Full text of "The Catholic world"

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MAR 2 9 1966 




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THE 




CATHOLIC WORLD. 

**/ . 



MONTHLY MAGAZINE 







OF 






GENERAL LITERATURE AND SCIENCE. 



VOL. XV. 
APRIL, 1872, TO SEPTEMBER, 1872. 



NEW YORK: 
THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE, 

9 Warren Street. 

1872. 



CONTENTS. 



Acoustics and Ventilation, 118. 
Affirmations, 77, 225. 
Aix-la-Chapelle, 795. 
Ambrosia, 803. 
Art and Religion, 356. 
Art, Faith the Life of, 518. 
Bad Beginning for a Saint, A, 673. 
Belgium, Religious Processions in, 546. 
Bolanden's The Progressionists, 433, 618, 766. 
Bryant's Translation of the Iliad, 381. 
Caresses of Providence, 270. 
Catholic Congress in Mayence, The Twenty- 
first, 45. 

Catholic Church in the United States, 577, 749. 
Chaumonot, F. (A Bad Beginning for a Saint), 673. 
Charity, Official, 407. 
Church, The, 814. 

" and the Press, The, 413. 

" The Symbolism of the, 605. 
" Chips," Max Muller's, 530. 
Cicero, A Speech of, 182. 
Craven's (Mrs?) Fleurange, 60, 226, 342, 473, 591, 

734- 

Donkey, Jans von Steufle's, 92. 
Duties of the Rich in Christian Society, The, 37, 

145, 189, 510. 
Easter Eve, 42. 
Education, The Necessity of Philosophy as a 

Basis of Higher, 632, 690, 815. 
English Literature, Taine's, i. 
Essay on Epigrams, An, 467. 
Etheridge, Miss, 501. 
Faith the Life of Art, 518. 
FSte-Day at Lyons, A, 362. 
Gothic Revival in England, History of the, 443. 
Greatness, True, 539. 
Handkerchief, The, 849. 

History of the Gothic Revival in England, 443. 
House of Yorke, The, 18, 150, 295. 
How I Learned Latin. 844. 
Iliad, Bryant's Translation of the, 381. 
India, Protestant Missions in, 690. 
Intellectual Centres, 721. 
Jans von Steufle's Donkey, 92. 
Jewish Convert, A Reminiscence of Vienna, 211. 
Lamartine, The Mother of, 167. 
Last Days before the Siege, The, 457, 666. 
Letters of His Holiness Pius IX. on the " Union 

of Christian Women," 563. 
Little Love, 554. 
Lyons, A FSte-Day at, 362. 
Max Muller's " Chips," 530. 
Miracles, Newman on, 133, 
Miss^theridge, 501. 
Mission of the Barbarians, The Roman Empire 

and the, 102, 654. 



Misty Mountain, On the, 703, 823. 

Mother of Lamartine, The, 167. 

Music, On, 733. 

Newman on Miracles, 133. 

Odd Stories, 124. 

Official Charity, 407. 

On Music, 733. 

On the Misty Mountain, 705, 823. 

Orleans and its Clergy, 833. 

Paris before the War, A Salon in, 187, 323. 

Philosophy as a Basis of Higher Education, The 

Necessity of, 632, 690, 813. 
Philosophy, Review of Dr. Stbckl's, 329. 
Press, The Church and the, 413. 
Progressionists, The, 433, 618, 766. 
Protestant Missions in India, 690. 
Providence, Caresses of, 270. 
Quarter of an Hour in the Old Roman Forum 

during a Speech of Cicero's, 182. 
Religion, Art and, 356. 
Religious Processions in Belgium, 546. 
Reminiscence of Vienna, A, 211. 
Review of Mr. Bryant's Iliad, 576. 
Rich, Duties of the, in Christian Society, 37, 145, 

289, 510. 
Rights of Women, How the Church Understands 

and Upholds the, 78, 255, 366, 487. 
Roman Empire, The, and the Mission of the 

Barbarians, 102, 654. 
St. James's Mission at Vancouver, Decision 

against the, 715. 

Salon in Paris before the War, A, 187, 323. 
Siege, Last Days before the, 457, 666. 
Spain : What it was, and what it is, 397. 
Spaniards at Home, The, 783. 
Stockl's Philosophy, Review of, 329. 
Stories, Odd, 124. 
Summer in the Tyrol, A, 646. 
Symbolism of the Church, The, 605. 
Taine's English Literature, i. 
Tennyson : Artist and Moralist, 341. 
True Greatness, 539. 
Twenty-first Catholic Congress in Mayence, 

The, 4S . 

Tyrol, A Summer in the, 646. 
" Union of Christian Women," Letters of His 

Holiness Pius IX. on the, 563. 
United States, The Catholic Church in the, 577, 

749- 

Use and Abuse of the Stage, 836. 
Vancouver, Decision against the St. James' 

Mission at, 715. 

Ventilation, Acoustics and, 118. 
Women, How the Church Understands and Up 

holds the Rights of, 78, 235, 366, 487. 
Yorke, The House of, 18,150, 293. 



POETRY. 



After Reading Mr. Tupper's Proverbial Philo- 
sophy, 466. 

Anniversary of Baptism, 149. 

Blessed Virgin, Fragments of Early English 
Poems on the, 319. 

Books, Old, 729. 

Clerke at Oxenforde, 674. 



De Vere's The Last Days of Oisin the Bard, 76. 

" Legends of Oisin the Bard, 208, 320. 
Devota, 269. 

Dante's Purgatorio, Canto III., 730. 
Faber's The Papacy, 748. 
Fragmemts of Early English Poetry, 390. 

" on the Blessed Virgin, 3t<x 



Contents. 



Oxenforde, The Clerke of, 674. 

Papacy, The, 748. 

Passion, The, 91. 

Passion, Fragments of Early English Poems on 

the, 17. 
Pledges, The Three, 127. 



Proverbial Philosophy, After Reading Mr. Tup 

per's, 466. 

Purgatorio, Dante's, Canto III., 730. 
Super Omnes Speciosa, 166. 
To Wordsworth, 538. 
Troubadours of Provence, On the, 294. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



Allibone's A Critical Dictionary of English Lite- 
rature, 564. 

Anderdon's Christian jEsop, 719. 

Announcements, 144, 288, 432, 576. 

Arias' Virtues of Mary, Mother of God, 568. 

Augustine, St. Aurelius, Works of, 423. 

Aunt Fanny's Present, 432. 

Baker's Dozen, A, 859. 

Betrothed, The, 425. 

Bolanden's Old God, 856. 

Book of Psalms, 137. 

Books and Pamphlets Received, 144. 

Burke's The Men and Women of the Reforma- 
tion, 285. 

Burke's Lectures and Sermons, 852. 

By the Seaside, 859. 

Catholic Review, The, 860. 

Christian Counsels, 859. 
" Free Schools, 432. 

Clare's (Sister Mary Frances) Hornehurst Rec- 
tory, 857. 

Coleridge's Life and Letters of St. Francis 
Xavier, 423. 

Conscience's The Merchant of Antwerp, 720. 

Craven's (Mrs.) A Sister's Story, 287. 

Curtius' The History of Greece, 139. 

De Croyft's (Mrs.) Little Jakey, 432. 

Dorward's Wild Flowers of Wisconsin, 287. 

Dubois 1 Zeal in the Work of the Ministry, 137. 

Erckmann-Chatrian's The Plebiscite, 858. 

Excerpta ex Rituali Romano, etc, 574. 

Extracts from the Fathers, etc., 569. 

Fashion. 140. 

Fiske's The Offertorium, 574. 

Fitton's Memoirs of the Establishment of the 
Church in N. E., 857. 

Formby's Parables of Our Lord, 286. 
" School Songs, 286. 
" The Devotion of the Seven Dolors, 286. 
' School Keepsake, 286. 
" Seven Sacraments, 286. 

Fox's Fashion, 140. 

French Eggs in an English Basket, 425. 

Fullerton's (Lady) Constance Sherwood, 422. 

Gardner's Latin School Series, 575. 

Gagarin's The Russian Clergy, 719. 

Gleeson's History of the Church in California's. 

Gould's Legends of the Patriarchs and Pro- 
phets, 432. 

Gould's Lives of the Saints, 576. 

Green's Indulgences, Absolutions, Tax Tables, 
etc., 720. 

Half-hour Recreations in Popular Science, 431. 

Half-hours with Modern Scientists, 431. 

Hare's Walks in Rome, 432. 

Harpain, Marie Eustelle, Life of, 285. 

Hart's A Manual of English Literature, 427. 

Haskins' Six Weeks Abroad, 571. 

Hengstcnberg's Kingdom of God under the Old 
Testament, 429. 

House of Yorke, The, 420. 

Humphrey's Divine Teacher, 855. 

Lamon's Lite of Abraham Lincoln, 718. 

Little Pierre, the Pedlar of Alsace, 284. 



Liquefaction of the Blood of St. Januarius, 136. 

Longfellow's The Divine Tragedy, 427. 

McQuaid's (Bp.) Christian Free Schools, 432. 

Maggie's Rosary, 425. 

Maguire's Pontificate of Pius IX. ,856. 

Maistre's A Journey Around My Room, 138. 

Manning's Sermons on Ecclesiastical Subjects,i43 

Manzoni's The Betrothed, 425. 

Martin's Going Home, 858 

May's (Sophie) Little Prudy's Flyaway Series, 

144. 

Memoir of Roger B. Taney, 853. 
Merrick's Lectures on the Church, 430. 
Monnin's Life of the Cure d'Ars, 719. 
Mulloy's Passion Play, 427. 
Mumford's A Remembrance for the Living to 

Pray for the Dead, 144. 
Mystical City of God (Abridged), 720. 
Newman's Discussions and Arguments on Va- 
rious Subjects, 421. 
Newman's Historical Sketches, 855. 
Oakeley 's The Order and Ceremonial of the Mass, 

856. 

Paine's Physiology of the Soul, etc., 430 
Pellico's Duties of Young Men, 575. 
Phsedrus, Justin, and Nepos, 575. 
Proctor's Half-Hour Recreations in Popular 

Science, 431. 
Proctor's Strange Discoveries Respecting the 

Aurora, 431. 

Public School Education, 860. 
Rawes' Great Truths in Little Words, 856. 
Reports on Observations of the Total Solar 

Eclipe, 431. 
Roscoe, Huggins, and Lockyer's Spectrum 

Analysis. 431. 

St. Teresa, The Book of the Foundations of, 142. 
St. Thomas of Aquin: His Life and Labors, 568. 
Saunders' Salad for the Solitary and the Social, 

143- 
Sedgwick's Relation and Duty of the Lawyer to 

the State, 430. 

Sermons by Fathers of the Society of Jesus, 425. 
Sir Humphrey's Trial, 860. 
Smiddy's An Address on the Druids, Churches, 

and Round Towers of Ireland, 143. 
Spectrum Analysis, 431. 
Souvestre's French Eggs, 425. 
Taine's Notes on England, 719. 
Tondini's The Pope of Rome, 427. 
Travels in Arabia, 432. 
Tyler's Life oF Roger B. Taney, 853. 
Una and Her Paupers; or, Memorials of Agnes 

E. Jones, 569. 
Vaughan's St. Thomas of Aquin: His Life and 

Labors, 568. 

Veith's Via Crucis ; or,The Way of the Cross, 426. 
Vetromile's Travels in Europe and the East, 857. 
Virtues and Defects of a Young Girl, 571. 
AVarner's Saunterings, 719. 
Welsh's Women Helpers in the Church, 572. 
Wiseman's Witch of Rosenburg,72o. 
Women Helpers in the Church, 572. 
Woodland Cottage, etc., 432. 



THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD. 



VOL. XV., No. 85. APRIL, 1872. 



TAINES ENGLISH LITERATURE.* 



IN so far as we may judge from 
the notices in periodicals and news- 
papers, this work appears to have 
been received, both in England and 
the United States, not only with gen- 
eral favor, but with enthusiastic ad- 
miration. 

A history of English literature 
based on a system new to the great 
body of English readers, and written 
with freshness, verve, and certain at- 
tractive peculiarities of style, could 
not fail to fix their attention and en- 
gage their interest from the begin- 
ning to the end of its two bulky 
octavo volumes. The author of the 
work in question is so well known 
in the world of letters by his essays 
on the philosophy of art that he 
needs no introduction to our readers. 

M. Taine starts out with the as- 
sumption that the literature of any 
given country is the exponent of its 
mental life, or, as he states it (p. 20), 
" I am about to write the history of 

* History of English Literature. By H. A. 
Taine. Translated by H. Van Laun. With a 
Preface prepared expressly for this Translation 
by the author. New York : Holt & Williams. 
1871. 



a literature, and to seek in it ibr the 
psychology of a people." In France 
and Germany, we are told, history 
has been revolutionized by the study 
of their literatures. 

" It was perceived," says M. Taine, 
" that a work of literature is not a mere 
play of imagination, a solitary caprice of a 
heated brain, but a transcript of contem- 
porary manners, a type of a certain kind 
of mind. It was concluded that one 
might retrace, from the monuments of 
literature, the style of man's feelings and 
thoughts for centuries back. The at- 
tempt was made, and it succeeded." 

Unquestionably the style of man's 
feelings may be traced in literature 
for centuries back. That is M. 
Taine's first approach. But between 
the successful insight into this or that 
writer's opinions and modes of 
thought and the opinions and modes 
of thought of a nation, the void is so 
enormous unless, indeed, we danger- 
ously reason from particulars to gen- 
erals as to require to fill it more 
subjective literary productions than 
any country has ever yet produced. 

From this system it would follow 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872. by Rev. I. T. HECKER, in the Office oi 
the Librarian of Congress,'at Washington, D. C. 



Taine s English Literature. 



that if a nation has no literature it 
can have no history. If it have as 
is too often the case no literature 
but that of a despotism or of a domin- 
ant minority, it follows that you can- 
not discern a single idea nor hear a 
single pulsation of the heart of a 
great people. But granting the liter- 
ature to exist, although we are told 
that a work " is not a mere play of the 
imagination," we nevertheless know 
full well that some of the most bril- 
liant portions of every literature are 
precisely what that phrase describes. 
Beyond that, we also know that all 
writers are not only not sincere, but 
too often unfaithful because too often 
venal, and cannot therefore be re- 
lied upon. 

In certain writings enumerated by 
In'm, M. Taine says : " The reader 
will see all the wealth that may be 
drawn from a literary work : when the 
work is rich, and one knows how to in- 
ferpretit, we find there the psychology 
of a soul, frequently of an age, now 
and then of a race." Partially true. 
And M. Taine might have instanced 
the Confessions of St. Augustine, but 
he does not. We may indeed find 
what he indicates under certain con- 
ditions, for, as he very correctly adds, 
" their utility grows with their perfec- 
tion." Unfortunately, such works oc- 
cur in literature at the rarest intervals. 

It cannot be questioned that M. 
Taine's theory contains a germ of 
truth. But, in fact, so far as it is true 
it is a very old story. What is true 
in his theory is not new, and what is 
new is questionable. Since history 
has risen to be something more and 
something better than a mere roll of 
warriors and a correct list of kings 
and queens which latter class of 
good people are fast disappearing, 
never again, we trust, to return since 
the historian has been elevated from 
the rank of a mere annalist to be the 
interpreter to his own age of not 



only the acts and sufferings, but the 
mind and the heart of dead genera 
tions, he has become avid of the 
most trifling details concerning their 
transitory passage here on earth. 
He desires to discover and relate 
how they lived, slept, and ate how 
they talked, toiled, and travelled 
what they said, what they thought 
what, in a word, was their social and 
psychological life. To obtain the 
knowledge he seeks, all sources are 
equally valuable written manuscripts 
that speak as well as stone ruins that 
are dumb. 

Such knowledge as this the new 
school of German historians, having 
first exhausted all literary material, 
have sought to gather from the most 
remote and even repulsive sources ; 
and from philological analysis, from 
works of art, from monuments, old 
roads, half-corroded coins, almost 
obliterated inscriptions, broken pot- 
tery, partially effaced frescoes, and 
from the very fragments of mere 
kitchen utensils, they have created 
afresh and revealed to us, in all its 
details, the daily and familiar life of 
ancient Rome, and poured a flood 
of light upon the living man of the 
that day. 

And yet, before the results of their 
archaeological and ethnological labors 
were given to the world, we thought 
we knew our Roman well and familiar- 
ly. For what literature, unless it be 
that of Greece, presents so rich and so 
complete a portrait gallery of all the 
types of its people as the literature 
of Rome ? From Virgil, who gives 
us the ploughman and vinedresser, 
and Caesar, through whose pages 
marches the Roman soldier, to Livy, 
Sallust, Tacitus, Juvenal, and Hor- 
ace, we have a score of writers 
in whose pages all the virtues and 
vices, the grandeur and the shame, 
the nobility and the grovelling sensu- 
ality, of Rome are spread before us 



Taine s English Literature, 



in language so attractive and so 
grand as to promise to outlast many 
modern masterpieces. 

M. Taine sneers at " Latin litera- 
ture as worth nothing at the outset," 
being " borrowed and imitative." To 
this we reply, Adhuc sub judice, etc., 
and, bad or not, it tells the story of 
the Roman people, and very nearly 
reveals to us the ancient Roman as 
he walked on earth. 

We have no such faithful picture 
of the English people in English 
literature. 

We fear that M. Taine mistakes 
a part for the whole. Unquestion- 
ably, literature has its uses, and high 
ones, for the elucidation of many a 
problem and the illumination of 
many a page of history ; but, if we set 
out to find the history of a nation in 
its literature, outside of history pro- 
per and the new aids to historical 
research we have referred to, we 
merely adopt a deceptive guide that 
can lead us only to disappointment. 
For these grand theories, so symme- 
trical and so plausible, when present- 
ed by their generally eloquent framers, 
stand, when put into actual service, 
very little wear and tear. Accord- 
ingly, we find that there happens to 
M. Taine precisely what happens 
to every man who starts out to con- 
struct a work strictly according to a 
given system. And what thus hap- 
pens is a serious matter. This it is. 
Facts are treated as of secondary im- 
portance. They are put upon their 
best behavior. They must show 
themselves up to a certain standard, 
or they are counted as worthless. If 
they are so wrong-headed as to come 
in conflict with the author's theory 
the old story why, so much the 
worse for the facts, and our theorist 
ruthlessly tramples upon and walks 
over them straight to his objective 
point, which is, necessarily, his fore- 
gone conclusion. 



It would detain us too long to 
present an analysis of M. Taine's 
introduction, from which alone it 
would not be difficult to demonstrate 
the insufficiency of his theory. It 
contains passages which, in the state- 
ly march of his eloquent phrase, 
seem to sound as though they an- 
nounced newly discovered truths 
of startling import, but which, trans- 
lated into familiar language, turn out 
to be but little more than the text- 
book enunciation of some familiar 
principle. Thus: 

" When you have observed and noted 
in man one, two, three, then a multitude 
of sensations, does this suffice, or does 
your knowledge appear complete? Is a 
book of observation a psychology? It 
is no psychology, and here as else- 
where the search for causes must come 
after the collection of facts. No matter 
if the facts be physical or moral, they all 
have their causes ; there is a cause for 
ambition, for courage, for truth, as there is 
for digestion, for muscular movement, for 
animal heat. Vice and virtue are products, 
like vitriol and sugar, and every complex 
phenomenon has its springs from other 
more simple phenomena on which it 
hangs." 

M. Taine, it is evident, cannot be 
charged with sparing his readers 
either the enunciation or the elucida- 
tion of first principles. 

The author commences by dispos- 
ing of the Anglo-Saxons, their litera- 
ture, and six centuries of their annals, 
in a short chapter of twenty-three 
pages, which, so far as our observa- 
tion has extended, has been passed 
over both by English and American 
criticism almost without remark. 
Some reviewers account for its concise- 
ness by saying that Anglo-Saxon liter- 
ature has but little interest for the 
general reader, except as a question of 
philology. As of general applica- 
tion, the remark is not widely incor- 
rect, but it is signally out of place 
with reference to M. Taine's work, 



Taincs English Literature. 



for he announces as part of his task 
that of " developing the recondite 
mechanism whereby the Saxon bar- 
barian has been transformed into the 
Englishman of to-day." 

Now, fairly to understand the Eng- 
lishman of to-day, we must, by M. 
Taine's own announcement, have the 
Saxon original placed before us ; for. 
he says, "the modern Englishman 
existed entire in this Saxon" (p. 31). 
The Saxon must be produced to our 
sight, and we must have him evolved 
strictly on M. Taine's principles, viz., 
as the psychological product of his 
literature. If this is done, he will ful- 
fil his engagement of " developing the 
recondite mechanism," etc., or, in 
other words, of presenting us a full 
exposition of Anglo-Saxon literature. 

We feel bound to say that none of 
these promises are kept, and none of 
these results are reached, by M. 
Taine ; nay, more, that he not only 
totally fails in presenting a fair or 
even intelligible abstract of Anglo- 
Saxon literature, but that he appears 
to be wanting in the necessary infor- 
mation which might enable him to 
do it. We think it less derogatory 
to him to say that his knowledge of 
the subject is defective than to make 
the necessarily alternative charge. 

We find, however, some excuse for 
M. Taine's limited acquirements in 
Anglo-Saxon literature in the fact 
that he appears to have relied to a 
great extent on Warton and on Sha- 
ron Turner. Dr. Warton's well- 
known history of English poetry is 
unquestionably a work of great merit 
and utility, in so far as it treats of 
English poetry from the period of 
Chaucer down, but as authority on 
any matter connected with Anglo- 
Saxon literature, it is next to worth- 
less. Warton knew very little about 
it. Sharon Turner as authority on 
Anglo-Saxon history, and Sharon 
Turner as authority on Anglo-Saxon 



literature, are two very different per- 
sons. The knowledge of Anglo-Sax- 
on literature has made great strides 
since his day. For his history he 
was not dependent on Anglo-Saxon 
documents. Latin material was 
abundant. 

It must be borne in mind that, al- 
though the English tongue is so di- 
rectly derived from it, Anglo-Saxon 
is, nevertheless, a dead language, and 
when, in the sixteenth century, its 
study was to some extent revived, it 
had not only been dead four hundred 
years, but buried and forgotten. That 
revival occurred at a time when reli- 
gious controversy ran high in Eng- 
land, the motive prompting it being 
to discover testimony among Anglo- 
Saxon ecclesiastical MSS. as to the 
existence of an English Catholic 
Church separate from and indepen- 
dent of Papal authority. Thus far 
the search has not been attended 
with any marked success. In the 
seventeenth century, Anglo-Saxon 
was studied for the light it threw on 
the early history and legislation of 
England. Since the commencement 
of the present century, the study has 
been pursued with greater success 
than ever for objects purely literary 
and philological. Indeed, it may 
be said that, until within some forty 
years, the cultivation of Anglo-Saxon 
was confined*, to a very small circle 
of scholars. 

The most remarkable monuments 
of its literature are of comparatively 
recent publication, and there happen- 
ed at the outset to the study of An- 
glo-Saxon precisely what happened 
to the study of Sanskrit. It was 
that many scholars, aware of its lite- 
rary wealth, and, possibly, in posses- 
sion of copies of some of its produc- 
tions, were without adequate means 
of pursuing or even of commencing 
their studies on account of the want 
of dictionaries and grammars. It 



Tai nc's English Literature. 



S 



was for this reason that Frederick 
Schlegel, before writing his great work 
on The Language and Wisdom of the 
Indians, was obliged to leave Ger- 
many and go to England, in order 
to avail himself of the resources of 
the British Museum ; and when we 
consider the difficulties under which 
Dr. Lingard made his Anglo-Saxon 
studies, and wrote his Antiquities of 
the Anglo-Saxon Church, of which 
work M. Taine does not appear to 
have heard, we are more than ever 
surprised at the ability displayed by 
the great English historian. 

When we undertake to trace the 
gradual development of the Anglo- 
Saxon of Anno 500 into the Eng- 
lishman of 1800, the first phase is 
immeasurably the most interesting 
and the most important, for in that 
phase he was at once civilized and 
christianized. Take away the intro- 
duction and development of Chris- 
tianity from Anglo-Saxon history, and 
you have left nothing but a list 
of kings and two or three battles. 
Now, M. Taine's exposition of how, 
when, and through what agencies 
civilization and Christianity were 
brought into England may be de- 
scriptively characterized as " how 
not to do it." His great effort 
in his introductory chapter is to eli- 
minate Christianity from Anglo-Saxon 
history, and to give us, as it were, 
the play of Hamlet with the part of 
Hamlet omitted an effort so syste- 
matic and persistent as to make us 
almost regret our volunteered plea 
for his excuse on the ground of want 
of familiarity with his subject. Here 
is his device to escape the necessity 
of relating the all essential story of 
the conversion to Christianity : " A 
race so constituted was predisposed 
to Christianity by its gloom, its aver- 
sion to sensual and reckless living, 
its inclination for the serious and sub- 
lime." M. Taine has just describ- 



ed (pp. 41-43) the leading cha- 
racteristics of the pagan Anglo-Saxon 
mind as manifested in its poetry 
" a race so constituted " and cites 
in support of his exposition two pas- 
sages translated from what he asserts 
to be pagan Anglo-Saxon poetry. 
The first, Battle of Finsborough, we 
know was found on the cover of a 
MS. book of homilies, written by 
some monk, although it may, per- 
haps, be of pagan origin. The se- 
cond, and more important one, The 
Battle of Brunanbiirh, containing the 
line, " The sun on high, the great 
star, God's brilliant candle, the noble 
creature " * (p. 43), is Christian and 
monkish beyond all peradventure, for 
it forms a portion of the Saxon Chro- 
nicle, begun as late as the days of 
Alfred. The battle was fought in 
the year 939 ! 

We continue : " Its aversion to sen- 
sual and reckless living." This is 
simply astounding when we remem- 
ber that M. Taine has just been tell- 
ing us, through twenty pages, of their 
" ravenous stomachs filled with meat 
and cheese, heated by strong drinks," 
" prone to brutal drunkenness," be- 
coming " more gluttonous, carving 
their hogs, filling themselves with 
flesh ; swallowing all the strong, 
coarse drinks which they could pro- 
cure," etc. 

And then follows the far more sur- 
prising psychological result : " These 
utter barbarians embrace Christian- 
ity straightway, through sheer force of 
mood and clime" (p. 44). 

Now, M. Taine knows as we all 
know that these pagan Anglo-Sax- 
ons were brutal and sensual to the last 
degree. In personal indulgence, they 



* Literal translation of the original falls thus 
into English rhythm: 

"The field streamed with warriors' blood, 
When rose at morning tide the glorious star. 
The sun, God's shining candle, until sank 
The noble creature to its setting." 



Taines EnglisJi Literature. 



were vv.hat he describes and more. 
They were pirates, robbers, and mur- 
derers. 

The rewards promised them by 
their gods after death were that they 
should have nothing to do but eat 
and drink. Even the paganism of 
their Scandinavian and Teutonic 
forefathers, a mixture of massacre 
and sensuality, was corrupted by 
them, and the emblems of their 
bloody and obscene gods were naked 
swords and hammers, with which 
they broke the heads of their victims. 
The immortality promised them in 
their Walhalla was a long contin- 
uance of new days of slaughter, and 
nights of debauch spent in drinking 
from their enemies' skulls. Such was 
the race found by M. Taine so 
constituted as to be " predisposed to 
Christianity by its gloom, its aver- 
sion to sensual and reckless living " ; 
such the people who " through sheer 
force of mood and clime " laid aside 
their cruelty, brutality, carnage, and 
sensuality, gave up feasting for fast- 
ing, proud independence for obe- 
dience, indulgence for self-denial ! 
Truly remarkable effects of atmo- 
sphere. The climate of England 
must have greatly changed since the 
year 597. 

In the course of a debate which 
once arose in the British House of 
Commons on the subject of negro 
emancipation, it was urged against 
the measure that you could not civil- 
ize the negro ; he belonged to an in- 
ferior race which offered human sac- 
rifices and sold their own children 
into slavery. Whereupon, a member 
promptly replied that was just what 
our ancestors in -England did they 
offered human sacrifices and sold 
their children into slavery. This will 
naturally recall to the reader's mind 
the touching incident which led to 
the conversion of the Anglo-Saxons, 
the fair-haired and blue-eyed children 



offered for sale, and their redemption 
by the great Gregory, who said they 
were not only Angles, but angels. 
From that moment the mission to 
England was resolved upon. We all 
know the story. Gregory's depar- 
ture, his capture by the citizens of 
Rome and forcible return, his eleva- 
tion to the pontifical throne, the de- 
parture of St. Augustine and his forty 
companions, their trials, sufferings, 
and danger of death on the route, 
their arrival in England, their labors, 
the gradual and peaceful conversion 
of the people, their successful efforts 
in bringing the Saviour, his Gospel, 
and his church to benighted hea- 
thens, and their civilization and so- 
cial amelioration of the Anglo-Sax- 
ons. To the immortal glory of these 
men be it said that neither violence 
nor persecution was resorted to by 
them, their disciples, or their pro- 
tectors for the triumph of civiliza- 
tion and religion. It is one of the 
grandest Christian victories on re- 
cord. Of all this, here is M. Taine's 
record : 

" Roman missionaries bearing a silver 
cross with a picture of Christ came in 
procession, chanting a litany. Presently 
the high priest of the Northumbrians de- 
clared, in presence of the nobles, that the 
old gods were powerless, and confessed 
that formerly ' he knew nothing of that 
which he adored ;' and he among the 
first, lance in hand, assisted to demolish 
their temple. At his side a chief rose 
in the assembly, and said : 

"You remember, O king, what some- 
times happens in winter when you are at 
supper with your earls and thanes, while 
the good fire burns within, and it rains 
and the wind howls without. A sparrow 
enters at one door, and flies out quickly 
at the other. During that rapid passage 
and pleasant moment it disappears, and 
from winter returns to winter again. 
Such seems to me to be the life of man, 
and his career but a brief moment be- 
tween that which goes before and that 
which follows after, and of which we know 
nothing. If, then, the new doctrine can 



Tatties English Literature. 



teach us something certain, it deserves to 
be followed."* 

The Protestant historian, Sharon 
Turner, says of the conversion of the 
Anglo-Saxons : " It was accomplished 
in a manner worthy of the benevo- 
lence and purity [of the Christian re- 
ligion]. Genuine piety seems to 
have led the first missionaries to 
our shores. Their zeal, their perse- 
verance, and the excellence of the 
system they diffused made their la- 
bors successful." He gives a detail- 
ed narrative of the action of Gregory 
the Great, of the devotion and self- 
sacrifice of St. Augustine and his com- 
panions, of their long and perilous 
journey, their landing in England, 
and, in describing their procession on 
the Isle of Thanet, writes : " With a 
silver cross and a picture of Christ, 
they advanced singing the litany." 
M. Taine, with a stroke of the pen, 
copies this line almost word for word, 
and makes it do duty for a full and 
detailed account of the labors of St. 
Augustine and his forty companions 
for two score years ! 

What period of time the word, pre- 
sently represents to M. Taine we do 
not know. It may be an hour, or a 
day, or a month, but the incident 
which he refers to as occurring " pre- 
sently " took place about forty years 
after the "procession." 

* We have here substituted for M. Taine's 
translation one that we consider better, and we 
add the following poetical paraphrase of the 
passage by Wordsworth : 

" Man's life is like a sparrow, mighty king, 
That, while at banquet with your chiefs you 

s^t, 

Housed near a blazing fire, is seen to flit, 
Safe from the wintry tempest. Fluttering, 
Here did it enter, there, on hasty wing, 
Flies out, and passes on from cold to cold : 
But whence it came we know not, nor behold 
Whither it goes. Even such, that transient 

thing, 

The human soul, not utterly unknown. 
While in the body lodged, the warm abode ; 
But from what world she came, what woe or 

weal 
On her departure waits, no tongue hath 

shown." 



And now it is sought to belittle 
or decry the victory of the Christian 
missionaries in two ways : ist. It 
was the most natural thing in the 
world for the brutal, bloody, slave- 
dealing, drunken barbarian to em- 
brace the new religion, because his 
paganism so strongly resembled Chris- 
tianity. 2d. But after conversion 
they remained, after all, substantially, 
barbarous pagans as before, and their 
songs remind M. Taine of " the 
songs of the servants of Odin, ton- 
sured and clad in the garments of 
monks." " The Christian hymns em- 
body the pagan " (p. 46). 

To demonstrate this, and to show 
that the songs of these converted 
Saxons are "but a concrete of excla- 
mations," have "no development," 
and are nothing but paganism after 
all, M. Taine gives five prose lines 
of imperfect translation from a poem 
by Caedmon. Here is a correct 
rendering of the opening of the poem 
in the original metre. Let the rea- 
der judge of the amount of pagan in- 
spiration it contains : 

" Nosv must we glorify 
The guardian of heaven's kingdom, 
The Maker's might, 
And his mind's thought, 
The work of the worshipped father, 
When of his wonders, each one, 
The ever-living Lord 
Ordered the origin, 
He erst created 
For earth's children 
Heaven as a high roof, 
The holy Creator : 
Then on this mid-world 
Did man's great guardian, 
The ever-living Lord, 
Afterward prepare 
For men a mansion, 
The Master Almighty." * 

M. Taine continues : 

"One of them" [those servants of 

l 

* M. Taine mildly states Milton's obligations 
to Csedmon in saying, " One would think he 
must have had some knowledge of Csedmon 
from the translation of Junius." It would be 
easy to show that some of Milton's finest de- 
scriptions of the fallen angels are taken from 
Credmon. Sir F. Palgrave says that there are 
in Csedmon passages so like the Paradise Lost 
that some of Milton's lines read like an almosi. 
literal translation. 



Taincs English Literature. 



Odin, take notice], " Adhelm, stood on 
a bridge leading to the town where he 
lived, and repeated warlike and profane 
odes alternately with religious poetry, in 
order to attract and instruct the men of 
his time. He could do it without chang- 
ing his key. In one of them, a funeral 
song, Death speaks. It was one of the 
last Saxon compositions, containing a 
terrible Christianity, which seems at the 
same time to have sprung from the black- 
est depths of the Edda." 

M. Taine has here given rein to 
his imagination, and made terrible 
work with Saxon chronology and 
other matters. For Adhelm read 
Aldhelm, in Saxon Ealdhelm, so King 
Alfred spelt it. The name signifies 
Old Helmet ; Aldhelm was of prince- 
ly extraction. " Warlike and profane 
odes " does not correctly translate 
" carmen triviale" Aldhelm was a 
learned priest, a Greek, Latin, and 
Hebrew scholar, with a profound 
.knowledge of the Holy Scriptures. 
His present reputation rests on his 
Latin works. His contemporary re- 
putation was founded on his Anglo- 
Saxon productions. He composed 
canticles and ballads in his native 
tongue, and, remarking the haste of 
many of the Anglo-Saxon peasants 
to leave church as soon as the Sun- 
day Mass was over, in order to avoid 
the sermon, he would lie in wait for 
them at the bridge or wayside, and, 
singing to them as a bard,- attract 
their attention, and in the fascination 
of a musical verse teach them the 
truths of religion they would not 
wait to hear from the pulpit. It was 
not for the pleasure of singing that 
Aldhelm thus labored: it was to save 
souls. Without the slightest author- 
ity, M. Taine puts in his mouth this 
beautiful Anglo-Saxon fragment : 

" Death speaks to man : ' For thee was 
a house built ere thou wast born ; for 
thee was a mould shapen ere thou earnest 
of thy mother. Its height is not deter- 
mined, nor its depth measured, nor is it 



closed up (however long it may be) until 
I bring thee where thou shall remain, 
until I shall measure thee and the sod of 
earth. Thy house is not highly built, it 
is unhigh and low ; when thou art in it 
the heelways are low, the sideways low. 
The roof is built full nigh thy breast ; so 
thou shall dwell in earth full cold, dim, 
and dark. Doorless is thai house, and 
dark il is within ; there thou art fasl pri- 
soner, and Dealh holds the key. Loathly 
is that earth-house, and grim to dwell in ; 
there thou shall dwell, and worms shall 
share thee. Thus thou art laid, and 
leavest ihy friends ; thou hast no friend 
thai will come lo thee, who will ever 
inquire how that house liketh thee, who 
shall ever open the door for thee, and 
seek thee, for soon thou becomes! loathly 
and hateful to look upon.' " 

The composition is not by Ald- 
helm, who, probably, never heard of 
it. All of Aldhelm's Anglo-Saxon 
MSS. perished when the magnificent 
monastery at Malmesbury was sacked 
under Henry VIII. The Protestant 
historian, Maitland, thus tells the 
story : " The precious MSS. of his 
[Aldhelm's] library were long em- 
ployed to fill up broken windows in 
the neighboring houses, or to light 
the bakers' fires." 

All that we know of The Grave is 
that it was found written in the mar- 
gin of a volume of Anglo-Saxon ho- 
milies, preserved in the Bodleian Li- 
brary. It is of a period following 
Aldhelm's era, and is in the dialect 
of East Anglia, while Aldhelm was 
of Wessex. But M. Taine himself 
demonstrates that it could not be 
Aldhelm's. At page 50, he tells us 
Aldhelm died in 709, having previ- 
ously stated (p. 46) that the fragment 
" was one of the last Anglo-Saxon 
compositions. '' But among the fin- 
est Anglo-Saxon poetical composi- 
tions are the celebrated Ormulum. 
and various poems by Layamon, 
which were written about the year 
1225. The Grave, moreover, so far 
from containing " a terrible Chris- 



Taincs 



Literature. 



tianity," has so essentially the tone 
and spirit of many well-known Ca- 
tholic meditations on death, that it 
might have been written in a Spanish 
monastery or taken from a book of 
Christian devotions. 

Of course, " the poor monks " can 
do nothing creditable in M. Taine's 
eyes, and he comes to sad grief in 
undertaking to go, by specification, 
beyond the common counts of the 
ordinary declaration dictated by bi- 
gotry. At page 53, vol. i., he thus 
refers in contemptuous terms to the 
monks who compiled the Saocon 
Chronicle : 

" They spun out awkwardly and heavily 
dry chronicles, a sort of historical alma- 
nacs. You might think them peasants, 
who, returning from their toil, came and 
scribbled with chalk on a smoky table 
the date of a year of scarcity, the price 
of corn, the changes in the weather, a 
death." 

And here a word as to this Chroni- 
cle, which is a national history gene- 
rally conceded to have been estab- 
lished by King Alfred, under the ad- 
vice of his counsellor Pflegmund. 
Archbishop of Canterbury, about 870 
A.D. It begins with a brief account 
of Britain from Caesar's invasion, and 
becomes very full in its narrative af- 
ter the year 853. 

The Chronicle shares with Bede's 
history the highest place among au- 
thorities for early English history. 
Seven original copies of it are still 
in existence, and, making due allow- 
ance for the ravages of time and the 
elements, and the destruction by war, 
demolition of the monasteries, theft, 
spoliation, and the wilful mischief of 
religious bigotry, the survival of these 
seven copies would go far to prove 
the former existence of several hun- 
dreds. The copies yet extant are all 
evidently based upon a single origi- 
nal text, and it is presumed that the 
Chronicle was continued at all the 



monasteries in England, each one 
forwarding its local annals to some 
one special monastery, where a brief 
summary was compiled of the whole, 
copies of which were supplied to all 
the religious houses, to be incorpo- 
rated with the general Chronicle, thus 
keeping up from year to year the 
general history of the nation. M. 
Taine gives some half-dozen dryas- 
dust extracts from the Chronicle of 
this nature : 

" 902. This year there was the great 
fight at the Holme, between the men of 
Kent and the Danes" 

He adds : 

" It is thus the poor monks speak, with 
monotonous dryness, who after Alfred's 
time gather up and take notes of great 
visible events ; sparsely scattered we 
find a few moral reflections, a passionate 
emotion, nothing more" (vol. i. p. 53). 

But at page 42, M. Taine has 
given us as belonging to a period pre- 
ceding Christianity in England, as a 
part of " the pagan current," an ex- 
tract from the song on Athelstan's 
victory, of which he speaks in terms 
of enthusiastic admiration. " If there 
has ever been anywhere a deep and 
serious poetic sentiment, it is here," 
etc. Now, this song, under the 
date of A.D. 937, is a part of the Sax- 
on Chronicle, written by some poor 
monk " after Alfred's time" 

" This year King Athelstane, the Lord of Earls, 
Ring-giver to the warriors, Edmund too 
His brother, won in fight with edge of swords 
Lifelong renown at Brunanburh. The sons 
Of Edward clave with the forged steel the 

wall 

Of linden shields. The spirit of their sires 
Made them defenders of the land, its wealth, 
Its homes, in many a fight with many a foe." * 

" It is thus the monks speak with 
monotonous dryness " ! And so 
speak they often in their Chronicle. 
The death of Byrhtnoth referred to 
by M. Taine in note 2, p. 36, is also 

* Version by Mr. Henry Morley. 



10 



Tames English Literature. 



from the Saxon Chronicle, and Mr. 
Morley specifies numerous other po- 
etical passages in it. Nevertheless. 
we find that M. Taine is not at all 
embarrassed by his somewhat uncer- 
tain and limited command of Anglo- 
Saxon literature. On the contrary, 
he qualifies as amusing (p. 30) a 
discussion on a point of Anglo-Saxon 
history by two such distinguished 
scholars as Dr. Lingard and Sharon 
Turner ! These historians " amuse " 
M. Taine ! 

" What is your first remark," asks Mr. 
Taine, " in turning over the great, stiff 
leaves of a folio, the yellow sheets of a 
manuscript? This, you say, was not 
created alone. It is but a mould, like a 
fossil shell, an imprint, like one of those 
shapes embossed in stone by an animal 
which lived and perished. Under the 
stone there was an animal, and behind 
the document there was a man. Why 
do you study the shell, except to repre- 
sent to yourself the animal? So do you 
study the document only in order to 
know the man" (Introduction, p. i). 

In this we almost agree with our 
author. It is well to study shells, 
and well to study men in the shells 
of leaves, sheets, manuscripts, or oth- 
er literary exuviae they may have 
left. Our objection to M. Taine is 
that he has piles and heaps of such 
shells, which he resolutely refuses to 
study, behind which he persistently 
refuses to look. The trouble with 
him lies here. Behind every shell 
is a monk, a priest, or a bishop, 
whose piety and whose virtues are 
not subjects of agreeable contempla- 
tion to a writer who announces his 
belief that religion is a mere human 
invention; that man makes a religion 
as he paints a portrait or constructs 
a steam-engine. Thus M. Taine 
states it : " Let us take first the three 
chief works of human intelligence 
religion, art, philosophy" (p. 15). 

Accordingly, of the great minds 
of Anglo-Saxon England during 



whole centuries we see nothing in 
M. Taine's pages. They are care- 
fully kept out of sight. One of the 
most majestic figures in all literary 
history, that of the Venerable Bede, 
is absent from his chapters, being re- 
ferred to only twice by name, once 
as " Bede, their old poet " ! The 
learned Aldhelm is made a mere 
gleeman on the highway. Roger Ba- 
con's name is not mentioned the 
name of the man who was a prodigy 
of learning, and who announced the 
principles of the inductive system 
nearly four hundred years before 
Lord Verulam appropriated the 
glory of its discovery.* Augustine, 
Paulinus, Wilfred, Cuthbert, and 
scores of others are not referred to. 
These men and their companions 
were at once monks, preachers, 
schoolmasters, book-makers, scribes, 
authors, physicians, architects, build- 
ers, surveyors, and farmers. Labo- 
rare est orare, Labor is prayer, was 
their device. Barren moors, repulsive 
marshes, fever-bearing fens, and 
wasted tracts they cultivated, and 
made glad fields of gloomy swamps. 
The sandy plains and barren 
heaths of Northumbria, and the marsh- 
es of East Anglia and Mercia, the 
monks transformed by intelligent la- 
bor and enduring toil from uninhab- 
ited deserts into rich fields yielding 
abundant harvests. Around these 
isolated monasteries soon sprang up, 
as around so many centres of life, 
schools, workshops, and settlements. 
The wilderness blossomed. And the 
monks wrote Christianity and civili- 
zation on the hearts of the people 
and on the soil of England. Not to 
mention the grand literary monu- 
ments dedicated to the record of their 
pious labors by Count Montalem- 

" Within Roger Bacon's mind," says Dr. 
Whewell, "was at the same time the Encyclo- 
pedia and the Novum Organum of the thir- 
teenth century." 



Taines English Literature. 



II 



bert in his Monks of the JJ-esf, all 
these victories for humanity are 
clearly discernible to scores of mo- 
dern Protestant writers, who have 
borne eloquent testimony to the no- 
ble devotion and glorious services 
of these holy men, whose real merits 
have been too long obscured by the 
historical conspiracy against truth. 
They have looked behind shells and 
manuscripts, and found something 
to reward their search. 

Thus Carlyle finds a man behind 
the old MS. of Jocelin of Brakelond : 

" A personable man of seven-and-forty, 
stout made, stands erect as a pillar ; 
with bushy eyebrows, the face of him 
beaming into you in a really strange 
way : the name of him Samson : a man 
worth looking at. ... He was wont 
to preach to the people in the English 
tongue, though according to the dia- 
lect of Norfolk, where he had been 
brought up. There preached he : a man 
worth going to hear. . . . Abbot Sam- 
son built many useful, many pious edi- 
fices ; human dwellings, churches, stee- 
ples, barns ; all fallen now and van- 
ished, but useful while they stood. He 
built and endowed ' the Hospital of Bab- 
well' ; built 'fit houses for the St. Ed- 
munsbury schools.' . . . And yet these 
grim old walls are not a dilettantism and 
dubiety; they are an earnest fact. It was 
a most real and serious purpose they 
were built for? Yes, another world it 
was, when these black ruins, white in 
>heir new mortar and fresh chiselling, 
first saw the sun as walls, long ago. 
Gauge not, -with thy dilettante compasses, 
ivith that placid dilettante simper, the Hea- 
ven's- Watchtower of ow Fathers, the fall- 
en Coifs-Houses, the Golgotha of true Souls 
departed" ! 

With the advantage of eleven hun- 
dred years of accumulated know- 
ledge in his favor, the cultivated M. 
Taine can well afford to sneer at "a 
kind of literature " with which he 
credits these monks. The " kind of 
literature " they most affected, and in 
which they unceasingly labored, was 
the kind known as " the Scriptures." 
Of a verity, strange occupation for 



" sons of Odin," for the most meagre 
summary of Anglo-Saxon, monastic 
labor in this field is a magnificent 
memorial of their imperishable glory. 
In default of types and power- 
presses, volumes of the Scriptures 
were multiplied by copying, and 
every talent and gift of man was en- 
listed to preserve, beautify, and bring 
them within the reach and comprehen- 
sion of the great body of the people. 
Its light was not hidden in the obscuri- 
ty of an unfamiliar tongue. In the 
fourth century, on the banks of the 
Danube, Ulphilas had translated 
the entire Scriptures into the then bar- 
barous Mceso-Gothic. In England, 
Caedmon had sung the Scripture 
story of God's power and mercy, 
and put into verse all of Genesis and 
Exodus, with other portions of the 
Old Testament, besides the life 
and passion of our Lord and the 
Acts of the Apostles. The Vener- 
able Bede had translated St. John's 
Gospel, and written numerous expo- 
sitions of the Old and New Testa- 
ments. Aldhelm had translated the 
Psalms. The entire four Gospels 
have come down to us in the Anglo- 
Saxon of King Alfred's day. ^Elfric 
translated the whole of the Penta- 
teuch and the Book of Job. The 
Normans in England had various 
translations besides their metrical ro- 
mance, and a verse translation of the 
Bible. In 1327, William of Shore- 
ham translated the Psalter into Eng- 
lish. A few years later, Richard 
Rolle translated the Psalms and 
part of the Book of Job into the dia- 
lect of Northumberland. The four 
Gospels issued in 1571 by Parker, 
with a dedication to Queen Eliza- 
beth by Foxe, the martyrologist, are 
copied from two Anglo-Saxon versions 
of the tenth and eleventh centuries. 
From the original copy, Tha Hal- 
gan Godspel on Englisc, they appear 
to have been divided and arranged 



12 



Taines English Literature. 



for reading aloud to the people. 
Many of these, it will be noticed, are 
versions adorned and heightened by 
literary labor and poetic inspiration. 
Plain prose Bible translations existed 
in large numbers, which, as being 
more exposed, were the first to perish 
from the effects of time, the elements, 
and the wilful destruction of bigotry. 
The metrical versions were generally 
better bound and better cared for in 
special libraries, and in the hands of 
the wealthy. And yet of these how 
few copies survive! And who shall 
tell us of scores of hundreds more of 
which we have never heard ? An 
immense body of Anglo-Saxon Scrip- 
tural literature has perished and left 
no trace. 

But M. Taine, it may be objected, 
was surely under no obligation to 
write the history of your Anglo-Saxon 
monks ! Certainly not. But he 
was under some sort of obligation 
not to represent the product of Chris- 
tianity, viz., the Anglo-Saxon man, 
as the product of pure paganism. 
That he has done so, we have shown 
from the remarkable manner in 
which he has spoken of the products 
of Anglo-Saxon literature, and we 
have not taken into account the full 
and rich material at command, writ- 
ten in the Latin language by the 
Anglo-Saxons. 

When we get further on in M. 
Taine's work, we find in his fifth 
chapter, book the second, a yet 
more flagrant violation of his promise 
to show us the Englishman as the 
psychological product of his literature, 
and to " develop the recondite 
mechanism whereby the Saxon bar- 
barian has been transformed into 
the Englishman of to-day." Does 
he present to us the nature of the 
English Reformation as evolved 
from the writings of Englishmen 
of the sixteenth and seventeenth cen- 
turies ? Not at all. It would not 



be pleasant to show that, as politics 
was the leverage of the Reformation 
in Germany, plunder was the lever- 
age in England, and he candidly ad- 
mits, in phrase of studied delicacy 
(p. 362), that " the Reformation en- 
tered England by a side door." 

And so he travels all the way to 
Germany, and gives us, instead of 
English opinion and English mind, 
the echoes of Martin Luther's " bel- 
lowing in bad Latin,"* and passages 
from his beery, boozy Table-Talk, 
bolstered up with extracts from a 
modern history of England by the 
late Mr. Froude. No study of shells 
and animals and manuscripts here. 
No elaborate development of recon- 
dite mechanism ! 

But we have scarcely space left for 
a few remarks we desire to make 
concerning 

THE SHAKESPEARE OF M. TAINE. 

And, at the outset, we do not 
agree with those critics who ascribe 
M. Taine's utterly fantastic and dis- 
torted appreciation of Shakespeare 
to the general incapacity of the 
Gallic mind to grasp the great dra- 
matist. We find something more 
than this. We discover a labored 
effort at depreciation, negatively, 
positively, and by comparison. Of 
Shakespeare the man, the careful 
student must admit that we know 
very little almost nothing, in- 
deed. Hence the sharpened avidity 
of his biographers to seize upon 
every floating piece of gossip, every 
stray tradition concerning him, 
whereof to make history. With aid 
of such loose and unreliable material, 
M. Taine makes of Shakespeare a 
man of licentious morals and loose 
habits. 

Our author's aesthetic starting-point 
renders simply impossible for him any 

* Expression of the historian 1 lallam. 



Taine" s English Literature. 



fair appreciation of the great English 
poet. Corneille and Racine are his 
models in tragedy Moliere in com- 
edy. To them and to their produc- 
tions he subordinates Shakespeare at 
every step. Listen ! 

" If [a poet] is a logician, a moralist, an 
orator, as, for instance, one of the French 
great tragic poets (Racine), he will only 
represent noble manners ; he will avoid 
low characters ; he will have a horror of 
valets and the plebs ; he will observe 
the greatest decorum in respect of the 
strongest outbreaks of passion ; he will 
reject as scandalous every low or inde- 
cent word ; he will give us reason, lofti- 
ness, good taste throughout ; he will 
suppress the familiarity, childishness," 
etc. ..." Shakespeare does just the con- 
trary, because his genius is the exact oppo- 
site" (vol. i. p. 311). 

At page 326, we are told : "If, in 
fact, Shakespeare comes across a he- 
roic character worthy of Corneille, a 
Roman, such as the mother of Cori- 
olanus, he will explain by passion * 
what Corneille would have explain- 
ed by heroism." " Jteason" M. 
Taine further informs us, " tells ns 
that our manners should be measured ; 
this is why the manners which Shake- 
speare paints are not so." Again, 
" Shakespeare paints us as we are ; 
his heroes bow, ask people for news, 
speak of rain and fine weather," 
etc. (p. 312). As M. Taine finds 
that Shakespeare's heroes bow, we 
should like to know his opinion of 
the exordium of the grand rhetorical 
effort which Corneille puts in the 
mouth of the master of the world, 
Caesar Augustus : 

" Prends un siege, Cinna" t 

* In his introductory chapter (vol. i. p. 36), M. 
Taine describes the Berserkirs as fighting pagan 
maniacs. He coolly makes up his mind that 
Shakespeare is a lineal descendant of a Berserkir ! 
' With what sadness, madness, waste, such a 
disposition breaks its bonds, ive shall see in 
Shakespeare and Byron "/ And yet stupid Eng- 
lish biographers and historians are puzzling 
their brains and burning midnight oil over the 
question of Shakespeare's grandfather! 

t "Take a seat, Cinna." 



It cannot in reason be expected 
that the man who admires the stiff 
and frigid artificiality of French trag- 
edy should reach any clear percep- 
tion of Shakespeare. Nor can we ex- 
expect the appreciator of Shakespeare 
to find any superiority in Corneille and 
Racine. A distinguished German scho- 
lar (Grimm) admirably expresses the 
general German and English esti- 
mate of these French poets in a 
letter he addressed to Michelet : 
" Must I tell you the opinion com- 
monly expressed among us here in 
Germany ? With the greatest possi- 
ble amount of good- will, I have again 
and again opened Racine, Corneille, 
and Boileau, and I fully appreciate 
their superior talents ; but I cannot 
read them for any length of time 
[ma is je ne puis en soutenirla lecture}, 
so strong upon me is the impression 
that a portion of the most profound 
sentiments awakened by poetry are 
a sealed book for these authors." 

A French writer so able and so 
thoroughly skilled as M. Taine, is at 
home in persiflage, and throughout 
his work he freely indulges in it at 
the expense of " those excellent Eng- 
lish." From the moment the Nor- 
man sets his foot in England, he is 
the Englishman's superior. Witk 
the Norman came in education and 
intelligence. These poor Anglo-Sax- 
ons appear to have been their infe- 
riors. Wherever opportunity occurs, 
English models suffer in comparison 
with French throughout the work, 
which closes with an extravagant 
rhapsody on Alfred de Musset, and 
this line : " I prefer Alfred de Musset 
to Tennyson." 

Many scholars of high acquire- 
ments, admirers of Shakespeare, having 
exhausted with praise the catalogue 
of Shakespeare's serious and solid 
qualities, find that his pre-eminent su- 
periority lies in wit and humor the 
wit bright and sparkling, the humor 



Taines English Literature. 



kindly and genial, more akin to wis- 
dom than to wit, and, indeed, in it- 
self a particular form of wisdom, so 
that it might almost be said that his 
focls give us more wisdom than the 
philosophers of ordinary dramatists. 
M. Taine is of a diametrically op- 
posite opinion. Here it is : " The 
mechanical imagination produces 
Shakespeare's fool-characters : a quick, 
venturesome, dazzling, unquiet ima- 
gination produces his men of wit." 

Would you know what is true wit ? 
You may learn from page 320, vol. i. : 

" Of wit, there are many kinds. One, 
altogether French, which is but reason, a 
foe to paradox, scorner of folly, a sort of 
incisive common sense, having no occu- 
pation but to render truth amusing and 
evident, the most effective weapon with 
an intelligent and vain people : such was 
the wit of Voltaire and the drawing- 
rooms." 

The conclusion is thus forced upon 
us that this is by no means the wit 
of Shakespeare. M. Taine falls into 
a mistake common to many persons 
who understand Shakespeare but im- 
perfectly. It is that of attributing to 
him a certain style : " Let us, then, 
look for the man, and in his style. 
The style explains the work." Or- 
dinary writers have a style easily re- 
cognizable after slight study, but 
Shakespeare has fifty styles, certainly 
at least one for every character of 
marked individualism. This is not 
M. Taine's view, for he says : " Shake- 
speare's style is a compound of furious 
expressions. No man has submitted 
words to such a contortion. Min- 
gled contrasts, raving exaggerations, 
apostrophes, exclamations, the whole 
fury of the ode, inversion of ideas, 
accumulation of images, the horrible 
and the divine jumbled into the same 
line ; it seems, to my fancy, as though 
he never writes a word without shout- 
ing it " (p. 308). 

If there is one peculiarity or merit 



of Shakespeare which, more than an- 
other, has received the general as- 
sent of critics and scholars, it is his 
eminently objective power. It is 
looked upon as a striking proof of 
the great dramatist's deep, clear in- 
sight into the depths of the human 
heart, that he never thrusts his indi- 
viduality into his conception of cha- 
racters. He never mistakes the ope- 
rations of his own mind for those of 
others, and never confounds his per- 
sonality with that of any of his dra- 
matic personages. Every page of 
Milton's writings, it is said, exhibits 
a full-length portrait of the author. 
Byron's heroes, Lara, Conrad, Man- 
fred, and the rest, might interchange 
reflections and speeches, and not se- 
riously interfere with each other's 
identity, and the sentimental rubbish 
and trashy sophistry poured out 
from the mouths of any of Bulwer's 
men and women might answer for 
all of them. But nothing that Ro- 
meo says could by possibility enter 
the mind of Hamlet, and King Lear 
has not a line which would be fitting 
in the mouth of Othello. 

But M. Taine is not of this way 
of thinking. His theory is diame- 
trically opposed to this, and he finds 
Shakespeare eminently subjective. 
He is always Shakespeare. " These 
characters are all of the same family. 
Good or bad, gross or delicate, refined 
or awkward. Shakespeare gives them 
all the same kind of spirit which is 
his own " (p. 317). Hamlet is Shake- 
speare, the melancholy Jaques * is 
Shakespeare, Othello is Shakespeare, 
and Falstaff is Shakespeare ! 

No, we do not exaggerate. Here 
are M. Taine's words : " Hamlet, it 
will be said, is half-mad ; this ex- 
plains his vehemence of expression. 



* " A transparent mask, behind which we per- 
ceive the (ace of the poet " (p. 346). Then follows 
a comparison between Moliere and Shakespeare, 
altogether to the disadvantage of the lauer. 



Taine s English Literature. 



The truth is that Hamlet here is 
Shakespeare" (p. 308). " Hamlet is 
Shakespeare, and, at the close of this 
gallery of portraits, which have all 
some features of his own, Shakespeare 
has painted himself in the most strik- 
ing of all " (p. 340). 

Things equal to the same are equal 
to each other. Lara being George 
Gordon Noel Byron, and Conrad 
also being the same George, we see 
at once why there exists a striking 
resemblance between them ; but when 
we are told that Hamlet and Falstaff, 
morally as far apart as the poles, are 
yet painted from the same model, 
we find that too much is asked of 
our credulity. Of Falstaff M. Taine 
says : " This big, pot-bellied fellow, a 
coward, a jester, a brawler, a drunk- 
ard, a lewd rascal, a pot-house poet, 
is one of Shakespeare's favorites. The 
reason is that his manners are those 
of pure nature, and Shakespeare's 
mind is congenial with his own " (p. 
323). Wherein this " drunkard and 
lewd rascal " resembles Prince Ham- 
let, and wherein Shakespeare resem- 
bles either or both of them, is beyond 
the range of any Anglo-Saxon or 
Teutonic mind to comprehend. Per- 
haps M. Taine may be able to ex- 
plain it. His book totally fails to 
do so. 

No one can read this long chapter 
of fifty-five octavo pages on Shake- 
speare without being struck by the 
skill with which the author avoids 
mention of or reference to the dra- 
matist's most admirable passages, and 
also by his elaborate and painstaking 
exposition of the defects of Shake- 
speare's inferior characters. Of the 
beauties of Romeo and Jujiet the 
Queen Mab description alone except- 
ed we hear nothing, but are regaled 
with two pages concerning " the most 
complete of all these characters 
the nurse," and a long and severe 
commentary on her " never-ending 



gossip's babble." * The same remark 
may be made of Hamlet, a play of 
which M. Taine evidently has no 
comprehension, if Coleridge, Hazlitt, 
Lamb, Ulrici, Tieck, Goethe, and 
Schlegel at all understand it. Con- 
cerning Othello, many paragraphs 
are frittered away in small criticism 
on the characters of lago and Cas- 
sio. Of the grand features of Othel- 
lo the reader obtains no glimpse, 
while a scandalous industry is exer- 
cised in bringing out from under the 
cover of obscure texts shocking pru- 
riencies that are not perceived by 
the average reader of Shakespeare. 

We may be told that tastes differ, 
that what through tradition or habit, 
perhaps, to us appear beauties, do 
not so strike a foreigner. 

Let us test this by the criticism of 
another foreigner not a German, but 
a Frenchman and we will find him 
selecting, as prominent beauties on the 
first hearing of the play, the very 
passages which also strike us on long 
and familiar acquaintance. 

In the winter of 1829-30, a French 
version of Othello was represented 
in a Parisian theatre, and that thea- 
tre shades of Corneille and Racine 
the Theatre Franais ! Mademoi- 
selle Mars was the Desdemona. The 
piece was a decided success, and in 
\}t\Q. Revue Franc,aise for January, 1830, 
there appeared an admirably written 
article which was at once a compte- 
rendu of the representation and a 
criticism of the tragedy. It was 
from the pen of the Due de Broglie, 
and commanded universal attention. 
His description of the desperate 



* We know of but one English author (of a 
Diary) with whose appreciation of this tragedy 
M. Taine would be likely to be pleased. It is 
that of the distinguished Mr. Samuel Pepys, who, 
having seen Romeo and Juliet acted in March, 
1672, pronounces the play " to be the worst he 
had ever heard." "A Midsummer Night's 
Dream'' is also, in the opinion of Pepys afore- 
said, " the most insipid, ridiculous play that ever 
I saw in my life." 



Taine s English Literature. 



struggles of the two cliques the 
Classical and the Romantic who 
were, of course, present in force, his 
account of the effect of the piece 
upon the general audience, his ana- 
lysis of the motives of French admi- 
ration or blame of Shakespeare, are 
all most interesting. But what we 
specially have to do with is his 
criticism on the play and the drama- 
tist. Here it is : 

" The effect of Othello's narration was 
irresistible. This portion of the play is 
translated into all languages its beauty 
is perfectly entrancing, its originality is 
unequalled. Even La Harpe could not 
refuse it the tribute of his admiration. 
But perhaps the scene which precedes 
and that which follows are even still 
more adapted to exhibit Shakespeare in 
all his greatness. How wonderful a 
painter of human nature was this man ! 
How true is it that he has received from 
on high something of that creative power 
which, by breathing on a little dust, can 
transform it into a creature of life and 
immortality !" 

Even as the Christian Anglo-Sax- 
on was doomed to suffer at M. 
Taine's hands the outrage of attri- 
buted paganism, so also was Shake- 
speare ignominiously foreordained 
(from the thirty-sixth page of his first 
volume) to be a maniac Berserkir. 
And all because the author has his 
little theory to carry out. Do you 
find it wonderful that under such 
treatment the facts should suffer ? 
Alas ! other and more important 
things must also suffer if such a work 
as this is to receive the sanction of 
recognized critical authority, and be 
placed in the hands of the rising ge- 
neration. 

To do M. Taine justice, he does 
not for a moment lose sight of his 
Berserkir, and keeps him, in the soul 
of Shakespeare, well up to his work. 
And so, Shakespeare's Coriolanus is 
'* an athlete of war, with a voice like 
a trumpet ; whose eyes by contradic- 



tion are filled with a rush of blood 
and anger, proud and terrible in 
mood, a lion's soul in the body of a 
steer " (vol. i. p. 329). 

For M. Taine, the grand trial act in 
the Merchant of Venice is " the hor- 
rible scene in which Shylock bran- 
dished his butcher's knife before An- 
tonio's bare breast," and King Lear 
is " the supreme effort of pure imag- 
ination, a disease of reason which 
reason could never have conceived." 
But. reason has so decidedly done 
the contrary that an experienced phy- 
sician of long practice in an insane 
asylum (in the United States) has 
written an essay* to show that 
Shakespeare's physiological and psy- 
chological knowledge and acquire- 
ments, as displayed in his tragedies, 
were in advance of those of his age 
by fully two centuries, and, he adds, 
that the wonderful skill and sagacity 
manifested by the great dramatist in 
seizing upon the premonitory signs 
of insanity (as in King Lear), which 
are usually overlooked by all, even 
the patient's most intimate friends 
and the members of his family, and 
weaving them into the character of 
his hero as a necessary element, with- 
out which it would be incomplete, 
like those of inferior artists, is a mat- 
ter of wonder to all modern psycho- 
logists. 

To the Voltairian school of litera- 
ture in the last century, the plays of 
Shakespeare were " ces monstnieuses 
farces que Fon appelle des tragedies" 
and Hamlet, in particular, in Vol- 
taire's judgment, " seems the work of 
a drunken savage" When you have 
read M. Taine on Shakespeare, first 
let the coruscations of his verbal 
pyrotechnics subside, await the end 
of his epileptic contortions of style, 
then scratch off a thin varnish of 



* Published in a small volume. We regret 
we cannot recall the title of the work and the 
author's name. 



Fragments of Early English Poems on the Passion. 17 



polite concession, and you will find 
under it a Voltarian : although not, we 
hope, brutal and cynical as was the 
great original in his denunciation of 
those Frenchmen who were willing 
to claim some talent for Shakespeare. 
Voltaire called them faquins, impu- 
dents, imbeciles, monstres, etc. Such 
people were, he said, a source of 
calamity and horror, and France did 
not contain a sufficient number of 
pillories to punish such a crime. (" Let- 
ter of Voltaire to Count d'Argental," 
July 19, 1776.) 

One of the most interesting books 
to be found in the English language 



is Carlyle's French Revolution. But 
it is interesting only on condition 
that the reader is already fami- 
liar with the history of that period. 
And we pay M. Taine's work a high 
compliment in saying that, in like 
manner, his History of English Lite- 
rature will be found an interesting 
work to those whose opinions on art 
and literature are formed, whose re- 
ligious principles are fixed, and whose 
judgments are sufficiently mature to 
be in no danger of being affected by 
the artificial, erroneous, and false 
views of man and his responsibilities, 
with which the book abounds. 



FRAGMENTS OF EARLY ENGLISH POEMS ON THE 

PASSION. 



WARTON, in his History of English 
Poetry, has published a few fragments 
of poems on the Passion, which he 
ascribes to the reigns of Henry III. 
and Edward I. There is a harmony 
in the versification of the following 
that one scarcely looks for at so early 
a date : 

" Jhesu for thi muckle might 

Thou gif us of thi grace, 
That we may day and night 

Thinken of thi face : 
In myn herte it doth me gode 

Whan y thinke on Jhesu blod, 
That ran down bi ys side ; 

Fro ys herte dou to ys fot, 
For us he spradde ys hertis blod, 

His wondes wer so wyde." 

" Ever and aye he haveth us in thought, 
He will not lose that he so dearly 
bought." 

VOL. XV. 2 



One fragment more, which is taken 
from a sort of dialogue between our 
Lord on the Cross and the devout 
soul: 

" Behold mi side, 
Mi woundes spred so wide, 
Restless I ride, 

Lok on me, and put fro ye pride : 
Dear man, mi love, 
For mi love sinne no more." 



'Jhesu Christe, mi lemman swete, 

That for me deyedis on rood tree 
With al myn herte I the biseke 

For thi woundes two and thre : 
That so fast in mi herte 

Thi love rooted might be, 
As was the spere in thi side 

When thou suffredst deth for me." 

Christian Schools and Scholars. 



i8 



The House of Yorke. 



THE HOUSE OF YORKE. 

CHAPTER XXV. 
BOADICEA'S WATCH. 



IT was rather late when Mr. Yorke 
came down Sunday morning. The 
storm was yet violent, and he did not 
mean to go out ; and besides, he had 
been tormented all night with dis- 
agreeable dreams. When he appear- 
ed in the breakfast-room, Patrick had 
been to the village, and had seen 
Father Rasle. The priest was re- 
solutely keeping his fast, and even 
hearing confessions. 

The occurrence of the night be- 
fore had stirred up the sluggish faith 
and piety of those few Catholics who 
had not meant to attend to their 
religious duties, and they crowded 
about their pastor at the last mo- 
ment. 

It would, perhaps, be just as well 
not to describe the manner in which 
Mr. Yorke received the news they 
had to tell him, for his anger was 
scarcely greater toward the mob 
than toward his own family. He 
would eat no breakfast, would scarce- 
ly stop to change his slippers for 
boots, but started off to see Father 
Rasle. 

" I shall bring the priest home 
with me ; or, if he will not come, 
shall stay with him, and defend him 
with my life from any further out- 
rage," he said as he went out the 
door, addressing no one in particular. 

" We expect him to return with 
you, Charles," his wife said; but he 
paid no attention to her. 

" Coddled like a great booby ! " 
he muttered to himself as he strode 
down the avenue. " Amy should 
have more respect for me, or, at least, 



more regard for my reputation. It 
is a wonder she does not dress me in 
petticoats, and set me spinning." 

" Never mind, mamma ! " Clara 
said, kissing her mother, and leading 
her into the house. " This storm will 
cool papa off nicely. He will come 
home penitent, you may be sure. I 
only hope that you will hold off a 
little, and not forgive him too readily. 1 ' 

Mrs. Yorke wiped away the tears 
which had started at her husband's 
unusual severity. 

" Never think to comfort your 
mother, my dear, by speaking disre- 
spectfully of your father," she said, 
but, while chiding, returned her 
daughter's caress. " And do not 
think that I could remember one 
moment any hasty word or act of 
his when I knew that he was sorry 
for it. I do not at all wonder that 
your father is annoyed at not having 
been called : I quite expected it." 

" Mother, I give you up," Clara 
exclaimed. " Where Mr. Charles 
Yorke is concerned, you have not a 
sign of may I say spunk ? That k 
what I mean." 

" No, you may not," replied Mrs. 
Yorke with decision. And so the 
conversation dropped. 

Patrick drove Edith to the church. 
When they entered, they found the 
people all gathered; and in a few 
minutes Mass began. The scene 
was touching. The congregation, 
prostrate before the altar, wept silent- 
ly ; the choir, attempting to sing, fal- 
tered, and stopped in the first hymn ; 
and the priest, in turning toward his 



The House of Yorke. 



people, could not trust himself to 
look at them, but closed his eyes 
or glanced over their heads. Tears 
rolled down the faces of the commu- 
nicants when they knelt at the altar ; 
and at the benediction many wept 
aloud. 

It was a Low Mass, and when it 
was over the priest addressed them. 
He talked only a little while, but in 
those few words they found both 
comfort and courage. They were 
not to mourn, but rather to rejoice 
that he had been found worthy to 
suffer ignominy for Christ's sake. 
He translated and 'gave them for 
their motto these words of St. Ber- 
nard : " Pudeat sub spinato capite 
membnim fieri delicatum." They 
should not seek persecution, indeed, 
but when God sent it upon them 
they should accept it joyfully. For 
pain was the only real treasure of 
earth, and real happiness was un- 
known, save in anticipation, outside 
heaven. They belonged to the 
church militant; and as their great 
Captain had marched in the van, 
with shoulders bleeding from the 
lash, and forehead bleeding from the 
thorn, they should blush to walk 
delicately and at ease in his ensan- 
guined footsteps. He implored them 
to pray constantly, and keep them- 
selves from sin, and, since they might 
for some time be deprived of the 
sacraments, to take more than ordi- 
nary pains to preserve the sacramen- 
tal grace which they had just receiv- 
ed. There were a few words of 
farewell, uttered with difficulty, then 
he ceased speaking. 

When Father Rasle went out with 
Mr. Yorke, the weeping congrega- 
tion gathered about him, falling on 
their knees, some of them catching 
at his robe as he passed by. He 
was obliged to tear himself away. 

The storm was now over, and the 
sun burst forth brilliantly as they 



stepped into the air. A carriage 
was in waiting, and, when he had 
seated himself in it, with Mr. Yorke 
and Edith, Father Rasle leaned out, 
looked once more with suffused 
eyes at his mourning people, and 
raised his hand in benediction. Then 
the door closed upon him, and they 
were alone. 

A second carriage followed this 
containing four men, well armed, and 
several other men, armed also, took 
the shorter road, through East Street 
and the woods, to Mr. Yorke's house. 
Whatever they might suffer, these 
men did not mean that any further 
violence should be offered to their 
priest or to the man who protected 
him. 

As the carriage drove up the ave- 
nue, Mrs. Yorke and her two daugh- 
ters came down the steps to receive 
their guest. Both Mrs. Yorke and 
Clara, who were speechless with emo- 
tion, gave a silent welcome ; but 
Melicent, much to her own satisfac- 
tion, was able to pronounce an elo- 
quent little oration. In the entry 
Betsey stood stiffly, the two young 
Pattens in perspective. Thinking, 
probably, that one of her abrupt 
courtesies was not enough for the oc- 
casion, this good creature made a 
succession of them as long as the 
priest was visible, young Sally bob- 
bing in unison. Paul, duly instruct- 
ed by his mother, waited till the pro- 
per moment, then bowed from the 
waist, till he made a pretty accurate 
right-angle of himself. 

All that day, besides the regular 
guard, the Irish were coming and go- 
ing about the house, and when to- 
ward night they retired to their 
homes, the guard was doubled. 

Sally Patten came over in the 
evening and offered" her services. 
Joe could take care of the young 
ones, and her desire was to stay all 
night and keep watch at the Yorkes'. 



2O 



The House of Yorke. 



It was in vain for them to say that 
she was not needed. With every 
sort of compliment, and every demon- 
stration of respect, she persisted in 
staying. Betsey, she said, had slept 
none the night before, and would be 
needed about the house the next day, 
and they might all rest better if there 
were a vigilant watcher in-doors as 
well as out. Men were slow and 
stupid sometimes, but there was no 
danger of her letting slumber steal 
over her eyelids. 

" Well, it is true, my head does feel 
like a soggy batter-pudding," Betsey 
owned, beginning to waver. " I had 
a jumping toothache all Friday 
night, and last night I never slept 
one wink." 

" Besides," continued Boadicea, 
growing heroic, " when the two eldest 
of my offspring are in the jaws of de- 
struction, my place is beside them." 

It was impossible to resist such an 
argument, and she was permitted to 
have her way. 

" I was going to leave the door 
unlocked, so that the men could 
come in and get their luncheon," 
Betsey said. " But as you are here, 
perhaps you will carry it out to 
them." 

A dignified bow was the only re- 
ply. Mrs. Patten considered so 
trivial a subject as luncheon irrele- 
vant to these thrilling circumstances. 
The question in her mind at this mo- 
ment was what weapon she should 
use in the event of an attack. 
Her taste was for the mediaeval, and 
she would have welcomed with en- 
thusiasm the sight of a battle-axe or 
a halberd ; but since these were not 
to be had, she inclined toward a 
long iron shovel that stood in the 
chimney-corner, reaching nearly to 
the mantelpiece. This would give 
a telling blow, and would, moreover, 
allow of a fine swing of the arms in 
its wielding. 



" Now, here are two coffee-pots 
full," Betsey said. " This is done, I 
think, and will do to begin with. 
You might put water to the other so 
as to have it ready about twelve 
o'clock. I believe in having some- 
thing to eat and drink, no matter 
what happens. About all that keeps 
me from joining the Catholic Church 
is their fasting. I couldn't praise 
God on an empty stomach ; I should 
be all the time thinking how hungry 
I was. If it warn't for that, I do be- 
lieve, the folks here act so like the 
old boy, I'd turn Catholic just for 
spite, if nothing else. Give 'em as 
many of them pumpkin-pies as they 
want to eat. Give 'em all there is in 
the closet, if they want it." 

Sally listened, superior, and merely 
bowed in reply. 

Betsey set out a private lunch, and 
poured a cup of coffee. " Now, you 
take this, Mrs. Patten," she, said, 
"and make yourself as comfortable 
as you can. It will help you to keep 
awake." 

Boadicea hesitated, then, with a 
smile of lofty disdain, swallowed the 
coffee. Why should she attempt the 
vain task of making that unheroic 
soul comprehend the emotions which 
agitated her own spirit? Pumpkin 
pies and coffee help to keep her 
awake ! Well, she swallowed them, 
but merely to escape the multiplying 
of trivial and inconsequent words. 

At length the happy moment 
came when all in the house had 
gone to bed, and she was left alone. 

And now indeed her soul swelled 
within her, and visions of possible 
heroic adventure rose before her 
mind's eye. She put out the lamp, 
and pushed the 'logs of the fire so 
closely together that only a dull-red 
glow escaped. She set the doors all 
open, and walked stealthily from 
room to room, gazing from window 
after window, stopping now and then 



The House of Yorke. 



21 



to listen, with her head aside and her 
arms extended. There was a smol- 
dering knot of wood in both the par- 
lor and sitting-room fireplaces, and 
the faint light from them and from 
the kitchen threw gigantic fantastic 
shadows of her on the walls and ceil- 
ing as she moved about. 

Clara, feeling restless, came softly 
down once, and, seeing this strange 
figure, stole quickly back to bed 
again, and lay there trembling with 
fear all night. 

But Boadicea kept her watch in 
glorious unconsciousness of realities. 
The place had undergone a change 
to her mind during those lonely 
hours. It was no longer a common, 
wooden country house, but a castle, 
with walls of stone, and battlements, 
barbacan, and drawbridge. Mrs. 
Yorke was a fair ladie sleeping in 
her bower (not even in thought 
would Sally have spelt lady with a y), 
Mr. Yorke was a battle-worn warrior, 
Father Rasle the family chaplain and 
my lady's confessor. Without, the 
retainers watched, and an insidious 
foe lurked in the darkness, ready for 
bold attack or treacherous entry 
through a chink in the wall. Even 
now some vile caitiff might have ob- 
tained entrance, and be lurking be- 
hind yonder arras . 

At that thought, Sally seized the 
kitchen shovel, and crept stealthily 
toward the parlor window, a gro- 
tesque shadow accompanying her, 
leaping across the ceiling in one 
breathless bound. She paused, and 
stared at the heavy drapery that 
seemed to outline a human form, and 
the shadow paused. She crept a 
step or two nearer, and the shadow 
dropped down and confronted her. 
She grasped the weapon firmly in her 
right hand, and, stretching the left, 
with one vigorous twitch pulled 
down Mrs. Yorke's damask curtain. 

For a moment Sally felt rather 



foolish. She put the curtain up as 
best she could, and then went to 
give the garrison their midnight 
lunch. 

"And what is it ails the old 
lady ?" asked one of the men of a 
companion. " Is it dumb that she 
is ?" For this great, gaunt creature 
had given them their refreshments in 
utter silence and with many a tragi- 
cal gesture. 

She bent suddenly toward the 
speaker, raised her hand in warning, 
and whispered sharply, " Be vigi- 
lant !" 

" What does she mean at all ?" ex- 
claimed the man in alarm, as Sally 
stalked away, very much bent for- 
ward, and looking to right and left at 
every step, as one sees people do on 
the stage sometimes. His impres- 
sion was that something awful had 
taken place in the house. 

In short, it was a glorious night 
for this poor addled soul a night 
which would grow more and more in 
her imagination, till, after the pas- 
sage of years, her most sincere de- 
scription of it would never be recog- 
nized by one of the real actors. 

Daylight came at length without 
there having been the slightest dis- 
turbance. Betsey came down to re- 
lieve guard, and Sally, weary but 
enthusiastic still, went home to elec- 
trify Joe with the recital of her a.d- 
ventures. 

Clara, coming down before the rest 
of the family, was astonished to find 
the kitchen shovel reclining on one 
of the parlor chairs, and a crimson 
curtain put up with the yellow lining 
inside the room. 

Father Rasle appeared in a few 
minutes, and took an affectionate 
leave of the men who had spent the 
night in guarding his rest; and, as 
soon as breakfast was over, he and 
Mr. Yorke started for Bragon. 

Edith saw him go without any 



22 



The House of Yorke. 



poignant regret for her own part, for 
she was to remain in Seaton but a 
few weeks longer. But her heart 
ached for the poor people who were 
so soon to be left utterly friendless. 
The burden of the pain had fallen, 
where it always falls, on the poor. 
A group of them stood at the gate 
when the travellers went through, 
and others met them in North Street, 
and all gazed after the carriage, with 
breaking hearts, as long as it was in 
sight. When might they hope to see 
a priest again ? When again would 
the Mass-bell summon them to bow 
before the uplifted Host, and the 
communion cloth be spread for their 
heavenly banquet ? They cared lit- 
tle for the mocking smile and word, 
but covered their faces and wept 
when their pastor disappeared from 
their gaze. 

Patrick went down to the post- 
office, and came back bringing a let- 
ter for Edith, which had lain in the 
office since Sunday morning. The 
letter was from Mrs. R.owan-Williams, 
and contained but a line : " My son 
is at home, dangerously sick with a 
fever." 

" The sentiment which attends the 
sudden revelation that all is lost" 
says De Quincey, " silently is gath- 
ered up into the heart; it is too deep 
for gestures or for words, and no part 
of it passes to the outside." 

Nor is the silence more profound 
when a slight possibility, over which 
we have no control, still interposes 
between the heart and utter loss. 

Edith put the letter into her aunt's 
hand. " I must go immediately to 
Bragon, to take the cars," she said 
quietly. " Will you tell Patrick to 
get a carriage ? I will be ready in a 
little while." 

She went up-stairs to put on a 
tratelling-dress, and pack what she 
wished to take with her. The selec- 
tion was calmly and carefully made. 



There was no need of haste. In less 
than an hour everything was ready, 
and the carnage at the door. 

" I have sent a telegram to your 
uncle, and he will meet you, and go 
on to Boston with you to-nighi," her 
aunt said. 

Melicent offered her a cup of cof- 
fee, and she put it to her lips, and 
tried to drink it ; but all the muscles 
of her mouth and throat seemed to 
be fixed, and she could not swallow 
a drop. She gave back the cup, 
without uttering a word. 

" I have put some fruit and a 
small bottle of sherry into this lun- 
cheon-bag for you," Mrs. Yorke said 
hastily. " You must try to take a 
little on the way. You do not want 
to lose your strength, and these will 
be refreshing." 

No one mentioned Dick Rowan's 
name to Edith, or offered a word of 
comfort. They even refrained from 
expressing too much solicitude and 
affection, and only kissed her silently 
when she went out. " Do nothing 
but what is necessary," Mrs. Yorke 
had said to her daughters. " There 
is no greater torture, at such a time, 
than to be fretted about trifles. Think 
of her feelings, not of expressing 
your own." 

Neither Betsey nor her assistants 
were allowed to appear, and Patrick 
had orders to speak only when he 
was spoken to, and not on any ac- 
count to mention Mr. Rowan's name. 

" If he dies, it will kill Edith," 
Mrs. Yorke said, letting her tears 
flow when her niece was out of 
sight. 

Some such thought was in Edith's 
own mind during that long drive. 
If Dick Rowan should die, her peace 
and joy would die with him ; not 
that he was everything to her, but 
because she could never accept a 
happiness which was only to be 
reached over his grave. Edith loved 



The House of Yorke. 



Carl Yorke with all her heart, he 
attracted her irresistibly, and seemed 
rather a part of herself than a sepa- 
rate being ; yet at that moment the 
thought of his death would have 
been to her more tolerable than the 
thought of Dick Rowan's. 

Mrs. Yorke's telegram was at the 
priest's house awaiting her husband 
when he arrived, and he went at 
once to the hotel where his niece 
was to meet him. Soon they were 
on the way. 

" The Catholics here are in a state 
of the wildest excitement," he said. 
" The news arrived before we did, 
and the Irish want to go down and 
burn Seaton to the ground. Father 
Rasle will have difficulty in quieting 
them. The better class of Protest- 
ants, even, cry out against the out- 
rage. They have called an indigna- 
tion meeting for to-night, and the 
Protestant gentlemen are contributing 
to buy the priest a watch. His 
watch and pocket-book were stolen 
Saturday night, you know." 

Though Edith said but little in 
reply, it was not because she had 
more important matter in her mind. 
The number of seats in the car she 
counted over with weary persistence, 
the number of narrow boards in the 
side of the car she learned by heart. 
She knew just how the lamp swung, 
and could have described accurately 
afterward the face and costume of 
the boy who sold papers and lemon- 



ade and pop-corn. Not till the wea- 
ry night was over, and her uncle said, 
" Here we are in Boston !" did she 
awaken from that nightmare entan- 
glement of littlenesses. Then first she 
showed some agitation. 

" Drive directly to Mrs. Williams's," 
she said, " and, while I sit in the 
carriage, go to the door, and ask 
how he is. If they tell you that he 
is better, say it out loud, quickly, but 
if if the news is not good, don't 
say one word to me, only take me 
into the house." 

A telegram had been sent to Mrs. 
Williams, and Edith was expected. 
As Mr. Yorke went up the step, the 
door opened, and Dick's mother 
stood there. 

Edith leaned back in the carriage, 
and covered her face with her hands. 
She had not dared to look at the 
house, lest some sign of mourning 
should meet her glance. " O Mother 
of Perpetual Succor !" she exclaimed. 

" He is no worse, my dear," her 
uncle said at the carriage-door. " I 
think you need not fear. Come ! 
Mrs. Williams is waiting for you." 

Edith lifted her hands and eyes, 
and repeated her aspiration, " O 
Mother of Perpetual Succor !" but 
with what a difference ! not with 
anguish and imploring, but with pas- 
sionate gratitude. Dick would live, 
she saw that at once. If the blow 
had not fallen, then it was not to fall 
now. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 



DICK s VISION. 



When Dick Rowan came home the 
first time after his mother's marriage, 
both she and her husband had desir- 
ed him to select a chamber in their 
house which should always be his. 
He chose an unfurnished one nearly 
at the top of the house, and, after 



several playful skirmishes with his 
mother, who would fain have adorned 
it with velvet and lace, fitted it up 
to suit himself. It was large, sunny, 
and quiet ; and there was but little 
in it beside an Indian matting, an 
iron bed, a writing-table, wicker 



The House of Yorkc. 



chairs, and white muslin curtains, 
that did not even pretend to shut 
out the light. There was nothing 
on the walls but a book-case and a 
crucifix, nothing on the mantelpiece 
but a clock. The young man's tastes 
were simple, almost ascetical, and he 
protested that he could not draw free 
breath in a room smothered in thick 
upholstery. Sunshine, fresh air, pure 
water, and cleanliness those he 
must have. Other things might be 
dispensed with. 

In this chamber Dick lay now, his 
body a prey to fever, his mind wan- 
dering in wild and tumultuous scenes. 
He was at sea, In a storm, and the 
ship was going down; he was wreck- 
ed, and parched with thirst in a wil- 
derness of waters ; he was sailing into 
a strange port, and suddenly the shore 
swarmed with enemies, and he saw 
huge cannon-mouths just breaking 
into flame, and flights of poisoned 
arrows just twanging from their bows; 
he was at Seaton again, a poor, 
friendless boy, and his father was 
reeling home drunk, with a rabble 
shouting at his heels. And always, 
whatever scene his fancy might con- 
jure up, his ears were deafened by the 
strong rush of waves, adding confu- 
sion to terror and pain. 

One day, when he had been cry- 
ing out against this torment, a pair 
of cool, small hands were clasped 
tightly about his forehead, and a 
voice asked, low and clear, " Doesn't 
that make the waves seem less, 
Dick ?" 

He left off speaking, and lay lis- 
tening intently. 

" There are no waves nor storm," 
the voice said calmly. " You are 
not at sea. You are safe at home. 
But your head aches so that it makes 
you fancy things. What you hear 
is blood rushing through the arteries. 
I am going to put a bandage round 
your head. Thar will do you good." 



Dick turned his head as Edith 
took her hands away, and followed 
her with his eyes while she took a 
few steps to get what she wanted. 
She smiled at him as she stood mea- 
suring off the strip of linen, and mak- 
ing up little rolls of linen to press on 
the arteries of the temples; and 
though her face was thin and white, 
and her eyes filled, in spite of her, 
when she smiled, the image was a 
cheerful one in that darkened room. 
She wore a dress of green cloth, soft 
and lustrous, and had a rosebud in 
her hair. The effect was cool and 
sweet. As she moved quietly about, 
the patient gazed at her, and his 
gaze seemed to be wondering and 
confused, rather than insane. 

She drew the bandage tightly about 
his head, pressed hard on the throb- 
bing arteries, and sprinkled cold 
water on the linen and his hair. She 
had observed that he started when- 
ever ice was put to his head, and 
therefore kept it cool, and avoided 
giving a shock. 

" You are sick, and I am going to 
make you well," she said. " You are 
not to think, but to obey. I will do 
the thinking. Will you trust me ?" 

" Yes, Edith," he answered, after a 
pause, looking steadfastly at- her.' 
seeming in doubt whether it were a 
real form he saw, a real voice he heard. 

" This is your room, you see," she 
said, laying one hand on his, and 
pointing with the other. " That is 
your book-shelf, there is your table 
and your crucifix. You know it all ; 
but sickness and darkness are so con- 
fusing. Now, I'm going to give you 
one little glimpse of out-doors, only 
for a minute, though, because it 
would hurt your head to have too 
much light." 

She went to the window, and drew 
aside the thick green curtain, and a 
golden ray from the setting sun flew 
in like a bird, and alighted on the 



The House of Yorke. 



clock. Those sick eyes shrank a 
little, but brightened. She returned, 
and leaned over the pillow, so as to 
have the same view through the win- 
dow with him. " That green hill is 
Longwood," she said ; " and there is 

the flagstaff on the top of Mr. B 's 

house, looking like the mast of a 
ship. Now I shall drop the curtain, 
and you are to go to sleep." 

So, as his feverish fancies rose like 
mists, her calm denial or explanation 
swept them away ; or, if the delirium 
fit was too strong for that, she held 
his hand, to assure him of compan- 
ionship, and went with him wherever 
his tyrannical imagination dragged 
him, and found help there. When 
he sank in deeps of ocean, he heard 
a voice, as if from heaven, saying, 
" He who made the waves is stronger 
than they. Hold on to God, and he 
will not let you go." If foes threat- 
ened him, he heard the reassuring 
text : " The Lord is my light and my 
salvation ; whom shall I fear? The 
Lord is the protector of my life ; of 
whom shall I be afraid?" If he 
groped in desolation, and cried out 
that every one had deserted him, she 
repeated : " For my father and my 
mother have left me, but the Lord hath 
taken me up." " Expect the Lord, do 
manfully, and let thy heart take cour- 
age, and wait thou for the Lord." 

She followed him thus from terror to 
terror, imagining all the bitterness of 
them, trying to take that bitterness 
to herself, till they began to grow 
real to her, and she was glad to es- 
cape into the wholesome outer world, 
and see with her own eyes that the 
universe was not a sick-room. 

Hester had come up, and she call- 
ed and took Edith out for a drive 
every day ; and sometimes she went 
home to Hester's house, and played 
with the children a while. She found 
their childish gayety and carelessness 
very soothing. 



" Carl and I are fitting up the 
house for the family," Hester said 
one day. " They are all to come 
up the last of the month. I shall 
be so glad ! It is delightful to go 
through the dear old familiar rooms, 
and look from the windows, just as I 
used to. We new-furnish the parlors 
only. Mamma wishes to use all the 
old things she can." 

" I cannot stop to-day," Edith 
said; "but I would like to see the 
house soon. You know I saw only 
the outside of it when I was here 
before." 

" Carl is going to England before 
they come up," Hester said hesitat- 
ingly. " I don't know why he does 
not wait for them, but he has engag- 
ed passage for next week. I believe 
he means to be gone only a month 
or two." 

Edith leaned back in the carriage, 
and made no reply. When she 
spoke, after a while, it was to ask to 
be taken back to Mrs. Williams'. 

From Dick Rowan's wandering 
talk, she had learned the history of 
his last few weeks. She perceived 
that Father John and his household 
must have known perfectly well what 
their visitor's trouble was, and that 
they had watched over and sympa- 
thized with him most tenderly. Dick's 
pride was not of a kind that would 
lead him to dissemble his feelings or 
conceal them from those of whose 
friendship and sympathy he was as- 
sured. Why should he conceal what 
he was not ashamed of? he would 
have asked. She learned that he 
had spent hours before the altar, 
that he had fasted and prayed, that 
he had gone out in the storm at 
night, and walked the yard of the 
priest's house, going in only when 
Father John had peremptorily com- 
manded him to. These reckless ex- 
posures, combined with mental dis- 
tress, had caused his illness. Dick 



26 



The House of Yorke. 



had never before been ill a day, and 
could not believe that a physical in- 
convenience and discomfort, which 
he despised, would at last overpower 
him. 

One Sunday afternoon, a week 
after Edith's arrival, the patient 
opened his eyes, and looked about 
with a languid but conscious gaze, 
all the fever and delirium gone, and, 
also, all the human dross burned out 
of him. No person was in sight, and 
his heavy lids were dropping again, 
when his glance was arrested by a 
pictured face so perfect, that, to his 
misty sense, it seemed alive. It was 
an exquisite engraving of Rubens' 
portrait of St. Ignatius, not the weak 
and sentimental copy we most fre- 
quently see, but one full of expres- 
sion. Large, slow tears, unnoted by 
him, rolled down his face. The lips, 
slightly parted, and tremulous with a 
divine sorrow, were more eloquent 
than any words could be. His fin- 
ger pointed to the legend, " Ad ma- 
jorem Dei gloriam" and one could see 
plainly that in his fervent soul there 
was room for no other thought. 
With such a face might St. John have 
looked, bearing for ever in his heart 
the image of the Crucified. 

The first glance of Dick Rowan's 
eyes was startled, as though he saw 
a vision, then his gaze became so 
intense that, from very weakness, his 
lids dropped, and he slept again. In 
that slumber, long, deep, and strength- 
ening, the slackened thread of vitali- 
ty in him began to knit itself together 
again. 

" All we have to do now is to pre- 
vent his getting up too soon," the doc- 
tor said. " It would be like him to 
insist on going out to-morrow." 

The danger over, a breath of 
spring seemed to blow through the 
house. The servants told each oth- 
er, with smiling faces, that Mr. Row- 
an was better. Mrs. Williams waked 



up to the fact that her personal ap- 
pearance had been notably neglected 
of late, and, after kissing Edith with 
joyful effusion, went to put on her 
hair and a clean collar. Miss Wil- 
liams opened her piano, put her foot 
on the soft pedal, and played a com- 
position which made her father look 
at her wonderingly over his specta- 
cles. Had it not been Sunday, he 
would have thought that Ellen was 
playing a polka. In fact, it was a 
polka, and sounded so very much 
like what it was that Mr. Williams 
presently ventured a faint remon- 
strance. 

"Oh! nonsense, papa!" laughed 
the musician over her shoulder. " It 
is a hymn of praise, by Strauss." 

" Strauss ?" repeated her father 
doubtfully. He thought the name 
sounded familiar. 

" Mendelssohn, I mean," correct- 
ed she, with the greatest hardihood, 
and shook a shower of sparkling notes 
from her finger-ends. 

Miss Ellen was one of the progres- 
sive damsels of the time. 

Mr. Williams looked toward the 
door, and smiled pleasantly, seeing 
Miss Yorke come in, and she return- 
ed his greeting with one as friendly. 
There was a feeling of kindness be- 
tween the two. This gentleman was 
not very gallant, but, being in his 
wife's confidence, and aware there- 
fore that Edith had been looked on 
by her as a culprit, he had taken 
pains to make her feel at ease with 
him. Moreover, in common with a 
good many other middle-aged, mat- 
ter-of-fact men, he had a carefully- 
concealed vein of sentimentality in 
his composition, and was capable of 
being deeply interested in a genuine 
love affair. With a great affectation 
of contempt, Mr. Williams would yet 
devour every word of a romantic 
story at which his daughter would 
most sincerely turn up her nose. It 



The House of Yorkc. 



27 



is indeed on record, in the diary of the 
the first Mrs. Williams, that her hus- 
band sat up late one night, on pre- 
tence of posting his books, and that, 
after twelve o'clock, she went down- 
stairs and found him, as she express- 
ed it, " snivelling over " The Hungar- 
ian Brothers. " Which astonished 
me in so sensible a man as John," 
the lady added. 

Edith took a chair by a window 
and looked out into the street, and 
Mr. Williams turned over the book 
on his knee. It was a volume of 
sermons which he was in the habit 
of pretending to read every Sunday 
afternoon. Intellectually, Mr. Wil- 
liams was sceptical ; and had one 
propounded to him. one by one, the 
doctrines he heard preached every 
Sunday, and asked him if he believed 
them, he would probably have an- 
swered, " Well, no, I don't know as I 
do exactly " ; but early education by 
a mother whose religion was earnest 
if mistaken, and that necessity for 
some supernatural element in the life 
which is the mark of our divine ori- 
gin, impelled him to an observance 
of what he did not believe, for the 
want of something better which he 
could believe. 

When Dick waked again, the first 
object he saw was his mother's face, 
full of tearful joy. She smiled, quiv- 
ered, tried to speak, and could not. 

" Poor mother ! what a trouble I 
am to you !" he said, and would 
have held his hand out to her, but 
found himself unable to raise it. He 
looked, and saw it thin and transpa- 
rent, glanced with an expression of 
astonished inquiry into his mother's 
face, and understood it all. " I must 
have been sick a long time, mother," 
he said. 

She kissed him tenderly. " Yes, 
my dear boy. But it is all over now, 
thank God!" 

" Poor mother !" he said again. 



" I must have worn you out. Have 
you taken all the care of me ?" 

" No ! Edith was here," she an- 
swered timidly. " She is a good 
nurse, Dick." 

" Edith ?" he echoed with sur- 
prise ; and, after a moment's thought, 
added quietly, " Yes, I recollect 
seeing her. She helped me a great 
deal, I think, dear child !" 

" Would you like to see her ?" his 
mother asked. " She has only just 
left the room." 

" Not now, mother," he answered. 
" She will come presently. I cannot 
talk much now." 

He closed his eyes again, and lay 
in that delicious trance of convales- 
cence, when simply to breathe is 
enough for contentment the lips 
slightly parted, the form absolutely 
at rest, the eyes not so closed but a 
faint twilight enters through the lash- 
es a sweet, happy mood. When his 
mother moved softly about, Dick lift- 
ed his lids now and then, but was 
not disturbed. Sometimes, before 
closing them again, his half-seeing 
eyes dwelt a moment on some object 
in the room. After one of these 
dreamy glances, there entered through 
his lashes the vision of a face that 
seemed to cry aloud to him a pierc- 
ing summons. 

He started up as if electrified, and 
stretched his arms out. " Stay ! 
stay !" he cried, and saw that it was 
no vision, but a pictured, saintly 
face, with tears on the cheeks, and 
lips from which a message seemed to 
have just escaped. 

" Dick, what is the matter ?" his 
mother exclaimed in terror. 

He sank back on the pillows. " I 
saw it before, and thought it was a 
dream," he whispered. " I was think- 
ing of it as I lay here." 

" The picture ?" his mother asked. 
" Edith hung it there. I will take it 
away if you don't like it." 



28 



The House of Yorkc. 



" I do like it," he answered faintly. 
" It is a blessed, blessed vision." He 
lay looking at it a while, then slipped 
his hand under the pillow and found 
a little crucifix that he had always 
kept there. At the beginning of his 
illness his mother had taken it away, 
but Edith had returned and kept 
it there, seeing that he sometimes 
sought for it. He drew it forth now, 
pressed it passionately to his lips, 
then, holding it in the open palm of 
his hand, on the pillow, turned his 
cheek to it with a gesture of child- 
like fondness. " O my Love !" he 
whispered. 

" Shall I tell Edith to come in ?" 
his mother asked, catching the whis- 
per. 

" Not now, not to-night, mother," 
he answered softly. 

But the next morning he asked to 
see the whole family, with the ser- 
vants, and, when they came, thanked 
them affection ately for what they had 
done for him, taking each one by the 
hand. When Edith approached, a 
slight color flickered in his cheeks, 
and he looked at her earnestly. Her 
changed face seemed to distress him. 
" Dear child, I have been killing 
you !" he said. 

At his perfectly unembarrassed and 
friendly address, Edith's worst fear 
took flight. If Dick had reproach- 
ed or been cold to her, she would ' 
have defended herself without diffi- 
culty ; but if he had shrunk from her, 
she could scarcely have borne it. 

The doctor was quite right in say- 
ing that their only difficulty would 
be in keeping their patient quiet, for 
Dick insisted on sitting up that very 
day. 

" The doctor wishes you to lie still," 
his mother said. 

"And I wish to get up," he re- 
torted, smiling, but wilful. 

" The Lord wishes you to lie still, 
Dick," Edith said. 



He became quiet at once. " Do 
you think so ?" he asked. 

" Father John will tell you," she 
answered, as the door opened to give 
admittance to the priest. 

Of course Father John confirmed 
her assertion. " Everything in its 
time, young man," he said cheerful- 
ly. " This enforced physical illness 
may be to you a time of richest spir- 
itual benefit. You have now leisure 
for reading and contemplation which 
you will not have when you go out 
into active life again. You must let 
Miss Edith read to you." 

Before leaving his penitent, the 
priest proposed to give him Holy Com- 
munion the next morning; but Dick 
hesitatingly objected. " Not that I 
do not long for it, father," he made 
haste to add ; " but I wish to recol- 
lect myself. Like St. Paul, / desire 
to be dissolved and be with Christ, but 
I wish to endure that desire a little 
longer, till I shall be better prepared 
to be with him." 

Seeing the priest look at him at- 
tentively, he blushed, and added : 
" Of course I do not mean to com- 
pare myself with St. Paul, sir," and 
was for a moment mortified and dis- 
concerted at what he supposed Fa- 
ther John would think his presump- 
tion. 

" There is no reason why you and 
I may not have precisely the same 
feelings that St. Paul had," the priest 
said quietly. 

Edith found letters in her room 
from Seaton. Her aunt wrote that they 
were busily making the last arrange- 
ments for their moving, and gave her 
many kind messages from her friends. 
The house in Seaton had been leased 
advantageously, and they hoped that 
the lessee might be able to buy it 
after a while, as he wished to. They 
were to bring all their household with 
them, Betsey, Patrick, and the young 
Pattens. The prospect of being left 



The House of Yorkc. 



29 



behind had so afflicted these faithful 
creatures that she had not the heart 
to desert them. 

Clara wrote a long, gossiping let- 
ter. " I must tell you what an absurd 
little stale romance is being acted 
here," she wrote, " for mamma is 
sure to tell you nothing about it. 
Prepare to be astonished by the most 
surprising, the most bewildering, etc. 
(see Mme. de Sevigne). Mr. Grif- 
feth has proposed for Melicent, and 
Melicent is willing, so she says ! Pa- 
pa and mamma are frantic, and Mel 
goes about with a persecuted, inscru- 
table look which distracts me. I 
sometimes think that she is only pre- 
tending in order to have a fuss made 
over her, but one cannot be sure. 
You know she always prided herself 
on her good sense and judgment, and 
my experience is that when such 
persons do a foolish thing, 

' They are So (ultra) cinian, they shock the So- 
cinians.' 

We highfliers commit follies with a 
certain grace, and we know when we 
reach the step between the sublime 
and the ridiculous ; but these clumsy 
sensible people are like dancing ele- 
phants, and have no conception how 
absurd they are. (Did you ever ob- 
serve that people who have no ?///- 
common sense always claim to have 
a monopoly of the common sense ?) 

" It seems that Mel has had no 
intercourse with the man lately, ex- 
cept what we have known, but he 
has been giving her some of those 
expressive glances which are so ef- 
fective when one has practised them 
long enough. ' Oh ! those looks 



which have so little force in law, but 
so much in equity !' Mamma said 
that she would rather see a daughter 
of hers married to Mr. Conway than 
to Mr. Griffeth, for Mr. Conway had 
principle if he was not clever, and 
Mel made a pretty good answer. 
' There is always hope,' she said, ' that 
an irreligious person may be con- 
verted, but there is no conversion for 
the commonplace.' Mel thinks Mr. 
Griffeth remarkably intellectual, and 
papa ridiculed the idea. The little 
man, he said, resembled Caesar in 
one respect, for whereas Cassar wore 
the laurel wreath to cover his bald 
pate, the minister took refuge in ver- 
biage to hide his baldness of thought. 
This having no effect, I gave the 
' most unkindest cut of all.' I re- 
minded her that he had tried both 
you and me first, and we didn't know 
how many more. Her reply was to 
hand me a copy of Browning's Men 
and Women, open at " Misconcep- 
tions." She had marked the words : 

This is the spray the Bird clung to, 

Making it blossom with pleasure, 

Ere the high tree-top she sprang to, 

Fit for her nest and her treasure." 

But I thought that her smile was 
something like that of one who is 
taking medicine heroically, a sort of 
quinine-smile. 

" There is but one way if we do 
not wish to have this howling dervish 
in the family : we must exhibit, as the 
doctors say, a counter-irritant that 
is, find Mel another lover. I am 
convinced that she will never volun- 
tarily relinquish one romance except 
in favor of one more." 



CHAPTER XXVII. 



CARL VORKE'S ORBIT. 



As Dick Rowan gained strength ed toward her. The manifestations 
in those first days of convalescence, of this change were slight, she was 
Edith perceived 'that he had chang- not sure that he was himself con- 



The House of Yorke. 



scious of them, but they were decid- 
ed. It was not that he showed any 
unkindness, or even indifference, but 
his being seemed to be scarcely 
yet revolving round, but brooding 
round a new centre. He frequently 
became absorbed in contemplation, 
from which he recalled himself with 
difficulty, though always cheerfully. 
Not a tinge of pain marred the peace- 
ful silence of his mood. It was like 
that exquisite pause we sometimes 
see in the weather, when, after a vio- 
lent storm, the winds and blackness 
withdraw, and there comes an hour 
of tender, misty silence before the 
sunshine breaks forth. His eyes 
would turn upon her kindly, and, still 
looking, forget her, and she saw that 
something of more importance had 
usurped her image. 

He was decided and self-reliant, 
too, in some things, and seemed rath- 
er displeased than grateful for too 
much solicitude on the part of others. 
He put aside entirely the usual sick- 
room inquiries. " I am getting well," 
he said, " and need not count how often 
I stumble in learning to walk again. 
My miserable body has received at- 
tention enough. Let us forget it, 
now that we may." 

Edith began to read, in obedience 
to Father John, but the books she 
chose at first did not quite suit the 
listener. Even the St. Theresa and 
The Following of Christ, which she 
found on his shelves, did not seem to 
be what he wanted then. She 
brought some of her books, but could 
see that his own meditations were 
more agreeable to him. 

" I do not like to find fault with a 
pious writer," Dick said uneasily. 
" They are all good, but I have 
thought that some of them some- 
times ' He broke off abruptly. 
" Edith, is there such a word 2&pla- 
titudinize?" 

" I do not think that it is in 



the dictionary," she replied, smil- 
ing. 

" It is, then, an omission," said 



" Try the Gospels," Father John 
said, when Edith told him her diffi- 
culty. " Different states of mind re- 
quire different reading, just as differ- 
ent states of the body require differ- 
ent food and medicine. I frequently 
advise people, whom I find having a 
distaste for spiritual reading, to read 
the Gospels, and refresh their memo- 
ry of all the events recorded there 
by the simply-told story. I always 
find that they return with delight and 
profit to the meditations of those 
holy souls whose lives have been 
spent in the study of these mysteries. 
These writers assume that the reader 
has freshly in his mind that of which 
they treat. You cannot meditate on 
a subject, nor follow clearly the me- 
ditations of another, when the facts 
are not familiar to your own 
mind." 

Edith read the Gospels, therefore, 
and was astonished at their effect on 
Dick. Either his perceptions had 
been sharpened during his illness, or 
some obstructions had been cleared 
away from the passage to his heart 
This was not to him an old story, 
worn and deadened with much tell- 
ing, and slipping past his hearing 
without leaving a trace, but a trage- 
dy newly enacted, none of its edge 
gone, every circumstance as sharp as 
a thorn, tearing in the telling. While 
Edith read the story of the Lord as 
told by the 'four great witnesses, and 
added the outpourings of those fiery 
Epistles, the listener's agitation was 
so great that she was often compel- 
led to stop. At the chapters which 
related to the passion, Dick's hands 
trembled and grew cold, and his 
head dropped back against the cush- 
ions of his chair. The Epistles of St. 
Paul stirred him especially. 



The House of Yorke. 



3 1 



" Now, Dick, if you don't behave 
I won't read you another word!" 
Edith exclaimed, one day, when he 
had started out of his chair, and be- 
gun to walk about. 

He came back with a. stumbling 
tep, and seated himself, wiping the 
perspiration from his forehead. 

" I believe I shall have to post- 
pone St. Paul till I am able to go out- 
doors," he said breathlessly. 

Observing his eyes frequently wan- 
der to the St. Ignatius, she remarked : 
"He looks as though he were pre- 
sent when our Lord was crucified, 
and could not forget the sight." 

" We were all present !" he ex- 
claimed. " How can we forget it ?" 

Long and intimate as their ac- 
quaintance had been, Edith thought 
now that she had not known Dick 
Rowan well. She had praised, de- 
fended, and loved him with sisterly 
fondness, but always, involuntarily, 
almost unconsciously, from a higher 
plane than his. Now she looked up 
to him as her superior. But, in 
truth, she had know him well, and 
done him full justice. The differ- 
ence now was that the full current 
of his nature was turned into a high- 
er channel. 

One day Hester sent the carriage 
to take Edith to see the family house, 
which was as complete as it could be 
before the arrival of the family. Hes- 
ter herself was detained at home by 
company, but she sent a line : " Carl 
will be there, and the man who is 
putting up the curtains, and the wo- 
man who is cleaning the closet in 
your room. So\you will not be lost, 
nor want for information." 

Edith had just begun her reading 
when the note was given to her. 
She handed it to Dick to read. 

"That settles the question," he 
said, holding out his hand for the 
book. " While you read to me yes- 
terday, the thought occurred to me 



that I could do it for myself, and T 
meant that this should be your last 
reading. Go and take the air, Edith. 
You have been too much shut up. 
This is your last day but one with 
me as an invalid." 

She looked at him with a startled 
expression. 

" Because," he answered smilingly 
to her look, " to-morrow I drive out, 
the day after I shall sit down-stairs, 
and the next day I shall forget that 
I have ever been sick." 

He looked thoroughly contented 
and cheerful. There was no lurking 
sadness, nor reluctance to have her 
go. Dick was too transparent to hide it 
if there were. As well might the lake 
show a smooth surface while waves 
were rolling below. His soul had, 
indeed, always been more placid 
than his manner. 

Before Edith had left the room, he 
was turning over the leaves of the 
book, a new one to him ; and when 
she stepped into the carriage at the 
curbstone, he was so absorbed in 
reading as not to know that she was 
looking up at the window where he 
sat. The book rested on the wide 
arm of his chair, his elbow near it. 
the hand supporting his forehead. 
His hair had been cut off, and thus 
his full brow and finely shaped head 
were clearly displayed. His hands 
were beginning to look alive, his 
cheeks to get back their color. So 
he leaned and read, and she drove 
away. 

She was going to meet Carl, and 
she was glad of it, though at Seaton 
she had thought that she must not 
see him again. The second thought 
had shown her how unnecessary and 
Quixotic this resolution had been, 
made in the first shock and confusion 
caused by Dick Rowan's distress, 
and her own discovery of the depth 
of her own affection for Carl. She 
had since then put aside her own im- 



The House of Yorke. 



agination and that of others, and ex- 
amined her heart as it was, not as it 
might become under circumstances 
which she no longer expected to 
find herself in. She and Carl were 
nearly related by marriage, and he 
had been her teacher, and kind and 
delicate friend. She had lived in 
the same house with him seven years, 
a "longer time than she had been as- 
sociated intimately with Dick Row- 
an, and her intercourse with him had 
been such as to call out all that was 
most amiable in his character, and 
that at a time when her own mind 
was maturing, and capable of receiv- 
ing its most profound impressions. 
She asked herself what the charm had 
been in her intercourse with him, 
and the answer was immediate: a 
quick and thorough sympathy in 
everything natural. For the super- 
natural, so careful had he been not 
to offend her conscience, and so 
highly had he appreciated religion in 
her, she had felt no sense of discor- 
dance, but only that he lacked a 
faith which she hoped and expected 
he would one day possess. Carl had 
never intruded his scepticism on her. 
What, she asked herself then, had 
she wished regarding him ? and the 
answer was no more doubtful ; she 
had wished to be his most confiden- 
tial and sympathizing friend, and 
had shrunk with pain from the 
thought of any one coming nearer to 
his heart than herself, or as near. 
Even of these wishes she had been 
almost unconscious till others had 
forced them on her attention. Of 
Dick Rowan's friendships she could 
never have been jealous, and she 
could never have suffered from them. 
Here she stopped, and set her Chris- 
tian will and her maiden reserve as a 
firm barrier against her own imagina- 
tion or the intrusive imaginations of 
others taking one step further. She 
was ready to fling her Honi soit qui 



mal y pense in the face of any evil 
speaker. 

" Dick Rowan was a good friend 
to my childhood," she said, " and 
protected me from all physical dan- 
ger and insult, and petted me with 
childlike fondness ; and I have been 
grateful to him beyond the point of 
duty, and to my own hurt. Carl 
Yorke helped to form my opening 
mind, and patiently and carefully 
strove to endow me with his own 
knowledge, and my debt to him is a 
still higher one. I have a right, 
when he is going away, to bid him a 
friendly good-by, and I should be 
ashamed of myself if I were afraid 
to!" 

Carl stood in the door of his old 
home, and came down the steps, hat 
in hand, to assist her. She saw in 
his face that he felt doubtful whether 
his presence might not displease 
her. 

" I am glad to see you, Carl," she 
said cordially. " I could not believe 
that you meant to go away without 
bidding me farewell." 

" I would not have gone away 
without seeing you," Carl replied 
'quietly; and they went into the 
house together. His face had light- 
ed at her greeting. Evidently he 
liked its frank kindliness, and the en- 
tire setting aside of all embarrassing 
recollections. He had been in the 
cruel position of a man who, with a 
high natural sense of honor, has suf- 
fered himself to be betrayed into an 
act which he cannot justify, and is 
ashamed to excuse. Silence was 
best. 

Edith was delighted with the home- 
like look of everything in the house, 
and the good taste displayed in it* 
arrangement. 

" I can easily .understand," Cart 
said, " why you and my mother wish- 
ed to have as little new furniture as 
possible. I think we all prefer that 



The House of Yorke. 



33 



which has friendly or beautiful asso- 
ciations." 

He lead her to a portrait, conspi- 
cuously placed in the sitting- 
room. 

" I hung dear Alice's picture here," 
he said, " because 1 thought that her 
place was in the family-circle." He 
sighed. " It is astonishing how cru- 
elly selfish men can sometimes be, 
without knowing it. Poor, dear Alice 
thought of me, and I thought of my- 
self. Well, she is safe dead, with no 
more need of me, and I am left with 
an unfailing regret." 

Edith was grieved and touched by 
his self-reproach, and was about to 
say some comforting word, when he 
turned to her with a smile. " And 
I am committing again the same 
fault which I confess," he said. 
" Edith comes out of a sick-room, 
weary and depressed, and I sadden 
instead of cheering her. Shall we 
look about the house ?" 

They went up-stairs, and he show- 
ed her the different chambers. " But 
we all concluded that you would 
prefer the one I used to have for my 
painting-room," he said. " It is up 
another flight of stairs, but well re- 
pays you for the climbing. You are 
an early bird, and there you will 
have the morning sunshine. It is 
the largest chamber in the house, and 
has the best view. How do you 
like it ?" 

Edith exclaimed with delight. No- 
thing could have suited her better. 
Through the windows were visible a 
wide sweep of sky and a pretty city 
view. Inside, the room w r as large, 
charmingly irregular, with alcoves 
and niches, and the partial furnish- 
ing was fresh and of her own colors. 
Sea-green and white lace made it a 
home fit for a mermaid. It was evi- 
dent that a good deal of care had 
been used in preparing the place for 
her. 

VOL. xv. 3 



" You are so kind !" she said rath- 
er tremulously. 

He affected not to notice her emo- 
tion. " All I have done in this house 
has been a labor of love and delight," 
he said, and led her to a picture 
which bore the mark of his own ex- 
quisite brush, the only picture on the 
walls. " This is to remember Carl 
by," he said. " It is painted partly 
from nature, partly from a descrip- 
tion of the scene. It is a glimpse 
into what was called the Kentucky 
Barrens." 

An opening in a forest of luxuriant 
beech, ash, and oak trees showed a 
level of rich green, profusely flower- 
sprinkled. The morning sky was of 
a pure blue, with thin flecks of white 
cloud, and everything was thickly 
laden with dew. The fringe of the 
picture glittered with light, but all 
the centre was overshadowed by a 
vast slanting canopy of messenger- 
pigeons, settling toward the earth. 
The sunlight on their glossy backs 
glanced off in brilliant azure reflec- 
tions, looking as though a cataract 
of sapphires was flowing down the 
sky. Here and there, a ray of sun- 
shine broke through the screen of 
their countless wings, and lit up a 
flower or bit of green. An oriole- 
was perched on a twig in the fore- 
ground, and from the hanging nest 
close by, his mate pushed a pret- 
ty head and throat. Startled by the 
soft thunder of that winged host, 
they gazed out at it from the safe 
covert of their leafy home. 

The two went down-stairs into the 
sitting-room again. " Now, I want 
to tell you all my plans," Carl said. 

They seated themselves, and he 
began : " I have thought best to 
make now the tour'which I contem- 
plated years ago. It must be now, 
or never, and I am not willing to re- 
linquish it entirely. But I am not 
sorry that I was disappointed in go- 



34 



The House of Yorke. 



ing when I first thought of it, for I 
was not then prepared to derive the 
benefit from the journey which I now 
hope for. I should have gone then 
for pleasure and adventure; now I 
make a pilgrimage to gather know- 
ledge. I tell you of this, Edith, but 
I have concluded not to tell my mo- 
ther. It seems cruel, and there has 
been a struggle in my mind, but I 
cannot do otherwise. I well remem- 
ber how hard it was to win her con- 
sent before, and I believe she was 
truly glad of our loss of wealth, 
since it kept me at home. If I 
should tell her now, the struggle 
would be renewed, and she would be 
ill. I am afraid, too, that I might 
be impatient with her, for I have no 
more time to throw away. So I 
shall let her suppose that I am going 
to make a short visit in England, 
which is true. Once there, she will 
not be disturbed at my going over 
to France for a few weeks. After 
France, Switzerland follows of course, 
Italy is next door, and the East is 
not far from Italy. I have always 
observed that, when a thing is done, 
my mother makes up her mind to it 
with fortitude ; but, if it is left to her 
to decide on anything painful, she is 
unable to decide, and the suspense is 
terrible to her. My father knows 
that. When he really means to do 
a thing, he is prompt, and makes no 
talk about it. And, Edith, I shall 
not tell my sisters nor father, because 
it will seem more unkind if she is 
the only one who does not know, and 
it might compel them to practise 
evasion. I tell you alone, and I 
want you to promise me that, if my 
mother should begin to suspect, you 
will at once tell her all, and do what 
you can to quiet her." 

" I promise you, Carl," Edith an- 
swered. 

" You can also tell Mr. Rowan, if 
you have occasion to, if you wish 



to," he said, looking at her atten- 
tively. 

She merely bowed. 
" I think that you will approve of 
my plans," he went on with earnest- 
ness. " I have found what I believe 
to be my place and work in this vor- 
tex of the nineteenth century, and I 
wish to fill that place and do that 
work in the best manner I can. I 
have been offered a position as at- 
tach^ at one of our embassies, but I 
am not ready for that yet. I am not 
fit for anything that I wish to do." 

Warming with his subject, Carl 
stood up, and leaned on a high chair- 
back opposite Edith while he talked. 
His face became animated, his man- 
ner had a charming cordiality and 
frankness. When his time should 
come for speaking or writing, or tak- 
ing any part in the affairs of his 
country, he wished to be considered 
an authority, and to deserve that 
consideration. To that end, he must 
have more knowledge, not of courts, 
or camps, or books, though these 
were worth knowing, but of people 
as they live in their own homes, in 
their own lands, under laws strange 
to us. He wanted to know the 
world's poor, and the world's crimi- 
nals, and the world's saints, wherever 
he could find them. i( You have ob- 
served, in drawing faces," he said, 
" how one little line will alter the 
whole expression. It is the same 
with arguments. A great, loose, so- 
phistical generalization may be as 
completely upset by one sharp little 
fact, as Goliath was by David. I 
want to have a sling full of those 
facts. A plain hard truth may be 
made attractive by a single beautiful 
illustration ; and I wish to gather il- 
lustrations from the whole world. I 
hate a sour patriotism, and I would 
not think, nor speak, nor write nar- 
rowly on any subject. 

"I can perceive, Edith, that we 



The House of Yorke. 



35 



have much to learn in this country, 
and I wish to be first taught myself, 
then to do my part in helping to 
teach others. We need to learn that 
the order of society, as well as of 
the heavenly bodies, depends on a 
centripetal, no less than a centrifugal 
force. At present we are all flying 
off on tangents. We need to learn 
that there is beauty and dignity in 
obedience, as well as in indepen- 
dence. We should see that it is bet- 
ter for a people to be nobler than 
their laws, than for laws to be nobler 
than the people ; and that the living 
constitution of a living nation is not 
found on any parchment, but is the 
national conscience brought to a fo- 
cus. Why, Edith, those very persons 
who boast themselves the most on 
the glorious fathers of our country 
are, perhaps, the persons of whom 
those same fathers, could they behold 
them, would be most unutterably 
ashamed. I do not mean to be pre- 
sumptuous, dear; but I see which 
way my influence should go, and I 
mean to do my best to make that 
influence great, first by leading an 
honest life, and next by polishing 
my weapons to the utmost. I am 
talking confusedly. I give you but 
a rough sketch of my design. Two 
years, I think, will be the limit of my 
stay. I am so well prepared by my 
studies that I shall lose no time, and 
I have every facility of access to all 
places I wish to visic. What do you 
say to it, Edith ?" 

" I say God- speed, with all my 
heart, Carl ! Your aims are noble. 
I like to see you in earnest." 

" I am in earnest, dear," he said. 
" I feel as a new planet might, that 
has been turning on its own centre 
without progress, and is all at once 
set spinning off on its orbit." 

In the momentary silence that fol- 
lowed, Edith went to a book-shelf 
filled with pamphlets, and looked 



them over. " O Carl !" she said 
brightly, " do you read these ? w 

They were the numbers of Broian- 
son's Review. 

" I have read them more attentive- 
ly than anything else," he answered, 
" and learned more from them. An 
American best understands the Ame- 
can mind. Pure reason is, of course, 
cosmopolitan ; but reason is seldom 
so pure but a colored ray of indivi- 
dual or national character intrudes ; 
and I like to choose my color. I 
think," he said, smiling, " that I have 
been quoting that Review to you. 
I leave them for my father to read." 

Edith's eyes sparkled. " I thank 
God that you are on this track, Carl!" 
she said. " The first I ever read in 
this Review was an article on De 
Maistre, and it solved for me a great 
difficulty. The fragments of truth 
that I had seen in the mythologies 
of different nations, and the beautiful 
Christian sentiments I had found 
among the pagans, had been a stum- 
bling-block to me ; but, when I read 
that, all became plain. You mak-e 
me very happy, dear Carl !" 

" I do not think that I am pious," 
he said, after a moment. " My mind 
is clear on the subject, but my heart 
is unmoved. I do not wonder at 
that, and I am not sure but I prefer 
it so; to have light pour over my 
mind till my heart melts underneath, 
rather than have a mind imperfectly 
illuminated, and a heart starting up 
at intervals in little evanescent flames, 
which die out again, and leave ashes. 
The former is light from heaven, the 
latter suggests the lucifer-match to 
me. As soon as the time shall come, 
which I calmly await, when I have a 
clearer realization of the necessity ot 
baptism, I shall ask to be baptized. 
Till then, I wish my intellectual con- 
victions to be getting acclimated. 
My sacrifice must be ready before I 
invoke upon it fire from heaven." 



The House of Yorkc. 



" Oh ! you remind me of St. John 
of the Cross," Edith said. " He 
says, ' Reason is but the candlestick 
to hold the light of faith.' " 

" Precisely !" Carl replied. " Be- 
hold me, then, illuminated by a can- 
dlestick, instead of a candle, but 
aware of that lack. A friend of 
mine, a convert, told me lately that 
he had always regretted having hur- 
ried into the church, and to the sa- 
craments, as he did. He did not 
realize anything, but received super- 
natural favors like one in a dream. 
He said that, though he was sincere, 
and would have given his life for the 
faith that was in him, he was, for a 
long time, tormented by the habit of 
doubt. When, at length, that habit 
was broken, he used sometimes to 
long to receive baptism over again, 
or wished, at least, that his first com- 
munion had been postponed to the 
time of peace. A strong movement 
of the heart might, perhaps, have 
saved this trouble ; but neither he 
nor I have been so favored." 

" And yet," Edith said thought- 
fully, " I should have supposed that 
the first conviction of truth would 
have moved your feelings. When 
my mind pointed that way, my heart 
followed quickly, and pretty soon 
took wings, and flew along by itself, 
and left my thoughts behind. I am 
not sure that I have any intellect in 
religion. I can think of reasons for 
everything, if I try, but it does not 
seem to me worth while, unless some 
one outside of the church wishes to 
know." 



" That is a woman's way," Carl 
said, pleased with her pretty earnest- 
ness. " A woman goes heart first, 
or her head and heart go hand in 
hand, and her finest mental power is 
the intellect of noble passions. A 
man goes head first, and his highest 
power is reason." 

The silvery bell of a clock warned 
them how long their interview had 
been. Edith rose. " I must say 
good-by to you for two years, then, 
Carl ; but you have taken away the 
sting of parting. While you are on 
the road to truth, I am not afraid of 
any road for you on sea or land." 

She gave him her hand. Large, 
bright tears stood in her eyes. 

" Dear Edith, good-by !" he said, 
and could not utter another word. 

They went down the steps togeth- 
er. The carriage-door opened and 
closed, there was one last glance, 
and they lost sight of each other. 

They parted with pain, yet not un- 
willingly; for duty and honor yet 
stood with hands clasped between to 
separate them. Dick Rowan's pale 
face, as they had seen it that night 
sinking backward into the river, could 
be forgotten by neither. 

When we have wronged a person, 
though it were unconsciously, we 
can no longer take the same delight 
in that pleasure which has given him 
pain. The pleasure may be no less 
dear to us, but the thought that it is 
to be reached only through the suf- 
ferings of one who has even a fanci- 
ed claim on us makes renunciation 
seem almost preferable to possession. 



The Duties of the RicJt in Christian Society. 



37 



THE DUTIES OF THE RICH IN CHRISTIAN SOCIETY. 



NO. III. 



SOCIAL DUTIES. 



UNDER this head we include duties 
toward certain classes or individuals 
who are dependent on the rich for 
their well-being and happiness. The 
rich furnish employment to those 
who live by labor. By their wealth, 
their knowledge, their power of va- 
rious kinds, they set agoing and di- 
rect those great branches of human 
enterprise and industry in which the 
majority of persons in civilized soci- 
ety are the workmen. The, welfare 
and happiness of the majority depend, 
therefore, in a great measure upon 
the right discharge of their duties by 
the minority, in whose hands the di- 
rection is placed. In order that these 
duties may be rightly discharged ac- 
cording to Christian principles, the 
small number who possess the largest 
portion of wealth and power must 
be stimulated and governed by the 
motive of true philanthropy, the love 
of their fellow-men, Christian chari- 
ty. Those who are dependent need, 
on their part, the spirit of resignation 
to the will of God, contentment with 
their lot, respect and affection toward 
those who are in a superior position. 
Where this mutual charity, springing 
from Christian principles, does not 
exist in great strength, binding all 
classes together, sooner or later the 
rich will despise and oppress the poor ; 
and the poor will hate the rich, bid- 
ing their time to revolt against and 
destroy them. The rich ought, 
therefore, to devote all their thoughts 
and energies to such an administra- 
tion of the trust committed to them 



as may produce the greatest possible 
amount of well-being and happiness 
among the dependent classes in so- 
ciety, and earn for themselves the 
respect, love, and gratitude of all. 
We will now leave off generalizing, 
and descend to some particulars. 
Merchants and others in similar po- 
sitions ought to take more interest 
than they do in the welfare and hap- 
piness of their clerks. Those who 
know something of the hardships, 
privations, and moral danger to 
which this class of young men are 
exposed in New York will not dis- 
pute the assertion we have made.* 
It may be extended to the corre- 
sponding class of young women. 
And we have here the opportunity 
of citing the example of a work un- 
dertaken by one of our merchants, 
which illustrates our thesis much bet- 
ter than pages of explanation. We 
refer to the great institution contrived, 
and now almost completed, by Mr. 
Stewart, which may be seen, and is 
worth being seen by every one, on 
the corner of Fourth Avenue and 



* An incident has been related to the writer 
of this article, within a few days, which may 
serve as U sample of some of the grievances, and 
these not the worst, of this class of young men. 
Complaint was made to the head of a large 
house that the clerks were obliged to stand up 
during the whole day, and the reply was made 
that they must keep on standing if they died for 
it. One more fact which we have heard report- 
ed is worth recording : that in certain places, de- 
duction is made from the wages of clerks for 
Christmas and New-Year's Day. We cannot help 
wishing that a New York Douglas Jerrold may 
start up from behind some counter, or out ot 
some comfortless sleeping-bunk, to do justice to 
this fruitful theme. 



The Duties of the Rich in Christian Society. 



Thirty-third Street. This princely 
undertaking is a sample of that be- 
nevolent and magnanimous effort in 
behalf of a numerous and interesting 
class of the employees of the rich 
which we are aiming to recommend. 
The need of looking after the in- 
terests of those who are engaged in 
the harder and rougher kinds of la- 
bor is much more stringent. The 
tenements and daily surroundings of 
the laboring class of people in great 
cities, the many squalid discomforts 
and miseries which invest their lot 
in life, have been the frequent theme 
of those who, either from real or 
pretended philanthropy, concern 
themselves with social questions. Here 
again, we may cite the example of 
another princely merchant, Mr. Pea- 
body, as an illustration of what might 
be undertaken and accomplished, if 
the whole body of wealthy men had 
the same spirit and would make si- 
milar efforts. The condition of the 
laboring class is too hard. They are 
too much neglected. It is not safe 
to leave them in this condition, and, 
more than this, it is not right to do 
so. Let us specify some particular 
instances of the ill-treatment or ne- 
glect of certain classes of working- 
men. There are not a few who are 
most unreasonably and cruelly over- 
worked both by day and by night, 
especially such as fill the most ardu- 
ous kinds of employments about rail- 
roads. The life of the Southern ne- 
gro slave was paradisaic, compared 
to that of the miserable drudges who 
work in the stables of our horse rail- 
ways. The conductors and drivers 
of our city cars and omnibuses are 
worked to death on a pay so meagre 
that stealing has become a kind of 
recognized necessity of their situa- 
tion. How can these men go to 
church on Sundays, approach the 
sacraments, or enjoy an innocent ho- 
liday ? There is a wonderful amount 



of breath and ink expended in our 
enlightened city upon our religious 
rights and liberties. Yet the men 
who are employed to take care of 
the Central Park cannot find even a 
single half-hour on a Sunday morn- 
ing to go to Mass. 

Let any one who wishes to appre- 
ciate the blessing of living in this 
nineteenth century, in this land of 
light and liberty, and enjoying the 
fruits of that advanced civilization 
which communicates the greatest 
amount of happiness to the greatest 
number, take a teur of the New Eng- 
land factories. He will there see 
spectacles to rejoice his heart, if 
he is both a wealthy and a righteous 
man, and cause him to exclaim : 
" God, I thank thee that I am not as 
other men, especially as these Irish- 
men, and that my wife and children 
are not like theirs !" The writer of 
these articles has had a long and ex- 
tensive experience as a missionary 
among the Catholic population of 
the factory towns of New England. 
In almost every instance, the persons 
who have had charge of the facto- 
ries have been extremely polite and 
obliging during the continuance of 
the missions. Often they have mani- 
fested an interest in their success, 
and have granted facilities to the 
operatives to attend the exercises. 
So, undoubtedly, has it been with 
the masters of slaves on the South- 
ern plantations. These things can- 
not, however, make slavery to be 
freedom, or the condition of opera- 
tives in factories one that is fit to ex- 
ist in a society which pretends to be 
Christian or civilized. There are 
plenty of kind-hearted, philanthropic 
men among New England capitalists. 
We do not suppose that all those 
who give so largely to foreign mis- 
sions and Bible societies have either 
made their fortunes by selling opium 
and rum to the heathen, or are 



The Duties of the Rich in Christian Society. 



39 



seeking merely to salve over a re- 
morseful conscience and gain ap- 
plause from men by their liberality. 
Yet even those who are conscien- 
tious and benevolent are carried 
along by a system which is bad and 
cruel. We do not mean that it is 
bad and cruel by accident merely. 
Many of its crimes and cruelties are 
purely accidental, and prove only 
the wickedness of particular persons. 
If a building is put up in such a 
slight manner that it falls and crush- 
es hundreds, this is the crime of 
those particular persons who caused 
it to be built in such a manner. If 
the superintendent of a factory abus- 
es his power to corrupt those who are 
under him, that is his own sin. But 
if the principles and laws of the sys- 
tem produce moral and physical mi- 
sery independently of the individuals 
who carry it on, the system is essen- 
tially vicious. It is even the cause 
of the accidental and exceptional 
villanies which occur under it, be- 
cause it tends to produce a cruel and 
tyrannical spirit. 

The essential vice of the system lies 
iu this. Capitalists seek to make 
exorbitant profits, without regard to 
anything but their own selfish inte- 
rests. They care not for their ope- 
ratives. These are, consequently, 
overworked, and employed at too ten- 
der an age, and to a great extent are 
underpaid. They are regarded and 
treated as working machines, and 
not as moral and religious beings. 
There is something repulsive, gloo- 
my, and uncivilized about the aspect 
and surroundings of a factory or a 
factory town. The life which is led 
there has the most stern and sombre 
elements of the monastic institute, 
without the compensating charms 
and attractions. It has something 
also of the state-prison discipline, 
something of the poor-house, and a 
great deal of the Commune. There 



is a dismal and frightful regularity, 
like that of a treadmill, in the exis- 
tence of the population of our facto- 
ry towns of New England. Every- 
thing is arranged both in the mills 
and the boarding-houses with such 
clock-work regularity, and with such 
scanty allowance for any other func- 
tions of life except those which are 
physical, that the place would suit 
much better for a variety of apes 
with sufficient intelligence to work 
machines than for human beings. 
Sunday is free, it is true, thanks to 
the small amount of Christian la\r 
which still survives in our country. 
Catholics can therefore go to Mass 
and sermon, as they do in thousands, 
crowding the vast churches which they 
have built for themselves, in spite of 
the weariness of their week's labor. 
But as for confession, it is made almost 
impossible, and without that they can- 
not enjoy the greatest of their Sunday 
privileges, holy communion. We will 
not enlarge on the obvious fact that 
the regular amount of work exacted 
is excessive. But what is to be said 
of those who take even more than 
the regular and excessive number of 
hours in the day from their over- 
worked rational animals ? At Man- 
chester, N. H., during a mission in 
which the writer was engaged, the 
operatives of one factory were em- 
ployed until half-past nine in the 
evening. Some of them, who made 
a desperate effort to snatch what 
they could of the advantages of the 
mission, complained to us that they 
were half-dead with fatigue, and too 
jaded to care whether they had souls 
or not. We asked if the extra hours 
of work were not voluntary. The 
answer was, that they were so in ap- 
pearance and in pretence, but that 
they did not dare to refuse volunteer- 
ing for extra work, for fear of 
being punished by the ill-will of 
their overseers, and even discharged 



The Duties of the Rich in Christian Society. 



at the first convenient oppor- 
tunity. 

At another New England town, 
West Rutland, Vermont, we found 
that for a considerable time the 
workmen in the marble quarries had 
been forced to take store-pay for their 
wages. All the land, the houses, the 
different branches of business, were 
in the hands or under the control of 
a few capitalists, who would not per- 
mit any of the Irish laborers to ac- 
quire property or gain a permanent 
and independent footing on the soil. 

These are scattered instances, but 
they tell a great deal, and well-in- 
formed readers will know how to fill 
up the picture for themselves. Many 
persons engaged in the system of 
which we are speaking will admit 
its evils and hardships. They ex- 
cuse themselves, however, by the 
plea that they can personally do 
nothing toward changing it for a 
better one. Private efforts, they say, 
would only injure those who made 
them, by enabling the merciless and 
unscrupulous to fill up the market 
and sweep up all the profits. Legis- 
lation, they say, is hopeless, because 
controlled by these very unscrupu- 
lous capitalists. Senator Wilson has 
made this assertion in regard to 
New York. He says it is controlled 
by what he calls a feudal moneyed 
aristocracy. Others would probably 
extend the observation to a much 
wider sphere than New York. We 
do not generally agree in opinion 
with Senator Wilson. But we agree 
with him most heartily in condemn- 
ing and denouncing such a regime 
as this. Only, we would suggest 
that a more appropriate name for it 
would be, instead of feudal, FOODLE 
ARISTOCRACY. It is not only cruel, 
but despicable. Mammon was the 
" meanest spirit that fell," and the 
worship of the golden calf is the 
most degrading of all idolatries. 



The miserably poor, the helpless, 
the suffering, and even the morally 
degraded and vicious classes of the 
community have also their claims on 
the charity of the rich. We have no 
wish to deny that these claims are 
very generally acknowledged in mod- 
ern society, and a great deal done to 
acquit them, both by organized and 
by individual liberality and effort. 
We occasionally see extraordinary 
instances of generous philanthropy 
towards one or another suffering class 
of men. Very lately, we have seen 
the Roosevelt Hospital opened, an ex- 
tensive institution founded by one 
of the old Knickerbocker gentlemen 
of New York, who left $900,000, the 
bulk of his fortune, for this purpose. 
The miseries of our social system are 
nevertheless so vast and fearful that 
the remedies furnished by either 
public or private care are wholly in- 
adequate. Perhaps many persons 
will say that they are remediless. 
There are those who look on tin- 
world and life with cold and merci- 
less eyes. It is a struggle of animals 
for their selfish enjoyment. Let each 
one look out for himself, and the un- 
lucky take their chance. When such 
persons are prosperous and powerful, 
they scorn and oppress the weaker 
individuals who are dependent on 
them. Knowing their own depravi- 
ty, they believe in that of all other 
men. They are therefore perfectly 
pitiless toward their fellow-men. 
" The tender mercies of the wicked 
are cruel." Others who are not 
cruel are sad and disheartened. 
Although they mourn over the ap- 
palling miseries of life, they look on 
them as the inevitable destiny of the 
human race, and do not believe it is 
possible to help them. The philoso- 
phy of the first class is diabolical, 
that of the second is unworthy of 
Christians. We do not mean that 
they err in respect to the point of 



TJie Duties of the Rich in Christian Society. 



fact that these miseries have always 
existed and will exist. But we do 
say that they err in ascribing them 
to the essential order of the world, 
to the constitution of society, to hu- 
man destiny, and not to the wilful 
sins and negligences of men ; they err 
in not believing that God has pro- 
vided a remedy which on his part is 
sufficient and adequate for these mis- 
eries ; and, therefore, they err prac- 
tically, if they do not endeavor to ap- 
ply that remedy as far as they can to 
those miseries with which they come 
in contact. Does one of these ask 
what hope there is of a fundamental 
reformation in society which will 
remedy the crying evils all benevo- 
lent persons see and deplore? We 
answer, that, with all its faults, the 
nineteenth century is really remark- 
able on account of the general inter- 
est which is felt in the improvement 
of the condition of the working and 
suffering classes. What is wanted 
is the knowledge and application of 
the right principles and means for 
accomplishing the result. Commu- 
nism, secularism, and every kind of 
system which denies or ignores 
Christianity, is a remedy worse than 
the disease, which can only produce 
death. Imperfect or sectarian 
Christianity, although capable of pro- 
ducing partial and limited improve- 
ment, is too weak for the task which 
its more generous and enterprising 
professors exact from it, and endeav- 
or to stimulate It to undertake. It is 



only the Catholic Church which is 
competent to such great and univer- 
sal works. She alone has the well- 
spring of divine charity, and the su- 
pernatural agencies for distributing 
its health-giving, fructifying streams. 
Therefore, the hope of a thorough ap- 
plication of the divine remedy to the 
dreadful diseases of humanity is pre- 
cisely commensurate with the hope of 
a return of the whole people of nomi- 
nal Christendom to true Catholic 
Christianity. 

Meanwhile, the duty of each in- 
dividual is to do what he can for the 
benefit of those who are within the 
sphere of his own efforts or influence. 
Let him pay attention to his own de- 
pendents, and to the poor and suffer- 
ing who are immediately around him. 
No one who has wealth, power, or 
influence of any kind will have any 
reason to complain that he lacks the 
opportunity of doing good to his fel- 
fow-men, if he is really desirous of 
doing it. Even if his position is al- 
together that of a private person, he 
can do his part, and that a good and 
noble one, in the general work of hu- 
man redemption. If he has the 
power and the opportunity to act 
upon society, as a public man in a 
greater or lesser sphere, let him re- 
member that he is a Christian, and 
act accordingly, and he will be doing 
precisely what those great and good 
men did in former times who were 
the creators and improvers of oui 
Christian civilization. 



Easter Eve. 



EASTER EVE. 



THE midnight chimes had just 
done ringing, and the old church 
was very still. All day long there 
had been comers and goers, and the 
altar had been wreathed, the stone 
church carpeted, the clustered pillars 
entwined with flowers and with ever- 
greens. Round the altar, that stood 
among the carven stalls like a May- 
shrine in a dark forest-glade, was an 
amphitheatre of blossoming verdure; 
boys' hands had piled up the lilies, 
the violets, the roses, the fuchsias; 
and monks' hands had reared up the 
pyramid of palm, and ivory magnolia, 
and many-colored rhododendron be- 
yond. The palms were golden, not 
green it is true, but they were very 
precious, and could not be spared to- 
day from the festive decoration, for 
they had come from Palestine, and 
only last Sunday had been offered to 
the church. An Eastern guest had 
walked in the procession on Palm 
Sunday, and had dedicated these 
lovely foreign boughs to the God of 
East and West alike. 

Everything was ready for the early 
celebration of the Paschal Mass 
even the golden chalice lay under its 
pall of satin upon the altar of sculp- 
tured cedar-wood. Perhaps the 
transverse timbers of the rare wood 
had not forgotten the time when the 
sea-breezes blew on them on Leba- 
non's heights, and when the voice of 
the young crusader, Hugh of Deve- 
reux, had bidden them fall in the ser- 
vice of God and help to build him 
another sepulchre in a Christian land. 

" The voice of the Lord breaketh 
the cedars !" 

And "now there was no one in the 



old church but the youngest choris- 
ter, Benignus, the nephew of the 
monk Cuthbert. The child was 
never happy save by the altar, and 
had no friend but Cuthbert, because 
he was of the blood of the lords of 
Devereux, and his poor betrayed mo- 
ther was no more. 

Midnight chimes are sweet, and 
the child had a weird passion for 
their sound, and would sit entranced 
while they slowly rang out an old 
well-known church-chant. But when 
they had done, and he thought there 
was silence, he heard a sound he 
knew not growing out of the chimes, 
but different from them, something 
graver than his childish companions' 
prattle, something sweeter than the 
monks' low tones, something that 
seemed like his own soul speaking to 
itself. 

It came from the belfry, straight 
like an arrow of sound, and muffled 
itself in a faint echo among the 
flower-forest round the altar. 

And presently he could make out 
the words : 

" I have spoken to God, and of- 
fered him the last vows of dying 
Lent, and woven into song the 
speechless prayers breathed over 
and yet trembling on thy jewelled 
brim." 

And the child knew it was the 
angel of the bell who spoke. 

And presently there rose a sound 
from the dim-robed altar, and the 
voice of the angel of the chalice 
made answer : " My cup is as a bell 
uplifted, with its song of joy hushed 
in the very words of God, and 
drowned in the flood of ruby light 



Easter Eve. 



43 



that quivers, living and sensitive, 
within my golden walls." 

" And my cup," returned the voice 
of the bell, " is as a chalice inverted, 
with its saving- wealth outpoured in 
strains that reach the human ken ; en- 
dowed with a speaking, living tongue 
that can touch the human heart." 

" I speak of men to God, while my 
fragile stem bears the wondrous pur- 
ple flower of the precious blood, and 
while I am reared aloft with the di- 
vine burden weighing on me, even 
as the cross was reared up high over 
Jerusalem's walls. 

"And I speak of God to men 
while my brazen clangor is heard 
afar like the trumpets of Israel before 
the crumbling walls of Jericho." 

And here the soft breeze from the 
open lancet-windows rustled among 
the sweet-smelling shrubs around the 
altar's base, and, as the night-wind 
passed over them, their voices 
seemed to be blended into its sighs, 
and to have found an interpreter in 
its fitful sound. 

" We are children of many climes, 
and some of us are exiles in this 
land, but under this roof we are at 
home again, and at this festival 
none of us are strangers. We too, in 
all our variety, have scarce one blos- 
som among us that is not a chalice 
or a bell; that holds not high its 
crimson cup towards heaven to re- 
ceive the crystal dew, or hangs not its 
white or purple bell with golden 
tongue towards the unheeding earth. 
On the altar of green turf, on the 
swaying columns of interwoven 
boughs, on the storm-tossed belfries 
of vine-surrounded trees, in southern 
swamp or northern forest, in tropical 
wilderness or rosy-tinted orchard, 
everywhere is stamped the semblance 
of the church, with chalices upreared, 
with bells anxiously bent human- 
ward. O brothers of the altar and 
the tower, let us sing together the 
same hymn." 



And the child Benignus said softly 
to himself: 

" O God ! make my heart a chal- 
ice, and my lips a Christian bell." 

The voices of the flower-chorus 
spoke again, and the lilies of the val- 
ley sang a silver peal behind their 
grass-green curtains : 

" Every day we die by thousands, 
but our seed is borne afar, and drops 
in some fair nook at last, beside a 
running brook or beneath a spread- 
ing beech, even as the last echo of 
the unwearied bell that knocks at 
some heart's door, far away in the 
mountains of worldly care, and 
strikes a well-known, long-silent 
chord, and draws the exile back to 
the fruitful plains of God's OWH 
church. 

The voice from the wind-rocked 
steeple came in swift and loving an- 
swer : 

" Even so, my blossom-sisters, for 
to us the word was given to increase 
and multiply and fill the earth, and 
at every step bring forth fresh glory 
and conquer fresh realms for the God 
of our creation." Then the living 
gems stirred again under the breath 
of the still midnight breeze, and the 
voice came forth anew as the royal 
cactus and the purple morning-glo- 
ries flashed like sun-touched clouds 
in the dusky foliage : 

" Every day our lives are drained 
and our treasures rifled to adorn with 
living beauty the banquets of great 
men, and to strew the halls of mar- 
ble palaces, and yet every day, as the 
sun comes forth again, our parent 
stem is laden once more with ex- 
haustless riches and a more abun- 
dant harvest of loveliness, even as 
the lavished treasures and the scatter- 
ed wealth of the daily chalice are 
ever being shed without intermission 
from the altar into the hearts of thank- 
less men." 

And the sweet low voice came 
back from the shrouded altar : " Yes 



44 



Easter Eve. 



<lear emblems of God's loving prodi- 
gality, for hath he not said : ' Cast 
your bread upon the waters, and after 
many days it shall return to thee ' ? " 

The scarlet fuchsia shook its clus- 
ters of purple bells, planted on a 
blood-red cross, as if it would say to 
men that none could proclaim God 
save they proclaimed him from Cal- 
vary. The tall Nile lily, whose cup 
is as a spotless shroud wrapped 
round a golden nail, swayed in the 
night air as if whispering that the 
way to the resurrection lay across 
the instruments of the passion : the 
ivory-tinted roses, the first-born 
among their kind, whose clustering, 
half-blown buds made a sculptured 
reredos of living alabaster behind the 
altar-cross, wept tears of dew when 
the midnight breeze shook their curl- 
ed petals, as if weeping like sinless 
virgins over the wrongs they knew 
only by name. A carpet of violets 
was spread below, the last offering of 
Lent, the fringes of the sweet pall 
of penance under whose folds the 
church spends her yearly vigil of 
reparation. 

The heart of the child Benignus 
was breaking with joy and love, and 
he longed to be a flower himself, that 
he might sing the hymn the living 
grove had sung. 

The voice of the angel of the bell 
answered his unspoken wish : 

" Wish not that thou wert other than 
that thou art, for Jesus said, ' Unless 
ye become even as little children, ye 
shall not enter into the kingdom of 
heaven.' " 

And the flowers sighed, and gave 
forth a sweeter fragrance, because 
they longed to be little children, and 
could not. 

Then Benignus wished he might be 
an angel, if he could not be a flower, 
and the voice from the altar sounded 
very softly, so low he thought no one 
could hear it but himself: 

" This wish will I put into my cup, 



and when to-morrow dawns, and Je- 
sus finds the first-fruits of this new 
Easter laid at his feet, thou shalt 
have thy answer." 

Then came a soft chorus of wel- 
come and congratulation, breaking 
forth among the flowery worship- 
pers, but the angel of the bell held 
his peace. 

And in the morning, when the sun 
flung his golden curtains across the 
east window and crowned the saints 
and virgins thereon with richer gems 
than living monarchs wear, the Pas- 
chal procession came winding through 
All Hallow's church, and no one 
missed the little chorister Benignus. 
But when his turn in the anthem 
came, a voice seemed to float from 
some unseen corner, and a shower of 
bell-like crystal tones rang in trium- 
phant cadence to the very roof, and 
no one could tell if it were Benignus 
or an angel singing. The organ 
ceased, and the monk Cuthbert look- 
ed anxiously along the lines of white- 
robed choristers, but the child was 
not there. Still the voice sang on, 
and it seemed as if it floated now 
from the chalice on the altar to the 
distant belfry-tower, and then back 
again to the fragrant forest of exotics 
in the choir. And Cuthbert, looking 
up among the half-opened buds of 
the early roses that were piled up di- 
rectly over the tabernacle, thought he 
saw one more lovely than the others 
just break gently from the frail green 
stem, and fall in showering petals 
around the pall-covered chalice, at 
the very minute the wondrous voice 
ceased in one long reverberating 
" Alleluia." 

Then Cuthbert knew who had 
been singing and where Benignus 
was, and he sang the " Gloria in Ex- 
celsis " as he had never done before. 

But the angel of the bell was sad, 
because the child would have helped 
him to bear abroad the message of 
God's truth to men. 



The Twenty -first Catholic Congress in May e nee. 



43 



THE TWENTY-FIRST CATHOLIC CONGRESS IN MAYENCE. 



FROM DER KATHOLIK. 



IT is evident that we have reached 
a turning-point in the history of the 
world ; that a crisis of terrible inter- 
est for the church, for Christian Eu- 
rope, for peoples, and for nations, is at 
hand. It must, indeed, soon be de- 
cided whether Christianity shall con- 
tinue to be, in the life of the nations, 
what from its very nature and design 
it is intended to be; whether it shall 
remain what it has been acknowledg- 
ed to be since it overcame the heath- 
enism of old, the light of the world, 
the supernatural leaven permeating 
all the relations of life, purifying and 
ennobling them ; or whether it shall 
be cast out of public life as an illu- 
sion, and at most and who knows 
how long even that ? be tolerated 
as a species of superstition. The 
nations and especially the recently 
founded German Empire must soon 
decide whether they shall accept as 
their basis the laws of eternal justice, 
whose root is in the holy and person- 
al God, and in him alone; whether 
they will hold to that Christian civil- 
ization which reposes on the public 
recognition of Christianity, of the 
church as a divine institution not 
subject to the arbitrament of man ; 
in fine, whether they will respect as 
sacred those prescriptive rights of 
mankind which every one must re- 
spect who believes in the divine gov- 
ernment of the world rights of which 
history is the evidence ; or whether 
they will yield to the pressure of the 
revolution and of false science, throw 
Christianity and Christian civilization 



overboard, proclaim the present will 
of the dominant political powers or 
party the only and highest law of 
the state, and, having done this, to 
use their immense power to infuse 
this " modern " spirit and these " mo- 
dern " principles into the life of the 
people, and force it on them by every 
means at their disposal, through leg- 
islation, government patronage, their 
system of public instruction, and the 
whole organization of society ; in 
short, whether they will place natur- 
alism and rationalism instead'of Chris- 
tianity, the vital principle of national 
and popular life, and thereby no in- 
telligent person can doubt it, for rea- 
son and experience conspire to teach 
it hasten for the nations the inevi- 
table catastrophe of which the burn- 
ing of Paris was only a premonitory 
symptom. 

And precisely at this fatal moment 
in the history of the world it is that, 
in Germany, a number of men, among 
them a few who have deserved well 
of the church, blinded to a degree 
which it seems hard to account for, 
have raised the standard of rebellion 
against their mother, the church, be- 
cause the (Ecumenical Council did 
not think fit to decide as they 
thought best, because it decided as it 
pleased the pastors of the church 
and the Holy Ghost. The founda- 
tion-stone of the church, laid by 
Christ himself, to preserve unity and 
love within it for ever, has become a 
stumbling-block to them. They have 
made shipwreck of the faith, and 



The Twenty-first Catholic Congress in Mayence. 



burst the bonds of love that held 
them in union with their brethren in 
the faith. Following the example 
of those who before them rebelled 
against the church, they call them- 
selves defenders of the faith, while 
denying the very principle on which 
all faith reposes. Proclaiming human 
science the supreme authority in mat- 
ters of religion, placing it above the 
highest authority in the church, above 
the Pope and the council, above the 
assent of the whole Catholic world, 
they have ceased to be servants of 
God and of his church ; they have 
gone over to the rationalism and na- 
turalism which are striving so hard 
to do away with Christianity entirely, 
and to constitute themselves in its 
place a new cosmopolitan religion. 

The turpitude of their rebellion 
against the church is equalled only 
by that of the means which they have 
adopted to defend it and to spread 
its principles. Repeating the worst 
and most perfidious slanders of the 
past against the church, and giving 
them out as the result of science, 
they proclaim to the world that the 
Apostolic See has for a thousand 
years been the seat of well-concoct- 
ed fraud and deceit, and that in the 
most sacred of matters ; that the Ca- 
tholic Church is dangerous both to 
the state and to morals ; and that the 
decree solemnly proclaimed by the 
(Ecumenical Council, that Christ will 
for ever preserve his visible represent- 
ative on earth from all error in faith 
and morals a belief which has al- 
ways been the key-stone of Catholic 
faith, Catholic life, and Catholic prac- 
tice is a doctrine inimical to the 
rights of the state. Under these pre- 
texts, they require the state to deprive 
the Catholic Church of its rights, and 
of the liberty which has been guar- 
anteed to it by the state, and not to 
recognize the church represented by 
the bishops and the Pope, but them- 



selves, who have renounced all alle- 
giance to it, as the legal Catholic 
Church, the only one recognized and 
promised protection by the state. 
Moreover, they desire that those Ca- 
tholics who have remained faithful to 
the church shall be looked upon as 
recreant to the state, accusing them 
of want of patriotism. Designating 
all those peoples embraced in the Ca- 
tholic Church by the name of the 
Romanists, they, in the name of what 
they designate Germanism, demand 
their oppression and extirpation. 

And, we are sorry to say, these at- 
tempts have not been without some 
success. Individual governments 
have been induced to take steps 
against the church which, a short 
time ago, it was supposed it would 
be impossible to take, and which the 
Catholics living under those govern- 
ments did nothing to warrant. 

During this condition of affairs, 
the one hundred and twentieth Ca- 
tholic Congress met in the second 
week of September in Mayence, 
to give expression in no weak or 
ambiguous terms to their faith, and 
to their views on the condition of 
things; and they did it with that 
unanimity and certainty which Ca- 
tholic faith alone can give a faith 
neither anxious nor troubled with 
doubt, or weakened by the spirit of 
the age. 

This they did by their resolutions 
on the Roman question, on the Vati- 
can Council, and on the more recent 
opposition that has been made to its 
decrees and rightly; for, in the Ro- 
man question, the question of all ex- 
ternal Christian law and order reach- 
es its culminating point, as do theirs 
the constitution of the church itself, 
and the whole of Catholic faith, in 
the decrees of the Vatican Council. 

The occupation of Rome is simply 
robbery a crime against the church, 
against every individual Catholic 



The Twenty-first Catholic Congress in Mayencc. 



47 



which nothing can justify, which no 
principle of international law can 
excuse or cover, which no prescrip- 
tion can make valid. The so-called 
guarantees made to the church by 
the Italian government can never be 
accepted, because they are based 
upon the false principle that the state 
alone has the right to declare under 
what conditions the church and its 
pastors shall exercise their functions 
as teachers, priests, and shepherds of 
the flock functions which they exer- 
cise in virtue of the power conferred 
upon them by Jesus Christ himself; 
because these laws do not by any 
means guarantee to the Pope the 
free discharge of his supreme autho- 
rity as chief pastor, and, moreover, 
because there is not the least security 
that these guarantees will be respect- 
ed. The occupation of Rome and 
of the Quirinal is the culmination of 
the policy of the Italian revolution, 
and the success of that policy the 
disgrace of this age. That the gov- 
ernments of European nations have 
done nothing to defend the Pope is 
an injustice to their Catholic subjects, 
a violation of the law of nations, and 
paves the way, necessarily, to the 
violation of all law and the over- 
throw of all order. And this is why 
it is that Catholics must for ever dis- 
countenance all these acts, and op- 
pose them by all legitimate means. 
And their opposition cannot be right- 
fully construed as insubordination to 
the powers that be, or as a want of 
patriotism on their part. On the 
contrary, Catholics may be sure that 
in so acting they will be doing 
their government and their country 
the greatest possible service. Such 
service has been rendered by the reso- 
lutions of the Catholic Congress in 
Mayence. 

It was well that, at the first general 
meeting of the society after the occu- 
pation of Rome, its members should 



give expression to their thought on 
the wicked act by which, for the third 
time in this century, it was attempt- 
ed to destroy the work founded by 
divine Providence since the chris- 
tianizing of the world, in order to 
secure to the head of the church his 
liberty and the efficient discharge of 
the duties of his high office. Nor 
could the members of the society ex- 
press themselves concerning this crime 
otherwise than in bold words of truth 
and justice in words becoming an 
occasion when the interests of God 
and man are alike at stake in words 
such as nature itself puts into the 
mouth of those who have been the 
victims of great injustice or great 
misfortune. Worldly policy may 
wait, and consider itself justified in 
waiting, to take account of circum- 
stances ; but for us Catholics there is 
but one thing to do when the ques- 
tion is simply this whether Christ 
or Antichrist shall reign, namely, 
what the martyrs did under circum- 
stances still more aggravating, what 
God himself has commanded us to 
do, what we see his representative on 
earth doing to proclaim the truth 
to those in power before kings and 
peoples. 

It was, if possible, yet more ne- 
cessary that the Catholic Congress 
should make a public profession 
of its faith in the decrees of the 
CEcumenical Council of the Vati- 
can, that it should raise its voice 
against those proceedings of the 
government which have no object 
but to hinder the Catholic Church 
in the declaration of its doctrines, and 
to lead or force Catholics into heresy. 
And on these points again the asso- 
ciation, in its resolutions, speaks the 
truth, and expresses the Catholic 
view on them, in the plainest and 
most direct manner, without any 
show of diplomacy or of pedantry. 
We joyfully profess, say they, our 



48 



The Twenty-first Catholic Congress in Mayence. 



faith in everything which the church 
requires, particularly in the infallibi- 
lity of the Pope teaching the univer- 
sal church, and in the very sense in 
which the Vatican Council has de- 
fined it, do we believe it. And we 
are convinced that the definition of 
this truth in our time is no evil, but 
the work of a kind and good Provi- 
dence, intended to strengthen the 
church, to preserve unity, to reclaim 
the erring. We reject with horror 
the caricature of the doctrine of Pa- 
pal infallibility which the opponents 
of the Vatican Council have drawn, 
and we repudiate the slander that 
this doctrine or any other article of 
our faith is in conflict with our duties 
as subjects of our government, or 
with the allegiance which we owe 
our fatherland. We protest against 
the course of those governments 
which have endeavored to hinder 
the propagation of Catholic doctrine 
within their territories, and to favor 
the opposition to the church by their 
protecting the rebellion against it. 
In this manner, they have overstep- 
ped the bounds of their rightful au- 
thority, infringed the rights of con- 
science of their Catholic subjects, and 
made themselves responsible before 
God for a host of evils. The politi- 
cal principles which have led to these 
things are in conflict with the law of 
God, in fact with all law and order, 
and can never be recognized by Ca- 
tholics as right or just. Yet are 
we not without the hope that the 
governments which have been guilty 
of these things will at no distant fu- 
ture forsake the unholy path upon 
which they have entered. 

But the members of the Ca- 
tholic Congress did not confine 
themselves to professing the Catholic 
faith, to raising a protesting voice 
against the encroachments on their lib- 
erties and on their rights rights which 
should be ever inviolate ; they pointed 



out the fertile source from which 
have flown as well the most recent 
evils as the more ancient ones which 
have done so much injury to the Ca- 
tholic life of Germany. The source 
of all these evils, past as well as pre- 
sent, is in a science grounded on 
false principles, and which appropri- 
ates to itself exclusively, but not with 
any show of reason, the name of 
German science. These evils can be 
healed only by the cultivation of real 
Catholic science in Germany, and 
the most recent events demand ab- 
solutely that the reign of such a science 
should be inaugurated at once. But 
so long as the ancient institutions 
founded for Catholic purposes ignore, 
for the most part, the object of their 
being ; when they have gone over, to 
a great extent, to infidelity or to secu- 
lar management, it is extremely im- 
portant, both to pastors and people, 
that new seats of science, of educa- 
tion, of real science and Christian 
education, should be established. 

Such are the principal resolu- 
tions of the Catholic Congress held 
during the present year. What 
these resolutions contain is only the 
echo and essence of the thought of 
the assembly expressed in the ora- 
tions and sayings of the members 
the deep, unanimous, and undoubted 
convictions of all. These same 
thoughts found expression also in 
their addresses to the Holy Father, 
to the Bishop of Ermeland, to the 
Bavarian Episcopate, to the Bishops 
of Switzerland, as well as to the de- 
fenders of the Catholic faith in Italy 
and Austria. But is it right to as- 
sume that the voice of all Catholic 
Germany has been heard, and is 
heard, in the voice of this general 
meeting of Catholics ? True it is 
that they would entirely misunder- 
stand the essence and the spirit of 
the principles of the members of those 
meetings who would invest their do- 



The Twenty-first Catholic Congress in Mayence. 



49 



ings or their sayings as a society 
with any authority ; but they would 
err no less grossly who would con- 
sider these meetings as mere party 
meetings, or as meaning nothing as 
merely the coming together of a few 
private individuals. From the very 
significance of this year's meeting's 
resolutions, it may not be amiss to 
examine the question somewhat more 
closely how much importance is to 
be attached, what significance and 
authority such Catholic meetings may 
have. | 

These general meetings are nothing 
more than the coming together of 
believing Catholics. They do not 
assume to have any power or autho- 
rity ecclesiastical or political. They 
have nothing in their own right that 
entitles them to be considered as pos- 
sessed of such power or authority, 
nor have they a power of attorney 
of any kind to represent any one else 
in these meetings. 

In the church no one has any pow- 
er whatever except those to whom 
Christ has granted it, and only such 
power as he conferred upon them. 
But he has granted no power to any 
one in the church but to Peter and 
the apostles. On this account the 
Catholic Church recognizes no repre- 
sentatives, save only the pope and 
the bishops. There is no such thing 
among Catholics as lay-participation 
in the government of the church. 
Laymen have no power in church 
government that is theirs of right, 
and they in no manner take the place 
of or represent even the inferior cler- 
gy. Every tendency in that direc- 
tion is heretical and schismatical. 

The society in question, and all 
other societies of the same nature, 
have recognized, acted upon, this 
principle from the beginning. Be- 
ing Catholics and wishing to remain 
Catholics, they have never interfered 
in the government of the church, 
vor.. xv. 4 



On the contrary, they consider it 
their duty to show to others the ex- 
ample of the most religious submis- 
sion to the Pope and the bishoys in 
matters relating to faith and eccle- 
siastical discipline. They, therefore, 
represent no party in the church. 
The church wants no parties and re- 
cognizes no parties within its bosom. 
Following the church, the general 
meeting of Catholics negatives every 
division in the body of the churh. 
Its only desire is to find itself always 
one with the church in all things, to 
be simply Catholic and nothing else. 

There is no use in wasting words 
to show that the Catholic Con- 
gress and other Catholic socie- 
ties claim no power of any kind 
whatever in the state. They neither 
represent a political party, nor do 
they belong to any, nor will they ever 
constitute themselves a political par- 
ty in the state. 

True, the members of the societies 
are very far removed, as they ought to 
be, from an unreasonable, unmanly, 
unchristian, and un-Catholic indiffer- 
ence in matters pertaining to the na- 
tion. They are by no means of 
opinion that it matters nothing to o 
Catholic to which party in the coun- 
try he belongs. They believe firmly 
that it is the duty of Catholics, as well 
as their right, to watch over the rights 
of the church and of its members, 
and to defend them by the exercise 
of their political franchises. They do 
not, however, doubt that it is perfect- 
ly legitimate for Catholics, wherever 
they are, to organize themselves 
into a party for the exercise of 
their political rights. But as the po- 
litical life of every individual Catho- 
lic is different from his religious life, 
and that, although he may be guided 
in his politics by the principles of 
Christianity, in like manner these as- 
sociations of Catholics, inasmuch as 
they are Catholic, are something 



The Twenty-first Catholic Congress in Mayence. 



higher and broader than mere politi- 
cal associations. Their objects are 
not the political, but the religious and 
ecclesiastical rights of Catholics. 
This has been the universal under- 
standing of the members of these as- 
sociations from the very beginning of 
their organizations. These have been 
the principles which has always guid- 
ed them, and which they have found 
it well to be guided by. These as- 
sociations have never allowed them- 
selves to forget these principles. 
They have never forgotten them, not 
even in times of the greatest political 
excitement. And in the last general 
meeting, the members of the asso- 
ciation did not swerve from these 
principles by as much as a hair's 
breadth. 

And precisely because these asso- 
ciations have held to their principles 
as Catholics, to the very principles 
we have been mentioning above, are 
they entitled to attention. They 
manifest, in a manner that can be 
relied upon, the mind and conviction, 
the determination and feeling, of those 
who are true to the church and to 
the faith. It thus happens that this 
general meeting of Catholics has giv- 
en expression to the thought and 
feeling of the Catholic clergy and Ca- 
tholic people. And hence it is that 
those who would learn what Catho- 
lics think and feel on the stirring 
questions of the present must turn 
their attention to the resolutions of 
this Catholic Congress. There 
is unmistakable evidence that 
these general meetings express the 
feeling and ideas common to all Ca- 
tholics. For twenty-three years they 
have enjoyed the complete confi- 
dence of the bishops of the church. 
The Holy Father and the bishops 
of Germany have never hesitated to 
bless and to approve the efforts of 
the Catholic association. This were 
impossible if these meetings did not 



give expression to the Catholic mind 
on the questions of the day, if there 
were any danger in them of a depar- 
ture from the principles of the faith 
or of the church. Moreover, we may 
ask, Who are they that take part in 
these meetings ? They are precisely 
those persons who with living faith 
partake of the sacraments, and are in 
habitual attendance at the services of 
the church, and in the life of the church 
generally. During the twenty-three 
years of their existence, these Ca- 
tholic associations have in every 
German diocese and everywhere 
been one with the clergy on all sub- 
jects. Zealous and true Catholics of 
every social position have been large- 
ly represented in them. Hither hava 
come the Catholic nobleman, the 
Catholic of the middle class, the Ca- 
tholic peasant, the physician of souls 
the priest himself sprung from the 
people the Catholic savant, the 
teacher, author, and publicist. Here, 
too, have been represented those Ca- 
tholic societies made up of those who 
really love the church. In short, in 
those societies are represented those 
even who are most despised and 
seldom represented anywhere else. 
The members of the Catholic Con- 
gress are not representatives of 
their individual opinions ; they seek 
no worldly interest. It were more 
than folly for any one to come to those 
meetings with any such intention. 
Neither do these meetings represent 
any party on which they are dependent. 
They represent no majority or mino- 
rity to whom they are responsible. 
Their faith and Catholic feeling it is 
that bring them to these meetings, 
and those they have in common with 
the hundreds and thousands from 
whose midst they come. There is 
a yet stronger argument to show that 
these general assemblies really repre- 
sent the mind of all true Catholics. 
It is their unanimity on all questions 



The Twenty-first Catholic Congress in Maycnce. 



bearing on religion and on the church 
a mark which belongs to Catholics 
exclusively. 

After all this, we feel ourselves war- 
ranted to say that these meetings ex- 
press decidedly the feelings and con- 
victions of those Catholics who are 
worthy of the name. 

But these general assemblies not 
only give expression to the principles 
and sentiments of Catholics on the 
questions of the day, they also tend 
to keep Catholic life awake and ac- 
tive. And just here is the great use 
of Catholic societies. There never 
was a more senseless saying than 
this : " We need no special societies ; 
our society is the Catholic Church." 
Precisely because the Catholic 
Church is a divine and all-embracing 
society, the society of societies, does 
it from its inexhaustible fertility call 
forth from its own bosom, in all 
times, other smaller societies socie- 
ties calculated to meet the peculiar 
wants of the time. The life of Chris- 
tian societies, of church societies, is, 
indeed, a standard by which Catho- 
olic life at any particular time or 
place may be measured. And in our 
own day, when the spirit of evil more 
than ever seeks the destruction of 
the church, mimicking it as he does 
after his own fashion to leave the 
power which societies are calculated 
to wield entirely to the enemies of 
Christianity, to those governed ex- 
clusively by the spirit of the 
world, would be to be more than 
blind. 

At the general meeting held at 
Diisseldorf, Dr. Marx agreed to take 
upon himself the difficult task of 
collecting the statistics of the Catholic 
societies of Germany. At the assem- 
bly held this year, he presented the 
results of his labors. His work is 
imperfect, it is true, but it is a foun- 
dation on which others may build. 
It embraces the statistics of most of 



the German dioceses, and of a num- 
ber of those of Austria. 

The amount of vitality in anything 
or anywhere cannot be made to ap- 
pear in a table of statistics, and the 
best things often thrive in secret. 
Hence it is that the Catholic life of 
Germany is much greater than even 
these tables or any others would give 
one reason to believe. On the other 
hand, much that appears on paper in 
statistics of this kind is of no import- 
ance whatever, or of almost no im- 
portance. Yet the statistical tables 
before us demonstrate that numerous 
live Catholic associations, and of the 
most varied character, have arisen 
during the last twenty-three years. 
and that each general assembly has 
made itself felt now in one place, 
now in another furthering the crea- 
tion of such local associations. So- 
cieties purely religious, such as bro- 
therhoods, sodalities, congregations, 
are not at all or scarcely at all refer- 
red to in these tables. It was part 
of the plan of the work that they 
should be excluded from its tables. 
Yet they are of the very first import- 
ance to the life of the church. Well- 
conducted societies and sodalities for 
young people and of adults like those 
which, thanks be to God, are swing- 
ing up on every side, and particularly 
in the Rhine lands, are the best nur- 
series of real Catholics. Rightly, 
therefore, do these general assemblies 
continue to commend such societies, 
as the general assembly did this year 
the " Society of Young Merchants," 
which was so worthily represented at 
the meeting. Neither have our 
Christian social societies and associa- 
tions been noticed in these tables. 
And for this reason, again, are we 
much richer in associations than we 
should suppose from these tables. 
On the other hand, these statistics 
combine with daily experience to 
show that we are yet only in the 



2 he Twenty-first Catholic Congress in Mayence. 



beginning of the development of this 
society-life ; that, much as we have 
to be thankful for, the time has not 
yet come when we can repose upon 
our laurels. Rather must we work 
with all our strength, with inexhaust- 
ible patience and devotion at the es- 
tablishment of Catholic societies. In 
many parts of Catholic Germany 
there are no, or scarcely any, Catho- 
lic societies, that is, live societies, 
while in others those which have 
been begun are now neglected. It 
is so convenient to allow things to 
go on in the old way, and so hard 
for the most modest association de- 
mands some sacrifice on the part of 
individuals to establish anything 
new. Yet a thing which in the great 
struggle between the church and 
Antichrist is one of the most power- 
ful means of victory is really worth 
the highest sacrifice. Is it not time 
to see that all Christian men should 
organize themselves into societies, 
when infidels and free-thinkers so- 
called are organizing on every side 
to draw everything to themselves ? 
Our indolence would be all the worse, 
all the more inexcusable, were we to 
yield the field to our adversaries, 
since we, whenever there is a ques- 
tion of real live associations, possess 
so great an advantage over every 
other body, not on account of our 
own merits, but because of the spirit 
and strength of Catholic Christen- 
dom. Let the world surpass us in 
material means, let it be far above us 
in its appeal to worldly interests ; it 
is wasting the vital power of faith 
and Catholic love, which alone 
are able to establish and to develop 
associations possessed of real life as- 
sociations which can be productive 
of real good. 

How true this is, is shown by the 
history of the Catholic association 
founded by the departed but never- 
to-be-forgotten Kolping. Based only 



on Catholic faith and relying for sup- 
port on the very simplest of human 
means, it has during the past twenty- 
five years had a steady growth and 
- accomplished untold good. And it 
will ever be so, so long as it holds to 
the simple Catholic principles of 
Kolping. To these associations ot 
young people founded by Kolping 
others have been joined recently as- 
sociations in which the masters of 
these young people meet. To com- 
plete the good work, there is nothing 
now needed but similar societies for 
apprentices. 

What Kolping did for young me- 
chanics must, with suitable modifica- 
tions, be now done for those of both 
sexes occupied in factories and other 
such establishments. This is the 
most important step that can be 
taken by Catholics, to solve certain 
social questions, and which can be 
solved only on Catholic principles. 
Indeed, the greatest social danger of 
the age is the dechristianization and 
demoralization of the laboring classes 
of mechanics and the employees in 
manufacturing establishments. This 
dechristianization and demoraliza- 
tion are, to a great extent, the cause 
of the wretchedness of these classes, 
and make that wretchedness, even un- 
der the most favorable circumstances, 
incurable. What enormous dimen- 
sions has this evil assumed under the, 
in part at least, so unnatural, social, 
and economic relations which mo- 
dern liberal political economy has 
brought about ! But even the evils 
resulting from this condition of af- 
fairs might be healed, if the laboring 
classes could be restored to Christi- 
anity. The Society of Young Mecha- 
nics, founded by Kolping, demon- 
strates that, even under the most un- 
favorable circumstances, the laboring 
classes can be redeemed from evil 
and reclaimed to right, provided they 
can be made to enter the atmosphere 



The Twenty-first Catholic Congress in Mayencc. 



53 



of Christianity in which the members 
of these societies live. Let us work 
unanimously and for the same object, 
and we shall see the number of 
Christian laborers increase. We 
shall see them living more and more 
in one another, associating with one 
another, and being strengthened by 
that association. When we have 
such men, and not before, it will be 
possible to make those associations 
really useful in the improvement of 
the material condition of the labor- 
ing classes. So long, indeed, as the 
laboring classes themselves remain 
unchristian and immoral, it will be 
impossible to do anything for their 
material improvement ; for they will 
never be satisfied. Only by strength- 
ening the spirit of Christianity in all 
classes of society can legislation it- 
self be made Christian s and it will be- 
come Christian just in proportion as 
the several classes of society become 
Christian. 

Let us now examine in brief the 
most important movements which 
the general assembly of this year has 
initiated toward the establishing of 
Catholic societies. 

For a number of years, the princi- 
pal subject that has engaged one 
section of the Catholic Congress 
is the Christian solution of the so- 
called social question. Through the 
efforts of the assembly, the question 
has been fairly brought before the 
clergy and the laity. The session of 
this year has, under this head, recom- 
mended the establishment of Chris- 
tian social associations, the raising of 
helping funds, the encouragement of 
apprcpriate literature, the circulation 
of the Christian Social journal, and 
the erection of dwellings for the labor- 
ing classes. They have pointed out 
how important it is to study on every 
hand the condition of the laboring 
classes, in order to discover the prin- 
ciples on which we must proceed, in 



order to legislate concerning labor 
and the laboring classes in a just and 
Christian manner. 

The general assembly has, more- 
over, recommended the Catholic mis- 
sionary associations in the most em- 
phatic manner. Among these, the 
first place belongs to the Society of 
St. Francis Xavier for Foreign Mis- 
sions, and the Society of St. Boni- 
face. 

Considering the terrible blows that 
have fallen upon France and upon 
Rome, it has become our duty to re- 
double our efforts in behalf of the 
missions to foreign parts, and in be- 
half of the Society of St. Francis 
Xavier; for on those efforts must de- 
pend, in a great measure, the perma- 
nency and spread of Catholic mis- 
sions the world over. Unfortunate- 
ly, the Society of St. Francis Xavier 
has gone backward rather than for- 
ward, in Germany, during the last 
ten years. In many places it has 
ceded to other societies. And yet it 
should not be so. The Society of St. 
Francis Xavier is and must remain 
the first and most important of all 
missionary associations. It embraces 
the missions to all parts of the world, 
and they all look to it for support. 
Even Germany has been helped by 
it more than by any other associa- 
tion ; and now, although the Society 
of St. Boniface has extended so 
widely, it cannot be dispensed with. 
Therefore it is that all Catholics, and, 
above all, the clergy, who are always 
in all matters pertaining to Christi- 
anity the divinely appointed leaders 
of the people, should take the deep- 
est interest in the Society of St. Francis 
Xavier. The Society of St. Boniface will 
suffer nothing from this. On the con- 
trary, the more the Catholic spirit is 
strengthened, the more will this and 
every other Catholic society thrive. 
As truly as the church embraces the 
whole world, so truly can we not be 



54 



The Tiventy-first Cat ho Tic Congress in Mayencc. 



real Catholics if we feel an interest 
only in the missions of our own 
country, but none in the missions to 
other parts of the world. 

True it is that charity demands us 
to look first to the wants of those 
who are our nearest neighbors. And 
on this account the Society of St. 
Boniface cannot be too strongly 
recommended to our benevolence. 
The general meeting has done its 
duty in this matter. It has recom- 
mended the society in very earnest 
terms. 

Besides these great societies, there 
are other smaller ones with special ob- 
jects of charity in view smaller, but 
by no means unimportant. The So- 
ciety of the Holy Sepulchre is, inde- 
pendently of its religious object, the 
most powerful auxiliary of the mis- 
sions in the East. The Society of 
St. Joseph is doing the work of the 
Society of St. Boniface among the 
large and exposed Catholic German 
population in large and foreign cities, 
and especially such cosmopolitan 
cities as Paris and London. 

A work of the highest importance 
is to care for the emigrants to Ame- 
rica. Here it is possible to do a 
great deal with little means. The 
Committee on Emigration, presided 
over by Prince von Isenburg, has 
placed its cards of recommendation 
at the disposal of all parish priests, 
in order that emigrants presenting 
those cards to the agents of the Ca- 
tholic Emigration Society in Ameri- 
ca may receive proper advice and 
direction in their new homes, and 
who would have imagined it ? those 
cards of recommendation have been 
used much less than one might right- 
fully expect. 

How great is sometimes our igno- 
rance or indifference concerning the 
interests of religion ! It was, cer- 
tainly, only right that the general 
assembly of this year should have 



approved the founding of an associa- 
tion, that of the Archangel Raphael, 
whose sole object it is, besides the 
saying of a few prayers for the suc- 
cess of this movement in behalf of 
the emigrants, to defray the heavy 
expenses of the same, and thus to 
relieve the president of the commit- 
tee of that charge. We hear many 
exclaim just here, We have too 
many associations, too many meet- 
ings ! We know very well that, when 
societies increase beyond measure, 
even when those societies are benevo- 
lent ones, there may be danger. But 
that there may be danger is no rea- 
son why we should not encourage 
the organization of such societies 
when they may be necessary or useful. 
We do not, however, wish to blame 
the taking of steps to prevent too 
great a competition of societies hav- 
ing charitable or other objects in 
view. 

The Catholic Congress this year 
could not well help as, indeed, 
all those which preceded it did 
considering the school question. 
There can be no question that the 
anti-Christian party in the state 
is straining every nerve to do away, 
by means of legislation, with the 
right of Catholic parents to a Catholic 
education of their children in Catho- 
lic schools with the right of the 
church to instruct her people in a 
Catholic manner, and to found in- 
stitutions for that purpose. The 
members of the assembly spoke on 
these matters in no ambiguous terms, 
and took, besides, into consideration 
what they should do in case the state, 
siding with the liberalism of the day, 
should banish the Catholic religion, 
the Catholic Church, from the schools 
of the nation. Should this happen, 
there was nothing left but to appeal to 
the consciences of parents. It then 
became the duty of bishops to tell 
their people that it was not allowed 



The Twenty-first Catholic Congress in Maycncc. 



55 



them to send their children to un- 
christian schools. Liberty of edu- 
cation must be defended to the ut- 
most, and every sacrifice made in or- 
der to give Catholic children oppor- 
tunities for a Catholic education from 
the primary schools to the university. 
But the impression is not hereby in- 
tended to be conveyed that in this 
Catholics see the salvation of the 
church, of her children, and of the 
nation. No ; they will always re- 
mind princes and states that it is 
their solemn duty to govern a Chris- 
tian people in a Christian manner, 
and, leaving out of consideration the 
sacredness of the foundations and 
the right of the church to teach, 
to give their Catholic subjects Ca- 
tholic schools schools standing in 
proper relations with the church. 

Yet, on account of the more uni- 
versal questions, and the great con- 
tests which the church is waging for 
her most important possessions, for 
the independence and for the integ- 
rity of its faith, the school question, 
even at this meeting, was held some- 
what in the background. 

The general assembly was con- 
tent with adopting a few resolutions, 
embodying the simple principles 
which must guide Catholics, should 
the state break with the church on 
the school question, and, violating 
the natural and prescriptive rights of 
Catholics, introduce a system of non- 
Catholic schools principles not suf- 
ficiently recognized by even well- 
meaning Catholics. These resolutions 
are worded thus : " The monopoly of 
the school system by the state is an 
unwarranted restriction of liberty of 
conscience, and therefore to be op- 
posed by all Catholics. Very many 
of the schools have notoriously been 
founded by Catholics, and it is only 
just that they should continue to ac- 
complish those ends for which they 
are established. In these schools, 



and in all Catholic schools yet to be 
established, the Catholic Church must 
possess perfect and unrestricted lib- 
erty in its capacity as a teacher." 
Thus, while the school question was 
not the most prominent before the 
general assembly, the words spoken 
at that meeting will not, we hope, be 
without beneficial results in the p*>- 
vince of Catholic education. 

All rights and liberties avail noth- 
ing in the end if Catholic education 
itself is not what it ought to be. And 
the great battle that is waging, that 
education may not be deprived of 
its Christian character, can be won 
by us only on condition that teachers 
and educators themselves, as well as 
parents and the clergy, understand 
precisely the full bearing of the ques- 
tion. 

It was, therefore, a happy thought 
to unite teachers, clergy, and parents 
into one grand society, in order to 
further the great matter of Christian 
education a matter on which our 
whole future for weal or woe depends. 
The association of teachers founded 
in Bavaria, approved by the bishops, 
embracing among its members many 
distinguished men, and directed by 
one evidently called by God to fill 
that very position, Ludwig Aner, has 
sought and is seeking to carry this 
thought into practice. The Catholic 
Congress held at Diisseldorf had al- 
ready called attention to the impor- 
tance of establishing similar societies 
elsewhere, only modified in their cha- 
racter by the different nature of place 
or other circumstances. The realiza- 
tion of this thought was a matter for 
the meeting at Mayence to consider 
more closely yet. There was here 
assembled a goodly number of edu- 
cators and friends of youth from eve- 
ry part of Germany, among them a 
number of the most widely known 
teachers in the country; and they 
took occasion to most earnestly con- 



The Twenty -first Catholic Congress in Maycncc. 



fer on this matter each day of the 
meeting. They gave a general plan, 
and threw out some' very practical 
hints for the organization of Catholic 
educational associations. 

We give them here with the hope 
that they may prove as fertile in 
blessings as did those thrown out on- 
a former occasion, and which result- 
ed in the Society of St. Boniface, and 
in the Catholic Association for Young 
Men, so often, recommended by those 
meetings since. 

The matter is one of at least as 
much importance, and the general 
plan of the organization of these so- 
cieties at least as simple and practi- 
cal. Here are the broad outlines of 
the plan : " The task of education, 
rendered more than ever before diffi- 
cult on account of the times in which 
we live, and the school question, now 
everywhere looming into such im- 
mense proportions, render the foun- 
dation of Catholic educational insti- 
tutions imperative. 

The Mayence Association of Teach- 
ers pointing to the association alrea- 
dy existing in Bavaria -suggests the 
following as the ground principles of 
the new associations : 

I. The Catholic educational asso- 
ciations recognize as their foundation, 
first and last, die faith of the Catholic 
Church. 

II. Excluding all party issues, their 
only object is the furtherance of the 
temporal and eternal welfare of youth. 

III. The Catholic educational as- 
sociations desire that the youth of 
the age should profit by all that the 
world has of good, and that in their 
education all that it has of evil should 
be avoided. 

Therefore, they are ready to ac- 
cept and to use all that there is of 
real worth in the educational systems 
of the age, all that can promote real 
progress. 

IV. These associations consider 



the proper education of youth in the 
family, the schools, and later in life, 
that is, after the youth have left the 
schools, as their exclusive object. 

Therefore is it that they accept as 
members, parents, teachers, the cler- 
gy, and all who, in any manner, are 
interested in the education of 
youth. 

V. They recommend to these as- 
sociations, i. The defence and pro- 
pagation of Catholic principles in 
education by word, writing, and ac- 
tion. 2. The defence of the rights 
of parents to the Christian education 
and Christian instruction of their 
children. 3. The improvement of 
the family education of children, of 
schools, and the providing of means 
for the continuance of education after 
children leave schools. 4. The fur- 
therance of the interests of teachers, 
to support them in their efforts in the 
direction of education, and particu- 
larly to help to elevate their material 
and social position ; the collecting of 
funds to aid in the education of 
teachers, and in the support of their 
widows. 5. The encouragement of 
literature bearing on the interests of 
education. 6. Founding and caring 
for educational institutions of all 
kinds schools for children, boys, 
girls, apprentices, etc. 

VI. The means for attaining the 
objects of these associations are, be- 
sides the means suggested by the 
very nature of our holy religion, i. 
Periodicals; 2. Appropriate publica- 
tions for teachers and for families ; 3. 
The establishment of libraries and li- 
terary associations ; 4. Co-operating 
with other associations the pecu- 
niary assistance needed in any case 
to be obtained by regular fees from 
the members, presents, etc. 

VII. The getting up of particular 
by-laws to be left to the associations 
from each separate province, but the 
by-laws to be got up in such a man- 



TIic Tivenly-first Catholic Congress in Maycnce. 



57 



ner that the above principles be not 
ignored. 

The elevation of the tone and the 
support of the Catholic press must 
ever be one of the principal objects 
of all Catholic associations, and of 
the general meetings. 

This year a great number of Cath- 
olic publishers and editors came to- 
gether at this meeting. All the princi- 
pal organs of the Catholic daily press 
were represented. The principal ob- 
ject gained was that they became ac- 
quainted with one another, which is 
the first step towards their under- 
standing and appreciating one an- 
other. 

As far as the press is concerned, 
we Catholics have nothing to do but 
to look at things just as they stand. 
It is certain that the unrestricted 
freedom of the press, which every one 
is ready to abuse, and which allows 
every one to constitute himself a teach- 
er of the public, can be defended nei- 
ther on principles of reason nor of 
faith. It is certain, too, that the 
rank growth of periodicals which has 
followed with all its attendant evils, 
and the heterogeneous character of 
the reading of a great many people, 
is a deplorable evil. But as, unfortu- 
nately, an unchristian press is guar- 
anteed the fullest liberty and the evils 
that flow from that liberty, are wide- 
ly spread, it becomes not only our 
privilege, but our solemn duty to 
combat the unchristian by a really 
Christian press a matter on which 
the church and the head of the church 
have spoken in an unmistakable 
manner. Yes, it is absolutely neces- 
sary to call a Catholic journal into 
existence on every hand, and to spare 
no sacrifice to do so. The beginnings 
of the Catholic press have been every- 
where small, and those who have in- 
.terested themselves in it have every- 
where had to contend with untold 
difficulties. This is true particular- 



ly of the larger journals, which, to en- 
able them to compete with other 
journals, need support from other 
sources besides that derived from 
subscriptions and advertisements. It 
is certainly the duty of Catholics, out 
of pure love for God and for the 
church, to establish Catholic press 
associations, in order to provide 
means for the support of Catholic 
papers, just as the government and 
political parties*find funds to support 
their own organs. The financial dif- 
ficulties which the larger journals 
have to fear consist sometimes only 
in the apprehension of too great a 
competition on the part of smaller or 
other journals. There may be such 
a thing as a reprehensible competi- 
tion, when, for example, as in the 
same locality attempts are made to 
found or establish new journals of 
the same nature as those already ex- 
isting, when those already existing 
are sufficient to supply the demand. 
But, on the whole, we have by no 
means thus far enough Catholic pa- 
pers. There was a time, and it is not 
yet entirely over, when Catholic Ger- 
many had very few papers among 
the daily press of the country. And 
almost every one of these few papers 
had an equal prospect, and it natur- 
ally enough seemed to be the ambi- 
tion of the -editor or proprietor of 
each- to make his paper the central 
organ of the whole of Catholic Ger- 
many. 

Naturally enough, too, those pe- 
cuniarily or otherwise interested in 
these journals looked with a rather 
jealous eye upon all attempts to 
found other Catholic journals. 
Whenever a new paper was estab- 
lished, the old ones lost a number of 
subscribers, and sometimes fears were 
entertained for the existence of the 
older papers themselves. But 
experience has shown that these 
fears were unfounded. Wherever 



The Twenty-first Catholic Congress in M aye nee. 



and whenever a paper was properly 
managed and ably edited, it has con- 
trived to live and to do well. Thus 
competition has, on the whole, work- 
ed advantageously rather than other- 
wise. 

If we look at the matter closely, 
we will see that it is quite an abnor- 
mal state of affairs that Catholic Ger- 
many should possess so few of the 
larger political papers. Compared 
with the time when Catholics had no 
press at all, the existence of even one 
good paper through which they can 
give expression to their thoughts is 
a great blessing and a great gain ; 
but that certainly does not enable 
them to give their voice that weight 
in the questions of the day to which 
it is entitled. Besides, it must be re- 
membered that, if Catholics have not 
this class of papers, they will take 
periodicals which are not Catholic. 
Experience teaches, and it might be 
expected from the very nature of 
things that a paper can rarely obtain a 
very large circulation outside of the 
locality in which it is published. 
Outside of these bounds it will find 
only a few isolated subscribers. 
Hence it follows fnat every large 
city ought to have its own Catholic 
paper, one that will worthily re- 
present it. 

These papers outside of the place 
of their publication will thus find a 
number of subscribers a number 
which will always depend upon the 
ability with which they are edited, the 
reliability of the views they advocate, 
and the interest which on other 
grounds they may awaken. We 
cannot, however, be satisfied with a 
so-called central organ, or with a 
small number of large papers. No, 
every large city should havens Cath- 
olic paper, and support it, cost what 
it may. We thank God that such 
papers have, during the past year, 
been established in many parts. 



That such a journal should be estab- 
lished in the capital of the new Ger- 
man Empire, at the seat of govern- 
ment, was an evident necessity ; and 
it is one of the most pleasant events 
in the history of our time that a pa- 
per like the Germania should have 
in a short time taken its position as 
a first-class and widely circulated 
Catholic journal. 

All our already existing Catholic 
journals, and all those to be here- 
after established, instead of hindering, 
will help one another, and that from 
the very fact that they exist; for, 
the stronger the Catholic press be- 
comes, the more the attention of th 
nation is called to it, the more secure 
must become the existence of each 
individual journal. Therefore, we 
hope that there will be no jealousy 
between those interested in different 
Catholic journals ; that, on the con- 
trary, they will help support one 
another at all times. Still more im- 
portant is it to take a proper view of 
the smaller local press. It would be 
a great absurdity were Catholics 
to neglect the establishment of 
smaller Catholic journals lest they 
should interfere or compete with 
the larger ones. This competition is 
not dangerous ; but it is dangerous 
to put no antagonist in the field to 
meet and to oppose the unchristian 
press in smaller places. The large 
journals can neither be paid for nor 
read by the vast majority of the in- 
habitants of such places and does 
it not seem wrong to leave them, or 
the Catholics among them, to the 
evil influence of a press totally an- 
tagonistic to the faith ? The estab- 
lishment and support of such papers 
is not hard, and the financial difficul- 
ties which stand in the way of the 
larger papers for the larger cities are 
not to be here encountered. Wher- 
ever the matter of the establishment 
of such papers has been rightly taken 



The Twenty-first Catholic Congress in Mayence. 



59 



in hand, it has proved successful. If 
the clergy only take the matter 
under advisement, they will find 
those willing and able to carry the 
matter through. It is not a very 
hard matter to purchase a press and 
find subscribers in such places. A 
feature which will contribute not a 
little to aid in the matter is the find- 
ing of the proper person to carry the 
papers around and to canvass for sub- 
scribers and advertisements. By 
being thus practical, Catholic men 
have established Catholic papers 
in localities where one might have 
despaired of ever establishing them; 
and not only have they been es- 
tablished, but they have succeeded. 
No matter what the condition of our 
press, it is far from being in a state 
to despair of. Oh ! if the children of 
light were only as wise as the chil- 
dren of the world, we should witness 
wonders. It is true that evil makes 
its way in this world better than 
goodness does ; but it is also true 
that goodness does not prosper, be- 
cause those who represent it take the 
matter too lightly, or do not go 
about it as they should. More is often 
clone for the worst cause than men 
are willing to do or to sacrifice for 
the best. A great deal has of late 
years been done for the local press, 
and we sincerely hope that a great 
deal more will be done and more 
universally, and need requires us not 
only to pray, but to act and make 
sacrifices. 



Other proposals were made at the 
general meeting to carry out projects, 
which of course the general meet- 
ing itself could neither undertake nor 
perfect, as, for instance, the further- 
ance of this or that literary under- 
taking; yet these proposals are not 
without their use. They suggest 
something or call attention to some- 
thing already existing. Thus, at the 
present general meeting the estab- 
lishment of a journal as the organ for 
the various associations of young 
Catholics was recommended. The 
proposer of the resolution was in- 
formed that there already existed a 
journal of that character, and a very 
good one ; that it was published by 
the associations of young Catholics 
in Austria, and edited in a very 
able manner, under the name of the 
Bund in Vienna ; and the general 
meeting, therefore, recommended it 
for the purpose named. Many other 
things relating to the press were 
touched upon. We feel assured that 
the general meeting has done much 
for the Catholic press of the whole 
country. 

We pass over many things bearing 
on Catholic charity, which ever en- 
gages anew the attention of the 
general meeting. We can only men- 
tion that the members of St. Vin- 
cent's Association held a special 
meeting. 

May the blessing of God, which 
has never failed the Catholic Con- 
gress, bless their efforts of this year ! 




6o 



Fleurange. 



FLEURANGE. 

BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF " A SISTER'S STORY." 

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION. 

PART FIRST. 
THE OLD MANSION. 



VII. 



FLEURANGE'S education did not al- 
low her to yield to her feelings with- 
out bringing herself to an account 
for them, and it was surprising she 
had thus unresistingly allowed her- 
self to b^ swayed so long by a vague 
and unreasonable preoccupation. 
And could there be one more so than 
this about an unknown person a 
stranger she had only had a glimpse 
of, with whom she had not exchang- 
ed a single word, and whom she 
would probably never behold again ? 
This was the third time she had 
heard him spoken of since the day 
she saw him in her father's studio, 
and each time she felt agitated and 
disturbed. When questioned by Dr. 
Leblanc, her first emotion was over- 
powered by surprise, and especially 
by the sad remembrances awakened. 
Afterwards, when Julian Steinberg 
mentioned Count George at the 
Christmas dinner, his name gave her 
a thrill, but she attributed this keen 
sensation to a natural interest in the 
hitherto unknown individual' who 
purchased the picture which had. 
played so important a role in her life. 
But this time the quickened pulsa- 
tions of her heart and the ardent cu- 
riosity with which she listened to 
every word that was uttered were 
succeeded by a prolonged reverie 



which almost merited the name of 
madness. " Yes, Julian was right ! 
That is really what he looks like ! " 
she exclaimed aloud. And every 
hero with whom history, poetry, or 
old legends had peopled her imagin- 
ation, passed one by one before her, 
but always under the same form. 
Then, as there is no hero without 
heroic feats, and no heroism without 
combats and perils, a series of terri- 
ble events succeeded each other in 
her waking dream battles, ship- 
wrecks, desperate enterprises, and 
dangers of all kinds, in which the 
same person was the chief actor, and 
in all these phantasmagoric adven- 
tures she saw herself enacting an in- 
explicable and indistinct part. 

A whole hour passed thus, but 
the declining day recalled a habit 
contracted in childhood which chang- 
ed the current of her thoughts and 
brought her to herself. It was sun- 
set in Italy, the hour of the Ave 
Maria,. Fleurange never forgot it. 
Every evening at that hour, a short 
prayer^rose from her heart to her 
lips. 

Every one is aware of the power 
of association. We have all felt the 
influence of a tone, a flower, a per- 
fume, and even things more trifling, 
in recalling a host of remembrances 



Flcurangc. 



61 



of which no one else could see the 
connection. What a natural and 
touching thought, then, to associate 
a holy memory with the hour that 
links day with night ! the hour of 
twilight, when the dazzling sunlight 
is fading away, work is suspended, 
and propitious leisure brings on long, 
sweet, and sometimes dangerous 
reveries ! In such a case, it is not 
surprising the evening star becomes 
a safeguard. Has not the effect it 
had on Fleurange been experienced 
a thousand times by others ? 

A sudden clearness of perception, 
strength to prevail over all earthly 
phantoms, an aspiration towards 
heaven, an instantaneous revival of 
early impressions, an influx of salu- 
tary thoughts dispelling the confused, 
illusory ideas floating in her mind 
such was the effect now produced 
by the remembrance indissolubly as- 
sociated with that evening hour. 
She resolutely got up. Her attitude, 
that had been languishing, her look 
lost in space, were now transformed. 
She awoke to a sense of duty, and 
the feeling was not a transient one. 
What was this madness that had 
overpowered her ? Putting this 
question to herself brought a blush 
of confusion to her face, and made 
her resolve to resist and overcome 
reveries so vain and absurd. And to 
this end she would cut them short. 
She reopened her note-book, and be- 
gan by tearing out the page on 
which was the name but just written ; 
then, with no further examination of 
her thoughts, even for the purpose 
of self-reproach, which would have 
been another way of prolonging 
them, she seated herself at her table, 
and took up a volume (-f Dante 
which lay there. She had promised 
Clement to mark some passages of 
the canto they read together the eve- 
ning before, and to add some notes 
from her own memory. She at once 



set herself to work, and endeavored 
to give her whole mind to the occu- 
pation. It is often easier, we all 
know, to abstain from an act than to 
repress a thought. Perhaps the vo- 
lition is at fault in the latter case ; but 
Fleurange was so firmly resolved to 
obtain a victory of this kind that, at 
the end of half an hour's effort to 
keep her mind on her work, she 
thought herself successful. She 
would have been more sure of her- 
self had she foreseen all that was so 
soon to come to her aid, and banish 
from her mind for a long time all 
vain illusions, vague reveries, and es- 
pecially all exclusive self-preoccupa- 
tion. 

It was quite dark when she rose 
from the table. She heard the clock 
strike, and felt ashamed of remaining 
so long in her room by herself, at 
a time she should have been unusu- 
ally attentive to others. This was 
the last evening Clara would spend 
at home previous to her marriage, 
and it ended a period of unalloyed 
happiness in the Old Mansion. One 
place in the family was about to be 
vacated, a beloved form disappear, 
a cherished one cease to make 
part of their daily life. They would 
probably see each other again, but it 
would not be as before. The happi- 
ness of her who was to leave them 
would change its nature, but even 
her mother hoped she would be 
so happy as never to regret the pa- 
ternal roof. Clara's smiling face was 
grave and tearful to-day, as her ten- 
der glances wandered from her pa- 
rents to her brothers and sisters, and 
lingered lovingly on the old walls 
she was about to leave. Julian was 
terrified by her melancholy appear- 
ance, but felt reassured when Clara, 
smiling and weeping at the same 
time, said to him naively : 

" Julian, it is you that I love ! To- 
morrow I shall leave them all for 



62 



Fleurange. 



you, and I truly feel I never could 
give you up for them. Is not this 
enough ?" 

" No. If I do not see you calm 
and full of trust, I shall not enjoy my 
happiness." 

" My trust in you is boundless." 

" And yet you tremble, and your 
eyes are turned away." 

" Because the unknown happiness 
of a new life makes me anxious, and 
terrifies me in spite of myself. 
I tremble, I acknowledge, but I do 
not hesitate. I am afraid, but I 
wish to be yours, and no fear would 
induce me to resume the past or re- 
pulse the future for the future is 
you!" 

It may surprise some to learn 
that this young girl, in speaking to 
her betrothed of their approaching 
union, expressed unawares the senti- 
ments death inspires in those souls 
whose love extends beyond the 
grave, and who, triumphing over 
their weakness and limited know- 
ledge, ardently long, in spite of 
their fears, for the eternal union that 
awaits them. 

One of these beings, holy and 
gifted, being asked, as her life was 
ebbing away, what impression the 
prospect of death made on her, hesi- 
tated, and then replied : 

" The impression that the thought 
of marriage produces on a young 
girl who loves, and yet trembles 
who fears union, but desires it." 

Fleurange, when she left her cham- 
ber, went down to the gallery, where 
she expected to find her cousins, but 
it was empty. The preparations for 
the morrow caused an unusual dis- 
order throughout the house, general- 
ly so quiet and well-ordered. Clara 
was doubtless with her mother,, but 
where was Hilda ? The latter, she 
knew, would have another sad fare- 
well to utter the following day, and 
she reproached herself for having so 



long lost sight of this fact. She 
passed through the gallery and 
opened the door of the library, where 
she found her whom she was seeking. 
Ludwig Dornthal and Hansfelt were 
talking together, and near them Hil- 
da, mute, pale, and motionless, was 
listening, without taking any part in 
the conversation that was going on 
before her. 

Hansfelt was talking to this friend 
of his departure, and spoke as one 
who was never to return. He was 
apparently thinking of nothing but 
their long friendship, their youth 
passed together, and the end of their 
companionship, but his accents were 
profoundly melancholy, and all the 
harmony of his soul seemed dis- 
turbed. 

Ludwig, however, was extremely 
agitated, and, while replying to his 
friend, looked attentively and anx- 
iously, from time to time, at his 
daughter. Fleurange softly ap- 
proached her; Hilda's cold hand re- 
turned her pressure. "I am glad 
you have come," she said in a low 
tone, " very glad." Fleurange did 
not venture to make any reply, and 
scarcely looked at her, for fear of in- 
creasing her emotion by appearing 
to observe it. Seeing an open jewel- 
case lying on the table, she ex- 
claimed glad to find something to 
say : " What a beautiful bracelet !" 

" It is a wedding present Hans- 
felt has just brought Clara," said the 
professor. 

" Yes, a wedding present, and a 
parting gift which Ludwig has al- 
lowed me to offer one of his daugh- 
ters," said Hansfelt. " As for the oth- 
er," continued he in a troubled tone, 
" the time for her wedding presents 
will doubtless soon come also, but the 
time for a parting gift has already 
arrived. Ludwig, in memory of the 
pleasant years during which I have 
seen her grow up, and as a souvenir 



Fleurange. 



of this last day, will you allow me to 
give Hilda this ring ?" 

The professor made no reply. 

Hansfelt continued : " In truth, a 
departure like mine is so much like 
death, that it gives me a similar lib- 
erty to say anything. Hilda, why 
should I not acknowledge it to you 
now in his presence ? It will do no 
harm. Well, you shall know, then, 
that the old poet, whose forehead is 
more wrinkled than your father's, 
would perhaps- be foolish enough to 
forget his age were he to remain 
near you. It is therefore well for 
him to go." 

He took the young girl's icy hand 
in his. " If he were younger," he 
continued, forcing himself to smile, 
"he might perhaps obtain the right 
to give you a different ring than 
this." He stopped alarmed. Hilda's 
face had become frightfully pale, 
and she leaned her head against 
Fieurange's shoulder. She seemed 
ready to faint. 

" Hilda, good heavens !" 

" Zounds, Karl," cried the professor, 
arising abruptly. " You try my pa- 
tience at last. Where are your wits ?" 



" Ludwig !" 

" Yes, where, if you cannot see 
that you are yet young enough to 
force me to give you my daughter, if 
I would not behold her die with 
grief?" 

" Ludwig !" repeated Hansfelt, 
quite beside himself. 

" Of course I am displeased with 
her for her folly, and I am angry with 
you too, but I suppose I must forgive 
you both because because she loves 
you." 

" Beware, beware ! Ludwig," said 
Hansfelt, growing pale. " There are 
hopes that prove fatal when blast- 
ed !" 

" Come, now, you must not die 
yet, nor she either ! Then he ten- 
derly folded his daughter in his arms, 
and. as she opened her eyes and look- 
ed around in confusion, he said in a 
low tone : 

" Hilda, my child, I give my con- 
sent. May you be as happy as you 
desire. You have your father's bless- 
ing. Come, now," said he to Fleur- 
ange, " let us go to your aunt, and 
leave them to make their own dis- 
closures." 



VIII. 



Madame Dornthal was affected 
but not surprised at hearing what had 
just taken place. She had never 
been deceived as to her daughter's 
sentiments, and for a long time had 
endeavored to open her husband's 
eyes. But he was incredulous, and 
persisted in declaring it was impos- 
sible for his friend, his contemporary, 
his " old Karl," even to win the 
heart of a girl of twenty. " It is a 
mere fancy, which will pass away 
as soon as she meets a man of her 
own age who is worthy of her," he 
obstinately repeated. 

" Perhaps so, but that is the diffi- 
culty," replied the sagacious, clear- 



sighted mother. " Between you and 
Hansfelt, Hilda has become accus- 
tomed to live in a rarer atmosphere 
than generally surrounds youth. 
Whether this is fortunate or unfortu- 
nate, I know not ; but as long as I 
perceive only pure and noble senti- 
ments in her heart, which I read like 
an open page, I do not feel I have 
a right to oppose them. Believe 
me, we must not think too much of 
our children's happiness, and, above 
all, we must not plan for them to be 
happy according to our notions. The 
important thing, after all, is not for 
them to be as happy as possible, but 
to fully develop their worth. Let 



Fleurangc. 



their souls, confided to us, bear all the 
fruit of which they are capable. Is 
not this the chief thing, Ludwig ?" 

The more worthy one is to hear 
such language, the less easy it is to 
reply, and this conversation, which 
took place the evening before, made 
Ludwig waver at the interview in 
the library, and drew from him un- 
awares his consent. 

" We shall now lose them both," 
said the professor sadly. 

" I should rather see them happy, 
as we are, than happy for our benefit," 
courageously replied his wife, with a 
greater effort than she wished to ap- 
pear. 

All misunderstanding being now 
cleared away, and the consent of 
every one obtained, it was at once 
decided that Hansfelt's departure 
should be delayed a fortnight, and 
at the end of that time he should go, 
but not alone ! The last evening the 
two sisters spent together under the 
paternal roof became therefore, doub- 
ly memorable ; but they were all 
calmer than might have been expect- 
ed. The professor, in spite of the sug- 
gestions of his reason, in spite of the 
evident wisdom of his opinion and 
opposition, could not look at his 
daughter without feeling that the pro- 
found and tranquil joy which beam- 
ed from her eyes was permanent and 
satisfying, and the reflection of that 
joy on Hansfelt's inspired brow and 
softened look involuntarily showed the 
secret of her affection for him. 

" Well, my venerable Karl, it must 
be acknowledged you look quite 
youthful to-night !" 

" How could it be otherwise ? I 
was withering away, and now my 
freshness has returned; my life seem- 
ed hopeless, and now it is lit up. 
This resurrection, this new existence, 
is like the restoration of youth, and, 
more than that, it elevates and en- 
nobles. If noblesse oblige, so does 



happiness, and what would I not do 
now to merit mine ?" 

The following day, the bright sun 
cast a brilliancy around the form of 
the young bride, which was declared 
a lucky omen, in addition to many 
others carefully noted by the super- 
stitious affection of those who sur- 
rounded her. 

The Mansion, as we have said, was 
very near the church, and the wed- 
ding procession was made on foot, to 
the great satisfaction of those who 
composed it, as well as of the curi- 
ous spectators. Clara, crowned with 
myrtle and clad in white, was as 
lovely a bride as one could wish to 
see, but there was no-less admiration 
for the two young girls who, follow- 
ed by several others, two by two, 
walked immediately behind. It will 
be guessed they were Hilda, whose 
beauty was now radiant, and Fleur- 
ange, whose black hair and general 
appearance distinguished her from 
the rest. The latter, as she passed 
along, might have noticed more than 
one look, and heard more than one 
word, calculated to satisfy her vanity^ 
but she was wholly occupied in ob- 
serving all the details of the wedding 
array which surrounded her for the 
first time in her life. They found a 
great crowd in church, and as the 
cortige slowly approached the altar, 
Fleurange, casting her eyes around, 
suddenly met a friendly look, accom- 
panied by a respectful salutation. 
She bowed slightly in return, but 
without recognizing the person who 
saluted her, though his face was fa- 
miliar. Nor did she know the fresh 
young woman leaning on his arm. 
A few steps further on, and she re- 
called her travelling companion, and 
Wilhelm, her husband, who was her 
uncle's clerk. It was he, she felt 
sure, and she eagerly turned to look 
at him. She even stopped. At that 
moment she heard Felix Dornthal's 



Fleurange. 



name mentioned, followed by these 
words: " They say that is his intend- 
ed who has just passed by." Fleur- 
ange felt they \vere speaking of her, 
and she blushed with displeasure. 
Then she heard Wilhelm's reply : 
" Would it might be so ! She might, 
perhaps, yet save him from " The 
rest escaped her as she was borne 
along by the throng. She did not 
see Wilhelm or his wife again, and 
for the present thought no more of 
this incident. 

The ceremony, the return, and the 
wedding dinner, all passed off with 
joyful simplicity. At the end of the 
repast, Clara took off her myrtle 
wreath, and divided it among her 
young companions, wishing that they 
too, in their turn, might find good 
husbands, and a happiness equal to 
her own. 

It was Hilda who was first honor- 
ed in this distribution. This sig- 
nified she would be married before 
the rest. She took the myrtle from 
her sister's hand without any embar- 
rassment, as if she were not ashamed 
to let others see she joyfully accept- 
ed the offering, and regarded it as 
more than a mere omen. 

After Hilda, came Fleurange, and 
then all the others down to little Fri- 
da, who had joined them with seve- 
ral other companions of her age. 

" In your turn, Gabrielle !" said 
Hilda, as Fleurange fastened the sprig 
of myrtle in her belt. " Your turn 
will soon come also to wear this 
crown." 

Fleurange shook her head, and re- 
plied with a seriousness she herself 
could not have accounted for : " That 
day will never come for me no, 
never !" 

" Why do you say so ?" said Hilda, 
astonished. 

" I do not know." And then she 
laughed. 

An hour after, she perceived the 
VOL. xv. t- 



myrtle had fallen from her belt. She 
searched for it, having been charged 
by her cousin to wear it the remain- 
der of the day, but she could not 
find it. 

At nightfall the newly married cou- 
ple left the Old Mansion, escorted 
over the threshold and down the 
steps by all the family, who, with 
kind wishes and congratulations, 
there bade them adieu with more af- 
fection than sadness, for they were not 
to be widely separated, or for any 
great length of time. 

Clara's father and mother accom- 
panied her to her new home. It 
was a modest, pleasant house in one 
of the faubourgs of the city, which 
Julian, with loving interest, had been 
preparing more than a year for her 
who was now to take possession of 
it. Her parents took leave of her 
at the threshold. Madame Dornthal 
embraced her daughter, and, while 
clasping her in her arms, said : " Re- 
member you are now beginning a 
new life. Continue to give us our 
share of your affection; but let no- 
thing henceforth prevail over the love 
which is now your duty." 

" I shall merit a severe penalty," 
said Julian, "if this duty ever be- 
comes a burden if she ever re- 
grets the day she joined her lot to 
mine." 

The father and mother stood look- 
ing at them a moment as they paus- 
ed at the entrance of the house. 
They observed the moved and re- 
spectful look of the bridegroom. 
They saw, too, the confiding glance 
of the bride amid her tears, and they 
left them without fear under.- the pro- 
tection of God ! 

On their way homeward, the poor 
father, breaking the long silence, said : 
" Years hence, when she in her turn 
is separated from a child, she will 
understand all we have suffered to- 
day !" 



66 



Fleurange. 



" Yes, my Ludwig," said Madame 
Dornthal, wiping away her tears; 
" and Heaven grant she may then 
have, like us, a stronger feeling in her 
heart than that of grief, which will 
enable her to bear it !" 

They pressed each other's hands. 
Never, even in the brightest days of 
their youth, had this old couple felt 
so tenderly, so closely united ! 

They found the Old Mansion bril- 
liantly lighted up. The gallery and 
library, illuminated and ornamented 
with flowers and wreaths, were filled 
not only by the customary friends 
and relatives, but the two brothers' 
whole circle of acquaintance in the 
city. 

It was the custom at that time to 
end the wedding day with a soiree, 
but a delicate sentiment forbade the 
newly-married pair taking a part in 
the festivities, their happiness being 
considered too profound, too concen- 
trated, to enjoy the noisy gaiety. 
But here, the unrestrained gaiety was 
natural, infectious, and wholly ex- 
empt from an ingredient too often 
found in the corrupting influences of 
society a sad and fatal ingredient, 
which inspires ill-toned pleasantries 
whose effect is to excite smiles and 
blushes, and a gaiety as different 
from the other as the laughter of 
fiends from the smiles of angels! 
The gaiety here did not profane by a 
word, a glance, or even a smile, the 
end of the day which had witnessed 
a Christian espousal. 

Felix Dornthal himself seemed less 
disposed to jest than usual. He was 
even grave, absent-minded, and gloo- 
my to such a degree as to excite atten- 
tion in the morning at church, where 
he arrived late, and at the wedding 
dinner, where, appointed to propose 
the health of the newly married pair, 
lie acquitted himself of the duty with 
ease, but only to resume afterwards 
a complete silence. Family festivals 



were doubtless little to his taste, and 
perhaps it was ennui that produced 
so gloomy an aspect. Such, at least, 
was the supposition of his cousins, 
who, after declaring him disagree- 
able, left him to himself. He disap- 
peared at the end of the repast, and 
now in these crowded rooms he 
alone was wanting. His absence, 
noticed by several persons, greatly 
excited his father's impatience, who, 
to-day more than ever, ardently de- 
sired to witness before he died the 
marriage of his son. Illness had 
brought on the irritability of old age, 
and Heinrich Dornthal could no 
longer bear contradiction. 

" Where can he be ?" repeated he 
for the tenth time to his neighbor, 
who, with his look fastened on the 
door, seemed to share the uneasy ex- 
pectation of the banker. At that in- 
stant Fleurange passed by. She 
stopped as she saw Wilhelm Miiller 
again, at her uncle's side. This time 
she recognized him at once, and, with 
the natural grace that gave a charm 
to her every movement, she approach- 
ed and renewed her acquaintance 
with him. She learned in a few 
words that he had been absent, that 
his wife was restored to health, and 
had not forgotten her. Fleurange, in 
return, sent her many affectionate 
messages. Then she passed on, while 
her uncle, gazing at her, felt an in- 
creased regret, which she was as far 
from imagining as sympathizing with. 

The piano was open. Several 
pieces had already been played with 
great success, and now all the young- 
er members of the party were seized 
with the unanimous desire of danc- 
ing, which is so contagious, and in 
youth often a kind of necessary ma- 
nifestation of joyousness. The Ger- 
mans are all musicians, and Clement 
excelled. He at once divined the 
general feeling, and seized his violin. 
Hilda seated herself at the piano. 



67 



Hansfelt took his place at her side, 
and the gaiety she fully participated 
in did not inspire her, like the rest, 
to leave her place. She was, there- 
fore, in the best mood possible to ac- 
quit herself of the role which Cle- 
ment with a glance assigned her in 
this improvised orchestra. The bro- 
ther and sister struck up a waltz, and 
played with that skill, perfect time, 
and particular animation which, like 
the waltz itself, is peculiar to the Ger- 
man nation. In an instant there was 
universal animation. 

Fleurange had occasionally danc- 
ed with her cousins in the winter 
evenings, but she had never experi- 
enced, as on this occasion, the inspi- 
riting effect of so much liveliness 
and so general an impulse. She in- 
voluntarily rose up with a desire to 
take a part in it, and at that very 
moment she heard these words ad- 
dressed her : " Will you favor me 
with this waltz ?" an invitation so in 
accordance with the wish of the mo- 
ment that she replied in the affirma- 
tive, and left the place before realiz- 
ing it was her cousin Felix who was 
her partner. They danced around 
twice. Poor Heinrich Dornthal saw 
them sweep by, and uttered a joyful 
exclamation the last that a feeling 
of hope or of paternal joy would 
ever draw from him again in this 
world ! 

Felix conducted Fleurange back 
to her seat. She was breathless, 
pale, and annoyed. While waltzing, 
he had uttered words she wished had 
never been said. Scarcely seated, 
her first impulse was to leave the spot 
where he stood, and even the room, 
but she could not. Felix's hand, 
placed on hers, forced her to sit 
clown again. Then Fleurange rose 
above her embarrassment. She com- 
prehended that the time had come to 
be firm, calm, and decided not a 
difficult thins: when the heart and- 



the will are perfectly in accord. 
That was the case in this instance, 
and Fleurange almost coolly awaited 
what her cousin had to say. 

" I only beseech you for one word, 
Gabrielle," said Felix, with more 
emotion and respect than usual 
"one word, and, if you understood 
me, an answer." 

" I heard you," said Fleurange. 
" And understood ?" 
" Yes ; and with regret, Felix." 
" Tell me plainly, Gabrielle, do 
you understand that I love you ?" 

Fleurange blushed and made no 
reply. 

" That I love you to such a de- 
gree, my happiness, my future pros- 
pects, and my life are in your 
hands ?" continued he vehemently. 
" And this is true, literally true." 

Fleurange frowned. " Do you 
wish to frighten me ?" she said coM- 
ly, turning her large eyes toward 
him. 

" No ; I have told you the truth 
without thinking I could frighten 
you ; but, since you ask the question, 
here is my sincere reply : Only 
promise to accept my hand, promise 
it through fear or love, terror or joy, 
I will be satisfied, and ask for no 
more." 

" Then," said Fleurange slowly, 
" it is all the same to you whether I 
esteem or despise you, love or de- 
test ?" 

" No woman can for ever detest a 
man who endeavors to win her love 
when that man is her husband, and 
could be her master, but only wishes 
to be her slave." 

" There is great fatuity in your 
humility, Felix ; but you are frank, 
and I wish to be so too. I shall 
never mark my words never be 
your wife !" 

Felix turned pale, and his face 
assumed a frightful expression. 
"Take more time, Gabrielle," said 



68 



Fleurange. 



he" take more time to think of it. 
But, first, listen to me. I am going 
to say something that may touch 
you more than a threat or a declara- 
tion He stopped an instant and 
then continued : " If you saw a 
man on the edge of a precipice, 
would you stretch forth a hand to 
save him ?" 

" What do you mean?" said Fleur- 
ange, affected in spite of herself, 
and suddenly recalling the words she 
heard that morning in the church. 

" I ask if you would put out your 
hand to aid a man in such peril ?" He 
had, in truth, found the means of 
making her hesitate, but it was only 
for a moment. 

" You are speaking figuratively, I 
suppose," said she at length; " and it 
is a question of a soul in peril, is it 
not ?" 

"A soul in peril? Yes," replied 
Felix, with a bitter smile. 

" Well, I tell you, in a danger of 
this kind, I would offer no assistance 
that would inevitably lead to my 
own destruction." 

Felix rose : " And is this your 
final decision ?" 

" Yes, Felix, a decision unhesita- 
tingly made, but not without sorrow, 
if it afflicts you." 

His only reply was a loud laugh 
which made Fleurange shudder. 
She turned towards him, but there 
was no longer in his look the respect, 
or the sadness, or the emotion he 
had so recently shown. His face 
had resumed its habitual expression 
of irony and proud assurance. 

" I thank you for your frankness, 
cousin. That is a trait I trust you 
will retain. It somewhat detracts 
from the charm you are endowed 
with, but it will preserve you from 
some of the dangers to which your 
eloquent glances expose you. 
Adieu !" 

"Felix, give me your hand as a 



token you bear me no ill-will," said 
Fleurange softly. 

" Ill-will ?" replied Felix. " Oh ! be 
assured I am too good a player not 
to bear bad luck cheerfully. Be- 
sides, one is not always, and in 
everything, unfortunate. Certain 
defeats, they say, are pledges of vic- 
tory. Come, Gabrielle, forget it all. 
Give me your hand, and wish me 
good hick" 

Before Fleurange could make any 
reply, he was gone. This conversa- 
tion had been so rapid that the waltz 
was not yet ended. The noise, mo- 
tion, and music, added to Fleurange's 
agitation, made her dizzy. She went 
to an open window near the piano. 
At that moment the music ceased, 
and all resumed their places. Fleur- 
ange found herself nearly alone. Cle- 
ment was still near, and, observing 
her, quickly laid down the violin he 
held in his hand. 

" You are very pale. Are you 
ill ?" 

" No, no, let me go out. I only 
wish to take the air a moment." 

Clement cast a rapid glance around 
the room, and then followed her into 
the garden : 

" You were dancing just now ?" 

" Yes, and I did wrong." 

" Your partner left you before the 
waltz was over ?" 

" Yes." 

Clement remained thoughtful a 
few moments, and then said : " Ga- 
brielle, pardon me if I am indiscreet, 
but I wish I dared ask you one ques- 
tion." 

" What a preamble ! Did we not 
agree to speak freely to each other ?" 

" Well, will you tell me why Felix 
went away ?" 

"Yes, Clement, and I think you 
will be surprised. He asked me to 
marry him. What do you think of 
that ?" 

" And you gave him his answer ?" 



Fleurange. 



69 



" Assuredly. I said no, without 
hesitating." 

Clement started so abruptly that 
Fieurange looked at him with sur- 
prise. She saw an expression of joy 
on his countenance which he could 
not conceal. 

" I see you are no fonder than I 
of our cousin," she said, " and are 
delighted with his ill-success." 

" Delighted ? No. Were he my 
worst enemy, I should pity him at 
such a moment ; but I am very glad 
of glad of " Clement hesitated, 
contrary to his usual practice, which 
was to go straight to the point. " I am 
very glad of a decision," said he at 
length, " which will dispense me from 
ever speaking of him again to you." 

" What would you have done if I 
had accepted him ?" 

" What I am glad not to be oblig- 
ed to do." 

" Now you are talking enigmati- 
cally in your turn." 

" No ; enigmas are intended to be 
guessed, and I beg you to forget 
what I have just said." 

It is uncertain what answer Fleur- 
ange was about to make Clement, 
who was less candid than usual, and 
therefore provoking, but at that in- 
stant she noticed a sprig of myrtle 
in the button-hole of his coat. 

"What! you with myrtle?" she 
said. " I thought it was only worn by 
young maidens on such a day." 



Clement blushed, and snatched the 
myrtle from his coat : " It is yours, 
Gabrielle. Pardon me. I saw it fall 
from your girdle, and picked it up." 

" Mine ? Indeed !" 

" Yes ; here, take it, unless," said 
he, hesitating a little " unless you 
will consent to give it back to 
me." 

" Very willingly, Clement ; keep it 
as a gift from me. It is a good omen, 
they say, predicting a fair bride when 
your turn comes." 

Clement replaced the myrtle in his 
coat, and gravely said : " That day 
will never come for me ; no, never !" 

" Never ; no, never ! Oh ! how 
strange !" cried Fleurange, in a tone 
that surprised Clement. 

" What is it ?" 

" Nothing." 

What struck her as strange was 
that Clement, a propos of this piece 
of myrtle, had, without being aware 
of it, uttered precisely the same 
words she herself had said some 
hours before. 

On the whole, this soiree she 
found so pleasant at its commence- 
ment, ended in a painful manner. 
She returned to her chamber less 
cheerful than she left it, but with the 
satisfaction of feeling she had had no 
difficulty throughout the day in ban- 
ishing from her mind the fantastic 
image she had formed the evening 
before of Count George 



IX. 



More than a fortnight had elaps- 
ed. Hilda was married and gone 
from the paternal roof. Clara and 
her husband were on their way to 
Italy, where they intended to remain 
till spring. Those who remained in 
the Old Mansion were suffering from 
the reaction that always follows the 
confusion and agitation of any event 
however pleasant a reaction always 



depressing even when there is no real 
sadness in the heart. But this was 
not exactly the case with Fleurange. 
Her cousins were both married and 
happy. She loved them too sincerely 
not to rejoice at this, but it was not 
the less true that the house seemed 
to have grown more spacious, the 
table around which they gathered en- 
larged, the library immense, and the 






Fleurange. 



garden deserted. The least to be 
pitied was Fritz, who still had his 
brother, and was not so much affect- 
ed by the change; but little Frida 
mourned for her sisters, and clung 
more than ever to Fleurange, whose 
talent for amusing and diverting 
children was again brought into ex- 
ercise. Fleurange, on her part, great- 
ly appreciated this distraction as a 
benefit. The child seldom left her 
cousin's room, and they became al- 
most inseparable. One day, while 
there as usual, Fleurange singing a 
long ballad in a low tone, and Frida 
listening with her head against her 
cousin's shoulder, a knock at the 
door made them both start. And 
yet it was but a slight rap, that gave 
no cause for the alarm with which 
she put the child down and hastily 
ran to the door. She found her kind 
of presentiment justified. 

It was Wilhelm M tiller, Heinrich 
DornthaPs clerk, who knocked. It 
was quite evident from the expression 
of his countenance and his agitated 
manner, as well as his unexpected 
appearance at such an hour, that 
something unusually sad had occur- 
red. 

" Excuse me, mademoiselle," he 
said hurriedly. " I was not looking 
for you ; but M. Clement has gone 
out, and the professor also, they tell 
me. Do you know where they are 
to be found ?" 

" I do not know where Clement is, 
but my uncle and aunt are gone to 
M. Steinberg's. They have charge 
of the garden during his absence." 

" Steinberg's ! It would take more 
than an hour to go there. What is 
to be done ! What is to be done !" 

<; What has happened, Monsieur 
Wilhelm ? For pity's sake, tell me 
what misfortune has occurred." 

" Misfortune !" he replied, after a 
moment's hesitation. Ah ! yes, ma- 
demoiselle, a great misfortune has be- 



fallen us but I cannot stop an in- 
stant. Pray send for M. Ludwig 
with all possible speed, and tell him 
his brother his brother is dying !" 

" Dying !" cried Fleurange. " Un- 
cle Heinrich ! Oh ! take me to see 
him while they are gone for his bro- 
ther." 

" No, no, mademoiselle, you must 
not go. I cannot consent to it." 
--'Fleurange insisted, and had al- 
ready left her room when she met 
Clement, who had just returned, and 
heard his uncle's clerk was in search 
of him. 

" Uncle Heinrich is dying !" ex- 
claimed Fleurange, before he could 
ask a question. " Let us go to him 
instantly, Clement, while they are 
gone for your parents." And she 
drew him toward the stairs. Mean- 
while, Wilhelm approached and whis- 
pered a few words in Clement's ear. 
The latter turned pale, but, instantly 
surmounting his violent emotion, he 
took Fleurange by the hand. 

" Remain here," he said. " You 
must not go. Believe me, you must 
not. When it is suitable, I will 
come for you." And he led her back 
kindly, but firmly, into her chamber, 
and then went out, closing the door 
behind him. In less than two mi- 
nutes the street door was heard to 
shut in its turn. Fleurange was left 
alone, or, at least, with only little 
Frida, who, frightened, was crying. 
She tried to soothe her, endeavoring 
at the same time to be calm herself, 
and patiently bear the torture of 
waiting anxiously, without the power 
of action. 

It was about five o'clock when 
Wilhelm came to her door, and of 
course still light, as it was summer. 
But day declined, and night came 
on, finding Fleurange still waiting. 
Frida, after crying a long time, had 
gone to sleep in her arms. Fleurange, 
in spite of her usual activity, wished 



Fleurange. 



to remain where she was, that Cle- 
ment might find her at once when he 
returned. She heard him order the 
carriage as he went out, and knew 
he had sent for his father and mo- 
ther. She looked at the clock, and 
counted the hours. Not a third of 
the time was required to go to the 
faubourg, and yet they had not re- 
turned. They had evidently gone 
directly to the dying man's house. 
And what was now taking place 
there ? Why had Clement dissuaded 
her from going? She joined her 
hands in silent prayer : then began to 
listen again with a feverish and ever- 
increasing anxiety. 

At last she heard the rumbling of 
a carriage. She softly placed the 
sleeping child on the bed, and was 
about to go down-stairs to meet her 
uncle and aunt, whom she supposed 
to have arrived. But before she had 
time, she heard Clement ascending 
the stairs in great haste. An instant 
more and he opened the door. Be- 
fore she could ask the question on 
her lips, he said : 

" Gabrielle, poor Uncle Heinrich 
is no more !" Then he added after 
a moment's silence : " A dreadful 
shock caused his instantaneous 
death." 

" Ah ! my heart told me I should 
hear sad news." 

" Yes, sad indeed," said Clement. 
And in spite of himself he seemed 
for a moment suffocated by an emo- 
tion too violent to be surmounted. 

Fleurange looked at him. There 
was something besides the shock and 
grief caused by this sudden death. 
" Clement, what else has happened ? 
Tell me everything. Tell me at once, 
I implore you !" 

" Yes, Gabrielle," he said, making 
an effort to command his voice, usu- 
ally so firm and mild. " Yes, I am 
going to tell you everything. I came 
on purpose to spare my poor father 



and mother this additional pain. 
Listen, or, rather, read this yourself!" 
Fleurange with a trembling hand 
took the letter he offered her, and 
read as follows : 

" FATHER : I have abused your con- 
fidence. Your name, which you al- 
lowed me to make use of, has hither- 
to enabled me to conceal my losses. 
With the hope of repairing them, I 
rashly aimed at an immense prize 
which chance seemed to offer me. 
Had I obtained it, all would have 
been saved. I have been unsuccess- 
ful. Ruin has fallen not only on us, 
but on all whose property is in our 
hands. Farewell, father, you will 
never see me again. Do not be afraid 
of my taking my own life. That 
would only be another base act. But 
there are lands where they who seek 
death can find it. I hope to have 
that good luck. May I speedily ex- 
piate what I can never repair ! 

" FELIX." 

Fleurange silently clasped her 
hands. Pity mingled with the re- 
pugnance, now so well justified, with 
which Felix had always inpired her, 
and she could not utter a word. Cle- 
ment continued : 

" This letter, imprudently given to 
my unhappy uncle this morning, im- 
mediately brought on one of the 
attacks to which he was liable, and 
which (perhaps happily for him) has 
proved fatal. He had not time to 
realize the blow that had befallen 
him." 

Fleurange herself hardly compre- 
hended its extent. " But where is 
Felix, then ?" she said at length. 

" He has been gone a fortnight." 

" A fortnight !" she exclaimed, with 
a painful remembrance of their last 
interview. 

" He left the day after the soiree 
at the time of Clara's marriage." 

" That evening," she said with 



Fleurange. 



emotion, " he spoke of an abyss into 
which my hand would prevent him 
from falling. O God I" she continu- 
ed with the greatest agitation, " could 
I really have saved him by consenting ? 
Would the sacrifice of my life have 
prevented this terrible disaster ?" 

" No ; the great stake he made 
that night was his sole resource 
against ruin. Why did he talk to 
you in such a manner? Was it 
through madness or perversity ? It 
must have been madness, the unfor- 
tunate fellow loved you without 
doubt. I pity him, but" Clement 
hesitated and then rapidly continued : 
" Listen to me, Gabrielle. I am go- 
ing to tell you something it might be 
better to keep to myself, but I must 
justify myself and reassure you, and 
it cannot injure him now. I regard- 
ed Felix with contempt because," and 
for a moment there was a flash in 
Clement's eye " because he wished 
to make me as despicable as himself, 
and once played the vile role of a 
tempter to me who was then but a 
boy because he would, if he could, 
have drawn me after him into the 
path which to-day has ended so 
fatally. Therefore, cousin," he con- 



tinued with still more emotion, " had 
he succeeded in winning your hand, 
I should have felt it my duty to have 
warned you of his unworthiness, of 
which I was too well aware, for I 
have never forgotten you called me 
your brother. But I was reluctant 
to denounce him, and glad, oh ! so 
glad, that evening, not to be obliged 
to do so glad you were saved by 
your own self! And if I tell you all 
this now, it is to put an end to the 
fears you have just expressed." 

"And I am grateful to you for 
banishing them. But, Clement, tell 
me once more here, in the presence 
of God, have I nothing to reproach 
myself with ?" 

" Nothing,- on my honor, Gabrielle, 
believe me !" 

Clement, as we have remarked, 
possessed great firmness of character, 
and a kind of premature wisdom 
which gave him great ascendency 
over others. When this trait is na- 
tural, it is manifest at an early age, 
and a day often suffices for its'com- 
plete development. That day had ar- 
rived for Clement, and henceforth no 
one would ever dream of calling 
him a boy. 



x. 



Ruin ! a word at once positive 
and yet extremely vague very plain 
in itself, and yet conveying the idea 
of a multitude of undefined conse- 
quences, often more alarming than 
actual misfortune, and sometimes 
suggesting chimerical hopes. And it 
has a deeper signification when it 
happens to a person unaccustomed 
to the calculations of material life, 
given up to thought and study, and 
moreover delivered from the neces- 
sity of exertion through long years 
of prosperous ease. 

Such was the nature, and hitherto 
such the position, of Professor Lud- 



wig Dornthal. Of all the misfor- 
tunes in the world, that which had 
now befallen him was the last he 
would have dreamed of, and he was 
less capable of comprehending it 
than of supporting it courageously. 
Besides, the word ruin may also be 
taken in a relative sense which miti- 
gates its severity, and this was the 
way the professor regarded it. With 
only a faint idea of the extent of the 
catastrophe, he remained inactively 
expectant of something to partially 
remedy what merely related to his 
finances, being more preoccupied 
about his nephew's shameful flight 



Flcurange. 



73 



and its fatal consequence the death 
of his brother. 

Meanwhile, Clement, with the aid 
of Wilhelm Miiller, examined the 
state of affairs with a promptitude 
and sagacity that greatly edified the 
honest and intelligent clerk who ini- 
tiated him into this new business. 
Seeing him so quick, of comprehen- 
sion, so firm in decision and prompt 
in action, he exclaimed with despair 
in the midst of their frightful disco- 
veries : 

" Alas ! alas ! if your unfortunate 
cousin had only had your head on 
his shoulders ! 

" My head ! It is not equal to his," 
responded Clement to one of his 
companions. " No, no, it is not that, 
but something else, he lacks. Why 
have not I, on the contrary, his ca- 
pacity and wit ! Then I might be 
capable of retrieving our fortunes, 
whereas my only talent is that of 
knowing how to endure poverty. 
Oh ! if it threatened me alone, how 
little I should dread it !" 

" Poverty !" interrupted Wilhelm. 
" But do you not understand all I 
have explained to you ?" 

' With respect to my uncle's cred- 
itors ?" 

"Yes. Do you not see that the 
principal creditor, the first of all on 
the list, is M. Ludwig Dornthal, whose 
whole fortune nearly can be saved 
from shipwreck ?" 

" Yes, on condition of the ruin of 
the remainder." 

" But their claims are not equal to 
to his : he was not his brother's 
partner. He had only entrusted his 
property to him, like so many others." 

Clement made no reply. After a 
short silence he observed : " The en- 
tire renunciation of my father's prop- 
erty would enable us to repay all the 
creditors without exception, would it 
not ?" 

" Yes, all." 



" Would there not be a single 
debt in this case ?" 

"No," replied Wiliielm, smiling; 
" not a debt not a penny." 

Clement again took up one of the 
papers on the table, and silently- 
read it over once more with the most 
profound attention. 

" Yes, it is really so," said he 
rising. " Everything is plain now. I 
must leave you, Wilhelm. It is after 
four o'clock, and I am expected at 
home. I shall see you again this 
evening, and we will decide on some 
definite course of action." 

This conversation took place in 
a lower room of the banker's house, 
which had been Wilhelm Miiller's 
office for many years. He pressed 
the young man's hand, and Clement 
proceeded rapidly towards home. 

It was their dinner hour, and his 
parents were waiting for him. The 
habits of the family had resumed 
their ordinary course. The sad rou- 
tine of life is seldom interrupted more 
than a day even by the most over- 
whelming disaster, and this exterior 
regularity, however painful a con- 
trast to the grief that has changed 
everything interiorly, helped restore 
calmness to the soul, and with calm- 
ness the courage and strength to act. 

Clement was a quarter of an hour 
late. He went directly to the dining- 
room, knowing his father's punctuali- 
ty. As he supposed, the family were 
at dinner, and he took his place after 
some hasty words of apology at his 
entrance, and then fell into a pro- 
found silence. 

The fine, spacious room in which 
they were was one of the pleasantest 
in the house. Rare old china lined 
the tiaglres, and the dark panels 
were relieved by old portraits, all 
original and of great value, and the 
most celebrated part of the pro- 
fessor's collection. The open win- 
dows commanded a view of the gar- 



74 



Fleurange. 



den. Verdure refreshed the eye, 
and the perfume of the flowers per- 
vaded the room. The glass and sil- 
ver reflected the rays of the sun, 
though there was a large awning be- 
fore one of the windows. An air 
of quiet, opulent comfort everywhere 
reigned. 

Clement look around. All these 
things, to which he was daily accus- 
tomed, now made a new impression 
on him. He noticed to-day the ob- 
jects he often forgot to observe, but 
this examination did not have the ef- 
fect of weaning him from his sad 
thoughts. On the contrary, it only 
increased them, and Clement was 
deeply plunged in gloomy reverie 
when he was aroused by his little 
sister's voice : 

"Papa," said Frida, "we shall 
start for the sea-shore in a week, 
shall we not ?" 

" Yes, my child," replied the pro- 
fessor. 

then we shall go 



to see 



she expects us in a 



It will 
months' 



"And 
Hilda ?" 

" Yes, 
month." 

"And after that?" 

" We shall return home, 
be time, I think, after two 
absence." 

In fact, that was the longest time 
the professor had ever been absent 
from his cherished home. 

These few words produced an ex- 
pression of suffering on Clement's 
face which he could not conceal. 
His mother observed it and ques- 
tioned him with a look. But Cle- 
ment turned his eyes away, and did 
not raise them again till the end of 
the silent meal, though he keenly felt 
another look besides his mother's fas- 
tened on him. 

"Clement, I have something to 
say to you," said his mother as soon 
as dinner was over. He rose in- 
stantly, and followed her into the gar- 



den, but before leaving the room he 
said: 

" Father, will you allow me a few 
minutes' conversation with you after- 
wards ? I have several things to tell 
you." 

" Yes, my dear son, I will wait for 
you." And the professor turned to- 
wards the library, where he always 
spent an hour after dinner. 

" Come, tell me everything now," 
said Madame Dornthal, leading the 
way to a bench where they could not 
be seen from the house. 

" Yes, mother, dear mother, it is to 
you I will refer a decision which my 
honor and my conscience tell me is 
required. You shall decide whether 
we ought to evade or submit to it." 

He began his account, and, while 
she was attentively listening without 
interrupting him once, laid before 
her the details, in all their reality, of 
the situation in which his uncle's 
death and his cousin's flight had left 
them. 

Madame Dornthal, more accus- 
tomed to the practical details of life 
than her husband, had not shared 
his illusions. She was much better 
prepared than he for the sad conse- 
quences of a reverse of fortune, but 
had been far from anticipating its ex- 
tent. They would be much less 
wealthy than before, have some pri- 
vations to endure, and for a time 
be obliged to practise considerable 
economy ; such had been the extent 
of her fears. But all this did not ap- 
pear to so excellent a manager a 
trial beyond her strength. During 
the past week she had declared, as 
often as her husband, that the loss of 
money was the smallest part of the 
misfortune that had befallen them. 

Now she realized that this loss 
was something real, something al- 
most as appalling as death, for it in- 
volved the end of the life she had 
been accustomed to for twenty years 



FUurange. 



75 



an end she must face and at once 
accept. And she was courageous 
enough not to hesitate. She em- 
braced her son, and said : 

" God be blessed for giving me a 
son like you ! Yes, dear Clement, 
yes, you are right a thousand times 
right." 

" Then you agree with me, mother, 
that the ruin of the Dornthals should 
not cause the ruin of any one else ?" 
" Yes, my child." 

" Our name must remain without 
reproach, and nobody in the world 
have a right to curse it ?" 

" Certainly, Clement, whatever be 
the consequence." 

"Whatever be the consequence!" 
repeated Clement firmly. "Thanks, 
dear mother. I must leave you. It 
is not my place, but yours, to inform 
my father." 

"Yes, Clement, it is my place." 
She put back her son's thick hair, 
and gazed silently at him for a mo- 
ment with profound attention and 
emotion. Never had Clement's eyes 
expressed more clearly than now the 
firmness, integrity, and energy of 
his nature. 

" No !" thought she, " there is 
not among those who effect great 
things in the world, and leave behind 
them a glorious and illustrious name, 
a nobler or more courageous heart 
than yours, my son ! God be praised ! 
Your life will be blessed, even though 
your worth and all the faculties you 
possess remain hidden and for ever 
unknown but to him alone !" 

Such were Madame Dornthal's 
thoughts, as she gazed with maternal 
fondness into her son's eyes, but she 
did not give them utterance. She 
pressed her lips once more to his 
brow, and placed her hand on his 
head as if in benediction. Clement 
in return kissed her hand with grave 



and tender respect. Then he rose 
and left the garden at once, and, 
soon after, the house. 

He remained absent several hours. 
It was nearly nine o'clock when he 
returned. His mother was waiting 
in the entry for him, and opened the 
door when he rang. He was very 
pale, and held a pile of papers in his 
hand. 

"Well," said Madame Dornthal, 
" is everything arranged ?" 

" Yes, mother, everything ! These 
papers only lack my father's signa- 
ture. He is willing to give it, is he 
not ?" 

" You cannot doubt it, I think." 
" No, but my poor father was so 
far from supposing " 

" Yes, that was it, I did not fear 
any hesitation on his part, but only 
the complete illusion he was under. 
I only dreaded the effect of surprise 
and the shock. O Clement ! I 
know not what terror came over me 
from the frightful remembrance of 
the other day ! My poor Ludwig !" 
Madame Dornthal stopped a mo- 
ment to brush away her tears, then 
smiled as she continued : 

" But be easy, he knows every- 
thing now. He comprehends the 
state of affairs, and feels as we do. 
It is better, however, that I alone 
should see him this evening. Give 
me those papers. And you, my 
boy, see after your brother and sister. 
I have not had time to think of 
them. Ah ! and Gabrielle, poor 
child, perhaps it would be well to 
look for her also and tell her all. We 
have nothing to conceal from any 
one, above all from her." 

Without awaiting a reply, Madame 
Dornthal abruptly left her son to re- 
join her husband in the library, 
where she remained the rest of the 
evening. 



76 The Last Days of Oisin, the Bard. 



THE LAST DAYS OF OISJN, THE BARD. 



BY AUBREY DE VERE. 



IV. 



OISIN'S QUESTION. 

" O PATRICK! taught by him, the Unknown, 

These questions answer ere I die : 
Why, when the trees at evening moan, 
Why must an old man sigh ? 

" No kinsmen of my stock are they, 

Though reared was I in sylvan cell : 
Love-whispers once they breathed : this day 
They mutter but ' farewell.' 

" What mean the floods ? Of old they said, 

' Thus, thus, ye chiefs, ye clans, sweep on !' 
They whiten still their rocky bed : 
Those chiefs and clans are gone. 

" What Power is that which daily heaves 

O'er earth's dark verge the rising sun, 
As large, the Druid, Alph, believes, 
As Tork or Maugerton ? 

" A woman once, in youthful flower, 

An infant laid upon my knee : 
What was it shook my heart that hour ? 
I live Where now is he ? 



" What thing is youth, which speeds so fast ? 

What thing is life, which lags so long ? 
Trapped, trapped we are by age at last, 
In a net of fraud and wrong ! 



Affirmations. 

" I cheated am by Eld or cheat 

Heart-young as leaves in sun that bask : 
Is that fresh heart a counterfeit, 
Or this gray shape a mask ? 

" Some say 'tis folly to be moved. 

' The dog, he dieth why not thou ?' 
They lie ! We loved ! The ill reproved ! 
Is Oscar nothing now ? 

" O Patrick of the crosier staff, 

The wondrous Book, the anthems slow ! 
If thou the riddle know'st but half, 
Help those who nothing know ! 

" Who made the worlds ? the Soul ? Man's race ? 

The man that knoweth, he is Man ! 
I, once a prince, will serve in place 
Clansman of that man's clan ! " 



77 



AFFIRMATIONS. 



" INSTEAD of considering the phy- 
sical condition of a nation determin- 
ing its moral character, we must 
always regard the moral as determin- 
ing, as well as moulding and modi- 
fying, the .physical." 

" As the divine modifies the moral, 
so the moral modifies the physical, 
or external." 

" In education all sight has been 
lost of the reality which is regenera- 
tion, and only when this is brought 
into the soul, will it be fit to receive 
the spirit. ' 

" As the body grows older, the 
mind grows younger, when the will 



conceives with the divine will in the 
permanent ground." 

" Christ is desirous to divorce the 
soul from Satan, and to do this he 
begins by making the soul uneasy." 

" There are thousands who have 
been taught to think from learning 
have yet to be taught to think from 
the living basis within the will that 
sustains the thinker." 

" Know thyself is a false maxim. 
Be whole or one and one with 
thy Lord." 

" Only does the Jesus spirit in the 
soul make the soul exhibit the di- 
vine essence." 



HOW THE CHURCH UNDERSTANDS AND UPHOLDS THE 
RIGHTS OF WOMEN. 



FIRST ARTICLE. 



AGES OF MARTYRDOM. 



WOMEN are receiving just now, at 
the hands of a certain class of agita- 
tors, a degree of attention which may 
be flattering to some, but which cer- 
tainly is not only intrusive, but un- 
necessary with regard to many. They 
are told that their rights are trampled 
upon, that they must assert and de- 
fend themselves, and take their place 
in the great battle of life. Now, these 
exhortations have generally been met 
by copious references to all the un- 
doubted precepts of old, which made 
the domestic life woman's own 
sphere, and consecrated her the min- 
ister of all man's comforts. This 
sphere of home duties is incontest- 
ably theirs ; and what is more, while 
they can help man in his avocations, 
man, on the other hand, can scarcely 
help them in their own. But in ad- 
dition to this, their inviolable ter- 
ritory which they intend never to 
abandon, let them boldly claim a 
share of man's kingdom, and let 
them make good their claim. People 
have listened to many women and to 
a few men on the subject of the so- 
called " Women's Rights :" let them 
listen with indulgence to one woman 
more, who comes claiming far greater 
things than they dream of, and yet 
showing that her claims are but long- 
established and real rights, recog- 
nized, denned, limited, and protected 
by an older code of jurisprudence, 
and a longer tradition of immemorial 
custom, than they have as yet been 
told of by the press or in the lec- 
ture-room. 



The existence of woman is a fact : 
it is equally a fact that everything 
that exists has some work to do in 
the order of the universe. God him- 
self, in a few simple words, stated 
what her work was : " Let us make 
him a help like unto himself" (Gen. 
ii. 1 8). The words indeed are so 
simple that they hardly arrest atten- 
tion, yet in them lies the whole rela- 
tion of woman to man. She is to be a 
help ; but no restrictive detail is add- 
ed, so that it is clearly open to her 
to help man intellectually, religiously, 
morally, as well as domestically. 
She is to be like unto him ; that is, 
emphatically not masculine, not a 
creature that is a mere copy or repro- 
duction of himself, but like unto him, 
that is, sufficiently like to understand 
him, sufficiently unlike to love him. 
Again, no precise relation in which 
she is to stand to man is defined : 
she may therefore be a help as a 
wife, mother, sister, in the domestic 
circle; she may be a help as a conse- 
crated virgin, as an adviser, as an in- 
tercessor, in the religious order ; she 
may be a help as a governor, a re- 
gent, a queen, in the political order : 
lastly, she may be a help as a friend 
and confidant in the social order. 

Now, having seen that God dis- 
tinctly gave woman a mission, as he 
has to every animate and inanimate 
creature, we must suppose that he 
has also provided her with the means 
of fulfilling it. We look around us to 
see how he has done so, and whether, 
when the means were at hand, 



the Rig/its of Women. 



79 



woman used them to her own dis- 
tinction and advantage. In one 
place and under one set of circum- 
stances alone do we find that it was 
so, and this not by exception, but by 
rule. This place is the Catholic 
Church ; these circumstances are her 
laws and her history. The reason 
why it remained for our times to 
form " women's rights" associations, 
is simply that women's wrongs have, 
under the influence of the Reforma- 
tion, been so shamefully multiplied. 
The present movement is a reaction 
against the Protestant atmosphere of 
repression which has suffocated wo- 
man's highest aspirations for three 
hundred years. The tribute uncon- 
sciously paid to the Catholic Church 
by the Anglican communities of 
monks and sisters is a proof of the 
wisdom of the old church in regard 
to its treatment of women. Sensi- 
tive, enthusiastic, earnest souls found 
themselves without the outward 
means of satisfying their craving 
after a more perfect life; others with 
superabundance of energy and devo- 
tion, with the gift of tending the sick or 
instructing the young, found them- 
selves confined to the circle of their 
own unaided efforts and unorganized 
activity. They hailed "sisterhoods" 
as the newly opened gates of heaven, 
not knowing that sisterhoods were 
no new invention, but had their 
source in the very beginnings of the 
days of which the then unwritten 
Gospels became the after-history. 

In a sermon recently delivered by 
one of the most popular preachers of 
New York, and reported in the col- 
umns of a widely-read journal, occur 
the following words, which are a sin- 
gular corroboration of what we have 
just said : " There is nothing more 
dangerous than an educated commu- 
nity with nothing to do. There are 
thousands of educated women who 
do not work. . I do not won- 



der the bold, eagle-like natures fret 
in their limits and detest life, or that 
the great hearts dash themselves out 
in waste. There must be outlet for 
these immense forces, or society will 
go on getting worse and worse to the 
end." A few days after these words 
were spoken, the following appeared 
in a letter referring to the attempt 
made by a woman to drop her vote 
in the ballot-box, at the New York 
City election of the yth of Novem- 
ber, 1871. She gives a lamenta- 
ble account of woman's world, as it 
has grown to be under the shade of 
Protestantism. "The condition of 
involuntary servitude is favorable to 
the cultivation of all the vices of se- 
crecy and deceit. As women, we 
have been schooled in hypocrisy and 
duplicity, until our deep souls revolt 
against the oppression that so com- 
pels us to belie our sincere and 
earnest natures. The most docile 
wife has that latent fire in her heart 
which only needs the air of freedom 
to fan into a flame. Many seeming- 
ly contented wives would almost risk 
the salvation of their souls to make 
their masters feel for one day the hu- 
miliation they have endured uncom- 
plainingly for years. If this is true 
of the favorites of fortune, what may 
not be said of the great crowd of wo- 
men who rush into every folly, or are 
doomed to severest trial by stringent 
laws and the oppressive customs 
growing out of them laws and cus- 
toms that disfranchise them, prescribe 
their pleasures, limit their fields of 
labor, and curtail their wages, all on 
the plea of sex ? We have, gentle- 
men, very generally arrived at the 
knowledge that sex is a crime punish- 
able by law." The writer of this 
subscribes herself " Mary Leland," 
and is, no doubt, a fair representative 
of the indignant champions of indis- 
criminate equality between men and 
women. If the slumbering volcano 






So 



Hoiv the Church Understands and Upholds 



she describes is really hidden beneath 
the frivolous life of ordinary women, 
what a fearful responsibility lies at 
the door of the system whose effect 
it is! This spirit of rebellion can 
only exist as a reaction against the 
forced inactivity of woman's mind 
and will, and against the torpor in- 
duced by the delicate flattery of 
those who would make her a sultana, 
or the brutality of those who would 
fain turn her into a beast of burden. 
Both alike are forms of slavery; 
both alike are anti-Christian ; both 
are contradictions against nature, 
and will inevitably bear their evil 
fruit. Since their true rights have 
been denied them by the spirit of the 
Reformation ; since the education of 
their children is taken out of their 
hands by the state ; since nothing but 
a savory meal and a pleasant face 
are expected from them what won- 
der that the displaced pendulum of 
their mind should sway violently 
aside, and thus come in rude contact 
with the more arduous sphere of man? 

But it is not our purpose to give 
a lecture on the abstract principles con- 
cerned in the question of the rights of 
women ; facts speak more loudly and 
more convincingly than the most elo- 
quent arguments, the most fascina- 
ting pleas : we aim only at giving a 
few of these facts to our sisters of the 
present day, and showing them how 
the church has ever regarded, and 
has long ago settled, the question 
now agitating them so painfully. 

Our only difficulty is in the mass 
of evidence from which to make se- 
lections, the matter that is to serve us 
as a witness being simply the history 
of the church, and its abundance so 
rich that we hesitate which of the 
countless examples to draw forth for 
the admiration of w;ww-kind, and 
which to leave in undeserved ob- 
livion. If we take a cursory glance at 
the infant church on the shores of 



the Lake of Galilee, we shall find wo- 
man already in a conspicuous and 
honorable position. It is a remark- 
able fact that no nation of antiquity, 
save the Jews, had any respect for the 
female sex, beyond that which in- 
cluded women in the possessions of 
their husbands and fathers, and con- 
sequently could make no difference 
between an insult to a virgin or a 
wife and a theft of any other pre- 
cious chattel. The Jews that is, the 
people whom God himself guided 
and taught, and whose laws were his 
immediate decrees hedged in the 
chastity of women with the most 
stringent safeguards, and defended 
it by the severest penalties. They 
allowed women to inherit from their 
parents and perpetuate their own 
name, and to be preferred before the 
male relations, that is, the brothers 
or nephews of their father (Numb, 
xxvii. 8). Not only were the wives 
and daughters of the Israelites invio- 
lable; their hired servants, whether 
Jew or Gentile, and their captives, 
were equally protected from the li- 
centiousness of man. The Old Tes- 
tament has numberless chapters con- 
secrated to the praises of women, 
and to the precepts necessary for the 
education of their sex. In Genesis, 
chap, xxxiv., we find the sons of 
Jacob making war upon the Sichem- 
ites, to revenge the insult done to 
their sister Dina by the prince 
Sichem; in the Book of Judges, 
chap, xx., we read of a bloody and 
protracted war waged by the Israel- 
ites against one of their own tribes, 
the Benjaminites, to revenge the 
Levite's wife, outraged by strange 
men in the town of Gabaa; in the 
Second Book of Kings, chap, xiii., we 
see how promptly and fearfully Absa- 
lom resented the wrong done to his 
sister Thamar by their brother Am- 
non. In the Book of Judith, we are 
astounded at seeing the high and 



Jie Rights of Women. 



81 



solemn eulogium pronounced upon 
this valiant woman. She speaks to 
the elders of Bethulia as one having 
authority, yet, with such humility as 
befits even the most highly favored 
servant of God, she comforts them 
and bids them hope, so that they ac- 
knowledge that her words are true, 
and ask her to pray for them (chap, 
viii. 29). Her own prayer for gui- 
dance and success is full of wisdom, of 
poetry, of confidence in God and the 
right : her speech to Holofernes is 
conspicuous for tact, and the heathen 
general himself exclaims, "There is 
not such another woman upon earth 
. in sense of words." When 
the great deed is done and Judith re- 
turns to the besieged city, she sings 
a noble canticle, a true poem, full of 
grave beauty and deep meaning, and 
we are then told how highly she was 
honored by the high-priest Joachim, 
who came from Jerusalem, with all 
his elders, to see her and bless her. 
He calls her the "glory of Jeru- 
salem, the joy of Israel, and the 
honor of the people" (chap. xv. 
10), and bestows upon her precious 
vessels from the spoils of the Assyri- 
ans. He does not forget to extol 
her chastity as intimately connected 
with her success ; indeed, this praise 
seems to supersede the blessings with 
which she is hailed as a deliverer. 
When she died, the people publicly 
mourned for her seven days, and to 
the time of her death it is recorded 
that " she came forth with great 
glory on festival days." 

This is not the only instance where 
we find woman in a responsible and 
elevated position, surrounded by 
friends of high degree, vying with 
each other in bestowing upon her 
marks of esteem and respect. Later 
on we find Christian prelates acting 
the part of Joachim to some new 
Judith, some woman distinguished 
for piety and virtue, and whose in- 

VOL. XV. 6 



fluence or example is a powerful 
auxiliary of their own efforts. 

Reverting for a few moments to 
the history of the Jews, we see how 
in numberless instances women were 
the instruments of grace and deliver- 
ance, how they were gifted, and how 
they were esteemed. Instead of a 
marriage that was nothing but a bar- 
gain such as was in use among 
heathen nations, the betrothal of Re- 
becca was a most grave and solemn 
ceremony, and the consent of the 
maiden was formally asked. Jacob 
had such a high idea of Rachel's 
worth that he served her for fourteen 
years. When the walls of Jericho 
fell and the inhabitants were put to 
the sword, the woman Rahab was 
spared, together with all those who 
chose to take refuge in her house. 
The child Moses was rescued and 
educated by a woman, and his sister, 
Mary, was a great prophetess whose 
canticle has come down to us almost 
as a national hymn. Anna, the 
mother of Samuel, sang praises to 
God in language which the inspired 
writers thought worthy of transmit- 
ting to the perpetual remembrance 
of all generations ; the Queen of 
Sheba was so enamored of wisdom 
and learning that she came a long 
and tedious journey to pay homage 
to the superior gifts of Solomon ;. 
Anna, the wife of Tobias, after her 
husband had lost his sight, earned 
the wherewithal for their humble 
home at " weaving-work " (Tob. A*. 
19). Sara, the wife of the younger 
Tobias, prayed God in words that 
have always been incorporated in 
the sacred text. Mardochai said 
pointedly to Queen Esther, " Who 
knoweth whether thou art therefore 
come to the kingdom that thou 
mightest be ready at such a time as 
this ?" and she answered by effectu- 
ally interceding for her people,, 
though, notwithstanding her regal 



82 



How the Church Understands and Upholds 



position, it was only at the risk of 
her life that she could approach the 
king unbidden. Her prayer, like all 
the rest recorded in the Scriptures, is 
3. poem in itself, and points to the 
true source whence all real courage 
springs, while it also hallows with re- 
ligious feeling the deep patriotism 
peculiar to the Hebrew race. Later 
on, the mother of the Machabees 
showed such heroic fortitude under 
persecution that the Scriptures say of 
her that she " was to be admired 
above measure, and was worthy to 
be remembered by good men." 

Turning to the New Testament, 
we find woman in equally prominent 
positions, honored by the special no- 
tice of the Man-God himself, and 
materially aiding in the establishment 
of his church. Not to speak of the 
Mother of God, whose influence on 
the fate of woman has been simply 
paramount, and leaving aside the fact 
of his undoubted voluntary subjec- 
tion to her, as jyell as that of her in- 
tercession, being the immediate occa- 
sion of his first public miracle and 
manifestation at Cana of Galilee 
the place of woman in the Gospel 
history is one that may justly be the 
pride of her sex. The greater part 
of our Lord's miracles were worked 
in favor of women, most often on 
their own persons, at other times on 
persons whom they held dearer than 
life. Of the first, witness the cure 
of the mother-in-law of Peter, of the 
woman healed of an issue of blood, 
of the daughter of the Chanaanitish 
woman, to whom Jesus said, " O 
woman, great is thy faith ; be it done 
to thee as thou wilt" (St. Matt. 
xv. 28) ; of the woman bowed down 
with an infirmity that had afflicted 
her for eighteen years ; also the rais- 
ing of the daughter of Jairus. Of 
the second, witness the restoring to 
the widow of Nairn of her only son, 
whom Jesus raised to life "being 



moved with mercy towards her " (St. 
Luke vii. 13), and whom, when he 
had raised him, he " gave to his 
mother." Lazarus, too, dear as he 
was personally to the Master, was 
yet raised to a new life chiefly through 
the prayers and the faith of his sisters, 
whose sorrow had touched the 
heart of the divine Saviour. Not 
only in temporal things, but much 
more in spiritual, did our Lord seek 
out women for their cure and salva- 
tion. He did not disdain to speak 
long and patiently with the woman 
of Samaria, and, instead of heralding 
his saving presence to her country- 
men through his own disciples, he 
preferred to let her be his messenger. 
He proposed the modest almsgiving 
of the poor widow as a model of all 
true charity. He protected the wo- 
man taken in adultery against her pha- 
risaical judges; he commended the 
woman Magdalen, and prophesied 
that, wherever the Gospel should be 
preached, there should her name be 
also remembered. When he was 
teaching the multitudes, it was a wo- 
man who cried out in touching bold- 
ness and pathetic directness of 
speech : " Blessed is the womb that 
bore thee, and the breasts that gave 
thee suck." Again it was to women 
that he spoke when, on the path to 
Calvary, he turned, and said, " Weep 
not for me, but weep for yourselves 
and for your children." Women fol- 
lowed him bravely when men desert- 
ed, betrayed, and denied him; wo- 
men stood beneath his cross while 
his apostles were hiding in fear, and 
the solitary friend who never left 
him was the most woman-like of all 
his disciples. His last legacy on 
earth, the last precious thing on 
which he turned his thoughts, was a 
woman, and the first person to whom 
he appeared after his resurrection 
was also a woman. When the disci- 
ples were gathered together awaiting 



the Rights of Women. 



the coming of the Paraclete, a wo- 
man was among them : " The mother 
of Jesus," as the Gospel says, was 
there. 

Later on, in the Acts of the Apos- 
tles, we find women mentioned as 
most efficacious helpers in the work 
of the infant church. Tabitha, for in- 
stance, a " woman full of good works, 
and almsdeeds " (Acts ix. 36), and 
Priscilla. the wife of Aquila, a wo- 
man who accompanied St. Paul from 
Corinth to Ephesus, and there took 
Apollo, an eloquent and fervent man, 
and " expounded to him the way of the 
Lord more diligently " (Acts xviii. 
26). Again, Lydia, a seller of purple, 
" one that worshipped God," offered 
hospitality to St. Paul, and " con- 
strained " him to dwell in her house 
(Acts xvi. 14, 15). St. Paul has 
been quoted and misquoted so often 
that one almost shrinks from appeal- 
ing to his arguments and precepts ; 
yet perhaps even here we may find 
something new to say, something to 
point out in a new light, something 
that the controversialists on the sub- 
ject of Women's Rights, on both 
sides, have, apparently at least, over- 
looked. We will not dwell on such 
portions of his Epistles as are always 
in the mouth of those who aim at 
relegating woman to an exclusively 
domestic sphere, but, on the contrary, 
we will point out words of his, honor- 
ing woman so highly that no law of 
modern times has been able to rival 
such deference, and no claim of 
strong-minded female associations 
would dare to lift itself to such im- 
portance. In his First Epistle to 
the Romans, chapter xvi., he says : 
" And I commend to you Phebe, 
our sister, who is in the ministry of 
the church . . . that you receive her in 
the Lord as becometh saints, and that 
you assist her in whatsoever business 
she shall have need of you : for she 
also hath assisted many, and myself 



also." Ministry, of course, stands for 
help, and is used here in its strict 
and original sense, as when the Gos- 
pel says of our Lord, " And angels 
came and ministered unto him," and 
as when we say the ministrations of 
charity. Some persons, indeed, have 
affected to see in this text an implied 
permission for women to act as 
priests ; common sense and the gen- 
eral tone of the Epistles are sufficient- 
ly explicit, however, to undeceive all 
such as do not on this head volunta- 
rily deceive themselves. The same 
Epistle we have quoted goes on to 
say : " Salute Prisca [Priscilla] and 
Aquila [her husband], my helpers in 
Christ Jesus ; who have for my life 
laid down their own necks ; to whom 
not only I give thanks, but also all 
the churches of the Gentiles ; and the 
church which is in their house." 
Observe how St. Paul speaks of 
them without distinction of sex as 
equally helpers, and how he even men- 
tions the woman's name first. Again 
he continues : " Salute Mary, who 
hath labored much among you. . . . 
salute Julia, Nereus, and his sister, 
and Olympias, and all the saints that 
are with them." We have no space 
for recalling the well-known precepts 
St. Paul gives concerning both the 
state of marriage and that of virgini- 
ty; we would only indicate by a 
passing notice how truly liberal is 
his teaching, including both states as 
honorable, commanding neither mar- 
riage nor continence, and providing 
with minute foresight for each cir- 
cumstance that human mutability 
can create. And in one of these, 
the case being the desertion by an 
unbelieving consort of the Christian 
yoke-fellow, he distinctly says : " If 
the unbeliever depart, let him de- 
part; for a brother or sister is not un- 
der servitude in such cases ; but God 
hath called us in peace" (i Cor. vii. 
15). The very custom of calling 



How the Church Understands and Upholds 



women "sisters," universal in the 
early church, is a token of the re- 
spect that was paid them, and of the 
Christian equality which denied 
them no legitimate share in the spirit- 
ual and social life of man. St. 
Paul has traced out in one word the 
whole duty of man to woman when 
lie said, " The elder women entreat 
as mothers, the younger as sisters, 
in all chastity" (i Tim. v. 2). In 
the First Epistle to the Philippians, 
he says : " Help those women who 
have labored with me in the Gospel, 
. . . and whose names are in the 
hook of life'' St. John dedicated a 
whole Epistle, or letter, to the " Lady 
Elect and her children, whom I love 
in the truth, and not I only, but also 
all they that have known the truth. 
. . . And now I beseech thee, lady, 
not as writing a new commandment, 
but that which we have had_//w the 
beginning, that we love one another. 
. . . Having more things to write to 
you, I would not by paper and ink, 
for I hope that I shall be with you, 
and speak face to face, that your joy 
may be full." St. Peter, in his First 
Epistle, does not disdain to give 
counsel as to the outward dress of 
women, thus dignifying the subject 
through the symbolism he wishes it 
to express. And let not any one of 
our own times call these counsels 
either frivolous or interfering,. for has 
not every sect that arose as a self-ap- 
pointed reformer begun by the re- 
straint on female apparel, typical of 
moral restraint over our passions and 
inclinations ? Even now, in a mis- 
taken and distorted interpretation of 
the significance of dress, have not the 
ultra-advocates of Woman's Rights 
laid their "reforming" hands upon 
the current fashions ? 

When St. Peter came to Rome, 
the first house that received him was 
that of Pudens, a Roman senator, 
whose wife Priscilla, and whose 



daughters Pudentiana and Praxedes, 
became his first converts and his 
most powerful co-laborers. The two 
virgins, having become the heiresses 
of their parents and brothers, sold 
their vast estates, and gave the price 
to the suffering and persecuted 
among their brethren ; and, though 
we read of hundreds of such cases 
among the women of the early 
church, we seldom find it so with the 
men, except in such families where 
the influence of some female relative 
resulted in this heroic renunciation. 
The palace of Pudentiana and Praxe- 
des was converted into a church which 
for centuries has borne their name, 
and in which is shown as well the 
temporary -receptacle and hiding- 
place, says time-honored tradition, of 
the bodies of the martyrs, carefully 
collected by these brave women. 
This church is the oldest in Rome, 
says a reliable authority, the Rev. 
Joachim Ventura, whom we shall 
often have reason to quote in these 
pages, and it is also the first among 
those giving titular rank to the order 
of cardinals. 

Among the apostolic women whose 
names stand beside those of the 
great saints to whom the church owes 
her wide sway, St. Thecla has ever 
been foremost ; St. Ambrose, St. Au- 
gustine, St. Chrysostom, St. Gregory 
of Nyssa, St. Gregory Nazianzen, St. 
Isidore of Pelusium, St. Epiphanius, 
and St. Methodius, bishops and fa- 
thers of the church, have vied with 
one another in extolling her constan- 
cy and her greatness. The last men- 
tioned of these tells us, in his book 
the Banquet of Virgins, that she was 
well versed in secular philosophy, 
and in the various branches of po- 
lite literature; he also exceedingly 
commends her eloquence, and the 
ease, strength , sweetness, and modes- 
ty of her discourse (Butler's Lives 
of the Saints). Of the persecution 



the Rights of Women. 



she suffered at the hands of the young 
pagan to whom she had, before her 
conversion, been betrothed, we will 
not speak, neither will we touch 
upon her miraculous deliverance from 
the wild beasts to whom she had 
been thrown, further than to point 
out, however, that woman has shown 
more than masculine courage long 
before modern agitators began to ac- 
cuse her of degeneracy and lameness. 
But the secret lay then, as it does 
now, in the teaching of a church 
that sees in her children only hierar- 
chies of souls, and that looks upon 
the body as a mere form, determin- 
ing respective duties, it is true, but 
certainly not conferring de jure on 
the possessors of such forms any su- 
periority or difference of intellectual 
or moral capacity. A proof of this 
lies open to all in the fact that wo- 
men's names as well as men's are 
incorporated in the text of the Mass, 
and are repeated every day with as 
much honor, before the altar of God. 
After the " Commemoration of the 
Dead," and in the prayer beginning, 
" Nobis quoque peccatoribus," the 
names of Felicitas, Perpetua, Agatha, 
Lucy, Agnes, Cecilia, Anastasia, are 
coupled with those of the apostles 
and martyrs John, Stephen, Matthi- 
as, Barnabas, Ignatius, Alexander, 
Marceliinus, and Peter, that is, with 
some of the greatest saints whom 
even Protestants consent to admire. 
The church, too, shows her apprecia- 
tion of the sex and its capabilities 
by the express words, often used in 
her "liturgy, " devoto femineo sexu," 
which, whether translated as usual, 
the " devout female sex," or the " de- 
voted," seems equally honorable to 
woman and her special characteris- 
tics. Virgins and widows are men- 
tioned by name in the prayers used 
in public on Good Friday, and im- 
mediately before them are named the 
seven orders of the priesthood. The 



mere fact of so many churches being 
dedicated to God under the special 
invocation of some female saint, of- 
ten one whose history has become 
obscure and traditional from very 
remoteness, serves to illustrate the 
high respect of the Catholic Church 
for womanhood, and the perfect 
equality with which she looks upon 
both her sons and her daughters. The 
cathedral of Milan, one of the most 
renowned shrines in the world, is 
under the patronage of the virgin 
of whom we have just spoken, 
the pro to- martyr, St. Thecla. The 
fathers of the church, following the 
example of St. Paul, call the help 
of faithful Christian women a minis- 
try, and Ventura tells us that Origen, 
St. Chrysostom, and Haymon speak 
of " women having through their 
good offices deserved to attain to 
the glorious title of apostles, and 
having supplemented the work of the 
evangelists and apostles by their 
preaching in private houses, espe- 
cially to persons of their own sex " 
(Ventura, -*La Donna Cattolica, vol. 
i. p. 279). It is related in the Bre- 
viarium Romanum, at the part ap- 
pointed to be read on the igth of 
May, that St. Pudentiana once pre- 
sented ninety persons to St. Pius, 
Pope, to be baptized, all of them 
being perfectly instructed in the faith 
through her teaching alone. St. Mar- 
tina, who was a deaconess (which 
answers to religious in the later 
church), converted and instructed 
many persons, principally women. 
The Breviarium honors her as the 
protectress of Rome. She has also 
a hymn specially set apart for her 
office in the Breinarium, and the 
church dedicated to her in Rome is 
the richest and most magnificent of 
those under the patronage of the 
martyrs. The house of Lucina, a 
noble Roman matron, was converted 
into a church, afterwards dedicated 



86 



How the Church Understands and Upholds 



to the holy Pope Marcellus. An- 
other church, now called San Loren- 
zo in Lucina, stands over the tomb 
which Lucina prepared for that saint. 
Priscilla, also a Roman lady of high 
lineage, the wife of the before-men- 
tioned senator Pudens, gave her for- 
tune and her land for a cemetery, to 
which her name was justly appended. 
Natalia, the wife of the martyr Ad- 
rian, after publicly exhorting her hus- 
band to be steadfast in the faith, 
boldly put on man's attire to elude 
the order recently given that no 
Christian woman should be allowed 
to visit the prisoners. The Breviari- 
um tells us that St. Justina, upon 
whom a famous magician named 
Cyprian had tried all manner of un- 
hallowed arts, so far prevailed over 
him that she brought him to know 
the true God, and to abandon his 
idols and sorceries. But examples 
such as these of the intellectual in- 
fluence of women upon their friends, 
and even upon strangers and ene- 
mies, would multiply under our hands 
into a volume, if we could stop to 
collect them all. 

Martyrdom was, in the early ages, the 
almost inevitable end of zealous faith 
and active evangelization. St. Ceci- 
lia ranks among the most prominent 
of those who, strong with a superna- 
tural strength, gladly gave up life, 
youth, health, and beauty, for the 
sake of principle. Let us put it in 
that form, for even now there are 
many who respect in the abstract a 
single-minded devotion to principle. 
This devotion would be essentially 
called manliness in our day ; yet the 
women of the early church some 
mere children in years, some threat- 
ened with -what would make a wo- 
man waver in her determination far 
more than mere physical torture 
could, the loss of her honor, some 
again with natural diseases or weak- 
ness upon them showed a super- 



abundant amount of this very manli- 
ness. Cecilia has long been the pa- 
troness of music, and we read in her 
Acts that she employed both vocal 
and instrumental music in the service 
of the Most High, fitly using the 
most beautiful of arts to glorify Su- 
preme Beauty. Her love for the 
Holy Scriptures was such that she 
often wore them on her bosom in 
the folds of her robe, and that long 
before the Canon of Scripture had 
been fixed, and before the Holy 
Book could have the world-wide re- 
putation which the church has now 
bestowed upon it. Cecilia's will, 
made in presence of Pope Urban, 
consisted in the giving of her palace 
for a church, and the distributing of 
her remaining wealth to the poor. 
Her death was heroic, and, as her 
life-blood was ebbing slowly from 
her, she only thought of converting 
her executioners. Oblivious of bo- 
dily pain, she exhorted them to throw 
off the yoke of idolatry, and suc- 
ceeded so far as to cause them to 
exclaim, " It is only a God who 
could have created such a prodigy 
as his servant Cecilia !" The body 
of the martyr was interred in the Ca- 
tacomb of St. Callixtus, in a chapel 
hollowed out of the earth, and some- 
what larger than the other chambers 
of the same catacomb : it was the 
sepulchre of the popes, and the plac- 
ing of her body in this sepulchre was 
a mark of the extraordinary respect 
due to her generous munificence and 
her heroic courage. Thus has the 
old church, so truly called the " mo- 
ther church," always recognized and 
rewarded merit, whether in man or 
woman. Susannah, a relation both 
of Pope Caius and of the Emperor 
Diocletian, and daughter to Gabi- 
nius, a man as learned as he was no- 
ble, was another instance of how 
religion can reconcile profound in- 
struction with deep piety, and unite 



the Rights of Women. 



both to beauty of person and grace 
of manner. She was learned, say 
her Acts, in philosophy, in literature, 
and in religion. The emperor sent 
one of his nobles, Claudius, Susan- 
nah's own uncle, to entreat her to 
marry Maximinus Caesar, Diocletian's 
son. The noble and learned virgin 
not only refused the alliance, but, 
strengthened by the approbation of 
her Christian father and her other 
uncle, Pope Caius, who were present, 
spoke so eloquently that Claudius 
was converted to Christianity. The 
Acts of the Martyrs record his words 
in announcing this conversion to his 
wife : ' It is chiefly my niece Susan- 
nah who has conquered me. I owe 
to the prayers of this young girl the 
happiness of having received God's 
grace." His wife, Prepedigna, and 
Maximus, his brother, were also won 
over by her influence, and the latter 
bears tribute equally to her wisdom, 
holiness, and her beauty. There 
could be but one end to such pro- 
ceedings, a glorious end for all : her 
friends all suffered martyrdom before 
her, and she who had braved an 
emperor's displeasure without a sign 
of so-called womanly weakness, met 
her death in secret with equal cour- 
age and joy. 

Agnes, the maiden of twelve or 
thirteen years, is praised by Ambrose, 
a Christian priest, for her contempt 
of the jewels with which the son of 
Symphronius attempted to bribe her : 
she is also pictured as the very incar- 
nation of youthful bravery, when 
with holy defiance she scorns the threat 
of her impure and cruel judge to 
send her to a place of ill-fame. This 
threat, often executed, was more than 
any other the touch-stone of their 
faith to the Christian virgins of anti- 
quity, while their invariable deliver- 
ance from this danger was the reward 
of their unflinching denial of the 
power of the false gods, even in the 



face of this shameful threat. Death 
would seem a bridal, to judge by the 
loving alacrity with which these 
child-virgins ran to meet it. Who 
can say that the church does not 
admire and inculcate courage and 
self-respect in women, since half the 
martyrs defended their honor as well 
as their faith with the last drop of 
their blood ? 

St. Ambrose, speaking to his sister 
Marcellina of the martyr Sothera, 
in whose praises he is enthusiastic, 
says : <; What need for me to seek for 
examples for thee, who hast been 
formed to holiness by thy martyred 
relative? [Sothera was their great- 
aunt] . . . Brought up thyself in the 
country, having no companion to 
set thee examples, no master to teach 
thee precepts, there were at hand no 
human means to teach thee what 
thou has learnt. Thou art no disci- 
ple, therefore for there can be no 
disciple where there is no master 
but the heiress of the virtues of thy 
ancestress. Let us speak of the ex- 
ample of our holy relative, for we 
priests have a nobility of our own, 
preferable to that which counts it an 
honor to have prefects and consuls 
among our forefathers : we have the 
nobility of faith, which cannot die." 
These words of grave import are ad- 
dressed to a woman, and the boast 
of holy ancestry they contain also 
refers to a woman. Agatha, the he- 
roine of Catana, and Lucy, the mar- 
tyr of Syracuse, both noble Sicilian 
maidens, speak the boldest language 
to their barbarous judges, and meet 
death as bravely as any man could 
face it for his country and his home. 

Victoria, a lady of Abyssinia, in Afri- 
ca, accused of being a Christian, and 
defended by her pagan brother, who 
swore she had been deluded into 
connivance with the Christians, ve- 
hemently contradicted him in open 
court. " I came here of my own ac- 



88 



Hoiv the Church Understands and Upholds 



cord," she averred, " and neither Da- 
tivus nor any one else beguiled me ; I 
can bring witnesses among my fellow- 
townspeople to the fact that I came 
simply because I knew there would 
be a gathering of our brethren here, 
under our priest Saturninus, and that 
the holy mysteries would be cele- 
brated." She persists when her bro- 
ther excuses her again as being in- 
sane, and eagerly criminates herself 
in the eyes of the judge, till she suc- 
ceeds in winning her crown. Forty- 
eight other martyrs, men and wo- 
men, heroically suffer the same pe- 
nalty, greatly comforted and encour- 
aged by her dauntless attitude. At 
Thessalonica, a woman named Irene 
was apprehended, together with her 
five sisters, and was herself chiefly 
accused of having kept and conceal- 
ed the books of Scripture, and other 
papers relating to the Christian reli- 
gion. Dulcetius, the judge before 
whom she was brought, and who 
was president of Macedonia, could 
elicit from her nothing that could 
endanger any one but herself, her 
sisters having been tried and martyr- 
ed upon the charge of refusing to eat 
meats consecrated to idols. Her 
firmness both in screening others 
and in avowing her eager care for 
the holy writings, not only gives us a 
high idea of her moral courage, but 
also of her intellectual interest in 
those scarce and valuable works. She 
suffered death for her dauntless cus- 
tody of these treasures, and it is re- 
lated that she sang psalms of praise 
while ascending the funeral pile. 

St. Catherine of Alexandria is a 
most noted example of the erudition 
often attained and displayed by 
Christian women. At the age of 
eighteen, says the Breviarvum Ro- 
manum, she outstripped in knowledge 
the most learned men of her day : 
Maximinus, who was both a libertine 
and a tyrant, was cruelly persecuting 



the Christians of Alexandria, and dis- 
honoring the noble matrons of that 
city. Catherine boldly and publicly 
upbraided him, and forced him to 
listen to her arguments. Her Acts 
and the Greek Menology of the 
Emperor Basil affirm that she sup- 
ported her thesis of Christianity 
against the arguments of forty of the 
ablest heathen philosophers, and so 
effectually confuted them that they 
preceded her in her martyrdom by 
declaring themselves Christians, and 
being forthwith condemned to be 
burned alive. Catherine, during her 
imprisonment, converted the wife of 
Maximinus, and the commander of 
his army, and further made such an 
impression -upon the crowd assem- 
bled to witness her death that many 
became Christians on the spot. The 
interesting Church of San Clemente, 
in Rome, contains one chapel, the 
walls of which are covered with fres- 
coes illustrative of each of these oc- 
currences ; this chapel is supposed to 
date from the fourth or fifth century, 
and is a mute witness to the honor 
with which the memory of the illus- 
trious and learned maiden of Alex- 
andria was, even at that early age, 
surrounded. Butler, in his Lives of 
the Saints, says of her : " From this 
martyr's uncommon erudition, . . . 
and the use she made of it, she is 
chosen in the schools the patroness 
and model of Christian philosophers." 
This is by no means the only instance 
of a woman being honored as patron- 
ess in the roads of learning or of art. 
Later on, we shall have occasion 
to speak of other saints equally dis- 
tinguished for their talents and zeal 
for true philosophy. Butler says in a 
foot-note to the Life of St. Cathe- 
rine . " The female sex is not less 
capable, of the sublime sciences, nor 
less remarkable for liveliness of ge- 
nius. Witness, among numberless 
instances in polite literature and in 



the Rights of Women. 



89 



theology, the celebrated Venetian 
lady, Helen Lucretia Cornaro, doc- 
tress in theology at Padua in 1678, the 
wonder Q{ her age for her skill in every 
branch of literature, and, still more, 
for the austerity of her life and her 
extraordinary piety." 

Most of the martyrs we have hith- 
erto mentioned were virgins : among 
widows and widowed mothers, we 
find other heroines whom no bodily 
torture nor that more bitter anguish 
of witnessing their children's suffer- 
ings could daunt or even cause to 
waver. 

Symphorosa, a noble Roman ma- 
tron, denounced by the astrologers 
of Rome to the Emperor Adrian, 
bravely confessed her faith in the 
presence of her seven sons, whom 
she thus encouraged to do the same. 
She spoke of herself as honored in 
being the widow and sister of mar- 
tyrs, and utterly scorned the proposal 
to forsake the truth for which they 
had bled. Here is a foreshadowing 
of the times of mediaeval chivalry, 
which were but the legitimate offshoot 
from such a moral atmosphere of 
pure chivalric heroism as enveloped 
the lives of the early Christians. In- 
vincible strength and a courage that 
smiled in the face of death was with 
the children of the primitive church 
a point of honor, a family tradition, 
a hereditary legacy. Another widow 
and mother, Felicitas, suffered more 
cruelly yet than Symphorosa; for, un- 
der the reign of Marcus Aurelius, she 
beheld her seven children butchered 
before her eyes, and never ceased ex- 
horting them to constancy, while her 
mother's heart and more natural feel- 
ing were suffering a sevenfold mar- 
tyrdom. She followed her sons 
to death with fervent joy. St. Au- 
gustine was eloquent in her praise, 
and on one anniversary of her tri- 
umph called her death a " great 
spectacle offered to the eyes of faith," 



and herself " more fruitful by reason 
of her many virtues than of her many 
children." St. Gregory, the great 
father, exalted her by likening her 
example to a new and spiritual birth 
of the Saviour in each soul that she 
thus secured to God, according to 
the interpretation of the words of the 
Gospel : " He who does the will of 
my Father in heaven is my brother, 
and my sister, and my mother." 

Another St. Felicitas, a Christian 
slave and widow, with her mistress 
Perpetua, who had also lately lost 
her husband, suffered death in the 
amphitheatre of Tharbacium, near 
Carthage, in Africa, rather than give 
up what they knew to be divine 
truth. Felicitas was martyred a day 
or two after the premature birth in 
prison of her child, and, when bru- 
tally jeered by the guards at her in- 
ability to suffer the pains of child- 
birth in silence, answered in words 
that to this day furnish the key to 
all woman's superiority as proved by 
the facts of church history : " It is I 
that suffer to-day, and nature is weak : 
to-morrow Jesus himself will suffer in 
me, and his grace will give my nature 
the strength it needs" (Acts of the 
Martyrs). Perpetua, her mistress, but 
also her sister in Christ (for in the 
church alone resides true equality), 
resisted the pleadings -of her aged 
father and the mute appeals of her 
infant's unprotected condition, and 
bore her sufferings as it is said the 
Spartan women knew how to bear 
theirs. But while the enduringness 
both of men and women was in Spar- 
ta only the artificial result of compul- 
sory laws, and soon disappeared be- 
fore the shameful voluptuousness 
that was natural to all heathen be- 
liefs, that of Christians of both sexes 
made its mark through successive 
generations, and lives yet in our less 
hardy times, because it is intrinsic 
to the nature of a faith whose God 



The Church and the Rights of Women. 



had- no more hospitable birthplace 
than a cold stable, and no better 
death-bed than a cross. 

Blandina, the martyr of Lyons, is 
justly celebrated for her extraordina- 
ry constancy, and the Christians of 
Lyons who wrote a letter preserved 
to history by Eusebius, and address- 
ed to their brethren of Asia and 
Phrygia, extol her as the soul of the 
heroic stand made by many of their 
number against idolatry. She was a 
slave, very young and very weak in 
health, says this letter, and yet even 
her executioners marvelled at her 
powers of endurance, exclaiming : 
One of the tortures she has suffered 
ought to have killed her, and she is 
alive yet after them all! Further 
on, she is likened to a bold athlete. 
Some of her companions having wav- 
ered, her example and exhortations 
recalled them to their duty, and Pon- 
ticus, a young boy, was the last to 
die under her eyes, encouraged and 
upheld by Blandina. Potamiana, 
another slave, who died in defence 
of her honor as well as her faith, 
chose a more lingering death than 
that to which she was condemned, 
rather than uncover herself in public, 
the judge consenting to this change 
not in pity, but in cruelty. Her exe- 
cutioner became her first convert ; 
many other men likewise came to 
the faith through visions of this 
young and steadfast virgin. 

We have mentioned women in 
every sphere and state of life, social 
and domestic, as endowed with con- 
fessedly heroic powers, and capable 
of attaining high and noble ends in 
the field of religion, of art, and of 
philosophy. One class of women, 
however, remains still to be noticed, 
and it is perhaps the greatest proof 
of the church's universal and in- 
stinctive tenderness toward the sex, 
that among that unhappy class she 
alone has been able to make fruitful 



the call of God. The Catholic 
Church has set upon her altars and 
in her calendar the names of many 
illustrious penitents and anchorites, 
side by side with stainless virgins 
and matrons of unblemished fame. 
The Catholic Church alone can re- 
store to fallen woman her rightful 
inheritance, and so efface the brand 
of sin that its shame shall be merged 
into a glory as pure as that of bap- 
tismal innocence. To take among 
the martyrs but one instance of this 
rehabilitation, let us see what history 
relates of Afra, the courtesan of Augs- 
burg, in the Roman province of Rhe- 
tia, and the present kingdom of Ba- 
varia. Afra was of noble birth, and 
had many slaves and possessions. 
She was converted by St. Narcissus, 
a Christian bishop who was fleeing 
from the persecution then raging in 
Gaul. Her household as well as her 
mother followed her example. She 
succeeded in concealing Narcissus 
and his deacon Felix for some time 
in her own house, and meanwhile 
diligently applied herself to making 
converts of her friends and former 
associates. Denounced in her turn a 
little later, and sneered at for the 
contradiction between her past and 
present life, she answers the judge 
boldly, admitting humbly that she is 
unworthy to be called a Christian, 
yet affirming that the threatened tor- 
ments will cleanse and purify her 
body, while the proposed sacrifice to 
the gods would only further stain and 
disfigure her soul Bound to a stake 
and burned with slow fire, her intre- 
pidity only redoubles, and, having 
sinned through the weakness of un- 
disciplined nature, she shows a more 
than manly courage through the new- 
born strength of grace. 

With her, we close the few practi- 
cal examples of the greatness of wo- 
man during the ages of martyrdom, 
but the spirit that made the martyrs 



The Passion. gi 

did not die with the last of the can- versy on the subject of what is and 

onized victims of the pagan persccu- is not due to her sex. What we 

tions. St. Jerome speaks of a " daily have already said in these pages will 

martyrdom, which consists not in tend, please God, to remove preju- 

the shedding of blood as a testimo- dices, and at least clear the way for 

ny, but in the devout and undefiled evidence still more appreciable by 

service of the mind " (De Laud. S. our ambitious non-Catholic sisters, 

Paula). This we propose to illus- namely, that which goes to show that 

trate in a subsequent article, giving not only in social and home life, but 

historical instances of the actual hon- also in the wide sphere of statecraft 

or paid in the church to learned, and public influence, the church has 

holy, and influential women, rather marked out a noble margin for wo- 

than entering into abstract contro- men's genius. 



THE PASSION. 

WAS ever tale of love like this ? 

The wooing of the Spouse of blood : 
Who came to wed us to his bliss 

In those eternal years with God ? 

Those griefless years, those wantless years, 
He left them counting loss for gain 

To taste the luxury of tears, 
And revel in the wine of pain ! 

Twas sin had mixed the cup of woe 
From Adam passed to every lip : 

And none could shirk its brimming flow 
For some a draught, for all a sip : 

Till Jesus came, athirst to save : 

Nor sucked content a sinless breast ; 

But grasped the fatal cup, and gave 

That Mother half, then drained the rest. 

Enough the milk without the wine. 

When first the new-born Infant smiled, 
'Twas merit infinite, divine, 

To cleanse a thousand worlds defiled. 

But we must take of both. And how 
Could love look on, nor rush to share ? 

Or hear us moan : " Death's darkness" now : 
And Thou, at least, wast rever there " ? 

And so he drank our Marah dry : 

Then filled the cup with wine of h,eaven. 

Who would not live with him to die ? 
Or not have sinned when so forgiven ? 

LENT, 1872. 



9 2 



Jans von Steuftes Donkey. 



JANS VON STEUFLE'S DONKEY. 



JANS VON STEUFLE was a happy 
man until he got that donkey. Now, 
you might think the donkey was left 
him as a legacy by some dear 
friend or rich relation, or that Jans 
found him in the highway some cold 
wintry night and took him home in 
pity, or the donkey might have stray- 
ed into Jans' enclosure and refused 
to go out, but no such thing ; Jans 
bought and paid for all his trouble in 
good silver coin. 

Jans had some comforts, however 
to compensate : he had a good wife. 
Some say, " A good wife is a rare 
thing," but you never hear that sneer 
in German-land, for German wives 
and German children are taught be- 
times to be good. Jans' wife kept 
the house clean and the kettles 
bright; and made Sauerkraut* and 
Wurst, t and delicious Rahmkase\ 
ah ! it would melt in your mouth 
and had always such nicely browned 
Rindcrbrateni\ and delicate gcdampf- 
tes F/eisch, \\ and put vinegar in every- 
thing. 

Then such beautiful patchwork 
Bettdecke*\ she stitched together, 
and such snowy Bettwasche** you 
would be floated off to dream of 
Arabian Nights just to sleep under 
them. And when her fingers had 
nothing particular to do, that is, when 



* Sourkrout. t Sausage. 
Roast-beef. 
1 Bed-quilts 



t Cream-cheese. 
1 Stewed meat. 
** Bed-linen. 



she walked about the house and gar- 
den a little just before supper-time, 
to see that every corner was clean, 
and everything in good order, and 
the pot-herbs coming up properly, 
or when she went down the lane to 
drive home the truant chickens and 
little ducks who were out on some 
juvenile frolic, did her ten fingers 
rest ? Oh ! no, then a thread of yarn 
came creeping out of her pocket, 
and click, click, went the needles, 
and such stockings ! You might 
wear them to the North Pole, only 
they'd be too warm. 

But her great genius and tact lay 
in garden-making. We do wrong to 
apply these words to her, for she un- 
derstood neither, and Jans despised 
both ; rather be it said that her in- 
dustry was made most manifest when 
she betook herself (under Jans' di- 
rection, of course) to digging and 
planting. 

Jans had a pleasant way of impart- 
ing knowledge, and at the same time 
making himself comfortable. Seat- 
ed on a wooden bench in some shad- 
ed gravel-walk near the scene of her 
rural operations, with a pipe in his 
mouth, he would sit patiently the 
long hot summer afternoon, directing 
the putting down of pea-sticks, the 
tying up of hop-vines, and apportion- 
ing off the territory to be allowed to 
the marauding pumpkins. Some peo- 
ple profess to discover a striking re- 
semblance between the human fami- 
ly and the great family of animals 
each to each, and they even run a 



Jans von Steuflcs Donkey. 



93 



parallel between them in physiogno- 
my ; but in a garden the similitude 
is perfect. No one who cultivates a 
garden for very love of it but what 
unconsciously invests his community 
there with a sort of intelligent exist- 
ence. They are well-behaved or 
troublesome ; in good health or pin- 
ing under little ailments. Here a 
hardy native pushes his way to upper 
air, heedless alike of deluge or 
drought, while that other one from 
some far-away country, like any dis- 
contented foreigner, finds nothing to 
its taste, but must be sheltered, and 
watered, and gives a deal of trouble. 
Some are orderly and upright ; others 
are inclined to crooked ways, and 
seldom amend until tied to a stake. 
The roots generally stay underground 
until they are wanted, while some, 
like the bold, conceited turnips, climb 
to the surface when not more than 
half-grown, and bask in the sunlight 
as if they were roses. The vine 
tribe care as litde as human climb- 
ers whom they crush down in their 
aspiring efforts; onward they trail 
and take possession, reckless of those 
who have a better right. Many a 
pretty little plant have those green 
vines tyrannized over ! As for flow- 
ers, we call them modest, bold, gau- 
dy, retiring, even in common speech; 
and many a habit and inclination do 
they exhibit to a humble admirer 
which has never been entered in sci- 
entific books. Yes, a garden is a 
community of wonderful creations, 
where each one has its peculiarities, 
and yet each one conforms in a cer- 
tain degree to the type of its 
family. 

With such loving eyes did Jans 
and his gitte Frau look on their flow- 
er-beds and their edibles ; and such 
like matters did they often discourse 
about, when the spading and raking 
for the day were done, and she sat 



on the bench by his side knitting, 
knitting. 

It is doubtful; however, whether 
they would have noticed matters 
quite so particularly, not having been 
educated to abstractions, comparisons, 
generalizations, and such like meta- 
physical flights, had not their atten- 
tion been directed to them occasion- 
ally by a third member of their fami- 
ly, the very learned Herr von Heine. 

Now, Jans in his efforts at amass- 
ing riches had neglected no honest 
means of success. Consequently, 
when their two children had both 
married well and gone to live in dis- 
tant cities, and he found himself with 
a spare room in his house, he looked 
about for a tenant. Then mein herr 
(as he was called for brevity's sake) 
presented himself, and, as his testimo- 
nials for respectability and prompt 
pay were satisfactory, he was soon 
established in the pretty little cham- 
ber with its white curtains, its patch- 
work bedspread, and a floor so well 
scrubbed you might have eaten off 
of it. He somewhat marred the 
beauty of the spot by an importation 
of certain odd things which he pro- 
fessed to consider indispensable. There 
was a regiment of ragged-looking 
old leather books, and some well- 
worn coats and dingy dressing-gowns, 
not to mention an assortment of pipes 
and tobacco jars and old boots, and 
a few warlike weapons which stuck 
out in a protecting way from the top 
of his book-shelves. 

Mein herr was just now direct from 
the Collegienhaus * of the famous 
University at Konigsberg, where he 
had been giving short lectures and 
receiving long pay, and being, there- 
fore, on good terms with himself and 
the world in general, he resolved to 



* The hall where lectures are mostly deliver 
ed. 



94 



Jans von Stcuftes Donkey. 



rusticate in some secluded spot for 
the summer, and renovate his facul 
ties for the next winter's campaign. 

No place could be more quiet or 
better suited for his purpose than his 
present abode. Here he could spin 
all kinds of' cobweb theories hour af- 
ter hour, with not a sound to ripple 
the air and demolish them, for neith- 
er Jans nor his wife ever intruded into 
his apartment. It was only in the 
soft summer evening twilight that he 
made his descent to the garden, and 
indulged in a brief social intercourse 
with his host and hostess. Indeed, 
he came almost as regularly as the 
sun set. His tall, straight figure en- 
veloped in a long black sort of eccle- 
siastical gown, a jaunty cap on his 
head, with its tassel hanging down 
behind, a meerschaum in hand which 
he was bound to finish before he 
should retire, behold Mein Herr von 
Heine! the embodiment of profound 
and extended erudition out for a little 
recreation. Mein herr was always 
welcome. Pleasant enough was the 
discourse they all held as he slowly 
walked up and down the gravel-walk, 
or took a seat beside them, especially 
when the subject was farm-matters; 
and mutually profitable was the ex- 
change between theory and practice; 
many a pleasant laugh they had, too; 
and as to the gute Fran, she listened 
and smiled, and occasionally put in 
a modest little word, this being, ac- 
cording to her best belief, the extent 
of " woman's rights." 

They were sitting thus one June 
evening, when Jans laid aside his 
pipe, and said, in his usual deliberate 
way : 

"I think I'll buy a horse, or a 
donkey, or a clog-cart, or something, 
to take all these cabbages to mar- 
ket." 

" Buy a donkey by all means," said 
mein herr, " for a donkey, that is an 



ass, is classical. They are famous in 
sacred as well as in profane literature. 
No animal has always been so much 
the companion of man as the don- 
key, no one more valuable. An ox 
and an ass are what we are warned 
in the commandments not to covet, 
showing their universality in the days 
of Moses, besides being what any man 
in his senses would be most likely to 
covet. Asses are repeatedly mentioned 
in the Old Testament. Every one has 
heard of Balaam's ass, who was so 
much wiser than his master. I have 
often noted the great injustice done 
to that ass. Balaam bestowed on him 
three very decided beatings ; and al- 
though he was fully convinced after- 
wards that they were entirely unde- 
served, we have no record that he 
made the least apology or expressed 
the least regret. Now, even a don- 
key deserves justice. Asses have 
pervaded all ranks in life. There 
was Debbora the prophetess, the wife 
of Lapidoth ; in the Canticle, where 
she addresses the brave princes of 
Israel, she adjures them as ' you 
that ride upon fair asses, and sit in 
judgment, and walk in the way ' ; on 
the other hand, Job predicts woe to 
him ' who hath driven away the ass 
of the fatherless.' Certainly, asses 
were everywhere. When the wealth 
of Abraham was counted, he-asses 
and she-asses made a part of it; and 
when he was about to ascend the 
mountain to sacrifice his son Isaac, 
we are told that ' he arose and sad- 
dled his ass.' Then there was Ab- 
don, eight years a judge of Israel, 
who had forty sons and thirty grand 
sons, ' all mounted on seventy asses,' 
are the words of history. Then there 
was the Levite of Mount Ephraim 
ah ! I forget his name his wife left 
him and went to stay four months 
with her father in Bethlehem Juda, 
and when he went to bring her back, 



Jans von Steufles Donkey. 



95 



he took with him ' a servant and two 
asses,' one doubtless for her use. Then 
the jaw-bone of the ass made famous 
by Samson is well known, I mean the 
jaw-bone he wielded at Ramathlechi, 
when he put his thousand enemies to 
flight. Some of these animals pos- 
sess virtues worthy of our own imi- 
tation; they have displayed often- 
times very great intelligence, and af- 
fection for those they serve; as in the 
case of a certain old prophet who 
went forth from Juda to Bethel to 
denounce Jeroboam, and, being mis- 
led and turned from his duty by a 
pretended friend, was killed by the 
way on his return home ; his ass was 
found standing patient and watchful 
by the side of his dead master." 

Thus discoursed mein herr; his 
colloquial efforts were apt to be rath- 
er prolix and oratorical, but this was 
to be ascribed to his profession as 
lecturer ; he was so much accustom- 
ed, when he had unearthed an idea, 
to follow it up and make the most 
of it a sort of intellectual fox-chase. 

Failing to keep pace with him 
over such extended and erudite 
ground, Jans had, nevertheless, a dim 
notion that it was something to own 
even one donkey, so he said : 

" To-morrow I will buy a don- 
key." 

" Ah ! yes," said the Frau von Steu- 
fle, " and next market-day we will go 
with a donkey." 

" You will be wise to buy a don- 
key," repeated mein herr, " for now I 
call to mind that Sancho Panza had 
one whose labors, as he tells us, half- 
supported his family. I am remind- 
ed, also, that the great Cervantes 
himself rode an ass, as he relates, on 
a pleasant journey from Equivias 
with two of his friends. They heard 
some one clattering up from behind 
and calling to them to stop, and 
when he at length overtook them it 



proved to be a student, who was 
mounted on an animal of the same 
sort; he no sooner learned their 
names than he flung himself off of 
his ass, says Cervantes, whilst his 
cloak-bag tumbled on one side, and 
his portmanteau on the other, and 
he hastened to express his admiration 
of the great author of Don Quixote" * 
Just at this point both meerschaum 
and pipe had given forth their last 
whiff, and the knitting-work had ar- 
rived at the middle of a ne edle ; and 
as the great matter under discussion, 
the purchase, was considered as wise- 
ly decided in the affirmative, they 
mutually exchanged a kind " Gute 
Nacht " with the inevitable " Schla- 
fen Sie wohl !"t 



II. 



The day after the above conversa- 
tion, Jans left his home for a little 
business in a distant city, and several 
more elapsed before he returned with 
his purchase. 

Oh ! vain boast when Jans von 
Steufle declared, " To-morrow I will 
buy a donkey." 

What is a donkey ? In one phase 
of his character, he is the very perso- 
nification of the stoical philosophy of 
the ancients; the type of that per- 
fect indifference to all sublunary mu- 
tations to which Zeno vainly strives 
to elevate humankind ; patient and 
enduring under any amount of rain, 
hail, snow, and sleet that can pour 
down on him, and any amount of 
luggage that can be piled upon him ; 
totally v indifferent, in the road he 
travels, as to its length, direction, hos- 



* See preface to Labors of Persilts ami Sigis- 
tnunJa : A Romance, the last work of Cervantes, 
and left unfinished at his death. 

" t May you sleep well !" 



Jans von Stcuflis Donkey. 



telries, or hardships, and satisfied, as 
far as food and sleep are concerned, 
with the smallest quantity and the 
poorest quality. 

This was Jans' idea of a donkey, 
but it was not what he got for his 
money ; he got a little gray beast, 
with a shaggy hide, a large head, 
long ears, and a temper. 

It was quite dark when Jackey 
with a boy astride him arrived from 
the place of his last abode ; so he 
was quietly taken to the comfortable 
quarters prepared for him not far 
from brindle-cow, and particular in- 
troductions to him were deferred un- 
til the next morning. 

The next morning ushered in mar- 
ket-day. The edibles had all been 
gathered in and nicely washed the 
night before ; the flowers also had 
been culled and tastefully arranged 
in beautiful bouquets : some small for 
sweet little love tokens ; some larger 
to decorate the tables and mantel- 
shelves of those people who are un- 
happily forced to dwell always among 
the bricks and mortar of the town, 
who paid large prices for them, and 
took them thankfully, as their very 
minute share of all the glorious and 
beautiful works of the Creator which 
are spread around life in the coun- 
try. Others, again, were tied togeth- 
er in tall pyramid-like forms, the 
apex a pure white lily or perhaps a 
white rose, and spreading down from 
that to the. base in blossoms that 
mingled all the colors of the rainbow. 
These were destined for the grand 
altar of the great church ; for there 
were always pious souls in the town 
ready to expend their good groschen 
and thalers in adornments for the 
sanctuary. Very skilful are the fin-' 
gers of German wives, and great their 
taste in making up all these tempt- 
ing little articles of merchandise ; and 
as they lay waiting in the Wohuzim. 



tncr* of the Von Steufle dwelling- 
house, you might have thought the 
whole garden had moved for a de- 
parture. 

Breakfast was disposed of early, 
and immediately after it Jackey was 
brought out for his first load. 

" He has good points," said the 
learned herr, after taking a leisurely 
survey. 

Jans knew not much about points, 
but he knew how to put a good load 
on his back, and this he now pro- 
ceeded to do. 

" Much discretion is necessary in 
purchasing a donkey," observed the 
Herr von Heine '"' much discrimina- 
tion; wisdom and foolishness are so 
much alike" on a cursory view. A 
demure aspect may represent either ; 
and, then, a staid, dignified manner 
may proceed from lack of ideas, nay, 
even absolute stupidity, as well as 
from profound thought. In dealing 
with an animal which exhibits these 
traits, great penetration is called for, 
or you will be deceived. Then, there 
is a brightness of the eye, nothing 
vicious. Ah ! I think your animal has 
it, a sort of exuberance of spirit, a 
repressed strength which can accom- 
plish deeds almost incredible when 
opportunity offers. You seldom see 
this in pictures of the donkey race ; 
painters seem to think it necessary to 
represent them dull and imbecile, 
which is far from being correct." 

Mein herr paused, but his friends 
were both too busy to reply, so he was 
only met by a " Freilich, mein Herr " f 
from Jans, and a smiling " Ja Wohl " J 
from his helpmate. In German-land, 
social life has no sharp points and 
corners to prick and scratch. All is 
polished and polite, and such a little 
acknowledgment of attention to a 



* Common sitting-room, 
"t Assuredly, sir." 



Jans i'on Steuftes Donkey. 



97 



speaker could never be neglected. 
It was sufficient encouragement for 
the herr, and he proceeded. He was 
so accustomed to vibrate between 
his study and his lecture-room, that 
to be quite silent or to have all the 
talking to himself had become most 
natural to him, so, as we have said, 
he proceeded. 

" Painting recalls to me Polygnotus, 
mentioned, I think, by Pausanias, yet 
I'm not quite certain. He was an 
Athenian painter of great celebrity, 
and one of his works was an allego- 
rical picture, in which unavailing la- 
bor was symbolized by a man twist- 
ing a rope which an ass nibbles in 
pieces as fast as he advanced. These 
allegorical pictures are pleasant stu- 
dies, and it is truly surprising to 
compare all the different interpreta- 
tions of them by all the different 
people, who call the same object by 
totally different names, and of course 
draw from the entire composition 
very different conclusions. Things 
are generally contradictory to them- 
selves as well as to other things, es- 
pecially when viewed in that dim 
light which I would call, if I may 
be allowed an original expression, 
the mist of ages. We may cite 
for this Silenus. He is the only 
heathen god depicted on an ass. 
Now, the morals and manners of Si- 
lenus are very well known, and his 
association with this quadruped is 
complimentary to it or not, accord- 
ing to the view taken. It may be a 
panegyric on a patient, sure-footed, 
philosophical animal, who could put 
aside personal feeling in choosing his 
company, and bear his bibulous rid- 
er in safety when he was totally un- 
able to walk. Or was Silenus an 
immortal in disgrace degraded from 
horse, tiger, lion, panther, not to 
mention chariots and wings, all that 
gods and men delight in, and doom- 
VOL. xv. 7 



ed to the indignity of donkey-back ? 
If the latter, certainly the creature 
rose superior to his situation in (he 
end; his voice must have been tre- 
mendous ! In battle between the 
gods and giants, when Silenus rode 
in among them, it was his sonorous 
bray that threw the giant ranks in 
confusion and actually put them to 
flight He was well rewarded for 
this service, for justice is in the sky 
if not on earth. He was exalted to 
the constellations. Search the star- 
lighted sky for Cancer, and you will 
find in it the once humble Asellus 
of Silenus. 

" Midcz aures, the asinine appenda- 
ges which the king was forced to ac- 
cept so unwillingly on Mount Tmo- 
lus (a proper reproof to captious cri- 
ticism), 

' Induiturque aures lente gradients aselli,' * 

were evidently a compliment to the 
quadruped; for certainly Apollo 
meant them for an improvement on 
his own, which had so signally failed 
him." 

Here mein herr came to a decided 
stop necessarily, for the donkey was 
at last loaded, and such a load ! No- 
thing but a donkey could have stood 
under it, much less walk ! It was 
cabbages this side, potatoes that 
side, cauliflowers in the middle. Then 
salad laid on loose ; then celery stuck 
in endwise; then great bunches of 
sage and savory and thyme, and herbs 
for the soup, Petersilie and der Rettig. 
All these, hung on everywhere, made 
Jack so fragrant that his coming 
could be known long before he was 
in sight. Lastly, was a delicate little 
basket of eggs, engaged long ago by 
a dainty customer, swinging easily, so 
as not to break, under all. 



* " And he puts on the cars of an ass quietly 
moving along." 



98 



Jans von Steufles Donkey. 



As Jack was pretty nearly buried 
out of sight under the substantial of 
trade, the Frau von Steufle took the 
flowers for her share, and she was 
equally well laden. She could only 
be said to resemble an immense walk- 
ing bouquet, with a pleasant, happy 
face peering out from its midst. Truly, 
the two were worth seeing. As for 
Jans, his great responsibility was load 
enough for him, and so, with good 
wishes and great expectations, they 
departed. 

The Herr von Heine was alone 
all that long summer day. It was 
rather a pleasant variety at first. So- 
litude has charms about it. He wan- 
dered through the house, and explor- 
ed every nook in the garden, and 
went a long way over the grass to 
look at the pigs ; he fed the chickens 
and even patted the cow. The old 
cat seemed to think it incumbent on 
her to show him the premises. At all 
events, she escorted him hither and 
thither, now turning somersaults in 
front of him, now flying up a tree to 
take a bird's-eye view of him, or per- 
haps to show him there were some 
feats not to be learned in books; 
then down again, in a sentimental 
sort of humor rubbing her head and 
ears against him, under his very steps; 
she quite disturbed his equilibrium. 

The large house-dog, or, rather, 
yard-dog, for there he lived, looked 
on with a more suspicious air, as if 
he should like to be informed what 
this new state of things meant; and 
after returning the learned Herr von 
Heine's preferred intimacy with the 
slightest possible wag of his tail, he 
walked off to attend to his own bu- 



siness. 



Perhaps mein herr added a trifle 
that holiday to his stock of know- 
ledge. He had evidently descended 
from his, pedestal of dignity, and he 
enjoyed it vastly; besides, he had 



often introduced such things in an il- 
lustrative or figurative manner to his 
classes, and it was as well to make 
himself familiar with their surround- 
ings. 

But it was getting late now, the 
sun had set, twilight deepened into 
darkness, or rather moonlight. Where 
could the three be staying ? Jans 
and his good wife were always home 
from market long before this hour, 
even when each carried a load with 
a barrow to wheel by turns ! 

He walked down to the road- way, 
and gazed long and anxiously into 
the distance. No signs of them yet '. 
Where could they be ? He returned 
to the house, and, ascending to his 
chamber, -selected from among his 
books a volume in Latin by the re- 
nowned Cornelius Agrippa. He 
turned to the last chapter, " Ad Enco- 
mium Asini Digressio."* He felt an in- 
tense interest at this moment in asses. 
It was possible some of their peculi- 
arities had escaped his knowledge ; 
he desired to ascertain. But he fail- 
ed, under the peculiar circumstances, 
to fix his attention, so he laid the 
book aside, and returned to the re- 
gions below ; to his solitary stroll up 
and down the gravel-walk, with an 
occasional pause for a long and anx- 
ious survey of the road. Even his 
meerschaum was forgotten or un cared 
for. 



" But Time is faithful to his trust : 
Only await, thou pining dust." 



Time, which does so much, at 
length brought them home. To his 
great relief, the trio reappeared, and, 
creeping slowly along, turned from 
the road into the gravel-walk and 
reached the house, all three evidently 
depressed in spirits. 

* " A Digression in Praise of an Ass." 



Jans von Stcufles Donkey. 



99 



in. 



Jackey had been turned loose in 
the paddock on his return, not for 
good behavior; and he alternated 
there between nibbling the grass as 
assiduously as if he had engaged to 
mow the whole before next daylight, 
and standing still with his head thrust 
down and fixed, as motionless as if 
Me had been carved out of stone. 

' A singular animal truly," said 
mein herr to himself as he looked 
down from his chamber window. " He 
reminds me " 

Here a summons to supper inter- 
rupted the reminiscence ; and, when 
they were all revived with the deli- 
cious hot coffee and cream which the 
Frau von Steufle knew so well how 
to mix, Jans entered on his adven- 
tures as follows : 

' ; I thought a donkey was a great 
traveller, and very careful and mind- 
ful, and to be trusted, and good on 
bad roads, and could eat what a don- 
key ought to eat, and not steal what 
was not meant for him." 

" Of course," said the Herr von 
Heine ; " you are right, he is a great 
traveller. I tried one myself on the 
Alps, that is, I began the Alps on a 
donkey ; most people begin the Alps 
on a donkey, next a mule, then on 
toot, if they try Mont Blanc. I well 
remember the last view I took of the 
Jungfrau and its avalanches from 
the Wengern Alps. At the Hospice 
of St. Bernard I took a comfortable 
meal from the good monks, and then 
en foot and mule-back I mounted by 
way of Martigny and Tete Noire to 
Chamouni. In Egypt there is no- 
thing like a donkey for the desert; 
when I was at Cairo (that was in my 
student life), many a pleasant morn- 
ing I started out on a donkey, and 
spent the day among the ruins about 
there. Great climbers they are, so 



obedient and sure-footed. The little: 
white donkeys of Egypt are beauties, 
long silky hair ; the pashas value 
them highly. Certainly the ass is 
a traveller ; the wild asses of Syria 
are fleet as the wind. Then, what 
would Rome be without donkeys ? 
or any part of Italy, for that matter ? 
Along the coasts, the bay of Naples, 
Mount Vesuvius, now over sand and 
stones and lava, and volcanic ashes 
fetlock-deep, now to explore pleasant 
fields, and woody paths, and old 
highways, always picking his way so 
carefully up and down steep places, 
by some path of his own you fail to 
see why, you may ride on one to 
the very verge of a precipice, and 
take your view from his back, as safe- 
ly as if you crept there on hands 
and knees ! Oh ! yes, they are great 
travellers, though sometimes slow." 

" Very slow is Jackey," responded 
his owner, " so slow that a good 
part of the time he stood still." 

" Possible ?" queried mein herr. 
" Perhaps his load was rather but 
yet, you can hardly overload a don- 
key. Why, in Rome they are perfect 
moving heaps of fagots, hay, fruit, 
old clothes, mats, brooms, and brush- 
es, and everything, in fact, that is 
salable and movable, with a dirty, 
swarthy peasant striding beside him 
as driver, or, it may be, a boy ; but, 
no, I should say they are always 
driven by a mob of boys. I hold 
that the most gregarious of all ani- 
mals is the human biped in its youth ; 
and if I were called upon for a cen- 
tre-piece, with most power to collect 
around it these juvenile swarms of 
the genus homo, I should name a 
Roman donkey. Before him, be- 
hind him, a body-guard on each side, 
all sizes, in all sorts of garments, or, 
rather, in all degrees of nudity, shout- 
ing, yelling, laughing, talking, and 
each one using all his powers to in- 



IOO 



Jans non Stcufles Donkey. 



crease the speed of the poor little 
beast there you have a Roman don- 
key ! I have been told of a scene 
in Rome. A little ass whose panniers 
were two good-sized baskets of eggs; 
it was about Easter time, when eggs 
are valuable. To hasten him, his 
driver, a tall, ragged peasant, struck 
him smartly, which offended him. He 
stood still a moment, then deliberate- 
ly laid himself down, and rolled over. 
The peals of laughter which greet- 
ed the donkey as he arose, daubed 
and dripping with the yellow semi- 
liquid, the bevvailings of his owner, 
all together were worth seeing. In 
no place in Europe are they as poor- 
ly fed and as much abused as by the 
lower classes in Paris ; truly they are 
miserable-looking wretches there, 
bony, sulky, dirty. I have often 
wished to apply to the back of the 
ragged, screaming boy-driver the 
stick with which he was cudgelling 
his poor donkey. Monsieur Chateau- 
briand says he would gladly be the 
advocate of certain creatures, works 
of God, despised by men, and ' en 
premiere ligne,' says he, ' figuererai- 
ent 1'ane et le chat.' 

" The heavy-laden ass is a verity 
in ancient lore; even its name is used 
to express hardship and endurance ; 
as from the Greek word owf, an ass, 
is supposed to be derived the Latin 
onus, signifying a burden." 

Mein herr made a pause, he was 
evidently lapsing into the delusion 
that he was in his Collegienhaus, lec- 
turing on donkeys. The gentle frau 
recalled his wandering wits by ob- 
serving, in a low, sad voice : 

" Oh ! he shook so many things off; 
all lost ; he shook half his load off in 
the creek !" 

" Indeed !" exclaimed the herr, " is 
it possible ! that was not to be ex- 
pected of him. Many classical wri- 
ters mention loading the ass, but I 



cannot recall a single instance where 
he unloaded himself in a creek ! 

" Horace, it is true, refers to what 
might be a little sulkiness under a 
heavy load, when he represents him- 
self as a sort of discontented donkey 
under the infliction of some of his 
troublesome friends : 

' Demitto auriculas ut iniquie mentis asellus 
Ouuai gravius dorso, subiit onus.' * 

" Then, the poor creature has been 
at times imposed on in a manner 
which might excuse resentment. In 
ancient Rome, for instance, on sacred 
days all labor was forbidden, with 
the exception of some certain kinds 
considered necessary. 



' yuippe etiam festis qnredam exercere die- 
bus 
Fas et jura sinunt." t 



" The works allowed were setting 
traps for birds which were hurtful, 
ordering the trenches which irrigated 
the fields, and some few others of 
like kind. To the rustics, permission 
was granted to carry their farm pro- 
duce to market on sacred days, and 
they also might bring a load back. 
This was allowed them in order that 
this business might not interrupt them 
on working-days. Now, a load with 
them necessarily demanded an ass ; 
consequently the ass knew no sacred 
day, no dy of rest from his burdens, 
and such loads, Mynheer von Steufle ! 



" Srepe oleo tardi costas agitator aselli 
Vilibus aut oneras pomis ; lapidemque rever- 

tans 
Incusum,' etc. J 



* " I let down my ears as a young ass of stub- 
born mind when he has taken a burden too hea- 
vy for his back." 

t" Since even on festive days, right and the 
laws allow us to do certain things." 

$" Often the driver loads the sides of the slow 
ass with oil or cheap fruir. and bringing back 
the wrought stone," etc. 



Jans von Steufle s Donkey. 



101 



" Oil, cheap fruits, millstones, 
black pitch ! Ah ! mein lieber Freund 
what a load ! I hardly believe they 
prefer thistles to grass, as some say, 
but they will subsist on one-third of 
what is required by a horse under all 
this labor." 

Jans looked at him ruefully and 
incredulous : 

" Some may some of them may 
but I count Jack two horses at the 
least. He must have been eating all 
night, for he had enough put before 
him ; and to-day, why. you'd think he 
hadn't seen a corn-husk in a month. 
He ate apples and cauliflowers, and a 
peck of peas, and and " 

The Frau von Steufle supplement- 
ed the catalogue of enormities. 

" All my roses, thorns and all, and 
Katrina von Dyke's beautiful tulips 
that she had just sold, and my tallest 
bouquet, the one that was engaged for 
the grand altar. O dear ! what will 
they do ? Then he chewed up a 
nice bonnet, and he overset the 
tilings ! Dear me, so much mischief ! 
Ah me !" 

" Yes, yes," said Jans, " it is well to 
say, ah me ! Look at the bills that 
will come in to-morrow !" 



" Truly," said the herr in a tone 
of commiseration, " it is surprising. It 
was not to be expected ! Yet we 
must look at the best of it. Horace 
says : 



Nemo adeo ferus est, ut nom mitiscere pcssit 
Si modo culturze patientem commodet au- 
rem-' " * 



" I know not what that may mean, 
Mein Herr von Heine," said Jans, 
" nor do I know the Herr Horace ; 
but I wish, if he wants a donkey, he 
would take mine. I wish he had 
him." 

The herr was silenced. 

Morning came, and with it a heavy- 
bill to Jans von Steufle for damages 
done by a certain donkey, who did 
kick, bite, tear, trample on, and de- 
vour a long list of things belonging 
to a long list of persons. 

Evening came, and with it came a 
lad, halter in hand, which he quietly 
knotted round Jackey's neck, and 
led him away, looking as solemn 
and as amiable as when he first ar- 
rived. 



* " No one is so savage that he cannot lc tool- 
ed if he will lend an ear to instruction." 



102 The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians 



THE ROMAN EMPIRE AND THE MISSION OF THE 
BARBARIANS. 



" OUR clock strikes when^ there is 
a change from hour to hour; but 
no hammer in the horologe of time 
peals through the universe when 
there is a change from era to era."* 
So writes Mr. Carlyle in one of his 
powerful essays; and he is correct. 
As gradually and as silently as child- 
hood passes into youth, and youth 
into manhood, and manhood again 
into old age, so does a nation and 
the world itself pass from one era into 
another. But if the signal of such 
a change is not heard sounding 
through the world, the moment of 
the transition is foreknown and has 
been preordained by God, under 
whose eye all agents throughout the 
universe are ever acting out their 
parts. Men are sometimes -taken by 
surprise, but God never. Men are 
often mistaken in their calculations 
of the action of natural forces, but it 
cannot be so with God. A revolu- 
tion brews like an angry storm, all in 
silence ; and bursts ; and a nation is 
shivered into fragments. Men are 
amazed; they have made a false 
reckoning ; but the storm has brewed 
under the eye of God, and* gathered 
its hidden forces, and burst at the 
very moment that God allowed it, 
and the havoc has been done up to 
the time which he has marked out. 
This is the expression of a great Ca- 
tholic principle of history which it is 
well, especially in this age of godless 
theories, to keep constantly before 
our minds. We are about to en- 
deavor to show how powerfully the 

*Carlyle's Miscellanies, vol. ii., "On Histo- 
ry," P- 151. 



truth of this great historical princi- 
ple is brought out in that part of his- 
tory to which our subject refers, for 
it is well said by Cesare Cantu in 
his Storia Universale? " If ever histo- 
ry was manifested as a visible order 
of Providence, it was in these times." 

As we pass from the fourth into 
the fifth century, we come into a new 
era of the history of the church. The 
fourth age was one of mental strife ; it 
was an age of great minds. The 
enemy of the church in the time of 
the persecutions had been brute 
force; now it was power of intellect. 
But God always has his champions 
ready. In the persecutions, they 
were the martyrs; in the fourth 
age, they were the Athanasiuses and 
the Ambroses. But in the fifth age 
the men of God's choice are of 
another type. They are men out of 
the darkness, savages of the forest, 
wild dwellers amid the ice-mountains 
and the swamps. They have known 
no civilizing influences ; they are na- 
ture's children, and hardy as the rock 
and granite. They have reason, it is 
true ; but it does not guide them on 
their strange, savage mission. They 
are all driven on by an instinct that 
is irresistible. 

The words of Alaric are the ex- 
pression of the feelings of all those 
wild warriors. As the Gothic leader 
is marching towards Rome at the 
head of his army, a solitary goes out 
from his grotto to arrest him in his 
course. "No," replies Alaric, "a 
mysterious voice within me says: 
March on, go and sack Rome." So 

*Vol. i. p. 44, French ed. 



The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians. 103 



we are told by Socrates* and Sozo- 
ment in their histories. Thus, then, 
they go to their stupendous work of 
destruction. That work is charac- 
terized by blood, and smoke, and 
the crash of falling cities. The age 
is one of chaos. Never before since 
the world began were there such wild 
ruin and devastation; never such 
terrible levelling to the ground of 
human grandeur ; never such savage 
smashing up of the monuments of 
luxury and worldly greatness. It 
would, indeed, be difficult to describe 
adequately what is so confused and 
so chaotic. When the storm-clouds 
have gathered and overshadowed us 
with darkness, when the lightning- 
fires flame through the sky and scathe 
the forest-trees, and the blinding rain- 
drops drive in fury through the air, can 
we see any order in it all ? Can we 
draw lines and mark out clearly the 
different elements of the storm ? No. 
It is only when the storm is spent 
and the air becomes clear again that 
the eye can discern what havoc has 
been done. The giant oak has been 
cleft by the storm-spirit's fiery sword ; 
the lofty tower has been hurled down 
from its stately height; the rocks 
have been split, and the earth's sur- 
face torn up, as by the bursting of 
some mighty engine of war. So it 
would be difficult to describe, with 
anything like clearness of method, 
the mighty storm which burst upon 
the Roman Empire in the fifth cen- 
tury. However long we pore over 
the pages of Paul Orosius or Salvian, 
we still rise from our study with be- 
wildered brain. God lets loose his 
wild messengers of wrath, and they 
do their savage work in their own 
savage way. We can see no order 
in it to our eye there is none. We 
hear the wailing cries of despair, and 
the frenzied howls of the conquering 



* Eccl. Hist., vii. 10. 



t Hist. \x 6. 



barbarians, and the loud re-echoing 
crashes of the falling empire. But it 
is only when the smoke has cleared 
off and the dust has subsided that 
we can form any idea of the ruin and 
devastation which have been accom- 
plished. If our task, then, were 
mainly to draw an accurate and true 
picture, we should fail. But it is 
rather to give a view of a period of 
history from a Catholic philosophical 
standpoint : it is to show, as far as 
we can, the action of God on human 
affairs. It will be necessary, then, first 
to point out what the mission of the 
Roman Empire was a mission to 
build up : and then the causes which 
prepared the way for the mission of 
the barbarians a mission of sweep- 
ing destruction. 

At the time when the Son of God 
came down upon earth, the Roman 
Empire was at the height of its 
splendor and power. Never in the 
history of the world had there been 
an empire in every way so wonderful. 
Never before had there been a pow- 
er so mighty and all-embracing in its 
dominion. All that had been great 
and brilliant in the civilization of the 
empires of old had come down to 
Rome, and had undergone a bound- 
less development there. This truth 
is powerfully put forth in the words 
of the first professor of the philoso- 
phy of history at the Catholic Uni- 
versity of Ireland. We will quote 
his words : " The Empire of Augus- 
tus," he says, " inherited the whole 
civilization of the ancient world. 
Whatever political and social know- 
ledge, whatever moral or intellectual 
truth, whatever useful or elegant arts 
the enterprising race of Japheth had 
acquired, preserved, and accumulat- 
ed in the long course of centuries 
since the beginning of history, had 
descended without a break to Rome, 
with the dominion of all the countries 
washed by the Mediterranean. For 



104 The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians. 



her the wisdom of Egypt and all the 
East had been stored up; for her 
Pythagoras and Thales, Socrates, Pla- 
to and Aristotle, and all the schools 
besides of Grecian philosophy sug- 
gested by these names, had thought ; 
for her Zoroaster, as well as Solon 
and Lycurgus, legislated; for her 
Alexander conquered, the races 
which he subdued forming but a por- 
tion of her empire. Every city in 
the ears of whose youth the Poems 
of Homer were familiar as household 
words, owned her sway. Her mag- 
istrates, from the Northern Sea to 
the confines of Arabia, issued their 
decrees in the language of empire 
the Latin tongue; while, as men of 
letters, they spoke and wrote in 
Greek. For her Carthage had risen, 
founded colonies, discovered distant 
coasts, set up a world-wide trade, 
and then fallen, leaving her the em- 
pire of Africa and the West, with the 
lessons of a long experience. Not 
only so, but likewise Spain, Gaul, and 
all the frontier provinces from the 
Alps to the mouth of the Danube, 
spent in her service their strength 
and skill; supplied her armies with 
their bravest youths; gave to her 
senate and her knights their choicest 
minds. The vigor of new, and the 
culture of long- polished, races were 
alike employed in the vast fabric of 
her power. In fact, every science 
and art, all human thought, experi- 
ence, and discovery had poured their 
treasure in one stream into the bo- 
som of that society which, after forty- 
four years of undisputed rule, Augus- 
tus had consolidated into a new sys- 
tem of government, and bequeathed 
to the charge of Tiberius."* 

This passage from Mr. Allies is 
like a brilliant flash of light thrown 
on Rome's greatness ; but yet it only 
gives us a glimpse. It would take 



us long to form to ourselves an ade- 
quate idea of this greatest of empires. 
We should have to make long jour- 
neys through her extensive provinces, 
measure her vast cities, march along 
her grand roads, and, after we had 
journeyed over all the civilized world 
of those days, we should still be 
within the circuit of the mighty em- 
pire. Her sway extended over the 
three then known continents : " Gaul 
and Spain, Britain and North Africa, 
Switzerland and the greater part of 
Austria, Turkey in Europe, Asia Mi- 
nor, Syria and Egypt, formed but 
single limbs of her mighty body." * 

It is wonderful, again, to think of 
what Pliny calls the " immensa Ro- 
manae pacis majestas." The incon- 
ceivable majesty of Rome in the 
time of peace was, perhaps, more 
overpowering than anything else 
about her. Having a boundlessness 
of empire such as we have described, 
containing within her circuit a popu- 
lation, according to Gibbon, of 120,- 
000,000, looking round from her 
throne of supreme authority, and 
claiming all as her own that was visible 
to the eye of civilization, she could 
stretch forth her sceptre over all this 
immeasurable area and over these 
countless peoples, and hold all in 
submission and peace. We cannot, 
then, be surprised that Rome ruled 
over the nations as a goddess ; that 
divine power and majesty were be- 
lieved to belong to her. Her sway 
was felt from the Rhine and the Da- 
nube to the deserts of Africa, from 
utmost Spain to the Euphrates, like 
an ubiquitous presence. Her eye of 
authority reached from one extremity 
of the world to the other, and she 
had her 340,000 men stationed on 
the frontiers, looking with watchful 
ken int the vast unknown solitudes 
beyond, and ever ready to hurl back 



Allies, Formation of Christendom, vol. i. p. 42. 



* Allies, Formation of Christen Join. 



The Roman Empire and the Mission of tlie Barbarians. 



the savage hordes of external foes, 
if perchance they stepped forward 
for a moment from their native dark- 
ness. Very few forces were needed 
to preserve internal order. That 
same Gaul which in 1860 required 
626,000 armed men to preserve in- 
ternal order and for external security 
in time of peace, had a garrison of 
only 1,200 men in the days of old 
Rome.* Well then may Pliny and 
the old Roman authors speak with 
such admiration of the " immensa 
Romans pacis majestas." Nothing 
had ever been seen on the earth so 
imposing and so grand. No empire 
had ever existed with such a bound- 
less sway, such wonderful internal or- 
ganization, such a union of strength, 
such compactness of power, and such 
an awe-inspiring name. And at the 
time of Augustus there was no sign 
of decay or deterioration. Rome 
was, on the contrary, rising higher and 
higher in cultivation and refinement. 
We may here quote the words of 
Tertullian in his treatise De Anima ; 
they give us a vivid and beautiful 
picture of the Roman Empire of his 
day. " The world itself," he says, 
" is opened up, and becomes from 
day to day more civilized, and in- 
creases the sum of human enjoyment. 
Every place is reached, is become 
known, is full of business. Solitudes, 
famous of old, have changed their 
aspects under the richest cultivation. 
The plough has levelled forests, and 
the beasts that prey on man have 
given place to those that serve him. 
Corn waves on the sea-shore, rocks 
are opened out into roads ; marshes 
are drained, cities are more numerous 
now than villages in former times. 
The island has lost its savageness, 
and the cliff its desolation. Houses 
spring up everywhere, and men to 
dwell in them. On all sides are gov- 

* See Formation of Chris'.tndorn, by Mr. Al- 
lies. 



ernment and life." And so we migh 
go on indefinitely, describing Rome's 
power, and riches, and civilization, 
and never succeed in giving an idea 
equal to the great reality. Then, as 
we think of all this, we are led to ask 
ourselves, How is this mighty empire 
ever to fall ? Other empires, we kn&w, 
rose and fell, but at their highest 
point of greatness they could not be 
compared to the Empire of Rome. 
All that they had of might and ma- 
jesty and durability Rome has, and 
immeasurably more. Men have not 
known how to qualify her power, nor 
how to designate her except by call- 
ing her " Eternal Rome." Where, 
then, can another power come from 
that shall be able to cope with her? 
She looked as durable as the very 
firmament which God had set on im- 
movable pillars, more lasting than 
the rock-built earth on which she 
had grown and developed for nearly 
a thousand years. Her existence 
was inconceivable before she began 
to be; her ceasing to exist was as 
inconceivable afterwards. It seemed 
as if to destroy her would be to split 
the earth itself on which she was 
based, or to shiver the universe, 
which she seemed to embrace in her 
.mighty arms. Of her capital itself a 
great living writer says : " Look at 
the Palatine Hill, penetrated, travers- 
ed, cased with brick-work, till it ap- 
pears a work of man, not of nature ; 
run your eye along the cliffs from 
Ostia to Terracina, covered with the 
debris of masonry ; gaze around the 
bay of Baise, whose rocks have been 
made to serve as the foundations and 
the walls of palaces; and in those 
mere remains, lasting to this day, you 
will have a type of the moral and 
political strength of the establish- 
ments of Rome. Think of the aque- 
ducts making for the imperial city 
for miles across the plain; think of 
the straight roads stretching off again 



io6 The Roman Empitc and the Mission of the Barbarians. 



from that one centre to the ends of 
the earth ; consider that vast territory 
round about it, strewn to this day 
with countless ruins; follow in your 
mind its suburbs, extending along its 
roads for as much, at least in some 
directiens, as forty miles; and num- 
ber up its continuous mass of popu- 
lation, amounting, as grave authors 
say, to almost six million; and answer 
the question, How was Rome ever to 
be got rid of? Why was it not to 
progress ? Why was it not to pro- 
gress for ever ? Where was that an- 
cient civilization to end ?" * After 
looking at Rome with a, human eye, 
this is the way we should speak ; 
these are questions we should ask. 
To the human eye, Rome was based 
on everlasting foundations, and was 
to be immortal. There was no pow- 
er there could be no power suffi- 
ciently mighty to move her from her 
seat. But looking at her from the 
standpoint of the great Catholic prin- 
ciples of history, we shall use lan- 
guage very different. We shall say 
that Rome, however mighty and 
well based, will last no lenger than 
serves the wise designs of God's pro- 
vidence. He raised her up, as he 
has raised other empires, for a mis- 
sion ; when that mission is fulfilled, 
he will say to her, " Perish," and 
she will wither away and gradually 
die, or, if so be his pleasure, she will 
be swept, as by the fury of a storm, 
from the face of the earth. It was 
the latter judgment that actually fell 
upon her, and we have to see in the 
course of this essay with what terrible 
reality it was carried out. 

Mighty as Rome was, so was she 
intended for a mighty mission. She 
had subdued the world, and the 
world was at her feet. Her great 
highways cut through her immense 
empire in every direction. By these 

* Dr. Newman, Office and Work of Universi- 
tiet, pp. 161, 162. 



broad roads the riches of the pro- 
vinces were carried to her bosom, and 
by these roads went forth her legions 
to guard the distant frontier. She 
had given her own language to the 
various races which she had bent 
under her sway, so that her word 
of command was understood and 
obeyed in every part of her wide 
empire. At this point, then, in the 
course of her history, God had deter- 
mined to appear, in visible form, on 
the scene of human events. When the 
world was thus at peace, and under 
the sway of this mightiest of empires, 
the Prince of Peace came on earth. 
Circumstances never could have been 
more favorable for the establishment 
of his kingdom. It strikes us, then, 
here at once, that the evident mis- 
sion of the Roman Empire was to 
prepare the way for Christianity. In 
spite of the opposition of pagan 
gods; in spite of sensual passions 
and human pride, the Crucified will 
have Rome, as has been long ago 
preordained, for the seat of his own 
wonderful empire. Thence his mis- 
sionaries will go forth, like Rome's 
own conquering legions, but unto 
still more glorious conquests than 
they. The broad Roman roads will 
rejoice more under the footsteps of 
these new conquerors than ever they 
did in days before under the tramp 
of warlike battalions returning booty- 
laden to the great capital. Every- 
thing is ready for the prosecution of 
these new conquests. The provinces 
are at peace and ready to receive 
these Heaven-sent messengers. Men 
seem to be waiting for some voice 
that shall be heard sounding through 
the world telling them to lay clown 
their swords for ever, to forget their 
strifes, and that they are all brothers. 
Such a voice is now to be heard. 
The language of Rome has made 
itself universal in order that it may 
be the organ of a universal religion 



The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians. 107 



When the first revelation was made, 
the language of the human race was 
one ; so was it necessary that, when 
a new revelation was about to be 
given to men, they should be brought 
back again to unity of language, in 
order that revelation might be uni- 
versally received, and be transmitted 
to future ages. The great Roman 
conquerors had no thought, whilst 
they went forth to conquest with 
their countless warriors, full of ideas 
of human glory and lust of booty, 
that they were the simple instruments 
of him who was ruling in the hea- 
vens, and whom they knew not. 
But so it was. And we see how God's 
designs were carried out. We see, 
in course of time, the aged fisherman, 
from the Galilean Lake, wending his 
way toward the great Roman capi- 
tal. As he walks along the Via Ap- 
pia with his scrip and staff, he is the 
symbol of simplicity and human 
weakness. But mark you well that 
old way-worn form. There walks 
the first of the great race of Popes. 
lie represents no contemptible pow- 
er, that weak-looking wayfarer. He 
bears with him a secret source of 
strength which will give him courage 
against all obstacles. Though he 
looks so mean in his Jewish garb, 
yet he is a conqueror such as the 
world has not yet seen. He has no 
legends at his back, no surroundings 
of earthly might to make the world 
tremble before him. But he bears 
with him something mightier than 
Roman armies, and far more irresis- 
tible : it is the Cross of Jesus Christ. 
March on, old man, to the great city 
that is called the mistress of nations 
and omnipotent. Fear not ; thou 
shalt subdue her with thy poor wood- 
en cross, and plant in her midst thy 
everlasting throne. Yea, of a truth, 
the throne which that old man shall 
establish there shall be the first im- 
movable throne which the world 



has ever seen. The throne of Cam- 
byses has passed away; the throne 
of Alexander has crumbled to dust ; 
and the throne of the Roman Caesars 
will soon be buried in the wreck of 
barbarian invasion. But the throne 
of the fisherman will stand firm 
where he planted it, whilst every- 
thing around perishes and crumbles 
away. Nations and kings will mis- 
take it for a human thing, and they 
will, in their blind rage, rush against 
it to overturn it ; but they will dash 
themselves to pieces in the collision, 
and they will be seen lying around 
in scattered fragments, whilst that 
throne itself still remains immov- 
able. So, then, the fisherman, con- 
scious of his great mission, enters 
into the mighty city which God had 
been preparing for him those long 
ages. That was a solemn moment 
for the world, though the world knew 
it not. Other conquerors enter into 
the capitals of kingdoms with great 
pomp and a mighty array of armed 
men ; and perhaps their hold upon 
the subdued cities is of short dura- 
tion. The tide of human affairs 
quickly changes, and perhaps the 
conquerors themselves are in their 
turn the conquered and the captive. 
But this meek old man has no armed' 
force to awe men into submission. 
He is the centre of no pageant. He 
walks on his way in silence. He has 
nothing but his staff and his scrip 
and his little wo@den cross, which in 
reality is his sceptre. But he enters 
Rome to take a lasting possession 
of it. Not all the world in arms will 
ever again be able to make a perma- 
nent conquest of that city. A mys- 
tery will lienceforth hang about it for 
ever. It will always look like a city 
of the past, and yet it will hold with- 
in it the life of all peoples and nations 
to come. By degrees, other kings 
shall leave it altogether to Peter and 
his successors, as if scared away by 



io8 The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians. 



the mysterious presence of Christ's 
vicar. And if, in the course of ages, 
men dream like Rienzi of the great 
days of ancient Rome, and long to 
see the old pagan prestige of the city 
brought back, and then come with 
their mailed hands and strike the 
mysterious power that God has es- 
tablished there, their mailed hands 
shall wither, and they will fall back 
stricken by Heaven in their turn, as 
Oza was in past days for his irrever- 
ence. 

When, then, Peter had taken pos- 
session of his city, the rapid spread 
of Christianity began. Here was 
the throne of the head of the church 
established in the very centre of civil- 
ization and of the Western World. 
We cannot think that Romulus and 
his wild robber- followers had any 
profound design in fixing the site of 
their city on those seven hills. No ; 
but God had. It is remarkable that 
Rome seems built to be even natu- 
rally and physically the centre of the 
world. " Nothing," says Father La- 
cordaire, " is isolated in things ; the 
body, the soul, divine grace, every- 
thing is united; all is harmonious. 
The body of man is not that of the 
irrational animal ; the configuration 
of a country intended for one destiny 
is not the same as that of a country 
appointed to another destiny, and 
the general form of our globe is as 
full of reason as of mystery."* The 
ancients seem to have had a tradi- 
tional knowledge of this ; hence it 
was that, when they built their cities, 
they made a deep and religious study 
of the spot which was chosen as the 
site. Looking, then, first at Italy, we 
see that God formed it for a great 
purpose. It is curious to remark 
how Asia, Africa, and Europe are 
united, as it were, together by the 
basin of the Mediterranean Sea, 

* CEuvres du R. P. Lacordaire, tome vi. p. 
171. 



which also opens toward the West to 
allow the vessels of all nations to 
sail to the American continent. Into 
this central Mediterranean Sea, Italy 
shoots out its long length. On its 
northern side it is strongly guarded 
by ridges of mountains, and seems 
thus designed to be defended from 
Europe, whilst it is its heart. Al- 
most in the centre of this Italian pe- 
ninsula, more to the south than the 
north, and more westward than 
eastward, Rome is seated. She is 
built on seven hills, and by the bor- 
ders of the Tiber, whose yellow wa- 
ters roll sluggishly along between 
banks bare and uninteresting, and 
destitute of that green verdure which 
gives such a charm to the rivers of 
our own country. At a distance of 
six leagues eastward rises the dark 
line of the Apennines ; looking west- 
ward, you may catch a view from 
some elevated spot of the bright- 
glancing waters of the Mediterra- 
nean; northward rises the isolated 
Soracte, towering up like a mighty 
giant, and seeming to stand as guar- 
dian of the plain. Directing your 
gaze southward, your eye falls on 
the pleasant hamlets of Castel-Gau- 
dolfo, Marino, Frascati, and Colon- 
na.* In this centre of the world, 
then, made such by God when he 
formed the globe ; in this centre, so 
wonderfully adapted for easy com- 
munication with the rest of the world, 
God has his central city built, and 
when the hour comes which he pre- 
ordained in his wise Providence, he 
conducts the Fisherman-Pope there, 
and bids him there abide till the end 
of time. It is not likely, then, that 
any other city of the world, either 
Jerusalem or Constantinople, or any 
great capital yet to be built, can 
supplant Rome in the honor of being 
the city of the Popes, or that any 

* See Pere I.acordaire's Lettre sur le Saint' 
LUg*. 



Th&- Roman Empire and the JMission of the Barbarians. 109 



other country will be in as true a 
sense the chosen country of God as 
Italy is. Italy was chosen, as we 
have seen, to be the heart of the 
world. Then God chose to have 
this great central capital from which 
the light of Christianity was to radiate 
to the four quarters of the globe. It 
would be easy to skow what a glorious 
and conspicuous part she has acted 
in all ages through the church's his- 
tory. It is Italy which has given to 
the church almost the whole long 
line of Pontiffs who have filled the 
chair of St. Peter. From Italy have 
gone forth almost all the greatest 
missionaries of the world. St. Inno- 
cent says, in his Epistle to Decentius, 
that all the great founders of Chris- 
tian churches in Gaul, Sicily, Spain, 
and Africa came from this favored 
county. To her also is Germany 
indebted for her first apostles ; and, 
unless we credit the legend of Joseph 
of Arimathea, we must own that 
Christianity was first brought over 
into Britain by missionaries from 
Rome. And we are not surprised 
that Italy is so prolific in apostles 
and preachers. Nearest to the heart 
does the life-blood flow most quick- 
ly. Under the eye of Christ's Vicar, 
and under the shadow of his pres- 
ence, has the Christian life always 
been best realized. We cannot, then, 
wonder that the history of Christian 
Italy should furnish the highest and 
the most glorious pages of the his- 
tory of the church. She is glorious 
in her countless martyrs, in her learn- 
ed doctors, in her great founders of 
religious orders. With all this be- 
fore us, we can understand the soul- 
stirring words of Luigi Tosti to the 
Italian clergy. " State sa," he cries 
out, " Leviti dell' Italiano chericato, 
abitatori della terra in cui la chiesa 
impresse sempre la prima orma dei 
suoi passi, quando precede all' assun- 
zione di una forma novella. Scalza, 



perseguitata, cruenta di martirio in 
Pietro: ricca, guistiziera, fulminatrice 
in Ildebrando ; bella, copulatrice di 
due civilta nel decimo Leone ; e sem- 
pre in Italia." We lose much of the 
fire and vigor of the original by trans- 
lating these words into our own 
language, but yet we may, perhaps, 
venture to render them thus : " Arise, 
Levites of the Italian clergy, dwell- 
ers in that land on which the church 
always imprints her first foot-mark 
whenever she is about to take up a 
new form. Barefooted, persecuted, 
red with the blood of martyrdom in 
Peter ; rich, rigid, hurling anathemas 
in Hildebrand; beautiful, uniting the 
two civilizations in the tenth Leo ; 
and always in Italy." * 

Returning, then, to what we have 
already said regarding the Roman 
Empire, and seeing how wonderfully 
God has arranged all things for the 
establishment of his holy religion, we 
may form to ourselves an idea how 
rapidly the truths of Christianity 
would spread throughout the world. 
Now we see a nobler and higher use 
for those grand Roman roads than 
ever entered into the minds of those 
who designed and constructed them ; 
now we perceive the advantage of 
.that one noble Latin language being 
the established language of the em- 
pire ; now we take in more perfectly 
the great design of God in laying so 
many nations at the feet of Rome, 
and inspiring them with such venera- 
tion for her very name. Thus favor- 
ed on all sides, Christianity soon 
made its way into the cities and 
towns of the wide-spreading empire. 
We have been amazed as we have 
observed God working out in detail 
this grand scheme for the propaga- 
tion of his religion. We have seen 
and wondered at the mighty power 
of that Word which was confided by 

* Tosti, A I Clero Itiiliano ; Prt>2lgut.-alla Sto- 
na Vnivfrscilt) vol. i. 



no The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians. 



Jesus Christ to the apostles and their 
successors. We have seen it captiv- 
ating the rich and the poor alike, and 
baffling and finally humbling at its 
feet the proud philosophers them- 
selves. We know how in a few 
years the Christians could be count- 
ed by thousands in Rome itself, and 
how they were found wherever the 
Roman legions had penetrated. 
From Rome, as from a great central 
sun, the light of truth shone far out 
in all directions, and Christian 
churches seemed to rise as by an in- 
visible power, in all cities and towns 
near and far distant, and then shoot 
forth their beautiful brightness into 
the surrounding darkness. In Africa, 
as Alzog and Dollinger relate, the 
Christians soon outnumbered the 
pagans. And we know well, for 
there is no one who has not read 
them, the famous words of Tertullian, 
in his Apologetica : " We are but of 
yesterday, and already we fill your 
towns, your villages, your fortresses, 
your islands, your assemblies and your 
camps, the senate and the imperial 
court ; we leave you nothing but the 
temples." In studying the first ages 
of the church's history, what glorious 
things do we witness, and how 
strongly is the conviction forced up- 
on us that God is there ruling events 
and using men for his own great pur- 
poses ! We see the Roman legions 
transforming themselves, as did the 
Thundering Legion, into so many pha- 
lanxes of conquering Christians, who 
rushed to victory under the impulse 
of the grand idea that they were thus 
subduing new countries to the rule 
of Christ.* We see those victorious 
legions carrying with them their laws, 
their customs, and their schools to the 
banks of the Rhine and the Danube, 
and there planting civilization and 
the faith of Christ. We wonder less 

* See Ltroy, vol. ii. p. 295. 



at this when we think what noble 
Christian hearts were burning in the 
breasts of those brave men, and how 
oftentimes they laid down their lives 
as martyrs for Christ's name. We 
can never forget the noble Theban 
legions dying at the foot of the Alps, 
thus giving by their heroic martyr- 
dom the first .lessons of Christian 
teaching to the people of Switzerland. 
In the camps of Rhaetia, Noricum, 
and Vindelicia, again, we see Chris- 
tian soldiers sowing the seeds of their 
holy religion on every side of them. 
How beautiful a thing did it appear 
to the devoted Ozanam to follow the 
footsteps of these early missionaries, 
to represent to himself the hymns 
of redemption rising heavenwards 
amidst the silence of the pagan for- 
ests, and to see in imagination the 
barbarians receiving the waters of 
baptism at the same fountains which 
their fathers adored !* The more 
closely, then, we study the manner 
in which Christianity was propagated 
in the first ages, the more clearly 
does the mission of the Roman Em- 
pire stand out before our eyes. It 
becomes more and more evident, 
the longer we look at facts, that 
Rome's conquering legions, her great 
far-reaching roads, her laws, and her 
one universal language were all 
made use of by God in a wonderful 
way, not only to prepare the way for, 
but also for the establishment of his 
great spiritual kingdom upon earth. 

Thus far we have considered the 
Roman Empire as working for God, 
as aiding in a remarkable manner 
the propagation of Christianity. 
Thus viewed, the Roman Empire 
was on God's side. But from an- 
other point of view we Jcnow how 
bitterly she opposed God's work. 
Never was there such dire war made 
against God as during the three hun- 

* See Ozanam, La Civilisation chrit. chez let 
Francs, p. 4. 



TJie Roman Empire and tlie Mission of the Barbarians. \ 1 1 



dred years of the persecutions. We 
have now to glance at these years of 
blood and hatred, since they are a 
part of the explanation why in 
later times there came, by God's 
sending, such a whirlwind of wrath 
on the mighty empire that it was 
shaken to its very foundations, and 
fell with a crash which made the 
whole universe tremble. We do not 
intend to dwell on the more minute 
details of these strange, sad years, 
but only to refer in a general way to 
the cruelty of the persecutors and 
the heroic conduct of the children of 
the cross in the presence of death. 

Towards the end of the first seven- 
ty years of the Christian church, we 
see the imperial garden at Rome 
the scene of a strange festivity. The 
Roman people are there assembled 
on a dark night for an entertainment. 
The Emperor Nero is seen passing 
to and fro in his imperial carriage, 
followed by the senators in their 
costly equipages amidst the shouts 
and plaudits of the people. It is 
the opening of the first persecution. 
The long, shady avenues are lighted 
up by living torches human beings 
covered over with burning pitch are 
serving as festal lamps. In the open 
squares of this garden we see women 
and children, belonging to some of 
the noblest families of Rome, cloth- 
ed with the skins of wild beasts, and 
cast to hungry dogs, which devour 
them alive. Meanwhile Nero laughs 
with savage glee at the success of 
his new invention, and his myrmidons 
congratulate him on the ingenuity he 
has displayed in it. This is only a 
glimpse but we need no more. 

Later on we see that other mon- 
ster Domitian, shut up in a dark 
chamber of his palace, holding with 
fiendish satisfaction the end of the 
chain which binds the limbs of 
those who are brought before him 
for trial. We see him oftentimes 



presiding in person and gloating 
with a wild beast's gusto over the tor- 
tures inflicted on innocent Christians. 
In his reign, virtue became a crime, 
and the followers of Christ were put 
to death throughout the whole extent 
of the empire as being the declared 
eneRiies of the state. We do not 
wonder that Domitian acquired for 
himself the odious name of " the ty- 
rant whom the universe detested," as 
Suetonius tells us in his Life of this 
emperor. Neither can we wonder 
that the Roman people endeavored 
to blot out even his very name from 
their memory. Lactantius tells us, 
in his De Morte Persecutonim, that 
his statues were broken to pieces, 
and his inscriptions effaced from the 
proud monuments which his hands 
had raised. 

As we pass on to Trajan and Adri- 
an, we find no reason to be partial to 
their memories. Though no new 
edicts of persecution were published 
during their reign, yet Christians 
were put to death in great numbers 
throughout the empire. When we 
think of Trajan's persecution, a grand, 
saintly figure always rises before our 
minds it is St. Ignatius of Antioch, 
as he himself has sketched in strik- 
.ing outlines, in his famous Epistle to 
the Romans, the sublime ideal of the 
Christian martyr, and he realized 
with wonderful exactitude that ideal 
in his own person. 

The student of church history well 
remembers the bold independence of 
the holy man as he stood before the 
emperor at Antioch ; and the cour- 
ageous joy with which he went to the 
amphitheatre to .be the victim of 
wild beasts and a spectacle to the 
bloodthirsty Romans, is one of those 
glorious things which the church 
points to as characteristic of her 
great martyr-bishops. 

Again, when we think of Adrian, 
we recall that symbol of his cruelty, 



H2 The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians. 



the brazen bull, into which, when 
heated to red-heat, the faithful veter- 
an Eustachius with his wife and fam- 
ily was cast. His name, too, brings 
back to our memory the brave widow 
Symphorosa and her seven sons. The 
cruel scene of torment is again en- 
acted before our minds. We think 
how the poor mother was suspended 
aloft by the hair, all bruised and 
mangled as she was by hard lashes, 
whilst the bodies of her children 
were opened before her eyes with 
knives and iron hooks. Such facts as 
these are certainly not calculated to 
persuade us that Adrian's character 
was one of mildness and clemency, as 
profane historians would have us be- 
lieve. To this emperor belongs, as 
Tillemont tells us, the odious distinc- 
tion of having profaned in the vilest 
manner those holy places which are 
so dear to Christian hearts. He de- 
filed the holy Mount of Calvary by 
erecting thereon the sensual figure 
of Venus ; he desecrated the sacred 
Cave at Bethlehem by setting up the 
statue of Adonis ; and he placed, as 
though in jeering triumph, the image 
of Jupiter over the tomb of our 
blessed Saviour. Under the influ- 
ence of Adrian's zeal, paganism ex- 
perienced a temporary revival ; idol- 
atry seemed to regain new life and 
vigor, and made a great effort to sub- 
stitute the trophies of the devil for 
those of Jesus Christ. Adrian went 
so far as to erect temples in his own 
honor, which, as Dollinger says, have 
been falsely supposed by some to 
have been places of Christian wor- 
ship. Adrian died at last a wretched 
prey to his crimes. As he writhed 
in agony and rotted away under the 
violence of a loathsome disease, he 
called a thousand times upon death 
to come to his deliverance. But 
death came slowly to the cruel tor- 
turer of Symphorosa and her sons. 
As we pass rapidly on down these 



years of blood, our eye is again arrest- 
ed, in the time of Marcus Aurelius, by 
the grand figure of glorious Polycarp, 
who rises then distinct and clear to our 
view, as he stands up bravely on his 
funeral pile above the heads of the 
Roman rabble, overspanned by his 
triumphal arch of fire. As the vener- 
able martyr went to his trial, a voice 
from heaven spoke to him these 
words: " Courage, Polycarp, quit thy- 
self like a brave man." And so he 
did. No one can read without emo- 
tion the beautiful, calm answer which 
the old man gave to the proconsul 
who ordered him to " blaspheme 
against Christ." " It is now eighty- 
six years," the aged martyr replied, 
" that I have served him. How then 
can I blaspheme against my Lord 
and Saviour ?" His noble words 
and his heroic death inspired cour- 
age in thousands of Christians who 
afterwards gave their lives for Christ, 
We learn, also, that during this perse- 
cution Christians who had been for 
some time detained in the prisons 
were massacred en masse, and that 
the Rhone flowed all red and ghastly 
with the blood which countless mar- 
tyrs had shed on its banks. But the 
emperor-philosopher felt his impo- 
tence to destroy the ever-dying yet 
ever-multiplying race of Christians. 
" Vary their torments," he writes, in 
his despair, to the governors of the 
provinces ; and then we see the vic- 
tims of his hatred crucified, burned, 
or cast to the wild beasts. Modern 
men of science may rank Marcus 
Aurelius with philosophers, but we are 
inclined to believe, with M. Leroy, 
that it was his infamous cruelty to- 
wards the Christians rather than 
true wisdom which has made them 
pass over in silence his shameless tur- 
pitudes and grant him this proud dis- 
tinction. 

During the raging persecution 
which Septimius Severus had enkin- 



The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians. 113 



died against the Christians, we see 
St. Perpetua going boldly to death, 
bearing in her arms her new-born 
child. Her aged pagan father, 
kneeling in tears at her feet and beg- 
ging her to sacrifice to the gods, 
could not deter her from advancing, 
with firm step and calm look, to 
meet the wild beasts of the circus. 
We see Felicitas, Saturninus, Revoca- 
tus, and others accompanying her 
through the savage crowd to the 
same fate. What a grand proces- 
sion of heroes something to look at 
till our tears flow and our hearts are 
set on fire ! As they advance proud- 
ly along, the voice of Satur, one of 
their number, is heard giving forth 
those scathing 'words to the wild 
crowd that surrounded them : " Look 
well at us, that you may know us 
again at the judgment-day." 

Turning our eyes to Alexandria, 
we find that city a great centre of 
persecution at this time. There it 
was that the most intrepid defenders 
of religion, and the stern, penitential 
men of the Thebaid, were summoned 
to crown their noble lives by the he- 
roism of martyrdom. And again is 
the blood of martyrs flowing like 
water in the streets of Lyons. St. 
Irenaeus and twenty thousand Chris- 
tians are immolated in honor of 
Christ's name. The work of exter- 
mination is continued with unrelent- 
ing vigor under the gigantic son of 
the Thracian peasant. Maximin 
deals out his blows of death with the 
power and fury of a Cyclops. But the 
brave Christian hearts, braced up to 
noble deeds by the secret indwelling 
presence of their Lord, do not quail 
before his terrors. And in the midst 
of the bloody fray, we hear the soul- 
inspiring voice of great Origen, call- 
ing aloud to his brethren in these 
words : " Behold, generous athletes, 
your portion a tribulation above all 
tribulations, but yet a hope above all 
VOL. xv. o 



hopes; for the Lord knows how to 
glorify, by his rewards, those who 
have thought little of this poor 
earthen vessel, which death so easily 
breaks to pieces. I should like to 
see you, when the combat is at hand, 
bounding with joy as did the apos- 
tles in their day, who rejoiced that 
they were found worthy to suffer out- 
rages for the name of Jesus. Re- 
member ye the words of Isaiah, 
' Fear n,ot the reproach which comes 
from men, and let not yourselves be 
cast down by their contempt.' Men 
laugh to-day, and to-morrow they are 
no more; already the eternal pit 
swallows them up for ever. When 
you shall be on the arena of combat, 
think with Paul that you are a spec- 
tacle to the world, to angels, and to 
men. If you triumph, Christians 
will applaud your courage ; the 
heavenly spirits will rejoice at your 
victory. But if you yield, the pow- 
ers of hell will shout for joy, and will 
come forth in myriads from their 
fiery abyss to meet you. Fight, then, 
valiantly, and, in imitation of Eleazar, 
leave behind you, as a remembrance 
of your death, a noble example of 
constancy and virtue."* These no- 
ble words are worthy of the generous, 
soul and r the marvellously gifted 
mind of the great doctor of Alexan- 
dria. They sound forth with a soul- 
stirring, awakening power, like a 
trumpet-blast froni heaven. And, n. 
doubt, many a trembling heart was. 
nerved into courageous daring by 
them; many a glorious victory was- 
won under their influence which 
would otherwise have been lost. 
And it was in the next persecution 
under Decius that such powerful,, 
encouraging words were needed. 
Never yet since the empire began to 
make bloody war against Christ's fol- 
lowers had the Christians more need 

* Origen, ExAarfatJoad-Hfart;, passim, quoted 
by Lezoy. 



II 4 The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians. 



of strength and help ; never had they 
more need than now to picture to 
themselves the depths of the fiery 
abyss, and the bright glories of God's 
kingdom. Decius came to his 
bloody work with a resolution to suc- 
ceed at any cost. His orders went 
abroad over the empire to all gov- 
ernors and public functionaries, that 
every conceivable torture was to be 
used in order to force the Christians 
to renounce their faith. It was not, 
then, prompt, quick death that was 
now the order of the day, but slow, 
cruel torture. We have a picture of 
the horrors of this persecution in the 
words of St. Gregory of Nyssa. 
" The magistrates," he says, " sus- 
pended all cases, private or public, 
to apply themselves to the great, the 
important affair the arrest and 
punishment of the faithful. The 
heated iron chains, the steel claws, 
the pyre, the sword, the beasts, all 
the instruments invented by the 
cruelty of man, lacerated, by night 
and by day, the bodies of martyrs; 
and each tormentor seemed to fear 
that he might not be as barbarous as 
his fellows. Neighbors, relatives, 
friends, heartlessly betrayed each 
other, and denounced Christians be- 
fore the magistrates. Th provinces 
were in consternation ; families were 
decimated; cities became deserts; 
and the deserts were peopled. Soon 
the prisons were insufficient for the 
multitudes arrested for their faith, 
and most of the public edifices were 
converted into prisons.* We find, 
also, St. Denis of Alexandria 
speaking in moving language of 
the persecution which he witnessed 
in his own city. He tells us that 
the numbers of the martyrs were 
past counting. No regard was paid 
to sex, age, or rank ; men, women, 
children, and old men were torment- 

* St. Greg, of Nyssa, Vita Thaumat., p. 578. 



ed with equal cruelty. Every species 
of torture was employed, and every 
imaginable cruelty used to increase 
the horrors of death.* Again, at 
Smyrna, Antioch, Lampsacus, Tou- 
louse, Nimes, and Marseilles, martyrs 
died in thousands. In fact, wherever 
we turn our gaze, we see throughout 
the length and breadth of the em- 
pire the blood of -Christians flowing. 

During the reign of Valerian the 
monotonous work of death goes on, 
but, perhaps, as we advance, the de- 
struction of Christians becomes more 
wholesale. At Utica the heads of 
one hundred and fifty followers of 
Christ fell at once, and at Cirta in 
Numidia we see an atrocious butch- 
ery taking place which lasts the 
greater part of a day. The martyrs 
are led into a valley with ranges of 
hills rising to a great height on both 
sides, as if to favor the spectacle. 
They are ranged in line, their eyes 
bandaged, along the river-side; and 
the executioner passes on from one 
to another, striking off their heads.f 
It was, perhaps, a glad sight for the 
savage idolaters who thronged the 
high hill-sides to witness the bloody 
slaughter, but it was a sublime spec- 
tacle, too, for the angels of heaven, 
as they looked down upon those 
brave soldiers of Christ, and saw 
. them standing in calm, joyful silence 
by that African river-bank and re- 
ceiving their bright martyrs' crowns. 

The ages of blood came to an end 
with the Diocletian persecution. It 
would be difficult to imagine that 
anything new in the way of torture 
could be invented at this date. In- 
genuity and malice had already done 
their worst in the matter of inven- 
tions; but Diocletian and his asso- 
ciates brought with them a qualifica- 



* See the sixth book of Eusebius' Hist, of the 
Church. 

t See Darras' History of the Church^ Amer- 
ediu, p. 262. 



The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians. 1 1 5 



tion in which they were surpassed by 
none of their predecessors, and that 
was an intense hatred for the Chris- 
tian religion. Never had the rage 
and fury of persecutors been greater 
than was displayed by these " three 
ferocious wild beasts," as Lactantius 
calls them ; and never, consequently, 
did the blood of Christians flow more 
copiously. Hell was making its last 
great effort. Though we are accus- 
tomed, in traversing these centuries 
of terrible bloodshed, to read of cru- 
elties which are almost beyond belief, 
yet we are startled into new horror 
when we find in this tenth persecu- 
tion an entire town with its twelve 
or fifteen thousand inhabitants con- 
sumed by fire because it is a town 
of Christians. Each province has 
its peculiar species of torture. In 
Mesopotamia, it is fire ; in Pontus, the 
wheel ; in Syria, the gridiron ; in Ara- 
bia, the hatchet ; in Cappadocia, iron 
bars for breaking limbs; in Africa, 
hanging ; the wooden horse in Gaul, 
and wild beasts at Rome.* Where, 
we ask, as we gaze over the wide- 
stretching empire, is not the blood of 
Christians flowing ? Its voice rises 
heavenwards from the cliffs of Tan- 
giers ; it saturates the plains of Mau- 
ritania ; it springs from wounded 
combatants on the shores of Tyr; 
but nowhere over the wide earth is 
it poured out for God's glory without 
his taking count of it. The blood 
of martyrs will not cry to heaven in 
vain; God's day of reckoning with 
the empire will surely come. 

But we can dwell no longer on 
these ages of heroic sacrifice. Pas- 
cal has truly said that " the his- 
tory of the rest of the Romans pales 
beside the history of the martyrs." 
Whoever wishes to see the full force 
of this remark, let him read the Acts 
of the Martyrs, in the history of Euse- 

* See Eusebius' History^ book riii. ch. 12, 
and following. 



bius, or the charming pages of Rui- 
nart, or in the ponderous tomes of 
the Bollandists. Nowhere in Christian 
literature is there anything so simply 
and touchingly eloquent. The Acts 
of the Martyrs constitute a drama 
whose character is most sublime, and 
the interest of which is more than 
ravishing. In order to express our 
idea more perfectly, we will borrow 
the words of Mgr. Freppel. " If 
there be a drama," he says, " each 
of whose acts bears a special charac- 
ter, whilst at the same time perfect 
unity is preserved, it is the Acts oj 
the Martyrs. Here we have a bishop 
who puts to confusion a proconsul 
by the calm constancy of his faith ; 
there we have a virgin who mingles 
with her answers that enthusiasm of 
love with which her heart is on fire. 
In another place, we have the Chris- 
tian mother surrounded by her sons, 
who confess one after another the 
simple faith of their infancy, and pass 
from mouth to mouth the testimony 
of truth. Again, we have tbe Chris- 
tian soldier, who reveres in Caesar the 
majesty of power, but who places 
above all imperial honors the worship 
of the King of kings. In this mag- 
nificent epopee of martyrdom, to 
which each persecution adds a new 
song, the scene varies according to 
time and place; it is the fidelity. of 
love and the grandeur of sacrifice 
which constitute its unity." * It is 
there that we have put before us the 
most beautiful and the most noble 
characters that have ever done honor 
to the human race. We find nothing 
sordid, nothing selfish, nothing haugh- 
ty in these heroes. They are meek 
and humble, yet brave and high- 
souled, and strikingly grand in the 
face of death. Profane history may 
ransack its annals, but it will never 
be able to show us characters so no- 

* Les Peres Apostoliques, zome lejon, p. 433. 



ii6 The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians. 



ble and so admirable. Their equals 
are not to be found in the Lives of 
Plutarch, nor in the pages of Eutro- 
pius. How true is it that the Ca- 
tholic Church alone is the Mother 
of Heroes ! The heroism of the mar- 
tyrs was of that kind for which all 
ordinary theories fail to account. It 
gave strength to the tottering frames 
of venerable old men ; it made timid 
virgins courageous in the presence 
of hideous racks; it spoke by the 
fisping tongues of frail infants. Let 
the profane historian point to any 
scene that can equal in simple gran- 
deur the trial and death of the gentle, 
sweet St. Agnes, or in heroic endu- 
rance the painful, slow martyrdom 
of the beautiful Agatha, the glory of 
Sicilian virgins. Let him tell us of 
anything, either in profane fact or 
fable, which can equal in purity and 
strange boldness the beautiful history 
cf Eulalia, the child-saint of twelve 
summers, whose name is celebrated 
in touching harmonies by Prudentius 
as the glory of Merida, the sweet 
Lusitanian city which stands on the 
flowery banks of the rapid Guadiana. 
Let him tell us of anything, even in 
the fancied facts of strangest romance, 
that is half as marvellous as the his- 
tory of St. Cyr, the child-confessor 
and martyr of three years old, who, 
when he was taken up into the gov- 
ernor's embrace to be coaxed into 
apostasy, lisped out his brave confes- 
sion, " Christianus sum," and was 
dashed to pieces on the steps of the 
tribunal. Will the profane historian 
speak of wonderful endurance ? We 
invite him to look at the child Baral- 
lah, in his seventh year, who was 
suspended in the air and scourged 
before his mother's eyes, and who, as 
his blood sprang out on all sides, 
and his little bones were stripped of 
their flesh, could be brave and un- 
flinching whilst the rough execution- 
ers themselves she*' tears of pity. 



As the blood flowed from his body, 
the little martyr cried out in the 
burning heat of his torments, " I am 
thirsty ; give me a little water." His 
brave mother reproved him, saying, 
" Soon, my son, thou wilt be at the 
source of living waters"; and she 
carried her child in her arms to the 
spot where he was to be beheaded, 
and as his head was severed from his 
body she received it into her veil. 
Tell us, profane historian, of great 
mothers like this. Tell us if your 
greatest heroes could be so invincible 
in the midst of suffering as the child- 
martyrs of the Catholic Church. 

The three ages of martyrdom in the 
church's history are emphatically the 
ages of great heroes. No brave man 
that ever went to death for any other 
cause went so boldly or was so calm 
and dignified as the Christian martyr 
in the presence of the executioner. 
Never before in the annals of the 
human race were men known to go 
to death rejoicing ; never before were 
they seen to smile and be glad when 
brought in sight of the rack and the 
gJbbet. This perfection of courage 
and sublime self-possession were 
seen every day among the martyrs 
of the church. This it was that 
amazed the frantic rabble which wit- 
nessed their sufferings; it was this 
that oftentimes enraged the Roman 
governors so far as to drive them to 
order the death-blow to be inflicted 
before the torturers had done their 
appointed work. The joy with which 
the martyrs gave their blood for 
Christ's holy name is one of the 
problems which unchristian philoso- 
phers have never been able to solve. 
These so-called thinkers have never 
been able to comprehend the long, 
mysterious blood-shedding of those 
three hundred years. The Christian 
philosopher alone, with his great Ca- 
tholic principles of history, can under- 
stand that blood-shedding^ the myste- 



The Roman Empire and ike Mission of tJie Barbarians. 117 



rious law which characterizes in such 
a striking manner the great work of 
the Incarnation. As he gazes into 
the past, he sees the sacrificial blood 
flowing in every nation's worship. 
Far back in the ages of the patriarchs, 
he can discern the red stream glisten- 
ing ; and as his eye still gazes, he sees 
it flowing ever onward, with typical 
significance, through the centuries, 
until it meets the God-man's sacred 
blood pouring down from the Cross 
of Calvary. There the typical was 
merged in the real. He can see, 
again, how congruous it seems that, 
after the great sacrifice of the cross 
had been typified through the pro- 
ceding ages by an ever-flowing stream 
of blood, and after Christ had pour- 
ed out all his own blood on the hill 
of Calvary, and it had flowed down 
so copiously on the sinful world, his 
first followers and disciples should in 
their turn shed their blood for him. 
This abundant blood-shedding, this 
wondrous heroic self-sacrifice, was a 
testimony which honest men could 
not withstand, for, as Pascal says, 
" men believe witnesses who shed 
their blood." To die willingly and 
joyfully for another was something 
of which the world had not yet heard. 
Jesus Christ, then, wished to show 
the mighty power of his doctrine. 
He would let the world see what 
wonders his cross could work in the 
souls of men. He wished to make 
it manifest to all men's eyes what 
courage it could give in the presence 
of the most terrible racks ; how it 
could so influence the weak and tim- 
id as to make them joyful when they 
were taken to die ; how it could be a 
consolation and an ineffable sweet- 
ness in the midst of torments the 
most painful. All this he did mani- 
fest to the world in the most striking 
light. His martyrs were such char- 
acters as the world had not seen be- 
fore ; what was terrible to others was 



not so to them ; when others would 
shriek with agony, they would smile 
with joy ; when others would languish 
and faint under the lash and the knife, 
they could calmly remark with St. 
Eulalia as she looked at her wounds : 
" They write your name all over my 
body, sweet Jesus." Truly, the cross 
planted amidst a very sea ot blood, 
generously siied for the love of the 
Crucified, is the grand central point of 
all history, which men may look back 
at, and gaze upon with admiration 
and ravishment to the end of time. 

But, returning to our former point 
of view, and looking upon these cen- 
turies of terrible blood-shedding as 
the fierce, furious war which the Ro- 
man Empire waged against God and 
his religion, we naturally ask ourselves 
a question, Where is the great God 
of the Christians whilst his children 
are being immolated to pagan sav- 
agery throughout the whole earth ? 
Does he from his high heaven take 
note of what is done ? Oh ! he who 
sees the sparrow fall does not lose 
sight of his children, nor does his 
eye fail to see the sufferings which 
they endure for him. The voice of 
his martyrs rose heavenwards with a 
mighty cry during those three hun- 
dred years. It rose from the saturat- 
ed floor of the Roman amphitheatre ; 
it spoke with pleading eloquence from 
the depths of the mines of Numidia ; 
it echoed incessantly in the ear of God 
from amid the solitudes of Pannonia. 
God was not at any time deaf to that 
cry. He was slow in his anger, but, 
then, on that account he was the 
more terrible. Whilst Nero was shed- 
ding the first Christian blood at Rome, 
God was silently gathering together 
his avenging armies in the forests of 
the north. It took him more than 
three hundred years to marshal his 
overwhelming warrior-hosts; but, O 
heavens ! what a direful shaking of 
the universe when they did come ! 



Acoustics and Ventilation. 



ACOUSTICS AND VENTILATION.* 



EVERY effort to elucidate what is 
obscure, or to provide a remedy for 
acknowledged evils, is a just title to 
that friendly acknowledgment which 
the writer of this little book bespeaks. 
It is a step in the direction of pro- 
gress. But it is of the highest impor- 
tance in the attempt to impart clear 
ideas upon any subject, that they 
should be so distinctly expressed as 
to leave no doubt concerning the 
identity of their subject. Thus, in 
treating of sound, it seems to us that 
the question first presented is this : 
What is sound? Our author says 
that it " receives its vitality or its life 
through the air, and without air 
sound loses it and becomes extinct." 

We object to this statement of the 
origin of sound, as both unsatisfac- 
tory and indistinct. It implies that 
sound is something born and floating 
in the air, and external to the mind 
perceiving. We fancy that, without 
an ear to hear, sound would not be- 
come extinct, but have no existence ; 
and that the vitality of which our 
writer treats is not in or on the air, 
but in the mind itself. This excep- 
tion to the supposed origin of the 
life of sound may not seem to affect 
the discussion of acoustics as far as 
the practical purpose of the archi- 
tect is concerned ; but we insist that 
neither the drumsticks nor the drum, 
nor the air within it or without, nor 
even all these at work, are sound, 
more than the telegraph wire and 



* A Treatise on Acoustics in Connection with 
V ""Dilation ; and an Account of the Modern and 
Ancient Methods of Ileating and Ventilation. 
By Alexander Saeltzer, Architect. New York: 
TX Van Nostrand, Publisher. 1872. 



the electric current are the message 
sent from one operator to another. 

That inaccuracy which we discover 
in our author's use of terms, we find al- 
so in his quotations from others. For 
example : " The intensity of sound de- 
pends on the density of the air in 
which the sound is generated, and 
not on that of the air in which it is 
heard. A feeble sound becomes in- 
stantly louder as soon as the air be- 
comes more dense. So you will al- 
ways find, on great elevations in the 
atmosphere, the sound sensibly di- 
minished in loudness. If two can- 
non are equally charged, and one 
fired at [from] the top of a high 
mountain, and the other in a valley, 
the one fired below, in the heavy air, 
may be heard above, while the one 
fired in the higher air will not be 
heard below ; owing to its origin, the 
sound generated in the denser air is 
louder than that generated in the 
rarer. Peals of thunder are unable 
to penetrate the air to a distance 
commensurate with their intensity on 
account of the non-homogeneous cha- 
racter of the atmosphere which ac- 
companies them; from the same 
cause, battles have raged and have 
been lost within a short distance of 
the reserves of the defeated army, 
while they were waiting for the sound 
of artillery to call them to the scene 
of action." 

It seems to us that the truth here 
expressed is not unmixed with error. 
In the very first sentence, we think 
that accuracy would require the sup- 
pression of the word not. The in- 
tensity of sound depends not only 
upon the density and elasticity of 



Acoustics and Ventilation. 



119 



the air whose pulsation is an ante- 
cedent condition, but also upon the 
density and elasticity of the air through 
which the pulse is transmitted. While 
it is true that a pulse given to the 
denser column or stratum of air may 
be transmitted through a rarer medi- 
um with greater resultant force than 
if its origin and direction were re- 
versed, it by no means follows that 
the intensity of sound is unaffected 
by the density of the air in which it 
is heard. We apprehend the truth 
to be that the pulse given to highly 
rarefied air is very feeble; and its 
secondary effect upon a denser and 
more elastic fluid, correspondingly 
slight; while the pulse from the 
denser air would be transmitted with 
greater but still diminished force, 
through the rarer atmosphere in which 
it reaches the ear. An absolute vacu- 
um could not transmit the pulse given 
through a column or stratum of elas- 
tic fluid. A rarefied atmosphere could 
but transmit it with a force always 
varying with its own elasticity. And 
were it possible to preserve one's con- 
sciousness within the exhausted re- 
ceiver of an air-pump, we doubt if 
the most sensitive ear could be made 
to hear the roar of a cataract with- 
out. 

" A feeble sound becomes instant- 
ly louder as soon as the air becomes 
more dense;" but not as loud as 
if the same initial pulse were imme- 
diately given to the denser air. In 
the case of two cannon equally 
charged, one of which is fired on the 
top of a mountain, and the other in 
a valley below it, to say that " owing 
to its origin, the sound generated in 
the denser air is louder than that ge- 
nerated in the rarer," sounds much 
like saying it is because it is. If it 
be more than this, it is wrong. It is 
a clear case of non causa pro causa. 
The origin [of the pulse\ of sound is 
in either case the same : the explo- 



sion of equal charges of gunpowder, 
in guns supposed to be of like mate- 
rial and equal size. The effects are 
not the same, because the effect of a 
force depends upon its transmission 
as well as upon its origin. 

Does the atmosphere " accompany " 
peals of thunder ? Or does this ex- 
pression convey a distinct idea of the 
office of the atmosphere in the pro- 
duction of sound ? We understand 
that the atmosphere receives the 
pulse or blow, and that its transmis- 
sion to the ear is due to the elastic 
force of the intermediate air. It is 
not the homogeneousness of air, but 
its elasticity which transmits the 
pulse. And though, in architecture, 
the object sought is a uniformly elas- 
tic air throughout the auditorium, it 
does not follow, nor is it even desira- 
ble, that the maximum effect at a giv- 
en point should be obtained by it. 

" Science," says our author, 
" teaches us that, whenever a shock 
or pressure of any sort is suddenly 
applied to material of any nature, 
whether metal, wood, gas, water, air, 
etc., it is immediately affected in all 
its parts, from the point of contact to 
the whole extent of the material, in 
displacing and replacing the particles 
of a determinate volume ; and the ve- 
locity of the movement of the parti- 
cles of the mass, created by the con- 
cussion of shocks or pressure, de- 
pends solely (?) upon its elasticity 
and density. Sound likewise causes 
motions (?) with every particle of the 
air, and as far as the motion reaches ; 
so that each particle, with regard to 
that which lies immediately beyond 
it, is in a progress of rarefaction dur- 
ing return." 

What is meant by affecting a mass 
of matter " in all its parts" by " dis- 
placing and replacing the particles 
of a determinate volume" we do not 
precisely understand. That whatever 
causes motion does it " as far as the 



120 



Acoustics and Ventilation. 



motion reaches," is as unquestiona- 
ble as any other identical proposi- 
tion. But that the velocity of the 
movement of the particles, created 
by the concussion of shocks, pressure, 
upon an unconfined elastic fltdd, de- 
pends solely upon its elasticity and 
density, we dispute. That pulses 
" are propagated from a trembling 
body all around in a spherical manner " 
may be true, if the air is on all sides 
equally elastic. Such might be the 
case with those produced by the vi- 
brations of a bell, when the surround- 
ing air is undisturbed by other caus- 
es, and is uniformly elastic at equal 
distances from it. It would not be 
strictly true if the initial pulse were 
made only in a certain direction. 
" Every impression made on a fluid 
is propagated every way throughout 
the fluid, whatever be the direction 
wherein it is madej" but it is not 
true that the impressions are equal at 
equal distances from the initial pulse, 
irrespective of its direction. This re- 
sult would presuppose a fluid perfect- 
ly elastic ; which we never have 
and then we might, with equal truth, 
say that the impressions would be 
equal at all distances. 

Everybody is familiar with the 
fact that the " transmission of sound," 
the pulse which strikes upon the ear 
to produce the sensation, is affected 
by currents of air the direction, force, 
and velocity of the wind between 
the initial pulse and the hearer. How ? 
and how much ? directly or indirectly ? 
are questions distinct from the fact 
itself. The distance through which 
guns are heard, as well as the loud- 
ness of their report, varies with the 
direction, force, and velocity of the 
wind ; and, in very still air, with the 
aim of the gun itself, the direction of 
the initial pulse. For short distances, 
these differences may be so minute 
as to escape notice ; just as the false 
proportions of a miniature picture 



are unobserved until the magnifier 
displays them. And for longer ran- 
ges, they are so small, in contrast 
with the magnitudes compared, as to 
seem rather like accidental than legi- 
timate differences. But the difference 
is not the less real because the real- 
ity is less. Words spoken in a faint 
whisper are clearly heard by a listen- 
er immediately before the speaker, 
when quite inaudible or indistinct to 
one at an equal distance behind him. 

The actual velocities of wind and 
sound differ so widely that the small 
fraction by which their relative velo- 
city is denoted is held as proof that 
the propagation of sound the pulse 
through distances of a few yards 
or feet, is not affected by currents 
of air : that there are no differences 
in the " velocity of sound." Yet the 
ear detects them as one of the small 
differences between discord and har- 
mony in music ; distinctness and con- 
fusion of speech. In music these 
differences may be blended by the 
prolonged intonation of vowel sounds ; 
but in speech, whose distinct signifi- 
cance is due to consonants, " which 
cannot be sounded without the aid 
of a vowel," these differences are fa- 
tally evident. The sharp edges of 
the vocal pulses, which give shape 
and meaning to vowel sounds, are 
destroyed alike by a husky voice 
and a puff of air. What remains is 
vox et pr&terea nihil. 

It seems to us that some of the 
many failures in practical acoustics 
come from considering the air the 
material involved as perfectly elas- 
tic. From this it is inferred that 
sound is not affected by the direction 
of the initial pulse : that the direc- 
tion and velocity of the effective pulse 
are not varied by currents and blasts 
of air. In short, that the slight in- 
accuracy of these assumptions will 
be the actual measurement of result- 
ant error. 



Acoustics and Ventilation. 



121 



Were the purpose only to ascer- 
tain the acoustic properties of unadul- 
terated air, varied experiments might 
eliminate the errors of anomalous 
results. But when the process is re- 
versed, and we deduce effects from 
a nly one among concurrent and con- 
flicting causes, theory is confounded 
bv discordant facts. Theories of 
sound in purely elastic air might give 
results approximately realized in 
practice, if the actual pulses with 
which we are concerned were given 
by a flail ; but are pregnant of error 
when the atmosphere is mixed with 
vicious vapors, and the pulse is a 
breath of air. Then, the assumption 
that " pulses of sound" proceed equal- 
ly in all directions from the initial 
point, is simply false ; and theories 
based upon it can only complicate 
die problems to be solved. 

\Yater, as well as air, is a highly 
elastic fluid, and, if confined and 
subjected to pressure, the force ap- 
plied is exerted on all sides of the 
confined volume. But the effect of 
a pulse or blow upon a surface of 
large extent varies with the direction 
of the force as well as with its power 
and velocity. We have seen fish 
swimming near the surface killed or 
paralyzed by a blow upon the water 
immediately over them. And we 
have seen the blow fail of its intend- 
ed effect solely because it was mis- 
directed. Perhaps the water in the 
latter case was not perfectly elastic ! 
Neither is the air of churches and 
public halls, when their atmosphere 
has yielded a portion of its oxygen, 
and, in return, is charged with carbo- 
nic acid and moist vapors from the 
breath of crowded assemblies. Car- 
bonic acid gas is heavier by one-half 
than atmospheric air. It does not, 
then, always rise toward the ceiling 
or roof, but remains in solution with 
impure exhalations ; or else, condens- 
ed by contact with the colder walls, 



descends to poison the lower air and 
impair its elastic force its power of 
transmitting the "pulse of sound" to 
the ear. 

We have just come from one of 
our city churches, where we have 
had a striking example of this result. 
The church in question will accom- 
modate^) about two thousand people. 
Twenty-five hundred may be crowd- 
ed into it. At the commencement 
of the sermon, the preacher's voice 
was distinctly audible at points fifty 
or sixty feet from the pulpit, in spite 
of reflections of sound air pulses 
from galleries, wooden columns, 
and the arched ceiling and side-walls, 
of lath and plaster. Before it was 
ended, the exhalations of the breath- 
ing crowd had so filled the lower 
half of the " auditorium " that only 
vowel sounds could be distinguished ; 
and the peroration seemed to consist 
of spasmodic utterances scarcely 
sounds of a, <?, i, o, u. W and y 
had lost their affinity to vowels, and 
the rest of the alphabet were no 
longer consonants, for they were not 
heard at all. 

The acoustic and sanitary problems 
are here identical to find a me- 
thod of preventing an accumulation 
of foul and inelastic vapors around 
the breathing and listening congrega- 
tion, and to give, instead, wholesome 
air to their lungs, while enabling their 
ears to hear. And since these poi- 
sonous and inelastic gases are speci- 
fically heavier than atmospheric air, 
and must fall to the floor by their 
own weight, the problem is reduced 
to providing a practicable way for 
their escape, and guarding it against 
counter-currents which might obstruct 
the passage. 

The introduction of warm air 
through openings in or near the floor 
will not readily produce uniformity 
of temperature within a room. The 
simplest experiment in proof of this 



122 



Acoustics and Ventilation. 



is constantly made by multitudes of 
people, who, in crowded assemblies, 
find their heads surrounded by warm 
and moist vapors, reeking with offen- 
sive odors, while their feet are chilled, 
though near the " hot-air register." 

A library, whose walls were 1 2 feet 
high, and whose floor 18 by 15 
contained 270 square feet, was con- 
stantly warmed by a " Latrobe heat- 
er," placed in the chimney at one end 
of the room. The pot holding the 
coal was raised one foot above the 
level of the floor, which was covered 
by a woollen carpet. Immediately 
under the library was a kitchen, 
whose temperature was kept at about 
72 9 F. . Three thermometers were 
placed thus : No. i, standing on the 
carpet near the centre of the library 
floor; No. 2, three feet, and No. 3, 
six feet, above it. At the expiration 
of half an hour, No. i indicated 
62; No. 2,66; and No. 3, 72. 
Numbers i and 3 were then placed 
side by side with No. 2, three feet 
above the floor. At the expiration 
of fifteen minutes, all three indicated 
the same temperature of 66. The 
low temperature of the inferior stra- 
tum of air was certainly not due to 
that of the room beneath it, for that 
was above 70. It was only the 
heavier, colder air of the room itself, 
and of adjacent apartments warmed 
in the same way, slightly affected by 
contact with the stratum of warmer 
air above it. 

Such slight differences of tempera- 
ture in small apartments could not 
greatly affect the transmission of " the 
pulse of sound." But in larger and 
loftier rooms, like churches and pub- 
lic halls, corresponding differences of 
temperature would, and do, produce 
air strata widely different in density 
and elasticity, and occasion serious 
acoustic defects. But the acoustic 
requirement is not satisfied by uni- 
formly elastic air alone ; for its pulses 



are reflected, and unity distinctness 
of sound, is lost in echoes or re- 
verberations, from windows, columns, 
floors, and ceilings. 

To know the difficulties to be en- 
countered is always a step towards 
their alleviation ; and these are suffi- 
ciently apparent throughout the little 
volume before us. They are, First, 
inelastic air which cannot transmit 
its pulses to the ear. Second, strata 
and amorphous volumes, of unequal 
densities, which transmit the air-puls- 
es with unequal force ; so that they 
produce distinct sounds and indefinite 
murmurs at equal distances from the 
initial pulse. Third, reflecting sur- 
faces the floor, the ceiling, walls, 
columns, and furniture of the audito- 
rium ; which variously reflect the 
waves caused by air-pulses, and pro- 
duce effects analogous to the eddies 
and whirlpools made by conflicting 
currents of running water. 

The first and second of these diffi- 
culties are clearly within the province 
of " heat and ventilation " and any 
means by which a constant tidal flow 
not a current of wholesome air, 
from floor to ceiling, may be produc- 
ed, and by which the ^wholesome, 
inelastic, heavier gases generated in 
crowded assemblies shall be prevent- 
ed from accumulating but be forced 
to give place to the purer air, will 
practically solve the problem which 
they present. 

The third difficulty is purely ar- 
chitectural. While surfaces reflect 
what are called pulses of sound, and 
so multiply their effects, they also 
create conflicting waves, which par- 
tially neutralize each other, or else 
strike the ear in irregular succession, 
to destroy the unity and harmony of 
sound. We cannot have buildings 
free from the inconveniences of walls, 
floors, and ceilings ; but we can regu- 
late and utilize surfaces to give aid 
in the transmission of air-pulses in 



Acoustics and Ventilation. 



123 



one direction, and greatly diminish the 
reflecting power of those that would 
give back conflicting waves of air. 
A sounding-board or arch, whose 
lower surface should be a semi-para- 
boloid, so placed that a line drawn 
from its highest points, and parallel 
to its axis, would pierce the opposite 
wall four feet above the floor, while 
the axis itself should attain the same 
height at a distance of forty feet from 
the focus, would be an example of 
what we mean by utilizing surfaces 
to transmit air-pulses in one direction. 
The employment of an inelastic sub- 
stance, like coarse felt, between the 
furring of a wall and the lathing, 
would undoubtedly tend to destroy 
its ability to reflect the "pulse of 
sound." And hollow cast-iron co- 
lumns, filled with clay, would hardly 
vibrate from a pulse of air. 

In one of the Protestant churches 
of our city, we were shown a sound- 
ing-board, whose authors seemed to 
have halted between the acoustic 
merits of the paraboloid and the 
graceful shape cf the pilgrim's scallop- 
shell We were told that " it helps 
the voice of the preacher." There 
seemed to be too much of it for or- 
nament, if its principle be wrong or 
inefficient, and too little for usefulness 
if right. Many attempts to improve 
the acoustic properties of halls de- 
signed for public lectures are failures 
through faulty execution of correct 
designs. 

We once saw the working-plans 
of a lecture-room, where the line of 
intersection of the end wall with the 
floor of the stage or platform was a 
parabola, the arch above and be- 
hind the lecturer's desk being a semi- 
paraboloid, springing from the wall at 
the height of the speaker's voice. 
Thus, it was supposed that \\\& pulses 
reflected from the walls and arch 
would proceed in parallel lines or 
" waves of sound," because the ini- 



tial pulse would always be given at 
the focus of the reflector. 

The place of every joist in the 
cylindrical wall was carefully marked, 
and the dimensions and place of each 
rib of the paraboloidal arch accurate- 
ly given. But in executing the de- 
sign, the builder discovered a mis- 
take ! " the floor of the stage would 
not be a true circular segment ! " So 
he " corrected 'it " with stunning effect 
upon the lecturer, and to the utter 
confusion of his audience. And 
the design was pronounced a fail- 
lire. 

In looking through the work be- 
fore us, we almost unconsciously be- 
gan to say : " This is nothing new ; 
we have seen this, and more than 
this, before." And in the same sense, 
we suppose it might as well be said 
that nothing is essentially new. 

We have lately seen a notice of an 
invention for tracing patterns on 
glass by means of a jet of sand. Of 
course, it is nothing new. The wind 
has been doing the same trick with 
the sand of the sea- shore for ages. 
We have seen it long ago, and often. 
Doubtless, the same effect has been 
noticed by many others. A thought 
of the possible utility of a process 
whose result was seen may have flit- 
ted through many minds, and, like 
the outline of a passing cloud, have 
been forgotten as it passed. But 
honestly, we never thought of tracing 
lace patterns on glass by any such pro- 
cess. And while new combinations 
of well-known truths give new and 
useful results, we hope they may 
never cease to be made. 

Mr. Saeltzer's book is full of good 
hints. But that is not its chief merit. 
It recognizes the inseparable connec- 
tion of sound and ventilation, and in- 
sists upon observance of the laws 
which govern them. As he is so 
evidently alive to the sanitary and 
acoustic defects in public buildings, we 



124 



Odd Stories. 



shall be disappointed if his little vol- 
ume does not prove to be the pre- 
face to more specific, practical direc- 
tions for their removal. He has put 
his finger upon the principal cause of 
failures. The laws of light, and heat, 
and sound are sufficiently understood 
to render their phenomena as con- 
trollable as time, space, and velocity in 
mechanics. The more intelligent ef- 
forts are therefore directed not to 
the discovery of new principles in- 
volved, but to utilize what knowledge 
we possess. And when the effort is 
made at the right point and in the 
right direction, we can heartily say, 
Go on and conquer. The world is full 
of wonderful monuments signalizing 
defeat. Let us see just one crowned 
with victory. 

As yet, modern ecclesiastical archi- 
tecture, especially, is but the imper- 
fect reproduction of ancient and me- 
diaeval models. It is the heathen 
temple or the Gothic minster, or, more 



recently, an attempt to vary the mo- 
notony with Byzantine forms of old 
basilicas, without their grandeur. In 
decoration, we have crude, unmean- 
ing imitations of Moorish tracery, 
weak in imagery of form and sym- 
bolism, without those glowing con- 
trasts and harmonies of colors which 
are to architecture as rhythm to poe- 
try of sound. We know the cause 
and history of this poverty in con- 
structive and decorative art. Hist- 
ry tells us how men became so spir- 
itual, in their own conceit, that sym- 
bolism was held to be a sin ; and 
how, by losing the sign, the thing 
signified was forgotten or denied. 
But it seems almost unaccountable 
that the world should be teeming with 
philosophers, to whom the laws of na- 
ture, even their least tangible pheno- 
mena, seem familiar as things of 
daily use, while great temples are 
so constructed that they who have 
ears to hear cannot hear. 



ODD STORIES. 



THE LADDER OF LIFE. 



THERE are a great many rounds in 
the ladder of life, though simple youths 
have always fancied that a few gal- 
lant steps would take them to the sum- 
mit of riches and power. Now, the 
top round of this ladder is not the 
presidency of any railroad or country, 
nor even the possession of renowned 
genius; for it oddly happens that 
when one sits down upon it, then, be 
he ever so high up in life, w he has 
really begun to descend. Those who 



put velvet cushions to their particular 
rounds, and squat at ease with a 
view of blocking the rise of other 
good folks, do not know they are 
going down the other side of the 
ladder ; but such is the fact. Many 
thrifty men have, in their own mind, 
gone far up its life-steps when, verily, 
they were descending them fast ; and 
poor people without number have in 
all men's eyes been travelling down- 
ward, though in truth they have jour- 



Odd Stories. 



12$ 



neyed higher by descent than others 
could by rising. So many slippery 
and delusive ways has this magical 
ladder that we may say it is as va- 
rious as men's minds. One may slip 
through its rungs out of the common 
way of ascent, and find himself go- 
ing down when he ought to be going 
up ; and vain toilers have ever fan- 
cied that they were mounting to the 
clouds when everybody else must 
have seen they were still at the same 
old rounds. Ambitious heroes have 
made the same mistake, if, indeed, 
the particular ladder which they have 
imagined to themselves has not itself 
been sliding down all the while they 
have been seeking vain glory by its 
steps. 

The ladder of life is an infinite lad- 
der. It is full of indirections to suit 
the abilities, and of attractions to 
please the tastes, of climbers. You 
may work at a forge, or sail the 
sea, or trade in money and merchan- 
dise, or hear operas, or write roman- 
ces, or take part in politics, or wan- 
der over mountains, or go to church, 
while living thereon ; but you must 



go up or go down, and either way 
will have some sort of climbing and 
toiling to do. Everywhere on the 
ladder is trouble, save in careful 
steps ; and since human progress is so 
illusory, many honest persons rather 
fear to fall than aspire too eagerly, 
or felicitate themselves on precarious 
elevations. Prudence forbids us to 
say at what real round of the ladder 
are all our bankers, brokers, show- 
men, advertisers, and other million- 
aires ; but it is certain that good lit- 
tle children, and simple citizens, and 
poor geniuses, and suffering men and 
women have gone higher up than the 
world knows. Indeed, they have 
gone quite out of sight, for there is a 
place on the great ladder which few 
men know, and where only saints 
can see the angels ascending and 
descending. Moreover, the ladder 
of life reaches from the pit to the 
stars, so that they who climb up or 
climb down, as it were, may see 
a firmament at either end : the good, 
their lights and joys; the evil, 
their chimeras and fire of dark- 
ness. 



ii. 



OBED S SONS. 



OBED, the young man, came to 
Father Isaac for his blessing, who 
thus said to him with few words: 
" Thou shalt have five sons, and to 
the first shall be given might, to the 
second cunning, to the third beauty, 
to the fourth knowledge, to the fifth 
patience, and to all in accord wisdom : 
but God giveth naught for nothing." 
And as Father Isaac had promised, 
so was it fulfilled in prayer. The 
first of the sons of Obed became a 
mighty hunter; the second excelled 
in crafts of all kinds ; the third was 
of a comely figure, well to look upon ; 
the fourth was learned in wise tradi- 



tions; the fifth was patient, as none 
other of the family of Obed had been 
before him. Now, the five sons ill- 
agreed in their husbandry in the field 
of their fathers, and they went their 
several ways, some near, some far, to 
seek their fortunes, leaving the last 
and youngest to be the staff of their 
sire. Then poverty fell upon the 
house of Obed, and infirmity upon 
the limbs of the patient man; and, 
dying, his father blessed him, saying: 
" The Lord bless thy patience that it 
fail not." 

At this time, the fame of him that 
slew lions with his arms, and men 



126 



Odd Stories. 



with his right hand, was very great ; 
but a devil entered into him, so that 
he did no work, and fell to great 
sloth, and men scorned him, and he 
lifted up his voice and cried : " Oh ! 
that I had the cunning of my broth- 
er, that my hands might know their 
work ; and the beauty of my brother, 
th.it maids should not turn from me; 
and the knowledge and patience of 
my brethren, that I might with wis- 
dom bide my time." 

From all sides was he sought that 
had the gift of cunning ; but being 
greedy in his craft, and seeking not 
knowledge, nor patience, he lost his 
cunning, and cried with a face in 
which there was no beauty : " Wis- 
dom was not given me, nor patience, 
neither comeliness nor might, and so 
have I been abandoned to devices of 
misery." 

Rejoicing in his fair proportions, 
the third son of Obed danced before 
the daughters of his tribe, but, taken 
in the wiles of flattery and of plea- 
sure, he became as a drunken man 
whose face is a warning, and whose 
life is a scandal, and he lamented : 
" Oh ! that I had the cunning or pa- 
tience or might of my brethren, then 
should none withstand me, or I be 
overthrown." 

And he to whom it was given to 
know much in many tongues, and to 
counsel with scholars, lost the kindly 
ways of men, seeking vain and dark 
sciences, till he exclaimed in the bit- 
terness of his heart : " Knowledge is 
given me without wisdom : hence- 
forth must I seek counsel in patience, 
and observe the prudence of my 
brethren." And he set out for the 
house of his fathers. 

Now had the infirm brother tilled 
the fields of his brethren, and taught 
the laborers thereof the arts of han- 
diwork, and when the sons of Obed 
returned to the house of their sire, 
one after another, the first averred 



that he was strong, the second that 
he was cunning, the third that he was 
comely, the fourth that he had 
knowledge. But Father Isaac, the 
shepherd of his flock, hearing them, 
said : " Yea, for he hath one virtue 
which maketh many : the staff of thy 
brother hath devoured thy rods." 

" Wherefore, then, lov'd Isaac," 
spake the eldest, " are we robbed of 
our gifts, and wit, and might, and 
beauty gone from us, leave us in sor- 
row of heart ?" 

" Told I not thy sire Obed," said 
the patriarch, " that the Lord of 
lords gave naught for naught. Have 
ye earned your wages have ye paid 
back your gifts ? He that had might, 
why was he not taught of knowledge 
and invention, and, being skilled, why 
learned he not the patience of toil ? 
He that had beauty, why sought he 
not counsel of strength and skill, that 
judgment might be his ? He of 
knowledge, why sought he not help 
of patience and craft ? Each had 
his virtue to purchase a share in the 
virtues of the rest, and to win gifts 
to his gift, that God might be praised. 
But only goodnessbringeth fit wisdom, 
and wisdom dwelleth not in discord." 

Then the sons of Obed, answering, 
asked : " Why hath one virtue, as 
thou sayest, devoured ours ?" 

" For that thou hast thrown thine 
own to the dogs, my sons, and pa- 
tience hath picked them up. He 
that suffereth much with patience 
winneth much with wisdom." 

" Even so, Father Isaac, but have 
we not, too, suffered ?" 

" Yea, my children, that so God 
may teach thee wisdom, and thy gifts 
abound tenfold. He that hath much, 
let him save it by bounty : he that 
hath little, let him increase it with 
patience: he that hath won, let him 
divide the victory. Share ye each 
other's virtues, that each may possess 
the gifts of all." 



The Three Pledges. 127 



THE THREE PLEDGES. 

THREE students sat together 

In a villa on the Rhine, 
And pledged the beauteous river 

In draughts of sparkling wine. 

One was bold and haughty, 
Count Otto was his name : 

His dark eyes flashed and smouldered 
From Nuremberg he came. 

And one was too fond-hearted 
For aught but love and song; 

With hair too brightly golden 
To wear its lustre long. 

His hands were white and shapely 

As any maid's might be ; 
Count Adelbert of Munich, 

A joyous youth was he. 

And one was grave and quiet, 
With such a winning smile 

That, meeting all its brightness, 
Sad hearts grew light the while. 

And as they sat together, 

Three travelers by the Rhine, 

And pledged the noble river 
In draughts of golden wine, 

With lays of olden minstrels 
They whiled the hours away, 

Till twilight gently sealed them 
With the sign of parting day. 

Then silence fell upon them, 

And the distant boatman's song 

Returned in softened echoes 
The gleaming waves along ; 

And through the latticed windows 
The hush of evening stole, 

And the solemn spell of silence 
Fast fettered soul to soul. 



I2 8 The Three Pledges, 

Dream on, O happy-hearted ! 

The future holds no truth, 
No amaranthine jewel, 

Like the rainbow tints of youth. 

Dream on, O happy-hearted ! 

The hour will soon be gone, 
And darkness fall too swiftly. 

Dream on, young hearts, dream on ! 



This is the proudest hour 

Of all the golden twelve, 
That seek the mystic caverns 

Where gray gnomes dig and delve. 

" The beauty of the morning 

Is but the birth of day, 
And the glory of the noontide 
Doth pass as soon away. 

" But twilight holds the fulness, 

The meed of every one, 

And drops the radiant circlet 

Before her god, the sun. 

" This is the proudest hour 

Of all the golden twelve 
Now combs the Nix her tresses, 
Now rests his spade the elve. 

" And I drink to the proudest maiden 

That treads this German-land ; 
No other love shall my heart OWN, 
No other queen my hand. 

" And I'll pledge her three times over, 

This haughty queen of mine, 

In the brightest flowing nectar 

That ever kissed the Rhine." 

Thus spake the bold Count Otto, 

And held his goblet up, 
And three times overflowing 

Each student drained his cup. 

" This is the fairest hour, 

For the sunset clouds unfold 
To the purple sea of twilight 
Their red-tipped sails of gold. 



77/(? Three Pledges. I2o 

" And the hecatombs of sweetness 

That all the day have risen 
In the bosom of the flowers 
Unbar their shining prison. 

" This is the fairest hour, 

The hour of eventide, 
And I drink to the fairest maiden 
That dwells the Rhine beside. 

" And I pledge her three times over, 

Though her only dower should be 
The heaven-born gift of beauty, 
And a faithful love for me." 

Thus spake Adelbert, smiling, 

And held his goblet up, 
And three times overflowing 

Each student drained his cup. 

Then paused the twain in wond'ring, 

What Ludwig's toast might be ; 
For their comrade sat in silence, 

And never word spake he. 

" How now ? Why thus, brave Ludwig, 

Sitt'st thou in pensive mood ? 
Dost choose to dwell unmated, 
In loveless solitude ?" 

He smiled, and then looked downward 

As he answered, glass in hand, 
" Nay, nay ; but, if I pledge her, 
Ye will not understand." 

" Where dwells she, then ?" cried Otto, 
" This peerless love of thine ? 
Mayhap some fabled Lurline 
That sings beneath the Rhine ? 

" Thou'rt smiling haste, then, pledge her !" 

And the brimming glasses rung 
As Ludwig dropped the music 
That trembled on his tongue. 

" This is the holiest hour 

Of all the twenty-four, 
For the rush of day hath passed us, 
And the tide returns no more. 

VOL. XV. 9 



130 The Three Pledges. 

" And the waves of toil and traffic, 

By dark argosies trod, 
Are lost through circling eddies 
In the mightiness of God. 

" This is the holiest hour 

When purest thoughts have birth, 
And I drink to the holiest maiden 
That ever dwelt on earth. 

" Her vesture falleth around her 
In folds of changeless white, 
And her holiness outshineth 
The jewels of the night. 

" She weareth a mantle of sadness, 

Her sorrows are her fame : 
She long hath been my chosen, 
But I will not name her name. 

" Ah ! not with wine I pledge thee, 

All spotless as thou art, 
But with my life's devotion, 
With the fulness of my heart. 

" Ah ! not with wine I pledge thee, 

Nor one libation pour ; 
Thou hold'st the bond that seals me, 
Thine own for evermore." 

This with white brow uncovered, 
'Neath the floating twilight skies ; 

And angels might have marvelled 
At the beauty of his eyes. 

Then he turned his goblet downward, 
And waved the flask aside 

His comrades would have proffered 
To pledge such wondrous bride. 

" Friend, thou hast spoken strangely, 

But thou wert ever strange ; 
Mayhap this matchless maiden 
Hath power thy mood to change." 

Thus Adelbert spake, smiling, 
And shook his golden hair : 
41 1 ask nor saint nor angel, 
But maiden fond and fair. 



The Three Pledges. 131 

' Then let us pledge each other, 

Since thy passion is too deep, 
With comrades tried and trusty, 
Its sacredness to keep. 



" What maiden like thy vision 

In all our fatherland ?" 
" Ah ! said I not," cried Ludwig, 
" Ye would not understand ?" 

" Come, let us pledge each other," 
Said Otto, glass in hand 

" A right good draught of friendship 
That all may understand." 

Then their glasses clashed together,, 
" Finn may our fealty be !" 

And Ludwig's voice of music 
Rang loudest of the three. 



Seven times hath autumn gathered 
The vintage of the Rhine, 

Since the students pledged each other 
In draughts of golden wine. 

" In a grand and lofty castle, 

The Danube's stream beside, 
Count Otto dwells in splendor, 
The lord of acres wide. 

He has won the proudest maiden, 

In all that German-land, 
And countless hosts of yeomen 

Obey his high command. 

But the haughty brow is clouded, 
And his eye is full of care, 

For the trace of many a heart-storm 
Hath left its impress there. 

Love had sought Adelbert, 

Young Beauty's flow'ret blown, 

And the tendrils of its blossoms 
About his heart had grown. 



132 The Three Pledges. 

And joy had wrapped them softly 
In robes of radiant sheen, 

Till Death bent down, relentless, 
And sapped their living green. 

Hush ! a mourner sits in silence 
Within a darkened room, 

Where the fairest flower of summer 
Lies withered in her bloom. 

While those who move about him 
With footsteps sad and slow, 

Whisper to each other, 
But leave him to his woe. 

And down in the quiet churchyard, 
Where nodding grasses wave, 

The children gather, silent, 
And the sexton digs a grave. 

Solemnly tolls the church-bell, 
It counteth twenty-five 

O God ! the flowers wither, 
And the old, old branches thrive. 

Solemnly tolls the church-bell, 
Slowly winds the train 

Adown the rocky hillside, 
Along the grassy plain ; 

Sadly pass the bearers 
Into the churchyard old, 

Brightly falls the sunlight 
In glittering lines of gold ; 

Tearfully pause the mourners 
Above the broken sod, 

And Ludwig waits beside it, 
A humble priest of God. 



Newman on Miracles. 



NEWMAN ON MIRACLES.* 



THESE essays are here reprinted 
from the original editions of each, 
with only the addition of a few brack- 
eted notes, and with some slight 
emendation of the wording of a few 
sentences of the text of a merely 
literary character. For many years, 
Dr. Newman has been a public man 
in the English theological world, 
so much so that, as he himself ex- 
pressed it, " he is obliged to think 
aloud." His writings have passed 
into the domain of English literature, 
and are public property. It is not 
now in his power to withdraw any 
portion of them, much as he might 
desire to do so. Under existing cir- 
cumstances, he has judged it the bet- 
ter course or, at least, the lesser evil 
that they should be republished 
under his own eye, with such correc- 
tions in bracketed notes as will in- 
dicate what he would now correct or 
retract. 

These two essays mark very dis- 
tinctly two stages in the career 
through which, as he fully explains 
in his Apologia, Dr. Newman has 
passed. 

The first one, written to defend 
the miracles recorded in the Holy 
Scriptures against the attacks of 
Hume, Gibbon, and other infidels, 
dates from 1825-26, while he was 
yet young, and a staunch Protestant, 
somewhat imbued with evangelical 
feelings, especially in the matter of 
Popery. Hence, while ably conduct- 
ing the exposition and defence of 



Tivo Essays on Scripture Miracles and on 
Ecclesiastical. By John Henry Newman, for- 
merly Fellow of Oriel College. Second edition. 
London: Pickering. 1870, New York: Sold by 
the Catholic Publication Society, i vol. i2mo, 
pp. 396. 



the Scripture miracles, he omits no 
opportunity of hitting at the other 
miracles recorded to have occurred 
in the Catholic Church since the 
days of the apostles. In fact, he had, 
as he tells us elsewhere, read the 
work of Middleton on The Miracles 
of the Early Church, and had imbibed 
his spirit. He was guided also by 
Bishop Douglas, whose Criterion he 
often quotes. 

Seventeen years of continuous stu- 
dy and mature thought produced 
their fruit in his clear and candid 
mind. In 1842-43, he wrote the 
second essay as a preface or intro- 
duction to a portion of Fleury's Ec- 
clesiastical History, then being pub- 
lished in an English translation. 

Though still a Protestant, he had 
entirely changed his views on these 
ecclesiastical miracles. So much so, 
that this essay may be read as his 
own confutation of what he had said 
against them in his earlier essay. In 
the present volume, the bracketed 
foot-notes subjoined to that essay are, 
for the most part, mere references to 
the paragraphs of the second essay, 
in which the immature errors of the 
first are corrected. With the tradi- 
tional prejudices of Protestantism 
then strong in him, he had looked on 
these ecclesiastical miracles as rivals, 
and as, in some way, antagonistic to 
the miracles of Scripture which he 
was upholding ; and he. had striven 
to find points of difference as well 
in their internal character as in the 
. evidence needed to prove them. All 
this he fully meets in the second es- 
say. In the second, third, and fourth 
chapters of it, treating of" The Antece- 
dent Probability of Ecclesiastical Mi- 



134 



Newman on Miracles. 



racks," of their internal character, and 
of the evidence in support of their 
credibility, he shows how the admis- 
sion of Scripture miracles utterly does 
away with the ground taken by some 
against the possibility or probability 
of ecclesiastical miracles, how the 
t\vo classes agree in their chief and 
essential characteristics, and how, in 
fact, they rather merge into one ge- 
neral class of events, under the mo- 
ral order of divine Providence, es- 
tablished for man's salvation an or- 
der distinct from and superior to the 
physical order of nature. Nothing 
can be more lucid than his replies to 
the objections of Douglas, Warbur- 
ton, Middleton, and other Protestant 
writers on this subject. He shows, 
with the utmost clearness, how all 
that they urge against these eccle- 
siastical miracles in the Catholic 
Church can be turned by unbeliev- 
ers, with equal plausibility, and in 
the same sophistical spirit, against 
the miracles of the apostles them- 
selves. 

Dr. Newman, in both dissertations, 
frankly admits what indeed cannot 
be denied that not a few of the 
Scripture miracles are to be believed 
by us simply because they have been 
recorded by divinely inspired writers. 
We have no other knowledge of 
them, no other evidence of their hav- 
ing occurred, than that we read them 
on the inspired page. Such miracles 
are for us matters of faith, not proofs 
in evidence. They are themselves 
proved by Scripture. Whatever they 
were to those who witnessed the oc- 
currence, they are not now for us his- 
torical evidence in support of divine 
revelation. Writing as a Protestant, 
Dr. Newman did not advert to an- 
other important truth lying further 
back which Protestant writers gene- 
rally ignore. Our knowledge of the 
inspiration and divine authority of 
the Scriptures as we have them dis- 



tinguished, that is, from the nume- 
rous other gospels, acts, epistles, apo- 
calypses, and other pretended sacred 
writings, more or less current among 
and accepted by the sectaries of the 
early Christian ages depends entire- 
ly on the decision of the Catholic 
Church, made after the death of the 
apostles. Hence, the value of the 
Scripture testimony as to these mira- 
cles, and our duty to recognize and 
accept it as divinely inspired, and 
therefore unerring, depend, in the 
last analysis, on the divine authority 
and character of the Catholic Church 
of that same church which has al- 
ways claimed that God continues to 
work miracles within her fold. To 
say that she errs on this latter point 
leaves room, to say the least, for the 
imputation or the suspicion that she 
may have erred in the other decision 
likewise ; and so those Scripture 
miracles which lack, as most of them 
do, other corroborative testimony, 
would stand without sufficient proof. 
On the contrary, for the ecclesiastical 
miracles, because they occurred near- 
er our own times, there might still 
remain, as in many cases there does 
remain, ample historical evidence 
from contemporary witnesses. 

After devoting four chapters to a 
thorough discussion of the subject of 
ecclesiastical miracles in general, 
Dr. Newman proceeds, in the fifth 
and last chapter, to sum up and dis- 
cuss the evidences we still have, in 
nine special cases, held to be miracu- 
lous interventions, in the early ages 
of the church. For a clear and or- 
derly presentation of the evidence, 
the logical application of the princi- 
ples established in the earlier chap- 
ters, and the happy and often over- 
whelming retorting of their own pro- 
positions on Douglas, Leslie, and 
other anti-Catholic writers, each one 
of these cases deserves and will am- 
ply repay a special study. 



Newman on Miracles. 



135 



Here, as in his other volumes, Dr. 
Newman displays that intellectual 
acumen and that plain common 
sense which are as characteristic of 
his writings as is the singular mastery 
over the English language which 
lias caused him to be recognized as 
one of the classical writers of our 
day. 

Valuable as this volume is to the 
careful student for its erudition and 
acute reasoning, and for the aid it 
gives in the polemical controversies 
that rise from time to time with Pro- 
testants, it is chiefly valuable, in our 
eyes, as a well-reasoned and, as it 
\vere, practical refutation of that ra- 
tionalistic or materialistic system of 
false philosophy which is taught in 
some of our colleges, and is being 
spread through the land, and which 
cither leaves God out of sight alto- 
gether, or at most acknowledges him 
only as the Creator and founder of 
the physical order. Dr. Newman, in 
discussing what some would term the 
philosophy of miracles, sets forth 
strongly and clearly the necessity of 
recognizing and taking into account 
the moral order, established by God, 
equally with the physical order, and 
superior to it in rank. The world is 
under both. To leave either out is 
to take only a partial view. To ex- 
clude the moral order from our con- 
sideration is to err at the very com- 
mencement of our course, and our 
progress will be but from error to 
error. The action of both orders 
may, and often does, coincide would 
have always coincided had not sin 
brought in jarring and confusion. 
But in point of fact, they are some- 
times found in opposition. A wise 
and good sovereign dies immaturely, 
leaving his sceptre to a wicked and 
unscrupulous successor; a good fa- 
ther dies early in life, and his orphans 



are left to grow up in ignorance and 
vice ; a just and benevolent man dies 
or is ruined, and debts are left un- 
paid, and a stream of charity fails at 
the fount. And if we class the evil 
actions of men as belonging to this 
physical order, and the rationalists 
refuse to class them otherwise, do 
they not present a continual opposi- 
tion between the physical and the 
moral orders ? And if the physical 
order so asserts itself, should we not 
reasonably look for corresponding, 
if not greater, manifestations in the 
moral order ? 

Divine revelation itself is a fact in 
the moral order entirely beyond and 
above the physical order of nature 
by its nature, a miracle. It can be 
proved only by miracles ; and miracles 
are the appropriate accompaniment 
of its continuance as a dispensation 
of divine Providence. Hence, in the 
church the kingdom of heaven in 
which God specially reigns and rules,, 
and in which the moral order is en- 
dowed with supernatural force, and 
interworks with the physical order of 
nature, we should as readily and as 
reasonably look for miracles, as, if we 
may be allowed a trivial comparison, 
we should expect,- when examining a 
piece of complicated machinery, to 
find that one set of wheels will con- 
trol and at times arrest the ordinary 
action of other wheels, and interpose 
some result due to their own special 
action in the general series of results. 
Not to take account of the moral 
and supernatural order in God's rul- 
ing the world is not to recognize the 
highest and greatest of his acts. The 
rationalist is like a deaf man before 
an exquisite musical clock. His eye 
may follow the hands as they move 
round the dial ; but he has closed his 
ears to the sweet melodies that float 
around him. 



I3 6 



New Publications. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



THE LIQUEFACTION OF THE BLOOD OF 
ST. JANUARIUS, AT NAPLES. An Histo- 
rical and Critical Examination of the 
Miracle. New York: The Catholic 
Publication Society. 1872. 

This is a republication of several 
very able and interesting articles 
which have lately appeared on this 
subject in THE CATHOLIC WORLD. 
Their appearance in the present 
form cannot but be welcomed by all 
well-disposed persons, whether they 
be desirous to ascertain the truth or 
anxious to have the means for de- 
fending it. Catholics, who are accus- 
tomed to hear this miracle, as well 
as the many others which have oc- 
curred in the church from the earliest 
times, coolly dismissed by their Pro- 
testant acquaintances as undoubted 
impostures or superstitions, will find 
in this account all that is needed to 
silence, if not to convince, their op- 
ponents, and to enable them to as- 
sert their own faith ; while the fair 
and candid non-Catholic will find in 
it an array of facts and of reasoning 
which cannot fail to produce a deep 
impression on his mind, and which 
may serve as a basis for his conver- 
sion to the faith. But we would 
not advise anyone who is determin- 
ed in any event to remain a Protes- 
tant or an infidel to have anything 
to do with it. The failure to find 
any false but plausible theory to ac- 
count for certain phenomena which 
do not agree with one's preconceiv- 
ed ideas sometimes leads to a very 
unpleasant and dangerous frame of 
mind that in which it impugns 
the known truth. The book contains 
seventy-nine pages, and is illustrated 
by an engraving representing the 
celebrated reliquary in which the 
blood of the saint is contained. It 
is the only complete and exhaustive 
'treatise on the subject in the English 
.language. 



AMERICANISMS : The English of the New 
World. By M. Schele De Vere, LL.D. 
New York : Charles Scribner & Co. 
1872. 

This elegantly printed book has a 
real and solid value. It shows how 
the English language has been en- 
riched by additions from various 
sources in the New World, while, 
at the same time, it indicates the 
deterioration and corruption to 
which it has been exposed by 
knocking about in a new country. 
Both these topics are important, 
and we commend them to the care- 
ful attention of all who wish to 
acquire a true knowledge of the art 
of speaking and writing English. 
We object decidedly to the defini- 
tion of A Hickory Catholic, on p. 58, 
as one who " is free from bigotry 
and asceticism." This is a vulgar 
cant phrase, unworthy of a scholar. 
A hickory Catholic is a person who 
makes his principles bend to his 
passions and interests. He believes 
that he is bound to go to Mass 
on Sundays and to the Sacraments 
at Easter, but neglects to do so, 
because he is lazy, or fond of drink- 
ing too much, or licentious, or un- 
willing to make restitution, or stu- 
pidly careless about his soul ; hop- 
ing to sneak into heaven by an old 
age or death-bed repentance. We 
have noticed nothing else worthy 
of censure in Professor De Vere's 
book, and we can recommend it 
without hesitation as most valuable 
to all who are engaged in teaching 
the English language or endeavor- 
ing to learn it. It .is, moreover, 
extremely amusing and entertain- 
ing, as well as instructive. Would 
that those who have the naming of 
places would study it attentively, 
and strictly follow its suggestions ! 
Think of Ovid, Livy, Greece, Virgil, 
for names of villages in a country 



New Publications. 



137 



rich in glorious Indian names ! Not 
content with imposing absurd or 
unmeaning or vulgar names on 
places which had none before, those 
which have already most tasteful 
and appropriate ones are frequently 
rebaptized. For instance, in Fair- 
field Co., Connecticut, Saugatuck 
has been changed to Southport, 
and Green's Farms to Westport. 
What a name is New York for a 
great state and a great city ! What 
a change from Lake St. Sacrament, 
or even Horicon to Lake George f 
We wish that some of those who 
have leisure and inclination to take 
up this matter in earnest would do 
so, and try to effect a reformation. 
We notice also, with satisfaction, 
the condemnation of that wretched 
interloper and vagabond of a word, 
donate. Humbly, and with tears in 
our eyes, we entreat of our vener- 
able presidents of colleges and of 
all in literary authority to sen- 
tence and banish donate, or he will 
some fine day bring into college 
his still shabbier and more beggarly 
cousin, orate, and a whole troop of 
poor relations, who will locate them- 
selves, for all coming time. Eng- 
lish has been and can be enriched 
from new sources, as Professor De 
Vere amply proves ; but let us 
watch carefully that it do not be- 
come corrupted and be not made 
vulgar. 

ZEAL IN THE WORK OF THE MINISTRY. 
By L'Abbe Dubois. London : J. C. 
Newby. New York : The Catholic 
Publication Society. 

It is encouraging to see books of 
this kind published in the English 
language. We know not how to 
make any extracts from this volume, 
for every page of it is filled with 
good sense, practical advice, and 
the true spirit of the priesthood. 
Could we realize our wishes, we 
would place in the hands of every 
priest and candidate preparing for 
ordination a copy. It would be 
most wholesome for daily spiritual 
reading and meditation. The au- 



thor reveals his object in writing 
the book in the following passage 
in the preface, p. viii. : 

" To rekindle in the bosom of the 
priesthood the ardor of that zeal which 
should be its animating principle ; to 
call to remembrance those noblest vir- 
tues without which it languishes, and 
with which it works miracles ; further, 
to bring that zeal into practice by show- 
ing how the priest ought to act in the 
various circumstances of daily life, and 
in his intercourse with the various per- 
sons with whom he is perpetually brought 
into contact; such, in short, is the plan 
I have adopted. God grant that I may 
have carried it into execution in such a 
way as to procure abundantly his glory 
and the salvation of souls !" 

One evidence that he has not 
been unsuccessful in attaining his 
object, is that this translation is 
made from the fifth French edition. 

THE BOOK OF PSALMS. Translated from 
the Latin Vulgate. Being a Revised 
Edition of the Douay Version. Lon- 
don : Burns, Gates & Co. i6mo, 
pp. 193. New York : The Catholic 
Publication Society, 9 Warren Street. 

" This English version of the Book 
of Psalms," says the Most Rev. Dr. 
Manning in the preface, "may be 
regarded as one more of the many 
gifts bequeathed to us by my learn- 
ed and lamented predecessor [Car- 
dinal Wiseman]. One-half, at least, 
of the psalms were revised by his 
own hand." Critics will regret that 
there is nothing to enable them 
to distinguish the precise psalms 
on which the illustrious cardinal 
brought his great Biblical learning 
and his pure English taste to the 
task of revision. 

The term " Douay Version " in 
the title is used in the loose way 
which his eminence himself oppos- 
ed, and the basis is not the Douay, 
but Dr. Challoner's text. 

This edition is made in a cheap 
popular form, and is intended to dif- 
fuse more generally among the faith- 
ful the psalms as a manual of prayer. 
They are the great storehouse from 



138 



Nciv Publications. 



which the church draws her offices, 
and supply the pious with ejacula- 
tions, short and fervent prayers, 
which are of wonderful value. No 
greater boon has been added recent- 
ly, for, though there is no lack of 
pocket Bibles, they are unhandy, 
and the type too small for those who 
wish the psalms alone. 

To meet this want a new transla- 
tion was issued in 1700, in a neat 
little volume, the version being by 
John Caryl, a friend of Pope, and 
faithful, adherent of the Stuarts. His 
Psalms is a very uncommon work, 
though highly esteemed. 

We had thus Gregory Martin's 
version in the original Douay, Ca- 
ryl's, Bishop Challoner's, and Arch- 
bishop Kenrick's, and we have now 
a version due in part at least to 
Cardinal Wiseman. It is a little vo- 
lume that will reward study among 
those who wish to compare the ver- 
sions, and as a convenient, well- 
printed manual commends itself to 
the pious. 

" In the Book of Psalms," says 
his grace, Dr. Manning, "the Spirit 
of Praise himself has inscribed the 
notes and the words of thanksgiving 
to be learned here, and to be con- 
tinued before the eternal throne. 
For this use and aid I commend the 
present volume to the piety of the 
faithful." 

Some common errors have, we 
see, been retained in this edition, 
which we hope to see corrected, 
such as the omission of "angry" 
before enemies in Ps. xvii. 48 ; '' and," 
in Ps. xliii. 12 ; " in form," Ps. xliv. 4. 

A JOURNEY AROUND MY ROOM. By Count 
Xavier de Maistre. New York : Kurd 
& Houghton. 

This work, so full of the author's 
delicate humor and sentimental re- 
verie, is the very thing for a winter 
evening, when one feels like giving 
himself up to dream away a few 
hours. 

The author was a younger brother 
of the perhaps better known Count 
Joseph de Maistre, French Ambassa- 



dor at the Russian Court in the 
early part of this century, and one 
of the ablest defenders of the Pa- 
pacy. He was the author of the 
famous Du Pape and the philosopher 
of the Soirees de St. Petersbourg. 
Count Joseph was likewise an inti- 
mate friend of Madame Swetchine's, 
whose interesting life has been pub- 
lished by " The Catholic Publication 
Society," and was instrumental in 
the conversion of that remarkable 
woman to the Catholic Church. 

The De Maistres belonged to the 
haute noblesse de Savoy. Count Xa- 
vier, as well as his brothers, became 
an exile during the first French Re- 
volution. He went to Russia, where 
he married. After an absence of 
twenty-five years he returned to his 
own country. 

Lamartine addressed him one of 
his Harmonies Poetiqucs after his 
return, saluting him thus : 

" Voyageur fatigue* qui reviens sur nos plages 

Demander a tes champs leurs antiques ombrages, 

A ton coeur ses premiers amours !" 

He also calls Count Xavier the 
Sterne of Savoy, but without his af- 
fectation, and declares him equal to 
Rousseau, but without his declama- 
tory style. " He is a familiar genie, 
a fireside talker, a cricket chirping 
on the rural hearth." 

The writings of Xavier de Maistre 
were among the favorite volumes 
that composed Engenie de Guerin's 
library, and we can imagine a cer- 
tain sympathy in their intellectual 
natures. The L&preux in particular 
appealed to her sympathetic nature, 
and the thought of meeting its au- 
thor filled her with delight. When 
this meeting took place at Paris, 
Count Xavier had just lost his chil- 
dren, and was so depressed in con- 
sequence that it was not equal to 
her expectations. 

But Lamartine speaks of seeing 
him a few years after, and describes 
him as "an old man of fourscore 
years, gracious in manner, and with 
no signs of decay of body or feeble- 
ness of mind. Airiness of senti- 
ment, a mild sensibility, a half- 



New Publications. 



139 



serious, half-indulgent smile at hu- 
man affairs, a tolerance the result 
of his intelligence of all human 
opinions : such was the man. 

" His sonorous voice had a far-off 
sound like an echo of the past, and 
was well adapted to the reminiscen- 
ses of his previous life, which he 
loved to tell. 

" His Leper of the City of Aosta is, in 
the literature of the heart, equal to 
Paul and Virginia; the Jottrney 
around my Room is only a pleasan- 
try. The Leper is a tear, but a tear 
that flows for ever !" 

Lamartine, in his Confidences, 
gives a pleasing picture of the De 
Maistre family, and likens a summer 
passed among its illustrious mem- 
bers in Savoy to the conversations 
of Boccaccio at his country-seat 
near Florence. They used to as- 
semble beneath a clump of pines at 
the foot of Mont du Chat, overlook- 
ing the Arcadian valley of Cham- 
bery, so redolent of St. Francis de 
Sales, another genius not less poeti- 
cal, and with no less delicacy of 
sentiment, but loftier than Xavier 
de Maistre ; and sometimes they 
came together on a terrace over- 
arched by vine-hung elms before the 
Chateau de Servolex, the residence 
of Madame de Vigny, De Maistre's 
sister. 

Count Joseph de Maistre, like a 
modern Plato, was the centre of 
this family group. His stature was 
lofty, his features fine and manly, 
his forehead broad and high, and, 
crowning all, floated his thin, silvery 
hair. His mouth was indicative of 
the delicate humor that character- 
ized the family. His brothers re- 
garded him with great respect, and 
used to gather around him to listen 
to the experiences of his exile. 
Even the Canon de Maistre, after- 
wards Bishop of Aosta, who looked 
like a Socrates, with features that 
had been softened and sanctified by 
the influences of Christianity, would 
hasten to close the breviary he had 
been reading in a secluded alley, 
and join the group. 

And now and then came sweet 



interludes of soft Scythian airs 
through the open window of the 
chateau, which Mademoiselle de 
Maistre, a pensive, talented girl, was 
playing on the piano. 

The writings of Count Xavier de 
Maistre, though not at all dogmatic, 
belong to Catholic literature. They 
are among the sweet blossoms that 
have unfolded under the pure light 
of Catholic influences, and with 
a delicacy of aroma not to be 
found in the forced hot-house plants 
of the world. We love to inhale 
their odor, and would not be the 
last to welcome the appearance of 
The Journey aro und my Room. 

THE HISTORY OF GREECE. By Professor 
Dr. Ernest Curtius. Translated by 
Adolphus William Ward, M.A. Vols. 
I. and II. New York : Charles Scrib- 
ner&Co. 1871. 

Dr. Ernest Curtius is impartial, 
and metes out strict justice to all 
whom he summons to the tribunal 
of history. Neither Spartan valor nor 
Athenian grace influences his judg- 
ment. He passes from the Eurotas 
Valley to the Acropolis without 
leaving in his train a single notion 
which would weigh in his decision 
on the men and things in Attica. 
And this impartiality is a rare gift 
in the writers of Grecian history, be 
they ancient or modern. Almost all 
take sides. Mitford holds the Spar- 
tan oligarchy to be the height of per- 
fection in government, and makes it 
the standard by which the demo- 
cracy of Athens is to be judged. 
The result is that in his pages the 
fair features of Athens are caricatur- 
ed and distorted, while the stern 
features of Sparta are so flattered 
that not even Lycurgus would re- 
cognize them. On the other hand, 
Thirlwall, and many more besides, 
have not been able to escape the 
fascination of Athenian wit and ele- 
gance, and throughout their histo- 
ries Athens is unduly favored. Dr. 
Curtius judges not of governments 
and institutions in the abstract, but 
he judges of them with reference to 



140 



New Publications. 



the peoples for whom they were in- 
tended, and thus has avoided the 
error into which so many have fallen. 

There are in the volumes before 
us two points which are particu- 
larly well handled. These are the 
orgin of the Greek people, and the 
development of their religion. Mr. 
Mommsen, in his History of Rome, 
absurdly tells us that the ancient 
peoples of Italy were indigenous to 
the soil. This he does, doubtless, 
either to show his independence of 
revelation, or to save himself the 
trouble of further investigation, per- 
haps with both ends in view. Dr. 
Curtius is neither so disregardless 
of truth nor so saving of labor. By 
the aid of ethnography, philology, 
and historical research, he demon- 
strates that the Greeks and the 
Latins also belonged to the great 
Aryan family. He traces them back 
to their old homes in the Phrygian 
highlands, where, before their mi- 
grations westward, they occupied 
positions adjoining. The Latin tribes 
were the first to leave Asia Minor, 
then followed the Greeks in succes- 
sive waves of migration through the 
Hellespont and Propontis. 

The learned professor discusses at 
length the origin and development 
of the Greek Pantheon, and the 
conclusion arrived at is most satis- 
factory. He proves that the Greek 
tribes in their primitive simplicity 
worshipped the one only God 
"The Zeus, who dwelt in light inac- 
cessible." Gradually the primitive 
traditions began to wane, and the 
"Zeus who dwelt in light in- 
accessible " became the " Zeus 
who dwelt in sacred light over 
the oak-tops of the Lycaean moun- 
tain," still formless and unapproach- 
able. But this Zeus was too near 
the earth to remain long form- 
less and unapproachable. His 
worshippers soon began to ap- 
proach him under different names, 
then under different forms, and, 
finally, they divided him up into the 
different gods of their Pantheon, so 
that the first and best known be- 
came the " Unknown God." 



We have now pointed out some 
of the excellences of Dr. Cur- 
tius' history, but it has its defects, 
as every human work has, and one 
of these we deem it our duty to 
point out. Its chief defect is its 
diffuseness; for diffuse it really is in 
many places. And because it is dif- 
fuse it is often monotonous and even 
prosaic. On the whole, however, 
the style is good, and abounds in 
elegant passages, which are well 
rendered by the translator. This 
defect is indeed the only one which 
justifies us in doubting whether the 
History will become popular, and re- 
ceive the appreciation which it de- 
serves. 

FASHION : THE POWER THAT INFLUENCES 
THE WORLD. By George P. Fox. New 
York : The American News Company. 
1872. 

The author of this work seems to 
have been " born with a divine idea 
of cloth." According to him, fash- 
ionable dress is a preservative of 
morals. Easy and graceful garments 
are incompatible with deeds of vio- 
lence. No one who ever honored 
the author with his patronage was 
ever convicted of a crime. We are 
as morally bound to offer a pleasing 
exterior to our friends as a smiling 
face. In Carlyle's language, "Man's 
earthly interests (to say the least) 
are all hooked and buttoned togeth- 
er by clothes. Society is founded on 
cloth." The pen was once consid- 
ered mightier than the sword, but 
shears are now in the ascendency. 
" Dress makes the man, and want of 
it the fellow." Dress is a duty we 
owe ourselves, and inattention to it 
indicates a want of respect to others. 
Man's chief duty is to sacrifice to 
the graces. Our author is the high- 
priest of fashion. He makes dress 
almost a sacrament as Hazlitt says, 
"an outward and visible sign of the 
inward harmony of the soul." Non 
possiimus does not seem to be in his 
code. There is no physical defect 
he cannot remedy. Witness the 
unhappy man in New York, with a 



New Publications. 



141 



long neck, low shoulders, and sallow 
complexion, at last able to hold up 
his head in society; the unfortunate 
British nobleman, whose attenuated 
and shapeless limbs are made to 
correspond more fully to our idea of 
sturdy John Bull ; and President Fill- 
more's life-long ambition for a pair 
of well-fitting pantaloons at length 
realized. Bow legs and knock- 
knees are all remedied. The old 
proverb of the Bearnais is verified: 
" Habillez un baton, il aura Fair d'un 
baron." A book that brings hope to 
all is a public benefaction. No Jon- 
athan need despair of cutting a 
figure in the world after this, and he 
should not. Dress, its color, style, 
and fit, are all matters of momentous 
interest (being so interwoven with 
our morals), as well as manners and 
the carriage of the body, which are 
not overlooked in this volume. As 
to the latter, everybody knows a 
stoop in the shoulders sinks a -man 
in public and private estimation. 

The Saturday Review calls our au- 
thor a Transcendental Tailor, a title 
he evidently merits. The dnnse he 
assumed when he entered the lists 
was Faire sans dire, which Daniel 
Webster did him the honor of quot- 
ing in an address before the New 
York Historical Society, as well as 
wearing his transcendent we al- 
most said transcendental gar- 
ments, both living and dead, for the 
blue coat with a velvet collar and 
gold-wove cloth buttons that shrond- 
i..1 the immortal statesman are al- 
most a matter of history, and have 
been sworn to in the most solemn 
manner before the mayor of New 
York. 

But to go back to our devise. The 
author forgot it when he began to 
write. He must now make it: Faire 
et dire. However, he handles the 
pen almost as skilfully as the shears, 
and throws quite a glamour of poetry 
over the most common duties of the 
toilet. He ought to be a capital hand 
at a hem-a-stitch, as Rogers said of 
Be ranger. He gives some excellent 
advice about dress (gentlemen's, of 
course) and etiquette, but some of 



the chapters seem rather foreign to 
the subject. We cordially recom- 
mend the book to Mr. and Mrs. Ve- 
neering as they endeavor to adjust 
themselves at the glass of fashion, 
and to whosoever is entirely wrapped 
up in cloth. 

We have been particularly inter- 
ested in the published correspond- 
ence at the end of the volume of the 
various dignitaries in the political 
and literary world who sought the 
efficient co-operation of our Prince 
of Tailors. If dress is really an 
"emanation " of the soul (as well as 
from Mr. Fox's " emporium "), and 
indicative of character, it is well to 
know that Mr. Fillmore'.s ill-fitting 
garments might be owing to a judg- 
ment awry; the attenuated limbs of 
the British minister, which nothing 
had been able to hide, to a paucity 
of understanding ; and the long neck 
of our New York friend, which had 
to be muffled, to an overreaching 
disposition. Who can tell ? 

Dress is certainly of the utmost 
importance to those who are con- 
scious of no other recommendation. 
Diderot saw no difference between 
a man and his dog but the dress, and 
it would sometimes be hard to give 
a person his proper grade in the ani- 
mal world without reference to his 
material garments, for it really does 
not do in our social world to follow 
Carlyle's advice to look fixedly on 
clothes till they became transparent. 
It would lead to a fearful revolution 
in society. 

Still, there are some, like Mr. and 
Mrs. Boffin, who "go in neck and 
crop for fashion," who can bear 
such a clairvoyant eye. Mrs. Boffin 
was "a Highflier for Fashion," 
but we entirely overlook that low 
evening dress of black sable which 
she does credit to ("her make is 
such "), in consideration of her large 
heart, and the affectionate readiness 
to salute her lord to the great detri- 
ment of her great black velvet hat 
and plumes. 

Our author is really a phoenix 
sprung from the ashes of Beau Brum- 
mel. 



142 



New Publications. 



* Kind Heaven has sent us another professor. 
Who follows the steps of his great predecessor." 

As we read, we share the sensa- 
tion he produced at the Presidential 
la>ee at Washington, clad in a blue 
coat out of the very web that fur- 
nished Mr. Webster's hst suit. The 
meeting of the President of the 
United States of America, serenely 
conscious of his new clothes, and 
the President of Fashion, who so 
successfully cut them, reminds us of 
another meeting there which Irving 
compared to "two kings of Brent- 
ford smelling at one rose." 

We cannot close without express- 
ing our gratitude in particular for 
the fine suit of black our Prince of 
Tailors presented Father Mathew 
of blessed and abstemious memory. 

THE BOOK OF THE FOUNDATIONS OF ST. 
TERESA OF JESUS, OF THE ORDER OF 
OUR LADY OF CARMEL. Written by 
herself. Translated from the Spanish 
by David Lewis. London : Burns, 
Gates & Co. New York : The Catho- 
lic Publication Society. 

This volume contains, besides^he 
work indicated in the title-page, 
Annals of the Saint's Life, by Don 
Vicente de La Fuente, The Carmelite 
Rule and Constitutions, and The Visi- 
tation of Nunneries, and Maxims of St. 
Teresa herself. The principal work 
is also more complete than any pre- 
vious edition in English. 

Those who are familiar with the 
wonderful story of St. Teresa's his- 
tory will need no assurance that the 
spirit which animated her life also 
pervades her works. Indeed, the 
two are almost inseparable, her 
writings evidently being a faithful 
transcript of her whole history. 
Notwithstanding -the signal favors 
she received from heaven, she seem- 
ed always oppressed with the idea 
of her own unworthiness. The pro- 
logue to the Foundations furnishes 
many valuable lessons to religious 
as well as those whose sphere of 
duty lies in the world. St. Teresa 
knew how to exert the utmost zeal 
and energy in the service of religion, 



with entire submission to her eccle- 
siastical superiors. The case of St. 
Teresa, moreover, is evidence of the 
way the church honors real reform- 
ers by proposing them to the 
veneration of the faithful as can- 
onized saints. As an indication of 
her humility, even the main work 
in this volume was undertaken, not 
to gratify any personal feeling, but 
in obedience to the command of her 
confessor. It contains a history of 
the religious houses, male and fe- 
male, she established. In the face 
of great difficulties and discourage- 
ments, she persevered in her pur- 
pose, until the reform was recognized 
at Rome, and the Carmelite Order 
was divided into two branches, one 
under the milder observance, and 
her own under the stricter or primi- 
tive observance. 

The lives of the saints present 
marvels exceeding in interest the 
dreams of poetry and romance, and 
we cannot do better than commend 
to those who jeopardize their inno- 
cence in the perusal of sensational 
figments of the imagination, to be- 
take themselves to the more edify- 
ing and truly interesting lives and 
writings of the saints. 

SERMONS ON ECCLESIASTICAL SUBJECTS. 
By Henry Edward, Archbishop of 
Westminster. Vol. I. American Edi- 
tion. New York : The Catholic Publi- 
cation Society. 1872. 

Each new volume from Archbishop 
Manning is a precious addition to 
Catholic literature. The present 
collection of sermons has all the 
usual characteristics of the author, 
both as a preacher and as a writer. 
Great as many other sermons un- 
doubtedly are, those of Dr. Man- 
ning possess a charm all their 
own. The oldest theme is never 
stale in his hands. His logic is al- 
wa) r s of the keenest, while his style 
is as clear and musical as a brook. 

Of the sermons before us, we 
commend two especially. The first, 
on " The Church', the Spirit, and the 
Word"; and the sixth, "The Bless- 



New Publications. 



143 



ed Sacrament the Centre of Immu- 
table Truth." The thirteenth will 
also be found of peculiar interest for 
American readers. It was preached 
in St. Joseph's College, Nov. 17, 
1871. Its subject: "The Negro 
Mission." 

AN ESSAY ON THE DRUIDS, THE ANCIENT 
CHURCHES, AND THE ROUND TOWERS 
OF IRELAND. By the Rev. Richard 
Smiddy. Dublin : W. B. Kelly. 1871. 
New York : The Catholic Publication 
Society. 

This is a very neat little publica- 
tion, well-bound and handsomely 
printed. Those who have not lei- 
sure or opportunit)' to read Petrie's 
elaborate book on the Round Tow- 
ers or the works issued by the Ar- 
chaeological Society will find in Mr. 
Smiddy's essay much valuable infor- 
mation regarding Irish antiquities, 
though in some of his views and 
theories he differs materially from 
preceding writers on the same class 
of subjects. 

SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY AND THE SO- 
CIAL. By an Epicure. New York : 
De Witt C. Lent & Co. 8vo, pp. 526. 
1872. 

The author of this book, if author 
in the proper sense he may be called, 
has acted discreetly in withholding 
his name from the public, for, though 
a work not specially opposed to 
morality or truth, it is as little likely 
to increase the fame of the compiler 
or secure the approbation of the judi- 
cious as any of the many modern 
publications that teem from our 
metropolitan press, and depend al- 
most altogether on the beauty of 
their illustrations and mechanical 
taste for public patron?ge. We 
have a very high appreciation of 
the shrewdness and foresight of 
publishers as a class, but upon a 
cursory glance at the appearance of 
the book, and on a comparison of it 
with its homogeneous contents, we 
were inclined to think the firm of 
Lent & Co. was an exception until 
we noticed in a brief preface that 



thirty thousand copies of the origi- 
nal, of which the book before us is 
said to be an enlarged and improved 
edition, have been sold. This may 
or may not be a piece of exaggera- 
tion on the part of the publishers : 
if it be not, then we are sorry for the 
lack of sense and judgment on the 
part of so many of our fellow-beings. 
The work is compiled, not written, 
pretty much as it is said " leading 
articles " in remote Western journals 
are produced, by the efficient aid of 
the scissors and mucilage, and its 
general contents would be more in 
place in the columns of those second 
or third hand journals, under the 
stereotyped headings of" Facts and 
Fancies " or " Mirth and Fun," than 
in the imposing garb of a well-bound 
book. From cover to cover it is 
nothing but a compilation of old 
stories, thread-bare jokes, worn-out 
puns, stupid epitaphs, and references 
to historical and literary personages 
which are neither new nor original, 
and scarcely apropos to the subject 
they are intended to make interest- 
ing. There is some attempt at ar- 
rangement in the display of this 
useless learning, and here and there 
a pleasant little bit of chat, but the 
whole composition is so disjointed 
and puerile that the effect produced 
on the mind of the reader is any- 
thing but pleasurable. There is no 
discretion apparent in the selection 
of extracts and quotations, and no 
dignity in the tone of the entire 
work that would entitle' it to the 
praise of even comparatively illiter- 
ate persons, though the generally 
good character of the engravings 
and its attractive exterior may secure 
some purchasers. Besides, its title 
gives no idea of its contents, and we 
hope not to be considered unkind 
when we offer the suggestion that, 
if the author should ever inflict 
another edition on a patient public, 
he will change it. Hash would be 
much more expressive and germain 
to the matter, salad being much too 
palatable a dish to be treated with 
such contumely. 



144 



New Publications. 



A REMEMBRANCE OF THE LIVING TO PRAY 
FOR THE DEAD. By James Mumford, 
Priest of the Society of Jesus. Re- 
printed from the Edition of 1661. With 
Appendix on the Heroic Act. By 
John Morris, Priest of the same So- 
ciety. London : Burns, Gates & Co. 
New York : The Catholic Publication 
Society. 1871. 

Those who have read Father Mum- 
ford's Catholic Scripturist or Question 
of Questions will need no assurance 
from us of the excellence of the pre- 
sent treatise. Those who are yet 
strangers to this old writer will find 
a peculiar charm in the work, if, at 
least, they have any liking for terse- 
ness, directness, and unction. Fa- 
ther Mumford is somewhat quaint ; 
but that only adds to his style. 
Good works on Purgatory are not 
plentiful. This is one of the very 
best. It particularly inculcates, too, 
a duty we seldom appreciate suffi- 
ciently. 

LITTLE PRUDY'S FLYAWAY SERIES. Aunt 
Madge's Story. By Sophie Ma3% au- 
thor of "Little Prudy's Stories," " Dotty 
Dimple Stories," etc. Illustrated. Bos- 
ton : Lee & Shepard. New York : Lee, 
Shepard & Dillingham. 1872. 

This is a delightful little story for 
children, but this is saying nothing 
new, for Sophie May's stories always 
are. As Aunt Madge was not one 
of the " tremendous good " children, 
her story will, perhaps, have a spe- 
cial interest for the little ones. 

P. F. CUNNINGHAM has in press 
and will soon publish Marion How- 
ard, a story of much interest. 

BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS RECEIVED. 

From CHARLES SCRIBNER & Co., New York: A 
Commentary on the Holy Scriptures. By J. P. 
Lange, D.D. Translated, enlarged, and edit- 
ed by P. Schaff, D.D. Vol. IV. Containing 
Joshua, Judges, and Ruth. 8vo, pp. iv., 188, 
261, 53. Lectures on Science and Religion. 
By Max MUlter, M.A. izmo, pp. iv., 300. 
Systematic Theology. By C. Hodge, D.D. 
Vol. II. 8vo, pp. 732. 

From CARLTON & LANAHAN, New York : Three 
Score Years and Beyond. By Rev. W. H. 
De Puy, D.D. 8vo, pp. 512. Jesus Christ. 
,By E. de Pressense', D.D. iztno, pp. 312. 



Pillars of the Temple. By Rev. W. C. Smith 
i2mo, pp. 366. Light on the Pathway of Holi- 
ness. By Rev. L. D. McCabe, D.D. i8mo, 
pp. 114. The Land of the Veda. By Rev. W. 
Butler, D.D. 

From D. APPLETON & Co., New York: Ballads 
of Good Deeds. By H. Abbey. i8mo, pp. 
129. 

From P. DONAHOE, Boston : The Fourfold Sov- 
ereignty of God. By Henry Edward, Arch- 
bishop of Westminster. i8mo, pp. 272. The 
Council of the Vatican. By Thomas, Canon 
Pope, izmo, pp. xviii., 340. 

From KELLY, PIET & Co., Baltimore: The Mar- 
tyrs of the Coliseum. By Rev. A. J. O'Reilly, 
izmo, pp. viii., 396. 

From J. R. OSGOOD &Co., Boston: The Divine 
Tragedy. By H. W. Longfellow. iSrao, pp. 
iv., 150. 

From LEE & SHEPARD, Boston' Half Truths 
and the Truth. By Ret. J. M. Manning, D.D. 
i2mo, pp. xii., 398. 

From the AUTHOR: Notes on Historical Evi- 
dence in Reference to Adverse Theoriesof the 
Origin and Nature of the Government of the 
United States. By J. B. Dillon. 8vo, pp. x., 
141. 

From D. &. J. SADLIER & Co., New York : The 
Devil. By Father Delaporte. i8mo, pp. viii., 

202. 

. From KREUZER BROS., Baltimore : Triumph of 
the Blessed Sacrament. By Rev. M. Muller, 
C.SS.R. i8mo, pp. 146. The Catholic Priest. 
By Rev. M. Muller, C.SS.R. i8mo, pp. 163. 

From G. ROUTLEDGE & SONS, New York : The 
Moral of Accidents. By the late Rev. T. T. 
Lynch. i2mo, pp. xviii., 415. Una and Her 
Paupers. Memorials of Agnes E. Jones. By 
her Sister. With an Introduction by Florence 
Nightingale. First American Edition. With 
an Introductory Preface by Rev. H. W. Beech- 
er. izmo, pp. xlvi., 497. 

From P. O'SHEA, New York : Lectures on the 
Church. By Rev. D. A. Merrick, S.J. izmo, 
pp. iv., 263. , 

From J. B. LIPPINCOTT & Co.. Philadelphia: 
Wear and Tear. By S. W. Mitchell. iSmo, 
paper, pp. 59. 

From R. CODDINGTON, New York: The Church 
and the World. By Rev. T. S. Preston, D.D. 
Paper, pp. 30. 

From ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston: The To-Mor- 
row of Death. By Louis Figuier. izmo, pp. 
viii., 395- 

From C. C. CHATFIELD & Co., New Haven: Lo- 
gical Praxis. By H. N. Day. izmo, pp. viii., 
148. 

Proceedings of the Third Annual Session of the 
American Philological Association, held at 
New Haven, Conn., July, 1871. [The Third 
Annual Meeting of the Association will be held 
in Providence, R. I., July 24, 1872, at 3 P.M.] 

We are under obligations to the Author for a 
copy of Evolution and its Consequences. (Re- 
printed from the Contemporary Review.) A 
Reply to Prof. Huxley. By St. Geo. Mivar:, 
F.R.S. 



THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD. 



VOL. XV., No. 86. MAY, 1872. 



DUTIES OF THE RICH IN CHRISTIAN SOCIETY. 



NO. IV. 



DUTIES TO THE CHURCH. 



IF we look at one aspect of Chris- 
tian society, we cannot help being 
overwhelmed with astonishment at 
the number and the greatness of the 
generous deeds and sacrifices which 
crowd and adorn its history. The 
noble, the powerful, the highly gifted, 
the wealthy, have lavished their pos- 
sessions, their labors, their lives, for 
their fellow-men, in such a way as 
really to merit our wonder when we 
think of the weakness of human na- 
ture and the rarity of disinterested 
philanthropy among those who are 
not Christians. But, if we look at 
another aspect of the same, the 
amount of meanness, selfishness, and 
baseness which meets our view makes 
us wonder that Christian faith has, 
after all, produced so little really rare 
and rich fruit in the soil of human 
nature. The little which we do find 
is so perfect that we are astonished 
not to see more of the same quality 



produced by the same causes and in- 
fluences. When we think of the mo- 
tive which men have for making sac- 
rifices, and of the example which has 
been given them that is, that the 
Lord of heaven has died on the cross 
for mankind the conduct of those 
Christians who have followed that 
example by the practice of heroic 
perfection seems merely the fulfil- 
ment of a plain, Christian duty of 
gratitude. On the other hand, the 
conduct of those Christians who live 
a selfish and unworthy life appears 
not only in a mean and ignoble, but 
even in an atrocious, light. That we 
belong absolutely to God, that we 
have been redeemed by the blood of 
Christ, that we have only one lawful 
end to our life on the earth, which is 
to glorify God and merit to be glori- 
fied by him hereafter, are first truths 
which no Catholic ever thinks of de- 
nying or doubting. These truths 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by Rev. I. T. HBCKBR, in the Office of 
the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



146 



Duties of the Rich in Christian Society. 



caused some of the saints to renounce 
literally everything for Jesus Christ, 
and others to administer the power 
and wealth which they retained, ex- 
clusively for the glory of God and 
the good of their fellow-men. The 
saints are only examples of the high- 
est degrees of those virtues of the 
same kind which constitute the 
character of all really good Chris- 
tians. Every rich man, therefore, 
who wishes to be a good Christian, 
must have the same devotion to the 
faith, to the church, to the cause of 
God, of Christ, and of the Vicar of 
Christ on earth, which the saints had. 
Devotion to the church sums up the 
whole, because it includes or implies 
everything. This devotion must pre- 
cede, direct, and dominate over every 
intention, motive, object, and under- 
taking of life. The obligation to it 
lies in the very nature of baptism. 
The baptized person is wholly de- 
voted to the service of the Lord who 
has redeemed him, signed him with 
his own peculiar mark, and given him 
a title to the crown of celestial glory. 
The nature and extent of the service 
due varies with the position and the 
talents of the individual. The one 
who receives one talent is bound to 
gain one more with it. This may 
mean, for instance, that this par- 
ticular man, or that particular woman, 
is bound to no other service to the 
church than to bring up well some 
three or five children, to come to 
Mass and the sacraments with them, 
to live an honest life, and to make 
some small contributions to the treas- 
ury of the church. The one who re- 
ceives five talents is also bound to 
gain five more. The explication of 
the sense of this, and its application 
to particular cases, are easily made. 
Whatever the talents conferred on 
any individual may be, all must be 
devoted primarily to the sacred cause 
of the Catholic Church. It is the 



kingdom of Christ; it is the only hope 
of salvation to the world ; it is the ark 
of safety to the individual himself 
with whom we are speaking. Into 
that church he has been baptized at 
the font, and made its child, its citi- 
zen, and its subject. There is no es- 
cape from its allegiance except by 
treason. The character of baptism 
is ineffaceable, and no one who bears 
that mark has any rights over him- 
self, his talents, or his possessions, ex- 
cept such as are conceded to him by 
the law of Christ. " Ye are not your 
own, ye are bought with a price." 
" Henceforth, no one liveth to him- 
self, and no one dieth to himself." 
It is necessary to live and die as a' 
member of the Catholic Church, in 
order to live honorably and to die 
happily. As it is only by partaking 
in the common life of the church that 
its individual members have any life 
of their own, it is their first duty to 
promote that common life. The law 
of life is the law of duty : the greater 
and stronger and more important the 
member is, the greater is the ser- 
vice it is bound to render to the 
body. 

The duties of Catholics who be- 
long to the higher and more wealthy 
class in society to the church are very 
various, numerous, and heavy. One 
portion of them coincides to a great 
extent with their obligations to the 
poor and miserable, of which notice 
was taken in our last number. The 
obligation of succoring their fellow- 
creatures because they are of the 
same blood through Adam, and made 
in the rational image of the same 
God, becomes more sacred towards 
those who are brethren in Christ 
through baptismal grace. How is it 
possible for Christians who expect to 
be saved through the infinite charity 
of Jesus Christ to revel in splendor, 
luxury, and enjoyment, and at the 
same time to look with heartless in- 



Duties of the Rich in Christian Society. 



147 



difference on the want and suffering 
of those who are the dearest friends 
of Christ ? If they are charitable 
and kind-hearted, as every true Chris- 
tian must be, the charities of the 
church are so numerous and exten- 
sive as to tax their generosity to the 
utmost. There is great scope for 
private and personal charity toward 
individuals, but the great organized 
works of general charity must be car- 
ried on by the clergy or religious so- 
cieties. The funds which they are 
ordinarily able to procure for these 
works are, in proportion to the neces- 
sities clamoring for relief, like the five 
loaves and two small fishes which the 
disciples of Christ set before the fam- 
ishing multitude of five thousand 
men, besides women and children. 
These small funds come in great part 
from the almsgiving of laboring peo- 
ple, or from the various devices of 
lectures, fairs, concerts, etc., to which 
the managers of charitable works are 
obliged to resort. After all has been 
done, the Catholic priest, the chari- 
table layman who makes his round 
of visits in the name of the St. Vin- 
cent de Paul's Society, the Sister of 
Charity, are hardly able to do more 
than help those who are in want of 
the absolutely necessary clothing, 
food, and fire with which to keep off 
the gaunt death that grins at them 
out of every corner of their life. The 
demands upon charity are constant, 
multifarious, and pressing. They are 
made chiefly upon priests, who have 
already given up everything for God. 
It is plain, therefore, that it is the 
duty of the rich to furnish them liber- 
ally and abundantly with the means 
for supplying these demands. 

The building of churches, their 
decoration, the furnishing of sacred 
vessels and ornaments for the sanc- 
tuary, and other works directly con- 
nected with the service and worship 
of the divine Majesty, are objects de- 



manding a truly immense outlay of 
money. So far as concerns that 
which is necessary for the ministering 
of the word and sacraments of Christ, 
these spiritual wants of the people 
take precedence of their bodily neces- 
sities. So far as the decoration, 
splendor, and dignity of religion only 
are concerned, they come next after 
the more essential works of charity. 
Add to the buildings which are im- 
mediately devoted to divine worship, 
all those which belong to colleges, 
schools, orphanages, etc., and the 
work demanded of the Catholics of 
the United States appears colossal, 
and would seem impossible, did we 
not see before our eyes so much 
of it already accomplished. Then, 
there are the most just and impera- 
tive claims of the Holy Father, and 
the pathetic appeals of the foreign 
missions, never so pressing as at the 
present moment, when the downfall 
of the power of France has left them 
so denuded of the succor which they 
formerly received from that most gen- 
erous nation. The na'ive response 
which a most estimable French lady 
once gave to a priest who asked her 
for a donation to a good work in this 
city, very well expresses the true state 
of the case in hand : " Very much 
call, very little fund." Nowhere is 
this more literally true than in' New 
York. The most extreme liberality 
of all the Catholics of .this city who 
have anything to spare, whether rich 
or poor, would not yield the means 
of furnishing a sufficient number of 
churches, schools, and other means 
for supplying the spiritual and corpo- 
ral wants of our swarming and in- 
creasing population. Millions might 
be used at the present moment, if 
they could be had, in works of the 
most practical utility and even neces- 
sity. When a city or a nation is in 
straits through the calamities of war, 
pestilence, or famine, all its citizens 



148. 



Duties of the Rich in Christian Society. 



are expected to strain every nerve 
and to make heroic sacrifices for its 
relief. No city or nation has a thou- 
sandth part of the claim to devotion 
from its citizens which the church pos- 
sesses. And the church, always mili- 
tant, is always in straits, at least in 
some part of her great empire, always 
suffering from the effects of the perpe- 
tual warfare waged against her, from 
pestilential vices and sins among her 
children, from a famine of the word 
rnd sacraments of Christ among the 
most neglected and abandoned of 
her people. God alone can help her 
efficiently. But men must struggle 
to help themselves, if they expect 
God to help them. Our Lord de- 
manded of his disciples to feed the 
hungry multitude, and ordered them 
to set before them the whole of their 
own scanty provisions. " He him- 
self knew what he would do," and 
he did it by multiplying miraculous- 
ly the loaves and fishes of his disci- 
ples. God alone can rescue the famish- 
ing and perishing multitudes of Chris- 
tendom and heathendom from the 
abyss of temporal and spiritual ruin and 
death which yawns under their feet. 
Society must be reconstructed on a 
Christian basis, and by mighty, or- 
ganic movements, in which the church 
and the state, the hierarchy, both ec- 
clesiastical and civil, and all the pow- 
ers contained in the bosom of socie- 
ty, in harmonious concert of action, 
labor together for a common end, it 
must work out its own regeneration 
and the Christian civilization of the 
human race ; or the work will remain 
for ever incomplete. Christendom 
is full of deadly disorders and wounds, 
inflicted on it by the fell power of 
schism, heresy, and infidelity. Only 
Catholic unity can heal it, and com- 
bine its members in the work assign- 
ed to it by divine Providence, and 
only a miracle of grace can restore 
to that unity the severed and disor- 



ganized parts, close up the deadly 
gashes in the living body, and reani- 
mate it with complete health. The 
zeal, activity, and wealth of the whole 
community, collected in the commu- 
nion of the Catholic Church, would 
be sufficient for as thorough a regen- 
eration of New York, and of the 
whole United States, as the most 
sanguine optimist could ever expect 
to see brought about in any country 
in the world. Christendom, united 
in itself, and governed on Christian 
principles, would absorb into itself on 
a century the entire world. But 
meanwhile, the faithful and loyal 
children of the church must do what 
they can, and await the time for God 
to do what he has determined, and 
to a great extent made conditional in 
the efforts of men. The most of our 
Catholic people in the United States 
have, on the whole, fulfilled the duty 
of contributing the funds required 
for carrying on the works of the 
church remarkably well. Whether 
the richer portion of them have done 
their fair share, is a question not so 
easy to answer. Instances of prince- 
ly generosity have not been wanting, 
and to a considerable extent there 
has been a creditable liberality ma- 
nifested by the wealthier classes of 
Catholics when they have been pub- 
licly or privately solicited to aid in re- 
ligious or other charitable works. That 
there are some who are niggardly in 
their disposition, and many who are 
more sparing and moderate in their 
charities than they ought to be, can 
hardly be doubted. The compara- 
tively small number of wealthy men 
in the Catholic community has ne- 
cessarily thrown the great burden of 
supporting the institutions of the 
church upon the mass of the people 
who are not rich. There is nothing 
in this to complain of. If the rich 
do their fair share, it is no disgrace 
to them that they enjoy the benefits 



Anniversary of Baptism. 



149 



which have been chiefly purchased 
by the money of the laboring classes. 
But if they fall behind their propor- 
tion, it is a real disgrace to them, be- 
cause they receive in that case for 
nothing, and as an alms from the 
poor, something which they ought 
to have paid for. 

The church demands something 
more than a portion of the surplus of 
the wealth of the rich. She demands 
the consecration and devotion of the 
minds, the wills, the time, the efforts 
of all the elite of her laity, of those 
who are rich in intellectual gifts and 
acquisitions, as well as of those who 
are rich in gold and silver. The 
principal medium of the operation of 
this devotion at the present time are 
voluntary associations under the sanc- 



tion and direction of the hierarchy. 
These associations have for their 
scope the organization of charitable 
works, the diffusion of knowledge, re- 
sistance to the enemies of the church, 
the defence of the Holy See, and 
general co-operation with the clergy 
in the extension of the Catholic reli- 
gion. We will not enlarge on this 
theme, at present, as we have pro- 
mised to make our articles very brief, 
and an essay on the subject has al- 
ready appeared in our pages. What 
we have said will be sufficient, we 
trust, to stimulate all those who are 
imbued with the spirit of Catholic 
faith to greater zeal and effort in the 
sacred cause of the church, in which 
the laity have as great an interest as 
the clergy. 



ANNIVERSARY OF BAPTISM. 



BY A CONVERT. 

ON this steep pathway, which, with prayers, I climb, 

I pause a moment as a traveller might, 

Weary and footsore, and in dusty plight, 

Hearing, far off, the clear, melodious chime 

Of bells that mark the swiftly passing time : 

Then, as he pauses on the beetling hight, 

Through filming distance fixes his keen sight 

On one faint speck, his starting point at prime, 

And takes fresh courage for the sharp ascent 

Thus do I pause to-day ; my steadfast eye 

Fixed on that point of time, in which doth lie 

The germ of all which can my soul content; 

On which my waking thoughts, my dreams, are bent : 

Then, turn where life's still summits touch th' eternal sky. 



ISO 



The House of Yorke. 



THE HOUSE OF YORKE. 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 



GOOD-NIGHT AND OOOD-BY. 



IT is well for us that faith is able 
to decipher what De Quincey calls 
" the hieroglyphic meanings of human 
suffering "; and that, though the in- 
terpretation should not at once be 
made plain to us, we may, at least, 
be sure that it is merciful. As St. 
Peter stands supreme, holding in his 
hand the shining keys of heaven, 
which none but he can set in the 
wards, and none but he can turn, so 
to each Christian on earth is given 
the golden key to a personal heaven, 
and none but he can open the door, 
and none but he can close it. With- 
in that door sits the interpreter, and 
when the soul is still it hears his 
voice reading, with praise and amen, 
both day and night : and some rid- 
dles he makes clear, and on some he 
sets the seal with the Holy Name; 
and that is God's secret, and one 
day he will speak to the soul con- 
cerning it. He who seeks to tear 
away that seal finds only darkness 
and confusion ; but he who folds his 
hands above it will at last be illumi- 
nated. 

Never once during his trial had 
Dick Rowan rebelled against God, 
or questioned him. Nature might 
writhe in pain, and forget for a time 
the words of praise, but it submitted ; 
and, according to the tumult and 
darkness that had prevailed, so were 
the light and peace that followed. 
It was thorough work, as all the work 
in this soul had been from the first, 
and his convalescence was like a new 
birth. 

On the morning after Edith's part- 



ing with Carl Yorke, Dick remained 
in his room unvisited, keeping all 
his strength for that first drive. At 
length the carriage .came to the door, 
and Mr. Williams, who had insisted 
on remaining at home to superintend 
what he called the " launching " of 
his step-son, came down-stairs with 
Dick. Mrs. Williams, all smiles, fol- 
lowed after, rustling in silks donned 
in honor of this great occasion 
Edith and Ellen Williams stood in 
the entry, awaiting the little proces- 
sion. Miss Ellen, blushing and be- 
dizened, was to accompany the two 
on their drive. Edith had preferred 
to stay at home and prepare for her 
evening exodus to Hester's. 

" Why, Dick, you look like an 
Esquimaux !" she exclaimed. " I can- 
not even see your nose. How are 
you to get any fresh air ?" 

He laughed. " I told mother that 
I could not breathe anything but fur; 
but she is a tyrant." 

" It isn't often I get the chance 
to play the tyrant over you," Mrs. 
Williams remarked, and began giving 
orders to have sundry hot soap-stones, 
and gay afghans put into the carriage. 

" Mother," her son exclaimed, " I 
am ashamed of having such a fuss 
made over me ! I will run away. I 
will leave the country. I will go 
back to bed." 

He really blushed, and seemed an- 
noyed. 

They went out, and there was the 
parade of getting settled in their 
places, Mrs. Williams pleasantly con- 
scious, and her son distressfully so, 



The House of Yorke. 



that several of the neighbors were 
looking on with interest. The inqui- 
ries for Dick had, indeed, been con- 
stant from all the neighborhood, even 
from persons with whom they had no 
acquaintance. Not a woman, young 
or old, but had looked kindly on the 
young sailor, and known when he 
sailed away, and when he came back ; 
not a child but smiled and nodded 
to him through the window when he 
passed. Of course they had all sur- 
mised that the lovely young girl 
whom they had seen there before, and 
who had now been taking care of 
him, was one day to be his wife. She 
divided their attention with him as 
she stood on the step, and watched 
him drive away. 

It was the hour of the steamer's 
departure ; and when Edith was 
alone, she shut herself into her cham- 
ber, and, kneeling there, prayed fer- 
vently that God would keep the tra- 
veller wherever he might wander, 
and that, though far from her, he 
might be ever near to heaven. 

She did not leave her room when 
she heard the others come home ; 
and after a while Mrs. Williams came 
to say that Dick would like t.o see 
her. 

" We had a delightful drive, and 
he is not a bit the worse for it," the 
mother said. " He will be well 
enough to go to Mrs. Cleaveland's 
to see you, now ; but I think he 
wants to have a good talk with you 
before you go away. He told me 
not to let any one interrupt." 

Edith knew well what the sum- 
mons meant, and with one upward 
aspiration, " O Spirit of light and 
truth !" she went immediately. 

Dick was sitting in his arm-chair 
by the window when she entered, 
and he looked around with a bright 
smile and greeting, " Well, little sis- 
ter !" and motioned her to a chair 
near him. 



On hearing that title, she stopped, 
and clasped her hands on her bosom. 

" It was a brother who sent for 
you," he said. " Come !" 

She seated herself, speechless, al- 
most breathless. 

" Edith, where is Carl Yorke ?" he 
asked gently. 

She gave the answer with a quiet 
that looked like coldness. " He 
left in the steamer to-day for Eng- 
land. From there he continues his 
travels to the East, I do not know 
where else. No person is to know 
this but you and me, as his mother 
cannot be told." 

The color and the smile left Dick 
Rowan's face. Surprise and pain for 
a moment deprived him of the power 
of speech. 

" I am astonished and distressed !" 
he said, at length. " I wished to see 
him, to talk with him. But that he 
is not a Catholic, I should have 
wished to see you married soon." 

A deep blush of wounded deli- 
cacy rushed to Edith's cheeks. " Dick 
Rowan," she said, " you have yet 
much to learn about women, or, at 
least, about me. Whatever feelings 
of sympathy and affection I may 
have had for Carl Yorke, my conduct 
and conversation with him have been 
irreproachable, and so have my 
thoughts even. The thought of mar- 
riage has not crossed my mind. I 
do not wish to hear you speak of it." 

Her dignified answer disconcerted 
him for a moment. He had made 
the mistake nearly always made by 
men, often made by women, of mis- 
interpreting the nature, or, at least, 
the degree of development, of an af- 
fection as yet angelically pure, if 
ardent. 

" You were quite right in suppos- 
ing that I would marry no one but a 
Catholic," she remarked. 

" I have done you a great wrong, 
Edith," he said hastily, " and I wish 



The House of Yorke. 



to repair it as far as I can. But, 
first, will you tell me why you pro- 
mised to marry me ?" 

" Because you told me that your 
life hung in the balance, and that I 
was your only hope and aim," she 
answered. Her voice trembled slight- 
ly, and her eyes softened as she re- 
membered how nearly he had spoken 
the truth. " You had been my first 
and most faithful friend. I consider- 
ed my obligations stronger to you 
than any one else. I could not to- 
lerate the thought of your suffering 
through me, when I was the only 
person you cared for." 

While she spoke, his eyes were 
downcast, and a deep color burned 
in his face. " Did my dependence 
on you attract your affection ?" he 
asked, still looking down. 

" It attracted my pity and anxie- 
ty," she replied, without hesitation. 
" I should respect more a man who 
would be able to live without me. 
I do not believe that these violent 
feelings are either healthy or lasting ; 
and I would not choose to act the 
Eastern myth of the tortoise support- 
ing a world." 

" Oh ! how mean I was !" he ex- 
claimed. " How contemptibly selfish ! 
Let me tell you all. I had a strong 
affection for you, that is true ; but I 
can see now that there were unwor- 
thy motives mingled with it. There 
were pride, ambition, and self-will. 
I was determined to take you away 
from Carl Yorke. I knew that he 
thought of you, and I believed that 
he would win you, unless I prevented 
it. Your antecedents of birth, your 
tastes and social position, your kind 
of education, all were the same, and 
made you suited to each other. I 
said to myself that my being a Ca- 
tholic gave me the precedence ; but 
in my heart I knew that there was 
no reason why he, as well as I, 
should not receive the gift of faith. 



I knew, indeed, that his friendship 
for Alice Mills had predisposed him 
toward it, and that he read Catholic 
books. But I was determined to 
have you. I did not dare to ask if 
you would be quite content. I would 
not contemplate any other possibili- 
ty. When I asked you if you were 
willing, it was only after you had 
promised. I confess this with shame 
and contrition !" 

" Dick," Edith asked breathlessly, 
"have you quite got over caring 
very much about me ? Are you not 
disappointed ?" 

He raised his face, and all the 
shame and distress passed away from 
it. " The only disappointment I am 
now capable of feeling," he said, with 
the emphasis of truth, " would be in 
case any earthly object should come 
between me and God. In the last 
few weeks I have learned to shrink 
with fear and aversion from all earth- 
ly affection. There is nothing but 
harm in those attachments which are 
so strong that the loss of their object 
brings destruction. They are mis- 
taken in their aim. Why, Edith, 
what I worshipped in you was not 
simply what you are, a good and 
amiable girl, but a goddess. You 
were magnified in my eyes, I put 
you in a niche. That niche is now 
empty. Or, no !" he added, raising 
his brightening eyes, " it is not emp- 
ty, but the right one stands there. 
You could never have satisfied the 
enthusiasm of my expectation. The 
great and wonderful good which I 
vaguely looked for with you, I should 
never have won. I mistook my ob- 
ject." 

He looked out thoughtfully, and 
she sat looking at him. At length 
he said, with a faint smile, " I wrote 
you last year of a visit I paid to the 
island and cave of Capri. That 
scene is like my past life. That 
cave was an enchanted place, so fair, 



The House of Yorke, 



153 



so blue, so unreal ! All ordinary cri- 
tical sense deserted me as I gazed. 
I could easily have believed that the 
walls and ceiling were of jewels, and 
the watery floor some magical blue 
wine. As I sat in the boat and look- 
ed back, I saw a white star in the 
distance. Everything but that, and 
a long white ray from it, was blue. 
I rowed toward that star, I looked 
at it as my goal, just as I made you 
my goal. But when I came near, I 
found that it was no star. It was 
only the low entrance to the cave. 
Or, rather, it was for me the passage 
to sunshine and the heavens. And 
that you have been to me, Edith," 
he said, turning toward her. " Thank 
God that your influence with me 
has always been for good, and that, 
in leaving you, I progress rather 
than change ! You inspired me, and 
kept me from what was low, when I 
had no religion to help me. I can 
see it all now. The very excess and 
enthusiasm of my affection for you 
was necessary in order to govern me 
and keep me from harm. Besides, 
it is my nature to do with my might 
what my hands find to do. I was 
not then capable of resolving to do 
right for the sake of right ; but when 
I was strong enough, then you drew 
aside, and left me face to face with 
God !" 

His breath came quickly, and his 
wide-opened eyes were fixed on the 
western sky, and caught its golden 
light. 

" Of course there was a struggle," 
he resumed, " for I was sincere. But 
that is over. My unreasonable af- 
fection for you is as thoroughly era- 
dicated as if it had never been a part 
of my life. I am ashamed of having 
so given myself up to it." 

Edith hesitated, then put the test. 
" Dick, I must be satisfied that I am 
really free. If you were sure now 
that no other, deeper sympathy stood 



between me and you, and that I were 
ready and willing to fulfil my en- 
gagement with you, would you still say 
that God alone held your heart ?" 

His expression was one of terror 
and shrinking. " It is not so, Edith !" 
he exclaimed. " God forbid that it 
should be so ! I could no more go 
back to those hopes and wishes of 
the past than I could be a little boy 
again !" 

After the momentary fear and sus- 
pense that had accompanied her 
question, Edith's first feeling was one 
of joyful relief and freedom, her se- 
cond an indignant sense of the wrong 
that had been done her. She rose 
from her chair, walked to the other 
window, and stood there looking out 
with eyes that saw no object before 
her. Her mind glanced swiftly back 
over the last year and a half. She 
remembered the bright peacefulness 
of her life, yet half-enshrouded in the 
mists of childhood, the vision of her 
womanhood shining large and vague 
just above the line of her eyelids; 
for she cared not yet to look at or 
question that future. She recollect- 
ed the hopes and aims that had be- 
gun to form themselves, of doing 
good, of making herself such a Ca- 
tholic as would be a credit to the 
faith, of helping and instructing her 
poor, of trying to bring her uncle's 
family into the church ; and she re- 
membered a faint rose-tinge of per- 
sonal happiness, soft and rare, and too 
delicate to be seen, but felt by some 
finer intuition. Then came the sud- 
den call that had put her life in con- 
fusion, the future wrenched rudely 
open, the many clustering interests 
trampled by one that demanded to 
be made paramount. And there was 
no more cause than this ! 

Indignation swelled to the point 
of speech. She turned about, and 
faced Dick Rowan, and her eyes 
flashed. 



154 



The House of Yorke. 



" You may well be ashamed," she 
said, " for you have been unmanly ! 
I do not speak of what I have suffered 
in my own mind ; but you have ex- 
posed my reputation, which, next to 
my character, I hold sacred. You have 
deprived me of your mother's friend- 
ship; for she will never cease to 
blame me. You have had me pro- 
claimed as your promised wife, every 
one supposing that the promise was 
freely given. Yet, when I went down- 
stairs that day, I was like a victim 
going to be immolated. Nothing 
but prayer had strengthened my re- 
solution. I thought that a refusal 
would be your destruction. You had 
said as much. You have exposed 
me to the condemnation of shallow 
judges, who will be only too glad to 
find fault. Those people who pro- 
nounce without knowing, and think 
that they can include the motives of 
another's whole life in three words, 
will all condemn me. I, who have 
tried with constant watchfulness to 
walk to a hair's-breadth in the path 
of womanly propriety, shall be point- 
ed at as the girl who jilted you and 
broke your heart. And all this, not 
from the blindness of real affection, 
which would have excused you in 
my eyes, but from will, and pride, 
and a mere fascination. Don't tell 
me of eradicating a real affection. It 
may be conquered, and made subject 
to duty ; but sympathy is not to be 
eradicated. That feeling which has 
died in your heart was, indeed, a 
false blossom." 

She turned and stretched her hands 
out toward the East, where, far 
away-, the steamer that bore Carl 
Yorke ploughed the twilight wave. 
" O Carl ! you would not have 
done it," she cried, and burst into 
tears ; the usual womanly peroration 
to such a discourse. 

" O God, accept my humiliation !" 

She heard that tremulous prayer 



through her sobs, and, starting, look- 
ed at Dick. His face was bowed 
forward in his hands, as though he 
could never again raise it. She re- 
collected herself. It was God who 
had cured and enlightened him. He 
was not a man who had turned from 
one fickle fancy to another. He 
was in the hands of God. 

She wiped her eyes, and, after a 
little while, went and knelt beside 
his chair. " Forgive me, Dick, for 
reproaching you so," she said. " It 
is over now. We all make mistakes, 
and those only do well who acknow- 
ledge them, and forgive others. My 
childhood's dear friend, let us forget 
all that is painful in the past. God 
will direct. There is much in life 
besides marrying and giving in mar- 
riage, and I do not wish to think of 
that again, not for a long, long time, 
if at all. Set the seal on the events 
of the last two years. They never 
happened. I am happy now. You 
know that, though I was born at the 
North, I have a Southern temper. 
See ! the little cyclone is past, and I 
am clear from every cloud. We are 
two sober friends, who wish each 
other no end of good. Tell me what 
you mean to do." 

He raised his head, and the one 
absorbing interest of his new life came 
back and obliterated the passing 
trouble. " I do not know, Edith, 
and I lay no plans. I have no rea- 
son to trust my own will or wish. I 
give myself up entirely to direction, 
.and am certain on but one point: 
God will not let me go, and I will 
not let him go. When I lay bruised 
and helpless before him, he took me 
in his arms and healed me, and I 
will never know another love. He 
has kindled a fire in my heart which 
my life shall guard. I rejected him 
once, but will never again. That 
night I spent in the church, before 
my baptism, a voice from the altar 



The House of Yorkc. 



155 



asked me, I thought, to give up all 
for God; and it would have been 
easy then for me to promise. As I 
meditated on heaven, the Mother 
of Christ drew to herself all that is 
lovely in woman ; all that was strong, 
and true, and protecting in a guide 
clustered around the church ; all that 
was adorable, that passed beyond 
speech, was there before me in the 
tabernacle. I thought then that to be 
a brother in any religious order, or a 
servant in the church, to sleep under 
the same roof that sheltered the head 
of Christ, to light the candles, to 
care for his altar, to serve Mass, all 
that would be the highest honor and 
happiness. I think so now, but I 
ask nothing. I thought then with 
self-contempt how I had toiled to 
earn money, when the ' inexhaustible 
riches of God ' had lain untouched 
at my hand ; how I had travelled to 
see the wonders of the earth, when 
the wonders of God had appealed to 
me in vain. But when daylight 
came, I treated the whole as a dream, 
a mere exaltation of the fancy, and 
impracticable. I know now that 
what I took for a dream is the only 
reality, and what I thought reality 
is but a dream. I resisted the inspira- 
tion, and have been lacerated on the 
briers of my own obstinacy." 

He paused, looking out toward the 
west, and in the fine golden light 
that was left from sunset, with the 
new moon and the evening star half- 
drowned there, his face looked beauti- 
ful. Calmness, humility, solemnity, 
and sweetness mingled in its expres- 
sion. 

Edith whispered a low " Well, 
Dick ?" to make him speak again ; 
for lie had, apparently, forgotten her. 

" Father John has promised me 
that I may make a retreat as soon 
as he thinks me well enough," he 
said, rousing himself at the sound of 
her voice. " I do not look beyond 



that. I do not know anything. I 
wait." And again there was silence. 

After a while, Edith said timidly, 
for he seemed buried in a reverie, 
" Do you remember last year, Dick, 
when we went about the city, like 
two strange sight-seers ? You said 
then that the poor and the suffering 
looked at you in an asking way dif- 
ferent from the look they gave oth- 
ers. Don't you think it might have 
been the Lord who asked through 
their eyes ?" 

"I have not a doubt of it," he 
answered. 

" Nothing else is of worth !" he 
said after a minute, as if speaking to 
himself " nothing else is of worth !" 
And again, " O miserable waste !" 

Presently she spoke again, very 
softly : " Sometimes, when one has 
meditated a long while, everything 
seems unspeakably good and beauti- 
ful, as if all were in God. A warmth 
and sweetness flow around the soul. 
If your enemy should come to injure 
you, you would embrace him. If 
your friend were taken away from 
you, you would smile, and let him 
go. For, turning to the Lord, you 
find all there. Nothing is lost. 
When you go away, you feel still, 
and speak lowly. You want to do 
something for some one ; and, wher- 
ever you look, you see the Lord, 'and 
whatever you do is done for him. 
He accepts it all, and nothing is 
small, and nothing is great. If you 
see any one suffer, you pity, and try 
to help, and, perhaps, you weep ; 
but the agony of pain you feel at 
other times at the sight of suffering, 
you do not feel now. You get a 
glimpse of the reason why angels 
can witness so much pain, yet still 
be happy." 

Dick, looking out at the sky, 
smiled. " Yes !" he said, " yes !" 

A carriage drove up to the door, 
Hester's carriage, come for Edith. 



I 5 6 



The House of Yorke. 



Twilight had fallen softly round them, 
and their faces were dim to each 
other in that curtained chamber. 

" My dear friend," Edith said ear- 
nestly, " is there peace between us ?" 

" All is peace, Edith," lie answer- 
ed. 

" Then, before I go," she said, " I 



want you to put your hand on my 
head, and say, ' God bless you !' " 

He did as she bade him, laid his 
hand on her head, and said, "God 
bless you for ever ! Good-night !" 

Both of them knew that good- 
night meant good-by, yet they part- 
ed with a smile. 



CHAPTER XXIX. 



EVERYBODY S CHAPTER. 



The family had come to Boston, 
and were settled in their old home. 
The change had not been effected 
without emotion, and, to the surprise 
of all, the one most moved was Mr. 
Yorke. Whether, with that noble self- 
control in which men so much excel 
women, he had carefully concealed 
the real misery of his life in Seaton, 
or whether the return to their former 
home reminded him that it had been 
lost by his act, we will not attempt 
to say, for he did not. He was si- 
lent and very pale, and, as he enter- 
ed the house, stood on the threshold 
a moment, with an expression in his 
face which touched the' hearts of all. 
One might read in his look the con- 
sciousness that a great change had 
passed over him since last he stood 
there, and that the return did not 
bring him the happiness he had an- 
ticipated. 

Perhaps nothing in life is more sad 
than to have a boon long sought for 
at length accorded to us, and to find 
that we have lost the power to take 
delight in its possession. 

The furniture and baggage had 
been sent in advance, and Hester 
and Edith had superintended the ar- 
rangement of everything, so that all 
was ready for them. Their last week 
in Seaton had been spent with Major 
Cleaveland, at his house there. He 
had kept it open for that purpose, 
and remained to assist and accom- 



pany them, while his wife and chil- 
dren had preceded him to the 
city. 

Hester went to meet her family at 
the depot, and Edith stood in the door 
when they drove up, and ran joyfully 
out to embrace them. The house 
was bright, and dinner was ready. 
To Mrs. Yorke, there was but one 
blot on the occasion, and that was 
her son's absence. But he had writ- 
ten her with such affection and cheer- 
fulness that she did not grieve too 
much. Besides, she expected him 
soon to return. 

Dinner over, Hester and her hus- 
band went to their own home, and 
the family sat once more together in 
their old, familiar sitting-room. The 
situation was one to provoke emo- 
tion or thoughtfulness. Clara set 
herself to cheer the company, and 
put sentiment into the background. 

" The first trouble in changing 
one's residence," she said. " is to 
make people remember one's address. 
Fortunately, our number, 96, is pe- 
culiar. It is the only created thing 
I know, except the planets, which is 
not changed nor disconcerted by be- 
ing turned upside down. Turn it as 
you will, stand on your head and 
look at it, tear the house down, still 
the number 96 smiles on you un- 
changed, and as changeless as a star. 
It is a very proper number to have 
on a house." 



The House of Yorke. 



157 



They all sat and looked at her, 
smiling slightly, glad to be amused. 

" The next thing is," she pursued, 
" to prevent our friends going to ex- 
tremes in making their new estimate 
of us. They must be made to com- 
prehend that, though we have posi- 
tively renounced the German, we are 
not Puritans nor ascetics ; and that, 
though we have written, do write, 
and mean to write in future, and to 
put ourselves in print whenever we 
feel so disposed, we do not set up as 
geniuses. Papa," she said, sudden- 
ly interrupting herself, " why is not the 
plural of genius genii ? I always 
want to say genii." 

" They mean about the same thing," 
Mr. Yorke remarked ; and there was 
silence again for a while. 

The night was calm, the street 
quiet, but there was that unmistaka- 
ble feeling that a great press of hu- 
man life is near. It was not the pre- 
sence which one feels in the woods, 
where nature is obedient to its Mak- 
er, and the soul is lifted by the con- 
stantly ascending homage that sur- 
rounds it, but a lateral influence, elec- 
trical and exciting, of contending 
human wills. 

Clara was again the one to break 
silence. " Trees, and toads, and 
mosses, and no market, are all very 
charming for a change," she said. 
" But if one does not live in the city, 
the city should be near. A man or 
a woman without society is no better 
than a vegetable. You remember, 
papa, how Bolingbroke took root 
among his trees. And what delights 
one has in the city ! There is mu- 
sic. O the violins! the soprano 
witch among instruments ! If Pan 
invented the pipe, the original of the 
organ, then JEolus invented this in- 
strument of airy octaves. Those old 
painters were right who put violins 
into the hands of their musical an- 
gels. Give a violin time enough, 



and the music of it will gradually 
eat up the whole body, or etherealize 
it, till some day the musician, touch- 
ing carefully his precious film of a 
Cremona, will find it melt in his 
hands, and disappear in a harmoni- 
ous sigh. Ladies and gentlemen, I 
should like to hear this moment a 
whirlwind of violins, ten thousand, 
say, blowing through a vast hall with 
clustered pillars, and dusky nooks 
and reaches, and arches everywhere, 
and a sultry, fragrant dimness through 
it all, and an immense crowd holding 
their breaths to listefi, and, away up 
in the roof, little birds perched, as 
they are in Notre Dame, at Paris, 
and trembling with fear and wonder 
through all their downy feathers. 
And when it was over, people would 
look at each other, and some would 
smile, and some laugh out with de- 
light; and the birds would venture 
two or three little silvery peeps, then 
flutter about as though nothing had 
happened. Yes, the city is the place 
to live in." 

" And then," said Edith, " one can 
always go to church." 

Clara immediately gave her cousin 
an enthusiastic embrace. " Oh ! you 
darling little bigoted Papist!" she 
exclaimed. 

Melicent, sitting in the chimney- 
corner, was engrossed in her own 
thoughts. She was, perhaps, medi- 
tating on that romance of which 
Clara had written to Edith. A vil- 
lainously ugly, but tenderly-beloved 
Scotch terrier lay on the hearth-rug, 
his eyes fixed on the fire, and seem- 
ed to muse. Mrs. Yorke bent to- 
ward him, touched him lightly, and 
quoted Champfleuri, apropos of cats : 
" ' A quoi pense V animal qui pe use ?' " 
and added a definition she had heard 
somewhere : " ' The brute creation is 
a syllogism, of which the conclusion 
is in the mind of God.' " 

This brought them to the point to 






158 



The House of Yorke. 



which their thoughts naturally tend- 
ed that evening. God, and the 
meanings of God, claimed their at- 
tention. 

" We are all tired," Melicent said. 
" Shall we have prayers now, papa?" 

The Bible was brought, Betsey sent 
for, and they waited in silence for 
Mr. Yorke to begin the reading. He 
sat with his hand on the open page, 
and looked into the fire a moment, 
then looked at his wife. 

" Amy, I would like, for to-night, 
to have all my family worship togeth- 
er," he said. " After to-night, we 
can go our different ways. Let Pa- 
trick and Mary and Anne be called 
in, and, since they cannot unite with 
us, let us unite with them. Are you 
willing ?" 

Mrs. Yorke blushed with surprise, 
but made no objection. Melicent 
drew herself up, but no one observed 
her. Mr. Yorke turned smilingly to 
his niece. " Well, Edith, if you Ca- 
tholics will listen to a chapter from 
me, I will listen to your prayers, and 
join in them as far as I can." 

She did not say anything as she 
rose to call the servants, but, in pass- 
ing her uncle, she laid a loving hand 
on his shoulder, and looked her gra- 
titude and delight. 

Patrick and the girls had too 
much confidence in Edith to hesitate, 
though they wondered much at her 
summons. Seated in the midst 
of the circle, they listened while 
Mr. Yorke read a psalm, then they 
knelt down. There was a moment's 
pause. The Yorkes were accus- 
tomed to sit while their prayers were 
read. Then Mr. Yorke knelt, and 
wife and daughters followed his 
example, Melicent involuntarily, 
and making a motion to get up again 
as soon as she was down, but con- 
cluding to stay. Episcopalians 
kneel, she reflected, and she could 
mentally kneel with them. Edith 



led the prayers, and her tremulous 
voice conciliated the good -will of the 
listeners. 

It was the first time any of this 
family had ever assisted at a private 
Catholic devotion, and they were as- 
tonished to perceive how every cir- 
cumstance and need of man was met 
by this perfect spiritual science. The 
devotion was not something apart 
from life, but an aspiration and peti- 
tion from every thought and act of 
life. The invocation to the Holy 
Spirit, the recommendation to place 
themselves in the presence of God, 
the pause for the examination of con- 
science, the act of contrition follow- 
ing it, the preparation for death a 
Catholic knows them all, but to a 
Protestant their effect is startling. 

Never again would their own devo- 
tions seem to this family other than dry 
and unsatisfying; never would one 
of them again be in trouble or dan- 
ger, but the impulse would be to ut- 
ter the voice of Catholic prayer. 

In taking up their old life again, 
the Yorkes were surprised to find 
that they had grown more earnest and 
simple during the years they had 
spent in retirement. Mrs. Yorke had 
lost much of her love for fashion and 
luxury, the daughters were astonish- 
ed at the frivolity of some of their 
former pleasures, and Mr. Yorke car- 
ed less for heathen literature, and 
felt more interest in the poor and ig- 
norant. 

Edith was happy in her religion ; 
but, though she went to Mass every 
day when she could, had a mind 
too enlightened and well balanced to 
find her religion only in going to 
church. She was not in the least a 
gushing young lady : hers was a 
deep and silent enthusiasm which 
moved to action rather than speech. 
The persecution of Catholics was go- 
ing on in Massachusetts also, and 
Governor Gardner and his motley 



The House of Yorke. 



'59 



legislature were making juries the 
judges of the law as well as of the 
facts, and disbanding Irish regiments 
(which were allowed to reorganize 
for 1862), and making a law which 
would enable them to send a troop 
of men to search the dormitories and 
closets and cellars of convent schools. 
But all this troubled Edith very lit- 
tle. She could laugh at the Tran- 
script's parody : 



" Haifa league, half a league out of the city, 
All to the boarding-school rode the commit- 
tee:" 



and could see how the enemies of 
the church were covering themselves 
with ridicule and disgrace, and se- 
curing their own ultimate defeat. 

" They're hanging themselves ! 
They're hanging themselves !" Mr. 
Yorke would say with glee, at each 
new extravagance. 

When the Yorkes first returned to 
the city, Melicent's affairs chiefly oc- 
cupied their minds. There was no en- 
gagement, and there had been no pri- 
vate intercourse between her and Mr. 
Griffeth; but she had not broken with 
him entirely, and had requested per- 
mission to receive friendly letters 
from him. After Mr. Griffeth had 
been bound over to commit no act 
and write no word aggressively senti- 
mental, this permission was unwill- 
ingly given. One of these friendly 
missives had come the week after her 
arrival ; and, though the writer had 
kept the letter of his promise, he had 
so broken the spirit of it that Mrs. 
Yorke, to whom the letter was duti- 
fully shown, frowned on reading it, 
and "had a mind to answer it herself. 
Melicent, indeed, seemed desirous to 
alarm her family as much as possible 
regarding this affair, and carried her- 
self with such a conscious, heroine- 
of-a-novel air as both amused and 
annoyed her family. 

Among their earliest visitors was 



the Rev. Doctor Stewart, Mrs. Yorke' s 
former pastor and good friend. The 
mother confided to him her distress, 
and besought him to speak to Meli- 
cent on the subject. 

" She always had a high respect 
for you and Mrs. Stewart, and would 
be influenced by what you say," she 
concluded. 

The minister made inquiries con- 
cerning this suitor's orthodoxy as a 
Universalist. 

" He is orthodox in nothing, doc- 
tor !" Mrs. Yorke exclaimed. " He 
wears his creed as he wears his 
clothes, changing, when convenient, 
the one with as little scruple as the 
other. He is a moral Sybarite, who 
adjusts his conscience comfortably to 
his wishes, and looks about with an 
air of calm rectitude, and an assump- 
tion of pitying superiority over peo- 
ple who are so bigoted as to believe 
the same yesterday and to-day." 

" I know the kind of man," the 
minister said, with an expression of 
severity and mortification. "They 
are one of the pests of the time, and 
a disgrace to the ministry. I will do 
all I can to separate Melicent from 
him." 

Doctor Stewart was a stately gen- 
tleman, something over fifty years of 
age, gray-haired, rather heavy, .and 
slightly old-fashioned. He was ami- 
able in disposition, believed that great 
respect should be paid to the cler- 
gy, wore a white neck-cloth, and was 
fairly educated in everything but 
theology. Since the Yorkes left Bos- 
ton, he had lost his wife, an excel- 
lent lady several years older than 
himself. He was left with three 
children, a son of nineteen, who was 
a student in Harvard College ; an- 
other son, ten years older, who was 
making his fortune in the West ; and 
a daughter, the eldest of the family, 
married to a foreign missionary, and 
industriously distributing Bibles to 



i6o 



The House of Yorke. 



the Chinese. Once a month, in the 
missionary-meeting, the reverend doc- 
tor read a letter from this daughter, 
in which she described the great 
work she was doing, and asked for 
more Bibles and money. 

This was the gentleman to whose 
management Mrs. Yorke entrusted 
her eldest daughter's love-affair. 

Nothing of their first interview 
transpired, except that the minister 
seemed to be hopeful. Melicent be- 
came more inscrutable and conse- 
quential than ever. 

About this time, Miss Clara Yorke 
began to grow exceedingly merry in 
her disposition. She would smile in 
season and out of season, and burst 
into laughter without apparent cause. 
At the mention of Doctor Stewart's 
name, her eyes always began to dance, 
and at the sight of him approach- 
ing their house her gravity deserted 
her immediately. Mrs. Yorke was 
both astonished and puzzled by her 
daughter's levity. 

" I esteem Doctor Stewart very 
highly," the lady said. " He is a 
dignified and 'agreeable person. I 
am glad he feels like running in here 
often. He must be lonely at home, 
for Charles is away during the day, 
and studies all the evening. Poor 
man! The loss of his wife was a 
terrible blow to him, but he bears it 
beautifully." 

The laughter with which Miss Cla- 
ra was tremblingly full had to be re- 
strained ; for at that moment the door 
opened to give admittance to a 
smiling elderly gentleman in a white 
neckcloth. But, glancing at Melt- 
cent's demure countenance a minute 
after, the young woman's mirth be- 
came audible. 

" Clara, you should, at least, give 
us the opportunity of sharing your 
amusement," her mother said, rather 
chiclingly. 

Clara stammered out that there 



was a very witty article in the last 
Atlantic. 

" By the way," the minister said to 
her pleasantly, " I must compliment 
you on a very touching story of yours 
I have read lately. It is ' Silent 
Rooms.' I confess to you, Miss Cla- 
ra, that I wept over it." 

How exquisite must be the sensi- 
bility of that person who weeps over 
one's pathetic stories ! Clara looked 
at the reverend doctor with a new 
interest. He certainly had a most 
beautiful nose, she observed, and his 
expression was benign. Moreover, 
he was a gentleman of good mind. 

" I am delighted by what you tell 
me, doctor," she said. " For, while 
such emotion is the highest compli- 
ment I could receive, it does not 
hurt you. Indeed, I thought that 
sketch would be affecting. I shed 
tears myself when I was writing it, 
and I think that a pretty good cry- 
tear-ion to judge by. Beg pardon, 
papa ! I didn't mean to. It punned 
itself." 

The minister then asked her to 
write a play and a hymn for the 
Christmas festival of his Sunday- 
school. 

" I should be delighted to, doc- 
tor," she said, but clouded over a lit- 
tle. " I am' not much in the way of 
that sort of composition, but I will 
try." 

" Then you will succeed." A bow 
and a smile accompanied the asser- 
tion. 

" Do not be too sure of that," 
Clara exclaimed with vivacity. " I 
can write easily enough what is in 
my own mind, but not what is in 
other minds ; and I haven't an idea 
on this subject. I am not a facile 
writer when I have nothing to say. 
When I have no thoughts, I find it 
hard to express them." 

" Oh ! dash off some little thing," 
said the doctor, with a sweep of the 



The House of Yorke. 



161 



hand, as though he were sowing 
plays and poems broadcast. 

" Dash off some little thing !" re- 
peated the young lady scornfully, 
when their visitor had left them. 
" ' Dash off! ' That is all he knows. 
I don't believe he cried over my 
story !" 

" My daughter !" expostulated Mrs. 
Yorke; but her husband laughed. 
Melicent cast an indignant glace on 
her sister, and went out of the room. 
At that, Clara's hilarity returned. 

Carl wrote to his mother often, 
giving her an account of his move- 
ments. He stayed nowhere long, 
and every letter concluded with an 
announcement of his intention to 
make a flying visit to some' other 
place. The descriptions he gave and 
the adventures he related were 
not those of an ordinary sight-seer. 
"I should think that the boy were 
gathering material for a history of 
the nineteenth century," his mother 
said, and was evidently very proud 
of him. 

But after a while she recollected 
he had not said that any one of 
these flying visits would be his last, 
and had never answered plainly her 
questions as to the time of his return. 
One day she suspected the truth. 
She had just received a letter from 
Carl, dated at Nice, in which he 
hinted at a projected trip to Asia 
Minor. After reading the letter 
through, she dropped it into her lap, 
and sat looking out through the win- 
dow and off into distance. 

No one else but Edith was in the 
room, and she had been attentively 
watching her aunt's face. Seeing 
that strange look settle on it, she 
crossed the room, and seated herself 
close to Mrs. Yorke's side. 

" Edith," her aunt said, her eyes 
still gazing far away, " I think Carl 
means to be gone a long while." 

Edith called up her powers of self- 
VOL. xv. ii 



control ; for the time of explanation 
had come. 

" He has already been away a long 
while," she said. " It is six months 
since he went. That is six months 
taken from the whole." 

Mrs. Yorke's eyes turned on her 
niece with a quick searching. " You 
know ah 1 about it !" she exclaimed, 
and began to breathe quickly. 

"Yes, I know all about it," was 
thq calm reply ; " and I was to tell 
you as soon as it should seem best. 
Carl is making a long journey, but 
six months of it are over." 

" Mrs. Yorke flung Edith's hand 
away. " You knew it, and his own 
mother did not!" she exclaimed. 
" You need not tell me. If Carl de- 
ceived his mother, I wish to hear no 
more about it." 

She pressed her hands to her heart, 
which beat with thick, suffocating 
throbs. 

Nothing but firmness would do. 
It was necessary to recall her to a 
sense of the injustice she was doing, 
and shame her into controlling her- 
self, if no better could be done. 

" Aunt Amy," Edith said, " it 
seems to me that you should ques- 
tion yourself, rather than reproach 
others. Never was a woman more 
tenderly loved and cared for by her 
family than you are. Your husband, 
your children, your niece, your ser- 
vants even, are constantly on the 
watch lest something should startle 
or agitate you. A door must not be 
slammed, the horses must not be 
driven too fast, ill news must be gen- 
tly broken, you must not be fatigued 
nor worried. If we shed tears, we 
conceal them from you; if one of us 
is ill, we make light of it to you. We 
wish to do this, and do it with all 
our hearts, for your life is most pre- 
cious to us. But I think that our 
devotion entails one duty on you, 
and that is to look on everything as 



1 62 



The House of Yorke. 



calmly and reasonably as you can, 
and not agitate yourself without 
cause." 

Mrs. Yorke looked at her niece in 
astonishment. This tone of firm re- 
proof was ne\v to her, and, from its 
strangeness, effective. 

" Carl did not deceive you," Edith 
went on. " He has told you nothing 
but the truth." 

" A half-truth is a lie !" Mrs. Yorke 
interrupted. " I see plainly in this 
the influence of that pernicious Mr. 
Griffeth. I well remember one of 
his sayings: 'As the doctors give 
poisons to a sick body,' he said, ' so 
we must sometimes give lies to a sick 
mind.' I have a sick mind, it 
seems." 

"It is for you to prove whether 
you have or not," Edith replied qui- 
etly. 

The reproof was severe, and Mrs. 
Yorke's heightened color told that 
she felt it. She leaned back in her 
chair, and was silent. 

" Carl told me," Edith said, " be- 
cause I am healthy, and cannot be 
endangered by sorrow ; and he knew, 
too, that I would not require any 
man to sacrifice his duty and prospect 
of a high career merely that I might 
have the pleasure of being always 
with him. When a man is twenty- 
nine years old, if he is not going to 
throw himself away, and be a mise- 
rable failure, it is time for him to go 
out into the world, and live his own 
life. Carl would gladly have told 
you all his plans, and it was cruel 
that he should be obliged to go 
away without your blessing, and to 
carry with him, as he must, this con- 
stant anxiety about you. He was 
doubtful and unhappy, but did what 
he thought was best. He told no 
one but me. Now, be fair, Aunt 
Amy, and ask yourself what you 
would have done if Carl had come 
to you and said that he was 



going away on a two-years' jour- 
ney ?" 

Mrs. Yorke put her hands over 
her face, and sat breathing heavily, 
and without uttering a word. Edith 
trembled. Would she see the pale 
hands fall nerveless, and her aunt 
drop dead in her arms ? She sent 
up a silent prayer to her ever dear 
Mother of Perpetual Succor, then 
gently loosened a golden locket from 
Mrs. Yorke's belt, and opened it. 

" Dear Carl !" she said tenderly, 
kissing the miniature, " how could 
your mother misunderstand you so, 
when your true and loving face was 
so close to her heart ? Is it only 
Edith who never mistakes you ?" 

The frail hands slipped down to 
hers, as she leaned on her aunt's lap, 
and she looked up to meet a faint 
and tearful smile. 

" You are all so tender, my dear, 
that I am afraid it makes me selfish," 
Mrs. Yorke said. " Now tell me the 
whole story. See ! I am reasonable." 

" You are an angel to let me talk 
so, and not be angry !" Edith an- 
swered joyfully. " Wait till I get 
you a granule of digitaline ; then I 
will tell you all about Carl. You 
will be proud of your son, my lady." 

A few days after, Doctor Stewart 
proposed for Melicent, greatly to her 
mother's astonishment. " Why, doc- 
tor, I am proud to consent, if Meli- 
cent does," she said. " But I never 
dreamed of such a thing !" 

"Melicent assures me that, with 
her parents' consent, she is willing to 
entrust her happiness in my hands," 
the minister said. " She does not 
find my age any obstacle. You must 
be aware, indeed, that your eldest 
daughter's disposition is grave and 
dignified. My impression is, that the 
only attraction Mr. Griffeth had for 
her was through his clerical office. 
She has confided to me that she 
wrote him a decided dismissal the 



The House of Yorke. 



163 



very day after my first conversation 
with her." 

Of course, if Melicent was satis- 
fied, no one else could object; and 
Melicent radiated satisfaction. 

" I am sure you have chosen wise- 
ly, my daughter," her mother said. 

" I never really thought I should 
marry Mr. Griffeth, mamma," the 
daughter answered, blushing. " And 
I never said any more to him than 
that I would consider his offer." 

That very evening the engagement 
was tacitly announced to the public, 
by Mrs. Yorke and Melicent appear- 
ing at a lecture at Music Hall, es- 
corted by Doctor Stewart. Mr. Yorke, 
Clara, and Edith went early, and 
took seats in the side balcony, over- 
looking the platform, where the rest 
of their party had places reserved. 

" It will just suit Mel," Clara said 
gleefully. " I saw it from the first 
minute, and have been laughing over 
it all winter, while you stupid folks 
never had a suspicion. Mel was cut 
out for just such a fate. She likes to 
be lofty and sphynx-like, and to sit 
on platforms with everybody staring 
at her, and to come sweeping in at 
the last minute, and take the highest 
place. The doctor, too, is just to 
her mind. He is tall, and large, and 
slow. His voice is sonorous, he has 
a nice nose and finger-nails, and his 
neckcloth compels respect. Oh ! 
there is no fear but Mel will be hap- 
py. The only danger is on our side. 
For I tell you, papa, those two will 
walk over us in their smooth, grand 
way, if we are not careful. I must 
study how to take them down a 
Peg." 

There was a smile in the corners 
of Mr. Yorke's mouth, but he spoke 
reprovingly. " It doesn't sound well 
for you to talk in that way of your 
sister, Clara," he said. 

Clara gave a little impatient sigh. 
" I sometimes wish that I could not 



see so plainly the difference between 
solid people and inflated people," 
she said. " It is a misfortune ; but I 
cannot help it." 

Mr. Yorke said nothing. He had 
already learned that there was one 
point on which he would have to 
resist encroachment. More than once 
he had seen Doctor Stewart turn a 
severe glance on the shelf where 
stood the numbers of Brownson's Re- 
view left by Carl ; and only that day 
Melicent had proposed that the books 
should be carried up-stairs. 

" Up-stairs !" Mr. Yorke had re- 
peated. " What for ?" 

" Why, on account of the doctor," 
Melicent had answered, disconcerted 
by the sharpness of her father's as- 
tonishment. " He does not like them, 
and their being here might lead to 
unpleasant controversy." 

The reply had been decisive : 

" If Doctor Stewart does not like 
what he finds in my house, he is at 
liberty to remain out of it. And if 
he should forget himself so far as to 
begin any unpleasant controversy, I 
shall recommend him to increase his 
stock of theological knowledge by a 
careful study of the same Review" 

Mr. Yorke said nothing of this 
conversation, and Melicent had not 
mentioned it ; but it was a warning 
to both. 

" Papa," Clara said, after looking 
down on the audience awhile, " did 
you ever observe how bald heads 
light up an assembly like this ? They 
reflect the gas, and have a very 
cheerful effect. Oh ! there is Mel. 
Attention ! See, the conquering hero 
comes. My poor little mother is 
nearly invisible. Such a small duen- 
na ! How frightfully conspicuous ! 
See the doctor smile, and show them 
to the very front chairs, and see the 
filial manner in which he behaves to 
Mrs. Yorke. Suppose he should 
take to coloring his hair! There! 



1 64 



The House of Yorke. 



they are seated at last, after that dis- 
play, and I must own that Mel's 
stage-manners are very good. If 
only they would not look so con- 
scious ! Edith, why is Doctor Stew- 
art like a verd-antique ? It's a con- 
undrum." 

That night, after Melicent had 
gone to her room, the others sat 
talking over the wedding. Doctor 
Stewart had desired that it might 
be soon. Edith proposed to give 
the trousseau. 

" We cannot allow you, my dear," 
her aunt said. " Your uncle and I 
have something, and Melicent must 
take what we can give her. You are 
too bountiful already !" 

Edith drew writing materials to- 
ward her, and began to make out a 
bill. 



Miss EDITH YORKE, 

To Charles Yorke and family, Dr. 
To seven years' board and tuition, . 

" " clothing, . 
Instruction in her religion, . 
Kindness to Father Kasle, . 
Never being anything but kind to 

her, 

Sundries, 

Joining her once in Ca- 
tholic prayer, . . 100,000,000,000,000,000 



$7,000 
1,400 

20,000,000 
10,000,000 

10,000,000 
10,000,000 



$100,000,000,050,008,400 

" I think that is correct," she said, 
showing the bill to her uncle. " I 
am mathematical in my tastes, you 
know. I do not like the dollars, 
though, the association is so vul- 
gar. We will put it in some classical 
gold coin. It shall be rose-nobles." 

Looking in Mr. Yorke's face as he 
smiled on her, she exclaimed, " Un- 
cle, you have a look of my father, 
now !" 

" And you have a look of my bro- 
ther," he returned. " Your eyes are 
changeful, like his, and your hair 
has a sunny hue. When you coax, 
too, your ways are like his. Robert 
was very winning." 

She put her arm in his, and looked 
reproachfully across the table to her 



aunt. "And yet," she said, "you 
are not willing that I should give 
Melicent a few pocket-handkerchiefs 
to be married with !" 

Mrs. Yorke laughed. " You shall 
give her as many handkerchiefs as 
you please," she said. 

But what, meantime, of Dick Ro\v 
an ? 

Mrs. Yorke had called at once to 
see him on her arrival, but he had 
already gone to make a retreat, and 
they did not see him afterward. 

The first part of that retreat was 
to him heavenly ; but, when it came 
to making definite plans for the fu- 
ture, then he found himself in cruel 
doubt. 

" Oh ! if I could have had a Ca- 
tholic training in early life !" he said 
to Father John. " It seems to me 
now that heaven has been within my 
reach, and has slipped away, without 
my knowing it. I do not wish to be 
presuming. I do not try to think of 
it; the thought haunts me." 

" Tell me freely all that is in your 
mind," the priest said. " I am here 
to help you." 

Dick Rowan's head drooped, and 
he spoke rapidly, as if afraid to 
speak : " It seems to me, father, that 
if I had been brought up a strict 
Catholic any sort of Catholic I 
should have been " He lifted his 
face, looked at Father John with 
eyes that could not bear suspense, 
and added, " I should have been a 
priest !" 

Then, since he found neither as- 
tonishment nor displeasure in that 
face, his distress broke forth. " And 
now, O God! it is too late!" he 
said, and wrung his hands. 

" You think that you had a voca- 
tion, my son ?" the priest asked calm- 

J y- 

"I believe it!" he answered. 
" What has my whole life been but a 



The House of Yorke. 



165 



searching and striving after some 
great and glorious happiness, some- 
thing different from the common hap- 
piness of earth, some one delight 
which was to be mine here, and still 
more mine in the world to come ? It 
was always my way to have but one 
wish, and to expect from its fulfil- 
ment what nothing on earth can give. 
I believe, sir, that when a man has 
that way of concentrating all his 
hopes and desires on one object, that 
object should be God. Otherwise, 
there is nothing but ruin for him. 
Such an end was once possible to me, 
and now it is lost !" 

" Father John laid his hand on the 
young man's. " My son," he said, " it 
is not lost !" 

Dick uttered not a word, but gaz- 
ed steadily into the priest's face. 

" I believe that you have a divine 
vocation." 

"You believe that I had!" Dick 
cried out sharply. 

" I believe that you have /" the 
priest replied. 

Dick drew a deep breath, and his 
pale face blushed all over with a sud- 
den delight ; but said nothing. 

" When a man first thinks of choos- 
ing God," the priest said, " he may 
mistake. But when God chooses a 
man, and tears away from him every 
other tie, and sets him in a place 
where he can see nothing surround- 
ing him but a great solitude filled 
with God, then there is no mistake. 
I believe that God chooses you." 

" God chooses me !" repeated Dick 
Rowan, blenching a little, like one 
dazzled by a great light. " God 
chooses me !" he said again, and stood 
up, as if his swelling heart had lifted 
him. " Then I choose him !" He 
put his hands over his lifted face, and 
tears of joy dropped down. Father 
John, deeply affected, spoke to him, 
but he did not hear. He was repeat- 
ing the words of the marriage-ser- 



vice: "'For better or for worse, in 
sickness and in health, till death do 
us' unite /" 

The priest spoke afterward to 
Edith on the subject. Dick had re- 
quested him to tell her and his mo- 
ther whatever they wished to know. 

" Never was there a soul more ar- 
dent and single," Father John said. 
" His only difficulty arose from a 
tender regard for the honor of God, 
and a great reverence for the sacred 
office. He fancied that it would be 
an insult to both for a man to seek 
to enter the priesthood of whom peo- 
ple could say that he did so because 
he was disappointed in love, and that 
he gave to God the remnant of a 
heart which a woman had reject- 
ed." 

" Dick rejected me," Edith inter- 
posed hastily. 

" I told him," the priest resumed, 
" that if God had called him, he had 
no right ' to think of any coarse and 
uncharitable remarks which might be 
made. I reminded him that his life- 
long devotion to you had been a life 
without faith, and that, after one year 
in the church, he had given you up 
willingly. His idea of the true priest 
was this : one for whose sacred voca- 
tion his pious parents had prayed and 
hoped from the hour of his bir*:hj 
who had lived from his childhood 
cloistered in retirement and sanctity, 
who had never cherished worldly 
hopes or desires, but, walking apart, 
had thus approached the altar that 
had never ceased to shine before him 
from the hour of his baptism. I 
owned to him that such a vocation is 
beautiful, and is often seen by men 
and angels ; but told him that there 
are others whom the Almighty leads 
differently. He hides from such souls 
that he has sealed them also from the 
beginning, he allows them to drag in 
the mire of earth, to feel its tempta- 
tions, to share in its weaknesses. We 



1 66 Super Omnes Speciosa. 

cannot penetrate the designs of God, suaded him that he was jealous for 

but we may well believe that his the honor of God, when in reality he 

motive is to humble that soul, and thought but of his own. He was 

to teach it through its own failings a happy at that. ' If it is nothing but 

greater pity and tenderness for the rny own pride,' he said, ' I have no 

weak and the erring. I warned him more trouble.' 

that this fear of his might be a tempt- " And he has no more trouble, my 

ation of the devil, who saw that his child," the priest concluded. " He 

pride was not broken, and who pur- is the happiest man I ever saw !" 



SUPER OMNES SPECIOSA. 

Is any face that I have seen 

Some perfect type of girlhood's face : 
Some nun's, soul-radiant, full of grace 

Like thine, my beautiful, my Queen ? 

Of all the eyes have paused on mine 
And these have met some wondrous eyes ; 
So large and deep, so chaste and wise 

Have any faintly imaged thine ? 

The chisel with the brush has vied, 
Till each seems victor in its turn : 
And love is ever quick to learn, 

Nor throws the proffered page aside : 

Yet few the glimpses it has caught, 
For thou transcendest all that art 
Can show thee even to the heart 

Most skilled to read the poet's thought. 

That thought can pierce its native sky 
Beyond the artist's starry guess : 
But all that it may dare express, 

Is through the worship of a sigh. 

And this thou art, a sigh of love 

Love that created as it sighed ; 

And shaped thee forth a peerless bride 
Dowered for the spousals of the Dove. 

To set the music of thy face 

To earthly measure, were to give 
Th' informing soul, and make .it live 

As there God's uttermost of grace. 




Mother of Lamartine. 



167 



THE MOTHER OF LAMARTINE.* 



M. DE LAMARTINE tells us in his 
Confidences that, as the sages pause 
for reflection between life and death, 
so his mother was in the habit of de- 
voting an interval at the close of the 
day in looking back on its vanished 
hours, and seizing its impressions be- 
fore night should have dispersed them 
for ever. 

When all the household had retir- 
ed to rest, and no sound was to be 
heard but the breathing of her chil- 
dren in their little beds around her, 
or the howling of the wind against 
the casement and the bark of the 
dog in the court, she would softly 
open the door of a little closet of 
books, and seat herself before an in- 
laid cabinet of rose-wood to record 
the events of the day, pour out her 
anxieties and sorrows, her joy and 
gratitude, or utter a prayer all warm 
from her heart. Her son says : " She 
never wrote for the sake of writing, 
still less to be admired, though she 
wrote much for her own satisfaction, 
that she might have, in this register 
of her conscience and the domestic 
occurrences of her life, a moral mir- 
ror in which she could often look and 
compare herself with what she had 
been in other days, and thus con- 
stantly amend her life. This custom 
of recording what was passing in her 
soul a habit she retained to the 
end produced fifteen or twenty lit- 
tle volumes of intimate communings 
with herself and God, which I have 
the happiness to preserve, and where 
I find her once more, living and full 



* Le Manuscrit de Ma Mere ; or. Extracts 
front the Journal of Madame de Lamartine. 
Edited by her Son. Hachette & Co., Paris. 1871. 



of affection, when I feel the need of 
taking refuge in her bosom." 

Of course, such a journal was not 
intended for the public eye, and her 
son is so conscious of this that, even 
while editing this volume of extracts 
from his mother's manuscripts, he 
says it has no interest but for those 
who are allied to her by blood or 
sympathy of soul, and prays all oth- 
ers to abstain from reading it. M. 
de Lamartine's financial difficulties 
obliging him to make capital, not 
only out of the private emotions and 
experiences of his own heart, but 
even of his family archives, the pub- 
lication of this volume was announc- 
ed previous to his death, but was de- 
ferred at his earnest request. 

The interest in everything connect- 
ed with so eminent a poet, the charm- 
ing pictures he has drawn of his mo- 
ther in his Confidences, and the influ- 
ence she had in moulding his charac- 
ter, made us look forward with inter- 
est to this work, that we might Have 
a clearer insight into the soul to 
which he owed his poetical and im- 
aginative nature. It is always re- 
freshing and useful whenever one 
ventures to lift the veil of a pure soul 
and allows us to read its passing 
emotions. But such a soul should 
not be exposed to the eye of curiosi- 
ty, but only to that of sympathy. 
To scan such a book the outpour- 
ings of a mother's heart, written 
solely for her own satisfaction and 
her children's with the cool eye of a 
critic, would be as profane as to jeer 
over the grave of one whose remains 
have just been exhumed. 

But let every tender, religious heart 



i68 



The Mother of Lamartine. 



especially every maternal heart 
that loves the sweet odor of flowers 
that still give out their fragrance 
when drawn forth from some old 
drawer in which they have long lain, 
reverently open this volume, sacred 
to all the outpourings of a mother's 
tenderness. In her transparent nature 
they can read the unusual strength 
of the domestic affections, but a heart 
large enough to take in the poor and 
the sufferer of every grade, a charity 
that constantly found excuses for the 
asperities of others, and a piety that 
breathed all through her sweet life 
and crowned her death. 

This book is a new proof of the 
tender piety and sincere faith among 
the old noblesse of France. Mad- 
ame de Lamartine is worthy of being 
classed with the family of the Duke 
d'Ayen, the La Ferronnays, and the 
De Guerins. The simple grace of 
her style, the religious element so 
strongly infused into her daily life, 
the development of her emotional 
nature, and the intensity of her love 
for her family, all remind us of Eu- 
genie de Guerin. And like her, she had 
one of those sweet, pensive natures 
that need the retirement of country 
lite or the shade of the cloister for 
full development. They were simi- 
larly demonstrative in their affections 
and in their piety. And where one 
loves and follows with anxious pray- 
er a gifted brother, the other, with the 
devotedness of St. Monica, weeps 
and prays for her son. 

M. de Lamartine, after passing one 
gloomy All Souls' day in recollection 
near his mother's grave at St. Point, 
ended it by taking out the eighteen 
livrets in which all her thoughts and 
feelings had been buried for so many 
years, and, while the church-bell was 
mournfully tolling above her grave as 
if to reproach the living for their si- 
lence and admonish them to pray 
for their dead, he opened these books 



one after the other, and read, sadly 
smiling, but oftener weeping the 
while. It is with some such a feel- 
ing the reader will follow him. The 
drama of the heart is always touch- 
ing, the genuine tear, even in the eye 
veiled in domestic obscurity, always 
appealing, and in this page of life's 
drama there is many a one dropped. 
But the eyes from which they fell are 
always turned heavenward, and such 
tears have always a gleam of heaven 
in them, without which the sorrows 
of life would be unendurable. 

Madame de Lamartine was the 
daughter of M. des Roys, intendant- 
general of finances to the Duke of 
Orleans. Madame des Roys was the 
under-governess of the children of 
that prince, and so great a favorite 
of the duchess that she was employ- 
ed as the confidential agent of the 
latter during her exile, as we learn 
from this volume. After the execu- 
tion of Philippe Egalite and the dis- 
persion of his family, the duchess 
took refuge in Spain. Her daughter, 
afterwards known as Madame Ade- 
laide, who displayed so much charac- 
ter and exerted so great a political 
influence during the reign of her bro- 
ther Louis Philippe, was in a German 
or Swiss convent. The duchess, sus- 
picious of Madame de Genlis' influ- 
ence over her daughter, and perhaps 
fearful she might be made a tool of 
the Orleans faction, with whose aims 
she did not sympathize, commission- 
ed her devoted follower, Madame 
des Roys, to bring her daughter to 
Spain. Madame des Roys succeeded 
in her mission. She embarked at 
Leghorn about the beginning of Jan- 
uary, 1802, and arrived safely at Bar- 
celona with her charge. Madame 
de Lamartine, who had all this from 
her mother's lips, says the meeting of 
the duchess and Mademoiselle d'Or- 
leans was extremely affecting. Mad- 



The Mother of Lamartine. 



169 



ame des Roys subsequently returned 
to France, and died on her estates in 
June, 1804, worn out with fatigue, 
and troubles resulting from the revo- 
lution. She gave her daughter a por- 
trait of Mademoiselle d' Orleans a 
present from the duchess, and Mad- 
ame de Lamartine always showed 
herself loyal to that family. When 
the poet wrote his Chant du Sacre 
without mentioning the Duke of Or- 
leans among the other members of 
the royal family, she entreated him 
with tears to be mindful of what she 
owed the family. Lamartine yielded, 
but with so ill a grace that his allu- 
sion displeased the duke. Madame 
de Lamartine, fearful of being thought 
ungrateful to the family, wrote Made- 
moiselle d'Orleans a full explanation 
of the affair. 

But to go back to the time when 
Madame des Roys was still govern- 
ess in the Duke of Orleans' family. 
She and her husband had apartments 
at that time in the Palais Royal in 
winter, and at St. Cloud in summer. 
It appears Madame des Roys and 
Madame de Genlis had some pitched 
battles in those days, or, as Madame 
de Lamartine afterward expresses it, 
deux camps opposes. Madame de Gen- 
lis kept up the grudge after the death 
of her former rival, and, years after, 
severely attacked M. de Lamartine's 
poems by way of satisfaction. 

Madame de Lamartine was born 
at the palace of St. Cloud, and pass- 
ed her childhood there with Louis 
Philippe, sharing the lessons and 
sports of the Orleans children. All 
her earliest recollections were con- 
nected with St. Cloud, its fountains, 
and broad alleys, and velvet lawns, 
and lovely park. Many years after 
(in 1813), she tells in her journal that, 
being at Paris, her son drove her to 
St. Cloud in a cabriolet, and she 
thus writes of her visit : " This is the 
place where I passed so much of my 



childhood when my mother was 
bringing up the Duke of Orleans' 
children. I was very happy there. I 
left when fifteen years old, and had not 
seen the place since, though I long- 
ed to, for I retained a delightful re- 
membrance of it. I walked all over 
the park with Alphonse and Eugenie, 
pointing out tree after tree where I 
played when a child. I wished to 
see our apartments once more, but it 
was impossible, as they are occupied 
by the Empress Maria Louisa." 

When fifteen years of age, Alix 
des Roys was nominated by the 
Duke of Orleans to a vacancy in the 
noble Chapter of Salles, where she 
was placed under the protection of 
the Countess Lamartine de Villars, 
a canoness of that chapter. The 
Chevalier de Lamartine, visiting his 
sister, fell in love with the beautiful 
Alix, who is said to have resembled 
Madame Recamier, and, instead of 
embracing that semi-monastic life, 
she ultimately married him, March 6, 
1790. 

We can imagine the contrast be- 
tween her life in the maisons de plai- 
sance of one of the wealthiest princes 
in Europe, and that she afterward 
led in a plain country residence- a 
hundred miles from Paris, and in lim- 
ited circumstances. She afterward 
alludes in her journal to this change : 
" In my childhood I imagined it im- 
possible to exist unless at court, in a 
palace like the Palais Royal, or the 
park at St. Cloud, where I lived with 
my mother. Now, O my God, I 
wish to be content in every place 
where thy will places me !" 

But her new home was not without 
its attractions for a nature like hers. 
Leaving the banks of the Saone where 
it winds among the fertile hills of 
Macon, and going toward the old 
Abbey of Cluny, where Abelard 
breathed his last, the traveller, turn- 
ing aside into a winding mountain- 



I/O 



The Mother of Lamartine. 



path, comes after an hour or two to 
a sharp spire of gray stone towering 
above a group of peasants' houses. 
Beyond these, nestling in a hollow 
at the foot of a mountain, is Milly, fa- 
miliar to every reader of Lamartine. 
Five broad steps lead to the door, 
which opens into a corridor full of 
presses of carved walnut contain- 
ing the household linen. From it 
doors open into the various apart- 
ments, and access is had to the one 
story above. The mountain almost 
insensibly begins its ascent directly 
back of the house. Its slope is luxu- 
riant with vines, on which depended 
mainly the subsistence of the family. 
A small garden is in the rear of the 
house, with its vegetables and flower- 
beds and clumps of trees, and its 
secluded "Alley of Meditation" 
where Madame de Lamartine walked 
at sunset, saying her rosary and giv- 
ing herself up to holy recollections. 

She seems to have taken Milly at 
once to her heart. She affectionate- 
ly calls it her Jerusalem her abode 
of peace. She often said to her son : 
" It is very small, but large enough 
if our wishes and habits are in pro- 
portion. Happiness is from within. 
We should not be more so by extend- 
ing the limits of our meadows and 
vineyards. Happiness is not mea- 
sured by the acre, like land, but by 
the resignation of the heart ; for God 
wishes the poor to have as much as 
the rich, that neither may dream of 
seeking it elsewhere than from him !" 

And again she says : " If people 
were convinced that, by submissively 
receiving all the difficulties of the 
position in which they are placed, 
they would be at peace everywhere ; 
they would allow themselves to be 
sweetly guided without anxiety by 
circumstances and the persons to 
whom they owe deference. Since I 
decided on this, I have been infinite- 
ly more happy. There was a time 



when I wished everything to yield to 
me, and absolutely subordinate to 
my will. I was then incessantly tor- 
mented about the present and the fu- 
ture. I often saw afterward it would 
have been a misfortune to have had 
my own way. Now I abandon my- 
self to the Infinite Sovereign Wisdom, 
I feel at peace exteriorly and inte- 
riorly ! God be praised for ever ! He 
alone is wise, and should overrule 
all !" 

Poor woman, she had enough to 
try her flexible will. Her husband's 
elder brother, who, according to the 
ancient regime, was regarded as the 
head and guide of the family, was 
not disposed to give up his rights. 
He was unmarried, and particularly 
fond of interfering in the domestic re- 
gulations of the family whose future 
prospects somewhat depended on 
him, particularly those of Alphonse, 
who was to perpetuate the name. 
Another brother, the Abbe de La- 
martine, lived further off, and was, of 
course, less tempted to interfere, but 
seems to have given his voice on ex- 
traordinary occasions. And then 
there were two unmarried aunts 
whom Madame de Lamartine seems 
to have been attached to, and whom 
in her charity she calls saints, but 
very trying saints they were with their 
strictures on her dainty ways, her 
careful dress, and her indulgence to 
her children. To do them justice, 
however, they all seem to have been 
sincerely anxious for the prosperity 
of the family. 

Madame de Lamartine brought up 
one son and five daughters, concern- 
ing whom she gives many interesting 
details in her journal. The daugh- 
ters appear to have been lovely in per- 
son and character. Their brother 
has given a delightful description of 
them in his Nouvelles Confidences, 
which is confirmed by his mother's 
journal. 



The Mother of Lamartine. 



171 



But M. de Lamartine makes a very 
strange mistake in saying his mother 
derived her notions of educating her 
children from the works of Rousseau 
(particularly from Emile] and St. 
Pierre, whom he calls " the favorite 
philosophers of women because the 
philosophers of feeling," and " whose 
works," he says, " she had read and 
admired." 

Some of Madame de Lamartine's 
earliest recollections were certainly 
of Gib-bon, D'Alembert, Rousseau, 
and others of the same stamp who 
frequented the society of Madame des 
Roys. She even remembered seeing 
Voltaire when but seven years of age, 
and "his attitude, his costume, his 
cane, his gestures, and his words re- 
mained imprinted on my memory as 
the foot of some antediluvian mon- 
ster on the rocks of our mountains." 
But she certainly did not esteem 
these men or imbibe any of their 
opinions, and so far from having 
" conserve une tendre admiration pour 
ce grand homme" Jean Jacques 
Rousseau, as her son declares, she 
regarded him with a certain horror, 
and his genius as allied to lunacy. 

In the first place, Madame de La- 
martine seems to have been very 
scrupulous about reading dangerous 
books. In her journal of the year 
1 80 1, she makes a resolution to deny 
herself all useless reading for her 
children's sake, and declares frivolous 
books "one of the most dangerous 
pleasures in the world." 

Some years after, she visits her 
son's chamber, during his absence, to 
examine his books. Among others 
she finds Rousseau's Emile. She re- 
grets it is " empoisoned with so many 
inconsistencies and extravagances 
calculated to mislead the good sense 
and faith of young men. I shall 
burn this book," she adds, " and par- 
ticularly the Nouvelle He'loise, still 
more dangerous because it inflames 



the passions as much as it warps the 
mind. What a misfortune that so 
much talent should be allied to mad- 
ness ! I have no fears for myself, for 
my faith is beyond temptation and 
not to be shaken ; but my son " 

And when toward the close of her 
life she saw by her son's poem Childe 
Harold that he had imbibed the per- 
nicious ideas of French philosophy, 
she says : " I knew these famous phi- 
losophers in my youth. Grant, O my 
God ! he may not resemble them. I 
firmly represent to him the danger 
of such ideas, but, in the language 
of Scripture, the wind bloweth where 
it listeth. When a mother has brought 
a son into the world, and instilled 
her own faith into him, what can she 
do ? Only put her feeble hand con- 
tinually between the light of this 
faith and the breath of the world 
that would extinguish it ! Ah ! I am 
sometimes proud of my son, but I 
am well punished afterward by my 
apprehensions as to his independence 
of mind ! 

" As for me, to submit and believe 
seems the only true wisdom in life. 
They say it is less poetic, but I find 
as much poetry in submission as in 
rebellion. Are the faithful angels 
less poetical than those who rose up 
against God ? I would rather my 
son had none of these vain talents 
of the world than to turn them against 
the dogmas that are my strength, my 
light, and my consolation !" 

Madame de Lamartine records a 
fact concerning Rousseau which is 
by no means a proof of her esteem 
for him. Madame des Roys, from 
whom she had it, was very intimate 
with the Marechale de Luxembourg. 
Previous to the birth of one of Rous- 
seau's children, the marechale, a 
great friend of his, fearing he would 
send the child to a foundling asylum 
as he had done three others, begged, 
through a third person, to have it as 



172 



The Mother of Lamartine. 



soon as it was born, promising to 
take care of it. Rousseau gave his 
consent. The mother was beside 
herself with joy, and as soon as the 
child was born sent word to the per- 
son who was to take it away. He 
came, found it was a fine, vigorous 
boy, and appointed an hour to come 
for it. But at midnight Rousseau 
appeared in the sick-room wrapped 
in a dark cloak, and, in spite of the 
mother's screams, carried off his son 
to drop it at the asylum without a 
mark by which it could be recogniz- 
ed. " This is the man whose sensi- 
bility so many extol," said Madame 
des Roys, and Madame de Lamar- 
tine adds : " And I, I say, here is 
the unfeeling man whose head has 
corrupted his heart ! Alas ! genius is 
often only a prelude to insanity when 
not founded on good sense. Let us 
welcome genius for our children if 
God bestows it, but pray they may 
have sound sense !" 

Alphonse was sent at an early 
age to a secular school at Lyons, the 
religious orders not being restored. 
His mother thus writes : 

"November 9, 1801. To-day I 
am at Lyons to bring Alphonse back 
to school. My heart bleeds. I went 
to Mass this morning. I was con- 
tinually looking for his beautiful fair 
hair in the midst of all those little 
heads. My God! how frightful to 
thus root up this young plant from 
the heart where it germinated, and 
cast it into these mercenary institu- 
tions. I was sick at heart as I came 
away." 

In October, 1803, she says : " I 
have with difficulty obtained permis- 
sion from my husband and his broth- 
ers to take Alphonse away from the 
school at Lyons, and place him at 
the Jesuits' College at Belley, on the 
borders of Savoy. I came with him 
myself. I was too much distressed 
to write yesterday after confiding him 



to these ecclesiastics. I passed half 
the night weeping. 

" October 27. I went this morn- 
ing to look through the guichet of the 
court of the Jesuits' College at my 
poor child. I. afterward saw him at 
Mass in the midst of the students. 
He says he is satisfied with his recep- 
tion from the professors and his com- 
rades. I went to-day to see the 
Abbe de Montuzet, the former prior 
of my Chapter of Canonesses at Salles. 
In the evening I left for Macon. In 
passing before the college I could see 
the boys from the carriage playing in 
the yard, and heard their joyous 
shouts. Happily, Alphonse did not 
approach the guichet and see my car- 
riage. He would have felt too bad- 
ly, and I also. It is better not to 
soften these poor children destined to 
become men. Leaning back in the 
carriage, I wept all alone under my 
veil a part of the day." 

She loved to read the Confessions 
of St. Augustine, and, like St. Monica, 
she followed her son with her prayers 
and tears all through the vagaries of 
his early life, trembling for his rich 
gifts and susceptible nature. And 
with how much reason is evident 
from his own account. How much 
more she continually desired his spir- 
itual welfare than his success in the 
world is evident throughout this work. 
In the first flush of his fame as a poet, 
she writes : 

" January 6, 1820. Nothing new 
at Paris, except I am told Alphonse 
is received with distinction in the 
best society, where his appearance 
and talents have excited, according 
to my sister, Madame de Vaux, a 
kindi of enthusiasm. She mentions 
the names of many whose mothers I 
knew in my youth who overwhelm him 
with cordiality the Princess de Tal- 
mont, the Princess de la Tremouille, 
Madame de Raigecourt (the friend 
of Madame Elizabeth), Madame de 



The Mother of Lamartine. 



173 



St. Aulaire, the Duchess de Broglie 
(Madame de StaeTs daughter), Ma- 
dame de Montcalm (the Duke de 
Richelieu's sister), Madame de Do- 
lomieu, whom I knew so well at the 
Duchess of Orleans' ; then there are 
many eminent men who eagerly prof- 
fer their friendship to him who was 
so obscure but yesterday the young 
Duke de Rohan, the virtuous Ma- 
thieu de Montmorency, M. Mole, M. 
Laine, said to be such a great orator, 
M. Villemain, the pupil of M. de Fon- 
tanes, whom he sees at M. Decazes', 
the king's favorite, and a thousand 
others. Thou knowest, O my God! 
how proud I am of this unexpected 
cordiality toward my son, but thou 
knowest also that I ask not for him 
what the world calls glory and hon- 
or, but to be an upright man, and 
one of thy servants like his father : 
the rest is vanity, and often worse 
than vanity !" 

And when, still later, she goes to 
Paris, and meets the distinguished 
circle in which he moved, is received 
by Madame Recamier with her in- 
comparable grace, and hears Cha- 
teaubriand, one of her favorite au- 
thors, read, and sees the prestige 
which her son had acquired, she con- 
fesses to a feeling of gratification at 
his fame, but adds : " I pray God for 
something higher than all this for 
him." 

But to return to her life at Milly. 
The tenderness of her nature was not 
confined to her own family, but was 
always responsive to every appeal. 

To quote from her journal : " I 
was told after dinner that a friendless 
old man, whom I saw after, that liv- 
ed in a hut on the mountain, with 
only a goat for a companion, had just 
been found dead. The news greatly 
distressed me, for I had reproached 
myself for not having gone to see 
him lately it wa,s so far. It is true 
I thought he had recovered, but I 



should not have trusted to that at his 
age. I ought to have been more at- 
tentive to him. My heart is full of 
remorse. In the good I do, and in 
everything, I am not persevering 
enough. I grow weary too soon and 
too frequently. I am too easy led 
away by distractions or weariness, 
which are not sins, but weaknesses, 
and hinder from a holy use of time. 
Was not time given us that every day 
and hour something might be done 
for God, both in ourselves and for 
others ? I went to walk this evening 
with my husband and two eldest 
daughters. We went through the 
vineyard, now in bloom. The air was 
perfumed with their pleasant odor. 
Our vines are our only source of in- 
come for ourselves, our domestics, 
and the poor. If there are as many 
bunches of grapes as of blossoms, we 
shall be quite well off this year. May 
Providence preserve them from hail ! 

" We approached the hut above the 
vineyard where the poor old man 
died in the morning. I wished to 
enter it once more in order to pray 
beside him. My husband was not 
willing, fearing the sight of him would 
make too great an impression on me 
and the children. I wished to ask 
pardon of his soul for not having been 
there to utter some words of consola- 
tion and hope during his agony, and 
to receive his last sigh. The door 
was open : his goat kept going out 
and in, bleating as if to call assistance 
in its distress. The poor creature 
made us weep. My husband con- 
sented for me to send for it to-mor- 
row after the burial, and give it a 
place with our cow and the children's 
two sheep." 

Another day she writes : " I went 
to see an old demoiselle of eighty 
years, who lives on an annuity in one 
of the upper chambers of the cha- 
teau. Her only companion is a hen, 
who is as attached to her as a tame 



174 



The Mother of Lamartine. 



bird. She is called Mademoiselle 
Felicite. In spite of her wrinkles 
and hair as white as the wool on her 
distaff, it is evident she must have 
been very handsome once. My hus- 
band has consented to my wish not 
to disturb her in spite of the incon- 
venience it causes us. Old plants 
must not be transplanted. The 
places where we live become truly a 
part of ourselves. She is taken care 
of by Jeanette, the sexton's wife, 
once a servant at the chateau, and 
who knows all its past history: we 
love to hear about those who lived 
before us in the same dwelling. All 
this excites to reflection. Some day 
I shall be spoken of as having been, 
and perhaps the day is not far off! 
My God, where shall I then be? 
Grant it may be in thy paternal 
arms !" 

The means of the family seem to 
have been quite limited during the 
first years of her married life. This 
made them anxious as to the vintage 
on which their income chiefly de- 
pended. She thus writes : " The 
day has been unfortunate. There 
have been several showers, and the 
hail has crushed our vines. This 
is more distressing, for they were 
loaded with grapes. My heart is 
very heavy to-night on our own ac- 
count and that of our poor vine- 
dressers. This shows how much I 
still involuntarily cling to the things 
of earth. It is as if I thought happi- 
ness due me, for the least affliction 
immediately casts me down. My 
God ! make me realize at last the 
nothingness of the things of this 
world, that I may set my heart only 
on those that are eternal !" 

And later : " The will of God be 
done ! These were the last words I 
wrote in my journal at the last date. 
They are the first on to-day's page. 
The great storm yesterday was a ter- 
rible misfortune to us. The hail 



completely destroyed our harvest. 
We should have had a fine crop, and 
now there remains scarcely enough 
for our poor laborers to exist on. I 
am ill with sorrow and anxiety. This 
misfortune will oblige us to make re- 
trenchments and privations. All our 
plans to go to Macon for the education 
of our children are frustrated. We shall 
probably have to sell our horse and 
char-d-bancs. But it is the will of God : 
this ought to be sufficient to console 
me for everything. The fewer plea- 
sures I have in the world, the less I 
shall cling to it, and the more I shall 
look forward to that world which 
alone is important and imperishable 
our eternal home. Nothing hardens 
the heart and so fills it with illusions 
as prosperity, and what seems hard 
to human nature is perhaps a very 
great grace from God, who wishes us 
to cling to the only real treasures by 
depriving us of what is only dust. 
I can say this with more sincerity to- 
day : yesterday the blow seemed too 
hard. My husband showed great 
courage more than I though he 
was greatly distressed for the mo- 
ment. He said : ' Provided neither 
your nor our children are taken away 
from me, I can resign myself to any- 
thing. My riches are in your hearts.' 
Then he prayed with me. Mean- 
while we could hear the noise of the 
hail which was breaking the branch- 
es and the glass, and the peasants in 
the court sobbing in despair." 

As in all the old patriarchal Ca- 
tholic families, Madame de Lamar- 
tine was not unmindful of the spiri- 
tual interests of her servants : " Af- 
ter dinner, which is at one, I read, 
then sewed awhile, after which I read 
a meditation on the Gospel to my 
domestics. I am going presently to 
end the day at the church, whose dim 
light inspires devotion and recollec- 
tion. It is there I fill the void dur- 
ing my husband's absence." 






The Mother of Lamartine. 



"September 5, 1802. We have 
just established family prayers. It 
is a very impressive and salutary 
practice, if, as the Scripture says, we 
wish like brethren to dwell together 
in unity. Nothing elevates the hearts 
of servants so much as this daily 
communion with their masters in 
prayer and humiliation before God, 
who knows neither great nor small. 
It is also good for masters, who are 
thus reminded of their Christian 
equality with their inferiors according 
to the world. 

" My poor aunt, who took care of 
me in my infancy, is dead. I am ex- 
tremely uneasy about the fate of poor 
old Jacqueline, her femme-de-cham- 
bre, who was a second mother to 
me, and is now left alone, and per- 
haps poor. I wish at whatever cost 
to receive her here. The family are 
opposed. My husband fears, and 
with reason, to contradict his brothers 
and sisters, on whom we rely a good 
deal for our children. He proposes 
to pay secretly Jacqueline's board in 
a house at Lyons, where she will no 
longer lack food and care, but I 
would like to fulfil my obligations of 
gratitude toward this poor woman to 
their utmost extent. If I were in her 
place, and she in mine, nothing would 
prevent her from receiving me, even 
in her bed." 

The domestics of the old families 
in France seemed to have been re- 
garded as a part of the family. Ser- 
vice was almost hereditary, and a 
bond on both sides. In the French 
Revolution, nine out of ten of those 
proscribed by law who escaped were 
saved by the devotedness of their 
domestics. Madame de Lamartine 
shows how fully she regarded the tie 
that bound her to every member of 
her household as a sort of spiritual 
relationship. 

" Palm-Sunday, 1805. There is a 
great commotion in town and coun- 



try. The emperor arrives to-day with 
all his court. We are tres genes, be- 
cause we are to lodge Mgr. de Pradt, 
Bishop of Poitiers (the emperor's 
chaplain ; since Archbishop of Ma- 
lines, so celebrated for playing the 
courtier at that time, and for his sub- 
sequent ingratitude towards Napoleon 
after his fall]. I prefer this guest to 
any other of the retinue." 

Of course the parenthetical clause 
is by M. de Lamartine. It seems 
Mgr. de Pradt was not wholly un- 
grateful to the emperor, for the de- 
claration issued by the allied sover- 
eigns at the Congress of Laybach in 
1821, so insulting to the memory of 
Napoleon, called forth from the Arch- 
bishop of Malines the following no- 
ble protestation : 

" It is too late to insult Napoleon 
now : he is defenceless, after having 
so many years crouched at his feet 
while he had the power to punish. 
Those who are armed should respect 
a disarmed enemy. The glory of a 
conqueror depends, in a great mea- 
sure, on the just consideration shown 
toward the captive, particularly when 
he yields to superior force, not to su- 
perior genius. It is too late to call 
Napoleon a revolutionist after having, 
for such a length of time, pronounced 
him to be the restorer of order in 
France, and consequently in Europe. 
It is odious to see the shaft of insult 
aimed at him by those who once 
stretched forth their hands to him as 
a friend, pledged their faith to him 
as an ally, sought to prop a tottering 
throne by mingling their blood with 
his. 

" This representative of a revolu- 
tion which is condemned as a princi- 
ple of anarchy, like another Justinian, 
drew up, amid the din of war and 
the snares of foreign policy, those 
codes which are the least defective 
portion of human legislation, and 
constructed the most vigorous ma- 



The Mother of Lamartine. 



chine of government in the whole 
world. This representative of a re- 
volution, vulgarly accused of having 
subverted all institutions, restored uni- 
versities and public schools, filled his 
empire with the masterpieces of art, 
and accomplished those stupendous 
and amazing works which reflect ho- 
nor on human genius. And yet, in 
the face of the Alps which bowed 
down at his command ; of the ocean 
subdued at Cherbourg, at Flushing, 
at the Helder, and at Antwerp ; of 
rivers smoothly flowing beneath the 
bridges of Jena, Serres, Bordeaux, 
and Turin ; of canals uniting seas to- 
gether in a course beyond the control 
of Neptune; finally, in the face of 
Paris, metamorphosed, as it was, by 
Napoleon, he is pronounced to be 
the agent of general annihilation ! 
He, who restored all, is said to be 
the representative of that which de- 
stroyed all! To what undiscerning 
men is this language supposed to be 
addressed ?" 

Napoleon himself at St. Helena, 
though he censured Mgr. de Pradt's 
course as ambassador at Warsaw, re- 
garded the tribute he subsequently 
paid him as an amende honorable. 

Las Cases, alluding to his notes 
from the emperor's statements and 
those about him, says : " I, however, 
strike them out in consideration of 
the satisfaction I am told the empe- 
ror subsequently experienced in pe- 
rusing M. de Pradt's concordats. For 
my own part, I am perfectly satisfied 
with numerous other testimonies of 
the same nature, and derived from 
the same source." * 

It was during this visit of Napo- 
leon at Macon he held some conver- 
sation with M. de Lamartine [the 
poet's uncle] in Mgr. de Pradt's pre- 
sence. " What do you wish to be ?" 
said the emperor at the close. " No- 

* See Abbott's Napoleon. 



thing, sire," was the reply. The em- 
peror turned away with a look of 
anger. 

"Lyons, April 26, 1805. I came 
here with my sister to see the Pope. 
I saw him pass from the terrace of a 
garden near the archeveche where 
he stops. Yesterday I went to the 
Pope's Mass at St. Jean's Church. I 
had a good view of all the ceremo- 
nies, but found it difficult to reach 
the throne in order to kiss his slipper. 
However, I had this happiness. This 
aged man has the aspect of a saint, 
as well as some of the Roman pre- 
lates who were with him, especially 
his confessor." 

" May 12, 1805. Our fortunes are 
improving. My husband has just 
bought M. d'Osenay's hotel at Ma- 
con. The garden is small, but the 
house is immense. We are furnishing 
it, and shall take possession of it this 
summer. My husband allows me six 
hundred francs a month, and all the 
provisions from our two estates, for 
the household expenses, and to pay 
for Alphonse's board [at school]. This 
is more than sufficient. I cannot 
cease to admire the providence of 
God toward us, and am ever ready 
to give up all he bestows on me 
when he wishes and as he wishes." 

There is an interesting description 
of this new home in the Nouvelles 
Confidences, and of the circle of friends 
whom they drew around them. Ma- 
dame de Lamartine desired this 
change for the benefit of her daugh- 
ters, but her own tastes inclined her 
to the retirement of the country. 

She thus writes September 7 : " I 
am again at St. Point, which I prefer 
to any other residence in spite of the 
dilapidation of the chateau. I long 
for a still more profound retreat a 
moral one. We must from time to 
time enter into the solitude and si- 
lence of our own hearts." " It seems 
to me if I were free I would conse- 



The Mother of Lamartine. 



177 



crate myself entirely to God. apart 
from the world. But we are always 
wishing for something different from 
the will of God. Is it not better to 
desire only his will ?" 

She describes the life she leads 
with her daughters as almost conven- 
tual. They all go to Mass every 
morning. After breakfast they read 
the Bible or some religious book, and 
then resume their studies history, 
grammar, etc. After dinner and an 
hour's recreation, they sew and study. 
At nightfall they say the Rosary to- 
gether, and in the evening she plays 
chess with her husband, and some- 
times reads one of Moliere's come- 
dies. " I see no harm in it," she 
says with her characteristic delicacy 
of conscience. " I skip every dan- 
gerous word." They finally have 
family prayers, at which she improvis- 
es a short meditation aloud. Her 
great object, she says, is to cultivate 
a genuine spirit of piety in her chil- 
dren, and to keep them constantly 
occupied. 

'' September, 1807. I am enjoying 
the seclusion at Milly alone with my 
children. Madame de Sevigne is my 
society. I took a long walk to-night 
on Mount Craz, above the vineyard 
back of the house. I was all alone. 
I take pleasure in such long strolls at 
this hour in the evening. I love the 
autumn time, and these walks with 
no other company but my own 
thoughts. They are as boundless as 
the horizon and full of God. Na- 
ture elevates my heart, and fills it 
with a thousand thoughts and a cer- 
tain melancholy which I enjoy. I 
know not what it is, unless a secret 
consonance of the infinite soul with 
the infinity of the divine creation. 
When I turn back and see from the 
heights of the mountain the little 
lights burning in my children's cham- 
ber, I bless Divine Providence for 
having given me this peaceful, 
voi. xv. 12 



hidden nest in which to shelter 
them ! 

" I finish always with a prayer 
without many words, which is like 
an interior hymn, which no one hears 
but thee, O Lord ! who hearest the 
humming of the insects in the tangle 
of furze which I tread under my feet." 

" Milly, April n, 1810. I passed 
the night here with Cecile and Eu- 
genie. The weather is fine, and I 
longed to enjoy a pleasant spring 
morning which I find delicious. As 
soon as I rose I went into the gar- 
den, where I passed three hours 
reading, praying, meditating, thank- 
ing God for his benefits, and endeav- 
oring to profit by them. The weath- 
er is lovely, the trees are full of buds 
and blossoms which perfume the air. 
The leaves are beginning to put 
forth, the birds to sing, the little in- 
sects to hum. Everything in nature 
is reviving and being born again. I 
am inexpressibly happy when I can 
be at peace in the country at this 
sweet time of early spring. Unfor- 
tunately I am obliged to return to 
town for I know not how long, but I 
wish only the good pleasure of God, 
and my only desire is to fulfil my 
duty wherever he calls me. 

" Ah ! how much I have to re- 
proach myself for. I go to extremes 
in everything. In the world I am 
too worldly, in retirement too aus- 
tere. Present surroundings have too 
sensible an effect. I am not well. 
I offer my sufferings to God. I 
pray a little. I read a good deal. 
I am extremely impressed by the 
shortness of life, and the necessity of 
preparing for eternity. I often en- 
deavor to be fully penetrated with 
what I remember to have once writ- 
ten that this life must be regarded 
as a purgatory, and whatever suffer- 
ings the good God sends I should 
look upon as sweet in comparison 
with what I merit. 



I 7 8 



The Mother of Lamartinc. 



" What makes me tremble is the 
establishment of my six children, and 
all the difficulties I foresee in this re- 
spect. But this anticipated trouble 
is wrong ; for, after the assistance of 
God in so many circumstances, I 
ought to expect it still more in this 
the great object of my life." 

In fact, she succeeds wonderfully 
in disposing of her daughters a la 
Franfaise, and, to our American eyes, 
they are wonderfully docile, but per- 
haps edifyingly so. Her lovely 
daughters all marry gentlemen who 
are so fortunate as to have the par- 
ticle de to their names a thing of 
vast moment with the French gen- 
try. 

One of them, Cesarine, a dazzling 
beauty of the Italian style and said 
to have a lively resemblance to 
Raphael's Fornarina, has her little 
romance, which her mother favors, 
but the fates frown adversely in the 
person of lafamille, to wit, the formi- 
dable uncles and aunts. How poor 
Madame de Lamartine ever got such 
a jury to agree on the sentence of 
any suitor is no small proof of her 
talent for diplomacy. In this case 
the objection was for pecuniary rea- 
sons only, for the de was not wanting 
" de miserablesraisons de societe," 
says the mother, who adds : " They 
would not be very rich, but I could 
keep them at home. I am obliged 
to conceal from my husband's fa- 
mily my inclination for this marriage ; 
but, if I did not oppose them some- 
times, I should never get my chil- 
dren married." 

In this instance she was at last 
forced to yield, and tell the aspirant, 
but not without tears, that Cesarine 
could not marry him. " The family 
is obstinate in its refusal. I am in 
despair. The young man still hopes 
against all hope." Luckily at least 
luckily for the family peace Cesa- 
rine, though sad, is touchingly sub- 



missive the lovers are separated for 
ever. The chivalric Alphonse tells 
his sister not to do violence to her 
feelings that he will take her part 
against the whole set; but the gentle 
maiden declares we persist in be- 
lieving, in our fondness for a bit of 
sentiment, that she made a virtue- of 
necessity in view of those Gorgons 
and chimeras dire declares her at- 
tachment rather a feeling of gratitude 
for the love that had been given' her, 
and that she is ready to marry with- 
out repugnance the estimable man 
destined to replace the one she has 
lost ! 

Nothing more could be said. She 
marries unexceptionably M. de Vig- 
net, the nephew of the celebrated 
Count de Maistre, author of Du Pape, 
and goes to Chambery to become a 
member of a very distinguished, fa- 
mily. She died a few years after. 

Some years later, Madame de La- 
martine records a visit from the dis- 
carded suitor of six years before. 
" We did not speak of Cesarine, but 
his very presence and tender manner 
said enough. I cried heartily." 

In 1824, she records the affecting 
and edifying death of her daughter 
Suzanne, whose loss, as well as that 
of Cesarine, her affectionate nature 
never recovers from. Her heart 
seems now to turn more fully toward 
heaven. The latest records in her 
journal evince a constantly increas- 
ing devotional frame of mind. ' The 
surviving daughters are all married, 
and her son's prospects extremely 
flattering. She says : " I should be a 
happy mother had I not lost two 
flowers from my crown. Ah ! what 
a void their loss makes when I walk 
here in the garden in the evening, 
and yearn to see them and hear 
their voices. I must detach myself 
more and more from the world in 
spite of myself. 

" I have this year formed the hab t 



The Mother of Lamartine. 



179 



of going to Mass before light. It 
is better to snatch the first moments 
of the day from the bustle and plea- 
sures of the world, and first render to 
God the things that are God's, and 
then to the world what belongs to 
the world. I sometimes find it hard 
to go out in all kinds of weather from 
my warm room to attend what is 
called the servants' Mass, to which 
the poor go ; but are we not all poor 
in divine grace, and all servants to 
our parents, our husbands, and our 
children ? I am abundantly repaid 
by the recollection I feel in the dim 
church, the fervor of my prayers, and 
the calmness and strength I derive 
from the Divine Presence which ac- 
companies me throughout the day 
after thus fulfilling a paramount ob- 
ligation." 

Only a short time before the dread- 
ful accident that caused her death, 
Madame de Lamartine thus reviews 
her past life, as if conscious of her ap- 
proaching end : 

"Milly, October 21, 1829. To- 
day the birth-day of my first-born. 
I am here alone, and have consecrat- 
ed the day to meditation to strength- 
en my soul and prepare it for death. 
How many times in my life I have 
paced up and down this alley of me- 
ditation, where no one can see me 
from the house, with my rosary in 
my clasped hands, meditating or 
praying ! Alas ! what would have 
become of me in all my interior and 
exterior trials had God not visited 
me in my meditations, and suggested 
holier and more consoling thoughts 
than my own ! It is a great grace to 
have this facility for recollection in 
God, which has inclined me almost 
every day of my life to consecrate 
some hours, or at least some minutes, 
in thinking exclusively of him. He 
loves these heart-to-heart appeals to 
his divine compassion. He inclines 
his ear to listen to the pulsations of 



the pious heart that turns toward 
him ! I felt this more than ever to- 
day, and came away all bathed in 
tears, without perceiving it while 
walking in the alley. It seemed as 
if my whole life passed before me, 
and before him who is my Creator 
and Judge ! 

" Oh ! may his judgment, which is 
approaching, be merciful. 

" I saw myself, as if but yesterday, 
a child playing in the broad alleys 
of St. Cloud; then, still young, a 
canoness, praying and chanting in the 
Chapel at Salles, undecided whether 
to make my vows like my compan- 
ions, and consecrate my whole life to 
praising God in a place of retreat be- 
tween the world and eternity ; I saw 
my husband, young and handsome, 
come in his rich uniform to visit his 
sister, Madame de Villars, the canon- 
ess, under whose care I had been 
placed because she was older and 
more reasonable than I. I saw his 
attention was particularly directed to 
me above all the restj and that he 
profited by every opportunity of vis- 
iting his sister at the chapter. As 
for me, I was struck with his noble 
features, his somewhat military airy 
his frankness of expression, and a 
haughtiness that seemed only to un- 
bend toward me ; I remember the 
emotion of joy shut up in my heart 
when he at length asked through his 
sister if I would consent to his de- 
manding me in marriage ; then, our 
first interview in his sister's presence, 
our walks in the environs of the chap- 
ter with the elder canonesses, his open- 
ly expressed wish to marry me, and 
the continued opposition, and the 
many tears shed in the presence of 
God during three years of uncertain- 
ty to obtain the miracle of his fami- 
ly's consent, which appeared impossi- 
ble; finally, 0ur years of happiness 
in .this poor solitude of Milly, then 
much more humble than at present ; 



i8o 



The Mother of Lamartine. 



my despair when, scarcely married, 
he desperately sacrificed all, even 
me, to fulfil his duty at Paris, defend- 
ing as a simple volunteer the palace 
of the king on the loth of August : 
the divine protection which enabled 
him to escape covered with blood 
from the garden of the Tuileries, his 
flight, his return here, his imprison- 
ment, my apprehensions as to his 
life, my visits to the wicket of the 
prison, where I took my son to kiss 
him through the bars; my walking 
with my child in my arms, through 
the streets of Lyons and Dijon, to ap- 
peal to the rude representatives of 
the people, a word from whom was 
life or death to me ; the fall of Ro- 
bespierre; the return to Milly, the 
successive births of my seven chil- 
dren, their education, their marriages, 
the vanishing of those two angels 
from earth, for whose loss the remain- 
der cannot console me ! 

" And now the repose after so much 
weariness ! Repose, yes, but old 
age also, for I am growing old, what- 
ever they say. These trees that I 
planted; the ivy I set out on the 
north side of the house that my son 
might not tell an untruth in his Har- 
monies where he describes Milly, and 
which now covers the whole wall 
from the cellar to the roof; these 
walls themselves covered with moss ; 
these cedars which were no higher 
than my daughter Sophie when she 
was four years of age, but under 
which I can now walk all this tells 
me I am growing old ! The graves 
of the old peasants whom I knew 
when young, which I pass as I go to 
church, tell me plainly this world is 
not my abiding-place. My final rest- 
ing-place will soon be prepared. I 
cannot refrain from tears when I 
think of leaving all, especially my 
poor husband, the faithful compan- 
ion of my early years, who is not 
feeble, but suffers and needs me now 



to suffer, as he once needed me to 
be happy! My children, my dear 
children ! Alphonse, his wife, by 
her affection and virtue, a sixth 
daughter; Cecile and her charming 
children, a third generation of hearts 
that love and must be loved ! And 
then those who are wanting, but 
who follow me like my shadow in 
the Alley of Meditation ! Alas ! my 
Cesarine, my pride on account of 
her marvellous beauty, buried far 
away behind that Alpine horizon 
which continually recalls her remem- 
brance ! Alas! my Suzanne, the 
saint who wore too soon the aureola 
on her brow, and whom God took 
from me that her memory might be 
for me an image of one of his angels 
of purity ! Dead or absent ones, I 
am here alone, having borne my 
fruit some fallen to the ground like 
that of yonder trees, and others re- 
moved far from me by the Husband- 
man of the Gospel! Ah! what 
thoughts attract me, pursue me in 
this garden, and then force me to 
leave it when they cause my heart 
and my eyes to overflow ! Ah ! this 
is truly my Garden of Olives ! 

" O my Saviour ! has not every 
soul such a garden ? Alas, yes ! this 
was my garden of delights and now 
it is laid waste and desolate. It is 
my Garden of Olives where I come 
to watch before my death ! And yet 
it is dear to me, in spite of the va- 
cancies time and death have made 
around me, even while seeking be- 
neath yonder linden-trees for the 
white dresses of my children, and 
listening for their gay voices "exclaim- 
ing over an insect or a flower in their 
border ! 

"What had I done that God should 
bestow on me this corner of the 
earth, and this small house, of whose 
size and barrenness I was sometimes 
ashamed, but which proved so sweet 
a nest for my numerous brood ? Ah ! 



The Mother of Lamartine. 



his name be blessed ! his name be 
blessed ! and after me may it still shel- 
ter those who will always be a part 
of me. 

" But I hear the bell at Bussieres 
ringing the Angelus. 

" Let us leave all this it is better 
to pray than to write. I will dry my 
tears, and all alone in my alley I will 
say the rosary, to which my little 
daughters used to respond as they 
followed me, but which only the 
sparrows in their nests and the fall- 
ing leaves now hear. No; no, no, 
it is not good to give way too much 
to tears. I must keep my strength 
for duties to be accomplished for 
we have duties even on the death- 
bed. 

" It is the will of God ! Let us 
abandon ourselves to him entirely ! 
The only true wisdom consists in 
this to resign ourselves to his adora- 
ble will. I have been busying my- 
self here in putting in order my old 
journals, which has led me to look 
them over with interest. This always 
fills me with fresh gratitude for all 
the grace I have received from God, 
and with regret for my little progress 
in piety, after all the good resolutions 
and reflections I have so often made, 
but with so little profit. But there is 
time, always time, while God gives us 
life, to profit by it to prepare for hea- 
ven. This is what I beg him with my 
whole heart as I finish this book, 
praying him to shed on me, and on 
all who belong to me, abundant spi- 
ritual blessings. As to temporal bless- 
ings, I only ask for them as far as 
they may be necessary for gaining 
heaven, but I abandon myself with 
all my heart to his paternal decrees. 
May he bless me in my children, in 
my friends, in all who have loved 
me, and whom I have so much loved 
on earth!" 



These are the last words Madame 
de Lamartine wrote in her journal. 
Some days after, in entering a bath, 
she found the water too cool, and 
turned the faucet. The boiling wa- 
ter dashed up on her chest. She 
fainted. Her cry was heard, but it 
was too late. She was removed to 
her chamber. Consciousness return- 
ed, and she lived two days. During 
her last hours she constantly exclaim- 
ed : " How happy I am ! How hap- 
py I am !" Being asked why, she 
replied : " For dying resigned and 
purified." 

Her son was at Paris, and did not 
arrive till after the funeral. Remem- 
bering her wish to be buried at St. 
Point, he had her removed. The 
grave was opened at midnight, one 
cold night in December, when the 
ground was covered with snow. 

The peasants, whom she loved and 
who loved her, took turns in carrying 
the bier eight leagues, her son on 
foot behind. Not a word, not a 
whisper, was to be heard on the way. 
When they approached Milly, be- 
tween two and three o'clock in the 
morning, all the peasants stood in 
their door-ways, with pale faces and 
tearful eyes, holding lamps in their 
trembling hands. They all came out 
to follow the procession to Milly, 
where her coffin was placed for a 
while at the entrance, on the very 
benches where every morning sat the 
needy to whom she used to distribute 
food or medicine. 

All the sobbing crowd came up to 
sprinkle her body with holy water 
and utter a prayer. 

M. de Lamartine afterward built a 
chapel over the grave of his mother 
at St. Point, which bears on its cor- 
nice the inscription : 

"SPERAVIT ANIMA MEA." 



1 82 A Quarter of an Hour in the old Roman Forum 



\ QUARTER OF AN HOUR IN THE OLD ROMAN FORUM 
DURING A SPEECH OF CICERO'S. 



A PASSAGE FROM CICERO'S SPEECH IN SUP- 
PORT OF L. LICINIUS MURENA'S CANDI- 
DACY FOR THE CONSULATE, AGAINST 
THAT OF SERVIUS SULPICIUS TWENTY 
YEARS BEFORE CICERO'S ASSASSINA- 
TION CICERO AND C. ANTONY BEING 
CONSULS SIXTY-TWO YEARS BEFORE 
CHRIST. 

INTRODUCTORY NOTE : Servius Sul- 
picius was perhaps the most emi- 
nent practitioner of his day in that 
branch of the law which belongs to 
the " special pleader " and the " con- 
veyancer " ; but so little of a speaker 
that he would not venture alone to 
recommend his own cause or to urge 
his claims before the Roman people. 
He employed Cneius Postumius, then 
very young, and Marcus Cato, a 
most weighty orator, whose charac- 
ter, however (and a reputation for 
unswerving principle and the austerest 
virtues), had a larger share than the 
mental power of his words in secur- 
ing to them influence and authority. 
It was less important what Cato said 
than that it had been said by Cato. 
How very different was the case 
with Hortensius ! A stranger, whose 
face, whose name, not one of the 
audience knew, fitly delivering any 
of Hortensius' harangues, would 
have commanded attention from the 
first, retained it to the last, raised 
many an interrupting tempest of ap- 
plause during its progress, and left, 
when he had finished, a powerful, a 
formidable impression. 

Hortensius was that Bolingbroke 
of the Roman Forum to whom the 



huge and intelligent assemblies he 
addressed were what the organ is to 
a Smart or the violin to a Sivori. He 
had hewn a lane through many a 
group of brilliant opponents and ri- 
vals, with an Excalibar forged by ge- 
nius and by study together (and few 
at last cared to face the weapon), to 
the very throne of contemporary elo- 
quence. And there, for years, he sat 
at ease, a king. A suitor despaired 
of his cause beforehand upon learn- 
ing that Hortensius had been retain- 
ed on the other side. Of course, his 
wealth had become enormous, and 
his indirect influence (for, although 
he had had his year of the Consulate, 
he cared not very much about poli- 
tics) was an element, a " quantity," 
which had to be taken into account 
by statesmen and generals, by the 
senate, and by the consuls. 

In the case of " Sulpicius against 
Murena " (Murena had defeated Sul- 
picius in the canvass for the ensuing 
year's Consulate, and this was a pro- 
secution of revenge to unseat the 
future and " designated " chief ma- 
gistrate), Murena had retained Hor- 
tensius, M. Crassus, afterwards the 
Triumvir, and Marcus Tullius Cicero. 
Now, during about ten years past, 
Hortensius although speaking with 
the same charm and the same glamour 
as ever had ceased to sit upon the 
throne or to wear the crown of elo- 
quence. A far mightier spirit, a far 
finer genius, a far deeper student a 
master upon whom his competent 
and appreciative glance rested with 



During a Speech of Cicero s. 



183 



an admiration at once boundless and 
hopeless had, after a gallant struggle 
on his part, so utterly eclipsed him 
that there was now a greater distance 
between Tully and Hortensius than 
there ever had been between Hor- 
tensius himself and those accomplish- 
ed but defeated competitors to whom 
Hortensius had long been a wonder 
and a despair. 

Cicero, however, had passed a 
sleepless night before the day of this 
trial : his voice almost failed him ; 
he looked haggard ; his nerves had, 
for the moment, given way, and with 
them his presence of mind. In charm 
of manner, in vigor of delivery, in 
clearness and percussion of utter- 
ance, in external grace, and dignity, 
and ease, his ancient rival for once 
surpassed him ; nay, till the respec- 
tive speeches were reported, and 
could be compared on perusal, Hor- 
tensius created the illusion that he 
had at last, in all respects, overtaken 
his victor, and would yet again con- 
tend for the palm of pre-eminence. 

This never was to be. The brok- 
en heart of the only orator known to 
human records, who might perhaps 
have performed such a task, had then 
been mouldering for three centuries 
in a small island of the ygean Sea. 
We have bored the reader enough 
about the advocates, and have men- 
tioned also what Servius Sulpicius, 
the prosecutor, was. The defend- 
ant, L. Licinius Murena, was, on the 
other hand, a distinguished soldier. 
He had served as a sort of adjutant- 
general to the famous Lucullus in 
that series of campaigns by which 
he had greatly reduced, without over- 
throwing (a task reserved for Pom- 
pey), the power of Mithridates. Ex- 
cept Hannibal, and perhaps Antio- 
chus (\ve do not reckon Pyrrhus, for 
Rome was in the gristle then), no 
enemy had ever waged so formidable 
a warfare against the Romans as 



Mithridates. He was a winged beast. 
How his fame remains ! What par- 
ties and excursions you Crimean gen- 
tlemen made to the spot where his 
ashes are supposed to have been in- 
urned and intempled ! Lord of eve- 
ry seaboard of Pontus and the Eux- 
ine, and lord of the " Evil Sea " it- 
self; of ten thousand rich cities ; of 
five hundred strong fortresses ; of five 
hundred thousand armed men ; of 
horses enough to mount the hordes 
of a Genghis Khan ; of half-a-dozen 
numerous, adventurous, and well- 
found fleets ; of treasures uncounted 
and uncountable ; adroit, bold, proud, 
insatiably enterprising ; no mean cap- 
tain ; an object of worship to his fol- 
lowers ; magnificent and munificent ; 
an implacable hater of the Roman 
name; the long-alight, far-flaming 
meteor of the East he threatened 
to shake hands in Spain, across all 
Europe, with Sertorius; to make the 
shores of Italy quake at the white 
clouds of his sails, and to teach the 
waters of the Atlantic as well as 
those of the Levant to know either 
the sceptre or the sword of Mithri- 
dates. It was no child's play to 
bring this potentate to the dust. , 

Against such a potentate, in the 
post next to that of the commander- 
in-chief (who happened, besides, to be 
a great general), Murena had served 
for years with the most brilliant effi- 
ciency and distinction. 

Sulpicius, among other things (al- 
leged bribery, etc.), had sneered at 
the presumption of Murena, a' man 
" who had been principally with the 
army " and out of Rome, in enter- 
ing into competition with, or daring 
to come forward as the rival of, a 
person of his, Sulpicius', dignity, 
learning, and professional station, 
standing, rank. 

We have said enough perhaps too 
much to frame the little picture 
which we want to present to our read- 



A Quarter of an Hour in the old Roman Forum 



ers ; to set it near the right window as 
you pass. That little picture is the 
argument in which Cicero (who was 
on terms of personal intimacy with the 
prosecutor, as well as with his gallant 
client) firmly questions yet ques- 
tions with the most exquisite urbani- 
ty the rather exorbitant pretensions 
of Sulpicius, the "learned convey- 
ancer and special pleader," to a high- 
er consideration than " ought to be, 
or could be," allowed to the instruc- 
tion, the knowledge of many sorts 
(geographical, historical, administra- 
tive, tactical, and technical ay, 
strategical even and of characters ; 
of general statistics ; of actual local 
supplies ; of incidental resources, ma- 
terial and moral), and to the profes- 
sional industry, to the labors, the 
wounds, the dangers, to say nothing 
of the valor and the genius of a pa- 
triotic and public-spirited soldier, 
who had led armies to victory, had 
stormed great strongholds, and had 
not only defended the frontier of the 
empire, but enlarged it, with every 
circumstance of legitimate splendor 
and honorable success. 



TRANSLATION EX "PRO MURENA " SE- 
COND PART OF THE " CONTENTI >N." * 

11 1 recognize in you, Servius Sul- 
picius, all the respectability and dis- 
tinction that family, character, intel- 
lectual toil, and such other accom- 
plishments can confer, as may entitle 
any one to aspire to the Consulate. 

" In all these respects I know Mu- 
rena to be your equal ; and so nicely 
your equal, that we can neither ad- 
mit any inferiority on his part, nor 

* N. B. Be it observed that what follows is an 
attempt to translate the untranslatable. Not 
only the idiomatic proprieties are lost, but the 
strain of public sentiment and public thinking 
which the speaker took into account in every 
remark is changed : and the rhythm defies repro- 
duction, etc. 



concede the slightest precedency on 
yours. 

" You have taunted Murena with 
his genealogy, and extolled your own. 
If you mean, in all this, that no one 
can be deemed of honorable parent- 
age who is not a patrician, you will 
bring the masses [plebs, not popu- 
lus ] to withdraw [ secede ] once 
more to Mount Aventine. But if 
there are considerable and distin- 
guished plebeian families why, both 
the great-grandfather and the grandfa- 
ther of Murena were actually praetors ; 
and his father, when laying down the 
prastorian office, having received, in 
the amplest and most honorable form, 
the solemnity of a capitolian triumph, 
left thereby the more accessible to 
my client the avenue to the Consul- 
ate, inasmuch as it was for a digni- 
ty already earned by the father, and 
due to him, that the son became a 
candidate. 

" Your nobility, Servius Sulpicius, 
although of the highest class, is best 
known to men of letters and to anti- 
quaries ; to the people and the elec- 
tors, not so obvious : your father, you 
see, was of knightly rank ; your 
grandfather famous for nothing very 
remarkable so that no loud modern 
voices, but rather the remote whis- 
pers of antiquity, attest the glories 
of your race. For which reason, I 
have ever claimed you as one of us ; 
a man who, although but the son of 
a knight, yet have achieved for your- 
self a fair pretension to the honors of 
the chief magistracy in the republic." 
[He means that he was not presump- 
tuous in offering himself to the elec- 
tors for the Consulate : " summd am- 
plitudine dignus " are the words.] 

" Nor, for my part, have I ever 
looked upon Quintus Pompey, a new 
man, and bravery itself, as having 
less worth and dignity than Marcus 
yEmilius (Scaurus], one of the lead- 
ers of our aristocracy ; for there is the 



During a Speech of Cicero's. 



185 



same merit in the mind and the 
genius which hand down to posterity 
the glory of a name not inherited 
(and this Pompey has achieved), as 
to revive, like Scaurus, by personal 
services, the half-dead honor of an 
ancient line. However, I was under 
the impression, judges, that my own 
exertions had succeeded in rendering 
the objection of lowly birth obsolete 
in the case of persons of merit per- 
sons who, if we recall not merely the 
Curii, the Catos, the Pompeys, of a 
former age, architects of their own sta- 
tion, and men of the loftiest spirit, but 
the Mariuses, the Didii, the Cceliuses 
of almost yesterday, had been left ly- 
ing in the shade. But when, after so 
long an interval, I myself had storm- 
ed those fastnesses of nobility, and had 
struck wide-open for the admission 
of merit not less than of nobility, in 
the time to come (as they used to 
be among our ancestors), the ap- 
proaches to the Consulate, I certain- 
ly did not expect, while a ' designat- 
ed ' consul, sprung from an ancient 
and illustrious family, was defended 
by an actual consul, the son of a Ro- 
man knight " [Cicero was himself at 
that moment vested with the Consul- 
ate], " that the accusers would ven- 
ture to taunt him with the newness 
of his origin ! For, indeed, it was 
my own lot to be candidate for the 
chief magistracy in competition with 
t\vo eminent patricians, one of them 
as conspicuous for the abandoned 
audacity of his wickedness, as the 
other for his modesty and virtue 
and to vanquish both : Catiline, by the 
respect in which my character was 
held ; and Galba, in the love and con- 
fidence of the people. And, surely, 
had it amounted to any reproach to 
to be a new man, I lacked neither 
enemies nor enviers. Let us drop, 
then, this discussion about family, a 
point in which the present competi- 
tors are both alike distinguished ; let 



us see what the other allegations are. 
' Murena sought the Qucestorship with 
me : and I was made Qu&stor first. 
An answer is not expected to be giv- 
en to every little nothing ; nor does 
it escape any of you. when a number 
of persons obtain simultaneously the 
same grade of the magistracy, while 
only one of them can stand first on 
the list of announcements, that to be 
first declared in point of time is not 
the same thing as to be declared first 
in point of rank ; for the obvious rea- 
son, that there must be earlier and 
later entries in every catalogue, al- 
though each name on it bears, for the 
most part, the very same honor. 
But the quaestorships of both pretty 
nearly coincide as to the ' partition ' ' 
[of region] : " my client, under the 
Titian law, had a silent and quiet 
province ; you, that Ostian province 
at the mention of which the people, 
when qucestors are drawing lots, 
usually utter shouts not so much a 
favorite or distinguished, as a busy 
and troublesome department. The 
names of each of you continued dor- 
mant in quaestorships ; for fortune 
gave to neither a field wherein your 
valor might respectively have been 
exercised and displayed. The ulte- 
rior periods of time which are brought 
into rivalry were by each of you 
very differently spent. Servius pur- 
sued here, along with us, this civic 
warfare of replications, pleas, caveats; 
replete with care and vexations; 
learnt the civic law ; kept late watch- 
es ; toiled hard ; was the servant of 
every one; endured the stupidities, 
bore with the arrogance, was sur- 
feited with the perplexities of hun- 
dreds ; lived at the will of others, 
not according to his own. It is 
highly honorable, and wins men's fa- 
vor, that one man should labor in 
a pursuit which is useful to so many 
others. And all this while, how was 
Murena engaged ? He was serving as 



1 86 



A Quarter of an Hour in the old Roman Forum. 



adjutant-general to the bravest and 
wisest of men, a consummate cap- 
tain, Lucius Lucullus, in which ser- 
vice he led the army, engaged the 
enemy, was repeatedly [often] at close 
quarters with him ; routed large for- 
ces ; took cities now by storm, now 
by siege ; so traversed that opulent 
Asia, that Asia famed for its seduc- 
tions, as to leave behind him not 
one trace either of care for its wealth 
or pursuit after its gaieties ; in short, 
during a war of the first magnitude, 
played such a part, that, while he 
shared, and shared with distinction, 
in every achievement of the com- 
mander-in-chief, the commander-in- 
chief had no part in numerous and 
notable services of his. Although I 
speak in Lucullus' own presence, yet, 
lest it should be supposed that he 
allows me, on account of Murena's 
actual danger in this prosecution, to 
exaggerate his merits, let me remind 
you that everything I state rests upon 
official and public evidence evi- 
dence in which Lucullus awards to 
his second in command an amount 
of credit which never could have pro- 
ceeded except from the most candid 
and the least jealous of chiefs. Each 
of the present competitors possesses 
every title both to personal respect 
and to social position; and I would 
pronounce them equal, if only Ser- 
vius allowed me. But he will not 
allow me. He persists in his quarrel 
with soldiering; he inveighs against 
the whole of Murena's adjutant-ge- 
neralship. He will have it that the 
supreme magistracy is the natural re- 
ward of this, his desk and chambers 
[" assiduitatis, etymologically silting- 



ness] work; these daily labors of 
his. ' What !' quoth he, ' you will 
have been with the army all these 
years ; you will never have been seen 
in the Forum ; and then, after such 
a disappearance, you pretend to com- 
pete for the highest dignities with 
men who have spent their lives in 
the Forum ?' In the first place, 
Servius, you are not aware how irk- 
some, how wearisome to people, this 
assiduity of ours is. To me, indeed, 
the ' in sight, in mind ' brought with 
it its conveniences ; but I surmount- 
ed the danger of tiring people by my 
immense laboriousness : you may 
have done the same ; but a little less 
of our everlasting presence would 
have hurt neither of us. 

" However, passing over this, let us 
come to the comparison of your 
several studies and acquirements. 
How can there be any doubt, but that 
warlike glory carries with it far more 
likelihood than that of the law to 
win the Consulate ? You keep night- 
watches, that you may give an opin- 
ion to your consulting clients; he, 
that he may reach his destination in 
good time with his army. You awake 
in the morning to the crowing of the 
cocks; he is called by the battle- 
breathing trumpets. You array plead- 
ings ; he, armies. You are careful 
not to let your clients be captured ; 
he, to keep from capture cities and 
camps. He studies how the enemies' 
forces, and you how neighbors' drains 
and roof-rains, may be held at bay. 
He knows how to extend our boun- 
daries ; and you, how to litigate about 
our ' boundings and buttings ' " 
Ccetera desunt, hie. 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



187 



A SALON IN PARIS BEFORE THE WAR. 



PART I. 



VANITY OF VANITIES. 



MESDAMES FOLIBEL occupied a 
double set of rooms an premier on the 
Boulevard des Italiens. On a door 
to the right a large brass plate an- 
nounced that Madame Augustine Fo- 
libel presided over " lingerie et den- 
telles" and invited the public to 
"tourner le bouton" To the left a 
large steel plate proclaimed Madame 
Alexandrine Folibel " modiste" and 
invited the public to ring the bell. 
But after a certain hour every day 
both these invitations were negatived 
by a page in buttons, who, stationed 
at either door, kept the way open for 
the ceaseless flow of visitors passing 
in and out of the two establishments. 
My friend Berthe de Bonton was 
just turning in to the lingerie depart- 
ment when I came up the stairs. 

"How lucky!" she cried, run- 
ning across the landing to me, then 
sotto voce : " Madame Clifford [pro- 
nounced Cliefore] is here, and wants 
me to choose a bonnet for her. Now, 
if there's a thing I hate, it is choos- 
ing a bonnet for an Englishwoman. 
To begin with, they don't possess the 
first rudiments of culture in dress, 
then they can never make up their 
minds, and they find everything too 
dear ; but the crowning absurdity is 
that they bring their husbands with 
them, and consult them! Fignrez- 
Tons, ma chcre /" And Berthe, with a 
Frenchwoman's keen sense of the co- 
mic, laughed merrily at the ludicrous 
conceit. I laughed with her, though 
not quite from the same point of 
view. 

" I made an excuse to get away 
for a few minutes, and left the me- 



nage discussing a pink tulle with ma- 
rabout and beetle-wings trimming 
un petit poeme, cherie but," she 
caught me by the arm, " fancy Ma- 
dame Clifford's complexion under 
it!" 

" Ah, bonjour, mesdames ! I am at 
the order of ces dames. Will they 
take the pains to seat themselves 
just for one second ?" continued Ma- 
dame Augustine, who greeted us in 
the first salon, where she was carrying 
on a warm debate on the relative me- 
rits of Alen9on "versus Valenciennes 
as a trimming for a bridal peignoir. 

" I merely wanted to say a word 
with reference to my order of yester- 
day. Where is Mademoiselle Flo- 
rine ?" inquired Berthe, looking 
round the room, where there were 
several groups ordering pretty things. 

" Florine ! Florine !" called cut Ma- 
dame Augustine. 

" Void, madame /" 

Mademoiselle Florine was a plump 
little boulette of a woman, who 'wove 
her nose retrousse' and always look- 
ed at you as if she had reason to 
complain of you. Without being 
uncivil, she looked it ; her nose had 
a supercilious expression that made 
you feel it was considering you de 
hant en bas. The fact is, Mademoi- 
selle Florine was not happy. She 
was disappointed, not in love, but 
with life in general, and with lingerie 
in particular. She had adopted lin- 
gerie as a vocation, and now it was 
going down in the world ; it was de- 
generating into pacotille ; grandes 
dames began to grow cold about it, 
and to wear collars and cuffs that a 



i88 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



petite bourgeoise would have turned 
up her nose at ten years ago. More 
grievous still was the change that 
had come over petticoats. The de- 
terioration in this line she took ter- 
ribly to heart, and the surest way to 
enlist her good graces and secure her 
interest in your order, be it ever so 
small, was to preface it with a sigh or 
a sneer at red Balmorals or other gau- 
dy and economical inventions which 
had dethroned the snowy jupon blanc 
of her youth, with its tucks and frills 
and dainty edgings of lace or em- 
broidery. Berthe, it so happened, 
very strongly shared this dislike to 
colored petticoats, and was guilty 
of considerable extravagance in the 
choice of white ones ; Mademoiselle 
Florine's sympathies consequently 
went out to her, and, no matter how 
busily she was engaged or with 
whom, she would fly to Berthe as to 
a kindred soul the moment she ap- 
peared. 

" I have been thinking over those 
jupons a traine that I ordered yester- 
day," said Berthe to the pugnacious- 
looking little lingere, " and I have an 
idea that the entre-deux anglais will be 
a failure. We ought to have decid- 
ed on Valenciennes." 

" Ah ! I thought Madame la Com- 
tesse would come round to it !" ob- 
served Mademoiselle Florine with a 
smile of supreme satisfaction. " I 
told Madame la Comtesse it was a 
mistake." 

" Yes, I felt you didn't approve ; but 
really twelve hundred francs for six 
petticoats did seem a great deal," ob- 
served Berthe deprecatingly. " Now, 
suppose we put alternately one row 
of deep entre-deux and a tnyaute de 
batiste edged with a narrow Valenci- 
ennes instead of all Valenciennes ?" 

" Voyons rtflc'chissons /" said Ma- 
demoiselle Florine, putting her finger 
to her lips, and knitting her brow. 

" It occurred to me in my bed last 



night," continued Berthe, " and I fel- 
asleep and actually dreamed of it, 
and you can't think how pretty it 
looked, so light and at the same time 
tres garni." 

" So much the better ! Talk to me 
of a customer like that !" exclaim- 
ed Mademoiselle Florine, clasping 
her hands and turning to me with a 
look of admiration which was almost 
affecting from its earnestness. " There 
is some compensation in working for 
madame, at least. If those ladies 
knew what I have to endure from 
three-quarters of the world !" And she 
threw up her hands and shook her 
head in the direction of the premier 
salon. " But let me get out the mo- 
dels, and see how this dream of Ma- 
dame la Comtesse's looks in reality." 
Boxes of lace and embroidery were 
ordered out by the excited lingere, 
and under her deft and nimble fin- 
gers the dream was illustrated in 
the course of a few minutes. Berthe 
was undecided. She sat down and 
surveyed the combination in silent 
perplexity. 

" Really this question of jupons 
makes life too complicated !" she said 
presently ; " and now I begin to ask 
myself if these will go with any of 
my new dresses ? The crinoline 
eventail is going out, Monsieur 
Grandhomme told me, and they will 
never go with the queue de moineau 
that he is bringing in !" 

Here was a predicament ! 

" Attendez" said Florine, dropping 
a dozen rouleaux of lace on the floor 
as if such costly rags, the mere mor- 
tar and clay of her airy architecture, 
were not worth a thought. " Let us 
leave the question of jupons unsettled 
for a while; I will go myself this eve- 
ning and discuss the toilettes of Ma- 
dame la Comtesse with her femme 
de chambre ; we will see the style 
and fall of the new skirts, and adapt 
the. jupons to them." 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



189 



" How good you are !" exclaimed 
Berthe, looking and feeling grateful 
for this unlooked-for solution of her 
difficulty. 

" It is a consolation to me, Madame 
la Comtesse," replied Mademoiselle 
Florine with a sigh, " and I need a 
little now and then !" 

We wished her good-morning. 
" Let us go back now to Alexandrine," 
said Berthe ; " I hope Mrs. Clifford 
has made up her mind by this time." 
But the hope was vain. Mrs. Clif- 
ford was standing with her back to 
the long mirror, looking at herself as 
reflected in a hand-glass that she 
turned so as to view her head in 
every possible aspect, while Mr. 
Clifford looked on. " Do you think 
it does?" she inquired as we came 
up to her. 

" I think a darker shade would 
suit you better," I said; "that pale 
pink has no mercy on one's com- 
plexion." 

" I've tried on nearly every bonnet 
on the table," she said, looking very 
miserable, " and they don't any of 
them seem to do." 

" Madame will not understand that 
the first condition of a bonnet's suit- 
ing, after the complexion of course, is 
that the hair should be dressed with 
regard to it," interposed Madame 
Alexandrine, who I could see by her 
flushed face and nervous manner was, 
as she would say herself, a bout de 
patience ; " these bonnets are all made 
for the coiffure a la mode, whereas 
madame wears tin peigne a galerie" 

" Dieu ! but it is six months since 
\\\Q peigne a galerie has been heard of!" 

I suggested, in aid of this undeni- 
able argument, that the comb should 
be suppressed. 

" Oh ! dear, no, I wouldn't give it 
up for the world !" said Mrs. Clifford, 
with the emphatic manner she might 
have used if I had proposed her giv- 
ing up her spectacles. 



" Then you must have one made 
to order." 

" Yes," said Madame Alexandrine, 
" I will make one for madame aftei 
a modele a part " 

" But then it will be dowdy and 
old-fashioned," demurred the Eng- 
lishwoman. 

" Then let madame sacrifice le 
peigne a galerie / What sacrifice is it, 
after all ? Nobody wears them now ; 
they belong to a past age," argued 
Madame Alexandrine, appealing to 
me. 

" This one was a present from my 
husband," replied Mrs. Clifford, in a 
tone that seemed to say : " You under- 
stand, there is nothing more to be 
said." 

I did not dare look at Berthe. 
Luckily she was beside me, so I could 
not see her face, but I saw the muff 
go up in a very expressive way, and 
she suddenly disappeared into a little 
salon to the left, set apart for caps and 
coiffures de bal. I heard a smother- 
ed " burst," and a treacherous armoire 
a glace revealed her thrown back in 
an arm-chair, stuffing her handker- 
chief into her mouth, and convulsed 
with laughter. 

Madame Folibel, whose risible 
faculties long and hard training had 
brought under perfect control, receiv- 
ed the communication, however, with 
unruffled equanimity. 

" That explains why madame 
holds to it," she answered very seri- 
ously ; " it is natural and affecting. 
Still, one must be reasonable ; one 
must not sacrifice too much to a sen- 
timent. Monsieur would not wish 
it," turning to the gentleman, who 
stood with his back to the fireplace 
listening in solemn silence to the con- 
troversy. " Monsieur understands 
that the chief point in madame's toi- 
lette is her bonnet. I grieve to say 
English ladies themselves do not suf- 
ficiently realize the supremacy of the 



190 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



bonnet ; yet a moment's reflection 
ought to show them how all-import- 
ant it is, how necessary that every 
other feature in the dress should suc- 
cumb to it. The complexion, the 
hair, the shape of the head, are all at 
the mercy of the chapeau. Of what 
avail is a handsome dress, and .fash- 
ionable shawl or mantle, costly fur, 
lace an irreproachable tout-ensemble, 
in fine if the bonnet be unbecom- 
ing ? All these are but the rez-de- 
chausse'e and the entresol, so to speak, 
while the chapeau is the crown of the 
edifice.. Le chapeau enfin c'est la 
femme ! [The bonnet, in fact, is the 
woman!]" At this climax Madame 
Folibel paused. Mr. Clifford, who 
had listened as solemn as a judge, 
his hands in his pockets, and not a 
muscle of his face moving, while the 
modiste, looking straight at him, de- 
livered herself of her credo, now turn- 
ed to me. 

" Unquestionably," he said in a 
serious and impressive tone, " there 
must be a place in heaven for these 
people. They are thoroughly in 
earnest." Mrs. Clifford took advan- 
tage of the aside between her hus- 
band and me to follow up Madame 
Folibel's oration by a few private re- 
marks. 

Clearly she was staggered in her 
fidelity to the " sentiment " which 
interfered so alarmingly with the suc- 
cess of the " crown of the edifice," 
but she had not the honesty to con- 
fess it outright. She was ashamed 
of giving in. Without being often one 
whit less devoted to the vanities of 
life, an Englishwoman is held back 
by this kind of mauvaise honte from 
proclaiming her allegiance to them. 
She is ashamed of being in earnest 
about folly. Now, this British idio- 
syncrasy is quite foreign to a French- 
woman ; even when she is personal- 
ly, either from character or circum- 
stances, indifferent to the great fact 



of dress, she is always alive to its im- 
portance in the abstract, and will dis- 
cuss it without any assumption of 
contemning wisdom, but soberly and 
intelligently, as befits a grave subject 
of recognized importance to her sis- 
terhood in the carrying on of life. 

" What do you advise me to do, 
dear ?" said Mrs. Clifford, appealing 
to her husband, the wife and the wo- 
man warring vexedly in her spirit. 

"Give in," said Mr. Clifford. 
" What in the name of mercy could 
you do else ! A dozen men in your 
place would have capitulated after 
that broadside ending in the woman 
and the bonnet." 

" What does monsieur say ?" in- 
quired Madame Folibel. 

Monsieur had answered his wife 
with his eyes fixed on the Frenchwo- 
man, as if she were a wild variety of 
the species that he had never come 
upon before, and might not have an 
opportunity of studying again. 

" I suppose I must sacrifice the 
comb," observed Mrs. Clifford, affect- 
ing a sort of bored indifference and 
looking about for her old bonnet, 
" so we will leave the choice of the 
model open till I have had a conver- 
sation with Macravock, my maid, 
and see what she can do with my 
hair ; she is very clever at hair-dress- 
ing." 

" Oh ! de grace, niadame !" ex- 
claimed La Folibel, terrified at the 
rough Scotch name that boded ill for 
the conronnement. " Your maid, in- 
stead of mending matters, will com- 
plicate them still more. You must 
put yourself in the hands of a coiffeur 
who understands physiognomy, and 
who will study yours before he de- 
cides upon the necessary change. If 
madame does not know such a man, 
I can recommend her mine, a coif- 
feur in whom I have unlimited trust. 
I send him numbers of my customers, 
he never fails to please them, and I 



A Salon in Paris before tJie War. 



191 



can trust him not to compromise me. 
Madame understands the success of 
my bonnets depends in no small de- 
gree on the way in which the head is 
adjusted for them. II y a des tetes 
impossibles that I could not commit 
my reputation to. I am sometimes 
obliged to make a bonnet for them, 
but I never sign it. I have my 
name removed from the lining, and 
so edit the thing anonymously. It 
would compromise me irremediably 
if my signature were seen on some 
of your country-women's heads !" 

Mrs. Clifford, awakened to the re- 
sponsibility she was about to incur, 
promised to consult the artist instead 
of her Scotch maid; whereupon 
Madame Folibel handed her a large 
card which bore the name Monsieur 
de Bysterveld and his address. Un- 
der both was a note setting forth 
his capillary capabilities, and inform- 
ing the public that 

Monsieur de Bysterveld under- 
takes to prove that it is possible to 
become a hair-dresser and yet remain 
a gentleman." 

The modiste then assisted Mrs. 
Clifford to tie on her bonnet, observ- 
ing, while she smoothed out the rib- 
bon carefully as if trying to make the 
best of a bad case : 

" I am glad for her own sake that 
madame has consented to give up 
\\\a.ipeigne a galerie. It really is an in- 
justice to her head, and it is simply 
out of the question her having a 
chapeau compilable while that im- 
pediment exists. Madame will be 
quite another person," she continued, 
addressing Mr. Clifford. " Monsieur 
will not recognize her with a new 
chignon and in a bonnet of mine." 

"Oh! then I protest," said Mr. 
Clifford dryly; he understood French, 
but did not speak it "I protest 
against both the chignon and the 
bonnet, madame." 

" Plail-il, monsieur?" said Ma- 



dame Folibel, looking from one to the 
other of us. 

" Dear Walter ! she means I shall 
be so much improved," explained 
the wife, laughing. 

' Improved !" repeated Mr. Clif- 
ford, not lifting his eye-brows, but 
writing incredulity on every line of his 
face. 

His wife blushed, and her eyes 
rested on his for a moment. Then, 
turning quickly to Madame Folibel, 
she made some final arrangement 
about a meeting for the following 
day. 

Just at this juncture Berthe came 
back. I was glad she was not there 
in time to catch the absurd little pas- 
sage between the two. A husband 
paying a compliment to his wife, and 
she blushing under it after a ten 
years' me'nage, would have been a 
delicious morsel of the ridicule 
anglais that Berthe could not have 
withstood; it would have diverted 
her salon for a week. 

" Well ?" she said, five notes of in- 
terrogation plainly adding : " Are 
you ever going to have done ?" 

" Cest decide" answered Madame 
Folibel, coming forward with an air 
of triumph. " Madame sacrifices the 
comb !" 

" Excellent !" exclaimed Berthe. 
" I congratulate you, chere madame. 
Even mentally, you will be the bet- 
ter of it. For my part, I know no 
little misery more demoralizing than 
an unbecoming bonnet." 

We all went down-stairs together, 
but at the street-door we parted from 
the Cliffords. 

" Where are you going now ?" ask- 
ed Berthe. 

"To the reunion at the Rue de 
Monceau," I said. " I got the/atre- 
part last night, and I want particu- 
larly to be there to try and get a 
child into the Succursale school. 
There is only one vacancy, and we 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



are six trying for it, so I fear my 
little prottgte has small chance of 
success. Come and give me your 
vote, Berthe." 

" Cfarie, I would with pleasure, 
but I am so dreadfully busy this af- 
ternoon: I promised La Princesse 
M to look in during the rehear- 
sal at her house; and then I've not 

been to Madame de B 's for an 

age, and I almost swore I'd go to- 
day." 

" Well, what's to prevent your going 
afterwards?" I cried. "It's not yet 
four, and the reunion does not last 
more than an hour. Monsieur le 
Cure arrives at a quarter-past four, 
and leaves at five." 

" But one is bored to death wait- 
ing for him," argued Berthe, " and the 
room is so hot chez les bonnes sceurs, 
and there won't be a cat there to- 
day, I'm sure; everybody is at the 
skating." 

" Oh ! the parish and the skating 
don't interfere with each other," I 
cried, laughing; " but I see you can't 
come, so good-by. I must be off. 
Mademoiselle de Galliac will be wait- 
ing for me." 

" Comment ! Is la petite to be 
there ? I particularly want to see 
her. I want to know how her snow- 
storm costume went off at the Ma- 
rine, for in the crowd I never caught 
sight of her. Chcre amie, I'll go with 
you to Monceau. After all," she con- 
tinued, drawing a long sigh as we 
stepped into her carriage, " this life 
won't last for ever; one must think 
now and then of one's poor soul." 

We were a little behind our time for 
the canvassing. Four of my rivals 
were before me in the field, and had 
robbed me of a few votes that I 
might have received by being there a 
quarter of an hour sooner. 

" Now, Berthe," I cried, " it's your 
fault, so you must bestir yourself to 
helu me. Attack those young girls 



in the window, and persuade them 
to vote for my child." 

" Who are they ?" 

"I don't know go and ask 
them." 

Berthe charged valiantly at the 
group in the window, introducing 
herself by embracing the young girls 
all round, and declaring her perfect 
confidence in their support. They 
gathered round her, fascinated at 
once by her beauty and her frank, 
attractive manner. I saw at a glance 
that the votes were safe, and that I 
had no need to bring up reinforce- 
ments in that quarter, so I set to 
work elsewhere. 

Perhaps it would interest my read- 
ers to hear something of the good 
work itself. Its object is to take 
charge of orphans of the poorest 
class, clothe, feed, and educate them 
till the age of twenty-one. The 
members are exclusively ladies, mar- 
ried or single. To be a member, it is 
necessary to be a parishioner, to pay 
a small sum yearly for the mainte- 
nance of the confraternity, and to as- 
sist at the monthly meetings, where 
the wants, plans, and progress of the 
work are discussed in presence of the 
cure, who is always president, and 
another parish clergyman elected di- 
recteur, the rest of the board trea- 
surer, secretary, and vice-president 
being chosen from amongst the mem- 
bers. When an orphan is proposed 
for admission, a written statement 
giving her birth, parentage, and cir- 
cumstances, and setting forth the spe- 
cial claims of her case, is placed on 
the green table of the assembly-room, 
at which the dignitaries preside dur- 
ing the meeting. This preliminary 
fulfilled, the next step is to secure 
the votes of the confraternity. The 
demand being always much greater 
than the supply, when a vacancy oc- 
curs it is sure to be sharply contest- 
ed. A zealous patroness takes care 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



193 



to canvass beforehand ; but, from one 
circumstance or another, there- are 
always a good many votes still to be 
disposed of on the day of the elec- 
tion, and the half-hour that elapses 
from the opening of the assembly to 
the arrival of the cure is spent in 
fighting for them, and presents a 
scene of interesting excitement. The 
patroness is looked upon as the mo- 
ther of the little petitioner, who, once 
admitted into the orphanage, is call- 
ed her " child." Those who are long 
members and very zealous succeed 
in getting in many orphans, and thus 
become mothers of a numerous fa- 
mily. The most devoted of these 
mothers are generally the young 
girls. The way in which some of 
their hearts go out to their adopted 
children is touching and beautiful 
beyond description. They seem to 
anticipate their joys and cares, and to 
invest themselves with something of 
motherhood in their relations with 
the little outcasts, who look to them 
for help in a world where, but for 
them, they would apparently have 
no right to be where no one cares 
for them, no one loves them, except 
the great Father who suffers the little 
ones to come to him, and will not 
have them sent away. 

Every month the soeurs send in a 
special bulletin of the conduct and 
health of each child, addressed to 
the adopted mother, and read by 
Monsieur le Cure at the meeting. 
According to the contents of the bul- 
letin, the mothers are congratulated 
or the reverse. Little presents are 
sent to the good children, and letters 
of reproval written to the naughty 
ones. In this way, the maternal cha- 
racter is kept up till the children 
leave the shelter of their convent 
home. Then the mothers assist in 
placing them as servants or appren- 
tices, or, better still, in getting them 
respectably married. 
VOL. xv. 13 



While Berthe was getting up votes 
for me on her side, I was busy on 
my own, and when the bell rang, an- 
nouncing, as we thought, Monsieur 
le Cure, I had a pretty good poll. 

The buzz of talk subsided sudden- 
ly ; the high functionaries broke away 
from the humbler participants, and 
took their places at the green table, 
near thefauteuils, waiting for the cure 
and the vicaire. Some of the very 
young mothers looked eager and 
flurried. One in particular, who was 
a rival candidate with me, seemed 
terribly nervous. She was about sev- 
enteen. Two young mothers on 
either side of her were speaking 
words of encouragement and trying 
to keep up her hopes. " You must 
pray hard for my success," I heard 
her say to one of them ; " the poor 
old grandfather will break his heart 
if Jeannette is refused. He can't 
take her into Les Vieillards, even 
if it were not against the rules, be- 
cause he hasn't a crust of bread to 
give her. He has nothing but what 
the sceurs give him for himself. Oh ! 
do pray hard that I may succeed !" 

" Let us say another Pater and 
Ave before Monsieur le Cure comes 
in," suggested her companions ; and 
the three friends lowered their voices, 
and sent up their pure young hearts 
together in a last appeal to the Fa- 
ther of the fatherless in behalf of the 
little orphan. 

The door opened. It was not 
Monsieur le Cure. 

" Ah, bonjour, cfier ange /" exclaim- 
ed Madame de Berac, embracing 
Berthe with effusion, and talking as 
low as if she were " receiving " in her 
own salon. " What a charming sur- 
prise to meet you ! I came to vote 
for Marguerite's/wfc/<?, and see how 
my devouement is crowned !" 

I expressed my satisfaction at vir- 
tue's proving in this case its own re- 
ward. 



194 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



" But why have I not seen you be- 
fore ?" inquired Berthe, " I did not 
even know you were in town." 

" I hardly know it yet myself," re- 
plied Madame de Berac. ' I only ar- 
rived last night. Marguerite wrote to 
me imploring me to be here if I could 
in time to vote for her. Chere ai- 
m/e" she continued, turning to me, 
" till you reminded me of it, I ac- 
tually forgot I was a member at 
all !" 

" Well, now that you are in town, 
you mean to stay ?" said Berthe. 

" He'las, I only remain a week." 

" But you said you meant to spend 
the carnival here ?" 

" When I said so, I believed it." 

" And what has changed your 
plans ?" I inquired. 

Madame shrugged her shoulders. 
" My husband has been so impolite 
as to tell me that he has no money ! 
One cannot stay in Paris without 
money." 

" Quelhomme /" exclaimed Berthe, 
with a look of pity and disgust. 

The door opened again. This time 
it was the cur<. After the usual 
blessing and prayer, he declared the st- 
ance opened, and read the reports of 
the board and the bulletins. These 
matters disposed of, the business 
of the election began at once. A 
brisk cross-examination soon put four 
candidates hors de concours. Two 
had fathers who could support them, 
but wouldn't. The confraternity 
found the children not qualified for 
its charge. Two others were not 
parishioners of St. Philippe du Roule. 
Of the six who had started, two there- 
fore only remained in the field. One 
was mine, the other was \\\Q protegee 
of the young girl whose conversation 
I had just overheard. We were to 
divide the votes between us. Our 
respective orphans had the necessa- 
ry qualifications. It only remained to 
see which of the two, as the more 



destitute, could establish the primary 
claim on the protection of the confra- 
ternity. Mine was ten years of age. 
She had two tiny brothers and a sis- 
ter some five years older than herself 
who, since the death of their mother, 
six months ago, had supported the 
whole family by working as a blan- 
chisseuse de fin by day, and as a lin- 
gere half the night. But the bread- 
winner gave way under the load of 
work, and now lay sick at the hospi- 
tal, while the brothers and the sister, 
clinging to each other in a fireless 
garret, cried out for bread to the 
rich brothers who could not hear 
them. The Cur6 de Ste. Clothilde 
had promised to find shelter for the 
boys ; but what was to be done with 
the girl? I had stated these plain 
facts in the petition, and now verbal- 
ly recommended the case to the com- 
passion of the members, and once 
again asked for their votes. 

My rival's child was twelve years 
of age. She had no brothers or sis- 
ters. She was utterly destitute, but 
in good health, and nearly of an age 
to support herself. 

Monsieur le Cur6 listened to the 
two cases, and, when he had heard 
both, his judgment seemed strongly 
impressed in favor of mine. 

In spite of the interest I felt in my 
poor little protigde, I could not help 
regretting the impending failure of 
my young competitor opposite. She 
had answered the cure's questions in 
short, nervous monosyllables, and 
now sat drinking in every word he 
said, two fever-spots burning on her 
cheeks, while her eyes swam with 
tears that all her efforts failed to 
suppress. A face of seventeen is al- 
ways interesting; but in this one 
there was something more than the 
mere attractiveness of early youth 
and innocence. There was an eager, 
awakened expression in the clear 
blue eyes, and a sensitive play about 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



195 



the grave, full lips that one seldom 
sees in so young a face. She was 
simply, almost quaintly dressed as 
contrasted with the costly elegance 
of most of the dresses around her. 
The black bonnet with the wreath 
of violets resting on the fair hair, and 
the neat but perfectly plain black 
reps costume, bespoke not poverty, 
but the very strictest economy. 

" To the vote, mesdames" said the 
cure. " I fear, Mademoiselle He- 
lene, you have a bad chance." 

" O Monsieur le Cure !" burst 
from Helene, " her poor old grand- 
father will die of disappointment." 

" My poor child, 1 hope not," said 
the cure, evidently touched by her 
distress, but unable to repress a smile 
at this extreme view. " Your pro- 
tege's 1 s having a grandfather is indeed 
an advantage on the wrong side." 

" He's blind, Monsieur le Cure ! and 
paralyzed ! and eighty-six years old !" 
urged Helene, gaining courage from 
desperation, " and his one prayer is to 
see the petite safe somewhere before 
he dies. O Monsieur le CiTre ! " 
She stopped, the big tears rolling 
down her cheeks. 

" Voyons! " said the good old pas- 
tor, rubbing his nose, and fidgeting at 
his spectacles. " Let us take the vote, 
and then we shall see. You have a 
child already, have you not, made- 
moiselle ?" 

" Yes, Monsieur le Cure ; I have 
two, but one is in the country, at the 
Succursale." 

The votes were taken, and, by a 
very small majority, I carried it. My 
voters congratulated me, while He- 
lene's friends crowded round her, 
condoling. But the poor child would 
not be comforted ; overcome by the 
previous emotion and the final dis- 
appointment, she sobbed as if her 
heart would break. 

" Oh ! really, it's too cruel to let 
that dear child be disappointed," said 



Berthe. " Can't we do something, 
Monsieur le Cure ? Can't we by 
any possibility squeeze in another 
child ?" 

" Nothing easier, madame ; you 
have only to create a new bourse, or 
get subscribers to the amount of 
three hundred francs a year for the 
term of the child's education," re- 
plied Monsieur le Cure. 

" Then I subscribe for two years 
down," said Berthe impulsively. 
" Who follows suit ?" 

" I do," said another speaker ; " I 
will subscribe for one year !" 

" And I will give forty francs," said 
a third. 

" And I a hundred," said the cure, 
who was always to the fore when a 
good work was to be helped on. 

In a few minutes, the green table 
glistened with gold pieces and notes. 
It was all done so quickly that He- 
lene had not had time to ask what 
it was all about, when Berthe ran 
up to her with the good news that 
her child was taken in, and, embrac- 
ing her tenderly, bade her dry her 
tears. 

" How good you are, madame !" 
said the young girl, returning her ca- 
ress with fervor; "but I knew you 
were good ; you have the face of an 
angel !" 

" It is better to have the heart of 
one," said Berthe, laughing, and has- 
tily rubbing a dew-drop from her 
own fair face. 

" Now, I must make haste away, 
or I shall be late for my lesson," s-aid 
Helene, after thanking the members 
who gathered about her, this time 
embracing and congratulating. 

" What lesson are you going to 
take, ma petite ?" inquired Berthe af- 
fectionately. 

" I am going to give one, mad- 
ame," replied Helene. " I live by 
giving music lessons." 

"Then you must come and give 



196 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



me some," said Berthe. "Here is 
my address. Come to me to-mor- 
row as early as you can." 

" You are not sorry I made you 



come, are you. Berthe ?" I asked, as 
we went out together. 

" Sorry ! I would not have miss- 
ed it for the world 



PART II. 



tE P ARTI . 



" Au revoir, a demain soirf" said 
Berthe, kissing a fair-haired young 
girl, and conducting her to the door. 

" What a sweet face ! Whose is 
it ?" inquired Madame de Beau- 
coeur. 

" Helene de Karodel's. Her cha- 
racter is sweeter still than her face. 
I have fallen quite in love with her," 
said Berthe. And she related the story 
of their meeting at the reunion de 
Monceau, and the acquaintance that 
had followed. 

" It is a fine old Breton name, and 
used to be a very wealthy one. How 
comes she to be earning her bread, 
poor child ?" 

" The old story," said Berthe. " Ge- 
neral de Karodel mismanaged his 
property, took to speculation by way 
of mending matters, and of course 
lost everything. He died, leaving a 
widow and three children to do the 
best they could with his pension, 
about a thousand francs a year. He- 
lene is the eldest, and what she earns 
pays for-the education of the second 
sister." 

" But the rest of the family are well 
off. Why don't they do something 
for them?" demanded Madame de 
Beaucceur. 

" Rich relations are not given much 
to helping poor ones," replied Berthe; 
" besides, these Karodels are as proud 
as Lucifer, and benefits are pills that 
a proud spirit finds it difficult to swal- 
low ; it takes a good deal of love to 
gild them." 

" Very true !" And dismissing He- 
lene de Karodel with a sigh, " Chere 



amie" said Madame de Beaucceur, 
" I am come to ask you to do me a 
service." 

Her presence indeed at so early an 
hour (it was not much past one) on 
Berthe's " day " suggested something 
more important than an ordinary 
visit. A " day " is a thing that de- 
serves to be noticed amongst the in- 
stitutions of modern Paris life. Eve- 
rybody has a day. Women in socie- 
ty have one from necessity, for the 
convenience of their visitors whose 
name is Legion. Women not in so- 
ciety have one because they like to 
be included amongst those with whom 
it is a necessity. The former speak 
of their day as " mon jour" and as a 
rule hate it, because it ties them down 
to stay one day in the week at home. 
The latter speak of it as " mon, jour 
de reception" and glory in it. For 
the former it is a mere episode, an 
occasion amongst many for toilette 
and gossip, mostly of the Grand- 
homme and Folibel kind, but often of 
a more serious character, sometimes 
even of conversation on such grave 
topics as politics, science, and theo- 
logy. For the latter, it is a grand op- 
portunity for dress, and dulness, and 
weary expectation. Madame, attir- 
ed in state, sits on her sofa like pa- 
tience on a monument, smiling, not on 
grief, but on hope hope of visitors, 
who come like angels, few and far be- 
tween. Woe be unto the false or 
foolish friend who, under any pre- 
tence of business, or kind inquiries, 
or lack of time, should pass by this 
day of days, and call on some insig- 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



197 



nificant day, when neither madame, 
nor the salon, nor the valet-de-chambre 
is in toilette to receive him ! 

But it is not into one of these drea- 
ry Saharas that we have strayed. Ber- 
the's day is as busy as a fair. So 
great is the concourse of visitors that, 
although the reception begins offi- 
cially at three, the rooms begin to 
fill soon after two, those who really 
want to speak to her alleging, as an 
excuse for forcing the consigtie, that, 
when la cour et la ville are there, it is 
a sheer impossibility to get a word 
with her. 

" A service !" repeated Berthe. " I 
hope it is not too good to be true." 

" Toujours charmante /" Madame 
de Beaucoeur took her hand and 
pressed it. " But the favor I am go- 
ing to ask does not directly concern 
myself. You know Madame de 
Chassedot ?" 

" Slightly ; I meet her here and 
there ; we bow, but we don't speak." 

" She has deputed me to speak for 
her to-day. Do you know her son 
at all?" 

" A fair youth, tall and good-look- 
ing?" 

" Precisely." 

" I think I danced with him at the 
Marine, the other night," said Berthe 
reflectively. 

" Then you know him at his best ; 
he dances divinely ; but I believe that 
is the only thing he excels in," ob- 
served Madame de Beaucoeur. 

" He is very stupid ?" said Berthe 
interrogatively. 

" Not very. Simply stupid. But 
he is, as you know, good-looking, and, 
what is more to the purpose, of good 
family and very well off. He is heir to 
his uncle, and so will one day have 
two of the finest chateaux in France, 
each representing two millions of 
money. The paternal millions have 
grown thin since the old gentleman's 
death, but the uncle's will replenish 



them soon ; he cannot last long, he 
is in bad health and seventy-six years 
of age. So the marquis is safe to be 
at the head of a very handsome for- 
tune by the time he has settled 
down." 

" Meanwhile ?" said Berthe, pre- 
tending not to see the drift of these 
preliminaries. 

" Meanwhile, his mother is very anx- 
ious to marry him. She spoke confi- 
dentially to me about it, and begged 
me to look out for a wife for her. I 
promised I would do my best. Like 
all mothers-in-law, she wants perfec- 
tion. Sixteen quarterings en regle> 
that is understood ; equal fortune of 
course ; but, although Edgar's pres- 
ent and future fortune is nominally 
four millions, as he has compromised 
one million, she would count it as 
not existing, and only exact three 
millions with his wife. This is carry- 
ing on matters on a grand scale ? 
And Madame de Beaucoeur waited 
for Berthe's approval. 

" How did he compromise the odd 
million ?" inquired Berthe evasively. 

"Mais, mon Dieu .' One must not 
examine too closely !" replied Ma- 
dame de Beaucoeur, smiling at the 
naivete of the question. 

" And besides these ?" said Berthe. 

" The girl must be pretty, and well 
brought up. I must tell you, my dear," 
continued the lady, with a sort of dif- 
fidence as if conscious that she was 
about to state some ludicrous or 
damaging fact, " that the mother-in- 
law is very pious, and she holds very 
much to having a daughter-in-law 
who is so also. Otherwise she is the 
best woman in the world, very intelli- 
gent, and will do all in her power to 
make her son's wife happy." 

"And the son himself? You 
have not said much about him. How 
far does he pledge himself to the 
same end ?" 

" Ah ! there is the difficulty !" said 



198 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



Madame de Beaucceur. "Unfortu- 
nately he won't hear of being married 
at all. The moment his mother 
speaks of it, he either turns it off in a 
joke, or, if she insists, he gets into a 
tantrum, flies out of the house, and 
she doesn't see him for a week. You 
can fancy how this complicates the 
matter for her, poor woman !" 

" It certainly is a complication," 
observed Berthe. 

" And it makes it all the more in- 
cumbent on us to try and help her," 
resumed the envoy. " So I have 
come to enlist your offices in her be- 
half. I promised her she might 
count on you, chere amie. Did I 
promise too much ?" 

" If you promised her that I would 
marry her son for her, nolens volens, 
you decidedly did," answered Berthe, 
laughing ironically. 

" Oh ! I did not go that length," 
protested Madame de Beaucceur, net- 
tled, but laughing heartily to hide her 
pique. " I only said that you were 
more likely than any other woman in 
Paris to know the girl who united all 
these conditions, and that, if you 
knew her, you would give Madame 
de Chassedot an opportunity of 
meeting her." 

" And how about Madame Chasse- 
dot meeting her ?" demanded Berthe 
perversely. " After all, the contract- 
ing powers must look each other in 
the face at least once before they 
are brought to swear eternal love and 
duty before Monsieur le Maire, and 
if this inconvenient young man flies 
out the room at the bare mention of 
such a catastrophe dear madame, I 
have the highest opinion of your dip- 
lomatic powers, but, believe me, this 
enterprise is beyond their compass." 

" Leave that to his mother," said 
Madame de Beaucoaur. " She is 
equal to it. If you find the missing 
element, and give her a chance of 
managing it, the issue is certain." 



Berthe was going to reply when 
the door opened, and the Princess de 

M was announced. When the 

usual greeting had subsided, the three 
ladies entered on the foremost ques- 
tions of the day, viz., the salon, the 
cholera, and the new comedy called 
La Beauti du Diable that was setting 
all Paris by the ears. 

The trio were not long alone. The 
rooms were filling rapidly, but the 
new-comers, instead of checking the 
conversation, enlivened it, every fresh 
arrival falling in with the current and 
propelling it. 

" The Empress does not believe it 
to be contagious, and holds it of 
primary importance that the popular 
belief to the contrary should be prac- 
tically repudiated," said an old 
senator, who joined the circle while 
the cholera was on the tapis, 
" This was the chief motive of her 
visit to Amiens. I have just been to 
the Tuileries, and heard the account 
of it." 

" Racontez, monsieur, racontez !" 
exclaimed Berthe, recognizing his 
white hairs by making room for him 
on the sofa beside her. 

" You honor me too highly, ma- 
dame !" said the old courtier, bend- 
ing to his knees before he assumed 
the place of distinction. " I should 
have at least run the gantlet with 
the plague to deserve to be so fa- 
vored. You are aware," he continued 
in a more serious tone, " that it was 
raging furiously at Amiens. The 
townspeople became so panic-strick- 
en that the victims were deserted the 
moment they were seized. Every 
house was closed. No one walked 
abroad for fear of rubbing against 
some infected thing or person. Ex- 
cept the sisters of charity going in 
and out of the condemned houses 
and hospitals, there was hardly a 
soul to be seen in the streets. In 
fact, it threatened to be a second edi- 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



199 



tion of the plague in Milan. The 
Empress, hearing all this, suddenly an- 
nounced her intention of visiting the 
city. The Emperor strongly opposed 
the project, and her ladies seconded 
him, being very loth to run the risk 
of accompanying her majesty. The 
Empress, however, held her own 
against them all, like a Spaniard and 
a woman, said she would have no 
one run any risk on her account, and 
declared herself determined to go 
alone. Two of her ladies, to save 
their credit, thereupon volunteered to 
go with her. They started by the 
first train next day, and returned the 
same evening, not at all the worse 
for the journey." 

" I dare say," remarked a young 
cre'vJ, a furious Legitimist, who always 
spoke of the Emperor as ce gaillard Ib, 
and who would have as soon dined 
with his concierge as at the Tuileries. 
" They made a tour in a close car- 
riage round the town, and took pre- 
cious care to keep clear of the dan- 
gercuis quarters." 

" I have the word of her ma- 
jesty to the contrary, monsieur. She 
visited the wards, inquired minutely 
into their organization, and spoke to 
several of the sufferers. The equerry 
who accompanied her told me that 
she held the hand of one poor fellow 
who was dying, and stooped down, 
putting her ear close to his lips to 
hear something he had to say about 
his little children : there were three 
of them, their mother had died that 
morning, and now they were going 
to be quite destitute. The Empress 
sent for them, embraced them in the 
presence of the father, and promised 
to take care of them. He expired 
soon after blessing her, as you may 
imagine." 

" She has a noble heart !" murmured 
Berthe, while a tear stood in her eye. 

" Comedie, haute comedie!" sneer- 
ed the crevt de faubourg. 



" A stroke of policy, rather," ob- 
served a Deputy du Centre, stroking 
his beard. 

" A comedian's policy !" said a 
Deputy de la Gauche ; " but it is time 
and trouble lost, the people are no 
longer duped by that sort of charla- 
tanism." 

" Say, rather, the people are tired of 
peace and prosperity, and want a 
change at any cost," said the Princess 
de M . <; You are the most un- 
manageable people under the sun. 
The wonder is, how any one can be 
found willing to govern you." 

" That is quite true," assented Ber- 
the, whose politics, of no absolute co- 
lor, leaned towards Imperialism, part- 
ly because it was the established or- 
der of things, and partly because the 
court was pleasant and its hospitali- 
ties magnificent. " We are an unruly 
nation ; but whatever one thinks of 
the Empire, it is ungrateful and unjust 
not to give the Empress credit at least 
for good intentions in this visit to 
Amiens. It was an act of heroic 
charity and courage, and that there 
was as much wisdom as charity in it 
is proved by the fact that the pesti- 
lence has decreased sensibly from the 
very day of her visit." 

" O madame, madame !" protest- 
ed the crtvt and the two deputies 
in chorus. 

" The bulletins of the last week are 
there to prove it," affirmed Berthe. 

" Where were they fabricated ?" de- 
manded the Deputy de la Gauche. 
" Perhaps Monsieur de Taitout could 
tell us ?" Monsieur de Taitout was 
Chef de Cabinet at the Ministry of 
the Interior. 

" They were issued at Amiens by 
the medical men of the hospitals 
and by the Commission of Public 
Health, I presume," replied the min- 
isterial functionary with repellent hau- 
teur. 

"They had at least a roll of red. 



2OO 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



ribbon apiece in return for their sat- 
isfactory bulletins !" pursued the De- 
puty de la Gauche, with supercilious 
irony. 

"You are evidently well informed, 
monsieur," replied the Chef de 1'In- 
terieur, provoked by the persiflage; 
and darting a glance of peculiar 
meaning at the deputy, " We may in- 
fer that you are in the confidence of 
the Minister of Police ?" 

The deputy bit his lip and reddened, 
while a suppressed titter ran through 
the company. This suspicion of 
complicity with the police, which the 
established system of compression 
and its inevitable consequence, es- 
pionage, engendered too readily, was 
apt to fall sometimes on the most un- 
likely subjects; in the present in- 
stance, however, it was all the more 
mortifying because public rumor had 
paved the way for credulity by as- 
cribing the violent antagonism of the 
Deputy de la Gauche to the fact 
of his having been disappointed in 
obtaining a prefecture under the ex- 
isting government. But Berthe, 
though she disliked and mistrusted 
him, was annoyed that he should be 
made uncomfortable in her salon. 
She disapproved of the turn the con- 
versation was taking, and by way of 
diverting it, without breaking off too 
precipitately from the subject under 
discussion, she said, addressing an 
academician who had just joined the 
circle : 

" Is it not quite possible, admitting 
panic to be the first condition of con- 
tagion, that the presence of the Em- 
press in the midst of the sick and the 
dying may have had such an effect 
on the morale of the people as could 
sufficiently explain the immediate de- 
crease in the number of deaths ? 
Instruct us, Monsieur le Philosophe !" 
" Madame, I come here to learn 
rather than to teach," replied the 
man of science with the gallantry of 



his threescore years and ten ; " but, 
since you do me the honor to ask 
my opinion, I confess that it has the 
good grace to agree with your own. 
The people were imbued with the 
belief that to breathe the infected at- 
mosphere was to die. The Empress, 
of her own free impulse, came boldly 
into the midst of it, stood among the 
dying and the dead, breathed long 
draughts of contagion, and did not 
die. Therefore contagion is a fallacy, 
and panic, instead of killing, is forth- 
with killed." 

" Your therefore, monsieur, is ad- 
mirable," said the Princess de M , 

tapping her parasol on the arm of her 
chair. " Now, let us have a truce of 
the plague, and talk of something else." 

" Yes," said Berthe, " or else talking 
may raise a panic, and we shall all 
catch it. Have you been lately to 
the theatre, monsieur ?' 

" I went last night to see La 
Beaute" du Diable" replied the phil- 
osopher. 

"Ah! And what did you think 
of it?" 

" I think, madame que la France 
est Men malade" said the old man 
gravely. 

" One need not be un des quarante 
to find that out," remarked the De- 
puty de la Gauche with a sneer. 

" Is it so very bad ?" inquired 
Berthe, turning a deaf ear to the un- 
civil commentary. 

" It is so bad," replied the acade- 
mician, " that, if I had not seen it 
with my own eyes and heard it with 
my own ears, I could not have be- 
lieved that the French drama and the 
French public could have fallen so 
low. I asked myself whether I was 
in Paris or in Sodom. From first to 
last the piece is a tissue Of license 
and blasphemy, for which I could find 
no parallel, even approximately, in the 
most ribald productions of ancient or 
modern literature." 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



201 



" Dear me !" exclaimed Berthe, 
" you quite horrify me. Why, we had 
just arranged a partie fine to go and 
see it !" 

" Take an old man's advice, ma- 
dame don't go," said the academi- 
cian impressively. 

" It all depends," said the Princess 

de M , twirling her parasol, and 

lolling back in the luxurious fauteuil, 
" if one is prepared to risk it. I am 
for my part !" 

The philosopher bowed to the la- 
dy, but offered no comment. 

" Why does the Censure permit 
such bad comedies to be played ?" 
asked Madame de Beaucoeur. " I 
thought the reason for its existence was 
the protection of the public morals ?" 

" Political morals rather, madame," 
corrected the Deputy de la Gauche, 
with an air of mock solemnity, " and 
it is most conscientious in the dis- 
charge of that duty. An irreverent 
insinuation against the government 
suffices to bring down anathemas on 
a comedy or a drama from which no 
amount of talent can redeem it. My 
friend Henri has just had a chef- 
d'oeuvre, the result of a whole year's 
labor, rejected on the plea that some 
odd passages, which cannot be re- 
moved without changing the whole 
plan, might be construed by sensitive 
Imperialists into a hit at the dynasty." 

" The judges would serve the dy- 
nasty better by exercising a little 
wholesome restraint over what may 
prove more fatal to it in the long run 
than even servile flattery," observed 
the philosopher. " What think you, 
M. le Senateur ?" 

" Que voulez-vous ?" The senator 
shrugged his shoulders. " One must 
reckon with human nature ; you can- 
not lock it in on every side. If you 
don't leave a safety-valve to let off 
the superfluous steam, the ship will 
blow up." 

" Take care the valve does not 



turn out to be a leak, or the ship 
may sink !" replied the academician. 
" Our press and our literature are 
eating into the very marrow of the 
nation's heart, and rotting it. The 
people are taught to scoff at every- 
thing to make a jest of everything, 
human and divine. Nothing is sa- 
cred to the venal scribes who pander 
to the base passions of humanity, and 
prey upon its vices and its follies. 
When public morality has come to 
such a pass that one of the first 
writers of the day publicly vindicates 
the devil's claim to our respect and 
pity as ' an unsuccessful revolution- 
ist,' and when one of the last writes 
and prints such a sentence as, ' I 
grant you the good God, but leave 
me the devil !' and that the cynical 
blasphemy calls out no stronger com- 
ment than a laugh or a shrug when, 
I say, we have come to this pitch of 
progress and civilization, it is time 
the ship's hold were looked to." 

" I grant you they are dangerous 
symptoms,", assented the senator, 
shaking his head, and preparing a 
pinch from his enamelled snuff-box. 

" A much more ominous symptom, 
to my mind, is that the nation is 
dreadfully ennuyfe" observed the 
Deputy du Centre, with a weighty 
emphasis on the adverb. " When 
France ennuies herself, it is time to 
cry, Take care." 

"Who is to take care?" said the 
Princess de M . 

"The government, madame. We 
have had this one eighteen years 
now; three years beyond the lease 
usually granted to governments in 
France, and the people are thorough- 
ly tired of it. Paris especially is en- 
nnye'e of late." 

" Paris is always ennuyee unless she 
has a war, or an exhibition, or some 
kind of a carnival, to keep her in 
good humor," said Berthe ; " but Pa- 
ris is not France." 



2O2 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



"Pardon, madame, Paris c'est le 
monde !" replied M. du Centre, in 
melodramatic accent. 

" Le monde, non," retorted Mad- 
ame de M ; " le demi-monde peut- 

etre." 

There was a general laugh at this 
sortie of the princess, and before it 
subsided a group of new arrivals, 
amongst whom were the Snow-Storm 
and her mother, were ushered in, and 
broke up the controversy. Several 
of the company, some who had not 
spoken a word to Berthe, but had 
merely made acte de presence in the 
crowd, withdrew. Madame de Beau- 
cceur and the Princess de M re- 
mained on. 

" Qiielle charmantejeunefille /" said 
the former sotto voce to the princess, as 
Madame de Galliac and her daughter 
sat down near them. " Who is she ?" 

" Mademoiselle de Galliac. She 
is the partie of the season. On dit 
gives her four millions." 

" Indeed !" And Madame de Beau- 
coeur, on marriageable maids intent, 
pricked up her ears. " How odd I 
should not have met her before !" 

" She has only lately arrived from 
Brittany. Our hostess patronizes her 
very zealously. I suppose she is 
looking out for a husband for her." 

Madame de Beaucceur made no 
reply, but committed the remark to 
her mental note-book. Why had 
Berthe not suggested this girl to her 
for Madame de Chassedot ? It was 
the very thing she was looking for. 
Old name, four millions one too 
many, but the inequality was on the 
right side beauty, and of course 
good principles. Madame de Gal- 
liac was known to be an excellent 
woman. How could Berthe have 
been so disobliging or so thought- 
less? Big with a mighty purpose, 
and unable to resist the need of 
communicating her ideas, Madame 
de Beaucoeur turned to the Princess 



de M , and in the strictest confi- 
dence opened her heart to her. 

But Madame de M was a for- 
eigner, and did not fall in sympathe- 
tically with French views on the sub- 
ject of marriage, and was, moreover, 
given to call things bluntly by their 
names. 

" A girl with her beauty and mo- 
ney will find plenty of willing pur- 
chasers," she argued, " and I see no 
conceivable reason for expecting that 
she will let herself be forced on an 
unwilling one. There are husbands 
to be had at every price ; she can 
bid for the best, and the best are al- 
ready bidding for her." 

" Ah !" said Madame de Beau- 
coeur, alarm mingling with curiosity 
in the interjection. 

" Why, you don't suppose a prize 
like that is likely to be twenty-four 
hours in the Paris market without 
having scores of the highest bidders 
fighting for it ?" 

" How mercenary men are ! They 
are greatly changed since -my young 
day !" Madame de Beaucoeur was 
somewhere between five-and-thirty 
and forty ; but she had been married 
from school at eighteen, and had 
heard nothing of sundry interviews 
between notaires and mothers-in-law, 
etc., that had preceded the present- 
ation of her fianct ten days before 
her marriage. 

" Very likely, but in this particular 
case it strikes me the woman is the 
mercenary party. You say the young 
man won't let himself be married, big 
dower or little one ?" said Madame 

de M , laughing, and speaking 

rather louder than was desirable in 
the presence of the marketable doiver. 

" Introduce me to Madame de 
Galliac," said her companion, striking 
a coup d^tat on the spot. 

The request was complied with, 
and the two ladies were soon absorb- 
ed in each other. 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



20- 



" What shall we do to amuse our- 
selves this week, chere madame ? 
For Wednesday we have La Beante 
du Diable with a diner Jin au caba- 
ret, and a petit souper at Tortoni's ; 
but what shall we do to kill the other 
three days ?" demanded the princess, 
who had risen to go, and now pounc- 
ed upon Berthe, who stood taking 
leave of some guests at the door. 

" I haven't an idea just at present; 
we will talk it over to-morrow night 
at Madame de .Beaucceur's. But you 
must not count on me for Wednes 
day," said Berthe, " I have changed 
my mind about going." 

" What ! You are going to play 
us false !" exclaimed the princess, her 
ugly but expressive features lighting 
up with irresistible humor, while her 
eyes shot out a cold, sardonic glance 
into Berthe's. " That old perruque 
has put you out of conceit with it ? 
But, no ! It's too absurd, ma chere /" 

" Absurd or not, I don't intend to 
go," said Berthe resolutely. " I'm 
not so brave as you are. I do not 
want to risk myself." 

" But all Paris will laugh at you. 
They will say you have turned devote, 
For mercy's sake, my child, do not 
make such a fool of yourself!" 

" Paris may say what it likes," an- 
swered Berthe, bridling up, while a 
blush of defiant pride suffused her 
cheek. " I despise its gossip, and, 
in short, I don't mean to go." 

" Seriously ?" 

" Quite seriously." 

The princess lifted her shoulders 
slowly, and as slowly let them fall. 

"/Then there is no use in my pro- 
posing a little distraction that we 
were planning, in the shape of an es- 
capade to the Bal de V Opera on Sa- 
turday night ? In dominos and masks, 
of course ?" 

" Thank you, I do not want to run 
the risk," said Berthe, smiling. 

" Adieu !" And Madame de M 



heaved a long sigh. You will make 
a charming saint, but I fear I sha'n't 
worship the saint as much as I lov- 
ed" 

" The sinner," added Berthe, laugh- 
ing good-humoredly. " Oh ! well, I've 
not donned the sackcloth and ashes, 
so you mustn't denounce me yet. 
But don't suppose," she continued, 

seeing Madame de M 's eyes fixed 

on her with a puzzled expression, " that 
I mean to reproach you for amusing 
yourself. Our positions are widely 
different. You have your husband 
to stand between you and evil tongues, 
and, again, you are not amongst your 
own people here. Honestly, would 
you go on at Berlin as you do in Pa- 
ris ?" 

" Oh !" The princess threw up her 
parasol, caught it again, and, laugh- 
ing out, said, " But Paris is a cabaret, 
where one does as one likes !" And 
with this exhaustive apology, she 
opened the door, and passed out. 

Berthe went into the second salon, 
where some of the earlier visitors had 
gathered to leave room for new arri- 
vals in the first, but she was hardly 
seated when the door was again 
opened, and Francois announced : 

" Le Marquis de Chassedot !" 

If he had announced Le Marquis de 
Carrabas, his mistress could not have 
been more astonished. Was it a 
trap that Madame de Beaucreur had 
laid for him ? But, no, Mademoiselle 
de Galliac's presence was quite for- 
tuitous, and, moreover, Madame de 
Beaucceur did not know her, so she 
could not have had any scheme into 
which the heiress' visit adjusted itself 
to-day. 

" You were kind enough to permit 
me to pay my respects to you, ma- 
dame," said the young man, walking 
up to Berthe, with his hat in both 
hands, and blushing violently while 
he doubled himself in two before her. 
" I hope'I am not indiscreet in avail- 



204 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



ing myself so precipitately of the per- 
mission ?" 

Berthe smiled her giacious clem- 
ency on the indiscretion, and the 
gentleman, backing a few steps, car- 
ried his hat toward a group of poli- 
ticians who were shaking hands in 
the window, and making appoint- 
ments before separating. 

" How extraordinary !" muttered 
Berthe, laughing to herself at the cool 
audacity of Monsieur de Chassedot. 
" I was kind enough to permit 
him ! Perhaps he is under delusion, 
and mistakes somebody else's per- 
mission for mine. Or perhaps it is 
a ruse of his mother's to put him un- 
awares in the way of the three mil- 
lions?" 

But Berthe was wrong. M. de 
Chassedot really had said something 
to her betweenthe links of the " la- 
dies' chain " about placing himself at 
her feet, and, as sh'e looked very smil- 
ing and -gracious, he took the smiles 
fo-!!'J(''^drmission. He had no view 
in Hsking it beyond that of being re- 
ceived in the salon of the fashionable 
beauty, and he was encouraged in 
presenting himself there by the know- 
ledge that he was sure not to meet 
his mother. It would be a free ter- 
ritory where he might flit about with- 
out being in perpetual dread of fall- 
ing into some net which the maternal 
solicitude was constantly setting for 
him in the salons of her devoted al- 
lies. 

Madame de Beaucoeur did not 
count amongst those redoubtable be- 
ligerents. When she called during 
the day at his mother's house, he was 
never there, and, as the habitue's of 
the marquise's Tuesday evenings were 
recruited chiefly amongst the old fo- 
gies and devotees of the faubourg, 
a class of her fellow-creatures whom 
Madame de Beaucoeur carefully 
avoided, there was no chance of 
his meeting her there in the' evening 



It was this precisely that made her 
mediation so precious to Madame de 
Chassedot. Edgar was disarmed be- 
fore her ; he did not mistrust her, and 
when, reconnoitring the company in 
the adjoining room through the broad 
glass-panel that divided the salon, he 
spied her sitting near a very pretty 
girl, the discovery gave him no shock, 
and, when Madame de Beaucoeur, 
catching his eye, nodded familiarly 
to him, he at once made his way to- 
ward her, and took up a position be- 
hind her chair. 

" I should like to go very much," 
Madame de Beaucoeur said, continu- 
ing the conversation with Madame 
de Galliac, " but I have not been this 
year since the garden opened. One 
cannot go without'a gentleman, and 
M. de Beaucoeur is always so busy 
in the evening that he can never ac- 
company me." 

" There are hundreds who would 
cross swords for the honor of replac- 
ing him, madame," declared M. de 
Chassedot, stooping over her chair, 
and throwing all the empressement 
into his voice and manner that her 
position as a married woman render- 
ed legitimate. 

" Then you shall have the honor 
without crossing swords for it," re- 
plied the lady. " Come and fetch me 
to-morrow evening at eight o'clock ; 
unless you are equal to undergoing 
a diner de menage with myself and M. 
de Beaucoeur, and in that case come 
at half-past six." 

" Madame ! Such kindness over- 
whelms me !" 

Madame de Beaucoeur said au 
revoir to the heiress and her mother, 
kissed hand to Berthe in the inner 
salon, and, granting M. de Chasse- 
dot's request to be allowed to see her 
to her carriage, they left the room to- 
gether. 

" Who is that young lady who was 
sitting beside you, madame ?" he ask- 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



205 



ed with some curiosity, when they 
were out of ear-shot on the stair- 
case. 

" Mademoiselle de Galliac. Did 
you never see her before ?" 

" Yes ; but I did not know her 
name." 

" I ought to have presented you. 
How stupid of me ! She is a nice 
girl to talk to." 

"A rhonnew; madame ! to-mor- 
row evening !" 

And the carriage rolled off, leaving 
M. de Chassedot bowing on the side- 
walk. 

Punctual to the minute, he present- 
ed himself in Madame de Beaucreur's 
drawing-room as the clock was chim- 
ing the half-hour. Monsieur de Beau- 
cceur had, of course, an appointment 
at the club, which to his infinite re- 
gret prevented his accompanying 
his wife to the Concert Musard, so 
he remained sipping his cafi twit; 
and they set out alone. 

The gardens, though only begin- 
ning to fill, presented a brilliant, ani- 
mated appearance. The central pa- 
vilion, its roof and pillars girded with 
light, glowed like the starry temple 
of an Arabian tale, while from with- 
in the orchestra sent forth its melo- 
dic stream, now tender and plaintive 
as the zephyr wooing the rose at 
midnight, now loud and valiant in 
the rhythmic dance ; balls of light 
came glistening through the foliage, 
making the trees stand out in radiant 
illumination. 

But, artistically mindful of the worth 
of contrast in scenic effect, the light 
distributed itself so as to leave certain 
parts of the garden in comparative 
shade. There, those who shrank 
from the dazzling glare of the centre 
could walk and enjoy the scene and 
the music without inconvenience. 

" Why, there is Madame de Gal- 
liac, I declare ! Let us go and meet 
her !" said Madame de Beaucceur in 



delighted surprise, and they walked 
on quickly. "What an unexpected 
pleasure, madame ! I thought you 
were going to the opera to-night ?" 

" So we intended ; but there was 
some mistake about the box ; we only 
found it out at the last moment, and 
Henriette was so disappointed that, 
to comfort her, I proposed coming 
here for an hour," exclaimed Ma- 
dame de Galliac. 

" Poor child ! But I assure you 
the music here is no despicable com- 
pensation. Let us go round by the 
left; the breeze is blowing from that 
point," said Madame Beaucoeur, and, 
without taking the slightest notice of 
Monsieur de Chassedot, she turned 
to walked on with Madame de Gal- 
liac. 

" Madame !" whispered the young 
man, touching her Jightly on the arm, 
and by a sign intimating that she had 
left him standing*ut in the cold. 

" Oh ! how stupid I am 1^ Allow 
me to introduce you : le K ' 5 de 
Chassedot la Baronne de Galnac." 

" My daughter, monsieur," said 
the latter, pointing to Henriette. 

Everybody having bowed to every- - 
body, the party moved on, the young 
people walking in front of the married 
women. 

Monsieur de Chassedot, serenely 
unconscious of the cruel snare into 
which he had fallen, and finding 
Henriette a lively, unaffected girl, 
talked away pleasantly, confining 
himself of course to authorized insi- 
pidities, such as the music, the deco- 
ration of the gardens, the weather, 
etc., and making himself, as he could 
do when he liked, very agreeable. 

" Is not that Madame de P 's 

voice ?" said Henriette, stopping ab- 
ruptly, and bending her ear in the 
direction of the sound. 

" I think it is. Let us walk on 
and see," answered her mother, and 
they quickened their steps. 



2O6 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



Now, though Madame de Beau- 
coeur liked Berthe, and as a rule was 
delighted to meet her anywhere, on 
this particular occasion she was the 
last person in Paris she cared to 
meet. She could not avoid her, how- 
ever, without awakening suspicions in 
the mind of Edgar de Chassedot 
which might prove fatal to her own 
benevolent designs on him. When 
Berthe saw the party, her surprise 
was great, and, though she said no- 
thing, her face expressed it so naive- 
ly that Henriette, being intelligent, 
noticed it, and bethought herself that 
there must be some stronger reason 
for it than the ostensible one of her 
mother's meeting and walking round 
the garden with Madame de Beau- 
cceur. 

Berthe had four gentlemen in at- 
tendance on her: a tail, distingue'- 
looking Austrian, who spoke to no 
one, but shot vinegar out of his eyes 
at a handsome young Breton on 
whose arm Berthe leant ; a dark En- 
glishman, who made up in vivacity 
what he lacked in height ; and another 
Englishman, whose notablest idiosyn- 
crasy was an eye-glass that seemed 
to be a fixture, so faithfully did it 
stick in the right eye of the wearer, 
morning, noon, and night. Over and 
above this guard of honor the beauti- 
ful widow was accompanied by He- 
Ifene de Karodel. She introduced the 
two girls, who walked on together, 
while the gentlemen and the" three 
married women followed. 

Helene and Mademoiselle de Gal- 
liac had not proceeded far when 
Monsieur de Chassedot broke away 
from the elders, and joined them. 

" Mademoiselle," he said, address- 
ing H61ene, " I have just made a dis- 
covery so agreeable that, before I 
venture to believe it, I must have 
your corroboration." 

" Indeed !" said Helene, puzzled at 
the singular apostrophe. " Couvrcz- 



vous, monsieur" Edgar remained 
bare-headed awaiting her answer 
" and let us know what this wonderful 
discovery is." 

" You are the daughter, I am told, 
of that brave soldier and true gentle- 
man, Christian de Karodel ?" 

" You have been told the truth." 
replied Helene, her eye moistening 
with grateful emotion at hearing her 
father so designated. 

" He was my mother's first cousin, 
consequently I claim close friendship 
with you," resumed the young man. 

" And your name is ?" 

" Edgar de Chassedot." 

" Ah ! we are indeed cousins ; but 
as your family seemed quite to have 
forgotten the fact, we had almost for- 
gotten it ourselves," replied Helene 
coldly. 

" It is not too late for us to re- 
member it, I hope ?" said Edgar, im- 
perceptibly emphasizing the us, and 
throwing a persuasive deference into 
his tone that subdued Helene. 

" It is strange that you should 
care ; but, since it is so, let us be cou- 
sins !" And she held out her hand to 
him.* 

Six weeks after this promenade in 
the Jardin Musard there was a diner 
de contrat at Madame de Gal- 
laic's. Theyftzw/ wore the full-dress 
uniform of a chasseur d'Afrique. 
His bronzed features attested long 
residence under Algerian skies, and 
the stars and medals on his breast 
bore witness that his days had not 
been wasted there in idle dalliance. 

The plot against Monsieur de 
Chassedot's liberty had collapsed, to 
the inexpressible vexation of his mo- 
ther, who, together with the family 
lawyer and Madame de Galliac, 
had arranged all the essentials for his 
marriage with Henriette's four mil- 
lions ; but, strange as it may seem, the 
consent of the young people them- 
selves, when demanded as a final 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



207 



condition, was actually found want- 
ing. It had come to the young lady's 
ear that Monsieur de Chassedot was 
no party to the business, and that, if he 
let himself be persuaded into marry- 
ing her, it would be quite against his 
will. Mademoiselle de Galliac there 
and then declared that she would be 
forced upon no man, were he Roi de 
France et de Navarre. And so this 
most eligible union, for want of a bride 
and a bridegroom, fell through. 

Madame de Beaucceur then called 
to mind a nephew of her husband's 
who was serving in Africa. He was 
two millions short of the requisite fig- 
ure, but he had ' de grandes espe"ranc- 
es ' and was moreover willing to be 
married, having positively written to 
his family stating this fact, and re- 
questing them to look out for a wife 
for him. Photographs were exchang- 
ed, character and principles inquired 
into, and vouched for satisfactorily 
Henriette made this a sine qua non 
and within one month from the 
day that his aunt opened negotia- 
tions with Madame de Galliac, Alex- 
andre de Beaucceur arrived in Paris 
the affianced husband of Henriette 
de Galliac. They were presented to 
each other at a morning reception, 
and met next day at the diner de 
contrat. He took her in to dinner, 
Madame de Galliac whispering to 
him with an arch smile, as Henriette 



accepted his arm, " Now pay your 
addresses ! " 

The position was an embarrassing 
one. Monsieur de Beaucceur wished 
to avail himself of the opportunity to 
win his bride's affections, but he was 
ill at ease, and, the more he strove to 
find something agreeable to say, the 
less he succeeded. When dessert was 
served, however, he took courage, 
and, bending over Henriette's wine- 
glass, he murmured timidly in a low 
tone : 

" Mademoiselle, what color will 
you have your carriage ?" 

" Blue, monsieur," the young lady 
replied in the same low tone. 

He bowed, and they relapsed into 
silence. 

This was all that passed between 
them till they swore before God and 
man to love each other until death 
did part them. 

It may interest my readers, and it 
will no doubt surprise them, to hear 
that this prosaic marriage turned out 
a singularly happy one. The young 
man was a gentleman with a con- 
science and a heart. The girl was 
sensible, high-principled, and affec- 
tionate. They were both sound at 
at heart, and they did their duty by 
each other. After all, the most ro- 
mantic union can hardly embark 
with surer or fairer elements of hap- 
piness. 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



2o8 The Legends of Oisin, Bard of Erin. 



THE LEGENDS OF OISIN, BARD OF ERIN. 

BY AUBREY DE VERB. 



V. 



OISIN'S VISION. 

As dim through snowy flakes the dawn 
Peered o'er the moorlands frore, 

The old, snow-headed Bard, Oisin,* 
Sat by the convent door. 

His chin he propp'd on that clenched hand 

Of old in battles feared : 
And like a silver flood, far-kenned, 

To earth down streamed his beard. 



That sun his eyes could see no more 

Their thin lids loved to feel : 
It rose ; and on his cheek a tear 

Began to uncongeal. 

Then slowly thus he spake : " Three times 
This thought has come to me, 

Patrick, that I am older thrice 
Than I am famed to be : 



For on the ruins of that house, 

Once stately to behold, 
Where feasted Fionn the King, there sighs 

A wood of alders old. 



" And on my Oscar's grave three elms 
Have risen ; and mouldered three : 
And on my Father's grave, the oak 
Is now a hollow tree. 

* Pronounced Oiseen. 



The Legends of Oisin, Bard of Erin. 209 

Patrick, of me they noised a tale, 

That down beneath a lake 
A hundred years I lived, unchanged, 

For a Faery Lady's sake : 



t( They said that, home when I returned, 

The men I loved were dead ; 
And that the whiteness fell that hour 
Like snow-storm on my head. 

" A song of mine a dream in youth, 

That tale, misdeemed for true : 
Far other dream was mine in age : 
A dream that no man knew. 



" For though I sang of things loved well, 

I hid the things loved best : 
Patrick, to thee that later dream 
At last shall be confessed. 



" On Gahbra's field my Oscar fell : 
Last died my Father, Fionn : 
The wind went o'er their grassy mounds 
I heard it, and lived on. 

" I loved no more the lark by Lee 

Nor yet the battle-cry ; 
And therefore in a dell, one day, 
I laid me down to die. 



" The cold went on into my heart : 

Methought that I was dead : 

Yet I was 'ware that angels waved 

Their wings above my head. 

" They said, ' This man, for Erin's sake, 

Shall tarry here an age, 
Till Christ to Erin comes shall sleep 
In this still hermitage : 

" ' That so, ere yet that great old time 

Is wholly gone and past, 
Her manlier with her saintlier day 
May blend in bridal fast. 

VOL. XV. 14 



210 The Legends of Otsm, Bard of Erin. 

" < And since of deadly deeds he sang 

Above him we will sing 
The Death that saved : and we from him 
Will keep the gadfly's wing. 

" ' For him an age, for us an hour, 

Here, like a cradled child, 
Shall sleep the man whose hand was red, 
Whose heart was undefiled.' 



" Patrick ! That vision, was it truth ? 

Or fancy's mocking gleam ? 
That I should tarry till He came 
'Twas not, 'twas not a dream ! 

" And wondrous is mine age, I know ; 

For whiter than the thorn 
Was this once-honored head before 
The men now white were born : 



" And on my Oscar's grave three elms 
Have risen : and mouldered three : 
And on my father's grave, the oak 
Is now a hollow tree." 

Then said the monks, " His brain is hurt " : 

But Patrick said, " They lie ! 
Thou God that lov'st thy gray-haired child, 

Would I for him might die !" 

And Patrick cried, " Oisin ! the thirst 

Of God is in thy breast ! 
He who has dealt thy heart the wound 

Ere long will give it rest !" 



A Jewish Convert : a Reminiscence of Vienna. 



211 



A JEWISH CONVERT: A REMINISCENCE OF VIENNA. 



AMONG the pleasant capitals of 
Europe through which a long tour 
carried the writer of this sketch, one 
of the most brilliant is Vienna. It 
has many associations of genius to 
consecrate it; Mozart and Beetho- 
ven, not to mention many lesser 
princes of music, found there both 
home and appreciation ; it has been 
the resort of elegance, the rendezvous 
of talent, the paradise of diplomacy, 
even while graver ecclesiastical and 
historical events have centred in it. 
It has its old cathedral, which, 
though disfigured by some unfortu- 
nate internal bungling of the style of 
the Renaissance, nevertheless has not 
lost its impression of religious solemni- 
ty, heightened by the deep, narrow, 
and sombre choir with the wonderful 
windows of old stained glass. Inimi- 
table and unapproachable even in its 
fragmentary state, this old glass is 
perhaps the most interesting thing in 
the old church of St. Stephen, if we 
except the stone pulpit, cunningly 
carved and placed in a recess of the 
exterior wall of the building, the pul- 
pit from which, so runs Viennese tra- 
dition, the second Crusade was pub- 
licly preached. There is among the 
records of the foundations at St. 
Stephen's one that sets forth the 
desire and prayer of the people, dur- 
ing a pestilence in the middle ages, 
that a Mass should be daily offered 
in that church for the cessation of 
the epidemic. Tradition says that a 
great wind arose, and the pestilence 
was stopped. The Mass, however, 
continues to be said daily, and it 
certainly is a remarkable fact that 
there is not one day in the year, sum- 



mer or winter, wet or dry, when the 
wind does not blow in Vienna. The 
Austrian capital, however, has yet 
more interesting associations for us 
than are called up by the cathedral, 
and the many other monuments and 
chapels by which it is historically dis- 
tinguished. In the Advent season 
of 1865, a young Jewish convert 
preached in the Schotten-Kirche a 
short course of the most eloquent ser- 
mons it has ever been our privilege 
to hear in any language or any land 
whatever. 

His name is Marie-Bernard Bauer, 
and his family, of Hungarian descent, 
is among the most influential and 
wealthy of those settled in Vienna. 
The Jews of that city have indispu- 
tably as large a share of the talent as 
of the riches of the country. The 
oldest brother of young Bauer is one 
of the greatest bankers in Austria. 
At an early age, the young Jew, fiery 
and enthusiastic, and already gifted 
with singular eloquence, threw him- 
self into the ranks of the Revolution, 
and became one of its most ardent 
emissaries. At eighteen, he was en- 
trusted with important missions and 
considered a rising Freemason. But 
during his travels he became ac- 
quainted with a young Frenchman, a 
zealous Catholic, whose influence 
and friendship laid the foundations 
of his conversion. He visited his 
friend's mother, also, who by her ex- 
ample more even than her exhorta- 
tions contributed to the work of 
grace begun in his soul by her son's 
solicitations. Bauer wore, at the re- 
quest of these two, a medal of the 
Immaculate Conception; and we need 



212 A Jewish Convert : a Reminiscence of Vienna. 



scarcely remind our Catholic friends 
of the part this blessed badge fulfilled 
in the conversion of another illustri- 
ous Jew, the Pere Marie Ratisbonne, 
the founder of the Dames de Sion, 
who has since devoted his life to the 
instruction and conversion of Jewish 
girls at Jerusalem. After being fully 
instructed in the faith, Bauer re- 
quired nothing but grace to believe. 
Being at Lyons with several worldly 
acquaintances, he happened to be 
standing on a prominent balcony, on 
the feast of Corpus Christi. The 
procession of the Blessed Sacrament 
was to pass below, and they, with 
cigars in their mouths and mockery 
in their hearts, were waiting for the 
pageant. No change came to the 
young Jew until the canopy under 
which the priest carried the Divine 
Host was close beneath the balcony. 
The change at that moment was 
lightning-like. Faith entered his 
heart, or rather as he himself re- 
luctantly admitted when pressed by 
his superiors at a later time to lay 
aside false humility and declare the 
works of God in his soul a convic- 
tion so absolute that it distanced 
faith made itself felt throughout his 
whole being. The same knowledge, 
so to speak, returned to him many 
times since while consecrating at Mass, 
and he said that he could not be- 
lieve merely, in a matter of which he 
was so blissfully and unerrably cer- 
tain. As Jesus passed, Bauer threw 
himself on his knees and professed 
himself a Christian. A very short 
time elapsed before he entered the 
novitiate of the Carmelite Friars. 
His mother, who was living in Paris, 
endeavored to see him, but was re- 
fused access to him by his superiors. 
Later on, when he had passed 
through the novitiate, he might have 
seen her, had it not been for the 
machinations of his family. For five 
years every friend and relation he 



had among his own race cruelly ignor- 
ed him, and he was kept away even 
from his mother's death-bed by their 
relentless sternness. His mother 
alone never ceased to love him, and 
had a picture painted of him in his 
monastic cowl. This portrait hung 
opposite her bed, and she died with 
her eyes fixed on it and her hands 
lovingly stretched out towards it. 
When after her death he was allowed 
by his family to visit her chamber, 
he saw a curtained picture at the foot 
of the bed, and, drawing the curtain 
aside, stood face to face with this 
touching proof of a mother's undying 
love. After some time, his fame as a 
preacher spreading fast, his family re- 
ceived him once more into their cir- 
cle, and, with strange inconsistency, 
now made almost an idol of him. 
During his novitiate, and according 
to a rule of his order, he used to 
preach in turn with his fellow-novices 
in the refectory during meals, at 
which time the generality of the 
young men in training for a religious 
Demosthenes would receive but scant 
attention from their companions. 
When Bauer's turn came, the con- 
trary, however, was observed: the 
food was untouched, and the young 
audience sat transfixed, hanging up- 
on the words of their eloquent and 
gifted companion. From the first 
his health was delicate ; the effort of 
preaching rendered it weaker day by 
day, till at length the zealous and im- 
passioned speaker, whom his friends 
prophesied to be the future Lacor- 
daire, was one day carried fainting 
from the pulpit, having broken a 
blood-vessel. A year in Spain and 
complete rest of mind and body did 
nothing more than just save his life, 
and the Holy Father, who was very 
much interested in the young con- 
vert, advised him to leave the Carmel- 
ite Order, for the austerity of whose 
rule his shattered health now ren- 



A Jewish Convert: a Reminiscence of Vienna. 213 



dered him unfit. This paternal ad- 
vice or, let us say, command 
proved a great trial to the enthusi- 
astic religious ; but, bowing to the will 
of God, he accepted his altered life, 
and prepared to make it as fruitful in 
good works as his short monastic career 
had proved. Although his health pre- 
cluded him from the exhausting work 
of preaching long Lenten stations or 
continued missions, yet, as often as 
suitable opportunities offered, he was 
to be found indefatigably working in 
the pulpit; and we leave it to those 
who have had the good fortune to 
hear him, to judge of the loss the 
Catholic world has sustained in one 
whose eloquence and fervid enthusi- 
asm rivalled that of Lacordaire, and 
whose steadfast faith and unerring 
logic far distanced that of the unhap- 
py Hyacinthe. 

In 1865, having already preached 
before the Emperor of the French in 
Paris, and been greatly commended 
by the most distinguished people 
there, both French and foreigners, 
he was called to Vienna, where his 
family resides,, and where all his for- 
mer associates and co-religionists 
awaited him with the greatest curiosi- 
ty and interest. The six lectures or 
discourses he gave in the Schotten- 
Kinhe, opposite his brother's resi- 
dence, at which he was an honored 
and feted guest, were attended by 
crowds of his own Jewish friends, be- 
sides all the elite of Viennese and for- 
eign society. The impassioned tone 
of his voice, his closely knit argu- 
ments, the air of apostleship about 
his slight figure and pale, inspired 
face, the presence of his nearest and 
dearest relations, and, above all, his 
own position toward them, in the 
very centre of his youthful Revolu- 
tionary triumphs all concurred in 
making this short station of Advent 
one of thrilling interest. At the end 
of each sermon, or conference, as the 



French say (they were delivered in 
French, which is like a second mo- 
ther-tongue to Marie-Bernard Bauer), 
he addressed a prayer to God, and, 
while the language of each succeed- 
ing discourse increased in sublimity, 
that of the concluding prayers seem- 
ed to take such flights of unparallel- 
ed grandeur that the audience could 
only kneel in motionless attention 
and unbroken silence for some mi- 
nutes after the preacher had ceased 
to speak the highest tribute, perhaps 
which an impressed people can offer 
to an orator. Marie-Bernard Bauer 
has since received the Roman title 
of Monsignore, and been .appointed 
chaplain to the Emperor of the French. 
He accompanied the Empress Eu- 
genie to the opening of the Suez Ca- 
nal, and preached a magnificent ser- 
mon on the occasion, in presence of 
the assembled potentates. But what- 
ever else he has done, whatever else 
he may be destined to do in the fu- 
ture, he will scarcely be able to sur- 
pass his admirable achievements of 
the Advent station of 1865, when he 
became, as it were, the champion 
and apologist of Christianity before 
one of those representative Jewish 
assemblies which contained within 
itself so much enlightenment, so 
much talent, and so much successful 
individuality. 

At the time when he preached 
these sermons, of which we will now 
endeavor to give some idea, as far as 
a translation will allow, he was only 
thirty-six years of age, and his frail, 
delicate body made him seem even 
younger. The following is the third 
in order of the Conferences, and was 
preached on the lyth of December, 
1865. The text is given entire, and 
the subject, as expressed in the pub- 
lished edition of these sermons, was : 

CHRISTIANITY AS A HISTORICAL FACT. 

I would fain hope, my brethren, 



214 



Jeivish Convert: a Reminiscence of Vienna. 



that the two last conferences have 
contributed, in some degree, to revi- 
vify in believing hearts both the en- 
ergy of faith and the enthusiasm of 
virtue ; that they have cast doubts in 
doubting hearts, upon the very un- 
certainty which creates doubt ; that 
they have shed around hearts petri- 
fied, so to speak, in the darkness of 
fleshly bondage, some rays of the 
twilight which is the forerunner of 
the full light of God's grace, and 
which manifests itself in such hearts 
through this question, solemnly and 
shrinkingly put : After all, might I 
not be in error? Might there not 
be, despite all, another life, a real re- 
sponsibility, a moral law, supernatur- 
al duties, a judgment, a judge, a God, 
and this God the God of Chris- 
tianity ? 

No matter to what level the Sun 
of Truth may have attained on the 
horizon of your inner life, you will 
allow me, nevertheless, to retrace, in a 
few short words, the doctrinal sub- 
stance of the two previous discourses 
{conferences}. 

Man, such as we see him, is a fall- 
en being ; he is born with the taint 
of original sin, and if to this, which 
is the form of evil, he adds and it 
is practically inevitable that he should 
his own individual sins, which are 
evil's natural outgrowth, he does but 
widen, at each moment of his exist- 
ence, the abyss that parted him from 
God since the very hour of his birth, 
and which, thus ceaselessly widened, 
becomes such, at last, that nothing 
short of a miracle will suffice to 
bridge it over. Death then, sudden- 
ly intervening, cuts short all things 
here below, and hurls the man whose 
whole life has been spent without God 
into the chasm of the unknown. From 
a phase of being where all is tran- 
sient, he is hurried to another where 
all is abiding, and from that instant 
the separation from God in which 



he has lived, and which before was 
transient in its turn, becomes abid- 
ing, and from temporal changes to 
eternal. Such are the conclusions of 
reason, which, leaning upon faith, 
point out to us in this eternal separa- 
tion the fitting seal of an eternal 
woe. 

It would not enter into my design 
toward the hearers which Providence, 
having gathered together before me, 
seems to have specially predestined 
to hear the words of eternal life from 
my unworthy lips it would not, I 
say, enter into my design to show 
them these dark spiritual perspectives, 
without pointing out at the same 
time some vista of supernatural light, 
some promise and way of salvation, 
some hopes of life, nay, even life it- 
self. No ! God forbid that I should 
become as the treacherous guide who 
draws the lost wayfarer to the very 
edge of the precipice, and there leaves 
him to himself and to the terrors of 
the ravenous depths below. Yet, 
mark it well ! the mystery of life 
leads towards death, through paths 
that skirt a giddy abyss where no 
man's self-possession is proof against 
danger ; but there is, nevertheless, an 
infallible road that leads to life through 
and in spite of the manacles of death. 
It is called by a name with which my 
lips cannot become familiar, as with a 
common word indifferently bandied 
about in careless conversation a 
name which I confess myself unable 
even to pronounce without feeling my 
whole being tremble with love and 
bow down in worship ; a name which, 
when spoken from this pulpit for the 
first time, only a few days ago, pro- 
duced an impression, or rather a mys- 
terious shock, that neither you nor I 
have yet forgotten the name of 
Jesus Christ. 

It is of him I come to speak to 
you to-day. My Father ! my Friend ! 
my Master ! abide with me, and, in 



A Jewish Convert: a Reminiscence of Vienna. 215 



order that I may be worthy to speak 
of thee, speak thou thyself through 
these my lips ! 

Among all questions put by man 
to his own intellect, whether they be 
historical, scientific, philosophical, 
social, or religious, there is none of 
more gigantic importance than this : 
Who and what is Jesus Christ ? He 
and his works have been for two 
thousand years the most notable re- 
ality of the universe; they have 
been inextricably mingled with the 
course of history, with the family 
and state relations of man to man, 
with literature, with poetry, with po- 
litics; they have been the unseen 
link that binds together all social 
problems ; they have been the main- 
spring of those mysteries that are 
convulsing the present century, and 
which are fraught to some minds 
with terror and threatenings, while 
to others they suggest hope and sal- 
vation. They have been, without the 
slightest exaggeration, all things to 
all men, and it follows, therefore, that 
according to the bent of man's judg- 
ment on Jesus Christ and his works, 
so will man's whole nature lean, his 
intellect with his thoughts, his heart 
with its feelings, his life with its acts 
and its shortcomings, his soul with 
its eternal aspirations. 

This is indeed, and beyond all con- 
tradiction, the main question of life 
that question which, solve it which way 
you will, cannot fail to produce two 
radically different types of men, and 
to open up before us two paths, as far 
apart from each other through the 
coming eternity as they are widely 
separated in the realms of time. 

But why do I insist upon the awful 
importance of this problem ? Do 
you not understand it yourselves ? 
Nay, do you not even bear witness to 
it by your presence here at this mo- 
ment ? Why are you gathered here 
men of the most varied, perhaps the 



most contradictory, beliefs ? Why are 
you crowded around this pulpit in anx- 
ious silence, breathless and motion- 
less, perhaps vaguely troubled in 
mind ? Why but because there is 
not one amongst you to whom the 
sacred name of Jesus is wholly indif- 
ferent or wholly meaningless ! If 
to some this holy name is the con- 
stant object of their highest adora- 
tion and of their tenderest, I would 
fain say the most impassioned, love, 
to others it is the object of their most 
agonizing doubts, the spiritual sphinx 
whose riddle baffles and tortures all 
ages. And further yet, while this 
name is to some the synonym of a 
smothered curse or of a hatred as 
open as it is relentless, it contains 
for all men a question of vital impor- 
tance, I might even say a question 
of life and death. My brethren, it is 
of him, who is both so marvellously 
loved and so marvellously hated, of 
him whose figure meets us at every 
turn of the past or. the present, of 
him whom the future cannot uncrown, 
that I purpose speaking to you to- 
day. 

Every cause which has produced 
an effect may be considered either 
in this effect or in itself. Hence, 
there exist two methods of demon- 
stration : the one beginning from the 
consideration of the effect, and trac- 
ing it up to the cause ; the other start- 
ing from the study of the cause, and 
deducing its legitimate effect. We 
are now about to apply to the great 
cause and the great effect before us 
this twofold species of demonstra- 
tion this extrinsic and intrinsic 
touchstone used by our intellect in ac- 
quiring its noble treasure of proved 
facts and tried certainties in the do- 
main of philosophy, metaphysics, his- 
tory, natural sciences, and, in fact, 
of every branch of human know- 
ledge. This cause is Christ, this ef- 
fect Christianity, of which he is the 



2i6 A Jewish Convert : a Reminiscence of Vienna. 



founder; and, since it is natural to 
the human mind to consider first that 
which falls more immediately under 
its own observation, I shall begin by 
investigating the effect, namely, Chris- 
tianity. This done, I shall appeal 
simply to your reason to connect the 
effect with its cause, and to discern 
through the beautiful proportions of 
the Christian system the inimitable 
stamp of its divine founder. 



Every doctrine which has become 
a fact, every fact which has won for 
itself a place in history, may be looked 
at in three ways : first, with regard to 
its extent in material space ; secondly, 
as to its duration in time ; thirdly, as 
to the depth to which it has reached 
in human nature. This division is 
no invention of mine ; it is the same 
pointed out by the Apostle St. Paul 
when he wrote to the Ephesians, and 
endeavored to explain to them the 
length and breadth, the depth and 
divinity, of the Christian faith : Ut 
possilis comprehendere cum omnibus 
sanctis quiz sit latitudo et longitudo, et 
sublimitas etprofundum (Eph. iii. 18). 

Now, as to its extent in material 
space, or, in other words, its territo- 
rial sway : 

Open the map of the world, and 
scan the globe with attentive eye : a 
strange phenomenon will strike you. 
You will hardly discover one corner of 
earth where Christianity and I use 
the word in this instance in its widest 
acceptation, excluding neither heresy 
nor schism, which, though unhappily 
rebellious, are nevertheless, in a cer- 
tain sense, real members of the Chris- 
tian household where Christianity, 
therefore, has not penetrated, either 
in undisputed and irrevocable sway, 
as in Europe and America, or as a 
peaceful conqueror, sealing its hardly- 
won victories not in the blood of its 



enemies, but in its own. Following 
closely in the wake of new discove- 
ries, it is for ever landing on new 
shores, making a home for itself 
among new populations, and winning 
new worshippers to bend beneath the 
ancient sway of the never-aging cross. 

You might rise in contradiction to 
my statement, and remind me that 
the hour has not yet struck that will 
allow us, the soldiers of Jesus Christ, 
to intone the triumphant hosanna 
of final victory, since to this day 
there are many lands, many island- 
studded archipelagoes, many vast 
and populous continents, beyond the 
pale of our peaceful conquest, and 
since, after all, the standard of the 
cross is not yet securely reared in 
every clime. 

I admit it; but what does this 
prove? That our task is not yet 
done ? But who denies that ? It is 
not done because time which is our 
only limit is likewise unended, nay, 
is perhaps only just beginning ! For 
time is the array of all ages, and 
God alone, who created them, has 
reckoned their mysterious number. 
Yes, we confess it, our work is not 
done, and therefore we are ceaseless- 
ly and everywhere laboring; and 
therefore I myself, a humble but 
zealous worker, am laboring here at 
this moment. Those alone who will 
see the end of time will see the task 
completed. That which we have 
done during the twenty centuries 
that lie behind us is only an earnest 
of what we will do in future ages, 
God's holy grace concurring. 

What, my brethren ! When we had 
no ships but frail canoes, and no 
compass but our untutored eyes; 
when we had no roads but eternal 
snows, virgin forests, and trackless 
deserts, vying with the wild beasts 
of the wilderness in barring our fur- 
ther progress ; when we had no sup- 
port but barefooted poverty and 



A Jewish Convert: a Reminiscence of Vienna. 



217 



a pilgrim's staff; no provision save 
precarious charity, and no guide save 
faith, hope undying, and God ; even 
then \ve succeeded in crossing rivers 
and seas, deserts and forests, moun- 
tain gorges and Alpine snows, that 
we might carry to the very confines 
of the world our living faith and the 
Word of our God. This ineffable 
Word has reached further than Al- 
exander, who stopped at the Indus ; 
further than Crassus, whom the Eu- 
phrates arrested ; further even than 
Varus, who was stayed by the migh- 
ty Rhine further than all conquerors, 
and further than all conquests. And 
can we believe that we have now set 
our foot on the fated threshold where 
the angel of evil would be permitted 
to say to the angel of virtue, as erst 
the latter was commanded to say it to 
his fallen brother, to Attila and the 
barbarian hordes, at the very gates 
of the Eternal City : " Usque hue ve- 
fties, sed non ultra " " Thus far shalt 
thou come, and no further " ? Do not 
believe it, my brethren ; for, on the 
contrary, it is but now that God's 
reign is beginning, and as I believe, 
so I prophesy to you, with an irre- 
sistible and invincible conviction. 

Forward, then, O human enter- 
prise! Cleave the mountains, cut 
through the isthmuses, drain the mo- 
rasses, and fill up the lakes; cast 
bridges over the waters, carry roads 
over the trackless country, build you 
mighty vessels, throw electric wires 
in the air, and gird the world with 
an iron girdle ! Let your treaties of 
commerce and navigation be signed, 
and embassies sent to nations and 
kings whose names till yesterday 
were unknown in the civilized tongues 
of Europe ! Know you what you 
are doing in thus knitting humanity 
together, and in connecting, with an 
energy unexampled in the whole his- 
tory of the past, the orient and the 
Occident, the pole and .the equator? 



In one mighty embrace their hands 
are clasped, and they offer to each 
other, if we may so word it, that gi- 
gantic kiss of peace which, day by 
day, re-echoes more loudly in both 
hemispheres. 

In all this, you are doing under 
the hand of God that which the war- 
steed does under the hand that guides 
him and the spur that urges him on. 
For, like unto the steed, who hardly 
knows whence he came, far less 
where his rapid steps are leading him 
and what is the burden that he bears 
like unto him, thou Christ- blas- 
pheming or God-forgetting age, thou 
boundest forward with maddening 
strength, carrying on thy broad 
shoulders with proud recklessness 
the rider whom thou scarcely know- 
est to the goal thou wottest not of. 
Every invention, every development 
of thy industry, far from cursing it, I 
bless it from the depths of my heart ! 
Go forward and prosper! In a hun- 
dred years, thanks to thee, Truth will 
be sovereign of the world ! 

Christianity is the greatest geo- 
graphical and territorial fact under 
the sun. It is so beyond all contro- 
versary, and if this fact, which I sim- 
ply call a miracle, seems to you na- 
tural and easy of accomplishment, I 
only ask you this : try to spread and 
propagate over the universe, not a 
whole complicated system of meta- 
physics, but one single doctrine, 
whose mortal opponents, in the first 
instance, shall number every human 
passion which repulses it as treason 
against nature, and every heathen 
government which denounces it as 
treason against authority. But I 
will not ask even so much. Endeav- 
or to persuade, not even one single 
nation, one city, one family, but one 
man, of the truth of a doctrine at 
once repulsive to his passions and 
hostile to his interests. I speak to 
you as a man whose life is devoted 



218 



A Jewish Convert : a Reminiscence of Vienna. 



to this sublime and laborious mission 
of persuasion. And knowing as I do 
its wonderful consolations as well as 
the superhuman and apparently fruit- 
less labor it often imposes, I tell you, 
my brethren, what you yourselves 
will tell me when the school of real- 
ity shall have taught it to you, that 
Christianity as it exists, spread over 
the whole earth by the godlike con- 
tagion of faith, is simply a fact so 
overwhelming that the language of 
men holds but one word fit to ex- 
press its being that one word, mir- 
acle. 

There is, however, one thing more 
marvellous yet than mere propaga- 
tion : it is duration, and a duration 
ever true to itself. 

Condense the mystery of life into 
one short formula, capable at once 
of holding and adequately expressing 
it, and you will find none more 
compre hensive than this motion and 
change. From the mass of inanimate 
being which, in the bowels of the 
earth and in the bosom of eternal 
night, is causing, by its agglomera- 
tions, its cohesions, and its fusions, 
a species of constant internal agita- 
tion, of blind and feverish restlessness 
as old as creation itself, up to the 
most dazzling pinnacles of life, where 
man figures under every name and 
in every relation conceivable among 
mortals, there exists the same law, 
there reigns the same spirit. In its 
name, by its authority, we see in 
private life one day swallowed up 
by the next, dethroned by its breath- 
less and equally ephemeral successor, 
doomed beforehand to annihilation, 
while on the stage of public life 
events crowd each other out of time 
and of the memory of man, empires 
fall, dynasties grow up under the 
double shield of God's grace and 
man's enthusiasm, frontiers are 
widened and narrowed, whole na- 
tions migrate and spread, and even 



language itself, though but an out- 
ward sign of immaterial substances 
and metaphysical proportions in no 
way themselves subject to change, 
puts on divers forms, as if carried 
away by an irresistible impulse in the 
whirl of this universal frenzy. Yes, 
my brethren, motion is everywhere, 
and, in order that even death should 
not be permitted to fling its defiance 
permanently to life, this law pene- 
trates even to the night and silence 
of the tomb, pierces the coffin, and 
installs between its four wooden walls 
the same unceasing restlessness 
which torments the great world. 
Worms, created to prey on man, riot 
with breathless agitation over the 
human corpse, and proclaim, by their 
ghastly activity in the abode of final 
destruction and in the very bosom of 
the crowning dread of earth, that 
life triumphs yet. over death, and 
that the universal law of motion 
reigns in undisputed sway over that 
kingdom of darkness that owns no 
other created sovereignty. 

And what is the result of this 
ceaseless motion ? Nothing less than 
ceaseless change. Motion is a 
change of relations with the world 
and with one's self. There is no mo- 
tion but causes change, no change 
but presupposes motion. These 
terms are convertible, and so it is 
that I justify what I told you a few 
moments ago that the concise form- 
ula of life is motion and change. It 
follows from this demonstration that 
nothing is so difficult of attainment 
as duration, and duration true to it- 
self, which is to the sovereign law of 
motion and change a permanent de- 
fiance and a marvellous contradic- 
tion. 

Let us seek in the vast sepulchre 
of Time, where during so many ages 
countless men and things, countless 
doctrines and institutions, have lost 
themselves, and in which even the 



A Jewish Convert: a Reminiscence of Vienna. 219 



shattered wrecks of once noble ruins, 
spectres of the past and often uncon- 
scious prophets of the future, have 
been swallowed up let us seek one 
man or one created thing that has 
not succumbed to this pitiless law. 
Let us seek diligently in the manu- 
scripts of old, in the caverns of for- 
gotten magic, in the tombs of buried 
sages ! Or stay, my brethren, and 
seek not ! For, like unto the alche- 
mist of mediaeval ages, we should 
seek and not find, for that which we 
seek is not. 

But if you would see this tremen- 
dous miracle of a duration as invul- 
nerable as it is abiding, lifting up its 
solitary existence in the midst of uni- 
versal change and motion, do not 
gaze afar, but turn your eyes to that 
tabernacle crowned with the cross, 
the standard and badge of Catholic 
Christianity. This, and this alone, 
abides where all else has been swept 
away by the ruthless and untiring 
breath which devours all that is, and 
ravenously awaits all that, as yet, is 
not. Christianity, and it alone, has 
lived true to itself, while all else 
around it was changing. Like unto 
God, the impassible and unchange- 
able, Christianity stands unmoved 
amidst the countless ruins with which 
you men strew the world. Chris- 
tianity, with its old principles and its 
youthful aspect, leans on the rock of 
its own eternity, and gives the lie to 
the universal law with unassailable 
and ineffable calm. Yes, it defies 
you! It sees you pass, as the shore 
looks on the lapsing river, as the 
cliif looks on the ocean, as heaven 
looks upon earth, and as God looks 
on man. 

It is strange, is it not ? It takes our 
breath away. But this is not all : it 
is scarcely the beginning. Listen ! To 
bespread over the whole earth is 
much; to live where all decays is 
more; to abide ever true to one's 



self when all things change is more 
still. My opponents, however I will 
not say my enemies, for, thank God, 
I know of none are perhaps saying 
to themselves at this moment : " But 
are there not other forms of religion 
bearing much the same marks, at 
least in a certain degree ? Islam- 
ism holds a considerable territorial 
sway. The Buddhism of India has 
surely been in a certain sense true to 
itself from time immemorial." I do 
not deny it, for truth needs no dissi- 
mulation. And it is precisely on this 
account, and because error has been 
permitted to bear in some respects a 
certain likeness to truth, that it was 
imperative, for the sake of those men 
of good- will whom this likeness might 
have deceived, that truth should pos- 
sess, besides those notes which she 
shares with error, other marks so ut- 
terly inimitable that on their appear- 
ance there could not be but instant 
recognition of that truth whose coun- 
terfeits are as legion, but whose equal 
does not exist. 

The touchstone by which to gauge 
the worth of any doctrine is neither 
this doctrine's extent in space nor 
its duration in time, nor even its im- 
passibility amid universal transmuta- 
tions ; that is much, but it is not all. 
What is of more importance than the 
limits of its influence or the length 
of its spiritual reign, is the work it 
has done. There is its secret proof, 
there its most personal revelation. 
It can give but what it has, and it 
can have but what it is ; it can pro- 
duce outwardly but what it inwardly 
possesses ; if it be falsehood, then 
falsehood ; if it be error, then error ; 
if it be evil, then evil ; if it be a half- 
truth, then half-truth; if it be hu- 
man and natural virtue, then human 
and natural virtue ; but if it be God, 
then God himself. 

Christianity, considered from this 
point of view, to which we can give 



220 



A Jewish Convert: a Reminiscence of Vienna. 



but a passing glance, will vindicate 
itself in our eyes as standing unrival- 
led on earth, even as God is unrivalled 
in heaven. 

To make my meaning clear, let 
me present to your minds one preli- 
minary observation. 

Man often lives amid the wonders 
of creation without feeling the slight- 
est curiosity in their regard, and this 
because a sublime spectacle, from be- 
ing too constantly before his sight, 
becomes only a familiar part of the 
daily monotony of his life. We 
might almost say of him that, to the 
abiding miracle of the material uni- 
verse, he opposes the miracle of abid- 
ing indifference. Now, the visible 
creation contains another, both visi- 
ble and invisible, and which, though 
far more wonderful than the material 
one, yet draws from you, on account 
of its abidingness, only the careless 
notice of indifference. Inhabitants 
of a Christian land, members per- 
haps of a Christian family, citizens 
of a Christian community, children, 
in a word, of Christian civilization, 
you are living in the midst of a 
world of miracles which has lost the 
power to interest you because it fails 
to surprise you. It is my mission 
to-day to rouse you from this indif- 
ference, to dispel this mist, to show 
you things as they are. 

Look at any Christian country, any 
Christian or civilized nation of to- 
day; the country which harbors us 
at present, if you will. Who were 
here eighteen, fifteen, fourteen cen- 
turies ago ? Not even barbarians ; 
savages ! Who was it that came 
and saved you from yourselves ? Who 
was it that drew you from the mate- 
rialism in which you were plunged 
in the person of your forefathers, and 
in which numberless tribes are gro- 
velling still to this day nations whom 
Christ has not yet gathered in, and 
who horrify the sight of the boldest 



explorers ? Who was it that drew 
you from your forests, built your ci- 
ties, founded your families, traced 
your boundaries, inspired your laws, 
reared your churches, anointed your 
kings, and created those two cen- 
tres of light around which for eight- 
een hundred years your history has 
grouped itself, and your private sym- 
pathies, your public enthusiasm, has 
revolved the altar and the throne, 
fatherland and God ? Who has re- 
claimed your fields, and made fruit- 
ful by the labor of the plough the 
glorious conquests of the sword ? 
Who has preserved in the silence and 
solitude of the cloisters the scatter- 
ed remnants of classical learning, 
and through the Scriptures and tra- 
ditions has kept alive the plenitude 
of sacred lore ? Who was it that 
created that incomparable marvel, 
of which I would fain speak with 
tears, rather than with words the 
Christian Family ? the father, the 
patriarch, priest, and pontiff of home ; 
the mother, the apostle of God ; the 
Christian virgin, that holy wonder 
which earth proudly points out to 
heaven, as, if defying even heaven's 
angels to surpass it ? Who is it that 
has created virtues without number 
within sacrifices without name, put- 
ting by the side of ever^ woe the 
voluntary service which will minister 
to it, giving to every misfortune some 
heart that will beat for it, and to the 
most neglected grave a mourner to 
weep over it ? Who is it that has 
freed the slaves of man to create the 
slaves of God those slaves who can 
say with the humble exultation of a 
supernatural sacrifice, in the words 
of the Jew of Tarsus, now become 
the great Apostle St. Paul : " Ego 
vinctus pro Christo " " I, the slave 
of Christ." Who is it that has creat- 
ed the ideal of duty and honor which 
inspired the troubadour and the 
knight the ideal of fidelity to the 



A Jewish Convert : a Reminiscence of Vienna. 221 



pledged word, of horror at injustice, 
of the sacred hatred of evil ? Who 
is it that has given you all the goods 
man prizes, and which you enjoy in 
ungrateful forgetfulness, while curs- 
ing those who accumulated them for 
you during centuries of untold and 
weary toil, and even him who won 
them for your sake on the cross, in a 
sea of tears and of blood ? Who 
gave you the great gift which this 
age counts as the kingliest boon of 
all the gift whose magical name we 
fear, not because our lips were the 
first to pronounce and to honor it 
here below : freedom the deliverer 
from sin and death, from the pas- 
sions of hell, and from the hell of 
human passions ? Who made you 
what you are, or what you ought to 
be beings regenerated, civilized, free, 
glorious, sacred in a word, Chris- 
tians ? 

Who, my brethren ? Jesus Christ, 
he who is there present in his taber- 
nacle, he who listens to me, who sees 
you, and who will judge one day be- 
tween my word and your souls, be- 
tween me and you. 

And henceforward, when a blas- 
phemy against his Godhead seeks 
passage on your lips, be it in mock- 
ery or in malediction, remember the 
Caribbean savage and the Red 
Indian, think of what he is and of 
what you are, and do not forget that, 
were it not for Christ, you would 
be even as that poor savage. If 
your soul is not yet open to the ful- 
ness of faith, at least let it hold its 
peace if it respects itself. 

Christianity in its breadth, its 
length, and its depth is the principal 
fact of the world. No sincere and 
deep intellect, when glancing at this 
comprehensive whole, can contem- 
plate it without developing in itself a 
spontaneous doubt, without saying 
to itself, if it be unhappily far from 
belief. " Might this not be really the 



work of God?" But if the simph 
consideration of the effect, that is, of 
Christianity, can create this inevita- 
ble doubt, what shall we say of the 
cause which has produced it, and of 
the relations of the one to the other ? 
What, indeed, save this, that, face to 
face with this cause, doubt is turned in- 
to certainty, and man is irresistibly im- 
pelled to cry out, in the full convic- 
tion of his soul, that JZsus Christ is 
God indeed. 



II. 



What, then, is the cause which has 
effected this mighty reality, as great 
as earth, as old as time, as marvel- 
lous as heaven, and whose name 
among us is Christianity ? Nineteen 
hundred years ago, a little Child was 
borne in an obscure village of a poor 
country. His parents were poor and 
of no account ; he himself lived a 
poor man, unknown and unnoticed, 
save in one or two instances plying 
during thirty years a lowly trade in a 
forgotten corner of the world. Of 
a sudden, however, he breaks si- 
lence : he preaches, all untaught as 
he seemed, a doctrine which earth 
had never before heard, and con- 
firming it by signs earth had never 
before seen. Public attention is av- 
rested : he becomes the hero of the 
hour, and parties spring up for and 
against him. Two years and a half 
go by in uneasy peace, but a day 
comes when his enemies get the up- 
per hand, and denounce him to the 
civil tribunals of the country, whose 
cowardly justice, while declaring him 
to be innocent, yet allows popular 
prejudice and the threat of imperial 
displeasure to wrest from it an unwill- 
ing condemnation. The innovator is 
nailed to a gibbet, and his brief his- 
tory, hardly three years old, seems 
for ever ended, and ended in what 
manner ? By a sentence of capital 



222 



A Jewish Convert : a Reminiscence of Vienna. 



punishment, and a memory left 
stained with ignominy by the hand 
of the public executioner. 

Here, then, is the cause we seek : 
A Jew ! a poor, unknown, untaught 
Jew ! a Jew condemned to a shame- 
ful death by the justice of his country, 
and executed on the public road 
among other malefactors ; a Jew, 
and, if we dare to say the word, a 
felon / 

Listen and weigh well that which 
you shall hear. You have seen the 
cause, you have seen the effect. Be- 
tween the two rises the great ques- 
tion. How could such a cause pro- 
duce such an effect ? This we pur- 
pose to examine in a few words : 

There are three explanations from 
which your choice may be made, and 
which pretend to connect a cause 
so radically powerless with an effect 
so immeasurably disproportionate. 
They are these: Either mankind 
has believed for two thousand years 
and actually believes in Christianity 
without sufficient reason, without 
adequate proof. In that case, hu- 
manity is mad, and for twenty centu- 
ries has been so, and I myself, who 
am speaking to you, am out of my 
senses. 

Or else mankind believes with 
fully adequate proof, perfectly calcu- 
lated to convince it, and yet what it 
believes is false. In that case, God 
has deceived us during twenty, forty, 
sixty centuries, since the beginning 
of the world. In that case, Providence 
is a mockery, and its sway over the 
universe has been from the very first 
hour of creation but one long mysti- 
fication, one scornful derision of our 
human reason. Or again, if you can- 
not believe either that mankind has 
mistaken God, or that God has deceiv- 
ed mankind, there is but one hypothe- 
sis left, namely, that Jesus Christ is 
God! 
In order that you may choose 



more deliberately between these three 
possibilities, it will be necessary to af- 
ford them fuller development. The 
first of these compels you to infer 
that mankind for the last two thou- 
sand years has been bereft of reason, 
and that at the present moment a 
considerable portion of it, myself in- 
cluded, is in a hopeless state of in- 
sanity. 

This may seem to you an exag- 
gerated proposition, got up simply to 
prop the weakness of an untenable 
argument, but it is nothing if not an 
absolute truth, most easy of demon- 
stration. Let us suppose that to- 
morrow, the 1 8th of December of the 
year of grace 1865, there shall enter 
into this great capital, through one of 
its numerous gates and towards the 
dusk of evening, a poor and ragged 
beggar, the dust of his journey still 
upon him, and his ignorance of the 
language of the country painfully 
conspicuous. Let us suppose this man 
presenting himself before the popu- 
lace, the magistracy, the priesthood, 
the army, and before the Emperor 
himself, and speaking to him thus : 
" Sire, a few years ago, your majesty 
was pleased to order the public execu- 
tion, in a remote province of the Em- 
pire, of a Jew. This Jew was the Mes- 
siah, the Saviour, God himself! There- 
fore, O Caesar! come down from 
your throne, bend your knee, be bap- 
tized, and confess your sins; for, mark 
it well, this crucified Jew is none 
other than your God." What would 
you say, my brethren, to the man 
who should speak thus to-day? 
You would fitly account him a mad- 
man, and madder yet the people 
and the priesthood, the army and the 
monarch, who should believe in his 
wild words. 

Well, then, this strange tale is a 
true one, it is a historical fact. One 
day, many ages ago, an old Jew, 
baptized by the name of Peter, en- 



A Jewish Convert : a Reminiscence of Vienna, 



223 



tered, a beggar, ragged, and dust-be- 
grimed, through one of the gates of 
the greatest capital of the mightiest 
empire of the world ancient Rome. 
In Rome, he actually preached the 
unheard-of sermon I have just quot- 
ed, and which, repeated in that form 
to-day, would cause only a burst of 
derision. Why did Rome not mock 
him ? Why did the priesthood not 
hoot him ? Why did Caesar not 
scorn him ? Why, on the contrary, 
did this beggar, with his rough staff 
and scrip, with his barbarous Latin 
sounding harshly on the ears of 
those who could yet remember the 
voice of Cicero on the rostrum why 
did he shake the foundations of the 
mightiest empire of the world, and 
why, instead of provoking laughter, 
did the people pale and tremble be- 
fore him in the Forum, the magis- 
trates quail beneath their robes of 
office, the priesthood shrink affright- 
ed to their doomed temples, and 
Nero, the emperor, forget to trust in 
his blood-stained purple ? Why does 
the deserted Palatine look to-day up- 
on the opposite hill of the Vatican, 
and behold there a dome whose 
summit may well be said to seek to 
scale the heavens a dome that crowns 
a tomb, that of the beggar Peter, a 
tomb which, though but the fane of 
the dead, is nevertheless the centre 
of Europe and the world ? For this 
tomb bears a throne at once the 
most ancient and the most sacred in 
Europe, the only one which repre- 
sents an empire whose boundaries 
are the boundaries of the universe. 
And why all this ? Only because 
Peter proved by signs and wonders, 
by miracles wrought both in life and 
in death, that he spoke indeed in the 
name of him whom heaven and earth 
obeyed, because he was their Maker. 
Because he wrought these signs, his 
word was believed. And I am free 
to confess that, had the men of his 



time believed in him without such 
an irrefragable proof of his mission, 
they would have been madmen in- 
deed, and we, who are now the heirs 
of their faith, would have been only 
the successors to their folly. For 
two thousand years, I repeat it, the 
history of mankind would have been 
a long dream of insanity, an act of 
stupendous folly, and, as a climax to 
this incalculable confusion, there 
would have sprung from this folly 
the most incomprehensible of contra- 
dictions wisdom and glory, light and 
virtue, civilization and progress in a 
word, that great wonder which holds 
all lesser marvels within itself, name- 
ly, Christianity. 

If I mistake not, your common 
sense has already set aside this hy- 
pothesis as untenable. We admit it, 
you may say to me; to make man- 
kind believe in the humanly speak- 
ing unbelievable, there must have 
been proofs capable of proving and 
making certain, so to speak, the very 
impossible itself. We must admit it, 
unless we accuse the whole world of 
madness. But if Peter and the apos- 
tles, and all the preachers of the Gos- 
pel, confirmed their teaching by signs 
that were accounted miracles, might 
this not be explained by a chain of 
fortuitous coincidences, happy acci- 
dents, seeming miracles, which are 
every day elucidated by the progress 
of investigation until they utterly 
disappear in the full light of science ? 
A discussion of the nature and es- 
sence of the Gospel miracles would 
be utterly out of place at this mo- 
ment. I will therefore confine my- 
self to this : if the miracles which, 
among outward causes, are the prin- 
cipal explanation of the world's con- 
version to Christianity, are false, then 
it is no longer mankind unconscious- 
ly duped and led away, but Heaven 
itself, the deceiver and seducer, whom 
we must indignantly accuse. 



224 



A Jeivish Convert : a Reminiscence of Vienna, 



There is no alternative, my breth- 
ren : either madness on the part of 
earth, or crime on the part of hea- 
ven. Either man is bereft of reason, 
or God is no longer just. Either 
man unknowingly deceives himself, 
or God wilfully deceives him. Choose 
ye, therefore! 

But in choosing, remember that 
he who accuses God of having de- 
ceived the world, or even of having 
permitted what is called chance to 
have so deceived it, blasphemes as 
much against mankind as against 
God, and commits such treason 
against humanity as can never be for- 
given by it. To accuse God of hav- 
ing allowed evil to triumph in the 
plausible likeness of good, and to be- 
come, behind this mask, the goal, the 
light, the glory, the life, the very 
God of mankind, involves nothing 
less than the negation of Providence, 
and the abandonment of the world 
to the blind god of chance, the sav- 
age god of fate, the shadowy god 
of nothingness. Such an accusation 
confuses all creation, darkens the 
sun of understanding, casts history 
back into chaos, the human intellect 
into doubt, the human heart into de- 
spair. If Providence has betrayed 
mankind from its cradle, why should 
it not have betrayed me, individual- 
ly, from my birth ? At the slightest 
hint of such a doubt, what a fearful 
horizon looms up before me ! 

I have believed in him who has 
numbered every hair of my head ; 
and I have been deceived. 

I have believed in the prayer of 
the poor who ask for daily bread, 
and in the answer of him who gives 
it, and in whose sight even the spar- 
row is not forgotten; and I have 
been deceived ! I have believed in 
the eloquence of tears shed at the 
feet and the heart of God; in the 
blessings of mothers registered in 
heaven ; in the fruitfulness of suffer- 



ing; in the merit of unknown vir- 
tue, and of virtue unknown to itself; 
in defeats that are glorious and suc- 
cess that is shameful ; I have believ- 
ed in all that showed forth God in 
man, and man in God ! But grief 
unspeakable ! I have been deceived, 
since there is no Providence, since 
for ages and ages an odious and 
inexplicable chance has ruled human- 
ity, and forced it, humbled, mystified, 
levelled with the brute, miserably 
plunged in a stupid and inconceiv- 
able idolatry, to bend the knee to 
the very dust before what ? before 
whom ? Before a man, a Jew be- 
fore a scourged and crucified Jew, 
whom it hearkens to as an oracle, 
invokes as a master, and worships as 
a god. 

I have reached a limit beyond 
which I cannot go, and I stop a mo- 
ment to ask you : Have we not seen 
enough of these impossibilities jostling 
one another, enough of absurdities 
crowding on our bewildered sight, 
and, as Scripture words it, of deep 
calling unto deep ? 

And yet, if you tear from the brow 
of Jesus Christ the crowning glory 
of the Godhead, you will be com- 
pelled to admit a thousand times 
more than this, and not only to ad- 
mit it, but even to believe it fitting 
and most rational. You are there- 
fore forced to choose between the 
human madness that believed in arid 
deified an impostor, the guilty and 
merciless fraud practised by a God 
whose seal was thus solemnly set to 
the most appalling scandal ever wit- 
nessed by mankind, or the crowning 
dogma of the divinity of Jesus Christ, 
a dogma which alone reconciles and 
explains all mysteries. When you 
recross the threshold of this church, 
you must go forth believers, either in 
a miracle of folly, a miracle of treach- 
ery, or a miracle of mercy and love. 
Mankind must appear before you 



Affirmations. 



22: 



either as a regenerated, a deceived, 
or an idolatrous creation. 

What will be your choice ? 
Would to God that at the solemn 
moment of your decision I might 
come to each one of you, and on my 
knees beseech you, through the mer- 
its of that Precious Blood which, if 
you will not let it be your salvation, 
will most assuredly be your eternal 
condemnation, and the sign that will 
doom you to doubt in life, to agony 
in death, to despair in eternity be- 
seech you, I repeat it ere you have 
raised your voice in final decision, to 
free your soul from the interests that 
bind it, the human respect that fet- 
ters it, the sophisms that lead it astray 
in a word, from all the passions of 
flesh and blood whose watchword is 
eternal hatred to the truth of God. 

Then, and only then, in that free- 
dom from all bondage, in the silence 
of your inmost hearts, make the 
choice that will lead you to life or to 
death. 

But what words are these, my 
brethren ? There will be no need 
of choosing then : the choice will be 



already made ; for, as the sun swift- 
ly reaches the last recess of the deep- 
est cavern the moment the obstacle 
is removed which has hitherto resist- 
ed its light, so does Jesus Christ, the 
sun of the mind, the incarnate truth, 
flood with his radiance every soul 
whose own obstinate efforts do not 
close it against this blessed transfigu- 
ration. Open wide your hearts, my 
brethren, to this God pf love and 
truth, who has vouchsafed to show 
himself to you in the brightness of 
such light and the majesty of such 
conviction. 

And thou, Lord Jesus, who art 
the truth " that enlighteneth every man 
that cometh into the world" (St. 
John i.), let it not come to pass that 
one soul out of this great assemblage 
should return this day from the foot 
of this pulpit to the common turmoil 
of the world without bearing within 
itself the ineffable wound of a dawn- 
ing conviction. And if, O Lord ! 
thou requirest unto this end the 
sacrifice of a human life, let this day 
be my last on earth, and this hour the 
last hour of my mortal pilgrimage. 



AFFIRMATIONS. 



" IT is the child's spirit that is to 
be loved and sympathized with, not 
his body ; the body must be pamper- 
ed as little as possible." 

" Principle must unite with purpose 
before it becomes practical." 

" Human nature must do as nature 
does cling to the sustainer, and 
then it will be always producing new 
fruits." 

" We are none the better for re- 
flecting upon our own ideas of heat, 
VOL. xv. 15 



but if we would cease reflecting and 
let the heat warm us, the heat would 
itself realize what our reflected reflec- 
tions never can." 

" There is a communion with God, 
with saints, and also with angels, and 
then with each other, but this is not 
in space and time, or with the space 
and time man." 

" That which Love requires for the 
everlasting food, the man of this 
world expends in heaping up rubbish." 



226 



Fleurange. 



FLEURANGE. 

BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF " A SISTER'S STORY." 

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION. 

PART FIRST. 
THE OLD MANSION. 



XII. 



CLEMENT remained a moment 
thoughtful and undecided. Before 
obeying his mother's injunction, he 
felt the need of collecting his 
thoughts and regaining his self-con- 
trol. Whatever strength of mind he 
might manifest, he was very young to 
experience such painful emotions as 
he had endured the past day. He 
crossed the passage of the stairs that 
led to Fleurange's room, then passed 
on and went directly into the garden. 
Hitherto he had only thought of his 
parents. At least, he felt all that 
morning that, as soon as his father 
and mother knew everything, a great 
weight would be removed from his 
mind which would enable him to 
breathe quite freely. But the terrible 
revelation was made, and yet he was 
not relieved. He was still agitated, 
painfully agitated. Having passed the 
whole evening shut up in Wilhelm's 
office, reckoning up the sad accounts, 
he felt the need of fresh air. It was 
the end of June. The weather was 
cloudy, and somewhat showery. He 
walked swiftly to the end of the gar- 
den, then returned slowly towards 
the house, and was about to go in 
search of the children and his cousin 
when he heard his name called close 
behind him : 

" Clement !" 

"Is it you, Gabrielle, here all 
alone ?" 



Fleurange was sitting on an obscure 
bench against the side of the house. 

"Yes, I have been here an hour. 
You are going to tell me everything 
that has occurred, are you not, 
Clement ? Remain here awhile and 
tell me. Do not conceal things from 
me any longer." 

" I do not intend to, Gabrielle, but 
do not detain me now. Come in, 
dear cousin. When the children are 
asleep, I will return and tell you." 

" The children are asleep, Clement, 
and have been for a long time. It 
is nearly ten o'clock. Poor little 
things, do you think they could keep 
awake till this time ? After dinner I 
took them to the further end of the 
garden, that their lively prattle might 
not disturb the house. By eight 
o'clock they were tired out. I made 
them go up-stairs, and as soon as 
they fell asleep I came down to wait 
for you." 

Had her account been still longer, 
Clement would not have thought of 
interrupting her. He made no reply 
for a while, but at length said : 

" Thank you, Gabrielle. You 
are " He stopped. He felt an iron 
grasp at his throat, and feared he 
should sob like a child if he attempt- 
ed to speak. With all his manly en- 
ergy and precocious gravity, Clem- 
ent's young heart was passionately 
tender. And yet he had not been 



Fleurange. 



227 



wanting in firmness throughout the 
day. Why, then, did it seem to 
abandon him so suddenly now ? How 
happened it that, after considering,' 
without shrinking, all the conse- 
quences of the resolution he was the 
first to make and propose after 
manifesting no hesitation at the sight 
of his parents, and his brother and 
sister, he now felt terrified and al- 
most overwhelmed at the thought of 
the sacrifice that had been made, and 
the great change about to occur in 
their lives ? He hardly knew why 
himself, for he had not examined 
very minutely what was passing in 
his dreams. Clement was naturally 
inclined to reverie. He cared but 
little for the amusements of his age. 
His mind sought relaxation in secret- 
ly brooding over the inspirations of 
poetry. His friends knew he had a 
good memory and was familiar with 
a great number of poems, but they 
did not suspect he had a deep vein 
of poetry in his nature which ranked 
next to the influences of religion. 
This interior life was so completely 
veiled that the very eye of his mother 
scarcely penetrated it. Clement's 
aptitude for history and the sciences, 
his turn for practical studies and a 
practical life, his skill in a thousand 
things of a material nature, served to 
conceal still more the other qualities 
of his mind. They depended on him 
to train a horse, settle an account, 
give a lesson in mathematics or his- 
tory, plan an excursion, or make ar- 
rangements for a journey ; but the 
idea of his wandering in imaginary 
or poetic regions, absorbed and lost 
in such waking dreams as are ex- 
pressed in German by the word 
Schwanncn, and silently passing a 
part of his life in an interior world to 
which he never alluded, was little im- 
agine.d, even by those who knew 
him best. And perhaps he himself, 
as we have said, had never thoroughly 



analyzed his own nature, for until to 
day the actual and the imaginary 
had never come in conflict. But 
now all at once he felt there was in 
his ideal world a sanctuary, a palace, 
a throne, he must resign himself to 
see crumble away like the rest, and 
the courage he manifested at the ma- 
terial loss of wealth to its fullest ex- 
tent seemed to forsake him now in 
view of the imaginary ruin of this en- 
chanted domain ! 

Fleurange, seeing her cousin made 
no reply, waited quietly awhile, but 
at length she said, somewhat impa- 
tiently : 

" Come, Clement, I pray you, keep 
me no longer in suspense. What are 
you afraid of? Am I a child ? Am 
I not older than you ? And did I 
not learn long ago the sad mean- 
ing of sorrow, suffering, and trial ? 
Speak to me freely, then, and without 
fear. Nothing frightens me." 

Fleurange's earnestness roused her 
cousin, and restored his calmness and 
self-control. Without any further 
hesitation, he seated himself beside 
her, and related the greater part of 
what he had told his mother some 
hours before. She thus learned in 
her turn the extent of the disaster 
which had befallen them that all 
due reparation would be made, that 
the honor of her uncle's house and 
name might remain intact, though 
his brother, Ludwig Dornthal, would 
be ruined for ever ruined. 

" And your good father and 
mother have consented to this re- 
nunciation of their rights ?" 

" Yes, and without any hesitation." 

" O dear and noble soul !" cried 
Fleurange, clasping her hands in her 
transport. " And it was you who 
proposed it ?' 

" Yes." 

" O Clement, my dear Clement ! 
truly, I love you as I never loved you 
before !" 



228 



Fleurange. 



" Gabrielle," said Clement in a low 
and trembling voice, "do not say 
that." 

" Why not ?" said Fleurange. " I 
think so, and it is the truth." 

" Because because, if they are 
often to be blamed who are wanting 
in honor and duty, there is nothing 
particularly praiseworthy in those 
who are faithful." 

" Nevertheless, my dear cousin, if 
I love you better than before, you 
must not be displeased, but I will not 
say so again if it offends you." 

There was a moment's silence. 
Fleurange was lost in profound 
reverie. She soon resumed, in a grave 
tone : " Now I understand the state 
of affairs, I see our life is to assume 
an entirely new aspect." 

" Yes, entirely," said Clement, with 
a dull anguish. 

" This dear Old Mansion," con- 
tinued Fleurange, "must it be left?" 

" Yes," said Clement; " it will have 
to be sold, with all it contains, for the 
produce of this sale is all my father 
will have to begin life anew with." 

" Sell the house !" replied Fleur- 
ange thoughtfully. "Yes, I see it 
must be so; and afterwards we shall 
be separated." 

" And why must that be so ?" 
cried Clement with sudden impetu- 
osity. But he presently resumed in 
a different tone : " However, it would 
be very selfish in us to wish to retain 
you, now we have no longer anything 
to share with you but our poverty." 

" Clement," said Fleurange hastily, 
"that is truly a rude and unjust 
speech, which I hardly merit " She 
stopped an instant, then went on 
in a tone of emotion : " What ! when 
poverty, misery, and hunger yes, 
Clement, hunger! were staring me 
in the face, your father bethought 
himself of me, he invited me here, re- 
ceived me into his house, conferred 
on me not a happiness I had al- 



ready experienced, but one hitherto 
unknown : he became my father, when 
mine was no more, and gave me a 
mother, brothers, and sisters whom I 
had never possessed. Life, youth, 
and joy had been meaningless words 
to me. I only comprehended them 
after I came under his roof, and now 
now," said she in broken accents, no 
longer able to restrain her tears, " it 
is his son Ludwig Dornthal's son 
who tells me it is to escape the mis- 
fortunes of his family that I wish to 
leave them !" 

" Gabrielle ! Gabrielle !" said Cle- 
ment in an agitated manner, " forgive 
me have some pity on me. Stop, I 
beseech you ; you will drive me mad, 
if you utter such reproaches at this 
time." 

Fleurange by degrees grew calm, 
and, forcing a smile, while great tears 
stood in her eyes, she soon resumed : 
" Poor Clement ! I am, then, neither 
allowed to praise you nor blame you, 
this evening. Well, let us lay aside 
what relates merely to ourselves, or 
at least speak of it in a different man- 
ner. What I meant just now was 
that we could no longer remain idle. 
We must aid our dear parents all we 
can," she continued in a softened 
tone, " and labor for them " 

" Labor !" said Clement. " 7 must 
unquestionably ; that is a matter of 
course ; but you, Gabrielle you ! 
There is no reason in what you say." 

" And I also," said Fleurange calm- 
ly. " And that is a point to be con- 
sidered. I must not only cease to be 
a burden to your parents, but I must 
aid them. How happy that will 
make me ! I thank Heaven for the 
very thought that I may now be able 
to do something for them to whom I 
owe everything. This hope relieves 
my very sadness." 

She rose and held out her hand. 
" Good-night, cousin. To-morrow I 
will tell you what insoiration I have 



Fleurange. 



229 



received from my good angel during 
the night." 

He silently pressed her hand, and 
allowed her to leave him without a 
word. 

The night was cloudy. If Clem- 
ent caught any glimpses of his cou- 
sin's features during their conversa- 
tion, it was because, seated beside 
her, and even favored by the obscu- 
rity, he ventured to look at her more 
closely than he would have done 
elsewhere. Now, the stars rose only 
to disappear beneath the sombre 
clouds. He was no longer afraid of 
being seen. He remained where 
Fleurange left him, and, burying his 
face in his hands, gave vent at last to 
the tears that for two hours had been 
suffocating him tears of sorrow, re- 
gret, and affection, which he must shed 
to keep his young heart from breaking. 



But he soon surmounted this vio- 
lent emotion, and rose up ashamed 
of his weakness. At that moment he 
heard a window open above his head. 
It was Fleurange, who soon appear- 
ed on the balcony. He could see 
her white dress and the regular out- 
line of face against the light from her 
chamber. He saw her soft glance 
lost in the darkness. Then she fold- 
ed her hands and bent down her 
head. She was praying, but not 
alone to-night. Clement, kneeling 
unperceived in the shade, prayed with 
her. He was in the very place 
where he heard her say to Felix : 
" Clement is my brother, and you 
are not." He recalled the words 
now, and renewed in his heart the 
solemn promise to be for ever faith- 
ful to all the obligations they im- 
posed. 



XIII. 



If the happy inmates of the Old 
Mansion had been told a month pre- 
vious they only had a few weeks 
more to pass within its walls, they 
would have been greatly dismayed by 
the prediction, and asked how such 
a trial could be borne. But there is 
in life even in the happiest life when 
it is ordered aright, that is, when its 
duties are daily considered and faith- 
fully accomplished there is, I say, 
in such a life a latent preparation for 
the most violent shocks of adversity, 
and, when they suddenly come, it is 
surprising to find that they who 
seemed to enjoy more than others 
the good things they possessed are 
the best able to resign themselves to 
their loss with firmness and serenity. 
And yet they are not insensible to 
the calamity. It falls on them with 
its full weight, but it comes alone, 
unaccompanied by the two scourges 
which generally follow in the train 
of a misfortune resulting from mis- 



conduct trouble and confusion of 
mind. 

Neither of these followed ruin into 
Ludwig Dornthal's house. External- 
ly the disaster was complete, but 
peace and order were maintained 
within. All their decisions even 
the most painful were made deliber- 
ately, and executed calmly and with- 
out delay. They did not dissemble 
the greatness of their sacrifice ; they 
made no pretence to an insensibility 
they did not feel ; but they quietly 
made their preparations tears often 
blinding their eyes the while like a 
brave and worthy crew wrecked by a 
tempest and forced to abandon their 
vessel. 

It was thus they made all the ar- 
rangements for leaving their dear 
home and disposing of their library, 
paintings, and objects of virtu, which 
the professor had selected with so 
much care and pride, and were his 
only source of pleasure apart from 



230 



Fleurangc. 



the society of his family and friends. 
And from the latter also he was to be 
separated. When Ludwig Dornthal 
announced his intention of resuming 
the career he abandoned twenty 
years before, positions were offered 
him on all sides, especially in the 
city where he resided. But on ac- 
count of the strict economy he must 
henceforth practise, as well as a se- 
cret repugnance to a different social 
position in a place where he had been 
so prosperous, he decided, after some 
hesitation, to leave Frankfort, and ac- 
cept a modest situation offered him 
at the University of Heidelberg. He 
succeeded in purchasing a small 
house in that place at a low price 
somewhat rustic, it is true, but situat- 
ed without the city walls, on the 
banks of the Neckar, and surrounded 
by a garden. He could easily walk 
to the university every morning, and 
the perspective of the rural repose 
that awaited him at the end of the 
day would enable him to endure its 
labors more cheerfully. He there- 
fore decided to take possession of it as 
speedily as possible, and all the nec- 
essary arrangements had to be made 
during the few weeks they were to re- 
main in the Old Mansion before 
leaving it for ever. 

Clement took charge of all the 
preliminaries of the somewhat exten- 
sive sale that was to take place. He 
wished to relieve his father from so 
sad a task, and perform the painful 
and fatiguing business without any 
assistance, but it was made much 
easier for him than he anticipated. 
Fleurange insisted on his accepting 
her aid. She set herself to work, si- 
lently going to and fro with her 
sleeves turned back, carrying the 
rare china carefully from one place to 
another with her small but efficient 
hands, and dusting, arranging, and 
numbering the books according to 
her cousin's directions. Of course 



she greatly lightened his labors. In 
the evening they seated themselves 
in the library, now nearly stripped of 
its treasures, and wrote lists or insert- 
ed notes in the large registers con- 
cerning the precious manuscripts and 
books that were to be disposed of. 
It was, in short, a work that required 
the vigor and activity of youth, as 
well as much thought and assiduous 
labor. To say that, while performing 
this double task, they never found it 
tiresome, that no shade ever came 
over their brows, and that their eyes 
were never tearful while handling so 
many objects they were never to see 
again, would be false ; it would be 
equally so to say that Clement, in 
spite of the fatigue, was greatly to be 
pitied during these days. 

There came a time, long after, 
when, looking back on the past, it 
seemed to him that these hours pass- 
ed in the light of Fleurange's beauti- 
ful eyes, sometimes cast down as she 
bent over the large registers, and 
anon raised to ask a question or give 
him a friendly glance it seemed to 
him, I say, that these vanished hours 
were among the most delightful of 
his life. 

At length came the day their task 
would be completed, and, while they 
were working together for the last 
time, Fleurange raised her eyes. 
" Clement," she said, " we are nearly 
done. I have been waiting for this 
moment to tell you something." 

Clement dropped his work at once, 
and looked up interrogatively. 

" No, no ; finish what you are do- 
ing, and I will tell you afterward." 

Clement soon finished. Fleurange 
closed the great book before her, and 
resumed : " Do you remember our 
conversation in the garden a fortnight 
ago ?" 

" I do, most assuredly." 

" Well, after leaving you that eve- 
ning, I passed the night in reflection, 



Ftenrange. 



23* 



and ended ty writing to the best, 
and, indeed, the only gentleman-friend 
I have in the world out of this 
house." 

" Dr. Leblanc ?" said Clement, 
aware, of course, of all the circumstan- 
ces that preceded his cousin's arrival. 

" Yes, Dr. Leblanc. I wrote him 
all I had just learned. I made known 
the situation my uncle and his family 
would soon be in, and my desire, 
my ardent desire, not only to cease 
to be a burden, but to fulfil a daugh- 
ter's duty with regard to them. His 
own daughters have other duties, now 
they are married, but I have only 
this, and it is one so precious so 
precious," repeated Fleurange in the 
soft tone that sometimes made her 
simplest words penetrate to the 
depths of the listener's heart, ^ that I 
shall consider my life happy arid well- 
spent if I can consecrate it entirely to 
this duty !" 

Clement bent down his head, and 
took up his pen as if to correct a mis- 
take on the paper before him. She 
must not see the effect of her words 
on his countenance no ! she must 
not. 

" Well," said he presently, without 
looking up, " what did Dr. Leblanc 
say ?" 

" Here, Clement, read the letter I 
received from him two days ago." 

Clement took the letter, but, while 
reading it, he was all at once filled 
with a similar anguish to that he ex- 
perienced after the conversation that 
night in the garden which Fleurange 
had just alluded to. He was oblig- 
ed to make a violent effort to restrain 
his feelings, and not tear the letter in 
his hands into a thousand pieces. 
Fortunately he succeeded, for it 
would have been the most foolish act 
he ever committed. And there was 
really nothing in Dr. Leblanc's letter 
to justify such a mad desire. It read 
as follows : 



" MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND : I can- 
not tell you how much I am at once 
distressed and edified by the sad ac- 
count you have given me. I have 
long known what kind of a man your 
uncle is. I now see there are but 
few to be compared with him, even 
among the best, and I never had a 
keener desire than to make his ac- 
quaintance. You know I have al- 
ways hoped for this gratification. It 
will probably be afforded me sooner 
than I anticipated. And this leads 
me to the second part of your letter. 

" I understand your wish, and would 
like to second it. Besides, I have 
not forgotten my promise to aid you 
in gaining a livelihood, should it ever 
be necessary. Poor child ! I hoped 
never to be called upon to fulfil it, 
but, as things have come to that pass, 
I must tell you of a letter I received 
yesterday which, coinciding with 
yours, seems to be a providential in- 
dication. This letter is from the 
Princess Catharine Lamianoff, a Rus- 
sian lady, who is one of my patients. 
She is now at Munich, and has sent 
for me to go there. I have already 
prescribed for her with success, and, 
from what she tells me of her state, I 
think my visit may be beneficial. I 
have therefore decided on the jour- 
ney, and shall be absent a fortnight 
I shall go by the way of Frankfort 
on purpose to see you. But, first, I 
must tell you what there is in the let- 
ter to interest you. The princess 
earnestly requests me to find a young 
lady, carefully educated and with 
good manners, to be her demoiselle dc 
compagnic. She is an invalid and 
requires to be entertained, so the of- 
fice would be a charitable as well as 
a lucrative one. We will talk all 
this over before anotherweek. Mean- 
while, rely always, as you have the 
right to do, on my sincere and affec- 
tionate devotedness. I say nothing 
about my sister, as she is writing 



232 



Fleurange. 



you in a similar tone by the same 
mail. 

" P. S. The princess has been mar- 
ried twice, but is again a widow. 
She is very wealthy, and offers the 
young lady she commissions me to 
find one hundred and fifty louis a 
year." 

Clement remained silent for some 
time. " And you think of accepting 
such a proposal ?" said he, at length, 
in a tone of irritation quite at vari- 
ance with his usual manner. " What 
folly !" 

" No, it is not folly," replied Fleur- 
ange mildly. " If, after talking with 
Dr. Leblanc, I discover no reason 
for declining the situation, I cannot 
possibly see the folly of accepting 
it." 

" Gabrielle," said Clement, without 
changing his tone, " you know the 
course you wish to take is insupport- 
able to me ! This role belongs to 
me me alone. It is my place to 
labor for my parents, my brother and 
sister, and for you. If you had the 
least regard for me, you would feel 
this is a favor you have no right to 
refuse me." 

" Come, Clement," said Fleurange 
calmly, " let us talk it over in a rea- 
sonable manner. When everything 
is sold, and your parents are settled 
in their new home at Heidelberg, 
you are perfectly aware that your 
father's small salary, even with what 
you can ( add to it, will barely enable 
them and Frida to live comfortably. 
You will remain at Frankfort, where, 
notwithstanding your youth, you have 
the choicejDf several situations. But 
Fritz have you forgotten our calcu- 
lations yesterday? Will you have 
sufficient means to send him to the 
excellent gymnasium you were so 
desirous he should enter, that he 
might be enabled to become inde- 
pendent in his turn ? No, Clement, 



you know well you could not do it. 
Whereas," she continued with ani- 
mation, " if this good lady likes me, 
I can send all my salary, with the 
exception of a small part, to my 
dear brothers. This will ensure 
Fritz's education, and my dear aunt 
will be freed from all anxiety about 
him as well as me. And do you 
not see, Clement, that I shall be a 
thousand times happier far away from 
you all, even though treated like a 
slave by this princess, than among 
you, useless, inactive, and adding 
by my presence to your difficul- 
ties, instead of aiding to diminish 
them ?" 

Clement, with his elbows resting 
on the table, and his face buried in 
his hands, did not answer a word. 

" Come, come, dear Clement, put 
off that frown," said Fleurange in a 
caressing tone, taking him softly by 
the hand. " We shall see each oth- 
er, like school-children, during our 
vacations. From time to time we 
shall meet on the banks of the Nec- 
kar ! That will always be our home, 
where we shall all gather around the 
hearth, as here, on great festivals." 

What reply could poor Clement 
make ? What objection could he 
offer ? Must he not for ever conceal 
all he had hoped in his vanished 
dreams to confess some day ? Was 
he not now reduced to constant la- 
bor for subsistence ? Had not his 
life henceforth a single aim that no- 
thing must turn him from ? And 
were it otherwise, did she not look 
upon him as a mere boy ? Was he 
not destitute of every quality that 
could please her ? And had he not 
always foreseen that his enchanting 
dreams would vanish at the very 
first breath of reality ? 

He took his cousin's small hand 
in his, and, with his usual frank and 
cordial look, said : " You are right, 
Gabrielle, forgive me. I appear un- 



Fleurange. 



233 



grateful, but I am not. May God 
reward you ! You are an angel !" 
And he added in a tone too low 



for her to hear : " An angel from 
whom I am more widely separated 
than from the angels in heaven !" 



XIV. 



From that day forth Clement dis- 
played no more interest in his cou- 
sin's project : at least, he never allud- 
ed to it, and the plan was discussed 
before him without his taking any 
part in the conversation. 

Madame Dornthal, capable her- 
self of the most generous devoted- 
ness, knew also how to accept it 
from others a rarer gift, but perhaps 
not less noble. She thoroughly un- 
derstood Fleurange's disposition, and 
was unwilling at such a time to de- 
prive a heart like hers of the most 
exquisite joy it can taste. 

" Yes, dear child," she said, fold- 
ing her in her arms, " I accept the 
aid you offer me, and with gratitude. 
Thanks to you, I shall be relieved 
from all anxiety respecting two of 
my children, atid, if Dr. Leblanc re- 
assures me as to my Gabrielle, I shall 
let her follow the generous impulse 
of her heart." 

But Madame Dornthal kept to 
herself, or only communicated to her 
husband, another motive for her con- 
sent. Fleurange would thus be pre- 
served from some of the privations 
of their new life. " She would con- 
tinue to enjoy comforts we could no 
longer give her. She would be hap- 
pier and more cheerful away from 
us, the poor child ! than with us at 
such a time." 

" Yes," replied the professor, " it 
would indeed be a pity to bury her 
youth in a cottage. I could not bear 
it. I have so often blessed God 
within a month for having assured 
the destiny of our dear daughters ! 
And yet," added poor Ludwig, sigh- 
ing, " their young faces were so cheer- 
ing around us !" 



"We shall soon see them again, 
Ludwig. Hilda and Karl are await- 
ing our visit, and Clara will pass the 
winter near us, Julian having receiv- 
ed a great number of orders from 
the vicinity of Heidelberg. O my 
dear Ludwig ! as long as God leaves 
us these blessings, let us resign, not 
only without a murmur, but without 
regret, all he has taken from us !" 

Those who are absorbed in the ac- 
quisition of wealth, and make it the 
special object of their lives, are no 
less liable to misfortune than others. 
Indeed, it may be said, they are 
more frequently overtaken by adver- 
sity. Would it not be well, then, for 
them to reflect a little beforehand 
on the means of singularly modify- 
ing the features of this stern visitant, 
and giving it the aspect it now wore 
in the Old Mansion ? It is true, to 
do this they must begin by thinking 
of something higher than the mere 
acquisition of riches. 

Dr. Leblanc arrived, as he prom- 
ised, about ten days after his letter. 
His visit at the Old Mansion coin- 
cided with the last days its inmates 
were to pass within its walls, and this 
circumstance would have made him 
hesitate to come, had not the profess- 
or cordially encouraged him. They 
had long wished to know each other, 
for in their different spheres they 
were equally renowned, and Fleur- 
ange, under so many obligations to 
both, was a tie between them. The 
doctor was therefore received by M. 
Dornthal quite otherwise than as a 
stranger. The tendency of their 
minds, the nature of their studies, and 
even the prominent features of their 
character, were very dissimilar, but 



234 



Fleurange. 



there was the same foundation to 
their nature, and they aimed at the 
same end by different means. They 
therefore soon discovered that, 
though their lives were drawing to a 
close without even having met before, 
they were born intimate friends. 

How many unknown friends thus 
pass their whole lives without ever 
meeting, or even suspecting the sym- 
pathy that unites them ! Who can 
tell how many ties of this kind will 
be discovered in heaven ? And who 
knows but this discovery may be one 
of the sweetest surprises of another 
life, and, like all the joys we have a 
foretaste of here below, and perhaps 
more abandantly accorded to those 
who on earth were the most desti- 
tute ? 

The hospitable doors of the Old 
Mansion were closed, the library 
shelves bare, the panels stripped of 
the rich paintings that adorned them, 
and all was now humiliation and sac- 
rifice where once reigned satisfaction 
and enjoyment, and yet Dr. Leblanc 
probably would not have felt so live- 
ly a sensation of respect and emotion 
had he visited the Dornthals for the 
first time during the days of their 
prosperity. 

As to them, this new friend seemed 
to have always occupied the place he 
now took in their midst, and, in spite 
of the sadness of the present as well 
as of the future, Fleurange enjoyed 
the satisfaction of seeing them 
brought together for a few brief 
hours, and, though on the eve of 
leaving her friends, did not find the 
last days she spent among them the 
least happy. 

Madame Dornthal gathered noth- 
ing from her conversations with Dr. 
Leblanc that was unfavorable to 
Fleurange's project; but she learn- 
ed that the Princess Catharine was 
only making a temporary visit at Mu- 
nich on her way from a watering- 



place where she passed her summers 
and would soon leave for Florence, 
where she owned a palace which was 
her residence in winter. 

After some correspondence, it was 
decided Fleurange should accept the 
princess' offer, and go to Munich un- 
der the doctor's care. She would 
thus have the double advantage of 
her old friend's protection during the 
journey, and his presence during the 
first days of her new career among 
strangers. 

While all this was being decided, 
the time passed sadly and rapidly 
away, and the last day they were to 
spend in the Old Mansion came the 
last day their eyes would linger on 
the venerable walls which had wit- 
nessed all the happiness of the past, 
the garden with its velvet sward, the 
borders of flowers, and the wide al- 
leys through the overshadowing trees, 
full of remembrances they would not 
another spring be able to retrace, or 
indeed any spring of their future 
lives. 

Clement, silent as he often was, 
but more agitated than usual, hastily 
collected the small number of books 
which were to form part of his lug- 
gage the following day. His cous- 
in's generous sacrifice enabled him to 
fulfil his wishes at once with regard 
to Fritz. This only left him the 
more completely alone the care of 
the child would have added to the 
young man's difficulties and become 
later a serious burden; but Clement 
loved his little brother, and had look- 
ed upon the necessity of keeping him 
with him as a consoling feature of 
his future life. This necessity no 
longer existed. Clement, left free, de- 
cided to make choice of the most 
laborious career offered him the one 
least conformed to his tastes, but the 
best adapted to second his desire of 
aiding his parents. 

Wilhelm Miiller proposed he should 



Fleurange. 



235 



enter a large commercial house where 
M. Heinrich Dornthal's worthy and 
intelligent clerk himself had found 
a situation similar to that he recently 
occupied at the banker's. Clement 
accepted it. He was at first to re- 
ceive only a small salary, but it would 
be increased from year to year. 
"And later," explained Wilhelm, 
" you may have your share in the 
profits of the house. You are young. 
Who knows, whatever you may say, 
that you will not some day become 
rich again, and as happy and pros- 
perous as you were destined to 
be?" 

Nothing in Clement's heart re- 
sponded to this encouraging prophe- 
cy, but he did not the less follow 
Miiller's advice. Moreover, he ac- 
cepted the kind clerk's offer of rent- 
ing him a small chamber in the house 
he himself occupied. 

" Poor Monsieur Clement," he 
said, " what I offer you is only a 
garret, but it is under our roof, and 
you will feel you have friends around 
you. My wife is a good housekeeper, 
and will always be ready to render 
you a service. The little ones are 
good children also, though somewhat 
noisy, and will sometimes divert your 
sad thoughts." 

" It is all well enough," said Clem- 
ent. " Your offer suits me every way, 
and I thank you, Wilhelm, with all 
my heart." 

Thus matters were arranged be- 
tween them. 

Fleurange made her appearance in 
the library while Clement was dili- 
gently packing his books. She re- 
mained awhile, and learned by ques- 
tioning him all that has just been re- 
lated, not omitting the kind clerk's 
offer to become his host as well as 
his colleague. 

" Oh ! so much the better," cried 
Fleurange. " The Mullers are ex- 
cellent people. I know Bertha, who 



is an amiable little woman. You can 
talk with her about me." 

Bertha's name recalled Fleurange's 
journey, which they discussed. This 
naturally led to her arrival on Christ- 
mas Eve, the Midnight Mass, the 
festival of the following day, and all 
the other happy days that succeeded. 

All these reminiscences were too 
touching, too poignant, at such a 
time. Fleurange at last became un- 
able to utter a word. She turned 
her face away, and started as if to 
leave the room. But she stopped at 
the threshold, and remained leaning 
against the garden window, which at 
that season was surrounded by 
honeysuckle. Clement followed, and 
both stood gazing at the thousand 
objects gilded by the brilliant rays of 
the setting sun. There was nothing 
wanting in the melancholy beauty 
of that evening hour, either in the 
sweetness of the air, the clearness of 
the sky, the perfume of the flowers, 
or anything that could in their eyes 
add an unusual charm to all they 
were about to leave for ever. 

And she ! how did she appear in the 
sight of him who feared he might 
never, after this hour, behold her again 
as she now stood beside him ? What 
did he think of the effect of the gold- 
en lights upon her fair brow and on 
her black and silky hair ? on the pale 
azure of her eyes, now so smiling 
and soft, and again so grave and 
thoughtful, but in which tenderness 
was overruled by a will that would 
ever remain dominant ? 

We will not state what were his un- 
uttered thoughts. The mingling of 
sweetness and energy which heighten- 
ed the attraction Fleurange inspired 
he was equally gifted with, and what 
he ought to conceal within his own 
bosom he knew how to prevent his 
mouth from uttering or his eyes from 
ever betraying. He therefore re- 
mained near her, calm in appearance, 



236 



Fleurange. 



while his heart was a prey to such 
grief as in youth changes the entire 
aspect of nature, and makes it almost 
unendurable to live. 

"To-morrow! to-morrow I shall 
no longer behold her," he repeated 
to himself, with a sensation that one 
might have in sharpening the in- 
strument of his execution, and 
the thought deprived him of enjoy- 
ing the few hours that remained to 
him. 

Fleurange, on her side, dwelt on 
the fatality that always separated her 
from those she loved. She recalled 
the day when the bare thought of 
ever leaving this spot caused such 
a painful contraction of the heart. 
And now, that prophetic anguish was 
justified! the frightful dream had 
become a reality! Sad thoughts 
crowded on her mind. Another 
moment, and she would be unable to 
restrain them, all her firmness was 
about to give way in a flood of tears, 
when an effort of her will made her tri- 
umph over the emotion, or, at least, 
prevented her from manifesting it. 
Putting a stop to her long reverie, she 
raised her head, and turned toward 
her cousin : 

" Here, Clement," she said softly, 
drawing a small book from her 
pocket, " here is my Dante we have 
so often read in : keep it, dear friend, 
in memory of our favorite study, and 
do not forget our habit of daily read- 
ing a canto in it." 

" No, I shall never forget it. Thank 
you, Gabrielle : the gift is very pre- 
cious. I shall always prize this little 
book." He opened it : " But write 
my name on this blank leaf. Here 
is my pencil." 

She took the pencil and wrote : 
" To Clement:' 

" One word more," said Clement 
in a supplicating tone. " Pray write 
also a word, a line, a stanza if you 
will, from our favorite poet." 



" What shall I write ?" said she, 
turning over the leaves. 

" There, that in the second canto," 
said he, pointing it out. She wrote it 
immediately, and then read it over: 

"To Clement. 

"L'amico mio e non della Ventura." * 

"That is right," said Clement. 
" Thank you." 

" That is a sad line : I should have 
chosen a different one." 

" It is appropriate to the present 
occasion. Now add your name." 

She was about to write it when he 
stopped her. 

" Your real name," said he. " Write 
your other name, to-night the name 
that suits you so well Fleur-ange !" 

Fleurange smiled, and shook her 
head. " Oh ! no," she said. " I gave 
it up with regret, but I should not 
have thought of such a thing had I 
previously known you all. But I have 
been so happy since I have borne the 
name of Gabrielle and you were 
the first to call me so, Clement so 
happy that I no longer love the 
name associated with the sadness of 
the past, and, were I to hear any one 
call me Fleurange now, I should im- 
agine it an ill omen." 

Clement made no reply, but, when 
she returned the book, he retained 
her hand a moment : " Gabrielle, 
one word more perhaps my last be- 
fore your departure. Listen to me. 
Wherever you may be, if you ever 
need a friend a friend, do you un- 
derstand ? that would value no sac- 
rifice for your sake, do not forget 
that your brother is ready to aid you, 
not only willingly, but with a pleas- 
ure you have no idea of. 

Clement's voice was grave and 
solemn, but at the same time agitated 
and tremulous, as he uttered these 
words. They were so in conformity 

* " A friend, not of my fortune, but myself." 



Fleurangc. 



237 



with what Fleurange had reason to 
expect from him that they touched 
her, but excited no surprise. 

" Yes, Clement," she replied frank- 
ly, casting an affectionate glance to- 
ward him ; " I promise to have re- 
course to you. I feel I have no bet- 
ter friend in the world than ypu, and 
doubt if I ever shall have." 

Were these words sweet or bitter ? 
He hardly knew. The sadness that 
overwhelmed him it seemed impossi- 
ble to increase, and equally impossi- 
ble to alleviate. And yet ! she 
was still there beside him with an 
air of serenity and hope. There was 
not a single sentiment of her heart he 
did not share. She called him her 
friend, and there was no other she 
preferred to him. The moment, so 
full of anguish, was yet a happy one, 
and he regretted at a later day not 
having known how to profit more 
by it. 



This was their last conversation in 
the Old Mansion. Clement preserv- 
ed the little volume in which she had 
written the name of Gabrielle as a 
memento of this interview, and also 
a sprig of the honeysuckle that touch- 
ed her forehead. 

The remainder of the evening 
passed swiftly away. Soon after light 
the next morning came the farewell 
hour. The Dornthals left their be- 
loved home without the hope of ever 
entering it again, and Fleurange once 
more left those she loved, to enter 
upon a new life that looked a thou- 
sand times gloomier and more uncer- 
tain than that which was before her 
when she left Paris. And Clement 
bade them all farewell, to endure as 
he could isolation, a laborious and 
uncongenial life, the privation of the 
aifection and pleasures of his boy- 
hood, and especially all the pain and 
love a young heart can endure. 



PART SECOND. 



THE TRIAL. 

" Era gii I'ora che volge il disio 
Ai naviganti e intenerisce il core, 
Lo di' c'han detto a' dolci amici addio !" DANTE. 



IT was a beautiful night brilliant, 
serene, and starry a night the up- 
rising moon would soon render as 
light as day. A fresh breeze from 
the land swelled the sails of a vessel 
just leaving Genoa, which, far from 
impeding its course, only gave it a 
bolder and more rapid flight over 
the waves. There were various 
groups of passengers on deck, some 
conversing in subdued tones quite in 
harmony with the mysterious hour 
of twilight, and others aloud as if 
it were mid-day. One was playing 
on a guitar, as an accompaniment to 
a somewhat remarkable voice, one 



of those airs everybody knows, sings, 
or hums as long as they are in the 
fashion. The music, in itself indif- 
ferent, did not seem so on the water 
and at such an hour. It harmonized 
with the feelings of those who were 
sailing over that azure sea, beneath 
that starry sky, and in sight of those 
charming shores which the boat 
scarcely lost sight of during its short 
sail from Genoa to Leghorn. 

Apart from all these groups, and 
belonging to none of them, we again 
find Fleurange, who was sitting en- 
tirely alone. She had been here 
some minutes, attracting general at- 



238 



Fleurange. 



tention from the first by the graceful- 
ness of her form, which the cloak in 
which she was wrapped could not 
wholly conceal. The hood, half- 
covering her head, only added a pic- 
turesqueness to the striking beauty 
of her regular features. More than 
one of her fellow-travellers would 
gladly have drawn near the place 
where she was sitting, but, though 
she was alone and did not appear to 
be under any one's protection, there 
was, in the simple dignity of her atti- 
tude, in her evident indifference to the 
sensation she produced, in her very 
want of timidity, which was not bold- 
ness, but resolution, and in her whole 
appearance, a something undefinable 
which intimidated the most lively 
admiration, and would have discon- 
certed insolence itself a remark en 
passant to those who regard familiar- 
ity as only a proof of the attraction 
they inspire. Therefore, in spite of 
some whispering, notwithstanding 
more than one look toward the 
charming face distinctly visible in the 
full light of the moon, now risen, 
Fleurange remained quietly in her 
corner, abandoned to her own medi- 
tations, undisturbed by any one, and 
without troubling herself in the least 
about those who surrounded her. 
Her thoughts were various and com- 
plex. A strange fate seemed to pur- 
sue her and constantly break the 
thread of her life, and every time it 
was broken she found the severance 
more painful. It was but recently 
she wept so bitterly at leaving Paris, 
and Dr. Leblanc, and the dear Ma- 
demoiselle Josephine. But the tears 
were much more bitter she shed at 
leaving the Old Mansion, and the 
loved circle where she had first 
known and tasted in all their fulness 
the sweet joys of family life. 

After leaving Frankfort, Fleurange's 
firmness, which had never faltered 
before, suddenly gave way to such a 



degree as to make Dr. Leblanc re- 
solve to take her back to her friends 
if, after his short stay at Munich, he 
did not find her more resigned to her 
lot. But Fleurange was not a per- 
son to be easily subdued. Her na- 
tural strength of character soon as- 
serted itself, and enabled her to per- 
severe in the path she had chosen. 
Her resolution was strengthened by 
the very circumstances which would 
have discouraged many others. At 
their arrival at Munich, they found 
the Princess Catharine confined to 
her bed by a violent attack of her 
malady, and it was as nurse that 
Fleurange entered upon her duties. 
Her complaint, all the physicians 
declared, was not dangerous, but it 
was not the less painful, nor the 
easier to be relieved. That Dr. Le- 
blanc was again successful in his treat- 
ment was partly owing to the sud- 
den and lively fancy of his patient 
for the young companion he had 
brought her. To tell the truth, the 
doctor, knowing the princess, had 
foreseen this attraction, but he knew 
Fleurange was fully able to justify 
and sustain this first impression, and 
he sincerely h oped by bringing them 
together he had done something no 
less useful and beneficial for his weal- 
thy patient than for his young pro- 
tegte. 

However this might be, nothing 
could have been better adapted to 
dispel the burden of grief that weigh- 
ed on Fleurange's heart than the im- 
mediate necessity of forgetting her- 
self in active and assiduous care for 
another. It was rather a sad begin- 
ning to pass a succession of days and 
nights at the bedside of a sick stran- 
ger, but in the actual state of her 
mind it was the best thing she could 
have done. She possessed all the 
qualities that constitute an efficient 
nurse, and, to a degree that excited 
Dr. Leblanc's surprise, firmness and 



Flenrange. 



239 



promptitude, ease and gentleness in 
all her movements, vigor and skill, 
and seasonable attentions nothing 
was wanting, and the result was the 
never-failing effect of her beauty and 
grace, added to the sentiments of 
lively gratitude sick people generally 
feel for those who know how to re- 
lieve them. The princess did not 
cease thanking the doctor, and the 
latter, quite pleased with the result 
of his inspiration, left Fleurange not 
only without anxiety, but with the 
most favorable hopes as to her posi- 
tion. 

Though scarcely able to travel, the 
Princess Catharine insisted on leaving 
Munich, and by easy stages she suc- 
ceeded in reaching Genoa. Now 
she was on her way to Leghorn, and 
thence would go to Florence without 
delay, as she was eager to arrive at 
the palace which was her real home, 
having long been obliged by her 
health to absent herself from Russia, 
or at least to live there only during 
the brief portion of the year known as 
the pleasant season. 

For the first time, almost, since 
she left her friends, Fleurange was 
now absolutely alone, and at liberty 
to indulge freely in her own reflec- 
tions. She began by recalling the 
cherished memory of her distant 
friends, from whom she was every 
moment drifting away with frightful 
rapidity. It was the hour sung by 
the poet : 

" The hour that wakens fond desire 
In men at sea, and melts their thoughtful heart, 
Who in the mora have bid sweet friends fare- 
well" ; 

and Fleurange's thoughts for a long 
time dwelt upon the recent events 
of her life, so rapid in their current 
as now to be numbered among the 
things for ever vanished upon the 
happy family now scattered; the 
days so few in which she was per- 
mitted to be a member of if and 



finally, her present isolation, for, not- 
withstanding the kindness of the prin- 
cess, she felt extremely isolated. By 
a singular exchange of roles, it was 
she the unprotected orphan, who 
now seemed to have become the sup- 
port of her protectress ; and the lady 
of rank the rich princess, the poor 
woman spoiled by fortune who 
seemed to seek aid and consolation 
from her. Fleurange's kind heart 
found unexpected relief in these 
cares, the very success of which was 
ample reward. She felt her affec- 
tion increase for the object of these 
attentions in proportion as she lavish- 
ed them, but it was rather a feeling 
one has for a child or an inferior, 
than one it would have seemed na- 
tural to have for a person on whom 
she was dependent, and to whom 
she actually owed respect and obe- 
dience. She therefore felt solitary, 
and this loneliness was depressing. 
And yet in spite of herself in spite 
of her melancholy (though this may 
seem contradictory) an irresistible 
sensation of joy quickened the pul- 
sations of her heart. 

Who has not experienced this joy 
that has once seen the beautiful sky 
of Italy, and left it, and then beheld 
it again ? Who has not greeted with 
transport the charming and sublime 
features of its glorious scenery as it 
appears anew on the horizon, as if 
beholding once more the face of a 
beloved friend ? And who, after be- 
ing long deprived of hearing the 
sweet accents of its musical language, 
has not heard them again with emo- 
tion ? All these impressions must 
have been more deeply experienced 
in Fleurange's case than in many 
others. And as the wind went down, 
and the moon ascended the clear 
sky, reflecting a train of light that 
grew brighter and brighter on the 
sea, like a pathway of diamonds lead- 
ing to an enchanted abode, Fleur- 



240 



Fleurange. 



ange, with her eyes fixed on the daz- 
zling waters, felt for a moment trans- 
ported with joy ! All the sadness of 
the past as well as of the present 
vanished: she only realized the in- 
finite pleasure of living, of being 
young, of being here under this sky, 
on this sea, near that coast whose 
odors were perceptible; and when 
she remembered that that coast was 
Italy, that she would be there in a 
few hours, a throng of poetic dreams 
and confused presentiments of hap- 
piness added their vague hopes to 
the secret joy with which she felt, as 
it were, intoxicated. 

Dreams half-understood dreams 
of youth which are seldom realized, 
and which at a later day, according 
as the soul triumphs over or yields 
to the dangers of life, are transform- 
ed into divine and powerful aspira- 
tions, or into deceptive and fatal real- 
ities ! 

At this same hour, what was Cle- 
ment dreaming of, seated at his gar- 
ret window, and likewise gazing at 
the starry sky? Ah! if he could 
have followed her whose image filled 
his soul, he would now have been 
beside Fleurange as she was thus 
wafted away from him, lulled by her 
confused dreams. His reverie, too, 
was sad, but there was nothing vague 
or indefinite about it, and the manly 



tenderness of his look expressed firm- 
ness and resolution rather than soft- 
ness. The future was clearly defined 
in his mind. Yes, though he was 
only twenty years old, he felt capable 
of cherishing a fond memory in his 
heart without ever being unfaithful 
to it. Yes, she should remain there, 
as in a sanctuary, and, after God, he 
would offer her the labors, the stu- 
dies, the poetry, and the purity of his 
life ! Every talent he had received 
should be cultivated, and bring forth 
all that was required on the part of 
the Giver. This motive should quick- 
en his mental faculties, and refresh 
him after the exertions of the day ; 
stimulate him to arduous labor sa- 
cred in his eyes which he would 
pursue with energy and constancy, 
for it was the source of his parents' 
comfort and support, and the reli- 
ance of their old age. And if at 
length ! Perhaps some day ! But 
when the sudden revival of a for- 
bidden hope gave him all at once a 
thrill, he repressed it. His judg- 
ment, his reason, a painful and invin- 
cible presentiment, had for a long 
time assured him this hope was 
vain. " Garder V amour en brisant 
Pespoir " was his aim and devise a 
task painful, difficult, and perhaps 
even impossible. But at this time 
such was his fancy and such his 
dream ! 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



Tennyson: Artist and Moralist. 



241 



TENNYSON: ARTIST AND MORALIST.* 



No English voice in the world of 
letters wakes the pulses of our age 
to the thrill of joy which greet- 
ed Childe Harold and Rob Roy. 
Those monarchs of the popular heart 
left no successors ; or if their mantle 
hung for a moment on the shoulders 
of another, it is now buried in the 
grave of Dickens. We have yet se- 
veral novelists. We have many po- 
ets. But none has obtained universal 
appreciation ; to none has been award- 
ed with general consent the palm of 
paramount renown. Yet it will not 
be questioned that few living writers 
command a larger following, are re- 
membered with more affection, and 
heard with greater eagerness than the 
author of " In Memoriam." 

There are few studies more delight- 
ful than the growth of a poet's mind. 
In the case of Tennyson we witness 
the whole process of development. 
We have seen him in his timid be- 
ginnings and in his brilliant prime. 
More than forty years have passed 
since a slender volume of poems in- 
troduced a young graduate of Cam- 
bridge to the English-reading world. 
The modest offering fell upon a time 
which had garnered larger and riper 
fruit. There were giants in those 
days. Byron indeed was dead, but 
his fame, although it had passed its 
zenith, still shone the brightest in the 
firmament. Shelley had preceded 
him, but the reputation of that sweet 
singer and genuine artist was grow- 

* The Last Tournament. Boston, 1871. J. R. 
Osgood & Co. The Poetical Works of Alfred 
Tennyson, Poet-Laureate. We have already 
printed in this magazine a review of Tennyson's 
poems which aimed to indicate the Catholic as- 
pects of his mind. The following article covers 
different ground. 

VOL. XV. 1 6 



ing, and has not ceased to grow. The 
lovers of Campbell had not surren- 
dered their faith that the Plea- 
sures of Hope and the story of 
Gertrude cf Wyoming were but 
a prelude to loftier strains. From 
the grave of Adonals men's eyes 
had turned with regret and wonder 
to the bold outline of Hyperion 
and the rich shadows of St. Agnes' 
Ei;e. Coleridge was a wreck, but 
the finger of his Ancient Mariner 
pointed many a thoughtful gaze to- 
ward the untravelled country which 
fringes the visible world. The mas- 
ter-hand that had swept the chords 
of Scottish minstrelsy had not yet 
lost all its original vigor. And Words- 
worth's voice gave loud and ctear 
the signal of poetic reform, and all 
who were ready to desert the out- 
worn moulds of classic thought and 
classic imagery had begun to close 
around his banner. 

Into that circle of splendid names 
no youthful aspirant could win ad- 
mittance without a challenge. More 
fortunate, however, than Keats, Ten- 
nyson secured through university 
friendships some indulgence from the 
reviews. A few were eager to crown 
him. It is now acknowledged that 
their unwinnowed praise discovered 
less of the judge than of the parti- 
san. The conservative temper of 
Wilson was provoked by the cordial 
welcome accorded the new-comer in 
certain quarters to assume an atti- 
tude of repression that was, to say 
the least, ungenerous. A measured 
severity might have been amply jus- 
tified. This first venture was indeed 
superior to those Hours of Idle- 



242 



Tennyson: Artist and Moralist. 



ness which had drawn the sneer of 
the Edinburgh Review. But he would 
have been a bold prophet who in 
1830 from " Claribel " and the " Mer- 
maid " would have foretold the " Id- 
ylls of the King." 

Tennyson ripened slowly. His 
next volume was published two years 
later. It was enriched with the " La- 
dy of Shalott," the " Lotus-Eaters," 
and the " Palace of Art," but many 
of the poems were disfigured by his 
earlier mannerisms, and some discov- 
ered an affected mysticism and a han- 
kering after novel expression that was 
not indicative of health or strength. 
The poet, too, had betrayed a sensi- 
tiveness to criticism that augured ill 
for the discipline of his powers. It 
was still an open question whether 
the great gifts which he unquestion- 
ably possessed would be burnished 
by patient labor, or after some idle 
brandishings rust in satisfied repose. 
Nor would he have been the first for 
whom victory too early and lightly 
won has twined the poppy with 
her laurel. A silence of ten years 
followed, and it seemed probable 
that another name must be added to 
those of Campbell and Coleridge 
on the roll of ^splendid disappoint- 
ments. 

But during this long interval he 
had not been idle. He had thought 
and he had suffered. He had learn- 
ed much and discarded much. On 
a sudden, his treasury was opened, 
and the fruits of energy and disci- 
pline fell in glistening showers at the 
feet of a public which had almost 
forgotten him. The " Morte d'Ar- 
thur," " Dora," " Love and Duty," 
" Ulysses," Locksley Hall," appeal- 
ed in divers tones to a charmed and 
astonished audience. By one sweep, 
and with no feeble hand, he had 
planted his standard in many and 
widely different fields. The bright 
forecast of his college friends was 



justified. He had sprung at a bound 
into the front rank of living poets. 

We pass over the " Princess," which 
added little to his reputation, and 
reach 1850, a cardinal point in his 
career. In that year it is just to say 
that " Lycidas " and " Adona'is " were 
eclipsed by " In Memoriam." This 
remarkable work, at once the noblest 
monody and most impressive of heart 
histories, interpreted the author's life 
and consolidated his fame. " Maud " 
came next, and, morbid, incoherent, 
structureless as it is, would have se- 
verely tried a credit less firmly root- 
ed. " Maud " indeed seems to owe 
its origin rather to the blind impulse 
of crude intemperate youth, or the 
promptings of some delirious fever, 
than the deliberate, healthful move- 
ment of the poet's higher faculties. 
It marks the single break in the pro- 
gress of his mind. 

Not a few of Tennyson's admirers 
had always affirmed the " Morte 
d' Arthur" to be the strongest of his 
works. That fragment was publish- 
ed in 1842, but it was not until 
1859 that four kindred poems were 
drawn from that Arthurian romance 
which had early haunted his fancy 
and has chiefly employed the ener- 
gies of his riper years. The " Idylls 
of the King " have had several suc- 
cessors, and the " Last Tournament " 
completes the cycle. 

An effort has lately been made in 
certain quarters to depreciate Tenny- 
son. We do not object to compari- 
sons if they are fruitful in suggestion, 
and are instituted in a candid spirit. 
But perhaps analysis affords the surer 
test. We ourselves hold Tennyson 
to be the first of living English poets, 
and incline to rank him above By- 
ron and beside Wordsworth. In the 
course of an attempt to indicate his 
place in literature, we shall quote 
wherever quotations may sustain or 
illustrate our ideas. We shall draw 



Tennyson: Artist and Moralist. 



243 



mainly from those works which exhi- 
bit a writer at his best. The height 
of mountain ranges is gauged by 
their loftiest peaks, and the merit of 
a public benefactor by his virtues, 
not his shortcomings. A poet is a 
public benefactor. Not his failures, 
but his masterpiece, should supply 
the materials of an honest judgment. 



Vision, in the old Roman concep- 
tion, was the distinguishing faculty 
of the poet. And indeed vates, not 
poela, marks the fundamental condi- 
tion of his art. The seer precedes 
the maker. It is not indispensable 
that he should see more than other 
men, but he will see more clearly. 
His perceptions are acute and nim- 
ble ; his sensations are intense. The 
retina and ear-drum deliver with pe- 
culiar speed and precision their mes- 
sages to his brain. His glance tracks 
the eagle in his circles, and numbers 
the hues of the western sky. He 
catches the whisper of fainting winds, 
and spells the cadence of the rippling 
stream. To him all outlines are sharp 
and crisp, every tint is vivid, every 
tone is clear. Senses exquisitely or- 
ganized are the first essential of the 
poet. 

Sensations are fraught with count- 
less degrees of pleasure, with infinite 
shades of pain. Those objects whose 
ideas awaken a feeling of delight we 
call beautiful. To register the beau- 
tiful is an instinct of the poet. With 
a nice reference to the pleasure im- 
parted, he discriminates forms, di- 
vides the chromatic scale, graduates 
the gamut of sound. In a word, his 
aesthetic judgment is wakeful and un- 
erring. But the keenest joys of the 
mind are not begotten by beauty 
pure and simple. There is a fuller 
and sweeter satisfaction than that de- 
rived from kaleidoscope combinations 



of color, arabesques without signifi- 
cance, and fantasias without text or 
theme. Wherever design emerges, 
the notion of fitness is born. The 
Greek found it in the human body. 
We can trace it in the flower and the 
star. When we contemplate those 
things of which design may be pre- 
dicated, there is blended with the 
feeling of pleasure a perception of 
inward adaptation. The idea of per- 
fection is married to the idea of beau- 
ty. The ideal is their offspring. Up- 
on it the aesthetic judgment unaided 
dares not pronounce. The complex 
faculty, whose province is the ideal, 
is taste. It is the second requisite 
of the poet. 

Most persons of culture and re- 
finement have taste in some degree. 
They are no strangers to the pure 
delight evoked by a smiling land- 
scape. In the human form they 
enjoy the beauty of outline and pro- 
portion, and recognize the nice ad- 
justment of structure to a central 
aim. But their joys are transient. 
The flower fades; sunset yields to 
moonlight; autumn touches with 
her pencil the canvas of the spring; 
one graceful attitude melts into 
another; emotions course across the 
countenance like winds over stand- 
ing wheat. The poet comes. His 
mission is to chain the fleeting, to fix 
the evanescent, to reproduce the 
past. He brings you a rose with the 
bloom on it; calls up the buried 
friend; stays the sinking sun on the 
edge of his western bed. His life is 
a long revolt against the law of 
change. Nor is he confined to imita- 
tion. His sphere transcends reali- 
ties. He may play with nature, if 
he will not violate her. His memory 
is not a store-house only, but a cru- 
cible as well, where the phenomena 
of sense lie fused in a glowing golden 
mass. Through his brain float airy 
shapes surpassing and yet suggesting 



244 



Tennyson : A rtist and Moralist. 



the grace of earthly forms; ideals 
strange and fantastic, yet bound by 
subtle ties of relationship to types of 
the actual world. His fancy is ever 
in labor. Incessant gestation, inces- 
sant parturition, engage her energies. 
Reproduction, creation, is a law of 
the poet's being. It is this which 
vindicates his right to the noble 
name of maker. 

Keen senses, a just taste, creative 
force, compose the common dowry 
of artists. But art is threefold plas- 
tic, pictorial, poetic. To each species 
belongs a peculiar medium in which 
memories are embalmed and fancies 
embodied. The media are solids, 
colors, words. In language lie cer- 
tain powers and certain limitations. 
The poet divines them. He pro- 
duces a speaking picture, but he re- 
members that much of a picture can- 
not be spoken. He demonstrates 
that much also may be told that can- 
not be painted. On his canvas vi- 
vacity and intensity do duty for light 
and shade. Elaboration, suggestion, 
silence, are the elements of his per- 
spective. He borrows from sculp- 
ture the significance of isolation, and 
the incisive lesson of the group. 
Images, metaphors, similes, are the 
poet's graving-tools. He learns their 
latent capacities and their inherent 
flaws. He secures subtle effects by 
climax, antithesis, evolution. He 
plays the chemist with ideas, and pre- 
sents them in every stage of develop- 
ment, now vaporous, now congealed. 
He weighs words, detects their finer 
applications, and fathoms the deeper 
meanings which are coiled about 
their roots. And, finally, he masters 
the mechanism of speech, the organic 
structure of sentences, the joints and 
vertebrae of his native tongue. One 
step remains, to seize the principles of 
metre, the secrets of rhythm and cos- 
sura, the march and music of verse. 
His panoply is finished. He is a poet. 



Let us apply some of tnese tests to 
Tennyson. And, first, his power of 
simple imitation. At first sight this 
seems no lofty triumph of the poet's 
art. And yet how much it implies ! 
To translate substance into the un- 
substantial. To portray the visible 
and tangible in that which has 
neither color nor dimension. Above 
all, to transfuse through the spirit of 
man the spirit of nature. It be- 
hooves him who would compass this 
to purge the heart of emotion, abjure 
self-consciousness, and forget, like 
the Pythian priestess, his own identi- 
ty. He is not to steep his landscape 
in sentiment of his own, nor ascribe 
to it a fictitious sympathy with human 
moods and passions. The outward 
beauty he contemplates must traverse 
his mental atmosphere, untinctured, 
unrefracted, like white light. We 
must catch in his work the soul of 
the scene, a spirit rising from it like 
an exhalation, not drenching it with 
alien dews. We find a happy in- 
stance of right treatment in this cool 
upland valley from " CEnone " : 

" There lies a vale in Ida lovelier 
Than all the valleys of Ionian hills ; 
The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen. 
Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to 

pine, 

And loiters slowly drawn. On either hand 
The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down 
Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars 
The long brook falling thro' the cloven ravine 
In cataract after cataract to the sea. 
Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 
Stands up and takes the morning ; but in front 
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 
Troas and Ilion's columned citadel." 

Beside this place the rank luxuri- 
ance of a tropic island where " Enoch 
Arden," shipwrecked, waited for a 
sail: 

"The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns, 
And winding glades high up like ways to 

heaven, 

The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes, 
The lightning flash of insect and of bird, 
The lustre of the long convolvuluses, 
That coiled around the stately stems and ran 
Even to the limits of the land, the glows 
And glories of the broad belt of the world-- 
All these he saw." 



Tennyson: Artist and Moralist. 



245 



Of pure imitative art Scott and 
Wordsworth are the great modern 
masters. Yet \ve shall all acknow- 
ledge that the passages quoted ex- 
hibit a rare excellence. It would be 
hard to match in Theocritus the 
breezy freshness of the " Brook." 
As we listen, we lose ourselves, and 
seem to penetrate the joyous heart of 
nature. We too are in Arcadia. It 
is the morning of the world, and the 
infant god of some slender streamlet 
hums his naive song to Pan, who lies 
along the sward : 

" I wind about, and in, and out, 
With many a blossom sailing ; 
And here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance 
Among my skimming swallows, 
I make the netted sunbeams dance 
Against my sandy shallows." 

We have dwelt at length on the sin- 
cerity with which Tennyson inter- 
prets nature. It is the stamp of the 
true poet. The dilettante, however 
cunning, cannot counterfeit it. He 
cannot keep himself out of the pic- 
ture, but invests it with his own sen- 
timent, and tricks it out in the 
whims and caprices of the hour. It 
is otherwise with Wordsworth. That 
high-priest of nature enters her pres- 
ence reverently, with humble and 
candid heart. He puts off the vani- 
ties and weaknesses of man on the 
verge of her holy ground. From his 
lips her lessons fall with a simple 
earnestness, like oracles from the 
mouth of a child. Her truths he 
incarnates, but does not presume to 
clothe. 

While it is false art to attribute to 
nature a conscious sympathy with 
man, it is true that she at times dis- 
covers an unconscious harmony with 
his moods. Our emotions are deep- 
ened by the accord. The happy are 
the happier for sunshine. The sad 
are saddest in the night and the rain. 



To aim at this mystic unison, to 
strike one note from feeling and 
from circumstance, is legitimate and 
delightful. Let us contrast an ex- 
ample of such treatment with the less 
truthful method to which we have re- 
ferred. We ought always to study 
a theory in some felicitous expression 
of it, and therefore we take these 
graceful lines from Dr. Holmes. 
The stars and flowers touched by the 
woes of fallen man have conspired 
to watch and warn him. The flow- 
ers cannot bear the sight of human 
misery. 

" Alas ! each hour of daylight tells 

A tale of shame so crushing, 
That some turn white as sea-bleached shells, 
And some are always blushing. 

" But when the patient stars look down 

On all their light discovers, 
The traitor's smile, the murderer's frown, 
The lips of lying lovers, 

" They try to shut their saddening eyes, 

And in the vain endeavor 
We see them twinkling in the skies, 
And so they wink for ever." 

At the first glance this moves, and 
pleases ; because the emotion of the 
moment veils the extravagant hyper- 
bole. The writer is an artist, and 
makes us see, as it were, through 
tears. But the lines do not grow 
upon us like the truly beautiful. As 
we read them a second time, there 
comes over us a feeling of annoy- 
ance, almost of pain, that the flowers 
should be misinterpreted, the stars 
misconstrued. We tremble before 
nature's shocks and storms, and can- 
not afford to darken her brightest 
bloom or trouble her sweet serenity. 
Look now at this figure of " Mari- 
ana," weeping, forsaken, " in the 
moated grange !" There is no pa- 
thetic prelude, no preliminary appeal 
to human sympathies. A neglected 
garden and a lonely house. A reach 
of level waste, colorless, silent, cold. 
The desolation is contagious, and 
just as the heart is sinking into a 
state of depression and despair, the 



246 



Tennyson : Artist and Moralist. 



moan of the stricken girl falls quiver- 
ing on the ear. 

" With blackest moss the flower-plots 

Were thickly crusted, one and all ; 
The rusted nails fell from the knots 

That held the peach to the garden wall. 
The broken sheds looked sad and strange: 
Unlifted was the clinking latch : 
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, ' My life is dreary ! 

He cometh not I' she said ; 
She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead !' " 

We are very far from saying that 
Tennyson is everywhere free from 
the pathetic fallacy. But his sins of 
the kind occur chiefly in some vein 
of sportive apologue, like the " Talk- 
ing Oak," or in the mouth of Maud's 
morbid lover, half distraught by tem- 
per and wholly crazed by crime. 
And, indeed, if any could be par- 
doned for beholding in all things one 
image, it would be, no doubt, the 
lover. In the old myth, love guided 
the hand of art ; but Pygmalion was 
a sculptor, not a landscape painter. 

The portrayal of the human form 
is one of the painter's triumphs, as it 
is the sole province of plastic art. 
Poetry, for the most part, evades a 
description of personal beauty, and 
is content with a suggestion. Yet 
there are two or three etchings in 
the " Palace of Art " which seem to 
us not unworthy of a place in that 
gallery of Philostratus which a poet's 
hand repeopled : 

" Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasped, 

From off her shoulden backward borne ; 
From one hand drooped a crocus, one hand 

grasped 
The mild bull's golden, horn. 

" Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh 

Half buried in the eagle's down, 
Sole as a flying star shot through the sky 
Above the pillared town." 

These are mere outlines. But Ten- 
nyson has drawn one figure with 
almost pictorial finish and force. It 
is Aphrodite revealing herself to 
Paris on Mount Ida: 



" Idalian Aphrodite, beautiful, 
Fresh as the foam, new bath'd in Paphian 

wells, 

With rosy, slender fingers, backward drew 
From her warm brows and bosom her deep 

hair 

Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat 
And shoulder : from the violets her light foot 
Shone rosy white, and o'er her rounded form, 
Between the shadows of the vine-bunches, 
Floated the glowing sunlight as she moved." 

This is genuine painting. There 
is form and color in it, and, withal, 
the spirit of beauty bathing the 
whole, untainted by the faintest sug- 
gestion of wanton love. 

In the temple of outward nature 
poetry is only the acolyte of paint- 
ing. But one shrine is more exclu- 
sively her own. She is mistress of 
the heart. Over that ocean no other 
wing sustains continuous flight. There 
are waves of impulse which canvas 
cannot reflect, and currents of emo- 
tion untraced by the limner's skill. 
There are dainty joys and fears that 
mock his grasp, and gusts of passion 
that confound his cunning. Picto- 
rial art must read the soul in the face, 
and the face is at best a clouded 
mirror. From the poet we hide no- 
thing. The growth of character, the 
drift of habit, the pressure of inherit- 
ed tendencies, springs of motive, 
stings of appetite he discerns and 
deciphers all. But he must not 
speak in riddles: he is bound to 
make his meaning clear. He owes 
a duty to the humblest. They look 
to him to lend thought a form, sha- 
dow a substance; to explain the 
strange by the familiar, and flood 
the whole with the mellow flight of 
fancy. The poet is, in a certain 
sense, what Sidney would make him, 
the right popular philosopher. On 
the success of Tennyson in this field 
there is some difference of opinion. 
The fervor of his sympathies within 
a certain range and the delicacy of 
his intuitions are unquestioned. His 
style is allowed to be rich in color, 
and often fraught with incisive force. 



Tennyson : Artist and Moralist. 



247 



Let us glance at some passages 
which depict the finer shades of feel- 
ing, or are conspicuous for felicitous 
expression. We will then look at 
the charges, so often brought against 
Tennyson, of obscurity and a want 
of dramatic power. 

It is a fact of common experience 
that quite opposite emotions, wrought 
to intensity, reach a state of fusion. 
They move, as it were, in converging 
Unes, and their vanishing point is 
pain ; or rather, they have what phy- 
sicists would call a common dew- 
point. Thus we hear of the luxury 
of sorrow and of love's sweet smart. 
Coleridge has touched this psychic 
truth with extreme tenderness in 
" Genevieve." He shows us the 
young girl rapt in a troubled wonder 
before the strange feeling that storms 
her gentle. breast. Her heart flutters 
like a snared bird : 

" Her bosom heaved, she step aside ; 
As conscious of my look she slept: 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye, 
She fled to me and wept." 

So in one of Tennyson's " Idylls," 
the eyes of the happy Enid are suf- 
fused with tears. It is hardly possi- 
ble to read the lines without loving 
human nature : 

" He turned his face, 

And kissed her climbing ; and she cast her arms 
About him, and at once they rode away. 
And never yet, since high in Paradise, 
O'er the four rivers the first roses blew, 
Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind 
Than lived through her who in that perilous 

hour 

Put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart 
And felt him hers again. She did not weep, 
But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist, 
Like thit which kept the heart of Eden green." 

Most persons have known tliose 
transient attachments which are born 
of " accident, blind contact, and the 
strong necessity of loving." In the 
" Gardener's Daughter " some one 
alludes in this playful fashion to 
the dethroned darling of his salad 
days: 



"Oh! she 

To me myself, for some three careless moons, 
The summer pilot of an empty heart 
Unto the shores of nothing. Know you not 
Such touches are but embassies of love, 
To tamper with the feelings ere he found 
Empire for life ?" 

Few who have read the new " Maid's 
Tragedy " have forgotten " Elaine." 
There is no sweeter face in story. 
We trace a master's hand in the pas- 
sage where a passionate sympathy 
holds her from her sleep, and the 
deep lines of Lancelot's countenance 
are mirrored in her white soul : 

" As when a paiater, poring on a face, 
Divinely through all hindrance finds the man 
Behind it, and so paints it that his face, 
The shape and color of a mind and life, 
Lives for his children ever at its best 
And fullest : so his face before her lived." 

Lancelot is always gracious to her, 
and grateful for her tender care, but 
he is moody and absent, and instinct 
tells her that his love can never be 
hers. She bears home a heavy 
heart : 

" She murmured, ' Vain ! in vain ! it cannot be ; 
He will notlove me ! how, then, must I die ?' 
Then, as a little, helpless, innocent bird, 
That has but one plain passage of few notes, 
Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er 
For all an April morning, till the ear 
Wearies to hear it ; so the simple maid 
Went half the night repeating, ' Must I die?' " 

One more. A song of Tris- 
tram's, rife with the graceful gayety 
that masks and half-redeems a faith- 
less heart. It might have been made 
by Ronsard, and sung by Bussy 
d'Amboise. The husband of " Isolt 
of Brittany " and the lover of " Isolt 
of Britain" gives the rationale of 
broken vows : 

" Ay, ay, O ay, the winds that bend the brier ! 
A star in heaven, a star within the mere. 
Ay, ay, O ay, a star was my desire ; 
And one was far apart, and one was near ! 
Ay, ay, O ay, the winds that bow the gras> ! 
And one was water, and one star was fire. 
And one will ever shine, and one will pass ; 
Ay, ay, O ay, the winds that move the mere !'' 

The admirers of Byron and the 
poets of the Georgian era find Ten- 
nyson obscure. By obscurity they 



248 



Tennyson: Artist and Moralist. 



ought to mean a darkness born of 
confusion, the cloud of fallacy, the 
vagueness of incoherence. Crude 
thoughts, unfledged fancies, halting 
metaphors, are obscure. Poetasters 
are commonly dark, and it would 
be easy to show that Byron himself 
in his best work, the fourth canto of 
Childe Harold, is sometimes guilty 
of obscurity. And it must be ad- 
mitted that some poems of Tenny- 
son's youth, and likewise " Maud," 
are open to this objection. But if, 
as we believe, the charge is pointed 
at " In Memoriam," " Love and 
Duty," or the " Palace of Art," then 
we deny its force. It may be that 
they who find enigmas in Paradise 
Lost and " In Memoriam " mis- 
take the source of their difficulties. 
We incline to depreciate what we 
fail to comprehend. We forget that 
deep waters are not necessarily tur- 
bid; that novelty is not obscurity. 
As we climb a mountain, we gain 
new views of the valley beneath, yet 
the novel landscape may be no less 
vivid than the old. There is, in- 
deed, a dulness of the ear that detects 
no clue to the myriad threads of 
harmony. There is a myoptic dis- 
ease which sees nothing but indis- 
tinctness beyond its narrow horizon. 
In such cases the fault, dear Brutus, 
is not in our stars, but in ourselves, 
that we are mystified. 

We have said that the poet owes 
a duty to the humblest. That duty 
is fulfilled when he has conjured his 
fancies into visible shapes, and given 
truth a concrete form. He is not 
called upon to find eyes for the blind, 
or learning for the ignorant. It is 
enough if at his banquet there is food 
for all stomachs. The poet owes a 
duty not to the humble only. 

There are, for example, two me- 
thods by which poetry may illumi- 
nate history. It may invest personal 
character with the truth and vigor of 



life, and portray detached scenes in 
correct and brilliant colors. Or it 
may reveal to the imagination by 
exact and felicitous metaphor the se- 
quence of events, the march of 
knowledge, the drift of opinion, and 
the " long result of time." Thus Lu- 
can poetized a narrative, Lucretius 
thinks in imagery. We recall no bet- 
ter illustration of the former treat- 
ment than the fine stanza from 
Childe Harold: 

" When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
And fettered thousands bore the yoke of war, 
Redemption rose up in the Attic muse, 
Her voice their only ransom from afar. 
See as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 
Of the o'ermastered victor stops; the reins 
Fall from his hands; his idle scymitar 
Starts from its belt ; he rends his captive's 

chains, 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and 

his strains." 

The anecdote is a noble one, and 
has gained nobility in the telling. 
But anecdotes after all are not the 
marrow of history. Something may 
be learned from Montesquieu as well 
as from Marmontel. Two lines from 
" Locksley Hall " exhibit the other 
method of interpreting history. The 
lines aim at nothing less than at once 
to condense and illumine the most 
pregnant epoch of modern times, the 
eighteenth century. This looks cer- 
tainly like a preposterous abuse of 
that definition assigned to the drama, 
"an abstract and brief chronicle of 
the time." Let us recall for a mo- 
ment the period of Louis Quinze. 
The feudal system has fallen. The 
flowers are withered, the chains re- 
main. The nobles have become 
courtiers, municipal privilege has per- 
ished, the peasant is a slave. Dis- 
honor on the throne, brankuptcy in 
the treasury, the poor starving, the 
rich corrupt. Oppression tightening 
his grasp, and knowledge learning to 
realize the woe and to divine the 
remedy. On one side, despair that 
has begun to think of vengeance ; on 



Tennyson : Artist and Moralist. 



249 



the other, blind arrogance that does 
not dream of retribution. And now, 
is not the whole story told with al- 
most terrible simplicity in the com- 
pass of these lines ? 

" Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion 

creeping nigher 

Glares at one that nods and blinks behind a 
slowly-dying fire." 

It may be said that Byron was 
well-read in history; but he held 
that only romantic characters and 
striking facts were fit subjects of 
poetic treatment. That is not our 
opinion. We believe Byron gave 
the best he had. Moreover, it is not 
true that poetry may borrow nothing 
from history but personal traits and iso- 
lated events. That narrow view of the 
poet's province was corrected for 
English literature by the Paradise 
Regained. Poetry is no mendicant, 
to be put off with the stale scraps 
and shallow gossip of the servants' 
hall. Her seat is at the high table, 
beside the masters of the house. 

Tennyson, we are told, has no 
dramatic power. It is true that he has 
written no drama. Does it follow 
that he is wanting in dramatic power ? 

Derivation often tells us more of 
words than of men. A drama is 
something done, not told or sung ; 
neither narrative nor ode, but some- 
thing done. First, then, we must 
have doers ; or, if you please, actors. 
Our actors must prove themselves 
alive, they must be impelled to 
move. The impelling force is inci- 
dent. But detached scenes illustra- 
tive of character do not make a 
drama, incident is not plot. The ac- 
tion which develops character must 
at the same time tend toward a cer- 
tain end, the catastrophe of the piece. 
A drama, then, in the strictest sense 
is this: a development of character 
in situations which excite to action 
in a particular direction. 

Where the evolution of plot is sub- 



ordinate to the portrayal of charac- 
ter, the drama is loose and inorganic, 
like many of Shakespeare's plays. 
Where the elaboration of personal 
traits is merged in the accomplish- 
ment of the event, the drama leans 
toward the epic, like a tragedy of 
^Eschylus. Perfect equimarch in 
the development of character and 
plot stamps the ideal drama. Dra- 
matic power in this sense is one of the 
rarest of human gifts, and perhaps has 
been exerted nowhere but in the 
plays of Sophocles. The phrase has, 
in English criticism, a much nar- 
rower meaning, and points simply to 
the exhibition of character by action. 

We acknowledge that those poems 
of Tennyson which preceded the 
" Idylls of the King " gave little evi- 
dence of dramatic talent. Like the 
works of Byron, they are for the most 
part lyrical, reflective. In them the 
" beings of the mind " are rather ana- 
lyzed than animated. The poet in- 
terprets them. They do not speak 
for themselves. Even dramatic in- 
sight, which is another thing than 
dramatic power, seems at times to 
be wanting. Thus his " Ulyssef> " is a 
modern soul grappling with the frame- 
work of Homeric times. " Marga- 
ret," " Madeleine," " Isabel," are love- 
ly dreams, not lovely women. In 
the " Princess," if anywhere, we 
should look for the development of 
character. But as the persons of 
the tale pass across the stage,we in- 
cline to suspect with the prince that 
they are but shadows, " and all the 
mind is clouded with a doubt." In- 
deed, little Lillia, whose burst of pret- 
ty petulance suggests the theme, is 
by far the most lifelike figure. 

But the judgment passed upon liv- 
ing poets is at best provisional, and 
subject to reversal on appeal. The 
writer of pastorals will perhaps pro- 
duce an ALneid in his riper years; 
" L'Allegro " and " Lycidas " may be 



250 



Tennyson : Artist and Moralist. 



succeeded by an epic. In the clus- 
ter of poems which embodies the Ar- 
thurian legends, there is much dis- 
crimination of character. The court- 
ly flippancy of " Gawain" is distin- 
guished from Tristram's joyous 
levity. " Etarre " is vicious, " Vi- 
vien " is base. " Enid " is not a gen- 
tler being than " Elaine," yet her 
meekness is finely contrasted with 
the latter's emotional nature. In 
" Lancelot " we have a noble spirit 
in the toils of a great crime. In 
"Arthur," the perfect equipose of 
character, illumined by a sublime re- 
solve. 

Nor are the foremost persons of 
the poems mere portraits. They are 
actors as well. They approach for 
the most part unheralded. Their 
temper and motives are self-betrayed, 
or hinted with a wise reserve. Their 
personal traits are evoked by incident 
or emphasized in dialogue. Here 
certainly is dramatic power of a cer- 
tain kind. Not the highest which 
creates a drama is it high enough 
for an epic? We incline to doubt. 
At least, it has produced none. We 
cannot allow that the " Idylls " which 
are grouped around the figure of the 
king constitute an epic poem. 

The epic we speak of the sEneid 
is distinguished from the drama by 
this, that the development of charac- 
ter is subordinate to the evolution of 
plot, the actors are merged in the ac- 
tion. -And as the drama may lean to- 
ward the epic, so the epic may lean to- 
ward history. That the poet unites in 
his own person the functions of scene- 
painter, machinist, and choregus, is 
only a difference of form. 

Now, it is not so much grasp of 
character as nexus of plot that we 
miss in the " Idylls." Scott's 
Rokeby is an epic, yet Bertram 
Risingham is not more lifelike than 
"Lancelot." But in Rokeby the 
story grows; one event generates 



another, the catastrophe is inevitable. 
Episodes are admitted in the epic, 
but they must be natural growths, or 
at least successful grafts. For exam- 
ple, " Elaine " and " Guinevere " 
stand in true organic relation, but 
" Enid" and " Vivien" have nothing 
in common with the rest of the cycle 
but their social atmosphere and casu- 
al reference to familiar names. In 
the poet's mind, no doubt, the old 
Arthurian romances have been fused 
into a kind of unity. They present 
to him a coherent picture ; discover 
a central thought. It is the soul at 
war with flesh, aspiration foiled by 
appetite, the eagle stung by the ser- 
pent. But he has conveyed the idea 
by short and random strokes. We 
catch only glimpses of it, and are not 
permitted to watch the progressive 
development. In the " Idylls of the 
King " there is the matter of an epic, 
but not the form. We should prefer 
to place them in a class apart, which 
might include the Faerie Queen. 

On the range, finish, and accuracy 
of Tennyson's diction, we need not 
dwell. But no view of a poet's artis- 
tic powers would be complete with- 
out a glance at his command of mel- 
ody and rhythm. For sweetness and 
clearness of tone, the choral hymn in 
the " Lotus-Eaters," and the " Bugle" 
and " Cradle " songs which beguile 
entr'actes in the " Princess " are excel- 
led by few English lyrics. In grasp 
of rhythm Tennyson yields to no re- 
cent poet, except Shelley. There is a 
striking instance of rhythmic effect in 
the " Palace of Sin." A strain of mu- 
sic floats in upon the ear, deepens, 
swells, and at length bursts forth in an 
orchestral symphony. 

Most of Tennyson's later poems 
have been written in unrhymed pen- 
tameter, and his management of the 
verse suggests a comparison with his 
master. In dignity of movement, 
Milton has never been equalled by 



Tennyson : Artist and Moralist. 



251 



any English poet. It seems that no 
line but his could express the lost 
archangel, or embody that vision of 
imperial Rome where sonorous 
names load as with cloth of gold the 
march of the stately iambics. Yet 
nothing could stoop more awkwardly 
to the quiet talk and joys of the mar- 
ried pair in Eden. While Tennyson's 
blank verse falls short of his model 
in majesty and serried force, we must 
allow it to be more flexible. We 
cannot imagine the little novice us- 
ing the Miltonic line. Her gentle 
thoughts would have been drowned 
in the mighty current, whereas Ten- 
nyson's tripping vocables deliver with 
easy grace her artless prattle. 

We can only allude to those ex- 
periments in metre which amuse the 
leisure of an artist, although one of 
them deserves attention. It is an 
ode to Milton : 

" O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies, 
O skilled to sing of time and eternity, 
God-gifted organ-voice of England, 
Milton, a name to resound for ages !" 

Let the reader compare these lines 
with some familiar model of Alcaics 
like " Vides ut alta," and then ask 
himself whether quantity has hitherto 
had fair play in English verse. 



ii. 



What has art to do with morals ? 
With what propriety shall a poet 
play the moralist ? His purpose is 
distinct, his method is radically differ- 
ent, is his object ever identical ? We 
know that it is not always so. In 
the face of outward nature the truth- 
ful artist is forbidden to read humani- 
ty. Hardly is Wordsworth suffered 
to discover here divinity. The Greek 
sculptor sought beauty, not goodness, 
in the daughters of men, and the 
lines that grew beneath his fingers 
breathe the harmony of grace, not 
the harmony of character. Does the 



application of these rigorous princi- 
ples bound the sphere of genuine art ? 
Do the good and the beautiful no- 
where cohere and interfuse ? They 
may in the ideal. For what is 
beauty in things which disclose de- 
sign but the reflex of perfection ? 
And what is goodness but the per- 
fection of the heart ? In the scheme 
of ethics, vice is ugliness, error a dis- 
cord, and weakness disproportion, 
character means equipoise, and vir- 
tue expresses harmony. But how- 
shall art or ethics discern a moral 
symmetry, and crown a spiritual per- 
fection, without a right conception of 
man's nature, of his place and pur- 
pose, his relation to the universe and 
to God ? So far as he portrays the 
heart, the poet must be a moralist. 
Within this domain the truest art will 
utter the purest morals. 

It is a blessed law by which he 
who aims to please is constrained to 
edify. For reason is a disinherited 
prince, and the estate is too often 
squandered before he comes to his 
own. Pride rears the head against 
precept. The imagination flutters 
and beats her bars, until experience 
has clipped her wings. The ideal 
republic could ill afford to dispense 
with poets, for there is no lesson like 
the modest lesson of a lovely life. 
To our gaze perhaps the influence 
seems wholly lost, and yet may be 
only latent. This is sure, that virtue 
has still a foothold in the heart that 
keeps an altar to the beautiful. We 
know how many seeds of goodness, 
what germs of aspiration, are flung 
broadcast by the poet's hand. Who 
will say that his random sowings may 
not stir in a genial hour, strike root 
in the depths of motive, and blossom 
in act and life ? No thoughtful mind 
has failed to recognize the insight of 
Sidney's words in his Defence of 
Poesy : " For even those hard-hearted 
evil men who think virtue a school 



252 



Tennyson : Artist and Moralist. 



name, and know no other good but 
indulgere genio, yet will be content to 
be delighted, which is all the good- 
fellow poet seems to promise, and so 
steal to see the form of goodness, 
which, seen, they cannot but love ere 
themselves be aware, as if they had 
taken a medicine of cherries." 

The ethical standard is sensitive 
to the influence of climate and of 
race. The Italian and the German 
recognize the same virtues, but write 
them in different scales referred to a 
national key-note. The growth of 
knowledge and the expansion of sym- 
pathy determine a deeper change. 
From the age of Pericles to the age 
of Napoleon, the ideal of character 
has undergone alterations which have 
penetrated the essence and affected 
the type. Of certain virtues which 
fired the heart of an Athenian, we 
have kept nothing but the names, 
and we Wave canonized others of 
which he had no conception. The 
attitude of the individual man toward 
nature and society is constantly shift- 
ing under the pressure of ideas. The 
wave of inquiry which rose in civic re- 
volution has swept in widening circles 
over the whole surface of opinion,- 
and now dashes on the primal veri- 
ties which declare the origin and des- 
tiny of man. The mind is active, 
but the heart of the age is perplexed 
and sad. She ponders painfully the 
riddle of the painful earth. She is 
lost in the great forest, the new paths 
are uncertain, the old to her seem 
overgrown. She is troubled with a 
vague unrest, beset with dark mis- 
givings, by results she loathes to ac- 
cept, doubts which she longs to si- 
lence, and hopes she dare not forego. 
Her mood is too grave and earnest 
for blithe and heedless carol. She 
cannot pause to hear the idle singer 
of an empty day. The music which 
holds her ear must be attuned to se- 
rious sympathy, must echo her own 



self-questionings, and breathe her as- 
pirations. She puts aside from her 
lip the cup of distilled water, and 
turns to the mineral spring that sa- 
vors of the rugged earth. 

De Musset is not more essentially 
a child of the age than Tennyson. 
Both inherited in rare perfection the 
exquisite sensibility and high tension 
of the nervous system which are de- 
veloped by modern life. In both the 
violence of emotion is succeeded by 
prolonged depression. Their joy is 
often rapture, and their sorrow an- 
guish, but the prevailing tone is a 
dreamy languor that betrays fatigue. 
Their intellects were plunged in the 
same bath of learning, and tempered 
in the furnace of the time. They 
unite in regretting the trustful past, 
and complain that they were born 
too late into a sick and decrepit 
world. They pace together the shore 
of life, and gaze with wistful eyes 
over the expanse of ocean. But 
here the parallel ends. Their roads 
diverge in youth. Each obeys a dif- 
ferent impulse, and learns a different 
lesson. The one hears a growing 
harmony in the voices of science, 
and perceives an increasing purpose 
in the movement of mankind. The 
other bows the head in stupor before 
the howling storm. Tennyson has a 
kindly glance and a cheery word for 
his fellow-men, they are his brothers, 
his co-Avorkers, ever reaping some- 
thing new. De Musset loads the 
heart with a sense of utter misery, 
and paralyzes the will by the infusion 
of his self-contempt. He is half-in- 
dignant that his spirit should be still 
haunted by a sublime aspiration, and 
confesses almost with a groan : 

"Une immense efferance a traverse la ierre." * 

It is in another mood that Tenny- 
son hails the promise which he sees 
in the aspiration of the soul : 

* " A vast hope has passed over the earth." 



Tennyson :. Artist and Moralist. 



253 



" What is it thou knowest, sweet voice ? I 

cried, 
A hidden hope, the voice replied." 

There are few words more painful 
to read than the prayer in " L'Espoir 
en Dieu." The passionate queries 
are wrung from a breaking heart. 
We offer a rude but passably close 
tiTuisLation of two stanzas. The 
poet demands : 

" Wherefore in a work divine 
So much of discord tarrieth ? 
To what good end disease and sin ? 
O God of justice ! wherefore death ? 

" Wherefore suffer our unworth 
To dream, and to divine, a God? 
Doubt hath laid desolate the earth, 
Our view is too narrow or too broad." 

Compare the rooted faith and serene 
calm of the proem to " In Memo- 



" Thine are these orbs of light and shade, 
Thou madest life in man and brute, 
Thou madest death, and, lo, thy foot 
* Is on the skull that thou hast made. 

" Thou wilt not leave him in the dust, 
Thou madest man, he knows not why, 
He thinks he was not made to die, 
And thou hast made him, thou art just." 

Much, no doubt, of the peculiar 
spirit that pervades the work of either 
poet may be traced to the social 
atmosphere in which he moved. 
Much also is only to be explained by 
the history of his life. Behind the 
"In Memoriam," an unselfish and 
ennobling sorrow weeps and prays 
above a cherished grave. " In Rolla," 
remorse sobs bitterly amid the ruins 
of a wasted life. The song has be- 
trayed the singer. The one is the 
laureate of hope : the other, a prophet 
of despair. Tennyson is a night- 
worn pilgrim whose kindling eye has 
caught the glimmer of a lovely dawn; 
De Musset, a tired swimmer whose 
drowning cry leaps toward us from 
the gates of death. The poetry of 
De Musset is a convex lens which 
draws to a fiery focus the doubts and 
longings of the time ; Tennyson's, a 



stained rose-window, that subdues the 
flaring sunlight to a mild and tender 
radiance. 

While man's moral nature is de- 
veloped and determined by his atti- 
tude toward society and his Maker, 
it is also profoundly affected by his 
attitude toward women. The rela- 
tive position of woman has been 
rather raised than lowered by the 
movement of modern thought. 
Much has been deciphered by spec- 
ulation, and much dissected by 
science, but the deep significance of 
the female character remains intact. 
In the fine atmosphere which nour- 
ished the musings of Richter, two 
earthly forms move freely, the maid- 
en and the wife. In the long pro- 
cess of comparative anatomy, the 
beautiful first reveals itself in the 
sweet instinct that binds a mother to 
her offspring. Then first does the 
fire of Prometheus fairly catch the 
clay. The noblest instinct and the 
noblest aspiration have one element 
in common the abnegation of self. 
Perhaps the one is but a reflex of the 
other. It is certain that the highest 
art has done the fullest justice to wo- 
men. Let us measure Byron and 
Tennyson by this standard. To By- 
ron, woman was an exquisite instru- 
ment which responds in perfect tune 
to the master-touch of passion. To 
Tennyson, she is an embodied spirit, 
who inspires and tempers man while 
she seems to obey his impulse. It is 
a shallow criticism which would ex- 
cuse Byron's low conception by an 
unfortunate experience. If personal 
experience be narrow, why not look 
beyond it ? If the feet stumble in 
the mire, the eyes may still be lifted. 
The fact is, an irresistible instinct 
compels a genuine artist to discern 
and to preach the truth. His life 
may prove a rebel, but his work will 
pay tribute to Caesar. 

The author of" Godiva,"of "Enid" 



254 



Tennyson: Artist and Moralist. 



and "Elaine " is eminently the poet of 
woman. It is especially worthy of 
remark that he should have main- 
tained a distinct and lofty ideal 
throughout the Arthurian cycle. In 
the mediaeval myths, the lineaments 
of the female character were some- 
times clouded by the admixture of 
masculine traits. Through the Car- 
lovingian romance that lives in Ari- 
osto's verse, there roves an unsexed 
and warlike virgin, whom the poet 
means us to admire ; at whom we 
smile in secret. Tennyson has read 
woman's nature with an insight too 
fine and delicate to place her in so 
false an attitude. There is no Brad- 
amant in the " Idylls of the King." 

The unswerving justice of true 
genius finds consummate expression 
in the treatment of" Guinevere." The 
wrong-doing of imperial beauty was 
a dangerous theme, and we may 
guess how it would have been han- 
dled by the author of " Parasina." In 
the original legend the queen com- 
manded sympathy, but she is now 
positively degraded by her preference 
for a meaner soul. It is Arthur's 
doom, and no merit of hers, that he 
loves her still. There is little likeli- 
hood that a modern Francesca will 



borrow impulse or pretext from 
her story. It is amusing to find the 
lovers of Haideeand Gulnare scan- 
dalized by " Vivien." If ever a vile na 
ture was scorched and shrivelled by 
the flame of an honest wrath, that 
poem affords the spectacle. In wily 
Vivien, vice is neither condoned nor 
glozed, but simply stripped and gib- 
beted. The pure air which breathes 
throughout the "Idylls " is condensed 
in the lines of " Guinevere," which 
declare the great purpose of the 
king. We may say with assurance 
that no other English poet, except 
Wordsworth, would have written 
them. 

Tennyson has spoken words of 
comfort to many English hearts, and 
inspired with a noble purpose many 
English lives. His spirit has cross- 
ed the seas. To him and Words- 
worth the youth of America owe 
much that they will not speedily for- 
get. Other benefactors may receive 
some form of recompense, but how 
shall we repay a poet ? It is not 
praise, but thanks we would offer 
Alfred Tennyson. Rare artist, and 
high teacher, sweet voice, pure heart, 
there are many who admire, and not 
a few who love him. 



The Church and the Rights of Women. 



255 



HOW THE CHURCH UNDERSTANDS AND UPHOLDS THE 
RIGHTS OF WOMEN. 



SECOND ARTICLE. 



AGES OF THE FATHERS OF THE CHURCH. 



W T HEN the Christian religion had 
triumphed over idolatry, the princi- 
ple of evil took refuge in heresy, and 
vigorously began a new attack upon 
the church. As women had once 
sealed their faith with their blood, so 
now they came eagerly forward to 
preach it by their learning. The 
centuries which produced the fa- 
thers of the church produced wo- 
men also, to whom these great lights 
of the true faith were mainly indebt- 
ed for their early education. The 
same circumstances also created 
women who, on the throne and 
in the council-chamber, governed 
turbulent nations and guided fierce 
passions, according to the rules of 
justice, honesty, and religion. 

The mother of St. Gregory Nazi- 
anzen, Doctor of the Church, was 
Nonna, and is honored as a saint. 
Butler, in his Lives of the Saints, 
says : " She drew down the blessing 
of heaven upon her family by most 
bountiful and continual alms-deeds; 
. . . yet, to satisfy the obligation of 
justice which she owed to her chil- 
dren, she, by her prudent economy, 
improved at the same time their 
patrimony." 

Here, therefore, in the fourth cen- 
tury, we find a woman commended 
for her practical knowledge of busi- 
ness and her skill in managing pro- 
perty. Ventura relates that, as soon 
as her son Gregory came into the 
world, she placed the Scriptures in 
his infant hands, and ever after in- 



culcated in her teaching the greatest 
love and reverence for sacred learn- 
ing. Nonna's other children were 
both canonized, one of them, Gor- 
gonia, having led the most exemplary 
life in the holy state of matrimony. 
(La Donna Cattolica, vol. i. pp. 431, 
432.) St. Basil, who counted among 
his ancestry many martyrs of both 
sexes, was the son of St. Emelia, and 
the great-nephew of St. Macrina the 
Elder, of whom he says himself that 
he " counts it as one of the greatest 
benefits of Almighty God, and the 
truest of honors, to have been 
brought up by such a woman." His 
elder sister, also named Macrina, 
was greatly instrumental in conduct- 
ing his education. When after his 
death his brother, St. Gregory of 
Nyssa, went to visit their sister, and 
open his heart to her concerning 
their common sorrow, he found her 
dying, it is true, but so vigorous in 
mind that her discourse on the provi- 
dence of God and the state of the 
soul after death was no less striking 
than comforting. He could hardly 
believe, says Ventura, that it was not 
a doctor of the church, a learned 
theologian, who was speaking to 
him; and so much did he treasure 
his sister's words that he compiled 
his admirable Treatise of the Soul 
and The Resurrection chiefly from the 
matter furnished by her discourse. 
Macrina's funeral was an ovation, 
and the bishop of the diocese held 
it an honor to be present thereat. 



356 



How the Church Understands and Upholds 



Olympias, the widow of Nembri- 
dius, the treasurer of the Emperor 
Theodosius the Great, flourished 
about the end of the fourth century, 
and was the friend and helper of St. 
John Chrysostom. His letters to 
her are part of his published works, 
and Nectarius, his predecessor in the 
Patriarchal chair of Constantinople, 
often consulted her on matters of 
ecclesiastical importance. When 
Chrysostom was persecuted and ban- 
ished, she did not escape vexatious 
notice from heathen and heretical 
rulers; but through all, her fortitude 
would have done credit to the brav- 
est man. The great patriarch 
charged her to continue, during his 
absence, " to serve the church with 
the same care and zeal " (Ventura, 
Donna Cattolica, p. 443), and else- 
where in his works says emphatically 
that " women, as well as men, can 
take part in any struggle for the 
cause of God and of the church. 
(Epistle 124, to the Italians.} In a 
letter to her, he says that her pre- 
sence was required at Constantinople 
to encourage the persecuted breth- 
ren, and in another he bids her exert 
all her resources to save the Bishop 
Maruthas from the abyss (he having 
given signs of yielding to heresy). 
Further on, in the same letter, he 
gives her instructions, almost amount- 
ing to a diplomatic and official mis- 
sion, with regard to the request of the 
King of the Goths for a bishop and 
missionary in place of Aubinus the 
Apostle, who had just died, after con- 
verting many thousand of these bar- 
barians. When St. Chrysostom sent 
a messenger to the Pope St. Inno- 
cent, at the beginning of the perse- 
cutions at Constantinople, he gave 
him letters of recommendation to 
none but a few Roman ladies 
Proba, Juliana, and Demetrias. 

The influence of Monica, the mo- 
ther of St. Augustine, upon her way- 



ward son, is so well known that it is 
almost superfluous to dwell on it; 
and St. Jerome, eminently a learned 
saint, was scarcely less connected 
with holy and well-taught women. 
He himself tells us that it was espe- 
cially his friend and spiritual daugh- 
ter Paula who engaged him in the 
study of the Old and New Testa- 
ments, and who induced him to 
translate the former from the original 
Hebrew. Rohrbacher, in his Eccle- 
siastical History, corroborates this 
statement ; and Capefigue, in his Four 
First Ages of the Church, says that 
" the pure society of women had im- 
parted to Jerome a heartfelt exalta- 
tion, a deep enthusiasm for all 
purity and nobility in themselves." 
We learn from Butler (Lives of the 
Saints) that Marcella, one of the 
many matrons under St. Jerome's 
instruction in Rome, made great 
progress in the critical learning of 
the Holy Scriptures, and learned in 
a short time many things which had 
cost him abundance of labor (vol. 
ix.). Other women, of whom, we 
shall speak hereafter, were collected 
under his guidance; almost all are 
now canonized saints, and were cele- 
brated even in their own day for 
their skill and erudition. The great 
Paula was the most illustrious among 
them, and he tells us of her as also 
of five or six others that they were 
as well acquainted with Hebrew as 
with Latin and Greek. To the 
daughter-in-law of St. Paula, Jerome 
wrote a. letter full of minute and 
seemingly trivial details, concerning 
the education of her little daughter, 
who afterwards became St. Paula the 
Younger. It is of such quaint inte- 
rest, and so calculated to give a high 
idea of the importance attached by 
the great doctor of the church to the 
minutice of a little girl's daily life, 
that we cannot resist the temptation 
of quoting a few extracts from it : 



the RigJits of Women. 



!S7 



" Let her be brought up as Samuel 
was in the temple, and the Baptist in 
the desert, in utter ignorance of van- 
ity and vice ; ... let her never 
hear bad words nor learn profane 
songs; ... let her have an al- 
phabet cf little letters made of box 
or ivory, the names of all which she 
must know, that she may play with 
them, and that learning may be made 
a diversion. When a little older, let 
her form each letter in wax with her 
finger, guided by another's hand j 
then let her be invited, by prizes and 
presents suited to her age, to join 
syllables together. . . . Let her 
have companions to learn with her, 
that she may be spurred on by emu- 
lation. . . . She is not to be 
scolded or browbeaten if slower, but 
to be encouraged that she may re- 
joice to surpass, and be sorry to see 
herself outstripped and behind others, 
not envying their progress, but re- 
joicing at it while she reproaches 
herself with her own backwardness. 
Great care is to be taken that she 
conceive no aversion to studies, lest 
their bitterness remain in after-years. 
A master must be found for her, a 
man both of virtue and learning : nor 
will a great scholar think it beneath 
him to teach her the first elements 
of letters. . . . That is not to be 
contemned without which nothing 
great can be acquired. The very 
sounds of letters and the first rudi- 
ments are very different in a learned 
and in an unskilful mouth. Care 
must be taken that she be not accus- 
tomed by fond nurses to pronounce 
half-words, as it would prejudice her 
speech. Great care is necessary that 
she never learn what she will have 
afterwards to unlearn. The eloquence 
of the Gracchi derived its perfection 
from the mother's elegance (of speech). 
Xo paint must ever touch her face 
or hair." He is no less sensible and 
moderate in physical instructions 
VOL. xv. i y 



than strict in things of the spiritual 
order. He says : " She should eat 
so as always to be hungry, and to be 
able to read or sing psalms immedi- 
ately after meals. The immoderate 
long fasts of many displease me. I 
have learned by experience that the 
ass, much fatigued on the road, seeks 
rest at any cost. In a long journey, 
strength must be supported, lest, by 
running the first stage too fast, we 
should fall in the middle. In Lent, 
full scope is to be given to severe 
fasting." He advises the young girl, 
when old enough, to read the works 
of St. Cyprian, the epistles of St. 
Athanasius, and the writings of St. 
Hilary. These are grave and ab- 
struse studies, requiring much time 
and application, and as fully up to 
the standard of a modern male edu- 
cation as any woman could desire. 
St. Jerome himself was living at 
Bethlehem when he wrote this letter, 
and while recommending her mother 
to send little Paula to St. Paula the 
Elder for her later education, he him- 
self promises to instruct her, adding 
that " he should be more honored 
by teaching the spouse of Christ 
than the philosopher [Aristotle] 'was 
in being preceptor to the Macedoni- 
an King." It was the elder Paula 
who built St. Jerome the monastery 
of Bethlehem, in which he spent a 
great part of his life. She governed 
a monastery of women not far from 
it. St. Jerome, in his panegyric of 
her life, addressed to her daughter 
Eustochium, expresses himself in the 
following unequivocal language : 
" Were all the members of my body to 
be changed into tongues, and each 
fibre to utter articulate and human 
sounds, even then I could not wor- 
thily celebrate the virtues of the holy 
and venerable Paula." As soon as 
her husband's death left her the free 
use of a magnificent fortune, she li- 
berated all the numerous retinue of 



258 



How the Church Understands and Upholds 



slaves that formed not only her 
household but her possessions. Hun- 
dreds of Christian masters and mis- 
tresses did the same, and treated their 
freed retainers as brethren and sisters 
in the faith, long before the philan- 
thropy of modern times had begun 
to envelop in a halo of unusual 
heroism the sacrifice of slave proper- 
ty. From a noble Roman matron, 
placed by her birth in an assured po- 
sition of great prominence, she be- 
came a voluntary exile and wanderer 
for the sake of planting the faith 
more firmly in the East. St. Jerome 
describes, in words full of sympathe- 
tic admiration, her pious visits to the 
Holy Places of Judea. She also made 
a pilgrimage to the home of monas- 
ticism, the Thebaid and the Lybian 
desert. Humble as she was, fame 
followed and surrounded her. Pil- 
grims to Jerusalem counted her as 
one of the most consoling and admi- 
rable of the objects that claimed 
their devotion. Macarius, Arsenius, 
Serapion, famous lights of the church 
and patriarchs of the eremitical life, 
came from long distances and inac- 
cessible solitudes to confer with her. 
At Jerusalem, she founded places of 
shelter and entertainment for the ma- 
ny pilgrims who flocked there ; both 
at Rome and in the East, she was 
the mother and the idol of the poor, 
whose wants she relieved untiringly, 
and for whose sake she was often not 
only penniless, but in debt. Her last 
illness was like a royal levee, and bi- 
shops and patriarchs hastened to her 
bedside ; her funeral, says Ventura, 
was almost a canonization. Bishops 
carried her body to its tomb, and for 
seven days sacred hymns and psalms 
echoed ceaselessly in the church of 
the Holy Grotto at Bethlehem, where 
the funeral service was performed in 
Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. Cape- 
figue calls her the " most remarkably 
erudite woman of her age," and her 



instincts of faith and learning alike 
made her intuitively aware of the ar- 
tifices of the heretic Palladius, whose 
well-concealed Origenism she unmask- 
ed and denounced in presence of St. 
Jerome, when the wolf would have 
put on sheep's clothing and deceived 
her simple nuns. Paula's daughters 
Blesilla, the learned and accomplish- 
ed widow ; Eustochium, the celebrat- 
ed virgin to whom many of St. Je- 
rome's works are addressed or dedi- 
cated; Paulina, the model wife to 
whose influence over her saintly hus- 
band the first hospitals in the West 
are due and their sister-in-law, Las- 
ta, the happy mother of the younger 
St. Paula, are all canonized saints of 
the church, and each of them the 
just pride of their sex in the respec- 
tive walks of life to which they were 
destined. Fabiola, another of St. Je- 
rome's scholars, was the foundress of 
the first hospital absolutely establish- 
ed in Rome. 

The church has never been chary 
of tendering graceful homage to the 
influence and ability of woman, and 
perhaps no more singular or flattering 
proof of this can be found than the 
pictorial honor which, Ventura as- 
sures us (Donna Caifolica, vol. i. p. 
466), was offered by St. Gregory the 
Great to St. Sylvia, his mother. She 
was represented as sitting by his side, 
robed in white, and crowned with 
the mitre worn by doctors of theolo- 
gy, while the left hand held an open 
Psalter, and the right was raised with 
two fingers extended, in the* attitude 
of benediction. 

St. Ambrose, the Bishop of Milan, 
who was born and died in the fourth 
century, owed his early training of 
piety and solid learning to his mother, 
who was left a widow during his in- 
fancy, and to his elder sister Marcel- 
lina, to whom later on Christendom 
became indebted for the three ad- 
mirable books he wrote on The State 



the Rights of Women. 



259 



of Virginity. Another of his famous 
works is a treatise on Widowhood. 
In one of his books on Virginity he 
meets the common though worn-out 
argument that virginity is a foe to 
the propagation of the human race. 
As this bears upon our general sub- 
ject, though it be not immediately 
akin to it, \ve will stop to quote it. 
" Some complain," he says, " that 
mankind will shortly fail if so many 
are consecrated virgins. I desire to 
know who ever wanted a wife and 
could not find one ? The killing of 
an adulterer, the pursuing of wag- 
ing war against a ravisher, are the 
consequences of marriage. The num- 
ber of people is greatest where vir- 
ginity is most esteemed. Inquire 
how many virgins are consecrated 
every year at Alexandria, all over the 
East, and in Africa, where there are 
more virgins than there are men in 
this country [Italy]." And Butler, 
in his Life of St. Ambrose, goes on 
to explain : " May not the French 
and Austrian Netherlands, full of 
numerous monasteries, yet covered 
with populous cities, be at present 
esteemed a proof of this remark ? 
The populousness of China, where 
great numbers of new-born infants 
are daily exposed to perish, is a ter- 
rible proof that the voluntary virgin- 
ity of some is no prejudice to the 
human race. Wars and the sea, 
not the number of virgins, are the 
destroyers of the human race, as 
St. Ambrose observes ; though the 
state of virginity is not to be rashly 
engaged in, and marriage is not only 
holy, but the general state of man- 
kind in the world." Not only did 
St. Ambrose occupy his mind and 
pen with the concerns of holy and 
spotless women, but he did not think 
it beneath his dignity to write for 
those unhappy virgins who had fall- 
en from their vows and thus been 
reft of their most precious heirloom. 



In the third book of his work on Vir- 
ginity, he pays the following homage 
to Christian woman, such as she was 
in his age : " I have been a priest 
but three years," he says, " and my 
experience has not been long enough 
to teach me what I have written. 
But what my own experience could 
not teach, the sight of your conduct 
has suggested. If, in this work, you 
find any flowers of thought, know 
that I have gathered them from your 
own lives. I do not so much give 
you precepts, as I draw examples 
from the behavior of living virgins, 
and set them before the eyes of the 
world. My discourse has only re- 
produced the image of your virtues. 
It is but the portrait of your own life, 
so grave and earnest, which you will 
see here, beaming with light as re- 
flected from a mirror. If you find 
grace in these words, it is you who 
have inspired my mind with it. All 
that is good in this book belongs to 
you." (Third book on Virgins.} 
What more graceful tribute, more 
appreciative homage, could man ren- 
der to the opposite sex ? Yet he who 
wrote this was a great and powerful 
bishop, a doctor of the church, a 
profoundly learned man, whose influ- 
ence was spread through kingdoms, 
and whose advice was sought and 
followed by emperors. Here is yet 
another example of the distinguished 
part played by woman in affairs of 
the highest public importance. Cape- 
figue, in his Four First Ages of the 
Church, says that in the churches 
of Rome might be seen the most 
noble matrons of the city, " who gave 
the first and greatest impulse to all 
Christian sentiments." This was at 
the end of the fourth century, and 
the two Melanias were then foremost 
among the active and energetic wo- 
men mentioned. The elder Melania, 
whose fortune was immense, and 
who was married early by her father, 



260 



How the Church Understands and Upholds 



the Consul Marcellinus, became a 
Avidow after a few years of marred 
life, and thereafter devoted herself to 
the church. She travelled to Egypt 
and Palestine in the interests of 
the persecuted Patriarch Athanasius, 
whom she protected and supported 
with all the moral influence and tem- 
poral means at her command. The 
zealous and open protectress of more 
than five thousand Christians, the har- 
borer of priests and bishops driven 
from their sees and parishes during 
the Arian persecutions of the Em- 
peror Valens, she was herself cast into 
prison by the Governor of Jerusalem, 
to whom she spoke thus boldly and 
fearlessly : " Do not think to despise 
me because I wear poor garments : 
I might wear the robes of a princess, 
did I choose to do so. Do not 
think to intimidate me by your 
threats, for I have sufficient influence 
to protect me against the slightest 
aggression on your part. I tell you 
this, and give you this advice, that 
you may not through ignorance 
commit any error that might lead 
you into danger." The courageous 
woman was released, and continued 
her ministrations of mercy. Her 
granddaughter, St. Melania, married 
young to a noble Roman, the de- 
scendant of the great Publicola, and 
the son of the Prefect of Rome, was 
even a more prominent personage 
than the elder Melania. After the 
birth and death of two children, she 
and her husband renounced their 
high position, freed eight thousand 
slaves, and sold their immense pos- 
sessions in several parts of the 
Roman Empire for the benefit of 
the poor. They then retired to a 
quiet country solitude in Campania, 
and with several associates began 
leading " the perfect life " which we 
have so often seen attempted in vain 
in this age by refined and earnest 
souls without the bosom of the 



church. Here, their chief occupation 
was the study and the propagation 
of the Scriptures and other solid 
works of learning and faith. The 
works of the fathers were foremost 
among the latter, and Ventura says 
with truth that we may well thank 
woman when we read these admira- 
ble treatises, for without her help, 
care, and zeal they would be con- 
siderably less in number than they 
are. The love of the Scriptures and 
of Biblical lore seems thus to have 
been a distinctive mark of the sex in 
the early days of the church. 

Melania and her copmanions after 
a time left Italy, and settled in Africa 
near Hippo, and there became the 
most active allies of St. Augustine. 
They also journeyed through Spain, 
Palestine, and Asia Minor, always in 
the interests of the faith, founding 
monasteries and schools, and assisting 
the poor and the persecuted. After 
her husband's death, Melania, having 
been wrecked on the coast of Sicily, 
and having found several thousand 
Christians in bondage to barbarian 
idolaters, she redeemed and freed 
them all. At one time she held a 
high post at court, and exerted her- 
self successfully in favor of orthodoxy. 
When the Nestorian heresy was mak- J 
ing great progress in Asia and Africa, 
she uncompromisingly combated it 
by her influence and social talents, 
by the persuasion of her manner and 
the force of her arguments, as Ri- 
badeneira testifies in the sketch he 
wrote of her life. Ventura asserts 
that she confounded Pelagius himself, 
who by all manner of arts endeavor- 
ed to win her to his side ; and it is 
known that, when St. Augustine fail- 
ed to convert Volusian, the Prefect 
of Rome, and uncle to Melania, this 
heroic woman, according to Baronius, 
undertook to convince him, and suc- 
ceeded most triumphantly. Melania's 
funeral at Jerusalem was the occasion 



the Rights of Women. 



261 



of lavish homage to the power and 
influence of her sex; bishops and 
confessors were eager to show their 
respect and admiration, and the Chris- 
tian world proved once more that 
" precious in the sight of the Lord is 
the death of his saints." 

Marcella, one of St. Jerome's spirit- 
ual daughters, and whose funeral 
eulogy he wrote, was, according to 
this great saint's own words, " the 
greatest glory of the city of Rome." 
When Alaric and his Goths in- 
vaded Rome, her house was broken 
into, and herself cruelly beaten and 
disfigured. All her reply was, " My 
gold I have given to the poor : 
you will find nothing in rny possession 
but the tunic I wear." She collected 
many holy and learned women 
around her, and her house was the 
rallying point of all Christians. All 
good works received their impetus 
from her, and she was often consulted 
by bishops and priests on questions 
of Biblical learning, after St. Jerome, 
who had taught her the Scriptures, 
had left Rome. Although consecrat- 
ed virgins of both sexes abounded in 
her time, as yet no distinct commu- 
nity under a recognized rule had 
been formed in Rome. She under- 
took to establish the monastic life in 
the capital of the empire, and was the 
first to reduce to order the elements 
of which such a community might be 
formed. With the advice of St. Athan- 
asius, and some fugitive priests of Alex- 
andria, who took refuge in Rome in 
340, during the Arian persecution in 
the East, Marcella gave up a coun- 
try-seat of hers for a monastery, and 
adopted for the future religious the 
rule of St. Pachomius. The men fol- 
lowed her example, and assembled in 
concert to found communities of 
their own. Rome vied with the 
Theba'id for sanctity and learning, 
and this was the work of a woman. 
When, in the seventh century, St. Bene- 



dict, the reformer and patriarch of all 
religious orders in Europe, reduced 
monasticism in the West to the state in 
which we know it in our own days, he 
was only, says Ventura (Donna Catto- 
lica,\o\. i. p. 488), walking in the path 
which the heroic women of Christen- 
dom had hewn out before him in imi- 
tation of the hermits and anchorites 
of the East. But Marcella shines 
no less as a pillar of orthodoxy than 
as the institutrix of Western mona- 
chism. When the Origenists, through 
the aid of the cunning Rufinus and 
the intriguing Macarius, who dissemi- 
nated skilfully veiled errors in Rome, 
began to attack the integrity of the 
Christian faith, Marcella left her 
solitude, and came to the capital 
to confront the heresiarchs. The fol- 
lowing details are all vouched for by 
St. Jerome in the funeral eulogy ad- 
dressed by him to her friend and 
scholar Principia: "The faith of 
the Roman people had been weak- 
ened on many points. . . . The 
new heresy had made many victims, 
even among priests and monks. . . . 
The Sovereign Pontiff himself, Siricius, 
who was as conspicuous for holy sim- 
plicity as for sanctity of life, and who 
judged of others by the candor of his 
own soul, seemed for a moment to 
have become the dupe of the hypocrisy 
of these new pharisees. The ortho- 
doxy of the bishops Vincent, Euse- 
bius, Paulinian, and Jerome had even 
been suspected, and, when they cried 
out that the wolf was in the fold, no 
one vouchsafed to listen to them. 
In this grave emergency, in presence 
of much coldness, indifference, and 
weakness on the part of men, God 
made use of the far-sightedness, the 
zeal, the courage of a woman to keep 
the faith intact in Rome. Marcella, 
more eager to please God than men, 
resisted the Origenist heresy publicly, 
vigorously, and efficaciously. She it 
was who by the very testimony of 



362 



How the CliurcJi Understands and UpJiolds 



those who had first been deceived 
by the new errors and then abjured 
them, convinced every one of the 
real nature of the heretical doctrine. 
She stimulated the zeal of the Sover- 
eign Pastor by proving to him how 
many souls had already gone astray. 
. . . She was the first to point out 
to him the disguised impieties of the 
garbled translations of Origen's book 
on Principles, which Rufinus had 
translated and altered, and was now 
selling everywhere. She often sum- 
moned the heretics to come and jus- 
tify themselves in Rome, but they 
dared not answer, and preferred be- 
ing condemned as absent and contu- 
macious, rather than be publicly con- 
founded by a woman. At last, when 
a general condemnation was pro- 
nounced upon their doctrines, it was 
chiefly the result of Marcella's vigi- 
lance." Here, therefore, is a woman 
exerting a guiding influence on the 
destinies of the church by her learn- 
ing, subtleness, and eloquence. If 
the women of the early centuries 
achieved such successes with the na- 
tural weapons of their sex and posi- 
tion, why do our sisters of the present 
day desire a reorganization of society, 
and a new accession of hitherto un- 
known and unnatural weapons ? 
Why indeed but because the order 
of society sanctioned and regulated 
by the church has been subverted 
by the Reformation ; the holy charter 
of woman abolished ; and elegant and 
veiled Islamism, or in some instances 
a coarse and degrading barbarianism, 
inculcated and forcibly brought into 
action concerning woman, and the sex 
gradually forced out of its legitimate 
orbit, with its capabilities dwarfed, 
its intellect narrowed, its talents 
sneered at,and its affections repressed ? 
The broad river of woman's influ- 
ence, flowing so calmly and majes- 
tically through the centuries of the 
church's undisturbed unity, has been 



dammed up by the Protestant tradi- 
tion of the last three hundred years, 
till it has broken forth again as a 
turbulent torrent, devastating where 
it once fertilized, disturbing where 
once it conciliated. In its new form 
and its strange aggressiveness, it now 
horrifies mankind, where in early 
days, in its legitimate sphere, it 
guided the greatest statesmen, orators, 
and saints, and gravely helped them 
on the road to heaven, to science, 
and to happiness. But we are di- 
gressing, for we have undertaken to 
speak of facts, not to Declaim about 
theories. We have much ground to 
travel over yet before we come to 
the end of the list of glorious women 
who have made the church, so to 
speak, their panegyrist, and the world 
their debtor. We have once before 
mentioned the Roman ladies, Proba, 
Juliana, and Demetrias, to whom St. 
Chrysostom recommended his envoys 
and their mission to Pope St. Inno- 
cent. Demetrias was the daughter 
of the Consul Olibrius and of St. Ju- 
liana; Proba was her grandmother 
on her father's side. The two wid- 
ows, having converted their husbands, 
consecrated their after-lives to the 
education of Demetrias. St. Augus- 
tine was their friend and counsellor, 
and wrote them letters that are 
among the most prominent of his 
works. One to Proba is on the effi- 
cacy and the nature of prayer ; 
another to Juliana treats of the ad- 
vantages and duties of widowhood. 
When Demetrias announced her in- 
tention of remaining a virgin, the holy 
joy of the family knew no bounds, 
and the day of her formally receiving 
the veil was a festival for all Rome. 
St. Jerome honored her with a dis- 
course which has come down to us 
in the shape of a Letter to Deme- 
trias, followed by a treatise on Vir- 
ginity, and not only did he interrupt 
for this purpose the grave commen- 



the Rights of Women. 



263 



taries on the Scriptures in which he 
was engaged, but he also addressed 
to the parents of the virgin such 
congratulations as rang throughout 
Italy, and made the holy and happy 
trio the envy of every matron and 
maiden in the Christian world. (Ven- 
tura, Donna Cattolica, vol. i. p. 520.) 
The heresiarch Pelagius so little 
understood the importance of woman 
that he took the trouble to address 
to Demetrias a letter so long that it 
almost forms a book, which is still 
extant, and was intended to instil 
into her mind his insidious errors. 
St. Augustine, however, cautioned her 
against Pelagius, and bid her keep 
staunch to " the faith of Pope Inno- 
cent." 

There was one sphere which more 
than any other was christianized and 
influenced for good by women, and 
indeed could not have been, otherwise 
sanctified the sphere of the imperial 
court, both in Rome and in Con- 
stantinople. We have already seen 
empresses and relatives of the 
Caesars becoming Christians and 
often martyrs, but it remained for the 
women of the fourth and fifth centu- 
ries to make the palace into a sanc- 
tuary and add the lustre of a heaven- 
ly crown to the majesty of an earthly 
sceptre. Constantine, under whose 
auspices Christianity first emerged 
from the Catacombs, was the gift of 
woman to the church. His mother 
Helena, his wife Fausta, and his 
mother-in-law Eutropia (the two 
latter being respectively the wife and 
daughter of Maximian-Herculeus) 
were zealous and devoted Christians, 
and to their influence are due the tolera- 
tion and subsequently the favor with 
which the faith was treated by Con- 
stantine. Eusebius relates that Eu- 
tropia on her pilgrimage to the Holy 
Places found idols and sacrificial 
rites still flourishing near the famous 
oak of Mambre, where tradition 



places the scene of the visit of the 
three angels to Abraham. She wrote 
to her son-in-law in unconcealed in- 
dignation, and thus procured after a 
time the destruction of the shameful 
altars. Later on we find the em- 
peror building a church on the iden- 
tical spot. The progress of the Em- 
press Helen through Palestine is as 
an ovation to the faith, and a record 
of churches built and monasteries 
founded in every Holy Place. She 
constantly besought her son's aid 
and munificence in these undertak- 
ings, and extended the protection of 
his name to all Christian establish- 
ments in the East. We owe to her 
piety and energy the most solemn 
and the greatest of the memorials of 
the Passion, the Holy Cross on which 
our Lord suffered and died. It is 
likewise to her, a woman, that we 
owe one of the most beautiful of 
Christian churches, that of the Holy 
Sepulchre at Jerusalem, as well as 
one of the most interesting basilicas 
of Rome, Santa Croce in Gentsa- 
kmme, where a portion of the august 
relic of the cross was deposited. Her 
charities were numberless, her foun- 
dations magnificent. She alleviated 
the condition of those who were 
condemned to the mines, and freed 
many from chains and slavery. The 
city of Drepanum in Bythinia, where 
St. Lucian the martyr had died for his 
God, she so beautified and endowed 
in his honor that after her death her 
son changed its name to Helenopolis. 
Even the fame of the local and mu- 
nicipal life of many cities can be 
traced to the influence and activity 
of woman, and further on we shall 
see how some of her sex have laid 
colleges, schools, and universities un- 
der eternal obligations. Constance, 
the daughter of Constantine, was the 
first convert of the imperial family, 
and exercised no little influence over 
her father. She assembled numbers 



Hoiv the Church Understands and Upholds 



of holy virgins, and consecrated her- 
self with them in a state of virginity 
to the service of God and the poor. 
When Constantius, her brother, be- 
came emperor, and, favoring Arian- 
ism, called himself head of the 
church, while he exiled Pope Liberi- 
us, hundreds of the Roman ladies 
united in a deputation to protest 
against this illegal act. As long as 
the anti-Pope Felix remained in 
Rome, these same women utterly 
scorned his authority, and encouraged 
the people to refuse to hold commu- 
nion with him. This firm attitude of 
the women of Rome had its reward, 
and Pope Liberius was at length re- 
called when the emperor perceived 
that the forced schism was likely to 
result in sedition against himself. 
Maximus, Emperor of the West, 
through the influence of his Christian 
wife, became the friend and pro- 
tector of St. Martin of Tours; and 
Theodosius, the contemporary of St. 
Ambrose, was mainly guided in his 
wise and, upon the whole, salutary 
administration by his wife Placidia 
and his daughter Pulcheria. But 
his granddaughter, also named Pul- 
cheria, and justly honored as a saint, 
was pre-eminently the glory of the 
Eastern Empire and the honor of her 
sex as well as of her order. Her 
reign was the triumph of the church, 
the golden age of justice, the realiza- 
tion of a Christian Utopia. When 
the tranquillity of the age was dis- 
turbed, it was through the decline of 
her influence and the triumph over 
her of her many enemies. When her 
father Arcadius died and left his 
throne to his son Theodosius, she 
was chosen not as regent, but as Au- 
gusta, or co-ruler and empress, with 
her brother, and moreover was en- 
trusted with the care and responsi- 
bility of his education. The histori- 
an Rohrbacher, ever eager to extol 
the sex. says of her: " It was a mar- 



vel, the equal of which has never 
been known either before or since, 
and which God wrought in those 
days for the glory of woman, whom 
his grace sanctified and his wisdom 
inspired that a maiden of sixteen 
should govern successfully so vast an 
empire." Pulcheria reduced the im- 
perial household to a degree of order 
and decorum more resembling a col- 
lege than a court ; her brother's mas- 
ters were all chosen and approved by 
her, and the utmost respect was paid 
by her both to the laws and the pre- 
lates of the church. Alban Butler, in 
his Lives of the Saints, speaks of her 
and her reign in these terms : " The 
imperial council was, through her 
discernment, composed of the wisest, 
most virtuous, and most experienced 
persons in the empire : yet, in delib- 
erations, all of them readily acknow- 
ledged the superiority of her judg- 
ment and penetration. Her resolu- 
tions were the result of the most ma- 
ture consideration, and she took care 
herself that all orders should be exe- 
cuted with incredible expedition, 
though always in the name of her 
brother, to whom she gave the honor 
and credit of all she did. She was 
herself well skilled in Greek and 
Latin, in history and other useful 
branches of literature, and was, as 
every one must be who is endowed 
with greatness of soul and a just idea 
of the dignity of the human mind, 
the declared patroness of the sciences 
and of both the useful and polite 
arts. Far from making religion sub- 
servient to policy, all her views and 
projects were regulated by it, and by 
this the happiness of her government 
was complete. She prevented by her 
prudence all revolts which ambition, 
jealousy, or envy might stir up to 
disturb the tranquillity of the church 
or state ; she cemented a firm peace 
with all neighboring powers, and 
abolished the wretched remains of 



the Rights of Women. 



265 



idolatry in several parts. Never did 
virtue reign in the oriental empire 
with greater lustre, never Avas the 
state more happy or more flourishing, 
nor was its name ever more respect- 
ed even among barbarians, than 
whilst the reins of the government 
were in the hands of Pulcheria." 
Ventura is not less explicit in praise 
of this great woman. After mention- 
ing the different studies embraced in 
the plan of education which Pul- 
cheria had traced for her brother, he 
says : " In these arrangements, both 
the subject-matter which was to oc- 
cupy the young prince's attention, and 
the time he was to spend in each occu- 
pation, were so judiciously and admir- 
ably managed that such a plan of ed- 
ucation seemed rather the work of an 
experienced philosopher than that of a 
young girl of sixteen. . . . Theodosius 
possessed neither a generous soul nor 
exalted intellect ; in fact, his was a na- 
ture scarcely above mediocrity. Pul- 
cheria, however, by her enlightened 
efforts, succeeded in producing unex- 
pected results from so thankless a 
field of labor." (Donna Cattolica, 
vol. ii. pp. 23, 24.) Exiled and dis- 
graced by the machinations of her 
frivolous sister-in-law, the Empress 
Eudocia, and the ambitious Chrysa- 
phius, one of the courtiers, she left 
Constantinople and retired into the 
country, no more downcast in adver- 
sity than she had been elated in pros- 
perity. Eudocia and Chrysaphius, 
unable to draw St. Flavian, the Patri- 
arch of Constantinople, into their con- 
spiracy against the noble exile, be- 
came violent partisans of Eutyches 
and his new heresy. Between the 
years 447 and 450 of the Christian 
era, the condition of the empire was 
perfectly chaotic ; the heresies of the 
Eutychians, the Nestorians, and the 
Monothelites disturbed the public 
peace; morality was forgotten; the 
court became an assembly of in- 



triguers ; Theodosius himself was no 
longer obeyed at home or respected 
abroad. St. Leo the Pope, scan- 
dalized and grieved at such excesses, 
wrote to the emperor, the clergy, and 
the people of Constantinople, but re- 
served his most remarkable mission 
for Pulcheria. He says, " If you had 
received my former letters, you would 
certainly have already remedied 
these evils, for you have never failed 
the Christian faith, nor the clergy 
her guardians," and towards the end 
of his letter he adds : " In the name 
of the blessed apostle St. Peter, I 
constitute you my special legate for 
the advancement of this matter be- 
fore the emperor." Referring to this 
magnificent elogium, the historian 
Rohrbacher remarks that, " when the 
Pope writes to the Emperor Theodo- 
sius, one would think he was address- 
ing a woman ; when, on the contrary, 
he writes to the ex-empress, one 
would imagine he was speaking to a 
man, upon whose energy he could de- 
pend. In 450, the Emperor of the 
West, Valentinian, and his mother 
and wife, Placidia and Eudoxia, came 
to Rome, where the Pope entrusted 
them with the task of admonishing 
by letter the weak-minded Theodo- 
sius and his heretical followers. 
Thus was the power of woman and 
her influence in state affairs recog- 
nized and honored by the church 
from end to end of the Christian 
world. Pulcheria, urged by the en- 
treaties of all these great and holy 
personages, boldly went to the court, 
reproached her brother, and by her 
firmness opened his eyes and restor- 
ed peace, orthodoxy and morality in 
the distracted empire. Her brother's 
death in 450 left her, by the univers- 
al consent of the people, once more 
ruler of the vast realm she had al- 
ready so much benefited. Now 
again she evinced consummate wis- 
dom in her choice of Martian, the 



266 



How tJie Church Understands and Upholds 



most renowned soldier and most tal- 
ented statesman of the empire, to be 
her husband and fellow-ruler. Un- 
der condition of preserving her early 
vow of perpetual chastity, she admit- 
ted him to an entire participation of 
her life and counsels, and together, 
with a strong yet gentle hand, they 
upheld and protected the fathers of 
the Council of Chalcedon. After 
three years of a wise and virtuous 
reign, Pulcheria died, lamented by 
the thousands of the poor and desti- 
tute whom she had never ceased to 
relieve, and honored by the church 
as the " guardian of the faith, the 
peace-maker, the defender of ortho- 
doxy," as the Chalcedonian fathers 
expressed it. The historian Gibbon, 
whose testimony can hardly be deem- 
ed interested, has thus outlined the 
history of her reign : " Her piety 
did not prevent Pulcheria from inde- 
fatigably devoting her attention to 
the affairs of the state, and indeed 
this princess was the only descend- 
ant of Theodosius the Great who 
seems to have inherited any part of 
his high courage and noble genius. 
She had acquired the familiar use of 
the Greek and Latin tongues, which 
she spoke and wrote with ease and 
grace in her speeches and writings 
relative to public affairs. Prudence 
always dictated her resolves. Her 
execution was prompt and decisive. 
Managing without ostentation all the 
intricacies of the government, she 
discreetly attributed to the talents of 
the emperor the long tranquillity of 
his reign. During the last years of 
his life, Europe was suffering cruelly 
under the invasion and ravages of 
Attila, King of the Huns, while peace 
continued to reign in the vast provin- 
ces of Asia. (History of the Rise and 
Fall of the .Roman Empire, vol. vi. 
chapter xxxii.) 

The holy Pope St. Gregory the 
Great did not owe less to the influ- 



ence and friendship of woman than 
Pope St. Leo. Among his many and 
remarkable letters, those addressed 
to the Empress Constantina and the 
Princess Theoclissa, wife and sister 
of Maurice, Emperor of the East, are 
not the least admirable. The empe- 
ror being both imbecile and miserly, 
and of a nature utterly despicable, 
the only bulwark of orthodoxy 
against the heretics lay in the stren- 
uous and continued efforts of these 
two women in favor of the church. 
When Phocus, a general of Maurice, 
freed the indignant empire from its 
supine and debased ruler, his wife the 
Empress Leontia took the place of 
the former princesses, and continued 
their work of protecting the faith of 
the Councils. In the West, where 
the Lombards were successfully lay- 
ing the foundation of the future pow- 
er they were destined to wield, it was 
chiefly to a woman that Gregory the 
Great looked to defend the interests 
of religion, and saw among these 
half- reclaimed barbarians the seeds 
of Christian chivalry. Theodolinda 
was his pupil and correspondent, and 
by her care the future King of the 
Lombards, Adoloaldus, was baptized 
and brought up a Christian. In the 
matter of the great expedition which 
resulted in the final conversion of 
England, the same Pope testifies by 
his letters that Bertha, the wife of 
of King Ethelbert, and Brunehault, 
Queen of the Franks, were chiefly 
instrumental in aiding and counte- 
nancing St. Augustine in his mission. 
He says to Brunehault : " We are 
not ignorant of the help you have 
afforded our brother Augustine. . . . 
It must be a source of great rejoicing 
to you that no one has had a greater 
share in this work than yourself. For, 
if that nation [the Saxons] has had the 
blessing of hearing the Word of God 
and the preaching of the Gospel, it is 
to you, under God, that they owe it." 



the Rights of Women. 



267 



The throne of Constantinople was 
to be honored yet by another saint- 
ed empress, the worthy successor of 
Pulcheria, and, like her, an able ally 
of the Pope and the orthodox patri- 
arch of her own capital. Once more, 
through the vices and indifference of 
men, a heresy had arisen and flour- 
ished, the heresy of the Iconoclasts. 
Great persecution had been suffered 
by the faithful, during the reign 
of Leo, the husband of our heroine 
Irene, and the new heretics, had com- 
pletely triumphed. At his death, 
his widow became regent for her 
young son. The clergy, the nobil- 
ity, and especially the army, were 
arrayed on the side of the Icono- 
clasts. Irene was as prudent in 
action as she was zealous in heart. 
The persecutions against the follow- 
ers of the Pope were first merely 
suspended, thought and speech were 
once more free, and gradually a re- 
action began to take place. The 
patriarchal see of Constantinople be- 
coming vacant by the death of Paul, 
the finally repentant abettor of the 
unhappy heresy, it was Irene who 
proposed the election of Tarasius, 
the most popular, most pious, and 
most talented man among her sub- 
jects. He, too, was the product of 
a wise and holy woman's training, 
and the name of his mother, Eucra- 
tia, is among the saints. Having 
thus paved the way, the empress 
wrote to Pope Adrian about the year 
786, and begged him to assemble a 
general council to further the inte- 
rests of religion and cement the 
peace of Christendom. The council, 
which was the second of Nicea, 
took place according to this sugges- 
tion, upon which the Pope, through 
his legates, formally congratulated 
the empress. The utmost success 
having attended the sittings of the 
council, and the faith having been 
triumphantly vindicated against the 



Iconoclasts and their errors, the em- 
press sent to entreat the assem- 
bled fathers to hold one final and 
ceremonial sitting in Constanti- 
nople itself. She procured an effi- 
cient guard among the orthodox 
cohorts of the imperial army, and 
prepared an immense hall in the 
palace for the gathering of the coun- 
cil. Ventura describes the scene 
thus: "The Pope's legates waived 
their right of precedence in favor of 
Irene, and the astonishing spectacle 
was seen of a woman, accompanied 
by a child twelve years old (her son), 
presiding over one of the most au- 
gust assemblies of the church. The 
sitting was opened by a discourse by 
the empress, in which she spoke, 
both in her son's name and in her own, 
with so much eloquence, warmth, 
and grace, that the greatest emotion 
was manifested throughout the assem- 
bly ; tears of joy flowed from the 
eyes of all present, and the last 
words of Irene were followed by the 
most heartfelt acclamations. 
The enthusiasm was- at its height, 
when, in the assembly and also to 
the people without, the decree or 
definition of faith made by the coun- 
cil was read, and the empress 
claimed her right to be the first to 
sign it. ... It must never be 
forgotten that this great council, as 
well as its consequences, which put 
an end to a great heresy and re- 
stored Catholicism in the East, was 
the thought and work of a woman, 
and that it was a woman-sovereign 
(un empereiir-femme ) who alone fcy 
her discreet and courageous zUul 
knew how to blot out and destroy 
the scandals caused by three men- 
sovereigns and even a great number 
of bishops themselves." (Donna Cat- 
tolica, vol. ii. pp. 55, 56.) 

Before the Empire of the East 
became totally degraded, another 
sovereign, another woman, lent it 






The Church and the Rights of Women. 



the glory of her reputation. The 
Iconoclasts, profiting by the treacher- 
ous support of succeeding emperors, 
again renewed their hostilities 
against orthodoxy, but were speedily 
checked once more by a brave 
Christian woman, the Empress Theo- 
dosia, widow of Theophilus, and of 
whom Rohrbacher says : " If in the 
West the temporal sovereigns were 
insignificant, in the East they were 
detestable. There was but one ex- 
ception, and that was a woman, the 
Empress St. Theodosia. She began 
her reign after the death of her un- 
worthy husband whom she had 
succeeded, however, in converting 
on his death-bed by threatening 
the heretical patriarch, Lecanoman- 
tes, with the condemnation of the 
coming council unless he consented 
to vacate his see and renounce his 
errors. He refused, and the council 
assembled within the walls of the 
imperial palace. The Iconoclast 
heresy was again solemnly de- 
nounced, and the previous Council 
of Nicea confirmed. For the coun- 
tenance and protection afforded by 
her to the church, the empress only 
asked as a reward that the prelates 
should pray for the forgiveness of 
the sin of heresy which her husband 
had committed. Theodosia cele- 
brated this new victory of the church 
with becoming solemnity, and insti- 
tuted in its honor a festival, which is 
observed to this day under the name 
of the ' festival of orthodoxy.' 
When Methodius, the holy Patriarch 
of Constantinople, died, she replaced 
him by St. Ignatius, the friend of the 
Pope, St. Nicholas I. She made 
peace with the Bulgarians, whom 
the Pope was interested in converting 
to the faith, and seconded his efforts 
by procuring theconversion of the cap- 
tive Bulgarian princess, sister to King 
Bogoris, whom she afterward freed 
and sent back to her brother. This 



princess became the Clotildis of her 
people, and, together with Formosus, 
the Pope's legate, and St. Cyril, Theo- 
dosia's envoy, effected the conversion 
of the whole Bulgarian nation in 
861. 

Other Danubian tribes also owed 
their conversion to Theodosia ; she 
sent missionaries to the Khazars and 
the Moravians, whose chief specially 
addressed himself to her for instruc- 
tion. Her son Michael, when he 
came to the throne, renewed the hor- 
rors of the pagan empire of Caligula 
and Domitian, persecuted his moth- 
er and sisters, exiled and deposed the 
Patriarch Ignatius, and put the here- 
tic Photius into hj place. One of 
his captains, Basil, put a violent end 
to his infamous reign, and. though in- 
excusable in the eyes of the ecclesi- 
astical law, yet redeemed his act by 
the utmost deference to Theodosia 
and devotion to religion. The em- 
pire breathed again, and Theodosia's 
counsels procured another general 
assembly of the church at Constan- 
tinople, when Photius was condemn- 
ed and the rightful patriarch rein- 
stated in his authority. After the 
death of the empress, the heresy of 
Photius revived and spread, and, 
schism becoming more or less gene- 
ral, the empire began to degenerate, 
until its very name, the " Lower Em- 
pire," became a synonym for all de- 
gradation and hopeless ruin. Ven- 
tura, who says truly that real sancti- 
ty is impossible in the bosom of vo- 
luntary schism, attributes the degen- 
eracy of the Empire of the East to 
the want of strong and generous wo- 
men, such as those whom we have 
briefly sketched in this article, and 
asserts that the very accumulation of 
evils which this scarcity of holy wo- 
men has heaped upon the church 
during some of the darkest periods 
of her history, is in itself a proof of 
the paramount importance of woman 



Devoid. 



269 



in the work of the propagation and 
protection of true religion. 

We are now close upon the me- 
diaeval times, when the glory of the 
sex shone forth again in the West, 
and counted as many champions as 
there were kingdoms to convert, uni- 
versities to endow, courts to reform, 
and infidel powers to overthrow. The 
influence of woman began to be 
recognized in society as it had always 
been in the church ; chivalry taught 
men to place the honor of woman 
next in their estimation to faith in 
God, and equal with loyalty to their 
king and patriotism to their country. 
We can find no more beautiful, no 
more Catholic, expression of this sov- 
ereignty of woman's pure and enno- 
bling influence, as consecrated by the 
church's approbation, and guarded 
by all that is noblest and most gene- 
rous in man, than the following ex- 
tract from a modern poet, whose in- 
spiration, like that of all true artists, 
is drawn perforce from the legends 
of Catholic antiquity. The poet of 
the Holy Grail is also the poet of 
woman ; the legends of the deeds of 
the prowess of knights, whose names 
are perchance but myths as to actual 
history, but nevertheless are human 



types of the exalted ideal of the old 
Catholic days, are inevitably mingled 
with legends of the vows of holy 
chastity, and the pure and stainless 
lives of many of those renowned he- 
roes of the field and tournament. 
Let the following serve as an intro- 
duction to our next article, which 
will treat chiefly of the great women 
of the Middle Ages : 

" For when the Roman left us, and their law 
Relaxed its hold upon us, and the ways 
U'ere filled with rapine, here and there a deed 
Of prowess done redressed a random wrong. 
But I was first of all the kings who drew 
The knighthood-errant of this realm and all 
The realms together under me, their head, 
In that fair Order of my Table Round, 
A glorious company, the flower of men, 
To serve as model for the mighty world, 
And be the fair beginning of a time. 
I made them lay their hands in mine, and 

swear 

To reverence the king as if he were 
Their conscience and their conscience as their 

king, 

To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, 
To ride abroad, redressing human wrongs, 
To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, 
To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, 
To love one maiden only, cleave to her, 
And worship her by years of noble deeds, 
Until they won her ; for indeed I knew 
Of no more subtle master under heaven 
Than is the maiden passion for a maid, 
Not only t keep down the base in man, 
But teach high thought, and amiable words, 
And courtliness, and the desire of fame, 
And love of truth, and all that makes a man. 
And all this throve. ... I wedded thee, 
Believing, lo ! mine helpmate, one to feel 
My purpose, and rejoicing in my joy." 

Tennyson, Idylls of the King: 



DEVOTA. 

SWEET image of the one I love, 

To whom your infant years were given 

(And still the faithful colors * prove 
A constancy not all in heaven) : 

To me a violet near a brink, 

Far-hidden from the beaten way, 

And where but rarest flowerets drink 
A freshness from the ripples' play : 



* Children dedicated to the Blessed Virgin wear white and blue. 



270 The Caresses of Providence. 

A lily in a vale of rest, 

And where the angels know a nook 

But one shy form has ever prest 
A poet with a poet's book. 

But poet's book has never said 

What I, O lily, find in you : 
'Twas never writ and never read, 

Though always old and always new. 

And ah, that you must change and go 
The violet fade, the lily die ! 

Let others joy to watch you grow ; 
Let others smile : so will not I. 

Yet smile I should. Is heaven a dream ? 

In sooth, he needs to be forgiven 
Who matches with the things that seem 

A deathless flower, that blooms for heaven. 

And while he mourns the onward years 
That sweep you from the things that seem, 

Let faith make sunshine on his tears : 
'Tis heaven is real, and earth the dream. 



THE CARESSES OF PROVIDENCE. 

FRd>M LA CIVILTA CATTOLICA. 

VERY recently, the Liberal Italian his hand in all the events of life, and 

party, finding that their Catholic oppo- you profess to bless and bow to the 

nents were in no wise damaged by ar- divine decrees. Well, then, Provi- 

guments drawn from a denial of God's dence, you perceive, has smiled gra- 

concern in human affairs, has changed ciously on us and on our work a 

its tactics, and proposes now to con- work which you execrate and detest. 

vert us clericals by appeals to our Providence is plainly on our side, 

religious sensibilities. We are as- He declares himself for us and against 

saulted by a theological attack ad you. Submit, then, to his decrees. 

homincm, which they tell us is so Lay aside this idle expectation of the 

conclusive that, if we do not acknow- triumph of your cause, which is evi- 

ledge ourselves beaten, it is because dently opposed to the holy will of 

we have lost our reason and renounc- God. Accept accomplished facts, 

ed the faith. Reconcile yourselves with Italy, our 

" You believe," say they, " in the glorious new kingdom, and cease, 

providence of God. You recognize amid your noisy professions of reli- 



The Caresses of Providence. 



271 



gion, to rebel against the will of the 
Most High." 

Such in its naked substance is the 
argument to which the Liberals now 
exultingly resort ; more especially 
since the breach of Porta Pia and the 
successful picking of the locks of the 
Quirinal. They hope in this way to 
convict us of apostasy from the faith, 
and (what they deem still more atro- 
cious) of an unpardonable outrage 
against the laws of " the human un- 
derstanding." 

" It seems incredible," they go on 
to say, " that, after such positive 
proofs of a special protection vouch- 
safed by Providence to regenerate 
Italy, the clerical party should cling 
so stubbornly to the hope of a resus- 
citation of the past a past which, 
were it not already irrevocably con- 
demned by the logic of events, would 
be condemned by their own theory of 
an all-seeing and all- wise God." This 
is the language in which the Jewish 
journal L'Opinione, after taking Ro- 
man ground at the close of the year 
just elapsed, expressed this very for- 
midable argument. They had alrea- 
dy uttered it some hundred times 
before. Many sheets of less impor- 
tance had got up an industrious echo 
to this cry ; and one in particular, a 
petty Florentine print, undertakes to 
celebrate the new year by magnify- 
ing " the caresses of Providence " be- 
stowed upon the little darling angel, 
Italy, born, as everybody knows, of 
the wonderful shrewdness of the Ital- 
ian people and their undying love 
of liberty a liberty, by the way, 
which never fails to exemplify itself 
by a free and strenuous appropriation 
of a weaker neighbor's earthly goods. 
Strange indeed it is that men, who 
never were known as professed be- 
lievers in any other divinity than 
Mammon, should now, after having 
derided for years, and with every 
mark of blasphemous scorn, " the fin- 



ger of God," suddenly assume the 
office of apostles of a new idea of 
Christian Providence. Strange it is 
that only now, after the plunder of a 
city gained by battering down walls 
and picking locks with forged keys 
that these men, we say, should chant 
the praises of the God they had de- 
fied, and defend his holy decrees 
against the " scandalous negations " 
of the Catholic Church. Strangest 
is it of all, that the prince of these 
extraordinary apostles should be no 
other than the so-called Jew proprie- 
tor of the Opinione who is not even 
a Jew ; for he has always shown that 
he believes as little of the Old Tes- 
tament as he does of the New. 
But 

" To what infamies untold 
Hast thou man's nature not controlled, 
Thou execrable greed of gold !" 

Solid or not, this argumentum ad 
hominem has for a certain class of 
minds an air of great plausibility. 
At all events, it might be well to 
look into it a little ; for we may there- 
by throw some light upon several 
important truths which nowadays 
need special illumination. We let in 
the argument, therefore, as the new 
Jewish and infidel philosophers pre- 
sent it ; and we propose to give them, 
in a nutshell, the proper answer to it. 
They will then understand why Ca- 
tholics not only refuse to surrender 
to this showing, but, on the contrary, 
see in it reason to stand firm to their 
first faith, and to cherish unceasing 
hopes of the speedy triumph of their 
cause. 

Yes, gentlemen, we Catholics be- 
lieve, with all our heart and soul, in 
the holy providence of God. In this 
Providence we recognize the origin 
and order of all created things. We 
make it indeed our glory that we 
bless and humbly worship its adora- 
ble decrees. We confess, therefore, 
without reserve, that what you choose 



2/2 



The Caresses of Providence. 



to call its " loving caresses " are real- 
ly yours by divine appointment ; and 
the very decree which to you is the 
source of so much joy, and to us of so 
much mourning, we adore as the un- 
doubted manifestation of his most 
holy will. All this we freely admit as 
truth, as unquestionable, unanswera- 
ble truth. But while, in these expli- 
cit terms, we confess this Catholic 
verity, we deny, in equally explicit 
terms, that what you choose to call 
" caresses " are in any sense such to 
you, or that the palpable proofs of 
that " special protection " of which 
you make so vain a boast are proofs 
of anything but the very opposite ; 
nay, so false is it, that the caresses 
you claim are marks of divine ap- 
proval, that the very assertion is a 
blasphemy most insulting to the sov- 
ereign providence of God. To prove 
these propositions is an easy thing to 
any one who knows his catechism ; 
and the understanding of them easier 
still to any one who believes as well 
as knows. To him who either does 
not know his Christian primer, or, 
knowing it, will not believe, they may 
seem incapable of either proof or 
comprehension. Should such a case 
present itself, the fault is certainly not 
ours. A poet tells us that : 



" Of winds the sailor ever loves to speak, 
Of arms the soldier, and the boor of swine ; 
The astronomer, of planet, moon, and stars'; 
Of palaces and piers, the architect ; 
The juggling necromancer prates of ghosts, 
And the old harper of his well thrummed 
strains." 



If so, why is it that this Jew, in- 
stead of sticking like a worthy He- 
brew to his stock-list, takes to teach- 
ing us the Christian catechism ? 
And why is it that this worshipper of 
Voltaire, instead of chanting hymns 
to Venus, reads us a lecture on what 
he knows about the purposes of 
God ? Sutor ne ultra crepidam. 
Nevertheless, we proceed to ex- 



plain the propositions advanced 
above. 

Catholics acknowledge that every 
event, be it favorable or unfavorable 
to their prayers, is consistent with the 
providence of God. To Providence 
they refer evil as well as good, with 
this difference, that good and un- 
blamable evil they ascribe to the de- 
crees of his sovereign direction, but 
blamable evil they ascribe to his per- 
missive decree. In a word, they be- 
lieve and .confess that God wills posi- 
tively all that comes to pass without 
taint of moral evil, and wills negative- 
ly (that is, he does not preclude) 
what comes to pass so tainted by 
cause of man's abuse of his free-will. 
They nevertheless hold and profess 
that whatever evil he permits, that 
also is ordained to good; so that 
nothing enters into those most just 
and wise decrees that does not aim 
effectively at the final design of the 
creation and redemption of mankind ; 
which design in this life is the church 
militant, and, in the next, the church 
triumphant, the central point of his 
extrinsic glorification. 

The reason, then, that Catholics 
hold and profess that God does not 
and cannot decree, otherwise than 
permissively ', moral evil that is, dis- 
obedience, injustice, or briefly sin is 
that he neither participates nor can 
participate in evil of this nature 
which is essentially opposed to his 
infinite sanctity. He would, in fact, 
participate therein if he willed it 
positively and not merely negatively; 
whereas, permitting it only, he in no 
wise participates, though he allows 
man, whom he had created free, to 
make an evil use of the gift of liberty. 
He does not hinder him, because 
neither is he so obliged, nor can the 
divine hindrance of human freedom 
be exacted by the nature of man left 
free. With all this, God is in no wise 
the less able to secure for himself, 



The 'Caresses of Providence. 



273 



always and in every case and from 
every human being, the external glory 
which he reserved to himself when 
he created man. Because, he who 
shall not glorify in heaven an infinite 
mercy granted to the good use of the 
free-will, shall glorify in hell an infi- 
nite justice merited by the abuse of 
this same free-will. Hence the Al- 
mighty will not be shorn of the least 
shadow of that glory, for which, 
among other things, he drew man out 
of the abyss of nothingness. 

Catholics, moreover, believe and 
confess that the effects of moral evil 
are invariably directed by Almighty 
God to the good of mankind. They 
serve to punish in order to amend, 
or else to exercise in order to con- 
firm. St. Augustine remarks, with 
his usual perspicacity, that the life of 
a bad man is often prolonged not 
only to afford an opportunity for his 
amendment, but to serve as .an occa- 
sion of sanctification to the good. 
Ne putetis gratis esse malos in hoc 
mundo, et nihil boni de eis agere Deum. 
Omnis vialus aut ideo vivit ut corriga- 
tur, aut ideo vivit ut per ilium bonus 
exerceatur* 

Hence it is that Catholics, in all 
emergencies, even in the most calami- 
tous, nay, even in those caused by 
the worst iniquities of unscrupulous 
men, do not fail to adore the good- 
ness and justice of Almighty God, 
and to acknowledge the inscrutable 
dispositions of his most holy will. 
But they never think of imputing to 
him the sins and transgressions of 
the wicked. These he neither wills 
nor is he capable of willing them. 
He permits them only as subserving 
his mercy or his justice. 

It follows, then, that, in order to de- 
cide whether the easy successes of 
certain definite transactions are suc- 
cesses due to divine approbation, and 

* In Psalm liv. 
VOL. XV. 1 8 



palpable proofs of his gracious pro- 
tection, or whether rather they are 
not facilities that Providence permits 
for the punishment of the wicked and 
for the chastening of the virtuously 
minded, it is essential to see first 
whether these definite acts are right 
or wrong, meritorious or sinful; that 
is, conformable or unconformable to 
the law of eternal justice, and to the 
Gospel of Jesus Christ. 

Now, certain it is that in those 
transactions which the enemies of 
Christ regard as sanctioned by the 
manifest " caresses" of Almighty 
God, Catholic Christians see nothing 
but acts of iniquity and sin; and ac- 
cordingly, while they accept them as 
permitted by God for reasons and re- 
sults full of justice and mercy, they 
nevertheless esteem it the height of 
blasphemy to look upon such out- 
rages, however successful for the mo- 
ment, as " caresses" bestowed by 
Providence upon the very men who 
at other times deny his existence or 
treat his word with open scorn and 
contempt. 

We have thus, as briefly and as 
lucidly as we could, and with the 
Christian catechism for our guide, 
explained to these Jews who are no 
Jews, and to these philosophers who 
are no philosophers, the^sense of the 
propositions we affirm. 

Perhaps they will now require of 
us to prove that the acts referred to 
are acts of iniquity and sin. This is 
very much like asking us to prove 
that the sun is shining, when it is 
evidently blazing at mid-day. We 
let pass that the highest authority on 
earth has pronounced, again and 
again, that the acts are simply acts 
most sinful and sacrilegious. We 
let pass that the concurrent testimony 
of all minds endowed with natural 
rectitude of judgment (not excluding 
Protestants nor Israelites nor Turks) 
has confirmed and reconfirmed the 



274 



The Caresses of Providence. 



condemnations spoken already by 
Pope, by church, and by the entire 
Catholic world. It is enough that 
the authors and prime movers of 
these outrages proclaimed and stamp- 
ed them as dishonorable and base 
before they perpetrated them, and 
even in the very act of their perpetra- 
tion. Can these apostolic gentlemen, 
now so anxious for the conversion of 
the Catholic Church, be ignorant, for 
instance, that two of the Subalpine 
ministry, Visconti-Venosta and Lan- 
za, declared the invasion of Rome 
and the usurpation of the Papal pow- 
er acts of barbarism destitute of every 
semblance of right ? And are they 
not aware that they so avouched just 
one short month before both invasion 
and usurpation were consummated 
by burglary and breach ? 

Who can hope, then, to persuade a 
Catholic that these successful shells, 
pick-locks, and jimmies have not been 
instruments of the most iniquitous 
wrong-doing, seeing that these two 
men, in the face of heaven and earth, 
averred its baseness themselves only 
a few weeks before the formal con- 
summation of the act ? Perhaps, too, 
our converters have never heard how 
their divine Camillo Cavour said 
one day to their otter divine Massi- 
mo d'Azeglio, who has recorded it 
ad perpetuam ret memoriam : "If 
what we are doing for Italy, you 
and I had done for ourselves, what 
a precious pair of big balossi we 
should have been!" The Opinione 
knows too well the sense of the Sub- 
alpine word balosso that we should 
put it into good Italian. The edit- 
or and his pharisaical colleagues have 
learned, no doubt, the lovely dialect 
of the northern masters they have 
chosen for Italy and for themselves. 
They can teach us, we dare say, the 
full force of this fine word balosso ; 
that it means all that is contained in 
the words scamp, scoundrel, robber, 



rascal, villain, ruffian, knave. Can 
Catholics, then, be easily persuaded 
that the facts accomplished 'by Azeglio 
and Cavour for the regeneration of 
Italy have been free from sin and ini- 
quity, seeing that these two divines 
have stigmatized them as the acts of 
men bad enough to be balossi? For 
be it observed that Azeglio himself 
admits that what is criminal in pri- 
vate life is no less criminal in public ;* 
showing (though we are losing time 
in the attempt to throw light upon 
the sun) that our apostolic friends, 
in order to justify the accomplished 
facts resorted to for Italy's new birth, 
have been obliged to invent a mod- 
ern social law the converse of the 
ancient one ordained by God him- 
self. 

If this be admitted, what can prove 
more incontestably that the acts com- 
plained of were acts of sin and ini- 
quity; sin being any act contrary to 
God's commands, and iniquity an act 
opposed to the justice he enjoins ? 

But Catholics may go further, and 
say to the apostles of our conversion 
that not only are the means used for 
the regeneration of Italy sinful and- 
iniquitous, but that the end itself aim- 
ed at by the ringleaders of this pre- 
tended regeneration is absolutely 
antichristian and diabolical, being 
nothing less than the demolition of 
the Catholic Church and the anni- 
hilation of the kingdom of God 
among men. Of course, the end is 
simply absurd, and rendered impossi- 
ble by the excess of its absurdity. 
But nevertheless, though it cannot 
exist as a thing attainable, it does 
exist as a thing conceivable, and as 
such inspires the mad career of Ma- 
sonry, which pursues it with satanic 
rage and open ostentation as the 
main objective point of the machina- 
tions of the sect. 

* See Diary of C. Pisano, fourth part, p. 125. 



The Caresses of Providence. 



275 



Mazzini, to whom the regenerators 
are indebted for their grand idea, aim- 
ed as far ago as 1834 at the aboli- 
tion of the temporal power, without 
regard to cost. His argument was 
that the downfall of this power car- 
ried with it, as a necessary conse- 
quence, the emancipation of the hu- 
man race from the thraldom of the 
spiritual power. " The Vicars of 
Christ " he called " Vicars of the 
Spirit of Evil, to be exterminated, 
never to be restored.* Visconti-Ve- 
nosta, a member of the present Italian 
cabinet, wrote to Mazzini, in 1851, 
that the rallying-cry of the regenera- 
tion should be, " Down with the 
Monarchy, down with the Papacy." t 

Ferrari, the philosopher of the 
movement, proclaimed in 1853 that 
the end it proposed was the stamping 
out of Pope and Emperor, of Christ 
and Caesar; the four tyrannies that 
Machiavelli had delivered over to 
Italian hate. \ 

To make this matter short, though 
we might go on for ever, the more 
rabid partisans of the regeneration do 
not blush to say that the essential 
end of the great Italian movement is 
the emancipation of human conscien- 
ces from the authority of the church, 
by laying prostrate the colossus 
against whom Luther, Calvin, and 
Henry VIII. ineffectually strove. 
They aim, in a word, at the radical 
destruction of the entire Catholic 
Church ; to which end, nationality, 
unity, political liberty itself, were al- 
ways to be regarded as nothing more 
than the means. 

These preliminaries being under- 
stood, our free-thinking friends ought 
to see that their argument, derived from 
what they call " providential protec- 

* Ai gio-va.ni Italian!, p. 15. 

tSee L'Unita Italiana di Mila.no. April 14. 
1863. 

t See The Republican Federation of the Pet- 
pies. 

See // Diriito, July 3I and August n, 1863. 



tion " to their sacrilegious acts, strikes 
the Catholic mind as a shocking blas- 
phemy, because it makes our bless- 
ed Lord an accomplice in detestable 
transactions, and an instigator to the 
worst of crimes a deliberate plotter, 
in short, of the ruin of that church 
which is the masterpiece of his wis- 
dom, and the abject of his infinite 
love. We have no objections to their 
saying that the anger of God has un- 
chained their barbarous allies, and 
for a time has left them free to do 
their worst against the children of 
the church. They may say all this, 
and Catholics will assent and even 
approve not the animus, but the 
words. They will exclaim with St. 
Jerome of old, when the barbarians 
of that day were making havoc of 
the things of God: Peccatis nostris 
barbari fortes sunt * " In our sins 
the barbarians are strong." But let 
them not venture to say that Al- 
mighty God, because he allows them 
a fatal facility of blasphemous impiety, 
protects and even caresses this im- 
piety. For religious men will answer 
them : Yes, he protects and caresses 
you, as he protected and caressed the 
crucifiers of his only-begotten Son. 

And here we entreat the Israelitish 
editor of the Opinione to pay strict 
attention to what we have to say, in- 
asmuch as it concerns him in his na- 
tionality ; since he is an Israelite by 
nature and nation, and Italian only 
by the place of his accidental birth. 

The synagogue, sustained by the 
coalition of Pharisees and Sadducees, 
undertook to regenerate Judea by 
taking the life of Jesus, Son of God, 
true God and true Man. The great 
sin of Jesus Christ in the eyes of the 
synagogue was similar to that of the 
church of Jesus in the eyes of the 
Masonic Order. He was the Son of 
God and the Word of Truth, as the 

*Epist. i. ad Eliod. 



276 



The Caresses of Providence. 



church is his spouse and the organ 
of the truth. 

But there stood many obstacles in 
the way of compassing his death. 
First, there needed a lawful sanction, 
and there was none. Secondly, it 
was necessary to take him captive, 
a very dangerous undertaking, for he 
was always surrounded by throngs of 
devoted followers and friends. Third- 
ly, it was necessary to keep the peo- 
ple in good humor, or, as Jesus was 
their principal benefactor, they might 
rebel against this public execution. 
Fourthly, it was necessary to ascer- 
tain that the Romans, who had cog- 
nizance of capital cases in Palestine, 
would connive at his trial for life and 
at his sentence to death. Fifthly, 
they had to risk the display of his 
miraculous power, for his miracles 
surpassed all that had ever been seen 
in Israel. It must be admitted that 
these difficulties were very formida- 
ble. Yet what happened? Every- 
thing was made easy. The sanction 
of law was found in a tissue of lies 
and political misindictments, success- 
ful beyond all expectation. His cap- 
ture proved the easiest imaginable, 
through the unexpected treachery of 
one of his own disciples, who sold 
him for a bauble. The populace was 
led with wonderful facility not only not 
to rise to his rescue, but in a solemn 
plebiscite to save the robber Barabbas 
at his expense, and to sentence him to 
an ignominious death. The Romans 
made some show, through Pilate, in 
his defence ; but after five times de- 
claring him innocent of every charge, 
condemned him to the cross, follow- 
ing the will of the synagogue to the 
last; and finally Jesus, though chal- 
lenged with insult to the exercise of 
his supernatural powers, abstained 
mysteriously from their use, and did 
nothing to withdraw himself from 
torture or death. Could any greater 
facility of consummation be imagin- 



ed than was here shown in the ac- 
complishment of this tremendous dei- 
cidal act? But will our Israelitish 
apostle have the heart to undertake 
to win over Italian Catholics to the 
belief that the wonderful success of 
the crucifixion (permitted, as it unde- 
niably was) is to be construed as a 
caress bestowed by Providence upon 
a corrupt and apostate synagogue, and 
as a palpable and unmistakable proof 
of his protection of the bloody and 
treacherous council that sentenced 
him to death ? 

Between the Jewish sacrilege di- 
rected against the adorable Person 
of the Incarnate Word, and the 
Italian sacrilege against the Vicar of 
that Word, there is but this distinc- 
tion : that the Person aimed at in the 
former was God present in his hu- 
man nature, and the Person aimed at 
in the latter was God present in his 
church. 

In the days of Pontius Pilate and 
Caiphas, the Jews slew the material 
body of our Blessed Lord: the lat- 
ter-day Jews, in these days of Lanza 
and Visconti-Venosta, would, if they 
could, slay the Spiritual Body of the 
same Jesus Christ. And do you 
dare, wretched Pharisees, to ask of 
us Catholic believers to recognize in 
the facilities that have attended un- 
til now this monstrous sacrilege of 
yours, this second deicidal act, the 
smiles of an approving Providence, ! 
and the marks of a divine protection 
accorded to the prompt success of 
your heaven-defying crime ? 

The capital error of the gross 
and impious sophism now the sub- 
ject of our comment, consists evi- 
dently in the assumption that easy 
and unexpected success (in opera- 
tions ordinarily of a very arduous 
character) is a sure note of the di- 
vine approval, even when the accom- 
plished facts are manifest breaches 
of the Decalogue. 



The Caresses of Providence. 



277 



A proposition of this sort, if it had 
the least value, would serve to sanc- 
tion any atrocity, however monstrous, 
provided it were only successfully and 
rapidly achieved. 

Such wretches as Passatori, Ninco 
Nanchi, Carusi, and Troppmann 
ought in this view to be regarded as 
protected and caressed by Divine 
Providence. Every prosperous vil- 
lain would only have to quote to his 
judges the argument of the Opinions 
to conciliate their approbation, and 
to obtain from them not only an 
acquittal, but an honorable testimonial 
in high praise of these favorites of 
heaven. 

True it is, however, that a striking 
and brilliant success dazzles the 
judgment of men without faith, or 
of men with faith as sensual as their 
flesh. 

We Catholics, on the contrary, 
are rich in the possession of a divine 
promise which keeps us cheerful and 
buoyant with hope in the face of 
what seems like the final triumph of 
the wicked. And this is more espe- 
cially true when we have to deal 
with those who plot against the 
church and its visible Head, adver- 
sns Dominum, et adversus Christum 
cjus. Nobody that we know of has 
set this promise in a truer light than 
P. Paul Segneri, and we take the 
liberty to transcribe here for our 
readers two or three passages of his, 
which are just so much gold to the 
purpose we have in view. 

" ' The prosperity of fools,' says 
Solomon, 'shall destroy them.' He 
does not say ' destroys them,' but 
' shall destroy them.' Why so ? 
Because the prosperity of the wicked 
does not always produce immedi- 
ately its disastrous effects. Some- 
times the reverse comes after long 
delay. Wait patiently. You will 
see the end of what seems to begin 
so well. Have you never read in the 



Book of Job how that the Almighty 
takes pleasure in defeating the 
machinations of the impious ? He 
brings their counsellors to a foolish 
end." Not to a bad beginning. 
No; all seems prosperous at first. 
It is the end that is disastrous. He 
lets them raise aloft their mighty 
tower of Babel. But afterwards, in 
the confusion of their pride, they 
disperse and are gone. He lets 
them build up the beautiful towers 
of Siloe ; but these fall, and the 
builders are buried beneath the 
ruins. For want of this reflection, 
many men wonder at the prosperity 
of the wicked. Even the prophets 
themselves address God sometimes 
with tender reproaches. They al- 
most accuse him, I might say. We 
are apt to look too much at the be- 
ginning of things, and not, like holy 
David, at the end. Donee intelli- 
gam in novissimis eorum. As much 
as to say, they are so taken up 
with gazing upon the comely gold- 
en head of their tall Babylonian 
colossus, that they have not thought 
of lowering their eyes to see its brit- 
tle legs of clay. Now hear me, and 
witness the establishment of the 
truth. If ever since the birth of 
Christ there was a race of men who 
rose by unscrupulous arts to enor- 
mous wealth and power, it was 
doubtless the Greek emperors, ty- 
rants as they may well be called. 
Now answer me, Have there ever 
existed empires which have furnished 
subjects for tragedy more truly horri- 
ble than theirs ? 

" Nicephorus succeeded at first by 
the employment of dishonest means 
to usurp the imperial po\ver, driving 
away the right inheritress, Irene. 
What then ? Crushed by a series of 
misfortunes, he began to look upon 
himself as a modern Pharaoh, hard- 
ened by defeats. Finally, vanquish- 
ed and slain by the Bulgarians, his 
enemies made a drinking-cup of his 



2/8 



The Caresses of Providence. 



skull, and out of joy or derision used 
it as such in the diversions of the 
camp. Stauratius by illegitimate al- 
liances, and Leo the Armenian by 
repeated high-handed rebellions, suc- 
ceeded in establishing themselves in 
the height of power. How long was 
it before these two men died under 
the blows of the assassin, the former 
in war, and the latter at the altar he 
had profaned? Michael the Stam- 
merer was so fortunate as to step, in 
his famous conspiracy, from the 
dungeon to the throne; demanding 
there the worship of his subjects, the 
chain still on his neck and the fetters 
on his feet. Intoxicated by his suc- 
cess, he compelled a holy virgin to 
share his bed. All Sclavonia re- 
volted, his entire army deserted him ; 
nor yet repenting, he was literally 
devoured by a malady the most dis- 
gusting. Theophilus was successful 
in suppressing, for reasons of state, 
the veneration of sacred images ; but 
almost immediately after, on being 
shamefully defeated by the Saracens, 
died of rage and intense mortification. 
Michael III., regarded as another 
Nero on account of his licentiousness 
and cruelty, succeeded so far as to 
put his mother and guardians out of 
the way, in order to reign without 
opposition or control. He ended his 
'prosperous' career by kindling 
against himself the hatred of his 
subjects, and encountered rebellion 
after rebellion, in the last of which, 
in the midst of a drunken debauch, 
he paid the forfeit of his life. Alex- 
ander attained a sort of success in 
plundering the holy altars, and in 
appropriating the gold thus obtained 
to his own private use; but very 
soon thereafter he was seized with a 
sudden madness, and he had not 
held out a year when he ended his 
life in a fearful vomiting of blood. 
What shall I say of Romanus I.? 
He too was successful to all appear- 



ance ; for, by a stratagem of wonder- 
ful adroitness, he expelled the legiti- 
mate possessor from the patriarchal 
see of Constantinople, and placed in 
it a mere child, his own son. The 
year following he himself was driven 
from the imperial throne by another 
son, and banished to a lonely isle 
for life. So also fared it with Ro- 
manus II. Impelled by the lust of 
dominion, he took the life of his 
own father by poison. His own life 
was taken very shortly after, and by 
the self-same means. Michael Paph- 
lagonius, by infamous devices, carried 
his point of usurping the throne. 
Seized suddenly with demoniacal ob- 
session, he could obtain no repose. 
Exorcisms and almsgivings were tried 
in vain. He died as he lived, with 
his agony unrelieved. Michael Ca- 
laphates was ' successful ' in driving 
the empress into exile, that he might 
reign alone; but the people rose 
against him at once, stoned him, 
deprived him of sight, and dragged 
him through the city streets more 
dead than alive. Diogenes and An- 
dronicus, two usurpers who had 
' succeeded ' in their treason, one by 
a courtesan's vile aid, the other by 
the arm of an assassin, came to the 
same lamentable end. 

" Now answer me ! Can you look 
upon as truly successful the wicked 
arts which brought these bad men to 
power ? Speak out ! Would you be 
willing to enjoy their ' prosperity ' 
if with it you had to accept its re- 
verse ? Is there any one so stupid 
as to envy their short-lived ' good 
luck ' ? Rest assured that such has 
ever been the fate of those wno attain 
for a time their unhallowed ends by 
iniquitous means. ' The prosperity 
of fools will destroy them.' Doubt 
it not, my friends. The prosperity 
of fools will most assuredly destroy 
them. It is hardly worth while to 
labor longer in the proof. All writ- 



The Caresses of Providence. 



279 



ings, all ages, all powers, attest in 
unison this truth, that 'Justice exalt- 
eth a nation ' ; and this other, that 
' Injustice leadeth a nation to misery 
and ruin.' These are the words of one 
who was the wisest among men ; and 
elsewhere he says, ' Man shall not be 
strengthened by wickedness'; and, 
again, ' The unjust shall be caught in 
their own snares ' ; and then, again, 
'They who sow iniquity shall reap 
destruction.' " 

Thus, by examples drawn from the 
annals of the Byzantines (a race dear 
to our modern liberals), the eloquent 
Segneri points out the end which, 
according to Holy Writ, awaits the 
criminal successes of the wicked. If 
he had chosen to embrace a wider 
range of history, he might have com- 
piled an endless catalogue of exam- 
ples the most frightful ; commencing 
with the dreadful success of the 
crucifixion of our ever blessed Lord, 
of which the sequel was as dreadful 
a retribution. The synagogue nailed 
the Messiah to the cross, under the 
pretext that otherwise the Romans 
would come and occupy Jerusalem. 
And precisely because they did this 
wicked thing, the E.omans took Jeru- 
salem and levelled it to the ground. 
So that the very success of the Jews, 
which, execrable as it was, the Opin- 
ione would have adored as a, protect- 
ing caress bestowed by Providence 
upon Sion, ended simply in bringing 
upon the guilty city a horrible siege 
and irremediable ruin. 

We content ourselves, for our part, 
in citing the Roman Caesars, who, in 
the first three centuries, renewed ten 
different times, and with all the inci- 
dents of success, the bloody persecu- 
tion of the followers of Christ. All 
of these, without a single exception, 
came to a wretched end. When the 
fourth century arrived to witness the 
triumph of Christianity, the descen- 
dants of the persecuting emperors 



were found extinct by foul or violent 
deaths ; the series closing with Max- 
imin breathing his last amid the ago- 
nies of poison and the blasphemous 
howlings of despair, and with Can- 
didianus (the adulterous son of Ga- 
lerius, adopted by Valeria, Maxi- 
min's wife) murdered by Licinius 
along with another brother, a sister 
in tender age, and finally Valeria 
herself. It thus appears that the 
massacre of the Christians, which 
our modern Caiphases would have 
celebrated as an edifying " divine 
caress," had this one effect after all, 
viz., to bring around the lasting tri- 
umph of the persecuted cause. 1 1 was 
the children of the slaughtered ones 
who were victorious in the end ; the 
progeny of the slaughterers died suffo- 
cated in the blood which their guilty 
fathers had shed. 

We might easily continue these 
examples, and recount, for instance, 
the end to which a career of success- 
ful iniquity at last conducted Julian 
the Apostate, the idol and exemplar 
of our Italian regenerators. We 
might enlarge on the fates of Astol- 
phus and Desiderius, whose " patriot- 
ism " they so much admire. We 
might with still more force bring out 
contemporary cases, the case of Ca- 
vour, for example, withdrawn sud- 
denly away by an ominous death in 
the flower of life from the hosannas 
of the people he had misled ; the 
case of Farini, Cavour's right-hand 
man, struck also in life's prime by a 
shocking frenzy which urged him 
to acts incredibly revolting, and soon 
after to a most painful death ; the 
case of Fanti, the plunderer of Um- 
bria, who, before he could die, was 
tortured for a year with all the ago- 
nies of death ; the case of Persano, 
the bombarder of Ancona, who, after 
making shipwreck on the sea of Lissa 
of his rank and reputation, avenged 
himself of fortune by publishing the 



280 



The Caresses of Providence. 



infamies of the successful revolution. 
And to these we might add the cases 
of Pinelli, of Valerio, of La Farina, 
and of a hundred others equally con- 
clusive. We might even quote ex- 
amples among the living; of a cer- 
tain regenerator, who, in spite of his 
impious successes, roams incessantly 
from place to place seeking a rest he 
cannot find condemned, it would 
seem, to endure the torments of 
Caina, Antenora, and Ptolomea in 
Dante's ninth circle of hell, and to 
realize in himself the fate described 
by Alberigo : 

" This boon the sufferer hath, if boon it be 
Ofttimes to know the pangs of parting breath, 
Ere Atropos shuts down the shears of death." 

To be brief, we shall confine ourselves 
to the two most distinguished and 
most successful persecutors of popes 
Frederick II., a mediaeval emperor 
of Germany, and Napoleon the First, 
a French emperor of the modern 
sort. Both of these men, in the stu- 
died outrages they inflicted, the one 
upon Gregory IX. and Innocent IV., 
the other on Pius VII. , were encou- 
raged by such marvellous successes 
that our Israelitish proselytizer 
would have had them canonized as 
the very Benjamins of Providence. 
Suffice it to say that Frederick II. 
had his political Csesarism preached 
into right divine by the most learned 
jurists of his day, just as Napoleon I. 
made the most powerful monarchy 
of Europe kneel down and adore his 
bloodier Caesarism of the sword. 
Both the one and the other returning 
from their triumphs, carried fortune, 
to all appearance, chained for ever 
to their cars. The more they raged 
against Christ's Vicar, the more their 
victory seemed complete. The 
greater the number of excommuni- 
cations they incurred, the easier 
seemed to be their subsequent en- 
croachments. It was after the last 



papal censure that Frederick gained 
the adhesion of several powerful 
barons in Rome. It was after the 
Pope's worst imprisonment that Na- 
poleon won his greatest battles, mak- 
ing them the subjects of the most 
vainglorious boasts, that he had thus 
received from the God of armies 
special marks of approbation " ca- 
resses," as the Opinione calls them, 
when bestowed upon the enemies of 
the church. 

Yet where did they end, these 
lucky sacrileges, this prodigious and 
prolonged prosperity of crime ? 
Both these men outlived their glit- 
tering fortunes. The false magnifi- 
cence and grandeur for which they 
had thrown away their souls, turned 
to ashes in their grasp. 

King Henry, Frederick's eldest son, 
dies in prison, leaving a son who 
was struck dead by a blow from an 
unknown hand. Enzio, his bastard 
offspring, created by him King of 
Sardinia, after twenty-five years of 
imprisonment in a cage of iron dies 
a miserable death. Ezzelino, his son- 
in-law closes with a horrible end a 
life, if possible, of greater horror. 
His great champion, Thaddeus of 
Suessa, is slain with every accom- 
paniment of contempt. Pier delle 
Vigne, his evil genius, has his eyes 
thrust out, and commits suicide in 
his despair. Frederick himself, after 
surviving all these horrors, is strangled 
by Manfredi, another of his base- 
born sons, who, after bathing his 
gory hands in the blood of Conrad, 
Frederick's lawful son, is himself 
stretched dead on the field of a dis- 
honorable strife. To close this in- 
terminable tragedy, Corradino, the 
last scion of the hated tyrant, ends 
on a felon's scaffold his seventeen 
short years of life. With this unfor- 
tunate youth the dynasty of Frede- 
rick is closed. The empire passes 
over into other hands, and Rodolph 



The Caresses of Providence. 



281 



of Hapsburg reigns, the first of a 
better line. 

The fall of Napoleon I. is still re- 
membered as an event of recent date. 
Elated with his continual victories, he 
invaded Russia with the most for- 
midable army the world ever saw. 
Warned that he had the fate of the 
excommunicated to encounter, he 
asked in scorn whether his soldiers 
would drop their muskets at the sight 
of a Papal Bull. Forced to retreat 
after a show of vain success, famine 
and frost decimated his ranks, and 
his soldiers' frozen fingers refused to 
hold the interdicted arms. Unable 
to contend against fast-increasing 
numbers, he found himself by a 
strange fatality compelled to re- 
nounce the crown in the very palace 
at Fontainebleau which he had turn- 
ed into a prison for the Pope. The 
Holy Father had quitted it to resume 
the throne. The fallen emperor left 
it to accept in Elba an asylum which 
he begged as a shelter in his friend- 
less old age. Leaving his place of 
refuge, in a mad attempt to resus- 
citate his fortunes, he incurred at 
Waterloo a ruin the most disastrous 
ever known. Stripped of every re- 
source, he was dragged to a prison- 
cell on a miserable island, scarcely 
noticeable in its vast expanse of sea. 
From this inhospitable rock, he was 
permitted to contemplate the plenary 
restoration of the mysterious Papal 
power, and simultaneously the down- 
fall of all the thrones he had pre- 
sented to his brothers and next of 
kin. After spending, in desolate cap- 
tivity, the five years he had decreed 
of prison to the blameless Pius VII., 
he gave up his tortured soul to meet 
the just displeasure of his God. What 
more striking confirmation can we 
ask of the truth of those awful words, 
" They who sow injustice " sooner or 
later " shall reap its bitter fruits " ? 
It would not do to pass without 



notice the still living and speaking 
case of Napoleon III. Who but he 
has been the foremost leader of the 
regenerators of unhappy Italy ? The 
Gog and Magog of our Italian phar- 
isees ! And are not these the men 
who fell down and worshipped the 
divine prosperity of their master's 
eighteen years of empire ? Have 
they not claimed it as a miracle of 
God's favor, a long and lasting 
" caress " of Providence, the possible 
failure of which it would be impious 
to suspect? Have they not sung 
and celebrated, time and again, the 
famous victory of Solferino as a pro- 
digy sent from heaven to show that 
the Almighty took the side of Italy, 
and had declared against the Pope ? 

Well, now, what has become of 
this epopee of miraculous prosperity, 
this note of ruin to Catholic Christi- 
anity, to the claims of the Holy See, 
and (as justly we might say) to the 
repose and peace of Europe ? It 
came to naught in Sedan, in a mili- 
tary defeat and a dynastic misfortune 
the most appalling that ever was 
known or written of in the world. 

And it so came to naught precise- 
ly because of the " success " at Sol- 
ferino. That victory of Napoleon's, 
chanted so loudly and so often by 
the pious Jew editor of the Opinione 
as an unmistakable revelation of 
God's decision in favor of Bonaparte 
and his new Italy that victory (when 
the hour of Sedan had come) was 
plainly seen as the manifest cause 
of his every subsequent reverse. Who 
can help perceiving now that, had 
not Austria lost the battle of Solfe- 
rino, won by France that Italy might 
be " made," Austria would not have 
lost the battle at Sadowa, achieved 
by Prussia that Germany might be 
" made " ? And had not Austria 
lost at Sadowa, is it not plain that 
Napoleon would never have been 
dragged down into the horrible ca- 



282 



The Caresses of Providence. 



tastrophe of Sedan ? In this catas- 
trophe we find the meaning of the 
" approving smile " at Solferino. The 
" caress," we are told, was intended 
for the third Napoleon. For whom, 
then, was intended the crushing dis- 
pensation at Sedan ? 

Will our kind converters to the 
new reading of the ways of Provi- 
dence reflect maturely on this mat- 
ter? All genuine Christian gentle- 
men, all admitted men of honor (ex- 
cept a few who were misled), regard- 
ed the war of 1859, so well charac- 
terized by the victory of Solferino, as 
iniquitous in its motives and as anti- 
Christian in its scope. It was looked 
upon by all as a magnum latrocinium, 
a godless scheme of robbery ; but it 
had what its perpetrators called " a 
great success." Eleven years roll 
by, and what do we see ? 

Napoleon III., at first so splendid- 
ly victorious by the force of an act 
of larceny that dispossessed four 
princes and displaced the Pope, is 
caught at last like a weasel in a trap, 
dethroned in his turn, driven off in 
scorn, steeped to the lips in indeli- 
ble disgrace ; all his marshals and 
generals, without a solitary excep- 
tion, ignominiously humbled, sound- 
ly beaten, and detained in durance 
vile by a logical rebound from their 
first Italian success; all his army, 
four hundred thousand strong, lately 
invincible, now led into exile or cap- 
tivity, to shiver with cold or to wince 
under the epithets of scorn. Vic- 
torious France, in retribution for her 
" new idea " of nationality, and to set 
the good example, yields up the 
costly tribute of two of her wealthi- 
est provinces; just the number she 
had stolen from Italy, on the strength 
of the " new idea," as her due for 
allowing Piedmont to absorb the en- 
tire peninsula within her ravenous 
maw. 

How is it possible not to recog- 



nize, in this unprecedented drama, the 
real lesson of divine retaliation, the 
exclusive right of Providence to re- 
pay to exact eye for eye, tooth for 
tooth, and life for life, when such 
extremity is required ? Who will hesi- 
tate to say with the poet : 

" The sword of God is strict, and cuts amain. 
But still in stated measure, time, and place, 
Till all things find their equal own again." 

And in this most memorable reverse 
of Napoleon III., we invite our 
apostolic interpreters of Providence 
to note a special fact. The fallen 
emperor not only lives to realize the 
forfeiture of all his fame, differing 
herein from those who die before 
the loss, but has to endure the bit- 
terness of witnessing the demolition 
of all the proud creations of his 
reign. He had raised France to the 
pinnacle of earthly greatness, had 
just crowned, as he himself phrased 
it, the glorious edifice his genius had 
successfully constructed. France is 
now dismembered, dilapidated, a 
mass of melancholy ruin ; reduced 
to chaos militarily, morally, politi- 
cally, and to a great extent material- 
ly, if this last trait be deemed of 
much account. 

He had decorated the palaces of 
St. Cloud and the Tuileries with 
munificence more than Asiatic. 
They are stripped to the bare walls. 
He rose, on the wings of the plebi- 
scite, from obscurity to a throne. The 
plebiscite is now an obsolete absurd- 
ity. The treaty of Paris, which 
crowned the triumphs of the East ; 
the Chinese victories and ovations 
at Canton and Palikao; the Mexi- 
can Empire, the fruit of so much toil 
and treasure, the price of the good 
name and fame of France; the 
Prague conventions, intended to de- 
feat the growth of Prussia into a 
vast and consolidated Germany of 
all these magnificent enterprises not 
a trace. In short, the countless daz- 



The Caresses of Providence. 



283 



zling exploits of the prosperous 
reign of the third Napoleon have 
vanished for ever like so many dis- 
solving views. One work, one only 
work survives the Subalpine gov- 
ernment of Italy, to lick which hide- 
ous monster into shape the unhappy 
monarch threw recklessly away his 
honor and his crown. We might 
pursue this train of thought to its 
logical conclusion, but we refrain. 
Too strict an application of the laws 
of logic might bring us into conflict 
with other laws which we prefer not 
to provoke. But we may perhaps 
venture to request our pious friends of 
the " Regeneration " to undertake the 
argument themselves an argument 
which runs on almost of itself, being 
one of the kind which dialecticians 
call reasoning from analogy. Let 
them look to it well, and say if there 
be not better ground to be anxious 
about the life of their Italy than 
there is to be solicitous about con- 
verting Catholics to the modern 
dogma, that the voice of an accom- 
plished fact is no less than the voice 
of God ; that the lucky consumma- 
tion of a crime is itself the signal 
of the divine applause. Let them 
reflect that not a fact, which ceases 
afterwards to be a fact, can come 
into being or go out of it, without, 
at least, the permissive sanction of 
Almighty God. Let them pause and 
consider that the series of events, 
opened by Providence in 1859, is 
not absolutely or finally closed. 
Let them ever bear in mind that, 
when least it is expected, Providence 
may complete the line of this ana- 
logy by dissolving into nothingness 
the only remnant left of all the 
Napoleonic creations. The world 
and the ages will then believe that 
not a single one of the supposed 
marks of the divine " caress," claim- 
ed by Italy's regenerators, was really 
a mark of favor ; but simply one of 



the many illustrations of the way 1,1 
which the scorner is caught in the 
midst of his devices : In insidiis suis 
capientur iniqui. 

In what we have advanced, we 
have, as seems to us, fairly and fully 
refuted the boastful syllogism of our 
adversaries. We shall conclude 
by exhorting them to lay aside all 
hope of converting Catholics by a 
show of blasphemous successes or an 
appeal to the longest impunity of 
crime. Go on, gentlemen! Enjoy 
your fortune ! Vaunt as loudly as you 
will the triumphs you have secured 
over us, over the church, over the 
rights of the Holy See. Do all 
this, and welcome. But when you 
come to tell us that Providence is 
" caressing your cause," and ask our 
adhesion to this impiety, we warn 
you to desist. Satan himself would 
not dare to give utterance to such an 
insult, or even to harbor such a 
thought. Providence has allowed 
you, in the abuse of your own free- 
will, a certain measure of easy suc- 
cess ; as he allowed it to the syna- 
gogue, to the Caesars, to Julian the 
Apostate, to Desiderius, and to all 
such of your predecessors as were 
permitted for a time to triumph over 
Christ and his commandments. And 
this he has allowed to you, not as to 
his loved ones, but as to his persecu- 
tors, that you may be the rod of his 
justice against the sins of the world. 
He will make this to yourselves, if 
you repent not, a snare and a delu- 
sion ; to the church, an assurance of 
greater exaltation ; and to all of us, a 
call to better service and obedience. 
We as Catholics know that we must 
bow beneath your blows. We bear 
the pain of them in peace, because 
faith teaches us that even scourges are 
wielded by God, and that his hand 
is to be kissed as much when it strikes 
as when it strengthens. For this 
reason we can accept you as you are. 



284 



New Publications. 



And yet we see in you no higher 
mark than that of our flagellators 
and the exercisers of our patience ; 
but be warned in time. God makes 
use of his scourges, and then destroys 
them. We have made this plain to 
you by innumerable examples. Be- 
ware ! for the prosperous days of 
God's scourges end invariably in mis- 
fortune and disaster. Beware, for 
the good times of the enemies of 
Jesus Christ and his church have 
ever been as pitfalls with a covering 
of roses ; yokes of iron masked by a 
drapery of flowers. On the contrary, 
from her greatest tribulations the 
church has ever issued brighter, love- 
lier, and more radiant than before. 
She numbers as many victories as 
battles, as many prisoners as foes. 
All the promises of God are for her 
and against you, and all history at- 
tests that of these promises not a 
syllable has failed. The church is 
our mother; her cause is our own. 
We have, therefore, no fear for the re- 
sult. You may scorn us, you may 
strip us, you may deny us the protec- 



tion of the laws. You may tear us 
limb from limb during the brief oc- 
casion of your power. But conquer 
us, no ! In all eternity, you cannot. 
God has ordered it that we shall be 
your victors. Rallying close to the 
Vicar of the King of heaven, and 
faithful to the call of his immortal 
Spouse, we shall announce to you, 
with front uplifted, that we have con- 
quered you ; or (if that better pleases 
you) that Christ has conquered you 
through us. Laugh to your hearts' 
content at this faith of ours. All 
your predecessors have done as much. 
Yet who triumphed in the end ? So 
certain are we of the victory that we 
scarce dare hasten it by our desires. 
The thought of the bolts of divine 
wrath impending over you appalls 
us, and we abstain, out of pity for 
you, from asking what Dante, on a 
like occasion, prayed for in these 
words : 

" O God ! when wilt thou give me to be blest 
To see thy vengeance, which, long hid, made 

sweet 

The sacred anger garnered in thy breast ?" 
Purg., c. xx. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



LITTLE PIERRE, THE PEDLAR OF AL- 
SACE ; or, The Reward of Filial Piety. 
Translated from the French by J.M. C. 
With 27 illustrations, i vol. i2mo, pp. 
236. New York : The Catholic Publica- 
tion Society, 9 Warren Street. 1872. 

The French can write charming 
stories, as every one knows. Little 
Pierre is one of the best we have 
seen in a long time such a one as 
enchants a child, and makes him or 
her unwilling to lay it aside for sup- 
per or bed. It leads one through 
the romantic scenes of Alsace and 
the country of the Rhine, has plen- 
ty of stirring adventures, and, what 
is best of all, ends in a capital and 



satisfactory manner: Pierre and 
his little sister happily married, the 
old lady comfortable, Pierre a well- 
to-do merchant at Niederbronn. 
The illustrations, twenty-seven in 
all, which have been recut from the 
originals for the American edition, 
are uncommonly well executed. 
Little Pierre is destined to become 
an intimate friend of our young 
folks, to say nothing of Christine 
and Lolotte. Perhaps the most 
comical scene in the book is where 
Little Pierre is put by Madame 
Frank in the top of a Christmas- 
tree, with the name of little Cecile 
pinned on his breast. The most 



New Publications. 



285 



touching scene is the finding of 
little Lolotte in the wood, with her 
eyes bandaged and her hands tied. 
We advise our young readers not to 
rest until they get possession of 
this pretty book. 

THE MEN AND WOMEN OF THE ENGLISH 
REFORMATION, from the Days of Wol- 
sey to the Death of Cranmer. Papal 
and Anti-Papal Notables. By S. H. 
Burke, author of "The Monastic 
Houses of England.", 2 vols. New 
York : The Catholic Publication So- 
ciety. 1872. 

This is a work which fairly an- 
swers its title, and we have in its 
two handsome duodecimo volumes 
sketchesand descriptions so graphic 
of the men and women of the Eng- 
lish Reformation as to place them 
most vividly before us. 

Beginning with the unlovely cor- 
respondence of Henry VIII. with 
Anne Boleyn, and recounting many 
interesting details of the divorce 
question, the narrative passes on 
to a review of the leading incidents 
and the principal personages of the 
reign of Henry. The political mur- 
ders of Sir Thomas More and of 
Bishop Fisher, the death of Queen 
Katharine, and the fall of Anne 
Boleyn, are described with fresh de- 
tails of interest drawn from newly 
opened sources of historic informa- 
tion. 

On the subject of "Clerical Re- 
formers and their Spouses," there 
is a very readable chapter, and, 
with a full disquisition upon the 
"Religious Institutions of Old Eng- 
land," we have startling statements 
concerning the character of the 
"Monastic Inquisitors " under that 
arch - villain, Thomas Cromwell, 
Henry's Secretary of State, as will 
open the eyes of such as are un- 
aware of the depth of infamy fa- 
thomed by the scoundrels who stole 
or wasted the wealth of England's 
grand mediaeval charities and rob- 
bed the poor and the sick of their 
sole heritage of succor and conso- 
lation. At the sight of the suffer- 
ing entailed by the destruction of 



the monasteries, those glorious 
asylums of religion, charity, and 
learning, even as enthusiastic a 
panegyrist of the Reformation as 
Froude cannot help exclaiming : 
"To the universities, the Reforma- 
tion had brought with it desolation. 
To the people of England it had 
brought misery and want. The once 
open hand was closed. . . . The 
prisons were crowded. . . . Monks 
and nuns pointed with bitter effect 
to the fruits of the ne-w belief, which 
had been crimsoned in the blood of 
thousands of the English peasants." 

The second volume gives us the 
principal events and personages of 
the end of the reign of Henry VIII. 
and of the reigns of Edward VI. 
and of Mary Tudor ; and effective 
use is made not only of authentic 
documentary evidence which has 
come to light within the past seven 
years, but also of the important, 
because impartial, testimony of dis- 
tinguished Protestant writers, such 
as Hook, Maitland, Brewer, Blunt, 
and Stephenson. We commend the 
work as one of exceeding interest. 

THE LIFE OF MARIE-EUSTELLE HARPAIN, 
the Sempstress of St. Pallais, called 
" The Angel of the Eucharist." Se- 
cond edition. London : Burns, Gates, 
& Co. ; New York : The Catholic Pub- 
lication Society. 1872. 

This is one of the most interest- 
ing lives which we have read. The 
lives of the saints always should be 
interesting, but often the methodi- 
cal and dry way in which they are, 
as we may say, constructed, has a 
discouraging effect upon the reader 
greater than that which the heroic 
virtues of their subjects can pro- 
duce. This is not the case with this 
memoir of one whom we may be al- 
lowed to call a saint, though she has 
not yet been recognized as such by 
the church, always prudent, and es- 
pecially so with regard to canoniza- 
tions. Marie-Eustelle died in 1842, 
at the age of 28, and belongs entire- 
ly to this nineteenth century, which 
is so ignorant of its true glories. 
Her life is quite imitable in most 



286 



New Publications. 



respects, as well as admirable, which 
is an additional reason for reading a 
book that is so very readable. 

THE PARABLES OF OUR LORD AND SA- 
VIOUR JESUS CHRIST. With twenty- 
one Illustrations, from original designs 
by D. Hosier, H. Warren, and J. H. 
Powell, engraved by Holman and 
Bale. New York : The Catholic Pub- 
lication Society. 

The Rev. Mr. Formby, whose zeal, 
learning, and taste have so enriched 
the library of Catholic books for 
the young, gives here a popular work 
on the Parables, which will be won- 
derfully attractive. The Parables 
are all given in full, with fine illus- 
trations to fix them on the mind, 
and explanations of their spiritual 
sense, drawn from the holy fathers. 
These beautiful lessons of our Lord 
cannot be too deeply impressed on 
minds to serve as subjects of medi- 
tation, and, well understood, they 
will prove sources of many graces. 
Outside the church, they remain to 
most " mere parables, not unfre- 
quently indeed admired, and even 
quoted, beautiful in their way as 
anecdotes, but without in the least 
disclosing their true meaning." 

THE SEVEN SACRAMENTS OF THE CA- 
THOLIC CHURCH ; or, The Seven Pil- 
lars of the House of Wisdom. A 
Brief Explanation of the Catholic 
Doctrine of the Seven Sacraments, in 
connection with their corresponding 
types in the Old Testament. Illustra- 
ted with sixteen original designs by J. 
Powell, engraved on wood by the bro- 
thers Dalziel. By the Rev. Henry 
Formby, Priest of the Diocese of Bir- 
mingham. New York : The Catholic 
Publication Society. 

Another of Mr. Formby's charm- 
ing books, " not meant as a book of 
piety alone, but rather intended as 
a book of general popular know- 
ledge." He saw clearly the want of 
our time. " The whole tone and 
spirit of modern civilization is built 
upon the denial that there either is 
or can be anything superior to it- 
self, or, indeed, anything that is not 
of its own order of things in the 



world." " The young mind can- 
not be too soon made aware of the 
contradiction between the world 
and our Lord, and cannot be too 
soon and too effectually brought up 
to love and abide by all that our 
divine Lord has taught, and made 
firmly to disregard and despise all 
that is contrary to it in the world's 
doctrine, from the knowledge that 
our Lord is greater than the world." 

THE SCHOOL KEEPSAKE, AND MONITOR 
FOR AFTER LIFE. By Rev. H. Formby. 
With illustrations. New York : The 
Catholic Publication Society. 

This perfectly beautiful little gift 
for the young leaving school is one 
so attractive in itself that it cannot 
fail to be kept ; so sound, so clear, 
so distinct in its matter, that it can- 
not but be such a help as will glad- 
den the guardian angel watching 
over the child as it steps from the 
school into the busy world. 

THE DEVOTION OF THE SEVEN DOLORS 
OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN. Translated by 
the Rev. Henry Formby. New York : 
The Catholic Publication Society. 

A devotion approved by the high- 
est authority, commended by the 
example of saints, and one full of 
consolation and piety, is here pre- 
sented in a form that will give it 
currency among many who had 
overlooked it. No one can sorrow 
with Mary over the sorrows of 
Jesus without a return on self, and 
a sense of what our sins, the cause 
of all, demand on our part. 

SCHOOL SONGS, to which music is adapt- 
ed. Complete volume containing 
Part I., The Junior School Song-Book ; 
Part II., The Senior School Song- 
Book. Edited by the Rev. Henry 
Formby. New York : The Catholic 
Publication Society. 

Amid the abundance of bad 
books, it is delightful to find a 
miniature volume like this of 200 
pages, containing hymns, nursery 
rhymes, ballads, and' minor poems 
suited to the young selected with 
care. The )^oung must laugh and 



New Publications. 



287 



play; they will sing hymns some- 
times, touching ballads sometimes, 
nonsense sometimes ; give them all 
this to sing, but keep them from 
the immoral and low, slangy songs 
that even our music stores are now 
flooding the land with. We hope 
this little collection will sell by the 
thousand. It is cheap and it is 
good. 

WILD FLOWERS OF WISCONSIN. By B. 
J. Dorward. Edited by his son. Mil- 
waukee : Catholic News Co. 

The productions of our author, 
under the signature of " Porte 
Crayon," * have long been favorites 
of the Western public. The late 
Dr. J. V. Huntington, a poet and 
critic of no ordinary ability, sought 
him out and secured his contribu- 
tions to the St. Louis Leader. His 
poems are characterized by a beau- 
tiful simplicity and spontaneity, 
genuine sentiment, and native good 
sense. Other poets may exhibit 
the delicate touch of the artist in 
elaborate and polished images, but 
the efforts of writers like the pres- 
ent must be the inspiration of the 
moment, and the less forethought 
they show, the more are they en- 
hanced in value. To change the 
figure, the wild flowers lose their 
hues and fragrance if subjected 
to hot-house processes. The for- 
mer excite our admiration, the lat- 
ter elicit our sympathy, and perhaps 
live longer in the memory by those 
" touches of nature which make the 
whole world kin." 

We bespeak a welcome to these 
flowers of song on the part of those 
who love poetry in its native sim- 
plicity, who set a proper estimate 
on all that is gentle, pure, and kind 
in the sentiments of our common 
nature, noble and sublime in our 
common faith, and would cultivate 
an indigenous literature worthy of 
the name. 

* This nom de plume, chosen without the 
knowledge of any other appropriation of the 
name, was quite significant in the case of the 
writer, as he at one time took portraits in cray- 
on, though he has since restricted himself to 
altar pieces in oil. 



Among many gems of thought 
and feeling, we can only particular- 
ize : " To a Bird in Church," " By the 
Rivulet," "To the Memory of Dr. J. 
V. Huntington," " St. Mary's of the 
Pines," " The Datura," and "A Sol- 
dier's Funeral." 

A SISTER'S STORY. By Mrs. Augustus 
Craven. Translated from the French, 
by Emily Bowles. Fourth American 
edition, i vol. 8vo, pp. 539. New 
York: The Catholic Publication Soci- 
ety. 

It is with pleasure that we an- 
nounce the appearance of a fourth 
American edition of this exquisite 
and charming book, whose reputa- 
tion and circulation have become 
world-wide. Even the publications 
most hostile to our holy religion 
have been compelled to eulogize it, 
although evidently feeling very un- 
easy about its great and increasing 
popularity among non-Catholic read- 
ers. The great discovery of a for- 
gery in one part of the history 
which the New Englander fancied 
itself to have made, is known 
to a great part of the reading pub- 
lic. This supposed forgery was a 
profession of faith by the subject 
of the story, differing in form front 
one given in a French edition (nth 
of Didier, Paris), which the New 
Englander rather hastily concluded 
to be the genuine and authentic 
form which Mrs. Craven had pub- 
lished. The New Englander did not, 
however, express any suspicion that 
this forgery had been perpetrated 
by the American editors on the 
contrary, disclaimed any such sus- 
picion. Refinement of language, 
cautiousness in making infamous 
charges against persons of high 
character, and similar marks which 
denote gentlemanly and conscien- 
tious principles in a literary man, 
are, however, unhappily too rare 
among the conductors of the " Mo- 
ral Spouting Horns " of the Ameri- 
can press. Following those in- 
stincts by which they are usually 
impelled, and imitating a long se- 
ries of precedents furnished by 



288 



New Publications. 



those who have been their precur- 
sors in their honorable trade, seve- 
ral of these papers, the Independent 
leading off, accused the American 
editors and publisher of the work 
with having forged a "profession 
of faith " to suit themselves. Says 
the Independent of Jan. 15 : 

" The creed of this good Catholic was 
not half papistical enough to suit these 
American editors ; so they have intro- 
duced into it not only what she did be- 
lieve, but what, in their judgment, she 
ought to have believed. We desire to call 
the attention of THE CATHOLIC WORLD 
and the Tablet to this translation. It is 
possible there may be some explanation 
of what seems to be an astonishing piece 
of literary knavery. If there be, we 
should be glad to hear of it." 

To this the publisher, in the " Li- 
terary Bulletin " of THE CATHOLIC 
WORLD for April, replied that 

"The Catholic Publication Society's 
edition is printed exactly, word for word, 
from the first London edition, published 
by the respectable house of Bentley, in 
three volumes. If any deviation from 
the French was made, ' The Catholic 
Publication Society' did not make it, but 
followed the London edition in good 
faith, knowing the high source from 
which it emanated. But as the writer in 
the New Englander quotes from the four- 
teentk French edition, how does he know 
that the alteration may not have been 
made in that or previous French edi- 
tions? We have written to the trans- 
lator [Miss Bowles] in reference to this 
matter." 

But this did not seem to satisfy 
the Independent, for in its issue of 
April 4 it reiterates its accusation 
of forgery as follows : 

"Let us ask once more (this makes 
three times) what our Catholic neighbor 
thinks of that forgery in one of the books 
of 'The Catholic Publication Society' 
which was exposed in the January num- 
ber of the New Englander. We have 
looked in vain in the columns of the 
Tablet for a denunciation of this pious 
fraud, and our diligent questioning has 
failed to elicit from that usually fair jour- 
nal any reply." 

The Chicago Advance is another 
paper that took particular pleasure 
in re-echoing the "forgery"; but, 



unlike the Independent, it notices 
the denial put forth in the " Bulle- 
tin " of THE CATHOLIC WORLD, and 
says : 

" THE WORLD at last notices the forged 
prayer in the ' Sister's Story,' brought to 
light by the Ncio Englander, but affirms 
that 'The Catholic Publication Society' re- 
printed it verbatim from Bentley's Lon- 
don edition ; and rather improbably sug 
gests that the alteration may have been 
made in one of the later French editions 
of the original. Meanwhile, the editor 
sav,s that the translator [Miss Bowles] 
has been written to about it. We want 
THE WORLD to be sure to publish her re- 
ply." 

To which we reply : Here is the 
letter. 

" SA DAVIES ST., BERKELEY SQ., 
LONDON, W., March i8th, 1872. 

" SIR : The ' Profession of Faith ' in 
the first edition (3 vols.) of A Sister's 
Story was the correct one, given me by 
Mrs. Craven herself. I think she said it 
was incorrectly given in Didier's edi- 
tions, having been copied from those 
commonly used. She was very particu- 
lar in writing it out herself for A Sister's 
Story. Mr. Bentley published the one 
vol. edition in a singular manner, with- 
out referring to me at all, and I never 
knew why he had shortened the ' Profes- 
sion.' I have never compared the edi- 
tions, but possibly there are other mis- 
takes. 

" Your obed't serv't, 

" EMILY BOWLES." 

We do not think it necessary to 
add anything to the above. The 
newspapers which have published 
remarks similar to those we have 
quoted cannot make any apology 
which will entitle them to notice on 
our part, and we take leave of them 
until we are compelled to refute 
some new libel. 

Mr. P. DONAIIOE announces for early publica- 
tion : Six Weeks Abroad, in Ireland, England, 
and Belgium, by Father Haskins; Sketches of 
the Establishment of the Church in New England, 
by Father Fitton; Catholic Glories of the Nine- 
teenth Century ; The Old God, translated from 
the German ; Conversion of the Teutonic Race, 
by Mrs. Hope, as well as several others. 

" The Catholic Publication Society " announce 
for early publication, in addition to the books 
already announced, Canon Oakeley's two books, 
namely, Ceremonial of the Mass and Catholic 
Worship. Also, Aunt Margaret's Little Neigh- 
bors; or. Chats about the Rosary. 



THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD, 



VOL. XV., No. 87. JUNE, 1872. 



DUTIES OF THE RICH IN CHRISTIAN SOCIETY. 



NO. V. 



PRIVATE DUTIES. 



THAT part of our subject which is 
included under the title of the pres- 
ent article is the most difficult, com- 
plicated, and extensive of the seve- 
ral divisions under which we have 
classed the various and weighty du- 
ties of the rich. A volume of the 
most carefully prepared sermons, or 
a copious moral treatise, from the 
hand of a master of spiritual and 
moral science, could alone do justice 
to the demands of such a theme. 
The question to be answered, and it 
is one which harasses many a heart 
and . conscience, is, How shall one 
live and govern his household amid 
the abundance of temporal goods, so 
as to make his state in life subserve 
the great end to which a Christian 
must direct all his thoughts and ac- 
tions ? The solution of this problem 
is theoretically and practically diffi- 
cult. The language of Jesus Christ 
and the apostles in respect to the dif- 
ficulty is startling, and even terrify- 
ing. Our Lord said : " How hardly 
shall they that have riches enter into 



the kingdom of God. For it is easier 
for a camel to pass through the eye of 
a needle, than for a rich man to enter 
into the kingdom of God." The efforts 
which some critics have made to 
soften and diminish this fearful de- 
claration of Christ by changing 
" camel " into " cable," or making the 
"needle's eye" to be a gate of the 
city, so-called, are frivolous and fu- 
tile. The figure is that of a laden 
camel before the eye of a small nee- 
dle, through which his driver is es- 
saying to make him pass. And its 
force consists precisely in the utter 
and extravagant absurdity of the im- 
age which it presents to the mind. 
It is intended to represent that which 
is violently contrary to the laws of 
nature, and, therefore, impossible. 
And it is this impossibility which is 
taken to illustrate the difficulty of a 
rich man entering the kingdom of 
God. What follows elucidates and 
completes the idea which our Lord 
intended to present before the minds 
of all his followers. His astounded 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by Rev. I. T. HBCKER, in the Office of 
the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



290 



Duties of the Rich in Christian Society. 



listeners exclaimed, "Who then can 
be saved ?" To whom he replied : 
" The things that are impossible with 
men are possible with God."* The 
power of God, some philosophers 
tell us, can compress the substance 
of a camel into such small dimen- 
sions that it can pass through the 
eye of a needle. By that almighty 
power, and that alone, Christ teaches, 
can a rich man with his substance 
pass through the narrow gate of 
the kingdom of God. 

St. James addresses to the rich the 
following terrible invective : " Go 
to now, ye rich men, WEEP AND HOWL 
for your miseries that shall come upon 
you."t Similar passages might be 
multiplied, and the comments and 
applications of the successors of the 
apostles, in a similar strain, have 
filled the pages of the fathers and 
doctors of the church, and resounded 
from the chair of truth, from the days 
of the apostles to our own. Great 
numbers of the rich have been im- 
pelled by the force of these alarming 
declarations to seek for perfection 
and salvation by following the coun- 
sel which our Lord gave to the rich 
young man. Let those who have 
the opportunity and the vocation to 
do the same imitate their example ; 
we will not dissuade them, and let 
parents and others beware of dissuad- 
ing, much more hindering, any who 
are dependent on them from obeying 
such a divine call. This is one of 
the duties of the rich, which we will 
specify here in passing, that we may 
not be obliged to recur to it here- 
after to .give their best and dearest, 
their sons and daughters, the most 
gifted, the most gracious, the most 
loved, as Jephte gave his daughter, a 
sacrifice to God and the church, 
whenever the Lord honors them by 
the demand. But it is not our pur- 

*St. Luke xviii. 24, etc. 
tSt. James v. i. 



pose to persuade any to follow the 
evangelical counsels. We are speak- 
ing of the way of keeping God's 
commandments in a state of riches 
in the world. There must be a way 
of living a perfect life; and gaining 
heaven, not merely " so as by fire," 
but with the abundant merit which 
wins a bright crown in spite of 
the possession of riches, and even by 
means of those riches. Wealth is not 
an evil, but the abuse of wealth. 
Temporal goods are not in them- 
selves an obstacle to perfection and 
salvation, but the sins and vices 
which are caused by attachment 
to them, and the self-indulgence for 
which they afford the facility. The 
possession of wealth increases a per- 
son's responsibilities and dangers, but 
at the same time augments his power 
of doing good and acquiring merit. 
Human nature, left to itself, ordinari- 
ly swells up, through the possession 
of either material or intellectual 
riches, to such a huge bulk of pride, 
avarice, and sensuality, that it is like 
a laden camel, or, as we may say, like 
an elephant with a tower full of 
armed men on its back ; and in this 
condition, submission to the law of 
Christ is like passing through the eye 
of a fine cambric needle. But God, 
with whom those things are possible 
which are impossible to men, has not 
left human nature to itself. Through 
the Incarnation and the cross, 
through regenerating and sanctifying 
grace, through the aids of the Holy 
Spirit, Catholic faith, the sacraments, 
the examples of the saints, Catholic 
principles and education, the enno- 
bling, purifying power of religion 
human nature can be kept, in the 
state of abundance and prosperity, as 
well as in that of poverty and adver- 
sity, from the contamination of world- 
liness and iniquity. Even more, it 
can glorify its state, and turn it to the 
best and highest use, by the practice 



Duties of the Rick in Christian Society. 



291 



of the most exalted Christian virtues. 
The proof of this may be seen in the 
fact that this has been done in many 
thousands of instances, and is being 
done now in every part of Christen- 
dom. 

The principles upon which Chris- 
tian sanctity in the great, the noble, 
and the wealthy is based, are all 
summed up by the Apostle St. James 
in this short sentence : " Let the 
brother of low condition glory in his 
exaltation, but the rich in his being 
low"* which is more literally trans- 
lated, " in his humility." Humility 
entitles the rich man to claim all the 
special blessings which are so fre- 
quently and emphatically promised 
in the New Testament to the poor. 
It is poverty of spirit, or interior de- 
tachment from temporal goods for 
the love of God, and not mere ex- 
terior poverty, which fits a person for 
the kingdom of God. The poor and 
lowly, if they are possessed of 
Catholic faith, have so little of that 
which makes the present life bril- 
liant and attractive that they are 
forced by a happy kind of necessity 
to find everything in the church and 
their religion. They find their no- 
bility in their baptism, their glory in 
the sign of the cross and their Ca- 
tholic profession, their treasure in the 
blessed sacrament, their palace with 
its picture gallery and service of gold 
and silver in the church, their royal 
audiences at the ever open court of 
the King and Queen of heaven, their 
gala-days and spectacles in the festi- 
vals and processions and ceremonies 
of the ecclesiastical year, their ideal 
vision of coming happiness in heav- 
en. They are " rich in faith," and 
" glory in their exaltation" as the 
" heirs of God and joint-heirs with 
Christ." The rich must do volunta- 
, rily what the poor do from necessity. 

*St. James i. 9, 10. 



They must quit the position in their 
own esteem which human pride 
loves so dearly to take, of superiority 
over others on account of accidental 
and temporal advantages, and come 
down to the common level at the 
foot of the cross, where pride of rank 
and power, pride of intellect, and 
pride of wealth are alike annihilated, 
to make way for a true and lasting 
exaltation in the Son of God. 

Here, then, is the first duty of the 
rich to adopt inwardly, profess open- 
ly, and act out consistently the same 
principles of Catholic faith which are 
common to all Christians, and to 
place their glory, their treasure, their 
heart's affection, their end in life, 
their hope of happiness, not in the 
transitory things of this life, but in 
the kingdom of God ; " because as 
the flower of the grass they shall fade 
away." 

These transitory things, however, 
do last for a little while, and, al- 
though worthless as a final end and 
object to live for, are necessary and 
valuable as means. Private inter- 
pretation of the Scripture might de- 
duce from it that Christ intended to 
do away with all power, rank, human 
science, art, commerce, wealth, and 
civil or social polity, with marriage 
and the family even, and thus extin- 
guish this present world and this life 
to make way for the next. This is not 
the interpretation of the church or 
the way of Catholic practice. All 
these worldly, transitory things are 
retained and made use of, notwith- 
standing that ' ; the figure of this 
world passeth away." The rich man 
who is resolved to be a perfect Chris- 
tian needs, therefore, to know not 
only what esteem lie is to place on 
wealth and other temporal things in 
reference to the real and final good, 
but how practically to use them for 
the attainment of the same, and for 
helping his dependents and others to 



292 



Duties of the Rich in Christian Society. 



attain it. The more we go into de- 
tail in regard to this matter, the more 
difficult it becomes to draw lines and 
lay down practical rules. A sound 
and well-directed conscience must at 
last be the guide of each one, and it 
is a sufficient though not strictly in- 
fallible guide to those who are in- 
structed in good general principles. 

One general principle which may 
be useful as a rule for application to 
a great many particular cases is this : 
Those indulgences which gratify the 
more refined and intellectual tastes 
may be more freely made use of 
than those which gratify the senses. 
Another principle, closely allied to 
this, is the following : Whatever has 
an honorable or useful end is allow- 
able; whatever merely gratifies a self- 
ish passion must be condemned and 
avoided. To apply these principles 
as rules in certain important particu- 
lar cases, let us begin with the rich 
man's house. The first fault and 
folly to be avoided is extravagance. 
He ought not to embarrass his es- 
tate and prejudice the interests of his 
family by spending more money on 
his houses and the decoration of his 
grounds than he can afford. If he 
does, his motive is ostentation, or 
some other inordinate passion, and 
therefore worthy of condemnation. 
That there has been a vast amount 
of extravagance in this respect in our 
country within the past thirty years 
is obvious to every one. The out- 
side show of our towns and cities in- 
dicates an amount of wealth certainly 
four times greater than really exists. 
A man who is governed by Chris- 
tian principles, with which common 
sense and sound reason always co- 
incide in so far as they are competent 
to judge of what is right, will, of 
course, avoid all extravagance. 
More than this, he will not take the 
lead in splendor and magnificence 
of buildings and furniture, even if he 



has wealth enough to do so without 
extravagance. On the contrary, he 
will choose to be rather behind than 
before his compeers in this respect. 
We are not speaking now of princes 
and magnates, but of private citizens. 
There is no fitness, esp ecially in a 
republic, in making private residences 
palaces. It is proper to prov ide for 
all the conveniences of domestic life. 
Moreover, architectural beauty in 
the construction of houses, and taste 
and elegance in their furniture, give 
decorum to life, and innocent and re- 
fining pleasure to those who behold 
them, and a means of living to a 
large class of persons who are espe- 
cially fitted for a kind of work which 
demands artistic taste and skill. We 
cannot draw the line precisely where 
mere useless and luxurious pomp, 
show, and splendor begin. We can 
only say that a man thoroughly im- 
bued with Christian principles and 
sentiments will be very anxious and 
careful to keep on the safe side of 
it, so far as he is able to do so. But 
whatever degree of costliness and 
splendor may be suitable or permis- 
sible in the residence of any Catholic 
gentleman, whether he be a plain, 
private citizen in our demo- 
cratic republic, or a nobleman, 
prince, or monarch elsewhere, 
everything should be made to con- 
form not to a pagan, but a Christian 
and Catholic, ideal. All that is even 
bordering on heathen voluptuousness 
should be rigidly excluded. Works 
of Catholic art should adorn the 
walls even of the most public and 
splendid apartments. Every private 
room should have its crucifix, its Ma- 
donna, its vase of holy water, its prie- 
dieu, and books of prayer and devo- 
tion. An oratory, fitted up with the 
utmost elegance and costliness that 
is suitable to the circumstances, 
should be the shrine and chief orna- 
ment of the house. The library and 



Duties of the Rich in Christian Society. 



293 



other receptacles for books should 
be pure of all that is tainted and cor- 
rupting, and filled up with everything 
which Catholic literature can furnish, 
both in English and in the other 
languages which the members of 
the highly distinguished circle we 
have the honor of addressing are 
supposed to know. In a word r the 
elegancies and ornaments of life 
should be made to minister to intel- 
lectual cultivation, to the education 
of the higher and more refined tastes 
of the soul; and these should be 
made all subservient to that which is 
highest of all the culture and im- 
provement of the spirit in the know- 
ledge and love of the Supreme Truth 
and the Infinite Beauty. 

Just at the moment of writing 
down these thoughts, we have come 
across a beautiful sketch of the fami- 
ly of Count Stolberg, in the pages of 
a German periodical. It is so ap- 
propriate as an illustration that we will 
postpone any further continuation of 
our subject, and finish the present ar- 
ticle with a translation of the sketch 
alluded to.* 

"It is singular (writes Count Stolberg) 
that I cannot remember ever to have 
heard in the house of my parents such 
words as money, competency, economy, 
expense, saving. At that time luxury 
had not yet become the fashion ; and, 
even if it had been, the house of our pa- 
rents was like an island. We lived sep- 
arate from others, although scarcely ad- 
verting to the fact that our life was so re- 
tired. There was just as little said about 
making ourselves comfortable as about 
money and fashion. The modern luxury 
in chairs and sofas with all its ingenious 
contrivances was altogether unknown to 
us. All the articles of furniture, our 
dress, and the table were good and befit- 
ting our rank ; but we might have said 
about all these things what Cyrus said 
at the table of Astyages about the cus- 
toms of the Persians : ' I do not know 



* From Der Katholik, for January, 1872. 



whether at that time all people remained 
longer children, or whether we ourselves 
only remained so.' Count Stolberg's 
father died in the year 1765, and the last 
anxious wish of his heart was that 'his 
children might walk in the way of the 
Lord.' How much, writes the count, 
this desire occupied the hearts of both my 
father and my mother ! I can still hear 
my mother say that she envied no one so 
much as the mother of the seven Mac- 
chabees ; that she was the most fortu- 
nate of mothers. It was her solitary 
wish, prayer, and effort that she might 
one day be able to say, ' Lord, here are 
we, and the children whom thou hast 
given us ' it was the soul of her entire 
plan of education. 

" At the father's death, the countess 
gave his Bible to the young Count Fred- 
eric, and wrote in it the following words : 
'This Bible, which your blessed father 
used on the very day of his death, con- 
soling himself with the words, " Thou 
hearest, O Lord ! the longing of those 
who cry to thee, their heart is sure that 
thou dost give ear to them," must prove 
a great blessing to you, and continually 
stimulate you to love the Word of God, 
to venerate it, to make it the rule of your 
life, as he did, and to seek consolation 
in it to the end of your life. For this, 
may the Triune God give you his grace 
and benediction !' 

" The mother's testament to her chil- 
dren, which was found after her death, in 
1773. in her writing-desk, was as follows: 
' Dear children, cling to the Saviour, to his 
merits, to his faithful heart ; and do not 
love the world or what is in the world. For 
all is passing, and but mere dust of the 
earth. Nothing can last with us through 
life and in death but the blood of Jesus, 
the grace of God, communion and friend- 
ship with him. Seek for this ; do not 
rest until you possess it ; and then hold 
it fast; this will help you through until 
we are with him ; oh ! let not one, not one 
remain behind. I will always watch 
over you, and will hasten to meet you 
with open arms when you come after me. 
Watch and pray !' 

"We can understand without difficulty 
from this how Count Stolberg could say, 
' Christ, the Saviour of the world, was the 
guiding star of my youth. Our parents 
desired nothing more earnestly than that 
we should seek him, love him, and confess 
him before the whole world. I have al- 
ways regarded that as my highest duty. 



On the Troubadours of Provence. 



which necessarily led me into the Catho- 
lic Church.' " 



In this sketch of Count Stolberg's 
parents and early home, we see the 
old-fashioned simplicity and piety of 
the best sort of the ancient Lutheran 
nobility of Germany. There is a 
sombre and austere*character in the 
picture, partly belonging to the na- 
tional temperament, but chiefly due 
to that shadow of sadness which Pro- 
testantism in its more earnest phase 
casts over the practice of virtue and 
religion. The count himself, as is 
well known to all, while preserving all 
that was good and truly Christian in 
the principles and habits given him 
by his early education, cast aside its 
sectarian prejudices and errors to 
embrace the Catholic religion. In 
him, as the model of a perfect Christian 
gentleman and scholar, to quote again 
the language of the writer in Der 
Katholik, 



" was gloriously fulfilled the wish ex- 
pressed by Lavater (a Protestant) in a 
letter to the count. ' Become an honor 
to the Catholic Church ! Practis e virtues 
which are impossible to a non-Catholic ! 
Do deeds which will prove that your 
change had a great end, and that you 
have not failed to gain it. You have 
saints, I do not deny it : we have none, at 
least none like yours. Be to all Catho- 
lics and non-Catholics a shining exam- 
ple of that virtue which is the most wor- 
thy of imitation and of Christian holi- 
ness.' " 

We have been tempted into a di- 
gression which will, we trust, not be 
ungrateful to our readers, and find 
that we have not been able to bring 
our series of short articles to a close 
in the present number, as we had 
hoped to do. We must therefore re- 
sume the same subject after another 
month, and we trust that our gentle 
readers, upon their summer excur- 
sions, will find time and inclination 
to listen to one more brief moral in- 
struction. 



ON THE TROUBADOURS OF PROVENCE. 

TRUE hearts, that beat so fast, but now are still, 

The gracious days will never come again 
Ye loved and sang ; your tender accents will 

Linger no more on the warm lips of men ! 
Alas ! your speech lies with ye in the grave ! 

Yet where Montpellier's skies their balm impart, 
And Barcelona wooes the southern wave, 

The student cons your pages when his heart 
Hungers for solace. Take it in kind part, 

Count it not loss, dear hearts, but loyalty 
If I like him, though with a ruder hand, 

Am fain to cull your flowers too sweet to die, 
To waft their fragrance to a distant land, 

And bid them blossom 'neath a colder sky. 



The House of Yorke. 



295 



THE HOUSE OF YORKE. 

CHAPTER XXX. 
EDITH'S YES. 



In the opinion of their old friends 
in Boston, N the Yorke family had lost 
something during their sojourn in the 
wilderness. It was not that they 
were less charming, less kind, less 
well-bred, but they were not so or- 
thodox in religion. Mrs. Yorke, it 
is true, resumed her regular attend- 
ance at Dr. Stewart's church ; but her 
husband seldom accompanied her 
now, and, it was ascertained, absent- 
ed himself with her permission. 

' ; I would not have him go for my 
sake, when he does not wish to go 
for his own," she remarked tran- 
quilly. 

The time had been when Mrs. 
Yorke would have been horrified at 
such a defection, and would have 
called in the doctors of the church to 
exhort the backslider. She was evi- 
dently growing lax in her religious 
principles. 

Melicent always accompanied her 
mother, and had the true down-drawn, 
regulation countenance ; but Clara 
was seldom seen in their pew, and 
boldly answered, when questioned on 
the subject, that she sometimes went 
to the Catholic churches to hear the 
music. " I go wherever I can hear 
Wilcox play the organ," she said. 
" I never tire listening to him. Oth- 
ers play difficult music with dexterity, 
and you admire their skill; but he 



plays the same, and you forget that 
there is any skill in it. Such be- 
witching grace ! Such laughter run- 
ning up and down the keys ! Such 
picturesque improvisations ! He play- 
ed last Sunday something that called 
up to me a scene in Seaton that bit 
of meadow on East Street, Edith. 
There was some sort of musical 
groundwork, soft and monotonous, 
with little blossoming chords spring- 
ing up everywhere, and over it all 
swam a lovely, meandering melody 
with the vox humana. When the 
bell rang, at the Sanctus, he caught 
the sound, and ran straight up into 
the stars, as though some waiting an- 
gel had flown audibly up to heaven 
to announce the time of the conse- 
cration. It is delightful to hear him. 
In his graver music, and his chorus- 
es, I do not so much distinguish him 
from others ; but he is the only or- 
ganist I know who gives an idea of the 
play of the little saints and cherubim 
in heaven, their dancing, their singing, 
their swift flights to the earth and 
back again, and all their exquisite 
loves, and pranks, and delights 
their very worship like the worship 
of birds and flowers." 

Not a word about doctrines, about 
the iniquities of Rome, the supersti- 
tion of Papists, the idolatry of the 
Mass ! 



296 



The House of Yorke. 



What wonder if these good peo- 
ple, who considered it blasphemy to 
associate cherubic music with any 
more rapid motion than that of the 
semibreve and minim, should think 
Miss Clara Yorke in a dangerous 
way ? It was hoped, however, that 
when Dr. Stewart and Melicent were 
married, his influence would recall 
her to a sense of duty. 

The doctor did try, carefully, 
though, warned by his wife, and by 
some sharp, though tacit, rebuffs 
from Mr. Yorke and Edith. He 
spoke one day philosophically of the 
obnoxious Review, as though there 
were no question of truth, but mere- 
ly of cleverness in handling certain 
subjects, and, in a careless a propos, 
offered Mr. Yorke the loan of certain 
volumes, which, he privately believ- 
ed, would triumphantly controvert 
the controversialist. The doctor had 
not read any of these Catholic autho- 
rities. 

" Thank you !" Mr. Yorke replied. 
He wished to be friendly, and really 
liked the doctor when he let theology 
alone. Besides, he was dining there, 
and could not be disagreeable. 

After dinner, Melicent slipped out 
of the room a few minutes ; and 
when her father went home, she said 
sweetly, " By the way, papa, I put 
up those books the doctor spoke of 
to you, if you like to take them now. 
They lie on the hall table." 

" Let them lie /" replied Mr. Yorke, 
with a glance and an emphasis which 
were not even doubtful. 

He might permit Dr. Stewart to 
exhort him, but he would not be 
schooled by his own daughter. 

There was but little to tell of the 
family for a while. Mr. Yorke em- 
ployed a part of his time in attend- 
ing to Carl's and Edith's pecuniary 
affairs, everything being entrusted to 
his management. Patrick was his 
assistant occasionally, and was also 



Edith's coachman ; for the only car- 
riage they kept belonged to Edith. 

Betsey was Mrs. Yorke's special 
dependence. She was a sort of 
housekeeper, as well as nurse. When 
the lady was ill, no one else could 
lift, and serve, and watch as Betsey 
could ; and when she was in low spi- 
rits, Betsey could scout her vapors 
very refreshingly, when the others in- 
creased them, perhaps, by indulgence. 
On all her little journeys, Betsey ac- 
companied Mrs. Yorke. Her quaint, 
country ways were a constant source 
of amusement, her faithful affection 
and sturdy good sense a staff to lean 
on. 

Mrs. Yorke had, at the last mo- 
ment, concluded not to bring the 
young Pattens to Boston, but had se- 
cured them places with the family 
who had taken her house. " I do 
not approve of children being sepa- 
rated from their parents," she had 
said, " and being placed in such dif- 
ferent circumstances that their child- 
ish associations seem discordant to 
them. I know no situation more 
cruel than that where a child is 
ashamed of its parents' poverty and 
ignorance. Besides, I think it my 
duty to rescue these poor Catholic 
girls." 

So Mary and Anne had been 
brought to Boston, and were now 
living in a blissful state of affection- 
ate gratitude toward their employers, 
and rapture with their church. 

In Seaton, Catholics were still in 
an almost Babylonish captivity. Their 
church had been burned a few weeks 
after the Yorkes left town; but to- 
ward spring they had a priest not 
Father Rasle who came once in 
two months, and said Mass for them 
in a private house. He was not mo- 
lested. 

Edith had not forgotten her friends 
there, and, among other gifts, had 
sent to Mrs. Patten a small library, 



The House of Yorke. 



297 



chiefly of controversial books. So 
Boadicea was now investigating the 
Catholic religion. She examined it 
severely and critically, through a pair 
of round-eyed, horn-bowed specta- 
cles, missing not a sentence, nor date, 
nor word of title-page in those vol- 
umes. She meant to show everybody 
that she was searching the subject in 
an exhaustive manner, and that the 
doctors of the church would have to 
exert themselves to the utmost, and 
bring all their learning and eloquence 
to bear, if they wished to convince 
her. But, underneath this vain pre- 
tence, her heart yearned to enter that 
fold where her lost little one had 
found refuge, and where she had seen 
such examples of Christian endiu- 
ance and charity. 

And so, with no event in the fami- 
ly save Melicent's marriage, the win- 
ter and summer passed away, and 
another winter came. In that win- 
ter, Edith had news of an event for 
which she had been looking and long- 
ing ever since Carl went away. His 
letters had all been addressed to his 
mother, but in one of them, about 
Christmas-time, came a note for Ed- 
ith. He was in Asia, and his letter 
was dated at Bangkok. He had been 
across Cambodia, from the Menam 
to the Mekong, as far as the country 
of the savage Stiens. " And here, 
in this wild place, my dear Edith," 
he wrote, " I gave up, and was bap- 
tized. I had thought, while talking 
with Monsignor Miche, vicar-aposto- 
lic of the mission to Cambodia and 
Laos, that, as soon as I should reach 
Europe, I would enter the church. ? 
Indeed, while I heard this, an accom- 
plished gentleman, tell of the per- 
secution he had suffered when he was 
a simple missionary in Cochin-China, 
the imprisonment, the beating with 
rods which cut the flesh so that blood 
followed, the asking for and taking 
himself the blows intended for a 



companion too frail to bear more a 
story, Edith, which carried my mind 
back to St. Paul, yet which was told 
with a boyish gaiety and simplicity 
while I heard this, my impulse was 
to throw myself at his feet, and ask 
to be baptized by his consecrated 
hand. But, you know, enthusiasm 
does not often overcome me; and, 
since he did not urge me then, the 
good minute went. When, after- 
ward, he exhorted me, I promised 
him that I would not long delay. 
But, when I reached the Stien coun- 
try, over that miserable route of 
swamps, cataracts, and forests filled 
with wild beasts, and found another 
soldier of Christ living there, in that 
horrible solitude, sick, suffering, but 
undismayed, my Teutonic phlegm 
deserted me. The chief citizens of 
Father Guilloux's republic are ele- 
phants, tigers, buffaloes, wild boars, 
the rhinoceros; and the most frequent 
and intimate visitors at his house of 
bamboos are scorpions, serpents, and 
centipedes. And yet, all the com- 
plaint this heroic man made was that 
he had but few converts. The sav- 
ages are so joined to their idols, he 
said. Edith, tears ran down my face. 
My whole heart melted. ' Father,' 
I said, ' here is a savage convert, if 
you will take him. I cannot stay 
one hour longer out of the church 
which gives birth to such children !' 
And so I was baptized. And, my 
sweet girl, I thought then that, if the 
time should ever come when I should 
be so happy as to make Edith my 
wife, I should like to have the same 
saintly hands join us. I told Father 
Guilloux of you, and he sends you 
his blessing. You see I have heard 
all about Mr. Rowan. 

" And now I turn my face home- 
ward, though my route will not be 
very direct. Since I am here, where 
I shall probably never come again, 
I think it best to carry out my pro- 



298 



The House of Yorke. 



gramme. But the intention of it is 
somewhat different ; for I find that a 
Catholic does not need to travel 
abroad to find out how men should 
be taught and governed. 

" I am sure that you pjay for me 
constantly; and, believe me, your 
name has been as constantly uttered 
by me during the whole length of 
my wanderings, and is strung, Edith 
on Edith, like a daisy-chain, two- 
thirds round the world." 

It was thus Carl first told Edith 
his wishes ; and, from the moment of 
that reading, she considered herself 
betrothed to him. 

She carried her letter to her aunt, 
who already knew from her own let- 



ter that Carl had entered the church 
and. placing it open in her hand, 
knelt before her while she read it. 

Mrs. Yorke took the hands that 
trembled in her lap, and gazed into 
the fair face uplifted to hers. Edith's 
cheeks were like crimson roses, her 
beautiful 'eyes shone through tears, 
her lips were parted by the quicken- 
ed little breaths that told of her 
quickened heart-beats. 

" There is no mistake this time ?" 
Mrs. Yorke asked, smiling. " You 
say yes with all your heart ?" 

" Aunt Amy,' 1 Edith exclaimed, 
" I'm one yes from head to foot, and 
the gladdest yes that ever was spok- 
en!" 



CHAPTER XXXI. 



CLARA S CHAPTER 



The second summer after their re- 
turn to Boston, Clara went down to 
spend in Seaton with Hester ; and, late 
in July, the ship Edith Yorke, Captain 
Cary, came sailing up Seaton River. 
The captain had made a prosperous 
voyage to India, and, having nothing 
else to do just now, had come down 
to Maine for a load of barrel-staves 
and boxes. To his mind, the fresh 
pine and ash made a pleasing con- 
trast to his rich Eastern cargo. 

Hester and her husband imme- 
diately made him at home with them. 
Their house was not so full but there 
was room for him, if he could live in 
the house with six boys. 

" You can, perhaps, bear it better, 
since they an. sure to be very fond 
of you," Mrs. Hester said. For the 
boys had clustered about the sailor 
before he had been ten minutes with 
them. 

Mrs. Cleaveland was wont to say 
that the masculine element in hers 
and her mother's immediate descen- 
dants would be rather overpowering 



were its members not the salt of the 
earth. 

" Poor little mamma was quite 
alarmed," she said. " She protested 
that, if Melicent's husband or mine 
called her mother, she would leave 
the country. So they are careful 
how they address her. Now, I am 
made of sterner stuff, and nothing 
else makes me so proud as to have 
all these boys call me mother." 

Hester's boys presented rather an 
imposing array. There were Major 
Cleaveland's eldest, Charles and 
Henry, college-students of twenty and 
twenty-two years of . age, healthy, 
honest lads, not very clever, but full 
of energy and good sense. They 
were favorites at college, where the 
renaissance of muscle had destroyed 
the old empire of hollow chests and 
pale cheeks, and established as the 
watchword metis sana in corpore sa- 
no. Next to these was Eugene, now 
a slender youth of fifteen, cleverei 
than his brothers, but somewhat effe- 
minate in character. 



The House of Yorke. 



299 



Then came Hester's three boys, 
Philip, Carl, and Robert. The last, 
an infant a year old, had been nam- 
ed by Edith for her father, and he 
was, consequently, her dearest pet. 

" And now my troubles begin all 
over again," soliloquized Clara, as she 
prepared to meet the sailor. " Cap- 
tain Gary's sudden flight seemed to 
cut the Gordian knot ; but his coming 
back makes the affair more double- 
and-twisted than ever." 

She went to meet him, however, 
with an air of pleasant ease which 
betrayed no sign of complicated emo- 
tions, and asked of his adventures, 
and told all that had chanced to them 
during his absence, in the most 
friendly manner. 

Nor was the sailor less dignified, 
though the blush that overspread 
his . face when she first appeared 
showed a momentary agitation. 

But this highly proper and deco- 
rous demeanor did not last long. 
Before many days, Mrs. Cleaveland 
perceived that her boys were not the 
chief attraction which Captain Gary 
found in her house. It was plain 
that he was devoted, heart and soul, 
to Clara ; and it was plain, also, that 
Clara was fully aware of that devo- 
tion, and made her sport of it, so 
Hester thought. 

It was true, the young woman did 
take a very high hand with her co- 
lossal admirer. She snubbed him, 
ordered him about, made him dance 
attendance, fetch and carry, and, al- 
together, tyrannized over him outra- 
geously. And he bore it all with 
the magnanimous patience of a great 
Newfoundland dog petting and bear- 
ing with the freaks of a captious 
child. But he grew sober and silent, 
and lost his smiles day by day. 

^Sometimes "Clara's mood changed, 
and there would be little flits of sun- 
shine, momentary gleams of kindness 
and penitence ; but her victim learn- 



ed that he could not depend on the 
continuance of such friendliness. 

One day she had treated him so 
much worse than usual that, instead 
of staying to bear her raillery, he 
left the room, and went out into 
the garden where the children were 
playing. Clara seated herself in 
the window presently, and watch- 
ed him, saw him set little Bob-o'-Lin- 
coln, as they called the baby, on his 
shoulder, so that the child could 
reach the branch of a tree, saw him 
gently restrain and persuade Philip 
from throwing stones at the birds, 
and talk to Carl and Philip, when 
they came- to blows about something, 
till they kissed each other. And 
through it all she read in his face 
the indication of a heart sad and ill 
at ease. 

A yellow-bird flew over the gar- 
den, and dropped a pretty feather 
down. " Oh ! that is what Aunt 
Clara likes," cried Philip, running to 
pick it up. " She puts 'em in her 
books for marks." 

He carried it to the sailor, who 
fastened it carefully in his button- 
hole, posy- wise. Even the children 
had perceived that what Aunt Clara 
liked was a matter of interest to their 
new friend. 

A servant came out to call the 
children in to their early supper; and 
Captain Gary, catching sight of Cla- 
ra in the window, went to her with 
the little feather in his hand. " Phi- 
lip says you make book-marks of 
these," he said, and offered it to 
her. 

There was no sign of coldness or 
resentment, neither was there any of 
subservience. It was the patience 
and affection of a tender and gene- 
rous heart, and the self-respect of 
one who is not humbled by the pet- 
tishness of another. 

Clara dropped her eyes as she 
took the little offering. " Yes," she 



300 



The House of Yorke. 



said gently ; " and see the passage I 
am going to mark with it." 

The book she held was Landor's 
Imaginary Conversations, open at the 
dialogue between ^Eschines and Pho- 
cion. 

The sailor bent his head and read : 
" Your generosity is more pathetic 
than pity or than pain ;" and, looking 
up quickly into her face, to see what 
she meant, saw her eyes humid. 

His face brightened a little, but he 
said nothing. He was like a travel- 
ler among the Alps, who knows that 
a breath may bring the avalanche 
upon him. 

After a few weeks of this hide-and- 
seek, Hester was moved to expostu- 
late with her sister, whose conduct 
had astonished her. For, however 
gay and reckless Clara might be in 
talk, exaggerating on one side when 
she saw people lean too much to the 
other, and often saying what she 
did not mean, taking for granted that 
she was too well known to have her 
jests taken for earnest in spite of 
this liveliness and effervescence of 
spirits, she had never been guilty 
of the slightest frivolity in her in- 
tercourse with gentlemen. Mrs. 
Yorke had taught her daughters, or 
had cherished in them the pure femi- 
nine instinct, to treat with careful re- 
serve any man who should show a 
marked preference for them, unless 
that preference was fully reciprocat- 
ed. Hester, therefore, felt herself 
called on to admonish. 

" I must say, Clara, I think you 
do wrong," she said. " Any one can 
see that the captain sets his life by 
you, and you treat him cruelly." 

" Do you wish me to marry him?" 
Clara asked in a cold voice. 

" Why, no !" exclaimed her sister. 
"You two are not at all suited to 
each other. But I would have you 
treat him kindly." 

" If I treat him kindly, he will 



think I like him," Clara said quick- 

iy. 

" Oh ! I don't mean very kindly, 
but with calm friendliness," answer- 
ed her preceptress. 

" Calm friendliness !" repeated the 
culprit with emphasis. " Oh ! the 
airs that these little married kittens 
put on ! Hester, seat yourself there, 
and look me in the face, while I lec- 
ture you. Fold your hands, and at- 
tend to me. Now, allow me to re- 
mind you of two or three little facts. 
Firstly, I am two years older than 
you. Secondly, I am not a staid 
married woman with six boys, and I 
won't try to act as if I were. Third- 
ly, you don't know as much about 
this business as you think you do. 
Fourthly, women who have a great 
facility for being shocked on all oc- . 
casions are, according to my obser- 
vation, very likely to be shocking 
women. Fifthly, if you wish well to 
Captain Gary, you should wish to 
have him cease to care about me ; 
and the surest way to attain that 
end is to treat him just as I am treat- 
ing him. No man can long desire a 
vixen for a wife. Sixthly " and 
sixthly, Clara began to cry. 

Hester, who never could bear to 
be blamed, had been herself on the 
point of crying, but, seeing her sister's 
tears, concluded not to. 

" Why, what is the matter, Cla- 
ra ?" she asked in distress. 

" The matter is that I am tired of 
being criticised," answered her sister, 
wiping her eyes. " I am tired of 
having people tell me what I mean, 
instead of asking what I mean. I 
am tired of having people whom I 
know to be not so good as I am, set 
themselves up to be better." 

" I never meant to set myself up 
to be better than you, Clara," Hester 
began pitifully. " I " 

" Bless me ! Are you here still ?" 
exclaimed Miss Yorke, with a laugh 



The House of Yorke. 



301 



" I'd forgotten you. I was not talk- 
ing to you at all, you little goose ! 
The truth is, Hester, I am getting as 
nervous as a witch. You mustn't 
bother me." 

Clara did seem to be nervous, and 
unlike herself. 

Having failed in her attempt to 
admonish her sister, Mrs. Cleaveland 
took occasion soon after to comfort 
the sailor. 

" You must not mind if Clara 
seems a little hard sometimes," she 
said with gentle kindness. " She 
does not mean to hurt your feelings. 
It is only her way. I know she thinks 
very highly of you." 

" Oh ! I understand her pretty 
well," he replied gravely. " Clara 
has a good heart, and she never 
gives me a blow but she is sorry for 
it afterward. I don't blame her. I 
suppose she sees that I rather took a 
liking to her" he blushed up 
" and that's the way she makes me 
keep my distance. I understand 
Clara. She suits me." 

He said this with a certain stateli- 
ness. Not even Clara's sister might 

O 

blame her to him. 

" Rather took a liking," was Cap- 
tains Gary's way of expressing the fact 
that he had surrendered the whole of 
his honest, generous heart. 

There were fires in the woods 
about Seaton that summer, and, Au- 
gust being very dry, they increased 
so as to be troublesome. From Ma- 
jor Cleaveland's house, which stood 
on the hill-top west of the village, 
they could see smoke encircling near- 
ly all the horizon by day; and by 
night flames were visible in every di- 
rection but the south, where the sea 
lay. The air was rank with smoke, 
cinders came on the wind when it 
rose, and vegetation turned sooty. 
Crops were spoiling, farm-houses 
were threatened, and large quantities 
of lumber were burned. People 



looked every day more anxiously for 
rain, prayers were offered in the 
churches for it, and still it did not 
come. The blue of the sky changed 
to brazen, the silver and gold of 
moonlight and sunlight became lurid, 
the springs began, to dry up. Some- 
times the day would darken with 
clouds, and they looked up hopeful- 
ly, and watched to see the saving 
drops descend. But week followed 
week, and the refreshing messengers 
passed by on the other side. More 
than once, when the sun was in the 
west, it showed them through that 
canopy of smoke the dense black 
peaks and rolling volumes of the thun- 
der-cloud, and at night they could 
see the beautiful lightning crinkling 
round the horizon, and hear the mu- 
sic of far-away thunder that came 
down with pelting rain on distant 
hills ; but still their land was dry, 
their throats and eyes inflamed, and 
the fires crept nearer. 

Major Cleaveland came home to 
tea one night with an anxious face. 
" They are afraid the fire will reach 
Arnold's woods to-night," he said ; 
" and, if it does, Marvin's house must 
go, and there is danger that some 
part of the town may burn. The 
wind is very high from the north- 
west." 

Mr. Marvin, Mrs. Yorke's tenant, 
had purchased her house and land, 
and lived there, but the woods still 
bore their old name of Arnold's 
woods. 

Later in the evening, while they 
sat looking out at the baleful glow 
that grew every moment brighter in 
the northwest, Charles and Henry 
Cleaveland came up from the village 
with later news. Half the men in 
the town, they said, had gone out be- 
yond Grandfather Yorke's place to 
fight fire. The firemen were all 
there, and Mr. Marvin had his fur- 
niture packed ready to send away 



302 



The House of Yorke. 



from the house at a moment's warn- 
ing. 

" And those poor Pattens !" Clara 
asked anxiously. " Have they wit 
enough to save themselves ? Has 
any one thought of them ?" 

The boys had heard no mention 
made of the Pattens. They suppos- 
ed that, if the family had common 
sense, they had left their house by 
this time, for every one said that, un- 
less there should be a shower with 
that wind, the fire was not two hours 
distant. 

Captain Gary leaned from the 
window, and looked overhead. The 
only sign of sky was a cluster of stars 
in the zenith. All else was smoke. 
" This wind will bring a shower pret- 
ty near, at least, before the night is 
over," he said. " It isn't a wind out 
of a clear sky." 

" I must know about those poor 
creatures !" Clara exclaimed. " They 
are so shut in that they would not 
be able to see which way to go, if the 
fire should come upon them ; and I 
am afraid no one will think of them. 
Charley, if you will have the buggy 
out, I will drive over to Mr. Mar- 
vin's." 

" All right !" says Charley promptly. 

Captain Gary had already risen. 
"I've been thinking that I'd go over 
and help the men a little," he remark- 
ed, with a moderate air, as if he had 
been in the habit of fighting fire eve- 
ry day of his life for recreation. 

" But you will have to change 
your clothes," Clara said. " That lin- 
en will never do. Now, see which 
will be dressed first. I must take 
off this organdie, of course. Hester, 
take out your watch and count the 
minutes." 

She flew off merrily, her rose-col- 
ored cloud of skirts filling the door- 
way as she went through, and Cap- 
tain Gary walked quietly after, one 
of his strides equal to three of her 



small steps. In ten minutes they 
were heard again, opening the doors 
of their rooms at the same moment, 
and Clara appeared in a plaided wa- 
terproof suit, and a sailor hat set 
jauntily over the rich black coils of 
her hair, and laughingly claimed the 
victory. " We opened our doors at 
the same instant," she said ; " but I 
stopped to button my gloves, and he 
has no gloves on. Never say again 
that a lady cannot dress as quickly 
as a gentleman." 

Captain Gary displayed a pair of 
thick boots, for which he had ex- 
changed his summer shoes. " May 
I be allowed to see what you have 
on your feet ?" he asked. 

She put out a foot clad in the 
thinnest stocking, and a low kid 
slipper. 

" I appeal !" said the sailor. 

" And I give up !" she answered. 
" Now let me see if you are prepared 
to go into Gehenna. Are those 
clothes all wool ?" 

She made him turn round, tried 
with her own fingers the texture of 
his sleeve, ordered him to button his 
coat tightly at neck and wrists, so 
that no sparks could get in, and gave 
him a woollen scarf, which she com- 
manded him to tie about his face at 
the proper time. Then they went 
out together, dropping their laughter 
at the door. For the wind blew in 
their faces a hard gale, and over the 
northwestern horizon glowed an an- 
gry aurora, and in the zenith still 
hung that cluster of stars. 

They drove over to Mr. Marvin's 
almost in silence. Carts partly filled 
with furniture stood at the avenue- 
gate, and trunks and packages had 
been set out on the steps, ready to 
be taken away. Two little children 
stood in the door, crying with fear, 
while a servant tried vainly to pacify 
them. 

"Their mother told me to take 



The House of Yorke. 



303 



them out to the village, to the Seaton 
House," she said to Clara. " And 
they don't want to go." 

Mrs. Marvin was, up in the cupola, 
watching the progress of the fire. 

Clara reassured the little ones, put 
them and. the girl into the buggy 
with Charles Cleaveland, and sent 
them back home with him. 

" But how are you to get back, 
Aunt Clara ?" he asked. 

" Oh ! in the same way the people 
out here do," she answered. " I 
shall not be alone. Drive along, 
Charley. The horse won't bear this 
smoke- much longer. He begins to 
dance now." 

As soon as they had gone, she 
started off through the woods. Cap- 
tain Gary had already preceded her, 
thinking that she meant to await him 
at the house. 

Down in the wood-path all was 
darkness, only a faint reflected light 
showing where the path lay ; but the 
tree-tops shone as if with sunset, and 
the sky hung close, in a deep-red 
canopy. Now and then the light 
steps of some wild creature, driven 
from its forest home, flitted by, and 
its fleet shape was dimly seen for an 
instant. The voices of men were 
heard, and the sound of axes, not far 
away. 

When she reached the opening 
where the Pattens' house was built, 
the whole scene burst upon her sight. 
The open square of ten acres was as 
light as an illuminated drawing-room. 
Volumes of red smoke poured over 
it, dropping cinders, which men and 
boys ran about trampling out as soon 
as they fell. Some men were at 
work digging a trench along the fur- 
thest side of the opening, others 
felled trees, others dragged them 
away, and others sought for water, 
and threw it about the barrier they 
were making. They worked like ti- 
gers, for, scarcely two miles distant, 



the fire was leaping toward them like 
a courser, or like that flying flame 
that brought the news from Ilium to 
Mount Ida. 

Clara's eyes searched the space. 
" Do you know where the Pattens 
are ?" she asked of some one who 
stood near, but without looking to 
see who it was. 

" Here we be !" said a piteous 
voice in reply. 

She turned her glance at that, and 
beheld Joe, with his children cluster- 
ed about him, standing beside the 
path. A large bundle lay on the 
ground by them, containing their va- 
luables, probably, and they were all 
looking back, with the light /in their 
faces. 

She asked him where his wife was. 

" She's there fighting fire among 
the men," answered Joe, with an ac- 
cusing gesture toward the workers. 
" I told her that it was my place to 
be there, but she sent me off. She 
thinks now that I and the children 
are down at the village ; but I am 
going to stay to protect my wife. It 
shall never be said that I deserted 
her in the hour of danger." 

" Have you seen Captain Gary ?' 
was the next question. 

" That 'ere big sailor ? Lor, yes ! 
He's been working like ten men. 
There he is, chopping down a 
tree." 

Miss Yorke drew her mantle over 
her head, as a protection against the 
cinders, and walked forward. The 
sky in front of her was like the mouth 
of a furnace from which a fiery blast 
is rushing, and the tree- trunks in the 
forest opposite showed a faint glimmer 
of light beyond them. Some of the 
workers were retreating at that last 
sign. The wind caught a burning 
branch, and bore it almost to her 
feet. The men stopped to trample 
it out, then ran. Not more than 
half their number remained. 



304 



The House of Yorke. 



" Good heavens !" she cried excit- 
edly, " will he never start ?" 

As she spoke, a drop of water fell 
on her face. She looked up, and 
another and another fell. 

On the very frontier of the battle- 
ground, midway between the woods 
that were on fire and those they tried 
to save, stood a tall maple, its arms 
outstretched, as if inviting the enemy. 
Captain Gary was cutting that tree 
down, swinging the axe rapidly in 
resounding strokes. A few coura- 
geous men still lingered near, working 
with renewed hope as they felt the 
scattering drops, and perceived that 
the wind began to lull. But they 
gave a cry of alarm, and fled also ; 
for a fiery crest was suddenly lifted 
above the forest, and the enemy was 
upon them. No one was left but 
Captain Gary, and his work was not 
done. If there was a chance of 
checking the fire, it was in having 
that tree down. 

It bent slightly under the heavy 
strokes that smote it, and, as it bent, 
a long, flickering tongue of flame shot 
across the space, and curled around 
its topmost tuft of foliage, and de- 
voured it in a twinkling. Twigs, 
boughs, branches, all as dry as tin- 
der, kindled instantly, and the whole 
tree, wrapped in flame, toppled over, 
and fell. 

With a cry of terror, Clara Yorke 
lifted her face, that she might not 
see that man perish ; and, looking up- 
ward, saw the redness vividly thread- 
ed with a blinding white light. Then 
there were a rattle and a rumble, and 
the rain came down in torrents. 

" God be thanked !" said a deep 
voice near by. 

There stood Captain Gary, pant- 
ing, blackened, scorched, torn, wip- 
ing his face on his sleeve, and looking 
to see how much more effectually fire 
could be fought by the powers of 
heaven than by the powers of earth. 



The flames cowered down from the 
tree-tops under that tumultuous de- 
scent, the brands and cinders died 
out, hissing, and. streams of water 
pursued the fire that fled along the 
ground. 

" Providence arrived just in time," 
observed one of the men who had 
gathered about him. 

The sailor looked at him with a 
reproving glance. " Providence al- 
ways does arrive in time," he said 
reverently. 

Here Mrs. Patten, looking like 
one of those witches we see in the 
play of Macbeth, not even lacking 
the long pole, made her appearance 
about as mysteriously as those witch- 
es do. 

" Gentlemen," she said, " since the 
hour of peril has gone past, and you 
must be fatigued by your exertions, 
I hope that you will take shelter 
from the rain in my poor mansion. 
You shall be welcome to such hum- 
ble hospitality as I can offer you." 

They were nearly in darkness now, 
having only such light as came from 
the frequent flashes overhead. 

The -sailor thanked her politely. 
" I shall be glad if you can lend me 
a lantern," he said ; " for I want to 
get through to Mr. Marvin's as soon 
as I can. Somebody is there wait- 
ing for me." 

Mrs. Patten led the way, and the 
others followed. In the semi-dark- 
ness, a smaller figure, which Captain 
Gary had not noticed before, came 
close to his side, and slipped a hand 
in his arm; and the "somebody" 
who should have been waiting for 
him at Mr. Marvin's said quietly, 
" You see, I cannot walk very well 
without help, for I have lost one of 
my slippers." 

The sailor's heart had not given 
such a jump when the burning 
tree fell and just missed him, as it 
gave at the sound of that voice. 



The House of Yorke. 



305 



" You here !" he exclaimed. " What 
did you come for ?" 

"To see the fire," replied Miss 
Yorke. 

" And you are barefoot?" 

"Oh! no," she said cheerfully. 
41 1 have a Lisle-thread stocking, 
what there is left of it, between 
my right foot and the sticks, and 
stones, and briers, and thistles, and 
so forth." 

He groaned out, " Oh ! you poor 
little dear !" and seemed on the point 
of saying something he was afraid to 
say, hesitated, almost stopped, then 
stammered, " I suppose it would be 
impudent to offer to carry you as 
far as the house, but I hate to have 
you walk that way." 

" Oh ! thank you!" answered Miss 
Clara. " I could not think, though, 
of receiving so much assistance from 
any one but my husband, or the one 
who is to be my husband." 

The sailor swallowed a great sigh, 
and they walked on, Clara hobbling 
fearfully. 

" I wish that he were here now, 
whoever he may be," she said in a 
plaintive voice, after a minute. " For, 
really " 

Her escort said not a word. 

In a few minutes they reached the 
log-house, where Joe and the chil- 
dren had already arrived ; and, wait- 
ing only for the men to wash the soot 
from their faces and hands, and to 
find a shoe which Miss Yorke could 
keep on her foot, they set out again, 
with a lantern. 

At Mr. Marvin's they found Major 
Cleaveland's carriage awaiting them, 
and in twenty minutes they were at 
home, without having spoken a word 
on the way. 

But when they reached there, Cla- 
ra looked anxiously at her compan- 
ion. " Can't I do anything for you?" 
she asked. 

He thanked her gravely. No, he 
VOL. xv. 20 



needed nothing. She had better see 
to herself. 

She made a movement to leave 
the room, and did not go. She lin- 
gered, looking to see what was the 
matter with him. He was in a de- 
plorable condition as to his clothing, 
his hair was singed, his hands and 
face blistering in places ; but that did 
not seem to be the trouble. Neither 
was he angry. The deep thought- 
fulness of his expression forbade that 
supposition. 

She chose to say, though, " I hope 
you are not offended about anything." 

He seemed surprised, and recollect- 
ed himself. " Why, no !" he answered. 
" Have I been cross ? Excuse me ! 
I was thinking of something." He 
looked at her earnestly. " There is 
something I would like to know 
not because I am curious, or want to 
interfere in any person's private af- 
fairs, but because I think it might 
settle my mind to know. I'll tell 
you what it is, and I hope you'll be- 
lieve that I don't mean any offence, 
though it may sound impudent. You 
must know, Miss Clara " his eyes 
dropped humbly " that I took a 
liking to you at first. Of course I 
wasn't such a fool as to expect any- 
thing from you ; but what you said 
back there in the woods to-night 
showed me that I am a greater fool 
than I thought I could be. Do you 
want me to stop now ?" 

" No," Clara answered gently. " I 
would like to hear what you have 
been thinking of, and to say anything 
I can to quiet your mind." 

"Well," he went on, "I should 
feel better to know if you have any 
man in your eye that you like. It's 
none of my business," he added has- 
tily, " but it might do me good to 
know the truth." 

Clara blushed to the forehead, but 
her laughing glance was raised to his 
face. 



Tlie House of Yorkc. 



" Yes, Captain Gary," she said, " I 
have a man in both my eyes whom I 
like and esteem." 

He was silent a moment. Perhaps 
his sunburnt face grew a shade paler. 

" That's all I want to know," he 
said then. " I thank you for telling 
me ; and I wish you every happiness 
that earth and heaven can give." 

He bowed, and took a step toward 
the door. 

" Oh ! you great stupid !" she cri- 
ed out in a voice of ringing impa- 
tience, and with a laugh that seemed 
to be on the verge of crying. 

The sailor turned at that, and drew 
himself up with proud indignation. 
For the first time his eyes flashed on 
.her, and she saw how lofty he could 
be in self-assertion. 

" Miss Yorke," he said, " I'm but 
a rough man, not learned nor polite 
enough to be the husband of an ac- 
complished lady like you ; but I'm 
an honest man, and I won't be scorn- 
ed by any woman. My love may 
not be fit for your taking, but it's too 
good for your mocking. I know 
what I am worth !" 

" You do not !" she exclaimed. 
" You don't know anything about 
it!" 

He looked severely down upon 
her, but said nothing. 

" I didn't mean to mock you, nor 
treat you with any disrespect," she 
said. " You misunderstand me, Cap- 
tain Gary." 

His face softened. " I suppose I 
do," he replied. " You have a. laugh- 
ing way, but I know you don't mean 
any harm. Forget my rough talk, 
and forget all I have said to you to- 
night." 

He went toward the door again. 

" I ' shall not forget it," she said. 
" I shall never forget that one of the 
best of men liked me, yet was capa- 
ble of deserting me because I would 
not offer myself to him." 



He looked round as if he thought 
she had lost her senses. " Why, Miss 
Clara, what do you mean ?" 

She clasped her hands, and raised 
her eyes to the ceiling. " Did you 
ever," she asked, addressing, appar- 
ently, a wreath of stucco faces there 
" did you ever witness such obtuse- 
ness ?" 

He stared at her a moment, stand- 
ing ; then he sat down, and continu- 
ed looking at her intently. 

" And did you ever witness such 
inconsistency ?" she continued, still 
to the stucco faces. " He pretends 
to like me, and in the same breath 
tells me that he won't have me as 
if I had asked him to !" 

" Miss Clara !" 

She glanced at him disdainfully, 
and returned to her communication 
with the ceiling. " I shall not, how- 
ever, break my heart for him." 

Over the sailor's weather-beaten 
face a soft, .uncertain light was steal- 
ing, as you may sometimes see the 
morning light steal over the face of 
a rugged bluff, covering it with beau- 
ty. 

" Clara," he said she had heard 
him speak to the little ones in that 
low voice " do you mean to say 
that you will marry me ?" 

" Captain Gary," she replied, with 
an expression of excellent candor 
and good sense, " how am I to mar- 
ry a man who won't ask me ?" 

Then Captain Gary asked her. 

A week after that she was at home 
with her family ; and the first day, 
after dinner was over, when they sat 
quietly alone, she told her story to 
her father and mother. 

They could scarcely believe her 
in earnest, and fifteen minutes were 
taken up with ' exclamations and 
expressions of incredulity. Clara re- 
ceived it all with patience, and, at 
length, succeeded in convincing her 
parents that, with their consent, she 



The House of Yorke 



307 



meant to become Miss Clara Gary, 
" which will be the first alliteration 
I ever purposely committed," she 
said. 

It happens too frequently that per- 
sons of an original turn of mind are 
less understood by their familiar as- 
sociates, and even by their own fam- 
ilies, than by strangers, and that those 
to whom they naturally look for ap- 
preciation give it only when the ex- 
ample is set them from abroad. 

With all their affection for her, 
Clara's parents often mistook her, be- 
cause they took for granted that' they 
knew her perfectly, and, therefore, 
never paused to examine. The con- 
sciousness of this involuntary injus- 
tice on their part had increased her 
natural impatience, and made her 
disinclined to explain herself; and, 
with a perversity for which they were 
half to blame, she sometimes said 
what they evidently expected her to 
say, rather than what she meant. It 
was not surprising, therefore, that the 
first reasons she gave for her choice 
were superficial ones. 

She liked brave, manly men, she 
said ; and Captain Gary would give 
her just that life of adventure which 
she would most delight in. With 
him, that pretty old myth of women 
looking to men for protection in dan- 
ger would be realized. 

" Why, papa," she said, " when I 
go out with any of the nice young 
men I know, if a dog barks, or a cow 
shakes her head at us, my escort is 
more frightened than I am. I shall 
call the captain Jason, and myself 
Medea with a difference. There 
will be no Creusa. We will go after 
the golden fleece, and bring it home 
to put under little mamma's feet. 
We will gather something for you in 
every sea, and from under every sky, 

1 As we sail, as we sail.' " 

Mr. and Mrs. Yorke neglected to 



observe the one significant sentence : 
" There will be no Creusa." They 
did not object to the sailor on ac- 
count of his character or wealth, 
they said. They did not even object 
because they would be so much se- 
parated from their daughter, though 
that would be a grief to them ; but 
they thought the two incongruous in 
tastes and habits, and feared that 
Clara was mistaking that for a seri- 
ous and lasting affection which was 
only a temporary artistic enthusiasm 
for a unique specimen of mankind. 

" I do not choose Captain Gary 
because he is rough, as you call it, 
but in spite of his roughness," Clara 
said. " Our tastes are not as dissi- 
milar as you imagine, though. He 
has great delicacy of feeling and per- 
ception, and he is as true a gentleman 
as I ever knew. I have always look- 
ed more to the spirit than the letter, 
and I can perceive and admire a 
good mind and heart in spite of 
some outward defects. I trust and 
believe in him entirely. If he is not 
honest, then no one is. He is mag- 
nanimous and truthful. I don't care 
if he does not know Latin and Greek. 
One may know too much of them. 
He pretends to nothing, and he nev- 
er appears ignorant. I'm not asham- 
ed of him." 

" I did not know you were so much 
in earnest, Clara," her father said, 
looking at her with a smile of appro- 
val. " If you are really satisfied with 
him, I have not a word to say against 
your marrying him. Only I thought 
you would prefer a person who was 
more literary and enthusiastic. Cap- 
tain Gary is rather taciturn, and very 
sober." 

" But he can be roused," Clara re- 
plied with animation ; " and when he 
is, it is something lyric. You re- 
member, papa, Villemain's definition 
of the true ode, as distinguished, from 
the conventional one: ' L 'emotion d'une 



308 



The House of Yorke. 



a me c'branle'e ei fre"inissante comme les 
cordes d'une lyre' It is no little fac- 
tious stir at every touch, and snap- 
ping at a blow, but ' smitten and vi- 
brating ' grandly on great occasions." 

Mrs. Yorke gave a little sigh of 
expiring opposition. " One of my 
chief objections," she said, " was that 
it would look so bizarre. If you do 
not care for that, then it is noth- 
ing." 

" Mamma," Clara replied, " you 
would be astonished to know how 
little thought I give to the opinions 
of the Rose-pinks and Priscillas and ( 
pasteboard highnesses." 

And so the matter was tacitly set- 
tled. 

But later, when Mr. and Mrs. 
Yorke sat together in the falling twi- 
light, Clara came in softly behind 
them, pushed a footstool between 
their chairs, and sat there, holding a 
hand of each. 

" Papa, mamma," she said, " I 
want you to be satisfied that I am 
doing nothing without thought, and 
that I have chosen wisely. I tell 
you truly, Captain Gary is the only 
Protestant gentleman I know whom 
I can marry, and would not be afraid 
to marry. Look how the world is 
going. See what a frightful change 
has come over Boston since we can 
remember. Why, I have heard sto- 
ries of some of our old acquaintan- 
ces, people whom we thought re- 
spectable, which have sickened me. 
Your other two daughters have mar- 
ried good men, whom they can trust ; 
but they are old-fashioned men, old 
enough to be their wives' fathers in- 
stead of husbands. But of that class 
of men from whom you would think 
I might properly choose, would you 
dare to have me choose ? I would 
not dare. Marriage has no longer 
any sacredness, except among Cath- 
olics. Other men desert or divorce 
their wives for nothing, and do the 



most horrible things. I should think 
that one-half the Protestant married 
ladies would look on their husbands 
with terror and distrust ; and I won- 
der how any girl dares to marry. 
The weddings I've seen lately, in- 
stead of seeming happy occasions to 
me, have seemed most sad and pain- 
ful. I heard a lady say this summer 
that in fifty years, or less, there would 
be no marriage outside the Catholic 
Church." 

" Charles, it is but too true," the 
mother said. " I am terrified when 
I think of what is so evidently com- 
ing. It was the thought of this 
which reconciled me to Carl's being 
a Catholic." 

" I wish we were all Catholics !" 
Clara exclaimed. " Not that I know 
or think much of theology; but it is 
better to believe too much than too 
little, and they are on the safe side. 
If we were wrecked, and our ship 
going to pieces, we would be glad 
of any vessel to pick us up. We 
wouldn't quarrel with the cut of her 
jib." 

Mr. Yorke smiled. " See how 
she already draws her illustrations 
from the sea !" he. said, and passed 
over her wish. " Well, Amy, she 
has proved herself a sensible girl, 
has she not ? and deserves that we 
not only consent, but applaud." 

The mother's answer was a silent 
embrace. 

If the thought of either parent 
glanced with a momentary longing 
toward that strong inviolate church, 
against which the fiercest powers of 
hell beat in vain, which seems now 
to loom an ark indeed, while the ris- 
ing waves of sin are submerging all 
beside, they said nothing. 

Of the shock Melicent felt on learn- 
ing of this engagement, we do not 
speak. Edith received the news 
with delight. 

Edith had also other sources of 



The House of Yorkc. 



309 



pleasure. She had good news from 
Seaton. Mass was said there now 
once a fortnight, without any distur- 
bance; and Mrs. Patten, with all her 
family, had been baptized. After 
that fire, which had so nearly swept 
away their home, and had put their 
lives in peril, the poor woman hesi- 
tated no longer. She had vowed 
that night, in the midst of her terror, 
that, if her life was spared, she would 
ask to be admitted to the church the 
first time the priest came again ; and 
she kept her vow. Edith carefully 
read the long letter written to her 
descriptive of the occasion, and, 
through all its absurdities, rejoiced to 
see the spirit of a sincere faith and 
obedience. 

This baptism excited a good deal 
of comment in Seaton. It was said 
that Boadicea had taken a stick to 
her husband to assist his conversion, 
and that, at the beginning, poor Joe 
was no more a Catholic than Sgana- 
relle the wood-cutter was a doctor; 
but, however that may have been, he 
certainly became afterward a most 
exemplary Catholic, as far as he went. 
And it is likely that He who sees 
through all outward forms, and scorns 
only the scorner, received these hum- 
ble penitents with a welcome as fa- 
therly as that accorded to any illus- 
trious convert. 

Through Father John, Edith had 
frequent news of her childhood's 
friend, and all she heard was such as 
to fill her with contentment. He 
did not wish to hold direct commu- 
nication with the world, but to pur- 
sue his studies with but two thoughts 
in his mind a God to serve and 
adore, and a world full of sinners to 
save for God's sake. 

Mrs. Rowan-Williams, seeing that 
her son was not despised and cast 
down, but rather elevated higher, and 
being convinced that, in some way 
she could not comprehend, he was 



entirely satisfied and happy, took 
comfort. She could not, however, 
any longer attend on a church where 
his belief and profession might at any 
time be traduced, and gradually, from 
staying at home on Sundays, began 
to go to his church, to listen with cu- 
riosity, then with interest, then with 
growing admiration, and, at last, to 
feel happy and at home there. 

And in the spring, Carl was com- 
ing home. 



" Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet! 
Over the splendor and speed of thy feet." 



But not in idle wishing was the 
winter passed. There was work, 
lightened by joyful anticipations, work 
persevered in in spite ol doubts and 
fears, and work dear and joyful for its 
own sake. And thus the spring was 
earned. 

The snows melted, the robins 
returned, tiny green leaves appeared, 
and there came a day when they sat 
with their windows open. Every one 
who passed by looked smiling ; no 
one was sad that day, it seemed, so 
delightful is the coming of spring. 
Up-stairs Clara went about from 
room to room, singing snatches from 
a hymn to joy. Mrs. Yorke and 
Edith, sewing and talking in the par- 
lor below, smiled to each other as 
they heard her. 

" Joy, thou spark of heavenly b 

Daughter from Elysium ! 
Hearts on fire, with steps of 1 

On thy holy ground we c 
Thou canst bind all, each to 

Custom sternly rends apart, 
All mankind are friend and brother, 

When thy soft wing fans the heart." 

A letter had come from Clara's 
Jason that morning. He was at Ha- 
vana when he wrote, and about 
sailing for England. In the fall he 
would return to America, and then 
he and his lady were to sail in search 
of the golden fleece. 




The House of Yorke. 



The aunt and niece spoke softly 
together of her hopes and their own, 
of their poor, of their friends, of the 
robins that twittered just outside the 
windows, of the rose-vines that were 
so forward, of the rainbows of crocuses 
in the yard, of the unexpected help 
they had received in some benevo- 
lent projects of their own. 

" People are so much better than 
one thinks," Edith said. " It is de- 
lightful how much goodness there is, 
and how kind almost any one will be 
if approached in the right way. I 
have great hopes of the world. . 
There's nothing like trying to be a- 
saint one's self. If we should all try, 
there wouldn't be a sinner on earth. 
If I should try, perhaps some one 
else would, and then, may be, some 
other person would be excited to try, 
and so it would go on round the 
world. It seems to me that cheer- 
fulness, and kindness, and a helping 
hand, and a looking at the bright 
side, and a determination to find a 
bright side, and, altogether, a persis- 
tent shining, is what is wanted. 
Light is good, and joy is good, 
and pain is good only because it 
may be the birth of delight. Great 
is gladness, if the Lord is behind 
it!" 



"All mankind are friend and brother, 
When thy soft wing fans the heart," 

sang Clara, in the room above; then 
stopped, with a little outcry. 

The two below glanced through 
the window, and saw a gentleman in 
the street, near their steps. He walk- 
ed slowly, looking straight on, so 
that they saw his profile. They 
dropped their work, and gazed at him 
steadily. Mrs. Yorke put her hand 
to her heart, Edith held her breath, 
and two red, red roses bloomed in 
her cheeks. Up-stairs, Clara made 
not a sound. 

This gentleman's step was light 
and firm, his figure graceful and man- 
ly, his face sunburnt, and the bright 
spring sunshine found golden lights 
in his hair and long moustache. 

At the step he paused, then turn- 
ed and came up, rapidly now, taking 
off his hat, and looking eagerly, since 
he had ventured to look at all. 

Clara came flying down the stairs, 
and reached the parlor-door, with her 
arms twined around the new-comer, 
leading him in triumph. Mrs. Yorke, 
without rising from her chair, stretch- 
ed her hands out to her son. 

" O Lord ! let me never forget 
thee !" sighed Edith, waiting her turn. 
" Let me never forget thee !" 



CHAPTER XXXII, 



EXEUNT OMNES. 



IT is spring again, and ten years 
have passed since that sunny April 
day when we saw Carl Yorke come 
home from his travels ten years lack- 
ing a month, for it is early in March. 
The afternoon is as still as any after- 
noon can be in a city. Not a twig 
trembles on the bare trees, not a 
spray swings on the dry vines that 
drape all the balcony railing. The 
sky is of a uniform gray, and so thick 



that it seems to contain a deluge of 
snow. But the day is not a gloomy 
one. The shadow seems protecting 
and tender, as when the small birds 
are covered in the nest beneath the 
downy breast of the mother-bird. 

Standing on the pavement in front 
of Mrs. Yorke's drawing-room win- 
dows, one can catch glimpses of 
warmer color within, bright cur- 
tains and cushions, and the soft 



The House of Yorke. 



crimson glow that comes from an 
open fire. 

A tall, broad-shouldered man 
comes to one of these windows, near- 
ly filling it, and looks out at the 
sky. He has a long. beard streaked 
with gray, and thick black hair streak- 
ed with gray is pushed back from his 
sober, sunburnt face. While he makes 
his observations on the weather, a 
slight figure of a woman comes to 
his side, drawing more closely about 
her a white Shetland shawl, and giv- 
ing a dainty little shiver. She has a 
delicate face, and the hair that shows 
under the black lace scarf she wears 
is a bright bronze, mingled with sil- 
ver. 

" Then you do not think we shall 
have a great storm, Rudolf," she says, 
with another shiver. Mrs. Amy 
Yorke likes warmth and warm colors, 
and only to see such a day chills 
her. 

" No, dear !" (Captain Gary always 
calls his mother-in-law " dear," being 
forbidden on his peril to call her mo- 
ther). " This great parade of getting 
up a storm seldom amounts to much. 
When it's going to storm, it storms, 
and doesn't stop to threaten. We 
may have a little flurry, though, but 
it will be fair weather to-morrow." 

" I do not care on our account," 
Mrs. Yorke says. " We are all very 
happy and comfortable, thank God ! 
but I pity the poor." 

They retire, and presently another 
gentleman approaches the window, 
and looks out. At first glance, one 
might think that Mr. Yorke has not 
changed in ten years. The hair is 
scarcely more gray, the face scarcely 
more wrinkled. But the second 
glance detects a certain pallor of age, 
which has displaced the former bil- 
ious tint. A young woman, dressed 
in gay, outlandish-looking silk, comes 
to his side. A profusion of black 
curls are gathered back from her bru- 



nette face, and fastened with a gar- 
net chain, and a band of large gar- 
nets, en cabochon, is clasped round 
her neck. 

" Papa," she says, " what do you 
see overhead ?" 

" Clouds," replies Mr. Yorke. 

She gives his arm a little squeeze. 
" Oh ! but I don't mean that." 

" What ! you are playing Polonius 
to .me?" asks Mr. Yorke. "Well, 
it is neither like a camel, nor a wea- 
sel, nor a whale ; it is a tent." 

" Oh ! papa!" cries Clara, " put on 
your spectacles, your second-sighted 
ones. You have no eyes at all. In 
that sky I see crops for the fields, 
billows of grass, heaps of leaves for 
the trees, foaming torrents for all the 
brook-channels, and no end of vio- 
lets, dandelions, buttercups, and 'oth- 
er articles too numerous to men- 
tion.' " 

Both turn their heads, with an af- 
fectionate smile, as Mr. Yorke's 
youngest daughter takes his other 
arm, and leans against his shoulder. 

Hester's dress is black. Not a 
tinge of color nor an ornament breaks 
the sombre monotony of her cos- 
tume. But a white ruche at the throat 
and wrists shows that her widow's 
weeds have been long worn, and the 
smile on her lips, though plaintive, is 
not without a dawn of returning con- 
tentment. It is now three years 
since Hester took her children, and 
came back to live with her father and 
mother. 

Why should we stand on the pave- 
ment ? Open, sesame ! We enter. 
The whole family are gathered, and 
it is a gala-time; for Captain Gary 
and his wife have just returned from 
their last voyage, and are going to 
settle down in a home with founda- 
tions more stable than green, wind- 
rolled waves; and, a greater event 
still, Carl and his wife have just ar- 
rived from a four-years' sojourn abroad. 



312 



The House of Yorke. 



The family are all very proud of Carl 
not because he has represented his 
country at a foreign court, not even 
because he has done so with singular 
ability, but because he has been so 
truly just and honorable as to have 
offended prejudiced partisans on both 
sides, and won the applause of the 
few who believe that a man need not 
blush to be called a traitor to his 
party, so long as he is true to 
God. 

" I am glad to see you with the 
minority, sir," Mr. Yorke had said in 
welcoming him home; "and to see 
that you can stand there quietly, as 
well as firmly. I am tired of splut- 
ter." 

' I hope, sir," Carl replied, smiling, 
" that you would not object to my 
being with the majority, if the majo- 
rity were right." 

Mr. Yorke shrugged his should- 
ers, and made one of his favorite 
quotations : " II y a a parier que toute 
idte publique, toute convention refue, 
est une sottise, car elle a convenue au 
plus grand nombre" 

But, though forced to resign his 
position, Carl is not without a voca- 
tion. He speaks and writes ; and, 
such is the charm of his tongue and 
pen, persons most severely casti- 
gated by them listen and read with 
a sort of pleasure. If one must be 
dissected, there is surely a certain 
satisfaction in finding the hand skil- 
ful and the scalpel bright. 

There is, indeed, danger that Carl 
might be too sharp, were it not for 
his wife. But Edith is his first read- 
er, and often, through her influence, 
a sentence is softened, a sarcasm 
struck out. 

" Love is stronger than hate," she 
would say. " You have done only 
half the good you might do, if, in 
convincing a man's reason, you at 
the same time inflame his will against 
you. You may make him hate a 



truth of which he was before igno- 
rant." 

This is one of the couples which 
rests the heart to see in this world of 
discordant matches. Every taste 
and instinct is so in harmony that 
all the smaller business of life goes 
on without that jar which, in so ma- 
ny lives, makes a wrangle of petti- 
nesses, and withdraws the attention 
from all that is noble. And, in high- 
er characteristics, there is only that 
difference which enables each one to 
correct the mistakes of the other. 

Edith Yorke, at thirty-one, has not 
yet lost, she probably never will lose, 
the simple earnestness of her child- 
hood. It is the same bud blossomed, 
and so fresh and lovely is she, they 
call her the Rose of Yorke. She 
was much admired abroad. No oth- 
er lady had combined so sweet a 
stateliness, and such wit, with incor- 
ruptible piety. 

" I think," she said, " that the rea- 
son why, while I kept my place in 
society, I never once yielded to any 
pernicious dissipation or extrava- 
gance, was because I was constantly 
afraid that I should." 

The evening shuts in, the curtains 
are drawn, and the room is in a glow. 
The wind has risen suddenly, and the 
snow is coming down, beating sharp- 
ly with its tiny lances' on the window- 
panes. But the family only feel more 
keenly the delight of being all to- 
gether and at home. 

" How cosy it is !" exclaims Clara, 
with a sigh of immense content, as 
she hears the doors and windows 
rattle. " One feels so comfortable 
in-doors when one knows that every- 
body out-doors is uncomfortable." 

Mrs. Yorke, seated in her own es- 
pecial chair, with Captain Gary be- 
side her, talks over housekeeping af- 
fairs with him, commends his wish to 
live in the suburbs instead of the 
city, and does not doubt that he 



The House of Yorkc. 



313 



will find farming a delightful occu- 
pation. 

Mrs. Yorke cannot now be made 
to acknowledge that she ever ob- 
jected to the sailor as a son-in-law. 
" Why, what should we do without 
him ?" she asks. " We should feel 
quite lost without this dear Hercules 
of ours." 

Somewhat withdrawn, at one side, 
Carl is talking to Hester about her 
boys. He advises her to send them 
to a private Catholic school, and she 
has almost consented. She will ulti- 
mately consent. Opposite them, 
Edith and Melicent talk together. 
Doctor Stewart is kept at home by a 
rheumatism, which will not allow him 
to brave March storms, and no one 
very much regrets his absence, least 
of all the doctor himself. His efforts 
to prevent the whole family from 
toppling over into Catholicism have 
not been agreeable to them nor to 
him, and in their intercourse they feel 
a constant restraint. But Melicent 
is highly pleased by the cordial inte- 
rest with which Edith has inquired 
concerning all her husband's symp- 
toms, and, wishing to say something 
complimentary in return, observes, 
" I am charmed with your little girl. 
She will be a great belle some day." 

" God forbid !" Edith exclaimed 
involuntarily. 

Melicent recollected herself. " Yes, 
to be sure, it is a position full of 
temptations. Still, she cannot help 
being admired." 

Edith's face was very serious. "It 
is my dearest hope that my Eugenie 
may be a religious," she said, with a 
soft suffusion of her eyes. " She 
would be such a lovely offering ! Of 
course, I cannot tell what the will of 
God may be ; but if it should be this, 
I shall be happy." 

"But how would Carl like it?" 
Melicent asked. 

" When I first mentioned it to him, 



he recoiled," was the answer. " But 
when he thought more of it, he be- 
came reconciled, and now he desires 
it as much as I do. We both feel 
that we would like to present unspot- 
ted to God that which is to us most 
sweet and precious. It may be the 
partial fondness of parents for their 
only child, but it seems to us that 
she is too beautiful for anything 
else." 

There was a chorus of children's 
voices from the next room, where 
Betsey Bates and a French bonne 
were entertaining the little ones, and 
presently the door was opened, 
and a little boy came in, went to 
Mrs. Amy Yorke, and leaned on her 
lap. This child's face told at once 
who he was. Brown, ruddy, black- 
eyed, with thick black hair which 
constantly fell over his forehead, gay 
and daring was this four-year-old 
sailor. He was ocean-born and 
ocean-bred, he had played with babes 
of all nations, chattered childish 
words in many a tongue, and was at 
home everywhere. His mother pri- 
vately called him Captain Kidd ; and 
his father had often sung to him the 
ballad of that wicked sailor, when 
they sat on deck as their ship cleaved 
the wave, and the fresh breeze sang 
in the rigging. 

But, when night came on, there 
was one song that the child always 
asked for, and his mother always sang 
before he slept. Many a distant sea 
had heard that tender evening hymn 
to the Virgin, Ave Sanctissima, which 
the mother sang in a tremulous voice, 
mindful of home, and of the many 
dangers in her path. And, after a 
while, it became a tacit understand- 
ing, that, when at evening he saw the 
boy in his mother's arms, with his 
blooming cheek laid close to hers, 
and their black locks flowing indis- 
tinguishably together, Captain Gary 
should come and stand, with bared 



The House of YorJie. 



head, beside the two, and listen as 
though to a prayer while the hymn 
was sung. Gradually his prejudices 
had worn away; and when he saw 
that mother and son, so dear to him, 
and so inseparable, he recognized 
the sacred and indissoluble union of 
the Divine Son with his Immaculate 
Mother. "Besides," the sailor rea- 
soned in his own mind, " there must 
be something more than commonly 
good in that religion which claims 
such devotion from Dick Rowan and 
Edith Yorke, and which my Clara 
thinks as good as any, and a little 
better." 

" I am glad that we are going to 
have a real home for the child, and 
make a citizen of him," his father 
said, as the boy went slowly toward 
the door again. " Clara and I have 
been a little too easy with him, I am 
afraid." 

" It is odd," Mrs. Yorke remarked, 
" that of my daughters, Hester, the 
softest, should be quite strict with her 
children, while Clara, whom I should 
have thought would need a warning 
not to be so, is almost too indul- 
gent." 

" I could have told you that," 
Captain Gary answered, glancing 
across the room to where his wife 
talked with her father. " Clara's 
heart melts only too readily, I always 
knew. I never mistook her disposi- 
tion. And, if she is literary, she can 
darn stockings the most neatly, and 
make a room look prettier, and get 
up the best little supper of any wo- 
man I know." 

Charlie Gary, loitering toward the 
door, had scarcely reached it, when 
it was pushed open, and was it a 
human child, or a fairy, who entered, 
and flitted across the room into 
Edith Yorke's arms ? A little girl of 
five years, softly white and dainty, 
golden-haired a-nd hazel-eyed, and 
so exquisite in shape that one exam- 



ined her with delight. Her motions 
were full of a captivating grace, her 
voice silvery-fine. She was vowed 
to the Virgin, and wore only white 
and blue. 

Charlie stopped inside the door to 
stare at her. He always did follow 
her about, and watch her, as though 
she were some strange, rare bird. 
He seldom volunteered to speak to 
her, and touched her with timid care, 
like something he feared to break. 

Carl Yorke crossed the room, and 
leaned on the back of his wife's chair. 
One could not see a more perfect 
group. 

Edith bent over the child, her 
braids of shadowed gold touching the 
pure gold ringlets. " What does 
mamma's little girl want ?" she ask- 
ed. 

The child, smilingly aware that all 
eyes were upon her, but too much 
accustomed to love to be abashed 
by their gaze, lisped out her question : 
" Isn't Philip, and Charlie, and all of 
'em got guardian-angels ?" 

" Yes, my love !" answered Edith. 
" There !" cried the child, with a 
glance of sparkling triumph at Char- 
lie. 

She ran to him, and put her white 
arms around his neck in a hug of 
congratulation, then, as light as air, 
whisked herself behind him. 

" You's got an angel, and he 
stands just so, and tells you what to 
do," she said. 

She stood on tiptoe, showing a 
pink and white face beside his, and 
two tiny hands on his shoulder. 
Then, with a bewitching laugh, she 
ended her pantomime, and ran back 
to her mother. 

Charlie did not take it well. " I 
haven't got any old angel," he said 
doggedly. " My mother tells me 
where to go, and Ave Sanctissimci 
takes care of us nights." 

A vivid red shot across Clara's 



Tlie House of Yorkc. 



315 



face as she drew the boy to her. " It 
is true, Charlie, and I will tell you 
all about it soon," she said. 

Should Edith's child, should any 
other mother's child, go guarded by 
angels, and upheld by a religious 
trust, and her son be like a heathen ? 
All she had taught him had been 
such as pleased her fancy only. 
SciJictissima had been but a beautiful 
object to paint and sing, not a real 
being to whom honor was due. " I'll 
have Father Rasle baptize this child 
before he is a week older !" she re- 
solved. 

Edith held out her hand to the 
boy, and looked at him with a 
beaming smile. " Come, darling, 
and tell me about Sanctissima" she 
said. 

" I've no objection," Captain Gary 
said later that night, when his wife 
asked his permission to have their 
child baptized by a priest. " But 
you needn't fret, Clara, at the boy's 
speaking so. It is more natural that 
a little yellow-haired girl should take 
to religion, than that a great bounc- 
ing boy should." 

Father Rasle, it should be said, 
was at this time the pastor of a city 
church. 

This little scene ended, " I am 
glad to see, Clara." her father said, 
" that in what you write lately, you 
employ less pure color for your men 
and women, and use secondaries and 
tertiaries more. There is, of course, 
a vast difference between the good 
and bad ; but in this life, whatever 
they may become in the next, all are 
human." 

" And yet," she replied, " I am 
sometimes criticised for putting spots 
on the sun, and giving an amiable 
trait to my villain. The pretext for 
the criticism is that perfect examples 
and perfect warnings are wanted. I 
think, however, that the spots on the 
sun give most offence. 



'And if Jove err, who dare say Jove doth 
wrong ?' " 

" Nevertheless, stick to your ter- 
tiaries," Mr. Yorke said, with a de- 
cided nod. " The lump of glass that, 
seeing a flaw in the diamond, went 
and smashed itself all to pieces, would 
have smashed itself to pieces if it 
had not seen the flaw in the diamond. 
It merely used that as a pretext for 
what it was predetermined to do. It is 
one thing to admire an ideal charac- 
ter, and another thing to imitate it ; 
and many a lazy and insincere mor^ 
alist would be delighted to have you 
paint all your good characters so ex- 
tremely good that he could at once 
prove his piety by applauding, and 
his modesty by not striving to emu- 
late. There are, of course, excep- 
tions, dear souls who love to look at 
unadulterated goodness ; but they 
are so charitable they will forgive 
you the spots on the sun, and so 
truthful they will not require you to 
be false in order to please them. My 
belief is that those persons do great 
good whose occasional missteps ex- 
cite our courage to imitate the virtues 
by which they retrieve themselves. 
There are other stronger beings, who 
are outwardly without a fault; but 
they are exceptional, about in the 
proportion of salt to your porridge. 
Suppose that I were advised to go 
to the top of a high mountain. ' I 
cannot go,' I say. My mentor points 
to a man who stands on the summit. 
' Perfiaps he was born there,' I reply. 
' Not so !' says mentor. ' He climb- 
ed : see the steps !' ' But,' I still 
object, ' he must be so much strong- 
er than I am. I should fall before I 
were half-way up.' ' He was as 
weak as or weaker than you,' says 
my adviser ; ' and he fell after a 
dozen steps, and fell again and again ; 
yet, there he is !' Don't you see 
that if anything would take me up 
the mountain-top, that would ? No, 



316 



The House of Yorkc. 



Clara, I think that, in the long run, 
it's best to tell the truth. There may 
be ignorant souls who will thrive for 
a while on pretence ; but let them 
once find out that you have once 
pretended, no matter how good the 
motive, and, from their very igno- 
rance, they will never be able to 
trust you again. If you want to be 
politic, honesty is the best policy." 

" If people wouldn't classify one 
so !" sighed the young woman pathe- 
tically. " The science and order that 
are abroad appall me. You cannot 
say nor do the smallest thing, but 
instantly somebody pounces on you, 
and pins a label on your back before 
you can take breath. One would 
think that we were dried specimens. 
Say that you sometimes fancy your 
departed friends may hear you speak, 
you are without delay set down as a 
spiritist, a table-tipper, a planchette- 
roller, a spirit-seer, and everything 
that follows ; say that you think Ca- 
tholics, and even priests, have some 
little chance of being saved, presto ! 
you are a Papist, you are a Jesuit, 
you are going to poison Protestants, 
you want the Pope to be president 
of the United States, you are going 
to muzzle the press, shut up the pub- 
lic schools, destroy the Bible, put an 
end to free speech, etc. ; send Brid- 
get to get your husband's slippers, 
instead of going after them yourself, 
and oh ! you woman's-rights woman, 
you ! How you are going to abuse 
your husband ! How you are goin- 
to let him eat cold dinners, wear rag- 
ged stockings, and come to grief 
generally! Labelled you must be, 
if you put your nose above the earth. 
And how your dear friends like to 
pin on the little pieces of paper, and 
give you a pat at the same time, so 
that the pin shall prick ! There's 
Miss Minerva, who wants to pick me 
to pieces, and, at the same time, keep 
up a reputation for charity, goes 



round telling everybody, and me 
among them, that I am impressionable, 
using the word in a tone that makes 
it mean unprincipled, of no stability, 
frivolous, inconstant ; and that, be- 
cause I have eyes and a heart, I 
was delighted to find in a newspaper, 
not long ago, a little extract which I 
am going to send her : ' A strong 
mind is more easily impressed than a 
weak one; you shall not as easily 
convince a fool that you are a philo- 
sopher, as a philosopher that you are 
a fool.' Papa, I insist on being ec- 
lectic !" 

" Take breath, my daughter, take 
breath !" said Mr. Yorke apprehen- 
sively. 

Mrs. Clara took breath, and switch- 
ed the last part of the conversation 
off the track. " A propos of colors !" 
she said. " You remember I always 
liked to find out the relations of 
things, and had the idea of a trinity 
in everything, before I heard of Del- 
sarte. And, by the way, I do not 
think that the theory is original with 
him. It seems to me I have heard 
it before. You know how he does ; 
groups everything in threes, the parts 
of which are co-existent,, co-efficient, 
and co-necessary, and, as an instance, 
gives space, motion, and time, neith- 
er of which can be computed with- 
out the aid of the other two. See 
how I figure my Trinity with the 
three colors : the color which signi- 
fies the Father is blue, the contem- 
plative color, the color of infinite 
space in which the creation floats, 
the intellectual color, the color of 
faith ; the ensign of the Son is red, 
which is sacrifice and love ; yellow is 
for the Holy Spirit, and is the illumi- 
nating color. It is also the color 
chosen by the Pope, who is the hu- 
man voice of the Holy Spirit. 
United, these three form white, which 
is the seal of the Trinity. White is 
rest, peace, and bliss." 



The House of Yorke, 



317 



" You are, then, a Catholic !" Mr. 
Yorke said, looking with keen eyes 
into his daughter's face. 

She blushed, and was embarrassed. 
' ^Ssthetically, papa !" 

He dropped his eyes, and a slight 
fro\vn settled on his forehead. 

" Papa," she said earnestly, " there 
is nothing else !" 

He smiled, but said nothing. 

" Would you be displeased if I 
should be one in earnest ?" she 
asked. 

" I should be glad !" her father re- 
plied, and rose abruptly to meet Me- 
licent, who was going home. 

The others withdrew, leaving Mr. 
and Mrs. Yorke with Edith and Carl. 
They gathered closely together be- 
fore the fire, the parents sitting be- 
tween their children, and, with hand 
clasped in hand, talked lovingly and 
seriously far into the night. 

When they parted, all had shed 
tears, but they were not tears of sor- 
row. 

" Good-night, my dear parents," 
Edith said, embracing them. u You 
have made me happy for all my life, 
and yourselves happy for all eternity. 
I do not wonder that you find it hard 
to take such a step, and renounce be- 
fore the world the religion which you 
have professed all your lives. You 
are not cowards ; you have been will- 
ing to suffer that Catholics might 
have their rights; but, you know, 
' obedience is better than sacri- 
fice.' " 

" Perhaps it is a whim," Mrs. 
Yorke said ; " but I would like to be 
baptized by that dear young man I 
used to love so, Mr. Rowan." 

" Young man !" Carl said, smiling. 
ic He and I are about the same age, 
and I am forty-three." 

" Forty-three !" echoed his mother 
in surprise. " And I am over sixty ! 
Charles, we are entering on our ser- 
vice at the eleventh hour. We will 



not wait for Mr. Rowan. Let us 
not delay beyond to-morrow." 

" Good-night, children !" said Mr. 
Yorke. " Yes, Amy." 

The next day was Sunday, and 
Carl and Edith went to High Mass. 
Captain Gary's " flurry " had passed 
with the night, and not a cloud was 
to be seen. Little heaps and drifts 
of snow hid under fences and trees, 
but the pavement was wind-swept. 
The sun shone joyously, and, not far 
from it, a waning moon dissolved in 
its light. 

There was the dear old church 
again, and, just going in under the 
portal, Mrs. Rowan-Williams. She 
took holy water, and bowed before 
entering her pew. The same hands 
were on the organ-keys, the same 
soprano, bright as a sunbeam, broke 
through the cloud of bass and alto, 
the same slow wreath of white-robed 
boys curled silently, like incense, 
about the sanctuary, there were the 
same faces at the altar. It was like 
coming home again. 

But, before the Veni Creator, who 
was this coming from the sacristy, 
palm to palm, draped in folds of 
spotless whiteness, and showing, even 
now, through his measured steps, a 
familar swing and freedom ? The 
chestnut hair, cut short, exposed the 
forehead, the face was slightly thin, 
but bright and healthy. 

The glance this priest cast over the 
congregation, as he went toward the 
pulpit, was peculiar. It took in the 
number of his hearers, but you would 
say that he saw their souls, not their 
bodies. So many waiting souls to 
whom he was to carry a message. 
Self so completely annihilated that 
even humility was forgotten, he went 
on, wrapped in calm obedience, to 
speak the word that was given him. 

The subject of the sermon was the 
uses of pain ; the argument, that all 
real good comes through pain. The 



318 



The House of Yorke. 



speaker's voice was so clear and 
strong that it was heard without ef- 
fort on his part or the listener's, his 
tone was conversational, and his illus- 
trations came naturally from his old 
sea-life. 

Real confidence in God can be 
shown, he said, only when we are 
blind, and cannot see ho\v our suf- 
ferings are to lead to any good end. 
Then trust is possible, is deserving, is 
saving. Then we learn quickly the 
lesson that God would teach us, and 
take a higher place. Our Master 
does not put back any soul. If it re- 
main long in the regiqn of trouble, 
it must be through its own stubborn- 
ness. 

" We all suffer too much, because 
we afflict ourselves in trying to es- 
cape pain, when we cannot escape it. 
The chalice of this bitter sacrament 
is never empty, and never set aside. 
Friends and foes alike give it into 
our hands, our dearest and kindest 
press it to our lips, unaware, or in 
their own despite ; the messenger of 
God presents it. It is useless to 
struggle, for we cannot escape ; it is 
foolish to struggle ; for in the bottom 
of that cup of bitterness is a heaven- 
ly draught of sweetness. 

" Lessons are on every side, the 
whole creation preaches to us. Even 
the building of a ship is like the 
building of a saint. The pine and 
the oak grow in the forest, they grow 
in rain and sunshine, they swing their 
branches in the wind, and rock the 
birds to rest. What is their end ? 
To grow, and then to decay, and feed 
the roots of succeeding trees with 
their crumbling remains. They grow 
only to decay, and wish no better, 
and know no better, and, if better 
come, it must come from some out- 
side, wiser will. 

" When the woodman appears, he 
is an object of terror, fancy, the Ma- 
nichee would tell you. At the blows 



of the axe, the whole tree shivers, it 
trembles in every leaf, it falls with a 
groan. But its tortures are not end- 
ed. The saw, the plane, the shave, 
the auger, the adze, do each their 
work; and the mourning tree says, 
' I was made to be tormented. I am 
covered with ruin, and good shall no 
more come to me.' Ah, then, how 
happy seem the far-away, peaceful 
woods ! how dear the little nests that 
have been clipped off, and the in- 
tertwining branches of neighboring 
trees ! 

" But we are not like the tree. 
We know what hand lays us low, and 
clips off the unruly wishes, the fool- 
ish, twittering hopes. 

" Look at the home of the iron ! 
It lies in darkness and mystery un- 
derground, and hears the small 
streams trickle down or bubble up. 
It knows and wishes no better. The 
miner comes with his pick, the dark 
ore is dazzled with alien sunshine, is 
tortured by fire. In its agony it be- 
comes more terrible than fire, and 
presses and glows to destroy. It re- 
plies with sparks to the blows of the 
hammer. 

" Oh ! for the cool dark, the whis- 
pering stream, the moveless rock and 
earth ! Its pain is to no end but that 
it may suffer, and ruin has come. 

" But we are not like the senseless 
iron. We know what Divine Miner 
digs us out of our abasement, shows 
us the light of truth, and moulds us 
into shape. 

" At last the ship is built ; its differ- 
ent elements are united into one har- 
monious being; and then it fancies 
that it understands all. It exults 
over the dull tree standing with its 
roots in earth, over the brutish ore 
buned in the darkness. It stands in 
its stocks, and grows in beauty, looks 
at the shining river that flows and 
sings for ever, and sees the children 
play, and the days go by. 



Fragments of Early English Poems on the Blessed Virgin. 319 



" But the end is not yet. Some 
summer morning the workmen come 
to strike its props away. The tide 
comes up, and its song is the song 
of the siren ; a crowd gathers to mock 
at its ruin. It was raised, then, only 
to be more cruelly cast down. One 
support after another is struck away, 
prop after prop falls. The ship shud- 
ders, it has learnt nothing from its 
le'j-son, it moans, it slips slowly, then 
rapidly, then it plunges whither ? 
into annihilation ? No ! into its 
own proper element at last, into 
the bosom of the deep. The 
tides bear it up, the winds of hea- 
ven wing its course ; at last it is of 
use. 

" Take comfort, brethren, in your 
pain. He who permits it knows well 
how hard it is to bear. When you 
are nailed to your cross, the glorified 
flesh of the Man-God remembers its 
own agony. And, suffer not only 
trustingly, and with resignation, but 



suffer with courage. If you shrink 
and cover your eyes, you have hid- 
den a ghost in your life. When a 
sorrow comes to you, look it in the 
face ; and, by-and-by, the mask shall 
fall off, and you will see the face of 
an angel." 

We have given but a sketch. The 
words are dry, but the sermon was 
full of life. 

When Carl and his wife walked 
homeward, Edith did not speak for a 
long time. Whenever her husband 
looked at her, she was gazing straight 
forward, and seemed absorbed in 
thought. 

" Well, Edith," he said at length, 
" what is it ?" 

She looked up into his face with 
those eyes so childlike still. 

" I was wondering, Carl," she 
said, " how I could ever have pre- 
sumed to call him Dick !" 

And so we leave our Edith, as we 
found her, wondering. 



FRAGMENTS OF EARLY ENGLISH POEMS ON THE 
BLESSED VIRGIN. 



To Catholics ... it is a joy and a 
solace to look back into past centu- 
ries, and remember that there were 
days when our poets drank of a 
purer fount than that of Castaly; 
and made it their pride to celebrate 
in their verse, not Dian nor Proser- 
pine, but the Immaculate Queen of 
Heaven. Of Chaucer's devotion to 
this theme, I have already spoken, 
but other poets before his time de- 
lighted in dedicating their verses to 
her who, as she inspired the most 
exquisite designs of the artist's pen- 
cil, has also claimed not the least 
beautiful productions of the poet's 
pen. Thus, one sings of her as 
' Dame Lyfe,' and describes how 

" As she came by the bankes, the boughs 

eche one, 

Lowked to the Ladye, and layd forth 
their branches, 



Blossoms and burgens (new shoots; 

breathed ful s\vete, 
Flowres bloomed in the path where 

forth she stepped, 
And the gras that was dry greened be- 

live." 

Others, according to their quaint 
fashion, mixed up English and Latin 
rhymes in a style which, barbarous 
as it is, is certainly not deficient in 
harmony. One little poem, ascribed 
to a writer in the reign of Henry 
III., commences thus: 

" Of all that is so fayr and bright, 

Velut maris stella; 
Brighter than the day is light, 

Parens et puella. 
I crie to The, Thou se to me, 
Levedy, preye the Sone for me, 

Tam pia, 
That Ich mote come to The, 

Maria." 

Christian Schools and Scholars. 



320 



The Legends of Oisin, Bard of Erin. 



THE LEGENDS OF OISIN, BARD OF ERIN. 



BY AUBREY DE VERE. 



VI. 



OISIN'S GOOD CONFESSION. 

NOT seldom, crossed by bodings sad, 

In words though kind yet hard 
Spake Patrick to his guest, Oisin ; 

For Patrick loved the Bard 

In whose broad bosom, swathed with beard 

Like cliffs with ivy trailed, 
A Christian strove with a pagan soul, 

And neither quite prevailed. 

Silent as shades the shadowing monks 

O'er cloistral courts might glide ; 
But the War-Bard strode through the church itself 

Like hunter on mountain-side. 



Yea, sometimes, while his beads he told, 

Fierce thoughts, a rebel breed, 
Burst up from the graves of his warriors dead, 

And he stormed at priest and Creed. 

His end drew nigh. 'Twas after years 
Had proved stern warnings vain, 

When dying he lay on his wolf-skin bed, 
And murmured a warlike strain. 



The Saint drew near : he gazed ; then spake, 

" A fair child died one day : 
Four weeks had passed ; yet, changeless still, 

Like a child asleep he lay. 



The Legends of Oisin, Bard of Erin. 321 

They could not hide him in the ground 

Though hand and heart were chill, 
For round his lips the smile avouched 

The soul was in him still. 



" Then lo ! a man of God came by 

And stood beside the bier, 
And spake, ' A pagan house is this ; 
And yet a saint lies here ! 



" ' God shaped this child his praise to sing 

To a blind and pagan race ; 
And till that song is sung, in heaven 
He may not see God's face.' 

* 

11 Then thrice around that child he moved 

With circling censer-cloud, 
And touched with censer fire his tongue, 
And the dead child sang; aloud. 



" Oisin ! like larks beside thy Lee, 

So loud he sang his hymn : 
And straight baptized he was, and died ; 
And, dead, his face grew dim. 

" So then, since Christ had caught to heaven 

The fair soul washed from sin, 
A little grave they dug, and laid 
The little saint therein. 



" And ever as fell the night, that grave 

Shone like the Shepherds' star, 
With happy beam that homeward drew 
The wanderer from afar. 



" Oisin ! thy Land is as that child ! 

Thou call'st her dead thy Land ; 
For cold is Fionn, thy sire ; and he, 
He was her strong right hand ! 

" And cold is Oscar now, thy son : 

Her mighty heart was he 
Oisin ! let dead at last be dead ; 
Let living, living be ! 

VOL. XV. 21 



322 The Legends of Oisin, Bard of Erin. 

" Her great old Past is gone at last : 

Her heavenlier Future waits, 
Yet entrance never can she find 
Till Faith unbars the gates. 



" Prince of thy country's songful choir ] 

Thou wert her golden Tongue ! 
Sing thou her New Song ' I believe ! ' 
Give thou to God her Song ! 



Then suddenly that old man stood, 
And made his arms a cross: 

Within his heart a light that changed 
The earth to dust and dross : 



And, pierced by beams from those two hands 

Of Jesus crucified, 
His Erin of two thousand years 

Held forth her hands, and died : 

For all her sce'ptres by a Reed 

That hour were overborne ; 
And all her crowns went down, that hour, 

Before the Crown of Thorn. 



As shines the sun through snowy haze 

Oisin's white head forth shone : 
" In God the Father I believe," 
He sang, " and Mary's Son :" 

And, onward as the swan-chaunt swept 
Adown the Creed's broad flood, 

In radiance waxed his face, as though 
He saw the face of God. 

Then Patrick, with his wondering monks, 
Knelt down, and said, "Amen," 

While slowly dropped a sun that ne'er 
Saw that white head again. 

The rite complete, the old man sank, 

And turned him on his side : 
Next morning, as the Lauds began, 
" My Son," he said, and died. 



A Salon in Paris before tJie War. 



323 



A SALON IN PARIS BEFORE THE WAR. 

PART III. 



ON THK BOULEVARDS. 



SUMMER had come, and was near- 
ly gone. Paris was deserted. As 
autumn approached, lifting its fiery 
finger over the city, the flaneurs dis- 
appeared. All those who could flee, 
fled. The faubourg had fled long 
ago to its chateaux. The Chaussee 
d'Antin and the Champs Elysees 
were fleeing anx eaux or aux 
bains de mer and the boulevards, 
with their glittering shops and cafes 
and theatres, were left to the mercy 
of the tourist. Perhaps the tourist 
would retort that he was left to the 
mercy of the boulevards. And per- 
haps he would be right. Chignoned 
sirens, who dwelt in glass cases sur- 
rounded by millions of glass vials 
ranged in rhythmic color from the 
ceiling to the floor, so as to make 
the sirens look as much as possible 
like the centre point of an elaborate 
kaleidoscope, smiled through their 
crystal shell at the reckless being who 
stood outside to peep and wonder. 
The door stood open. He might not 
hear the siren's, " Entrez, monsieur!" 
but there was no being deaf to her 
smile ; it drew him irresistibly. 

"Would monsieur not like just to 
' gouter ' our last novelty, ' cerise a 
la Victor Noir ?' Would he not very 
much like to take some little souve- 
nir home to madame ?" 

Of course monsieur would. Weak 
mortal ! He unbuttons his coat, and 
straightway the bees which had sip- 
ped abundantly of native porte-mon- 
naies the rest of the year, alight on 
the purse of the tourist, and suck it, 
if not dry, as nearly dry as they can. 



Busy " dead season," when stale 
bonbons and faded finery are brought 
out, christened by new names, and sold 
to the barbarians across the Channel. 
Paris does not want any more of it, 
but Londres, that city which the 
English in their ignorance of the 
French language call Lon-don Lon- 
dres will find it charming ! 

Gaily, busily the bees were plying 
their task. The long white lines of 
Haussmann barracks glared shadow- 
less in the fierce vertical sun ; gilded 
railings and balconies flashed in ginger- 
bread magnificence ; the dome of the 
Invalides rose up against the cloud- 
less blue and blazed like a burning 
mount; the red heat poured down 
from the zenith on the miles of as- 
phalte that meander through the city, 
and pelted it till it softened and gave 
under your foot like india-rubber. 
Even the lordly chestnuts of the Tuil- 
eries, so carefully tended, so abun- 
dantly watered, were burnt brown 
and red, and were shedding their 
leaves from exhaustion ; not a vestige 
of green was anywhere visible. The 
fountains were playing, but even they 
had a tired, worn-out look, and the 
water seemed to go on splashing lazi- 
ly from mere force of habit; the flag 
was still floating above the palace, 
the gray old palace blinking with its 
myriad glass eyes in the sultry noon ; 
the broad walks were deserted, no 
little feet went pattering on the gra- 
vel, no merry child-laughter rang 
through the shade to scare the swal- 
lows from their cool siesta; the whole 
scene, lately so animated and bright, 



324 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



had a weary, day-after-the-ball look 
that was premature in the first days 
of July. 

The bees of the boulevard were 
buzzing loud, and bestirring them- 
selves to good purpose. But, hark ! 
What noise is that? Not the can- 
non's opening roar, nor " the car rat- 
tling o'er the stony street," but a 
sound that jars upon the lively hum, 
and makes the hive suspend labor 
and hush itself to listen. It comes 
from the Corps Legislatif, first a faint 
surging sound, then a clamor as of 
the waves rising and lashing them- 
selves up for a tempest. Louder it 
grows, and nearer. It crosses the 
tepid waters of the Seine, lying low 
between its banks ; it reaches the 
boulevards. At first the cries are 
indistinguishable, a torrent of human 
voice, rolling and heaving and rush- 
ing like the roar of a cataract, drown- 
ing all sense in its senseless frenzy. 
On it conies, gathering strength in 
its march, waking up the echoes of 
the trottoir, and making the crisp 
leaves quiver and drop, and fly along 
the dusty pavement before the voci- 
ferating multitude like straws before 
a bellows. 

" What is it ? Is it a revolution ?" 
cried Berthe, as .the horses, laying 
back their ears, threatened mischief, 
and obliged the footman to get down 
and hold them. 

" I don't know, madame," said the 
man, looking up the Rue de la Paix 
at the stream that was pouring along 
the boulevards, to the sound of beat- 
ing drums, and blaring trumpets, and 
all manner of Parisian excitableness 
in the shape of noise. " It's more 
likely une demonstration patriotique ; 
the horses don't seem to like it, or 
else we might drive up close and see." 

But Berthe's curiosity was not proof 
against a certain mistrust of the sov- 
ereign people. The noise might 
mean nothing more aggressive than 



a demonstration patriotique, but in 
Paris patriotism has many moods 
and phases, and innumerable modes 
of expressing itself, and its attitudes, 
if always effective from a dramatic 
point of view, are not always agree- 
able to come close to, and, whatever 
the character of this particular one 
might be, Berthe preferred admiring 
it from a respectful distance. 

" Turn back, and drive "home by 
the Champs Elysees," she said. 

But the tide had risen too rapidly. 
The Rue de Rivoli was flooded. It 
had caught the delirium of the bou- 
levards, and was sending back their 
echoes with frantic exultation. Cabs 
and omnibuses were seized with the 
sudden insanity, private coaches 
caught it, foot-passengers, gamins, and 
bourgeois, and messieurs les voyageurs 
careering on the top of omnibuses, 
all en masse caught it, and shouted as 
one man : " Vive la France ! vive la 
guerre ! A Berlin ! a Berlin !" La- 
dies and gentlemen, reclining in soft- 
cushioned carriages, started sudden- 
ly into effervescence, waved hats and 
handkerchiefs, and cried : " Vive la 
guerre ! A Berlin !" Horses neigh- 
ed, and dogs barked, and the very 
paving-stones shook to the popular 
passion. All Paris shouted and shriek- 
ed till the city, like a huge belfry, 
rang with thundering salvos : " Vive 
la guerre ! A Berlin ! a Berlin !" 

Berthe's horses, scared anew by 
the uproar that was now close upon 
them, played their part in the gene- 
ral row by plunging and prancing, 
and eliciting screams of terror from 
the adjacent women and children, 
while the coachman brandished his 
whip, and the footman whirled his 
hat in the air, and shouted with all 
their might : " A Berlin ! a Berlin !" 
A troop of gamins laid violent hands 
on a Savoyard who was grinding 
away " Non ti scordar di me," to the 
delight of the concierge in the nearest 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



porte-cochere, and, dragging him to 
the fore, bade him at once strike up 
the Marseillaise. Luckily for his 
limbs, the despotic command was 
within the limits of the Savoyard's 
instrument. He turned its handle, 
and began vigorously grinding out 
the Republican chant. Every man, 
woman, and child within ear-shot 
took up the chorus, " Marchons ! 
marchons !" till the palpitating air 
throbbed and thrilled with the pas- 
sionate voices of the multitude. 

Berthe was not long proof against 
the magnetic current that was whirl- 
ing round her. First terrified, then 
bewildered, then electrified, she caught 
the intoxication, and yielded to its 
impulse : " Vive la France ! Vive 
la guerre !" And the fair hand waved 
its snowy little flag from the window 
as the carriage moved slowly past 
the Tuileries gardens. 

Emerging into the broad space of 
the Place de la Concorde, the horses 
seemed to breathe more freely, and, 
quickening their step, tore at full 
speed up the Champs Elysees. 

" What possessed me to shout and 
cheer with those madmen?" said 
Berthe, soliloquizing aloud, and laugh- 
ing at the absurdity of her recent be- 
havior. " I must have gone mad my- 
self for the moment. Vive la guerre 
indeed ! Heaven help us ! We 
shall hear another cry by-and-by, 
when the widows and orphans and 
sisters of France hear at what price 
her new laurels have been bought. 
Thank God I have no brothers!" 

" Madame la Marquise de Chasse- 
dot is waiting, madame," said Fran- 
9013, as Berthe entered. 

" Has she been waiting?" 

" A short half-hour, madame." 

" What can she have to say ?" 
thought Berthe. 

Madame de Chassedot rose to 
meet her " with eyes that had wept," 
and extended her hands with an air 



that asked less for greeting than for 
sympathy. 

" Vous ange de la peine, madame !" 
exclaimed Berthe, her ready kindness 
going forth at once to the sufferer. 

The two ladies were not friends. 
'They had met at Madame de Be.au- 
coeur's and Madame de Galliac's ; but 
only once had there been a personal 
interchange of visits; Madame de 
Chassedot had called on Berthe to 
thank her for the kindness she had 
shown to their young kinswoman, 
Helene de Karodel, " whom the fa- 
mily had indeed of late lost sight. of, 
but with whom they were delighted 
to renew cousinship," the marquise 
declared effusively, and as a proof of 
this she was carrying off Helene to 
the country to spend the vacation 
with them. Berthe did not inform 
her that it had taken all her own in- 
fluence to induce the high-spirited 
young lady to accept the hospitality so 
tardily offered. She returned Ma- 
dame de Chassedot's visit ; the latter 
soon left for the country, and they 
had not met since. 

" Oui, j'ai du chagrin," said the 
marquise holding Berthe's hand, as 
she sat down beside her. 

Berthe's first thought was of Ed- 
gar. But the mother was not in 
mourning. Whatever it was, the 
worst had not yet come. 

" Your son is ill ?" she said. 

Madame de Chassedot shook her 
head. Then, after a pause, during 
which she gave battle to her emotion, 
she looked at Berthe, and said : 

" He's going to get married !" 

" What ! And is not that precise- 
ly what you wanted him to do !" ex- 
claimed Berthe. 

" I wanted to make the match my- 
self; but now he goes and does it in- 
stead," replied the marquise. 

" Ah ! It is a mesalliance, then !" 

The fact was startling certainly, but 
less so than it might have been, ow- 



326 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



ing to certain rumors that prepared 
the public to believe in any extrava- 
gance coupled with Edgar de Chas- 
seclot's name. 

11 Oh! man Dieu, non ! A thou- 
sand times no !" cried his mother 
with quick resentment. " Edgar a 
fait des be'tises, but he is incapable 
of dishonoring himself. Oh, no ! 
The girl is of an excellent family, she 
is even our own cousin." 

" It is her principles, then, or her 
character that you object to ?" said 
Eerthe with some hesitation. 

" O dear ! no. She is as pious as 
a seraph, and brought up like a lily !" 
exclaiwied the marquise. 

" Is she a hunch-back, then, or 
lame, or blind, or what ?" 

" She is a beggar ! A beggar who 
has not a sou to buy her own trous- 
seau. It is a beggar who has stolen 
the heart of my son ! And tears of 
bitter, disappointed motherhood flow- 
ed down the cheeks of the marquise. 

" And her name is ?" 

" Mademoiselle de Karodel !" 

" What ! Helene ? Helene de Ka- 
rodel, that brave, true, gentle crea- 
ture is going to be your son's wife ! 
And you in tears, and not of joy ! 
And you call her a beggar ! A wo- 
man whose love, since your son has 
been lucky enough to win it and 
H61ene is not a girl to marry him if 
he had not would be a prize for a 
prince! And you, a Christian mo- 
ther, weep over it, and expect to be 
pitied ! Really, madame, if it were 
not laughable, it would be deploja- 
ble, not on your son's account, but 
on your own !" 

Madame de Chassedot was so stac- 

O 

gered by this unexpected sortie that 
she was actually struck dumb. " Do 
you know," she said, after a pause, 
looking steadily at Berthe, and bring- 
ing out her words with slow empha- 
sis " do you know, madame, that 
my son has four millions of patrimo- 



ny, and that he could have married 
any girl in France ?" 

" As to his marrying any girl in 
France, admitting that they were one 
and all ready to marry Monsieur de 
Chassedot, was he ready to marry 
them ?" demanded Berthe signifi- 
cantly ; " and as to his four millions, 
they are the very reason why he 
should marry a girl who had none. 
A woman who is as well born as him- 
self, who is, you admit, pure as a lily, 
and pious as an angel, and, more- 
over, quite graceful and beautiful 
enough to satisfy your pride and his, 
and to make her an ornament as 
well as a treasure in your son's 
house a wife who will rescue him 
from much that I should fancy would 
have given you greater cause for 
tears than his marriage with such a 
woman as Helene de Karodel. Can- 
didly, chere marquise, I am so far 
from sympathizing with you that, if 
I had heard this news in any other 
way, my first impulse would have 
been to fly to you with my congratu- 
lations." 

Madame de Chassedot's tears were 
flowing still, but perhaps less bitter- 
ly ; she was going to speak when a 
noise of steps in* the ante-chamber 
made her rise hastily, and look round 
for a means of escape. 

" Into my bedroom !" said Berthe, 
pulling aside the portiere. 

The marquise pressed her hand, 
and disappeared through the cloud 
of blue satin just as the drawing- 
room door opened, and Helene de 
Karodel, holding out her arms with 
a cry of joy, rushed into Berthe's. 

It was something of a disappoint- 
ment to Helene to find that Berthe 
already knew her secret. But there 
was much left to tell still. Most 
of the tale was told with blushes and 
smiles, and tears that had no brine 
in them. Her marriage was to take 
place in a fortnight. Edgar, from 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



327 



family reasons, chose to precipitate 
the denouement, and his young Bre- 
tonne fiancee had come up to town 
to make the few bridal preparations 
that he could not possibly make for 
her. 

It happened unluckily to be Berthe's 
day, so the usual stream of visitors 
began soon to pour in, and broke 
up the tete-a-tete of the two friends. 

The war was the topic of every 
tongue ; but there was no mistaking 
for enthusiasm the animation with 
which it was discussed. Some indig- 
nantly repudiated and denounced the 
government, and protested that, so 
far from being a popular war> it was 
universally condemned as senseless, 
iniquitous, and ill-timed, and that 
there were not ten men in France 
who would cry Vive la guerre .' un- 
less they were paid for it. Others, 
who had been on the boulevards an 
hour ago, thought differently. 

"There are madmen to be found 
in every city who are glad of an op- 
portunity to bark, and bray, and 
howl, and demean themselves after 
the usual manner of madmen," said 
the Austrian habitue, " and Paris can 
muster as good a roll of lunatics on 
as short notice as a%iy city in Europe; 
but I don't believe there were ten sane 
men on the boulevards this morning 
who cried Vive la guerre /" 

" I can assure you," said Berthe, 
" I saw hundreds of comme-il-faut- 
looking men, to all appearance in 
their right mind, who were crying it 
frantically; so much so that I got 
quite carried away, and actually 
shook my handkerchief, and shouted 
with the rest of them." 

" Why did you shout, madame !" 
inquired the Austrian. 

" Because, I tell you, I was carried 
away, I could not help myself. The 
excitement was catching." 

" Of course it was. Most fevers 
are, especially malignant ones ; and 



if you asked nine-tenths of the crowd 
why they shouted, the answer, if they 
spoke the truth, would be precisely 
the same : they could not help them- 
selves, the excitement was catching. 
If an arsenal blows up, who is to 
blame, the powder, the matches, or 
yourself who fired the train ? You 
might just as logically blame the pow- 
der for blowing up, as the French 
people for marching and bugling and 
Vive-la-guerring when they hear the 
sound of the trumpet." 

" Do you agree with monsieur ?" 
asked Berthe addressing a quiet-look- 
ing military man who had been lis- 
tening in silence to the conversation. 
" Are the people not really glad of 
the war ?" 

" It is difficult to say yet," replied 
the soldier. " With the people, all de- 
pends on how it turns out; success 
alone is in the right." 

" But you do not contemplate such 
an absurd alternative as the non-vic- 
toriousness of the French arms ?" 

There was a prompt general pro- 
test from the company. The military 
man alone stroked his moustache 
with a meditative air, and was silent. 

"Answer me, I pray you, com- 
mandant," pursued Berthe. " You are 
not afraid of our troops being beat- 
en?" 

" Our troops are matches, if not 
masters, of the best troops in Eu- 
rope," replied the commandant 
proudly. 

" And our generals ? We have no 
lack of good ones surely ?" 

" Not of veterans," was the eva- 
sive rejoinder. 

" Oh ! the young ones will rise up 
as soon as they are wanted. Wo 
shall have a new generation of heroes 
that will eclipse in glory the vieux de 
la Vieille themselves. As for you, you 
will come back to us a marshal of 
France," declared Berthe merrily. 

The prophecy elicited gentle 



A Salon in Paris before the War. 



cheering and congratulations from 
the ladies, while the men approved 
in their own way, joking the com- 
mandant, and dubbing him Monsieur 
le Marshal on the spot. 

" If it be not a futile or indiscreet 
question to put, may I ask what you 
are going to war for ?" demanded 
Mr. Clifford, addressing himself to 
the company in general. 

" For security of the dynasty," re- 
plied a Legitimist. 

" For the honor and security of 
France, " said the commandant. 

" Do you separate them, M. le 
"Commandant !" exclaimed the Legiti- 
mist with mock horror. " I arraign 
you, de par VEmpereur, for high trea- 
son against France !" 

The circle laughed, and the Com- 
mandant, not caring to challenge the 
persifleur, laughed good-humoredly, 
too. 

" Shall I tell you, monsieur, why 
we are going to war ?" said the Depu- 
ty de la Gauche to Mr. Clifford. " We 
are going to war to de'sennuyer Paris. 
If Paris goes on much longer ennuy- 
ing herself as she has done for the 
last six months, she \vil>iiiake a revo- 
lution !" 

" That may be quite true," re- 
turned his colleague of the Droite ; 
but the preventive is rather violent ; 
some milder form of excitement 
might be invented for the ennui of 
Paris than that of taking her to Ber- 
lin for a distraction. It is hardly a 
sufficient reason for plunging . the 
whole nation into war. No, I prefer 
lo think we are going to fight for the 
honor of France, and it may be for 
her aggrandizement." 



" Yes," said Madame de Beau- 
coeur, " M. le Marechal will win his 
baton by taking the Rhine for us !" 

" Bravo," cried in chorus the Legiti- 
mist, the Droite, and the Gauche. "Le 
Rhin ! le Rhin ' Vive le Rhin /" 

" I will be willing to shake hands 
with ce gaillard Id, and to cry Vive VEm- 
/(f/rw myself, if he comes back with 
the Rhine in his pocket," declared 
the Legitimist with desperate patriot- 
ism. 

And the sentiment was echoed by 
every one present. Orleanist, Bour- 
bonist, Bonapartist, and Republican 
all united in a common thirst for the 
blue waters of the Rhine, and avowed 
themselves ready to vote the war, 
whatever its motive, a wise war and 
a righteous, if it gave the Rhine to 
France. All with one exception : the 
old academician shook his head, 
and muttered some broken sentences 
in which the words, de"mence,fanfaron- 
nade, mine du commerce, feu follet de la 
gloire, decadence des moeurs, jour de 
retribution, etc., were audible through 
the general hubbub. 

" What a people, mon Dieu ! " mur- 
mured the philosopher to himself, as, 
descending the softly carpeted stairs, 
cries of " A Berfl n ! A Berlin dans six 
semaines ! Vive le Rhin ! Vive la 
guerre!" followed him through the 
open door of Berthe's apartment; 
" fitful as the wind, passing from rea- 
son to madness, from heroism to ab- 
surdity, as the weathercock turns with 
the breeze." The word that touches 
our vanity, touches every chord in 
our nature, and sets us in a blaze, just 
as the spark fires the powder-flask. 
Qiielpeuple ? Mon Dieu, quel peuple! 






Review of Dr. Stock? s Philosophy. 



329 



REVIEW OF DR. STOCKL'S PHILOSOPHY.* 



WE have already called attention 
to the necessity of providing sound 
philosophical text-books and manuals 
in the vernacular tongues, particular- 
ly the English, with which we are 
specially concerned. We have also 
expressed our conviction that the 
only philosophy which has any claim 
or fitness to be adopted in our places 
of education is the scholastic philo- 
sophy. Those who are capable of 
studying this philosophy in the more 
extensive and elaborate works of our 
great Catholic authors, have all they 
need for prosecuting their studies to 
any degree they please. More 
elementary treatises and compen- 
diums in the Latin language are also 
at hand for those who can make use 
of them with facility. But those who 
cannot do so need to have books in 
their own language, and made level 
to their mental capacity and actual 
knowledge. And even those who 
are able to study in Latin text-books 
may derive great assistance from a 
good manual written in their own 
vernacular, for many reasons which 
are obvious, especially if they are not 
perfect in their knowledge of Latin. 
Besides this, there are many persons 
whose education is already com- 
pleted, who would derive great plea- 
sure and profit from a book of this 
kind. The English and American 
educated world is so unfamiliar with 
the ancient philosophy of the Catho- 
lic schools, that there is need of an 
interpreter who can make it intelli- 
gible, and domesticate it in our ver- 
nacular scientific literature. Nun> 



* Lehrbnch tier Philosophie. Von Dr. Albert 
Stbckl, ord. Professor der Philosophic an der 
Akademie Munster. Mainz: F. Kirchheim. 



bers of educated persons, and even 
clergymen, who are converts and 
have received a Protestant collegiate 
education, or, if old Catholics, have 
not been thoroughly taught philo- 
sophy according to the scholastic 
method, have derived their information 
on the subject mostly from the mis- 
cellaneous philosophical literature of 
England and America, and perhaps, 
also, of France and Germany. In 
this miscellaneous literature there is 
much that is valuable, and even of 
great value, the product of highly 
gifted and cultivated minds imbued 
with sound and elevated principles, 
containing a vast amount of truth 
and conclusive argument. There is 
wanting, however, the scientific pre- 
cision, definiteness and fixedness of 
terminology, and completeness, which 
are found only in the masters and 
disciples of the scholastic method. 
Protestants, and to a great extent 
Catholics also, have been at sea in 
philosophy ever since the unfortu- 
nate epoch of the Lutheran schism. 
The evil began in that fresh outbreak 
of paganism, miscalled renaissance ; a 
revolt against the science and the 
civilization founded by the Holy See, 
the hierarchy, and the monastic or- 
ders, the only truly Christian science 
and civilization ; a retrograde move- 
ment of the most fatal sort under the 
name of progression. The vain and 
frivolous scholars of that period 
brought St. Thomas and the scholas- 
tic theology and philosophy into con- 
tempt among the crowd of their fol- 
lowers. They affected to be Plato- 
nists, because the philosophy of Plato 
was at that time something strange 
and novel, and afforded them the 
chance of displaying their knowledge 



330 



Review of Dr. StdckFs Philosophy. 



of Greek. The leaders of the re- 
ligious revolt of the age of Leo X., at 
which time the disorder culminated, 
pretended to go back to the Hebrew 
and Greek Scriptures and the Fathers; 
where they could evade the contest 
with scholastic theology, and make a 
show of learning and pure Biblical 
and patristic doctrine for a con- 
siderable time. The scholastic theo- 
logy has, however, fully avenged 
itself. It has defeated the enemies of 
the church who have attacked the 
Catholic faith from without. Within 
the church, it has established its 
supremacy, and subdued all those 
who have professed and endeavored 
to substitute a new system of theo- 
logy for the old, while retaining the 
dogmas of faith. The pitiable and 
abortive effort to produce a new 
renaissance, which occasioned so much 
both of scandal and ridicule during 
the time of the Vatican Council, was 
marked by a specially violent assault 
on St. Thomas and St. Alphonsus, 
the two great doctors of the church in 
dogmatic and moral theology re- 
spectively. The result has been the 
triumph of both. The Angel of the 
Schools has gone up to a pinnacle of 
honor and glory above that which he 
had ever before attained, and it is 
safe to predict that his supremacy as 
the master of sacred science will 
never more be seriously questioned. 
The great champion of the thorough- 
ly Roman teaching in doctrine, piety 
and morals, has been crowned with 
the doctorate at the petition of a 
vast body of the men highest in 
learning and office in the church. 
The great theological controversies 
are substantially finished and settled, 
and Catholic theology is very nearly 
complete. Philosophy is now the 
great field for intellectual activity, 
and that consolidated union in 
philosophical teaching which has 
been secured in theology is the end 



toward which the efforts of all the 
ardent and loyal lovers of the divine 
Truth should be directed. 

This end can be secured only by 
following the same principles and 
methods in philosophy which have 
effected and secured unity and uni- 
formity in theological doctrine. The 
scholastic philosophy must accom- 
pany the scholastic theology. This 
is obvious, without entering into the 
intrinsic merits of the question. No 
other system has that authority, that 
general prevalence, that scientific 
precision and completeness, that 
sanction of the rulers of the church, 
the great teaching orders, and the 
body of directors and professors of 
seminaries and strictly Catholic col- 
leges, which are requisite for produc- 
ing unity and uniformity in instruc- 
tion. Those who do not follow the 
scholastic philosophy are divided into 
small parties holding the most oppo- 
site opinions and mutually hostile 
to each other ; and these parties are 
again subdivided into smaller sec- 
tions. The subject matter of this 
difference is not the mere corollaries 
and remote conclusions, or the high 
speculative questions of philosophy, 
not essentially affecting its substance ; 
as is the case with the differences 
among strict adherents to scholastic 
theology and philosophy; but the 
very substance, the first principles, 
the guiding rules of philosophy 
itself. What likelihood is there that 
any one of these systems will ever 
conquer for itself sufficient territory 
or unite a sufficient number of suf- 
frages to become the reigning doc- 
trine ? The history of the disputes 
which have gone r on within and 
without the church during three 
centuries, since the decay of the in- 
fluence of scholastic philosophy, may 
answer the question. Either we 
must give up the hope of attaining 
unity, and let philosophy degenerate 



Review of Dr. Stockfs Philosophy. 



into a mere theme of endless discus- 
sion among rival parties, like doctrine 
among the Protestants, or \ve must 
range ourselves under the banner of 
the ancient and still numerous and 
powerful school of the Angelic Doc- 
tor. 

The first of these alternatives we 
must decidedly reprobate, as contrary 
to the Catholic sense, and incom- 
patible with the respect which is due 
to the judgment and authority of the 
church. It is evident that philo- 
sophical instruction is regarded in the 
church as highly important and 
necessary, and as an essential part of 
Catholic education, more especially 
for those who are preparing for the 
study of theology. The sense of its 
importance is increasing instead of 
diminishing. Everywhere longer 
time and greater pains are bestowed 
upon it, and we have been told that 
it is the desire of the Sovereign Pon- 
tiff that the theological course should 
rather be shortened if necessary, than 
that philosophy should fail to receive 
its adequate proportion of the time 
allotted to the curriculum of the 
ecclesiastical seminary. All this im- 
plies that philosophy, like theology, 
is a true science, having its certain 
principles, methods, and doctrines. 
And if this is so, we are to look for 
it where the queen of sciences, 
whose herald and prime minister it is 
Catholic theology announces her 
magisterial teaching, and not in any 
particular school set up by private 
authority. In fact, the scholastic 
philosophy is an intimate and essen- 
tial part of scholastic theology, which 
would be decomposed if its other 
elements were separated from this 
one, and be resolved into a mere col- 
lection of dogmas and doctrines with- 
out logical coherence. We may 
infer, therefore, from the express 
sanction which the church has given 
to scholastic theology, her approba- 



tion of scholastic philosophy. This 
tacit and implied approbation is also 
manifested in her practical action. 
The Holy See, the greater number of 
bishops, and the body of those 
ecclesiastics in high positions of au- 
thority who have control over strictly 
Catholic colleges, sanction and estab- 
lish the teaching of scholastic philo- 
sophy, encourage works and authors 
professing to follow it, and in many 
ways repress and discourage whatever 
is contrary to it. More than this, the 
Holy See, during the reigns of our 
present Sovereign Pontiff and his 
illustrious predecessor, Gregory XVI., 
has repeatedly intervened by acts of 
supreme authority, in which books, 
authors, systems, and propositions 
have been censured and condemned 
on account of their teaching philo- 
sophical errors contrary to the re- 
ceived doctrine, and either subversive 
of or dangerous to the faith. The 
Fathers of the Council of the Vatican 
were occupied during "several months 
with discussions upon fundamental 
questions of philosophy, the result of 
which is visible in the decrees of the 
Council. The doctrines which all 
Catholics are obliged to hold and 
teach have thus been to a certain ex- 
tent defined and declared, and the 
limits marked beyond which they are 
forbidden to stray. We have occa- 
sion, at 'present, to specify only two 
of the erroneous doctrines which have 
been thus condemned, viz. : that 
which is called Traditionalism, and 
another commonly known upder the 
name of Ontologism. We notice 
these, because both errors arose 
among sincere Catholics, and were 
the chief cause of dissension concern- 
ing philosophical doctrines in our own 
ranks, so that their condemnation has 
had a direct effect towards unity in 
teaching, especially as most of the 
principal persons concerned submit- 
ted obediently to the decision of au- 



332 



Review of Dr. Stock? s Philosophy. 



thority. The first of these errors was 
an extreme anti-rationalism, tending 
to subvert and sweep away all philo- 
sophy, and upon this we have no need 
to enlarge. The second was of far 
greater import, as it professed to be a 
new and perfect philosophy, and was 
the most formidable antagonist which 
the scholastic philosophy has ever 
had to encounter. The question is 
still a living, one, and the discussion 
of it is not yet over. Moreover, it re- 
lates to the very foundation of philo- 
sophy and theology, and has the most 
wide-reaching relations, wherefore 
we feel it to be necessary to be very 
careful and exact in what we say on 
the subject. That ontologism which 
we call an error is a certain ideologi- 
cal doctrine professing to be a true 
scientia entis, or science of being, and 
to be, therefore, the true and only 
real metaphysic. It has received 
its name from this profession of its 
advocates, and from common usage, 
for the want of one more specific 
and definite. It must not be sup- 
posed, however, that it is called an 
error on account of its being ontolo- 
gical, as if there were no true 
ontology, since this latter is the most 
essential part of philosophy itself. 
Nor is it correct to say that the doc- 
trine of all those who call themselves 
ontologists by way of distinction from 
those whom they call psychologists, 
but whom we prefer to designate 
rather as Platonists in distinction from 
Peripatetics or Aristotelians, is a con- 
demned error. The condemned 
error, as we understand it, after care- 
fully examining and reflecting upon 
the matter for several years, is a false 
and heterodox ontological doctrine, 
which radically and principally con- 
sists in the affirmation of a natural 
power in the created intellect to know 
God in himself, as infinite and neces- 
sary being,or in any other ideal aspect. 
The essence of the error consists in 



that part of the affirmation which is 
expressed by the term in himself, 
denoting that the very idea which is 
the object of the divine intelligence 
and is identical with it, and is really 
the divine essence itself considered as 
intelligible, is the idea of the created, 
and specifically of the human, intel- 
lect. The falsity of the doctrine con- 
sists in this, that it substitutes an 
imaginary intuition of God, which 
has no existence, for the real intuition 
of the connatural object of the created 
intellect ; and an explicit cognition of 
God explicated from this intuition 
for that cognition which human rea- 
son is actually capable of attaining, 
by discursion from self-evident truths 
which the developed* intellect posses- 
ses as its first principles. It therefore 
overturns true philosophy and natu- 
ral theology, and destroys the very 
cause which its advocates are most 
anxious to promote. It is heterodox, 
because its logical consequences an- 
nihilate the distinction between the 
natural light of reason and the super- 
natural lights of faith and glory, and, 
by ascribing to the natural condition 
of the creature that which belongs 
only to its deific condition, tend to 
annihilate the essential difference be- 
tween the Word of God and the 
creatures of God, the Only Begotten 
Son of God and his adopted sons ; 
thus introducing pantheism by a cov- 
ert road, into which Platonists and 
mystics have always been in clanger 
of straying unawares. The authors 
and advocates of this doctrine have 
been, at least in many cases, holy 
men of orthodox faith, who have 
strenuously denied its logical conse- 
quences. Wherefore, the condemna- 
tion of their opinions has been made 
in a very gentle and considerate 
manner, and their personal character 
as Catholics has not been compro- 
mised, unless they have shown a 
spirit of contumacious resistance to 



Review of Dr. StockFs Philosophy. 



333 



the authority of the Holy See. They 
have not fallen into heresy, but into 
philosophical error, and that in good 
faith, and before the authority of the 
church had given judgment. Sever- 
al of the most distinguished among 
them have made a formal recantation 
of their doctrine, others have done 
the same tacitly, and we may take it 
as a settled fact that the ontologism 
condemned at Rome is banished 
for ever from the Catholic schools. 

It is equally certain, however, that 
there is an ideology, distinct from 
that of the Thomist school, and fre- 
quently called ontologism, which is 
not condemned. Its advocates pro- 
fess to find it in St. Augustine. It is 
probably contained in the doctrine 
of St. Bonaventura. It is the doctrine 
taught in the later and more mature 
works of the great and saintly 
Cardinal Gerdil, who was in his 
youth a disciple of Malebranche the 
author of the, theory of the vision in 
God. And it is still maintained, un- 
der various forms, by a considerable 
number of most respectable persons 
in the church. Rosmini is well 
known as the author of a system 
which bears an affinity to it, and, in 
a general sense, it may be said to in- 
clude all those Catholic teachers and 
disciples of philosophy who are Plato- 
nists rather than Aristotelians. It 
is certain, we say, that this ideology, 
distinct alike from that of the 
Thomists and the pure ontologists, 
is not condemned. This is proved by 
the answers given to queries on the 
subject by persons connected with 
the Roman congregations, by the 
fact that the doctrines in question 
are openly advocated in lectures and 
published works under the eye of the 
Sovereign Pontiff, and by the express 
or tacit admission of the opponents 
of ontologism. We have been in- 
formed also by a distinguished prelate 
who was present at the discussions of 



the Vatican Council, that such was 
the general understanding of the 
bishops there assembled. 

This ideology gives the human in- 
tellect an idea created by an imme- 
diate illumination of God, and pre- 
ceding all apprehension and percep- 
tion of particular, finite objects. It 
may be an idea of God, of the infinite, 
of being, of the necessary and uni- 
versal, under any aspect, or under 
many distinct aspects; or it may be 
an assemblage of ideas representing 
both the infinite, and finite exterior 
objects. According to St. Bonaven- 
tura, it is an idea representing God ; 
according to Rosmini it is idea of 
ens in genere. But in whatever way 
this theory of innate ideas may be 
expressed, the intellectual object is 
always an image, something created 
with and in the mind, and even 
where it represents God, or the arche- 
typal ideas of God, it is not identi- 
fied with the uncreated ens of which it 
is the created image. The theory is 
therefore free from the censures of 
the church. It is necessary, however, 
for those who still adhere to the Pla- 
tonic ideology to be very careful and 
accurate in their expressions, in order 
to avoid the likelihood of being un- 
derstood by their readers to teach 
condemned propositions. The loose- 
ness of language which is more or 
less found in the more ancient 
authors; in all authors not familiar 
with the scholastic method, unless 
they have a precise terminology of 
their own, which is another difficulty 
in the way of understanding them ; 
and the abstruseness of the subject it- 
self, produce a great deal of misun- 
derstanding. There is a great deal 
of obscurity in the writings of Plato 
whenever he speaks of ideology, and 
his disciples have inherited the same. 
It has been quite possible, therefore, 
for writers whose doctrine is sound 
to use the language and adopt 



334 



Review of Dr. StockFs Philosophy. 



many of the ideas of the celebrated 
authors of the ontologistic party, with- 
out really apprehending the nature 
and bearings of that erroneous doc- 
trine which was at the bottom of their 
whole system. These authors have 
frequently expressed their ideas un- 
der terms and forms of expression 
borrowed from N St. Augustine, St. 
Bonaventura, Gerdil, Fenelon, and 
other well-known doctors, prelates, 
and theologians. Very few of them 
have elaborated their doctrine with 
sufficient completeness and precision 
to make it easy to be understood. 
Those who have done so have been 
the occasion of its precise formula- 
lation and condemnation in the 
famous seven propositions. But, now 
that the supreme authority in the 
church has distinctly specified what 
errors of ontologism must be rejected 
as dangerous to faith, it is specially 
important that every Catholic writer 
should be precise, accurate, and 
clear in his language, so that he may 
not be misunderstood even by the 
ordinary student or reader of philoso- 
phical essays. The supreme, infallible 
authority of the Holy See has not, 
in condemning certain errors, pre- 
scribed or defined what precisely is 
the true ideological doctrine. Ca- 
tholic philosophers must therefore 
seek to come to as close an agree- 
ment as possible by the way of 
reason. In order to do this, it is ne- 
cessary that tl}e method and termino- 
logy sanctioned by ancient and gene- 
ral usage should be strictly adhered 
to, since, otherwise, endless discussion 
will be the only result. We think, 
moreover, as we have already said, 
that this agreement can only be ef- 
fected by means of the ideology of 
St. Thomas. The church has not, 
indeed, formally approved it, but, in 
our opinion, she has condemned that 
which is its only logical alternative. 
Therefore, we trust in the power of 



reason and logic to bring all mas- 
ter-minds into agreement with St. 
Thomas, and in the authority of 
these teachers and leaders to secure 
the adhesion of the great majority, 
who must ever be their disciples. It 
is, we believe, ignorance or misap- 
prehension of the scholastic philoso- 
phy, as taught in the school of St. 
Thomas, which has been the occa- 
sion of the attempt made by so many 
highly gifted and noble-hearted men 
to fabricate out of Platonism a better 
ideology. Disgust at nominalism, 
sensism, and psychologism, abhor- 
rence of the scepticism into which 
Hume and Kant sought to resolve all 
knowledge and belief, have driven 
them to seek for a self-subsisting, ob- 
jective foundation of the ideal, sepa- 
rate from and independent of the 
sensible. Irresistible logic has im- 
pelled them by degrees toward the 
ultimatum which the pure ontolo- 
gists have reached ; and which is 
simply the affirmation of God exist- 
ing in his attribute of absolute being, 
the infinite, or archetypal truth, 
beauty, and goodness, to which 
Gioberti adds in the creative act ; as 
the immediate ideal object of the in- 
tellect. They have supposed that 
this is the only alternative of the op- 
posite extreme, and have put aside 
the scholastic ideology as halting be- 
tween the two upon untenable ground. 
The opinion which they have of its 
inconsistency and insufficiency is dis- 
tinctly expressed in the oft-repeated 
assertion that it is mere psychologism. 
This term properly denotes any sys- 
tem which makes ideas mere subjec- 
tive modes of the mind. It is obvious 
that every species of semi-ontologism, 
every theory of innate ideas, every 
system shaped out of Platonic ele- 
ments, which separates ideas from the 
sensible as the centre of their concre- 
tion and their focus of visibility to the 
human intellect, without locating 



Review of Dr. Stockl's Philosophy. 



335 



them in God, is psychologism. But 
it is not true of the philosophy of 
Aristotle and St. Thomas, that it re- 
duces ideas to this condition of sub- 
jectivity, no better than that of the 
phantoms which arise in the imagin- 
ation 01 the sleeper or the day-dream- 
er. In this philosophy, the intelligi- 
ble object has a reality exterior to 
the mind, which it directly perceives, 
and by which as a medium it attains 
self-evident and demonstrated truths, 
having their foundation in the eternal 
truth, in the jnfinite, in absolute 
being, in the Word, in God; who 
is the object of the mediate intellec- 
tual vision of the mind, as the apostle 
declares. Invisibilia ipsius ; per ea 
qwz facta sunt, intellecta, conspiciuntur. 
His invisible perfections are disclosed 
to our sight, being perceived by the 
intellect through those things which 
are made. Videmus mine per specu- 
lum. We see even now, although 
only in a mirror. The scholastic 
philosophy is not identical with any 
merely sensistic, concep tualistic, or 
empirical system. It does not reduce 
ideas to mere abstractions, make 
philosophy a mere induction from 
the results of experience, or the 
knowledge of God by reason the sum 
of an aggregate mass of probabilities. 
It is not in any wise a system of sub- 
jectivism. On the contrary, it is ob- 
jective in the highest sense of the 
term, and truly ontological, the real 
scientia entis, and not an imaginary 
one like that of the so-called onto- 
logists. If this be so, the whole 
ground of the prejudice against the 
Catholic peripatetic philosophy falls 
away, and there is no reason to 
desert the common teaching of the 
schools for any other doctrine, either 
ancient or modern. 

The four great masters in philoso- 
phy are Plato, Aristotle, St. Augus- 
tine, and St. Thomas. Plato is rather 
a teacher of theology and ethics than 



of metaphysics. His doctrine con- 
cerning God, the immortality of the 
soul, and the moral ideal, is in many 
respects purer and more sublime than 
that of his pupil. Yet Aristotle de- 
serves par excellence the title of the 
heathen philosopher. The name of 
the dcemon given to him by his fellow- 
pupils on account of his wonderful 
intellect well expresses what he really 
was the greatest intellectual prodigy 
that has appeared in human history, 
the real creator of logical and meta- 
physical science. St. Augustine fol- 
lowed Plato rather than any other 
heathen philosopher, and does not 
appear to have been acquainted with 
the works of Aristotle. Yet his 
philosophy as a whole was original ; 
it was chiefly his theology under a 
rational aspect; it was by no means 
a complete and distinct system. St. 
Thomas, with the Aristotelian sys- 
tem as a plan and basis, built the 
vast and sublime structure of a Ca- 
tholic philosophy. Although it may 
be true that he derived his know- 
ledge of Plato chiefly from Aristotle, 
and the latter may have misrepresent- 
ed his master; yet, through St. Au- 
gustine, he obtained all that was 
really valuable in Plato purified and 
improved ; and has thus incorporated 
into his system everything, whether 
pagan or Christian, which tradition 
had brought down to his time. As' 
Aristotle is the daemon, St. Thomas 
is the angel of philosophy. It is dif- 
ficult to compare his natural gifts 
with those of Aristotle in such a way 
as to make a relative estimate of the 
genius of the two men. But in ac- 
tual wisdom, enlightened as he was 
by revelation and the Christian lumi- 
naries of the ages which preceded 
him, and elevated above the natural 
capacities of man by the gifts of the 
Holy Ghost, he is like the bright mid- 
day sun compared to the pale orb of 
nis:ht. All other stars in the firma- 



336 



Review of Dr. StockFs Philosophy. 



ment must be content to shine as 
lesser lights, and the brightest among 
them are only his planets. Meta- 
physical genius of the highest order 
is the rarest of gifts. Clement of 
Alexandria thought that the Greek 
philosophy had not arisen without a 
special act of the divine providence 
which was preparing the way for 
Christian theology. When we con- 
sider the wonderful work accom- 
plished by Aristotle, and the manner 
in which his philosophy has become 
blended with the theology of the 
church, we cannot fail to recognize 
the hand of God making use of the 
human intellect in its most consum- 
mate perfection as the servant of the 
Eternal Word in his mission as the 
teacher of divine truth. Much more 
must we recognize the same divine 
hand in the genius and work of St. 
Thomas. God does his work once 
for all. The apostles finished their 
special work, the fathers finished 
theirs, and we can have no more 
apostles or fathers of the church. 
The doctors have done their work, 
and, although they may have left 
room for successors, yet this is not in 
the sense that their work is to be 
done over again. We do not be- 
lieve there can ever arise another St. 
Thomas to reconstruct more perfectly 
the edifice of theology and philoso- 
phy in those parts which he has 
built, and these are its essential and 
principal parts. Of theology we 
need not speak particularly. Of 
philosophy, the principal parts are 
those which give a scientific exposi- 
tion of the rational basis of theology ; 
that is, which treat scientifically of 
the objective reality of the intelligi- 
ble which the human intellect per- 
ceives by its natural power ; of the 
first principles of reason ; of self-evi- 
dent and demonstrable truth ; of the 
process by which the mind ascends 
from the knowledge of things to the 



knowledge of their highest and crea- 
tive cause, from the creature to the 
Creator, from the visible and ideal 
world to God, from the knowledge 
of God through the creation to the 
knowledge of God through revela- 
tion. It is precisely here, as we 
have shown, that the dispute lies be- 
tween scholastic philosophy and on- 
tologism. And it is precisely what 
we claim for scholastic philosophy, 
that it gives us the true science of 
ideology and theodicy, which satisfies 
reason and accords with faith, and is 
really that which is* implicitly and 
confusedly possessed by the common 
sense of all men, especially of all 
Christians, in proportion to the de- 
gree in which reason is developed 
and instructed. This has been 
proved in the most thorough and 
ample manner by F. Liberatore in 
his great work Delia Conoscenza In- 
telletuale, F. Kleutgen in his Philo- 
sophic der Vorzeit, and F. Ramiere in 
his Uniti de F Enseinement Philo- 
sophique, as well as in other recent 
works of the same kind. 

We will endeavor to give a state- 
ment as succinct and clear as possi- 
ble of the scholastic theory, in order 
that its opposition to every form of 
sensism, idealism, and ontologism 
may be apparent. 

In thought or cognition, we find 
by analysis these three, the subject, 
the object, and the'intellectual light ; 
as in vision we have the visual facul- 
ty, light, and the visible object. The 
subject is the human intellect; the 
primary, immediate object is the in- 
telligible in the sensible, or the es- 
sences of sensible things; the light is 
intelligence. It is a primary maxim 
that nothing is in the intellect which 
was not first in the sense. Sensible 
experience is therefore the starting 
point of thought. The thought it- 
self is the result of an active opera- 
tion of the intellect upon a passive 



Review of Dr. Stock? s Philosophy. 



337 



impression which it receives from 
the object. This active operation 
produces a similitude of the object 
(species) in the mind, by which it be- 
comes cognizant of the object itself 
as distinct from and extrinsic to the 
subject. The intelligible essence 
which is in the sensible object is dis- 
tinguished and made the object of 
apprehension by the process of ab- 
straction. In this intelligible essence, 
or what is called in common parlance 
" the' nature of things," are contained 
the fundamental notions which are 
the first germs of all intellectual pro- 
cesses, the first product of the act of 
abstraction which is the beginning of 
intellectual activity in the infant. In 
these notions are given the first prin- 
ciples, the self-evident principles, the 
axioms of reason; and with these 
reason is able to start the discursive 
process, by which it demonstrates con- 
clusions from premises, which in the 
last analysis are intellections a priori 
and self-evident. By this reasoning 
process, the existence and attributes 
of God are proved from the rational 
and material universe by the princi- 
ple of causality, which is one of the 
self-evident principles. Self-con- 
sciousness begins as soon as the mind 
takes note of itself as acting, and thus 
the subject becomes objective to it- 
self without any need of a species or 
impressed similitude of itself, because 
it is itself, and present to itself, and 
more vividly cognizant of itself in 
acting than of anything exterior to 
itself. The notions derived from re- 
flection on its own operations are 
thus added to those which are de- 
rived by abstraction from sensible ob- 
jects. The immediate perception ter- 
minates only on particular individual 
objects, but the notions obtained by 
abstraction are universal, whence it 
is necessary to define in what con- 
sists the objective reality of these 
universals. The universal is defined 
VOL. xv. 22 



by Aristotle as that which is one, but 
having aptitude to be contained in 
many. That is, it is genus, with 
whatever is included under genus, 
to wit, species, differentia, essential 
and accidental propriety. For in- 
stance, the notion of man is the no- 
tion of a nature which is one, but apt 
to be contained in an indefinite num- 
ber of men. It includes the genus 
animal, the species rational animal, 
the differentia rationality, the essen- 
tial propriety, or the entire human 
constitution, mental and physical, 
and, in respect to the varieties of 
race, the accidental proprieties which 
distinguish each one from the others. 
All particular and individual objects 
of cognition can be classed under 
these five predicaments of the uni- 
versal. The universal itself has its 
formal existence and reality, as uni- 
versal, only in the intellect. It is a 
conception of the mind, formed by 
abstraction from the concrete and 
particular. It is not, however, a 
mere abstract conception, but an 
abstractive conception. An abstract 
conception is one in which a quality- 
is considered as separated by thought 
from any particular subject in which 
it has residence, as goodness or sweet- 
ness. An abstractive conception, as 
that of the human species, is one 
formed from the consideration of 
men actually existing, in whom the 
species is actually individualized. 
The conception has, therefore, its 
foundation in the real object of men- 
tal intuition, the individual man, and 
in him the whole that is contained 
in the universal conception really ex- 
ists. The conception is universal, 
because the intellect perceives the in- 
trinsic possibility of an indefinite 
multitude of men in the very essence 
of man, as made known by the ex- 
istence of any one man in particular. 
This possibility is something neces- 
sarily and eternally true, which is 



333 



Revieiv of Dr. Stockrs Philosophy. 



disclosed to the intellect by means 
of its outward expression and realiza- 
tion in the human race. That is to 
say, it is a thought which has been ex- 
pressed and communicated, by an 
intelligence in which the possibility 
eternally and essentially subsists, 
to the human intelligence. The 
foundation of the universal concep- 
tion is therefore in God. It is in 
God as archetype of man, as the rea- 
son of the possibility of man's nature, 
and the cause of his existence. But 
the idea in God is totally different 
from the conception in the mind of 
man. God understands the possibil- 
ity of the existence of man in the 
vision of his own essence, as imitable 
in this particular form, and of his 
own creative power. But man can- 
not see this idea as it is in God ; he 
cannot compare the human type 
with its archetype. He can only 
produce an afterthought of the divine 
thought itself, a copy or imitation of 
the divine idea, which is wholly inac- 
cessible to his immediate vision, and 
is only known to him inasmuch as it 
is manifested through the created 

type- 
Let us take another example, that 
of a triangle. The figure drawn on 
the blackboard is the sensible object. 
The conception of a triangle is the 
intelligible object formed by abstrac- 
tion, and universal. In this concep- 
tion are contained the general no- 
tions of a point, a line, an angle ; and 
in these notions are involved several 
self-evident principles or axioms. 
From these are demonstrated the va- 
rious mathematical propositions of 
trigonometry. It is easy to see that, 
in the intellectual process of the pu- 
pil's mind, the genesis and develop- 
ment of the act of cognition of math- 
ematical truth is precisely what has 
been above described. In an intelli- 
gent and well-developed mind, many 
of the steps of the process may be 



made with such ease and rapidity 
that they appear to be instantaneous, 
and the conceptions gained are so 
clear and evident that they appear 
like innate or intuitive ideas. - But 
they are not so, and this is made 
manifest enough in the case of dull 
or slow-minded pupils. The con- 
ception of the triangle, with all the 
mathematical truth which it contains, 
is necessary, universal, and eternal. 
It has, therefore, its foundation in 
necessary being, or in the divine in- 
telligence. But it is in God in an 
eminent mode, and formally only in 
the human intellect. Geometrical 
truth is founded in the essence of 
God, who is the archetype of the 
triangle and of every other geometri- 
cal figure. But that which the tri- 
angle imitates the human intellect 
cannot see ; the divine idea in which 
mathematical truth as apprehended 
by us is eminently contained is inap- 
prehensibfe by any created mind ; 
and the procession of the divine 
thoughts expressed in quantity and its 
relations in a manner intelligible to 
us, from the divine essence, is as much 
above our understanding as the pro- 
cession of the Holy Spirit from the 
Father and the Son. It is impossible 
to think of mathematical conceptions 
except as having objective verity, 
and equally impossible to think of 
them as identical with the ideal be- 
ing of God ; they must be, therefore, 
as St. Thomas teaches, concrete only 
in particular quantities, but in their 
universality, conceptus mentis cum fun- 
damento in re. 

It is the same with the conceptions 
of time and space. These concep- 
tions come from the apprehension of 
things which succeed or coexist with 
each other. Real time and space 
are relations of real and finite 
things. Ideal time and space are 
necessarily conceived as illimitable. 
It is equally evident that these con- 



Review of Dr. StockFs Philosophy 



339 



ceptions of illimitable time and space 
are not purely subjective categories 
of the mind, and that they are not, in 
the formality which they have in our 
mind, either eternal realities in them- 
selves or identical with God. They 
have a foundation in the divine es- 
sence, which we can demonstrate to 
be nothing else than the infinite pos- 
sibility of being imitated in created 
existences. But this is a conclusion 
of reason, and not an intuition of the 
divine essence as infinite archetype. 
In our minds, the conceptions repre- 
sent space and time as boundless ex- 
tended locality and boundless suc- 
cessive duration, as Locke and Clarke 
have so clearly set forth, and as 
every one knows by his own reflec- 
tions. As conceptions of the univer- 
sal, they have their existence, there- 
fore, only in the mind, while their 
foundation is in reality. They pre- 
suppose and demand an eternal 
thinker and an eternal thought; we 
can see immediately neither the 
thought nor the thinker as they are 
in themselves, but we behold both 
mediately by the conceptions of the 
universal and the necessary ; which re- 
flect in our minds the eternal thought 
of the eternal thinker, the eternal 
idea of the eternal God. 

In point of fact, ontologists are 
obliged to admit that the process of 
the act of the cognition of the infinite 
is historically the same in substance 
with that which we have just ex- 
plained. Their immediate ideal in- 
tuition is something involute and out 
of the reach of consciousness, until 
contact with sensible objects, reflec- 
tion, experience and instruction 
bring it into the state of evolution. 
On the one hand, this proves that it 
lias no existence, except in their own 
imagination. An innate or intuitive 
idea of God would make his infinite 
splendor to shine on the mind with 
such incessant and dazzling splendor, 



that the sunlight would appear as 
darkness, and finite things as nonen- 
tities, before it. It would be impossi- 
ble to doubt or to forget it, if it ex- 
isted. On the other hand, this shows 
that the scholastic theory of the ori- 
gin of ideas and knowledge adequate- 
ly expresses everything which they 
can reasonably desire in respect to the 
relation of the intellect to the infinite, 
or real and necessary being, as the 
object of cognition. The idea of the 
infinite and the knowledge of God 
are virtually in the intellect, because 
the light of reason, a participation of 
the divine light, gives it the potenti- 
ality which can be reduced to act by 
union with the intelligible object. 
The theory which ascribes to the 
newly created soul something besides 
its rational capacity, which it brings 
with it as a kind of form to vivify the 
sensible object, or keeps as a distinct 
ideal object within itself, is wholly 
unnecessary and superfluous. It is,, 
moreover, not in accordance with 
the true doctrine respecting the hu- 
man soul as forma corporis. It be- 
longs rather to that imperfect phi- 
losophy which ascribes to the soul in 
this life a separate and independent 
subsistence, into which the body does 
not enter as an integral part of the 
personality, but which it merely serves 
as a machine. The scholastic doctrine 
preserves the unity of the essence 
and the operation of man, as a ra- 
tional animal. That an intellectual 
operation should begin from our 
senses, and the mind commence its 
existence in its rudimental body as 
a tabula rasa, is in accordance with 
our humble position in the natural 
order. The capacity for gaining 
knowledge by the slow process of ex- 
perience and discursion is all that 
we have any right to claim for our- 
selves. It is enough for us that we 
are rational, that " the light of God's 
countenance is signed upon us " by 



340 



Review of Dr. Stockl's Philosophy. 



the impress of an image of his intelli- 
gence upon our souls ; and that we 
are enlightened by " that light which 
enlighteneth every man coming into 
this world " by receiving the power 
to know God as manifested in his 
works. We are certainly a " little 
lower than the angels," who have no 
natural vision of God in his essence, 
and how are we essentially inferior to 
them, except in the necessity of be- 
ginning the process of intellectual 
cognition from the apprehension of 
sensible objects ? It still remains 
true that God is both the author and 
;the object of knowledge even in the 
aiatural order, and that we naturally 
..lend to the contemplation of his be- 
jng and perfections. But this pro- 
cess carried on for eternity could 
never bring us to a point where we 
could obtain the faintest glimpse of 
an intuitive vision of the divine es- 
sence. The capacity to attain to 
this vision is wholly gratuitous and 
supernatural, a gift of grace, an ele- 
vation of our nature above itself, and 
above the angelic nature to a simili- 
tude with the divine nature. The 
actual vision is reserved for the state 
of glory in which the blessed see 
God in himself and all things in God. 
The scholastic philosophy is there- 
fore in conformity with Catholic 
theology, and a proper preparation 
for studying and understanding this 
sublime science. Every other sys- 
tem is either in discord with it, or 
deficient in the perfect logical con- 
cord which ought to make the in- 
ferior harmonize completely with the 
superior science. 

The revival of scholastic philoso- 
phy, and the general consent with 
which, in all parts of the world, 
those who lead in the great work of 
Catholic education and instruction are 
uniting together in promoting its stu- 
dy and exposition, are a most hope- 
ful sign for the coming age. It is 



especially encouraging to witness this 
revival in Germany; and to see the 
powerful and heavily panoplied 
champions of orthodox theology and 
sound philosophy coming forth from 
the German schools, to meet and 
overthrow the boastful giants of that 
land of colossal intelligence and 
learning ; who defy the armies of the 
living God and aim at an imperial 
domination over the world of science, 
as its statesmen and warriors do 
over the political world. They are 
but giants of condensed cloud, like 
the genii of Arabian fable who es- 
caped from the bottles of King Solo- 
mon. The wisdom of Solomon sub- 
dued these genii, and it is the true wis- 
dom, sapientia, which must subdue the 
cloudy giants of critical, historical, 
and philosophical sophistry ; the Bru- 
no Bauers, Strausses, Dollingers, 
Kants, Hegels, and Biichners, who 
make war on the old Bible, the old 
church, the old religion, the old 
philosophy, the old God of Germa- 
ny and Christendom. A nephew of 
Hegel and pupil of Feuerbach asked 
the latter what was to be done next, 
since the Kantian philosophy had 
ended in the complete dissolution of 
all science. The reply was, that we 
must return to common sense. The 
pupil followed the advice by return- 
ing to the old God and the old re- 
ligion. To bring back the next gen- 
eration to this old religion, and to 
educate in it the youth who have re- 
ceived it by their baptism in the 
church, is the great task of Catholic 
teachers. This can be done only by 
the aid of the old philosophy. The 
attempts made everywhere, but espe- 
cially in Germany, to do this by a 
new philosophy and a new theology 
are all failures, and end only in be- 
traying the whole cause of the church 
to the enemy. Those Catholic scho- 
lars of Germany who are sound and 
strong alike in their faith and in their 



Review of Dr. Stock? s Philosophy. 



341 



science are beginning to see this, and 
are returning to the philosophy of the 
Angelic Doctor as the only fit compa- 
nion to theology, the true wisdom in 
the rational order. Those who become 
the interpreters and teachers of this 
wisdom to the young are the most val- 
uable and efficient of all laborers in 
the field of divine philosophy. They 
need to be thoroughly learned both 
in theology and philosophy, and at 
the same time to have a special gift 
for teaching and explaining doctrine 
in a condensed, lucid, and attractive 
manner. 

In all these respects, Dr. Stockl is 
pre-eminent. He has the vast and 
solid erudition of the great German 
scholars. He has, moreover, an in- 
tellect which is remarkable both for 
strength and clearness, a masterly 
reasoning faculty, great talent culti- 
vated by long experience for instruct- 
ing young students, and a style 
which represents his thoughts with 
the precision of a photograph. The 
German language is, moreover, of 
such a nature that, while it repro- 
duces exactly the Latin terminology 
of scholastic writers, it brings out the 
idea in a new and fresh form, in 
which it becomes more intelligible to 
those who belong to the Teutonic 
race than it is in the Latin dress. 
We have never yet met with a man- 
ual of philosophy which seems to us 
so perfectly satisfactory as the Man- 
ual of Dr. Stockl; and the speedy 
call for a second edition which fol- 
lowed its publication, as well as the 
praise given to it by competent au- 
thorities, proves that it has met the 
want which has been felt in Ger- 
many as in Great Britain and Ameri- 
ca. Besides the ordinary topics 
which are treated in our text-books, it 
contains also treatises on political 
and social morals, and has a com- 
panion volume of small size which 
contains a masterly treatise on " Es- 
thetics." We have noticed it especial- 



ly for the purpose of recommending 
it to the examination of those who 
are engaged in promoting the study 
of the scholastic philosophy, as a 
suitable work to be translated into 
English for the use of students. It 
is perhaps too large for a college 
text-book. It contains about one 
thousand pages octavo, and would 
require two years' study, with an or- 
dinary class, to be properly mastered, 
in connection with the Manual of 
the History of Philosophy, which is a 
volume of equal size. Nevertheless, 
although a smaller text-book is need- 
ed for the majority of pupils, this one 
would make an admirable work of 
reference for more advanced schol- 
ars, and supply the other needs 
which we have pointed out in the 
earlier part of our article as calling 
for a book of this kind in the English 
language. The great cost of transla- 
tion and publication, coupled with 
the risk of a small sale, makes it 
somewhat difficult to undertake the 
task we have suggested as desirable. 
It cannot be done, of course, without 
the author's permission, which, we 
suppose, he will readily grant to those 
who can give the proper guarantee 
for the faithful and scholarly per- 
formance of the work. We intended, 
when sitting down to begin this arti- 
cle, to make only a brief introduction 
of our own to a translation of the 
author's chapter on the " Origin of 
Ideas," as a specimen of the work. 
But we have not done so, as the 
reader knows, and have been unwit- 
tingly led on over such a length of 
space that we have left no room for 
any citations from the author, or mi- 
nute review of the different parts of 
his philosophy. We trust that he 
will become speedily known to all 
lovers of the philosophy of St. 
Thomas, which he has so ably pre- 
sented and defended, and we are 
sure that he needs only to be known 
to be most highly appreciated. 



342 



Fleurange. 



FLEURANGE. 

BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF " A SISTER'S STORY." 

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION. 

PART SECOND. 
THE TRIAL. 



XVI. 



" THE princess begs Mademoiselle 
Gabrielle to descend." This mes- 
sage was brought Fleurange by one 
of the servants of the princess, whose 
attendants were a German valet de 
chambre, an Italian courier, and a 
Russian waiting-maid. The latter, 
named Varinka, literally belonged to 
the princess, being her slave. But 
Varinka, skilful and intelligent like 
all the Russians of her class, kindly 
treated by her mistress, to whom she 
was faithfully attached, and clothed 
in her cast-off garments, did not look 
upon her condition as in the least 
humiliating. In French she was called 
Mademoiselle Barbe, in Italian 
the Signora Barbara, and she consid- 
ered herself, and indeed was regard- 
ed, as one of the most accomplished 
of servants. Extremely exacting of 
all who were beneath her, and in- 
clined to be jealous of those she con- 
sidered her equals, she at first wished 
to class the princess' new demoi- 
selle de compagnie among the latter. 
But Fleurange, without even observ- 
ing this, knew how to take the 
place that belonged to her, and 
oblige Mademoiselle Barbe to main- 
tain a respectful deportment towards 
her. Barbara was consequently in- 
clined to dislike her, but, after some 
attentive observation, she had suffi- 
cient wit to refrain. The fact was. 



Fleurange's activity relieved her from 
a part of her cares without increasing 
them in the least (for the young girl 
never required any one's assistance), 
and used her influence in a way 
which every one else profited by as 
well as Barbara. When the Princess 
was recovering from one of the at- 
tacks of physical suffering that all at 
once showed how unavailing were 
the comforts, luxuries, and attentions 
that surrounded her, she dwelt con- 
stantly on her illness, its cause, dura- 
tion, and probable or improbable 
cure, and under the influence of this 
preoccupation she became capri- 
cious, whimsical, and almost impossi- 
ble to satisfy. No one had ever suc- 
ceeded so well as Fleurange. Ma- 
demoiselle Barbe could not help ac- 
knowledging, " She really has all 
the trouble of keeping madame in a 
good humor, and we the benefit of 
it," and this plain reasoning made 
her decide to live at peace with the 
new-comer, and take all possible ad- 
vantage of the accommodating turn 
she noticed in Fleurange, who thus 
unwittingly disarmed her enemy and 
converted her into an ally, and al- 
most a friend. 

The princess' message, which put 
an end to the young girl's pleasant 
dreams, was, it must be acknow- 
ledged, merely an invention of Ma- 



Fleurange. 



343 



demoiselle Barbe's, who, being told 
by the courier it was very delightful 
on deck, was suddenly seized with 
the desire of a walk by moonlight. 
With this end in view, she sent the 
courier for Fleurange. As before 
stated, she was sure Mademoiselle 
Gabrielle would come down immedi- 
ately without making any objections 
or asking any questions, which was 
one of her meritorious qualities in 
the eyes of this sagacious servant. 
" That young lady does not meddle 
with what does not concern her, 
which, I must acknowledge, is very 
agreeable," she said. 

As she had foreseen, Fleurange 
left her seat in the open air without 
any objection, and went down to the 
ladies' cabin, of which the princess 
had exclusive possession. She found 
the invalid asleep, and quietly took a 
seat beside her without questioning 
the exactness of the message she had 
just received. Throwing off the 
cloak she wore, she said : " Here, 
Barbara, put on this, if you like, and 
go up and take the air. It is de- 
lightful on deck." 

It was by such pleasing good hu- 
mor she had unintentionally made a 
conquest of one who naturally re- 
garded Fleurange as a rival, and this, 
above all the qualities she possessed, 
was the charm that had most power 
over the princess, and changed the 
sudden infatuation to which she was 
liable (like most of the ladies of her 
country) into something deeper and 
more permanent. 

The Princess Catherine was lying 
on a couch, her head propped up by 
several cushions, and her feet cov- 
ered with a cashmere shawl. In 
spite of her age and ill health, which 
had changed the outlines of her face 
and form, beauty and grace had not 
disappeared without leaving on her 
person traces much less fleeting than 
beauty itself. Fleurange, looking at 



her face by the light of a lamp sus- 
pended from the ceiling, could not 
help admiring her noble brow, and 
the expressiveness as well as the 
still remarkable delicacy of her fea- 
tures. Suddenly, as she thus sat con- 
templating her with more attention 
than ever before, it seemed as if the 
face before her awoke some indis- 
tinct remembrance but before she 
could grasp the idea that suddenly 
came into her mind, the princess 
opened her eyes. Seeing Fleurange 
beside her, she smiled, and extended 
her beautiful hand. 

" You here, Gabrielle ?" she said. 
" So much the better." 

" I was told you wanted me." 

" No ; but I am very glad you are 
here." 

Fleurange bent down, and kissed 
the hand she held with an impulse 
more affectionate than she had ever 
felt towards her before. The prin- 
cess seemed touched, and pressed 
her hand in return without speaking. 
Then she went to sleep again. Fleur- 
ange remained with her eyes fas- 
tened on her a long time, then she 
too lay down on a couch at the 
other end of the cabin, to pass away 
the few hours that yet remained be- 
fore their arrival at Leghorn, which 
would be about daybreak. 

At that time, long before the era 
of railways, the route from Leghorn 
to Florence, a long and dusty one, 
was not always traversed in a single 
day, and our travellers stopped at 
Pisa for the night. The princess no 
longer felt any interest in the places 
she had visited so many times. She 
had only one wish, and that was 
to rest, and, once rested, to resume 
the journey. But it was quite other- 
wise with Fleurange. Pisa was her 
birthplace. In Pisa lay buried the 
mother she never knew. Here 
her father brought her during the 
few happy days they passed to- 



344 



Fleurange. 



gether. Ho\v many vicissitudes her 
young life had passed through since 
that time ! How many sorrows and 
joys she had experienced ! How 
many ties she had formed and bro- 
ken ! And with what interest she al- 
ready dwelt on the past at an age 
when others are only thinking of the 
future ! As soon as it was light, long 
before the princess awoke, Fleurange 
went to pray beside her mother's 
grave. Then she directed her steps 
towards the Campo Santo, around 
which she slowly walked. Of all the 
places she visited with her father, this 
was the one of which she retained 
the most vivid recollection. The 
paintings of the Campo Santo are 
like a poem which it is impossible to 
understand if ignorant of the lan- 
guage in which it is written. This 
language she learned from her father, 
and had not been allowed to forget 
it in her uncle's house. She remem- 
bered that her cousin, without ever 
having visited this spot, was as fami- 
liar with all the paintings as herself. 
" How much poor Clement would 
enjoy all these beauties of nature and 
art, and these scenes of historic in- 
terest!" she said to herself. "How 
much he would enjoy Italy !" 

She might have added that, like 
many of his countrymen, he already 
knew and loved 

"The land where the lemon-trees bloom," 

without ever having seen it. Many 
Germans have loved it with a pro- 
found and material passion, fatal 
when satisfied by violent possession, 
but reciprocated and fruitful when 
the forced and hated union was bro- 
ken and gave place to voluntary and 
acceptable alliance. 

Leaving the Campo Santo, Fleur- 
ange went into the church, the 
wonderful Cathedral of Pisa, which 
cannot be compared to any other; 
for, if there are any finer, it is doubt- 



ed or forgotten as soon as this is 
entered. Here Fleurange heard 
Mass, after which she remained a 
long time on her knees, praying, 
thinking of all those she loved, and 
looking around : and all this without 
losing her spirit of devotion. This 
may appear strange to those who 
wish to confine the soul's impulse to- 
wards God within narrow and rigid 
limits. It is nevertheless certain that, 
in a simple and upright heart, a good 
will, a more ardent love of the eter- 
nal goodness, the resolutions so 
properly called a firm purpose of 
amendment, all these effects of 
prayer often spring from what does 
not naturally seem destined to pro- 
duce them. In those lands where re- 
ligion and the arts go hand in hand, 
and where the inspiration which 
guides the painter and the architect 
is the same that draws the believer to 
the foot of the altar, it often happens 
that a glance at a fresco or painting 
aids the soul more than a sermon in 
its upward flight, and in accomplish- 
ing the very act for which it is pros- 
trate before God. 

It was thus Fleurange, kneeling 
on the pavement, holding her closed 
book in her hand, meditated, looked 
around, and prayed. Among the 
thoughts floating in her mind, there 
was one especially which seemed to 
harmonize with everything around 
her : it was the remembrance of the 
cloister of Santa Maria, and the 
friend of her early childhood, whose 
features at this moment seemed to 
beam out of some of the holy faces 
on the walls around her. She was 
once more beneath the same sky, and 
sufficiently near to cherish a hope 
of seeing her. At this thought her 
eyes overflowed with tears. The re- 
membrance of her childhood pre- 
vailed over all others, and rendered 
her prayer more concentrated and 
more fervent. 



Fleurange. 



345 



Mild and saintly Madre Maddalena ! 
perhaps at this same hour you, too, 
were praying praying for the child 
that was still dear to you : perhaps, 
afar off, you echoed her prayer and 



made it more efficacious the oft-re- 
curring prayer now on Fleurange's lips 
as she was about to leave the church : 
" Our Father, . . . lead us not into 
temptation, but deliver us from evil !' ' 



XVII. 



For the first time since her illness, 
the princess rose above her languor, 
and resumed the faculty of talking 
of something besides herself. As 
they drew near the end of their jour- 
ney, Fleurange perceived she- knew 
how to converse, and that the in- 
difference she sometimes manifested 
to what seemed most worthy of in- 
terest was not the result of igno- 
rance, but simply a preference for 
something else. Like other people, 
she admired monuments, galleries, 
splendid churches, and museums, 
but she preferred the shops where she 
could procure the rarities she had a 
taste for, and liked to adorn her 
house with for the admiration of 
others. She enjoyed the brilliant 
sky of Italy and the comfort of its 
mild climate, so necessary to her 
health ; but, if these advantages had 
not been accompanied by a sumptu- 
ous palace and a large circle of 
fashionable acquaintances, she would 
have regarded her expatriation as an 
exile, and found it but slightly miti- 
gated by all the wonders of nature 
and art by which she was surrounded. 

Their journey at last came to an 
end. The princess descended from 
her carriage at the foot of the mag- 
nificent entrance to her palace, so 
overjoyed at finding herself once 
more at home that the last traces of 
her recent malady disappeared as if 
by enchantment. 

Numerous servants relieved Fleur- 
ange from the care of the light bag- 
gage with which the princess' car- 
riage was always encumbered, and 
she hastily followed her protectress 



up the broad steps of white marble 
that led to the first story. Here a 
vast hall ornamented with statues 
opened into apartments whose splen- 
dor surprised the young girl. She 
had already visited more than one 
palace in Italy with a similar display 
of grand proportions, frescoes, ceilings 
richly painted and gilded, but she 
had never seen anything comparable 
to the luxury of the furniture and the 
richness of the long suite of rooms 
through which they passed. When 
the princess came to the last, she 
stopped. This salon, smaller than 
the others, opened, as well as the one 
next it, upon a large covered terrace 
with frescoed arches, which, filled with 
flowers, rare plants, and seats of all 
forms and sizes, resembled a garden 
screened from the sun, and formed an 
appendage to the elegant apartment 
they had just entered, which was the 
princess' private sitting-room. A 
table loaded with fruit-cake and ices 
stood in the centre of the room. 
The princess threw herself on a chaise 
tongue. " We dine late," said she. 
" I will take a biscuit and an ice. Eat 
something also yourself. But first 
take off your hat, lay down your 
satchel, and rest yourself. It is ex- 
ceedingly warm." 

Fleurange attended to the princess' 
wants, and then very willingly took 
a slight repast, which the heat of the 
mid-day hour made quite acceptable. 
While she stood taking an ice, the 
princess opened the pile of notes and 
letters on a small table near her. 
She read the notes first. 

" Well, there are more people here 



Fleurange. 



than I expected. So much the bet- 
ter ! Let me look over my cards." 

She read out a succession of names 
of people from various countries, with 
a running commentary on each 
which would have given the impres- 
sion that these people she was so 
glad to find again were individually 
perfectly indifferent to her. Then she 
took up her letters. 

" Ah ! at last !" she exclaimed, tear- 
ing open a large envelope. " Let me 
see the date. Now I am relieved ! 
Thank heaven, he is still there !" 
She read about a page, and then sud- 
denly cried : " In less than a month ? 
What, in less than a month ?" Then 
she finished the letter in silence, and 
afterward remained a long time with- 
out speaking, but with an anxious 
and thoughtful look. 

" Ah ! Gabrielle, are you still 
here?" she' said, rousing at last from 
her reverie. " I beg your pardon." 
She rang. " You must be shown to 
your room. I advise you to take 
some repose. I shall do the same. 
We shall see each other again at 
seven o'clock, which is my hour. I 
expect hardly any one to-day, and 
shall wear my morning dress." 

Fleurange, thus dismissed, gladly 
followed the valet de chambre, who 
answered the bell, through the salons 
and up the gra,nd staircase to the se- 
cond story where her chamber was. 
There he left her with a respectful 
bow, after pointing out the corridor 
that gave access to the princess' 
apartments without the necessity of 
passing through any of the rooms. 

The chamber to which she was 
taken was handsome and spacious, 
but it seemed rather ornamented 
than furnished. Its size, its painting 
and gilding would have allowed 
much more and much richer furniture. 
But such as it was, it pleased the 
young girl's fancy. The broad and 
lofty window in a deep embrasure 



admitted floods of light, but would 
have afforded no other view than the 
sky, if three stone steps had not 
made it accessible. From the upper 
step the eye looked down upon the 
interior court of the palace, which re- 
sembled a cloister with its light colon - 
nade. A limpid stream flowed from 
a white marble fountain in the midst 
of velvet-like turf and surrounded by 
rhododendrons. Birds were warbling 
in a large aviary. All these things 
combined to make up a soft, pleasing 
picture, crowned by the azure vault 
of heaven a picture singularly quiet 
and dreamy, and Fleurange remain- 
ed a long time seated on a stone 
seat within the embrasure, allowing 
her thoughts to wander, as often 
happened, in vague regions, until a 
servant with her trunk reminded her 
it was time to descend in more than 
one sense from her elevation, and 
proceed to the matter-of-fact task of 
unpacking and arranging her effects. 
About to commence, she found she 
had left her satchel in the salon. As 
it contained her keys, she was obliged 
to go for it, and she took the short 
passage which led directly to the 
princess' sitting-room; but, instead 
of returning the same way, she could 
not resist the desire of examining 
again, alone and at leisure, the sump- 
tuous rooms she had only passed 
through before. She went leisurely 
through them, admiring as she went, 
with a mixture of childlike curiosity 
and an innate perception of the beau- 
tiful, all the objects that were collect- 
ed here in uncommon profusion; 
but, notwithstanding the exquisite 
taste displayed, she could not help 
observing the ostentation, which by 
contrast vividly recalled the remem- 
brance of the Old Mansion the 
dear Old Mansion ! where simplicity 
was so happily combined with the 
magnificence of art, where everything 
that charmed the eye appealed to 



Fleurange. 



347 



the soul, inspired serenity and peace, 
and inclined one to application and 
study; whereas here, what met the 
eye and struck the attention spoke 
of amusement, luxury, and pride. 

This comparison made Fleurange 
melancholy. She ceased looking 
around with interest, and was about 
to return to her chamber by the 
grand stairway without continuing 
her explorations, when, in crossing 
the hall, a large half-opened door 
opposite attracted her attention, and 
she yielded to the curiosity of glanc- 
ing into the only apartment she had 
not seen. She pushed the door open, 
and entered a room equally as large 
as the others, but which seemed 
rather a study-room than a salon. 
The half-open shutters allowed the 
volumes in Russia leather that lined 
the walls to be seen, as well as the 
ebony book-cases on all sides. Furni- 
ture systematically arranged and pro- 
tected by coverings, tables loaded 
with books placed in order as if no 
one had touched them for a long 
time, everything showed this room 
was unoccupied, and had not, like the 
rest, been prepared for the return of 
the mistress of the house ; but a 
certain atmosphere of studious repose 
pervaded it which was more in con- 
formity with Fleurange's real tastes 
than all the magnificence she had just 
beheld. She therefore advanced 
some steps, looking around, and, the 
better to see the objects scarcely to 
be distinguished in the obscurity, she 
went to one of the windows and 
ventured to throw the shutters en- 
tirely open. The strong light which 
at once filled the room revealed a 
picture before her which she had not 
previously noticed. She glanced at it, 
and it is impossible to describe 
her feelings! She could not herself 
have found words to express her ex- 
treme astonishment and the overpow- 
ering emotion that made her turn pale 



and then red as she almost fell. The 
picture thus suddenly revealed to her 
was that which had played so impor- 
tant a part in her life her father's last 
work in a word, the Cordelia for 
which she had sat so long ago, and 
which she had never heard mention- 
ed since without agitation ! 

For some moments she was over- 
powered by a thousand thoughts 
rushing over her thoughts similar 
to those she had so successfully 
banished some months before by a 
supreme effort. It is not astonish- 
ing they should be involuntarily re- 
awakened now. The lively curiosity 
with which she was filled was ex- 
cusable, as well as her impatience to 
know how this picture came here, 
and whose room it was. She 
felt she should soon know, and, 
with a heart still throbbing, she clos- 
ed the shutters, and softly left the 
room in which she had just beheld 
this unexpected apparition, as it were. 

She crossed the hall, and was at 
the foot of the stairs when she met 
Mademoiselle Barbe in a great hurry. 
and in that stage of fatigue bordering 
on ill-humor which, on a day of 
departure or arrival, is to be seen 
(and not wholly without reason) in 
those on whom rests the weight of 
packing and unpacking. Fleurange 
stopped her nevertheless, having 
resolved to ask an explanation of the 
first person she met. 

" Barbara," she said, " I have been 
examining all the rooms." 

These words brought a smile to 
the servant's face, for she prided her- 
self on the splendor of her mistress' 
palace. 

" We are well quartered, aren't 
we ?" she said, with an air of satisfac- 
tion. 

"Yes, quite. Does the whole 
palace belong to the princess?" 

" Certainly, from the garret to the 
cellar." 



343 



Fleurange. 



" And she lives here alone ?" 

" Alone, of course, with Monsieur 

le Comte." 
" The count ?" 
" Yes; her son,who always lives with 

her when here. There in that room," 

said she, pointing towards the door 

Fleurange had just closed. 
" Her son ! What is his name ?" 
" Count George de Walden." 
" Count George de Walden ?" 

echoed Fleurange, as if in a dream. 
" Why, yes ; that was the name of 

the princess' first husband. Did 

you not know it ?" 



" No, I did not." 

" fie died young that one. Ma- 
dame, too, was young. She mourned 
for him a long time, and then mar- 
ried again, but had no more chil- 
dren. The prince is dead also, 
but" 

Just at that moment a servant ap- 
peared with an armful of packages 
of all sizes, one of which fell from 
his hand. Barbara left Fleurange 
abruptly, and sought relief from her 
fatigue in a severe reprimand to the 
awkward man, more tired than her- 
self. 



XVIII. 



Fleurange returned to her seat on 
the top of the three steps that led to 
her window, and was again looking 
down on the quiet and secluded 
court. But what a change had been 
wrought in her feelings since she sat 
there half an hour before ! What 
contrast between this tranquil scene, 
which then harmonized so perfectly 
with the serenity of her thoughts, and 
her present agitation of mind ! She 
endeavored to be calm, but for some 
time could not succeed. Was the 
emotion caused by this unexpected 
discovery surprise and joy, or regret 
and fear? She could not clearly 
decide, but it was a mixture of all 
these different sensations ; and she 
gave herself up for a time to be buf- 
feted by a whirlwind of contradictory 
thoughts. By degrees they at last 
became clearer and more distinct. 
Fleurange recalled the last time she 
heard Count George's name men- 
tioned, as well as the resolution she 
made that day. That resolution had 
been easily kept, thanks to all that 
had since happened to divert and 
absorb her attention. She must 
still remain faithful to it under entire- 
ly different circumstances. It was, 
however, no longer a question of for- 



getting the very name of Count 
George, as she was doubtless to see 
him, know him, and live under the 
same roof. But what she must im- 
press most seriously on her mind was 
that he would be as widely sepa- 
rated from her here in his mother's 
house as when he only lived in the 
world of her dreams. This of course 
would be extremely difficult, but it 
was evidently a duty she owed to 
herself. This point once established, 
her course was plain. 

The gentle hand that guided her 
childhood did not try to extinguish 
the exquisite though somewhat dan- 
gerous qualities with which she was 
gifted. She did not stifle the liveli- 
ness of her imagination, or the ardent 
tenderness of her heart, or the tenden- 
cy of her sentiments to extremes. 

Madre Maddalena considered 
these precious gifts only dangerous 
in the absence of two other qualities 
which she sought to develop in 
Fleurange , with a care only compara- 
ble to that which is used (in an inferior 
sense) in developing the human voice, 
and transforming it into an instru- 
ment at once powerful, harmonious, 
and almost divine. However musi- 
cal a voice may be, one cannot sing 



Fleurange. 



349 



without correctness of ear, and the 
power of sustaining its clearness for 
a long time without faltering. The 
divine harmony of the human facul- 
ties also depends on the correctness 
with which the word duty is echoed 
in the soul, and the strength of char- 
acter to act upon it unhesitatingly 
and unfalteringly. These were the 
two qualities that overruled all 
others in Fleurange's nature, and had 
hitherto preserved her from the dan- 
gers to which the others exposed her. 

More than two * hours passed 
away : the shadows of the columns 
grew longer beneath the portico : 
the evening star, herald of holy 
thoughts in Fleurange's soul, came 
out clear and brilliant in the cloud- 
less sky, reminding her of her accus- 
tomed prayer. She had hardly fin- 
ished it when the clock struck and 
abruptly recalled the young girl to 
herself. She hastily opened her 
trunk, changed her dress, and entered 
the dining-room the very moment 
the Princess Catherine appeared. 

Fleurange wore a plain dress of 
black silk. In the present state of 
her wardrobe, she would have been 
embarrassed if required to increase 
the elegance of her toilet, but she 
had not thought of it on the present 
occasion, after hearing the princess 
say she intended dining in her morn- 
ing dress. She was, therefore, some- 
what surprised to see the garment 
thus designated was a flowing robe 
of white cashmere richly embroidered 
with gold. Her coiffure was a tissue 
of lace and gold, and she wore 
on her neck six strings of magnifi- 
cent pearls which hung down over 
her waist. But what surprised and 
disconcerted the young girl more 
was the dissatisfied look the princess 
gave her when she appeared. It 
was the first time the kind and cor- 
dial greeting to which she had be- 
come accustomed was wanting. 



But it was no time to give or re- 
ceive any explanations, for the prin- 
cess was not alone. There were two 
or three guests whose names Fleur- 
ange afterwards learned : an old sa- 
vant named Dom Pomponio ; Signor 
Livio, a young artist : and the Mar- 
quis Trombelli, who was somewhat 
of a bore. To tell the truth, they 
occupied an inferior rank among the 
habitues of the palace, but they pre- 
served the mistress of the house from 
the mortification of seeing the pro- 
ducts of her cook's skill waste their 
sweetness on the desert air, as well 
as the danger of dining without a suf- 
ficient number of guests in a vast 
room, where a tete-d-tete with Fleur- 
ange would have been unsatisfac- 
tory. Not that she was by any 
means indifferent to the quality of 
those she received in her drawing- 
rooms, but with respect to her con- 
vives she attached almost as much 
importance to their number as to 
their worth, and only required in re- 
turn the ability of appreciating the 
exquisite dishes placed before them. 

Notwithstanding the simplicity of 
her dress, Fleurange did not escape 
notice. The man of letters talked a 
little mere than usual with the hope 
of dazzling her ; the marquis directed 
his eye-glass towards her several 
times; and the young artist ventured 
on some words complimentary in 
their tone, but as she only replied in 
monosyllables the conversation lan- 
guished. The evening seemed long, 
and the princess had yawned more 
than once, when she was suddenly 
roused at hearing announced the 
Marquis Adelardi ! She made a joy- 
ful exclamation. 

The gentleman who appeared was 
about forty years of age. Fleurange 
afterwards learned he was a Milanais. 
She immediately perceived he was 
one of those men who converse well 
on every subject, and know how to 



350 



Flcurange. 



excite an interest in what they are 
talking about, whether it be fashion- 
able gossip, a political novelty, or a 
social and literary question, and who 
have no other fault than that of treat- 
ing these subjects as if they were all 
of equal interest ! 

The atmosphere of the room at 
once changed. The Marquis Ade- 
lardi had not been there a quarter of 
an hour before he found means of 
setting off the indifferent elements of 
the circle to the best advantage, 
making each one talk of what he 
knew the best. He passed from 
politics to history, from the sciences 
to the arts, showing himself capable 
of conversing on all these subjects, if 
not of sounding their depths. 

Fleurange silently listened to this 
conversation, which amused her, but 
her interest redoubled and changed 
its nature when the new-comer, 
drawing near the princess' arm-chair, 
said : 

" And when are we to see our 
George again ?" 

The princess replied in a pleased 
and yet half-anxious tone : " We 
shall see him again soon, for the let- 
ter I received from him this morning, 
written at St. Petersburg, announced 
his return at the end of this month." 

" So much the better, I miss him 
everywhere, and every way, here." 

" And I assure you I do also, as 
you may imagine," said the princess, 
with a thoughtful air, as she play- 
ed with her necklace of pearls. 
" Nevertheless, Aclelardi, you know as 
well as I it would be better for him 
to remain where he is till the end of 
the year." 

" Come, my dear princess, give it 
up. I advise you to abandon the 
idea of making a courtier of 
George." 

" That is not the only point." 

" Yes, I understand. You think 
the fair Vera " Here the mar- 



quis leaned forward, and exchanged 
some words with the princess in a 
low tone. Fleurange only heard 
these : " And you know this is my 
only wish." It was the princess who 
spoke. 

" And he ?" said the marquis. 

" He ! You know him well." 

" But that is precisely the reason I 
should not have supposed him insen- 
sible to such attractions as hers." 

" Yes, indeed, but it is never sure 
he is not absorbed by some fancy not 
to be foreseen. Moreover, I believe 
if she had not been at court 
Here the princess again lowered her 
voice. 

" Do not worry. He will yield at 
last." 

" I truly hope so, but meanwhile 
acknowledge it would be better for 
him not to return." 

" Yes and no. I am not sure it is 
very judicious to expose him to com- 
promise himself, as he is always 
tempted to do." 

The princess looked very grave. 
" You are right from that point 
of view," said she. " He really terri- 
fies me often. But I think he would 
become more prudent if obliged to 
be so. It is a necessity of which 
one is at last convinced by living in 
Russia." 

The conversation was continued 
for some time in a low tone. Then 
the princess declared herself fatigued, 
and an exception was made to her 
custom of prolonging the evening to 
a late hour, and they all retired. 

Fleurange was about to do the 
same when the princess stopped her 
and asked the reason of her simplici- 
ty of dress. " 1 am particularly de- 
sirous," she said, " that they who in 
some sort aid me in doing the honors 
of my salon should be dressed styl- 
ishly and I pay them accord- 
ingly," she added with the want of 
delicacy sometimes to be remarked 



Fleurange. 



351 



even in well-bred ladies with regard 
to their dependents. It was a fault 
the princess was not often guilty of, 
but this side of her nature became ap- 
parent when she was in a bad humor. 

Fleurange blushed. " I beg your 
pardon, princess," said she, "but I 
cannot comply with your request 
I cannot," she repeated, her eyes 
filling with great tears. 

" What does all this mean ?" 

Fleurange hesitated an instant, 
but, obedient to her impulses, always 
frank and simple, she related what 
the princess had hitherto been igno- 
rant of the ruin of her family, and 
the motive that had induced her to 
accept the place she now occupied. 

" If I am obliged to expend the 
money I receive from you in adorn- 
ing my person ; if I can only aid my 
relatives at the risk of displeasing 
you, then then " And her voice 
faltered. " Alas ! madame, I should 
be obliged to seek elsewhere the 
means of " 

The princess did not allow her to 
finish. The young girl's accent, as 
she gave her simple account, excited 
her sympathies ; her dissatisfaction 
vanished, and the result of this little 
scene was that Fleurange was allow- 
ed not only to dispose of a part of 
her salary as she pleased, but the 
whole, on one condition, which the 
princess insisted upon, and to which 
Fleurange was at length forced to con- 
sent that the princess, and she alone, 
sh'ould have the direction of her young 
companion's dress and ornaments. 

From that time Fleurange was 
profusely provided with all that 
could satisfy the singular require- 
ment of her protectress, and at the 
same time gratify her generosity, 
keenly stimulated by her interest in 
the account she had just heard. 
Fleurange yielded with a mixture of 
gratitude and repugnance, endeavor- 
ing to reconcile the simplicity of her 



tastes with the elegant taste of the 
princess. The result, however, was 
that, when she appeared for the first 
time in public, the effect she pro- 
duced far surpassed the expectations 
of her who seemed to attach so much 
importance to enhancing her beauty. 

Elegance and luxury seemed re- 
ally to be necessary elements of the 
Princess Catherine's existence, and as 
an inferior article of furniture or 
hangings of any plainness would have 
been considered out of place in her 
apartments, so Fleurange's simple 
black dress would have marred the 
prevailing harmony, and she regard- 
ed it as a matter of importance to 
change what injured the general 
effect. But she was by no means 
disposed Fleurange should cease to 
be her protegee, which gratified her 
pride as well as her kind heart. 

If the somewhat too enthusiastic 
homage paid the young girl at her 
first appearance had been sought or 
even welcomed by her, the princess' 
humor would doubtless have been 
affected by it ; but the dignified mod- 
esty of Fleurange's deportment soon 
modified the admiration whose in- 
cense would only have troubled the 
purity and elevation of her heart 
had vanity given it entrance. 

Fleurange was not vain. This 
was one of her charms, and at the 
same time a safeguard. 

The princess' observant eye soon 
assured her there was no cause for 
fear. This increased her confidence 
in Fleurange, which soon became 
boundless. It was the height of her 
wishes to be attended by one whose 
beauty added to the attractions of 
her salon and gave her no anxiety as 
to the consequences ; to enjoy, herself, 
the charm of Fleurange's presence, 
her activity, and a thousand little 
talents which made her useful at 
every turn ; and this without requir- 
ing the least vigilance on the part of 



Fleurange. 



herself, which would have greatly 
annoyed her. She was glad she 
could now be indolent at her ease. 
Fleurange wrote her notes, arranged 
her flowers, and completed work she 
zealously commenced and then aban- 
doned, and afterwards complacently 
showed as her own. Fleurange was 
also ready to read to her, with her 
harmonious voice and expression 
only the more rare because perfectly 
natural, sometimes Italian or Ger- 
man poetry, and sometimes articles 
in the reviews and journals ; then, at 
the hour of receiving visits, she was 
glad to absent herself, unless the prin- 
cess invited her to remain or sent for 
her. By thus following her own 
judgment, she unwittingly fulfilled 
the secret wishes of the princess, who 
was perhaps better pleased with the 
tact with which she knew how to an- 
ticipate her desires than the prompt- 
ness of her obedience. 

Meanwhile the days passed away, 
and it was more than a month since 
their arrival at Florence. During 
this time Count George's name was 
mentioned a thousand times in Fleur- 
ange's presence, but it ceased to 
produce the effect she once wisely 
resolved to resist. Sometimes she 
smiled to herself as she thought it 
possible, after knowing him, she 
might be greatly astonished at his 
ever having occupied her thoughts to 
such an extent. " Phantoms always 
vanish, they say, when we approach 
and look them in the face." 

Such was the thought that crossed 
her mind, one morning, as she sat 
alone in the small salon. The prin- 
cess had gone out, and Fleurange 
was seated at an embroidery frame 
completing some work. The though t 
just mentioned was suggested by the 
news received that morning of the 
certain arrival of Count George by 
the end of the week. 1 

" Yes, reality puts all fancies to 



flight; and it is very probable," she 
continued, pursuing the course of her 
reflections, " when I know him bet- 
ter " She was suddenly interrupt- 
ed by the noise of hasty steps in the 
next apartment. Generally, no one 
came that way without being an- 
nounced. Surprised, Fleurange has- 
tily rose to leave the room accord- 
ing to her custom, but had scarcely 
started when she found herself face 
to face with the person who entered. 

It was he yes, he Count 
George ! 

She had not time to define her 
sensations. The effect she herself 
produced surprised her, or, to speak 
more correctly, terrified her so much 
that she remained motionless, silent, 
and astonished. 

" Fleurange ! Great God ! is it 
possible ! Is it true ? Fleurange ! " 
repeated he with an emotion more 
profound than that of joy. His 
voice, no less than his features, was 
graven on the memory of her who 
heard it. The name, the almost for- 
gotten name of her childhood, utter- 
ed in such a tone ; the hand that 
grasped her own as that of a friend 
he had found again, but with a look 
that made Fleurange instinctively 
withdraw her eyes ; his rapid ques- 
tions, incoherent replies, the eager, 
tender, passionate tone of his words 
everything in this meeting was sud- 
den, ardent, and dangerous as light- 
ning ! 

A carriage was now heard ; but, be- 
fore the Princess Catherine entered 
the salon, Fleurange had reached 
her chamber, pale and ready to faint. 

All the unreasonableness, the mad- 
ness almost, of her former thoughts, 
all that had seemed impossible, was 
in an instant transformed into a sud- 
den, unforeseen, and dangerous real- 
ity ! What had she just heard ? 
What did he say? What! The 
thought of her had followed him 



Fleiirange. 



353 



for a year; he had endeavored to 
banish it, but had not succeeded; 
and now he had returned decided to 
make every effort to find her again 
to behold her once more whose im- 
age had been constantly present in 
his mind ! 

Yes, he said all this ! And what 
she heard was the counterpart of 
what she herself had felt and 
struggled against. Poor Fleurange ! 
was it joy her pale and troubled face 
expressed ? Was it a transport of 
pride, or of tenderness, that caused 



her heart to beat so painfully ? Was 
it happiness that made her shed such 
a torrent of tears ? 

Oh ! no, the words so sweet to 
hear when it is lawful to listen ; the 
happiness of being loved when one 
loves one of the greatest in the 
world ; the words so readily under- 
stood because they express what one 
has so deeply felt ; all that sometimes 
suddenly illumines a life like the light 
of the sun, had just fallen on hers 
with the brightness, instantaneous- 
ness, and danger of a thunderbolt ! 



XIX. 



Count George de Walden possess- 
ed every exterior quality that could 
please or fascinate, and, though it 
would not have been wise to regard 
his chivalric air and the nobleness 
of his features and manners as the 
sure indices of a soul exempt from 
egoism, it was impossible not to be 
struck by his appearance, and diffi- 
cult to forget him after he was once 
seen. The lively impression he 
made on Fleurange's memory was 
not therefore so strange as might ap- 
pear, and there were more excuses 
for it than she found herself. What 
was much more surprising was that, 
notwithstanding the charm with 
which she was endowed, the impres- 
sion was reciprocal, and, at the end 
of a year, was not effaced. 

We must not, of course, compare 
the simple, confused, and involuntary 
feelings of a young girl with those of 
such a man as Count George. Un- 
der the semblance of Cordelia, Fleur- 
ange had been constantly before his 
eyes as well as in his imagination. 
He passionately desired to behold 
her again. He resolved to find her 
without examining his intentions as 
to the project, and this tenacious 
preoccupation influenced more than 
he would have acknowledged the 



decision he recently made in spite 
of his almost pledged word. 

Nevertheless, without being very 
scrupulous, the Count de Walden 
would have thought twice before al- 
lowing himself to make such a de- 
claration to -his mother's companion 
as that with which he greeted her. 
But he by no means expected to find 
in the Gabrielle sometimes mentioned 
in his mother's letters her whose sin- 
gular name had remained imprinted 
on his memory, as well as her won- 
derful beauty, and the first moment 
of surprise deprived him of the facul- 
ty of reflection. Then, seeing the 
young girl's sweet face blush and 
turn pale, seeing her charming eyes 
full of alarm, he uttered in spite of 
himself the words he would perhaps 
have been better able to suppress if 
she herself had been more successful 
at concealment. 

But, as we have said, all this was 
quicker than thought. Five minutes 
had not elapsed from the mo- 
ment of his sudden appearance be- 
fore the princess, breathless with joy 
and haste, fell pale with emotion into 
her son's arms. George led her to 
her chaise longue, and knelt beside 
her, and, while she was asking him 
embracing him at every word some- 



Flcurange. 



times why he had returned so soon, 
and sometimes why he had kept 
them waiting for him so long, by de- 
grees he entirely regained his self- 
control. When, after a long hour's 
conversation, he found himself once 
more alone, he asked himself if the 
vision he beheld at his arrival was a 
reality or a dream of his imagination, 
and then, if he were pleased or not, 
that it had appeared to him beneath 
his mother's roof. 

During this time Fleurange also 
regained her self-possession, though 
slowly, and her first sensation was a 
kind of terror. " O dear friends ! 
why did I leave you?" she cried, 
with a feeling analogous to that of 
one in the midst of a tempest, long- 
ing for the security of land. She felt 
the need of protection even more 
than at Paris with want staring her in 
the face, and more than ever did her 
isolation and weakness make her 
afraid. She wiped away her tears, 
folded her hands, and endeavored 
to reflect calmly, but it was beyond 
her power to be calmed yet. Her 
surprise and agitation had been, this 
time, too violent. In spite of all her 
efforts, the accents still ringing in her 
ears filled her with an acute, almost 
painful joy, which pierced her heart 
like a sword. 

" No, no, I must not dwell on it," 
she said, clasping her forehead with 
her hands as if to stay the current of 
her thoughts. 

All at once a new idea occurred to 
her : " What will he tell his mother ? 
What would she think ? Would she 
be proud, haughty, and disdainful as 
she sometimes knew how to be ? 
Would she order her new companion 
to leave her at once ? What was to 
be the result ?" 

She was taking this new view of her 
position when Barbara, without the 
usual formality of knocking, came 
rushing in with the eager air of a per- 
son who brings news and a message. 



" Mademoiselle Gabrielle," she 
said, " the princess has sent me to 
inform you of the count's arrival, 
and that there will be a great many 
at dinner. She wishes you to look 
your best." 

This message, in the midst of 
Fleurange's reflections, was like cold 
water on a furnace, causing a kind of 
effervescence, and the confusion of 
her thoughts became more inextrica- 
ble than ever. She looked at Bar- 
bara as if she did not comprehend her. 

" You were asleep, perhaps," said 
she, noticing the young girl's pallor 
and bewildered look. " Are you ill ?" 

This question suggested an affir- 
mative reply, and she told the ser- 
vant she would be obliged to remain 
in her room. She was congratulating 
herself on this happy means of escape, 
when Barbara explained : 

" Remain in your room ! Sick ! 
Well, what an idea ! And on a day 
like this ! Madame would be pleased ! 
Come, mademoiselle, you know 
well she would never consent to it !" 

" But if my head aches so I can 
hardly raise it ?" said Fleurange. 

Barbara looked at her. Fleurange 
was not deceiving her. She had a 
headache; she was very pale, and 
there was an unusual expression in 
her eyes and face, but she was no 
less beautiful than usual ; rather the 
contrary. 

" Come, Mademoiselle Gabrielle, 
you are not very ill, I know," said 
Barbara. " Make an effort, other- 
wise you may be sure the princess 
will be up here, and then you will 
have to yield." 

This perspective reduced Fleurange 
to immediate submission. 

" Then, Barbara," she said, in a 
tone half plaintive and half impatient, 
" let her tell me what to wear ! 
Dress ! If she only knew how I 
detest it !" 

" Come, mademoiselle, there are 
many others who would be glad to 



Fleurangc. 



355 



be in your place," said Barbara in 
an ill hnmored tone. 

At first she was very much oppos- 
ed to all her mistress' generosity to 
Fleurange, but she soon softened, for 
the latter had a means of conciliating 
her which she often made use of, and 
always at a seasonable time. 

"Here, Barbara, take this shawl. 
You may keep it. Come back in an 
hour, and tell me what the princess 
wishes me to wear. That is always 
the shortest way, and saves me the 
trouble of deciding." 

Barbara went away, but reappear- 
ed in an hour, bringing a dress of sky, 
blue gauze and some silver pins. 

" Here, mademoiselle, is your 
toilet for to-day. Dress yourself 
quick ; I am going to help you. 
Let me arrange your hair. There! 
These bright pins have a fine 
effect in your black hair. Now 
your dress, quick. The princess is 
already in the salon. Monsieur le 
Comte also, and a great many others. 
You will be late. Come, what are 
you thinking of, Mademoiselle Ga- 
brielle, to sit down instead of com- 
pleting your toilet ?" 

Fleurange was indeed at once agi- 
tated and confused. She walked to 
and fro in her chamber, sat down, 
and rose up without any attention to 
the appeals addressed her. At 
length she resigned herself to let 
Barbara dress her as she pleased, and 
the latter, with a natural taste for the 
art, acquitted herself so well that, 
when the young girl, with a trembling 
hand, opened the door of the salon, 
hoping to glide in unperceived among 
the numerous guests already as- 
sembled, there was a general mur- 
mur of admiration. This added a 
mortal embarrassment to her trouble. 

If any one had asked her the color 
of her dress she could not have told ; 
but the idea suddenly occurred to her 
that Barbara had perhaps arranged 
he? hair and dress in a different and 



more becoming way than usual, and 
she blushed, wondering what the 
princess would think of her un- 
accustomed display. 

But the princess did not appear to 
take any notice of her. Standing in 
the centre of the room in the 
richest of dresses, she was doing the 
honors of the house with her usual 
ease. All at once Fleurange heard 
her name called : " Gabrielle !" It 
was the princess who beckoned to 
her. Fleurange approached, but a 
mist veiled her eyes, for she had seen 
from the first that Count George was 
beside his mother. 

" My bracelet is unclasped. Fas- 
ten it, Gabrielle," said the princess in 
her usual tone, at once kind and pa- 
tronizing. Fleurange bent down and 
clasped the bracelet. 

" George," said the princess, " this 
is Gabrielle of whom I have often 
spoken to you. Gabrielle. this is my 
son." 

George bowed without attempting 
to speak. Fleurange did- the same, 
but a painful sensation made the 
blood rush to her face. For the first 
time in her life, she felt tacitly guilty 
ot a falsehood, or at least of decep- ' 
tion, and, though comforted by the 
certainty the princess had no suspi- 
cion of what had taken place two 
hours before, a flash of haughty dis- 
pleasure escaped from her eyes as 
she raised them and turned away her 
head. 

Count George looked at her atten- 
tively for an instant, then became 
thoughtful, and it was only with an 
effort he took any part in the conver- 
sation at table. But in the evening, 
thanks to the Marquis Adelardi, 
whose friendship he valued and 
whose mind was in sympathy with 
his, he became more animated, and 
in his turn shone almost as much as 
his brilliant interlocutor; but he did 
not approach Fleurange, and did not 
even seem once to look towards her. 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



356 



Art and Religion, 



ART AND RELIGION. 



GOD reveals himself to all the 
faculties of the soul. We not only 
know him as truth; we also love 
him as beauty. As he is infinite 
truth, so is he perfect beauty. With- 
out the existence of God as absolute 
truth, science is impossible. Science, 
which is co-ordinated knowledge, can 
never be well grounded unless it rest 
upon the eternal and first cause, 
which is God. God as truth is at the 
bottom of all knowledge ; as beauty, 
he is the ideal present to the soul in 
every conception of art. 

Art is the expression of ideal beauty 
under a created form. The philoso- 
pher, in his meditations, seeks the 
true, which he translates into formu- 
las i the artist in his impassioned 
love seeks the beautiful, which he 
makes to live on canvas, to breathe 
in marble, to speak from the living 
page. 

The end of art is not to imitate na- 
ture. On the contrary, in the pre- 
sence of natural beauty it looks 
beyond to the type, the idea of a still 
higher beauty. Hence the artist is 
not a mere copier of nature ; for he 
is enamored of an ideal that disgusts 
him with all that he beholds in the 
real world. The aim and despair of 
his life is to give to this ideal a form 
and a sensible expression. Ideal 
beauty is that which disenchants the 
soul of the love of every created thing, 
and which in the presence of reality 
lifts it up to a higher love. It is a 
gleam from the face of God reflected 
through the blue heavens, the starry 
sky, or whatever in nature is grand or 
beautiful. It is the eternal allurement 
and eternal disenchantment of the 



noblest souls. True beauty is ideal 
beauty, and ideal beauty is a reflec- 
tion of the infinite. Hence art, 
which aims to give expression to this 
beauty, is essentially religious, and 
tends to elevate the soul from earth 
to heaven, and bear it away toward 
the infinite. 

It is the ideal side'of natural beauty 
that gives to it its religious power. 

The view of the beautiful in nature 
creates in us a longing for heaven, 
because the image of God is reflected 
from all those objects which so inspire 
the soul. When, in the spring-time 
we seat ourselves on the border of a 
lake in whose tranquil waters, as in a 
vast mirror, are reflected the green 
woods and the laughing meadows, 
the trees and the plants and the 
flowers; into whose bosom the rip- 
pling waters of rill and rivulet are 
flowing, all joyous like children that 
run to meet their gentle mother, 
whilst the quiet winds whisper to one 
another from leaf to leaf, as if afraid 
to dispel the enchantment of the spot 
does not, in such an hour, a mysteri- 
ous solitude creep over the soul, and 
free it from the distracting thoughts of 
life, giving it power to raise itself on 
the wings of contemplation to the 
very throne of God ? The sight of 
true beauty always reminds us of 
heaven. Seated on the border of that 
enchanted lake, man grows sad and 
thoughtful, a sweet melancholy takes 
hold of him, because he has caught a 
glimpse of home, but is still an exile. 
When, on a summer's evening, the sun 
has sunk to rest, and not a breath 
creeps through the rosy air, but all 
nature is bowed in silent prayer, and 



Art and Religion. 



357 



the stars come out one by one, the 
guardians of the night in this 
heavenliest hour, who has not been 
impressed by a sense of the infinite, 
the unmistakable presence of God, be- 
fore whom heaven and earth, " from 
the high host of stars to the lulled 
lake and mountain coast," grow still, 
absorbed in adoration ? 

There is also in the grand and 
rugged scenes of nature an immense 
religious power. 

The ocean, the desert, high moun- 
tains and mighty rivers, storm and 
darkness, with the voice of thunder 
and the lightning flash, all speak of 
God, and in their presence man bows 
in homage to the omnipotence of his 
Creator. Hence the child of nature, 
however rude and imperfect his idea 
of God, is essentially religious in his 
aspirations. 

Man must isolate himself and be- 
come absorbed in his own abstract 
and empty thoughts before he can 
lose consciousness of the ever-abiding 
presence of the Creator. For every 
creature is a revelation of heaven to 
the human soul, reminding it of its 
origin and high destiny. If nature 
leads us to God, why may not art 
have the same power, since both are 
expressions of the same eternal 
beauty ? 

Before considering this question, 
we wish to advert to the immense 
power and universal influence of 
art. 

Few can enter into the sanctuary of 
science even the rudest mind when 
brought in contact with ideal beauty 
by the creative power of art but 
feel its force and its inspiration. Art 
is the most lasting of national glories. 
Indeed, we may say that without art 
there is no glory either national or in- 
dividual. 

The greatest deeds and the proud- 
est names sink back in death unless 
art embalm them in poetry or in 



song, give them immortality on the 
speaking canvas or in the breathing 
marble. 

Brave men lived before Aga 
memnon, but they are forgotten, for 
their names never shone on the poet's 
page. Those nations are most 
glorious in which art attained its 
highest development. 

The muse of Homer, the eloquence 
of Demosthenes, and the chisel of 
Phidias, have done more to immor- 
talize Greece than the deeds of her 
proud heroes. The greatest human 
actions are in themselves but little 
removed from the commonplace 
affairs of everyday life; but the 
creative power of art transforms them 
and invests them with a charm which 
the reality never possessed. The 
primeval forests of Kentucky, in the 
day when its name was the " dark 
and bloody ground," witnessed many 
a deed of human daring and of war- 
like prowess equal to those of Achilles 
and Hector under the walls of Troy ; 
but art with its celestial wand never 
transfigured those deeds on the poet's 
page, and they are forgotten, buried 
with the leaves that overshadowed 
them. The life of man is short, even 
that of a nation is not long ; but art 
dies not, and has moreover the divine 
power of conferring immortality upon 
all that it touches. Shakespeare is 
worth more to the glory of England 
than all the victories of all her gen- 
erals. Dante, Raphael, and Michael 
Angelo,with innumerable other names 
which represent the highest artistic 
power, have made Italy the conse- 
crated land of poetry and of song, the 
home of beauty and of all loveliness 
the native country of the soul. 

Time alone, which is the approver 
of all things, can give to art its full 
power, and it is only when we con- 
sider it in the past that we become 
aware of its great influence in the 
history of the human race. The 



353 



Art and Religion. 



present is always a vulgar time ; too 
real to be beautiful. The present is the 
slave of power and wealth, but these 
soon disappear, and art remains for 
ever. The first impulse in the move- 
ment which has carried the European 
mind to its present state of enlighten- 
ment was given by art in conjunc- 
tion with religion. The study of the 
Grecian and Roman models, in poet- 
ry, in eloquence, and in architecture, 
fired the nations of Europe with a 
love of artistic perfection, and conse- 
quently greatly contributed to our 
present civilization. The historic 
power of art is in some respects great- 
er than that of history itself. Few 
men know history as a science the 
masses are brought into contact with 
the heroes of the past by poetry and 
by song. 

Has God, who has given to art a 
universal mission in the development 
of man's moral and intellectual na- 
ture, banished its elevating influence 
from the sphere of religion ? It 
would be foreign to our present scope 
to discuss the actual and possible 
perversions of art. There is naught 
on earth so holy that the free will 
of man may not turn it to evil. The 
fact that a thing may be abused,sim- 
ply proves that it has a right and 
proper use. The abuse comes from 
the free agency of man ; the use is 
the mission given by God, which is 
always holy and elevated. 

The direct aim of art is the expres- 
sion of infinite beauty under a cre- 
ated form, and hence a true work of 
art should elevate the soul to the 
contemplation of heavenly beauty. 
This contemplation of the divine 
ideal disenchants us of the things of 
earth ; which truth is expressed by 
the old proverb, that there is no great 
genius without melancholy. 

He whose soul habitually contem- 
plates the ideal world is necessarily 
saddened by the reality of life, which 



is so infinitely beneath the elevation 
of his thoughts. 

There is nothing sensuous in the 
idea of true beauty. Its property is 
to purify and moderate desire, not to 
inflame it. Hence art addresses it- 
self less to the sense than to the soul. 
It seeks to awaken not desire, but 
sentiment. Chastity and beauty seek 
each other. Chastity is beautiful, and 
beauty is chaste. 

These considerations go to show 
that art, the end of which is the ex- 
pression of beauty, is in its tendency 
moral and elevating, and consequent- 
ly religious. 

There can, then, be no just cause of 
antagonism between religion and true 
art, as there can be no contradiction 
between theology and real science. 

Far from being enemies, religion 
and art are allies. ' This truth the 
Catholic Church has ever proclaim- 
ed. She has stigmatized no one of 
the arts. In her universal life, she 
has a mission for each and every one 
of them. Her churches are not 
alone the temples of the living God 
they are also the home of the arts 
which point heavenward. 

The Christian religion in its dog- 
mas and aspirations is essentially 
spiritual. The Catholic Church is 
the great and only successful defend- 
er of the distinction between spirit 
and matter. By her teachings and 
practices, she has rendered man more 
spiritual, and consequently more 
beautiful. By awakening him to the 
consciousness of the diviner and 
more ethereal part of his nature, she 
has developed in him the instinct of 
art, which is essentially spiritual be- 
cause its soul is the ideal. 

The more we meditate upon the 
nature of art, the more thoroughly 
are we convinced that true art is the 
sister of true religion. Protestantism, 
protesting against many truths, also 
protested against the alliance of re- 



Art and Religion. 



359 



ligion and art. We speak of the Pro- 
testantism of the past ; for no man 
knows what Protestantism is to-day. 
It is anything and everything, from 
semi-Catholicism down to naked in- 
fidelity. It has become mere indi- 
vidualism, and may consequently no 
longer be spoken of as an organiza- 
tion. The Protestantism which is 
dead objected to the alliance of re- 
ligion and art because it conceived 
them to be of opposite nature and 
contrary tendency. Religion is the 
worship of God in spirit and in truth, 
and Protestantism looked upon art 
as purely material. 

But in this as in other matters, the 
Protestant view was based upon a 
misconception both of religion and 
of human nature. If man were 
wholly spiritual, his religion would 
also be purely spiritual. But matter 
forms part of his nature. Even that 
which in him is most spiritual 
thought has its sensible element. 
An idea is an image, whence it fol- 
lows that we cannot even think with- 
out forming to ourselves a mental 
representation of the thing thought 
of. No human act can be purely 
spiritual. The law of our being is 
that we rise from the visible to the 
invisible, from the sensible to the 
supersensible. An invisible and 
purely spiritual religion would be to 
us an unreal and intangible religion. 
An invisible church is a contradiction 
in terms, and without a church there 
can be amongst men no authoritative 
religious teaching. Neither religious 
nor intellectual life, in our present 
state, can exist without language, 
and language addresses itself directly 
and primarily to the senses. It is 
therefore impossible for man to ex- 
press the spiritual without making use 
of the material. Hence art, which 
seeks to adumbrate the infinite under 
a finite fprm, in this simply conforms 
to the universal law of man's nature, 



which in all things, even in thought, 
subjects him to matter. 

Is not Christianity based upon this 
fact ? Did not God take unto him- 
self a visible and material nature in 
order to manifest to the world his 
invisible power, and beauty, and 
holiness ? Is not the Christian reli- 
gion a system of things invisible, vi- 
sibly manifested ? The end of reli- 
gion is spiritual, but in order to attain 
this end it must possess a visible and 
material element. This fact of itself 
gives to art a religious mission of the 
highest order. 

This mission is to proclaim to the 
world Jesus Christ and him cruci- 
fied and glorified by poetry, by 
song, by painting, by architecture, in 
a word, by every artistic creation of 
which genius is capable. 

Jesus Christ is the beau ideal of 
art the most lovely and beautiful 
conception of the divine mind itself. 
He is the visible manifestation of 
God, the all-beautiful. 

Purity, and gentleness, and grace, 
with power and majesty, all combine 
to make him the most beautiful of the 
sons of woman, the fairest and the 
loveliest figure in all history, to whom 
the whole world bows in instinctive 
love and homage. There is a shadow 
on the countenance of Jesus which 
gives to it its artistic completeness. 
It is sorrow. There is something 
trivial in gaiety and joy which de- 
prives them of artistic effect. The 
cheek of beauty is not divine except 
the tear of sorrow trickle down it. 
Hence to preach Jesus Christ and 
him crucified is not to preach per- 
fect religion alone, but also the per- 
fect ideal of art. 

Christian science, which is theo- 
logy, has as its object the dogmas 
of the church. Christian art relates 
directly to religious worship, but it 
has incidentally a doctrinal signifi- 
cance. If we consider eloquence an 



360 



Art and Religion. 



art, which we may do, for true elo- 
quence is always artistic, we must 
concede that it holds a most import- 
ant place in the church of Jesus 
Christ. He blessed eloquence and 
bade it convert the world when he 
spoke to the apostles these memor- 
able words : " Go ye therefore, and 
teach all nations." The divine com- 
mand was to preach the Gospel, not 
to write it. The living word spoken 
by the divinely commissioned teacher 
has alone borne fruit in the world, 
converted the nations, and changed 
the face of the earth. Eloquence 
must be spoken. If you take from 
it its voice, you take away its soul. 
It is the cry of an impassioned nature, 
in which love, and faith, and deep- 
abiding conviction are enrooted. 
Add to this purity and holiness of 
life in him who speaks, and let him 
be in earnest, and he will be eloquent. 
Eloquence in the mouth of a con- 
secrated teacher has a sacramental 
power. It is one of the divinely es- 
tablished ordinances for the propaga- 
tion of religious truth, and for the 
conversion of a soul to God. 

Poetry, too, is consecrated to the 
service of religion. The muse never 
soars her loftiest flight except when 
lifted up on the wings of religious in- 
spiration. The most poetic word in 
language is that brief, immense word 
God. It is the sublimest, the pro- 
foundest, the holiest word that human 
tongue can utter. It forms the in- 
stinctive cry of the soul in the hour 
of every deep emotion. In the hour 
of victory, in the hour of death, in 
the ecstasy of joy, in the agony of 
woe, that sacred word bursts sponta- 
neously from the human heart. It is 
the first word that our mother taught 
our infant lips to lisp, when, pointing 
to heaven, she told us that there was 
God our Father, and bade us look 
above this base, contagious earth. 
When the mother for the first time 



feels her first-born's breath, in tender- 
ness of gratitude she pronounces the 
name of God; when in utter help- 
lessness of woe she bends over the 
grave of her only child, and her 
heart is breaking, she can find no re- 
lief for her agonizing soul, until, rais- 
ing her tearful eyes to heaven, she 
breathes in prayer the name of God. 

When two young hearts that are 
one vow eternal love and fealty, it is 
in the name of God they do it ; and 
the union of love loses half its poetry 
and half its charm except it be con- 
tracted before the altar of God and 
in his holy name. 

When the mother sends her son to 
do battle for his country, she says, 
" God be with thee, my boyl" 

When nations are marshalled in 
deadly array of arms, and the alarm- 
ing drum foretells the danger nigh, 
and the trumpet's clanguor sounds the 
charge, and contending armies meet 
in the death grapple, amid fire and 
smoke and the cannon's awful roar, 
until victory crowns them that win ; 
those banners that were borne proudly 
on till they floated in triumph over 
the field of glory are gathered toge- 
ther in some vast temple of religion, 
and there an assembled nation sings 
aloud in thanksgiving: "We praise 
thee, O God! we glorify thee, O Lord !" 
How often has not God chosen the 
muse of poetry in order to convey 
to the world his divine doctrines ! 
The Bible contains much of the 
sublimest poetry ever written. Some 
of the Psalms of David, portions of 
Job and Isaias, equal in deep and 
lofty poetic feeling anything that 
Dante or Milton wrote. And did 
not these privileged minds also re- 
ceive their highest inspirations from 
religion ? 

We may not separate poetry from 
music. Music is poetry in tones. It 
is the language of feeling,, the uni- 
versal language of man. The cry of 



Art and Religion. 



361 



joy and of sorrow, of triumph and of 
despair, of ecstasy and of agony, is 
understood by every human being 
because it is the language of nature. 
All the deep emotions of the soul 
seek expression in modulation of 
sound. 

Cousin says : " There is physically 
and morally a marvellous relation 
between a sound and the soul. It 
seems as though the soul were an 
echo in which the sound takes a new 
power." 

Byron, too, seems to have felt 
this : 

" Oh ! that I were 

The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
A living voice, a. breathing harmony ; 
A bodiless enjoyment, born and dying 
With the blest tone that made me !" 

At the awakening call of music, the 
universal harmonies of| nature stir 
within the soul. The ancients were 
wont to say that he who cultivates 
music imitates the divinity, and St. 
Augustine tells us that it was the 
sweet sound of psalmody which made 
the lives of the monks of old so beau- 
tiful and harmonious. God is eternal 
harmony, and the works of his hand 
are harmonious, and his great pre- 
cept to men is that they live in har- 
mony. Did not Jesus Christ come 
into the world amid the choral song 
of angels ? Would you, then, banish 
music from the church of Jesus ? 
No art has such power as music to 
draw the soul toward the infinite. It 
would seem as though the sounds of 
melody were the 'viewless spirits of 
heaven, calling us away from earth 
to our true home in the mansion of 
our Father. Whosoever has enjoyed 
the rare privilege of being present in 
the Sistine Chapel, during Holy 
Week, when the melodies of Leo, 
Durante, and Pergolesi, on the Mi- 
serere, are sung, has felt the immense 
power of religious music. For a mo- 
ment, at least, he has quitted this 
earth, and the voice of song has borne 



his soul in ineffable ecstasy to the very 
throne of God. As music develops 
religious sentiment, so religion gives 
to music its sublimest themes. To 
her, Haydn, Beethoven, and Mozart 
owe their divinest inspirations. 

Painting, too, asks to be received 
into the temple of religion. What 
sentiment is there that the painter 
cannot express ? All nature is sub- 
ject to his command the physical 
world and the moral world. His 
muse soars from earth to heaven, and 
contemplates all that lies between 
them. Above all, the human coun- 
tenance divine, that mirror of the 
soul, belongs to the painter. His 
brush, dipped in the light of heaven, 
gives to virtue its own celestial hue ; 
to vice, its inborn hideousness. He 
expresses every emotion of the human 
heart, every noble love, every lofty 
aspiration, every dark and baneful 
passion. Aristotle, the most compre- 
hensive mind of the pagan world, 
affirms that painting teaches theSame 
precepts of moral conduct as philo- 
sophy, with this advantage, that it 
employs a shorter method. Christian 
painting began in the Catacombs. In 
the rude pictures of that subterranean 
world we find the chief doctrines of 
Christianity reduced to their most 
simple expression under forms the 
most touching. 

Painting there represents the 
Phoenix rising from its ashes, emb- 
lem of the immortality of the soul and 
of the resurrection of the body ; the 
good shepherd bearing upon his 
shoulders the lost sheep, which 
teaches with touching simplicity one 
of the most beautiful of our Lord's 
parables ; the three youths in the fiery 
furnace, signifying the providence of 
God for those who fear and love him ; 
Pharao and his hosts engulfed in the 
Red Sea, proclaiming to the faithful 
that God is the avenger of those who 
put their trust in him. These and 



362 



A Fete-Day at Lyons. 



similar subjects were peculiarly 
adapted to inspire courage in the 
hearts of the Christians of the first 
ages, when to be. a follower of the 
cross was to be a hero. 

As men of genius and learning by 
their life-long labors show us the 
divine beauties and perfections in the 
character of Jesus in new bearings, 
so the art of painting throws around 
his history an intenser light. His 
divinity is as manifest in the " Trans- 
figuration" of Raphael as in the 
famous sermon of Massillon. His 
ineffable sufferings on Mount Cal- 
vary and the Godlike power which 
consented to death, but conquered 
agony, are as vividly and feelingly 
portrayed on the canvas of Rubens 
as in the unequalled and inimitable 
discourse of Eourdaloue. No one 
can look upon the "Last Supper" 
by Leonardo da Vinci without being 
inspired with a most sublime concep- 
tion of that holiest event. Can we 
think of the passion and death of the 
Saviour without forming to ourselves 



a mental image corresponding to the 
scene ? If, after all, we must have a 
picture, why not take that of genius 
rather than trust to our own tame 
plebeian fancy ? And then, for those 
who cannot read or meditate pro- 
foundly, for the poor whom Jesus 
loved, what master is like painting ? 

St. Basil declares that painters ac- 
complish as much by their pictures as 
orators by their eloquence. 

The church as a lecture-room will 
interest only the cultivated few ; the 
church as the temple of art sanctified 
by religion is the home of worship for 
the multitude/ 

Religion, if it be anything, must be 
popular, which science can never be, 
and which art always is. Then, in the 
name of the religion of the poor, let 
architecture advance to raise to God 
the temple of majesty and beauty, the 
democratic palace of the people, 
where the prince and the beggar sit 
side by side as brothers, a basilica 
prouder and loftier than that of the 
sceptred monarch. 



A FETE-DAY AT LYONS. 



SOME writer has remarked that 
" there is no purgatory in France," 
meaning thereby to illustrate the 
great extremes of piety and irreligion 
in the national character; and, al- 
though on a broad ground this asser- 
tion is by no means orthodox, yet it 
is practically true to a certain extent, 
and nowhere perhaps are these traits 
more noticeable to a stranger than in 
the time-honored city of Lyons. 
Here faith and disbelief walk side by 
side through all grades of society, 
each stronger and more resolute from 
its very proximity to the other; and 



when the tide of revolution swept 
over France, nowhere have the ex- 
cesses been greater or religion more 
monstrously profaned than here; and 
yet nowhere has faith been more pro- 
found, more edifying, and more un- 
compromising. The blood of its ear- 
ly Christian martyrs has been a won- 
derful leaven and has worked well, 
and the thousands of pilgrims who 
yearly tread the heights of Fourriere, 
the extraordinary solemnity and fer- 
vor of the exterior devotions and re- 
ligious ceremonies, show that there is 
a countercurrent stronger and more 



A Fete-Day at Lyons. 



powerful than any opposing force 
that infidelity can bring to bear 
against it. 

It is to give a few impressions 
made by these latter characteristics 
of this old city that we now recall 
some reminiscences of a visit there 
several years ago. The antiquity of 
Lyons, and its many monuments of 
interest, are quite sufficient- to induce 
a traveller to linger on his route, and 
a week can be easily filled in ex- 
ploring the city proper and its envi- 
rons. 

Like many of the European cities, 
its streets are narrow, and the houses 
high and badly ventilated; but a 
great change has taken place in re- 
gard to these defects within the last 
ten years, and a renovation without 
mutilation has opened its thorough- 
fares, adorned it with beautiful 
squares, fine bridges, broad and 
handsome quays, and placed it on an 
equal footing with any city in Europe 
in regard to its sanitary advantages. 

Dating as far back as the Chris- 
tian era and beyond, there are many 
remnants of its Roman origin yet 
to be seen, which have been care- 
fully preserved through its various 
vicissitudes. Christianity was here 
planted in blood ; and under the Ro- 
man emperors, three persecutions of 
Christians took place, which number- 
ed forty-five thousand martyrs on 
their crimson pages ; and this is why 
faith has taken such deep^root, and 
why it opposes itself so firmly to 
those subtle influences of the day 
which threaten to endanger a birth- 
right so dearly bought. 

To us Americans who are only 
familiar with Lyons in its commer- 
cial bearings, and from the superior 
quality of its manufactures which 
find their way into our market, 
the fact that its inhabitants are a 
lettered as well as a business people 
is rather a matter of surprise; and 



we gaze in wonder at its magnificent 
buildings, devoted to the fine arts, its 
lyceums, colleges, academies of 
science, schools and institutions of 
every kind for instruction and the 
development of the finer tastes ; and 
the riddle is solved by knowing that 
their manufactures, their commerce, 
their business, occupy only a part of 
their lives, and by no means consti- 
tute the sum total, as is so nearly the 
case in this country. This repose is 
very attractive to us Cisatlantic peo- 
ple, who lead such restless lives ; and 
the lovely summer days that we 
spent in the old city enjoying this 
tranquillity are never to be forgotten. 

We were awaiting the celebration 
of the Fete dn Saint Sacrament* 
which is usually kept with so much 
solemnity in the provinces. On the 
eve of the feast we made the ascent 
of Mont Fourriere, though not in 
the garb of humble pilgrims, " with 
sandal shoon and scallop-shell," but 
in the more commonplace character 
of sightseers from the Western World, 
attracted to this height by the far- 
famed shrine which crowns its sum- 
mit, and by the many historic associ- 
ations that cluster round it. 

On our way up we visited a ceme- 
tery which almost hangs by the moun- 
tain-side, and from which there are 
lovely views in every direction. It 
made a strange impression, this city 
of the dead, so far above the noise 
and clatter of the busy world below. 
It was so still, nothing broke the si- 
lence except our footsteps along the 
gravelled walks. One tomb especial- 
ly attracted our attention : it was fair- 
ly buried and hidden by the quantity 
of fresh flowers, and the crosses and 
wreaths of immortelles which cover- 
ed it. While wondering who could 
be the silent occupant of a grave so 
much loved, a lady approached in 
deep widow's mourning, leading two 

* Corpus Christi. 



364 



A Fete-Day at Lyons. 



little children, clad in the same som- 
bre hue. They came and knelt at 
the tomb. Our question was answer- 
ed, and we moved silently away, sor- 
ry for even the momentary intrusion 
we had been guilty of. Near the 
cemetery is the church of St. Iren6e, 
which contains the bones of 18,500 
Christians, martyred by order of Sep- 
timius Severus, 193 A.c. The re- 
mains of its ancient crypt are also 
shown, which dates back to the sec- 
ond century. There is also a well in 
this crypt, in which it is said these 
bones were found. The roughly 
paved road then leads up to the Cha- 
pel,* and Terrace of Notre Dame de 
Fourriere. We found we were just 
in time for the Benediction of the 
Blessed Sacrament, which was given 
here every afternoon during the Tri- 
duum which preceded the feast. 

This little chapel was not remark- 
able either for its architectural finish 
nor for the richness and perfection 
of its ornamentation ; it is plain, very 
plain indeed, but the marvellous nun> 
ber of its ex-votos, the gilt and silver 
hearts which actually burnish its 
walls, the crutches and other instru- 
ments suggestive of disease which 
hang around, tell of the moral and 
physical burdens which have been 
brought here and left, and of the 
weary, sorrowing souls who have 
wandered up this rocky height, who 
have made their deposit, and return- 
ed singing alleluias. 

" There is one far shrine I remember 
In the years that have fled away, 
Where the grand old mountains are guarding 
The glories of night and day. 



" It is one of Our Lady's chapels, 

And though poorer than all the rest 
Just because of the sin and the sorrow, 
I think she loved it the best. 

* This chapel is built on the site of the ancient 
Forum Vctus of the Romans erected by order of 
the Emperor Trajan. A part of the chapel is 
built of the stone that was left of its ruins. It is 
now, and has been for more than a thousand 
years, a celebrated pilgrimage. 



"There are no rich gifts on the altar, 

The shrine is humble and bare. 
Yet the poor, and the sick, and the tempted 
Think their home and their haven is 
there."* 

A fine terrace is just at the side of 
the chapel, and the view magnificent 
from the parapet which guards its 
eastern face. Just beneath lies Ly- 
ons in all its stateliness, traversed by 
two superb rivers from north to south, 
and prominent among its most strik- 
ing points is the grand old Cathedral 
of St. Jean, which stands directly at 
the base of the mountain. 

The surrounding country is a suc- 
cession of lovely landscapes, and be- 
yond, looking far away, a hundred 
miles off into Switzerland, the glori- 
ous Alps, with Mont Blanc's snowy 
peak towering far above all, bound 
the horizon. v We were fortunate in 
getting this view in perfection, for 
frequently a veil of mist and fog shuts 
out entirely this latter part of the 
tableau. On ascending the belfry 
of the chapel, we found the pano- 
rama yet more extended and enchant- 
ing. In every direction the views 
were entirely unbroken and unin- 
terrupted. Seven rich provinces of 
France unfolded their scenery before 
our delighted eyes. At the extreme 
edge of the southern horizon rose 
Mont Pilat ; at the west, the moun- 
tains of Forey and Auvergne ; toward 
the north, Mont d'Or; and on the 
east, the Alps, in their eternal mantle 
of snow, completed a picture that 
could not be surpassed. Every pro- 
minence had caught the golden light 
of the sinking sun, and the shadows 
that had crept into the valleys only 
enhanced the coloring of the scene 
and made the effect more striking. 

A Jesuit college, with its garden 
and appurtenances, is an appendant on 
the southern side of the terrace, and 
we crossed over to take a peep at 

* Procter. 



A Fete-Day at Lyons. 



365 



their chapel, well knowing the good 
taste and exquisite finish which are 
usually displayed in their churches. 
There we found them also holding a 
Triduum, and, their service being a lit- 
tle later than that of the other chapel, 
we had the pleasure of attending Be- 
nediction a second time. Here the 
music was delightful and the chapel 
a gem. It was very small, and seem- 
ed to be lit entirely from the altar, 
which was ablaze with wax-lights 
and natural flowers ; there appeared 
to be no external light to enter at all, 
and yet from its miniature size none 
of its details were lost, and, with the 
accessories of the solemn service then 
going on, it was the embodiment of 
beauty and inspiration. 

When we turned our footsteps 
downward, the shadows had length- 
ened, and were fast creeping out of 
the valleys, and by the time we 
reached home the heights of Four- 
riere, which we still had in sight, 
were shrouded in gloom. 

The next morning we were awak- 
ened by the booming of cannon, 
which announced the inauguration 
of the fete. 

We hurried through breakfast, so 
as to reach the cathedral in time for 
the procession. In the square oppo- 
site our hotel, an altar had been 
erected, and we passed several oth- 
ers on our way, but their decorations, 
at this early hour, were not quite 
complete. 

Everything wore a festive look, 
and everybody was out in holiday 
attire, flags and banners were flying, 
and the facades of some of those im- 
mensely high houses were festooned 
from top to bottom with crimson and 
7ellow hangings. One building in es- 
pecial was very effective ; it was the 
Palais de Justice, which is on the 
right bank of the Sa6ne, and which 
we faced in crossing the bridge to the 
cathedral. Its extended front of Co- 



rinthian pillars was draped in crimson 
cloth, which contrasted finely with 
the gray stone of which it was built. 
A little to its left is the old cathedral, 
stately and grand in its sombre livery 
of centuries. It has seen generations- 
pass away, emperors and empires,, 
kingdoms and kings, and yet it stands 
to-day intact, and ready to do duty 
for another hundred years, unless de- 
molished by the sacrilegious hand of 
the iconoclast of the nineteenth cen- 
tury. 

On reaching the place in front of 
the cathedral, we found a large crowd 
awaiting the procession. In a short 
time the sound of martial music was 
heard, and presently several officers 
rode up on horseback to open a pas- 
sage through the crowd. 

The procession was escorted by a 
troop of cavalry and military band, 
and preceded by a number of love- 
ly children, dressed in white, with sil- 
ver wings, their hair flowing, and 
scattering flowers as they passed 
along. As it entered the church, the 
organ pealed forth, filling the vast 
aisles with its magnificent harmony. 
Then Pontifical High Mass began, in 
all the grandeur of the especial ri- 
tual which is attached to this church, 
and which is the oldest in France, 
having been introduced here by one 
of the first bishops of Lyons ; the li- 
turgy is also different from that ordi- 
narily used, and the ceremonies are 
of the most imposing character. The 
band, placed in a remote part of the 
church, played at intervals during the 
service, and the harsh and deafening 
sounds which are usually the result 
of brass instruments in a close 
building were lost in the immense 
space, and only the sweetest strains 
swept up through the nave and 
aisles. 

In like manner the glare of day 
fell through the richly stained win- 
dows in a mellow and subdued light, 



366 



How the Church Understands and Upholds 



which diffused itself generally over 
the church. 

A very pleasant American writer * 
has said : " If we could only bring 
one thing back from Europe, that 
one thing would be a cathedral." 
And truly these old monuments have 
a prestige to which persons of all 
creeds must pay tribute ; and the ver- 
iest scoffer lifts his hat with rever- 
ence as he enters, and feels the 
influence of that wonderful atmo- 
sphere which pervades their hallow- 
ed precincts. After Mass we pro- 
longed our walk home to see the 
decorations of the city. The altars 
were now entirely finished, and 
dressed with a profusion of natural 
flowers. 

In the afternoon the procession 
passed round the city in a line with 
the altars, at each of which benedic- 
tion was given. In their liturgy there 



are four special hymns for each of 
these stations or reposoirs, and, when 
the latter exceed that number, the 
chants are repeated until they have 
all been visited. There is generally 
one altar in each ward or district of 
the city, to satisfy the pious devotion 
of those who cannot attend service 
at the church. 

In the evening illuminations and 
fireworks completed the festivities of 
the day of a day whose minutest 
detail showed how true " the Rome 
of Gaul" had been to the colors 
which she unfurled nearly seventeen 
hundred years ago on the ramparts 
of paganism. 

Since then I have seen other fetes 
in other lands, but none have left the 
impression of the first which I saw 
inaugurated in the old Cathedral of 
St. Jean, under the shadow of Mont 
Fourriere. 



HOW THE CHURCH UNDERSTANDS AND UPHOLDS THE 
RIGHTS OF WOMEN. 



THIRD ARTICLE. 



THE MIDDLE AGES. 



THE middle ages were undoubt- 
edly the epoch during which the 
influence of woman upon the gravest 
affairs and most important issues in 
the history of the church was most 
widely exercised. There was hardly 
a single country in Europe that was 
evangelized and reclaimed from social 
barbarism without the direct inter- 
vention of the power of women, and 
wherever the inevitable excesses of a 
system in the main both useful and 

* Hillard. 



honorable, such as the feudalism of 
the middle ages, had to be checked 
or corrected, it was always done 
through the merciful intercession of 
holy and generous women. To begin 
with the country whose daughters 
have ever been foremost in zeal for 
the cause of religion, France, we have 
a long list of queens whose names 
are conspicuous in the annals of 
church history. They were no less 
honored in their own day than they 
have been since the voice of the 
faithful has proclaimed them saints. 



the Rights of Women. 



When the French monarchy was in 
its first military and elementary 
stages, the young Prankish con- 
queror, the heathen Clovis, who had 
just forced the ancient Gauls of the 
province of Rheims to bow before 
his power, found at the court of 
Gondebaud, King of Burgundy, the 
niece of that prince, Clotildis, a Chris- 
tian maiden, renowned for her learn- 
ing in matters of theology, and for 
her undaunted stand against the 
Arianism of her uncle's court. St. 
Gregory of Tours, says Ventura,* 
represents her as evincing the most 
varied and reliable knowledge of 
Christianity, and especially of the ques- 
tions at that time lately decided at the 
Council of Nicaea. She knew equally 
how to combat paganism on her hus- 
band's part and Arianism upon her 
uncle's, and displayed all the self-pos- 
session of a great apologist, with the 
theological science of a doctor of 
the church. This was as early as the 
year 493, not long after Clovis won 
the great battle of Tolbiac against 
the Alemanni, and became a Chris- 
tian, according to his vow, made dur- 
ing the engagement, to the " Son of 
the living God, thou whom Clotildis 
worships." The queen then sent for 
St. Remigius, the Bishop of Rheims, 
to instruct and baptize her husband. 
She instructed the women of her 
court and family herself, and showed 
herself most zealous in the propaga- 
tion of the faith. The ceremony of 
baptism, and the anointing of the 
king which followed it, were per- 
formed, by the queen's care, with ex- 
traordinary solemnity. She herself 
walked in the procession between the 
king's two sisters, the one formerly a 
pagan, the other an Arian. The 
first, the Princess Albofleda, re- 
nounced the world and consecrated 
her virginity to God, thus giving a 

* Donna Cattolica, ii. p. 74. 



first example to the numerous royal 
maidens of France who have since 
left the court for the cloister. Clotil- 
dis so fired her husband's heart with 
her holy enthusiasm that he built and 
endowed the church of SS. Peter and 
Paul in Paris, now called St. Gene- 
vieve in honor of the sainted shep- 
herdess who, later on, shared with 
Clotildis herself the title of patroness 
of France. Clovis was afterwards 
buried in this church. The Visi- 
goths and Burgundians, who were 
Arians, where shamed into less inhu- 
man ways by the example and wide- 
spread influence of the victorious 
Clovis and his Christian warriors ; 
the foundations of the great French 
monarchy were laid by the evident 
desire of the neighboring tribes to 
coalesce with the Franks ; the future 
Catholic monarchy of Spain was con- 
secrated by the heroic zeal and suf- 
fering of Clotildis the younger, the 
only daughter of Clovis, married to 
the Arian Amalaric, King of the Visi- 
goths, in Spain, and the mitigation of 
many lawless and still half-barbarian 
acts during the reigns of her sons 
was successfully undertaken ; so that it 
may be said with truth of this period 
of history that its chief glory was the 
supremacy of woman. Clotildis died at 
Tours, where for many years she had 
lived in solitude and humility, en- 
tirely ignoring her high rank, and em- 
ploying her influence over her sons 
in exhortations to preserve the peace 
of their respective kingdoms, to pro- 
tect the poor, and to treat them as 
brethren. But great as her services 
to religion and civilization had 
been, the church was not destined to 
suffer by her death, for a long succes- 
sion of imitators of her virtues took 
her place from century to century, 
and protected the interests of that 
church whose champions cannot fail 
her as long as principle and honor 
exist in the world. Radegundes, the 



3 68 



daughter of Bertarius, King of Thu- 
ringia, and the captive of King Clo- 
taire I. (fourth son of St. Clotildis), 
was instructed in the Christian faith 
at the court of the latter, whom she 
afterwards married. Her great de- 
light during the short period of her 
court life was the care of the sick in 
the hospital of Athies, which she had 
founded, and the alleviation of the 
miseries of the poor. She endea- 
vored to restrain the lawlessness of 
the court; but, when her husband 
caused her brother to be treacher- 
ously assassinated, as Butler tells 
us,* in order to possess his kingdom 
of Thuringia, she was so grieved 
at the time that she begged for 
leave to retire into a monastery. 
Here her influence was greater than 
it had been at court. The great abbey 
of Poitiers was founded and the first 
abbess, Agnes, chosen by her. She 
enriched the church of this monas- 
tery with numerous gifts, and sent 
ambassadors to the Emperor Justin 
of Constantinople to obtain a relic of 
the True Cross. This being given 
her, she had it placed in a shrine, to 
to which it was carried in solemn pro- 
cession. She had already invited to 
Poitiers many learned and holy men, 
among others the orator and poet 
Venantius Fortunatus, who on this oc- 
casion composed the famous proces- 
sional hymn " Vexilla Regis Prod- 
cunt," which is now one of the most 
prominent features of our liturgy. 
Thus, to a woman's inspiration do 
we owe one of the hymns of world- 
wide renown, synonymous with the 
name and practice of Catholic Chris- 
tianity. Butler tells us that Rade- 
gundes herself was a good scholar, 
and read both the Latin and Greek 
fathers. She procured for her monas- 
tery the rule and constitution of St. 
Cesarius of Aries, and had it con- 

* Lives of tht Saints. 



firmed by the Council of Tours,, as- 
sembled 566. Here again, in the 
letter of Cesaria, the abbess of the 
monastery of St. John, at Aries, we 
have a most remarkable instance of 
the great discernment and prudence 
of a woman in her management of a 
numerous community. She gives the 
strictest cautions against all familiar- 
ities and partiality in a religious com- 
munity, and also enjoins that each 
nun should learn the Psalter by heart 
and be able to read well. Biblical 
learning is thus proved to have 
been ever foremost in the minds 
of the pioneers of monasticiszn. 
But Radegundes, so great was her 
anxiety to make her monastery of 
Poitiers a perfect work, repaired to 
Aries herself, and studied the rule 
personally for some time, in order to 
help the Abbess Agnes in establish- 
ing it the more effectually. After the 
death of her husband, and during the 
shameful disturbances caused by the 
famous Fredegonda, the mistress of 
Chilperic, Radegundes became once 
more the support of orthodoxy and 
of the persecuted bishops of the 
realm. Among other proofs of the 
high esteem in which prominent 
churchmen held this great woman, 
let us cite the letter addressed to her 
by the assembled bishops of the 
Council of Tours, wherein they say : 
" We are rejoiced, most reverend 
daughter, to see such an example of 
divine favor repeated in your person ; 
for the faith flourishes anew through 
the efforts of your zeal, and what had 
been languishing through the wintry 
coldness of the indifference of this 
age, lives again through the fervor 
of your soul. But as you claim as a 
birthplace almost the same spot 
whence St. Martin came, it is no won- 
der that you should imitate in your 
work his example and teaching. 
Shining with the light of his doctrine, 
you fill with heavenly conviction the 



the Rights of Women. 



hearts of those who listen to 
you." * 

The tradition of constant faith and 
resolute orthodoxy on the part of 
the queens of France was upheld in 
the century following that of Rade- 
gundes (the seventh), by Bathildis, 
the wife of Clovis II. ; the friend of 
Eligius, Bishop of Noyon, and of 
O\ven, Bishop of Rouen. Both of 
these had been placed in responsible 
positions at court through the influ- 
ence of Radegundes the co-opera- 
tor of Genis, the holy almoner, who 
subsequently became Archbishop of 
Lyons, and the wielder of great 
power through the complaisance of 
her husband. Bathildis was pre- 
eminently the support of the epis- 
copate and the refuge of the poor. 
She had herself been a captive, being 
by birth an Englishwoman, and hav- 
ing fallen to the lot of Erchinoald, the 
first officer of the King of Neustria, 
who treated her very kindly. Ven- 
tura says of her : " At the death of 
her husband, having been entrusted 
with the regency of the kingdom and 
the guardianship of her three little 
children, the oldest only five years 
old, she acquitted herself of this double 
office with such wisdom and prudence 
that even the great nobles and states- 
men could not withhold their admira- 
tion and respect. With such coun- 
sellors as the holy bishops Eligius, 
Owen, and Leger, it is not astonish- 
ing that she should have succeeded 
in banishing from the church in 
France the shameful simony which, 
through royal connivance, had hi- 
therto dishonored it, and abolishing 
in civil matters the unjust and vexa- 
tious taxes that were grinding down 
the people. She multiplied hospitals, 
monasteries, and abbeys. The famous 
monastery of Chelles owes its origin 
to her. . . . But the most impor- 



tant of all her foundations was that 
of Corbie, which afterwards became 
so celebrated in France, and where 
this queen, as zealous for the propa- 
gation of science as for the strength- 
ening of religion, established under 
able masters, gathered from all parts 
of the world, a system of the most 
complete literary and scientific educa- 
tion. This monastery, nexf to that of 
Lerins, was a true university and a 
centre of enlightenment. The regency 
of this woman renewed the glories 
and wonders of the reign of Pulcheria. 
Never had sovereign so exerted her- 
self for the welfare of her people, both 
religiously, scientifically, and politi- 
cally. But her greatest glory, which 
has not been sufficiently recognized, 
was . . . that, contrary to the cold 
calculations of a false philosophy, she 
dared to do what no man had done 
before her. She abolished slavery in 
France (where it still subsisted), and 
was the first Christian sovereign who 
proclaimed as a national principle 
. . . that a slave becomes free on 
setting his foot on the soil of France!"* 
Between Bathildis and Blanche of 
Castille, from the seventh to the 
thirteenth centuries, there was no 
lack of holy and learned women in 
France, but it would be impossible to 
enumerate them all. " The mother of 
St. Louis, though the church has 
never formally canonized her, stands 
out as one of the grandest figures in 
ecclesiastical history. Her stern and 
unflinching devotion to religious 
principle, instilled early into the mind 
of her son, sowed the seeds of sanctity 
in the exceptional life of that holy 
king. Her talents were no less re- 
markable than her austerity. Her 
marriage at the age of fourteen with 
Louis VIII., King of France, gave 
her the high position to which her 
birth, her genius, and her beauty en- 



* Lift of St. Radegundes. By Bussifcre 
VOL. XV. 24 



* Donna Caftolico. 



How the CJiurch Understands and Upholds 



titled her. This union was the model 
of Christian marriages, and her his- 
torian, the Baron Chaillon, says that 
during the twenty-six years it lasted 
she and her husband were never 
separated for a single instant, and 
that not the slightest shadow 
darkened the serenity of their inter- 
course. Even at an early age and 
before her husband's accession to the 
throne, her father-in-law, Philip Au- 
gustus, did not refuse to take and 
follow her advice in matters of state im- 
portance." * At her 'husband's death 
she became, by his desire, regent of the 
kingdom. Ever eager to put her son's 
personal prestige foremost, she care- 
fully initiated him into the affairs of 
the realm, and accustomed him early 
to appear in his royal character in 
public. She wisely averted the ever- 
impending coalitions of the great vas- 
sals of the crown against the royal 
authority. She continued the war 
against the Albigenses, whose dissen- 
sions were ruining the kingdom ; she 
obtained the annexation of the terri- 
tory of the Counts of Toulouse to the 
crown, and quelled the revolt of the 
Duke of Brittany, who ended .by 
gladly recognizing his fealty to her 
son. When she committed to Gaul- 
thier, the Archbishop of Sens, the 
mission of treating for the hand of 
Margaret of Provence for the young 
king, these were the severe instruc- 
tions she gave him : Only to pro- 
pose the marriage formally after he 
had well studied the character of the 
young princess, and had well satisfied 
himself as to the stability of her prin- 
ciples, the purity of her life, and the 
sincerity of her religion. Butler, in 
his life of St. Louis, says of the queen : 
if By her care, Louis was perfectly 
master of the Latin tongue, learned 
to speak in public, and to write with 
elegance, grace, and dignity, and was 

* Donna Ciittolica, vol. ii. p. 104. 



instructed in the art of war, the wisest 
maxims of government, and all the ac- 
complishments of a king. He was 
also a good historian, and often read 
the works of the Fathers." Thus it 
will be seen that, without departing 
from the strictest feminine delicacy, a 
woman may be the sole responsible 
preceptor of a statesman and warrior, 
and yet leave no stain of " petticoat 
government " on his education, nor 
any suspicion of undue asceticism on 
his belief. 

Concerning the dissensions of the 
nobles and vassals who refused to be 
present at the young king's corona- 
tion, Butler says : " The queen regent 
put herself and her son at the head 
of his troops, and, finding means to 
bring over the Count of Champagne 
to his duty, struck the rest with such 
consternation that they all retired. 
. . . The whole time of the king's 
minority was disturbed by these re- 
bels, but the regent, by several alli- 
ances and negotiations, and chiefly 
by her courage and diligence, by 
which she always prevented them in 
the field, continually dissipated their 
cabals." Of the negotiations with 
the Count of Toulous,e, a dangerous 
and powerful vassal, Butler gives 
these details : " In the third year of 
her regency, she obliged Raymund, 
Count of Toulouse and Duke of 
Narbonne, to receive her conditions, 
which were that he should marry 
his daughter Jane to Alphonsus, 
the king's brother, who . should in- 
herit the county of Toulouse, and 
that, in case they should have no 
children by this marriage, the whole 
inheritance should revert to the 
crown-, which last eventually hap- 
pened." The same author says of 
Margaret of Provence " that she sur- 
passed her sisters in beauty, wit, and 
virtue." In 1242, after the majority 
and marriage of her son, Blanche 
founded the monastery of Maubuis- 



the Rights of Women. 



son. Louis was remarkable for the 
even-handed justice with which he pro- 
tected the serfs against the encroach- 
ment of their feudal lords, and on one 
occasion refused to allow Mgr. En- 
guerrand de Coucy the privilege of 
being tried by his peers, and condemn- 
ed him to death by the ordinary pro- 
cess of law, for having arbitrarily 
hanged three children who had been 
caught hunting rabbits in his woods. 
He afterwards spared his life, but de- 
prived him of all his estates and ex- 
acted from him an enormous fine, 
which he employed in building and 
endowing a mortuary chapel where 
Mass should be offered every day for 
the souls of the murdered children. 
The rest of the fine was divided into 
several foundations for hospitals and 
monasteries. In 1248, St. Louis, ac- 
cording to a vow he had made in 
sickness, set out for the crusade 
against the Sultan of Egypt, leaving 
his mother once more regent of 
France. Ventura says of her during 
this second regency that, " being in 
France in the body, yet in the East 
in spirit, and following mentally her 
heroic son in his dangerous under- 
taking, she seemed to multiply her- 
self. Entirely absorbed in the care 
of the home government of a great 
kingdom, that she might make jus- 
tice, order, and peace supreme there- 
in, she was also participating none 
the less entirely in the great struggle 
between the Cross and the Crescent, 
. . . and it is impossible to entertain 
a correct idea of the wisdom, fore- 
thought, and activity of which 
Blanche, during those five years, 
gave proof, thus being enabled to 
send aid in kind, in arms, and in 
money, to the army in the East, yet 
without taxing and unduly oppress- 
ing the people at home. Thus she 
did not neglect the smallest details 
in order to assure the success of an 
expedition in which the rational 



honor of France as well as the tri- 
umph of Christianity was engaged." 
Ventura then goes on to remind 
the would-be " emancipators" of wo- 
man that, throughout her arduous du- 
ties, Queen Blanche, notwithstanding 
her immense governing powers and 
her proud experience of fifty years, 
did not hesitate to take as a trusted 
friend and counsellor the learned 
Archbishop of Sens, Gaulthier-Cor- 
nu. Of this latter prelate and 
statesman, a contemporary historian 
has said, " As long as his power was 
in the ascendant, fraud and dis- 
honesty hid their face, while peace 
and justice reigned." Blanche of 
Castille died before her son's return 
from Egypt, and hastened to pro- 
nounce her vows of monastic conse- 
cration to God before she breathed 
her last, on the first of December, 
1252. 

We must now go back some cen- 
turies to place before our readers a 
fugitive account of those French 
princesses who exercised in Spain a 
true apostolate. We have already 
mentioned the younger Clotildis, but 
Indegonda, the daughter of Sigisbert, 
King of Austrasia, and Rigontha, the 
daughter of Chilperic, King of Neus- 
tria, remain to be noticed. They 
were married to two brothers, the 
former to Hermenigild, the latter to 
Reccared, sons of Levigild, King of 
the Spanish Visigoths. Indegonda 
suffered great persecutions from her 
husband's step-mother on account of 
her religion, the second wife of Levi- 
gild being a bigoted Arian, and it 
was even a l6ng time before Hermen- 
igild consented to become a Catho- 
lic. When at last Indegonda had 
obtained this happy conversion, she 
herself and her husband's uncle, the 
holy Leander of Seville, were exiled, 
and Hermenigild so persecuted by 
his father that, having been betrayed 
by the Greeks and deserted by the 



372 



PIcnv tJie Church Understands and Upholds 



Romans, he fell a victim to Arian 
vengeance, and, after suffering torture 
and imprisonment, was cruelly put 
to death by order of Levigild him- 
self. This barbarian king, however, 
repented his unnatural cruelty before 
he died, and, recalling his brother-in- 
law Leander, entrusted him with the 
care of his remaining son Reccared. 
Rigontha, the wife of the young 
prince, had suffered great injustice at 
the hands of her own father Chilperic, 
the lover of the too famous Frede- 
gonda. She had succeeded in con- 
verting her husband, and, together 
with his uncle Leander, exercised a 
salutary influence over him. Recca- 
red assembled the Arian bishops of 
his kingdom, and spoke to them so 
persuasively that they acknowledged 
themselves willing to be reconciled 
to the church. The province of 
Narbonne, at that time under his do- 
minion, followed his example, while 
the neighboring tribe of the Suevi, 
also Arians, speedily joined the 
church. A council was then assem- 
bled at Toledo, and the intimate 
union of Spain with Catholic inter- 
ests was founded on a solid and re- 
liable basis. 

It is told as a pleasantry of some 
shrewd critic of modern times that, 
whenever he saw or heard a disturb- 
ance of any sort, his unfailing question 
was, " Who is she ?" being certain that, 
whatever might be the effect, a woman 
was sure to be the cause. If this is 
unfortunately no longer a libel on the 
sex in this distracted century, at least 
we may point back to the so-called 
dark ages, and proudly say, with 
a certainty far more absolute than 
that of our cynical contemporary, 
when we read of any great consum- 
mation in the history of religion and 
civilization, " Who was she ?" 

Not.long after the death of Blanche 
of Castille, another Spanish princess, 
the daughter of Peter III. of Aragon, 



and the niece of St. Elizabeth of 
Hungary, took up the tradition of 
holiness, which seemed the birthrighl 
of the royal maidens of mediaeval 
times. Her father attributed his suc- 
cess in his undertakings against the 
Moors to her prayers and early 
virtues. At twelve years old she was 
married to Denis, King of Portugal, 
to whom she was not only a most 
faithful wife, but whom she succeeded, 
by her meekness and silent example, 
in winning back from his sinful courses. 
She is praised by her biographers for 
her ascetic virtues, and for her utter 
disregard of her earthly rank. But 
what concerns us more is to look into 
the influence she held on social and 
political affairs. Among these it is 
impossible not to reckon her charities, 
for private charity has often much 
to do with public honesty and 
morality. Butler tells us that she 
" made it her business to seek out and 
secretly relieve persons of good con- 
dition who were reduced to necessity, 
yet out of shame durst not make 
known their wants. She gave con- 
stant orders to have all pilgrims and 
poor strangers provided with lodging 
and necessaries. She was very liberal 
in furnishing fortunes to poor young 
women, that they might marry ac- 
cording to their condition, and not be 
exposed to the danger of losing their 
virtue. She founded in different parts 
of the kingdom many pious establish- 
ments, particularly a hospital near 
her own palace at Coimbra, a house 
for penitent women who had been 
seduced into evil courses, at Torres- 
Novas, and a hospital for foundlings, 
or those children who for want of due 
provision are exposed to the danger of 
perishing by poverty or the neglect 
and cruelty of unnatural parents. She 
visited the sick and served them witk 
her own hands, . . . not that she 
neglected any other duties, . . . 
for she made it her principal study to 



the Rights of Women. 



373 



pay to her husband the most dutiful 
respect, love, and obedience, and bore 
iiis infidelities with invincible meek- 
ness and patience." Let us stop to 
note this last sentence, which no doubt 
by many of our chafing sisters of this 
age may be misunderstood. This 
meekness was not a want of spirit ; it 
was the effect of " the subordination 
of our inferior nature to reason, and of 
our reason to God," as one of the 
most lucid and most sympathetic of 
American exponents of Catholic truth 
once expressed to the writer the 
whole duty of man apon earth. It 
was no passiveness, no supineness, but 
the heroic endurance of the martyr, 
who is more concerned at another's 
sin than his own wrong, and who 
does not consider that reprisal and re- 
sentment are efficient means to win 
the sinner back. When a woman 
stoops to retaliation, she forgets the 
dignity of her sex, and, if she forget 
it, who can she expect will remember 
it? 

We may also be allowed to say one 
word about the numerous foundations 
constantly mentioned in the lives of 
these great Christian women of past 
ages. It is perhaps the general be- 
lief that nothing but monasteries were 
endowed in early times. We have 
sufficiently shown how fallacious such 
belief would be. Institutions of every 
kind, in which Catholic ingenuity was 
multiplied till it embraced every need 
and provided for every contingency, 
were sown all over the Christian 
world. The East was not forgotten, 
and, indeed, even the great orders of 
the Templars and the Hospitallers 
were originally nothing but organized 
bodies for the defence and shelter of 
the pilgrims who flocked to the holy 
places. Such charities as tended to 
diminish the temptations to crime 
were foremost among the many 
originated during the middle ages. 
We have only to refer to history to 



prove this. Even had these founda- 
tions been confined to monasteries, 
we must remember that the con- 
ventual abodes of old united in them- 
selves nearly all the characteristics of 
other institutions, and in the less 
favored districts virtually supplied 
their place. Besides being the only 
secure and recognized homes of learn- 
ing, the solitary centres of education, 
they were also the refuge of the home- 
less or benighted wanderer; the 
asylum of the oppressed poor, of 
threatened innocence, and of unjustly 
accused men ; the hospital of the 
sick, the sure dispensary of medicines 
to the surrounding peasantry, and the 
unfailing granary of the poor during 
troublous times or years of famine. 
There was hardly one want, physical 
or spiritual, that could not find ready 
relief at the monasteries of both 
monks and nuns, so that in founding 
such retreats it is no exaggeration to 
say that orphanage, asylum, reforma- 
tory, hospital, and school were com- 
prised within their walls. 

We must return to the great queen 
whose munificence has led us into 
this digression, and resume, as was our 
purpose from the beginning, the rigid 
relation of mere historical facts to 
which we more willingly entrust the 
cause than to the most eloquent 
apologies. 

When Elizabeth's son, Alphonsus, 
revolted against his father and actu- 
ally took up arms, she made the 
most prudent efforts to mediate be- 
tween them, for which the Pope, 
John XXII., greatly praised her in a 
letter he wrote to her on the subject ; 
but, certain enemies of hers having 
poisoned her husband's mind against 
her, he banished her to the town of 
Alanquer. She refused all communi- 
cation with the rebels, and at last was 
recalled by her penitent husband. 
Butler says : " She reconciled her hus- 
band and son when their armies were 



374 



How the Church Understands and Upholds 



marching one against the other, and 
she reduced all the subjects to duty 
and obedience. She made peace be- 
tween Ferdinand IV., King of Cas- 
tille, and Alphonsus della Corda, his 
cousin-german, who disputed the 
crown ; likewise between James II., 
King of Aragon, her own brother, and 
Ferdinand IV., King of Castille, her 
son-in-law. In order to effect this 
last, she took a journey with her hus- 
band into both these kingdoms, and, 
to the great satisfaction of the Chris- 
tian world, put a happy end to all 
dissensions and debates between those 
states." * During her husband's ill- 
ness, which followed soon after, Eliza- 
beth nursed him most devotedly, and 
ever exhorted him to think of his 
spiritual welfare. Her husband's 
death was the end of her public 
career as queen a fitting proof of the 
little value she placed upon the dis- 
tinctions for which half the world is 
periodically laid in ashes. Her son, 
Alphonsus, and her grandson, also 
named Alphonsus, the young King 
of Castille, having again proclaimed 
war upon each other, Elizabeth set 
out to meet and reconcile them. She 
died on the way, in 1336, having ob- 
tained peace through her exhorta- 
tions to her son, who attended her 
at her deathbed. Thus peace and 
brotherly love among princes and 
nations, as well as among the indivi- 
duals of her own immediate circle, 
was ever nearest the heart of this 
great and admirable woman. How 
well it would be if she were taken as 
a model by the women of our day, and 
if her influence could be followed by 
the reward which our Lord himself 
attached to the noble office of peace- 
makers ! 

Turning to England, once the Is- 
land of Saints and the home o/ reli- 
gious learning, we see the influence 
of woman most peremptorily asserted. 
There is Bertha, the daughter of 



Charibert, King of Paris, and wife of 
Ethelbert, King of Kent, whom we 
have already mentioned, with Brune- 
hault, as being the apostles of the 
faith in England, and the zealous 
helpers of Gregory and Augustine. 
Rohrbacher says of her that she con- 
tributed mainly to the conversion of 
her husband and of the whole nation, 
and St. Lethard, her almoner and 
Bishop of Senlis, greatly aided her. 
There is Eanswide, her grand-daugh- 
ter, the child of Eadbald, who was 
also converted later on and became 
abbess of the monastery at Folke- 
stone, as Butler tells us. There is the 
great Edith, or Eadgith, the daugh- 
ter of King Edgar, who in the tenth 
century was the ornament of her sex 
and the marvel of men. " She unit- 
ed," says Butler, " the active life of 
Martha with the contemplation of 
Mary, and was particularly devoted 
to the care of the sick. When she 
was but fifteen years old, her father 
pressed her to undertake the govern- 
ment of three different monasteries, 
of which charge she was judged most 
capable, such was her extraordinary 
virtue and discretion. But she hum- 
bly declined all superiority. . . . 
Upon the death of her brother, Ed- 
ward the Martyr, the nobility who 
adhered to the martyred king desir- 
ed Edith to quit her monastery and 
ascend the throne, but she preferred 
a state of h'umility and obedience to 
the prospect of a crown." Another 
Edith, the daughter of the great Earl 
of Kent, Godwin, became the queen 
of Edward the Confessor, with whom 
she lived by mutual consent in per- 
petual virginity, according to a vow 
the king had made many years be- 
fore his marriage. Reading, study- 
ing, and devotion were her whole de- 
light. Edward's mother, Emma, is 
ranked among the saints, and was 
mainly instrumental in the religious 
and learned education of her son. 



the Rights of Women. 



375 



Ventura, in his admirable work on 
Woman, which has become, as it were, 
a text-book for all those who are 
truly interested in the theme and 
history of woman's greatness, draws 
attention to the fact that it was an- 
der the reign of Edward the Confess- 
or who is credited by prejudicial his- 
torians with " womanly " weakness, 
and who, on the contrary, was such 
an irrefragable proof of what the 
grave and wise influence of good 
women can do that the equality of 
all men before the law was first re- 
cognized as a principle. Edward's 
niece, Margaret, the wife of Malcolm, 
King of Scotland, was also a most 
eminent and influential princess. 
Her husband, whose confidence in 
her was unbounded, deferred to her 
in every particular of state govern- 
ment, whether internal or external, 
secular or religious. Their children's 
education he left entirely in her 
hands, and, while she carefully sur- 
rounded them with masters well 
versed in all the knowledge then at- 
tainable, she was no less solicitous 
for the improvement of the nation. 
Butler says of her : " She labored most 
successfully to polish and civilize the 
Scottish nation, to encourage among 
the people the useful and polite arts, 
and to inspire them with a love of 
the sciences. ... By her exten- 
sive alms, insolvent debtors were re- 
leased, and decayed families restored, 
and foreign nations, especially the 
English, recovered their captives. 
She was solicitous to ransom those 
especially who fell into the hands of 
harsh masters. She also erected hos- 
pitals for poor strangers. " Her 
daughter Maud, who was the first 
wife of Henry I. of England, followed 
in her footsteps, and was highly rever- 
ed, both during her life and after her 
death, by the two nations to which 
her birth and marriage linked her. 
Two great hospitals in London, that 



of Christ Church, Aldgate, and of 
St. Giles in the Fields, are due to her 
munificence and foresight. 

We have no space to mention 
many of the Anglo-Saxon princesses 
who, either on the throne or in the 
cloister, swayed great political issues 
and protected learning while they 
shielded the virtue of their sex. We 
must leave the Island of Saints for 
other kingdoms whose queens were 
conspicuous not only in procuring the 
conversion of these realms to Chris- 
tianity, but also in the territorial ag- 
grandizement and material prosper- 
ity of the countries they governed. 
Bridget, Queen of Sweden, the fa- 
mous author of the most interesting 
revelations ever written, was no less 
remarkable personally than fortunate 
in her many and distinguished chil- 
dren. Warriors and crusaders, holy 
wives and consecrated virgins, she of- 
fered them to God in every state, 
and instructed each with particular 
care. A pilgrimage to Rome in 
days when the journey from Scandi- 
navia to the south was more an ex- 
ploration than a safe pastime was 
bravely undertaken by her in her 
widowhood, and the foundation of 
her order and chief monastery at 
Vatzen is certainly one of the most 
boldly conceived systems known to 
the world. The monasteries of this 
order were double, and contained a 
smaller number of monks and a 
larger of nuns, divided by so strict an 
enclosure that, although contiguous, 
the communities never even saw 
each other. In spiritual matters, the 
monks held authority, but in tem- 
poral the nuns governed the double 
house; and in fact the monks were 
only attached to the foundation in a 
secondary degree of importance, and 
for the greater spiritual convenience 
of the cloistered women. Such sub- 
ordination goes far to show how the 
pretended inferiority of woman is 



How the Church Understands and Upholds 



really an unknown thing in the 
church. The fanaticism and bad 
faith of later times affected to see an 
abuse in this system, and most of 
these monasteries were destroyed at 
the Reformation, but Butler says 
that a few exist yet in Flanders and 
Germany. St. Bridget's works have 
been printed and reprinted from age 
to age, and have seemingly never 
lost what may be styled in modern 
parlance their popularity. She also 
procured a Swedish translation of the 
Bible to be written by Matthias, the 
Bishop of Worms, who died about the 
year 1410. She was altogether one 
of the most prominent women of the 
fourteenth century, and no unworthy 
successor to the central figure of the 
preceding age, Catherine of Sienna, 
of whom we shall have to speak 
briefly later on. 

Two empresses of Germany de- 
serve a passing notice here Mathil- 
da, the wife of Henry I. called the 
Fowler, and her daughter-in-law, the 
famous Adelaide. The former had 
been educated by her grandmother, 
who bore the same name as herself, 
and who was the abbess of the mo- 
nastery of Erfurt. Once again we 
have a woman of genius, prudence, 
and great governing powers coming 
forth to rule a disturbed empire and 
from what school ? The world will 
hardly dare to call it unenlightened 
or narrow-minded ; yet it was a mo- 
nastery. During her husband's wars 
against the Danes and Hungarians, 
then (it was in the ninth century) 
nothing better than barbarians, Ma- 
thilda was several times left regent, 
and Ventura tells us "that public 
affairs did not prosper less, the coun- 
try was not less tranquil, nor the peo- 
ple less contented, because it was a 
woman who steered the helm of the 
state. When the emperor returned, 
he found everything in perfect order. 
The empress relinquished the func- 



tions of regent only to resume her 
former place of intercessor for the un- 
fortunate, protectress of prisoners, 
and wise auxiliary to justice." Ade- 
laide, Princess of Burgundy, renewed 
in the following century the glories 
of Mathilda's reign. She was mar- 
ried to the son of the latter, after 
having been for a short time the 
Queen of Lothair, King of the Lom- 
bards in Italy. Ventura says that 
her zeal for the public good and her 
love of the people gained her the ap- 
pellation of the " mother of her king- 
dom." After her husband's death, 
Adelaide, says Bulter, " educated her 
son Otho II. with great care, and his 
reign was happy as long as he gov- 
erned by her directions." His mo- 
ther became regent after his death 
and that of his wife, and her biogra- 
pher, Butler, tells us that she " looked 
upon power as merely a difficult 
stewardship, and applied herself to 
public affairs with' indefatigable 
'care." * 

The middle ages are so fruitful a 
field for historical details of the 
greatness of woman, that we find our 
materials crowding one upon the I 
other in too great a profusion for our 
present limits. But some great fig- 
ures in what we may call the Chris- 
tian Pantheon of woman cannot be 
passed over without a word of no- 
tice. The tenth century gave 
another holy empress to Germany, 
Cunegonda, the wife of Henry II., 
himself a saint, and a descendant of 
St. Mathilda. His sister Giselda 
married King Stephen of Hungary, 
upon the express condition that he 
would endeavor to christianize his 
people. Cunegonda, who reigned 
for a short time between the death 
of St. Henry and the election of his 
successor, proved herself as compe- 
tent to govern a realm as the great- 

* Lives of the Saints. 



the Rights of Women. 



377 



est man; these are Ventura's own 
words. The story of Elizabeth of 
Hungary has been eloquently told 
by the author of the Monks of the 
IVest, and pictorial art has handed 
down from generation to generation 
the touching legend of her life. 
Married early to a prince remarkable 
for his piety and generosity, she was 
able to indulge in her favorite pas- 
time working for and serving the 
poor. We, in these days, seem to 
think that philanthropy, the "love 
of man," is an invention coeval with 
the erection of gossiping committees 
and wrangling " boards " ; but, when 
we look back upon the history of our 
race, we are forced to remember that 
when man was loved for the sake of 
God, spiritually as well as temporal- 
ly, and when the old-fashioned virtue 
of " charity " was not ashamed to 
own its created not self-existent 
origin, a broader system of benevo- 
lence was spread over Christian 
earth, and more daring undertakings 
were cheerfully and successfully car- 
ried through. Elizabeth of Hun- 
gary was not untried by adversity, 
and after her husband's death suf- 
fered cruel persecutions from her 
brother-in-law Henry, with the un- 
daunted fortitude which a good con- 
science ensures and which God's 
grace strengthens. We are told of her 
that she spoke little and always with 
gravity, and especially shunned tat- 
tlers. Women are always being taxed 
on one side with ridiculous frivolity 
in speech, and urged, on the other, 
to a contradiction of the charge by 
the pedantic phraseology of surface 
science. We have not alluded in 
these pages as often as we should 
have done to the great love of si- 
lence which distinguished the great 
women whose memory is honored. 
Whether as religious or as seculars, 
the useful employment of time and a 
discreetness of conversation were the 



two special and similar characteristics 
of their widely different lives, and 
thus they provided for the devotions 
and the acts of charity which shared 
so large a portion of their days and 
nights. They were never idle or 
even uselessly occupied, and we 
know but few women of our own 
generation who could truthfully say 
the same of themselves. What pow- 
ers, what energy, do we not see wast- 
ed in superfluous social duties; for 
while, as our modern phrase goes, they 
kill ti?ne, they are also engaged in 
stifling, dwarfing, or destroying the 
higher powers of their mind. Soli- 
tude, silence, meditation, these are 
essentials to a well-balanced mind ; 
but how many minds there are who 
voluntarily go on, not heeding, until 
the world and its claims, its sham tri- 
umphs, and its petty rivalries upset 
this balance and obscure the mind's 
eye ! There are as many women 
whose intellect is wrecked on the 
shoals of Fashion with its " laws 
of the Medes and Persians," as there 
are others whose sensibility is strand- 
ed on the rocks of Woman's Rights 
Conventions with their reckless dis- 
regard of all natural ties and time- 
honored duties. 

Poland presents us with several 
instances of heroic womanhood dur- 
ing the middle ages. Dombrowka, 
the daughter of Boleslas, Duke of 
Bohemia, married Mieczylas, Duke 
of Poland, on condition of his be- 
coming a Christian. By her ex- 
ample he not only became a religious, 
but a pure, merciful, and just, man. 
His wife could not forget her own 
countrymen while evangelizing her 
new subjects, and it was to her re- 
peated solicitations that Bohemia 
owed the establishment of the 
Archiepiscopal See of Prague. Chris- 
tianity, which in those times we might 
call the dower of the royal maidens 
of Europe, was first carried into Hun- 



373 



How the Church Understands and Upholds 



gary by the marriage of Adelaide, the 
sister-in-law of Dombrowka, to Geisa, 
chief of the Huns. This Geisa 
was father to St. Stephen, of whose 
exemplary queen, Giselda, we have 
already spoken. Of another Polish 
princess, Hedwige, the wife of Henry, 
Duke of Silesia and Poland, we are 
told that by her prudence and per- 
suasiveness she succeeded in deliver- 
ing her husband, who had been made 
a prisoner by her uncle, and in obtain- 
ing peace between these two princes. 
Even in our own days, have we 
not had recent examples of the high 
esteem in which the mediation of 
woman was held in a Catholic coun- 
try by a Catholic sovereign ? Who 
can forget that delicate diplomatic 
missions have been confided in past 
years to a woman who was the incar- 
nation of social charm as she was 
also the most devoted and uncom- 
promising enthusiast in the cause of 
the Catholic religion the Empress 
Eugenie ! This Hedwige, who, in 
1240, was so instrumental in raising 
an army with which to encounter the 
heathen hordes of Tartars who 
threatened at that time to destroy 
civilization in Europe, was succeeded 
by another queen of the same name 
as the saintly Cunegonda of Ger- 
many. It was she who towards the be- 
ginning of the fourteenth century, as 
Dlugossius, her biographer, and the 
Bollandists relate, was the first to pro- 
vide for the working of the salt mines 
of Wieliczka, which afterwards proved 
an infinite source of wealth to the 
kingdom. She also cheerfully con- 
tributed the whole of her princely 
dowry to the equipment of an army 
to be led against the Tartars who had 
made a second raid upon the frontiers 
of Poland. But the greatest heroine 
of the country whose women are to 
this day the bravest under misfortune, 
and the most faithful to their religion, 
was another Hedwige, to whom Po- 



land is indebted for her territorial 
aggrandizement and some of the most 
interesting as well as useful of her 
public institutions. Born a princess 
of Hungary, the elective crown of 
Poland was offered to her when she 
was only eighteen, and, when her mar- 
riage became a matter of national im- 
portance, she made, herself, a choice 
which only her own consummate pru- 
dence and foresight could have justi- 
fied. Jagellon, Grand Duke of Lithua- 
nia and the surrounding barbarous 
provinces, became her husband, on 
the conditions, proposed by Hedwige, 
that his entire domains should be in- 
corporated forever in the,kingdom of 
Poland ; that his people should em- 
brace Christianity ; that Christians 
who had been enslaved should be set 
free; that certain Polish provinces 
once alienated should be restored, 
and that all Lithuanian treasures, 
whether hereditary or conquered by 
Jagellon from his enemies, should be 
appropriated for the benefit of the 
kingdom of Poland. Here is a treaty 
in which a kingdom is consolidated 
and a dynasty established, through 
the unassisted efforts of the genius 
and prudence of a woman. Hedwige 
founded numberless hospitals, schools, 
churches, and monasteries ; the great 
cathedral of Wilna and seven epis- 
copal sees also owe their origin to 
her. Only through her death and 
her husband's good-natured but weak 
indifference when once her influence 
was removed was a great monastic 
institution abandoned, which had for 
its object the study and preserva- 
tion of the Slavic languages and 
peculiar rites. The University of 
Prague was already in her day a 
world-famed seat of learning. Hed- 
wige, in concert with the King of 
Bohemia, founded and endowed in 
that city a spacious and magnificent 
college, where the youth of Lithuania 
were gratuitously received and pro- 



the Rig/its of Women. 



vided for during their academical 
course. Education was certainly as 
gravely thought of in those days as in 
our later times, when we boast of its 
benefits being so -widely diffused. 
Whether it is as deeply impressed on 
its ordinary recipients, let the recent 
" commemorations " at Oxford pro- 
claim. Dlugossius says the college 
(which exists to this day) was called 
the Queen's House, " a name which 
is in itself an undying monument to 
the memory of this great woman, 
whose worthy thought it embodied, 
and charity it still expresses ; re- 
maining for ever a living testimony 
to the world of the merits of its illus- 
trous foundress." Boniface IX., who 
reigned during the last decade of the 
fourteenth century, corresponded with 
Hedwige, upon whom he relied as the 
principal support and auxiliary of re- 
ligion in her realms. She was always 
appealed to as mediatrix between the 
king and his subjects, as also by the 
vassal nobles among themselves. 
What the king could not do by threats, 
she accomplished partly by her per- 
suasive exhortations, partly by her 
grave and majestic demeanor. Her 
historian relates that she even quelled 
a popular rising, and put down the 
abuses which had given occasion to 
it, before the king had time to march 
an army into the disaffected district 
and reduce it by force. Once, while 
herhusband was fighting in Lithuania, 
the Hungarians, her own country- 
men, invaded Poland and captured 
several towns. " She no sooner heard 
of this," says Ventura, " than she as- 
sembled the nobles and barons, im- 
provised an army on the spot, and, 
without losing an instant, herself led 
it on to the frontiers. There, to the 
great astonishment of her generals, 
she displayed the military talents and 
bravery of an old warrior. It was 
she who directed the sieges, organized 
the sallies and attacks, and gave bat- 



tle on the open ground, while the 
whole army obeyed her enthusiasti- 
cally, proud to serve under a woman- 
general. She conquered the enemy 
at every encounter, wrested from them 
the important stronghold of Leopol, 
took other cities, and not only re- 
possessed herself of the Russian ter- 
ritories usurped by the Hungarians, 
but also added to the kingdom of Po- 
land a vast tract of country which 
voluntarily surrended itself to her 
rule."* Hedwige is perhaps less 
known than other renowned women 
of the middle ages, and therefore 
we have been led to speak more at 
length of her extraordinary powers. 
It would be useless to remind the 
reader that she was no less remark- 
able for the modesty of her private 
life and the austerities and charities 
of her secret life than famed for the 
wonderful and versatile talents dis- 
played in her public career. Chas- 
tity and devotion invariably accom- 
pany all greatness in Catholic woman- 
hood, but, as we shall have occasion 
to illustrate this fact later on, we will 
not now stop to consider it in its 
evident bearings on the vexed ques- 
tion raised by certain indiscriminate 
apostles of the rights of woman. 

We cannot pass over, among the 
prominent women of mediaeval times 
the famous Countess Mathilda, of 
Tuscany, the friend and ally of Greg- 
ory VII., Hildebrand the Reformer. 
Rohrbacher calls her the modern 
Deborah, and adds that in Italy, 
whose princes were mostly traitors to 
the cause of truth and patriotism, 
" one man only, during a long reign 
of fifty years, showed himself ever 
faithful, ever devoted to the church 
and her head, ever ready to second 
them in efforts for the reformation of 
the clergy and the restoration of 
ancient discipline, ever prompt to de- 

* Donna. Cattollca^ p. i?4- 



3So 



The CJiurcJi and the Rights of Women. 



fend them, sword in hand, from their 
most formidable enemies, never al- 
lured by bribes, intimidated by threats, 
or cast down by adversity, and this 
one man was a woman, the Countess 
Mathilda." 

Her donation of Tuscany, the 
Marches, Parma, Modena, Reggio, 
and various other cities and lands, to 
the Holy See, is a fact that stands 
alone in history, and is simply the 
most momentous act of practical de- 
votion which the Chair of Peter ever 
received. This generous and unre- 
served gift, first made to Gregory VII. 
in 1077, and confirmed in 1102 to 
Pascal II., is the unparalleled expres- 
sion of the whole nature of woman, 
in its thoroughness, its spirit of mar- 
tyrdom, its enthusiastic and unerring 
instincts, towards the good and the 
true. Henry IV. of Germany, having 
incurred excommunication, was recon- 
ciled to the Pope through the good 
offices of the great countess, and 
met him for that purpose at the fort- 
ress of Canossa, then a fief of the 
Countess of Tuscany. Ventura says 
of her that she was as learned as she 
was pious, and as solicitous for the 
propagation of science and the inter- 
ests of literature as for the reforma- 
tion of clerical abuses and the consoli- 
dation of the church. She multiplied 
schools and colleges over 'her domi- 
nions, but the crowning work of her 
great reign was the foundation of the 
famous University of Bologna, con- 
fessedly the best seat of learning in 
Europe for many centuries. Mathilda 
gathered together all the enlightened 
and talented masters of her age in 
this time-honored and world-renowned 
university, and in honor of her munifi- 
cence it has remained a custom to 
this day to allow women to graduate 



there, to take a doctorate, and " pro- 
fess" in public any of the learned 
faculties. Women, we are told by 
Ventura, the earnest panegyrist o f 
the sex, have taken advantage of 
this custom at all times, and even up 
to the present day, when (in the be- 
ginning of this century, we believe) 
the celebrated female professor, Tam- 
broni, taught Latin and Greek within 
the Bolognese university. Cardinal 
Mezzofanti, the great linguist, was at 
one time her pupil. 

We have been led so far in the 
search, however superficial, for in- 
stances of the greatness of woman, as 
recognized, protected, and rewarded 
by the church, that we have reached 
a limit to our explorations in this ar- 
ticle without mentioning any of the 
great women of the middle ages save 
those of royal descent. There are 
many who claim our attention, and 
whose influence over public affairs 
and the minds of men was not less 
than that exercised by the royal ma- 
trons and maidens we have cursorily 
named. Some were destined to min- 
gle in political struggles, others owe 
their fame to their learning, one of 
them to actual feats of arms, and all 
to the spirit of chivalry which ren- 
dered a woman inviolable and sacred 
wherever honor was known and laws 
revered. But this spirit itself, what 
was it save the offspring of that higher 
spirit of reverential homage ever in- 
culcated by the church towards that 
sex which gave a mother to our God ? 

Before taking up the subject of the 
status of woman within the church 
after the sixteenth century, we may, 
perhaps, return far a brief space to 
the Catherines of Sienna, the Joans 
of Arc, and the Genevieves of eccle- 
siastical history. 



Bryant's Translation of the Iliad. 



BRYANT'S TRANSLATION OF THE ILIAD.* 



THE appearance at this time and 
in this country of a first-rate transla- 
tion of the Iliad is an event of much 
significance. Through the exagger- 
ated praise which London critics be- 
stow on our dialect poetry, there 
runs a quiet assumption that our cul- 
ture is narrow and unsound. Our 
oaten pipe is well enough, but our 
lyre disjointed and unstrung. To 
such insinuations Mr. Bryant's work 
is a complete and final rejoinder. 
We shall find it easy to show that he 
has made the best translation of Ho- 
mer in our language, and with one 
exception the very best extant. In 
the face of such an achievement, it 
will henceforth be preposterous to 
sneer at American scholarship. 

Winged words the Homeric poems 
may well be called, which, fledged 
in the dawn of time, have not yet 
faltered in their flight across the cen- 
turies. Their superiority as works of 
art is not more unquestionable than 
is their procreative power. They 
have ever been to use Milton's 
words as lively and as vigorously 
productive as those fabulous dragon's 
teeth. The history of Greek letters, 
we might almost say, is the genesis 
of the Iliad and the Odyssey. Upon 
them Aristotle based his canons ; 
from them the Attic tragedy drew 
her inspiration and her argument. 
To the same source the most delight- 
ful of Greek historians referred his 
style and his method, while the choir 
of lyric and erotic poets confessed 
their debt to him who " gave them 
birth, but higher sang." The direct 

* The Iliad of Homer. Translated by Win. 
Cullen Bryant. Boston : Fields, Osgood & Co. 



action of the Homeric poems upon 
the masters of the Latin literature 
has been compared to that of the 
sunlight, but their indirect influence 
through the medium of Athenian 
models was pervasive and quicken- 
ing as the solar heat. The develop- 
ment of poetry among Western na- 
tions can be accurately measured by 
the thoroughness with which they have 
assimilated Homer. The Orlando and 
the Lusiad repeat the story of Ulys- 
ses. Even minor excellences of the 
Iliad are reproduced in the Jeru- 
salem Delivered. Milton and Goethe 
have drawn copiously from the same 
stores. Nor is there a single modern 
poet of the first rank, with the excep- 
tion of Shakespeare, whose obligations 
to Homer are not manifold and ob- 
vious. 

It is true that the eighteenth cen- 
tury, which sought to shatter so 
many idols, chose to depreciate 
these poems. Embellished by Pope, 
dissected by Fontanelle, and patron- 
ized by Mme. Dacier, they fell, it 
must be confessed, upon evil times. 
It is a suggestive commentary upon 
the self-styled siecle du gofit that the 
autocrat of letters could pronounce 
the Iliad " une poeme qu'on admire, 
et qu'on ne lit pas."* To the author 
of the Henriade, Homer was only a 
beau parleur. It is now many years 
since the stigma went home to roost. 
Perrault and La Motte Houdart, 
who knew him only in the rags and 
gyves of an obscure translation, 
point with a satisfied smirk to the 
" coarseness " and " barbarism " of 
Homer. One is reminded of those 

* "A poem people admire without reading." 



382 



Bryant's Translation of the Iliad. 



Philistine lords who flung their jests 
at Samson Agonistes while he leaned 
against the pillars in Gaza. 

Of living English poets, the strong- 
est and sweetest acknowledge grate- 
fully in Homer a source of their me- 
lody and strength. The fragment of an 
epic which is perhaps the Laureate's 
best work was presented by the author 
as " faint Homeric echoes." From 
Homer, quite as truly as from Chau- 
cer, has the Earthly Paradise caught 
its genial sunshine and bracing air. 
The world, we presume, would have 
lost nothing had Mr. Swinburne read 
Euripides less and the Iliad more. 
A timely reaction has set in against 
the morbid self-consciousness and 
the hankering after glitter and novel- 
ty which are sure precursors of de- 
cay. Of that reaction, Matthew Ar- 
nold, who in childhood was taught 
to reverence Homer, has been the 
prophet and protagonist. With the 
same movement the temper and dis- 
cipline of Mr. Bryant's mind place 
him in active sympathy. We do not 
doubt that it was the aim of his Iliad 
to elevate and purify the taste of his 
countrymen. The success which his 
translation has already achieved au- 
gurs for it not a little influence upon 
the national literature. 

To the thoughtful artist, Schlegel 
could suggest nothing more useful 
than the study of casts from the 
antique. A faithful version of the Iliad 
opens whole galleries of casts. The 
sculptor Bouchardon, we are told, was 
discovered reading Homer in a trans- 
lation, and that a sorry one. " Ah, 
monsieur !" he exclaimed, " depuis 
que j'ai lu ce livre, il me semble que 
les homines ont quinze pieds de 
haut."* We know what Keats beheld 
upon looking into Chapman's Homer, 
and we know that the quarry from 
which he hewed Hyperion is not yet 

* "Ah, monsieur ! since reading that book men 
seem to be fifteen feet high." 



exhausted. Of the thousands who 
will now listen for the first time to 
the story of Achilles, it may well be 
that some will kindle at what they 
hear. They will know how to thank 
Mr. Bryant that those flames which 
blazed over Troy, leaping from head- 
land to headland, have once more 
borne a message across the sea. 

Since the beginning of the seven- 
teeth century, repeated attempts have 
been made to translate the master- 
poems of the Greek and Latin litera- 
tures into English verse. We sup- 
pose it will be acknowledged that 
those attempts have for the most 
part failed. The truth is that trans- 
lation as commonly practised in 
England cannot properly be called 
an art. There are no fundamental 
principles universally recognized as 
the conditions of its development. 
It is still hardly more than a trick, in 
which one succeeds better than 
another, but each proceeds upon a 
method of his own. Who has pre- 
faced his work with such a definition 
of translation as criticism can admit 
to be exhaustive and final? We 
might have expected so much 
from Hobbes. We do not find 
it. Dryden's cardinal idea, that 
translation is "a kind of drawing 
after the life," has never been literally 
accepted by others. It did not uni- 
formly govern himself. The face 
seen and the face drawn both ap- 
peal to the brain through the eye, 
whereas even those English transla- 
tors who aim to infuse the identical 
thought, feeling, or fancy of their 
original have recourse to media of 
sensual metaphor, sometimes modi- 
fied, sometimes distinct from those 
employed in their author's language. 
On Sir George Cornewall Lewis' 
view of translation we will not dwell, 
because we are not sure that we un- 
derstand it, and at least cannot con- 
ceive the practical application of it. 



Bryant's Translation of the Iliad. 



It is enough for us that he heartily 
commended as an instance of right 
treatment Hookham Frere's Aris- 
tophanes, which is clever, fresh, and 
racy enough, but certainly not Attic. 
There is another theory, that we 
should ask ourselves what our au- 
thor would have said had he been 
writing in English. One objection 
to this is, as Mr. Newman remarks, 
that no two men would agree in 
their answers to such a question. 
Homer, if an Englishman and writ- 
ing in our tongue, would unquestion- 
ably have given a different turn and 
tinge to his verse from that which it 
takes in Greek. But are we not 
bound to make the province of trans- 
lation, as discriminated from para- 
phrase, the reproduction of what an 
author did actually say ? Certainly 
the aim of Homeric translators into 
our tongue should be, not of course 
to compass the effect produced upon 
an Athenian reading Homer in the age 
of Peisistratos or upon a consummate 
scholar capable, we will say, of think- 
ing in Ionic Greek, but to make up- 
on Englishmen or Americans of av- 
erage culture an impression nearly 
identical with that which they derive 
from the Iliad itself. Achieve this, 
and they who are themselves not 
scholars will at least be assured that 
they are reading Homer, not 
Sotheby or Pope. Such an aim 
does not seem too ambitious, but it 
has never been attained, rarely ap- 
proached, in English. A radical 
. error runs through all our metrical 
versions of the classic poets. Literal 
accuracy is by somej repudiated, at- 
tempted by others, and occasionally 
secured in detached passages, but is 
always subordinate to the attainment 
of harmonious numbers and agreeable 
diction. Whenever literal accuracy 
seems likely to conflict with these, it is 
sacrificed. Now, if it be true that 
such sacrifice is frequently inevitable, 



then a genuine translation of the Iliad 
is an impossibility. But this we are 
reluctant to admit. The matchless 
version of Voss has proved that it is 
possible to be at once literal and musi- 
cal, to preserve in one Germanic 
language at least as much of the Ho- 
meric flavor as Germans of average 
culture can detect in the original. 
Perhaps one clue to his success is to 
be found in his employment of the 
hexameter. A profound artist, he 
could not fail to recognize the inex- 
tricable connection of rhythm and 
caesura with the shape and play of 
thought. He saw that in some sub- 
tle sort the metre is the poem. We 
have not abandoned the hope of see- 
ing the hexameter one day natural- 
ized in English. Mr. Kingsley's 
Andromeda, showed a marked im- 
provement on Evangeline, and what 
the Laureate might do in this way is 
sufficiently clear from his Ode to 
Milton, where he has grappled suc- 
cessfully with alcaics, undoubtedly 
the most intricate and difficult of 
dactylic measures. The distinction 
between quantitative and accentual 
metres has been pressed too far by 
men who have wanted patience to 
cope with those peculiarities which 
render our language somewhat in- 
tractable to dactylic verse. 

Almost every familiar scheme of 
English metre has been applied to 
the reproduction of Homer. We 
have had Chapman's fourteerj-sylla- 
ble line, the rhymed couplet of Pope 
and Sotheby, the unrhymed iambics 
of Cowper, Mr. Worsley's Spenserian 
stanza, the ballad movement in 
seven beats of Mr. Newman, and 
many more. One or two of these a:c 
noble English poems, but as transla- 
tions none can be compared with the 
work of Voss. We should have said, 
before the appearance of Mr. Bry- 
ant's volumes, that a new version 
of the Iliad executed upon one of 



Bryant's Translation of the Iliad. 



the old plans and in one of the 
old metres was not called for. The 
attempt of Lord Derby to vie with 
Cowper in blank-verse had proved 
singularly unfortunate. Failing to 
accredit the scholar, its publication 
belittled the statesman. It is not 
with such a performance that the 
conservative party can match Mr. 
Gladstone's Homeric Age, We 
should not highly commend Mr. Bry- 
ant were we to say, that he is every- 
way more succcessful than Lord 
Derby. He has, in our judgment, 
surpassed Cowper, and that was no 
easy task. The associations, indeed, 
connected with what is known as 
blank-verse, render it to an English 
ear somewhat unsuitable to a poem 
like the Iliad, which presents an infi- 
nite variety of incidents and situa- 
tions quite as often trivial as dignified. 
Still, Cowper, although his muse, 
stooping to certain homely details, 
discovers a sort of prudishness which 
is highly amusing, is generally vigor- 
ous and noble where energy and 
majesty are required, and had hither- 
to been the least unsatisfactory of 
Homer's English translators. In ex- 
amining Mr. Bryant's work we shall 
mainly confine ourselves so far as 
English writers are concerned to a 
collation of Cowper and Lord Derby. 
We have neither space nor inclina- 
tion to quote from the rhymed 
versions. Faithfully to reproduce 
Homer in rhyme was declared by 
Pope to be impossible, and Mr. 
Worsley's Odyssey, delightful as it is, 
has not availed to set aside the judg- 
ment. 

It would be easy to misinterpret the 
views which have governed Mr. Bry- 
ant's work by his application of Latin 
names to the Homeric deities, and 
the reason which he assigns in the 
preface for this practice. It is true 
that he is countenanced by Lord 
Derby, but we think we had a right 



to expect more from his scholarship. 
We cannot but deem them both in 
the wrong, and to our mind the error 
is serious and far-reaching. The 
denizens of Homer's Olympus are 
in the strictest sense personal 
gods. Such superhuman attri- 
butes as they severally possess are 
sharply defined, the degree and 
scope of their authority, except, per- 
haps, in two instances, clearly mark- 
ed. They live the life of men, eat, 
drink, love, quarrel. They exhibit 
the most passionate interest in the 
war which rages before Ilium. They 
are bitter 'and unscrupulous partisans, 
wheedle, lie, bargain, rebel, in the 
cause of their protegees. They for- 
sake their dwellings to take part in 
the debates of mortals, mix in the 
fight, are pierced with spears, and the 
celestial ichor flows precisely like 
human blood. In short, they re- 
semble rather the demigods of a later 
mythology, and are rarely invested 
with that 'awful sublimity and mys- 
tery which enshroud most of the 
elder Roman divinities. Even in 
the Theogony of Hesiod, the attri- 
butes of certain gods have under- 
gone a degree of alteration which 
it is tax enough to bear in 
mind. To insist upon confounding 
Ares, Aphrodite, and Athene* with 
Mars, Venus, and Minerva, deities 
which, as enshrined in the literature 
purely and distinctively Latin, are as 
native and peculiar to Rome as her 
language, is to mystify the reader 
who knows anything of either. It 
appears to us as unreasonable to re- 
name the gods as to miscall the 
heroes of the Iliad. Surely it is no 
apology for the confusion of things 
essentially distinct that the practice 
has been in some sort naturalized in 
our literature. So are the legendary 
chronicles of the kings of Rome, so 
are the distorted portraits of Shake- 
speare's histories. A manifest erroi 



Bryant's Translation of the Iliad. 



385 



cannot plead undisturbed possession. 
Moreover, it is now many years since 
English scholars have labored to edu- 
cate their countrymen up to some- 
thing like discrimination between the 
Greek and Latin mythologies. Their 
task is well-nigh done. Lempriere's 
Dictionary is at length obsolete, and 
the volumes of Grote are in the hands 
of every schoolboy. If the prevail- 
ing excellence of Mr. Bryant's work 
had not disarmed us, we should be 
disposed to protest against the repeti- 
tion of an error, as well as against the 
presumption of national ignorance, 
by which it is excused. It is certain- 
ly matter of regret that such an ob- 
jection should lie on the threshold 
of a work in most respects so sound 
and scholarlike. 

The new version begins well : 

" O Goddess ! sing the wrath of Peleus' son 
Achilles; sing the deadly wrath that brought 
Woes numberless upon the Greeks and 

swept 

To Hades many a valiant soul, and gave 
Their limbs a prey to dogs and birds of air. 
For so had Jove appointed, from the time 
When the two chiefs Atrides, King of men, 
And great Achilles parted first as foes." 

Seven hexameters in eight lines of 
blank-verse certainly a remarkable 
instance of compression. Except 
fjpouv, tract (almost an expletive), and 
rpo in irpoMipev (which, perhaps, is 
faintly suggested by "swept"), not 
a word of Homer is omitted, not 
a word is added. "Birds of air" 
is an accurate translation of olovoiat. 
" Parted first as foes " is exceedingly 
close. There is but one error, 6ioq is 
rendered " great." To this word no 
moral attribute whatever is attached 
in the Homeric poems. It is equi- 
valent to " high-born " or " noble " 
(as Cowper gives it) in the primitive 
sense of that word. Lord Derby 
makes it " godlike," which is quite 
incorrect. If there be a fault in the 
lines just quoted, it is a certain cold- 
ness. They hardly, lift us to the 
height of the great argument. But 
VOL. xv. 25 



for conscientious fidelity to the ori- 
ginal, these lines have not been ap- 
proached in English, and are in this 
respect fully equal to Voss. Hear, 
for instance, Cowper, who requires 
an extra line : 

" Achilles sing, O Goddess, Peleus' son, 
His wrath pernicious, who ten thousand woes 
Caused to Achaia's /tost, sent many a soul 
Illustrious into Ades premature, 
And heroes gave (so stood the will of Jove) 
To dogs and to all ravening birds a prey. 
When fierce dispute had separated once 
The noble chief Achilles from the son 
Of Atreus, Agamemnon, King of men." 

This is pitched in the right key, 
although the finest line, the fourth, is 
perhaps too suggestively Miltonic. 
In his scholarship Cowper is loose. 
" Who " is grammatically wrong and 
aesthetically a blunder. It is not 
Achilles, but Achilles' wrath that 
Homer means to sing. " Host," 
" ravening," " fierce," " chief," " Aga- 
memnon," are merely supernume- 
raries. " Illustrious " was inserted, 
we presume, for rhythmical r.ea- 
sons; it does not translate tyffyuovf. 
" Stood " for kTeteieTo is fine ; Mr. 
Bryant fails to convey the notion of 
fulfilment, of inevitable accomplish- 
ment, which the word seems to carry. 
The antithesis between ^v^as and 
avTove, significant as regards the Ho- 
meric theory of a future life, is quite 
lost in Cowper, while it is cleverly 
projected in Mr. Bryant's lines. 
" Premature " preserves the force of 
the preposition in xpo-unpw, which 
ought not to be overlooked. 

It may be well now to quote Lord 
Derby. He needs ten lines : 

" Of Peleus' son, Achilles, sing, O Muse. 
The vengeance deep and deadly whence to 

Greece 

Unnumbered ills arose, which many a soul 
Of mighty warriors to the viewless Shades 
Untimely sent, they on the battle plain 
Unburied lay, a prey to ravening dogs 
And carrion birds, but so had Jove decreed, 
From that sad day when first in wordy war 
The mighty Agamemnon, King of men, 
Confronted stood by Peleus' godlike son." 

This is hardly worth criticising in 



336 



Bryant's Translation of the Iliad. 



detail. .First, why " Muse " ? " Ven- 
geance " is bad for ^mf. " Dead- 
ly " translates oMo/^r/v well enough, 
but " deep and deadly " sug- 
gests the harrowing phraseology of 
the Ledger romance. " Viewless 
Shades " is possibly poetical, but 
Homer chooses to be geographical 
he says 'Atf. "They on the 
battle plain unburied " ; we cannot 
find this in the Greek, but it accounts 
for one extra line. " Ravening " and 
" carrion " raise Cowper's expletive 
to the second power. " Sad day " ! 
And so it was, but to call it so is 
almost maudlin. 'Ep< does indeed 
mean to wrangle, but " wordy war " 
is petty and poetastic. " The mighty 
Agamemnon " ! Homer is satisfied 
with Atrides. And now we will see 
if it be possible to give this magnifi- 
cent prologue* measure for measure, 
line for line, almost word for word. 
Hear Voss : 



" Singe den Zorn, O Gottin, des Peleiaden Achil- 

leus, 
Ihn der entbrannt den Achaiern unendbaren 

Jammer erregte, 
Und viel tapfere Seelen der Heldensohne zum 

Ais 
Sendete, aber sle selber zum Raub' ausstreckte 

den Hunden 
Und den Gevogelumher so ward Zeus' Wille 

vollendet, 
Seit dem Tage als einst durch bitteren Zank sich 

entzweiten 
Atrcus' Sohn der Herrscher des Volks und der 

edle Acbilleus !" 



The figurative entbrannt for OVAO- 
pivriv is not to our taste. Bitteren is 
superfluous, and sendete imperfectly 
translates npoia^iv. Otherwise these 
lines are flawless. 

We pass to the sixth book, to a 
passage which Pope and Chapman 
have done well, Sotheby on the whole 
better, where even Hobbes grows 
tender, where every translator has 
sought to do his best. The parting 
of Hector and Andromache is a 
scene (if we except the Akestis) 



unique in classic literature. When 
we consider the state of society de- 
picted in the Homeric poems, the 
figure of Andromache seems anoma- 
lous and inexplicable ; or rather 
she almost constrains us to recast 
our notions of the .social framework 
in which AVC find her set. In her 
the sexual passion is refined and sub- 
limated to that noblest form of con- 
jugal love which is thought to be 
peculiar to the 'Civilized and chris- 
tianized descendants from the chaste 
German stock. Through the histori- 
cal ages of Greece, in the Roman 
Republic and Empire, we seek in 
vain a pendant to this portrait. The 
ideal would seem to have been lost. 
The painter who drew Alexander's 
favorite could not have limned An- 
dromache; he who, sang Ariadne in 
JVaxos would have failed to under- 
stand her. To recover the type, we 
must descend to a much later age 
to Raphael and to Wordsworth. 
The sweetest words in our language 
sweetheart, helpmate, wife de- 
scribe Andromache. She is not the 
wanton idol of a despot's caprice, 
nor the dull victim of a convenient 
Athenian marriage, nor the selfish 
protege'e of the cynical Roman law. 
She might have been bred in a Chris- 
tian world and blessed an English 
home. We quote twenty lines from 
Mr. Bryant: 



' She came attended by a maid who bore 
A tender child a babe too young to speak 
Upon her bosom, Hector's only son, 
Beautiful as a star. . . . 

The father on his child 
Looked with a silent smile. Andromache 
Pressed to his side meanwhile, and all in tears 
Clung to his hand, and thus beginning said : 
' Too brave ! thy valor yet will cause thy death ! 
Thou hast no pity on thy tender child. 
Nor me, unhappy one, who soon must be 
Thy widow. All the Greeks will rush on thee 
To take thy life. A happier lot were mine, 
If I must lose thee, to go down to earth, 
For I shall have no hope when thou art gone, 
Nothing but sorrow. Father have I none, 
And no dear mother. . . . 



Bryanfs Translation of the Iliad. 



387 



Seven brothers had I in my father's house, 
And all went down to Hades in one day. 

Hector, thou 

Art father and dear mother now to me, 
And brother and my youthful spouse besides.' " 

No man, we imagine, who ex- 
amines the above lines will question 
the general accuracy of Mr. Bryant's 
scholarship. They are at once the 
most succinct, literal, and beautiful 
reproduction of Homer's words 
which has been achieved in English. 
As Americans, we are proud of them. 
Cowper, indeed, had finely rendered 
this passage, and it is possible that 
some persons unfamiliar with the 
Greek and habituated to the move- 
ment of the Paradise Lost may pre- 
fer his inverted construction and so- 
norous phrase. We will not quote 
him, however, but rather choose to 
pay Mr. Bryant the highest homage 
in our power by placing beside his 
lines the version of Voss : 



"Die Dienerin aber ihr folgend 
Trug an der Brust das zarte, noch ganz un- 
miindige Knablein 

Hektor's einzigen Sohn, dem schimmernden 

Sterne vergleichbar. 
Siehe, rait Lacheln blickte der Vater still auf 

das Knablein, 
Aber neben inn trat Andromache Thr2nen ver- 

giessend, 
Driickt ihm freundlich die Hand, und redete 

also, beginnend, 
' Seltsamer Mann, dich todtet dein Muth noch 

und du erbarmst dich 
Nicht des stammelnden Kindes, noch mein des 

clenden Weibes, 
Ach, bald Witwe von dir, denn dich todten 

gewiss die Achaier 
Alle mit Macht austlirmend ; allein mir ware 

das Beste 
Deiner beraubt in die Erde hinabzusinken ; 

denn waiter 
Bleibt kein Trost mir Ubrig, wenn du dein 

Schicksal erreicht hast, 
Grau nur und nicht mehr hab' ich ja Vater und 

liebende Mutter. 

Sieben auch waren die Briider mir dort in un- 

serer Wohnung, 
Und die wandelten all' am selbigen Tage zum 

Ais.'" 



We doubt if these lines can be sur- 
passed except by the Greek itself. 
They echo the melody of Homer. 



Mr. Bryant, of course, relinquished 
the hope of competing with him hi 
this respect when he adopted iambic 
verse. In point of compression, 
however, and literal accuracy, we 
shall find him not inferior. There are 
in both versions some imperfec- 
tions. " Tender" (zarte) may perhaps 
stand for araXa^puv although it repre- 
sents but partially that exquisite 
epithet. Cowper omits this word alto- 
gether, and Lord Derby substitutes 
something of his own, " all uncon- 
scious." To our mind Mr. Bryant's 
"too young to speak" is most 
felicitous for vy-mov avruf. The word, 
however, in many passages of the 
Iliad shows no trace of relation 
to eTrof, and means simply " under 
age," as Voss gives it. The force of 
the adverb is nicely preserved in the 
German. Both versions make liya.-*-/]- 
nv "only" (einzigen). The line of 
the Odyssey (b. ii. 365) seems to us 
conclusive against the propriety of 
this translation. We prefer Cow- 
per's " darling." And now we 
come to the famous simile, MnyKiov 
uarept Kctfiu. Mr. Bryant, following 
Cowper, writes " beautiful as a star." 
But Homer is far more picturesque 
than this. He shows us the bright 
cheeks and glancing eyes of Hector's 
boy gleaming from his nurse's bosom, 
as a star gleams. "A fair star*' 
Lord Derby would make it a planet, 
" morning star " he calls it. But 
stars that twinkle and glimmer are 
most alluring to the eye, are the 
fairest, and therefore Voss is right 
schimmernden Sterne vergleichbar. 
Mr. Bryant is not successful in the 
next line. We cannot like "silent 
smile." Can a smile be other than 
silent ? Neither can Voss match 
Cowper's 

" The father silent eyed his babe, and smiled." 

" Pressed to his side " is vivid, 



388 



Bryant's Translation of the Iliad. 



where Cowper and Voss are tame; 
" clung to his hand " the Greek is 
yet stronger, "grew on his hand." 
Voss was certainly drowsy when he 
could render this "pressed kindly 
his hand." Andromache's touching 
first word is quite lost in the " Dear 
lord" of Lord Derby. Cowper's 
" My noble Hector " is even worse. 
The truth is that Aaifiovis is uttered 
by the young wife in tender reproach, 
and this is conveyed in good mea- 
sure by " too brave," but seltsamer 
Mann is perfect. "Tender child" 
Cowper and Lord Derby write 
" helpless." Voss' stammelnden is 
based, we presume, on //. 2, 238, 
where some command of speech more 
or less articulate seems to be conceded 
to vyirtaxoif. The next four lines 
of the new version are close and 
felicitous, but Qdfarapij is not so much 
" hope " as " comfort " ; and " when 
thou art gone " hardly expresses the 
thought in kiret uv cv -ye KOTUOV Imcm-yc, 
whereas the German delivers it faith- 
fully. We have reached finally a 
wonderful couplet which fairly throbs 
with passionate devotion. Here is 
the Greek : 



uTap av fj,oi evai 



/cat Trorwa 



(J.1JT71P, 



, cv 6e (tot 



?rapa- 



Which we may venture to render 
thus: 

'"Hector, united in thee still, find I my worship- 

ful mother, 

Father and brother in thee, O blooming Hec- 
tor, my husband !' " 

Voss is exceedingly sweet : 

" ' Hector, O du bist jetzo mir Vater und liebende 

Mutter, 

Auch mein Bruder allein, O du mein bliihender 
Gatte !' " 

Derby : 

" ' But, Hector, thou to me art all in one, 
Sire, mother, brother, thou my wedded love.' " 

Cowper: 

" ' Yet, Hector, O my husband, I in thee 
Find parents, brothers, all that I have lost.' " 



Bryant : 

" ' Hector, thou 

Art father and dear mother now to me 
And brother and my youthful spouse besides.' " 

Lord Derby's version is curiously 
bad. Strange that one striving to 
utter to modern ears words which in 
the Iliad seem to break from the 
heart should go out of his way for 
" sire " and " brethren " ! And for 
" wedded love," it is not only incor- 
rect, but mawkish, and therefore in 
this place detestable. Cowper like- 
wise is weak and false. " Parents " 
is intolerable; KOTVIO, and Bafapo? are 
overlooked. And in exchange for 
those adjectives we have " all that 
I have lost ' (pure Cowper). Mr. 
Bryant does very much better, but 
he is again somewhat cold; and 
coldness here is hardly pardonable. 
He was determined to give the last 
line literally ; but to put Trapa/com?? in 
the vocative, as Voss has done, 
makes the verse literal enough and 
more glowing. Both Voss and Mr. 
Bryant are wrong in TCOTVIO. The 
active participle ^liebende) is out of 
the question, and even "dear" con- 
veys an erroneous impression of the 
relations subsisting between mother 
and daughter in the Homeric age. 
UoTvia predicates a sentiment of 
respect and reverence, and is often 
associated with the names of deities. 
For an exact analogue we must go 
back to English domestic life in the 
last century. We shall find it in 
what was then a household word 
"honored mother." We must do 
Lord Derby the justice to say that he 
had hit upon the translation in line 
413. It is a pity that he did not 
repeat it here, eatepo? has proved 
a stumbling-block to most translators. 
It is a beautiful word : and placed 
with exquisite propriety in the 
mouth of a young wife who gazes on 
the bravest face and noblest form in 
Ilium. Mr. Bryant's "youthful" is 



Bryant 's Translation of the Iliad. 



389 



not absolutely wrong, but it is 
rather the impression which youth 
and health make upon the eye, their 
visible glory, their " purple light," 
which Homer makes in eotepof. 
Bliihende gives it exactly. We 
wish that with these perfect words 
Andromache might have vanished 
from literature. The later myths dis- 
honor her. It seems a crime against 
nature to recount of this woman that 

" Victoris heri tetigit captiva cubile," 

and that Hector's widow bore chil- 
dren to the son of Achilles. Surely 
instinct would have taught her the 
tenet of a later philosophy : " We 
are in the power of no calamity while 
death is in our own." Not in 
Euripides and Virgil, but rather in 
Racine, would we follow the fortunes 
of that Andromache whom we knew 
by the Scaean gate. 

Let us glance next at the conclud- 
ing lines of the eighth book. They 
have been translated by Tennyson, 
and it may be interesting to contrast 
his version. Mr. Bryant writes : 



"So high in hope they sat the whole night 

through 

In warlike lines, and many watch-fires blazed 
As when in heaven the stars look brightly 

forth 
Round the clear-shining moon while not a 

breeze 

Stirs in the depths of air, and all the stars 
Are seen and gladness fills the shepherd's 

heart, 

So many fires in sight of Ilium blazed 
Lit by the sons of Troy between the ships 
And eddying Xanthus : on the plain there 

shone 

A thousand ; fifty warriors by each.fire 
Sat in its light. Their steeds beside the cars- 
Champing their oats and their white barley 

stood, 
And waited for the golden morn to rise." 

Tennyson renders the same passage 
thus : 



" And these all night upon the ridge of war 
Sat glorying ; many a fire before them blazed ; 
As when in heaven the stars about the moon 
Look beautiful when all the winds are laid 



. . and all the stars 

, Shine, and the shepherd gladdens in his heart. 
So many a fire between the ships and stream 
Of Xanthus blazed before the towers of Troy, 
A thousand on the plain, and close by each 
Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire. 
And eating hoary grain and pulse the steeds 
Stood by the cars waiting the throned morn." 



Some may prefer the general effect 
of the Laureate's lines, but our 
American version adheres quite as 
closely to the text. We are sur- 
prised, however, to find " warlike 
lines." Mr. Tennyson's alternative 
translation, " ridge of war" is an ex- 
act reproduction of the Greek, va 
irrofafioio 7<0ipaf. " Bridge," which 
he first wrote, is post- Homeric. 
Lord Derby's phrase is close enough, 
but wanting in pictorial power : 



" Full of proud hopes, upon the pass of war 
All night they camped, and frequent blazed 
their fires." 



If one care to see what sad work 
may sometimes proceed from a true 
poet, here is Cowper's version of 
these lines ten words are required 
to misconstrue three : 

' Hig with great purposes and proud they sat, 
Not disarrayed but in fair form displayed 
Of even ranks, and watched their numerous 
fires." 

The familiar simile of the moon and 
stars in the above passage is sharply 
and faithfully reproduced by Mr. 
Byrant, whereas Tennyson's "look 

beautiful " for $OJ.VET' apnrpenea is 

both loose and weak. "All the 
winds are laid " ; Cowper says 
" hushed." Either is closer than 
Mr. Bryant's phrase. Lord Derby's 

translation of navra 6e T' eiderat uarpa 

is ambitious and clumsy " Shines 
each particular star distinct." The 
last six hexameters are given in seven 
lines of our version. Tennyson has 
compressed them into six, but with the 
sacrifice of Tpouv KOIOVTUV, which the 
other neatly expressed by " Lit by 
the sons of Trov." We could have 



390 



Bryant's Translation of the Iliad. 



dispensed with the Laureate's " tow- 
ers," but are delighted to find evQpovov 
preserved in " throned." 

To some readers our criticism may 
have seemed to dwell too nicely on 
details; but, if they will reflect a 
moment, they will perceive that this 
is itself a guarantee of sincerity. We 
propose to give grounds for our 
opinions, that others may accept 
them knowingly, or refute them, if 
they can. To flood with general 
praise or spatter with vague abuse 
belongs to the Cheapjacks of litera- 
ture. Moreover, no American needs 
to be told that Mr. Bryant is a poet. 
Men do not ask whether his Iliad is 
a delightful poem, but whether it 
truthfully photographs Homer. That 
question, if we may judge from his 
performances, the average magazine 
critic has preferred to evade. 

From the extracts already present- 
ed, it is manifest that our American 
translator has followed the text of 
his author with a scrupulous exacti- 
tude which required unusual self- 
command from a poet of original 
powers ; yet he is often so truly and 
nobly poetical that many will over- 
look the superiority of his scholar- 
ship. Most countries of Western 
Europe have produced several trans- 
lators of the Iliad. But in each lan- 
guage one has eventually obscured 
the rest, and thenceforward kept un- 
challenged a niche in the national 
literature. Some such pre-eminence 
among English versions belongs, in 
our judgment, to Mr. Bryant's work. 
For conscientious adherence to the 
text, his version has no rival in our 
tongue, and ought, in justice, to be 
compared with Voss. In point of 
scholarship, Cowper had shown him- 
self much stronger than Pope, but 
his translation beside Mr. Bryant's 
Iliad seems to us a paraphrase. Both 
are masters of blank-verse, but Cow- 
per is a pupil of Milton, while Mr. 



Bryant's diction and rhythm are his 
own. The iambic pentameter is, in 
his hands, surprisingly plastic. We 
should not have supposed it capable 
of such happy adjustment to the 
shifting mood and varying pitch of 
the original; yet we cannot help a 
regret that this version was not exe- 
cuted in hexameters. We are quite 
sure that the achievement was possi- 
ble to the author of this translation. 

In such extracts as we have yet to 
make from Mr. Bryant's work\. we 
propose to compare him, not with 
his English rivals whom we hold him 
to have excelled, but with some of 
those translators who are most high- 
ly esteemed in other countries. 

Few lines of the Iliad have been 
more frequently imitated than those 
which paint with the tints of Albano 
the girdle of Aphrodite. The inci- 
dent which calls forth the descrip- 
tion is well known. Determined to 
lull the vigilance of Zeus and rescue 
her darling Greeks, Here flies to her 
toilet. The most truthful of poets 
puts no faith in beauty unadorned, 
and himself performs the part of 
tire-woman. It occurs, however, to 
Here that her lord is already fami- 
liar with the resources of her ward- 
robe, and the fear of a cold or care- 
less eye leads her to borrow of Aph- 
rodite. She receives a talisman, but 
precisely what this was is to men, 
at least a riddle. It was an em- 
broidered strap, so much is certain ; 
but how used, and where ? Belt or 
waist-girdle it was not, for that Here 
had on. It was plainly a slender 
and dainty thing, or how could she 
hide it in her bosom ? For our part, 
we believe it to have been a breast- 
band (Brustgiirtel} worn just under 
the breast, although a French com- 
mentator with much heat pronounces 
this view an insult to the figure of 
the goddess. The one translatoi 
competent to decide so nice a ques- 



Bryant's Translation of tJic Iliad. 



391 



tion was Mme. Dacier. Unhappily 
she throws no light on it. Mr. Bry- 
ant turns the passage thus : 

" She spake, and from her bosom drew the 

zone 

Embroidered, many-colored, and instinct 
With every winning charm with love, desire, 
Dalliance, and gentle speech that stealthily 
O'ercomes the purpose of the wisest mind.'' 

We must object to " zone." Mr. Bry- 
ant has just given (//. 14, 181) the 
same name to a broad, heavily- 
fringed belt which Here is now 
wearing. But Homer makes a differ- 
ence, calling that fcvy and this 
Ifiaf. Voss likewise is here some- 
what careless, rendering both words 
by Giirtel. " Dalliance " translates a 
stubborn word, and projects the idea 
which lay at the root of bapiarvq. 
Let us turn to Voss : 

" Sprach und loste vom Busen den wunderkost- 

lichen GUrtel 
Buntgestickt ; dort waren die Zauberreize 

versammelt, 
Dort war schmachtende Lieb" und Sehnsucht, 

dort das Getandel, 
Dort die schmeichelnde Bitte die oft auch den 

Weisen bethoret." 

How neatly -KOIKL^MV and Kea-ov are 
compressed in buntgestickt ! Wun- 
derkostlichen is, of course, mere pad- 
ding. Schmachtende likewise is su- 
perfluous. Neither can we altogether 
like " befool " for e/cAa//e voov. Mr. 
Bryant's phrase is certainly more fe- 
licitous. On the whole, it must be 
conceded that Voss flickers in these 
lines. 

When Mme. Dacier brought out 
her Iliad, it was affirmed on all hands 
that Homer could never, in the na- 
ture of things, be presented in 
French verse. From that verdict an 
appeal has from time to time been 
taken, but the decision has never 
been reversed. Mme. Dacier's stiff- 
ness and the flippancy of La Motte 
are indeed equally intolerable. We 
decidedly prefer to any metrical ver- 
sion in French the prose translations 
of Bitaube and Du^as Montbel. 



Both are in the strictest sense belles- 
lettres works, and are generally accu- 
rate and spirited. Bitaube portrays 
the girdle thus : " En meme temps 
elle detache sa ceinture riche d'une 
superbe broderie. La se trouvent 
reunis les charmes les plus seduisants ; 
la sont 1'amour, les tendres desirs, les 
doux entretiens et ces accents per- 
suasifs, qui derobent en secret le 
coeur du plus sage." There are 
some adjectives here for which Ho- 
mer is not responsible. 

Monti's version is well known. It 
has been called the golden ring 
which links the Greek and Italian 
literatures, and is ranked with Caro's 
^Eneid. Beside La Morte d'Ettore it 
appears a meritorious work. No 
doubt the climax of false taste was 
reached when Cesarrotti, who had 
executed a good translation in prose, 
proceeded to metamorphose the Iliad 
into a strange monster which he 
called The Death of Hector. We 
will not quote Monti now, for in this 
place he is tame and redundant. Yet 
he has skilfully hit with favellio a 
secondary meaning of uaptanf. The 
French have a word from the same 
root, babil ; but we have nothing in 
English which so happily expresses 
the cooing of young lovers. Tasso's 
reproduction of these lines is exqui- 
site. He is depicting Armida's gir- 
dle. It was fraught, he says, with 

" Teneri sdegni. e placide, e tranquil'e. 

Repulse, cari vezzi e liete paci, 
Sorrisi, paroletfe, e dolci stille 
Di pianto, e sospir tronchi, e molli baci." 

After the short, swift strokes of Ho- 
mer, this picture seems almost florid 
with concetti. But each poet meant 
to epitomize the charms he had be- 
held in life. The countrywomen of 
Tasso were skilled in lovers' sleights, 
whereas the simple virgins of Ho- 
meric times had never heard of the 
gai scavoir. If we may trust Bran- 
tome, who knew something of Ita- 



392 



Bryant's Translation of the Iliad. 



lian manners in that age, the dames 
of Sienna were quite competent to 
instruct Aphrodite in the arts of fas- 
cination. 

The range of Homeric similes is 
not limited to the phenomena of sky, 
river, and ocean, to the familiar ex- 
periences of the forge, the vineyard, 
and the chase. The lightning play 
of fancy and memory and the emo- 
tions of the heart are submitted to 
the same scrutiny, and portrayed 
with like felicity. " Rapid as 
thought " has become the tritest com- 
monplace in every European lan- 
guage, but the guise which the simile 
originally wore in Homer is still novel 
and effective. Incensed at the trick 
which has just been cleverly execut- 
ed, Zeus orders Her back to Olym- 
pus. Then Mr. Byrant : 



" He spake, the white-armed goddess willingly 
Obeyed him, and from Ida's summit flew 
To high Olympus. As the thought of man 
Flies rapidly, when having travelled far, 
He thinks. Here would I be ; I would be there 
And flits from place to place." 



" Willingly " is supported by Voss' 
ivillig, but has no correlative in the 
Greek. The context, moreover, 
shows that Here departed in a pet, 
and her peevishness finds full vent 
when she reaches Olympus. Mr. 
Bryant omits to translate $peai irevKa- 
'MUTJCL. For this phrase Voss gives 
spdhenden Gciste, deriving the adjec- 
tive from Trev/c??, by which, with Butt- 
mann, he understands the/<w//<?^(not 
bitter} fir-tree. But if Schneider be 
right, these words are equivalent to 
rrwca <j>pm>evTuv in the description of 
the girdle just quoted. The root would 
then be looked for in irwcvof, and the 
latter phrase might find an analogue, 
though not an exact one, in our 
"close schemers." These details are 
worthy of notice, for Chapman, mis- 
taking the primitive sense of this 
adjective, has utterly missed the point 
of the simile. The perversity of 



Hobbes is ludicrous. He condenses 
Homer after this fashion : 



" This said, went Juno to Olympus high, 
As when a man looks on an ample plain 
To any distance quickly goes his eye." 



Voss and Mr. Byrant are in this 
place so much alike that we will not 
collate the German, but give instead 
Monti's blank-verse : 



Disse e la Diva dalle bianche bracchia 
Obbediente dall' Idea montagna 
Al Olympo sail. Colla prestezza 
Con que vola il pensier del viatore 
Che scorse molte terre le rianda 
In suo segreto e dici, lo quella riva 
lo quell' altra toccai. ?> 



Scorse and rianda are pictorial, and 
perhaps sufficiently literal. We like 
also suo segreto for " close mind." 
Altogether the version is neat and 
animated, but less compact than Mr. 
Bryant's. Both are quite as faithful 
as the prose of Bitaube and Mont- 
bel. The former writes : " II dit, et 
Junon soumise u son epoux s'eleve 
des sommets d'Ida sur Olympe. Tel 
que le rapide essor de la pensee de 
1'homme lorsqu'ayant parcouru des 
pays d'une vaste etendue, et se rap- 
pelant en un moment tous les objets 
qui 1'ont frappe, il dit en lui-meme, 
j'etais ici, j'etais la." It will be 
observed that Mr. Bryant's " Here 
would I be, I would be there !" re- 
produces the optative V. So does 
the Dorthin mocht ich, und dort 
of Voss. An alternative reading is 
rtriv which Bitaube and Monti have 
preferred. The verb, however, should 
then be in the third person, not the 
first as they give it. The imperfect 
would impart to the thought a slight- 
ly different tinge, and make the 
traveller rather retrace in memory 
than revisit it in desire. If this 
reading be accepted, we might, per- 
haps, venture to present the passage 
in this form : 



Bryant's Translation of the Iliad. 



393 



Thus he pronounced ; and Here, the white- 
armed goddess, obeyed him, 

Down from the summits of Ida speeding to 
lofty Olympus, 

Darting as darteth the mind of a man who 
whilom has travelled 

Up and down on the earth, in close thought 
ponders his travels, 

Here was he now now there ! still aiming in 
many directions. 

In the battle which opens in the 
twentieth book culminates the action 
of the poem. Achilles now enters 
the field, and Mr. Gladstone has 
justly remarked that we seem never 
to have heard of wars or warriors 
before. To frame his central figure, 
Homer summons from Olympus the 
whole hierarchy of heaven. Amid 
thunder and earthquake, the gods 
are seen rallying to either side. No 
part of the Iliad is pitched in a 
loftier key. Nowhere is a translator 
more strongly impelled to put forth 
all his powers. We quote Mr. Bry- 
ant : 

*' From above with terrible crash 
Thundered the father of the blessed gods 
And mortal men, while Neptune from below 
Shook the great earth and lofty mountain-peaks. 
Then watery Ida's heights and very roots, 
The city of Troy, and the Greek galleys, quaked. 
Then Pluto, ruler of the nether world, 
Leaped from his throne in terror, lest the god 
Who makes the earth to tremble, cleaving it 
Above him, should lay bare to gods and men 
His horrible abodes, the dismal haunts 
Which even the gods abhor." 

We ought not, perhaps, to dislike 

the expansion of irarep uvtlpu-xuv re Ceuv 

re in the second line, for the 
epithets added are themselves hardly 
more than formulas. The next four 
lines exhibit Mr. Bryant's best work. 
Their vigor and elegance are not ex- 
traneous, but wrought with patient 
fingers out of the text itself. " Leap- 
ed from his throne in terror " is a 
melancholy falling off. This indiffer- 
ent line must stand for three Greek 
verbs which render with startling 
accuracy the staccato movement of 
fear. We give from Voss the three 
hexameters which depict the panic 
of Aidoneus: 



"Bang auch erschrack dort unten des Naciu- 

reichs Fiirst Aidoneus, 
Bebend entsprang er dem Thron, und schne 

laut dass ihtn von oben 

Nicht die Erd' aufrisse der Landerschiittrer 
Poseidon." 

Nachtreich is not quite equal to 
" nether world," but really these lines 
are incomparable. Beside them even 
the prose of Montbel seems a little 
wide of the text : " Dans ses retraites 
souterraines le roi des ombres Plu- 
ton fremit; epouvante il s'elance de 
son trone, pousse un cri, de peur que 
le terrible Neptune entr'ouvrant la 
terre ne montre aux dieux et aux 
hommes ces demeures terribles en 
horreur meme aux immortels." 

We are unable to speak without 
contempt of the Morte d'Ettore, but 
it is right to state that Cesarrotti's 
prose translation of this passage is 
perhaps the closest extant. Monti's 
verse will be found less literal : 

"Tremonne 

Pluto il re de sepolti et spaventato 
Die un alto grido, e si gitto del trono 
Tremendo non gli squarci la terrena 
Volta sul capo il crollator Nettuno 
Ed intromessa collaggiu la luce 
Agli Dei non discopra ed ai mortal! 
Le sue squallide bolge, al guardo orrende 
Anco del del." 

Homer says nothing of intromessa, 
luce. The words are no doubt trans- 
ferred from Virgil's paraphrase 

" Trepidentque immisso lumine Manes." 

Longinus, in his treatise On the Sub- 
lime, had quoted this passage of the 
Iliad, and Boileau in a translation of 
that work has reproduced it with con- 
siderable care. Boileau had positive- 
ly condescended to defend Homer, 
but it is plain that his own theory of 
translation was that accepted by his 
age. La Motte has stated it in his 
ode. He tells Homer that he pro- 
poses 

"Sous un nouveau langage 
Rajeunir ton antique ouvrage," 



394 



Bryant's Translation of the Iliad. 



and deeming the unconscious energy 
of his author un peu sanvage engages 
to regUr son ivresse. From Boileau 
no engagement was required. His 
Muse was too thoroughly the grande 
dame ever to forget herself, and even 
in Pythian convulsions retained a 
measure of decorum. We shall find 
his version at once droll and impres- 
sive. It is, so to speak, a Greek 
myth treated by Paul Veronese : 

" L'enfer sVmeut au broil de Neptune en furie 
Pluton sort de son trone, il palit, il s'ecrie 
II a peur que ce djeu dans cet affreux se"jour 
D'un coup de son trident ne fasse entrer le jour 
Et par le centre ouvert de la terre e'branle'e 
Ne fasse voir du Styx la rive ddsole'e 
Ne ddcouvre aux vivants cet empire odieux 
Abhorre" des mortels, et craint meme des 
dieux." 

To us no book of the Iliad is more 
delightful than the twenty-fourth. 
There are many scenes in which we 
would willingly linger not alone for 
the tender pathos with which the 
poet has informed them, but also for 
the light they throw on the social 
ethics of the later as well as primitive 
Greek world. The figure of Achilles 
weeping through the long night the 
loss of the beloved Patroclus is the 
immortal type of that devoted friend- 
ship which illumines with a peculiar 
radiance the stream of Hellenic bio- 
graphy. In the incessant warfare of 
sympathy with selfishness, friendship 
between man and man seems to 
have played something of the mas- 
ter rdle which in modern times has 
been engrossed by the passion of 
love. Again, Helen in her lament 
over Hector's corpse lets fall some 
bitter words that deserve to be 
weighed in connection with the pe- 
culiar attitude which Menelaus main- 
tains throughout the poem. They 
would assist us to understand her 
strangely equivocal position, as well as 
the conception of the marriage relation 
which obtained in the Homeric age. 
We have space, however, but for a 



single extract. We will choose 
Priam's prayer to Achilles. How 
often and with what careful hand 
these lines have been reproduced in 
English is well-known. In French 
there are no less than ten metrical 
versions, to say nothing of prose. To 
poets of every nation this passage 
has remained a bow of Ulysses which 
many have been eager to grasp, but 
none save Voss has hitherto had 
sinew enough to bend. The circum- 
stances under which the prayer is 
made are inexpressively affecting. 
The fate of Troy has at. length com- 
pelled the combat of Hector and 
Achilles. From the walls of the city 
Priam has beheld the fatal issue. 
The pride and prop of his old age, 
the bulwark of his kingdom, lies dead 
and dishonored in the hostile camp. 
Conducted by Hermes, Priam passes 
the sentinels, and gains the quarters 
of his foe. He enters, springs to- 
ward Pelides, clasps his knees, and 
kisses those " slaughter-dealing 
hands " which had slain so many of 
his sons. Then Mr. Bryant : 



'Think of thy father, an old man like me, 
God-lite Achilles ! on the dreary verge 
Of closing life he stands, and even now 
Haply is fiercely pressed by those who dwell 
Around him, and has none to shield his age 
From war and its disasters. Yet his heart 
Rejoices when he hears thou yet dost live, 
And every day he hopes that his dear son 
Will come again from Troy. My lot is hard, 
For I was father of the bravest sons 
In all wide Troy, and none are left me now ! 

Oh ! revere 

The gods, Achilles, and be merciful, 
Calling to mind thy father, happier he 
Than I ; for I have borne what no man else 
That dwells on earth could bear have laid 

my lips 
Upon the hand of him who slew my son." 



Had these lines been pointed at by 
the legend, we could well under- 
stand why Solon should have burn- 
ed his epic. Let us not stay for crit- 
icism, but, with eyes fixed on the 
Greek, give our ears to Voss ! 



Bryant's Translation of the Iliad. 



395 



"Deiners Vaters gedenk ! O gottergleicher 

Achilleus, 
Sein des Bejahrten wie ich, an der traurigen 

Schwelle des Alters, 
Und vielleicht dass jenen die umbewohnende 

Volker 
Drangen, und niemand 1st ihm Jammer und 

"\\~eh zu entfernen. 
Jencr indess so oft er von dir dem lebenden 

horet 
Freut er sich innig im Geist, und hofft von Tage 

zu Tage 
Dass er den trautesten Sohn noch seh' heim- 

kehren vonTroja. 
Ich unseliger Mann die tapfersten Sohn' er- 

zeugt' ich 
Weil im Troegebiet, und nun ist keiner mir 

ttbrig ! : 

Scheue die Cotter demnach, O Pelcid ! und 

erbarme dich meiner 
Denkend des eigenen Vaters! Ich bin noeh 

werther des Mitleids ; 
Duld' ich doch was sonst kein sterblicher Erde- 

bewohner 
Ach die die Kinder getodtet die Hand an die 

Lippen zu driicken." 

We hold that it lies not in the power 
of translation to surpass these lines 
of Voss. They are truly marvels in 
photography. To every Homeric 
line corresponds a German hexame- 
ter. In every verse the emphatic 
word stands where Homer placed it. 
The very pauses are for the most 
part preserved. The translator has not 
retrenched a word. He has scarcely 
added one. He has certainly not 
added an idea. On the nice proprie- 
ty of his diction, and his perfect sym- 
pathy with the feeling of the Greek, 
we need not dwell. In these re- 
spects Mr. Bryant must be ranked 
next to him with an interval, per- 
haps, but next. His " dreary verge 
of closing life " skilfully interprets 
an ambiguous phrase which Voss has 
chosen to retain. Again, unseliger 
Mann is somewhat cold, whereas 
'' my lot is hard " has caught, so to 
speak, the genuine accents of heart- 
break. "And every day he hopes 
that his dear son," etc. Readers of 
the Holy Dying will recall the touch- 
ing picture of a drowned sailor rolled 
upon his floating bed of waves, while 
at home his father " weeps with joy 
to think how happy he shall be when 



his beloved boy returns into the cir- 
cle of his father's arms." 

Voltaire has somewhere asserted 
that Homer never drew a tear. Yet 
even he could not behold this scene 
unmoved, and himself entered the 
lists as a translator. His version of 
this passage embodies the principles 
which he maintained ought to gov- 
ern translators of Homer. It forms 
a curious chapter in the history of 
taste. Achilles turning discovers 
Priam, " ce vieillard venerable," 

'Exhalant i ses pieds ses sang-lots et ses cris 
Et lui baisant la main qu: fit peVir son fils; 
II n'osait sur Achille encor Jeter la vue, 
II voulait lui parler, et sa voix s'est perdue, 
Knfin il le regarde et parmi ses sanglots 
Tremblant, pale, et sans force, il prononce ces 

mots. 
' Songez, seigneur ! songez que vous avez un 

pere ' 

II ne put achever. Le he"ros sanguinaire 
Sentit que la pitie" pdnetrait dans son coeur, 
Priam lui prend les mains, ah prince ! ah mon 

vainqueur? 

J'e'tais pere d'Hector, et ses gdnereux freres 
Flattaient mes derniers jours, et ies rendail 

prosperes. 
Us ne sont plus." 

These lines are not altogether with- 
out merit, but no man, we suppose, 
who possesses what has been termed 
a historical conscience will allow them 
to be poetic. The elements of the 
scene are there, but they are worked 
up in accordance with the tricks and 
traditions of the Comedie Fran^aise. 
To the eye of Voltaire, Priam was 
simply an antitype of the pere noble, 
and must assume the attitude and 
demeanor appropriate to that role. 
In short, the verses are conceived in 
the spirit of his age, and exhibit his 
best manner. But read them after 
the Greek, and what fresh point they 
impart to the familiar words, " In 
old times men wrote like orators, but 
now like rhetoricians." 

From Voltaire to Monti is a long 
stride toward Homer's Olympus. 
The Italian has infused much sweet- 
ness into this passage. And it is a 



39 6 



Bryant's Translation of the Iliad. 



^* 

native, not a grafted, sweetness. 
Writing in blank-verse, he neither 
needs nor claims the license of 
French translators ; yet we some- 
times miss Mr. Bryant's terseness and 
simplicity ; as in the initial lines : 

" Divino Achilla ti rammenta il padre 
II padre tuo da sia vecchiezza oppresso, 
Qua io mi sono ! In questo punto ei forse 
Da potenti vicini assediato 
Non ha chi lo socorra e all' imminente 
Peri^lio il tolga." 

To appreciate this version one needs 
only to glance at Cesarrotti's. Pri- 
am's first three words 'M.vrjaai Trarpof 
aoio ! comprise the most effective 
exordium in literature. They are 
true projectiles shot from soul to 
soul. Let us see if they are easily 
recognized in the Morte d'Ettore : 

"Ah pieta, grida, 

Divino Achille ! II padre tuo t'implora 
Per tuo padre, pieta !" 

Is it possible to place artist and 
word-monger in sharper antithesis ? 
The success of his mission perhaps 
his life depends upon the first im- 
pression. Conceive royal Priam 
whining forth " Pity, pity !" like some 
professional beggar mumbling his 
worn-out lies. Homer said simply, 
"Think of thy father, Achilles!" 
The words, like the stroke of Moses' 
rod, split the stubborn heart, and 
pity gushed forth in tears. 

It must be admitted that Mr. .Bry- 
ant's lines are not always invested 
with the impassioned fervor and 
glowing life which have rescued the 



works of his English predecessors 
from oblivion. But it will often be 
found that where they were most 
spirited they were least Homeric. It 
is inevitable that a conscientious 
workman who resolves to copy his 
model in the minutest details will 
produce at times a mosaic rather than 
a casting his materials will seem 
pieced and not fused. But we are 
sure that the sweetness of Mr. Bry- 
ant's verse will delight the general 
reader, while scholars will appreciate 
his self-control. Animation is de- 
sirable, but fidelity is indispensable; 
and they who truly love the Iliad 
will prefer Homer in marble to Pope 
and Chapman in the flesh. 

Over all translators of the Iliad, 
we confess that Voss is paramount ; 
but no other version with which 
we are acquainted will bear a 
sustained comparison with Mr. Bry- 
ant's. The latter's obligations to 
Voss are undoubtedly great ; but he 
has well-nigh cancelled the debt, for 
the next worker in the field will owe 
much to him. It may be that trans- 
lation is not the highest function of 
genius ; yet where it is nobly fulfilled 
it deserves and commands our grati- 
tude. Nor is this all. It is some- 
thing more than a figure of speech 
the fine figure of Politian's by 
which Homer, assisting in the per- 
son of Ganymede at the banquet of 
the gods, is made to distribute to his 
best lovers some portion of his own 
ambrosia. 



Spain : ivliat it Was and ivJiat it Is. 



397 



SPAIN: WHAT IT WAS AND WHAT IT IS. 



A NATION vegetating on old memo- 
ries ; a people for two centuries priest- 
ridden, just beginning to awaken and 
show some signs of the enlight- 
enment of the age ; a government 
liable to change every twenty-four 
hours; an empty treasury shifting 
from one to another incapable minis- 
try; and, above all, a ridiculous pre- 
tension and holding to such an Old 
World phrase as national honor 
such is the ordinary run of opinion 
on Spain. What is it coming to ? 
What is its destiny ? Has it a destiny 
in these busy, practical days ? Or is 
its life played out long ago, and the 
nation simply drifting downwards into 
the yawning gulf of insignificance 
where many another has been swal- 
lowed up ? 

Have Catholics an interest in the 
question ? 

Yesterday, when mention was 
made of Spain, the enlightened 
world lifted up its eyes and hands in 
pious protestation against such an 
outrage on our nineteenth century of 
civilization. A superstitious race 
given to the worshipping of graven 
images, hoodwinked by the priests, 
those inveterate enemies of progress ; 
no free-will among them ; no under- 
standing ; nothing but memory. To- 
day all is changed. The dawn long 
delayed of enlightenment has come 
at last to the unhappy land has 
come accompanied by the usual 
signs. Churches have been rifled, the 
sanctuary has been desecrated, the 
Jesuits have been scattered, nuns and 
monks have been robbed of their 
homes and driven naked into the 
world, blood has flowed freely, 
murder has been done. So, to-day 



the world smiles, and rubs its hands, 
and hopes better things for Spain. 

That it was a great nation we all 
acknowledge, and the title is a true 
one. It was not alone a mighty na- 
tion ; those buried under the Eastern 
sands were mighty nations, yet their 
workings in this world were as barren 
of fruit as the shifting covering that 
has hidden them away, without an oasis 
to redeem their barrenness. China 
might be called a mighty nation, but 
it has walled itself in from the world 
by the most narrow-minded and self- 
ish policy, and we have had to fight 
our way through good and evil up to 
our present standard without a help- 
ing hand from it. Russia is a mighty 
nation, and we look anxiously to the 
development of its vast power, but up 
to the present its only effect on the 
world has been that of brute strength. 
But Spain has been pre-eminently a 
great nation ; that is, a nation that 
has done much for its own and others' 
development, in all that can make 
peoples sound, intelligent, prosperous, 
and happy. 

Looking back at its history as far 
as we can look back, we find the same 
characteristics in the race as we find 
to-day; above all, that intense, all- 
absorbing nationality which has kept 
it unmixed and unconquered. Han- 
nibal courted its alliance; the Roman 
failed ever 4o subdue it thoroughly. 
Great stubborn resistances to the Em- 
press of the World stand out now and 
then in clear relief from that dim 
background awful sieges wonder- 
fully sustained, where the women 
play an equal part with the men. We 
shall always find these Spanish 
women leading the van in the hour 



398 



Spain : what it Was and ivhat it Is. 



of their country's danger. The vic- 
tories gained over them resembled the 
victory of Pyrrhus. The Romans 
went and the Moors came, and fast- 
ened on the heart of the kingdom, 
populating and flourishing there, 
sucking put its life. They built their 
cities and their palaces in the fairest 
spots in the land. Powerful, warlike, 
rich, with immense resources, they 
laughed at the handful of men, king- 
less, skulking among rocks, and starv- 
ing for liberty. But that handful will 
not surrender what is their own while 
one arm can be raised to defend it. 
They are true to one another as 
Spaniards and as Catholics now ; for 
a new element is in them binding 
them more firmly than the very blood 
that is common to their veins re- 
ligion, the religion of Christ, which 
they have seized upon with all their 
passionate nature, never to relinquish. 
Inch by inch the Moors are driven 
back over the sea. They were in- 
vaded again by a more terrible foe 
than all more terrible even than 
France in her deep distress has lately 
seen. Bonaparte had drained the 
country of its armies, had emptied its 
coffers, and taken away its king, all 
under the shadow of friendship and 
alliance. When he held it thus 
powerless in his hands, he sent in his 
armies, and impudently set his bro- 
ther on the throne. Kingless, money- 
less, defenceless as they were, the peo- 
ple rose up, the women again leading 
the van, and the priests inflaming all. 
Bonaparte was driven out. The 
priests, for all their hoodwinking, can 
be good patriots, it seems. The Lon- 
don Times, the mouthpiece of the en- 
lightenment of the age, certainly no 
great friend to Spaniards and Catho- 
lics, contrasted the conduct of France 
during the late invasion with that of 
Spain. France, in her sorest straits, 
was never so hard pushed as Spain 
when the first Napoleon entered ; yet 



a nation of over 30,000,000 could not 
rid themselves of half a million. 
There was no Carthagena, no Sagun- 
tum, no Saragossa no approach 
to such. And the Times confessed 
that France failed because she pos- 
sessed neither the patriotism nor the 
religious enthusiasm of the Spaniards. 
Such examples has Spain given to the 
world of the purest patriotism, the 
first element of greatness in a nation ; 
of a self-reliance that, when all seems 
lost, will not look without for aid, but 
to itself. 

She has not ceased her working 
here. In no department has she been 
backward. Science owes her much. 
Literature is enriched by her authors. 
The inspirations of Murillo are the 
embodiment of all that our religion 
can feel in its deepest moments ; be- 
fore his canvas, the Christian prays, 
the infidel cannot scoff. She has 
given soldiers of the noblest type; 
statesmen the most benevolent and 
enlightened. The Spanish constitu- 
tion in itself is from days remote ad- 
mirable for equipoise and justice. In 
England they are just approaching 
the Spanish marriage laws. A Span- 
ish merchant will tell you that for the 
generality of commercial questions he 
is his own lawyer, so clear and well- 
defined is the law. 

What do we Catholics owe to 
Spain ? 

First of all, that high example of 
unswerving faith and devotion to the 
Holy See through ages of evil report 
and good report. The great heart 
of the nation is not moved by events 
that will come under our notice after. 
She has not only given a host of 
theological writers, but, what is still 
better, a host of theological actors 
notably the Order of St. Dominic and 
the Society of Jesus, the names of 
which are enough to recall our debt. 

To the Old World she opened up 
a New. Here Spain had a mission 



Spain : what it Was and ivliat it Is. 



399 



that is rarely given to nations. She 
failed, though the monarch sent 
priests to accompany the soldiers, to 
temper the conquest of the sword by 
that of the cross. How well the war- 
riors of Christ demeaned themselves, 
our Bancroft and Prescott tell us. 

She failed ; but who shall cast the 
first stone at her ? That nation only 
which has subdued another by Chris- 
tian love and the weapon of the 
cross a phenomenon that has not 
yet appeared even in these blessed 
days. 

We hear much of the cruelty of 
these Spanish settlers, of their selfish- 
ness, of their greed of gold. 

We must make a little allowance 
for the days in which they lived. Men 
were untutored then ; peace con- 
gresses (save the mark !) were un- 
known ; an Alabama case would 
either have been let alone or settled 
by the sword long ere it could have 
grown into a mere talking difficulty ; 
men did not consult lawyers on the 
nice distinctions of meum and tuum. 
The Spaniards landed, and held their 
own by cruelty, oppression, and 
rapine, no doubt. We, with all our 
enlightenment, have followed their ex- 
ample pretty faithfully ; except that, 
for men like the saintly Las Casas, we 
despatched an agent that worked 
a speedy conversion fire-water. We 
have taken root here and grown up, 
and are a great nation, spreading out 
in all directions, wealthy, prosperous, 
enlightened, with civilization at our 
finger-ends, and Bibles willy-nilly in 
every one of our schools. Yes, we 
are a decided improvement on the 
Spaniards. But a hundred years ago 
there existed a race in this country to 
whom the land that we tread upon 
belonged. Where is that race now ? 
A wretched remnant of it scowling 
and prowling on our outskirts ; we 
are killing them off. We heard of 
them the other day joining in the 



great hunt. The most enterprising 
and powerful of our journals, one that 
has fitted out a purely benevolent 
expedition to Africa, sent its corre- 
spondent down to record it all. We 
had an " idyl of the plains " ; the 
course of our great enlightenment 
and progress was drawn in fanciful 
colors, with this correspondent for 
central figure, riding for miles and 
miles under the stars to tell us at our 
breakfasts of the exact position of a 
soldier throwing an ornament round 
the neck of a savage maiden, and the 
evident appreciation the savages ex- 
hibited of champagne. 

Spain failed in her mission, great 
and glorious as it was. Have we 
succeeded better ? Has England, in 
India, or Tasmania, or wherever she 
set her foot ? 

Gold brought its own curse. 
When wealth comes unasked, few 
men will labor. The "Eldorado" 
filled the dreams and stopped the 
life of the Spaniards. One by one 
her rich possessions dropped from the 
parent nation, till Cuba was the only 
one left, and Cuba wishes to go also. 

She has become a second-rate 
power in Europe, if so high the 
kingdom " on whose dominions the 
sun never set." 

And here, with this glance at her 
past history to- call to mind what 
she was, what she has achieved, the 
truly great elements that' were always 
in her, we turn to look at her as she 
is ; to consider her present bearing 
on the church, for we Catholics 
must always look at all things with a 
Catholic eye, knowing, as we do, 
that our religion is the one religion 
upon which the salvation of this 
world hangs ; that, if the world is to 
be saved by us, we can never put 
our faith upon the shelf and enter 
the world as worldlings. The Spirit 
of God must permeate and pervade 
all people, all places, all things, at all 



400 



Spain : what it Was and what it Is. 



times; and when that is accomplished, 
and not before, then will the world 
be saved. 

Spain groaned under the rule of 
Isabella, or rather under the rule of 
her rulers. She was a woman far 
" more sinned against than sinning." 
We are apt too often to blame the 
victim for the circumstances which 
make the victim. From her infancy 
,a tool in the hands of unprincipled 
men ; forced to marry a man utterly 
worthless in every respect; almost 
without one true friend, without a 
soul for her woman's heart to cling 
to. We accuse her of all the evils 
created, fostered, encouraged by a 
host of powerful men, who used her 
as a chess-piece; while she stood, 
their game was-safe. The revolution 
more than smouldered ; but O'Don- 
nell, at once a statesman and a 
soldier, kept it down. Narvaez, 
crafty and bold, succeeded him, and 
in turn went. These men, particu- 
larly the latter, in striking at their 
own foes, left a bitter legacy of ha- 
tred and revenge to the queen. 
What all foresaw came to pass 
the last rising which ousted her. 
Prim came in ; the nation's destiny 
was at last in its own hands ; now 
for the millennium. 

Prim commenced it a likely man 
for such a purpose. A bold, un- 
scrupulous adventurer, whose chief 
virtue was his reckless bravery ; no 
great talker; not a man who would 
astonish you by the wisdom of his 
words, but quick to decide, speedy to 
execute; a very soldier whose 
" voice was in his sword " such 
was Prim. He found himself ador- 
ed by the soldiers, glorified by the 
people. He did not care for the 
latter : when they wished to tear the 
crown from his cap on his entry into 
Malaga, he would not let them ; he 
declared himself in plain words for 
monarchy from the beginning. He 



found the cortes split up into parties. 
Many for Don Carlos, a strong- 
body, who if not crushed would have 
their king; so Prim resolved to 
crush them. A few for Montpensier ; 
another few for Don Alfonso, the 
queen's son; neither worth bother- 
ing about, Prim let them alone. A 
small compact party of republicans, 
very ably led; nearly all young, 
enthusiastic, lawyers many of them, 
excellent speakers, excellent fighters 
at a pinch, too. This was a danger- 
ous party, who had been most in- 
strumental in putting Prim where he 
was. He dared not turn round on 
them at once, the people were still 
armed. He* coquetted with them. 
They were young, and many un- 
fledged, eager to try their lungs, 
fond of the sound of their voices. 
Spain should be governed only as 
Spain wished; she should have a 
model constitution; freedom of the 
person, freedom of the press, free- 
dom of religion, freedom of every- 
thing. No more conscriptions, only 
a few more thousands just to enable 
the army to quell those troublesome 
Carlists. He threw them a constitu- 
tion, a model indeed in its construc- 
tion, fit for Utopia, but scarcely for 
the wild spirits then raging in Spain. 
He let them wrangle over that, and 
turned himself to the army. He had 
always been popular with the sol- 
diers; he moved everybody up a 
grade; by this means he created all 
the colonels, and the army was his. 
With this weapon secure in his 
grasp he could beat them all, and he 
did. He played them off, one 
against the other, in the cortes ; he 
knew, split up as they were, the 
elements too opposed to coalesce, 
they would never agree about any 
single thing or any single person ; he 
suggested this and he suggested 
that ; if they would not take his sug- 
gestions, that was their fault. One 



Spain: iv/iat it Was and what it Is. 



401 



thing was clear, they must support 
him, or anarchy would ensue. The 
Carlists left the chamber to fight. 
Precisely what Prim wanted ; he had 
encouraged it, in fact ; the sooner, the 
better for him, as he could the more 
easily crush them. He did so, 
cruelly and mercilessly. In the 
meantime, he was all honey to the 
republicans. But at last they began 
to see that they had been hood- 
winked ; that there was no hope 
of a republic from Prim ; that the 
monarchy they hated would come in 
again, and all their efforts prove 
fruitless. Prim demanded the arms 
of the people the arms which had 
been distributed to enable him to 
crush the monarchy. The repub- 
licans in their turn left the chamber 
to fight; and well they fought, too, 
against the overwhelming forces that 
Prim sent to quell them ; for no 
half measures would do for Juan 
Prim, Those men who rose and 
fought so tenaciously at Cadiz, at 
Jerez, at Malaga, Valencia, had 
been well schooled beforehand by 
the preachers of the age. " You are 
poor, and your children will be poor 
after you. The labor of your hands 
goes to dress the fine ladies of the rich ; 
to fatten lazy priests, who do noth- 
ing for a living ; to set those brave 
gentlemen on horseback, who think 
themselves made of other flesh and 
blood than yours. We will change all 
that when the queen is driven out. 
We will all be equal, and do equal 
work or no work. Our men are men 
as theirs are ; our women are women 
also." 

The queen was driven away; the 
friars, and the Jesuits, and the nuns 
banished. The government seized 
upon their houses and what was in 
them ; of course it was not robbery 
when the government took them. 
Still the poor were not a penny the 
richer. .These plausible doctrines 



had seized upon their simple minds. 
It was something worth fighting for, 
and they fought. No Paris barri- 
cades were ever defended with half 
the fury and obstinacy displayed by 
those Andalusians the mountaineers 
and villagers whose fathers and 
grandfathers had harassed, sur- 
rounded, and captured a force of 
4000 or more, under one of the First 
Napoleon's generals. Still, we hear 
of none of those outrages at which 
the world sickened lately in Paris. 
" Aqui nadie se roba caballeros " 
" Gentlemen, no one robs here," 
was the first cry at Cadiz. A com- 
mandant of the forces was struck 
down in the midst of the revolution- 
ists by a shot. They knew him well, 
and that he was going to fight against 
them ; yet they were the first men tx 
take him from the street and care for- 
his wounds. There is all that is. 
noble, generous, and faithful in the 
heart of this people, which it only re- 
quires a wise government to. draw 
out. 

They were beaten on a-11 sides. 
They dared not rise in Madrid, for 
Prim kept his forces there, as a cen- 
tre, menacing the country. In the 
midst of all this distraction, we see 
one flash of the old spirit that, how- 
ever it might split against itself, was 
one against a common foe. Cuba 
saw its chance, and, though many 
concessions had been made, it would 
have liberty at once. Prim had quite 
enough to do at home ; his 'hands 
were full with Carlists and republi- 
cans. We lent our sanction to the Cu- 
ban claims, with an after-eye to our 
own interests ; and our minister made 
some representations that never quite 
came to light. Prim made no an- 
swer to them,' at least in words. But, 
notwithstanding the dearth of money 
and of men, the strain at home re- 
quiring every nerve to sustain it, the 
old Spanish blood was true to itself. 



402 



Spain : what it Was and what it Is. 



Volunteers sprang up in crowds; 
and force after force was shipped, 
is shipped still, to the island, ostensi- 
bly to quell a rebellion that never 
held a position from the first. A na- 
tion that can act so in such a mo- 
ment must have something in it. 

Before taking leave of Prim, in 
turn the hero and the terror of the 
revolution, much as we deplore that 
the destinies of such a nation at such 
a crisis should have fallen into the 
hands of such a man, we cannot help 
paying a tribute to his never-flagg- 
ing energy, dauntless courage, and 
prompt decision. Men laughed at 
Prim, at his speeches, and wondered 
how he ever gained his position. 
Speaking on the deficiency of the 
national treasury, and utterly unable 
to tide over those rocks on which 
all governments break figures : " I 
know we shall be able to meet the 
deficiency," said Prim, " But how ?" 
asked the deputies. " I do not know 
exactly how; but I have a feeling in 
my breast which convinces me ;" the 
words are from memory, but they 
convey the substance. Men laugh- 
ed, but Prim stood his ground ; and 
gradually the question, " What will 
Spain do ?" merged into that of 
" What will Prim do ?" A better 
man and a wiser statesman, neither 
very difficult to obtain, would have 
availed himself of such an opportuni- 
ty to heal his country's wounds. 
Prim could not do this ; he did not 
know how ; but he was at least 
" wise in his generation." He could 
not save the sick man; he did the 
next best thing, he kept him from kill- 
ing himself. The foolhardiness of the 
man was his destruction. He had 
often had warnings, but he knew not 
what fear was, and took no precau- 
tions. 

" To have the republic is easy," 
said Castelar, the leader of the re- 
publicans, after one of his defeats, to 



Prim. " We have only to kill one 
man." " Nothing but a thunderbolt 
kills me," retorted Prim, "and of 
those very few fall." 

The thunderbolt fell and crushed 
him, but failed to crush what it was 
aimed at, the monarchy. Amadeus 
landed just in time to learn that his 
right-hand man was gone a fearful 
venture for a young king and his 
queen. But he braved it royally ; and 
though the race of Victor Emanuel can 
never find much favor in our eyes, 
this son of his, we confess, has borne 
himself through trying scenes like a 
king and like a gentleman, nobly 
supported by his brave and Catholic 
lady. That he was never elected by 
the people is clear ; . that, notwith- 
standing his personal merit, he is not 
likely to stay long where he is, is the 
surmise of all. If a telegram, with- 
out the slightest foundation in fact, 
announced his expulsion to-morrow, 
not a man in the world would disbe- 
lieve it. The people can feel no 
sympathy with a man who has no 
sort of title to their ancient crown ; 
who is a perfect stranger to them, 
and almost to the world ; who after 
the hawking of their throne about Eu- 
rope, was forced upon them against 
their will. Besides, the Italians, of all 
European nations, are despised in 
Spain. They are considered there 
as good singers, dancers, cooks, and 
such like, but not the men for any- 
thing manly or great : how much 
less for the throne of Ferdinand the 
Catholic ! " King Macaroni the 
First" was the burlesque that greeted 
Amadeus on his arrival in the capi- 
tal. With him we will not trouble 
ourselves further, but with the rev- 
olution that gave occasion to the ac- 
cident of his accession, and which 
will displace him to-morrow or the 
next day. 

Spain undoubtedly was in a bad 
state under the regime of Isabella. 



Spain : what it Was and what it Is. 



403 



The question is, Has she bettered her- 
self by driving out the queen ? The 
new order came in with a grand 
flourish of trumpets. Progress was 
the watchword : the " Progressistas" 
were Prim's party till he broke them 
up. We have touched already on 
the blood shed in civil strife for this 
party and for that, but there are other 
things to consider. Education is the 
word of the day ; let us see what the 
revolution effected in this direction. 

The Jesuits under great difficulties 
were organizing colleges and mis- 
sions ; they were straining every 
nerve to educate and improve the 
people, and were just beginning to 
make some headway when the 
revolution came; and of course the 
first " abuse" to be abolished was 
the Order of Jesus that order that 
flourishes even in Protestant coun- 
tries like England, where the govern- 
ment, under such a chancellor as Mr. 
Lowe, grants them a pension for their 
observatory at Stonyhurst. They 
had to fly the country; their estab- 
lishments were all broken up and 
seized upon by the government. A 
case in point : 

At Port St. Mary's, between Cadiz 
and Jerez, the gentlemen of the 
town, seeing the good effected by the 
Jesuits in their missions, and feeling 
it in the improved conduct of the 
men they employed, as more than 
one of them assured the writer, united 
and raised funds sufficient to build 
a magnificent college which they 
presented to the society. The gov- 
ernment, then of Isabella, had noth- 
ing to do with it. When the revolu- 
tion broke out, there were three hun- 
dred students there, many of them 
from the first families of Spain. In 
addition to these, forty of the poor 
children of the district were admitted 
to the course of studies free. The 
Jesuits were banished, and escaped 
with th|ir lives, thanks to the cour- 



age of a noble-hearted gentleman of 
the town and his sons, who at the 
risk of their own lives and property 
gave them shelter till Topete himself 
went and conducted them to the sea. 
The college was closed and seized 
by the government. The gentlemen 
who built it demanded the building 
to be used at least for educational 
purposes, no matter under whom. 
To all their remonstrances a deaf ear 
was turned ; and the college stands 
tenantless to this day. Those who 
had the means sent their children out 
of the country to England, France, 
or elsewhere. Many could not, and 
for them there was no remedy. 
Their children must do without edu- 
cation while the work of enlighten- 
ment goes on. 

They drove out the friars and the 
nuns destitute into the world ; seized 
upon their property, and possessed 
themselves of their treasures, the 
vessels of the sanctuary, vestments, 
paintings, gifts given in expiation of 
sins or propitiation of heaven by 
men and women long ago resting in 
their graves. Not a year back the 
writer, then in London, saw an .an- 
nouncement in the Times of the ac- 
cession of some rare Spanish jewelry 
to the curiosities of the very interest- 
ing Museum at Kensington. He 
went, and found the ornaments that 
had decked the images and altars of 
the Virgen del Pilar at Saragossa, 
neatly arranged in two large cases, 
each ornament ticketed off as in a 
Jew's shop, with the estimated value 
underneath in sums varying from 
over a hundred, sometimes over two 
or three hundred, pounds downwards. 
This sacrilegious robbery was repeat- 
ed throughout the country a dan- 
gerous example to the poor, whom 
they had indoctrinated with the per- 
nicious ideas so prevalent in these 
times, the climax of which we saw 
the other day in Paris. 



404 



Spain : what it Was and what it Is. 



There was to be no state religion, 
and the clergy no longer to be sala- 
ried by the government. We must 
observe how all these movements 
strike at the church first ; as is right 
they should do, for, that power de- 
stroyed, there is an end to morality, 
and the rest is easy. After a fierce 
and prolonged debate, in which the 
republicans came out in their true 
colors, and gave utterance, not the 
greater number happily, to open- 
mouthed blasphemy not simply 
against the church, but against the 
God whom Protestant and Catholic 
adore in common, the motion was 
not carried. The Catholic Church 
continues the church of the state, as 
it is the church of the whole nation. 

" There are three things I hate in- 
tensely (que me odiati) : God, the mo- 
narchy, and phthisis," said an alcalde 
in the north. It is a comfort to know 
that the wretch who said this craved 
a priest on his dying bed when at- 
tacked by the last object of his hatred, 
and God, ever merciful, allowed him 
one. 

Emilio Castelar, the prime mover 
in the motion, spoke differently. He 
is the leader of the republicans: 
young, gifted beyond measure in all 
that can give a man influence among 
his fellows, a marvellous orator, whom 
the whole cortes, from the prelate to 
the red-hot republican, listens to 
spell-bound when he speaks. His 
attacks on Prim were terrible, unceas- 
ing, unsparing ; he lashed the cortes 
into foam ; but Prim, conscious of 
his power, had a dry, sarcastic man- 
ner of meeting them that took a 
good deal of the eloquent edge off. 
On the religious question Castelar 
said, " For my own part, if I chose 
any religion, it would be the Catholic, 
in which I was born and in which 
my mother died. A Protestant I 
could never be : it is too frigid for 
me." 



Liberty of the press, in these days 
the bulwark of our rights, liberty of 
public discussion, were proclaimed. 
The press was free to attack every- 
thing and every institution we con- 
sider holy. The republican papers 
poured forth floods of blasphemy un- 
checked. The Carlist, the Catholic 
organs alone were suppressed. Vil- 
laslada, the editor of the Pensamiente 
Espaiiol, the leading Carlist and Ca- 
tholic newspaper, which bears the 
Holy Father's blessing on its page, 
was forced to fly the country, and his 
papers seized. He has since returned, 
and has now a seat in the cortes. 
His offence was attacking the gov- 
ernment and advocating the cause of 
Don Carlos at a time when Prim 
professed to await the expression of 
the will of the people to declare the 
king. So much for free discussion. 

It would be tedious as well as pro- 
fitless to take every item in the ca- 
talogue of a nation, and contrast 
them now with what they were be- 
fore the overthrow of the Bourbon 
line. Certain it is that, bad as things 
were in Spain under Isabella, they 
are worse at present. Her com- 
merce has deteriorated wofully. 
" We know not what to expect in 
Spain at any moment. The men we 
employ have been so preached to by 
the apostles of the revolution that 
they are ready to turn on us we know 
not when. We dare not keep a large 
stock on hand. We are trying to sell 
things off even at a sacrifice, we gel 
our money safe banked in England, 
and-, if the revolution and ruin come, 
well, at least we shall have some pro- 
vision for our wives and children." 
That is how any merchant will speak 
to-day on Spanish affairs. 

" The shortest road to peace is 
through the revolution," said Villas- 
lada, and that is the opinion of all 
the thoughtful men the writer has 
met. They look upon a revolution 



Spain : what it Was and zvhat it Is. 



405 



as inevitable, the passions of the peo- 
ple have been so tampered with. It 
is hoped for that the people may 
sicken of their illusions ; that the fury 
may waste itself; that the blood-let- 
ting which must follow may allay the 
fever, may open their eyes to the 
Utopia which their frenzy pictures. 

It is a sad state for such a nation. 
It makes us anxious about the ques- 
tion we asked at the beginning, What 
is its destiny ? Its debt is increasing 
as its credit declines. And yet the 
nation might be * great nation still. 

Its foreign possessions it can do 
without. To get rid of Cuba would 
really be a relief. The advantages 
which the island affords for commerce 
by no means compensate for the con- 
tinual anxiety it causes the support 
of an army and a fleet. Spain is self- 
sufficient. With an area similar to 
that of France, her population is 
only one-third as large. The coun- 
try if worked could produce corn 
enough to feed more than half Europe. 
Magnificent forests of chestnut and 
mahogany, soft groves of orange and 
olive trees, clothe and beautify the 
soil. Splendid rivers roll through the 
land, while bays and safe harbors in- 
dent the coast. In a little district 
perhaps not more than ten miles 
square grows the wine that supplies 
the whole world with sherry. Spanish 
wool holds its own in the mart. The 
people are intelligent, peaceful, and 
moral by nature. In no country can 
an inferior talk to a superior as freely 
without passing beyond the bounds as 
in Spain. Beautiful, historic cities are 
scattered through the land. Treasures 
of art are in their churches and galle- 
ries, refining the feelings and quicken- 
ing the intellect. Their language is 
music ; their climate delicious ; their 
soil fruitful ; land and living cheap. 
Their fleet is a formidable one; the 
Biscayan mariners for boldness and 
skill are unsurpassed, tossed as they 



are from infancy in the cradle of their 
bay, where the wide-spreading Atlan- 
tic is for ever wroth that it can go no 
further. The bravery and discipline 
of their army is within our recollec- 
tion. That the energy of the race 
has not died out is proved by the war 
in Morocco, the speedy quelling of 
the revolution, the readiness of the 
nation to engage in war with such a 
power as ourselves, where the final 
issue could not be for a moment 
doubtful; but that much derided 
phrase " national honor " kept them 
true to themselves and their tradi- 
tions, and we were wise enough not 
to provoke a contest with a people 
ready to sell their lives so dear. Yet 
with all these advantages, their course 
to-day is a downward one, and will 
continue so until one of two govern- 
ments comes either a man like the 
First Napoleon or a Bismarck, who to 
the iron will of Prim shall add a 
genius which the latter neither pos- 
sessed nor pretended to possess ; 
strong enough to grind down if ne- 
cessary, but great enough to lift up. 
To such a man both Spain and France 
to-day present fields ripe with oppor- 
tunity. 

Or, for Spain at least, where there 
is still great faith and reverence for 
what is great and true, where happily 
materialism has not yet seized upon 
the hearts and the intellect of the 
people, a government that, instead of 
striking at the church which still is 
the church of the nation, and sapping 
the roots of Catholic, that is, of all 
morality, should call that church to 
its aid, and say to the people, " Your 
God shall be rny God " such a gov- 
ernment would have from the start 
the greatest ally it could hope for in 
a religious people. Let it tell the peo- 
ple boldly that it shall have liberty, 
but not license, that it shall march with 
the age, that its great possessions are 
gone, never to return; but that at 



Spain : what it Was and ivhat it Is. 



home it has resources that cannot 
fail, which only require the working to 
make them produce a hundredfold; 
a government which shall educate the 
children in religion, and from their in- 
fancy pour into their souls lessons of 
truth. Such a government might re- 
generate Spain. Such is partly the 
programme of Don Carlos. But he 
is the disciple of another school. 
Could he unlearn a little the doctrines 
of his school, Don Carlos holds the 
best chance to-day not only of occu- 
pying the throne, but of occupying 
the hearts and hopes of the nation. 

And here we close with a remark 
on the failure of revolutions to work 
their purpose. 

"The driving out of one unclean 
spirit to make room for seven more 
unclean," is the history of all move- 
ments that have ever upset a throne 
which tradition has set in the intellect 
of the people, which custom has 
rooted in the soil, which has literal- 
ly "grown with their growth and 
strengthened with their strength," and 
even declined with their decline or 
caused it, which is of them. It is a 
strange fact, but history bears it out. 
As we have shown, the Spaniards 
drove out their queen, and for a mo- 
ment held their destiny in their own 
hands. The French drove out the 
Emperor, and held their destiny in 
their hands. Is either country the 
better for their action? In great 
contrast to these stands out Germany, 
before the war composed of a number 
of independent or semi-independent 
peoples. They united and placed 
themselves under the yoke, and pre- 
sent to the world a combination so 
great, so powerful, so irresistible by 
any single state save Russia or our 
own, that the world was convulsed by 
it, and the face of Europe changed in 
a day. Whether it will last or not is 
foreign to our present purpose. Men 
should " count the costs " before they 



overturn any government. It is a 
hard thing to change a nation. Even 
though you present something better, 
you must combat rooted prejudice, 
immemorial tradition, every spon- 
taneous feeling that rises, before your 
idea can hold the popular mind. 
Look at the slow spread of Chris- 
tianity. People would not give up 
their gods of wood and stone. Our 
Lord cast out devils before their eyes. 
"It is by Beelzebub you cast them 
out," they cried. But the agents of 
revolution generally begin on the 
other side. They cast in devils. 
They uproot everything that is stable ; 
they undermine morality ; they teach 
men to scoff at everything; to obey 
no law. Man is free, and this world 
is his to do as he likes with. Who 
says no ? The priest ? The priest 
and the monarchy go hand-in-hand 
to bind free-born nations down in 
superstition and slavery. So they 
work, and, when their harvest is ripe, 
they reap their reward. They hack 
at everything right and left. But 
demons are powerful only to destroy, 
and they have raised those that they 
cannot lay, save by blood and iron, 
as Prim did, as Trochu and the rest 
were compelled to do. " And the last 
state of these nations is worse than 
the first." 

We were saved from a like fate be- 
cause the monarchy was never known 
here ; our constitution was not a new 
one, it was in the intelligence of the 
people from the first, and its exponent 
was George Washington. 

People with their own destiny 
thrust upon them can do nothing 
with it. Men have brooded for years 
under evil government, and when 
that falls a thousand quacks are ready, 
each with his panacea for the cure of 
the nation's woes, and one is as likely 
as another. As for the nation at 
large, it wants .to be governed. It 
cannot sit down and think, the matter 



Official Charity. 



407 



out, rejecting this and choosing that. 
The first that is ready, if it happens 
to be good, good ; if not, so much 
the worse. They have already 
knocked one government on the 
head; why should they stop at a 
second, or a third, or any number ? 
And so step in cruelty and oppres- 
sion on the one side, lawlessness in 
every form on the other. It is better 
to cure than to kill ; better to reform 
than to overthrow; and if we must 



overthrow, let us do it like men and 
not like fiends. If the joint is rotten 
ere you displace it, see' that you can 
replace it. The monarch is the key- 
stone of the constitution in lands 
where monarchy prevails. Remove 
that, and the whole fabric is shattered. 
You must build anew. You may build 
better ; at all events, time is lost; most 
likely you will build worse ; strength- 
en, reform the old beware how you 
destroy it. 



OFFICIAL CHARITY. 



FROM REVUE DU UONDB CATHOLIQUE. 



IN these times, all is laical that is 
to say, in accordance with modern 
language, everything is bound to 
bear the stamp of the state. No con- 
tract is possible without the interven- 
tion of the state ; no marriage exists 
without the ratification of the state ; 
no school can be opened without the 
sanction of the state. In short, the 
state puts its iron clasp on all that 
man possesses, even his personal lib- 
erty and right. Henceforth, then, in 
the name of those immortal princi- 
ples which consecrated the absolute 
and illimitable liberty of the human 
family, are abolished the most sacred 
rights of man liberty in the bosom 
of the family and individual rights. 
In the name of liberty, the state con- 
fiscates all ; it proclaims itself, without 
ceremony, the original author of all 
its laws. It is the god-state. 

It is astonishing that, following a 
parallel exaggeration, the state has 
come to proclaim itself alone capable 
of exercising charity, as it is alone 
capable of teaching it ! Logic ought 
to forcibly bring about this result. 
The state which adjudicates to itself 



the monopoly of direction, can it not 
also \adjudge to itself the monopoly 
of the charity ? 

Yes, charity has become a mono- 
poly of the state. What is it, then, 
other than official charity ? Give 
alms if so be, but do not forget to 
pass them through the hands of the 
state. It is it alone that can dis- 
tribute your generous gifts. Found 
hospitals if you will, but on the ex- 
press condition that you are to aban- 
don them to the hands of the state, 
who will administer them as masters. 
Such is in substance the idea of offi- 
cial charity, centralizing in the hands 
of the state, and administering 
through its functionaries, the benefits 
and alms given in a spirit of self-sac- 
rifice. 

Very well ! The church has 
never exercised a similar tyranny. 
She has crushed the heathenish pro- 
position of the Syllabus, ' 39. The 
state, from being the source of all 
good, enjoys a right which is not cir- 
cumscribed by any limits," and, 
always free from the errors which 
she points out, the church has never 



408 



Official Charity, 



imposed any act that even appeared 
as a simple pretext to accuse her 
of inconsistency. Though divinely 
commissioned to guide men, enlight- 
en and direct their intelligence, their 
will, and all their steps, the church 
has never believed it her right to say 
to her faithful : " Put your alms into 
my hands; I alone know how to 
properly distribute them." No ! as- 
siduous in stimulating charity, active 
in giving it birth, the church contents 
herself with encouraging the sacrifices 
that holy love inspires, and to show 
herself happy in having children 
who evince in so tender a manner 
the sentiment of Christian brother- 
hood. An exquisite sense reveals to 
her that charity delights in secret 
and mystery ; a marvellous delicacy 
teaches her that the poor and the 
unfortunate neither consent to pour 
out their griefs indiscriminately, nor 
to have their wants relieved by every 
hand. 

Thus, in reference to works of 
charity, the supremacy of the church 
consists in helping to accomplish 
that which the spontaneous piety of 
her faithful confides to her, and to 
exercise an exact surveillance over 
the faithful accomplishment of the 
charitable dispositions shown by her 
children who are numbered among 
the dead. Inviting, encouraging, 
thanking, and supervising such is the 
role of the church. If she welcomes 
with gratitude the faithful who se- 
lect their pastors to dispense their 
bounty or for a go-between in their 
good works, she does not impose it 
upon them as a duty to confide alms 
to the care of bishops or of priests. 
And all doctrine tending to create a 
similar obligation is rejected by 
canon law as tainted with an odious 
exaggeration. Now, then, we have 
a right to reject the pretensions of 
the state over charity. Under what 
title does it place itself between the 



man who gives the alms and he who 
receives it ? Is the sanctuary of 
charity less sacred than the domestic 
hearth ? And if the home is inviola- 
ble, should not the secrets of charity 
be equally so ? 

We protest against official charity 
with all the energy of indignation. 
We proclaim it as an injury alike to 
the rich who give and to the poor 
who receive. The demonstration 
does not appear difficult. 

Nevertheless, before undertak- 
ing it, we hope to interest our 
reader in placing before his eyes the 
sentiments of a judge whose views 
modern politicians do not ordi- 
narily challenge. Portalis, every one 
knows, elevated the rights and prero- 
gatives of the state high enough. 
" The state is nothing if it is not all," 
said he, one day, before the legislative 
body. Here is certainly a witness 
unsuspected of partiality for the theo- 
ry we are about to defend. Listen, 
then, to what he said himself to the 
proposition of official charity. 



Let it be remembered here, that 
one of the most constant preoccupa- 
tions of Napoleon I. was to central- 
ize everything into his own hands. 
The emperor wished to the letter to 
know all and to govern all. Not 
content with having created the for- 
midable monopoly of the universities, 
he had even dared to try his hand at 
flattery in pretending to treat reli- 
gious affairs as a simple department 
of his vast administration. Could it, 
then, be hoped that his ambition re- 
spected the liberty of charity ? Na- 
poleon, then, dreamed very seriously 
of controlling its exercise. Portalis 
hindered him. 

The good sense of this celebrated 
counsellor of the emperor refused on 
this occasion to consent to the ca- 



Official Charity. 



409 



prices of his master. Portalis- de- 
clared fearlessly that official charity 
was the product of a hollow, weak 
brain, altogether an Utopia of one's 
own creation to amuse the leisure 
hours of some philosopher seeking a 
distraction. 

" Certain men," wrote he to the 
emperor, "more jealous of their own 
attributes than of the public good, 
believe in finding abuses in all estab- 
lishments that are not of their own 
creation. They scorn the good in the 
hope of finding the better ; they im- 
agine that all is resolved by calcula- 
tion, and that, with two or three gen- 
eral maxims, they could reconstruct 
the world. With such ideas, states 
are disorganized. Such minds exhibit 
a greater power to destroy than an 
ability to construct. 

" It is said with truth that the 
laws would be nothing without mor- 
als. It is, then, in the morals that the 
power of the laws will be sustained, 
that is to say, it is necessary to study 
the direction of the minds of men ; 
that they should know the common 
affections of the human heart, and not 
govern by metaphysical abstractions 
and submit to cold calculation those 
things which cannot be other than 
the result of zeal, devotion, and of 
virtue." * This was adroitly caution- 
ing the emperor against the deleteri- 
ous influences of that sad philosophy 
which sought to control him. Ap- 
plying these principles to those hos- 
pitable communities that irreligious 
passions wished to banish, Portalis 
subjoined : 

" The associations with which are 
connected so many touching memo- 
ries were recommended to the con- 
siderate attention of your majesty by 
the gratitude of the people. Experi- 
ence speaks loudly in favor of the 



* Travaux sur le Concordat, etc., Rapport du 
4 3fars, 1807. 



imperial decrees which have author- 
ized these associations. It is not, 
then, to balance between the vain 
theories of an infatuated sophist and 
the real assistance that charity ad- 
ministers to suffering humanity."* 
" These miserable objections derive 
their source . . .in the vain the- 
ories of which experience has demon- 
strated the illusion." t It is, then, 
clear that official charity found no ad- 
vocate in Portalis. It presented to 
him the too evident imprints of a 
lying and anti- Christian philosophy. 
We will continue our citations. 



II. 



Portalis was convinced that reli- 
gion only couid induce charity. He 
believed that in this case religion only 
is capable of receiving and exe- 
cuting the mandates of charitable 
bequests. 

" Your majesty," wrote he again, 
" in your great wisdom has desired to 
leave the care of the poor under the 
guard of religion. She has under- 
taken the service that is accompanied 
with so many sacrifices and discour- 
agements, which could not be guar- 
anteed but by the most elevated and 
the most generous sentiments. She 
has dispersed the false systems of men 
who would wish to enjoy the benefits 
of the great work we see in operation 
under our eyes, in draining with as 
much imprudence as ingratitude the 
source from which they are furnish- 
ed."! 

The experience he had besides 
superabundantly apprised him of 
what reason made him sensible. He 
had seen the works of the state and 
that of the religious bodies. Doubt, 
then, was no longer possible. It be- 
came manifest to him that, generally 
speaking, charity could only be duly 



* Ibid. 



t Ibid. 



+ IMd. 



Official Charity. 



administered through consecrated 
liands. Listen to his grave remarks : 

" His majesty, in his travels, has 
convinced himself that all the hos- 
pitals confided to simple civil ad- 
ministration languish ; that the poor 
there are often treated with negli- 
gence, and even with cruelty, by mer- 
cenary agents. In consequence of 
.this, he has directed me to send the 
Sisters of Charity to all the depart- 
ments beyond the Alps, and in all 
other places where they have not 
been." * 

Is it properly to Napoleon that the 
honor of such an initiative reverts ? 
Was it not Portalis who inspired him ? 
He sent very few. It is always the im- 
perial counsellor giving, under his re- 
port, absolutely all the confidence 
to the clergy and to the church. 

" It is constantly urged that the 
ecclesiastics and the bishops have ap- 
propriated to their own benefit; but 
are laic functionaries impeccable ? 
Men, wherever they may be, commit 
abuses because they are men ; but it 
is clear that there will be less abuse in 
all things when each kind of admin- 
istration shall be left to men who 
by their office and their position have 
the largest means and the greatest in- 
terests for right administration." t 

" It is argued that the needs of the 
poor are sufficiently guaranteed by 
the civil administrators of the hospi- 
tals. I am not only surprised, but 
also grieved at this assertion. They 
overlook, then, all the great good for 
which humanity is indebted to the 
Sisters of Charity, to the hospital 
nurses, and also to many societies of 
estimable women who, by their ten- 
der piety, have consecrated them- 
selves to the service of the poor. The 
public administrators are forced to 
depend upon the care of agents, to 



* Rapport sur hs Fabriquts tf ' Eglise^ Jttil- 
let, 1806. 
t Ibid. 



those mercenaries whose frauds are 
beyond scrutiny, and who possess no 
virtues. The spirit of charity can- 
not be supplied by the spirit of ad- 
ministration. Other management 
must disburse the revenues, other 
means must console or help the sick. 
. . . . One must be possessed of 
very little philosophy to believe that 
the cold solicitude of an administrator 
can replace the generous care of ar- 
dent charity. . . . The service of 
the poor, as they are attended to in the 
hospitals and outside of them by reli- 
gious associations, is not a simple ad- 
ministration or the effect of a simple 
management. It requires a continual 
succession of night-watching, priva- 
tion, danger, nausea, painful and 
disinterested fatigue. This service 
demands a great abnegation of self, 
which could not be sustained save by 
motives superior to all human con- 
siderations. In an association, forces 
are combined to multiply resources ; 
they encourage each other by exam- 
ple, and are enlightened by counsel ; 
they are directed by rules which call 
them to duty and guarantee its ob- 
servance. They receive novices 
whose health, character, and disposi- 
tion are tested, and to whom they 
transmit with the knowledge of the 
subject the daily lessons of experi- 
ence. All these means of recruiting 
and encouraging, of direction and 
perpetuity, are wanting when the 
service of the poor rests upoa pass- 
ing administrations, or with salaried 
agents who can be arbitrarily replaced 
at any moment by others. To achieve 
a permanent good we must have 
permanent institutions." * 

This is certainly a complete and 
beautiful explanation of religious as- 
sociations. The experience of more 
than half a century has not lessen- 
ed the value of these reflections of 

* Rapport du 24 Mars, 1807. 



Official Charity. 



411 



Portalis; on the contrary, it would 
be easy to enumerate the frauds, the 
misrepresentations, and the wasteful- 
ness which too often occur in admin- 
istering to the wants of the poor, but 
we forbear the recital of the afflicting 
details. Portalis had but too much 
reason to condemn. 

in. 

In another point of view, Portalis 
reproved official charity. It seemed 
to him irreconcilable with the rights 
of donors to the poor, who wish to 
feel free in the distribution of their 
alms, and also with the rights of the 
poor, who do not consent at first sight 
to make acknowledgment of their 
misery. 

" This would be," said he, " destroy- 
ing the character of charitable com- 
missions, and perhaps even destroy- 
ing their usefulness, in transforming 
them into exclusive institutions. Be- 
nevolence breathes as it wishes and 
where it wishes. If you do not let 
it respire freely, it stifles or be- 
comes weakened in the midst of 
those who are disposed to its ex- 
ercise. I argue that it would show a 
false estimate of the interests of the 
poor to isolate them in any way from 
the religious souls who would protect 
and assist them. Such people desire 
to place their alms in a religious or- 
ganization, which will not dispose of 
them in any other establishment. 
Far from prescribing limits and impru- 
dent conditions to benevolence, I 
would, on the contrary, open all 
avenues that benevolence might 
select for itself, and through which it 
shall choose to extend itself." * 

" The administration of alms is not 
and cannot be the exclusive privi- 
lege of any establishment whatever. 
Alms are free and voluntary gifts. He 



who gives can do no more. He is the 
one to charge the dispenser of his 
own liberality. The man who is able 
to give alms, and has shown his 
willingness to do so, can ask himself 
the simple question, To whom be- 
longs their administration ? To him 
or to them whom the donor will have 
charged to make the distribution? 
There is not and there cannot be 
any other rule in a similar matter. 
To do away with this rule would 
be to dry up the source of the chari- 
ty- 

" How is it possible to think that 
religious organizations should be ex- 
cluded from the right of administer- 
ing the alms which they receive ? 
Under such a system, they might as 
well assert that they are not allowed 
to receive alms, that is to say, they 
would have to destroy the natural 
liberty of those men who lay aside a 
portion of their income to devote to 
charity, from charging the agents of 
their own alms and their liberality." * 

As for the poor themselves, Por- 
talis thought, with reason, that 
many among them refused to receive 
assistance from any administration 
whatever, and this is why he wished 
that a portion of the accumulated 
alms might be left to the disposition 
of the curates of the parishes : 

" Because these alms could be pro- 
fitably disposed of to those poor who 
from circumstances and misfortunes 
have met with reverses and change 
of position, and who, not wishing to 
acknowledge their misery to the ad- 
ministrators of benevolent institutions, 
their equals and sometimes their 
enemies or rivals, go to seek from 
their pastors the consolations that sus- 
tain their courage, and obtain assist- 
ance that does not humiliate them. 
It is to this interesting use that the 
alms are generally consecrated by 



* Rapport du 16 Avrif, 1806. 



* Ibid. 



412 



Official Charity. 



the religious organizations and the 
priests." * Thus Portalis reasoned 
that, even for the interests of the poor, 
official charity should be energetically 
repulsed. 

IV. 

Meanwhile, if the objection should 
arise that, after all, these are but 
opinions, and that simple opinions 
are not sufficient always to impede 
the action of the state in what it be- 
lieves to be its rights, Portalis meets 
this objection, and in a decided tone 
he asserts clearly that the state en- 
joys no right over the exercise of 
charity. Here are his own words, 
which we recommend to the minds 
of modern statesmen : 

" The principal office of authority 
is to dispose of to advantage the 
gifts that are offered to it, to cause 
them to prosper in protecting them. 
It rarely originates them. We 
have not yet replaced among a mul- 
titude of reforms the institutions that 
have been overturned. Experience 
brings us back every day to the prin- 
ciples that we have too easily aban- 
doned." t 

" This would be but imperfectly to 
understand the human heart, and 
hinder its free respiration in the 
.things that law can protect indeed, 
but which sentiment alone com- 
mands. The office of a magistrate 
is to watch over the essential duties 
of a citizen, but, in works of superero- 
gation, he must allow great latitude 
to a liberal arbitration." t 

A remarkable avowal, above all, 
from a lawyer of the temper of Por- 
talis, who willingly elevated into a 
dogma the omnipotence of the state. 
He has, however, said : " No, the om- 
nipotence of the state does not go 
so far as that ; and that for the very 

* Rapport du 16 Avril, 18o6. 
t Ibid. RaJ>port du 24, Fructidor an XIII., xi 
Sept., 1803. 



simple reason that the state could 
exact from its citizens only the ob- 
servance of precepts imposed by the 
natural and divine laws. It can never 
compel them to submit to obligations 
that nature has never created." 

Is it to say that we refuse to the 
state the right of showing itself be- 
nevolent and charitable? God for- 
bid ! If the state would practise 
boundless liberality, we would bless it. 
If it would be the protector of all 
the works destined for the relief of 
unfortunate humanity, we would exalt 
it with transport. But never to make 
this protection a monopoly, other- 
wise the benefaction would change 
to tyranny. 

Listen to M. Charles Perin, who 
has treated with as much depth as 
sincerity the difficult problems of po- 
litical economy : 

" The action of the state in giving 
assistance will not be free from dan- 
ger, inasmuch as it would have a 
purely preventive character. . . . That 
the state intervenes to assure by its 
civil existence the duration of those 
institutions founded by the free 
inspirations of private charity; that 
it assures itself that the conditions of 
the foundations for which it calls its 
meetings contain nothing which re- 
pudiates the rules of public order; 
that it exercises over the administra- 
tions of those foundations a watchful- 
ness that prevents abuses and which 
secures the observation of the essen- 
tial rules of the institution, without 
annulling the free action of those 
who have received the mission of 
donators to represent them among 
the poor, and continue the work of 
charity which has inspired them 
under these conditions, the interven- 
tion of the state will become a bene- 
fit, because then she does no more 
than aid liberty." * 

* De la Richesse dans tes SociMs chrdtienne, t. 
i. p. 498. 



The ChurcJi and the Press. 



413 



Here is also the doctrine of the 
great Bishop of Arras, Mgr. Parisis : 

" That which governments can 
and ought to do to aid charity is not 
to disfigure, to dry up, and to destroy 
it in making it entirely legal, but to 
reanimate it by all possible means in 
maintaining it Christian, in preserving 
the sentiment, and everywhere en- 
couraging efforts in its regard, to 
make not rulers, but auxiliaries, not 
oppressors, but friends." * 

Admirable formula that the politi- 

*La Democratie cievant f ' Enseignemcnt catho- 
lijue, p. 107. 



cians of the present day should study 
a little more ! 

We have placed before the reader 
the sentiments and doctrines of Por- 
talis touching official charity. We 
do not think that we could give 
higher authority. We have found in 
the alleged proofs good and solid 
reasoning. We record a true demon- 
stration. 

We have been reluctant heretofore 
to discharge this great duty. Why 
we take up the subject at this late 
period is to expose the vices and the 
dangers of official charity. 



THE CHURCH AND THE PRESS. 



THE following item of news is clip- 
ped from a recent number of a lead- 
ing New York publication : 

" The proposition is under discussion 
to establish in this city a new anti-Catho- 
lic paper, partly devoted to opposing the 
religious tenets of the Romanists, but still 
more their supposed attempts to secure 
political control in the country. It will 
support the ultra-Protestant position of 
the Bible in the public schools, and will 
be backed, it is expected, by a large sub- 
scription among the three or four secret 
anti Roman Catholic societies that exist 
in this country." 

We do not know what truth there 
may be in this report. It is intrinsi- 
cally probable that the establishment 
of an " anti-Romanist " periodical 
is in contemplation, because there is 
always a large politico-religious party 
in the United States whose chief 
principle is bitterness against the 
Catholic Church, and there are cer- 
tain reasons why such a party just 
now should be especially active. The 
Catholic element in our population is 
rapidly increasing, and many circum- 
stances have recently combined to 



bring its numerical strength into prom- 
inence. A moderate estimate makes 
it not less than six or seven millions. 
The published returns of the census 
of 1870 have not thus far furnished 
any statistics of religious belief, but 
they give some facts from which we 
can get at least an idea of the rate at 
which the church in America is grow- 
ing. There were, for example, in 
1870, no fewer than 1,855,779 per- 
sons of Irish birth in the United 
States, and of these the preponder- 
ance of Catholics over Protestants 
was so large that the Protestant ele- 
ment may as well be disregarded. 
In Ireland, the ratio of Catholics to 
Protestants is at least as high as four 
to one, and here the proportion is 
still greater, because emigration is 
largely from the Catholic counties; 
probably the whole number of Irish- 
born Protestants in the United States 
does not equal 200,000. The Ger- 
man-born population, according to the 
same census, is 1,690,533. In Ger- 
many, about three-fifths of the in- 
habitants are Catholics, but emigra- 



The Church and the Press. 



tion takes place rather more from the 
Protestant than from the Catholic 
districts, so that competent judges 
estimate that the Catholic Germans 
in this country are only two-fifths of 
the entire number. That would give 
us, for Catholics of German birth, 
676,213. Then there are 193,504 
natives of other Catholic countries, 
including 116,402 Frenchmen, but 
not counting Swiss, Poles, Canadians, 
and others of whose religious belief 
we have no means of making an esti- 
mate. A great many of the French 
and Italian immigrants are either 
Protestants or people of no religious 
profession at all ; and, upon the 
whole, we prefer to leave out of con- 
sideration these 193,000 settlers of 
the Latin race, balancing with them 
the Protestant Irish. Now, the cen- 
sus shows that for every foreigner in 
the country there are two native-born 
inhabitants of foreign parentage. 
According to this rule, we ought to 
have 3,711,558 descendants in the 
first generation of Irish immigrants, 
and 1,352,426 descendants of Ger- 
mans. Supposing, therefore, that the 
children are brought up in the faith 
of their parents, there ought to be 
the following numbers of foreign- 
born Catholics and Catholics born in 
this country of foreign fathers and 
mothers : 

Irish birth 1,855,779 

Irish parentage 3,711,558 

Total Irish 5-567,337 

German birth 676,2 13 

German parentage 1,352,426 

Total German 2,028,639 

Grand total 7,595,976 

This, of course, is too high an es- 
timate. Unfortunately, a great many 
of the descendants of Catholic immi- 
grants are not brought up in the 
faith. Protestant associations, mixed 
marriages, the want of priests and 
churches in a large part of our ter- 
ritory, the general deficiency of 



schools, the influence of an overpow- 
ering Protestant tone in society, poli- 
tics, and literature, and the inade- 
quacy of the Catholic press thus far 
to meet the intellectual needs of the 
day, have robbed us of many of the 
descendants of the Catholic settlers 
how many it is impossible to say. 
On the other hand, it must be re- 
membered that the figures we have 
given refer only to immigrants and a 
single generation of their descend- 
ants. Irish and German Catholics, 
however, have been pouring into the 
country ever since the Revolution, 
and their descendants in the second, 
third, and later generations must be 
counted by hundreds of thousands. 
Then we have the offspring of the 
original Catholic settlers of Maryland 
and of the French posts along the 
Mississippi Valley from the Lakes to 
the Gulf of Mexico, and the Spanish 
Catholics along the Pacific coast ; 
and, finally, we have thousands of 
converts, whose number is increasing 
in a constantly growing ratio. All 
these elements must far outweigh the 
loss by neglect and perversion. 

Then, the movement to extend 
Catholicism among the colored peo- 
ple of the South has occasioned no 
little alarm in the Protestant sects. 
It was thoroughly discussed at the 
General Council of Baltimore six 
years ago, and especially attracted, 
as our readers know, the Christian 
zeal of the late Archbishop Spald- 
ing. The English Church has come 
to our aid by sending us missionaries 
for this special work, and there is 
every reason to believe that in this 
long-neglected field, now open to us 
by the abolition of slavery, we shall 
reap an abundant harvest. Every- 
body perceives that for a long time 
to come, if not permanently, the col- 
ored people will hold a prepon- 
derance of power in several of the 
Southern States. As they advance in 



The Church and the Press. 



415 



education and material welfare, their 
influence will enormously increase. 
In many districts, they are evidently 
destined to be the ruling race, for 
they are improving in culture, and 
can no longer be overlooked by 
the social or religious philosopher. 
Whether they shall be Catholic or 
Protestant is a momentous question, 
not only to their own souls, but to 
the country. 

But not only is the formidable 
number of the Catholics of the Unit- 
ed States a subject of increasing anx- 
iety to the sects, their attitude to- 
wards political parties presents some 
new and perplexing problems. Here- 
tofore they have exerted no special 
influence as Catholics upon political 
affairs. As a general rule, at least in 
large cities, an immense majority of 
them have adhered to the Demo- 
cratic organization, but without giv- 
ing the slightest Catholic tendency 
to Democratic principles and objects. 
They have been swallowed up and 
lost in the party rather than incor- 
porated with it ; they have given it 
votes, and got little or nothing in re- 
turn. Why this has been so we 
need not now inquire ; for it has 
become evident that a general recon- 
struction of parties is close at hand. 

The next Presidential election will 
not be so much a contest of princi- 
ples as a trial of strength between the 
personal adherents of the rival nomi- 
nees; and before the end of another 
four years we may expect on both 
sides a new declaration of political 
faith, a new setting up of standards, 
a new mustering of opposing camps, 
so that the fight hereafter shall be 
not for a candidate, but a cause. 
Republicans and democrats alike are 
looking for a new departure, and we 
cannot help being interested in what 
the new symbols of party orthodoxy 
are to be. 

Of course, as a religious body our 



duty is now, as it always has been, to 
keep aloof from partisanship. We 
have observed this duty religiously 
in the past; we shall observe it no 
less strictly hereafter. But Protest- 
ants do not comprehend our position 
in the matter, and they are watching 
eagerly for indications of the new alli- 
ance which they take it for granted 
we must contemplate. More than 
this, certain sections of them are act- 
ing upon the assumption that we 
must naturally rank ourselves as their 
political enemies, and are striving to 
give a distinctly anti-Catholic tenden- 
cy to state and national legislation. 
What are we to do if they succeed ? 
What must be our attitude if the 
school question, for example, become 
a leading topic in state politics, or if 
the broad question of national edu- 
cation be incorporated with the dog- 
mas of the coming political parties ? 
Leaders on the Republican side have 
already been trying the temper of the 
people on this point, and it is not at all 
impossible that organizations may be 
made so uncompromisingly hostile to 
us that we shall have to raise our 
own standard and define our lines. 
Protestants see all this more clearly 
than Catholics, and hence the in- 
stinctive gathering together of the 
sects, the renewed bitterness of some 
of their leading journals, such as the 
New York Times and Harper's 
Weekly, the attempt to exclude our 
charities from the state aid to which 
they are fairly entitled, the attacks 
upon our schools, and the plans for 
an anti-Catholic crusade by the es- 
tablishment of no-Popery organs. A 
paper of the class indicated in the ex- 
tract at the head of this article would 
not, indeed, be a formidable enemy. 
The people at least have no ftiste for 
the violent, old-fashioned style of con- 
troversy ; but, as one indication 
among many of the drift of Protest- 
ant sentiment, the establishment of a 



416 



The Church and the Press. 



professedly and distinctively anti- 
Catholic paper as a political engine 
would be significant. 

If evil times are coming, how are 
we prepared to meet them ? If our 
schools are to be attacked, our asy- 
lums and hospitals starved out, our 
children led away from the church 
and the parish school by the strong 
arm of the government, our young 
men and young women corrupted by 
hostile literature, the newspapers 
given up to falsehood and misrepre- 
sentation about our faith and prac- 
tices, we who are seven millions strong 
are surely not to sit idle and strike 
no blow in our own defence. The 
pulpit cannot be our only guardian. 
Before the altar we listen to instruc- 
tion in our religious duties, we learn 
of the mysteries of our creed, we are 
roused to penitence, to charity, to the 
love of God and man ; we do not 
look there for guidance in our duty 
as citizens, or for the answer to the 
slanders of our enemies. Our priests 
have a more sacred function to per- 
form; there is still a work which, 
from the nature of the case, they 
cannot do. The Catholic cause 
must be upheld not only in the sha- 
dow of the sanctuary, but in the very 
midst of the hostile camp. The most 
eloquent sermon cannot reach a man 
who will not go to church. The 
most complete refutation of a slander 
will do no good if the slanderer and 
those who believe in him never hear 
the answer. But newspapers go 
everywhere. Their readers are not 
confined to any one sect or any one 
party ; and when disputes arise which 
affect the relations of Catholics to the 
secular government and to their 
Protestant brethren, the heaviest of 
the fighting must always be done by 
the daily, weekly, and monthly press. 

In an article published over a year 
ago, we touched upon this subject in 
connection with the duty of American 



Catholics towards Catholic literature. 
Our remarks were generally approv- 
ed, we believe, but they called forth 
some little criticism of an unfavorable 
character which, upon the whole, we 
were not sorry to see. It is an en- 
couraging sign of development when 
the religious press shows vitality 
enough to discuss something else 
than the commonplaces of contro- 
versy which have formed the staple 
of Catholic and Protestant polemics 
for generations. It is high time for 
us to apply to our own publications 
a little of that free examination which 
we have bestowed upon others, and 
to let argument among Catholic 
writers be something more than the 
foolish wrangling of ambitious rivals. 
In the article to which we have al- 
luded, we said that few of the Catho- 
lic papers had a circulation of more 
than 10,000; and some people found 
fault with us for that. We wish we 
could give them 25,000 or 50,000 
apiece ; but it will not mend matters 
to say that all Catholic papers are 
powerful organs of public opinion, 
when we know that they are nothing 
of the sort. Most of them are doing 
excellent service within their own 
sphere ; but why affect to deny that 
their sphere is a narrow one and 
their means are small ? We have 
tried to impress upon the Catholic 
public the duty of supporting the 
Catholic press to the utmost of their 
ability. We have shown that where 
Protestants attack us in a million 
printed sheets, we give a feeble an- 
swer in perhaps ten thousand. We 
number 8,000,000 souls, yet our news- 
papers with very few exceptions lan- 
guish for want of readers, and our 
colleges are not creating a literary 
class among the laity. This is one 
side of the picture, but there is an- 
other. If the public is doing little 
for the papers, are the papers doing 
much more for the public ? We dare 



The Church and the Press. 



417 



say they are doing what they can ; 
but how much is that ? What Cath- 
olic journal have we capable of meet- 
ing Harpers Weekly, for instance 
we do not mean in argument, but in 
influence ? As we write, the current 
number of that periodical is laid upon 
our table. It contains a long article 
on " Romish Cruelty," telling how in 
a Pennsylvania town "the Roman 
Catholics formed a plot to murder " a 
school-teacher. "The priest aided 
in encouraging the dangerous spirit of 
the people, and the assassins seem to 
have been urged on to their dreadful 
deed by the open countenance of the 
Romish Church." The writer comes 
to the conclusion that " no OHC'S life 
is any longer safe who ventures to 
doubt the divinity of Mary or the 
supreme prerogatives of the Pope." 
This is only a sample of many simi- 
lar slanders which the unprincipled 
publishing firm of the Harpers are 
spreading all over the country. What ' 
are we doing to counteract them ? 
Surely, we cannot afford to let them 
go unanswered, and we leave it to 
any Catholic to say whether there is 
a single publication of our creed 
in the United States which we can 
depend upon for a prompt and 
thorough reply to such falsehoods, in 
such form and manner as to convince 
not merely the Catholic, but the 
Protestant public. We must confront 
our assailants on their own ground. 
If they tell us that a priest and his 
parishioners in an obscure Pennsyl- 
vania town have conspired to murder 
Protestant school-teachers, we must 
be able to show, and to show at 
once, that the incidents never occur- 
red, or that the interpretation placed 
upon them is unwarranted. We 
ought to have our sources of informa- 
tion as well as our enemies. We 
need our news-gatherers and investi- 
gators, who shall answer falsehood 
not with indignant invective, but with 

VOL. XV. 27 



fact. This is not the work for a 
monthly magazine, but for a much 
prompter sort of publication. Long 
before the true story of such an affair 
could be told in THE CATHOLIC 
WORLD, it would have been succeed- 
ed by a new slander. The poison 
would have run through the public 
veins, and it would be too late for the 
antidote to overtake it. Newspapers 
ought to do this work, and we sup- 
pose they would do it if they had the 
money; but investigations are ex- 
pensive, and when the force of a 
Catholic organ consists of nobody 
but the editor, who writes all the 
fourth page, and the assistant, who 
makes up the rest of the forms with 
a paste-pot and a pair of shears, 
there is of course no reporter who 
can be sent away on excursions. 
The New York Times, which has 
long rivalled Harpers Weekly in 
bigotry and anti-Catholic malice, al- 
lows a correspondent to take up 
this story, repeat it as a well-ascer- 
tained truth, and enforce the lesson 
that " a faithful son of the Romish 
Church cannot be a law-abiding citi- 
zen of this free Republic." We dare 
say scores of Union newspapers will 
follow the example of the Times ; 
and, meanwhile, if a few weekly 
Catholic papers succeed in getting at 
the truth of the incident, we may de- 
pend upon it their refutation of the 
falsehood will never reach Protestant 
ears. It is time for us to understand 
that calumny cannot be conquered 
by such means as we now employ, 
and that practically our enemies are 
having everything their own way. 

Catholic questions of the most 
momentous character are now agitat- 
ing the whole continent of Europe. 
Germany is shaken by the problems 
of education ; Italy, by the contest 
between the rights of the Vicar of 
Christ and the usurpations of the 
godless Sardinian monarchy. The 



4i8 



The Church and the Press. 



Dollinger party are encouraged by 
some of the secular powers to at- 
tempt a new heresy. France and 
Spain are both vexed by infidel and 
persecuting political factions. Eng- 
land even and Ireland have their Cath- 
olic difficulties arising out of the rela- 
tions between the state and the 
schools. All the intelligence which 
reaches us on these important topics 
comes from the worst sources. The ca- 
ble reporters who collect European 
news for transmission through the tel- 
egraph are usually not well informed 
on Catholic subjects, and not always 
honest. When they touch upon 
religious matters, they are habitually, 
even though not intentionally, un- 
truthful. The impression conveyed 
by their meagre and blundering dis- 
patches is almost always the direct 
reverse of the right one, and the press 
telegrams from Rome especially are 
marvels of ingenious and bold falsi- 
.fication. All the European dispatch- 
es printed in American newspapers 
are sent from London. They are 
dated at various cities on the Conti- 
nent, but they all come from one cen- 
tral office in the English metropolis, 
and they are obtained there from a 
Jewish news-agency which has rela- 
tions with the Continental press. 
Thus, they really give merely the 
statements of a few French, Italian, 
Spanish, and German journalists, 
and these are almost invariably jour- 
nalists of the anti-Catholic party. 
In Italy, the mendacity of the anti- 
Papal press is almost beyond belief; 
and probably there is no class of 
persons anywhere so utterly unscru- 
pulous, so wedded to lying, as the 
radicals of Italy when they speak of 
the Pope or the Papal Government. 
The German Liberal and Protestant 
press is only a little better. It has 
magnified and misrepresented the 
Dollinger movement, and distorted, 
in the grossest manner, the story of 



the school question in Prussia. Else- 
where, on the Continent, the difficulty 
is the same. A vigorous press is con- 
stantly battling against us, and it is 
from this press and this press alone 
that we get our European news. 
The mail correspondence of Ameri- 
can secular newspapers is colored by 
the same influences which deform 
the telegraphic summaries. The lie 
which is insinuated to-day by a cable 
dispatch will be rubbed in by a 
letter in due course of the post. 
Here, again, our enemies have things 
all their own way. The best of our 
weekly papers, indeed, do something 
to correct the falsehoods of the daily 
journals, but the great difficulty still 
remains ; they cannot reach the gen- 
eral public. Fisher Ames said that 
" a lie will travel from Maine to 
Georgia while the truth is putting on 
its boots." But, if the lie has the 
advantage of a daily newspaper 
v and a telegraph under the Atlantic 
Ocean, whilst the truth must trust to 
steamships, and post-offices, and a 
small weekly paper or a monthly 
magazine, what hope is there that 
the lie can ever be overtaken ? 

Secular literature is almost entirely 
in Protestant hands, and in a thou- 
sand unsuspected ways it is infusing 
into our intellectual system the poison 
of indifferentism, or infidelity, or mis- 
called liberalism, and teaching our 
young people to divide themselves 
between two incompatible lives an 
active Protestant life, which absorbs 
all their busy and productive hours, 
and a sluggish Catholic life, which is 
confined to Sunday mornings and a 
few great festivals. What is the 
Catholic press doing to correct these 
literary influences ? What is it doing 
to cultivate the art of criticism ? If 
we want to know the characters or 
the literary merits of a new book, 
shall we turn to the journals of our 
own faith, or to the Tribune and the 



The Cliurch and the Press. 



419 



World? Our periodicals (with a few 
honorable exceptions) rarely give 
any notice at all to the productions of 
secular book-houses, while magazines 
and books bearing the imprint of a 
Catholic publisher are generally re- 
viewed in some such style as the fol- 
lowing : 



" This sterling periodical has now 
reached its eleven thousandth number, 
and has improved with every issue since 
it was started. The present number 
alone is worth a year's subscription. No 
Catholic family can afford to be without 
it. Price 25 cents. 

"The enterprising publishers, Messrs. 
Jones & Robinson, have just got out in 
the elegant style for which they are cele- 
brated a new edition of Barney 0' Took : a 
Tale of '98. This is a work of great 
learning, and no Catholic library is com- 
plete without it. We are deeply indebted 
to the liberal publishers for sending us a 
copy. It is elegantly gotten up. For 
sale, in this city, by Michael Smith. 
Price 50 cents." 



This sort of journalism is worse 
than a waste of ink and paper. It is 
a direct injury to the cause it is in- 
tended to serve. There is no reason 
why a book that is badly printed and 
shabbily bound should be described 
as " elegantly gotten up " ; nor why 
every number of a magazine should 
be called the best ever printed ; nor 
why everything published at a Ca- 
tholic house should be declared es- 
sential to the spiritual welfare of 
every Catholic family. But there is 
a reason why Catholic journalists 
should tell the plain truth, and some- 
times the whole truth, if they expect 



to obtain influence in an intelligent 
community. 

The time has come when a vig- 
orous, enterprising, well-conducted 
press is essential to every community 
in the United States. No man in 
this country can do without his news- 
paper. He must keep abreast of the 
age ; he must know what happens in 
politics, finance, trade, literature, art, 
and society, and he must know it 
promptly; otherwise the current of 
the world flows past him, and he is 
left idly floating in the pools by the 
shore. We cannot afford to ignore this 
imperative want; it is a necessity 
created by conditions of society far be- 
yond our control ; and it is by no means 
a necessity which we ought to regret. 
Our task should be not to oppose this 
demand for newspapers, but to satisfy 
it more thoroughly than it has ever 
been satisfied yet. We are numerous 
and rich enough to create a Catholic 
periodical literature which shall be the 
glory of America, and, next to the 
church and school, the noblest de- 
fence of Catholic principles. We are 
numerous and rich enough to make 
newspapers which shall meet every 
demand of the most active and in- 
telligent and best educated citizen ; 
which shall give our own people the 
most palatable as well as the most 
nourishing intellectual food, and en- 
force from our adversaries a respect 
which is not now paid us. In the 
providence of God, we believe such a 
press will some day be built up in 
America, and then we shall wonder 
how we lived and kept our faith so 
long without it. 



420 



New Publications. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



THE HOUSE OF YORKE. By M. A. T. 
i vol. 8vo, pp. 261. New York : The 
Catholic Publication Society. 1872. 
A thoroughly good American no- 
vel was, we suppose, a literar)"- event 
which was looked for by nobody 
who had much knowledge of what 
had been done in that direction, or 
who had thought much about the 
causes which produce the painful 
thinness of most of our native lite- 
rature. It is true enough, as Dr. 
Holmes says, that Protestantism in 
its last analysis means " none of 
your business," and what it means 
ut the root it means more or less in 
every branch and stem, every leaf 
and flower. And in America espe- 
cially, which has, so to say, no his- 
tory and no traditions, and whose 
vast material resources tempt its 
children to believe that the world 
has been started afresh for them on 
a different basis from that which un- 
derlies older civilizations, one of 
the most patent and most unplea- 
sant results of the theories on which 
the new civilization was founded 
has been the barrenness, the hope- 
less mediocrity, of the literature 
which it has produced. How was 
it possible that a people who, as 
a people, recognized no absolute 
authority in any matter whatso- 
ever, even in those of funda- 
mental importance, and who had 
engrained in their minds the convic- 
tion that everybody's opinion, es- 
pecially in matters of taste and of 
religion, was as likely to be true as 
his neighbor's, should produce a 
characteristic and thrifty national 
art and literature ? Lawlessness, a 
lack of respect for authority, and, 
in most instances, a provincial igno- 
rance that in these matters there 
was any recognized authority, were 
what made the weakness of our ef- 
forts in this direction. There were 
a few writers and a few works of ac- 
knowledged abilitv. In fiction we 



have had Cooper, and we had also 
an Uncle Toms Cabin, but that the 
latter owed much of its success to 
the local evil with which it dealt 
was evidenced by the inferior merit 
of the works from the same hand 
which preceded and which followed 
it. In the limits of a book-notice it 
is, of course, not possible to do 
more than to intimate a conviction 
that literature and art, like civiliza- 
tion and public morality, rest se- 
curely only when they are built 
upon Catholic truth. Here in Ame- 
rica there was ample room and op- 
portunity to prove the opposite pro- 
position if it could be proved, and 
to show that on a foundation of cri- 
ticism and negation a strong and 
sightly structure could be reared. 
There was no lack of ability in our 
writers, and there was occasional 
genius ; but, when what they did 
was not an evident imitation of 
some foreign model, it generally 
showed incompleteness, a lack of 
definite conceptions, and an unplea- 
sant awkwardness and indecision 
of purpose. We are speaking now 
only of what is known as light lite- 
rature essay-writing, fiction, and 
poetry. 

To find, therefore, a distinctively 
American novel which one can ho- 
nestly praise as a work of art, is 
something at which one may be le- 
gitimately surprised as well as 
pleased ; and that we have, at last, 
in The House of Yorke, such a novel, 
is what nobody who has read it at- 
tentively will be at all likely to de- 
ny. The true story intertwined 
with the fictitious one is, as it 
should be in a work of fiction, so 
skilfully subordinated to the main 
current of the novel that it in no 
way mars the catholicity which is 
the first element in all genuine art. 
Pettiness and provinciality are the 
two rocks on which novels " found- 
ed on fact " are most apt to strike ; 



New Publications. 



particular facts get such a promi- 
nence in them that the larger truth 
which art demands is lost sight of. 
Our author shows, however, a tho- 
rough mastery of her materials and 
an accurate perception of what are 
the proper means to an end. She 
shows, too, an unusual degree of irf- 
sight into character and a trained 
skill in delineating it. All her per- 
sonages live : not one of them is an 
imitation of some other novelist's 
creation. Their individuality is pre- 
served, too, without recourse to 
tricks of speech and gesture they 
are always themselves, because in 
the mind of their creator there ex- 
isted a clear and definite image of 
each of them. That she has studied 
herself and other people very close- 
ly is evident as well when she 
brings her characters into action as 
when she analyzes their motives. 
The book is full of bits of delicate 
insight, as, for instance, where she 
says of the impetuous Dick Rowan 
that " his soul had, indeed, always 
been more tranquil than his man- 
ner." The whole of this character, 
though, and especially the story of 
his vocation, may well enough be 
given as an instance. 

She knows, too, how to be drama- 
tic without becoming sensational, 
and how to be thoroughly delicate 
and reserved and yet make an inte- 
resting love story. Her style is 
easy and unembarrassed, and always 
level with the occasion, whether in 
dialogue, description, or moralizing, 
and her book is one to be as well 
liked by the ordinary novel-reader, 
purely for the interest of the story, 
as by those who are more attracted 
by its lofty purpose and by the skill 
with which that purpose is carried 
out. 

DISCUSSIONS AND ARGUMENTS ON VARI- 
OUS SUBJECTS. By John Henry New- 
man, sometime Fellow of Oriel Col- 
lege. London : Basil Montagu Pick- 
ering, 196 Piccadilly. 1872. (New 
York : Sold by The Catholic Publica- 
tion Society.) 

This is another volume of the uni- 



form series of Dr. Newman's works. 
It contains an essay on the manner 
of catholicizing the Church of Eng- 
land, one on Anti-Christ, one on 
the analogy of Creed and Scripture 
in respect to the difficulties of each, 
one on Secular Knowledge as a 
means of moral improvement, one 
on the Defects and Excellences of 
the British Constitution, and one on 
the argument of the Ecce Homo 
the last two essays only having 
been written since the conversion of 
the illustrious author. 

The republication of Dr. New- 
man's Catholic writings is only 
something which might have been 
expected, and which would be con- 
sidered by all as desirable. The 
same might be said of his previous 
works, so far as these contained 
no heretical or uncatholic state- 
ments and opinions. But the entire 
republication of his Anglican writ 
ings was something novel in its way, 
and rather calculated to startle the 
mind of one who had not considered 
the very weighty motives which 
have induced the author to make 
this bold stroke. These writings 
could not have been suppressed. 
To a very great extent, they are 
substantially sound, as well as mas- 
terly in thought and style, with only 
an accidental mixture of error. Even 
those which are in their substance 
and scope directly anti-Catholic are 
important documents in the history 
of polemics. By their incorporation 
with a complete series of the doc- 
tor's works, they are reduced to the 
category of those arguments and ob- 
jections against the faith which are 
incorporated into systems of theo- 
logy for the purpose of exhibiting 
both sides of the controversy, and 
bringing out the truth in its con- 
tra-position to error. The work of 
Dr. Newman's life has been a most 
remarkable and providential one. 
He has reasoned himself up from 
Protestantism, through Anglican- 
ism, to the Catholic Church, speak- 
ing aloud, and in tones to command 
attention, during the whole process. 



422 



New Publications. 



It is impossible to estimate the in- 
fluence for good which he has exert- 
ed as an instrument in the hand of 
God in bringing back Protestants 
to the fold of the church. The pre- 
servation of the complete history 
of his intellectual progress is there- 
fore something which tends entirely 
to advance the cause of truth, and 
to illustrate the glorious conclusion 
which he finally drew from his pre- 
mises and proved with such power 
of reasoning and charm of rhetoric. 
The present volume contains many 
things of the greatest intrinsic 
value, besides what is valuable for 
the reasons above given, especially 
the essay on Creed and Scripture, 
in which the present downward slide 
of the English toward infidelity is 
distinctly predicted. 

CONSTANCE SHERWOOD. An Autobi- 
ography of the Sixteenth Century. By 
Lady Georgiana Fullerton. i vol. 8vo, 
pp. 284. New York : The Catholic 
Publication Society. 

Our first feeling on reading this 
book was regret that we have so 
few similar publications in this 
country, where the subjects so ad- 
mirably discussed in it are of such 
deep and lasting interest. To En- 
glish-speaking people at least, no 
matter in what land, the persecu- 
tion of Catholics during the reign 
of Elizabeth, the malignant at- 
tempts of her able courtiers to 
destroy utterly the old faith among 
her subjects, and the heroic strug- 
gles and sufferings of the people, 
particularly of those of the better 
class, form one of the most inter- 
esting, if painful, chapters in the 
entire modern history of the 
church. The rebellious and anti- 
christian spirit of the Eighth Hen- 
ry descended with fourfold malice 
on his not unworthy daughter, and 
a host of recreant prelates and ra- 
pacious nobles had sprung up 
around the throne whose abject 
subserviency to royal authority was 
in proportion as they possessed or 
expected lucrative church livings 
and the spoils of dismantled schools, 



convents, and almshouses. Her 
penal laws made even the secret 
observance of the forms of worship 
an offence punishable by torture, 
death, and confiscation, while the 
minister of God was legally pro- 
claimed a traitor, hunted down by 
professional informers, and, when 
caught, summarily executed with all 
the cruelties of the most barbarous 
ages. But while the fagot and the 
gallows had no terrors for the devo- 
ted priest, the loss of court favor, 
beggary, imprisonment, and the 
rack were as persistently disregard- 
ed by a large number of the nobili- 
ty and commoners with a steadfast- 
ness and resignation which remind 
us of the days of the early martyrs. 
It is to illustrate this period in 
English history, this contest be- 
tween ill-gotten and despotic power 
on one side, and constancy, zeal, and 
piety on the other, that Constance, 
Sherwood has been written by one 
who has already done good service 
in the cause of our holy religion, 
to the great credit of her sex and 
country. As a work of art, the 
book does not exhibit that strong 
dramatic power or depth of color- 
ing which characterized the efforts 
of Sir Walter Scott when treating 
of the same epoch in Kemlworth ; 
but it more than compensates us 
for these deficiencies in the greater 
truthfulness of its portraiture of 
historical personages, and its exqui- 
site delineation of those purely fic- 
titious, who, with all their human 
weaknesses and spiritual strength, 
are fittingly held up to us as types 
of Christian excellence. So deli- 
cately, indeed, and so nicely defined 
are some of Lady Fullerton's touch- 
es that we have sometimes found 
ourselves going back over the pages 
of her tale to be assured that we 
had caught aright the gentle allu- 
sion or implied meaning in all its 
significance. Constance Sherwood, 
who is supposed to relate the story 
of her life and times, appears to us 
a most attractive creation of the 
author, but the character of Ann, 
Countess of Arundel and Surry, 



New Publications. 



we venture to say could only have 
been drawn by a highly gifted, sym- 
pathetic, and virtuous woman, so 
conformable is it in its leading fea- 
tures to well-authenticated facts 
and so delicately finished in its ima- 
ginary details. 

Though an historical novel, ne- 
cessarily devoted to grave and often 
painful matters, and plentifully 
strewn with moral and theological 
reflections, there is just enough of 
romance and feminine gossip in its 
pages to enlist the attention and 
excite the sympathies of the more 
sentimental and less seriously in- 
clined readers. Human passions, 
hatred, jealousy, and remorse, 
friendship, love, and all the other 
concomitants of everyday life, are 
neither ignored nor obtruded, but 
are made subservient to the main 
design of the work, which is to 
teach us true Christian principles 
by exhibiting to our view the vir- 
tues and constancy of our co-reli- 
gionists of other times. The style 
of the autobiography, as the design 
of the book required, is slightly 
tinged with the quaint phraseology 
of the period, which, however, does 
not lessen, but rather adds to, its 
attractions, and the illustrations 
which accompany this edition are 
excellently designed and executed. 
As a well-written book, uniting 
amusement with sound instruction 
and pure morality, we consider it 
every way worthy to be placed in 
the hands of Catholic readers. Par- 
ticularly feminine in its tone and 
healthful in its tendency, it is in 
every way vastly superior to even 
the best works of fiction of which 
the secular press has become so 
prolific. 

THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF ST. FRANCIS 
XAVIKR. By Henry James Coleridge, 
S.J. Vol. I. Burns, Gates & Co. 1872. 
(New York: Sold by The Catholic Pub- 
lication Society.) I 

Father Coleridge has a happy 
talent for biographical composition 
and historical sketching. The let- 
ters of St. Francis give to this bio- 



graphy a most decided advantage 
over all others with which we are 
acquainted, and the original portion 
of the Life is equal in merit and in- 
terest to the best specimens of bio- 
graphy which the English language 
possesses. We would be greatly 
obliged to the author if he would 
collect and publish in a volume the 
various sketches of distinguished 
persons, such as Suarez, De Ranee, 
etc., which he has from time to time 
printed in The Month. 

THE WORKS OF AURELIUS AUGUSTINE, 
BISHOP OF HIPPO. A New Transla- 
tion, edited by the Rev. Marcus Dods, 
M.A. Vol. III. Writings in Connec- 
tion with the Donatist Controversy ; 
Vol. IV. The Anti-Pelagian Works 
of St. Augustine. Vol I. Edinburgh : 
T. & T. Clark. 1872. (New York : 
Sold by The Catholic Publication Soci- 
ety.) 

The first two volumes of this se- 
ries containing The City of God, re- 
ceived a favorable notice in a former 
number of this magazine, in so far 
as an examination which was dis- 
tinctly said to be only " cursory " 
warranted us in expressing an opin- 
ion. A very opposite criticism, ac- 
companied with some strictures up- 
on THE CATHOLIC WORLD for its 
favorable notice, from the pen of 
a learned and acute writer in the 
Boston Pilot, occasioned a consider- 
able stir for the time, and we were 
requested by several persons to re- 
examine the work more carefully, 
and express a more matured and 
decisive judgment. We took the 
trouble to make the exaininition, 
and take this occasion to reiterate 
the opinion we at first expressed. 
A similar judgment was expressed 
by the Dublin Review, and, as there 
seems to be a general consent 
among critics on the subject, we 
think that all those who wish for a 
good translation of The City of God 
may consider it certain that the one 
edited by Mr. Dods is not only an 
elegant but an accurate version of 
this splendid work. There are one 
or two mistakes in the translation. 



424 



New Publications. 



and we remember noticing one de- 
cidedly anti-Catholic note, but these 
slight faults may be pardoned in a 
work of such great excellence and 
value. We have had no time as yet 
to collate any portion of the trans- 
lation of the two new volumes be- 
fore us with the original text. The 
quality of the translation of the 
preceding volumes, however, is a 
fair guarantee for the fidelity and 
elegance of the present one. The 
scholarship and reputation of the 
editors are a sufficient security that 
they will spare no pains to do their 
work well, and the works of St. 
Augustine afford very little room 
for any serious mistakes in regard 
to his real meaning. It is in the in- 
terpretation of his meaning and de- 
duction from his principles that 
there is room for error, and that 
the grossest heresies have been 
manufactured by Lutherans, Cal- 
vinists, and Jansenists from a per- 
version of his doctrines on original 
sin, grace, and free-will. These he- 
resies are now very unpopular and 
not at all dangerous. In respect to 
the constitutive principles of the 
Catholic Church, as opposed to 
every species of Protestantism, 
there is no room for mistaking or 
perverting the doctrine of St. Au- 
gustine. We cannot think of any 
way of convincing educated per- 
sons in England and the United 
States of the identity of the mo- 
dern with the ancient Catholic 
Church more efficaciously than that 
of giving them the chance to read 
extensively in the works of the 
great Doctor through the medium 
of a good translation. We are re- 
joiced, therefore, that English scho- 
lars should engage in this work and 
in those of a similar kind. The 
quantity of pure Catholic literature 
thus disseminated by Protestants 
and among Protestants in England, 
and to some extent in America also, 
is truly inspiring. The republica- 
tion of choice specimens of old En- 
glish literature by an antiquarian 
society in London, the translation 
of the Venerable Bede's History, the 



abbreviated Lives of the Saints from 
the Bollandists, and other books of 
the same character which are multi- 
plying with an inconceivable rapi- 
dity, show what an avidity the En- 
glish palate is acquiring for this 
most wholesome and pleasant medi- 
cine. The editors frequently seek 
to counteract the effect which their 
inward misgiving warns them these 
books must produce, by remarks of 
their own in notes and prefaces, for 
which their readers will care but 
little. Sometimes they avoid al- 
most or altogether this futile pro- 
cedure, and provide the Catholic 
reader with a valuable book in En- 
glish which is a considerable acces- 
sion to his library, and is free from 
anything which can offend his eyes 
a service for which they have our 
sincere thanks. The volumes which 
are at present under notice are not, 
we regret to say, unexceptionable 
in this respect. The Preface to the 
anti-Pelagian works speaks in a 
very inexact and misleading man- 
ner upon the supposed differences 
of the Eastern and Western theolo- 
gy, upon the judgments of the Pope 
in the case of Pelagius, and the re- 
lation of the teaching of St. Augus- 
tine to Protestant doctrine. The 
very meagre sketch of the Dona- 
tist schism prefixed to Vol. III. is 
long enough, nevertheless, to per- 
mit the author to indulge in the 
only amusement which can make an 
English Protestant perfectly happy, 
and to get off the little squib he al- 
ways carries in his pocket, " the 
despotic intolerance of the Papacy, 
and the horrors of the Inquisition." 
A Catholic scholar cares nothing 
for the flippant and superficial cavils 
and sneers of theological amateurs 
who venture to criticise and judge 
the Fathers, the Popes, and the 
church of God. But he does not. 
like to have a book in his library 
which has such blots on it. The 
editors may say that they consult 
the tastes and convenience of Pro- 
testants and not of Catholics. Very 
well. It is convenient, however 
for Catholics to have certain works 



Neiv Publications. 



425 



of standard value in an English 
translation, and it is the interest of 
publishers to provide them with the 
same. If the publishers could fur- 
nish an edition in which the text 
alone was given, without the disfi- 
guring incumbrance of prefaces and 
advertisements, for the convenience 
of Catholic purchasers, their splen- 
did series of patristic works would 
undoubtedly find a much more rea- 
dy and extensive sale than it is now 
likely to have among the clergy 
and studious laity of the Catholic 
Church in Great Britain and the 
United States 

THE BETROTHED. By Alessandro Man- 
zoni. i vol. I2mo. New York : The 
Catholic Publication Society. 1872. 

"The Catholic Publication So- 
ciety " has done a good work in 
publishing a new edition of Alessan- 
dro Manzoni's world-renowned / 
Promesst Spost, which has been for 
many years before the public. It 
was first published in 1827. Since 
then the author has increased the 
size and interest of the volume by a 
thrilling description of the devasta- 
tions of the plague in Milan in 1630. 

While the author charms by the 
ease and simplicity of his style, the 
story is no less remarkable for ori- 
ginality and vigor. 

Above all, the purity of the pages 
and the religious tone that pervades 
the narrative give an additional in- 
terest to the story of the rustic life 
of the hero and heroine. 

This is the best known of the au- 
thor's works, and deservedly popu- 
lar. 

FRENCH EGGS, IN AN ENGLISH BASKET. 
Translated from Souvestre by Miss 
Emily Bowles. London : Burns, Gates 
& Co. (New York : Sold by The Ca- 
tholic Publication Society.) 

This book comprises some fifteen 
short, readable, and well -varied 
stories, illustrating life and manners 
amongthe humblerclassesin France, 
originally written by a very success- 
ful litterateur of that country, and 
accurately translated by the English 



editor. They are not moral tales in 
the usual acceptation of that much 
misused term, for the writer neither 
puts prosy sermons in the mouths 
of babes nor interlards the discourse 
of simple peasants with profound 
theological reflections, but they are 
natural and healthful in their tone, 
humorous as well as pathetic in de- 
sign, and the reader will be dull in- 
deed who is not able to draw his 
own moral from them. As a gift to 
young people, this volume would be 
very appropriate, and, if not exactly 
suited to the breakfast-table, will no 
doubt be found worthy a place in 
the boudoir or drawing-room. 

SERMONS BY FATHERS OF THE SOCIETY 
OF JESUS (in England). Vol. II. By 
the Rev. Thomas Harper. London : 
Burns, Gates & Co. (New York : Sold 
by The Catholic Publication Society.) 
1872. 

These sermons are very peculiar 
and original, and are specially adapt- 
ed for the perusal of the most in- 
telligent and educated persons. 
The first series, composed of dis- 
courses for Christmas-tide, is on 
" Modern Principles," as contrasted 
with truly Christian principles de- 
duced from the great fact and doc- 
trine of the Incarnation. The one 
on " The Last Winter of the World " 
has especially attracted our atten- 
tion. The second series is a con- 
densed and yet eloquent resume of 
a great part of Catholic philosophy 
and theology respecting the great 
first truth of the being of God. 
The volume is a remarkable and an 
admirable one, most suitable for the 
times, and we earnestly recommend 
it to those who desire to find reli- 
gious reading of the highest intel- 
lectual quality, which is at the same 
time really profitable for the spi- 
ritual good. 

MAGGIE'S ROSARY, AND OTHER TALES. 

i vol. I2mo, pp. 208. New York : The 

Catholic Publication Society. 1872. 

We know of no book of this class 

recently issued from the press which 

contains more pleasing and useful 



426 



New Publications. 



reading than this. Equally instruc- 
tive and entertaining, its perusal 
cannot prove otherwise than accept- 
able to those for whose especial 
benefit it is published. It is admir- 
ably adapted for a premium, and 
we hope that in the coming distri- 
butions it will occupy that promi- 
nent place which its intrinsic merits 
deserve. It is a handsome volume 
of over 200 pages, got up in that 
style which " The Publication So- 
ciety " was the first to introduce a 
style of mechanical excellence and 
simple elegance. 

VIA CRUCIS ; or, The Way of the Cross. 
Translated from the German of the 
Rev. Dr. Veith, Preacher of St. Ste- 
phen's Cathedral, Vienna. By the 
Very Rev. Theodore Noethen. Bos- 
ton : Patrick Donahoe. 1872. 

Did any one ever see a book on 
the Passion of Christ and not wish 
to buy it? The very title appeals 
to the heart. It is because we 
would go on for ever trying but in 
vain to sound the depths of that 
fathomless ocean of divine love and 
mere)''. 

We cannot have too many books 
on this great theme, that there may 
be some adapted to every cast of 
mind : now emotional, again em- 
bodying every tender legend and 
the pious imaginings of saintly 
hearts, or full of profound reflec- 
tions on the great scheme of salva- 
tion through the sufferings of our 
Lord. Every person should have 
at least one such book in which to 
bathe his world-weary soul from 
time to time. In these days, when 
ease, luxury, and self-indulgence of 
every kind seem to be the great aim 
of life, the image of the Divine 
Sufferer cannot be too constantly 
presented to the mind, with its les- 
son of mortification and self-cruci- 
fixion. 

Protestants often say the Blessed 
Virgin has been made by Catholics 
to supersede our Lord in the econo- 
my of grace. Let such read this 
book, and see on whom we rely for 
salvation, and how Christ and him 



crucified is preached in all the puri- 
ty of the Gospel in the great Ca- 
tholic centre of Vienna. 

This book is the last of a series 
of works on the Passion which 
have already been noticed in our 
columns. The author being now 
blind, it was dictated to his amanu- 
ensis. Under such circumstances, 
his great familiarity with the Holy 
Scriptures is the more striking, 
showing that a knowledge of the 
sacred volume is not quite a Pro- 
testant monopoly. 

A calm, dignified, thoughtful tone 
pervades the whole volume. The 
piety is not strained ; it is elevated, 
but not exaltee ; there is no false 
sentiment, nothing to offend the 
most fastidious taste. A few quo- 
tations will give an idea of the 
author's style and suggestiveness : 

" He who lives within and for himself, 
wh/> only makes use of others for the 
sake of adding to his own pleasure, is 
ignorant of the first principle of charity 
or of true life, which cannot be obtained 
without sacrifice and without entering 
morally into communion with thee. 

" It is by no means necessary that true 
humility must spring forth from the con- 
sciousness of guilt, like a flower whose 
root grows only in the mire ; its true 
foundation is the acknowledgment of the 
relation in which spiritual beings find 
themselves to their Creator, Lord, and 
gracious Ruler. 

" Whether or not my bodily life shall 
one day bloom again in the transfigured 
state of happiness, will depend upon my 
moral fidelity, which keeps my spirit, 
while on earth, in thy holy grace. 

" Fall not into the common error of 
imagining that a negative state of exist- 
ence is compatible with the duties of a 
Christian." 

"This narrow gate, which alone leads 
to true life, but which many do not wish 
to enter because the}' shun the work of 
self-denial and privation, what is it but 
the entrance into the communion of thy 
death and life into thy grave !" 

This work was intended particu- 
larly for Lent, but is suited to any 
season. As the church, on the 
most joyful of festivals, never fails 
to show forth the Lord's death at 



New Publications. 



427 



the altar, so the thought of the 
Passion should never be absent 
from the soul. The heroine of The 
House of Yorke, alluding to a picture 
of St. Ignatius of Loyola, says : 
" He looks as though he were pres- 
ent when our Lord was crucified, 
and could not forget the sight." 
" We were all present," exclaimed 
Rowan. " How can we forget it ?" 

So, too, when three old men came 
to the Abbot Stephen to ask what 
would be useful to their souls, he 
was silent awhile, and then replied : 
" I will show you all I have : day 
and night, I behold nothing but our 
Lord Jesus Christ hanging from the 
wood." 

This ably translated work, with 
its excellent binding, its soft paper 
so grateful to the eye, and its clear 
print, is a credit to our enterprising 
New England publisher. 

THE POPE OF ROME AND THE POPES OF 
THE ORIENTAL ORTHODOX CHURCH. 
An Essay on Monarchy in the Church, 
with special reference to Russia. From 
original documents, Russian and 
Greek. By the Rev. Csesarius Ton- 
dini, Barnabite. London : Longmans 
& Co. (New York : Sold by The Ca- 
tholic Publication Society.) 

The conversion of Count Schou- 
valoff, a Russian nobleman, and his 
profession in the Barnabite order, 
was the occasion of awakening a 
great interest in the conversion of 
Russia among his religious breth- 
ren. The most conspicuous among 
them for his zeal and efforts in this 
direction is F. Tondini. In the pre- 
sent volume he has given a full and 
accurate account of the organiza- 
tion of the Russian Church, sup- 
ported by numerous citations, and 
evincing the thorough knowledge 
of the author on the subject. The 
utterly secular character of the 
Russian state church and the de- 
grading enslavement of its hierar- 
chy under imperial authority are 
clearly shown. The efforts which 
have been made to throw dust in 
the eyes of the American public on 
this subject make this book quite 



seasonable, and we recommend it to 
the attention both of our Catholic 
readers and of the amateurs of Rus- 
so-Greek Christianity. 

THE PASSION PLAY. By the Rev. Gerald 
Molloy, D.D. Boston : Patrick Don- 
ahoe. 

Dr. Molloy, of Maynooth, has de- 
scribed the Ammergau Passion Play 
with great skill, accuracy, and beau- 
ty of language, and has enriched his 
work with a number of very good 
photographs, which add much to 
its interest. The republication has 
been executed in very pretty style, 
and the volume is in every sense 
attractive and interesting, worthy 
of a place on every table, and most 
appropriate as a premium or gift 
book. We trust it may have the 
wide circulation it deserves. 

THE DIVINE TRAGEDY. By Henry Wads- 
worth Longfellow. Boston : J. R. Os- 
good & Co. 

A most reverently, carefully, and 
skilfully executed reduction of the 
evangelical narrative within a 
small poetical picture. The greater 
portion is an almost literal transla- 
tion of the sacred text, and there 
are also a few passages of exquisite 
original poetry. Mr. Longfellow 
has in no way tampered with or 
marred the beauty of the divine 
original, and his copy is itself a 
masterpiece. All Catholics may 
read this poem without fear of find- 
ing an) r thing which is not in perfect 
consonance with their faith. It is 
a beautiful offering to Christ from a 
place where he has received many 
insults, and we trust that he may 
give the best of all rewards to the 
one who has made it. 

A MANUAL OF ENGLISH LITERATURE : 
A Text-book for Schools and Colleges. 
By John S. Hart, LL.D., Professor of 
Rhetoric and of the English Language 
and Literature in the College of New 
Jersey. 

The arrangement of this work is 
simple and adapted to practical use, 
and one may see at a glance the 



428 



New Publications. 



whole history of the English tongue. 
The different authors are well 
grouped in connection with con- 
spicuous public events, which show 
at once the time in which they 
flourished, and the influences, politi- 
cal or educational, with which they 
were surrounded. Living writers 
have also received their share of 
attention, and are appropriately 
classified according to the subjects 
they have treated. There are a few 
authors omitted (among others Ger- 
ald Griffin, the most characteristic 
of Irish novelists) who deserve men- 
tion, and who will no doubt receive 
attention in another edition. We 
think that Dr. Hart deserves the 
thanks of the community for his 
valuable labors. Among many 
studies, surely there is none more 
important than that ot our own 
language. There are many of our 
public men who would do well to 
learn better the genius of their 
mother tongue. It is certainly de- 
sirable to know and speak foreign 
languages, but far more necessary is 
it to understand the wealth and 
beauty of our own so little known 
and so poorly appreciated by many 
of our speakers or writers. We are 
glad to learn also that Dr. Hart has 
in preparation a book upon Ameri- 
can literature. 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH IN 
CALIFORNIA. By W. Gleeson, M.A., 
Professor in St. Mary's College, San 
Francisco, Cal. In two volumes. Il- 
lustrated. San Francisco : A. L. Ban- 
croft & Co. 1872. pp. 446, 351. 

A work of this size on the church 
in California excites astonishment, 
so recent does the growth of that 
State seem ; but the history of the 
church in California dates far back, 
and is full of interest and edifica- 
tion. 

The discover)'- of the country, the 
strange journey of Cabeza de Vaca, 
the adventurous exploration of the 
Italian Franciscan, Mark, of Nice, 
and of those who followed him, and 
an account of the Indians, form the 
opening chapters of Mr. Gleeson's 



work. He then devotes some space 
to the question whether St. Thomas 
ever visited America, a point dis- 
cussed some years since by the 
Count Joannes when simple George 
Jones. Another chapter is devoted 
to the examination of early Irish 
missions on the northwest coast of 
America, the object of the author 
being to show the possible source 
of certain Christian traditions found 
among the California Indians. 
Garcia in his Origen de los Indios, 
Lafitau in his Mceurs ct Coutumcs, 
Boudinot in his Star in the West, 
and many other writers, have traced 
these analogies, but it seems to us 
were often misled by taking as pri- 
mitive Indian traditions ideas ac- 
quired after missions were estab- 
lished. 

The remainder of the first volume 
is devoted to the great Jesuit mis- 
sion in Lower California, founded 
by the German Father Kiihn or 
Kino and the Italian Father Salva- 
tierra, a mission which excited so 
much interest that a special fund 
was gradually formed by devoted 
Catholics for its support, and which, 
under the title of the Pious Fund 
of California, long maintained reli- 
gion there, and will still do its part 
if a sense of justice prevails with 
the Mexican Government. Of this 
mission, which lasted to the sup- 
pression of the order, Mr. Gleeson 
gives a valuable account. Three 
works exist on it, tliat of Fr. Vene- 
gas in Spanish, of Fr. Begert in 
German, and of Fr. Clavigero in 
Italian, and there are also some 
communications on the Lettres Edi- 
pantes and other collections. 

The second volume is devoted to 
Upper California, or what is now 
the State of California. After the 
fall of the Society of Jesus, the 
Spanish government sent the Do- 
minicans and Franciscans to con- 
tinue its labors in California. The 
Dominicans took Lower California, 
but our author does not dwell on 
their labors, apparently not having 
met the Trcs Car/as giving an ac- 
count of them. 



New Publications. 



429 



The labors of the Franciscans, 
who, under Father Juniper Serra, 
peopled Upper California with mis- 
sions that were the wonder of that 
age of unbelief, for they began and 
rose during the latter part of the 
last century, is given in a most inte- 
resting manner. No missions ever 
rose with greater celerity, and, 
though missionaries laid down their 
lives in the struggle, the land was 
christianized and the wild savages 
became thriving Christian communi- 
ties, self-supporting and gradually 
advancing in civilization. 

If their rise is one to cheer the 
heart of the believer, there is no- 
thing in history so sad as the utter 
destruction of missions and people 
in a few short years. The happy 
Indians who by thousands filled the 
missions in peace and plenty are 
represented by a handful of debased 
and fast vanishing outcasts. The 
civilization of the nineteenth cen- 
tury may be a very fine thing, but 
it is only necessary to read the his- 
tory of the California mission to 
accept the Syllabus heartily. 

If we find any fault with this por- 
tion of Mr. Gleeson's work, it is 
that he has not given place enough 
to the linguistic labors of the mis- 
sionaries amid the perfect Babel of 
languages in California. Several of 
their grammars and dictionaries 
have been printed by one of the 
first Catholic writers who treated 
in English of this mission, and it 
cannot be that the great California 
libraries do not contain the works 
of Father Sitjar, Cuesta, and others, 
or of the distinguished living mis- 
sionary of California, Father Men- 
garini, whose philosophical study 
of the Selish language makes him 
the highest authority with Ameri- 
can and European scholars. 

The sad state of the church both 
as to its white and red children 
during the Mexican rule, and the 
erection of the See of California, 
are next treated of by our author. 

The annexation to the United 
States and the discovery of gold 
brought in an entirely new element. 



The Mexicans were but few ; the in- 
coming tide of emigration was both 
Protestant and Catholic, the new 
government Protestant. Of this, 
the actual church of California, the 
reverend author gives an account 
full of edifying details, although he 
has allowed himself too little space 
to give such sketches of some of 
the various institutions as we should 
desire. 

The Appendix is a partial review 
of the accounts of the American 
mounds and an attempt to show a 
similarity between the mound-build- 
ers and the Tuatha de Danaans in 
Ireland ; but such theories have been 
too often raised and fallen to accept 
this. Our Indian is the type of 
primitive man ; as he was found by 
our first explorers, he used stone 
arrow and spear heads and knives; 
made his shell-beads; boiled and 
cooked by heated stones, just as the 
earlier races on the Eastern conti- 
nent did, if we are to believe the 
lessons from the tombs of that part 
of the world. Side by side, you 
cannot distinguish the stone arrow- 
heads and implements of America, 
Ireland, France, Denmark, and Ger- 
many, and we can only conclude 
that all men were of one family, and 
ascended the scale of civilization 
by similar steps. 

This work is enriched with many 
illustrations, a portrait of Father 
Salvatierra, many views of the mis- 
sions as Duflot de Mofras found 
them, the quasi-portrait of the 
venerable Father Juniper Serra in 
Palou's life of that great mission- 
ary, and diagrams of some Western 
mounds. 

HISTORY OF THE KINGDOM OF GOD 
UNDF.R THE OLD TESTAMENT. Trans- 
lated from the German of E. W. 
Hengstenberg. Edinburgh : T. & T. 
Clark. (For sale in New York by Scrib- 
ner & Co., 664 Broadway.) Vol. I. 
The highest encomium we can 
pass upon the works of Ilengsten- 
berg is to mention the fact that 
they are several times referred to 
in terms of great praise in the Thco- 



430 



New Publications. 



logy of the illustrious Jesuit, F. Per- 
rone. He is certainly equal to any 
Protestant theologian of this cen- 
tury in learning and critical ability. 
In regard to soundness of doctrine 
and the actual value of the results 
of study contained in his works, 
we consider him to be far superior 
to any of those Protestant authors 
with whose writings we are ac- 
quainted. Indeed, we may say that 
his works are almost indispensable 
to the student of those departments 
of theology concerning which they 
treat. The great and praiseworthy 
end of Hengstenberg was to destroy 
German neology with its own wea- 
pons, and he has effectually accom- 
plished the task. 

LECTURES ON THE CHURCH. Delivered 
in St. Francis Xavier's Church, New 
York. By Rev. D. A. Merrick, S.J. 
New York : P. O'Shea. 

Fr. Merrick's Lectures are logical, 
solid, and, at the same time, easy to 
be understood. He refutes the Pro- 
testant doctrine on the Rule of 
Faith, and establishes the Catholic 
rule, ending with the culminating 
point of the supremacy of the Pope 
in government and doctrine. The 
proofs of the latter from English 
history are remarkably appropriate 
and well put. The style of the 
reverend author is pure and pleas- 
ing, and the book, which is of very 
moderate size, is tastefully printed. 
It is therefore admirably suited for 
general use, and we bespeak for it a 
wide circulation. 

THE RELATION AND DUTY OF THE LAW- 
YER TO THE STATE: A Lecture de- 
livered before the Law School of the 
University of the City of New York, 
February 9, 1872, by Henry D. Sedg- 
wick. 

This is an eloquent and philo- 
sophical contribution to the ques- 
tion of questions in this city : Are 
we advancing or retrograding in 
legal and judicial probity and 
learning? The author speaks like 
an honest lawyer jealous for the 
high name of his profession ; but 



proclaiming the follies of men or 
corporations in the lecture-room 
never has nor ever will put an end 
to them. The lawyers on and off 
the bench are no more corrupt than 
other classes of the community, but 
they are more conspicuous, and 
more reprehensible in consequence. 
Corruption, like all catching dis- 
eases, when it finds shelter among 
legislators, will soon find its way to 
the lawyer's library and to the bench 
of the judge. 

We cordially endorse the admoni- 
tion and compliment contained in 
the following: 

"Set before you, rather, if you 
need an example, those who, with 
an earnestness and a determination 
never surpassed, have grappled with 
and overthrown the band of thieves 
who had seized the public coffers. 
No future enemy of the common- 
wealth can be more wily, nor can 
be entrenched in his lairwith greater 
cunning, than the men who lately 
possessed our municipal govern- 
ment. Whoever that future enemy 
shall be, however warily he spring, 
however secretly he strike or stab, 
O'Conor can exclaim, ' Contempsi 
gladios Catilinae, non pertimescam 
tuos.' " 

PHYSIOLOGY OF THE SOUL, etc. By 
Martyn Paine, A.M., M.D., LL.D., etc. 
New York : Harper & Brothers. 

Dr. Paine is a very venerable 
gentleman who is a remarkable in- 
stance of intellectual activity and 
industry continued into a very ad- 
vanced age. We sincerely admire 
the boldness with which he de- 
nounces materialism and professes 
his belief in the Bible. We do not 
agree with him in hisopinion that the 
Holy Scripture requires us to reject 
the common theories of modern 
geologists, and therefore regard his 
attempt at a scientific refutation of 
those theories as something which 
we may leave to the consideration 
of experts in geological science. 
That part of his work which has 
most value in our eyes is the one 
which treats of the distinct exist- 



New Publications. 



431 



ence and spiritual nature of the 
soul, a subject which is handled in 
an able and ingenious manner. 

SPECTRUM ANALYSIS. Three Lectures by 
Profs. Roscoe, Huggins, and Lockyer. 
New Haven, Conn. : Charles C. Chat- 
field & Co. 1872. 

These lectures are very interest- 
ing, and give an excellent account 
of what is perhaps the greatest 
real discovery of modern science ; 
also of its application to the deter- 
mination of the chemical and physi- 
cal constitution of the sun and other 
celestial bodies. Their authors are 
men eminent in the scientific world, 
who have specially distinguished 
themselves by their researches in 
this particular department of inves- 
tigation. 

REPORTS ON OBSERVATIONS OF THE TOTAL 
SOLAR ECLIPSE OF DECEMBER 22, 1870. 
Conducted under the Direction of 
Rear-Admiral B. F. Sands, U.S.N., 
Superintendent of the U. S. Naval Ob- 
servatory, Washington, D. C. Wash- 
ington : Government Printing Office. 
1871. 

These reports, like those on the 
eclipse of the preceding year in the 
United States, noticed in THE CATH- 
OLIC WORLD of April, 1870, form a 
valuable contribution to the litera- 
ture of solar science. They are by 
Profs. Newcomb, Hall, Harkness, 
and Eastman, the first of whom was 
stationed at Gibraltar, the rest at 
Syracuse. The observations were in 
all cases somewhat interfered with by 
clouds, which, however, broke away 
sufficiently at the moment of totality 
to allow the skilful and practised 
observers to obtain many interesting 
results. It is on such occasions 
that the qualities required for a 
good practical astronomer are put 
to the most severe test ; a moment 
of nervousness may lose that for 
which he has spent months in pre- 
paring. It hardly needs to be said 
that, in this instance, the test was 
well sustained. Prof. Harkness con- 
siders his conclusions as to the 
composition of the corona, spoken 
of in our previous notice, to be 



borne out by his observations on 
this occasion. The sun really seems 
to be the wearer of an iron crown. 
The descriptions of the general 
appearance and effects of the eclipse 
are of course the most interesting 
to unscientific readers. 

HALF-HOUR RECREATIONS IN POPULAR 
SCIENCE. No. i. Strange Discoveries 
Respecting the Aurora, and Recent 
Solar Researches. By Richard A. 
Proctor, B.A., F.R.A.S., author of The 
Sun, Other Worlds than Ours, etc. 
Boston : Lee & Shepard. New York : 
Lee, Shepard & Dillingham. 

This, as implied in the title, is the 
first of a series of papers on subjects 
of modern science by various well- 
known writers in that department. It 
is expected to publish one such " re- 
creation " every month, at the price 
of twenty-five cents, which would 
seem to be enough, or $2 50 a year. 
Enough, at least, it will be for the 
speculations of such men as Mill, 
Spencer, Huxley, and Darwin, who 
are promised among the "eminent 
European scientists" in the pro- 
spectus. The present number, how- 
ever, is a very good one, having in 
it a great deal of information, some 
valuable suggestions, and no hum- 
bug ; and the next will be, perhaps, 
even better, as it will contain an 
explanation of the wonderful mo- 
dern discovery know as "Spectrum 
Analysis." 

HALF-HOURS WITH MODERN SCIENTISTS 
Huxley, Barker, Stirling, Cope, Tyn- 
dall. Nesv Haven, Conn. : Charles C. 
Chatfield & Co. 1871. 

We have in this a publication 
somewhat similar to the Half-Hour 
Recreations noticed above ; there 
are, however, five numbers instead 
of one bound up together. It 
might be said of them, as of other 
such, that their facts and strictly 
physical theories are interesting, 
and their philosophical ones rather 
otherwise. Professors Barker and 
Tyndall furnish the best papers of 
the five, particularly the latter, who 
is a thoroughly scientific man, hav- 
ing, besides his talent, the great 
advantage of prudence. 



432 



New Publications. 



LEGENDS OF THE PATRIARCHS AND PRO- 
PHETS. By the Rev. S. Baring-Gould, 
M.A. New York : Holt & Williams. 
This collation of Rabbinical and 
Mohammedan legends has been 
made with great judgment and 
taste. The legends are very curi- 
ous and interesting, some of them 
very poetic and beautiful. The 
book is one of very great value to 
the scholar, and most entertaining 
and amusing for the general reader. 

CHRISTIAN FREE SCHOOLS. The Subject 
Discussed by the Rt. Rev. Bernard J. 
McQuaid, D.D., Bishop of Rochester. 
At Rochester, N. Y. (New York : For 
sale by the Catholic Publication So- 
ciety.) 

We can only call attention to this 
important pamphlet at present, 
hoping to take up the subject in 
earnest at a future time. The pam- 
phlet is replete with important tes- 
timonies of statesmen and Protes- 
tant ministers, which make it very 
serviceable to those who wish to 
write or speak on the same subject. 

WALKS IN ROME. By Augustus J. C. 
Hare. New York : George Routledge 
& Sons, 416 Broome Street. 1871. 

This, in a qualified sense, is a read- 
able and valuable guide to the Eter- 
nal City. It contains a great deal 
of information about the historic 
sites of old Rome, a good deal about 
the galleries in which the intelli- 
gent Protestant visitor is supposed 
to be interested, and something also 
about the restaurants, livery stables, 
etc., to which it would be rash to 
assume that he is indifferent. It 
likewise contains a good deal about 
the churches and holy places, giv- 
ing some interesting facts, together 
with various remarks and stories 



characterized by the usual dense ig- 
norance and stupidity as to the dog- 
mas and practices of the Catholic 
Church which may be said to be 
the special glory of the " reformed" 
Anglo-Saxon. The principal value 
of such commonplace productions 
is that they suggest the necessity 
of having a good manual on a some- 
what similar plan for the use of 
people who really want to see and 
understand Rome when they visit it. 

TRAVELS IN ARABIA. Compiled and at 
ranged by Bayard Taylor. New York : 
Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1872. 

This is another volume of the Il- 
lustrated Library of Travel and Ex- 
ploration series, and is nearly all 
taken up with Palgrave's narrative 
of his travels in Arabia. It is well 
illustrated. 

LITTLE JAKEY. By Mrs. S. H. De Kroyft. 
New York : Hurd & Houghton. 

A simple story and a sad one of 
the short yet not uneventful life of a 
little German, an inmate of the New 
York Institution for the Blind. It 
is written in a pleasing and unaffect- 
ed style. 

AUNT FANNY'S PRESENT ; or, The Book 

of Fairy Tales. 
WOODLAND COTTAGE, and Other Tales. 

Philadelphia: Peter F.Cunningham. 

We recommend these neat little 
volumes with pleasure to those 
about to select books for their chil- 
dren. 

P. F. CUNNINGHAM announces as in 
press : Marian Howard ; or, Trials and 
l^riumphs. The Divine Life of the Blessed 
Virgin Mary : Being an Abridgment of 
the Mystical City of God. Life of St. 
in, Doctor of the Universal Church. 



THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD. 



VOL. XV., No. 88. JULY, 1872. 



THE PROGRESSIONISTS. 



FROM THE GERMAN' OF CONRAD VON BOI.ANDEN. 



CHAPTER I. 
THE WAGER 

THE balcony of the palais Greif- 
.iann contains i;hree persons who to- 
gether represent four million florins. 
It is not often that one sees a group 
of this kind. The youthful land- 
holder, Seraphin Gerlach, is pos- 
sessor of two millions. His is a 
quiet disposition ; very calm, and 
habitually thoughtful ; innocence 
looks from his clear eye upon the 
world; physically, he is a man of 
twenty -three ; morally, he is a child 
in purity ; a profusion of rich brown 
hair clusters about his head; his 
cheeks ire ruddy, and an attractive 
sweetness plays round his mouth. 

The third million belongs to CarJ. 
Greifmann, the oldest member of the 
group, head/;? tern, of the banking- 
house of the same name. This gen- 
tlemen is tall, slender, animated; 
his cheeks wear no bloom ; they are 



pale. His carriage is easy and 
smooth. Some levity is visible in his 
features, which are delicate, but his 
keen, glancing eye is disagreeable 
beside Seraphin's pure soul-mirror. 
Greifmann's sister Louise, not an or- 
dinary beauty, owns the fourth mil- 
lion. She is seated between the young 
gentlemen ; the folds of her costly 
dress lie heaped around her ; her hands 
are engaged with a fan, and her eyes 
are sending electric glances into Ger- 
lach's quick depths. But these flash- 
ing beams fail to kindle ; they expire 
before they penetrate far into those 
depths. His eyes are bright, but 
they refuse to gleam with inte'nser 
lire. Strange, too, for a twofold rea- 
son; first, because glances from the 
eyes of beautiful women seldom suf- 
fer young men to remain cool; sec- 
ondly, because a paternal scheme de- 
signs that Louise shall be engaged 
and married to the fire-proof hero. 

Millions of money are rare; and 
should millions strive to form an alli- 



Eatered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by Rev. I. T. HBCKER, in the Office of 
the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



434 



The Progressionists. 



ance, it is in conformity with the 
genius of every solid banking estab- 
lishment to view this as quite a na- 
tural tendency. 

For eight days Mr. Seraphin has 
been on a visit at the palais Greif- 
mann, but as yet he has yielded no 
positive evidence of intending to join 
his own couple of millions with the 
million of Miss Louise. 

Whilst Seraphin converses with the 
beautiful young lady, Carl Greifmann 
cursorily examines a newspaper which 
a servant has just brought him on a 
silver salver. \ 

" Every age has its folly," sudden- 
ly exclaims the banker. " In the 
seventeenth century people were busy 
during thirty years cutting one an- 
other's throats for religion's sake 
or rather, in deference to the pious 
hero of the faith from Sweden and 
his fugleman Oxenstiern. In the 
eighteenth century, they decorated 
their heads with periwigs and pig- 
tails, making it a matter of conjec- 
ture whether both ladies and gentle- 
men were not in the act of developing 
themselves from monkeydom into 
manhood. 

" Elections are the folly of our cen- 
tury. See here, my good fellow, look 
what is written here : In three days 
the municipal elections will come off 
throughout the country in eighteen 
days the election of delegates. For 
eighteen days the whole country is to 
labor in election throes. Every man 
twenty-one years of age, having a 
wife and a homestead, is to be em- 
ployed in rooting from out the soil 
of party councilmen, mayors, and 
deputies. 

" And during the period these root- 
ers not unfrequently get at logger- 
heads. Some are in favor of Streich- 
ein the miller, becauuse Streichein has 
lavishly greased their palms ; others in- 
sist upon re-electing Leimer the manu- 
facturer, because Leimer threatens a 



reduction of wages if they refuse to 
keep him in the honorable position. 
In the heat of dispute, quite a storm 
of oaths and ugly epithets, yes, and 
of blows too, rages, and many is the 
voter who retires from the scene of 
action with a bloody head. The 
beer-shops are the chief battle-fields foi 
this sort of skirmishing. Here, zeal- 
ous voters swill down hogsheads of 
beer : brewers drive a brisk trade 
during elections. But you must not 
think, Seraphin, that these absurd 
election scenes are confined to cities, 
In rural districts the game is con- 
ducted with no less interest and fury 
There is a village not far away 
where a corpulent ploughman set hi< 
mind on becoming mayor. Whai 
does he, to get the reins of village 
government into his great fat fist ? 
Two days previous to the election h 
butchers three fatted hogs, has sev- 
eral hundred ringlets of sausag< 
made, gets ready his pots and pan; 
for cooking and. roasting, and ther 
advertises : eating and drinking at 
libitum and gratis for every vote 
willing to aid him to ascend th< 
mayor's throne. He obtained hi 
object. 

" Now, I put the question to you 
Seraphin, is not this sort of electioi 
jugglery far more ridiculous and dis 
gusting than the most preposterou 
periwigs of the last century ?" 

"Ignorance avnd passion may oc 
casion the abuse of the best institu 
tions," answered the double million 
aire. " However, if beer and porl 
determine the choice of councilmei 
and mayors, voters have no right t< 
complain of misrule. It would b< 
most disastrous to the state, I shotil< 
think, were such corrupt means t 
decide also the election of the depu 
ties of our legislative assembly." 

The banker smiled. 

" The self-same manoeuvring, onlj 
on a larger scale," replied he." Oi 



The Progressionists. 



435 



course, in this instance, petty jeal- 
ousies disappear. Streichein the mil- 
ler and Leimer the manufacturer 
make concessions in the interest of 
the common party. All stand shoul- 
der to shoulder in the cause of pro- 
gress against Ultramontanes and dem- 
ocrats, who in these days have begun 
to be troublesome. 

" Whilst at municipal elections of- 
fice-seekers employed money and 
position for furthering their personal 
aims, at deputy elections progress 
men cast their means into a com- 
mon cauldron, from which the mob 
are fed and made to drink in order 
to stimulate them with the spirit of 
progress for the coming election. At 
bottom it amounts to the same the 
stupefaction of the multitude, the 
rule of a minority, in which, however, 
all consider themselves as having 
part, the folly, of the nineteenth cen- 
tury." 

" This is an unhealthy condition 
of things, which gives reason to fear 
the corruption of the whole body po- 
litic," remarked the landholder with 
seriousness. " The seats of the legis- 
lative chamber should be filled not 
through bribery and deception of the 
masses, nor through party passion, 
but through a right appreciation of 
the qualifications that fit a man for 
the office of deputy." 

" I ask your pardon, my dear 
friend," interposed the banker with a 
laugh. " Being reared by a mother 
having a rigorous faith has prompt- 
ed you to speak thus, not acquaint- 
ance with the spirit of the age. 
Right appreciation ! Heavens, what 
naivete .' Are you not aware that 
progress, the autocrat of our times, 
follows a fixed, unchanging pro- 
gramme ? It matters not whether 
Tom or Dick occupies the cushions 
of the legislative hall; the main 
point is to wear the color of progress, 
and for this no special qualifications 



are needed. I will give you an illus- 
tration of the way in which these 
things work. Let us suppose that 
every member is provided with a 
trumpet which he takes with him to 
the assembly. To blow this trumpet 
neither skill, nor quick perception, 
nor experience, nor knowledge 
neither of these qualifications is nec- 
essary. Now, we will suppose these 
gentlemen assembled in the great 
hall where the destinies of the coun- 
try are decided ; should abuses' need 
correction, should legislation for 
church or state be required, they 
have only to blow the trumpet of 
progress. The trumpet's tone invari- 
ably accords with the spirit of pro- 
gress, for it has been attuned to it. 
Should it happen that at a final vote 
upon a measure the trumpets bray 
loudly enough to drown the opposi- 
tion of democrats and Ultramon- 
tanes, the matter is settled, the law' 
is passed, the question is decided." 

" Evidently you exaggerate !" 
said Seraphin with a shake of the 
head. " Your illustration beats the 
enchanted horn of the fable. Do 
not you think so, Miss Louise ?" 

" Brother's trumpet story is rather 
odd, 'tis true, yet I believe that at 
bottom such is really the state of 
things." 

" The instrument in question is 
objectionable in your opinion, my 
friend, only because you still bear 
about you the narrow conscience of 
an age long since buried. As you 
never spend more than two short 
winter months in the city, where alone 
the life-pulse of our century can be 
felt beating, you remain unacquaint- 
ed with the present and its spirit. 
The rest of the year you pass in rid- 
ing about on your lands, suffering 
yourself to be impressed by the stern 
rigor of nature's laws, and conclud- 
ing that human society harmonizes 
in the same manner with the behests 



43 6 



The Progressionists. 



of fixed principles. I shall have to 
brush you up a little. I shall have to 
let you into the mysteries of progress, 
so that you may cease groping like a 
blind man in the noonday of en- 
lightenment. Above all, let us have 
no narrow-mindedness, no scrupulosi- 
ty, I beg of you. Whosoever now- 
adays walks the grass-grown paths 
of rigorism is a doomed man." 

Whilst he was saying this, a smile 
was on the banker's countenance. 
Seraphin mused in silence on the 
meaning 'and purpose of his extraor- 
dinary language. 

" Look down the street, if you 
please," continued Carl Greifmann. 
" Do you observe yon dark mass just 
passing under the gas-lamp ?" 

" I notice a pretty corpulent gen- 
tleman," answered Seraphin. 

" The corpulent gentleman is Mr. 
Hans Shund, formerly treasurer of 
this city," explained Greifmann. 
" Many years ago, Mr. Shund put his 
hand into the public treasury, was 
detected, removed for dishonesty, 
and imprisoned for five years. When 
set at liberty, the ex-treasurer made 
the loaning of money on interest a 
source of revenue. He conducted 
this business with shrewdness, ruined 
many a family that needed money 
and in its necessity applied to him, 
and became rich. Shund the usurer 
is known to all the town, despised 
and hated by everybody. Even the 
dogs cannot endure the odor of usur^ 
that hangs about him ; just see all 
the dogs bark at him. Shund is more- 
over an extravagant admirer of the 
gentler sex. All the town is aware 
that this Jack Falstaff contributes 
largely to the scandal that is afloat. 
The pious go so far as to declare 
that the gallant Shund will be burn- 
ed and roasted in hell for all eternity 
for not respecting the sixth command- 
ment. Considered in the light of 
the time honored morality of Old 



Franconia, Shund, the thief, the usu- 
rer and adulterer, is a low, good-for- 
nothing scoundrel, no question about 
it. But in the light of the indulgent 
spirit of the times, no more can be 
said than that he has his foibles. He 
is about to pass byon-the other side, 
and, as a well-bred man, will salute 
us." 

Seraphin had attentively observed 
the man thus characterized, but with 
the feelings with which one views an 
ugly blotch, a dirty page in the re- 
cord of humanity. 

Mr. Shund lowered his hat, his 
neck and back, with oriental ceremo- 
niousness in presence of the millions 
on the balcony. Carl acknowledg- 
ed the salute, and even Louise re- 
turned it with a friendly inclination 
of the head. 

The landholder, on the contrary, 
was cold, and felt hurt at Greifmann's 
bowing to a fellow whom he had 
just described as a scoundrel. That 
Louise, too, should condescend to 
smile to a thief, swindler, usurer, and 
immoral wretch ! In his opinion, 
Louise should have followed the dic- 
tates of a noble womanhood, and 
have looked with honest pity on the 
scapegrace. She, on the contrary , 
greeted the bad man as though he 
were respectable, and this conduct 
wounded the young man's feelings. 

" Apropos of Hans Shund, I will 
take occasion to convince you of the 
correctness of my statements," said 
Carl Greifmann. " Three days 
hence, the municipal election is to 
come off. Mr. Shund is to be elect- 
ed mayor. And when the election 
of deputies takes place, this same 
Shund will command enough of the 
confidence and esteem of his fellow- 
citizens to be elected to the legisla- 
tive assembly, thief and usurer though 
he be. You will then, I trust, learn 
to understand that the might of pro- 
gress is far removed from the bigotry 



The Progressionists. 



437 



that would subject a man's qualifica- 
tions to a microscopic examination. 
The enlarged and liberal principles 
prevailing in secular concerns are op- 
posed to the intolerance that would 
insist on knowing something of an 
able man's antecedents before con- 
senting to make use of him. All 
that Shund will have to do will be 
to fall in under the glorious banner 
of the spirit of the age ; his voting 
trumpet will be given him ; and forth- 
with he will turn out a finished may- 
or and deputy. Do you not ad 
mire the power and stretch of liberal- 
ism?''' 

" I certainly do admire your facul- 
ty for making up plausible stories," 
answered Seraphin. 

" Plausible stories ? Not at all ! 
Downright earnest, every word of it. 
Hans Shund, take my word for it, 
will be elected mayor and member 
of the assembly." 

'' In that event," replied the land- 
holder, " Shund's disreputable ante- 
cedents and disgusting conduct at 
present must be altogether a secret 
to his constituents." 

" Again you are mistaken, my dear 
friend. This remark proceeds from 
your want of acquaintance with the 
genius of our times. This city has thir- 
ty thousand inhabitants. Every adult 
among them has heard of Hans Shund 
the thief, usurer, and companion of 
harlots. And I assure you that not a 
voter, not a progressive member of 
our community, thinks himself doing 
what is at all reprehensible by con- 
ferring dignity and trust on Hans 
Shund. You have no idea how 
comprehensive is the soul of liberal- 
ism." 

" Let us quit a subject that appears 
to me impossible, nay, even unnatu- 
ral," said Gerlach. 

' No, no ; for this very reason you 
need to be convinced," insisted the 
banker with earnestness. " My pro- 



spective but hold I was almost 
guilty of a want of delicacy. No 
matter, my actual friend, landholder 
and millionaire, must be made see 
with his eyes and touch with his fin- 
gers what marvels progress can effect. 
Let us make a bet: Eighteen days 
from now Hans Shund will be mayor 
and member for this city. I shall 
stake ten thousand florins. You 
may put in the pair of bays that 
won the best prizes at the last 
races." 

Seraphin hesitated. 

" Come on !" urged the banker. 
" Since you refuse to believe my as- 
sertions, let us make a bet. May 
be you consider my stakes too small 
against yours ? Very well, I will say 
twenty thousand florins." 

" You will be the loser, Greifmann ! 
Your statements are too unreason- 
able." 

" Never mind ; if I lose, you will 
be the winner. Do you take me 
up?" 

" Pshaw, Carl ! you are too sure," 
said Louise reproachfully. 

" My feeling so sure is what makes 
me eager to win the finest pair of 
horses I ever saw. Is it possible 
that you are a coward ?" 

The landholder's face reddened. 
He put his right hand in the banker's. 
" My dear fellow," exclaimed he jubi- 
lantly, " I have just driven a splendid 
bargain. To convince you of the 
entire fairness of the transaction, you 
are to be present at the manipulation 
that is to decide. Even though you 
lose the horses, your gain is incalcu- 
lable, for it consists in nothing less 
than being convinced of the wonder- 
ful nature and of the omnipotence of 
progress. I repeat, then, that, wher- 
ever progress reigns, the elections are 
the supreme folly of the nineteenth 
century ; for in reality there is no 
electing ; but what progress decrees, 
that is fulfilled." 



438 



The Progress ion ists. 



CHAPTER II. 
THE LEADERS. 

The banker was seated at his office 
table working for his chance in the 
wager with the industry of a 
thorough business man. Whilst he 
was engaged in writing notes, a smile 
indicative of certainty of success lit 
up his countenance ; for he was 
thoroughly familiar with the figures 
that entered into his calculations, 
and, withal, Hans Shund invested 
with offices and dignity could not 
but strike him as a comical anomaly. 
" Happy thought ! My father trav- 
els half of the globe; many wonder- 
ful things come under his observa- 
tion, no doubt, but the greatest of all 
prodigies is to be witnessed right 
here : Hans Shund, the thief, swin- 
dler, usurer, wanton mayor and 
law-maker! And it is the venerable 
sire Progress that alone could have 
begotten the prodigy of a Hans 
Shund invested with honors. My 
Lord Progress is therefore himself 
a prodigy a very extraordinary 
offspring of the human mind, the 
culminating point of enlightenment. 
Admitting humanity to be ten thou- 
sand million years old, or even more, 
as the most learned of scientific men 
have accurately calculated it, during 
this rather long series of years na- 
ture never produced a marvel that 
might presume to claim rank with 
progress. Progress is the acme of 
human culture about this there can 
be no question. Yes, indeed, the 
acme." And he finished the last word 
in the last note. " Humanity will 
therefore have to face about and be- 
gin again at the beginning ; for after 
progress nothing else is possible." 
He rang his bell. 

"Take these three notes to their 
respective addresses immediately," 
said he to the servant who had an- 



swered the ring. Greifmann stepped 
into the front office, and gave an or- 
der to the cashier. Returning to his 
own cabinet, he locked the door that 
opened into the front office. He 
then examined several iron safes, the 
modest and smooth polish of which 
suggested neither the hardness of 
their iron nature nor the splendor of 
their treasures. 

" Gold or paper ?" said the bank- 
er to himself. After some indecision, 
he opened the second of the safes. 
This he effected by touching several 
concealed springs, using various keys, 
and finally shoving back a huge bolt 
by means of a very small blade. He 
drew out twenty packages of paper, 
and laid them in two rows on the 
table. He undid the tape encircling 
the packages, and then it appeared 
that every leaf of both rows was a 
five-hundred florin banknote. The 
banker had exposed a considerable 
sum on the table. A sudden thought 
caused him to smile, and he shoved 
the banknotes where they came more 
prominently into view. 

The blooming double millionaire 
entered. 

" Sit down a moment, friend Sera- 
phin, and listen to a short account 
of my scheme. I have said before 
that our city is prospering and grow- 
ing under the benign sceptre of pro- 
gress. The powers and honors of the 
sceptre are portioned among three 
leaders. Everything is directed and 
conducted by them of course, in 
harmony with the spirit of the times. 
I have summoned the aforesaid mag- 
nates to appear. That the business 
may be despatched with a comfort- 
able degree of expedition, the time 
when the visit is expected has been 
designated in each note ; and those 
gentlemen are punctual in all matters 
connected with money and the bank. 
You can enter this little apartment, 
next to us, and by leaving the door 



The Progressionists. 



439 



open hear the conversation. The 
mightiest of the corypheuses is 
Schwefel, the straw-hat manufacturer. 
This potentate resides at a three-min- 
utes walk from here, and can put in 
an appearance at any time." 

" I am on tiptoe !" said Gerlach. 
<{ You promise what is so utterly in- 
credible, that the things you are pre- 
paring to reveal appear to me like 
adventures belonging to another 
world." 

" To another world ! quite right, 
my dear fellow ! I am indeed about 
to display to your astounded eyes 
some wonders of the world of pro- 
gress that hitherto have been entirely 
unknown to you. Within eighteen 
days you shall, under my tutorship, 
receive useful and thorough instruc- 
tion. This promise I can make you, 
as we are just in face of the elections, 
a time when minds put aside their 
disguises, when they not unfrequently 
shock one another, and when many 
secrets come to light !" 

" You put me under many obliga- 
tions !" 

" Only doing my duty, my most es- 
teemed ! We are both aware that, 
according to the wishes of parents 
and the desired inclinations of parties 
known, our respective millions are to 
approach each other in closer rela- 
tionship. To do a relative of mine 
in spe a favor, gives me unspeakable 
satisfaction. I shall proceed with 
my course of instruction. See here ! - 
Every one of these twenty packages 
contains twenty five-hundred florin 
banknotes. Consequently, both rows 
contain just two hundred thousand 
florins an imposing sum assured- 
ly, and, for the purpose of being im- 
posing, the two hundred thousand 
have been laid upon this table. Ex- 
planation : the mightiest of the spir- 
its of progress is Money. 

" All forces, all sympathies, revolve 
about money as the heavenly bodies re- 



volve about the sun. For this reason 
the mere proximity of a considerable 
sum of money acts upon every man cf 
progress like a current of electricity : 
it carries him away, it intoxicates his 
senses. The leaders whom I have in- 
vited will at once notice the collec- 
tion of five-hundred florin notes : in 
the rapidity of calculating, they will 
overestimate the amount, and obtain 
impressions in proportion, somewhat 
like the Jews that prostrated them- 
selves in the dust in adoration of the 
golden calf. As for me, my dear 
fellow, I shall carry on my operations 
in the auspicious presence of this 
power of two hundred thousands. 
Such a display of power will produce 
in the leaders a frame of mind made 
up of veneration, worship, and un- 
conditional submissiveness. Every 
word of mine will proceed authorita- 
tively from the golden mouth of the 
two hundred thousands, and my pro- 
posals it will be impossible for them 
to reject. But listen ! The door of 
the ante-room is being opened. The 
mightiest is approaching. Go in 
quick." He pressed the spring of a 
concealed door, and Seraphin disap- 
peared. 

When the straw-hat manufacturer 
entered, the banker was sitting before 
the banknotes apparently absorbed 
in intricate calculations. 

" Ah Mr. Schwefel ! pardon the 
liberty I have taken of sending for 
you. The pressure of business," 
motioning significantly towards the 
banknotes, " has ' made it impossible 
for me to call upon you." 

"No trouble, Mr. Greifmann, no 
trouble whatever !" rejoined the man- 
ufacturer with profound bows. 

" Have the goodness to take a 
seat!" And he drew an arm-chair 
quite near to where the money lay 
displayed. Schwefel perceived they 
were live-hundreds, estimated the 
amount of the nite . in- a, few rapid 



440 



The Progressionists. 



glances, and felt secret shudderings 
of awe passing through his person. 

" The cause of my asking you in is 
a business matter of some magni- 
tude," began the banker. " There is 
a house in Vienna with which we 
stand in friendly relations, and which 
has ivery extensive connections in 
Hungary. The gentlemen of this 
house have contracts for furnishing 
large orders of straw hats destined 
mostly for Hungary, and they wish to 
know whether they can obtain favora- 
ble terms of purchase at the manu- 
factories of this country. It is a 
business matter involving a great 
deal of money. Their confidence in 
the friendly interest of our firm, and 
in our thorough acquaintance with 
local circumstances, has encouraged 
them to apply to us for an accurate 
report upon this subject. They inti- 
mate, moreover, that they desire to 
enter into negotiations with none but 
solid establishments, and for this rea- 
son are supposed to be guided by 
our judgment. As you are aware, 
this country has a goodly number of 
straw-hat manufactories. I would 
feel inclined, however, as far as it 
may be in my power, to give your 
establishment the advantage of our 
recommendation, and would there- 
fore like to get from you a written list 
of fixed prices of all the various 
sorts." 

" I am, indeed, under many ob- 
ligations to you, Mr. Greifmann, for 
your kind consideration," said the 
manufacturer, nodding repeatedly. 
" Your own experience can testify to 
the durability of my work, and I 
shall give the most favorable rates 
possible." 

" No doubt," rejoined the banker 
with haughty reserve. "You must 
not forget that the straw-hat busi- 
ness is out of our line. It is incum- 
bent on us, however, to oblige a 
friendly house. I shall therefore make 



a similar proposal to two other large 
manufactories, and, after consulting 
with men of experience in this branch, 
shall give the house in Vienna the 
advice we consider most to its in- 
terest, that is, shall reconmiend the 
establishment most worthy of recom- 
mendation." 

Mr. Schwefel's excited counte- 
nance became somewhat lengthy. 

" You should not fail of an ac- 
ceptable acknowledgment from me, 
were you to do me the favor of 
recommending my goods," explained 
the 'manufacturer. 

The banker's coldness was not in 
the slightest degree altered by the 
implied bribe. He appeared not 
even to have noticed it. " It is also 
my desire to be able to recommend 
you," said he curtly, carelessly taking 
up a package of the banknotes and 
playing with ten thousand florins as if 
they were so many valueless scraps of 
paper. " Well, we are on the eve of 
the election," remarked he ingenuous- 
ly. " Have you fixed upon a magis- 
trate and mayor ?" 

" All in order, thank you, Mr. 
Greifmann !" 

"And are you quite sure of the 
order ?" 

" Yes ; for we are well organized, 
Mr. Greifmann. If it interests you, I 
will consider it as an honor to be al- 
lowed to send you a list of the can- 
didates." 

" I hope you have not passed over 
ex-treasurer Shund ?" 

This question took Mr. Schvvefel 
by surprise, and a peculiar smile 
played on his features. 

" The world is and ever will be 
ungrateful," continued the banker, as 
though he did not notice the aston- 
ishment of the manufacturer. " I 
could hardly think of an abler and 
more sterling character for the of- 
fice of "mayor of the city than Mr. 
Shund. Our corporation is consider- 



The Progressionists. 



441 



ably in debt. Mr. Shund is known to 
be an accurate financier, and an eco- 
nomical householder. We just now 
need for the administration of our 
city household a mayor that under- 
stands reckoning closely, and that 
will curtail unnecessary expenses, so 
as to do away with the yearly in- 
creasing deficit in the budget. More- 
over, Mr. Shund is a noble charac- 
ter ; for he is always ready to aid 
those who are in want of money 
on interest, of course. Then, again, 
he knows law, and we very much 
want a lawyer at the head of our 
city 'government. In short, the 
interests of this corporation require 
that Mr. Shund be chosen chief mag- 
istrate. It is a subject of wonder to 
me that progress, usually so clear- 
sighted, has heretofore passed Mr. 
Shund by, despite his numerous qua- 
lifications. Abilities should be called 
into requisition for the public weal. 
To be candid, Mr. Schwefel, nothing 
disgusts me so much as the slight- 
ing of great ability," concluded the 
banker contemptuously. 

" Are you acquainted with Shund's 
past career ?" asked the leader dif- 
fidently. 

" Why, yes ! Mr. Shund once put 
his hand in the wrong drawer, but 
that was a long time ago. Whoso- 
ever amongst you is innocent, let 
him cast the first stone at him. Be- 
sides, Shund has made good his fault 
by restoring what he filched. He 
has even atoned for the momentary 
weakness by five years of imprison- 
ment." 

"Tis true; but Shund's theft and 
imprisonment are still very fresh in 
people's memory," said Schwefel. 
" Shund is notorious, moreover, as a 
hard-hearted usurer. He has gotten 
ricli through shrewd money specu- 
lations, but he has also brought seve- * 
ral families to utter ruin. The indig- 
nation of the whole city is excited 



against the usurer; and, finally, Shund 
indulges a certain filthy passion with 
such effrontery and barefacedness 
that every respectable female can- 
not but blush at being near him. 
These characteristics were unknown 
to you, Mr. Greifmann ; for you too 
will not hesitate an instant to admit 
that a man of such low practices 
must never fill a public office." 

" I do not understand you, and I 
am surprised !" said the millionaire. 
" You call Shund a usurer, and you 
say that the indignation of the whole 
town is upon him. Might I request 
from you the definition of a usurer ?" 

" They are commonly called usur- 
ers who put out money at exorbitant, 
illegal interest." 

" You forget, my dear Mr. Schwe- 
fel, that speculation is no longer con- 
fined to the five per cent. rate. A 
correct insight into the circumstances 
of the times has induced our legisla- 
ture to leave the rate of interest alto- 
gether free. Consequently, a usur- 
er has gotten to be an impossibility. 
Were Shund to ask fifty per cent, and 
more, he would be entitled to it." 

" That is so ; for the moment I 
had overlooked the existence of the 
law," said the manufacturer, some- 
what humiliated. " Yet I have not 
told you all concerning the usurer. 
Beasts of prey and vampires inspire 
an involuntary disgust or fear. No- 
body could find pleasure in meeting 
a hungry wolf, or in having his blood 
sucked by a vampire. The usurer is 
both vampire and wolf. He hankers 
to suck the very marrow from the . 
bones of those who in financial 
straits have recourse to him. When 
an embarrassed person borrows from 
him, that person is obliged to mort- 
sase twice the amount that he actu- 

O O 

ally receives. The usurer is a heart- 
less strangler, an insatiable glutton. 
He is perpetually goaded on by cov- 
etousness to work the material ruin of 



442 



Progressionists. 



others, only so that the ruin of his 
neighbor may benefit himself. In 
short, the usurer is a monster so 
frightful, a brute so devoid of con- 
science, that the very sight of him ex- 
cites horror and disgust. Just such a 
monster is Shund in the eyes of all 
who know him and the whole city 
knows him. Hence the man is the 
object of general aversion." 

" Why, this is still worse, still more 
astonishing !" rejoined the millionaire 
with animation. " I thought our 
city enlightened. I should have ex- 
pected from the intelligence and 
judgment of our citizens that they 
would have deferred neither to the 
sickly sentimentalism of a bigoted 
morality nor to the absurdity of ob- 
solete dogmas. If your description 
of the usurer, which might at least 
be styled poetico-religious, is an ex- 
pression of the prevailing spirit of 
this city, I shall certainly have to 
lower my estimate of its intelligence 
and culture." 

The leader hastened to correct the 
misunderstanding. 

" I beg your pardon, Mr. Greif- 
mann! You may rest assured that 
we can boast all the various conquests 
made by modern advancement. Re- 
ligious enthusiasm and foolish cred- 
ulity are poisonous plants that super- 
annuated devotees are perhaps still 
continuing to cultivate here and 
there in pots, but which the soil will 
no longer produce in the open air. 
The sort of education prevailing 
hereabout is that which has freed it- 
self from hereditary religious preju- 
dices. Our town is blessed with all 
the benefits of progress, with liberty 
of thought, and freedom from the 
thraldom of a dark, designing priest- 
hood." 

" How comes it, then, that a 
man is an object of contempt for act-' 
ing in accordance with the princi- 
ples of this much lauded progress ?" 



asked the millionaire, with unexpected 
sarcasm. " We are indebted to pro- 
gress for the abolition of a legal rate 
of interest. Shund takes advantage 
of this conquest, and for doing so citi- 
zens who boast of being progressive 
look upon him with aversion. A fur- 
ther triumph secured by progress is 
freedom from the tyranny of dogmas 
and the tortures of a conscience cre- 
ated by a contracted morality. This 
beautiful fruit of the tree of enlight- 
ened knowledge Shund partakes of 
and enjoys; and for this he has the 
distinction of passing for a vampire. 
And because he displays the spirit of 
an energetic business man, because 
his capacity for speculating occasion- 
ally overwhelms blockheads and 
dunces, he is decried as a ravenous 
wolf. It is sad ! If your statements 
are correct, Mr. Schwefel, our city 
ought not to boast of being progres- 
sive. Its citizens are sffill groping in 
the midnight darkness of religious su- 
perstition, scarcely even united with 
modern intellectual advancement. 
And to me the consciousness is most 
uncomfortable of breathing an atmo- 
sphere poisoned by the decaying 
remnants of an age long since 
buried." 

" My own personal views accord 
with yours," protested Schwefel can- 
didly. " The subversion of the anti- 
quated, absurd articles of faith and 
moral precept necessarily entails the 
abrogation of the consequences that 
flow from them for public life. For 
centuries the cross was a symbol of 
dignity, and the doctrine of the Cru- 
cified resulted in holiness. Pagan- 
ism, on the contrary, looked upon the 
gospel as foolishness, as a hallucina- 
tion, and upon the cross as a sign of 
shame. I belong to the classic 
ranks, and so do millions like my- 
self among them Mr. Shund. 
Viewed in the light of progress, 
Shund is neither a vampire nor a 



A History of the Gothic Revival in England. 443 



wolf; at the worst, he is merely an 
ill-used business man. They who 
suffer themselves to be humbugged 
and fleeced by him have their own 
stupidity to thank for it. This expo- 
sition will convince you that I stand 
on a level with yourself in the matter 
of advanced enlightenment. Never- 
theless, you overlook, Mr. Greif- 
mann, that, so far as the masses of the 
people are concerned, reverence for 
the cross and the holiness of its doc- 
trines continue to prevail. The ac- 
quisitions of progress are not yet gen- 



erally diffused. The mines of modern 
intellectual culture are being provi- 
sionally worked by a select number of 
independent, bold natures. The 
multitude, on the other hand, still 
continue folding about them the 
winding-sheet of Christianity. The 
views, customs, principles, and judg- 
ments of men are as yet widely con- 
trolled by Christian elements. Our 
city does homage to progress, pretty 
nearly, however, in the manner of 
a blind man that discourses of 
colors. 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



A HISTORY OF THE GOTHIC REVIVAL IN ENGLAND.* 



WE purpose giving in this article 
a sketch, as far as our limited 
space will allow, of a costly and 
beautiful work published in London 
under the above title. Many of our 
readers will perhaps turn willingly to 
the history of a movement which is 
not without its echo in America, and 
which the future bids fair to foster 
and popularize wherever the Anglo- 
Saxon tongue and spirit have sway. 
A work treating of such very mod- 
ern and recent events in the history 
of art is not easily reducible to 
salient divisions ; yet, having to be 
brief, we must necessarily endeavor 
to be clear, and we will, therefore, 
pick out a few prominent ideas, which, 
we hope, will be more interesting to 
the general reader than the mass of 
technical detail in which Eastlake's 
book naturally (and very properly) 
abounds. We have also to promise 
that we wish only to state and quote 

* A History of the Gothic Revival in England. 
By Charles L. Eastlake, F.R.I.B.A., Architect. 
-London : Longman & Green. 



facts, or such anecdotes and profes- 
sional opinions as give our history 
an individual interest, not to drag up 
the vexed questions which have made 
the venerable words " Gothic " and 
" mediasval " signs of warfare and 
contradiction. This is a pure chroni- 
cle of accomplished facts, and ad- 
dresses itself only to such as already 
lean to the esthetic principles of 
those " dark ages " of spiritual light 
which gave us along with Monasti- 
cism the great conservative power, 
Feudalism the progressive power, 
the check on royal autocracy, the 
guardian of Magna Charta, the parent 
of constitutional liberty. 

Passing by the history and litera- 
ture of Gothic art since its decay in the 
sixteenth to its full revival in the nine- 
teenth century, we are attracted by the 
subject of its symbolism, over which 
such fierce and sometimes ludicrous 
battles have been fought ; but, even 
before the symbolism of the art, -its 
very origin was made a subject of 
curious dispute. For instance, the 



444 



A History of the Gothic Revival in England. 



author of this work says : " In the 
beginning of this century, various 
arguments were rife. The style was 
Gothic ; it was Saracenic ; it had been 
brought to England by the crusa- 
ders ; it had been invented by the 
Moors in Spain ; it might be traced 
to the pyramids of Egypt. One 
ingenious theorist endeavored to 
reconcile all opinions in his compre- 
hensive hypothesis that the style of 
architecture which we call cathedral 
or monastic Gothic was manifestly 
a corruption of the sacred architec- 
ture of the Greeks and Romans, by 
a mixture of the Moorish or Saracen- 
esque, which is formed out of a com- 
bination of Egyptian, Persian, and 
Hindoo !" 

Of symbolism, and the intimate 
union of the religious and artistic 
spirit, Eastlake says : " In modern 
days, we have unconsciously drawn a 
distinction between religious art and 
popular art. In the middle ages, 
they were thoroughly blended ; " 
but he goes on to infer from this 
blending that, according to the old ad- 
age, " Familiarity breeds contempt," 
there was no reverential and spiritual 
idea whatever embodied in the work 
of the mediaeval carvers and archi- 
tects. We, by the light of our 
faith, the heirloom of the very times 
we speak of, believe him to be either 
unconsciously prejudiced or mistaken. 
Ke seems to scout the idea of the 
deviation of the line of the chancel 
from the line of the nave, an occa- 
sional feature in some old churches 
(for instance, the Abbey of St. Denys, 
near Paris), being a symbol of the in- 
clination of Our Lord's head upon 
the cross. It is but a tradition, a 
pious belief, it is true ; but why throw 
doubt upon it? If it really was 
meant as a symbol, he asks why was 
it not so in all churches ? And 'if the 
triplet window typified the Trinity, 
why were two or five light windows 



used ? Simply because the symbol 
was optional, yet none the less a 
symbol. From the old symbolism 
of the forgotten artists of past days, 
we come to the miscalled " Pre- 
Raphaelite " naturalism of modern 
architects. Ruskin with all his 
merits, of which we will speak more 
fully further on, had an exaggerated 
tendency to find in carving an exact 
copy from nature, and to condemn 
anything in that line that did not ab- 
solutely reproduce some organic 
form. Eastlake himself expresses 
his own views on the subject in the 
following words : " In the gable [of 
St. Finbar's, Cork], ... a seated figure 
of Christ is to occupy a vesica-shaped 
panel, with angels censing on each 
side. Of these works, executed by 
Mr. Thomas Nicholls from Mr. 
Surges' design, it is not too much 
to say that no finer examples of deco- 
rative sculpture have been produced 
during the Revival. They exactly 
represent that intermediate condition 
between natural form and abstract 
idealism which is the essence of 
mediaeval, and indeed of all noble 
art." From this subject we are 
led to the kindred one of the con- 
trast between old work and new. 
Our author repeatedly returns to this 
point. Here are some amusing 
sayings about the deplorable ' tame- 
ness ' of modern sculpture : " The 
Roman Catholic churches erected at 
this period (1850) had one decided 
advantage over those designed for 
the Establishment, viz., the richness 
of their interiors. ... A tamely 
carved reredos, generally arranged in 
panels to hold the Ten Command- 
ments (!), a group of sedilia and a 
piscina, with perhaps a few empty 
inches in the clerestory, were, as a 
rule, all the internal features which 
distinguished an Anglican church 
from a meeting-house." So that 
wherever art is concerned, an uncon- 



A History of the Gothic Revival in England. 



445 



scious tribute is naturally offered to 
the church ! Again and again, our 
author vigorously denounces the 
dead imitation of living and forcible 
models, which is in the spirit of a 
" Chinese engraver who should un- 
dertake to imitate, line for line and 
spot for spot, a damaged print." 
" Every one," he says, " who has 
studied the principles of mediaeval 
art, knows how much its character 
and vitality depend upon the essen- 
tial element of decorative sculpture, 
of the spirit of what Ruskin has 
called ' noble grotesque,' in its nerv- 
ous types of animal life and vig- 
orous conventionalism of vegetable 
form. ... To copy line for line, 
even when sound and fresh from 
the chisel, and yet preserve the 
spirit of the original, would have 
been difficult in the best ages of art. 
The mediaeval sculptors never 
to use an artistic phrase repeated 
themselves. If the conditions of 
their work required a certain degree 
of uniformity in design, they took 
care to aim at the spirit, but not the 
letter, of symmetry. . . . They took 
the birds of the air and the flowers of 
the field for their study, but seemed 
to know instinctively the true secret 
of all decorative art, which lies in the 
suggestion and symbolism, rather 
than the presumptuous illustration of 
natural form." " Since," continues 
Eastlake, " we cannot ' restore ' the 
thoughts and stamp of the artists of 
old, we should the more sedulously 
watch what we have left of such 
traces, and prop up and secure that 
which a little common care might 
long preserve to us." Of an unfor- 
tunate modern carver, he says : " Im- 
partial critics who compare the me- 
diaeval carving with its modern sub- 
stitute will probably consider the 
neat finish and anatomical correct- 
ness of Westmacott's groups a poor 
exchange for the earnest and vigor- 



ous, though somewhat rude, treat- 
ment of the old design. King 
George's loyal subjects thought they 
knew better than those of King Ed- 
ward ; . . . their work was not clever ; 
it was not interesting; it was not 
lifelike ; it was not humorous ; it 
was not even ugly after a good 
honest fashion it was deplorably 
and hopelessly mean. . . . All these 
accidents combine not only to de- 
deprive the building of scale, but to 
give it a cold and machine-made look. 
In a far different spirit the mediaeval 
designers worked. . . . Fifty years ago, 
. . . there was naturalistic carving 
and there was ornamental carving, 
but the noble abstractive treatment 
which should find a middle place 
between them, and which was one of 
the glories of ancient art, had still to 
be revived." In whimsical pursuance 
of his subject, he says elsewhere that 
before Pugin's days " an architect 
would no more have thought of in- 
troducing a porch on the south aisle 
which had not its counterpart on the 
north, than he would have dared to 
wear a coat of which the right sleeve 
was longer than the left." Ruskin, 
too, seems to have thought a coat a 
very effective instrument of illustra- 
tion : here is his version of the like- 
ness between the tailor's and the 
modern architect's occupations. " A 
day never passes," he says in his 
Seven Lamps of Architecture, " with- 
out our hearing our English archi- 
tects called upon to be original, 
and to invent a new style ; about as 
sensible and necessary an exhorta- 
tion as to ask of a man who has 
never had rags enough on his back 
to keep out the cold to invent a 
new mode of cutting a coat. Give 
him a whole coat first, and let him 
concern himself about the fashion 
afterwards. We want no new style 
of architecture. Who wants a new 
style of painting or of sculpture ? 



446 



A History of the Gothic Revival in England. 



But we want some style." To re- 
turn to Eastlake's strongly accen- 
tuated views of mediaeval carving : 
he has summed them up in one 
sentence, as terse and vigorous as 
the old sculptural handiwork itself. 
" During the Revival," he says, " it 
took a decade of years to teach 
workmen to carve carefully. It took 
another to get them to carve simply. 
We may expect more than a third 
to elapse before they have learnt to 
carve nobly." With one more quo- 
tation which is too humorous to 
miss, we will close this part of the 
history of the Revival : " There is 
no want of manipulative skill or of 
imitative ability, but from some cause 
or another there is a great want of 
spirit in the present carver's work. 
The mediaeval sculptor, with half the 
care and less than half the finish 
now bestowed on such details, man- 
aged to throw life and vigor into the 
capitals and panel subjects that grew 
beneath his chisel. The ' angel 
choir ' at Lincoln is rudely executed 
compared with many a modern bas- 
relief, but the features of the winged 
minstrels are radiant with celestial 
happiness. There are figures of 
kings crumbling into dust in the 
niches of Exeter Cathedral which re- 
tain even now a dignity of attitude 
and lordly grace which no ' re- 
storation ' is likely to revive. Our 
nineteenth century angels look like 
demure Bible-readers, somewhat loo 
conscious of their piety to be in- 
teresting. Our nineteenth century 
monarchs seem (in stone, at least) 
very well-to-do pleasant gentlemen, 
but are scarcely of a heroic type. 
The roses and lilies, the maple 
foliage and forked spleenwort, with 
which we crown our pillars or deck 
our cornices, are cut with wonderful 
precision and neatness, but somehow 
they miss the charm of old-world 
handicraft. . . . The truth is, that 



in the apparent imperfections of some 
arts lies the real secret of their ex- 
cellence. For instance, the superior 
quality of color which long dis- 
tinguished old (stained) glass from 
new was due in a great measure to 
its streakiness and irregularity of 
tint." We would here submit to the 
talented and enthusiastic author that 
the spirit of ancient art, the loss of 
which he so vehemently deplores, 
is intimately connected with that 
Catholic symbolism he so cava- 
lierly dismisses. The Reformation 
took away the reality of faith from 
the souls of modern Christians; it 
could not but weaken likewise the 
realization of faith which for so 
many ages had inspired the hands 
of Christian artists. A noble orator, 
who is as much an artist in soul as 
he is a priest in fact, and in whom 
Ireland and Irish America claim 
equal pride, said from the pulpit very 
recently, and in a church of New 
York, that animal painting, the lowest 
of the products of brush or pencil, 
was hardly known in its present de- 
velopment before the famous Refor- 
mation. The first painter who took 
to this earthy style was a German 
Lutheran in Naples, an emissary of 
the growing intellectual " disfran- 
chisement " of the sixteenth century ; 
and his fellow-artists, who hitherto 
had never looked lower than heaven 
itself for their models, would not 
speak to him, nor recognize him as 
one of themselves, saying in a tone 
of contempt, " There goes the man 
who paints cows and horses ! " As 
the old spirit died away, the forms of 
art "grew downwards more and more 
till we were reduced to roots and 
herbs, onions and cabbages, and 
foaming tankards of beer, and were 
expected to find for these some words 
of praise on account of their fidelity 
(shall we not rather say servility ?) 
to nature. Even now, the correct 



A History of the Gothic Revival in England. 447 



texture and pattern of a bed-quilt or 
a woman's dress is a thing strained 
after by modern painters of supposed 
merit. In the face of this three hun- 
dred years old debasement of art, 
who could expect to revive the 
spirit of mediaeval carving without 
first reviving that of mediaeval faith ? 
And here we are naturally led to 
speak of Pugin, the great apostle of 
the Gothic Revival, the most me- 
diaeval-spirited of ail its known 
leaders ; the man whose art, in fact, 
was the instrument of his conversion. 
Although Eastlake tends towards 
depreciating the part and influence 
of our religion in this artistic crisis, 
and although, as he most truly and 
fairly says, our ceremonial, like our 
faith, can associate itself indifferently 
to any style, and therefore is sove- 
reignly independent of any, yet it 
remains no less true that the Catho- 
lic Church is so exclusively the real 
patroness of art that no artist-soul 
can fail to be attracted and won by" 
her. Overbeck, the great German 
painter, who established in Rome a 
school that revives and rivals the 
glories of Perugino, Giotto, Man- 
tegna, and Fra Angelico, was an 
artist before he became a Catholic, 
but he found himself unable to teach 
his art-ideal without the spirit which 
of old had created that ideal. So it 
was with Pugin. 

France and England have an equal 
claim to the honor of being the mother 
of the noblest, most earnest, truest 
artist, who has shared the vicissitudes 
and anxieties of our modern (and 
more beneficial) Renaissance. His 
father was a French refugee, an archi- 
tect of great merit, who had been 
associated in the early part of this 
century with Nash, the reigning archi- 
tect of that time. Pugin's youth seems 
to have been very adventurous; at all 
events, it shows the irrepressible energy 
of his nature. He was an enthusiast 



of the noblest type ; his life was in- 
fluenced by the purest motives. So, 
with all his genius and, as far as the 
educated public was concerned, his 
popularity, he was not overburdened 
with this world's goods. His work 
on Contrasts (of which we have 
had the privilege of seeing some of 
the original illustrations in etching) 
is thus noticed by Eastlake : 

" In 1836, Pugin published his cele- 
brated Contrasts a pungent satire on 
modern architecture as compared with 
that of the middle ages. The illustra- 
tions by himself afford evidence not only 
of great artistic power, but of a keen sense 
of humor. To the circulation of this 
work, we may attribute the care and 
jealousy with which our ancient churches 
and cathedrals have since been protected 
and kept in repair. In estimating the 
effect which Pugin's efforts, both as an 
artist and as an author, produced on the 
Gothic Revival, the only danger lies in the 
possibility of overrating their worth. The 
man whose name was for at least a quarter 
of a century a household word in every 
house where ancient art was loved and 
appreciated who fanned intoaflame*the 
smouldering fire of ecclesiastical senti- 
ment whose veiy faith was pledged to 
mediaeval tradition such a writer and 
such an architect will not easily be for- 
gotten so long as the aesthetic principles 
which he advocated are recognized and 
maintained. . . . Notwithstanding the 
size and importance of some of his build- 
ings, it must be confessed that in his 
house and the church at Ramsgate one 
recognizes more thorough and genuine 
examples of Pugin's genius . . . than 
elsewhere." 

The list of his works is really so 
extensive that we must confine our- 
selves by preference to one or two 
whose beauties we have had personal 
opportunities of admiring. 

Of these, happily, that of Rams- 
gate is one. " The whole church," 
says our author, " is lined with stone 
of a warm color, the woodwork of the 
screens, stalls, etc., being of dark 
oak. The general tone of the interior, 
lighted as it is by stained glass, is 



448 



A History of the Gothic Revival in England. 



most agreeable, and wonderfully 
suggestive of old work. . . . The 
church of St. Augustine may be re- 
garded as one of Pugin's most success- 
ful achievements. Its plan is singu- 
larly ingenious and unconventional 
in arrangement. The exterior is simple 
but picturesque in outline. No student 
of old English architecture can ex- 
amine this interesting little church 
without perceiving the thoughtful, 
earnest care with which it has been 
designed and executed down to the 
minutest detail." 

Omitting the technical description, 
which would be unintelligible to the 
non-professional reader, we will mere- 
ly remark upon one or two interesting 
circumstances which combine to make 
St. Augustine's Priory doubly dear to 
the Catholic and artist heart. The 
founder lies buried in one of its side 
chapels, beneath a lovely mediaeval 
tomb, his figure carved in the monu- 
mental repos'e which characterizes the 
shrines of former days. And truly 
before these calm effigies of death, 
which modern taste calls stiff, and for 
which it has substituted the nude and 
affected statues of weeping nymphs 
and cupids, no Christian can fail to 
be reminded of the solemnly trium- 
phant question, " O grave, where is 
thy victory ? O death, where is thy 
sting?" The church that Pugin 
loved is now served by the old 
monastic order, whose history is iden- 
tified in England with most of the 
wonderful productions of the art he 
followed the Benedictines. The 
plain chant, so intimately associated 
with that ancient art, is alone used 
at all the services of the church; 
and near the Pugin Chantry is an 
image of Our Lady, before which, on 
an iron stand of exquisite design, are 
constantly burned the tapers of the 
faithful. Were it not for the modern 
dress of the worshippers, nothing in 
the church would indicate the change 



between the fourteenth and the nine- 
teenth century. Close to it stands 
the architect's own house, a gem of 
domestic . Gothic architecture, now 
occupied by Pugin's widow and son, 
himself an enthusiastic artist. It is 
impossible to describe the house, save 
by a comprehensive expression. It 
has a sympathetic and Catholic air : 
one is reminded of the days when 
artists loved their faith and their art 
in themselves, without after-thoughts 
and without interest ; when they saw 
God in their work instead of a patron 
or a human encourager; when they 
would no more sell their principles 
and compromise their aesthetic beliefs, 
than they would sell their soul to the 
Evil One. We have had the pleasure 
of experiencing familiar intercourse 
with this truly Christian household, 
and of partaking of its graceful hospi- 
tality. We have seen the very dining- 
room etherealized into a fane of art, 
as the table appeared laden with silver 
flagons of antique design, and decked 
in the centre with the virginal blos- 
soms of lily and jessamine. This 
purity of taste and absence of vulgar 
redundancy or vanity in ornament 
produced upon us a most indelible 
and quaint impression. If it be true 
that the surroundings of home refine 
the mind and open it to the most 
perfect sense of the beautiful, these 
neighbors of St. Augustine's Priory 
should consider themselves among 
the most favored in this age of almost 
hopeless utilitarianism. 

St. George's Catholic Cathedral at 
Southwark, London, is also one of 
Pugin's great works. The ceremonies 
of the church are performed with 
more precision in this cathedral than 
in almost any modern one in Eng- 
land, and the building wonderfully 
lends itself to their performance. 
During Holy Week, all the Protest- 
ant world of art and fashion crowd 
its aisles, and admire equally its archi- 



A History of the Gothic Revival in England. 



449 



tectural solemnity and suggestiveness, 
and the impressive ritual to which it 
forms so noble a frame. The Church 
of St. Michael's Priory, near Here- 
ford, also a Benedictine foundation, 
is most beautiful and most " Pugin- 
esque " (to quote the appropriate 
word-coin of our author, Eastlake). 
The simplicity of its nave and aisles 
contrasts well with the richness of its 
choir ; the stone reredos, a true " car- 
ven dream of angels," represents the 
adoration of the Divine Host by the 
winged inhabitants of heaven; the 
altar is rich with marble columns and 
small sculptured capitals of most in- 
genious workmanship ; the stalls rival 
those in the old Flemish churches 
(and Flanders was the birthland of 
perfect carving) ; and the peculiar 
arrangement which leaves a free space 
between choir and nave, separated 
from each by a vaulted arch, has a 
very happy effect. There are fully 
thirty monks in the monastery, and the 
plain chant is heard in all its glory at 
the prescribed hours of the divine 
office. 

We have lingered too long over 
these reminiscences, and will now 
hasten on to the few other points of 
interest, which our limited space has 
allowed us to make note of, in Mr. 
Kastlake's book. 

A few quotations that carry one 
from the consideration of the dry, 
technical aspect of the Revival to 
that of its spirit and vitality will 
not be unacceptable, we believe, to 
the general reader. Here are two 
contrasting portraits of modern and 
mediaeval life: "Seen in their present 
state, some half-modernized, some 
damaged by time and wilful neglect, 
others spoilt by injudicious restora- 
tion, many of these ancient mansions 
are but dimly suggestive of their 
former magnificence. It was Nash's 
aim to represent them as they 
were in the days when country 

VOL. XV. 29 



life was enjoyed by their owners, not 
for a brief interval in the year, but 
all the year round ; in days when 
there were feasting in the hall and 
tilting in the court-yard; when the 
yule-log cracked on the hearth, and 
mummers beguiled the dulness of a 
winter's evening ; when the bowling- 
green was filled by lusty youths, and 
gentle dames sat spinning in their 
boudoirs; when the deep window 
recesses were filled with family 
groups, and gallant cavaliers rode 
a-hawking; when, in short, all the 
adjuncts and incidents of social life, 
dress, pastimes, manners, and what- 
not formed part of a picturesqe whole, 
of which we, in these prosaic and 
lack-lustre days, except by the artist's 
aid, can form no conception." On 
the other hand, here is what the 
shocked vision of a modern artist has 
suggested to the author of the 
Gothic Revival : 

" Mr. Ruskin looked around him 
at the modern architecture of England 
. . . and saw public buildings 
copied from those of a nobler age, 
but starved and vulgarized in the 
copying. He saw private houses, 
some modelled on what was supposed 
to be an Italian pattern, and others 
modelled on what was supposed to 
be a mediaeval pattern, and he found 
too often neither grandeur in the one 
nor grace in the other. He saw 
palaces which looked mean, and cot- 
tages which looked tawdry. He saw 
masonry without interest, ornament 
without beauty, and sculpture without 
life. He walked through the streets 
of London, and found that they con- 
sisted for the most part of flaunting 
shop-fronts, stuccoed porticoes, and 
plaster cornices. It is true there were 
fine clubs and theatres and public 
institutions scattered here and there ; 
but, after making due allowance for 
their size, for the beauty of materials 
used, and for the neatness (!) of the 



450 



A History of the Gothic Revival in England. 



workmanship, how far could they be 
considered as genuine works of art ? " 

And here let us stop to point out 
how it has been invariably the aim of 
the Revival to banish the false and 
the meretricious from art ; how it has 
waged relentless war against shams, 
against the aping in perishable clay 
of that which the ancients, Greek as 
well as mediaeval, always carved in 
indestructible stone or marble. Un- 
fortunately, the only residue of medi- 
evalism that has as yet filtered its 
way down to the masses of the popu- 
lation is strongly tinged with a taste 
for showiness at the expense of in- 
intrinsic worth, and the flimsiness of 
" Gothic " sea-side lodges and Cock- 
ney villas has become a by-word. 
Eastlake deplores the rigid adoption 
in such hybrid edifices of the bands 
of colored brick (chiefly red and yel- 
low), which should be used with great 
discretion, but which obtained a too 
quick popularity when Ruskin first 
pointed out their prominent part in 
I talian decorative Gothic. In a foot- 
note, he says : " In the suburbs this 
mode of decoration rose rapidly into 
favor for Cockney villas and public 
taverns, and laid the foundation of 
that peculiar order of Victorian archi- 
tecture which has since been dis- 
tinguished by the familiar but not 
altogether inappropriate name of the 
Streaky Bacon Style." 

With how many such buildings are 
we unhappily acquainted! In this 
city, we have seen counterparts to 
the villas here mentioned nay, 
churches and public halls, with iron- 
work that calls itself Gothic, and does 
not know that it is but .modern 
" Franco- Assyrian ! " But let us not 
do injustice to the more enlightened 
disciples of Pugin and of Ruskin, who 
are covering this new land with build- 
ings which, if they last two or three 
hundred years, will rival those of the 
lands from whose cathedrals they were 



copied. A sister to the marble cathe- 
dral of Milan will soon be finished for 
the Catholics of New York, not so 
elaborate, perhaps, but purer in style 
and spirit. Others are eagerly com- 
peting in this new race of art, and the 
city of the Dutch emigrants will one 
day hold fanes that will remind their 
children of Flanders and of Holland. 
Although the Catholic Church can 
afford to dispense with outward cere- 
monial, or adapt herself to a differ- 
ent arrangement of church architec- 
ture, and yet remain, in custom, in 
doctrine, essentially immutable, such 
is not the privilege of the dominant 
church in England. Therefore it 
will not be surprising to any one to 
know how much the revived taste for 
art contributed some time ago to the 
revived sense of decorum in the ser- 
vices of the Episcopalian denomina- 
tion. Eastlake gives us a graphic 
description of spiritual desolation in 
the ante-Gothic days in the country 
parishes of England : 

" In country districts, a bad road or a 
rainy day sufficed to keep half the con- 
gregation away even from Sunday ser- 
vices. Of those who attended, two-thirds 
left the responses to the parish clerk. . . . 
Cracked fiddles and grunting violoncellos 
freqently supplied the place of the church 
organ. The village choir of male and 
female performers assembled in the 
western gallery (!), When they began to 
sing, the whole congregation faced about 
to look at them ; but to turn towards the 
east during the recitation of the creed, or 
to rise when the clergy entered the church, 
would have been considered an instance 
of abject superstition. No one thought 
of kneeling during the longer prayers. 
Sometimes the Litany was interrupted by 
thwacks from the beadle's cane as it 
descended on the shoulders of parish 
schoolboys, who devoted themselves to 
clandestine amusement during that por- 
tion of the service. When the sermon 
began, all, except the very devout, settled 
themselves comfortably to sleep. The 
parson preached in a black gown, and 
not unfrequently read the communion 
service from his pulpit." 



A History of the Gothic Revival in England. 



451 



We have seen in a country church 
in Rutland one of the midland 
counties of England some lingering 
tokens of this curious state of things. 
Most of the other churches of that 
neighborhood have been magnificently 
restored, and very much Catholicized, 
at least in externals. This exception 
to the rule is in a small parish, and is 
noticeable for a very curious ancient 
monument, half sunk in the earth, 
and covered by a recess of the church 
wall itself. It is supposed to be that 
of the founder, who chose this posi- 
tion as typical of his having been a 
support to the building : at least this 
was the suggestion of a friend of ours, 
an architect of the type of Pugin a 
Christian artist in the true sense of 
the word. The interior of the church 
was a sad contrast to its beautiful 
outward proportions : high white- 
washed pews filled it, hiding the base 
of the columns, thrusting their wooden 
cornices into and over the piscina, 
and covering from view the old brasses 
and monumental slabs on the stone 
floor. A row of hat-pegs (will it be 
believed ?) ran round the whole 
church at a convenient height, and 
rare must have been the decoration 
appended to them on a Sunday. The 
" altar plate " pewter pots hardly a 
stage better, and certainly a degree 
duller, than those highly-polished 
vessels which were no doubt in more 
constant use in the neighboring tavern 
was kept in a worm-eaten old oak 
chest at the bottom of the church. 
The communion table was a table ; 
and indeed Cromwell himself might 
have walked in and felt satisfied that 
there lurked no " Popery " there. 
By the bye, why does ignorance al- 
ways call beautiful art " Popery " ? 
[s it not through some higher and 
nnconscious knowledge which forces 
(tself into expression, like the sibyl's 
prophecies, upon reluctant and un- 
believing lips ? 



Eastlake speaks of Westminster 
Abbey as liable to many of the 
abuses which he deplores in country 
churches. " Westminster," he says, 
" was not then (1826) as now guard- 
ed by circumspect vergers, who are 
stimulated to additional vigilance by 
the sixpences of the faithful. There 
was scarce a monument in the place 
which had not suffered from ruthless 
violence, for at that time or not long 
before, the choristers made a play- 
ground of the venerable abbey, and 
the Westminster scholars played at 
hockey in the cloisters." 

It is time to mention a few of the 
architects of the more modern phase 
of the Revival, and of some of their 
works, those especially which find a 
place among the fine engravings of 
Eastlake's valuable book. Butter- 
field is selected as one of the fore- 
most, and as the only leader after 
Pugin whose influence is yet appre- 
ciably felt. He is thus eulogized by 
our author. " It is especially char- 
acteristic of Mr. Butterfield's design 
that he aims at originality, not only 
in form, but in the relative, propor- 
tion of parts. . . . This indeed is 
the secret of the striking and pic- 
turesque character which distinguishes 
his works from others which are less 
daring in conception and therefore 
less liable to mistakes. Mr. Butter- 
field has been the leader of a school, 
and it is necessary for a leader to be 
bold." Of the church of All Saints, 
in London, built by the same archi- 
tect, Eastlake says : " The truth is 
that the design was a bold and mag- 
nificent endeavor to shake off the tram- 
mels of antiquarian precedent, which 
had long fettered the progress of the 
Revival, to create not a new style, but 
a development of previous styles; to 
carry the enrichment of ecclesiastical 
Gothic to an extent which even in the 
middle ages had been rare in Eng- 
land ; to adorn the walls with sur- 



452 



A History of the Got/tic Revival in England. 



face ornament of a durable kind; to 
spare, in short, neither skill, nor pains, 
nor cost in making this church the 
model church of its day such a 
building as should take a notable 
position in the history of modern 
architecture." Further on he says 
of him that there is " a sober earn- 
estness in his work widely different 
from that of some designers, who 
seem to be tossed about on the sea 
of popular taste. . . . He does not 
care to produce showy buildings at 
a sacrifice of constructive strength. 
To a pretty, superficial school of 
Gothic and fussy carving, he never 
condescended. . . . His work gives 
one the idea of a man who has de- 
signed it not so much to please his 
clients as to please himself. In es- 
timating the value of his skill, pos- 
terity may find something to smile 
at as eccentric and much that will as- 
tonish as daring, but they will find 
nothing to despise as commonplace 
or mean." Several engravings are 
given of details of his work on the 
church of St. Alban's (a high ritualis- 
tic stronghold in London) and at All 
Saints' and Balliol Chapel (Oxford). 
Of Carpenter, an architect who died in 
his prime, we find the following flat- 
tering notice : " No practitioner of 
his day (1840-50) understood so 
thoroughly the grammar of his art. 
. . . As a pupil he appears to 
have given remarkable attention to 
the character and application of 
mouldings. ... A knowledge of 
the laws of proportion, of the condi- 
tions of light and shade, and the ef- 
fective employment of decorative 
features are arrived at by most archi- 
tects gradually and after a series of 
tentative experiments. Carpenter 
seems to have acquired this know- 
ledge very early in his career, so that 
even his first works possess an artis- 
tic quality far in advance of their 
state, while those he executed in later 



years are regarded even now with 
admiration by all who have endeav- 
ored to maintain the integrity of our 
old national styles. Mr. Beresford 
Hope was a true and enthusiastic pa- 
tron of Carpenter's artistic career. 
Of the many works of this talented 
man, whose life was unfortunately so 
short, our author chooses a large col- 
lege in Sussex as the one most wor- 
thy of an engraving. Its propor- 
tions truly denote a mediaeval spirit. 
Eastlake places Goldie among the 
later revivalists of note, and gives a fine 
engraving of his Abbey of St. Scho- 
lastica at Teignmouth. The build- 
ing certainly looks massive and ex- 
tensive enough for an ancient mo- 
nastic structure, though the use of 
the before -mentioned bands of col- 
ored brick seems too profuse for that 
chasteness of design which is surely 
the highest standard of taste. Gol- 
die is the architect of St. Mary's Ca- 
thedral at Kensington, London, the 
Pro- Cathedral of the Archi episcopal 
See of Westminster. Although we 
have heard many criticisms passed 
upon this specimen of his' skill, we 
are by no means capable of giving 
any opinion, especially as we have 
not had the opportunity of seeing it. 
Eastlake gives a view of its western 
doorway, and goes on to say that 
the " interior is remarkable for the 
height of its nave," a detail which 
receives but too little attention in 
many modern buildings. " The 
roof," he says, is ceiled, and follows 
the outline of a trefoil-headed arch 
a form not often adopted, but here 
peculiarly effective. There are many 
incidents in the design of this church 
which are very ingenious and origi- 
nal. . . . Every detail throughout the 
work, even to the novel gas-stand- 
ard, bears evidence of artistic care." 
We fear that, beyond naming these 
few artists, the richness of our re- 
maing material will not allow us to 



A History of the Gothic Revival in England. 



453 



go deeper into their merits. Yet 
there are many others, as well or less 
known, whose conscientious, enthusi- 
astic carrying out of their beautiful 
principles lends powerful aid to their 
theory. Hanson and Hadfield, 
among Catholic architects, and 
Street and Scott among Anglicans, 
are well worthy of mention, and 
since Barry was the ostensible re- 
storer of the Houses of Parliament, 
we must of course give him a place 
in this short review. But there is 
one name which from intimate and 
pleasant acquaintance we would 
fain single out, and which is honor- 
ably mentioned by Eastlake as be- 
longing to one who with several of 
his Catholic brethren " have done 
their best, each in their several ways, 
to secure honest and substantial 
work, and to keep clear of that taw- 
dry, superficial style of design which 
brings discredit on the Gothic cause." 
This is Charles Buckler, the son 
and successor of John Chessel Buck- 
ler, a most finished artist and wonder- 
ful draughtsman, who, it may be said 
with peculiar significance, has let his 
mantle fall on the heir to his name 
and art. If any one would see in 
modern days that oneness of being 
between faith and art, let him look 
for it in the life and works of this 
gifted architect. The most rigorous 
purist could find no fault in a man 
who takes for his model the simpli- 
city of the thirteenth century, and in 
whose manner and address a corre- 
sponding simplicity and sweetness are 
ever manifest. A priest by the vo- 
cation of art, as his two brothers are 
by the vocation of faith and by union 
with one of the most art-loving or- 
ders in the church, he works more 
willingly for churches and other ec- 
clesiastical buildings than for the 
houses of the great, and finds his 
highest gratification in offering to 
eacli church he designs some spon- 



taneous gift of his genius, the carv- 
ing of a piscina or the pedestal of a 
font. His little church of St. Thom- 
as a Becket, at Exton in the county 
of Rutland, is a specimen of his de- 
sign which we believe he himself 
would not be -unwilling to call a rep- 
resentative one. It is the only 
Catholic Church in the county, and 
so may claim to interest those who 
otherwise might not care to examine 
it. The foundress, as devoted a 
lover and patroness of art as she was 
a holy and noble-minded Christian 
matron, lies buried near the high al- 
tar. The church is built in the tradi- 
tional cross-shape, and has an ab- 
sidal end pierced by several beauti- 
ful windows, the stone tracery of 
which is in the style of the thirteenth 
century. The rose-window at the 
west end is copied from one in the 
(now Protestant) cathedral of Lau- 
sanne, where the writer saw the 
sketch of it made at the foundress' 
desire, by the architect to whom the 
future building of the church was to 
be entrusted. The beautiful and 
simple porch to the north of the 
church, the little belfry where an old 
bell found among the i*uins of the 
old manor-house of Exton rings the 
daily Angelus of restored Catholic 
belief, the spacious and massive 
vault, where a plain stone altar is 
erected for Masses for the dead ; the 
side chapel of St. Ida, the patron 
saint of the foundress ; the Lady 
chapel, with its more elaborate yet 
chastely traceried window; the soft 
surroundings of garden, plantation, 
and terrace, with the view on the 
opposite hill of the old church, once 
Catholic, which three hundred years 
of false belief have only surrounded 
with a more touching pathos, as of 
a noble captive chained to a meaner 
rival's car all this, and the know- 
ledge that within the Tudor mansion 
which has replaced the ruined manor 



454 



A History of the Gothic Revival in England. 



dwell the family of the foundress, 
and especially the one destined to 
finish her church and enshrine her 
memory therein, makes this personal 
recollection of St. Thomas' fane and 
ih; charming architect very hallowed 
and sweet to think on.' Many pray 
in this church, of which the stone in- 
terior with its carven and arched tri- 
bune, and its broad oak-panelled 
western recess, is as lovely as its ex- 
terior with its high roof and bro- 
ken outline many pray there to 
whom this recollection is as dear and 
;<s holy. May those who have pray- 
ed with us remember us in their 
prayers, both he who has borne the 
burden of the day and its heat, and 
they to whom he has taught the way 
of taking up the same cross and bear- 
ing it to the same fruitful and happy 
end ! 

John Chessel Buckler, the father 
of our friend, was the second of the 
three designers chosen out of the 
hosts of competitors on the occasion 
of the rebuilding of the Houses of 
Parliament. Eastlake says of him : 
" The especial merit of Buckler's de- 
sign second only to that of Barry 
in the opinion of the judges was that 
it avoided the multiplication of de- 
tail. . . . The plan in general ar- 
rangement was considered pictur- 
esque. . . . Mr. Buckler obtained 
credit- for the purity of his ornamen- 
tal details." He also built Cossey 
Hall for Lord Stafford, and his son 
is now continuing his work. No 
wonder that the spirit of mediaeval 
days should have descended on this 
favored family, since their dwelling- 
place for a long time was the match- 
less old city of Oxford. There is a 
magic in that name that has a crea- 
tive artistic suggestion in its very 
sound. 

The late controversy as to Pugin's 
part in the Houses of Parliament 
must be too well known to be re- 



vived here. Suffice it to say that the 
volume published by Barry's sons as 
a vindication of their father's genius 
was of itself conclusive, and proved 
too much for his reputation. Hard- 
ly a single engraving illustrative of 
his unassisted efforts was such as 
could commend itself to a purist in 
Gothic art, while the one part of the 
Houses of Parliament which was en- 
tirely his own (the unbroken front 
on the Thames River), though impos- 
ing at first sight, was the weakest 
point of the work as regards the true 
principles of art. Still, as Eastlake 
observes, it was a great victory for 
the Revivalists, and an important fact 
in the history of the Revival, that 
such a characteristically national 
work should have been confided to 
Gothic architects. It gave the cause 
both weight and popularity, and 
threw more in the way of the masses 
what before had been too much of a 
luxury and fancy of privileged intel- 
lectual orders. And yet, before the 
old style could be really popularized, 
it was necessary tnat the taste for it 
should be carefully educated by the 
firm hand of uncompromising art. 
Eastlake descants thus on the liberty 
left in the architect's hands : " He may- 
make an art of his calling, or he may 
make it a mere business ; and in pro- 
portion as he inclines to one or the 
other of these two extremes, he will 
generally achieve present profit or 
posthumous renown." Further on he 
stigmatizes one of the earlier Gothic 
Revivalists in these terms : " In in- 
stances where he ought to have led, 
or at least to have tempered and cor- 
rected the vitiated taste of his day, 
he simply pandered to it." Let the 
reader pause to apply this to the 
great majority of modem artists, and 
to deplore the interested and debased 
motives which have robbed God of 
so much glory and the moral world 
of so much support. And without 



A History of the Gothic Revival in England. 



455 



travelling into the region of other 
arts, we find among the adjuncts of 
architecture sufficient proof of degen- 
eracy. Eastlake very justly remarks 
that the interior of houses is given up 
to upholsterers and decorators who 
too frequently are allowed to exe- 
cute their work independently of 
the architect's control. " We enter," 
he says, " a Renaissance palace or a 
Gothic mansion, and find them re- 
spectively fitted up in the style of the 
nineteenth century, which is in point 
of fact no style at all, but the embod- 
iment of a taste as empirical, as emp- 
ty, and as fleeting as that which finds 
expression in a milliner's fashion- 
book." And again : " There is per- 
haps no feature in the interior of even 
an ordinary dwelling which is capa- 
ble of more artistic treatment than 
the fire-place of its most frequented 
sitting-room, and yet how long it 
was neglected ! The Englishman's 
sacred ' hearth,' the Scotchman's ' ain 
fireside,' the grandsire's ' chimney- 
corner/ have become mere verbal 
expressions, of which it is difficult to 
recall the original significance as we 
stand before those cold, formal slabs 
of gray or white marble enclosing the 
sprucely polished but utterly heart- 
less grate of a modern drawing- 
room." 

Of course, like all arts, especially 
those of a more directly spiritual ten- 
dency, architecture has suffered from 
caricatures, sometimes hostile, some- 
times blunderingly friendly. The 
ancient Gregorian chant and the 
real " Pre-Raphaelite " school of 
Christian painting have likewise 
suffered in this way. One might 
quote the well-known saying, " De- 
fend me from my friends ! " East- 
lake puts the same thought into these 
words : " The barbarous and absurd 
specimens of modern architecture 
which have been erected in this 
generation under the general name 



of Gothic, have done more to damage 
the cause of the Revival than all that 
has been said or written in disparage- 
ment of the style." 

Of the many buildings of merit 
hidden away in poor and remote 
localities, Eastlake makes cheering 
mention. He says: 

" There are, perhaps, few professions, 
and certainly none within the realm of 
art, exposed to such unequal chances of 
that notoriety which should attend suc- 
cess, as the profession of architecture. 
. . . One man's practice may take him 
for years of his life into remote rural 
parishes where, except by the squire or 
parson, his work may long remain un- 
appreciated. . . . There are districts in 
London in which, if a new building is 
.raised, it stands no more chance of being 
visited by people of taste than if it had 
been erected in Kamschatka. Yet those 
outlying regions . . . contain some of 
the most remarkable and largest churches 
which have been built during the Revival. 
... It was required to make those struc- 
tures the headquarters of mission-work 
in poor and populous localities. Mr. 
James Brooks had no easy task before 
him ; there was but little money to spend 
on them, yet they were to be of ample 
.size, and, for obvious reasons, dignified 
and impressive in their general effect. 
... It must be admitted that the effect 
in each case is extremely fine. There is 
much in the character of Mr. Brooks' 
work which reminds one of Butterfield. 
An utter absence of cenventionality, . . . 
a studied simplicity of details, ... a 
tendency to quaint outlines and unusual 
subdivisions of parts such are the chief 
characteristics which distinguish the de- 
sign of both these architects, who manage 
to attain originality without condescend- 
ing to extravagance, and to secure for 
their works a quiet grace, in which there 
is less of elegance than of dignity." 

A view of the. interior of St. Chad's, 
in one of the London suburbs, is given, 
in which one can trace even a certain 
richness of altar decoration allied to 
the noble proportions of the massive 
pillars and tall arches. This church 
seems to bear a monastic look about 
it. 



456 



A History of the GotJiic Revival in England. 



The church of St. Columba, in the 
same neighborhood, presents many 
of the same characteristics, and East- 
lake says of it that the " real excel- 
lence of this work consists in grand 
masses of roof and wall, planned and 
proportioned with true artistic ability." 
It is curious and ridiculously realis- 
tic to see in the engraving given of 
this church the contrast of the grand 
abbey-like pile with the wooden 
walls of an enclosed but unoccupied 
piece of ground, covered with the 
obstreperous advertisements of popu- 
lar London papers, of Horniman's 
" best black tea," of theatres and bill- 
posters, and contemplated by a few 
shabbily-dressed women, a mason 
carrying a hod of mortar, and a very 
old cart-horse standing with his un- 
gainly vehicle at the door of the 
vestry. 

These hidden churches have their 
touching meaning for Christian 
minds a twofold meaning indeed 
and one which is often overlooked 
in this utilitarian age. There they 
stand, beautiful and unvisited, built 
for the glory of God more than for 
the admiration of men, and no less 
solid, no less symbolical, no less per- 
fect in proportion and distribution 
because the silent God is their only 
visitor. How much does this all- 
absorbing reference to the great 
Master of all art govern the work of 
the success hunting generations of our 
day? Again, these beautiful churches 
stand as representatives of God's 
sacraments, God's graces, God's invi- 
tations, unheeded by those to whom 
they are offered, unfelt even by many 
who live in their very shadow, and 
coldly received at best by those who 
grudgingly take advantage of them. 
Or, again, they are the symbol of the 
hidden soul, beauties scattered in 
seemingly desert places in the spiritual 
world, of the hearts that watch with 
God in the midst of the turmoil of 



earth, of hearts whose unbroken 
hymn of love is never silent, because 
of the babel of tongues that, to all 
but the ear of God, seems so reso- 
lutely to drown it. 

There are two more remarks to be 
made, with which we will close this 
sketch, which we have perhaps pro- 
longed beyond the bounds of the 
kind reader's patience. It has been 
said we know not with what tech- 
nical truth, but certainly with a 
beautiful suggestiveness of truth 
that one of the great principles in 
Gothic architecture is that every 
curve should be the perfect segment 
of a circle that is, that every curve, 
if continued, should inevitably de- 
scribe a perfect circle. If this be so 
and we have always assumed that 
it is is not this meaning deducible 
from it, that it is the mission of art 
to tend to the highest perfection, and 
the mission of grace the heavenly 
art to fashion every single insigni- 
ficant action in such a mould that it 
should visibly be but a part in one 
grand perfect whole of heroic sanc- 
tity ? 

And the second remark is this : 

The Gothic revivalists have been 
accused of retrogression towards so- 
called barbaric forms of art. Exactly 
the same reproach was once made to 
an eminent convert we believe a 
German. " My dear friend," said an 
anxious companion to him, "how 
could you abandon the religion of 
your fathers ? " " Simply, my dear 
fellow," was the quick and humorous 
response, " that I might embrace that 
of my grandfathers." 

We leave the application to the 
public, pointing out to them at the 
same time that to denounce the civil 
and ecclesiastical architecture handed 
down to them by the founders of 
civic liberty in Flanders and Ger- 
many, and the founders of Christian 
morality in France and England, 



The Last Days before the Siege. 



457 



Spain and Lombardy, would be to 
lay themselves open to the reproach 
of another witty convert, who said to 
his father, when the latter was lament- 



ing his son's change of faith : " Take lie name. 



care, or you will make out that three 
hundred years ago our ancestors were 
nobodies." The reply silenced the 
proud bearer of a proud and Catho- 



THE LAST DAYS BEFORE THE SIEGE. 



PART I. 



AWAKENING. 



BERTHE was holding a council 
about bonnets with her maid and 
Mme. Augustine when I went in. 
The complexion of the sky, it would 
seem, was a grave complication of 
the question at issue; it was of a 
dull leaden color, for, though the 
heat was intense, the sun was not 
shining outright, but sulking under a 
heavy veil of cloud that looked as if 
it might explode in a thunder-storm 
before the day was over. 

" What a blunderer you are, An- 
toinette ! " exclaimed Berthe impa- 
tiently. " The idea of putting me into 
pearl-color under a sky like that ! 
Where are your eyes ? " 

Antoinette looked out of the win- 
dow, saw the folly of her conduct, 
and proposed a pink bonnet to re- 
lieve the unbecoming sky and the 
gray costume. The amendment was 
approved of; so she left the room to 
fetch the bonnet. 

" She is a good creature, Antoi- 
nette ; but she is wonderfully absent- 
minded," remarked Berthe. 

Mme. Augustine sighed, smiled, 
and shrugged her shoulders. 

" What will you, Madame la Com- 
tesse ? Every one is not born an 
artist." 

" Every one who is born with eyes 
in their head can use them if they 



have any sense," said Berthe; and 
she took up the ivory puff on her 
dressing-table, and began very deli- 
berately shaking out delicate white 
clouds oi poudre h la violette over her 
forehead and cheeks. 

We were going together to a mar- 
riage at St. Roch, and we were to 
be there at nridi pte'cis, \\~\zfairc-part 
said, so I had to remind Berthe that, 
if the business of powdering and puff- 
ing proceeded at this rate, we might 
save ourselves the trouble of the 
drive. With the sudden impulse that 
carried her so swiftly from one object 
to another, she dropped the puff, 
snatched her pink bonnet from An- 
toinette, put it on, fastened it herself, 
seized her gloves and prayer-book, 
and we hurried down-stairs and were 
off. 

On turning into the Faubourg St. 
Honore, we found a crowd collected 
in front of the mairie. Berthe pulled 
the check-string. 

" It's news from \hefrontiert ! " she 
exclaimed eagerly. " If we were to 
miss the wedding, we must know 
what it is ! " 

She sprang out of the brougham, 
and I after her. The crowd was so 
deep that we could not get near 
enough to read the placards; but, 
judging by the exclamations and 



458 



The Last Days before the Siege. 



commentaries that accompanied the 
perusal by the foremost readers, the 
news was both exciting and agree- 
able. 

" Fallaitpas nous effrayer, mespetites 
dames" said a blouse, who had seen 
us alight, and saw by our faces that 
we were alarmed. " We've beaten 
one-half of the Prussians to a jelly, 
and driven the rest across the 
Rhine." 

" The canaille ! I always said they 
would run like rabbits the first taste 
they got of our chassepots," exclaim- 
ed a lad of fourteen, who halted with 
arms akimbo and a basket of vege- 
tables on his head to hear the news. 

" And these are the chaps that 
marched out of Berlin to the cry of 
"Nach Paris! nach Paris! The 
beggars ! They were glad enough 
to clean our streets aye, and would 
have cleaned our boots in their mous- 
tachios, and thankful, just to turn a 
penny that they couldn't make at 
home," cried the first speaker. 

" Nach Paris indeed ! " cried the 
lad with the vegetables. " Let them 
come ; let them try it \ " 

" Let them ! " echoed several 
voices. " We'll give them a warm 
welcome." 

"Aye, that we will," declared a 
pastry-cook from the other end of 
the trottoir ; " and we'll treat them 
well ; we'll serve them up aspic a la 
bayonette et petits-pois a la mitrail- 
leuse" 

This keen joke was received with 
hilarity and immense applause, and 
the pastry-cook, with his bonnet de 
coton perched on one side, strode off 
with an air of commanding insolence, 
like a man who has done his duty 
and knows it. 

The remarks of the crowd, if not 
very lucid, were sufficiently con- 
clusive as to the character of the 
placard that held them gaping before 
the main'e. The news was clearly 



good news : so, satisfied with this 
broad fact, Berthe and I jumped into 
the brougham and continued our 
way to St. Roch. 

But it seemed as if there was a con- 
spiracy against our getting there. 
Before we came to the Rue Royale, 
we were blocked in front by a troop 
of recruits, marching down from the 
boulevards to the Rue de Rivoli. 
Flags, and banners, and bunches of 
tricolored ribbons hoisted on sticks 
floated at intervals above the moving 
mass, and the stirring chant of the 
" Marseillaise" kept time to the roll 
of drums and the broken tramp of 
undrilled feet. The shops emptied 
themselves into the street ; buyers and 
sellers rushed out to see the recruits 
and greet them with cheers and em- 
braces, while many joined in the 
chorus, and shouted enthusiastically, 
" MarchonS) marchons,pourlapatrie! " 
the recruits every now and then, 
with an utter neglect of all choral 
harmony, relieving their pent-up 
patriotism by hurrahing and Vwe- 
la- France-ing with frantic energy. 

" Poor devils ! " exclaimed a trades- 
man, who stood near us watching the 
stream flow past. " How many among 
them will ever set eyes on Paris again, 
I wonder ! " 

" Ah, indeed," said his wife ; " but, 
all the same, it's a proud day for them 
this, whatever may come of it. If 
our gamin were but a few years older, 
he would be stepping out with the 
best of them, and, who knows ? he 
might come home with a pair of 
gold epaulets to his coat." 

" Tut, woman," retorted the man 
sharply ; " there is plenty of food for 
powder without him." And he went 
back to his shop. 

" What a horrible thing war is when 
one comes to think of it ! " said 
Berthe, turning suddenly round with 
a flushed face. " Every man going 
by there is the centre of another life 



The Last Days before the Siege. 



459 



some, perhaps, of many lives that 
will never know happiness again if he 
is killed. It is a dreadful scourge. 
Thank God, I have no brothers ! " 

The way was cleared at last, and 
the carriages were able to move on. 
The noise and clamor that rose on 
all sides of us grew louder and wilder 
as we proceeded. One would have 
fancied the entire population had been 
seized with delirium treinens. The 
news of a victory coming unex- 
pectedly after the first disasters of 
the campaign had elated the popular 
depression to frenzy, and, as usual 
with Paris, there was but one bound 
from the depths of despair to the 
wildest heights of exultation. Flags 
were thrust out of windows and chim- 
ney-pots, an eruption of tricolor broke 
out on the fronts of the houses, and 
the blank walls were variegated with 
red, white, and blue, as if by magic. 
Innumerable gamins cropped up from 
those mysterious regions where garni /is 
dwell, and whence they are ready to 
emerge and improve the opportunity 
at a moment's notice; the bright-faced 
ragged young vagabonds mustered in 
force on the pavement, formed them- 
selves into an impromptu procession, 
and marched along the middle of the 
street, bawling out the " Marseillaise" 
at the top of their voice; older 
gamins caught the infection, and 
bawled in response, and turned and 
marched with them. At the corner 
of the Place Vendome, a citizen, un- 
able to restrain the ardor of his 
patriotism, stopped a fiacre, and 
jumped up beside the driver, and 
bade him stand while he poured out 
his soul to the patrie. The cabman 
reined in his steed, and stood while 
the patriot spouted his improvisation, 
stretching out his arms to the column 
the "immortal column" and pointing 
his periods with the talismanic words, 
" Invincible ! Enfans de la France ! 
Tcrreiir de I 'ennemi ! " and so forth. 



No speaker in the forum of old Rome 
ever elicited more inspiriting response 
from his hearers than the citizen 
patriot from the motley audience 
round his cab. Again and again his 
voice was drowned in vociferous 
cheers and bravos, and when he was 
done and about to descend from the 
rostrum, the cabman, altogether 
carried away by the emotions of the 
hour, flung his arms round the orator, 
and pressed him to his heart, and 
then, addressing himself to the assem- 
bled citizens, defiantly demanded if 
their fellow-citizen had not deserved 
well of them ; if there was any danger 
for the patrie while she could boast 
such sons as that ! The appeal was 
rapturously responded to by all, but 
most notably by a native of the 
Vosges, who tossed his cap into the 
air, and caught it again, and cried 
vehemently : " Prafo ! prafo ! fife 
le pourgeois ! fife la padrie ! " 

If the words had been a shell 
scattering death among the listeners, 
their effect could not have been more 
startling. Like lightning the spirit 
of the crowd was changed; its joy 
went out like the snuff of a candle ; 
for one second it swayed to and 
fro, hesitating, then a yell, a hiss, 
and a scream shot up in quick suc- 
cession. 

" A spy ! a traitor ! a Prussian ! 
A feait! a lalanterne!" And away 
they flew in hot pursuit of the luckless 
Alsatian, whose German accent had 
raised the devil in them. The orator 
stood by the column alone in his 
glory, pelted by the jargon of cries 
that shot across him on every side 
from the boulevards and the many 
streets running out of the Place. 
" Marchons ! al'eau! a Berlin! un 
espion ! " It was like the clash of 
contending tongues from Babel. 

This was our last adventure till we 
reached St. Roch. As might have 
been expected, we were late. The 



460 



The Last Days before tlie Siege. 



wedding was over, and the bride was 
undergoing the ceremony of congra- 
tulations in the sacristy. We elbowed 
our way through the throng of guests, 
and were in due time admitted to 
embrace the Marquise de Chassedot, 
ne'e Helene de Karodel, and to shake 
hands with the bridegroom, and 
sprinkle our compliments in proper 
proportion over the friends and rela- 
tives on both sides. 

At the wedding breakfast, the con- 
versation naturally turned, to the ex- 
clusion of all other topics, on the 
happy event which had brought us 
all together; but as soon as the bride 
left the table, to change her bridal 
dress for a travelling one, everybody, 
as if by common consent, burst out 
into talk about the war and the news 
that had thrown the city into such 
commotion. The cautious incredu- 
lity with which the bulletin was dis- 
cussed contrasted strangely with the 
tumult of enthusiasm which we had 
just witnessed outside. It was quite 
clear no one believed in the " famous 
victory." Some went so far as to de- 
clare that it was only a blind to hide 
some more shameful disaster that had 
yet befallen us ; others, less perverse, 
thought it might be only a highly 
colored statement of a slight success. 
As to the authorities, it was who 
would throw most stones at them. 
The government was a rotten ma- 
chine that ought to have been broken 
up long ago ; it was like a ship that 
was no longer seaworthy, and just 
held together while she lay at anchor 
in the port, but must inevitably fall 
to pieces the first time she put out to 
sea, and go down before the wind 
with all her crew. The only excep- 
tions to the rule were those govern- 
ment officials who happened to be 
present, and these were, of course, 
the life-boats that had been left be- 
hind by the stupidity of the captain. 
But this had always been the way. 



In the downfall of every government, 
we see the same short-sighted jeal- 
ousy the men who might have saved 
it shoved aside by the selfish in- 
triguers who sacrifice the country to 
their own aims and interests. Some 
allusion was made to the threatened 
siege of Paris ; but it was cut short 
by the irrepressible merriment of the 
company. The most sober among 
them could not speak of such an ab- 
surdity without losing their gravity. 
It was, in fact, a heavy joke worthy 
of those beer-drinking, German brag- 
garts, and no sane Frenchman could 
speak of it as anything else without 
being laughed at. As a joke, how- 
ever, it was discussed, and gave rise 
to many minor pleasantries that pro- 
voked a good deal of fun. An inte- 
resting young mother wished the city 
might be invested and starved, be- 
cause it would be so delightful to 
starve one's self to death for one's 
baby ; to store up one's scanty foo;l 
for the innocent little darling, and 
see it grow fat on its mother's denoue- 
ment. A young girl declared she 
quite longed for the opportunity of 
proving her love to her father. The 
Grecian daughter would be a pale 
myth compared to her, and the 
daughter of Paris would go down to 
posterity as a type of filial duty such 
as the world had never seen before. 
The kind and quantity of provisions 
to belaid in for the contingency gave 
rise to a vast deal of fun. One young 
crfoe hoped his steward would pro- 
vide a good stock of cigars ; he 
could live on smoke by itself, rather 
than without smoke and with every 
other sort of nourishment; but it 
should be unlimited smoke, and of 
the best quality. His sister thought 
of buying a monster box of chocolate 
bonbons, and contemplated herself, 
with great satisfaction, arrived at her 
last praline, which she heroically in- 
sisted on her brother's accepting, 



The Last Days before the Siege. 



461 



while she embraced him and expired 
of inanition at his feet. 

" Do you intend to stay for the 
tragedy, madame ? " said the gentle- 
man who was to live on smoke, ad- 
dressing himself to Berthe. 

" If I believed in the tragedy, cer- 
tainly not," she replied ;. " but I don't. 
Paris is not going to be so obliging 
as to furnish us with an opportunity 
for displaying our heroism." 

" Not of the melodramatic sort," 
observed her Austrian friend, with a 
touch of sarcasm in his habitually 
serene manner ; " but those who have 
any prosaic heroism to dispose of 
can take it to the ambulances, and 
it will be accepted and gratefully 
acknowledged. I went yesterday to 
see a poor fellow who is lying in 
great agony at Beayon. His mother 
and sisters are watching him day and 
night. They dare not move him to 
their own home, lest he should die 
on the way. He lost both arms at 
(iravelotte." 

Berthe shuddered. 

' ; Thank God, I have no brothers ! " 
she murmured, under her breath. 

" What is to be the end of it all ? " 
I said. " Admitting that the siege 
of Paris is an utter impossibility, half 
Europe must be overhauled before 
peace is definitely re-established." 

" So it will be," asserted the Aus- 
trian, coolly. " Wait a little, and 
you will see all the powers trotted 
out. First, Russia will put her finger 
in the melee, and then England's turn 
will come." 

" I hope England will have the 
sense to keep out of it," said Berthe ; 
" she would be sure to get the worst 
of it, fighting single-handed, as she 
would do now." 

" That's precisely why Russia will 
take care that she does not keep out 
of it," remarked the Austrian. 

" And what would Russia gain by 
England's being worsted ? " 



" She would gain the satisfaction 
of paying off old scores that have 
rankled in her side these fifteen years. 
Do you fancy that she has forgotten 
that little episode in the Crimea, or 
that she is less bent on revenge be- 
cause she doesn't blast and blow and 
wake her enemy's suspicions by threa- 
tening to annihilate her and so forth ? 
Not a bit of it ! Russia doesn't boast 
and brag and put her victim on the 
qui i'ive ; but quietly holds her tongue, 
and keeps her temper, and bides her 
time. When she is ready and the 
day is not, perhaps, very remote she 
will pick a fight with England ; and 
the day the war is proclaimed, every 
pope and peasant in Holy Russia 
will light a candle to his holy images ; 
and when the news comes in that 
England is thrashed, they will light 
as many as will illuminate the whole 
of Europe." 

"Apres ? " I said. 

"Aptes what, madame ?" 

" When they have thrashed her, 
as you say, what will they do with 
her ? " 

" Do with her ? Annex her." 

He looked me straight in the face 
without a smile on his ; but I could 
not believe he was speaking seriously, 
and I burst out laughing. 

" The position of the conquered 
territory might offer some difficulties 
in the way of annexation," I said, 
presently ; " but we will assume that 
the obliging Providence of pious 
King William interferes in behalf of 
his Muscovite brother, and overcomes 
all obstacles by land or by sea, and 
that the doughty little island is con- 
stituted a colony of the czar's do- 
minion : what would he do with it ? 
What earthly use would it be to 
him ? " 

" Use ! " echoed the Austrian, ele- 
vating his eyebrows with a super- 
cilious smile. " In the first place, he 
might make it a little succursalt of 



462 



The Last Days before the Siege. 



Siberia. There is a whole genera- 
tion of those unmanageable, half-mad 
Poles safely walking about this side 
of Europe, plotting and dreaming 
and rhapsodizing. Only think what 
a convenience it would be to their 
father, the czar, if he had a centre of 
action so near to them ! He could 
catch them like rabbits ; and then, 
instead of hawking them over the 
world to Nerchintz and Irkoutsk, 
he could sentence them to perpetual 
sciatica, or chronic lumbago, or a 
mild term of ten years' rheumatism, 
in the isle of fogs, versus the mines, 
and the knout, and all the rest of the 
paternal chastisements administered 
in Siberia. Then, over and above 
this immense accommodation, he 
might have his docks in England ; 
he might make the naughty Poles 
learn of his English subjects how to 
build ships, till by-and-by the navy 
of Holy Russia would be the finest 
in the world, and big, top-heavy 
Prussia would shake in her shoes, and 
hot-headed France would keep still 
on her knees, and all Europe would 
bow down before the empire of Peter 
the Great. Use, indeed ! Let Russia 
catch England, and she'll find plenty 
of use for her." 

"Yes," I said; "just so; let her 
catch her." 

It was near three when the wed- 
ding-party broke up and Berthe and 
I drove away. We found the excite- 
ment abroad still unabated. At many 
street corners, patriots were perora- 
ting to animated crowds; tongues 
innumerable were running up and 
down the gamut of noise with the 
most extraordinary variations. There 
is always something stirring in the 
sight of great popular emotion ; 
but this present instance of it was 
more threatening than exhilarating. 
You felt that it was dangerous, that 
there were terrible elements of de- 
struction boiling up under the sur- 



face-foam, and that the chattering 
and shouting and good fellowship 
might, in a flash of lightning, be 
changed to murderous hate and a mad- 
ness beyond control. It was mad- 
ness already; but it was a harmless 
madness so far. Was it nothing more ? 
was there no method in it ? I won- 
dered, as we beheld the people ha- 
ranguing or being harangued, rushing 
and gesticulating, and all showing, in 
their faces and gestures, the same 
feverish excitement. Were they all 
no better than a cityful of apes, 
chattering and screaming from mere 
impulse ? Was it all quackery and 
cant, without any redeeming note of 
sacrifice and truth and valor; and 
would all this fiery twaddle die out 
presently in smoke and dumbness ? 

We had turned down to the Rue 
de Richelieu, and were coming back, 
when our attention was'arrested by a 
body of volunteers marching past the 
Place de la Bourse. They were in 
spruce new uniforms, and they were 
singing something that was not the 
" Marseillaise," or " La Casquette au 
Pere Bugeaud," or any other of the 
many chants we had be*en listening to ; 
altogether, their appearance and voic- 
es roused our curiosity, and Berthe 
desired the man to follow in their 
wake, that we 'might find out what 
kind of troops they were, and what 
they were singing. They turned up 
the Rue de la Baupe to the Place 
des Petits Peres, and there they en- 
tered the church of Notre Dame des 
Victoires, as many of them as could 
find room, for they numbered seve- 
ral thousand, and nearly half had to 
remain outside. The great front 
doors were thrown up, and remained 
open, so that those who were in the 
Place could see all that went on 
within. The soldiers were upon their 
knees, bare-headed, and a venerable 
old priest was speaking to them ; but 
his voice was so feeble that what he 



The Last Days before the Siege. 



463 



said was only audible to those close 
to the altar-steps where he stood. 
There was no need to ask now who 
these men were, or whence they 
came. None but the men of Brit- 
tany, the sons of the men who went 
out to death against the ruthless sol- 
diers of Robespierre, to the cry of 
Dieu et le Roi ! were likely to tra- 
verse Paris, bearing the cross at their 
head, and make the ex-votos of No- 
tre Dame des Victoires shake on the 
walls to the stirring old Vendean 
hymns. None but the descendants 
of the men " whose strength was as 
the strength of ten, because their 
hearts were pure," would dare in 
these days of sneaking, shamefaced 
Christianity to commit such a brazen 
act of faith. The volunteers were 
accompanied by a great concourse 
of people, mostly relatives and 
friends, but they all remained outside, 
leaving the church quite to the sol- 
diers. It was a strange and beauti- 
ful sight to see all these brave, proud 
Bretons kneeling down with the sim- 
plicity of little children before the 
shrine of the Virgin Mother, and 
singing their hymns to the God of 
Hosts, and asking his blessing on 
themselves and their arms before 
they went out to battle. When they 
came out of the church, with the cure 
at their head, all the people of a com- 
mon impulse fell upon their knees in 
the Place to get his blessing; the men 
received it with bare heads and in si- 
lence ; the women weeping, most of 
them, while some lifted up their 
hands with the old priest and prayed 
out loud a blessing on the soldiers. 
Then he spoke a few words to them, 
not to the soldiers only or chiefly, 
but to all, and especially to the wo- 
men. He bade them remember that 
they too had their part in the nation- 
al struggle, and that they might be a 
noble help or a guilty hindrance, as 
they chose. Those who had hus- 



bands, or sons, or brothers in the 
ranks would understand this without 
any explanation from him. But there 
were very many amongst them who 
had no near relatives in danger, and 
who fancied that this would exempt 
them from sharing the common bur- 
then, and that they could stand aloof 
from the general anxiety and pain. 
It was a selfish, pagan feeling, un- 
worthy of a daughter of France, and 
still more of a Christian. There could 
be no isolation at a time like this. 
All should suffer, and all should 
serve. Those who happily had no 
kindred of their own at the frontier 
should adopt in spirit the brave fel- 
lows who had left none behind. They 
should care for them from a distance 
like true sisters, helping them in the 
battle-field with their prayers, and in 
the camp and the hospital by their 
active and loving ministration ; let 
such among them as were fit and free 
to do it, go and learn of that other 
sisterhood of the diviner sort how to 
serve as they do who serve with the 
strong, pure love of charity ; let those 
who could not do this give abun- 
dantly wherewith the stricken soldier 
might be healed and comforted on his 
bed of pain ; if they could not give 
their hands, let them give their hearts 
and their money ; let them help by 
sacrifice sacrifice of some sort was 
within the reach of all. He blessed 
them again at the close of his little ex- 
hortation, and then every one got up. 
The Bretons fell into rank, and, rend- 
ing the welkin with one loud cry of 
Dieu et la France! set out to the 
Northern Railway. Berthe and I had 
been kneeling with the crowd. 

" Let us follow and see the last of 
them," she said, and we got into the 
brougham and went on at a foot- 
pace. 

The scene at the station was one 
that will never be forgotten by those 
who witnessed it. The pathos of 



464 



The Last Days before the Siege. 



those rough farewells, the lamenta- 
tions of some of the women, the 
Machabean courage of others, the 
shrill crying of little children, the 
tears of strong men, who tore out 
their hearts, feeling it like men, but 
bearing it with the courage of soldiers 
and the exulting hope of Christians : 
it was a sight to make one's heart 
glad to rapture or sad to despair. 
Some of the volunteers Avere of the 
noblest families in Brittany, others 
were workingmen, farmers, and peas- 
ants ; there was the same mixture of 
classes in the throng of people that 
accompanied them ; the pure accent 
of the most cultivated French, crossed 
here and there with the coarser tones 
of the Vendean patois ; side by side 
with the suppressed agony of the 
chatelaine, who strove to hide her 
tenderness and tears from the gaze 
of bystanders, you saw the wretched 
sorrow of the peasant wife, who sob- 
bed on her husband's neck and clung 
to him in a last embrace. There was 
something more heart-rending in these 
humbler farewells, because one felt 
the sacrifice was more complete. If 
this was a last parting, there was 
nothing for either to fall back upon. 

I lost sight of Berthe as soon as 
we alighted, and indeed I forgot her. 
My whole thoughts were absorbed in 
the scene going on around me. It 
was only when the bell rang, and the 
soldiers passed out to the platform, 
leaving the space comparatively 
empty, that I looked about for her, 
and saw her in the middle of the 
sidewalk with her arms round a young 
girl, who was sobbing as if her heart 
would break. It appeared that she 
was just a fortnight married to a Bre- 
ton lad of her own age, nineteen ; 
they had worked hard and saved all 
their little earnings these five years 
past in order to get married; and 
now, just as they were so happy, he 
had gone away from her, and she 



would never see him again ; he was 
certain to be killed, because he was 
so good and loving and clever. 
Berthe pressed the poor child to her 
heart, and committed herself to the 
wildest pledges for the safe return of 
the young hero, and finally, after 
evoking a burst of passionate grati- 
tude from the girl, who half-believed 
her to be a beneficial fairy sent to 
comfort her, Berthe exacted a prom- 
ise, that she was to come and see her 
the next day, and we set our faces 
towards home. 

We drove on for a little while in 
silence, looking each out of our sep- 
arate window, our hearts too full for 
conversation. I saw by Berthe's eyes 
that she had been crying. I felt in- 
stinctively that there was a great 
struggle going on within her, but, 
though my whole heart was vibrating 
in sympathy with it, I could not say 
so. Presently she turned towards 
me, and exclaimed : 

" And I was thanking God that I 
had no brothers ! Blirtd, selfish fool 
that I was !" 

She burst into tears, sobbing pas- 
sionately, and hid her face in her 
hands. The change in her bright 
and volatile spirit seemed to make a 
change in all the world. I could not 
accuse the people, as I had done an 
hour ago, of being mere puppets, 
dancing to a tune and throwing 
themselves into attitudes that meant 
no more than a sick man's raving. 
It seemed to me as if the aspect of 
the city and the sound of its voice 
had quite altered, and I all at once 
began to hope wonders of and for 
the Parisians. One could not but 
believe that they were striving to be 
in earnest, that the mother-pulse of 
patriotism, so long gagged and still, 
was now waking up, and beating 
with strong, hot throbs in the hearts 
of the people, and that, once alive 
and working, it would break out like 



The Last Days before the Siege. 



465 



a fire and burn away the unreality 
and the false glitter and the tragic 
comedy of their lives, and serve to 
purify them for a free and noble fu- 
ture. No ; it was not all cant and 
tinkle and false echo. There was 
substance under the symbolizing. 
There were men amongst them who 
worshipped God, and were proud to 
proclaim it. There were hearts that 
seemed dead, but were only sleeping. 
Paris was dancing in mad mirth like 
a harlequin to-day, but to-morrow it 
would be different the smoke and 
the flame would go out, leaving be- 
hind them the elements of a great 
nation burnt pure of the corroding 
dross that had choked and held them 
captive so long. 

On arriving at home, Berthe found 
a costume which had just come from 
M. Grandhomme's laid out on her 
bed. At any other moment, the 
sight would have claimed her de.- 
lighted attention, but she turned from 
it with a feeling of indifference now, 
almost of disgust. Antoinette, who 
had been puzzling over some new 
trick in the tunic, took it up in a flur- 
ry and was for trying it on at once, 
to see how it fitted and whether the 
novelty became her mistress, but 
Berthe, with a movement of impa- 
tience, told her to put it away, that 
she was in no mood for attending to 
be'tises just then. The girl opened 
her eyes in astonishment. A cos- 
tume of Grandhomme's, that cost 
eleven hundred francs, to be called a 
Mise ! It was flat profanity. She 
left the room with a painful presenti- 
ment that something very serious was 
amiss with Madame la Comtesse. 

A soon as Berthe was alone, she 
began to think. It was a new expe- 
rience in her life, this process of think- 
ing, and she was hard pressed by it, 
for it was no vacant reverie that she 
was indulging in, but a sharp, com- 
pulsory review of her past and 
VOL. xv. 30 



present existence and the result was 
anything but soothing. Her life up 
to this day had been the life of a 
human butterfly, gay, airy, amusing, 
very enjoyable as regarded herself, 
and harmless enough as regarded her 
fellow-creatures. She had drunk her 
fill of the good things of life, enjoy- 
ing herself in every possible way, but 
legitimately; she was incapable of 
wronging or hurting any one; she 
was extravagant in her dress and 
other luxuries, but her fortune al- 
lowed this, and she made no debts. 
So far, her life was blameless, and 
indeed, if she compared it with that 
of many of those around her, it was 
a very respectable one. But sudden- 
ly all her theories had collapsed, and 
her comfortable standard been upset. 
It turned out that she had a soul 
somewhere, though she had forgotten 
all about it, and been living, as if hap- 
pily free from thatincumbrance,in sel- 
fishness and folly, that were counted 
by this newly revealed standard little 
short of guilt. It was an unexpected 
discovery, and a most unpleasant 
one. That exclamation which had 
escaped her twice, and the thought 
of the great general sorrow, kept ring- 
ing in her ears like a warning and a 
reproach " Thank God, I have no 
brother !" Who. then, were these 
men that she had just seen going 
forth in voluntary self-devotion to 
fight for her, and those who, like 
her, could not depend on them- 
selves ? Was there such a thing 
in Christendom as a woman or a 
man who had no brothers ? Yet 
Berthe had believed herself to be 
this impossibility ; she had been liv- 
ing up to it in utter forgetfulness of 
her brethren, ignoring them as a 
heathen might, or using them coldly 
for her own selfish purposes, to work 
for her and minister to her interests 
or her pleasures. There were some 
people whom she loved, but it was a 



466 



The Last Days before the Siege. 



love that narrowed to self; those who 
were disagreeable, or stupid, or bad 
she disliked, and, unknown to herself 
perhaps, despised. There were no 
wide sympathies in this discarded 
soul of hers for the great family of 
mankind ; for the publicans and sin- 
ners and the lepers and the blind 
and the lame ; she was kind-hearted, 
but suffering, to touch her, must be 
seen through some sesthetic coloring^ 
the miseries and follies and infirmi- 
ties of a prosaic kind that abounded 
on all sides of her she turned from 
in disgust, she avoided them like noi- 
some things that belonged to crea- 
tures of an inferior clay and had no 
kinship with her more refined and 
privileged individuality. "Sacrifice 
is within the reach of all of you ; you 
must help by sacrifice," that old 
man had said. What a strange sound 
the words had ! What did he mean ? 
Sacrifice! Was there any place in 
her life for such a thing ? She look- 
ed round at the azure hangings of 
her room, at the bright mirrors that 
reflected her figure in a dozen vary- 
ing aspects, at the costly goods and 



trinkets that littered her dressing- 
table, at the couches and chairs of 
every modern contrivance inviting 
the body to luxurious repose, and 
she saw that her nest was fair to look 
at, but too full for this unbidden 
guest called sacrifice to find a place 
in it. Her eye wandered absently 
from one object to another till it fell 
upon a pale ivory figure on a velvet 
background, fastened to the wall, and 
half-shrouded by the curtains of the 
bed. 

" I am young ; it is not too late ; I 
will begin life afresh," said Berthe, 
rising and moving restlessly across 
the room ; " I will begin to-morrow, 
no, to-day now." 

She went close up to the bed, and 
stood for a moment with clasped 
hands, her lips moving in quick, low 
utterances, and then fell upon her 
knees before the pale, thorn-crowned 
head looking down upon her. 

They never knew it, but this con- 
quest of a noble woman's life was 
perhaps the first victory won by the 
Breton soldiers who set out to battle 
that day ! 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



AFTER READING MR. TUPPER'S PROVERBIAL 
PHILOSOPHY. 

ON wisdom's steed sit Solomon and Tupper, 
The saddle one bestrides, and one the crupper. 



An Essay on Epigrams, 



467 



AN ESSAY ON EPIGRAMS. 



WHO nowadays writes epigrams ? 
The species epigrammatist seems to 
be well-nigh extinct Now and then 
some Herr Professor, whose learning 
is less ponderous than common, after 
due incubation hatches what he calls 
a Sinngedicht. But his achievement is 
too often a paraphrase, if not a literal 
translation, of some Latin original. 
At intervals, too, Thorold Rogers, 
clergyman and social reformer, flings 
into London journals some explosive 
squib couched in verse, but the mis- 
sile is tolerably harmless, and draws 
far less attention than a telegram. 
No doubt before the invention of the 
newspaper the epigram, so easy to 
remember and so incisive in its ef- 
fect, was no mean engine of cajolery, 
or calumny. But the days are gone 
when such weapons were effective in 
the political arena, and either con- 
quered a pension or provoked a 
lettre de cachet. Byron, who wor- 
shipped Pope, and deemed every- 
thing his master had done worth do- 
ing, sometimes ventured into Mar- 
tial's province, but rarely successfully, 
except in Don Juan. A score of epi- 
grams might be culled from that 
poem which would answer all the 
conditions of a rigorous definition. 
Since Byron, no poet of eminence 
has condescended to this form of art. 
Tennyson indeed is terse and telling, 
as is proved by the facility with 
which we quote him ; yet he seems as 
incapable of epigrams as Morris, of 
whom most of us, much as we like 
him, can with difficulty remember a 
line. Browning might write them if 
he chose, but he does not choose, 
and so it is that the old epigramma- 
tist lingers only in some isolated 



representative, as the dodo did in 
Madagascar, or like that Tasmanian 
survivor whose present existence is 
clouded with a doubt. 

Epigrammatists may perish from 
the face of the earth, but the epigram 
is immortal. It well deserves to be 
so. What form of wit imparts so 
much pleasure to so many persons ? 
If the world could be fairly polled, it 
might be found that some tiny epi- 
gram has yielded more genuine de- 
light than the most ambitious works 
of genius, as, for instance, the Paradise 
Lost. If there is one Latin author 
who is still read for hearty amuse- 
ment, it is Martial, and even the 
candid schoolboy who declines to be 
charmed by the Iliad can see some 
fun in the Anthology. 

It would probably pose most per- 
sons to be suddenly called on to de- 
fine an epigram. And no wonder, 
for every great scholar since the 
manuscripts of Martial were recover- 
ed in Western Europe has tried his 
hand at a definition, and none ex- 
cept Lessing has grasped it. The 
literal meaning is, of course, inscrip- 
tion, and the word was originally ap- 
plied to the writing on a monument 
or tomb. But in later times the 
word obtained in Greek rhetoric 
and poetry the peculiar significance 
which in English distinguishes the 
epigram from an epitaph, and in 
German the Sinngedicht from a mere 
Aufschrift or Ueberschrift. We shall 
at once lay our finger on this peculiar 
significance by answering the ques- 
tion, why the Greeks had but one 
word where the Germans have two ? 

We need hardly say that it could 
be neither a poverty of language nor 



An Essay on Epigrams. 



a contempt for precision which led 
the former to content themselves 
with the original term. If there is any- 
thing notorious, it is that the Athe- 
nian never suffered a new idea, or 
the finest shade of deviation from an 
old idea, to shiver in the cold of 
paraphrase, but straightway clothed it 
with a snug, warm word, cut and fit- 
ted to the shape. We may be sure 
that a sense of some nice propriety, 
the recognition, perhaps, of some just 
and suggestive metaphor, induced 
him to attach the name of epigram 
to a particular class of little poems, 
without any direct reference to their 
fitness for inscription on memorial 
stones. 

The fact is, that every genuine 
epigram is divisible into two distinct 
parts, of which the first answers pre- 
cisely to the monument or tomb on 
which the primitive epigram was 
written, and the second to the in- 
scription proper which the monu- 
ment bore. To surprise, and there- 
upon to explain, to secure the twofold 
delight which springs in curiosity 
and ripens in gratification, was the 
purpose of the inscribed monument, 
and is still the aim of the true epigram. 
Let us apply this to some faultless 
type, like that stanza by Sir William 
Jones : 

On parent knees, a naked new-born child, 
Weeping thou sat'st, while all around thee 

smiled ; 

So live that, sinking to thy last long sleep, 
Thou then may'st smile when all around thee 

weep. 

It is plain that the first two lines 
awaken curiosity, excite interest. 
They answer to the graceful shaft 
which arrests the eye and allures the 
step. They win us to approach and 
investigate, to look for some further 
revelation, to ponder on the lesson 
which the last two lines convey. In 
a word, attention is first secured, and 
then rewarded. Let the reader test 
this analysis in other instances, and 



he will find it essential to the epi- 
gram that both these feelings, the 
longing of expectation and the satis- 
faction of it, should be evoked, and 
in this order. All the other quali- 
ties which have been supposed 
to be peculiar to the epigram, but 
are really common to many sorts of 
short and witty poems, may be easily 
deduced from this definition. Thus, 
the more terse and vigorous are the 
lines which introduce the subject, the 
more potent will be their appeal to 
curiosity, and the more tenacious 
their hold upon our interest. Archi- 
tecturally, the monument will be 
more impressive. On the other 
hand, the more novel and delightful 
is the concluding thought, or the 
more felicitous and pointed the ex- 
pression of it, the more complete 
is our satisfaction, the more am ply- 
do we feel repaid for our pains 
in deciphering the inscription. It 
follows likewise that the second half, 
or thought, of the epigram must in- 
terpret the fact embodied in the first, 
otherwise the inscription, instead of 
explaining the particular monument 
which bears it, serves merely to point 
us to another. So much for the 
veritable Sinngedicht. Of the pseudo- 
epigram there are many varieties, but 
the two commonest are those which 
awaken curiosity without appeasing 
it, or else instruct without enlist- 
ing attention. Without stopping to 
point out the flaws in many little 
poems, more or less witty, more or 
less compact, which are falsely called 
epigrams, we shall perceive the ac- 
cuiacy and value of the above defi- 
nition by glancing at some famous 
models of the true form. In all the 
examples we may cite, we will give 
the originals, that they who do not 
like our version may make a better 
for themselves. 

Let us begin with a couplet from 
Wenicke, who has written so much 



An Essay on Epigrams. 



469 



and so well in this way as to merit 
the name of the German Martial: 

Du liebest Geld und Gut, noch so, dass dein 

Erbarmen 
Der Armen fiihlt. Du fliehst die Arrnuth, nicht 

die Armen. 

We have not been able in this in- 
stance to preserve both the rhyme 
and the metre, and prefer to keep 
the latter. The lines convey a noble 
eulogy. 

Thou lovest gold and goods, yet so that thy 

compassion 
Feels for the needy still, shunning need, and 

not the needy. 

Here are two more from German 
sources. We have forgotten who 
wrote them, but our readers may re- 
member. The turn of the thought in 
the second is novel and rather pret- 
ty: 

Ihr sagt, die Zeit vergeht ! 
Weil Ihr das falsch versteht, 
Die Zeit ist ewig : Ihr vergeht ! 

We say. Time passes ! Is it so ? 
Time waits ! 'Tis only we who go. 

Schon vier Mai kam ich, deine Diener sprachen 
Du seist nicht da, man liess mich nicht herein. 
Mein Kind ! um eine Gottin mirzu sein 
Brauchst du dich ja nicht unsichtbar zu machen." 

Four times I called, the servant said, 
" She's out!" I might not see my maid. 
To seem a goddess, dear, to me, 
Invisible thou needst not be !" 

The greatest of German poets are 
not ashamed to stoop to epigram, 
and sometimes aim to reproduce the 
metre which Martial preferred. Of 
the following essays in elegiacs the 
first three are by Schiller, the others 
by Emanuel Geibel : 

Glaubt mir, es ist kein Miirchen, die Quelle von 

Jugend sie rinnet 
Wirklich und immer! Ihr fragt, wo? In der 

dichtenden Kunst ! 

Trust me, 'tis more than a fable ; the Fountain 

of Youth springeth ever 
Jocund and fresh as of old ! Where ? In the 

art of the bard ! 



Happy the soul of a babe, finding infinite room 
in the cradle ! 

Grown to be man, he will find narrow the in- 
finite world. 



Willstdudich selber erkennen, so sieh wie die 

Ander'n es treiben ! 
Willst du die Ander'n versteh'n, blick' in dein 

eigenes Herz! 

Man, wilt thou study thyself, scan keenly the 

conduct of others ! 
Aiming to know other men, turn the eye in on 

thy heart ! 

Doppelte Schwing hat die Zeit Mit der Einen 

entflihrt sie die Freuden, 
Doch mil der Anderen sanft kijhlte den thranen- 

den Blick. 

Time in a dream I beheld twi-winged, with one 
silently stealing 

Joy, with the other he fanned kindly the tear- 
swollen eye. 



Glucklicher SiJuglung ! Dir ist ein unendlicher 

Raum noch die Wiege ! 
Werde Mann, und dir wird eng die unendliche 

Welt. 



Darin gleichet der Dichter dem Kind. Es er- 

scheint das Bekannte 
Ihm wie ein Wunder : Bekannt' blickt das 

Geheimniss ihn an ! 

Dwells in a poet the child, who still with a feel- 
ing of wonder 

Eyes the familiar ; to him still looks familiar the 
strange. 

The grand-master of epigram- 
matists, Martial, with the proud 
humility of conscious power, confess- 
ed himself a pupil of Catullus. But 
it was rather his purity of diction and 
na'ive simplicity which Martial bor- 
rowed from the elder poet, not the 
point and sparkle of his epigrams, 
which are of right his own. The 
minor poems of Catullus include few 
which are strictly epigrams, and of 
these only two or three admit of dis- 
tillation into a modern language. 
We give one which is addressed, like 
most of his amatory verse, to Lesbia. 
In this instance we abandon the at- 
tempt to reproduce the Latin elegi- 
acs. 

Lesbia mi dicit semper male, nee tacet unquam 
De me. Lesbia me, dispeream, nisi amat ! 
Quo signo ? Quasi non totidem mox deprecor 

illi 
Assiilue, verum dispeream, nisi amo. 

Always my Lesbia treats me ill, 
By this I'll swear she loves me well ! 
How so ? I'm rude to her, but still. 
I'll swear I love my Lesbia well ! 

While we are on the subject of 



470 



An Essay on Epigrams. 



lover's whims and inconsistencies, we 
venture to give an experiment of our 
own. At least we may claim the ex- 
pression, although the thought, if we 
remember rightly, belongs to Moore : 

Love halts, you said, but will not stay, 
And soon fares on his pilgrim's way. 
A pilgrim, yes ! O'er wave and sand 
His eye still sought the Holy Land, 
Welcomed each altar, as he passed, 
Until he found the Shrine at last. 

Before we come to Martial, let us 
pause a moment over the Greek An- 
thology, of which some parts, no doubt, 
were written later than his day, but 
others must share with Catullus the 
honor of suggesting to the brilliant 
Spaniard the right conception of the 
epigram, as well as the appropriate 
treatment. Unlike Horace, however, 
Martial rarely condescended to bor- 
row either thought or expression from 
a foreign source. We may say of 
him, and more truthfully, what Den- 
ham said of Cowley, that he " melt- 
ed not the ancient gold." Perhaps 
the most famous epigram in the An- 
thology is that on a picture of Py- 
thagoras. It has been a dozen times 
translated into Latin or expanded 
in Greek, but generally with indiffer- 
ent success : 



AVTOV Hvlayopriv 6 wypa0of bv //eru 0vj?f 
Eidef uv tlye Xatelv f/iifXe nv r jayopr](. 

Most of the versions require four 
lines, and some eight, to project the 
idea, and only two that we have 
seen matches the original in com- 
pression; here is one of them, by 
Hugo Grotius : 

Ipsum Pythagoram dat cernere pictor et ipsum 
Audires sed enim non cupit ipse loqui. 

The objection to this is and it lies 
to the Greek as well we are 
asked to imagine that Pythagoras 
expressly desired to be depicted 
silent, in other words, requested the 
painter not to perform an impossibili- 



ty which is very like an absurdity. 
The true idea, and one that gives 
point and beauty to the compliment, 
is rather this, that since a prime tenet 
of the Pythagoreans was the mainte- 
nance of a thoughtful silence and a 
wise reserve, it would have been false 
to the mental posture of the man, 
and therefore bad art (supposing it 
to have been possible) to have repre- 
sented him otherwise than in speech- 
less meditation. We have attempt- 
ed to give some such turn to the 
thought in English elegiacs. 

There Pythagoras stands to the life ! Be sure 
we should hear him 

Speak but Pythagoras taught wisdom in si- 
lence to muse. 

It is no mean honor to be indispu- 
tably the first in any line of art, and 
certainly within the field of the epi- 
gram Martial is prince of poets. He 
conceived the form of poetry to 
which he devoted his life to possess 
much more of dignity and importance 
than we incline to allow it, and he 
did much to make good his claim. 
He held towards previous epigram- 
matists the same commanding posi- 
tion which Dante holds towards Sici- 
lian and Provencal poets, or Marot 
towards the Trouveres, and he 
wrought the epigram to that climax 
of perfection from which progress 
means nothing but decline. He filed 
and fitted his lines with a punctilious 
care which we should expect to be- 
tray itself, yet his verse flows with a 
limpid ease through which the eye 
seeks in vain the labor that smoothed 
the channel. We may call him in 
simple justice what Bulwer called 
Addison : 

Exquisite genius, to whose chiselled line 
The ivory s polish lends the ivory's shine ! 

To hope to reflect in a translation 
the gleam and edge of Martial would 
be absurd. We shall merely aim in 
a general way, while preserving the 



An Essay on Epigrams. 



471 



metre, to sketch the outlines of the 
central thought. If our readers miss 
the bloom on the rose, we at least 
cannot help them. They must seek 
the garden where it grew, and pluck 
it for themselves. 

In the course of a long residence 
in Rome, Martial seems to have suf- 
fered the usual vicissitudes of authors, 
and sometimes in moments of eclipse 
found his friends more willing to re- 
proach than to relieve him. He 
fancies he detects a reason for it : 

Genus, Aucte, lucri divites habent iram. 
Odisse quam donasse vilius constat. 

Auctus, the rich count wrath a gain : 
That to hate costs less than to give is plain. 

In the time of Domitian a round 
portion was as essential to the mar- 
riage of a Roman virgin as it is now 
with French ladies of condition, who 
must either endow or derogate. 
The Latin prototype of the Belgra- 
vian mother must have had grievous 
cause of complaint when the state 
bestowed prizes on such as were at 
once husbands and fathers. The fol- 
lowing epigram, however, takes a 
more elevated view, and strikes the 
key-note of Tennyson's rhapsody in 
the well-known lines of The Princess : 

Uxorem quare locupletem ducere nolim 
Quaeritis. Uxori nubere nolo mese ! 
Inferior matrona suo sit, Prisce, marito ! 
Non aliter fuerint femina virque pares. 

Why so reluctant, you ask, to wed with a wo- 
man of fortune ? 

Friend, I would marry a wife, not have a wife 
marry me ! 

Trust me, the rule is sound, let the woman owe 
all to her husband, 

Thus shall they, man and wife, each owe the 
other nothing. 

Here is a playful innuendo which 
has often been copied. Marot's ver- 
sion is exceedingly neat, but some- 
what coarse, so our readers must 
take ours in place of it : 

Nubere vis Frisco, nonmiror, Paula, sapisti ! 
Ducere te non vult Priscus, et ille sapit I 

Jill fancies Jack for a husband truly a sensible 

woman ! 
Jack has no fancy for Jill truly a sensible man ! 



No epigram of Martial's is more 
admired, and none seems to us more 
admirable, than that which chron- 
icles the magnanimous act of Arria, 
who showed her husband the way to 
death. She lived in the time of Mes- 
salina, but the deed was worthy of 
Lucrece. Perhaps the traditional 
fortitude and fashionable stoicism of 
Rome might have paused contented 
with the historical fact, but modern 
sentiment cannot fail to welcome the 
touch of tenderness in the conclud- 
ing line. We place beside it The 
Death of .Portia because the two 
poems are pitched in the same key. 
The latter, however, is a mere histori- 
ette, told with rare force and fervor, 
but without the point and turn which 
distinguish a true epigram. To re 
cur to our metaphor, the monument 
is a noble one, but the superscription 
is wanting. Our readers will observe 
that Martial's Portia follows her hus- 
band to the grave, while she precedes 
him in Shakespeare's play. 

Casta suo gladiam cum traderet Arria Paeto, 
Quern de visceribus traxerat ipsa suis ; 
Si qua fides, vulnus quod feci non dolet, inquit. 
Sed quod tu facies hoc mihi, Paete, dolet ! 

Paetus reluctant to die wavered ; him Arria 

marking 
Brued in her bosom the sword, which to her 

husband she gave ; 
Think not, she cried, that my wound bears with 

it aught that is painful ! 
That which thou dealest thyself, that will be 

painful to me ! 

Conjugis audisset fatum cum Porcia Bruti, 
Et subtracta sibi qusereret anna dolor, 
Nondum scitis, ait, mortem non posse negan 
Credideram satis hoc vos docuisse patrem 
Dixit et ardentes avido bibit ore favillas, 
I nunc, et ferrum, turba molesta, nega ! 

Portia, thy Brutus is dead ! they told her. She 
in her anguish 

Silently sought for a sword kindness had hid it 
from her. 

Dream ye, officious, she cried, that death will ad- 
mit of denial ! 

Truly I trusted my sire, Cato, had taught ye 
better ! 

Pausing she thrust in her mouth live coals, and 
eagerly swallowed ; 

Go, ye officious, refuse Portia a useless weapon ! 

In so far as the modern epigram is 
modelled upon Martial, we should 



An Essay on Epigrams. 



expect it to flourish with especial 
luxuriance in the classic literature of 
France. Modern French, of all the 
daughters of Latin, inherits the most 
terseness and precision, and adapts 
herself with peculiar ease to a com- 
pact and pregnant style. The burst 
of admiration for the ancients which 
deserved the name of Renaissance, 
and rose in Ronsard and Du Bellay 
to a fervent and naive enthusiasm, 
was tempered by Malherbe and Boi- 
leau to a cautious study of principles 
and the elaborate finish of expres- 
sion. It is a significant fact that 
Malherbe during the most fruitful 
period of his life, from twenty to 
forty-five, composed on the average 
but thirty-three lines a year. Waller 
had such examples in his mind when 
he urged his countrymen to prune 
their style : 

Our lines reformed and not composed in haste, 
Like marble polished, would like marble last. 

Malherbe himself made but few epi- 
grams, and none comparable to the 
familiar stanza in the elegy which he 
wrote to console a friend. Translat- 
ing it is like handling a butterfly : 

She bloomed in a world where the sweetest 
that blows 

Is the first to decay ; 
And rosebud, her life was the life of a rose, 

The space of a day. 

Of French epigrammatists, the 
most voluminous are Clement Marot 
and Jean Baptiste Rousseau. The 
latter has left four books of epigrams 
which are rarely deficient in point, 
but often diffuse and cold. Here is 
one : 

They burn my books, you say, they give 
Death to the child who only asked to live: 
Your own in peace will draw their breath, 
They're sure to die a natural death. 

We have seen that French and 



German are rich in epigrams, but we 
incline to think our own literature 
richer still. From Sir John Harring- 
ton downwards the line of epigram- 
matists was unbroken, until it suc- 
cumbed to the contempt with which 
the Lake poets regarded a style so 
repugnant to their own. It might 
be not uninteresting to trace the 
growth of this modest flower in our 
English soil, but we have already 
overrun the limit we had set ourselves, 
and the English epigram must wait 
another opportunity. But one word 
more. The initial lines of an epi- 
gram, which are addressed to curios- 
ity, whether from ignorance or a mis- 
taken love of conciseness, are often 
omitted, and a clumsy substitute is 
provided in the lemma, or explana- 
tory title. Should this happen to be 
changed or lost, the poem becomes 
absurd or unintelligible. Take, for 
instance, this from the German : 

Prythee lend, little Lycon, thine eye to AgathC ! 
Blind, shall thou then be Cupid, thy sister Ve- 
nus be ! 

This would seem sheer nonsense if 
we did not know that it was written 
on two children, who, otherwise love- 
ly, had but one eye apiece. The 
Greek quatrain from which this 
couplet was extracted is a perfect 
epigram, and, needing no introduc- 
tion, contains in itself both the fact 
and the thought. Even in the case 
of an epitaph, honestly designed to 
be graven on a tomb, the best mo- 
dels require no lemma. It is so, for 
instance, with Ben Jonson's lines on 
the Countess of Pembroke : 

Underneath this marble hearse 
Lies the subject of all verse, 
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother: 
Death, ere thou hast slain another 
Half so good and fair as she, 
Time will fling a dart at thee. 



Fleurange. 



FLEURANGE. 

BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF "A SISTER'S STORY. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION. 

PART SECOND. 
THE TRIAL. 



XX. 



NOTWITHSTANDING the princess' 
apparent indifference, she was not 
so inexperienced as to imagine that 
Fleurange's presence in the same 
house could be wholly exempt from 
danger to her son at his age and 
with his temperament. At the same 
time, anything that would change 
the actual current of her life would 
have annoyed her, and what was 
opposed to her wishes was seldom 
looked upon as possible. Neverthe- 
less, she carefully watched George 
for two or three days, and soon felt 
reassured, and the more so because 
he was seldom disposed to secrecy 
with her. Without allowing himself 
to be directed by his mother, he did 
not try to conceal his opinions from 
her, and, even at the risk of sometimes 
greatly displeasing her, he suffered 
her to read the depths of his heart 
without any special effort to baffle 
her penetration. But this time the 
result of the princess' observation 
was of a nature to reassure her com- 
pletely. 

George spoke to Fleurange with- 
out affectation, and with no appear- 
ance of eagerness. He never show- 
ed her any attentions excepting acts 
of politeness he would have shown 
any one else. He never sought her 
society, and; if he looked at her and 
sometimes spoke of her beauty, as 
every one else did, it was with more 



reserve and coldness than others. 
Hence the princess concluded with 
double satisfaction that George's 
thoughts were otherwise absorbed, 
and, as this accorded with her wishes, 
she allowed herself the comfort of 
not doubting it, and returned to the 
repose of her indolent life. 

As to Fleurange, the effect of 
Count George's manner was singular. 
Naturally frank, honest, and courage- 
ous, she had an invincible repug- 
nance for all kinds of dissimulation, 
and for some days, by the very fact 
of his manifesting two different as- 
pects, he lost in her eyes a part of 
his dangerous prestige. Which of 
these two aspects was genuine ? 
Was he acting a part now, or was he 
acting on the day of his arrival ? 
This very doubt brought pride to the 
aid of reason, and helped her regain 
her customary self-control. By de- 
grees the impression of the first day 
grew fainter, and she almost succeed- 
ed in effacing from her memory the 
scene Count George himself seemed 
to have so completely forgotten. 

Whether it was so or not, the 
princess, as we have said, ceased fol- 
lowing her with anxious eyes, and 
the young girl, freed from the restraint 
she felt at first, ventured by degrees 
to take some part in the general con- 
versation, even when he was present. 
She soon abandoned herself to the 



474 



Fleiirange. 



pleasure of intercourse with a mind 
which inspired her with fresh interest 
on every subject to which nothing 
seemed indifferent or unknown. In 
this respect he resembled the Mar- 
quis Adelardi, but he was more ar- 
dent and less sarcastic, and could not, 
like him, leave an interesting subject 
to dwell on the backbitings of a 
clique or the gossip of a salon. 
They were very intimate, neverthe- 
less, and, without actual similarity, 
they were sufficiently in harmony to 
enjoy being always together and 
never to clash. 

They were, however, equally en- 
thusiastic on one subject that of 
politics. Elsewhere this would prob- 
ably have greatly wearied Fleurange, 
but here it interested her in spite of 
herself. Count George expressed 
his sentiments with a certain eleva- 
tion of tone, and, without always 
perfectly understanding all that was 
discussed, she felt excited by the 
lofty independence of his opinions, 
his love of liberty, and his tendency 
to take, everywhere and always, the 
part of the weak and the oppressed. 
These are prominent political features 
which women at once catch without 
difficulty, and which win their sym- 
pathy in every cause or discussion 
into which they enter. Therefore 
Fleurange, while listening with silent 
interest, sometimes felt carried away 
by ardent sympathy with the charm 
of his captivating eloquence, the ef- 
fect of which was as powerful as it 
was new. 

The marquis was no less interested 
in contemporary history than his 
friend, and discussed it quite as will- 
ingly, unless it was a question con- 
cerning his own country. In that 
case he became silent, and it was al- 
most impossible to sustain the con- 
versation. 

Fleurange seldom took any part in 
the conversation, which in fact was 



not often directed to her. From the 
time of Count George's arrival she 
had never found herself alone with 
him. But one evening the princess' 
salon was as usual filled with com- 
pany. Fleurange, seated at a table, 
was pouring out the tea. This was 
one of her customary duties. Each 
one came to ask for a cup, and but 
few occupied the seats around the 
table. Among these was the Mar- 
quis Adelardi, who, on this occasion, 
began discoursing with the young 
artist Livio and Dom Pomponio on 
ancient and modern art in Italy. 
Count George drew near and listen- 
ed for some time in silence, then 
joined in the conversation. A chair 
near Fleurange was vacant. He 
took it, and for some time the dis- 
cussion was carried on with anima- 
tion. Fleurange was listening with 
her elbow on the table and her eyes 
cast down. She did not say a word, 
nor did she lose one that was utter- 
ed beside her. The conversation 
passed from Italy to Germany, 
and they spoke of the school of art 
there, now beginning to produce 
some great paintings. Count George 
suddenly pronounced the name of 
Julian Steinberg, saying that this 
artist's most remarkable production 
was to be found in Professor Lud- 
wig Dornthal's gallery at Frankfort. 

Fleurange, of course, was aware he 
knew her friends, but there had 
never been any occasion for speak- 
ing of them, and these names sudden- 
ly mentioned before her gave her a 
thrill. She hastily looked up, and 
with difficulty repressed the exclama- 
tion already on her lips. This move- 
ment did not escape the notice of 
him who caused it. He allowed the 
conversation to die away. After 
some moments the others left the ta- 
ble. He alone remained an instant. 

" Mademoiselle Gabrielle," said he, 
" tell me if I involuntarily vexed you 



Fleurange. 



475 



or wounded your feelings just now. 
It was by no means intentional " 

Fleurange eagerly interrupted him : 
" Oh ! no, assuredly not " ; and these 
words were followed by an explana- 
tion which the young girl gave as 
fully as she did frankly. Count 
George thus learned for the first time 
her relationship to the Dornthals. 
The subject once commenced soon 
led to a new and more important 
revelation. Since the first day, for 
more than one reason easy to under- 
stand, the picture of Cordelia had 
not been recalled by either. Now, 
becoming more confidential and ren- 
dered more expansive by the charm 
of awakened remembrances, Fleur- 
ange ventured to tell him what an 
influence on her life his becoming 
the owner of her father's last paint- 
ing had had, and in a tone of emo- 
tion she thanked him for the happi- 
ness of which he had been the in- 
voluntary cause. 

But she soon stopped suddenly : 
her heart, as on that first day, beat 
with agitation mingled with alarm ; 
for, while she was speaking, Count 
George's eyes, fixed on hers, resumed 
the expression she had not seen since 
that day, and once more, as then, 
she heard him pronounce her name 
in a tone she had striven to forget. 

" Fleurange ! Oh ! is not what you 
have told me wonderful ? What ! 
this Cordelia has transformed your 
life as it has mine ? Tell me if this is 
not a proof of the destiny we should 
not seek to avoid ?" 



Such were the words he articulat- 
ed in a low tone ; but he stopped in 
his turn. Fleurange's deep blush 
changed into a frightful paleness. 

We have remarked that the word 
duty resounded in this young girl's 
soul in a tone singularly correct and 
powerful. The words she had just 
heard caused rather the striking of 
a signal of alarm than the dangerous 
emotion they were calculated to pro- 
duce. She remained silent an in- 
stant, during which George gazed at 
her motionless and incapable of ut- 
tering a word. At length she suc- 
ceeded in calming the involuntary 
agitation of her heart, and, raising 
her beautiful eyes, calm and grave, 
she looked at him with an air of 
proud dignity which would have 
suited a queen had the most obscure 
of her subjects forgotten the distance 
that separated them. 

" Monsieur le Comte," said she, " I 
appeal to your better self : is this the 
language you should address a poor 
orphan who is under your mother's 
protection and in her service ?" 

The profound respect in the eyes 
that lowered before hers was a suffi- 
cient reparation for Fleurange. But 
the tenderness and sorrow mingled 
with this respect made his mute re- 
sponse perhaps more dangerous for 
her to whom it was addressed than 
the ardent words that preceded it. 
She rose immediately, nevertheless, 
without adding another word, and 
left the salon to appear no more that 
evening. 



XXI. 



Count George remained longer 
than he was aware of in the place 
where Fleurange left him. At last 
he felt a light touch on his shoulder. 
It was Adelardi who thus disturbed 
his reverie. 



" What are you thinking about, 
George ?" said he. " You could 
not be more absorbed in contem- 
plating that tea-cup, if it were one 
of the magic vases you told us 
about, the other day, from which 



476 



Fleurange. 



your countrymen turn out prophetic 
symbols." * 

The count looked up, smiling : 
' Your comparison is not inapplica- 
ble," said he, " for it was precisely 
of the future I was thinking. Yes, I 
would like to know my fortune, and, 
if I had any faith in the charm to 
which you allude, I would immedi- 
ately have recourse to it." 

He rose as he spoke and glanced 
around the room. The salon was 
brilliant and full of company. His 
mother, even more elegantly attired 
than usual, seemed to be regarding 
with satisfaction the numerous groups 
of stylish ladies, men of all ages, and 
notabilities from all lands gathered 
around her. Nothing justified the 
wearied look of him who should 
have aided in doing the honors of 
the evening, still less the following 
words : 

" What an insupportable crowd ! 
If you have had enough of it, Ade- 
lardi, as I have, let us go to my 
room and smoke a cigar in peace." 

" Agreed on the last point. As to 
the other, it is your humor for divi- 
nation that makes you regard things 
in such a light. Come," he con- 
tinued when they were established, 
one in an arm-chair and the other 
on a dormeuse, in the apartment 
where we once accompanied Fleur- 
ange " come, George, without be- 
ing a fortune-teller, shall I try to 
predict the future you are seeking to 
know ?" 

George lighted his cigar, and, after 
smoking a few moments in silence, 
he said : " You are no fortune-teller, 
Adelardi, I am aware, but you would 
not be an Italian without a certain 
talent for divination. Come, I am 
willing : try your skill. You know 

* This allusion refers to a playful superstition 
practised in Russia on New Year's Eve. It con- 
sists in pouring melted wax into a basin of cold 
water, and drawing predictions from the figures 
thus produced. 



you have long had the right of say- 
ing anything to me." 

" Well, to begin but first allow 
me to ask why you have kept a cur- 
tain over that picture since your re- 
turn ?" 

" Do you remember what that 
painting represents ?" 

" Certainly, it represents Cordelia 
at the feet of King Lear, who is 
asleep." 

" Did you ever examine it careful- 
ly?" 

" Yes, George, very carefully, so 
that here, I can spare you the 
trouble of answering the question 1 
just asked. I know now why you 
conceal it." 

" Let us hear." 

" You cover it for fear people will 
be struck with the resemblance of 
Cordelia to the original." 

George did not immediately re- 
ply. " If you have guessed aright," 
said he at length, " should I be 
obliged to acknowledge it ?" 

" Yes, in the game we are playing. 
There must be mutual frankness, or 
we must give it up." 

" Well, Adelardi, let us go on, 
since we have commenced." 

" I am willing and, even at the 
risk of offending you, I shall now 
go to the bottom of the subject. I 
acknowledge that till now you have 
succeeded in concealing the feelings 
that for the time control you. I 
think I am the only one who has 
discovered them, unless perhaps the 
one who has inspired them. But I 
am not certain on this point. I can- 
not fully read that young girl's char- 
acter." 

" It is, in fact, a character which 
men like us, Adelardi, seldom have 
an opportunity of studying." 

" I acknowledge it, and that is 
why your impressible nature has 
been taken by surprise and received 
a lasting impression. Moreover, in 



Flcurange, 



477 



spite of the conclusions that might 
be drawn from that painting, your 
meeting here was accidental. You 
had not the least idea in the world 
of finding your Cordelia under your 
roof otherwise than on canvas." 

" Now you are no longer divining, 
for you learned that from me." 

" Yes, but I believed you, which 
another of less experience perhaps 
would not have done. And then, 
this unforeseen and surprising meet- 
ing lent to your previous fascination 
somewhat of an aspect of fatality." 

George blushed a little as he re- 
called what he had said to Fleur- 
ange some minutes before, but did 
not interrupt him. 

" Fatality," pursued Adelardi, "sig- 
nifies something irresistible ; irresist- 
ible means that, without hesitation, 
without scruple, without remorse, you 
are going to abuse the ascendency 
you only know too well how to ex- 
ercise." 

" Go on," said Count George. 

" Well, George, sermons from me 
would be quite out of place, and I 
would not venture on one to you; 
but, at the risk of your finding it 
strange from my lips, I must tell 
you that, to ensnare a noble creature 
like her, or even blemish by a word 
the halo of goodness and purity that 
surrounds her, would be infamy in 
my eyes." 

" And you think me capable of 
such infamy, Adelardi ? I have rea- 
son to thank you." 

" Come, George, swear that you 
are not thinking of it." 

t; Of what ?" 

" Of her." 

" Of her ? I cannot swear that. 
But I am astonished that the respect 
you feel for her in spite of yourself 
an unusual thing, indeed you think 
me incapable qf." 

" Then what are you thinking of, 
George ?" 



George made no reply, and, after 
a moment's silence, the marquis re- 
sumed in a graver tone : 

" My dear friend, being forty years 
old that is, nearly fifteen years old- 
er than you I think I may be al- 
lowed to say that, if in a choice be- 
tween infamy and folly, folly is pre- 
ferable, it would be well to reflect 
that the least follies are the shortest, 
and the worst of all are those which 
are irreparable." 

" We are forgetting our roles, Ade- 
lardi. I have no avowals or revela- 
tions .to make you. You undertook 
not to tell me what I ought to do, but 
to predict what I shall do." 

" Well, here is my horoscope, dic- 
tated, I acknowledge, as much by 
what I desire as by my penetration. 
You will escape from this folly, and 
keep the promise you have made." 

George's brow grew dark. " A 
promise my mother doubtless com- 
missioned you to remind me of?" 

" No ; I speak to you as a friend, 
and quite spontaneously. If it were 
at your mother's request, I should 
certainly have no hesitation about 
acknowledging it." 

" She certainly reminds me often 
enough of it herself. This supposed 
promise has long been a settled fact 
with her." 

" Supposed ?" 

" Yes, supposed, for it is a subject 
on which I never said anything pos- 
itive." 

" Nothing ? Come, George, be 
honest, or let us stop." 

" No, let us go on. I sometimes 
feel the need of opening my heart. 
Well, I acknowledge that, when I 
met Vera de Liningen for the first 
time two years ago, I was struck 
with her beauty and still more 
charmed with her wit, and had I 
then remained in her neighborhood 
I might have found it difficult to 
give her up. In that case my fate 



478 



Fleurange. 



would doubtless have been decided 
by this time. I should have sub- 
mitted to the yoke, and not only be 
married, but perhaps have the honor 
of a position at court, clothed in 
some of those dignities to which the 
husband of a favorite maid of honor 
might aspire." 

" Well, my dear friend, consider- 
ing that this maid of honor is rich, 
noble, and one of the fairest ladies 
at court, and that you were then 
somewhat dazzled, and she made no 
secret of her preference for you, I do 
not see that this result would have 
been a very fearful one." 

" No, I acknowledge it. If I had 
never left St. Petersburg, perhaps I 
should have found happiness there 
on these terms. Now, whether for- 
tunate or unfortunate, I do not know, 
but, having breathed a different at- 
mosphere, I could no longer live in 
that. A thousand feelings, a thou- 
sand sympathies, a thousand opin- 
ions, which I have insensibly acquir- 
ed would make me regard the gild- 
ed chain of a court life as the worst 
of slaveries. This alone would have 
sufficed to check the words on my 
lips which Vera perhaps expected to 
hear, but which she knows well I 
never uttered. As to the conjectures 
of the world, what do I care for 
them ?" 

" You acknowledge, however, that 
that is not the only cause of the rup- 
ture?" 

" No, if there has been a rupture : 
that motive was not indeed, or is not, 
the only one." 

" I really suspected it, and I could 
not tell you which of the two mo- 
tives I deplore the most." 

" Truly, Adelardi," said George 
impatiently, " I cannot help thinking 
your great solicitude very singular. 
You once told me the manner of 
contracting marriage in Italy made 
you decide to remain a bachelor, and 



now you are as scandalized at seeing 
me choose the lady of my taste with 
some disregard of received notions, 
as the Marquis Trombelli himself 
could be!" 

Adelardi smiled. 

" That is not all, and what I have 
to say is still stronger. I am neither 
pleased nor satisfied with the political 
regime under which it has pleased 
Providence to give me birth, and it is 
you, Adelardi, you ! who are as- 
tonished at this and annoyed! I 
might ask you, in my turn, why you 
do not return to Milan, like a loyal 
subject, to enjoy the paternal govern- 
ment under which you would be per- 
mitted to live ?" 

The expression of sprightly good- 
humor that characterized the mar- 
quis' physiognomy suddenly changed 
to one grave and almost sombre. 

" Stop, George," said he in an agi- 
tated voice. 

" Pardon me, Adelardi, but truly 
there are subjects on which I cannot 
conceive why we should not agree." 

Adelardi remained some minutes 
without speaking, then with an ap- 
parent effort resumed : 

"Listen, George. I have a most 
sincere friendship for you, and you 
would not doubt it if you knew what 
it costs me to prolong the subject to 
Which our conversation has led, but 
perhaps it will not be unprofitable for 
you to listen to me. Allow me to 
say a few words on a subject you 
know I generally avoid, having suffi- 
cent control over myself to be silent 
on certain points, but not enough to 
speak of them with coolness. When 
I was young, younger than you now 
are, I was carried away with an en- 
thusiasm only known to those whose 
country is enslaved. Yes," he con- 
tinued with an emotion quite unusual 
with him, " a country, prosperous, 
glorious, honored, and powerful, 
doubtless merits a devotion no noble 



Fleurange. 



479 



heart can refuse ; but to feel this de- 
votion transformed into a wild and 
painful passion, one must see his 
country crushed and humiliated. m It 
must be trodden under foot in the 
dust, and its name effaced from every 
memory refused the very right of 
bearing a name, and even of exist- 
ence !" 

" Ah ! I easily comprehend such a 
sorrow, Adelardi," cried George with 
an accent of earnest sympathy. "I 
understand it but too well. But 
Italy is not the only down-trodden 
country in Europe, and the chance 
which binds a man to such a land 
does not oblige him to participate in 
its excesses, nor forbid him, I imag- 
ine, from deploring them !" 

" I will reply to that presently, 
George. But let me finish what I 
was saying, for this conversation will 
never be renewed. Under the influ- 
ence of this passion, as well as others, 
alas ! of my age, rank, and country, I 
yielded to the folly of a culpable 
course, or at least I gave reason for 
suspicion, and, like many others of 
more worth than I, and a great many 
whom I surpass, I suffered, as you 
know, imprisonment, confiscation, and 
exile, one after the other. I do not 
regret these trials, for when we can- 
not serve our country there is a cer- 
tain pleasure in suffering for it, but 
what I regret is having merited 
them." 

"'Merited?" 

" Yes, certainly, for I belonged for 
a time to one of those secret societies 
which are our ruin. Like many 
others, I naturally thought myself ex- 
cusable the impulse to which I 
yielded seemed so powerful ! the aim 
proposed, so noble! Well, George 
" The marquis stopped a mo- 
ment, and then continued with evi- 
dent pain, but earnestly : " Well, I 
tell you there is neither courage, nor 
honor, nor virtue, nor loyalty, nor 



probity, nor anything that can render 
a man worthy of respect, or even of 
esteem nothing, I say, that can resist 
the empoisoned atmosphere of those 
accursed places. My punishment 
was tardy, for my denunciation only 
took place after I left, but I was just- 
ly punished for entering them !" 

George, affected and surprised, 
made no attempt to interrupt him. 

" The most satisfactory act of my 
life," pursued Adelardi, " an act that 
required more courage than to con- 
front death in any other way, was to 
leave openly, with contempt and hor- 
ror, those with whom I found myself 
for a moment thus connected !" 

While he was talking, he traversed 
the room in an agitated manner. 

" Since that time," he continued 
more calmly, " I have incurred sev- 
eral dangers unnecessary to mention, 
and suffered in various ways you are 
aware of. Now, I live here away 
from my native city, separated from 
my relatives, and convinced that the 
day which will change the fate of 
Italy will never dawn in my time, 
though I am certain the day will 
come, and especially certain its most 
dangerous enemies are not its rulers 
not even its most rigid rulers but 
those false and perfidious men who 
are called its friends, its heroes, and 
sometimes its martyrs !" 

The marquis now took his seat be- 
side George, and, pressing his hand, 
said : " This is quite enough con- 
cerning myself. Let us come back 
to yoUj, whose position, you will ac- 
knowledge, it would be absurd to 
compare with mine." 

" I do acknowledge it ; and yet, 
Adelardi, you would regenerate your 
country, and I would transform 
mine." 

"Yes; but in spite of all the de- 
fects you say tarnish his reign, history 
will represent your sovereign, you 
may be sure, as one of the most 



48o 



Fleurange. 



noble and most sympathetic repre- 
sentatives of that supreme power so 
difficult to wield." 

" Well, that is precisely what dis- 
courages me. To realize my dreams, 
the successor of Alexander I. must 
have all his virtues and not one of 
his defects. You will acknowledge 
this is not what the future seems to 
promise." 

" Let us not begin to draw up his 
horoscope, but rather listen to my 
final counsel. In spite of your 
dreams, your aspirations, your opin- 
ions, and your lofty sympathies, I 
am persuaded nothing will ever in- 
duce you to take part in any culpa- 
ble enterprise in your country. Yes, 
George, believe a reformed conspira- 
tor : avoid all contact with those who, 
less scrupulous than you in their 



deeds, make use of nearly the same 
language, and be sure that, when we 
come to surfer condemnation, it is in- 
finitely disagreeable to feel it is mer- 
nted by foolish imprudence, and 
that we are the victims of no one but 
ourselves." 

Their long conversation had wide- 
ly digressed from the point they 
started from. It was now too late to 
resume it. But the Marquis Ade- 
lardi resolved to return to it another 
time, and obtain George's entire con- 
fidence. He fully comprehended his 
present danger, and regarded it as a 
duty imposed by friendship to aid 
him in resisting it. But, in spite of 
the acuteness of his discernment, he 
did not foresee that she who was the 
source of this danger would know bet- 
ter than any one else how to dispel it. 



XXII. 



While this conversation was taking 
place, Fleurange was in her well- 
known seat at the top of the stone 
steps, looking out on the moonlit 
court and the long shadows of the 
pillars under the portico, listening to 
the murmur of the fountain, the only 
noise that disturbed the silence of 
the night, and breathing the vague 
odor of orange blossoms that em- 
balmed the air. 

Several months had elapsed since 
the day of George's arrival the day 
when the vague dreams in the depths 
of her soul seemed for a moment 
transformed into reality, but only to 
vanish, however, as quickly as they 
appeared. Now she was agitated 
and troubled anew, but differently 
and more profoundly than the first 
time. 

What was she thinking of under 
the influence of this agitation and 
trouble ? Why did her eyes wander 
so pensively around when the night 
was so brilliant, and in her ears still 



vibrated the words which, in spite of 
herself, made her heart beat with 
triumphant joy? Shall we tell what 
she was thinking of? And the place 
to which, by one of the inexplicable 
caprices of the imagination not 
under the control of the will, her 
thoughts had now flown ? Was it to 
the Cascine where, the evening be- 
fore, Count George on horseback 
lingered so long beside his mother's 
calhhe ? -Was it to one of the gal- 
leries where more than once he had 
pointed out beauties concealed from 
superficial observers, but so well un- 
derstood by her to whom they were 
revealed ? Or was it to the very 
salon they had just left, and was she 
now thinking of that last glance from 
which she turned away her own ? 
No ; the place to which her memory 
now reverted was the garden of the 
Old Mansion the hour she recalled 
was the last she passed there ! The 
moonlight was as brilliant that night, 
the air as mild, and the flowers as 



Fleurange, 



481 



odorous, but the word ' farewell ' 
seemed everywhere, written and 
changed the beauty of the evening 
into sadness. Farewell, without 
hope and for ever ! echoed the tran- 
scendent splendor of this night in 
Italy in sadder accents Farewell! 
once more, farewell ! yes, farewell ! 

She must tear herself away from 
this spot only too dear ! and break 
the charm only too dangerous ! This 
was clearly evident. 

An instant, only an instant, she 
allowed her thoughts to dwell on the 
happiness she must for ever renounce. 
She allowed her imagination to de- 
pict it such as it might be were it 
not forbidden and then, with a clear- 
ness and sincerity in which no exulta- 
tion mingled, she acknowledged she 
would purchase it at the price of 
every sacrifice except that which her 
conscience forbade her make. Yes, 
to live near George without remors e 
to become his wife with the consent 
of his mother, seemingly so impossi- 
bleto purchase such a destiny, she 
felt nothing would seem formidable 
she would joyfully welcome poverty, 
the severest labor, even death itself! 

Many people of experience will 
smile at such language, and declare 
these are imaginary sacrifices that, 
under the influence of passion, the 
young are very willing to make, but 
which, luckily, are but rarely put to 
the test. We admit it, and, without 
stopping any longer to consider the 
improbable future which Fleurange 
thus invoked, we can also bear wit- 
ness that in view of these imaginary 
trials she bravely prepared herself to 
make the sacrifice actually before 
her. And these same people of ex- 
perience will acknowledge this was 
the most difficult of all. First, be- 
cause it was real and not imaginary, 
and also because it is always easier 
to make great sacrifices for the sake 
of love than to renounce love itself, 
VOL. xv. 31 



which renders them so light and 
sometimes so sweet ! 

Yes, she must no longer hesitate; 
she must once more break the re- 
joined thread of her life and what 
a painful rending of the heartstrings 
this time ! She must go away, and 
never to return. After what had just 
occurred, there was no longer any 
possible illusion or security. By re- 
maining, she would be false to every 
obligation, gratitude, and her position 
with regard to the princess, imposed 
upon her. Yes, she must go, but 
how on what pretext ? Alas ! and 
her brothers must she renounce the 
sweet satisfaction of aiding them, a 
joy the generosity of the princess had 
so kindly promoted ? This last re- 
membrance confirmed her resolution. 
Certainly, after so many benefits, she 
must not in return cause her any 
mortification and grief, no, not even 
displeasure and anxiety. She must 
leave at whatever cost, and without 
allowing the princess to suspect the 
motive of her departure ; and yet 
she must obtain her consent. This 
was the great difficulty, for she fore- 
saw a lively resistance. 

" What shall I do ? what shall I 
do?" repeated poor Fleurange with 
perplexity. " O my God, my God ! 
thou wilt aid me, for what I seek is 
the means of accomplishing thy will : 
what I desire is to know it." 

While the young girl was thus 
thinking, struggling, and praying, the 
hours flew. Once she left her seat 
in the window, but, feeling unable to 
sleep, only exchanged her evening 
dress for a morning one, then, with- 
out observing the lateness of the 
hour, returned to her seat, and again 
took up the thread of her reflections. 
Suddenly she heard steps in the cor- 
rider leading to the private staircase, 
and in a moment there was a sharp 
knock at her door. It instantly 
opened. It was Barbara. 



482 



Fleurange. 



" What !" she said with an air of 
surprise. " You still up at this late 
hour?" 

" Yes," said Fleurange, " I was 
not sleepy, and " 

Barbara interrupted her : 

"So much the better, for the 
princess is ill and wants you immedi- 
ately. Come, quick, quick, made- 
moiselle, for you know I am so 
frightened when she has these at- 
tacks that I lose my wits." 

Fleurange was at the head of the 
stairs before Barbara finished speak- 
ing, and, in a minute more, at the 
princess' bedside. It was evidently 
one of the severe and painful attacks 
to which she was subject and the 
first since her return. Fleurange at 
once bethought herself of Dr. Le- 
blanc's minute directions, and her 
whole manner was transformed. In- 
stead of waiting and obeying, she at 
once resumed the direction : every 
one obeyed her, and her quiet firm- 
ness soon calmed the fright which 
prevailed among all the servants of 
the house when illness, and illness 
under so frightful a form, invaded the 
luxurious rooms to which they were 
accustomed. George himself was 
not exempt. He was the first to 
hasten to his mother's bedside, and 
now he was supporting her head, 
which was thrown back, and en- 
deavoring to hold her hands, which 
quivered convulsively, but, unaccus- 
tomed to such a spectacle, he was 
trembling in spite of himself. His 
habitual courage seemed here of no 
avail. 

Fleurange perceived it, and mo- 
tioned for him to give her his place, 
or rather, she took it without his be- 
ing able to prevent her. He re- 
mained motionless beside her, while 
with wonderful courage and skill she 
was mastering the fearful paroxysm. 

" Speak to her again," said George. 
" When she hears your voice, or you 



place your hand on hers, she grows 
calmer at once." 

" Be quiet," replied Fleurange, 
" and leave her to me. Do not re- 
main here, I beg of you." 

At this injunction, George left the 
bedside, but not the chamber. He 
remained in an obscure corner, lean- 
ing against the wall, watching his 
mother's altered face by the light of 
the shaded lamp. All traces of re- 
maining beauty, preserved by the 
most skilful arts of the toilet, had 
suddenly disappeared. In an hour 
she had grown ten years older. 
Frightful convulsions contracted her 
features, and her eyes, staring wildly 
around, seemed to be regarding with 
an air of reproach all the objects ac- 
cumulated for her comfort, but now 
so powerless to aid her. 

This spectacle made George shud- 
der. He was regarded not only as 
a man of acknowledged bravery, but 
as one whose courage was almost 
rash. He had braved death a thou- 
sand times without sufficient motive, 
and confronted perils from the very 
love of danger itself. But this kind 
of courage has nothing in common 
with that which enables the eye to 
look calmly on suffering and death 
not of an heroic kind which rouses 
our enthusiasm, but such as we wit- 
ness on all beds of sickness, and 
which awaits us ! 

Thus beheld, the spectacle excited 
George's horror. He turned away 
with the repugnance of a nature 
delicate and noble, but perverted by 
selfish indulgence, and which at all 
times was more capable of brilliant 
proofs of devotedness than of obscure 
sacrifices. Notwithstanding his ten- 
der affection for his mother, it is very 
probable he would not long have en- 
dured the painful impression he re- 
ceived, if the dim light which ob- 
scured everything had not enabled 
him to discern the movements and 



Fleurange, 



483 



features of her who so efficaciously 
replaced him at the bedside. He 
therefore remained where he was, 
contemplating Fleurange's calm and 
simple attitude with admiration. 
She had already dismissed several 
women whose services were superflu- 
ous, and by degrees re-established 
order and tranquillity around her. 
Barbara was still going to and fro, 
bustling about and giving proofs of 
her good-will, but unable to disguise 
the terror she could never overcome 
when she saw her mistress a prey to 
these severe attacks. On this ac- 
count, she did not feel in the least 
displeased at Fleurange's intervention, 
and it was with secret joy she now 
heard the order for her to retire. 

" It is nearly four o'clock," said 
Fleurange, looking at the magnifi- 
cent clock opposite. " She is a little 
calmer : go and lie down, Barbara." 

" And you, mademoiselle ?" 

" I ? I shall remain here. I shall 
not stir till seven o'clock. Then the 
physician will return. After his visit 
I shall go to bed, and you can take 
my place." 

This calm and precise order was 
not one which Barbara wished to 
hear the second time. She hastened 
to place an arm-chair near the young 
girl, and a table with the remedies 
she might need, and went out with- 
out suspecting Fleurange was not en- 
tirely alone with her sick mistress. 

George hesitated for an instant: 
to leave Fleurange to watch alone 
seemed almost cruel ; to remain un- 
beknown to her, almost treacherous. 
He therefore decided to leave the 
obscure corner he occupied, and 
softly approached the bed. 

Fleurange, hearing his footsteps, 
turned quickly around, and began to 
tremble. The slight noise he 'made 
was sufficient to awaken the patient, 
which caused a renewal of her suffer- 
ings, and the spasm from which she 



had but just rallied became more 
violent than ever. For some mo- 
ments George's presence and aid 
were not useless, but while she pre- 
served her coolness he lost his, and 
seemed unable to endure the sight of 
the suffering he could not lessen. 

" Mother ! my poor mother !" he 
cried with anguish, " look at me ! 
give me one look !" 

"Try to be calm," whispered 
Fleurange, and she added, almost in 
his ear : " Do not say a word, not 
one there must be calmness, and 
absolute silence." 

" Gabrielle ! Gabrielle !" murmured 
the sick woman with agitation. 

Fleurange put her arm under her 
mistress' head, and supported it with 
one hand, while she pressed her icy 
hands with the other. 

" O Gabrielle ! do not leave me ! 
never leave me," continued the prin- 
cess in an unnatural tone. 

Fleurange buried her face in the 
pillow against which she was leaning, 
while another voice whispered beside 
her : " Oh ! no, never." 

After a moment she raised her 
head. " Leave us now, Monsieur le 
Comte. " I beg you to go." 

There was an irresistible authority 
in her tone, but George hesitated an 
instant. She repeated, " I beg you 
to go," and he obeyed without reply 
as if she had uttered a command. 

When he left the sick-room, he felt 
relieved like one to whom restraint 
even the most trifling is insupport- 
able. Feeling the need of fresh air, 
he passed through the salon and 
went out on the terrace. 

It was already daylight. He 
walked a few steps, inhaling the per- 
fume of the flowers with which the 
terrace was filled, then stopped a 
long time, leaning on the balustrade 
with his arms folded, looking at the 
clear sky growing radiant under the 
Srst touches of Aurora. Without 



484 



Fleurange. 



asking himself the reason, he was 
eager to shake off the effects of the 
spectacle he had just witnessed. 

And yet George had a great deal 
of heart, whether this word signifies 
tenderness or courage. It would 
have been extremely unjust to doubt 
it, but he felt a constant need of find- 
ing in exterior objects the gratifica- 
tion of his faculty of enjoyment de- 
veloped to the utmost degree of deli- 
cacy, which made him equally sus- 
ceptible of contrary impressions. 
This faculty was neither low nor vul- 
gar in its tendency. What attracted 
George was genuine beauty, which 
alone gave a charm to the interests 
of the world. Vice under an ignoble 
aspect was as repugnant to him as 



ugliness. In his eyes, the aspect, the 
only aspect, of sickness, pain, and 
death was repulsive. He was abso- 
lutely ignorant of the mysterious and 
divine power which sometimes trans- 
forms them to the spiritual eye and 
makes it look beyond the exterior cir- 
cumstances of life. Such freedom, 
such independence of external influ- 
ences, were unknown to him who at- 
tached so much importance to liberty 
and independence ! And when it is 
thus, there is in the soul, however gen- 
erous, a hidden germ of weakness and 
egoism which we are surprised to see 
suddenly manifested at a later 
period, even in those who display 
the most lofty sentiments and give 
proofs of the most impetuous courage. 



XXIII. 



The following days were marked 
by the progress, the crisis, and finally 
by the decline of the princess' mala- 
dy. The effect of care and suitable 
remedies was soon manifest and con- 
valescence established. But. this was 
the most trying time for those in at- 
tendance, and a time when Fleur- 
ange's presence was more necessary 
than ever. She had directed every- 
thing from the first with intelligent 
devotedness. They had all yielded 
without any difficulty to her authori- 
ty even the invalid herself, incapa- 
ble of resisting her. But the latter 
now resumed, with her strength, the 
exercise of an obstinate and whimsi- 
cal disposition. It was precisely 
during a similar phase of her previ- 
ous illness that her young companion 
acquired the favor she enjoyed. 
Fleurange felt it would have been a 
thousand times easier to have left her 
when she was nearly unconscious, 
than at a time when she was so in- 
dispensable that her services were in 
constant requisition. She alone 



could relieve her from the exertion 
of writing a letter or receiving a 
visit. She alone knew how to ar- 
range her books and flowers, and 
the thousand trifles that surrounded 
her, in a way to please her critical 
eye and capricious taste. And, 
above all, it was owing to her that 
the evenings passed away without 
ennui while the princess was forbid- 
den by the physician to receive any 
company except her most intimate 
friends. This was the time Fleur- 
ange was called upon to read. 
There was a charm in her voice and 
accent which the cultivated taste of 
the princess never wearied of. 

" Really, Gabrielle," said she, one 
evening, after the young girl had 
ended one of the passages she had 
selected "really, it is an exquisite 
pleasure to hear you read. Come, 
George, attend to what we are doing, 
if you please. Lay aside that re- 
view in which you are so absorbed, 
and come nearer. She has just read 
me Dante's sonnet, 



Fleurange. 



485 



' Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare 
La Donna mia,'* 

in a way really worth listening to." 

There was a moment's silence. A 
large screen veiled the light from the 
princess' eyes, which were still weak. 
Fleurange was seated on the other 
side of this rampart. She blushed, 
for she was quite well aware it was 
not on the book, in which he pre- 
tended to be absorbed, the young 
man's eyes were fastened while she 
was reading the sonnet she had just 
finished. 

" I have not been as inattentive as 
you suppose, mother," said George 
at length. " Besides, these lines 
would attract my attention under any 
circumstances : 

' E da per gli occhi t'.na dolcezza al core 
Ch' intender non la puo chi non la prova.' "t 

George had approached the table, 
and the expression of his eyes did not 
allow Fleurange to mistake the ap- 
plication of these lines. 

Alas ! for a month she had been 
forced to accept let us use the right 
word to enjoy the presence of him 
whom she had resolved to fly from, 
and been obliged for the time to lay 
aside all consideration of her own po- 
sition in view of the duties which 
had devolved on her towards the 
princess. But her resolution had 
not for an instant faltered. Every 
day the sacrifice would doubtless be 
more painful, but consequently the 
more necessary. What she only 
waited for now was the propitious 
moment, and the means of accom- 
plishing it. 

The Princess Catherine was now 



" So gentle and so modest doth appear 
My Lady." 

Vita Nuova, Charles Eliot Norton's Transla- 
tion. 

t " She gives the heart a sweetness through the 
eyes 

Which none can understand who doth not 
prove.'' 

Ibid. 



really convalescent, and able to bear 
the displeasure Fleurange felt obliged 
to cause her. Therefore, the same 
evening the little scene we have just 
related took place, she resolved not 
to yield another day to the consider- 
ations that had hitherto restrained 
her. To remain any longer where 
she was would henceforth be delib- 
erate treachery. 

What she had nearly decided upon 
was to confide everything to Dr. 
Leblanc, who was now fulfilling a 
promise made the year before at the 
Old Mansion and visiting her friends 
at Heidelberg. He understood her 
position with respect to the princess 
better than any one else, and would 
know how to aid her in giving it up. 
He, better than any one, could 
arrange everything for her return 
among her relatives without betray- 
ing the motive she was so anxious to 
conceal. But it was painful to de- 
cide on speaking of George even to 
him. The letter was commenced 
but not yet finished, and the hour of 
delay was passing. 

She laid the book on the table and 
was absorbed in silent reflection. 
The princess was dwelling on the 
thoughts suggested by the reading, 
and her son, as he answered her at 
random, sought to read the expres- 
sion of the downcast eyes that so 
carefully avoided his. 

At that moment an unexpected 
message surprised them all. The 
princess' valet de chambre, who was 
the porter, wished to inform Made- 
moiselle Gabrielle there was a young 
gentleman in the hall who requested 
to see her. 

" A young gentleman ?" exclaim- 
ed the princess and her son at the 
same time, and with no less astonish- 
ment than Fleurange. 

" A young gentleman ?" repeated 
she. " Did you ask his name ?" 
Yes, the valet de chambre had asked, 



486 



Fleurange. 



but had forgotten, and stammered out 
some name as unintelligible as un- 
known to Fleurange. She rose. " I 
will see who it can be," said she. 

George had already arisen, and the 
princess exclaimed : " Gabrielle must 
not go down alone at this hour. 
Rogues often find their way in, in 
this manner, at night. Last evening, 
before dark, an unknown person en- 
tered a shop, and while the owner's 
back was turned " The princess 
became unnecessarily nervous over 
this slight incident. 

" If you will allow me," said 
George, " I will ascertain who it is. 
Trust to me, and await here the in- 
formation I will bring you." 

Fleurange made no objection. 
She knew no one and expected no 
one, and was sure there was some 
mistake. 

George was not gone more than 
ten minutes from the room. When 
he reappeared, his face was lit up 
with an expression of joy. 

" It is really a young gentleman," 
he said, " and it was really you he 
asked for, mademoiselle. And I, for 
my part, was also happy to shake 
hands with Julian Steinberg. It was 
he. He has just arrived at Florence 
with his wife. 

" Julian ! Julian and Clara !" 
cried Fleurange, overjoyed. She 
sprang up at once, forgetting the 
princess and George, and everything 
except the unexpected pleasure of 
seeing these beloved faces again. 

Count George stopped her : " I beg 
your pardon, mademoiselle, Steinberg 
only wished to know when his wife 
could see you. I took the liberty of 
telling him that my carriage, which 
is at the door, would take you at 
once to the hotel where they are 
stopping, and he has gone to tell her 
she will have the pleasure of seeing 
you this very evening." 

" Oh ! how kind you are," cried 



Fleurange, beside herself. " How 
many thanks I owe you !" 

But she bethought herself that the 
princess did not like anything of 
which she did not take the initiative, 
and under no circumstances did she 
ever forget herself. Before the shade 
that began to gather on her brow 
could be perceived, Fleurange ap- 
proached her. 

" Monsieur le Comte is very kind," 
said she ; " but I should do better to 
wait till morning, should I not, prin- 
cess ? It is only nine o'clock, and 
you need me at least an hour longer." 

The princess was already partly 
mollified by these words, and com- 
pletely so by the grace with which her 
son protested he should be angry if 
she did not clearly prove to him that 
she thought him capable of replacing 
Mademoiselle Gabrielle at least for 
an hour. 

" Come, mother, you can endure 
to hear me read in my turn, can you 
not ? I readily acknowledge my 
powers are not equal to what we 
have just had. But, if the contrast 
is disagreeable to you, it will not be 
the first time we have passed an hour 
together to our mutual satisfaction, 
and that I have been able to make 
my conversation acceptable to you." 

These words, uttered with a caress- 
ing grace as he knelt at his mother's 
side, appealed directly to the weak- 
est paint in her maternal heart. 
The princess idolized her son. He 
was the joy and pride of her life. 
But though full of deference and af- 
fection, he was constantly eluding 
her. This woman, so imperious to- 
wards all others, felt she had scarce- 
ly any authority over her son. and 
endeavored to acquire an ascenden- 
cy over him by all the persuasive- 
ness and skill she possessed, as if this 
ascendency were not her natural 
right. Since George returned last 
he had been more reserved than 



The Church and the Rights of Women. 



487 



usual. Hitherto he had been able 
to frustrate all her efforts to obtain 
his entire confidence, to which he 
sometimes yielded, and which amply 
atoned for the long intervals of re- 
serve so painful to her. 

On this occasion she caressingly 
passed her hand over her son's beau- 
tiful hair, and smilingly replied : 
" Naughty boy, you know well what 
to depend upon." Then turning to 
Fleurange : " Go. I am quite willing 
you should go and welcome your 



cousin. I can for the present do 
without you. Go, but come back 
in an hour. I shall expect you at 
ten," she added, looking at the 
clock. 

The permission was not very gra- 
ciously accorded, but Fleurange did 
not profit by it the less eagerly. She 
did not leave the room, however, 
without an involuntary look of grati- 
tude at him who had so well divined 
her wish, and so successfully second- 
ed it. 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



HOW THE CHURCH UNDERSTANDS AND UPHOLDS 
THE RIGHTS OF WOMEN. 



FOURTH AND LAST ARTICLE. 



THE MIDDLE AGES. 



IT has been asserted by women in 
the present day that the state needs 
salvation and reform, and that 
through their use of the political 
franchise this end will be mainly ac- 
complished. Perhaps they think 
that no state was ever in such dan- 
ger before, and that they themselves 
are the pioneers of an order of things 
entirely new, under unprecedented 
circumstances. They should study 
history to see whether they really are 
without predecessors. What would 
they say to Genevieve, the shepherd- 
ess of Nanterre, the heroine of the 
sixth century, the woman of whom 
St. Germanus said, while giving her 
the veil of virginity and the honorary 
title of deaconess, " This woman will 
one day be a joy and an example 
even to men"? What would they 
say to her bravery and daring when, 



during the siege of Paris by the bar- 
barian and heathen Franks (it was 
before their conversion by Queen 
Clotildis), Genevieve alone encour- 
aged the affrighted peasantry, and 
promised relief to the threatened 
city ? She had supplies transported 
by means of river-boats to the be- 
sieged, and for ten years, while the 
ever-renewed alarms of desultory at- 
tacks from the Franks continued, she 
succeeded in sparing Paris the horrors 
of a famine. When the barbarian 
chief, Childeric, at last entered the 
town, Genevieve interceded so suc- 
cessfully in behalf of the inhabitants 
that none of them were molested. 

Every one knows the history of 
Joan of Arc, over whom more pas- 
sionate recriminations have been 
flung at each other by rival histori- 
ans than any other woman, save 



Mary, Queen of Scots, has provoked. 
The general and unbiassed verdict of 
the greater portion of the public in 
general has coincided with the na- 
tional decision of patriotic French- 
men. As a heroine, her name will go 
down to all ages, and she has earned 
her fame well, but how ? Do any of 
her biographers say she was bold and 
unwomanly, a fast and dashing beau- 
ty, or a reckless adventuress ? No ; 
for they tell us she was modest in her 
demeanor, fond of behxj with and 
talking to little children, very sparing 
of her own comfort, but lavish of her 
poor means for others, ready and 
willing to keep the flocks, and to 
help her family in tilling the soil. 
Divinely warned of her coming mis- 
sion, she was yet most reluctant to 
put herself forward, and required 
much pressing from her spiritual su- 
periors to induce her to act upon the 
heaven-sent suggestions. It would 
take us too long to follow her 
through her unparalleled career; but 
one thing strikes us as foremost in all 
the vicissitudes of her successful mil- 
itary life her extreme gravity and 
majesty, shielding her love of chasti- 
ty. All the doctors of the Universi- 
ty of Poitiers concurred, at the ex- 
press desire of King Charles VII. of 
France, in a strict examination of her 
previous life and character, and it 
was chiefly her spotless reputation of 
virtue that inclined them to believe 
in her mission. During her camp 
life she never neglected her daily re- 
ligious duties ; the oldest and gravest 
veterans were her only companions 
and advisers, and after nightfall she 
never, on any pretext, consented to 
converse with a man. Before she 
had taken command of the army the 
French had been invariably beaten 
by the English in every encounter; 
after her accession to the supreme 
command, her countrymen were as 
invariably victorious. Her enemies 



laughed at the girl-general, but, 
strong in her faith, Joan of Arc over- 
came the scoffers. When she had 
taken Orleans, her first order was 
that all immoral women who had 
surreptitiously followed in the ranks 
of her soldiers should be summarily 
dismissed, as it was only to punish 
such licentiousness that God had al- 
lowed those great misfortunes to 
come upon France. Between Or- 
leans and Rheims there were several 
towns and forts to be wrested from 
the English; Joan intrepidly at- 
tacked and reduced them, while 
Rheims itself surrendered without a 
blow. The young virgin follows the 
king to the cathedral, where he is 
crowned and anointed, and in a few 
days, so great is the moral influence 
of her undaunted and triumphant 
patriotism, that many other towns, 
and Paris itself, submit to the legiti- 
mate authority of Charles VII., and 
France is saved. On the principles 
of modern strategists, a patent of 
nobility, an alliance with the crown, 
a grant of broad estates, would have 
been hardly sufficient for the ambi- 
tious saviour of her country; but 
Joan of Arc, hardly was the king re- 
instated in his realm, begged leave to 
retire into her former solitude, insist- 
ing with mournful eagerness that 
" her mission was over." She nei- 
ther coveted nor asked any. reward; 
such as were offered she refused. 
Against her own better judgment, 
but according to the king's com- 
mand, she continued to lead his ar- 
mies, though she was no longer 
buoyed up by her former joyous con- 
fidence in the promises divinely 
made to her. God has tried her by 
the severe test of adversity, and she 
showed herself as eagle-spirited under 
her reverses as she had been in her 
prosperity. Betrayed by her own 
countrymen into the hands of her 
enemies, she suffered incredible in- 



tJic Ri gitts of IVotncn. 



489 



dignities, but never raised her voice 
in self-defense, save when her honor 
was questioned or attacked. Solici- 
tous only for her precious treasure of 
consecrated virginity, she looked 
death fearlessly in the face, and 
mounted the scaffold calling in a 
firm voice on God and his saints. 
She would be called by no title save 
"La Pucelle," that is, ; 'Joan the 
Virgin." An aide-de-camp, John of 
Aulon, who was constantly near her 
during her campaigns, often said that 
he believed no purer woman breathed 
than Joan of Arc. Ventura draws 
attention to her extraordinary activ- 
ity and bodily endurance, her long 
fasts and severe abnegation. He 
says that she was a phenomenon, but 
that, although her rare combination 
of qualities seemed almost a miracle 
in any single human being, yet such 
qualities are quite reconcilable in 
perfect womanhood. He says she 
was " brave as a warrior, and tender 
as a mother; wise as an old man, 
learned as a doctor, and simple as a 
child; pure as an angel, and re- 
doubtable as a great conqueror.* 

Many historians thought it worth 
their while to treat in detail of her 
life and career: Fleury and Rohr- 
bacher, in their Ecclesiastical Histo- 
ty ; Lebrun Charmette, in his Life 
of Joan of Arc ; Jules Quicherat, in 
his work on her trial, condemnation, 
and rehabilitation ; Guido Gorres, 
in his German life of her; Voltaire, 
in his cowardly Maid of Orleans. 
She has been made into a represen- 
tative character, and stood in Vol- 
taire's eyes for the Catholic Church 
and the Catholic tradition concern- 
ing woman. Gorres mentions the 
eulogium pronounced upon her by an 
envoy of the Bishop of Spires, who 
plainly calls her the messenger of 
heaven and saviour of France. 

* Donna Cattolica^ p. 295. 



It has been noticed that France 
during the middle ages was the 
most civilized of nations. It was 
because the spirit of chivalry had 
made greater progress among the 
French, and the spirit of chivalry- 
sprang from the deeper source of 
religious enthusiasm. The spirit 
that dictated the crusades was the 
same that exalted woman; the re- 
spect for woman and the duty of a 
knight to protect the sex, even those 
of it who were unknown to him or 
those whom the fortune of war had 
placed in his power, were lessons 
learned in childhood and inculcated 
at the same time as fidelity to his 
religion and loyalty to his sovereign. 
In every woman a knight recognized 
a queen : the elder were to him the 
image of his mother, the younger of 
his sister; in every female form he 
reverently saw the similitude of the 
great Virgin, " whose Son shall be 
called Emanuel God with us." 
And in order that such should be the 
attitude of man towards woman, 
woman was educated in a manner 
that should make her deserve such 
homage. 

Think not, sisters of our utilitarian 
age, that our ancestresses were igno- 
rant and foolish women, swayed by 
the dictates of cunning priests, and 
kept as toys to beguile the idle hours 
of rough warriors. Their education, 
unlike our modern uniform regula- 
tions, was varied and suited to their 
talents; some cultivated learning, 
others the arts, many were skilful in 
medicine, especially in the use of 
herbs, and the treatment of wounds. 
The fairy embroidery that we hear so 
much extolled was not their only ac- 
complishment : they could spin for all 
useful household purposes, and work 
for the poor of their neighborhood, 
which home manufacture was a great 
saving of both time and money. 
They were often elegant poets, and 



490 



How the Church Understands and Upholds 



indeed frequency carried off prizes 
in rhyming contests. The "Jeux 
Floraux" of Toulouse, one of the 
great mediaeval institutions of Pro- 
vence, were established by a learned 
and accomplished lady of noble 
lineage, Clemence Isaure, herself a 
poetess of no little merit. The prize, 
we believe, was generally a golden 
violet, and was awarded every year 
to the successful competitor, whether 
man or woman. Tournaments owe 
all their romance to the presence and 
influence of woman, without which 
they would have fallen to the level 
of the brutal Roman games of old. 
The beneficial influence exerted by 
the women of the old feudal families, 
who always remained on their own 
estates and cultivated relations of 
mutual kindliness with their poorer 
neighbors and vassals, resulted in the 
unique spectacle of the Vendean in- 
surrection, in which peasants and 
nobles were leagued together against 
the misguided satellites of " Liberty, 
Fraternity, and Equality." Else- 
where, throughout France, women 
had become court -puppets, and lived 
in Paris as absentees from their 
property, where iniquitous agents 
oppressed their tenants in their 
name ; court favor and patronage, a 
rivalry of frivolous gossip and scan- 
dalous adventures, had displaced in 
their imaginations the noble but 
obscure triumphs of the Lady of the 
Manor surrounded by her " children," 
as she terms her dependants ; corrup- 
tion, first sown by the influence of 
the German Reformation, then fos- 
tered by the growing infidelity of the 
seventeenth and eighteenth centu- 
ries, had insinuated itself into the 
world of women, and through them 
had spread to the whole system of 
society. The last spark of the spirit 
of chivalry shone out in the deter- 
mined stand made by the Breton 
peasantry against the invasion of 



principles that held nothing sacred 
and taught no authority save that of 
force. But what a grand testimony 
to the influence of woman was the 
downfall and disorganization that fol- 
lowed the French Revolution, and 
under the ruins of which they are still 
half-buried ! When woman wishes to 
take up again her ancient crown, her 
true, " divine right," she has but to 
stretch her hand across the chasm of 
'89 and the great breach of the six- 
teenth century, and resume, with the 
sacred respect of home duties and 
the reverence towards consecrated 
and voluntary chastity, the sceptre 
of undisputed sway so triumphantly 
wielded by Joan of Arc, Catharine 
of Sienna, Hedwige of Poland, and 
Mathilda of Tuscany. 

Among the religious of various 
orders to whom the Christian world 
looks up with well-merited venera- 
tion is the Blessed Juliana, a Hospi- 
taller nun of the diocese of Liege. It 
was through the revelations made to 
her in prayer, and through her re- 
peated entreaties, that the feast of 
Corpus Christi was first instituted, 
one of the most essentially Catholic 
feasts of the calendar. In 1266, it 
was first celebrated at Liege, but its 
observance was discontinued in con- 
sequence of the machinations of a 
hostile clique. In 1264, Pope Urban 
IV. solemnly approved and instituted 
it, and commanded the great doctor 
Thomas Aquinas to compose an 
office for it. This office is the same 
used by the church to-day. Juliana 
herself was dead, but her friend and 
companion, Eva, had not failed to 
continue her work, and the Pope 
himself did not disdain to send her 
a special copy of the Bull of Institu- 
tion, with a letter in which he refers 
the accomplishment of the great 
work to her and her deceased friend. 
Ventura gives us lists of holy prelates 
whose mothers formed and educated 



the Rights of Women. 



491 



them to virtue and sanctity, but men- 
tions especially the aid afforded Bon- 
iface, the Apostle of Germany, by 
his female co-laborers. Lioba, the 
chief of these, was a noble Saxon 
lady, and was educated at Winburn, 
in England. Eadburge, an abbess, 
sent Boniface many presents of 
clothes and other necessaries for his 
expedition to Germany, and also, 
says Ventura, many manuscript 
copies of the Bible to distribute them 
among his neophytes. Lioba was 
well versed in Latin, and could write 
verses in that language. Boniface 
begged her superiors to let her 
go to Germany, to establish, says 
Butler, " sanctuaries and nurseries 
of religion for persons of her sex in 
the infant Church of Germany." 
Prudent, zealous, and learned, she 
soon founded house after house of 
fervent nuns, and spread the bless- 
ings of education over the hitherto 
barbarian lands she visited. " Kings 
and princes," continues Butler, " re- 
spected and honored her. . 
Charlemagne often sent for her to 
his court of Aix-la-Chapelle, and treat- 
ed her with the highest veneration. 
His queen, Hildegardis, took her ad- 
vice in the most weighty concerns. 
. . . St. Boniface, a little before 
his mission into Friesland and his 
martyrdom there, recommended her 
in the most earnest manner to St. 
Lullus and his monks at Fulda, en- 
treating them to have care of her 
with respect and honor." She died 
in extreme old age in the year 779. 
" Her education," says Ventura, " em- 
braced civil and canon law, theology 
and philosophy, natural sciences and 
literature, and, in, some measure, the 
art of government." Rohrbacher 
says " that it would have been desi- 
rable had all the clergy of Germany 
possessed the knowledge of St. Lioba, 
for many of them were ignorant to 
the point of not knowing how to ad- 



minister the sacrament of baptism." 
Three centuries later, Hildegardis, a 
noble German lady, vindicated the 
claims of her sex to the most sublime 
of gifts. Intellectually endowed and 
gifted with great firmness of charac- 
ter, she became the mother and 
foundress of the monastery of St. 
Rupert, in the Rhine provinces, 
where kings and statesmen repaired 
to her for advice and instruction. 
The revelations received by her, after 
being most rigorously examined by a 
council assembled at Treves, were sol- 
emnly approved by Pope Eugene III., 
assisted by St. Bernard. Rohrbacher 
calls her " the St. Bernard among 
women." Her correspondence was 
immense, and her writings have been 
collected and published with care. 
In the thirteenth century, Gertrude 
and Mechtildis, of noble Saxon de- 
scent, claim our attention. They 
were sisters, and both governed im- 
mense monasteries. Alban Butler 
says of the former : " In her youth 
she studied Latin, as it was then cus- 
tomary for all nuns to do ; she wrote 
and conversed in that language, and 
was versed in sacred literature. . . . 
How much soever she gave her- 
self up to contemplation, she neglect- 
ed not the duties of Martha, and was 
very solicitous in attending to the ne- 
cessities of every one. . . . Her 
short book of Divine Insinuations is 
perhaps the most useful production, 
next to the writings of St. Teresa, 
with which any female saint ever <?//- 
riched \\-\z church." Her prayers to the 
Sacred Heart show how this charac- 
teristic devotion, afterwards perfected 
and made public by another holy 
woman, Mary Margaret Alacocque, 
first presented itself to a woman's 
mind, and found a home in a woman's 
heart. 

It may be gratifying to many 
women to learn that the city and 
University of Oxford have for pa- 



492 



How the CJiurcJi Understands and Upholds 



troness, and in mediaeval times hon- 
ored as such, the Saxon maiden, Fri- 
deswide, whose church and monaste- 
ry, after having undergone many vi- 
cissitudes, are now known as Christ 
Church College. Ursula, the virgin 
martyr of Cologne, is, according to 
Butler, " patroness of the famous 
College of Sorbonne, and titular saint 
of that church. Several religious es- 
tablishments have been erected, under 
her name and patronage, for the vir- 
tuous education of young ladies. St. 
Ursula, who was the mistress and 
guide to heaven to many holy mai- 
dens whom she animated to the he- 
roic practice of virtue, is regarded as 
a model and patroness by those who 
undertake to train up youth in the 
sentiments and practice of piety and 
religion." The Ursuline institutes 
for the education of girls are renown- 
ed throughout Europe, and even to 
this day are powerful auxiliaries of the 
church in the training of youth. La- 
ter ages have not been behind in em- 
ulating the sixteenth century, which, 
seven hundred years, after the death 
of Ursula, so nobly commemorated 
her triumphs in the institution of the 
Ursuline Order. The Nuns of the 
Visitation, and still later those of the 
Sacred Heart, have continued the 
work of Christian education up to the 
present day. 

The beginning of the twelfth cen- 
tury leads us to Delphina and her 
husband Elzear, both of Proven9al 
descent, and holding high office at 
the court of Naples and Sicily. But- 
ler says of them that " no coldness 
for so much as one moment ever in- 
terrupted the harmony or damped the 
affections of this holy couple. The 
countess [Delphina] was sensible 
that the devotions of a married wo- 
man ought to be ordered in a differ- 
ent manner from those of a religious 
person. . . . The care with which 
she looked into the economy of her 



house was a sensible proof of the in- 
terior order in which she kept her 
own soul. Nothing was more admi- 
rable than her attention to all her do- 
mestics, and her prudent applica- 
tion to the preservation of domestic 
peace."* These two devoted fol- 
lowers of Christ were always ready 
to assist and protect the poor ; they 
lived together in perpetual virginity, 
and gave themselves up entirely to 
their self-imposed duties of charity. 
King Robert of Sicily showed his 
esteem of Elzear by making him his 
son's governor. In this office he ex- 
ercised his influence as irreproacha- 
bly as he had done in other positions, 
and the counsels of his wife were 
ever at hand to assist and cheer him. 
At his death his widow retired into a 
monastery. 

Another remarkable woman of the 
middle ages was Catharine of Genoa, 
who towards the latter end of the fif- 
teenth century became a model for 
her sex in each of the states of life to 
which women are called. As a vir- 
gin, a wife, and a widow, her life was 
perfect in its sincere subordination to 
the will of God. Her marriage was 
unhappy, and she suffered much 
from her husband's brutality, his ex- 
travagance and licentiousness. She 
trusted to a higher power than the 
civil courts for her vindication and 
reward, and after her husband's death 
gave herself up to active works of 
mercy. She devoted herself to the 
care of the sick in the great hospital 
of Genoa. Of this house, says But- 
ler, she lived many years the mother 
superior. Her charity could not be 
confined to the bounds of her own 
hospital ; she extended her care and 
solicitude to all distressed sick per- 
sons over the whole city, and employ- 
ed proper persons with indefatigable 
industry to discover, visit, and relieve 

* Lives of the Saints. 



the Rights of Women. 



493 



such objects." Here we see a wo- 
man governing and managing a most 
important national institution, guard- 
ing its temporal interests, and watch- 
ing over its spiritual relations with 
the utmost care and most delicate dis- 
crimination ; showing a talent for gov- 
ernment which would do good credit 
to the best men, and preserving with- 
al the greatest humility and modesty 
both of thought and demeanor. 
Does the church deny the sex any 
legitimate opening for its energies ? 
Judge for 'yourselves, sisters, and an- 
swer impartially. Does she not, on 
the contrary, enable it to do that 
which, outside her, is next to impos- 
sible ? Cannot a woman wearing the 
distinctive badge of one of her orders 
pass unmolested where no other wo- 
man however pure, however earnest, 
could go without at least risk of in- 
sult; and does she riot invest with 
the dignity of an organized associa- 
tion efforts which, made singly, would 
be barely removed from Quixotism ? 
We have long delayed speaking of 
Catharine of Sienna, the St. Teresa 
of mediaeval times, one of the most 
energetic and wonderful women the 
world ever produced. Ventura calls 
her a " missionary and apostle," and 
Butler says that her influence was so 
great that no one ever approached her 
who went not away better. She was 
only eighteen, when, after suffering 
the hardships of her humble home 
during her childhood, she took the 
veil in the Third Order of St. Dom- 
inic. The most hardened sinners 
could not withstand the force of her 
exhortations ; thousands flocked from 
distant places to hear or only see her, 
and were converted by her words or 
example. At the earnest suit of the 
citizens of Pisa, she went to their 
town, and it is related that the con- 
fessions of those she reclaimed from 
evil courses were so numerous that 
the priests of the town had much 



trouble to attend to them. The 
Florentines and Perugians having, in 
1375, leagued together against the 
Holy See, the Pope, Gregory XI., who 
at that time was living at Avignon, 
sent an army into Italy and inter- 
dicted the rebellious principalities. 
The country fell into such intolerable 
confusion that, to end the chaotic 
state of things, the Florentines sub- 
mitted to the Pope. They first sent 
for St. Catharine, who was met at 
the city gates by the chiefs of the 
magistrates. The negotiations were 
entrusted to her, and the ambassadors 
who followed her to Avignon receiv- 
ed orders to sign and confirm what- 
ever decision she should make. The 
Pope and cardinals received her at 
Avignon with great marks of distinc- 
tion ; and the Pontiff said after his 
conference with her : " I put the af- 
fair entirely into your hands, only I 
recommend you the honor of the 
church." The heads of the church 
were seemingly not afraid to trust 
the gravest issues in a woman's 
hands ! 

Catharine exerted all her powers 
of persuasion to induce Gregory XI. 
to return to Rome, and after her de- 
parture wrote urgent letters to him 
on this subject. Twice, both at 
Avignon and at Sienna, learned pre- 
lates and doctors disputed with her, 
vainly trying to find her wanting 
either in learning, in sincerity, or in 
humility. They were obliged to con- 
fess themselves in the wrong. She 
had many disciples, both men and 
women, one of whom, Stephen, the 
son of a senator of Sienna, became 
her secretary and afterwards a Car- 
thusian monk. The Pope commis- 
sioned her to go to Florence, and try 
once more to pacify the troubles 
which the insincerity of the govern- 
ment of that state was always rekin- 
dling. <; She lived some time in that 
factious place," says Butler, "... and 



494 



How the Church Understands and Upholds 



showed herself always most undaunt- 
ed, even when swords were drawn 
against her." At length she effected 
the long-wished-for reconciliation, 
though not under Gregory, but his 
successor, Urban VI. Some of his 
discourses have been collected, and 
compose the treatise On Provi- 
dence. When Urban VI. had been 
elected, there followed a great schism, 
during which anti-popes usurped the 
chair of Peter, and the whole Italian 
peninsula was violently distracted. 
She wrote to several countries and 
princes in Urban's favor, and also to 
the Pope himself, entreating him to 
restrain his somewhat hasty disposi- 
tion for the sake of the peace of the 
church. Many treatises and other 
writings of hers are still extant. She 
died at the early age of thirty-three 
in 1380, in Rome, where Urban had 
called her to help and advise him. 
She predicted the schism and other 
calamities, and whether this gift be 
ascribed, as reverent believers would 
wish, to the favor of God who al- 
lowed her a prophetic vision of the 
future, or, as the hard-headed philoso- 
phy of modern times would dictate, 
to the superior discrimination of an 
extraordinary woman, it is equally 
an honor to her and a title to espe- 
cial and enthusiastic remembrance. 
Another woman concurred in the 
work of St. Catharine of Sienna, 
Bridget of Sweden, to whom we have 
already referred. She too prophesied 
the coming disasters of the church; 
she too pressed Gregory XI. to go 
back to Rome. Catharine was once 
commanded to harangue the Sacred 
College, in order to procure peace 
and unity among them. "This 
unique example," says Ventura, 
" showed the powers of eloquence and 
the depth of the wisdom of this 
young Christian heroine." As a 
means to reunite Christendom and 
perhaps avert what she prophetically 



foresaw, she urged upon Gregory XI. 
the advisability of inaugurating a 
new crusade, and, when told in 
amazement that first the Christians 
themselves would have to be recon- 
ciled, answered with consummate tact 
and prudence : " Holy Father, the 
expedition will be so popular that in 
itself it will unite them. Few men 
are so depraved as to be unwilling to 
serve God by means to which they 
are passionately attached. To sepa- 
rate the burning brands is virtually 
to quench the fire." 

She traced a plan of pacification 
as the basis of the policy she wished 
the Pope to adopt, urging the neces- 
sity of peace, and adds, " Let it not 
be a supine, weakling peace, but, on 
the contrary, an active, organizing 
state of things, in which bad and 
mercenary pastors will be summarily 
punished and. all scandals swept 
away." The vigorous foresight of 
this woman is a greater marvel than 
her holiness. In her we have a no- 
ble example of the heights of intel- 
lect to which the grace of God can 
lead a woman's nature, and we 
might almost close our argument 
with this crowning figure of the 
moral Joan of Arc of Italy. Yet, 
lest we be met with the objection 
that all this greatness is part of a lost 
system, and that a new dispensation 
has superseded the church's cham- 
pionship of the sex, we must, in jus- 
tice to our own times, recall a few 
of those facts which since the Renais- 
sance have repeatedly testified to 
the recognized influence of woman 
in political and social spheres. 

Take, for instance, Isabella of Cas- 
tile, the protectress and friend of 
Christopher Columbus, the great 
queen to whom Spain first owed the 
proud position of 'mistress of the seas 
and queen of the New World. 

Columbus had offered his services 
to several kings and governments ; it 



the Rights of Women. 



495 



was a woman who alone treated his 
projects as sublime realities and had 
faith in the future he prophesied. 
When he returned from his first ex- 
pedition, it was she who received 
him with greater honors than those 
rendered to the old Spanish nobility ; 
it was she who upheld him in his 
new speculations and furnished him 
the means to prosecute further dis- 
coveries. Long before he had 
gained her favor, it was again a wo- 
man whose intelligent appreciation 
had encouraged him in weary labors, 
his mother-in-law, Madame Peristiel- 
lo, herself the widow of a famous 
navigator, the discoverer of the Is- 
lands of Madeira and Porto Santo. 

Isabella governed her hereditary 
dominions of Castile herself, while 
her husband, Ferdinand of Aragon, 
administered his own; but not long 
after their marriage, so persuaded 
was he of her superior talents for 
government, that he gave up his 
kingdom to her care. The final ex- 
pulsion of the Moors from Catholic 
Spain was her conception, was car- 
ried out by her personal influence, 
and owed its success mainly to her 
inspiring presence among the Chris- 
tian besiegers of Granada. The 
great Captain Gonsalvus of Cor- 
dova, who seconded her most admir- 
ably in her gigantic undertaking, was 
sought out and patronized by her on 
account of the genius she discovered 
in him ; the great legislator, Cardinal 
Ximenes, owed his elevation to her, 
and was forced by her to accept the 
great dignities which were to enable 
him to reform and aggrandize the 
country. Fernando Cortez, the con- 
queror of Mexico, was likewise her 
special protege", and indeed no better 
proof could be had of the omnipo- 
tence of her personal influence in 
Spain than the fact that after her 
death these great men were either 
forgotten or, worse still, persecuted. 



Without the queen's knowledge, Fer- 
dinand had listened to the detractors 
of Columbus, and degraded him froir 
his post of viceroy over the newly 
discovered lands in America. Isa- 
bella indignantly interfered and had 
him reinstalled in his dignities, but 
when, shortly after, his protectress 
died, he was again imprisoned, and 
fell the victim to Ferdinand's ingrati- 
tude. As to Gonsalvus of Cordova, 
he then, after the queen's death, was 
disgraced, and sent, under a pretext 
of hypocritical regard, to occupy the 
post of a viceroy at Naples. 

One of Isabella's biographers, Des- 
ormeaux, says that " to the graces of 
her sex the queen of Castile added the 
greatness of a hero, the profound and 
able policy of a minister, the views 
of a legislator, the brilliant qualities of 
a conqueror, the honesty of a good 
citizen, and the uprightness of a per- 
fect magistrate" Ventura quotes this 
with these italics. Rohrbacher calls 
her a true king, drawing attention to 
her indefatigable zeal in seeing to all 
affairs herself, and in constantly en- 
couraging her troops by her presence 
on horseback among them. He re- 
peats her praises in almost the same 
words as Desorrneaux. Innocent 
VIII. granted her the formal title of 
" Most Catholic Majesty " ; Cardinal 
Ximenes said that the world would 
never see again a sovereign so inflex- 
ibly just; Peter of Anghiera, the pro- 
fessor of the palace-school for the 
youth of the nobility, lamented her 
as " the refuge of the good, the sword 
raised against the guilty, the mirror 
of rigid virtue." 

Placed at the beginning of mod- 
ern times, on the threshold of the 
church's momentary eclipse, and of 
the decadence of public morality all 
over Europe, she stands out in bold 
relief a champion of the church, 
which, in proud gratitude to her sex, 
has been her champion in return. 



496 



How the Church Understands and Upholds 



St. Teresa, whom all ages and 
creeds agree in accepting as an ex- 
traordinarily gifted woman, was 
another of the shining lights of Spain 
at this time. She too was a Castili- 
an ; her influence was no less wide- 
ly spread than that of Isabella, and, 
if anything, it has lasted longer and 
more visibly. One of the greatest 
orders of the church acknowledges 
her as its reformation, and, for all 
practical purposes, even as its found- 
ress. The Carmelite Friars speak 
of her as " our holy mother," as the 
ancient Benedictines speak of Bene- 
dict as " our father." The writings 
of St. Teresa are among the most 
important spiritual treasures of the 
church. Her health was for many 
years a grievous trial to her, and her 
temptations, as recounted by herself, 
seem to have been neither light nor 
few. In the reform so urgently 
needed among the lax followers of 
the Order of Carmel, she was system- 
atically opposed by many influential 
persons and superiors of her own as 
well as of the opposite sex. After a 
sort of novitiate of twenty years of 
unceasing efforts to attune her soul 
to the practice of mental prayer, she 
began her agitation in favor of reform 
under disappointing circumstances, 
but, triumphing with time over many 
of her opponents, at last procured the 
assistance of powerful colleagues. 
Many of these were women. In 
1562, she was established in a con- 
vent where the reform was first prac- 
tised. Butler says, "The perfection 
and discretion of her rule eclipsed all 
former reformations of her order." 
She next founded two monasteries 
for men according to the reform. At 
Medina del Campo, at Pastrana, at 
Durveo, she founded communities of 
men ; at Valladolid, Avila, Salaman- 
ca, Alva, of women. It is impossi- 
ble to enumerate her many other 
foundations. When her co-laborers, 



the priests Gratian, Marian, and 
others, gave up all for lost on ac- 
count of the ceaseless opposition they 
encountered, she alone remained firm 
and hopeful, saying, " We shall suf- 
fer, but the order will stand." She 
also said that the cross was " the 
secure and beaten road " to lead 
their souls to God. Women are pro- 
verbially called weak, and said to be 
unwilling to forego luxuries or court 
trials ; yet how Teresa vindicated her 
sex in her heroic resolve to " let justice 
be done, though the heavens fall " ! 
Her contemporary, Bishop Yepez, 
tells us that her deportment was not 
less agreeable than edifying, that her 
prudence and address were admira- 
ble, and speaks no less of her grace- 
fulness, dignity, and charms than of 
the gravity, modesty, and discretion 
of her conversation and carriage. 
Truly a most womanly woman, who 
could take upon her man's responsi- 
bility without forfeiting the beauti- 
ful attributes of her sex. Like in 
this to the Catholic Church, Catho- 
lic womanhood has all that is claim- 
ed by women outside the church, and 
not only that, but she adds far more, 
just as the church holds whatever 
truth is held by the different sects, 
and infinitely more beside. Teresa 
died in 1582, having lived to see six- 
teen convents of Carmelite nuns, and 
fourteen of friars, founded and suc- 
cessfully organized. The impress of 
her noble work is undying; she had 
the talents of the unhappy Luther, 
but dedicated them to a worthier 
cause, and, now that the same num- 
ber of centuries have passed over 
their respective graves, the woman's 
name is universally honored even by 
her conscientious opponents, while 
the man's is execrated in many a 
community whose original constitu- 
tion was derived from his teachings. 

In the same century as Teresa 
lived another great reformer and 



the Rights of Women. 



497 



Christian agitator, St. Cajetan, of 
Thienna, who owed to his admirable 
mother his enthusiasm and ardent 
zeal for holy things. He showed 
by his foundations how highly he 
esteemed woman's virtue and integ- 
rity; one of his chief aims being to 
establish refuges for fallen women, 
and asylums for those whose honor 
was endangered through poverty and 
destitution. But one of his greatest 
works would never have been accom- 
plished if a noble and wealthy wo- 
man had not generously taken its 
fulfilment upon herself: namely, what 
is called in Catholic Europe the 
" Mont de Piete"" an untranslatable 
and most touching synonym for our 
more repulsive pawn-shops. These 
institutions were established to coun- 
terbalance the shameful system of 
usury in vogue at the time, and were 
so controlled by the state that the 
needy masses should be benefited by 
them instead of being duped. To 
the Countess of Porto is Italy indebt- 
ed for these much-needed reforms. 
Mother Ursula Benincasa, the foun- 
dress of an order called the Theatine 
Hermits, was, according to Ventura, 
the bulwark of orthodoxy in the 
kingdom of Naples. She was the 
first to unmask the heresiarchs Bernar- 
dtn Ochino and Peter Vermillo, who 
had begun to preach Protestantism 
under the cloak of reform. St. Phi- 
lip Neri examined her and encour- 
aged her in her labors, and the city 
of Naples reveres her as its protec- 
tress. 

One of the best known and best 
loved saints of modern times is St. 
Francis of Sales. One of his most 
popular works is his Introduction 
to a Devout Life the most useful, 
readable, and intelligible manual of. 
devotion ever written for persons liv- 
ing in the world. t Yet this would 
never have been written save for a 
woman, to whom were addressed the 
VOL. xv. 32 



letters from which it was subsequent- 
ly compiled. He treats in this work 
almost exclusively of the duties of 
women, and chiefly of women of the 
higher classes those of whom it is 
said by too many, in their excessive 
severity, that they are debarred by the 
circumstances of their life from real 
Christian work. St. Francis' Treat- 
ise on Divine Love, a longer work, 
is modelled much on the same plan. 
The woman whose soul he thought 
worthy of inspiring these efforts was 
Madame Jeanne Fransoise de Chan- 
tal, the grandmother of another 
gifted and well-known woman, the 
charming Madame de Sevigne. Her 
domestic life, during the years of her 
happy and holy marriage, was a 
model of severity and order. Regu- 
lar hours were assigned for every- 
thing in her household, every duty 
and employment discharged with, 
great order, and the spiritual and 
moral welfare of her servants attend- 
ed to with the minutest solicitude.. 
Butler says that order is an indispen- 
sable part of virtue; and what is 
more worshipped (in theory !) among. 
our modern women-reformers than 
this very quality ! But here we have 
it exhibited in a saint : is it the less 
attractive for that ? When her hus- 
band was absent, she refrained from 
visiting and entertainments, and was 
at all times conspicuous for shunning,, 
as far as the duties of her pdsitron 
would allow, all useless and frivo- 
lous occupations. Again, we have 
Butler commending her for this, and 
adding that " to make a round of 
amusements and idle visits the busi- 
ness of life, is to degrade the dignity 
of a rational being and to sink be- 
neath the very brutes." Is this not 
the language held by the modern ad- 
vocates of a reform among women ? 
Thus we see that, in everything to 
which reason points, the church not 
only stands up for the rights of wo- 



498 



How the Church Understands and Upholds 



man, but also that her ministers and 
exponents have even forestalled the 
" newly discovered movement," both 
by word and example, many centuries 
ago. Jeanne Frangoise de Chantal 
lost her husband after several years 
of marriage, and gave herself up to 
the care and education of her chil- 
dren. To this task, which she super- 
intended with the gravest diligence, 
she applied herself for several years, 
until her eldest daughter's marriage. 
Then she entered the religious life, 
leaving her son under the guardian- 
ship of her father, but retaining her- 
self the privilege of still superintend- 
ing his studies. Her Congregation 
of the Visitation soon after became a 
regularly constituted order, and she 
and some companions, under the aus- 
pices of St. Francis of Sales, took their 
solemn vows at Annecy, in 1610. 
In the same year, she stayed for sev- 
eral months at Dijon, arranging fami- 
ly affairs and watching over her son's 
studies. She also founded convents 
in nine or ten prominent towns in 
France, and, between 1619 and 1622, 
governed the convent in Paris, where 
she at first met with and overcame 
serious difficulties. Her son, whose 
marriage had been her special care 
and work, was killed in 1627, in 
the religious wars then desolating 
France, and her daughter-in-law and 
son-in-law (the husband of her eld- 
est daughter) died not long after. 
Her fortitude under these trials was 
worthy of the Roman and Spartan 
matrons of old, and her tenderness 
for those more bereaved than her- 
self, a model of Christian grace. 
Her aptitude for directing souls was 
very remarkable, and her bravery in 
tending the body in sickness no less 
so. During the pestilence at Anne- 
cy her efforts were ceaseless, and her 
prayers for its cessation full of fer- 
vent belief. In 1638, the Duchess 
of Savoy sent for her to Turin to 



found a Convent of the Visitation, and 
treated her (to her great mortifica- 
tion) with the greatest honpr. The 
same happened in Paris, where a 
royal mandate had also summoned 
her. It is impossible to calculate the 
influence this energetic woman has 
had upon the modern destinies of 
Catholic Europe, both during her 
busy and fruitful life and since her 
death, when the houses of her order 
have multiplied to an enormous ex- 
tent, and for some time monopolized 
almost entirely the education of the 
upper classes of women. If they no 
longer hold the first place among 
such institutions, another order, no 
less useful and especially designed 
for this one end, has successfully 
taken up their work, the Congrega- 
tion of the Sacred Heart. 

The seventeenth century gave birth 
to another institution even more per- 
fect than that inaugurated by the 
Baroness de Chantal, that of the Sis- 
ters of Charity. This is perhaps the 
only Catholic foundation against 
which the malice of the church's op- 
ponents of all shades of belief and 
unbelief has never dared to raise 
its voice. Not the most improb- 
able tale of scandal has been hurled 
at these women ; not the remotest 
trace of a sneer has ever been point- 
ed at them ; infidels on their death- 
bed, philanthropists who scouted the 
Catholic ideal, soldiers on the field 
of battle, physicians whom they out- 
do in zeal in the worst hospitals all 
are agreed on the unimaginable and 
gigantic heroism of the Sisters of 
Charity. They alone, of all nuns, 
are allowed to walk the streets of 
London without the least conceal- 
ment of their distinctive dress, and 
all over the world there is not a 
queen whose royal robes are more 
respected than the simple peasant- 
like costume of the daughters of St. 
Vincent of Paul. Louise de Maril- 



the Rights of Women, 



499 



lac was the saint's first great helper 
in this noble work. Their rule is one 
that might serve women of the world, 
so entirely spiritual and interior is its 
nature. " Let them have," it says, 
" the houses of the sick for their 
monastery, the rooms of the poor for 
their cell, the parish church for their 
conventual chapel, for grating the 
fear of God, and holy modesty for 
their veil." The Countess of Soig- 
ny, who assisted St. Vincent in his mis- 
sions among the agricultural poor in 
1616; Madame de Goussault, who 
suggested to him the formation of an 
organized body of ladies to attend 
regularly on the sick of the present 
hospital in Paris, the Hotel Dieu ; 
Madame de Polaillon, who herself 
supplemented his labors by visiting 
the sick, and teaching the ignorant 
country population herself, under 
the disguise of a peasant woman, 
and who finally took upon herself to 
found, under his direction, the Insti- 
tute of Mercy for the reformation of 
abandoned women; the Queen-Re- 
gent, Anne of Austria, who nomin- 
ated him to a post of great moral in- 
fluence, and consulted him in all ec- 
clesiastical affairs ; Mesdames de 
Marillac, de Traversai, and de Mira- 
mion, who were the life and soul of 
his immortal Foundling Institution 
these and many others, of all classes 
and all ages, were the real and earnest 
fellow-laborers to whose zeal, under 
God, he owed the success of his 
many admirable enterprises. What- 
ever amelioration the lot of man has 
undergone has always been traceable 
either to a woman's suggestion or 
at least her practical co-operation. 
One woman, whose name should not 
be forgotten in the catalogue of Vin- 
cent of Paul's spiritual lieutenants, is 
that of Marie de Gournay, the wife 
of a small wine-seller, a most holy 
and discreet woman. M. Olier, a 
priest of that age, has left us her pan- 



egyric in glowing terms : " All the 
good which is done at this time pass- 
es, so to speak, through her hands ; 
all the great undertakings of our day 
are somehow referable to her. Al- 
though her birth and position^ are ob- 
scure, yet she is the counsel and the 
light of the most illustrious persons 
in Paris." He then names the great 
ladies of the court who ask her ad- 
vice in spiritual matters, and adds : 
" There are no apostolic men, no mis- 
sionaries, who fail to go to her for in- 
struction. Father Eudes, a famous 
preacher, consults her frequently. 
The General of the Oratorians does 
the same. Mademoiselle Manse, 
whom God has inspired to go out to 
Canada to help in the propagation 
of the faith there, undertook this 
work only after receiving Marie de 
Gournay's approbation. She it is 
who directs M. de Coudray, who is 
working for the Levant missions 
and the defence of the church against 
the Turks. ... A certain coun- 
sellor of state takes her advice in all 
things, and has worked in conse- 
quence much to the benefit of the 
church. The chancellor of the king- 
dom, according to her persuasions, is 
very zealous in the extirpation of 
heresy and the defence of the church. 
I pass over many names as illustri- 
ous as these, the position of their 
bearers precluding me from mention- 
ing them." M. Olier's own con- 
version was due to her predictions 
and timely warnings, and through his 
vocation her influence was greatly- 
spread in the work of reforming the 
ecclesiastical seminaries of France. 
The historian Rohrbacher only men- 
tions her as a power on the side of 
religious reform. The College of 
Vaugirard and the Seminary of St. 
Sulpice, now the two foremost edu- 
cational institutes of Paris, were the 
fruits of her prayers and counsels. 
The end of the reign of Louis XIV. 



5oo 



The Church and the Rights of Women. 



was remarkable for the happy and 
beneficial rule of a woman, his wife, 
Madame de Maintenon, whose rigid 
virtue and wise influence were boons 
no less prized by the nation than by 
the sovereign. Before her marriage 
with the king, she was the queen's 
true and loyal friend, and exercised 
the influence she even then possess- 
ed over Louis XIV. wholly in his 
consort's favor. She never would ac- 
cept gifts from him, and indeed told 
him plainly that he had not the right 
to give her anything. The great in- 
stitution in which she was interested, 
and which owed its foundation to 
her, was the Free School of St. Cyr, 
for the daughters of poor gentlemen. 
It was in this school that many of 
the heroines of the French Revolu- 
tion were educated. Fenelon avow- 
ed that he looked to her as the king's 
conscience. Racine wrote at her 
suggestion his masterpiece, Athalie, 
and broke through the senseless tra- 
dition which deified and consecrated 
in poetry crimes which, told in prose, 
would have made any modest man 
or woman blush. Fenelon's deter- 
mined stand against the king's en- 
croachments on religious liberties 
left him without a friend in the fickle 
court of Versailles; Madame de 
Maintenon boldly ranged herself on 
his side and exerted all her influence 
in his favor. 

We have come so near to the days 
of our fathers that we must stop, as 
on the confines of well-known and 
well-worn subjects. The heroic and 
manly character of Maria Theresa, 
the fortitude of Louise de France, the 
Carmelite nun, the calm bravery of 
Marie Antoinette and Madame Eliza- 
beth, are facts too well known to 
need repetition. Perhaps it may not 
be so with the origin of the Propa- 
gation of the Faith, which was begun 
at Lyons in 1822 by a few humble 
working-women, instinct with the 



spirit of Martha, and undeterred by 
the first obscurity of their good 
works. We might mention women 
who have influenced literature and 
made a name that will never be for- 
gotten Eugenie de Guerin, Lady 
Georgiana Fullerton, Countess Ida 
Hahn-Hahn, and many others; es- 
pecially of late the charming author- 
ess of the Re'cit (Tune Sxur. Is it 
necessary to speak of the numberless 
convents where girls of all classes are 
thoroughly educated, and in which 
the teachers, were they men, would 
shine as college tutors and holders 
of professional chairs ? In fact, if we 
had time and space to go through 
the modern world, as we have ex- 
plored the ages of our ancestors, we 
should find no less vitality among 
women, no less determined cham- 
pionship of the sex on the part of the 
church. Let us end by a tribute to 
one of the noblest works of charity 
ever undertaken, that of the Little 
Sisters of the Poor, the earthly guar- 
dian angels who live in such evangel- 
ical poverty that, when they have beg- 
ged the remains of rich men's tables to 
feed their infirm and aged charges, 
they humbly and cheerfully make their 
own scanty meal from the refuse of 
these very remains. In days when lux- 
ury has created wants destructive to 
human strength and health, let us hon- 
or above all these heroines of charity 
who live as the angels, and almost 
make us forget that their bodies 
are still under the law of the flesh 
and require fleshly sustenance. 

With this picture of the very ne 
plus ultra of charity, let us close our 
catalogue of woman's perfections in 
the kingdom of grace, knowing well 
that we leave many an act of heroism 
unrecorded, many a sacrifice " hid- 
den with Christ in God." 

We have seen what the church has 
done for woman : we have seen what 
woman has done for and in the 



Miss Etheridge. 



501 



church. It is at the sex's option to 
continue this mission. The cultivation 
of its highest faculties is a duty it 
owes to the church and society. Mo- 
thers will be doubly mothers if they 
develop their sons' moral nature, as 
they are bound to do, through the ed- 
ucation of their own ; the wife is sol- 
emnly bound to become truly her 
husband's "helper, like unto him- 
self"; daughters and sisters have a 
work to do in their homes far above 



the preparation of a meal or the 
smoothing over of domestic trou- 
bles; all women, of whatever age, 
class, or mental calibre, have their 
vote to give in the great election 
that will decide the victory of the 
church or the world. If women vote 
for vice, the world of men will be 
bad; if for virtue, society may be re- 
generated : theirs is the casting vote, 
the decisive move. Let it be up- 
ward, sisters let it be God-ward ! 



MISS ETHERIDGE. 



WHILE I was spending a summer 
in a pleasant town in Connecticut, I 
became very much interested in an 
invalid lady, who used to be drawn 
past my window in one of those 
small vehicles which seem both chair 
and carriage. The lady did not look 
ill by any means. She sat erect, and 
gazed about her with a lively air, be- 
tokening good health and spirits. 
She was always richly dressed, and 
wore her silks, velvets, and laces with 
the air of one well used to such rai- 
ment. Many of those meeting her 
bowed with deference, which she re- 
turned with courteous grace and a 
high-bred manner. Sometimes she 
would stop her little carriage while 
a friend chatted with her, and 
seemed always to make herself very 
agreeable, as I judged from the 
pleased faces of her listeners. Fre- 
quently I would see ladies and gen- 
tlemen walking by the side of her 
carriage as her maid slowly pushed 
it along. I met her very often in my 
walks, and sometimes I strolled a 
little way behind, observing this 
stately dame, so afflicted and yet so 
favored apparently by fortune and 
misfortune. 



She was a very handsome woman 
of about fifty years of age. Her sil- 
ver-gray hair was abundant and 
beautiful, crowning her with a dig- 
nity beyond the power of any artifi- 
cial adornment to bestow. The car- 
riage of her head was proud and 
erect. Her features were clear cut 
and handsome, and the delicate tint 
of her complexion seemed almost to 
belong to youth. She appeared to 
me like a fine picture of a court dame 
in some bygone time, because, with 
all the air of style investing her, she 
was not dressed in the fashion of the 
day. In this was shown a fine, nice 
taste; whatever was her infirmity, it 
seemed to place her so removed from 
the frivolity of her sex that an affect- 
ation of fashion in her attire would 
have been unbecoming. 

Being so much interested in this 
lady, I made inquiries, and soon 
learned much of her former history. 
She was a Miss Etheridge, afflicted 
with incurable rheumatism, of that 
kind which renders the victim almost 
helpless. She could not stand on her 
feet or change her position without 
the help of others. She could only 
imperfectly use her hands, and yet 



502 



Miss Etheridge. 



her health was good and her intellect 
vigorous. She had been, only a few 
years before, an active, energetic 
woman, remarkably self-reliant and 
helpful to others. She had been a 
beauty and belle in her girlhood, and 
always a woman commanding the 
homage and respect of all who knew 
her. 

But now, what a sad ending of a 
favored life ! " Bound with chains," 
she said to me, for, waving ceremony 
in view of her great affliction, I called 
upon her and cultivated an acquaint- 
ance which I never regretted. De- 
barred as she was from all occupa- 
tion, she was very fond of society. 
Her hands, once very beautiful, as 
former portraits showed, were now so 
distorted and weakened as to be un- 
able to hold any but the lightest 
books or pamphlets for reading, and 
that not very long at a time. So, in 
her luxurious apartments, surrounded 
by every alleviation that wealth could 
bestow, this lady passed many lonely 
hours and days hours of intense 
weariness of both body and mind. 
Sitting in her massive, high-backed 
chair, she looked like a fine picture 
and showed no sign of her infirmity; 
yet how her poor limbs ached from 
the mere lack of change of posture, 
only those similarly affected can tell. 
An intimacy sprang up between us so 
easily that I was often present at 
times when her attendants moved and 
dressed her ; and then it was that I 
became aware of the extent of torture 
to which she was subjected by the 
mere moving of a limb. Much of 
her time she passed lying in her bed, 
from an intense dread of the severe 
ordeal of being moved. I have 
passed hours sitting by her bedside, 
reading to her and in conversation 
with her, and by this means came to 
know much of her state of mind and 
religious feeling. 

I admired the fortitude and pati- 



ence with which she bore her burden, 
yet it did seem to me quite as much 
Spartan endurance as Christian meek- 
ness or acceptance of the will of God. 
Hers was a heroic nature, with some 
pious yearnings uncultivated. She 
chafed like a caged lioness, but was 
too proud to whine or repine in any 
cowardly fashion. She was an Epis- 
copalian of the firm, old-fashioned 
type that eschews both Ritualism and 
Evangelicalism. To be as the bi- 
shops and clergymen of her family, 
who had supplied the church of her 
affections for generations with clerical 
stock, seemed to her just the right 
medium, and in clinging to this stan- 
dard she simply starved her soul. 
She knew me to be a Catholic, a 
" Roman Catholic " for she also 
claimed to be a Catholic, an "Anglican 
Catholic," as I also had once done. 
I, being a recent convert, felt enthusi- 
astic even while timid on this sub- 
ject. I had passed through the or- 
deal of estrangement from friends, 
been exposed to misunderstanding 
of my motives and all the whips and 
stings to which those who take this 
step are subjected, too recently not to 
be very sensitive about laying myself 
open to the charge of endeavoring to 
proselyte another. I loved Miss 
Etheridge and her society too well to 
risk her displeasure, or by speaking 
overmuch of my own faith to give 
any handle for her relatives to turn 
against us. She, on her part, was too 
truly polite to ever make any un- 
pleasant allusions to the subject. 
And yet how much I longed for her 
to know what a sure trust and sup- 
port she could have if she only would! 
When I heard her involuntary moans, 
my prayers went up for the interces- 
sion of the Mother of Sorrows, again, 
and yet again. And I knew all the 
time that that intercession she re- 
jected with scorn. Nothing I could 
have said to her would have been so 



Miss Etheridgc. 



503 



unwelcome as a prayer to the 
Blessed Virgin in her behalf. Yet I 
did ask that tender intercession, and 
I believe the All-Pitying Woman 
above was touched with compassion 
for the proud, suffering woman who 
would not ask her aid. 

On one occasion, when our con- 
versation had drifted along to the 
subject of the next life, she remarked 
that to her the bliss to be desired was 
-to be " unchained ' delivered from 
the body of 'this death.' " 

" My dear friend," said I, " if you 
die before I do, my regrets will be 
tempered by the thought that your 
' earthly clogs ' are cast off." 

" Ah ! if there is a purgatory," she 
often said, " I am enduring mine 
here. What has been my sin more 
than another's, that this should be 
thrust upon me ! " And at these 
times the tone of her voice and the 
expression of her face showed the 
impatient, unchastened fire of the 
haughty, rebellious spirit. 

But had she none of the consola- 
tions of religion ? Protestants are not 
pagans. No, indeed. This lady had 
her books of devotion in profusion. 
Her elegant Book of Common Prayer 
and her Bible lay always at hand. 
Other books also were on her table 
" Counsel for the Sick-Room," and 
kindred works, of which she contempt- 
uously remarked that they were written 
by persons in good health, who found 
it very easy to bear patiently the pains 
and crosses of other people, but who 
might possibly not be such fine Chris- 
tian philosophers if they had to en- 
dure all this themselves. 

In her palmy days of health and 
strength she had been a communicant 
in the Episcopal Church, and now, 
when, according to the teaching of 
that church, she needed still more 
the nourishment for her soul's health, 
she declined availing herself of the 
privilege. This always seemed to me 



very strange, knowing full well as I 
did what her church taught her, and 
what in all consistency she should do. 
But on this topic my lips were closed. 
Her pastor was a timid young man, 
who visited her at intervals, but who 
was afraid to urge anything upon her 
which she seemed not to wish. I 
found from her own and others' con- 
versation concerning him that he re- 
garded his highest duty to his flock 
to be that of preaching to them, and 
their highest duty to come to church 
and listen to him. To give him as 
little trouble as possible, and leave 
him as much time to himself as they 
could, was to make themselves agree- 
able parishioners. He delighted in 
having certain enthusiastic and well- 
disposed ladies conduct Sunday- 
schools, societies, charities, visiting of 
the sick, and all other troublesome 
matters ; thereby relieving him of all 
need to bother himself and take his 
thoughts from the fine sermons which 
he delighted to elaborate in his study, 
His wife and children claimed much 
of his attention, and through them 
society had its demands on him. In 
short, he liked to be very comfortable, 
and much money "donated " by 
good and kind people went to put 
him and his family in the enjoyment 
of ease and refinement, which money 
might, I often thought, have helped 
to build schools and charities. I, how- 
ever, cared for the success of this rev- 
erend gentleman's ministrations only 
as they affected my friend Miss Ether- 
idge. I think he regarded me with dis- 
trust and disfavor. He always spoke of 
me as a/^rzw/and Romanist, but as he 
was a thorough gentleman, and as 
Miss Etheridge was a lady who al- 
ways had her own way accorded her, 
no unpleasant collision ever occurred 
between us. I was one who never 
listened to his preaching, and there- 
fore was uninteresting to him, except 
as I might influence one of his fold. 



504 



Miss Ethcridoe. 



Seeing no signs of this dire result of 
my intimacy, he accepted it passively 
as one of the circumstances which he 
must submit to, if not approve. 

One day I was returning from Miss 
Etheridge's house, when I met two 
Sisters of Charity, just about entering 
a poor, low dwelling not far from the 
rich one I had just left. Having a 
slight acquaintance with the sisters, 
I stopped to exchange a few words 
with them, and to ask what was their 
mission of mercy in this abode. 

" Oh ! we are going in to see poor 
Mrs. McGowan," said one of them. 
" Her time passes very tediously at 
the best, and she likes to have us 
come and read to her. Will you go 
in and see her ?" 

" What is the matter with her, sis- 
ter ?" I asked, as I turned in at the 
gate, responding to the invitation. 

" Chronic rheumatism," said Sister 
Francina " the saddest case ! so help- 
less and so lonely as she is ! She has 
had it five years, growing worse all 
the time." 

And now we were at the door of 
this victim of the terrible tyrant whose 
power I had witnessed in the house 
of her rich neighbor. I need not say 
how interested I was at once. 

Poor, ignorant, Irish, and childless 
was Mrs. McGowan but a Catholic. 
Very mean were all her surroundings, 
but very decent and cleanly. She 
was a woman but little older than 
Miss Etheridge, and in some respects 
not unlike her. Education and high 
breeding and polish were lacking, but 
some lo/>k in her face and complex- 
ion, and especially in the poor twisted 
hands, constantly reminded me of my 
friend. Here the silver-gray hair was 
almost covered by the hideous wide- 
frilled cap which elderly Irish women 
consider so decorous. Her plain 
dark cotton gown presented a con- 
trast to the rich massive folds of Miss 
Etheridge's heavy silk robe. No high, 



carved, cushioned chair supported 
her, but she sat on the side of her bed, 
with her hands patiently folded in her 
lap. Miss Etheridge always had her 
maid within call. 

Bright-eyed, rosy Maggie Maloney 
I see her now, tenderly brushing a fly 
from her mistress' forehead, or fanning 
her, or handing her books, a handker- 
chief, glass of water, or whatever else 
was required. But here, from morn- 
ing till night sat poor Mrs. McGowan, 
depending for all such little offices on 
the kindness of her humble neighbors 
and their children. Her husband 
was a poor mechanic, who left her 
every morning after assisting her to 
dress, and lifting her from her bed to 
the seat by the bedside. After this, 
a kind woman, her nearest neighbor, 
performed all the services necessary 
for her. 

And so her weary hours passed. 
Equally helpless with Miss Etheridge, 
how very different were her surround- 
ings ! No fine pictures upon which 
to rest her weary eyes hung upon 
these walls. Here only a low ceiling 
and bare walls, with one small win- 
dow from which she gazed, seeing 
what she might of the passers-by. No 
maid to obey her slightest demand ; 
no exquisite music-boxes, to the low, 
sweet tinkling notes of which she 
might listen; no birds, pictures, books, 
flowers, fine furniture, hangings, and 
carpets contributed what they might 
to soften her hard lot. Poor Mrs. 
McGowan had none of these. Bare, 
cold, hard, and pitiless seemed her 
position, and yet she appeared to 
me the happier woman of the two. 
A serene contentment and cheerful 
acceptance of God's will seemed 
to sustain her. Miss Etheridge 
was surrounded by relatives who 
vied with each other in their at- 
tentions to her, and were devoured 
by jealousy of each other as her 
favor inclined capriciously, some- 



Miss Etheridge. 



505 



times to one, sometimes to another. 
Indeed, I often thought this lady 
could not really tell between them all 
what was done for love of her and 
what for interested motives, she hav- 
ing a fortune to bestow as she pleased. 
Mrs. McGowan also had her relatives, 
but they were hard-working people, 
nieces and cousins who lived at ser- 
vice, and who came to see her at in- 
tervals of time and stayed as long as 
they could be spared. Stout men 
would lend their strong arms occasion- 
ally to carry her to some other part of 
her little dwelling. This was all the 
change of scene she had been able to 
obtain for years. 

The similarity and dissimilarity in 
the lot of these two women chained 
my attention. My interest in the 
one increased my interest in the other, 
and I was thus led to compare their 
different ways of bearing their suffer- 
ings. 

I could not help seeing that Mrs. 
McGowan was the happier of the 
two, despite her poverty. Why was 
this ? I could not think it entirely 
proceeded from a more cheerful tem- 
perament, because Miss Etheridge 
was far from being a morose or de- 
spondent woman. But Mrs. McGowan 
performed to the best of her ability 
all her religious duties. Regularly 
her parish priest came to her to hear 
her confession and administer to her 
the Blessed Sacrament. To all of us 
comes a time in our lives when we 
feel the need of something more than 
our own or any human support, and 
such aid from above this humble suf- 
ferer accepted in simple, childlike 
faith and trust, while her proud sister- 
in-need disdained to receive it. No 
wonder that one was stronger to bear 
her heavy affliction than the other. 
Of what avail was Miss Etheridge's 
superior education and cultivation to 
loosen or lighten her " chains " ? 
They clasped her quite as closely and 



pitilessly as those of her ignorant 
neighbor. And while Christ himself 
was the soul's health of the one, only 
a cold, bare formula of religious ob- 
servance was offered to the other. 

I longed to bring Miss Etheridge 
to the sense of this, so plain to my- 
self. But hesitating always in my 
sensitiveness as to how my motives 
might be construed, I mused long 
upon the best way of introducing the 
subject. I at last concluded to get 
her to pass Mrs. McGowan's door in 
my company. This was very natur- 
ally and easily accomplished, and I, 
walking by her side, told her of Mrs. 
McGowan, and pointed out her little 
dwelling. Mrs. Etheridge was inter- 
ested at once, and, stopping her car- 
riage by the gate, I went in, and told 
Mrs. McGowan to look out of the 
window at her guest. She already 
knew of Miss Etheridge and her af- 
fliction, and, with the keen, quick 
sympathy of her race, responded at 
once to the demand upon her. I felt 
the tears come up to my eyes so in- 
voluntarily and uncontrollably, that 
I stepped back so that Miss Ether- 
idge might not perceive my agitation. 
It was touching to see these two, so 
far removed in social position, so 
near in a common suffering, talking 
of their feelings to each other. Miss 
Etheridge never forgot her dignity 
for an instant, and Mrs. McGowan, 
who had been a servant in her youth, 
did not presume, but acknowledged 
by her manner her appreciation of 
the superiority of her visitor, and yet 
with delicate tact tendered her pity 
and sympathy. Through the open 
window her voice came kindly, and 
her face looked cheerfully to Miss 
Etheridge, who was able to per- 
ceive also how homely and mean 
were all the surroundings of her 
fellow-sufferer. 

" You are better cared for than I 
am, ma'am, and likely you will laet 



5o6 



Miss Etheridge. 



longer; but sure, my pains would be 
as great in a palace as they are here. 
It is the Lord's will, and I must be 
content." 

" May the good Lord help you, 
and me too," said Miss Etheridge. 
Her proud face softened with a ten- 
der pity, and her voice had a tremu- 
lous vibration in it, as of some hidden 
chord in her heart stirred now, per- 
haps, for the first time. She seemed 
very thoughtful and silent on our 
way back, and I thought she was 
more patient with her attendants as 
she was lifted out of her carriage and 
placed in her usual chair. 

After this she sent or carried to 
Mrs. McGowan many presents of 
little delicacies and comforts, and the 
gratitude which the poor woman 
freely expressed seemed to please 
Miss Etheridge more than anything 
else. It became a hobby with her 
to contrive some new comfort and 
pleasure for Mrs. McGowan. 

" Ah ! ma'am," said the poor soul, 
" an' what can the likes of me do for 
you ? I have nothing to give you but 
my prayers," which I doubt not she 
did give in no scant measure. I often 
thought that she enlisted powerful 
intercessions in behalf of Miss Ether- 
idge which that lady would not have 
secured for herself. 

One day, as we stopped by the 
little window, the sweet face of Sister 
Francina looked out at us. I 
glanced quickly at Miss Etheridge, 
but that high-bred lady showed no 
prejudice, whatever she might feel. 
She was looking kindly and courte- 
ously, bowing her head to the sister, 
even before I could speak the words 
of introduction. The sister, led on 
by Miss Etheridge's cordial manner, 
and her sincere interest in one of 
whom she had heard so much, held 
quite a sprightly conversation with 
us. She spoke of the frequency of 
her visits to Mrs. McGowan, and 



praised the poor woman's uniform 
patience and cheerfulness and piety. 

A few days after this, I was aston- 
ished by Miss Etheridge asking me 
if it would be against rule for Sister 
Francina to visit her. I replied, "As 
you are an invalid, I think not." 
Then Miss Etheridge asked me if I 
thought I could not induce her to 
come. " I will try," I replied. 

" I wish it," she said " I wish it 
very much. I think I may have the 
few comforts I can enjoy, and I 
will." 

This was uttered in a tone of such 
decision and defiance that I almost 
felt that I myself was supposed to 
oppose her in the matter. But the tone 
was really against the bitter opposi- 
tion she knew she was courting, both 
for herself and me, from her anxious 
and affectionate relatives. The hav- 
ing of her own way and asserting 
herself on any subject, only added a 
spice to her enjoyment of what she 
attained, but it placed me in an 
awkward position toward her family. 
I knew that it would seem to them 
that I had urged this visit of Sister 
Francina, or at least brought it about 
by more direct means than was really 
the case. True, I was the instru- 
ment, but Miss Etheridge used me 
more voluntarily than they would 
believe. I did not like to be re- 
garded in the light in which I was 
sure I would be viewed as an un- 
dermining and scheming emissary of 
Rome. But, on the other hand, I did 
not like to be cowardly in refusing to 
procure for Miss Etheridge so very 
innocent a pleasure. If she were 
merely whimsical in her wish to have 
the sister visit her, still, why not let 
her be indulged ? It was the sister's 
mission to visit the afflicted, and here 
was an appeal to her charity, and to 
mine too. So I plucked up my cour- 
age, which was backed up by my af- 
fection for Miss Etheridge, and soon 



Miss Etheridge. 



507 



brought Sister Francina to her. It 
was as we anticipated. The family 
were up in arms about this visit. 
One would have supposed that I had 
brought a wolf, or " roaring lion, 
seeking whom he might devour," to 
Miss Etheridge, instead of meek, 
gentle, innocent Sister Francina, 
strong only in her holy faith. But 
if no one else was brave, Miss Ether- 
idge certainly was. She expressed 
herself so pleased at the sister's visit, 
that she asked it as a personal favor 
and charity to herself that the sister 
would come often. With great deli- 
cacy, the sister was urged to accept a 
generous gift for the mission in which 
she was engaged. And Sister Fran- 
cina did come ; not very often Miss 
Etheridge and her family could not 
think she presumed upon the encour- 
agement she received but still often 
enough to endear herself to Miss 
Etheridge more and more. The 
family were rampant, but powerless. 
Still Miss Etheridge chose to have 
me walk by her carriage. Still she 
would go and talk to Mrs. McGowan, 
and, doing so, she met at last Father 

B . He was going in at the gate 

just as we, from an opposite direction, 
came around the corner of the house. 
I knew him at once, and told Miss 
Etheridge, asking if we should go on, 
which I supposed she would prefer. 
I was surprised at her expressing her 
intention to stop. She had in her 
lap a basket of fruit which she 
wished to leave for Mrs. McGowan, 
and, " if the priest would not object 
to her, she certainly would not shun 
him." 

Father B was a convert him- 
self from the Anglican ranks. He 
bore about him all the genial bon- 
homie, the polished bearing, and gen- 
tle dignity which is characteristic of 
that class of Protestant clergy. Miss 
Etheridge had never been personally 
acquainted with him, but, having 



heard him preach in the bygone days 
when she went to church and his 
eloquence charmed Protestant audi- 
ences, she retained still a curiosity, if 
nothing more, concerning him. This 
at least was no stern-browed ascetic 
with the odor of a sanctity she could 
not appreciate about him, but a kindly, 
social gentleman, with many little 
points of sympathy whereon to begin 

an acquaintance. Father B , seeing 

no repulse, readily responded to Miss 
Etheridge's overtures of good-will. 
She certainly found her mind dis- 
abused of many previous notions, of 
this priest at least. On the whole, I 
felt glad of the meeting. It thawed 
some remaining reserve on our part 
in discussing the differences between 
us in faith. I told her frankly how I 
had been led, step by step, into the fold 
wherein I now rejoiced to be. How 
my first dissatisfaction in the Episcopal 
Church had arisen from witnessing the 
utter inability of the pastor to with- 
stand lay interference in matters 
which belonged exclusively to the 
clergy. How two wardens in open en- 
mity still partook of the sacrament, U 
defiance of the rubric which bears 
upon the, case, and which the rector 
never dared to enforce. How I had 
heard such various teaching and ex- 
plaining of the creed, services, arti- 
cles of religion, and everything ap- 
pertaining to the whole system, that 
it seemed to me like the confusion of 
tongues "worse confounded." That 
the desire to embrace in the Anglican 
fold such opposing elements as Cal- 
vinism on the one hand, and pure, 
" primitive," and mediaeval Christian- 
ity on the other to be Ritualistic 
and Evangelical at the same time, 
worked such mischief and rebellion 
that I had longed for some authority, 
some utterance which had the ring 
of the true metal, and some fold 
wherein I might be at rest. 

Miss Etheridge listened very pa- 



Miss R 'the 'ridge. 



tiently, very thoughtfully. I hardly 
expected so little opposition to all I 
said. She granted the force of my 
objections, but wondered at my be- 
ing able to acquiesce in all which I 
had now accepted. I replied that 
perhaps what I had accepted would 
not seem to her so very unreasonable 
if she came to examine and under- 
stand it as I did ; that nothing dis- 
pelled prejudice like an acquaintance 
with and analysis of the objection- 
able subjects; that the effect was 
frequently like that produced by ex- 
amining some supposed spectre 
which has frightened us in the dark, 
and which we find to be only an in- 
nocent optical illusion. 

After this, I refrained from ob- 
truding any more of my religious 
views upon Miss Etheridge, until one 
day when she asked me to read 
Morte d' 1 Arthur to her, and I came 
upon the passage : 

" Pray for my soul. More things are wrought 

by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore let 

thy voice 

Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves and those who call them 

friend ? 

For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God." 

I remarked that Tennyson had, 
with a poet's insight, spoken like a 
true Catholic. Miss Etheridge de- 
nied that it was Tennyson's own be- 
lief advanced, but only that of 
King Arthur, the words being put 
into his mouth by the poet as fitting 
for him, the same as any writer would 
make any Catholic speak, or as he 
might put very evil words into the 
mouth of a blasphemer. 

"True," I said; "but while an 
author must make his characters 
speak according to their supposed 
faith, he is not obliged to give such 
forcible words to them in opposition 
to his own private belief. He is 



hardly likely to do so. He may 
screen himself behind his characters, 
or he may betray himself through 
them. We may guess at his own 
leanings more or less accurately, and 
he may contradict himself. Here 
certainly the poet seems in favor of 
prayers for the dead." 

" But is it prayer for the dead 
Arthur, after all ? " said she. " Was 
he not only going away 'to the 
island-valley of Avilion ? ' " 

" Tennyson has named the poem 
Morte d' Arthur, and it is so accepted 
and understood," I replied. 

She acquiesced in this, but still 
opposed with true Protestant unbe- 
lief and persistency the idea that any 
good could come from prayers for 
the dead. 

I told her that, even while I had 
been a Protestant, this had always 
seemed to me a tender and affection- 
ate practice of Catholics to try to 
reach and help those on the other 
side of the grave, and that, even if it 
were unavailing, it was at least 
harmless, and I could never under- 
stand why it should be denounced as 
wicked. That it benefited the souls 
of those who prayed, at least, if not 
those for whom they prayed. 

" My dear Miss Etheridge," said 
I, " is the thought that I might pray 
for the repose of your soul after your 
death offensive to you now in life ? " 

She was silent only a moment. 
That she could be the object of such 
prayer was probably then presented 
to her mind for the first time, and 
startled her somewhat. Then she 
said: 

" Why, no ; certainly not. I can- 
not but regard it as a kind and loving 
thing to do, even if a useless one." 

" But you would not do as much 
for me," I rejoined. 

" Ah," she said evasively, " you 
will not be neglected; be sure of 
that." 



Miss EtJieridge. 



509 



Only about a week after this we 
neard that Mrs. McGowan was ill. 
The blinds were closed at her window, 

and Father B and the sisters 

went oftener than usual to see her. 
I too went back and forth, and 
brought Miss Etheridge tidings of 
how Mrs. McGowan bore her suf- 
ferings: of all that was done for her 
spiritual and bodily comfort, of all 
that was hoped and all that was 
feared, and at last of her death. 

This affected Miss Etheridge more 
than one could have supposed pos- 
sible. It was touching to witness 
her sadness. That this proud lady, 
so widely separated in everything 
but the same infirmity from this poor 
Irishwoman, should truly grieve for 
her awakened in me a greater ad- 
miration for Miss Etheridge's noble 
heart than I had before entertained. 
She seemed restless and anxious to 
be doing something still for the poor 
woman. She asked me if I did not 
think it could be managed that she 
could see Mrs. McGowan once 
more before her burial. 

I told her it could without dif- 
ficulty, and so it was done. Re- 
spectfully the crowd parted for her 
little carriage as it made its way 
through the humble assemblage which 
is sure to be around the house of 
death among the Irish. Willing 
arms carried her to the side of the 
coffin, whereon her own gifts a 
cross and crown of beautiful flowers 
had been placed. 

In silent dignity she gazed at the 
face and hands of the dead curious- 
ly at the lighted candles and emblems 
of the faith of the departed, and at the 
habit which covered the body, now 
straightened in the rigidity of death. 

She was very composed, and soon 
signified her desire to be conveyed to 
her carriage, and in silence she re- 
turned to her home. I thought Miss 
Etheridge showed, in this act of going 



to pay the last mark of respect to her 
humble friend, true heroism and char- 
ity. She was a mark of curious ob- 
servation to a crowd of people with 
whom she had no sympathy, and 
her helplessness and peculiar infirm- 
ity made her more sensitive to the 
notice and notoriety which she knew 
her going would bring upon her; 
and yet she had the courage to 
brave such results. Only a true lady, 
lifted above all vulgar fears and con- 
siderations, would have done this. No 
mean soul would have desired so to 
do. 

" The chains have fallen off her 
now," she said to me. " I wonder if 
she remembers and thinks of me. 
You think of her as being in a differ- 
ent state from that which I have been 
taught to believe as that of the de- 
parted; but we will not argue about 
it now. I only want to do for her 
yet something which I do believe 
she would, poor soul, have done for 
me, had I gone first. It pleases me 
to do what she would in life have 
liked to think would be done for her, 
whether availing or unavailing." 

And with this apologetic remark, 
Miss Etheridge actually placed in my 
hand a large sum of money to convey 

to Father B for Masses to be 

said for the repose of the soul of Mrs. 
McGowan. I was truly astonished. 
Was this the fruit of our reading of 
Morte d' Arthur ? If so, I blessed the 
day we did it. But I was afraid of 
being hopeful overmuch, Miss Ether- 
idge might never advance beyond 
this liberal yielding of a stubborn pre- 
judice. It was the last thing she 
could do for her poor friend, and her 
generous soul took pleasure in doing 
it. I was afraid that this was all ; 
and for a time it seemed to be all. 

The summer passed into autumn, 
and I was recalled to my city home. 
I parted with Miss Etheridge with 
great regret, and the more so because 



Duties of the Rich in Christian Society. 



she could not write to me, save by 
the hand of another. I promised to 
write to her, and she said that I should 
get tidings of her from time to time 
in some way. " According to my 
message shall my scribe be," she said, 
and so we parted. 

I did write from time to time, and I 
had a brief note now and then, written 
by Miss Etheridge's business agent, 
telling me of her continued good 



health, but increasing infirmity. But 
during Easter-tide I received a longer 
missive, written in the delicate pen- 
manship of Sister Francina. "Ac- 
cording to my message shall my 
scribe be," she had said to me, and 
now I knew her meaning, for the mes- 
sage was that she was a Catholic. 

As I folded up the letter, the words 
came to my mind : 

"These through great affliction came." 



DUTIES OF THE RICH IN CHRISTIAN SOCIETY. 



NO. VI. 



PRIVATE DUTIES CONTINUED. 



THE life of that class which in 
fashionable parlance is called " so- 
ciety" in the capitals and great 
towns of Europe, and especially in 
Paris, the capital of the beau 
monde, is the most opposite to the 
ideal of the Christian life that can 
exist without being essentially crimi- 
nal. The same remark applies, of 
course, to the imitation of it among 
ourselves. We have implied that it 
is not essentially criminal. Not that 
it is possible to doubt the vast 
amount of moral evil existing in its 
bosom, but that this evil is not in the 
very nature of the mode of life in- 
tended, in such a way that all those 
who are engaged in it must necessa- 
rily live in sin. The nature or es- 
sence of this mode of life consists in 
making the pursuit of social and 
other pleasures, in themselves inno- 
cent and lawful, a regular and hab- 
itual occupation,- instead of an occa- 
sional relaxation. It is possible to 
do this, without grievously neglect- 
ing those duties which are of posi- 
tive obligation in one's state of life, 



and without neglecting the precepts 
of religion. It is, nevertheless, diffi- 
cult to do it for a* long time. It is a 
dangerous kind of life to lead. And 
precisely because it is dangerous, the 
church is indulgent to those who are 
involved in it, allows them to receive 
the sacraments with the greatest 
liberality, and encourages them to 
approach these sources of grace fre- 
quently, in order that they may be 
preserved from sin. Some, especial- 
ly women under the authority of pa- 
rents or husbands who are worldly 
minded and imperious, are involved 
in such a life against their own incli- 
nation, others are kept in it by their 
own levity and weakness of character 
and the force of habit and fashion. 
The former ought to receive the sac- 
raments as frequently as possible, in 
order that they may triumph over 
the obstacles in the way of attaining 
that degree of perfection to which 
they aspire. The latter ought to do 
the same, in order that they may 
live in the state of grace and save 
their souls. This is a doctrine which 



Duties of the Rich in Christian Society. 



gives scandal to rigorists and Phari- 
sees, and frequently the persons who 
are inwardly the most corrupt are the 
most rigoristic in their opinions. 
But the Catholic Church, which has 
cast out the Jansenistic leaven as a 
detestable and deadly poison, cares 
not for Pharisaic scandal, and does 
care for the soul of the imperfect and 
the sinner, whom she acknowledges 
for her children. 

Indulgent as the church is to those 
who are weak and imperfect Chris- 
tians, or who even fall often into sin, 
provided they are always trying to 
rise out of it again, she never ceases 
to hold up her ideal of the Christian 
life in all, its perfection before her 
children, and to admonish and per- 
suade them by the most powerful 
motives to copy it in their actions. 
All those who really aim at being 
good Christians are uneasy in a 
worldly life, and generally withdraw 
from it, to a great extent, when they 
become sobered by age and experi- 
ence. Those who are fervent have a 
great dislike for it, and have always 
done their utmost to emancipate 
themselves from its servitude and 
frivolity. It is a dangerous kind of 
life, and one which becomes weari- 
some and insipid after a time even 
to those who have no taste for any- 
thing better. To pass all the months 
which are spent in town, with the ex- 
ception of a few weeks in Lent, in a 
round of balls, parties, visits, and 
theatre-going, and to dawdle away 
the summer in the inanities and 
ennui of a fashionable watering- 
place, is to make existence as flat 
and unprofitable as it can well be to 
exhaust its flavor as well as waste its 
substance. The satire of Thackeray 
is only simple truth, and it is enough 
to direct to the page of the novelist 
for a full illustration of the moral we 
wish to point, without referring the 
jaded votaries of fashion to any more 



tedious species of literature. It is 
necessary to distinguish among the 
fashions and pleasures of the world 
those which are positively immoral 
from those which are innocent in 
themselves, and only noxious when 
they are inordinate and excessive. 
It is a matter of strict obligation to 
shun the former altogether. Im- 
modest dances and fashions of dress, 
licentious plays, excess in eating and 
drinking, are sinful in themselves, 
and lead to the grossest sins. It is a 
simple matter of fact that society 
among the higher classes, in the na- 
tions of Christendom, has been for a 
long time, and still is, deeply affected 
by the moral corruption into which 
the pursuit of pleasure as the occu- 
pation of life always tends to resolve 
itself. Paris, the modern Babylon, 
has led the way, and the world has 
followed Paris. This corruption is 
the chief cause of the miseries with 
which society has been scourged and 
is now threatened. From the court 
of Louis XV. the first step was to 
the Place de Greve, the second to 
the burning Tuileries. Petroleum, 
which will one day burn up the 
world, is the oil which bubbles up in 
the bosom of a corrupt Christian 
aristocracy, the product of the wick- 
edness of the higher classes in Chris- 
tian society, who have turned away 
from a true Catholic life to the life 
of pagans, or a life for this world 
only. A beau monde, indeed, it is! 
It is against such a beau monde as 
this, with its whole complex of 
heresy and immorality, infidelity 
and licentiousness, intellectual pride 
and low materialism, outward splen- 
dor and inward contempt of all dig- 
nity or authority, superficial gaiety 
and real, haggard misery, all closely 
affianced and affiliated together, that 
Pius IX. has been perpetually fulmi- 
nating his condemnation. But we 
may go further back and higher up 



512 



Duties of the Rich in Christian Society. 



than Pius IX. to St. Peter himself, 
and find the same denunciation of 
heresy, revolt, and luxury, as allied 
vices, expressed in much severer lan- 
guage than that of his successor. 
In his second Encyclical Epistle, the 
Prince of the Apostles writes as fol- 
lows: 

" The Lord knoweth how to deliver 
the godly out of temptation ; but to re- 
serve the unjust unto the day of judg- 
ment to be tormented. And especially 
those who walk after the flesh in the lust 
of uncleanness, and despise governments, 
audacious, pleasing themselves, they fear 
not to bring in sects, blaspheming, . . . 
as irrational beasts, naturally tending to 
the snare, and to destruction, blasphem- 
ing those things which they know not, 
they shall perish in their corruption, re- 
ceiving the reward of injustice, counting 
pleasure the delights of a day, stains and 
blemishes, flowing in delicacies, rioting in 
their feasts with you, having eyes full 
of adultery, and of never-ceasing sin : al- 
luring unstable souls, having their heart 
exercised with covetousness, sons of 
malediction ; . . . these are fountains 
without water, and clouds tossed with 
whirlwinds, to whom the mist of dark- 
ness is reserved. For, speaking swelling 
words of vanity, they allure in desires of 
the flesh of riotousness those who had es- 
caped a little from them who converse in 
error : promising them liberty, when they 
themselves are slaves of corruption ; for 
by whom a man is overcome, of the same 
also he is the slave. For, if having fled 
from the pollution of the world through 
the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour 
Jesus Christ, being again entangled in 
them, they are overcome ; their latter 
state is become ^lnto them worse than the 
former" 

We may see this exemplified in 
Rome at the present moment, in 
Victor Emanuel, Hyacinthe, Ga- 
vazzi, the Jews Arbib and Jacob Di- 
na, the venders of infidel and licen- 
tious prints, sectarian preachers, 
chiefs of the Garibaldian faction, and 
courtesans, all knotted together like 
a pyramid of rattlesnakes, to hiss 

* t St. Peter ii. 9-20. 



against the Holy Father, the repre- 
sentative on earth of Christ and God. 
And this is the modern world, as op- 
posed to the true Christian society, 
the church. It is an apostasy worse 
than heathenism ; " for it had been 
better not to have known the way of 
justice, than, after having known it, 
to have turned back from that holy 
commandment." This apostasy 
shows itself more glaringly in the 
Rome of Victor Emanuel and his 
buzzurri than elsewhere, but it is the 
same throughout the modern world. 
And in this world Catholics mu st live, 
and live either superior to it, or its 
slaves. If they are contaminated by 
it, their moral corruption leads them 
directly to the loss of faith as well as 
the loss of grace. The infidelity into 
which numbers of the higher classes 
on the Continent of Europe have fall- 
en during the past century is notori- 
ous. We have had some of these 
degenerate Catholics among our- 
selves, retaining the name of Catholic 
as a kind of national and family heir- 
loom, but denying and mocking at 
all the mysteries of faith, resisting 
and thwarting the bishops and priests 
who founded our American churches, 
and generally crying out for a priest 
in their last moments, while their re- 
latives are chiefly anxious for the 
pomp of a requiem, a solemn funeral 
procession, and a monument in con- 
secrated ground. Love of the world 
has made others, who have had a 
better education in their youth, be- 
come apathetic and alienated from 
their fellow-Catholics and the church, 
as they have grown rich. And some 
have openly apostatized, in order to 
profess a more genttel religion. The in- 
ordinate love of wealth, pleasure, and 
honor, brings the will into collision 
with the practical, moral law of the 
church, and thus implants an aver- 
sion to the Catholic religion and the 
spirit of revolt against it. These clis. 



Duties of the Rich in Christian Society. 



positions prepare the way for the re- 
volt of the will, and through the will 
of the mind, against the doctrine and 
authority of the church, and eventu- 
ally for a total abjuration of allegi- 
ance to God. The sinner is always 
called in the ancient Scriptures a 
fool, because he prefers this world to 
the next, creatures to the Creator; 
and " the fool hath said in his heart, 
there is no God" The only consist- 
ent alternative is, therefore, the total 
abjuration of folly, complete subjec- 
tion to the law of wisdom, and the 
regulation of the whole life in con- 
formity to its dictates. The fashions 
and customs of the world, when they 
are contrary to Catholic principles, 
must be wholly renounced and despis- 
ed. Nay, more. When they are ab- 
surd, ridiculous, contrary to reason 
and good sense, one who has a proper 
respect for himself and a just inde- 
pendence of character ought to ne- 
glect and disregard them, unless do- 
ing so involves a greater inconveni- 
ence than that caused by conformity. 
Those who profess to be governed by 
the law of Christ ought to regulate 
their table, their household order, 
their dress, their social customs, their 
pleasures and amusements, and all 
the minor morals of life, by a Chris- 
tian standard, and not by the stand- 
ard of a corrupt world. To be 
ashamed and afraid to do this is dis- 
graceful cowardice. It is for Chris- 
tians to subdue the world and com- 
pel it to conform, at least outwardly, 
to their standard ; not to submit to 
its galling and degrading servitude. 
If this cannot be done, let them cut 
the world, in so far as their relative 
duties and necessary obligations to- 
wards it will permit, and form their 
own separate society ; as they have 
frequently been forced to do since 
Christianity was founded. It is ne- 
cessary to keep the law of Christ, it is 
necessary to be wholly conformed in 
VOL. xv. 33 



mind and conduct to the doctrine 
and spirit of the church, it is neces- 
sary to merit the kingdom of heav- 
en; but it is not necessary to be 
fashionable or to please the world, 
Moreover, to be truly honorable, it is 
necessary that one should esteem his 
Catholic profession as his greatest 
glory, and not tarnish it by senti- 
ments or conduct unworthy of a 
Christian. Most of those Catholics 
in this country who are now living 
in ease and affluence are descend- 
ed from ancestors who sacrificed 
everything and suffered untold hard- 
ships for their faith; and what do 
they deserve if they dishonor the 
blood of the martyrs by becoming the 
slaves of the wicked power which 
persecuted them ? 

We desire now to apply all that we 
have said in a special manner to the 
education of children the most im- 
portant of all the private duties of 
heads of families. What we have to say 
on this head applies in general to all 
parents in comparatively easy circum- 
stances, but in some particulars to 
those only who are wealthy in the 
strict sense of the term. The weighty 
obligation rests on all Catholic pa- 
rents of bringing up their children in 
the faith and in virtue, in view of 
the great end of life, which is to 
glorify God here and to enjoy him 
hereafter in heaven. This is a 
difficult task in itself, especially so- 
in the present age and in this coun- 
try, and in some respects more diffi- 
cult for those who are rich than for 
any others, excepting, perhaps, the 
very poor. The children of the 
rich in this country are generally 
brought up in great self-indulgence,, 
excessive liberty, and according to a 
precocious 'method. They are pre- 
pared for a kind of life which re- 
quires great wealth, and, at the same 
time, their prospects of possessing it 
with permanent security are very. 



Duties of the Rick in Christian Society. 



precarious. We might adduce many 
considerations going to show that it 
is almost to be regarded as a calami- 
ty rather than an advantage to be 
born of rich parents in this country. 
If \ve had accurate statistics, they 
would, in our opinion, show that 
very few of the children and de- 
scendants of wealthy families have 
remained in affluent or even easy 
circumstances. The majority of those 
who are rich are children of parents 
-who were poor, or, at least, depend- 
ent on their own exertions for a 
living. A great number of the chil- 
dren who have been brought up with 
the expectation of inheriting a for- 
tune have become poor, and far too 
many have gone altogether to ruin. 
The sons of the rich are exposed to 
the danger of being ruined by the 
vices into which they easily fall, and 
by the indolent and inefficient cha- 
racter they too frequently form, to- 
gether with the reverses of fortune 
which are not fatal to energetic men, 
yet are ordinarily fatal to those whose 
habits are effeminate. Their daugh- 
ters are exposed to the same reverses 
of fortune, to the miseries resulting 
from unhappy marriages, and to the 
consequences which follow from per- 
sonal habits of extravagance and 
self-indulgence. Most of these mise- 
ries flow from a bad education, and 
those which proceed from no such 
cause and are among the inevitable 
evils of this earthly life, are made 
unbearable and desperate by the 
effects of a bad education. 

So far as temporal well-being is 
concerned, parents ought to aim at 
preparing their children to take care 
of themselves after they are grown 
up. All boys, no matter how rich 
their fathers may be, ought to be 
prepared for some profession or busi- 
ness in which they can make their 
own fortune, or, at least, a living, 
and they should be compelled to 



take care of themselves when they 
become men, without any more help 
from their fathers than is sufficient to 
place them in the way of doing so. 
This is the only way to perpetuate 

wealth in families, for, if children are 

... 
trained up to live in leisure on the 

fortunes which they are to inherit, 
the largest fortunes will soon be lost 
by division and subdivision, even if 
they are not scattered by dissipa- 
tion or mismanagement. Daughters 
should be educated in such a way 
that they can be their own house- 
keepers, or even earn their living by 
their education and accomplishments, 
if the reverses of their parents or the 
disasters of married life bring them 
into straits and difficulties. 

This result can only be secured by 
keeping children in the state and 
under the discipline of childhood so 
long as they are children in age. 
Obedience, industry, self-denial, sim- 
plicity of dress and diet, moderation 
in amusements, and a strictly and 
purely Catholic education such are 
the only means of preparing children 
either for a condition of wealth or 
for one of poverty. Our American 
children who are reared in the fami- 
lies of the rich are generally brought 
out of the nursery and the school- 
room too young : they are too highly 
fed, too much indulged, have too 
many amusements, and are blase be- 
fore they are fully grown. Is it 
judicious for Christian mothers to 
dress their little daughters like ballet- 
dancers for their children's parties? 
To send their sons with billets of 
excuse from their lessons to school 
after taking them overnight to the 
opera or theatre? .What can be ex- 
pected of children who are allowed 
to sleep late, to eat daintily and ex- 
cessively, to read all kinds of trash, 
to dress extravagantly, spend money, 
go about with liberty, and indulge in 
pleasures which keep them up kite 



Duties of the Rick in Christian Society. 



515 



at night ? Such a life has a worse 
effect than merely to make the cha- 
racter effeminate. It directly fosters 
the most morbid and destructive 
propensities of the weak and fragile 
human nature, and leads to vice and 
death. We do not speak of those 
cases where parents lead their chil- 
dren to ruin by the direct influence 
of impious or immoral conversation, 
or an example which is flagrantly 
bad. There are some such who 
would seem to set to work with an 
express purpose of corrupting and 
ruining their children. But our pre- 
sent purpose is with those who may 
be supposed to read our articles at- 
tentively and seriously, and who can- 
not, therefore, be suspected of any- 
thing worse than weakness, or error 
of judgment. It is against this weak 
following of the common fashion, 
the common maxims, the common 
current of the world, that we warn 
those parents who wish to be good 
Christians and to bring up their chil- 
dren well. 

The highest and ultimate end of 
education is the attainment of the 
chief good to which the soul is des- 
tined, and to which it has received 
the right in baptism. The principal 
obligation of Catholic parents is, 
therefore, the education of their chil- 
dren in the principles and practices 
of the faith and law of the church. 
And this leads us to speak of the 
obligation of the rich, the educated, 
and all the influential laymen of the 
Catholic Church in this country^ to 
bestir themselves in the work of 
Catholic education. Schools and 
colleges, purely and thoroughly 
Catholic, and fully sufficient to give 
all the requisite kinds and degrees 
of instruction which are needed by 
our youth, must be multiplied and 
sustained. It is a fixed and settled 
doctrine of the church that education 
is by divie right under the care and 



jurisdiction of the hierarchy. Those 
who teach the contrary are unsound 
in doctrine, and good Catholics are 
bound in conscience to give no heed 
to their opinions on this point. It is, 
moreover, a point also settled by the 
highest authority in the church, viz., 
that of the bishops of those countries 
where mixed education is a subject 
of practical moment, and of the Holy 
See, that mixed education is danger- 
ous. This is the judgment of the 
bishops of Germany, Ireland, Eng- 
land, and the United States. As an 
instance, we cite the language of the 
Irish bishops in a resolution passed 
unanimously at Maynooth, August 
1 8, 1869, in which they say : 

" They reiterate their condemnation of 
the mixed system of education, whether 
primary, intermediate, or university, as 
grievously and intrinsically dangerous to 
the faith and morals of Catholic youth ; 
and they declare that to Catholics only, 
and under the supreme control of the 
church in all things appertaining to faith 
and morals, can the teaching of Catholics 
be safely entrusted." 

The decrees of the Councils of Balti- 
more are of the same tenor, as is 
likewise the official action of the 
bishops of England. 

Pius IX., in his Syllabus of Dec. 
8, 1864, condemned the proposition 
(No. 48) : 

" Catholics may approve that mode of 
education of youth which is disjoined 
from the Catholic faith and the power of 
the church, and which concerns itself ex- 
clusively, or at least primarily, with the 
knowledge of natural things and the ends 
of earthly social life." 

In accordance with this decree, 
the Holy See has repeatedly sent in- 
structions to the Irish and English 
bishops, directing them to oppose 
mixed education, and has prohibited 
ecclesiastics from holding any office 
in the Queen's colleges of Ireland. 
\Ye are warranted, therefore in re- 



516 



Duties of the Rich in Christian Society. 



iterating the declaration made by F. 
O'Reilly, of whom \\\Q Dublin Review 
says, "hardly a theologian can be 
named in these islands whose name 
carries with it so much weight " that 
the view whiqh Catholics do take or 
ought to take of mixed schools is, 
that they are " objectionable, danger- 
ous, ineligible."* In fact, nearly all 
the Catholics of rank and wealth in 
England, the Duke of Norfolk inclu- 
ded, have foregone the advantages 
of the universities in obedience to 
this teaching. The same is true in 
Ireland, and F. O'Reilly says that 
" the Catholics of Ireland as a body 
(including the upper and middle 
classes) repudiate and condemn mix- 
ed education as at variance with 
their religious principles, views, and 
opinions." 

We cannot carry out any further, 
at present, the topic we have here 
briefly introduced, but must confine 
our remarks to the duty which is de- 
volved on the wealthy Catholics of 
the United States by these decisions 
of the rulers of the church, which, 
we take for granted, they most cor- 
dially desire to have fully carried out 
in practice. We said just now that 
they must bestir themselves in the 
work of Catholic education. This 
applies to education in all its various 
degrees, but we wish to speak more 
especially of colleges for the higher 
grades of instruction. It is not 
enough for the opulent parents 
whose sons are sent to college, to 
send them to a Catholic college and 
pay a high price for their instruction. 
There is a great difficulty in the way 
of maintaining and improving our 
cqlleges which cannot be met in this 
manner. If our colleges are to rely 
on a revenue derived from the pu- 
pils, the tuition fees must be placed 



* Dublin Review, April, 1872, p. 415. Month, 
March-April, 1872, p. 179. See the entire article 
of F. O'Reilly, which is admirable. 



so high that all but the sons of the 
wealthy are practically excluded from 
them. Officers of the army and navy, 
lawyers, physicians, and others in 
similar positions, are frequently erfl- 
barrassed by the inadequacy of their 
incomes to meet the expenses of a 
mode of life suited to their social 
rank. The great cost of education 
makes it very nearly impossible for 
them to send even one boy, much 
more several, to the schools and col- 
leges which are the most eligible. 
Besides, there are many other pa- 
rents in still more moderate circum- 
stances, who have sons desiring, and 
fitted for profiting by, the best educa- 
tion. The sons of the rich are not 
ordinarily the most eager and dili- 
gent students, and, if a college is ex- 
clusively or chiefly composed of 
youths of this class, they themselves 
will degenerate into the most super- 
ficial scholarship, and the college 
will fail of accomplishing the chief 
part of the end for which it is es- 
tablished. Education ought to be 
made cheap and accessible to boys 
and youths of all classes. This can- 
not be done without large endow- 
ments and revenues. If the task of 
earning the money necessary for the 
vast outlay which must be made, is 
left on the shoulders of the clergy and 
religious orders, they must necessari- 
ly demand a very high price for their 
instruction, and thus become the 
teachers of the sons of the rich al- 
most exclusively. It follows from 
this, by strict logical sequence, that 
the laity must bestir themselves to 
active efforts, and take the burden 
off the shoulders of the clergy. It is 
unjust that a body of men who have 
sacrificed their lives to the good of 
the laity, and who give them the 
fruit of their talents, their learning, 
and their labors, for no compensa- 
tion beyond their modest and single 
livelihood, should be forced to furnish 



Duties of the Rich in Christian Society. 



517 



or to oeg the means of buying the 
grounds, erecting the buildings, and 
carrying on the operations of colleges 
and schools for the convenience of 
the rich and leisured classes ; and 
paying, besides, the expenses of those 
youths who are without resources, 
that they may fill their own places 
when they are worn out by work. 
It is the interest of the laity to pro- 
vide education for their children, 
and to provide for filling up the 
ranks of the priesthood. The opu- 
lent and influential laity are therefore 
bound to take an active part in the 
work. And, as things are at present, 
we see no way of doing this after an 
organized method, except by asso- 
ciations like that of the " Catholic 
Union " of New York. We trust 
that this respectable body will take 
up this matter in earnest, and we 
urge upon all those who care for 
their posterity, their country, and 
their religion, to co-operate generously 
and zealously with it in whatever 
enterprises it may undertake, which 
will certainly be under the highest 
ecclesiastical sanction, and managed 
by men of the greatest ability and 
worth. 

The topics so briefly discussed in 
the series of short articles which we 
now bring to a close require, as we 
have already remarked, volumes and 
not pages. We are glad to see that 
one volume, written with the ability 
for which its author has already be- 
come renowned, has already been 
published, which handles some of 
these topics and others kindred to 
them. We allude to the Sermons of 
F. Harper, already briefly noticed in 
this magazine, and now strongly re- 
commended once more to all who 
have read our remarks oiVThe Duties 
of the Rich " with interest. We trust 
that other writers will follow F. Har- 
per's example, and that some of the 
valuable books on the same class of 



subjects which exist in other lan- 
guages will be translated. It is not, 
however, by books and essays alone 
that the minds and hearts of Catho- 
lics of the educated and leisured 
classes in society can be sufficiently 
imbued with Catholic principles and 
the Catholic spirit. It is by the liv- 
ing and divinely commissioned teach- 
ing of the preachers of the Word of 
God, in their parochial instructions, 
in the addresses which they have the 
opportunity of making on extraordi- 
nary occasions, and in the sermons 
and conferences of general missions 
and special retreats, that the higher 
as well as the humbler members of 
the fold are most efficaciously taught. 
Pius IX. has given the example and 
the model of the preaching most ne- 
cessary and useful for our times to all 
who bear his commission, thus fulfill- 
ing in a most extraordinary way the 
divine commandment to St. Peter 
Pasce oves meas, pasce agnos meos. By 
his personal teaching he has formed, 
the tlite of the Catholic laity of Eu- 
rope on the model of their glorious 
ancestors of the ages of faith, and not 
a few of our own countrymen have 
gone to drink the pure water of life 
at the same fountain-head. Imbibed 
at the fountain-head or at the rill, 
it is the only water that can give 
health to nations or individuals. We 
can scarcely hope that F. Burke's 
fine apostrophe,* " Be it thine, O 
Columbia ! to place again the golden 
circlet of his temporal royalty on the 
brow of the Vicar of Christ!" will be 
literally fulfilled. But we trust that the 
spirit of it will not lack that accom- 
plishment which will prove that the 
eloquent son of St. Dominic has a 
sparkle of the prophetic gift. It re- 
quires no inspiration, but only ordi- 
nary foresight, to see the prospect of 



* In his lecture on The Prisoner of ike Vati- 
can^ at St. Paul's Church, New York. 



Faith the Life of Art. 



a rapid and almost measureless in- 
crease of wealth, and of all that be- 
longs to the splendor of a nation, in 
the next half century of the United 
States. The Catholic Church will 



largely share in it. And may those 
who enjoy this prosperity be as true 
and loyal to the church and t God 
as their humble and persecuted an- 
cestors ! 



FAITH THE LIFE OF ART. 



FROM AN ADDRESS BY CESARE CANTU BEFORE " THE ARCADIA." 



TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN. 



THERE is in man the memory of a 
perfection with which he was sent 
forth ftxvm the hands of his Creator ; 
and, sick of the lameness, coarseness, 
and unseemliness which surround 
him, he feels a craving to fashion 
himself after a picture of his imagina- 
tion conformable to the idea he pos- 
sesses of the beautiful a type which 
combines the first and last excellence 
of being; which it is his to enjoy, since 
he has a conception of it, and to 
which he ought to be able to arrive, 
since he aspires towards it. Thus 
from remembrance and the feeling 
of a hereafter is born poetry ; is born 
art: the realization of the ideal un- 
der sensible forms, wherein intellect- 
ual beauty takes precedence over the 
physical beauty of nature. Both 
speak a language which lifts us up to 
the absolute beauty God ; of whom 
creation is an image and symbol. 
And, moreover, religion discloses an 
ideal world which is not contained 
under external phenomena. 

Man in his fallen state built a 
wretched hut or scooped out a cave, 
wherein to shelter his wife and little 
ones ; but, when he wished to give 
worship to the Deity, he erected 
an altar and decked it with festoons : 
he roofed it in, and strengthened it 



with beams, which he hastened to 
adorn, forming cupola, shaft, and capi- 
tal. History bears witness that the 
fine arts were born in the temple, not 
in the hut of Vitruvius; that they 
owe their origin to the aspiration of 
a faith, not to the mere fulfilment of 
a want. 

The temple wherein is offered the 
perpetual sacrifice of the victim of ex- 
piation is a visible profession of faith. 
The most grand and characteristic 
expression of architecture is display- 
ed in the imitation which man fabri- 
cates of that temple of the universe 
which was built by the hands of God. 
And as its solidity typifies the dura- 
tion which every one attributes to 
true religion, so it outlives the 
hands which raised it up. How 
much of what antiquity has be- 
queathed us consists of temples, 
such as the pile of Salsetta, the pa- 
godas of Coromandel and Ellora, the 
Propylaei, the colossi of granite and 
porphyry, the. obelisks and pyramids 
of Egypt for sepulchres are reli- 
gious and the shrines which were dis- 
covered in the millennial forests of 
America. This great Rome, the capi- 
tal of the universe, was a city of fanes 
and altars, when Horace reproached 
it, as a cause of its decay, with having 



Faith the Life of Art. 



519 



neglected the worship of the gods. 
The more fully the idea of a reli- 
gion is capable of adapting to itself 
the forms of the organic world, 
the more artistic will that religion 
become.* The symbol, which is an 
outward and material exposition of 
an idea, and the mystic representa- 
tion of the divine essence, by means 
of external objects to which it is 
linked by ties that are arbitrary and 
remote analogies, ill accords with the 
beauty which is the representation of 
a specific idea to which it corre- 
sponds. 

Among the Hindoos, the Egyp- 
tians, and the Hebrews, the beauty 
of form gave place to the require- 
ments of the emblem. Thus art 
stood still, being forced to reproduce 
fixed types; its object was not to 
copy nature, but to inscribe ideas. 
The three-eyed Siva, the four-headed 
Brama, the elephant-headed Ganesa, 
the hundred-armed giants and hun- 
dred-breasted goddesses, can scarce- 
ly be called beautiful. In the reli- 
gion of the Greeks, where the life of 
the deity was confused with the 
natural, and found its perfection in 
man, art holds the first place. The 
symbol vanished before the beautiful 
ideal, which was wrought after a 
rational measurement. They cut 
c'own those colossi of other peoples 
to the due proportions, and shaped 
their monstrous divinities into a hu- 
man likeness. Extricating them- 
selves from hieroglyphics, the choice 
of expression and attitude was left to 
the inspired imagination. 

Corruption, ever widening since 
sin first broke the harmony be- 
tween the intellect, the will, and the 

* God's writ unto our weakness bendeth down, 
And with an inner meaning hands and feet 
On him bestows whose being knows no 

bounds. 

So holy church an aspect human gives 
To Michael and to Gabriel and him 
Who made Tobias whole. 

Dante's Paradiso, iv. 



power of action, created a heaven of 
false gods, differing in form and in 
worship, and filled the earth with 
their temples. This variety favored 
art, and to it we owe those wonders 
of the Parthenon, the temple of 
Theseus, Pallas Athene, Olympian 
Zeus, the Didimeon. And though 
antiquity has handed down to us very 
few paintings, the greatest part of the 
statues which enrich the museums 
are those of the gods. Surely Phidias 
must have believed in "Zeus thun- 
dering in heaven " when he wrought 
that statue before which Greece was 
struck with wonder.* Hence with 
reason did Emericus David say that 
archaeology might be defined as the 
recognition of religion in its connec- 
tion with art. 

Though the form grew more re- 
fined, the idea hidden beneath it grew 
more and more corrupt, until it be- 
came a worship of force, animate and 
animating, which had turned its back 
upon the Author of being, and 
wasted that spiritual breath which is 
the soul of the statue. Art material- 
ized, like science, like life itself, called 
down the mercy of an unknown God 
to appease offended justice. 

In the fulness of time, humanity 
was lifted up from its lowliness by 
God taking it to himself. Faith 
grew clear ; hope, strong ; charity 
lived again. Christendom became 
civilized even by means of its wor- 
ship, when art and poetry united in 
rousing it to faith and enthusiasm. 
No longer, as in a religion that al- 
lured the senses, did art debase itself 
by flattering the passions and fanning 
the instincts; its aim now was to 
curb and purify them ; not to mul- 

* Cicero (De Oratore) says that Phidias, when 
sculpturing a Jove or Minerva, had no model 
from whom to copy. But in his own mind he 
set up a certain wondrous type of beauty which 
came to him by intuition, and, enwrapt in its con- 
templation, urged art and hand to produce its 
likeness. It is precisely "that fixed idea which 
comes into my mind" that Raphael spoke of. 



520 



Faith the Life of Art. 



tiply the enjoyments of the fortunate, 
but to comfort the unhappy ; to lift 
up to heaven eyes weighed down by 
suffering, or dazzled by wealth, or 
wavering with doubt; to point out 
that sublime eternity which hides 
itself under seeming dissolution or 
waning beauty; to turn mind and 
action to that after-life wherein alone 
the present finds its significance. 

This regeneration of art began in 
the Catacombs, where the persecuted 
children of Christ expressed, some- 
what rudely perhaps, their dogmas 
and their hopes ; the exploits of the 
martyrs, whose agony of shame and 
death they prepared themselves to 
imitate. There the vermilion with 
which they painted the throne of 
God triumphant signified " new con- 
quests, and glory won after still great- 
er trials." 

When from darkness it was able 
to step forth into the light of day, 
art, restored to the temple of its birth, 
set the feeling which produced above 
the mere beauty of the production. 
It lost in harmony, but gained in ex- 
pression, in lifting up human nature 
even to the type of moral perfection, 
to the supreme ideal God made 
man. 

Then from every side, whatsoever 
had life came in answer to the call 
to play its part in the grand drama 
of Christianity. And art, aiming 
not merely at the beautiful, but at 
the true and the good, united with 
the whole of civilization in express- 
ing that aspiration after perfection 
whose desire is never-failing but ever 
unfulfilled. 

In the earliest artistic records 
which have reached us from the Cata- 
combs, such as mosaics, miniature 
paintings, and certain pieces of sculp- 
ture, the idea is set above the form. 
There is a celestial purity in them, as 
though, producing the beautiful in- 
stinctively, they cared not to portray 



an enticing eiegance of the members, 
the force and posture of outward 
life, but rather the expression of the 
soul, holiness of thought and deed, 
and 

" That sweet light 

Pointing the road which leads to heaven's 
height." * 

Hence certain images of the saints 
and of Mary, rude in shape and col- 
oring, have won the veneration of 
the people, and inspired that calm 
content which comes from God and 
lifts to God. 

A bolder fancy produced the edifi- 
ces, constructed at first on the style of 
the basilicas, and then modified into 
that order of architecture which from 
its planes or arches was called Ro- 
man or Lombard, and finally Gothic. 

He who can only admire the Greek 
and the Roman styles finds in the 
Gothic merely ignorance or caprice ; 
with its shafts tapering aloft in slen- 
der grace, or short and heavy, or in 
clusters; its capitals where the crude 
cabbage-leaf creeps in side by side 
with the graceful acanthus ; its mem- 
bers incoherent, and made out of pro- 
portion ; a crowd of small obelisks and 
tabernacles, buttresses and enormous 
water-spouts ; bracketed statues and 
windows of a dizzy height, sometimes 
parted into two, sometimes curved 
into a rose or twisted into a trefoil ; 
and its figures of uneducated fancy, 
an eyesore to the lover of classic 
harmony. 

But in its variety reigns a system 
far above the order of the Greeks; 
derived in part from the basilicas, in 
part from mystic allegory. Its orna- 
ments are the productions of our 
climate, the strawberry, the parsley, 
the fig, the oak-tree; as the Arab 
uses his palm, the Chinese his invert- 
ed coral. Its forms are symbolic. Tho 
number three regulates even those 
portions of the structure which are 

* Petrarch. 



Faith the Life of Art. 



521 



secondary. On the plan of a cross rises 
the triangulation of the edifice ; and 
a hundred obelisks, lifted up equally 
to heaven, express the concordant 
homage of love and of faith. In its 
dedication everything was allegoric 
of the origin of true worship ; of the 
mystic destiny of the church ; of the 
fact that it is not a building of stones 
but a living edifice, whose corner- 
stone is Christ, whose members are 
the faithful, whose space is filled by 
God, like the universe of which it 
is an image. 

In this association of the real with 
the symbolic world, of the fitness of 
parts in themselves foreign with the 
united expression of Christianity, the 
middle ages produced what those 
of Leo X., of Louis XIV., of Napo- 
leon, could not produce : they creat- 
ed a novelty. Architecture was 
sacred as in its opening, and those 
wonders of a beauty most sublime 
and spiritual were not wrought at 
the decrees of princes, but at the 
inspiration of faith and charity. 

The Gothic made its first grand 
essay in the holy time of St. Francis 
of Assisi, and this became the chosen 
order of the Franciscans, as the 
Basilican was of the Benedictines, 
and the mixed architecture of a later 
date of the Jesuits. St. Francis and 
his children, with that greatness 
which inheres in simplicity, accom- 
panied by an ascetic spirit, came to 
imitate nature and true men rather 
than to copy types or antique art. 
But in those days, the whole of 
society was animated by faith, and 
built upon the dogma of the expia- 
tion. The laical body was in har- 
mony with the ecclesiastical ; prayer 
mingled with warlike exploits ; the 
home was at peace with the church ; 
the banner bore the same device as 
the altar. The plastic art, side by 
side with poetry, penetrated every 
turn of life. Religion was the uni- 



versal and, as it were, only inspirer 
of the artist. Theophilus dedicated 
his " Lombard Tract " to holy pic- 
tures, missals, vases, the window- 
panes of the church, and, step by 
step, he elevated the mind of the 
artist to the God from whom art 
emanates. The artistic confraternity 
proposed in their constitutions the 
purity and independence of art. 
That of the Siennese painters, of 
1355, said : " By the grace of God, 
we are to rude men, who know not 
letters, manifestors of the miraculous 
things worked by the virtue and in 
the virtue of the holy faith, and our 
faith is founded principally in ador- 
ing and believing one God in the 
Trinity, and in God infinite power 
and infinite wisdom, and infinite love 
and mercy." In a like sense says 
Bufalmacca : " We aim at naught 
else than to make saints by our 
frescoes and pictures, and by so 
doing, in spite of the devils, to make 
men more devout and better." Phila- 
rete designed a city on the concep- 
tion of the " Nisi Dominus ^Edifica- 
verit," wherein the church founded 
on the cross should be superior to 
the palace of the prince, rich with 
pictures, religious, symbolic, allego- 
rical, and historic. There was a 
portico devoted to sacred history; 
close by were memorial monuments 
of heroic Christians, namely, the 
churches of St. Francis, St. Dominic, 
St. Augustine, St. Benedict. There 
was a gymnasium wherein to edu- 
cate the youth, chiefly with prayer, 
fasting, and the holy sacraments. 
Without the fortifications, the city 
had an advanced guard, to wit, 
holy hermits, who should watch it 
with the mightiest of arms prayer. 
And Brunelleschi said of Santa Maria 
del Fiore : " Recollecting that this 
temple is sacred to God and the 
Virgin, I trust that in erecting it in 
memory of them it will not cease 



522 



Faith the Life of Art. 



to infuse knowledge where there is 
need of it, and to aid by power 
and wisdom and wit whoever shall 
accomplish such work." In like 
manner,. Giovanni Villani inscribed 
his Chronicles " to the reverence of 
God and of Blessed St. John, in 
commendation of our city of Flor- 
ence." How often has the painter 
given us his own portrait on his 
knees, or with some verse recom- 
mended himself to God and the 
saints! Beneath a picture in the 
Venetian gallery we read : 

" Gentile Bellino, with filial love of the most 
holy cross, painted this." 

And beneath another picture of Gian 
Bellino : 

"Sure Gate of Heaven, lead my mind, guide my 

life: 

All the works which I perform are committed 
to thy care." 

We may perceive a like inspiration 
in Giotto, Mino da Fiesole, Bene- 
detto da Majano, Boninsegna da 
Siena, Simon Memmi, L'Orgagna, 
the Pisani, Franco Bolognese, and 
other spiritual artists, who attained 
a perfection to which the moderns in 
vain aspire. On the tomb of Blessed 
Angelico was written : 

" Let me not be honored because I was a second 

Apelles, 

But because I distributed all my gains among 
thy poor, O Christ 1" " 

I leave it to others to decide with 
what justice that period styled itself 
the Renaissance when men passed 
from originality to an imitation of 
the classic schools not by divin- 
ing and catching their inspiration, 
but by following in their footsteps. 
And so we find in passing from 
Dante to Polizanio and Sannazzaro, 
from Giotto to Dello, the metamor- 
phoses of Ovid accomplished ! In 
this study of the classics, what they 
gained in form they lost in concep- 
tion. The Medici mixed up portraits 



with Venuses and Pallases, njytho 
logical subjects with scenes drawn 
from nature. Lorenzo the Magnifi- 
cent caused Pollajolo to represent 
the strong limbs of Hercules, Signo- 
relli to paint nude divinities, and 
public beauties were taken as the 
models of saints. At such profana- 
tion, Fra Girolamo Savonarola was 
struck with grief and horror; and, as 
well to mend manners as to disinfect 
literature, he sought to regenerate 
art by restoring it to the bosom of 
God. 

The spirit that he inspired outlived 
his funeral pyre : and Luca della 
Robbia, Lorenzo di Credi, Verocchio, 
Cronaca, Baccio della Porta, painted 
from chaste images and devout 
subjects. Ghirlandajo, Pinturicchio, 
the renowned Masaccio, held faith in 
the religious mission of art; as did 
that Umbrian school which spake to 
the heart rather than the senses, be- 
neath the wing of the neighboring 
Assisi. From Gentile di Fabriano 
came Perugino and Raphael, and the 
first Venetians, among whom it is no 
longer a scandal to say that Gentile 
Bellino was not inferior to Titian. 

Raphael has been called the most 
iiarvellous union of all the qualities 
which make the others severally 
great : design, color, power of chiar- 
oscuro, perspective effect, imagina- 
tion, style ; above all, expression, 
and that grace which is the beautiful 
of beauties. Not only were his first 
essays, when still a faithful disciple of 
the Umbrian school, works of faith ; 
but also those which he wrought in 
his zenith, such as the Attila, Helio- 
dorus, and the miracle of Bolsena. 
His delight was in symbolic subjects, 
theology, jurisprudence, philosophy, 
poetry, representing ideas in his fig- 
ures. When he preferred to follow 
his imagination and models to tra- 
dition, he strayed away, as in the com- 
missions of Chigi, and the beautiful 



Faith the Life of Art. 



523 



story of Psyche ; but later on, when 
he fled from Rome, he turned him- 
self to the grand Transfiguration, 
from the midst of which he passed to 
behold it in heaven. 

And Michael Angelo ? Others have 
been loud in their praises of the 
strength of his joints, the relief and 
play of his muscles, the foreshort- 
ening, the anatomic fidelity, the ex- 
pression diffused through the whole 
person ; but I can never cease won- 
dering how in the Sistine Chapel he 
has portrayed the two extreme points 
of the life of the human race the 
creation and the last judgment ; and 
that indefinable of melancholy and 
veneration in the Moses which sought 
no model and has found no rival. 
It is natural ; for, from the Bible, the 
Divine Comedy, and ascetic medita- 
tion, he drank in the inspiration where- 
with to ennoble human nature. 

Their school passed away in the 
conceits of the licentious age which 
came after in the figures caught in 
the very act of standing to be copied ; 
in flimsy drapery, substituted for the 
old garments majestically simple ; 
the infinity of shallow conceptions, 
frivolous allegories, and wanderings 
from the practical road of Vasari; 
in the immense pictures of Cortona, 
A*pino, Lanfranco, the frenzies of 
Luca Giordano, and convulsed atti- 
tudes of Fiammingo, Spinazzi, and 
the genius, erratically great, of Lorenzo 
Bernini such things as these they 
preferred, I will not say to na- 
ture, to which they shut their eyes, 
but to so many noble exemplars. They 
were seized with the mania of novelty, 
of surprises, with the idolatry of the 
form at the cost of the conception. 
So they turned from poetic beauty to 
what is so inferior the merely sym- 
metrical. 

The most renowned works of the 
great masters were inspired by re- 
ligion : the delicate cherubini ot 



Angelico, the gates of Ghiberti, the 
Moses and the Pieta of Buonarotti, 
the Last Supper of Leonardo, the 
Assumption of Titian, the marvellous 
improvisations of Tintoretto. From 
religion Raphael drew those epics 
which compose the Vatican galleries 
and the library at Sienna. To it 
Correggio devoted his cupolas, with 
all their grace and force of chiar- 
oscuro. Therein Annibale Caracci 
found his Communion of St. Jerome, 
and Domenichino his, which is one 
of the three great paintings in Rome, 
and that Madonna del Rosario where 
he more clearly displays his inten- 
tion of contrasting the sorrows of earth 
with the joys of heaven. The Christ 
of Carlo Dolce and the Madonnas of 
Sassoferrato and Murillo are in every 
household. Maratta was called 
Carlo of the Madonnas. And in 
my own province* particularly, the 
paintings of Luino, Cesare da 
Sesto, Gaudenzio Ferrari, Andrea 
Solaro, Salaino, Marco d'Oggiono 
Moretto, the Procaccini, the Carnpi, 
and that Borgagnone, as great as he 
is little known, are marked by a re- 
ligious unction and devout simplicity. 

The churches are indeed galleries, 
or rather harbors from the vandalism 
of would-be restorers and the rob- 
bery which is according to law. In 
them we find the best models of 
architecture ; and since the unknown 
authors of the greater cathedrals, and 
the whole families of the Campiani at 
Milan, Bregno and Lombardi at Ven- 
ice, Pedoni at Cremona, Rodari at 
Coma, Pellegrini of Tibaldo, we have 
no design better than the sanctuaries 
of Rho and Caravaggio, the Fontana 
in the chapel of the Presepio, the San- 
micheli in the cathedral of Montefias- 
cone, the Palladio in the Church of 
the Redeemer at Venice. 

But besides the finish of the sculp- 

* Lombardy. 



524 



Faith the Life of Art. 



ture, the glass was stained with 
historic subjects, the pulpits and win- 
dows marvellously adorned, the gold- 
smith's art was displayed in the orna- 
mentation of candlesticks, lamps, 
busts, and canopies, which brought 
into play the art of engraving. 

The care of recording on tombs 
the nothingness of human greatness 
makes them the truest portraits of the 
character of each age. In those of 
the middle age the figures are austere, 
with hands crossed on the breast, 
awaiting the trumpet-call of the re- 
surrection ; in the sixteenth century 
they are pompous, inappropriate, even 
immodest. v 

The cloisters were built upon the 
most beautiful heights, where the 
soul, absorbed in the admiration of 
nature, was of itself lifted up to chant 
the praises of the God who created 
it. The porticos were vast tableaux 
worked by the greatest artists. And 
here, while you would suggest to me 
the John Baptist of the Discalced 
Friars, and the Filippo Benizzi in the 
Annunciation at Florence by Andrea 
the faultless, the Holy Solitude, the 
Camaldoli, Carthusian monasteries, 
Alvernia, Vallombrosa, and the sub- 
limity of Grottaferrata, let me call to 
your minds in our own Lombardy 
the sanctuaries of Saronno by Luini, 
of Varallo by Gaudenzio, the Holy 
Mount by Mancalvo, the Carthusian 
monastery of Garignano by the 
great Daniel Crespi, before which 
Byron was struck with wonder and 
with fear. In fine, even in the deli- 
rium of art in the sixteenth century, 
which are the greatest monuments 
of sculpture ? The St. Bibiana of 
Bernini, the St. Cecilia of Maderno, 
the Susanna of Fiammingo, the St. 
Bruno of Houton, from which num- 
ber we must not omit the Attila of 
Algardi. The Assumption of Forli 
by Cignani still remains the noblest 
work of the past age. Since it is 



a far easier thing to copy a form 
than to create a conception, many 
have reduced art to imitation. And 
we see it said that the type of the 
Eternal Father is taken from Jove, 
the Saviour from Antinous, from 
Niobe the Mother of Sorrows, and 
from the Farnese Flora and the terra 
cotta Faun, St. Cecilia and St. Joa- 
chim ; and it appears equally ridicu- 
lous to call one of these imitators a 
new Phidias or new Apelles, as for 
Angelo Mazza to entitle himself 
Homer Redivivus. Winckelmann 
praised Raphael for a head of Christ 
" which set forth the beauty of a heroic 
youth without beard," while he criti- 
cises Michael Angelo " for having 
taken his figures of the Saviour from 
the barbarous productions of the 
middle ages." With equal discrimina- 
tion Vasari, of all the wonders of Giot- 
to at Assisi, can only admire " the 
very great and truly marvellous ef- 
fect of one who drinks standing, but 
bent down to the earth, at a foun- 
tain." Very little have these advanc- 
ed the theories of Cicognara and 
Giuseppe Bossi, and the icy gran- 
deur of David, Gerard, Girodet, and 
the other imperialists, followed here 
by Benvenuti, Cammuccini, Bossi, 
Diotti, and their like. Fabre, the 
French painter, was discussing with 
Alfieri on a crucifixion which he was 
about to paint. After speaking for 
some time on the type he ought to 
choose, he concluded : " Do you 
know what ? I will paint the head of 
the Belvedere Apollo, give him a 
beard, and behold it done." Alfieri 
had the good sense to reply : " If you 
would succeed in that, paint a dying 
Apollo, but not a God who redeem- 
ed us." 

After Battoni, the last painter of 
note of the mixed school, Mengs, 
went back to the antique with a me- 
diocrity at once pedantic and fastidi- 
ous. But Traballeschi and certain 



Faith the Life of Art. 



525 



artists of second name, such as De 
Maria, Franchi, Ferrari, Torretti, and 
of higher mark, Andrea Appiani in 
the cupola of San Celso at Milan, 
were the men who paved the way 
for the regeneration. Canova* un- 
dertook to regenerate art chiefly with 
classic models, but at least with en- 
thusiasm. But how far do his Ve- 
nus, Perseus, Theseus, and even 
Psyche, fall behind the Magdalen, 
and the mausoleums of Maria Chris- 
tina, Ganganelli, Rezzonico, and 
Pius VI. ? 

Bartolini, a more careful observer 
of nature, gave an impulse to the 
new art, nor is the fault his if he 
plunged from the conventionalities 
of the academy into a prosaic real- 
ism. But, restricting myself among a 
multitude of sculptors, to the notice 
of one or two, who has not admired 
the Dolorosa and Triumph of the 
Cross of Dupre, the Archangel of 
Finelli, the Deposition from the 
Cross, and the tomb at Castelfidardo 
of Tenerani ? These men opened up 
a new era, where the worship of 
ideas prevailed over that of mere 
form, combating the servility of the 
past and the materialism of the pres- 
ent, aiming at a beauty not at variance 
with morality a beauty perceptible 
to the reason. I confine myself to 
the Italians, but what a pleasure it 
would be to me to touch upon Mu- 
nich and the school of Diisseldorf, 
and that of Berlin ; and Cornelius, 
Schadow, the Bohemian Fuhrich, 
and the Frenchmen Lehmann, Pra- 
dier, Flandrin, and a noble band of 
others like to them. 

So likewise I confine myself to the 
plastic arts ; but were we to treat of 
poetry, we could say something of 

* Canova made the observation to Napoleon 
that the artistic monuments of Rome are religi- 
ous, or placed under the guardianship of reli- 
gion. Religion had saved the treasures of an- 
tiquity in the time of the barbarians, and multi- 
plied them anew in later days. 



Tasso, crowned in death, of Perfetti, 
the laureate of Benedict XIII., and 
Corilla of Pius VI. Or of music, 
born also in the church and there per- 
fected before it went to amuse the 
court and theatre, whence it returned 
with profanity into the church : so 
that there was nothing left but to 
abandon it, if Palestrina had not shown 
how to wed reverence of speech with 
harmony, and reconcile devotion with 
art. Do you know of aught more 
wonderful than the Moses and Stabat 
of Rossini, the Crucifixus of Bellini, 
or the Ave Maria of Donizetti ? 

And hence you will conclude that 
where art has ever been welcomed 
and cherished, was under the care 
of the Popes, in this Rome of ours, 
which, in the words of Petrarch, is 

" The symbol of the heavens and the earth. 
The Saviour's image, by all men revered." 

Perhaps there has not been a Pope 
who has not raised some edifice or 
given rise to some sculpture or paint- 
ing. 

Eugenius IV. wished to consecrate 
Fra Angelico bishop ; Julius II., who 
secured his splendid dominions from 
the Po to the Garigliano, was ever in 
the company of Bramante, Michael 
Angelo, Perugino, Giulio Romano, 
and commenced the Vatican Museum 
by placing there the Apollo, the Lao- 
coon, the Ariadne and the Torso. 
What shall I say of Leo X., who 
seemed to wish by thfe triumph of art 
to " give the lie " to Germany, which 
accuses Catholics of ignorance and 
dearth of civilization ? The German 
reformer on his arrival in the midst of 
the artistic wealth of Rome, only per- 
ceived therein profanity, idote, and as 
it were an absence of reason, and a 
Pope making an ostentatious pomp 
of religion and pretending to the aus- 
terity of Paul and Hilarion in the 
time of the Farnese and the Medici. 
Adrian VI. seemed like a prodigy, a 



526 



Fait '/i the Life of Art. 



monstrosity, so accustomed were the 
minds of men to connect the idea of 
a pope with that of a Mecsenas of the 
arts. 

They have ever made their palaces 
a sanctuary of the arts, and as it were 
a harbor from the wrecks of time and 
the greed of speculators and kings, 
who paused at the threshold of the 
Vatican, resounding with the prayers 
of all the ages and the blasphemy of 
this. 

With still greater intelligence, the 
pontiffs of the past age collected to- 
gether the masterpieces, and the Mu- 
seo Pio Clementine, and the illustra- 
tions of it executed by Winckelmann 
and Ennius Quirinus Visccnti, became 
the envy and the model of all foreign- 
ers. 

Rome, relying on the veneration 
which the nations entertained for her, 
and which kings felt they owed her 
as the fount of all authority, set her 
face against a new age, wherein might 
alone is right, and reason speaks on 
the side of vast battalions and by 
the mouth of artillery. What was 
the outrage which most of all grieved 
the Romans ? The spoliation of the 
museums; for the people were dis- 
gusted with kings, nobles, and pre- 
lates, but not with the arts. 

But the end of injustice is never far 
removed, and, as victory had borne 
them away, victory restored to Rome 
her popes and her monuments. Pius 
VII. who had filled the post left bare 
by spoliation, after his return, among 
other works, built the new wing 
across the Belvedere gallery. He 
left to us the Museo Chiaramonti, a 
gallery of paintings, few in number, 
but each a masterpiece, and the long 
gallery of antique inscriptions, ar- 
ranged after the manner of the great 
Morcelli. Gregory XVI. gave us 
the Christian, Egyptian, and Etrus- 
can museums, filled with the con- 
tents of the mysterious vaults of 



Latium, and the numerous vases, 
so wondrous, of Etruiia and the Cam- 
pagna, which had just come to light. 
He commenced the rebuilding of St. 
Paul's, restored the Coliseum, exca- 
vated the Basilica Julia, refitted the 
Lateran Palace. Poletti the archi- 
tect assisted him, aided by Agricola, 
Paoletti, Finelli, Tadolini, Botti, Ta- 
jetti, Sabatelli, Serani, Minardi, Co- 
ghetti, Bengoni. And as at first, 
Poussin, Mignard, Ponget, Claude 
Lorraine, Le Gros, Valedier, Quesnoy, 
Laboureur, Monot, Brill, Agincourt, 
etc., so afterward came the illustrious 
foreigners, Ingres, Thorwaldsen, Gib- 
son, Pettrich, Frederick Overbeck, 
Voigt the engraver. From here 
were taken the statues of Hiram 
Powers for the Capitol of Washington, 
not to mention the objects of art car- 
ried away by the 80,000 foreigners 
who flock hither from all parts every 
year to gaze on the wonders of Rome. 
A Prussian society took up its quar- 
ters here, to illustrate the new and 
antique relics, in rivalry with our 
Archaeological Academy. And the 
names of Fea, Nibby, Canina, Bar- 
tolomeo Borghese,Visconti, win rever- 
ence from the whole scientific world. 
What can I say of Pius IX. 
that is not known to the whole 
world ? Let me call to your minds 
what took place in the midst of the 
acclamations which greeted his ac- 
cession. A deputation from the So- 
ciety for the Propagation of the 
Faith being presented to him, when 
among the deputies he found the 
name of Overbeck, the most faithful 
representative of Christian art, he 
called him to himself, and gave him 
his special benediction, accompanied 
by words of holy affection. At his 
wish the court of the Quirinal, where 
Pius VII. was arrested, was painted; 
there is Overbeck's Christ at the mo- 
ment when the Jews thought to cast 
him from the mountain, and he es- 



Faith the Life of Art. 



527 



caped from their midst : thus repre- 
senting at once the perils which are 
past and those which are to come.* 
Nor can I forget the emotion with 
which the Holy Father lamented to 
me the deaths, so close upon each 
other, of Poletti, Tenerani, Overbeck, 
and Minardi ; nor the pleasure with 
which I recall the rearrangement he 
effected in the entire museum of the 
Vatican, and the marvellous statue 
of Augustus from the Villa of Livy 
with which he endowed it, and the 
metal colossus of Hercules, purchased 
with his own money, the Claudius 
of Lanuvius, and the Apoxiomenos 
in Parian marble, restored by Tene- 
rani, and placed in the Vatican in 
1851. There he placed also the 
Pompoma Azzia, found in the Appian 
Way, and the Ceres disinterred at 
Ostia, which he substituted for a poor 
Diana. 

It was the time when at his simple 
summons all the bishops of the 
world hastened to the Vatican coun- 
cil. Magnificent spectacle ! which 
Rome alone can offer to the world, 
of all the representatives of the 
church united to discuss freely the 
truth which the Pontiff should pro- 
claim infallibly. Those prelates, in the 
moments of their repose, were wont 
to admire on all sides the care which 
Pius IX. had lavished upon art. 
Here the circus of Caracalla restored, 
and the portico of Octavia disin- 
terred; there, in the Roman forum, 
the portico of the Dii Majores and 
the apsis of the Basilica of Con- 
stantine. In another spot the Basili- 
ca of 'St. Paul is restored, the arena 
of the greatest artists in painting, 
sculpture, stained glass, and mosaics. 
He opened the confessions with their 
wealth of marbles and metals, in the 



* Overbeck's principal work, perhaps, is the 
great piece in the Frankfort Museum, where he 
has represented the triumph of religion in art. 
He himself has explained it in a little book. 



two patriarchal basilicas, the Lateran 
and Liberian. He restored the mau- 
soleums of St. Constantia, St. Clem- 
ent on the side of Celio, St. Agnes, 
St. Cecilia, Santa Maria in Traste- 
vere, St. Lorenzo without the walls, 
with the paintings of Fracassini, Ma- 
riani, and Grandi. Mariani painted 
St. Lucy of the Banner and Santa 
Maria in Aquiro, and Gugliari St. 
Augustine. Podesti and Consoni 
drew for the Vatican Palace the por- 
traits of the most famous ecclesias- 
tics of ancient or modern times; 
among which stand out the Martyrs 
of Fracassini, who has painted but 
too little. All these works gave rise 
not only to the ancient use of medals. 
but also to public monuments, such 
as the column of the Immacolata, 
the works of Poletti, and the statue 
cast from cannon by De Rossi. 

In 1852 was formed a commission 
of archaeology to chiefly examine the 
Christian monuments,* and explore 
the Catacombs, the theatre of those 
scenes of sacrifice, love, and resigna- 
tion wherein society was regenerat- 
ed, and where now De Rossi con- 
vinces us that scholarship and wit 
are not enough for speech, but that 
piety has a secret of its own to touch 
on things which are better felt than 
described. 

The Egyptian Museum was in- 
creased by the monuments collected 
by Clot Bey. To the Etruscan were 
added statues, candelabra, sarcopha- 
gi from Bolsena, Tarquinia, and Vi- 
terbo. The Christian Museum of 
the Lateran was founded, to which 
the reopened Ostia sent mosaics, 
sarcophagi, and epigraphs. The 
Nomentian and Appian Ways were 

* A foreign artist said to me that in his archaeo- 
logical researches he did not stop at RDme, be- 
cause there there was nothing medieval. Di- 
dron, in his Archaeological Bulletin, counts here 
fifty Gothic constructions, and declared that in 
monuments of the middle ages Rome was no 
less rich than Rouen, the most Gothic city in 
France. 



528 



Faith the Life of Art. 



excavated still further, as far as 
Bovilla. And the emporium of mar- 
bles, the site of the seven cohorts 
of Virgil at Monte Fiore, and the 
ruins of the Palatine which the Pon- 
tiff himself visited suddenly, giving 
an unexpected joy to the workmen, in 
the month of the celebration of 
Rome's birth attest how inexhausti- 
ble arethe riches of this city, which, 
not to mention the seven great gal- 
leries, is indeed one vast gallery. 
And these excavations, whether de- 
signed or accidental, disclose a wealth 
ever beyond expectation, as is seen 
in the piazza of the Holy Apostles, 
the grove of the brothers Arvali, 
especially in the Church Delia Pace, s 
the piazza Navona, on the Monte 
Luziale, and in the new cemetery of 
the Jews. 

That the Pontiff has not been be- 
hindhand in works of practical utili- 
ty, we see in the Acqua Pia, in the 
palace of the house of reform, the 
military and civil hospitals, and that 
of peace, the tobacco manufactory, 
the adornments of the Pincio, the 
penitentiary, the bridges over the 
Tiber, the Piazza Pia and elementary 
school, and a new city commenced 
on the Viminal and Esquiline. 

And while on this point, we see 
in the Exposition of the Baths of 
Diocletian, which Michael Angelo 
repaired with a respect not always 
shown by his followers, an example 
of a character which Rome alone 
of all the world can produce ; and 
this collection of the objects of 
Catholic worship was the most beau- 
tiful hymn which the Pontiff raised 
against the blasphemy which pre- 
. cedes violence. This was a thought 
of the Pontiffs. It was executed by 
his command, and at his own expense. 
He inaugurated it, closed it in per- 
son, and with his own hand distribu- 
ted the prizes. Just indeed was the 
homage which the artists of every 



nation then represented in Rome 
paid to Pius IX., in the jubilee of 
his pontificate, the expression of 
which he left exposed for many 
days in the gallery of Raphael, where 
Mantovani, Consoni, and Galli at 
this day emulate the wondrous deco- 
rations of Sanzio and Giovanni da 
Udine. 

The popes and ministers of the 
church have watched over art with 
special care, lest this chosen daugh- 
ter of God should be sacrificed to 
his enemy. And now, what is left ? 
In the face of these glories, how 
much misery saddens us ! All the 
manifestations of the supremacy of 
materialism over what is spiritual are 
multiplied, and hence so many edi- 
fices purely industrial. The fever 
of making and unmaking on the 
spur of the moment, the race for life 
without the enjoyment of the least re- 
pose, have reduced art, which at first 
was an enthusiasm, afterwards a 
taste, now to a fashion and a luxury, 
bereft of the mighty force of our 
ancient community and the great- 
minded and holy faith of our fathers. 
What the romance is to history, the 
novel to the epic poem, the drama 
to the tragedy, the portrait and its 
kind are to the great artistic works 
and historic paintings, lost in com- 
mon and epigrammatic subjects, and 
tortured with minutiae. 

And this is not the end. He who 
preserves a sense of shame, of cha- 
rity, of faith, must either behold with 
loathing, or close his eyes, when he 
sees the pencil of the lithographer 
and even the pure light of heaven 
prostituted to dishonor whatever he 
has held most holy in faith and life, 
to tempt the senses with foulness 
that Sodom would have denounced. 
As they have made poison distil 
from their inkstands, so, with vile 
ignorance or hateful forethought, 
they have made art a pander for 



Faith the Life of Art. 



529 



impurity and a school for the barri- 
cades and petroleum. From such 
frenzy, which terrifies the most 
daring and causes the most thought- 
less to reflect, we hope that men will 
return to conscience; and in a world 
which, in order to cherish a better 
faith in its own greatness will believe 
no longer in God, this hope is sus- 
tained by seeing the Martyrs, of 
Giovanni Ferrari ; the Angels above 
the Dead Christ, of Tabacchi; the 
Christian Martyr, of Argenti; the 
Assumption, of Morelli and Gri- 
gioletti; the Saint Joseph, of Ber- 
tini; the Saint Clair, of Mancinelli; 
the Saint Lucian in Prison, of 
Ceccarini; the Ecce Ancilla Domi- 
ni, of Brioschi. 

And you, as many of you as have 
authority and dignity, labor hard 
with the pen, the voice, example, 
and precept to prevent the youth not 
yet contaminated with this new licen- 
tiousness, nor yet drunk with that 
perfume which lulls before it suffo- 
cates, from turning renegades to the 
spirituality of art Make them im- 
prove the feeling rather than the 
style of their productions. Make 
them disavow the causes whose effects 
we groan under, and which Provi- 
dence has allowed so long to afflict 
us. Make them rise above the 
prejudices of the journals and the 
abjectness of officials, as well as the 
mercenary motives of a utilitarian 
world and from practices which make 



a trade of art. Let them never for- 
get the lofty mission of art, and that 
the form is merely a garb and outfit to 
clothe the moral idea. For beauty is 
the perfection of being, perceived by 
the spirit, felt in the heart, and its 
handmaid is truth, represented with 
love. And, without doubt, for him 
whose aim is truth, the best way of 
finding it is in subjects and deeds of 
religion. Let us banish, then, in- 
difference, which slays love and 
genius alike, and that cold calcula- 
tion which smothers trustful faith. 
The time, the people, the man best 
fitted for the culture of art, will be 
those whose life, at once profound 
and active, shall not be bound d<*wn, 
but indeed lifted up by beliefs that are 
fixed and by customs that are right ; 
who combine fidelity to nature with 
the impulse of enthusiasm ; retaining 
power over matter, with due regard 
to historical and moral proprieties; 
exciting that emotion which is not 
unaccompanied by pleasure, but plea- 
sure mingled with admiration. 

Restore, I entreat you, art to its 
great principles ! Fill life again with 
those sweet illusions and great de- 
lights, making a language of the 
deepest thoughts of a civilization 
ever more refined, and so accustom, 
us to realize the ideal, to ennoble 
humanity ! Give it back to its great 
office, to bear witness to right belief, 
and to give joy to the little ones, 
who are our brethren in Christ 1 



VOL. xv. 34 



530 



Max Mutter's " Chips: 1 



MAX MULLER'S "CHIPS."* 



MR. MAX MULLER, the learned Ger- 
man professor, and Fellow of All 
Souls' College, Oxford, wrote, and in 
1868 published, a collection of essays 
on the science of religion which he 
calls Chips from a German Workshop. 
He tells us this title was given him by 
the late Chevalier Bunsen, who, on ad- 
vising him to undertake the translation 
of the Sacred Book of the Brahmins, 
the Rig-Veda, bade him give, from 
time to time, to the public some chips 
from his workshop. The intensely ab- 
sorbing and delightful nature of his 
studies is to be seen very clearly by 
these specimens. They embrace two of 
the most important and most attractive 
branches of human science that of 
the varied forms of human thought 
in its relations to God ; and that of 
the multifold languages of the earth, 
and their mutual relations. Prof. 
Mailer's philological investigations 
are confined chiefly to the Indo-Ger- 
manic family, and confirm beyond 
possibility of cavil the intimate con- 
nection between the many branches 
of that family the Sanskrit, the Brah- 
manic language in use at present, the 
Persian, the Greek, the Latin with 
its offshoots, the Italian, the French, 
and the Spanish, the Celtic and the 
English. In exemplifying what he 
says on this subject, he speaks of the 
meaning of the word Veda. Rig- 
Veda, he tells us, means praise of 
knowledge or wisdom Rig or Rich 
signifying praise or hymn, and Veda 
knowledge or wisdom. He calls our 
attention to this word Veda in support 
of the theory of the connection of the 
Aryan or Indo-Germanic group of 



* Chips from a German Workshop. By Max 
Miiller. New York : Scribner & Co. 



languages. The root of it, or the 
word deprived of its final vowel 
Ved is to be seen by substituting 
the interchanging consonants in the 
English words wit, wot, the German 
weiss, Gothic vait, Anglo-Saxon wat, 
Greek olda, to which may be added 
the Latin word video, to see, evidently 
closely connected with this Sanskrit 
word signifying to know, for know- 
ledge is intellectual vision. 

What impresses us most, at first 
sight, is the practical conclusion to 
be drawn from the advanced state of 
philological studies. We have here 
a striking proof of the unity of the race 
of man. Max Muller speaks of this 
proof in favor of the unity of the 
Aryan races as beyond gainsaying; 
words are there to establish the truth. 
Now, if we see such differently con- 
stituted peoples such as the English 
and the Hindoo, the French and the 
Persian, the Celt and the Italian all 
members of one family, can any one 
be so rash as to wish to exclude from 
fellowship with that family the tawny 
Arab, the swarthy Malay, or the dark 
son of Africa, simply because they are 
to be classed under the heads of Semi- 
tic and Turanian ? It is well known 
among physiologists that the differ- 
ences of facial angles and cranial 
thickness constitute nothing essential ; 
while the investigations of national 
' thought and customs, hitherto veiled 
by unintelligible languages, tend con- 
tinually to demonstrate and confirm 
the unity of man, to show that all 
men are of one common stock, of one 
man and of one woman, all made 
after the one type that which ex- 
ists, as the Bible tells us, in God. So 
far, in fact, is real science from doing 
harm to revelation, that when it at- 






Max Miiller's " Chips" 



531 



tains its perfection it confirms the 
truths that have been revealed. 
Whence we may draw this conclusion : 
that men who are wise will take care 
to have revelation for their guide, 
even in science ; they will, it is clear, 
be saved from going astray, since 
their ultimate examinations confirm 
its truth. It is not unfrequently the 
case that the eager scientific man, by 
a logical process, draws his conclusion 
without the slightest suspicion of er- 
ror in his premises. It is no wonder 
he is tenacious of his conclusion ; but 
how often are his ideas overthrown 
by " chance," that strange discoverer 
of more than one great treasure of the 
human race ! And how often sober, 
thoughtful men, meeting to determine 
the basis on which they stand, have 
to say, as did the Geological Con- 
gress of Paris in 1867 : " The state of 
the science is not such as to enable us to 
make deductions wholly free from dan- 
ger of error"! or, certainly it is 
most just that we should love science 
and follow it faithfully, but always 
with an eye to that old and familiar 
adage, " It is human to err." ' There 
is really nothing after all that saves a 
man from mistakes and confusion so 
much as a proper estimate of his own 
conclusions, and a readiness to have 
them corrected by others. It is a 
, habit of mind that distinguishes really 
great men, like the sounder portion of 
the Prehistorical Congress of Bo- 
logna, in the autum of 187 1 : ' There 
is nothing in prehistorical discover- 
ies that is in contradiction with reve- 
lation." Bacon has bid us all put 
aside the idola, and thus free our minds 
from prejudice. We should begin by 
banishing the idol of self, the reliance 
on our own judgment, so as to be 
ready at once to abandon cherished 
ideas, and to look on the principles of 
science as more or less liable to be 
one day, by further investigation, 
shown to be other than we think 



them. This is all the more import- 
ant because false principles always do 
practical harm, and, if nothing else, 
they retard the attainment of what we 
are searching for, in putting us on 
the wrong path. We do not wish to 
be thought to condemn all scientific 
principles as one day liable to be 
proven false. There are some, the 
essential agreement of 'whose sub- 
ject and predicate absolutely ex- 
cludes all danger of error, others 
which the constant experience of 
the human race has shown to be 
true, such as, for instance, the mathe- 
matical, and many of those that form 
the basis of natural science. These 
do not contradict revelation, and will 
never be proven false. The history 
of the past, however, is too full of the 
de'bris of systems of every kind that 
any one of solid information should 
not take warning from them, and be 
on his guard against looking on any 
proposition in natural science as irre- 
fragable which the concordant tes* 
timony of men since the enunciation 
of it has not shown to be so. The. 
Ptolemean system, after an undisputed 
sway, yielded before the assaults of 
Copernicus and Galileo, and its solid 
spheres, whose music filled the poet's 
mind with delight, and charmed the 
privileged spirits to whom it was given 
to hear it, came down in awful ruin, 
and their sounds were hushed for 
ever. Then those whose years did 
not begin with the century can re- 
call how eagerly they drank in the doc- 
trine oCthe imponderable principles ; 
and lo ! what has become of them ? 
The progress of the age has substi- 
tuted for "it the teaching of the unity 
of forces, and motion answers for them 
all. The solidity of the sun and its 
dark spots, under the telescope and 
the combined investigations of as- 
tronomers, have disappeared, and ga- 
seous substance and interruption in 
its continuity have taken the place of 



532 



Max Muller s " Chips." 



both. And in the recent brilliant 
discoveries in regard to the constitu- 
ent gases of the sun, who is to 
make us sure that the lines in the 
spectrum, by which we profess to 
know the existence in the sun of 
certain determinate objects, may not 
be produced by other causes of which 
we know nothing ? All these theo- 
ries, we grant, have great probability 
in their favor, and we do not cite 
them with any intent to discredit 
the labors of the gifted men who have 
formed them ; but it is wise not to 
look on them as the end of all inves- 
tigation and beyond all controversy. 
As we think of these vicissitudes of 
science, there occur to us, though not 
in a spirit of disregard for true science, 
the words written long ago : " I have 
seen the trouble which God hath 
given the sons of men to be exercised 
in it. He hath made all things 
good in their time, and hath delivered 
the world to their consideration, so 
that man cannot find out the work 
which God hath made from the begin- 
ning to the end." (Eccles. iii. 10, 
ii.) This, however, is a digression ; 
let us return to our Chips. 

By far the most important topic 
treated of by Prof. Muller is the 
knowledge of God existing among the 
varied nations of men. He gives great 
weight, and deservedly, to the result 
of his observation in this respect, and 
we can readily understand why he 
should lay so much stress on the im- 
portance of the study of the " science 
of religion," or the comparative study 
of the different religions of the earth. 
As a matter of erudition, it must al- 
ways be a subject of the greatest in- 
terest, not only in itself, but also 
because it serves to illustrate the words 
of the Apostle to the Romans, ch. i. 
18-20 : " For the wrath of God is re- 
vealed from heaven against all ungod- 
liness and injustice of those men that 
detain the truth of God in injustice: 



because that which is capable of 
being known * of God is manifest in 
them : for God hath manifested it 
unto them. For the invisible things 
of him, from the creation of the 
world, are clearly seen, being un- 
derstood by the things that are 
made; his eternal power also, and 
divinity, so that they are inexcusable. 1 ' 
We shall have occasion to return to 
these words. Here we may remark 
that this knowledge of God that tran- 
spires in all the citations the learn- 
ed Orientalist has laid before us, 
is nothing more than what as Chris- 
tians we expected to hear. But 
in this connection we have to say 
that the contrary effect is produced 
to that intended by Prof. Muller. 
This corroboration of the words of 
St. Paul, littered more than eighteen 
centuries ago, and proclaimed long 
before by the author of the Book 
of Wisdom, ch. xiii., proves that, so 
far from the religions of the earth 
meriting praise for their reference to 
a Supreme Being, they deserve to be 
censured because they detained the 
truth in darkness in injustice. The 
words of the Professor are : " We 
shall learn [from this comparative 
study] that there is hardly one reli- 
gion which does not contain some 
important truth; truth sufficient to 
enable those who seek the Lord, and, 
feel after him, to find him in the 
hour of their need." The first por- 
tion of this assertion is true; the 
second is incorrect in its expression, 
and dangerous in its tendency. It is 
incorrect in its expression, inasmuch 
as it attributes to these religions, as 
such, the possession of truth not all, 
to be sure, but some truth. We say, 
on the contrary, that the truth con- 



* See KUhner's Gr. Grammar, translated by 
Messrs. Edwards and Taylor, London and New 
York, 1859, 234 (i.), with regard to the force of 
the verbal adjective. The word in the Greek 
text of Tischendorf, Ed. Sept., is yvuOTbv. 



Max Midler's " Chips:' 



533 



tained in these various religious sys- 
tems is the common inheritance of 
the human mind. 

The light of Almighty God's coun- 
tenance shines on us all, no matter 
who we are. The Psalmist asks : 
" Quis ostendet nobis bona ?" and he 
answers : " Signatutn est super nos 
lumen wdtus tui Do mine !" It is 
wrong, therefore, to give credit to a 
false system for the truth it has en- 
veloped in darkness. And the rea- 
son of this is palpable. If we turn 
to the words of the apostle, as given 
above, do we find him giving credit 
to the false religions of mankind for 
the truth they contain ? Anything 
but this. He says : " The invisible 
things of him, from the creation of 
the world, are clearly seen, being un- 
derstood by the things that are made; 
his eternal power also, and divinity, 
so that they are inexcusable. Be- 
cause, when they knew God, they did 
not glorify him as God. . . . And 
they changed the glory of the incor- 
ruptible God into the likeness of 
the image of a corruptible man, and 
of birds and four-footed beasts, and 
of creeping things." Here we have 
a sentence pronounced against these 
very religions our author speaks of 
as containing sufficient truth to ena- 
ble those who seek the Lord and feel 
after him, to find him in the hour 
of their need. The apostle condemns 
them because " they detained the 
truth of God in injustice." 

This is to be said of these false re- 
ligions even at their best. But what 
is to be said of them when we take 
into consideration the immense ma- 
jority of those among the heathen 
do not attain to any refined spi- 
rituality, but are engrossed in the 
material, sensual forms of idolatry, 
like the conservative Parsees, so 
graphically described in the book 
before us ? We must therefore con- 
clude that, granting Prof. Miiller in- 



tended to refer to man's natural 
knowledge or his reason as a means 
of knowing God, to which the apos- 
tle bears witness, he has used an in- 
correct form of speech in attributing 
to these religions efficacy in finding 
God. 'It would have been in every 
way better to write that, in spite of 
the errors of these various systems, 
there was still light enough left to 
man, through his reason, to lead him 
to God a truth not only substantiated 
by the teaching of theologians, but, 
as we have seen, expressly laid down 
in Holy Writ. 

We have said the assertion of our 
author is not only incorrect in its 
form, but dangerous in its tendency. 
That tendency, with all respect to 
Prof. Miiller's expressed opinions, is 
latitudinarian ; it would lead one to 
think that, after all, the heathen and 
all professing a false religion are in 
a comparatively safe state. If this 
be so, why do we find the apostle 
assaulting those systems so uncom- 
promisingly, and asserting that the 
heathen are inexcusable ? And how 
do we reconcile with this theory the 
words of the Gospel, " Unless ye be 
born again of water and the Holy 
Ghost, ye shall not enter into the 
kingdom of heaven " ? True, there is 
the baptisma flaminis, the resource 
of those who have not the blessing of 
the actual sacrament; but even this 
requires a rejection, absolute or 
implied, of the false system, and the 
act of faith in the true God, accom- 
panied by a firm will of doing what- 
ever it may be known he asks of 
a sincere soul. The language of the 
great theologians is certainly not in 
any way favorable to the safety of 
those who follow a false religion. 
They tell us that those who among 
the pagans of old were saved, were 
justified by their faith in a true God 
and in the Redeemer to come. The 
doctor of grace, the great St. Augus- 



534 



Max Mullers '< Chips." 



tine, whose, fntellect was one of the 
most remarkable of any age, says in 
Serm. 3 on the 2,6th Ps., "All who were 
just, from the beginning of the world, 
have Christ as their head. For they 
believed he was to come, whom we 
believe to have come already; by 
faith in him they were saved, as we 
are." Then, in the Comnt. on the i28/// 
Ps., he writes : " Has the church only 
existed now ? The church is of old ; 
from the time the saints were called 
the church is on earth. Once it ex- 
isted only in Abel, and was warred 
against by a wicked and perfidious 
brother, Cain. Once the church was 
only in Enoch, and he was taken 
away from the wicked. Once the 
church was only in Noah's house, 
and it suffered from all those who 
perished by the flood, and only the 
ark floated on the waters and escaped 
to the dry land. Once the church 
was only in Abraham, and we know 
how much he suffered from the 
wicked. The church existed only in 
Lot, and in his house in Sodom, and 
he bore with the iniquity and perver- 
sity of the Sodomites, until the Lord 
freed him from them. The church 
began to exist in the people of Israel, 
and it suffered at the hands of Pha- 
raoh and the Egyptians. And in the 
very church itself, amid the people 
of Israel, there began to flourish a 
number of holy souls : Moses and 
other saints suffered from the wicked 
Jews. We come at last to our Lord 
Jesus Christ ; the Gospel has been 
preached, and he has said in the 
Psalms : ' I have brought the tidings, 
and I have spoken, and they are 
multiplied beyond number.' " (See 
also the writings of the same father 
against the Donatists.) The same 
idea of the necessity of faith in 
Christ is found constantly in the 
teaching of the church and in the 
writings of the fathers. 

We ask after this, who deserve 



most credit as exponents of the es- 
sential requisites of salvation the 
early fathers of the church, who ex- 
plain the words of the apostle, " With- 
out faith it is impossible to please 
God," in the sense we have here in 
St. Augustine, and which too is had 
in the ancient Athanasian Creed ; or 
gentlemen like our author, whose 
ideas of Christianity, even when they 
express them clearly, differ so widely 
from what was once held as revealed 
. truth, and who moreover cannot come 
to an understanding among them- 
selves as to what the truth of Christ 
is ? And if we must give the prefer- 
ence to the former, what are we to 
say of an opinion that serves to lull 
people into a false security regarding 
that which is, of all things, the 
most vital in its importance and con- 
sequences ? 

Prof. M tiller rightly says that 
the knowledge of the false re- 
ligions of the world makes us 
appreciate more the Christian reli- 
gion. Had he taken the view we have 
given, he would have had a vastly 
greater appreciation of it. He would 
not have put it in comparison with 
other religions, as differing from them 
by a superior degree of excellence, 
but would have shown that they dif- 
fered essentially, as right differs from 
wrong, as truth from error, and there- 
fore he would, while speaking chari- 
tably of individuals and leaving them 
to the judgment of God, infinitely 
just, have condemned and rejected 
these false systems of worship as the 
curse of the unhappy race of Adam. 
As we have said before, we are not 
inclined to charge Prof. Miiller with 
the full consequences of his asser- 
tions, since in several places of his 
work he gives his unqualified ac- 
knowledgment of the claims of 
Christianity. Still we cannot but 
look on his loose assertions as the 
result of the rationalistic spirit that 



Max Mullers " Chips" 



535 



has begun so rapidly to pervade the 
most conservative of English univer- 
sities. Only a few years ago, when 
called to give his testimony before 
the Board of Inquiry of the House 
of Lords regarding the state of the 
universities, Canon Liddon said that 
this tendency to rationalism had come 
in with the change in the system of 
studies and the introduction of the 
higher philosophical branches, and 
that it was making headway among 
the students in a marked manner. 
Nor, when we see those at the head 
of the university decide, as they did 
lately, that the Thirty-nine Articles are 
not to be insisted on for examination 
except in case of those who are can- 
didates for the honorary degrees, and 
when we hear in our own country a 
board of Anglican bishops declare 
that the word " regeneration " in the 
formula of infant baptism does not 
imply any moral change in the one 
baptized it does not seem to us that 
we are doing Prof. Miiller injustice in 
thinking that he, a lay professor in the 
university directed by the Anglican 
Church, has, it may be unconsciously, 
taken in not a little of the leaven of 
rationalism. 

To this may be referred his trans- 
lation of the text of St. Justin, Ap, 
i., 46, when he makes this Christian 
philosopher say, " Christ is the first 
begotten of God, and we have al- 
ready proved him to be the very 
Logos (or universal Reason} of which 
mankind are all partakers." In the 
Edit, of the Congr. of St. Maurus 
of the Works of St. Justin, this word 
universal does not occur; the Greek 
text has simply the accusative 
" Logon," and the Latin simply 
" Rationem." Certainly all Catholic 
theologians hold this doctrine of St. 
Justin, and teach that the Logos or 
Verbum or Ratio is the definite wis- 
dom of the Godhead, by which God 
understands himself and all things 



in himself, and that all created wis- 
dom or reason is but a participation 
of that Infinite Reason or Word. 
But in these days, when the locutions, 
universal soul, universal intellect, uni- 
versal being, are used so much in a 
pantheistical sense, we think an au- 
thor can hardly find fault with those 
who very probably misunderstand 
him when he uses expressions so 
liable to be misinterpreted, and 
charge him with some tendency 
which he seems in other places to 
disclaim. It seems to us the learned 
professor should have taken all the 
greater care in his translation, as St. 
Justin (in his Ap. ii. 7) disclaims 
expressly all pantheistic teaching, 
which he declares to be " foreign to 
all sound thought, reason, and 
mind." 

To show we do not wish to be un- 
fair to this distinguished scholar, we 
will do him the justice to cite his 
condemnation of the pantheistic spirit 
of the times. He is speaking of 
Barthelemy St. Hilaire's History of 
Buddhism, and he quotes the words 
of the preface of that writer : 

" This book may offer one other advan- 
tage, and I regret to say that at present it 
may seem to come opportunely. It is 
the misfortune of our times that the same 
doctrines which form the foundation of 
Buddhism meet at the hands of some of 
our philosophers with a favor which they 
ill deserve. For some years we have 
seen systems arising in which metempsy- 
chosis and transmigration are highly 
spoken of, and attempts are made to ex- 
plain the world and man without either 
a God or a Providence, exactly as Bud- 
dha did. A future life is refused to the 
yearnings of mankind, and the immortal- 
ity of the soul is replaced by the immor- 
tality of works. God is dethroned, and 
in his place they substitute man, the only 
being, we are told, in which the Infinite 
becomes conscious of itself. These theo- 
ries are recommended to us sometimes 
in the name of science, or of history, or 
philology, or even of metaphysics ; and 
though they are neither new nor very 



536 



Max Mullers " Chips" 



original, yet they can do much injury 
to feeble hearts." 

And a few lines further on : 

" It would be useful, however, if the au- 
thors of these modern systems would 
just cast a glance at the theories and 
destinies of Buddhism. It is not philo- 
sophy in the sense in which we under- 
stand this great name, nor is it religion 
in the sense of ancient paganism, of 
Christianity, or of Mohammedanism ; 
but it contains elements of all worked 
up into a perfectly independent doctrine ; 
acknowledges nothing in the universe 
but man, and obstinately refu ses to re- 
cognize anything else, though confound- 
ing man with nature in the midst of 
which he lives. Hence all those aberra- 
tions of Buddhism, which ought to be a 
warning to others." (P. 203, vol. i.) 

We have one other charge against 
the learned professor for what, though 
savoring a little of rationalism, more 
particularly regards the Catholic 
Church. He says that " as the Ori- 
ental creeds degenerated into gross- 
er forms, so Christianity degenerates 
into Jesuitism and Mormonism 
(p. 185). We grant that the author 
is striving to be fair to the pagans, 
and shows an unwillingness to con- 
demn them as a whole on account 
of the corrupt practices of a portion 
of them. But in doing so he has 
shown himself most unjust to a dis- 
tinguished Order in the Catholic 
Church, whose piety, virtue, and 
learning claim for them everywhere 
from Christians a tribute of respect 
and gratitude, and nowhere more 
so than in our own free land. It 
is really lamentable to see what 
we must call a total want of knowl- 
edge in a person of such exten- 
sive information and real ability as 
Prof. Miiller. 'Tis strange that it 
did not occur to him that there was 
a great incongruity in coupling the 
Society of Jesus with the corrupt and 
sensual community of the Mormons, 
and it is only another lesson to put 



us on our guard against prejudice, 
which has so wonderful a power in 
perverting the judgments of men so 
worthy of respect for their zeal in the 
cause of truth. 

This undeserved condemnation of 
the Jesuit Fathers is not the only er- 
ror into which Prof. Miiller's dislike 
of Catholicity has betrayed him. On 
page 190, he speaks of the Buddhist 
ceremonies, and in a foot-note refers 
to the work of the Abb6 Hue in 
which he describes his travels in 
China and Thibet, and remarks the 
curious coincidence between the rites 
of the religion of the Grand Lama 
and the forms of Catholic worship. 
Our author tells us that the Abbe 
Hue pointed out the similarities be- 
tween the Buddhist and Roman 
Catholic ceremonials with such 
naivete' that, to his surprise, he found 
his delightful Travels in Thibet 
placed on the Index. We confess 
our surprise at this information. We 
never heard of the abbe"'s work hav- 
ing been signed with " the black 
mark of Peter," but we have heard 
the book very highly praised by per- 
sons who would hardly have praised 
it had there been anything in it to 
merit the censures of the church. 
We have too at hand a copy of the 
Index coming down to six years after 
the publication of the Travels in 
Thibet, but after a careful search have 
not been able to find in it the name 
either of Abbe" Hue or of this work. 
Moreover, it strikes us as very unlike- 
ly that this writer should have suffer- 
ed for what has been stated pointed- 
ly by authors of the chuich from the 
first ages down to our time. Had 
Prof. Miiller turned his attention to 
Tertullian's book, De Prascriptione 
Hcereticorum, he would have found at 
40 the following passage : 

" Who is to interpret the sense of what 
may further heresy? The devil, forsooth, 



Max Miiller s " Chips" 



537 



whose office it is to distort the truth ; 
who rivals by the mysteries of the idols 
the very actions of the divine sacra- 
ments. He too baptizes some as be- 
lievers and faithful ; he promises the put- 
ting off of sin by the laver; and, if I re- 
member aright, Mithras there signs his 
soldiers on the forehead, celebrates the 
offering of bread, and uses the image of 
the resurrection, and gains the crown 
through the sword (martyrdom). What 
shall I say more? that he destines his 
high-priest for the nuptials of but one 
(wife) ? that he has his virgins ? that he 
has his celibates ? But if we consider 
the superstitions of Numa Pompilius, if 
the priestly duties, emblems, and privi- 
leges, the sacrificial service and instru- 
ments, and the vessels of sacrifice, and the 
strangeness of their expiations and vo- 
tive gifts, has not the devil manifestly 
imitated the observances of the Jewish 
law ?" 

In the seventeenth century Natalis 
Alexander, in his Ecclesiastical Histo- 
ry (vol. ii. diss. iii. art. 3, 3, No. 
vii.) replying to the objections of 
Spencer, in his Dissertation No. 3 on 
the Ritual Laws of the Hebrews, says : 
" It is far more probable that the 
devil, the rival of God, inspired the 
heathen to use in the rites of their 
divinities, or to carry about with 
solemn pomp, arks or mystic vases 
containing something hidden (arca- 
num)," than that the Israelites took 
their idea from them ; and further on : 
" Who does not see that the conclu- 
sion can be drawn by just and better 
right ? Therefore, the beaten vases 
had their origin in the rivalry of the 
evil spirit seizing on all that was 
splendid in the worship of God, and 
turning it to his own worship." 
There are besides several rites well 
known to have existed among the 
heathen after the coming of Christ 
that bear so close a resemblance to 
Christian and Jewish forms, that we 
are warranted in following those 
archaeologists who attribute them to 
imitation of the usages of revealed re- 
ligion. Take, for instance, the tauro- 



bolium or criobolium, or baptism by 
the blood of a bull or goat. In this 
ceremony the person undergoing it 
was placed in a pit with a kind of 
sieve over his head, through which 
the fresh blood of the animal was 
made to fall upon his whole body. 
What is this but the corruption of 
baptism, the idea of redemption 
through blood, and of the sprinkling 
with blood that took place by divine 
command in the old law? It 
stands to reason that as the Christian 
religion gained influence, paganism 
would, by seizing on what was 
marked in it and perverting it to its 
own uses, strive to regain its credit 
by an imitation which in some way 
would deceive the ignorant. Prof. 
Miiller can see from this that Catho- 
lics are not unaccustomed to making 
such contrasts, and that they are far 
from fearing them. And as for the 
case in point, history tells us that St. 
Thomas evangelized India and very 
probably the countries adjacent to it, 
while we know that St. Francis Xa- 
vier, as narrated in his life, found de- 
cided traces of Christianity among 
some of the Indians, though they 
had not the priesthood. This being 
the case, we can readily comprehend 
how the followers of Buddha should 
have adopted many of the forms in 
use among Christians, even the 
recitation of psalms, which we know 
from the New Testament to have 
been in use among the apostles, who, 
we are told, " went out from the sup- 
per-room after reciting a hymn with 
their Master." 

Such are the remarks we have 
thought well to make in the interest 
of truth in regard to these volumes 
of Prof. Miiller, which, aside from 
these objectionable features, are full 
of learning and of interesting infor- 
mation, imparted in an easy and ele- 
gant style. They will be of value to 
the scholar, especially *o those whose 



538 



To Wordsivorth. 



occupations do not allow them to 
consecrate much time to researches 
such as those in which the professor 
is engaged. They will have the ef- 
fect of confirming the believer in the 
truth of Christianity, and of making 
him thankful for the gift of a faith 
that has saved him from such fearful 
enthralment of mind and body as he 
beholds his fellow-men condemned 
to in the many forms of Eastern pa- 



ganism. It is true those who are 
not favorable to positive religious 
teaching will wrest not a little of 
what is said to their own damage a 
danger we have tried to point out. 
Still, the learned author will, after all, 
be justified in remarking that, if such 
be the case, it is but another exem- 
plification of the fact that the serpent 
draws poison from the same plant 
from which the bee sips its honey. 



TO WORDSWORTH. 

GREAT poet, I have tasted and admired 

These many years, but known thee only now 
With nine-and-twenty winters on my brow, 

And much beside that oft thy page inspired. 

I find in thee a freshness long desired : 
And take thy song as migrant bird a lake, 
Which first she shunn'd, yet could not all forsake, 

Till, last, she nests there never to be tired. 

To nature I have ever turn'd with love, 

But now more fondly, from the world of men. 
'Twas erst for sympathy : with Byron then : 

But now, with thee, religiously to prove 

The sweets of contemplation, and emove 
In other minds high thought and holy ken. 



MAY, 1872. 



True Greatness. 



539 



TRUE GREATNESS. 



THERE is a singular power in 
that pithy summons of the exordium 
to the preface of the Mass " Sursum 
Corda." It stirs the deepest feelings 
of the human heart. Human na- 
ture is keenly sensitive to every ap- 
peal addressed to her true instincts. 
Man needs not to be told that he pos- 
sesses \he power oi fixing his thoughts 
on things superhuman, educing from 
them principles of action, and shap- 
ing thereby his manifold relations 
with society. It is in stimulating this 
latent energy, and lovingly decoying 
it up to its most congenial atmo- 
sphere, that we experience the tender 
force of " Sursum Corda" as a touch- 
ing address to our innermost self. 

Axioms are beyond demonstration. 
But man, no less than science, has 
his own living first principles, and 
their evidence is of such a clearness 
as to be but obscured by ratiocination. 
For instance, it is always agreeable to 
our better nature to give praise where 
praise is due. Heathen wisdom has 
beautifully witnessed to this homely 
truth: "Palmam qui meruit ferat."* 
The inspired son of Sirach makes it an 
imperative duty : " Let us now praise 
men of renown, and our fathers in 
their generation. . . . Let the peo- 
ple show forth their wisdom, and the 
church declare their praise." t If we 
should be asked to expound the phi- 
losophy of this noble instinct, we 
should be obliged, we apprehend, 
either to mystify what is self-evident, 
or super-illustrate it by the equally 
undemonstrable fact that greatness 
of character challenges universal ad- 



* " Let him receive the palm who has deserved 
tEcclus. xliv. i, 15. 



it." 



miration. It is like the golden sun- 
set of Italy, or the many-tinted 
beauty of the rainbow. We feel, one 
and all, impelled to do it unsolicited 
homage. 

Further, we secretly covet and 
thirst after it. For, by a cardinal law 
of our being, we fain would appropri- 
ate and monopolize whatsoever we 
deem worthy of admiration. Con- 
cerning the particular qualities of 
which true greatness is made up, there 
may be some difference of opinion. 
What is indisputable is that its at- 
tainment is the result of sustained ef- 
fort ; that that effort is itself a fertile 
source of pleasure; and that in pro- 
portion as we loiter in listless indo- 
lence, and shrink from making it, our 
life is retrogressive and self-con- 
demned. 

Artists, in aiming at eminence copy 
the great masters. They seek to 
touch theii lips to the primal fount of 
inspiration. Now, it is rather matter 
of history than abstract speculation or 
ascetic predilection, that the very best 
models of greatness of character have 
been the saints. With their deep 
piety, lengthened vigils, and extraor- 
dinary ecstasies, we are not now con- 
cerned. It is as simple men and wo- 
men we view them. We are dealing 
rather with effects than with causes. 
Aside from the supernatural aims 
whereupon they ever bent and con- 
centrated all their energies, and 
whereby they daily renewed their 
youth, and whereat they ceaselessly 
imbibed fresh draughts of vitalizing 
nectar, they are the highest types 
on record of individual excellence. 
Those fine traits of character which 
men are agreed in admiring shine 



True Greatness. 



out more conspicuously in the saints 
than in any other class of men. On 
the other hand, human frailties, so- 
cial incongruities, personal imperfec- 
tions, find little or no place in their 
history. 

Only true men love solitude. Not 
that anybody positively hates it, but 
that most people prefer, instead of 
soaring alone with the eagle, to fly 
low with the herd of the feathered 
tribe. Hence they hold, with Aristo- 
tle, that he who loves solitude must 
be either a wild beast or a god. It 
is indeed a godlike love, but it was 
the cherished heritage of the saints. 
They were "never less alone than 
when alone." 

Independence wins the respect of 
all. Not that reckless thrusting of 
ourselves against all established usa- 
ges which borders on silliness, nor 
yet that waspish spirit of antagonism 
by which littleness would, in distin- 
guishing and gainsaying anything, 
fain assume the garb of greatness. 
Christian independence, which is ever 
both manly and modest, lies between 
rashness and sycophancy, but par- 
takes of the nature of neither. The 
harebrained truant is but little furth- 
er removed from the saint than the 
fawning parasite. The kingly pro- 
phet of Israel makes frequent and 
beautiful allusions to independence, 
as : " Dominus illuminatis mea et 
salus mea : quern timebo ?" And 
again : " Expecta Dominum, viriliter 
age, confortetur cor tuum, et sus- 
tine Dominum." * If a moral che- 
mist were to analyze independence, 
he would most likely discover that 
its seed and stem is love of princi- 
ple. Men have at all times been 
found who smiled upon the frowns 
of fortune, and cheerfully welcomed 

* " The Lord is my light and my salvation : 
whom shall I fear ? . . . Wait on the Lord, 
act bravely, let thy heart be strengthened, and 
wait for the Lord." 



adversity, simply because principle 
still survived in unimpaired integrity, 
though all else had perished. There 
was yet one rich germ of abiding fe- 
licity. Of such it has been well said 
that " they need not flatter the vain, 
nor be tried with the impertinent, 
nor stand to the courtesy of knavery 
and folly. They need not dance af- 
ter the caprice of a humorist, nor 
take part in the extravagance of an- 
other." Perhaps no one sentence 
in the writings of the illustrious Arch- 
bishop Hughes furnishes a true key- 
note to his character better than this :. 
" I have never had a patron in church 
or state." Few are able to pen such 
words, and, in doing so, defy any 
impeachment of their veracity. A 
wholesome disregard for the opinions 
of others or indifference to human 
respect is the synonym of indepen- 
dence. It is, indeed, under the lat- 
ter name we find independence men- 
tioned in hagiology and ascetic theo- 
logy ; and it is one of the insidious 
poisons which the saints seem most 
to have feared. They considered the 
world so whimsical that, do what 
they might, they never could satisfy 
it. They everywhere saw good rea- 
son for pondering the old argument : 
" John came neither eating nor drink- 
ing, and you say : He hath a devil. 
The Son of Man is come both eat- 
ing and drinking, and you say : Be- 
hold a man that is a glutton and a 
drinker of wine." * There is a re- 
markable instance of independence 
in the life of St. Thomas & Becket, 
and it shows how utterly irreconcila- 
ble are human respect and love of 
principle. It was clear to the chan- 
cellor that one of two things needs 
must come to pass. Either he should 
be allowed to remain chancellor, and 
continue in kindly relations with 
Henry, or he should be constrained 

* Luke vii. 33 



True Greatness. 



541 



to accept the archbishopric, and, by 
denouncing Henry's conduct, cease to 
be the friend of the king. The lat- 
ter would have saints for friends at 
the cost of principle ; he would have 
precedence given to the crown over 
conscience ; he would have a courtier 
prelate with elastic convictions; he 
would have reconciled anomalies and 
" harmonized impossibilities." But 
the independence of conscience is 
inflexible ; and hence the memorable 
collision between a powerful monarch, 
whose fraudulence time has unveiled, 
and a prelate of unsullied integrity, 
whose glorious martyrdom is one of 
the great triumphs of the church. A 
beautiful writer * lays down a simple 
rule whereby men of vacillating cha- 
racter, in matters of conscience and 
duty, may meet those who would 
shake their independence with a sort 
of argumentum ad hominem : " Since 
worldlings look upon us as foolish, 
let us regard them in the same 
light." 

Closely akin to independence is 
steadfastness, or firmness of resolve. 
Xot a mulish obstinacy which spurns 
counsel, and, by magnifying ourselves 
above all others, teaches us only to 
unlearn ourselves. Such a spirit be- 
trays utter want of self-knowledge ; 
for few suffice for themselves, and 
fewer still see themselves as they are 
seen by others. Whoever would at- 
tain to greatness should avoid the 
fickle and the inconstant. " He that 
toucheth pitch shall be defiled there- 
with." And as instability in the con- 
victions of the mind and affections 
of the heart extends to men's rela- 
tions and occupations in life, brand- 
ing them in all things as volatile, su- 
percilious, and untrustworthy, so we 
should study to be immovably firm 
in retaining and acting upon princi- 



* St. Francis de Sales, Introduction, part iv. 
Cip. i. 



pies which we know to be based 
upon truth and justice. In pursuing 
any course of action maturely plan- 
ned, and followed up from commen- 
dable motives, we must courteously 
but firmly resist all attacks material- 
ly affecting the nature of our resolve. 
It is common with the giddy and the 
irresolute to seek to bring down men 
of unbending firmness to their own 
contemptible level. Whoever lacks 
the courage to be singular, lacks the 
first element of greatness, is wanting 
in a source of solid happiness, and 
can scarcely be a true Christian. To 
give up a tried and disinterested friend, 
to relinquish a line of conduct in it- 
self good and deliberately entered 
upon unless from motives far more 
overpowering than those which had 
hitherto swayed you besides fur- 
nishing clear evidence of fickleness, 
inflicts upon the will an incurable 
wound. 

If steadfastness be the twin-sister 
of independence, fortitude is its eld- 
est daughter. It has various mani- 
festations ; but it is best evidenced 
in danger and in time of difficulty. 
Opposition is its touchstone, elicits 
its latent powers, displays them in 
their modest and unborrowed beauty, 
making us regard their possessor with 
feelings akin to those with which we 
behold a gallant ship that has just 
ridden out a violent tempest, or the 
conqueror who, having waded, in 
calm courage, through a sea of blood, 
conducts his triumphant legions 
through the captured provinces to 
survey the rich spoils of victory. For- 
titude may be considered the lion- 
virtue of the human breast. It is 
the shield of all the other virtues, 
rising in earnest promptness at the 
signal of approaching combat, and 
waiting, with giant force, to crush, if 
it cannot repel, the invader. Sydney 
Smith would compare no pleasure to 
that of conversation with a man of 



542 



True Greatness. 



well-stored mind and communicative 
disposition. It seems to us there is 
no sight more beautiful to contem- 
plate than that of a brave man in 
the midst of danger. If aught could 
enhance its thrilling interest, it would 
be the elevating assurance that the 
invincible hero wars with bitter re- 
luctance, and solely for the sacred 
interests of truth and justice. Yet 
such, in all instances, has been the 
struggle of the saints and the emi- 
nent servants of the church, in which 
her history so copiously abounds. 
Such, in these latter days, was the 
attitude of Dr. Doyle, before the 
lords and commons of Britain, dis- 
dainfully repelling their calumnies 
against the Catholics of .Ireland, scat- 
tering a serried phalanx of Oxford's 
ablest champions, and submitting his 
very examiners to an unexpected or- 
deal of scrutiny. A still more beau- 
tiful instance of quiet courage is that 
evinced by St. Paul before the judg- 
ment-seatof Festus : "Neither against 
the law of the Jews, nor against the 
temple, nor against Caesar, have I 
offended in anything. But Festus, 
willing to show the Jews a pleasure, 
answering Paul, said : Wilt thou go 
up to Jerusalem, and there be judged 
of these things before me ? Then 
Paul said : I stand at Caesar's judg- 
ment-seat where I ought to be judg- 
ed. To the Jews I have done no 
injury, as thou very well knowest 
For if I have injured them, or have 
committed anything worthy of death, 
I refuse not to die. But if there be 
none of these things whereof they 
accuse me, no man may deliver me 
to them : I appeal to Csesar." * It 
was not only a fearless assertion of 
the civil rights and liberty of the sub- 
ject, but also the stirring rebuke to 
the perfidious judge for that he sought 
to transgress the limits of the consti- 



tution. St. Chrysostom's reply to 
the courtier who brought him the 
intimation of the Empress Eudoxia's 
intention to banish him from his see, 
breathes the spirit of conscious forti- 
tude : " Is there any place she can 
send me where God will not be with 
me?" 

There are few things we more ad- 
mire in others than energy of charac- 
ter. Indolence is the weightiest of 
burdens. It has been well said, 
" People that have nothing to do are 
quickly tired of their own company." 
Sluggishness is the paralysis of the 
mind, and the grave of physical 
health. The intellectual faculties of 
the sluggard are like pearls in the 
depths of the sea, or ingots of price- 
less ore in an undiscovered gold- 
field. They are a lost treasure. But 
they are more. Their loss entails 
life-long death. " Desires kill the 
slothful, for his hands have refused 
to work." * The most miserable of 
men is the idler. Pleasure he cannot 
enjoy. Food without an appetite 
is worse than useless ; it is positively 
noxious. A keen relish for delightful 
pastime is the fruit of healthy indus- 
try. But from this the sluggard re- 
volts, as do children from ghosts 
and hobgoblins. For him there needs 
no demon to tempt ; he is the direst 
of tempters to himself. Sloth is the 
couch of Lucifer. Moreover, it sti- 
fles self-respect, awakening in its 
stead a rancorous spirit of hostility 
to those of opposite character. The 
loudest grumblers are idlers. Being 
out of sorts with themselves, they 
, can ill brook the conflicting influen- 
ces of those who relish labor. When 
positive and negative electricity con- 
flict, lightning is the result. And 
when the magic charms of ceaseless 
industry shine like sunbeams on the 
stagnant, marshy nature of the do- 



* Acts xxv. 



* Prov. xxi. 25. 



True Greatness. 



543 



nothing, there is generated a brood of 
vipers which thrive by diffusing poi- 
son. 

It is not wonderful that the saints 
should one and all have declared 
unceasing war against sloth. They 
were prodigies of industry. The 
mighty feats of labor which they suc- 
cessively undertook, and, in most in- 
stances, amid harassing embarrass- 
ment, carried to speedy completion, 
astonish the most energetic. It would 
seem as if their bodies had been re- 
cast in some unearthly mould, whence 
they came forth purged from all ani- 
mal properties. It was not so much 
that they acted in harmonious con- 
cert with the will, as that they ap- 
pear instinctively to have in some sort 
anticipated its behests, outrunning 
it in the race of industry. And as 
the sluggard, imperceptibly, becomes 
so besotted as to seem denaturalized, 
so, on the other hand, the quickened 
energies of the saints assumed an un- 
flagging elasticity, second only to 
the miraculous gift of bilocation, 
whereby, at sundry intervals, they 
were empowered to be simultaneous- 
ly present in different localities. If 
it be true that no great enterprise 
has ever been accomplished without 
sustained effort, and that before the 
levelling force of persistent determi- 
nation the most appalling difficulties 
soon disappear, it is no less certain 
that by none more than by the 
saints has this cheering truth been 
realized. In a just appreciation of 
the value and dignity of labor, and the 
refreshing streams of pleasure that 
flow from it, their history shows them 
to have excelled : nor is it too much 
to say that on this one ground alone 
they would be entitled to the grati- 
tude and veneration of mankind. 

Hence the uniform cheerfulness 
which characterized them, and which 
they ungrudgingly seized every means 
of imparting to others. It is among 



the balmiest comforts which this 
shifting world can bestow to hold 
constant, or even frequent, intercourse 
with men of happy and contented 
minds. They make life a cloudless 
sunshine, beneath whose genial 
warmth the chilling shadows of sor- 
row and depression must needs melt 
rapidly away. The happiest of 
men were the saints. Descrying in 
nature's tiniest product but a feebly 
reflected beam of uncreated beauty, 
they could sing with the Florentine 
bard: 

" La gloria di colui che tutto muove 
Per 1'universo penetra, e risplende 
In una parte piu, e mono altrove. 



O gloriose stelle, o lume pregno 

Di gran virtu, del quale io riconosco 

Tutto, qua! che si sia, il mio ingegno." * 

If to murmur or grumble was with 
them a sin, to be blithe and cheerful 
was the lightest of duties. Hours of 
sadness they indeed had, when their 
own and the world's sins were pre- 
sent to their piercing minds. But 
through those passing eclipses there 
evermore shone out a radiant smile 
glittering sparks, issuing from the 
glowing furnace of the heart within, 
where constantly burned the loving 
recollection of promises sure to be 
redeemed and favors graciously 
vouchsafed. 

"Sweet intercourse 
Of looks and smiles; for smiles from season 

flow- 
To brute denied, and are of love the food.'* 

There are, it seems to us, but few 
more desirable fortunes than a state 
of perpetual cheerfulness. It is one 

* La Divina. Commectia, Paradise, canti i., xxii. 

"The glory of him who gives life and motion 
to all things, penetrates the universe, and shines 
forth with more splendor in one part, and with 
less in another. 

"'o glorious stars ! O light impregnate with 
powerful virtues ! to which I am indebted for all 
my genius, such as it is." 

The above rendering is taken from the admi- 
rable prose translation of the Rev. E. O'Don- 
nell. 



True Greatness. 



which is not to be purchased with 
gold. Its roots must be cast in the 
" eternal hills." The saints under- 
stood this. They held not in fief- 
dom from men their changeless buoy- 
ancy of spirits. It was not with 
them a vortical flux and reflux. 
It was not a checkered alternation 
of rapturous mirth and gloomy dejec- 
tion. Such is the ephemeral glad- 
ness of the shallow humorist or the 
surfeited bon vivant. The cheerful- 
ness of the saints had nothing of the 
spasmodic. It was not a rushing av- 
alanche of fitfully majestic grandeur. 
It was a calm, stilly lake of perennial 
transparency, lying in a hushed val- 
ley of mossy verdure, fringed by a 
redolent clustering of midsummer's 
fairest flowers, reflecting the many- 
colored beauty of a rich autumnal 
foliage, and resounding to the bless- 
ed harmonies of nature's feathered 
choristers. It was a fixed and per- 
manent habit of mind, sustaining the 
faculties in even security, keeping 
the emotions of the will poised in 
rational equilibrum, dispelling all 
care, all discontent, all overween- 
ing solitude, and diffusing through- 
out their being a moral odor of sweet 
and undying fragrance. 

One of the most evident results of 
such a state of mind is a spirit of dis- 
interestedness. This rare gift is, we 
consider, the strongest proof of solid 
virtue. It is also the most winning 
attraction observable in Christian 
character; and this, doubtless, is why 
it is so frequently counterfeited, and 
employed as a subterfuge to disguise 
the petty artifices of selfishness. It 
was not from disinterestedness, but to 
be rid of the anxiety attendant upon 
wealth, that the Grecian philosopher 
cast his gold into the sea. He was 
the founder of a numerous school, 
whose adherents, lacking true great- 
ness of soul, comfort themselves, and 
seek to hoodwink others, by aping 



excellence which they do not possess. 
Disinterestedness, if it implies not 
sacrifice in actu, at least supposes a 
readiness to submit, as often as need 
be, to the loss of private interest. It 
seeks to eradiate, root and branch, 
all narrow self-seeking. Herein lies 
the secret of its power in evoking 
sympathy. It subdues the sternest 
enemy, wins plaudits from the most 
callous observer, captivates all well- 
regulated minds, and goes straight 
to every true, tender, and impressi- 
ble heart. Knaves are well aware 
of its popularity ; conceal under its 
lambkin-like guilelessness their wolf- 
ish cunning; and frequently glide, 
upon its unerring prestige, into sudden 
and unmerited fortune. But only with 
the saints except in instances so 
rare as but to confirm the rule has 
disinterestedness attained its full 
growth. Riches, high position, the 
esteem of the great ones of this world, 
such things they deem it a luxury to 
be able to despise. But they stopped 
not here, for this is but the threshold 
of disinterestedness. A stilly and 
breathless contentment with the ex- 
isting state of things; an ever- vigi- 
lant eagerness to keep self-interest in 
the background, giving due promi- 
nence to all things else; a prompt 
readiness to be ignored rather than 
exalted ; to be tossed to and fro upon 
the sea of life, yet ever be buoyed to 
the surface by uncomplaining indif- 
ference; to be all to all and dead to 
self such is the point they sedulously 
strove to reach. It was this beauti- 
ful quality which so much endeared 
St. Francis de Sales to all with whom 
he held intercourse. There went 
out from him that which distinctly 
assured them that they stood in the 
presence of a superior being. His 
sovereign once declared that there 
was more true nobility in Francis 
than in any king he had ever read 
of, and that he regarded his lofty vir- 



True Greatness. 



tue as something far more to be 
coveted than the throne and sceptre 
of France. Having been requested 
by a distinguished personage to ac- 
cept a purse of gold, he declined for 
the memorable reason that " he real- 
ly knew not what to do with it." Cen- 
turies before, Saul of Tharsus spoke 
in similarly unselfish strains to the 
citizens of Corinth : " Behold now 
the third time I am ready to come 
to you ; and I will not be burthen- 
some unto you. For I seek not the 
things that are yours, butjvw." * 

Disinterestedness finds vent in 
generosity without limit, and in sym- 
pathy which admits of no distinction. 
Greatness embodies these ministering 
angels of succor, and calls them her 
almoners and handmaids. Heroes 
and conquerors have been bravest in 
their deeds of magnanimity most 
honored in their tender considerate- 
ness. " Caesar dando, sublevando, 
ignoscendo, gloriam sibiadeptusest."t 
It is said of Napoleon the First that, 
walking one day on the coast of Ca- 
lais, and meditating the ruin of the 
British empire, he descried an English 
lad furtively launching a tiny skiff, with 
a view to escaping from the navy of 
France and revisiting his native land. 
There was too much of precocious 
daring in the act not to stir the feel- 
ings of a soldier who had conquered 
everything but his cool contempt for 
danger. The emperor gave orders 
that a vessel of the line should be- de- 
spatched to bear the young Saxon to 
the shores of Britain. The achieve- 
ments of human generosity and sym- 
pathy fade into insignificance beside 
the heroism of the saints. Nothing 
was with them too sacred to be trans- 
formed into instruments of sympathy 
into healing balsam to staunch the 
wounds of sorrow and distress. The 



* 2 Cor. xii. 14. 

t " Caesar gained glory for himself, by giving, 
by raising up, by pardoning." 

VOL. XV. 35 



sacred vessels of the altar were con- 
verted into money; the revenues of 
the church were made the patrimony 
of the poor; and asylums of mercy 
went up to meet the ravages of sud- 
den epidemic, wherein the prince- 
ly blood and fine feelings of a St. 
Charles Borromeo and the genius 
of a Bellarmine were happiest and 
most at home in bending over the 
pestilential couch of smitten wretched- 
ness. It is written of the " Seraph of 
Assisi" that, on learning of a dearth 
of provisions among a horde of 
banditti, he furnished them with an 
abundant supply, went in person and 
publicly embraced the bandit chief, 
and soon saw them exchange their 
career of plunder for a life of edifying, 
industry. To the hair-splitting scio- 
list, he would appear to have travelled 
beyond the bounds of orthodoxy and 
sanctioned highway robbery ; but to 
the closer student of the Gospel, he 
will rather resemble him who, going 
out from Gethsemani, kissed the 
worst of robbers, and with his dying 
breath gave paradise to a public 
malefactor. 

We have thus far indicated a few 
of those leading characteristics which, 
if they be not, in the aggregate, true 
moral greatness itself, are recognized 
as among its special and essential in- 
gredients. We cannot take leave 
of this subject without repeating 
what at the outset we intimated, 
namely, that it is in the lives of the 
saints those lofty traits of character 
are most commonly and most en- 
dearingly illustrated. What share 
grace and nature respectively have 
had in the formation and develop- 
ment of each individual one, it has 
not been our object to investigate. 
" Facienti quod in se est Deus 
nunquam denigat gratiam." * One 
thing only the saints sought at the 

* " God never denies grace to one who does 
what he can." 



546 



Religious Processions in Belgium. 



hands of men to be denied a place 
in their memory. While here be- 
low, their wish was for the most part 
realized to the fullest. They were 
of all others the least understood and 
most abused. Their lowliness is now 
fittingly exalted, and, while their bo- 
dies rest in peace, their names shall 
be honored from generation to gene- 
ration. Nor can we conceive any 
means whereby men may more easi- 
ly or more surely attain true great- 
ness, even in the natural order, than 



by striving, however imperfectly, to 
rival those great men and women, 
once the earthly gems of our ran- 
somed humanity, now the sharers of 
its glorified dignity and beauty, whom 
the .church, in the progressive march 
of time, steadily reproduces to our no- 
tice, to strengthen our faith, to vivify 
our hopes, and intensify our un- 
divided love for the Creator in the 
first instance, and then for our 
fellow-creature, without limit or dis- 
tinction. 



RELIGIOUS PROCESSIONS IN BELGIUM. 



IN Belgium the patronal feasts of 
the churches and towns are celebrat- 
ed with great pomp and splendor. 
Each church, on its feast, is adorned 
in the richest style, the streets and 
houses of the parish are decorated 
with green branches and banners; 
high and low, rich and poor, unite to 
do honor to the Blessed Sacrament, 
that is carried in procession on the 
Sunday during the octave, within the 
limits of the parish. From the houses 
of the nobles hang the banners, and 
oriflammes emblazoned with their ar- 
morial bearings ; one common bond 
of sympathy and love unites all ranks, 
one common desire to show homage 
and reverence to the dear Lord and 
Master, who is to be borne in triumph 
in their midst. 

Catholicity has so thoroughly 
moulded the habits and customs of 
the people, the festivals of the church 
make the festivals of the people ; 
consequently, the feast of the church 
is also the Kermefse, as it is called, of 
the people. The parish feast is the 
Petite Kermesse ; the patronal feast 
of the city the Grande Kermesse, 



when all business is suspended, and 
universal rejoicing prevails. 

Bruges celebrates the Grande 
Kermesse on the 6th of May, in 
honor of the Precious Blood, which 
is on that day carried in procession 
from the chapel of Le Saint Sang to 
the cathedral. In the ch'apel of Le 
Saint Sang, the oldest Christian 
building in Belgium, is preserved the 
holiest of relics, the precious blood 
of our Lord, which was expressed 
from the sponge with which his sa- 
cred body was washed after the de- 
scent from the cross. It was brought 
from the Holy Land by Comte 
Thierry d'Alsace, one of the first and 
most distinguished of the early cru- 
saders, and presented to the bishop 
of his native city, Bruges ; where it 
has ever since remained, the object 
of the most faithful love and venera- 
tion. 

Every year, on the 6th of May, 
the Bishop of Bruges and the canons 
of the cathedral go in procession to 
the chapel of Le Saint Sang, carry 
the relic, which is inclosed in a shrine 
of inestimable value, to the cathe- 



Religious Processions in Belgium. 



547 



dral ; high mass is sung, benediction 
given, and then the procession re- 
turns to the chapel, where, during 
the octave, the precious relic is ex- 
posed to the veneration of the faith- 
ful. 

Bruges is one of the oldest and 
most Gothic of the Belgian towns ; 
in the middle ages it was the great 
commercial entrepSt, canals intersect 
it in every direction, but trade has 
moved off to Antwerp and other 
cities, and Bruges is left with only 
the traditions of its former import- 
ance. It is, too, one of the quaintest 
of places ; grass grows in the streets, 
and. ordinarily, it is the quietest of 
towns ; consequently, the English 
affect it a great deal, particularly con- 
verts. In the most retired part of 
the town is the great convent of the 
Dames Anglaises ; the chapel is mag- 
nificent; around the walls are tab- 
lets with the names of the Talbots, 
Giffords, Somersets, Middletons, and 
others who have died in the convent, 
and were its benefactors. The habit 
is beautiful, pure white with black 
veil ; they follow the rule of St. 
Augustine, and are principally En- 
glish ; nothing can be more calm and 
peaceful than their retreat. 

The Hopital St. Jean is also well 
worth seeing, as its gallery of paint- 
ings contains many of the gems of 
Mending and other masters of the 
Flemish school. The hospital is 
under the charge of the Sceurs Hos- 
pitalieres, who are also Augustinians, 
dress in white like the Dames An- 
glaises, but are not quite so elegantly 
picturesque. 

The Palais de Justice, the beauti- 
ful little Hotel de Ville, and the 
Chapel of the Saint Sang, surround 
the Grande Place. It was the eve 
of the Grande Kcnnesse when we 
arrived in Bruges, and all the coun- 
try and adjoining towns had emptied 
into it : the streets and Places were 



crowded with peasants in every im- 
aginable costume; women in round 
caps, pointed caps, peaks on top and 
wings on the side ; every age and style 
was represented. Near the Grand 
Place is a belfry, immensely high, 
called the Carillon, with the most 
delicious chime of bells, which made 
music all the afternoon and evening. 
The bells of Bruges are the most 
famous in Belgium. 

In the Grand Place two or three 
gymnasiums were in full operation ; 
at all the Ketmessfs there are ma- 
chines called moulins, like enor- 
mous rotary engines, with chariots 
for the girls and women, and horses 
for the boys and men, decorated 
with red and gold in the most fantas- 
tic manner. Some of the carriages 
were red, others blue, then yellow, 
and so on ; round and round they 
went, the bands of music playing, 
the children screaming with enjoy- 
ment, the women waving their hand- 
kerchiefs; the people around look- 
ing on delightedly, some smok- 
ing, some drinking, all enjoying 
themselves. In another place, a cir- 
cus was performing in broad day- 
light, clowns jumping and turning 
somersaults, boys standing on 
men's heads, girls poised on the 
shoulders of other muscular indivi- 
duals. The chimes were ringing their 
merriest, and the great bells of the 
cathedral and Notre Dame joined 
their loud voices to the chorus to 
celebrate the eve of the great fes- 
tival. 

Early on the morning of the feast 
we visited the Chapel of the 
Saint Sang, ascended the staircase ; 
a priest sat behind a little altar, 
holding the precious reliquary; we 
kissed the relic, saw with our own 
eyes the crimson life-blood of our 
Blessed Redeemer, shed for us on 
Calvary; passed down the other 
side ; and descended into the subter- 



543 



Religious Processions in Belgium. 



ranean crypt, the oldest church in 
Flanders. Then we visited the ca- 
thedral and Notre Dame, looked at 
the beautiful pictures that adorn the 
walls, and meditated by the tombs 
of the bishops and old dukes of 
Burgundy. In Notre Dame are the 
tombs of Charles the Bold and Maria 
of Burgundy. 

At ten, the high mass commenced 
in the cathedral ; the Bishop of Bru- 
ges sang the mass, the Nuncio's 
throne was opposite, and on the right 
of the Bishop of Bruges the Bishops 
of Ghent, Liege, and Tournai occu- 
pied the first of the canons' stalls, 
crimson velvet hangings being thrown 
over the carved oak in honor of their 
rank. The canons were in their 
stalls ; the seminarians and the rest of 
the clergy had the good pla'ces direct- 
ly in front of the screen. In the ca- 
thedral of Bruges the high altar is 
divided from the rest of the church 
by great marble walls, on top of 
which were splendid hangings of Go- 
belin tapestry; and all that could be 
seen was to be done by peeping 
through the railing of the doors. 

We left at the benediction, and 
made our way out, so as to see the 
procession, which would pass the 
Hotel de Flandre. The lancers 
were drawn up in front of the cathe- 
dral, the streets were lined with 
soldiers, flags and streamers floated 
in the breeze. We had barely reach- 
ed our window when we heard the 
approaching music, the splendid band 
of the lancers. After the cavalry, 
that opened the way and made the 
line, came the infantry ; then the dif- 
ferent parishes, headed by the ban- 
ners, the boys in cassocks and sur- 
plices chanting, the girls in white 
veils and flowers all that was beau- 
tiful. The women came out from the 
houses and strewed flowers and green 
leaves, so that the street looked like 
a carpet. In nearly every detach- 



ment was a girl dressed like the 
Blessed Virgin; in one, it was the 
Queen of Heaven white dress, stud- 
ded with stars, mantle and train of 
blue velvet, gemmed with golden stars, 
diadem and sceptre. In another, the 
Comfortress of the Afflicted ; in an- 
other, the Mother of God; again, 
the Mater Dolorosa. 

Then came one of the most beau- 
tiful divisions : boys dressed to rep- 
resent the different saints of the city 
and churches St. James; St. Sebas- 
tian, with his bow and arrows ; one, 
St. Charles Borromeo, was perfect, 
mitre on the head, superb cross and 
chain, the crosier in his hand the 
little fellow marched with as much 
dignity and grace as the five bishops 
who followed. 

Immediately before the relic was 
borne a splendid statue of the Mo- 
ther of Sorrows, in purple velvet, 
surrounded by the confraternity, 
dressed in purple, covered with large 
black lace veils, followed by the 
" Three Marys." Some artist must 
have dressed and grouped them. 
The Blessed Virgin's face was most 
exquisitely pure and sorrowful, her 
blue mantle and dress fell around her 
with perfect grace; the Magdalene 
supported her on one side, a beauti- 
ful girl, with long flowing hair, su- 
perbly dressed, her arms covered 
with splendid bracelets ; on the other 
side was the third Mary, her arm 
thrown around the Blessed Virgin to 
support her. 

Last of all came the clergy of the 
cathedral, the seminarians flinging 
clouds of incense, the canons in pro- 
cession. The shrine was carried in 
turn by different canons ; immediate- 
ly after walked the Bishop of Bruges, 
giving his benediction, his train 
borne by three boys ; then the three 
other bishops, and the Nuncio, in a 
superb cape and mitre, who likewise 
blessed the people. It was beauti- 



Religious Processions in Belgium. 



549 



ful ; the white dresses of the children, 
the red and gold vestments of the 
priests (all the vestments, of course, 
were red in honor of the Precious 
Blood), the splendid banners, the 
magnificent music, and the pictu- 
resque crowd, made an ensemble not 
easily forgotten. 

In Ghent, the great procession of 
St. Macaire, which only takes place 
once in a century, was celebrated 
May 19, 1867, with extraordinary 
splendor, to implore his intercession 
for the preservation of Belgium from 
pestilence, the cholera, the typhus fe- 
ver, and the cattle disease, which so 
desolated the country the previous 
year. The Cardinal of Malines, all 
the Bishops of Belgium, the Nuncio, 
and Bishop Mermillod, of Geneva, 
who preached the Jubilee, assisted. 
The city was crowded; over 100,000 
strangers from all parts, even from 
France and Germany. 

The Cathedral of St. Bavon is very 
old, dates from 940, and was in its 
gala dress. The shrine of St. Ma- 
caire, of solid silver, a present from 
the city of Mons two hundred years 
ago, was placed upon a temporary 
altar, erected in the middle of the 
transept, surrounded by thousands of 
lights, a canopy of evergreens and 
flowers overshadowed it, and the 
church was decorated with garlands 
of flowers ^hat hung from the ceiling 
in immense festoons ; hundreds of 
pennants suspended from the arched 
roof fluttered above our heads ; and 
the coup d'tKil from the lower part of 
the church, or from behind the main 
altar, was surpassingly beautiful. 

The mass was sung by the Nuncio, 
m the presence of the cardinal and 
the other bishops. After the mass we 
looked at the paintings in all the 
chapels, saw the font where Charles 
V. was made a Christian, and by 
making the most of being strangers 
persuaded a polite young gentleman 



to show us the famous statue of Du- 
quesnoy. Duquesnoy was one of the 
greatest sculptors of his dy ; we had 
seen the beautiful statue of St. Ursu- 
la in the mortuary chapel of the 
Princes of Tour and Taxis, in the 
church of the Sablon in Brussels, and 
were anxious to see the still more fa- 
mous chef-d'oeuvre in the Cathedral 
of Ghent. 

Duquesnoy, unfortunately, was as 
wicked as he was talented, and for 
some great crime was condemned to 
be executed. While in prison he fin- 
ished his last great work, the recum- 
bent figure of one of the bishops of 
Ghent. He devoted his best energies 
to the task, hoping by that means to 
obtain his pardon ; the result was a 
grand success; he had surpassed all 
his former efforts ; but even the great 
triumph could not obtain grace for 
him; the law was inexorable; he 
must die. He asked to see once 
more his beloved statue, upon which 
he had devoted his lonely prison life ; 
he was taken before it, and in de- 
spair and rage he seized a hammer 
and broke off the fingers of the right 
hand. Before he could inflict fur- 
ther damage he was hurried off, 
and burnt before the church of St. 
Nicholas. 

We rambled around the cathedral 
in every direction, looking persever- 
ingly at the right hands of all the 
statues, but all the fingers were per- 
fect ; where was Duquesnoy's ? Men 
were going round clattering the 
keys, pushing the people out, priests 
were in all corners, telling everybody 
the church must be cleared to make 
ready for the procession. We made 
a beseeching appeal to a priest, who 
stood upon the steps leading to the 
choir, that we were strangers, proba- 
bly never would be in Ghent again in 
our lives couldn't we see the statue ? 
He gave a wink to one of the ushers, 
and the young gentleman responded 



550 



Religious Processions in Belgium. 



by inviting us up the steps, and into 
the choir we hurried. 

There w$re three thrones, two on 
the epistle side for the Cardinal and 
Nuncio, one on the gospel side for 
the Bishop of Ghent ; the other bish- 
ops had crimson velvet chairs and 
pries-dieu. Behind the throne of the 
Bishop was the famous statue; the 
fingers have been repaired, but the 
line is visible where the unfortunate 
wretch wreaked his vengeance. Not 
only did we see the statue well, but 
our polite guide insisted upon our 
examining closely the shrine of St. 
Macaire ; so we had a chance of 
admiring the beautiful chasing of the 
repository of the relics. 

After dinner, we took possession 
of our window, and at five the pro- 
cession came in sight. First, the 
lancers to make the line ; then the 
charitable associations of Ghent, the 
confreries of St. Francis Xavier, free 
schools, etc., each headed by superb 
banners. The gem of this part was 
the Jesuit College of'St. Barbe, form- 
ing a group the Triumph of St. 
Aloysius of Gonzaga. The choir- 
boys led the van, then the three car- 
dinals Borromeo, Bellarmin, and 
Gonzaga, preceded by pages bearing 
their escutcheons, followed by others 
carrying their trains ; the statue of 
St. Aloysius, followed by his brother 
Rudolph, Duke of Mantua, preced- 
ed by heralds bearing the arms of 
the house of Gonzaga ; the young 
nobles walked behind, and the avenue 
was formed by halberdiers in the 
dress of the time. The dressing of 
this group was gorgeous ; the sons 
of the first families of Flanders ar- 
rayed in the most magnificent style. 
We have never seen it equalled on 
the stage. 

Then followed in endless succes- 
sion the religious orders of women, 
the Sisters of Charity with the deaf 
and dumb ; the Sisters of the Visita- 



tion with their free schools; the Sis- 
ters of St. Joseph ; the Black Sisters, 
who nurse the sick; the Beguines 
from the Petit and Grand Beguin- 
age with their free schools ; each 
division bearing patron saints deco- 
rated in the most beautiful manner, 
and arranged in the most artistic style. 

The parishes were in full force; 
each parish was a grand procession 
by itself; the schools and confreries 
of each church with its insignia. The 
Living Rosary was exquisite ; bands 
of young girls reciting the rosary ; 
the Five Joyful Mysteries in white, 
with white roses and ribbons; the 
Five Sorrowful, white and violet ; the 
Five Glorious, white and red all with 
gorgeous banners and streamers. 

The' parish of St. John the Baptist 
was distinguished by a group of the 
church militant, suffering, and trium- 
phant. The church militant, young 
girls dressed in white, green wreaths, 
ribbons, and gauze veils floating 
around, indicating the immortal hopes 
of the church ; some bearing on vel- 
vet cushions the triple crown of the 
Pope and the emblems of episcopal 
authority ; the cross borne aloft, 
crowned with garlands, and the words, 
in blazing letters, " Portae inferorum 
non. prsevalebunt contra te ! " The 
church suffering, girls in white, purple 
sashes and wreaths, covered with 
black lace veils, bearing the instru- 
ments of the Passion, the inscription 
on "the cross, " Ave crux, spes uni- 
ca !" The church triumphant, girls 
in white, veils of cloth-of-gold, dress- 
es studded with golden stars, some 
bearing the banners of the Blessed 
Sacrament, others golden palms of 
victory; the cross golden, with the 
legend, surrounded by a halo of 
glory, " In hoc signo vinces !" 

And so passed on the different 
parishes, each followed by the clergy 
of the church in the richest vestments. 
The religious orders of men came 



Religious Processions in Belgium. 



551 



next, and lastly the parish -of the 
cathedral of St. Bavon with the pre- 
cious relics of St. Macaire ; the free 
schools, the confreries, the congrega- 
tion, and the most exquisite historical 
group, representing the courts of the 
King of France and the Comte de 
Flandre as they assisted at the trans- 
lation of the relics of St. Macaire in 
1067 the soldiers, archers, chap- 
lains, standard-bearers, and pages in 
the most accurate costumes. The 
King and Queen of France and the 
Comte de Flandre were magnificent- 
ly dressed ; no tinsel, but superb dia- 
dems and robes of velvet and gold. 

The " Slaves of Mary " formed a 
beautiful group ; a lovely statue of 
the Blessed Virgin, borne aloft, from 
which hung golden chains, carried by 
young ladies, dressed in white, enve- 
loped in white lace veils, the chains 
binding them together. It was dif- 
ficult to choose where all was so 
beautiful, but we were almost tempt- 
ed to say it was the gem. Add to 
this magnificence the streets adorned 
with flags, houses covered with green 
branches and flowers, balconies with 
blue, crimson, and yellow velvet 
hangings glittering with gold, and 
some idea may be formed of the 
uniquely beautiful spectacle. 

The seminary, the cures in sur- 
plice and ermine hanging from the 
left arm,^he deans in copes, the 
canons oPthe cathedral, the bishops 
of Namur, Liege, Bruges, Tournai, 
Geneva, and Ghent in mitre and 
cope, preceding the shrine of St. 
Macaire, borne by priests, surround- 
ed by lights ; then the Nuncio ; and, 
last of all, the Cardinal of Malines 
all the bishops giving the episcopal 
benediction, the people blessing 
themselves in the most earnest, rev- 
erential manner. 

Well may Ghent have been proud 
of her procession ! The Cardinal of 
Malines said it could not have been 



seen anywhere but in Belgium, and 
nowhere in Belgium but in Ghent. 
It was two hours passing our win- 
dow, and five hours going from the 
Chateau des Espagnols, the old 
Abbey of St. Bavon, to the cathedral. 

The Grande Kermesse of Brussels 
is in July, the first Sunday after the 
1 3th, the anniversary of the transla- 
tion of the Tres- Saint- Sacrement de 
Miracle from St. Catharine's to 
the beautiful collegiate church of St. 
Gudule. In the fourteenth century, 
in the year 1370, sixteen hosts were 
stolen by the Jews from the taber- 
nacle of St. Catharine, carried to 
their synagogue, and on Good 
Friday they assembled to gratify their 
hate; they placed them upon a 
table, stabbed them blood flowed. 
Shocked at what they had done, 
but not converted, even by what 
they had seen, they tried to get rid 
of them, and induced a woman to 
carry them to their brethren in Co- 
logne. The woman had been re- 
cently converted, and although, from 
love of gold, she consented to con- 
ceal the crime, she determined to re- 
veal all to the priest who had re- 
ceived her into the church. She car- 
ried them to him, avowing the part 
she had taken in the whole affair; 
the authorities arrested the Jews, the 
guilty ones were executed, the rest 
banished from Brussels, and their 
property confiscated. 

St. Catharine's was a chapel of St. 
Gudule's; so the clergy went in 
grand procession, followed by the 
reigning sovereigns, nobility, and dig- 
nitaries, to bring them to St. Gudule-'s. 
The Jews had destroyed some of 
them; there only remained three, 
which are the especial objects of 
veneration in Brussels. The syna- 
gogue where the outrage wtis com- 
mitted was bought by Comte de Sa- 
lagar, and converted into a chapel ; 
but as it was small, a beautiful cha- 



552 



Religious Processions in Belgium. 



pelle expiatoire, designed by Pugin, 
has been erected adjoining. At- 
tached to it is a community of la- 
dies, semi-religious, who perpetually 
adore the Blessed Sacrament in the 
spot where it was profaned ; besides 
their office of perpetual adoration, 
they devote themselves to good 
works pertaining to the Blessed Sac- 
rament; they make vestments for 
poor churches and missions, instruct 
children for the first communion, 
visit the sick, and prepare the dying 
for the holy viaticum. 

Where once the most cruel hate 
was shown, now the most ardent 
love is manifested. The sanctuary 
is always perfumed with the choicest 
flowers, the altar blazes with light, 
and the incense of prayer and adora- 
tion is ever offered, to atone for the 
awful insult. On Holy Thursday, 
the ladies of Brussels send their rich- 
est jewels to adorn the repository, 
which is always in the old syna- 
gogue; and when one glances from 
the tablet, which tells that on this 
spot the shocking deed was perpetra- 
ted, he beholds, enthroned on high, 
the holy of holies, surrounded by 
diamonds, rubies, sapphires, eme- 
ralds, and pearls. 

The Tres- Saint- Sacrement de Mi- 
racle is preserved in St. Gudule's ; 
Charles V. built the beautiful chapel 
of the Blessed Sacrament, and the 
superb windows were presented by 
his royal sisters, the Queens of Portu- 
gal and Hungary, his brother, Fer- 
dinand, King of the Romans, and 
Franci^ I. of France. The sanctuary 
is surrounded by a cordon of lamps, 
always burning, and the monstrance 
presented by the Due d'Arenberg is 
ablaze with jewels. When the Pays 
Bas were under the rule of Austria, 
the Austrian sovereigns lavished upon 
this chapel every mark of affection ; 
the most superb laces, worth thou- 
sands of francs, and jewels ; and the 



unfortunate Marie Antoinette sent 
her wedding-necklace of diamonds to 
be suspended around the monstrance. 
The week before the festival, a re- 
treat is always given in the Chapelle 
Expiatoire, and during the octave 
there are sermons by some famous 
preacher every day at St. Gudule's. 
One year the retreat was given by 
Pere Hermann, in religion Frere Au- 
gustin Marie du Tres-Saint-Sacre- 
ment, a converted Jew, then a bare- 
footed Carmelite. He was a great 
artist, Liszt's best pupil, the idol of 
the salons of Paris, Vienna, Brussels, 
and all the capitals of Europe, and 
was converted by the Blessed Sacra- 
ment in a miraculous manner. He 
told us the history of his conversion. 
Said he : " I was invited to play the 
organ in a church in Paris for some 
great charity. I consented. I played. 
At the benediction I ceased, I looked 
on ; when in an instant I felt that I 
knew that God was in the Blessed 
Sacrament. I fell on my knees. I 
adored, and for some time was insen- 
sible to all around. But, although 
convinced, I was not converted. Fur 
three months I continued my artist- 
life, when, one day in St. Gudule's, in 
the chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, 
I received my coup de grace. I resist- 
ed no longer; I became a Catholic; 
and you see me now before you, a 
Carmelite." We asked hi*, if it was 
true that he had been such a great 
artist. " Yes," he answered ; " that 
is, in the history of music Liszt con- 
sidered me his best pupil; as such, 1 
accompanied him in his tours, and 
he presented me to' all the crowned 
heads as his future successor," His 
preaching was wonderful, always on 
the Blessed Sacrament, and when he 
turned to the tabernacle his counte- 
nance was inflamed with love. 

The grand procession leaves St. 
Gudule's after the High Mass, winds 
its way through the streets, adorned 



Religious Processions in Belgium. 



553 



in the most gorgeous manner mili- 
tary music, soldiers, the different 
parishes with their respective cler- 
gy, children strewing flowers, and 
priests swinging censers before the 
Tres-Saint-Sacrement de Miracle, 
which is borne under a magnificent 
canopy by the deacon and sub-dea- 
con of the Mass, followed by the 
dean. Through the kneeling crowds 
they march until they reach the 
picturesque Grande Place, and there, 
on an altar ornamented with the na- 
tional colors, the Blessed Sacrament 
is exposed for adoration. 

At that moment it is superb ; the 
military form the square, the beauti- 
fully dressed children kneel in the 
centre, the clergy are ranged on the 
high flight of steps leading up to the 
altar incense is burning from huge 
urns ; the dean intones the Tantum 
Ergo, it is taken up by hundreds and 
then the bell rings, the drums roll, 
the soldiers present arms, the dean 
raises the Tres-Saint-Sacrement de 
Miracle, and gives the benediction to 
the Hotel de Ville, and in blessing 
that hall blesses the city. 

The Assumption is the festival of 
Antwerp, and on that day the grand 
church of Notre Dame is en fete ; 
therefore, as the mother rejoices, the 
children must be happy. The church 
is the largest and richest in Belgium ; 
seven aislap wide; the pillars are so 
numerous, it looks like a forest ; the 
style is simple, but very fine, pure 
Gothic. The main altar was splen- 
didly illuminated by hundreds of wax 
candles, and all down the nave the 
most magnificent banners were sus- 
pended from the columns, producing 
a superb relief. The music was ex- 
cellent, Haydn's Imperial Mass, with 
orchestra and organ and admirably 
trained voices. Near the main altar 
are the chefs-d'oeuvre of Rubens the 
Ascent and Descent from the Cross. 

When we left the cathedral, we 



stood for a while contemplating the 
grand tower, from the top of which 
on a clear day can be seen Malines, 
Brussels, Bruges, and Ghent. The 
tower is a mass of the most elaborate 
tracery, and the filigree carving is so 
delicate, Charles V. said it should 
be put under glass, and Napoleon 
compared it to Malines lace. There 
is a delicious carillon or chime of 
ninety-nine bells, which ring every 
ten minutes, and are played by ma- 
chinery, put up in 1540; the great 
bell, named Charles after its god- 
father, Charles V., requires sixteen 
men to ring it; consequently, it is 
only used on great festivals ; and as 
this was the Grande Kermesse of 
Antwerp, we heard it. 

Near by the cathedral is the foun- 
tain cast in iron by Quentin Matsys, 
one of the great Flemish painters, 
when he was a blacksmith. The 
story is he fell in love with the 
daughter of an artist, who would not 
consent to the marriage until the 
blacksmith should also become an 
artist. So Quentin Matsys left the 
forge for the pencil, and became one 
of the glories of his country. His 
tomb is in the cathedral, his statue 
ornaments one of the great Places, 
and his memory is ardently cherished 
by his native city. 

We were in front of the Hotel de 
Ville, a gloomy looking building, 
built by the Duke of Alva in the 
gloomiest Spanish style, and saw the 
procession pass. It was very fine ; 
the banners of Antwerp are un- 
equalled in the northern part of Eu- 
rope; they were the glories of the 
procession. The statue of the Bless- 
ed Virgin was gorgeously dressed in 
a mass of gold, lace, and precious 
stones. The banners were sufficient- 
ly splendid in the beginning, but as 
the canopy over the Blessed Sacra- 
ment appeared, they became more 
and more dazzling, perfectly resplen- 



554 



Little Love. 



dent in the bright sun. The golden 
lamps borne around the canopy 
added to the gorgeousness, the vest- 
ments of the clergy corresponded ; 
and as eVery one in the procession 
carried a light, it was like a stream 
of fire quivering along the Place. 
Files of soldiers made the outer line, 
and splendid military bands played 
at intervals. 

One of the events of this Grande 
Kermesse was the unveiling of the 



statue of Teniers, another great 
Flemish painter. Antwerp is justly 
proud of her artist sons, and in her 
Places can be seen the statues of 
Rubens, Vandyck, Quentin Matsys, 
and Teniers children whom the mo- 
ther delights to honor; but greatest 
of all her glories is the grand Cathe- 
dral of Notre Dame, which speaks 
for the faith of the past that could 
raise such a glorious monument to 
the living God. 



LITTLE LOVE. 



BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSE OF VORKE." 
" Of such is the kingdom of heaven." 



THE first evening-bell of the 

N State Prison had rung, and 

the deputy-warden stood in the 
guard-room taking the ward keys 
from their nail, and looking at his 
revolver. A guard watched from 
each of the windows toward the 
yard, and at one of the narrow loop- 
holes beside the door stood a little 
figure on tiptoe peeping out, only ' 
half her face reaching above the 
wood- work. 

This was Minnie Raynor, the 
warden's daughter a child so happy 
and beautiful, that lips unused 
to fanciful talk called her fanciful 
names ; a child so sweet, too, that 
tender looks and thoughts ever follow- 
ed her. Rough men patted her nest- 
ling cheek, and called her " darling " ; 
to her father, she was " my angel "; 
but her mother went to the heart of 
the matter, and called her " Little 
Love." 

The deputy went toward the 
door near which she stood. " O 



Minnie ! is it you ?" he asked ; " or is 
it a ray of sunshine that has come in 
at the window?" 

She laughed as she settled down 
from tiptoe, and turned her head; 
and the level sunshine steeped her 
through dimpled, delicate face,, 
luminous brown eyes, flaxen hair, 
and all her baby whiteness. 

" May I go out with you ?" she 
asked in a voice of childish sweet- 
ness. 

" Certainly !" he answered. " Please 
open the door for me ; my hands 
are full." 

She tried, in perfect good faith, to 
do as he bade her; and the men 
watched, between amusement and 
admiration, those tiny rosy hands 
that pulled ineffectually at iron bar 
and nail-studded oaken door. 

" I can't make it move," she said 
at length; and, looking about, per- 
ceived that they were laughing at 
her. 

They went out on to the platform, 



Little Love. 



555 



and the door was closed behind 
them. 

" Now stand close to me while I 
ring the bell, and watch the men file 
in, then we will go down to the pri- 
son," the deputy said. 

At the second bell, the convicts 
marched slowly out of the different 
shops, joined in the yard, and passed 
by, on their way to the prison, the 
stairs at the head of which stood the 
deputy and Minnie Raynor. 

The child looked in wonder at 
that long line of silent men, who 
walked so close together, with inter- 
locked steps, and never raised their 
faces. There was something in it 
that provoked her to mischief. Sor- 
row and sin she knew nothing of, 
and she had never seen in those 
about her a gravity which her smiles 
could not banish. Why should she 
not be a sunbeam to this cloud 
also ? 

There was a flit of ^Yhite drapery 
at the deputy's side, and a toss of 
yellow-flaxen hair. 

" Come back, and wait for me," he 
said hastily, his eyes fixed on the ad- 
vancing line. 

There was a trill of bird-toned 
laughter, and Minnie Raynor scam- 
pered down the stairs as fast as her 
feet could carry her. 

The officer dared not go after her, 
nor remove his eyes from his charge, 
but he leaned a little, and tried to 
catch her. She laughed, and fled 
on, leaving her blue sash in his 
hand, and, reaching the outer door 
of the prison, stood looking at the 
convicts as they passed by her. 

Hundreds of men were there, each 
stained by some dark crime, yet 
Minnie smiled into their faces, 
and saw nothing to fear or dislike. 
And ia every face, as she looked, 
dimly, as in troubled waters, there 
shone back on her a faint and far- 
away reflection of remembered child- 



hood and innocence. Every hard 
face softened, and met her glance 
with brightening eyes, and every 
heart blessed her the warden's 
bonnie little daughter. 

Near the end of the line was a 
man whose overseers never turned 
their backs on him of whom every 
officer in the prison was wary. This 
man, William Jeffries, had been ten 
years under sentence of death for 
wilful murder, and had passed that 
time in daily expectation of the order 
for his execution. 

If personal beauty had aught to 
do with virtue, one might say that 
this sentence was an unjust one ; for 
the convict was not only strikingly 
handsome, but had an air of superi- 
ority. The black hair was thrown 
carelessly back, and left fully ex- 
posed the marble-white, exquisite 
features, whose expression, when he 
looked down, was one of pride and 
melancholy. But when he raised 
those full black eyes, the beholder 
shrank involuntarily from their hard 
and brilliant regard. No smile ever 
was seen on those compressed, 
haughty lips; they never spoke save 
when obliged to, and never asked a 
favor. And it was well known that 
he watched, day and night, for any 
chance of escape, and cherished 
a deep, cold hate for his keepers. 

As he approached her, Minnie 
smiled up into his face, then started 
forward, and, taking his hand, walked 
01^ with him, to the horror of the 
guards and the malicious amusement 
of the convicts. For the man him- 
self, he merely submitted to the soft 
clasp of her fingers, and kept his 
eyes downcast; but his face turned 
a deep red, which had not faded 
when he reached his cell door. 

There the overseer interfered, and 
drew Minnie away, just as she was 
entering the cell. 

" I want to go into his play-house, 



556 



Little Love. 



and see the pretty pictures on the 
walls," she said. 

"You must not!" was the reply. 
" It is wicked to go in. there. It's no 
place for you." 

Jeffries drew his cell-door to, and, 
as he stood holding it, gave the over- 
seer a glance. That glance blazed. 

" Don't stare at me !" the officer 
exclaimed. 

The convict lowered his eyes. 

Minnie walked on reluctantly to 
the end of the ward, and stood there 
while the cell doors were locked; 
then, when she saw the hands pushed 
through ,the gratings, she ran down 
the walk, full of frolic, and caught 
one of them. 

"You can't get it away!" she 
cried, holding on to the white and 
well-formed hand with her tiny fin- 
gers. 

Had any of his keepers been in 
front of Jeffries' cell then, they would 
scarcely have recognized him. The 
bold eyes were soft and humid, the 
pallid face faintly colored, and a 
smile of tender sweetness trembled 
about the mouth. 

Minnie leaned close against the 
grating, and looked through at the 
pictures that lined the walls of the 
cell. Only the iron rods separated 
her head from that guilty breast, 
some of her bright locks pushed 
through and touched the convict's 
sleeve, and her tender hands still ca- 
ressed that hand that had been 
stained with a brother's blood. 

"Are they your pictures?" she 
asked. 

He reached, and, taking the pretti- 
est one from the wall, gave it to her. 
Not even to her would he break the 
rule of silence. 

" O Minnie ! Minnie !" said the 
deputy chidingly, as he came down 
the walks, after making his rounds. 
" Why did you run away from me ?" 

She displayed her picture with 



childish delight. " He gave it to 
me," she said, nodding toward the 
convict. " Isn't he good ?" 

" He is very kind," the officer re- 
plied. " Did you thank him ?" 
" Well, we must go now. You can 
come again some other time." 

" Good-bye !" Minnie called out 
to her new friend. " I shall come to 
see you again very soon. And I 
want to kiss you now," running back 
again. 

The deputy, with the child's hand 
in his, hesitated, and looked embar- 
rassed. He made a point of being 
scrupulously civil to the convicts, 
and was particularly careful not to 
offend this one ; but he shrank from 
allowing such a leave-taking. 

" It won't hurt her, sir," said the 
prisoner, in an eager voice. " She is 
too pure to take a stain." 

The child's hand was released, the 
convict bent inside his cell, and took 
the kiss she gave him through the 
bars ; then Minnie went into the 
house with her protector. 

" I am not sure that I like it," Mr. 
Raynor said, after he had heard the 
story. He took the child in his 
arms. " I am not sure that I shall 
let my angel go down to that place 
again." 

" But, father," his wife said gently, 
" if our angel can do good there, we 
ought not to refuse. I should not 
wish her to go unguarded, nor. in- 
deed, very often in any way ; but 
she might go down occasionally with 
one of us, or the deputy. As Jef- 
fries says, she is too pure to take a 
stain." 

The wife prevailed ; and, there- 
after, Minnie Raynor's sweet face 
often cheered the gloom of the pri- 
son. The convicts learned to bless 
her small shadow as it fell across the 
work or book carried close to the 
cell door for light. They would start 
and smile at anv si<m of her coming 



Little Lore. 



a laugh, a word, or the patter of 
light feet on the stones. Those who 
were on the side of the prison next 
the street thought themselves repaid 
if, after a day of toil and silence, they 
caught a glimpse of the child in a 
window, or in the garden of the war- 
den's house. They fabricated won- 
derful toys for her in their leisure 
hours balls that bounded marvel- 
lously, ornaments carved from soup- 
bones, and rattles that were a puzzle 
to take apart or put together. In 
return, she gave them smiles and 
thanks, and whatever dainty she 
could coax from her mother to carry 
in. 

But to no one was this fair vision 
so dear as to him on whom she had 
first bestowed her preference ; for on 
her he concentrated all the softness 
which the others showed toward any 
one who noticed them. She was the 
only one to whom he spoke, on 
whom he smiled ; and for her sake 
he would humble himself to any ex- 
tent. He who had before scorned 
to ask a favor, now begged for tools 
and materials to make toys for the 
warden's daughter. He showed 
jealousy when she noticed any one 
else he begged her constantly for 
assurances of affection. On her he 
poured out all the suppressed tender- 
ness of his heart; for she was the 
only being who had ever come to 
him with perfect trust the only be- 
ing who believed him good. 

' I think you are real nice," she 
would say, gazing at him admiring- 
ly. " And you are pretty, too. I 
wish that you lived in our house, so 
that I could see you all the time." 

Once, when she was missing from 
the prison several days, Jeffries could 
scarcely taste his food, and at length, 
unable longer to endure the suspense, 
he asked for her. 

" Is anything the matter witli the 
warden's daughter, sir ?'' 



" Is that any of your business ?" 
the overseer demanded roughly. 

The warden, unseen by him, was 
at his elbow, and reproved his rude- 
ness sharply. 

" A civil question deserves a civil 
answer," he said ; " and you are not 
lowered by speaking to one whom 
my daughter talks with. Minnie is 
well, Jeffries, and I will tell her that 
you inquired. She has been away 
on a visit." 

The longing for freedom had nev- 
er left this man's heart, and now a 
new motive for desiring it was added. 
Minnie had confided to him her de- 
sire to own a little gold watch with 
hands that went round and round ; 
and, even while listening to her, he 
had resolved that, should he ever es- 
cape, he would buy and send to her 
the tiniest and prettiest gold watch 
that could be found. He dreamed 
over this plan, as other men dream 
over ambition or love. He fancied 
the brown eyes dilating at sight of 
a package addressed to herself, the 
dear little head advanced in eager 
curiosity as father and mother broke 
the package open, her cry of delight 
and wonder when she saw its con- 
tents, the dimpled hands that snatch- 
ed at the gift, and the sweet voice ut- 
tering thanks to the far-away " Mr. 
William," as she had chosen to call 
him. 

Always, now, this golden thread 
ran through the dark and tragical 
web of his retrospections and antici- 
pations. 

Thus more than six months pass- 
ed away. The fall and winter were 
over, and spring had come again; 
and those mysterious impulses of new 
life which the reawakening of nature 
brings to the human heart made this 
man's confinement every day less 
tolerable to him. He said to him- 
self that he should go mad if it were 
longer continued. The monotony 






558 



Little Love. 



and restraint were hard enough ; but 
that constant dread of the sword of 
justice, for ever suspended over him, 
was a torture. Hanging would be 
better than such a life. 

Early in the spring Jeffries had 
been moved from his cell on the in- 
ner side of the block to one next the 
street, and through the long window 
opposite his grating he could see the 
warden's house, its visitors coming 
and going, its pleasant, open win- 
dows, with curtains blowing in and 
out, and, better than all else, he 
could see little Minnie at her play in 
house or garden. He could see her 
dance into the breakfast-room at 
morning, and run to kiss her father, 
who would lift her to her place at the 
table. He knew that she drank milk 
from a silver mug, and that she 
sometimes took a lump of sugar from 
the sugar-bowl. He could see her 
mother lead her away to bed at 
evening, and knew that she always 
took a pet kitten with her, sometimes 
in her arms, sometimes chasing 
through the hall after her. , He could 
see her by day soberly hushing a doll 
to sleep, bending absorbed over a 
picture-book, or romping in the gar- 
den. Once she stumbled and fell 
there, and the convict, watching her, 
sprang at his bars as though he would 
break them. He gazed an hour 
after she was carried into the house, 
and let his supper grow cold while 
he waited to assure himself that she 
was not much hurt. Being satisfied 
at length, he ate his cold mush and 
molasses, and drank his cold tea 
without milk, and lay down to dream 
of his idol. 

There was good reason for his be- 
ing peculiarly anxious about his little 
friend that night and indifferent about 
his supper, for he meant to be a free 
man the next day or to seal his fate 
at once. All his preparations were 
made. He had sewed another dark 



half under the gray half of his suit, so 
that by ripping a few stitches he 
could pull off the gray leg of his pan- 
taloons, the gray side of his cap and 
jacket, and appear in plain dark 
clothes, and he had procured a guard- 
key and a slender iron bar two feet 
long, to defend himself -with if at- 
tacked. 

Besides these preparations, he had 
been careful to make a good impres- 
sion on the minds of his keepers. He 
had been so quiet and docile that for 
some time no search had been made, 
and no suspicions entertained of his 
designs. Moreover, he had for the first 
time since his condemnation begun 
to speak of trying to have his sentence 
commuted to imprisonment for life, 
of course with the appearance of 
hoping for ultimate pardon. No one 
would suspect him of risking his life 
in trying to escape while he had any 
chance of a commutation. 

Jeffries had been for months at 
work on a doll-house, which he meant 
as a surprise to the warden's daughter, 
and also as a souvenir, and a help in 
his escape. From the carriage-shop 
he had begged fine wood, and, since 
no tool could be taken to the cells, 
he had been allowed to shape the 
parts of his cottage in the same shop. 
Every night, unknown to his keepers, 
he had bartered away his supper 
to the convict in the next cell, re- 
ceiving in return glue to fasten his 
work together, a bit of glass to smooth 
the wood, and oil to polish it. It was 
really a beautiful toy-house, for the 
man had taste and. ingenuity, and a 
heart to do his bes''. It was finished 
with windows, doors, and balconies, 
and the rooms inside were carpeted 
and curtained with silk and velvet, 
and had chairs and tables so finely 
carved out of bones the convicts 
saved from their dinners as to look 
like delicate ivory work. All his 
leisure time for months had been 



Little Love. 



559 



given to perfecting this gift, and now 
it was completed, and there remained 
only to present it. 

It was a bright evening in May, 
and the chaplain was going his 
rounds, changing the books, and 
speaking a kind word here and there. 
Minnie, who had recovered from her 
fall, was with him, and when they 
reached Jeffries' cell, she went no far- 
ther. She seldom got beyond that, 
and to-night it was impossible to do 
so ; for the prisoner now showed her 
his present, and promised that the 
next day it should be given into her 
possession. 

Minnie gazed in rapturous delight 
while he displayed its beauties to her. 
She could scarcely wait till morning 
to inspect it more closely, and she 
put her hands through the bars to 
touch it, and make sure that it \tas 
real. 

The chaplain admired and praised, 
then went on. " I see that I must 
go alone, Minnie," he said. " I can- 
not expect you to leave such an at- 
traction as that." 

" Will you remember me for this, 
darling ?" the prisoner asked, when 
the two were left to themselves. 

" Oh ! yes," she answered fervently. 
" I will love you always. My father 
says that you want to go home, and 
when the governor conies here again, 
I'm going to ask him to let you. 
The governor is a splendid man, and 
lets me coax him. But he pulls my 
hair. Though," she added, after a 
pause, " he pulls it real easy." 

" Do you love the governor better 
than you do me ?" the convict asked 
jealously, with a real pang at heart. 
What did that man, high in wealth, 
rank, and happiness, want of this lit- 
tle girl ? Jeffries began to conceive 
a dislike for him, to think that even 
pardon would be unwelcome from 
him. 

" I love you best," Minnie said 



thoughtfully, " and" lookingup with 
serious eyes " I'm saying prayers 
for you every night, and asking God 
to save you. Mamma said I might.'* 

"To save me !" he repeated. 

"Yes. What is save, Mr. Wil- 
liam ? Mamma said it is something 
good." 

" I I don't know," he replied, 
both puzzled and embarrassed. Re- 
ligion was about the last subject he 
would have thought of; and when 
the chaplain mentioned it profession- 
ally, the brilliant, scornful eye of Jef- 
ies had often checked the words 
upon his lips. But that his darling 
and idol should pray for him, was a 
very different thing. 

Steps were heard returning. Jef- 
fries hastily snatched the little hands 
still stretched through the bars, kiss- 
ed them passionately, then turned 
away from the door. 

" Come, little lady i" the chaplain 
called out. 

" Good-bye, Mr. William !" Min- 
nie said, with her face pressed close 
to the grating. 

He echoed her good-bye hoarsely, 
without looking round. 

" Good-bye !" she said again, lin- 
gering, and wishing to see his face. 
" I shall come soon again." 

He made no reply, and she was 
obliged to go. But no sooner had 
she gone than he sprang to the door 
again, and listened hungrily for the 
sound of her retreating footsteps, 
cursing the chaplain's heavy boots 
and empty talk. It was her last 
visit to him there, he knew. 

The warden had gone away from 
home for a day or two, and the de- 
puty had entire charge. So com- 
pletely had Jeffries' appearance im- 
posed on him, he consented to allow 
him the privilege of presenting to 
Minnie Raynor her playhouse with 
his own hands. 

" He is so fond of her, and has 



560 



Little Love, 



taken such pains to make the baby- 
house, it seems a pity he should not 
have the pleasure of giving it to her," 
he said. "It is best to encourage a 
man who is trying to reform. Last 
year there wasn't a worse man in the 
prison, now there isn't a better one, 
and it is all that child's doing. Mrs. 
Raynor is willing, and there is no 
reason why I should object. I want 
Jeffries to see that I trust him." 

One of the guard drew his face 
down to a preternatural length, and 
gave a low whistle. " The deputy's 
soft," he whispered to a companion.* 

The deputy heard the whistle, 
though not the whisper, and his spirit 
rose. 

" Any one who knows better than 
I do, had better take my place," he 
said. 

" I don't profess to know more 
than you do in other things, sir," the 
guard answered. " But I've been in 
this prison ten years, and I have 
learned something of the quirks and 
turns of convicts. I believe that fel- 
low cares no more for Minnie Ray- 
nor than I do for the man in the 
moon. He is trying to curry favor 
with the warden, to get a commu- 
tation, or get eased up so that he 
may cut and run." 

" We'll see who is right," the 
deputy said. " Meantime, I don't 
mean to give him a chance to cut 
and run." 

About ten o'clock in the forenoon, 
Jeffries was called out of his shop, 
the toy-house was given him, and he 
was bidden go up-stairs to meet the 
little lady who had come out for her 
present. 

A great color rushed to his pallid 
face at this summons, and a great 
breath swelled his breast. The hour 
has come ! After ten years of servi- 
tude and confinement, the green 
fields and the wide world were before 
him, if he succeeded. If he failed, 



speedy death would be his reward 
for the attempt. He well knew that 
if he were prevented from going out, 
or arrested when he had once got out, 
the order for his execution would be 
issued immediately. He had been 
warned of that. 

His heart beat hard and high as 
he stepped from the shop, but it sank 
in his bosom as he glanced across 
the yard. There stood Minnie at 
the head of the stairs, to be sure; 
but the deputy stood beside her in 
an attitude that showed plainly he 
was on his guard, and the door was 
locked behind them. 

He had expected to be called into 
the guard-room, or, at least, that 
Minnie would have stood in the open 
door. Moreover, besides these pre- 
cautions, his quick eye caught the 
gleam of a scarcely covered rifle-bar- 
rel at one of the windows. 

But he went up firmly, without 
any appearance of disappointment, 
and presented his gift to the child, 
smiling on her involuntarily, even at 
that bitter moment. 

Minnie took her present with de- 
light, and, being unable to hold it, 
put it into the deputy's hand. Then, 
before either of them divined her in- 
tention, she flung her arms around 
the convict's neck, and gave him a 
loving kiss. 

It was too much. In the despair 
of that moment, he cared little for 
the curious eyes that watched him. 
Clasping the child in his arms, he 
burst into tears. 

There was a moment of silence. 
All were awed by such a display of 
emotion in such a man. In that mo- 
ment Jeffries had controlled himself, 
put away the little hands that ten- 
derly strove to wipe his tears, and 
turned to descend the steps. 

The guard inside unlocked the 
door, and the deputy was leading his 
charge in. Jeffries was half-way 



Little Love. 



561 



down the stairs when the click of the 
lock struck his ear, and stiffened his 
nerves like steel. One bound, and 
he was within the door, pushing with 
main strength against three men who 
struggled to close the lock before he 
could enter. The strength of des- 
peration was his, and he overcame 
them, and entered the guard-room, 
caught Minnie Raynor in his arms, 
as a shield, while he hastily pulled 
out the bar of iron suspended from his 
waist, and fumbled for the guard-key 
which was to unlock the last door 
that stood between him and liberty. 

It was all the work of a minute. 
The child clung to his breast, pale 
and trembling, and hid her face in 
affright from the muzzles of fire-arms 
that sought to find him unguarded, 
and, holding her as his defence, 
Jeffries reached the outward door. 

An accident favored him, for it 
was the hour for changing guard on 
the walls, and the relieved guard, 
coming up outside, opened the door 
behind the fugitive. The surprise 
was too sudden. They could not 
stop him. Still holding the child for 
a shield, Jeffries sprang down the 
outer stairs, and found himself in the 
opened yard of the warden's house. 

But the alarm-bell had been rung, 
and a command shouted across the 
posts, and as thq fugitive fled across 
the green to the gate, he was con- 
fronted by one man, while two others 
followed close on his steps. There 
was no help for it. This man in his 
path must be disabled. He dropped 
the child from his arms, and raised 
the iron bar at the same moment 
that his opponent, having apparently 
more faith in the strength of the 
stock than the accuracy of his aim, 
lifted the butt-end of his rifle for a 
blow. 

You shall not strike him !" cried 
Minnie Raynor, and flung herself 
forward to shield her friend ; and, at 
VOL. xv. 36 



the same instant, both blows fell. 
The guard aimed falsely, but the 
convict, striking with fierce precision, 
would have hit his adversary but for 
that loving interposition. Alas ! the 
blow struck the fair temple of the 
prisoner's dearest and only friend. 

Minnie Raynor dropped like a 
flower before the scythe of the mower. 

All was confusion. The mother 
rushed shrieking from the house, 
men came from the street, the guard 
from the prison. There was a mo- 
ment when he might have escaped, 
but Jeffries did not take advantage 
of it. Throwing himself dow r n by 
the child, he called upon her in 
agony, kissed her pale lips, and chaf- 
ed her chilling'hands. " O my God ! 
my God !" he muttered. 

They surrounded and bound him. 

" I won't try to run away, I swear 
I won't !" he cried wildly. " Don't 
mind me ; see to her. Go for a doc- 
tor. Do something for her quickly. 

God ! O God ! Open your 
eyes, my angel! I didn't mean to 
hurt you. I would rather stay here 
all my life, or be hanged to-day, than 
hurt you, my darling!" 

They tore him away from her, and 
carried him back to prison. There 
they searched him, but found nothing, 
but a lock of silken hair in his breast, 
done up in a paper. 

" She gave it to me," he said pite- 
ously, but made no remonstrance 
when they did not return it to him. 

" Only see how she is, ,and tell 
me," he begged. " You know I've 
got to hang now, and you know .that 

1 wouldn't have hurt a hair of her 
head for my life. I didn't mean to 
strike any one, except in self-defence. 
You can't blame me for trying to 
escape. It was only natural. But ' 
tell me how she is." 

The deputy looked at him fixedly. 
" The child never breathed after 
you struck her," he said. 



562 



Little Love. 



The eyes of the convict remained 
wide open, and fixed on the speak- 
er's face. And, still with that gaze 
full of horror, he sank at the officer's 
feet. 

He lay in the punishment-cell that 
night without sleeping, apparently 
without sense. And he lay there all 
the next day in darkness, quiet and 
silent, never tasting food. 

The second morning, the warrant 
for his execution was read to him. 

" I am glad of it !" was all his 
comment. 

They put him back into his cell, 
no change being made in his fate on 
account of the child's death. One 
had but to look into his face to see 
that his punishment Was severe 
enough. One only request he made ; 
that, after his death, the little lock of 
hair which Minnie had given him 
might be put into his breast, and bu- 
ried with him. Then he set himself 
to prepare for death. 

" She wanted me to be saved, and 
1 will not disappoint her, if I can 
help' it," he said. 

The chaplain of the prison and 
the warden's family were Protes- 
tants; but Jeffries hated the chap- 
lain, and he recollected having heard 
Minnie speak of a certain " splendid 
priest " in the town, who had once 
given her a picture of a lady with a 
baby in her arms, and a gold ring 
round her head. The child knew 
nothing of creeds, and had clung as 
trustingly, perhaps more trustingly, 
to the black-robed father, than to any 
of the clergymen who visited her 
father's house. 

For this priest Jeffries sent. 

" I know nothing of God, nor of 
religion, sir," he said. "But I have 
only a few days to live, and I want 
to repent, and make what atone- 
ment I can. I can say sincerely that 
I am sorry I have not lived a better 
life, and that I deserve all the pun- 



ishment I have had. If God should 
refuse to forgive me, I will not blame 
him. But I think he will not. The 
God who made that little angel 
must be better than 1 can even con- 
ceive." 

Looking through the window into 
the street, on that first day he was 
returned to his cell, Jeffries saw the 
house that he had made desolate. 
He saw the closed blinds, and the 
mournful faces of those who came 
and went. He saw flowers brought. 
Later, carriages came, and a crowd 
slowly gathered. Then he fell on 
his knees before the grated - door, 
and prayed. One glimpse, only 
one glimpse of the casket that held 
her! 

Presently there was a stir about the 
door, and four boys appeared, bear- 
ing out the lost treasure. The ceme- 
tery was near, and\hese boys were 
to bear the child to her resting-place 
there. Slowly and tenderly they 
carried their burden, and not far 
away those eyes, full of hopeless 
agony, strained to watch them. 

The sill of the gate was a step 
higher than the garden walk, and as 
the foremost boys mounted this step, 
the casket tilted a little, and the eyes 
of the condemned man saw, through 
the glass lid, a white little face 
turned side wise, with its cheek in the 
palm of a waxen hand, and sunny 
hair flowing around, the whole 
framed in flowers. 

As the sweet, pathetic vision 
passed, the convict fell on his face, 
with loud and bitter weeping. 

Three days after, Jeffries mounted 
the scaffold, humbled, penitent, and 
hopeful. 

" I am glad it is God's will that I 
should die now," he said. " After 
what I have done, my life would 
be too terrible to me, and would 
not profit any one else. But I do 
not consider this hanging the punish- 



Letters of His Holiness Pius IX. 



563 



ment for my crime. No; my re- 
ward for having killed willingly one 
I hated, was that I afterward de- 
stroyed unwillingly a life dearer to 
me than my own. I forgive all 
who have injured me, and ask par- 
don of all whom I have injured. 
And I bless God for the little love 



on earth that made me believe in the 
Infinite Love in heaven." 

They were his last words. 

Perhaps the warden's dear little 
girl would never, in a long and beau- 
tiful life, have accomplished the good 
which was effected by her early and 
pitiful death. 



LETTERS OF HIS HOLINESS PIUS IX. APPROVING THE 
RULES OF THE " UNION OF CHRISTIAN WOMEN." 



THE following letters of the Sover- 
eign Pontiff which we have taken 
from the Boston Pilot are published 
in the present number of THE CATH- 
OLIC WORLD, on account of their 
bearing upon the topics discussed in 
the articles on the " Duties of the 
Rich." We recommend their peru- 
sal in a special manner to all Cath- 
olic ladies in the United States. 

Pius IX., POPE, TO His DEAR 

DAUGHTER IN JESUS CHRIST, 

MARIE DE GENTELLES : 

DEAR DAUGHTER IN JESUS 
CHRIST Health and Apostolic 
Benediction. 

We congratulate you, dear daugh- 
ter in Jesus Christ, upon the success 
which God has been pleased to grant 
to your efforts against extravagance 
in dress. Editions of your " Ap- 
peal " have multiplied ; you have 
seen it translated into several lan- 
guages, and received by Catholic 
women with such eagerness that per- 
sons of great prudence and discern- 
ment have deemed it a duty to urge 
you to propose to your sisters in the 
faith the establishment of an associ- 
ation having for its aim a crusade 
against extravagance that scourge 
of society, that enemy of morality, 
of public and private economy. 



Without doubt, if the wills and 
strength of many were united in the 
firm bond of an association, the 
power of example would become 
much greater, and its influence much 
more efficacious upon other women, 
especially if those distinguished by 
fortune and social position would 
subscribe to the project. 

If this "association succeed in es- 
tablishing among women a taste for 
moderate expenditure and a con- 
tempt for love of display, it would 
not only serve to promote modesty, 
and prevent a waste of means which 
might often be employed in assisting 
the poor, but it would leave a great 
portion of the day free to be devoted 
to works of piety, to the education 
of children, or to household duties. 

The rules which you have laid 
down are well adapted to attain the 
desired end, especially that which 
prescribes that every member of the 
union shall fix in advance, and un- 
alterably, the sum of her expenses, 
and pay ready money upon all occa- 
sions. 

The task is indeed a delicate one. 
It will encounter great obstacles in 
that love of show and desire to 
please so natural to your sex. Still, 
he whose grace has already been 
powerful enough to lead many of 



564 



New Publications. 



your companions to this difficult but 
withal most noble work, can inspire 
others to follow the good example. 
This is the success which, from our 
inmost heart, we presage for your 
project. Meanwhile, as an auspice 
of the divine favor, and as a pledge 
of our paternal kindness, we grant, 
with the most lively tenderness, to 
you and all your pious associates in 
the good work, our Apostolic Bene- 
diction. 

Given at Rome, near St. Peter's, 
Nov. 6. 1869, in the twenty-fourth 
year of our Pontificate. 

Pius PP. IX. 

Pius IX., POPE, TO His BELOVED 

DAUGHTER IN JESUS CHRIST, 

MARIE DE GENTELLES: 

DEAR DAUGHTER IN JESUS 
CHRIST Health and Apostolic 
Benediction. 

The expressions of respect which 
you address to us, dear daughter in 
Jesus Christ, in your name and in 
the name of your associates, are re- 
ceived by us with the most lively 
satisfaction, jthe greater that they are 



not limited to mere expressions nor to 
offers of assistance by prayer, but 
they are doubly grateful from the 
zeal you have employed in seeking 
to extirpate the evil of extravagance 
in dress so common among your sex. 
You have also tried to promote hab- 
its of simplicity, modesty, and piety 
among your sisters in the faith. By 
this, much evil can be prevented 
nay, more, your success will be a 
most useful ally' in the war we are 
now waging against the powers of 
darkness. Therefore, for you and 
for the " Union of Christian Women" 
devoted to this excellent work, we im- 
plore from heaven perseverance in 
your undertaking, never-wearying 
progress, and the efficacious assist- 
ance of divine grace. As a prelude 
of these favors, and as a pledge of 
our paternal affection, we grant most 
tenderly to you and all your pious 
companions the Apostolic Benedic- 
tion. 

Given at Rome, near St. Peter's, 
April 17, 1871, in the twenty-fifth 
year of our Pontificate. 

Pius PP. IX. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



A CRITICAL DICTIONARY OF ENGLISH 
LITERATURE AND BRITISH AND AMERI- 
CAN AUTHORS, LIVING AND DECEASED. 
From the earliest accounts to the latter 
half of the Nineteenth Century. Con- 
taining over forty-six thousand articles 
(authors), with forty indexes of Sub- 
jects. By S. Austin Allibone. Phila- 
delphia : J. B. Lippincott & Co. 1871. 

It would be strange indeed if a 
dictionary of authors, in three vol- 
umes, each of one thousand pages, 
closely printed in double columns, 
" the fruit of many years of anxious 
research and conscientious toil," 
should not contain a large amount 



of informatiori valuable not only to 
the general reader, but to the scho- 
lar and the man of letters. 

Valuable information Mr. Alli- 
bone's Dictionary certainly does 
impart ; but we feel compelled to 
express regret that its author 
should have made a serious mistake 
as to the importance of much of the 
matter inserted. Into this error he 
appears to have been led in seeking 
to increase the number of authors 
by the insertion of names which 
never possessed the slightest lite- 
rary value or significance. 

The title-page announcement that 



New Publications. 



$65 



the work contains " over forty-six 
thousand articles (authors) " awa- 
kens within us no special throbs 
of pleasurable anticipation, for we 
know how dictionaries are made. 
And the delight with which one 
might contemplate its array of one 
hundred and forty-eight Robinsons, 
its one hundred and eighty Browns, 
its one hundred and eighty-nine 
Joneses, and its solid phalanx of 
eight hundred and ten Smiths, ex- 
clusive of a formidable list of 
Smyths and Smythes, undergoes 
serious diminution, for the reason 
that one cannot help reflecting how 
much valuable space mighthave been 
far more advantageously occupied. 

In works of this description, mere 
book-making manifests itself in its 
most flagrant aspect. In each suc- 
cessive publication in the dictionary 
(alphabetical) form, upon any given 
subject, the effort is made to sur- 
pass all its predecessors in the 
quantity of matter and in the num- 
ber of articles or names. Now, in a 
literary sense, names die, as in actual 
life people die ; and names which 
might have some possible interest 
for the readers of Blount's work, 
published in 1690, have still less for 
people of the following century, 
and positively none at all for our 
readers of 1870. It most resembles 
A vain attempt to keep alive the 
memory of people not worth re- 
membering by constant transcrip- 
tion and repetition of what is writ- 
ten on their tomb-stones. We are, 
therefore, unable to discover any 
merit in the uniform numerals 
46,000. It is more a matter of mere 
assertion than of intelligent inves- 
tigation and selection, and the figure 
may be reached merely by the sim- 
ple addition of the contents of a few 
well-known bibliographical works. 
One of them alone, the Btbltotheca 
Britannica, of Watts, furnishes 22,- 
700 names of British and American 
authors, and more than half as 
many more may be found in the co- 
pious indexes of English magazines 
and quarterlies, not to speak of 
Griswold and other American works. 



We by no means wish to be un- 
derstood as desiring that the reduc- 
tion should be restricted to the 
elimination of the familiar house- 
hold names we have mentioned. 
We would have it ruthlessly ex- 
tended to the nullities in literature, 
whose sole contributions consist of 
such productions (single specimens) 
as "Sermon," "Almanac," "Fune- 
ral Sermon," " Instruction in Water 
Drawing," " Report of' Smithers vs. 
Tompkins,' " " Copy-Book," " Edi- 
tion of Laws of Texas," " Sermon 
on Popery," " Pyrotechnics " be- 
ing careful to pair off these two last 
named, for the " Popery " man 
clearly means " pyrotechnics," if he 
could have his way. What cares 
any one nowadays for such a piece 
of information as this : " Darch, 
John, ' Sermon,' 1766. 4to " ? Why, 
for instance, should the names of a 
thousand such nobodies as R. P. 
Blakely go down to posterity as au- 
thors, this R. P. B., as we learn from 
the Dictionary, having merely trans- 
lated some passages from Liguori 
and called them "Awful Disclo- 
sures"? Had we been spared pro- 
fuse mention of most of these ser- 
mon, almanac, and copy-book mak- 
ers, space might have been found to 
inform seekers for knowledge that 
William Cobbett wrote a work on 
the History of the Reformation in 
England, a book which, in admira- 
bly pure English, does some justice 
to the infamy of Henry VIII. and 
his colleagues, lay and spiritual, 
who aided and abetted his wholesale 
robberies and murders, and made 
of "Merrie Old England" a land of 
desolation, Avant, and beggary. It 
is precisely by this book that the 
name of Cobbett is most widely 
known, but Mr. Allibone does not 
appear to have heard of it, other- 
wise his knowledge of its existence 
might account to a great extent for 
the tone of depreciation in which 
he speaks of Cobbett. 

Quite as remarkable is the au- 
thor's suppression, in his biographi- 
cal notice of George Buchanan, of 
the fact of Buchanan's dependence 



566 



New Publications. 



for some years upon Mary Stuart, and 
of her kindness and generosity to 
him. It was this fact that made 
Buchanan's Detection " unrivalled in 
baseness, peerless in falsehood, su- 
preme in ingratitude." 

In sharp contrast with extended 
mention of the Detection and its ob- 
ject is Mr. Allibone's languid notice 
of Miss Agnes Strickland's histori- 
cal works, and of the brilliant 
Donald MacLeod's writings in gene- 
ral, and more especially his Life of 
Mary, Queen of Scots. We are per- 
fectly well aware that Mr. A., in 
season and out of season, with and 
without pretext, takes every oppor- 
tunity of protesting to his reader 
that "we express no opinion on 
the question involved in the Mary 
Stuart controversy." Mr. Allibone 
protests too much, and most so 
when seeking to convey the worst 
impression against her. Thus, in 
the article on Buchanan, he says : 
" If Buchanan is to be believed, 
there can be but little doubt of the 
guilt of the fair Queen of Scots ; 
but upon this point we express no 
opinion." Mr. Allibone here builds 
up his little argumenton the author- 
ity of this convicted liar, Buchan- 
an, and adds, " We express no opin- 
ion " oh ! certainly not by no 
means ! Protests and pretended 
apologies like this abound in the 
Dictionary, and, so far from conceal- 
ing, only make more visible the 
marked bias of the author in reli- 
gious questions. Naturally enough, 
Buchanan and John Foxe are both 
his favorites. 

The author of the Dictionary does 
not appear to be aware that Henry 
Kenelm Digby has written and pub- 
lished anything since his great 
work Mores Catholici Ages of Faith, 
nor does he seem to know that 
this distinguished author is a con- 
vert from Protestantism to Catholi- 
city. The notice of Aubrey de 
Vere is defective in many points, 
and totally omits mention of the 
fact that the brilliant poet is also a 
convert to Catholicity. 
The article on Dr. Brownson is 



far from doing that distinguished 
philosophical writer justice. This 
was not to be looked for, but it is 
incorrect in several points. Dr. 
Brownson never was a Presbyterian 
minister, nor was he a Deist. Charles 
El-wood is not "an account of his re- 
ligious experience," but The Convert 
is such an account. The statement 
that " Dr. Brownson is a great ad- 
mirer of the philosophy of M. 
Comte (sic) as developed in the 
Cours de Philosophic" is without 
foundation. Dr. Brownson ne- 
ver admired it, never accepted its 
philosophic position, and never 
read anything of Comte's except 
the Introduction to his voluminous 
Course of Positive Philosophy. This 
error probably originated with Mr. 
Griswold, who confounded the doc- 
trines of Pierre Le Roux and the 
St. Simoniens with the system of 
Auguste Comte. 

We presume that the/omission of 
the names of Archbishop Kenrick 
(Peter, of St. Louis), Prince Gallit- 
zin, Frederick Lucas, a distinguish- 
ed English convert, formerly a Qua- 
ker, and of many others we might 
point out, is the result of accident. 

We have mentioned John Foxe, 
the great ''unreliable." Mr. Alli- 
bone's apology evidently a 'labor 
of love for this unsavoiy person- 
age is not only elaborate, it is la- 
bored. We have referred to Mr. 
Allibone's evident bias. Foxe is a 
test subject, and we shall therefore 
say a few words concerning it. If a 
scholar as enlightened as our author 
should be can uphold Foxe as he 
does, then we can readily gauge the 
measure of his Protestant credulity 
and his anti-Catholic animus. Mr. 
Allibone spares us the necessity of 
any effort to demonstrate his bias, 
for he goes to the trouble of point- 
ing out to us as one of the high 
merits of Foxes Martyrs that "its 
influence in keeping alive the Protes- 
tant feeling in Great Britain and 
North America is too well kno-wn to be 
disputed." Historical truth is one 
thing, "Protestant feeling" ano- 
ther. Far from us to dispute the 



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merit claimed by Mr. Allibone for 
his beloved Foxe, but we beg leave 
to suggest to him that the proper 
place for such praise would be the 
columns of a Know-Nothing paper, 
not the pages of a dignified work 
on literature. 

The account given by Mr. Alli- 
bone of Foxe's life is to some ex- 
tent fabulous, inasmuch as he ac- 
cepts Mr. Townsend's statements 
as to the authorship of Foxes Life 
by his (Foxe's) son. Mr. Allibone 
ought to know that Foxe's son did 
not write the Life in question. In 
the article Maitland, Rev. S. R., 
keeper of the Lambeth MSS. and 
Librarian to the Archbishop of Can- 
terbury, Mr. Allibone enumerates 
as (13) of his works Notes on the Con- 
tributions of the Rev. George Town- 
send to the nevu Edition of Foxe's 
Martyrology. We would advise Mr. 
Allibone since he needs must raise 
an unnecessary discussion about 
this man Foxe to go beyond the 
title of this work of Maitland's into 
its contents. He will be rapidly en- 
lightened concerning both Foxe 
and Townsend. This Dr. Maitland 
is also the author of the admirable 
Dark Ages. Mr. Allibone does men- 
tion it, "only this and nothing more." 

Mr. Allibone has the hardihood to 
assert that, " as regards conscien- 
tiousness of performance and ad- 
herence to records, the faithfulness 
of the ' Book of Martyrs ' cannot intelli- 
gently be questioned," and his princi- 
pal witness to prove Foxe's veraci- 
ty is Gilbert Burnet, commonly 

known as Bishop Burnet ! Throw 
literature to the dogs ! It is " keep- 
ing alive the Protestant feeling " we 
look upon as our mission. That, as 
we read it, appears to be Mr. Alli- 
bone's controlling idea. But what 
is to become of us if the faithful- 
ness of every suspicious and fishy 
chronicler is to be discovered and 
vindicated by every compiler of 
every literary dictionary ? How- 
ever, we need not, we believe, be 
alarmed, for our author's affections 
are enlisted for a select few, Foxe 
in particular, because of " his influ- 



ence in keeping alive, etc., etc., etc., 
etc., etc." 

Here is one of the^test of the 
many honest Protestant exposures 
of the character of Foxe's book, 
from the pen of Professor Arnold, 
of University College, Oxford : 

" It is now indeed well understood 
that Foxe was a rampant bigot, and, like 
all of his class, utterly unscrupulous in 
assertion ; the falsehoods, misrepresent- 
ations, and exaggerations to which he 
gave circulation are endless. Take, for 
instance, his account of the death of 
Wolsey, which we know, from the testi- 
mony of George Cavendish, an eye-wit- 
ness, to be a string of pure, unmitigated 
falsehoods." 

As to the worthlessness of Bur- 
net's testimony we have abundant 
Protestant evidence. Mr. Allibone 
himself quotes Dr. Johnson to this 
effect : 

" I do not believe that Burnet inten- 
tionally lied ; but he was so much preju- 
diced that he took no pains to npd out 
the truth. He was like a man who re- 
solves to regulate his time by a certain 
watch, but will not inquire whether the 
watch is right or not." 

Whereupon Mr. Allibone indulges 
in this astounding piece of wither- 
ing sarcasm : 

" One might imagine that the doctor 
had roomed with the bishop at least, he 
seems to be so perfectly informed as to 
his habits " ! 

As to Burnet the man and the 
theologian, we are sufficiently en- 
lightened by the use he consented 
to be put to by Buckingham and 
Lauderdale, at- the time when, as 
royal chaplain, he preached before 
" the king and his harem " ever}' 
Sunday. This use was the prepara- 
tion of a work in which he under- 
took to set forth the queen's barren- 
ness as " a good cause for divorce." 
Starting at the period of Henry 
VIII., England had become gradu- 
ally pagan and profligate ; but what- 
ever of goodness and virtue was 
then left in the country joined in 
denouncing the author of the vile 
principles set forth in Burnet'sbook. 

Mr. Allibone neglects to record 



568 



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that it was because Charles II., bad 
as he was, despised Burnet and his 
advice, and : when, losing his office 
in the Chapel Royal, Burnet sud- 
denly awakened to a sense of the 
king's wickedness, and wrote a re- 
monstrance to him on his bad life, 
Charles treated him with silent con- 
tempt. 

" Gilbert Burnet," says one of his 
Puritan contemporaries, Jacob Law- 
ton, " was a man who blew hot and 
cold for money or for rich pa- 
trons " ; and in the ninth volume of 
Sir Walter Scott's Life and Works 
of Dry den will be found the narra- 
tive of the betrayal to the House 
of Commons by Burnet of the se- 
crets of his patron, the Duke of 
Lauderdale. Finally, his bishopric 
from William was merely the reward 
of trickery and treason simply infa- 
mous. 

As to Burnet the historian, 
Hume's opinion that he is " some- 
times mistaken as to facts," and Sir 
Walter Scott's statement that " his 
[Burnet's] opinions were often 
hastily adopted, and sometimes 
awkwardly retracted," may be 
thought not entirely fatal to his 
reputation ; but other authorities 
speak more plainly. Sir John Dal- 
rymple " never tried Burnet's facts 
by test of dates and original papers 
without finding them wrong." Ar- 
buthnot and Swift challenge his 
veracity, and do not hesitate to at- 
tribute to him unworthy motives. 
In 1693, Henry Wharton demonstra- 
ted his " suppression, coloring, and 
falsifying of facts," and the Histori- 
cal and Critical Remarks of Bevil 
Higgons more than confirms Miss 
Strickland's conclusion that Burnet 
is "a notoriously false witness." 
This is Mr. Allibone's veracious up- 
holder of Foxe's truth ! He may 
now take the witness. 

ST. THOMAS OF AQUIN : His LIFE AND 
LABORS. By the Rev. Father Roger 
Bede Vaughan, O.S.B. Vol. II. (New 
York : Sold by The Catholic Publica, 
tion Society.) 
The first volume of this goodly 



work has been already noticed. 
We are glad to welcome the second 
and concluding volume. Together 
with the events of the life of St. 
Thomas from the time of his con- 
test with William of St. Amour until 
his death, which occupy but a small 
portion of its space, this volume 
continues the history and analysis 
of his works, and expatiates upon 
the Greek philosophers, Christian 
doctors, and other sources of the 
doctrine of St. Thomas, in their 
relation with him. As a biography 
we prefer that of the Frenchman 
Bareille, which we desire to see 
translated, and which the present 
work by no means supersedes. As 
a history of the times and the works 
of the saint, Father Vaughan's vol- 
umes are rich, attractive, and val- 
uable. The description of the Paris 
University in the thirteenth cen- 
tury, and the account of St. Thomas 
and St. Buonaventura taking the 
doctor's cap, are very lively and 
graphic. The centenary of St. 
Thomas will recur in 1874, and will 
probably be celebrated with ex- 
traordinary splendor in Europe. 
Perhaps we may do a little some- 
thing also in America. 

THE VIRTUES OF MARY, MOTHER OF 
GOD. From the Spanish of Father 
Francis Arias, SJ. London : Burns & 
Gates. (New York : Sold by The Cath- 
olic Publication Society.) 

If it takes a saint to know a saint, 
and it is pretty generally considered 
that it does, it certainly takes a 
saint to do justice to the sublime 
virtues of the Queen of Saints. By 
all accounts F. Arias was a saint, 
and his little work on the virtues 
of the Blessed Virgin is what might 
be expected a treatise full of piety, 
full ofemotion, and full of the highest 
asceticism. Together with being a 
holy man Arias was a learned man, 
and in his book with the fervor of 
the saint is combined the accuracy of 
the theologian. Many of the saints 
have themselves been able to realize 
the almost ineffable holiness of the 



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569 



Mother of God ; but few have been 
able to make this holiness a reality 
to others. 

In this we think the Spanish 
Jesuit has surpassed most others. 
In his hand the virtues of our 
Blessed Lady become a reality, in- 
telligible to all and imitable by all. 
Therefore it is that his little work, 
while pre-eminently suitable for the 
convent and the cloister, may be 
read with great benefit by all classes 
of persons in the world. 

It is proper to remark that The 
Virtues of Mary, Mother of God is a 
republication ; the same translation 
having been long ago published 
under the title of Imitation of the 
Blessed Virgin. It would be a 
great blessing if we had more repub- 
lications of the same sort instead 
of the mass of modern common- 
places, many of which are wanting 
in emotion and not a few in genuine 
piety. 

EXTRACTS FROM THE FATHERS, ETC. Dub- 
lin : W. B. Kelly. 1860. (New York : 
Sold by The Catholic Publication So- 
ciety.) 

This book, under the general title 
of Christian Classics, is intended, as 
we are informed in the preface, 
" nearly altogether fpr the use of 
students," and as such may be con- 
sidered a very useful and desirable 
publication. More than a score of 
the most illustrious and erudite 
fathers and writers of the church 
have been put under contribution 
by the editor, and though we con- 
sider the arrangement and choice 
of the selections susceptible of 
some improvement, we are grateful 
for those presented us in so neat 
and portable a form. Apart from 
what is purely moral and theolo- 
gical in the Extracts, there is a 
great deal of biographical and his- 
torical information interesting to 
the general reader, which can- 
not be easily acquired except 
through the voluminous tomes 
so seldom found in ordinary lib- 



UXA AND HER PAUPERS ; or, Memorials 
of Agnes Elizabeth Jones. By her 
Sister. New York : George Routledge 
& Sons. 

So-called Protestant lands, which 
were once a part of the fair garden 
of the church, still put forth some 
shoots occasionally from the old 
roots left in the soil. It is pleasant 
to see them springing up, now and 
then, as if to assert the indestructi- 
bility of the divine seed ; for the 
spirit of self-sacrifice and of charity 
is essentially the spirit of Catholi- 
cism. As Balmes says, public bene- 
ficence was unknown to the an- 
cients. It is wholly due to the 
church. The divine words, " Inas- 
much as ye have done it to one of 
the least of these my brethren, ye 
have done it unto me," have gone 
on with their undulations through 
more than eighteen centuries of 
spiritual life in the church, awaken- 
ing the tenderest instincts of the 
human heart in behalf of suffering 
humanity. Thank God ! there are 
some nominally without its pale 

" With whom the melodies abide 
Of th' everlasting chime ; 
Who carry music in their heart 
Through dusky lane and wrangling mart, 
Plying their daily task with busier feet, 
Because their secret souls a holy strain re- 
peat." 

Una and her Paupers happily 
styled Una, for such lives are unique, 
exceptional, in Protestant annals 
is the history of a large-hearted, 
sympathetic, North-of-Ireland lady, 
who was gradually led, by her natu- 
ral inclinations and by circumstan- 
ces, to a partial renunciation of the 
comforts of a pleasant home and 
family affection, and submit herself 
to training as a nurse in the cele- 
brated Kaiserswerth * institution of 
Protestant deaconesses. She was 
afterwards connected with an asso- 
ciation of Bible-women at London ; 
then underwent a year's training as 
Nightingale nurse at St. Thomas's 
Hospital in that city, and was sub- 
sequently appointed Female Super- 
intendent of the Liverpool Work- 

* An old monastic site (alas !), so named from 
the donor, the Kaiser Charlemagne. 



5/0 



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house, where she contracted a 
typhus fever, and died in 1868, at 
the age of thirty-five. 

The book is admirably edited by 
her sister, and has a eulogistic in- 
troduction by Miss Nightingale, 
who seems to have given it its title. 
The American edition has, moreover, 
the advantage of a preface by the 
Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. From 
a Protestant point of view, this 
must be a charming and useful 
book. If not equally so to a Ca- 
tholic, it is because his standard of 
piety is infinitely higher^and instan- 
ces of far greater self-denial for the 
sake of others are of daily occur- 
rence in the church. 

Miss Jones' piety was decidedly 
of the so-called Evangelical school 
in the Church of England. The 
Bible is constantly in her hands, 
and all her spiritual emotions are 
expressed in Biblical phrases that 
have more a smack of Cromwell 
than of prelacy. A few words 
dropped here and there in her let- 
ters show her instinctive aversion to 
Catholicism, but we love to think 
this rather the' result of ignorance 
than want of charity in a person of 
her profession. Almost her first 
words written from Rome were : " I 
never go out but as a duty, for the 
whole is so depressing, and it is 
indeed so utterly the 'city given to 
idolatry'; the associations of "he 
past are forgotten in its present." 
This says volumes for her cast of 
mind and piety. Kind and loving 
as she was by nature, we cannot 
regret she was excluded from all 
missionary efforts in the Catholic 
ward of the Liverpool Workhouse, 
on which she seems to have kept a 
longing eye. She appears to have 
gained some influence over one poor 
girl in London, who, she says, was 
"on the verge of becoming a nun 
to her the only conceivable way of 
finding the peace she longed for : 
now her eyes seem to be opened to 
a better way, though she does not feel 
she has yet entered on it." As we are 
not informed of the result, we may 
reasonably conclude this individual 



found peace at last in the only true 
refuge. 

Though trained in the best schools 
of Protestant benevolence, Miss 
Jones' shrinking from association 
with the nurses even of Miss Night- 
ingale's school not unreasonable 
when we recall the experience of 
the latter in the Crimea and her 
observations with regard to the diffi- 
culties of such institutions, are full 
of significance to those familiar 
with the efficient charitable organ- 
izations in the church. She says : 
" The difficulty [of having deacon- 
esses in England] is, the real sub- 
mission of the will there must be. 
I believe this is the valuable part of 
the training." " I believe all I owe 
to Kaiserswerth was comprised in 
the lesson of unquestioning obedi- 
ence." " No one can tell what a 
woman exposes herself to who acts 
independently. I never would ad- 
vise any one to do as I have done, 
and yet I feel I have been led on 
step by step, almost unwillingly, 
certainly not as I should have 
chosen, had I not seemed guided, 
as I believe I have been, and so 
kept." " But what I feej so much 
is, how many there are who want 
some place where they can get 
teachings for their own hearts and 
souls, training for, and direction in, 
work for others, sympathy in that 
work and their difficulties in it, and 
a home where, in their leisure hours, 
they may have more or less associa- 
tion with others." 

And the estimable Miss Nightin- 
gale, in her introduction, says: 
"There is no such thing as amateur 
nursing. . . . Three-fourths of 
the whole mischief in women's lives 
arises from excepting themselves 
from the rule of training considered 
needful for man." 

To these quotations, we will add 
another statement in this book by 
the Rev. Mr. Moody, likewise of 
the Evangelical school, who is told 
at Kaiserswerth that the Evangeli- 
cals of Great Britain furnished less 
useful sick-nurses than the churches 
tinged with ritualism. This, he says, 






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571 



was " humbling and instructive to 
hear " ; and he adds this was because 
" the nurses that come from us [the 
Evangelicals] are more anxious to 
take charg and to administer medi- 
cines, than to obey, to learn, to serve." 

Such statements make us turn 
with satisfaction to the noble army 
of charity in the Catholic Church 
who really give up home and earthly 
pleasures and their own will, and 
make themselves poor with the 
poor, counting all this no loss that 
they may be spent for Christ's poor 
ones. What they have achieved as 
a whole is partly known, but indi- 
vidual sacrifices and efforts are 
buried in the hidden life they love. 
Their veiled lives are only fully 
known to the Divine Spouse, whom 
they tenderly take to their hearts 
in the person of his suffering poor; 
their countless heroic souls mostly 
pass away leaving no -written record 
on earth. 

The garments of the church are 
all studded over with such precious 
jewels of love and charity. We 
have no reason to envy those who 
seek to imitate our Sisters of Chari- 
ty like the deaconesses of Kaisers- 
werth and Florence Nightingale. 
May their laudable examples and 
that of Miss Jones find numerous 
emulators ! The glimpses this book 
gives us of the moral as well as 
physical degradation of some of the 
Liverpool paupers, are enough to 
set the Christian heart on fire to 
labor for the elevation of the hu- 
man race. Those women who talk 
so frantically of their rights and of 
woman's mission can here find their 
true field, where none can compete 
with them. Men certainly cannot. 

But, as Rahel Varnhagen says : 
" Those who completely sacrifice 
themselves are praised and admir- 
ed : that is the sort of character 
men like to find in others." 

Six WEEKS ABROAD. By the Rev. G. 
F. Haskins. Boston : P. Donahoe. 

The genial F. Haskins is known 
to everybody, and this little book 



presents his numerous friends with 
a portrait of him, a short biograph- 
ical sketch, and some very brief, 
characteristic, and sparkling notes 
of a recent visit to Europe. Each 
chapter is a little crystal of Attic 
salt. Whoever buys and reads this 
book will be pleased with it, be he 
young or old. There are some re- 
marks on education, Irish and 
American politics, etc., which are as 
remarkable for point and sense as 
they are for terseness. Father Has- 
kins' coin is small but valuable, 
like a rouleau of gold dollars. 



VIRTUES AND DEFECTS OF A YOUNG 
GIRL. By a Chaplain. Translated 
from the French. New York : D. & 
J. Sadlier & Co. 1872. 

This little manual of moral science 
was intended by the author as a text- 
book for schools. It will, at least, 
be useful to parents and teachers in 
formirig the character of those con- 
fided to them. A more complete 
elementary treatise on moral philo- 
sophy is a desideratum for our Ca- 
tholic institutions for girls. Of 
course it is taught, in the highest 
sense of the word, in connection 
with the Christian doctrine, but a 
practical work, not religious, strictly 
speaking, is needed. It would serve, 
as our author says, as a help to 
divine grace. The firmest basis of 
piety is moral principle. The moral 
condition of the next generation 
depends on those destined to be 
their mothers having definite, prac- 
tical notions of moral ^science. 
This science was once associated 
with the very rudiments of learning. 
The Christians Alphabet, a compen- 
dium of the essential points of 
moral philosophy, has come down 
to us from the middle ages. 

In the practical little work before 
us, the social virtues are not over- 
looked. Politeness is one of them, 
for it is a virtue, at least in France ; 
we wish we could say everywhere. 
That " life must be a perpetual 
sacrifice of self for the sake of 



572 



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others," is here laid down as the 
basis of politeness and the social 
virtues generally. Like coin of pre- 
cious metal, politeness is current in 
every land and among all classes. 
It is the oil that lubricates the 
wheel-works of society ; it is the 
garland of flowers that binds society 
together; it extends to the very 
tone of the voice, the carriage of 
the body, and appropriateness of 
dress ; it is especially important 
to women, on whom depends re- 
finement or degeneracy of man- 
ners. 

Respect for others is here incul- 
cated in recognition of the divine 
radiance that proceeds from the 
soul of every human being. One 
section of this chapter is devoted 
to " Respect for the Aged and the 
Poor." Veneration for age is by 
no means prevalent in these times. 
" It is regarded as an impertinence 
to be alive after sixty on this side 
of the globe," says an American. 
And as for the poor, who respects 
them ? And yet Bossuet saw an 
inexpressible sublimity in the con- 
dition of the unfortunate. 

Industry is likewise dwelt upon, 
and the evils of an aimless life. 
The reason why so many women 
are nervous, morose, and melan- 
choly is because they are the vic- 
tims of an aimless life. Their very 
hearts are wasting away corroded 
by rust. 

Order and cleanliness have also 
their place. And how significant 
they are of one's moral condition ! 
We read in F. Faber's life, when 
the orderly appearance of his room 
was noticed one Easter morning, he 
replied that the napkin in the sepul- 
chre was found folded after the Re- 
surrection, showing that our Lord 
hated untidiness. 

This book is generally well trans- 
lated, but there are some verbal in- 
accuracies. Madame de Mainte- 
non's observations, on page 117, 
were probably to the young ladies 
of St. Cyr an institution of which 
she was the patroness rather than 
" the Misses Saint Cvr." 



WOMEN HELPERS IN THE CHURCH 
THEIR SAYINGS AND DOINGS. Edited 
by William Welsh. Philadelphia : J. 
B. Lippincott & Co. 1872. 

Women Helpers in the ^Church 
that is, in the Protestant Episcopal 
Church is a compilation of articles 
previously published in The Spirit 
of Missions from the memoranda of 
ladies engaged in parochial labors, 
such as Sunday-schools, mothers' 
meetings, district visiting, etc. 

This is another book calling at- 
tention to the efficiency of woman's 
co-operation in the regeneration of 
the human race. It dwells on the 
necessity of trained lay-helpers in 
the work, and says the church 
should be a training-school for ag- 
gressive warfare against evil. And 
"as but few male communicants 
seem willing to give out the social- 
izing power which God has entrust- 
ed to them for the benefit of those 
less favored, it is well to employ 
the agency of godly women." It 
finds less difficulty in training work- 
ers in this country than in England, 
where " few persons of good social 
position attend Sunday-school or 
Bible-class." This statement rather 
excites a wonder who do attend, for 
the poor seem to hold themselves 
equally aloof. The Protestant Arch- 
bishop 4 of York, quoted in this 
work, says that in one district in 
London not one person in a hun- 
dred attends church. These people 
are in a state of heathenish dark- 
ness, though "the Church of Eng- 
land has emitted a pure Gospel 
light for centuries," and are in the 
lowest state of degradation. " Who 
are these people ?" asks the arch- 
bishop, and, as if conscious of the 
great gulf that separates them from 
those he addresses, he adds, "They 
are of the same flesh and blood as 
we." The Catholic is unconscious 
of any such gulf. In the great 
republic of the church, the poor 
are the most tenderly cared for. 
The church has ennobled poverty 
by making it one of the evangelical 
counsels. Bossuet says : " Let no 
one any longer scorn poverty or 






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573 



treat it as a base thing : the King 
of Glory having espoused it, he has 
ennobled it by this alliance, and 
henceforth he grants the poor all 
the privileges of his empire." "The 
poor of Christ have lineal rights," 
says Faber, and it is because the 
Catholic Church recognizes these 
rights that it is emphatically the 
church of the poor. 

We are glad to see any attempts 
made to elevate and socialize the 
poorer classes by visiting them, dis- 
seminating good books, and bring- 
ing them together for social and 
religious purposes. One associa- 
tion of ladies engaged in this work 
is stated to have made over six 
thousand visits the past year, and 
a committee of twelve ladies made 
seventeen thousand visits in the 
course of six years. The publica- 
tion of their labors does not seem 
exactly on the principle of not let- 
ting the left hand know what the 
right hand doeth, though, if it ex- 
cites emulation, it may not be un- 
justifiable. Any good resulting 
from such labors is a more endur- 
ing record, and will " survive all 
paper." " For," as Carlyle says, 
" the working of the good and 
brave, seen or unseen, endures lite"r- 
ally for ever and cannot die. Is a 
thing nothing because the morning 
papers have not mentioned it? Or 
can a nothing be made a something 
by ever so much babbling of it 
there? Far better, probably, that 
no morning or evening paper men- 
tioned it, that the right hand knew 
not what the left was doing." 

We are unwilling to criticise any 
sincere efforts to do good, and will 
forbear commenting on the mem- 
oranda of the ladies which compose 
the greater part of this \vork, how- 
ever unattractive much of their 
piety may be to a Catholic ; but we 
need not be equally forbearing to 
the editor, who detracts from the 
effect of incidents sometimes touch- 
ing by his frequent interlardings 
and would-be wit about "porta- 
ble fire-extinguishers" (meaning 
the fire of sin) " anti-incrustators," 



etc. His bitterness against the 
Catholic Church makes him look 
with an envious eye at her success 
among her cherished poor ones. -He 
speaks of- her as "a corrupt church, 
whose spirit is hostile to republican 
institutions, now actively drilling 
the lay force in sodalities and other 
associations, and using their power 
to the utmost in educational, politi- 
cal, and proselyting schemes !" But 
such insinuations cannot harm us. 
He himself observes : "The Churcl? 
of Rome, with all her obvious errors, 
suffers but little from the violent 
opposition to which she is constantly 
subjected. It will be well for all relig- 
ious bodies closely to scrutinize her 
educational success, her tender care 
for the sick, and all the other modes 
by which she generates and uses 
spiritual power^ Surely no well- 
organized church with a pure 
Scriptural faith, claiming to have 
divine authority, can in this Pro- 
testant nation be content any longer 
to yield ground to a foreign churc/i 
with a foreign ministry." 

We can afford to be forbearing, 
and heartily forgive such language, 
in view of the tribute he pays to 
our superiority. The best thing in 
the book is his extract from the 
Abbe Mullois' work entitled The 
Clergy and the Pulpit in their Rela- 
tions to the People, which he rightly 
calls invaluable, and says " should 
be carefully and prayerfully studied 
by the clergy and :aity of our 
church, as it is eminently spiritual 
and practical" a recommendation 
not quite in harmony with the pre- 
ceding complimentary allusions. 
The Abbe Mullois' work (issued by 
"The Catholic Publication Soci- 
ety"), though only a fourth of the size 
of Women Helpers, is worth a thou- 
sand such. It is full of charity, zeal, 
and genuine piety, and sparkling with 
vivacity. No cant or lackadaisical 
piety there. It is a book that should 
be in every priest's hands at least. 
The Abbe Mullois is fully sensible 
of woman's adaptation to self-deny- 
ing labors in the cause of religion 
and charity. " Woman is called the 



574 



New Publications. 



feeble sex," says he. "True, when 
she does not love ; but when love 
takes possession of her soul, she 
becomes the strong, the able, the de- 
voted sex. She then looks difficul- 
ties in the face which would make 
men tremble." 

The co-operation of woman in 
evangelizing the world is nothing 
new in the church. Woman was 
instrumental in the fall of man ; 
^he second Eve had a large share in 
his redemption. The ministrations 
of women date from apostolic times, 
and the church has always availed 
herself of them. France was said 
to have been won back to Christi- 
anity by the Sisters of Charity. The 
utility of lay co-workers, both men 
and women, is evident from the 
good done by the Conferences of 
St. Vincent of Paul among men, 
and the various female associations 
among women. Wherever there 
is a priest, there should be some 
such organization for the religious 
and social elevation of the poor. 
Women Helpers shows how the 
masses hunger for spiritual aliment. 
Let us hasten to give them bread 
instead of a stone ! 

THE OFFERTORIUM. A complete Collec- 
tion of Music for the Sunday and 

. Holyday Services of the Catholic 
Church, containing Masses, Vespers, 
Anthems, Hymns for Offertory, Bene- 
diction, and all Special Occasions, a 
Requiem Mass, Holy Week Services, 
Responses, etc. By William O. Fiske. 
Boston : Ditson & Co. 

Why this collection of music is 
called "The Offertorium " we can- 
not understand. There is only one 
Offertory in the whole book. It 
might with equal fitness be styled 
" The Introit " or " The Kyrie Elei- 
son." Claiming, as it doe's, to be a 
collection of music for the services 
of the Catholic Church, we looked 
at once for the imprimatur of the 
proper ecclesiastical authority, but, 
after examining its contents, we were 
not surprised at its absence. It is, in 
fact, a poor rehash of bo'oks already 
well known to our country choirs. 



A number of pieces are called " Gre- 
gorian." If this be Gregorian chant, 
we want none of it. It would lead 
us in charity to believe the com- 
piler never saw a volume of Grego- 
rian chant in his life. Again, we 
think no one capable of writing or 
compiling music for the church 
who does not know how to read, or 
at least pronounce, Latin. We hare 
the following pronunciations gjven 
in this work : luci/^rum, spiri/wi, 
\isqu&, gloria, filiorum, confidiint, 
descend;//, etc., etc. In a Gloria in 
Excelsis abridged from Concone, the 
name of our Lord, " Jesu Christe," 
is left out after " altissimus." The 
author likely got up his musical 
phrase first, and, finding it too 
short, sacrificed the integrity of the 
sacred text to either his musical 
poverty or professional vanity. This 
and a few other cuttings of the text 
are, however, amply made up for by 
the frequent repetition of words 
and parts of sentences to be found 
on every page of the musical mass- 
es. The clergy are on all sides la- 
menting the degradation of church 
music, but let them not complain 
so long as they permit their choirs 
to furnish a market for productions 
like this. 

THE CHATEAU MORVILLE ; or, Life in 
Touraine. From the French. By E. 
R. Philadelphia : Claxton, Remsen 
& Haffelfinger. 1872. i vol. i2mo, 
pp. 366. 

This book, the translator says in 
his preface, "is the first, of a con- 
templated series of entertaining 
foreign fiction, to consist of a selec- 
tion of some of the best works of 
the most popular continental au- 
thors, and is intended for that class 
of readers who are desirous of 
enjoying all the instruction to be 
derived from a first-class novel." 
We do not deny that the book is 
sprightly, witty, and entertaining, 
and that it may please those who read 
simply for amusement. All the char- 
acters are supposed to be Catho- 
lic, yet that word is not once used 
in the work ; nor is religion in any 



New Publications. 



575 



of its practices, public or private, 
alluded to, except on the last page. 
The story is a moral one, but of 
the negative kind, and is to Catholic 
literature what the public schools 
are to Catholic schools Godless. 

ExCERPTA EX RlTUALI ROMANO PRO AD- 

MINISTRATIONE SACRAMENTORUM, AD 
COMMODIOREM USUM MlSSIONARIORUM, 
IN SEPTENTRIOXALIS AMERICA FCED- 
KRAT/E PROVINCIIS. Nova et Auctior 
Editio. Baltimori : Apud Kelly, Piet 
et Socios. MDCCCLXXII. 

This new edition of the abridged 
ritual is quite an improvement on 
preceding ones. The following mat- 
ter has been added : " De Visitatione 
Infirmorum," "Modus Juvandi Mori- 
entes," " Benedictio ad Omnia," 
" Benedictio Infantis," " Benedictio 
Puerorum uEgrotantium," and ex- 
hortations, in German, before and 
after marriage. The " Profession 
of Faith at the Reception of a 
Convert " is also given in Ger- 
man. The translation of the bap- 
tismal interrogations into the ver- 
nacular, which has hitherto been 
customary, seems to be superfluous 
and even objectionable, after the 
decree of the S. Congregation of 
Rites, August 31, 1867, forbidding 
the use of such translations. The 
title is put as " Rituali Romano " on 
the back in the copy before us, the 
most prominent words on the title- 
page having been transferred to the 
cover. The rubrics are in red, the 
type large and clear, and the bind- 
ing good. 

ON THE DUTIES OF YOUNG MEN. Trans- 
lated from the Italian of Silvio Pelli- 
co, by R. A. Vain. New York : D. & J. 
Sadlier & Co. 1872. 

This little book, of less than two 
hundred pages, contains much that 
is new, apposite, and instructive. 
The style is calm, affectionate, and 
altogether devoid of that harsh 
dogmatism which sometimes makes 
even the best advice unpalatable. 
The varied duties of young men 
claiming to be Christians and aim- 



ing at the highest possible refine- 
ment, both in the family and society, 
are described in a number of short 
chapters, every one of which is a 
well-conceived sermon epitomized. 
The appearance of the volume is in 
keeping with the excellence of its 
contents, and we congratulate the 
publishers on having succeeded in 
producing one of the handsomest 
of the minor works of the season 
in any department of literature. 
We hope the public will appreciate 
this effort of the Messrs. Sadlier to 
keep pace with the enterprise of 
other publishers, and that their con- 
temporaries outside of New York 
may show equal energy and skill in 
the preparation of their books. 

LATIN SCHOOL SERIES. PH^EDRUS, JUS- 
TIN, NEPOS. By Francis Gardner, 
Head Master, A. M. Gay and A. H. 
Buck, Masters in the Boston Latin 
School. Boston : Lee & Shepard. 
New York : Lee, Shepard & Dilling- 
ham. 1872. 

The Boston Latin School is one 
of our few classical glories. A series 
of Latin text-books, edited by its 
masters, will be an acquisition to be 
hailed by every teacher and pupil. 
This volume of the series is a gern 
in every respect text, notes, glos- 
sary, and typographical form. 
What makes it very nice for a boy 
is its small size, and the placing of 
the notes at the bottom of the page. 
We trust that the other volumes of 
the series will follow in rapid suc- 
cession, and that they will contain 
nothing which can be dangerous to 
the morals of the youthful scholars 
in whose hands they will be placed, 
jit is important to promote the 
thorough study of the Greek and 
Latin languages, but still more ne- 
cessary to guard the minds of the 
young from the contaminating in- 
fluence of that portion of the clas- 
sical literature which is defiled with 
the impurities of heathenism. The 
introduction of the excellent scries 
of Christian classics published in 
France into the course of an Ameri- 
can college would be a good thing. 






New Publications. 



THE LIVES OF THE SAINTS. By Rev. 
S. Baring-Gould, M.A. January. Lon- 
don : John Hodges. (New York: Sold 
by The Catholic Publication Society.) 
1872. 

Mr. Gould is a remarkable man. 
Three years ago we reviewed with 
considerable severity a work of his, 
and treated him as a rationalist, which 
we supposed him to be at that time, 
not knowing anything whatever of 
his opinions, except as they were in- 
dicated in the book reviewed. We 
were somewhat puzzled by discov- 
ering that he is really a clergyman 
of the Ritualist school, but it ap- 
pears in reality that he is a Hegelian 
in philosophy, and at the same time 
a soi-disant eclectic Catholic in 
theology. How he reconciles these 
opposites is his affair, not ours. 
The present volume, at any rate, is 
worthy of the highest praise. It is 
a collection of short lives from the 
Bollandists, published in a beautifnl 
style, and perfectly suitable for cir- 
culation among Catholics. We trust 
he will complete his useful and at- 
tractive work in the same admirable 
manner as he has begun it. 

THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SO- 
CIETY has in press and in prepar- 
ation the following works, in ad- 
dition to those already announced, 
which will be published during the 
fall : Pictures of Youthful Holiness, 
by Rev. R. Cooke ; A Saint's Children, 
by Emily Bowles ; Life and Writings 
i>/ St. Catherine of Genoa ; All Hallow- 
Eve, and Unconvicted ; Tales from the 
Spanish of Fernan Caballero ; The 
Heart of Myrrha Lake, or Into the 
Light of Catholicity ; The Nesbits, or a 
Mother's Last Reqiicst ; Oakley, on 
Catholic Worship ; The Illustrated 
Catholic Family Almanac for 1873; 
and The Book of the Holy Rosary, 
illustrated with thirt)'-six full-page 
engravings, by Rev. H. Formby. 
The publication of F. Finotti's Bib- 
liographia Catholica Americana has 
been unavoidably delayed, by cir- 



cumstances beyond the control of 
either author or publisher. It is 
now about two-thirds printed, and 
will be ready as soon as possible. 
This explanation is given as an 
answer to several letters received by 
the publisher. 



THE REVIEW OF MR. BRYANT'S ILIAD. 

THE following paragraph appeared 
in the Independent, from which it was 
copied by the New York Times : 

" We were slightly surprised, after reading in 
the June number of THE CATHOLIC WORLD that 
' the New York Times has long rivalled Har- 
peSs Weekly in bigotry and anti-Catholic ma- 
lice,' to find in the same number a long article 
on Bryant's Iliad, which is stolen bodily from 
two reviews of the same work in the Times of 
March 14 and June 20, 1870. The arrangement 
of the paragraphs is slightly changed, but their 
contents are absolutely identical. In the same 
number of THE CATHOLIC WORLD the editor pa- 
thetically inquires : ' What is the Catholic press 
doing to correct these literary inflnences ? What 
is it doing to cultivate the art of criticism?' 
Stealing, evidently. We are informed, however, 
that often ' the force of a Catholic organ consists 
of nobody but the editor, who writes all the 
fourth page, and the assistant, who makes up 
the rest of the forms with a paste-pot and a pair 
of shears.' If Catholic monthlies are edited in 
the same way as Catholic weeklies, it manifestly 
becomes necessary to search for articles among 
the files of the daily papers ; but we must remind 
the editor, to quote his own words again, that 
'newspapers go everywhere. Their readers are 
not confined to any one sect or any one party."' 

The simple fact of the matter is, 
that the author of the articles in the 
Times presented the review of the 
Iliad, which appeared in our Jast 
number, to the editor of this maga- 
zine in manuscript, and received 
payment for it as an original article. 
The proper explanation has been 
already made to the editor of the 
Times. To the Independent our only 
rejoinder" may be found in the last 
four lines of the Ninth Fable of 
Pha^drus.* 

" Tune ille insolens: 
'Qualis videtur opera tibi vocis mese ?' 
' Insignis.' inquit, ' sic, ut nisi nossem tuum 
Animum genusque, simili fugissem mctu.' " 

* Phcedri Faiute, Fab. IX., Asinus et Leo \' 
nantes. 



THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD. 



VOL. XV., No. 89. AUGUST, 1872. 



THE CATHOLIC CHURCH IN THE UNITED STATES. 



A RETROSPECT. 



THE astonishing growth of our 
hierarchy, with the multiplied divi- 
sions which such growth calls for 
overrunning, as they do, and inter- 
secting the boundaries of ancient 
mission-fields seems to make the 
renowned past of missionary labor 
on this continent recede more and 
more into indistinctness. We pro- 
pose to make some brief mention of 
prominent incidents in the history of 
those missions, and to do so not only 
that we may awaken in a generation 
of superficial readers an interest in 
the achievements of the great pio- 
neers of our faith on this soil of Ame- 
rica, but that we may base thereupon 
some suggestions we wish to make 
to the future historian of those times 
and those men. We trust that the 
day will come when a taste for stu- 
dies of this kind will have spread 
from the few to the many, and cre- 
ate a necessity for some work more 
extended than a sketch or a com- 
pend. Meanwhile, of such historical 



materials as we have, which are ac- 
cessible to the ordinary reader, we 
propose to make mention, for the 
benefit of those who may now. 
desire to know what materials we 
possess ; nay, more, that they may be 
encouraged to appreciate these ma- 
terials at their value, we shall repro- 
duce from them alone all the state- 
ments we have to present to the 
reader. 

The period of time embraced by 
these early missionary enterprises 
comprehends no less than eight and 
a half centuries, dating from the first 
mention in history of the Norse mis- 
sions, in the tenth century, to the es- 
tablishment of the last of the mis- 
sions of California in 1823. In the 
chronological order of their inception, 
they range as follows : 

I. The missions to the adventur- 
ous Norsemen, whose settlements in 
the middle ages extended from La- 
brador to the southern coast of New 
England. Although the light of 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by Rev. 1. T. HECKER, in the Office of 
the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



573 



The CatJiolic Church in the United States. 



faith gleamed but for a time on our 
shores, leaving us only the memory 
of the Bishop of Garda so happily 
embalmed in the pages of Mr. R. 
H. Clarke's Deceased Bishops the 
Norse missions did not entirely die 
out on the eastern coast of Green- 
land until 1540. At this date, the 
intrepid missionaries of Spain had al- 
ready advanced from Mexico into 
the borders of our present Southern 
territory. The extinction of the 
Catholic settlements at the north was 
due to the physical revolution caus- 
ed by a change in the course of the 
Gulf Stream. Thereupon, that once 
smiling and fertile shore became the 
bleak and inhospitable region that it 
has ever since continued to be, and 
no race of Europeans now disputes 
with the rugged Esquimaux a foot- 
hold on the land. 

II. The Spanish missions alluded 
to above. The history of these mis- 
sionary enterprises, in their alternat- 
ing successes and defeats, is one 
that renders the soil of Florida, Tex- 
as, and New Mexico a land of sa- 
cred memories. In New Mexico, 
the Christian settlements under our 
American Bishop of Santa Fe per- 
petuate these ancient missions. In 
the other states named they exist 
only in the material monuments they 
have left behind them. 

III. The French missions. These 
were the vast Christian enterprises 
which, from New France, sent into 
New York and the states west of it 
so many apostles and martyrs. The 
present Christian Indians of Canada 
owe their faith, and indeed their con- 
tinued existence, to these missions, 
which have also bequeathed to us 
within our own limits the Abnakis 
of Maine and the Christian Indians 
who within a few years have been 
removed from Illinois, Indiana, 
Michigan, etc., to the Indian Terri- 
tory. 



IV. The missions of Maryland. 
These missions carried the light of 
faith to the aborigines of that colony, 
and if the latter have ceased to exist, 
the Jesuits still subsist, and inhabit 
the ancient manors where their bre- 
thren of old gathered around them 
the docile children of the forest, ere 
the torch of religious and political 
persecution was lighted by stranger 
hands, in the " Land of the Sanc- 
tuary. Yet, even the missions of 
Maryland are not without a living 
succession, for the Jesuits of Mary- 
land planted a colony of their breth- 
ren in the West, and have carried 
the Gospel to vast multitudes of new 
subjects among the Indian tribes, and 
have besides aided to sustain the faith 
of those expatriated from the former 
limits of other mission fields. Perhaps 
the most serious blow to the perpetuity 
of some of these missions is threat- 
ened in the government's plan of 
" improvement " in its Indian policy. 
While the measures comprehended 
under this new policy aim at eradi- 
cating some abuses, the plan is also 
ingeniously aimed to operate in a di- 
rection where no abuses can be al- 
leged, and to substitute among Ca- 
tholic Indians the " Evangelical " 
preacher for the " Black-gown," 
whom the Indians feel to be their 
best and most disinterested friend, at 
whose feet they have learned the ru- 
diments of Christianity, and at whose 
feet alone they will condescend to sit 
for instruction in the way of eternal 
life. 

V. The missions of Louisiana. 
Within the former limits of these mis- 
sions, the area of the present states 
of Louisiana, Arkansas, and Missis- 
sippi was embraced. By the remov- 
al of the native tribes, the missions 
of Louisiana have become practical- 
ly merged in those which now em- 
brace the Western States. Never- 
theless, some Christian Indians still 



The Catholic Church in tJic United States. 



579 



linger on the soil of Louisiana pro- 
per. 

VI. The missions of California. 
In so far as the hostility of the whites 
has permitted the Indians to live in 
peace, these missions may be said still 
to subsist. Such remains of them as 
Mexican rapacity had spared de- 
scended to us at least on the cession 
of California to the United States. 

Should the full history of these 
missions come to be written, the more 
perspicuous arrangement we beg 
to suggest to the historian would 
be to divide the whole into epochs. 
Thus, the Norse missions would con- 
stitute an epoch by itself, to be desig- 
nated, let us say, as the Ante-Colum- 
bian missions before the discovery 
by Columbus. When the Catholic 
Historical Society shall be formed 
(even if it owe its origin to this sug- 
gestion for its formation), its first 
care, after gathering into its fire- 
proof cabinets the books, pamphlets, 
newspapers and magazines, manu- 
scripts, charts, portraits, sketches, 
and other memorials or illustrations 
of the Catholic history of America, 
should be to draw from Northern 
Europe materials for a more extend- 
ed history than we now possess of an 
epoch so full of interest to the anti- 
quary and the Catholic. Until re- 
cently, indeed, the Norse missions bid 
fair to be reckoned as among myths. 
If they are no longer so regarded, 
this result is due to the investigations 
of a few scholars only. 

The second, or Post-Columbian^ 
epoch should commence with the 
history of the missionary efforts 
which succeeded the discovery by 
Columbus. This epoch, after dis- 
playing the inception and progress 
of these great religious enterprises, 
might terminate appropriately with 
the establishment of one of the last 
series of missions, that of San Fran- 
cisco, erected on the site of the pres- 



ent city of that name in 1776, seven 
days before the date of our Declara- 
tion of Independence. 

For the third epoch, no event 
could form a more appropriate initial 
point than that which freed our coun- 
try from the domination of England. 
From this point, a new era opens for 
our church, for the charter of our 
national independence was the char- 
ter of our liberties as well. In the 
epoch just elapsed, the spirit of 
British legislation and the spirit of 
British bigotry harassed or defeated 
at every step the apostolical laborers 
within the mission-fields embraced in 
the limits of the American colonies. 
Now, over all the territory of the 
new Republic, shortly to be enlarged 
by the addition of Louisiana and 
Florida with their sacred memories of 
the past, the old colonial legislation 
against Catholics began to disappear 
from the statute-books of the states ; 
and, if at the present writing there be 
a state where these discriminating 
laws still linger, her apologists are 
obliged to claim that they are practi- 
cally inoperative.* Early in this epoch, 
our present hierarchy had its begin- 

*Let us pause to observe that this change in 
the spirit of legislation marks also the decline of 
that spirit of bigotry which inspired it in the first 
place. The spirit of bigotry, however, still sur- 
vives, though it be less aggressive than formerly. 
It outlives the melioration of charters, and dies 
hard. When it shall have reached that stage of 
feebleness to which the natural generosity of 
our countrymen will sooner or later reduce it, 
we may then hope to follow where Canada has 
led in her laws concerning education. The pom- 
pous protection now afforded by states and mu- 
nicipalities to their necessarily infidel school \vill 
disappear to give way to measures of solicitude 
for the equal education of all, Catholic and infi- 
del, Protestant and Jew, without injustice to any 
man's religion or any man's resources. The un- 
fortunate precedent afforded by the theocratic 
government of New England, and which has 
been so blindly followed by other states, in as- 
suming to educate instead of aiding education 
even this disorder in our republicanism may be 
healed, if congress do not meanwhile (as appear- 
ances threaten) strengthen the hands of state 
absolutists by its largesses; or, if it do not, by 
an act of still greater usurpation than the states 
have been guilty of, consign the task of popular 
education to the care of the general govern- 
ment. 



5 So 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



ning in the appointment of John Car- 
roll as first bishop John Carroll whose 
efforts, in conjunction with Franklin, 
Chase, and Charles Carroll, to enlist 
the sympathies of the Canadians in 
our national cause, were rendered 
abortive by the anti-Catholic mani- 
festo which had been issued by the 
colonial congress of 17 74-* The era 
of the great prelate's labors was short- 
ly rendered memorable by the arrival 
upon our shores of those devoted 
men whom persecution or revolution 
abroad had driven hither. Through 
them, with here and there the assist- 
ance of the few clergyman already 
on the spot, religion began to make 
glad the desert places. The centres 
of population, no less than the scat- 
tered settlements of the interior 
the mountains of Pennsylvania equal- 
ly with the forests of Kentucky re- 
joiced in the spreading light of gospel 
truth. In short, the seventy years 
succeeding the Declaration of Inde- 
pendence within which period we 
propose to limit this third epoch 
form an era filled with the chronicles 
of devoted missionary labor, and the 
history of humble and painful foun- 
dations which have since expanded 
into vast and even magnificent pro- 
portions. 

For the commencement of the 



*Thus Protestant bigotry probably lost us 
Canada, as it gained us must we say it ? the 
treason of Arnold. The bigotry of Arnold revolt- 
ed at the alliance with France, because it was an 
alliance with Catholics. His disgust was height- 
ened by the liberality of feeling which began to 
be manifested by his countrymen towards Ca- 
tholics. The co-operation of Catholics, native 
and foreign, in the cause of our National Inde- 
pendence, was so marked that it may well have 
embittered a patriot of his calibre, and indeed it 
infuriated him to that degree that he preferred to 
sell his country rather than serve a cause which 
was so largely sustained by those whose religion 
he hated. Does not Arnold live in successors? To 
say nothing of others, who were the Know-No- 
thing patriots who preferred to disgrace the na- 
tional name by destroying the memorial-stone 
contributed by Pius IX. to the Washington Mon- 
ument, rather than that its shaft should preserve 
the evidence of the respect of a Pope for the 
memory of our Pater Patrise ? 



fourth epoch, embracing the era in 
which we live, and terminating when 
it may please the historian to close 
it, the year 1846 is suggested for sev- 
eral reasons. If the assignment of 
this date seems to terminate the pre- 
ceding epoch at a period dispropor- 
tionally early, compared with the 
epoch before it, it must be remember- 
ed that these seventy years, embrac- 
ing as they do the period of the for- 
mation and first growth of our pres- 
ent hierarchy, would probably require 
as voluminous a treatment at the 
hands of the historian as the whole 
long period of the second epoch. In 
1846, the partition of dioceses into 
ecclesiastical provinces began by the 
erection of the Province of Oregon 
in that year. Prior to this time the 
whole United States had formed but 
one Province, under the Archbishop 
of Baltimore. The Province of St. 
Louis was erected in 1847, those of 
New Orleans, Cincinnati, and New 
York in 1850, and the Province of 
San Francisco in 1853. The year 
1846 is also the date of the accession 
to the Pontifical throne of the great 
and good Pius IX., still happily 
reigning, whose Pontificate is the 
most remarkable of modern times, if 
not of all times, as it has certainly 
been the longest, and, in its relations 
to the American church, the most 
momentous. The Sixth Provincial 
Council of Baltimore was held in 
1846, and the same year was signal- 
ized by the opening of the Mexican 
War, which was followed in 1848 by 
the acquisition of California and New 
Mexico, classic lands in the history 
of the American Missions. The an- 
nexation of Texas in 1845, with all 
her legacies of missionary heroism, 
fofms the closing political event of 
the preceding epoch. Thus, many 
reasons concur for selecting 1846 as 
the period of a new departure in our 
ecclesiastical annals. The thread of 



The Catholic Church in tJie United States. 



5 8i 



narrative connecting the history of 
the old missions with our own day 
may be said to terminate at the be- 
ginning of this epoch, by the admis- 
sion of California and New Mexico 
into the Federal Union. Nor need 
this thread be afterwards resumed. 
The fourth epoch, judging from its 
energetic beginnings and the trium- 
phant progress the church in this 
country has made in the interval, is 
destined to fill a glorious place in 
ecclesiastical history. 

These suggestions in regard to the 
method of dealing with our Catholic 
history would be superfluous, except 
upon the supposition that such a 
history as the subject calls for has 
yet to be written. We have no 
doubt it will be. It is the purpose 
of this paper to promote such a con- 
summation, both by arousing an in- 
terest in the subject on the part of 
readers, and stimulating the zeal of 
writers. Without this interest on the 
part of readers, the zeal, learning, 
and ability of authors will never be 
called into play on this field. What- 
ever meed of praise we must assign 
to the few authors who have made 
our missions or our Catholic history 
their theme, it cannot be contended 
that they have largely developed it : 
but, if they have not done more, it is 
because the taste of the public the 
Catholic public, at least did not de- 
mand more. Here, then, is need 
for reformation. 

Catholics might take a lesson from 
the conduct of people of the world. 
When a family of high origin rises 
igain into distinction from a condi- 
tion of temporary depression, it re- 
verts with fondness to the ancestry 
by which it was distinguished in the 
past, as well as to that which achiev- 
ed its return to greatness : it justifies 
its present position by the long roll 
it exhibits of its genealogical worthies. 
So should American Catholics of the 



present day act and feel as a religi- 
ous family, but with a pride that is 
commendable, since the object of it 
is the church of God, and all the glo- 
ry it acquires is due to the humility, 
the sacrifices, the self-devotion of the 
truest heroes that ever lived, the 
saints and servants of God. Such 
were our religious ancestors on this 
continent, and such they were long 
before in the vista of centuries. It 
is something to possess a mere anti- 
quity in a land where all is new save 
the race that is dying out towards 
the setting sun, and no lineage can 
dispute for antiquity with that of the 
Catholic Church on this soil. 

If her history were better known, 
we should not be so often met by the 
assertions that this is a " Protestant 
country" an assertion which, though 
provoking, would be harmless but for 
some social or legal ostracism which 
is attempted under color of it. The 
preponderance of numbers, the only 
tenable ground upon which the asser- 
tion can be made, is a mere tempo- 
rary condition of things, and is so 
rapidly disappearing that a mathe- 
matical calculation is alone sufficient 
to fix its period of termination. But, 
last as long it may, this preponder- 
ance avails nothing so long as the 
law of the land knows neither Prot- 
estant nor Catholic as such. This 
impartiality of the law, by the bye, 
will never be disturbed by Catholics 
even when the preponderance of 
numbers shall be in their favor. 
They venerate too deeply the exam- 
ple of the Catholic Pilgrims of Mary- 
land ever to descend from the high 
standard they have left behind. 

Again, this is not a Protestant 
country by virtue of early discovery 
or possession, nor by reason of early 
settlement or religious foundation, 
nor even by the establishment of an 
earlier hierarchy, as some Protestant 
churchmen contend. Much less is it 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



Protestant by the conversion of either 
native or foreign races within its con- 
fines. With one only exception, as a 
class, that may be reckoned consid- 
erable, Protestantism is only an heir- 
loom in families that were Protestant 
at the time of their immigration. 
Nor has it, with these, held its own ; 
for the statistics supplied by our Ca- 
tholic bishops shc,w that, among those 
confirmed by them, a proportion, 
varying in different dioceses, but 
forming an average of probably 
twelve per cent., is composed of con- 
verts from Protestantism. The con- 
siderable exception we note is 
formed of the descendants of Irish 
Catholics who long since emigrated 
to these shores or were transported 
hither in large numbers by Oliver 
Cromwell. Their children, deprived 
of religious instruction and left with- 
out priests and sacraments, have 
been gradually absorbed into the 
ranks of the sects around them. 
Hence the number of unmistakably 
Celtic names we find borne by many 
who are now Protestants. This ex- 
ception, however, goes very little way 
towards establishing the general asser- 
tion that the Protestantism of the coun- 
try is due to the conversions it has 
made. The blacks have naturally 
followed the religion of the masters 
in whose families they were domesti- 
cated while slaves. As to the In- 
dians, Protestantism has done little 
or nothing that it can point to with 
any pride, and it employs itself in 
their regard, as it does in all other 
parts of the world where it encoun- 
ters the Catholic missionary, in mar- 
ring or obstructing his work, thus 
leaving the poor Indian in a more 
wretched condition than he had been 
before he heard of Christianity at all. 
Under whatever auspices certain 
colonies of Protestants were estab- 
lished, long after the first occupation 
of American soil by Catholics, the 



constitution, which is the charter of 
our general liberties, and which these 
colonies, or the states representing 
these colonies, united in adopting, is 
silent on the subject of religion. Its 
equilibrium on this point is perfect. 
Nor will it be disturbed, even though 
a judge of the Supreme Court heard 
the little knot of superserviceable 
Protestants who advocate the appar- 
ently innocent project of introducing 
" God in the constitution." Even if 
it were possible that these gentlemen 
should succeed in their effort, an in- 
ternecine warfare would ensue among 
Protestants themselves for the pos- 
session by one or the other of the dif- 
ferent sects of the power to direct the 
" appropriate legislation" contempla- 
ted in the proposed amendment to 
the constitution. In this scramble, 
the opportunity of wielding this new 
engine against the Catholics would 
be lost, and hence much of the ani- 
mus that directs the movement now 
would prove a waste of zeal. Our 
general laws are, therefore, no more 
Protestant than Catholic, and even 
court-preachers who claim that their 
"church" is a "power in the land" 
are unable to wrest them from their 
tenor, though they may fill the pub- 
lic offices with the adherents of their 
conventicle. 

History, good sense, and common 
observation thus militate against a 
claim which is intended, in one way 
or another, to be injurious to Ame- 
rican Catholics and their church. 
This subject may not be new to the 
readers of THE CATHOLIC WORLD, but 
it is one which will bear repetition, in 
view of the necessity of presenting 
the truth as it is before right-minded 
Protestants who may otherwise be 
beguiled by the specious pretences 
of their less scrupulous brethren in 
view of the still greater necessity of 
fortifying our own people against an 
allegation which is intended to dis- 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



533 



courage and demoralize them. We 
need our moral force, our Catholic 
spirit, our sense of equality with our 
neighbors, in order to accomplish 
much of the good that is before us in 
both the social and the religious 
sphere. It will help this spirit of 
noble independence to become fa- 
miliar with the history of our church 
in this country and of its unique 
achievements. 

The scattered memorials of early 
missions have been gathered with 
great labor by Mr. John G. Shea, 
and compressed in his History of the 
Catholic Missions (New York, 1854). 
His narrative needs digesting, but is 
of most interesting matter. The ab- 
sence of maps, however, and the conse- 
quent difficulty of following the foot- 
steps of the missionaries in their 
labors and journeys, often through 
unfamiliar localities, necessitate a 
reference to other books, and so 
detract from the value of the work 
as a handbook for ordinary readers. 
Even the works of Kip and Park- 
man, covering a more restricted 
ground, are illustrated by maps. 
The tables in Mr. Shea's appendix, 
with the names of the missionaries, 
the date of their arrival, and that of 
their death, and also the list of au- 
thorities in print and manuscript il- 
lustrating his subject, are extremely 
valuable. We are indebted to Mr. 
Shea's work for the principal portion 
of our materials. 

T. D'Arcy McGee's five lectures 
on the Catholic Church in the United 
States (Boston, 1855), written in a 
clear, brilliant, and forcible style, 
pass in review the history of the 
American church from the days of 
Columbus down to the period of the 
publication of the book. 

The Catholic Church in the United 
States, by Henry de Courcy, translated 
and enlarged by John G. Shea (New 
York, 1856), is modestly designated 



by the author as a " sketch," but can 
only be considered so because the 
ground covered by the work is so 
vast, and the period so extended, 
that it was found impossible to dwell 
at length on any particular point. 
Still, the work is neither hasty nor 
superficial, and comprehends a bulk 
of nearly 600 pages. 

These three works by Catholic au- 
thors are the only publications we 
possess bearing upon the general 
ground, and adapted to popular use 
and reference. A lecture here or 
there, or Dr. White's sketch at- 
tached to Darras' General History of 
the Church, does not add materially to 
our resources. It will be observed 
from the date of their publication 
that these three works were published 
in three successive years about the 
period of the last '' Know-Nothing" 
excitement. Are we to infer from 
this circumstance that our people 
can only be goaded by religious 
persecution into demanding such 
works ? If so, we shall have the less 
reason for regret when the unpre- 
cedentedly long period of peace we 
are now enjoying shall come to a 
close, as it certainly must, sooner or 
later, in the providence of God. 

Of biographies and local histories 
we have a growing collection, some 
of them of great value. The affairs 
of a diocese, a state, or a particular 
region of country will always com- 
mand a special interest among those 
who dwell therein. Hence we may 
expect this class of works to appear 
in increasing numbers. They furnish 
important materials to the future gen- 
eral historian, and probably educate 
the taste of readers into a demand for 
more comprehensive works. Many 
details that would be useful to the 
historian would perish but for them, 
as many have doubtless perished al- 
ready for the lack of timely chroni- 
clers. An enumeration of these works 



584 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



is not essential in this place, but we 
trust that other hands will do justice 
to those who have bestowed their 
scanty time upon labors of this kind, 
for all these works have been written 
by men of busy lives, such men as 
the late Archbishop Spalding, for ex- 
ample, among the clergy, and the late 
Bernard U. Campbell, of Baltimore, 
among the laity. Mr. Campbell's 
writings, to be sure, have not been 
reprinted from the magazine for 
which they were written ; but had not 
the gates of death closed in the 
midst of his career on the author of 
the Life and Times of Archbishop Car- 
roll, we might have expected from 
one possessed of his industrious re- 
search, his ardent mind, and genuine 
talents, contributions of the highest 
value to the history of the church in 
America. He was called hence just as 
a position of comparative distinction 
and emolument seemed about to com- 
pensate him for his long years of faith- 
ful duty in the inconspicuous but re- 
sponsible post he had hitherto filled ; 
and this tribute to the memory of one 
whose character was brightened by 
every Christian and every civic vir- 
tue will not seem out of place here 
to those who knew him and who in 
his community did not know him ? 
who did not love him ? 

When will our young men, begin- 
ning life with advantages of which 
Mr. Campbell could not boast, with 
wealth and family position and scho- 
lastic training, learn to emulate such 
an example, and devote their oppor- 
tunities, their means, and the fruits 
of their studies to a task which would 
do them infinite honor, instead of de- 
voting all these gifts to the service of 
a frivolous society ? a task upon 
which, in their default, strangers and 
aliens have entered, and gathered 
laurels to themselves at the expense 
of the church whose heroes they pre- 
tend to exalt. 



The author of a work to which we 
have already referred has snatched 
from the intervals of severe profes- 
sional labors time for the production 
of two of the most important volumes 
contributed to our American Catho- 
lic literature in the department of 
biography, although their bulk and 
cost must render them inaccessible to 
many readers. But it is a work the 
perusal of which must quicken the 
desire for that full and connected 
history of the American church which 
awaits us in the future. Here, that 
history glitters in detached fragments, 
like prismatic hues reflected from 
some great signal-light, around each 
saintly and venerable figure whose 
life and labors the author has por- 
trayed. There, in one luminous 
whole, it will irradiate our entire 
past. Again, a clergyman has found 
the opportunity, amid the cares of a 
parish and the distractions of fre- 
quent and painful illness, to prepare 
for publication a schedule of all the 
early issues of our American Catho- 
lic press a most welcome adjunct to 
the labors of the Catholic historian. 
With these and many similar ex- 
amples before them, how great a re- 
proach must rest upon our Catholic 
young men of culture if their last and 
only contribution to the literature of 
their church and country be the 
fleeting amenities of a college address 
at graduation ! 

But, as we have already remarked, 
the field of our Catholic history has 
been entered upon by writers of an- 
other and an alien school. The 
wealth of incident, the picturesque 
enfourage, the heroic action, which 
characterize the history of our Ca- 
tholic missions have proven irre- 
sistible attractions to the Protestant 
scholar. Mr. Francis Parkman is 
especially conspicuous in this depart- 
ment, and we wish to say a few words 
in regard to his best-known work, 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



585 



The Jesuits in North America (Bos- 
ton, 1867). We trust that to Catho- 
lic readers Mr. Shea's elegant re- 
print of Father Charlevoix's History 
of New France, fully and carefully 
annotated by Mr. Shea himself, will 
supply all the needs of a reference on 
this field of inquiry. None can fail 
to admire the graces of style which 
distinguish Mr. Parkman's writings, 
but Protestants alone can make him 
a reference and commend him for 
the fidelity with which he adheres to 
their worn-out traditions and the 
readiness he exhibits to flatter their 
ingrained prejudices and preposses- 
sions. 

It is difficult to understand how 
an author could have written so fully 
and so eloquently of men, the dig- 
nity of whose aims he seems not to 
have formed the slightest conception 
of, or that he should have chosen 
this theme at all under the circum- 
stances. We can only hope that a 
more profound feeling stirred him to 
the task than he is willing to acknow- 
ledge. But Mr. Parkman is a New 
Englander, and it befits not the Puri- 
tan traditions of his people to display 
any enthusiasm. On the ears of the 
auditory he undoubtedly in the main 
sets himself to address an auditory 
dead to every supernatural impres- 
sion except that which may be 
evoked by the practices of spirit- 
ism words of enthusiasm would 
fall distastefully, and the reflex of an 
inner faith be simply repelling. 
Hence Mr. Parkman carefully avoids 
any suspicion of complicity with 
these unpopular emotions, and his 
heroes enact their grand parts like 
puppets put in action on a mimic 
stage by some inexplicable machin- 
ery. All the pith and marrow of 
their actions, such as Catholics 
know to have animated them, is 
eliminated, and nothing but a limp 
and imbecile counterfeit is left of 



the living, breathing man. Yet 
these men, these great missiona- 
ries so parodied, were they who un- 
dertook the most gigantic labors, en- 
dured the most severe hardships, and 
met even death itself, from the most 
exalted motive that can animate our 
kind the love of souls for God's 
sake ! In Mr. Parkman's hands, all 
that is great and ennobling about 
them shrinks into an unsubstantial 
figment : the impelling motive, if one 
is to be descried ^t all, is a barren 
sentimentalism, the action, left aim- 
less and unsupported, a mere pretti- 
ness of behavior. 

The following passage from The 
yestiits in North America (page 97) 
will afford an example of the animus 
with which the book is written. It 
opens with the reiteration of a stale 
slander : " That equivocal morality, 
lashed by the withering satire of a 
Pascal a morality built on the doc- 
trine that all means are permissible 
for saving souls from perdition, and 
that sin itself is no sin when its ob- 
ject is the ' greater glory of God '- 
found far less scope in the rude wil- 
derness of the Hurons than among 
the interests, ambitions, and passions 
of civilized life. Nor were these 
men, chosen from among the purest 
of their order, personally well fitted 
to illustrate the capabilities of this 
elastic system. Yet, now and then, 
by the light of their own writings, we 
may observe that the teachings of 
the school of Loyola had not been 
wholly without effect in the forma- 
tion of their ethics. But when we 
see them in the gloomy February of 
1637, and the gloomier months that 
followed, toiling on foot from one 
infected town to another, wading 
through the sodden snow, under the 
bare and dripping forests, drenched 
with incessant rains, till they descried 
at length through the storm the clus- 
tered dwellings of some barbarous 



586 



The Catliolic Churcli in the United Stat-es. 



hamlet when we see them entering, 
one after another, those wretched 
abodes of misery and darkness, and 
all for one sole end, the baptism of 
the sick and dying, we may smile at 
the futility of the object, but we must 
needs admire the self-sacrificing zeal 
with which it is pursued." The futil- 
ity of the object ! And this is said in 
the nineteenth century of Christian 
enlightenment ! Has the lettered 
paganism which held its head so 
high in the days of the early Roman 
Pontiffs indeed revived in all its im- 
penetrable pride, and with all its 
scorn of the Christian faith and the 
Christian people ? Has it only slept 
through all these centuries, to awak- 
en again in our day and stalk among 
us with unblushing front as of old ? 

In conclusion, on the subject of 
authors, Rev. W. I. Kip, afterwards 
made Protestant Episcopal Bishop 
of California, published, under the ti- 
tle of Early Jesuit Missions in North 
America, a translation of some letters 
written by the French Jesuits on the 
mission between 1696 and 1750. We 
see nothing to object to and much 
to commend in this work. We must 
except from our commendation a 
portion of the editor's preface, as fol- 
lows : " There is one thought, how- 
ever, which has constantly occurred 
to us in the preparation of these let- 
ters, and which we cannot but sug- 
gest. Look over the world and read 
the history of the Jesuit Missions. 
After one or two generations, they 
have always come to naught. 
Must there not have been something 
wrong in the whole system some 
grievous errors mingled with their 
teachings, which thus denied them a 
measure of success proportioned to 
their efforts ?" Considering that, after 
one or two generations, the insane 
jealousy of governments generally 
led to the persecution of the Jesuits, 
the rapacity of officials to the plun- 



der of their missions, and that the 
whole society was suppressed and 
dispersed in the midst of some of its 
most prominent labors, the failure of 
most of the Jesuit missions may be 
easily accounted for. But these 
causes were all extrinsic, not intrin- 
sic, as Mr. Kip suggests. In spite 
of these disintegrating causes, the vi- 
tality of the missions established by 
the Jesuits, as exemplified in this re- 
trospect, is something remarkable. 
Nor was there ever, or, if ever, rarely, 
a failure where these extrinsic causes 
were not at work. Mr. Kip's asser- 
tion that there is not a " recorded 
instance of their permanency " is un- 
veracious in spirit, if it be not in fact. 
He might easily have known better. 
Probably, if he would " look over the 
world " through the medium of the 
Protestant authorities quoted by Dr. 
Marshall (and Dr. M. quotes no 
others) in his work on Christian Mis- 
sions, Mr. Kip and others equally 
in need of enlightenment would 
know what they ought to believe -of 
Jesuit and all other Catholic mis- 
sions. Per contra, and as shown by 
the same Protestant authorities, it 
will be seen that the barrenness er- 
roneously predicated of the Jesuit 
missions by Mr. Kip is the distin- < 
guishing mark of the Protestant mis- 
sions everywhere and at all times, ] 
under the most favorable as under ! 
the most adverse circumstances, in 
their first stage equally as in their last. ; 

When we consider that eight hun- 
dred or more years ago all that was 
Christian in our land was Catholic, we 
can bear with more equanimity the 
presumptuous offers of hospitality 
made to us by sectaries who claim as 
their own a soil wherein Catholicity 
was planted before their religion was 
heard of. In brief, the history of 
these first missions was as follows : 
When the light of Christianity spread 
from Ireland to Iceland, the adven- 



The Catholic Church in tJic United States. 



587 



turous natives of the latter country 
had already effected a lodgement on 
our continent through the colonies 
they had planted in Greenland and 
on the shores further south, extend- 
ing to Narragansett Bay. They 
called this latter region Vinland from 
the great profusion of native vines 
they found there. In the year 1000, 
Catholic missionaries set forth from 
Iceland, and soon bade Greenland 
blossom with the fruits of faith, as it 
blossomed already with the material 
beauty and verdure that then crown- 
ed its valleys. In time missionaries 
were despatched hence to Vinland, 
with the same happy results. Thus, 
in what seems to us the night of 
ages, the voice of Christian prayer 
and the hymns of Christian praise 
resounded along our Northern shores. 
Greenland was already dotted over 
with institutions of piety and learning 
when Eric, now its bishop, with his 
see at Garda, came in 1121, for the 
second time, to visit his dear Vin- 
landers and their Indian neophytes; 
rounding the promontory of Cape 
Cod to the south, five hundred years 
before the grim Puritans rounded it 
to the north on their way to Ply- 
mouth Bay. He came this time to 
dwell with the chosen ones of his 
flock, and doubtless to die with them, 
for the curtain of history has fallen 
over his fate and that of his compa- 
nions and spiritual children. 

The old stone tower at Newport is, 
in the eyes of some respectable anti- 
quaries, a relic of ancient Catholicity 
in New England that belonged to a 
church or monastery, but its mute 
walls reveal nothing of the sacred 
catastrophe which overwhelmed the 
Christian colony of Vinland. The 
soil of New England was therefore 
long since dedicated to the God of 
truth, and let us trust that he will 
again, in his own good time, claim 
his heritage. 



Turning our eyes to the other ex- 
treme of our national boundaries as 
they now exist, we find that the first 
Spanish missionaries set foot in Flo- 
rida in 1528, in company with the 
expedition of Narvaez. The latter 
expected to find him an empire 
rivalling in wealth and extent that 
of Mexico, so recently subjected 
to the Spanish arms by the prow- 
ess of Cortez. The limits of the 
new empire were already marked 
out for a see, which took its title 
from the Rio de las Palmas, its 
southern boundary, a river in Mexico 
between Vera Cruz and Tampico, 
and extended to the Cape of Florida. 
The new bishop himself, Juan Juarez, 
headed the band of missionaries. As 
Father Juarez, he had been one of 
the twelve Franciscans who were .in- 
vited to Mexico by Cortez to be its 
first apostles, and whom he received 
with great honor in 1524, five years 
after his landing. Father Juarez 
here distinguished himself by his 
zeal and his love and care for the 
Indians, and his appointment as the 
new bishop, which was made on the 
occasion of a subsequent visit to 
Spain, was therefore most fitting. 

The expedition of Narvaez proved, 
however, a failure, and in its failure 
was involved that of the missionary ' 
scheme connected with it. No rich 
empire met the commander's expect- 
ant gaze, no dusky monarch clad in 
barbaric splendor and surrounded by 
assiduous courtiers crossed his path 
to question his purposes or withstand 
his advance. He encountered only 
straggling Indians who treacherously 
led him on to his ruin. At last, 
weary, disappointed, pinched with 
want, and decimated by disease or 
the arrows of ambushed savages, the. 
troops of Narvaez forced their way 
back through the jungle to the shore 
they had left. Narvaez had injudi- 
ciously, and against the advice of 



588 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



Bishop Juarez, ordered his ships 
elsewhere, and the only resource of 
the party was to escape to sea as best 
they might in the rude boats they 
constructed for the purpose. Four 
only remained behind, and these 
saved themselves by a perilous jour- 
ney across the continent. The re- 
mainder were lost at sea, or were 
cast away to die a more lingering 
death by starvation, disease, or the 
attacks of the natives. Among the 
latter was the party of Bishop Juarez, 
which had been driven ashore on 
Dauphin Island, near the mouth of 
the Mississippi. Thus the fate of the 
second bishop who possessed juris- 
diction over any portion of our soil 
is, like that of the first, wrapped in 
painful obscurity, and the fruits of his 
mission, if there were any, are equal- 
ly left without living trace. All that 
is known of this devoted pioneer and 
martyr of the South has been record- 
ed by Mr. Clarke in his Lives of the 
Deceased Bishops. 

The four survivors of the expedi- 
tion of Narvaez traversed Texas and 
New Mexico, and, reaching the 
shores of the Gulf of California, re- 
appeared to the gaze of their astonish- 
ed friends. The accounts they gave 
of the kingdoms and cities they had 
passed on their journey accounts 
that were doubtless somewhat colored 
by their imagination came to the 
ears of an Italian friar named Mark, 
and excited his zeal for the glorious 
spiritual conquest that seemed to lie 
before him. Placing himself under 
the guidance of Stephen, a negro, 
one of the four survivors alluded to, 
and attended by some friendly In- 
dians, he boldly plunged into the 
wilderness which skirted the river 
Gila. Crossing it, he continued his 
march until he came within sight of 
Cibola, a city of the Zuni tribe. 
Here he sent forward Stephen with a 
party of the Indian attendants to 



prepare the way, but the natives 
drove them back, and even killed 
Stephen and some of his companions. 
The friar could only look with long- 
ing eyes towards the city where he 
had hoped to garner a harvest of 
souls, and then sorrowfully began to 
retrace his steps. Ere descending 
the hill from which he bade farewell 
to the city, he, however, planted the 
cross, the object of his journey and 
the emblem of his mission. 

The chieftain, Coronado. stimu- 
lated by the representations made 
of the supposed riches of Cibola, 
headed an expedition fitted out 
by the government to reduce 
it. He followed the route pre- 
viously traversed by Friar Mark, 
who accompanied him, together 
with a number of other Fran- 
ciscans. Cibola was reached, and 
soon yielded to the invader, but so 
barren was the prize, that Coronado 
resolved to press on to the conquest 
of another fabled empire in the 
interior, leaving the poor friar, over- 
whelmed with reproaches, to return 
home in shattered health. He 
ended his days shortly after. Coro- 
nado, in his researches, crossed 
to the valley of the Rio Grande, and 
even to that of the Arkansas, but 
without result, except in the dis- 
covery of the vast herds of bisons 
which swarmed the plains, and of 
which he was the first among Euro- 
peans to give an account. When 
Coronado, weary of his fruitless 
journey, resolved to return, Father 
John de Padilla, one of the Fran- 
ciscans, in his younger days a 
soldier, begged to be allowed to 
remain at the Indian town of Qui- 
vira, west of the Rio Grande. 
Brother John of the Cross proffered 
a similar request in regard to the 
neighboring village of Cicuye, now 
Pecos. Bestowing upon them a 
supply of live stock, and some Mexi- 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



589 



can Indians as assistants, the expe- 
dition passed on and left them to 
their perilous posts. The Indians 
of New Mexico were, as a race, of 
morals more than ordinarily pure, 
and they possessed some familiarity 
with the arts. Notwithstanding 
these humanizing traits, the lives of 
the two devoted missionaries paid the 
forfeit of their courage and zeal, or 
they may both have perished by the 
hands of roving Indians. No tidings 
were ever heard of the lay brother, 
and the fate of the father was 
announced in Tampico by his com- 
panions, who fled thither with the 
news of his martyrdom. 

The expedition of Coronado 
occupied the years 1540-1, or a 
great portion of them. In the latter 
year De Soto, who had entered 
Florida in 1539, led on by the same 
delusive hopes with which the narra- 
tive of the survivors of the party of 
Narvaez inspired Coronado stood 
beside the mighty Mississippi, its 
discoverer. The following year, its 
waters were to be at once the grave 
of the great leader and the haven 
of refuge for the remnant of his band 
in their escape from the country. 
De Soto had brought with him from 
Spain a number of ecclesiastics, 
secular and regular. It is not 
probable that they accomplished 
anything among the natives, but 
they at least sacrificed their lives in 
the attempt, for the last of them 
perished in the interval between the 
death of De Soto and the arrival in 
Tampico of the survivors of his ex- 
pedition. The dark colors in which 
those who cater to popular pre- 
possessions delight to paint the con- 
duct of the Spanish invaders are 
seldom brightened by the testi- 
mony that should accompany the 
picture, of the religious purposes 
which were never entirely absent 
from their minds. With some of 



them religion was, indeed, a con- 
trolling motive. Coupled with 
dreams of worldly conquest, was 
always the hope and desire of 
spreading the knowledge of Chris- 
tian truth throughout the empires that 
might be won. Let the conduct of 
our non-Catholic fellow-citizens in 
the first years of the American occu- 
pation of California, in all its charac- 
teristics of violence, irreligion, greed, 
and cruelty to the Indians, be com- 
pared with that of the Spaniards of 
three centuries before, and it may be 
found that the latter will gain by the 
comparison. Moreover, no scheme 
of benevolence in behalf of the poor 
Indians, no thought of extending 
God's kingdom upon earth, ever 
entered the thoughts of our nine- 
teenth-century adventurers. 

In 1544, one solitary soldier of 
the cross, Father Andrew de Olmos, 
a Franciscan, acquired a success 
among the Indians of Texas which 
had been denied to all his predeces- 
sors on the same field. It was the 
wild race then known as the " Chi- 
chimecas," among whom he fearless- 
ly advanced. Strange to say, many 
hearkened to his words, and followed 
him to Tamaulipas, where he found- 
ed a reduction for them, and com T 
pleted their instruction. In the mis- 
sions of Mexico, Father Andrew had 
already acquired a knowledge of four 
Indian languages, of three of which 
he had prepared grammars and vo- 
cabularies, and in two of them had 
written religious works for the use of 
the Indians. He now became a profi- 
cient in the language of this tribe 
also, and prepared many books for 
his spiritual children. Father John 
de Mesa, a secular priest, a kindred 
spirit in zeal, and of like accomplish- 
ments as a linguist, joined him in his 
labors, and both of them devoted 
the remainder of their lives to the 
Indians of the reduction. Their 



590 



Fragments of Early English Poetry. 



mission was so fortunate as to be 
perpetuated by successors, under 
whom it was also enlarged by the 
accession of many new Indian con- 
verts. 

A.n attempt equally intrepid in 
character and peaceful in its method, 
but still entirely ineffectual in result, 
was the expedition into Florida in 
1547 under the direction of Father 
Cancer de Barbastro, a distinguished 
missionary of Mexico, attended by 
several other Dominicans. Fortified 
with a royal decree from Philip of 
Spain restoring to liberty all natives 
of Florida held in bondage in any 
portion of the Spanish possessions, 
and provided by that monarch with 
an unarmed vessel, the missionaries 
were received with some delusive 
demonstrations of friendship on the 
part of the Indians. Untouched by 
the peaceful character of the mission, 
however, they seized the first oppor- 
tunity to massacre Father Diego de 
Penalosa, who had entrusted his life 



in their hands, and not long after 
Father Cancer himself. The mission 
was thereupon abandoned by the 
others as hopeless. 

NOTE. In addition to the works devoted spe- 
cifically to the subject, mentioned in the text of 
this article, we would refer the future historian 
to the following sources of information as indis- 
pensable to an exhaustive treatment of the theme. 
We offer* the suggestion as a* partial acknow- 
ledgment of the obligation which we, in common 
with our fellow-Catholics of the United States, 
are under to a pioneer in this field of investiga- 
tion an assiduous and successful student (so far, 
at least, as his readers are concerned) of early 
American Catholic annals : 

Discovery and Exploration of the Mississippi 
Valley. By John Gilmary Shea. (Embracing 
the Relations of Fathers Marquette, Hennepin, 
Allouez, and others, and &fac-simile of the out- 
line map of the region made by F. Marquette.) 

Early Voyages up and down the Mississippi. 
By the same. 

The Cramoisy Series of Memoirs and Rela- 
tions concerning the French Colonies in North 
America. Edited and published from early 
MSS. By the same. 24 vols. (This includes 
Relations, Biography, Travels, Letters, Diplo- 
matic Correspondence, etc., etc.) 

The Library of American Linguistics: A 
Series of Grammars and Dictionaries of Ameri- 
can Languages. Edited by the same. 13 vols. 

" Our Convents," in The Metropolitan, and 
" Our Martyrs," in the United States Catholic 
Magazine. (The latter has been published in 
book-form in a German translation.) 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



FRAGMENTS OF EARLY ENGLISH POETRY. 

TO THE BLESSED VIRGYNE. 

As thou wel knowest, O Blessed Virgyne, 

With lovynge herte and high devocion, 

In thyne honour he (Chaucer) wroot many a lyne, 

For he thi servant was, mayden Marie, 

And let his love floure and fructifie. 

OCCLEVE. 

TO THE BLESSED VIRGIN. 
Lady, when men pray to the, 

Thou goest before of thy benignitie 
And getest us the light of thy prayere 
To giden us to thi Sonne so dere. 

CHAUCER. 



Fleurange. 



591 



FLEURANGE. 

BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF "A SISTER'S STORY." 

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION. 

PART SECOND. 



THE TRIAL. 



XXIV. 



FLEURAXGE hastily wrapped a 
large white burnous around her, drew 
the hood over her face, and then ran 
to the carriage, which was waiting for 
her. It seemed as if heaven had 
sent her aid in the very hour of her 
greatest need. She felt that her re- 
solutions would be carried out by 
means of her cousin, but in what 
way she could not yet see. At all 
events, she was no longer friendless, 
and one of the difficulties she had 
to surmount was already smoothed 
away. 

These thoughts prevailed over all 
others during her short ride from the 
palace to the hotel. At her arrival, 
the sight of Clara made her forget 
everything for a while but the sweet 
memories of the past. The Old 
Mansion, the fireside around which 
they used to gather, the family all 
scattered since they last saw each 
other all came back with sharp 
poignancy, and it was with tears of 
joy and regret they flew into each 
other's arms. 

This first emotion somewhat calm- 
ed, the two cousins looked at one 
another. Though they had not been 
separated more than a year, the ap- 
pearance of both bore marks of the 
changes they had passed through. 
Clara w;;.s as fresh and pretty as ever, 



but her fine son, whose birth had de- 
layed her return to Germany, added 
to the charm of youth a certain grav- 
ity which enters into all maternal joy, 
and gave to her beauty the crown of 
dignity it had hitherto lacked. 

As to Fleurange, it would be diffi- 
cult to say what had changed her. 
Was it the elegance of her dress, 
which the princess did not excuse 
her from, even when they were 
alone ? Or the distinguished society 
in which she now moved ? Or was 
it the increased paleness of her face, 
and her air of depression, that gave 
such sweetness to her look, lent such 
new grace to her form, and rendered 
her whole person more strikingly at- 
tractive than ever ? 

Fleurange had passed through too 
many sorrows, and at too early an 
age, for her face ever to reflect the 
careless gaiety of youth. And yet, 
after some weeks passed in her un- 
cle's family, the Old Mansion was 
lit up with no smile more radiant 
than hers it resounded with no voice 
more joyful. Now, her pale and no- 
ble countenance seemed overshadow- 
ed with a premature gravity. Her 
serene eyes, with their expression of 
firmness, no longer displayed the 
sanguine enthusiasm of youth, which 
used at times to light them up 



592 



Fleurange. 



and deepen the gray hue of the iris 
into the lively brilliancy of black. 
Without looking a day older, she 
seemed to have acquired the experi- 
ence of maturity, and made a correct 
estimate of life without having taken 
a step further through it. 

Clara and Julian gazed at her with 
a kind of anxious admiration, but 
forbore questioning her. They in- 
stinctively felt she would prefer not to 
answer their questions. Besides, her 
own inquiries left no room for theirs. 
The names so dear to them all were 
one by one pronounced, and for some 
moments everything was lit up with 
the warmth of the far-off fireside, 
which, amid all the young girl's re- 
cent emotions, she had never ceased 
to feel. Everything was going on 
well among those dear absent ones. 
Comfort, peace, and even somewhat 
of ease gradually reappeared be- 
neath their roof. And all this was 
owing to Clement's activity and abil- 
ity. 

" Dear Clement !" said Clara with 
tears in her eyes. " What a provi- 
dence he has been to them all ! May 
God bless and reward this beloved 
brother !" 

Then the travellers spoke of them- 
selves. They were only passing 
through Florence, which they had 
previously visited. After going 
around to see Perugia, and all that 
region so attractive to artists, they 
intended resuming the route to Ger- 
many. They were to pass the fol- 
lowing year at Heidelberg, where 
they were impatiently awaited, Julian 
feeling obliged to make up for the 
time he had lost in this delightful 
journey and to undertake with no 
further delay the orders he had re- 
ceived. 

Perugia ! At the very mention of 
this place an idea suddenly occurred 
to Fleurange. Before arriving at 
Perugia they would have to pass 



near Santa Maria al Prato. Could 
she not accompany them thus far, 
and seek the advice and aid of the 
Madre Maddalena who had always 
shown so affectionate an interest in 
her ? Guided by her, she would be 
sure of taking the wisest course in 
the perplexities of her situation. If 
she needed courage, where find it if 
not with her, the very remembrance 
of whom often sufficed to renew the 
vigor of her soul ? If she needed 
consolation, who so able to impart it ? 
Yes, this opportunity was providen- 
tial ; she must hasten to profit by it ; 
and, without speaking for the present 
of absolute separation, she would 
only obtain the princess' permission 
for a few days' absence in order to 
make this short journey. 

Having decided on this, Fleurange 
breathed as freely as if a weight had 
been removed from her heart. Be- 
fore the end of the hour, she took 
leave of her cousin after appointing 
a meeting for the following day, and 
re-entered the carriage which had 
brought her. 

It was in the month of May. The 
air was redolent of spring-time and 
spring-time at Florence. Count 
George's carriage was an open 
caleche. As she took her seat, one 
of the passers-by, doubtless struck 
with her beauty, threw her one of 
those large bouquets which in that 
city of flowers are in every one's 
hands at that season. Fleurange, 
without even turning her head to 
look at the person who offered her 
this delicate homage, accepted it 
without any scruple, and inhaled its 
odor with delight. She felt an un- 
usual pleasure in the sweet fresh 
night air which caressed her cheek, 
and at finding herself thus alone for 
a moment with uncovered head be- 
neath so pure and brilliant a sky. 
After the long confinement she had 
endured passing so many days and 



Fl cur an sec. 



593 



nights in a chamber the air and light 
scarcely penetrated this moment of 
freedom was a mental and physical 
refreshment of which she uncon- 
sciously had absolute need. Besides, 
amid all the anxious care she lavished 
on the princess, one thought a con- 
stant, painful thought had not ceas- 
ed to haunt her : she had been oblig- 
ed to practise continual renunciation 
of a tenderness which, mute or some- 
times murmured, had on a thousand 
occasions made itself understood or 
divined. It was an additional relief 
to feel this struggle would soon end, 
that a means of departure was at 
hand, or rather of flight, and she 
would only have to courageously 
struggle and repress her feelings a 
few days longer. After that, she 
would only have to suffer; there 
would be nothing more to fear, either 
from others or herself. 

The young girl's evening ride 
came to an end too soon. The horses 
went like the wind, and brought her 
in a few moments to the foot of the 
broad marble staircase. She ascend- 
ed it slowly, and proceeded at the 
same pace through the large salons, 
till she came to the one in which she 
had left the princess and her son. 
This room, it will be remembered, 
was the last of the suite, and opened, 
as well as the one next it, upon the 
terrace, which thus afforded an ex- 
terior communication between the 
two rooms. 

When Fleurange came to the lat- 
ter, she stopped. She feared the prin- 
cess might have retired without wait- 
ing for or needing her. But not so : 
her son was still with her. She 
could distinctly hear the sound of 
their voices. Owing to the vernal 
mildness of the evening, all the win- 
dows were open, and, instead of en- 
tering, Fleurange passed out on the 
terrace to await the conclusion of 
their conversation. And, moreover, 
VOL. xv. 38 



it had not yet struck ten the hour 
appointed for her return. 

But she had scarcely gone out be- 
fore she regretted it, for she could 
not help hearing, not only their 
voices, but their very words. She 
was about to return when she was 
stopped, and rooted as it were to the 
ground, by a word which her ear 
caught, and which gave her a thrill. 
That word was Cordelia ; and almost 
immediately after she heard her own 
name her name, not that of Gabri- 
elle, the only one by which she 
was known, but the name of her 
childhood, the name unknown to 
every one at Florence except him 
who now uttered it and in such a 
tone ! 

" Fleurange !" said Count George. 
"Yes, mother, this name which just 
escaped me in speaking of her; this 
name as strange as her beauty, and 
which, like the charm she is endow- 
ed with, belongs to no one else in 
the world, was the one her father 
called her by the first time I ever 
saw her a thousand times more 
charming than the Cordelia of which 
she was the original " 

Fleurange heard nothing more. 
For some moments she felt ready to 
faint, and it was only a resolute effort 
of her will that kept her from falling 
to the ground, overcome by surprise 
and emotion. Was it really the 
count she heard speaking ? and 
could it be his mother to whom he 
was talking? What madness led 
him to brave the princess by using 
such language her whom the slight- 
est contradiction often threw into a 
violent state of impatience and an- 
ger her who could not endure the 
least opposition from any one ? 
What would she say? What reply 
was Fleurange about to hear ? 

She no longer thought of stirring. 
She felt incapable of deciding whether 
it were well or ill to remain; she had 



594 



Fleurange. 



but one wish to hear the princess' 
reply, and to act in consequence. 
Perhaps, after hearing it, she would 
leave the place where she stood, 
never to appear before her again ; 
who could tell ? Already a con- 
fused idea entered her mind of leav- 
ing the palace and returning through 
the streets, alone and on foot 
night though it was to the Stein- 
bergs. 

After a long silence the princess 
spoke, but her trembling and sub- 
dued voice, to Fleurange's great sur- 
prise, betrayed no signs of anger. 
The effect was only the more pro- 
found on her who now stood quiver- 
ing with silent expectation. 

" Then, George, you wish to cause 
me the greatest mortification it is 
possible for a son to cause his mo- 
ther you wish to violate the pro- 
mise on which I relied with so much 
faith and confidence ?" 

" Mother, I have already told you 
I never made any promise." 

" Enough, George. I like your 
frankness. Do not spoil it now by 
prevarication. If you made her no 
promise, you made me one which 
you have not kept me, your mother. 
This is sufficient, I think, to merit 
my reproaches." 

" Mother !" And George rose 
with an impatient air, and turned as 
if to go out. 

The princess rose too. She seem- 
ed completely cured. It often hap- 
pened that some extraordinary ex- 
citement effaced in a moment the 
last traces of a long and severe at- 
tack. 

She put her arm around her son's 
neck and drew him towards her. 
'" George," said she, when he return- 
ed to the place he had just left, " I 
ought not to trust any more in your 
promises, and yet there is one I beg 
you to make." 

" What is it, mother ?" 



" You will not yield to this folly 
without taking time for reflection ?" 

" I can promise that." 

" Moreover listen to what I am 
going to ask Swear you will never 
yield to it till you have obtained my 
consent." 

George hesitated. " That would 
be a very serious promise," said he at 
length in a caressing tone, " if I did 
not know that in the end you never 
refuse anything to your spoiled 
child." 

" Come, come, George," resumed 
his mother in an eager tone of dis- 
tress, " do not make me repent of 
my indulgence. Give me your pro- 
mise !" 

" Well, mother, it should be ac- 
knowledged I ought to hesitate 
to give it without ever having 
asked her, without even knowing 
how, after all, I should be received." 

The princess shrugged her shoul- 
ders. 

He continued : " I am persuad- 
ed she would dispense with your 
consent less readily than I, and con- 
sequently my submission is under 
the guard of a will stronger than 
mine." 

The princess at first looked aston- 
ished; then, after a moment's reflec- 
tion, she said : " Perhaps you are 
right. No matter, give me your 
hand on this promise." 

George bent down, kissed his 
mother's hand, and pressed it in his. 
" There it is," said he, " and my pro- 
mise on my word of honor." 

" That is right, my child, no\v 
leave me. It is time for Gabrielle 
to return, and it would be better for 
her not to find you here." 

George rose, and, embracing his 
mother once more, left the room. 

As soon as she was alone, the 
princess threw herself on her chaise 
tongue, put both hands to her face, 
and burst into sobs. 



Fleurange. 

CHAPTER XXV. 



595 



Fleurange hesitated a moment, 
then followed her natural impulse, 
which was always straightforward 
and courageous. She resolutely en- 
tered the salon by the terrace win- 
dow, and when the princess raised 
her head she saw the young girl be- 
fore her, wrapped in her white bur- 
nous, with her bouquet in her hand. 
Though the princess was expecting 
her, this sudden apparition surprised 
her to such a degree that she gazed 
at her for a moment without speaking, 
as if she were a supernatural vision. 
But it was only for a moment. Fleur- 
ange perceived that the anger she 
repressed in her son's presence was 
now about to burst forth. 

The princess wiped away her 
tears. Her eyes expressed at once 
wrath and disdain. She hastily rose, 
and was about to add severe words 
to the imperious gesture with which 
she pointed towards the door with 
one hand, and had already placed the 
other rudely on the young girl's 
shoulder, when the latter, without 
arrogance and without fear, looked 
her in the face. 

The expression of Fleurange's large 
eyes was such as can only be com- 
pared to that magnetic virtue that 
sometimes subdues, they say, the fury 
of beings destitute of reason. No 
words could have expressed to such a 
degree the uprightness and purity of 
her soul. With all her faults, there 
was a nobleness in the princess' na- 
ture which was touched by that look, 
and responded to it. Her eyes turned 
away: she fell back on her chaise 
I0ngue,a.nd unresistingly allowed Fleur- 
ange to take both her hands, which 
had j ust made so threatening a gesture. 
She held them for some moments 
grasped in her own, but neither of 
them spoke. 

At last Fleurange said in a sweet, 



calm voice : " Princess, I was on the 
terrace, and heard everything." 

A new flash of indignation awoke 
in the princess' eyes, and her mouth 
resumed its expression of disdain. The 
young girl's face slightly flushed. 

"You will readily believe," she 
continued, " that I did not go there 
with the intention of listening. But 
hearing my name, I stopped. It was 
wrong, I acknowledge, but I had no 
time for reflection. Pardon me, and 
forgive also," she added in a more 
troubled tone, " the momentary dis- 
pleasure Count George has caused 
you on my account." 

" Momentary !" repeated the prin- 
cess in a cold, ironical tone. 

"At least," continued Fleurange, 
" you will find it only for an instant 
that this notion, this folly in short, 
what you have just heard will be se- 
rious enough to annoy or afflict you." 

" Gabrielle !" 

"Allow me to continue, princess; 
you shall reply afterwards. My heart 
is so full of gratitude towards you " 

" Do not talk to me of your grati- 
tude," cried the princess, interrupting 
her, and breaking out anew. " It is 
precisely because I thought I had 
some claims on it that I feel so deeply 
wounded. After loving you so much, 
I am tempted to hate you. It is your 
perfidy, your ingratitude " 

" I am neither perfidious nor un- 
grateful," said Fleurange, turning pale. 
" Allow me to prove I am not. I 
ask it even more for your own sake 
than for mine." 

The princess became calm once 
more, as if appeased by her sweet 
voice, and seemed to resign herself 
to let Fleurange continue. She leaned 
her head on her hand, and listened 
some moments without changing her 
attitude. 

'' No," repeated Fleurange, " I am 



596 



Fleurange. 



neither perfidious nor ungrateful, and 
God knows what I am ready to suf- 
fer to spare you this mortification or 
any other ! My first thought 
was to go away to flee that you 
might be delivered from my presence 
and all the annoyance it might cause 
you. But, princess, that would not 
have been the best course. He must 
forget me. Therefore I must not dis- 
appear in so romantic a fashion." 

" What do you mean ?" said the 
princess with surprise. 

" That I must certainly go away, 
but not in a way that will induce him 
to pursue me. The less obstinate he 
is made by any appearance of oppo- 
sition, the sooner I shall be effaced 
from his memory. 

" You understand him well," said 
the princess, more and more aston- 
ished; "and you talk very coolly," 
added she. " Then you do not love 
poor George at all ?" 

A moment before she had been 
greatly irritated at her protegee's pre- 
sumption, but now, mother-like, she 
seemed ready to take offence at her 
indifference. 

A lively blush suddenly suffused 
Fleurange's face, and great tears 
came into her eyes. " I do not love 
him? My God! O my God!" 
murmured she in a stifled tone, 
" have pity on my poor heart !" 

But she almost immediately re- 
gained her self-control, and the prin- 
cess, more affected than she wished 
to appear, became attentive, and at 
length perceived the importance of 
what she was about to hear. 

Fleurange then rapidly explained 
her design. It was the same she had 
formed an hour before at her cou- 
sin's : only then she was desirous of 
concealing the motive and duration 
of her absence from the princess. 
Now everything was simplified ; she 
would set out with the Steinbergs for 
Perugia, and afterwards find a pre- 



text for prolonging her absence. 
Only it was important the princess 
should appear to expect her return, 
and, above all, should manifest no 
anxiety as to her son's fidelity to his 
promise. 

" That promise," continued Fleur- 
ange, not without a tone of just 
pride, " I venture to say that M. le 
Comte George, in placing it under 
the protection of my will, was right 
in his conviction it would be well 
kept." 

While she was talking, all the 
princess' resentment vanished, and 
changed gradually to profound grati- 
tude. Looking at Fleurange as she 
stood before her, she realized, if she 
had wished to abuse her ascendency 
or even take advantage of it, no filial 
respect would have sufficed to bring 
George to submission: no maternal 
authority have succeeded in restrain- 
ing him. Whatever it might cost 
her to acknowledge it, she could not 
deny that, if this double wound was 
spared her pride and her affection, it 
was due to the generous disinterest- 
edness of her whom she had just 
treated with so much haughtiness, as 
well as to her clear judgment. Yes, 
she was perfectly right in thinking it 
would not do to disappear and sud- 
denly tear herself away, as it were, ' 
from George. The princess knew, bet- 
ter than any one else, to what degree 
of tenacity this kind of contradiction 
might lead her son, and it was pre- 
cisely this knowledge of his charac- 
ter alone that had just given her the 
power of restraining herself in his 
presence. The means suggested by 
Fleurange was therefore the best to 
ensure his future safety. The prin- 
cess' great hope was in the mobility 
of George's nature, provided, on the 
one hand, he were withdrawn from 
the dangerous charm of Fleurange's 
presence, and, on the other, they did 
not appear separated by the prestige 



Fleurangc. 



597 



of a great obstacle. Nothing, in 
fact, could be more judicious than 
the advice this young girl gave con- 
trary to her own interests. She was 
too much a woman of the world not 
to comprehend this, and was grateful 
to her for it. Once more she might 
hope to attain the aim of her whole 
life, and with this end in view she 
yielded without remorse to the ne- 
cessity of trampling under foot the 
noble heart that was immolating it- 
self. We will even venture to affirm 
that, if she was preoccupied with any- 
thing beyond the present danger, it 
was not Fleurange's crushed life, but 
rather the effect of this unfortunate 
occurrence on her own comfort and 
habits. Nevertheless, when they 
separated at the end of this long con- 
versation, the princess folded Fleur- 
ange in her arms with many demon- 
strations of affection, and when the 
latter was once more alone in her 
chamber she felt comparatively hap- 
py. She abhorred all dissimulation, 
and the important step she had just 
taken in the path of courageous 
frankness seemed to have removed a 
burden from her heart. She was 
still in that state of somewhat exces- 
sive satisfaction which succeeds a 
great effort, when, in entering her 
chamber, she threw down the bou- 
quet she had in her hand. In doing 
so, a paper she had not noticed fell 
from it to the floor. She picked it 
up with some surprise, opened it me- 
chanically, saw the writing was un- 
known to her, and read it without 
comprehending it at first : 

"To live without the power of 
reparation: to suffer without being 
able to expiate: are these torments 
that belong to earth, or hell ? Not 
far from you a man lives and suffers 
thus. You who fray, pray for 
him r 

Fleurange read and re-read these 
words two or three times without at- 



taching any special importance to 
them. Suddenly she shuddered and 
began to tremble. The concluding 
words were the refrain of a song 
sung at one of the soirees at the Old 
Mansion in the hearing of the only 
person she knew in the world who 
had reason to write the other part of 
the note she had just read. 

But was it possible ! Could it 
have been Felix, her guilty and un- 
happy cousin, who wrote it, and this 
very evening placed it in her bou- 
quet ? Was it his hand that threw it ? 
At this thought she shivered as if the 
shadow of one dead had fallen upon 
her. Or was it simply a mystifica- 
tion ? The history of the Dornthals' 
ruin was not wholly unknown at 
Florence. Perhaps some one wished 
to frighten or puzzle her. She grew 
bewildered in trying to unravel this 
new mystery. How solve the 
doubt ? How even speak of it with- 
out reviving a hateful remembrance, 
or making a painful revelation ? 

She finally bethought herself of 
Julian's presence at Florence, and 
this relieved her mind : he would be 
able to discover the truth, and know 
better than any one else how to 
avoid injuring in his researches the 
unhappy man who was perhaps this 
very moment hiding not far from her 
a blasted and dishonored life. 

If the Princess Catherine had been 
told the previous evening she was 
about to be deprived of her charm- 
ing companion, the news would have 
been sufficient to cause a return of 
the alarming symptoms from which, 
thanks to her care, she had but just 
recovered. But greater interests than 
her fondness for Gabrielle were at 
stake, and her selfishness itself was 
overruled, or, rather, assumed another 
form, in view of the danger she re- 
proached herself for not having fore- 
seen, and which threatened an essen- 
tial element in her happiness, as well 



598 



Fleurange. 



as the accomplishment of one of her 
dearest wishes. 

Not to be unjust to the princess, we 
must acknowledge this wish was 
reasonable, and in her persistency on 
this point she gave as great a proof 
of genuine maternal sagacity as of 
wordly ambition. We should also 
add that the wish in question was in 
accordance with one sacred in her 
eyes the wish of the adored husband 
of her youth. His memory was inter- 
woven with her earlier days, when her 
life, simpler and better, promised to 
be something higher than succeeding 
years had realized. 

After she became a widow, she had 
no guide but herself, and when, beau- 
tiful, wealthy, and still young, she ap- 
peared in the fashionable world at St. 
Petersburg, her light and frivolous 
nature had no restraint but her pride. 
In the height of the intoxication of 
this second epoch of her life, she al- 
ways respected the limits the fashion- 
able world itself sets, and beyond 
which refuses its consideration and 
respect, even while still lavishing its 
flattery and incense. Her pride, in 
particular, prevented her from trans- 
gressing these limits that was the 
dominant trait in her character and 
prompted her to aim at the highest 
position at all times and in all places. 
And after conferring on her life a kind 
of dignity, it guided her in the choice 
of a second husband. She thought 
herself happy in obtaining rank, hon- 
ors, and wealth, but she soon found 
she had paid too dear for these ad- 
vantages ; and perhaps she would not 
have passed through the trials of an 
ill-assorted union as irreproachably 
as the period of liberty that preceded 
it, if, at the end of two years, death 
had not restored that liberty a second 
time. 

After this, nothing occurred to 
trouble the brilliant and prosperous 
course of a life which, in spite of 



generous instincts and a mind con- 
siderably cultivated, was given wholly 
up to frivolity, with the exception of 
her affection for her son. But how- 
ever lively and passionate this affec- 
tion might be, it was wanting in the 
dignity of maternal authority. Her 
charming boy, who from his earliest 
years possessed every grace and at- 
traction which nature in her most 
generous mood could confer, as well 
as a rare mind and uncommon beauty, 
gratified her maternal pride, which is 
so excessive in proud natures. The 
princess, proud of her promising son, 
did not perceive she was not obeyed 
as fully as she was adored ; and years 
passed away thus till the epoch, 

" Ove uom s'innamora." 

Then the Princess Catherine began 
to realize she had no authority over 
her idolized son, and that she needed 
great prudence and skill to avoid 
what would have been the most try- 
ing of failures, for all her ambition was 
now centred in him an ambition 
even more ardent than she had ever 
felt for herself. 

Then sprang up the earnest desire 
of seeing his father's wish realized 
a wish expressed while George was 
still in his cradle. 

The Count de Walden's neighbor 
in Livonia was a brother in arms, a 
dear and intimate friend, named the 
Count de Liningen. Both noblemen 
of the highest rank in the province, 
wealthy, and possessing contiguous 
estates, they agreed to unite their 
children unless their wishes were op- 
posed to it when old enough to ful- 
fil the agreement. 

Neither of the two friends lived 
long enough to catch even a glimpse 
of the dawn of that day. Three 
years after the birth of his son, the 
Count de Walden was no longer liv- 
ing, and before the young Vera, who 
was a year younger than George, 



Flcurange. 



599 



reached her eleventh year, the death 
of her father, and, soon after, that of 
her mother, left her mistress of all 
their possessions. The young heiress 
was sent to St. Petersburg till she 
was of age, and there was reared in 
strict seclusion by one of her aunts, 
who long before had given up the 
world. 

The Princess Catherine had al- 
ways retained a respectful remem- 
brance of the Count de Walden's 
wish, which was renewed on his 
death-bed ; but that wish assumed 
another aspect in her eyes when, 
towards the epoch of which we 
have been speaking, the young 
Vera suddenly emerged from her 
retirement and was presented at 
court. The sensation she produced, 
her immediate popularity, the 
place at once accorded her 
among the empress' maids of honor, 
gave an eclat to her entrance into 
society which the princess deeply 
regretted George had not witnessed. 
But he had been absent several 
months from St. Petersburg, and was 
now visiting Paris for the first time. 
His mother neglected no opportu- 
nity of seeing the young maid of ' 
honor, and this was facilitated by the 
friendly relations that formerly ex- 
isted between the two families. 
These relations were now renewed 
on both sides with an eagerness 
which seemed most favorable to the 
project formed during George's and 
Vera's infancy, though they had 
never met since that time. The 
princess' impatience for her son's re- 
turn increased. Vera seemed formed 
to captivate him, and as to George, 
his mother could not be anxious as 
to the effect he would produce. 

At last he returned, and everything 
indeed seemed to favor the princess' 
plans. George was greatly struck, 
almost captivated. The lovely Vera 
was still more so. But the princess. 



in her ardor for this marriage, took 
the false step of speaking to her son 
with an anxiety that had precisely 
a contrary effect to that she wisltecl 
to produce. George had not come 
from Paris quite disposed to relin- 
quish his independence at once and 
bind himself for ever. He became 
cautious. The words Vera perhaps 
expected to hear died away on his 
lips, and changed into meaningless 
flattery. His mother, without aban- 
doning her hopes, felt their realization 
must be deferred. But they were 
both young. With her penetration 
as a woman and a mother, she was 
sure she was not deceived as to the 
effect her son had produced. She 
thought she could trust to the dura- 
bility of the sentiment he had inspir- 
ed, and believed time would bring 
George back to the feet of her whom 
she destined for him ; and she doubted 
this the less because, in one of their 
conversations on this subject, he ac- 
knowledged no woman had ever at- 
tracted him more strongly, and he 
almost promised his mother not to 
offer his hand to any one else. 

In this way affairs remained. 
George returned to Paris, and thence 
to Italy, where his mother had de- 
cided to live. But meanwhile, as we 
know, Fleurange's sudden appearance, 
and other influences we have caught 
a glimpse of, had gradually drawn 
his mind and heart in a very different 
direction from what his mother wish- 
ed him to take. At his last visit to 
St. Petersburg, during which Fleur- 
ange became an inmate of the prin- 
cess' house, the latter had the double 
displeasure of learning her son avoided 
Vera, and that this coolness, so cutting 
to the young girl, was malevolently 
attributed by many to George's poli- 
tical opinions. This greatly troubled 
his mother. Whoever knew Russia 
at that period is aware that the pri- 
vation of its ruler's favor was not re- 



6oo 



Fleurange 



garded as a slight misfortune. If the 
insulting words of a former and not 
very remote epoch were no longer in 
force, " If the emperor no longer 
declared a man was only something 
when he was speaking to him, and as 
long as he was speaking to him," 
many people at St. Petersburg acted 
as if he had so spoken ; and the prin- 
cess could not resign herself to see 
her son in the position of a man in 
disgrace. And yet his rash and im- 
prudent language kept her constantly 
anxious on this point. It was there- 
fore with something like a maternal 
instinct of approaching danger she 
ardently desired his marriage with 
Vera, which would give him the lib- 
erty of remaining at court or leaving 
it, and in the latter case of returning 
to Livonia under the safeguard of 
favor, and taking the position his 
rank and their united estates would 
entitle him a position in which he 
could dispense with the favor of the 
court. 

" Oh ! why is it not so ?" sometimes 
exclaimed the princess with mingled 
anguish and impatience. " Why is 
he not already sheltered from all I 
fear ?" 

And then, contrary to the sugges- 
tions of her prudence, she allowed 
herself to broach the subject to her 
son, which, in the interests of her de- 
sign, it would have been better not 
to have done. She thus, in spite of 
herself, provoked a resistance, the real 
source of which, unsuspected by her, 
daily became more clear to himself. 

We can now imagine the effect of 
the confidence George had been led 
to repose in the princess in a fit of 
capricious frankness. On the whole, 
he did not fear his mother; and 
though of course he had never sub- 
jected her condescension to such a 
trial, he was convinced, whatever re- 
pugnance she might at first manifest 
to his wishes, a little persistence on 



his part would triumph sooner 01 
later. 

For nearly four months he had, it 
is true, been endeavoring, contrary 
to his habit, to conceal the attraction 
he felt, but it was that he might not 
disturb his mother too soon, or the 
young girl either, and thereby per- 
haps deprive himself of the charm of 
her presence while he was still uncer-' 
tain as to his own plans. These 
plans he now believed matured. 
Under the increasing ascendency of 
present influences, the remembrance 
of Vera gradually faded away, and 
the future as well as the present 
seemed linked with her who now 
filled his life. He- therefore consid- 
ered it opportune to allow his moth- 
er at once to have a glimpse of what 
was going on in his heart. 

In spite of her inexpressible alarm, 
the princess had sufficient control 
over her feelings to receive this an- 
noying disclosure with apparent 
calmness, and almost conceal from 
her son the effect of the most painful 
disappointment she had ever met 
with. 

At first all seemed hopeless. As 
to Gabrielle's grace and attractive- 
ness, who knew and appreciated 
them more than herself? What 
could she do to counteract their in- 
fluence, so long exercised unsuspect- 
ed by too credulous a mother? 
Plow foolish she had been ! How 
imprudent ! How fatal her con- 
fidence ! Her reliance on Fleur- 
ange's virtue, the only danger that 
had ever occurred to her, prevented 
her fears. And who would ever 
have suspected her of so much am- 
bition or him of such folly ? 

Never had such a tempest raged 
in her bosom before. So violent a 
hatred had never succeeded to so 
much fondness. But before her an- 
ger had time to burst fully out, all 
these feelings underwent a new trans- 



Fleurange. 



601 



formation, and one still more unfore- 
seen than the first. 

Her enemy became her ally 
she against whom she felt herself 
powerless, now came to her aid 
against herself, and George was 
restored to her by the hand that 
could so easily have led him for ever 
away. 

In view of so great a danger and 
such unexpected assistance, all the 
considerations that would so recently 
have made her dread Fleuransre's 



departure now induced her to hasten 
it, without losing sight, however, of 
the importance, so reasonably pointed 
out by her, of doing nothing to lead 
George to connect this departure 
with his disclosure and give it the 
appearance of an irrevocable separa- 
tion. Self-interest was supreme, and 
there was no danger this time that 
the Princess Catherine would be 
wanting in prudence or shrewdness, 
or would not at need have recourse 
to skilful diplomacy. 



XXVII 



Everything really seemed to favor 
the plan the princess had at heart. 
The opportune arrival cf the Stein- 
bergs afforded a reasonable pretext 
it might have been difficult to find 
at another time without exciting 
George's suspicion. 

The following day, when Fleur- 
ange timidly expressed a desire be- 
fore them all of accompanying her 
cousin a part of the way to Perugia, 
the Marquis Adelardi, who was pres- 
ent, declared the excursion would 
prove very beneficial, and begged 
the princess to allow her young pro- 
tegee a short vacation, of which 
her overtaxed strength had need. 
George joined his entreaties to those 
of the marquis, and the princess 
seemed to . yield more through con- 
sideration for them than conde- 
scension to Fleurange. 

She had preserved an appearance 
of sorrowful gravity since the night 
before, which did not suffer George 
to forget he was in disgrace. Nor 
did she conceal a certain coolness 
towards Fleurange, which he natural- 
ly attributed to his communication 
respecting her. It was the princess' 
intention not to allow him to per- 
ceive the perfect reassurance which 
her conversation with the young girl 
had restored. George comprehend- 



ed his mother was displeased with 
him, but he had expected this dis- 
pleasure; he saw she suppressed her 
resentment and continued to treat 
Fleurange kindly, and he was 
touched by her forbearance. He felt 
she relied on his word, and was 
grateful for her trust. 

Everything was therefore arranged 
in the most natural manner. A fort- 
night was the time allowed for the 
projected excursion. The Stein- 
bergs, deceived like the rest, were as 
much overjoyed as surprised at the 
prospect of a pleasure they had not 
dared anticipate, and thus -every- 
thing fell in with the princess' wishes 
without her appearing to do any- 
thing but yield to the desires of the 
rest. 

The Steinbergs were to leave the 
following morning. This last day 
was to be devoted to revisiting sev- 
eral museums, and would end with a 
walk to San Miniato. Fleurange 
boldly proposed to join them. A 
feverish agitation made inaction in- 
supportable. She feared finding her- 
self alone with George for an instant, 
and was sure of being readily dis- 
pensed from her attendance on this 
last day. The princess' consent, in 
fact, was not difficult to obtain, and 
towards the middle of the day Fleur- 



602 



Fleurange. 



ange set out with Julian and Clara 
for the Palazzo Pitti. After visiting 
that gallery and several others they 
continued their ride, and at length 
stopped at the foot of the ascent to 
San Miniato. There they left the 
carriage. While slowly ascending 
the steep hill, Fleurange took out the 
paper that fell from her bouquet the 
night before, and gave it to Julian to 
read, telling him the suspicion which 
had arisen in her mind. 

" It is strange," said the latter with 
an anxious look, after reading the 
note and carefully examining the 
writing. " Nothing could be more 
painful now than to meet Felix again, 
and yet this paper only reawakens a 
previous suspicion respecting him." 

" You had already suspected his 
return to Europe ?" 

" Yes, but only from a slight indi- 
cation, and I should not have men- 
tioned it if this new incident had not 
occurred. Several months ago, I was 
making some necessary researches at 
Bologna, when my attention was 
drawn to a work in the library in 
which I was taking notes. There 
was a question of some contested 
historical point, respecting which 
several passages had been copied 
from the curious manuscripts in the 
library. The writing was but re- 
cently interrupted, as was evident 
from the open page. I was reading 
it with a good deal of interest when 
my attention was completely with- 
drawn from the subject of the work 
by some words scribbled almost ille- 
gibly on a paper the copyist had 
used to try his pen on. Your name, 
Gabrielle, was written on it several 
times; then the two letters F. D. ; and 
finally, ' Felix happy ; what irony 
Felix!' I examined the extracts 
with increased attention. The writ- 
ing did not look like his, but was 
a studied fac-simile of the manuscript 
he was copying. As to the scribbling 



on the loose paper, it was wholly 
unrecognizable. I asked the libra- 
rian some questions, and learned that 
the work was for some great Floren- 
tine nobleman whose name he was 
ignorant of, but the copyist was an 
Italian named Fabiano Dini." 

" Is that all ?" asked Fleurange. 
"Were you not able to learn any- 
thing more definite ?" 

" Nothing. The next day the un- 
finished work had disappeared, and 
during the remainder of my stay at 
Bologna the copyist did not return 
to the library. I kept the scrawl that 
had puzzled me, but thought no more 
about it. Allow me to retain this 
note, that I may compare the writing 
with that." 

" Could it really have been Felix ? 
Or is all this a mere accident ?" 

" It is impossible to tell. It might 
have been he, for you know he had 
a thorough knowledge of Italian, and 
it might also have been one of his 
friends familiar whh his history. 
All we have ever been able to dis- 
cover respecting him is, that he went 
to America with questionable travel- 
ling companions Italians, Germans, 
and Poles mostly driven out of their 
own country for good reasons." 

Clara's smiling face grew sad dur- 
ing this account, and Fleurange felt 
her heart contract with increased 
melancholy. This revival of one of 
the saddest memories of her life 
seemed to add a mournful presage to 
the sad realities of the day. 

However, she kept her sorrows to 
herself. Her cousin must for the 
present remain ignorant of the cause 
as well as the real length of the jour- 
ney she would begin on the morrow, 
and on every account it was best for 
her to seek distraction from her 
thoughts. Therefore, after entering 
the church of San Miniato, she gave 
her whole attention for a while to the 
frescoes, paintings, and mosaics around 



Fleurange. 



603 



her, and listened to the explanations 
Julian gave respecting the numerous 
symbols a kind of Christian hiero- 
glyphics which are alone compre- 
hended by those who seek something 
in art beyond the mere form that 
strikes the senses. They spent nearly 
an hour in this manner without per- 
ceiving the flight of time and the in- 
creasing dimness of the church. 
They were at length preparing to 
leave, when at the door they found 
themselves face to face with Count 
George and the Marquis Adelardi. 
The former said in a gay tone he 
knew their excursion was to end at 
San Miniato, and he had proposed to 
his friend to join them here. " We 
were neither of us unworthy to hear 
what Steinberg would have to say, 
but unfortunately we are too late." 

While he was speaking, Fleurange, 
overcome with surprise, involuntarily 
shrank back as if to hide herself in 
the obscurity of the church, but day- 
light was rapidly disappearing, and 
they all agreed it was time to return 
to the carriage, which was awaiting 
them at the foot of the hill. She 
therefore followed the others, but, 
though she was the last, George 
waited for her, and before she had a 
chance to avoid him offered her his 
arm. Adelardi had given his to 
Clara, and Julian accompanied them. 
In this way they slowly descended 
this charming declivity, looking at 
the prospect one of the finest views 
of Florence, over which the setting 
sun now cast the soft rays of its de- 
parting light. 

George slackened his steps so as to 
allow the others to precede them, 
and was thus, in a manner, left alone 
with Fleurange. For a time neither 
of them spoke. Though very differ- 
ent in their natures, the emotion of 
both was profound. As for her, the 
consciousness that this must be their 
last interview, added to the repressed 



but profound tenderness of her na- 
ture, made this the sweetest but most 
heart-rending hour of her life. He, 
on the contrary, felt freed from his 
previous restraint by the explanation 
he had had with his mother. Be- 
sides, he was not unskilful in reading 
the feminine heart, and not without 
sufficient penetration to understand 
what was passing in that he imagin- 
ed he could now hear beating beside 
him, and he felt at liberty to speak 
more openly than he had yet done. 

" Fleurange !" he suddenly said. 
She trembled, and tried to withdraw 
the hand that rested on his arm, but 
he held it. 

" No, no, allow me to retain your 
hand, and let me me alone call 
you by this name," added he softly. 
" Let it be a name sacred to my 
use ; you are willing, are you not ?" 

He pressed the hand he still held, 
and raised it to his lips. Fleurange 
clearly saw amid the soft tones of his 
words an assurance but feebly dis- 
guised. But, alas ! if she had dared 
reveal her real sentiments at this mo- 
ment, she would not have dreamed 
of showing any offence at this. Yes, 
she loved him ; he did not doubt it, 
that was evident. But what of that ? 
It would have been a great relief 
could she have avowed it boldly to 
every one as well as to himself. 
George's assurance was certainly 
rather too evident, but how readily 
she pardoned him ! How happy she 
would have been to tell him he was 
not mistaken, and that her whole 
life should prove it. This would 
have been the sincere cry of her 
heart, had the clearness of her con- 
science been for a moment obscured 
at this dangerous hour. But it was 
not so. 

" Monsieur le Comte " said she 
after a long silence. 

" George ! Oh ! call me George !" 
he passionately cried. " Let me 



604 



Fleurange. 



hear you, at least once, call me by 
my name." 

Poor Fleurange ! She withdrew 
her hand from his arm and left him 
for a moment, endeavoring to con- 
trol the too violent agitation of her 
heart. He followed her, and she 
soon resumed, with apparent calm- 
ness : " I never expected to hear 
you call me by my name again, and 
hoped I should not." 

" Hoped! Tell me then I am mis- 
taken ; that I am presuming and fool- 
ish; that I have been deceived in 
thinking I read in your eyes some- 
thing besides absolute indifference." 

She made no reply. 

" Fleurange !" continued he im- 
petuously, " your silence wounds and 
chills me. Have I not, at least, a 
right to some answer ?" 

" But have you any right to ques- 
tion me ? Ah ! Monsieur le Comte, 
you would be more noble and gen- 
erous were you more mindful of 
what you are and who I am." 

" Fleurange," said the count with 
a grave accent of sincerity, far more 
dangerous than that of passion, 
" you shall be my wife if you will 
consent to be if you will accept 
this hand I offer you." 

" With your mother's consent ?" 
said Fleurange slowly, and in a low 
tone. " Can you assure me of 
that ?" 

After a moment's hesitation, 
George replied: "No, not to-day; 
but she will yield her consent, I as- 
sure you." 

Fleurange hesitated in her turn. 
She knew only too well to what a de- 
gree this hope was illusory, but this 
was her last opportunity of convers- 
ing with him. The next day would 
commence their lifelong separation, 
which time, distance, and prolonged 
absence would continually widen. 
There was no longer any danger in 
telling the truth the truth, alas ! so 



devoid of importance now, but which 
would, perhaps, second the duty she 
had to accomplish quite as well as 
contradiction. 

"Ah! well," she at last replied 
with simplicity. " Yes, why should 
I deny it ? Should life prove more 
favorable to us ; if by some unfore- 
seen circumstance, impossible to 
conceive, your mother should cheer- 
fully consent to receive me as a 
daughter, oh ! then what answer 
I would make you know without my 
telling you. You are likewise per- 
fectly aware that until that day I 
will never listen to you." 

" But that day will come," cried 
George vehemently, " and that 
speedily." 

" Perhaps " said Fleurange. 
" Who knows what time has in store 
for us ? And who knows that in 
time the obstacle may not come from 
yourself?" 

She endeavored to say these 'last 
words in a playful tone. They were 
hardly uttered before she suddenly 
stopped, but the shade of the large 
cypresses that bordered the road pre- 
vented George from seeing the tears 
that inundated her face. 

She then left him and walked rap- 
idly on to overtake Julian, George 
soon joined them, and they all con- 
tinued on the way for some time 
without speaking. The light was 
fading gradually away, and they 
walked more cautiously as they ap- 
proached the foot of the hill. Just 
before reaching their carriage, they 
met two men walking rapidly along, 
and conversing too. earnestly to no- 
tice them beneath the shade of the 
cypresses. But their features could 
be distinguished, arid the two cousins 
and Julian felt a thrill of sympathetic 
horror as, in one of them, they rec- 
ognized Felix ! 

Adelardi, on his side, seemed sur- 
prised and annoyed also, but George, 



The Symbolism of the Church. 



605 



after following them with his eyes 
like the rest, left his party, turned 
back, and spoke to one of them. 
The latter at his approach respect- 
fully uncovered. George said a. few 
words to him in a low tone, and the 
t\vo men then kept on their way. 
The count joined his party again. 

"Who was that you were speak- 
ing to, if the question be not indis- 
creet ?" said Adelardi. 

" By no means," replied George, 
unhesitatingly. " It was Fabiano 



Dini, the young Italian I spoke to 
you about, who is my agent, you 
know, and a very intelligent one, in 
purchasing curiosities, and who also 
aids me in my little historical and 
artistic researches. He has been 
away, and only returned two days 
ago. I had a word to say to him." 

" He was in very bad company," 
said Adelardi, frowning. 

The two cousins, meanwhile, en- 
tered the carriage ; Julian, obliged to 
follow, heard no more. 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



THE SYMBOLISM OF THE CHURCH. 



THE Catholic Church has no forms 
that is, meaningless ceremonies used 
to impress and awe the multitude ; 
but she has symbols that is, "signs 
by which things are distinguished one 
from another."* According to the 
original meaning of the word, these 
symbols, the aggregate of which has 
come to be an outward and universal 
profession of faith, have each one a 
deep significance, sometimes even a 
double sense, and are, in fact, a si- 
lent compendium of the history as 
well as the doctrines of Catholic 
Christianity. But it cannot be too 
much insisted upon that their worth 
is entirely relative, depending solely 
on their authorized interpretation, 
and losing all their value if disconnect- 
ed from it. Thus we can recognize 
no symbols, but mere forms, in the 
ritual of Anglicanism, Lutheranism. 
etc. Not only is their value relative, 
but their use is almost optional in the 

* Dr. Rock, Hierttrgia. 



church we mean as regards the use 
made of them by the individual soul.. 
The church has "many mansions," 
and sympathizes with the severe taste 
of the Northern races, as well as with 
the superabundant love of the gor- 
geous in observance, of the Southern 
and Eastern nations. Sprung from 
an Eastern people, her ritual is as 
manifold and dignified as that of her 
Hebrew precursor ; but, deputed as 
she is to the universal world, and hav- 
ing built her later development upon 
the broad basis of the Gothic and 
Scandinavian natures, her exterior ad- 
mits of the austere simplicity so dear 
to the last-mentioned races. 

Still the principle of outward forms 
being a fitting expression of inward 
belief is so obvious and so wedded to 
the requirements of human nature, 
that it would need a second deluge 
to destroy it. When " forms " (so- 
called) were dethroned by the Re- 
formation, they crept in again in real 
earnest among the reformers them- 



6o6 



The Symbolism of the Church. 



selves. The phraseology of Crom- 
well and his Roundheads, the speech 
and garments of the Quakers, the 
splits among the Baptists and Ana- 
baptists upon the " form " of admin- 
istering what they did not even be- 
lieve to be a sacrament, were so many 
involuntary acts of homage to the 
time-honored principle of symbolism. 
Of the good effect produced on all 
sorts of minds by the outward ex- 
pression of the doctrine of Christ, we 
will quote two examples, taken from 
very opposite sources. In a note to 
the preface of Moehler's Symbolik, we 
read : " There is at Bingen, on the 
Rhine, a beautiful little Catholic 
church dedicated to St. Roch, to 
which Goethe once gave an altar- 
piece. ' Whenever I enter this 
church,' he used to say, ' I always 
wish I were a Catholic priest.' In 
the great poet's autobiography we 
also find an interesting description of 
the extraordinary love for the Cath- 
olic ritual and liturgy that had capti- 
vated his heart in boyhood." 

The other example is from the 
writer's own experience among the 
agricultural poor of England. A 
poor and infirm woman, having come 
for the first time to a Catholic chap- 
el, said afterwards that, often as she 
had read in the Bible the history of 
Our Lord's Passion, she had never 
understood it so well as she did by 
once looking at the crucifix over 
the altar. This was the beginning of 
her conversion. 

Of the great religious revival in 
Germany and the labors of Count 
Stolberg (the period which answers in 
time, as also in result, to the Trac- 
tarian or Oxford movement in Eng- 
land) the preface to Moehler's Sym- 
bolik also says : " As the avenues that 
led to the Egyptian temples were bor- 
dered on either side by representa- 
tions of the mystical sphinx, so it 
was through a mystical art, poetry 



and philosophy, that many minds 
were then conducted to the sanctuary 
of the true church." Mrs. Jameson 
bears witness to a similar process 
within her own consciousness con- 
cerning the saints of the monastic 
orders. " We have in the monastic 
pictures a series of biographies of the 
most instructive kind. . . . After 
having studied the written lives of St. 
Benedict, St. Bernard, St. Francis, St. 
Clare, and St. Dominic, to enable me 
to understand the pictures which re- 
late to them, I found it was the pic- 
tures which enabled me better to un- 
derstand their lives and character."* 
The same thought is expressed by a 
learned English antiquarian, speak- 
ing of the symbolical paintings of 
the Catacombs : " Moreover, be- 
cause they [the artists] desire that 
the mind of those who see these 
paintings should not retain the out- 
ward semblance of the scene, but be 
carried forward to its hidden and 
mystical meaning, they always de- 
part more or less from its literal 
truth, e.g., we never find seven or 
twelve baskets (the miracle of the 
multiplication of loaves), but eight ; 
nor six water-pots of stone (marriage 
of Cana), but seven. It was the 
symbol of a religious idea they aimed 
at, not the representation of a real 
history." f In a word, symbolism is 
as old as creation, and there never 
was a time when men did not make 
for themselves a language of signs. 
Heathendom was only a corruption 
of signs into realities; Judaism was a 
religion of signs carefully interpreted 
in view of the later and fuller revela- 
tion. Our faith is the realization, in 
part, of the Hebrew types ; but since 
we are still clogged with mortality, 
and therefore still under an imperfect 
law, it follows that through symbols 

* Introd. to Ltgends of the Monastic Orderl 
(P- 25). 
t Dr. Rock, Hierurgia. 



The Symbolism of the Church. 



607 



we must still be taught. An unsym- 
bolical religion would be unscriptu- 
ral, for Christ himself tells us he has 
come to " fulfil, not to destroy the 
law." And this is not incompatible 
with the command to " worship God 
in spirit and in truth " ; for without 
the spirit, of what use would be the 
form? Itwould.be as valueless as 
words from the lips of a maniac, 
words which have no weight because 
the mind does not direct them. But 
who would contend that because the 
random words of a madman are 
meaningless, all speech is so ? Even 
so, though mere forms would be 
idolatrous, forms hallowed by doc- 
trinal and scriptural meaning are 
holy and venerable. 

Having premised thus much, we 
will attempt some description of a few 
of those symbols most anciently used 
by the church, and of the signifi- 
cance of certain acts and ceremonies 
which usually are but superficially 
examined by our opponents, and, 
perhaps, not fully appreciated by 
Catholics themselves. 

The Catacombs, where the ecclesi- 
astical life of the church was first 
brought into shape, furnish the most 
interesting material on the subject of 
Christian symbolism. The times 
required great caution here was one 
motive for secret and hieroglyphic in- 
struction ; the first converts were 
Jews, Orientals deeply imbued with 
the love of imagery and poetry here 
was a second reason for the rapid 
development of symbolism; our 
Lord himself had deigned to use 
figures and parables in his teaching 
here was also a model and a permis- 
sion for the copious use of signs. 
Almost the earliest, and certainly the 
most interesting, Christian symbol 
was the fish. The Greek word for 
fish contained five letters, 'l^ r jtf, 
each of which was the initial of the 
following words: Jesus, Christ, Son 



(of) God, Saviour. Dr. Northcote 
says of it : " It became a profession 
of faith, as it were, both of the two 
natures, the unity of person and the 
redemptorial office of our Lord."* 
Besides this ingenious meaning, the 
fish signified " the human soul in the 
first or natural creation, the same 
soul as regenerate or created anew, 
and Christ himself as uniting the two 
creations of nature and grace. In 
the first or natural creation, life be- 
gan in the waters and from the 
waters, of which the fish is the inhab- 
itant. In the spiritual or new crea- 
tion, all life begins from the waters 
of baptism."t The fish also bears 
a reference to the story of Tobias, 
where the application of its entrails 
" defeats devils and restores sight. "J 
In three or four instances the fish is 
depicted bearing a ship on its back, 
and this combination naturally sug- 
gests to us Christ upholding his 
church. The epitaph of St. Aber- 
cius, Bishop of Hierapolis in Phry- 
gia at the end of the second century, 
has the following allusion to the sym- 
bolic fish : " Faith led me on the 
road, and set before me for food from 
the one fountain the great and spot- 
less fish which the pure Virgin em- 
braced; and this fish she (Faith) 
gave to friends to eat everywhere, 
having good wine, giving wine mixed 
with water, and bread. May he 
who understands these things pray 
for me." In a fresco in the crypt of 
Santa Lucina is seen a fish carrying 
on its back a basket of bread, the 
latter being of an ashen color, like 
that offered by the Jews to their 
priests on festival days, and in the 
midst of the bread appears some- 
thing red, partly effaced, but resem- 
bling a cup of red wine.|| This, of 



* Roma Sotterranea. 

t Palmer's Early Christian Symbolism. 

* See Northcote's Roma Sotterranea. 

Ibid. \ Ibid. 



6o8 



The Symbolism of the Church. 



course, was intended for the Holy 
Eucharist, as we shall see further on. 
In the work of Aringhi on the Cat- 
acombs, we find it mentioned that a 
sarcophagus was found of the date 
of the very earliest centuries, whereon 
the story of the paralytic is repre- 
sented (a very favorite simile in the 
Catacomb list of subjects). The bed 
of the subject of the cure is shaped 
like a fish.* The baptismal font first 
received the name of " piscina," and 
the Christians often called each 
other " pisciculi," little fishes, as we 
learn from Ferret. He also tells us 
too that this emblem reminded the 
early Christians of the very scenes 
of the Gospel connected with 
Christ's miracles, the apostles' call- 
ing, and the establishment of the 
church ; Christ walking on the 
waters ; preaching from a bark ; allay- 
ing the tempest ; causing a miracu- 
lous draught of fishes to be taken; 
finding the coin of the tribute in the 
mouth of a fish all this was sug- 
gested by the simple figure of a fish. 
St. Jerome says that "the fish that 
was taken in whose mouth was the 
coin of the tribute was Christ, the 
second Adam, at the cost of whose 
blood the first Adam and Peter, that 
is, all sinners, were redeemed." Ori- 
gen speaks of our Lord as " he who 
is figuratively called the fish." This 
symbol leads naturally to that obvi- 
ous one of the loaves, which typi- 
fies the Holy Eucharist. Abundant 
proof of this is found in the writings 
of the fathers. The types of this 
sacrifice and sacrament are unmis- 
takable. In the cemetery of St. 
Callixtus is a painting representing 
the mystical supper (not the historical 
one) of the Eucharist. " The seven 
disciples seated at the table repre- 
sent all the disciples of Christ." The 
number seven signifies universality. 



The two fishes on the table remind 
us of the multiplication of the five 
loaves and two fishes. The seven 
baskets are filled with whole loaves, 
not fragments, and the addition of 
an eighth hints that we are not to 
think of the literal history, . . . 
but of that ulterior and spiritual 
sense to which they all (the three 
occurrences represented in this one 
fresco) point, and in which they all 
unite, that is, the doctrine of the 
Blessed Eucharist."* A lamb carry- 
ing a milk-pail on its back is some- 
times used as an eucharistic emblem. 
The Acts of St. Perpetua give us 
her dream, or rather vision, in which 
the Good Shepherd gave her the 
curds to drink, after he had milked 
his flocks. She received it with her 
arms crossed on her breast, while ail 
the assistants said " Amen " ! These 
words and posture were those used 
during the administration of the 
Blessed Sacrament. Milk is perpet- 
ually used in Scripture to denote the 
good things of God; and in early 
times, according to Tertullian and St. 
Jerome, milk and honey were given 
with this meaning to newly baptized 
infants or adults. The practice was 
continued, on Holy Saturday at least, 
as late as the ninth and tenth centu- 
ries. This symbol of the milk-pail is, 
however, rarer than any other, and is 
by no means on the same level as 
that of the fish, the lamb, and the 
loaves.t 

The Good Shepherd is a pictorial 
symbol that has never fallen into dis- 
use, and that of Orpheus with his 
lute or pipe is analogous to it. The 
adaptation of the heathen myth of 
Orpheus training wild beasts by the 
sweet sounds of his lyre to the hid- 
den meaning of Christ curbing men's 
passions by his doctrine, is vouched 
for by St. Clement of Alexandria. 



* Ferret, Catacombes de Rome. 



* Palmer's Early Christian Symbolism. 
t Northcote's Roma Sotterranea. 



The Symbolism of the ChnrcJi. 



609 



In a painting of the Good Shepherd 
in the cemetery of St. Saturninus, a 
goat appears in place of the lost 
sheep. " This," says Dr. Northcote, 
" was intended as a protest against 
the hateful severity of the Novatians 
and other heretics who refused re- 
conciliation to penitent sinners." In 
some of these representations, we see 
several sheep at the feet of Jesus, in 
attitudes pregnant with meaning ; 
some " listening attentively, not quite 
understanding as yet, but meditating 
and seeking to understand ; others 
turning their tails it is an unwel- 
come subject, and they will have 
nothing to do with it " ;* or, again, 
" one of the two sheep is drinking in 
all that he hears with simplicity and 
affection ; the other is eating grass 
he has something else to do ; he is 
occupied with the cares, pleasures, 
and riches of this world,"t 

Dr. Northcote says that as the 
sheep represent the flock of Christ 
in life, so the dove is more especially 
the symbol of the soul after death. 
It is primarily a type of the Holy 
Ghost, as the Scriptures suggest and 
the writings of the fathers assert. 
They call the Holy Spirit figuratively 
" a dove without gall," the expression 
which is found repeated on some of 
the sepulchres of children, as indica- 
tive of their innocence. Later on, 
we find the soul of St. Scholastica 
appearing to her brother, St. Bene- 
dict, under this form. A dove peck- 
ing at grapes denotes the soul's en- 
joyment of the fruits of eternal hap- 
piness.:}: Tertullian calls the dove " a 
herald of peace from the beginning," 
and, when painted with an olive- 
branch in its mouth, it is to be taken 
in this sense. It is a symbol that 
we use in our own times. Noah's 
ark, a type of the church often seen 
in the Catacombs, is connected with 



the do\ne. Ferret tells us of a pic- 
ture, noticed by Bottari in his Scul- 
ture e Pitture, of Noah in the ark, 
and the ark again within a ship. 
The form of the ark, according to 
Hebrew calculations, was a long 
square, but it is generally represented 
in the Early Christian paintings as a 
cube, a. figure suggestive of greater 
stability.* This system of departure 
from the literalness of history is too 
universal not to be intentional. For 
instance, none of these representa- 
tions of the ark are without a dove, 
but in some a woman appears instead 
of Noah. Tertullian in his work on 
baptism says that this symbol meant 
the general doctrine of " the faithful, 
having obtained remission of their 
sins through baptism, receive from 
the Holy Spirit [the dove] the gift of 
divine peace [the olive-branch], and 
are saved in the mystical ark of the 
church from the destruction of the 
world." 

The resurrection of Lazarus, and 
Moses striking the rock, are both 
types of the resurrection and eter- 
nal life, and are often seen in juxta- 
position. In one of these paintings. 
Lazarus is like a little child, and is 
clothed in bands that more resemble 
swaddling-clothes than a winding- 
sheet. Our Lord also is quite boy- 
ish. The apostles likewise are often 
represented as young men, so is Mo- 
ses in many instances. This is 
thought by Ferret to be symbolical 
of the immutability of heavenly glo- 
ry. Among other types often found 
in the Catacombs are the anchor 
with a cross-shaped handle, the sym- 
bol of hope from time immemorial ; 
the palm, a sign of victory ; and the 
ship, the invariable type of the 
church of Christ. The Scriptures 
themselves suggest this latter idea, as 
they also do that of the rock, petrus. 



* Palmer. t Ibid. * Dr. Northcote. 

VOL. xv. 39 



* Ferret, Catacombes de Rontt, vol. x. 



6io 



TJie Symbolism of the Church. 



This subject is fully treated in some 
frescoes of the cemetery of St. Cal- 
lixtus. The rock (Christ) pours 
down streams of living waters, which 
two apostles join their hands to 
catch and collect for the benefit of 
the world. In other compositions, 
the rock does not pour forth water 
spontaneously (this was a reference 
to the day of Pentecost), but emits 
it at the touch of the rod held by 
Moses (the type of Peter) ; and in 
other paintings, two men appear car- 
rying away from it baskets of bread, 
which are then touched* with a rod 
by a figure supposed to be Christ. 
This would denote the sacramental 
change from bread to the flesh of 
Christ.* Thus one type is always 
presupposing another or merging it- 
self into another. In a fresco of 
several subjects, all referring to the 
Holy Eucharist, found in an ancient 
Christian cemetery at Alexandria, 
there is written over the heads of 
several persons assembled at a feast 
these words : " Eating the benedic- 
tions of the Lord." 

Now, the Greek word here used is 
the same that St. Paul uses ( i Cor. x. 
1 6) to denote the communion of the 
body and blood of Christ, and, fur- 
thermore, is the identical word by 
which St. Cyril of Alexandria denotes 
the consecrated elements. t 

Daniel in the lions' den and the 
three children in the fiery furnace are 
constantly represented in the Cata- 
combs as types of the persecutions 
of the church and the fortitude un- 
der them. The phcenix or palm- 
bird occurs as a symbol of immortal- 
ity, and was graven on the tomb of 
Maximus by order of St. Cecilia.t 
The peacock also signified immortal- 
ity, and came to be so used from be- 
ing the bird of Juno, or the supposed 

* Palmer's Early Christian Symbolism. 
t Dr. Northcote's Roma Sotterranea. 
% Perret, Cutacombes de Route. 



emblem of the apotheosis of the Ro- 
man empresses. In one fresco in 
the cemetery of St. Sixtus, we find 
SS. Peter and Paul represented as 
standing on either side of a crowned 
tower, doubtless a symbol of strength, 
figurative of the church. Perret also 
tells us that God the Father, " him- 
self invisible, while his power is man- 
ifested by his works," is typified " with 
singular aptitude by a hand coming 
forth from the clouds." This is in a 
picture of Moses striking the rock. 

A very beautiful representation of 
the Lamb, Jesus Christ, of later date 
however than the Catacombs, but 
not so late as to have lost their in- 
forming spirit, occurs in a mosaic 
that formerly decorated the apse of 
the basilica of St. Peter in Rome. 
Tlie Lamb stands at the foot of a 
jewelled cross, on a rock, with four 
streams, one running from each of its 
feet, and a fifth from the foot of a 
chalice into which the blood of the 
Lamb spurts down from its wounded 
breast. An evident allusion to the 
five wounds of the Lord is here com- 
bined with the type of the Holy Eu- 
charist (for the cup suggests the 
latter). The cross, as such, is rarely 
found in the Catacombs, but the Acts 
of the Martyrs mention a soldier, St 
Orestes, who, while playing at throw- 
ing the disc, let fall from his gar- 
ments a small cross (which, discover- 
ing his religion, procured him the 
glory of martyrdom), so that we may 
suppose that this sign of Christianity 
was sometimes secretly worn about 
the person during the early centuries. 
St. Augustine, St. Hilary, St. Jer- 
ome, St. Chrysostom, and our own 
countryman, Venerable Bede, agree 
in the cross being " the sign of the 
Son of Man " of which Jesus himself 
speaks in the Gospel. Tertullian 
quotes the vision of Ezechiel (ix. 4), 
and interprets thus the sign Tan : 
" Now. the Greek letter Tan and our 



The Symbolism of the Church. 



6n 



own T is the very form of the cross, 
which he predicted would be the 
sign on our foreheads in the true 
Catholic Jerusalem." Dr. Northcote 
tells us that the number 300, " being 
expressed in Greek by thelelter Tan, 
came itself, even in apostolical times, 
to be regarded as the equivalent of 
the cross." We know how St. Paul 
speaks of the cross, as meaning the 
whole Christian faith. The sign of 
the cross, however, was contained in 
or appended to the monogram XP. 
(the first two letters of the Greek 
word Christ XPI2TOS). . This was 
sometimes written P, while in some 
ancient manuscripts the Tau itself was 
written +, forming an exact Greek 
cross. Sometimes to this monogram 
(worn to this day as a badge by the 
Passionist Friars) was added the 
letter N, the initial of N"?rfc, the 
Greek for conqueror. This is some- 
thing similar to the inscription trans- 
lated " In hoc signo vinces," seen by 
Constantine in his vision outside the 
gates of Rome. It was in this shape 
that the inscription was afterwards 
put on the " Labarum " or banner of 
the cross, and also on many coins 
struck during the reign of Constan- 
tine.* 

Not to prolong the subject of the 
Catacombs too indefinitely, let us 
end with these words of Dr. North- 
cote : " Nothing was likely to be 
more familiar to the early Christians 
than the symbolical and prophetical 
meaning of the Gospels and the Old 
Testament, so that the sight of these 
paintings on the walls of the subter- 
ranean chapels was probably as a 
continual homily set before them. 

. . Indeed, it is scarcely too 
much to say that some of these artis- 
tic compositions might be made to 
take the place of a well-ordered dog- 
matic discourse." 



* Dr. Xorthcote's Rama Sott. 




When the immediate fear of perse- 
cution was removed, the church 
gradually added to her alphabet of 
symbols. The cross became more 
general, at first ornamented and 
wreathed, jewelled and gilt, as it was 
by order of Constantine, then by an 
easy transition becoming a simple 
crucifix, with the image of the Re- 
deemer plainly wrought upon it. 
Constantine forbade the cross to be 
any longer used as an instrument of 
torture or punishment ; while the 
finding of the true cross and the 
honor paid to it soon familiarized the 
people with its exclusively divine as- 
sociations. From Mrs. Jameson's re- 
searches we gather that the " fashion 
of decorating the cross with five jew- 
els, generally rubies, typified the five 
sacred wounds."* We also learn from 
her the origin of the nimbus, or 
glory, so generally used after the 
fifth century as an attribute of holi- 
ness. At first it was borrowed from 
pagan sources, the "luminous ne- 
bula" of Homer that, is the divine 
essence standing " a shade in its own 
brightness" being, as she informs us, 
the first trace of it to be found in an- 
tiquity. Rays or plates of brass were 
sometimes fixed to the heads of im- 
perial busts and statues in Rome, 
and later on it is seen round the 
heads of Christian emperors (Justi- 
nian in particular) who were not can- 
onized. It strikes one as curious 
that Mrs. Jameson should have omit- 
ted all mention of Moses and the 
horns or rays of light that adorned 
his countenance as he came down 
from Mount Sinai. In the transfigu- 
ration, our Lord's face " did shine as 
the sun,"t and the angel that sat over 
against the sepulchre on the morning 
of the resurrection had a " counte- 
nance as lightning."| After the fifth 
the nimbus became universal, 

and Legendary Art. 
St. $Jat;. xviii. y. * St. Matt, xxvii. 3. 



6l2 



The Symbolism of the CJiurcli. 



and was adopted as a symbol of holi- 
ness. A cruciform glory was the dis- 
tinctive emblem of God, and also a 
triangular one, which typifies the 
Trinity, and was often used later 
round the head of figures repre- 
senting God the Father, and entirely 
surrounding the Holy Spirit, who was 
painted as a dove. 

It would be quite impossible to go 
through the cycle of all the symbols 
now in use. They have varied very 
little since the days of Constantine, 
but they cover so vast a field that it 
would take a lifetime to study each 
one in detail. 

The chief service of the church, 
the Mass, naturally strikes us first. 
Nearly every ceremony is connect- 
ed with it, and is only complete 
when preceded or followed by it. 
Churches (often symbolical in their 
form and arrangement), vestments 
with their many hidden meanings, 
lights, incense, holy water, music, 
processions, group themselves as 
mere accessories round the sacrificial 
act which gives them their import- 
anc. The word Mass is supposed by 
some to be derived from the Hebrew 
Missach, a voluntary offering,* but 
the most widely received opinion is 
that it comes from Missa or Missio, 
the dismissal of the catechumens be- 
fore the most solemn part, the conse- 
cration. The word itself is of very 
ancient use, as appears from the let- 
ters of St. Ambrose, St. Leo, and St. 
Gregory, t The Gloria Patri, which 
is often used in the liturgy as well as 
constantly in the hours of the divine 
office, was introduced in 325 as a 
protest against the Arian heresy 
which contended that the Son was 
not equal to the Father. \ The 
custom of standing during the gospel 
signifies our readiness to defend its 
truths and practice its precepts. We 

* Deut. xvi. 10. t Dr. Challoner. 

% Dr. Rock's Hierurgia. 



sign our foreheads, lips, and breast in 
token of our resolve not to be 
ashamed of the cross of Christ, to 
profess it always in words, and to 
keep it for ever in our hearts. At the 
" Incarnatus est " in the Credo we 
kneel in reverence to the mystery of 
the God made man, and at the 
" Domine non sum dignus " we strike 
our breasts in token of penance and 
humiliation, as we have before done at 
the Confiteor. This has always been 
the conventional sign of sorrow, as we 
read of the publican in the gospels. 

Of the use of lights, St. Jerome 
says in his letter against the here- 
tic Vigilantius : " Throughout all 
the churches of the East, when the 
gospel is to be recited, they bring 
forth lights, though it be at noonday, 
not certainly to drive away darkness 
but to manifest some sign of joy, that 
under the type of corporal light may 
be indicated that light of which we 
read in the Psalms ' Thy word is as a 
lamp unto my feet and a light unto 
my path ' " * Everywhere in the Old 
and New Testaments, light is the 
type of knowledge; in the parable 
of the virgins, it is also the symbol of 
fidelity. In Rome, torches were car- 
ried at weddings as a sign of honor. 
St. Chrysoston says that lights are 
carried before the dead to show that 
they are champions and conquerors. 
What more natural than that these 
usages should have been trans- 
ferred to the Christian churches ? 
; ' Within the sanctuary and in front 
of the altar," says the anonymous 
author of the Explanation of the Sac- 
rifice and Liturgy of the Mass, "a 
lamp is kept day and night, to warn 
us that Jesus Christ, the light of the 
world, is present on our altars, . . . 
and that our lives should, by their holi- 
ness, shine like a luminary." Can- 
dles are used in several mystical 

* Ps. cxviii. 105. 



TJie Symbolism of the Church. 



senses by the church during the cer- 
emonies of Holy Week, as chiefly 
the Paschal candle. This is fraught 
with many meanings. Unlighted, it 
is an emblem of Christ in the tomb, 
while the five grains of incense put 
into it in the shape of a cross typify 
both the five wounds of our Blessed 
Lord and the spices with which his 
dead body was buried. Contrary to 
the usual custom, which requires a 
priest to bless any holy thing, the 
Paschal candle is blessed by the 
deacon, to denote that Christ was 
buried by his disciples (Joseph of 
Arimathea and Nicodemus), not by 
his apostles. When lighted, the can- 
dle prefigures Christ arisen. The 
Pavia Missal makes it signify, while 
unlighted, the pillar in the cloud 
which guided the Israelites by day 
through the desert, and, after being 
lighted, the fiery column that direct- 
ed them at night. The columnar 
shape of the candlestick in many 
Italian churches is thought to refer 
to this part of the interpretation. 
The triple candle, which is lighted 
with new fire on Holy Saturday, sig- 
> nifies the Trinity, and in connection 
with this \ve are reminded of a curi- 
U5 ceremony in the Greek ritual, 
vhich consists in the benediction 
;iven by a bishop whenever he says 
Vlass. He holds in each hand a 
:andle one triple, denoting the Trin- 
ty; and the other double, and sym- 
bolizing the union of two natures in 
[esus Christ.* The manual of Holy 
ek tells us that the fifteen candles 
on the triangular candlestick, used 
during the office of Tenebra, repre- 
sent the " disciples whose fervor 
cooled at the approach of danger, 
and who dispersed here and there, 
wavering in faith, forgetful of their 
promises, and all seeking safety in 
flight, abandoning their Master. The 

* Dr. Rock's Hierurgia. 



candle that remains lit and is finally 
concealed behind the altar is a figure 
of Jesus Christ. He came to en- 
lighten the world ; but ungrateful, 
perverse men made every effort to 
obscure and extinguish his glory. 
When they fancied they had succeed- 
ed, he rose from death to an immortal 
life, more glorious than the former." 
The whole of the ceremonies of 
Holy Week are nothing but a lit- 
eral " showing forth of the death of 
the Lord until he come" a yearly 
rehearsal, as it were, of the great 
drama of human life and destiny, of 
the rejection of the elder and the 
adoption of the younger branch of 
the family of men that is, the choice 
of the Gentiles after the trial of the 
Jews. Incense, the recognized em- 
blem of prayer, and spoken of as 
such in the well-known passages of 
the Apocalypse,* also reminds us of 
the perfumes used in the East as a 
sign of honor towards kings and 
princes, and of the gift of the Magi 
to the infant Saviour. Dr. Rock says 
that "a venerable antiquity (522) 
informs us that the incense burning 
round the altar, whence, as from a 
fountain of delicious fragrance, it 
emits a perfume through the house 
of God, has ever been regarded as a 
type of the good odor of Jesus 
Christ which should exhale from the 
soul of every true believer." t The 
frequent use of holy water is above 
all typical of purity, the great prepar- 
ation of the soul for any holy action. 
Salt is a preservative against cor- 
ruption, and also reminds us of 
the miracle of Eliseus,f when, to 
make the drought cease, he asked 
for a vessel with water and salt. The 
apostles are called the " salt of the 
earth," and salt is recognized as the 
emblem of wisdom. Oil, used in 
many functions, is typical of sweet- 

* v. 8, viii 4- t Dr. Rock, Hierurgia. 

* 4 Kings ii. 19. 



614 



The Symbolism of tlie Church. 



ness and mildness, in consideration 
of its natural powers of healing, and 
from time immemorial anointing has 
been considered a consecration to 
God.* Oil was also used in the old 
Hebrew sacrifices, together with 
cakes as well as salt.t The " Agnus 
Dei " perhaps requires a fuller ex- 
planation than the former symbols. 
It is a waxen cake stamped with the 
figure of a lamb. The Pope blesses 
a certain quantity of these cakes 
every seventh year of his reign. 
" The origin of this rite seems to 
have been the very ancient custom 
of breaking up the Paschal candle of 
the preceding year and distributing 
the fragments among the faithful. 
Alcuin, a disciple of the Venerable 
Bede, describes the blessing in these 
words : ' In the Roman Church, 
early on the morning of Holy Satur- 
day, the archdeacon comes into the 
church and pours wax in a clean 
vessel, and mixes it with oil ; then 
blesses the wax, and molds it in the 
form of lambs ; . . . the lambs 
which the Romans make represent to 
us the spotless Lamb made for us ; 
for Christ should be brought to our 
memories frequently by all sorts of 
things.' "| The Asperges, or sprink- 
ling with holy water before Mass, re- 
minds us of the sprinkling of the 
blood of the Paschal lamb on the 
door-posts of the Israelites a cere- 
mony which was to be performed 
with a bunch of hyssop. It also re- 
fers to the Psalm Miserere, in which 
we pray to be " sprinkled with hyssop, 
and we shall be cleansed " a prayer 
which forms part of the prescribed 
orisons to be repeated during the 
Asperges. 

Of the symbolical meaning of 
the sacred vestments, and their 

* i Kings x. i. t Levit. ii. 4, 5. 6, 7, 13. 

i Cardinal Wiseman, four Lectures on Holy 
Week in Koine. , 

8 Exodus xii. 22. 



colors, we will only speak briefly. 
The most obvious apology for them 
is their use as prescribed in the Old 
Testament, where they are made the 
subject of the most minute direc- 
tions. Many things came to us 
through the Temple traditions, the 
Gregorian chant, for instance, which 
closely resembles that still used in the 
orthodox synagogues of our own 
day. It is not improbable that some- 
thing of Hebrew traditions entered 
into the custom, early adopted by 
the Christians, of wearing specified 
and holy garments during the cele- 
bration of Mass. But the church, 
ever mindful of her mission of teach- 
ing, could not let such vestments be 
mere ornaments, however fitting and 
seemly. The author of the Expla- 
nation of the Mass says that " cere- 
monies are a kind of illustration of 
our sacred mysteries ; they represent 
them to the eye, to a certain extent, 1 
as a look or a discourse do to the ear ; 
or mind, especially to the uneducat- 
ed, who are always the greater num- 
ber." The vestments are a very 
prominent part of the externals of 
the Mass; their color announces at 
one glance whether a virgin or a mar- 
tyr is being commemorated, whether 
we are to join in prayer for some un- 
known brother deceased in Christ, or 
to lament in a penitential spirit the 
sins of mankind and our own. Green, 
very seldom used, is the normal color 
for Sundays, denoting hope and joy 
in the promise of the new spring. 
There are two meanings attached to 
the different component parts of the 
holy vesture. The " amice " which 
covers the head (in ancient times en- 
tirely) represents the " helmet of sal- 
vation," divine hope ; the " alb," in- 
nocence of life, because it clothes the 
celebrant from head to foot in spot- 
less white; the " girdle," with which 
the loins are girt, purity and chastity 
(also referring to the text of St. Luke, 



The Symbolism of ihe Church. 



615 



" Let your loins be girt "),* and possi- 
bly bearing some allusion likewise to 
the journey of life, and the com- 
mand anciently given to the Jews at 
the first Pasch, " You shall gird your 
reins " ;t the " maniple," which is 
put on the left arm, patience under 
the burdens of this mortal life ; the 
" stole," which is worn on the neck 
and shoulders, the yoke of Christ ; 
and the " chasuble," which, as up- 
permost, covers all the rest, charity 
according to the saying of St. Peter, 
that " charity covereth a multitude 
of sins. "| The author of The Fol- 
lowing of Christ, speaking of the 
duties and dignity of the priesthood, 
thus beautifully interprets the eccle- 
siastical apparel : " A priest clad in 
his sacred vestments is Christ's vice- 
gerent, to pray God for himself and 
for all the people in a suppliant and 
humble manner. He has before him 
and behind him the sign of the cross 
of the Lord, that he may always re- 
member the passion of Christ. He 
bears the cross before him in his vest- 
ment, that he may diligently behold 
the footsteps of Christ, and fervently 
endeavor to follow them. He is 
marked with the cross behind, that 
he may mildly suffer, for God's sake, 
whatsoever adversities shall befall 
him from others. He wears the 
cross before him that he may be- 
wail his own sins, and behind him 
that through compassion he may la- 
ment the sins of others, and know 
that he is placed, as it were, a me- 
diator between God and the sinner. " 
Besides this mystical signification, 
the vestments also have a represen- 
tative meaning. The amice is in- 
tended to recall the rag with which 
the Jews bandaged our Saviour's 
eyes ;|| the alb, the white garment in 
which Herod, in derision, clothed 

* Luke xii. 35 . t Exodus xii. n. 

ti Peter iv. 8. Book iv.. chap. 5. 

j St. Luke xxii. 64. 



him ; the girdle, maniple, and stole, 
the cords with which he was bound ; 
the chasuble, the purple garment 
with which the soldiers covered him 
when they hailed him as a mock king, 
and as a complement, the cross on 
the chasuble represents that which 
Christ bore on his wounded shoul- 
ders on his way to Calvary. The 
priest's tonsure, worn very conspicu- 
ously by most of the religious orders, 
is a type of the crown of thorns. 

The ceremonies of marriage are 
interesting from their symbolical 
meaning, but are so familiar that it is 
useless to dwell on them. In the 
Greek Church, a glass of wine is par- 
taken of by the bride and bridegroom, 
as a type of the community of pos- 
session which is henceforth to exist 
between them. The use of the ring 
is not confined to earthly nuptials; 
it is worn, as we know, by bishops as 
a sign of union with their sees, and 
also by many orders of nuns, as a 
pledge of their mystical bridal with 
their heavenly Spouse. The rites of' 
initiation and profession in some of 
the religious orders of women are 
full of symbolism. In the taking of 
the white veil among the Dominican- 
esses at Rome, the novice is asked to 
choose between a crown of thorns 
and a wreath of roses placed before 
her on the altar. The hair is shorn, 
as a sign of detachment from the 
vanities of this world. At the pro- 
fession the nun prostrates herself, 
and is entirely covered with a fune- 
real pall, while the choir chants in 
solemn cadence the psalm for the 
dead De Profundis* This awful 
expression of her utter renunciation 
of the world has a most mysterious 
effect on any one who is happy 
enough to witness it. The grating 
and curtains that, in some orders, 
screen the religious from view, even 

* For the foregoing particulars see Challo- 
ner's Catholic Ckriitian Instructed. 



6i6 



The Symbolism of the Church. 



during their friends' visits to the 
" parlor," are only a visible sign of 
the entire separation between them 
and all, even the most innocent, 
earthly ties. And speaking of reli- 
gious orders, we are reminded of the 
peculiar ceremonies which, with some 
of them, enhance the solemnity of 
the divine office. Of these, a biog- 
rapher of St. Dominic says, with true 
mediaeval instinct, that it was no 
wonder that Dominic should have 
tried to imitate, in the many bowings 
and prostrations of the white-robed 
monks, the pageantry of angelic ad- 
oration which he had so often seen in 
visions the folding of the many my- 
riad wings, and the casting down of 
golden crowns before the throne of 
the Lamb.* And yet, while we are 
thinking of this beautiful interpreta- 
tion, there comes another thought 
that of churches as bare as the mo- 
nastery itself, and of a ritual so sim- 
ple that it would satisfy the veriest 
Covenanter. The Trappists especial- 
ly, the Cistercians and Franciscans 
also, are forbidden any display in 
ceremonial, and any costliness in 
material, with regard to the worship 
of God. Poverty is to reign even in 
their churches ; and thus we have an 
asylum provided for those minds 
whose ascetic turn inclines them to 
ignore everything but the most spir- 
itual and internal expression of faith. 
Thus, in old times, St. Paul of the 
Desert abode among caves and wild 
beasts, and St. Simeon Stylites passed 
his life on the summit of an isolated 
column. Prayer without the slight- 
est incentive to it, meditation with- 
out any outward suggestions to 
strengthen it such was their life. 
They never heard glorious chants 
nor saw processions of clerics clad in 
golden robes ; no ritual, no symbol 
even, was there to help them on ; 

* Dr. Alemanny, Life of St. Dominic. 



and yet they were saints. There are 
such minds still now ; the church has 
a place for them a place among her 
rarest and choicest children, for, af- 
ter all, " they have chosen the good 
part, and it shall not be taken from 
them." 

But for the majority symbolism is 
language, ceremonial is reading. 
And because others who do not un- 
derstand this language rail at it, 
should we forget or give it up ? 
Rather should we explain it to them ; 
for who does not know how much 
pleasure may one day be derived 
from a tongue that to-day seems bar- 
barous ? Who can read Goethe till 
he has mastered the grammar of one 
of the richest languages in the 
world ? or who can enjoy Dante till 
he has learnt to read him familiarly 
in the liquid original ? Even so with 
Catholics; others must learn the 
Catholic alphabet before they pro- 
nounce upon the magnificent poems 
contained in our ceremonial. See 
this picture of the crucifixion for in 
this one subject all our religion is en- 
folded. It is a mediaeval painting. 
The arms of our Saviour are spread 
wide, almost on a level with his 
head; Mary, John, and Magdalen 
stand beneath ; the penitent thief is 
beside him on his own cross. Two 
angels in flowing robes hold jewelled 
chalices under his pierced hands to 
collect the drops of blood, and other 
angels are seen in the clouds above, 
with musical instruments in their 
hands. This is no literal representa- 
tion of the scene on Mount Calvary, 
no realistic picture of the thunder 
cloud, the brutal soldiery, the openec" 
graves, such as we see by the dozer 
nowadays. It is not so much a picture 
of the crucifixion as of the redemption, 
It occupies itself merely with the 
mystical sense of the great sacrifice; 
the figures beneath the cross are not 
portraits, in attitudes of human desc- 



The Symbolism of the Church. 



617 



lation, but representatives of the 
church of the faithful on earth ; the 
good thief is put there for the aggre- 
gate of repentant sinners ; the angels 
in the clouds rather celebrate the re- 
demption of the world than lament 
the death of God ; and the instru- 
ments they play are we may well 
suppose it meant to typify the con- 
secration of art to religious purposes ; 
the cup-bearing angels, catching the 
drops of blood as they fall, are types 
of the adoration paid to the saving 
blood of Jesus through all genera- 
tions, and of the untold preciousness 
of this great treasure ; in the chalices, 
also, we see a distinct allusion to the 
sacrifice of the Mass ; finally, the 
widely extended arms mean at 
least, they came to mean it not long 
after the universal nature of the re- 
demption ; and therefore the Jansen- 
ists, when they taught that Christ 
died only for those who are actually 
saved, painted their crucifixes with 
the arms uplifted high above the 
head. 

So our Catholic symbolism is an 
open book, a text for the highest art, 
and a guide to the humblest mind. 
It has chapters for all for poverty, 



nudity, and coarseness are as sym- 
bolical as magnificence and oriental 
grace. The despoiled altars of Good 
Friday are as eloquent as the proces- 
sion of Palms or the Easter exuber- 
ance of decoration ; the crib and the 
straw of Christmas are not less 
fraught with meaning than the 
decked tabernacles of Corpus 
Christi. 

In a Benedictine abbey you will 
hear soul-stirring strains of the most 
solemn harmony ; in a Carmelite 
convent you will listen to a chorus 
of nuns who are forbidden to use 
more than three notes with which to 
vary their singing of the divine 
office ; in a Trappist retreat you will 
watch for the slightest sound, and 
hear nothing save the muffled fall of 

O 

clods of earth as a monk digs his 
own grave, or the salutation, " Bro- 
ther, we must all die," as another 
monk passes him on his way to a 
similar occupation. Let those who 
do not understand our symbolical 
language pause and learn it; and 
no doubt, learning to read it as we 
do, they will soon come to read it 
with us in the brotherhood of the 
faith. 



6i8 



The Progressionists. 



THE PROGRESSIONISTS. 



FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD VON BOLANDEN. 



CHAPTER II. CONTINUED. 
THE LEADERS. 

" I DO not catch the gist of your 
simile of the blind man and colors," 
interrupted Greifmann. 

" I wanted to intimate that thou- 
sands swear allegiance to the banner 
of progress without comprehending 
its nature. Very many imagine pro- 
gress to be a struggle. in behalf of 
Germany against the enfeebling sys- 
tem of innumerable small states, or a 
battling against religious rigorism and 
priest-rule in secular concerns. In un- 
pretending guises like these, the spirit 
of the age circulates among the 
crowd travestied in the fashionable 
epithet progressive. Were you }/ how- 
ever, to remove the shell from around 
the kernel of progress, were you to 
exhibit it to the multitude undis- 
guised as the nullification of reli- 
gion, as the denial of the God of 
Christians, as the rejection of immor- 
tality, and of an essential difference 
between man and the beast were 
you to venture thus far, you would 
see the millions flying in consterna- 
tion before the monster Progress. 
Now, just because the multitude, 
although progressive-minded, every- 
where judges men by Christian stand- 
ards, very often, too, unconsciously, 
therefore Shund has to pass, not for 
an able speculator, but for a misera- 
ble usurer and an unconscionable 
scoundrel." 

" For this very cause, the liberal 
leaders of this city should stand up 
for Shund," opposed the banker. 
"Just appreciation and respect 
should not be denied a deservinsr 



man. To speak candidly, Mr. Schwe- 
fel, what first accidentally arrested 
my attention, now excites my most 
lively interest. I wish to see justice 
done Mr. Shund, to see his uncom- 
mon abilities recognized. You must 
set his light upon a candlestick. You 
must have him elected mayor and 
member of the legislature; in both 
capacities he will fill his position 
with distinction. I repeat, our deep- 
ly indebted city stands in want of a 
mayor that will reckon closely and 
economize. And in the legislative 
assembly Shund's fluency will talk 
down all opposition, his readiness of 
speech will do wonders. Were it 
only to spite the stupid mob, you 
must put Shund in nomination." 

" It will not do, Mr. Greifmann ! it 
is impracticable! We have to pro- 
ceed cautiously and by degrees. 
Our policy lies in conducting the un- 
sophisticated masses from darkness 
into light, quite gradually, inch by 
inch, and with the utmost caution. A 
sudden unveiling of the inmost sig- 
nificance of the spirit of the age 
would scare the people and drive 
them back heels over head into the 
clerical camp." 

" I do not at all share your appre- 
hensions," contended the millionaire. 
" Our people are further advanced 
than you think. Make the trial. 
Your vast influence will easily man- 
age to have Shund returned mayor 
and delegate." 

" Undoubtedly, but my standing 
would be jeopardized," rejoined 
Schwefel. 

" That is a mistake, sir ! You em- 
ploy four hundred families." 



The Progressionists. 



619 



" Four hundred and seventy now," 
said the manufacturer, correcting 
him blandly. 

" Four hundred and seventy fami- 
lies, therefore, are getting a living 
through you, consequently you have 
four hundred and seventy voters at 
your command. Add to these a 
considerable force of mechanics who 
earn wages in your employ. You 
have, moreover, a number of warm 
friends who also command a host of 
laborers and mechanics. Hence you 
risk neither standing nor influence, 
that is," added he with a smile, " un- 
less perhaps you dread the anathe- 
mas of Ultramontanes and impos- 
tors." 

" The pious wrath of believers has 
no terrors deserving notice," observ- 
ed the leader with indifference. 

"And yet all this time Shund's 
remarkable abilities have not been 
able to win the slightest notice on 
the part of progressive men it is re- 
volting !" cried the banker. " Mr. 
Schwefel, I will speak plainly, trust- 
ing to your being discreet; I will 
recommend your factory at Vienna, 
but only on condition that you have 
Hans Shund elected mayor an.d 
member of the legislature." 

" This is asking a great deal 
quite flattering for Shund and very 
tempting to me," said the leader 
with a bright face and a thrice re- 
peated nod to the banker. " Since, 
however, what you ask is neither in- 
compatible with the spirit of the 
times nor dishonorable to the sense 
of a liberal man, I accept your offer, 
for it is no small advantage for me 
from a business point of view." 

" Capital, Mr. Schwefel ! Capi- 
tal, because very sensible !" spoke 
Carl Greifmann approvingly. A short 
groan, resembling the violent burst- 
ing forth of suppressed indignation, 
resounded from the adjoining apart- 
ment. The banker shuffled on the 



floor and drowned the groan by 
loudly rasping his throat. 

" One condition, however, I must 
insist upon," continued the manufac- 
turer of straw hats. " My arm might 
prove unequal to a task that will cre- 
ate no ordinary sensation. But if 
you succeeded in winning over Erd- 
blatt and Sand to the scheme, it 
would prosper without fail and with- 
out much noise." 

" I shall do so with pleasure, Mr. 
Schwefel! Both those gentlemen 
will, in all probability, call on me to- 
day in relation to matters of business. 
It will be for me a pleasing con- 
sciousness to have aided in obtain- 
ing merited recognition for Hans 
Shund." 

" Our agreement is, however, to be 
kept strictly secret from the public." 

" Of course, of course !" 

" You will not forget, at the same 
time, Mr. Greifmann, that our very 
extraordinary undertaking will neces- 
sitate greater than ordinary outlay. 
It is a custom among laborers not to 
work on the day before election, and 
the same on election day itself. Yet, 
in order to keep them in good hu- 
mor, they must get wages the same 
as if they had worked. This is for 
the manufacturer no insignificant dis- 
advantage. Moreover, workingmen 
and doubtful voters require to be 
stimulated with beer gratis another 
tax on our purses." 

" How high do these expenses 
run ?" asked the millionaire. 

" For Sand, Erdblatt, and myself, 
they never fall short of twelve hun- 
dred florins." 

"That would make each one's 
share of the costs four hundred flo- 
rins." 

Taking a five - hundred florin 
banknote between his thumb and 
forefinger, the banker reached it care- 
lessly to the somewhat puzzled lead- 
er. 



62O 



The Progressionists. 



" My contribution to the promo- 
tion of the interests of progress ! I 
shall give as much to Messrs. Sand 
and Erdblatt." 

" Many thanks, Mr. Greifmann !" 
said Schwefel, pocketing the money 
with satisfaction. 

The millionaire drew himself up. 
" I have no doubt," said he, in his 
former cold and haughty tone, " that 
my recommendation will secure your 
establishment the custom already al- 
luded to." 

" I entertain a similar confidence 
in your influence, and will take the 
liberty of commending myself most 
respectfully to your favor." Bowing 
frequently, Schwefel retreated back- 
wards towards the door, and disap- 
peared. Greifmann stepped to the 
open entrance of the side apartment. 
There sat the youthful landholder, 
his head resting heavily on his hand. 
He looked up, and Carl's smiling face 
was met by a pair of stern, almost 
fierce eyes. 

" Have you heard, friend Sera- 
phin ?" asked he triumphantly. 

" Yes and what I have heard 
surpasses everything. You have 
bargained with a member of that 
vile class who recognize no differ- 
ence between honor and disgrace, 
between good and evil, between self- 
respect and infamy, who know only 
one god which is money." 

" Do not show yourself so impla- 
cable against these vile beings, my 
dearest ! There is much that is use- 
ful in them, at any rate they are 
helping me to the finest horses be- 
longing to the aristocracy." 

A stealthy step was heard at the 
door of the cabinet. 

" Do you hear that timid rap ?" 
asked the banker. "The rapper's 
heart is at this moment in his 
knuckles. It is curious how men be- 
tray in trifles what at the time has 
possession of their feelings. The 



mere rapping gives a keen observer 
an insight into the heart of a person 
whom he does not as yet see. Lis- 
ten " Rapping again, still more 
stealthily and imploringly. " I must 
go and relieve the poor devil, whom 
nobody would suspect for a mighty 
leader. Now, Mr. Seraphin, Act the 
Second. Come in !" 

The man who entered, attired in a 
dress coat and kids, was Erdblatt, 
a tobacco merchant, spare in person, 
and with restless, spering eyes. The 
millionaire greeted him coldly, then 
pointed him to the chair that had 
been occupied . by Schwefel. The 
impression produced by the two hun- 
dred thousands on the man of to- 
bacco was far more decided than in 
the case of the manufacturer of straw 
hats. Erdblatt was restless in his 
chair, and as the needle is attracted 
by the pole, so did Erdblatt's whole 
being turn towards the money. His 
eyes glanced constantly over the 
paper treasures, and a spasmodic 
jerking seized upon his fingers. But 
he soon sat motionless and stiff, as if 
thunderstruck at Greifmann's terrible 
words. 

" Your substantial firm," began the 
mighty man of money, after some few 
formalities, " has awaked in me a de- 
gree of attention which the ordinary 
course of business does not require. 
I have to-day received notice from an 
English banking-house that in a few 
days several bills first of exchange, 
amounting to sixty thousand florins, 
will be presented to be paid by you." 

Erdblatt was dumfounded and 
turned pale. 

" The amount is not precisely 
what can be called insignificant," 
continued Greifmann coolly, " and I 
did not wish to omit notifying you 
concerning the bills, because, as you 
are aware, the banking business is 
regulated by rigorous and indiscrim- 
inatincr forms." 



The Progressionists. 



621 



Erdblatt took the hint, turned still 
more pale, and uttered not a word. 

" This accumulation of bills of ex- 
change is something abnormal," pro- 
ceeded Greifmann with indifference. 
"As they are all made payable on 
sight, you are no doubt ready to 
meet this sudden rush with proud 
composure," concluded the banker, 
with a smile of cold politeness. 

But the dum founded Erdblatt was 
far from enjoying proud composure. 
His manner rather indicated inability 
to pay and panic terror. " Not only 
is the accumulation of bills of ex- 
change to the amount of sixty thou- 
sand florins something abnormal, but 
it also argues carelessness," said he 
tersely. " Were it attributable to ac- 
cident, I should not complain; but it 
has been occasioned by jealous rival- 
ry. Besides, they are bills first of 
exchange it is something never 
heard of before it is revolting 
there is a plot to ruin me ! And I 
have no plea to allege for putting off 
these bills, and I am, moreover, un- 
able to pay them." 

The banker shrugged his shoulders 
coldly, and his countenance became 
grave. 

" Might I not beg you to aid me, 
Mr. Greifmann ?" said he anxiously. 
' Of course, I shall allow you a high 
rate of interest." 

" That is not practicable with bills 
of exchange," rejoined the banker re- 
lentlessly. 

" When will the bills be present- 
ed ?" asked the leader, with increas- 
ing anxiety. 

" Perhaps as early as to-morrow," 
answered Greifmann, still more re- 
lentless. 

The manufacturer of tobacco was 
near fainting. 

" I cannot conceive of your being 
embarrassed," said the banker cold- 
ly. " Your popularity and influence 
will get you assistance from friends, 



in case your exchequer happens not 
to be in a favorable condition." 

" The amount is too great ; I 
should have to borrow in several 
quarters. This would give rise to re- 
ports, and endanger the credit of my 
firm." 

" You are not wrong in your 
view,'' answered the banker coldly. 
" Accidents may shake the credit of 
the most solid firm, and other acci- 
dents may often change trifling diffi- 
culties into fatal catastrophes. How 
often does it not occur that houses 
of the best standing, which take in 
money at different places, are 
brought to the verge of bankruptcy 
through public distrust ?" 

The words of the money prince 
were nowise calculated to reassure 
Mr. Erdblatt. 

" Be kind enough to accept the 
bills, and grant me time," pleaded he 
piteously. 

" That, sir, would be contrary to 
all precedents in business," rejoined 
Greifmann, with an icy smile. " Our 
house never deviates from the paths 
of hereditary custom." 

" I could pay in ten thousand flor- 
ins at once," said Erdblatt once more. 
" Within eight weeks I could place 
fifty thousand more in your hands."- 

" I am very sorry, but, as I said, 
this plan is impracticable," opposed 
Greifmann. "Yet I have half a mind 
to accept those bills, but only on a 
certain condition." 

" I am willing to indemnify you in 
any way possible," assured the tobac- 
co merchant, with a feeling of relief. 

" Hear the condition stated in a 
few words. As you know, I live ex- 
clusively for business, never meddle 
in city or state affairs. Moreover, 
labor devoted by me to political 
matters would be superfluous, in view 
of the undisputed sway of liberalism. 
Nevertheless, I am forced to learn, to 
my astonishment, that progress itself 



622 



The Progressionists. 



neglects to take talent and ability 
into account, and exhibits the most 
aristocratic nepotism. The remark- 
able abilities of Mr. Shund are lost, 
both to the city and state, merely be- 
cause Mr. Shund's fellow-citizens will 
not elect him to offices of trust. This 
is unjust; to speak plainly, it is re- 
volting, when one considers that 
there is many a brainless fellow in 
the City Council who has no better 
recommendation than to have de- 
scended from an old family, and 
whose sole ability lies in chinking 
ducats which he inherited but never 
earned. Shund is a genius compared 
with such boobies ; but genius does 
not pass current here, whilst inca- 
pacity does. Now, if you will use 
your influence to have Shund nomi- 
nated for mayor of this city, and for 
delegate to the legislature, and guar- 
antee his election, you may consider 
the bills of exchange as covered." 

Not even the critical financial 
trouble by which he was beset could 
prevent an expression of overwhelm- 
ing surprise in the tobacco man's 
face. 

" I certainly cannot have misun- 
derstood you. You surely mean to 
speak of Ex-Treasurer Shund, of this 
place ?" 

" The same the very same." 

"But, Mr. Greifmann, perhaps 
you are not aware " 

" I am aware of everything," in- 
terrupted the banker. " I know that 
many years ago Mr. Shund awk- 
wardly put his hand into the dty 
treasury, that he was sent to the peni- 
tentiary, that people imagine they 
still see him in the penitentiary garb, 
and, finally, that in the stern judg- 
ment of the same people he is a low 
usurer. But usury has been abro- 
gated by law. The theft Shund has 
not only made good by restoring 
what he stole, but also atoned for by 
years of imprisonment. Now, why is 



a man to be despised who has in- 
deed done wrong, but not worse 
than others whose sins have long 
since been forgotten ? Why con- 
demn to obscurity a man that pos- 
sesses the most brilliant kind of tal- 
ent for public offices? The con- 
tempt felt for Shund on the part of a 
population who boast of their pro- 
gress is unaccountable may be it 
would not be far from the truth to 
believe that some influential persons 
are jealous of the gifted man," con- 
cluded the banker reproachfully. 

" Pardon me, please ! The thief 
and ^lsurer it might perhaps be pos- 
sible to elect," conceded Erdblatt. 
" But Shund's disgusting and shame- 
less amours could not possibly find 
grace with the moral sense of the 
public." 

" Yes, and the origin of this moral 
sense is the sixth commandment of 
the Jew Moses," said the millionaire 
scornfully. " I cannot understand 
how you, a man of advanced views, 
can talk in this manner." 

" You misinterpret my words," re- 
joined the leader deprecatingly. " To 
me, personally, Shund exists neither as 
a usurer nor as a debauchee. Chris- 
tian modes of judging are, of course, 
relegated among absurdities that we 
have triumphed over. In this in- 
stance, however, there is no question 
of my own personal conviction, but 
of the conviction of the great multi- 
tude. And in the estimation of the 
multitude unbridled liberty is just as 
disgraceful as the free enjoyment of 
what, morally, is forbidden." 

" You are altogether in the same 
rut as Schwefel." 

" Have you spoken with Schwefel 
on this subject?" asked Erdblatt 
eagerly. 

" Only a moment ago. Mr. Schwe- 
fel puts greater trust in his power 
than you do in yours, for he agreed 
to have Shund elected mayor and 



The Progressionists. 



623 



delegate. Mr. Schwefel only wishes 
you and Sand would lend your aid." 

" With pleasure ! If Schwefel and 
Sand are won over, then all is right." 

" From a hint of Schwefel's," said 
Greifmann, taking up a five-hundred- 
florin banknote from the table, " I 
infer that the election canvass is ac- 
companied with some expense. Ac- 
cept this small contribution. As for 
the bills of exchange, the matter is to 
rest by our agreement." 

Erdblatt also backed out of the 
cabinet, bowing repeatedly as he re- 
treated. 

Seraphin rushed from his hiding- 
place in great excitement. 

" Why, Greifmann, this is terrible ! 
Do you call that advanced education ? 
Do you call that progress ? Those 
are demoralized, infernal beings. I 
spit upon them ! And are these the 
rabble that are trying to arrogate to 
themselves the leadership of the Ger- 
man people ? rabble who ignore the 
Deity, the human soul, and morality 
generally ! But what completely un- 
settles me is your connivance at 
least, your connection with these in- 
fernal spirits." 

" But be easy, my good fellow, be 
easy ! / connected with tobacco and 
straw ?" 

" At all events, you have been ridi- 
culing the ten commandments and 
Christian morals and faith." 

" Was I not obliged to do so in 
order to show how well the thief, 
usurer, and filthy dog Shund har- 
monizes with the spirit of progress ? 
Can he who wishes to make use of 
the devil confer with the devil in the 
costume of light ? Not at all ; he 
must clothe himself in the mantle of 
darkness. And you must not object 
to my using the demon Progress for 
the purpose of winning your span of 
horses and saving my stakes. Let 
us not have a disgraceful altercation. 
Consider me as a stage actor, whilst 



you are a spectator that is being ini- 
tiated into the latest style of popular 
education. Ah, do you hear ? The 
last one is drawing near. Be pleased 
to vanish." 

The third leader, house-builder 
Sand, appeared. The greater portion 
of his face is hidden by a heavy 
black beard ; in one hand he carries 
a stout bamboo cane; and it is only 
after having fully entered, that he de 
liberately removes his hat. 

" I wish you a pleasant morning, 
Mr. Greifmann. You have sent for 
me : what do you want ?" 

The banker slowly raised his eyes 
from the latest exchange list to the 
rough features of the builder, and re- 
membering that the man had risen 
up from the mortar board to his pres- 
ent position, and had gained wealth 
and influence through person al ener- 
gy, he returned the short greeting 
with a friendly inclination of the 
head. 

" Will you have the goodness to be 
seated, Mr. Sand ?" 

The man of the black beard took 
a seat, and, having noticed the hand- 
some collection of banknotes, his 
coarse face settled itself into a not 
very attractive grin. 

" I want to impart to you my in- 
tention of erecting a villa on the 
Sauerberg, near the middle of our 
estate at Wilheim," continued the 
millionaire. 

" Ah, that is a capital idea !" And 
the man of the beard became very 
deeply interested. "The site is 
charming, no view equal to it; 
healthy location, vineyards round 
about, your own vineyards moreover. 
I could put you up a gem there." 

" That is what I think, Mr. Sand ! 
My father, who has been abroad for 
the last three months, is quite satisfied 
with the plan ; in fact, he is the orig- 
inal projector of it." 

" I know, T know ! your father has 



624 



The Progressionists. 



a taste for what is grand. We shall 
try and give him satisfaction, which, 
by the bye, is not so very easy. But 
you have the money, and fine for- 
tunes can command fine houses." 

" What I want principally is to get 
you to draw a plan, consulting your 
own taste and experience in doing so. 
You will show it to me when ready, 
and I will tell you whether I like it 
or not." 

"Very well, Mr. Greifmann, very 
well ! But I must know beforehand 
what amount of money you are will- 
ing to spend upon the house ; for all 
depends upon the cost." 

" Well," said the millionaire, after 
some deliberation, " I am willing to 
spend eighty thousand florins on it, 
and something over, perhaps." 

"Ah, well, for that amount of 
money something can be put up 
something small but elegant. Are 
you in a hurry with the building ?" 

" To be sure ! As soon as the 
matter is determined upon, there is to 
be no delay in carrying it out." 

" I am altogether of your opinion, 
Mr. Greifmann I agree with you 
entirely !" assented the builder, with 
an increase of animation. " I shall 
draw up a plan for a magnificent 
house. If it pleases you, all hands 
shall at once be set at work, and 
by next autumn you shall behold the 
villa under roof." 

" Of course you are yourself to 
furnish all the materials," added the 
banker shrewdly. " When once the 
plan will have been settled upon, 
you can reach me an estimate of the 
costs, and I will pay over the money." 

"To be sure, Mr. Greifmann 
that is the way in which it should be 
done, Mr. Greifmann !" responded 
the man of the black beard with a 
satisfied air. " You are not to have 
the slightest bother. I shall take all 
the bother upon myself." 

"That, then, is agreed upon! 



Well, now, have you learned yet who 
is to be the next mayor ?" 

" Why, yes, the old one is to be re- 
elected !" 

" Not at all ! We must have an 
economical and intelligent man for 
next mayor. Of this I am con- 
vinced, because the annual deficit in 
the treasury is constantly on the in- 
crease." 

" Alas, 'tis true ! And who is the 
man of economy and intelligence to 
be?" 

" Mr. Hans Shund." 

" Who what ? Hans Shund ? 
The thief, the usurer, the convict, the 
debauchee ? Who has been making 
a fool of you ?" 

" Pardon me, sir ! I never suffer 
people to make a fool of me !" re- 
joined the banker with much digni- 
ty. 

" Yes, yes somebody has dished 
up a canard for you. What, that 
good-for-nothing scoundrel to be 
elected mayor! Never in his life! 
Hans Shund mayor really that is 
good now ha, ha !" 

" Mr. Sand, you lead me to sus- 
pect that you belong to the party of 
Ultramontanes." 

" Who / an Ultramontane ? 
That is ridiculous ! Sir, I am at the 
head of the men of progress I am 
the most liberal of the liberals that, 
sir, is placarded on every wall." 

" How come you, then, to call 
Mr. Sand a good-for-nothing scoun- 
drel?" 

" Simply for this reason, because 
he is a usurer and a dissipated 
wretch." 

" Then I am in the right, after 
all! Mr. Sand belongs to the 
ranks of the pious" jeered the 
banker. 

" Mr. Greifmann, you are insult- 
ing !" 

" Nothing is further from my in- 
tention than to wound your feelings, 



The Progressionists. 



625 



my dear Mr. Sand ! Be cool and 
reasonable. Reflect, if you please. 
Shund, you say, puts out money 
at thirty per cent, and higher, and 
therefore he is a usurer. Is it not 
thus that you reason ?" 

" Why, yes ! The scoundrel has 
brought many a poor devil to ruin 
by means of his Jewish speculations !" 
" Your pious indignation," com- 
mended the millionaire, " is praise- 
worthy, because it is directed against 
what you mistake for a piece of 
scoundrelism. Meanwhile, please to 
calm down your feelings, and let your 
reason resume her seat of honor so 
that you may reflect upon my words. 
You know that in consequence of re- 
cent legislation every capitalist is free 
to put out money at what rate soever 
he pleases. Were Shund to a.skji/ty 
per cent., he would not be stepping 
outside of the law. He would then 
be, as he now is, an honest man. 
Would he not ?" 

" It is as you say, so far as the law 
is concerned !" 

" Furthermore, if after prudently 
weighing, after wisely calculating, 
the pros and cons, Shund con- 
cludes to draw in his money, and 
in consequence many a poor devil is 
ruined, as you say, surely no reason- 
able man will on that account con- 
demn legally authorized speculation !'' 
" Don't talk to me of legally au- 
thorized speculation. The law must 
not legalize scoundrelism ; but who- 
soever by cunning usury brings such 
to ruin is and ever will be a scoun- 
drel." 

" Why a scoundrel, Mr. Sand ? 
Why, pray ?" 

" Surely it is clear enough be- 
cause he has ruined men !" 

" Ruined ! How ? Evidently 
through means legally permitted. 
Therefore, according to your notion 
the law does legalize scoundrelism; 
at least it allows free scope to scoun- 

VOL. XV. 40 



drels. Mr. Sand, no offence intend- 
ed : I am forced, however, once more 
to suspect that you do, perhaps with- 
out knowing it, belong to the pious. 
For they think and feel just as you 
do, that is, in accordance with so- 
called laws of morality, religious 
views and principles. That, judged 
by such standards, Shund is a scoun- 
drel who hereafter will be burned 
eternally in hell, I do not pretend to 
dispute." 

"At bottom, I believe you are in 
the right, after all yes, it is as you 
say," conceded the leader reluc- 
tantly. Ahem and yet I am sur- 
prised at your being in the right. I 
would rather, however that you were 
in the right, because I really do not 
wish to blame anybody or judge him 
by the standard of the Ultramon- 
tanes." 

" That tone sounds genuinely pro- 
gressive, and it does honor to your 
judgment !" lauded the banker. 
" Again, you called Shund a good-for- 
nothing scoundrel because he loves 
the company of women. Mr. Sand, 
do you mean to vindicate the sacred 
nature of the sixth commandment in 
an age that has emancipated itself 
from the thrall of symbols and has 
liberated natural inclinations from 
the servitude of a bigoted priest- 
hood ? you, who profess to stand at 
the head and front of the party of 
progress ?" 

" It is really odd you are in 
the right again ! Viewed from the 
standpoint of the times, contem- 
plated in the light of modern intel- 
lectual culture, Shund must not 
really be called good-for-nothing for 
being a usurer and an admirer of 
women." 

" Shund's qualifications consequent- 
ly fit him admirably for the office of 
mayor. He will be economical, he 
will make the expenditures balance 
with the revenue. Even in the leg- 



626 



The Progressionists, 



islature, Shund's principles and ex- 
perience will be of considerable ser- 
vice to the country and to the cause 
of progress. I am so much in favor 
of the man that I shall award you 
the building of my villa only on con- 
dition that you will use all your in- 
fluence for the election of Shund to 
the office of mayor and to the legisla- 
ture." 

" Mayor assemblyman, too 
ahem ! that will be hard to do." 

" By no means ! Messrs. Schwe- 
fel and Erdblatt will do their best for 
the same end." 

" Is that so, really ? In that case 
there is no difficulty ! Mr. Greif- 
mann, consider me the man that will 
build your villa." 

" The canvass will cost you some 
money here, take this, my contribu- 
tion to the noble cause," and he 
gave him a five-hundred-florin bank- 
note. 

" That will suffice, Mr. Greifmann, 
that will suffice. The plan you can- 
not have until after the election, for 
Shund will give us enough to do." 

" Everything is possible to you, 
Mr. Sand! Whatever Caesar, Lepi- 
dus, and Antony wish at Rome, 
that same must be." 

" Very true, very true." And the 
last of the leaders disappeared. 

" I would never have imagined the 
like to be possible," spoke the land- 
holder, entering. "They all regard 
Shund as a low, abandoned wretch, 
and yet material interest determines 
every one of them to espouse the 
cause of the unworthy, contemptible 
fellow. It is extraordinary ! It is 
monstrous !" 

"You cannot deny that progress 
is eminently liberal," replied the 
banker, laughing. 

" Nor will I deny that it possesses 
neither uprightness nor conscience, 
nor, especially, morals," rejoined the 
young man with seriousness. 



Carl saw with astonishment Sera- 
phin's crimsoned cheeks and flaming 
eyes. 

" My dear fellow, times and men 
must be taken as they are, not as 
they should be," said the banker. 
" Interest controls both men and 
things. At bottom, it has ever been 
thus. In the believing times of the 
middle ages, men's interest lay in 
heaven. All their acts were done 
for heaven; they considered no 
sacrifice as too costly. Thousands 
quit their homes and families to have 
their skulls cloven by the Turks, or 
to be broiled by the glowing heats 
of Palestine. For the interests of 
heaven, thousands abandoned the 
world, fed on roots in deserts, gave 
up all the pleasures of life. At pre- 
sent, the interest lies in this 
world, in material possessions, in 
money. Do not therefore get angry 
at progress if it refuses to starve 
itself or to be cut down by Moorish 
scimitars, but, on the other hand, has 
strength of mind and self-renunci- 
ation enough to promote Hans 
Shund to honors and offices." 

Seraphin contemplated Greifmann, 
who smiled, and hardly knew how 
to take him. 

" An inborn longing for happiness 
has possession of all men," said he 
with reserve. "The days of faith 
were ruled by moral influences ; the 
spirit of this age is ruled by base 
matter. Between the moral strug- 
gles of the past strong in faith, and 
the base matter of the present, there 
is, say what you will, a notable 
difference." 

" Doubtless !" conceded Greif- 
mann. " The middle ages were 
incontestably the grandest epoch of 
history. I am actuated by the hon- 
est intention of acquainting you 
with the active principles of the 
present." 

" Yes, and you have been not 



The Progressionists. 



627 



immaterially aided by luck. But for 
the order from Vienna for straw hats, 
the bills of exchange, and thatvilla, you 
would hardly have attained your'aim." 

Greifmann smiled. 

" The straw-hat story is merely a 
mystification, my dear friend. 
When the end will have been 
reached, when Hans Shund will have 
been elected mayor and assembly- 
man, a few lines will be sufficient to 
inform Mr. Schwefel that the house 
in Vienna has countermanded its 
order. Nor is any villa to be con- 
structed. I shall pay Sand for his 
drawings, and this will be the end of 
the project. The matter of the bills 
of exchange is not a hoax, and I am 
still free to proceed against Erdblatt 



in the manner required by the inte- 
rests of my business." 

Seraphin stood before the ingenuous 
banker, and looked at him aghast. 1 

" It is true," said Greifmann gaily, 
" I have laid out fifteen hundred 
florins, but I have done so against 
one hundred per cent. ; for they are 
to secure me victory in our wager." 

" Your professional routine is truly 
admirable," said Gerlach. 

"Not exactly that, but practical, 
and not at all sentimental, my 
friend." 

?' I shall take a walk through the 
garden to get over my astonish- 
ment," concluded Gerlach; and he 
walked away from the astute man of 
money. 



CHAPTER III. 



SERAPHIN AND LOUISE. 



Sombre spirits flitted about the 
head of the young man with the 
blooming cheeks and light eyes. He 
was unable to rid himself of a feeling 
of depression; for he had taken a 
step into the domain of progress, 
and had there witnessed things 
which, like slimy reptiles, drew a cold 
trail over his warm heart. Trained 
up on Christian principles, schooled 
by enlightened professors of the 
faith, and watched over with affec- 
tionate vigilance by a pious mother, 
Seraphin had had no conception of 
the state of modern society. For 
this reason, both Greifmann Senior 
and Gerlach Senior committed a 
blunder in wishing to unite by mar- 
riage three millions of florins, the 
owners of which not merely differed, 
but were the direct opposites of each 
other in disposition and education. 

Louise belonged to the class of 
emancipated females who have in 
vain attempted to enhance the worth 
of noble womanhood by impressing 
on their own sex the sterner type of 



the masculine gender. In Louise's 
opinion, the beauty of woman does 
not consist in graceful gentleness, 
amiable concession and purity, but 
in proudly overstepping the bounds 
set for woman by the innate mod- 
esty of her sex. The beautiful young 
lady had no idea of the repulsiveness 
of a woman who strives to make a 
man of herself, but she was sure 
that the cause and origin of woman's 
degradation is religion. For it was 
to Eve that God had said : " Thou 
shalt be under thy husband's power, 
and he shall have dominion over 
thee." Louise considered this decree 
as revolting, and she detested the 
book whose authority among men 
gives effect to its meaning. On the 
other hand, she failed to observe that 
woman's sway is powerful and 
acknowledged wherever it exerts 
itself over weak man through affec- 
tion and grace. Quite as little did 
Miss Louise observe that men 
assume the stature of giants so soon 
as women presume to appear in re- 



628 



The Progressionists. 



lation to them strong and manlike. 
Least of all did she discover any- 
thing gigantic in the kind-hearted 
Seraphin. In the consciousness of 
her fancied superiority of education, 
she smiled at the simplicity of his 
faith, and, as the handsome young 
gentleman appeared by no means an 
ineligible parti, she believed it to be 
her special task to train her prospec- 
tive husband according to her own 
notions. She imagined this course 
of training would prove an easy 
undertaking for a lady whose charms 
had been uniformly triumphant over 
the hearts of gentlemen. But one 
circumstance appeared to her 
unaccountable that was Seraphin's 
cold-bloodedness and unshaken in- 
dependence. For eight days she 
had plied her arts in vain, the most 
exquisite coquetry had been wasted 
to no purpose, even the irresistible 
fire of her most lovely eyes had pro- 
duced no perceptible impression on 
the impregnable citadel of the land- 
holder's heart. 

" He is a mere child as yet, the 
most spotless innocence," she would 
muse hopefully. " He has been 
sheltered under a mother's wings like 
a pullet, and for this I am beholden to 
Madame Gerlach, for she has trained 
up an obedient husband for me." 

Seraphin sauntered through the 
walks of the garden, absorbed in 
gloomy reflections on the leaders of 
progress. Their utter disregard of 
honor and unparalleled baseness were 
disgusting to him as an honorable 
man, whilst their corruption and 
readiness for deeds of meanness 
were offensive to him as a Christian. 
Regarding Greifmann, also, he enter- 
tained misgivings. Upon closer ex- 
amination, however, the unsuspect- 
ing youth thought he discovered in 
the banker's manner of treating the 
leaders and their principles a strong 
infusion of ridicule and ironv. 



Hence, imposed upon by his own 
good nature, he concluded that 
Greifmann ought not in justice to be 
ranked among the hideous monstro- 
sities of progress. 

With head sunk and rapt in 
thought, Gerlach strayed indefinitely 
amid the flowers and shrubbery. 
All at once he stood before Louise. 
The young lady was seated under a 
vine-covered arbor; in one hand she 
held a book, but she had allowed 
both hand and book to sink with 
graceful carelessness upon her lap. 
For some time back she had been 
observing the thoughtful young man. 
She had been struck by his manly 
carriage and vigorous step, and had 
come to the conclusion that his pro- 
fusion of curling auburn hair was the 
most becoming set-off to his hand- 
some countenance. She now wel- 
comed the surprised youth with a 
smile so winning, and with a play of 
eyes and features so exquisite, that 
Seraphin, dazzled by the beauty of 
the apparition, 'felt constrained to 
lower his eyes like a bashful girl. 
What probably contributed much to 
this effect was the circumstance of 
his being at the time in a rather 
vacant and cheerless state of mind, 
so that, coming suddenly into the 
presence of this brilliant being, he 
experienced the power of the con- 
trast. She appeared to him inde- 
scribably beautiful, and he wondered 
that this discovery had not forced 
itself upon him before. Unfortu- 
nately, the young gentleman pos- 
sessed but little of the philosophy 
which will not suffer itself to be de- 
ceived by seductive appearances, 
and refuses to recognize the beauti- 
ful anywhere but in its agreement 
with the true and good. 

Louise perceived in an instant that 
now was at hand the long-loolced-for 
fulfilment of her wishes. The cer- 
tainty which she felt that the con- 



The Progressionists. 



629 



quest was achieved diffused a be- 
witching loveliness over her person. 
Seraphin, on the other hand, stood 
leaning against the arbor, and be- 
came conscious with fear and sur- 
prise of a turmoil in his sou 1 , that he 
had never before experienced. 

" I have been keeping myself quiet 
in this shady retreat," said she sweet- 
ly, " not wishing to disturb your 
meditations. Carl's wager is a 
strange one, but it is a peculiarity of 
my brother's occasionally to mani- 
fest a relish for what is strange." 

" You are right strange, very 
strange !" replied Seraphin, evidently 
in allusion to his actual state of 
mind. The beautiful young lady, 
perceiving the allusion, became still 
more dazzling. 

" I should regret very much that 
the wager were lost by a guest of 
ours, and still more that you were 
deprived of your splendid race- 
horses. I will prevail on Carl not to 
take advantage of his victory." 

"Many thanks, miss; but I 
would much rather you would not 
do so. If I lose the wager, honor 
and duty compel me to give up the 
stakes to the winner. Moreover, in 
the event of my losing, there would 
be another loss far more severe for 
me than the loss of my racers." 

" What would that be ?" inquir- 
ed she with some amazement. 

" The loss of my good opinion of 
men," answered he sadly. " What 
I have heard, miss, is base and 
vile beyond description." And he 
recounted for her in detail what had 
taken place. 

" Such things are new to you, Mr. 
Seraphin ; hence your astonishment 
and indignation." 

The youth felt his soul pierced be- 
cause she uttered not a word of dis- 
approval against the villany. 

" Carl's object was good," continu- 
ed she, " in so far as his manoeuvre 



has procured you an insight into the 
principles by which the world is just 
now ruled." 

" I would be satisfied to lose the 
wager a thousand times, and even 
more, did I know that the world is 
not under such rule." 

" It is wrong to risk one's proper- 
ty for the sake of a delusion," said 
she reprovingly. " And it would be 
a gross delusion not to estimate men 
according to their real worth. A 
proprietor of fields and woodland, 
who, faithful to his calling, leads an 
existence pure and in accord with 
nature's laws, must not permit him- 
self to be so far misled by the harm- 
lessness of his own career as to 
idealize the human species. For 
were you at some future day to be- 
come more intimately acquainted 
with city life and society, you would 
then find yourself forced to smile at 
the views which you once held con- 
cerning the present." 

" Smile at, my dear miss ? Hard- 
ly. I should rather have to mourn 
the destruction of my belief. More- 
over, it is questionable whether I 
could breathe in an atmosphere which 
is unhealthy and destructive of all 
the genuine enjoyments of life !" 

" And what do you look upon as 
the genuine enjoyments of life ?" 
asked she with evident curiosity. 

He hesitated, and his childlike em- 
barrassment appeared to her most 
lovely. 

" I beg your pardon, Mr. Sera- 
phin ! I have been indiscreet, for 
such a question is allowable to those 
only who are on terms of intimacy." 
And the beauty exhibited a master- 
ly semblance of modesty and amia- 
bility. The artifice proved success- 
ful, the young man's diffidence fled, 
and his heart opened. 

" You possess my utmost confi- 
dence, most esteemed Miss Greif- 
mann ! Intercourse with good, or 



630 



The Progressionists. 



at least honorable, persons appears 
to me to be the first condition for en- 
joying life. How could any one's 
existence be cheerful in the society of 
people whose character is naught and 
whose moral sense expired with the 
rejection of every religious principle?" 

" Yet perhaps it might, Mr. Sera- 
phin !" rejoined she, with a smile of 
imagined superiority. " Refinement, 
the polished manners of society, may 
be substituted for the rigor of reli- 
gious conviction." 

" Polished manners without moral 
earnestness are mere hypocrisy," an- 
swered he decidedly. "A wolf, 
though enveloped in a thousand 
lambskins, still retains his nature." 

" How stern you are !" exclaimed 
she, laughing. " And what is the 
second condition for the true enjoy- 
ment of life, Mr. Seraphin ?" 

" It is evidently the accord of moral 
consciousness with the behests of a 
supreme authority ; or to usethe or- 
dinary expression, a good conscience," 
answered the millionaire earnestly. 

A sneering expression spontaneous- 
ly glided over her countenance. She 
felt the hateful handwriting of her 
soul in her features, turned crimson, 
and cast down her eyes in confusion. 
The young man had not observed 
the expression of mockery, and could 
not account for her confusion. He 
thought he had perhaps awkwardly 
wounded her sensitiveness. 

" I merely meant to express my 
private conviction," said Mr. Sera- 
phin apologetically. 

" Which is grand and admirable," 
lauded she. 

Her approbation pleased him, for 
his simplicity failed to detect the 
concealed ridicule. After a walk 
outside of the city which Gerlach 
took towards evening, in the compa- 
ny of the brother and sister, Carl 
Greifmann made his appearance in 
Louise's apartment. 



" You have at last succeeded in 
capturing him," began he with a 
chuckle of satisfaction. " I was al- 
most beginning to lose confidence in 
your well-tried powers. This time 
you seemed unable to keep the field, 
to the astonishment of all your ac- 
quaintances. They never knew you 
to be baffled where the heart of a 
weak male was to be won." 

" What are you talking about ?" 

" About the fat codfish of two mil- 
lion weight whom you have been 
successful in angling." 

" I do not understand you, most 
mysterious brother !" 

" You do not understand me, and 
yet you blush like the skies before a 
rainstorm ! What means the vermi- 
lion of those cheeks, if you do not 
understand ?" 

" I blush, first, on account of my 
limited understanding, which cannot 
grasp your philosophy ; and, second- 
ly, because I am amazed at the mon- 
strous figures of your language." 

" Then I shall have to speak with- 
out figures and similes upon a subject 
which loses a great deal in the light 
of bare reality, which, I might indeed 
say, loses all, dissolves into vapor, 
like will-o'-the-wisps and cloud phan- 
toms before the rising sun. I hardly 
know how to mention the subject 
without figures. I can hardly handle 
it except with poetic figures," exclaim- 
ed he gaily, seating himself in Louise's 
rocking - chair, rocking himself. 
" Speaking in the commonest prose, 
my remarks refer to the last victim 
immolated to your highness to the 
last brarfd kindled by the fire of your 
eyes. To talk quite broadly, I mean 
the millionaire and landholder Sera- 
phin Gerlach, who is head and ears 
in love with you. Considered from a 
business and solid point of view, it is 
exceedingly flattering for the banker's 
brother to see his sister adored by so 
considerable a sum of money.'' 



The Progressionists. 



631 



" Madman, you profane the no- 
blest feelings of the heart," she 
chidingly said, with a smile. 

" I am a man of business, my dear 
child, and am acquainted with no 
sanctuary but the exchange. Rela- 
tions of a tender nature, noble feel- 
ings of the heart, lying as they do 
without the domain of speculation, 
are to me something incomprehensi- 
ble and not at all desirable. On the 
other hand, I entertain for two mil- 
lions of money a most prodigious 
sympathy, and a love that casts the 
flames of all your heroes and hero- 
ines of romance into the shade. 
Meanwhile, my sweet little sister, 
there are two aspects to everything. 
An alliance between our house and 
two millions of florins claims admira- 
tion, 'tis true ; yet it is accompanied 
with difficulties which require serious 
reflection." The banker actually 
ceased rocking and grew serious. 

" Might I ask a solution of your 
enigma ?" 

" All jesting aside, Louise, this al- 
liance is not altogether free from 
risks," answered he. " Just consider 
the contrast between youself and 
Seraphin Gerlach's good nature is 
touching, and his credulous simplici- 
ty is calculated to excite apprehen- 
sion. Guided, imposed upon, en- 
tirely bewitched by religious phan- 
tasms, he gropes about in the darkness 
of superstition. You, on the con- 
trary, sneer at what Seraphin cher- 
ishes as holy, and despise such reli- 
gious nonsense. Reflect now upon 
the enormous contrast between your- 
self and the gentleman whom fate and 
your father's shrewdness have selected 
for your husband. Honestly, I am in 
dread. I am already beginning to 
dream of divorce and every possible 
tale of scandal, which would not be 
precisely propitious for our firm." 

" What contradictions !" exclaimed 



the beauty with self-reliance. " You 
just a moment ago announced my 
triumph over Seraphin, and now you 
proclaim my defeat." 

"Your defeat! Not at all! But 
I apprehend wrangling and discord 
in your married life." 

" Wrangling and discord because 
Seraphin loves me ?" 

" No not exactly but because he 
is a believer and you are an unbe- 
liever; in short, because he does not 
share your aims and views." 

" How short-sighted you are ! As 
you conceive of it, love is not a pas- 
sion ; at most, only, a cool mood 
which cannot be modified by the 
lovers themselves. Your apprehen- 
sion would be well grounded con- 
cerning that kind of love. But sup- 
pose love were something quite differ- 
ent? Suppose it were a passion, a 
glowing, dazzling, omnipotent^ pas- 
sion, and that Seraphin really loved 
me, do you think that I would 
not skilfully and prudently take ad- 
vantage of this passion ? Cannot a 
woman exert a decisive and directing 
influence over the husband who loves 
her tenderly ? I have no fears be- 
cause I do not view love with the 
eyes of a trader. I hope and trust 
with the adjurations of love to expel 
from Seraphin all superstitious spirits." 

" How sly ! Surely nothing can 
surpass a daughter of Eve in the mat- 
ter of seductive arts !" exclaimed he, 
laughing. " Hem yes, indeed, after 
what I have seen to-day, it is plain 
that the Adam Seraphin will taste of 
the forbidden fruit of ripened knowl- 
edge, persuaded by this tenderly be- 
loved Eve. Look at him : there he 
wanders in the shade of the garden, 
sighing to the rose-bushes, dreaming 
of your majesty, and little suspecting 
that he is threatened with conversion 
and redemption from the kingdom of 
darkness." 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



632 



TIu Necessity of Philosophy as a 



THE NECESSITY OF PHILOSOPHY AS A BASIS OF HIGHER 

EDUCATION. 

BY F. RAM I ERE, S. J. 

FROM THE ETUDES RELIGIEUSES. 



WE have shown what secondary 
education does for the formation of 
man, and how powerfully it is aided 
by philosophy in the accomplish- 
ment of its task. Secondary educa- 
tion in the soul of the young man 
completes the work sketched out by 
the primary lessons given to the 
child ; it develops his faculties, teach- 
es him their use, invests him with 
full dominion over himself, and pre- 
pares him to carry out, according to 
his high vocation, the great duty of 
life. Philosophy is the necessary 
complement of this education, since 
it is indispensable for the develop- 
ment of the sovereign faculty, reason, 
and consequently for the complete 
formation of the man, and the perse- 
verance of the Christian.' 

We might dispense with further 
proofs of the utility of philosophy, al- 
though we are still very far from 
having examined it from every point 
of view. The man whom primary 
and secondary education have placed 
in possession of his faculties is not 
destined to live alone in the world, 
and employ those admirable instru- 
ments wherewith his Creator has en- 
dowed him simply for his own ad- 
vantage. He is made to live in so- 
ciety ; it is to society he owes, after 
God, his existence, his nurture, his 
instruction, his development, his phy- 
sical and moral being, in a word, all 
that he is. During the period of his 
education, he has remained almost 
passive in its hands, and has received 
everything from it. Arrived at the 



term of this long career, justice 
obliges him to set to work to pay 
back to it the immense debt he has 
contracted. Moreover, that which in 
him is but a just duty is at the same 
time a necessary condition of his dig- 
nity and happiness. For, if he does 
not force himself to utilize his facul- 
ties in the interests of his fellows, 
those faculties will infallibly become 
for him a source of wasting ennui 
and cruel torment. If, then, he wish- 
es to become an honorable man, let 
him see that he become a useful citi- 
zen. 

For this purpose a multitude of 
careers open out before him ; for 
there is many a way of serving so- 
ciety ; and the most useful of all is 
not always that whose results are the 
most immediate, and whose fruits 
are the most easily gathered. 

Undoubtedly the father of a family 
who improves his land or devotes 
himself laboriously to the exercise of 
a mechanical profession accomplish- 
es his whole duty to society ; and, if 
he gives to it virtuous children, he 
. pays it in overrunning measure the 
debt which he has contracted in its 
regard. We do not deny that these 
more humble callings are the most 
common, and we acknowledge that 
to fulfil all their conditions it is 
enough to have learned well that di- 
vine philosophy which is contained 
in the maternal teachings of the 
church. But a society could never 
attain a great development, it could 
scarcely exist, whose 'members pos- 



Basis of Higher Education. 



633 



sessed no higher knowledge than that 
which goes to make a good agricul- 
turist, a diligent workman, or an hon- 
est father of a family. Beyond these 
common callings there are others 
more choice which present them- 
selves to souls more richly endowed. 
Some more inclined to the theoreti- 
cal, rush at the conquest of science ; 
others of a more practical tendency 
betake themselves to the study of 
laws and the administration of jus- 
tice. One studies deep the experi- 
ence of the past in order to illustrate 
the present ; another would be an or- 
ator, and is ambitious of the triumphs 
of eloquence ; a third is a poet, and 
he believes, and believes rightly, that 
he makes himself of use enough to his 
fellows by lifting up their souls to 
the contemplation and love of the 
beautiful. Others, again, feel them- 
selves called upon from on high to 
become the representatives of God 
before men, and the interpreters to 
them of his oracular teachings. We 
have named the principal careers 
which lie open to the young man 
whose mind has been cultivated by 
a liberal education. But to what- 
ever side his choice may bend, he 
will find philosophy of an almost in- 
dispensable utility for the attainment 
of solid success. After having made 
him a finished man, it will aid pow- 
erfully in making him a true scholar; 
it will provide the lawyer, the histo- 
rian, the orator, the poet, with the 
seeds of truth, which each one of 
them should cause to fructify after 
his fashion. In fine, to form the 
summit of its glory, it will lend to 
revelation an invincible arm for the 
defence of its dogmas ; and in unit- 
ing its light to that flowing from this 
divine torch, it will form the first and 
most divine of all sciences theology. 
Such in a few words are the various 
aspects under which we have still to 
present its utility. 



NECESSITY OF PHILOSOPHY FOR THE 
FORMATION OF THE SCIENTIST. 

I do not ignore to what I expose 
myself when I dare affirm that with- 
out philosophy there is no true scien- 
tist. People will tell me that there 
in lies a prejudice of the middle ages, 
the defence of which no one can un- 
dertake to-day without denying all 
the progress which science has made 
within three centuries. They will 
sing me the old song of the panegyr- 
ists of Bacon. They will point out 
to me the incomparable advance of 
the physical sciences in modem times, 
dating precisely from the day when 
they shook off the yoke of metaphy- 
sics, and when, laying aside the syllo- 
gism which clogged their march, they 
claimed a right to their own process 
and an independent existence. 

I will not stop to discuss the truth 
of these assertions ; but, accepting 
them all provisionally, I will main 
tain my thesis, and, with God's help, 
will prove it. 

What is the legitimate conclusion 
derived from the fact they oppose to 
us ? It is that the physical sciences 
are distinct from philosophy, and 
that the middle ages were perhaps 
mistaken in identifying them too 
closely with it. But because metaphy- 
sics and physics are distinct sciences, 
does it follow that the man who 
pretends to the title of a scientist can 
content himself with the one and re- 
gleet the other altogether ? Clearly 
not. Such a man, on the contrary, 
condemns himself in despising phi- 
losophy to remain imperfect, not 
merely as a man, but also as a 
scientist. 

To demonstrate this truth let us 
define science, and give an exact ac- 
count of its conditions. 

All knowledge does not deserve 
the name of science. The animal 



634 



The Necessity of Philosophy as a 



knows after a certain fashion; the 
infant and the idiot know still more; 
there is no man so ignorant as not to 
know an innumerable multitude of 
things; but neither the one nor the 
other possesses science. Science is, 
in relation to a certain order of 
truths, what philosophy is in relation 
to man and to God ; it is knowledge 
reasoned out; that which places in a 
state of explication the wherefore of 
things, to tell of them their essence 
and their laws, their causes and their 
effects, their faculties and their desti- 
nations; to connect their conse- 
quences with their principles, and 
draw their principles from their con- 
sequences : " the knowledge of 
things by their causes." Man is, 
therefore, a greater scholar in propor- 
tion as he is capable of mounting 
higher in the region of principles, 
and of embracing in a more general 
conception a greater number of par- 
ticular truths. Science indeed is like 
a luminous mountain composed of 
many a height, some more elevated 
than others. As we mount, the ho- 
rizon expands, and we are able to 
embrace with the same glance a 
vaster space. He alone will possess 
complete science, and he alone con- 
sequently will deserve, in its absolute 
sense, the title of a man of science, 
who arrived at its loftiest height, and 
grasping in its infinite simplicity the 
first principle of all things, shall be- 
hold in the splendor of this focus all 
the rays which burst forth from it 
and spread abroad to illumine the 
whole sphere of truth. 

But this complete science is not 
within the reach of mortal man, and 
in its absolute perfection belongs 
alone to God. 

Fettered by his nature, and fet- 
tered still more by the conditions of 
his earthly existence, man can only 
aspire to a partial science ; and it is 
left him to choose in this immense 



sphere that particular ground where- 
on to pursue his investigations with 
more profit. The entire field is open 
to us. " God," says the Scripture, 
" has delivered the world to the 
searchings and the disputes of men." 
In bestowing on us the faculty of 
finding a reason for things, he has 
authorized us to make use of this 
faculty in regard to all the truths of 
the natural order, provided we see 
on all sides the boundary of the mys- 
terious, which reminds us of our es- 
sential infirmity. 

But though every science is equal- 
ly lawful, they are not all equally 
useful. We may divide them into 
three classes, which form the three cir- 
cles of the great sphere of truth. There 
are the sciences which concern the 
inferior world, the mathematical and 
physical sciences; those whose ob- 
ject is humanity, the psychological 
and moral sciences; thirdly, those 
which concern the higher world, the 
science of first principles and of the 
primal cause of all things. This last, 
which holds the centre of the great 
sphere of truth, is called metaphy- 
sics ; and it is joined to the psycholo- 
gical and moral sciences, which are 
drawn from the same principles, 
under the common name of philoso- 
phy. 

This simple statement of the place 
which belongs to philosophy in the 
hierarchy of the sciences is enough 
to prove our thesis, namely, the ne- 
cessity of philosophy for the forma- 
tion of the true savant. 

What man, in fact, is truly worthy 
of this name, unless it be he who is 
possessed of the necessary science ? 
But I would ask : Does that man 
possess this science, does he know 
what he ought to know, who pos- 
sesses a perfect knowledge of the in- 
ferior world, and who ignores himself; 
who has passed his life away in 
studying the laws of bodies, yet has 



Basis of Higher Education, 



635 



never given a thought to his own 
nature and the destiny of his own 
soul ? Tell me that that man is a great 
physicist, and I will not gainsay it; 
but I can never consent to your be- 
stowing on him the title of a man of 
science. The ancient Greek unites 
with me in denouncing an error so 
opposed to the dignity of the human 
intelligence. " Know thyself." Such 
was the precept impressed on all 
those who went to Delphi to consult 
the oracle of Apollo. The gate of 
the true temple of wisdom opens only 
to those who have put this recommen- 
dation into practice. But wisdom is 
the true science. The true scholar 
is not he who knows something, but 
he who knows enough of it. No one 
thinks of praising unreservedly a 
statue whose head and bust are 
scarcely outlined, and whose lower 
members alone are finished. It is to 
the whole, it is above all to the prin- 
cipal parts, that we look, when we 
wish to estimate a work definitely. 
Reason commands that we act in the 
same manner when we wish to judge 
of the absolute value of an intelli- 
gence. As there are for a people 
liberties which are necessary, so is 
there also for a man knowledge 
which is indispensable, of his own na- 
ture, his origin, and his destiny ; and 
he who is deprived of this, although 
he possess all sorts of superfluous 
knowledge, cannot pretend to the 
title of a man of science. 

To this first motive for the neces- 
sity of philosophy derived from its 
object we are able to add another 
deduced from the very idea of 
science. Science, we have said, is 
the knowledge of things by their 
principles. Its perfection consists in 
attaching particular truths to truths 
which are more general, which com- 
prise them, and which enable the 
intelligence to catch them at a single 
glance. But this unity, which forms 



the perfection of the sciences, and 
which each of them establishes 
among the particular truths which 
constitute their several objects, it is 
the province of philosophy to estab- 
lish among the sciences themselves. 
Metaphysics, in fact, which is the 
principal part of philosophy, has for 
its special object not the study of 
particular truths, but of those general 
principles which throw a light upon 
the other sciences. It is then their 
necessary complement, and their in- 
dispensable crown. Set in the very 
centre of the great sphere of know- 
ledge, it is to the other sciences the 
polar star, whereon they must turn 
their eyes in order to see their way. 
It points out to each one of them the 
relation of the truths which consti- 
tute their special object with the 
primary truth which is their common 
centre. The geometrician and the 
physicist, who occupy themselves ex- 
clusively with the relations of num- 
bers and the laws of bodies, are like 
explorers voyaging in regions where 
the disc of the sun is never seen, 
placed without the power of tracing 
to their luminous focus the rays of 
truth which their studies permit them 
to catch. 

But far beyond this, philosophy 
alone can make the geometrician or 
the physicist acquainted with the 
inner essence of the objects which 
form the special material of their 
studies. Geometry analyzes the re- 
lations of magnitudes, but it does not 
seek to give an account of the very 
idea of magnitude : natural philoso- 
phy evolves from experiments the 
laws of bodies ; but it cannot, by in- 
duction at least, which is its special 
process, arrive at a knowledge of the 
essence of bodies. Philosophy alone 
scrutinizes, as far as it is possible for 
human reason so to do, the mystery 
of that inner essence by which each 
thing is what it is. Philosophy is 



The Necessity of Philosophy as a 



therefore necessary for the comple- 
tion of the special sciences, and to 
furnish scholars with the knowledge 
of their different objects. 

Lastly, a fourth and still more 
incontestable motive for the necessity 
of philosophy for the formation of 
the true scientist is deduced from 
the scientific education of the intelli- 
gence, which philosophy alone is 
capable of undertaking. One of the 
most important parts of philosophy is 
logic ; that is, the science of reason- 
ing, and of the different processes by 
means of which the human intelli- 
gence can find truth. These pro- 
cesses are not only those which 
philosophy avails itself of, but also 
those which obtain among the other 
sciences. It belongs to philosophy, 
and to philosophy alone, to study 
their nature, to fix their laws, 
to prevent their wandering. The 
other sciences borrow these pro- 
cesses from it; they make use 
of them; but they would depart 
from their object if they studied them 
in themselves. One cannot, then, 
dispute the utility of philosophy for 
the formation of the scientist, with- 
out maintaining an evident ab- 
surdity ; to wit, that it is useless for 
the workman to obtain a knowledge 
of the instrument he uses in the 
exercise of his craft. Who can fail 
to see that, without a profound 
knowledge of the different intellec- 
tual processes, the scientist is ex- 
posed to a double danger on the 
one hand, to the danger of deceiving 
himself in the use of the special pro- 
cess which is proper to him ; on the 
other, to the danger of exaggerating 
its importance, and not holding in 
sufficient estimation those processes 
equally legitimate which are in use 
among other sciences ? The first of 
these dangers is to be feared, above 
all, in the inductive sciences. In- 
duction is a mode of reasoning per- 



fectly legitimate in itself; but of all 
the intellectual processes it is the 
one which is most easily abused, 
and which, pushed beyond its just 
limits, may lead to the gravest 
of errors. 

The mathematical sciences which 
work by equation are" not equally ex- 
posed to the danger of diverging 
from their track, but they threaten 
with a still -greater peril the mind of 
the scholar whom the study of phi- 
losophy has not set on his guard 
against the too exclusive influence of 
this process. Equation, as its name 
indicates, does not pass from one 
truth to another, but from a like to a 
like, from the expression of a relation 
of number or magnitude to another 
simpler expression of the same rela- 
tion. It is not, then, surprising that 
this process offers to the mind an ex- 
actness far more easy of comprehen- 
sion than that by means of which we 
are enabled to grasp moral truths 
and give ourselves a reason for our 
own nature. The philosophic math- 
ematician will take this difference 
perfectly into account, and his pro- 
gress in the science of numbers will 
hinder him in no wise from seizing 
upon substantial truths. But the 
man who all his life long has occu- 
pied himself with nothing save the 
study of mathematics is very much 
exposed to becoming incapable of 
comprehending that which is not 
demonstrated by equation ; and he 
will experience a greater estrange- 
ment and inaptitude for the science 
of God and of himself in proportion 
as he advances further in the science 
of the inferior world. 

In good faith, can we see progress 
in this ? Is it not, on the contrary, a 
degradation, not only from the mor- 
al, but also from the intellectual point 
of view ? Has not the absence of a 
sound philosophy stood as much in 
the way of that man's scientific e^e- 



Basis of Higher Education. 



637 



vation as of his moral greatness ? 
Though he may have become a more 
able manipulator of formulas, he sure- 
ly has not become a greater savant. 
Nothing, on the contrary, is more cal- 
culated to cramp and mutilate the 
faculties of the soul than this exclu- 
sive concentration on one of the col- 
lateral objects of its activity. In the 
same way as a limb which is never 
set in motion wastes away and be- 
comes paralyzed, so the powers of 
the soul cannot cease to act without 
losing their vigor. Such is the state 
to which a too exclusive study of 
what are called the exact sciences 
reduces certain minds : these are the 
minds whose higher faculties have 
been wasted. All their activity is 
turned to one side ; the eye of their 
intelligence is so constructed for the 
lesser light of equation, that, when 
they rise from the subterranean world 
of geometrical abstractions to enter 
into the region of moral realities and 
into the world of souls, they are 
dazed, and can see naught but dark- 
ness. True it is that they are much 
enamored of their blindness, and 
attribute it to excess of light. Fain 
to acknowledge that their formulas, 
the only legitimate arguments ac- 
cording to them, are powerless to 
solve the great moral problems, they 
suppress those problems with the 
declaration that it is folly in human 
reason to trouble itself with them, 
and that for him who wishes to ascer- 
tain truth and possess certainty it is 
enough to study the relations of 
numbers and the laws of bodies. 
Such is true science in the eyes of 
the disciples of Auguste Comte. 
These men are perfectly logical. 
They adopt the only means to ensure 
their title to be really scientific men 
without the aid of philosophy ; they 
suppress philosophy altogether, and 
suppress consequently its object, that 
is, the human soul and God, the be- 



ginning and the end of things. With 
adversaries of this stamp I refuse to 
dispute. I can only appeal to their 
conscience against the disdain which 
their lips affect for the formidable 
questions whose suppression they in 
vain decree. They exist in spite of 
them ; and wherever they go they 
carry about in themselves the prob- 
lems which they refuse to examine. 
As for those for whom God and the 
soul have still a meaning, I believe I 
have said enough to compel them to 
admit that no one has a right to the 
title of a wise man so long as he ig- 
nores the science which learns all 
that reason can know of those grand 
objects, and that the other sciences 
when separated from it are often 
more hurtful than useful to the real 
improvement of the intellect. 

I might go still further; and, com- 
ing back to the concession which I 
appeared to make in favor of the 
loud-voiced preachers of the exact 
sciences, I stand on perfectly firm 
ground in denying that the excessive 
importance which a very great num- 
ber of minds bestows on them, and 
the exclusive study to which they 
give themselves up. are for the sci- 
ences themselves a condition of pro- 
gress. What this study can produce is 
able practitioners, who will solve suc- 
cessfully problems whose data some- 
body has already furnished them; 
the artisans of science, who may 
build up with skill the edifice whose 
plan they find traced out beforehand ; 
watchful pilots, who by the aid of 
their compass and marine chart may 
guide their ship safely into port. But 
the geniuses capable of discovering 
new lands, of opening up to science 
new horizons, you will never find 
among the minds who have only 
learnt to navigate by the compass of 
equation. Not by the aid of formu- 
las are great discoveries made ; they 
are the effect of that sort of divina- 



638 



The Necessity of Philosophy as a 



tion which those intelligences possess 
which are accustomed to raise them- 
selves in all things to the most gene- 
ral principles, and grasp in the vari- 
ety of phenomena the analogy of 
laws. If Kepler had only proceeded 
by the aid of formulas, he would 
never have discovered the laws of 
worlds; and Leibnitz would un- 
doubtedly have been a far less dis- 
tinguished geometrician had he not 
been an equally eminent philosopher. 
We may, then, affirm that the study 
of philosophy which is necessary to 
enlarge the mind of the scholar is 
of immense utility in the advance- 
ment of the sciences, even of those 
very ones which seem to have the 
least connection with this queen of 
sciences. 

n. 

NECESSITY OF PHILOSOPHY FOR THE 
FORMATION OF THE JURISCONSULT. 

If it is thus with the sciences whose 
objects are distinct from that of phi- 
losophy, what shall we say of juris- 
prudence, which treats of the rights 
and duties of the members of human 
society? Here the connection is 
much more direct, since the object 
which we are about to indicate is 
precisely that which moral philoso- 
phy treats of. Between the two sci- 
ences there is no other difference 
than this: while moral philosophy 
treats only of essential rights and 
duties, that is to say, of those which 
result from the very nature of man, 
and depend on the necessary will of 
the Creator, jurisprudence has for its 
more particular object those rights 
which are derived immediately from 
the civil authority, and which have 
been established by a positive law. 
But who does not see that this second 
species of rights and duties presup- 
poses the first and leans upon it for 
Us necessary support ? In order to 



proceed rationally to the study of the 
acts of civil authority, and take into 
account the duties which it imposes, 
we must know whence proceeds this 
authority, from whom does it hold 
the right of making laws, what is its 
mission, and how far does its power 
extend. We must know also what 
is law, what are its conditions, when 
it begins and when it ceases to com- 
pel, what are the causes which dis- 
pense with its observance, what the 
objects to which its provisions should 
extend. Where shall we seek the 
solving of these questions, and of 
many others which form the necessa- 
ry preliminary of all rational juris- 
prudence, unless from philosophy ? 
Open the most celebrated treatises ; 
the Treatise on Laws by Domat, for 
instance, and see if he is ashamed 
to borrow from the metaphysicians 
their principles and their definitions. 
By how many eminent jurisconsults 
has the Treatise on Laws of Suarez 
been used ? How often have his 
general theories, though altogether 
removed from the different special 
legislations, served, nevertheless, as 
the connecting clue to lead them out 
of the labyrinth of their provisions, 
and furnished the most precious indi- 
cations for the determination of the 
rights which they only defined imper- j 
fectly ? 

More than ever has it become nec- 
essary in our days to establish solid- ! 
ly, in the minds of those who are des- 
tined to make laws or watch over 
their execution, these fundamental 
notions on the origin, the end. and 
the extent of civil authority, and on 
the conditions of its exercise. For 
one must be blind not to compre- 
hend that from the ignorance and 
reversing of these notions springs the 
overturning of modern societies. 
Strange it is that public order, which 
has never had to withstand such rad- 
ical attacks as in these our days, 



Basis of Higher Education. 



639 



should find its worst foes, not in 
those who deny the legitimacy of 
law, but, on the contrary, in the very 
men who have exaggerated beyond 
measure the power of the law. What 
in effect is that system but socialism, 
according to which we must recog- 
nize no other right, no other duty, 
save such as emanate from the so- 
cial will ; which extends to every- 
thing the power of the law; and 
which, grinding under this pitiless roll- 
er every natural right and every re- 
lation of property and family, leaves 
nothing to subsist before the state, 
save isolated individualities ? Since 
the hand of God first founded hu- 
man society, never has an error so 
fatal to its existence sprung up. Yet 
this error, since we must confess it, 
has had for its upholders, through 
many ages, a great number of juris- 
consults, who have done their best 
to establish the principles on which 
it leans, detesting all the while the 
consequences which it deduces from 
them. In place of borrowing from a 
sound philosophy the true notions 
with regard to the mission of civil 
authority, they are pleased to give it 
an extension without limits, not per- 
ceiving that they thereby impose on 
it an overwhelming responsibility, 
and that in lessening the rights which 
should give it equilibrium, they 
weaken at the same time its solidity. 
Alas ! how many " men of order," 
how many grave jurisconsults, are in 
our days completely socialistic in their 
ideas, and yet fail to perceive that 
their doctrines only furnish that par- 
ty, whose criminal efforts they op- 
pose with all the force that is in 
them, with arms which are only too 
powerful ! 

Philosophy is not only useful to 
the jurisconsult in furnishing him 
with the general notions on the ori- 
gin, end, and exercise of legislative 
power; in addition, it throws a light 



over the detail of laws, atones for 
their deficiencies, fixes their uncer- 
tainties, reconciles their opposition, 
and by discovering the motives of 
their provisions, determines the lim- 
its within which they ought to be 
restrained. 

The written law, in fact, is not 
enough for itself. Its end is not to 
promulgate all duties. There are 
a great number, and they are the 
most essential, which are anterior 
to it, and which the finger of God 
has graven on the soul of every 
man coming into this world, and 
which his Eternal Word promulgates 
in the depth of every conscience. It 
is on this unwritten law that human 
society leans ; it is only in virtue of 
the rights and duties of which it is 
the source that men have been able 
to unite themselves into different 
groups and establish civil societies. 
Unless they had been previously 
submitted the one to the other by 
some obligation, they would never, 
have bound themselves by any con- 
tract ; their agreements would have 
been determined by convenience ; 
they would never have believed in 
duties. The civil law presupposes, 
then, a law anterior and superior to 
it, by which all the necessary rela- 
tions of men are defined with a sov- 
ereign authority, since it is the au- 
thority of God himself, and with an 
irresistible clearness, since it is the 
very light of reason. The mission 
of the human legislator consists 
merely in adding to the essential du- 
ties, which the natural law prescribes 
for all men, those which result from 
the constitution of the different 
groups which form civil societies. It 
is the natural law which bids man 
love his fellows and co-operate for 
their happiness; the civil law, sup- 
porting itself on this general obliga- 
tion, determines the particular ser- 
vices which the citizens owe one 



640 



The Necessity of Philosophy as a 



another for the common defence of 
their interests. The natural law es- 
tablishes the family, and promulgates 
the essential rights of parents and 
children ; the civil law surrounds the 
exercise of these rights by the guar- 
antees necessary to certify their exis- 
tence, to ward off the dangers which 
threaten them, to ensure their stabili- 
ty, and prevent their conflict. The 
natural law lays the foundation of 
property, in bestowing on each man 
the fruit of his labor, and command- 
ing him to provide for his own fu- 
ture and that of his children ; but it 
belongs to the civil law to determine 
the necessary forms for the authen- 
tication of the acquisition and trans- 
fer of property, and to prevent this 
right, which is so necessary to social 
order, from becoming a source of 
disorder. 

We see, then, that in all its pro- 
visions the civil law presupposes the 
natural law, of which it is but the 
complement and final determination. 
The rights which it establishes are 
real rights beyond doubt; they are 
sacred and inviolable rights, which 
divine justice, the protector of all 
order, takes under its guarantee, and 
for which it reserves a sanction as 
eternal as for the rights of which it is 
the immediate source : but neverthe- 
less these are but secondary rights, 
which are only binding so long as 
they are conformable with the rights 
which are preordained, and lose all 
their force from the moment that 
they become contrary to them ; for 
there is no such thing as right against 
right, as Bossuet has so well said. 
Whence it follows that no man can 
acquire a complete and sure know- 
ledge of civil legislation, unless he 
has first of all made a serious study 
of that part of philosophy which is 
called natural right. 

But it is clear that this moral and 
practical part of philosophy does not 



subsist alone; it is only the conse- 
quence of principles established in 
the speculative and metaphysical 
part; it is, then, philosophy in its 
entirety which he ought to study 
with the most laborious attention 
who destines himself for the teaching 
or the practice of jurisprudence. 
There alone will he find the final 
reason of human laws : thence will 
he draw those great principles to 
which he ought to go back at all 
times when he wishes to solve one 
of those difficult cases which the 
civil law has not foreseen, or for 
which she has furnished insufficient 
data. It will often happen that two 
laws appear in opposition, and right 
will clash against right To whom 
shall we turn to reconcile these 
apparent or real antinomies, which 
are found in the letter of the law ? 
To whom, unless to the supreme 
lawgiver, of whom the framers of 
laws are but the interpreters ; to the 
spirit of the law, to that eternal rea- 
son whose oracular decisions philoso- 
phy records? Unhappy the juris- 
consult who, before investing him- 
self with the toga of the magistracy, 
or taking upon himself the defence 
of the rights of his fellows, shall not 
have entered into the sanctuary 
where these luminous oracles are 
expounded by the mouth of sages, 
and who persuades himself that the 
letter of the code is enough to en- 
able him to acquit himself of his 
difficult functions ! The letter is a 
useful instrument undoubtedly, an 
instrument necessary even, indispen- 
sable; but it is nothing more than 
instrument. To hit its mark it re- 
quires to be ably handled. Philoso- 
phy alone gives this power and 
freedom in the management of the 
written law, because it alone shows 
its end, mechanism, and motives. 
Guided by its light, the true juris- 
consult will advance with confidence, 



Basis of Higher Education. 



641 



and apply the law with intelligence; 
he will resolve it into its different 
parts, take in his hands the links 
that bind them together, and show 
their connection with the different 
problems, whose complexity rendered 
their solution more difficult. The 
superficial jurisconsult, on the con- 
trary, unaided by the torch of phi- 
losophy, will always grope upon the 
earth when he seeks to penetrate the 
inner mechanism of laws and the 
essence of things; as the law cannot 
foresee the diversity of particular 
cases, he will ever be embarrassed in 
the application of its general provi- 
sions ; a slave to the letter, he allows 
himself to be guided by, instead of 
guiding it, as every good work- 
man ought to guide his instru- 
ment. If he strives to free him- 
r.:lf from it, and lift himself above 
it, it is only to wander at hap- 
hazard in the region of guess- 
work. So he goes on, pushed from 
one extreme to another, not fleeing a 
servile application of the written 
law, more or less opposed to its 
spirit, and always uncertain, only to 
lose himself in conjecture more un- 
certain and more dangerous still ; in 
place of being the defender and the 
minister of justice, he will too often 
be its executioner, and will verify 
but too faithfully the truth of that 
saying : ' The letter without the 

pint can only be a principle of 

eath." 

in. 

UTILITY OF PHILOSOPHY FOR THE 
FORMATION OF THE HISTORIAN. 

History is not a science properly 
o-called, since it only occupies 
tself with contingent facts, and does 
not pretend to deduce those facts 
'fom first principles by any necessa- 
ry connection. Differing from the 
physical world, where phenomena 
seemingly the most accidental are 
VOL. xv. 41 



the effect of constant laws, the moral 
world is the product of human lib- 
erty, acting under the control of the 
Divine Providence in all the spon- 
taneity of its expansion. History, 
which presents us with the faithful 
tableaux of this world, must refuse 
therefore to admit into its process 
that severe order which constitutes 
science; and if at times in the re- 
cital of human acts it can point out 
to us the accomplishment of the 
moral law, far more frequently does 
it show the most flagrant and persis- 
tent violation of it. 

Must we say, then, that history 
ought to resign itself to presenting to 
the mind a mere disconnected and 
aimless chaos of facts, and that it 
cannot seek to cast on its recitals the 
light of principles, and give to them 
that order and that unity without 
which there is nothing truly beauti- 
ful ? Who dare say this ? To what 
purpose would the study of history 
serve us if it were nothing else than 
an incoherent tableau of the caprices 
of human liberty ? In place of being 
one of the most useful studies for the 
formation of the mind and heart of a 
young man, it would be nothing but 
an idle pastime and dangerous food 
for curiosity. Instead of illumining 
the present by the light of the past, 
it would only serve to transmit 
to the present generations the con- 
sequence of the scandals of the 
generation which went before ; in 
place of pointing out a God still 
working in the world and thus be- 
coming a school for religion, it would 
be simply a school for atheism, in 
permitting us to see in the moral 
world nothing but human liberty 
abandoned to itself, a worthy emula- 
tion of that blind and impious science 
which in the physical world would 
show us nothing save a nature self- 
produced, self-acting by its own 
power. 



642 



The Necessity of Philosophy as a 



History, then, is a study truly wor- 
thy of man ; with a power to charm 
his intellect and make a beneficial im- 
pression on his heart, only so long as it 
marches ever under the light of prin- 
ciples, and keeps its eyes ever fixed 
on the moral laws, to show where 
they agree or where they clash with 
the facts with whose recital it is 
charged. That is to say, history can- 
not fulfil its mission without calling in 
philosophy to its aid ; and, however 
able a writer may be in the narration 
of facts, he can never merit the title 
of historian if he is not a philosopher. 

Not that I wish to bring myself 
forward here as the defender of the 
philosophy of history, as understood 
by the greater portion of modern 
historians. I know well that this pre- 
tended science, so vaunted in our 
days, is one of the deadliest en- 
gines of war which impiety has 
set in action in its attack on the 
church. The philosophy of history 
thus understood is to true history, 
such as St. Augustine and Bossuet 
taught, what the philosophy of the 
sophist is to the philosophy of rea- 
son. I cannot help, therefore, repu- 
diating with all my power this word, 
if they persist in giving it the sense 
which Voltaire, who first introduced 
it, gave, or the still more impious 
sense which the pantheistic school 
gives it. I maintain that there is no 
philosophy of history if you under- 
stand thereby the fatalist develop- 
ment of human activity, after certain 
fixed formulas as necessary as those 
which govern the movements of 
matter ; such a philosophy of history 
is nothing else than a denial of the 
human soul and of God, the legiti- 
mizing of all crime, the exciting of 
all the worst passions, the overthrow 
of all society, that is to say, the de- 
struction of all philosophy and of all 
history. 

But the false philosophy of fatal- 



ism and pantheism is not the onlj 
one, thank God, which can be ap 
plied to history. There is also a 
true philosophy of history, which 
shows us God glorifying himself in 
the reparation of the disorders of the 
moral world after a manner as ad- 
mirable in its kind as is the mainte- 
nance of the order of the physical 
world. If he showed his power and 
wisdom, when with sovereign hand he 
caused the splendors of the heavens 
to radiate from the womb of chaos 
with the harmony of the stars and 
the life of nature, how much wisei 
and more powerful does he not seem 
to us when we behold him making 
use of a chaos a thousand times 
more rebellious, the chaos of the 
passions and perverseness of humani- 
ty, in order to produce the most 
beautiful of all his works the mani- 
festation of his truth and the tri- 
umph of his goodness ! 

It is this sovereign action of the 
Divine Providence, irresistibly shap- 
ing to its own end the will of man 
without infringing an iota on his 
liberty, that the true philosophy of 
history purposes to contemplate. It 
is part of this principle that God, 
sovereignly wise, who could not call 
into being the least atom without 
giving it an end worthy of himself, 
could not for a stronger reason pro- 
duce the masterpiece of his hands, 
the rational soul, without giving it 
an end, and without urging it un- 
ceasingly to the realization of that 
end. That which is true of the indi- 
vidual is true of society, and is truer 
still of all humanity. 

This end being attainable by visi- 
ble means, and, on the other hand, 
being conformable to the nature of 
God and the nature of man, it ought 
to be possible to discover it by 
means of a study of facts, which con- 
stitute history, and by means of a 
profound observation of those two 



Basis of Higher Education. 



643 



natures, which constitute philoso- 
phy. Philosophy furnishes the data 
a priori ; history possesses itself of 
these data and verifies them by ex- 
perience. The result of this double 
revision is one of the most attractive 
branches of knowledge for the mind, 
and most capable of enlarging the 
soul, the knowledge of the divine 
economy, and of the secret resorts 
by which Providence governs the af- 
fairs of this world. 

The divine government operates 
in three different spheres, to which 
respond three degrees of the philoso- 
phy of history. 

The first sphere of action chosen 
by Providence is the conscience of 
each man. Undoubtedly we are 
not to look in this world for the de- 
finite accomplishment of individual 
destinies. God has reserved for a 
more durable life the full award of 
his law. Meanwhile it has often 
been his will to anticipate this eter- 
nal award by a temporary one, 
which, in this life, may avenge his 
justice for the outrages of crime. 
Thus, there are some lives most ob- 
scure ; there are, for a still stronger 
reason, brilliant lives which leave 
their mark on the memory of the 
human race. It is not often possible 
to discover this award. To arrive 
at it, history will borrow from philo- 
sophy the moral laws which ought to 
regulate the conduct of individuals ; 
and she will look for the confirmation 
of these laws in the prosperity or 
misfortune which have accompanied 
their observance or their neglect Such 
is the study which constitutes the 
first degree of the true philosophy of 
history, and which makes this sci- 
ence an excellent school for morality. 

But history mounts still higher by 
the aid of philosophy ; its mission, 
in fact, is not merely to recount the 
life of certain individuals, who by 
their talents, their virtues, or their 



crimes have left a deep trace in the 
memory of generations : above all, it 
is the tableau of the destiny of peo- 
ples which it is called upon to paint; 
it is social events which, above all, 
form the interest of its pictures. 
Therein each people appears like a 
moral personality, with its infancy, 
its growth, its maturity and its de- 
crepitude ; its special character, its 
qualities and faults, its good points 
and its crimes, its prosperity and its 
misfortune. The life of each peo- 
"ple is, then, a grand drama, wherein 
not one of the elements of the most 
moving interest is wanting ; but this 
drama must have its moral, and, in 
order to give it one, history must 
have recourse anew to philosophy. 
Philosophy will not fail it ; she will 
furnish it with the social laws, that is 
to say, those by which societies are 
constituted, governed, and develop- 
ed. The application of these laws, 
which she deduces from the nature 
of man, she invites history to seek 
in the facts. If her theories are true, 
it is impossible that their accomplish- 
ment should not confer happiness on 
society, and their violation misfor- 
tune. History ought therefore, again, 
from this point of view to be the 
counter-proof of philosophy ; and it 
ought to become so after a manner 
still more complete than when it oc- 
cupied itself with the destiny of in- 
dividuals. In truth, this destiny, 
playing its part chiefly on the invisi- 
ble theatre of conscience and car- 
rying it on into after-time, often es- 
capes the application of history. So- 
cieties, on the contrary, having an ex- 
istence temporal in its duration and 
public in its most important events, 
ought to show forth in their history 
with great clearness the award of 
the laws which the Creator has im- 
posed upon them, and which philos- 
ophy establishes a priori by its de- 
ductions. The study of this award 



644 



The Necessity of Philosophy as a 



must purchase, then, at the price of 
very great difficulties, the precious 
advantages which it promises. It 
is this which constitutes the second 
degree of the philosophy of history, 
and which makes this science the 
best school of politics. 

Lastly, history mounts a degree 
still higher : beyond the moral indivi- 
dualities which we call peoples, she 
discovers an individuality much 
more vast and much more lasting 
humanity, the immense body whose 
members are all peoples, and in 
which each individual plays his role, 
like a living molecule which influen- 
ces in its part the destinies of the 
whole. As each nation has its char- 
acter and as it were its own style of 
feature which distinguish it from 
other nations, so humanity is distin- 
guished from the other species of 
rational beings wherewith the Crea- 
tor has peopled the universe, by pre- 
rogatives and by infirmities which no 
other shares with it. It also has had 
its infancy, its growth, its ripe age ; 
and everything leads us to believe 
that it will one day have its decrepit- 
ude. It also, in fine, has its mission, 
which it accomplishes in the course 
of ages, and at the term of which its 
development will cease. 

This common destiny of humanity 
constitutes, together with its common 
origin, the unity of this vast body. 
It permits us to lift ourselves up even 
to the divine thought, which, in 
sowing this innumerable multitude 
in the immensity of the ages, pro- 
posed to itself a plan as harmonious 
in its unity as when it launched into 
space this immense variety of globes 
and atoms which compose the uni- 
verse. Behold herein the true unity 
of the human race, whose substantial 
unity, as seen by the pantheist, is 
nothing but an absurd parody. 

It is here, in fact, that we find 
ourselves face to face with the two 



philosophies of history the false and 
the true. Both wish for unity, be- 
cause unity, which is the essence of 
God and the law of the world, is also 
the last want of our mind and the last 
end of science. But the first of these 
philosophies only establishes unity in 
the world by destroying its diversity, 
which is an essential condition of 
beauty and of life. In its eyes indi- 
viduals are nothing but unreal phe- 
nomena, which appear, only to van- 
ish ; space alone is something ; it 
alone remains while all the rest 
passes away. And as it would be too 
absurd to give space a separate real- 
ity, independent of that of individ- 
uals, to make humanity something 
existing outside of man, it is forced to 
conclude, in the final analysis, that 
this humanity, which alone truly ex- 
ists, is nothing in itself but a form 
which is developed by some fatality 
in time and space ; and all of us who 
persuade ourselves that we each have i 
our own existence are in reality but 
the varied expressions of this form, 
the passing vibrations of an ideal 
fluid, the fleeting tints of a cloud. 
Behold the philosophy of history ac- 
cording to pantheism ! 

How much greater, how much 
more consoling, how much more 
beautiful is the true philosophy of 
history that of which St. Augustine 
and Bossuet have made themselves 
the eloquent interpreters ! And in ( 
the meantime, in the midst of all 
these varied existences, in the midst 
of these actions so divergent, in the 
midst of these liberties so often at 
war, she finds a perfect unity, the 
unity of the divine thought bring- 
ing back to its end all these diver- ' 
gencies, and making of their very 
opposition so' many means thereto. 
But what is this thought, what is 
this one end, which God is working 
in the world, and for the realization 
of which, willingly or unwillingly, all 



Basis of Higher Education. 



645 



these individuals and peoples labor ? 
For a reply to this mighty question, 
it has pleased God not to abandon us 
to uncertain conjecture. He hath 
spoken from the beginning of the 
world ; and in proportion as the hu- 
man race has developed has he man- 
ifested more clearly its destiny a 
destiny thrice divine since it has God 
for its principle, God for its term, 
and God again for its means; it is 
the divinization of man by Jesus 
Christ the God-man, the conquest of 
eternal happiness by God himself, by 
the fulfilling of the earthly ordeal in 
the image of God Incarnate. 

Such is the divine thought which 
it has pleased God to reveal to us 
from his own mouth. The incarna- 
tion of the Son of God is, therefore, 
the pivot around which roll the 
events of history as the divinization 
of men in him is the term where 
these events ought to meet. The 
glory of the Word Incarnate : such is 
the closing scene to which all the 
catastrophes of this drama ought in- 
fallibly to lead up a drama whose 
every historic period forms a scene, 
whose plot borrows a most captivat- 
ing interest from the apparent tri- 
umph of human passions. Jesus 
Christ : such is the word which un- 
locks the great enigma of the ages 
Jesus Christ : behold the Sun, whose 
dawn and coming form the natural 
division of the ancient and modern 
world, whose presence and whose 
absence make the day and the night 
in the moral order, and whose final 



triumphs over the mists and vapors, 
which to this day have striven against 
him, will give to the earth the unity 
and the happiness for which it sighs. 
But one may stop me, and tell me 
that I am no longer treading on phi- 
losophic ground. I am happy to 
confess it. For the same reason that 
in seeking the final explanation of his 
individual destiny man is compelled 
to have recourse to his Creator, so 
must he abide his final explanation 
alone of the destiny of the world. 
Reason tells him that in the ex- 
istence of humanity God pursues 
one end, and that this end should be 
the manifestation of his divine attri- 
butes. It can tell him no more. As 
for the mode of this manifestation, it 
rests entirely with the will of God ; 
and it would consequently be a pre- 
sumption on the part of philosophy 
to pretend to determine it, since its 
power does not stretch beyond ne- 
cessary truths. We acknowledge, 
therefore, that, without the aid of 
faith, the science of history cannot 
reach its third degree. Therein we 
detract in no wise from philosophy ; 
for, if it must necessarily borrow from 
revelation this fact of the free end of 
God, as it borrows from history the 
knowledge of the free actions of men, 
it is no less true that by its processes 
these different facts meet together to 
form the most harmonious of all the 
tableaux, and the most inspiring of 
all the poems which human thought 
has ever conceived the divine epic 
of humanity. 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



646 



A Summer in the Tyrol. 



A SUMMER IN THE TYROL. 



THE Tyrol is or was, when we 
knew it one of the most primitive 
countries in Europe. Entirely Ca- 
tholic, it comes up to the ideal of the 
faith of the middle ages far better 
than even the most historic cities of 
Italy, that by-gone cradle of our 
faith. It is not sufficiently overrun 
with tourists to be corrupted by 
them, and their stay in any of its 
towns is seldom long. Before the 
Brenner Railroad was opened, it was 
almost, practically speaking, as se- 
cluded a spot as the interior of 
China. 

Twenty years ago, hardly any lan- 
guage but a patois of German was 
understood by the Tyrolese, and 
when a couple of English explorers 
made a tour among the mountains, 
journeying on foot nearly the whole 
of the way, they were amused one 
night by finding their old English 
valet seated in the kitchen of a very 
unpretending Gasthaus, with his bare 
feet stamping on the floor within a 
cabalistic-looking circle drawn in 
white chalk. The old man had been 
frantically but vainly endeavoring to 
make the natives understand his 
master's need of a foot-bath ! One 
of the travellers was luckily able to 
come to his assistance in good Hano- 
verian German, which itself, however, 
was only just barely comprehensible 
to the simple mountaineers. 

Although we have no personal 
reminiscences of that style of travel- 
ling which skims over half a conti- 
nent in a two months' tour, yet the 
local knowledge we acquired by a 
four months' residence in one town 
of the Tyrol will perhaps not be en- 
tirely uninteresting. Innsbruck, al- 



though the capital of the province, is 
nothing more than a large village 
with two or three roomy and tidy 
but very old-fashioned inns, and a 
church or two not remarkable for 
either beauty or antiquity. Besides 
the inns, which were too much em- 
bedded among streets and houses to 
be suitable to our taste, there were, 
outside the town, - a few cheap 
"places of entertainment," where 
lodging could be had for next to 
nothing, and where unlimited quiet 
might be enjoyed. One was a 
" Schloss," anciently some baronial 
or monastic dependency, very pictu- 
resque and inaccessible, and on the 
inside very susceptible of English 
home comfort, but for an invalid 
this could not be thought of. The 
road that led to it was enough to 
jolt any springs to pieces, and once 
a carriage had safely got up, it 
seemed impossible that it should 
ever get down again. So this had 
to be given up despite the romantic 
name and position of the " Schloss." 
Lower down, and on the turnpike 
road, just beyond the bridge over 
the Inn (which gives the town its 
name), was another house, partly a 
chdlet, comfortable enough and very 
quiet. It was delightfully primitive. 
A wide wooden staircase led right up 
from the entrance door on the left 
hand, and never, on the darkest 
night, was there by any chance a 
light to guide you over it. The first 
floor consisted of a wide passage 
with rooms on each side, like a mo- 
nastery, and a large Saal, or public 
room, with a clean boarded floor and 
a billiard table. Beyond this were 
three or four other rooms. Our 



A Summer in tJie Tyrol. 



647 



party took the whole floor, including 
the Saal, which during our stay was 
to be a private room. Sufficient fur- 
niture was brought in to make one 
corner of it look civilized, and it 
served for drawing, dining, and bil- 
liard room alike. Nothing cooler 
nor more rustic could have been im- 
agined, and, to add to the pleasant- 
ness of this retreat, the windows 
opened on a balcony, just like those 
on the toy Swiss chalets we have so 
often seen. There was a chapel in 
the house, and the proprietor 
claimed that he had a right to have 
Mass said there every Sunday. 
However problematical this sounded, 
Mass was said notwithstanding, but 
under a legitimate permission ob- 
tained for our own party. There in 
the little dark closetlike room, with 
a congregation of servants and stray 
guests or laborers out in the corridor 
beyond, Mass was offered every Sun- 
day and very often on week-days. 
Sometimes the Jesuits from the town 
would officiate, sometimes the parish 
priest of the little church half a mile 
further up the country. The Jesuit 
church, standing on the edge of the 
town, among great lindens and elm- 
trees, was a large, tawdry renais- 
sance building, where brick and 
stucco did duty for the marbles of 
Italy, and artificial flowers and gild- 
ed finery reigned supreme. There 
was not one feature worth noticing 
about the whole church, and even the 
Madonna shrine was but a sad bur- 
lesque on the wonderful idea it sym- 
bolized. But, on the other hand, the 
priests worked hard and earnestly, 
services were frequent and well at- 
tended, the confessionals crowded, 
and the communions numerous. 
There were real sympathy and sound 
counsel to be had there ; strength to 
be gathered from the exhortations 
given in secret, and instruction in all 
necessary religious knowledge to be 



reaped from the plain and practical 
sermons delivered in public. The 
devotion of theTyrolese is as simple as 
it is deep ; it has no need of exalting 
externals to draw it to God, it is so 
full of vitality and manliness that il 
does not ask for the aesthetic helps 
whose absence often makes such a 
void in our own devotion, and we 
cannot choose but admire it, though 
it is vain for our weaker if more cul- 
tured Christianity to endeavor to imi- 
tate it. 

The parish church outside the town 
to which we have referred was much 
smaller and poorer than that of the 
Jesuits, but a great feeling of peace 
came over you as you entered it, and 
as, pacing to and fro under its low, 
simple roof, you thought of the many 
holy and acceptable peasant lives 
that had been lived under its 
shadow, and ended joyfully within its 
churchyard. It stood on a small but 
abrupt hill, which, from the singular 
flatness of the vale of Innsbruck, 
looked higher than it was. Iron 
crosses with rude metal rays or 
crowns attached to them replaced in 
this Tyrolese cemetery the broad 
gravestones to which our northern 
eye is so well accustomed, and so it 
is throughout all Germany and 
Switzerland. About a mile further 
than this church stood a little pri- 
vate chapel, near a deserted villa, or, 
as the French would call it, a cha- 
teau. This chapel was always open, 
and was our invariable resting-place 
every day during a long stroll into 
the country. A high gate of rusty 
and intricate iron-work divided the 
main chapel from the lower and nar- 
rower part accessible to the public at 
all times, and remains of gilding and 
heraldic colors denoted the connec- 
tion, in the past at least if not in the 
present, of this little oratory with 
some old family of high standing. 
Here and there a group of cottages 



648 



A Summer in the Tyrol. 



that hardly made a hamlet was dot- 
ted on the green landscape, and the 
only sound to be heard was the tink- 
ling of the great square cow-bells, or 
the peculiar jodel of the mountaineer, 
a cry now made familiar to the out- 
side world by "Tyrolese minstrels" 
(or their spurious personifiers). The 
Tyrol is famous for its wild flowers, 
as are all Alpine tracts, the gentian 
and the wild rhododendron* pre- 
dominating. All kinds of summer 
meadow flowers grow well in the 
green pasture lands near Innsbruck, 
and the forget-me-not lines the fre- 
quent brooks with thick fringes of 
blossom, t 

Water-mills are very often found 
on the line of these mountain brooks, 
and as only the old-fashioned appli- 
ances are known, the places where 
they are built are fortunately not dis- 
figured by business-looking arrange- 
ments or alarmingly active squads of 
men. One of these picturesque 
mills we well remember, standing 
over a beautiful, foaming brook, and 
surrounded by hay-fields. It was a 
very silent, lonely walk, and used to 
be almost a daily one with us, until 
the old farmer to whom the mill and 
hay-field belonged once waylaid us 
at the door of his cottage and began 
expostulating in no very choice lan- 
guage, and ordering us not to tram- 
ple his hay any longer unless we 
liked to pay him for the damage. 
The old fellow was very small and 
wizened, and whether the garment 
he had on was a smock-frock or a 
night-shirt it was difficult to deter- 
mine, though the certainty of his un- 
mistakable nightcap was apparent. 

Of course, like all thoroughly Ca- 
tholic countries the Tyrol is full of 

* Falsely called rose des Alps by the French. 

tThe real" Alpenrose" of the Tyrolese is a 
strange-looking growth, a starry flower of a dull 
.vhite, with thick velvety petals, five in number, 
t grows only in very inaccessible places, and is 
".onsldered a great prize. 



wayside shrines, with rude daubs re- 
minding the passer-by of some reli- 
gious event or point of Christian 
doctrine. Besides these, however, 
one thing cannot fail to strike a 
stranger as he walks through the 
lands round Innsbruck. On every 
house or building that is not an ab- 
solute " shanty " appears in the flam- 
ing colors sacred to the chromos of 
the cheap press the figure of a young 
Roman soldier pouring water out of 
a common jug on a most terrific and 
disproportionate conflagration. This 
is meant to represent St. Florian, a 
saint much honored in the Tyrol, and 
to whom tradition attributes a parti- 
cular sovereignty over fire. The 
buildings, both farm and dwelling- 
houses, that abound most in that 
part of the country, are of wood, and 
very liable to the kind of destruc- 
tion over which St. Florian has pow- 
er. Hence his image is painted on 
the outer wall by way of a preserva- 
tive, a kind of " insurance," that may 
make stockholders smile, but that 
will bring in more of those riches 
garnered up where " the rust doth 
not eat, nor the moth consume," 
than their long-headed thriftiness 
will ever be able to gather. 

Pilgrimages, among a people so 
devout as the Tyrolese, are number- 
less. Every village has its chapel 
where of old miracles were wrought 
or some proof of divine favor was 
manifested. Five or six miles from 
Innsbruck is one of these hamlets, 
called Absam, where the shrine is of 
a somewhat peculiar nature. Amom 
the several visits we paid to it 
one on the day of the Assumption. 
The road leads through fields of 
flax, one of the crops most cultivat- 
ed in the Tyrol. Its tiny blue flow- 
ers were thickly spread over the 
fields, and August seemed thus tc 
have put on a fitting livery will 1 
which to greet the blue-mantled 



A Summer in the Tyrol. 



649 



Queen whose triumph is commemora- 
ted on the i5th of that month. The 
village church at Absam is small 
and otherwise uninteresting. The 
altar, over which hangs the miracu- 
lous image, is covered with ornamen- 
tal ex-votos, while larger votive 
offerings, curious little commemora- 
tive pictures, and plain tablets adorn 
the walls for a long space beyond. 
The image itself is on glass, a com- 
mon thick pane, of very small di- 
mensions, with the veiled head of 
the Virgin scratched in dark out- 
line upon it. Tears are coursing 
down her cheeks, and the expression 
is wonderfully strong and sweet. It 
is strange that these few rude lines 
should be able to speak so energetic 
and unmistakable a language, but 
then we must remember the legend 
which calls this image the work of 
an angel. It was suddenly found in 
the church one morning, four or five 
centuries ago, and was immediately 
transferred from the window to a 
private chamber. A great deal of 
religious litigation and examination 
had to be gone through before it 
was allowed to be placed in a shrine 
and publicly venerated. Since then 
cures have been yearly obtained in 
this church, which has become fa- 
mous through the Tyrol. We do 
not remember another instance of a 
miraculous image being graven on 
glass. It has none of the attributes 
of stained glass, neither in color nor 
in style, and is all of one piece. It 
is now framed in a showy gilt frame 
with a royal cross-surmounted crown 
ornamenting the top. Both pictures 
and prints of it are to be procured 
in the village, and also representa- 
tions on glass, two or three inches 
square, but whose likeness to the ori- 
ginal are perhaps not entirely reliable. 
This was not the only shrine we 
visited while at Innsbruck. The 
pilgrimage of Waldrast included a 



picturesque journey half-way up the 
Brenner pass, and through some 
very wild and beautiful Alpine scene- 
ry among the lesser peaks. We slept 
at a little inn at the foot of W T aldrast, 
so as to be able to make the most 
of the early morning. The day was 
beautiful; it was in the beginning of 
September, and just that season 
when, in Europe, summer and au- 
tumn seem to make but one. A 
thin mist hung over the mountain 
tops, the path was rugged and wind- 
ing, and there were frequent brooks 
and fences to jump over or climb. 
Heather grew in purple masses un- 
der foot, and the growth of trees va- 
ried from oak to chestnut, till it left 
the higher and more barren ground 
to the pines alone. After two or 
three hours' good walking, we reach- 
ed the chapel, which is only one level 
lower than the uncovered mountain 
top. It had grown quite chilly de- 
spite the sun which was advancing on 
his way. We were just in time to 
hear Mass, if we remember right, 
and had but little time to spare for 
refreshment. There is a Gast- 
haus opposite the church, a little 
solitary, whitewashed, low-roofed cot- 
tage, very clean and comfortable. It 
is pretty full all the summer, but entire- 
ly deserted, even by its keeper, during 
the winter. We asked to see the 
priest. He turned out to be a Ser- 
vite, and told us that the church be- 
longed to his order. There was next 
to it a bare-looking house with one 
(and the larger) portion in ruins, a 
gaunt shell with no roof and full of 
debris inside. It had been a monas- 
tery, but circumstances, chiefly of a 
persecuting nature, had obliged the 
monks to abandon the place. One 
of their community, however, was al- 
ways there, to attend to the shrine 
and receive the still numerous pil- 
grims ; he himself had never left the 
place for ten years, and, saving the 



650 



A Summer in the Tyrol. 



visitors to the shrine, never saw a hu- 
man being. During six months out 
of twelve he could safely say he was 
a hermit. We asked him how he 
spent his time. " I have a small 
library," he answered, " and read a 
great deal, but when I have more 
time than I can fill by reading, or 
my office, or even the work of the 
church, I turn carpenter." 

And he took us into a workshop, 
littered over with shavings and saw- 
dust, where among planks and 
rough logs of wood were various 
useful things of his own making. 
We particularly noticed a little 
wooden sleigh, and asked him its 
use. 

" I use it in the winter," he said, 
"to take me down to the village, to 
buy necessaries every week; and, 
when there is plenty of snow to cover 
the inequalities of the path, it works 
very well. Corning back, however, 
I have to load my purchases on it, 
and drag it up after me. It is good 
exercise," he added, with a good- 
humored laugh, " and keeps me 
warm." 

He led us into the church, and 
told us the story of the apparition. 
This image was not so old as that of 
Absam, although it could boast of 
three centuries' antiquity at least. It 
had been found by a woodman while 
chopping a tree on the mountain 
very near the spot where the church 
now stands. The figure suddenly 
appeared, surrounded by a marvel- 
lous light, in the cleft made by his 
axe in the wood. Years of suspense 
followed, during which authentica- 
tions of this wonderful occurrence 
were severely tested, the devotion of 
the villagers preceding, however, the 
permission of the church to venerate 
the image as miraculous. During 
this time it was housed in the ham- 
let at the foot of the mountain, where 
crowds flocked to visit it. When it 



was removed to the Servite church 
and monastery, built expressly for 
its reception, on the spot where it 
had first appeared, its translation was 
a cause of grief as well as joy, those 
who had guarded it till then loudly 
lamenting their loss. The monastery, 
we believe, was reduced to its present 
condition through the decrees against 
monastic orders issued during the 
unhappy reign of the infidel Emperor 
Joseph. The church was never, 
however, without its chaplain. It is 
a plain, whitewashed building, with a 
flat frontage, irregularly pierced with 
a great many windows, while to the 
back rises one of those extraordinary 
steeples so often seen in the Tyrol, 
suggestive of a farm-house rather 
than a church. Often and often 
have we come upon such, sometimes 
of red tiles and not unfrequently of 
green, so that we were forcibly re- 
minded of St. George and his scaly 
dragon. The interior of Waldrast 
church corresponds to the exterior, 
and is very plain and inartistic. The 
image itself is of wood, and peculiarly 
German in its cut. Our Lady is 
covered with a stiff, heavy mantle, 
and bears her Divine Son, also robed 
in the same kind of garment, abso- 
lutely shapeless except where his 
hand comes forth. The Virgin bears 
a globe in her hand, and both she 
and the Divine Infant are crowned. 
The crowns, however, and the chains 
and ornaments on the figures, are 
due to the devotion of the faithful. 

The Servite father who kindly 
showed us over the church was still 
a young man, and seemed very 
quiet and refined. His ten years' 
solitude had not taken any of the 
grace of civilization ought we not 
rather to say of charity ? from his 
manner, nor given him in any way 
the air of a Nabuchoclonosor. He 
wore his black habit and a long black 
beard. We were sorry to be able to 



A Summer in the Tyrol. 



651 



see so little of him, for we had a long 
journey home before us, and the 
greater part had to be performed on 
foot. We left Waldrast at midday, 
feeling that in these out-of-the-way 
nooks more can be learnt of the 
inner life of a people than in larger 
centres of bustle and activity. 

The way down the other side of the 
mountain led through sparse forests of 
pine, where workmen were felling the 
trees and piling them in heaps as 
high as houses along the path. 
Glimpses might be caught now and 
then of far-off precipices, walls of 
rock or of snow with the intense gol- 
den white of the noonday sun glori- 
fying their stern beauty, and remind- 
ing one of those still more difficult 
ascents to virtue, seemingly so inac- 
cessible, yet so gloriously transfigur- 
ed in the light of Gods help and 
God's promises. Wild flowers 
abounded through the wood, and 
mosses and ferns grew in great tan- 
gles of greenery by the brooks which 
their growth overshadowed. It was 
a delightful expedition, and one that 
we should very much 'like to repeat. 
But nothing in this world ever dupli- 
cates itself; the places we once vis- 
ited with such confident hopes of re- 
turning to enjoy them the next year, 
have we ever seen them again, or if 
we have, has it ever been with the 
same feelings, the same hopes, the 
same companions, nay, even the same 
self? In this law of change lies, to 
our mind, the sad side of travel. We 
go to a place, we learn to admire it, 
we remember it with pleasure, we 
almost begin to have associations 
with it and its surroundings, it grows 
in fact into our soul's history, and 
makes itself a place in our life. We 
leave it, and never see it again. We 
have the regret of having seen and 
felt beauty that is not for us, we 
have longed for what we could not 
have, we have dreamed of Utopias 



that were never to be realized, and 
we have prepared for ourselves a nest 
of disappointments for the future. 
Is not this so much time and energy 
lost ? so much vitality taken out of 
our life which might have been use- 
fully employed at home? But if 
the place we have visited once be- 
comes a frequent resort, if we go 
back to it again and again and find 
ties and duties to bind us there, the 
charm of life is doubled, and the hap- 
piness of home reproduced under a 
different set of circumstances. No 
one knows a place if he have not 
lived there in all seasons and spent 
quiet months in finding out its hid- 
den beauties. Places, like people, 
grow upon you ; and what once seem- 
ed bare will, by long acquaintance, 
appear as full of interest as it was 
once devoid of it. It happened thus 
to ourselves in a seaside town in 
England, where the coast is rather 
bare of trees, and the country mostly 
flat and divided without hedges into 
corn and hay fields. Again, the 
country round Milan, which is al- 
ways conventionally styled " the fer- 
tile plain of Lombardy," is of this 
nature. Wide fields of rice, half- 
flooded, and a network of roads 
fringed by pollard willows or low 
hedges, with here and there a neat 
little farm-house, do not at first sight 
constitute a beautiful country. But 
after three or four weeks' constant 
driving through these lanes, you dis- 
cover the loveliest bits of " Pre-Ra- 
phaelite " nature, small triangular 
patches of luxuriant grass, with flowers 
of brilliant hue and starry shape ; tiny 
brooks running through meadows 
with fire-flies making movable illu- 
minations on their banks by night, 
and many more beautiful and minute 
details that naturally enough escape 
the first glance. The Roman Cam- 
pagna, even with its desolate, Niobe- 
like grandeur, is susceptible of this 



652 



A Summer in the Tyrol. 



alchemy of habit. To the unaccus- 
tomed eye of a stranger it may look 
grand, but scarcely beautiful ; to one 
who has walked, ridden, and driven 
through it in all directions, it reveals 
secrets of pastoral beauty, soft vales 
hidden by groves of ilex or cork, 
with violets growing plentifully in 
their recesses, and rivulets trickling 
through their rocky crevices. Even 
cities are better known when seen 
gradually, after the manner of a 
peaceable resident rather than that 
of a hurrying tourist. What do we 
know, to take our own case, of the 
Campo Santo of Pisa, which we visit- 
ed between the arrival and departure 
of the two trains from Leghorn, 
compared to what we learnt of St. 
Mark's at Venice, where we heard 
Mass every day for five months ? 
And this feeling is surely enough to 
breed a weariness of mere travel, 
however instructive it may be. The 
only places we should care to revisit 
are those where we stayed long 
enough to make them feel like home. 
Innsbruck is certainly one that re- 
calls many touching domestic scenes, 
many of those little memories which, 
like a daisy-chain, bind life together, 
childhood and youth, sickness and 
health, trouble and joy frail links, 
but so fair, begun in early childhood 
and winding themselves round the 
heart, through the vicissitudes of 
many years, the wanderings in many 
lands, and, above all, through the in- 
tangible changes of a restless mind 
and soul. 

For the general reader, this sketch 
may perhaps have no further interest 
than to make him acquainted with 
some of the local traits of a country 
not so well known as other European 
fields of travel ; for the Catholic, it 
ought to possess the additional inter- 
est of an effort meant to show how 
thoroughly this country is still im- 
bued with the faith. Its patriotism, 



too, ever closely bound to faith, was 
conspicuous in the wars against Na- 
poleon and in the Tyrol. The first 
decade of this century is noted chief- 
ly for the name, not of the resistless 
invader Bonaparte, but of the stub- 
born defender of mountain freedom, 
Andreas Hofer. Here and there are 
his relics his gun, or his cap, or the 
cup out of which he drank. Every 
other inn has his figure for a sign, 
and every other child bears his name 
in memory of his gallantry. His de- 
scendants, poor and simple peasants 
as he was himself, are as proud of 
their ancestry as the haughtiest 
Montmorency or the oldest Colonna ; 
and no Tyrolese mountaineer can 
talk for half an hour without men- 
tioning some of Hofer's exploits 
against the French. 

We cannot conclude without 
again speaking of that weird jodel 
or herd-song peculiar to the Tyrol. 
We have never heard it as performed 
by the hired companies of " min- 
strels" so often advertised in large 
towns, but we had the opportunity 
of listening to it under very pleasant 
circumstances at Innsbruck. In the 
beginning of September, just before 
our pilgrimage to Waldrast, a rural 
fete was given in honor of one of our 
party whose birthday it was. The 
open court-yard behind our house 
served as an al fresco dining-hall, a 
band was engaged, and fireworks and 
illuminations prepared. In this 
primitive assemblage, speeches were 
actually made, and, as it was not easy 
for the English and Tyrolese to un- 
derstand each other, an interpreter 
was found in the bright and quick- 
witted courier who had superintend- 
ed the whole thing. After this cor- 
dial display of mutual friendship, and 
a few songs and pieces, the people 
were left to their private enjoyments, 
the priest from the nearest parish be- 
ing present among them. About an 



A Summer in the Tyrol. 



653 



hour afterwards, and before the party 
of mountaineers dispersed, they beg- 
ged leave to sing us their jodel, think- 
ing it was the most interesting thing 
for strangers to hear well done. 
Thirty men in rugged costumes, 
whose ornamentation chiefly consisted 
in silver buttons, were then brought 
into the great Saal, and the chorus 
began. Suddenly a single voice broke 
in with the marvellous j'ddel ; all the 
others dropping into silence, and 
then again joining in the national 
song. It was indeed strange and 
weird-like, the echoes seemed to break 
again and again in renewed bursts 
of plaintive sound ; it was not like 
the cry of a bird or of any animal, 
nor yet was it suggestive of a human 
voice ; it had in it something of 
what, were we Pantheists, we might 
call the " voice of nature." The ef- 
fect was indescribable, and, because 
' so beautiful, saddening. We should 
not wish to hear it again on the 
stage or in the concert-room ; the 
effect would be lost, and merged into 
a dramatic trick. Sung by those 
thirty strong voices, used to no con- 
cert hall but the open air and the 
mountain passes, the jodel was one 
of those things that one likes to look 
back upon and place among the 
fresh, healthy remembrances of the 
past. Sung before those who have 
always been at our side through weal 
or woe, this Tyrolese song becomes 
more than a mere remembrance, and 
remains a sacred memory, shared 
with the dead and the absent, the 



ever beloved and unforgotten ones 
of our heart. So true is it that a 
thing unconnected with love, how- 
ever brilliant it may be in the field 
of art or literature, is a failure as far 
as our individual appreciation of it is 
concerned that this simple moun- 
tain song, vigorously but hardly skil- 
fully performed, is far dearer to our 
remembrance than the perfect strains 
heard at other times from the lips of 
finished artists. 

The Tyrol, no doubt, is fast put- 
ting off its early garb of faith and 
simple honesty; with Manchester 
prints and chignons, the free grace 
of its peasant women will vanish, and 
with the poisonous teaching of the 
International, the frankness and 
charm of its men will go. Already 
we have heard of the earnest workers 
of the Jesuit church being annoyed 
and insulted, and it may not be long 
before the cupidity of public officials 
will rob the shrines of many of their 
votive treasures. In these days of 
ruthless destruction, even the Tyrol 
may be dechristianized and made 
over to a worse barbarism than that 
of its. savage bands of early settlers, 
and a worse slavery than that 
against which Andreas Hofer so 
ably and successfully fought. Still, 
it will always be a pleasure to us to 
think that we visited it in the days 
of its Catholic prosperity, and saw 
there the remains of that state of 
peace and public safety which every- 
where characterizes a truly Christian 
land. 



654 The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians. 



THE ROMAN EMPIRE AND THE MISSION OF THE 
BARBARIANS. 

SECOND ARTICLE. 



DURING the centuries of persecu- 
tion, then, the Northern heavens 
grew darker and darker, and the 
storm-clouds thickened on the hori- 
zon. God was at work behind that 
dark and heavy cloud-wall planning 
the most terrible campaign that was 
ever executed. The heedless, sin- 
ning empire little thought what fire 
and tempest would sweep over it 
when that storm-cloud should burst. 
It considered itself a veritable part 
of the rock-built earth, and immov- 
able while the world lasted ; that it 
would only perish when the universe 
should cease to exist. But behind 
that fiery storm-cloud that hangs 
heavy and threatening in the North- 
ern skies, there is a mightier God 
than paganism knows of, who will 
sweep the Roman power away as 
the leaves are swept by the autumn 
blasts. The moment of vengeance 
is fixed. Whilst the cry of the mar- 
tyrs' blood has been sounding in the 
ears of God, he has been preparing 
for that moment of wrath. But 
there was another cry, too, rising up 
to heaven from the length and 
breadth of the empire, and calling 
down vengea/ice and wrath. It was 
the cry of sin a never-ceasing, 
clamorous, many-voiced cry going 
up night and day from city and town 
and hamlet over the wide area of 
Roman dominion. The corruption, 
then, deep and universal, of the Ro- 
man Empire was the second cause 
of the barbarian invasion. Of this 
we have still to speak. 

We must remark at the outset that, 
when we speak of the corruption of the 



Roman Empire, we are not referring 
to that period of history which pre- 
ceded Christ. We wish to speak of 
that period which immediately pre- 
ceded the great invasion of the 
Northern barbarians in the fifth cen- 
tury. We are about to point out 
another object which God evidently 
had in view in sending down his wild 
warriors, and why their course was 
one of fire and devastation. In a 
word, we are about to speak of that 
moral rottenness which had eaten 
through the very vitals of the Ro- 
man Colossus, and which God, un- 
able to bear it longer before his higli 
heaven, infecting, as it was, the very 
universe with its pestilent stench, 
sent his messengers of wrath with 
flaming sword and fiery torch to 
cleanse away from the afflicted earth. 
We must insist upon God being an 
active power in the world. We are 
no followers of Professor Seeley, who 
lectures to the young men of Cam- 
bridge on the Fall of the Roman 
Empire as if God had had no hand 
in it. However ingenious Prof. See- 
ley may be, he will never convince 
us that God does not make and un- 
make empires. We want no new 
theory of the Fall of the Roman 
Empire and the Invasion of the Bar- 
barians. The grandest and the truest 
was given us long ages ago by St. 
Augustine in his immortal work De 
Civitate Dei, and it has satisfied all 
Christian thinkers up to the present 
day. Prof. Seeley asks what is the 
cause of the decaying condition of 
the empire ? " It has been com- 
mon," he says, " to suppose a moral 



The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians. 6- 



degradation in the Romans, caused 
by luxury and excessive good for- 
tune. To support this, it is easy to 
quote the satirists and cynics of the 
imperial times, and to refer to such 
accounts as Ammianus gives of the 
mingled effeminacy and brutality of 
the aristocracy of the capital in the 
fourth century. But the history of 
the wars between Rome and the bar- 
baric world does not show us the 
proofs we might expect of this decay 
of spirit. We do not find the Ro- 
mans ceasing to be victorious in the 
field and beginning to show them- 
selves inferior in valor to their ene- 
mies. The luxury of the capital 
could not affect the army, which had 
no connection with the capital, but 
was levied from the peasantry of the 
whole empire, a class into which 
luxury can never penetrate. Nor 
can it be said the luxury corrupted 
the generals, and through them the 
army. . . . Whatever the remote 
and ultimate cause may have been, 
the immediate cause to which the 
fall of the empire can be traced is a 
physical, not a moral, decay."* 

This specimen of Mr. Seeley's 
philosophy of history gives us a 
very low opinion of his powers of 
penetration. If the professor could 
see a little further below the surface, 
he would surely discover that a 
frightful moral decay was the under- 
lying cause of the physical decay. 
He cannot persuade us that, if the 
capital were so corrupt, the generals 
and the army would still maintain a 
manly and a vigorous character. If 
the central heart be corrupt, a cor- 
rupting influence will flow out over 
the whole body. It was so, beyond 
doubt, with the Roman Empire in 
past days ; it has been so with an- 
other mighty empire in our own 
times. Moral corruption flowed out 

* Lectures and Essays, p. 48. 



from the capitals of both empires, 
and destroyed the vigor, courage, 
and all the manly virtues of their 
peoples. And then the messengers 
of God came. They came from the 
North in both cases, and terrible was 
the devastation which God gave 
them power to effect. In both cases 
they were irresistible, simply because 
he who beckoned them on and was 
hid in the smoke of battle was the 
God of battles himself. This is the 
theory which a Christian professor at 
least will naturally follow. There 
is something far more satisfactory in 
this, both to the intellect and to faith, 
than in any theory that can be sug- 
gested by the naturalistic views of 
men of Mr. Seeley's school. We 
wonder if the young men who sat 
under Mr. Seeley at Cambridge were 
satisfied when the professor summed 
up his theory of the fall of the em- 
pire in these words : " Men were 
wanting ; the empire perished for 
want of men " ? To go no further 
than that seems to us pitiably shallow 
indeed. We are not at all captivat- 
ed by Mr. Seeley's view. We feel far 
more satisfied in believing the grand, 
old Christian theory, viz., that the 
empire perished at the hands of God 
for its savage cruelty to the holy 
martyrs and for its widespread cor- 
ruption and revolting crimes. 

We have already endeavored to 
sketch out the history of the age of 
blood : it now remains for us to give 
a picture of the corruption in which 
the empire lay steeped at the period 
previous to the descent of the barba- 
ric hordes. But we most honestly 
state that we cannot do more than 
give a faint portraiture of what 
is so offensive to Christian purity 
of mind. To point to the life in 
this case, even if we were able to 
do so, would be too painful for Cath- 
olic ideas. The picture would neces- 
sarily be too frightful for the eye of 



656 The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians. 



modesty to gaze upon. It would be 
a dreadful exposure to the light of 
day of the blackest and the most 
shameful side of fallen human nature. 
Of necessity, then, must the painting 
be in somewhat dim outlines. But 
even so, it will sufficiently answer 
our present purpose. 

For well-nigh five centuries, then, 
had Christianity been at work 
over the length and breadth of the 
Roman Empire, and yet paganism 
and its demoralizing influence were 
not dead. We know well how bold- 
ly and triumphantly the apostles 
went from the Cenacle to the conver- 
sion of the pagan world. The hea- 
venly fire that had come down upon 
them had lodged itself in their 
hearts. It shot its wondrous power 
through their whole bodies, darting 
forth from their eyes in living light, 
issuing from their mouths in burning 
words, nerving them up to brave 
tortures and racks. They went forth, 
did that little band from the Cenacle, 
fire-girt and heaven-inspired, to the 
most arduous task ever confided to 
mortal men. Their wondrous suc- 
cess we need not here recount. It 
was such as only men with God in 
their midst could effect. They no 
longer knew fear of earthly powers ; 
they quailed not in the presence of 
the terrors of death. Nothing could 
withstand them in their course. The 
demons of paganism fled before 
them ; a thrill of horror ran 
through the vast Pantheon of pagan 
worship, and the idols trembled on 
their pedestals. Like the Titans of 
old, those messengers of the Cruci- 
fied scaled the Olympus of paganism, 
and hurled down the false gods that 
were enthroned there. Hell and 
Olympus mingled their groans at the 
sounding blows which were levelling 
the idols of false worship and shak- 
ing the universe. But was, then, 
paganism utterly destroyed ? Did it 



never recover from the shock which 
it received at the hands of the apos- 
tles of Christ ? Did the darkness 
flee away before the bright torches 
of light which Christians held up in 
the midst of cities and towns and on 
every hill- top, and never return ? 
Did the demons who lurked in the 
pagan temples and spoke by the 
mouths of the idols plunge into the 
deep abyss at the approach of Christ's 
preachers, .and never come back 
again ? It is usual to think that 
something like this was the case. 
But it is far from the historic truth. 
We must admit, indeed, that the suc- 
cess of the first apostles of Christian- 
ity was the most amazing fact which 
we have ever read of in history. 
The light of divine truth flashed with 
miraculous swiftness through the 
world. Thousands of persons aban- 
doned the idols of paganism, and 
joined the strange, new standard of 
the Cross. But yet paganism, con- 
tinued to exist and to spread its 
baneful influence it was not a dead 
thing. It had become welded into 
the very substance of the empire. It 
was associated with so much of the 
grand historic past. 

The Roman could not read of the 
warlike glories of his country without 
finding them mingled with the wor- 
ship of Jupiter and Mars. He could 
not take up the verses of his immor- 
tal poets without meeting at every 
page with the gods and goddesses 
of Olympus. The laws of the em- 
pire recalled pagan gods ; the cus- 
toms and festivals and games kept 
their remembrance fresh in the mind. 
We do not wonder, then, that pagan- 
ism was not easily destroyed. It 
would almost seem that the life of 
the empire and the life of paganism 
were one ; that the pillars of the pa- 
gan temples were, so to speak, iden- 
tical with the pillars of the state. 
When we bear all this in mind, we 



The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians. 657 



are not so much surprised to find 
that paganism was still a living 
thing more than eighty years after 
the first Christian emperor had taken 
the Labarum for his military stand- 
ard, and had lifted Christianity out 
of the dark caves of the Catacombs 
to place it on the throne of the Cee- 
sars. We are also more prepared for 
what we read regarding the Empe- 
ror Honorius. When in 404 he vis- 
ited Rome, in order to celebrate his 
sixth consulate, pagan temples still 
surrounded the imperial palace, the 
sanctuary of Jupiter Tarpeius still 
crowned the capital, and from sacred 
edifices still standing on every side 
a whole host of pagan gods yet look- 
ed down, as of old, on Rome and 
the world. So real a thing was pa- 
ganism still even in the fifth century 
that the pagan poet Claudian, who 
had been appointed to celebrate in 
verse the occasion just referred to, 
could with impunity and, we suppose, 
with apparent propriety, point out 
the gods as seeming to guard the 
imperial palace by their divine pre- 
sence and smile propitiously upon 
one who was the heir of so many 
Christian emperors.* Some years 
later a work Avas written by an un- 
known author who lived in the time 
of Honorius or of Valentinian III., 
giving a topographical description 
of Rome, and mentioning those mon- 
uments which had been spared by 
the fire and sword of the Goths. 
The writer enumerates as still exist- 
ing 43 pagan temples and 480 cedi- 
culse. The Colossus of the Sun, a 
hundred feet high, still towered aloft 
close by the Coliseum, where so 
many holy martyrs had poured out 
their blood for Christ. The statues 
of Apollo, of Hercules an-d Minerva 
still stood, as of old, at the crossings 
and in the public squares. Still the 

*See Claudian, De Sexto Consulatu Honorii, 
v. 43- 

VOL. XV. 42 



fountains flowed under the invoca- 
tion of nymphs. And this, though 
Constantine and Theodosius had 
wielded the sceptre of the empire, 
and SS. Sylvester and Damasus had 
sat in the midst on the throne of Peter. 
Time passes on, and with it the age 
of the great fathers of the church. 
Those days which Christianity filled 
with its spirit, when Gregory and 
Chrysostom and Basil and Jerome 
and mighty Augustine preached and 
taught, go by with their brightness and 
their glory, and yet in 419, in the 
time of Valentinian III., we find 
Rutilius Numatianus celebrating the 
greatness of pagan Rome, the mother 
of gods and heroes. Christianity had 
been throwing bright gleams of light 
over the whole world for these 400 
years, the voices of the great fathers 
of the church had been thundering 
in the principal cities of the empire, 
yet Claudian and Rutilius Numatian- 
us were as though they had caught 
no glimpse of the light which shone 
around them nor heard a sound from 
Hippo or Milan. Claudian had 
found a cord of that Latin lyre which 
was broken to pieces on the day 
when Lucan opened his own veins in 
the bath. Though living in Chris- 
tian times, he was as pagan as his 
great model, and his imagination 
revelled amid the fabled splendors 
of Olympus and the baseless fictions 
of mythology. He can sing of the 
rape of Proserpine whilst the cultus 
of our Blessed Lady is taking posses- 
sion of the temple of Ceres at Catana. 
He invites the graces, the nymphs, 
and the hours to prepare their gar- 
lands for the fair spouse of Stilico, 
though she had, in hatred and con- 
tempt of the gods of paganism, 
snatched the golden collar from the 
neck of the statue of Cybele. His 
genius takes even a more daring 
flight when he introduces Christian 
princes into the abodes of the im- 



658 The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians. 



mortals, and represents Theodosius, 
the greatest hater of the gods, as 
holding familiar converse with Jupi- 
ter. Rutilius Numatianus, on the 
other hand, pours out his soul in 
passionate words of patriotism upon 
Rome herself, the last and the great- 
est divinity of the ancient world. 
To him Rome is the ever beautiful 
queen of the universe, whose domi- 
nion she holds for all ages. To him 
she is the mother of men and of 
gods. " When we pray in thy tem- 
ples," he exclaims in his burning ar- 
dor, " we are not far from heaven. 
Of all nations she has made one 
country, of a whole world one city. 
Her trophies are countless as the 
stars of heaven, her temples too daz- 
zling for the eyes to look upon. 
Spread yet further thy laws; they 
shall govern ages yet unborn which 
shall become Roman despite them- 
selves, and thou alone, of all earthly 
things, shalt not fear the power of 
the fates."* 

We might easily imagine on read- 
ing these two writers that Christian- 
ity had not yet dawned upon the 
world, yet we are in the fifth century. 
We/iaturally ask if the Christian em- 
perors used their power to crush out 
paganism. History tells us of many 
imperial edicts which ordered the pa- 
gan temples to be closed and the 
sacrifices to be discontinued. We 
find those edicts often renewed, and 
hence, we argue, often disobeyed. 
Nothing, however, surprises us so 
much as to find that in the middle of 
the fifth century the sacred chickens 
were still kept at the capital, and the 
consuls, on their appointment to 
office, went to seek from them the 
auspices which they were supposed 
to be able to give. At this date also 
the public calendar indicated the 
feasts of the false gods by the side 

* See Ozanam, Civil, au yne Siecle, p. 82. 



of those in honor of Christ and his 
saints. In a word, paganism is yet a 
living power, with its temples and 
idols, and sacrifices and sacred 
groves. 

In Rome itself, where the smoke 
of incense ascends to the only true 
God, the smoke of sacrifice also rises 
to the false gods of Olympus. And 
beyond Rome, over Italy and Gaul 
and throughout the whole of Western 
Christendom, there are still symbols 
of pagan worship ; still undoubted in- 
dications of its enduring influence 
over thousands who believe that the 
empire and the pagan gods are 
equally eternal, and will still be in 
existence when men here become 
tired of the folly of the cross and the 
name of the crucified Nazarene has 
faded from their minds. How true, 
then, does it appear that paganism 
continues to hold its ground to a far 
greater extent than is commonly im- 
agined ! It was a fearful task for 
Christianity, divine though it was, to 
level to the ground the temples and 
idols of pagan worship. Paganism 
seemed to hold on to the empire 
with unrelaxing tenacity; it was 
bound up with its institutions; it 
seemed built with the very stones in- 
to the walls of the great capital. 

The incontrovertible fact, then, 
that paganism still existed .and re- 
tained a stout hold upon the empire 
even so late as the fifth century will 
prepare the reader to believe that its 
demoralizing principles were still 
working their natural results. We 
will not maintain that human sacri- 
fices were as common at this date as 
they had been some centuries before ; 
but we do not feel sure that they 
were altogether abandoned. We 
know that in the time of Constantine, 
when Christianity was looking down 
from the throne of the Caesars over 
the empire, pagan priests poured out 
each year a patera of human blood 



The Roman Empire and the 3 fission of the Barbarians. 659 



to Jupiter Latial. The example 
which the Romans themselves had 
set was followed by the conquered 
nations, and those dreadful horrors 
long continued to be practised 
among them in spite of imperial de- 
crees and prohibitions. " All the 
laws of civilization," says F. Ozanam 
in his striking way, "could not 
smother the instincts of that savage 
beast which paganism had unmuz- 
zled in the heart of fallen humanity." 
But even if human sacrifices had al- 
together ceased, yet the essential 
principles of paganism were still at 
work. The direct tendency of pagan 
worship was to enslave man to his 
senses. The fearful degradation to 
which mankind were thus brought, it 
is almost impossible for Christian 
minds to credit. St. Augustine, in 
the seventh book of his City of God, 
tells us of horrors which we cannot 
read without a sense of shame and 
disgust for our race. Those proces- 
sions through the towns and fields of 
Latium on the feast of Bacchus are 
too shocking to describe. We know, 
also, that unnamable crimes were 
honored with a religious cultus, and 
had temples dedicated to their wor- 
ship at Cyprus, Samos, at Corinth, 
and on Mount Eryx. When we read 
of this utter degradation to which 
paganism reduces human nature, we 
wonder how such a religion could 
endure. But it was precisely be- 
cause it ministered so readily and so 
generously to the worst passions of 
human nature that it maintained its 
influence so long. When in course 
of time, and, by the repeated pressure 
of imperial edicts, the priests of 
Cybele and the priestesses of Venus 
were dispersed, paganism still had its 
temples and its thousands of wor- 
shippers in the circus, the theatre, and 
the amphitheatre. In these centres 
of resort, where the most reckless and 
the most unholy passions had full 



play, the gods were in their strong- 
holds. St. Cyprian had understood 
the true nature of paganism well 
when he said that it was " the mo- 
ther of the games." Nothing could 
have seized upon human nature with 
a more powerful grasp than pagan- 
ism did by making pleasure into a 
religious worship. The two strong 
tendencies of mankind, viz., the reli- 
gious sentiment and the intense love 
of pleasure, were thus directed to one 
and the same object. The combats 
of the gladiators, which exercised 
such a fascination on the Romans 
for so many years, were supposed to 
appease the spirits of the departed ; 
the dances of the stage were thought 
to avert the anger of heaven. The 
symbolism which covered all lent an 
air of mystery and solemnity to these 
exciting entertainments. We are 
told that the courses of the circus 
represented the evolutions of the 
stars, the dances of the theatre sym- 
bolized the voluptuous whirl of pleas- 
ure in which all living beings were 
hurried along, and the combats of 
the amphitheatre were a type of the 
struggles in which the human race is 
ever engaged. The circus, theatre, 
and amphitheatre were, then, so 
many temples of worship, and, as we 
may well believe, the most popular 
and the best frequented temples that 
paganism ever consecrated to its 
false and corrupting rites. The other 
religious temples of the Roman were 
notoriously small and poor, but on 
these he lavished his gold, his marble, 
and all that he held most precious, 
so that he has left behind him no- 
thing grander or richer than the mon- 
uments of his pleasures, and, we may 
add, nothing more defiled, more foul 
or more bloody. 

The circus was dedicated to the 
sun ; so proclaimed the obelisk which 
rose in stately height in the centre of 
the arena. Everything about the 



660 The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians. 



circus breathed idolatry. If we ac- 
cept the view of the Greeks, its very 
name was taken from Circe, the 
daughter of the sun. If we take up 
the scathing work of Tertullian, De 
Spectaculis, we shall be told that 
" every ornament of the circus was 
in itself a temple. The eggs those 
assign to Castor and Pollux, who 
blush not in believing that these were 
born an egg from a swan which 
was Jupiter. The pillars vomit forth 
their dolphins in honor of Nep- 
tune ; they support their Sessiae, 
so-called from the sowing of 
the seed ; their Messise, from the 
harvest ; their Tutelinae, from the 
protection of the fruits. In front of 
these appear three altars to three 
gods, mighty and powerful ; these 
they consider to be of Samothrace. 
The enormous obelisk, as Herma- 
tetes affirmeth, is publicly exposed in 
honor of the Sun ; its inscription is a 
superstition from Egypt. The coun- 
cil of the gods were dull without their 
great mother; she therefore presid- 
eth there over the Euripus. Con- 
sus, as we have said, lieth buried 
beneath the earth of the Marcian 
Jail; even this jail he maketh an 
idol. Think, O Christian! how 
many unclean names possess the cir- 
cus. Foreign to thee is that religion 
which so many spirits of the devil 
have taken unto themselves !" * It 
would seem that the circus was a 
sort of Pantheon, where almost 
every god received his tribute of 
worship. If the pagan deities had 
lost some of their temples in the on- 
ward advance of Christianity, they 
still retained a shrine where they 
were worshipped all at once. And 
no opportunity was lost when an 
act of religious worship could be 
brought in. Before the courses were 
opened, the gods were carried on rich 

* Dt Spectaculis, viii. 



litters round the circus by a grand 
cortege of priests. Tertullian speaks 
of the dazzling pompa which pre- 
ceded the games, " the long line of 
images, the host of statues, the 
chariots, the sacred images, the cars, 
the chairs, and the robes " with which 
the gods were clothed. " How 
many colleges," he says, " how many 
priesthoods, how many offices are 
set in motion, the men of that city 
know in which the council of the 
demons sitteth." * Sacrifices without 
number were celebrated in the course 
of the performances. They preced- 
ed, they came between, they follow- 
ed them. And it is difficult to con- 
ceive the height of frenzy to which 
the people were excited by these 
games. " On the longed-for day of 
the equestrian games," Ammianus 
Marcellinus tells us, " ere the clear 
rays of the sun yet shine, all hurry 
headlong, outpoured, as though they 
would outspeed the very chariots 
which are to contend." Before the 
races began, all eyes, wild with the 
fire of excited passions, were fixed on 
the magistrate, who held in his hand 
the handkerchief whose falling was 
to signal the commencement of the 
sports. As that handkerchief fell, 
there came rushing into view those 
charioteers who were the delight of 
the Roman people. The crowd 
raised a wild cry of joy, and then, 
breathless with suspense, followed 
with their glaring eyes the rushing 
horses and the rattling cars as they 
dashed along the course. As the 
horses bounded over the ground, 
now losing, now gaining, on one an- 
other, and the dust-clouds rose from 
beneath the rattling chariot-wheels, 
louder and wilder rang the shouts of 
the spectators, and passion rose to 
its height in Roman hearts. Furious 
factions were formed, which soon 

* De Spectaculis, vii. 






The Roman Empire and the Mission of t lie Barbarians. 66 1 



developed into violence and interne- 
cine battle. This was the grand 
climax, sought for and expected. 
The gods were appeased ; Romulus 
now recognized his people. From 
this state of wild excitement we 
naturally expect cruelty and blood- 
shed. We are quite prepared to 
believe what Suetonius tells us, 
He records that Vitellius massacred 
some of the people because they 
cursed the faction which he favored. 
Caracalla is said to have done the 
same for some jest on a favorite 
charioteer. But to add more vivid 
coloring to the picture, we will bor- 
row the striking language of Ter- 
tullian. " Behold the people," he 
says, " coming to the show already 
full of madness, already tumul- 
tuous, already blind, already agitated 
about their wagers. The praetor is 
too slow for them. Their eyes are ever 
rolling with their lots within his urn. 
Then they are in anxious suspense 
for the signal. The common mad- 
ness hath a common voice. I per- 
ceive their madness from their trifling. 
' He hath thrown it,' they say, and an- 
nounce to each other what was seen 
at once by all. I possess the evi- 
dence of their blindness. They see 
not what is thrown ; they think it a 
handkerchief, but it is the gullet of 
the devil cast down from on high." * 
Thus, then, in the stormy days of 
the fifth century did the great Roman 
people forget their troubles and their 
dangers in the excitement of the 
circus. What was so vividly describ- 
ed by Tertullian went on through the 
centuries that came after him. The 
Roman people had, in truth, lost the 
empire of the world; it had purchased 
its capital out of the hands of savage 
hordes by heavy sums of gold; but 
it forgot all in the delirium of the 
circensian games. There, as has 

* De Spectaculi*^ xvi. 



been said, it found its temple, its 
forum, its country, and the term of 
its hopes. Through the storms of 
war against barbarians, in spite of 
the thunders of Christian eloquence, 
under the dazzling light of the 
Christian Gospel, still the circus 
stood, and its multitudinous gods 
received their tribute of worship, and 
the maddened crowds thronged to 
the games, as of old. In the year 
448, the calendar marks 58 days for 
the public games. We may well be 
amazed as we read it. Fifty-eight 
days still dedicated to this wild self- 
abandonment, whilst on the Northern 
borders of the empire the threatening 
armies of Genseric and Attila were 
amassed, with the sword of fire and 
vengeance in their hands, awaiting the 
signal of God ! 

The theatre was another temple 
where paganism still retained a terri- 
ble hold. It was dedicated to Venus, 
the unholy goddess who swayed the 
hearts of almost all mankind. If we 
would see the great Roman people 
at its lowest, we must look upon it 
as it lies in prostrate adoration in this 
temple of Venus. Here it is grovel- 
ling in the veriest mire of abasement. 
Here, more than anywhere else, it 
forgets its dignity, and plunges into 
the deepest depths of sensuality and 
degradation. But we cannot paint 
the scene in bold colors. The picture 
would shock by its startling horror 
and deformity. The eye of Christian 
modesty would turn away in dis- 
gust and pain. We must let the out- 
lines even be faint, lest they should 
offend the delicate sensitiveness of 
pure minds. 

In the midst of the theatre stood 
the altar of the unholy goddess, 
crowned with garlands. Before this 
altar were represented the shameful 
histories of the pagan gods. There 
the wretched mimes, by look, and 
gesture, and suggestive attitude, dis- 



662 The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians. 



played before the lascivious eyes of 
the multitude the loves of Jupiter 
and the fury of Pasiphae. But as 
time went on, and the passions of the 
people became more and more in- 
flamed, the mute language of look 
and gesture did not satisfy. Far 
worse horrors were demanded. 
Shadows and unrealities were not 
enough for the hungry fire of un- 
restrained passion. Realities, revolt- 
ing, shameless, and unnamable, 
must be enacted before the eyes of a 
vast multitude, composed of old and 
young of both sexes. He who play- 
ed the part of Hercules must be 
burned in the presence of a madden- 
ed throng ; the horrid history of 
Atys must have a reality answering to 
it, and be carried into effect before 
the full gaze of the people. We can 
conceive nothing more pitiable than 
the sight of the great Roman people, 
so sadly fallen into baseness, so com- 
pletely abandoned to shameful sen- 
sualities, and lying prostrate before 
the foul goddess of unholy passions 
in the theatre. The empire might 
perish and the heavens fall upon 
their heads, but the people must 
have their pleasures. This was their 
madness and their worship. Three 
thousand dancers ministered, like so 
many priestesses, in the theatre-wor- 
ship of Rome. For these panderers 
to their vile pleasures, the Romans 
were willing to sacrifice all that was 
dear to them. These favorites they 
crowned with flowers, and flattered 
by their manifestations of applause. 
They retained them in the city, as 
Ammianus Marcellinus tells us, at a 
time of severe famine, where a 
decree was passed which expelled 
men of letters and those who exercis- 
ed the liberal professions. Old Am- 
mianus, though a pagan, is filled 
with wrath at this shameful abandon- 
ment of his countrymen, and pours 
out his indignation in vehement, fiery 



words. But what hope was there ? 
Corruption had affected every class. 
The dancers were the favorites of all, 
and even the senators of Rome were 
not ashamed to sit in the first seats 
of the theatre gazing upon the nudity 
of these priestesses of Venus. Thus 
had the Romans fallen below even 
the most fallen of other nations, 
which had once been great, but had 
perished for their crimes. E gypt had 
deified its agricultural products and 
domestic animals, Phoenicia its com- 
merce, Assyria its sciences, Persia the 
elements, Greece its arts.* But 
Rome had gone down far deeper 
than all into folly and idolatry ; it had 
raised altars to its own base passions. 
And this theatre-worship was ex- 
isting in its full life in the latter days 
of the empire. Christianity had not 
abolished it. The demons held their 
own in their temples of sinful pleasure, 
and the people came and adored in 
countless multitudes, and their pas- 
sions were kept alive and burned 
wildly with unholy fire and all 
under the dark, bodeful shadow of 
the storm-cloud which hung so black 
and threatening in the Northern skies. 
But we have yet to speak of an- 
other great centre of paganism and 
moral corruption the amphitheatre. 
" This," says F. Ozanam, " was the 
greatest school which was ever open- 
ed for the demoralization of men." 
It exercised a power of fascination 
beyond all conception, and was irre- 
sistible. The people rushed there 
in countless thousands, frantic with 
excitement. The thirst for blood 
maddened them like a wild indwell- 
ing demon. The games of the cir- 
cus were tame in comparison with 
the sight of wild beasts engaged in 
death-struggle or the savage conflict 
of well-matched gladiators. There 
the emperors presided under the sha- 

* Leroy, vol. ii. p. 450. 



The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians. 663 



do\v of their pagan gods; there were 
gathered together the senators and 
the great ones of Rome ; there rose 
tier upon tier round the vast arena 
the waving mass of countless human 
heads. There all Rome assembled 
for brutal pleasure and pagan wor- 
ship, for the amphitheatre was a 
temple. Tertullian tells us this in 
his characteristic way. " The am- 
phitheatre," he says, " is consecrated 
to deities more numerous and more 
barbarous than the capitol. It is the 
temple of all demons. As many un- 
clean spirits sit together as th2 place 
containeth men."* Under the sha- 
dow, then, of so many pagan gods, 
breathed upon by so many devils, 
we can picture to ourselves the wild 
excitement of these thousands of 
spectators, as they assemble on oc- 
casion of a Roman holiday. They 
have caught a rumor, perhaps, of 
what is prepared that day, by a sub- 
servient emperor, for the amusement 
of his people. It may be that hun- 
dreds of ferocious beasts are to tear 
one another to pieces before them, as 
often happened in the time of Sep- 
timius Severus ; or it may be that two 
hundred lions are to die in a horrid, 
bloody affray, as took place in the 
reign of one of his successors. Or, 
perhaps, Roman senators are to de- 
scend into the arena, to sacrifice 
their lives for the amusement of their 
fellow-citizens, as was the custom 
from the time of the first Csesars. 
Perhaps it is near mid-day, and the 
crowd has been thronging in for 
hours. The sun is pouring down his 
blazing rays over the scene, though 
their heat is tempered by the canvas 
awnings which stretch a kind protect- 
ing shade wherever it is possible. 
But the bright light penetrates every 
nook and corner, and makes every 
figure stand forth to view. It flashes 

* De Spcctaculis, xii. 



off the shining armor of Roman 
knights, dances and glistens in many 
a dark young eye, falls with a flood 
of glory upon Caesar's throne, and 
plays around the imperial robes 
which gold and precious stones so 
gorgeously bedeck. The brightness 
of the day adds to the excitement of 
the people. They talk with vivacity 
upon the nature of the expected con- 
flicts ; they lay their wagers, and be- 
come more excited as time flies on. 
They are impatient for the " shows " 
to begin; they clamor; they can 
wait no longer. We will here let a 
more brilliant pen than ours help to 
complete the picture. " And now, 
with peal of trumpets and clash of 
cymbals, a burst of wild martial mu- 
sic rises above the hum and murmur 
of the seething crowd. Under a 
spacious archway, supported by 
marble pillars, wide folding-doors are 
flung open, and two by two, with 
stately step and slow, march in the 
gladiators, armed with the different 
weapons of their deadly trade. Four 
hundred men are they, in all the 
pride of perfect strength and sym- 
metry, and high training and practis- 
ed skill. With head erect and 
haughty bearing, they defile once 
round the arena, as though to give 
the spectators an opportunity of 
closely scanning their appearance, 
and halt with military precision to 
range themselves in line under Cae- 
sar's throne. For a moment there is 
a pause and hush of expectation over 
the multitude, while the devoted 
champions stand motionless as sta- 
tues in the full glow of noon ; then, 
bursting suddenly into action, they 
brandish their gleaming weapons 
over their heads, and higher, fuller, 
fiercer rises the terrible chant that 
seems to combine the shout of tri- 
umph with the wail of suffering, and 
to bid a long and hopeless farewell 
to upper earth, even in the very 



664 The Roman Empire and the Mission of the Barbarians. 



recklessness and defiance of its de- 
spair : 

" ' Ave Caesar ! Morituri te salu- 
tant !' 

" Then they wheel out once more, 
and range themselves on either side 
of the arena : all but a chosen band 
who occupy the central place of 
honor, and of whom every second 
man at least is doomed to die." * 

We can imagine how the thou- 
sands who had come to feast their 
eyes on the cruel spectacle would 
now be frantic for the real work to 
begin. We can picture to ourselves 
how all would proceed. We see the 
huge rhinoceros with his overlapping 
plates of armor led forth into the 
arena. He rolls his glowing eyes 
around in the fury of his hunger, but 
sees only the smooth white sand. 
He stamps with his large flat foot, 
and digs madly into the earth with 
his " horned muzzle." We see, too, 
his enemy come sneaking in the Ly- 
bian tiger, with his sleek, striped 
coat and glaring eyes. They ap- 
proach each other. The spring is 
made ; they are in a death-struggle. 
And now that blood is seen, a mad- 
dened shout of savage joy from the 
gratified spectators rends the air. 
More blood is wanted. The trum- 
pets ring out again. The gladiators 
step forth and range themselves in 
opposing ranks. They are " all armed 
alike with a deep, concave buckler, 
and a short, stabbing, two-edged 
blade." Then is heard the sharp 
clash of meeting steel. Men's breath 
is hushed; their hearts beat quick; 
their eyes glare with a wild fire and 
are riveted on the struggling ath- 
letes. Then the ranks of the com- 
batants waver and are broken ; blood 
is seen upon the white sand : it flows 
from large gashes in the gladiators' 
sinking forms. The huge giants fall 

* The GlatHators.'by Whyte Melville, p. 135. 



one after another, hard and brave to 
the last. 

And this is the hideous sight 
which day after day delights and 
never satisfies the Roman public. It 
is sad to think of so much noble 
strength and magnificent bravery 
sacrificed so ignobly. It sickens the 
heart to dwell on the brutal, reckless 
destruction of manly life perpetrated 
to amuse a blood-thirsty populace in 
" those Roman shambles." Yet " so 
inured were the people to such exhi- 
bitions, so completely imbued with a 
taste for the horrible, and so careless 
of human life, that scarcely an eye 
was turned away, scarcely a cheek 
grew paler, when a disabling gash 
was received or a mortal blow driven 
home, and mothers with babies in 
their arms would bid the child turn 
its head to watch the death-pang on 
the pale, stern face of some prostrate 
gladiator." * 

We have now said enough to show 
the reader the corrupting influence 
of those three mighty powers of 
paganism the circus, the theatre, and 
the amphitheatre. Many pagan 
temples had no doubt fallen under 
the crushing arm of Christian teach- 
ing, but these three, in which so 
many gods and goddesses had taken 
refuge, stood their ground. They 
were found in every province of the 
empire, and everywhere were well 
frequented. The demoralizing effect 
produced by them it is not easy to 
estimate it was simply never-ceas- 
ing and universal. And when the 
persecutors had passed away, and 
there was no longer the constant 
presence of cruel death to keep alive 
the fervor of Christians, we find that 
they too came under the demoral- 
izing influence of these mighty 
powers of evil. This is the cause of 
that bitter cry of grief which bursts 

* The Gladiators, p. 140. 






The Roman Empire and t/ie Mission of the Barbarians. 665 



forth from every page of the writings 
of the great saints of the fourth and 
fifth centuries. Pagan corruption 
was rushing upon them like a strong 
flood on every side. They found 
themselves overpowered and engulf- 
ed. Listen to the plaintive words 
of SS. Jerome, Chrysostom, and 
Augustine, laden with the sobs and 
groans of grief-stricken hearts. Open 
the pages of Salvian, and you will 
soon be convinced that mortal de- 
gradation has invaded every city and 
town, and that all classes of society 
are grovelling in the lowest depths 
of corruption. The holy bishop 
pours out his soul in the most mov- 
ing language. His words sometimes 
flash with holy wrath and indigna- 
tion ; sometimes they are the wailing 
cry of despair; sometimes, again, 
they are the tears of deepest sorrow, 
flowing out of his inmost soul. 
" How different," he exclaims, " is 
now the Christian people from itself, 
that is, from what it formerly was ! 
. . . What is now every assembly of 
Christians but a sink of vices ? . . . 
We make it our study not only not 
to accomplish the precepts, but even 
to do the contrary. God commands 
us to love one another; we tear one 
another to pieces in mutual hatred. 
God commands us to help the poor ; 
and we all rob others of what belongs 
to them. God commands every 
Christian to be chaste even in look ; 
and who is he who does not grovel 
in the mire ? I appeal to the con- 
science of those to whom I speak. 
Who is the person who has not .to 
reproach himself with some of these 
crimes, or, rather, who is the man 
who is not guilty of all ? It is easier 
to find Christians guilty of all these 
crimes than to meet with any exempt 
from some of them ; it is easier to 
find great criminals than ordinary 



sinners. Many of the Romans who 
have been baptized have arrived at 
such a laxity of morals that it is a 
kind of sanctity amongst the faith- 
ful to be less vicious. Audacious 
criminals rush into the temples of the 
true God without any respect for the 
Divine Majesty. They go there to 
meditate in silence upon some fresh 
iniquity. Scarcely are the divine 
mysteries concluded than some re- 
turn to their thefts, others to drunken- 
ness ; these to their bad habits, those 
to their deeds of violence. What 
is the life of courtiers ? Injustice 
and iniquity. What is the life of pub- 
lic officers ? Lies and calumny. 
What is the life of soldiers? Vio- 
lence and rapine. What is the 
life of merchants ? Fraud and de- 
ceit. Alas ! our vices disinherit us 
of the beautiful name of Christians ; 
for the depravity of our morals ren- 
ders us unworthy of the privileges 
of our birth. Base behavior destroys 
the glory of an honorable title. As 
there is no condition which is not 
disgraced, no place which is not 
filled with the crimes of Christians, 
let us no longer glory in this beautiful 
name. It will only serve to render 
us more culpable, and to aggravate 
our offences."* 

We think the picture sufficiently 
complete. Over this huge mass of 
moral rottenness ; over the heads of 
pagan gods yet standing erect in the 
midst of this foul corruption ; over 
the great sinning empire, pagan still 
in its vices and its tastes, the threaten- 
ing storm-cloud hangs, waiting the mo- 
ment when God shall bid it belch forth 
its hidden terrors of fire and flame. 
That moment is close at hand. Then 
shall the martyrs be avenged, and this 
universal crime be punished. 

* Salvianus, De Gubernationc Mundi, lib. Hi. 
passim. 



666 



The Last Days before the Siege. 



THE LAST DAYS BEFORE THE SIEGE. 



PART II. 



EXCELSIOR! 



" GREAT news ! Extra ! Three 
sous !" The newsvender, a ragged lit- 
tle urchin who nearly collapsed un- 
der the weight and volume of his ex- 
tras, was shouting out these three 
startling facts at the top of his 
voice as I went out early in the 
morning. Two rheumatic old rag- 
women, immediately suspending their 
investigation of the dust-heaps, drop- 
ped their crooks, and cried out to 
him to know the news. Was it a 
victory or a defeat, or was it any-' 
thing about the siege ? But the ur- 
chin, as hard-hearted as any edi- 
tor, waved the momentous sheet 
majestically with one hand, and an- 
swered, " Three sous !" To the re- 
newed entreaties of the rag-women 
he condescended so far as to say 
that it was well worth the money, 
that they never spent three sous more 
advantageously, for the news was 
wonderful news, but for less than 
three sous they should not have it. I 
did not altogether believe either in 
the extra or in the wonderful news, 
but the newspaper fever was on me 
like the rest of the world, so I pro- 
duced the inexorable three sous and 
took the paper. The moment the 
two women saw this they came up 
to me, and, evidently taking for 
granted that I was going to give 
them the benefit of my extravagance, 
stood to hear the news. I read it 
aloud for them, as well as to a milk- 
boy who was passing at the moment 
and stood also to get his share of the 
three sous, and a remarkably sympa- 
thetic audience the three made. The 



news was none of the best. The 
Prussians were at Chalons, and they 
might be at the gates of Paris before 
another week. 

" That was MacMahon's plan 
from the first," observed the milk- 
boy, " and, if the Prussians fall into 
the trap, the game is ours." 

The rag-women, not being so well 
up in military tactics and technicalities, 
meekly begged to be enlightened as to 
the nature and aim of the trap in 
question, and the young politician was 
so kind as to explain to them that the 
marshal had all along been luring OR 
the Prussians to Paris, which was to 
be their pitfall ; Mont Valerien and 
the fortifications would annihilate 
them like flies; not a man of them 
would go back alive; the only fear 
was that that rascally Bismarck would 
be too many guns for the marshal, 
and make him fight before Chalons, 
in which case, he observed, " it was 
all up with the marshal, and conse- 
quently with France." 

Having delivered himself of this 
masterly exposition of the case, the 
milk-boy swung his cans, touched his 
cap to me, and, having achieved the 
most preternaturally knowing wink I 
ever beheld, strode off without wait- 
ing to see the effect of his words on 
the two old women. They looked 
after him aghast. Had they been 
talking to a confidential agent of the 
War Office, or to an emissary of the 
rascally Bismarck himself? A spy, in 
fact? 

" One ought to have one's mouth 
sewed up these times," observed the 



The Last Days before the Siege. 



667 



more ancient of the beldames, cast- 
ing a half-suspicious glance at me as 
I folded my newspaper and put it 
into my pocket. " One never knows 
whom one may be speaking to." 

This remark was too deep and too 
fearfully suggestive to admit of any 
commentary from her companion; 
the only thing to be done in such a 
crisis was to take refuge in profession- 
al pursuits that offered no ground 
for suspicion, so seizing her crook 
the rag-woman plunged prudently 
once more into her rubbish. 

A little further on, turning the 
corner of a street, I came on two 
gentlemen whom I knew, standing 
in animated conversation. I stopped 
to ask what news ? None, except 
that the horizon was growing darker 
from hour to hour. The despatches 
from the frontier were as bad as could 
well be. As to pooh-poohing the 
siege now it was sheer stupidity, 
one of them declared, and, for his 
part, he only wished it were already 
begun : it was the last chance left us 
of rejecting the disasters of the cam- 
paign and crushing the remains of 
the enemy. His companion indig- 
nantly scouted both the certainty of 
the siege and the desirability of it. 
The city was not to be trusted ; no 
great city ever was ; there were hun- 
dreds of traitors only too ready to 
open the gates to the enemy at his 
own price. Look at the proprietors ! 
Did any one suppose there were fifty 
proprietors in Paris who would not cry 
Capitulons ! before one week was out ? 

" Well, let the proprietors be taken 
down to their own cellars, and kept 
there under lock and key, and let 
them sit on their money-bags till the 
siege is over !" suggested the advo- 
cate of the siege. 

" Then you must lock up half the 
National Guard and the Mobiles," 
resumed the other, " for they are full 
of those money-loving traitors." 



This was not very reassuring. I 
kept repeating to myself that public 
opinion at a moment like this was 
always an alarmist, and that the 
wisest plan would be to read no pa- 
pers and to consult nobody, but just 
wait till events resolved themselves, 
as they infallibly do, sooner or later, 
to those who have patience to wait 
for them, and then act as they de- 
cided ; but it was no use. I went 
home in dire perplexity, and began 
to wish myself in Timbuctoo or the 
Fiji Islands, or anywhere out of the 
centre of civilization and the fash- 
ions and chronic alarm and discon- 
tent. Things went on in this way 
for another week, the tide advancing 
rapidly, but so gradually that it was 
difficult for those on shore to note its 
progress and be guided by it. No 
one would own to bewig frightened, 
but it was impossible to see the 
scared faces of the people, as they 
stood in groups before every new 
placard setting forth either a fresh 
order from the Hotel de Ville or 
some dubious and disheartening des- 
patch from the seat of war, without 
feeling that the panic was upon them, 
and that the complicated problems of 
the great national struggle had re- 
solved themselves into the immediate 
question : Shall we stay, or must we 
fly ? When you met a friend in the 
street, the first, the sole, the supreme 
salutation was : " Do you believe in 
the siege ? Are you going to stay ?" 
The obduracy of the Parisians in re- 
fusing to believe in the siege up to 
the very last moment was certainly 
one of the strangest phases of the 
siege itself. They were possessed by 
a blind faith in the sacredness and 
inviolability of their capital, and 
they could not bring themselves to 
believe that all Europe did not look 
upon it with the same eyes ; they 
thought that Prussia might indeed 
push audacity so far as to come and 



668 



The Last Days before the Siege. 



sit down before the gates, but beyond 
that Bismarck would not go; he 
would not dare; all Europe would 
stand up and cry shame on him, not 
out of sympathy for France, but out 
of sheer selfishness, for Paris was not 
the capital of France, but of Europe. 
So the walls were white with procla- 
mations and advertisements and in- 
vitations to non-combatants to with- 
draw, and practical advice to the 
patriotic citizens whose glorious duty 
it was soon to be to defend the city ; 
and the great exodus of the so-called 
poltroons and strangers had begun to 
pour out, and the much more incon- 
venient sort of non-combatants, the 
homeless population of the neighbor- 
ing villages, poured in a sorry sight 
it was to see the poor little mdnages, 
the husband trundling the few sticks 
of furniture on a hand-cart, with the 
household cat perched on the top of 
the pile, while the wife carried a baby 
and bundle, and a little one trotted 
on by her side, carrying the canary 
bird in its painted cage and still the 
real, born Parisian said in the bottom 
of his heart : " It will never come to 
a siege, they will never dare ; Eng- 
land will interfere, Europe will not 
allow it." 

On the morning of the third of 
September I went out to make some 
purchases on the Boulevards. Com- 
ing back, I saw the Madeleine draped 
in black, and a number of mourning- 
coaches drawn up in ghastly array on 
the Place. The solemn cortege was 
descending the last steps. I stood 
to let it pass, and then cast a glance 
round to see if there was any one I 
knew in the crowd. To my sur- 
prise I saw Berth e in the midst of 
a group of several persons who had 
broken away from the stream, and 
were standing apart in the space in- 
side the rails; she was talking very 
emphatically, and the others were 
listening to her apparently with great 



interest, and seemed excited by what- 
ever she was telling them. When 
the crowd had nearly cleared away, 
I beckoned to her. She ran out to 
me at once. 

" You are the very person I want- 
ed to see," she said, clutching me by 
the arm in her vehement way. " I 
was going straight to your house. I 
have just been to the Etat Major, 
and met General Trochu there. He 
came down on account of despatches 
that had just come in, and have put 
them all in a state of terrible conster- 
nation. There is not a doubt of it 
now; the city will be blockaded in ten 
days from this. The Prussians are 
within as many days' march from us. 
I thought of you immediately, and I 
asked the general what you ought to 
do ; he said by all means to go, and 
within forty-eight hours; after that 
the rails may be cut from one mo- 
ment to another ; he was very em- 
phatic about it, and said it would be 
the maddest imprudence of you to 
remain; there is a terrible time be- 
fore us, and no one should stay in 
Paris who could leave. Of course, 
you will leave at once." 

I was too much taken aback to say 
what I would do. The news was so 
bewildering. I had never looked 
upon the siege as the impossible joke 
it had been so long considered, nei- 
ther did I share the infatuation of 
the Parisians about the inviolability 
of Paris in the eyes of Europe, and 
for the last fortnight we had come to 
expect the siege as almost a certain- 
ty, that was now only a question of 
time, and yet we were as much star- 
tled by this cool official announce- 
ment of it as if the thing had never 
been seriously mentioned before. 

" I don't know what I will do," I 
said ; " if we had nerves equal to it, 
it would be the most fearfully inter- 
esting experience to go through." 

" No doubt," assented Berthe ; 



The Last Days before the Siege. 



669 



" but it is an experience that will tax 
the strongest nerves; of that you may- 
be sure ; and unless one has duties to 
keep one here, I think it would be 
mad imprudence, as the general said, 
to run the risk." 

" You mean to leave, of course ?" I 
said. 

" No ; I mean to stay. I am pret- 
ty sure of my nerves ; besides, as a 
Frenchwoman, I have a duty to per- 
form ; I must bear my share of the 
common danger; it would be cow- 
ardly to fly; but with you it is 
different. I don't think you would 
be justified in remaining for the in- 
terest of the thing. Only if you mean 
to go, you must set about it at once. 
Have you got your passport ?" 

" No ; I had not gone that far in 
believing in the siege." 

" It was very foolish," said Berthe ; 
" all the foreigners we know have 
got theirs." 

" I will go for it now," I said. 
" Come on with me, and let us talk 
it all over. Are you on foot ?" 

" No ; but I shall be glad of the 
walk home; I will send away the 
carriage." 

She did so, and we went on to- 
gether. 

" It is like death," I said ; "no mat- 
ter how long one is expecting it, it 
comes like a blow at the last ; I can 
hardly realize even now that the siege 
is so near. Why, it was only the 
other day we were listening to those 
people joking about it all !" 

" It was a sorry joke," said Berthe ; 
" but that is always the way with us ; 
we go on joking to the end. I be- 
lieve a Frenchman would joke in his 
coffin if he could speak." 

"And you really mean to stay, 
Berthe ?" 

" I do. I shall be of some use, I 
hope ; at any rate, I will try my best. 
But we can talk of that presently. 
First about you ; are you decided ?" 



" I cannot say ; I feel bewildered," 
I replied. " I long to stay, and yet I 
fear it ; it is not the horrors of the 
siege that would deter me, at least I 
don't think it is that; it is the dread 
of being taken up as a spy." 

She burst out into one of her loud, 
merry laughs. 

" What a ridiculous idea ! Why on 
earth should you be taken for a 
spy ?" 

" There is no why or wherefore in 
the case," I said, "that is just the 
alarming part of it ; the people are 
simply mad on the point ; they have 
barked themselves rabid about it, and 
they are ready to bite every one that 
comes in their way. Twice on my 
way into town this morning I heard 
a hue and cry raised somewhere near, 
and when I asked what was the mat- 
ter, a mad dog, or a house on fire, 
the answer was, ' Oh, no ; it's an cs- 
pion they've started, and he's giving 
them chase !' One man said to me, 
half in joke, half in earnest: ' Mad- 
ame would do well to hide her fair 
hair under a wig ; it's dangerous to 
wear fair hair these times.' I own it 
made me feel a little uncomfortable." 

" Well, that is not very comforting 
for me," said Berthe, laughing, " my 
hair is blond enough to excite suspi- 
cion." 

" Oh ! your nationality is written 
on your face," I said ; " there is no 
fear of you ever being mistaken for 
anything but a Frenchwoman." 

On arriving at the Embassy, we 
found a throng of British subjects 
waiting for their passports, and con- 
siderably surprised at being kept 
waiting, and expressing their surprise 
in no measured terms. Surely they 
paid dear enough for the mainte- 
nance of their embassies abroad to 
be entitled to prompt and proper at- 
tendance when once in a way they 
called on their representatives for 
a service of this kind ! The attaches 



The Last Days before the Siege. 



were so overworked that it was im- 
possible to avoid the delay ? Then 
why were there not special attaches 
put on for the extra press of work ? 
And so on. Some nervous old cou- 
ples were anxious to have the bene- 
fit of his excellency's personal opi- 
nion as to the prudence of leaving 
their plate behind them, and, if he 
really thought there was a risk in so 
doing, would he be so kind as to sug- 
gest the safest mode of conveying it 
to London ? Also, whether it was 
quite prudent to leave their money in 
the Bank of France and other French 
securities, or whether it would be ad- 
visable to withdraw it at once at a 
loss ? Also, whether it would be a 
wise precaution to hang the Union 
Jack out of the window, those who 
had furnished apartments in Paris, or 
whether the present state of feeling 
between England and France was 
such as to make such a step rather 
dangerous than otherwise ? It was 
not for outsiders to know how things 
stood between the two countries so 
as to be able to guide their course 
in the present crisis, but his excel- 
lency being a diplomatist was well 
informed on the subject, and they 
would rely implicitly on his judg- 
ment and advice, etc. 

Berthe and I were so highly enter- 
tained by the naive egotism and in- 
fantine stupidity displayed by the 
various specimens of British nature 
around us, that we did not find it in 
our hearts to grumble at being kept 
waiting nearly two hours. 

On reaching the Rond Point of 
the Champs Elysees, our curiosity 
was attracted by a silent, scared- 
looking crowd collected on the 
sidewalk in front of the H6tel Mey- 
erbeer. The blinds of the house 
were closed as if there were a death 
within, and a few sergents-de-mlle were 
standing at intervals with arms cross- 
ed, staring up at the windows. The 



owner of the hotel had been arrested 
with great noise the night before, on 
the strength of some foolish words 
which had escaped him about the 
possible entry of the Germans into 
Paris ; but we neither of us knew 
anything of this, and I asked the 
nearest sergeant if anything had hap- 
pened. The man turned round, and, 
without uncrossing his arms, bent two 
piercing eyes upon me piercing is 
not a figure of speech, they literally 
stabbed us through like a pair of 
blades and, after taking a deliberate 
view of my person from head to foot, 
he growled out : " Yes, something has 
happened. A spy has been found !" 
There was something so diabolical 
in the tone of his voice and his ex- 
pression that it terrified me, and I 
suppose my terror got into my face 
and gave it a guilty hue, for another 
sergent-de-ville who had turned 
round on hearing his colleague 
speak, strode up to me, and said 
nothing, but drove another pair of 
eyes into me with fierce suspicion. 
The crowd, attracted by the incident, 
turned round and stared at me, and 
I felt as if I had that morning posted 
a despatch to Bismarck or Bismarck's 
master betraying every state secret 
in France. Despair, however, that 
makes cowards brave, came to my 
rescue, and, putting a bold face on it, 
I said, with extraordinary pluck and 
coolness : 

" Has he been arrested ?" 

" He has." 

" Ah, it is well !" I observed. And 
in abject fear of being pounced upon 
there and then, and done equally 
well by, I walked away. 

When we had got to a safe dis- 
tance, I looked at Berthe. She was 
as white as ashes. Indeed, if I look- 
ed half as guilty, it is nothing short 
of a miracle that we were not both 
seized on the spot and carried off to 
the Prefecture de Police. 



TJie Last Days before the Siege. 



671 



" Let this be a lesson to us never 
to speak to any one in the street 
while things are in this state," said 
Berthe. " Indeed, the safest way 
would be not to speak at all, espe- 
cially in a foreign language, for what- 
ever they don't understand they set 
down as German, and to be a Ger- 
man is of course to be a spy." 

After this we walked on in silence. 
Evidently Berthe no longer looked on 
my fears as chimerical or matter for 
laughter, and, puerile as the incident 
was, I believe it put an end to my 
hesitation, and decided me to leave 
Paris with as little delay as possible. 
She had not realized as much as I 
had, but the spy-fever had spread so 
alarmingly within the last few days 
that what had first been merely a re- 
curring panic was now a fixed idea 
that had grown to insanity. You 
might read suspicion and fear written 
on the faces of the people as you 
went along. They walked in twos 
and threes without speaking, glanc- 
ing timidly on every side, and trying 
to carry it off with an air of indiffer- 
ence or preoccupation. Every one 
was in mortal fear of being pointed 
at and hooted off to the nearest 
paste. No nationality was safe. A 
few Englishmen who had fallen vic- 
tims to the popular mania, and been 
subjected to a night's hospitality at 
the expense of the government, had 
published their experiences, and de- 
scribed the sort of entertainment pre- 
pared for casual visitors, and it was 
anything but enticing : a salle cram- 
med full of every kind and degree of 
sinner, from the imaginary spy whip- 
ped up on the pavement without 
proof or witness, to the lowest va- 
grants of the worst character, all put 
in for the same offence, and huddled 
up together without a chair to sit on 
or air to breathe. Those who were 
lucky enough to be set free after a 
short term of durance vile were 



warmly congratulated by their 
friends, and retired into private life 
without further Mat. Some English 
subjects were simple enough to ven- 
ture a protest against the unceremo- 
nious proceeding on the part of the 
police, and were politely reminded 
that the gates of the city were still 
open and trains ready to convey 
them to many places of more agree- 
able manners where the sacred person 
of a British subject ran no risk of 
being mistaken for a common mortal, 
but that, while they choose to remain 
within the gates, they must take the 
consequences. And this was, after 
all, the best answer they could make, 
and it behooved all sensible British 
subjects to abide by it. I parted 
from Berthe at the corner of her own 
street, and went home to pack up 
and start the next day by the twelve 
o'clock train. 

I stopped on my way to the sta- 
tion to take leave of her. It was 
near eleven o'clock. Contrary to 
my expectations, I found her up and 
dressed, instead of lolling in disha- 
bille on her couch. But this was not 
the only surprise awaiting me. The 
whole appearance of the house was 
changed. The portieres and curtains 
were taken down ; the two salons were 
emptied of their furniture, and four iron 
beds placed in the large one and two in 
the small one. A young woman was 
busy cutting out bandages with a 
great basket of linen beside her in 
Berthe's room that soft, Sybarite 
room, so unused to such company 
and such occupation. Her face was 
concealed by a broad-frilled Ven- 
dean cap, but on hearing us enter 
she turned round, and I recognized 
the bride-widow of the Br6ton vol- 
unteer. 

" We are going to work very hard 
together," said Berthe, putting her 
hand on the girl's shoulder. " Jean- 
nette is to teach me to make poul- 



6/2 



The Last Days before the Siege. 



tices, and to dress wounds, and to do 
all kinds of useful things that one wants 
to know how to do for the wound- 
ed. She is quite an adept in the ser- 
vice, it seems, so I hope our little 
ambulance will be well managed and 
comfortable for the dear soldiers." 

Jeannette's eyes filled with tears, 
and she took Berthe's hand and 
kissed it. Just at this moment Fran- 
gois came in to say there were some 
Soeursde Charite'vt\iO wanted to speak 
to madame. Berthe and Jeannette 
went out to meet them, and as they 
left the room Antoinette came in 
through the dressing-room. She 
threw up her arms when she per- 
ceived me, and looked toward the 
salon with blank despair in her face. 

" The world is upside down," she 
said, " everything is going topsy-tur- 
vy ; what between the war, and the 
siege, and the rest of it, one doesn't 
know what to expect next ; but of all 
the queer things going, the queerest 
is what is happening in this house. 
To think of le salon de la comtesse be- 
ing turned into a hospital ! That I 
should live to see such things ! Ma- 
dame does well to go away ; people 
are all going crazy in this country, 
and they say it's catching." 

" So it is, Antoinette," I said, " and 
the best thing I can wish you is that 
you may catch it yourself." 

Berthe wanted to come with me to 
the station, but I would not let her. 
I preferred to carry away my last im- 
pression of her as I saw her now. 
She was dressed in a plain dark silk, 
with a white apron before her, and a 
soft cambric handkerchief tied loose- 
ly round her head ; the quaint, half- 
nunlike dress seemed to me to be- 
come her more than the most artistic 
of M. Grandhomme's combinations, 
and as I watched her going from 
room to room with a duster in her 
hand, changing the chairs and tables, 
and working as deftly as an accom- 



plished housemaid, her face flushed 
with the exercise and bright with a 
new-found joy, I thought I had nev- 
er seen her look so beautiful. So we 
parted in that blue chamber that was 
henceforth to have a new memory of 
its own to both of us. Before I had 
started from my own house, the news 
of Sedan had come in, and spread 
like wild-fire. All that I had previ- 
ously witnessed of popular excite- 
ment was cold and calm compared 
with what I beheld on my way to the 
station. The city was like a galvan- 
ized nightmare, electrifying and elec- 
trified into hubbub and madness. 
Rage and despair were riding the 
whirlwind with suspicion tied like a 
bandage on their eyes. The cry of 
Treason ! out-topped all other cries ; 
every man suspected his brother and 
accused him ; the air was filled with 
curses and threats, and there was no 
voice strong enough to rise above the 
popular tumult and subdue it. If 
there had been, what might not have 
come of it? If at that moment 
there had been a voice loud enough 
to speak to the hurricane, and com- 
pel those millions of tongues to be si- 
lent and listen to the truth, and then 
gather them into one great voice that 
would lift itself up in a unit of har- 
mony and power that would have 
been heard, not only to the ends of 
Paris, but to the ends of France, 
What might not have been done ? 
what might not have been saved ? 
But it was not to be. Nothing came 
of the discord but discord. The 
strong hand that might even then 
have welded all these suicidal ele- 
ments of hate, and fury, and suspi- 
cion into a vigorous bond of action 
was not forthcoming ; the strife was 
to go on to the bitter end, till the soil 
of fair France was drenched with 
blood, and all her energies spent, and 
her youth and chivalry laid low in 
bootless butchery. 



The Last Days before the Siege. 



673 



The blocks that stopped our pro- 
gress in every street made it a diffi- 
cult matter to get to the railway, and 
when we eventually did get there we 
were a quarter of an hour behind our 
time. But, as it happened, this was 
of no consequence ; we had to wait 
another hour before the train started. 
Meantime the confusion was inde- 
scribable. Several wagons full of 
wounded had arrived by the last 
train, and a regiment of the line was 
waiting to start by the next. The 
Place was filled with soldiers, some 
were lying at full length fast asleep 
under the hot noon sun, others were 
smoking and chatting near their 
arms that were stacked here and 
there; some of the poor fellows had 
been out before, and were only just 
recovering from their wounds; they 
looked worn and weak as if hardly 
able to bear themselves ; women were 
clinging to them, weeping and la- 
menting ; inside the station, travellers 
were rushing frantically from bureau 
to bureau ; then in despair at ever 
getting through the crowd that be- 
sieged every wicket, they would 
sieze some unlucky porter with a 
band on his hat, and implore him in 
heart-rending tones to help them to 
a ticket, and, when he protested that 
such a service was not in his power 
they would belabor him vindictively 
with hard words, and make another 
rush at the bureau. 

At last we were off. It was an 
exciting journey, such as I hope 
never to make again. The lines were 
encumbered with trains full of wound- 
ed coming and troops going, and 
our pace was regulated with a view 
to avoid running into those ahead 
or being run into by those behind. 
Now we darted on at a terrific speed, 
the engine wriggling from rail to rail 
like a snake gone mad ; then we 
would pull up spasmodically and 
crawl almost at a foot-pace, then off 
VOL. xv. 43 



we flew again like a telegram. 
Trains flashed past us on either side 
every now and then with a tremen- 
dous roar, and soldiers sang out 
snatches of war-songs, and we cheer- 
ed them and waved hands and 
handkerchiefs to them in return. We 
had started an hour and a quarter 
behind our time, and we arrived 
three hours after we were due. For 
two hours before we reached Bou- 
logne, the danger lights were flash- 
ing ahead, red and lurid in the dark- 
ness, and it was with something like 
the feeling of being rescued from a 
house on fire that we set foot at last 
on the platform. Once in safety, I 
was able to look back more calmly 
on the history of the last fortnight. 
It seemed to me that I had been 
standing on a rock, watching the 
tide roll in, creeping gradually high- 
er and nearer to my standpoint till 
I felt the cold touch of the water on 
my feet, and leaped ashore. 

And Berthe ? She stood out like 
a bright star transfiguring the dense 
darkness of the picture. The change 
I had witnessed in her appeared to 
me like the promise of other changes, 
wider, deeper, universal. I had 
ceased to wonder at the choice she 
had made ; the more I thought of it, 
the more I felt that she was worthy 
of -it as it was of her, and the only 
wish I could form for her now was, 
that she might be strong to per- 
severe unto the end. The course 
she had adopted was the noblest and 
the only true one for a Frenchwo- 
man while France was suffering, and 
struggling, and bleeding to death. 
While the war-cry and the battle 
psalm were clanging around, it was 
not meant for the women of France 
to sit idly in luxurious ease, and 
watch the death-struggle of the na- 
tion in indifference or mere passive 
sympathy. We may none of us 
stand aloof from our brethren in 



6/4 



The Clerke of Oxenforde. 



such a crisis, or take refuge in cow- 
ardly neutrality. Neutrality in the 
brotherhood of Freedom is desertion, 
treachery. We have each our ap- 
pointed post in the battle, and we 
cannot desert it without being trai- 
tors. We must all fight somehow. 
Not of necessity with iron or steel, 
but we must fight. Moses had 
neither bow nor arrow nor javelin 
when he got up on the moun- 
tain and watched with uplifted arms 
the conflict in the valley below, 
but yet he was not neutral. So to 
the end of time it must be with all 
of us. We must fight somehow ; we 
may never abide in selfish peace or a 
sense of isolated security while the 
brethren around are at war ; whither- 
soever the battle goes, to victory or de- 
feat, to glory or humiliation, we must 
take our share in it, and let our hearts 
go on fighting faithfully to the end. We 
must love the combatants through . 
good and evil alike; through the 



smoke and din we must discern every 
ennobling incident of the struggle, 
such as there abounds on every bat- 
tle-field in every land, .seeing all 
things in their true proportions, shut- 
ting our hearts inexorably to despair, 
making them wide to endless sympa- 
thy with the good, to inexhaustible 
pity for the wicked. The smoke 
must not blind us; the crash and 
the roar must not deafen us ; 
through the agony of souls, despair, 
and hate, and sin, we must have 
our vision clear and strong to recog- 
nize the loveliness of virtue, the di- 
vine beauty of sacrifice, the infinite 
possibilities of repentance, the joy of 
the conquerors, the sweetness of the 
kiss of peace. Loving all love. 
Hating all hate. We must see an- 
gels outnumbering fiends in incal- 
culable degree, light triumphing over 
darkness, and the breath of purity 
healing the blue corruption of the 
world. 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



THE CLERKE OF OXENFORDE. 

Ax his beddes hed 

Twenty bokes clothed in blake or red, 
Of Aristotle and his philosophic, 
Than robes riche, fidel or sautrie, 
For al be that he was a philosopher 
Yet hadde he but litel gold in coffer, 
And all that he might of his frendes hente 
On bokes and on learning he it spente, 
And besily gan for the soules praie 
Of them that gave him wherewith to scholaie. 

Chaucer. 



A Bad Beginning for a Saint. 



675 



A BAD BEGINNING FOR A SAINT; 

OR, THE EARLY LIFE OF FATHER CHAUMONOT, A CELEBRATED MISSION- 
ARY IN CANADA. 



LIVES of saints are somewhat dis- 
couraging reading at times to poor 
mortals, who feel that they have a 
good deal of human nature in them, 
and that somehow human nature is 
more disposed to play the part of 
mistress than of handmaiden to 
grace. 

These holy souls seem from the 
cradle so innocent, so faithful, that 
they appear a higher creation than 
ourselves, and accordingly it is no 
less consoling than encouraging at 
times to find early shortcomings 
overcome by a tardy fidelity to grace, 
and sanctity attained. 

In the early annals of Canada, 
there are few names more revered 
than that of Father Peter Mary 
Joseph Chaumonot, whose impas- 
sioned eloquence gathered round him 
at Onondaga the braves and sachems 
of the Iroquois, wondering to hear 
their unlabial language flow so 
smoothly from the lips of a white 
man who founded at Montreal the 
Society of the Holy Family, which has 
been such a potent instrument in 
maintaining in Canadian homes the 
true family spirit of Catholicity and 
devotion and who founded near 
Quebec a new Loretto in this Western 
world for the Huron Indians, whom 
he so long directed and guided, after 
he saw himself deprived of the mar- 
tyr's crown which so many of his fel- 
low-laborers won near the shores of 
Lake Huron. 

Yet good Father Chaumonot, we 
are sorry to say, began life as a 
young scamp; and to encourage 
those who sometimes despair of 



mauvais snjets whom Providence has 
placed under their charge, we will 
give the story of his early years in 
Chaumonot's own inimitable language. 
Late in life, by command of his supe- 
riors, he wrote an autobiographical 
account, and from it we extract : 

" For my father I had a poor 
vine-dresser and for mother a poor 
schoolmaster's daughter. At the 
age of six, they placed me with my 
grandfather, five or six leagues from 
our village, that I might learn to 
read and write. They then took me 
home, but only for a short time, one 
of my uncles, a priest residing at 
Chatillon-sur-Seine, having had the 
kindness to take me to his house, so 
that I might study in the college in 
that place. 

" When I had made some progress 
in Latin, my uncle wished me to 
learn plain chant, under one of my 
class who was a musician. This fel- 
low persuaded me to leave Chatillon 
and follow him to Beaune, where we 
were to study under the Fathers of the 
Oratory. As I did not wish to un- 
dertake this journey without funds, I 
stole about a hundred sous from my 
uncle while he was in the church. 
With this we took flight. 

" We travelled by by-ways to Dijon, 
whence we made our way to Beaune. 
There we put up with a townsman, 
but as my finances were short, I 
wrote to ask my mother to have the 
goodness to supply me with money 
and clothes, so that I might pursue 
my studies at Beaune, where I hoped 
to make more rapid progress than at 
Chatillon. The letter fell into my 



6;6 



A Bad Beginning for a Saint. 



father's hands, and he answered me 
that he would send me nothing; that 
I must return; and that he would 
make peace with my uncle for me. 

" This reply filled me with dismay. 
To return to my uncle was to expose 
myself to be pointed at as a thief, 
and yet to stay any longer at Beaune 
was out of the question. So 1 re- 
solved to run around the world as a 
vagabond, rather than bear the shame 
my rascality deserved. I started 
from Beaune with the intention of 
going to Rome, though I had not a 
sou or a change. I travelled alone 
for half a day; then I fell in with 
two young men of Lorraine, who sa- 
luted me and asked me whither I 
was going. " To Rome," quoth I, 
" to gain the pardons." They ap- 
plauded my design, and entertained 
me with the object of their own jour- 
ney to Lyons. 

"Meanwhile I was thinking what 
was to become of me, and what I 
was to live on, if I continued my jour- 
ney. Begging was in my ideas too 
degrading, I could not bring myself 
to work for my living, and there was 
little chance of my doing it, for I was 
unaccustomed to labor and knew no 
trade. Fortunately, my two Lorrain- 
ers, who were no better stocked with 
money than I was, began to beg from 
door to door in the first town we 
came to. Who was dumfounded to 
see them ply this trade ? Myself, 
who, after some deliberation, conclu- 
ded to imitate them rather than 
starve, so powerfully had their exam- 
ple made easy what had previously 
appeared impossible. Such was rny 
apprenticeship as a beggar, but as I 
was only a beginner at the trade, I 
gained but a wretched livelihood. 
However, I flattered myself that on 
reaching a city so large as Lyons, 
some good fortune would turn up. 
But, alas! I was astonished to find 
myself arrested by the sentinels, who 



let my companions pass on account 
of their passports, and detained me 
because I had none. , 

" I did not know what was to be- 
come of me, or even where I was to 
get shelter. I saw many large build- 
ings, but I durst not ask the least 
corner there to pass the night in. 
At last, spying a wretched shed oppo- 
site a glass furnace, I crept under it. 
Would to heaven I had then had 
sense enough to take rny sufferings 
as an expiation of my sins, and 
united my poverty to that of my 
Saviour lying in a stable ! 

" Next morning, seeing at the river- 
side a boat where people were em- 
barking to cross the Rhone, I begged 
the boatman to give me a passage 
out of charity. This he did, be- 
cause in fact the city paid him to 
carry beyond the river all the beg- 
gers who were refused entrance into 
the city. 

" When I got to the other side, I 
met a young man who promised to 
make the tour to Italy with me. 

" We had just started off together 
when we met a priest returning from 
Rome. He did his best to persuade 
us to forego our projected pilgrimage 
and return home. Among other rea- 
sons, he told us that our want of 
passports would prevent our getting 
entrance into any city on our way. 
I asked him whether he had one, 
and he had no sooner shown it to 
me than I begged him to allow me 
to make a copy of it, which I did on 
the spot, inserting my own name and 
my companion's instead of his. 

" Oh ! why did I not then offer to 
God the hardships of nakedness, fa- 
tigue, heat, cold, and the thousand 
other miseries I suffered on that 
journey ! I should have had the 
happiness of drawing down upon me 
the blessings of heaven. Our com- 
mon Father would not have refused 
them to me, beholding in me some 



A Bad Beginning for a Saint, 



677 



traits of the poverty and sufferings 
of his Son, but alas ! my pride and 
other sins, which rendered me more 
like the devil than I was to our Lord 
by my poverty, were great obstacles 
to grace in me. Yet, O my God ! 
thoti hadst thy views in permitting 
me to commit fault on fault, folly on 
folly ! Thou didst deign to set me 
free from all inordinate love to my 
parents, which, had I remained always 
with them, would have prevented my 
consecrating myself entirely to thee. 
Thou didst design that when I grew 
up the remembrance of my trials 
should make me sympathize with 
more love and gratitude in the suffer- 
ings of thy Son. 

" But I should be tedious were I to 
recount ail the faults I committed, 
and all the miseries that befel me on 
my way. I shall give only the prin- 
cipal adventures^ 

u The first that occurs to my mind 
is that, when in Savoy, I entered the 
court of our college at Chambery, 
where I asked in Latin for alms. 
One of the fathers was so touched at 
my wretched state that he gave me 
supper, and even promised to take me 
back to Lyons, whither he was about 
to go, and send me from that point 
to Chatillon. At first I thanked him 
as well as I could, and promised to 
follow him, but as soon as he left 
me I took flight, my money always 
terrifying me from the thought of re- 
turning to my parents. Was I not 
out of my senses, and did I not well 
deserve all the evils that befel me, 
when I refused such kind offers for 
my own quiet, and the comfort of 
my poor family ? How deplorable 
was the blindness of my proud spirit, 
to choose to face countless dangers 
and hardships, rather than undergo 
a wholesome reprimand! 

" In a village in Savoy we met a 
good parish priest, who took us to his 
house, and, after giving us supper, al- 



lowed us to sleep on the bed of his 
servant, whom he had sent to Cham- 
bery. This gentleman slept in a 
room over his valet's, which was en- 
tered by a ladder, at the top of which 
was a trap-door, which our host 
neglected to close properly, so that 
about midnight a cat pursuing her 
prey threw it down. The noise was 
sufficient to awake the priest, who 
imagined that we were trying to en- 
ter his room for no good purpose. 
So he jumped out of bed and, attired 
as he was, rushed out on a balcony, 
crying Murder ! murder ! murder ! at 
the top of his voice. No less alarm- 
ed, I ran up the ladder and reassured 
him by explaining the innocent cause 
of all the trouble. Fortunately for 
us, the neighbors were not awakened 
by their pastor's voice. 

" Here is another adventure where 
we ran greater risk. In a town in the 
Valteline we found a French garrison 
reduced to a very small number of 
soldiers, so that the officers urged us 
strongly to enlist. I would have con- 
sented to get my bread every day in 
this manner, in the hunger I suf- 
fered, but my wiser comrade would 
hear nothing of it. All they got 
from us was our consent to await 
the arrival of the commissary, who 
was daily expected. They led us to 
hope that we should receive the same 
pay as real soldiers. Meanwhile, 
they wished to see what figure we 
would cut on parade. It was 
easy enough to travesty into a sol- 
dier my comrade, who was a big fel- 
low ; but as I appeared a mere boy, 
from my youth and small body, 
there was some difficulty in finding 
a sword to suit me. That which 
they judged best suited to my size 
had an eel or snake -skin scabbard, 
and for want of belt or baldric they 
tied it around with an ass' halter. I 
appeared so ridiculous in this that 
they resolved to put me to bed as 



6;8 



A Bad Beginning- for a Saint. 



sick when the commissary came. 
While awaiting that event, we lived 
on the king's bread, and my com- 
rade was in a constant shiver lest we 
should be regarded as interlopers or 
be detained there in spite of our- 
selves. He made the danger out so 
great that I yielded to his urging. 
Bent on pursuing our pilgrimage to 
Rome, we started one fine morning, 
but had not travelled mere than a 
mile and a half when we were arrest- 
ed by some soldiers, who had orders 
to seize all deserters they found and 
take them back to their officers. 
'Alas!' I cried with 'tears, 'have I 
the look of a military man ? I am a 
poor student, who has taken a vow 
to go to Rome.' So pathetic was my 
accent that it touched them, and 
they let us go. If God had not 
given them compassion for us, what 
would have become of us? He 
saved us from another danger after 
we had entered Italy. 

" Towards nightfall we reached a 
hostelry by the roadside, where we 
proposed to sleep, but we counted 
without our host. We had scarcely 
eaten our wretched supper, which he 
made us pay for as dearly as he wish- 
ed, when, in spite of all our demands 
that he would at least give us shelter 
in one of his stables, he barbarously 
drove us out. It would not have 
been so bad could we have slept by 
the light of the stars, but there were 
none, and the weather, which was 
overcast, soon poured down on us a 
drenching rain. Our clothes were 
all soaked, and, to cap the climax, the 
road was full of holes and ditches 
that we did not see, so that we made 
almost as many tumbles as steps. 

" We were well-nigh used up when 
a gleam of light enabled us to make 
out a stable. As we crawled to- 
wards it, \ve found a great stack of 
straw quite near it. We climbed up 
on it and made a hole in the top 



to creep in. As we were chilled 
through, especially our feet, we put 
them under each other's arm-pits, 
lying so that my head was opposite 
my companion's. We were just be- 
ginning to get warm when some 
large dogs, scenting us, came running 
up barking furiously. At this noise 
the people ran out of the farm-house 
and tried to drive us off with stones. 
This new kind of hail did not suffer 
us to remain in our quarters, and fear 
of the dogs prevented our leaving 
them. I then thought it high time 
to speak, and my skill in getting up 
tears served my turn here as it had 
already done in getting us off when 
arrested as deserters. So I began to 
shout out in Latin: Nos sttmus pau- 
peres peregrini. As the last word is 
Italian also, it informed these good 
people who we were. They took 
pity on us, called off their dogs, and 
left us to pass the rest of the night in 
peace. 

" After many hardships and suffer- 
ings we reached Ancona. Alas ! 
who can express the wretched con- 
dition to which my vagabond life 
had reduced me ! From head to foot, 
everything about me inspired hor- 
ror. I was barefooted, having been 
obliged to throw away my shoes, 
which were broken and galled me. 
My shirt was rotting, my tattered 
clothes swarmed with vermin, my 
uncombed head was filled with so 
horrible a disease that it swarmed 
with worms and matter of most 
loathsome stench. . . It was only 
at Ancona that I was aware of the 
extent of this disease, when on 
scratching it I found a worm on my 
hand. At the sight of this my con- 
sternation was unspeakable. ' Must 
I, then,' I said to myself, ' in punish- 
ment of my villanies, be eaten alive 
by worms and vermin ? I no longer 
wonder that when I take off my hat 
before people, they show wonder 



A Bad Beginning for a Saint. 



679 



and hoiror at the sight. What is to 
become of me ? Am 1 not a sicken- 
ing sight to all the world ? O sad 
chastisement of my pride ! ' 

" After all, I resumed courage as I 
approached the Holy House of Lo- 
retto. Perhaps the Blessed Virgin, 
who performs so many miracles in 
this sacred spot in favor of the 
wretched, will take pity on my mise- 
ry ! Ah ! why had I not then the 
knowledge I subsequently acquired 
of the wonders wrought by her in 
that sanctuary in favor of soul and 
body ? I should have had a far diffe- 
rent confidence in her power and 
goodness ! 

" Although I invoked her coldly 
enough, she showed me that, inde- 
pendently of our merit and disposi- 
tion, she is pleased to exercise to- 
wards us the duties of a real mother ; 
and as one of these duties is to see 
to the cleanliness of their children, 
thou didst regard me in that light, 
O Blessed Virgin ! unworthy as I was 
and am to be adopted by thee as thy 
son. Thou didst inspire a young 
man whom I was never able to dis- 
cover with the will and power to 
heal my head. Thou knowest better 
than I how it was accomplished. 
Yet I will not omit in token of grati- 
tude to set down what I know. 

" On leaving the Holy House of 
Mary, an unknown person, who 
seemed to be a young man and who 
was perhaps an angel, said to me 
with an air and tone of pity : ' My 
dear boy, what a wretched head you 
have ! Come, follow me, I will try to 
apply some remedy.' I followed 
him : he took me outside the church, 
behind a large pillar, where no one 
passed. Having reached this retired 
spot, he made me sit down, and bade 
me remove my hat. I obeyed. He 
cut off all my hair with scissors, rub- 
bed my poor head with a white cloth, 
and, without my feeling any pain, 



entirely removed all trace of the dis- 
ease and its hideous accompani- 
ments. He then put my hat on 
again. I thanked him for his char- 
ity ; he left me, and I am yet to see 
a better physician or experience a 
more wretched disease. 

" If the least lady had done me this 
service by her lowest valet, should I 
not render her all possible thanks ? 
And if. after such a charity, she 
had offered always to serve me in 
the same way, how should I not feel 
bound to honor, obey, and love her 
all my life ! Pardon, Queen of an- 
gels and of men ! pardon me, that 
after receiving from thee so many 
marks convincing me that thou hast 
adopted me as thy son, I have been 
so ungrateful as for whole years to 
act more as a slave of Satan than 
the child of a Virgin Mother. Oh ! 
how good and charitable art thou, 
since, in spite of the obstacles my sins 
have raised to thy graces, thou hast 
never ceased to draw me towards 
good ; till thou hast caused me to be 
admitted into the holy Society of 
Jesus, thy Son. 

" My comrade and I resumed the 
road to Rome, after spending three 
days at Loretto ; but God stopped 
me at Terni, in Umbria, to change 
my beggar life for a place as valet. 
I was begging from door to door as 
usual, when a venerable old man, a 
doctor of laws, invited me to 
stay with him to attend him in the 
house and accompany him to town. 
I was so weary of my beggar's trade 
that I readily accepted the citizen's 
offer to become his lackey ; I even did 
the lowest tasks, for there was noth- 
ing that did not seem sweet and hon- 
orable compared to the hardships 
and humiliations which had made 
me loathe my mendicant life. 

" I had been some time at Terni, but 
as I had not picked up enough Ital- 
ian to confess in that language, I 



68o 



A Bad Beginning for a Saint. 



made my confession in Latin to a 
father of the Society of Jesus. After 
my confession, he questioned me as 
to my studies. I told him that I 
was in rhetoric when I allowed my- 
self to be led astray. He manifest- 
ed the regret he felt to see me reduc- 
ed to so low a condition after start- 
ing so well in my education. He 
urged me to resume my studies ; and 
to facilitate this he proposed, if I 
chose, to have me received into the 
college, where I would advance in 
science and virtue. I took his pro- 
posal ill, imagining he wished to 
make a Jesuit of me ; but in the se- 
quel I had every reason to believe 
that this wise religious merely wished 
to give me at first the place of a 
young secular who taught the lowest 
class in the college. Would to God 
I had then commenced to do so ! 
How many sins I should have avoid- 
ed ! I did indeed go two days after 
to see the father and remind him of 
it, but as I did not know his name, I 
was stupid enough to ask for 'the 
father who heard my confession.' 
The scholars in the college yard to 
whom I put this question roared at 
my folly, and that was enough to send 
me back quicker than I came. 
However, I asked the doctor whom 
I served what kind of people the 
Jesuits were. He answered me 
carelessly that they received only 
persons of rank and talent, that their 
order was less austere than others, 
and that you could leave it even after 
taking the vows. These last traits 
with which he described them did 
not displease me. I would willingly 
have entered among them for a time. 
I was not yet fit for the kingdom of 
God, as I looked behind me before 
putting my hand to the plough. 

" As I began to understand Italian, 
I read devotional books in that lan- 
guage, and among the rest one, The 
Lives of the Fathers of the Desert, in- 



spired me with the desire of becom- 
ing a hermit. Thereupon, without 
consulting any one, I left my master's 
house with the view of going to bury 
myself in some wilderness in France 
after I had visited Rome. 

" As I left the city I met my doc- 
tor's daughter, and explained my in- 
tention to her, so that they should 
not be alarmed at my sudden disap- 
pearance. After I had travelled a 
few leagues, I thought I would try 
whether I could live on herbs like the 
anchorites. I took some growing 
wheat, put it in my mouth, chewed 
it, but could not swallow it, so I fell 
back on my trade of beggar, which 
did not prevent my suffering consid- 
erably from hunger, even in Rome, 
for I did not know the religious 
houses where alms were given at 
stated days and hours. The noviti- 
ate of the Jesuits at St. Andrew's is 
one of these charitable places, and 
the only one I knew. Although my 
would-be vocation to the eremitical 
life was somewhat shaken, I started 
from Rome intending to return to 
France. Retracing the same road 
I came by, I reached Terni, but 
not daring to return to my master, I 
retired to a soap-maker of my ac- 
quaintance, where I spent the night. 
The next morning he told the doctor, 
who was good enough to invite me 
back to his service. I at once accepted 
his offer, renouncing for ever beg- 
gary, for which I had now a greater 
horror than ever. 

" My good master had an intimate 
friend called II Signore Capitone, 
who some time after my return to 
Terni told my doctor that he would 
like to have me at his house as tutor to 
his two sons, who were studying at the 
college of the Society of Jesus. My 
master consented, and, after speaking 
to me, sent me to his friend. I was 
received with open arms, and present- 
ed the next day to our fathers, who 



A Bad Beginning for a Saint. 



68 1 



put me in rhetoric. I was not long 
studying under them without feeling 
stimulated to imitate the virtues 
which I admired in these worthy ser- 
vants of God. One thing prevented 
openness with my confessor, and it 
was that I could not bring myself to 
acknowledge my low birth, for up to 
this time I had boasted that my fa- 
ther was a procureur du roi (district 
attorney), and I was ashamed to un- 
say it or keep on saying it. Several 
months rolled on in this combat of 
nature and grace, the latter pressing 
me to declare my vocation, the 
former preventing it. However, God, 
wishing me to be received into the 
Society, prepared the occasion. 

" A young ecclesiastic paid by the 
fathers taught one of the lower classes, 
but, getting tired of it, asked to be re- 
lieved. They cast their eyes on me, 
and promised me the same salary. 
The gentleman with whom I dwelt 
consenting, I became regent or teach- 
er. God gave me grace to economize 
my earnings, and when I had a pretty 
good sum I divided it between the 
churches and the poor. I even tried 
to imitate at least in something the 
great St. Nicholas, by throwing some 
money one night into a house where 
there was a girl in want. 

" Our Lord rewarded me well for 
these liberalities by the great grace 
he did me by calling me strongly to 
the religious state. One day among 
others, Avhile they were celebrating in 
the church the feast of Blessed Fran- 
cis Borgia, not then canonized, I was 
so touched by the sermon of the 
Jesuit father that, to follow as far as 
I could the example of the blessed 
Francis, I made a vow to leave the 
world and enter religion either 
among the Jesuits, if they were will- 
ing to receive me, or, in case they 
deemed me unworthy of that favor, 
among the Capuchins or Recollects." 

\Ye will not follow his account of 



some interior struggles that followed. 
When the provincial of the order ar- 
rived at Terni, the accounts given were 
so favorable that Chaumonot was re- 
ceived and sent with good letters to 
the novitiate of St. Andrew's at 
Rome. " I was twenty-one years 
old," says he, " when 1 entered the no- 
vitiate May 1 8, 1632." But he did 
not finish it there. A nobleman had 
founded a novitiate at Florence, and 
young Chaumonot with others was 
sent there six months after his en- 
trance. The master of novices here, 
less austere than his former one, en- 
couraged him to reveal the great de- 
ception that troubled his conscience. 

" One of the first things I asked 
this second master of novices was 
that, to punish my pride, he should 
question me in public as to the con- 
dition of my parents, my coming into 
Italy, and how I had been employed. 
I hoped thus to expiate to some ex- 
tent my faults, and especially the 
falsehood I had uttered to conceal 
my low birth. He consented. One 
day, when all the novitiate was as- 
sembled, he questioned me on all 
these points. God gave me grace 
to practise the humiliation which he 
had inspired, and I publicly declared 
who I was, how and why I had left 
France, and what had been my ad- 
ventures in Italy. The holy man 
added to my avowal as I had pro- 
posed making it, another act of mor- 
tification that I had not counted on. 
He told me to sing one of my vil- 
lage songs, and for this purpose made 
me mount on a trunk as my stage. 
I tried to obey, but the music was 
not long. My memory could bring 
up only a dancing tune. I started 
it. After the first couplet, the father 
stopped me, crying : ' Shame ! what 
a ridiculous song! If you don't 
know a better one, never sing again.' " 

His joy in the abode of religion 
was unbounded. To find himself 



682 



A Bad Beginning for a Saint. 



admitted among young men so far 
superior to him in all that the world 
esteems, gave him constant occa- 
sions for zeal and fervor. Yet his 
trials were not ended. The health 
which had stood the hardships of his 
gipsy life now became so impaired 
that there was some hesitation whe- 
ther he should be allowed to take 
his vows. 

But heaven favored his desires. He 
returned to Rome, and was thence 
sent to the college at Fermo, to his 
intense delight; for it was but a short 
distance from that Holy House 
which was to his last breath the one 
beloved spot of earth to his warm 
heart, throbbing with love for the 
Holy Family. 

He easily won permission to make 
a pilgrimage to that shrine ; and the 
young French runaway of former 
days, a spectacle to excite pity and 
horror, would not now be recognized 
in the talented young Italian Jesuit, 
Calmanotti. His mother tongue 
even was lost, but a French father 
at Loretto gave him some books in 
his native language, and urged him 
to recover it. After a time it came 
back, and he could read with ease. 

As a teacher, he won the favor of 
his pupils and his superiors, for he 
seemed to possess the donum famce, 
that singular gift which constitutes 
popularity, and wins its way with 
men of all nations and places. 

While pursuing his theology at 
Rome, he became acquainted with 
Father Poncet de la Riviere, a Pari- 
sian Jesuit just completing his divini- 
ty course in the Holy City, destined at 
a later day to be hurried through 
Northern New York by savage cap- 
tors and to reach the Mohawk amid 
torture and suffering. 

One day this father placed in the 
hands of his young and brilliant 
countryman one of those Jesuit Rela- 
tions our bibliomaniacs now prize so 



highly. Chaumonot read with won 
der and excited interest the narrative 
of the heroic Brebeuf and his call for 
religious to labor with him in con- 
verting the Indians of New France. 
To him it was a personal call, and 
he responded. There were obstacles, 
but he applied for everything, per- 
mission to abridge his course of stu- 
dy, permission to be ordained, per- 
mission to start as early as possible 
for France to catch the ships on their 
annual voyage. 

Yet with all his eagerness and 
haste, he clung to one spot of Italy. 
He could not leave it without kneel- 
ing once more as a pilgrim in the 
Santa Casa, and bearing it in his 
heart of hearts to the New World, 
till he could erect there a Loretto on 
the model of that he so revered. 
His devotion to the Holy Family led 
him to adopt the name of Joseph 
and Mary, and to choose for saying 
his first Mass the Loretto Chapel, 
erected after the model of the Santa 
Casa by Cardinal Pallotti. 

An unfortunate hiatus in his auto- 
biography prevents our following him 
through France, and witnessing his 
meeting with his family and his long 
farewell. The uncle, we can well 
believe, readily pardoned the esca- 
pade of one who was now showing 
such devotion and self-sacrifice ; 
while the mother must have pressed 
to her heart the son now more than 
ever dear to her. 

The Canada fleet sailed from 
Dieppe, and thither Chaumonot and 
Poncet bent their way. The fleet 
and its voyage are historical. As 
the old chronicle remarks, it bore " a 
College of Jesuits, a House of Hos- 
pital Nuns, and an Ursuline Con- 
vent," the last accompanied by Ma- 
dame de la Peltrie, the foundress 
and Mother Mary of the Incarna- 
tion, as first superior. Of the 
Hospital Nuns whose contemplated 



A Bad Beginning for a Saint. 



683 



establishment was endowed by Riche- 
lieu's niece, the Duchess d'Aiguil- 
lon, and the great cardinal himself 
Mary Guenet of St. Ignatius had in 
chapter been appointed to assume 
direction. The passage of the ocean 
was not without its risks. Riche- 
lieu's attempt to create a French 
navy, and his motto, so adroitly allud- 
ing to the arms of France : 

" Florent quoque lilia pronto" 
(E'en on the waters lilies bloom), 

had excited jealousy, and cruisers, 
privateers of all kinds, were ready to 
sweep away the cargoes destined for 
the colonies the far-sighted minister 
sought to create. 

But fearless of this danger the fleet 
swept out of Dieppe on the 4th of 
May, 1639, and the convent life, with 
almost daily Masses, made the flag- 
ship vie in its regularity with the 
time-honored monasteries of the Old 
World. 

But if the danger of hostile cruis- 
ers did not alarm them, the feast of 
the Holy Trinity came with a new 
peril. Dense fogs hung over the 
bosom of the ocean whjle the Mass- 
es were offered. Just as they had 
risen from their adoration, a sailor on 
the deck shrieked : " Mercy ! mercy ! 
we are all lost !" Through the lift- 
ing vapors he caught, within two fa- 
thoms of the ship's side, the flash and 
the glitter of ice. While all sank in 
prayer, offering vows and Masses, 
and the Ursuline Sister St. Joseph 
began to chant the Litany of Loret- 
to, the vanishing mist showed them 
the fearful extent of their danger. 
The iceberg towered high above their 
topmast, its summit still wreathed in 
a cloud of mist, while far and wide it 
extended over the sea. " You would 
have called it a city," says Mother- 
Mary of the Incarnation, " and there 
are cities which are far less extensive 
than this berg," with turrets and 



spires, streets and dwellings, as it 
were of crystal. 

The sails were straining, the wind 
being full in their favor, and the ice- 
berg advancing. All passed in a 
moment. Captain Bontems' voice 
rang out, but providentially the man 
at the wheel, appalled by terror, gave 
a wrong movement, the wind sud- 
denly changed, and the vessel was 
saved, as the ice fairly grazed it, 
and bore away from the magnificent 
object that so recently sent a thrill 
through every heart even the best 
pilots averring that it was a miracle, 
as no human skill could have saved 
them. 

Still storms and fogs delayed the 
ships, and it was not till the i5th of 
July that they entered the port of 
Tadoussac on the lower St. Law- 
rence. Transferred to a fishing- 
smack, the whole party were here de- 
tained several days, but at last on 
the ist of August reached the lower 
town of Quebec. 

The gallant Knight of Malta, 
Huault de Montmagny, Governor- 
General of Canada, received them at 
the wharf, and the city made it a 
general holiday. As the nuns step- 
ped on the American soil which was 
to be the scene of their labors for 
God and the Indians, they knelt to 
kiss the earth. All then proceeded to 
the church, where a Te Deum was 
chanted. 

Father Chaumonot was not to lin- 
ger long at Quebec. A letter of Au- 
gust yth announces that he with three 
other fathers was about to start for the 
Huron country. His stormy sea voy- 
age of three months was followed by a 
month's journey over the rivers and 
lakes and through the vast forests of 
the New World. On the loth of Sep- 
tember, the six Hurons ran their 
bark canoe ashore at the end of 
Lake Tsirorgi, where Father Jerome 
Lalemant was at the moment in 



684 



A Bad Beginning for a Saint. 



a rude cabin he had recently thrown 

up. 

Chaumonot was on the field of 
his labor. Strange indeed was all 
around him. " Our dwellings are of 
bark, like those of the Indians, with 
no partitions except for the chapel. 
For want of table and furniture, we 
eat on the ground and drink out of 
bark. Our kitchen and refectory 
furniture consists of a great wooden 
dish faViotsagamity, which I can com- 
pare to nothing but the paste used 
for wall paper. Our bed is bark 
with a thin blanket ; sheets we have 
none, even in sickness ; but the great- 
est inconvenience is the smoke, which, 
for want of a chimney, fills the whole 
cabin." 

" Our manner of announcing the 
Word of God to the Indians is not 
to go up into a pulpit and preach in 
a public place; we must visit each 
house separately, and by the fire ex- 
plain the mysteries of our holy faith 
to those who choose to listen to it." 

The superior soon recognized in 
the young father to whom the Hu- 
rons gave the name of Oronhiague- 
hee (the Bearer of Heaven) a great 
facility for languages, as well as zeal, 
courage, and perseverance. 

Father Chaumonot began his 
Huron labors at a critical moment. 
The mission among the Wyandot 
tribes, renewed by the great apostle 
Br6beuf soon after the restoration of 
Canada to France, had been fruitful 
in crosses and gave little to encour- 
age the ministers of religion. 

Most of these Indians, obdurate in 
their errors and superstitions, not 
only turned a deaf ear to the teach- 
ings of the missionaries, but, regard- 
ing them as powerful sorcerers, attri- 
buted to them every misfortune that 
befel the tribe or any individual. In 
those wild communities, every one 
^ghts his own wrongs, real or imagin- 
ary. Hence the fearless Jesuits actual- 



ly carried their lives in their hands, 
never free from danger, or without 
the probability of being tomahawked. 

The flotilla that brought up Father 
Chaumonot and Poncet carried also 
the deadly small-pox. As it devas- 
tated town after town, the missiona- 
ries were compelled to bear the re- 
sponsibility of this new scourge. 
Their very efforts to reach the sick, 
to baptize and instruct, were resisted 
with superstitious terror; they were 
driven from cabins; and often, on 
reaching a town, would find every 
lodge closed against them. 

Their crosses were cut down, the 
crucifix torn from their necks, the 
tomahawk often menaced their lives 
while on their errands of mercy or at 
prayer in their cabins. 

It was a position to appall the 
stoutest heart. Yet Chaumonot en- 
tered on his work with alacrity and 
courage, fit associate for those who 
had already braved all the risks and 
perils. None faltered or hesitated. 

They took, however, at this time 
an important step. To enable them 
to act more independently and give 
them at all times a place for retreats, 
as well as a centre of mission work, 
they established St. Mary's, the first 
mission settlement in the West. It 
was on the river Wye, easy of access 
from all the towns where they had 
been laboring. From it the fathers, 
generally two together, proceeded to 
the towns assigned as their field of 
labor. 

The large fortified town of Ossos- 
sane was entrusted to Father Rague- 
neau, and Chaumonot was named 
his assistant. Here the opposition 
and obduracy were such that they 
had actually driven out the mission- 
aries. The young Jesuit went forth 
bravely into this hardened field 
Ossossane and twelve neighboring 
towns. 

In St. Teresa, as the missionaries 



A Bad Beginning for a Saint. 



685 



styled one of these villages, a young 
man solicited instruction and seemed 
to hear it with pleasure. While Fa- 
ther Ragueneau was speaking, an- 
other Indian rushed furiously in and 
ordered the two missionaries to be 
gone. As Father Ragueneau rose, 
the young man whom he had been 
instructing sprang upon him, tore his 
crucifix violently from his neck, and, 
brandishing his tomahawk, bade him 
prepare to die. " I fear not death," 
said Ragueneau; "you should thank 
me for what I have just taught you. 
If you wish to kill me I shall not 
fly, for death will place me in 
heaven." His tomahawk was raised, 
and he dealt the blow. " Father 
Chaumonot and I thought that we 
that moment beheld our long-cher- 
ished desire gratified," but the blow 
was averted how they knew not. 
As he raised his hatchet again his arm 
was caught. 

One day the two fathers were 
passing near a cabin full of sick 
Hurons, whom they were not permit- 
ted to see. A bright little boy ran out 
and welcomed them with kind words. 
His danger of taking the epidemic 
touched them. Father Ragueneau 
felt impelled not to lose the opportu- 
nity which Providence seemed to 
offer them to baptize him, and he 
asked our young missionary to baptize 
him secretly. Father Chaumonot 
took up a handful of snow, and, melt- 
ing it in his hand, poured it upon his 
head. The little fellow smiled, and 
then, as though he had accomplished 
his errand, ran back to his death- 
stricken home. A few days later 
they heard that he had sunk under 
the fatal malady. 

The next year he was sent to the 
Arendaenronnon with Father Dan- 
iel. As the great object was to learn 
the language, his experienced com- 
panion made him daily visit a certain 
number of cabins and pick up all the 



words he could, writing them down. 
" So great a repugnance had I to 
making these visits," he tells us, 
" that every time I entered a cabin 
I seemed to be going to the torture, 
so much did I shrink from the rail- 
leries to which I was subjected." 

After this rude apprenticeship he 
set out with the great Father Bre- 
beuf to attempt to establish a mission 
among the Attiwandaronk, a tribe 
lying on both sides of the Niagara, 
or, as they called it and one of their 
towns near the Senecas, Onguiaahra. 
This tribe, fiercer and more brutal 
than the Hurons, had hitherto ob- 
served a neutrality between them 
and the Iroquois a fact which led 
the French to call them the Neutral 
Nation. A journey of four days 
and nights through the woods from 
Teananstayae on the Huron frontier 
brought them to Kandoucho, the first 
of the Neuter towns. 

In the beginning they were well 
received, and all awaited the return 
of the great chief Tsohahissen from 
war, there being no one in his ab 
sence to treat with them ; but gra 
dually pagan Hurons came, and re- 
presented the missionaries as great 
magicians who sought their ruin. 
Then every door was closed against 
them, and they often nearly perished 
at night, deprived of all shelter. 
After visiting eighteen towns, they 
sadly turned back towards Kan- 
doucho, but the snow came on so 
rapidly that they could not proceed 
beyond Teotongniaton. There they 
found a charitable woman who not 
only welcomed them to her cabin, 
but during their twenty-five days' 
stay was their patient and intelligent 
instructor in her language, enabling 
them to adapt the dictionary and 
grammar of the Huron language to 
that of this nation. 

Yet even this good woman could 
not orotect her guests from all injury. 



686 



A Bad Beginning for a Saint. 



A crazy fellow in her cabin spat up- 
on Father Chaumonot, tore his cas- 
sock, and kept up such a din that 
they could not sleep, and tore from 
their persons any object that took his 
fancy. 

After a stay of four months and a 
half they finally abandoned this field, 
and the Neuter Nation rejected its 
last call, for it was soon after de- 
stroyed by the Iroquois. 

Still greater suffering awaited him. 
With the early summer he joined Fa- 
ther Daniel once more. They enter- 
ed the cabin of a dying woman in 
the town of St. Michael to baptize 
her ; one of her relatives, incensed 
at this, awaited them without, and as 
Father Chaumonot issued forth tore 
off his hat with one hand, and with 
the other dealt him a terrible blow 
with a stone. " I was stunned by 
the blow," says he, " and the assassin 
seized his tomahawk to finish me, 
but Father Daniel wrested it from 
his hands. I was taken to our host's 
cabin, where another Indian was my 
charitable physician. Seeing the 
large tumor I had on my head, he 
took another sharp stone to make 
some incision, through which he en- 
deavored to press out all the extrava- 
sated blood, and then bathed the top 
of my head with cold water, in which 
some pounded roots were steeped. 
He took some of this infusion into 
his mouth and squirted it into the 
incisions. This treatment was so 
successful that I was soon well. God 
was satisfied with my desire of mar- 
tyrdom, or rather deemed me un- 
worthy to die a victim to the hatred 
of the first of our sacraments." 

Amid such men, with all the hor- 
rors of war for the Iroquois from 
New York were gradually conquer- 
ing the land Chaumonot labored 
on, suffering in health but undaunted 
and unappalled, even when, in 1648, 
Father Daniel perished in his village. 



and in the following March Father 
Brebeuf and his young associate Ga- 
briel Lalemant underwent the fearful 
torture which gave them the highest 
crown among our martyrs. 

A general panic seized the Hurons 
after this last blow. " At the time 
of this greatest defeat of the Huron 
nation," says Father Chaumonot, " I 
had charge of a town almost entire- 
ly Christian. The Iroquois, having 
attacked the villages about ten miles 
off, gave our braves a chance to sal- 
ly out and attack them ; but the en- 
emy were in greater force than they 
supposed, and our men were defeated. 
Two days after their defeat news 
came that all our warriors were kill- 
ed or taken. It was midnight when 
the intelligence came, and at once 
every cabin resounded with wailing, 
sobs, and piteous cries. You could 
hear nothing but wives bewailing their 
husbands, mothers mourning for their 
sons, and relatives lamenting the 
death or captivity of those nearest to 
them. Thereupon an old man, justly 
fearing lest the Iroquois might dash on 
the town, now deprived of its defend- 
ers, began to run through the town 
crying: 'Fly! fly! let us escape; 
the hostile army is coming to take 
us.' 

" At this cry I ran out and has- 
tened from cabin to cabin to baptize 
the catechumens, confess the neo- 
phytes, and . arm all with prayer. 
As I made my round I saw that they 
were all abandoning the place, to take 
refuge with a nation about thirty-three 
miles distant. I followed these poor 
fugitives with the view of giving them 
spiritual aid, and as I did not even 
think of . taking any provisions, I 
made the whole journey without eat- 
ing or drinking or ever feeling any 
fatigue. While marching on, I 
thought only and busied myself only 
with administering consolation to my 
flock, instructing some, confessing 



A Bad Beginning for a Saint. 



687 



others, baptizing those who had not 
yet received that sacrament. As it 
was still winter, I was forced to ad- 
minister baptism with snow-water 
melted in my hands. What showed 
me clearly that my strength in flight 
was given me from on high, is that a 
Frenchman in the party, a man in- 
comparably stronger in constitution 
than I, almost perished on the way, 
spent with weariness and overexer- 
tion." 

He was with the surviving mission- 
aries when they committed to the 
grave at St. Mary's the bodies of 
Brebeuf and Lalemant ; and when ti- 
dings came of Garnier's heroic death, 
and of Chabanel's disappearance, he 
accompanied the Hurons who fled 
to St. Joseph's Island in Lake Huron. 
There is nothing in the annals of the 
missions more touching than Father 
Chaumonot's letters describing the 
fearful sufferings of the fugitives 
there. 

When they at last resolved to seek 
a refuge at Quebec with their allies 
the French, Father Chaumonot bore 
them company, bidding adieu to the 
land which for eleven years had been 
the constant scene of his labors. 

No missionary had more thorough- 
ly entered into the Indian character 
or identified himself with them in 
thought. To him, therefore, they 
gave the name which the illustrious 
Brebeuf had borne, that of Hechon ; 
and he was naturally the one to 
whose direction they were commit- 
ted on Isle Orleans. 

His labors on the Huron language 
were now probably completed. He 
had thoroughly mastered it, and drew 
up a grammar and dictionary, which 
continued for years to be the guide, 
not only for Huron, but for all the 
kindred Iroquois languages. " It 
pleased God," he says, " to give my 
work so much benediction, that there 
is no turn or subtlety in Huron, nor 



manner of expression, that I am not 
acquainted with, or have not, so to 
say, discovered." This knowledge 
he attributed as much to prayer as to 
his natural talent and assiduity. 

His grammar was published some 
years since in the second volume of 
the Collections of the Quebec Lite- 
rary and Historical Society, and is 
one of the most important of those 
linguistic treasures which American 
ethnology owes to the early Catholic 
missionaries. 

Father Chaumonot had scarcely 
organized his Huron church on Isle 
Orleans when he was summoned to 
a new field. The Iroquois, their 
hands reeking with the blood of 
Goupil, Jogues, Daniel, Brebeuf, Lale- 
mant, Gamier, asked for missionaries. 
They began to respect the faith which 
gave such heroes, able to read the 
grandeur of Christianity in the vir- 
tues of its apostles. 

Father le Moyne had led the way 
to Onondaga. Dablon and Chau- 
monot followed. In a general as- 
sembly of the cantons, Father Chau- 
monot proclaimed the faith with such 
eloquence, and in a style so adapted 
to reach the Indian mind, that the 
Indians lost their cold indifference, 
and applauded loudly, while Father 
Dablon himself listened in wonder 
to the language of his fellow-mis- 
sioner. The mission was established. 
Huron captives formed a nucleus, 
around which gathered Iroquois con- 
verts, warriors and matrons, sachems 
and orators. 

There was no sparing of vice. 
Amid all the suspicion that lurked 
in the Indian mind against the 
motives of the missionaries, and com- 
pelled constant discourses and apolo- 
gies, the fearless missionaries rebuked 
them for their evil life. 

Once, when accusations were made 
that the blackgowns came to di- 
minish their numbers and blight their 



688 



A Bad Beginning for a Saint. 



race, Father Chaumonot boldly retort- 
ed the charge on the men, and showed 
them that, by their infidelity and 
harshness to their wives, their divor- 
ces, abandoning them, and overtask- 
ing their strength, they caused the 
death of their children, and were 
forced to adopt captives to fill their 
cabins. Christian marriage alone, he 
showed them, could save the race 
from extermination. 

This advocacy of woman's real 
rights closed the mouths of his as- 
sailants, and so won the women of 
Onondaga to the cause of Christian- 
ity that they wished to render public 
thanks to the fearless missionary. 
They gave him a great banquet, to 
which they came adorned in all their 
finest ornaments, to dance to the 
cadence of two native minstrels, 
while they sang his praises and 
thanked him for his advocacy. 

Strange that alarmed statisticians 
in this country point now to the same 
causes as producing the rapid de- 
cline in the birth-rate of the Ameri- 
cans as a people, while the church, 
echoing Chaumonot's sermon of two 
centuries ago, points to the sacrament 
of matrimony as the only sure hope 
for the country. 

The Onondaga mission of 1655 is 
full of beautiful details. Its end was 
strange and romantic. A plot formed 
for the destruction of all the French 
was baffled by a secret flight, so 
adroitly managed that the Indians 
believed that the French had become 
invisible. 

Montreal was the next field of our 
missionary. Here, in 1663, with the 
aid of Madame d'Ailleboust, Mar- 
garet Bourgeoys, foundress of the 
Congregation Sisters, Mother de Bre- 
soles, of the H6tel Dieu, and other 
pious persons, he founded a society 
which has for its model the Holy 
House of Nazareth, to which he was 
so devoted, and which has for two 



hundred years been the instrument of 
incalculable good in Canada one of 
the mighty aids in maintaining the 
family faith and family piety the 
Society of the Holy Family. Amid 
our great wants is such a society, to 
sanctify Christian families, by model- 
ling them on that of Jesus, Mary, and 
Joseph. 

The remnant of his Huron flock 
had gathered beneath the fort of 
Quebec, but before he returned per- 
manently to them he was sent as 
chaplain to Fort Richelieu, at the 
mouth of the Sorel. Adapting him- 
self to any life, he labored among 
those committed to him with his ha- 
bitual zeal. He soon gained the 
hearts, not only of the private soldiers, 
but of the officers ; and established 
among them regular practices of piety. 
One officer, touched by his words and 
example, hung up his sword at the 
altar, and, receiving in due time holy 
orders, was for many years a devoted 
missionary in Nova Scotia; while a 
soldier, formed by Father Chaumonot, 
devoted himself to the service of the 
missionaries, and became an excellent 
teacher. 

At last he is with his Hurons, never 
to leave them. He reared for them 
the Chapel of Notre Dame de Foye, 
so called after a celebrated shrine of 
Mary near Dinan. A copy of the 
miraculous statue there venerated ex- 
cited the devotion of his flock, and 
was the instrument of God's blessings 
and favors. To commemorate these, 
the Hurons, through Father Chau- 
monot, sent to the Old World shrine 
a wampum belt with. the inscription, 
" Beata qua credidisti" and this token 
of Indian homage was laid before the 
altar of Our Lady with the offerings of 
kings and princes. Others followed the 
example, and to this day celebrated 
shrines in Belgium, France, and Italy 
preserve the wampum belts sent 
from the depths of our forests by 



A Bad Beginning for a Saint. 



the conveits of our early mission- 
aries. 

Six years later, the wants of the 
Indians compelled them to select a 
new site, where unbroken land and 
fuel were abundant. When it was 
chosen, Father Chaumonot carried 
out a long-cherished design, and with 
the alms of the Children of Mary in 
Europe and America erected a brick 
chapel of the exact dimensions and 
arrangement of the Santa Casa of 
Loretto. It soon became a renowned 
pilgrimage for the supernatural favors 
obtained there. And here in this fav- 
ored sanctuary the servant of Mary 
spent nearly a quarter of a century, 
giving his time to God and his 
neighbor. He rose at two, spent four 
or five hours in prayer or contempla- 
tion, recited his office, said Mass, 
preaching almost daily, then attended 
to the affairs of the mission, instruct- 
ing some of his colleagues in Huron, 
catechising children; after a slight 
repast at noon, he again spent some 
time in prayer, and visited some ca- 
bins to give special instructions. At 
nightfall, his chapel was filled for 
evening prayer, and with his private 
devotions he closed his day. 

In 1689, he celebrated at the Ca- 
thedral of Quebec the fiftieth anniver- 
sary of his first Mass, being the first 



one who had ever there attained such 
years of ministry. The Governor 
and Intendant, with many other per- 
sons of distinction, sought the privi- 
lege of receiving at the hands of the 
venerable priest on this day. 

At the close of the year 1692, he 
began to sink under a complication 
of disorders, and was conveyed to 
Quebec. He rallied for a time, but 
after suffering intense pains, which he 
bore with unshaken patience and ad- 
mirable piety, he died the death of a 
saint. As such, his austerities, his 
mortifications, his uninterrupted union 
with God, his zeal and love for his 
neighbor, had long caused him to be 
regarded. All gathered around his 
venerated remains seeking some 
relic, and many afflicted in soul or 
body sought his intercession as docu- 
ments show, not without effect. His 
funeral was the most imposing yet 
seen in Canada. Such was the re- 
pute of his sanctity that even Fron- 
tenac, the Governor-General, bitter 
and fanatical in his hostility to the 
Jesuits, attended, as well as the Bish- 
op of Quebec, who had long revered 
the aged missionary. 

None who beheld his unpromis- 
ing start in life could have dream- 
ed of such a career or of such a 
close. 



VOL. xv. 44 



690 



Protestant Missions in India. 



PROTESTANT MISSIONS IN INDIA.* 



THE contents of this book, put 
forward with all the apparent sanction 
possible of the sect that employs Mr. 
Butler, may be looked upon as the 
quintessence of all that has been or 
can be said on the subject of mis- 
sions in Hindostan, by a writer who 
feels that he has a claim to challenge 
our attention and command our 
belief. That it is orthodox in char- 
acter, according to the notions of his 
class, cannot be doubted in view of 
the official position of the author, 
and the innumerable extracts from 
the Old and New Testaments, parti- 
cularly the former, with which its 
pages are interspersed ; quotations the 
frequency of which, if not reflecting 
much credit on the reverend doctor 
by their charity or appositeness, give 
to the work an air of ponderous 
learning and holiness that must be 
highly relished by his brother Metho- 
dists. But in justice to the author, it 
must be said that he does not alto- 
gether confine himself to the sacred 
writers. When the grandeur of the 
pagan temples or the horrors of Mo- 
hammedanism become too great 
even for his descriptive powers, he 
freely draws on that profane child 
of the muses, Tom Moore, whose 
merits, however, he is careful, in his 
clerical capacity, to depreciate by 
assuring us that the author of Lalla 
Rookh " was for a good part of his 
life a Romanist"; an objection which 
he seems to forget might be urged 
with equal truthfulness against the 
majority of the gifted minds of the 
past eighteen centuries, and even 



* The Land of the Veda. Being Personal Re- 
miniscences of India, etc. By Rev. William 
Butler, D.D. New York: Carlton & Lanahan. 
1872. 



against the inspired penmen of the 
New Testament and the fathers of 
the church. 

However, aside from the at- 
tractions of the work in an artistic 
point of view, we do no injustice in 
selecting it as a very favorable speci- 
men of this sort of literature, and, 
recognizing its author as a tried and 
approved servant of the Methodist 
Episcopal Church, we shall proceed 
to gather from its veritable pages a 
history of his labors, sufferings, 
and triumphs in the cause of Pro- 
testant Christianity. 

India, as our readers are aware, 
is one of the most densely peopled 
and, in one sense, highly civilized 
of Asiatic countries. Its population 
numbers considerably more than 
two hundred millions, or about one- 
sixth of the whole human race, 
speaking many languages and pro- 
fessing various forms of faith. The 
Hindoos, the original inhabitants, 
forming the mass of the people, are 
polytheists, worshipping according to 
the Vedas and other books considered 
sacred, their priests being known to 
the Western world as Brahmins an 
hereditary religio-social aristocracy, 
the most ancient, and at one time con- 
sidered the most learned, body of men 
in existence. The Mohammedans, 
who are said to amount to some 
twenty-five millions, are the de- 
scendants of the conquerors of the 
eleventh century, and follow more or 
less strictly the teachings of the 
Koran. The Brahminical classes. or 
castes, which are numerous, though 
not enjoying their full immunities 
since the advent of Europeans on 
their shores, are still ardently devoted 
to learning, and indeed, in common 



Protestant Missions in India. 



691 



with all their countrymen, may be 
said to develop remarkable mental 
acuteness and quick perception, 
though still unfortunately strongly 
attached to the grossest forms of 
idolatry. To wean them from these 
degrading practices, and to introduce 
in their stead the pure teaching of 
the Gospel, has been the professed 
object of the Protestant sects of 
Europe in sending out crowds of 
missionaries and innumerable Bibles 
since the commencement of the cen- 
tury a work in which some of their 
brothers in this country have not 
been behindhand. But American 
Methodism, until 1856, had no repre- 
sentative in the " land of the Veda," 
and the Indians up to that time were 
ignorant of its peculiar and manifold 
blessings till Dr. Butler was des- 
patched from Boston to enlighten 
them. He sailed in April, and arriv- 
ed at Bareilly in the autumn of that 
year, where, as he tells us, "his ap- 
pearance caused a great deal of talk 
and excitement." He was accom- 
panied from Allahabad by a native 
named Joel, wife and child, and, having 
his own wife and two of his children 
with him, he commenced his labors. 
This Joel, who is frequently mention- 
ed in the book, was, it seems, already 
converted, and when transferred to 
Dr. Butler by his spiritual guardians 
they "playfully intimated that Joel 
had been trained a Presbyterian, 
knew the Westminster Catechism, 
and was sound on the five points of 
Calvinism, and that they would 
naturally expect him to continue in 
the faith even though he was going 
with a Methodist missionary; but," 
continues the sly doctor, " I felt 
assured that these things would regu- 
late themselves hereafter" and he 
was right, for, as he tells us in another 
place, his faithful helper " was destin- 
ed to become the first native minis- 
ter of the Methodist Episcopal 



Church in India." He became in a 
manner the corner-stone of the vast 
edifice that was about to be erected 
on the ruins of heathenism. 

We have often heard the anec- 
dote of lending a congregation, 
but this is the first instance, within 
our knowledge, of borrowing, not to 
use a harsher term, a convert ; still, 
we can sympathize with honest Joel 
in the confusion of mind he must 
have experienced in discriminating 
between the Christianity of John 
Calvin and that of John Wesley, and 
his mystification at receiving as the 
Word of God two different and dis- 
tinct versions of the same law, not to 
speak of his trying to expound them 
to his audience in his capacity of 
first native pastor. Still, he was 
a beginning, the nucleus of that 
great conglomeration of religion and 
intelligence about to be called into 
existence by the potent spells of the 
grand magician. Nor Was he long 
left alone. There was a Christian 
girl, it seems, named Maria, who had 
formerly been converted by the Ma- 
dras Baptists, but whom Dr. Butler 
speedily reconverted to Methodism. 
" This precious girl," says the author, 
" who, of her race and sex in Bareilly, 
alone loved us for the Gospel's sake, 
seemed raised up to encourage and 
aid us in our new mission ;" and with 
this encouragement, and two such 
followers, he forthwith set about 
the conversion of Rohilcund, having 
first secured " a furnished house, and 
began to study the language." 

If there is something absurd in the 
commencement of a Methodist 
church with only a Presbyterian and 
a Baptist, the idea conveyed in the 
last sentence is excessively ridicu- 
lous. Can we imagine a heaven-ap- 
pointed minister, filled with holy en- 
ergy, so eager to christianize the 
heathen and elevate his mind that 
he leaves his distant home and two 



692 



Protestant Missions in India. 



of his (four) children in tears, pene- 
trates into the heart of the enemy's 
country, and, having made his 
"comfortable arrangements," estab- 
lished his wife and family, and pro- 
cured two ready-made helpers, quietly 
sits down for the first time to learn 
the language of the highly astute and 
observant people to whom he is sent 
to preach, and consequently ignorant 
of the prejudices and doctrines 
against which he would have to 
combat ? We are not surprised there- 
fore to hear that for several months 
after the establishment of the mis- 
sion Mr. Butler's congregation, as he 
delights to call it, did not increase 
perceptibly. Says Dr. Russell, a 
Protestant and the correspondent of 
England's leading journal : " So 
long as a Christian minister can ar- 
gue with a Moulvie or a pundit with 
patience and ingenuity, he will be 
listened to with interest and respect ; 
he will be permitted to expound the 
Scriptures, and to warn his hearers 
against the errors of their faith, pro- 
vided that he refrains from insulting, 
contemptuous, and irritating lan- 
guage ; but if he be a mere ignorant, 
illiterate zealot, without any qualifi- 
cation (temporally speaking) except 
a knowledge of Hindostanee and 
good intentions, he may be exposed 
to the laughter, scorn, and even 
abuse of the crowded bazaar in con- 
sequence of his manifest inability to 
meet the subtle objections of his keen 
and practised opponent. From what 
I have heard I regret to state my 
conviction is, that no considerable 
success, so far as human means are 
concerned, can be expected from the 
efforts of those who are like the an- 
cient apostles in all things but their 
inspiration and heavenly help."* 

In May, 1857, the Sepoy rebellion, 
caused to a great extent by the con- 

* The (London) Times, March 17, 1859. 



duct of just such " illiterate zealots " 
and the criminal neglect of the East 
India Company, broke out, and the 
terror extending to Bareilly, the 
foreign women and children were 
ordered to be sent to the mountains 
for safety, Dr. Butler being advised 
to accompany them. After " prayer- 
fully considering " this message, he 
resolved not to go, not to abandon 
his post in the hour of danger; but, 
with the inconsistency of poor weak 
human nature, from which even mis- 
sionaries, it would appear, are not 
exempt, he tells us that "before go- 
ing to bed we arranged our clothes 
for a hasty flight should any alarm 
be given." As the doctor is an ad- 
vocate of the superiority of married 
over single missionaries, we give lit- 
erally his own account of the domes- 
tic scene that followed the warning, 
-which, to say the least, is very com- 
plimentary to his amiable spouse : 

"As soon as the adjutant had gone, I 
communicated the message to Mrs. But- 
ler. She received it with calmness, and 
we retired to our room to pray together 
for divine direction. After I had con- 
cluded my prayer, she began, and I may 
be excused in saying that such a prayer 
I think I never heard ; a martyr might 
worthily have uttered it, it was so full of 
trust in God and calm submission to his 
will. But when she came to plead for 
the preservation of ' these innocent little 
ones,' she broke down completely. We 
both felt we could die, if such were the 
will of God ; but it seemed too hard for 
poor human nature to leave these little 
ones in such dreadful hands or perhaps 
to see them butchered before our eyes ! 
We knew that all this had been done on 
Sunday last at Meerut, and we had no 
reason to expect more mercy from those 
in whose power we were should they 
rise and mutiny. But we tried hard to 
place them and ourselves, and the mis- 
sion of our beloved church, in the hands 
of God, and he did calm our minds and 
enable us to confide in him. On arising 
from our knees, I asked her what she 
thought we ought to do? Her reply was 
that she could not see our way clear to 



Protestant Missions in India. 



693 



leave our post ; she thought our going 
would concede too much to Satan and to 
these wretched men ; that it would rather 
increase the panic ; that it might be diffi- 
cult to collect again our little congrega- 
tion if we suspended our services ; and, 
in fact, that we ought to remain and 
trust in God. I immediately concurred, 
and wrote word to the commanding 
officer." 

But all flesh is weak. Notwith- 
standing the result of this combined 
appeal for " divine direction," the 
doctor knew better, and, instead of 
imitating his wife's, brave determina- 
tion in that trying hour, he hearken- 
ed to the counsel of a Moonshee, and 
Methodism, while it retained its mis- 
sionary, lost its first and, it may be 
surmised, its only chance of having 
a martyr. " Being a Mohammedan," 
he says, " with more worldly wisdom 
than consistency, and having a pecu- 
niary loss in the suspension of my 
lessons in the language, his warning 
had much weight with me. I had 
then to settle the question raised by 
the commanding officer whether our 
resistance to going, under those 
circumstances, was not more a tempt- 
ing of, rather than a trusting in, 
Providence ? I hated to leave my 
post, even for a limited time. Yet 
to remain looked, as he argued, 
should an insurrection occur and I 
become a victim, like throwing away 
my life without being able to do any 
good by it; and the Missionary 
Board would probably have blamed 
me for not taking advice and acting 
on the prudence which foreseeth the 
evil and takes refuge ' till the indigna- 
tion is overpast." " Was there ever 
as prudent an apostle or one so en- 
tirely anxious to avoid (after death) 
the reproach of his superiors by the 
exhibition of too much courage ? 
Not that he cared for his personal 
safety, by no means, but the thought 
of the censure he would have in- 
curred for not having taken more 



care of his precious life could not be 
endured. " Still," continues this in- 
trepid contemner of ' wifeless priests,' 
" had I boen alone, or could I have 
induced Mrs. B. to take the chil- 
dren and go without me (a proposi- 
tion she met by declaring that she 
would never consent to it, but would 
cling to her husband and cheerfully 
share his fate, Avhatever it might be), 
I would have remained. But then, 
to all the preceding reasons, the re- 
flection was added that Mrs. B.'s 
situation required that if moved at 
all it must be then, as a little later 
flight would be impossible, and she 
and the children and myself must 
remain and take whatever doom the 
mutineers chose to give us." What 
one of the " wifeless priests " would 
have done amid similar circum- 
stances, those at all conversant with 
the history of Catholic missions in 
every portion of the world and 
there is no part of it but has been 
hallowed by their footsteps can be 
at a loss to determine; but then, 
those short-sighted celibates have 
never allowed family or other human 
ties to come between them and their 
manifest duty to their Master. The 
result of the lady's sickness, so in- 
delicately introduced, we think, as a 
cloak for her husband's cowardice 
and hypocrisy, was, we subsequently 
learn, the increase of the Methodist 
" congregation " of India by one 
member known by the sobriquet of 
the " mutiny baby," and it is pleas- 
ant to consider that, despite the dis- 
asters of the times, the conversion of 
the country was thus progressing, 
even though slowly. 

Moved by all these considerations, 
the author left Bareilly with his 
family, and proceeded to the as- 
signed refuge in the mountains, some 
seventy miles distant, with surprising 
alacrity, considering that for many- 
days after everything remained quiet 



694 



Protestant Missions in India. 



in the neighborhood. But what a 
hegira was that, so full of perils, ad- 
ventures, and even miracles, perform- 
ed, of course, by him alone ! In his 
narration of the journey he rises 
above himself, and becomes almost 
apocalyptic in style. At one time, 
when the bearers showed an unwill- 
ingness to carry Mrs. B. and the chil- 
dren further, this was his noble de- 
vice : 

" But in spite of urging, there 
stood my men. It was an awful mo- 
ment. For a few minutes my agony 
was unutterable; I thought I had 
done all I could, but now everything 
was on the brink of failure. I saw how 
' vain ' was the ' help of man,' and I 
turned aside into the dark jungle, 
took off my hat, and lifted my heart 
to God. If ever I prayed, I prayed 
then, I besought God in mercy to 
influence the hearts of these men, 
and decide for me in that solemn 
hour. I reminded him of the mercies 
that had hitherto followed us, and 
implored his interference in this 
emergency. My prayer did not last 
two minutes, but how much I prayed 
in that time !" 

No wonder that his heart was glad 
at the result, particularly at the fact 
that the men not only took up their 
valuable burden cheerfully, but for- 
got to ask for their hire when their 
task was accomplished, which to any 
one acquainted with that class of 
men in the East certainly savors of 
the supernatural. " The divine inter- 
position in the case will appear 
more manifest," he modestly con- 
tinues, " when I add that even the 
' bucksheesh ' for which the bearers 
were contending they started off 
without staying to ask for or receive." 
The ladies who met the party at the 
first halting-place were astonished, 
and one of them, Miss Y., asked : 
" Why, what could have happened to 
Mrs. Butler's bearers that they started 



so cheerfully, and arrived here so soon 
without giving her the least trou- 
ble ?" " Ah ! she knew not," ejacu- 
lates the self-contained missionary, 
"but I knew, there is a God who 
heareth and answereth prayer !" But 
let not this remark be misunderstood. 
That initial lady, if at all in the flesh, 
was a Christian, and must have 
believed in the efficacy of prayer. 
The true meaning is that she did not 
know what a holy man Dr. Butler 
really was, and of what special 
graces he had became the favored 
recipient. Poor Miss Y., how we 
commiserate her ignorance ! 

While the civil war lasted, the re- 
fugees remained in the mountains at 
Nynee Tal, a pleasant summer re- 
sort, where, for a rent of $225, our 
missionary and family had no diffi- 
culty in securing the inevitable " fur- 
nished house," and, save an occa- 
sional scarcity of milk for the baby, 
suffered no great inconvenience from 
want of the necessaries and even 
luxuries of life. Food was readily 
and cheaply supplied by the natives, 
and the Nawab of Rampore, though 
an infidel, generously furnished them 
with food and money. Still, in this 
comfortable shelter, and while his 
brother missionaries were exposed to 
all sorts of dangers, our hero was 
rivalling Nana Sahib in the fierceness 
of his denunciation and maledictions; 
for, while the rebellious Peishwa was 
petitioning his tutelary gods to de- 
stroy the English, and send them, en 
masse to the infernal regions, the 
American Christian was invoking the 
Deity, in all the forms peculiar to 
Methodist camp-meeting exhorters, 
to weed out, root and branch, the 
very people to whom he had been 
commissioned, and, upon whose hos- 
pitality and forbearance so many ot 
his co-religionists depended for safety 
The utter want of decency and com- 
mon humanity exhibited by many of 



Protestant Missions in India. 



695 



the Protestant ministers during and 
subsequent to the war cannot better 
be illustrated than by transcribing 
the following gratuitous account 
given in this book of a visit to the 
deposed Emperor of Delhi while in 
prison : 

"A day or two previously, my friend, 
Rev. J. S. Woodside, missionary of the 
American Presbyterian Church, was here. 
He went to see the emperor, and took 
the opportunity of conversing with him 
about Christianity. The old man assented 
to the general excellence of the Gospel, 
but stoutly declared that it was abro- 
gated by the Koran as Moses and the 
lav/ were abolished by Christ and 
the Gospel so, he argued, Mohammed 
and the Koran had superseded Christ 
and every previous revelation. Brother 
Woodside calmly but firmly told him 
that, so far from this being the case, 
Mohammed was an impostor and the Koran 
a lie, and that, unless he repented and 
believed in Christ alone, without doubt 
he must perish in his sins. He then 
proceeded to enforce upon his bigoted 
hearer the only Gospel sermon which he 
had ever heard ; and Brother Woodside 
was the very man to litter it f" 

Surely this Woodside, who could 
thus wantonly insult a feeble old man, 
the fallen monarch of two hundred 
millions of subjects, heathen though 
he was, must have been one of the 
ignorant zealots alluded to by Mr. 
Russell; and the writer who could 
mention him with unctuous satisfac- 
tion runs the risk of being considered 
little better. 

For nearly a year the missionary 
toils of Dr. Butler were suspended ; 
but when all danger was passed, he 
returned to his former scene of action, 
or rather inaction, this time reinforced 
by two " brothers " from America, 
who, having been lately ordained, 
knew as little of the language, reli- 
gion, and disposition of the natives 
as he did on his arrival. The re- 
union took place at Agra, and the 
trio, with their respective families, of 



course, proceeded to Nynee Tal, " as 
we could there best devote our- 
selves," says the author, " to the 
acquisition of the language, and 
be ready to descend to Bareilly and 
our other stations, where God had 
prepared our way, after the reoccu- 
pation of Rohilcund by the English 
Government" rather a strange pre- 
cursor, we should suppose, for the 
servants of the Prince of Peace ; but 
tastes, particularly Methodist tastes, 
cannot always be accounted for. The 
" Church in India " also received 
at this time another valuable member 
(number four) in the person of a 
small boy, the orphan of a deceased 
sepoy officer, who had been found 
on the battle-field by Lieutenant 
Gowan, and "made over" to use 
his o\vn expression to the superin- 
tendent by that officer. " No man 
in the East or in America," observes 
the matter-of-fact missionary, " has 
given half as much money to develop 
our work in India as Colonel Gowan 
has contributed. . . . His liberality 
to our mission work, up to the pre- 
sent, cannot be much less than 
$15,000." 

Encouragement also came from 
other official sources. His next step 
was taken in the direction of Luck- 
now, "where he was assured that 
houses could at once be obtained by 
the assistance of Sir Robert Mont- 
gomery," Governor of Oude, and 
thither he bent his steps, " escorted 
by relays of sowars (cavalry), the 
general considering the precaution 
necessary." Of the subsequent his- 
tory of the missions established in 
that city, Meradabad, near Nynee 
Tal, and the old one at Bareilly, the 
book before us relates little. War, 
famine, and pestilence, the three 
great scourges of mankind, seem to 
have been more effectual proselytiz- 
ing agencies than the Bible and 
preaching. The first child in the 



696 



Protestant Missions in India. 



orphanage established at the latter 
place was, as we have seen, a waif 
from the rebellion, and when, in 
1860, a dreadful famine occurred in 
Northern India, " so decided and 
quick was the calamity, that before 
the English Government ascertained 
its extent, and could originate pub- 
lic works to arrest its severity, large 
numbers of the people had died of 
want," and their children were left an 
easy prey to whoever cared to snatch 
them up. This specious excuse for 
the government brings to our mind 
the history of another famine which 
happened some years previously 
nearer home, and which the same- 
rulers failed to alleviate even to the 
extent of affording free transport for 
the food provided for the sufferers by 
the generous people of this country. 
Though in the latter-mentioned case 
the victims were Catholics, not Hin- 
doos, the advantage sought to be 
taken of the calamity by a similar 
class of men was the same. " The 
idea came to us," says Dr. Butler, 
" that this emergency might be turned 
to good account by our missionaries 
seizing on the opportunity thus pre- 
sented," and it was therefore agreed 
among them to solicit the bodily 
possession of three hundred boys and 
girls. " I wrote," he continues, " to 
the Government ; they were only too 
glad to consent and have the chil- 
dren off their hands." Of course 
they were, and doubtless if he had 
asked for as many thousands, he 
would have got them as readily. 
Nor was money wanting for the sup- 
port of these new proteges. " Re- 
sponses came pouring in from schools 
and individuals in America. . . . In- 
dividuals in India also, and govern- 
ment itself," says the doctor, " came 
to our help." Even the Nawab of 
Rampore, " a Mohammedan sove- 
reign in the vicinity " who, by the 
way, owed his position to the English 



authorities was put under contribu- 
tion to the amount of five hundred 
dollars. Still it was found difficult 
to introduce Methodism even among 
these destitute children ; for else- 
where he acknowledges that out of 
nearly one hundred and fifty girls, 
only about forty have been " soundly 
converted." But no effect whatever 
could be produced on the children 
not actually starving, even by the 
free use of money. Here is his own 
emphatic acknowledgment of the 
fact, on page 520: 

" Every effort was made by our mission 
ary ladies to obtain even day-scholars 
from among the people, but such was 
then their bitter prejudice against educa- 
ting girls that they generally treated the 
proposal with scorn. The ladies of our 
Bareilly mission made a vigorous effort 
in that city to obtain even a few scholars. 
They went from house to house, hired a 
suitable place in which to hold a school, 
bought mats and necessary equipments, 
offered even to pay the girls some compen- 
sation for the time expended, if they would 
only attend ; but af the end of three months 
they had only succeeded in inducing 
two children to come, and one of these 
was unreliable. At length, tired out, 
they had to abandon the effort as hope- 
less, until some change would come over 
the minds of the people in favor of fe- 
male education." 

The system adopted towards the 
adult population was more question- 
able, though equally unsuccessful. 
Rohilcund and Oude, the scenes of 
the labors of the American Metho- 
dists, were also, it appears, great re- 
cruiting depots for the company's 
officers, who, as the term of their 
sepoys expired, formerly allowed them 
to return home and enjoy liberal 
pensions, so that a large portion of 
the male population of those pro- 
vinces were actually dependent on the 
company for the necessaries of life. 
The failure of the rebellion not only 
caused the breaking up of the sepoy 
army, but the innocent were made to 



Protestant Missions in India. 



697 



suffer with the guilty, for the allow- 
ance that was paid to the superannu- 
ated soldiers for past services ceased 
and general destitution prevailed. 
Of this circumstance, the result of 
base ingratitude, the worthy mission- 
aries were not slow in taking advan- 
tage, hoping that, since prayer and 
exhortation had failed, the more tan- 
gible arguments of meat and. dollars 
might at least partially succeed. 
Previous to the war the " converted" 
native held, and as we shall presently 
see for good reasons, a very unenvi- 
able position in the community. Ac- 
cording to the author, " he was cut 
off and proscribed by his friends, 
looked down upon too often by Eu- 
ropean officials," and " refused all em- 
ployment under government." But 
this was all changed by Montgom- 
ery, the local ruler of Oude, and 
Governor-General Lawrence, who 
were favorable to the encouragement 
of native Christians. " Other offi- 
cials," we are told, " did the same. 
Merchants and traders also sought 
them, for they saw they could be 
trusted. Their value rose at once" 
" And," adds Dr. Butler, " the rapid 
growth of the Christian church in 
India since that time, and especially 
of the native ministry, will be fully 
exhibited in the statistical tables 
which follow the next chapter." 

We regret that he has not favored 
us with the details of this astonishing 
increase in the number of the faithful 
which so closely followed the distri- 
bution of government patronage and 
pecuniary rewards ; but to our cha- 
grin the indefatigable and sanguine 
missionary, whom we have followed 
from Boston to the Himalayas, prayed 
with, in spirit, in the " dark jungles," 
and moaned with in unison over the 
combined sins of the heathen and 
the Romanist, parts from us abruptly, 
leaving us the prey of a cruel suspi- 
cion that, notwithstanding the gener- 



ous donations of American friends, 
the efficient aid of British officials, 
and, above all, his own sanctified 
character and wonderful intrepidity, 
his mission, like so many others un- 
dertaken in the same spirit, was, after 
all, a melancholy failure. In winding 
up his long history, he tells us : 

" The organization of the missions into 
an annual conference, at the close of 
1864, terminated my superintendency, 
while the toil and care to which body 
and mind were subject during these 
scenes, and in such a climate, were so 
exhausting that release from further ser- 
vice there became indispensable. This 
release was kindly granted by the bishop 
and the missionary board." 

Now, what were our reverend 
friend and his co-laborers doing dur- 
ing the six years that followed the 
establishment of the three missions 
which still manage to exist in India ? 
Surely a lively and scriptural account 
of those toils and cares of which he 
speaks would, particularly when told 
in his glowing style, be highly inter- 
esting to the public. Chapters of 
his voluminous book are devoted to 
descriptions of temples and tombs 
of the past ages, and some hundreds 
of pages to a detailed account of the 
massacres, battles and disasters inci- 
dent to the civil war, but not a line 
do we find in which may be traced 
the efficacy of the gospel as preached 
by such pious expounders, nor is 
mention made of a single grown-up 
convert won to Methodism during 
the whole time, save through the 
agency of filthy lucre, the root of all 
evil. For our further information, it 
is true, he refers us to certain tables 
with which he supplements his work, 
but that is small consolation, for, 
though we believe in the old saying 
that figures cannot lie, we are satisfied 
from an examination of the tables re- 
ferred to that this veracious character 
does not strictly apply to those who 
collated them. 



698 



Protestant Missions in India. 



From Table I. we gather that the 
Methodist Episcopal Church in In- 
dia, in 1372, had no less than eigh- 
teen male and nineteen female mis- 
sionaries of foreign birth in Rohil- 
cund and Oude, and eighty-six na- 
tive assistants, with church-members, 
amounting in the aggregate to five 
hundred and forty-one, so that every 
fourteen and a half members had one 
foreign missionary, or, counting the 
local preachers and exhorters, every 
four converts may now enjoy the 
sole solicitude of one spiritual guide 
at least! But in Table II., on the 
next page, the foreign missionaries 
are increased to forty-six, or one to 
every dozen actual Christians, and, 
taking the entire force of foreign 
missionaries, native pastors, local 
preachers, exhorters, and teachers, the 
whole number of " laborers," more 
or less dependent on the missionary 
fund for a livelihood, are reported at 
the handsome figure of three hundred 
and sixty-six, two laborers for every 
three members ! But if we deduct 
the number of teachers returned at 
two hundred and thirty-four in Table 
II. from the whole number of mem- 
bers, we find that for every thirty 
members who are not laborers, and 
consequently derive no official bene- 
fit from the church connection, there 
are twenty -three who do. Should 
matters go on as prosperously as 
they seem to have done for a few 
years more, we hope to hear that 
every native convert who is not a 
pastor, exhorter, or teacher himself 
will be able to have the sole and 
separate use of a missionary or an 
assistant for his own benefit. We 
expect, also, to find that the exhaust- 
ing duties of the foreign missionaries 
in taking charge each of at least one 
dozen of converts, including the na- 
tive preachers, exhorters, and teachers 
aforesaid, will be duly considered by 
the board, and that reinforcements 



will be sent to them forthwith. 
What the eighty-six native pastors 
and catechists, as returned in Table II., 
find to do except to preach to each 
other, we are at a loss to surmise. 
Perhaps, however, they look after 
certain individuals classified as pro- 
bationers and non-communicant ad- 
herents, and by the help of which, 
and the children of the schools, the 
compiler endeavors' to make out a 
show of figures. The former class 
he counts at five hundred and twenty, 
and the latter at seven hundred and 
thirty-five, which, with nearly twelve 
hundred children and the helpers, 
make the sum-total of the officers 
and rank and file of the -church 
three thousand and sixty-five, " all 
won for Christ since the rebellion 
closed." Now, taking these figures 
as correct in every particular, we ar- 
rive at the following curious cal- 
culation, to which we respectfully 
call the attention of the admirers of 
Protestant, and particularly Metho- 
dist, missions. According to their 
own showing, there is in India one 
missionary for every seventy-seven 
men, women, and children in the 
remotest degree connected with the 
Methodist Church ; leaving out the 
children, there is a foreign missionary 
for every forty native adults, and 
taking the bona-fide church-members 
there is one duly commissioned 
American missionary for every 
twelve converts ! Taking the whole 
number of Christians at three thou- 
sand, we find the annual conversions 
to have averaged two hundred and 
thirty, which amount being divided 
by forty-six makes the exact number 
of five persons converted every year 
by each of our countrymen in India. 
If we leave out the children who 
as we have already seen, are simply 
given away by the authorities,* we 

* Alluding to the famine season, Baron von 
Schonbcrg says: "Six hundred children were 



Protestant Missions in India. 



699 



reduce the whole number of yearly 
gains to one hundred and forty-five, 
or an average of three annual con- 
verts for each foreign missionary; 
but when we only count the actual 
church- members, we discover that 
forty-two native persons are actually 
converted every year by forty-six 
American missionaries, and this cal- 
culation agrees very nearly with the 
statement of Dr. Butler, who says in 
a note to the very table to which he 
calls our attention, " Conversions 
during last year, 56." How many 
years, missionaries, native pastors, 
and catechists would be required at 
this rate to christianize the two 
hundred millions of heathens in Hin- 
dostan is a problem too difficult for 
our solution. 

So much for the wonderful pro- 
gress of Methodism in India. Let us 
now glance for a moment at the per- 
sonelle of the brands thus snatched 
from the burning. 

The ingenious attempt to make the 
public believe that any form of Pro- 
testantism has at length gained a 
foothold in Asia is more common 
than honest, and has been repeatedly 
exposed and censured by sectarian 
writers of all classes and degrees, 
many of whom have lived as mis- 
sionaries in India, and know the 
truth by painful experience. A few 
extracts from their works and 
speeches will suffice to show at once 
the deficiencies of the would-be apos- 
tles, the character of their neophytes, 
and the absolute falsity of such sta- 
tistics as we find in Butler's tables : 

"Missionaries have gone out from this 
country (England) who have dishonored 
their great cause, and rather confirmed 
than shaken the superstitions of the peo- 
ple they visited." Cunningham's Chris- 
tianity in India, p. 147. 

purchased for eighteen hundred rupees, which 
certainly was not an exorbitant price." Travels 
in India, and Kashmir, vol. i. p. 193. This was 
at the rate of a dollar and a half a head. 



"From the want of superintendence, it 
is painful to observe that the characters 
of too many of the clergy are by no means 
creditable to the doctrines they profess, 
which, together with the unedifying con- 
tests that prevail among them even in the 
pulpit, tend to lower the religion and its 
followers in the eyes of the natives of 
every description." Lord Valentia's 
Travels, vol. i. p. 199. 

"A large portion of the sterility of our 
missions may be attributed to that dis- 
cord which Christianity (Protestantism) 
exhibits in the very sight of the unbeliev- 
er." Rev. Dr. Grant's Brompton Lectures. 

"The numerous missionaries, although 
they waste years and words, and even 
money, have converted very few ; yet 
when they have induced one or two ap- 
parently to adopt their particular tenets, 
it is their fashion to make a clamor in the 
newspapers and by pamphlets, although 
too frequently they are not sure of their 
new converts for any length of time." 
Mackenna's Ancient and Modern India, p. 
516. 

" Missionaries announcing the conver- 
sion of a solitary Hindoo among thou- 
sands of unbelievers are themselves 
frequently members of some straggling 
sect, and too often the instruments of 
fanatical bigotry." Travels in India and 
Kashmir, p. 195. 

It is needless to multiply further 
such sketches of the unfitness of the 
shepherds, for the reader will easily 
find them, and generally much more 
strongly drawn, in any impartial 
work on British India. Let us, how- 
ever, take a glance at the moral and 
social status of the spiritual flocks, 
whose members, before the arrival of 
Montgomery and Lawrence, found it 
so difficult to obtain situations. Cap- 
tain Hervey, in his Ten Years in In- 
dia, tells us that, whenever a native 
convert wishes employment as a ser- 
vant, " he is not taken, because all 
Christians, with but few exceptions, 
are looked upon as great vagabonds, 
drunkards, thieves, and reprobates." 
A writer in the Edinburgh Review, 
vol. xii., assures us that " whoever 
has seen much of Christian Hindoos 
must perceive that the man who 



700 



Protestant Missions in India. 



bears that name is very commonly 
nothing more than a drunken repro- 
bate who conceives himself at liberty 
to eat or drink anything he pleases." 
The Baptist " converts," we are as- 
sured by Rev. John Bowen, in his 
Missionary Incitement, etc., are accus- 
ed of wallowing in every crime that 
" degrades human nature," and de- 
serve the accusation. The Rev. Mr. 
Schneider, writing from Agra, in Dr. 
Butler's neighborhood, assures us 
that the " motives of the Hindoos 
for embracing Christianity were 
chiefly the desire of employment and 
to have their bodily wants provided 
for. " It is a fact," he adds, " that 
many new converts have, after their 
baptism, not adorned their Christian 
profession, and so have ever proved 
great offences and stumbling-blocks 
to the cause of Christ." Of the Bap- 
tist converts in the same place, we 
learn from their seventieth report 
(1862), that "what with members 
who have left the station, and others 
(including paid catechists) who have 
been cut off for immoral conduct, our 
loss has been heavy; while in the 
city of Delhi in the same year sixty- 
six persons were baptized and seventy- 
five excluded from the churches." 
The author of India and the Gospel, a 
Protestant missionary of Central In- 
dia, candidly says : " I have met 
with native Christians who have 
been baptized, some on the eastern, 
some on the western coast, and others 
atsome southern stations lamentable 
to say, they were not to be known 
from the heathen but in name." Mr. 
Marsh declared some years ago in 
the English House of Commons, 
speaking of Indian converts general- 
ly: "They are drawn from the 
Chandalahs, .or Pariahs, or outcasts 
a portion of the population who 
are shut out from the Hindoo reli- 
gion, and who, being condemned to 
the lowest poverty and most sordid 



occupations, are glad to procure by 
what the missionaries call conver- 
sion whatever pittance they are en- 
abled to dole out for their subsis- 
tence." But it appears that the bad 
character of the Protestant converts 
has even a more disastrous effect 
than that produced on the reputation 
of their sponsors. Mr. David Hop- 
kins, of the Bengal Medical Estab- 
lishment, in his work on India, as- 
serts, in reply to some overzealous 
advocate of Protestantism, " the out- 
casts have indeed joined the mission- 
aries, and have appeared as of their 
faith ; but the conduct of these out- 
casts has generally proved that they 
professed what they did not feel, and 
has considerably influenced the high- 
er orders in their prejudices against 
Christianity." 

If we proceed still further, we 
will find from these reiterated com- 
plaints of the influence of Protestant- 
ism in the East, how much it perverts 
whatever sense of natural justice may 
remain in the heathen, and, by ap- 
pealing to his basest passions, renders 
him an object of contempt and mis- 
trust even to his less enlightened fel- 
lows for there are few of the Indian 
population so mentally obtuse as not 
to recognize the rankest hypocrisy 
and mendacity, though they be cov- 
ered with the garb of religion. How 
far such men as Dr. Butler is justi- 
fied in claiming three hundred and 
fifty thousand native Christians (Pro- 
testants) as the result of sectarian 
teaching and zeal in India is not 
easily determined. In 1850, General 
Briggs noticed that the missionaries 
reckoned but one in every six nomi- 
nal converts as church members; 
the Rev. Mr. Ward, a missionary, 
states that of the number of converts 
of every sort reported to the home 
societies not one in ten is actually 
converted.* A writer in the United 

* India and the Hindoos^ p. 337. 



Protestant Missions in India. 



701 



Service Gazette, who had served as 
an officer in India in 1856, declared 
that, though the missionaries report- 
ed their disciples by thousands, an 
omnibus would hold all the sincere 
native Protestants then in the penin- 
sula, while a later authority, Rev. E. 
Storrow, in his book on Indian Mis- 
sions, etc., is not willing to claim more 
than one -fifth of all the so-called 
converts as Christians even in his 
indefinite sense of that term. Fol- 
lowing the Stoirow method of com- 
putation, therefore, and applying it 
to the doctor's tables, we arrive at 
the following results : There are at 
the present day three hundred and 
fifty thousand men, women, and chil- 
dren in India claimed to belong to 
the various denominations, seventy 
thousand of whom Mr. Minturn, in 
his From New York to Delhi, empha- 
tically says " are mostly of the most 
degraded classes," and no less than 
two hundred and eighty thousand 
who disgrace the name of Christian- 
ity by debauchery, theft, hypocrisy, 
and immorality of every sort in its 
most degrading shapes. Of the for- 
mer we freely accord to Methodism 
six hundred, and of the latter four 
times the number. 

But Dr. Butler has many arrows 
in his quiver to be discharged against 
that target of sectarian animo- 
sity, Romanism, and other claims 
to public sympathy and patronage 
broadly set forth in his manifold 
tables. It is the question of educa- 
tion, and on this his figures assume 
a prodigious magnitude. The Me- 
thodist day-schools in India, he tells 
us, number one hundred and sixteen, 
the teachers two hundred and thirty- 
four, and the pupils four thousand 
four hundred and sixty-two. If these 
children were all Protestants, it might 
indeed be a source of some congratu- 
lation to his friends, but unfortunately 
only a little over a thousand of them 



attend Sunday-school, and the bal- 
ance, considerably over three thou- 
sand, are being " educated " to stig- 
matize the Methodists themselves as 
infidels, and to deny the first principles 
upon which all religion is founded. 
That this, though a startling view to 
some persons, is nevertheless a cor- 
rect one, we have the most indispu- 
table Protestant evidence, and what 
applies to the Methodists in particu- 
lar, is general to all the sects in Hin- 
dostan; who, collectively, are said 
in Table II. to be educating one hun- 
dred and thirty-seven thousand chil- 
dren, of whom more than one hun- 
dred thousand are not brought up in 
any form of faith known to Chris- 
tianity. "The colleges of India," 
says Major II. Bevan, " receive fana- 
tical idolaters, they disgorge only 
hypocrites."* The author of Tro- 
pical Sketches avers, in allusion to 
the sameinstitutions, "the results have 
been great intellectual acuteness and 
total want of moral principle; utter in- 
fidelity in religion, etc." According to 
the Parliamentary reports, out of over 
seventeen thousand pupils educated 
at the public expense, only three 
hundred even professed the religion 
of the state. At Benares, where 
there are fourteen missionary schools, 
not one conversion is reported ; and 
the Rev. Mr. Percival, in his Land 
of the Veda, goes the length of say- 
ing that " in almost every part of In- 
dia the spread of the English lan- 
guage and literature is rapidly alter- 
ing the phases of the Hindoo mind, 
giving it a sceptical, infidel cast," 
while the Rev. Mr. Clarkson goes 
further, and adds : " Some have ar- 
gued that the Indians, by receiving 
an education which undermines their 
superstitions, are being prepared for 
the reception of Christianity. We 
believe that they are being prepared 

* Thirty Years in India, p. 239. 



702 



Protestant Missions in India. 



for occupying a position directly an- 
tagonistic to it. Several documents 
from missionaries at Bombay, Poo- 
nah, Surat, Calcutta, Delhi, Madras, 
and Benares corroborate all that I 
have stated. . . . None can doubt 
that infidelity in its most absolute 
sense is on the increase. There is no 
connection between the natives ceas- 
ing to be Hindoos and becoming 
Christians." * Dr. Grant also gives 
his testimony of the effects of mis- 
sionary schools : " It is the univer- 
sal confession," he says, speaking for 
his brother missionaries, " that but 
very few of the children so educated 
embrace the Christian faith " ; and 
even the orphans, we are told by 
Count Warren, " when they grow up, 
all return to the religion of their an- 
cestors." Lastly, the Indian corre- 
spondent of the leading organ of pub- 
lic opinion in England thus sums up 
the whole question : 

"Missionary schools do not make more 
converts to Christianity than Government 
schools. A most zealous missionary in 
India assured me, with tears in his eyes, 
that, after twenty-five years' experience, 
he looked upon the conversion of the 
Hindoos under present circumstances to 
be hopeless, without the interposition of 
a miracle." f 

We pause here, for the subject be- 
comes too deeply painful for con- 
templation, even at a distance. To 
think that, in this age of boasted civil- 
ization and religious progress, one of 
the fairest portions of the habitable 
globe, filled with millions and mil- 
lions of our fellow-men, in many re- 
spects at least our equals in natural 
gifts, should still not only be ignorant 
of the worship of the true God, but 
that, through the instrumentality of 
the ministers of the discordant, jar- 
ring Protestant sects, and from their 
desire to forward their own selfish 

* India and the Gospel, p. 279, 
t The (London) Times , 1858. 



ends, the natives, instead of being 
taught the beauties of Christianity, 
are actually led to deny even the ex- 
istence of a superior power, and by 
the miserable examples set before 
them, are forced to despise and hate 
the very name of Christ's followers. 
We arraign Protestantism of this great 
crime, and we ask the serious atten- 
tion of every candid man, no matter 
what may be his religious opinions, 
to the authorities above cited in sup- 
port of our indictment. The -British 
Government, through its armed mer- 
cenaries and no less corrupt civil 
officials, have doubtless inflicted dire 
and manifold cruelties on the Indians, 
but the evils perpetrated by the sec- 
tarian missionaries of this country 
and Europe on those unfortunate 
people are beyond all comparison 
greater, for they are more far-search- 
ing and permanent. Human laws 
and agencies may strip a conquered 
nation of its v2alth and liberties, but 
it requires the aid of the missionary 
and colporteur to rob it of even the 
semblance of religion and morality, 
and by the means of what is so falsely 
called " education," to plunge it into 
the depths of unbelief and complete 
spiritual degradation. This is what 
Protestant England is endeavoring, 
and, as we have seen, with some suc- 
cess, to do in Hindostan, and in 
what the generous but easily-duped 
people of America are endeavoring 
to rival it. To christianize, in 
any sense, the Hindoos has been 
found an impossibility by the well- 
paid and well-fed sectarian mission- 
aries, so they are now trying to earn 
their salaries by utterly demoralizing 
the people they have failed to con- 
vert. 

They are aided in this by the ac- 
tive countenance of the dominant 
power, by no less than twenty-seven 
distinct societies, and have at their 
disposal unlimited funds; a great 



Protestant Missions in India. 



703 



portion of which is made up of the 
annual contributions of the people of 
the United States. Of the five and 
a quarter millions subscribed by the 
various Protestant societies of the 
world in 1871, considerably over a 
million and a half of dollars came out 
of the pockets of Americans, as we 
learn from Table IV., and doubtless 
money will continue to flow into the 
coffers of these organizations as long 
as they can continue to delude the 
charitable by false hopes and bombas- 
tic reports of missionary successes. 
We are not of those who are disposed 
to consider the conversion of souls 
from a commercial point of view ; on 
the contrary, we are rather in favor 
even of the lavish expenditure of mo- 
ney, if by that means we can win men 
to Christ and to the inheritance of 
his kingdom ; but when it becomes 
an instrument to rob the parent of 
his child, to convert the heathen not 
through his mind but his stomach, to 
bring Christianity into disrepute by 
sustaining the dissolute and degrad- 
ed, to pervert the mental gifts of 
Providence by teaching the heathen 
that all religion is imposture,* and by 
supporting and sustaining thousands 
of lay and clerical officials who are 
as destitute of real sympathy for the 
pagan as they are ignorant of the 
first principles of Christian charity 
and responsibility all of which it has 
done and is doing in India we con- 
sider that it may justly be asserted 
that what was meant for a blessing 
becomes a curse to the donor as well 
as the recipient. 

Dr. Butler in one of his tables 
shows that the Catholic Church mis- 
sions, embracing nearly nine millions 
of Christians, expend less than a mil- 



* " They [the pupils of the secular and mission- 
ary schools] have no more faith in Jesus Christ 
than in their own religion. They believe the 
Jesus of the English and the Krishna of the 
Hindoos to be alike impostors." Six Years in 
India, vol. iii. p. 277. 



lion dollars annually, while those of 
the Protestant sects, ostensibly count- 
ing about a third of that number, 
cost five and a half times that 
amount, and would have us believe 
from this that Protestantism exhibits 
more vitality and zeal in the cause 
of religion than does the church. 
But the contrary is the fact. Unlike 
the sectarian, whose inducement 
arises out of and is in proportion to 
the amount of his salary, the Catho- 
lic missionary goes forth into the pa- 
gan world, without money, friends, or 
family encumbrances; he forsakes 
all comforts and material pleasures 
to preach Christ crucified ; his ener- 
gy is not of the earth, earthy, his in- 
spiration is from a power higher than 
that of man, and as his life is one 
long-continued sermon on temper- 
ance, forgiveness, and self-abnega- 
tion, his success is always in propor- 
tion, not to the money employed, 
but to the sanctity of the preacher. 
He does not distribute badly trans- 
lated and often unreadable copies of 
the Word of God, "in thirty-seven 
languages " as claimed for the Prot- 
estants by Dr. Butler, to persons who 
can neither read nor appreciate 
them ; but, living sparingly, dressing 
humbly, and conforming in all re- 
spects his daily practice to his cleri- 
cal professions, he wins to the stan- 
dard of Christ the rich as well as the 
poor, the ignorant pariah as well as 
the learned and disputatious pundit. 
Even Protestants, missionaries at 
that, have seen through their preju- 
dices, the uniform success of the Ca- 
tholic teachers, and while their sys- 
tem does not allow them to imitate 
their example, they have nevertheless 
borne unwilling testimony, and there- 
fore more valuable, to the superiori- 
ty in point of morality and ability 
of the servants of the church. In 
India to-day, even Dr. Butler is forced 
to admit there are close on a million 



704 



Protestant Missions in India. 



actual practical Catholics, with hun- 
dreds of churches, and a ministry of 
foreign and native priests amounting 
to seven hundred and seventy-nine, 
who are supported at an expense to 
the Society de Propaganda Fide of 
twenty-eight thousand dollars, while 
their schools, numbering according to 
the Catholic Register of 1869 one 
thousand, contain over thirty thou- 
sand native pupils. Dr. Butler has 
called our attention to his tables, we 
have given them serious attention, 
and have even taken his own figures 
as thoroughly exact, and we have 
come to the conclusion that he must 
either have had a very limited appre- 
ciation of the perspicacity of his 
readers, or recklessness of character 
in thus exposing the hollow-ness 
of Protestant professions of pro- 
gress, superinduced by the com- 
plete failure of himself and his co-la- 
borers to vitalize in the far East the 
decaying body of Protestantism, 
which is so fast degenerating into 
materialism and scepticism in the 
West. 

There are one or two points more, 
overlooked in passing, of which we 
wish to take note. Dr. Butler has 
included that part of Farther India 
in his tables, which will help him to 
swell the number of his converts, and 



excluded that part of it in which the 
Catholic religion flourishes. Include 
the whole, and you add 500,000 to 
the number of native Catholics in 
India. Again, he repeats the un- 
meaning, silly twaddle which we 
hear without ceasing from writers of 
the same sort, that Protestant mis- 
sionaries make real Christians, Ca- 
tholic missionaries only nominal 
ones. Methodist religion consists in 
emotion and excitement, the most 
unreal of all things. So far as it is 
worth anything, there is far more 
sensible devotion, although of a more 
quiet and sober kind, among Catho- 
lics than among any class of Protes- 
tants. But this is not the essence of 
religion. To be a Christian is to be- 
lieve the revelation and keep the 
commandments of God. Whoever 
says that Catholic missionaries do 
not carefully instruct their converts 
in the doctrines of the faith and in 
sound morals, and endeavor to make 
them both pious and virtuous, is 
either a slanderer or the dupe of 
some slanderer. Let every one who 
wishes to know the truth read the 
work of Dr. Marshall, and ponder 
the evidence he has collected. Dr. 
Butler's effort to weaken its influ- 
ence, like every other attempt of the 
same sort, has proved abortive, 



On the Misty Mountain. 



705 



ON THE MISTY MOUNTAIN. 



ROUTE I. 



IT was in the by-gone days of the 
Misty Mountain Stage and Express 
Company only a few years ago by 
actual chronological computation, it 
is true ; but at least a half a century 
by the change effected in the less 
than demi-decade which has passed. 

Do you know that at times, when 
I contemplate this change, I can 
scarcely realize that I have lived long 
enough to have lived through it ? I 
often feel as if the memory of the 
things that were is the reflection of 
experiences in a former state of exist- 
ence, so different is the what is 
from the what was. I feel burdened 
by great personal antiquity, and can- 
not help considering myself a sort of 
Methusalem le Petit. I have seen 
the great plains spanned by the rail 
and the wire. The smoking, shriek- 
ing steed of steam drinks the waters 
of the fork of the Misty Mountain, 
sacred but a year or two ago to the 
pony of the red man. The journey 
which occupied weeks to accomplish 
ten years past is now made in a few 
hours, and lightning whispers are in- 
terchanged between the Atlantic and 
the Pacific. 

My good old Uncle Joe, an old- 
time leather-dealer in the " Swamp " 
in New York City who, a bache- 
lor, had adopted me, an orphan, 
and, having educated me, had 
assigned me a desk in the dingy old 
office with the leathery smell told 
me one day, without any previous 
warning, that he wished me to start 
without delay for the Stony Sierra to 
look after some of his business inter- 
ests in that region. That was my 
Uncle Joe's way of doing things. 
VOL. xv. 45 



His engagements did not permit his 
leaving New York at the time. Be- 
sides, he had crossed the great plains 
more than twice or thrice, and had 
had enough of them. But as I had 
not had any of them, a little, he 
thought, would do me good, and he 
proposed to give it me. 

My journey to the (then) end of 
railroad communication was re- 
markable only for the general rail- 
way decadence which, commencing 
at Chicago, increased " in inverse 
ratio to the square of the distance 
from our objective point," as the ele- 
gant English of the telegraph would 
phrase it. The conductor grew fa- 
miliar with the passengers, who grew 
fewer. The various characters of the 
" newspaper boy," the vegetable- 
ivory notion vender, the " ice- 
cold lemonade " boy, the candy- 
seller, the cigar boy, the bookseller, 
the apple and orange boy, were all 
performed by one and the same pro- 
tean youngster. The passengers 
had dwindled so that it would not 
pay to invest two boys in that dra- 
matic business. At length, the Thes- 
pian youth, tired of playing a dozen 
different characters to empty cars, 
threw off all his disguises at once, 
and subsided into a mere passenger 
like the rest of us. 

A sudden shock brought a slight 
nap in which I was indulging to a 
timely end. The train had stopped. 
The pitiful account of passengers 
were on their feet, some leaving the 
car, others looking about them with 
an expression of interrogative imbe- 
cility, when the brakeman shouted 
out: 



;o6 



On the Misty Mountain. 



" Devil's Landing end o' track !" 
No danger of taking a wrong 
train now. So we passengers, four 
in number, left the car. We con- 
cluded a hasty agreement to stick to 
each other as fellow-men and fellow- 
passengers, we four waifs washed on 
the shore of barbarism by the ad- 
vancing tide of civilization. A fellow- 
feeling of lost-sheepiness made us 
wondrous kind to each other. 

I accosted a small, dried-up, hard- 
featured old fellow of eighteen or 
nineteen : 

" Any hotels here ?" 
Answer (in an intensely contemp- 
tuous manner) : " No !" 

" Any restaurants eating-houses ?" 
" Yes, four on 'em : the 'Merik'n 
House, the Mansh'n House, the Pa- 
cific S'loon, and Jack Langford's dug- 
out." 

Finding the old juvenile so com- 
municative, and having more ques- 
tions to propound,_we propitiate him 
by offering a cigar in recognition of 
his social and chronological equal- 
ity, and in proof that we are not 
" stuck-up snobs from the East." 
He takes the cigar brusquely without 
oral signification of acceptance or 
expression of thanks. He bites the 
end off wolfishly, and places the ci- 
gar as near his ear as possible. We 
offer him a match. He takes it, puts 
it into his vest-pocket, saying : 
" Guess I'll take a dry smoke." 
" Which is the best of the hotels or 
eating-houses ?" 

" All doggoned bad." 
" Which is the cleanest ?" 
" All doggoned dirty." 
" Which is the cheapest ?" 
" All doggoned dear." 
" Which is the quietest ?" 
" Doggoned row goin' on in all of 
'em most o' the time. Man killed 
at some one on 'em 'most every night, 
and a brace or more on dance-nights." 
We requested him to direct us to 



the " American " or the " Mansion 
House." 

" Don't need to go far. That," 
said he, indicating by a movement of 
his cigar and his lower jaw a partial- 
ly finished " balloon-frame " house 
about thirty yards to the right, " is the 
'Merik'n; and that," indicating in 
like manner a canvas shed to the 
left, " is the Mansh'n House." 

Devil's Landing consisted of about 
a dozen mushroom edifices and 
about as many " dug-outs." On re- 
flection, we concluded to try the 
" American House." 

A small space cut off by an un- 
painted counter served for an* office, 
but no " register " was displayed. The 
establishment had only very recently 
been moved up, the official behind 
the counter informed us, from the 
last resting-place by the way of run- 
ners with the rails. 

A look at the " sleeping apart- 
ments " was sufficient for me. I de- 
termined not to sleep in any of them 
if I could possibly help it. 

I went back to the functionary at 
the counter, and asked the time of 
departure of the Misty Mountain 
coach, and learned that a coach left 
the same afternoon, and that there 
was one place vacant. I engaged 
the seat at once, glad to escape the 
horrors of a night in the American 
House and Devil's Landing. My 
fellow-passengers wished me to wait 
for the next day's coach, but I de- 
clined. When we agreed to stick 
together, I knew nothing of the 
American House. 

We had dinner. It consisted of 
very fat and very rusty bacon, putty 
biscuits, and mud coffee without milk. 

" The cows have not come in," 
said one of the greasy waiters, when 
I asked for milk. 

" The cows never do come home 
here," whispered a neighbor, evident- 
ly an habitut. 



On the Misty Mountain. 



707 



It was toward the close of August, 
and the heat was excessive. The 
sun shone mercilessly on us through 
the partially glazed and wholly un- 
curtained windows. Yet we ate and 
perspired, and perspired and drank 
mud coffee, with a persistency which 
astonished me when after thinking 
on these matters. 

The flies were terrible. They swept 
around the room in buzzing clouds. 
Some of them were nearly large 
enough to offer a fair mark for a shot- 
gun; the smaller ones insinuated 
themselves everywhere into your 
nose, ears, eyes aye, even into your 
mouth. They immolated themselves 
in the frowzy, oily butter; and their 
remains studded the reeking mass 
like currants in a pudding. 

Such a wonderful effect has the 
pure prairie air it doth so whet the 
edge of appetite that, though our 
eyes were shocked, we ate and ate, 
and our sense of taste was not of- 
fended. The meal only cost us 
two dollars apiece. 

After dinner, I lit a fifty-cent Dev- 
il's Landing cigar, and walked (liter- 
ally) around town a perambulation 
which did not quite occupy five min- 
utes. As I finished my walk, a shot 
was fired at the other end of town 
that is, within fifteen or twenty rods. 
Other shots followed. A long-hair- 
ed, slouched-hatted, and red-legging- 
ed individual dashed past on a pretty 
good horse. Evidently he was the 
mark at which the firing was direct- 
ed. As he passed, an armed man or 
t\vo rushed out of every house and 
shot at him. The proprietor of the 
Oriental Saloon came forth, armed 
with a Henry rifle, and deliberately 
blazed away at the long-haired fugi- 
tive. The latter, finding bullets in 
front of him, bullets to left of him, 
bullets behind him, after several 
miraculous escapes from close shots, 
had ne course open but to turn to 



right of him, around the corner of ' 
the American House, which would 
afford him some cover. But just as 
he turned, his horse was hit in the 
off fore-leg and brought to in a mo- 
ment. Immediately he was hemmed 
in by the muzzles of twenty repeat- 
ing-rifles. He had emptied his six- 
shooter. Flight was impossible. 
There was no course but surrender 
not even suicide left. He jumped 
from his horse, and sat down 
cross-legged on the ground. He 
was quickly seized and pinioned. 
His horse was taken in charge by a 
citizen. No words were wasted on 
either side. His lariat of horse-hair 
furnished a deadly loop, which was 
placed around his neck. He was 
marched about a mile to the only 
tree in sight an old cottonwood. 

While the crowd was going to the 
tree, the clerk of the American House 
told me in a few words the history 
of the long-haired victim. He was a 
half-breed Choctaw, frequently em- 
ployed as a scout by the government. 
There were several of these scouts in 
the region. They called themselves 
" wolves," and prided themselves on 
their destruction of human life. 
When any of them came into town 
citizens were sure to be shot at. 
Iheir favorite way of leaving town 
was, having first filled themselves 
with " fighting whiskey," to dash 
through at full speed, discharging 
their revolvers at anything human 
that chanced to appear in their path. 
The citizens had determined not to 
stand this sort of thing any longer. 
" Johnny Henshaw " so our " wolf" 
was called had been drinking rather 
freely of late. He had declared 
his intention of shooting three prom- 
inent men of the town, mentioning 
them by name. Hence the meas- 
ures about to be taken. 

Johnny Henshaw seemed to be 
about twenty years old indeed 



;o8 



On the Misty Mountain. 



rather under than over that age. 
There was nothing in his features to 
show a trace of Indian blood. His 
hair was light brown, his eyes a soft, 
light blue, his skin fair, and his 
cheeks rosy. The expression of his 
face .was gentle and pleasing. It 
made me heart-sick to look at the 
young fellow, even though he was a 
wolf and deserved a wolfs fate, and 
to think that in the midst of health 
and strength and youth he was 
marching to a speedy death. As we 
came near the fatal tree, I tried to 
imagine what thoughts were passing 
in the outlaw's mind by mentally 
putting myself in his place. The 



effort made me dizzy and sick. I felt 
as if I were about to fall senseless. 

When we had reached the cotton- 
wood tree, the cortege halted. A 
wagon was hauled up to the tree, and 
Johnny caused to mount it. One 
end of his lariat was made fast to a 
branch of the tree. Three or four 
men jumped on the wagon. Some 
confusion occurred in properly ad- 
justing the noose about the victim's 
neck. Johnny pushed the men from 
him, saying : 

" Get out o' here ! I'll show ye 
how a man can die !" And, fixing 
with his own hands the noose about 
his neck, he jumped into eternity ! 



ROUTE II 



Poor wolf! His time to howl was 
over. 

I felt sick and faint from witness- 
ing the scene, and had to take some 
of the " fighting whiskey " of Devil's 
Landing to keep me from fainting. 
It did so. It was as good or as bad 
as a galvanic shock. I was glad, 
therefore, when the Misty Mountain 
coach drove in front of the American 
Hotel to take up its passengers. 
The stage had seven inside : a con- 
gressman, a divine, an Indian agent, 
three ladies, and a small boy. The 
gentlemen looked at me in such a 
dog-in-the-mangerish fashion when 
I popped my head in at the door to 
see what prospect there was of an 
inside seat, that I immediately with- 
drew it and took my seat on the box 
between the driver and the conduct- 
or. 

" Passengers for the Stony Sierra ! 
All aboard !" And off we go behind 
six good mules. 

The country we travelled through 
was flat and uninteresting. Not a 
tree or shrub within the circular 
boundary of the horizon. Little of 
life, animal or vegetable, to be seen ; 



only a stray hare vulgo, jackass 
rabbit a prairie-dog, with its senti- 
nel owl, a prairie wolf or coyote, and 
an occasional hawk. 

After. a run of nine or ten miles, 
we stopped at a " dug-out " to change 
animals. While the change was 
being effected, a man in a red buggy 
with a white horse arrived from the 
west. He was evidently excited, and 
his horse was covered with foam. 

" How d'e do, general ? You 
seem kinder flurried. Anything hap- 
pened ?" asked the stage-driver. 

" Well," said the person addressed 
as " general " (by the way, you 
could have bought generals there as 
they buy hobnails) " I have had 
a pretty sharp run. Ten or fifteen 
Indians began running me after 
crossing the Blue Fork. They fired 
three or four shots at me. Here's 
the mark of one," he continued, 
pointing to a bullet-hole in the body 
of the red buggy. " They came 
mighty near getting me. And they 
would have got me were it not for 
Old Whity here." And he patted 
the white horse affectionately. 

Thus the INDIAN QUESTION, at the 



On the Misty .Mountain. 



709 



very outset, was brought home to the 
bosoms of the passengers by the Misty 
Mountain coach. They asked many 
questions of the " general." The 
Indian agent who had never seen 
an Indian of the wild tribes in his 
life made a pretence of experience, 
and offered a few suggestions. But a 
few remarks from the stock-tenders 
at the dug-out stable raised a laugh 
at his expense, and he " was squelch- 
ed for the" rest of the trip," as the 
conductor expressed it. 

The conductor and the driver 
looked to their Henry rifles, and 
hurriedly inventoried the arms in the 
party. The Indian agent had a 
double-barrelled shot-gun both bar- 
rels unloaded no ammunition ; the 
congressman had a diminutive five- 
shooter which would scarcely have 
tickled a papoose five barrels un- 
loaded, one round of cartridges on 
hand, no reserve ammunition; the 
divine, the ladies, and the small boy 
were unarmed ; the reader's humble 
servant had one six-shooter 
Colt's navy pattern with half-a- 
dozen rounds of ammunition for the 
same. This weapon he had never 
yet used. He was not fully enlight- 
ened as to the modus of loading it. 
It was in the reader's humble ser- 
vant's trunk at the bottom of the pile 
of baggage which towered behind 
the coach. Of course, he didn't wish 
to give the conductor or the driver 
the trouble of changing the luggage. 
With remarkable good nature, he pre- 
ferred going out defenceless to trou- 
bling these gentlemen. Like most 
human feelings, however, this one 
was perhaps not quite pure. It must 
be owned the idea crossed his mind 
that it was as well not to introduce 
the factor of premature explosion 
into the quantity of danger to which 
he was about to be exposed. 

We changed mules and started. 
Everybody saw Indians for the first 



few miles. But the objects appearing 
as Indians to our excited vision had 
been so often pronounced by the 
conductor to be " soap-weeds," " old 
buffalo carcasses," etc., that the num- 
ber seen began greatly to diminish. 
Once we thought there was no doubt 
about it. They came dashing along 
in " Indian file," fifteen or twenty in 
number, directly toward us. I felt 
"very queer." Here were Indians 
now, not a doubt about it. I was 
seized by a sudden desire to have 
something to shoot with. I mental- 
ly resolved, if I got out of this scrape 
alive, never again to travel unarmed 
in an Indian country. 

"Antelope," remarked the con- 
ductor. 

Antelope it was ; a herd of fifteen 
or twenty. They crossed the road a 
few hundred yards in front of us. 

We had travelled about five miles 
without an incident or a sight to 
break the monotony of the waste 
around us, when above a rising 
ground before us the Stars and Stripes, 
relieved against the sky, gladdened 
our eyes. How that sight revived 
us ! We remembered that " the 
home of the brave " was our home ; 
and I think that, if Indians had ap- 
peared at that moment, or within five 
minutes thereafter, we would have 
received them in heroic attitudes. 
But they did not appear. 

As we ascended the ridge between 
us and Fort Jones, that post came 
gradually into view. It looked to 
us like a collection of very misera- 
ble " shanties " dropped down hap- 
hazard on the prairie. 

A large stone building the hospi- 
tal, the conductor informed me was 
in course of erection. It seemed 
larger than all the rest of the post 
put together. The officers' quarters 
were such constructions as we have 
seen inhabited by the squatters on 
the vacant lots up-town in New York 



;rc 



On the Misty Mountain 



or in " Jackson's Hollow " in Brook- 
lyn. 

The " Fort " disappointed me very 
much. I expected to enter the 
guarded precincts over a drawbridge 
and under an arched portcullis. 
But Fort Jones was destitute of 
ditch, rampart, or parapet, and un- 
inclosed by stockade, palisade, or 
even by a common board fence. The 
coach drove up to the sutler's store 
there the post-office was establish- 
ed without let or hindrance from 
warder or sentinel. 

Some half-dozen officers were in the 
store awaiting the distribution of the 
mail. The congressman, the Indian 
agent, and the divine soon discover- 
ed who was the officer in command 
of the fort. They immediately ap- 
proached him on the subject of an 
escort. 

The officer said he had compara- 
tively few men ; his small force was 
scattered along the stage-road for 
two hundred miles; he had only 
twenty men present for duty; but he 
would try to furnish three or four 
men. " An officer and a sergeant," 
he said, " were going up on the 
coach to see to the defences of the 
station-guards along the road." The 
conductor here put in his oar, and 
said it would be impossible for him 
to take four men more. This settled 
the question of an escort. The con- 
gressman, the divine, and the Indian 
agent, having ascertained that they 
could be accommodated with bed and 
board at the sutler's, concluded " to 
stay over for the present." 

The conductor and the driver did 
not seem to regret this determination. 
The former remarked that this light- 
ening of our load helped us much, 
and we should now be able " to pull 
through " in good time. 

While we were waiting to have 
the mail made up, a mounted man 
came in at full speed with news that 



a government wagon train had been 
attacked by Indians on one of the 
roads leading to the post that the 
teams were very much scattered 
that some of the mules were already 
in the hands of the Indians. This 
caused a flutter among the officers. 
A company of infantry was ordered 
at once to the relief of the train. 

As we left the fort we could see 
the infantry going over the rise at 
a double-quick and in skirmish order. 

We stopped for a moment, in rear 
of the officers' quarters, to take up the 
officer and the sergeant. The offi- 
cer's wife and little child came out 
to see him off. He kissed them both 
affectionately, and took his seat with 
us on top of the coach. The ser- 
geant, also, rode on the roof. Both 
were well armed. Much to my de- 
light, the officer, finding me unarmed, 
furnished me with a spare musket he 
had brought with him. 

At first, I was rather disappointed 
in this officer. He was very plainly 
dressed. He had just enough gold 
lace about him to indicate his rank, 
and no more. I had supposed that 
regular officers always wore epau- 
lets and white kid gloves. How- 
ever, the lieutenant for such was our 
new passenger's rank was evidently 
a gentleman. He had a certain quiet, 
unobtrusive affability which charmed 
me very much. I was glad he had 
come. His easy self-possession in- 
spired me with confidence. 

" If we meet any Indians, lieu- 
tenant," said the conductor, an old 
hand who had driven stage for ten 
years along the Great Sandy, " we'll 
have to do the work from out here; 
there's nobody below (pointing 
downwards) to help us." 

" Do you think we may be attack- 
ed by Indians ?" I ventured to ask. 

" Think it most probable we shall 
see some, at the least," answered the 
officer. " They have shown them- 



On the Misty Mountain. 



711 



selves at several points along the 
line. The Great Alamos, which we 
have to pass, is a favorite crossing- 
place, when they go south in the 
spring or north in the fall." 

" It is about as bad a place for 
Injuns as there is in the whole 
route," said the conductor. 

"Yes," said George, the driver; 
" and though I'm a white man, an' 
agin an Injun all the time, I must 
say that we owe the badness of that 
there place to a white man." 

" How ?" I asked. 

" The Great Alamos," answered 
the driver, " was a great buryin'- 
place of the Flat Noses. It was 
quite a large grove once consider- 
able of a rarity on these here plains. 
You know," he continued, " that the 
Flat Noses bury their dead high up 
in the trees, or, where there are no 
trees, stick 'em up on trestles made 
with long poles." 

" They bury them in the air in- 
stead of in the ground," I said, in- 
tending the remark as a sort of semi- 
joke, at which I designed smiling if 
any one else smiled, and, if not, to 
let it go for a serious observation. 
It was probably not new in either 
phase to my companions, who took 
no notice of it. So to break silence, 
I asked why the Indians of the 
plains sought these elevated resting- 
places for their dead. 

" To keep 'em from being eaten 
up by the ki-o-tees." 

" Do the ki-o-tees devour the 
dead of other tribes ?" I asked, hor- 
rified at the thought. 

" The ki-o-tees is the wolves," the 
conductor explained. 

The lieutenant informed me of the 
orthography of the word coyote. 

About sunset we reached a house 
built of loose stones, and therefore 
known as "The Stone Ranch." 
There were fifteen or twenty men 
about the ranch all of them armed. 



George pulled up before the door 
there was only one, by the bye, and 
no windows and exchanged a 
friendly greeting with Jake, Ike, Ed. 
et hoc genus omne. 

" What's the word ?" asked 
George. " How is hay-cutting 
comin' on ?" 

" We ain't cut a blade of hay to- 
day," said one of the men. " Them 
cussed Injuns kep' us corralled here 
all day." 

" Whew !" whistled George. 

" How many were they ?" the 
lieutenant inquired. 

" Somewhere's about thirty or 
forty." 

" Many guns among 'em ?" asked 
the conductor. 

" Some of 'em had rifles ; all of 
'em as I seen had six-shooters." 

" How long did they remain 
about ?" 

" Pretty nigh all day. They kep' 
shootin' at us at long range, and we 
returnin' their fire, until about ten 
minnits before the coach kem." 

" Did yer git any on 'em ?" 

"Jake thinks as he hit one, and 
Mac says he saw another fall sure." 

'' Weil ! we must be goin'. Git- 
e-p!" 

" Keep yer eye skinned, George." 

" Hold on to that old skelp o' 
yourn !" 

" You bet ! I'll freeze to it." 

A mile further on we reached the 
Great Alamos. Darkness was over- 
coming the twilight as we struck a 
deep sandy hollow which extended 
for five or six miles. A slow walk was 
the only gait possible here. The 
road for miles "ran close under a 
ridge about twenty feet in perpen- 
dicular height. It seemed to me 
about as bad an " Indian place" as it 
was possible to find. My Indian 
weakness came on again as in the 
morning. The snail-like pace at 
which we were compelled to move 



712 



On the Misty Mountain. 



was almost intolerable. There is 
some sensation of security, or, rather, 
some suggestion of escape, in a fast 
gait when danger is impending. Its 
source is probably the initial instinct 
of the human breast when danger 
first threatens to run from it. 

I consulted my companion, the 
lieutenant, on the possibilities or 
probabilities of an attack. 

" An attack," he answered, " is 
possible. It is very probable that 
there are Indians watching us now. 
They may fire into us at any mo- 
ment, as in our position they have 
the chance of hurting us without be- 
ing exposed to hurt themselves; for 
your Indian always runs from a fair 
fight. He is only ' brave' when he 
has his enemy at a disadvantage, and 
sees, or thinks he sees, what is 
called out here 'a sure thing.' It 
is only their very recent presence, 
however, that causes me to appre- 
hend trouble, as ordinarily they do 
not attack at night, and they rarely 
attack a stage-coach : for the reason 
that they are sure to get a pretty 
tough fight. Even if successful, their 
gain is very small; three or four 
mules at most, perhaps a gun or two. 
They do not consider the investment 
a paying one, as a general thing. In 
any event," he concluded, " if I were 
you, I should take off that white dus- 
ter. It offers quite a shining mark 
for them, if they feel like shooting." 

The rapidity with which I followed 
this friend's advice must have given 
him a pleasing proof of my confi- 
dence in his counsels. 

We had now entered the bed of 
the Great Alamos. It was quite 
dark. Silence fell upon us. Every 
man held his loaded rifle, full-cocked, 
and finger on trigger peering into the 
darkness, and seeking in every sage- 
bush an Indian contour. Every now 
and then the conductor's rifle went up 
and down with a nervous twitch. 



The evening had become quite 
cold. I had felt it keenly before we 
reached the Stone Ranch ; but as we 
crept along in the heavy sand, 
through the darkness, looking every 
moment for the flash of an Indian 
rifle, I felt all in a glow. I did not 
think of cold. No doubt, the reason 
was that I could think only of In- 
dians, and felt that I was in a pretty 
warm place. 

At last ! We are out of the sand. 
The mules strike a good trot. It is 
only four miles now to Artesian 
Wells, and then we shall have sup- 
per, I am informed. I feel quite light- 
hearted over the recent past and the 
close future. Strange to say, with 
the decrease of my fear of Indians, 
the glow subsides and I feel cold 
again. The strain is over ; we begin 
to talk once more. George, the 
driver, has won my admiration by 
his cool and calm attention to his 
team while we passed through the 
"bad Injun place." 

" If we're attacked," George had 
said, " you others must do the shoot- 
in'. I'll have all I can do to manage 
this team." 

George was the beau ideal of a 
good stage-driver in an Indian coun- 
try so the lieutenant told me. 

" It is a driver's duty to attend to 
his team under fire, as George very 
properly says, as much as it is a 
surgeon's to cure the wounded, when 
necessary, under like circumstances. 
It requires a good deal more coolness, 
and it is much harder for him to watch 
and control his team while bullets 
are grazing him, than it would be to 
throw down the reins and begin fir- 
ing. It takes all his strength and 
coolness to manage the excited and 
terrified animals. Shooting gives 
needed excitement at such a time, 
but then the mules run off, the stage 
is upset, and broken legs or necks 
and certain capture are the result. 



On the Misty Mountain. 



713 



George is a good driver, and, had he 
not one great defect, would be a very 
good man." 

" What is the defect ?" I asked. 

" Drinking," whispered the lieuten- 
ant. 

" He does not look in the least 
like a drinking man." 

" True ; yet he is as drunk as he 
can be now. He has not been so- 
ber for years. George is one of your 
white-faced drinkers. He is always 
as you see him now. I have been 
two years on this line, and I have not 
seen George sober yet. Look at his 
eyes when we get to supper, and you 
will see they are not the eyes of a 
man in his normal condition." 

" I heard him refuse a pull at the 
Indian agent's flask, between Devil's 
Landing and Fort Jones." 

" No doubt. That is George's 
gnat. He makes it a point never to 
drink while driving. But he had 
swallowed his camel before he took 
the ribbons at Devil's Landing, and 
he will swallow another when he 
reaches Artesian Wells, where his 
route ends. Aye ! and keep swallow- 
ing camels every time he wakes up 
during the night, and until he mounts 
the box for his return trip to-morrow." 

" What a fearful life for a man to 
lead !" I said. 

" Yes, indeed," said the lieutenant, 
" and the ending is still more fearful. 
George's team will bring him in some 
fine morning stone-dead on the box, 
with the ribbons still in his stiffened 
fingers." 

" I can imagine," I answered, 
" how a man who is excited by strong 
drink may find pleasure in it, though 
it may tempt him to break things and 
get him into many a fight. But I 
cannot for the life of me imagine 
why those dead-alive drinkers con- 
tinue the habit." 

" I suppose they can't stop it," said 
the lieutenant. " They have gone too 



far to turn back. Death is behind 
them as well as before." 

Our conversation was interrupted 
by a series of prolonged howls from 
George : 

"Hi-hi-hi-hi," etc., ad libitum. 

I was very much startled by these 
vocal efforts. I thought " it was In- 
dians." Next it struck me that 
George's last fit of delirium tremens 
had commenced, and he was about 
to become dangerous. My military 
companion, noticing my astonish- 
ment, kindly explained that this was 
the usual signal to the station-keeper. 
The drivers commence their howls of 
warning when they arrive within a mile 
or so of the station. Their peculiar 
cry can be heard quite a long way off. 

When we were quite near the sta- 
tion, we overtook an ox-wagon with 
its solitary driver walking by the side 
of his animals, and giving the talis- 
manic " whoa haws !" and " gees " by 
which the movements of these clum- 
sy beasts of draught are directed. 

" Hallo ! Tommy John !" said the 
driver, bringing his team down to a 
walk. 

" That you, George ?" 

" What is left of me, my son. 
Where are you bound for, Tommy ?" 

" The old Sandy, as usual." 

" How far did you come to-day, 
Tommy ?" 

" From the Stone Ranch." 

" You must have left there mighty 
early." 

"Yes! I started afore daylight. 
I nooned at the Wala Hole, and wa- 
tered my stock and cooked my supper 
at the Great Alamos." 

The conductor then informed 
" Tommy John," whose real name 
was John Thompson, as I learned, 
of the state of things at the Stone 
Ranch when the coach passed there. 

" So, friend Tommy," he conclu- 
ded, " you have got through by a 
scratch." 



On the Misty Mountain. 



" Oh ! pshaw !" said Tommy John, 
laughing; "Injuns won't hurt me. 
I've been through the mill too often 
to be scared." 

" Well," said the lieutenant, " as 
you have been fortunate enough to 
get thus far safely, you had better re- 
main at the Wells until some govern- 
ment train with an escort comes up." 

" That you, lieutenant ? How 
d'e do ? Much obliged. But I'm 
agoin' to Snake Spring before my next 
stoppage. I want to get on home as 
soon as I can. It's some time since 
I've seen the old lady and my half- 
dozen babies over on the Sandy." 

" I tell you, Tommy," said the 
lieutenant, " you are very foolish to 
go on from the Wells alone." 

"Oh! no Injuns will trouble me, 
lieutenant. There's nothing to take. 
The investment wouldn't pay." 

" There's your scalp to take," said 
George, "and I shouldn't wonder 
if you lost it." 

" Don't be afeard about my scalp, 
George," said Tommy John, good- 
humoredly. " 1 have a notion to go 
after some ha'r myself this trip." 

"Good-night!" 

" Good-night, my son !" 

"Gee!" 

" Get aup ! ye critters." And off 
we go, leaving poor Tommy John 
to pursue his lonely route. 

" That thar Tommy," said George, 
*' is one of the kind-heartedest, good- 
naturedest fellows as travels this road. 
An' he's churful, too ; always in for 
a joke and a laugh. He's drove 
team ox and mule on this line for 
nigh on to four year. He never 
carries no arms, and always travels 
alone. He's had some mighty close 
shaves has Tommy, but I shouldn't 
wonder if they got him yet. He 
takes too big risks." 

" Does it often happen that you 
have no passengers, George ?" I ask- 
ed. 



" Once in a while," said George. 

" It seems to me that on those oc- 
casions you take as big a risk as 
your friend Tommy." 

" Not by a durned sight," replied 
George. " I have a good team, and 
can give a party of Indians a lively 
run at any time. I have generally a 
conductor or express-messenger with 
me, and a good rifle well handled 
will keep off a power of Indians for 
awhile. While he amuses them, 
I keep lightin' out for the next sta- 
tion. Before the company got stingy 
when there was a swing-station 
every dozen miles where you got a 
fresh team I could have got away 
from Injuns all the time, either by 
runnin' back to the station I had left 
or pushin' out for the one ahead of me, 
accordin' to whichever was the near- 
est. I takes no risk that I ain't 
obliged to." 

" What do you call a ; swing-sta- 
tion ?" I asked. 

George looked at me with an ex- 
pression of mixed pity and contempt, 
and replied : 

'' A swing-station is where you . 
changes teams ; a home-station is the 
end of a route, where you gits meals." 

It was after midnight when we 
reached the Artesian Wells. I had 
found the Sandy Hollow of the 
Great Alamos a pretty warm place 
but after I got out of it I felt cold 
again, and when I reached the wells 
I was chilled through. Notwith- 
standing George's warning cry, every- 
body was asleep at the station. It 
took some time to wake the people 
up, to get a fire kindled, and a meal 
prepared. I took advantage of the 
delay to get at my trunk, whence I 
took my revolver and some woollen 
clothing. The latter, with the con- 
sent of the cook (a male specimen 
of the culinary tribe), I put on in the 
kitchen. 

The station was out of fire- wood, 



Decision against the St. James Mission Claim at Vancouver. / 1 5 



and was now endeavoring to effect 
its cooking with the remaining chips 
of departed logs and the chips of the 
passing buffalo. It took a long time 
to get biscuits baked and meat stew- 
ed, thus I had a good nap by the not 
very bright, though very aromatic, 
fire. The lieutenant, as soon as the 
door was opened, had thrown his 
blankets on the floor and himself 
upon the blankets; and slept the 
sleep of the brave until he was waked 



for supper, or breakfast, as you 
please. 

It was about half-past three o'clock 
in the morning when we started 
again. The poor ladies and the 
child had remained in the coach all 
this time, notwithstanding our efforts 
to induce them to alight. Nor could 
they be induced to accept even a cup 
of tea or coffee. With what a power 
of endurance these weak, gentle crea- 
tures our sisters are endowed ! 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



DECISION AGAINST THE ST. JAMES' MISSION CLAIM AT 
VANCOUVER ITS APPRECIATION. 



WE reprint, at the request of Bishop 
Blanchet, the following article on 
this subject, taken from the Catholic 
Sentinel of May 25. For a further 
exposition of the attitude assumed by 
the government towards our strug- 
gling missionary church in that re- 
gion, we refer the reader to the 
February (1872) number of this maga- 
zine : 
Editor Catholic Sentinel : 

The case of the St. James' Mis- 
sion Claim, which for the last twelve 
years has been pending in the office 
of the General Land Department, 
and that of the Secretary of the In- 
terior, has at last been taken into 
consideration, and decided, as repor- 
ted a few weeks since. To Hon. W. 
H. Smith, Assistant Attorney-Gen- 
eral, was given the commission to 
examine the case and give his opin- 
ion. He did so in a document dated 
January 29 last. 

In his report, transmitted to the 
Department of the Interior, we see 
that he had to solve these two 
questions : 

i. Who are included within the 



proviso of the first section of the act 
of Congress of the i4th of August, 
1848, which proviso is in the follow- 
ing language : " That the title to 
land, not exceeding 640 acres, now 
occupied as missionary stations 
among the Indian tribes in said Ter- 
ritory (Oregon Ty.), together with 
the improvements thereon, be con- 
firmed and established in the several 
religious societies to which such mis- 
sionary stations respectively belong " ? 

2. What is confirmed by said 
proviso to missionary stations? 

The lion, gentleman, after an atten- 
tive examination of the first question, 
says : " I am of opinion that the 
proviso of the first section of the 
act of 1848 conferred an immediate 
title right upon all the societies 
then within its provisions. Here is 
a confirmation of title immediately 
operating proprio vigore for the ben- 
efit of all who should at that date be 
within its provisions." 

For the construction of the law he 
refers to the opinion of Attorney- 
General Bates, May 27, 1864, of 
Secretary Harlan, and the Commis- 



716 Decision against the St. James 1 Mission Claim at Vancouver. 



sioner of the General Land Office in 
his instructions to the Surveyor-Gen- 
eral, which opinion has never been 
anywhere seriously questioned. His 
final conclusion is : "I am satisfied 
that on the i4th of August, 1848, 
there was existing a missionary sta- 
tion of St. James." 

This opinion is so well established 
by the documentary evidence and 
the opinion of the gentlemen above 
quoted that there cannot reasonably 
be the least doubt in the mind of 
any candid man as to the existence 
of the St. James' Mission on the 
i4th of August, 1848 a fact ac- 
knowledged by all, irrespective of 
party or creed. 

Let us now come to the second 
question, about what is confirmed by 
the proviso. 

Here the lion, gentleman experi- 
ences some uneasiness in regard to the 
words land now occupied of the pro- 
viso. He knows not exactly what 
they mean. He is not ready to say 
whether in every case " all the land 
claimed ought to have been enclos- 
ed, cultivated, built upon, or the 
like." Then he speaks of " stakes 
or other marks," and says that " for 
the liberal purposes of the proviso 
(?) he would give the language the 
most liberal construction, but knows 
of no rule so liberal as to hold land 
occupied which has never been in- 
cluded in any inclosure, etc." (He 
had a little before said he was not 
ready to require in every case en- 
closure of the land; it is only a 
trifling contradiction !) Why should 
he be so troubled about " enclosure, 
stakes, etc. " ? Had he not before 
his eyes the following rules, given by 
the Commissioner of the General 
Land Office to the Surveyor-Gen- 
eral in 1853, to direct him ? 

" i. Such provision is understood to 
grant 640 acres to each separate and 
distinct missionary station referred to. 



" 2. In order to comply with the 
terms of the grants, ... it will 
become necessary to cause to be 
made a special survey of a square 
mile, which shall include the land oc- 
cupied with the buildings, and im- 
provements in the centre, as nearly 
as may be." 

These rules are undoubtedly plain 
and clear, and no candid man can 
deny that the intentions of Congress 
in granting 640 acres to each mis- 
sionary station were as well, if not 
better, known to the commissioner in 
1853, as they can now be known 
after twenty years. He knew that it 
was not as an alms, but in consider- 
ation of the services rendered by the 
missionaries in laboring to civilize 
and christianize the Indians, that the 
grant was made by Congress. The 
same view has been invariably taken 
by all his successors in office, by all 
the occupants of the Department of 
the Interior, and all the Attorney- 
Generals from 1853 to 1872. Ac- 
cordingly, all cases of missionary 
stations have been settled whether 
they were fenced or not. The 
Methodist Mission at the Dalles in 
Oregon, received from the govern- 
ment $20,000 for a portion of its 
claim, which was not fenced in 1849, 
and had never been before. The 
title of the Presbyterian Mission at 
Walla Walla, and many others which 
were in the same condition, were 
readily acknowledged and granted. 
Should not all these incontrovertible 
facts have convinced the Hon. As- 
sistant Attorney of the true meaning 
of the words "the land now oc- 
cupied " ? But they did not. 

Yet notwithstanding his apparent 
disposition " for the charitable pur- 
pose of the proviso to give the lan- 
guage the most liberal construction," 
he cannot go so far as went all 
the secretaries, the attorney-generals, 
and the commissioners in office dur- 



Decision against the St. James 1 Mission Claim at Vancouver. 717 



ing the course of the twenty previous 
years. He seems to have been sent 
to teach them that they all have erred 
in the interpretation they have given 
to the proviso, and accordingly he 
sets himself up as a reformer. There- 
fore, grounded on his far superior 
legal acquirements, he hesitates not 
to say : " I am unable to see how 
Commissioner Wilson reached the 
conclusion in his instructions to the 
Surveyor-General. It is in my opi- 
nion an erroneous construction of the 
proviso." The Hon. Mr. Wilson, as 
well as all the other hon. gentlemen 
who approved his construction, will 
no doubt be much flattered by the 
compliment. 

The Hon. Assistant Attorney-Gen- 
eral continues : " On the i4th day 
of August, 1848, the mission of St. 
James was in actual possession of a 
small piece of land upon which had 
been erected a church, in which the 
priests there stationed held religious 
worship. The mission at that date 
had never asserted any claim what- 
ever " (would the Hudson Bay Com- 
pany, wrongfully claiming possessory 
rights to the land, have allowed it ?) 
"had no enclosure, and was there- 
fore only in occupancy of the land 
covered by the church edifice, and 
such land as was appendant to it. 
This it occupied in my opinion as a 
missionary station among the In- 
dians. The society to which said 
mission belongs has therefore a 
vested title in the land upon which 
the church edifice extends, and as 
much appurtenant thereto as at the 
passage of the act was within the 
enclosure or used for church pur- 
poses." 

Such, therefore, has been the gen- 
erosity of the Congress of the United 
States, in his opinion ! 

As an acknowledgment of the pre- 
vious efforts of the missionaries to 
civilize and christianize the Indians, 



Congress grants the land covered by 
the church, and a few feet more. 
What wonderful liberality! Ob- 
stupestite coeli super hoc ! 

This opinion has been submitted 
to the Hon. Attorney-General Wil- 
liams, although he has an interest in 
a portion of the claim. He has 
written a letter on the subject which 
may be considered as approving it, 
from the fact that the Hon. Mr. 
Cowen, acting Secretary, has declar- 
ed that he himself concurs in the 
opinion of the Hon. Mr. Smith. The 
legists will here please remember 
that the old a\iom,fav0res stint ampli- 
andi, is no longer in fashion ! Here- 
after they must say: Favores sunt 
restringendi ; and, odiosa amplianda, 
as in the present case. 

By such a decision, if it could 
stand, the first Catholic mission 
established among the Indians in 
Washington Territory, the mission 
which before i848 incontestably 
labored more than any other for the 
civilization of the Indians, would 
have only a few feet of land, while all 
other similar missions have received 
640 acres, and one $20,000 for the 
land occupied by the government 
for a military post. Why such glar- 
ing partiality in the administration ? 
There cannot be any other reason 
for such a decision but that the land 
claimed is considered as of too great 
a value, and that some military offi- 
cers but already too well known here 
covet the land in whole or in part. 
There is no doubt that by their in- 
fluence they have been in a great 
measure the cause of this long pro- 
crastination on the part of the 
government in the past, and have in 
the present contributed their share 
in the rendering of the foregoing 
adverse decision. 

We have now, Mr. Editor, given 
a true report of the decision and the 
ground upon which it is founded 



7 I8 



New Publications. 



We therefore present it to an enlight- 
ened public in order that it may 
form its opinion upon the merits and 
demerits of the case, and that it may 
know that all the religious societies 
do not stand on the same footing of 
equality in the eyes of the liberal 



government of the United States in 
the year of grace 1872. 

A CATHOLIC. 

VANCOUVER, W. T., May 23, 

Papers whose motto is " equal 
justice to all " are requested to 
reproduce the above. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



THE LIFE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN. By 
Ward H. Lamon. Illustrated. Bos- 
ton : James R. Osgood & Co. 1872. 

Pp. 547- 

This newest biography of the late 
President, in which are related all the 
incidents of his career "from his 
birth to his inauguration," is simply 
one of the multitudinous dull books 
of the period, the design or necessi- 
ty of which is far from obvious to 
any person other than the author 
and bookseller. Compiled by " an 
admirer" mainly from materials sup- 
plied by a quondam partner of the 
deceased, it sadly realizes the truth- 
fulness of the old saying that an in- 
discreet friend is more dangerous 
than an avowed enemy. We defy 
any one, no matter how charitable, 
who may have the patience to wade 
through its exaggerated accounts 
of the family, friends, boyhood, and 
manhood of Mr. Lincoln, not to feel, 
on closing the book, a tinge of that 
self-abasement which usually fol- 
lows association with vulgar and 
commonplace characters. What 
has the world got to do with the 
private history of the " Hanks " 
family or the disgraceful bar-room 
and " lick" fights of a semi-barba- 
rous settlement, in which the young 
man was no doubt but an involun- 
tary and disgusted participant? 
Then, as to his religious views, 
though important as an index to his 
mental and moral qualities, we con- 
sider it bad taste and worse judg- 
ment to expatiate on his unbelief 
with all the minuteness and unction 



which distinguish the long chapter 
devoted to their discussion. A 
cloud of witnesses and documents 
are brought up to prove what? 
that he did not frequent churches or 
meeting-houses, and that the ex- 
pressions of devotion and reverence 
in his speeches and public corre- 
spondence were used only to gratify 
his supporters. This may be true 
or it may not be, but we " hold it 
not well to be so set down," parti- 
cularly by a friend. It is generally 
acknowledged that Lincoln was a 
temperate and merciful man, a warm 
friend, patient, if not affectionate, in 
his family relations, and devotedly 
attached to his children ; but hav- 
ing strong intuitive powers and a 
keen sense of the ridiculous, he 
could not help despising and laugh- 
ing at the narrow-minded and ig- 
norant " hard-shell " Baptist and 
Methodist preachers of his day and 
neighborhood. Though by no 
means of a very profound mind, he 
was too good a lawyer not to know 
that there was no logical medium 
between implicit obedience to an in- 
fallible authority and a denial of 
all revelation. Had he enjoyed in 
early life the advantages of a proper 
religious training, there can be little 
doubt but that, humanly speaking, 
he would have added to his domes- 
tic virtues those cardinal ones 
which the church inculcates. We 
are sorry for his own sake that he 
did not ; and we regret, for the honor 
of the republic whose chief magis- 
trate he once was, that his memory 



New Publications. 



719 



should thus oe held up to the repro- 
bation of his and our countrymen, 
without, so far as we can see, any 
adequate resulting good. 

THE RUSSIAN CLERGY. Translated from 
the French of F. Gagarin, S.J. By 
C. D. Makepeace, M.A. London : 
Burns & Gates. 1872. (New York : 
Sold by The Catholic Publication So- 
ciety.) 

F. Gagarin is a Russian prince, 
and, of course, knows what he is 
writing about. This book is a very 
curious one, and will make some 
people open their eyes if they read 
it. 

THE CHRISTIAN yEsop. Ancient Fables 
teaching Eternal Truths. By W. H. An- 
derdon, D.D. London : Burns, Oates& 
Co. (New York : Sold by The Catholic 
Publication Society.) 

Dr. Anderdon in this little book 
teaches us spiritual truths by means 
of the old and familiar fables that 
for years have been used to teach 
the world natural truths ; and it is 
a beautiful thought, for truth can- 
not be presented in too many ways, 
and this mingling of the homely 
lessons of the fables with spiritual 
instruction gives a peculiar charm 
to the book that will not be found 
in other spiritual writings. The 
many quotations from the Holy 
Scriptures, too, give it a special in- 
terest. 

The fables are all beautifully il- 
lustrated. 

LIFE OF THE CURE D'ARS. From the 
French of the Abbe Monnin. New 
York: P. O'Shea. 1872. 
We welcome most kindly a new 
edition of the charming life of this 
most wonderful man, and take occa- 
sion to recommend it again to all 
our readers. Mr. O'Shea has pur- 
chased the plates from the former 
publishers, and, we trust, will find a 
ready sale for his edition. 

LEGENDS OF ST. JOSEPH. Translated by 
Mrs. Sadlier. D. & J. Sadlier. 1872. 
This collection of historical nar- 
ratives and pious legends makes a 



pleasing volume, and is published in 
a pretty style. It is a book likely to 
be especially interesting to young 
people, for whom the accomplished 
authoress has a particular gift of 
making her instructive and pious 
writings entertaining. 

SAUNTERINGS. By Charles D. Warner, 

author of My Summer in a Garden. 

Boston : James R. Osgood & Co. 

Time was, in the United States, 
and within the memory of man too, 
that to have travelled in Europe 
entitled the American tourist to set 
up for a lion in his native town. It 
was once something to have seen 
London and Paris, which are now 
mere American starting-points for 
the grand tour of to-day. England, 
France, Germany, and Italy no long- 
er count. Every one has seen 
them, and even little New York and 
Boston boys and girls yet at school, 
or who ought to be there, have their 
own discussions as to the relative 
merits of London and Paris, Berlin 
and Vienna. In short, the old ordi- 
nary European tour no longer 
counts. Its tracks are all beaten 
until they are dusty, and one must 
now do Spain, Russia, Palestine, and 
Egypt, at least, to obtain the small- 
est capital wherewith to set up as a 
tourist. 

Mr. Warner's Saunterings take us 
among the well-known paths, chat- 
ting and gossiping at random con- 
cerning what strikes him, and, as the 
subject-matter is already an old 
story to every one, it is merely a 
pleasant way of reviving pleasant 
reminiscences. 

Saving and excepting a few of the 
usual Protestant misconceptions re- 
peated by the author, most probably 
without malice, the book makes 
very agreeable summer reading. 

NOTES ox ENGLAND. By H. Taine. 
Translated with an Introductory Chap- 
ter by W. F. Rae. New York : Holt & 
Williams. 

Mr. Rae's introduction is a well- 
written chapter. Mr. Taine's notes 
are the recorded impressions of a 



/20 



New Publications. 



traveller in England. They are char- 
acteristically vivacious, picturesque, 
and frequently amusing, with a ten- 
dency to be as often wrong as right 
in the judgments he pronounces. 
The author discusses all the subjects 
that usually fall under the observa- 
tion of an intelligent visitor in a 
strange country government, reli- 
gion, amusements, schools, univer- 
sities, homes, hospitals, manners, 
morals, the clubs, the family, etc., 
etc. Here is a passage which we 
can commend as being as applicable 
to the latitude of Washington as 
that of Greenwich : " In Hyde Park, 
on Sunday, the exaggeration of the 
dresses of the ladies or young girls 
belonging to the wealthy middle class 
is offensive ; bonnets resembling 
piled-up bunches of rhododendrons, 
or as white as snow, of extraordinary 
smallness, with baskets of red flow- 
ers or of enormous ribbons ; gowns 
of shiny violet silk with dazzling re- 
flections, or of starched tulle upon 
an expanse of petticoats stiff with 
embroidery ; immense shawls of 
black lace, reaching down to the 
heels ; gloves of immaculate white- 
ness or bright violet; gold chains; 
golden zones with golden clasps ; 
hair falling over the neck in shining 
masses. The glare is terrible. They 
seem to have stepped out of a ward- 
robe, and to march past to advertise 
a magazine of novelties not that 
even ; for they do not know how to 
show off their dresses." 

INDULGENCES, ABSOLUTIONS, TAX TABLES, 
ETC. By Rev. T. L. Green, D D. Lon- 
don : Longmans. 1872. 

Some low, dirty fellow in London, 
named Collette, has been serving up 
the disgusting mess of lies about 
the topics designated in the title of 
Dr. Green's book, of which even the 
most unscrupulous enemies of the 
church in this country, who have 
any regard for their reputation, are 
ashamed to avail themselves. Dr. 
Green has exposed him and brought 
him to deep and inconsolable grief 
without difficulty, and in an able 
and lively manner. 



DIVINE LIFE OF THE MOST HOLY VIRGIN- 
MARY. Being an Abridgment of the 
Mystical City of God. By Mary of Jesus 
of Agreda. By F. B. A. De Csesare, 
N.M.C., Cons. Sac. Cong. Index. Trans- 
lated from the French of the Abbe J. A. 
Boullan.D.D. Philadelphia: Cunning- 
ham. 1872. With the imprimatur of 
the Bishop of Philadelphia. 
At length we have this celebrated 
and remarkable book in English. 
The abridgment is even preferable to 
the original, which is tediously pro- 
lix in style. Among many Catholic 
books recently published in very 
attractive style, this one is among 
the most tasteful and beautiful. The 
work itself is both edifying and de- 
lightful to those who have the spirit 
of Catholic devotion. 

THE MERCHANT OF ANTWERP. A Tale 
from the Flemish of Hendrick Con- 
science. Translated by Revin Lyle. 
Baltimore: Kelly, Piet & Co. 1872. 
The merits of Hendrick Con- 
science as a natural, graceful, and ori- 
ginal writer of fiction are so generally 
recognized, that it is almost needless 
to say we welcome the appearance 
of this book with great satisfaction. 
In design it is artistic, in moral un- 
exceptionable, and its characters 
have the rare merit of being few, 
distinctly drawn, and lifelike. The 
book itself is well and neatly 
bound, and the paper is excellent, 
but here its mechanical attrac- 
tions, we regret to be obliged to 
say, end. The type, the printing, 
and the ink are simply execrable ; 
and the presswork seems to have 
been done on one of those old-fash- 
ioned cylinder presses now gener- 
ally devoted to "striking off" street 
ballads and play-bills. 

THE WITCH OF ROSENBURG. A drama in 
three acts. By His Eminence Cardi- 
nal Wiseman. New York : P. O"Shea. 
Long and favorably known, 
this charming drama requires no 
eulogy from our pen. We merely 
note the appearance of this new 
edition to chronicle the change of 
proprietorship from Kelly, Piet & 
Co. to the present publisher. 



THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD. 



VOL. XV., No. 90. SEPTEMBER, 1872. 



INTELLECTUAL CENTRES. 



A THOUGHT struck us the other 
day a thought that was half a 
memory of the interest we should 
feel in Geneva at the present mo- 
ment were we to be there as long as 
the Treaty arbitration lasts. This 
led us to reflect upon Geneva as we 
knew it one of the most delightful, 
intellectual, and interesting places 
we ever came across. Thought, like 
art, has its centres, its headquarters, 
and, like politics, its changes of dynas- 
ties and capitals. In these centres, 
a person might live undisturbedly a 
whole generation, and, never stirring 
ten miles beyond the city gates, not 
miss any one novelty, person, dis- 
covery, or theory worth hearing or 
seeing. All great personages, whether 
of royal birth or, what is more im- 
portant, of intellectual fame, will 
sooner or later pass through this 
favored place ; all new modes of 
thought, from theology to unbelief, 
from Spiritism to Darwinism, will find 
there a ready field of battle. 

Of these centres of thought in 
modern times, Geneva is not the 



least. We can speak from experience 
of the quiet, unpretending old town, 
standing, in the pride of its antiquity 
and of its superior taste, aloof from 
the more frivolous Parisian suburb 
that commercial enterprise has caused 
to grow up beside it on the opposite 
side of the Rhone. It has a popu- 
lation of savants and dilettanti ; its 
salons are "blue-stocking," and its 
young men not mere butterflies, but 
men with a work to do or perchance 
already begun. Music has a home 
there, too grave, classical, instru- 
mental music, such as you can fancy 
the delassement of a nation of sages 
should be. Conversation is hardly 
brilliant among the Genevese 
(though the use of the French lan- 
guage renders it far from heavy), but it 
is solid, and words are put for ideas, 
not strung together to hide nonsense. 
Theatres are feebly patronized, and 
are left to the summer visitors of 
foreign countries, whose exclusive 
society creates another Geneva by 
the side of the old historical town 
a Geneva that has nothing Genevese 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by Rev. I. T. HECKER, in the Office of 
the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



722 



Intellectual Centres. 



about it but the name. Lectures are 
very prominent, almost as much so 
as in America, and they are gen- 
erally upon scientific subjects. Men 
of fortune give a course of them free, 
for the enlightenment of the humbler 
classes, and young men of good 
family and position spend their time 
in literary trials, hunting up refer- 
ences and studying abstruse systems 
of forgotten philosophy. To be 
uneducated in Geneva brands a man 
with a worse mark than to be poor 
among mercantile communities. Fri- 
volity in man or woman is equiva- 
lent to dishonor. There is little dis- 
play in Genevese society a sim- 
plicity far more republican than any- 
thing America can point to reigns 
in domestic affairs; and the people 
do not court nor take any pains to 
allure the pot-pourri of foreign princes, 
merchants, gentlemen, and gamblers 
that fill the gay quays on the mo- 
dern side of the river. It is told of 
one of the highest civil dignitaries 
of Geneva in the last century a man 
of good descent and comfortable 
means that he received the envoy 
of the King of France (it was before 
the French Revolution), on some 
diplomatic mission, with one maid- 
servant holding a lantern. The 
guest having alighted from his state- 
coach, and groped his way into the 
modest house, inquired in surprise: 
"Mais, monsieur, oil sont vos gens?" 
(" But, sir, where is your house- 
hold ?") " Mes gens!" repeated the 
Genevese, with undismayed good- 
nature; "c'est Jeanne/" ("My 
household consists of Jane !") The 
French magnifico, whose only idea of 
power lay in profuse display, and who 
counted his lackeys by the score, was 
dumfounded at these Spartan bar- 
barians, whose chief unblushingly de- 
clared that a kitchen-maid was all 
his retinue ! Yet the chief was prob- 
ably a savant, while the Frenchman 



at best was most likely nothing 
more than a wit. The writer of this 
article, eager to see something of the 
home-life of the Genevese, succeeded 
in making a few acquaintances among 
these most exclusive of literati. 
On one occasion we were dining at 
the primitive hour of five with a 
charming family, the De la Rives, 
people of the most polished manners, 
quick perceptions, and inexhaustible 
fund of interesting conversation. 
The meal was plain and frugal, well 
cooked, yet without a trace of art 
what one might have expected at 
a farmer's or tradesman's table; 
but what in the most modest of 
gentlemen's houses in France, Eng- 
land, or Germany would have been 
an impossibility. The governess and 
the little children dined with us, the 
former joining heartily and cleverly 
in the conversation, which never by 
any chance fell upon trivialities. 
The knives and forks were not 
changed throughout dinner, to our 
great perplexity; and for the purpose 
of keeping them from soiling the 
table during the change of plates, 
there were provided little glass rests, 
like thick, short bars. These quaint 
details seemed quite matters of 
course, and, strange to say, there 
was nothing vulgar or repulsive 
about them, the personnel 'of the hosts 
being enough to stamp all belonging 
to them with the hall-mark of 
true and unostentatious refinement. 
There was no dressing for this family 
dinner, as there would have been in 
England, nor, indeed, is there much 
dressing at all among the Genevese 
women. To tell the truth, they are 
rather what our fastidious taste would 
call dowdy in their toilette and ap- 
pearance; but then, what a solid 
background of true and deep educa- 
tion lies behind their exterior care- 
lessness ! It is the same with their 
parties, which are rather like family 



Intellectual Centres. 



723 



gatherings, and where the old-fash- 
ioned habit is still kept up of having 
the tea served on a large table, 
round which the guests unceremon- 
iously seat themselves. Men of mark 
in the literary world are there ; in- 
ventors of machines that have chang- 
ed the destiny of commerce, and 
originated or obliterated this or that 
trade ; botanists who have inherited 
their talent with their fathers' name 
and experience; women who have 
written treatises that men of science 
read with approval and all of them 
so unaffectedly enjoying themselves, 
all of them so truly refined and so 
childlike in their simple manners. 
Looking at this kind of assemblage, 
is it wonderful that it should have 
made its native city a capital of the 
world of thought ? Bad men as 
well as good pass through it ; Mazzi- 
nist and International fraternize and 
plot ; Legitimist and Catholic meet, 
and hold congresses ; outsiders from 
another continent, as at this moment, 
agree to settle their disputes on its 
neutral soil. All philosophies, from 
De Maistre and Cousin down to 
Darwin and Renan, find their ex- 
ponents there ; their upholders lecture 
there; their theories are more closely 
looked into if they start from there. 
The church is more active at Geneva 
than almost anywhere in Europe; 
unbelief is more rampant and more 
unblushing ; dissent more earnest, 
and, if blinded, yet more sincere. 
Thirty or forty years ago, a body of 
Genevese ministers of the " National 
Church" did what no other Pro- 
testant body corresponding in num- 
bers and influence has ever done in 
modern times they voluntarily gave 
up their benefices, and threw them- 
selves with their families, utterly 
destitute, on the generosity of such 
among their flocks as would follow 
their conscience. And why? Be- 
cause the National Church was 



becoming more and more Socinian, 
and dechristianizing the population 
of Geneva. These dissenters, head- 
ed by the Malan family, persevered 
in their sacrifice, and succeeded in 
founding a " Free Church," which is 
now very prosperous, and counts 
among its members all the best peo- 
ple of the town. Outside the Catho- 
lic Church, it would be difficult to 
find a parallel to this act of renun- 
ciation for the sake of principle. 
Speaking of Geneva from a religious 
point of view, we do not know but 
what we might most decidedly call 
it -a centre of active religion, since 
its bishop, Mgr. Mermillod, is one of 
its best known and most distinguish- 
ed native citizens, and the church un- 
der his guidance is making rapid con- 
quests in the former stronghold of 
Calvinism ; but this is beside our sub- 
ject, which is simply to reckon Ge- 
neva as first and foremost in the 
present tournament of restless intel- 
lect. 

Rome naturally suggests itself as 
another of these centres. We put it 
second in the intellectual scale and 
in the wide sense in which we are 
speaking, although in religion it 
stands more than first, that is, perfect- 
ly unequalled. Still, when Byron 
called it " city of the soul," he made 
that delicate shade of a distinction 
that marked it as a spiritual capital 
more than an intellectual centre. 
For the spirit of Rome is too calm 
for agitation, too conservative for 
creation. Yet in a secondary sense 
to volcanic Geneva, and in a con- 
trasting sense too, Rome is a wonder- 
ful rendezvous of the talent and 
thought of Europe. A life spent in 
Rome would include a sight of al- 
most all the distinguished men and 
women of both hemispheres. Un- 
believers go to Rome to scoff, and 
often remain to pray ; curious idlers 
go to see the old man of the Vatican, 



724 



Intellectual Centres. 



and often stay to ask, his blessing ; 
antiquarians find enough work for a 
lifetime in digging up a few square 
feet of ground ; artists have a range 
of subjects before them so vast that, 
if they had a thousand lives to live, 
they could not exhaust it ; men of 
science go to meet their kin and dis- 
cuss things in quiet congresses, which 
it is impossible to end otherwise than 
peaceably, for the curious and unique 
charm of Rome is its subtle power 
of harmonizing the minds of its 
guests with the traditions of its own 
mysterious existence. It has a facul- 
ty of spiritual alchemy, and changes 
the visitor for the time being into a 
different creature. All its lessons 
seem to be taught in silence, and for 
argument it has but little sympathy. 
Intrinsically, it is a centre of love ; 
accidentally, a centre of thought. 
Men with wearied hearts are its 
" chosen few," for its power is rather 
recuperative than creative. It is 
most difficult to say what we mean, 
and yet not to seem to speak in 
disparagement of this wonderful "city 
of the soul "; and perhaps a descrip- 
tion of its society, though that would 
be the easiest way to make our mean- 
ing clear, would be tedious, because 
so familiar. We all of us seem to 
know Rome as if each one had been 
there; and so perhaps after all we 
may trust to be better understood 
than we had hoped to be at first. A 
short walk on the " Pincio " will 
show us the utmost cosmopolitanism 
possible; the Polish exile secure 
while within a few paces of the Rus- 
sian official; the Anglican minister, 
with his trained Oxford refinement, 
calmly discussing with the energetic, 
passionate, and voluble Italian eccle- 
siastic; the Mazzinist bowing invol- 
untarily to the cardinal whose gener- 
osity raised him from the poor-house; 
the French philosopher and the 
German artist ; the American sculptor, 



with his prejudiced yet not unkindly 
view of Rome ; the English convert, 
enthusiastic and interested ; and the 
languid Italian, taking everything as 
a matter of course such are a few of 
the common types one jostles against 
every minute. These things, how- 
ever, are too well known ; and from 
this strange, perplexing city, so dearly 
loved and so well hated, so prom- 
inent in the world's annals that no 
dark future can obscure her ever- 
real and ever the same present this 
city whose Christian fame overrides 
even her glorious heathen past of un- 
limited power and unchecked Caesar- 
ism we will go forward to the land 
of those " barbarians " who regener- 
ated Europe and materially helped 
to build the church. But how 
changed is the brightest city of that 
land, Munich, the undoubted centre 
of the highest intellect, but now also 
the unhappy cradle of a new perver- 
sion of that very intellect ! 

Though we are less conversant 
with Munich than with the two fore- 
going places, we shall yet attempt tto 
say a few words on its influence in 
modern times. 

It is perhaps a more recent focus 
of thought than any other of the 
present day, yet it is none the less 
powerful for that. The Bavarian 
royal family has preserved for two or 
three generations the traditions of a 
modern Medici dynasty ; they are 
the declared champions of talent, the 
protectors of innovations of any kind. 
As long as there is genius, original- 
ity, vitality, in a thing or idea, no 
matter what its tendency, good or 
bad, it is sure of patronage and help. 
Intensely national in its leanings, 
Munich aspires to make Germany 
paramount, to impose her ways of 
thought upon the world, to mould 
Europe according to a German stand- 
ard, and set up in a new Rome of the 
north a new ideal that might be ex- 



Intellectual Centres. 



725 



pressed in these words, Le genie c'est 
moi. If Christianity had not yet ap- 
peared, the plan would have been mag- 
nificent, and this Roman Empire of ab- 
solute intellect a far grander concep- 
tion than Plato's Republic, but now 
God has reserved universality as a 
mark of his church alone; and the 
power that would tear this badge 
from her to crown itself therewith, in 
opposition to her, cannot hope to 
succeed any better than the great 
angel of light succeeded in his gi- 
gantic rebellion. Still, notwith- 
standing this blot upon the otherwise 
fair system of intellectual supremacy 
of which Munich is the headquar- 
ters, the fact of this practical su- 
premacy remains, and is the more 
felt and the better tested now since 
Prussia has attempted to establish 
herself in opposition to it. The story 
of ancient Greece and Rome is being 
enacted anew matter and mind are 
face to face; and the military ma- 
chine which is called the North Ger- 
man Empire, and which has proved 
itself so politically resistless, stands 
baffled before the more Attic and re- 
fined organization of the capital of 
thought and art. Impossible to 
transplant to the alien atmosphere 
of iron-bound Berlin the delicate 
grace and play of intellect that dis- 
tinguishes Munich ; impossible to 
make philosophy accept the tram- 
mels of officialism, or persuade ar- 
tists to wait the nod of bureaucrats. 
The intangible charm of cosmopoli- 
tan life belongs to the Bavarian city, 
the freemasonry of intellectual ac- 
tivity vivifies it. Napoleon carried 
half the marbles of Rome to his pal- 
ace of the Louvre, and yet he could 
not make the Louvre a Vatican, and 
Belshazzar, though he robbed the 
temple of its golden cups and drank 
from them at his banquets, could not 
make himself high-priest of the He- 
brew faith. 



The world goes to Munich for art, 
instruction, and artistic models; 
Germany goes there for philosophi- 
cal and scientific theories. Foreign- 
ers would rather leave Berlin and 
Vienna unvisited than miss a week at 
Munich ; and a stay among its galler- 
ies, libraries, and museums, is part of 
the education of every travelled man. 
It has its literary, its fashionable, and 
its diplomatic circles, and, strangely 
enough, each of these pronounces it 
an equally agreeable resort. The 
cultivated world filters through it all 
the year round, and, like Geneva and 
Rome, though perhaps in a lesser 
degree than either, one might stay 
there a lifetime and yet see the 
whole panorama of intellectual Eu- 
rope unrolled at intervals before one's 
eyes. Although Munich possesses a 
learned and important university, it is 
not to that alone she owes her supre- 
macy, for it is a fact worthy of notice 
that in our days the sovereignty of 
thought is more the attribute of an 
aggregate of independent thinkers, 
than the exclusive privilege of certain 
bodies trained in the same traditions, 
and cast in much the same mould. 
Whether or no this is an advantage, 
is a question we need not enter into 
here ; it is beside our subject. We 
hope subsequently to be able to draw 
a companion picture of that ancient 
state of things which made' the intel- 
lectual centres of the past, both in 
their growth and in their influence, 
so widely different from our own. 
Certain it is. however, that that influ- 
ence was less ephemeral formerly 
than now, 

From Munich we have not far to 
go to another of the world's volca- 
noes, Paris, the modern enigma. 
Like a witch's cauldron, always 
seething, never safe, Paris is playing 
an uninterrupted game of political 
conjuring. Unlike other cities 
whose intellect is distinct from their 



726 



Intellectual Centres. 



politics, Paris cannot help giving a 
political tinge to its literary and phil- 
osophical creations. Social ques- 
tions are violently joined to intellect- 
ual problems ; and savants or beaux- 
csprits will eschew a brother philoso- 
pher or wit who wears alien colors 
and belongs to another camp. The 
talent that rides uppermost in Paris 
is identified with socialism, and from 
literary Bohemianism soon lapses in- 
to political outlawry. Victor Hugo 
is its apostle, Alfred de Musset its 
poet. On the one hand, a frantic, 
destructive vigor urges it to assert its 
self-assumed and imperious sove- 
reignty; on the other, a maudlin, 
opium-like languor soothes its sensu- 
ality and bids it revel in momentary 
luxury. Sybarites are always tyrants ; 
Nero crowned with roses and singing 
to his lute while Rome was helplessly 
burning by his orders, is a fit image 
of modern Paris displaying her 
world- alluring softness while Europe 
is in flames through her baneful prin- 
ciples. We speak of Paris in her 
zenith ; but it is to be feared that the 
spirit which made her the rose-en- 
twined firebrand of the world, will 
not long be quelled even by her own 
unparalleled misfortunes. In her 
deepest humiliation, when the sym- 
pathy of the universe was hers, did 
she not find strength enough to turn 
on her true friends, and, by her fiend- 
ish attempts on law and order, to 
alienate the shocked and insulted in- 
stincts of a world that had been 
ready to take up arms in her de- 
fence? It may be said that that 
Paris was not the real one ; yet it is 
the one that rules rules sourdement, 
as the French so expressively say, 
when she is herself ruled by an iron 
hand, rules through her infidel press, 
her immoral literature, her unwhole- 
some poetry, her rotten philosophy, 
her frivolous and heedless society. 
True it is that in Paris, which proud- 



ly calls itself " the capital of the 
world and the heart of humanity," 
there are circles of quiet literary men 
coteries of harmless exiles from othei 
lands ; men whose lives are bounded 
by the Bibliotheque Imperiale and 
the Theatre Fran^ais ; and men, too, 
whose one aim is charity and one 
ambition, heaven. True, France can 
b'oast as many missionaries as com- 
munists, as many martyrs as soldiers, 
almost as many religious as unhung 
miscreants. But how many Monta- 
lemberts, how many Dupanloups, 
how many Lacordaires, beside the 
innumerable spawn of Dumases, 
George Sands, Balzacs, Michelets, 
Taines, and Renans ? No doubt in 
the records of the Almighty there 
are to be found in this modern 
Sodom the ten just men that will 
save it from spiritual destruction, but 
we are speaking of it principally in 
the intellectual sense, and surely, from 
this point of view, where are its sa- 
viors ? A centre of intellect it is 
most undoubtedly and most unfortu- 
nately, but a centre such as a powder 
magazine might be. The streams it 
pours over Europe's world of thought 
are lava-streams, scorching the purer 
air of principle to make way for the 
poisonous gases of self-indulgence. 
If Paris were sovereign, peace would 
be no more, and truth would leave 
the earth, dismayed. The very op- 
posite, of Rome, its spirit is one of 
fever, catching even to the calmest 
pulse of a law-abiding and metaphy- 
sical northerner a spirit that broods 
over one like the blast of a furnace, 
and bewilders like the breath of a 
coming simoom. We have experi- 
enced it ourselves in days long before 
the last great judgment that has 
crushed the unhappy city ; we have 
marvelled at its obtrusive activity, so 
fatiguing to the eye, because, unlike 
that of London or New York, it de- 
notes only the frivolous search after 



Intellectual Centres. 



727 



empty pleasure, not the calm plod- 
ding after necessary business; we 
have wondered at its frothy show, 
where the greatest display is a sure 
sign of the worst depravity ; we have 
longed to be out of its unwholesome, 
oppresive spell, that seemed to para- 
lyze the mind and darken the under- 
standing. To think that this pos- 
sessed city should be the pioneer of 
the nineteenth century, and have 
more influence over the moral desti- 
nies of the world than Napoleon ever 
had over the kingdoms of Europe, or 
than Bismarck can ever have over the 
future of Paris itself! What have we 
done to deserve it? What has 
brought this Egyptian plague upon 
us, the Nile of the intellect turned in- 
to blood, the fertilizer become poison ? 
There is a wider difference than 
the mere width of the Channel be- 
tween Paris and Oxford. What 
calm, scholarly, refined associations 
come to our mind when we name 
the Alma Mater of so many of Eng- 
land's greatest men ! It is like a 
refreshing ocean breeze after the 
scorching blast of a volcano. We 
feel at home here. Gladstone, 
Pusey, Keble, Newman, were sons 
of this English centre of thought 
Stanley for a long time was identi- 
fied with it, all the intellectual move- 
ments of this century sprang from it, 
and to represent it in Parliament is 
accounted the highest political hon- 
or. All schools of thought have 
started from it ; " High Church," 
" Low Church," and" Broad Church" 
have all found their headquarters 
there, and recruits from these several 
camps have left it to bring their va- 
rious gifts to that other and wider 
university over which the Holy 
Ghost presides everlastingly. If one 
might use words that must seem a 
paradox, Oxford, once made and fash- 
ioned by the church, has in our days 
herself influenced the church. We 



mean that the university has given tc 
the Catholics of England that unrival- 
led body of priests who stand alone in 
Europe for their indomitable energy, 
their self-sacrificing earnestness, and 
their gentle and truly Christian re- 
finement. Among Protestants, it is 
only the strict truth to say that Ox- 
ford has created the Church of Eng- 
land, and vivifies her now even more 
than state protection, or the univer- 
sal adoption extended to her by usage 
and courtesy among the educated 
classes. Most truly has Oxford been 
called the Rome of English Protes- 
tantism. It is sad for us to think 
of the perverted influence of a sys- 
tem essentially Catholic, of traditions 
and customs that have lost their 
meaning while they have kept their 
form, and yet it is also a proud 
thought to dwell upon, that such as 
this matchless seat of intellect is, and 
such as its absolute identification 
with English national thought and 
national character makes it certain 
ever to be, it owes it to the church 
of Alfred, of Langton, of Scotus 
the church of Peter alone. 

We have said that, in modern times, 
universities as such have less influence 
than the aggregate of independent 
thinkers. This, however, hardly ap- 
plies to England, for the mass of 
enlightened men in that country 
forms, practically, the true university. 
Cambridge, as a seat of equal leanir 
ing, yet scarcely of equal brilliancy 
or influence, is of course included. 
The social and intellectual training 
of both is the same, the traditions 
practically so. The whole body of 
able men in England belongs to 
either one or the other of these uni- 
versities, and, never unlearning their 
modes of thought and unconsciously 
stamping their impress deeper on 
each succeeding work undertaken or 
effort accomplished, therefore never 
cease to belong to them. England 



Intellectual Centres. 



is thus one university, and Oxford is 
the epitome of educated England. 
Very national and jealous of foreign 
irruption is this vast and compact 
body ; its members will taste and ex- 
amine very closely before an alien 
theory be admitted among them, 
but, once admitted, it is adopted with 
eagerness, nationalized, and so em- 
bodied in a thoroughly English 
shape that its origin becomes undis- 
tinguishable. The spirit of Oxford, 
unlike that of Paris, is the very re- 
verse of cosmopolitan; there is no 
versatility in its essence, no straining 
after effect, novelty, nor even domina- 
tion ; it does not care to impose it- 
self on others, and thus it differs ever 
from the national-minded spirit of 
Munich, but it vigorously resents any- 
thing being imposed upon it. Ideas 
grow slowly, and systems ripen there 
before they are tried; a school of 
thought goes out whole and calm, 
not upon tentative excursions, but 
to certain conquest. Foreigners are 
more curious to see Oxford than they 
are to examine any other English 
institution ; foreign savants look with 
pride or longing on the rare gift of 
its honorary degrees. Its buildings 
are the only palaces known in Eng- 
land, and excel in nobility of archi- 
tecture every modern public erection 
and almost every private residence. 
It keeps up customs of hospitality, 
of generosity, of courtesy, that seem 
lost amid the dwarfishness of modern 
politeness; its grand solemnity of 
demeanor and stateliness of etiquette 
shame our puny and impudent code 
of manners ; the freedom of later be- 
havior seems by its side a stunted 
pollard when compared to the mag- 
nificent oak of bygone centuries. 
Oxford keeps up the ideal among 
Englishmen, or rather it is the ideal 
personified. It is a standing protest 
against the levity of modern and fast 
life a city of sanctuary for learning, 



art, ecclesiastrcism, aesthetics, philo- 
sophy, and taste. Those who have 
lived all their lives in it as fellow-tu- 
tors or professors, love it to idolatry ; 
those who have gone forth to their 
several professions and been knock- 
ed about by the vicissitudes of the 
world, love it as the Garden of Eden 
of their lost peace; those who have 
left it for the Catholic Church, love 
it with the most mournful and deep- 
est of loves, even as Gregory loved 
the fair-haired heathen boys that 
were Angles, but whom he longed to 
see angels. The greatest mind in 
England John Henry Newman 
loves it with this sorrowful love, 
which has prevented him from ever 
seeing it again since he severed him- 
self from it, and suffered more in this 
severing than the loss of friends or 
the wilful misconception of enemies ; 
and in his room at Edgbaston, where 
his retired life is now entirely spent, 
there hangs a view of the beautiful 
English university town, with this 
significant motto in illuminated char- 
acters beneath : " Son of man, dost 
thou think these dry bones shall 
live ?" (Ez. xxxvii. 3). 

From Oxford we must cross the 
Atlantic to find our last intellectual 
centre in this age. It is the young- 
est, though not the least vigorous, 
and it stands alone on the Western 
continent, where it has not inaptly 
been called as Edinburgh once_was 
the Modern Athens. Boston is also 
more or less the product of a univer- 
sity, but here, as elsewhere, the taint 
is on the fruit of the tree of knowl- 
edge. Infidelity and cynicism make 
their home there in the midst of the 
luxuriant growth of intellect. Pride 
of mind has ended in riot of soul, and 
amid the intoxicating creations of its 
own strong vitality, the genius of 
New England has spiritually lost its 
way. But humanly speaking, what a 
fair field of intellect is here dis- ' 



Intellectual Centres. 



729 



played ! It is through Boston that 
America is best known to Europe. 
Longfellow, Emerson, Hawthorne, 
Whittier, Holmes, are household 
words wherever the English language 
is spoken; and the dignified history 
of New England, no less than her 
weird and fascinating literature, is as 
interestingly familiar to English as to 
American minds. Boston is New 
England crystallized, the representa- 
tive city of America, the channel of 
communication between the Old and 
the New World, the crucible of every 
new theory and the test the success- 
ful passing of which is, as it were, a 
" degree" in itself. Boston stands 
forth as the champion of science 
against commerce, and the break- 
water which strives to save America 
from the imputation thrown on 
England by the French of being " a 
nation of shopkeepers." The West, 
with its gigantic future roughly map- 
ped out, and its raw material incon- 
veniently spread over the whole land, 
looks with uneasy and half-dismayed 
contempt at the scholarly capital of 
New England; the North, with its 
sleek prosperity and organized sys- 
tem of elegant life, steals a look 
askance, in which envv is but thinly 



concealed behind an affectation of 
patronage. Of the South we cannot 
speak, since its naturally true in- 
stincts of appreciation and intellectual 
discernment have been cruelly and 
rudely shaken by the great convulsion 
whose effects will long remain but too 
prominent; but if ever there rises a 
rival, friendly yet altogether dissimi- 
lar, to the New England Athens, it 
will be in the gifted South, among 
the descendants of the cavaliers, that 
we shall turn to look for it. Such a 
one there should be, for this vast 
continent, in whose bosom the whole 
of Europe would lie like an island, 
must have more than one species of 
intellectual life, and ought to have 
more than one acknowledged expo- 
nent of it. In the South we should 
find the ardor of Paris, the ambition 
of Munich, and the refinement of Ox- 
ford, mingled and harmonized; and 
let us trust that in the lands discov- 
ered by Catholic missionaries, and 
colonized by Catholic gentlemen, we 
might at least escape the ban that 
clings to the older centres of intel- 
lectual life in Europe, the revolution- 
ary and antichristian tendencies of 
France, and the unhappy heresies of 
England and Germany. 



OLD BOOKS. 

FOR out of old fields, as men sayth, 

Cometh all this new corn from yere to yere, 

And out of old books, in good faith 
Cometh all this new lore that men lere. 

C/iaufer. 



730 Dante's Purgatorio. 



DANTE'S PURGATORIO. 

CANTO THIRD. 

(For Cantos I. and II. of this Translation, see CATHOLIC WORLD for November, 1870, and January, 

1872.) 

THOUGH round the plain their quick flight scattered them, 

Bent for that Hill where reason turns our tread,* 
My faithful mate close at my garment's hem 

I kept : how could I without him have sped ? 
Who else had o'er that mountain marshalled me ? 

He seemed, methought, as inly touched with shame : 
O noble conscience, void of stain, to thee 

How sharp a morsel is the smallest blame ! 
Soon as his feet the hurried movement checked 

Which every action's dignity destroys, 
My mind, till now restrained and circumspect, 

Expanded with new strength, as 'twere of joy's. 
My face I fixed upon that Hill to gaze 

Towards highest heaven which springeth from the wave. 

The sun behind me redly flamed ; its rays 

Broke by the shadow which my figure gave. 
When I perceived before me that the ground 

Was darkened only by myself, in dread 
Of being there deserted, I looked round 

And fronting me in full, my Comfort said : 
" Why this distrust ? believ'st thou not that I 

Am with thee still, thy leader to the last ? 
'Tis evening now already where on high 

My body lies, which once a shadow cast, 
Buried at Naples, from Brundusium brought. 

Now, if no shade before me meet thy sight 
It need wake no more wonder in thy thought 

Than why one heaven checks not another's light. 
Omnipotence to such forms hath assigned 

The power of suffering torments cold and heat- 
But how, reveals not to created kind. 

He is but mad who hopes this incomplete 
Reason of ours may track the Infinite way 

Which of three persons holds the substance one. 

* Dante means the Hill of Purgatory, to the ascent of which we are turned no less by the rip;ht 
ason that is in us than by our contrition for an erroneous course, from which we are happily 
passing. 



Dante s Purgatorio. 731 

Rest, human race ! contented when you say 

Simply because : could ye the whole have known 
No need had been for Mary to have borne; 

And ye have seen in hopeless longing those 
Who now to all eternity must mourn 

Desire for which they vainly sought repose. 
Of Aristotle and of Plato now 

I speak, and many others " : he remained 
Silent at this, and stood with bended brow 

And troubled look : meantime the Hill we gained. 
We found the cliff here sloping so steep down 

That nimblest legs had there been useless quite. 
The wildest way betwixt Turbia's town 

And Lerici, the roughest, were a flight 
Compared with this, of open, easy stairs. 

" Who knows," my Master said and stayed his pace 
" Where this Hill slopeth, so that one who wears 

No wings may climb it ?" Then his earnest face 
Directed closely to the ground as if 

Making in mind a study of the way. 
Meantime I gazed up round about the cliff, 

And on the left hand came to my survey 
A band of spirits, moving on towards us, 

That seemed not moving for they ca me so slow. 
" Lift up thine eyes " I to the Master thus 

" If of thyself thou art not certain, lo ! 
Yon souls our footsteps may direct perchance." 

Thereat he looked, then frankly made reply : 
" Go we tow'rds them so gently they advance 

And thou, my sweet son ! keep thy hope up high.' 



That people seemed as far, when we had gone 

A thousand steps, I say, or thereabout, 
As a good flinger might have cast a stone ; 

When all at once, like one who goes in doubt 
And stops to look, their moderate march they checked 

And close to that high bank's hard masses drew. 
" O ye peace-parted ! O ye spirits elect ! 

Ev'n by that peace which waits for each of you 
As I believe " thus Virgil them bespake : 

" Inform us where this mountain slopeth so 
That its ascent we may essay to make ; 

For they mourn Time's loss most, the most who know." 



Like lambs that issue from their fold one two 
Then three at once (the rest all standing shy, 

With eye and nostril to the ground) then do 
Just what the foremost doth, unknowing why, 



Dante s Pur gator io. 

And crowd upon her back if she but stand, 
Quiet and simple creatures, thus the head 

I saw move towards us of that happy band, 
Modest in face, and of a comely tread. 



Soon as their leaders noticed that the light 

On my right side lay broken at my feet, 
So that my shadow reached the rocky height, 

They stopped and drew a little in retreat. 
And all the others following, though they knew 

Not why they did so, did the very same. 
" Without your question I confess to you 

That here you see a living human frame : 
Hence on the ground the sunlight thus is riven : 

Marvel not at it, but believe ye all 
Not without virtue by the Most High given 

This man hath come to scale your Mountain's wall.' 
My Master thus, and thus that gracious band : 

" Turn then and join us, and before us go " : 
And while some beckoned us with bended hand 

One called " Whoe'er thou art there journeying so, 
Turn ! Think hast ever looked on me before ?" 

I turned and gazed upon the one who spoke. 
Handsome and blond, he looked high-born, but o'er 

One brow appeared the severance of a stroke. 
When I had humbly answered him that ne'er 

Had I beheld him " Look !" he said, and high 
Up on his breast showed me a wound he bare ; 

Then added smilingly, " Manfred am I, 
The Empress Constance' grandson : in such name 

Do I entreat, when back thou shalt have gone, 
To my fair daughter hie, of whose womb came 

Sicily's boast and Aragon's renown, 
And tell her this if aught but truth be said 

That after two stabs each of power to kill 
I gave my soul back weeping ere it fled 

To Him who pardoneth of His own free will ' 
My sins were horrible : but large embrace 

Infinite Goodness hath whose arms will ope 
For every child who turneth back to Grace ; 

And if Cosenza's bishop, by the Pope 
Clement set on to hound me to the last, 

That page of Holy Writ had better read, 
My bones had still been sheltered from the blast 

Near Benevento, by the bridge's head, 
Under their load of stones : but now without 

The realm they lie, by Verde's river bare 
For winds and rains to beat and blow about, 

Dragged with quench'd candles and with curses there. 



On Music. 

Yet not by their poor malediction can 

Souls be so lost but that Eternal Love 
May be brought back while hope hath life in man. 

'Tis true that one who sets himself above 
The Holy Church, and dies beneath its ban 

(Even though he had repented at the last), 
Outside this Mount must unadmitted rove 

Thirty times longer than the term had been 
Of his presumptuous contumacy past, 

Unless good prayers a shorter penance win. 
See now what power thou hast to make me glad : 

Report of me to my good Constance bear, 
How thou saw'st me, and what I've told thee add 

For much it profits us what they do there. 



733 



ON MUSIC. 



HARMONY and melody which 
have an equal share in the effects 
produced by sound find their ori- 
ginal type, it may be, in the double 
nature of the universe, and of human 
destiny considered socially and in- 
dividually. Harmony, like the ex- 
ternal world and its moving masses, 
presents us with various parts, linked 
together and arranged so as to sub- 
serve one and the same end. Reg- 
ular and measured in its movement 
as the celestial orbs, no deviation is 
allowable even in its boldest flight. 
An almighty will seems to have 
bound it to magnificence and gran- 
deur, restricting its freedom to the 
latitude of the laws whose expression 
it is. But melody is thoroughly 
moral, and consequently free. It is 
the heart's utterance, and follows 
and renders its emotions faithfully. 
When brilliant, it recalls our joys; 
when sweet and lingering, it portrays 



our rare and delicious intervals of 
repose. It sighs for our disquietudes 
and sways beneath our sorrows, like 
a friend who shares them. Would it 
reproduce the sad and vague yearn- 
ings which by turns agitate and 
soothe the soul of man ? its songs 
are as dreamy as his chimeras. Mel- 
ody is but one thought at a time, but 
mobile and rapid it renders all 
thoughts in succession and tells the 
tale of a complete destiny. Har- 
mony, with its grand effects, seems 
made to appeal to assembled men ; 
melody, to transport the memory in 
solitude. Words may of course be 
adapted to a piece of pure harmony , 
but they are only accessory. W T hen 
melody is associated with human 
speech, they rival one another in 
charm and in power. Speech is, in- 
deed, the heart's expression ; but 
melody remains its accent. Ma- 
dame Swetchine. 



734 



Fleurange. 



FLEURANGE. 

BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF "A SISTER'S STORY. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION. 

PART SECOND 
THE TRIAL. 
XXVIII. 



MORE than twenty-four hours had 
elapsed. Fleurange was already far 
away, and the incidents of the pre- 
ceding days only seemed like a suc- 
cession of troubled dreams. The 
conversation she heard on the ter- 
race between the count and his 
mother, that which she herself had 
with the latter, her interview with 
George at San Miniato, the mysteri- 
ous bouquet in the evening, and the 
sudden reappearance of Felix the 
next day all these remembrances 
came back, one by one, but were all 
effaced by that of the farewell which 
succeeded them. 

Yes, she had bidden him adieu 
for ever; whereas he smilingly said, 
" A rivederla !" and his mother, giv- 
ing her hand graciously to her young 
prottgtte, continued to the last to 
play her part in this drama of two 
characters, which she and Fleurange 
alone understood. 

The young girl also sustained hers 
without exhibiting any weakness; but 
in kissing the princess' hand she gave 
to the words " Addio, principessa !" 
an accent the latter fully compre- 
hended the meaning of. She em- 
braced her in return with involuntary 
tenderness, and even with an emotion 
that might have been considered sur- 
prising for so short an absence. 



George observed it, and felt more re- 
assured than ever. Therefore, after 
Fleurange's departure, what he felt 
was not so much sadness, as the 
need of some distraction powerful 
enough to relieve the insupportable 
ennui caused by her absence. 

As to her, alone with Julian in the 
coupe of the vetturino, while Clara, 
her child, and a young Italian wait- 
ing-maid occupied the interior, she 
could not give herself up to the 
thoughts that were suffocating her. 
She must still continue the effort of 
concealment, and assume a cheerful- 
ness she was far from feeling, which 
was more antipathic to her nature 
than anything else. She was to turn 
off to Santa Maria at the small vil- 
lage of Passignano, where they ex- 
pected to arrive on the morning of 
the third day, and she did not in- 
tend announcing to the Steinbergs 
her intention of accompanying them 
to Germany till they stopped at the 
monastery on their way back from 
Perugia. By that time all her plans 
for the future would be more defin- 
itely arranged. There were some 
vague intentions floating in her mind 
as well as some irresolution, which 
she scarcely comprehended herself. 
She wished for the penetrating eye 
of her maternal friend to aid her in 



Fleurange. 



735 



deciphering the confused condition 
of her mind and soul. Until then 
she was resolved to remain silent. 

Her conversation with Julian 
dwelt principally on their unexpected 
meeting with their unhappy cousin. 

" After serious reflection," said 
Steinberg, " it seems to me impossible 
to do anything without running the 
risk of injuring the unfortunate man." 

" It appears he is now leading a 
respectable life," said Fleurange. 

" Yes ; and for that very reason it 
is important to him that the past 
should not be made public. As 
Count George avails himself of his 
services, he must, I suppose, have 
had good recommendations." 

Fleurange made no reply. She 
did not venture to say she had often 
heard George reproached for his in- 
difference to the position or reputa- 
tion of many he employed in his col- 
lections, or the researches in which 
he was interested. " What have I 
to do with their private lives," he 
would sometimes say, " in the kind 
of work I require of them ? If they 
are intelligent and capable, that is 
sufficient. When I have an inscrip- 
tion to be copied, or a passage in a 
manuscript to be transcribed, I rather 
employ a capable rogue than an 
honest blockhead." 

Without knowing precisely why, 
this connection between Felix and 
George inspired Fleurange with in- 
voluntary terror, and, much as she 
wished it, she could not put the lat- 
ter on his guard without betraying 
Felix's real name and position. In 
short, the. fatal remembrances con- 
nected with the cousin were now 
changed into a painful presentiment 
which added a darker shade to the 
sadness she sought to conceal. 

After a long silence she resumed : 
" The Marquis Adelardi seemed to 
know the person who was with Felix 
the evening we met him ?" 



" Yes ; and to have a poor opinion 
of him." 

" Did you question him afterwards 
on the subject ?" 

" I was desirous of doing so, and 
in the course of that evening at the 
princess' I tried to introduce the 
subject. But he appeared to answer 
with repugnance. I was also cau- 
tious in my questions, so I was able 
to obtain very little information." 

Julian stopped, but after a mo- 
ment's reflection continued : 

" The Marquis Adelardi, from 
what I learned at Bologna, was once 
connected with a conspiracy." 

" Conspiracy !" exclaimed Fleur- 
ange with alarm. " The excellent 
and agreeable marquis ? What are 
you saying, Julian ?" 

Julian smiled. " Come, Gabrielle, 
you need not be so frightened. I 
do not mean to imply he is a crimi- 
nal, but I think that during one pe- 
riod of his life he was connected with 
some revolutionary agitation in Italy, 
and was brought in contact with 
more than one suspicious character, 
and Felix's companion was probably 
one of them." 

The conversation was not prolong- 
ed, and Fleurange remained silent for 
a time. Julian's last words added a 
new fear to all the painful impres- 
sions some definite and others vague 
which already weighed on her 
mind and heart. She pitied Felix, 
but she was more afraid of him. She 
now regarded his strange billet as a 
bold attempt to frighten her or excite 
her interest an irresistible tempta- 
tion to aim at effect, which he yield- 
ed to at the risk of being discovered. 
George's connection with this bold 
and restless spirit filled her with 
greater anxiety than ever. It seemed 
at last as if so many things at once 
had never weighed upon her young 
heart, and that clouds were gather- 
ing on all sides around her. 



736 



Fleurange. 



At Passignano she left her travel- 
ling companions, and took a small 
vehicle for the monastery. All the 
dresses and ornaments the princess 
had added to her modest wardrobe 
were left in Barbara's care during her 
supposed short absence, and the only 
luggage she brought with her from 
Florence was a small valise. This 
was at once deposited beside the 
driver, and, as soon as the young girl 
was seated, the caleche immediately 
started off. 

The road gradually ascended, but 
this was only perceptible from the 
increasing beauty of the prospect 
which became more and more exten- 
sive. Afar off lay Lake Thrasimene, 
gleaming in the sun like a brilliant 
sheet of silver; nearer, a small 
stream, whose name, after twenty- 
two centuries, still recalls the memor- 
able battle that ensanguined its wa- 
ters, wound through the plain where 
it was fought.* It is stated in his- 
tory that, during that famous day, 
neither the Romans nor Hannibal's 
soldiers noticed the earthquake 
which rocked the ground beneath 
their feet. It might have trembled 
anew, and our poor Fleurange would 
perhaps have been equally insensible, 
so greatly absorbed was she in a 
struggle of another kind between 
her will to do right and the violent 
inclinations of her heart. 

She was now completely alone for 
the first time for a long period, and 
seemed to have regained her liberty 
of thought. Freed from the necessi- 
ty of struggling against the softening 
emotions that would have enfeebled 
her courage, she could now yield 
without restraint to the pleasure of 

* This stream is called the Sanguinetto. 

" But a brook hath ta'en 
A name of blood from that day's sanguine 

rain, 

And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 
Made the earth wet, and turned the unwilling 
waters red." 



living over the past six months of hei 
life. She leaned her weary head 
back, closed her eyes, and allowed 
her memory to recall all those deai 
but vain remembrances. She saw 
him once more whom she never ex- 
pected to behold again; she listened 
anew to the voice she would hear no 
more ; she allowed herself to tell him 
all she had so often repressed. Il 
was a prolonged and dangerous 
dream, followed by a sorrowful 
awakening. And it profoundly trou- 
bled the peace of her soul, which, 
with her firmness, she had preserved 
only by a constant effort during the 
period of trial her youth had jusl 
passed through. " And it is ended ! 
ended !" she exclaimed, with a cry 
almost of despair, hiding her face ir 
her hands. " I shall never behold 
him again !" 

Suddenly she heard the mellow 
sound of a distant bell which revived 
a whole world of past impressions, 
She hastily raised her head and look- 
ed around. She was passing through 
a grove of acacias that shaded the 
winding road. Beyond were some 
large pines and a few rustic dwell- 
ings. Passing by one of them, she 
heard a voice exclaim, " Evviva la 
Signorina !" and further on : " La 
Madonna vi accompagna !" Shortly 
after she passed under a half-ruined 
arcade which looked like a vestigfl 
of antiquity. The bell was still ring- 
ing, but its sound was more distinct, 
for they were approaching the cha- 
pel. 

" What, so soon !" she cried, clasp- 
ing her hands. " Have we arrived ?" 

At the end of the avenue the car- 
riage turned to the left, passed by the 
chapel, and at length stopped before 
a small gate-way of sculptured stone, 
surmounted by a statue of our Sa.vi- 
our, at whose feet the following words 
in relief were distinctly legible : VE- 

NITE AD ME OMNES QUI LABORATIS ET 



Fleurangc. 



737 



ONERATI ESTIS, ET EGO REFICIAM 
VOS. 

Fleurange sprang from the carriage 
and eagerly rang. The gate opened : 
a soft expression of surprise and wel- 
come greeted her. She replied with 
a smile, but did not stop, for at the 
farther end of the cloister she per- 
ceived her whom she sought. 

It was noon: the children were 
just being dismissed from school, and 
Madre Maddalena stood looking at 
them as they went out, now and then 
saying some kind word. Fleurange, 
suddenly appearing in their midst, 
threw the little procession into dis- 



order. Mother Maddalena, aston- 
ished, looked reprovingly towards 
the person who had unexpectedly 
disturbed the order of the time and 
place. She looked again again hesi- 
tated then at length her arms opened 
with an exclamation of joy : 

" Fior angela mia ! Dear lamb re- 
turned to the fold !" 

And the returned wanderer, falling 
into the arms of her mother, forgot 
in a moment all the fatigue, the dan- 
gers, the sufferings she had endured 
on the way, and all the thorns that 
had left their traces on her wounded 
feet. 



XXIX. 



The chapel was dim, cool, and 
filled with the odor of the fresh 
flowers on the altar and the incense 
used at the morning service. The 
nun and the young girl knelt for a 
few moments to offer up thanks to 
God as the preliminary obligation of 
their reunion, and invoke the Friend 
above all others who is not only the 
great Iain, but Love itself. Fleurange 
soon rose up at a sign from the 
mother, and followed her into a well- 
known apartment on the ground 
floor called the garden parlor. 

Like all convent parlors, it had no 
other furniture but a square table in 
the middle of the room, some straw- 
bottomed chairs ranged around, a 
book-case with a large crucifix on the 
top, and a statue of the holy .Ma- 
donna on the other side, at the foot 
of which stood a vase full of flowers. 
What distinguished this parlor from 
all others of the kind was the view 
through the broad arched window on 
one side, and on the other through 
the open garden door. The beauti- 
ful landscape we have already de- 
scribed, bounded on the distant hori- 
zon by the sublime but graceful out- 
line of the mountains, had in the fore- 
VOL. xv. 47 



ground an abundance of flowers more 
carefully cultivated than is usually 
the case in convent gardens. At the 
right, the eye caught a glimpse of the 
arches of the cloister, and on the 
left the dense shade of a small grove 
of orange-trees now in bloom, be- 
yond which was an orchard with 
vines interlacing the fruit-trees, and 
a carefully cultivated vegetable gar- 
den the principal resource of the 
convent larder. Some doves were fly- 
ing between the cloister and the gar- 
den, and during the hours of conven- 
tual silence there was no other sound 
within the peaceful enclosure but the 
noise of their cooing. But at recrea- 
tion time the cloister, as well as the 
garden, resounded with the voices 
and laughter of the children, and 
Mother Maddalena's parlor was not 
always as quiet as when she ushered 
Fleurange into it. 

The door was scarcely closed when 
the nun took the young girl's face 
between her hands, and attentively 
examined it, as if she would read the 
depths of her soul. 

Mother Maddalena was about fifty 
years of age at this time. She had 
been uncommonly beautiful in her 



73S 



Flair angc. 



youth, and there was still a regularity 
and nobleness in her time-worn fea- 
tures which were set off by the white 
bandeau and guimpe that encircled 
her face like a frame to a picture. A 
long black veil fell in deep folds 
nearly to the ground. Her black 
eyes were uncommonly large and 
mild, and had an extraordinary ex- 
pression sometimes seen in eyes de- 
void of any other beauty, and is ex- 
clusively peculiar to those which re- 
flect that mysterious and ineffable 
joy which Bossuet calls " incompa- 
tible" and says, to be tasted, "il faut 
qu'elle soit goute stu/e." Such was 
the look, full of divine joy and su- 
perhuman peace, now fastened on 
Fleurange, whose limpid eyes did 
not avoid the scrutiny, but remained 
fastened on those of the Madre. Only 
her pale face flushed and then grew 
paler than before. 

" Poor child ! poor child !" said 
Mother Maddalena at length after a 
long and silent examination. " Alas ! 
how much she has suffered. But no 
evil has tarnished her heart." With 
her right hand she made the sign 
of the cross on Fleurange's pure 
brow, and then pressed her lips to 
the same spot, adding, with a smile 
of satisfaction : " The Angel Gabriel, 
to whom I confided her at parting, 
has restored her to me, like a faithful 
guardian whose inspirations have been 
obeyed." 

Whether Fleurange now lost her 
customary self-control, or did not try 
to conceal her feelings in Mother 
Maddalena's presence, while the lat- 
ter stood looking at her silently, she 
burst into tears. 

" Yes, I -understand," said the mo- 
ther "a great effort was required 
to overcome the natural tendencies 
of the heart, to act and to speak 
without the relief of weeping ! 
'But my poor child succeeded, and is 
weary from the exertion " She 



continued in a softer tone : " But it 
is the weary and heavy laden that 
have the promise of finding rest, and 
it is in this house especially that this 
rest awaits those who ask it of him 
who has promised it, and who alone 
can give it ! Come," continued she 
in a firmer tone, after allowing Fleur- 
ange to weep some time in silence 
" come, my dear Gabrielle, lift up 
your heart the heart so susceptible 
of pain ! Try to rise a little above 
your sufferings sufferings which en- 
fold the germ of so great a joy!" 
murmured she to herself, " whereas 
the joys of the world contain the 
germ of so much suffering ! Come, 
my child, come with me." 

The last words were uttered in a 
tone of mild authority. Fleurange 
unhesitatingly rose, and followed her 
across the garden, now exposed to 
the ardor of the sun's says, into the 
small grove where the foliage was so 
dense that it was cool at mid-day. 
A flight of steps led to a little oratory 
in this peaceful solitude, where the 
pupils assembled towards sunset for 
prayers; but now it was entirely 
empty. 

Mother Maddalena seated herself 
on a bench in front of the oratory, 
and Fleurange took a place near her. 

" Now tell me, not only what I al- 
ready know, but what I am still ig- 
norant of." 

It was hardly necessary to articu- 
late these words, for Fleurange had 
not come with the intention of con- 
cealing a single thought. She there- 
fore began her account, and, at the 
mother's request, went back to the 
very day she left the monastery with 
her father. She gave an account of 
her travels in Italy, with all her first 
impressions: her residence at Paris, 
and all her sufferings there ; her life 
in Germany, with all its pleasures : 
then the ruin of her family and their 
separation ; and, finally, of Florence 



Fleurange. 



739 



Florence with all its emotions, its 
joys, its dangers, its acute pains, and 
its fearful temptations. 

For the first time in her life she 
uttered Count George's name with- 
out hesitating, and related without 
any reticence or circumlocution all 
his name revived everything ! from 
the wild dreams that preceded their 
first interview to the reverie of the 
present day from which the convent 
bell roused her. She related every- 
thing simply, clearly, firmly, and in a 
tone which, as she proceeded, reveal- 
ed more and more clearly to the ear 
attentively listening that her rectitude 
of soul was not changed or its vigor 
enfeebled. 

Clearness of perception and energy 
of action were the two germs, as we 
have already said, that induced 
Madre Maddalena to believe, if 
sown in the heart and watered by 
the dews of divine grace, without 
which all our perceptions become 
dim and all strength fails, would en- 
able this child, in spite of her youth, 
her beauty, and all the tendencies of 
a tender heart and an ardent tem- 
perament, to walk with a firm and 
sure step in the path of life. 

She now saw her hopes realized, 
and thanked God for it. But she 
looked, nevertheless, with inexpressi- 
ble compassion at Fleurange's youth- 
ful face. Life was still so long be- 
fore her, and from the very begin- 
ning the combat had been so ardu- 
ous ! It is true, her courage had 
thereby been tempered, but the day 
of rest was yet so far off! so many 
storms might yet rise, so many perils 
gather around her ! From the safe 



port that sheltered her own life, she 
looked off over the sea of the world, 
on which floated this frail bark, pray- 
ing in her heart to Him who command- 
eth the ocean and ruleth the storm to 
snatch her from the threatening waves 
and land her safely on the shore. 

" I was not deceived," said she, 
when the account was ended. " No, 
my child, you have not mistaken the 
path of duty, but have courageously 
followed its leadings. I could not 
be otherwise than satisfied with you. 
Fleurange, I give you my blessing, 
and God will bless you also." 

Saying these simple words, she 
softly laid her hand on the young 
girl's head. This act, and the words 
accompanying it, increased the sen- 
sation of inexpressible comfort and 
solace, which was the natural effect 
of the complete unburdening of her 
mind. A divine peace, as it were, 
descended upon her, and enveloped 
her as a garment. 

" Oh ! madre mia !" she exclaimed, 
" let me abide here with you nev- 
er leave you again, nor this peaceful 
asylum !" 

Mother Maddalena smiled, and 
was about to reply when the bell 
gave four strokes. 

" We will talk about this another 
time," said she. " The bell calls me 
away now, and I must leave you. 
We shall see each other again at the 
evening hour of recreation. I sup- 
pose you have not forgotten the way 
to your room. And you still remem- 
ber the rule, I hope, and how the 
day here is divided. The bell rings 
at the same hours as before. Noth- 
ing is changed here." 



XXX. 



It would not be easy for those 
who have never had this sweet expe- 
rience, to realize the effect of being 
suddenly transported from the affairs 



and pleasures of the world, with all 
its cares and sorrows, to such an at- 
mosphere as now surrounded Fleur- 
ange. 



740 



Fleurange. 



But if every one does not feel the 
need of pausing thus on the way 
through life, we cannot understand 
the astonishment and ironical disdain 
with which some, unwilling to make 
the trial, speak of these temporary 
retreats from the world, so customary 
in former times, and somewhat so in 
ours. Do they find life, then, always 
so pleasant and easy to bear ? Does 
joy succeed so surely to joy in the 
happy succession of their days ? and 
have these days so assured a duration 
that it would be useless to regulate 
their course or reflect on their end ? 
Or have these persons such perfect 
control over their thoughts that no 
distraction ever disturbs their equi- 
librium, and the need of pausing for 
reflection and rest is never felt ? We 
do not know. But what seems indu- 
bitable to us is that, for a great num- 
ber, this rest is as refreshing as pure 
water and a shady spot of repose to 
the weary and thirsty traveller. And 
there is no doubt that our poor hero- 
ine belonged to this number. And 
this is why, in leaving Madre Mad- 
dalena, she returned to the chapel 
instead of going up to her room, and 
there, in the profound silence of the 
sanctuary, passed a whole hour in 
tasting the sweetness of an unbur- 
bened heart, and the sense of divine 
security which does not depend solely 
on the temporary shelter of the body, 
but on that deeper feeling of a perma- 
nent shelter of the soul which noth- 
ing earthly can affect. 

If we consider all the sufferings 
this young girl had so recently passed 
through if we remember that the 
enthralling influences of love had 
surrounded without tarnishing her, 
but still not without lending a disen- 
chantment to every other but the ob- 
ject of her love, we shall not find it 
very surprising that in this spot, at 
this hour, she should have thought 
of cutting short her worldly life, and, 



without going any further in search 
of happiness, henceforth impossible, 
or a destiny that must ever remain 
imperfect, of devoting herself to the 
highest of all aims that whose ob- 
ject is God alone, and the welfare 
of those whom he loved most while 
on earth children and the poor. 

Even at Florence, during the 
period of so much anguish, the clois- 
ter of Santa Maria appeared like a 
refuge, and more than once the idea 
of never leaving it had occurred to 
her then, as well as while listening to 
Madre Maddalena. But now the 
idea became more decided, and took 
possession of her imagination with an 
intensity stronger than ever before. 
She welcomed it, and gave herself 
up to it with a kind of pious intoxi- 
cation. She tasted beforehand the 
bitter pleasure of sacrifice; she ac- 
cepted with interior transport the 
perspective of absolute renuncia- 
tion of all the joys of life ; and when 
at length she brought her long med- 
itation to an end, and prepared to 
leave the chapel, it seemed to her as 
if she had just received a supernatu- 
ral inspiration. 

She would have sought an inter- 
view with Mother Maddalena at 
once, but she knew it was a time 
when she was occupied in the school- 
room, after which she devoted a 
whole hour, towards the close of the 
day, to the poor who from far and 
near came to consult her about their 
affairs or relate their sorrows. The 
morning was given to the distribu- 
tion of food, medicine, and assist- 
ance of all kinds of material wants, 
and the evening was consecrated to 
the exercise of charity under anoth- 
er form, the recipients of which were 
often more numerous than the others. 

Fleurange was not unaware of this, 
and she decided to remain quietly in 
her room without attempting to see 
the superior again till after supper. 



Fleurange. 



741 



But when, at the close of school, she 
saw two nuns taking the children to 
the oratory in the grove of orange- 
trees, she went down to join in the 
prayers that ended their day. The 
vine blossoms in the orchard united 
their sweet and delicate odor to that 
of the orange-trees, and, when this 
little perfumed grove resounded with 
the hymns of the children, it seemed 
as if all nature united with them in 
offering heaven the incense of praise. 
Prayers over, Fleurange joined the 
nuns and their pupils, and for awhile 
it seemed as if the peaceful days of 
her childhood had returned. Then 
came the silence of the refectory. 
But when supper at length was end- 
ed, she went in pursuit of Madre 
Maddalena. She knew she should 
not find her in her parlor, but on the 
terrace over the cloister which com- 
manded a view of the country 
around. It was there she loved to 
remain in fine weather till the very 
close of day. 

What Fleurange was so eager to 
say we know already. To think 
aloud was natural to her, and requir- 
ed no effort with Madre Maddalena 
especially. Besides, she only wished 
to resume the conversation interrupt- 
ed in the morning, and niake known 
all she had thought, and felt, and re- 
solved upon during the time she 
passed in the chapel. 

Mother Maddalena stood with her 
arms folded, and listened this time 
without interrupting her. Standing 
thus motionless in this place, at this 
evening hour, the noble outlines of 
her countenance and the long folds 
of her robe clearly defined against 
the blue mountains in the distance, 
and the violet heavens above, she 
might easily have been taken for one 
of the visions of that country which 
have been depicted for us and all 
generations. The illusion would not 
have been dispelled by the aspect of 



her who, seated on the low wall of 
the terrace, was talking with her eyes 
raised, and with an expression and 
attitude perfectly adapted to one of 
those young saints often represented 
by the inspired artist before the di- 
vine and majestic form of the Mother 
of God. 

" Well, my dear mother, what do 
you say?" asked Fleurange, after 
waiting a long time, and seeing the 
Madre looking at her and gently 
shaking her head without any other 
reply. 

" Before answering you," replied 
she at last, " let me ask this question : 
Do you think it allowable to conse- 
crate one's self to God in the religi- 
ous life without a vocation ?" 

" Assuredly not." 

" And do you know what a voca- 
tion is ?" said she very slowly. 

Fleurange hesitated. " I thought 
I knew, but you ask in such a way 
as to make me feel now I do not." 

" I am going to tell you : a voca- 
tion," said the Madre, as her eyes 
lit up with an expression Fleurange 
had never seen before " a voca- 
tion to the religious life is to love 
God more than we love any creature 
in the world, however dear ; it is to 
be unable to give anything or any 
person on earth a love comparable 
to that ; to feel the tendency of all 
our faculties incline us towards him 
alone; finally," pursued she, while 
her eyes seemed looking beyond the 
visible heavens on which they were 
fastened, " it is the full persuasion, 
even in this life, that he is all our 
all in the past, the present, and 
the future; in this world and in 
another, for ever, and to the exclu- 
sion of everything besides! " 

Fleurange, accustomed fo Madre 
Maddalena's habitual simplicity of 
language, looked at her with sur- 
prise, and was speechless for a mo- 
ment, struck by her tone and her 



742 



Fleurange. 



unusual expression, no less than the 
words she had just uttered. A deep 
blush suffused the young girl's cheeks 
and mounted to her forehead. 

" My dear mother," said she at 
length, casting down her eyes, 
" doubtless it is not given to all to 
feel such love for God ; especially to 
love him thus to the utter exclusion 
of all else here below ; but," she con- 
tinued with emotion, " is not the vol- 
untary sacrifice of all the affections 
and joys of the world a holocaust 
likewise worthy of being offered 
him ?" 

Mother Maddalena's eyes resumed 
their usual expression of mildness: 
" Yes, assuredly, my poor child. I 
did not wish to insinuate a doubt 
as to that. How could I, in this 
house, open to all who suffer, and 
where among our sisters and not 
the least holy are several who have 
brought hearts crushed by the sor- 
rows of life ? But still, that is not the 
irresistible call of God which we con- 
sider a genuine vocation. And what 
I wish you to understand, my dear 
Gabrielle, is this: if I know you 
and who knows you as well ? you 
are one of those whom God would 
have called thus, had it been his 
will your life should be consecrated 



to him in the cloister. It is not tor 
one like you to vow yourself to him 
through discouragement or disgust 
of the world, or because its happiness 
has lost its enchantment. The 
struggle has been severe, I know, 
but on that account would you have 
it ended ? No. Gabrielle, on the 
contrary, you must resume your 
strength to continue the contest." 

Tears came into Fleurange's eyes, 
and she bent down her head with an 
expression of sadness. 

" Oh ! my poor child," resumed 
the mother, " it would be much 
easier for me to tell you to remain 
and never leave us again ! It would 
be sweeter for me to preserve you 
thus from all the sufferings that yet 
await you. But believe me, the day 
will come when you will rejoice you 
were not spared these sufferings ; and 
you will acknowledge that she who 
is now speaking to you knew you 
better than you knew yourself." 

The stars were now beginning to 
appear in the dim azure of the 
heavens, and the last gleams of day- 
light were fading away. It was the 
hour of the Ave Maria. The bell 
soon announced it, and they said the 
familiar prayer together before going 
down to the cloister. 



XXXI. 



After this conversation, Fleurange 
resolved not to reconsider the sub- 
ject, but to renounce for ever the 
thought she had clung to for a mo- 
ment with so much ardor. This 
submission, the effect of her simpli- 
city and decision of character, did 
not prevent her from feeling it would 
require a great effort to begin a new 
life once more. And life would 
seem new to her, even in the Old 
Mansion, for she was no longer the 
same. An abyss separated her from 
the peaceful, happy days she passed 



there. But the Old Mansion was 
now like a dream that had vanished, 
and it was to an unknown place she 
was to direct her steps. The friends 
who would welcome her were cer- 
tainly dear, and sometimes the 
thought of seeing them again made 
her heart beat with joy; but this 
feeling was frequently overpowered 
by stronger and more recent remem- 
brances, and, in spite of all her 
efforts, regret a continual, poignant 
regret made her indifferent to every- 
thing except this great sacrifice, 



Fleurange. 



743 



which would have been a sublime 
consolation, but which henceforth 
she was forbidden to think of. 

The days did not pass, however, 
one by one, without infusing into her 
soul the benefit of retirement. It 
seemed to her as if the past and the 
future were suspended. 

Recollections and anticipations 
ceased to preoccupy her, and, as if 
in a bark equally remote from these 
two shores too far off to hear a 
sound from either side she allowed 
herself to be rocked on the waves as 
on the ocean in serene weather, giv- 
ing herself up to the calmness and 
silence of her present life, with no 
other feeling but the infinite peace 
that surrounded her, and seeing 
nothing above her but the ever 
smiling heavens ! Such days cannot 
last, but they do not pass away with- 
out leaving some trace, were it only 
a remembrance full, not of regret, 
but of encouragement. The mo- 
mentary sense of exquisite sweetness 
soon evaporates ; but its strength- 
ening influences remain, and de- 
velop in the soul that has tasted it 
once even for an instant in life ! 

It was necessary, however, to begin 
to think of her departure, and of 
some pretext to offer the princess 
which would not appear like an 
arrangement. For this she awaited 
the return of the Steinbergs. Though 
it would be painful to reveal to 
them the real motive of her deci- 
sion, she preferred to do it rather 
than give them also an imaginary 
reason. 

But a sad, unforeseen event occur- 
red which spared her any conceal- 
ment or such an act of frankness. 
She had been at the convent about 
ten days when she was informed that 
the travellers had arrived an hour 
before at a neighboring inn, and her 
cousin was waiting in the garden par- 
lor to see her. The sight of Clara's 



charming face always afforded her 
pleasure, and it was now increased by 
the satisfaction of presenting to Ma- 
dre Maddalena one of the daughters 
of Ludwig Dornthal, whose oppor- 
tune appearance in her life was re- 
garded by the mother as a striking 
proof of the intervention of the glo- 
rious archangel whom she had given 
her as a protector, and Clara Stein- 
berg's arrival at the convent had been 
anticipated as afesfa. 

But this festival was destined to be 
saddened. Fleurange was to learn 
sad news from the letters awaiting her 
cousin at Santa Maria. The young 
girl's friend so faithful and ready to 
aid her the excellent Dr. Leblanc, 
was no more ! He had sunk under 
the effects of an accident met with 
while taking a drive with Professor 
Dornthal in the environs of Heidel- 
berg. 

When Madre Maddalena appeared, 
she found the two cousins in tears, 
and her sweet smile of welcome was 
changed into anxious inquiries. 
Some moments were necessary for 
the explanations she asked for, and 
it was only after her soothing words 
and the peace that emanated from 
her presence had somewhat calmed 
Fleurange's agitation that she had 
courage enough to open a letter from 
Clement containing the details of the 
cruel accident that had cost her old 
friend his life the friend to whom her 
thoughts had so often turned during 
her recent perplexities, and who was 
taken from her in the very hour of 
her life when his aid and advice 
seemed most essential. 

Clement wrote : " In returning 
from a drive to Stift-Neuburg, the 
carriage was upset and broken, and 
they were thrown violently to the 
ground. At first my father seemed 
the more injured of the two. He 
was entirely unconscious, and did not 
recover his senses for some hours. 



744 



Fleurange. 



We are now, however, relieved from 
nearly all anxiety concerning him. 
His friend, whose senses never left 
him for a moment, declared from the 
first he had received some grave, in- 
ternal injury from which he could 
not recover. Nevertheless, he pre- 
scribed all the necessary remedies 
himself, but at the same time made 
all his arrangements with admirable 
firmness : wrote to his sister, sent for 
a priest, and this at a time when we 
did not think him in danger. But 
on the third day his anticipations 
were verified his case grew more 
serious. His poor sister had just ar- 
rived the day before yesterday, when 
he died in her arms. 

" Dear cousin," Clement continued, 
" I have one request to make before 
I close, and this not in my own 
name, but on the part of my mother : 
Return, Gabrielle ; if possible, return 
at once; at all events come soon. 
The sacrifice you imposed on your- 
self is no longer necessary, and 
your presence here is indispensable. 
My poor father is continually asking 
for you, and cannot be made to un- 
derstand your absence. No wish to 
convince you, my dear cousin, would 
make me think deception excusable. 
You may believe me, then, when I 
repeat that the aid you so generously 
afforded us is now superfluous. You 
can without any scruple return home 
your home, unless, which God for- 
bid! your own choice leads you to 
prefer another. Poor Mademoiselle 
Josephine has but one wish to see 
you again. She says it is the only 
consolation she looks forward to. 
Hilda is now with us ; it is unneces- 
sary to say she desires your return, 
and equally so to tell you your bro- 
thers beg and expect it. " 

Fleurange no longer needed a pre- 
text. She would neither be obliged 
to reveal nor conceal anything 
everything was arranged for her by 



the overruling force of circumstances, 
and her letter to the Princess Cathe- 
rine became all at once easy to write. 
It was despatched that very day, and 
as soon as the sun began to gild the 
mountain-tops the next day but one, 
Madre Maddalena for the second 
time saw the child she so truly loved 
cross the threshold of her convent 
home to encounter once more the 
dangers of the world. 

Would she again return ? return 
like the dove, beaten by the tempest, 
who has found no rest for the sole of 
her foot, to take refuge once more in 
this asylum of peace ? Or was she 
gone to return no more ? and would 
she now find the world smiling, and 
its freshness renewed, and her path- 
way smoothed before her and strewn 
with flowers ? She did not seek to 
know. Mother Maddalena, as we 
are aware, did not consider such an- 
ticipations very important. She only 
hoped her feet might be guided by 
light from on high, and her courage 
in pursuing life's journey unfaltering. 
She asked no more. 

Besides, the ardor of the sun has its 
dangers as well as the storm, and the 
clearness of the soul's heaven may be 
obscured in pleasant as well as in 
tempestuous weather. Let us, there- 
fore, leave to God the appointment 
of every incident of our lives, and be 
solely solicitous of fulfilling our 
course well, without being anxious as 
to the way. 

" And then the way is short, how- 
ever long it may seem, and it leads 
to that true life where we shall for 
ever live together, dear Gabrielle 
where all your poor heart has vainly 
wished, sought, and hoped for here 
below will be given in full measure, 
pressed down, and running over ; 
where all it has suffered here will 
bear no comparison with the radiant 
joys of eternal life! God is faithful. 
Let us wait. And what is it to wait 



Fleurange. 



745 



to wait thus, with sure faith In his 
promises for eternal reunion with 
God ?" 

Such were the last words of Mother 
Maddalena. She gave her blessing 
to Fleurange, who knelt to receive 
it, closed the convent gate behind 
her, and ascended to the terrace to 
follow her as long as she could with 
her eyes. Then she went down to 
the chapel, and there on her knees 
tenderly wept and prayed for her. 
For there is no affection equal to that 
of such large hearts expanded and 



filled with the love of God. And 
we shall be convinced of this if we 
recall the excessive devotedness of 
which they are capable and they 
alone through love for the most un- 
known of their brethren. Then we 
shall see what such hearts are to the 
objects of their affection, that they 
are kindled with a flame which puri- 
fies and tempers all that is noble and 
worthy of being developed, but 
prompt to extinguish and consume 
all that is frail, frivolous, impure, and 
of no permanent value. 



XXXIII. 



The Princess Catherine, in an ele- 
gant morning neglige, was alone 
with the Marquis Adelardi in her 
small salon when a letter was brought 
her on a silver salver. She glanced 
at the address. 

" Ah ! from Gabrielle," she ex- 
claimed. " The very letter I was ex- 
pecting to-day." 

She opened it and hastily ran over 
its contents. " Very well done, 
very," she said. " Nothing could be 
more natural. She hit upon the very 
best thing to say. It would be im- 
possible for me to refuse without 
cruelty, as George himself would ac- 
knowledge. Here, Adelardi," con- 
tinued she, throwing him the letter, 
"read it. It must be owned that 
this Gabrielle is reliable and true to 
her word. Moreover, she has a good 
deal of wit." 

Adelardi attentively read the letter. 

" What you have just remarked, 
princess, is very true, but this time 
circumstances have favored you. 
This letter was not written for the 
occasion ; it is sincere from begin- 
ning to end. This young girl can 
keep a secret, but is incapable of 
prevarication. This is not the kind 
of a letter she would have written, if 
the contents were not absolutely true." 



" Do you think so ?" said the 
princess. " It is of no consequence, 
however, as to that, though it would 
simplify everything still more. But 
in that case Ah! del! let me 
look at the letter again." 

She now read it entirely through, 
instead of merely glancing at the 
contents. 

" But in that case I have lost my 
physician and the only one who 
ever understood my case. This, 
par exemple ! is a real misfortune. If 
he had had time, at least, to answer 
my last letter, and tell me what 
springs I should go to this year ! 
Whom shall I consult now ? May 
is nearly gone, and next month I 
ought to be there. Really, I am 
unlucky !" 

" What do you expect, princess ?" 
said the marquis in a tone impercep- 
tibly ironical. " One cannot always 
have good luck. On the other hand, 
you have just had your very wish !" 

" I acknowledge it, and, to come 
back to Gabrielle, I must confess I 
have no reason to be otherwise than 
satisfied with her. Yes, we have 
had a lucky escape, Adelardi. But 
I can hardly forgive her for the fears 
she caused me, and the anxiety I 
still have. What of George since 



746 



Flcurangc. 



yesterday ? What humor will he be 
in for the news I have for him ? 
But what are you brooding over, 
Adelardi ? You make me uneasy 
with your look of anxiety. I hope 
you do not think he is in danger of 
any new folly ?" 

"What kind of folly?" 

" You know very well the only 
one to be dreaded at present. Are 
we to have another of the scenes we 
have already witnessed ? Will he 
elude us, and follow her ? Or 
how shall I express it ? -will he, 
by way of diversion, do worse, and 
go from Scylla into Charybdis ? 
One never knows what to expect 
from him." 

" Well, princess, I acknowledge I 
wish I were sure this young girl, in 
sacrificing herself for you do not 
imagine, I suppose, that she is in- 
different to George's attractions " 

" It does not seem very probable," 
said the princess ; " but I hope you 
do not imagine I take into con- 
sideration the effect George would 
naturally produce when he takes 
pains to captivate a young girl of 
twenty, and especially one in Gabri- 
elle's position." 

Adelardi made no reply, but his 
face, already grave, grew still darker. 

" Once more, Adelardi, what is the 
matter? One would really think 
you in love with her yourself." 

" By no means, though I fancy 
she might, in her turn, easily cap- 
tivate anybody. Nevertheless, I 
have used all my efforts to withdraw 
George from the charm I fully saw 
the danger of before you. But to 
return to what I was saying : I wish 
I felt sure of never regretting the 
time when this noble girl's influence 
seemed so formidable." 

" What do you mean ?" 

"Well, princess, I assure you I 
wish she were here to-day, that the 
charm of her presence might retain 



him every evening in this salon, 
from which, without speaking to her, 
or scarcely looking at her, he could 
not tear himself away when she was 
present. You see how different it is 
already, now she is gone ; and why ? 
Because these days, that seem so 
long, and the evenings so dreary and 
vacant, have revived a passion as 
dangerous to him as play or love. 
Pardon me, princess, I know his af- 
fection for you and his friendship for 
me ; but we are both aware he can- 
not endure etmui, and should not be 
astonished that Gabrielle's absence 
has left a void in his existence whose 
effect produces the greatest, the most 
intolerable ennui in the world. I 
feel it myself, and, were it not for the 
absorbing interests that preoccupy 
you, you yourself would endure with 
ill grace the sudden disappearance 
of this ravishing creature, the very 
sight of whom ' 

" Come, come, Adelardi, be calm, 
or I shall again say " 

" No, princess, I am not in love 
with her, you may rest assured ; but 
as for George, I doubt this moment 
if it were not better for him to be, 
and remain so, whatever might be 
the result, rather than " 

" Well, do finish ; you terrify me 
to death." 

" Rather than be again seized 
with this mania for politics a pas- 
sion fatal to him, you know, and 
which may lead to the greatest im- 
prudence." 

The princess became thoughtful. 

" Yes, I am indeed aware of it. I 
know it but too well; but since his 
return I have found him so much 
calmer on this subject that it has not 
worried me." 

" It was because he was taken up 
with something else ; but, owing to an 
encounter which unfortunately coin- 
cided with Gabrielle's departure, and 
diverted his attention at the very 



Flenrange. 



747 



moment he had absolute need of dis- 
traction, he is now so absorbed and 
led away that I truly regret, instead of 
her indefinite absence, we cannot an- 
nounce the immediate return of her 
who, better than any one else per- 
haps the only one in the world 
could really save him from this new 
danger." 

" Thank you, my dear friend. That, 
par exempts, is a regret I can hardly 
sympathize in." 

" I venture to say, moreover," said 
Adelardi, " that, sure of the future as 
he believes himself to be, thanks to 
your admirable diplomacy, we shall 
find him much more resigned to this 
news than might have been suppos- 
ed." 

" I really hope so," replied the 
princess, smiling, " especially as an- 
other fancy has taken possession of 
his mind, as to which, I must confess, 
I do not feel very anxious at present. 
' Un' alia volta per Carita /' We had 
to rally to the weakest point first; 
the enemy was at hand, and that en- 
emy love ! Every means had to 
be used to rout him. Now the sub- 
ject of politics is threatening to en- 
gross him. We will take that in 
hand later. The only thing that 
seems to me of real importance at 
present is to efface as fully as possi- 
ble the remembrance of this beauti- 
ful Fleurange, for, among other dis- 
coveries, I find that to be Gabrielle's 
real name. To this end I even wel- 
come politics as an ally to be accept- 
ed for a time for certain reasons, but 
to be turned upon as an enemy the 
moment its services are no longer re- 
quired." 

At this moment a servant appear- 
ed to ask the princess' wishes re- 
specting a picture just brought. She 
left the room a moment, and returned 
laughing. 

" Guess what picture it was ?" said 
she. 



" Probably some new acquisition ; 
some wonderful discovery you have 
made in your rounds, like that pic- 
ture by Cigoli you got thrown into 
the bargain the other day when you 
bought the frame it was in." 

" By no means ; this is a modern 
picture representing Cordelia at the 
feet of her father, and the original " 

" Come, princess, are you in earn- 
est ? Has George really given you 
that picture ? " 

" Given ? " said the princess, her 
eyes twinkling as she played with her 
long necklace of pearls. " No ; at 
least that was not his intention. But 
could he refuse to lend a picture that 
affords me so much pleasure during 
the absence of Cordelia ? It was 
the whim of an invalid suddenly de- 
prived of her nurse ! which, with some 
persistence on my part, could not be 
refused ! and after giving, moreover, 
such a proof of indulgence to him and 
of condescension towards her ! " 

" Ah ! princess, what a consummate 
diplomatist you are !" 

" To be serious," said she, " do you 
know I had never noticed this resem- 
blance at all, having seen the picture 
only once, then I did not examine it 
particularly, and I had never seen Ga- 
brielle ? You know George's cabinet 
is a sanctuary I rarely invade, and, be- 
sides, the picture has had a curtain 
over it the past year." 

" And what inspired you with the 
idea of looking at it now ? " 

" He himself by the delightful tale 
he related to me the other evening." 

"And where have you hung it 
now ?" 

" In my dressing-room, where he 
never steps his foot," replied the prin- 
cess with a peal of laughter. 

Marquis Adelardi, as we are aware, 
had deplored George's infatuation as 
much as the princess herself, but he 
now felt dissatisfied with her and him- 
self, and he soon left her to go in search 



748 The Papacy. 

of his friend. He felt anxious about tion of disappointment. The note ran 

him, for he knew he was tempted by a thus : " Once is not a habit. I have 

dangerous curiosity and was unwilling accepted Lasko's invitation for this 

to lose sight of him. They had made evening. Dini will accompany me. 

arrangements to meet and dine to- But be easy, I am not going under 

gether at akind of casino then popular, my own name, and shall not be known 

and he hoped to retain him the re- by any one." 

mainderof the evening. But arriving " Lasko ! " muttered the marquis, 

at the place of rendezvous he did not stamping his foot. " That is his name 

find him as he expected. George was now ! Confound him ! why is he not 

gone, but had left a note which drew still in the dungeons of Spielberg the 

from Adelardi an energetic exclama- only place fit for him !" 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



THE PAPACY. 



THAT such a power should live and breathe, doth seem 

A thought from which men fain would be relieved, 

A grandeur not to be endured, a dream 

Darkening the soul, though it be unbelieved. 

August conception! far above king, law, 

Or popular right ; how calmly dost thou draw 

Under thine awful shadow mortal pain, 

And joy not mortal ! Witness of a need 

Deep laid in man, and therefore pierced in vain, 

As though thou wert no form that thou shouldst bleed ! 

While such a power there lives in old man's shape, 

Such and so dread, should not his mighty will 

And supernatural presence, Godlike, fill 

The air we breathe, and leave us no escape ? 

Faber 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



749 



THE CATHOLIC CHURCH IN THE UNITED STATES: 



A RETROSPECT CONCLUDED. 



THE inveterate hostility of the 
Florida Indians to the whites was 
further illustrated a few years later, 
when a vessel bound from Vera Cruz 
to Spain struck upon their shores, 
and the survivors, three hundred in 
number, including five Dominican 
religious, endeavored to escape 
through that territory to Mexico 
They were so unrelentingly pursued 
by the natives, and suffered so many 
hardships on the route besides, that 
only one reached Tampico alive to 
tell the story of their fate. Father 
John Ferrer, however, one of the 
Dominicans, and a most holy man, 
who had predicted this fate of him- 
self before he had even set sail from 
Vera Cruz, was captured by the In- 
dians west of the Rio del Norte. If 
the remainder of his prediction held 
equally good, he must have surviv- 
ed among them in good health for 
several years; but nothing was ever 
heard of him afterwards. The bear- 
er of these tidings, and the sole rep- 
resentative of the thousand souls who 
had set forth from Vera Cruz a few 
months before, was the Dominican 
lay- brother, Mark de Mena, whose 
escape, though he had been terribly 
wounded, and left to die on the road, 
was truly marvellous. 

Such persistent barbarity needed a 
check, and Don Tristan de Luna 
was sent in 1559 to subdue the coun- 
try. The expedition under his com- 
mand numbered fifteen hundred men 
in thirteen vessels : missionaries, as 
usual, accompanied him. Again 
they were Dominicans, six in num- 
ber. Again, also, storms and ship- 



wrecks on those difficult shores 
played their part, and many lives 
were lost, among them one of the 
Dominicans. The aggressive charac- 
ter of the expedition was doubtless 
seriously affected by this early mis- 
hap, for but one portion of the surviv- 
ors settled down at Pensacola Bay, 
calling their colony the mission of 
Santa Cruz,, while the remainder, at- 
tended by two of the fatbtrs, accom- 
panied Don Tristan into " Coosa," 
the territory of the Creeks. Don 
Tristan was kindly received by these 
Indians, formed an alliance with 
them, marched with them against 
their enemies, the Natchez tribe, and 
remained with them about two years. 
In this interval, however, the zeal of 
the two missionaries was rewarded 
only by the baptism of a few dying 
infants and adults. Don Tristan re- 
turned to Pensacola Bay, where the 
new governor arrived from Mexico 
shortly after, with eight more Do- 
minicans. When the governor be- 
held how little had been accom- 
plished, and heard the discouraging 
accounts of the missionaries besides, 
he resolved to abandon Florida, and 
to take the whole party back with 
him to Mexico. Don Tristan, how- 
ever, persisted in remaining, and Fa- 
ther Dominic de Salazar, one of 
those who had been with him among 
the Creeks, together with Matthew, 
a lay-brother, and a few men be- 
sides, shared his solitude. But this 
courageous persistence was not des- 
tined to be crowned with any perma- 
nent result, for the Viceroy of Mexi- 
co despatched a vessel to the little 



750 



The Catholic CJiurcJi in the United States. 



colony with peremptory orders for 
all its members to return. Thus 
Florida was again left without the 
succors of a Christian mission. Fa- 
ther Dominic ended his life of zeal 
and labor as Bishop of Manila, in 
the Philippines. 

At last, Pedro Melendez de Aviles, 
the first naval commander of his day, 
received from Philip II., together 
with the title of Adelentado of Flori- 
da, the command of a fleet of 34 
vessels, conveying 2,646 men. Me- 
lendez had also a personal interest in 
this expedition, inasmuch as he 
hoped to recover a son, who, having 
been shipwrecked on the Florida 
coast, might still be alive and in the 
hands of fhe Indians, or have been 
captured by French cruisers, France 
and Spain being then at enmity with 
one another. He carried mission- 
aries with him, chiefly Franciscans 
and Jesuits. The usual storms and 
shipwrecks intervened, and one ves- 
sel was captured by French cruisers, 
so that only a small force came to 
anchor off the mouth of the St. 
John's River. Here a French fleet 
v/as found already riding, and a fort 
had been erected on shore. Melen- 
dez pursued the French vessel to 
sea, was in turn pursued by them, 
entered St. Augustine's River while 
the French were wrecked outside, at- 
tacked their fort, and put all to the 
sword a proceeding which the 
usages of war at that time might 
have palliated, but could never jus- 
tify. 

St. Augustine, the oldest of our 
American cities, was now (1565) 
founded by Melendez, and detach- 
ments were sent out to throw up 
forts along the coast. At his solicit- 
ation, St. Francis Borgia, then Gen- 
eral of the Society of Jesus, sent 
three other Jesuits, one of whom, F. 
Peter Martinez, the superior, was 
killed by the natives, into whose 



hands he fell in consequence of hav- 
ing been shipwrecked. Others of 
the Society were afterwards sent, and 
the mission was erected into a vice- 
province, with F. John Baptist Se- 
gura as superior. It is impossible, in 
reading Mr. Shea's History of the Mis- 
sions, to follow the exact order of 
events. Suffice it to say not to 
linger upon details at this point 
that many Indian youths were taken 
to Havana and instructed by Father 
John Roger and Brother Villareal, 
the two companions of Father Mar- 
tinez ; that the vice-provincial and 
the other Jesuits sent with him were 
stationed at various points within the 
thus extensive limits comprehended 
as Florida; that missions were es- 
tablished among the Creeks and 
among another tribe superior to 
them (and supposed to have been 
the Cherokees), all of which were 
most meagre in result; that the Pope 
St. Pius V. addressed a letter (1569) 
to the governor of Florida, urging 
the repression of scandals among 
the whites, so that no obstruction 
should be offered to the work of con- 
version among the Indians ; and that, 
finally, the working force of the So- 
ciety was most seriously reduced, 
first, by the loss of Father Martinez, 
already mentioned, next by that of 
Brother Baez, who died from the ef- 
fects of the climate, at his station on 
Amelia Island, and subsequently by 
the massacre in Virginia (or possibly 
Maryland) of Fathers Segura and 
Quiros, with four lay-brothers, at the 
instigation of a pretended Indian 
convert who had inveigled them 
thither. Father Segura's party on 
this occasion included also several 
Indian youths who had been educat- 
ed in Havana, and of these only one 
escaped with his life. From him 
the details of the martyrdom of his 
companions were gathered. Thus 
as early as 1570 was the region bor- 



TJie Catholic Church in the United States. 



751 



dering on the Chesapeake, which 
was then called St. Mary's Bay, sanc- 
tified by the blood of its martyrs. 

The loss of so many valuable 
members in a field so sterile of fruit 
forced the Jesuits, in a manner, to 
abandon it, " to abandon it as they 
had abandoned no other, without be- 
ing driven from it," remarks Shea,- 
and in the following year the survi- 
vors were recalled to the more invit- 
ing field of Mexico. In 1572, Me- 
lendez, who had visited Spain mean- 
while, set out thence to make pur- 
suit for the murderers of Father Se- 
gura and his companions. He cap- 
tured eight of them, and these, under 
the instructions of Father Roger, 
who accompanied Melendez, embrac- 
ed Christianity before their execution 
and died in the best dispositions. 
The apostate " chief of Axican," who 
had promoted the massacre, had es- 
caped to the woods and could not 
be taken. Melendez, on his return 
to Spain, was appointed to command 
the great Armada, which Philip was 
then preparing for the invasion of 
England, but he died before its com- 
pletion. After his death, the north- 
ern limits of Spanish colonization in 
Florida were gradually pushed south 
to the line of St. Mary's River. 

The missions of Florida were now 
left entirely to the Franciscans, 
whose headquarters were at the con- 
vent of St. Helena, at St. Augustine, 
the venerable walls of which are still 
standing. Besides some who arrived 
in 1573, twelve Franciscans were 
sent thither in 1592. The accession 
of so considerable a number enabled 
the father guardian of St. Helena's 
to station missionaries at various 
points where, from information re- 
ceived, there was a prospect of some 
success ; and indeed, for the first 
time in the history of the missions of 
Florida, villages of Christian neo- 
phytes began to be formed. For 



the Yemassees, Father Francis de 
Pareja, a native of Mexico, drew up 
in their language his abridgment of 
Christian doctrine, the first work in 
any of our Indian languages that 
was ever issued from the press. The 
missions made peaceful progress for 
two years, when, in 1597, a sudden 
outbreak of Indian fickleness and 
perfidy occurred which spread havoc 
far and wide among them. Father 
Peter de Corpa, whose mission of 
Tolemato occupied the present site 
of the cemetery at St. Augustine, had 
found himself obliged to administer 
a public rebuke to the cacique's son, 
who, from having been a fervent con- 
vert, fell at last into most vicious 
courses. The latter, filled with re- 
sentment, appealed to the national 
and religious prejudices of his follow- 
ers, and, assembling a body of them, 
rushed to the chapel of Father Corpa, 
and slew him while he was on his 
knees before the altar. 

Thence they repaired to the mission 
of Father Bias Rodriguez at Topoqui, 
and, warning him of his fate, bade 
him prepare for death. He entreat- 
ed that he might be allowed first to 
say Mass, and by a strange con- 
descension his murderers quietly 
awaited the termination of the holy 
sacrifice, and then despatched him as 
he knelt to make his thanksgiving. 
Fathers Badajoz and Aunon at Guale 
or Amelia Island were the next 
victims ; but the latter, made aware 
of their approach and of their designs, 
had time to say Mass and communi- 
cate his companion. Then followed 
the massacre of Father Francis de 
Velascola, the most distinguished of 
the missionaries, at Asao. The as- 
sailants met with a repulse at St. 
Peter's Isle, the seat of another mis- 
sion, against which they had advanced 
with a flotilla of forty war-canoes ; 
but before attacking this point they/ 
had fallen upon the mission of Father 



752 



TJie Catholic Church in the United States. 



Francis de Avila at Ospa. He fled, 
was captured, grievously wounded, 
and was condemned to die. They 
finally concluded to sell him into a 
heathen village as a slave, and here 
for a whole year he was compelled 
to perform the most menial offices. 
At the end of this time his task-mas- 
ters, growing weary of him, resolved 
to put him to death. He was fasten- 
ed to a stake, the fagots were piled 
around him, and he was offered his 
life on condition that he should re- 
nounce his God and marry into their 
tribe. Spurning the proposal, he 
looked to receive the martyr's crown, 
but on the demand of an old woman 
he was released, and given to her 
that she might exchange him against 
her son who was held a prisoner at 
St. Augustine. The exchange was 
effected, and the father was restored, 
but so changed in appearance from 
the effects of his hardships that he 
was not recognized by his friends. 

The missions were now reduced to 
a feeble state indeed, and the gov- 
ernor of Florida applied himself to 
their restoration, in conjunction with 
the Bishop of Cuba, who visited the 
colony for the purpose. They began 
to revive from the year 1601, and in 
a few years the increase was very 
rapid, no less than forty-three Francis- 
cans being sent thither in the three 
years 1612, 1613, and 1615, who 
aided in establishing on the coast 
and in the interior as many as twenty 
convents or residences. During the 
hundred years of peace that followed 
the revival of the missions under the 
Franciscans, towns of converts grew 
up along the Appalachicola, Flint, 
and other rivers ; and the Appalaches, 
Creeks, Cherokees, Atimucas, and 
Yemassees responded to the cares 
bestowed upon them. Pensacola 
was founded in 1693. 
k At last, however, the encroach- 
ments of the colonists of Carolina 



began to grow serious. Under the 
auspices of the English government, 
a body of colonists heterogeneous in 
character, but of one mind in their 
hatred of the Spaniards and their 
religion, had been drawn to the 
shores claimed by the latter as belong- 
ing to Florida. They were compos- 
ed of immigrants from Old and New 
England and the Low Countries, of 
French Huguenots, Scotch, and 
others. Charleston was founded by 
them in 1680, and they penetrated 
the country in various directions. 
They gained over the Yemassees 
from the Spanish ; and in conjunction 
with them plundered and destroyed 
the mission of St. Catharine's, as 
early as 1684. All the stations 
between the Altamaha and Savan- 
nah rivers, now a portion of Georgia, 
were broken up, and the Indians 
were killed, or captured and carried 
off by hundreds, the survivors taking 
refuge in the peninsula. 

In 1702, the animosities of the 
European war of the Spanish succes- 
sion extended hither, and war aggra- 
vated the hostility of the English 
colonists. In that year they made 
an attack on St. Augustine, but with- 
out capturing its fort, and fell upon 
the " Indian converts of the Spanish 
priests," on Flint River, killing or 
capturing six hundred of them ; and 
all captives of the English at this 
time suffered the hard fate of being 
sold as slaves in Charleston and 
other ports. The principal mission 
of the Appalaches at St. Mark's was 
destroyed, and three Franciscans 
taken there were put to a cruel death. 
This tribe, in fact, was reduced within 
four years from seven thousand to 
four hundred. The Atimucas on the 
Appalachicola were invaded, and 
driven east of the St. John's River. 
In short, ruin and desolation were 
spread on every side. 

In 1730, the Yemassees turned 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



753 



upon their recent allies, the English, 
and were joined by the Creeks, 
Cherokees, and other tribes. They 
were defeated, as the Tuscaroras had 
been the year before; but while the 
latter were driven north and united 
themselves with the Five Nations, 
the former were compelled to take 
refuge in the peninsula. The treaty 
of Utrecht, the same year, at the 
close of the war of the Spanish suc- 
cession, while it contracted the limits 
of the Spanish possessions in Florida, 
had also its effect in lessening the 
acts of hostility from which they had 
suffered. But the missions remained 
a mere shadow of what they had 
formerly been, and Spain was too 
feeble to guarantee the complete 
protection even of those that subsist- 
ed. Finally, the cession of Florida 
to England by the treaty of Paris in 
1763 proved the death-blow of all 
of them. Most of the Spanish set- 
tlers left, and the Franciscans depart- 
ed with them.. England restored the 
country to Spain twenty years after; 
but, meanwhile, the Christian Indians 
had been expelled from the two 
towns they occupied under the walls 
of St. Augustine, and deprived of the 
soil they had cultivated and the 
church they had erected. They 
became Seminoles, which in their 
language signifies " wanderers." 
Under Catholic influence, they had 
become a quiet, orderly, industrious 
race, living side by side with the 
Spaniards in peace and comfort. The 
English drove them back into bar- 
barism and paganism. Even in their 
everglades they were not left in 
peace, for the government of the 
United States, which acquired Florida 
by purchase in 1821, expelled them 
from their wretched patrimony, but 
at a cost to the country of a thousand 
lives and fifteen millions of dollars. 
Its troops have, ever since the ac- 
quisition of Florida, made use of the 
VOL. xv. 48 



ancient convent of St. Helena, at 
St. Augustine, as barracks. A rem- 
nant of the Indians is still left, and 
measures have been recently taken 
by the Bishop of St. Augustine, 
whose see was erected only in 1870, 
to revive the faith among them. 

As in Florida, so in New Mexico, 
the missionaries were chiefly if not en- 
tirely Franciscans. We have already 
referred to the expedition of Coro- 
nado, and to the two missionaries, 
F. Padillo, and the lay-brother, his 
companion, who were left behind at 
their own request, and who became 
the first martyrs of the missions of 
New Mexico (1541). Little induce- 
ment presented itself for sending new 
missionaries in the field, but in 1581 
the solicitations of a pious lay -brother, 
Augustin Rodriguez, engaged in the 
Mexican missions, caused the for- 
mation of a party consisting of Fa- 
thers Francis Lopez and John de 
Santa Maria, and himself, attended by 
ten soldiers and six Mexican Indians. 
After proceeding seven hundred miles, 
they found themselves among the tribe 
of Tehuas, who, unlike the Indians of 
the plains, lived in houses and dressed 
in cotton mantles. The soldiers now 
persisted in returning, but their de- 
parture seemed a less serious misfor- 
tune since the mission gave promise 
of success. So much so, indeed, that 
F. de Santa Maria was despatched to 
Mexico for auxiliaries, but on the third 
day out was surprised and killed by 
roving Indians. In an attack made on 
the Tehuas by their enemies not long 
after, F. Lopez fell by the hand of the 
assailants. Brother Rodriguez, left 
alone, subsequently fell a victim to his 
zeal in inveighing against the vices 
of those for whose conversion he was 
laboring ; growing weary of his re- 
proaches, they put him to death. 
Two other Franciscans in attendance 
on a subsequent expedition suffered 
the fate of martyrs, and thus the.found- 



754 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



ations of the New Mexican missions 
were laid in blood. 

In 1597, Juan de Onate led a col- 
ony to the Northern Rio Grande. 
Several Franciscans accompanied him, 
and the first Spanish post in this re- 
gion, that of San Gabriel, was estab- 
lished. After a year, the commander 
sent a favorable report by the hands 
of two fathers and a lay-brother, who 
were returning to Mexico to solicit 
additional missionaries. One of the 
three, F. Christopher Salazar, died 
on the way, and was buried in the 
wilderness. The missionaries asked 
for were sent, five or six at one time, 
and six at another. So great was 
the success subsequently achieved that 
by the year 1608 eight thousand of 
the Indians of New Mexico had been 
baptized, and many of them were 
taught to read and write, before the 
Puritans set foot in New England 
(1620). 

A report made to the crown in 1626 
enumerates twenty-seven missions that 
had been established up to that time, 
six convents or residences, and four 
sumptuous churches built. Many of 
of these missions and residences, and 
three of the churches (those at Santa 
Fe, Pecos, and Jemez), are recog- 
nizable in the account of the diocese 
furnished in Sadliers 1 Catholic Almanac 
for 1872. One of the missions was 
among the Zuiii, over against whose 
town of Cibola Friar Mark had plant- 
ed his prophetic cross in 1539. The 
missionary at this post, F. John Le- 
trado, lost his life in endeavoring to 
evangelize a neighboring tribe. F. 
Martin de Arbide perished in a like 
attempt. 

Heaven itself seemed to come to 
..the assistance of the missionaries by 
a miraculous intervention,* for a tribe 
which none of the fathers had pre- 

* Those who are curious on this point are re- 
ferred to the Mystic City of God, by the Ven. 
-Maria de Agreda, a Spanish Carmelite nun. 



viously met or visited was found fully 
instructed in Christian doctrine. 

Some reverses occurred, owing to 
causes not clearly stated by Mr. Shea. 
They were probably due to the per- 
sistent hostility of the pagan portion 
of the population. In 1680, great 
devastations were committed by them, 
many missionaries were killed, and 
some churches destroyed which were 
never after rebuilt ; but a period of 
comparative peace succeeded, which 
was disturbed finally only by the incur- 
sions of the Apaches. A mission was 
established among the latter in 1733, 
but without fruit. Nine years after- 
wards, some converts were made 
among the Moquis and Navojoes. A 
report among the United States Ex- 
ecutive documents of 1854 and 
which corresponds with the state- 
ments published by Villasefior, so 
long ago as 1748 bears testimony to 
the happy moral and industrial condi- 
tion of the Christian Indians of New 
Mexico. The Puebla Indians, as 
they are now called, number in the 
diocese of Santa Fe 12,000. 

The history of the missions of 
Texas need not greatly prolong our 
narrative. Shortly after the discov- 
ery of the mouth of the Mississippi 
by La Salle in 1691, who made no 
permanent settlement in Texas, the 
Spanish authorities sent thither a 
number of Franciscans. By them, 
eight missions were established, 
which prospered until a failure 
occurred in the crops which the 
Indians had been taught to raise. 
The cattle with which the missions 
had been stocked died at the same 
time, and moreover the soldiers, of 
whom there was a small guard at 
each post, had rendered themselves 
obnoxious to the natives. In con- 
sequence, the missions fell into de- 
cay. Their restoration began in 
1717, and by 1746 they embraced 
posts among five different tribes. 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



755 



Visits were also made to the Osages 
and Missouris, in one of which ex- 
peditions a father lost his life and 
another was long retained as a 
prisoner. 

The missions subsisted and flour- 
ished until 1812, when they were 
suppressed by the Spanish govern- 
ment. Even then, the Indians, 
though deprived of spiritual succor, 
remained faithful to the religious 
teachings they had received. Father 
Diaz was sent to them by the Bishop 
of Monterey, in 1832, and after la- 
boring for a year at Nacogdoches, 
was killed by wandering Indians. 
Soon after this the whites began to 
pour into Texas, and by 1836 grew 
powerful enough to declare and to 
maintain the independence of the 
state. The demoralization and dis- 
persion of the Indians followed, as a 
natural consequence. Father Timon, 
afterwards Bishop of Buffalo, was ap- 
pointed in 1840 Prefect Apostolic 
of Texas, and, despatching thither 
Father Odin as Vice-Prefect, follow- 
ed him shortly after. By an act of 
justice, of which modern governments 
rarely afford so striking an example, 
the old ecclesiastical property was 
restored to the church by the Texan 
egislature. Father Odin was made 
)ishop in 1842, and his see became 
the diocese of Galveston in 1847, 
two years after the annexation of 
Texas to the United States. The 
Diographyof this eminent prelate (who 
subsequently became Archbishop of 
New Orleans), in Clarke's Deceased 
Bishops, furnishes much interesting 
matter regarding the history of the 
church in Texas. The report of the 
diocese for 1871 supplies no infor- 
mation in regard to the Indian pop- 
ulation, if indeed any Christians are 
still to be found among them within 
the limits of the state. Many relics 
remain of the churches, aqueducts, 
and other public works erected by 



the Franciscans and their neophytes 
during the prosperous period of the 
missions. 

The first expedition to any por- 
tion of California, which was accom- 
panied by missionaries, was that un- t 
der Vizcaino, in 1596, to the peninsu- 
la, but no permanent footing was 
made at the time. In 1601, three 
Carmelite fathers visited that por- 
tion now included in the United 
States, and made a temporary stay, 
and no more, at what are now Santa 
Barbara, Monterey, and San Fran- 
cisco. The Jesuits began their mis- 
sions south of the Gila in 1642, and 
gradually extended them north, until, 
in 1697, they had entered the limits 
of our present territory. The success 
characteristic of their missions every- 
where for their failure in Florida was 
something abnormal followed them 
here. All was proceeding well, when 
that extensive conspiracy arose in 
Europe against the Society which 
the history of the age subsequently 
shows to have been directed quite as 
much against the church as against 
the Jesuits. The King of Spain, hav- 
ing been drawn into the plot as 
other sovereigns were, ordered the 
Jesuits to be torn in a single day 
from all their missions throughout 
his wide domains. On the 3d of Feb- 
ruary, 1768, every Jesuit was carried 
off from California a prisoner. Accus- 
ed of no crime, condemned without 
a trial, the missionaries were dragged 
from amid their neophytes, who in 
grief and consternation deplored 
their loss. 

Spain was, however, not yet pre- 
pared to cut loose entirely from her 
religious traditions, and she sent 
Franciscans td take the place of the 
banished Jesuits. The vessel that 
landed the latter at San Bias re- 
turned to California with twelve 
Franciscans, at the head of whom 
was Father Junipero Serra, an expe- 



756 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



rienced Indian missionary. After 
placing priests at the vacated mis- 
sions, Father Serra went on to found 
others, San Ferdinand, San Bonaven- 
tura, and San Diego being estab- 
lished in 1769, that at Monterey in 
1770 at the news of which founda- 
tions all the bells in the city of 
Mexico were rung San Gabriel the 
same year, St. Anthony of Padua in 
1771, San Luis Obispo in 1772, San 
Juan Capistrano in 1774, San Fran- 
cisco in 1776, Santa Clara in 1777. 
In this interval many more of the 
sons of St. Francis came to join in 
the labors of their brethren, or to re- 
place those who were worn out with 
toil. At Monterey, in 1771, when 
the feast of Corpus Christi was cele- 
brated with a pomp such as the wil- 
derness had never before seen, 
twelve priests joined in the sacred 
procession. The Dominicans, more- 
over, applied for a share in the work 
of the missions, and in 1774 were 
assigned to all those stations formerly 
served by the Jesuits, the Francis- 
cans retaining only those that had 
been founded by themselves, except 
San Ferdinand, which was also given 
to the Dominicans. As the missions 
thus transferred were chiefly in Old 
California (the peninsula), their his- 
tory does not enter within the scope 
of this narrative. 

In 1775, the mission at San Diego 
was attacked by a large force of 
pagan Indians, led on by two apos- 
tates of their own race. Father Louis 
Jayme, one of the two priests sta- 
tioned here, was awakened by the 
flames, and, supposing the fire to be 
accidental, came to the door with 
his usual salutation, " Love God, my 
children." He was* immediately 
seized, dragged off, pierced with ar- 
rows, and hacked to death by blows 
with swords made of hardened wood. 
The other father happily escaped. 
"When Father Serra heard what had 



occurred, he exclaimed, " Thank 
God, that field is watered," rebuilt 
the mission, after some opposition 
from the civil authorities, and went 
on with his labors in founding others. 
Father Crespi, the principal assistant 
of Father Serra, died in 1782, after a 
missionary career of thirty years, of 
which fourteen had been spent in 
California. Father Serra himself ex- 
pired two years after. Although 
seventy-one years of age at the time 
of his death, his zeal was undimin- 
ished and his faculties were unim- 
paired. Under his administration, 
as Prefect Apostolic of California, 
ten new missions had been estab- 
lished, and ten thousand Indians 
baptized. Yet death found him 
busy with plans of still other founda- 
tions. 

By a Papal Bull of June i6th, 
1774, the power of administering 
confirmation was granted to the pre- 
fect apostolic. This privilege was 
of course shared by Father Serra's 
successors in the same office. The 
first gf these was Father Palou, 
under whom the following new mis- 
sions were founded: Santa Barbara 
in 1786, La Purisima Concepcion, 
near San Luis Obispo, in 1787, Santa 
Cruz near Branciforte, and Nuestra 
Senora de Soledad, near Monterey, 
in 1791. Father Palou then re- 
turned to Mexico, where he became 
superior of the convent of San Fer- 
nando. He was succeeded as pre- 
fect by Father Lazven, who re- 
mained in office until his death in 
1803. In the interval, Father Laz- 
ven founded three great missions, 
San Jose, San Miguel, and San 
Fernando, all in the year 1797- 
San Luis, Rey de Francia, was 
founded in the following year. St. 
Louis of France was thus honored in 
this remote wilderness at a time when 
the nation over which he had ruled 
rejected alike his faith, his institu- 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



757 



tions, and his family. The celebrated 
Father Peyri, whose portrait is given 
in Mr. Shea's History of the Missions, 
superintended the foundation of this 
greatest of the Californian reductions. 
In front of the church, which is 
ninety feet in length, of stone, and 
rises at one end in a beautiful tower 
and dome (says Mr. Shea), " extends 
a colonnade not without architec- 
tural beauty, and nearly five hun- 
dred feet long, while in depth it is 
almost of equal proportions." Three 
thousand five hundred Indian con- 
verts were soon gathered together, 
occupying twenty ranches around 
this abode of peace and plenty. 

Father Mariano Payeras succeed- 
ed Father Lazven as prefect, and 
founded the mission of Santa Inez in 
1804. At this time Spain became 
unable, amid the distractions which 
arose from the French Revolution 
for which she herself had assisted in 
preparing the way by the share she 
took in the persecution of the Jesuits 
to extend the aid which new found- 
ations required, and, therefore^ none 
were made. The missions already 
in existence were not affected to any 
great extent by the difficulties of the 
mother country, for they were self- 
supporting. In 1817, however, it 
became possible to found the mis- 
sion of San Rafael, and this proved 
to be the last foundation under Span- 
ish auspices. Others were projected, 
but the power of Spain in the west- 
tern world was already tottering to 
its fall. In 1821, Iturbide's short- 
lived empire replaced the authority 
of the Spanish crown in Mexico, and 
two years after, Santa Anna's success- 
ful revolt changed the empire into a 
republic. Father Sanchez was now 
prefect, and in 1823 established the 
mission of San Francisco Solano, the 
first and last erected under Mexican 
rule. 

Echandia, the governor sent out 



"by the Mexican authorities, arrived 
in California in 1824. Then began 
the robbery and destruction of the 
missions, the first step in which 
was the substitution of government 
agents in the temporal rule of the 
missions for that of the fathers, who 
had always exercised this authority 
to the great advantage of the In- 
dians, and without drawing thence 
any profit for themselves, since they 
were both by habit of life and by 
religious vow poor men. Father 
Peyri was driven from his mission of 
San Luis Rey which he had founded 
more than thirty years before, and had 
directed ever since with admirable 
skill ; nor could the tears and en- 
treaties of his neophytes move the 
stony-hearted governor to retain him. 
At this populous mission, many of 
the Indians had been taught the 
trades, and were blacksmiths, carpen- 
ters, and mechanics in various de- 
partments; they also owned sixty 
thousand head of cattle, and raised 
thirteen thousand bushels of grain 
yearly. At San Luis Obispo, Father 
Martinez had in like manner formed 
his flock to industry ; they wove and 
dyed ordinary cloth and fine cotton 
fabrics, and could have always main- 
tained a state of prosperity and hap- 
piness had their possessions and 
their beloved director been left to 
them, but the former were wrecked, 
and the latter was brutally expelled. 

Five other fathers were driven 
from their missions, and a regular 
system of robbery commenced : 
ranch after ranch was taken, cattle 
were swept off, and the minds of the 
Indians were endeavored to be poi- 
soned against the missionaries by 
Echandia, through wilful representa- 
tions, so that in one case they at- 
tempted to take the life of a priest. 
Other missionaries, after having spent 
thirty or forty years in civilizing the 
Indians, and raising them to a state 



758 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



of comfort and plenty, found them- 
selves obliged, by the ill-treatment 
they suffered,' to leave the country. 
The prefect, Father Sanchez, was the 
special object of this persecution on 
the part of Echandia, and died of 
grief in 1831, consoled only by the 
momentary peace which reigned at 
the time under Echandia's successor, 
Don Manuel Victoria, who during 
the few months he was in office re- 
stored the missions so far as he was 
able ; but after his removal the pil- 
lage progressed as before. 

Father Francisco Garcia Diego 
was appointed prefect in 1832, and 
arrived in California in January of 
the following year, taking up his resi- 
dence at Santa Clara. The number 
of missionaries was now so reduced 
that Father Garcia found it necessary 
to take with him ten fathers to re- 
cruit their ranks. The new prefect 
did what he could to ward off the 
ruin which threatened the missions, 
but they were doomed, and the de- 
cree of secularization passed by the 
Mexican Congress in 1834 and en- 
forced in 1837 on ly completed their 
destruction. Thus, this wretched 
republic, which is and always has 
been unable amidst the contentions 
of its rival chiefs, with their ever re- 
curring pronunciamentoS) to preserve 
domestic peace, and which has suffer- 
ed the great public works erected in 
Mexico by the crown to fall into de- 
cay, carried spiritual and temporal 
ruin to the fair regions which had 
been consecrated to religion and 
peace, to industry and innocence, 
and overthrew the noblest monu- 
ments which the zeal and the faith 
of Spain had bequeathed to her col- 
onies. 

Father Garcia's heart was wrung 
with anguish at the spectacle of des- 
olation which surrounded him, and 
to which, with all his efforts, he was 
able to interpose only a feeble barrier. 



He repaired to Mexico to intercede 
with the government in behalf of 
his oppressed and helpless people. 
Through his influence the law of sec- 
ularization was repealed, and an act 
passed restoring the property of tlte 
missions. But the reparation came 
too late ; the plunderers were in full 
possession of their ill-gotten property, 
and no power could wrest it from them. 
Meanwhile, a severe illness at the 
capital, and the affairs of his order in 
Zacatecas, retained him in Mexico, 
where, in 1840, he received notice 
of his appointment to the bishopric 
of the Californias. He was conse- 
crated in the same year, but was un- 
able to take possession of his diocese 
until December, 1841. 

On arriving at San Diego, he 
found the mission and the church in 
ruins. At San Gabriel, where ex- 
tensive vineyards had been in full 
bearing, and to protect which the 
father was in negotiation with an 
American house for iron fences, even 
the vines were pulled up. This mis- 
sion had loaded ships with its pro- 
ducts, which were despatched regu- 
larly to San Bias and Lima. Amid 
its ruins, a traveller (Duflot de Mo- 
fras) describes in 1842 seeing the 
missionary Father Estenega seated 
in a field before a large table, with 
his sleeves rolled up kneading clay 
and teaching his Indians to make 
bricks. San Luis Obispo was in the 
same condition, and Father Abella, 
the oldest missionary in the country, 
whom La Perouse had seen here in 
1787, still survived in 1842. His 
.only bed was a hide, his only food 
dried beef, and he divided among 
his poor and plundered Indians the 
alms he received. At San Jose, Fa- 
ther Gonzalez, prefect of the north- 
ern missions, subsisted on the scanty 
rations furnished him by the officials. 
La Soledad, from having been an 
earthly paradise, was now a wilder- 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



759 



ness of ruin and desolation. Its mis- 
sionary, Father Serra, of whom an 
American says " it was a happiness 
indeed to have known him," had 
died of hunger and wretchedness in 
1838 on the spot where thousands 
had enjoyed his hospitality. He ex- 
pired in the arms of the Indians 
whom he had spent thirty years in 
instructing and protecting, falling at 
the foot of the altar just as he had 
begun Mass. At San Francisco So- 
lano, everything had been destroyed, 
and the materials of the mission- 
house and chapel sacrilegiously used 
in building the palace of Don Mari- 
ano Vallejo. Santa Barbara still 
possessed its missions, the residence 
of the devoted prefect of the south- 
ern missions, Father Narcisso Duran, 
and at San Fernando, Santa Clara, 
and Santa Inez (where Bishop Gar- 
cia afterwards erected a seminary) 
the missionaries had succeeded in 
saving much. Everywhere else, 
ruin and desolation had overtaken 
the missions. 

The Indian population of the mis- 
sions was reduced from 30,650 to 
4,450, their cattle dwindled from 424,- 
ooo to 28,000, and their other stock 
in proportion, for they had owned 
62,500 horses and 321,500 sheep be- 
sides. They had' . raised annually 
122,500 bushels of wheat and corn. 

Their agriculture was now destroy- 
ed, and they themselves were mostly 
scattered and demoralized. " Bishop 
Garcia Diego y Moreno, " says Mr. 
Clarke in his Lives of Deceased Bishops, 
"stood in the midst of desolation, 
and but for his apostolic zeal and ro- 
bust courage would have despaired." 
He saved what he could of the mis- 
sions, and rescued many souls from 
crime and barbarism ; he made long, 
difficult journeys throughout his devas- 
tated diocese, and addressed the most 
moving appeals to the Mexican gov- 
ernment. At last, after wearing him- 



self out with labors that were far from 
fruitless, and which certainly stayed 
for a time the progress of disintegra- 
tion, he retired to Santa Barbara to die, 
and there peacefully gave up his soul 
to God, April 13, 1846. 

Thirteen missionaries still survived 
amidst the relics of the great works 
of charity and beneficence they had 
created or sustained, when in 1848 
the soil of Upper California changed 
owners, and became attached to the 
domains of the United States. A 
new population overran the land, 
and the Indians of the missions have 
entirely disappeared. What is worse, 
they have been driven by the hostility 
of the Americans to the mountains, 
and provoked into acts of reprisal, 
the result of which will be that at 
no distant day the career of plunder 
and outrage of which they have been 
the victims, will be crowned by their 
total extermination. 

We shall give in a note an account 
collated from Mr. Shea's History of the 
Catholic Missions in the United States, 
of the manner of living followed in 
the mission establishments of Califor- 
nia, by the Indians, under the direc- 
tion of the fathers. 

In the history of the missions of 
Maryland we are presented with a re- 
markable example of the influence of 
pure bigotry in arresting the most be- 
neficent ministrations of religion to- 
wards both the white and Indian races. 
Under the mild and paternal admin- 
istration of Lord Baltimore, the settle- 
ment, made so auspiciously on the 
feast of the Annunciation, March 25, 
1634,50011 attached to it the native 
'tribes ; for they were fairly dealt with, 
and were paid for whatever lands were 
required of them. Father Andrew 
White, an English Jesuit, and a con- 
fessor of the faith for he had suf- 
fered exile abroad and imprisonment 
at home on account of it was the 
spiritual director of the mission. Al 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



though fifty-five years of age, he had 
no sooner landed than he applied him- 
self to the study of the Indian tongue. 
He and his companions then estab- 
lished themselves at the more advanc- 
ed posts, prepared catechisms, etc., in 
the Indian language, and made good 
progress in the conversion of the na- 
tives, the principal chief and his family 
being the first to demand baptism. 

In 1644, Claiborne, the persecuting 
agent of the persecuting colony of 
Virginia, swooped down upon the 
peaceful settlements of Maryland, 
and among other outrages carried off 
the Jesuits as prisoners to England. 
Father White was never able to return, 
but Father Fisher and others did af- 
ter three years, and resumed the work 
of the missions. The rise of the Puri- 
tan party in 1652 after the usurpation 
of Cromwell, and the subsequent ac- 
cession to power of the Anglicans, 
who in 1692 made their religion the 
state church, effectually extinguished 
the Indian missions. What became of 
the poor Indians, we know not; but, 
judging from what this class of reli- 
gionists have done elsewhere, their fate 
must have been first to be robbed, 
then demoralized, and finally to be 
exiled or exterminated. 

Thenceforward, not only were the 
Catholics who had planted the col- 
ony and who had invited thither the 
persecuted of other colonies to share 
with themselves in all the privileges 
of government and of perfect free- 
dom of religion not only were the 
Catholics deprived of all share in the 
administration of public affairs, but 
their religion was proscribed and 
their priests were hunted down. 
Grasping and domineering as the 
Puritans have shown themselves to 
be everywhere, never did they or 
their Anglican abettors display a 
blacker ingratitude than in their 
transactions on the soil of Maryland, 
where those who bestowed upon 



them an exceptional religious liberty 
were excluded from all share in its 
benefits. 

The faith, though persecuted, was 
kept alive among the whites by the 
Maryland Jesuits, who continued to 
adhere to their flocks. Nor did the 
suppression of their Society in 1773 
dissolve this bond, for by an associa- 
tion among themselves they retained 
their missions; and as their property 
was not confiscated here as was 
everywhere done in Europe, they re- 
tained that also. In 1805, Bishop 
Carroll, himself an ex-Jesuit, obtain- 
ed from the superior in Russia, 
where the Society still subsisted, the 
privilege of affiliation with it for the 
late members of the order in Mary- 
land. The bishop then confirmed 
them in the possession of their mis- 
sions, and thus the Society resumed 
its footing in Maryland nine years 
before it had been restored all over 
the world by Pius VII. Among the 
young men who joined it in 1806 
was the now venerable Father Mc- 
Elroy, who, in his ninetieth year, re- 
tains the zeal and energy of younger 
days. The Jesuit province of Mis- 
souri was, as before stated, an off- 
shoot from that of Maryland, and 
some fathers of the western province 
are still living who made their novi- 
tiate in Maryland. Bishop Vande- 
velde, of Chicago, and subsequently 
of Natchez, where he died in 1855, 
was one of these. The present Vic- 
ar Apostolic of Kansas, a Jesuit from 
Missouri, perpetuates amidst his In- 
dians the traditions of the mother 
province. 

The old Catholic families of Mary- 
land, sustained and encouraged by 
their pastors, and preserving the faith 
amidst obloquy and disfranchisement, 
have contributed their full share to 
the distinguished laity of their coun- 
try, to the ranks of the religious of 
varioifs orders, male and female, the 



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761 



secular clergy, and the episcopate. 
Their honorable record is too full to 
admit of a reference to individuals, 
were this even the place for it; but 
we might recall, among prelates, the 
names of Archbishops Carroll and 
Neale of Baltimore, and Bishops 
Femvick of Boston, Fen wick of Cin- 
cinnati, and Miles of Nashville. 
Archbishop Eccleston of Baltimore, 
although a Marylander by birth, was 
of Protestant family, and was him- 
self a convert. Bishop Chanche of 
Natchez was also a Marylander, but 
the child of refugees from San Domin- 
go. The sees of Wheeling, Natchez, 
Chicago, and North Carolina are 
filled by sons of Maryland, the de- 
scendants of a later immigration. 
Even in colonizing other states, the 
faithful children of Maryland formed 
a nucleus of Catholicity, as in Ken- 
tucky, wherever they went. By a 
happy dispensation, this colony, 
grown into a diocese, and governed 
by a scion of one of these old fami- 
lies, the late eminent and beloved 
Spalding gave him back to the 
archiepiscopal chair of his ancestral 
state. 

In later, as in former times, Mary- 
land has been the " land of the 
sanctuary " for the oppressed of 
other lands, and the trials and tri- 
umphs in which her own children 
have borne part have been shared 
by the strangers who have taken re- 
fuge within her borders. When, in 
1770, a solitary Jesuit from White- 
marsh in Lower Maryland visited 
Baltimore, then an insignificant set- 
tlement, and so poorly provided as 
to Catholic worship that the priest 
brought his own altar-furniture, and 
had to say Mass in a private house, 
a large part of the flock in attend- 
ance was composed of Acadians who 
had been cruelly transported from 
their homes by the British govern- 
ment. Still later, the French Revolu- 



tion threw upon her shores those de- 
voted clergymen whose virtues and 
whose labors have shed so much honor 
on the church of their adopted coun- 
try. The institutions of religion and 
of learning which they founded in Ma- 
ryland have educated for civil life 
or for the church men who have at- 
tained the highest eminence in one 
or the other. The founders of or the 
preceptors in these institutions have 
filled sees in various portions of the 
country Dubois at New York, Da- 
vid at Bardstown, Flaget at Louis- 
ville, Dubourg at New Orleans, 
Marechal at Baltimore, and Brute at 
Vincennes, all now deceased, besides 
the present Bishop of St. Augustine, 
among living prelates. St. Mary's 
Seminary at Baltimore has seen ad- 
vanced to the mitre, from among her 
Levites, Bishops Reynolds of Charles- 
ton, O'Reilly of Hartford, and Por- 
tier of Mobile ; while Mount St. Ma- 
ry's, the "mother of bishops," has 
given to the American hierarchy from 
among hers, Archbishop Hughes 
of New York, Bishops Quarter of 
Chicago, Gartland of Savannah, 
Carrell of Covington, Young of Erie, 
and the living archbishops of New 
York and Cincinnati probably 
others. 

The subsequent revolution in San 
Domingo drove hither also whites 
who escaped with little more than life, 
and blacks whose fidelity to their 
masters and to their religion with- 
stood the shock of those terrible 
times. Among the former were the 
parents of Bishop Chanche; also, 
young Joubert, who, after becoming 
a priest, devoted himself to the 
blacks, that he might overcome his 
horror for the race that had massa- 
cred his parents ; in furtherance of 
this lofty act of self-renunciation, he 
formed a community of religious wo- 
men of color, whose first members 
were Creoles of San Domingo. The 



762 



The Catholic Churcli in the United States. 



Oblate Sisters of Providence still 
flourish, and impart the blessings of 
secular and religious education to the 
young of their sex and color. Fi- 
nally for we must hasten to a close 
it is a noticeable fact that New Eng- 
land, which sent forth its Puritan 
colonists to harass the Marylanders 
and persecute the Jesuits, is now a 
portion of the Jesuit province of 
Maryland. 

The great length to which this 
paper has expanded will preclude 
the possibility of giving any space 
to the history of the missions of 
France in Louisiana, and those ex- 
tending from Canada into what is 
now New York and into the regions 
west of that state. This omission 
will be the more pardonable inas- 
much as the history of the French 
missions is better known to Catholic 
readers than much of our other re- 
mote ecclesiastical history. There is 
one page, however, in these annals, 
touching the Christian settlements 
on our northeastern border, that we 
cannot pass over without notice. 
The town in the British Provinces 
now known as Annapolis was the 
point where Catholicity made its first 
foothold in any portion of the region 
north of us, at least the first since 
the time of the Northmen. Here, 
in 1608, two Jesuit missionaries ar- 
rived, who in 1613 were to be the 
pioneers of the Abnaki mission in 
Maine. The Recollects, a branch 
of the Franciscans, began their la- 
bors in Quebec in 1615. Other reli- 
gious men, and some communities 
of pious women, came to their assist- 
ance. Notwithstanding wars be- 
tween the various tribes, in the 
course of which the once powerful 
Hurons were almost annihilated, the 
missionaries had gathered together, 
by 1685, a number of Christian vil- 
lages of Indians on the St. Law- 
rence, of which three still exist. 



Thence, missionaries were sent to the 
shores of Lake Superior, to the tribes 
south of the lakes, to Arkansas, and 
to the lower Mississippi. The heroic 
lives, the sufferings, and the death of 
Jogues, Brebeuf, and Lallemant, and 
so many other holy men who conse- 
crated their lives to these missions, 
are almost familiar themes. 

Of the Abnaki mission referred to 
above, and which was established on 
Mount Desert Island at the mouth 
of the Penobscot, nothing remained 
after a few years except a solitary 
cross guarding the grave of a French 
lay-brother, who died from wounds 
received in an attack made on the 
mission by the English from Vir- 
ginia. The fathers were carried off 
by them on this occasion, and nar- 
rowly escaped being put to death by 
the authorities of Virginia. Thus, as 
Mr. Shea remarks, the first Abnaki 
mission was crushed in its very cradle 
by men who founded a colony in 
which the Gospel was never an- 
nounced to the aborigines. 

In 1642. an Abnaki who had been 
rescued from death by a Christian In- 
dian, in one of the forays made by 
the pagan Iroquois on their neighbors, 
extolled the virtues of the Christians 
so highly on his return home that his 
people sent for black-gowns. Fath- 
er Druillettes was sent to them in 1646, 
and the wonderful change effected by 
him in the few months of his stay ex- 
cited even the admiration of the En- 
glish, whose countrymen in Massachu- 
setts were at this time enacting cruel 
laws against the religion and the order 
to which F. Druillettes belonged. In 
1650, he returned to the Abnakis, and 
was received by them at Norridge- 
wock, their principal village, amidst 
volleys of firearms, and with every 
demonstration of delight. A banquet 
was spread in every cabin, and he 
was forced to visit all. 

" We have thee at last," they cried ; 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



" thou art our father, our patriarch, our 
countryman. Thou livest like us, thou 
chvellest with us, thou art an Abnaki 
like us. Thou bringest back joy to 
all the country. We had thought of 
leaving this laud to seek thee, for many 
have died in thy absence. We were 
losing all hopes of reaching heaven. 
Those whom thou didst instruct per- 
formed all that they had learned, but 
their heart was weary, for it sought and 
could not find thee." 

At the same time that Druillettes 
was planting the faith among the Ab- 
nakis who have preserved to this day 
the precious legacy bequeathed to 
them Rev. John Eliot of Roxbury, 
certainly a well-meaning man and a 
credit to the times and to the people 
among whom he lived, was endeavor- 
ing to christianize the Indians of Mas- 
sachusetts an attempt which the cru- 
elty and rapacity of his countrymen 
would have rendered abortive, even 
if his barren theology had been able 
to affect anything in their behalf. So 
Drake, the Indian historian, admits 
that even among Eliot's nominal disci- 
ples there was not the least probabil- 
ity that one-fourth of them were sin- 
cere believers in Christianity. Eliot 
himself said, before his death, " There 
is a dark cloud upon the work of the 
Gospel among the poor Indians." In 
King Philip's war even the Indian 
ministers threw off all disguise and 
took up arms against their white Chris- 
tain neighbors. This last struggle 
against their destroyers resulted in a 
total ruin of the Indians. The Puritan, 
imagining himself the chosen of God, 
and regarding the Indians as Amalek- 
ites and Canaanites whom he was to 
exterminate out of the promised land, 
fell upon them with fire and sword. 

Even the innocent son of King 
Philip, the last of the family of Mas- 
sasoit, was sold into slavery to Ber- 
muda by the men whose children 
have since lifted the finger of scorn at 



the population of the South, among 
whom England forced the institution 
that lately perished amid the throes 
of civil war forced it by the aid, in 
part, of the vessels and the means of 
the pious fathers of New England. 
Father Druillettes, strange to say, 
visited Eliot, by whom he was hospi- 
tably received and entertained, and 
who invited him to pass the winter 
under his roof. But this visit to New- 
England was probably one of busi- 
ness, and the father was soon with 
his beloved Indians again. 

Father Rale was among the suc- 
cessors of Druillettes. An expedition 
of New Englanders destroyed his 
phurch and village in 1705, but the 
cession of the territory to England 
by France in 17 13 restored temporary 
peace to the Abnaki mission. A de- 
putation of their chiefs therefore visit- 
ed Boston, and called upon the gov- 
ernor to solicit means for the rebuild- 
ing of their church. As Protestant- 
ism is always ready to interfere with 
religious enterprises which it could 
never itself have succeeded in, this 
exponent of the religion of New Eng- 
land offered to rebuild their church 
at his own expense if they would dis- 
miss their missionary and take a min- 
ister of his own choice. The reply 
of the indignant spokesman of the In- 
dians is worth quoting : 

" When you first came here," said 
he, " you saw me long before the 
French governors, but neither your 
predecessors nor your ministers ever 
spoke to me of prayer or the Great 
Spirit. They saw my furs, my beaver 
and moose skins, and of this alone they 
thought; these alone they sought, and 
so eagerly that I have been unable to 
supply them with enough. When I 
had much, they were my friends, 
and only then. One day my canoe 
missed the route ; I lost my path, and 
wandered a long way at random, until 
at last I landed near Quebec, in a 



764 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



great village of the Algonquins, where 
the black-gowns were teaching. 
Scarcely had I arrived, when one of 
them came to see me. I was loaded 
with furs, but the black>gown of 
France disdained to look at them ; 
he spoke to me of the Great Spirit, of 
heaven, of hell, of the prayer which 
is the only way to reach heaven. I 
heard him with pleasure, and was so 
delighted by his words that I remain- 
ed in the village near him. At last the 
prayer pleased me, and I asked to be 
instructed : I solicited baptism, and 
received it. Then I returned to the 
lodges of my tribe, and related all that 
had happened. All envied my happi- 
ness, and wished to partake it; they 
too went to the black-gown to be bap- 
tized. Thus have the French acted. 
Had you spoken to me of the prayer 
as soon as we met, I should now be 
so unhappy as to pray like you, for I 
could not have told whether your 
prayer was good or bad. Now I hold 
to the prayer of the French ; I agree 
to it; I shall be faithful to it, even 
until the earth is burned and destroy- 
ed. Keep your men, your gold, and 
your minister : I will go to my French 
father." 

In the unsettled condition of the 
boundaries, the New Englanders con- 
tinued to make incursions upon the 
territory of the Abnakis. In one of 
these expeditions, Father Rale bare- 
ly escaped capture, but his celebrated 
Abnaki dictionary was pounced up- 
on and carried off, and now forms 
one of the treasures of the library of 
Harvard University. In 1724, he fell 
a victim to the persistence of his ene- 
mies. Notwithstanding these cruel- 
ties, the Abnakis, in the war of the 
Revolution, took part in the defence 
of the soil against England with the 
people who had desolated their home 
and put to death their beloved pastor. 
Orono, the Penobscot chief, bore a 
commission throughout the Revolu- 



tion, and distinguished himself during 
the war as much by his bravery as by 
his attachment to his religion, never 
consenting to frequent Protestant 
places of worship. 

These sketches, grown so much 
more lengthy than we had expected, 
and yet restrained with difficulty with- 
in their present bounds, must now 
close. May they be read with the 
attention the subject deserves, and 
thus serve to awaken the honest pride 
of our fellow-Catholics in the past 
history of their church on the soil of 
the United States. May our men of 
culture, stimulated by the appeal that 
shall be made to them by the reading 
classes, spread far and wide the affect- 
ing story of the church's triumphs 
and reverses in our land, with all the 
glorious details of the lives and deaths 
of its heroes and martyrs ! May this 
history grow to be a familiar one to 
the generation that is rising and the 
generations that shall succeed it. We 
love our country, and none dare ques- 
tion our love but they who would 
have the statute-books bristle with laws 
against us such as the genius of our 
institutions forbids and the fathers of 
the Republic rejected. Let us show 
our love for it by mingling the mem- 
ories of all that is dear to us in the 
career of our religion with all that is 
noble and inspiring in the civil histo- 
ry of our land, our fair heritage of 
political and religious freedom. 

NOTE. 

THE MISSION ESTABLISHMENTS OF CALIFORNIA. 
The plan of the early missionaries in Florida 
and New Mexico had been to form the converts 
into villages near the Spanish settlements, in 
which they were trained to the usages of civi- 
lized life. In the numerous Christian villages 
thus spread over the country, all civil functions 
were exercised by the chiefs, the missionaries 
confining themselves to those of a spiritual na- 
ture only. The progress of the Indians under 
this system was slower than was desirable, and 
experience led to an improvement in the manner 
of conducting the missions that were subse- 
quently established in New Mexico and Cali- 
fornia. In the latter, the missionary went in the 
first place attended by a small guard, with a 
colony of Indian converts, herds of cattle, and a 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



plentiful supply of agricultural and other imple- 
ments. Chiefly through the converted Indians, 
the surrounding natives were drawn to the mis- 
sion. The next step was to proceed to the erec- 
tion of the mission building, a rectangular struc- 
ture eighty or ninety yards square, with a court- 
yard in the centre, which was adorned with trees 
and fountains. The church and the pastor's 
residence occupied one side, and galleries sur- 
rounded the court, opening upon the rooms of 
the missionaries, stewards, and travellers, the 
shops, schools, store-rooms, infirmaries, and the 
granary. 

A part of the buildings entirely separated from 
the rest, and called the monastery, was reserved 
for the Indian girls, where they were taught by 
native women to spin and weave, and received 
such other instruction as was suited to their sex. 
The boys learned trades, and those who excelled 
were promoted to the rank of chiefs, thus giving 
a dignity to labor which impelled all to embrace 
it. Once in the mission, the native was instruct- 
ed in Christianity, and constrained to labor. 
Many of the missionaries being skilled in me- 
chanical art, the Indians were formed to every 
trade, and the surplus products of their industry 
were exported yearly in exchange for necessary 
European goods. The Indians were appor- 
tioned into sections, each under a chief who led 
his party to church or to labor, and who was not 
backward in enforcing promptness. Against 
this the Indian at first rebelled : but, as all his 
wants were satisfied, he soon became attached 
to his manner of life, and would draw others 
of his countrymen in, whom he easily persuaded 
to submit to the routine. 

Many learned Spanish thoroughly, and all ac- 
quired a knowledge of the Christian religion, 
which they faithfully practised. Thus they 
gained two great benefits peace and comfort in 
this life, and means of attaining happiness in the 
next. Those who visited the missions were 
amazed to see that with such petty resources 
most frequently without the aid of white me- 
chanics the missionaries accomplished SD much, 
not only in agriculture, but in architecture and 
mechanics ; in mills, machines, bridges, roads, 
and canals for irrigation ; and accomplished it 
all by transforming hostile and indolent savages 
into laborious carpenters, masons, coopers, sad- 
dlers, shoemakers, weavers, stone-cutters, brick- 
makers, and lime-burners. Around the mission 
building arose the houses of the Indians and of 
a few white settlers ; at various distances were 
ranches or hamlets, each with its chapel. In a 
little building near the mission-house was a 
picket of five horsemen, who were at once sol- 
diers and couriers. 

The regulations of the mission were uniform. 
At daybreak, the Angelas summoned all to the 
church for prayers and Mass, after which they ' 
went to breakfast. Then all joined their re- 
spective bands, and proceeded to their regular 
labors. At eleven, they returned to dine, and 
rested till two, when labor recommenced, and 
continued until the ringing of the Angelas bell, 
an hour before sunset. After prayers and beads, 
they supped, and spent the evening in innocent 
amusements. Their food was the fresh beef and 
mutton plentifully supplied by their herds and 
flocks, cakes of wheat and Indian corn, peas, 
beans, and such vegetables as they chose to raise. 
The missionaries themselves, bound by vows of 
poverty, received only food and clothing. The 
Indians of a mission were not all of the same 
tribe, but perfect harmony prevailed, and when 



the season of work was over, many paid visits to 
their countrymen, and seldom returned alone. 
Sometimes a zealous Christian would visit his 
own tribe as an apostle, to announce the happi- 
ness which was attainable under the mild rule of 
the Gospel. In this way the missions constantly 
received new accessions, for the good mission- 
aries had the art of making labor attractive. All 
the men and women in the mission were, more- 
over, well and completely dressed. 

It will be seen that this discipline was strict, 
and the Spanish government, at the time of the 
forcible withdrawal of the Jesuits, wished to 
bring odium upon them in connection with this 
system of administration of their origination. 
The Franciscans, however, who succeeded the 
Jesuits, continued the method of their predeces- 
sors, convinced of its expediency. An attempt 
on the part of the government to alter it, in the 
establishment of a mission near the mouth of 
the Colorado, on its own principles, a few years 
after the expulsion of the Jesuits, only resulted 
in cruel outrages upon the Indians by those who 
were placed in the temporal administration in 
lieu of the Franciscans. These outrages pro- 
voked rebellion, and led to the maftacre of the 
civil functionaries, and of the religious as well. 
The government did not repeat the experi- 
ment. 

Forbes, the author of a work on California, 
after commending the labors of the California 
Jesuits, says of their successors, "The best and 
most unequivocal proof of the good conduct of 
the Franciscan fathers is to be found in the un- 
bounded affection and devotion invariably 
shown towards them by their Indian subjects. 
They venerate them not merely as friends and 
fathers, but with a degree of devotedness ap- 
proaching to adoration." He adds, " Experi- 
ence has shown how infinitely more successful 
the Catholic missionaries have been than the 
Protestant." These and many other testimo- 
nies from unprejudiced sources might be given 
to show the state of happiness in which the In- 
dians formerly lived. An American traveller, 
Bartlett, who in 1854 visited the mission of 
San Gabriel, to which at one time five thousand 
Indians were attached, says, "Humanity cannot 
refrain from wishing that the dilapidated mission 
of San Gabriel should be renovated and its bro- 
ken walls be rebuilt, its roofless houses be cov- 
ered, and its deserted halls be again filled with 
its ancient industrious, happy, and contented 
population." 

Two classes of persons, therefore as Marshal 
remarks in his History of Catholic Missions 
" have been instrumental in the irreparable in- 
jury inflicted on the Indian tribes : Mexicans 
who had forfeited their birthright as Catholics, 
and Protestants who had never possessed it. 
Affecting to follow the precedents of modern 
European policy, of which the chief maxim 
seems to be the exclusion of all ecclesiastical 
influence in the government of human society, 
the Mexican civil authorities resolved to secular- 
ize all the missions. The result has been as in 
every land where the same experiment has been 
tried, a swift relapse into barbarism, from which 
the church alone has saved the world, the imme- 
diate decay of material prosperity, and a vast 
augmentation of human suffering. 

" History might have taught the Mexicans to 
anticipate these inevitable fruits. When Eng- 
land laid her hand on the possessions of the 
church, which had been for centuries the pa- 
trimony of the poor, she took her first step 



-66 



The Progressionists. 



towards her present social condition. Prisons 
and workhouses became the dismal substitutes 
for monasteries, and jailers supplanted monks. 
England has not profited much by the change. 
The new institutions are at least ten times more 
costly than the old, and the benefits derived 
from them have been in inverse proportion. 
They now receive only prisoners, and disgorge 



only criminals; while a whole nation of heathen 
poor, a burden on the present resources of the 
country and a menace for her future destiny, 
have sunk down, as even English writers will 
tell us, to the level of the most degraded tribes 
of Africa or America, and are at utterly void of 
religion or of the knowledge of God as the 
Sioux, the Carib, or the Dahoman." 



THE PROGRESSIONISTS. 



FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD VON BOLANDEN. 



CHAPTER IV. 



HANS SHUND. 



HANS SHUND returned home from 
business in high feather. Something 
unusual must have happened him, 
for his behavior was exceptional. 
Standing before his desk, he mechan- 
ically drew various papers from his 
pockets, and laid them in different 
drawers and pigeon-holes. The me- 
chanical manner of his behavior was 
what was exceptional, for usually 
Hans Shund bestowed particular at- 
tention upon certain papers; his 
soul's life was in those papers. 
Moreover, on the present occasion, 
he kept shaking his head as if 
astonishment would not suffer him 
to remain quiet. Yet habitually 
Hans Shund never shook his head, 
for that proceeding betrays interior 
emotion, and Shund's neck was as 
hardened and stiff as his usurer's 
soul. The other exceptional feature of 
his behavior was a continuous growl- 
ing, which at length waxed into a 
genuine soliloquy. But Hans Shund 
was never known to talk to himself, 
for talking to one's self indicates a 
kindly disposition, whilst Shund had 
no disposition whatever, as they 
maintain who knew him ; or, if he had 



ever had one, it had smouldered into 
a hard, impenetrable crust of slag. 

" Strange remarkably strange !" 
said he. " Hem ! what can it mean ? 
How am I to account for it ? Has 
the usurer undergone a transforma- 
tion during the night ?" And a hide- 
ous grin distorted his face. " Am I 
metamorphosed, am I enchanted, or 
am I myself an enchanter?- Unac- 
countable, marvellous, unheard of!" 

The papers had been locked up in 
the desk. A secret power urged him 
up and down the room, and finally 
into the adjoining sitting-room, where 
Mrs. Shund, a pale, careworn lady, sat 
near a sewing-stand, intent on her 
lonely occupation. 

" Wife, queer things have befallen 
me. Only think, all the city nota- 
bles have raised their hats to your 
humble servant, and have saluted 
me in a friendly, almost an obsequi- 
ous manner. And this has happen- 
ed to me to-day to me, the hated 
and despised usurer ! Isn't that quite 
amazing ? Even the city regent, 
Schwefel's son, took off his hat, and 
bowed as if I were some live grandee. 
How do you explain that prodigy ?" 



The Progressionists. 



767 



The careworn woman kept on 
sewing without raising her head. 

" Why don't you answer me, wife ? 
Don't you find that most astonish- 
ing ?" 

" I am incapable of being astonish- 
ed, since grief and care have so filled 
my heart that no room is left in it for 
feelings of any other kind." 

" Well, well ! what is up again ?" 
asked he, with curiosity. 

She drew a letter written in a fe- 
male hand from one of the drawers 
of the sewing-stand. 

" Read this, villain !" 

Hastily snatching the letter, he be- 
gan to read. 

" Hem," growled he indifferently. 
" The drab complains of being ne- 
glected, of not getting any money 
from me. That should not be a 
cause of rage for you, I should think. 
The drab is brazen enough to write 
to you to reveal my weaknesses, all 
with the amicable intention of get- 
ting up a thundergust in our matri- 
monial heaven. Do learn sense, 
wife, and stop noticing my secret en- 
joyments." 

" Fie, villain. Fie upon you, 
shameless wretch !" cried she, trem- 
bling in every limb. 

"Listen to me, wife! Above all 
things, let us not have a scene, an 
unnecessary row," interrupted he. 
" You know how fruitless are your 
censures. Don't pester me with 
your stale lectures on morals." 

" Nearly every month I get a let- 
ter of that sort written in the most 
disreputable purlieus of the town, 
and addressed to my husband. It is 
revolting! Am I to keep silent, 
shameless man 7", your wedded 
wife ? Am I to be silent in presence 
of such infamous deeds ?" 

" Rather too pathetic, wife ! Save 
your breath. Don't grieve at the 
liberties which I take. Try and ac- 
custom yourself to pay as little at- 



tention to my conduct as I bestow 
upon yours. When years ago I 
entered the contract with you vulgar- 
ly denominated marriage, I did it 
with the understanding that I was 
uniting myself to a subject that was 
willing to share with me a life free 
from restraints ; I mean, a life free 
from the odor of so-called hereditary 
moral considerations and of religi- 
ous restrictions. Accustom yourself 
to this view of the matter, rise to my 
level,- enjoy an emancipated exist- 
ence." 

He spoke and left the room. In 
his office he read the letter over. 

" This creature is insatiable !" 
murmured he to himself. " I shall 
have to turn her off and enter into 
less expensive connections. I am 
talking with myself to-day queer, 
very queer !" 

A heavy knock was heard at the 
door. 

" Come in !" 

A man and woman scantily clad 
entered the room. The sight of the 
wretched couple brought a fierce 
passion into the usurer's countenance. 
He seemed suddenly transformed in- 
to a tiger, bloodthirstily crouching to 
seize his prey. 

" What is the matter, Holt ?" 

" Mr. Shund," began the man in a 
dejected tone, " the officer of the law 
has served the writ upon us : it is to 
take effect in ten days." 

"That is, unless you make pay- 
ment," interrupted Shund. 

" We are not able to pay just now, 
Mr. Shund, it is impossible. I wished 
therefore to entreat you very earnestly 
to have patience with us poor people." 
The woman seconded her hus- 
band's petition by weeping bitterly, 
wringing her hands piteously. The 
usurer shook his head relentlessly. 

" Patience, patience, you say. For 
eight years I have been using pa- 
tience with you ; my patience is ex- 



;68 



The Progressionists. 



hausted now. There must be limits 
to everything. There is a limit to 
patience also. I insist upon your 
paying." 

" Consider, Mr. Shund, I am the 
father Of eight children. If you in- 
sist on payment now and permit the 
law to take its course, you will ruin 
a family of ten persons. Surely yoirr 
conscience will not permit you to do 
this ?" 

" Conscience ! What do you mean ? 
Do not trouble me with your non- 
sense. For me, conscience means to 
have; for you, it means you must. 
Therefore, pay." 

" Mr. Shund, you know it is your- 
self that have reduced us to this 
wretched condition !" 

" You don't say I did ! How so ?" 

" May I remind you, Mr. Shund, 
may I remind you of all the circum- 
stances by which this was brought 
about ? How it happened that from 
a man of means I have been brought 
to poverty?" 

" Go on, dearest Holt go on ; it 
will be interesting to me !" The 
usurer settled himself comfortably to 
hear the summary of his successful 
villanies from the mouth of the un- 
fortunate man with the same satisfac- 
tion with which a tiger regales itself 
on the tortures of its victim. 

" Nine years ago, Mr. Shund, I 
was not in debt, as you know. I la- 
bored and supported my family hon- 
estly, without any extraordinary exer- 
tion. A field was for sale next to my 
field at the Rothenbush. You came 
at the time it is now upwards of 
eight years, and said in a friendly 
way, ' Holt, my good man, buy that 
field. It lies next to yours, and you 
ought not to let the chance slip.' I 
wanted the field, but had no money. 
This I told you. You encouraged 
me, saying, ' Holt, my good man, I 
will let you have the money on in- 
terest, of course ; for I am a man do- 



ing business, and I make my living 
off my money. I will never push you 
for the amount. You may pay it 
whenever and in what way you wish. 
Suit yourself.' You gave me this en- 
couragement at the time. You 
loaned me nine hundred and fifty 
florins in the note, however, you 
wrote one thousand and fifty, and, 
besides, at five per cent. For three 
years I paid interest on one thousand 
and fifty, although you had loaned 
me only nine hundred and fifty. All 
of a sudden I was just in trouble at 
the time, for one of my draught-cat- 
tle had been crippled, and the har- 
vest had turned out poorly, you 
came and demanded your money. 
I had none. ' I am sorry,' said you, 
' I need my money, and could put it 
out at much higher interest.' I beg- 
ged and begged. You threatened to 
sue me. Finally, after much beg- 
ging, you proposed that I should sell 
you the field, for which three years 
previous I had paid nine hundred 
and fifty florins, for seven hundred 
florins, alleging that land was no 
longer as valuable as it had been. 
You were willing to rent me the field 
at a high rate. And to enable me 
to get along, you offered to lend me 
another thousand, but drew up 'a 
note for eleven hundred florins at ten 
per cent, because, as you pretended, 
money was now bringing ten per 
cent, since the law regulating inter- 
est had been abrogated. For a long 
while I objected to the proposal, but 
found myself forced at last to yield 
because you threatened to attach my 
effects. From this time I began to 
go downhill, I could no longer meet 
expenses, my family was large, and I 
had to work for you to pay up the 
interest and rent. But for some time 
back I had been unable to do as I 
wished. I could not even sell any of 
my own property; for you were 
holding me fast, and I was obliged 



The Progressionists. 



to mortgage everything to you for a 
merely nominal price. My cottage, 
my barn, my garden, and the field in 
front of my house worth at least 
two thousand florins I had to give 
you a mortgage upon for one thou- 
sand. The rest of my immovable 
property, fields and meadows, you 
took. Nothing was left to me but 
the little hut and what adjoined it. 
With respects, Mr. Shund, you had 
long since sucked the very marrow 
from my bones, next you put the 
rope about my neck, and now you 
are about to hang me." 

"Hang you? Ha ha! That's 
good, Holt! You are in fine hu- 
nor," cried the usurer, after hearing 
A'ith a relish the simple account of 
his atrocious deeds. " I have no 
hankering for your neck. Pay up, 
Holt, pay up, that is all I want. 
Pay me over the trifle of a thousand 
florins and the interest, and the 
house with everything pertaining to 
it shall be yours. But if you cannot 
pay up, it will have to be sold at 
auction, so that I may get my 
money." 

" For heaven's sake, Mr. Shund, be 
merciful," entreated the wife. " We 
lave saved up the interest with much 
rouble ; every farthing of it you are 
o receive. For God's sake, do not 
drive us from our home, Mr. Shund, 
we will gladly toil for you day and 
night. Take pity, Mr. Shund, do 
take pity on my poor children !" 

" Stop your whining. Pay up, 
money alone has any value in my es- 
timation pay, all the rest is fudge. 
Pay up !" 

" God knows, Mr. Shund," sobbed 
the woman, wringing her hands, " I 
would give my heart's blood to keep 
my poor children out of misery 
with my life I would be willing to 
pay you. Oh! do have some com- 
miseration, do be merciful ! Almighty 
God will requite you for it." 
VOL. xv. 49 



"Almighty God, nonsense ! Don't 
mention such stuff to me. Stupid 
palaver like that might go down with 
some bigoted fool, but it will not af- 
fect a man of enlightenment. Pay 
up, and there's an end of it !" 

" Is it your determination then, 
Mr. Shund, to cast us out merci- 
lessly under the open sky ?" in- 
quired the countryman with deep 
earnestness. 

" I only want what belongs to me. 
Pay over the thousand florins with 
the interest, and we shall be quits. 
That's my position, you may go." 

In feeling words the woman once 
more appealed -to Hans Shund. He 
remained indifferent to her pleading, 
and smiled scornfully whenever she 
adduced religious considerations to 
support her petition. Suddenly Holt 
took her by the arm and drew her 
towards the door. 

" Say no more, wife, say no more, 
but come away. You could more 
easily soften stones than a man who 
has no conscience and does not be- 
lieve in God." 

"There you have spoken the 
truth," sneered Shund. 

" You sneer, Mr. Shund," and the 
man's eyes glared. " Do you know to 
whom you owe it that your head is 
not broken ?" 

" What sort of language is that ?" 

" It is the language of a father driv- 
en to despair. I tell you" and the 
countryman raised his clenched fists 
" it is to the good God that you are in- 
debted for you life; for, if I believed 
as little in an almighty and just God 
as you, with this pair of strong hands 
I would wring your neck. Yes, stare 
at me ! With these hands I would 
strangle Shund, who has brought 
want upon my children and misery 
upon me. Come away, wife, come 
away. He is resolved to reduce us 
to beggary as he has done to so 
many others. Do your worst, Mr. 



770 



The Progressionists. 



Shund, but there above we shall have 
a reckoning with each other." 

He dragged his wife out of the 
room, and went away without salut- 
ing, but casting a terrible scowl back 
upon Hans Shund. 

For a long while' the usurer sat 
thoughtfully, impressed by the ominous 
scowl and threat, which were not emp- 
ty ones, for rage and despair swept like 
a rack over the man's countenance. 
Mr. Shund felt distinctly that but for 
the God of Christians he would have 
been murdered by the infuriated man. 
He discovered, moreover, that reli- 
gious belief is to be recommended as a 
safeguard against the fury of the mob. 
On the other hand, he found this 
belief repugnant to a usurer's con- 
science and a hindrance to the free 
enjoyment of life. Hans Shund thus 
sat making reflections on religion, 
and endeavoring to drown the echo 
which Holt's summons before the su- 
preme tribunal had awakened in a 
secret recess of his soul, when hasty 
steps resounded from the front yard 
and the door was suddenly burst open. 
Hans' agent rushed in breathless, sank 
upon the nearest chair, and, opening 
his mouth widely, gasped for breath. 

" What is the matter, Braun ?" 
inquired Shund in surprise. " What 
has happened ?" 

Braun flung his arms about, rolled 
his eyes wildly, and labored to get 
breath, like a person that is being 
smothered. 

" Get your breath, you fool !" 
growled the usurer. " What busi- 
ness had you running like a maniac ? 
Something very extraordinary must 
be the matter, is it not ?" 

Braun assented with violent nod- 
ding. 

"Anything terrible?" asked he 
further. 

More nodding from Braun. The 
'usurer began to feel uneasy. Many 
a nefarious deed stuck to his hands, 



but not one that had not been com- 
mitted with all possible caution and 
secured against any afterclaps of the 
law. Yet might he not for once 
have been off his guard? "What 
has been detected ? Speak !" urged 
the conscience-stricken villain anx- 
iously. 

" Mr. Shund, you are to be in 
this place " 

" Arrested ?" suggested the other, 
appalled, as the agent's breath failed 
him again. 

" No mayor !" 

Shund straightened himself, and 
raised his hands to feel his ears. 

" I am surely in possession of my 
hearing ! Are you gone mad, fel- 
low ?" 

" Mr. Shund, you are to be mayor 
and member of the legislature. It is 
a settled fact !" 

" Indeed, 'tis quite a settled fact 
that you have lost your wits. It is a 
pity, poor devil ! You once were 
useful, now you are insane ; quite a 
loss for me ! Where am I to get an- 
other bloodhound as good as you? 
Your scent was keen, you drove 
many a nice bit of game into my 
nets. Hem so many instances of 
insanity in these enlightened times 
of ours are really something peculiar. 
Braun, dearest Braun, have you 
really lost vQur mind entirely ? 
Completely deranged ?" 

" I am not insane, Mr. Shund. I 
have been assured from various sour- 
ces that you are to be elected mayor 
and delegate to the legislative assem- 
bly." 

" Well, then, various persons have 
been running a rig upon you." 

" Running a rig upon me, Mr. 
Shund ? Bamboozle me me who 
understand and have practised bam- 
boozling others for so long ?" 

" Still, I maintain that people have 
been playing off a hoax on you and 
what an outrageous hoax it is, too ! 



The Progressionists. 



771 



" I believe a hoax ? Just listen to 
me. I have never been more clear- 
headed than I am to-day. Acquaint- 
ances and strangers in different quar- 
ters of the town have assured me 
that it is a fixed fact that you are to 
be mayor of this city and member 
of the legislative assembly. Now, 
were it a hoax, would you not have 
to presuppose that both acquaint- 
ances and strangers conspired to 
make a fool of me ? Yet such a 
supposition is most improbable." 

" Your reasoning is correct, Braun. 
Still, such a conspiracy must really 
have been gotten up. / mayor of 
this city ? I ? Reflect for an instant, 
Braun. You know what an enviable 
reputation I bear throughout the city. 
Many persons would go a hundred 
paces out of their direction to avoid 
me, specially they who owe or have 
owed me anything. Moreover, who 
appoints the mayor ? The men who 
give the keynote, the leaders of the 
town. Now, these men would con- 
sider themselves denied by the slight- 
est contact with the outlawed usu- 
rer which, of course, is very unjust 
and inconsistent on the part of those 
gentlemen for my views are the 
same as theirs." 

" Spite of all that, I put faith in 
the report, Mr. Shund. Schwefel's 
bookkeeper also, when I met him, 
smiled significantly, and even raised 
his hat." 

" Hold on, Braun, hold ! The 
deuce it just now occurs to me 
you might not be -so much mistaken 
after all. Strange things have hap- 
pened to me also. Gentlemen who 
are intimate with our city magnates 
have saluted me and nodded to me 
quite confidentially. I was unable 
to solve this riddle, now it's clear. 
Braun, you are right, your informa- 
tion is perfectly true." And Mr. 
Shund rubbed his hands. 

" Don't forget. Mr. Shund, that I 



first brought you the astounding intel- 
ligence, the joyful tidings, the infor- 
mation on which the very best sort 
of speculations may be based." 

" You shall be recompensed, 
Braun ! Go over to the sign of the 
Bear, and drink a bottle of the best, 
and I will pay for it." 

" At a thaler a bottle ?" 

" That quality isn't good for the 
health, my dear fellow! You may 
drink a bottle at forty-eight kreutzers 
on my credit. But no I don't wish 
to occasion you an injury, nor do I 
Avish to see you disgraced. You 
shall not acquire the name of a toper 
in my employ. You may therefore 
call for a pint glass at twelve kreut- 
zers a glass. Go, now, and leave 
me to myself." 

When the agent was gone, Hans 
Shund rushed about the room as if 
out of his mind. 

" Don't tell me that miracles no 
longer occur !" cried he. " 7, the dis- 
charged treasurer /, the thief, usurer, 
and profligate, at the mere sight of 
whom every young miss and respect- 
able lady turn up their noses a thou- 
sand paces off / am chosen to be 
mayor and assemblyman ! How has 
this come to pass ? Where lie the 
secret springs of this astonishing 
event?" And he laid his finger against 
his nose in a brown study. " Here 
it is yes, here ! The thinkers of 
progress have at length discovered 
that a man who from small beginnings 
has risen to an independent fortune, 
whose shrewdness and energy have 
amassed enormous sums, ought to 
be placed at the head of the city ad- 
ministration in order to convert the 
tide of public debt into a tide of 
prosperity. Yes, herein lies the secret. 
Nor are the gentlemen entirely mis- 
taken. There are ways and means 
of making plus out of minus, of con- 
verting stones into money. But the 
gentlemen have taken the liberty of 



The Progressionists. 



disposing of me without my previous 
knowledge and consent. I have not 
even been asked. Quite natural, of 
course. Who asks a dog for permis- 
sion to stroke him ? This is, I own, 
an unpleasant aftertaste. Hem, sup- 
pose I were too proud to accept, 
suppose I wanted to bestow my abil- 
ities and energies on my own person- 
al interests. Come, now, old Hans, 
don't be sensitive ! Pride, self-re- 
spect, character, sense of honor, and 
such things are valuable only when 
they bring emolument. Now, the 
mayor of a great city has it in his 
power to direct many a measure* 
eminently to his own interest." 

Another knock was heard at the 
door, and the usurer, taken by sur- 
prise, saw before him the leader Erd- 
blatt. 

" Have you been informed of a 
fact that is very flattering to you ?" 
began the tobacco manufacturer. 

" Not the slightest intimation of a 
fact of that nature has reached me," 
answered Shund with reserve. 

" Then I am very happy to be the 
first to give you the news," assured 
Erdblatt. " It has been decided to 
promote you at the next election to 
the office of mayor and of delegate to 
the legislative assembly." 

A malignant smile flitted athwart 
Shund's face. He shook his sandy 
head in feigned astonishment, and 
fixed upon the other a look that was 
the next thing to a sneer. . 

" There are almost as many mar- 
vels in your announcement as words. 
You speak of a decision and of a fact 
which, however, without my humble 
co-operation, are hardly practicable. 
I thought all along that the disposi- 
tion of my person belonged to my- 
self. How could anything be re- 
solved upon or become a fact in 
which I myself happen to have the 
casting vote ?" 

" Your cordial correspondence 



with the flattering intention 01 your 
fellow-citizens was presumed upon; 
moreover, you were to be agreeably 
surprised," explained the progression- 
ist leader. 

" That, sir, was a very violent pre- 
sumption ! I am a free citizen, and 
am at liberty to dispose of my time 
and faculties as I please. In the ca- 
pacity of mayor, I should find myself 
trammelled and no longer independ- 
ent on account of the office. More- 
over, a weighty responsibility would 
then rest upon my shoulders, especial- 
ly in the present deplorable circum- 
stances of the administration. Could 
I prevail on my myself to accept the 
proffered situation, it would become 
my duty to attempt a thorough re- 
form in the thoughtless and extrava- 
gant management of city affairs. 
You certainly cannot fail to per- 
ceive that a reformer in this depart- 
ment would be the aim of dangerous 
machinations. And lastly, sir, why is 
it that I individually have been se- 
lected for appointments which are 
universally regarded as honorable 
distinctions in public life ? I re- 
peat, why are they to be conferred 
upon me in particular who cannot 
flatter myself with enjoying very high 
favor among the people of this city ?" 
And there glistened something like 
revengeful triumph in Shund's feline 
eyes. " When you will have given a 
satisfactory solution to these reflec- 
tions and questions, it may become 
possible for me to think of assenting 
to your proposal." . 

Erdblatt had not anticipated a re- 
ception of this nature, and for a mo- 
ment he sat nonplussed. 

" I ask your pardon, Mr. Shund, 
you have taken the words fact and 
decision in too positive a sense. 
What is a decided fact is that the 
leaders of progress assign the honor- 
able positions mentioned to you. 
Of course it rests with you to accept 



The Progressionists. 



773 



or decline them. The motive of our 
decision was, if you will pardon my 
candor, your distinguished talent for 
economizing. It is plain to us that 
a man of your abilities and thorough 
knowledge of local circumstances 
could by prudent management and, 
by eliminating unnecessary expendi- 
ture, do much towards relieving the 
deplorable condition of the city 
budget. We thought, moreover, 
that your well-known philanthropy 
would not refuse the sacrifices of per- 
sonal exertion and unremitting ac- 
tivity for the public good. Finally, 
as regards the disrespect to which 
you have alluded, I assure you I 
knew nothing of it. The stupid and 
mad rabble may perhaps have cast 
stones at you, but can or will you 
hold respectable men responsible for 
their deeds ? Progress has ever 
proudly counted you in its ranks. 
We have always found you living ac- 
cording to the principles of progress, 
despising the impotent yelping of a 
religiously besotted mob. Be pleased 
to consider the tendered honors as 
amends for the insults of intolerant 
fanatics in this city." 

" Your explanation, sir, is satisfac- 
tory. I shall accept. I am particu- 
larly pleased to know that my con- 
duct and principles are in perfect ac- 
cord with the spirit of progress. I 



am touched by the flattering recogni- 
tion of my greatly misconstrued posi- 
tion." 

The leader bowed graciously. 

" There now remains for me the 
pleasant duty," said he, " of request- 
ing you to honor with your presence 
a meeting of influential men who are 
to assemble this evening in Mr. 
SchwefeFs drawing-room. Particu- 
lars are to be discussed there. The 
ultramontanes and democrats are 
turbulent beyond all anticipation. 
We shall have to proceed with the 
greatest caution about the delegate 
elections." 

" I shall be there without fail, sir ! 
Now that I have made up my mind 
to devote my experience to the inter- 
ests of city and state, I cheerfully 
enter into every measure which it lies 
in my power to further." 

" As you are out for the first time 
as candidate for the assembly," said 
Erdblatt, " a declaration of your po- 
litical creed addressed to a meeting 
of the constituents would not fail of 
a good effect." 

" Agreed, sir ! I shall take plea- 
sure in making known my views in a 
public speech." 

Erdblatt rose, and Mr. Hans 
Shund was condescending enough to 
reach the mighty chieftain his hand 
as the latter took his leave. 



CHAPTER v. 



ELECTIONEERING. 



The four millions of the balcony 
are at present standing before two 
suits of male apparel of the kind 
worn by the working class, contem- 
plating them with an interest one 
would scarcely expect from million- 
aires in materials of so ordinary a 
quality. Spread out on the elegant 
and costly table cover are two 
blouses of striped gray at fifteen 



kreutzers a yard. ' There are, besides, 
two pairs of trovvsers of a texture well 
adapted to the temperature of the 
month of July. There are also two 
neckties, sold at fairs for six kreutzers 
apiece. And, lastly, two cheap caps 
with long broad peaks. These suits 
were intended to serve as disguises 
for Seraphin and Carl on this even- 
ing, for the banker did not consider 



774 



The Progressionists. 



it becoming gentlemen to visit elec- 
tioneering meetings, dressed in a cos- 
tume in which they might be recog- 
nized. As Greifmann's face was fa- 
miliar to every street-boy, he had 
provided himself with a false beard 
of sandy hue to complete his incog- 
nito. For Seraphin this last adjunct 
was unnecessary, for he was a stranger, 
and he was thus left free to exhibit 
his innocent countenance unmasked 
for the gratification of curious starers. 

" This will be a pleasant change 
from the monotony of a banking 
house existence," said the banker 
gleefully. " I enjoy this masquer- 
ade : it enables me to mingle without 
constraint among the unconstrained. 
You are going to see marvellous 
things to-night, friend Seraphin. If 
your organs of hearing are not very 
sound, I advise you to provide your- 
self with some cotton, so that the 
drums of your ears may not be en- 
dangered from the noise of the elec- 
tion skirmish." 

" Your caution is far from inspiring 
confidence," said Louise with some 
humor. "I charge it upon your 
soul that you bring back Mr. Ger- 
lach safe and sound, for I too am re- 
sponsible for our guest." 

" And I, it seems, am less near to 
you than the guest, for you feel no 
anxiety about me," said the brother 
archly. 

" Eight o'clock it is our time." 

He pulled the bell. A servant 
carried off the suits to the gentle- 
men's rooms. 

" May I beseech the men in 
blouses for the honor of a visit be- 
fore they go ?" 

" You shall have an opportunity 
to admire us," said Carl. The trans- 
formation of the young men was 
more rapidly effected than the self- 
satisfied mustering of Louise before 
the large mirror which reflected her 
elegant form entire. She laughing- 



ly welcomed her brother in his 
sandy beard, and fixed a look of 
surprise upon Seraphin, whose inno- 
cent person appeared to great advan- 
tage in the simple costume. 

" Impossible to recognize you," 
decided the young lady. " You, 
brother Redbeard, look for all the 
world like a cattle dealer." 

" The gracious lady has hit it ex- 
actly," said the banker with an as- 
sumed voice. " I am a horse jockey, 
bent on euchreing this young gentle- 
man out of a splendid pair of 
horses." 

" Friend Seraphin is most lovely," 
said she in an undertone. " How 
well the country costume becomes 
him !" And her sparkling eyes darted 
expressive glances at the subject of 
her compliments. 

For .the first time she had called 
him friend, and the word friend made 
him more happy than titles and 
honors that a prince might have be- 
stowed. He felt his soul kindle at 
the sight of the lovely being whose 
delicate and bewitching coquetry the 
inexperienced youth failed to detect, 
but the influence of which he was 
surely undergoing. His cheeks 
glowed still more highly, and he be- 
came uneasy and embarrassed. 

" Your indulgent criticism is en- 
couraging, Miss Louise," replied he. 

" I have merely told the truth," re- 
plied she. 

" But our hands what are we to 
do with our hands ?" interposed Carl. 
" Soft white hands like these do not 
belong to drovers. First of all, away 
with diamonds and rubies. Gold 
rings and precious stones are not in 
keeping with blouses. Nor will it 
do, in hot weather like this, to bring 
gloves to our aid that's too bad ! 
What are we to do ?" 

" Nobody will notice our hands," 
thought Seraphin. 

" My good fellow, you do not un- 



The Progressionists. 



775 



derstand the situation. We are on 
the eve of the election. Everybody 
is out electioneering. Whoever to- 
day visits a public place must expect 
to be hailed by a thousand eyes, 
stared at, criticised, estimated, ap- 
praised, and weighed. The deuce 
take these hands ! Good advice 
would really be worth something in 
this instance." 

"To a powerful imagination like 
your own," added Louise playfully. 
She disappeared for a moment and 
then returned with a washbowl. 
Pouring the contents of her inkstand 
into the water, she laughingly pointed 
them to the dark mass. 

" Dip your precious hands in here, 
and you will make them correspond 
with your blouses in color and ap- 
pearance." 

" How ingenious she is !" cried 
Carl, following her direction. 

" Most assuredly nothing comes 
up to the ingenuity of women. We 
are beautifully tattooed, our hands 
are horrible ! We must give the 
stuff time to dry. Had I only 
thought of it sooner, Louise, you 
should have accompanied us dis- 
guised as a drover's daughter, and 
have drunk a bumper of wine with 
us. The adventure might have 
proved useful to you, and served as 
an addition to the sum of your expe- 
riences in life." 

" I will content myself with look- 
ing on from a distance," answered she 
gaily. " The extraordinary progress- 
ionist movement that is going on to- 
day might make it a difficult task even 
for a drover's daughter to keep her 
footing." 

The two millionaires sallied forth, 
Carl making tremendous strides. 
Seraphin followed mechanically, the 
potent charm of her parting glances 
hovering around him. 

"We shall first steer for the sign 
of the ' Green Hat,' said Greifmann. 



" There you will hear a full orchestra 
of progressionist music, especially 
trumpets and drums, playing flourish- 
es on Hans Shund. ' The Green Hat ' 
is the largest beer cellar in the town, 
and the proprietor ranks among the 
leaders next after housebuilder Sand. 
All the representatives of the city rt- 
gime gather to-day at the establish- 
ment of Mr. Belladonna that's the 
name of the gentleman of the ' Green 
Hat.' Besides the leaders, there will 
be upward of a thousand citizens, big 
and small, to hold a preliminary cele- 
bration of election day. There will 
also be ' wild men ' on hand," pro- 
ceeded Carl, explaining. " These 
are citizens who in a manner float 
about like atoms in the bright atmo- 
sphere of the times without being in- 
corporated in any brilliant body of 
progress. The main object of the 
leaders this evening is to secure these 
so-called ' wild men ' in favor of 
their ticket for the city council. 
Glib-tongued agents will be employed 
to spread their nets to catch the float- 
ing atoms to tame these savages by 
means of smart witticisms. When, at 
length, a prize is captured and the 
tide of favorable votes runs high, it is 
towed into the safe haven of agree- 
ment with the majority. Resistance 
would turn out a serious matter for a 
mechanic, trader, shopkeeper, or any 
man whose position condemns him 
to obtain his livelihood from others. 
Opposition to progress dooms every 
man that is in a dependent condition 
to certain ruin. For these reasons I 
have no misgivings about being able 
to convince you that elections are a 
folly wherever the banner of progress 
waves triumphant." 

" The conviction with which you 
threaten me would be anything but 
gratifying, for I abhor every form 
of terrorism," rejoined Seraphin. 

" Very well, my good fellow ! But 
we must accustom ourselves to take 



The Progressionists. 



things as they are and not as they 
ought to be. Therefore, my youth- 
ful Telemachus, you are under ever- 
lasting obligations to me, your expe- 
rienced Mentor, for procuring you 
an opportunity of becoming ac- 
quainted with the world, and con- 
straining you to think less well of 
men than your generous heart would 
incline you to do." 

They had reached the outskirts of 
the city. A distant roaring, resembling 
the sound of shallow waters falling, 
struck upon the ears of the maskers. 
The noise grew more distinct as they 
advanced, and finally swelled into 
the brawling and hum of many 
voices. Passing through a wide 
gate-way, the millionaires entered a 
square ornamented with maple-trees. 
Under the trees, stretching away into 
the distance, were long rows of tables 
lit up by gaslights, and densely 
crowded with men drinking beer 
and talking noisily. The middle 'of 
the square was occupied by a rotun- 
da elevated on columns, with a zinc 
roof, and bestuck in the barbarous 
taste of the age with a profusion of 
tin figures and plaster-of-paris orna- 
ments. Beneath the rotunda, around 
a circular table, sat the leaders and 
chieftains of progress, conspicuous to 
all, and with a flood of light from nu- 
merous large gas-burners streaming 
upon them. Between Sand and 
Schwefel was throned Hans Shund, 
extravagantly dressed, and proving by 
his manner that he was quite at his 
ease. Nothing in his deportment 
indicated that he had so suddenly 
risen from general contempt to uni- 
versal homage. Mr. Shund frequent- 
ly monopolized the conversation, and, 
when this was the case, the compa- 
ny listened to his sententious words 
with breathless attention and many 
marks of approbation. 

Mentor Greifmann conducted his 
ward to a retired corner, into which 



the rays of light, intercepted by low 
branches, penetrated but faintly, and 
from which a good view of the whole 
scene could be enjoyed. 

" Do you observe Hans there un- 
der the baldachin surrounded by his 
vassals ?" rouned Carl into his com- 
panion's ear. " Even you will be made 
to feel that progress can lay claim to 
a touching spirit of magnanimity and 
forgiveness. It is disposed to raise 
the degraded from the dust. The 
man who only yesterday was en- 
gaged in shoving a car, sweeping 
streets, or even worse, to-day may 
preside over the great council, provi- 
ded only he has the luck to secure 
the good graces of the princes of 
progress. Hans Shund, thief, usurer, 
and nightwalker, is a most striking 
illustration of my assertion." 

" What particularly disgusts and 
incenses me," replied the double mil- 
lionaire gravely, " is that, under the 
regime of progress, they who are de- 
graded, immoral, and criminal, may 
rise to power without any reforma- 
tion of conduct and principles." 

" What you say is so much philos- 
ophy, my dear fellow, and philosophy 
is an antique, obsolete kind of thing 
that has no weight in times when 
continents are being cut asunder and 
threads of iron laid around the globe. 
Moreover, such has ever been the 
state of things. In the dark ages, al- 
so, criminals attained to power. Just 
think of those bloody monarchs who 
trifled with human heads, and whose 
ministers, for the sake of a patch of 
territory, stirred up horrible wars. 
Compared with such monsters, Hans 
Shund is spotless innocence." 

" Quite right, sir," rejoined the 
landholder, with a smile. " Those 
bloody kings and their satanic minis- 
ters were monsters but only and I 
beg you to mark . this well only 
when judged by principles which 
modern progress sneers at as stupid 



The Progressionists. 



777 



morality and senseless dogma. I 
even find that those princely mon- 
sters and their conscienceless minis- 
ters shared the species of enlighten- 
ment that prides itself on repudiat- 
ing all positive religion and moral 
obligations." 

" Thunder and lightning, Sera- 
phin ! were not you sitting bodily 
before me, I should believe I was 
actually listening to a Jesuit. But 
be quiet ! It will not do to attract 
notice. Ah ! splendid. There you 
see some of the ' wild men,' " contin- 
ued he, pointing to a table opposite. 
" The fellow with the b'ald head and 
fox's face is an agent, a salaried bell- 
\yether, a polished electioneer. He 
has the ' wild men ' already half- 
tamed. Watch how cleverly he will 
decoy them into the progressionist 
camp. Let us listen to what he has 
to say ; it will amuse you, and add to 
your knowledge of the developments 
of progress." . 

" We want men for the city coun- 
cil," spoke he of the bald head, " that 
are accurately and thoroughly 
informed upon the condition and 
circumstances of the city. Of 
what use would blockheads be but 
to fuss and grope about blindly ? 
What need have we of fellows whose 
stupidity would compromise the pub- 
lic welfare ? The men we want in 
our city council must understand 
what measures the social, commer- 
cial, and industrial interests of a city 
of thirty thousand inhabitants require 
in order that the greatest good of the 
largest portion of the community 
may be secured. Nor is this enough," 
proceeded he with increasing enthu- 
siasm. " Besides knowledge, expe- 
rience, and judgment, they must also 
be gifted with the necessary amount 
of energy to carry out whatever or- 
ders the council has thought fit to 
pass. They must be resolute enough 
to break down every obstacle that 



stands in the way of the public good. 
Now, who are the men to render 
these services ? None but independ- 
ent men who by their position need 
have no regard to others placed 
above them free-spirited and sen- 
sible men, who have a heart for the 
people. Now, gentlemen, have you 
any objections to urge against my 
views ?" 

" None, Mr. Spitzkopf ! Your 
views are perfectly sound," lauded a 
semi-barbarian. " We have read 
exactly what you have been telling 
us in the evening paper." 

" Of course, of course !" cried Mr. 
Spitzkopf. " My views are so evi- 
dently correct that a thinking man 
cannot help stumbling upon them. 
None but the slaves of priests, the 
wily brood of Jesuits, refuse to ac- 
cept these views," thundered the 
orator with the bald head. " And 
why do they refuse to accept them ? 
Because they are hostile to enlight- 
enment, opposed to the common 
good, opposed to the prosperity of 
mankind, in a word, because they 
are the bitter enemies of progress. 
But take my word for it, gentlemen, 
our city contains but a small number 
of these creatures of darkness, and 
those few are spotted," emphasized 
he threateningly. " Therefore, gen- 
tlemen," proceeded he insinuatingly, 
" I am convinced, and every man of 
intelligence shares my conviction, 
that Mr. Shund is eminently fitted for 
the city council eminently ! He 
would be a splendid acquisition in 
behalf of the public interests ! He 
understands our local concerns thor- 
oughly, possesses the experience of 
many years, is conversant with busi- 
ness, knows what industrial pursuits 
and social life require, and, what is 
better still, he maintains an indepen- 
dent standing to which he unites a 
rare degree of activity. Were it 
possible to prevail on Mr. Shund to 



778 



The Progressionists. 



take upon himself the cares of the 
mayoralty, the deficit of the city 
treasury would soon be wiped out. 
We would all have reason to con- 
sider ourselves fortunate in seeing 
the interests of our city confided to 
such a man." 

The " wild men" looked perplexed. 

" Right enough, Mr. Spitzkopf," 
explained a timid coppersmith. 
"Shund is a clever, well-informed 
man. Nobody denies this. But do 
you know that it is a question 
whether, besides his clever head, he 
also possesses a conscience in behalf 
of the commonwealth ?" 

" The most enlarged sort of a 
conscience, gentlemen the warmest 
kind of a heart !" exclaimed the bald 
man in a convincing tone. " Don't 
listen to stories that circulate con- 
cerning Shund. There is not a word 
of truth in them. They are sheer 
misconstructions inventions of the 
priests and of their helots." 

" I beg your pardon, Mr. Spitzkopf, 
they are not all inventions," opposed 
the coppersmith. " In the street 
where I live, Shund keeps up a cer- 
tain connection that would not be 
proper for any decent person, not to 
say for a married man." 

" And does that scandalize you ?" 
exclaimed the bald-headed agent 
merrily. " Mr. Shund is a jovial fel- 
low, he enjoys life, and is rich. Mr. 
Shund will not permit religious rigor- 
ism to put restraints upon his enjoy- 
ments. His liberal and independent 
spirit scorns to lead a miserable ex- 
istence under the rod of priestly bigot- 
ry. And, mark ye, gentlemen, this 
is just what recommends him to all 
who are not priest-ridden or leagued 
with the hirelings of Rome," con- 
cluded the electioneer, casting a 
sharp look upon the coppersmith. 

" But I am a Lutheran, Mr. 
Spitzkopf," protested the copper- 
smith. 



" There are hypocrites among the 
. Lutherans who are even worse than 
the Romish Jesuits," retorted the 
man with the bald head. " Con- 
sider, gentlemen, that the leading 
men of our city have, in consideration 
of his abilities, concluded to place 
Mr. Shund in the position which he 
ought to occupy. Are you going, 
on to-morrow, to vote against the 
decision of the leading men ? Are 
you actually going to make your- 
selves guilty of such an absurdity ? 
You may, of course, if you wish, for 
every citizen is free to do as he 
pleases. But' the men of influence 
are also at liberty to do as they 
please. I will explain my meaning 
more fully. You, gentlemen, are, all 
of you, mechanics shoemakers, tail- 
ors, blacksmiths, carpenters, etc. 
From whom do you get your living ? 
Do you get it from the handful of 
hypocrites and men of darkness ? 
No; you get your living from the 
liberals, for they are the moneyed 
men, the men of power and authority. 
It is they who scatter money among 
the people. You obtain employ- 
ment, you get bread and meat, from 
the liberals. And now to whom, do 
you think, will the liberals give em- 
ployment ? They will give it to 
such as hold their views, and not 
mark my word to such as are 
opposed to them. The man, there- 
fore, that is prepared recklessly to 
ruin his business has only to vole 
against Mr. Shund." 

" That will do the business, that 
will fetch them," said Greifmann. 
" Just look how dumfounded the 
poor savages appear !" 

" It is brutal terrorism !" protested 
Seraphin indignantly. 

" But don't misunderstand me. 
Mr. Spitzkopf! I am neither a 
hypocritical devotee nor a Jesuit!" 
exclaimed the coppersmith deprecat- 
ingly. " If Shund is good enough 



The Progressionists. 



779 



for them," pointing to the leaders 
under the rotunda, " he is good 
enough for me." 

" For me, too !" exclaimed a tailor. 

"There isn't a worthier man than 
Shund," declared a shopkeeper. 

" And not a cleverer," said a car- 
penter. 

" And none more demoralized," 
lauded a joiner, unconscious of the 
import of his encomium. 

"That's so, and therefore I am 
satisfied with him," assured a shoe- 
maker. 

" So am I so am I," chorussed 
the others eagerly. 

" That is sensible, gentlemen," 
approved the bald man. " Just 
keep in harmony with liberalism and 
progress, and you will never be the 
worse for it, gentlemen. Above all, 
beware of reaction do not fall back 
into the immoral morasses of the 
middle ages. Let us guard the light 
and liberty of our beautiful age. 
Vote for these men," and he pro- 
duced a package of printed tickets, 
" and you will enjoy the delightful 
consciousness of having disposed of 
your vote in the interests of the com- 
mon good." 

Spitzkopf distributed the tickets 
on which were the names of the 
councilmen elect. At the head of 
the list appeared in large characters 
the name of Mr. Hans Shund. 

" The curtain falls, the farce is 
ended," said Greifmann. " What 
you have here heard and seen has 
been repeated at every table where 
' wild men ' chanced to make their 
appearance. Everywhere the same 
arguments, the same grounds of con- 
viction." 

Seraphin had become quite grave, 
and cast his eyes to the ground in 
silence. 

" By Jove, the rogue is going to 
try his hand on us !" said Carl, nudg- 
ing the thoughtful young man. " The 



bald-headed fellow has spied us, and 
is getting ready to bag a couple of 
what he takes to be ' wild men.' 
Come, let us be off." 

They left the beer cellar and took 
the direction of the city. 

" Now let us descend a little low- 
er, to what I might call the amphi- 
bia of society," said Greifmann. 
" We are going to visit a place 
where masons, sawyers, cobblers, 
laborers, and other small fry are in 
the habit of slaking their thirst. You 
will there find going on the same 
sort of electioneering, or, as you call 
it, the same sort of terrorism, only 
in a rougher style. There beer-jugs 
occasionally go flying about, and 
bloody heads and rough-and-tumble, 
fights may be witnessed." 

" I have no stomach for fisticuffs 
and whizzing beer-mugs," said Ger- 
lach. 

" Never mind, come along. I 
have undertaken to initiate you into 
the mysteries of elections, and you 
are to get a correct idea of the life 
action of a cultivated state. 

They entered an obscure alley 
where a fetid, sultry atmosphere assail- 
ed them. Greifmann stopped before a 
lofty house, and pointed to a trans- 
parency on which a brimming beer- 
tankard was represented. A wild 
tumult was audible through the win- 
dows, through which the cry of 
" Shund !" rose at times like the swell 
of a great wave from the midst of cor- 
rupted waters. As they were pass- 
ing the doorway a dense fog of 
tobacco smoke mingled with divers 
filthy odors assailed their nostrils. 
Seraphin, who was accustomed to in- 
haling the pure atmosphere of the 
country, showed an inclination to re- 
treat, and had already half-way faced 
about when his companion seized 
and held him. " Courage, my 
friend ! wade into the slough bold- 
ly," cried he into the struggling 



;8o 



The Progressionists. 



youth's ear. " Hereafter, when you 
will be riding through woodland 
and meadows, the recollection of this 
subterranean den will enable you to 
appreciate the pure atmosphere of 
the country twice as well. Look at 
those sodden faces and swollen 
heads. Those fellows are literally 
wallowing and seething in beer, and 
they feel as comfortable as ten thou- 
sand cannibals. It is really a joy to 
be among men who are natural." 

The millionaires, having with no 
little difficulty succeeded in finding 
seats, were accosted by a female 
waiter. 

" Do the gentlemen wish to have 
election beer ?" 

" No," replied Gerlach. 

His abrupt tone in declining ex- 
cited the surprise of the fellows who 
sat next to them. Several of them 
stared at the landholder. 

" So you don't want any election 
beer ?" cried a fellow who was pretty 
well fired. 

" Why not ? May be it isn't good 
enough for you ?" 

" Oh, yes ! oh, yes !" replied the 
banker hastily. " You see, Mr. 
Shund " 

" That's good ! You call me 
Shund," interrupted the fellow with 
a coarse laugh. " My name isn't 
Shund my name is Koenig yes, 
Koenig with all due respect to 
you." 

" Well, Mr. Koenig you see, Mr. 
Koenig, we decline drinking election 
beer because we are not entitled to 
it we do not belong to this place." 

" Ah, yes well, that's honest !" 
lauded Koenig. " Being that you 
are a couple of honest fellows, you 
must partake of some of the good 
things of our feast. I say, Kate," 
cried he to the female waiter, " bring 
these gentlemen some of the election 
sausages." 

Greifmann, perceiving that Sera- 



phin was about putting in a protest, 
nudged him. 

" What feast are you celebrating 
to-day ?" inquired the banker. 

" That I will explain to you. We 
are to have an election here to-mor- 
row; these men on the ticket, you 
see, are to be elected." And he drew 
forth one of Spitzkopfs tickets. 
" Every one of us has received a 
ticket like this, and we are all going 
to vote according to the ticket of 
course, you know, we don't do it for 
nothing. To-day and to-morrow, 
what we eat and drink is free of 
charge. And if Satan's own grand- 
mother were on the ticket, I would 
vote for her." 

" The first one on the list is Mr. 
Hans Shund. What sort of a man is 
he ?" asked Seraphin. " No doubt 
he is the most honorable and most 
respectable man in the place !" 

" Ha ! ha ! that's funny ! The most 
honorable man in the place ! Really 
you make me laugh. Never mind, 
however, I don't mean to be impo- 
lite. You are a stranger hereabout,, 
and cannot, of course, be expected 
to know anything of it. Shund, you 
see, was formerly that, is a couple 
of days ago Shund was a man of 
whom nobody knew any good. For 
rny part, I wouldn't just like to be 
sticking in Shund's hide. Well, that's 
the way things are : you know it 
won't do to babble it all just as it is. 
But you understand me. To make 
a long story short, since day before 
yesterday Shund is the honestest 
man in the world. Our men of mo- 
ney have made him that, you know," 
giving a sly wink. " What the men 
of money do, is well done, of course, 
for the proverb says, ' Whose bread I 
eat, his song I sing.' " 

"Shut your mouth, Koenig! 
What stuff is that you are talking 
there ?" said another fellow roughly. 
" Hans Shund is a free-spirited, cle- 



The Progressionists. 



78i 



ver, first-class, distinguished man. 
Taken altogether, he is a liberal man. 
For this reason he will be elected 
councilman to-morrow, then mayor 
of the city, and finally member of 
the assembly." 

" That's so, that's so, my partner 
is right," confirmed Koenig. " But 
listen, Flachsen, you will agree that 
formerly you know, formerly he 
was an arrant scoundrel." 

" Why was he ? Why ?" inquired 
Flachsen. 

" Why ? Ha, ha ! I say, Flachsen, 
go to Shund's wife, she can tell you 
best. Go to those whom he has re- 
duced to beggary, for instance, to 
Holt over there. They all can tell 
you what Shund is, or rather what 
he has been. But don't get mad, 
brother Flachsen ! Spite of all that, 
I shall vote for Shund. That's 
settled." And he poured the contents 
of his beer-pot down his throat. 

" As you gentlemen are strangers, 
I will undertake to explain this busi- 
ness for you," said Flachsen, who 
evidently was an agent for the lower 
classes, and who did his best to put 
on an appearance of learning by af- 
fecting high-sounding words of for- 
eign origin. 

" Shund is quite a rational man, 
learned and full of intelligence. But 
the priests have calumniated him hor- 
ribly because he will not howl with 
them. For this reason we intend to 
elect him, not for the sake of the free 
beer. When Shund will have been 
elected, a system of economy will be 
inaugurated, taxes will be removed, 
and the encyclical letter with which 
the Pope has tried to stultify the peo- 
ple, together with the syllabus, will 
be sent to the dogs. And in the le- 
gislative assembly the liberal-minded 
Shund will manage to have the 
priests excluded from the schools, 
and we will have none but secular 
schools. In short, the dismal rule 



of the priesthood that would like to 
keep the people in leading-strings 
will be put an end to, and liberal 
views will control our affairs. As for 
Shund's doings outside of legitimate 
wedlock, that is one of the boons of 
liberty it is a right of humanity ; and 
when Koenig lets loose against Shund's 
money speculations, he is only talk- 
ing so much bigoted nonsense." 

Flachsen's apologetic discourse 
was interrupted by a row that took 
place at the next table. There sat a 
victim of Shund's usury, the land- 
cultivator Holt. He drank no beer, 
but wine, to dispel gloomy thoughts 
and the temptations of desperation. 
It had cost him no ordinary struggle 
to listen quietly to eulogies passed on 
Shund. He had maintained silence, 
and had at times smiled a very pecu- 
liar smile. His bruised heart must 
have suffered a fearful contraction as 
he heard men sounding the praises 
of a wretch whom he knew to be 
wicked and devoid of conscience. 
For a long time he succeeded in re- 
straining himself. But the wine he 
had drunk at last fanned his smoul- 
dering passion into a hot flame of 
rage, and, clenching his fist, he struck 
the table violently. 

" The fellow whom you extol is a 
scoundrel !" cried he. 

" Who is a scoundrel ?" roared 
several voices. 

" Your man, your councilman, your 
mayor, is a scoundrel ! Shund is a 
scoundrel !" cried the ruined country- 
man passionately. 

" And you, Holt, are a fool !" 

" You are drunk, Holt !" 

" Holt is an ass," maintained 
Flachsen. " He cannot read, other- 
wise he would have seen in the 
Evening Gazette that Shund is a man 
of honor, a friend of the people, a 
progressive man, a liberal man, a 
brilliant genius, adespiser of religion, 
a death-dealer to superstition, a a 



782 



The Progressionists. 



I don't remember what all besides. 
Had you read all that in the evening 
paper, you fool, you wouldn't pre- 
sume to open your foul mouth 
against a man of honor like Hans 
Shund. Yes, stare; if you had read 
the evening paper, you would have' 
seen the enumeration of the great 
qualities and deeds of Hans Shund 
in black and white." 

"The evening paper, indeed!" cried 
Holt contemptuously. " Does the 
evening paper also mention how 
Shund brought about the ruin of the 
father of a family of eight chil- 
dren ?" 

" What's that you say, you dog ?" 
yelled a furious fellow. " That's a lie 
against Shund !" 

" Easy, Graeulich, easy," replied 
Holt to the last speaker, who was 
about to set upon him. " It is not 
a lie, for I am the man whom Shund 
has strangled with his usurer's 
clutches. He has reduced me to 
beggary me and my wife and my 
children." 

Graeulich lowered his fists, for 
Holt spoke so convincingly, and the 
anguish in his face appealed so touch- 
ingly, that the man's fury was in an 
instant changed to sympathy. Holt 
had stood up. He related at length 
the wily and unscrupulous proceed- 
ings through which he had been 
brought to ruin. The company lis- 
tened to his story, many nodded in 
token of sympathy, for everybody 
was acquainted with the ways of the 
hero of the day. ' 

" That's the way Shund has made 
a beggar of me," concluded Holt. 
" And I am not the only one, you 
know it well. If, then, I call Shund 
a usurer, a scoundrel, a villain, you 
cannot help agreeing with me." 

Flachsen noticed with alarm that 
the feeling of the company was be- 
coming hostile to his cause. He ap- 
proached the table, where he was 



met by perplexed looks from his 
aids. 

" Don't you perceive," cried he, 
" that Holt is a hireling of the priests ? 
Will you permit yourselves to be im- 
posed upon by this salaried slave ? 
Hear me, you scapegrace, you rascal, 
you ass, listen to what I have to tell 
you ! Hans Shund is the lion of the 
day the greatest man of this cen- 
tury! Hans Shund is greater than 
Bismarck, sharper than Napoleon. 
Out of nothing God made the uni- 
verse : from nothing Hans Shuno 
has got to be a rich man. Shund 
has a mouthpiece that moves 
like a mill-wheel on which entire 
streams fall. In the assembly Shund 
will talk down all opposition. He 
will talk even better than that fellow 
Voelk, over in Bavaria, who is mere- 
ly a lawyer, but talks upon every- 
thing, even things he knows nothing 
about. And do you, lousy beggar, 
presume to malign a man of this 
kind ? If you open that filthy mouth 
of yours once more, I will stop it for 
you with paving-stones." 

" Hold, Flachsen, hold ! /am not 
the man that is paid; you are the 
one that is paid," retorted the coun- 
tryman indignantly. " My mouth has 
not been honey-fed like yours. Nor 
do I drink your election beer or eat 
your election sausages. But with 
my last breath I will maintain that 
Shund is a scoundrel, a usurer, a vil- 
lain." 

" Out with the fellow !" cried 
Flachsen. " He has insulted us all, 
for we have all been drinking election 
beer. Out with the helot of the 
priests !" 

The progressionist mob fell upon 
the unhappy man, throttled him, 
beat him, and drove him into the 
street 

" Let us leave this den of cut- 
throats," said Gerlach, rising. 

Outside they found Holt leaning 



The Spaniards at Home. 



against a wall, wiping the blood from 
his face. Seraphin approached him. 
" Are you badly hurt, my good man ?" 
asked he kindly. The wounded man, 
looking up, saw a noble countenance 
before him, and, whilst he continued 
to gaze hard at Seraphin's fine fea- 
tures, tears began to roll from his 
eyes. 

" O God ! O God !" sighed he, and 
then relapsed into silence. But in 
the tone of his words could be 



noticed the terrible agony he was 
suffering. 

" Is the wound deep is it danger- 
ous ?" asked the young man. 

" No, sir, no ! The wound on my 
forehead is nothing signifies no- 
thing; but in here," pointing to his 
breast " in here are care, anxiety, 
despair. I am thankful, sir, for your 
sympathy; it is soothing. But you 
may go your way ; the blows signify 
nothing." 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



THE SPANIARDS AT HOME. 



THERE is something very pleasant 
in waking some morning in a 
strange country, with strange faces 
around us, a strange language ring- 
ing in our ears, strange costumes, 
strange institutions, strange every- 
thing something, we fancy, half akin 
to what Byron felt when he woke 
one morning to find himself famous. 
It is pleasant to step from New York 
to Cadiz, from the heart of the New 
World into an historic city, that was 
as historic before our nation was 
born as it is to-day; that has not 
cared to march overmuch with the 
age, yet has never drifted backward, 
and still stands there, as it did long 
ago, the " white-walled Cadiz," rising 
sheer out of the waters, with its long, 
straight streets and tall houses sleep- 
ing by the golden bay. 

It is pleasant, we say, to find our- 
selves here breathing awhile from the 
heat of the strife that beats over 
there for ever and knows no rest ; to 
open our eyes upon " something new 
and strange " ; to miss for once the 
eternal stages and the rumble and 



the jingle of the 'cars, and the multi- 
plicity of signs, and names, and glar- 
ing advertisements, crowding in upon 
us at all times and in all places. 

It is not unpleasant even to miss 
our dames for awhile with their ex- 
aggeration of wealth and extrava- 
gance, resting our eyes instead on 
the modest black robes, nunlike in 
simplicity, crowned by the bewitching 
mantilla of the beauties whom Byron 
sang. 

As you look into the street, the 
feeling grows upon you that you are 
gazing on a moving panorama pen- 
cilled by the old Spanish painters. 
There pass the blooming senorita, 
fresh as a rosebud, side by side with 
the duenna, yellow and puckered : 
how they resemble la J^m'en and la 
Vieja of Goya. That little beggar- 
boy, with those beautiful black eyes 
and a carnation in the olive cheek, 
sprawling in his picturesque rags on the 
pavement, is surely a brother to that of 
Murillo, so studiously engaged in 
performing an operation on his per- 
son more necessary than elegant. 



784 



The Spaniards at Home. 



Here saunters a lazy soldier smoking 
his cigarette; there an old padre 
totters with bended head hidden un- 
der the large hat, snuff-box in hand, 
and an old calf-skin volume under 
his arm ; he has just stepped out of 
his gilded frame. The trappings of 
the mules, the brown faces and 
merry eye of the muleteer, were 
known to us Jong ago on canvas. 
Nor are there wanting those pale 
ascetic countenances where religion,. 
and intellect, and inspiration are so 
marvellously blended : you see them 
in the pulpit and on the altar, in the 
cloister and the convent walls. In 
our last article,* we ventured to as- 
sert that the Spaniards were the 
purest race in Europe; and not the 
meanest proof of the truth of this as- 
sertion might be furnished by their 
paintings. Those who pride them- 
selves on the blue blood that runs in 
their veins have their galleries filled 
with portraits of the family, where you 
may trace the same lineaments hand- 
ed down from sire to son for genera- 
tions, which no change of time or 
costume can efface. -The Spanish 
painters have furnished us with the 
portraits of their nation, and a beggar 
to-day might point with pride to his 
progenitor on the canvas of Murillo. 

How different is the life here from 
ours ! 

There are only two meals, unless 
you choose to take what the Span- 
iards call " lonch." On rising, the 
boy brings you your bath, and, if you 
care for it, as you are sure to do, a 
cup of coffee. If you have business 
to transact, you go to your office : if 
not, you take a book or a newspaper, 
and saunter into the garden, while the 
morning is fresh and a thousand deli- 
cious odors are around you. At half- 
past ten or eleven the household meet 
at breakfast, when you pay your re- 

* CATHOLIC WORLD, June, 1872. 



spects to the " senorita," the dear little 
lady, as the servants entitle your hos- 
tess, and inquire if she has passed the 
night well. The breakfast is similar to 
the French dejeuner : a variety of 
courses, with perhaps some delicious 
fruits, and a cup of cafe con leche at the 
end. While we are breakfasting, a 
friend or relative of the family may 
enter, and, as he sits and jokes, he pro- 
duces his cigarette, ignites and smokes 
away as only a Spaniard can, with an 
ease and a grace and a thorough enjoy- 
ment that are enviable. This may star- 
tle our lady readers, but remember we 
are in Spain; the dining-room is 
spacious and lofty, the windows open, 
and the pure clear air flower-scented, 
or, if in season, loaded with the 
breath of the orange blossom, gains 
rather than loses by the transient 
odor so faintly discerned of the de- 
licious Havana leaf. The breakfast 
ended, your host hands a cigar 
around to each of the gentlemen : 
the ladies remain to chat them out, 
and then everybody goes about his 
business. And here let us answer 
once for all a ridiculous question that 
has often been put to us. Ladies 
when speaking of their Spanish sis- 
ters are apt to say: " Oh ! yes, I know 
they are very charming and graceful, 
and the mantilla is a love of a cos- 
tume, and so becoming to a dark 
complexion; but tell me, now, is it 
not true that they smoke ?" The 
astonishment of a Spanish gentleman 
on being asked by every foreigner he 
meets if his wife and daughters for 
to such the question really reduces 
itself indulge in " the weed," is just 
as great as our own would be on a 
similar query being put to us re- 
garding our ladies. 

We meet again at dinner at six or 
seven o'clock. Your host may pos- 
sess a French cook we beg his par- 
don artiste ; if not, you will have a 
Spanish dinner unflavored, since we 



The Spaniards at Home. 



785 



must confess it, by the too fragrant 
garlic, which is confined to the moun- 
taineers up in the Basque Provinces. 
You have some dishes cooked in oil, 
and it is so pure and good that you very 
soon get to like it. There is genuine 
" Vino de Jerez " on the table, undoc- 
tored for the market, clear as amber, 
ambrosial as nectar, delicious in bou- 
quet and flavor. You will be as- 
tonished at the Spaniards taking so 
little of it ; many never touch it at 
all. They prefer claret or pure water, 
the climate not admitting of stronger 
drinks. " Borracho" drunkard, in 
Spain, as in most southern countries 
of Europe, is the vilest title you can 
give a man. There are splendid olives 
and rare fruits, preserved, or as they 
dropped from the hand of nature. 
More friends may call during dinner, 
ladies, perhaps, this time, and your 
hostess never disturbs herself with the 
thought that they have come to see 
what is on the table. " Senor don 
Rafael, beso a Usted la mano," says 
the lady to her visitor " I kiss my 
hand to you." " Beso a Usted los 
pies, seiiorita," responds the cavalier 
with a bow " I kiss your feet, rny 
dear lady." Dinner over, cigars are 
again produced, and we all adjourn 
to the patio, it being too warm for 
, music or cards. The elders assemble 
and discuss the funds, or times, or 
the state of the country. Politics 
are very rife at present, and the fire 
and animation of the speakers, the 
variation of their tones, the free and 
striking gesture for with a Spaniard 
the whole body speaks are a pleas- 
ing novelty to us, accustomed to a 
tamer mode of conversation. The 
ladies nestle together, and are deep 
in the mysteries best known to them- 
selves. The younger gentlemen gra- 
dually detach themselves from their 
elders, and leave the country to go 
to ruin, while they indulge in less 
momentous but far more interesting 
VOL. xv. 50 



topics with the ladies, and give vent 
to their Andalusian wit. 

Thematic is a feature in a Spanish 
house. It is a species of court, large 
or small, according to the dimensions 
of the mansion, paved with flags or 
marble, with perhaps a fountain 
playing in the middle and cooling 
the atmosphere ; in the marble basin 
silver and gold fish leap, and a few 
rare plants freshen around it. High 
overhead is a roof of glass, where a 
canvas screen keeps out the sun 
when his rays are too powerful. The 
house, generally of two stories in the 
south, but very lofty, is built around 
this quadrangle, the upper floor 
reaching partly over it, supported by 
pillars, sometimes richly wrought and 
adorned. Paintings or engravings 
reli'eve the bare white walls. On the 
one side a doorway, with a little con- 
vent grating to peer from, complete- 
ly shuts out the view of the street ; on 
the other, an iron gate opens to the 
garden, where you see the yellowing 
oranges clustering bright in their 
dark-leaved recesses, and brilliant 
flowers and odor-bearing shrubs 
gladden the eye and soothe the sen- 
ses. From the patio we proceed to 
the Alameda or paseo park or pro- 
menade as we should call them. 
Here all the world assembles, seated 
in groups, sauntering up and down in 
little bands, small knots standing a 
little aloof to discuss some grave 
topic nobody alone. Laughter re- 
sounds on all sides laughter and the 
Castilian tongue everywhere : ringing 
out in music from the mouths of the 
dames, swelling and falling and ad- 
apting itself to every changing emo- 
tion in the very emotional breasts of 
those men, rippling over and en- 
chanting our ears in the tiny mouths 
of these children. To a stranger the 
scene is bewitching; the softness of 
the air and the perfume that lingers 
on it; the animation ic the counte- 



;86 



The Spaniards at Home. 



nances and gestures of all ; the grace 
of the ladies' costume, the ever-flut- 
tering fan which only a Spanish wo- 
man knows how to use ; the sallies of 
wit in tones that mock the best co- 
median ; a free-heartedness and union 
among all, springing undoubtedly 
from the religion which makes all 
men brethren. At the very entrance 
of the Alameda there is probably a 
tiny chapel of the Virgen Santissima, 
with ever-burning light, where men 
and women pause to drop a prayer as 
they go to and from their diversion. 
Imagine such a thing in Central Park! 

We are in Andalusia, and of all 
the lovely spots in this lovely land we 
think it bears off the palm. Colum- 
bus, when the glories of the Antilles 
burst upon him after that dreary and 
momentous voyage, compared the 
climate more than once to an April 
day in Andalusia. Everything it pro- 
duces is of the best corn, wine, 
fruits, cattle. The bread is the most 
delicious and whitest we have ever 
tasted or seen. The nights are most 
lovely. The sky deep and clear; 
all the stars of heaven seem to clus- 
ter above us, and the moon shines 
with a startling brilliancy on the 
white houses of the sleeping town, on 
the brown cathedral that towers 
above all, on the dark thick cluster- 
ing leaves of the orange-trees, on the 
silent streets, narrow and straggling, 
showing every stone and pebble on 
the one side with minute distinctness, 
while the other is buried in mysterious 
shadow. Not a sound is heard save the 
cry of the sereno calling out the hour 
as he passes his lonely rounds. 

The Andaluz is the embodiment of 
his climate. A child of the sun, of the 
-clear free air, with wealth in his 
fields and the great ocean smiling all 
around his coast, where the ships of 
all nations come to lade and unlade, 
he yearns for the freedom which 
strangers hold so carelessly, and is 



ready to fight and to die for it. So 
Andalusia is the hotbed of revolution. 
As the Biscayan is famed for his 
unyielding nature, the Gallego for 
his stupidity, so is the Andaluz for 
his wit. He speaks rapidly and with 
many gestures, clipping his words a 
grave sin against the sonorous Casti- 
lian. He is handsome, quick, fiery, 
with a keen eye for ridicule, but a 
good nature that can never resist a 
joke even if it be at his own expense. 
People say that he derives his comely 
form and graceful extremities from 
the Moors, but he would not thank 
you to tell him so. The Andaluza 
is worthy of such a partner, if she 
does not surpass him. If he is a Re- 
publican, she is a Carlina, for Don 
Carlos with her means religion, and 
religion means everything. Byron 
has painted her, and very faithfully. 
His remarks on the state of the 
country might be written to-day. He 
moralizes over the barbarity of the 
bull-fights, too. They are dying out 
now in exact proportion as man-fights 
are gaining ground with us. Of the 
two, we must say we infinitely prefer 
the bull-fight. It is amusing to hear 
Englishmen and Americans virtuous- 
ly indignant on the immorality and 
barbarism of such an exhibition, as 
they bury themselves next moment 
in a three-column description of the 
latest feat of the fancy, or the glo- 
rious contest for hours between two 
miserable dogs or wretched cocks. 
We are lovers of fair play, man- 
liness, and good-fellowship. We 
do things in an honest, straightfor- 
ward fashion, and the hand that 
shakes another's preparatory to the 
combat quite takes the sting from the 
blow that maims his fellow-man for 
life or beats that life out of him. So 
we look on and applaud and make 
our bets on the contest, and curse 
the wretch who has lost his own mis- 
erable life and our money. 



The Spaniards at Home. 



7*7 



But we are straying into civiliza- 
tion ; let us go back to barbarism 
and Andalusia. The vineyards are 
decidedly unpicturesque ; the vines 
low, the soil yellow. But the life at 
vintage season is 

"Full of the warm South, 
Dance, and Provenjal song, and sunburnt mirth." 

The agricultural laborers are very 
well paid in Spain, getting as 
much as one dollar a day or even 
more. The work is terrible; out 
the whole day under a burning sun, 
delving and cutting and trench- 
ing a dusty soil, with a pick instead 
of a spade to penetrate below the 
upper stratum of dust. They are 
tall wiry fellows, most of them from 
the mountains, brown as the soil, and 
sinewy, with dark eyes and crisp, 
close- cut black hair. A quarter of 
an hour spent in merely looking on 
overpowers us ; but they seem made 
for the sun. The food that supports 
them under such toil is composed 
chiefly of a single dish called gaz- 
pacho, and' gazpacho merits special 
mention. Fill a large bowl with 
water and vinegar, we do not know the 
exact proportions, but there is a great 
deal of vinegar, and, so far as we recol- 
lect, oil is added. A quantity of 
bread is thrown in to soak, and some 
herbs, with, perhaps, a slight flavor 
of garlic; and there you have gazpa- 
cho, the staple food of these men in 
the hot months. You eat a small 
piece of some light meat and a salad 
before it ; a piece of toast fried in 
oil is not bad ; drink a glass of water 
or two after; light the never-failing ci- 
garette, and you are cool and refresh- 
ed. It may not seem a very delicate 
diet to us ; but when the Levante, the 
hot desert wind laden with the finest 
of the burning sands, comes chok- 
ing the atmosphere, and penetrating 
every crevice with a furnace heat all 
the day and all the night, burning 



the blood in the veins till it reaches 
fever-heat, and leaving you weak 
and utterly prostrate, " with just 
strength enough to thank God that 
breathing is an involuntary action " 
as a gentleman aptly described to me 
the effects of the sirocco, the Italian 
equivalent then place before a man 
in such a state of lassitude a steam- 
ing joint of roast beef with the heavy 
incidentals, and he will turn from it 
with disgust. At such moments the 
gazpacho seems the most delicious 
dish under the sun. The houses and 
furniture of these laborers are the 
neatest and cleanest in the world. 
The same feeling runs through high 
and low in Spain ; their houses are 
models of freshness and purity. And 
Jacobo or Perico turns out on the 
Sunday in linen fine as his master's, 
in jacket of velvet with buttons or 
bells of gold, a crimson scarf round 
his waist, and patent-leather shoes 
shining on his feet. He can joke 
and chat with his master with an 
easy freedom that never passes be- 
yond the bounds of respect and 
never sinks into servility. As you 
pass him on the road alone or with 
any number of his companions, they 
all lift their sombreros with an inborn 
grace, and a genial buenos dias or 
buenas tardes, seiior. But the new 
order is trying, and with some suc- 
cess, to change all that; though a 
stranger still meets in Spain with 
that rare yet most Christian thing, 
unbought courtesy. 

The Gallego is the very opposite 
of the Andaluz a rude, simple 
mountaineer, he is the hewer of 
wood and drawer of water to his 
countrymen. He is honest and open 
as the day, with a childlike affection 
for his master, and is particularly 
happy at a blunder. Rare are the 
stories told in Andalusia of the 
Gallegos. We give two, rather as 
indicating the estimation in which 



;88 



TJu Spaniards at Home. 



they are held than as happy speci- 
mens of the Andalusian broma. 

When the post was first introduced 
into Spain, the postmaster of a small 
town in the north was astonished, one 
day, by a Gallego bursting in on him 
with the query, delivered in stentorian 
tones : 

"Is there a letter here for me 
from my father ?" 

"I do not know, sir; who is your 
father ?" 

This was too much for the Gal- 
lego ; the idea of anybody in this 
world being unacquainted with his 
parent was so overpowering that, not 
being able to restrain his feelings, he 
rushed from the spot, and was not 
heard of for some time afterwards. 
Meanwhile, a letter arrived directed 
in a style of calligraphy that might 
have done credit to Mr. Weller, Sen- 
ior, addressed 

To my Son 

At San Juan. 

Having sufficiently recovered from 
the violent shock given to his feel- 
ings, the Gallego once more pre- 
sented himself at the post-office with 
the same question, " Is there a letter 
here from my father ?" 

"Oh! yes," said the official, im- 
mediately producing the mysteri- 
ously addressed missive ; " here, this 
is from your father. Take this one," 
and delivered it without the slightest 
doubt as to the accuracy of its 
destination. 

Another, on finding himself for the 
first time in a city, as he stood gaping 
and wondering at the sights around 
him, suddenly heard a shrill voice cry 
out, " I don't want to go to school ; 
the master beats me." 

He looked around for the child, 
but the only object that met his gaze 
was a parrot, mowing and chattering 
in a cage, and bobbing, wriggling, 
and looking at the Gallego with its 



cunning old eye forty different ways 
at once. 

" I don't want to go to school ; the 
master beats me." 

The bewildered Gallego stared, 
and pondered, and, after a deep con- 
sultation with himself, came to .the 
conclusion that the voice must pro- 
ceed from the cage ; from the strange 
specimen of humanity before him, so 
marvellously resembling a bird ; but 
a bird talking the purest Castilian, 
though with something of a sharp 
accent, was a clear impossibility. 
His simple, good-nature was hurt at 
the idea of having wronged a fellow- 
creature even in his thoughts. So 
turning he excused himself: " Par- 
don me, child; I thought it was a 
bird." 

Of all traits in the national char- 
acter, their universal civility astonish- 
es an American or Englishman, ac- 
customed as we are to the every- 
man-for-himself principle; yet how 
few we meet who do not consider the 
Spaniards as a treacherous, revenge- 
ful, and bloodthirsty race ! Our 
own statistics, we fear, would furnish 
but a sorry set-off against theirs for 
crime in every phase; and particular- 
ly for the most cowardly, brutal, and 
premeditated assaults and assassina- 
tions, ending too often with the es- 
cape of the culprit. The quarrels in 
Spain between man and man arise 
generally from some love affair or 
political difference, very rarely from 
money. Two peasants are drinking 
in a tavern, the wine excites their 
fiery blood; one has lost his novia, 
the other has won her ; a blow or an 
insult is given; they draw their 
knives, and adjourn to fight " just 
like gentlemen." It is, in fact, a 
duel, which common-sense has not 
yet been able to laugh out of Spain. 
No pecuniary damages, won by the 
cold arguments that sway a court of 
law, can heal the wound of honor in 



The Spaniards at Home. 



789 



the chivalrous breast of the Spaniard ; 
and not a few examples have we 
lately had of lives lost in this way. 
One was most tragic in its end as in 
all its bearings ; I allude to the duel 
between Don Enrique de Bourbon 
and Montpensier. And surely never 
was presented on the stage a scene 
more dramatic or striking. Don En- 
rique was by profession a naval offi- 
cer, high in the service of his royal 
relative, Queen Isabella, a young, 
gallant, and efficient sailor, with a 
promising future opening before him. 
He was happy in the love of a lady 
destined as all understood to be his ; 
when suddenly Montpensier stepped 
in and won her, scarcely by force of 
personal attractions, for he was al- 
ready well advanced in years; but 
the marriage was a closer link to the 
throne. Don Enrique vowed the 
death of the* man who had crossed 
his life at the threshold. But his 
schemes of vengeance were baffled ; 
an order came to quit the country, 
ostensibly for having joined in con- 
spiracy against the throne. Depriv- 
ed at once of his love, his command, 
and his country, life was closed to 
him. From his retirement he sent 
challenge after challenge to Mont- 
pensier, and vilified him even in the 
public press, as he could not force a 
response from him ; but to no pur- 
pose. Montpensier, high in favor at 
court, secure in possession and in 
power, could safely affect to despise 
the ravings of a madman. By-and- 
by came the revolution which drove 
Isabella out. Now was Don En- 
rique's chance, and he hastened to 
seize it. As expulsion under the 
queen's reign was a virtue in the eyes 
of the new government, he applied 
for restoration to his country and his 
rank in the navy. The first request 
was granted, the second denied ; as 
the government had proclaimed an 
end to the Bourbon race, no member 



of that race could take rank under 
them, unless he renounced his title. 
Here again he traced the hand of 
Montpensier. If he could have 
nothing else, at least he would have 
revenge, being now in the same city 
with the man who had crossed him 
at every step of his career. He sent 
his last challenge, publishing it at 
the same time in the press, enumerat- 
ing the occasions on which he had 
sent similar messages, which had 
ever been met by the silence of fear. 
He heaped insults upon him, apos- 
trophizing him as a " pastillero 
frances," a fellow ready to soil his 
hands with the pettiest and meanest 
intrigue. Montpensier was at the 
time a candidate for the Spanish 
throne ; for the kingship of a people 
in whose eyes honor was ever dear- 
er than life ; further silence would 
ruin his prospects ; so at last he was 
forced out of his reserve, and, in a 
letter that sounded well, accepted 
the challenge as one which a man of 
honor could not pass over in silence, 
disclaiming at the same time any an- 
tagonism to its author personally j if 
there was any justice in what he said, 
it was the result of accident ; in fact, 
leaving people to understand that he 
never troubled h head about the 
man. They met on a cold gray 
morning, and the chances of success 
leaned decidedly on the side of Don 
Enrique. A young, bold man, to 
whom deadly weapons had been 
playthings from his infancy, he was 
urged on by a life of hate to slay the 
man who had blighted that life and 
darkened its promising opening ; his 
opponent was a middle-aged man, 
near-sighted, who bore the reputation 
of a litterateur rather than a fighter. 
Both felt that perhaps a crown as 
well as a life hung on the trigger. 
Scarce was the word given to fire 
when the bullet of Don Enrique 
brushed his foe, and Montpensier's 



790 



The Spaniards at Home. 



lost itself in the air. A second shot, 
and they still stood face to face un- 
injured. " Esta afinando" " He is 
getting closer," whispered the prince 
to his second, as he took the last pis- 
tol from his hand. The words are 
remarkable as expressing the cool- 
ness of the man, whose eye took in 
everything at such a moment, and 
perhaps something more. At the 
next discharge, the bullet of the man 
who, whether designedly or not, had 
met him and beaten him at all points, 
pierced his breast; he sprang into 
the air, fell forward, and rolled con- 
torted on the ground, a corpse a 
theme for novelist as well as moralist : 
it looked like fatality. 

But from such sad scenes we are 
happy to turn to others more worthy 
of our attention and more character- 
istic of the nation at large. The 
thing that of all others cannot fail to 
strike the visitor is the intense reli- 
gion displayed everywhere. " Ay, 
Maria !" " For Dios !" " For God's 
sake" " Ay, Dios mio," are the ex- 
pressions that buzz around our ears 
all day. The holy name is a house- 
hold word with them, pronounced at 
all times and on all occasions, but 
with a reverence that never shocks. 
When they wish* something done, 
they say " Dios quiere " " God grant 
it"; when they bid you good-by, 
" Adios Vaya Usted con Dios 
Queda Usted con Dios Que Dios te 
guarda" " Go with God Rest with 
God May God guard thee." They 
speak of the blessed sacrament as 
" SuMajestad " " his majesty," of the 
Blessed Virgin always as " la Santissima 
Virgen" "the most Holy Virgin." 
The graveyard is " el campo santo" 
" the holy field ": so like the old Ca- 
tholic " God's acre " that Longfellow 
loves. When they wish to express 
intense horror of a thing, they make 
the sign of the cross on their fore- 
. heads, lips, and breast, and then in the 



air, as though to place that invincible 
sign between them and the object of 
their abhorrence. The vast majority 
of the towns and villages are named 
after the saints, and each one has its 
special patron as well as the patron 
of the district. And that intense 
faith in intercessory prayer to some 
special saint which holy writers urge 
us to cultivate is born in them. On 
the festival of Good Friday through- 
out Spain, the municipality and gen- 
tlemen of the towns walk dressed in 
evening costume side by side with 
the poor. Not a vehicle is to be 
seen in the street : all the world is 
there to watch and pray. The new 
government, Prim's, gave the order 
for coaches to run as usual on Good 
Friday, in outrage of a custom imme- 
morial in the nation, and an honor to 
them as to all Christendom of what- 
ever creed. But the 'coachmen as 
well as their masters proved better 
Christians than their rulers ; and on 
the day in question not a convey- 
ance was to be seen, save a solitary 
coach, which the populace immedi- 
ately seized, compelling its occu- 
pant to descend, who proved to be a 
scared member of the diplomatic 
body. The celebration of Holy Week 
in Seville attracts the world thither. 

The modern churches in Spain, 
particularly in Madrid, though for 
the most part spacious and lofty, do 
not impress one with their beauty. 
To those accustomed to associate 
their ideas of religion with the Gothic 
style of architecture, the altars will 
not be pleasing. Spiral pillars wrig- 
gle to the roof, inwrought and gor- 
geously painted. The vases are 
filled with silver and gold filigree 
work wrought to imitate flowers. 
There are many figures, small or 
large, of elnifw ycsn, or la Santissima 
Virgen, or the saints, not always dis- 
playing the most finished art, decked 
out with a costume of sober black or 



The Spaniards at Home. 



791 



gorgeous color and texture, glittering 
with gold and precious stones and 
ornaments of choice and antique 
workmanship. Little thanksgiving 
offerings surround them. Such 
things as these look like superstition 
to the cold eye of a man to whom 
faith is folly and reverence ignorance. 
But there is something powerful in 
the simple, earnest belief of the peo- 
ple who pray before them, and are 
content to be thus reminded of the 
great and good God and Virgin Mo- 
ther, who are willing to receive the 
offerings of the meanest ; a reverend 
familiarity with God is thus created 
which those people bear about with 
them. These men and women go 
into the church to pray : their very 
costume is befitting the sanctuary ; 
and there is very little of that news- 
paper religion which some of our 
weekly journals piously advocate by 
so carefully announcing " where the 
best dresses and prettiest faces are to 
be seen." On the walls hang mag- 
nificent paintings. The treasures of 
Murillo are in the cathedral of Se- 
ville. They were placed there by 
his own hand, having been painted 
for their several positions that the 
light might fall on them in such or 
such a manner. And it is not un- 
pleasant to think of the sun rising 
and falling day after day as though 
in obedience to the great master who 
has passed away, bringing out their 
beauties faithfully in accordance with 
his wish. The construction of the ca- 
thedral itself is a triumph of architec- 
ture. Not a stone has shifted from 
its place since it was first laid there : 
there is no sinking or rising in the 
floor : and to-day you may pass your 
cane over the surface and not a joint 
offers the slightest obstruction. 

The very names of the people are 
taken from religion and the mysteries 
of religion in the same spirit with 
which they named their discoveries 



after Santa Cruz, San Domingo, San 
Jose, Trinidad. Among men's 
Christian and surnames we continu- 
ally find Jesu, Jesu Maria, Juan de 
Dios, Santa Cruz, Salvador ; among 
the women, Concepcion, Dolores a 
sweet name after the Mother of Sor- 
rows, Maria de los Angeles, and 
the like. 

The very streets and the public 
places are christened in the same 
way; and the ships baptized and 
launched with religious ceremonies, 
a custom that prevails also in 
France. 

They preserve the old gospel use 
of the word woman. That is the 
title by which the husband addresses 
his wife as often as any other. She 
calls him hijo, son, or hombre, man. 
" Hija de mi alma" daughter of my 
soul, is also very common. Cere- 
mony is only employed with stran- 
gers ; ///, thou, is the form in which in- 
timate friends are always addressed. 
After becoming acquainted, you call 
the lady of the house and her daugh- 
ters, whether grown up or young, by 
their maiden names simply. It is 
amusing to hear little ones who can 
scarcely lisp address each as sefwr 
and senora. 

They have a fair supply of news- 
papers, and very able ones, in Spain ; 
though, as usual, those that enjoy the 
widest circulation at present are de- 
voted to the dissemination of false 
principles. They are cried out in the 
streets not by newsboys as with us, 
but principally by old blind men, who 
stand in the most public places with 
a tablet of the latest news on their 
breasts, and having got their lesson 
by rote spout away untiringly. 

The club is becoming a very fa- 
vorite institution, and is, in fact, the 
stronghold and rendezvous of politi- 
cal parties. There is a very famous 
one in Madrid, which numbers 
among its members such men as 



792 



The Spaniards at Home. 



Castelar, Moret, and others. They 
meet sometimes for public discussion ; 
and those great orators rise there to 
propound their theories as earnestly 
as in the Cortes. 

They have a code of intercourse 
worthy of imitation. When a Span- 
ish family takes up its quarters at a 
hotel or in a new place, the neigh- 
bors, -though perfect strangers, call, 
leave their cards, and go away. If 
their acquaintance is desired, they 
are waited upon and conversation 
ensues ; if not, the stranger simply 
returns his card in the same manner 
as the other was received; and no 
slight or grievance is felt or intended. 

The amusements are various. 
Apart from the opera, theatre, and 
those common to all nations, they 
are very fond of an indoor game 
called -volants, which is simply battle- 
door and shuttlecock ; ladies and 
gentlemen play at it together. There 
is also a very favorite game of cards, 
tresillo, to which we have no equiva- 
lent. The climate compels the Span- 
ish women to lead a more indoor 
life than with us. The men are fond 
of riding, hunting, and shooting. 
They sit as erect on horseback as 
statues ; and the army officers are 
very fond of displaying the motions 
rather than the speed of their steeds. 
Mules are in great demand ; for the 
roads in Spain, except in the neigh- 
borhood of the great towns, are very 
bad ; mere bridle-paths most of them. 
Seated in a vehicle that would be a 
treasure in an art museum for an- 
tiquity, construction, and shape, with 
a team of six or eight of these ani- 
mals to jolt you anywhere, is a posi- 
tion more than pleasant. The jingle 
of the little bells with which the har- 
ness is adorned, the cracking of the 
driver's whip, the tones in which he 
endeavors to animate the vicious 
brutes, now cajoling them in accents 
that might win the heart of a maiden, 



again pouring forth a volley of im- 
precations on their heads and tails 
and pedigree, as though they were 
human, is a study. You can never 
trust these animals, and it is always 
the safer plan to give their hoofs 
what a sailor would call sea-room. 
An archbishop, passing along the 
streets one day, suddenly came upon 
a string of them, and as suddenly 
crossed to the other side of the 
street. " O Senor Arzobispo," said 
the muleteer, " you need not be 
frightened. These are harmless ani- 
malitos" 

" Yes, I know they are harmless," 
replied his grace, " and that is the 
reason I cross here; if they were 
not, I should go to the next street." 

This fact of the roads being so 
bad and the intercommunication so 
deficient, coupled with tales of brig- 
andage, gives strangers the idea that 
travelling in Spain is very insecure. 
We might pass from end to end of 
the land, unknown and unarmed, 
with far greater safety than during a 
five minutes' walk through many a 
street in New York or London after 
nightfall. We had an instance of 
brigandage and its treatment in Spain 
during Prim's regime, a time when 
the country was as convulsed as at 
present. Encouraged, no doubt, by 
the lamentable success of a similar 
exploit in Greece, some miscreants 
carried off a merchant from Gibral- 
tar, and demanded a round ransom 
as the forfeit of his life. Prim, with- 
out a moment's hesitation as to the 
nice question of treating with brig- 
ands, or a thought of where th tt r an- 
som was to come from, paid it, ar./ 
sent four of the civil guard to follow 
up the robbers, which they did so 
successfully that they shot them all 
and retook their booty. We have 
not heard of brigandage since in 
Spain, notwithstanding the highly 
touched pictures presented, the other 



The Spaniards at Home. 



793 



day, of an attack on a railway train, 
accompanied by smoke and powder, 
and brigands in the stage costume 
of centuries back. 

This civil guard is an excellent in- 
stitution. The body is recruited from 
the best ranks of the soldiery. It is 
a distinction to be admitted among 
them, which engenders an esprit de 
corps that rnakes them the terror of 
the wrong-doer and the right arm of 
order. We ourselves might take a 
lesson from the incident mentioned 
above, if we are to credit the reports 
of the Lowery gang. 

They have but one great line of 
railroad in Spain, which runs through 
the country from north to south. 
The train creeps along at a steady 
thirty miles an hour, without a mo- 
ment's variation. To a stranger, 
wishing to catch a glimpse of the 
country, this is highly advantageous ; 
as he is not whirled away at a rate 
that presents to his anxious eye 
trees, houses, mountains, streams, in 
a phrenzied panorama. For our 
present notions of commerce it may 
be too slow, and a man in a hurry 
feels half inclined to get out and 
walk ; but as a set-off against this, 
the Spaniards pride themselves on 
not having had a single accident ac- 
companied by loss of life since the 
railroad was first started. You are 
rolled through the fertile plains and 
swelling uplands of Andalusia, rich 
in corn and wine and oil ; through 
fields, and orange and olive groves, 
dotted with white towns and modest 
villages, where the church-tower ever 
soars above all as a landmark. You 
pass Seville ; and as its associations 
crowd upon you, fain would you lin- 
ger amid the gay society of the 
lovely city smiling amid its groves 
and gardens ; dreaming day by day 
in las deticias ; lost amid the trea- 
sures of art that make every boy in 
the street an efficient critic, so ac- 



customed is his eye to the beauti- 
ful and the true. Famous spots and 
historic cities greet you as you go. 
The Escurial looms up, a white, silent 
palace with deserted windows, stand- 
ing out in startling relief from a semi- 
circle of bare mountains. Not a 
soul was to be seen around it; the 
monks had been just expelled ; not 
a sound to break the painful silence 
that seemed to emanate from the 
gloomy pile. It stood there as the 
great king left it, a type of himself, 
out of the world in a grandeur of 
isolation; a something that ought 
to have passed away, unknown in 
these days. Had a troop of cava- 
liers with pennon and plume and 
glistening mail shone out a moment 
on the mountain-side, it would have 
seemed in keeping with the place 
rather than strange. There is al- 
most a contrast between the ages 
as our little engine puffs and snorts 
and fumes, fretting to " go ahead " 
and leave it, staring out of its silent 
windows, unmoved, untouched by the 
age, which busies itself with things 
and not with ideas. 

Before arriving at Madrid, where 
the train stops for a few hours, we 
pass through Aranjuez, the beautiful 
summer-palace of the late queen ; 
with its woods and magnificent vistas 
and lengthening avenues, full of 
lovely recesses and places of cool 
shade. At last we are in the heart 
of the kingdom. 

Madrid, though not very large, is 
a brilliant city. Its prado where 
fashion saunters is beautifully laid 
out. It has a splendid museum, 
many churches, though none of them 
remarkable for beauty, and the vast 
palace of royalty, rich in furniture 
and objects of art. The houses and 
public buildings are lofty, the hotels 
many and excellent. Fountains 
spout in the open squares; crowds 
are buzzing through the streets or 



794 



The Spaniards at Home. 



discussing at the cafe's, for politics 
absorb the life in Madrid. The 
weather is treacherous, and many are 
carried off in a few hours by a ful- 
monia, for, as their proverb says, " The 
air of Madrid will not cause a leaf 
to flutter from the tree, but will kill a 
man." Though the sky is clear and 
blue, and the sun shines out royally, 
a breeze comes down from the neigh- 
boring sierras, frost-laden, that 
pierces you through and through, and 
searches all your bones, and the very 
marrow in them; there is death in 
its breath. For all that, the Madri- 
lenos live a very gay life; retiring 
to rest generally at the small hours, 
and rising when they please. In the 
summer the city is empty, even the 
shopkeepers flit; for the heat is then 
intolerable, and they wander to San 
Sebastian or the south of France, or 
to their own watering-places, which 
are numerous and inferior to none. 

As the train bears us further north, 
the scene ever varying grows more 
and more deserted. You close the 
curtains of the carriage to keep out 
the heat during the day, while at 
night you may wake amid frost and 
snow. The villagers and mountain- 
eers crowd to the carriage windows 
at every station ; old men, and dark- 
eyed boys, and graceful girls, with 
fruits and wines, and water, and 
milk. " Quien quiere agua ? Agua 
fresca ? Quien quiere leche ? Agua 
como la nieve !" "Who wants water 
cool water ? Who wants milk ? 
Water cool as snow," is the shrill cry 
from many throats on all sides. 
"Senorito, un quartito por el amor 
de Dios " " A farthing, my dear little 
sir, for the love of God." " Teno 
lastima de, un pobrescito, senorito 
mio, y Dios te lo pagara " " Have 
pity on a poor little one, and God 
will repay thee," snivels an old beg- 
gar in pitiful rags. If you listened 
to him for five minutes, he would 



treat you to a sermon on the evil 
of poverty and the eternal rewards 
of generosity, that would rival the 
most eloquent of preachers and 
charm the money out of your pockets. 
Through the Pyrenees, the scenery 
grows wilder still and more pictur- 
esque ; the construction of the rail- 
way here is a marvel of skill and en- 
terprise. You are shot through tun- 
nels bored through the solid rock, 
numbers of them of considerable 
length. You skirt dizzy precipices 
with scarce a straw between you and 
the dim hollows or ominous pools 
that sleep hundreds of feet below. 
Quaint little hamlets with quaint 
people are perched on mountain- 
tops or buried in pastoral nooks far 
away down. Tiny streamlets start 
out of the mountain and accompany 
you as you go. You can trace them 
as they tumble and fall, and lose 
themselves, and reappear with gather- 
ing volume and widening channel, 
till you cross them on a bridge low- 
er down, and find them broad and 
powerful rivers, turning mills and 
humming onward to the sea. This 
is a great district for paper mills ; you 
see them on every side. San Sebas- 
tian is up here, with its beautiful vil- 
las and pleasant strand at the foot of 
the mountain, skirted by a town in- 
creasing in wealth and importance 
every year. The favorite promenade 
is called the Paseo de las Conchas, 
"The Walk of the Shells," a very 
beautiful one. It is becoming a very 
favorite and fashionable resort during 
the summer months ; so much so that 
gamblers tried to obtain permission 
from the government to establish here 
the gambling-tables which have been 
banished from their own Baden Ba- 
den. Fine hotels are springing up, 
and there .is no summer residence in 
Europe that would better repay a 
visit than this, uniting as it does the 
air of the sea and the mountains, 



A ix-la- Chapdle. 



795 



where you may turn from the strand 
to the most pastoral of scenery, from 
the conventionalities of life to the 
rude simplicity of the Basque moun- 
taineer. 

This brings us to the frontier, and 
here we stop, with the consciousness 
of having thrown but a very fleeting 



glance over so vast a field, with its 
mines of historic wealth and trou- 
blous problems of to-day. Our ob- 
ject has been to display in their truer 
colors a people as little understood 
as it is studiously misrepresented by 
a host of writers, who forget that the 
pen is the handmaiden of truth. 



AIX-LA-CHAPELLE. 



EVERY summer the fashionable 
world must go to the baths, must drink 
the waters, must be refreshed after the 
arduous winter campaign of dining 
and wining, of dancing and talking, 
of matinees and soirees. In Ameri- 
ca, we recover our strength at Sara- 
toga and Newport, hunt in the Adi- 
rondacks, freeze on top of the White 
Mountains,. listen to the roar of Ni- 
agara, drink sulphur at Sharon and the 
Virginia Springs, and shortly, when 
the magnificent National Park, at the 
headwaters of the Yellowstone, is 
fenced in, we will go to sleep in a 
palace -car in New York, and wake 
up at the foot or on the top of the 
Rocky Mountains. I believe the park, 
so generously voted to a grateful coun- 
try by our patriotic Congress, is in 
that charming vicinity. 

Human nature is the same every- 
where ; old Europe and young 
America live, think, talk, have their 
being, in one and the same way. 
London and Paris, Berlin and Vi- 
enna, get tired and worn out just 
like Washington and New York, Bos- 
ton and New Orleans. People must 
travel, people must have somewhere 
to go. Some go to Brighton, some 
go to Boulogne-sur-Mer, some to 
Os*f nd ; lately, it is very fashion- 



able to go to Norway, the lakes are 
so blue, the trees are so green, nature 
is so grand and beautiful ; and if the 
trip is only continued to Lapland, 
the midnight sun can be seen to the 
greatest advantage. 

But for its being a little too near 
Spain and its weekly that is to say, 
daily revolutions, Biarritz is charm- 
ing; so is Vichy, so is Wiesbaden, so is 
Spa, so is Hombourg, so is Aix-la-Cha- 
pelle, where there are the hottest of 
hot sulphur springs, as hot as when 
Charlemagne loved to bathe and 
drink; and loved the place so well 
that he made it the capital of his 
dominions north of the Alps, raised 
it to the rank of second city of his 
empire, and built the noble cathe- 
dral which Leo III. was kind 
enough to come all the way from 
Rome to consecrate. 

And in 804, when Leo III. dedi- 
cated it, according to the wish of 
Charlemagne, to the Blessed Virgin, 
in the presence of many cardinals, of 
363 bishops, and numerous princes, 
travelling was not made easy as now- 
adays. There was no tunnel 
through Mont Cenis, but people 
climbed up and slid down moun- 
tains as best they could, forded 
rivers, and jogged along on horses or 



A ix-la- Chapelle. 



mules, or any other beast of burden 
that could be made to answer the 
purpose. Of course, society was the 
same then as now ; there were good 
and bad men and women, just as 
now ; but, judging by what we see 
and read of the past, there was a 
strong living faith, that was fonder of 
building up than of pulling down. 

Charlemagne could invite the 
Pope to visit him, and consecrate his 
cathedral; he could look the Pope 
honestly in the eyes, and ask his 
blessing. Strong, mighty, powerful, 
he was an humble, obedient son of 
the church; his strength and might 
and power were used in support, in 
defence of that glorious Mother 
Church to whom he owed all that 
was good and great in his life. 

He gave to the Pope, that he 
might be independent of all human 
control ; he did not steal and insult, 
as a present reigning sovereign de- 
lights in doing; he did not, .like a 
modern emperor of the French, use 
religion as an instrument for gaining 
popularity send soldiers to Rome 
one day, and order them back the 
next, make a convention in Septem- 
ber with a robber-king, and in Octo- 
ber hurry off Frenchmen to retrieve 
the day at Mentana; but he be- 
lieved and acted up to his belief. 
He had his faults, as all men have, but 
he was true to his principles, and, like 
all true men, died in the peace of God. 

For him there was no Sedan, no 
Waterloo, but a glorious tomb in his 
own grand-cathedral, and grand it is 
an octagon in the Byzantine style, sur- 
rounded by numerous chapels. The 
rotunda is supported by pillars of 
polished Ravenna marble, presented 
by Leo III., dividing the galleries 
into arcades. The church was com- 
menced in 796, and finished in 804; 
the works were superintended by 
Eginhard, the biographer of Charle- 
magne. 



All that Rome and Ravenna could 
furnish of most beautiful in marble 
was employed in the decoration. 
The dome was surmounted by a 
globe of massive gold, the doors 
and balustrades were of bronze, the 
vases and ornaments of unparalleled 
magnificence. The railings of the 
eight arcades of the triforium, cast in 
bronze of four different patterns, and 
the doors, adorned with lions' heads 
of the same material, which no lon- 
ger occupy their original position, 
but are attached to a porch of the 
seventeenth century, convey a per- 
fect idea of the state of art in the 
eighth century. On the right of the 
porch is the figure of a she-wolf, 
which has served as a foundation for 
many popular legends, but the real 
origin is unknown. 

The arches of the gallery are 
adorned with thirty-two pillars of 
marble, granite, and porphyry, 
brought by Charlemagne from the 
Exarch's palace at Ravenna and 
from Rome. The finest of these, re- 
moved by the French in 1794, were 
brought back in 1815, and have been 
repolished and replaced at the ex- 
pense of the Emperor of Germany. 
TJie interior of the dome was origi- 
nally adorned with mosaics, remains 
of which may still be seen. The 
cathedral was pillaged by the Nor- 
mans in 88 1, restored by Otho III. 
in 983, but in all essential respects is 
still the church of Charlemagne. 

Eastward of the old apse, Otho 
III. built a chapel, in which he was 
buried ; both of these were pulled 
down in the fourteenth century, when 
the present choir, which has preserv- 
ed the plan of Otho's chapel, was 
erected ; and his tomb is exactly be- 
neath the present high altar. The 
choir is Gothic, one hundred and 
fourteen feet high; nothing can be 
more striking than the contrast be- 
tween the octagon nave and the 



A ix-la-Chapelle. 



797 



Gothic choir so totally unlike, and 
still harmonizing. It is the Christian 
religion subduing and dominating 
the proud Roman Empire. 

Thirty-seven emperors and eleven 
empresses have been crowned in this 
cathedral, from 831 to 1531. Ferdi- 
nand I., brother of Charles V., was 
the last. Since then, they were 
crowned at Frankfort, where the 
election was held. From the centre 
of the dome hangs a massive Gothic 
lustre, presented by the Emperor 
Frederick Barbarossa in souvenir of 
his coronation. The bases of the 
circles are engraved with groups, re- 
presenting the Annunciation, Nativi- 
ty, Adoration of the Magi, Crucifix- 
ion, Three Marys at the Tomb, As- 
cension, Descent of the Holy Ghost, 
and the Last Judgment. The lustre 
is suspended by four chains, richly 
chased, and united in a brass plate, 
on the lower side of which is en- 
graved a figure of St. Michael. 

Immediately beneath the lustre a 
large slab of marble bears the sim- 
ple inscription, Carolo Magno, which 
covered the vault where once re- 
posed the remains of Charlemagne. 
The vault below was opened by 
Otho III. in 997, and again by 
Frederick in 1165. Charlemagne, 
who died at Aix-la-Chapelle in 814, 
did not designate his burial-place, 
but it was thought there could be no 
more appropriate spot than the 
magnificent church which he had 
built in his chosen city. 

His body was found seated on a 
throne as if alive, clothed in the im- 
perial robes ; his crown on his head, 
his manuscript of the Gospels on his 
knees, his sword, Joyeuse, was placed 
by his side, and his pilgrim's pouch, 
which he always wore on his jour- 
neys to Rome, was suspended to his 
girdle. His sceptre and shield, 
which were of gold, and had been 
blessed by Leo III., were at his feet. 



Over all was thrown the imperial 
mantle, and above was erected a 
superb triumphal arch, on which 
was this epitaph : 

"Ici repose le corps de Charles, 
grand et orthodoxe empereur, qui 
etendit glorieusement le royaume des 
Francs, et le gouverna heureuse- 
ment pendant 47 ans." 

The body of Charlemagne was en- 
shrined by order of Frederick, and 
the throne of white marble on which 
he was seated is now kept in the 
upper gallery of the nave, directly 
facing the choir; the other relics 
were carefully preserved, and used 
in the coronation of succeeding em- 
perors of Germany. Towards the 
end of the last century, at the ap- 
proach of the French army, they 
were removed to Paderborn, and re- 
turned in 1804, but not complete, 
as the Emperor of Gerhiany had 
kept three articles which were re- 
garded as indispensable at a corona- 
tion. 

These articles were a shrine, en- 
closing some of the earth watered 
by the blood of the proto-martyr 
St. Stephen ; the book of Gospels, 
found on the knees of Charlemagne, 
which is written on bluish bark, in 
characters of gold. It was with the 
hand on this book, and upon the 
shrine of St. Stephen, that the em- 
peror made his coronation oath. 
The third article was the sword of 
Charlemagne, Joyeuse, a present 
from Haroun-al-Raschid, which was 
the sword of coronation. It was 
presented to the emperor by the Elec- 
tor of Treves, who invested him with 
it with these words : " Accipe gladium 
per manus Episcoporum." At the 
words, "Accingere gladio tuo," the 
Elector of Saxe placed it in the scab- 
bard, and, assisted by the Elector of 
Cologne, girded it around the new 
emperor. 

The emperor was by right a can- 



798 



A ix-la-Chapelle. 



on of the chapter of the cathedral, 
whose members obtained from Greg- 
ory V., when he visited Aix-la-Cha- 
pelle in 997, the title of cardinal- 
priests. In the ages of faith, the im- 
perial dignity was semi-priestly ; the 
emperor was considered as having 
charge of souls. Before the em- 
blems of sovereign dignity were 
placed in his hands, he swore, with 
his hand upon the Gospels, fidelity 
to the church which had just conse- 
crated him. 

The archbishop gave him the 
sword " to combat the enemies of 
Christ " the imperial purple sym- 
bolized " the zeal with which he 
should endeavor to consolidate in the 
empire the reign of faith and of 
peace" and with the sceptre he 
was exhorted to become " the fa- 
ther of his people, the protector of 
the ministers of God, the defender 
of the widow and the orphan." And, 
last of all, to seal the alliance con- 
tracted with the Holy Church, he 
received a portion of the sacred Host, 
consecrated in the pontifical Mass, 
the other half of which was consum- 
ed by the priest of God. 

After the election of the emperor 
at Frankfort, the electors and the 
emperor elect proceeded to Aix-la- 
Chapelle, where the coronation took 
place. The emperor heard Mass in 
the choir of the cathedral, surround- 
ed by his court ; the people were in 
the nave the octagon, built by 
Charlemagne; after the Mass, he 
was conducted up the staircase, tem- 
porarily erected from directly beneath 
the lustre in the centre, to the throne 
of Charlemagne. The electors and 
their suites occupied the arcades in 
the gallery; and there, surrounded 
by priests, princes, and people, the 
Christian emperor swore to maintain 
the laws of God and man. 

Before signing the act of his elec- 
tion, the emperor confirmed all the 



privileges given by his predecessors 
to the Cathedral of Notre Dame; 
and then the cortege proceeded to 
the Hotel de Ville, where the coro- 
nation banquet was held in the splen- 
did hall, so beautifully restored by 
the King of Prussia we beg pardon, 
Emperor of Germany. The Cathe- 
dral of Notre Dame was formerly ex- 
empt from ordinary episcopal juris- 
diction, and from its foundation was 
directly under the Holy See, which 
privilege was confirmed in 1157 by 
Pope Adrian IV. 

Aix-la-Chapelle is very old ; it was 
known to the Romans under the 
name of Aquis Granum, and is said 
to have been founded in the second 
century. Remains of Roman baths 
have been discovered near the cathe- 
dral and the Elisenbrunnen. Burnt 
by the Huns in 451, it was rebuilt, 
and became a favorite residence of 
the Frankish kings. Here was 
Charlemagne born, April 2, 742, and 
here he died, January 28, 814. In 
88 1, the town was sacked by the 
Normans, and at the end of the tenth 
century restored and enlarged by 
Otho III., who died here in 1002. 
Charlemagne surrounded the city 
with a wall, pierced by ten gates, 
which Frederick Barbarossa rebuilt 
and strengthened in 1187. 

The good old city has seen 
stormy days, as in 1198 it was be- 
sieged by Otho of Brunswick, and in 
1247 by William of Holland, to 
whom it surrendered after a siege of 
six months. During the middle ages, 
it attained great wealth by its manu- 
facture of cloth;, agencies for the 
sale of which were established at 
Venice and Antwerp in the four- 
teenth century. Many diets of the 
empire were held here; and three 
times, in 1668, 1748, and 1818, the 
diplomats of Europe met in the Ho- 
tel de Ville to settle terms of peace 
and heal the wounds of war. The con- 



A ix-la- Chapelle. 



799 



ferences of the congress were held in 
the Kronungsaali a spacious saloon 
occupying the whole of the third 
floor; the former banqueting-hall 
after the coronations. 

The Hotel de Ville was erected 
on the site of the palace of the 
Frankish kings, in which Charle- 
magne was born, and the famous 
banqueting-hall has been adorned 
with splendid frescoes, done by the 
best artists of the Diisseldorf school, 
depicting scenes in the life of Charle- 
magne. They were painted at the 
command of the Emperor of Ger- 
many, and the nine frescoes represent : 
The Destruction of the Saxon Idols ; 
The Battle of Cordova ; The Baptism 
of Witikind ; A Diet of the Empire ; 
The Coronation of Charlemagne ; 
The Coronation of his son Louis ; 
The Taking of Pavia; The Opening 
of the Tomb of Charlemagne ; The 
Foundation of the Cathedral. 

Since the time of the Romans, 
Aix-la-Chapelle has been celebrated 
as a watering-place ; and modern 
Europe fully appreciates the deli- 
cious baths and bubbling springs. 
Every seven years the Exposition of 
the Great Relics takes place ; and 
then the pilgrims, drawn by faith, are 
added to the thousands of votaries at 
the shrine of fashion who annually 
flock to the dear old city. 

The four Great Relics, which are 
exposed every seven years, from the 
loth to the 24th of July, are : The 
dress of the Blessed Virgin ; The 
swaddling-clothes of the Infant Jesus 
at Bethlehem; The cloth that en- 
circled the loins of our dear Lord on 
the cross; The cloth in which the 
head of St. John the Baptist was 
enveloped after his decapitation. 
Charlemagne obtained these relics 
from Rome, Constantinople, and Je- 
rusalem. His intimate relations 
with the Popes Adrian, who died in 
795, and Leo III., are well known: 



his influence was unbounded with 
the Byzantine emperors, who sent 
ambassadors with the relics as pres- 
ents; and in the East he had con- 
trol over the holy places in Palestine. 
These sovereigns, who contributed to 
enrich his church of Notre Dame 
with treasures from their own sanctu- 
aries, would not have dared incurthe 
wrath of the great warrior by send- 
ing him false relics. 

In 408, the Empress Pulcheria, 
the sister of Theodosius and wife 
of Marcian, built churches to contain 
the swaddling-clothes of the Infant 
Jesus and the cincture of the Bless- 
ed Virgin. The septennial exposi- 
tion dates from the ninth century; 
and since then, historical testimony 
abounds, public facts attest, without 
interruption to our day, the authenti- 
city of the relics venerated at Aix-la- 
Chapelle. Among the lesser relics 
are the cingulum or leathern belt of 
our Lord, the extremities of which 
are united and stamped with the seal 
of Constantine ; a piece of the cord 
with which the hands of our Lord 
were bound during his Passion ; a 
piece of the sponge which was 
dipped in vinegar and gall and pre- 
sented to our Lord on the cross ; 
and a rib of St. Stephen, the first 
martyr. 

The last exposition was in 1867, 
and the crowds that assisted bore 
witness to the living faith that makes 
the people of the Rhenish Provinces 
such admirable Catholics. Aix-la- 
Chapelle looked beautifully ; from 
the high towers and dome of the ca- 
thedral, from every church and house, 
from the spires of the Hotel de Ville, 
the banners and flags were flying. 
The black and white flag of Prussia, 
the red-and-white and blue-and- 
white banners of the churches, min- 
gled with the Papal colors. 

Sixty thousand pilgrims came every 
day afoot to Aix; every avenue 



8oo 



A ix-la- Chapcllc. 



leading to the cathedral was crowd- 
ed, people standing in close file wait- 
ing their turn to enter. But in those 
serried ranks there was no noise, no 
confusion ; profound, earnest devo- 
tion attested their faith and piety. 
The Rosary was recited in bands; 
a man's voice would say alone the 
" Hail Mary," and the " Holy Ma- 
ry, Mother of God" was taken up 
by all. From i to 8 P.M. the cathe- 
dral was opened for the procession 
of pilgrims, but it was impossible to 
think of entering during that time, as 
it was an affair of hours. 

After 8 P.M., the canons allowed a 
few, some hundreds, to enter by a pri- 
vate door ; and then we first saw the 
interior of the superb old cathedral. 
We passed along through the arches 
and vaults of the basement story, as- 
cended and descended staircases, 
and finally reached a vestibule, lead- 
ing directly to the octagon, the cen- 
tre of the cathedral. The grated 
doors were closed, as the pilgrims 
were still in the body of the church ; 
in the dim light, we could see the 
glimmer of tapers in the choir ; and 
the voices of the kneeling crowd re- 
citing the litanies rose to heaven, 
the very incense of prayer. 

Soon the doors were opened, and 
the favored ones passed slowly 
through. How grand and majestic 
the cathedral looked ! The octagon 
in darkness, the choir illuminated. 
In single file, we made the tour 
around the relics; then all knelt 
down the priests who were stran- 
gers in the stalls of the clergy, the 
laity outside. The canons walked 
in procession, each holding one of 
the precious relics, which we were al- 
lowed to kiss. After all was over, we 
looked around ; we were kneeling in 
the superb choir, said to be the high- 
est in Europe higher than the choir 
in the cathedral of Cologne, which 
is lower than the nave. As we gaz- 



ed upwards, and beheld the grand 
arches which rose so high above our 
heads, our thoughts were raised to 
heaven, and made us glorify God, 
who gives power to man to conceive 
and execute such works. The stain- 
ed-glass windows are exquisite, and 
in the dim, religious light all looked 
bewilderingly beautiful. 

The next morning, at 10 A.M., we 
took our position in front of the 
cathedral, where benches were erect- 
ed temporarily to accommodate 
those who preferred sitting to stand- 
ing. The crowds were reverentially 
silent and recollected, reciting the 
Rosary and the Litany of the Blessed 
Virgin. The relics were exposed 
from five points. When the priests 
appeared in the tower opposite us, 
the brass band in the gallery which 
connects the towers broke forth in 
grand harmony ; the people singing 
as one voice the superb German 
choral music. It was overpowering ! 
High up in the old gallery the can- 
ons holding the precious relics, the 
cross glittering, the light blazing 
around them, the splendid music re- 
sounding in triumph in the open air ! 
The ages of faith are not past, as we 
all felt that day at Aix. 

At 12 M. we joined the procession 
waiting for the doors of the cathe- 
dral to open, that we might enter the 
golden chamber. This was a select 
crowd, as we had to pay two francs 
for a card. The Prussian cavalry 
rode up and down to keep the ranks 
straight ; and after we had been jam- 
med outside, we received a final 
mash inside, and, by the time we 
were jelly, we shoved ourselves into 
the golden treasury, where a canon 
explained everything in German and 
French ; then the procession passed 
again through the choir, around the 
octagon, and out another door. 

The last day of the exposition 
was distinguished by a procession in 



A ix-la- Chapelle. 



80 r 



the streets : the first that had taken 
place since the French Revolution. 
It was very solemn and grand ; the 
Great Relics were borne in their 
superb shrines by the canons of the 
cathedral, the Archbishop of Cologne 
carried the reliquary containing the 
cingulum of our Lord, the Bishop of 
Luxembourg the cincture of the 
Blessed Virgin. 

Of course these great crowds, with 
the usual amount of dust and dirt, 
rather fatigued us, even though we 
were immensely impressed; so we 
sought the refreshing waters, and 
continued our meditations in the 
Kaiserbad; or, rather, we would 
commence our morning devotions 
by making ourselves comfortable. 
The Kaiserbad is the finest in Eu- 
rope; long corridors, arched roofs 
lighted from above, encaustic-tiled 
floors, beautiful dressing-rooms, each 
one opening into a delicious bath of 
white marble, into which you de- 
scend by six white marble steps into 
the pure white sulphur water. 
Twenty minutes is the time advised 
for well people; invalids stay in an 
hour sometimes; after the twenty 
minutes, the attendants brought in 
hot sheets, in which we were envel- 
oped. It was Elysium the perfec- 
tion of material enjoyment 

From the Kaiserbad we adjourned 
to the cathedral, heard Mass, and 
then strolled through the EUsengar- 
kn, the grounds around the spring; 
the Prussian military band played 
delightfully every morning, and we 
listened, drank occasional glasses of 
hot sulphur water, and then, re- 
freshed and invigorated, were ready 
for any performance. In the after- 
noon, people drive to the heights of 
Louisberg, formerly a great fortress 
that commanded Aix, famous in the 
wars of the middle ages, and demol- 
iished after some treaty, to keep the 
peace of Europe. 

VOL. XV. 51 



The view from the height is su- 
perb. Aix-la-Chapelle was the fa- 
vorite resort of Pauline Bonaparte, 
and Louisberg her pet promenade ; 
so, after her death, the city of Aix 
erected a monument to her memory. 
There is also a Belvidere, where they 
have musical reunions and balls, and 
people drink cofifee and Seltzer water, 
in which we indulged. After Louis- 
berg, we drove around the old ram- 
parts, visited the beautiful cemetery 
and the Burtscheid, the hottest of 
the springs, where the water is boil- 
ing cooks an egg in a few seconds. 
Besides the cathedral, there are 
several beautiful churches. The Jesuit 
church of the Immaculate Concep- 
tion is very fine, built in the severest 
Gothic style, of solid stone. In the 
convent of the Sisters of the Infant 
Jesus, they make the most magnifi- 
cent embroideries, one Gothic chasu- 
ble, just finished for an English bish- 
op, was worth 15,000 francs; and 
the benediction veils, stoles, and 
capes were exquisite. 

In the cathedral are 'preserved 
some fine chalices and vestments; 
amongst the latter a chasuble said 
to have been used by St Bernard it 
is of purple, adorned with pearls ; a 
cape, with small bells attached to the 
lower edge, worn by Leo III. at the 
consecration of the church; a set 
of vestments of cloth-of-gold, orna- 
mented with pearls, presented by 
Charles V. ; and a chasuble, given 
in 1599 by Isabella, Infanta of 
Spain. Among the treasures of the 
cathedral is a manuscript of the Gos- 
pels, beautifully written in letters of 
gold on purple vellum ; its binding is 
covered with plates of silver-gilt, 
richly enamelled. 

In addition to the pious crowd, 
there was more than the usual influx 
of fashionable people. We had the 
pleasure of contemplating the Prince 
and Princess Frederick Charles of 



802 



A ix-la- Chapelle. 



Prussia while they stood on the bal- 
cony of the Hotel de Ville. Prince 
Frederick Charles, the Red Prince, is 
one of the great Prussian captains, 
and of course there was immense 
excitement. The place before the 
Hotel de Ville is the vegetable and 
flower market, and the peasants, in 
their quaint caps and bonnets, were 
enchanted either with their royal 
highnesses or with the soldiers, who 
strolled among them, and bought 
up their wares. 

Dremel's, the hotel of Aix, was 
entirely devoted to the Sultan and 
this suite, who were on their way 
from Paris to Constantinople, after 
the Exposition. They were a splen- 
did set of men. In the morning, on 
our way to the Kaiserbad, we passed 
Dremel's, and, as they were always 
lounging around, we had a fine view 
of them. The Sultan kept himself 
secluded from the vulgar gaze, and 
was only seen the morning of his de- 
parture. Every one was on hand to 
see the commander of the faithful; 
at last, a great lumbering Prussian 
state carriage appeared, and there 
was the Sultan leaning back, eyes 
half-closed, arms folded on his breast, 
-as if he were the sovereign of the 
world. His impassible face never 
changed expression; he looked the 
miserable fatalist he is. 

In our German hotel, the Belle 
Vue, there was no reading-room, no 
drawing-room ; everybody sat in the 
dining-room, chattering and talking 
.away. Frank, the jolly landlord, 
.made merry with a chosen band of 
friends, among whom was the Bur- 
gomaster, at the end of one table ; 
all smoking, each man's bottle of 
wine standing before him. A Ger- 
man friend assured us all Germany 
passed the evening in the same way; 
the professors at the universities 
'think it absolutely necessary to drink 
as many bottles of wine in the even- 



ing as they have studied hours dur- 
ing the day. We mildly suggested 
it was not strange that German phi- 
losophy was rather cloudy some- 
times, as the smoke of the evening 
might befog the learned professors; 
but our friend maintained it was 
healthy for mind and body. 

Charming, delightful Aix! It was 
with regret we left it; we looked 
with longing eyes at the dome of the 
grand cathedral as it receded in the 
distance, and sighed for the deli- 
cious Kaiserbad as we were whirled 
through the dust and smoke. How- 
ever, we had the happiness of mak- 
ing one person enjoy what we had 
so fully appreciated; on our return 
home we had the pleasure of seeing 
once again one whose name is dear 
to the heart of every American Ca- 
tholic, the late illustrious Archbish- 
op of Baltimore. He was suffering 
from rheumatism, and we told him 
such wonderful things of the baths at 
Aix, he changed his mind, and, in- 
stead of going to Paris, went to Aix ; 
with what result, the following 
charming note will tell : 

AlX-LA-CHAPELLE, August 4, 1867, 

Hotel de Belle Vue. 

DEAR MADAME : I drop you a 
few lines, to return my sincere thanks 
for having so effectually called my at- 
tention to the baths and waters of 
this celebrated city. I find that all 
you said and promised has been fully 
realized ; and when, hereafter, any 
one will dare tell me that your ami- 
able sex is accustomed to draw upon 
its imagination for its facts, or at' 
least to color extravagantly what 
has proved pleasing, I shall point to 
your recommendation of these wa- 
ters as a sufficient refutation, or at 
any rate a most noted and brilliant 
exception to the remark. 

The baths are all you said, and 
more; they are really superb, and 



A mbrosia. 



803 



just what I needed. In fact, I con- 
sider it a special providence that I 
met you in Brussels, or otherwise I 
should have gone to Paris instead 
of Aix. Already I am quite reliev- 
ed, and in another week I expect to 
be as young and supple as ever. I 
am at the Belle Vue, but, after taking 
one bath at the Kaiserbad, I have 
taken the rest at the Rosebad; the 
latter are fully equal to the former in 
sumptuousness, and the ' attendance 
is probably better. I expect to re- 
turn to Paris before or about the i5th 
inst, and if I can be of any service 
to you in Europe or America, you 
may freely command me. 

Though I have not yet taken any 



excursion to the country, I have 
visited the relics and curiosities of 
the grand old cathedral, and also the 
Hotel de Ville. This is one of the 
oldest cities in Europe, and its in- 
habitants say with pride, " After 
Rome, Aix-la-Chapelle !" The city 
with its monuments carries us back 
a thousand years to the brilliant days 
of Charlemagne, who was a giant 
not only morally and intellectually, 
but physically, for he was over seven 
feet two inches tall. Best regards 
and blessing to your family, and 
compliments to the dean. Yours 
truly, 

M. J. SBALDING, 

Archbishop of Baltimore. 



AMBROSIA 

A LEGEND OF AUGSBURG. 



WE were talking of our travels, my 
friend Archer and I, and of the les- 
sons travelling brings to those who 
go a little out of Murray's beaten 
track. And especially, so we were 
pleased to think, these lessons might 
be learnt in little out-of-the-way 
nooks, hidden centres of ignored life, 
none the less busy for that, and none 
the less full of exciting life-dramas. 
I was telling him of Pavia for my 
wanderings had led me chiefly 
through Italy of the desolate, en- 
chanted look of the wall-enclosed 
court-yards round the gloomy and 
picturesque palaces ; of the lonely 
walk on the former ramparts, now 
planted with fine horse-chestnuts ; of 
the many tapestries of romance I 
had woven in my mind about the 
silent-looking houses and the dark- 
eyed maidens I occasionally met in 



the streets. It was while Pavia was 
in Austrian hands that I passed 
through it, and perhaps the military 
occupation tended to make the sleepy 
city still more sombre and dull. Yet 
what additional elements of romance 
that circumstance contributed ! For 
it was not impossible that some fair, 
mild German, with his dreamy senti- 
mentality, yet fresh from college, 
might have been drawn to feel a 
holy, wondering love for the bright 
southern beauty whose childhood 
had been fostered in indignant hatred 
of his land and race ; and between 
these two how many complications 
of pathetic interest might we not im- 
agine, how many shades of feeling 
and degrees of circumstances might 
we not conjure up ! " But," said 
Archer, interrupting my fine flow of 
language about the joys and sorrows 



804 



Ambrosia. 



of the town of the Certosa, "you 
know Italy, strictly speaking, is ra- 
ther the land of passion than of ro- 
mance. Could you think of an Ital- 
ian Gretchen ' ? The one charac- 
ter most like her, the Cenci, is so 
different despite the likeness ! Reli- 
gion seems more spiritual in Germa- 
ny ; in Italy they do as the Greeks 
of old, put their own human feelings 
into heavenly representatives and 
then pay homage to them, thinking 
unconsciously that they are honor- 
ing supernatural attributes. There is 
too much earthliness about their 
ideal in fact, I do not believe they 
have an ideal at all." 

" Come, come," I answered, " you 
are too hard on the southern temper- 
ament. You do not know Italy well 
enough to speak with authority on 
the subject. After all, as long as 
their way of feeling religion does 
them good, the Italians are quite as 
well off, spiritually, as your Teutonic 
ideals. I am not sure but what I 
prefer warmth and impulse to passive 
tenderness, however reliable the lat- 
ter may be throughout a lifetime. 
But this question of the relative 
merits of various races will always be 
an open one, and no one wishes to 
leave it so more than the church 
herself, for she wisely sees how much 
the glory of God gains through this 
blending of various natures in his 
service." 

" No doubt," answered my enthu- 
siastic Teutomane, "as far as that 
side of the question is concerned. 
You have been saying something 
equivalent to telling me that the or- 
chestra is preferable to a single vio- 
lin or cornet, while / was speaking 
of the intrinsic merit of each of 
those individual instruments." 

" Well," I said, now tell me some- 
thing about the tone of these instru- 
ments. You know I have been very 
little in Germany, and I should be 



glad to hear something worth hear- 
ing, something that one would not 
find in the guide-book, nor in the 
volume of self-important nonsense 
occasionally thrust upon the public 
by a gushing sister or a city alder- 
man." 

" You are very caustic," said my 
friend with a laugh. " If I must tra- 
vel so far out of the beaten track to 
please you, why not plunge at once 
into a volume of mediaeval le- 
gends ?" 

" Is it in print ? Because in that 
case I could see for myself, and 
therefore would not care to hear it," 
I answered teasingly. 

" It is not in print, Sir Doubter, 
and, what is more, it is not even in 
manuscript." 

I began to feel interested. "^ 
popular tradition, then ?" I asked. 

" Exactly. It is not worth much, 
only I happened to see the place* 
mentioned, the quaint house that is 
standing yet, though ,very much dis- 
guised of course, and the dark street 
leading to the cathedral. It hap- 
pened in Augsburg, and the cathe- 
dral, as you know, is ' Protestantized, 
though still very well kept. I was 
only in the town for two days, so 
you may imagine I know little of it 
beyond what my narrator told me." 
" And pray who was your narra- 
tor?" 

The father of a girl in an old 
book-stall, where I had stopped at- 
tracted by some rare copy of a Cath- 
olic work, of which she did not seem 
to know the value. Equally sur- 
prised at seeing the book there and 
at finding her ignorant of its worth, 
I asked her how she got it. She 
lifted up her head, which had been 
bent on some mysterious turning-point 
of her knitting, and said smilingly : 
" Mem Herr is a Catholic, then ?" 
I answered that I was, and re- 
peated my former question. 



Ambrosia. 



805 



" It must have been one of my 
great-uncle's books," she said, "he 
was going to be a priest, but he died 
before being ordained. We were al- 
ways Catholics." 

" And how came you to keep this 
stall, child ?" I asked, becoming in- 
terested. 

" It is my father's," she answered 
quickly ; " and he has been ill for two 
months, so I keep it for him. His 
uncle left him all his books." 

" And is your father so poor, 
then ?" 

" Very poor, mein If err" said the 
girl, with a longing glance at the 
book I still held in my hand, as if 
she were thinking of the price a con- 
noisseur might be tempted to give 
for it. " His father and grandfather 
were booksellers," she continued, " but 
not like him ; they had large libra- 
ries and plenty of men working un- 
der them. That was long before I 
was born, mein Herr? 

" And I suppose your father got 
into difficulties. But anything would 
have paid better than this, my poor 
child." 

" My father would not go to work 
for any other bookseller, not if he 
were the king," laughed the girl, more 
merrily than I thought the case war- 
ranted ; " and he is a regular student. 
My mother used to earn money in 
many ways, teaching, writing, sew- 
ing; and I did the housework. She 
died two years ago, and we have 
nothing but the book-stall now to 
keep my sick father and my little 
crippled brother." 

I thought to myself, Why, here is 
a regular romance; perhaps the in- 
evitable lover of German stories is 
going to peep out next, from the 
frank revelations of my new friend. 
At any rate, let us follow it up. So 
I said aloud : " If your father is will- 
ing to part with this book, I should like 
to buy it. But I should be very glad 



to see him and chat with him about 
it. Do you think he could see me ?" 

" Oh ! yes, of course," answered 
the girl with a hearty smile ; and for 
the first time I noticed her features 
and expression. She was not beauti- 
ful I hope you did not expect the 
romance to be perfect? but there 
was a pure, calm steadiness in her 
look, and an air of unconscious dig- 
nity about her that made her strik- 
ing to the eye. She seemed made 
for fidelity and helpfulness, and as to 
external charms, if you admire hair, 
she simply had superabundant mass- 
es of it. German-like, it was put up 
in broad plaits, tightly coiled round 
the head, without a shadow of co- 
quettishness, and just as if she thought 
it no ornament at all. Now I have 
noticed your Italian girls know how 
to make a good deal more of their 
advantages. I have seen poor girls in 
Venice with as elaborate a coiffure 
ringlets, puffs, plaits, and wavings as 
any Parisian hair-dresser could ex- 
hibit on his waxen models." 

" Libels again !" I answered. " I 
have seen the very contrary at Na- 
ples, and there are women there like 
Grecian statues. Venice is half 
Eastern, you know. But to go on 
with your impromptu romance." 

Well, when evening came, I went 
to the address the young girl had 
given me, and as you may imagine, 
it was not a palace that I entered. 
The neighborhood was as common- 
place as any in an old German city 
can be, that is, picturesqueness itself 
compared with our modern " back 
slums." Still, through the pictu- 
resqueness, there stared the most un- 
mistakable poverty. I went up a 
good many flights of steep, narrow 
stairs, with curious balusters that 
would have driven a dealer in old carv- 
ing wild with delight, and knocked at 
a door that I recognized by the rude 
cross and bit of palm over the arch- 



8o6 



Ambrosia. 



way. There was just such another 
cross and sprig of green inside the 
door, and a little holy-water vessel in 
stamped brass hung at the side near- 
est the door-handle. There was 
nothing very peculiar about the 
room, except that it had an air of 
freshness and cleanliness, which, con- 
sidering its sick inmates and its 
cramped locality, was the more pleas- 
ant because it was a surprise. A 
great German bed, with a feather-bed 
of traditional height, rilled one side 
of the room, and there was a stove 
in the middle. The remains of the 
supper were on a side-table, and a 
lamp drawn close to the father's arm- 
chair stood on a centre-table laden 
with domestic " mending." The lit- 
tle crippled brother sat in a low easy- 
chair by the stove, which chair was 
the only luxury in the room: My 
friend, the young girl, came quickly 
forward and said : 

" My father is so glad you have 
come, mein JZerr." 

I sat down beside him, and soon 
got into conversation with the old 
scholar. He was still very weak, 
but seemed to feel better when ex- 
cited. I found him a thorough 
bookworm, full of knowledge that, in 
another man's hands, would have 
made his fortune. I discovered, or 
rather forced him to tell me, that in 
that press (pointing to a common 
painted chest of drawers) were manu- 
scripts ready to be published, if a 
publisher could be found to under- 
take the risk, but the author had no 
ambition, though he was full to the 
brim of literary enthusiasm. His re- 
searches had lain chiefly among 
works of mediaeval ecclesiastical lore, 
legends and poems, etc. The em- 
blems borne by the various saints 
were a favorite subject of his. His 
uncle's theological collection and 
the libraries in which he had spent 
his youth, had furnished him with 



means to prosecute his studies 
even after his father's reverses 
in fortune the public libraries had 
done the rest. His wife's help had 
been very important, and piles of her 
notes and references lay among his 
own manuscripts. He spoke with 
pride of his little crippled son, whom 
he said he had made as good a 
scholar as if the poor boy had been 
to the universities; and as to his 
daughter, his looks said more than 
his words, as he gazed at her across 
the table, she sitting so calmly there 
amid her heap of " mending," her 
dark-blue dress reminding me of the 
coloring of a mediaeval virgin martyr 
in the stained-glass window of some 
old cathedral. She was more queen- 
ly than slender in figure, and neither 
her face nor her hands were small, 
though they were perfectly shaped ; 
there was more majesty than grace 
in her whole air, yet she was 
thoroughly girl-like. I unconscious- 
ly invested her in my mind with 
royal robes, heavily jewelled, like the 
Byzantine saints, or with the ample 
cloak of the brave and learned Por- 
tia. Presently she went into a 
smaller room, opening into the one 
where we were sitting, and during 
her absence I ventured to hint to 
the father that for her sake he 
should try to make those literary 
treasures of his more remunerative. 
He smiled ; I asked him if she were 
already provided for, or if he did not 
feel it his duty to put by some kind 
of fortune for her. 

"My child is watched over from 
heaven," he said; "she will never 
come to harm." 

" What is her name ?" I asked. I 
had already ascertained his family 
name to be Reinhold. 

" Ambrosia," he answered. 

" Rather an uncommon name," I 
remarked, well pleased, somehow, 
that it should be so. 



Ambrosia. 



807 



" Yes," said the father, " and I dare 
say it will interest you to hear the 
reason why she has that name. She 
was born on the anniversary of the 
day that a young girl called Ambro- 
sia came to life here in the sixteenth 
century. This was how it happened. 
The troubles of the Reformation were 
just beginning, and this young girl, 
who was the burgomaster's daughter, 
was famous through the town for her 
holiness and modesty. She was be- 
trothed to a young merchant who 
had been her playmate in childhood. 
Did you notice that great building 
on the corner of the street to the 
right of the cathedral ? That was 
her father's house ; it is a hotel now. 
Her bridegroom lived two or three 
streets further off, on a corner too ; 
and under the corner window, which 
was beautifully carved and painted, 
stood z. wooden image of the Mother 
of God, with a lamp before it which 
was never allowed to go out. It 
began to be whispered about that 
Engelbrecht, the young lady's be- 
trothed, and a very handsome, dash- 
ing young fellow, was rather inclined 
to the new doctrines which Luther 
was then preaching all over Ger- 
many. Every one wondered how 
Ambrosia would take this, but no 
one knew anything positive until it 
became the talk of the city that one 
night Engelbrecht and a few com- 
panions, heated with wine and sing- 
ing profane songs, had broken and 
extinguished the votive lamp before 
the image under his window, and 
thrown the image itself into the gut- 
ter. The next day it was known 
that Ambrosia was very ill, and had 
sent for her lover. He came, and, as he 
really was very fond of her, the sudden 
alteration in her looks frightened and 
subdued him for the moment. She 
took off the betrothal ring he had 
put upon her finger, and very gravely 
and sweetly told him that she could 



never be his bride on earth, but that 
she fervently hoped that she had in- 
deed won his soul's final salvation, 
through the joyful and willing sacri- 
fice of her own life. She said she 
should die on the day that was fixed 
for their wedding, but that from the 
dead she would speak to him yet, 
and in public. Then a year would 
go by, and she told him that it was 
not given to her to know if he would 
repent or not during that time, but 
that on the anniversary of her death 
she would come to life again and 
walk from her tomb to the cathedral 
and back ; and she summoned him to 
meet her there. It was her hope that, 
after that second call, he would surely 
be won back to God. So when her 
wedding day came, although she 
seemed happy and looked only very 
grave and pale, she called her father 
and mother and her lover to her, and 
there, sitting by the window that 
looked on the cathedral, she passed 
away without agony, and just as the 
hour struck which should have seen 
her a new-made wife. She was not 
buried for several days, for the scof- 
fers said she was deceiving the peo- 
ple and simulating death. Doctors 
and priests watched the body for a 
week, and Mass was said in the 
room where she lay, surrounded with 
flowers and tall tapers. Exorcisms 
were even read over her, but the 
placid expression of her alabaster 
face seemed to grow only more 
heavenly day by day. At last signs 
of decomposition appeared, as if to 
make the marvel more certain, and 
those who had watched the body 
drew up a legal declaration of her 
undoubted death. She was brought 
to the churchyard, the family vault 
was opened, and the coffin, which was 
still uncovered, was just going to be 
finally closed, when she raised herself 
suddenly to a sitting posture, and, 
seemingly transfigured into greater 



Ambrosia. 



beauty than had ever been hers in 
life, she gazed slowly round the 
crowd and beckoned to her lover. 
He stood transfixed, and the people 
fell back from him and left him face 
to face with his bride. She only said 
in a clear, pitying voice that was 
heard by all, 'Remember, Engel- 
brecht, thy tryst with me one year 
from this day. God be with thee 
until then.' 

" She fell slowly backwards into her 
narrow couch, and when the people 
had taken courage again, they came 
hurriedly and closed the coffin in great 
awe. A year went by, and Engel- 
brecht, uneasy and remorseful, plung- 
ed into worse excesses than ever, 
went heart and soul, at least out- 
wardly, into the Lutheran movement, 
and became the head of a band of 
young men whose dissoluteness was 
spoken of with disgust by the licen- 
tious reformers themselves. The 
day came, and with it crowds nocked 
to the grave of Ambrosia. Those 
who had gone at sunrise found a 
white-robed figure kneeling there, 
its face hidden in its hands, and two 
long plaits of golden hair streaking its 
drapery. Those who had watched 
all night and gone there the evening 
previous after dusk, could tell noth- 
ing save that the grave had been the 
same as ever, but they thought they 
must have slept for a few minutes 
before midnight, since they had heard 
the quarter strike from the cathedral, 
and had looked at their timepieces 
directly after, and found it was half 
an hour after midnight. The radi- 
ant, silent figure was there then, and 
an odor as of incense filled the night 
air. As soon as the cathedral doors 
were open (it was in June), Ambrosia 
rose and turned towards the church: 
Some sceptics who saw the strange 
procession, rushed at once to the 
grave, and, hastily disinterring the 
coffin, found it empty. Crowds join- 



ed the procession to the cathedral, 
which the young girl reached during 
the first Mass, for the priests still had 
possession of it then. Every one 
wondered if her lover would meet 
her, but no sign of him appeared. 
Ambrosia looked incomparably more 
beautiful than in life ; her eyes were 
cast down, and she wore a golden 
betrothal ring on her finger. She 
moved like a spirit, yet there was no 
doubting the reality and substance of 
her presence. There were many in 
the crowd who were scoffers and 
libertines, men whom no virtuous 
maiden's eye would as much as 
glance upon, yet even they were si- 
lenced, and the marvellous beauty 
of Ambrosia seemed to have no 
other effect upon them than one of 
awe and unconscious restraint. The 
people followed her in and lined 
the aisles through which they 
knew she would walk on leaving 
the cathedral. ' She knelt for a mo- 
ment before the high carved taberna- 
cle, with a lovely miniature spire, 
quite in a separate corner from the 
altar you have seen those taberna- 
cles of ours in old Catholic churches 
in other parts of Germany, mein 
Herr ? and then she turned slowly 
back. There was no hurry, no anx- 
iety nor expectancy, in her manner; 
still Engelbrecht had not been seen. 
She had come to the middle of the 
left aisle, still with her eyes persist- 
ently cast down, and though the peo- 
ple had all asked her many questions 
as to their future spiritual fate and 
that of others dear to them, yet she 
had never answered a word. Now, 
she stopped deliberately, yet never 
raising her eyes. A sob was heard 
in the crowd, and the serried masses 
heaved to and fro as a young man 
forced his way violently through. It 
was Engelbrecht, but he was unre- 
cognizable. A cloak covered him 
from head to foot evidently a 



A mbrosia. 



809 



studied disguise yet what was more 
unlike him was his agitated, humble 
manner, the look of passionate self- 
accusation in his drawn features, and 
his impetuous disregard for appear- 
ances. As Ambrosia stopped, he 
rushed forward with his arms extend- 
ed, but some unseen power stayed 
his progress, and though she was 
not a foot distant from him, he could 
not touch her. For the first time 
she lifted her head, and a look of 
love, pure as art angel's over a repent- 
ant sinner, lighted up her ethereal face 
and mingled with an expression of 
deepest gratitude. She pointed to the 
betrothal ring on her finger, and then 
glanced upward without uttering one 
word. This second warning from 
the world of souls was of too solemn 
a nature to admit of even the holy 
yet too human expression that her 
words had given to the first, but it 
was unmistakably borne in upon the 
mind of her lover that as long as 
he kept true to the faith, he might 
hope to claim her as his spiritual 
bride in the kingdom of God. And, 
as she continued her journey toward 
her grave, he did not even follow 
her, but went straight to the Domin- 
ican convent and asked for the 
habit of the order. Those who ac- 
companied Ambrosia to the church- 
yard could tell nothing as to the 
manner of her disappearance; all 
they knew was that they saw her 
one moment, and the next they saw 
nothing. Engelbrecht gave all his 
riches to the church to found a semi- 
nary somewhere beyond the bounds 
of the heretical countries of Germany, 
for the instruction of missionaries; 
the foundation eventually became a 
house of his order. He wished his 
own dwelling to be used for monas- 
tic or hospital purposes, should re- 
ligion again revive in Augsburg; 
but his wish was not fulfilled. The 
house was forfeited to the state, and 



became successively a warehouse, a 
barrack, a prison, and a factory. 
Now, it is a great printing-office, and 
plenty of lies are coined into money 
within its walls, through the partisan 
newspapers that issue from it. You 
can see the corner window still, with 
its beautiful carving hardly injured 
by time, and the empty niche be- 
neath it where the image of the 
Mother of God once stood. Have 
you noticed it, mein Herr?" 

" No," I said, hardly liking to an- 
swer, for fear of losing some further 
detail. " But what of Engelbrecht ?" 

The old German looked surprised. 

" Why, I have told you he became 
a monk." 

" But did he distinguish himself 
against the reformers ?" 

" Ah ! " said Reinhold, reverential- 
ly, " God knows, and his bride, but 
he left no record for the world to 
read. No doubt he worked out the 
will of God." 

I was silent, for I was ashamed of 
myself in the presence of this man, 
to whom the hidden life of the soul 
seemed so all-sufficient a history. 

Ambrosia, his daughter, had come 
back long before this story was fin- 
ished, and was sitting sewing dili- 
gently, and listening to it with all her 
father's pride and personal enthusi- 
asm in the matter. 

" So," continued Reinhold, " the 
day of this wonder was remembered, 
and among those who remained Cath- 
olics, it became a custom to christen 
girls born on that day by the name 
of the holy maiden Ambrosia. My 
child, thank God, was one of them." 

After listening to this peculiar and 
interesting legend, I led the conver- 
sation to the book I wished to pur- 
chase, and which Ambrosia hao 
brought home with her on purpose. 
Reinhold knew the value of it per- 
fectly well, and firmly resisted my 
well-meant attempts to fix a price 



8io 



Ambrosia. 



upon it beyond what even its merits 
warranted. I was hardly able to 
indulge in such extravagance, yet 
bibliomania had always been ray be- 
setting sin, and I had curtailed our 
little household in many ways to feed 
my library. Besides, here was a 
charity as well-deserved as it seemed 
well-placed ; how else, with my lim- 
ited means, could I help my poor 
friends ? But my fellow-bookworm 
was proof against all such artifices, 
and I was reduced to ask him, point- 
blank, was there anything which he 
would allow me to do for him ? 
Without the least show of fussy 
pride, but with a quiet, manly grati- 
tude that was immeasurably more 
dignified, he answered at once, his 
voice shaking as he looked at his lit- 
tle son : 

" A very little would make my 
child's life happy and useful, and, 
lieber Herr, that little I have it not." 

" How stupid of me !" I exclaim- 
ed. " I might have thought of that 
myself. Is he to be a scholar, or an 
artist, or what ?" I said, stroking his 
hair, while his great eyes were fixed 
hungrily on mine. 

" Books are his passion," said his 
father, " and he knows all our poets 
by heart. He should have a literary 
education, I think." 

" But," said I, " he could not go 
alone to the university, and if you 
do not mind leaving Augsburg, 
would it not be best for you all to go 
together ? I have some English 
friends at Bonn, Catholics and rich 
people ; they will do much for your 
child that I cannot do, though my 
heart would rejoice to do it, so sup- 
pose we start to-morrow ?" 

Reinhold looked up incredulously. 
Ambrosia laughed, and the poor lit- 
tle cripple clapped his hands in ecs- 
tasy. I watched the girl to see 
whether a shade of regret denoted 
ties of a tenderer or more passionate 



nature than her strong, calm family 
affections ; but there was no sign of 
anything save quiet joy and a grati- 
tude that in its fulness made me feel 
quite ashamed. I kept thinking of 
what could be done for her ; whether 
my English friends at Bonn could or 
would be kind to her in any practi- 
cal way, and whether in that case 
she and her father would ever sub- 
mit to being provided for by the 
kindness of strangers. She seemed 
too self-reliant for that'; and although 
she evidently longed for the same 
education her brother was to have, 
and had, indeed, already amassed in 
the intervals of her active work such 
miscellaneous knowledge as mere 
reading could give her, yet I felt sure 
that she would insist on earning her 
bread and helping to support her 
father. I decided on introducing 
the old man to the notice of some 
great publisher, with whom an ar- 
rangement about his manuscripts 
might perhaps be made ; but of this 
we did not speak "just now. I left 
the room full of our new projects, 
and spent the early part of the next 
day in carefully visiting the scenes 
of Ambrosia's life, death, and mar- 
vellous resurrection. In the after- 
noon I went back to Reinhold's old- 
fashioned abode, and found every- 
thing nearly ready. The books were 
packed in a curious old chest, which 
was certainly a quaint contrast to the 
trunks and valises of modern tour- 
ists; this and some of the old furni- 
ture, endeared to Reinhold and his 
daughter by the associations of a 
lifetime, were to be forwarded to 
their new destination through the 
care of the good " Pfarrer " (parish- 
priest), and a few little necessaries 
(a very slender amount in the eyes 
of our " girls of the period," I fan- 
cy !) together with the precious man- 
uscripts, were to go with us in a large 
leather hand-bag, which I volun- 



Ambrosia. 



Six 



teered to carry. I asked to be al- 
lowed to take charge of the little 
brother too, as we were too near the 
railway to need a carriage, but Am- 
brosia laughingly caught him up, 
and, with gentle deftness, insisted on 
carrying him, telling me to give my 
disengaged arm to her invalid father. 
As soon as we were seated in the 
train, Ambrosia began to tell me 
that she had never been in one be- 
fore. I asked if she were sorry to 
leave the old town. 

"Oh! no," she said, "I know I 
shall go back there one day, when I 
know more than I do now." 

I wondered if there were any hid- 
den meaning in the words. Rein- 
hold and I talked "shop" all the 
way, till our fellow-passengers must 
have been bored with our enthusias- 
tic bibliomania. Ambrosia sat chat- 
ting gayly to her little brother, whose 
glee and wonder were sometimes 
gravely expressed in questions that 
made our neighbors laugh. When 
we got to Bonn, and were comfort- 
ably settled at a quiet, old-fashioned 
hotel, absolutely perfect in its ap- 
pointments, but as unobtrusive of its 
merits as its gaudy, noisy rivals were 
shrilly eager about theirs, I set out 
to find my friends. They were out 
of town. Without their influence I 
was powerless, so I had to wait a 
few days for their return. They 
took up the matter as warmly as I 
could have wished, and were partic- 
ularly anxious to do something for 
Ambrosia ; the difficulty was to find 
something she would accept. In the 
meantime, the crippled child was 
recommended to the college authori- 
ties with plenty of guarantees, seen 
to by the priest, who was my friend's 
adviser and fellow-worker in all his 
good schemes, and Reinhold was 
quietly put in the way of good op- 
portunities for the publication of 
some of his accumulated writings. 



The little boy promised well, and I 
was more anxious about Ambrosia, 
who wanted to support herself by 
needlework. 

" You see," she said to me, a week 
after our arrival, " some of the work 
will be knitting, and I can read as I 
knit; then I will go to school at 
night and on Sundays, and pick up 
what I can, and twice a week I will 
make time for the singing-class. 
There is a very good one, and so 
cheap, attached to our church here, 
and the master is a really great ar- 
tist, though he is old and very poor 
now. He and my father will be 
friends, I know, so you see I shall be 
as well off as it is possible." 

Nothing could move her from her 
resolve, and as I had to leave Bonn 
shortly after, I was obliged to take 
things as they were. I received 
monthly bulletins of my little protegfs 
conduct and progress, and sometimes 
heard from Ambrosia and Reinhold, 
through their rare but warm letters, 
though oftener from my friends estab- 
lished at Bonn. After awhile, I 
heard that the girl had consented to 
take music lessons twice a week, in 
the evening, with Miss L., my 
friend's niece, and sometimes to share 
her French and Latin lessons. Eng- 
lish she already knew. The needle- 
work was not abandoned, however, 
and Ambrosia, I was told, seemed to 
gain new energy with each new pur- 
suit she undertook. Reinhold's works 
were in a fair way of being success- 
fully published, and his circumstances 
were actually beginning to mend. I 
never heard of such a lucky venture 
as that hurriedly made at the Augs- 
burg book -stall! Everything and 
everybody favored it, and my quiet 
old sister at home used to make me 
tell the story over and over again, as 
we turned over the pages of the book 
that had been the first deus ex machi- 
ftd of the romance. She was cer- 



812 



Ambrosia. 



tainly disappointed in the want of a 
lover for Ambrosia, and, to console 
herself, would sometimes so arrange 
the little we knew as to make it the 
frame of a possible love-story that 
we did not, and never might, know. 

A year passed by in this way, when 
business called me up from my cottage 
in the Isle of Wight to London. It 
was May, and the exhibitions were just 
open. I went to Burlington House, 
and saw very little that was worth 
seeing ; then to Pall Mall, to some of 
the minor galleries. The French 
collection of paintings was pretty 
upon the whole, but suddenly I came 
upon a picture that was really strik- 
ing. An old German town and a 
cathedral painted to the very life 
formed a most varied background, 
upon which a conventional " crowd," 
that is, a few picturesque groups of 
burghers and peasants in the costume 
(accurate to the slightest detail) of 
the early part of the sixteenth cen- 
tury, was represented, gazing at the 
central figure, a maiden dressed in 
white, with two thick cords of gold- 
en hair streaking the snowy robe. I 
looked at once for Mephistopheles 
and his victim Faust, taking this for 
a novel and very artistic representa- 
tion of Goethe's masterpiece ; and 
turning to the catalogue I looked for 
the name of the painter " Franz 
Eichenthal." But the painting it- 
self was marked " Ambrosia, a Le- 
gend of Augsburg," and in a few 
brief words beneath the story was 
told as Reinhold had told it to me. 
Strangely interested, I looked at the 
white figure ; I saw the likeness 
which had before escaped me ; it was 
Ambrosia's face, her abundant hair, 
her grand form ; the repose, the dig- 
nity that I so well remembered were 
there, but over the whole was thrown 
an air of etherealized peace and 
beauty which was a fitting tribute to 
the entirely spiritual essence of the 



story. I looked to see if Engel- 
brecht were anywhere represented, 
and thought I could discover him in 
a corner, half hidden by the shadow 
from a buttress of the cathedral. 
There was a wonderfully energetic 
expression about this face, which 
made me single it out from the rest 
as being probably meant for the un- 
happy lover. There was strength 
and nobility in the features, and an 
almost feminine grace in the figure, 
while the look of horror and remorse 
struggling with unbelief was in pain- 
ful contrast with this courtly exterior. 
Underneath, on the buttress, was 
carved, in antique characters, the 
name of the painter, " Franciscus 
Eichenthal, pinxit." It certainly 
happened to be the most obvious 
place for this traditional signature of 
the artist, yet I could not help fan- 
cying, almost hoping, that there 
was more in it than a mere chance, 
and that " Engelbrecht " was, in 
fact, the portrait of the painter him- 
self. Ambrosia's face drew me to it 
again ; the likeness was life itself, yet 
such as an American authoress de- 
scribes as'" not the man that we are, 
but the angel that we may be." 
She says that " as to every leaf and 
flower there is an ideal to which the 
growth of the plant is constantly 
urging, so there is an ideal to every 
human being, a perfect form in 
which it might appear, were every 
defect removed and every character- 
istic excellence stimulated to the 
highest point." She likens this to 
the image of St. Augustine, as his 
mother, with her spiritual prophetic 
sight, saw him all through his reckless 
youth, and then says : " Could a 
mysterious foresight unveil to us this 
resurrection form of the friends with 
whom we daily walk, compassed 
about with mortal infirmity, we 
should follow them with faith' and 
reverence, through all the disguises 



Ambrosia. 



813 



of human faults and weaknesses, 
waiting for the manifestation of the 
sons of God."* 

The German artist seemed to have 
had some such revelation vouchsafed 
to him concerning Ambrosia. The 
picture was unspeakably beautiful, 
and I felt instinctively that in the fu- 
ture it would become literally true. 
And yet the girl had never before 
struck me as having so exalted a na- 
ture; perhaps it was that she was so 
utterly unlike the usual ideal of a 
perfect woman. 

I made inquiries as to whether 
the picture was an " order," or sim- 
ply a speculation, and learned that it 
had been the latter, but was now 
destined for the hall of the " Young 
Men's Catholic Society " at Augs- 
burg. An English nobleman had 
been so struck with it abroad that he 
had induced the artist to have it 
exhibited in London, and had him- 
self ordered engravings and photo- 
graphs from it. I felt very much in- 
clined to go in for another extrava- 
gance, and have it copied on a re- 
duced scale for my library, but I 
thought it most prudent to consult 
my sister first. I went home full of 
my discovery, and at once wrote to 
Reinhold for an explanation. 

I received a very happy letter 
from Ambrosia herself in return, tell- 
ing me of her engagement to the 
painter Eichenthal, who was an 
Augsburg man, and had lived for 
many years quite close to their old 
home, without either family having 
the remotest knowledge of each other. 
At the singing-class these two had 
met, their fellow-citizenship had first 
drawn them together, and the old 
master, whose favorite pupil the ar- 
tist was, had brought him to see 
Reinhold. The result was natural, 
and my sister was innocently enthu- 

* Mrs. Beecher Stowe, Minister's Wooing. 



siastic over the ending in so pleas- 
ant a reality of the romance she had 
begun in imagination many months 
before. 

There was a quiet wedding at 
Bonn, and my friend's niece, Am- 
brosia's companion in her studies, 
was bridesmaid. My sister and I 
went over to be present, and the dear 
old father, now quite strong again, 
gave his daughter a copy of his first 
published work for a wedding gift. 
Next to the dedication leaf, which 
was addressed to your humble ser- 
vant, and overflowing with affection- 
ate expressions, there was a cheque 
for half the proceeds of the work 
(and the sum was not to be sneered 
at, I can assure you). 

Ambrosia and her husband then 
went to Rome, where Eichenthal 
identified himself with the school of 
Overbeck, and became very popular 
among the foreign visitors and pa- 
trons of art. The Englishman who 
had taken such a fancy to his picture 
of the Augsburg legend chanced to 
come across him again in Rome, and, 
having succeeded to his father's 
property, lavishly encouraged his ar- 
tist friend. A replica, full size, of the 
original " Ambrosia " was painted 
for his chapel in England, and a 
large picture, representing a group of 
the patron saints of his family clus- 
tering round the throne of the Virgin 
and Child, was also ordered. The 
painter's wife was the model for a 
St. Catharine of Sienna, and the 
Englishman himself, a thorough 
Saxon in build and features, made a 
magnificent St. Edward the Confessor. 

Several years later, the young cou- 
ple settled in Augsburg, where Eich- 
enthal established a flourishing 
school of Christian art, and used to 
give lectures on the subject in the 
very hall where his first successful 
work was hung. Ambrosia's brother 
got on so wonderfully that at twenty 



814 



A mbrosia. 



he was made professor of belles- 
lettres at Bonn, and was famous 
for writing the most beautiful reli- 
gious poetry that had been known 
for many years. Ambrosia's chil- 
dren gather round their young crip- 
pled uncle in the spacious, old-fash- 
ioned house where Reinhold lives 
with his daughter, and make him re- 
peat wonderful mediaeval legends 
clothed in verse of his own. This is 
how he spends his vacation. Rein- 
hold is always at his manuscripts, 
and the same books that used to be 
his pitiful stock in trade are now the 
cherished ornaments of his large li- 
brary. The Christmas-tree gather- 
ing in that house is a poem in itself. 
The children of Ambrosia's friend, 
the English girl of Bonn, are often 
there playing with the artist's beauti- 
ful boys, for there is no Ambrosia 
the younger among Eichenthal's 
children. The best society of Augs- 
burg, Protestant and Catholic alike, 



delight to honor the successful ar- 
tist ; the musical soirees given in his 
house are as perfect in their way as 
each of his own paintings, and never 
is anything purely worldly allowed 
to appear under his roof. 

" When I first saw my wife," he 
says, " I was a Lutheran or rather a 
so-called philosopher, but since I 
won her, I vowed to make her my 
arbiter and my conscience ; you see 
the result. ' Seek first the kingdom 
of God, and his justice, and all these 
things shall be added unto you.' " 

" And this is the end ?" I said re- 
gretfully, as Archer paused. 

" Not quite," he answered with a 
peculiar smile ; " the end will not 
really come till Ambrosia has grown 
to be the counterpart of her spiritual 
portrait. But she is growing towards 
that standard every day. Would 
that you and I were, old friend !" 

" There is time yet," I said ; " let 
us try.' 



THE CHURCH. 



IT is of her womb that we are 
born ; our nourishing is from her 
milk ; our quickening from her breath. 
.... She it is who keeps us for 
God, and appoints unto the kingdom 

the sons she has borne He 

who leaves the church of Christ at- 
tains not to Christ's rewards. He is 
an alien, an outcast, an enemy. 
He can no longer have God for a 
father who has not the church for a 



mother. If any man was able to 
escape who remained without the 
ark of Noah, then will that man 
escape who is out of doors beyond 
the church. The Lord warns us, 
and says : " He who is not with me 
is against me ; and he who gathereth 
not with me scattereth." . . . . He 
who gathereth elsewhere but in the 
church, scatters the church of Christ. 
St. Cyprian. 



The Necessity of Philosophy as a Basis of Higher Education. 8 1 5 



THE NECESSITY OF PHILOSOPHY AS A BASIS OF HIGHER 

EDUCATION. 

BY F. RAMIERE, S.J. 

FROM THE ETUDES RELIGIEUSES. 
CONCLUDED. 



UTILITY OF PHILOSOPHY FOR THE 
FORMATION OF THE POET AND OF 
THE ORATOR. 

THE foregoing considerations have 
borne us up to those luminous 
heights where philosophy, poetry, and 
eloquence, separated in their lower 
regions, mingle and become one. 
Would to God that the poets fre- 
quented more assiduously these sub- 
lime regions ! How their inspira- 
tions would gain in nobleness as well 
as in purity; how much ignominy 
would they spare themselves; how 
many scandals to society! We 
should not then see them separate 
beauty from truth, as they too often 
do, place all the perfection of art in 
an empty form, and make their in- 
dependence consist in placing them- 
selves under the hateful yoke of 
error and of vice. 

Such is the ignoble theory which 
one is competed to sustain if he 
deny that the study of philosophy is 
of the greatest utility for the poet. 
Unfortunately, this theory has found 
in our days only too many defenders 
How much more numerous still are 
those who put it in practice ! 

It is in vain, I know, for me to en- 
deavor to bring back to a sounder 
and nobler conception of the most 
beautiful of all arts those poets who 
debase it by their very idolatry. But, 
though they may despise the voice 
of a Christian, let them listen at 



least to a pagan a poet like them- 
selves. It is a disciple of Epicurus, 
it is Horace who tells them to what 
a shameful barrenness they condemn 
themselves in refusing to draw from 
those sources which philosophy opens 
up to them. 

This great master of the poetic 
art declares to them plainly enough 
that " unless they first learn to think 
well, it is vain for them to hope to 
write well ; that it is from philosophy 
they must borrow the subjects which 
it is for poetry to adorn with her rich 
ornaments ; that beauty of style can 
only be the result of beauty of 
things ; and that a work which con- 
tains solid truths under an inelegant 
form, has far more legitimate titles to 
real success than verses bare of 
thought and resonant with trifles." 

" Scribendi recte sapere est et principium et fons. 
Rem tibi Socraticae poterunt ostendere chart* ; 
Verbaque provisam rem non in vita sequentur. . . 
Interdum speciosa locis morataque recte 
Fabula, nullius veneris, sine pondere et arte, 
Valdius oblectat populum meliusque moratur, 
Quam versus inopes rerum nugaeque canorae." 

If Horace returned among us, he 
would have no cause to congratulate 
us on our fidelity in following those 
precepts, which good sense dictated 
to him, and which all of us have 
learned by heart from our childhood. 
Modern poetry has something far 
different to do than demand of wis- 
dom the theme of its song. It drinks, 
generally at least, at founts of beauty 
of quite another character ; the ideal 
is nothing to it ; the living expression 



8i6 



The Necessity of Philosophy as a 



of reality in its every imperfection, 
of the revolting, of the hideous, such 
is the task which it imposes on itself; 
emotion, such its aim a surprising 
strangeness of imagery, novelty of 
expression, peculiarity of character, 
harshness of pictures, harmony of 
rhyme replacing harmony of thought 
behold its means of success. Be- 
hold the merits which an effete society 
looks for in those whose mission is to 
amuse it, and to which these easy- 
going poets sacrifice the most mag- 
nificent gifts of the Creator. 

Dante places in one of the circles 
of his hell a lost one whose crime 
consisted in having, by vileness of 
heart, made a great abdication 
(Che fece per viltade il gran rifinto], 
It is difficult to recognize this crim- 
inal, on whose brow inexorable jus- 
tice or the political rancor of the 
Florentine poet branded this burning 
stigma. But to whom can it be ap- 
plied more justly than to these kings 
of poetry whom we see in our own 
days making themselves slaves of a 
vile popularity ; to these prophets of 
the natural order, who prostitute to 
error the power which was given 
them to embellish truth, and who 
employ the creative force which 
makes them participators of the most 
noble attribute of Almighty God, in 
order to form the idols which draw 
away the crowd from the altars of 
Jehovah ? O traitor poets ! veri- 
table apostates of genius, what gain 
is yours in debasing thus the most 
beautiful of arts ! In place of pro- 
faning your lyre by songs which 
awake in hearts nothing but the low- 
est desires and most guilty passions, 
vould it not be worthier of you to 
avail yourselves of this irresistible 
power of seduction which you exer- 
cise over your brothers, in drawing 
them in your train to the pursuit of 
true beauty ? Do you alone fail to 
perceive the forfeiture which threat- 



ens your genius from the moment 
that it denies to truth the glorious 
testimony which truth demands of 
it ? Do you not see that the beauty 
of forms fails you from the time that 
you seek it outside of the beauty of 
thoughts? Can you be astonished 
that your influence over souls is 
null, when you are pleased to destroy 
it with your own hands ? Is it not 
you who, in denying the philosophy 
which would elevate your art to the 
height of a priesthood, reduce it to 
nothing more than a frivolous pastime 
for the idle, unless, indeed, you place 
it as an incendiary torch in the hands 
of the factious ? 

Still less than poetry may elo- 
quence consent to lower its dignity 
to the botching up of incoherent 
images and the nice balancing of 
periods as empty as they are sono- 
rous. More serious in its aim, more 
positive in the immediate results 
which it has in view, it can still less 
dispense with the assistance of phil- 
osophy. Listen to one of its princes, 
who is at the same time the chief 
of its lawgivers, while he proclaims 
loudly this dependence. " Let us 
lay down in the beginning," says 
Cicero, in the book De Oratore, " that 
the aid of philosophy is indispensa- 
ble for the formation of the perfect 
orator whom we seek. It alone 
can open up to him an inexhaustible 
source of great thoughts and devel- 
opments as large as they are varied. 
It is to it that Pericles owed, accord- 
ing to the testimony of Plato, his 
superiority over all his rivals. The 
lessons of Anaxagoras developed the 
fecundity of his genius ; they taught 
him, among other things, the great 
secret of eloquence, the art of dis- 
cerning the proper incentives for 
moving the passions and the different 
faculties of the soul. Plato rendered 
the same service to Demosthenes. 
And how," continues Cicero, "how 






Basis of Higher Education. 



817 



can we without philosophy know 
the properties of things, whether 
generic or specific, how can we de- 
fine them, divide them, discern the 
true from the false, deduce conse- 
quences, refute that which is repug- 
nant, distinguish that which. is am- 
biguous ? How can we penetrate 
into the nature of things, a knowl- 
edge of which imparts its chief rich- 
ness to the discourse ? How can we 
speak pertinently of the moral life, 
of duties, of virtues, if we have not 
searched deeply into these truths, 
aided by the light of philosophy ?" 

In these words, Cicero displays 
admirably the superiority of the phil- 
osophic orator over the one who de- 
pends for the guarantee of success on 
the facility of his memory, the wealth 
of his imagination, or the vehemence 
of his feeling. Such a one without 
doubt can carry off triumphs ; he 
may reap the applause of the crowd, 
and drag the masses in his train. 
The masses, who live much more 
by imagination than by intelligence, 
scarcely perceive the want of depth, 
and allow themselves to be captivat- 
ed by the splendor of imagery and 
the rush of movements. But he who 
would seek a success more real than 
passing applause, he who would un- 
derstand that the aim of eloquence 
is to render men better, and that 
imagery and feelings are for it but 
the instruments destined to make 
truth triumph such a man will 
strive above all to place himself in 
possession of that truth which he is 
called upon to communicate to his 
fellows, to know the nature and ex- 
tent of the duties whose observance 
he must inculcate, to acquire, in order 
to communicate it to them, the true 
science of good and evil. Besides 
this, he will study the nature of the 
souls over whom God destines him 
to hold sway, by the all-powerful 
sceptre of speech ; he will inquire 
VOL. xv. 52 



into the conditions and the require- 
ments of each one of those faculties 
and passions, which he ought alter- 
nately to move like an obedient 
army, and push forward to the con- 
quest of good and the banishment of 
evil. When philosophy shall have 
given him this knowledge, when it 
shall have arranged it in his mind in 
luminous order, then the orator will 
be a priest. He will have nothing 
more to do than, following the cir- 
cumstances, to give to each of his 
teeming thoughts the form which 
befits it : on whatever subject he has 
to speak, the great principles will 
offer themselves, his plan will be all 
arranged beforehand, the framework 
of his discourse all laid out ; his 
march will be firm, his divisions clear, 
his advance irresistible; and, while 
the orator of imagination will go on 
groping, without order and without 
light, contenting himself with flower- 
ing the surface of the soul, the philo- 
sophic orator will penetrate into the 
depths of the intellect, and will 
establish therein, on convictions 
which cannot be broken down, the 
motives of which he will avail him- 
self victoriously to persuade the will. 

VI. 

NECESSITY OF PHILOSOPHY FOR THE 
FORMATION OF THE THEOLOGIAN. 

That we may comprehend in all 
its extent the utility of philosophy, 
there remains still to be examined its 
relation with the divine science the- 
ology. A single glance will suffice 
to convince us that there is no science 
with which it should be more inti- 
mately bound up than with this 
queen of sciences, which occupies 
uncontested the first place in the 
hierarchy of knowledge. This first 
rank would have belonged of right 
to philosophy, had not God thought 
it good to make us acquainted by 



8i8 



The Necessity of Philosophy as a 



his Word with the treasures of his 
own science. But far from revela- 
tion having lowered our reason by 
adding to its light a higher light ; 
far from philosophy being abased in 
receiving from the sovereign truth 
illuminations which of itself it could 
never have attained, it has on the 
contrary acquired thereby a wealth 
and an elevation incomparable; for, 
in allying itself with the word of 
God, in uniting its gifts with the gifts 
of faith, in applying its principles and 
processes to the dogmas revealed, it 
has produced a science greater than 
itself, though born in its bosom a 
science divine in its object, like the 
Word who is its father, although it 
remains human in form, like the 
philosophy of which it has this form 
the scholastic theology. 

There is, then, between theology 
and philosophy a connection of de- 
pendence, which renders the study 
of the first of these sciences impossi- 
ble without the preliminary study of 
the second. It is not with theology 
as it is with faith : faith is entirely 
supernatural, and consequently it 
cannot depend directly on any natu- 
ral cause. Thus we have established 
above that the utility of philosophy 
for the acquirement and keeping of 
faith can only be a negative utility. 

Theology, on the contrary, super- 
natural in its object, is natural in its 
essence, since it consists in the ra- 
tional analysis of the data of faith. 
There is, then, nothing repugnant in 
admitting the very direct and very 
positive influence which the study 
of philosophy exercises over its ac- 
quisition. 

This influence extends itself to 
every branch of theology to dog- 
matic theology first ; for this branch 
of sacred science, as we have shown 
in a preceding article, borrows from 
philosophy the processes which it 
uses, the method which it follows. 



and the greatest part of the 'defini- 
tions and axioms on which it de- 
pends. 

God, having made use of human 
language in order to reveal to us 
his mysteries, has laid us thereby 
under- an obligation of applying, in a 
just measure, to the supernatural 
order the ideas of the natural order 
expressed by this language. We 
must therefore analyze with the 
greatest care those ideas, under pain 
of comprehending nothing of revel- 
ation, and of falling into the most 
fatal errors ; and this analysis ought 
to be proportionately more delicate 
when it applies itse.lf to ideas involv- 
ed in the dogmas of faith, since it 
ought to discern in those ideas that 
which is proper to the supernatural 
order from that which belongs to the 
universal essence of things. 

The study of dogmatic theology is 
then impossible if it does not depend 
upon an exact and profound study 
of metaphysics. There is not a sin- 
gle one of those general notions 
which the science of metaphysics 
tries in its crucible that does not 
show itself again in the different trea- 
tises of theology, and present itself 
before us under all its forms. He 
who has not beforehand penetrated 
into the depths of these notions will 
walk in darkness; he will hesitate 
and be in constant doubt, and will 
have no means of protecting himself 
from the grossest blunders save by 
imposing on himself the rigorous task 
of studying philosophy in proportion 
as he advances in the study of theol- 
ogy- 

The same connection which exists 

between speculative philosophy and 
dogmatic theology exists between 
practical philosophy, moral theology, 
and canon law. Perhaps this latter 
connection is still more intimate than 
the former; for in moral questions 
there is much less of revealed truth 



Basis of Higher Education. 



819 



than in dogmatic. The moral theo- 
logian, then, will apply most often to 
reason for the principles which ought 
to guide him. It is therefore by the 
aid of this torch that he will solve 
the difficulties which present them- 
selves in the application of those 
principles. The greatest part of the 
duties which man has to fulfil, 
whether towards God, towards his 
fellows, or himself, pertain to the es- 
sential order, and are therefore under 
the domain of philosophy. To it, in 
fine, belong those fundamental theo- 
ries on human actions and conscience 
which form as it were the pivot of 
moral theology. 

As for canon law, its study presup- 
poses general notions on law and on 
the conditions of social authority no 
less than the study of civil jurispru- 
dence. Natural right is the necessa- 
ry preamble of both; it establishes 
the base whereon is founded the leg- 
islation of the church as well as of 
the state; it lays down the general 
formulas which the positive laws ap- 
ply to particular cases ; it is then to 
positive right, whether canonical or 
civil, what algebra is to geometry. 
He who is possessed of it will have 
no difficulty in generalizing particu- 
lar data, and enlarging by simplifying 
them, as he who ignores it will only 
acquire a far more imperfect know- 
ledge at the cost of a far greater 
amount of labor. , 

These considerations will aid us 
in comprehending the importance 
which the church has attached from 
all time to the teachings of philo- 
sophy in her universities, and the 
efforts she has made to lift it up 
when she has seen it threatened by 
a disastrous decline. If we have 
caught the straight line which con- 
nects this teaching with that of 
sacred science, we shall no longer be 
astonished at seeing a great Pope 
publish a bull in order to give to 



philosophy the favor which the emolu- 
ments attached to the study of 
jurisprudence tended to snatch from 
it. The church knew that philosophy 
could not fall without theology fall- 
ing with it. Would that we could 
understand it thus, and apply to the 
restoration of philosophy all the zeal 
which we ought to have for the 
resurrection of the high ecclesiastical 
studies ! 

It is here let us understand it 
well that we must commence. If 
you take St. Augustine or St. Thomas 
as the type of a great theologian, 
you cannot fail to set upon his brow 
the aureola of philosophy. A theo- 
logy which, to the exposition of 
dogma, did not unite its philosophic 
analysis, would be nothing more than 
a catechism ; it would have nothing 
in common with that magnificent 
science, the materials of which the 
holy fathers have furnished, and 
whose majestic edifice the scholastic 
doctors have built up. Never will 
the priest be able to fulfil, in all its 
extent, the function of doctor, unaid- 
ed by a profound study of philoso- 
phy; never, above all, will he be 
able to defend revealed truth against 
the attacks of its enemies ; for I ask, 
against what points are these attacks 
directed to-day above all ? Is it not 
against those truths which belong at 
once to the natural and supernatural 
order to philosophy and theology ? 
And of what arms do our enemies 
avail themselves to effect a breach 
in these fundamental dogmas ? Are 
they not almost exclusively those 
with which a false philosophy sup- 
plies them ? What shall we do then, 
we, the defenders of truth ? What is 
our sacred, indispensable duty in the 
face of these attacks, which day by 
day tear away one or other of the 
sheep from the flock of the church ? 
Are we to content ourselves with 
groaning over the abuse of reason ? 



820 



The Necessity of Philosophy as a 



Shall we give pretext to the ignorant 
to conclude from our invectives that 
there is a contradiction between our 
faith and true philosophy ? No ; we 
will mount the breach boldly ; we 
Avill capture the weapon which our 
enemy uses in his attack. Our 
fathers in the faith have taught us 
how to wield it. Let us demonstrate 
that true philosophy is on our side, 
and that our adversaries can only 
attack our faith by denying their 
own reason. Thus the ignorant will 
be enlightened ; the wavering minds 
strengthened ; come what may, we 
shall have done our duty in render- 
ing to the Word of God the testi- 
mony which the necessities of the 
time in which we live demand of us. 
I trust I have said enough to disa- 
buse those of their dangerous error 
who believe that they glorify theology 
by vilifying with all their power 
philosophy. Undoubtedly the philo- 
sophy which they pursue with their 
invective is the philosophy which is 
separate from faith, the philosophy 
of doubt, of revolt, that is to say, the 
very opposite of true philosophy. 
But to hear them speak, one would 
say, sometimes, that they recognized 
no other philosophy than that, and 
conceded to their adversaries the 
absurd and insolent pretension which 
they assume of being the representa- 
tives of reason. Thank God, this 
pretension was never less defensible 
than in our days ; never has revolted 
reason done better the work of faith 
by its monstrous excesses, and made 
more advantageous the ground of 
the champions of the cause of God. 
Never was it more manifest that 
there are no true defenders of human 
dignity except the defenders of divine 
authority. Let us know how to pro- 
fit by our advantages. All of us 
who love the church and the doc- 
trine of heaven, whose depository is 
the church we who groan under the 



darkness which gathers round intel 
ligence, and seems to thicken da 1 
by day, let us unite our efforts, an* 
employ every influence we posses 
toward that restoration of true philos 
ophy which is so desirable. Thereb 
we render a service equally signal t 
society and to the church : to soci 
ety, which is being lost, because th 
love of truth is extinguished in thi 
hearts of men; to the church, thi 
mistress of truth, which has no longe 
a hold upon souls to whom truth i 
nothing. Nay, more ; to the divini 
Word himself we render the greates 
service he can expect from hi 
creatures, by re-establishing in thei 
integrity the two channels whereby hi 
pours his light into our intelligent 
the science of natural and super 
natural truths. 

We must, in fact, lift ourselves tfj 
to the divine Word in order to forn 
an idea of the destination of philoso 
phy, and to appreciate exactly it 
dignity and importance. Is not hi 
indeed the common source of natura 
and supernatural truth ? Different ii 
their mode of manifesting themselves 
to us, are they not identical in thei: 
beginning ? Whence comes it that 
in perceiving the essential properties 
of my soul, the laws of numbers anc 
.of figures, I am absolutely certair 
that all minds which judge rightlj 
must perceive them in the same man' 
ner, and that never, at any momenl 
of time or eternity, can they perceive 
them otherwise ? This necessity, 
this immensity, this eternity, which 
our intelligence embraces, proves to 
us manifestly that these essential laws 
which we perceive in contingent be- 
ings are but the reproduction of a ne- 
cessary and infinite type. It is then 
the splendor of God, it is his Word, 
who reveals himself to our reason, by 
the medium of his creatures, before 
revealing himself to us by himself. 
Philosophy is, then, truly a way which 



Basis of Higher Education. 



821 



God has opened up for us of jour- 
neying to him, and should we disdain 
to enter thereon ? Should not we 
traverse it with the same reverence 
with which Moses approached the 
burning bush? And when, guided 
by Augustine and Thomas, we be- 
hold appear before our eyes the great 
light of the idea of the infinite ; when 
that name Jehovah, He who is, 
graven in our soul by the hand of 
God himself, and involved in the idea 
of being in all our intellectual acts, 
shall unfold itself little by little and 
grow in splendor, like the flame of 
the aurora, and reveal to us at last in 
their infinite simplicity the multipli- 
city of the divine attributes and the 
laws of all creation, shall we not bow 
ourselves down before him with the 
prophet and intone a canticle of acts 
of praise ? And should we permit 
one to speak with contempt of a sci- 
ence whereby God is manifested to 
us? Let one say all the evil he 
wishes of that proud philosophy 
which seeks in the natural light of 
reason a means of obscuring the su- 
pernatural light of faith. Nothing, I 
acknowledge, is so revolting, nothing 
so satanic, as this transformation of 
light into darkness which a systematic 
incredulity effects in a rebellious in- 
telligence. But, in like manner, 
nothing is so beautiful, nothing so di- 
vine, as the fusion of natural with su- 
pernatural light, of philosophy with 
faith, which is effected in the intellect 
of a Christian. Read the Summa 
of St. Thomas, the Confessions and 
the other works of St. Augustine, the 
Itinerarium of the Soul to God of St. 
Bonaventure, and try, if you can, to 
separate one from another the 
thoughts and the sentiments which 
these great doctors have borrowed 
from faith, from those which they 
have borrowed from philosophy. 
This separation you will find impossi- 
ble the rays of these two torches are 



so intersected, united, and mingled in 
these splendid intellects. Starting 
from the same focus, after traversing 
diverse routes, they find themselves 
reunited in acting together on souls 
as eager for science as they are do- 
cile to the teachings of faith ; and to- 
gether they have worked in the soul 
to fulfil their common mission, in 
producing in them the created image 
of the uncreated Word. This union 
with the light of faith in the intellect 
of the Christian is the end to which 
philosophy aspires, in the same way 
as faith, penetrating into this intel- 
lect, seeks to unite itself therein with 
science. " Faith seeking understand- 
ing." Oh ! how ill do those under- 
stand the interests of philosophy who 
are ever prating of its independence, 
and who by independence understand 
an absolute separation between its 
teachings and those of revelation ! 
How can light tend to separate it- 
self from light ? No, not in this sep- 
aration does the dignity of philoso- 
phy consist ; it consists, on the con- 
trary, in producing here below in the 
soul of its true disciples a reflection 
and an outline of that splendor 
which the clear vision of the divine 
essence produces in the intelligence 
of the blessed, to make them compre- 
hend what they believe in order to 
make them love it the more. 

VII. 

But it is time to pause. However 
incomplete may have been the de- 
velopment of the thesis I undertook 
to prove, I have said enough, I think, 
to make obvious the capital impor- 
tance of philosophy, its necessity for 
the formation of the man and the 
Christian, of the influential citizen 
and the defender of the church. 
Hence I have a right to conclude 
that the far too narrow corner allot- . 
ted by us to this study in the frame- 



822 The Necessity of Philosophy as a Basis of Higher Education. 



work of a liberal education is a very 
great misfortune, and constitutes one 
of the gravest dangers of the actual 
state of things. A society which ne- 
glects to form the intellect of the new 
generation is evidently a society con- 
demned to an inevitable decay. 

Independently of this common 
peril, very capable it seems of 
awakening our solicitude, I have 
demonstrated that for the unfortunate 
youth launched into the midst of the 
metis of errors without having been 
prepared by a deep study of truth, 
there was a danger of disaster, from 
which he could only escape by mir- 
acle. On whom, I ask, falls the re- 
sponsibility of this disaster, save on 
those who, with the power and obli- 
gation of giving this youth the pre- 
paration whose necessity has been 
pointed out to them, shall have ne- 
glected to acquit themselves of this 
duty? 

It is not for me to say more. I 
know all the excuses that one may 
justly allege to throw off this terrible 
responsibility. The masters are hin- 
dered by the parents, the parents 
themselves are hindered by social ne- 
cessities. The anti-rational spirit of 
this age of rationalism is like an im- 
petuous wind which whirls away 
youth far from serious reflection, and 
which neutralizes the best directed 
teaching. 

These excuses may quiet our con- 
sciences for the past, but they can in 
no wise lessen our fears for the fu- 
ture. The evil exists in all its gravi- 
ty, and it is necessary at any cost to 
remedy it. 

The first thing to do is clearly to 
use all our means of persuasion, in 
order to make parents and youth 
themselves comprehend the essential 
importance of philosophy. It is nec- 
essary to accustom them from the 
earliest period of life to regard this 
study as the indispensable comple- 



tion of their education ; the most 
solid guarantee for their future suc- 
cess, the act of emancipation of their 
manhood, the taking complete pos- 
session of their dignity as men, and 
the most powerful instrument which 
they are called upon to hold of influ- 
encing their fellows. If from the 
moment of entering upon this labori- 
ous career of education, we do not 
accustom them to consider the 
science of things as the reward most 
to be desired of all the labors they 
undertake in acquiring the science 
of words, we cannot expect that at 
the moment when custom authorizes 
them to reclaim their liberty, they 
will submit themselves willingly to 
bear two years longer the yoke of 
dependence. 

Here we have the first thing neces- 
sary to do in order to ward off the 
immense danger with which the de- 
cline of philosophy threatens us. 

But there is a remedy still more 
efficacious and still more necessary 
against this evil. If we wish philoso- 
phy to be esteemed and studied, let 
us render it worthy of the esteem we 
claim for it, and of the sacrifices at 
the cost of which it must be ac- 
quired. Let us lift it up from its 
fall ; let us prove, not by a priori ar- 
guments, but by the very reality, that 
it is worthy of its name. Let it ap- 
pear in our books and in our hearts 
no longer as we find it satirically rep- 
resented in certain ancient pictures, 
as the combat between a lizard and 
a scorpion, but like that bee of which 
the church speaks to us in the beau- 
tiful Office of St. Cecilia, which, re- 
serving for the enemies of truth its 
piercing sting, goes to place in the 
bottom of the chalice the most odor- 
ous essence of all the flowers to com- 
pose for it its honey, quasi apis argu- 
mentosa. Let us acknowledge, then, 
if philosophy is too neglected and so 
profoundly despised in our days, it is 



On the Misty Mountain. 



823 



above all to those who have abused it 
that it ought to impute its disgrace. 
Christianity had made philosophy di- 
vine, as it made divine everything 
that it touched. It was a virgin as 
beautiful as she was pure whose 
earthly form was surrounded by a 
halo of heaven. Impure lovers of 
her human beauty have endeavored 
to force her to apostasy, in order to 
be able to make her the toy of their 
swollen pride. Alas ! they have only 
been too successful. With its divine 
beauty its very human form has 
passed away, and nothing is left in 
their hands save a disfigured corpse. 
But God has made sciences curable 
as well as nations. He only waits 
for us to lift up philosophy from 
where she lies, and restore her to life 
and dignity. 

Let us put an end to this senseless 
and fatal contest which during two 
centuries reason has waged against 
faith ; let us cease from using against 



God the most noble gift with which 
he has endowed our nature; let us 
cease to oppose light to light, natu- 
ral to supernatural truth ; let us de- 
sist from converting the ray which il- 
lumines our soul into a veil to hide 
us from the sun, and taking the 
waters of the stream made turbid by 
our pride to trouble the source. Let 
us, in a word, understand the true 
conditions of the liberty and great- 
ness of the creature : nothing of it- 
self, it can rise even to the infinite, to 
the condition of union with it, and of 
leaning upon its strength. 

Let reason understand this law 
which is so rational, and philosophy 
by that same law take back the 
glorious place which God marked 
out for it ; it will remount the throne 
whence its revolt hurled it, and ac- 
quire anew the right of dictating to 
the other sciences the eternal princi- 
ples and immutable laws on which 
the natural order depends. 



ON THE MISTY MOUNTAIN. 



CONCLUDED. 



ROUTE III. 



ONE does not feel particularly fes- 
tive starting out in the rain and the 
dim uncertain light of the hour be- 
fore day. The best thing to be done 
under these circumstances is to go 
to sleep, if you can sleep staging. 
The " front boot " affords a very 
comfortable berth, of which the lieu- 
tenant took possession. I conclu- 
ded to go inside, and endeavor to 
snatch the shaky sleep of a coach. 
I felt as though I could not keep 
awake if the road were picketed by 



hostile redskins. The ladies bless 
their kind souls ! sat close to make 
room. I sank into a corner, and was 
soon jolted into a sleep. 

I was aroused by a sudden stop- 
page. The day had dawned. I 
looked out of the stage, and saw 
a wagon overturned in the road. 
Seeing the conductor and the lieu- 
tenant alight, I alighted. The body 
of a man lay by the upturned wagon. 

" It's poor Tommy !" said the lieu- 
tenant. 



824 



On the Misty Mountain. 



" I thought the thievin', cowardly 
devils would git him at last," said 
the conductor. " Poor old Tommy ! 
It will be an awful blow for his wife 
and her six poor orphans." 

Yes ! there lay poor Tommy in the 
early sunlight dead, stripped, and 
scalped. His clothes had been torn 
from his body, which was gashed in 
every limb. Every gash, the lieu- 
tenant told me, was the sign of a dif- 
ferent tribe. The number on poor 
Tommy's body showed that repre- 
sentatives of seven tribes assisted at 
his murder. His throat was cut 
across the sign of the " Cut-throats." 
His arms and his thighs were cross- 
ed by deep transverse gashes. His 
abdomen was scored by two long 
gashes meeting in a point. The 
lieutenant told me the names of the 
tribes whose devilish signs-manual 
were written in the blood and on the 
flesh of poor " Tommy John," but I 
have memory only of one in the hor- 
rid sight then before me. 

The oxen lay with their throats 
cut and large pieces hacked out of 
their still quivering flanks. The In- 
dians had taken everything they 
could use. What they did not take, 
with savage malignity they had bro- 
ken into atoms or torn into shreds. 
A baby's crib and a child's chair 
which the poor fond father was tak- 
ing to his little ones on the " Sandy " 
were broken into very chips. 

We remained for some time gazing 
on this horrid sight. No one spoke. 
At length the lieutenant and sergeant 
decently covered the mangled body 
with a blanket. As we were already 
behind time, the conductor said he 
could not take back to the station 
the body of the murdered man. We 
concluded to remain by it until the 
arrival of the stage from the West, 
which was already due at that point. 

It was a sad vigil fortunately not 
a prolonged one. The stage from 



the West arrived. It had no pas- 
sengers. We wrapped poor Tommy 
in an additional blanket, and the' 
coach drove off. taking him away for 
ever on this earth from his " old lady 
and his half-dozen babies over on 
the Sandy." 

After having examined the " signs " 
about the place of the murder, the 
lieutenant and the conductor esti- 
mated the number of Indians en- 
gaged in the bloody deed at about 
fifty. Matters became critical. I 
could not stay inside the stage any- 
longer. I mounted the roof once 
more, feeling that if I were to be 
killed by Indians a fate to which 
I did not in the least aspire I want- 
ed to see whence my death-bolt 
came, and have plenty of room to 
die in. 

The party on top of the stage 
seemed quite cool, but by no means 
conversationally inclined. I could 
see their keen eyes continually mak- 
ing the circuit of the horizon, 
which traced around us a perfect 
circle unbroken by mound or shrub. 

We reached the Lone Hollow 
Station, a "swing," twenty-eight 
miles from Artesian Wells, without 
seeing any more signs of Indians. 
Here we found yesterday's Western- 
bound stage. It had started at the 
usual time, but when within a mile 
or so of Cypress Spring, an aban- 
doned intermediate or " swing " sta- 
tion, the driver saw the buildings in 
flames. With a glass he could dis- 
cern Indians about the burning 
structures. He had wisely conclud- 
ed to turn back to the station he had 
left and there we found him. He 
had no passengers. 

Lone Hollow Station was kept by 
a solitary stock-tender an old fellow 
who received " $75 per month and 
found," for offering himself as a per- 
petual candidate for immolation by 
his red brethren. 



On the Misty Mountain. 



825 



When we arrived at the Lone 
Hollow, I felt an unaccountable 
buoyancy and a rather humiliating 
craving for food animal or vegeta- 
ble. Fortunately, the old stock- 
trader had some biscuit and a large 
panful of dried apples. Tea was 
soon made, and I ate an immense 
meal. I was not alone in this, how- 
ever; the lieutenant, the conductor, 
in short everybody, ate voraciously, 
except the women, who still clung to 
the coach, and could not be pre- 
vailed upon to change their position 
for a moment. The men were all in 
high spirits, and there seemed to be 
no more trace of Tommy John's 
memory than if he had never been. 

" How do you find it here now ?" 
asked the lieutenant of the old stock- 
tender. " Pretty lonely ?" 

" Well," answered John, " rather. 

Before they sent away the hosses 

and tuk to mules, things wuz more 

sociable-like. I got fond of them 

hosses, and them hosses got fond of 

me. But a mule ain't got no feelin' 

for no-body. You can't trust 'em. 

They're too tricky. I didn't feel 

near so lonesome last year. I had a 

big yellow dog that was the best 

I companion I ever had. But he got 

! pisoned, by eatin' wolf-bait most 

j likely ; and now I ain't got nothin' 

j but two small pups, and they ain't 

[ no society for a man." 

" I should think not," said the 
lieutenant. 

With an abominable want of savoir- 
faire, I must strike in at this point 
, with the following: 

" Being alone here, are you not 
afraid of Indians ?" 

The question was one which evi- 

Idently disturbed the old fellow. I 

i saw it was a sore subject with him, 

I j and regretted having touched upon it. 

It was plain he wished to keep it out 

i of his thoughts. 

"The Injuns won't bother me," he 



said nervously and impatiently, as 
if hastily thrusting the skeleton out 
of sight. 

The " dug-out" has its skeleton- 
closet as well as the palace. 

" What do you do to pass the 
time, John ?" asked the conductor. 

" Well," replied John, I cook- 
look after the mules promenade up 
to the crest of the ridge. When all 
my work is done, and I want some- 
thing to keep my mind occupied, I 
mend old clothes." 

Our colloquy was cut short, by the 
warning cry of " All aboard !" 

Both coaches were ready to start. 
The conductors had concluded to 
unite their forces. This arrangement 
gave more room. We divided our 
party ; the lieutenant and I mounted 
the empty coach, which now took the 
lead, followed at about fifty yards 
by the other. 

The flash of good spirits which 
blazed momentarily at the station 
soon died out. Everybody seemed 
disposed to silence. We were all 
busy, straining our eyes, watching 
for Indians. 

Ten miles passed thus without 
other conversation than monosyllabic 
remarks. From the top of a " divide," 
we now looked upon the charred 
and smouldering relics of Cypress 
Station. We stopped and recon- 
noitred carefully before descending. 
There were no Indians to be seen. 
Having descending the Hollow in 
which the station had stood, we 
found the tracks very fresh. The 
lieutenant, the sergeant, and the 
conductor, attended by the writer 
(through curiosity rather than 
bravery), alighted and examined the 
ground. The Indians had destroyed 
everything they could lay hands on 
outside of the redoubts or " dug- 
outs." These they had not dared 
to enter. The rough " bunks " of 
undressed timber used by the guards 



826 



On the Misty Mountain. 



were untouched. In one was 
found a water-keg, and in the other 
a woollen blanket, left in the hurry 
of departure, but which no Indian 
could have seen and not appropriated 
to his own use and benefit. 

" The Indians are afraid of those 
' dug-outs ' even when unoccupied," 
said the lieutenant. " They do not 
like to go near them much less enter 
them. They fear a trap of some 
kind. An Indian always strives to 
keep his lines of retreat open ; he 
wants a good chance to run away. 
Indians have been known to watch 
about abandoned stations for days 
before daring to go within rifle-range 
of the 'dug-outs.'" 

Within four miles of Sandy Station, 
a spur sweeping semicircularly from 
a high bluff to the north nearly 
touches the road on that side, while 
the great bend of the Big Dryas- 
dust cuts into it on the south. The 
lowland to the west of the spur is 
entirely concealed from the viewof the 
traveller. This was a favorite place 
for Indian ambuscades, and we. ap- 
proached it with great caution. After 
crossing the bridge the driver said to 
the conductor: 

" Ain't that Mac's pony out yon- 
der?" 

" Let's see !" said the conductor, 
taking the field-glass and adjusting 
it. " Pull up a minute, Joe ! I can't 
see with this outfit while the coach 
is moving. Now, then ! By the 
law, sir, that there's Mac's pony ! He 
acts mighty strange, too. He is 
either lamed or hobbled. No ! by 
gracious ! he's not hobbled. He's 
saddled, too ! He's wounded, sir ! 
You may bet your bottom dollar !" 

" Drive over to him and see," said 
the lieutenant. 

The coaches were driven to where 
the pony was on the prairie, about a 
mile from the road. The lieutenant 
jumped out. 



" Gentlemen !" said he, " this is 
more Indian work." 

And so it was. The pony had one 
bullet-hole through the near fore- 
shoulder. A second ball had struck 
it on the lower jaw, and turned a por- 
tion of it with the teeth over on the 
tongue, which was held as in a vice. 
The poor animal seemed to suffer in- 
tensely. It was proposed to shoot it 
to end its suffering, but the proposi- 
tion was not agreed to. 

" Let's try and prise back his teeth 
so that he can eat, and he'll find his 
way back to the station." 

With a "king-bolt" for a lever, 
by the united efforts of four men the 
teeth with the portion of the lower 
jaw containing them were turned 
back, and resumed their natural posi- 
tion with a snap like that of a spring- 
lock. The poor animal, relieved, at 
once began grazing. 

" Come, gentlemen," said the driv- 
er, " get aboard, and let's make for 
the station. There's been trouble, 
sure." 

When we reached the road again 
the conductor of our coach said he 
heard a shot in the direction of the 
station. The lieutenant said he 
thought he had heard it, but it might 
be imagination, our thoughts being 
occupied by such anticipations. All 
doubts were soon at an end, how- 
ever, for we all heard the next shot, 
and then another and another. 

You get within half a mile of Sandy 
Station before you see it. As soon 
as we reached the point from which 
it is visible, we could see that a pretty 
lively fight was going on between 
the men at the station and a mount- 
ed party on the opposite bank of the 
stream. The attacking party were 
about fifty in number, all mounted, 
some having remounts which they 
led. They rode at full speed in sin- 
gle file, at intervals of some paces, 
in a circle whose circumference at 



On the Misty Mountain. 



827 



the point opposite to the station 
nearly reached the stream. Each 
horseman fired as he reached this 
point. The party at the station were 
well covered by the roof of a " dug- 
out" stable cut in the bank. The 
attacking party looked more like 
Mexicans than Indians. They wore 
wide- brimmed straw hats, and their 
body -covering was of a dark color. 

The conductor, however, pro- 
nounced them Indians. 

" They have," said he, " the broad- 
brimmed straw hats, uniform coats, 
and six-shooters given them by the 
Peace Commissioners last spring." 

The drivers now dashed on with 
all the speed of their animals, " to 
have a little piece of the fight," they 
said; but, no doubt, also to escape 
being cut off by a party who were 
evidently preparing to cross the creek 
for that purpose. Fortunately, 
though there was very little water in 
the stream, it was very wide, and full 
of soft, wet, treacherous sand. Half 
a dozen Indians galloped to the 
bank when they saw us, and rode up 
and down seeking for a crossing. 
One of them dashed in, and his pony 
soon went down to its flanks. Two 
snap-shots from our stage as we 
dashed by grazed him pretty closely. 
A third wounded him and caused 
him to abandon his pony. He was 
helped up the bank by the others, put 
on a spare pony, and, supported by an 
Indian on either side, was carried at 
full speed out of range. Luckily for 
the other Indians, they succeeded in 
doing this while we were getting out 
of the stage, which we did as quickly 
as possible after getting the ladies' 
coach under the lee of the stable. 

We were all anxious, of course, 
" to get a shot in the fight." I was 
in a state of intense excitement. I 
received a pretty lively shock from 
the unexpected discharge of my gun 
while I was in the act of cocking it. 



Its position was fortunately, how- 
ever, a vertical one. My friends, 
hearing the fire in the rear, swore, 
started, turned round, as if each and 
every one of them had received a 
bullet. Seeing the source of the fir- 
ing, and finding nobody hurt, they 
laughed, but insisted I should hence- 
forth move in advance, as they could 
not stand such firing as mine. After 
this little episode, I " got in " a cou- 
ple of shots ; I cannot say with what 
success, as for the life of me I 
could not tell where my bullets 
struck. 

There were now on our side ten 
men and a non-commissioned officer 
of regular infantry, two or three sta- 
tion men, and our reinforcement of 
two drivers, two conductors, the lieu- 
tenant, the sergeant, and myself. 
One or two good volleys from our 
party soon put an end to the circus 
performances of the " friendly In- 
dians." They scattered and disap- 
peared as if by magic. They sent us 
their P.P.C. compliments in some 
stray shots, the flash and smoke re- 
vealing whence they came, not an 
Indian being in sight. 

" Now, gentlemen !" said Mr. Bun- 
ter, the station-keeper, " I think we 
can take a bite o' dinner." 

The worthy landlady, Mrs. Bunter, 
furnished a notable instance of the 
susceptibility and indifference to ex- 
ternals of the lovers of the plains. 
She was known, I was informed, as 
the " widow," though her husband, a 
tall, broad-chested, intelligent-looking 
man of about thirty-three or thirty- 
four, was " alive," and probably capa- 
ble of a good deal of vigorous " kick- 
ing." The sobriquet had clung to 
the lady from her very general ap- 
pearance in the character indicated 
by it. Her present husband was the 
fourth or fifth occupant of the posi- 
sition. Notwithstanding the number 
of her husbands, her terms of wedded 



828 



On the Misty Mountain. 



bliss were very brief. Widowhood 
was the rule, connubial felicity the 
exception. Hence was it that, 
though married, she was still univers- 
ally spoken of as " the widow," and 
some not very intimate acquaint- 
ances already knew her as the Widow 
Bunter. The stalwart husband did 
not appear to see any unpleasant sig- 
nificance in the title given his fair 
spouse. He was jovial, and seemed 
contented. 

" The widow " did the service of 
the table, and very well served and 
supplied it was. A good antelope 
stew, with cabbage and potatoes 
(luxuries in the then uncultivated 
world of the plains), good bread and 
butter, pies, and an excellent cup of 
tea, made us all feel, as our driver ex- 
pressed it, " mighty good." Mrs. 
Bunter evidently made * pretensions 
to personal attractiveness. She was 
a woman of thirty perhaps past 
that proverbially captivating age 
very tall, lank, concave-chested, with 
great projecting teeth and bony, 
clawlike fingers. Her long, thin vis- 
age was thickly coated with rice 
powder (or flour), which stood out in 
bold ridges on her high cheek-bones, 
while pools of rouge shone in the 
cavities of her hollow cheeks. She 
had a clear, cold, steady eye, how- 
ever, which showed that, if she was 
devoid of heart, as was commonly 
supposed, she was not without a 
will of her own. In her time, she 
had created quite a flutter among 
the gentlemen of the stage-driving 
and stock-tending professions. The 
dread of relicts which embittered the 
maturer years of the elder Weller 
had no place in the bold bosoms of 
the " whips " of the desert. More 
than one man (not including her four 
dear departed) had died "for her 
sake." The shooting of one suitor 
only had the effect which hanging a 
British admiral formerly was sup- 



posed to have that of " encouraging 
the others." 

Swift and ample justice was done 
to the " squarest meal," as the dri- 
ver termed it, we had upon the road. 
A very few minutes sufficed us to 
make a hearty dinner, and we were 
seated in the porch, pipes were being 
filled and lighted, preparatory to a 
discussion of the various incidents 
of the fight, when the wounded pony 
we had seen upon the road limped 
into the station. His master had 
not been dead more than a few 
hours, but he was completely forgot- 
ten until the arrival of his wounded 
horse brought him to mind again. 
So ordinary an event was the killing 
of a man by Indians, at that time, 
on the Misty Mountain. 

" Where's Mac ?" asked the dri- 
ver. 

" In yonder," answered our host, 
nodding toward the granary 

Hurt ?" 

Killed." 

" How ?" 

" The fust we knew there wuz In- 
juns around wuz when Mac was 
attacked. He rode down to the 
Butte to bring in a horse from the 
herd. We heard shootin' down that 
way. Jim and I and the blacksmith 
took our arms and rode toward the 
firin'. When we got near the Butte, 
we seen three our four Injuns circlin' 
round Mac, whose pony was wound- 
ed, firin' at him from all directions. 
I think he wuz already dead when 
we first seen him. We made all the 
haste we could, and druv them from 
the body, but we wuz too late to 
stop 'em from playin' some o' their 
usual tricks. We got the body on to 
one of the horses, and started back 
for the station at an easy pace, driv- 
in' in the loose stock afore us. When 
we'd come within about three-quar- 
ters of a mile of the station, we seen 
the soldiers runnin' towards us with 



On the Misty Mountain. 



829 



their muskets in their hands and 
makin' signs to us. I looked back 
and seen the durned Injuns with 
twenty or thirty more comin' for us. 
I hollered to Jim and the smith to 
light out for the station. We sepa- 
rated, to give the soldiers a chance 
to git in their fire on 'em, which 
they did. This staggered 'em some- 
what and saved us. They got two 
of our animals, though !" 

Some one proposed going to the 
granary to look at poor Mac's re- 
mains. The body lay among corn- 
sacks and miscellaneous stores. Mac 
was a tall, well-shaped young fellow 
of twenty-three or twenty-four. He 
had evidently made the best fight he 
could. When he left the station, his 
revolver had but two loads. He 
fired them both at his savage foes. 
Bunter said, had it not been for the 
wounding of his pony, " the Indians 
would not have got him." 

The Indians had raised Mac's 
entire scalp, slitting it through the 
centre and turning it down over his 
face. This sight was not beheld un- 
moved by even the most hardened 
frontierman in the party. Had one 
of those worthy and humane gentle- 
men, the Peace Commissioners, un- 
fortunately dropped in at that mo- 
ment, I fear he might have been the 
recipient of much personal indignity, 
if not of serious bodily harm. The 
presence of a regular officer with the 
station-guard would have saved him 
from falling a martyr to his huma- 
nitarian convictions. Without the 
soldiers he might even attain the 
crown of martyrdom. 

" As we're here, boys," said the 
driver, with a view to economy of 
time, " let's fix him out like a Chris- 
tian." 

Rough in speech, yet tender in 
action, they set to work to make 
ready poor Mac's remains for the 
grave. His scalp was returned to 



its proper place and sewed together, 
his hair combed, and his blood-stain- 
ed face cleansed of its gory marks. 
He was shrouded in a pair of soldier's 
drawers and an under-shirt. Several 
empty chests in the room were 
measured, but proved too short for a 
coffin. A large arms-chest was 
furnished by the soldiers, which, with 
a slight addition to its length, sup- 
plied the improvised bier on which 
we laid " poor Mac." Scarcely had 
these sad offices been performed 
when the sentinel without shouted : 

" Indians in sight !" 

There was a rush for the outside. 
Every man picked up his gun. 
With the glass the Indians could be 
seen crossing the stream near where 
they had murdered MacSorley. The 
party was increased to a hundred and 
fifty or two hundred. They moved 
to the top of the bluff, and remained 
there for some time, apparently 
holding a council as to their future 
movements. The lieutenant, after 
instructing the commander of the 
station-guard to wake him as soon 
as the Indians showed a disposition 
to move, spread out his blankets, lay 
down, and fell asleep over a novel. 
The driver and conductor followed 
his example ; and the latter was soon 
in the arms of Morpheus. But I 
could not sleep. I was too much 
excited by the unusual events I had 
witnessed during the past twenty- 
four hours. So I fraternized with the 
soldiers of the guard, and listened to 
their opinions on Indian matters, and 
their tales of Indian adventure. 

About sunset the Indians began to 
move. Unanimity of action was not 
the result of their council; they 
separated into two parties, one of 
which went due east, the other to 
the northwest, passing in rear of the 
station, but at the respectful distance 
of three or four miles from it. 

Night fell at last. Sentinels hav- 



830 



On the Misty Mountain. 



ing been properly posted, all who 
were not on guard, except the lieu- 
tenant and the writer, went to bed, 
or, rather, to a blanket on the 
floor. I sat up to write some letters 
by a dirty, sputtering candle on a 
lame, old table, the only furniture in 
the room, except a greasy, rickety 
chair. The lieutenant read his novel 
by the better light of a civilized 
candle which, knowing the customs 
of the region, he had had the good 
sense to bring with him. 

The savage stillness of night on 
the plains fell upon the place. No 
sound was heard save the occasional 
wailing of the hungry wolves, that 
thronged around the barn where the 
dead man lay. 

" Confound that horrible noise !" 
said the lieutenant, at last jumping 
up and shutting his novel with a 
bang. " It sets my teeth on edge, 
and rasps every nerve in my body. 
Let us go out and smoke in the open 
air before turning in i" 
v We lighted our pipes and went 
forth, turning our steps toward the 
barn. Half a dozen wolves sat 
around the building, looking like pro- 
fessional mourners, and moaning 
their hunger-melancholy moans. We 
were close to them before they would 
move. One of them was so hunger- 
bold that he stood at bay for a mo- 
ment, and the lieutenant thought it 
necessary to draw his pistol and cock 
it. The click was enough for the 
wolf, who dashed off at once, growl- 
ing with head still turned towards us, 
and teeth shining in a parting snarl. 
After smoking we proceeded upstairs, 
to a cold, cheerless, unfurnished room, 
and betook us to our blankets. The 
wind howled dismally through the 
unglazed sashes. We sought posi- 
tions the least exposed to cross- 
draughts. Spreading our blankets 
on the floor, unswept except by the 
wind, we lay down to such rest as 



excitement, fatigue, and youth can 
bring. 

We did not rise so early next 
morning as might be supposed from 
a calm consideration of our sleeping 
accommodations. We were up in 
time for breakfast, however. It was a 
good one, and we enjoyed it. After its 
conclusion arrangements were made 
for the burial of MacSorley. It was 
decided that he should be buried 
on the top of a high mound within 
about a thousand yards of the station. 

The funeral cortege was neithej 
large nor imposing. It consisted of 
Mr. Bunter, two or three stage dri- 
vers and stock-tenders, the lieuten- 
ant, the sergeant, and the writer. 
The guards, excepting those neces- 
sary to protect the sfation, Avere out, 
posted around on commanding emi- 
nences to prevent a surprise. 

The grave was already dug. The 
rough substitute for a coffin, drawn 
to the place of interment on a hay- 
rack, was covered with its earthy bed 
as tenderly as possible. 

Bunter had asked the lieutenant to 
read prayers at the grave; and the 
latter had consented. But there was 
no prayer-book to be found at the 
station. Bunter requested the lieu- 
tenant to improvise a prayer for the 
dead, when one of the men began 
shovelling the earth into the grave. 

" Hold on, Jack !" said Bunter, 
"the lieutenant's goin' to say a 
prayer." 

Jack " held on," looking rather as- 
tonished at this unusual delay. 

The lieutenant threw earth upon 
the coffin, repeating, with a voice full 
of emotion, such devotional passages, 
appropriate to the occasion, as oc- 
curred to him, ending with the simple 
but all-including words of the church : 
" May God have mercy on his 
soul !" 

Jack, supposing it unnecessary to 
" hold on " any longer, commenced 



On the Misty Mountain. 



831 



pitching in the clay with the rather 
out-of-place energy usually displayed 
in the performance of that last 
duty. 

" Hold on, Jack !" cried Mr. Bun- 
ter a second time, " the lieutenant 
ain't through yet." And Jack unwill- 
ingly ceased his labors for awhile. 

" I have finished," said the lieuten- 
ant. " I am but a poor hand at public 
praying; but if I spoke for an hour 
it would amount to no more than 
what I have said." 

" We don't know whose turn it 



may be next," said a young driver, 
feeling it proper to indulge in the 
hackneyed morality of such occa- 
sions words given forth, perhaps, as 
mere conversational small change; 
but their truth was made terribly 
manifest shortly after. It was the 
young driver's turn next. A month 
had not elapsed before he was killed 
and scalped within a mile of the 
station. When I passed there at a 
later period, they recalled what he 
had said, and showed me his grave 
by the side of MacSorley's. 



ROUTE IV. 



The Big Sandy Station soon be- 
came terribly dull. I felt I would 
rather risk being scalped than stay 
there any longer. Learning that 
some emigrants with their families, two 
wagons, etc., were about to push 
westward, and that the lieutenant 
had determined to go to the next 
station with them, though they set 
out against his advice, I concluded 
to go on with him. 

We made an early start next morn- 
ing. We had two government wa- 
gons and some half a dozen men 
besides the emigrant contingent. 
When we had reached a point about 
a mile and a half from Big Sandy 
Station, the sergeant said to the lieu- 
tenant in a low tone : 

" Lieutenant, there are Indians on 
that hill in front of us." 

The hill was about fifteen hundred 
yards distant. The lieutenant called 
a halt, and examined the redskins 
through a field-glass. 

" They are Indians," he said, " and 
in pretty strong force," at the same 
time handing me the glass. 

The hillside literally swarmed with 
mounted Indians, moving incessant- 
ly, like ants crawling up and down 
an ant-hill. The dust of two parties 
each about fifty strong, judging 



by that indication could be seen 
rising from a ravine which ran along 
the base of the hill and across the 
road over which lay our route. It 
was also noticed that the dust afore- 
said ceased at the road. 

The move was evident. They lay in 
ambuscade to capture us. We got 
out our arms, but eight or nine 
weapons in all, the emigrants being 
unarmed, and began withdrawing 
slowly to Big Sandy. 

The children wept and screamed. 
The women howled that they would 
be taken by the Indians. They 
scolded and lamented by turns. The 
men said nothing. They were not in a 
talking mood, nor was anybody just 
then except the ladies. We effect- 
ed our retreat in good order, the un- 
armed men driving the teams, the 
armed protecting " the movement." 
Some Indians followed us, just out 
of range, and one whom I shall al- 
ways see in my mind's eye, on a 
white pony, followed on at the same 
distance until we reached Big Sandy 
Station once more. 

The next day we again got tired 
of smoking, talking, and reading 
novels. The lieutenant succeeded in 
getting a coach, and he and I with 
three men and the sergeant, all 



832 



On the Misty Mountain. 



armed this time, started once more 
for Welcome Spring Station the 
next on our route West. 

We had a good driver and a splen- 
did team of mules. Arrived at about 
six miles west of Big Sandy, we saw 
some Indians, twelve or fifteen, com- 
ing toward us from a distance. A 
judicious use of mule power soon 
put them out of sight. We had no 
further trouble until we came within 
five or six miles of Welcome Station. 
There, after we had almost entirely 
dismissed Indian dangers from our 
minds, we suddenly discovered three 
parties in uncomfortably close prox- 
imity. They were coming towards 
us at a good round pace. Two of 
the parties numbered about fifty 
each, the third about half that num- 
ber. The last mentioned was evi- 
dently trying to cut us off from the 
station, while the other two were clos- 
ing in upon us from the right and 
left. 

The curtains were thrown up. 
The coach bristled with needle-guns 
on every side. 

" Now GO IT," said the lieutenant. 

And we went it ! 

" If the wheels don't take fire," 
said the driver tremulously, "we 
may make it !" 

On we went! good Springfield 
breech-loaders, loaded and cocked, 
thrust out behind, before, and on each 
side of the coach. On came the In- 
dians! Rather chary, however, of 
the breech-loaders, but looking for 
something to turn up. Their sudden 
dash had failed. There was now the 
chance of our being cut off by the 
third party. The driver plied whip 
and voice. The mules almost flew 
to gain the turning-point. 

We passed the important point 
without breaking anything. Then 
our mules were brought down to a 
less expeditious, though by no means 
contemptible pace. The Indians 



slackened their speed and gave uj 
the job. They still followed us 
however, at a respectful distance 
until we came in sight of the station 

Welcome Spring Station was ; 
welcome station to us. I felt s< 
happy that I jumped out througl 
the coach window, disdaining th 
commonplace convenience of a dooi 
What appetites we had ! What ; 
dinner we ate ! And what a gloriou 
sleep we had on some corn-sacks ii 
the stable ! 

Our route henceforth lay througl 
a more settled country. No furthe 
danger from Indians was to be fear 
ed. We enjoyed the ride. Th 
sight of mountains in the distance 
and soon, of tall pines all around us 
had a cheering influence on me 
The lieutenant, who was in the ven 
best humor, said he was so much ac 
customed to life on the plains tha 
he had acquired a dislike to woodei 
countries. Even when on leave o 
absence in the East, where there wa 
not the ghost of an .Indian to b 
feared, he experienced a feeling o 
insecurity when in woodland. H 
wanted to have plenty of elbou 
room, he said, and to see all aroun 
him for miles. 

We reached Sierra City withoi 
further incident next morning. Th 
lieutenant and I parted, with man 
kind wishes on both sides and hope 
of meeting again. 

I have not since met my militar 
friend. I have even forgotten h 
name. My memory never wz 
much better than a waste, and nam< 
were the very last things that woul 
take root in it. I hope yet to me< 
my old Misty Mountain companior 
When I do, may he be, at least, 
major! 

I returned over the same routi 
All was then quiet on the Mist 
Mountain. The only change I sa~ 
was that two more graves had bee 



Orleans and its Clergy. 



833 



made by the side of MacSorley's, on 
the high mound near the Big Sandy 
" killed by Indians." 

Before I made my Misty Moun- 
tain trip, I had a boy's usual desire 
for a soldier's life. That trip was 
the turning-point in my desires. I 
have "seen Indians" since, and in 
my summer vacations have occa- 
sionally accompanied scouting par- 
ties against the hostile tribes. My 
further experience completed the 
change in my tastes. The life of a 
soldier on the frontier has no charms 
for me. Fighting Indians is far 



harder work than fighting a civilized 
foe. It is continued privation, suf- 
fering, and danger. Even success, 
so difficult of achievement in this 
species of warfare, is generally re- 
paid, not by glory, but by mis- 
representation and ingratitude. 

I am content with my old desk in 
the dingy old office in the leathery 
old Swamp. The smell of the leather 
is more grateful to me than the 
purest of prairie breezes, which, when 
it plays with your locks, is unplea- 
santly suggestive, to those acquainted 
with the usages of Indian warfare. 



ORLEANS AND ITS CLERGY. 



IN tne outskirts of Orleans, be- 
ween the roads leading to Paris and 
Chartres, stands an antique chapel 
nder the invocation of Notre Dame 
es Aydes the remains of a former 
ospital. Thousands of pilgrims 
ave been here to pray, from age to 
ge : among them the last of the 
Valois, the indolent Henry III. A 
mall statue of Our Lady of Aid on 
ne of the gables seems to welcome 
md bless the traveller. To this sa- 
:red spot, that for ages had known 
10 other sound but the voice of 
>rayer and praise, and no other 
moke but that of holy incense, came 
le din of war and the smoke of 
:annon. Around this asylum of 
>eace took place one of the most 
irilling scenes of the late war. The 
lattalion of foreign legions held the 
ilace for a time under a frightful 
annonading on the part of the Prus- 
ian forces. M. Arago, the comman- 
der, perished gloriously on the field 
VOL. xv. 53 * 



of battle. The thirteen hundred 
men under him were of all races and 
climes. The Austrian mingled with 
the Italian; the negro of the desert 
with the Polish exile; the Chinese 
with the Servian prince. Of these, 
six hundred were killed or wounded ; 
three hundred made prisoners; the 
remainder escaped to recommence 
the combat elsewhere.- The Ger- 
mans pressed on, leaving behind 
them the flaming houses of the fau- 
bourgs to record their triumph. 
They pushed into the very heart of 
the city to the statue of Joan of 
Arc, which must have wept out its 
very heart of stone at its powerless- 
ness to drive out this new invader 
to the steps of the church where the 
holy maid once worshipped, or, if not 
the same, to one on the same spot, 
for the ancient church of Ste. Croix 
was destroyed by those Brise-Mou- 
tiers, the Calvinists, and rebuilt by 
Henry IV. 



834 



Orleans and its Clergy. 



Among the inhabitants of Orleans, 
one man of sacred character and Eu- 
ropean reputation stands out promi- 
nently at the time of this invasion 
the illustrious Bishop Dupanloup. 
This eminent prelate has had the 
unique privilege of displaying his elo- 
quence before a very unusual variety 
of audiences at the Sorbonne, the 
French Academy, the Palais de Jus- 
tice, the National Assemblies, the 
pulpit of Notre Dame de Paris, and 
the Council of the Vatican. He has 
also pleaded the cause of weakness, 
justice, and patriotism before an arro- 
gant conqueror. In this time of uni- 
versal alarm, the Bishop of Orleans 
proved himself a worthy successor of 
the bishops in the times of the invasions 
of the barbarians, around whom gath- 
ered the multitude with a feeling of 
security. Wherever there was se- 
verity to be tempered, crime to be 
denounced, wounded to be rescued, 
or condemned to be saved, he was 
brought to interpose. The panic- 
struck women from the smoking 
ruins of Chateaudun betook them- 
selves to him. He was a refuge 
when every other hope failed. The 
august function of Defensor Civitatis, 
Defender of the City, which the popu- 
lar voice once bestowed on the bish- 
ops, had come down from the ages of 
faith. St. Agnan's holy prayers are 
said to have delivered Orleans from 
/ Attila, who besieged it in the fifth 
century. Hence, every bishop of 
Orleans, when he took possession of 
his see, enjoyed for ages the privilege 
of delivering all prisoners. When 
the new bishop approached the city, 
all the prisoners came out in proces- 
sion with ropes around their necks, 
and knelt before him to implore re- 
lease. Then they went back to the 
city, and heard Mass in the church 
of St. Yves. At a later hour they as- 
sembled in the court of the eveche 
to listen to an address from the bish- 



op, who, from a window, exhorted 
them to atone for their previous mis- 
deeds by their penitential lives. He 
then gave them his blessing, a dinner 
was provided for them, after which 
they all went where they pleased. 
This was only one of the results of 
the moral power of the first bishop 
of the country. What the popular 
voice at first bestowed, afterwards 
merged into political power when the 
time of peril was past, and the bur- 
den accepted as a possible duty to 
their flock became a source of re- 
proach, as if it were usurped. 

Bishop Dupanloup was worthy the 
old title Defensor Civitatis. He fill- 
ed the office simply and generously, 
with a devotedness nothing could ex- 
haust and a firmness nothing could 
bend. At the second occupation of 
Orleans, when the Prussians had re- 
placed the Bavarians, the kind of 
Truce of God that naturally estab- 
lished itself around the servant of the 
Most High was done away with. 
The bishop was an object of severity 
in his turn ; he was imprisoned in a 
corner of his own palace and strictly 
guarded. Prince Frederick Charles 
was impolitic. He should have been 
mindful of a great captain of loftier 
genius than his Prince Eugene, 
whom history honors for honoring 
Fenelon at Cambrai. 

In speaking of the Bishop of Or- 
leans, we must not forget the priests 
that everywhere, in town as well as 
hamlet, walked in his noble footsteps. 
In the engagements at Notre Dame 
des Aydes and Coulmiers, as well as 
elsewhere, the priests, both cure and 
vicar, were at their posts, going to 
and fro among the wounded, with 
hands not raised with murderous 
weapons, but uplifted to bless; not 
inflicting death, but braving it, and 
consoling the dying. 

The Moniteur Officiel at Berlin has 
reproached the clergy of Orleans for 



Orleans and its Clergy. 



835 



what is really their glory. " At the 
approach of our troops," says the 
Prussian journal, " the solitary laborer 
threw down his spade, seized his 
musket on the ground beside him. 
and fired. Every day such oppo- 
nents were brought to headquarters 
and shot according to martial law. 
Priests were often brought with them 
who had abetted or been actors in 
some instance of bold resistance." 

Such was the touching emulation 
of all classes in rallying to defence 
against the invader. 

In the Armee du Nord, General 
Faidherbe also testifies to the same 
devotedness on the part of the clergy, 
and mentions with special gratitude 
the bold stand of the Archbishop of 
Cambrai, the Bishop of Arras, the 
hospital sisters at Corbie, and the 
clergy generally. He especially 
holds up one brave Dominican monk 
for admiration doubtless a disciple 
of Lacordaire, or one of the com- 
panions of the Martyrs of Arcueil 
the Pere Mercier, " who received 
four wounds at the battle of Amiens, 
where he displayed remarkable cour- 
age." 

The bravery and patriotism of the 
priesthood is no new thing. How 
constantly were they evinced during 
the middle ages ! If their sacred 
character did not allow them to par- 
ticipate actively in the fray, they 
were there to animate and encourage, 
and especially to succor the dying. 
Among a thousand instances, we 
read that, at the battle of Neville's 
Cross, the Prior of Durham, Eng- 
land, and his monks, took the sa- 
cred banner of St. Cuthbert, and re- 
paired to a hillock in sight of both 
armies, hoisted it, knelt around it, 
and prayed. Other brethren from 



the belfry of the cathedral sang 
hymns of praise and triumph, which 
were heard afar off in a most miracu- 
lous manner. 

Yes : Orleans has reason to be 
proud of its clergy, with its heredita- 
ry spirit. " The heart of France " 
has not lost its ancient courage. The 
service its people rendered the crown 
in ancient times induced Louis XI. 
to give it as its arms an open heart, 
showing the lilies of France within. 
Above this blason is the quatrain 

" Orleans, ville de renom, 
De haul pris, de grand' excellence, 
Eut pour blazon le cceur de France 
De Loueys, onzieme du nom." 

And another poet has said : 

" Non potuit regni caput esse Aurelia magni 
Ergo quod superest, corque, animusque fuit" 

Orleans being so-called from the 
Emperor Aurelian, who enlarged the 
city towards the end of the third 
century, and gave it the name of 
Aurelianum, from which Aurliens, 
and finally Orleans. 

Perhaps Orleanais has had the 
glorious privilege of suffering more 
than any other part of France for its 
country. It has been a battle-field on 
which some of the most famous per- 
sonages in history have figured. 
Cassar ran over the country as a con- 
queror ; Attila withdrew from it con- 
quered and humiliated ; here the 
Maid of Orleans delivered France; 
here Francis de Guise died after forc- 
ing Charles V. to give up Metz ; and 
here Turenne saved the country 
threatened by the Fronde. For 
two centuries the valley of the Loire 
had not been disturbed by the noise 
of arms, but Orleans, Coulmiers, 
Villepion, etc., now testify how the 
open heart of France has again bled 
and suffered. 



836 



Use and Abuse of the Stage. 



USE AND ABUSE OF THE STAGE. 



WE are a very, theatrical people. 
The old unbending Puritan stuff has 
almost died out amongst us ; whether 
for better or worse, such is the fact. 
If a Brutus appeared in our midst to- 
day, he would be dubbed a " rowdy "; 
a Cato, a decided bore. Where we 
would not turn to look at them, we 
rush pell-mell to catch the first 
glimpse of a prince ; even a lord finds 
a following here that must rather sur- 
prise him in a nation where he only 
expected to meet with the stern vir- 
tues of republicanism. We crowd 
in the same way to see a new " star " 
in the theatrical firmament, whether 
that star's radiance consist in a melo- 
dious voice, or a dexterous use of 
the limbs, or a display of physical 
charms, so artistically concealed that 
not one of them is missed. So we 
throng to hear a great preacher or a 
loud one, provided he is "puffed" 
enough. Our politics have degener- 
ated into a money-making concern ; 
our religion, almost to a fashion. As it 
was a fashion in the old days when 
the Pharisee went up to the temple 
to pray, and his prayer consisted in 
thanking God that he was so far 
above the poor publican, together 
with a grand recital of his fastings 
and self-flagellations, and alms given 
to the poor; as it was a fashion' 
later on, in the time of the Puritans 
and the Scotch under right John 
Knox, as Carlyle would call his 
hero when the godly sat out their 
two hours' sermon, and at the end 
applauded, and begged the preacher 
to continue, and sat them grimly a 
two hours more; going their way, 
comforted at heart, to murder Cava- 
lier and Catholic, and all who wore 



the mark of the beast and the color 
of the scarlet woman. 

We have touched on religion, for 
it is inwoven with our theme, the 
theatre, which sprang from religion, 
and, could it be made to preach as it 
has done, would, without lack of 
amusement or attraction, become a 
house of prayer, and not, as it now is, 
a home of corruption. The Greeks 
used it for a twofold purpose: to 
lash vice or as a political weapon. 
And nothing pierced so fatally the 
thick hide of the low demagogue, 
Cleon, as the barbed shafts of Aristo- 
phanes, scattered with all the great 
master's skill among the keen-witted 
and appreciative Athenians. We see 
a similar instance to-day in the at- 
tack by one of the leaders of the 
modern French drama on a much 
greater man than Cleon. The Raba- 
gas of Sardou has tended to demoral- 
ize Gambetta more than the holo- 
caust he sacrificed, in his unwise and 
inopportune zeal, to the glory of 
France, as he would claim; in reality 
to its ruin. It has done more to 
lower him in the eyes of the people 
than the terrible logic of events. 
Why have not we a man to do the 
like for the rings and the political 
immorality that inundates us ; from 
which we are only just beginning to 
emerge, without the certainty of not 
sinking beneath it again ? 

The stage with the Greeks was, 
moreover, a preacher. It held up 
lofty thoughts in language worthy of 
them. It preached the virtue of self- 
sacrifice and its nobleness in tones 
that could not fail to be heard. It 
did not mock the fals? with puny 
laughter and weak travestie; but 



Use and Abuse of the Stage. 



laid it bare in all its ugliness, cut- 
ting deep into it and round about it, 
probing the soil that it grew in, pierc- 
ing its thick rind with a weapon 
whose wound was death. And there 
stands out that wonderful play of 'the 
Prometheus Vinctus : the bold* story 
of the god-born man, who, with the 
insight of the god-nature that was 
in him, saw the misery of his breth- 
ren, and dared to filch the sacred 
fire from heaven that he might lift 
them up from their degradation ; who 
suffered on an eternity of woe, with 
the relentless bird ever gnawing at 
his vitals; and, as the curtain fell 
upon the convulsion of nature, fore- 
told, in words indeed prophetic, the 
fall of Jove and of his false heaven. 
We read and stand amazed ; wonder- 
ing, now at the grace, now at the 
terrible power of the words ; pitying 
the great and tameless soul enduring 
an agony unspeakable for his kind, 
chained there to the bare rock with 
the pitiless heavens above him, the 
starry-curtained night, and the ever- 
dimpling ocean smiling beneath him. 
We see Calvary and the Saviour 
there ; and marvel at the boldness 
of the conception, the magnificence ' 
and prophetic truth of its carrying 
out. From this story of a pagan 
Greek, told to pagans before Christ 
came into the world, bearing the fire 
that he willed only to be kindled, we 
turn with shame and sickness at 
heart to the things of this day, of this 
era of civilization and enlightenment. 

But first let us trace the course of 
the drama when it fell into Christian 
hands. 

That fierce Northern blast which 
overthrew for ever the gorgeous fabric 
of the Roman Empire, withered and 
blighted everything that could be 
called intellectual or refined. The 
civilization, the literature, the very 
language of Greece and Rome, were 
extinguished, and the world had to 



begin its intellectual schooling anew. 
Then the church stepped in, and 
moulded those rough elements into a 
nobler race than that which had been 
swept away. The Roman had been 
taught to live for the state; the 
Christian was taught to live for 
Christ. The church filled their rug- 
ged minds with great ideas and 
noble purposes; she laid the foun- 
dation of a great faith, and on that 
built up everything. A belief in one 
Supreme God, in eternal joy for the 
good, eternal pain for the wicked: 
such was the doctrine, easily learned, 
easily understood, which she un- 
ceasingly poured into their untutored 
minds. It was a hard task. There 
was no press then ; there were no 
newspapers, no telegraph wires flash- 
ing thought from world to world in 
less time than it takes to conceive it. 
Men were taught by word of mouth. 
And when we contemplate the mag- 
nitude of the work the education 
and con version of an illiterate world 
we can only wonder at its success, 
and see therein the finger of God, 
guiding and directing his daughter 
the one stumbling-block to the march 
of reason, according to our modern 
notions. 

Then came up those quaint old 
miracle plays, performed at fairs and 
festivals, and sometimes even in the 
cathedrals and churches. They 
clothed the mysteries of religion in 
simple language, well adapted for 
simple minds, and brought home to 
the crowds assembled great and im- 
pressive truths. A relic of them to- 
day attracts the fashionable world, 
ennuyJ of the opera, the conven- 
tional stage, and an existence weary 
of itself and its emptiness. It takes 
its opera-glasses and scent-bottles 
and flirtation to the rude rocks of the 
Tyrol to behold the Ammergau Pas- 
sion Play. It is a novelty. We 
wonder that no enterprising manager 



838 



Use and Abuse of the Stage. 



has offered fabulous sums to bring 
the performers out here to us. They 
would certainly " draw." To be 
sure, he could scarcely transport the 
Tyrol, but then the scene-painter and 
machinist could manage that. If 
the butterflies of fashion can find 
motive enough to brave the terrors 
of sea-sickness and flit out thither to 
behold a novelty, can sit it out with- 
out a yawn, and be struck by the 
reverence of the performance and its 
effect on the grave mountaineers, 
surely something far less taxing on 
our conventional notions, but bearing 
the germ of a great truth within it, 
might send the thousands who flock 
nightly to our theatres home with a 
thought in their heads and a more 
earnest feeling in their hearts. 

The stage grew with the growth 
of time and the spread of education, 
till, at the close of the sixteenth cen- 
tury, we find it at its zenith in Spain 
and in England. The French and 
Italians never possessed a great 
stage a stage, that is, for all time and 
all nations ; the German is of recent 
growth. At this point the stage was 
great; was in the broad sense moral, 
elevating, high. It towered above 
men, above the times; it educated 
while it attracted them. In plot, in 
action, in delineation of character, in 
thrilling scenes and happy concep- 
tions, the plays of the sixteenth cen- 
tury are unrivalled, while their lan- 
guage makes of them classics. Dr. 
Arnold of Rugby proposed that the 
English classics should be made one 
of the principal studies of boys at 
school. We wonder what benefit 
boys would derive from the study of 
the trash we listen to and applaud in 
these days whether it would be bet- 
ter calculated to improve their mor- 
als than a close application to the 
pages of the Newgate Calendar or the 
columns of the Police News f 

From that period the course of 



the stage has been a downward one 
passing from bad to worse, till it has 
been our fortune, with a solitary ex- 
ception here and there, to light upon 
the worst ; for the plays of the time 
of Charles II., bad as they are and 
revolting, are safer from their very 
outspokenness than the gilded licen- 
tiousness that allures us. We rival 
them in obscenity, as we fall im- 
measurably below them in wit. The 
reason of this decline, at a time when 
the discovery of the art of printing 
gave a hew impetus to the spread of 
education, is foreign to our present 
purpose. With a glance at the past, 
at what the theatre was, and what it 
might become, we turn to that which 
immediately concerns us, the pres- 
ent : what the theatre now is, and 
why restricting our remarks princi- 
pally to New York. 

Now the dramatic season has just 
drawn to a close,* so it is a fair time 
to indulge in a retrospect. We believe 
it has been on the whole what mana- 
gers might term a fairly good season ; 
that is, people have gone to the thea- 
tres, paid their money, and endorsed, 
by their presence and applause, the 
' various species of entertainments 
which the managers, in their capacity 
of public caterers, have provided, for 
them. 

Our question is, What have we 
endorsed? What have been the the- 
atrical " hits " of the season ? What 
are the plays which have brought 
crowds to the theatre, money to the 
manager, and delight to the public at 
large ? The answer, looked at sober- 
ly and honestly, is startling. 

With the exception of the Shake- 
spearian and a few other classical 
plays at one of the theatres, some 
transitory pieces got up occasionally 
for " stars," and French adaptations, 
which we shall refer to after, we have 
not had a single play worthy of the 

* At the time of writing this article. 



Use and Abuse of the Stage. 



839 



name, worthy of the actors who per- 
formed them, worthy, we sincerely 
hope, of the audiences who witnessed 
them. 

It may be as well to explain that 
by actors we mean ladies and gentle- 
men who are equal to the very diffi- 
cult position they have taken upon 
themselves ; who can speak pure 
English in a manner we can all un- 
derstand a slight qualification seem- 
ingly, yet in > these days one of the 
rarest ; who can portray emotions 
with fidelity ; who can forget, first of 
all, themselves; secondly, the audi- 
ence, in the character they have as- 
sumed. We do not mean those with 
whom vulgarity passes for wit, coarse- 
ness for humor, or a liberal display 
of the person for all that is needed. 
The name of the latter class is le- 
gion ; the individuals who compose 
the former, exclusive of passing stars, 
might be almost counted on our 
fingers. 

And now for the performances we 
have endorsed. The great attrac- 
tions, the " hits " of the season, be- 
yond Humpty Dumpty, which is 
no play at all, but a display of the 
antics of the cleverest mime who 
has appeared on our stage, have 
been the Black Crook and Lalla 
Rookh. These two pieces drew 
the largest crowds for the longest 
time ; one of them is an old favor- 
ite, and vies with Humpty Dump- 
ty in duration ; the other, but for 
its untimely end by fire, was as like- 
ly to become so, and may yet, for all 
we know to the contrary. We wish 
to place this well before the public ; 
the chief theatrical attractions in 
New York, the commercial capital 
of our Republic and the New World, 
during the past year, have been 
Humpty Dumpty, the Black Crook, 
and Lalla Rookh ! 

What are these two latter things ? 
Are they plays ? Is there any acting 



in them at all ? Is there a single 
good thought inculcated, good feel- 
ing stirred, good end attained by 
their presentation ? Are they fit to 
place before a public composed of 
ladies and gentlemen, of virtuous 
men and women, above all before the 
young, the pleasure-seekers, of both 
sexes ? 

To all these questions we answer 
an emphatic no ; and we are certain 
that the managers who got them up 
would agree with us. Yet all New 
York speaking generally crowded 
to see them. The expense in pro- 
ducing them was enormous. Actress- 
es, scenery, dresses, machinery, were 
purchased and brought from over the 
sea ; and all for what ? A display of 
brilliant costumes, or rather an absence 
of them; crowds of girls set in array, 
and posturing so as to bring out every 
turn and play of the limbs. Through- 
out it was simply a parade of indecen- 
cy artistically placed upon the stage, 
with garish lights and intoxicating 
music to quicken the senses and in- 
flame the passions. The very adver- 
tisements in the streets and in the 
public press set forth as their crown- 
ing attraction the crowds of " ladies " 
and their scanty raiment. 

How women with any pretensions 
to modesty could sit out such an ex- 
hibition without a blush how men 
could take women for whom they had 
any respect to witness it, are things 
we cannot understand. That such 
things can succeed at all, can suc- 
ceed so well, can beat everything 
else from the field, among us, speaks 
ill for us ; speaks ill for our taste, our 
morality, our civilization. To Pro- 
testants and Catholics alike we say : 
Cry down, with all the power that is 
in you, public exhibitions that are 
daily undermining and uprooting the 
morality of this great nation, which 
affects, as it must continue to affect 
more and more day by day, the des- 



840 



Use and Abuse of the Stage. 



tiny of the world. They influence 
the fashions; they fill the public 
streets with impurity. Their effect is 
in the very air we breathe, the press 
we read, the pictures that meet our 
eyes on every stand. To the recog- 
nition and open admiration we dis- 
play for such performances on the 
public stage, we owe those lower 
dens of infamy that corrupt our youth, 
poison their life, and cause the whole 
race to degenerate ; and the bloody 
tragedies in real life which have from 
their frequency almost ceased to create 
a sensation. They are a blot upon our 
institutions, a stain upon our morali- 
ty, a scandal to every decent eye. 

But who is to blame ? 

The public deplores the depravity 
of the taste of the age, and carries its 
opera-glass to the theatre so as not 
to miss an iota. The manager 
blames the actor, the actor the au- 
thor, and the author the manager. 
Perhaps all are to blame more or 
less ; but undoubtedly the onus of it 
rests with us who pay for and go to 
see such things. The manager whom 
we blame so much objects very prop- 
erly : The people want to be amused, 
and we must find something to amuse 
them. Good plays that are present- 
able are almost as rare as good ac- 
tors to interpret them, as an appreci- 
ative audience to come and admire 
them. If the public did not demand 
such sights, you may be perfectly cer- 
tain we should not present them. Our 
interest in the whole matter is merely 
one of dollars. Love of art, and 
educating the public taste, and so 
forth, sound very well in the abstract, 
but they do not pay. These things 
are of enormous cost in the scenery, 
the putting on the stage, the cos- 
tumes, and, as far as the actors are 
concerned, to-day we are compelled 
to pay a higher' price for limbs than 
for genius. 

Now, this sounds very plausible, 



and there is, no doubt, a vast amount 
of reason in it. Certain it is that, if 
the public kept away from such exhi- 
bitions, the manager would scarcely 
ruin himself by presenting them to 
empty houses. But are good plays 
so scarce, and why ? 

Shakespeare, we fear, is almost out 
of the question. We confess, in com- 
mon with very many, a secret mis- 
giving, almost amounting to horror, at 
the idea of going to see Desdemona 
or Banquo doubly murdered. The 
education of the vast majority of our 
actors renders them incapable of 
catching the meaning of the great 
master's words, far less of interpret- 
ing them in a manner to enchain our 
attention or enthrall our senses : the 
invariable result when we sit down 
to read them. We generally find one 
or two characters ably sustained, and 
the rest, as a rule, rendered absolute- 
ly ridiculous. Notwithstanding, we 
take it as a very encouraging thing, 
and a great sign of advancement in 
intelligence and education, to see in 
one instance, at least, this class of 
drama drawing houses the whole 
year through. The more we have 
of such plays, the less we shall 
see of Black Crooks and Lalla 
Rookhs. Sheridan, again, and Col- 
man are almost beyond our actors, 
though they are scarcely a hundred 
years old. An actor undertaking a 
character must understand not mere- 
ly the words he utters,, but the char- 
acter he represents, the position it 
holds in the play, its bearings on the 
others ; for our modern actors are too 
apt to consider that there is only 
one character in every play, and 
that their own. The costume, mode 
of life, look, gait, air, tout ensemble, 
should fit the person to the age in 
which he lived. Now, how many of 
those employed to personate the 
fops, or fools, or men about town 
of Sheridan, know the age in which 






Use and Abuse of the Stage. 



841 



those characters lived, the mode of 
conversation, the walk, " the nice 
conduct of the clouded cane," the 
way of passing the time, the affected 
laugh and pronunciation of certain 
letters, the ceremony thrown into a 
bow or a proffer of a pinch of 
snuff, with a thousand other little 
things only to be found in a close 
study of the writers of the time? 
Yet, without this intimate knowledge, 
our modern actor must trust to his 
wig and antique coat and ruffles to 
give us an idea of Charles Surface or 
Sir Peter Teasle. Passing regret- 
fully by these, then, we come to 
the question before us, the drama 
of to-day, where we atone for lack 
of genius by sensation ; where words 
give place to " business " ; where for 
a good author we substitute a good 
carpenter, aided by a good scene- 
painter ; where a conflagration, or a 
shipwreck, or a cab, drive Shake- 
speare and the rest off the boards. 
Wherein lies the excellence of the 
sensational school of playwrights ? 
Strip them of their drowning scenes, 
fires, chloroform, and slang phrases, 
and what have we left ? Simply 
nothing. Not a single conception of 
a great idea or a great character; 
no noble purpose to fire the soul; 
no keen wit to scorch the age and 
purify while it burns ; but in their 
stead sorry jokes, and- the meanest 
and most ordinary characters speak- 
ing bad grammar; with plenty of 
howling, and climbing, and swim- 
ming, and water and fire and lime- 
light, and a stirring song that is not 
the author's, all interspersed with 
stray spars of wit floating about 
here and there in the heterogeneous 
mass, and turning up at happy 
places 1 wit, by the way, which is 
generally stolen from the French 
or from some well-known story, all 
adjusted to slow music, set to mag- 
nificent scenery, with mechanism 



enough to construct a city; and the 
audience, wheedled there by puff, 
is amazed and overcome, and, going 
away, tells its friends that there is not 
much in it, but the scenery alone is 
well worth the money. 

This., is undoubtedly the English 
drama of the day, dividing the palm 
with the anatomical exhibitions we 
have previously referred to, and al- 
most as prolific of good results to 
the public. Eileen Oge, one of the 
latest and best plays of this class, was 
the only one which attracted audi- 
ences to that splendid failure, the 
Grand Opera House. 

There is another class of play to 
which we promised to refer the 
modern French school which finds 
its home in one of our theatres, and 
which, by lavish expenditure, the 
splendor of costume, excellence of 
mounting, and general efficiency of 
the cast, has proved more or less a 
success. They pass among us as 
dramas of society. Let us examine 
the most recent of these "society 
plays," and see if they are worthy of 
their name. 

Article 47 runs as follows : A 
lover, in a moment of jealousy, 
shoots his mistress, attempting at 
the time to gain possession of a 
casket belonging to her. She es- 
capes with life, but that life is dead to 
her, for her beauty, though not de- 
stroyed, is for ever marred. Her love 
changes to hate. She appears as a 
witness against her lover on a charge 
of attempted murder and robbery. 
He is acquitted of wilful attempt to 
kill, but condemned to five years at 
the galleys, and placed for ever, by 
Article 47 of the penal code, under 
police surveillance. Both lives are 
embittered, the one with the con- 
sciousness of a wrong done to the 
woman he loved, but loves no longer ; 
the other from the consciousness of, 
to her, an irreparable loss sustained, 



842 



Use and Abuse of the Stage. 



a beauty marred in the dawn of life, 
and a love contending with hate for 
the man who once loved her, and 
whom she still, in her sane moments 
for the crash of contending emotions 
and the brooding over her lost life 
are goading her to madness-r-loves. 
The term of his confinement ended, 
the lover changes his name, flies to 
Paris, and hopes thus to escape the 
surveillance of the police. He enters 
society again, and falls in love with 
an old acquaintance who has ever 
loved him. They are married. In 
society he meets with the old love. 
She recognizes him, and, finding that 
his love is turned to abhorrence, hate 
again strives for mastery, and she com- 
pels him to frequent the salon where 
she is to be seen, and spend a certain 
time of each day in her society, on 
pain of disclosing to his wife that he 
is a convicted felon, and the whole 
story of her wrong. In a moment of 
despair he unfolds all to his wife in 
her presence ; they determine to fly. 
The madness has been working all 
this time in the other's blood. She 
retains enough reason to send a mes- 
sage to the prefect of police, disclos- 
ing the person and whereabouts of 
the ex-prisoner. The letter is inter- 
cepted, and she finally dies at his 
feet, still mad, and thinking that he 
loves her. The play is a powerful 
one, but revolting. The gradual 
growth of the madness in the woman 
is well worked up. But the woman 
is a fiend, and her fiendishness is the 
whole point of the play. We have 
women as bad or worse in plays that 
are infinitely superior, Lady Mac- 
beth, for instance; but the master- 
mind that conceived that character 
conceived it aright laid it bare in 
all its hideousness, and surrounded it 
with such moral strength and con- 
trasts that we hate it. The French 
writer enlists a forced sympathy for 
his heroine. Everybody is in a 



chronic state of misery all the way 
through ; the vice of the thing is 
condoned or glossed over, and the 
character most to be pitied at the end 
is the hideous thing that is called a 
woman. It is a delineation and up- 
holding of a false principle from be- 
ginning to end ; and, if such is socie- 
ty, we can only pity it. While there 
are such things as truth, honor, wo- 
manly nature, and manly strength 
among us, such a play should hold 
no place in our midst ; and the wri- 
ter debases his talents when he can 
turn them to so much better account. 
Most French plays of the modern 
school come to us in this fashion. 
They are all unhealthy, morbid, false 
to God and man ; and though they 
are well written, abounding in felici- 
tous repartee, clever tirades against 
society, witty mockery of characters 
that go down among us, and in their 
English dress are stripped of the 
dangerous Equivoque and double enten- 
dre, it is better for us either to let 
them alone, or so change them that 
we do not recognize them, as the late 
Mr. Robertson succeeded in doing. 
All, or nearly all, of his comedies 
were originally founded on the 
French. But he did not reproduce ; 
he adapted. And his plays, the most 
charming, as they are by far the wit- 
tiest and most brilliant, of the day, 
are always presentable, always enjoy- 
able, though they strike out no great 
thought, nor, indeed, aim at it, but 
are clever satires on society as we find 
it, as it comes and goes. We should 
very much like to see them produced 
oftener here. There is only one 
house which, as a rule, attempts this 
class of play ; and its programme has 
to be changed so often that it looks 
very much as though the public did 
not appreciate its efforts. Yet we 
have never met with a single person 
who has witnessed one of Mr. Rob- 
ertson's plays and would not be very 



Use and Abuse of the Stage. 



843 



happy to witness another. We think 
the fault lies chiefly with the compa- 
ny. The rank and file are not ade- 
quate. At the Prince of Wales' the- 
atre in London the same company 
performs still that performed when 
Mr. Robertson first produced his 
plays ; and each one of them, from 
first to last, is a thorough actor. We 
hear a great deal about people, imme- 
diately they make a hit, demanding 
an enormous increase of salary ; and, 
if their demands are not conceded, 
rushing off to " star it in the prov- 
inces." In England it is just the re- 
verse. If actors can obtain a footing 
at all in London, they abide there. 
And we cannot but think that, if fair 
inducements were held out here, a 
stock company of excellent actors 
could be organized who might form 
a school; and the manager would 
not be compelled to hunt Europe for 
a name, and spend a small fortune 
nightly on a single individual, which 
he might much more judiciously di- 
vide among his own staff, and keep 
his house well filled in spite of all 
the stars of the firmament. 

But good plays are needed as 
much as good actors; and good 
plays we shall never have so long 
as managers can procure gratis the 
latest London success, which Lon- 
don itself has generally derived from 
a French source. Managers are 
cautious of new playwrights, and 
wisely so. But this c aution may be, 
is carried a little too far. We have 
a society of our own, and a history 



of our own. We have already a 
host of clever and even brilliant wri- 
ters. We have had a great war and 
a great convulsion. We have plenty 
to attack, and plenty to uphold. 
Our society, political, social, and re- 
ligious, is scarcely what it might be. 
There is many a foul thing to sweep 
away ; there is a meeting of many 
elements in this land of ours ; there 
is a history to look back upon, and 
a glorious history to build up, if we 
build rightly. At the same time, 
there is a licentiousness, outspoken, 
scornful, and gaining ground day by 
day, which it is our duty to withstand 
by every force in our power. There 
is that aping, too, of the worst import- 
ed fashions, that running after wealth 
and rank, when they come among 
us, that betokens a wandering from 
the sturdy ways of our fathers. 
There is a widespread corruption in 
the administration of the law, a ve- 
nality in political life, which it would 
be well to crush. There is here 
field enough for the native dramatist, 
without looking abroad for the 
" cheap and nasty." Could a Sheri- 
dan rise up among us now, he would 
find no lack of subjects for his pen 
in the extravagance, the contradic- 
tions, the licentiousness of this age 
and this great Republic. At all 
events, if we must import, let us im- 
port the best, and not things which 
poison our life, and stop our intellec-. 
tual and natural as well as our mo 
ral growth, and make us a laughing- 
stock to the outer world. 



844 



How I Learned Latin. 



HOW I LEARNED LATIN. 



WHEN I was young, I travelled a 
good deal, but travel then was very 
different from what it is now. My 
travelling was all obligatory, it was 
on business, and I sometimes found 
myself detained in places from which 
I would gladly have taken a quick 
departure. It happened once that, 
during my tour through France, I 
had to stay a Sunday at Lyons. 
The stages on Saturday were few, 
and did not suit me, and of course 
it was against my principles to travel 
on the " Sabbath." I had been 
brought up a very strict Presbyterian, 
and was very particular, especially in 
a foreign country, about attending 
service. I could hardly speak any 
French, which perhaps you will 
think strange, since I had business to 
transact in France, but my business 
was with English and American 
houses and their agents. You know, 
too, in my time young people did 
not learn French as they do now, 
any more than young ladies learned to 
play on the piano. B*ut I was de- 
termined I would go to church, and 
so set about finding out whether there 
was any English-speaking clergyman 
.in Lyons. I could not find any, and, 
when I inquired after a church, I 
was deafened and confused by the 
number of St. Marys', St. Monicas', 
St. Vincents', St. Josephs', that were 
pointed out to me. If it had not 
been the " Sabbath," I think I should 
have been tempted to swear at the 
whole calendar and its Lyons repre- 
sentatives. I asked for a Protestant 
church. " Oh ! yes," said one (all the 
others looked blank), " there is a ' tem- 
ple ' (so they call them in France) in 
such and such a street," naming it, 



and giving me directions by which I 
could not fail to discover it. I start- 
ed, fearing I should be late. I had 
heard that the French Protestant re- 
ligion was not unlike the Presbyterian, 
but I had never been to one of its 
churches before, having always been 
luckily within reach of some church 
where my own tongue was used. At 
last I found my " temple," and got in, 
rather behind time, to be sure. The 
people were singing. The church 
meeting-house, I should say was 
bare and whitewashed, large square 
windows lighted it with a painful 
exuberance of brightness, the seats 
were stiff and uncomfortable. I 
could not understand one word, and 
thought the voices rather nasal. 
The congregation sat down and the 
minister got up. This evidently 
meant a sermon. I tried hard to fix 
my mind on some Bible texts I knew 
by heart, so as to prevent my 
thoughts from wandering. As the 
preacher went on, his voice droning 
into my ear, I caught myself wonder- 
ing whether I were in the right place 
after all, and whether his doctrine 
was the same as mine. I could not 
tell what he might be saying, but, of 
course, the hymns must be all right. 
I took up a hymn-book, and tried to 
make out from their analogy to some 
English words what these French 
words could mean. I could see the 
name of " Jesus " pretty often, and 
could make out ''Saviour" too, but* 
that was about all. The sermon was 
very long, and I was hardly quite 
awake at the end. Then the people 
sang again, and a harmonium joined 
in from somewhere. When it was 
all over, I felt very dissatisfied, and 



Plow I Learned Latin. 



845 



somehow it did not seem to me as if 
I had been to church at all. I lost 
my way going back to my hotel, and 
happened to pass one of the *' saints' " 
multitudinous shrines, just as the Ca- 
tholic congregation were coming out. 
An acquaintance of mine, a young 
Englishman, was among them. He 
came across the street and shook 
hands. 

" Why, where have you dropped 
from ?" he said. 

" From church," I answered. 

" What church ?" he asked, rather 
blankly. 

" The Protestant ' temple,' of 
whatever religion that may be," I 
said, not in the best of humors. I 
told him my whole adventure, where- 
at he seemed very serious. 

" My dear fellow," he said at last, 
" have you not often heard us Ca- 
tholics abused for all sorts of mum- 
meries, for muttering and mumbling 
in an unknown tongue, for bow- 
ing and scraping, and popping 
down, suddenly on one knee, and so 
forth ?" 

" Of course I have," I said. 

" Well, and what 'do you think of 
what you saw in the French Presby- 
terian church, this morning ?" 

" Think ! I simply think it was 
unintelligible." 

"Well, say, quite as unintelligible 
as our Latin, for instance ?" 

" Yes, but not for the Frenchmen 
who were there." 

" But if those Frenchmen had 
been in a Presbyterian church in 
America, they would have been as 
badly off as you were this morning. 
And if both you and they went to a 
German church, as Calvinistic as you 
could wish and as like your own in 
belief, would not you and your 
French friends be all at sea, as the 
saying is ?" 

" Exactly so ; but what are you 
driving at ?" 



" Only this : that, when you go to 
the church, and know that the people 
believe pretty much as you do, you 
would like, I think, to be able to 
join in their devotions, and not feel 
yourself left out in the cold, as if 
you were a heathen or a Mormon, 
wouldn't you ?" 

" Of course ; but it can't be 
helped." 

" I tell you it can, my dear fellow. 
Look at us, millions and millions 
of Catholics, all believing the same 
doctrine, all going to the same cere- 
monies, and taking part in the same 
devotions, because we have only one 
language for our services, one lan- 
guage that is spoken in Canton, in 
San Francisco, in London, in Africa, 
everywhere where a Catholic altar is 
put up and a Catholic priest says 
Mass." 

"There is some convenience in 
that, I'll grant you." 

" I tell you, my friend, when I 
come to a foreign city and find 
everything strange and feel very lonely 
in the hurrying crowd that has not 
one idea in common with me, I just 
find out a Catholic church as quick 
as I can, and hear Mass. See if 
every worshipper does not become a 
brother then, and if one's feelings 
don't change ! I take my chair, put 
it where I like, open my book, and 
follow the same old prayers that I 
heard long ago in little poky chapels 
in England. I feel quite at home." 

"Well, it is pleasant: but that is 
not all one wants." 

"But is it not a great deal? What do 
you think of a religion that meets you 
everywhere, just the same, dear old fa- 
miliar faith, never changing among the 
mandarins of China, the Red Indians 
of your own territories, the blacks of 
South Africa, and the traders of Lon- 
don and Birmingham ? Don't you 
call it comfortable, homely, to say 
the least ?" 



846 



How I Learned Latin. 



" Yes, but I suspect it is all senti- 
mentalism : you like the sound of the 
old words, but you don't really under- 
stand them. A baby would like the 
same cooing it was used to at home, 
supposing it got lost and picked up 
somewhere, but there would be no 
sense in the cooing, for all that." 

" But, my dear fellow, we do un- 
derstand our Latin. All of us who 
can read have the translation of it 
plainly printed alongside of the text 
in our books of devotion, and the 
greater part we are already familiar 
with on account of its being taken 
from the Gospels and the Psalms." 

" No, really ? Is that so indeed ?" 

" Indeed it is. And, now; what do 
you think of this ? You see the 
priest ' pop down suddenly on one 
knee, and pop up again,' as you 
would put it. Well, he has been say- 
ing, ' The Word was made flesh and 
dwelt among us.' . Is not that in the 
Bible, in St. John's Gospel ? Of course 
you are well up in texts, you know 
where that is. And, again, when you 
see the priest beat his breast three 
times, and you call out ' Supersti- 
tion !' do you know what he is say- 
ing ? ' Lord, I am not worthy that 
thou shouldst enter under my roof; 
but say the word, and my soul shall 
be healed.' Is not that in the Bible 
(with the substitution of ' soul ' for 
' servant'), where the centurion begs 
our Lord to cure his servant ? And 
so on through the greater part of the 
Mass. When you see the priest wash 
his hands, he repeats a whole Psalm, 
the Twenty-fifth; and at the very 
beginning, when you see him stand at 
the foot of the steps, he is also re- 
peating a Psalm, the Forty-third. Fur- 
ther on he repeats the ' Our Father,' 
and there are other parts of the Mass, 
whose names would only confuse 
you, which change according to the 
ecclesiastical seasons, but are always 
exclusively composed of Scripture 



texts, aptly chosen for the different 
solemnities of the year. So, you see, 
we know all about what we hear said 
in Latin." 

" Well, you surprise me ; all that 
mumbling seemed to me so child- 
ish." 

" Do you think these Frenchmen 
childish when they speak their own 
tongue, and do their business in it, 
and their courting, and their litera- 
ture ?" 

" Well, no, of course that would 
be absurd." 

" And the Italians, the Germans, 
the Greeks, the Spaniards, don't they 
all talk foreign languages, yet you 
don't think them childish, or call 
their conversation mumbling?" 

" No ; I simply say I am sorry I 
cannot understand them." 

" Then don't you see that as a 
Catholic you would be even better 
off, for though the Latin would be a 
foreign language, yet you would un- 
derstand it ?" 

" Certainly, if all you say is true, 
the Latin is by no means a bad con- 
trivance." 

" Do you know that, up to the 
twelfth and thirteenth centuries at 
least, most books were written in La- 
tin, no matter to what country the 
author might belong, and that till 
even later than that all law business 
was transacted in Latin all over the 
civilized world ?" 

"Was it indeed? Well, I have 
learnt something this morning, and 
it is really worth thinking over." 

" Come this afternoon to St. Vin- 
cent's, and I will show you at Ves- 
pers how well every one understands 
the service." 

" All right ! agreed." 

And so we parted, and in the 
afternoon my English friend and I 
went to a Catholic church, and sat 
down among a crowd of very atten- 
tive worshippers, all of whom were 



How I Learned Latin. 



847 



reading their prayer-books. My 
friend opened his, and pointed out 
the Psalm the choir was singing; it 
was one I knew very well : " The 
Lord said to my Lord." The people 
about us were all French ; their 
books had the same Latin Psalm on 
one column as my friend's book 
showed, while the French translation 
was in the place of the English one 
which he had on the opposite page. 
Many of the congregation were sing- 
ing alternately with the choristers 
at the altar. My friend sang too ; 
he did not mumble, but said the 
words distinctly, so that I heard each 
syllable, though I could not under- 
stand the meaning. He gave me 
his book presently, and chanted by 
heart. As we came out, there was 
a group of dark-skinned men, talking 
eagerly near the door. They were 
Spaniards ; they too seemed quite at 
home. The next day, I was curious 
enough to go to Low Mass with my 
friend ; as the ceremony went on, he 
showed me every word, and made 
me follow everything, even the in- 
troit, collects, gradual, communion, 
which he looked out for me in a mis- 
sal he had with him. I was puzzled 
by all these names then, though they 
are A B C to me now. My friend 
had to leave in a day or two, but I 
had bought a book like his in the 
meanwhile at an English library, 
and continued through curiosity to 
go to the different Catholic services, 
just to assure myself that the Latin 
was not gibberish. It struck me as 
strange that three-quarters of the 
prayers should be my own Bible 
texts ! 

Well, to make a long story short, 
I left Lyons soon after, and travel- 
led to many other places, European 
and Asiatic. At last one day I was 
in Canton, in high spirits, for I was 
to go home soon and be a partner 



in the firm whose foreign business I 
had been managing. Sunday came, 
and I went to church ; I was just as 
anxious as ever about my Sunday 
duties, but somehow it was not for 
a Presbyterian church that I was 
looking. I knew my way very well 
to my church, and my church had a 
cross on its gable end, and was call- 
ed " The Church of the Holy Child- 
hood." There were plenty of Chi- 
nese there, a few English, a few 
Americans, and a good many French 
people. They all had the Latin on 
one page of their books, and their 
respective languages on the opposite 
page. But I did not need to look 
at my English translation, for I 
knew the Latin by heart now. I 
am sorry to say I had distractions, 
and during one of them I suddenly 
perceived my old friend of Lyons. 
When Mass was over, I went to him 
and called him by name ; he stared 
and did not recognize me ; we had 
never met since, and I had a beard 
of many years' growth. I told him 
my name, and asked him if he had 
forgotten St. Vincent's Church at 
Lyons ? I can tell you we had a 
good long talk over the past, and he 
congratulated me heartily, while I 
thanked him eagerly for the best 
lesson I ever learned in my life. 

And that, boys, was how I learn- 
ed Latin. 

But I have only told you about 
one reason which our church has for 
keeping to the Latin tongue; that 
particular reason struck me most, be- 
cause it was through that I was con- 
verted ; but of course, when I came 
to examine things thoroughly, I 
learnt all about the other very good 
reasons assigned by the church for 
this practice. You know how mod- 
ern languages are always changing, 
a*nd how the same word will mean a 
different thing in two separate centu- 



848 



How I Learned Latin. 



ries ; there is the word " prevent," for 
instance, which now means to hinder, 
but which formerly was used in the 
Anglican liturgy in its Latin sense, to 
succor and to help. Well, it would 
not do for the dogmas or the rites 
of the church to be subject to these 
apparent change's, which would lead 
most likely to misunderstandings and 
perhaps heresies, so the church 
chose to fix her liturgy in a language 
whose rules and construction under- 
go no alteration from century to 
century. You know the law, also, 
has Latin terms, probably used for 
the same reason. Then, besides, it 
is not necessary for the people to be 
able to join in the absolute words of 
the Mass and other 'services, provi- 
ded they join heartily in the intention 
of the sacrifice and prayers. As I 
have told you already, \\\zfact is that 
most Catholics do understand the 
words themselves, and not very im- 
perfectly; still, the theory remains 
that such comprehension (which 
after all is more a grammatical ac- 
complishment than a devout neces- 
sity) is not absolutely required. If 
it were otherwise, you see, the doc- 
trine of intention would suffer. In 
the old days, the Hebrews on whose 
ritual all non-Catholics claim to take 
their stand, or by which at least they 
measure their standard of adequate 
worship used to stand outside the 
temple, where they could neither see 
nor hear, though they knew that by 
their presence alone they were par- 
ticipating in the sacrifice and receiv- 
ing the blessing attached to it. 
Then, again, we forgot, when as Pro- 
testants we used to object to the La- 
tin liturgy, that the Catholic cere- 
mony of Mass is essentially a sacrifice 
offered to God for the people, the 
priest being the sole representative 
of the people and interceding in 
their name. Long ago, at the Eng- 



lish court of the Plantagenet kings. 
French was the language universally 
spoken, while the Saxons, the sub- 
jects, adhered to their own tongue. 
The petitions of the people were of 
fered to the king in the language of 
the court, that is, French ; but the 
result was identical with that which 
would have been the consequence 
had the prayer been in a tongue the 
people could understand. So in the 
church it is sufficient for God to 
hear the petition of his children; 
they themselves would not be bene- 
fited the more for understanding 
every word of the pleading of the 
priest. The things that are said to 
us, not for us, the sermons and in- 
structions which are to explain God's 
will and our duty to us, are always 
in the tongue common to each par- 
ticular country ; and when there is a 
large foreign settlement in a town, it 
has a church of its own where such 
instruction is administered. Look 
at this large city of New York : have 
we not German churches and a 
French church besides our English- 
speaking churches ? The Mass is 
identically the same in each, but for 
those who are to be taught the lan- 
guage is varied according to their 
nationality. And so for all offices 
which the priests perform toward us, 
as, for instance, confession. In the 
great church of which you have all 
heard, St. Peter's at Rome, there are 
confessionals where priests of every 
nation are ever ready to receive and 
console the sinners of every clime, 
while above each box is plainly writ- 
ten " For the English," " For the 
Spaniards," " For the French," " For 
the Germans," "For the Greeks," 
" For the Poles," etc., etc. So, you 
see, the church, after all, is quite as 
wise as she is loving, and indicates 
her claim to be our mother in every 
way. Take my advice, and always 



Handkerchief. 



849 



look well into things before you con- 
demn them ; for, if / had done so 
when a boy, I should have saved 
myself a great deal of trouble in get- 
ting rid of prejudices which every 



year increased and deepened, till it 
needed a miracle of the grace of God 
to strip the tightening garment they 
were wrapping round my fettered 
soul. > 



THE HANDKERCHIEF. 



IF there is one article of the toi- 
lette that, more than another, appeals 
particularly to the imagination, it is 
certainly the handkerchief. The fa- 
vored glove that has encased a fair 
hand is often treasured up by a senti- 
mental admirer ; a broidered scarf or 
a knot of ribbon has been worn by 
many a gallant knight as the colors 
of the lady of his choice ; the collar 
encircling some ivory neck is envied 
to such a degree as to almost war- 
rant the ambition of Winnifred Jen- 
kins : " God he nose what havoc I 
shall make among the mail sects 
when I make my first appearance in 
this killing collar " ; but a thousand 
killing collars bear no comparison to 
that delicate fabric of muslin and lace 
which plays as important a part in 
the flirtations of fashionable life here 
as the fan among the ladies of Spain. 
Who could imagine so small a square 
of cloth if it be not profanity to ap- 
ply so common a term to so won- 
drous a tissue could be made to ex- 
press or conceal so much in the 
hands of its fair owner 1 Such an 
expressive toss or whisk could only 
be the result of the profoundest 
study. And what a delicate attrac- 
tive odor it gives out, suggestive of 
roses, and violets, and all the flora 
of occidental as well as oriental gal- 
lantry. And then the touching role 
VOL. xv. 54 



it plays in the pathetic it is the re- 
cipient of some timely tear perhaps 
too, vain coxcomb, a screen for many 
a yawn. We can never be too sure 
of what is confided to this bosom 
companion. 

The sacredness imputed to the 
handkerchief is no modern idea. It 
came to us from the East, whence 
sprang religion, science, and ro- 
mance itself. Ages ago the hand- 
kerchief was regarded in Egypt as a 
kind of amulet. The fair one of later 
days, who interweaves a thread of 
her own life into the handkerchief 
she intends for some favored knight, 
hopes it may prove like the magic 
handkerchief given by the Egyptian 
charmer to Othello's mother, endued 
with a power to subdue him " entire- 
ly to her love." 

" There's magic in the web of it : 
A sibyl that had number'd in the world 
The sun to make two hundred compasses 
In her prophetic fury sew'd the work : 
The worms were hallow'd that did breed the 

silk: 

And it was dyed in mummy, which the skilful 
Conserved of maidens' hearts." 

The handkerchief is the strongest 
proof of love, not only among the 
Moors, but among all Eastern na- 
tions, says Byron, who approved of 
Shakespeare's making the jealousy of 
Othello turn on this point. But 
poor Desdemona found the inherited 



850 



The Handkerchief. 



talisman she " kissed and talked to " 
a fatal gift. 

Perhaps the handkerchief immor- 
talized by Drummond of Hawthorn- 
den, embroidered for him by the 
beautiful Lesbia to whom he was 
betrothed, was likewise ominous, for 
she died " in the fresh April of her 
years," and the handkerchief she gave 
him was steeped in tears at her loss. 

Calderon says : 

" She gave me too a handkerchief a spell 
A flattering pledge, my hopes to animate, 
An astrologic favor, fatal prize 
That told too true what tears must wipe these 
eyes." 

The significance of the handker- 
chief is referred to in Horace Wai- 
pole's letters : " Lord Tavistock has 
flung his handkerchief to Lady Eliza- 
beth Keppel. They all go to Wo- 
burn on Thursday, and the cere- 
mony is to be performed as soon as 
her brother, the bishop, can arrive 
from Exeter." 

Miss Strickland tells us that when 
Anne Boleyn dropped her handker- 
chief from the balcony at the feet of 
Henry Norris, the latter, heated from 
the part he had just been taking in 
the jousts, took it up, presumptuously 
wiped his face with it, and then re- 
turned it to the queen on the point 
of his lance. At this, King Henry 
changed color, abruptly retired in a 
fury of jealousy, and gave orders for 
the arrest of the queen and of all 
who were suspected of being favored 
by her. It proved a fatal handker- 
chief to him also, for he was soon 
after executed. 

The handkerchief may be regard- 
ed as one of the great indications of 
civilization. Though the Celestials 
have not yet arrived at this climax, 
and still carry their small sheets of 
delicate paper as a substitute, but 
which possess no moral significance 
whatever, so far as we know, more re- 



fined nations have made its use uni- 
versal. Even the poorest may whip 
out of his pocket, in these days, 
not that red cotton flag of abomina- 
tion that used to offend the sight, 
but one of pure white linen, betoken- 
ing a higher state of cultivation. 

We are quite well aware that the 
handkerchief is, notwithstanding, a 
luxury some of the laboring classes 
reserve for Sundays and high festivals, 
which alone should invest the article 
with a quasi sanctity, associated as it 
is with religious observances. With 
what careful deliberation such an one 
draws it forth from the receptacle 
devoted to its use! With what a 
tremulous awkwardness he applies it, 
as though he were making an unaccus- 
tomed experiment ; or losing his cau- 
tion, perhaps he charges with despe- 
ration, like Miss Wix, one of whose 
peculiarities was that she always 
blew her nose as if it belonged to an 
enemy ! And how carefully it is re- 
folded and returned to the secret de- 
pository. What heaps of " wipes " 
the astonished Oliver Twist saw in the 
Jew's den, and all so badly marked, 
too, that the stitches had to be pick- 
ed out ! 

We cannot help rejoicing over the 
handkerchief the Artful Dodger drew 
from Mr. Brownlow's pocket which 
led to such a change in Oliver's for- 
tunes. 

The handkerchief is an important 
article in many a romance, as well as 
in real life. Tears more touching 
than those of Mr. Mantalini have 
brought it into requisition. If all the 
handkerchiefs in the world could tell 
their experience, how many a sad 
tale they would unfold ! We cannot 
help regarding Adam and Eve with 
the deepest commiseration without a 
handkerchief between them, as hand 
in hand through Eden they took 
their solitary way. What bitter tears 



The Handkerchief. 



8 5 i 



poor Eve shed ! but those that fell 
on the ground were turned into roses, 
and those that dropped into the wa- 
ter were changed into pearls, as ours 
too will be shown not wholly lost at 
some future day. 

Many a hero's bleeding wounds 
have been bound up by the handker- 
chief of some Sister of Charity on the 
battle-field, and many such handker- 
chiefs have been sent as sacred re- 
membrances to dear ones at home, 
ensanguined like that Orlando sent 
his Rosalind, but, alas ! not always 
so happy an omen. 

The handkerchief has been made 
a signal of distress from more than 
one watch-tower besides that we 
used to linger by in our childhood 
with fear and trembling, waiting anx- 
iously till Sister Ann's fluttering ker- 
chief brought deliverance to Blue- 
beard's fearful hold. 

We will not pass over the handker- 
chiefs, or aprons, mentioned in the 
Acts of the Apostles, that received a 
virtue from the very touch of the 
holy Apostle Paul to heal the sick 
the first intimation, perhaps, of the 
wonder-working scapular; nor of 
that other handkerchief over which 
have been shed the tears of the whole 
Christian world the sudarium of 
Veronica, sometimes called her veil, 
and again a napkin (Othello's 
handkerchief is called a little napkin), 
which has been enshrined by tradi- 
tion, and to which artists and poets 
have paid tribute, Dante himself 



mentioning it in his Paradiso the 
handkerchief that wiped the dust and 
sweat from the face of the Divine 
Sufferer and bore away the impress 
of his wondrous face. 

To those of our readers who think 
every article in a magazine of this 
character should have a direct moral 
bearing, and can see none in what 
has just been said, we will mention 
an important instance of the possible 
power so humble an article as the 
handkerchief may exert in the spirit- 
ual world. We beg leave to refer 
them to the noble society so solemn- 
ly recommended by the Rev. Mr. 
Stiggins, for providing the infant ne- 
groes in the West Indies with moral 
pocket-handkerchiefs. 

"What's a moral pocket-anker- 
cher ?" said Sam. " I never see one 
o' them articles of furniter." 

" Those which combine amuse- 
ment with instruction, my young 
friend," replied Mr. Stiggins, " blend- 
ing select tales with wood-cuts." 

" Oh ! I know," said Sam, " them 
as hangs up in the linen-drapers' 
shops with the beggars' petitions and 
all that 'ere upon 'em ?" 

Mr. Stiggins began a third round 
of toast, and nodded assent. 

So do we. And it is not difficult 
to imagine the budding Othellos 
contending loudly for their share of 
the didactic " ankerchers." 

" Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain 
Roared for the handkerchief that caused his 
pain !" 



852 



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NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



LECTURES AND SERMONS. By the Very 
Rev. Thomas N. Burke, O.P. New 
York : P. M. Haverty, 5 Barclay Street. 
1872. pp. 644. 

Mr. Haverty has brought out this 
eagerly expected volume in splendid 
style, and, what is better still, in a 
style which is tasteful and appro- 
priate. The title-page, adorned with 
the Dominican coat-of-arms, is espe- 
cially beautiful, and the portrait of 
F. Burke is both an excellent en- 
graving and a good likeness. We 
are also pleased to notice that there 
are but few typographical errors, 
and, in general, that the care and 
pains which were due from courtesy 
and gratitude to the immense labors 
which the author of these lectures 
and sermons has performed for our 
profit and pleasure, have been dili- 
gently bestowed in making his first 
published work worthy of his high 
character and reputation. The cost 
of the volume will not, we trust, 
deter any who can possibly afford 
it from adding this rich legacy of 
instructive and eloquent teaching 
to the Catholics of the United 
States to their libraries, and thus, 
at the same time, contributing some 
trifling offering to the Order with 
which the author is identified, and 
which is itself wholly identified 
with the good of the poor Catholic 
people of Ireland for seven long 
centuries of labor and martyrdom. 
It is much to be desired, however, 
that as soon as the first costly edi- 
tion is disposed of, a cheap one 
should be issued for the vast body 
of people who cannot afford to buy 
.an expensive book. We hope, how- 
ever, for the credit of our country, 
that no publisher will so far forget 
himself as to publish any such 
^edition without F. Burke's permis- 
sion and full sanction. 

The contents of the volume, which 
is a large royal octavo, comprise 
thirt) r -eight lectures and sermons 



on a great variety of the most im- 
portant and interesting topics of 
the Catholic religion, and Irish his- 
tory in its relation to religion, 
although there are sometimes seve- 
ral lectures on the same or very 
similar topics. Only a few of these 
were written out for the press by 
the author, most of them being 
extemporaneous discourses which 
were taken down by reporters, and 
only hastily revised by the father 
in the short and broken intervals 
of his incessant labors. It is due 
to the reporters, however, to say 
that their work has been performed 
with the utmost diligence and accu- 
racy, and that they have reproduced, 
with almost literal fidelity, every- 
thing which fell from the lips of 
the orator a service to religion 
and literature for which we tender 
them our most sincere thanks. F. 
Burke, with characteristic modesty, 
apologizes for the publication of 
his discourses, which, he tells us, 
he would have prevented if possible. 
We are very glad that it was not 
possible, for we have gained in this 
volume a new and rich casket of 
real jewels of truth and beauty. It 
is true that it is necessary to hear 
F. Burke in order to appreciate 
and enjoy fully the power of his 
word, which is emphatically a spok- 
en word, and not a mere written 
and readable expression of thought 
in language. His voice, with its 
baritone richness; his actt-on ; his 
Dominican habit, so beautiful and 
graceful a dress for a sacred orator 
in itself, and so sacredly impressive 
from its associations ; and, above 
all, the magnetic power of his vivid 
faith and noble enthusiasm for 
truth and justice, together with the 
surrounding circumstances of the 
scene and audience, all enter into 
the correlation of causes producing 
the convincing, persuasive, inspir- 
ing, and captivating effect of his 



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853 



eloquence. The power of produc- 
ing the effect which he does pro- 
duce, and that generally and con- 
tinually, would prove F. Burke to 
be an orator of a high order, even 
if his discourses, written out and 
read, like those of Massillon and 
Henry Clay, were incapable of pro- 
ducing a similar effect upon a culti- 
vated reader. But F. Burke's dis- 
courses will bear reading, and their 
publication will enhance instead of 
diminishing his fame. Their intrin- 
sic merits as products of learning, 
intellect, and imagination, prove 
him to be something more than an 
orator : they prove him to be a 
theologian, a philosopher, and a 
poet, although he is all these in 
subservience to his distinctive and 
specific character and vocation as a 
popular preacher and orator. F. 
Burke is a master of the most pro- 
found Catholic theology, a true dis- 
ciple of St. Thomas. His logical 
and argumentative ability in prov- 
ing the Catholic doctrines, especial- 
ly those relating to the constitution 
of the church, is equal to that of our 
best controversialists ; he is a scholar 
and a historian of rich and varied 
acquisitions, and he has the senti- 
ment of the beautiful in nature and 
art to a high degree, joined to a 
happy descriptive faculty which be- 
longs to his oratorical gifts. He 
has also an abundance of wit and 
humor. 

But, beyond and above all this, 
F. Burke is a man of faith ; pure, 
intelligent, uncompromising, Catho- 
lic faith and loyalty to the Vicar 
and the Church of Christ ; an apos- 
tolic preacher and champion of the 
truth and law and cause of God. 
All his gifts are placed in the censer, 
and made to send up the incense of 
praise to God ; they are laid on the 
altar and consecrated to our Lord 
Jesus Christ. The great aim and 
effort of his sermons and lectures 
has been to revive and strengthen 
faith and virtue in the breasts of 
the people, to arouse their devotion 
to the Holy See, and enlighten 
them on the duty of obedience and 



loyalty to the teaching aad the 
cause of the Holy Father. As an 
instance of the effect which he has 
produced on the minds of the peo- 
ple, we may relate an incident 
which came to our knowledge a few 
days ago. A longshoreman, who 
had come to a priest to take the 
pledge, said to him : " You see, 
i'ather, that since we heard F. 
Burke, we have been talking among 
ourselves a great deal about pen- 
ance and putting ourselves all right, 
and so I have just come up to your 
reverence to begin by taking the 
pledge." These are the best tri- 
umphs of the Catholic priest, and 
of far more value to him than the 
applause of listening thousands. 
There is no one who has such an 
empire over the hearts of his coun- 
trymen at present in New York as 
F. Burke. We think there is a 
greater work for him here than 
anywhere else in the world, and we 
therefore conclude by expressing 
the hope that he may remain here 
to do it. 

MEMOIR OF ROGER B. TANEY, LL.D., 
Chief-Justice of the Supreme Court of 
the United States. By Samuel Tyler, 
LL.D., of the Maryland Bar. Balti- 
more : John Murphy & Co. 1872. 

This long-expected and important 
book has just appeared. It was 
known that Chief-Justice Taney 
had, in his lifetime, selected Mr. 
Tyler to write his biography, a fact 
well calculated to prepossess the 
public favorably towards the author 
and his work. It inspired, also, the 
hope that ample materials were 
placed within his reach, and that he 
would be peculiarly favored in his 
labors. But as the Chief-Justice, 
with characteristic modesty, pre- 
served but little of his own writings, 
and was in the habit of destroying 
most of the letters he received, and 
of retaining no copies of those he 
wrote, it appears that Mr. Tyler 
labored under great difficulties in 
accomplishing his appointed duty. 
Towards the close of his life, when 
in his seventy-eighth yea'r, the 



854 



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Chief-Justice was reminded, by see- 
ing his biography in VanSantvoord's 
Lives of the Chief -Justices, that his 
life would form a part of the history 
of his country, and he commenced 
then a memoir of himself, ending 
with the account of his early life 
and education, which now forms the 
first and an extremely interesting 
chapter of Mr. Tyler's Memoir. It 
seems that the author had to rely, 
beyond this, chiefly upon his own 
industry and researches. He has 
done his work well and faithfully, 
not as an allotted task, but as a 
labor of love, a tribute of manly 
friendship. He has collected a vast 
amount of historical matter relating 
to^the scenes and times in which 
the Chief-Justice's lot was cast, to 
the great lawyers and judges of the 
past, most of whom Judge Taney 
survived, to the public men and 
statesmen who have shaped the des- 
tiny and made the history of our 
country for the last fifty years, and 
to the great constitutional questions 
which, during that period, have agi- 
tated the public mind. In order to 
vindicate the memory of the emi- 
nent jurist, he has, from necessity, 
introduced into his book issues that 
are now dead ; he does not do this 
in a partisan or aggressive spirit, 
but treats them rather historically, 
and with the view of showing what 
were Judge Taney's sentiments and 
what the motives of his action. In 
the Appendix he gives at length the 
opinions of the Chief-Justice in the 
celebrated Dred Scott case, in the 
cases of Ableman vs. Booth and 
Kentucky vs. Ohio, both relating to 
the same subject, and in the noted 
Merryman habeas corpus case, and 
has done well in doing so, because 
these remarkable papers are thus 
brought within the reach of many 
not in the habit of reading the law- 
books. Mr. Tyler's style is easy and 
fluent, though not of a high literary 
order. The book must prove very 
interesting and instructive to all 
connected with the law and the ad- 
ministration of justice. Perhaps the 
subject has been treated too much 



from a professional standpoint, and 
for this reason may not prove as 
interesting to the general reader as 
such a theme might have been 
made. 

There is one respect in which we 
regard this work with regret. Chief- 
Justice Taney was a Catholic and 
his biographer is a Protestant. It 
was, then, impossible for Mr. Tyler, 
even with the best intentions, to do 
full justice to the character of the 
Chief-Justice, to his interior life, to 
his Catholic virtues, and, conse- 
quently, to the motives which 
governed his public actions. We 
find no fault with Mr. Tyler for this, 
for he has shown an earnest desire 
to be fair and just, and has done his 
best in this as in every other respect. 
But that best does not meet the 
necessities of the subject. Mr. 
Tyler, himself a lawyer, was selected 
to write the life of a great lawyer 
and judge, and he has performed 
his work with ability and zeal, 
but he has performed it as a 
lawyer he could not perform it 
as a Catholic. To the eyes of 
Catholics the faith and piety of 
Chief-Justice Taney were more beau- 
tiful and more precious than even 
his transcendent abilities and pro- 
found learning. We think they 
were the glory of his life and the 
motive power which made him su- 
perior to fear and to all human re- 
spect. We think they constituted 
the charm of his public and private 
life ; and had they been handled by 
a Catholic, and as none but a Catho- 
lic can handle them, the work would 
have been far more valuable. There 
were points in the Chief-Justice's 
life as a Catholic which remain to 
this day undeveloped and uneluci- 
dated, and for this reason, while Mr. 
Tyler's memoirwill prove invaluable 
to the legal profession and general 
reader, it will disappoint the expec- 
tations of his Catholic readers. No 
Protestant writer could be more 
free from bigotry than Mr. Tyler, 
and none could have written Chief- 
Justice Taney's life as well. We im- 
pute no blame ; on the contrary, we 



New Publications. 



855 



thank him for the admiration he ex- 
presses of the Chief-Justice's religion 
and piety. But the subject was 
deeper and more fruitful than any 
Protestant eye could perceive or pen 
portray. Notwithstanding this, we 
can and do earnestly commend the 
work to all Catholics. It is a noble 
tribute to one of the purest and 
greatest men of our age. No 
one, be his faith or politics what 
they may, can read it without in- 
struction and improvement. In- 
deed, no one can fairly read it with- 
out conceiving a greater respect for 
that ancient church of which its 
hero was so devoted, a son. 

Our duty obliges us, however, to 
add that Catholics should also take 
warning from his life of the fatal 
effects flowing from early disobedi- 
ence to the precepts and counsels 
of the church, which subsequent 
penance is frequently unavailing to 
remove. All the children of the 
Chief-Justice were Protestants a 
sad fact which is its own best com- 
ment. 

HISTORICAL SKETCHES. Rise and Pro- 
gress of Universities, Northmen and 
Normans in England and Ireland, 
Mediaeval Oxford, Convocation of 
Canterbury. By John Henry Newman, 
of the Orator}', sometime Fellow of 
Oriel College. London : Basil Montagu 
Pickering. 1872. (New York : Sold 
by The Catholic Publication Society.) 

Mr. Pickering, who is the very 
pink of elegant and aristocratic pub- 
lishers, edits Dr. Newman's works 
in just the style most suitable to 
the classic productions of that 
thoroughly English gentleman and 
scholar. We cannot give a better 
or more attractive description of 
this new volume in the series of the 
Newman republications, than by 
simply copying the table of con- 
tents : 

"i. Introductory; 2. What is a 
University? 3. Site of a University; 
4. University Life : Athens ; 5. Free 
Trade in Knowledge : The Sophists ; 
6. Discipline and Influence; 7. Influ- 
ence : Athenian Schools ; 8. Disci- 



pline : Macedonian and Roman 
Schools ; 9. Downfall and Refuge of 
Ancient Civilization : The Lom- 
bards ; 10. The Tradition of Civili- 
zation : The Isles of the North ; n. 
A Characteristic of the Popes : St. 
Gregory the Great; 12. Moral of 
that Characteristic of the Popes : 
Pius the Ninth ; 13. Schools of Char- 
lemagne : Paris ; 14. Supply and 
Demand : The Schoolmen ; 15. Pro- 
fessors and Tutors ; 16. The Strength 
and Weakness of Universities : Abe- 
lard ; 17. The Ancient University 
of Dublin ; 18. Colleges the Correc- 
tive of Universities : Oxford ; 19. 
Abuses of the Colleges : Oxford ; 
20. Universities and Seminaries : 
L'Ecole des Hautes Etudes." 

Every scholar will eagerly de- 
sire to read these essays on such 
interesting topics, handled by the 
masterly pen of Newman. The sub- 
ject of universities is one just now of 
great practical importance, and Dr. 
Newman's long experience qualifies 
him in a special manner to write 
about it. We can only hope that 
we may not much longer confine 
ourselves to writing and reading 
about the matter, but may soon be 
up and doing, both in England and 
in the United States. 

(i.) THE DIVINE TEACHER. With a Pre- 
face, in Reply to No. 3 of the " English 
Church Defence Tracts," entitled " Pa- 
pal Infallibility." By Wm. Humphrey, 
of the Oblates of St. Charles. 

(2.) ANGLICAN MISREPRESENTATIONS : A 
Reply to " Roman Misquotations." 
By W. E. Addis, of the Oratory. 
London : Burns & Oates. 1872. (New 
York : Sold by The Catholic Publica- 
tion Society.) 

The polemical writers of the High 
Church party have taken to the 
swamp, like the old moss-troopers, 
where it is vexatious to follow them. 
The rehashing of old, stale lies, 
calumnies, and misrepresentations, 
interspersed with a good deal of 
impudent abuse, has become, alars ! 
the tactics of a party once so re- 
markable for calm reasoning, con- 
scientious adhesion to truth, so far 



856 



New Publications. 



as known, and courtesy. It is a sign 
that their cause is nearly desperate. 
Meanwhile, they dupe and mislead, 
or at least perplex and distress, for 
a time, some very sincere inquirers 
after truth. It is necessary, there- 
fore, although very vexatious, to 
chase them out of their morass. 
Happily, there are some Englishmen 
who have a talent and a liking for 
this work. They are cool and quiet, 
patient and minute, accurate, logi- 
cal, and clear in their statements 
and arguments, They enjoy hunt- 
ing such writers as the Canons Lid- 
don and Bright out of their hiding- 
places, as much as Grahame of Cla- 
verhouse did beating up the quarters 
of the Covenanters. The two young 
and chivalrous knights of the faith 
whose names stand at the head of 
this notice are of this sort, and their 
raid has been performed gallantly 
and well. The essay first on the 
list, in particular, is an excellent 
little treatise on Papal Infallibility, 
which we commend to our readers 
who like something short and sweet. 

GREAT TRUTHS IN LITTLE WORDS. By 
the Rev. Father Rawes, O.S.C. Third 
Edition. London: Burns, Gates & 
Co. I2mo. (New York : Sold by The 
Catholic Publication Society.) 

A well-printed book of modest pre- 
tensions, and not devoid of merit, 
containing in its two hundred and 
sixty pages thirty chapters on vari- 
ous, religious topics, both of contro- 
versy and devotion, and a good deal 
of simple, practical instruction. 

THE OLD GOD : A Narrative for the Peo- 
pie. Translated from the German of 
Conrad von Bolanden. By the Very 
Rev. Theodore Noethen. Boston : 
Patrick Donahoe. 1872. 

Some time ago, we published one 
of Bolanden's longer and more 
elaborate novels, entitled " Angela," 
in this magazine. He has written 
a number of these, and particularly 
a series of historical romances on 
the Thirty Years' War, of the first 
order of merit ; all of which we hope 
to see translated. We are now pub- 



lishing one of his short populai 
novels, entitled "The Progression- 
ists," and the present volume is an- 
other of the same class. The sub- 
ject of it is the imprisonment of 
Pius VII. in France. There are 
several more of the same series, 
" The New God," " The Infallibilists," 
"The Marvel of the Cross," etc. 
They are very popular in Germany, 
where they sell at the rate of 85,000 
copies of a single story, They are 
capital for their purpose, and we 
are glad to see the indefatigable 
Father Noethen giving them to the 
public in an English dress. 

THE ORDER AND CEREMONIAL F THE 
MOST HOLY AND ADORABLE SACRIFICE 
OF THE MASS EXPLAINED, ETC., ETC. By 
Frederick Oakeley, Canon of the Me- 
tropolitan Church. New York : The 
Catholic Publication Society. 

We take great pleasure in an- 
nouncing, in behalf of The Catholic 
Publication Society, a new edition 
of Canon Oakeley's well-known and 
admirable little book on the cere- 
monies of Holy Mass. 

PONTIFICATE OF Pius IX. By J. F. Ma- 
guire, M.P. London : Longmans. 1870. 
(From the author.) 

Mr. Maguire is well known on 
both sides of the Atlantic as an 
able and upright member of the 
British Parliament, representing an 
Irish constituency, as the editor of 
one of the best Catholic newspapers 
in the English language the Cork 
Examiner and as the author of 
several interesting books. The pre- 
sent volume, published two years 
ago, has just been sent to the editor 
of this magazine by the author, for 
which courtesy he will please accept 
our thanks. It is a revised and en- 
larged edition of a work already 
well known and extensively read in 
this country, under the title " Rome 
and its Ruler." The author has 
made many additions to it, and has 
brought it down to the year i8/c 
so that its value is, we may say, 
trebled, so great are the events 
which have crowded these later 



Neiv Publications. 



857 



years of our glorious Pontiff now 
happily reigning. It is impossible 
to exaggerate the value and import- 
ance of a work like this. In mo- 
mentous interest, the topics of 
which it treats are on a level with 
those of the Sacred History itself. 
The means of information for Eng- 
lish readers are scanty. Mr. Ma- 
guire is a loyal and devout Catholic, 
an able, well-informed, and consci- 
entious statesman and historian. 
It is therefore of the utmost con- 
sequence that his book should be 
circulated* and read extensively. 
We trust the demand for it will be 
such as to induce American publish- 
ers to make ample provisions for 
supplying the American public with 
this most necessary and valuable 
work. 

TRAVELS IN EUROPE AND THE EAST. By 
Rev. J. Vetromile, D.D. New York : . 
D. & J. Sadlier & Co. 1872. 

This is a volume of quite large 
size, handsomely printed, and orna- 
mented with a fine portrait of the 
reverend author, who is an Italian 
priest, for many years laboring as a 
missionary among the Indians of 
the State of Maine. The style is 
easy, agreeable, and entertaining, 
and the book is very much like a 
cosy afternoon chat with an intelli- 
gent and travelled gentleman about 
the scenes and countries he has 
visited. Reading the description 
of the pleasant home and delightful 
circle of friends which the author 
has left, we can better appreciate 
the great sacrifice he has made in 
banishing himself to the Indian 
settlements of Maine, and we are 
sure he will make a friend of every 
reader of his book. 

MEMOIRS OF THE ESTABLISHMENT OF THE 

CHURCH IN NEW ENGLAND. By Rev. 

James Fitton. Boston : P. Donahoe. 

1872. 

Father Fitton is the oldest priest 
in New England, having exercised 
his sacerdotal ministry there during 
forty-seven years. At the time 
when, in company with one other 



young deacon, he was ordained 
priest by Bishop Fenwick, there 
were only three other priests in 
that prelate's diccese, which em- 
braced all New England. Father 
Fitton is entitled to the reverence 
and gratitude of all the Catholics 
of New England, as one who has 
been an apostolic missionary and a 
laborious parish priest for almost 
half a century. He is also worthy 
of confidence and credence as a 
competent and truthful witness and 
annalist of the principal facts and 
events in the history of the Catho- 
lic religion in New England. He 
has prefaced his history of the 
church as existing in modern times 
by an interesting account of the 
ancient mission in Rhode Island 
during the residence of the North- 
men at Newport, and of the early 
Indian missions. This is the ro 
mantic part of the history. The 
rest of it is prosaic and common- 
place, and yet of great value, and 
made interesting by the great re- 
sults which have come from small 
and humble beginnings. Every 
priest and layman in New England 
ought to have this book and read 
it attentively, and it is worth the 
perusal of all those out of New 
England who take an interest in the 
progress of the Catholic religion in 
the United States of America. 

HORNEHURST RECTORY. By Sister Mary 
Frances Clare. New York : D. & J. 
Sadlier & Co. 1872. 

The appearance of a novel from 
this distinguished writer will be an 
agreeable surprise to her numerous 
admirers in this country, who have 
read with so much pleasure and 
profit her graver historical and bi- 
ographical works. Horhehitrst. is 
an English tale illustrative of the 
movement in the ranks of the Eng- 
lish Church towards Catholicity, 
inaugurated some forty years ago by 
Dr. Newman and the Tractarians. 
The characters throughout are well 
drawn, the writer being of course 
thoroughly acquainted with the ex- 
pressions, modes of thought, and 



New Publications. 



arguments of the class she por- 
trays. 

The book presents a handsome 
appearance, and we anticipate for it 
an extensive patronage, and a perma- 
nent place in our Catholic libraries. 

GOING HOME. By Eliza Martin. Phila- 
delphia: Eugene Cummiskey. 1872. 

We are glad to see that this 
novel, which has already appeared 
serially in a Philadelphia Catholic 
newspaper, has been published in a 
more portable and permanent form. 
It is a work of very considerable 
merit, combining amusing and ex- 
citing incidents with sound instruc- 
tion ; and from its latent power 
and partially developed dramatic 
strength we judge that it is not the 
last nor the ablest of the produc- 
tions with which the authoress is 
likely to favor the public. We are 
sadly in need of books of its refined 
and humanizing character, for, if our 
young people must read fiction, they 
ought to be supplied with the very 
best attainable in temper and ten- 
dency. The plot of the tale is not 
complicated, the leading characters 
are well and clearly delineated, the 
moral obvious, and the scene con- 
fined to our own country, not over- 
drawn. As a whole, its tone is sad, 
sometimes even painfully so, and in 
our opinion the contrasts between 
abject poverty and unlimited afflu- 
ence, virtue almost superhuman 
and unmitigated villany though 
all drawn with great vigor are too 
violent to be thoroughly artistic. 
A novel should be like a well-fin- 
ished painting, with a middle dis- 
tance softening and blending the 
more prominent lights and shadows 
of the picture. It might be objected, 
also, that the physical beauty of 
Mrs. Martin's heroines, of whom 
there are three, is too highly color- 
ed, too elaborately depicted, for ac- 
tual life; but as this is a fault which 
carries with it its own palliation, we 
presume it will not be considered a 
very p^reat blemish by most of her 
readers. For the sake of the au- 
thoress, who doubtless has devoted 



much time and labor to her work, as 
well as from the respect in which 
we hold her publisher, we would be 
glad to be able to extend our praise 
from the literary qualities of Going 
Home to its mechanical execution, 
but in common justice we find it 
impossible to do so. On the con- 
trary, it must be admitted that the 
paper upon which it is printed, the 
type, ink, and presswork, are all of 
the most inferior sort carelessness 
or want of ordinary taste, for we 
cannot attribute it to design, is evi- 
dent on every page, lessening in no 
slight degree the unalloyed pleasure 
one might otherwise feel in reading 
so interesting a story. 

THE PLEBISCITE. By Erckmann-Chatri- 
an. New York : Scribner, Arm- 
strong & Co. 1872. 

This prettily bound and printed 
book is the combined effort of the 
authors of the Conscript and other 
tales well known by English trans- 
lations on this side of the water. 
Its object is to give, in the form of 
a tale, a picture of French peasant 
manners and opinions immediately 
before and during the late Franco- 
German war ; and to a certain extent 
it may be considered a success. A 
vein of irony and sly humor, at 
which our "volatile neighbors" are 
such adepts, runs through every 
page, and, Napoleon III. having been 
unfortunate, of course it is directed 
against him and his line of policy. 
There is nothing, it is said, so suc- 
cessful as success, and, now that the 
mighty Empire has failed, every 
good Frenchman with brains 
enough to write a pamphlet or a 
song considers that he is perfectly 
justified in heaping obloquy on 
everything connected with the late 
order of things. The authors of the 
Plebiscite are foremost among this 
army of ingrates, but they go even 
further than politics, and venture 
their ridicule on more sacred mat- 
ters, a step which much greater* 
men than Erckmann-Chatrian have 
attempted before now, and for which 
they have repented when too late. 



New Publications. 



859 



A BAKER'S DOZEN. Original Humorous 
Dialogues. By George M. Baker. 
Boston : Lee & Shepard. 1872. 

The dialogues contained in this 
neat little volume, first appeared 
in Oliver Optic s Magazine. They 
are well adapted to school exhibi- 
tions, etc., and will meet a very 
general and urgent demand. 

MARION HOWARD ; OR, TRIALS AND TRI- 
UMPHS. By F. A. Philadelphia : 
Peter F. Cunningham. 

In the modest preface to this vol- 
ume, we have the reason for its ap- 
pearance before the public, which is 
most praiseworthy ' the dearth of 
Catholic light literature.' While 
the majority of readers will seek 
light reading, it is certainly to be 
regretted that there is so little that 
can be read without injury to faith 
or morals. The author of Marion 
Howard has given us a pleasing 
story of English life, into which she 
has skilfully introduced conversa- 
tions on various Catholic dogmas, 
which are well sustained, and in 
which the principles of the faith are 
given in a form that may attract 
the attention of numbers who would 
never look into a controversial 
work. It is doubtful if Protes- 
tants can be persuaded to any great 
extent to read even the light litera- 
ture of Catholics, but such a work 
as Marion Howard will bring plea- 
sure and help to many a young 
Catholic, in need of a pleasing an- 
swer to the common objections of 
Protestants to the Catholic faith. 
The youth of the church in this 
country, surrounded by and min- 
gled with those who have a false 
faith or no faith, should be prepared 
to meet the assaults they are sure to 
receive, and books like the one un- 
der notice will be a great assistance 
to them. We surmise that the au- 
thor is a convert, from the multipli- 
city and variety of the conversions 
related in the book. We only wish 
this were true to life, and that 
friends would follow each other into 
the church in such rapid succession. 
There are carelessly written sen- 



tences scattered here and there 
through the story, but the narra- 
tive is interesting to the end, and 
we find a loving, tender devotion 
to our mother the church, like a 
golden thread woven into beautiful 
thoughts of our holy religion, that 
could only have been wrought by 
one who has the eye of faith. 

The type is large and clear, and 
the volume presents an attractive 
exterior. 

BY THE SEASIDE. By a Member of the 
Order of Mercy, authoress of '* The 
Life of Catherine McCauley," " Glimp- 
ses of Pleasant Homes," etc. New 
York : P. O'Shea. 1872. 

This is a prettily got up book, 
written by one who has heretofore 
shown her capacity to interest and 
benefit the young folk. We are 
glad to see attractive books of a 
healthful tone, suited to the rising 
generation, thus multiplying on our 
publishers' lists, as a necessary anti- 
dote to the baneful literature with 
which those addressed are frequent- 
ly assailed. The church is the home 
of beauty as it is of goodness and 
truth, and we should not allow those 
who do not possess either, except 
in fragments, to excel us in the 
artistic features of their publications, 
any more than in what relates to 
ethical proprieties. 

CHRISTIAN COUNSELS, selected from the 
Devotional Works of Fenelon. Trans- 
lated by A. M. James. London : 
Longmans, Greene & Co. (New York : 
Sold by The Catholic Publication 
Society.) 

Our Protestant friends have, of 
late years, set to work very industri- 
ously in translating Catholic books 
and in writing original works on 
Catholic subjects. Besides the 
Edinburgh edition of the Ante- 
Nicene Fathers, just completed, and 
individual and collective lives of the 
saints we could once enumerate, the 
English versions of Continental de- 
votional works have increased so 
rapidly as to alarm those High 
Churchmen who are averse to any 



86o 



New Publications. 



further investigation. Of course we 
can only augur favorably of such 
enterprises when undertaken in the 
right spirit, though we may fear lest 
formulas be adopted without the 
necessary accompaniments of faith 
and obedience. Their " starved 
imaginations and suppressed devo- 
tional instincts," as Dr. Bellows 
once phrased it, cannot long be 
satisfied with words only, one would 
think. The writings of the Arch- 
bishop of Cambrai have been too 
long before the English-speaking 
public to need any characterization 
at our hands, and we therefore sim- 
ply chronicle the appearance of a 
new edition of the Christian Counsels 
under Protestant auspices. 

PUBLIC SCHOOL EDUCATION. By Michael 
Mliller, C.SS.R. Boston: P. Dona- 
hoe. 1872. 

This is Father Muller's contribu- 
tion to the literature of one of 
the great questions of the day. 
It will have attained its end if 
it awakens Catholics to the im- 
portance of the general theme and 
their duty in its regard ; and also 
enables judicious Protestants to 
comprehend why AVC are so solici- 
tous that our children should re- 
ceive their religious training at the 
same time that they acquire secular 
knowledge. 

SIR HUMPHREY'S TRIAL: A Book of 
Tales, Legends, and Sketches, in Prose 
and Verse. By Rev, Thomas J. Pot- 
ter. Boston : P. Donahoe. 1872. 

Father Potter seems equally at 
home in addressing the young and 
the mature, priests and people ; as 
witness his works on homiletics 
and those of a miscellaneous cha- 
racter adapted to different ages. 
He evidently believes that variety 
is the spice of books as well as of 
life, as will be seen by the title of 
the present volume ; and readers 
indisposed to take up a more serious 
book will find this an agreeable 
substitute. 

The Catholic Review of Brooklyn 



has already established its positioi 
among our best weekly papers. It 
sound principles, and the tact an< 
liveliness with which it is edited 
make it well worthy of support 
We trust that it will soon attain : 
sufficient circulation to furnish ttu 
means of still further increasing its 
value and interest, and that it wil 
prove to be permanently successful 

THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SO- 
CIETY will publish at an early daj 
a new work, now in preparation, by 
the author of The Comedy of Convo- 
cation, entitled My Clerical Friends. 
It will be published with the con- 
sent and approval of the author. 



WANTED. Numbers 494, 501, 
502, 504, 505 of the Civilta Cattolica, 
for which a. fair price will be paid. 
Address the editor of THE CATHOLIC 
WORLD, 9 Warren Street, or corner 
of Ninth Avenue and Fifty-ninth 
Street. 



BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS RECEIVED. 

From KELLY, PIET & Co., Baltimore : Excelsior ; 
or, Essays on Politeness, Education, and the 
Means of Attaining Success in Life. Part I. 
for Young Gentlemen, by T, E. Howard ; 
Part II. for Young Ladies, by A Lady (R. V. R.) 
i2mo, pp. 318. The Gold- Luggers and other 
Verses. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton. i2mo, 
pp. xi., 187. Dramas : The AVitch of Rosen- 
burg. The Hidden Gem. By H. E. Cardi- 
nal Wiseman. i2mo, pp. 76, 105. Lectures 
by the Most Rev. Henry Edward Manning : 
The Four Great Evils of the Day ; The Four- 
fold Sovereignty of God ; The Grounds of 
Faith. iSmo, pp. 133, 170, 101. St. Helena. 
A Drama for Girls. By Rev. J. A. Bergrath. 
Paper, i2mo, pp. 43. 

From P. DONAHOE, Boston : Devotions for the 
Ecclesiastical Year. By the author of " Jesus 
and Jerusalem," etc. 

From P. O'SHEA, New York: Meditations on 
the Passion- of Our Lord Jesus Christ. By 
Brother Philip. i2mo, pp. ix., 483. The Pro- 
fits and Delights of Devotion to Mary. By 
Rev. J. O'Reilly, D.D. 12010, pp. 153. The 
Crown of Mary. By a Dominican Father. 
241110, pp. ioi. The Agnus Dei : Its Origin 
and History. 32010, pp. 78. Evaline. By P. 
J. Cohen, izmo, pp. 225. Spiritual Retreat of 
Eight Days : Extracted from the Works of St. 
Alphonsus Liguori. izmo, pp. viii. , 160. 

From SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG & Co., New York : 
Within and Without. By George MacDonald, 
LL.D. i2mo, pp. 219 Easy Experiments in 
Practical Science. By L. R. C. Cooley, Ph.D. 
i2mo,pp. 85 Natural Philosophy. By L R C. 
Cooley, PhD. izmo, pp. 192. 



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