and out in the light breeze.
She saw Mr. Granger come to her
side and drop a rosary into her
hands, saw the silver glitter of his
pretty gift, and heard the words that

722

Daybreak.

accompanied it, "And indeed, it
should have been of gold, had not
Jupiter been so poor."

The words caught a new meaning
as she recollected them.

"If not gold, then nothing!" she
exclaimed ; and, leaning over the rail,
flung his gifl as far as she could fling
it out over the water.

The waning moonlight ran around
the frosted chain and pearl beads, as
if some spirit hand had swiftly told
every Pater and Ave of them in ex-
piation of that rash act Then the
waters caught them, and they slipped
twinkling down through the green
deeps.

Margaret lefl the deck, and went
down to where Mr. Lewis walked to
and fro, keeping his mournful watch.
His face was pale, and his eyes
heavy. He looked perfectiy grief-
stricken.

"What is the matter?" he asked.
" Has any one spoken to you ?"

" No ; but I have been thinking."
She leaned on his arm, and looked
down upon the casket at their feet.
"That man thought that I wanted
him to marry me. Is it only a wick-
ed pride, I wonder, that rises up in
revolt when I remember it ? Should
not there be a better name ? I could
not be angry then, because he was
dying; and I forgot it till the next
night, after all was over, when I went
in to see him. I was full of grief
then, and had some silly notion, just
like me ! of telling him, and that he
would hear. The wind had blown
the hair over his forehead, and just
as I started to put it back, I recol-
lected, and caught my hand away
and lefl him. I had nothing to say
to him then, nor since. What did
he want to kill my friendship so for?
His memory would have been sweet
to me. It is poisoned."

"Well," Mr. Lewis said, with a
5ort of despair, "women are queer

beings, and you are ultra womanish.
One day you will risk your life for a
man, and the next you will look with
scorn upon him in his coffin. A
better name than pride, do you say ?
I call it the most infernal kind of
pride. Where is your gratitude, giri,
toward the man who never had any
but a kind word and thought for
you? He arranged everything for
you, that first night, just as much as
he did for Dora, and made me pro-
mise that you should never want for
a fnend while I live. You ought to
humble yourself, Margaret, and beg
his pardon."

"Do you think so?" she asked
faintly. " I hope that you are right
I would rather blame myself than
him."

"Of course I think sol" he an-
swered indignantly. "Did he ever
give you one imkind look, even?
Did he ever prefer any one else be-
fore you ? Did he ever allow any
one to speak against you in his pre-
sence? I never, before nor since,
saw him take fire as he did once
when some one criticised you to
him."

"Did he? Did he?" exclaimed
Margaret, kneeling by the casket
and laying her cheek to the cold
wood. " Ah ! that was indeed friend-
ship !"

In that softened mood she reached
home.

When death, in visiting a house-
hold, is unaccompanied by sordid
cares, the lost one being necessary
to our hearts alone ; when the living
have no remorse for the past and no
terror for the future of their friend;
when the silent face is peaceful ; and
when the earth that opens to receive
it is warm and full of life, like the
bosom of a molher where a sleeping
child hides its face — then death is
more beautiful than life.

Thus this celestial visitant came to

Daybreak,

723

the Granger household; and if an
angel had alighted visibly in their
midst, and folded his white wings
to tarry there a day, the presence
could not have been more sacred or
more sweet. Every sign of gloom
was banished. The light was no
more shut out than it always was in
summer; all the rooms were perfumed
with flowers; and the master of the
house was not left alone, but lay at
the front end of the long parlor
suite, in full sight of the family as
they came and went.

Among the many callers who came
that day was the Rev. Dr. Kenneth,
the old minister with whom we have
seen Mr. Southard taking theological
counsel. This gentleman listened
with astonishment and indignation
while Mrs. Lewis told him that Mr.
Granger had died a Catholic, and
would have a requiem mass the next
morning.

" He must have been unduly influ-
enced, madam !" said the minister ex-
citedly. " Mr. Granger would never
have taken such a step of himself. It
is impossible !"

Somewhat embarrassed, Mrs. Lewis
drew back, and disclosed Miss Ha-
milton sitting in the shadow behind
her, and, at the first word of reply,
gladly left the room, having no mind
to stand between two such fires,
though the doctor's opponent looked
too pale and quiet to be very dan-
gerous.

" With God all things are possible.
Dr. Kenneth," was what Margaret said.

He regarded her sternly ; yet after
a moment softened at sight of the
utter mourafulness of her face.

" O child of many prayers !" he
exclaimed, "whither have you wan-
dered ?"

" Please don't !" she said. " I can-
not bear anything; and we don't
want any h£u:sh words while he is
here."

The doctor hesitated, and turned
to go ; but she stopped him.

"While I saw you standing out
there and looking at him, I remem-
bered how often you used to come to
my grandfather's, and how you petted
me when I was a little girl. One
day I was trying to carry you the
large Bible, and I fell with it. Grand-
father scolded me; but you patted
my head when you saw that I was
on the point of crymg, and said that
the Highest and the HoHest fell, not
once only, but thrice, under his
burden. And you pulled my curls,
and said, laughing, that if strength
dwelt in length of locks, then I ought
to be able to carry not only the Bi-
ble, but the house. What makes the
difference now? Are you harder?
or am I in less need of charity ?"

" You have your friends," he said
coldly, " those for whom you left

us.

" Not so," she replied. " I have
those in this house ; but in the church
I had only him out there. My church,
here, at least, does not receive con-
verts as yours does. I suppose it
must be because they know that we
are only coming home to our own
Father's house, and they think it
would be presumptuous in them to
come to meet us, as if we needed to
be welcomed."

" What ! was no courtesy, no kind-
ness shown you ?" he asked incredu-
lously.

"Scarcely a decent civility," she
replied. " But no matter about that.
Only, I want you to remember it, and
to send my old friends back to me.
If they will not come, then their talk
of religious freedom is hardly sincere ;
and if you do not tell them, then I
shall think you unchristian. Indeed,
doctor, when you have passed me in
the street, without any notice, I
haven't thought that you were very
good just then."

724

Daybreak.

The doctor looked at her keenly.
" I will be friends with you on one
condition," he said.

" And that ?"

" Let Mr. Southard alone !" he said
witli emphasis.

Before she could utter a protesta-
tion, he had left the room.

The day crept past, and the night,
and another day ; and then there was
nothing for them to do but take
up their life, and try to make the best
of it.

The first event to break the mono-
tony came in September, when Dora
was baptized. All the family attended
the ceremony, for the time putting
aside whatever prejudices they might
feel. Then they began to look eager-
ly for Mr. Southard's return.

He might be expected on the first
Sunday of October, he wrote most
positively, but, for the rest, was very
indefinite. He wrote so vaguely, in-
deed, that his congregation were ra-
ther displeased. His leave of absence
had expired, yet he seemed to consi-
der his coming home a furlough.
Rather extraordinary, they thought it.

Mr. Southard was not one of those
pastors who live in a chronic deluge
of worsted-work from their lady
fincnds. On his first coming to the
pulpit, there had been symptoms of
such an inundation ; but he had check-
ed them with characteristic prompt-
ness, representing to the fair devotees
the small need he had of four-score
pairs of pantoufles, even should his
life be prolonged as many years, and
suggesting that those who had so
much leisure might profitably employ
it in visiting and sewing for the poor.
But the repulse was given with such
simplicity and candor, and so utterly
unconscious did he appear that any
motive could have prompted their
labors save a profound conviction
that their pastor was shoeless, that
even the most inveterate needle-wo-

man forgave him. He was not in
the least sentimental, he was indeed
strict, and often cold, though nera
harsh.

Still, though he lacked many of the
qualities of a modem |X>pular minis-
ter, his people were much attached
to him. They trusted him thorough-
ly, and they were proud of him. He
had talent, culture, and a high cha-
racter and reputation. He was not
a sensational preacher ; but his direct-
ness and earnestness were unique, and
occasionally his hearers were electri-
fied by some eloquent outburst, full of
antique fire kindled at the shrines of
the prophets. It also did not go
against him that he was the hand-
somest man in the city, a bachelor,
and rich enough in his own right to
dispense with a salary.

Great, therefore, was their ddig^
when his return was positively an-
nounced, and they set about prepar-
ing for it with a good will

The church was renovatq^ a new
Bible and a sofa were purchased, and
a beautiful Catharine-wheel window,
full of colored glass, was put in over
the choir. Receptions were arrang-
ed, flowers bespoken, committees ap-
pointed, the barouche which was to
take him home firom the depot was
chosen, and the two dignitaries who
were to occupy it with him were, after
due deliberation, selected. All this
was done decently and in order.
Mr. Southard's people were far fiom
being of the vulgar, showy sort, and
prided themselves on being able to
accomplish a good deal without any
fuss whatever. Even the newspaper
chorus which proclaimed each pro-
gressive step of the minister's home-
ward journey, as Cl)rtemnestra the
coming of the sacred fire, sang in
subdued language and unobtrusive
type. At last, all that was wanting
was the final announcement, in the Sa-
turday evening papers, that the reve»

Daybreak.

725

rend gentleman had arrived. Indeed,
the notice had been written, with all
particulars, the evening before, and
had almost got into print, when it
was discovered that Mr. Southard
had not arrived. The barouche had
returned from the depot without him,
the two dignified personages who
went as escort suffering a temporary
diminution of dignity and an access
of ill-temper. It is rather mortifying
to see people look disappointed that
it is only you who have come, and
to know that not only have you lost
the glory which was to have been
reflected on you from the principal
actor in the scene, but that your own
proper lustre is for the time obscured.

It was found, however, that a let-
ter had been written by Mr. Southard,
not a pleasing one, by any means, to
his disappointed masters of ceremo-
nies. He would be in his pulpit on
Sunday morning, he informed them ;
and after Sunday would be happy
and gra^ful to see any of his dear
and long-tried friends who would be
so kind as to call on him. But till
that time he did not feel equal to the
excitement of any formal reception.
He had scarcely recovered his strength
after a long illness, he was fatigued
with travel, and also, he was returning
to a house made desolat^ by the
death of one of his oldest and dearest
friends.

" They are terribly wilted," Mr.
Lewis said, as the family sat around
the centre-table that evening. " You
never saw anybody so grumpy as the
deacons are. They are scandalized,
moreover, in view of the only way in
which he can come now. Of course,
he will have to travel all night, and
come into town Sunday morning.
There's Sabbath-breaking for you."

" One good thing," Mrs. Lewis
said; "they have stopped ringing
the door-bell. I do believe there
have been a hundred people here

to-day to ask if Mr. Southard had
come."

" Auntie," said Aurelia, with a look
of mild horror, "you don't know
what uncle said to the last gentleman
who came. He told him that when
the minister made his appearance, he
would hang out a flag over the por-
tico, and fire rockets from the fiont
windows."

The three ladies were sewing, and
Dora sat beside Margaret with a
catechism in her hand, learning the
Acts.

"Aunt Margaret," whispered the
child, " what do you think God told
me when I said, * O my God ! I firmly
believe' ? Says he, * Oh ! what a ly-
ing little girl you are !' "

" Why should he say that ?" was
the grave inquiry.

" Because I told him that I believ-
ed all the sacred truths; and how
can I believe when I don't know
'em? This is what I did; I said,
'Please don't listen to me now, O
Lord ! I'm not talking to you. I'm
only learning my lesson.' "

" Come to bed now, my dear,"
said Margaret, "and we will talk
about it."

" I did not expect Mr. Southard to
show so much feeling," Mrs. Lewis
said, when the two had gone out
" He received the news of Mr. Gran-
gers change of religion with such si-
lent displeasure that I supposed he
would discard even his memory.
He shows courage, too, in still speak-
ing of him as a friend ; for some of
his people will be displeased."

" I'm sure, aunt," Aurelia replied
rather hastily, " no one can say that
Mr. Southard ever lacked the courage
to utter his sentiments."

" No," Mrs. Lewis said in a very
moderate tone, but looked sharply
into her niece's drooping face.

Aurelia had not looked up in
speaking, and seemed to be engross-

726

Daybreak.

ed in her work; but there was a
glistening of tears through the thick
lashes, and the delicate rose in her
cheeks had grown crimson-hearted.
She seldom spoke with spirit; but
when she did, it always woke that
rich bloom.

The bell rang again, and in a few
minutes the parlor-door opened, and
the Rev. Doctor Kenneth came in.

"The servant told me that Mr.
Southard has not arrived," he said;
" but as she did not absolutely forbid
me, I came in to see the rest of you."

They welcomed him cordially.
The doctor had got in the way of
dropping in occasionally, and they
were always glad to see him. The
venerable gentleman was something
of a courtier, and knew how to make
himself all things to all men.

" I have my colleague at last," he
said, " and to-morrow I promise my-
self the pleasure of hearing Mr.
Southard, if he comes."

Margaret returned to the parlor,
and was pleasantly saluted by the
doctor who made room for her to sit
beside him. She took the place will-
ingly, being especially pleased with
him just then ; for, by his influence,
her old friends were beginning to
gather about her, coldly at first, it is
true, but that would mend in time.

They resumed the conversation
which her coming had interrupted.

" I have never denied that Mr.
Maurice Sinclair might possess some
noble qualities," the doctor said, in
his stateliest manner. " And I have
never said nor thought that he could
rightly be called a base man. But I
have said, and I still think that he
was a dangerous man; and more-
over, that last letter of his, instead of
softening my judgment, makes me
condemn him all the more; for it
shoe's unmistakably what light he
sinned against.*'

•* But, doctor," interposed .\urelia's

soft voice, " he seemed to be a Chris-
tian at last."

"By no means, my dear," the
doctor answered decidedly. "His
unbelief was nobler, that is alL The
Christian soul strains upward, and
drops off the earthly ; the pagan soul
strains outward, and grasps what is
greatest on earth. He was a pagan.
I have always, during my whole min-
istry, had more fear of those who
stand on the border-lands between
good and evil, than of those who are
clearly in the enemy's country. Do
you want to take wine with a drunk-
ard? Certainly not The faithful
can resist a glaring tempter ; but let
one of these gallant chieftains come
up with his mouth full of fine senti-
ments, and presto,

' AU the blue bonnets are over the border T

But what can we preachers do when
the ladies decide to canonize a man.'
I'm afraid they are disposed to be-
lieve that a fine head must deserve
a fine crown."

"There's one exception, doctor,''
Mr. Lewis said, pointing to his wife.

The lady appeared not to notice
the allusion to herself, but ^x>ke in a
musing, silvery voice, her eyes fixed
dreamily on space.

" What a wise arrangement of
Providence it is, that interesting mas-
culine penitents should am-aken the
gushing philanthropy of ladies, gen-
tlemen standing aloof; while interest-
ing feminine penitents almost as inva-
riably excite the pious charity of men,
ladies, in their tiun, heading ofil ^In
both cases, there are the feast and the
skeleton quite correct I recoQect,
doctor, hearing you preach, jrean
ago, a sermon on the Magdalen. It
was very edifying; but I was sonr
that vou found it neccssarv to men-
tion her golden hair. Indeed, I hart
always thought that the old painters
would have made a better point if

Daybreak.

727

they had represented her as a plain,
middle-aged woman, with great hag-
gard eyes, like pits of darkness
through which the soul was strug-
gling, only a spark, but kindled to a
conflagration which should consume
with holy fire that poor, desecrated
clay of hers. That is the true Mag-
dalen ; not your light Correggio, who
might be a danseuse reading a French
novel after the ballet."

The lady had dropped her careless
air, and was speaking almost vehe-
mently. It seemed, indeed, that
some personal experience lent a poig-
nancy to her convictions on the sub-
ject.

" I am glad of the chance to ex-
press my opinions," she said, " and
glad that you have made me angry
enough to have courage to speak.
I protest against this pernicious in-
dulgence which latter-day Christians
show to vice, persuading themselves
that they are charitable. * Swear
him, and let him go,' as the soldier
said of the rattlesnake. When I see
these sentimentalists seek out real
penitence where it hides speechless
and ashamed, then I will call them
charitable, and not before. But no;
real penitence is not interesting. It
cannot attitudinize, it stammers, it
has red and swollen eyes, it shrinks
almost from being forgiven, it never
holds its head up again."

"But, madam," said the doctor,
somewhat disconcerted, "all are
liable to mistakes ; and in being too
strict with doubtful penitents, we may
discourage the true ones."

"They are easily distinguished,"
she said curtly. " Besides, you lose
sight of another risk you run. You
appear to take for granted that none
are tempted save those who fall.
How do you know how many may
be holding on to their integrity by a
mope thread, struggling desperately
but silently, needing every help, in

so precarious a condition that a
breath, a word, may destroy them ?
Such people do not speak ; you hear
nothing of them but the crash of their
fall. Or, if they fidl not, you never
know. To me, that conflict is more
pathetic, more tragical, than all the
paraded sighs and tears of those who
have found that dishonesty doesn't
pay. Those who do right simply
and purely for God's sake are few
and far between. Most people need
the support of public opinion and the
approbation of those whom they look
up to. Let it be seen that, do what
they may, if only they can excuse
themselves prettily and plausibly,
they will be easily forgiven, and set
still higher than before, and what
will be the result ? You can see it in
society to-day. Charity, so-called,
has increased ; has virtue increased ?"

" If good women would not make
themselves so disagreeable, as they
often do," Mr. Lewis said gruffly.

" Try to please them," his wife re-
pUed. " Praise them a little ; be
agreeable yourselves, and see if they
don't improve in that respect. Meet
a person with a glum face, and if that
person is sincere and sensitive, youi
are not likely to get smiles in re*
turn."

Aurelia leaned toward her aunt,,
put an arm around her, and whisper-
ed, "Dear auntie, you're an angel;-,
but please don't say any more."

" I do not like to hear men and^
women criticise each other," the doc-
tor said calmly, introducing a switch
into the track of the conversation.
" They are neither of them fitted to
think for and judge the other. They,
in the moral universe, are like earth
and sea in the physical. And as air
is common to earth and sea, so spirit,
and all higher influences, are com-
mon to man and woman alike."

"Yes," Miss Hamilton said, "and
while the earth has gold, and silver,

728

Daybreak,

and iron, and gems, the sea has only
pearls, and they are tears, \voman*s
proper parure. And while the earth
maintains its place, and is not moved,
the sea goes moaning about, break-
ing itself on rocks, and climbing even
to heaven, only that it may fall again
upon the land."

"Blessed showers!" said the doc-
tor, who had watched her smilingly
while she spoke. " Be sure, Marga-
ret, sooner or later those for whose
sakes you and your sisters have climb-
ed to heaven with such toil and pain
will see some heavenly likeness in
you, and hail you as welcome mes-
« sengers. Don't lose courage, dear.
Don't join the bitter waves that break
themselves against the rocks, or the
sly, insidious waves that steal away
the land and drag it down. But let
your part be with those who visit us
by the way of heaven. Wouldn't
you rather we should look up when
we want you, though it were seldom,
than look down, though it were of-
ten?"

She looked up, bright and blushing
for a moment, like her old self, trem-
bling with gladness, she knew not
why. It seemed to be a prophecy
of good tidings.

Into the silence that followed a
deep sigh broke. They all looked
up, then rose, speechless, changed
suddenly into a group of mourners.
For Mr. Southard stood before them
with that in his countenance which
showed how much more plainly than
even their living faces he saw the
shadow of one who was gone for
ever.

Pallid with sickness, fatigue, and
trouble, he came forward to receive
i their almost voiceless welcomes.

"God knows," he said, "that if
the choice had been with me, my
place, rather than his, should have
been made vacant."

CHAPTER XVI.

A DESERTED FLOCK.

Bostonians have been accused of
putting too much Sabbath into their
Sundays; but long may it be before
the noisy waves of business or plea-
sure shall wash away that quiet island
in the weary sea of days. There is a
suggestion of peace, xi not of sacred-
ness, in the silence almost like that
of the country, in the closed dooR
and empty streets; and when the bells

*' Sprinkle with holy sounds the aur, as the priest vdk
the hyssop
SprinUes the congreg a tioii, and acattess blcssvp
upon them,"

he must be insensible indeed who
does not — at least, momentarily — re-
member that there is another worid
than this.

On the morning after his retuni,
Mr. Southard resumed his old Sundaj
habit of breakfasting in his own
room, and none of the family saw
him before service. He always went
to his church early, and alone, and
never spoke to any one on tlie way.

" Margaret, you really ought to go
with us this time," Mrs. Lewis said.
" I think you might unbend for
once."

" To stoop from the presence of
God to the presence of a creature is
bending too far," was the reply.
" Such bending breaks. I and my
pet are going to see the heavens
open, and the I-ord descend ; are we
not, Dorothea, gift of God ?"

Mrs. Lewis turned herself about
before the cheval-glass to see the ef-
fect of a superb toilet that she had
made in honor of the occasion. ** Ah!
well, " she said. " You may be
right. I have indeed a faithful heart,
but a woefully skeptical head ; shall
we go now ?"

The night had been very sharp for
the season; but when they all went
out together, the sun was shining

Daybreak.

nly through the morning haze,

air was still, and the dripping,

idid branches of the October

. were hesitating between hoar-

and dew, and glittering with

. People in holiday af^, and

holiday faces, went past, the

clanged out, then paused, and

mly a tremulous murmur in the

the very spirit of sound. Far

r, a chime rang an old-fashioned

n, in that quaint, stiflf way that

es have.

: a street-comer the party sepa-
I, and went their several ways.
» the Lewises entered their own
ch, they involuntarily exchanged
ile. Nothing could be prettier
that interior. The side-lights
all shut out, and for the first
the new window was unveiled,
threw its rich light over the
•, and up the nave, kindling the
:rs that profusely draped the pul-
ind platform, and edging with
ion the garnet velvet cushions,
people in this church had usually
elbow-room, but to-day they
itted themselves to be crowded
le by visitors. There were even
s brought into the galleries; and
. the hour for service arrived,
was a row of gentlemen stand-
ehind the last pews. But there
no sound save the soft rustle of
>' dresses, and now and then a
*d whisper. There was the most
ct decorum and composure, and
2nce that was respectful if not
ential. No belligerent mutter-
ever rose through the voice of
T or praise within these walls ; no
id worshipper ever went tramp-
p to the very front after service
>egun ; and moreover, neither in
nor in any other Protestant
:h, did visitors come with opera-
» and chattering tongues, to
what was meant as a place of
lip into a place of amusement

Quite late. Dr. Kenneth came up
the aisle, and seated himself in the
Lewis pew; and while every one
looked at him, the door leading back
from the platform to the vestry was
opened, and almost before they were
aware, Mr. Southard had entered and
taken his place.

There was a soft stir and rustle all
through the church, and the choir
sang an anthem — that beautiful one
of Brasbury*s :

" How beautiful is ZXatk

Upon the mountain's brow,
The coming of the messenger,
To dteer the plains below.*'

Mr. Southard sat with his eyes
fixed on the cornice-wreath, and let
his congregation stare at him, and
they did not scruple to take advan-
tage of the opportunity. The im-
pression was not the one they had
expected to receive. He was too
pale and spiritual, and his expression
was too much that of some lofty mar-
tyr fix)nting death unmoved, a St.
Sebastian, pierced with arrows, his
soul just pluming itself for flight
through those lifted eyes.

Moreover, not only were all their
flowers invisible to him, but he never
looked at their new window, though
the light from one of its golden planes
streamed full in his face as he sat

Where was the smiling glance that
might, surely, have made one swift
scrutiny of their familiar faces, unseen
so long ? Where was the prayer of
thanksgiving that he had been brought
safely back to his people, after such
an absence, and through so many
dangers? Where was the joyful
hymn of praise ?

When Mr. Southard rose, he re-
peated only the Lord's prayer; and
the first hymn he read was anything
but joyful :

Nearer, my God, to thee.

Nearer to thee,
£*en though it be a cross

That imiaeth me.*'

730

Daybreak.

"Dear mel doctor," Mrs. Lewis
could not help whispering, " I do wish
that for to-day, at least, he could have
hidden the cross under the crown."

The text was unexpected : " Liitie
children^ love one another y

Not a single war-note, not a word
of that Aceldama from which he had
but just come, but an impassioned
exhortation that, casting aside all dif-
ferences, dissensions, and uncharita-
bleness, they should love each other
even as Christ had loved them.

Mr. Southard seldom displayed any
strong feeling except indignation or
a lofty fervor; but now he seemed
deeply moved, and full of a yearning
tenderness toward those whom he
addressed. And they, after the first,
forgot their disappointment, and were
almost as much affected as he.

"Why do I choose for my text
words which recall the sufferings of
our divine Lord ?" he asked. " And
why do I select words of parting ex-
hortation rather than words of greet-
ing ? Because the passion is not yet
ended; because Christ is no more a
king to-day than he was nineteen
centuries ago ; because even among
those who call upon his name, his
commands, his entreaties are disre-
garded. Still his sceptre is but a
reed, his purple still covers the marks
of the lash, his brow still bleeds under
its crown. Lastly, because I am not
a pastor returning joyfully to his flock,
hoping for no more partings, but one
who comes sorrowfully to say fare-
well, scarcely daring to hope for any
other meeting with you.

" A pastor ? And who is he that
leadeth the flocks of the Lord ? He
to whom the divine Shepherd hath
given the charge, bidding him go.
Brethren, he has not spoken to me,
save in rebuking. Instead of green
pastures, I have led you in the desert.
For still waters, I have brought you
to the banks of Marah. Who is he

in whose hands the baptismal waten
are cleansing, who can bind man and
woman as husband and wife, who can
consecrate the bread and wine, who
can loosen its burden fi-om the peni-
tent soi^? He who, looking up the
line of his spiritual descent, sees the
tongues of fire alighting upon his
ancestors in the Lord. Bear with
me, my fiiends ! At the head of my
line stands the traitor who sat at meat
with Christ, and ate the bread he
broke, and drank the wine he blessed,
and then betrayed him."

The congregation were too much
startled and puzzled by this sudden
turn to notice that Doctor Kenneth's
head was bowed forward on the front
of the pew, and that Aurelia Lewis
was leaning with her face hidden on
her aunt's shoulder.

But Mr. Southard saw them, and
grew yet paler. When he qx)kc
again, it was with difficulty.

" This is no place for me to stand
and advocate doctrines denied hy
you. Yet surely it is no treason to
the trust you reposed in me when you
invited me to become your pastor, if
I ask, if I entreat that you will exa-
mine fairly and prayerfully before you
condemn my course.

" I dare not trust myself to thank
you for all your past friendship for
me, to utter my wishes for your future
good, or to tell you how my heart is
torn by this parting. I have only
strength to go.

" Do you ask whither I am going?
After years of mental torment unsus-
pected by you, and when at last my
strength was deserting me, and the
waters were going over my soul,
where did I find refuge and safety ?
In that glorious old ship whose sails
are full of the breath of the Spirit, who
has faith for an anchor, the cross as
her ensign, and St. Peter at the helm.
Brethren, I am a Roman Catholic,
thank God I"

Daybreak.

731

lediately the congregation were
tifusion, and one gentleman
up and called, " Stop, sir !"

light that had sprung to Mr.
ud's face at the last words
jd out again. He leaned over
ilpit, and commanded silence
gesture at once imploring and
ilive.

le word more !" he said. " Be-
in my unaltered affection for
Jid believe also that though my
are not anointed to give bene-
i, I fervently pray that God
bless you now and for ever,
ell !"

turned away from them, and
1 slowly toward the vestry-door.

he had closed it behind him,
ice fell, and he heard Doctor
th's trembling voice exclaim,
js pray !" Glancing back, Mr.
ird saw the old minister stand-
th upraised hands in his de-
pulpit.

ire he passed the rest of that
he family did not know. It
jly twilight when they saw him
I up the street toward the
By that time they had reco-
from, their first excitement, all
irelia. She still kept her room.

Southard walked with a firm
ignified step, and his face was
ly serene. He even smiled
he saw Margaret standing in
rlor window, watching for him.
> servant shall open the door
m this time, at least," she
It, and hastened to open it her-

elcome homei" she said exult-

bolding out both hands to him.
did that nobly! A thousand

welcome I"

Southard closed the door, then

at her boldly, putting her

back. " Do not mock my

life with so slight a gifl as

kindness," he said. "If you

give me your hand, give it to me to
keep."

She stood one instant wavering,
then gave him her hand again.
" Keep it," she said.

Lingering behind him as he went
to meet Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, Marga-
ret fiung her pledged hand upward
as if she flung a gauge. " Louis
Granger, you shall not look down
and think that I am breaking my
heart for you !"

CHAPTER XVII.
IN KXrrU ISRAEL.

Some one tells of a wind so strong
that he could turn and lean his back
against it, as against a post. Mr.
Southard found some such effect as
this in the excitement caused by his
change of religion. For there are
times when a strong opposition is
wonderfully sustaining. It fans the
flame, and keeps the soul in a lively
glow, without any expenditure of our
own breath. «

Being thus saved the pains of
maintaining his fervor, the new con-
vert took up tranquilly his religious
studies, viewing firom the inside that
church which heretofore he had seen
only firom the outside. The study
was an ever firesh delight; and as,
one after another, new beauties were
revealed, and new harmonies unfolded
themselves, the miracle seemed to be,
not that he should see now, but that
he should have been blind so long.

No one knows, save those who
have been bom away firom this home
of the soul, the fuU delight of that
succession of surprises and discoveries
in the search made by him who
comes late to his father's house. The
first dawn or flash of faith, come as
faith may, shows only the door, and
a dim and long-stretching perspective.
But once inside, with what wonder,
what curiosity, what incredulity, even,

732

Daybreak,

we wander about examining the trea-
sures of this new-fbund inheritance
of ours. Surely, we say, here we
shall be disappointed. Here there
will be a shade on the picture. But,
looking closely, we find instead a still
more eminent beauty. Nor are these
varied discoveries exhausted in a few
months, nor in a few years, nor in
many years. Even when the noon
of life has been spent in the quest,
and twilight comes, still there are

*' such suites to explore,
Such closets to search, such alcov(» to importune/*

But the most spiritual of us are not
all spirit ; and when, after a few weeks,
the storm of denunciation against him
subsided a little, weary of its own vio-
lence, Mr. Southard began to feel the
vacuum left by his loss of occupa-
tion, and to depend more on the
home life.

Here the prospect was not without
shadows. Mr. and Mrs. Lewis had
behaved nobly, and, after the first
shock, had stood by him through eve-
ry trial. " Not that I am so fond of
Catholicism," Mr. Lewis said. " But
I like to see a man who has a mind
of his own, and isn't afraid to speak it."

The shadow in this case was Mr.
Lewis's niece, who showed an uncon-
querable coldness toward her former
minister. This was not to him a
matter of vital consequence, certainly,
though it troubled him more than he
would have expected. She had al-
ways looked up to him with undoubt-
ing faith as her religious guide. Now
he perceived with pain and mortifica-
tion that he had not only destroyed
her respect for his own authority, but
had made her distrustful of all autho-
rity.

He attempted to justify himself to
her; but she stopped him.

" I do not occupy myself in criti-
cising your conduct and opinions,
Mr. Southard," she said; "and I
would rather say nothing about it."

For the first time» it struck him that
Miss Lewis had a very stately man-
ner.

Neither was Miss Hamilton just
what Mr. Southard wished his pro-
mised wife to be to him, though he
could scarcely have told in what she
was lacking. Her evident desire
that for the present the engagement
should be unsuspected, even by their
own family, he did not find fault with,
though it prevented all confidential
intercourse between them; but he
would have preferred that she had
not been quite so positively friendly,
and no more. It seemed a little odd,
too, that he should never, even bjr
accident, find her alone, though they
had fi-equendy met so in the old
times.

Weary, at length, of waiting oo
chance, he requested an interview,
and stated his wishes. He would
like to go to Europe as soon as possi-
ble, and stay there a year. He couW
not feel himself settled in the church,
till he had been in Rome a Catholic,
having once been there an unbeliev-
er. Of course he would expect to
take his wife with him. Why should
they delay. Why not be married at
Christmas, and start so as to reach
Rome before Easter ?

Margaret grew pale. "It is so
soon," she said in a frightened way.
" And you know I cannot leave Do-
ra, You might go without me."
Then, as his countenance fell, she ad-
ded, trying to smile, " I love my free-
dom, and want to keep it as long as
I can. But when I do take bonds
on myself, I shall be very dutiful."

" I do not think that you will lose
any freedom which you need greatly
desire to keep," he said gently, but
with a shade of disapproval "And
as to Dora, Mrs. Lewis would take
good care of her."

" Dora is a sacred charge to roe,
Mr. Southard," Margaret said haati*

DaybrMk.

733

ly; "not only her person, but her
faith. I cannot intrust her to any
one else. Besides, she would break
her heart if parted from me. No one
else can comfort her when — ^when she
needs comfort."

Mr. Southard considered awhile.

" I approve of your being careful
to do your duty by the child," he
said presently. "But, you know,
some priest could have her religious
education under his supervision while
we are gone. I would not, on any
account, urge you to violate a scru-
ple of conscience. Possibly, howev-
er, if you should consult your confes-
sor, he might decide that your duty
to the child should bend to your du-
ty to me."

Margaret's face blushed up crim-
son, and her eyes emitted a spark.
" The confessor whom I shall consult
when I name my wedding-day, will
be my own heart," she said, in
anything but a humble tone of
voice.

Mr. Southard looked at her search-
ingly. " Can it be," he asked, " that
a lack of affection on your part is the
cause of this reluctance ?"

" I esteem you highly, Mr. South-
ard," she replied faintly, shrinking a
little. "But I am not very reason-
able, and you must have patience
with me. Please don*t say any more
now. This is very sudden. I will
think of it."

"Very well," he replied. "Per-
haps when you have thought, you
may accede to my first proposal. It
is not worth while to delay, you
know, when one's mind is made
up."

" I must go now with Dora to
make her first confession," Margaret
said, anxious to change the subject.
" Will you excuse me ? I am afraid
the storm may grow worse. The
rain is falling gently now; but you
know the old proverb :

* When Uie ymoA oomat before the nb.
You may hoist your topaails up again ;
But when the rain comes before the winds.
You may reef when it begins.' "

" And a true proverb it is in more
ways than one," Mr. Lewis said,
appearing at that moment. " When
my wife begins by flying at me and
tearing my hair out, and then goes to
crying afterward, I hope for fair wea-
ther soon. But when she starts with
a gentle drip of tears, I always look
out for squalls before it is over. Re-
member that for your future guid-
ance, Mr. Southard."

Margaret escaped from the room,
and in a few minutes was on her way
to the church, with Dora half hidden
under her cloak, and nestled close to
her side. As she rode along, feelings
some way, as if they were flying from
pursuit or from a prison, she cxpe-
rienced one of those tender touches
of recollection with which the Spirit,
ever following us, seeks to recall our
wayward hearts. "What should 1
do if I had no church to go to ?" was
the thought that came; and as it
came, the altar toward which she was
approaching, glowed through the
chill November rain like the fire in
happy homes.

Outside, in the corridor leading to
that familiar chapel of St. Valentine,
endeared by so many sacred and ten-
der memories, they paused a moment
and recollected themselves.

"My dear little one, Christ Jesus
the Lord is in there !"

" Do you truly think that he likes
me?" whispered Dora apprehensive-
ly, glancing askance at the lambent
little flame that burned inside.

"Oh! yes," was the confident an-
swer. "He is very fond of you
when you are good."

The sweet face smiled again.

" Then I an*t afraid of him, auntie.
Come."

After an act of contrition on her
own account, and a prayer for the

734

Daybreak.

child, Margaret led Dora to the con-
fessional, placed her on her knees
there, and, dropping the curtain be-
hind her, retired to wait at a distance.

Verifying the proverb, it was blow-
ing quite violently when the two
started for home again. Margaret
went directly up to her chamber,
having need to be alone. What was
it striving within her, what memory,
almost at the surface of her mind,
yet unseen, like a flower in spring
just ready to burst through the mould
that feels but knows it not? On
her table was a bunch of English
violets that some one had left there
for her. At the sight of them, her
trouble sharpened to pain that had
yet some touch of delight in it. The
wind was full of voices, it caught the
rain, and lashed the windows, it shook
the doors, and called sighingly about
the chimneys, and swung the vines
against the panes. As she leaned
there wondering and troubled, a
faint, sweet perfume from the violets
stole into her face. It was magical.
She sank on her knees and drew the
flowers to her bosom.

" O my friend ! how could I ever
dream of forgetting you ?"

How it came back, that rainy day
at the seaside, the terror of the tem-
pest, the fire she had kindled, the
watch she had kept, the presentiment
of sorrow, then the mufiled figure
coming down the road, the rain, the
wind, and his smile, all meeting her
at the door, and the perfume of the
violets he had brought her !

Who knows not the power that
perfumes have over the memory?
The influence of sound is evanescent,
that which the eyes have seen the
imagination changes in time ; but a
perfume is the most subtile and inde-
structible of reminders. You have
walked in the world's beaten ways
many a year, till the country home
of your childhood is a picture almost

eflaced firom your mind. Its tones
echo no more, its faces are feded, its
scenes forgotten.

Some sultry summer day, wander-
ing fi'om the city, but only half wean-
ed firom the thoughts of it, your list-
lessly straying feet crush the wann,
wild herbage, and a thick perfume
of sweet-fern rises about you. What
does it mean? Thrilling to your
finger-tips, you bend and inhale that
strange yet familiar scent. Its toudi
is as potent as the touch of the rod
of Moses.

** A score of yean roll bode their tide
Of mingled joy and pain ;
Dry-shod I cross the torrent*s bed.
And am a child again."

Old scenes come up : gray rocb
start out, lichen-jewelled; there are
billows of butter-cups, mayweed, and
clover, over which your young fan-
cies sailed moth-winged, and brought
rich freights firom every port; the
long lines of pole and stone fences
are built up again in a twinkling; the
boiling spring leaps bubbling into
the heart of the sunshine; in the
woods the cold, bright waters run
hurrying over the pebbles; there is
the homestead, the smoke fix)m the
chimney, the open windows, some
one standing in the door, some one
calling you with a voice as real as
your breath ; there are faces with
eyes that see you, every feature
plain, there are hands stretched out.

How it rises and tramples on your
present, that past that hides but
never dies ! How your heart-strings
strain with the vain longing to stay
for ever in this bright, recovered
country, and look no more on the
desert and the land of bondage !

" Flow back, O years I into your channel.
Flow, and stop the way !
Let me forget how vain the fancies
Of that chUdish day."

If we did not know that every
hope and sweetness in the past
were but seeds for future bios-

Daybreak,

735

and fruit; if we did not know
childhood is but a bee*s load
>ney, but a babe's sip of milk,
3se flowing streams in the pro-
i land; if we did not believe
God's denial is brief, his bounty
5s; that surely he sees and
5 every pain ; and that he holds
ilfilment of our utmost wish just
e verge of our utmost endur-
— if we were not sure of this,

human nature bear the cross
sometimes is laid upon it? It
not!

ss Hamilton did not appear at
inner-table that day ; but in the
^% Mr. Southard was sum-
d to her in the library. She
lim with an April face full of a
jd kind of joy, or a joyful grief,
rd the room toward him when
me in, and held out her hands
n.

orgive me !" she said hiuriedly.

, Mr. Southard, I cahnot marry

I made a mistake. Don't be

with me. I cannot help it.
I think, too, that you mistook

do not understand this," he
dropping her hand.

should never have thought of
ing, if I had not been angry
him," she said. "That was
d and foolish, and I have got
it now. We are reconciled. I
fiever forget him."
m I to understand that your
nbrance of Mr. Granger is a
) your union with me?" asked
)Outhard, regaining his compo-

n insurmountable bar !"
bowed gravely. " Then there
more to be said. I wish you
evening."

: watched him go; and when
loor had closed, broke into a
augh. " In exitu Israel ;" she
" I am free I"

The door opened again, and Mr.
Lewis came in. "You here?" he
said. " I want to get the first volume
of — But what's the matter with
you ? I just met Mr. Southard goingi
into his room. Have you promised
to marry him ?"

" No, I have promised not to,"
Margaret said, smiling.

Mr. Lewis looked at her with a
softening face, and eyes that grew
dim.

" I'm glad of it, Maggie," he said,
" My wife and Aurelia were sure that
you and he would make a match;
and I couldn't say anything against
it. But I hated the thought of your
forgetting him^

There was no danger, indeed, of her
forgetting him. It was impossible
for her. She had not one of those
facile hearts that rest here and there,
on whatever offers, growing worn and
threadbare at last, till there is nothing
lefl to give. Hers was an imperious
constancy which, having once chosen,
did not know how to change, and
perpetually renewed itself, like a foun-
tain, as fresh to-day as it was a cen-
tury ago. Such affection does not
absolutely need the happiness of
earth ; for its root is in the soul, not
in the flesh, and the time of its per-
fecting is hereafter.

CHAPTER XVIII.
DAYBREAK.

As there ar^ plants that need crush-
ing to bring ou\ their perfume, so there
are natures that become thoroughly
amiable only through pain and humi-
liation. Mr. Southard's was one of
these. Every blow that struck him
made some breach in his puritanic
severity, and revealed some hidden
grace of mind or heart.

He had possessed an intellectual
humility, and had submitted himself

736

Daybreak.

with all the force of his reason. But
such humility is like the weight of
snow that in winter presses the head
of the slender sapling to earth, whence
it is ever ready to spring back
again at the first fiery sun-touch. It
savored too much of the arrogant
self-accusation of those who, as Mr.
Lewis said, think they are the sun
because they have spots on them.
Now, he seemed really humble, he
distrusted himself, and he accepted
kindness with a gratitude that touch-
ed the hearts of those who gave it.

To Mrs. Lewis's surprise, he made
a confident of her, and spoke quite
fi'eely of his disappointment.

" I do not blame Margaret," he
said. "It was ungenerous of me to
take advantage of her first moment
of enthusiastic sympathy for me to
exact a promise firom her. But the
temptation was strong. Existence
with her would never be mere vege-
tation. She always gets at the inside
of life. However, since God has
willed it otherwise for me, I shall try
to act like a Christian and like a sen-
sible man. All the difference it
makes in my plans is that I shall go
away a little sooner."

They were sorry to have him go;
for their esteem for him had insensibly
grown into affection, and their affec-
tion constantly increased.

" I declare, I had no idea that I
should feel so bad about it," Mr.
Lewis said when the time came for
good-byes. " Give mc your shawl to
take out. I am going to the depot
with you."

Margaret and Dora had taken
leave of Mr. Southard, and were
standing in one of the front windows,
watching to see him off. Mrs. Lewis
walked ^owly out of the parlor with
him.

** Where is Aurelia ?" he asked,
looking about "I have not seen
her."

" Oh ! she told me to say good-
by for her," answered Mrs. Lewis
carelessly.

He hesitated, and looked hurt.
" I suppose she doesn't care to take
the trouble to see me," he said. "Td
her I said good-by, and God Wcss
her."

" I will do nothing of the kindT
said the lady, with emphasis.

Mr. Southard stared at her in as-
tonishment.

"'Doesn't care to take the troo-
ble I" she repeated indignantly. " It
is rather you who haven't cared to
treat her with common gratitude or
civility. You have had eyes for only
Miss Hamilton, who didn't care a fig
for you ; while Aurelia, the poor sim-
pleton! who made a hero of you,
and broke her heart because you
were in disgrace with the world and
disappointed in love — you hadn't a
glance for. No ; I won't say good-
by to her. I will let her believe
that you went without remembering
her existence, as you came near do-
ing. It will help her to forget you.
There, take that with my blessing,
and good-by. The carriage is wait-
ing."

" Where is she ?" he exclaimed, his
whole face changed, and become
alive all at once. "I shall not stir
from the house till I have seen her,
if I have to wait a year."

"What will Miss Hamilton think
of your constancy ?" asked Mrs. Lew-
is with a toss of the head.

" Madam," said Mr. Southard, " for
me there is but one woman in the
world, and that is she who loved mc
without waiting to be asked. Will
you be so good as to tell Aurelia that
I wish to see her in the librar)* ?"

He went toward the library, and
Mrs. Lewis leisurely returned to the
parlor, a curious little smile on her
lips.

Aurelia Lewis was seated before

Daybreak.

737

rary fire, with her hands folded
lap.

Mr. Southard paused an instant
It of her, then came hastily in
lut the door after him, she rose
oked at him with an air of dig-
composure. Her face was pcr-
colorless.

it true," he began at once,
you have sympathized with me
than I knew ? Tell me ! A
ointment now would be too

elia's full bright eyes opened a
ider, and a faint color warmed
seks ; but she seemed too much
>hed or too indignant to speak.
:er the first glance, she drooped
, and leaned on the back of her
IS if, like that fair Jewish queen,
Ikatcncss and overmuch tcftdcr-
he were not able to bear up her
idy.

,v pure and sweet she was!
as dew. How utterly womanly
tainted loveliness !
)ther !" exclaimed Mr. Southard.
T ten minutes Mr. Lewis put
id out of the carriage door, and
a sign to his wife, who was
)lently contemplating him from
rlor. She raised the window,
here is Mr. Southard ?" he ask-

e is saying good-by to Aurelia,"
iC reply ; and the window went
again.

lUtes passed, but no Mr. South-
»peared. It was the day before
mas, and the air was too sharp
ke a long tarrying out doors
ble.

^'e heard of eternal farewells,
aever before had the honor of
ig at one," muttered Mr. Lew-
1 having waited as long as en-
re seemed a virtue, he went into
•use.

here is Mr. Southard?" he
looking round the parlor.
VOL. IX. — ^47

" In the library, saying good-by to
Aurelia," replied his wife suavely.

Mr. Lewis looked at Margaret

" Will you tell me what she means ?
I don't believe her. She always puts
on that truthful look when she tells a
lie." .

Margaret laughed. "I think you
may as well dismiss the carriage," she
said.

In something l^ss than half an hour
Mr. Southard and Aurelia made their
appearance. They were received
with great cordiality.

" I hope you liked your journey to
Europe," said Mr. Lewis with im-:
mense politeness. " Is the pope in
good health ?"

Mr. Southard was beyond the reach
of mocking. " I have postponed my
journey till this lady can be ready to
accompany me," he said. "And I
have convinced her that four weeks
will be enough for her preparation."

Aurelia went to lean on Margaret's
shoulder. She was trembling, but
her face showed full contentment.
" I would rather be Esther than Vash-
ti," she whispered.

" Tm delighted enough to forgive
you even a greater impertinence than
that, if greater could be," was the
whispered answer. " I am not Vash-
ti, though you are Estiier."

The next day, after coming home
fi-om early mass, Margaret sat in her
chamber toward the east, with Dora
and her two friends, Agnes and Vio-
let, leaning on her lap, and watching
her face. She had been telling them
the story of that miraculous birth,
and, finishing, looked up into the
morning sky, and forgot them ; forgot
the sky, too, presently, with all its
vapory golden stretches, and glimpses
of far-away blue, and saw instead her
life past, present, and to come.
Looking calmly, she forgave herself
much, for had not God forgiven her ?
and hoped much, for there was no

738

A Glimpse of Ireland.

room for despair; and grew content,
for all that she could desire was with-
in her reach.

Beginning at the lowest, she had
an assured home, kind friends, and a
dear and sacred duty in the care of
this child. So far, all was peace.

One step higher then. Could the
friend who still lived on in her heart
forget her in that heaven to which
her love had led hi'm ? And, weak
and childish though she was, with
her impatience, her scarcely broken
pride, her obstinately clinging affec-
tion, could she be altogether un-
'tovely to him ? Some strong assur-
ance answered no.

Higher yet her thought took its

stand. There was faith, that second
sight by which the soul sets her steps
aright as she climbs, never missing the
way. There was an unfading hope,
and a charity that embraced the
world. There was God. And aD
were hers !

As Margaret sat there, the three
children leaned motionless, hushing
themselves lest they should break
that beautiful trance. It was no mo-
mentary glow of enthusiasm, no mere
uprising of feeling; for mounting
slowly, through pain, and doubt, and
weakness, she had reached at last the
heights of her soul, and saw a wide,
bright daybreak over the horizon of
a loftier life.

A GLIMPSE OF IRELAND.

I HAD long cherished the desire to
visit Ireland, a country for many rea-
sons so interesting to every Ameri-
can Catholic. The opportunity of
making a brief tour in Europe during
a summer vacation having unexpect-
edly presented itself, I determined,
therefore, to leave the steamer at
Queenstown and make the journey
to London by way of Dublin. On
the 29th of July, 1867, after a re-
markably pleasant passage, we found
ourselves, at an early hour of the
morning, in sight of the famous Skel-
lig rocks — called by sailors the Bull,
Cow, and Calf— and thus gained the
welcome advantage of sailing all day
in sight of the Irish coast. The first
impression one receives from the
.appearance of the country between
Valentia and Cork is sad and deso-
late; in harmony with the tragic
history of the suffering, oppressed
jrace, whose home is seen for the first

time, by the voyager from the New
World, under one of its most banen
and lonely aspects. The only inte-
rest which can attract the eye and
the mind is that of a sort of wild and
rugged grandeur, coupled with the
historical associations which give a
charm to the names of Bantry and
Dingle. The lonely waters, where
scarcely a sail was to be seen during
the live-long day, told of the sup-
pression of the industrial and commer-
cial life of the Irish nation by the
long-continued tyranny of that power
which absorbs all its resources to feed
its own greatness.

The long, barren stretches, show-
ing scarcely a sign of vegetable, ani-
mal, or human life, where for miles
one could see only here and there a
little shealing and a few sheep crop-
ping the brown, scanty herbage,
seemed to give the lie to the wdl-
known, and, as I afterward saw, weQ-

A Glimpse of Ireland,

739

deserved appellation of "the Eme-
rald Isle." Expressions of surprise
escaped from some of my fellow-pas-
sengers, agreeable and intelligent
American gentlemen, who, like my-
self, were on their maiden trip to
Europe ; and from some others of the
party who were children of Irish
parents, looking for the first time on
the land of their exiled ancestors.
The coast is frequently steep and pre-
cipitous, suggesting to the memory
the many tales of shipwreck in wild
nights of tempest one has read in
boyhood. The Martello towers stand
at intervals along the horizon, like
gigantic watchmen looking out sea-
w^ard to spy the smuggler or the
foreign invader, and in the distance
the line of the Kerry Mountains
completes the view of the wild, deso-
late landscape. The heights of Ban-
try are rendered for ever sacred and
memorable by the martyrdom of the
Franciscan fathers, Donald and Hea-
ly, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth.
They were revisiting the ruined mon-
astery of Ban try, for the purpose of
ministering to the spiritual wants of
their poor, persecuted flock, when
they were seized by the agents of the
glorious reformation, tied back to
back, and hurled headlong down the
precipice into the ocean. What a
wonder that the Irish people are so
insensible to the value of a gospel
brought to them with so much pains
and trouble, so kindly presented to
them, enforced by such lovely exam-
ples of Christian virtue, and support-
ed so long, notwithstanding thtir ob-
stinacy, at such great expense !

Early in the morning, we stopped
our engines off the Cove of Cork, a
little steamer boarded us, the freight
and baggage were speedily, though,
in the case of rocking-chairs, not very
safely, tumbled aboard of her decks,
under the herculean direction of our
ikt boatswain. Three cheers went up

from the City of Paris, which steamed
off grandly for Liverpool, and we
puffed in, not grandly but very plea-
santly, toward Queenstown. The
Cove of Cork is world-renowned for
its beauty and excellence as a haven
for ships, but desolate-looking from
the fact that it is better supplied with
fortresses, cannon, and ships of war
than with the peaceful, plenty-bring-
ing steamers and sailing-vessels of
commerce. I once heard a little
American boy utter the exclamation,
as we were entering the port of Ha-
vana and espied the soldiers on duty,
" How afraid they must be, guarding
everything that way!" It appears
to be the same case in Ireland. The
English government is very much
afraid of its Irish subjects, if we may
measure its fears by the display of
force which meets the eye every-
where. The only consolation which
a sincere lover of the Irish people
can find in looking upon this state
of things is, that, since the endurance
of this coercive tyranny is for the
time a necessary evil, the force is so
very irresistible as effectually to pre-
vent the bloody horrors which would
follow a general insurrection. A
young English officer, whom I met at
the hotel in Cork, expressed his re-
gret that an open rebellion had not
broken out, which, he said, would
have been an affair of a month, and
which of course would only have
increased the miseries and riveted
the chains of the Irish people. For
myself, I could not help shuddering
at the thought of the fearful tragedy
which would have been enacted if
the people had been goaded by
demagogues to such an attempt, and
blessing God that the efforts of these
madmen had failed. It is plain
enough that Ireland cannot be gov-
erned in this way much longer. There
is but one hope and one method for
the English crown to retain Ireland

7AP

A Glimpse of Ireland.

as a portion of the British empire;
which is, to win the willing loyalty of
the people by an ample redress of
their grievances, and the inauguration
of a policy which has in view the
real good of the Irish people.

Our little steamer landed us at about
eight in the evening ; the officers were
very polite and obliging, and we
were soon ashore on the sacred soil,
with our luggage in the hands of a
couple of lively gossoons, and our
steps free to go anywhere we pleased.

As soon as one steps ashore on the
Irish soil, he feels that he is in tlie
land of frolic and drollery. The
irrepressible and indomitable spirit
of the Celtic race rebounds under the
strokes of adversity like an india-rub-
ber ball under the blows of a bat
"The harder you do knock him
down, the higher he do bounce."
My fellow-voyagers who came ashore
at Queenstown fell into a state of
hilarity at once which was wonderful
to behold, and which continued dur-
ing their whole stay in Ireland.
They held their sides and laughed
uproariously, not, be it understood,
with any feeling of contempt or ridi-
cule — for they were gentlemen, and
altogether free from snobbish preju-
dice or religious bigotry — but from
pure, genial sympathy with the come-
dy which was going on in the crowd
that pressed eagerly around the wel-
come passengers from America, con-
tending for their luggage. Old wo-
men whose vivacity old age had only
sharpened, and little boys who were
so many Flibbertigibbets in fun and
smartness, with huge cars drawn by
diminutive donkeys, on which they
piled pyramids of trunks, if they were
lucky enough to get them; boys
with barrows, and boys with only
hands and shoulders — struggled and
jibed and danced and scolded, and
rushed upon every passenger as he
.emerged from the barrier, in a good-

humored and tumultuous manner that
can only be appreciated by one who
has seen it. We pushed off for the
last train to Cork, followed by a do-
zen runners of the Queenstonin ho-
tels, vociferating the praises of their
several houses, assuring us that the
train had left five minutes before, and
urging us most affectionately to go up
the next morning after a good night's
sleep, by the boat, that we might
enjoy the scenery of the beautifiil
river Lee. Tliis piece of advice was
good, and I recommend every tra-
veller to follow it. We turned a deaf
ear to it, however, reached the train
in time, and in half an hour were
comfortably deposited in the wdl-
known and most excellent Imperial
Hotel of Cork

The rather singular English name
of Cork is not, as one is apt to sup-
pose, our common word designating
a certain very light substance, and
applied without any reason or propri-
ety that anybody can see to a ver}*
substantial city and county. It L* a
corruption of the Irish word Carroih^
signifying a valley, which has been
Anglicized, like many other foreii^n
words, by a most perverse and stujnd
English custom of changing them into
English words of somewhat similar
sound. The first beginning of the
city was a monastery founded in
the seventh century by St. Finnbar,
whom I recognized as an old ac-
quaintance, from the cathedral dedi-
cated to his honor at Charleston,
S. C, by the illustrious Bishop Eng-
land, who was a native of Cork. The
old cathedral of St. Finnbar, which was
rebuilt in 1735, has been demolished,
to make way for a new one, which 1
most devoutly hope may never l)e
built on the sacred spot consecrated
by the ancient Irish monk until this
shall revert to its rightful possessors.
Another holy site, that of Gil Abbey,
which is extremely picturesque and

A Glimpse of Ireland.

741

beautiful, is occupied by the Queen's
College. The Sisters of Mercy are
fortunate enough to possess another
pleasant spot, rising to a wooded hill,
which was also the seat of an anci-
ent monastery, and where is now
situated their very neat and commo-
dious convent. There are three
very good Catholic churches in the
city— St. Patrick's, St. Mary's, and
Holy Trinity ; the latter founded by
F. Matthew, and containing a stained
glass window as a memorial of
O'Connell. The Mardyke, an ave-
nue shaded with elms for the distance
of a mile, is a pleasant walk, and I
passed an hour there in company
with a small party of friends, from
New York, in a most amusing and
agreeable manner, surrounded by a
group of children with whom we
soon established a .most intimate
friendship by means of plums. The
Irish children are remarkable for
their beauty, their blooming health,
and for a mixture of fun and inno-
cence, of brightness and simplicity,
of boldness and modesty, indicating a
state as near to that of unfallen child-
hood as I can imagine. The pranks
of the young Corkonians afford a
source of unfailing amusement to
the stranger within their gates ; but I
was most amused by the boys with
donkeys, who were to be seen riding
in state to school in the morning,
and, in the afternoon, all about the
environs scattered in groups on the
grass, ready to exchange a biting sar-
casm with every passing coachman,
while their dear little friends, the
donkeys, fed quietly near by. It
would be useless, however, to at-
tempt to describe all that is droll and
comic in the population of Cork, for
it seems as if it were the business of
their lives to be as funny as they can,
for their own delight and that of the
beholder.

Cork is a fine, well-built town, of

90,000 inhabitants, the thu-d in im-
portance in Ireland. The environs
are extremely beautiful. I was there
at midsummer ; the weather was per-
fect, and I could see to the best ad-
vantage the tilth and verdure which
make the Emerald Isle so famous.
Certainly, they have not been exag-
gerated, and no one can wonder at
the praise which the Irishman be-
stows upon his soil, or the intense
love which he cherishes for it. I
only wonder that those who were
bom and bred there can ever be
contented elsewhere ; and surely no-
thing but the most unendurable po-
verty and want would ever drive
such numbers of them into exile.
Perhaps the most picturesque objects
which meet the eye, in the country,
are the white farm-houses with
thatched roofs, standing in their
neat little flower-gardens, their walls
covered with honeysuckle or other
creeping vines. The only thought
which mars the pleasure of looking
on the rich meadows, the waving
fields, the herds of superb cattle, and
flocks of fat sheep, is, that the out-
ward show of beauty and prosperity is
obtained by the sacrifice of the poor
people, and enjoyed by a small num-
ber only. If you drive out, your car-
riage is followed by a troop of rag-
ged, fleet-footed young beggars ; and
if you chance to pass a factory when
the hour for stopping work has come,
you may see a long procession of
young women, bareheaded, bare-
footed, ragged, and emaciated, who
are glad to work for a shilling a day.
The most interesting place to
visit in the neighborhood of Cork is
Blarney Castle. I am ashamed to
say that I was afraid to go on a
jaunting-car, although at Dublin I
made the experiment with great suc-
cess and pleasure. It seemed to me,
when I looked at the jaunting-car
for the first time, that it would shake

742

A Glimpse of Ireland.

one off as soon as it turned a comer.
We accordingly drove out to Blarney
in an open carriage, going by the
road to Kanturk, and returning by
Sunday-Well road. Aside from the
merely jocose associations of the
Blarney-stone, the old, ivy-clad tower
is an extremely interesting and pic-
turesque object, and the grounds of
the demesne, so celebrated in Irish
lyrics, are charming. The cromlech
and pillar stones, on which are in-
scriptions in the ancient Ogham cha-
racters, carry back the imagination to
an antiquity almost without Hmits, and
suggest the thought that perhaps as
long ago as the time of King David, or
even the Exodus, Druids may have per-
formed their sacred rites in these still
groves. Our guide was a poor little
sickly humpbacked boy of sixteen
rejoicing in the sobriquet of Lord
John Russell, and possessing very
sharp wits and inexhaustible good-
humor. Every one about the castle
seemed to take especial delight in a
standing joke at his expense, that he
was an old man with a heavy family.
The poor fellow seemed to enjoy
our company very much, and ex-
pressed the intention of emigrating
to America. The only reason he
could give was that the weather was
too warm in summer at .Blarney.
At the casde gate his jurisdiction ter-
minated, and we were handed over to
another amusing original, the lame
old gardener, who has many a story
to tell of Walter Scott, and Tom
Moore, and Father Prout As for
the Blarney-stone, I will not say how
many of our party kissed it In
Lord John Russell's opinion, there
was no need of our doing so ; he was
sure we had one of our own in Ame-
rica which we had all kissed frequently
before leaving home. Whoever has
spent an afternoon at Blarney, in
genial company, will admit that it
was one of the pleasantest days of his

life, if his soul is not too full of steam
and railroads to be capable of simple
and natural enjoyments.

The journey by rail from Cork to
Dublin is a most tantalizing one.
Flying at full speed through several
counties, one catches glimpses at
every moment of places and scenes
of historic interest and natural or
artificial beauty, which he longs to
visit and inspect at leisure. The dis-
tance is one hundred and sixty-five
miles; the railway is an admirable
one ; everything about the way stations
is neat and attractive, and the route
passes in a direct line through the
counties of Cork, Limerick, Tippe-
rary. King's, Queen's, and Kildare.
Among the objects of interest which
are passed are the abbeys of Moume,
Bridgetown, Kilmallock, Knocklong,
Holy Cross, TTiurles, Templemore,
Moore Abbey, Old Connell, Kildare
Cathedral, with St Bridget's chapel ;
the castles of Barrett, Carrignacenny,
Kilcolman, which the poet Spenser
received as his share in the spoliation ;
Charleville ; the Rock of Dunamase,
with the ruins of Strongbow*s Castle ;
the Rock of Cashel ; the Hill of Allen,
where Fin McCoul lived; several
round towers; the famous bog of
Allen ; the Curragh of Kildare; and
quantities of others — which keep one
perpetually, and to a great extent
vainly, looking out of window, firsl
on one side, then on the other, while
you are hurried over a country every
step of which is rich in histoi}-, poe-
try, and legend, and should be slowly
traversed on foot and at leisure.
Three of my agreeable companions
of the voyage were with me in the
same carriage ; a very pleasing gentle-
man, with his son, a bright youth of
sixteen, joined us an hour or two he^
fore reaching Dublin, and they were
as curious about America, especially
Indians, and our sea- voyage, as we
were about the antiquities and curi*

A Glimpse of Ireland,

743

osities of Ireland. Our trip was
therefore wanting in nothing to make
it lively and agreeable, and we were
finally deposited at the Gresham Ho-
tel, Sackville street, Dublin, in high
good humor, and quite ready for a
good dinner.

As I had only that evening and the
following day to remain in Dublin, I
was^ obliged to content myself with a
superficial view of the city, and a
visit to a few places of particular in-
terest. In its general features, Dub-
lin is at least equal to our finest Ame-
rican towns of the same class, al-
though more quiet, and showing signs
of stagnation in commercial prosperi-
ty. Its agreeable climate makes it a
delightful place of residence at all
seasons of the year, especially in the
summer.

My first visft was made to the
scene of the Ufe and labors of the
saintly Catherine McAuley, foundress
of the Sisters of Mercy, the convent
in Baggott street, where also repose
her mortal remains — a lovely spot for
the cradle of a religious order, and
suggestive of the time, I hope not
far distant, when Ireland shall once
again be full of these sacred homes
of the monastic Hfe, as she was before
the spoliation of her holy places by
the rutliless minions of Henry and
Elizabeth. I visited also Clontarf,
the scene of Brian Boru's decisive
victory over the Danes, and death,
and went to see what is said to have
been his harp, and is undoubtedly a
relic of very ancient times, at the
museum of Trinity College. The
college is a most attractive place, and
deUghtfully situated, on ground of
course originally stolen from the Ca-
tholic Church, and endowed out of
the spoils of monasteries. Quite in
keeping with its origin is the fact that
its library contains a large number of
valuable manuscript records, original-
ly stolen fix>m the papal archives.

The learned body which rules within
its classic halls has also made itself
remarkable by sustaining a claim, per-
haps the most absurd ever advanced
by persons professing to be scholars,
namely, that the Protestant Church
of Ireland is the lineal and legitimate
successor, in a direct, unbroken line,
of the ancient church of Saint Pa-
trick. This is adding insult to injury.
As if it were not enough to rob the
Irish people of their property, to per-
secute, torture, exile, and massacre
them by millions, on account of their
fidelity to their hereditary faith, their
title to the very name of Catholic
must be denied to them, and arroga-
ted for the intruders who have forced
themselves into their heritage by the
point of the bayonet and the viola-
tion of treaties. Two terrible anta-
gonists have arisen, however, out of
their own ciimp to smite these preten-
ders; Dr. Maziere ^rady, an Irish
Protestant clergyman, and Froude,
the English historian. The former
gentleman, in several learned and
unanswerable works, has demonstrat-
ed the regular, unbroken succession of
the present Catholic hierarchy and
people of Ireland, from the bishops,
and faithful who preceded the reign of
Henry VIII., and has shown that the-
Irish Protestant Church is nothing
but an English colony. The learned^
and accomplished • Dr. Moran, also,
whom I had the pleasure of meeting,
has written with great ability and re-
search upon the same topics.

Stephen's Green, which is near by
Trinity College, witnessed the burn-
ing of the heroic martyr Archbishop-
0*Hurley, tortured and put to death
at the instigation of the infamous >
Loftus, archbishop of Dublin. A few*
days later, I saw in the private chapel
of Archbishop Manning, at London,
a cloth stained with the blood of
Archbishop Plunkett, another illus-
trious martyr, who was publicly exe«

744

A Glimpse of Ireland.

cuted by the English government on
false charges. I venerate the relics of
the older martyrs, and the places
made sacred by the hallowed memo-
ries of other countries and ages far
remote; but nothing stirs my blood
like the holy mementoes of the men
who suffered in Ireland and England,
for the faith, under the tyranny of the
aoostate sovereigns and bishops of
Great Britain. These men are our
fathers in the faith, the heroes who
fought our batdcs, from whom we
have received the precious heritage
we enjoy in comparative peace.
Their memory ought to be kept alive
and honored among us, in every pos-
sible way, as a powerful incitement to
imitate their example, and a means
of endearing to our people that reli-
gion which has been handed down,
bathed in the blood of so many
noble Christians.

St. Patrick's Cathedral is the most
interesting and venerable monument
of antiquity in Dublin. My fellow-
travellers were astonished at seeing a
Protestant St. Patrick's, with a statue
of the great apostle over the princi-
pal door. Probably most Americans
who have not made themselves spe-
cially familiar with Irish history
fancy that most of the fine churches
of Dublin are Catholic churches.
Perhaps many of them are not aware
that every church, graveyard, glebe-
house, abbey, every rood of land,
every building, and every farthing of
revenue belonging to the Catholic
Church in Ireland, has been confisca-
ted by the English government. In
Dublin, out of eighty-four churches,
forty belonged to the English church,
. and only twenty to the Catholics, in
1866. At the close of the last centu-
ry there was not a Catholic church in
Dublin, nor could there be one ac-
cording to law. All the churches
and other institutions in Dublin are
therefore the creation of the present

century, the fruit of the free-will ofe-
ings of the poor people, and a few
wealthy persons, such as Catherine
McAuley, who consecrated her hand-
some fortune entirely to religion.

St. Patrick's dates from the year
1 190, though the spire was added in
the fourteenth century. It has been
thoroughly repaired and renovated, at
a cost of one hundred thou^nd
pounds, which was given by the wdl-
known brewer, Mr. Guinness. It
contains one of St Patrick's holy
wells, which is visible through an
opening in the floor, and guarded
with great respect. Tradition sayi
that the saint baptized the first Irish
convert in this fountain. Tiiis is
probably not true ; but it is very like!?
that he did use it for baptism, and
j>erhaps baptized in it the first con-
verts in that part of the country.
There are some ancient monuments
of bishops and knights, and some
modem ones of persons who have
figured during the Protestant ascen-
dency — Brown and Loftus, Swifl,
Stella, and the late Dr. ^\^lately. who
was Dr. Trench's immediate prede-
cessor. It is i>ainful enough to see
the old churches and abbeys of Eng-
land in the hands of aliens fix)m the
faith, although the mass of the peo-
ple have fallen away und cannot ap-
preciate the fearful loss they have
suffered, in the substitution of a crea-
ture of parliament in the place of
the spouse of Christ. In Ireland,
where the people remain fer\'ently
and devoutly Catholic, it is a fiir
more painful sight to witness th«r
ancient shrines and holy places in the
hands of the descendants of their
spoilers, who are unable to make any
use, even for Protestant worshi;\ of
the greater part of them. While the
respectable sexton, whose ajipoarancc
was that of a faded dean, was show-
ing me the church for the considera-
tion of a shilling, I was busily occu-

A Glimpse of Ireland.

745

own mind invoking St. Pa-
ike his own again, bring
Itars, restore the unbloody
,nd cause the chants of
;s to resound once more
walls of the venerable ca-
dicated to his honor. It
consolation to reflect that

the death-blow has been

the state church by the
;r which created it. And
justice has not vet been
le Catholic people of Ire-
ly step taken to restore to
sacred property of which
been robbed, there is the
ason to hope that, in the
ivents, they will yet regain
id peaceable means, with-
e or revolution,
ler objects which interest-
atlv, were the chamber of
House of Lords, preserved
t same state as when the
I was held in it, and the
)'Connell, at the beautiful
f Olasncvin.

ct morning I bade adieu to
m the deck of the Kings-
Holvhead steamer, and al-
vas only a passing glimpse
lined of this fair island, I
^'s be thankful to have had
;limpse.

has the strongest claims on
nd gratitude of all Catho-
;hout the English-speaking
er Celtic race, although

character, language, and
m the people whose mo-
ic is English, has been
to such close relations with

now blending with it to
emarkable extent in this
.nd other British colonies,
tory becomes as interesting
e early history of England,
although a handful of Eng-
:otch remained true to the
g the revolution of die six-

teenth century, it is to Ireland that is
due the honor of holding aloft the
banner of religion, around which are
now grouped one fifth of the bishops
owning allegiance to St. Peter. Ame-
rican converts are especially bound
to gratitude to that Irish people who,
above all others, have been the foun-
ders of the Catholic Church through-
out the largest portion of our repub-
lic. For fourteen centuries, that peo-
ple has handed down and witnessed
to the faith which St. Patrick brought
from France and Rome in the fifth
century, when St. Augustine was yet
scarcely cold in his grave. Without
disparaging the great services which
other nationalities have rendered to
religion in our country, it is undoubt-
ed that, in our portion of it, it is
through the Irish succession chiefly
that we communicate with past ages,
and through their rich life-blood that
our Catholicity has become vigorous.
As Catholics and as Americans, we
are the natural friends of Ireland
and the Irish. One very good and
pleasant way of showing this friend-
ship is, for those who have money
enough to travel, to spend a portion
of their time and money in Ireland.
The advantage will be mutual Those
who are in search of health, pleasure,
and improvement, cannot spend a
month or two more delightfully or
beneficially tfian on such a tour. On
the other hand, the money spent,
whether in purchases or in alms to
the poor, will do great good, and the
sym])athy, kindness, respect for their
religion and themselves, manifested
toward the people so long borne
down by the peine forte ct dure of op-
pression and contempt, will be fully
appreciated by their warm hearts, and
encourage them to hope for the full
coming of that better day whose
dawning already appears in the horizon.
It is much to be desired that the
good beginning already made by

several excellent writers, in publishing
books on the religious hbtory of Ire-
land, should be actively followed up.
A well-written, popular history, with
illustrations, of all the principal places
of interest in the secular and ecclesi-
astical history of the country, with
sketches of the monastic institutions
formerly flourishing ; of the old
churches, and episcopal sees; and
lives of the saints and great men who
have flourished, especially the mar-
tyrs, would be of the greatest service
to religion. Such a volume would
enable the Catholic tourist to visit the

Primeval Man.

country with the greatest poa
advantage and pleasure, beside
more important help it would gi^
strengthening the faith and devc
of the rising generation in Irel
and the countries to which she
sent her colonies. The richest
most abundant field is open to lii
ture of all kinds, both of the \\%
and the more solid character, an
is to be hoped that it will be
roughly explored and well worker
those who are true and faithful tc
ancient, valiantly defended Caitl;
the Island of Saints.

PRIMEVAL MAN.*

There are few more active or able
members of the English House of
Lords or of the British ministry than
the Scottish Duke of Argyll, and, if
we could forget the treason to the
Stuarts and the Scottish nation of
some of his ancestors, there are few
scholars and scientific men in the
United Kingdom whom we should
be disposed to treat with greater re-
spect. He is at once a statesman, a
scientist, and a theologian; and in
all three capacities has labored ear-
nestly to serve his country and civili-
zation. In politics, he is, of course, a
whig, or, as is now said, a liberal ; as
a theologian, he belongs to the Kirk
of Scotland, and may be regarded as
a Calvinist ; as a man of science, his
aim appears to be to assert the free-
dom and independence of science,
without compromising religion. His
work on the J^a^i^n of Law, reviewed
and sharply criticised in this maga-

* Primeval Mnn. An Examination of some Recent
Speculations. By the Duke of Arj^U. New York :
ftoatle<^ ft Sods. 1869. i6mo,i>p.3io.

zine for February, 1868, was des
ed to combat the atheistic tenden
of modem scientific theories, by
serting final causes, and resolving
natural laws of the physicists into
direct and immediate will of God
In the present work, quite
brief and sketchy, he treats of
primeval man, and maintains n
origin in the creative act of (
against the developmentists and
tural selectionists, which is well, a
as it goes. He treats, also, of the
tiquity of man, and of his priir
condition. He appears disposed 1
low man a higher antiquity thai
think the facts in the case wan
but, though he dissents, to some ex
from the theory of the late Ang
Archbishop of Dublin, we find
combating with great success th
vage theory of Sir John Lubl
who maintains that man began ii
lowest form of barbarism in ¥
he can subsist as man, and has
to his present state of civilizatio
his own spontaneous and unass

Primeval Man.

747

— a theory just now very gene-
idopted in the non-Catholic
and assumed as the basis of
)dem doctrine of progress — the
est doctrine that ever gained
cy among educated men.
noble duke very properly de-
e origin of species in develop-
md the production of new spe-
f " natural selection," as Dar-
olds, and acceded to by Sir
s Lyell and an able writer in
luarterly for last April. The
naintains that man was created
not developed from a lower
;, from the tadpole or monkey.
,hile he asserts the origin of
i in the creative act of God, he
es God supplies extinct species
iting new species by successive
e acts; thus losing the unity
creative act, placing multiplici-
he origin of things, and favor-
it very atheistical tendency he
> war against. His Reign of
hough well-intended, and high-
sed by our amiable friend, M.
tin Cochin, of Le Correspon-
howed us that the noble author
ed both in his theology and phi-
y. In resolving the natural laws
e will of God enforcing itself
tver, he fails to recognize any
tion between first cause and se-
cause, and, therefore, between
atural and the supernatural,
loes all, not only as first cause,
sa cffiirtens, as say the theolo-
but as the direct and imme-
ictor, which, of course, is pan-
, itself only a form of atheism,
'e know not that his grace
have done better, with Calvin-
• his theology, and the Scottish
, as finished by Sir William Ha-
, for his philosophy. To have
ghly refuted the theories against
he honorably protests, he must
cnown Catholic theology, and
iristian view of the creative act

We have no disposition, at present,
to discuss the antiquity either of man
or the globe. If the fact that God,
in the beginnings created heaven and
earth, and all things therein, visible
and invisible, is admitted and main-
tained, we know not that we need, in
the interest of orthodoxy, quarrel
about the date when it was done.
Time began with the extemization of
the divine creative act, and the uni-
verse has no relation beyond itself,
except the relation of the creature to
the creator. Considering the late
date of the Incarnation, we are not
disposed to assign man a very high
antiquity, and no geological or histo-
rical facts are, as yet, established, that
require it for their explanation. We
place little confidence in the hasty
inductions of geologists.

But the primitive condition of man
has for us a deeper interest ; and we
follow the noble duke with pleasure
in his able refutation of the savage
theory of Sir J. Lubbock. Sir John
evidently holds the theory of devel-
opment, and that man has been de-
veloped from a lower species. He
assumes that his primitive human
state was the lowest form of barba-
rism in which he can subsist as man.
With regard to man*s development
firom lower animals, it is enough to
say that development cannot take
place except where there are living
germs to be developed, and can only
unfold and bring out what is contain-
ed in them. But we find in man,
even in the lowest form of savage
life, elements, language or articulate
speech, for instance, of which there
are no germs to be found in the ani-
mal kingdom. We may dismiss that
theory and assume at once that man
was created, and created man. But
was his condition in his primitive
state that of the lowest form of bar-
barism ? Is the savage the primitive
man, or the degenerate man? The

Primeval Man.

7A9

many elements of a strong civiliza-
tion, could not sustain themselves
from falling into barbarism, how pre-
tend that the lowest and most degra-
ded savages can, without any foreign
assistance, lift themselves into a civi-
lized state ?

The second proposition, that civi-
lized nations retain traces of barba-
rism, proves nothing to tlie purpose.
These traces, at most, prove only that
the nations in which we detect them
have passed through a state of bar-
barism, as we know modern nations
have ; not that barbarism was, in any
form, the primitive condition of the
race. It is not pretended that no
savage tribe has ever been civilized ;
what is denied is, that the race
began in the savage state, or that,
if it had so begun, it could ever have
risen by its own natural forces alone
to civilization. There is no evidence
that the cruel and bloody customs,
traces of which we find in civilized
nations, were those of the primeval
man. The polished and cultivated
Romans were more savage in their
customs than the northern barbarians
who overthrew their civilization, much
to the relief of mankind. When the
late Theodore Parker drew a picture
of the New Zealander in order to
describe Adam, he proceeded accord-
ing to his theory of progress, but
without a shadow of authority. We
find a cruelty, an inhumanity, an
oppression, bloody and obscene rites,
among polished nations — as Rome,
Syria, Phoenicia, and modem India —
that we shall look in vain for among
downright savages ; which shows that
we owe them to cultivation, to de-
velopment, that is, to " development,"
as the noble duke well says, " in cor-
ruption."

But these traces of so-called barba-
rism among civilized nations are
more than offset by remains of civili-
xation which we find in savage tribes.

Sir J. Lubbock and others take these re-
mains as indications of progress among
savages; but they mistake the eve-
ning twilight deepening into darkness,
for that of the morning ushering in
the day. This is evident from the fact
that they are followed by no progress.
They are reminiscences, not promises.
If germs, they never germinate ; but
have been deprived of their vitality.
To us, paganism bears witness in all
its forms that it has degenerated from
its normay or type ; not that it is ad-
vancing toward it. We see in its
incoherence, its incongruities and in-
equalities, that it is a fall or depar-
ture from something higher, more
living and more perfect. Any one
studying Protestantism, in any of its
forms, may see that it is not an
original system of religion; that it
is a departure fix>m its type, not an
approach to it ; and, if we know well
the Catholic Church, we see at once
that in her is the type that Protes-
tantism loses, corrupts, or travesties.
So paganism bears unmistakable evi-
dence of what we know from authen-
tic history, that, whether with polished
gentiles or with rude savages and
barbarians, its type, from which it re-
cedes, is the patriarchal religion. We
know that it was an apostasy or falling
away from that religion, the primitive
religion of the race, as Protestantism
is an apostasy or falling away from
the Catholic Church. Protestantism, in
the modem world, is what gen til ism
was in the ancient ; and as gentilism
is the religion of all savage or barba-
rian tribes, we have in Protestantism
a key for explaining whatever is dark
or obscure in their history. We see
in Protestant nations a tendency to
lose or throw off more and more of
what they retained when they sepa-
rated from the church, and which,
before the lapse of many generations,
if not arrested, will lead them to a
hopeless barbarism. The traces of

7SO

Primeval Man,

Catholic faith we find in them are
reminiscences, not prophecies.

We find with the lowest and most
degraded savages, language, and
often a language of great richness,
singular beauty and expressiveness.
Terms for which savages have no use
may sometimes be wanting, but it is
rare that the language cannot be made
to supply them fi'om its resources.
In the poorest language of a sav-
age tribe, there is always evidence of
its having been the language of a
people superior in ideas and culture
to the present condition of those who
speak it Language, among savage
tribes, we take to be always indica-
tive of a lost state far above that of
barbarism ; and it not only refutes the
theory of natural progress, but, as far
as it goes, proves the doctrine of
primitive instruction by the Creator,
maintained by Dr. Whately, and only
partially accepted by his Grace of
Argyll.

Language is no human invention,
nor the product of individual or so-
cial progress. It requires language
to invent language, and there is no
individual progress out of society,
and no society is possible without
language. Hence, animals may be
gregarious, but not sociable. They
do not, and never can, form society.
Max Miiller has disposed of the bow-
wow theory, or the origin of language
in the imitation of the cries of ani-
mals, and also of the theory that sup-
poses it to originate in the imitation
of the sounds of nature, as buzz, rat-
tle, etc.; for if a few words could origi-
nate in this way, language itself could
not, since there is much more in lan-
guage than words. The more com-
mon theory, just now, and which has
respectable names in its favor, is that
God is indeed the author of language,
but as causa emiftens, as he is of all
that nature does ; that is, he does not
directly teach man language, but

creates him with the power or la<
of speaking, and making himsell
derstood by articulate speech,
this theory will not bear examina

Between language and the fa<
of using it there is a diflference
no faculty creates its own ol
The faculty of speaking couk
more be exercised without langi
than the faculty of seeing withe
visible object. Where there is nc
guage, the faculty is and must b
operative. The error is in supp"
that the faculty of using lang
is the faculty of creating langi
which it cannot be; for, till the
guage is possessed and held in
mind, there is nothing for the fii
of speech to operate on or with,
have given man the faculty of sp
the Creator must have begui
teaching him language, or by infi
it with the meaning of its words
his mind. We misapprehend the
nature and office of language, i
suppose it can p>ossibly be used e3
as learned from or taught by a tea
Man, as second cause, can no
produce language than he can c
something from nothing. If
made us as second causes capab
creating language, why can wc
do it now, and master it with<
long and painful study? Sinc<
faculty must be the same in all
why do not all men speak on<
the same dialect ?

We will suppose man had lanj
from the first. But there is nc
guage without discoiu^e of re
A parrot or a crow may be taug
pronounce single words, and
sentences, but it would be absu
assert that either has the facul
language. To have language a;
able to use it, one must have 1
ledge, and the sense of the
must precede, or at least be sir
neous with the word. Both the
and its meaning roust be associal

Primeval Man,

751

the mind. How then could the Crea-
tor give man the faculty of language,
without imparting to him in some
way the ideas and principles it is fit-
ted to express, and without express-
ing which it cannot be language?
He must do so, or there could
be no verbum mentis^ and the word
would be spoken without meaning.
Moreover, all language is profoundly
philosophical, and conforms more
nearly to the reality of things than
any human system yet attained to,
not only by savages, but by civilized
and cultivated men ; and whenever it
deviates from that reality, it is when
it has been corrupted by the false
systems and methods of philosophers.
In all languages, we find subject, pre-
dicate, and copula. The copula is
always the verb to be^ teaching those
who understand it that nothing exist-
ing can be affirmed except by being
and in its relation to being, that is God,
who is QUI EST. Were ignorant sa-
vages able distinctly to recognize and
embody in language the ideal formu-
la, when no philosopher can ever
apprehend and consider it unless re-
presented to him in words ? Impos-
sible.

We take language, therefore, as a
reminiscence among savages of a pre-
vious civilization, and a conclusive
proof that, up to a certain point at
least, the primeval man, as Dr.
Whately maintains, was and must
have been instructed by his Maker.
As language is never known save as
learned from a teacher, its existence
among the lowest and most degraded
barbarians is a proof that the prime-
val man was not, and could not have
been an untutored savage. The An-
glican archbishop, having, as the
Scottish duke, no proper criterion of
truth, may have included in the pri-
mitive instruction more than it actu-
ally contained. An error of this sort
in an Anglican should surprise no

one. Truth or sound philosophy
fi'om such a source would be the only
thing to surprise us. We do not sup-
pose Adam was directly instructed in
all the mechanic arts, in the whole
science and practice of agriculture, or
in the entire management of flocks
and herds, nor that he had steam-en-
gines, spinning-jennies, power-looms,
steamboats, railroads, locomotives,
palace-cars, or even lightning tele-
graphs. We do not suppose that the
race, in relation to the material order,
received any direct instructions, ex-
cept of the most elementary kind, or
in matters of prime necessity, or high
utility to his physical life and health.
The ornamental arts, and other mat-
ters which do not exceed man's natu-
ral powers, may have been left to
man to find out for himself, though
we have instances recorded in which
some of them were taught by direct
inspiration, and many modem inven-
tions are only the reproduction of
arts once known, and subsequently
lost or forgotten.

It is not difficult to explain how
our modem advocates of progress
have come to regard the savage
as the primeval man, and not as the
degenerate man. Their theory of na-
tural progress demands it, and they
have always shown great facility in
accommodating their facts to their
theories. They take also their starting-
point in heathenism of compara-
tively recent origin, and study the
law of human development in the
history of gentilism. They forget
that gentilism originated in an apos-
tasy firom the patriarchal or primitive
moral and religious order, and that,
fi'om the first, there remained, and
always has remained, on earth a peo-
ple that did not apostatize, that re-
mained faithful to tradition, to the pri-
mitive instruction and wisdom. They
fail to consider that, language con-
founded and the race dispersed, those

752

Primeual Man.

who remained nearest the original
seats of civilization, and were separa-
ted by the kast distance from the peo-
ple that remained faithful, became
the earliest civilized or polished gen-
tile nations, and that those who wan-
dered further into the wilderness —
receding further and further from light,
losing more and more of their origi-
nal patrimony, cut off from all inter-
course with civilization by distance,
by difference of language, and to
some extent, perhaps, by physical
changes and convulsions of the globe,
degenerated gradually into barbarians
and savages. Occasionally, in the
course of ages, some of these wan-
dering and degenerate tribes were
brought under the influence of civil-
ization by the arts, the arms, and the
religion of the more civilized gentile
nations. But in none has the gentile
civilization, in the proper sense of
the tenn, ever risen above what the
gentiles took with them from the primi-
tive stock, when they a]X)stati2ed.
Protestant nations are below, not
above, what they were at the epoch
of the Refonnation. The reformers
were greatly superior to any of their
successors.

But our philosophic historians
take no account of these things, nor
of the fact that history shows them
no barbaric ancestors of the Egyp-
tians, Indians, Assyrians, Babyloni-
ans, Syrians, Phoenicians, etc. They
find, or think they find, from the
Greek |)oets and traditions, that the
ancestors of the Greeks and Romans,
each a comparatively modem people,
were really savages, and that suffices
them to prove that the savage state
is the primeval state of the race !
They find, also, that a marvellous
progress in civilization, under Chris-
tianity has been effected, and what
hinders them from concluding that
man is naturally progressive, or that
the savage is able, by his own efforts,

to lift himself into civilized
Have not the northern barba
who overthrew the Roman ei
of the west, and seated themselv
its majestic ruins, become, unde
teachings and the su{>ematural
ences of the church, the great
lized nations of the modem W4
How, then, pretend to deny thai
barians and savages can become
lized by their own spontaneous €
and natural forces alone ?

Whether any savage tribe was
civilized under gentilism is, p>er
doubtful ; but if the philosophe
history would take the right lin
stead of a collateral line or ba
branch of the human family, an<
low it from Adam down, througl
patriarchs, the synagogue, and
Catholic Church, they would
that there has always been a belie
a faithful, an enlightened, and a
lized people on earth, and they i
would and never could have imaj
any thing so untrue as that man I
" in the lowest fonn of barbani
which he can subsist as man."
have no indication of the existent
any savage or barbarous tribes b
the flood ; nor after the flood, til
confusion of language at Bal>el, an<
consequent dispersion of th*: hi
race ; that is, till after the gi
apostasy, of which they are on
the fruits. Adam, by his fall,
communion with God, became (
ened in his understanding, enfe<
in his will, and disonlered in hi:
pctites and passions ; but he dii
lose all his science, forget all hi:;
ral and religious instruction, am
come a complete savage. Be:
his communion with God was re
ed by repentance and faith in
promised Messiah,. or incarnate
of God, who should come to rc<
the world, and enable man to
his destiny, or attain his end.

We do not by any means

Primeval Man,

753

progress. We believe in it with St.
Paul, and struggle for it in individuals
and in society. We only do not be-
lieve in progress or perfectibility by
the simple forces of nature alone, or
that man is naturally progressive.
Existences have two movements or
cycles : the one, their procession, by
way of creation, from God as first
cause ; the other, their return, without
absorption in him, to God as their
final cause or beatitude, as we have
on several occasions very fully shown.
In the first cycle, man is explicated
by natural generation, and his powers
are determined by his nature, or the
physical laws of his existence. In
the second cycle, his explication is by
regeneration, a supernatural act ; and
hb progress is directed and controlled
by the moral law prescribed by God
as final cause, and is limited only by
the infinite, to which he aspires, and,
by the assistance of grace, may at-
tain. The first cycle is initial, and in
it there is no moral, religious, or so-
cial progress; there is only physical
development and growth. It is un-
der the natural laws of the physicists,
who never look any further. The
second cycle is teleological, and un-
der the moral law, or the natural law
of the theologians and the legists.
In this teleological cycle lies the whole
moral order, as distinguished fi"om the
physical; the whole of religion; its
means, influences, and ends; and,
consequently, civilization, in so far as
it has any moral or religious charac-
ter, aims, or tendency.

Civilization, we are aware, is a
word that has hardly a fixed meaning,
and is used vaguely, and in different
senses. It is derived fi'om a word
signifying the city — in modem lan-
guage, the state — and relates to the
organization, constitution, and admin-
istration of the commonwealth or re-
public. It is used vaguely for the
aggregate of the manners, customs,

VOL. IX. — ^48

and usages of city life, and also
for the principles and laws of a well-
ordered and well-governed civil socie-
ty. We take it chiefly in the latter
sense, and understand by it the supre-
macy of the moral order in secular
life, the reign of law, or the subjection
of the passions and turbulent elements
of human nature in the individual, the
family, and society to the moral law ;
or, briefly, the predominance of rea-
son and justice over passion and ca-
price in the affairs of this world, and
therefore coincident with liberty, as
distinguished from license. The race
began in civilization, because it began
with a knowledge of the law of hu-
man existence, man's origin and des-
tiny, and of the means and conditions
of gaining the end for which he ex-
ists ; and because he was placed in the
outset by his Maker in possession of
these means and conditions, so that
he- could not fail except through
his own fault. Those who reject,,
neglect, or pervert the moral order,
follow only the natural laws, separate
from the communion of the faithful,
and remain in the initial cycle, grad-
ually become barbarians, supersti-
tious, the slaves of their own passions,
cruel and merciless savages, even if
still cultivated, refined, and mild-man-
nered.

We place civilization, then, in the
second cycle or movement of exis-
tences, under the moral law, and must
do so or deny it all moral basis or
moral character. What is not moral
in its aims and tendencies, or is not
in the order of man's return to God
as his last end, we exclude from civi-
lization, as no part of it, even if called
by its name. There is no civilizatioa
where there is no state or civil polity ;
and there can be no state or civil
polity, though there may be force,
tyranny, and slavery, out of the
moral order. The state lies in the
moral or teleological order, and is.

;r54 Frtmevat Man.

under the moral law — the law pre- physical

scribed by God as final cause. It better,

derives all its principles from it, and cable is

is founded and governed by it. Its setts, wt

very mission is the maintenance of lofty pc

justice, freedom, and order; and, as glorious

far as it goes, to keep men's faces tion — o

towards the end for which they are nature.

created. And hence the concord succeed

there is, or should be, between the ship, wi

state and the church, air, it w

Most of those things, it will be seen of mod

from this, after which the gentiles logians.

seek, and which the modems caU civi- their he:

lization, may be adjuncts of civiliza- tion, by

don, in the sense of our Lord, when in our

he says, " Seek first the kingdom of physical

God and his justice, and aii these develop

things shall be added unto you ;" but natural

they do not constitute civilization, are of cert;

not it, nor any part of it. Here is of utilit;

where modem gentilisra errs, no less cxistenc

than did the ancient Take up any ral signi

of the leading journals of the day, we becc

and you will find what with great ment o

emphasis is called modem civilisation order, 1

is in the initial order, not the teleolo- not cnt

gical; and is only a development and exists o

application of the natural laws of the that oiu

physicists, not the natural or moral of the i

law of the theologians and legists, no pro|

The press and popular orators called, alizatior
a few years ago, Cyrus W. Field, who But ¥

had taken a leading share in laying in deve

a submarine telegraph from the west- own pu

em coast of Ireland to the eastern man an

coast of Newfoundland, a "second must ret

Messiah." When, after much urging sort initi

and some threats. President Lincoln or the

proclaimed, as a war measure, the To entei

emancipation of the slaves in certain rated, a

States and parts of States then at rate tha

war with the general government. Here, w

the press and orators that appro- lization i

ved, both at home and abroad, forth- is neces

with pronounced him also a " se- of the c

cond Messiah," and without stopping the divii

to inquire whether the emancipation the crea

' would be any thing more than the ex- pletes th

■change of one form of compulsory second,

Primeval Man,

755

as we are reborn of Christ, as we
were bom in the first cycle of Adam.
Hence, Christ is called the second
Adam, the Lord from heaven. Civi-
lization, morality, salvation, are in
one sense in the same order and under
one and the same law.

Progress being possible, except in
the sense of physical development,
only in the movement of return to
God as final cause, and that move-
ment originating in the Incarnation
only, it follows that those nations alone
that are united to Christ by faith and
love, either united to him who was to
come, as were the patriarchs and the
synagogue, before the Incarnation, or
to him in the church or the re-
generation, as are Catholics since, are
or can be progressive, or even truly
civilized nations. They who assert
progress by our natural forces alone,
confound the first cycle with the sec-
ond, generation with regeneration,
and the natural laws, which proceed
from God as first cause, with the
natural or moral law which is pre-
scribed by God as final cause. It
is a great mistake, then, to suppose,
as many do, that the mysteries of
faith, even the most recondite, have
no practical bearing on the progress
of men and nations, or that it is safe,
in studying civilization, to take our
point of departure in gentilism.

In accordance with our conclusion,
we find that gentile nations, ancient
or modem, are really unprogressive,
save in the physical or initial order;
which is of no account in the
moral or teleological order. We
deny not the achievements of Pro-
testant nations in the physical order;
but, in relation to the end for which
man exists, they not only do not ad-
vance beyond what they took with
them from the church, but are con-
stantly deteriorating. They have
lost the condition of moral and spi-
litual progress, individually and col-

lectively, by losing communion with
Christ in his chiurch; they have lost
Christ, in reality, if not in name; and
by losing the infallible word preserved
by the church alone, they have lost
or are losing the state, civil authority it-
self, and finding themselves reduced to
what St. Paul calls "the natural man."
They place all their hopes in physical
success, always certain to fail in the
end, when pursued for its own sake.

We have raised and we raise here
no question as to what God might
have done, or how or with what pow-
ers he might have created man, had
he chosen. We only take the plan
he has chosen to adopt ; and which,
in his providence and grace, he car-
ries out In the present decree, as say
the theologians, he has subjected the
whole teleological order to one and
the same law; and civilization, mo-
rality, and Christian sanctity are not
separable in principle, and depend on
one and the same fundamental law.
Gentilism divorces religion and the
state from morality; and modem
heresy recognizes no intrinsic relation
between them. It tells us religion is
necessary to the stability of the politi-
cal order; that Christianity is the ba-
sis of morality, and that it is the great
agent of progress ; but it shows us no
reason why it is or should be so, and
in its practical doctrine it teaches that
it is not so. Every thing, as far as it
informs us, depends on arbitrary ap-
pointment, and without any reason
of being in the system of things
which God has seen proper to cre-
ate. Hence, people are unable to
form to themselves any clear view of
the relation of religion and morality,
of morality and civilization, or to ar-
rive at any satisfactory understanding
of the purpose and law of human ex-
istence; and they either fi^me to them-
selves the wildest, the most fanciful,
or the most absurd theories, or give
the *whole up in despair, sink into a

756

Angela,

state of utter indifference, and say,
" Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow
we die." They simply vegetate in
vice or crime, or, at best, only take
themselves to the study of the physical
sciences, or the cultivation of the fine
arts. We have shown that their diffi-
culties and discouragements are

imaginary, and arise from ignoia
of the divine plan of creation,
the mutual relation and depends
of all its parts. One divine thoi
runs through the whole, and not
does or can stand alone. We si
things too much in their analysis,
enough in their synthesis.

TRANSLATBO FItOM THB GSRMAN OF OONSAD VON BOLAHOSir.

ANGELA.

CHAPTER III.
QUOD ERAT DEMONSTRANDUM.

On the following day, Richard
went to the weather-cross. He did
not meet Angela. She must have
been unusually early ; for the flowers
had evidently just been placed before
the statue.

He returned, gloomy, to the house
and wrote in his diary :

" May 14th. — She did not meet me to-
day, and probably will not meet me again.
I should have left the book where it was ;
it might have awakened her gratitude ; for
I think she left it purposely, to give me an
opportunity to make her acquaintance.

" How many young women would give
more than a book to get acquainted with a
wealthy party. The * Angel* is very sen-
sitive ; but this sensibility pleases me, be-
cause it is true womanly delicacy.

" She will now avoid meeting me in this
lonely road. But I will study her charac-
ter in her father's house. I will see if she
does not confirm my opinion of the women
of our times. It was for this purpose alone
that I accepted Siegwart's invitation. An-
gela must not play Isabella ; no woman ever
shall. Single and free from woman's yoke,
I will go through the world."

He put aside the diary, and began
reading Vogt^s Physiological Letters.

At three o'clock precisely, Richard
with the punctual doctor left Frank-
enhohe. They passed through the
chestnut grove and through the vine-

yard toward Salingen. llie d<
pushed on with long steps, his
swinging back and forth. He
evidendy pleased with the subje
had been reading. He had, on
ing the house, shaken Richard h\
hand, and spoken a few frk
words, but not a syllable s
Richard knew his ways, and \
that it would take some time for
to thaw.

They were passing between '
wart's house and Salingen when
beheld Angela, at a distance, coi
toward them. She carried a
basket on her arm, and on her
she wore a straw hat with broad
tcring ribbons. Richard fixed
eyes attentively on her. This 1
also, she did not wear hoops, 1
dress of modest colors. He ado
her light, graceful movement
charming figure. The blustering
tor moderated his steps and went 2
er the nearer he came to Angela,
considered her with surprise, f
greeted her, touching his hat
did not thank him, as before, v
friendly greeting, but by a sea
perceptible inclination of the h
nor did she smile ^ before, bv
this account seemed to him 1
charming and etherenl than
She only glanced at him, anc

Angela.

757

thought he observed a slight blush
on her cheeks.

These particulars were engrossing
the young man's attention when he
heard the doctor say,

" Evidentiy the Angel of Salingen."

" Who ?" said Richard in surprise.

" The Angel of Salingen," returned
Klingenberg. " You are surprised at
this appellation ; is it not well-merit-
ed?"

" My surprise increases, doctor ; foi
exaggeration is not your fashion."

" But she deserves acknowledgment
Let me explain. The maiden is the
daughter of the proprietor Siegwart,
and her name is Angela. She is a
model of every virtue. She is, in the
female world, what an image of the
Virgin, by one of the old masters,
would be among the hooped gentry
of the present. As you are aware, I
have been often called to the cabins
of the sick poor, and there the quiet,
unostentatious labors of this maiden
have become known to me. Angela
prepares suitable food for the sick,
and generally takes it to them her-
self. The basket on her arm does
service in this way. There are many
poor persons who would not recover
unless they had proper, nourishing
food. To these Angela is a great
benefactor. For this reason, she has
a great influence over the minds of
the sick, and the state of the mind
greatly facilitates or impedes their re-
covery.

" I have often entered just after she
had departed, and the beneficial in-
fluence of her presence could be still
seen in the countenances of the poor.
Her presence diffused resignation,
peace, contentment, and a peculiar
cheerfulness in the meanest and most
wretched hovels of poverty, where she
enters without hesitation. This is
certainly a rare quality in so young a
creature. She rejoices the hearts of
the children by giving them clothes,

sometimes made by herself, or pic-
tures and the like. Her whole object
appears to be to reconcile and make
all happy. I have just seen her for
the first time ; her beauty is remarka-
ble, and might well adorn an angel.
The common people wish only to
Germanize 'Angela' when they call
her * Angel.' But she is indeed an
angel of heaven to the poor and
needy."

Frank said nothing. He moved
on in silence toward the weather-
cross.

" I have accidentally discovered a
singular custom of your * angel,' doc-
tor. There is at the weather-cross a
Madonna of stone. Angela has im-
posed upon herself the singular task
of adorning this Madonna, daily, with
firesh flowers."

"You are a profane fellow, Rich-
ard. You should not speak in such
a derisive tone of actions which are
the out-flowings of pious sentiment."

" Every one has his hobby. What
will not people do through ambition ?
I know ladies who torture a piano for
half the night, in order to catch the
tone of the prima-donna at the opera.
I know women who undergo all pos-
sible privations to be able to wear as
fine clothes, as costly furs, as others
with whom they are in rivalry. This
exhaustive night-singing, these depri-
vations, are submitted to through
foolish vanity. Perhaps Angela is
not less ambitious and vain than oth-
ers of her sex. As she cannot dazzle
these country folk with furs or toi-
lette, she dazzles their religious senti-
ment by ostentatious piety."

" Radically false 1" said the doctor.
" Charity and virtue are recognized
and honored not only in the country,
but also in the cities. Why do not
your coquettes strive for this appro-
val? Because they want Angela's
nobility of soul. And again, why
should Angela wish to gain the ad-

758

Angela,

miration of the peasants? She is the
daughter of the wealthiest man in the
neighborhood. If such was her ob-
ject, she could gratify her ambition in
a very different way."

" Then Angela is a riddle to me,"
returned Richard. " I cannot con-
ceive the motives of her actions."

" Which are so natural! The mai-
den follows the impulses of her own
noble nature, and these impulses are
developed and directed by Christian
culture, and convent education.
Angela was a long time with the
nuns, and only returned home two
years ago. Here you have the very
natural solution of the riddle."

"Are you acquainted with the
Siegwart family ?"

" No ; what I know of Angela I
learned from the people of Salingen."

They arrived ' at the platform.
Klingenberg stood silent for some
time admiring the landscape. The
view did not seem to interest Rich-
ard. His eyes rested on Angela's
home, whose white walls, surrounded
by vineyards and corn-fields, glisten-
ed in the sun.

"It is worth while to come up
here oftener," said Klingenberg.

" Angela's work," said Richard as
he drew near the statue. The doc-
tor paused a moment and examined
the flowers.

" Do you observe Angela's fine
taste in the arrangement of the co-
lors ?" said he. " And the forget-me-
nots ! What a deep religious mean-
ing they have ."

They returned by another way to
Frankenhohe.

"Angela's pious work," began
Richard after a long pause, " reminds
roe of a religious custom against
which modem civilization has thus
far warred in vain. I mean the vene-
ration of saints. You, as a Protestant,
will smile at this custom, and I, as a
Catholic, must deplore the tenacity

with which my church clings to this
obsolete remnant of heathen idola-
try."

" Ah I this is the subject you allud-
ed to yesterday," said the doctor. " I
must, in fact, smile, my dear Richard I
But I by no means smile at * the te-
nacity with which your church clings
to the obsolete remnants of heathen
idolatry.* I smile at your queer idea
of the veneration of the saints. I, as
a reasonable man, esteem this venera-
tion, and recognize its admirable and
beneficial influence on human soci-
ety."

This declaration increased Frank's
surprise to the highest degree. He
knew the clear mind of the doctor,
and could not understand how it hap-
pened tliat he wished to defend a
custom so antagonistic to modem
thought.

" You find fault," continued Klin-
genberg, " with the custom of erect-
ing statues to these holy men in the
churches, the forest, the fields, the
houses, and in the market ?"

" Yes, I do object to that."

" If you had objected to the lazy
Schiller at Mayence, or the robber's
poet Schiller, as he raves at the thea-
tre in Mannheim, or to the conqueror
and destroyer of Germany, Gusta\Tis
Adolphus, whose statue is erected as
an insult in a German city, then you
would be right."

" Schiller-worship has its justifica-
tion," retorted Frank. " They erect
public monuments to the genial spirit
of that man, to remind us of his ser-
vices to poetry, his aspirations, and
his German patriotism."

" It is praiseworthy to erect monu-
ments to the poet. But do not talk
of Schiller's patriotism, for he had
none. But let that pass ; it is not to
the point. The question is, whether
you consider it praiseworthy to erect
monuments to deserving and exalted
genius ?"

Angela.

759

" Without the least hesitation, I say
yes. But I see what you are driving
at, doctor. I know the remorseless
logic of your inferences. But you
will not catch me in your vise this
time. You wish to infer that the
saints far surpassed Schiller in nobi-
lity and greatness of soul, and that
honoring them, therefore, is more
reasonable, and more justifiable, than
honoring Schiller. I dispute the
greatness of the so-called saints.
They were men full of narrowness
and rigorism. They despised the
world and their friends. They car-
ried this contempt to a wonderful ex-
tent — to a renunciation of all the en-
joyments of life, to voluntary pover-
ty and unconditional obedience. But
all these are fruits that have grown
on a stunted, morbid tree, and are in
opposition to progress, to industry,
and to the enlightened civilization of
modem times. The dark ages might
well honor such men, but our times
cannot. Schiller, on the contrary,
that genial man, taught us to love
the pleasures of life. By his fine
genius and his odes to pleasure,
he frightened away all the spectres
of these enthusiastic views of life.
He preached a sound taste and a
fipee, unconstrained enjoyment of the
things of this beautiful earth. And
for this reason precisely, because he
inaugurated this new doctrine, does
he deserve monuments in his honor."
" How does it happen then, my
fiiend," said the doctor, in a cutting
tone that was sometimes peculiar to
him, "that you do not take advan-
tage of the modem doctrine of un-
constrained enjoyment ? Why have
you preserved fresh your youthful
vigor, and not dissipated it at the
market of sensual pleasures? Why
is your mode of life so often a re-
proach to your dissolute fiiends?
Why do you avoid the resorts of re-
fitted pleasures ? Why are the co-

quettish, vitiated, hollow inclinations
of a great part of the female sex so
distasteful to you ? Answer me !"

" These are peculiarities of my na-
ture ; individual opinions that have no
claim to any weight."

" Peculiarities of your nature —
very right ; your noble nature, your
pure feelings rebel against these mo-
ral acquisitions of progress. I begin
with your noble nature. If I did not
find this good, true self in you, I
would waste no more words. But
because you are what you are, I must
convince you of the error of your
views. Schiller, you say, and, with
him, the modem spirit, raised the ban-
ner of unrestrained enjoyment, and
this enjoyment rests on sensual plea-
sures, does it not ?'*

« WeU— yes."

" I knew and know many who fol-
lowed this banner— and you also
know many. Of those whom I knew
professionally, some ended their days
in the hospital, of the most loathsome
diseases. Some, unsatiated with the
whole round of pleasures, drag on a
miserable life, dead to all energy, and
spiritless. They drank the full cup
of pleasure, and with it unspeakable
bitterness and disgust. Some ended
in ignominy and shame — ^bankruptcy,
despair, suicide. Such are the con-
sequences of this modem dogma of
unrestrained enjoyments."

"All these overstepped the pro-
per bounds of pleasure," said Richard.

" The proper bounds ? Stop !" cried
the doctor. " No leaps, Richard !
Think clearly and logically. Chris-
tianity also allows enjoyment, but —
and here is the point — ^in certain lim-
its. Your progress, on the contrary,,
proclaims freedom in moral principles,,
a disregard of all moral obligations,
unrestricted enjoyment — and herein
consists the danger and delusion. I
ask. Are you in favor of restricted
or unrestricted enjoyment ?"

Angela.

761

benefits. If industry is a source of
fictitious wants, it affords, on the
other hand, cheap prices to the poor
for the most necessary wants of life ;
for example, cheap materials for
clothing."

"Very cheap, but also very poor
material," answered Klingenberg.
•* In former times, clothing was dear-
er, but also better. They knew no-
thing of the rags of the present fabri-
cation. And it may be asked wheth-
er that dearer material was not
cheaper in the end for the poor.
When this is taken into consideration,
the new material has no advantage
over the old. I will freely admit
that the inventions of modem times
do honor to human genius. I ac-
knowledge the achievements of indus-
try, as such. I admire the improve-
ments of machinery, the great revo-
lution caused by the use of steam,
and thousands of other wonders of
art. No sensible man will question
the relative worth of all these. But
all these are driven and commanded
by a bad influence, and herein lies
the injury. We must consider in-
dustrialism from this higher stand-
point. What advantage is it to a
people to be clothed in costly stuf&
when they are enervated, demoral-
ized, and perishing ? Clothe a corpse
as you will, a corpse it will be still.
And besides, the greatest material
good does not compensate the white
factory-slaves for the loss of their
liberty. The Lucullan age fell into
decay, although they feasted on
young nightingales, drank liquified
pearls, and squandered millions for
delicacies and luxuries. The life of
nations does not consist in the exter-
nal splendor of wealth, in easy com-
fort, or in unrestrained passions.
Morality is the life of nations, and
Yirtue their internal strength. But
Wtue, morality, and Christian senti-
IfiDt ait under the ban of modem

civilization. If Christianity does not
succeed in overcoming this demon
spirit of the times, or at least confin-
ing it within narrow limits, it will
and must drive the people to certain
destruction. We find decayed peo-
ples in the Christian era, but the
church has always rescued and re-
generated them. While the acquisi-
tions of modem times — industrialism,
enhghtenment, humanitarianism, and
whatever they may be called — are, on
the one hand, of little advantage or
of doubtful worth, they are, on the
other hand, the graves of tme pros-
perity, liberty, and morality. They
are the cause of shameful terrorism
and of degrading slavery, in the bonds
of the passions and in tlie claws of
plutocracy."

Frank made no reply.

For a while they walked on in si-
lence.

" Let us," continued Klingenberg,
" consider personally those men whose
molten images stand before us. Schil-
ler's was a noble nature, but Schiller
wrote:

*' * No more this fight of duty, hence no longer
This giant strife will I t
Canst quench these passions evermore the stronger?
Then ask not virtue, what I must deny.

" * Albeit I have sworn, yea, sworn that never
Shall yield my master will :
Vet take thy wreath ; to me '^ lost for ever f
Take back thy wreath, and let me sin my fill.*

Is this a noble and exalted way of
thinking? Certainly not Schiller
would be virtuous if he could clothe
himself in the lustre of virtue without
sacrifice. The passionate impulses
of the heart are stronger in him than
the sense of duty. He gives way to
his passions. He renounces virtue
because he is too weak, too languid,
too listless to encounter this giant
strife bravely like a strong man.
Such is the noble Schiller. In later
years, when the fiery impulses of his
heart had subsided, he roused himself
to better efibrts and nobler aims.

762

Angela.

" Consider the prince of poets, Goe-
the. How morally naked and poor
he stands before us ! Goethe's coarse
insults to morality are well known.
His better friend, Schiller, wrote of
him to Koemer, * His mind is not
calm enough, because his domestic
relations, which he is too weak to
change, cause him great vexation.*
Koemer answered, * Men cannot vio-
late morality with impunity.' Six
years later, the ' noble * Goethe was
married to his * mistress * at Weimar.
Goethe's detestable political princi-
ples are well known. He did not pos-
sess a spark of patriotism. He compos-
ed hymns of victory to Napoleon,
the tyrant, the destroyer and deso-
lator of Germany. These are the he-
roes of modem sentiment, the ad-
vance guard of liberty, morality, and
true manhood! And these heroes
so far succeeded that the noble
Amdt wrote of his time, *We are
base, cowardly, and stupid ; too poor
for love, too listless for anger, too
imbecile for hate. Undertaking every
thing, accomplishing nothing ; willing
every thing, without the power of
doing any thing.' So far has this
boasted freethinking created disre-
spect for revealed truth. So far this
modem civilization, which idealizes
the passions, leads to mockery of
religion and lets loose the baser pas-
sions of man. If they cast these
representatives of the times in bronze,
they should stamp on the fore-
heads of their statues the words of
Amdt:

" * We arc base, cowardly, and stu-
pid ; too poor for love, too listless for
anger, too imbecile for hate. Under-
taking every thing, accomplishing no-
thing ; willing ever}' thing, without the
power of doing any thing."*
" You are severe, doctor."
" I am not severe. It is the tmth."
" How doc^ it happen that a peo-
ple so wcaV, feeble, and base could

overthrow the power of the F
in the world ?"

"That was because the G<
people were not yet corrupted b
shallow, unreal, hollow twaddle
educated classes about humani^
was not the princes, not the no
who overthrew Napoleon. It
the German ]>eople who di
When, in 18 13, the Germans
in hamlet and city, they staked
property and lives for fathe
But it was not the enlightened
and professors, not modem sent
tality, that raised their hearts t
great sacrifice ; not these who i
died this enthusiasm for fathe
It was the religious element tha
it. The German warriors die
sing Goethe's hymns to Nape
nor the insipid model song of '
zows wilder Jagd,* as they n
into battle. They sang reli
hymns, they prayed before the s
ITiey recognized, in the terrible
ment on Russia's ice-fields, the ;
ging hand of God. Trusting in
and nerved by religious exalt
they took up the sword that had
sharpened by the previous calai
of war. So the feeble philanthn
could effect nothing. It was
religious, healthy, strong peoi)le <
do that."

" But the saints, doctor ! Wc
wandered from them."

"Not at all! We have th
some light on inimical shadows
light can now shine. The li\-<
the saints exhibit something woi
ful and remarkable. I have sti
them carefully. I have sough
know their aims and efforts. ]
covered that they imitated the t.
pie of Christ, that they realized
exalted teachings of the Redec
You find fault with their coDtemf
the things of this world. But
])recisely in this that these
great. Their object

Angela,

T^i

leral, but the enduring. They
iered life but as the entrance to
jmal destiny of man — in direct
ition to the spirit of the times,
lances about the golden calf,
ints did not value earthly goods
>re than they were worth. They
[ them after self-control and vic-
►ver our baser nature. Exact
unctual in all their duties, they
inimated by an admirable spirit
irity for their fellow-men. And
5 spirit they have frequently re-
society. Consider the great
•rs of orders — St Benedict, St.
lie, St. Vincent de Paul I Par-
rit, malice, and stupidity have
their worst to blacken, defame,
dunmiate them. And yet, in a
of self-sacrifice, the sons of St
let came among the German
ians, to bring to them the en-
g doctrines of Christianity. It
le Benedictines who cleared the
•ral forests, educated their wild
ns, and founded schools; who
: the barbarians handiwork and
Iture. Science and knowledge
hed in the cloisters. And to
onks alone we are indebted for
•eservation of classic literature,
the monks did then they are

now. They forsake home,
all ties, and enter the wilder-
iiere to be miserably cut off in
irvice of their exalted mission,
iie of poisonous fevers. Name
le of your modem heroes, whose
IS are full of civilization, huma-
enlightenment — name me one
is capable of such sacrifice.

prudent gentlemen remain at
with their gold-bags and their
ires, and leave the stupid monk
in the service of exalted chari-
t is the hypocrisy and the false-
of the modem spirit to exalt
and belittle true worth. And
did St Vincent de Paul do?
than all the gold-bags together.

St. Vincent, alone, solved the social
problem of his time. He was, in his
time, the preserver of society, or ra-
ther, Christianity through him. And
to-day our gold-bags tremble before
the apparition of the same social
problem. Here high-sounding phra-
ses and empty declamation do not
avail. Deeds only are of value.
But the inflated spirit of the times is
not capable of noble action. It is not
the modem state — not enlightened
society, sunk in egotism and gold—
that can save us. Christianity alone
can do it. Social development will
prove this."

" I do not dispute the services of
the saints to humanity," said Frank.
" But the question is. Whether society
would be benefited if the fanatical,
dark spirit of the middle ages pre-
vailed, instead of the spirit of modem
times?"

"The fanatical, dark spirit of the
middle ages !" cried the doctor indig-
nantly. " This is one of those falla-
cious phrases. The saints were not
fanatical or dark. They were open,
cheerful, natural, humble men. They
did not go about with bowed necks
and downcast eyes; but afifable,
free fix}m hypocrisy, and dark, sullen
demeanor, they passed through life.
Many saints were poets. St Francis
sang his spiritual hymns to the ac-
companiment of the harp. St Charies
played billiards. The holy apostle,
St. John, resting torn his labors,
amused himself in childish play with
a bird. Such were these men ; severe
toward themselves, mild to others,
uncompromising with the base and
mean. They were all abstinent and
simple, allowing themselves only the
necessary enjoyments. They con-
cealed fi"om observation their severe
mode of life, and smiled while their
shoulders bled from the discipline.
Pride, avarice, envy, voluptuousness,
and all the bad passions, were stran-

764

Angtla.

gers lo ihem ; not because they had
not ihe inclinalions to these passions,
but because they restrained and over-
came their lower nature.

" I ask you, now, which men deserve
our admiration — those who are go-
verned by unbounded sel5shness, who
are slaves to their passions, who deny
tJienjselves no enjoyment, and who
boast of their degrading licentious-
ness; ot those who, by reason of a
pure life, are strong in the govern-
ment of their passions, and self-sacK-
ficing in their charity for their fellow-
men?"

" The preference cannot be doubt-
ful," said Frank. " For the saints
have accomplished the greatest, they
have obtained the highest thing, self-
control. But, doctor, I must con-
demn that saint-worship as it is prac-
tised now. Human greatness always
remains human, and can make no
claims to divine honor."

The doctor swung his arms vio-
lently. " What does this reproach
amount to ? Where are men dei-
fied ? In the Catholic Church? I
am a Protestant, but I know that
your church condemns the deification

" Doctor," sad Frank, " my re-
ligious ignorance deserves this re-
buke."

" I meant no rebuke, I would
only give conclusions. Catholicism
is precisely that power that combats
with success against the deifying of
men. Vou have in the course of
your studies read the Roman classics.
You know that divine worship was of-
fered lo the Roman emperors. So far
did heathen flattery go, tliai the empe-
rors were honored as the sons of the
highest divinity — Jupiter. Apotheosis
is a fruit of heathen growtli ; of old
heathenism and of new heathenism.
When Voltaire, that idol of moticm
heathen worship, was returning to
Fatis in 17J8, hewas in aii camesi-

IkifixdtK
thai a*

>fling*W

ness promoted to the position ef 1
deity. This remarkable pUy look
place in tlie theatre. Voltaire tea-
self went there. Modem fiiiiiNiM
so far lost alt shame that tiw pwafik
kissed the hoi^se on which the pha»-
sopher rode to the ihciirc. Voi-
taire was scarcely able to pres
through the crowd of his wocshippem
They touched his clnthe« — toodiod
handkerchiefs to them— plucked
hairs from his fur coat to p ae m w
as relics. In the theatre thejr feS <•
their knees before him aod kissed te
feet. Thus that tendency thai C
itself free and enlighten*^ T '"
man — Voltaire, the most ttiflingtd
fer, the most unprincipled, btuats
of Christendom.

"Let us consider an example al
our times. Look at Garibaldi in
I^ndon. That man i^enuiUed him-
self to be set up and worshii^ieiL
The saints would have tuned
away from this stupidity with loai-
ing indignation. But this boundks
veneration flattered the old piott
Garibaldi, He received 367,000
requests for lock^ of his hair, to bt
cased in gold and pre^tcned at »
lies. Happily he had not mud
hair. He should have gracioiHir
given them his moustacha and whi^
kers."

Frank smile<t. Klingcnbetg'stMe
increased, and bis arms swung moie
briskly.

" Such is the man-wonhip of no-
dem heathenism. This huraaniiaiHih
ism is ashamed of no absurdit)-, whc«
it sinks to the worship of liccfitia*
ness and baseness personified."

" The senseless aberratioM.N
modem culture do uol 1
worship. And you ccttamly d
wish to excuse it in that way.
is, however, a reasonable ^
of human greatness. MoDll
are erected lo peat men. _
hold them and arc reminded of ||

Angela.

76s

genius, their services; and there it
stops. It occurs to no reasonable man
to venerate these men on his knees, as
is done with the saints."

** The bending of the knee, according
to the teaching of your church, does
not signify adoration, but only venera-
tion," replied Klingenberg. " Before
no Protestant in the world would I
bend the knee; before St. Benedict
and St. Vincent de Paul I would will-
ingly, out of mere admiration and
esteem for their greatness of soul and
their purity of morals. If a Catholic
kneels before a saint to ask his pray-
ers, what is there offensive in that ?
It is an act of religious conviction.
But I will not enter into the religious
question. This you can learn better
from your Catholic brethren — say from
the Angel of Salingen, for example,
who appears to have such veneration
for the saints."

"You will not enter into the re-
ligious question; yet you defend
saint-worship, which is something re-
ligious."

" I do not defend it on religious
grounds, but from history, reason, and
justice. History teaches that this
veneration had, and still has, the
greatest moral influence on human
society. The spirit of veneration
consists in imitating the example of
the person venerated. Without this
spirit, saint-worship is an idle cere-
mony. But that true veneration of
the saints elevates and ennobles, you
cannot deny. Let us take the queen
of saints, Mary. What makes her
worthy of veneration? Her obedi-
ence to the Most High, her humility,
her strength of soul, her chastity.
All these virtues shine out before the
spiritual eyes of her worshippers as
models and patterns of life. I know
a lady, very beautiful, very wealthy ;
but she is also very humble, very pure,
for she is a true worshipper of Mary.
Would that our women would vene-

rate Mary and choose her for a
model ! There would then be no co-
quettes, no immodest women, no
enlightened viragoes. Now, as saint-
worship is but takmg the virtues of
the saints as models for imitation, you
must admit that veneration in this
sense has the happiest consequences
to human society."

" I admit it — to my great astonish-
ment, I must admit it," said Richard.
" Let us take a near example,"
continued Klingenberg. " I told
you of the singular qualities of An-
gela. As she passed, I beheld her
with wonder. I must confess her
beauty astonished me. But this as-
tonishing beauty, it appears to me, is
less in her charming features than in
the purity, the maidenly dignity of her
character. Perhaps she has to thank,
for her excellence, that same correct
taste which leads her to venerate
Mary. Would not Angela make an
amiable, modest, dutiful wife and de-
voted mother ? Can you expect to
find this wife, this mother among those
given to fashions — among women fill-
ed with modem notions ?"

While Klingenberg said this, a
deep emotion passed over Richard's
face. He did not answer the ques-
tion, but let his head sink on his
breast.

" Here is Frankenhohe," said the
doctor. "As you make no more
objections, I suppose you agree with
me. The saints are great, admirable
men; therefore they deserve monu-
ments. They are models of virtue
and the greatest benefactors of man-
kind; therefore they deserve honor.
' Quo{i erat demonstrandum,^ "

" I only wonder, doctor, that you,
a Protestant, can defend such views."

"You will allow Protestants to
judge reasonably," replied Klingeji-
berg. " My views are the result of
careful study and impartial reflection."

" I am also astonished — ^pardon my

Hon. Thomas Dongan^ Gavtmor of New York.

767

HON. THOMAS DONGAN, GOVERNOR OF NEW YORK*

The student of Catholic history
may be permitted to recall, wath an
honorable pride, the illustrious name
and recount the eminent public ser-
vices of Colonel Thomas Dongan,
who, while the only Catholic, was one
of the most able and accomplished,
of the colonial governors of New
York. His life and exploits are but
little known, even among Catholics;
and while his merits place him with-
out a superior in the honored list
of our governors, it yet remains, for
the Catholic historian especially, to
rescue his fame from obscurity, and
to weave together, from scattered his-
torical fragments, the story of a career
at once brilliant and useful, checkered
and romantic. As soldier, ruler, ex-
ile, nobleman, or Christian gentle-
man, he is equally entitled to a dis-
tinguished place among the remarka-
ble men of his age. His position was
a most difficult and delicate one — a
Catholic ruler over Protestant sub-
jects, at a time when religious rival-
ries and animosities formed the main-
spring of public and private political
action. It is no small achievement
that, in so trying an office, he acquit-
ted himself to the satisfaction of friend
and foe ; and that Protestant and Ca-
tholic historians unite in commending
his wise and honorable course. As
a patriot, he has won our national
gratitude ; for it is to his courage and
address that we are indebted for the
invaluable service of having extended

'Authorities : O^Callaghan's Docum*niary and Co'
l^niai Hisiorits of New York, BancroA's History
o/ths United States. Lingard's History of Enf
Imnd, Bishop Bayley*8 History of the Catholic
Ckserth in New York. O'Callaghan's Jotimal of the
Legislature of New York^ especially a note thereto,
bjr George H. Moore, Esq. Shears History of tke
CeOholic Missions. Campbell's Life and Times of
ArckkisMcp Carroll, De Courcy and Sbea*8 Catholic
Chunk i$i iht UnUed States^ etc

the northern frontier of our republic
to the great lakes. His devotion to
civil and religious liberty places his
name with that of Calvert, in the
hearts of Catholics ; while both should
be hallowed together by all lovers of
free government.

The subject of this memoir was
descended from a noble and ancient
Irish family, distinguished for an en-
ergy of character and enterprising
spirit which he did not allow to ex-
pire with his ancestors. His father
was Sir John Dongan, baronet, of Cas-
tletoun, in the county of Kildare, Ire-
land. He was also nephew to Ri-
chard Talbot, Earl of Tyrconnel, who
figured conspicuously in the reign of
Charles II., as he did in that of
James II. This Earl of Tyrconnel,
uncle to Governor Dongan, was one
of those against whom Titus Oates
informed. He was made lieutenant-
governor of Ireland, and afterward
lord deputy, on the recall of Claren-
don, by James J I. ; and he aimed at
rendering Ireland independent of
England, in the event of tKe Prince
of Orange succeeding in his efforts to
gain the throne. In furtherance of
his patriotic designs, Earl Tyrconnel
solicited of James permission to hold
an Irish parliament; but that mo-
narch, suspecting his purpose, rejected
the measure.

Thomas Dongan was bom in 1634;
and, after being well-grounded in his
religion, and in secular learning, was
trained to the profession of a soldier.
He entered the military service of
France, and served as colonel of a
French regiment, under Louis XIV.*
His services there were so highly

* We fincl bi» tsoM. Tendered in Trench document*
u Colommi ^1 ijngmnl.

768

Him. Tliotnas Dongan^ Governor of New York.

prized that it was with great difficulty
and at considerable sacrifice that he
was able to withdraw from it. In
1677-8, after the English parliament
had forced Charles II. to break with
Louis XIV., an order was issued
commanding all British subjects in the
service of France to return home.
Colonel Dongan obeyed the order of
his own sovereign; and he himself
informs us that he was obliged to
quit " that honorable and advantage-
ous post, and resisted the temptations
of greater preferment, then offered
him, if he would continue there; for
which reason the French king com-
manded him to quit France in forty-
eight hours, and refused to pay him
a debt of sixty-five thousand livres,
then due him for recruits and arrears,
upon an account stated by the inten-
dant of Nancy." No subsequent ef-
forts of Colonel Dongan succeeded
in appeasing the French king's resent-
ment, or in securing the payment of
his claim.

On his return from the French ser-
vice to England, he was appointed,
by Charles II., a general officer in
the English army, then destined for
Flanders, and had an annual pension
of ;^5oo settled on him for life, in
consideration of his losses in France.
But it is regarded as quite certain
that he did not go to Flanders under
this appointment, to defend and sup-
port the English garrisons in that
countn',then menaced bv the French;
for, in the same year, he was appoint-
ed lieutenant-governor of Tangier, a
position which he accepteii. and con-
tinueil to fill until the year 16S0.

At this time, the American prv)\-incc
of New York was under the proprie-
tarv' c^ovemment oi Tamos, Duke of
York, whose deputy's adrainisiraiion
of the affairs of the colony had pro-,
ducetl great discontent among the
pev^ple. His governor. Andros, hj.d
been recjiled to answer the charges

of the people; had returned 1
York, acquitted by the duke, \
sumed the imposition of the
system of taxation which had \
so heavily on the citizens, ai
duced such discontent. But
sistance of the people, not s
short even of calling in quesi
supreme authority of the di
conded by the remonstrances
Ham Penn, finally had the
effect. Andros was recalled, \
lonel Dongan appointed to 1
him as governor of New Yorl
commission firom the Duke o
bearing date September 30th
contains the following app
clause: "And whereas, I hai
ceived a good opinion of the
ty, prudence, ability and fitti
Coll. Thomas Dongan, to I
ployed as my Lieuten^ there,
therefore thought fitt to co
and appoint him y« said Col
to be my L* and Gov' wit
lands, islands, places aforesaid
the said East and West New
to p>erforme & execute all anc
the [x>wers w«*» are by the sai
pattents granted unto me to
cuted by me, my Deput>', A^
Assignes."

The iKTitten instructions n
by the new go^-emor fix)m thi
of York, bearing date Januar]
16S3, direct him : First, to cal
ther the council of the dukt
sisting of Fredericke Phillipp
phen Courtland, and other e
inhabitants, not exceeding ten
dllors^ Second, and most im]
of alU to issue warrants to the
of the counties for an electic
general assembly of all the fit
ers of the proWnce. to pasa
*• for the good weale and govc:
of the said Colony and its Dep
eyes, and of all inhabitants t)i
The assemb&T was not to excee
teen members, and was to as

Hon. Thomas Dongan^ Governor of New York.

769

in the city of New York, Third, to
give or withhold his assent to such
laws as the general assembly might
pass, as he might approve or disap-
prove of the same, etc. Fourth, the
laws so passed to be permanent.
Fifth, " And I doe hereby require and
command you y* noe man's life,
member, freehold, or goods, be taken
away or harmed in any of the places
und' yo'^ government but by establish-
ed and knowne laws not repugnant
to, but as nigh as may be agreable to
the laws of the kingdome of Eng-
land." Sixth, to repress "drunken-
nesse and debauchery, swearing and
blasphemy," and to appoint none to
office who may be given to such
vices; and to encourage commerce
and merchants. Seventh, to exercise
general discretionary powers, except
that of declaring war, without the
duke's consent. The eighth relates
to assessment of the estates of persons
capable of serving as jurors. Ninth,
to establish courts of justice, and to
sell the royal lands. Tenth, to par-
don offences. Eleventh, to erect
custom-houses and other public build-
ings. Twelfth, to organize the mili-
tia. Thirteenth, to settle the boun-
daries of the province. Fourteenth,
to encourage planters, and to lay no
tax on commerce, except according
to established laws. Fifteenth, to
purchase Indian lands. Sixteenth
relates to the granting of a liberal
charter to the city of New York.
Seventeenth, to send reports, by every
ship, of the Progress of the colony,
and to regulate internal trade; and
eighteenth, to devote his life, time,
etc., to the faithful discharge of his
duties.

The admirable document of which
the foregoing is a brief synopsis, con-
taining as it does the general princi-
ples of all good government, was, no
doubt, designed to meet the former
evits complained of by the people of

VOL. IX. — 49

New York. That the influence of
Colonel Dongan, during the eight
months or so that he remained in
England between his appointment
and departure for New York, was
wholesomely exerted in impressing a
liberal and enlightened character up-
on the policy and instructions of the
home government, cannot be doubt-
ed. No one was better fitted by ex-
perience, good judgment, and inclina-
tion, for such a task. The document
itself, the most just and liberal that
ever emanated from an English sove-
reign, goes far to vindicate the name
and character of James II.

The new governor arrived at New
York on the 25th of August, 1683,
and entered upon the duties of his
office — duties rendered more delicate
and embarrassing by the excitement
through which the community had
just passed, the high and extrava-
gant expectations built upon a new
appointment, made with the view of
remedying old complaints, and by
the fact that he himself was a profess-
ed and zealous Catholic, while the
community whose destinies he was
commissioned to guide were almost
without exception Protestants, and
peculiarly inclined, at that time, to
look with distrust and hatred upon
all "Papists." That such was the
case, we are told by all the historians
of the state and city ; but that, by his
address, good government, and en-
lightened policy. Governor Dongan
soon removed this difficulty, we have
the same authority for asserting
Smith says of him, " He was a mai»
of integrity, moderation, and genteel
manners, and, though a professed
papist, may be classed among the
best of our governors;" and adds
" that he surpassed all his predeces-
sors in a due attention to our affairs
with the Indians, by whom he was
highly esteemed." Valentine writes,
that "he was a Roman Catholic in

770

Hon. ThofHos Dongan^ Gavertior of New York.

his religious tenets, which was the
occasion of much remark on the part
of the Protestant inhabitants of the
colony. His personal character was
in other respects not objectionable
to the people, and he is described
as a man of integrity, moderation,
and genteel manners, and as being
among the best of the governors who
had been placed in charge of this
province." And Booth also writes
of him, " He was of the Roman Ca-
tholic faith, a fact which rendered
him, at first, obnoxious to many ; but
his firm and judicious policy, his
steadfast integrity, and his pleasing
and courteous address, soon won the
affections of the people, and made
him one of the most popular of the
royal governors." Golden, in his
history of the Five Nations, calls him
an " honest gentleman," and " an ac-
tive and prudent governor."

The governor at once organized
his council, which, as well fi-om ne-
cessity as from prudent policy, was
composed of gentlemen of the Dutch
Reformed and English churches.
Regarding his functions as purely
civil, he did not, in die government
of the colonists, who were Protes-
tants, advance his views upon sub-
jects not connected with civil govern-
ment offensively before them, as they
feared he would do. He might have
induced over from the old country
members of his own church to form
his council ; but neither duty nor
prudence recommended this measure.
Catholics, however, were no longer
excluded from office, nor from the
practice of their religion. The gov-
-emor had a chapel, in which himself,
his suite, his servants, and all the
Catholics of the province, could at-
tend divine service according to their
own creed. A Jesuit father, who ac-
companied him from England, was
his chaplain.

He proceeded at once, according

to his instructions, to issue
rants for the election of a g<
sembly. This was an auspi
ginning of his administrate
was a concession from the
York for which the people
struggled. This illustriou
consisting of the governor, t
cillors, and seventeen repres
elected by the people, asse
the city of New York, on th
October, 1683. As he was
so he was the most liberal ai
ly royal governor, that presi
the popular legislatures of N<
and the contests between
power and popular rights, w
tinguished the administrado
ture governors, down to the
tion, did not have their orig
his administration. The fin
the general assembly was the
of a charter of liberties —
guaranty of popular govern
the province; and Governor
as he was the first governor
the charter of civil and religio
ty in New York, was, no
years afterward, the first citi
secuted for his religion ai ter i
tion. ITiis noble charter c

"That supreme legislative i>ow
for ever reside in the governor, coi
people, met in general assembly ; I
freeholder and freeman might vot
resentatives without restraint ; tha
man should suffer but by the jud;
his peers, and that all trials shoul
jury of twelve men ; that no tax 1
assessed, on any pretext whatevr
the consent of the assembly ; tha
man or soldier should be quarten
inhabitants against their will ; thai
tial law should exist ; that no pet
fcssing faith in God, by Jesiu
should, at any time, be in any way
ed or questioned for any diffe:
opinion in matters of religion."

It was pro\'ided that the
assemblies were to convene
triennially; new police reg
were established ; Sunday lai

Hon, Thomas Dongan^ Governor of New York.

771

enacted; tavern-keepers were pro-
hibited from selling liquor except to
travellers; children were prohibited
firom playing in the street, citizens
from working, and Indians and ne-
groes from assembling, on the Sab-
bath ; twenty cartmen were licensed,
on condition that they should repair
the highways gratis, when called
on by the mayor, and cart the dirt
from the streets beyond the limits of
the city. The inhabitants were re-
quired to sweep the dirt of the streets
together every Saturday afternoon,
preparatory to its removal by the
cartmen. On the 8th of December,
1683, the city was divided into six
wards, each of which was entitled to
elect an alderman and councilman
annually, to represent them in the
government of the city. The ap-
pointment of the mayor was reserved
to the governor and council, and was
not made elective by the people until
after the American Revolution.

In 1685, on the death of Charles,
flie Duke of York succeeded to the
English crown, imder the title of
James II. Governor Dongan, by
special orders from the home gov-
ernment, proclaimed King James
throughout the province. Indian
and French disturbances having
ceased, all was now quiet along the
northern frontier, and the governor,
skilfully availing himself of the oppor-
tunity, caused the king's arms to be
put upon all the Indian castles along
the Great Lake, and they, he writes
to Secretary Blathwayt, submitted
willingly to the king's government.
In 1686, Governor Dongan received
a new commission, bearing date on
the loth of June of that year. This
was a very different document from
his first commission, and manifests'
the change in favor of arbitrary pow-
er which took place in the sentiments
and policy of James on his accession
to the throne. The general assem-

bly was abolished and the legislative
power was vested in the governor and
council, subject to the approval of the
king; they were also authorized to
proclaim and enforce martial law, to
impose taxes, etc. It has been erro-
neously stated by one of our histo-
rians that James, in this document,
instructed Governor Dongan " to fa-
vor the introduction of the Roman
Catholic religion into the province^
a course of policy which the gov-
ernor, himself a Catholic, was reluc-
tant to adopt;" whereas, the only
provision therein relating to religion
is in these words :

" And wee doe, by these presents, will, re-
quire, and command you to take all possible
care for the Discountenance of Vice and en-
couragement of Virtue and good-living, that
by such example the Infidels may bee invited
and desired to partake of the Christian Re*
ligion."

According to this commission, the
general assembly was dissolved on
the 6th of August, 1685, and no
other was convened during the reign
of James. Notwithstanding this ra-
dical change in the organic law of
the province, the mild, liberal, and
judicious administration of the gov-
ernor caused the exercise of arbitrary
power to be but lightiy felt by the
people.

In 1686, Governor Dongan signal-
ized his administration by granting, in
the name and by the authority of the
king, the celebrated charter of the
city of New York known as the Don-
gan Charter, bearing date the 2 2d of
April of that year. This document
constitutes to this day the basis and
foundation of the municipal laws,
rights, privileges, public property, and
franchises of the city. It was con-
firmed and renewed by Governor
Montgomery, on the 15th day of
January, 1730, in the reign of George
II. This charter was granted on the
petition of the mayor and common

772

Hon. Thomas Dongan^ Governor of New York.

council of the city of New York, ad-
dressed "To the Right Honorable
Coll". Dongan, Esq'., Lieutennant
& Governor & Vice Admirall under
his Royall Highness, James Duke
of York and Albany, &c., of New
York and Dependencyes in America.*'
In this petition are recited the an-
cient privileges and incorporation of
the city, and especially the fact that
the whole island of Manhattan had
been made a part of the corporation,
and all the inhabitants thereof were
subject to the government of the city ;
and praying a re-grant and confirma-
tion of the same, and of all their an-
cient rights and privileges. The char-
ter itself confirms all the ancient fran-
chises and grants to the city, and
confers many new ones upon it; it
grants to the city the waste or imap-
propriated lands on the island, and
concedes the right of local or munici-
pal legislation, the ferries, markets,
docks, etc, and covers thoroughly
the whole ground of municipal gov-
ernment It would seem, from an
endorsement made on the petition
in the office of the home government,
by the secretary through whose hands
it passed, that the new charter should
be granted on the express condition
that the old charter be surrendered ;
"otherwise, they may keep all their
OM Priviledges by virtue of that, and
take y« additions by this new one,
without Subjecting their Officers, &c.,
to the approbation & Refusall, &c., of
y® govemo"."

Among other public measures and
acts of Governor Dongan may be
mentioned, that he proposed to the
home government the establishment
of post-offices, or "post-houses," as
they were called, all along the Atlan-
tic coast within the English domin-
ions, and the establishment of a mint.
French Protestants, resorting to the
colony for trade or business of any
kind, weie xvol Vo \i^ molested The

fort was supported for one
private expense, during
ciency of the public rev
Collector Santen. He ob
lease from the Ranseleers
in Albany, and then grar
ter to that town ; and he
to bring about the union «
sey and Connecticut, unci
the same government
York, as a measure of p
and strength. In 1686,
or's salary was raised fro
;;^6oo per annum. ITic
residence was at the fort
was attached to the offi
ducts or rents of a fanr
various times, the govern
or king's farm, and of ano
piece of land, called the c
den, which were subsequ
ed to and remain to tl
property of the corjyoraric
Church. It may also be
as an evidence of Govemc
popularity, that there is t
in a list of the ritles of act
the general assembly in 11
lowing tide, " A Bill for \
the Governor."

We are told by the his
" considerable improven:
made in the city in Gov
gan's time."* The city
ed in 1653, on the pres
Wall street, which derive
from this circumstance, 1
the farm of Jan Jansen D
from Broadway to Pearl
lands north of| the wal
Governor Dongan's time,
sion of Damen's heirs,
now induced to part
same, so that the wall w:
and these valuable lots
once into the market, and
improved. Afteni-ard,
Dongan determined stiU

^ Hon. Thomas Dongan^ Governor of New York.

773

enlarge the city, to demolish the old
fortifications, which were in a state
of decay, and to erect new defences
further out. Wall street was laid out

(^on the site of the old city wall. " The
street was afterwards favored by the
erection of the city hall on the site
of the present custom-house, and of
Trinity Church, facing its westerly
extremity, and soon became one of
principal streets of the city." In 1 687,
a new street was laid out between
Whitehall street and Old Slip, and
the corporation sold the lots on con-
dition that the purchasers should
build the street out toward the water
and protect it against the washing of
the tide. These improvements were
not carried into effect until several

>- years afterward. This is the present
Water street. In the second year of
Governor Dongan's administration,
1684, the vessels of New York con-
sisted of three barques, three brigan-
tinesy twenty-six sloops, and forty-
six open boats ; facts which convey
some notion of the commerce and
prosperity of New York at that time.
Governor Dongan manifested great
activity and energy in the conduct
of public affairs. His report on the
condition of the colony is a docu-
ment replete with intelligence, vigor,
and practical experience, and shows
that no part of the colony, however
remote, escaped his attention and
care; and no branch of the public
service was neglected by him. Mr.
Santen, the collector of the port, be-
came a defaulter to the amount of
^3000, and was the occasion of
great embarrassment and loss to Go-
vernor Dongan, who, however, on his
part, acted promptly in the premises,
by seizing the books of the delin-
quent official, causing him to be ar-
rested and brought before the council
for trial, and, on his proving refrac-
tory, sending him to England. While
in England, the displaced collector

preferred charges against Governor
Dongan, who defended himself in that
able and conclusive document, or re-
port, on the condition of tlie colony,
addressed to the lords of the home
government, to which allusion has
just been m ade. The following extract
will show how characteristically he
defended himself against one of Mr.
Santen*s charges :

** To the Tenth : Concerning my Covetous-
ness, as hee is pleased to term it. Here, (if
Mr. Santen speaks true, in saying I have
been covetous,) it was in the management
of this small Revenue to the best advantage,
and had Mr. Santen been as just as I have
been careful, the King had not been in
debt, and I had more in my pocket than
now I have."

This document also shows how ac-
tive Governor Dongan was to secure
the beaver and other Indian trade
for the province; his zeal would
not stop short of confining the French
to the other side of the great lakes,
and William Penn and his people
south of a line drawn from a point
on the Delaware " to the falls in the
Susquehanna."* The report is also
fiill of valuable suggestions on the fu-
ture as well as the past and present
government of the province, and
contains valuable statistics relating to
the courts of justice, the public reve-
nues, trade and commerce, popula-
tion, the Indians, shipping, agricul-
ture, and every other public interest.

Governor Dongan distinguished
his administration in an especial
manner by his attention to the rela-
tions and interests of the province
connected with the Indian tribes
within and adjoining it ; and he is
admitted by historians to have sur-
passed all his predecessors in this de-
partment of public affairs, and to have
been held in the greatest esteem by
the Indians themselves. While seek-

* Wyaluaing Falls, Bradford Coanty, PennaylTania.

Hon, Thomas Dongan, Govertior of New York.

775

had visited their country, claimed it
and the allegiance of the tribes,
French missionaries, men of heroic
self-sacriiice and profound piety, were
among them, preaching the Gospel,
receiving their confessions of faith,
offering up the Christian sacrifice in
their midst, and doing all in their
power to improve their temporal and
spiritual condition. It was natural,
it was probably necessary, that these
pious missionaries should bring their
flocks in contact with their own go-
vernment; and, while their mission
and holy office among the Indians
were utterly divested of all political
or worldly motives, they could not
avoid being powerful instruments, with
the French government, in securing
the advancement of French interests
among those nations. Governor Don-
gan, on the other hand, had by his
Idndness and frankness completely
gained their confidence, and was suc-
ceeding well in cementing the rela-
tions between himself and the Five
Nations. He soon discovered the
presence of the French missionaries
in their midst an obstacle to this
policy; and, at the same time, as a
Catholic, he felt a profound interest
in their religious enlightenment, and
in their adherence to the church of
which he was himself a devoted mem-
ber. To avoid the conflict which
might arise between the duty he owed,
on the one hand, to his church and
his conscience, and, on the other, to
his king, he resolved on the plan of
insisting upon his claim to the alle-
giance of the Five Nations, claiming
the country to the great lakes, and
upon the withdrawal of the French
missionaries, and the substitution of
English Jesuit missionaries in their
place. Though receiving little en-
couragement from the home govern-
ment in these measures. Governor
Dongan carried them so far into
as to secure the withdrawal of

the French missionaries from three of
the Five Nations, and to obtain the
services of English Jesuits at New
York, destined for the Indian missions,
in the place of French priests. Fa-
ther Harrison arrived in New York
in 1685, and Father Gage arrived
there in 1686. But, in consequence
of their ignorance of the Indian lan-
guage, they were compelled to remain
in the city while studying it and pre-
paring for the mission. War, too,
soon rendered the field of their mis-
sionary zeal and labor inaccessible to
them, and the sequel of events shows
that it was neither their own nor the
good fortune of the Indians that they
should ever reach it. A Catholic
writer* thus alludes to Governor
Dongan's position on this, to him,
delicate subject:

" There can be no doubt that Governor
Dongan, on coming among the New York-
ers, found that if the measures for convert-
ing the Indians were to proceed, the politi-
cal interests of his own country required
that English missionaries should take the
place of the French Jesuits, some of whom
were incorporated among the Five Nations.
The historians of New York assert that no
previous governor had made himself so well
acquainted with Indian afiairs, or conducted
the intercourse between the settlers and
Indians with so much ability and regard to
the interests of the subjects of Great Bri-
tain ; while, at the same time, he was held
in high esteem by the Indians themselves.
And it is mentioned, to his honor, by the
same historians, who are unsparing in their
condemnation of his religion, that he did
not permit the identity of his faith with that
of the Catholic missionaries of France to
prevent him from opposing their residence
among the Indian tribes in his province;
their influence being calculated to promote
the interests and policy of France, and
weaken the authority of the English. But
it was loyalty to his own government, and a
just regard for the interests confided to him,,
and not indifference to the pious work of
Christianizing the Indians, that induced
Governor Dongan to oppose the mission*
of the French."

• CampbeU's Lifi tmd Timm m/A rchbuhsp Cor-

■

77^

Hon. Tliomas Dongan, Governor of New York.

— I

Another Catholic author* thus
mites on the same subject:

" The English colony of New York had
now passed under the sway of Colonel
Dongan, one of the l!R>st enterprising and
active governors that ever controlled the
destinies of any of the English provinces.
His short but vigorous administration show-
ed that he was not only thoroughly acquaint-
ed with the interests of England, but able
to carry them out A Catholic, who had
served in the French armies, he was biassed
neither by his religion nor his former ser-
vices in the duties of the station now de-
volved upon him. , . Claiming for Eng-
land all the country south of the great lakes,
he it was who made them a boundary. His
first step was to extend the power of New
York over the five Iroquois cantons, and
bind those warlike tribes to the English
interest. His next, to recall the Caughna-
wagas to their ancient home, by promises
of a new location on the plains of Saratoga,
where a church should be built for them,
and an English Jesuit stationed as their
missionary. In this plan he found his ef-
forts thwarted by the missionaries, who,
French by birth and attachment, looked
with suspicion on the growing English influ-
ence in the cantons, as fatal to the missions
which had cost so nfuch toil, and who relied
little on Dongan's fair words, and subse-
quent promise to replace them by English
members of their society."

The same author, in another work,
expresses his confidence in the sin-
cerity of Governor Dongan*s inten-
tions and promises, and points to the
three English Jesuits brought to New
York by him, as proof of both, t

The French government of Canada
was equally bent on reducing the Five
Nations to subjection to the king of
France. It requiied no serious pre-
texts to induce the F'rench to carry
their plans into effect by open war;
and pretexts were not long wanting.
The murder of a Seneca chief at
Mackinaw; an attack by the Iro-
quois on a French post in Illinois ;
the seizure of a flotilla — fanned the
embers of war into a flame, and the

•Shea's Hisi. Cmik. Misskms.

t Sew Y^rk Dec, HiU, Letter of Mr. Shea, iii.

110).

subjugation of the Five N
ed to be at hand. A lar^
army was organized for t'
It is said by historians, ar
bable truth, that the Fren
remonstrated with James
Colonel Dongan's interf
the French missions, and
had instructed his govern
from this policy ; also, th:
hearing of the designs o
dians on the Five Nation
that these warlike and
tribes, either as subjects
would be always a thorn
of his province, while with
ordered Colonel Dongan
fere with those designs.
Dongan entertained vc:
views on these subjects,
did he insist on replacing
Jesuits with English mer
same society, but he als<
both to the home govemi
the governors of Mar}iai
ginia, that these two provi
unite with New York in i
encroachments of the F:
also proposed to the ho
ment a plan of eniigratio
land to New York, and i
his own nephews should b
to conduct and manage
prise. He i^Tote to the he
ment on this subject as fol

" It will be very necessary
men to build those forts [the p
along the northern frontier.]
lord, there are people enoug
who had pretences to estate
are of no advantage to the cou
live here very happy.' I do
his majesty think fit to emplo;
he will bring over as many af^
find convenient to send* whi
charge to his majesty after thej

Governor Dongan, notw
his instructions to the com
far too honorable to see hi
Five Nations.) murdered in
in obedience to the wiD i

Hon, Thomas Doptgan, Governor of New York.

777

riors." He sent his messengers to
warn the Iroquois of the impend-
ing danger, and invited them to meet
him at Albany, to renew the old trea-
ty of peace, which had been long ago
made between them and the Dutch,
and which had almost faded from the
memories of the chiefs.

Both met punctually at the appoint-
ed rendezvous ; and Colonel Dongan
made one of his most characteristic and
effective, speeches to them, in which
he explained his claims upon them,
demonstrated the hostility of the
French and his own friendship for
them, made promises of future aid,
and proposed an alliance. The trea-
ty here entered into " was long^ re-
sp>ected by both parties." The clouds
of war now burst upon the Five Na-
tions, but found them not unprepared.
Two invasions of the French were
repelled, and finally the invaders,
weakened by sickness and unac-
quainted with the Indian modes of
war, returned with scattered ranks to
their own country, to await the terrible
retaliation of an injured foe. The war-
riors of the Five Nations burst with fury
on the Canadian setdements, " burning,
ravaging, and slaying without mercy,
until they had nearly exterminated
the French from the territory. The
war continued until, of all the French
colonies, Quebec, Montreal, and
Three Rivers alone remained, and
the French dominion in America was
almost annihilated; Governor Don-
gan remaining," says the historian, '* a
firm friend of the Indians during his
administration, aiding them by his
council, and doing them every good
office in his power." •

By his bold and independent course,
so much at variance with the views
of his royal master. Governor Dongan
incurred the displeasure of James II.,
who suspended him from his func-

• Booth'! HiMUryjffiMt Ciiy qfNtw Y^rk.

tions, and about April, 1688, the gov-
ernor resigned his office. The func-
tions of the office of governor then
devolved upon the deputy-governor,
Nicholson. Smith, the historian, says
of Dongan's removal from the office
which he had graced so well, and in
which he had done so much for the
good of his king and his fellow-citi-
zens, that " he fell into the king's dis-
pleasure through his zeal for the true
interest of the province."

The voluminous correspondence
between Governor Dongan and
Mons. Denonville, governor of Ca-
nada, on the relations of the two
rival English and French colonies,
published in the Colonial ^.nd Documen-
tary histories of New York, is replete
with interest, as containing valuable
information concerning the affairs of
the day, and as fairly illustrating the
character of our governor. Though
frequently running into bitter person-
alities and irreconcilable conflict, the
letters of these two officials were not
devoid of personal courtesies and
amenities. Thus, we see the French
governor acting as a mediator with
his sovereign in behalf of Governor
Dongan, in order that he might re-
cover his claim for services rendered
in the French army; and we find
Governor Dongan, at one time, re-
gretting that distance prevented him
from meeting and interchanging so-
cial civilities with his rival; and,
at another, sending to the Canadian
governor a present of oranges,
which, he had heard, were a great
rarity in Canada, and regretting that
the messenger's want of " carriage **
prevented him from sending more.

There was one point, however, up-
on which Governor Dongan was ever
uncompromising ; this was his deter-
mination to claim the great lakes as
his boundary, and to submit to noth-
ing short of this. He carried his
point even in his own day ; for the

Hofi, Thomas Dangan^ Governor of New York. 779

plots were formed by the Protestants,
not only in England, under James,
but also in the province ofNew York,
under Governor Dongan. This seems
probable from the readiness with
which the people on both sides of the
Atlantic rose on their Catholic rulers
as soon as the opportunity presented
itself. This opportunity was aflforded
not long after Governor Dongan's re-
tirement from office, in 1689, on the
invasion of England by William
Prince of Orange, and the abdication
and flight of James II. from England.
The tone of public sentiment in
New York in 1689 is thus described
by Bishop Bayley, in his treatise on
the History of the Catholic Church
on the Island of New York :

" Smith, describing the disposition and
temper of the inhabitants of the colony at
the time, shows that, notwithstanding the
personal popularity of the governor, the in-
crease of Catholics was looked upon with a
suspicious eye. * A general disaffection,* he
says, ' to the government prevailed among
the people. Papists began to settle in the
colony under the smiles of the governor.
The collector of the revenues and several
principal officers threw off the mask, and
openly avowed their attachment to the doc-
trines of Rome. A Latin school was set
up, and the teacher strongly suspected for a
Jesuit ; in a word, the whole body of the
people trembled for the Protestant cause.*
The news of the revolution in England,
and the subsequent proceedings under Leis-
ler, probably caused such Catholics as were
in a situation to get away, to withdraw at
the same time with the governor. The
documents connected with Lcisler's usur-
pation of authority, as published by O'Cal-
laghan in his Documentary History of New
Yark^ show how studiously he appealed to
the religious prejudices of the people, in
order to excite odium against the friends of
the late governor, and establish his own
claims. The 'security of the Protestant
religion,* and the ' diabolical designs of the
wicked and cruel papists,* are made to ring
their changes through his various procla-
mations and letters. Depositions and affi-
davits were published, in which it was
•worn that Lieutenant-Governor Nicholson
had been several times seen assisting at
; that the papists on Staten Island

' did threaten to cut the inhabitants* throats,'
and to come and burn the city ; * that M.
De La Prearie had arms in his house for
fifty men ; that eighty or a hundred men
were coming from Boston and other places,
that were hunted away, (no doubt, not for
their goodness,) and that there were seve-
ral of them Irish and papists ; that a good
part of the soldiers that were in the fort
already were papists,* etc. Among other
depositions, is one of Andrics and Jan Mey-
er, in which they declare that, 'being de-
livered from a papist governor, Thomas
Dongan, they thought that the deputy-gov-
ernor in the Fort would defend and estab-
lish the true religion ; but we found to the
contrary. There was a cry that all the
images erected by Col. Thomas Dongan
in the fort would be broken down and
taken away ; but when we were working in
the fort with others, it was commanded,
after the departure of Sir Edmond Andros,
by said Nicholson, to help the priest, John
Smith,* (supposed to be a name assumed for
the sake of safety by one of the Jesuit fa-
thers of New York,) * to remove, for which
we were very glad ; but it was soon done,
because said removal was not far off, but in
a better room in the fort ; and ordered to
make all things ready for said priest, accord-
ing to his will, and perfectly, and to erect
all things as he ordered, from that time,* *'
etc

Mr. Graham says of the state of
public feeling prevailing at this time
in New York, that

•

" An outrageous dread of popery had in-
vaded the minds of the lower classes of the
people, and not only diminished real and
substantial evils in their esteem, but nearly
extinguished common sense in their under-
standings, and common justice in their sen-
timents.**

Deputy-Governor Nicholson took
possession of the government in Au-
gust, 1688. On the 24th of that
month, Governor Andros issued a pro-
clamation for a general thanksgiving
throughout the English provinces for
the birth of a prince, the son of King
James, and heir to the English
throne. But by the next mail news
of quite a different character arrived :
the invasion of England by the
Prince of Orange, the flocking of the
people to his standard, the abdication

78o

Hon. Thomas Dongan, Govertior of New York.

and flight of King James, and the
proclamation of William and Mary as
king and queen of England. Mr.
Nicholson and his followers recog-
nized the authority of William and
Mary, and, claiming that the commis-
sions issued under James II. still held
good, proposed to exercised the func^
tions of the public offices under them,
until instructions should be received
from the new government at home.
They were supported by the more
respectable and wealthy part of the
citizens. But the popular party took
the opposite ground, and contended
that all the commissions were now
invalid, and that the people should
take the government into their own
hands until the will of their present
majesties should be heard from.
They were led on by one Jacob Leis-
ler, a successful merchant, but a bit-
ter bigot and ambitious demagogue,
and the leader of such as refused
* all social intercourse with Catholics.
Leisler had been appointed as early
as 1683, by Governor Dongan, com-
missioner of the Admiralty ; but, while
holding this office, he was deeply dis-
affected, and had previously gained
some notoriety by his opposition to
Rensselaer, an Episcopal minister and
suspected papist, at Albany, who had
been sent to the province by the
Duke of York.

The revolution commenced in New
York by the refusal of Leisler and
others to pay revenue and taxes to
Mr. Plowman, the collector, because
he was a Catholic The people of
Long Island deposed their magis-
trates and elected new ones, and
despatched a large body of militia to
New York, "to seize the fort, and
keep off popery, French invasion,
and slavery." The public money,
amounting to ^773 12s., had been
deposited, for safe keeping, in the
fort which was garrisoned by a few
soldiers commanded by a Catholic

ensign. In order to secure this trea-
sure, the popular party assembled on
the 2d of June, 1689, and seized the
fort. Leisler, who had refused to lead
them to attack, on hearing of its sei-
zure, went, with forty-seven men, to
the fort, was welcomed by the citi-
zens, and acknowledged as their lead-
er. At a meeting of the people, a
so-called "Committee of Safet>'" was
appointed for the immediate govem-
ment of the province, and Leisler
was appointed to the chief command
Then followed the reign of terror
described by Smith, Graham, and
other historians. Catholics were
hunted down in every direction, and
many Protestants, suspected of being
"papists" at heart, were treated in
the same manner. Orders were issu-
ed for the arrest of Governor Don-
gan — who, since his retirement from
office, had been quietly residing on
his estate at Staten Island — and all
other Catholics, who were compelled
to fly for safety. Governor Dongan
and other Catholics took shelter on
board of a vessel in the harbor, where
they remained for weeks, during the
height of the excitement. He proba-
bly was obliged to keep himself con-
cealed. He fled to Rhode Island,
and soon afterward returned to Sta-
ten Island ; his servants were arrest-
ed, his personal effects — charged, in
the frenzy of the hour, to embrace a
number of arms — were seized at his
mill on Staten Island; and all who
pretended to hold commissions under
him were ordered to be arrested. So
effectually were the Catholics driven
from the province that, in 1696, seven
years afterward, on a census of Ca-
tholics, taken by the mayor of the
city by order of Governor Fletcher,
only nine names were returned,
namely. Major Anthony Brockholes,
William Douglass, John Cooley,
Christiane Lawrence, Thomas How-
aiding, John Cavalier, John Patte,

Hon. Thomas Dongan, Governor of New York,

781

John Fenny, and Philip Cunning-
ham.

Whether Governor Dongan return-
ed to England, and again came out
to the province after the excitement
had abated, or remained concealed
in the province or neighborhood,
seems not to be clear. It is certain,
however, that he was in New York
in 1 79 1. It need only be added here
that the " Charter of Liberties," passed
in 1683, under a Catholic governor,
was, with all other laws passed by the
late general assembly, repealed by the
Protestant assembly of New York,
in 1 69 1, and a so-called "Bill of
Rights" passed, which expressly depri-
ved Catholics of all their political and
religious rights. In 1 697 this " Bill of
Rights" was repealed by King William,
" probably as being too liberal," says
Bishop Bayley; and, in 1700, an
act was passed which recited that
" Whereas, divers Jesuits, priests, and
popish missionaries have, of late,
come, and for some time have had
their residence in the remote parts of
this province, and others of his ma-
jesty's adjacent colonies, who, by
their wicked and subtle insinuations,
industriously labored to debauch, se-
duce, and withdraw the Indians from
their due obedience to his most sa-
cred majesty, and to excite and stir
them up to sedition, rebellion, and
open hostility against his majesty's
government ;" and enacted that every
priest, etc., remaining in or coming
into the province after November ist,
1 700, should be " deemed and ac-
counted an incendiary and disturber
of the public peace and safety, and an
enemy of the true Christian religion,
and shall be adjudged to suffer per-
petual imprisonment /'' that, in case of
escape and capture, they should suf-
fer death; and that harborers of
priests should pay a fine of two hun-
dred pounds, and stand three days in
• the pillory. If it is alleged that the

law of 1 69 1 was the result of high
party excitement and public alarm,
what excuse, it may be asked, is to
be alleged for the more illiberal and
persecuting law of 1700? It is but
justice to James II., to point to the
" Charter of Liberties " of 1683, pass-
ed with his own approbation, and at
his suggestion, and then to the laws
of 1 69 1 and 1700, passed under Wil-
liam and Mary, and remark that,
though the revolution gave the colo-
nies William and Mary in the place
of James, it also gave penal and
odious laws, and a deceptive " Bill of
Rights," in exchange for a " Charter
of Liberties " that gave what its title
professed to confer. In Maryland,
too, whose Catholic founders pro-
claimed civil and religious liberty as
the basis of their commonwealth, the
same scenes, on a more extended
scale, were at the same time being
enacted; the persecutors in New
York were in intimate correspon-
dence with their co-laborers in Mary-
land and New England.

In 1 69 1, when Governor Dongan
saw, firom the passage of the " Bill of
Rights," that Catholics were exclud-
ed from the benefits of government,
and subjected to persecution, he re-
turned to England.

While "he was governor of New
York, in 1685, his brother William,
who had, in 1661, been created Ba-
ron Dongan and Viscount Claine in
the Irish peerage, was advanced to
the earldom of Limerick, with re-
mainder, on the failure of direct issue,
to Colonel Thomas Dongan. On
the breaking out of the revolution
and the flight of James II., William,
Earl of Limerick, adhered to that
monarch, and followed him into
France ; whereupon his estates were
forfeited, and granted to the Earl of
Athlone, an adherent of William.
This grant was confirmed by an act
of the Irish parliament, but with a

782

Hon. Thomas Dongan, Governor of New York.

clause saving the right of Colonel Tho-
mas Dongan. Colonel Dongan, on his
return to England, made every effort
to recover some portion of his bro-
ther's estates. His brother, the Earl
of Limerick, died at St. Germain in
1698, whereupon Colonel Dongan
was introduced to William III. as
successor of the late Earl of Limerick,
and the new earl did homage to
the king for his earldom, and, accord-
ing to the feudal custom, kissed the
king's hand on succeeding to the
rank. He was allowed by the gov-
ernment, about the same time,
^^2500, in tallies, in part payment
for advances made by him for public
piirposes while governor of New
York. His persevering efforts to
recover the estates of his deceased
brother so far finally succeeded as to
induce the passage of an act of par-
liament for his relief, on the 25 th of
May, 1702. He subsequently offer-
ed himself for service in the Ameri-
can colonies, but it does not appear
that he was ever in the service of the
crown after his retiun to England.
He died in London, on the 14th day
of December, 17 15, and was interred
in the church-yard of St. Pancras,
Middlesex. The inscription on his
tombstone reads as follows :

" The Right Hon^*« Thomas Dongan,

Earl of Limerick,

Died December 14th, aged eighty-one years,

1715.
Requiescat in Pace. Amen."

In addition to the encomiums passed

upon him both by Catholic and
testant historians, the following,
De Courcy and Shea's d
Church in the United States, is
inserted :

" This able governor was not long c
in office to realize all his plans for th
of the colony, where he had expend
the public good, most of his private f<
In this, as in many other points, the <
lie Governor Dongan forms a strikir
trast with the mass of colonial nxler
sought their own profit at the ezpc
the countries submitted to them. T<
gan, too, New York is indebted for tl;
vocation of the first legislative asseml
colony having been, till then, ruled an
emed at the good pleasure of the govi
and this readiness to admit the peop
share in the government is a fact whi
enemies of James II. should not con<
their estimate of that Catholic monari

Mr. Moore gives us the folic
particulars in his note, cited ai
the authorities to this article :

*'This nobleman died without
His estates in America were settled <
on three nephews, John, Thomas, and
ter Dongan. Lieutenant-Colonel £4
Vaughan Dongan, of the third bat
of New Jersey Volunteers, who dj<
wounds received in an attack on the i
posts on Staten Island, in August,
was son of the last-mentioned gentli
John Charlton Dongan, another ooU
relative of the Earl of Limerick, repres
Richmond County in the New York A
biy, from' 1786 to 1789. Represent
of this ancient family are still to be ;
in New York."

[Note. — The above article is cond
from a forthcoming work of Mr. I
Clarke, to be entitled, Uvese/Ewumn
tholics of the UttiUd Stales.]

Beethoven.

783

BEETHOVEN.

HIS WARNING.

Years passed on, and Beethoven
continued to reside at Vienna with
his two brothers, who had followed
him thither, and took the charge of
his domestic establishment, so as to
leave him entirely at leisure for com-
position. His reputation had advan-
ced gradually but surely, and he now
stood high, if not highest, among liv-
ing masters. The prediction was be-
ginning to be accomplished.

It was a mild evening in the latter
part of September, and a large com-
pany was assembled at the charming
viUa of the Baron Raimond von
Wetzlar, situated near Schonbrunn.
They had been invited to be present
at a musical contest between the
celebrated Wolff and Beethoven.
The part of Wolff was espoused with
great enthusiasm by the baron ; that
of Beethoven by the Prince de Lich-
nowsky, and, as in all such matters,
partisans swarmed on either side.
The popular talk among the music-
loving Viennese was, everywhere,
discussion of the meiits of the rival
candidates for fame.

Beethoven was walking in one of
the avenues of the illuminated gar-
den, accompanied by his pupil, Fer-
dinand Ries. The melancholy that
marked the composer's temperament
seemed, more than ever, to have the
ascendency over him.

**I confess to you, Ferdinand,"
said he, apparently in continuation
of some previous conversation, "I
my engagement with Sonn-

"And yet you have written the
opera ?"

" I have completed it, but not to
my own satisfaction. And I shall
object to its being produced first at
Vienna."

"Why so? The Viennese are
your friends."

"For that very reason I will not
appeal to their judgment ; I want an
impartial one. I distrust my genius
for the opera."

" How can that be possible ?"

"It is my intimacy with Salieri
that has inclined me that way; na-
ture did not suggest it; I can never
feel at home there. Ferdinand, I
am self-upbraided, and should be,
were the applause of a thousand
spectators sounding in my ears."

" Nay," said the student, " the ar-
tist assumes too much who judges
himself."

" But I have not judged myself."

" Who, then, has dared to insinu-
ate a doubt of your success ?"

Beethoven hesitated; his impres-
sions, his convictions, would seem su-
perstition to his companion, and he
was not prepared to encounter either
raillery or ridicule. Just then the
host, with a party of the guests, met
them, exclaiming that they had been
everywhere sought ; that the compa-
ny was all assembled in the saloon,
and every thing ready for the exhibi-
tion.

"You are bent on making a gla-
diator of me, dear baron," cried the
composer, "in order that I may be
mangled and torn to pieces, for the

Beethoveft,

785

first act; he had suppressed
10 and trio of some import-

and made other improvements
retrenchments. Not small was
riumph at the favorable decision
e Viennese public. A new turn
ed to be given to his mind; he
ved thoughts of future conquests
the same portion of the reaUn of-
he no longer questioned his own
. It was a crisis in the artist's
ind might have resulted in his
:e of a different career from that
lich he has won undying fame,
ethoven sat alone in his study ;

was a light knock at the door,
eplied with a careless " come in,"
)ut looking up from his work.
?as engaged in revising the last
IS of his opera.

e visitor walked to the table and
. there a few minutes unobserved,
ibly the artist mistook him for
)f his brothers ; but, on looking
e started with indescribable sur-
The unknown friend of his
I stood beside him.
o you have kept your word,"
the composer, when he had re-
ed from his first astonishment;

now, I pray you, sit down, and
le with whom I have the honor
Lving formed acquaintance in so
rkablc a manner."
Ay name is of no importance, as
ly or may not prove known to
' replied the stranger. " I am
good genius, if my counsel does
good ; if not, I would prefer to

an obscure place among your
pointed friends."
ere was a tone of grave rebuke
hat his visitor said that per-
d and annoyed the artist. It
V him that there was affectation
s assumption of mystery, and he
ved coldly,

shall not attempt, of course, to
ve you of your incognito; but if
issume it for the sake of eflfect, I
\QU DC — 50

would merely give you to understand
that I am not prone to listen to
anonymous advice."

" Oh ! that you would listen," said
the stranger, sorrowfully shaking his
head, " to the pleadings of your
better nature !"

" What do you mean ?" demanded
Beethoven, starting up.

"Ask your own heart. If that
acquit you, I have nothing to say.
I leave you, then, to the glories of
your new career; to the popular
applause — to your triumphs — to your
remorse."

The composer was silent a few mo-
ments, and appeared agitated. At
last he said, " I know not your reasons
for this mystery; but whatever they
may be, I will honor them. I entreat
you to speak frankly. You do not
approve my present undertaking ?"

" Frankly, I do not. Your genius
lies not this way," and he raised some
of the leaves of the opera music.

" How know you that ?" asked the
artist, a little mortified. " You, per-
haps, despise the opera ?"

" I do not. I love it ; I honor it ;
I honor the noble creations of those
great masters who have excelled in it.
But you, my friend, are beckoned to
a higher and holier path."

" How know you that ?" repeated
Beethoven, and this time his voice
faltered.

" Because I know you ; because I
know the aspirations of your genius ;
because I know the misgivings that
pursue you in the midst of success ;
the self-reproach that you suffer to be
stifled in the clamor of popular praise.
Even now, in the midst of your tri-
umph, you are haunted by the con-
sciousness that you are not fulfilling
the true mission of the artist."

His piercing words were winged
with truth itself Beethoven buried
his face in his hands.

" Woe to you," cried the unknown,

786

Beethoven.

« if you suppress, till they are wholly
dead, your once earnest longings
after the pure and the good ! Woe to
you, if, charmed by the syren song of
vanity, you close your ears against
the cry of a despairing world ! Woe to
you, if you resign unfulfilled the trust
God committed to your hands, to
sustain the weak and faltering soul, to
give it strength to bear the ills of life,
strength to battle against evil, to face
the last enemy !"

"You are right — you arc right!"
exclaimed Beethoven, clasping his
hands.

" I once predicted your elevation,
your world-wide fame," continued the
stranger ; " for I saw you sunk in de-
spondency, and knew that your spirit
must be aroused to bear up against trial.
You now stand on the verge of a
more dreadful abyss. You arc in
danger of making the gratification of
your own itride, instead of the fulfil-
ment of Haven's will, the aim — the
goal of your life's efforts."

" Oh ! never," cried the artist,
** with you to guide me."

" We shall meet no more. I watch-
ed over you in boyhood ; I have now
come forth from retirement to give
you my last warning ; henceforth I
shall observe your course in silence.
And I shall not go unrewarded. I
know too well the noble spirit that
bums in your breast. You will — yes,
you will fulfil your mission; your
glory from this time shall rest on a
basis of immortality. You shall be
hailed the benefactor of humanity ;
and the spiritual joy you prepare for
others shall return to you in full mea-
sure, pressed down and running
over !"

The artist's kindhng features show-
ed til at he responded to the enthusi-
asm of his visitor; but he answered
not.

" And now, farewell. But remem-
ber, before you can accomplish this

lofty mission, you must be bapdxed
with a baptism of fire. The tones
that are to agitate and stir up to revo-
lution the powers of the huofian soul
come not forth from an unruffled
breast, but from the depths of a sore-
ly wrung and tried spirit. You must
steal the triple ^ame from heaven,
and it will first consume the peace of
your own being. Remember this—
and droop not when the hour of tiial
comes ! Farewell !"

The stranger crossed his hands over
Beethoven's head, as if mentally
invoking a blessing — folded him in
his embrace, and departed. ITie ar-
tist made no effort to follow him.
Deep and bitter were the thoughts
that moved within him ; and he re-
mained leaning his head on the taUe,
in silent revery, or walking the room
with rapid and irregular steps, for
many hours. At length the strug^
was over; pale but composed, he
took up the sheets of his opera and
threw them carelessly into his dcsL
His next work, Christ in tlu Afount
of OlivcSy attested the high and finn
resolve of his mind, sustained by
its self-reliance, and independent of
popular applause or disapprobation.
His great symphonies, which carried
the fame of the composer to its high-
est point, displayed the same triumph
of religious principle.

THE LAST HOURS OF BEETHOVEX.

Once more we find Beethoven, in
the extreme decline of life. In one
of the most obscure and nairow
streets of Vienna, on the third floor
of a gloomy-looking house, was now
the abode of the gifted artist. For
many weary and wasting years he had
been the prey of a cruel malady, that
defied the power of medicine for its
cure, and had reduced him to a state
of utter helplessness. His ears had
long been closed to the music that

Beethoven.

787

owed its birth to his genius > it was
long since he had heard the sound of
a human voice. In the melancholy
solitude to which he now condemned
himself, he received visits from but
few of his friends, and those at rare
intervals. Society seemed a burden
to him. Yet he persisted in his la-
bors, and continued to compose,
notwithstanding his deafness, those
undying works which commanded
for him the homage of Europe.

Proofs of this feeling, and of the
unforgotten affection of those who
knew his worth, reached him in his
retreat from time to time. Now it
was a medal struck at Paris, and
bearing his features; now it was a
new piano, the gift of some amateurs
in London; at another time, some
honorary title decreed him by the au-
thorities of Vienna, or a diploma of
membership of some distinguished
musical society. All these moved
him not, for he had quite outlived
his taste for the honors of man's
bestowing. What could they — what
could even the certainty that he had
now immortal fame — do to soften
the anguish of his malady, from
which he looked alone to death as
a relief?

" They wrong me who call me
stem or misanthropic," said he to his
brother, who came in March, 1827,
to pay him a visit " God knoweth
how I love my fellow-men ! Has not
my life been theirs ? Have I not
struggled with temptation, trial, and
suffering from my boyhood till now,
for their sakes ? And now if I no
longer mingle among them, is it not
because my cruel infirmity unfits me
for their companionship ? When my
fearful doom of separation from the
rest of the human race is forced on
my heart, do I not writhe with terri-
ble agony, and wish that my end
were come ? And why, brother, have
I lived, to drag out so wretched an

existence? Why have I not suc-
cumbed ere now ?

"I will tell you, brother. A soft
and gentle hand — it was that of art
— held me back from the abyss. I
could not quit the world before I had
produced all — had done alliliat I was
appointed to do. Has not such been the
teaching of our holy church? I
have learned through her precepts
that patience is the handmaid of
truth ; I will go with her even to the
footstool of the eternal."

The servant of the house entered and
gave Beethoven a large sealed pack-
age directed to himself. He opened
it ; it contained a magnificent collec-
tion of the works of Handel, with a
few lines stating that it was a dying
bequest to the composer from the

Count de N . He it was who had

been the unknown counsellor of
Beethoven's youth and manhood;
and the arrival of this posthumous
present seemed to assure the artist
that his own close of life was crown-
ed with the approval of his friend.
It was as if a seal had been set on
that approbation, and the friendship
of two noble spirits. It seemed like
the dismissal of Beethoven from fur-
ther toil.

The old man stooped his face over
the papers ; tears fell upon them, and
he breathed a silent prayer. After a
few moments he arose, and said,
somewhat wildly, "We have not
walked to-day, Carl. Let us go
forth. This confined air suffocates

me."

The wind was howling violently
without; the rain beat in gusts
against the windows ; it was a bitter
night. The brother wrote on a slip
of paper, and handed it to Beetho-
ven.

" A storm ? Well, I have walked
in many a stom^ and I like it better
than the biting melancholy that preys
upon me h^^^ ^ "^y solitary room.

790

The Conversion of Rome,

THE CONVERSION OF ROME/

Two irreconcilable systems of mo-
rals have disputed the empire of the
earliest times. The one is founded
on the fact that God creates man;
the other on the assumption that man
is himself God, or, at least, a god unto
himself. The first system finds its
principle in the fact stated in the first
verse of Genesis, " In the beginning
God created heaven and earth ;" the
second finds its principle in the assu-
rance of Satan to Eve, "Ye shall
be as gods, knowing good and evil."
The first system is that of the Biblical
patriarchs, the synagogue, the Chris-
tian church, and all sound philosophy
as well as of common sense — is the
theological system, which places man
in entire dependence on God as princi-
ple, medium, and end, and asserts as its
basis in us, humility, " Blessed are
the poor in spirit, for theirs is the
kingdom of heaven." The other sys-
tem is the gentile or pagan system, or
that which prevailed with the Gentiles
after their falling away fix)m the pa-
triarchal religion. It assumed, in its
practical developments, two forms, the
supremacy of the state and the supre-
macy of the individual ; but in both
was asserted the supremacy of man —
or man as his own lawgiver, teacher,
and master, his own beginning, middle,
and end, and therefore, either individu-
ally or collectively, man's sufficiency
for himself. Its principle or basis,
then, is pride.

Mr. Lecky adopts, as we have

• I. History of EHTopeanM^raU^ from Angufhut*
CkarUmxgne, By W. E. H. Lecky. London : LoQg-
mans, Green & Co., 1869. a vols. 8vo.

2. History of tkt Rise and InJItienet oftkt S/trH
•f Rationalism in Europe. By the same. From the
London edition. New York : Appleton & Co., 1868.
a Tols. 8vo.

shown in our former article, the pa-
gan, or, more properly, the satanic
system of morals, at least as to its
principle, though in some few paitica-
lars he gives the superiority to Chris-
tian morals, particulars in which Chris-
tians advanced further than had ad-
vanced the best pagan school before
the conversion of Rome, but in the
same direction, on the same principle,
and from the same starting-point He
nowhere accepts the Christian or theo-
logical principle, and rejects every-
where, with scorn, Christian asceticism,
which, according to him, is based on a
false principle — that of appeasing the
anger of a malevolent God. He ac-
cepts Christianity only so far as redu-
cible to the pagan principle.

The only points in which Christian
morals — ^for Christian dogmas, in his
view, have no relation to morals, and
are not to be counted — are a progress
on pagan morals, are the assertion of
the brotherhood of the race and the
recognition of the emotional side of
human nature. But even these two
points, as he understands them, are not
pecidiar to Christianity. He shows
that some of the later Stoics, at least,
asserted the brotherhood of the race,
or that nothing human is foreign to
any one who is a man — ^that all good
offices are due to all men ; and who-
ever has studied Plato at all, knows
that Platonism attached at least as
much importance, and gave as large
a scope to our emotional nature, as
does Christianity. Christian morals
have, then, really nothing peculiar,
and are, in principle, no advance oa
paganism. The most that can be
said is that Christianity gave to the
brotherhood of the race more promi-

The Conversion of Rome.

791

nence than did paganism, and trans-
formed the Platonic love, which was
the love of the beautiful, into the love
of humanity. This being all, we
may well ask, How was it that
Christianity was able to gain the vic-
tory over the pagan philosophers,
and to convert the city of Rome and
the Roman empire ?

Mr. Lecky adopts the modem doc-
trine of progress, and he endeavors
to prove from the historical analysis
of the several pagan schools of mo-
ral philosophy, that the pagan world
was gradually approaching the Chris-
tian ideal, and that when Christianity
appeared at Rome it had all but at-
tained it, so that the change was but
slight, and, there being a favorable
conjuncture of external circumstan-
ces, the change was easily effected.
The philosophers of the empire had
advanced from primitive fetichism to
a pure and sublime monotheism ; the
mingling of men of all nations and
all religions in Rome, consequent on
the extension of the empire over the
whole civilized world, had liberalized
the views, weakened the narrow ex-
dusiveness of former times, and gone
far towards the obliteration of the
distinction of nations, castes, and
classes, and thus had, in a measure,
prepared the world for the reception
of a universal religion, based on the
doctrine of the fraternity of the race
and love of humanity.

All this would be very well, if it
were true; but it happens to be
mainly false. The fact, as well as
the idea of progress, in the moral or-
der, is wholly foreign to the pagan
world. No pagan nation ever exhibits
the least sign of progress in the mo-
ral order, either under the relation of
doctrine or that of practice. The
history of every pagan people is the
history of an almost continuous mo-
ral deterioration. The purest and
best period, under a moral point

of view, in the history of the Ro-
man republic, was its earliest, and
nothing can exceed the corruption of
its morals and manners at its close.
We may make tfie same remark of
every non-Catholic nation in modem
times. There is a far lower standard
of morals reached or aimed at in
Protestant nations to-day than was
common at the epoch of the Reforma-
tion; and the moral corruption of
our own country has increased in a
greater ratio than have our wealth
and numbers. We are hardly the
same people that we were even thirty
years ago ; and the worst of it is,
that the pagan system, whether under
the ancient Graeco-Roman form or
under the modem Protestant form,
has no recuperative energy, and
the nation abandoned to it has no
power of self-renovation. Pagan na-
tions may advance, and no doubt, at
times, have advanced, in the industrial
order, in the mechanic arts, and in
the fine arts, but in the moral, intel-
lectual, and spiritual order, never.

Mr. Lecky confines his history al-
most entirely to the moral doctrines
of the philosophers ; but even in these
he shows no moral melioration in the
later from the earlier, no progress to-
wards Christian morals. In relation
to specific duties of man to man, and
of the citizen to the state, the Chris-
tian has, indeed, little fault to find
with the De Officiis of Cicero; but
we find even in him no approach to
the Christian basis of morals. The
Greeks never have any conception of
either law or good, in the Christian
sense. The vbyio^ was only a rule
or principle of harmony; it had its
reason in the to /coAov, or the beau-
tiful, and could not bind the con-
science. The Latins placed the end,
or the reason and motive of the mo-
ral law, in the honestum^ the proper,
the decent, or decorous. The high-
est moral act ^^ virtus^ manliness,

79?

The Conversion of Rome.

and consisted in bravery or courage.
The rule was, to be manly; the motive,
self-respect. One must not be mean or
cowardly, because it was unmanly,
and would destroy one's self-respect.
We have here pride, not humility;
not the slightest approach to the
Christian principle of morals, either
to the rule or the motive of virtue as
imderstood by the Christian church.

Yet Mr. Lecky tells us the moral
doctrines of the philosophers were
much superior to the practice of the
people. He admits the people
were far below the philosophers,
and were very corrupt; but we sec
no evidence that he has any ade-
quate conception of how corrupt
they were. What the people were
we can learn from the satirists, from
the historians, Livy, Sallust, and
Tacitus, especially from the De Civi-
tate Dei of St. Augustine, and the
writings of the early Greek and La-
tin fathers. Our author acknow-
ledges not only that the philosophers
were superior to the people, but also
that they were impotent to effect
their moral elevation or any moral
amelioration of their condition. Noth-
ing more true. How, then, if Chris-
tianity was based on the pagan prin-
ciple of morals, was in the same
order with paganism, and differed
from it only in certain details, or, as
the schoolmen say, certain accidents
— how explain the amelioration of
morals and manners which uniform-
ly followed whenever and wherever
it was received ?

If, as the author holds, Christianity
was really only a development of the
more advanced thought of the pagan
empire, why did it not begin with
the i)hilosophers, the representatives
of that advanced thought? Yet
nothing is more certain than that it
did not begin with them. The phi-
losophers were the first to resist it,
and die last to hold out against it.

It spread at first among the people,
chiefly among the slaves — that is,
: am'ong those who knew the least of
philosophy, who were least under the
influence of the philosophers, and
■whose morals it is confessed the phi-
losophers did not and could not
eletate. This of itself refutes the
pretence that Christianity was ahey labored to prove the
necessity of fh.ith in Christ, who was
crucified, who rose from the dead,
and is Lord of heaven and earth.
There is no particular miracle or pro-
phecy adduced to prove this that can-
not, indeed, be cavilled at; but the
Hebrew traditions and the faith of the
Jewish people could not be set aside.
Here was a whole nation whose entire
life through many thousand years had
been based on a prophecy, a promise
of the Messiah. This prophecy, fre-
quently renewed, and borne witness
to by the national organization, the
religious institutions, sacrifices, and
offerings, and the entire national and
moral life through centuries, is a most
stupendous miracle. When you take
this in connection with the traditions
preserved in the Hebrew Scriptures,
which go back to the creation of the
world— -developing one uniform sys-
tem of thought, one uniform doctrine,
one uniform faith, free from all super-
stition; one uniform plan of divine
providence, and throwing a marvellous
light on the origin, duty, and end of
man — ^you find a supernatural fact
which is irresistible, and sufficient
of itself to convince any unprejudiced
mind that Christianity is the fulfil-
ment of the promises made to Adam
after his expulsion from the Garden,
to the patriarchs, to Abraham, Isaac,
and Jacob, and to the Jewish people.
We have no space here to develop
this argument, but it is the argument
that had great weight with ourselves
personally, and, by the grace of God,
was the chief argument that brought
us to believe in the truth of Chris-
tianity, and in the church as the fulfil-
ment of the synagogue. The apos-
tles and early apologists continually,
ia one form or another, appeal to this

standing miracle, this long-continued
manifestation of the supernatural, as
the basis of their proof of Christiani-
ty. They adduced older traditions
than any the pagans could pretend
to, and set forth a faith that had con-
tmued from the first man, which had
once been the faith of all mankind,
and from which the Gentiles had
fallen away, and been plunged, in
consequence, into the darkness of un-
behef, and subjected to all the terrors
of the vilest, most corrupt, and abo-
minable superstitions. They labored
to show that the Gentiles, in the
pride of their hearts, had forsaken
the God that made them, creator of
heaven and earth, and all things
therein, visible or invisible, for Sa-
tan, for demons, and for gods made
with their own hands, or fashioned
by their own lusts and evil imagina-
tions. They pursued, indeed, the
same line of argument that Catholics
pursue against Protestants, only modi-
fied by the fact that the Protestant
falhng away, so clearly foretold by St.
Paul in his Epistles, is more recent,
less complete, and Protestants have
not yet sunk so low as had the Gen-
tiles of the Roman empire.

But it was not enough to establish
the truth of Christianity in the Roman
mind. Christian morals are above
the strength of nature alone ; yet the
pagans were not only induced to give
up their own principle of morals, and
to accept as true the Christian prin-
ciple, but they gave up their old prac-
tices, and yielded a practical obe-
dience to the Christian law. Those
same Romans changed their manner
of life, and attained to the very sum-
mits of Christian sanctity. The phi-
losophers gave many noble precepts,
preserved from a purer tradition than
their own, but they had no power to
get them practised, and our author
himself says they had no influence
on the people j yet they enjoined noth-

The Conversion of Rome.

80 1

adepts in cruelty, and took delight in
watching the writhings and sufferings
of their victims. Even Trajan, while
he prohibited the search for them, or-
dered, if accused and convicted of be-
ing Christians, that they should be
put to death.

Such being the law, the prefect or
governor of a province could at any
time, without any imperial edict, put
the law in force against the Christians,
if so disposed ; and that they did so
in all the provinces of the empire, fre-
quently and with unsparing severity,
we know from history. The Chris-
tians were safe at no time and no-
where in the empire, and it is proba-
ble that the number of victims of the
ten general persecutions were by far
the smaller number of those who
suffered for the faith prior to the ac-
cession of Constantine. We place
no confidence in the calculations of
Gibbon or our author, and we have
found no reason for believing that the
Christian historians, or the fathers, ex-
aggerated the number of those who
received the crown of martyrdom.

It is a great mistake to suppose
that paganism had lost its hold on the
Roman mind till long afrer the Chris-
tians had become a numerous body
in the empire. There were, no doubt,
individuals who treated all religions
with indifference, but never had the
pagan superstitions a stronger hold
on the mass of the people, especially
in Rome and the western provinces,
than during the first two centimes of
our era. The republic had been
transformed into the empire, and the
government was never stronger, or
the worship of the state more intole-
rant, more fervent, or more energeti-
cally supported by the government
The work of Romanizing the various
conquered nations was effected under
the emperors, and the signs of de-
cline and dissolution of the empire
did not appear till near the close of the

VOL. IX. — 51

third century. The Roman state and
paganism seemed to be indissolubly
linked together — so closely that the
pagans attributed to the rise and pro-
gress of Christianity the decline and
downfall of both. Certain it is, that
paganism lost its hold on the people
or the state only in proportion to the
progress of Christianity; and the
abandonment of the heathen gods
and the desertion of the heathen tem-
ples were due to the preaching of the
Gospel, not a fact which preceded
and prepared the way for it. Con-
verts are seldom made from the irre-
ligious and indifferent classes, who are
the last, in any age, to be reached or
affected by truth and piety.

The fact is, that paganism fought
valianUy to the last, and Christianity
had to meet and grapple with it in its
full force, and when supported by the
strongest and most effective govern-
ment that ever existed, still in the
prime and vigor of its life. The
struggle was harder and longer
continued than is commonly sup-
posed, and by no means ended
with Constantine. Paganism reas-
cended the throne — in principle, at
least — under Constantius, the son, and
avowedly imder Julian, the nephew
of the first Christian emperor. Every
pagan statesman saw, from the first,
that there was an irrepressible anta-
gonism between Christianity and pa-
ganism, and that the former could
not prevail without destroying the lat-
ter, and, of course, the religion of the
state, and apparentiy not without de-
stroying the state with it. The intel-
ligent and patriotic portion of the Ro-
man people must have regarded the
spread of Christianity very much as
the Protestant leaders regard the
spread of Catholicity in our own
country. They looked upon it as a
foreign religion, and anti-Roman. It
rejected the gods of Rome, to whom
the dty was indebted for her victories

Paganina.

803

losophers themselves. Yet he does
not show the origin of the greater
zeal, nor its character; and he entire-
ly misapprehends the enthusiasm of
the early Christians. They were, in
no received sense of the word, endiu-
siasts, nor were they, in his sense of
the word, even zealots. They in no
sense corresponded to the character
given them in The Last Days of
PompeiL They were neither enthu-
siasts nor fanatics; and their zeal,
springing from true charity, was ne.
ver obtrusive nor annoying. We find
in the earlier and later sects enthusi-
asts, fanatics, and zealots,^ who are
excessively offensive, and yet are able
to carry away the simple, the igno-
rant, and the undisciplined; but we
never find them among the early or-

thodox Christians, any more than you
do among Catholics at the present
day. The early Christians did not
"creep into houses and lead away
silly women," nor assault people in
the streets or market-place, and seek
to cram Christianity down their
throats, whether they would or not,
but were singularly sober, quiet, or-
derly, and regular in their proceed-
ings, as Catholics have always been,
compelling not people to hear them
against their will, and instructing in
the faith only those who manifested
a desire to be instructed. The author
entirely mistakes both the Christian
order of thought and the character
of the early Christians who suffered
from and finally triumphed over the
pagan empire.

TEANSLATSO FKOU THB FSSNCK.

PAGANINA.

Master Aloysius Swibert was
an organist in a small Austrian town ;
but from afar his perfect knowledge
of harmony, and freshness and deli-
cacy of inspiration, were known and
praised; and many a stranger artist,
having heard him, wondered that he
did not seek renown and even glory
in larger cities, and saw with aston-
ishment how his art and his simple
friendships contented and ornament-
ed a life requiring nothing more.

He gave his time to the study of
the great masters, a study full of pure
enjoyment, but laborious and difficult,
and, with a singular simplicity of
character, he never approached them
without the greatest reserve and re*
q;>ect

Obstinately he worked, allowing
imself but little respite to indulge
the flights of his fancy, or the inspira-
tion which, now and then, came to
him so luminously, so brightly that
the brave artist cried out his thanks
in ecstasy, in the fulness of his joy.

His musical thoughts are all in a
tiny volume. No long fantasies-
half pages mostly — sometimes only
lines, short and excellent and origi-
nal ; blessed originality, not coarse or
confusing, but healthy and true — the
daughter and messenger of inspira-
tion!

II.

Thus rolled the weeks, returning
ever the Sunday so ardentiy desired;
for to Master Swibert each Sunday
was aix event He thought of the

804

Paganma,

one passed, and looked forward to the
coming one; all were equally dear.
From the Saturday evening previous,
al! things sang to him his feast-day
songs, and the next morning, collect-
ed and serious, in his best clothes, he
sought his church and his organ.

He had his own ideas, considered
entremc by some, on the ministry of
the musician in the services of the
church, on the respect due llie place
and the instrument. His heart beat
when he approached the organ, and
he played, following his conscience,
somclimes well, sometimes better,
never seeking success — on the contra-
ry, dreading it.

His work accomplished, he walked
with his sister, serious and happy.
The people loved to see them pass,
and, from the doors of their houses,
saluted them amicably. In return,
^ey gave each a pleasant smile, and
rejoiced that men and things should
wear their holiday robes, their Sun-
day colors. If the trees were green
and the weather fine, their happiness
was complete. It made the good
man sad, though, if men or children
worked, or even planned their occu-
pations. " Poor creatures !" he said,
"is not even Sunday for them?"
And his heart beat as he spoke.
But when he met whole families en-
joying themselves, the fathers impor-
tant, the mothers busy and happy,
and the children gay and prattling, he
entered his lodging so happily, kissed
his sister, and awaited his friends.

He had but two — that is too many
-^jnd these could only remember
having passed one Sunday ei'cning
mway from Master Swibert. On
their arrival, there were three just
men imder the same roof — one more
titan is necessary in order rhat our
, Tiord may be in the midst of them.

They supped, and the arjfaiusi'i
sister, twelve years younger than be,
a fresh and graceful girl, waited on
his guests, and offered them some
nice white cakes, prepared the diy
before. Each one paid her hh
heartfelt compliments, while, smiling
and silent, with pleasure she receiRd
them.

AAer supper, Master Svibert sat-
ed himself at his piano and played
for his friends his studies of the pMU
week, 'riie music was mingled with
conversation, and art and philosc^y
beguiled the hours. Seated 1
a good-sized pot of beer, with c
sciences at ease, with active bo
and cheerful spirits, these compaaial
pursued endless conversations in aH
that interested their honest heart*,
until, as night closed round ihcm,
their souls were elevated and the)-
spoke of heaven. There seemed to
be a marvellous contact between
their natures and all that is spirimal.

Such was Maiiter Swibert'a iatcRoi
on Sunday evenings. Could dtanoc
have led thither some growing jroudi,
all ardor and enthusiasm, and had he
essayed the eternal temptation of
love and glory, his answer voold
have been a smile. There they hid
no place. The three fnends were
happy.

had B

But in this world every thing
cs, happiness especially. The day
came when Masttr Sn-ibcrt
part from all he loved — his
habits, his home, and his country.

He was tall, and looked
and healthy; yet his friends were Sk-
quieted about him, for he seemed
restless, like a tree which outwatdty
appears vigorous, but at heart de-
cayed and liable to fall with the first
rough wind. His physicians gave a
reason for (heir uneasiness, atut onhp
cd him south.

Paganina.

805

The organist and his sister set out
one day, hiurying their adieus as
people who run away. When they
were at the foot of the Alps in Italy,
they stopped at a sunny little town, a
day's journey from MUan, which we
will C2dl Ar^e. Master Swibert was
then forty-four.

How this man, who, till now, had
lived more like a priest than a man
of the world, could be led by his
passions to marry an Italian and a
singer, is difficult to explain. Besides,
it is superfluous to look for a reason
for any unreasonable act. Perhaps
the good old sun was the cause,
laughing behind the trees at the fol-
lies of which he makes us guilty.

But the girl was pretty, reputed
good, and dedicated to her parents
every moment her vanity did not re-
quire. So the organist married her.

They say love lives by contrasts;
the god of such a union should have
been well fed. But his life was short,
for, after a few months only, he died.
Perhaps of a fit of indigestion.

The Italian did not like the retired
and exclusive life demanded of her,
and the German could not accept
the firee behavior of his wife. He
could not believe in the purity of a
soul that sought vulgar homage and
common admiration.

He was wrong to judge her by the
ideas of his own country. His name
there had been so honorably borne
that, if it was for the smger too heavy
a burden, death only could release
her. This death took place under
peculiar circumstances.

Paganini was just then being heard
at Milan, and exercising that singular
&scination that made his artistic per-
sonality the most characteristic of our
time.

This age, which believes in no-

thing, accords him a legend, and, in
truth, his power with the instrument
he used was surprising and unequal-
led.

The fascination he possessed by
his eccentric and well-executed per-
formances is well known; how, for
instance, he only appeared in a demi-
obscurity, in some romantic scene;
or, in some fit of inspiration, broke
rudely the three strings of his instru-
ment, and performed on the remain-
ing one his most astonishing varia-
tions.

Whether it was skill, or a want of
genius, no matter ; the effect produ-
ced was marvellous. On the wife of
Master Swibert the result was aston-
ishing. Her child was bom before
its time, and in one of the side-scenes
of the theatre of La Scala.

Its life seemed so feebly assured
that it was baptized immediately with
the name of Rose Marie ; but Paga-
nini, flattered by the adventiure, in-
sisting upon being godfather on the
occasion, the little one was only
known by the name of Paganina.

Thus was bom the singular artist
whose history we relate. We know
the exterior facts, the accidents, we
may say, of her life. Popular imagina-
tion has made of them an interesting
legend; but these facts were produ-
ced by interior emotions little under-
stood, and would be perfectly unin-
telligible could we not trace in her
the two tendencies, the two natures,
which she inherited from her parents.

Master Swibert arrived in time to
say adieu to his wife, who did not
survive her confinement. Then, as a
miser with his treasure, he carried ofl*
his daughter. The child was feeble,
but the organist felt within himself
such an intensity of patemal love
that he could not doubt she would
live; "for," said he, "the vital forces
of a creature are not wholly in itself,
but m the love of its parents."

8o6

Paganina.

The sister of Master Swibert had
married and left him. Therefore,
alone with his daughter, he entered
an unoccupied house, where their
new lives should develop themselves.

VI.

(

Happy the children bom of Chris-
tian parents! They alone under-
stand the integrity of affection that
addresses itself to the soul, the deli-
cacy of love which envelops the in-
fant, from the bosom of its mother,
conducting it through ever}' danger,
and, even in spite of matemd instinct,
to the port of safety.

The organist coiild put in practice
no personal theories of education.
He thought a father and mother (he
was both) have but one thing to do
— ^to love and love on, to watch on
their knees near the cradle of their
child, to observe attentively the
movements of the soul in its dawning
light, to direct it on high, always on
high, guard it from all that is impure,
(triviality, even, he considered so;) and
so, in fine, enforce the impressions of
a saintly and ideal character, before
even the child has consciousness of its
perceptions.

Give your imagination to the inte-
rior of a family where such senti-
ments prevail; one sees marvellous
things, that no painter can paint in
colors true enough to render public.
O pure and holy family joys ! If we
hesitate to describe you, it is from re-
spect We know with what discretion
we should touch on holy things, and
we hardly dare to make ourselves un-
derstood, to those who are fathers, by
sketching the scenes of these first
years of childhood between Master
Swibert and his daughter.

VII.

Night has come ; the child is going
to sleep. Her fether, pursuing his

studies, is seated at the piano near
the little being who has all his heart,
and is now his inspiration ; the waves
of harmony go out into the night,
white apparitions encircle the cradle,
graze the earth^and fly away. The
child sleeps.

Attentive and listening, her angel
looks at her, opening slightly its
wings to better protect her, and
throwing over her closed eye-lids the
bluish and transparent veiL The lit-
tle face smiles sweedy.

In the morning she awakes, her
soul filled with the joys of the night
She hears the birds sing, and the
bright morning sun with heavenly
rays gilds the cover of her little bed
She watches it play on her white
curtains and turns toward her father,
her eyes filled with tears, a weight
on her heart ** Why do you weep,
my daughter ?" " Because, my fe-
ther, I love you dearly, and I am too
happy."

Yes, well may we discuss the joys
of childhood. To sing them, poets
lose their breath ; to paint them, ex-
haust the colors of their palettes;
and heap image upon image as their
heated fancies may suggest, yet what
have they done ? Nothing. Yet the
subject is worth their study. And how
is it that there are so many who have
known these joys in all their purity,
who in their manhood gaze on into
the futiu-e, and so seldom look to
that past which made them so happy ?
Would they not, at times, give worlds
to be again that litde child at its
mother's knee?

viir.

Paganina was nearly seven yean
old, when she found a companion;
the organist's sister died, leaving her
only child to the care of her brother.

The litde boy, named Andr^, seem-
ed to be of a gende and even weak

Paganina.

807

character. He was the same age as
his cousin, but never was presented a
more perfect contrast

Paganina had not yet acquired
that marvellous beauty that after-
ward became so celebrated, but
something there was about her very
strange and very attractive.

She was reticent and retiring, non-
chalant in gesture and careless in
behavior. Her face was always sad,
an indescribable, almost ferocious
ennui seeming completely to over-
power her. But if some recital, some
'sudden expression touched her imagi-
nation, or music entranced her, her
deep black eyes threw out a violet
flame, and even sparkled. But that
was alL The calm of an affected,
scornful carelessness returned imme-
diately.

Restlessness is the common host of
the domestic hearth.

Master Swibert trembled to see the
worldly and theatrical genius of the
mother develop in the child ; he knew
well that, in a nature strong and deep
as hers, such tastes would make terri-
ble ravages. And the development
of each successive year was not cal-
culated to dispel his fears.

Everything in the child alarmed
him, from her habitual concentration
to her fits of passionate tenderness—
the outburst of the moment, volcano-
like, a jet of brilliant flame which
sparkles and goes out.

IX.

Master Swibert could boast in his
dying hours of never having deserted
the child for an hour even. After
having devoted the early hours of the
day to her and her cousin's educa-
tion, he superintended and guided
their recreations — an important part,
in good hands, of the training of a child.

He had the habit of taking every
day a Icmg walk« The route they

loved best he called the German
road. It was that by which the or-
ganist had come to Italy. The sight
of it revived his memories, and flat-
tered the melancholy love he gave
his country.

On the way, the children listened
to the stories of the good musician,
who so willingly related them. They
spoke of Germany; for on this chap-
ter Master Swibert never tired. He
led his little auditors into the world
of ballads and legends, and we can
readily imagine the pretty curiosity
and happy astonishment which, at
their age, he awakened. Their favor-
ite legend was that of the great empe-
ror Barbarossa, who slept so many
centuries in an obscure grotto, lean-
ing on a table of stone into which
his beard had grown. These stories
were better than our nurses tell ; for
the organist related them, not to
impose on the credulity of his youth-
ful auditory, but to extract the poetry
they contained; and this he did won-
derfully. Poetry never did harm to
any one.

But the children loved, even better
than the legends, the recitals suitable
for them from the German poets.
The story of Mignon delighted
them. What could be told them
sufficed ; and they loved the little girl
who had no other language than
song, who took the face of an angel
and aspired to heaven, where she
went without scarcely having Hved
on earth.

Their '• imagination was inflamed.
They longed to see the country of
their dreams. Sometimes, at the
turn of the road, they began to run, in
the imavowed hope of seeing, at last,
what was behind the mountain ; but,
the circuit passed, and only a long
road, apparently without end, pre-
senting itself, the poor little things
cried with disappointment. Their fa>
ther, ready to weep with them, took

Paganina.

809

the elevation that commands the re-
sidence of the Ligonieri, and were
looking about them. There was a
fite at the Chateau Sarrasin.

The grand salon of the ground
floor was illuminated, and crowded
with a brilliant assembly of guests.
Long waves of light came from the
windows and doors, and showed the
crowd pressing around every opening,
and in the shadows revealed groups
seated attentively at cards.

All heads were turned toward one
point; all looks were in the same
direction, and attached themselves to
a woman standing in the centre of the
light, and surrounded by a chorus and
a numerous orchestra.

This woman was clothed in green,
and wore a crown of ivy, the orna-
ment of the old bacchantes. A green
diamond threw its lustrous rays from
her impure forehead. She sang — ^not
the songs that carry tired souls into
the regions of the ideal, and make
them forget for a moment the sadness
of earth ; but guilty joys and culpable
pleasures were her theme. The me-
tallic voice sang in response to her
chorus; and, becoming more and
more excited, the quick, passionate
notes mounted into a demoniacal
laugh. How sad, how true it is, that
the human soul, once beyond the
bounds of purity, rejoices in and re-
ceives new excitement from the deli-
rium of blasphemy.

XII.

Attracted by the light, Paganina
advanced toward the precipice. The
passionate music had turned her
brain. Her growing agitation be-
came extreme, and she betrayed it in
gestures and ardent words. When
Master Swibert called her, she refused
to obey.

Understanding at last, her father
rose, pale as a corpse.

"Unfortunate child!" he cried,
" thy bad angel is approaching thee.
Now comes the hour when I regret
thy birth. God grant that I may not
be punished for having shown thee
the spectacle of evil thou compre-
hendest so quickly."

The child advances, her father fol-
lows, and she begins to run. Wildly
through the midst of the rocks she
risks her life at every step. Her fa-
ther, breathless, pursues her, frighten-
ed, and covered with a cold perspira-
tion. His eyes, grown large already
with fear, see his daughter precipitat-
ed into an endless abyss ; and disco-
ver, also, in the future another abyss
still more shadowed and more horri-
ble, where, perhaps, will be lost the
deeply-loved soul of his child.

The guests of the Chateau Sarrasin
heard two cries mingle with the joy-
ousness of their ftte. The organist
seized his child just at the moment
when, from the edge of the precipice,
she would have plunged into eternity.

He had saved her life, but not re-
gained her soul. That evening, the
child separated herself from him in a
spirit of revolt which almost broke his
heart to witness.

XIII.

Master Swibert slept but little, and
badly. When he awoke, he wonder-
ed how he had been able to omit to
Paganina his usual good-night. His
eyes fell instinctively on the door
where, every morning, she came, half-
clothed, to salute him. The sun's
rays gilded the sill, and the good fa-
ther's heart beat, thinking how happy
he would be if at that moment she
would appear. He said, "She is
coming ;" but she came not.

The organist walked up and down
his room, interrupting, from time to
time, his monotonous promenade, to
listen, in hc^>es of hearing a word, a

8io

Paganina.

creaking, a fluttering of a robe. He
heard nothing but the uncertain step
of Andrd, wandering sad and lonely
in the parts of the house least occu-
pied.

The hours passed. The organist
still waited, his suffering becoming
anguish. Sometimes he felt he must
call out, "My child! my child T'
Already he opened his arms to re-
ceive her ; but his sense of duty pre-
vailed, and he waited for her.

The night again returned, and Pa-
ganina had shown no signs of life.
A bitter sadness, drop by drop, was
accumulating in the heart of her un-
fortunate father. The most mournful
thoughts took possession of him. He
dreamed of his approaching death,
and saw his child alone, abandoned
to interior and exterior enemies, and
in his weakness he reproached him-
self for having brought her into this
world.

Already more than half the night
had gone. Overwhelmed with sor-
row, exhausted, he threw himself into
an arm-chair, wondering if he could
bear to suffer more, when Paganina
entered noiselessly, on tiptoe, lest
she should awaken her father, whom
she believed asleep. She approached
him gentiy, knelt by his side, and,
taking one of his hands, covered it
with silent tears.

What a change for our poor orga-
nist! An immense joy overflowed
his heart, and spread over his whole
being in delicious emotion. He for-
got all past suffering and. future in-
quietude. He lost all consciousness
of the present but the knowledge
that his daughter was there, pressed
to his heart, and palpitating midst her
sobs.

He leaned over, and two tears, the
first shed by this austere man, fell on
the young bowed head — ^her baptism
of peace and pardon. Grief, repen-
tance, the love of the child, obscured

for a time, now manifested themsd
violently. She hung convulsively
the neck of her father, and begj
his pardon. They exchanged kisj
stifled cries, and Utde words of tcnc
ness, that are the first elements
that pure and passionate, delicate i
violent langu^e of the dome
hearth, so Htde capable of descripti*

XIV.

The stars sparkled peacefully ir
cloudless sky. The breath of i
night, with its penetrating odors, ca
noiselessly, and mingled the wb
hair of the father with the black a
of the child. It refireshed their bu
ing foreheads.

Peace has descended into th
souls. Now and then a sob fr^
Paganina is the only witness of I
past storm.

Master Swibert, with his head
dined, speaks in a low voice. 1
says:

" My daughter, my tenderness
you knows no bounds. Trust to r
Arrived at the summit of life, I, wh
head is whitening toward etemi
will tell you that, in this world, 1
only happiness given man is in 1
affections of his family. You cani
tell, before being a mother, what ]
temal affection is, and still less i
you understand mine. I was igi
rant of it myself until yesterday."

The child standing, her little f
united, pressed her head against 1
heart of her father.

The organist continued: "T
angel of a woman never leaves t
domestic hearth. If she Hves in t
world, her angel has forsaken her.
woman's crown is formed in shad(
and silence ; the gaze and admirati
of a crowd will wither it Your sc
I love, my daughter; and our muti
love must never end. Do you und
stand me? Never I provided c

PaganifUL

8ii

souls rise together toward the abode
of infinite love."

The child listens attentively ; divi-
ning, by a sort of intuition, the sense
of these teachings, engraving them-
selves, in letters of fire, on her heart ;
and which she will understand, each
day, more and more.

Little by little, lulled by the whis-
pering of her father; refi^eshed, as if
bathed in such admirable tenderness,
she fell asleep. Her father held her
in his arms, and, raising his eyes, he
prayed.

Day has come. The aurora awakes
in its humid splendor, and throws its
first rays over the mountain violets.
The bells of the town dance into the
air their clear and joyous notes.

"My father," said Paganina in a
low voice, and without opening her
eyes, "what do those bells say?
Their ringing sound makes me trem-
ble with joy."

"My daughter, they celebrate, as
they may, the day of the Ascension,
when Christ ascended into heaven."

"To heaven! my father;" and she
added, in so weak a voice that he
could scarcely hear her, "It seems
that I am there now — that I repose
in your arms."

The organist looked at his daugh-
ter, whose closed eyes seemed to en-
joy interior contemplation ; while his
pale face expressed his delight. He
raised her ; held her up, as if to offer
her to God ; then laid her quiedy on
her littie bed, and let her sleep.

XV.

From that day, the organist pos-
sessed perfect control over his daugh-
ter. If she seemed disposed to es-
cape from his influence, he recalled
the night of the Ascension, and that
sufficed. Paganina was still a litde
^1; but soon she would cease to be
one. Her future beauty was crystal-

lizing. The features could be seen ;
but they had not yet blended into
their after harmony. There was
something siurprising about her.

Morally, the incomprehensible littie
creature was all dissonance and vio-
lent contrasts, promising to be equal-
ly powerful for good or evil, as she
should be led by superior or inferior
influences.

The distinctive character of her
nature, habitually concentrated and
sometimes impetuous to excess, was
her passion for every thing beautiful.
Music exercised an extraordinary in-
fluence over her. It was, properly
speaking, her language; and she un-
derstood in it what others could not
Already she spoke in it wonderfully.

Her father taught her his instru-
ment ; and she gave herself with love
to the study. However, it was easy
to see that the demon of song would
make her his ; so Master Swibert hesi-
tated to give her a master, restrained
by his personal ideas on the subject.
He had his theory, which appeared
singular, no doubt, and he revealed
it to his daughter, saying, " Too per-
fect an instrument is a snare for a
musician ; for when he has at his ser-
vice an organ of this kind, he forgets
too often to raise it to the ideal, and
gives it to matter. Where are those
who can disengage themselves from
matter to arrive at an idea ? Where
are those who know that the beauty
of the body is the shadow of the beau-
ty of the soul ? To pursue exclusively
the first is to lose both.

" Look at the immortal composers
of my country, whose genius will ra-
diate unto the last of posterity. The
shrill notes of the piano are the most
common expression of their glorious
thoughts. The musicians of this
nation find voices neither piu-e nor
powerful enough to express their piti-
ful imaginations. When I see such
anxiety for the sign, I esteem poorly

8l2

Paganina.

the thing signified, and I think that
its beauty is, above all, material.

" I love the human voice. What
an admirable instrument! But I
tremble to see how it is used to ex-
press the passions of earth and the
enchantments of pleasure. It is dan-
gerous to possess it. I warn you of
your danger, my daughter."

I have already said that this theory
was singular. The word appears
weak, perhaps; but it came fi-om
Germany.

However, it had no influence on
the destiny of Paganina; for, having
finished his reasoning, her father gave
her a master. Happily, logic alone
does not govern the world.

The little one then learned to sing.
Her success in this study was rapid,
and passed all foresight. Sometimes
Master Swibert was confounded
when he heard her, and trembled
before this power which had come
firom himself.

XVI.

The moment came when Andr^
was to be submitted to the proof of a
public education. His uncle consid-
ered such a course necessary to make
him a man. It was decided that he
should receive at the conservatory of
Naples the classic traditions of Ital-
ian art. The organist and his daugh-
ter wished to accompany him to his
destination.

They travelled by short stages.
Master Swibert proposing, according
to his habit, an elevated result, com-
municated to his children the riches
of his erudition. They stopped wher-
ever they could hope to gather some
firuit, curious to visit every place of
which they knew the history, and he
desirous to give them a living know-
ledge which would be for ever im-
pressed upon them.

His studies and afifections induced

him to neglect the mere vestiges
antiquity to seek with greater k
the souvenirs of Christianity and
relics of the saints. We know if tl
abound on this illustrious earth.

Every day, then, the traveB
turned a new leaf of the book wh
they had lisped firom their childho
The history of the martyrs particul
ly seized upon the imagination
Paganina. She never tired of list
ing to it on the very places they \
sanctified by such sublime acts as
world rarely knows.

We may scoflf at or disdain
wonders of interior sanctity, but
difference is arrested by the heroi
of martyrdom.

The martyrs wear the dou
crown of divine and human glo
After their God, they are the v;
quishers of death. Inspired coun
bvms on their faces; and when ;
added to their ranks the grace a
beauty of woman and child, why
fuse to their memory the homage
love and admiration, if even not
be Christian is considered worthy
worldly honor.

Paganina had the intelligence
greatness; she loved courage a
true nobility. The recitals of 1
father drew tears fi"om her eyes ; a
in traversing the arenas made men
rable by some bloody triumph, s
felt within her every inspiration
celebrate them. Here she was ft
to her Italian nature ; but she spc
with an elevation of accent a
depth of emotion which are the j
vileges of northern nations.

One evening she was at the Col
seum. She felt an enthusiasm wit!
her, an inspiration unaccountat
and pictured in life-colors i
crowd of excited people, watchi
and crying out to the poor Christi
martyrs struggling and dying, in 1
brightness of a supernatural lig
She entirely forgot herselfl

Paganina,

813

Something like a hymn breathed
from her oppressed heart ; eloquence
overflowed from her lips. The pass-
ers-by were attracted toward her,
and her father listened overcome and
astonished. While she appeared
transfigured, standing in the hght of
the setting sun, which seemed to throw
around her the bloody purple of
which she chanted, a ray of the glory
of her ancestors rested on the fore-
head of this grandchild of the mar-
tyrs.

That evening, her father, in taking
her home again, said to her, " Go on,
my little one ; many have passed for
eloquent who had not your inspira-
tion; many have sought for poetry,
and great they were ; but they have
not found the fruit your tiny hands
have gathered. Mignon sang: you
sing and speak ; and if you use your
power for good, Mignon may not
compare with you.'*

Excuse the blindness of a father, if
you please.

XVII.

When the time came for the chil-
dren to part, Andr^ was overcome in
a manner which seemed incompati-
ble with his nature, so ordinarily
tranquil. The father and daughter
returned alone, and lived afterward
with no other company than them-
selves. They felt no need to seek
their diversion among their neigh-
bors. The simple ties of friendship
or convenience to them were unne-
cessary, and the organist preserved
with tiie outside world only the ac-
quaintance that strict politeness de-
manded.

Paganina's affection increased dai-
ly. A profound sentiment without
display, and only recognizable by
certain mute signs that might have
escaped an indifferent eye. Her fa-
ther, however, could not be deceived.

So these two beings were never
separated. They worked together;
the organist conducted his daughter
into the highest regions of music, and
was astonished, in teaching her, to
discover horizons hitherto unknown.
Paganina made wonderful progress.

Those who find in art their happi-
ness in this world, and seek the
depths of those mysterious tongues
of which so many speak and know
nothing — those alone can form an
idea of the happy moments passed in
their solitude.

At times these two souls rose to-
gether, mounted even to the pure
heights where, to those who attain
to them, is given a supernatural feli-
city.

To these joys Paganina aspired
with an immoderate ardor; but in
attaining them she experienced a
reaction of extreme sadness. This
disquieted her father ; so, in the lan-
guage of parable which he liked to
use, and which sometimes proved
more original than gracious, he said,
"My daughter, my daughter, drink
with precaution ; at the bottom of the
purest streams are hidden the most
dangerous reptiles. Be prudent, or
you will swallow the leech. There is
only one fountain to quench your thirst,
and where, with your impetuous hu-
mor, you may drink with safety: it
is that which gushes toward eternal
life."

TO BB CONTINVBD.

Recent Scientific Discoveries,

8iS

the same part, and hence having the
same velocity of vibration, these pro-
perties always consist in the same re-
lative intensity. At the red end of
the spectrum, the heating power pre-
dominates ; at the other extremity, the
chemical ; in the middle, the luminous.
The reason of this seems to be mere-
ly the difference of vibratory veloci-
ties; and we shall see that this will
suffice to account for it.

Let us first explain how we con-
ceive the production of the phenome-
na of chemical action and of heat
For clearness, we must advert to a
theory familiar to all, according to
which ponderable matter is composed
of excessively small volumes, called
atoms, which, though perhaps theo-
retically divisible, are never divided
by any physical or chemical action.
In the constitution of bodies, these
atoms are supposed to be grouped in
some manner, each group forming
what is called a molecule. These, un-
like the atoms, are decomposed in
chemical changes, though not in phy-
sical ones, by which we understand
such as evaporation, melting, crys-
tallization, heating, magnetizing, elec-
trifying, etc., unless these happen to
affect the chemical constitution as well
as the physical condition of the sub-
stance. All these do not alter the
arrangement of the atoms in the mole-
cule, but only the position or dis-
tance of the molecules with regard to
each other. A collection of mole-
cules may be called a particle ; physi-
cal action then alters the constitution
of the particle as chemical does that
of the molecule. It may be remark-
ed that our senses give us no direct
evidence of the existence of mole-
cules, much less of that of atoms,
and they are supposed to be so ex-
tremely small that it will probably
never be possible to detect them in
this way.

In the application of this chemical

theory to that of light, a new hypo-
thesis is made, namely, that the ethe-
real fluid, whether itself continuous or
composed of separate elements, pene-
trates all the interstices between the
atoms of a molecule, as well as those
between the molecules. The motions
of this fluid, and of the matter which
it penetrates, are communicated to
each other, according to laws not yet
ascertained, but of which we already
have some glimpses. Thus, in treat-
ing of the effects of the ethereal vi-
brations on ponderable bodies, great
importance is probably due to what
is called isochrontsm^ or equality of
times ; that is, the agreement of the ra-
pidity of vibration of the ether with
that of which the matter is suscepti-
ble ; for in all known communications
of vibratory movements, this isochro-
nism plays a very notable part. If,
for example, we place upon the same
stand two clocks, having pendulums
of the same length, and consequently
swinging in the same time, and start
one of them, the slight impulses com-
municated by this to the other will
finally set the latter also in motion.
If, on the other hand, the pendulums
are not isochronous, no such effect
will be produced. In the same way,
a stretched cord will vibrate if one
of the sounds of which it is capable
is produced near by ; but it will not
be affected by other notes, even
though much louder — showing that
isochronism is more important than
intensity. Another illustration of the
same thing struck me forcibly some
ten years ago. I had ascended with
some photographic apparatus to the
top of an old square tower, very high
and massive, to take some views.
The tower belonged to a church, the
bells of which were rung several
times while I was there. The great
bell, though of a very considerable
size, shook the building very slightly ;
it hardly caused any tremor in the

Recent Scientific Discoveries.

817

tfiat each of these requires a certain
time, and the experimental results as
to these times were there given. But
this is all, or almost all, the knowledge,
unfortunately, which we yet have as
to what takes place in the brain. The
conjecture has been made that the
different kinds of sensations are due
to different modifications of the
cerebral extremities of the various
nerves; or that at the interior ex-
tremity of the optic nerve, a different
action occurs firom that at the nerve
of hearing, which seems probable,
since there are good reasons for be-
lieving that the action of the main
body of the nerve itself is precisely
the same for all the sensations. In
more than one way, our nervous sys-
tem would then resemble the tele-
graph. All the wires are traversed by
similar currents, but the registering
apparatus is different in each. In
one, the dispatch is read off upon a
dial; in another, it is printed on a
moving band ; in a third, a facsimile is
given of it, etc. The sending is also
accomplished by different means;
but in all cases the same agent, the
electric current, is employed.

Since we are treating of the sensa-
tion of sight only in connection with
the external vibrations, we need here
only discuss the first of the three
classes of phenomena mentioned
above, those which correspond to the
transmission of the dispatch. In ex-
plaining this, we shall follow the cele-
brated professor of Heidelberg, M.
Helmholtz.

The use of the spectroscope, and
the analysis of light as now made in
physics, chemistry, and astronomy,
might induce the idea that color Is an
intrinsic property of the rays, depend-
ing entirely upon the length of the
undulation in each, and inseparably
connected with it ; but this is not the
case. Color is an organic phenome-
noxiy only produced in the living ani-
voi- IX. — 5 a

mal ; and, in one sense, is very inde-
pendent of the length of the wave,
since it can even exist without the
presence of any luminous ray. Its
laws are admirably exhibited in a
figure called Newton*s circle. This
circle has been modified by recent
experiments, and has received three
enlargements, which make it a sort
of triangle with rounded comers ; but
it is very well to preserve its name,
for, as yet, the claims of Newton in
optics have not been contested in any
" Commercium episiolicum^^ Let us
briefly describe this figure. The red,
green, and blue of the spectrum oc-
cupy the three comers respectively.
Passing round the circumference, we
go firom red to green through yellow,
firom green to blue through greenish
blue, and firom blue to red through
violet and purple. If we draw a
straight line fi-om any point of the
circumference to the centre, we find
the same color on all points of the
line, but more and more diluted, so
that the centre itself is perfectly
white. This figure contains all possi-
ble shades of color, and' has the fol-
lowing remarkable property, estab-
lished by experiment. If we wish to
know what color will be produced by
the mixture of any others, we have
only to mark upon this figure the
points where the several colors are
found, and place weights there pro-
portional to the intensities in which
the different colors are to be used in
the combination; at the centre of
gravity of these weights, that is, at the
point on which the circle (suppos-
ed itself to be without weight) would
balance when thus loaded, we shall
find the resulting shade. This point
does not need to be found by expe-
riment, being more easily calculated
mathematically.

Now it is evident firom this that
color is a mere matter of sensation ;
for it is obvious that the same centre

Recent Scientific Discoveries,

819

the central rays of the spectrum at
the second, while the blue and violet
ones will act freely only on the third.
It must be granted that no such thing
has been observed in man and the
other mammalia; but something
similar may be found in the singular
pathological phenomenon to which
the chemist Dalton has given his
name. Daltonism is most frequently
an inability to perceive red. For
eyes thus affected, the chromatic tri-
angle or circle just mentioned is con-
siderably simplified ; but sad mistakes
are the consequence. "All the dif-
ferences of color," says Helmholtz,
" appear to them as mixtures of blue
and green, which last they call yel-
low." This disorder would be, ac-
cording to the above theory, a paraly-
sis of the first, or red fibres. The
simplicity of this explanation is cer-
tainly in favor of the theory which
gives it. But we had determined not
to bring up arguments. Let us,
then, pass on; remarking, however,
one respect in which the eye, other-
wise so superior to the resc of the
senses, is inferior to the ear. Sounds,
though combined to any extent in
harmonies or discords, can readily be
separated by an experienced ear.
The eye, on the other hand, only
sees the result of mixed colors; it
needs instruments to rival the ear;
and it is only by means of the prism
that it can separate and classify the
various vibrations which reach it.

But, provided with this prism, or
spectroscope^ it has lately done won-
ders. It has discovered and measur-
ed a whole world of new phenomena,
which, according to the theory just
developed, must be attributed to re-
ciprocal exchanges of movement be-
tween the ether and the ponderable
molecules. The light given by these
has disclosed to us many secrets of
chemistry, and especially of astro-
nomy.

Before specifying the most recent
of these discoveries, we will profit by
what has already been said to explain
very briefly the fundamental princi-
ples of spectral analysis. Transparent
bodies, whether solid, liquid, or gase-
ous, exercise upon the rays an absorp-
tion which is called elective, because
some undulations are allowed to pass,
while others are stopped, according to
their velocities ; and one of the effects
of this absorption is the color of such
bodies. This is to be explained by
the principle of isochronism. Those
vibrations which, for want of it, can-
not be imparted to the surrounding
matter, pass fireely; the others are
absorbed. But it is remarkable that
gases and vapors only absorb a small
number of them, while solids and
liquids retain a great many. Thus,
supposing that, we have obtained, in
any way, a continuous spectrum —
that is, one with no breaks-— contain-
ing all the known rays, not only the
visible ones between the red and vio-
let, but also the rest outside of these
limits, a liquid or solid body inter-
cepting this light will entirely destroy,
or considerably weaken, large por-
tions of this spectrum ; whereas a gas
or vapor generally will only efface a
few small ones, whose absence is de-
tected in the luminous part of the
spectrum by the dark, transverse lines
which have been so long known in
that of the sun. This is certainly
quite extraordinary, since it would
suggest the inference that in gaseous
bodies, the molecules, though less
condensed, or further from each other,
than in solids or liquids, have a much
smaller range of possible vibrations.
Besides this, the researches of Mr.
Frankland on flames have lately
shown that, even in gases, this range
increases as the density augments.
These results must undoubtedly be
considered as strange ; but what, after
all, do we know of the connection of

Recent Scientific Discoveries,

821

with in the recent examinations of
different parts of the sun.

The principles just explained have
been known for several years, and
were sufficient for astronomy as long
as it restricted its investigations to the
chemical analysis of the atmospheres
of the heavenly bodies. But it was
soon perceived that much greater use
could be made of the spectroscope.
Information is now beginning to be
acquired by means of it which had
previously appeared to be unattaina-
ble, regarding, for instance, the rapidi-
ty of the motion of stars the distance
of which is still unknown ; the great
movements which are continually
taking place in the great masses of
gas in the solar photosphere, and the
pressure of these masses at different
depths ; and it is even hoped that a
direct determination of their tempera-
ture may be made. Let us speak
first of the observations of stellar
velocities. Their possibility may
easily be shown by means of an
acoustic phenomenon which the rea-
der must frequently have noticed.
Let us suppose two trains of cars to
be moving rapidly in opposite direc-
tions, and that one of them whistles
as it passes the other. If we are
seated in the latter, we shall perceive
that the pitch of the whistle suddenly
falls as it passes us. The reason is
manifest. A certain time is necessary
for the sound to reach us ; and while
the train is approaching, this time is
sensibly shorter for each succeeding
vibration, so that the interval between
the vibrations is apparently diminish-
ed, and the note is higher than it
would be were the trains at rest. On
the other hand, as the whisde recedes
after passing, its pitch is lowered for
a similar reason. Of course, no such
effect is produced by that of our own
train, which always remains at the
s^me distance from us. By the
amount of flattening of the sound, it

is quite possible to calculate the velo-
city of the train, as compared with
that of sound.*

It is very easy to apply what has
just been said of the waves of sound
to those of light. The motion of the
sonorous body displaces its sounds on
the acoustic scale ; in the same way,
the motion of the luminous body will
displace its light on the optic, placing
any particular line, dark or brilliant,
in the spectrum nearer to the violet
or rapid end, if the body is approach-
ing; and nearer to the red, if it is
receding. And we are not obliged
to wait till the change has taken place
in the character of the motion, as in
the case of the train, since we can
always obtain lines similar to those
thus displaced, and having the same
velocity of vibration, from some ter-
restrial substance, relatively at rest,
and put the two side by side in the
same field; and by this means we ob-
tain at once the difference between
the apparent number of vibrations in
a second of the ray from the moving
body, and the real number, and thus
the velocity of the moving object.
This observation has the advantage
of being independent of the distance
of the objects observed, being as ac-
curate for the most distant stars as
for the nearest. We may notice, in
passing, also a singular consequence.

• Suppose the sum of the velocities of the trains to
be one-ninth of that of sound, and that the whistle is,
at a given moment, 11 40 feet (which is about the dis-
tance travelled by sound in a second) from our ear.
The vibrations emitted at this instant will reach us
in one second ; and all those emitted in the nine
seconds required for the train to arrive will be con-
densed into the remaining eight. Their frequency
will then be nine-eighths of what it would be without
the motion. It will be diminished in nearly the same
ratio after the passage ; since the vibration emitted
nine seconds sifterward will require an additional
second to reach us ; thus, the firequency will now be
nine-tenths of what it would be without the niotioD,
or four-fifths of what it was before meeting ; corre-
sponding to a flattening; of two whole musical tones.
This would require a relative velocity of 127 feet a
second, or 87 miles an hour ; which gives the rult,
that, for every half-tone of flattenbg, the sum of the
vdodtiea, or the velocity of the moving train, if wo
are at rest, it aa milea an h«ar.

Recent Scientific Discoveries.

823

placed perpendicular to this radius, it
will come out, of course, tangent to
the edge. Under these conditions,
and if the atmosphere is steady, the
phenomena will be as follows.

As long as we are upon the disc,
we shall see nothing but the usual
solar spectrum with its colors and its
numerous dark lines. The region
from which this light comes is called
the photosphere; and its spectrum
would be continuous were not its
light absorbed by the interposed
vapors of a great many substances.
These vapors produce the dark lines ;
but where are they? It was for a
long time supposed that they formed
an immense atmosphere round the
sun, only visible during total eclipses
under the form of a brilliant aureola.
This hypothesis seems now to have
been abandoned, for reasons which
will soon be given. It is generally
'thought that these absorbing vapors
form the atmosphere in which the lur
minous clouds float, or, at least, that
they are in immediate contact with
the photosphere.

Secondly, when we have nearly ar-
rived at the edge, the spectrum is
covered with a nimiber of bright
lines. According to Messrs. Frank-
land and I^ockyer, these probably in-
dicate a very thin gaseous covering
of the photosphere, the elective emis-
sion of which has no eflfect for want
of sufficient thickness, except upon
the borders of the sun, where it is
seen very obliquely. Upon the rest
of the surface it only acts by its
elective absorption, and perhaps may
be the only cause of the dark lines.
This conjecture certainly agrees with
the principles just developed.

Thirdly, at the moment of passing
off the disc, the lines all disappear,
and the spectrum becomes continu-
ous. Father Secchi, who informs us
of this fact, natiually ascribes it to a
particular layer enveloping the pho-

tosphere. He adds that this layer is
very thin, so that tremulousness in
the air st^ces to prevent its obser-
vation, on accoimt of the mixture
of lights. It is not found on the
whole circumference of the disc ; but
we shall give an explanation of this.
He supposes that it is the seat of the
elective absorption which produces
the dark lines; but how can this be
reconciled with the continuity of the
spectrum which it emits ?

This spectrum soon disappears,
and some brilliant lines take its place,
particularly a red, a yellow, a green,
and a violet one. At this moment
the slit is illumined by the famous
rose-colored layer, now called the
chromosphere^ upon which rest the
protuberances, formeriy so mysteri-
ous, seen in total eclipses. We can-
not see it in the ordinary way, on ac-
count of the atmospheric light; but
it comes out in the spectroscope, its
light being concentrated in a few
bright lines, while that of our atmo-
sphere is spread out in a long spec-
trum, and consequently much weak-
ened. It has been found that the
mean thickness of this gaseous envel-
ope of the sun is more than 5000 kilo-
metres, (3107 miles,) or about four-
tenths of the earth's diameter, andt
that its contour is very variable ; it is:
often agitated like the waves of a:
stormy sea, while in some places iti
sometimes has a very uniform leveL
It is now regarded as forming the-
outer limit or coating of the sun-
The only reason which formerly sup-
ported the belief in a gaseous atmo-
sphere outside of it, the elective-
absorption of which gave the dark
lines of the solar spectnun, was the-
phenomenon of the aureola, already
mentioned. But the thin layer dis-
covered by F. Secchi will probably
account for this; and there are, on
the other hand, very strong reasons
for rejecting the idea of such a vast

Recent Scientific Discoveries.

825

posed of two distinct parts — the nu-
cleus, which appears black in a tele-
scope, but whidi is really quite bright,
since it gives a spectrum of its own ;
and the penumbra, which surrounds
this nucleus. The latter consists of
portions of the photosphere, drawn
out in the form of threads toward the
centre of the nucleus ; these threads
sometimes unite with each other and
form bridges, as it were, over the
dark space. All the spectral observa-
tions confirm the idea previously en-
tertained, that these spots are really
cavities in the photosphere ; also they
indicate that these cavities are filled
with absorbing vapors, whose high
degree of pressure is manifest by the
broadening of their lines. Mr. Lock-
yer has seen in them sodium, barium,
and magnesiiun; F. Secchi, calcium,
iron, and sodium. Above these
qpots the hydrogen of the chromo-
sphere appears in quantities sufficient
for its elective emission to destroy
the black lines produced by its ab-
sorption upon other parts of the disc,
and even sometimes to change them
into* bright ones. But there are
many other peculiarities in the spec-
tra of the spots; and F. Secchi, in
examining them, has hit upon an
idea which seems to us very sugges-
tive. It was already known by obser-
vations of their firequency and size,
that the sun is a slightly variable star,
with a period of ten and one third
years. We now find a new resemblance
between it and the other variable
stars. It may be remembered that the
Roman astronomer has lately divided
the stars into four classes, according to
the general character of their spectra.
He has just compared the diflferent
portions of the sun with these four
groups, and finds that if its surface
was all like the nuclei of the spots, it
would have to be put in the class
whose type is Betelgeux, all of which
east move or less variable; that the

penumbras are like Arctiuiis, and the
general surface of the photosphere
like Pollux. He has also concluded,
from the presence of many of the
dark lines in the nuclei, that the
vapor of water exists in these regions
of the sun ; and the appearance of
others not yet named has caused him
to suspect the presence of many other
compound bodies. Up to this time,
hardly any thing but the simple sub-
stances has been looked for, as the
heat of the sun would seem to be so
great as to separate all the composite
ones ; but this temperature probably
is not so high in the spots. It be-
came, therefore, of interest to exam-
ine the faint red stars which form his
fourth group; and in doing so, F.
Secchi has obtained the surprising
result that the vapor of a compound
substance, namely, benzine, gives,
when incandescent, a spectrum hav-
ing bright lines exactly corresponding
to the dark ones of one of the stars
of this group. This star, then, ap-
pears to have an atmosphere of ben-
zine.

Finally, the spectroscope has de-
monstrated the movement of at least
one star. Mr. Huggins has found
that the hydrogen lines in the spec-
trum of Sirius do not exactly coincide
with those of this gas when at rest,
but are displaced toward the violet;
this observation was confirmed at
Rome. It would follow fi-om this
that Sirius is rapidly approaching us.
This is the only observation of this
description which seems yet to be
well established. But may it not be
possible to make others, and even
elsewhere than among the stars ? The
chromosphere is, as we know, the
scene of very rapid movements ; and
may not these be visible by the dis-
placement of the spectral lines ? The
following remark of Mr. Lockyer, in
one of his commimications to the
Royal Society, would induce us to

Recent Scietttific Discoveries.

827

of the pressure of these mixtures of
gas and vapor, the chemical action of
the rays could be retarded at pleasure.
The " incipient cloud " could then be
seen to form gradually ; and whatever
was the character of the vapor used, the
cloud had always at first a magnificent
blue color. Continuing the experi-
ment, the brilliancy of the cloud in-
creased, but its blue tinge diminished,
imtil it became as white as those
usually formed. The natural expla-
nation of this change is found in the
gradual growth of the liquid particles.

The cloud was not usually formed
all along the course of die rays.
After having traversed a certain thick-
ness of vapor, the rays, though seem-
ing as bright as ever, lost their chemi-
cal power. This result might easily
be predicted by the theory. Only a
few of these rays had the proper
length of wave to act by isochronism
upon the atoms of the vapor. These
would be absorbed shortly after enter-
ing; and the others, though vastly
more numerous and escaping absorp-
tion, would produce no chemical
effect. It was even probable that, by
passing the light at the outset through
a small thickness of the liquid, the
vapor of which was contained in the
tube, all its active rays could be taken
out; and experiment confirmed this
conclusion. It is to be regretted that
the light was not examined with the
prism before being employed; the
wave-length of the active rays would
then have been known. It is no
doubt very probable that they are
toward the violet extremity, either
among the visible rays or beyond.
But the colored glasses, which the
English physicist interposed, only
partially resolve the question. The
prism would undoubtedly have shown
that the wave-length of the active rays
varies with the substance exposed to
them*

Some vapors taken alone are almost

insensible, while their mixture is im-
mediately affected by the passage of
the rays. Such is the case of that
of nitrite of butyle with chlorhydric
acid. This is very easily explained
theoretically. The disturbance com-
municated to the atoms by the ethereal
vibrations, though very decided, may
be insufficient to break up the mole-
cules. But if another cause, though
itself insufficient alone, comes to its
assistance, the atoms may be separa-
ted. Such another cause is that which
chemists have long known as affinity^
the manifestations of which are very
numerous; but which has not yet
been submitted to a precise analysis.
In the case just mentioned, the affi-
nity of the elements of the nitrite of
butyle for those of the chlorhydric
acid conspires with the vibrations to
destroy the molecules of the two
substances and form a new one, which
is precipitated. The phenomenon is
like that observed in the growth of
plants. Light alone is not sufficient
to decompose the carbonic acid of
the air ; neither are the leaves when
in the dark. But when the sun's rays
fall upon them, the carbonic acid is
decomposed, its oxygen uniting with
the atmosphere and its carbon with
the plant. It is now easy to justify
what was said in the beginning as
to the formation of chlorhydric acid
by the action of the rays on a mix-
ture of chlorine and hydrogen. It is
only necessary that the molecules of
these gases, or, at least, of one of
them, should be composed of several
atoms. Affinity alone could only break
the union of these very slowly; but
the light would shake them apart, and
enable the affinity to act immedi-
ately.

So far Mr. TyndalFs experiments
agree perfectly with the theory ; they
confirm it, but they do not extend it.
He has, however, made others, which
seem to disclose new points in th'^

St Oretis Priory.

829

ST. OREN'S PRIORY;

OR, EXTRACTS FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF AN AMERICAN IN A FRENCH

MONASTERY.

" Poor chercher mieuz.'* — Dtvicg ofQuten Ckristina cf Sweden,

PART I.

'* I HSAX a Yoke you cannot hear,
Forbidding me to stay :
I see a hand you cannot see,
Which beckons me away."

Such were the words on my lips,
my dear friend, when I bade you
farewell and promised that I would,
from time to time, give you a picture
of my convent life, that you might in
spirit follow me closely into the seal-
ed garden of the Beloved, though
forced by circumstances to remain far
from me in body.

Fatigued with my long journey,
you can imagine I was very glad
when I reached this city. I hasten-
ed to find the Eue du Prieurk^ a nar-
row, gloomy street, payed with cob-
ble-stones, cheerless and uninviting.
But about half-way down, I saw a
statue of Mary Most Pure, in a
niche over a large doorway, with her
all-embracing arms extended in wel-
come. That was a sursum corda
which reassured me. The place
where Mary is honored is always a
home for her children. The sight of
her image brings peace and repose to
the soul, and I turned aside to rest
under her shadow. It was the grand
portal of St. Oren's Priory, an arched
passage through the very building,
wide enough to admit a carriage. I
stopped before the ponderous door
that was to open for me a new life.
This was the door I had so often
heard compared with another portal
which bears the inscription :

" All ye who enter here, leave h(^ behind."

na which meant love and peace.
Peace; yes, that was what I sought,
like the Tuscan poet at the Italian
monastery :

" And as he asks what there the stranger seeks.
My voice along the cloister whispers, Peeue /*'

The door opened just wide enough
to admit me, and, passing through
the arch, I found myself in a small
paved court, enclosed by the monas-
tery on all sides, where the sun only
comes for a short time at midday — a
grateful refuge from its heat. In it is
a fine large linden-tree, under whose
wide-spreading branches I found a
group of nuns — ^it being the hour of
daily reunion. I felt bewildered by
the sight of so many strange faces,
but my first impression was one of
general kindness and cordiality. I
could not have asked for a kinder
welcome, and surely hope and peace
were on every face. One of the mo-
thers, seeing my fatigue, took me to
the chapel for a moment, and then,
through long corridors, to a small
cell ; thus giving me a general glance
at my foreign home. I found tkick
stone walls, long passages, paved
floors, a dim old chapel, and narrow
cells. You will think this fearful ; on
the contrary, it is charming because
monastic. One of the narrow cells is
mine; furnished with a table, chair,
bed, and prie-dieu. On the latter
stands a crucifix, and on the wall
hangs a print of Notre Dame de Bon
Secours. There is one window in it,

" Looking tofward the golden Eastern air.*'

But above my head was the Madon- It opens in the middlei longitudinal-

St. Oreiis Priory.

831

es ever venerable to the heart of
Luscitain, living in the shadow of

shrines, sheltered by your vota-
who merit for me your protec-

I should be ungrateful to you,
le to my own heart, did I not
I murmur your potent names and
e you to those afar off!
. Taurin was the fourth successor
t. Pateme, whom St. Semin, the
; apostle not only of Toulouse
)f all this part of France, conse-
d first bishop of Eauze, then the
opolis of Novempopulania, as
ony was called. Forced by bar-
.ns, who came in search of spoils,
lit Eauze, St. Taurin took refuge
:hmberris, bringing with him,
ig other relics, the bodies of his
sainted predecessors in the epis-
cy : St. Pateme, St. Servand, St.
t, St. Pompidien. At that time,
I were two distinct cities here —
berris, a Gaulish city, on the side
crest of the hill, and Augusta
orum, on the eastern bank of the
rsius, which last received its
i from the Emperor Augustus,
passed through it on his return
Spain, and gave it the rights of
•man city. St. Satumin had first
:hed the gospel here, and built a
:h under the invocation of St.
: in the city of Augusta ; and at
foot of Climberris, where our
y now stands, was a church of
3hn. St. Taurin chose the latter
5 metropolitan church — ^a rank it
led for a long period — and there
ined the holy bodies he had
yht with him.

le zeal of St. Taurin was not con-
to his own flock. Hearing of
at Druidical celebration in the
Is of Berdale, he repaired thither,
unholy rites had commenced,
I profound silence reigned, when
t once a loud voice was heard.
IS that of St Taurin, denouncing

idolatry and calling upon the

multitude to turn to the true God.
The crowd was at first too much
astonished at his boldness to move,
but after some hesitation, incited by
the Druids, overwhelmed the apostle
with a shower of stones. Finding he
still breathed, they cut off his head.
His feast is solemnized with the ut-
most pomp in this diocese, on the
fifth of September, which is believed
to be the day of his martyrdom.

St. Oren belonged to a Spanish
family of high rank, his father being
the Duke of Urgel and Governor of
Catalonia. He early renounced his
right of heritage, but, after the death
of his brother, succeeded to the fami-
ly estates. He sold all his property,
distributed the money among the
poor, and retired to a hermitage
amidst the mountains of Bigorre,
where he led an angelic life, giving
himself up to severe austerities and
the contemplation of divine things.
The renown of his virtues and his
reputation for learning caused his
nomination to this see, of which he
reluctantly took possession in the
year 400. He displayed extraordi-
nary energy and zeal in rooting out
the vestiges of idolatry still lingering
in his diocese, and in reviving true
piety among the lukewarm of his
flock.

St. Oren was a learned man and a
poet. The great Fortunatus, Bishop
of Poitiers, who lived in the sixth
century, mentions his poems, of
which some fragments have come
down to us. His Nomenclature, in
particular, has always been known
and quoted. It is more extensive
than any other ancient list of the
symbols of the God-Man. Sylvius,
in the fifth century, gives forty-five of
these sjrmbolical names in seven
verses. Clement of Alexandria, in
his hymn to our Saviour, gives ten.
St. Cyril mentions twelve, in a ser-
mon. The list of St. Phibade of

5/. Oren's Priory.

833

a more modem, and still large, edifice,
with long dim corridors leading away
to austere cells, or to spacious sunny
salons. These were taken possession
of by a venerable community of
Ursuline nuns, who had been dis-
persed during the Reign of Terror,
but who, as soon as permitted,
hastened like doves to find a new ark.
A steep spiral staircase, of hewn
stone, lighted only by long narrow
chinks left purposely in the thick
walls, leads to the top of the old
tower, which commands a delightful
view of the valley of the Algersius.
At the foot, toward the south, lies
the convent garden, with its wells, its
almond-trees, acacias, vines, and rose-
bushes — loved haunts of the nightin-
gales, which I heard there for the
first time in my life. On the east
passes the route itnphialey beneath
the very convent walls, and beyond,
parallel with it, flows the river which
gives its name to the departcment.
Centuries ago, when the country was
more thickly wooded, it is said to
have been a navigable river, and
merited to be sung by Fortunatus,
who was a poet as well as bishop.
The eastern bank is shaded by a long
grove of noble trees — a public prome-
nade — where, at due hours, may be
seen all the fashion, valor, and sancti-
ty of the city. Through the trees
may be caught a glimpse of an old
Franciscan monastery, now an asylum
for the insane, where once stood a
temple of Bacchus, whose memory is
still perpetuated in this land of vine-
yards. There, in the fourteenth cen-
tury, was buried Reine, niece of Pope
Clement V., and wif6 of John I., the
thirteenth Comte d'Armagnac. Near
by is the airy tower of St. Pierre, first
built by St. Satumin, in the third cen-
tury, and rebuilt several times since —
the last time, after its destruction by
the Huguenots in the civil and reli-
gioiis distuibances of the sixteenth

VOL. IX.— S3

century. The music of its carillon
floats through the valley at an early
hour every morning, summoning the
devout to mass.

Cradling the valley toward the
west is the quaint old city. Its
houses of cream-colored stone with
red tiled roofe rise one behind the
other on terraces, and, crowning all,
are the towers of one of the finest
cathedrals of France.

Due east from the tower, in the
background, rises a high hill, called
in the time of the Romans Mount
Nerveva, but which now glories in
the more Christian appellation of
Mount St. Cric. There our glorious
St. Oren battered down a temple of
Apollo, but its summit is still lit up
by that god at each return of hallow-
ed mom.

Away to the south stretch the Py-
renees, hiding Catholic and chivalric
Spain, and gleaming in the sun like
the very walls of the celestial city.
Even Maldetta, with its name of ill
omen, looks pure and holy.

This old tower is for me a loved
haunt on a bright sunny day. I of-
ten betake myself to its top to enjoy
all the reveries inspired by the scene
before me. Its venerable, almost
cmmbling walls, its curious recesses
and carvings, speak loudly of the
monks of old. There I seem nearer
to heaven ; I breathe a purer, a more
refined atmosphere, which exalts the
heart and quickens its vibrations.

There is a large sunny apartment
in the tower in which I witnessed a
most afiecting event — ^the death of
a nun. So impressed was I by this
flight of an angelic soul to the ever-
lasting embraces of the Spouse of
virgins, that I cannot refrain fi-om
giving you a sketch of its closing
scenes.

When I first arrived at the priory,
poor Sister Saint Sophie wandered
around like a ghost, already far gone

St. Orert's Priory.

835

by such an organ" (of sight, hearing,
etc) After this sacrament he accord-
ed her the plenary indulgence of
Bona Mors. I was very much affect-
ed by these holy rites, and the more
so as I then witnessed them for the
first time.

I went to see the departing sister
several times in the course of the
day. The death-struggle was long,
but there was no appearance of suf-
fering.

At eight o'clock in the evening,
while we were reading the meditation
for the following morning, a nun
came in haste. " Quick ! quick !
pray for Sister Sophie. She is dying !"
In a moment the infirmary was
crowded with nuns. Sister Sophie was
in her agony. The crucifix was still
in her hand. A blessed candle
of pure white wax was burning
beside her, and the sub-prioress was
reading solemn prayers for the depart-
ing soul, to which the nuns sobbingly
responded. At the head of her bed
stood a sister, who sprinkled her from
time to time with holy water. Near
her stood another prompting pious
aspirations: "Jesus! Mary! Joseph!
may I breathe out my soul with you
in peace !"

At half-past eight she had given up
her soul as calmly as if going to sleep.
The Sulhvenite was said, and then we
all went to the chapel to pray for the
departed.

The next morning, (Sunday,) on my
way to the chapel, I stopped at the
infirmary. Sister Sophie was lying on
a bier, clad in her reHgious habit, with
the sacred veil upon her head, and in
her clasped hands a crucifix, and the
vows which bound her to the Spouse
of virgins. Her countenance was ex-
pressive of happiness and repose. A
wax candle burned on each side of
her head. A holy-water font stood
near, and some nuns knelt around,
{Maying for their departed sister.

That day, masses were offered for her
in every church and chapel in the
city, and at a later hour the nuns said
the office of the dead in choir. At
four o'clock, I went again to the in-
firmary, to see her placed in her coffin.
I have witnessed among those who
are vowed to a life of holy poverty
many examples of detachment from
every thing the world deems essential,
but I have never seen any thing which
so went to my heart as when I saw
Sister Sophie's coflfin. It was simply a
long deal box, unpainted and without
lining. The body was placed therein,
still in the religious costume. The
black veil covered the face, and on
her head was a wreath of white
flowers. How bitterly did the nuns
weep as they placed their sister in
her narrow cell — even more austere
than that in which she had lived!
I too wept profusely to see one
buried thus humbly, but perhaps suitar
bly. The lid being nailed down, the
cofllin was covered with a pall, on
which was a great white cross, and on
it the novices spread garlands of fresh
white flowers mingled with green
leaves.

The nuns are buried in the cemetery
of St. Oren's parish, and nothing is
more affecting than when, at the
portal of the convent, the coffin is
entrusted to the hands of strangers;
the nuns not being able to go beyond
the limits of the cloister. It is then
conveyed to the exterior church.
Several priests received Sister Sophie at
the door, and sprinkled the coffin with
holy water, chanting meanwhile the
De Profundis and RequUm ceUrnam,
How awfully solemn are these chants
of the dead ! Every tone went to my
very heart. The coffin was then
borne to the centre of the church,
where it was surrounded by lights,
and the priests chanted the oflfice for
the dead, at the dose of which they
went in procession to the cemetery.

St. Orais Priory.

837

the eighth of December, its patronal
ftte. The deep-toned voices that
then chanted the praises of Mary
have died away, but the notes have
been caught up and continued in
softer, sweeter tones by the lips of the
spouses of Christ.

I can never enter this chapel with-
out a thrill. I love to linger beneath
its vault of stone, the arches of which
spring from corbells quaintly sculp-
tured, and form, at their intersection,
medallions of Jesus and Mary, who
k>ok benignly down on the suppliant
beneath. Prostrate on the pavement
which holy knees have worn, and
iMreathing an air perfumed by the
prayers of centuries, my mind goes
back to former times, and I think of
the cowled monks who once bowed
in prayer before the same altar, and
murmured the same prayers I so love
to repeat :

'* Their book they read and their beads they told.
To human softness dead and cold.
And all Ufe's vanity."

I must tell you something of St.
Mary's Cathedral, which is the glory
of this place. You should see it
from our garden, crowning this city
built upon a hill, with its towers and
pinnacles. It is perfectly majestic.
There, on the same spot, before the
Incarnation, stood a temple of Venus.
Christianity, which always loved to
sanctify these high places, made the
lascivious Venus yield to the Mother
of pure love. Toward the end of the
third century, St. Taurin brought a
venerated statue of our Lady from
Eauze, and erected a chapel here in
her honor. It was not till about the
year 800 that a cathedral was erected
in the same place. It has been four
; times demolished, and as often rebuilt.
In 1793, it was preserved with great
difficulty. During that time it served
as a prison for many of the noblesse^
and was stripped of many of its most
pfedous ornaments. The holy im*

age of Mary was superseded by the
Goddess of Reason, and horses were
stabled in its chapels. But one does
not love to linger over such profana-
tion.

This cathedral is particularly re-
markable for the carvings of the choir
and for the fine stained-glass windows
of the Renaissance. Wishing to ex-
amine it minutely, I obtained permis-
sion to visit it at those hours when it
is closed — that is, from noon till
three o'clock. Accompanied by a
servant, I was there precisely at
twelve. The Angelus bell pealed
forth just as I entered the church,
and

'* sprinkled inth holy soands the air, as the pnest
with his hyssop
Sprinkles the congregation and scatters blessingt
upon them."

The Suisse^ who was an old soldier
under Napoleon I., and was in the
Russian campaign, locked us in, free
to wander at will and unremarked in
this vast cathedral, with the excellent
Monographic by the learned Abbfe
Candto in hand. At the very portal
we passed over the tomb of an old
archbishop, who wished through hu-
mility to be buried under the pave-
ment of the principal entrance to
the church, that he might be trodden
under foot by all men. Perhaps
there was something of natural in-
stinct in this choice. I know not
whether I should prefer some quiet
and shady nook for my grave, or a
great thoroughfare like this, with the
almost constant ring of human feet
above my head. This prelate has
lain there about two centuries,
"awaiting," as the inscription says,
" the resurrection of the dead."

We entered the church beneath
the tribune of the organ, a fine in-
strument — the master-piece of Joy-
euse, a famous organ-maker of the
time of Louis XIV. On its front pa-
nels are beautifully carved, en reliefs
St Cecilia and the Royal Harper.

SL Oretis Priory.

839

feet, alluding to the old legend so
popular in Provence, of her subduing
a monster which ravaged the banks
of the Rhone by sprinkling him with
holy water. The city of Tarascon
commemorates the tradition. A
magnificent church built there, under
the invocation of St. Martha, was en-
dowed by Louis XI.

At three o'clock the canons came
for vespers, after which we went to
the tower to see the view and exam-
ine the bells, the largest of which is
covered with medallions of the apos-
tles and the Blessed Virgin, and with
mottoes. It bears the name of Mary.

** These bells have been anointed
And baptized with holy water."

Perhaps you do not know that in
the ceremony of consecrating a bell,
the bishop prays that, as the voice
of Christ appeased the troubled wa-
ters, God would endow the sound
of the bell with power to avert the
malign influence of the great enemy;
that it may possess the power of Da-
vid's harp, which dispelled the daric
cloud fi-om the soul of Saul; and that
at its sound hosts of angels may sur-
round the assembled multitudes, pre-
serve their souls firom temptation and
defend their bodies from all danger.
The smaller bells are rung daily for
the Angelus and ordinary occasions.
The tones of the great Bourdon are
reserved for the grand festivals of
Christmas, Easter, etc. I was cu-
rious to see them, for they are like
friends from whom we have had many
kind tokens, but have never met
They are always ringing above the
priory ; and their tones say so many
things to our hearts — solemn and fu-
nereal, or tender, or joyful. ** There
is something beautiful in the chiurch-
bell," says Douglas Jerrold— "beauti-
fril and hopeful. They talk to the
high and low, rich and poor, in the
same voice. There is a sound in
them that should scare away envy

and pride and meanness of all sorts
from the heart of man; that should
make him look on the world with
kind, forgiving eyes; that should
make the earth itself seem, to him at
least, a holy place. Yes, there is a
whole sermon in the very sound of the
church-bells, if we only have the ears
to understand it" As Longfellow
says:

" For the bells themselves are the best of preachera ;
Their brazen lips are learned teachers.
From their pulpiu of stone in the upper air,
Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw,
Shriller than trumpets under the law,
Now a sermon and now a prayer.
The clamorous hammer is the tongue ;
This way, that way, beaten and swimg,
That from mouth of brass, as from mouth ofgoId«
May be Uught the TesUments, New and Old:
And above it the great cross-beam of wood
Representeth the holy rood.
Upon which, like the bell, our hopes are hung.
And the wheel wherewith it is swayed and rung
Is the mind of man, that round and round
Sways, and maketh the tongue to sound 1
And the rope, with its twisted cordage three,
Denoteth the scriptural Trinity
Of morals, and symbols, and histovy ;
And the upward and downward motions show
That we touch upon matters high and low :
And the constant change and transmutation
Of action and of contemplation.
Downward, the Scripture brought from on high ;
Upward, eicalted agam to the sky ;
Downward, the literal interpretaticm.
Upward, the vision and mystery !'*

In the undercroft of the cathedral
reposes, among other saints, the body
of St L^othade. He was of royal
blood, being a near relative of Eudes,
Duke of Aquitaine, who was of the
race of Clotaire II. He was also re-
lated to Charles Martel, and to the
well-known sylvan saint, Hubert,
who was contemporary with St. L^o-
thade, and a native of this part of
France. St. L^othade embraced the
monastic state early in life, and, aft^
being abbot at Moissac, was called
to govern this diocese, which he did
for twenty-seven years. In the wars
between Charles Martel and Eudes
he retired into Burgundy, his native
place, where he died at the begin-
ning of the eighth century. His.
body was reclaimed by the Ausci-
tains. His tomb is all sculpture

840

St. Oren's Priory.

3
I

with the sjrrabols of our Saxaour — the
fish, wine, etc.

St. L^othade is invoked in various
diseases, particularly for epilepsy.

Through the kindness of the m^re
prieure I had the privilege of assist-
ing at the office of Holy Week at
St. Mary's Cathedral. I witnessed all
those affecting rites from the jubk^
or rood-loft, which is reached by a
dark, winding stairway in one of the
huge pillars. My position was one
of seclusion, and yet overlooked both
the choir and the nave. To fully ap-
preciate the ceremonies of the church,
one must witness them in one of
these old churches of the middle
ages, to which they seem adapted.
The long procession of white-robed
clergy, through the forest of columns,
with palm branches in their hands;
•* Hosanna to the son of David !" re-
sounding through the arches ; the ta-
pers, rich vestments, the heavenly
light streaming through the stained-
glass windows, not dimly, but like a
very rainbow of hope encircling us
all— impress the heart with sentiments
of profound devotion.

I was particularly struck by the
vivid picture of the Passion given in
the gospel of Palm-Sunday, as sung
by the choir. One priest chanted
the historical parts in a recitative
way; a second, the words of our
Lord ; and a third, the words of the
disciples and others. The insolent
cries of the multitude, the confident
tones of St Peter, the loud bold
tones of Judas, were well repro-
duced; while the sacred words of
Christ were repeated in the clearest,
calmest, most subdued and plaintive
of accents, that sank into my soul
and moved me to tears. That voice
seemed to s^-eep over the sea of
surging hearts that filled the church,
like the very voice of Jesus calming
ttie tempest on the lake ! It ning in

my heart for days. It rinj
yet, a sermon more powerl
any man could preach. \V
priest comes to the words, " i
vp the ghosty* the sight of \
multitude prostrating to the
is most impressive.

The gospel of the Passic
ceeding the triumphant pr
with the palm branches, t
doubly impressive by the c
"Oh! what a contrast," c
Bernard, " between * ToIIe, tol
fige eum^ and ^ Benedktus q
in nomine Domini^ Hosanna
celsis P What a contrast ■
* King of Israel J and * We
king but CcesarP Betwe
green branches and the cros
tween the flowers and the
Between taking off their gam
cast before him, and stripping
his own and casting lots for t1

The nave was one forest of
green branches, and the c
people seemed to enter into ;
joy the ceremonies very ]
These grand services give
vivid idea of the great event!
life of Christ that they must
beneficial to the people, wh<
in throngs to witness then
there are no pews here, with
vidious distinctions, to shut th
The peasant and the noblen
brought on a level in tha
where alone is to be found t
mocracy — the Church.

The archbishop presided \
ceremonies, a venerable, auste
ing prelate, who moved abo
gravity, always attended by
vant, a pale, cadaverous-looki
in black, with a white cra^
minding me so forcibly of on<
Xew England ministers that
could resist a smile when my
on him, as he obediently I
the dignified piebte.

St Mary's Cathedral was a

Si. Oreiis Priory.

841

of the richest in France, being en-
dowed by the kings of Arragon, Na-
varre, and of France, and by the
Counts of Fezensac and of Ar-
magnac. In those days the arch-
bishop was a magnate in the land.
The Counts of Amiagnac paid hom-
age to him, and when he came to
take possession of his see, the Baron
de Montaut, with bared head and
one Hmb bare, awaited him on foot
at the gates of the city, took his mule
by the bridle, and so conducted him
to the cathedral. He was then, as
he styles himself now, primate of
Novempopulania and of the two Na-
varres.

One of the old archbishops, of the
race of the Counts d*Aure, accom-
panied Richard the Lion-hearted to
Palestine in 1190, and died there the
next year.

On Holy Thursday all business
was suspended. The streets were
crowded with people going to visit
the different churches where the
Blessed Sacrament was exposed. I
visited fourteen churches and chapels.
At every turn in the streets were boys
erecting little altars and chapels by
the way-side, and importuning the
passer-by for a sou to aid in fitting
them up. Of course, I saw the
greater part of the city, which is
picturesque, as seen from the valley,
but rather ugly when one has mount-
ed the weary flights of steps, and
gained its heart The streets are
mostly narrow and treeless, but there
are two promenades with fine old
trees, and the public buildings are a
credit to the place. There is a grand
and petit stminaire here, a lyceum,
normal school, two boarding-schools,
besides several day and free schools ;
so there is no lack for means of
instruction.

The famous Nostradamus, renown-
ed for his Centuries prophhtiques^ was
once a professor in this place. And

St Francis Regis was regent of the
Jesuits' college which was here be-
fore the suppression of that order in
the last century.

On Good-Friday I went to the
chapel of the Carmelites, for the
Three Hours' Agony. Daylight was
wholly excluded. The altar was fit-
ted up like a Calvary, with a large
crucifix on the summit Tall wax
candles burned arouHd it as round a
bier. The rest of the chapel was in
darkness. The black grating that
separates the chancel from the choir
of the nuns was so closely curtained
that they were wholly invisible. The
agony was a paraphrase of the last
words of our Saviour upon the cross,
making it like seven discourses, or
rather meditations. At the end of
each part all knelt, while the preacher
made an extempore prayer, and then
rose a sweet solemn wail of music.
One by one the lights around the
Calvary were extinguished — a deeper
gloom shrouding the chapel and
setding on our hearts. At last, only
one light was left, emblematic of
Him who came to give light to the
world. That, too, went out at three
o'clock, leaving us in utter darkness.
Then the preacher cried: yesus
is dying! — yesus is dead/ All
fell on their knees. The most pro-
found silence reigned. When suffi-
ciently recovered from the awe and
solemnity which pervaded every
heart, all prostrated themselves, and
softly left the church. The effect was
indescribable. Nothing could so
powerfully incite the heart to repent-
ance for sin, and unite it to the
sufferings and death of Christ, as this
three hours' meditation on his agony
upon the cross.

*' Holy Mother, pierce me through :
In my heart each troond renew
Of my SaYumr crucified !'*

After the weight of sorrow that had
been accumulating on the heart dur*

•S/. Oreris Priory.

843

Charibert, sovereign of Toulouse and
Aquitaine, descended from Clotaire II.
Coimt Bernard was distinguished for
his piety and his benefactions to the
church. The third count of Armag-
nac divested himself of his worldly
goods, and became a monk of the
order of St. Benedict.

The famous contest of the Armag-
nacs with the house of Foix began
in the time of Bernard VI., the
twelfth count. . The pope in vain en-
deavored to reconcile them. Philippe
of Navarre finally decided their differ-
ences, and peace was declared in
1329. The war was renewed some
years after, in the time of Count John,
who was taken prisoner, and had to
pay a ransom of one thousand livres.

Count Bernard VII. is the most
fomous of the Armagnacs. He was
the fifteenth count. His daughter
Bonne married Charles, Duke of Or-
leans, then only nineteen years of
ftge, and the son of the Due d*OrMans
who was killed by Jean-sans-peur,
Duke of Burgundy. Count Bernard
became, by the youth of his son-in-
law, the head of the Orleans faction
against the Burgundians. He was
made constable of France in 1415.
To the dignity of supreme command-
er of the army was added in a short
time that of prime minister. De-
scended from the old French mon-
archs, he had great sway in the south
of France, and was one of the great-
est warriors of his age. He display-
ed remarkable talents in remedying
the frightful evils which broke out
throughout the kingdom. His efforts
would doubtless have been successful,
had he not had to struggle against
the Burgundian party. By his ex-
perience and firmness he established
discipline among his troops, and kept
them constantly ready for action.
Active, intrepid, gifted with a bold
and elevated character, he became a
fearful rival for Jean-sans-peur.

The numerous partisans of the lat-
ter, having succeeded in deceiving
the vigilance of the constable, intro-
duced the Burgundian troops into
Paris in the middle of the night. The
massacre of the principal royalists was
the consequence, and the Count of
Armagnac himself was slaughtered in
the most frightful manner, on the 12th
of June, 1418, in the fiftieth year of
his age. He was concealed in the
house of a mason. The Burgundians
threatening the partisans of the Ar-
magnacs with death and confiscation,
the mason treacherously denounced
his guest, who was immediately im-
prisoned in the conciergerie^ amid the
imprecations of a multitude of his
enemies. Forcing themselves into
the prison, they slew the count. In
their fury they cut off a piece of his
skin, two inches wide, from the right
shoulder to the left side, in ridicule of
the scarf which was the distinguish-
ing badge of the Armagnacs. He
was buried at St. Martin des Champs.

His successor. Count John IV.,
greatly aided Charles VII. against
the English, but finally offended him
by desiring to marry the daughter of
the King of England, and by styHng
himself, " by the grace of God, Count
of Armagnac," though his ancestors
had used the expression for six cen-
turies.

The haughty pretensions of the
counts of Armagnac were the cause of
their final ruin. King Louis XI., ever
jealous of the claims of the nobility,
decreed the downfall of their house.
Count John V. was besieged at Lec-
toure, and obliged to capitulate. The
soldiers entered the palace, ascended
to the count's chamber, and slew him
on the first Saturday in Lent, 1473.
At the third blow he died, invoking
the Virgin. All the people of Lec-
toure were massacred, and for two
months wolves were the only inhabi-
tants of the place. The lands

844

St. Oren's Priory.

Count John were united to the crown
of France.

His brother Charles, who had been
kept prisoner for fifteen years, was
finally restored to liberty, and to the
possession of the Comtd d'Armagnac.
in 1483. He married Jane of Foix,
who h^d no children; but he left a
natural son, the Baron de Caussade,
whose only son, George d'Armagnac,
embraced the ecclesiastical state, and
became a cardinal. He was the last
of the male line of the Armagnacs.

The Comtd d*Armagnac was after-
ward given by Louis XH. as the
dowry of his niece, Margaret of Va-
lois, when she married Charles d*Al-
en9on, the grandson of Marie d'Ar-
magnac, daughter of Count John IV.
Charles dying without children, Mar-
garet married Henri d*Albret, King
of Navarre, who descended from a
daughter of Count Bernard VII. of
Armagnac. Henri Quatre, King of
France, was their grandson, and from
his time the Comt^ d'Amiagnac has
been permanently united to the crown.

Louis XIV., after consummating
his marriage at St Jean de Luz, re-
turned to Paris through this city,
where he assisted at the divine of-
fice in St. Mary*s Cathedral, and, in
quality of Count of Armagnac, took
his place in his exquisitely carved
stall as chanoine honoraire.

The stronghold of the Armagnacs
was long since laid low. Their very
name and blood are lost in those of
another race, and their lands given to
another ; but still in the green valley
of the Algersius rise the gray walls of
a remnant of St. Oren*s abbey to pro-
pitiate the mercy of God in behalf of
Count Bernard and his lady Eme-
rina, and still for them and their pos-
terity goes up from the nuns in choir
the daily " Oremus pro benefadoribus
nostris /"

Last evening I went to the cathe-

dral to hear Hermann improv
upon the organ, or, I should s
Frfere Augustin, for he is a barefb
ed Carmelite monk. He was the
vorite pupil of Liszt, under whose
structions he became a celebra
musical artist and composer,
was miraculously converted at Pj
some years since, by some partici
emanation firom the blessed sac
ment, the fiiU particulars of wh
he has never given. ^Secret
meum mihi" he says, when speak
of it He had gone to church, at
request of a Christian friend, to p
on the organ. His conversion \
succeeded by the desire of becom;
a monk, that he might daily rece
our Lord in the blessed sacrament,
which, from the first, he felt the m
tender devotion. He now beloi
to a monastery in Agen. You shoi
have heard him last night, as I d
amid a crowd of all ranks. I do 1
enjoy music scientifically, but it gi'
expression to a thousand emotic
and desires which are floating in 1
soul, and which the tongue knc
not how to express. That of H
mann partakes of the enthusiasm a
tenderness of his nature.

I stationed myself at the baptisn
font, that I might see the fi-^re as
came down fi-om the tribune. 1
was dressed in the costume of his <
der, which is of the natural color
the wool. His cowl was thro'
back. His head was shaven clos
with the exception of a circlet of h:
as we see in pictures. He is an
raelite and his features are of 1
Jewish type, but not too stronj
marked. His face was pale,
fact, he is out of health and on
way to a place of rest His mam
was refined but unpretending, and
seemed quite unconscious of the <
riosity and interest displayed by 1
crowd. He is a poet as well as o
sician, and some of his auUiqua

The New Englander on the Moral Aspects of Romanism, 845

honor of the Uessed sacrament are
very beautiful, particularly the one
entitled Quam diUcta Tabamacula
Tua / I quote two verses from it :

'* lis ne sont plus Ics joart de larmes :

J*ai retrouvtf la paix du coeur

Depoia que j*ai goiittf les charmes

Des tabernacles du Se^eur !

'* Trop loQg-temps, brebis fugitiye,

Je in*eloigiiai du Bon Pasteur. . .
Anjourd*hui, colombe plaintive,
11 Tappelle — il m'ouvre Son Cceur I*'

A friend sent me this morning a
pamphlet containing the dedication
of a collection of his hymns, which is
a flame of love. I give you an ex-
tract, which is only the echo of my
own heart :

"O adorable Jesus I as for me, whom
thou hast led into solitude to speak to my
heart — ^for me whose days and nights glide
deliciously away in heavenly communica-
tions with thy adorable presence ; between
the remembrance of the communion of to-day
and the hope of the communion of to-mor-
row, I embrace with transport the walls of
my cherished cell, where nothing distracts
my only thought from thee ; where I breathe
only love for thy divine sacrament . . .
If the church did not teach me that to con-
template thee in heaven is a still greater joy,
I should never believe there could be more
happiness than I experience in loving thee
in the holy eucharist, and in receiving
thee in my heart, so poor by nature but so
rich through thy grace !"

TO BS CONCLUDED NBXT MONTH.

T^E NEW ENGLANDER ON THE MORAL ASPECTS OF

ROMANISM.

In The Catholic World of April
last, we vindicated the fair fame of the
Cathohc Church from some foul as-
persions of a Protestant minister, the
Rev. M. Hobart Seymour, contained
in a book of his entitled, Nights among
the Romanists.

The matter was a very simple one.
This reverend gentieman, in the
opening chapter of his book, gave us
the "moral results of the Romish
System," as he elegantly, in accord-
ance with the exigencies of modem
controversy, styles the Catholic
Church. This "moral result" was,
that Catholics are, everywhere, be-
yond comparison, more unchaste than
Protestants — say from three or four to
twelve times as much so. We do not
exaggerate in the least. Every reader
who reads this book will draw this con-
clusion. As The New Englander ^aySy
"The eflfect of this exhibit on the
Blind of the reader is overwhelming.

To the Protestant reader it serves to
close the case, at the outset, against
the pretensions of the Roman Catho-
lic Church to be the institution or-
dained of Christ to destroy the works
of the devil."

This conclusion was reached by a
comparison of the statistics of many
Roman Catholic countries of Europe
with Protestant England, in regard to
homicide.

Then by comparing the amount of
illegitimacy in certain Catholic cities
with that in certain other Protestant
cities in Europe. Passing by the first
branch of the subject for reasons
which we assigned, and which pre-
vent us from taking up the matter
now, we considered the second very
fully and completely. We examined,
with the utmost care and fidelity, the
statistics of illegitimacy of all the
leading countries of Europe, includ-
ing the whole population of both r-*--

II--.

846 The New Englander on the Moral Aspects of Romanism.

and country, and found Mr. Sey-
mour's conclusions, in this respect,
were utterly and completely false.
The complete exhibit showed that,
taking the number of illegitimate
births as a standard of comparison.
Catholic countries are not in any
degree more unchaste than Pro-
testant, but, on the contrary, the dif-
ference is in their favor quite decided-
ly, though not with that overwhelm-
ing preponderance claimed by Mr.
Seymour in favor of Protestantism.

He states that he has taken his
figures from official documents, (and
we have not disputed this,) but these
same documents give the account for
the countries as well as for the cities,
and Mr. Seymour cannot be allowed
to plead ignorance in reference to
them. He cannot, therefore, be ex-
cused firom wilful and deliberate de-
ception, when he suppresses these
statistics so necessary to form a judg-
ment in the case, and only gives such
portions of them as shall seem to
sustain a false conclusion. This is
the true suppressio veri and suggestio
falsi, which is certainly one of the
meanest and most cowardly forms of
lying known.

We felt a natural indignation at
being made the victims of such treat-
ment, and denounced the Rev. Mr.
Seymour as a calumniator, and called
on the Rev. L. W. Bacon, who had
warmly recommended him and his
book, to withdraw his recommenda-
tion, and cease to abet the circula-
tion of a vile calumny, even though
the Catholic Church were the object
of it.

Mr. Bacon, in reply to our article,
comes out in The Nrw Englander, en-
dorsing not only the statements, but
the unjust and wicked conclusions of
Mr. Seymour, and claims to have
refuted the statements of The Catho-
lic World. We will now proceed to
show in what ^hion he has done this.

The conclusions of Mr. Se
in regard to the " moral results
Romish system," rest mainlj
comparison of the city of I
with the capitals of fou
tholic countries, showing thai
the rate of illegitimacy is only
cent in the former, it varies fi
to 51 per cent in the latter,
reinforced by tables of ten P
cities (of which, by the by, the b
are Catholic cities) with ten At
another of five English cities v
same number of Italian, with \
though by no means such strik
suits. Then, lest countries
seem to get the go-by, variot
testant countries are compare
provinces of the Austrian <
which, it is needless to say, n
bad show in the comparison.

As we have said before, we <
impugn in The Catholic Wof
accuracy of these figures, t
pointed out that we could n(
them as indicating the mora
London, Liverpool, and the 1
cities, because Uie rate of illegi
in them was lower than in the
of England ; and it is a most
and incredible supposition, tha
acknowledged to be the hotb
vice should be purer than the co
in which they are situated. V
gested that other forms of in
had probably replaced illegit
and that, after all, London, Livi
etc., were not much, if any, bett<
the continental cities. We \
some figures in reference t
amount of what is called the *
evil " in London, etc., fix)m The {
and the World, a ritualistic j<
This, and this alone, Mr. Bacon a
of all that is contained in our j
Our other reasons in regard
morality of London, etc, are \
tirely unnoticed. We gave also
as we conceived, veiy gravi
strong reasons why the figs

The New Englander on the Moral Aspects of Romanism. 847

illegittmacy should not be regarded as
conclusive in regard to the con-
tinental cities. We pointed out the
existence of very large establishments
in them for the reception of found-
lings, receiving all infants deposited in
them; and suggested that, for this
reason alone, the illegitimacy of whole ^
districts of country would all show
itself in the city.

This is obvious enough; for ex-
ample, if a large hospital of this kind
existed in New York City, no one
doubts it would receive infants from
New Jersey, Connecticut, and all the
adjacent country, and the rate of ille-
gitimacy would represent all this part of
the country, rather than the city alone.
Mr. Bacon has not vouchsafed to give
one word of reply to all this, or to
discuss the matter at all. Now, as it
concerns the good name of a large
class of his fellow- men, and is evi-
dence in rebuttal of a very grave
accusation against them, this really
seems more like the conduct of a
partisan determined on victory at any
rate, rather than of a Christian gentle-
man seeking to vindicate a fellow-
Christian from an imputation against
his character.

But whatever might be said about
the comparative morality of certain
cities, we vindicated the Catholic
Church from the charge of having
produced a moral result incompara-
bly worse than Protestantism, and
completely destroyed the overwhelm-
ing effect calculated to be produced
on the Protestant mind by Mr. Sey-
mour's conclusions, by giving one
complete table of the percentage of
illegitimacy in all the chief countries
of Europe, both Protestant and Ca-
tholic, as follows :

Catholic Countrus,

i8aS-37, Kingdom of Sardinia, . . . a.i

1859, Spain, $.6

s8s3» Tnicany, 6.

tSsli Catbolie Praana, 6.1

i«^ Be^loBS 7.4

1856, Sicily, 7.4

1858, France, 7.8

1851, Austria, 9.

ProUstoMt Countries.

1859, England and Wales, . ... 6.5

1855, Norway, . • • 9-3

1858, Protestant Prussia, .... 9.3

1855, Sweden, 9.5

1855, Hanover, 9.9

x866, Scotland, xo.i

1855, Dennuirk, X1.5

1838-47, Iceland, 14.

1858, Saxony, 16.

1857, Wurtemberg, x6.t

Every item of which was taken by
ourselves, after a patient and minute
examination, from the yourtials of
the Statistical Society of London^ in
the Astor Library, taking the latest
accounts of each country in every
case.

Here the whole question lies in a
nut-shell. As Mr. Bacon says, " the
criterion is in the number of illegiti-
mate births." This table gives a
complete view of this criterion, and
therefore it requires to be refuted be-
fore it can be said that any refutation
has been made of The Catholic
World. How does Mr. Bacon meet
it?

He does not meet it at all. He
says that the figures of The Catholic
World are ** outrageously false," and
"that he shall presently prove it."
We have looked in vain for the proof
that any figiure of this table is either
" outrageously false " or false at all.
We do not see that he has said one
word to bring any of them under
even the least shadow of suspicion.
We will give the substance of his
arguments against the truth of our
statements :

I. Mr. Seymour's book appeared,
and no answer was made to it for
many years, and therefore it must be
presumed to be truth, as to its facts
and conclusions.

To this we reply, that it makes
no difference what presumptions may
exist when they are upset by positive
proo£ Whether Mr. Seymour has

The New EngUmder tm the Moral Aspects of Romanism. 849

houses in other English cities where where prosHMes resort^ a very differ-

ethandoned women resort^ and this ent thing.

number does not correspond at all We find in ThonCs Almanac, of

with the number of brothels reported 1869 the following table, for England

by the police. It seems to us that and Wales, of houses of bad character:

Mr. Chambers may have been mis- Rcceirers of stolen goods, • . . . 2280
led by the term '< Metropolitan Po- Resorts of thieves and prostitutes, . 5689
lice," in setting down the number of Brothels and houses of iU-fSune, . . 6614
abandoned women to London rather tramps' lodging-houses, .... 5614
than to England, without attributing The last three figures may well be
to him any wilftil falsification. And added up to give us the number of
if these women are so well known to houses where prostitutes resort; the
the Metropolitan Police, it may be in- tramps' lodging-houses, according to
ferred that, wherever they belong, they Mr. Kaye's description of them, (in
must carry on their nefarious occupa- his Social State of England^) being
tion in London a good part of the little better than brothels. The pub-
time, and thus Mr. Chambers be sub- lie may now form an intelligent judg-
standally correct in his statement, ment which is the most guilty of mis-
after alL Mr. Bacon roundly asserts representation, Mr. Bacon or Mr.
diat Mr. Chambers has given the Chambers, and which most deserves
number of brothels in the leading to be branded as a calumniator of his
English cities. This is incorrect, and, neighbor.

wh^ the object is to fasten a brand He thus finishes up the unlucky

of infisuny on another's character, an Mr. Chambers :

inexcusable proceeding. Mr. Cham- «xhe witness is impeached and kicked

bers has not given the number of out of court with a very ugly letter burned

brothels^ but the number of houses to *«> <1««P »a his forehead to be rubbed out

which bad women resort There are We are glad to acknowledge that The Ca-

, . ^- -- , ^. THOLic World is not the guilty author of

many such resorts m New York City, these impostures, and to express our un-

whidh would not be reported as broth' feigned and most willing belief that that

4^ in the police returns. «very way respectable magadne would be

We wish the public to understand incapable of contriving such tricks.*'

this fiilly. Mr. Bacon accuses Mr. Alas Mr. Bacon! we fear that in

Chambers of a gross exaggeration in your inconsiderate haste to brand

the number of brothels in the Eng- another, the ugly letter will be bum-

lish cities. He gives the table as ed so deep in your own forehead that

follows : you will find it very hard to efface it

n^-fc-i. ;n According to ^ ^ 4- Having finished up Mr. Cham-

»««»^«» CATHaWotLn. ""* bers in this style, he considers

u^^, \ \ '.'.!! «m I?2 tl^t his refiitation of The Catholic

Uvorpooi, ! 157S 9^ World is complete. He says :

Leedi. 313 63

Sh«*^ ^ ^ " The figures with which The Catholic

^^, ,^ World attempts to vindicate the superior

morality of Romish over Protestant coun-

and hence deduces that Mr, Cham- tries, are taken fit>m a discredited and refut-

bers is a wilful liar, to be branded as ed writer in T%€Churekandtke mrld. . .

, We have given tacts enough now to dis-

^^T **• i-i- u ^ cre«^' without any particular refiitation

Now, Mr. Chambers never stated whatever else of assertion may be conuined

the above number of brothels in those in the article on the 'comparative morality

cities, but that number of houses ofCatiuillciiidPtoi«rtantcountik«'iiiTH»

vol. el — 54

-850 Tht New Enf^andtr o» tk* Moral Aspects of Romanism.

■X

Catholic World for April, i86^ We do
not ne«d to rebut the testimony of this arti*
dc point by point"

These facts given relate exclusive-
ly to Mr. Chambers and the statistics
of prostitution, as we have shown
above, and do not affect those re-
lating to the " criterion " of illegiti-
macy.

The substance — as Mr. Bacon calls
it, the gist — of the article of The Ca-
tholic World remains as yet in-
tact ; it has not even been examined
by the critic. Who gave Mr. Bacon
the right to say, as he does, that the
substance of our article was taken from
The Church and the World f There
is an unblushing effrontery about
this statement which is astonbhing.
There is nothing in the article to war-
rant it Whenever we quoted The
Church and the Worlds the reference is
made at the foot of the page, and we
distinctly state, there, that our figures
on illegitimacy are taken from the
journals of the Statistical Society of
London, Our readers can judge
of this proceeding for themselves.

But Mr. Bacon criticises us in se-
vere terms for usiag these youmals^
and says :

" If we had been in search of truth, how
much easier and better to go to the census
returns, and get facts that can be trusted.
But when the object is, as with The Catho-
lic World, to find figures which shall tally
with a conclusion already determined by
theological considerations, doubtless it it
well to keep clear of authoritatiTe docu-
ments, and take only such figures as have
been manipulated in a succession of maga-
zine articles, constructed to serve a pur-
pose."

What better authority can we have
in this country, on statistics, than the
Statistical Jbumals of London 9 It
is all an idle pretence to speak of
getting the governmental returns in
any great public library. We hunted
for them in the Astor Library, and
oould not find one of them. The

Society of London is composi
Protestants. Mr. Lumley, the a
of the principal article on statist
probably one too. He has tak<
information, he tells us, in rega
Great Britain, fix)m the Regi:
Rq>orts; the others, from n
made to pariiament, and fron
Anmsaire de PEcommue et de k
Ostique^ of Paris. We have n
shadow of reason to doubt eith<
accuracy or fairness of the retun
that they have been taken firon
best governmental census return
would have been more credital
Mr. Bacon had favored us w
table taken from these same ret
which he says are so easy to b
tained, to show the '' outrageous
ty" of our statements, rather th
attempt to refute us by the m<
of piu^ insinuation.

We challenge Mr. Bacon or
one else to produce a table of illi
macy embracing all or nearly ai
Protestant and Catholic countrii
£iux)pe, from the latest govemm
retiuns, which shall dififer essen
fix>m ours, or from which any
may not draw precisely the co
sions we have drawn in respect t
moral results of Protestantism
Catholicity.

This is all we need say cm
main issue in question.

We will now explain what
stated about the rate of illegitiii
in Ireland. Had we been ind
to proceed in the unscrupulous i
ner which Mr. Bacon insinuate
regard to us, we could have g
this rate of three per cent from
Church and the W'2vv5/ without ren
as it is simply given there among
other figures; but as we could
verify it in the Statistical youmah
said so, in order to warn the pu
and we stated that probably
Chambers had access to the R<
trar*s Report, which we had not

The New Englander on the Moral Aspects of Romanism. 85 1

l^r. Baccm pitches into us in
yle:

hat will be the amazement of the
to be infonned that there are no
trar'^ Reports' for Ireland ; that the
h priests and the Romish party have
Qtly succeeded in preventing, for rea-
atisfactory to themselves, any act of
Bent for securing such returns firom
1; and that the supposed 'Regis-
Report ' of three per cent of illegiti*
irths is a mere fiction I"

»ld on, Mr. Bacon ! do not go

quite so fast There are Reg-

j Reports for Ireland, plenty of

to be seen in the Statistical

tals in the Astor Library, In

I's Official Almanac and Direc-

Dublin, 1869, we read, "The

r the registration of births and

s in Ireland came into opera-

m the ist of January, i864."

follows registrar's returns of

for 1864, 1865, 1866, and

* first return of illegitimate
has just been published. Our
sition was, that these returns were
jtence, though not perhaps com-
enough to warrant publication,
hat they were known in Elng-
to Mr. Chambers and others,
lis seems to be the truth* The
or Ireland is 3.8 per cent, not
ferent from the j&gure of The
h and t/ie World. We take the
ing from the Catholic Opinion^
Dn, June 19:

nsnCS OF ILLECrriMATE BIRTHS.

' Scotsman^ one of the leading organs
ibyterian Scotland, gives the follow-

Te come next to a very painful and
ant point, and shall get away from it
1 as possible. The proportion of
nate births to the total number of
is, in Ireland, 3.8 per cent In Eng-
le proportion is 6.4 ; in Scotland, 9.9.
er words, England is nearly twice,
:otland nearly thrice worse than Ire-
Something worse has to be added,
hich no consolation can be derived,
roportion of illegitimacy is very un*

equally distributed over Ireland, and the
inequalities are such as are rather hum-
bling to us as Protestants, ^nd still more as
Presbyterians and as Scotchmen. Taking
Ireland according to registration divisions,
the proportion of illegitimate births varies
from 6^3 to 1.9. The division showing this
lowest figure is the western, being sultan-
tially the province of Connaught, where
about nineteen-twentieths of the population
are Celtic and Roman Catholic The divi-
sion showing the highest proportion of ille-
gitimacy is the north-eastern, which com-
prises or almost consists of the province of
Ulster, where the population is almost
equally divided between Protestant and
Roman Catholic, and where the great ma-
jority of the Protestants are of Scotch blood
and of the Presbyterian Church. The sum
of the whole matter is, that semi-Presby-
terian and semi-Scotch Ulster is fully three
times more immoral than wholly Popish
and wholly Irish Connaught — ^which corre-
sponds with wonderful accuracy to the more
general fact that Scotland, as a whole, is
three times more immoral than Ireland as a
whole. There is a fact, whatever may be
the proper deduction. There is a text,
whatever may be the sermon ; we only sug-
gest that the sermon should have a good
deal about charity, self-examination, and
humility.' "

So that, after all, now that the
truth is at last out, the "Romish
priests and the Romish party " have
no reason to be ashamed of it. Pro-
bably their reason is best known to
thexnsdves; for it would puzzle any
one else to devise any earthly reasons
why they should oppose the publica-
tion of the Registrar's Report, so hono-
rable to the Catholic people of Ireland.

Mr. Bacon is " happy to announce "
that, as a result of the attack of The
Cathouc World, a new edition of
Seymour's book, with its opening
chapter, is soon to appear. So, all the
old calumnies and fklsehoods are to
be circulated with redoubled activity,
and the commandment, " Thou shalt
not bear false witness against thy
neighbor," conveniently be thrust
aside. The statistics of London are
to be reproduced, while those of
England are kept in the dark. Paris

How Mata$auu amu to bt catted MaiatuMS.

853

TBAKSXJITSD ntOM THB SrAMISIC.

HOW MATANZAS CAME TO BE CALLED MATANZAS;* OR,

UNCLE CURRO AND HIS CLUB.

JRfman CMaUero. Here I am,
Aunt Sebastiana, with a fixed inten-
tion to make you tell me a story.

Aunt Sebastiana. Say that to my
Juan, sefior ; he can tell no end of
stories, and when he don't remember
them, he makes them to suit himsel£

Feman. Here comes Uncle Ro-
mance, who, if he wants a cigar and
desires to give me pleasure, will tell
me the story you have promised me
in his name.

Unck Romance. You must know
then, seiior, that there was once a
man who lived gayly, without think-
ing of to-morrow; and, since to
spend, to owe, and not to pay, is the
way to the poorhouse, our man soon
found himself without hacienda^ and
with but thirty da)rs to the month for
possessions, and nothing to eat but
his finger-nails. He grew so spirit-
less that his wife used to beat him,
and his children insult him, and say
impertinent things to him when he
came home bringing no provisions
for the house.

He got so desperate at last that he
borrowed a rope of his gossip, and
went away to a field to hang himself.
He had fastened the rope to an olive-
tree ; but just as he was going to put
it around his neck, a little fairy-man
appeared to him, dressed like a fiiar.
"What are you doing, man?" said
the fiiar. '' Hanging myself, as your
worship sees." '' So, then. Christian,
you are going to do like Judas. Go
away fix)m there. It wouldn't be
well for you. Take this piuse, which

• Manmnii

is never empty, and mend your for-
tune."

Our man took the purse, and drew
out a dollar, then another, then an-
other, and saw that it was like a wo-
man's mouth, that pours out to all
eternity words, and words, and still
words, and its words are never
exhausted. Seemg this, he imtied
the rope, wound it up, and start-
ed for home. There was an inn on
the road; he entered it and began
to ask for whatever they had to
eat and drink, paying when it was
brought; for the innkeeper, seeing
him so greedy, would not trust
him for all he wanted. He ate so
much and drank so much that he fell
imder the table, and lay there more
sound asleep than the dead in Holy-
field.

The innkeeper, who had perceived
that the purse was none the lighter,
told his wife to make one just like it,
and while Uncle Curro slept, went
and stole the enchanted ptnse out of
his pocket and put the other in its
place.

When Uncle Curro woke up, he
took the road again, and reached his
house more jolly than a sunshiny
day.

" Hurrah 1" he shouted to his wife
and children, '' here's money and to
spare ; our troubles are over."

He put his hand into the purse
and drew it out empty; put it in
again; but what was there to take
out? When his wife saw that, she
flew at him and beat him into a new
shape.

More desperate than ever, be

l»

. 1

854

Hew Matanzas cmm to be called Maianzas.

snatched the rope and went back to
hang himself. He went to the same
place, and tied the rope to a branch
of the olive. "What are you going
to do, Christian?" said the little fairy-
man, appearing in the form of a cava-
Her, in the crotch of the tree. " Hang
myself like a string of garlics from
a kitchen ceiling," answered Uncle
Curro quite composedly. "So you
have lost patience, again?" "And
if I have nothing to eat, sefior?"
" It is yoiu* own fault, your fault ; but —
go away. Take this table-cloth, and
while you keep it you will never j&nd
yourself without something to eat."
Then the little fairy-man gave him a
table-cloth, and disappeared among
the branches.

Uncle Curro imfolded the cloth
upon the ground. The minute it
was spread out, it covered itself with
dishes, some of them good and the
rest better than the king's cook could
have made them, if he had tried his best.
After Uncle Curro had stuffed himself
till he could hold no more, he gathered
up the cloth and set out for his house.
When he got as fiar as the inn, he
fdt sleepy and lay down to take a
nap. The innkeeper knew him, and
guessed that he had something valua-
ble; so, as cool as you please, he pull-
ed the cloth away from him, and put
another in its place.

Uncle Curro reached home, and
shouted to his wife and children,
" Come, come to dinner; 111 take it
upon me to see that you get your frll
this time." Thereupon he imdid the
doth, but only to behold it covered
with stains of all sorts and sizes.

At him she went Mother and
children all fell upon the poor man at
once, and an object of charity they
left him.

Unde Curro seized the rope once
more and went off to hanghimseUl He
was determined to do it this time,
and the faiiy-man was determined he

shouldn't. He gave Uncle Cu
little club, and told him that
it he would be able to posses
soul in comfort; for that he ha(
thing to do but say, " Bestir yoi
litde dub!" to make all the wort
away and leave him in peaces w
wide berth.

Unde CuiTo set out for hone
the club, as happy as an alcalde
his stick. As soon as he sai
young ones coming toward hin
manding bread with insults and
pertinences, he said to the dub, '
stir yourself, little dub!" and b
the words were fairly out ol
mouth, it began to deal about it
way that speedily routed the chil<
Their mother ran out to help ti
but, '' At her r' cues Curro, ««
with all your might /" and with
rap the dub killed her.

They gave notice to the magist
and presently the alcalde mad
appearance with his officers. *
stir yourself, little dub!" ord
Curro, and the dub came dowi
them as if it had been paid at
rate of a dollar a thump. It k
the alcalde, and the others ran i
with such might that not om
them had a sole left to his
Then they sent a messenger ti
the king know what was goin^
and the king sent a regiment of gi
diers to take Uncle Curro of th<
tie dub.

But, " Bestir yourself, club !- I
ed Unde Curro, as soon as they c
in sight, and threw the dub in
midst of the files. The dub b
its dance upon the ribs of the gi
diers, with a sound like a fulling-
It crippled this one's leg, and
one's arm ; knocked out one of
captain's eyes, and, in short,
grenadiers threw away their mu
and knapsacks, and took to
heels, in the fuU belief that the <
was running loose.

Correction of a Mistake.

855

Free from care, Uncle Curro lay
down to sleep, with his club hidden
in his bosom, for fear that somebody
might steal it

When he awoke, he found himself
tied hand and foot, and on the way
to prison. They sentenced him to
ignominious death. The next morn-
ing they took him out of the dungeon,
and| when they had caused him to
ascend the scaffold, untied his hands.
Out he drew his little club, and
as he said, << Bestir yourself 1"
tiiiew it at the executioner, who

speedily yielded up the ghost un-
der its blows. " Free that man,"
commanded the king, " or he*Il finish
with every one of our subjects. Tell
him that he shall have an estate in
America if he will leave the coun-
try."

Uncle Curro consented, and the
king made him lord of lands in the
island of Cuba, where he built him-
self a city, and killed so many people
in it with his club that its name was
called, and has remained, Matan-
zas.

Correction of a Mistake. — The
writer of the article on '' Spiritualism
and Materialism," in the Magazine
for August, page 627, says, "The
Holy See says the imtnateriality^ not
spirituality y of the soul is to be proved
by reason." This is a mistake. The
language of the Holy See is, " Ratio-
donatio Dei existentiam, animse spi-
riiuaUtatem^ hominis libertatem cum
certitudine probare potest — Reason-
ing can prove with certainty the ex-
istence of God, the spirituality of the
soul, and the liberty of man." The
writer wishes us to say that he is
wholly unable to account for his
blunder; for in writing, he had the
words of the Holy See before his eyes,
and certainly thought he read imma-
ieriaUtaiem; but in re-reading the
words since a friend called his atten-
tion to the mistake, he finds that the
word is plainly printed spirituaUtatem.
Of course the misstatement was
wholly unintentional, and whatever
in the article rests on it must be with-
drawn, and the writer fully and ex-
plicitly retracts it.

Yet the writer requests us to say
that he thinks the doctrine maintained
in the article is not a&cted by this

mistake, blunder, or misstatement.
The writer does not question the
spirituality of the soul, but maintains
that the soul's spirituality, save in the
sense of its immateriality, is not
provable by reason without revela-
tion. He diinks immateriality^ in the
sense he explains it, covers all that is
really meant by spirituality in the
decision of the Holy See. We certain-
ly do not, by reason alone, know
what either spirit or matter is in its
essence. We can prove by reason
the substantiality, activity, unity, sim-
phcity, indissolubility, and immateri-
ality of the soul, or that it is not mat-
ter. Does the Holy See decide that
we can do more, or go further?
Does the spirituality of the soul, as
provable by reason, mean any thing
more? If not — and the writer, tiU
better informed, must think it does
not — ^he has erred only in using one
word when he should have used an-
other, and mistaking the word actu-
ally used by the Holy See. So much
the writer of the article wishes us to
say for him, which we do cheerfully;
for we are well assured of his devo-
tion to the Holy See and his loyalty to
the Holy Father.

New Publications.

^57

were put there, since there are a suffi-
cient number of churches in the city."
The good lady does not appear to be
aware of the £act that if the cross had
not been placed in the Coliseum, we
people of the nineteenth century would
never have seen the noble ruin of that
grand monument

Sbrvicib Manual ; for the instruction
of newly*appointed Officers, and the
Kank and File of the Army, as
compiled from Army Regulations,
the Articles of War, and the Customs
of the Service. By Henry D. Wal-
len, Brevet Brigadier-General Unit-
ed States Army, and Commander of
the General Service Department,
Fort Columbus, New York Harbor.
X voL 8vo, pp. i66. New York : D.
Van Nostrand. 1869.

General Wallen has compiled this ex-
cellent manual from the authorized
sources, and added to it the fruit of his
mature experience and intimate practi-
cal knowledge of the subject. The
work possesses value, not only as an
authentic guide to the young officer in
all the details of company, camp, and
garrison duty, his relations of subordi-
nation and responsibility, and his du-
ties and obligations to those above and
below him in the military order, but
also is mellowed and animated by a
spirit of kindness and good-will, and
that genuine characteristic of the good
soldier and thorough gentleman to
whom duty is honorable, and both com-
mand and obedience acceptable for
their own sakes and the inherent virtue
they imply. This spirit animates this
work throughout, and gives to it a cha-
racter £ur superior to ordinary dry regu-
lations. General Wallen is well quali-
fied for the task he has undertaken. He
is an old and faithful officer, and inti-
mately acquainted with the service in
all its branches and ramifications. He
served with credit in the war with Mex-
ico^ and was one of the pioneers of the
settlement of Oregon. Owing to the
hct of having been bom in Georgia^
General Wallen was distrusted during
the late war by Mr. Stanton, and or^e^

ed to New Mexico. General Grant, who
is his life-long friend, as soon as he
came into power, ordered him to the
East, and did what he could to repair
the injury he had experienced from the
suspicious disposition of the late secre-
tary of war.

This work is of equal value to sol-
diers and officers, and will have a
tendency to promote that mutual good-
will and cordial sympathy between the
two classes growing out of the faithful
performance of their respective duties,
which we alone need to make our mili-
tary system perfect, and absolutely in-
vincible in war, as well as an example
of honor and fidelity in peace.

A Report on the Excisions of the
Head of the Femur for Gun-
Shot Wounds. By George A.
Otis, M.D., Assistant Surgeon and
Brevet Lieutenant-Colonel U.S.A.
Being Circular No. 2 War Depart-
ment, Surgeon-GencraPs Office.
Jan. 1869. 4to, pp. 141. Washing-
ton : Government Printing Office.

It is not our purpose, in calling the
attention of the readers of The Catho-
lic World to this work, to enter upon
any discussion or details of a purely
surgical character, which would be ol>
viously out of place. The Catholic
World is essentially Catholic^ and
while strictly and purely so, aims to
embrace within the scope of its criti-
cal observation every subject of interest
and importance to society; and espe-
cially to award its cordial praise to
those efforts which have for their ob-
ject genuine science, true humanity,
and national and individual honor and
intellectual and moral advancement

The work before us is of the charac-
ter indicated. In reverting to the pub-
lic calamities and private miseries of
the late war, it is a matter of satisfac-
tion to know that out of the eater has
come forth some meat; out of the
strong, some sweetness. With the ex-
'ception of the doubtful advantage of
the knowledge which we have gained
of our brute strength, some improve-
ment in gunnery, and the familiariza-

New Publications.

859

tions. This is followed by an account
of its intemal economy or arrangements ;
its study, discipline, and amusements ;
its societies — religious, literary, and
odiefs; its library, museum, etc., etc.
Sketches are also given of the lives of
its presidents, vice-presidents, profes-
sors, and teachers, as well as of its
alumni, with a full account of the exer-
cises of its recent yubilee commence-
ment Altogether, the volume must
prove a very interesting and acceptable
one to the numerous graduates, pupils,
sad firiends of Notre Dame.

Nora Brady's Vow, and Mona the
Vestal. By Mrs. Anna H. Dorsey.
Boston: Patrick Donahoe. 1869.

The first of these stories is of modem
times^ and the other is of the time of
St Patrick. Mrs. Dorsey, like all
writers not to the Irish manner bom,
makes fearful work with what some
persons are pleased to call the Irish
krogue. This is, however, a small
fruit, with which we do not wish
to quarrel The stories are present-
ed to the public in a beautifully
printed and elegantly bound volume,
and will, we doubt not, be welcomed
in many an Irish- American household.

The Way of Salvation, in Medita-
tions for all times in the year. By
St Alphonsus Liguori. Translated
from the Italian by the Rev. James
Jones. New York: Catholic Publi-
cation Society, 126 Nassau St

One of the best signs of the present
time, and a sign most encouraging to
Catholics of all classes and professions,
is that books of genuine piety are more
and more in demand every day. It was
this fiict that induced the Catholic Pub-
lication Society to bring out in a neat
and very convenient form the celebra-
ted Way of Salvation^ by St Liguori.
It is one of the most popular works of
that sainted author ; and the mere an-
nouncement of its publication is suffi-
cient recommendation.

The Two Schools. A Moral Tale. By
Mrs. Hughs. New York : The Catho-
lic Publication Society. 1869.

This book presents in a striking man-
ner the results of two systems of home
education. In it we have a vivid picture
of the consequences of wealth, reckless-
ly lavished on an only daughter, contrast-
ed with the encouraging way in which the
virtue of a much-injured girl triumphs
over the designs of base and cunning
enemies. The authoress possesses a
happy talent of describing persons in an
easy and remarkably concise style, and
she succeeds in causing her characters
to act and speak in a natural manner.
The book will be read, by girls espe-
cially, with the keenest enjoyment. The
conduct of Mary will seldom fail to draw
forth their approval, and all readers will
agree that this is a good story.

A German Reader. In Prose and
Verse. With Notes and Vocabulary.
By William D. Whitney. New York :
Leypoldt & Holt

The text of this Reader has at length
reached us ; and in regard to accuracy,
arrangement, and clearness of type it is
all that can be desired. The selections
are very good, although many of them
have already done service in German
educational works. Originality is qply
claimed for the vocabulary and notes,
which have not yet been published, so
that we may only remark that the volume
will enjoy a very high reputation, if the
forthcoming part be prepared with the
same attention that has been devoted
to the text

The Poetical Works of Samuel
Lover. London and New York:
George Routlcdge & Sons.

A most beautiful edition of the beau-
tiful songs of Lover, written mostly, as
all know, about love and lovers. Yet
not all. We are indebted to him for
many charming ballads, of sweetest
melody and deepest pathos, to which
indeed Lover owes his &me as a poet

Stanford Unlfersity Library

Stanford, California

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