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I 




1 



I 



THE 



CATHOLIC WO^I^D 



MONTHLY MAGAZINE 



OF 



General Literature and Science 





VOL. xvin. 




• 

OCTOBER, 1873, TO MARCH, 1874. 


, 






NEW YORK: 


THE 


CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE. 




9 Warren Street. 




1874, 







\ 



660566 



t 
i 



ir 



w » " » »l 



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• • • • 



• • • • • 



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• • • 



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■»-( 



-H 



CONTENTS. 



Ardt-abpSpaldin^r, 5x3. 

Are iJaf Public Schools Free? x. 

K-itflfGold, A, 855. 
■r ::isy,More about, xzi. 

V£!aim«, S., of Ricci, 490. 
y ir.*f-nl of Cha.rtre% The, 835. 
i'4j)dic Literature in Bog^land Since the Refor- 

£&on. 36 T, 363. 
U!hk Toang Meo's Aasociationa, 369. 
Cirx'Saas Story, A, 479. 
Ccz,o, A Week at the Lake of, 137. 
( ^Saatioii Laws, Italian, 30. 
r.«tof Frioce to 1830, The, 403. 
vrme— Itt Origin and Cure, 55. 

Diste\0*Coaoel1, aoS. 

Xfz'xpS Midtme Agnes, 68, 195. 

EapVahCWsiiBas Story, An, 479. 
Ic^lnb Maidea'a Lore, An, 694. 
E:^bah Sketches: An Hour in Jail, 279. 
EcftishSieuhcs: Huns of an Old Abbey, 398. 
t^p.hatj:y,'n«t.55o. 
l.^«B(^ck\ AUnacc,The, 353. 

F«m<JJfoiareo. Tie. ,71, 338, 44a, 6*7, 734- 

rubtrSebutJMalbk, S.J., 541. 
rnxet, TheCoartofm 1830, 403. 
Freoci Poet A. 94. 
For Tnda, Tie, 4x«, soa. 

GneeSerwwr's Mission, 668, 806. 
(»Tic4eC*ii&tase, A Visit to the, xi8. 
O^pcsudTlomj, xo, aao, 303, 591, 77s. 

H«aerflxlka,473, 

H^r BiJd, An, a79. 
^•'GwgiHowvd was Cured, 40. 

'*^*^ Cofifiscation Laws, 30. 

',«eist Schism in Holland, The, 686, 838. 
a^tttrtMiU, Tax. 

-*s^H»nnis, 383. 

-r*3rt. Catholic, in England, a6i, 363. 



Looker. Back, A, 7x1, 848. 
Love of God, The, 93. 

Madame Agnes, 68, 195. 

Madame de StaSl, 53a. 

Metaphysics, A Talk on, 389. 

More about Brittany : Its Customs, Its People, 

and Its Poems, 11 x. 
My Friend and His Story, 87. 

Nano Nagle, 658% 

Napoleonic Idea and Its Consequences, The, 79. 

Odd Stories, X4a. 

O'Connell, Daniel, 208. 

One Chapter from Hester Hallam's Life, 473. 

Our Masters, 709. 

Paris Hospitals, xa4. 
Philosopliical Terminology, X84, 753. 
Principles of Real Being, The, 433, 577, 824. 
Public Schools, Are they Free? i. 

Rale, Father Sebastian, SJ., 54X. 
Real Being, The Principles of, 433, 577, 894. 
Religious Policy of the Second Empire, 793. 
Ruins of an Old Abbey, 398. 

See of S. Francis of Sales, The, 349. 
Son of God, The, Archetypal Beauty, 165. 
Song of Roland, The, 378, 488. 
Spalding, Archbishop, 51a. 
Spiritualism, 145, 318, 606. 
StaSl, Madame de, 532. 

Tale of the Northwest, A, 4x2, 50a. 
Talk on Metaphysics, A, 289. 
Terminology, Philosophical, 184. 
Travels with a Valetudinarian, saa. 

Visit to the Grande Chartreuse, A, xx8. 

Week at the Lake of Como, A, 137. 

Year of Our Lord 1873, The, 558. 

Young Men's Associations, Catholic, 969, 



POETRY. 



"d Restored, The, 531. 
urcfc Postures, 9. 

E'^oao? ^4. 
's PurgatOTio, x66, 299, 587. 
ims, 99S, 6s7. 
-a Egypt to Chanaan, 537. 
•'ttiest Grief, The, 425. 
'"* *^y Light shall we see Light, 948. 

**^ Home, 77X. 

'-■^t Chapel, The, 756. 

^** with the Broken String, The, 985. 



Mary, ixo. 
Nature, To, 193. 
Ordinandus, 479. 
Priest, The, 919. 
Recent Poetry, 54. 

Self-Lore, X94. 

Serious " Vive la Bagatelle," The, 44s. 
Sleep, 3x7. 

Trouvere, The, 67. 

Venltc, Adoremus, 501. 
Vigil, 857. 



IV 



Contents. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



Acts of the Early Martyrs, The, 576. 
Arena and the Throne, The, 575. 
Ark of the People, The, 573. 
Augustine, S., Works of, 860. 

Baron of Hertz, 574. 

Hible History, 430- 

Byrne's Irish Smigration, 388. 

Catholicity and Pantheism, ^^6. 

Christian Doctrine, The Enchiridion, etc., 860. 

Christian Trumpet, The, 427. 

De Concllio's Catholicity and Pantheism, 426. 
De Smet's Voyages aux Montagues Rochcuses, 

etc., 387. 
Divine Sequence, The, 986. 
Dove of the Tabernacle, The, 859. 

Essays on Various Subjects, 499. 
EwinfiT, Thomas, Memorial of, 859. 

Fa8trd*s Acts of the Early Martyrs, 576. 
FuUerton's Life of Luisa de Carvajal, 286. 
FttUerton's Seven Stories, 574. 

Goldie's Life of B. John Berchmans, 790. 
Good Things for Catholic Readers, 988. 
Gordon Lodge, 574* 

Historical Sketches, 144. 

Holy Mass, The, 858. 

House of Gold, and the Saint of Nazareth, 387. 

Idea of a University, 144. 

Illustrated Catholic Family Almanac, 431. 

Irish Emigration to the United States, 988. 

Jesuits in Conflict, 719. 

Kinane*s The Dove of the Tabernacle. 859. 
Kirkpatrick's Spain and Charles V^II., 499- 

Labadye*s Baron of Hertz, 574. 

Lasctne, 574* 

Lectures oa S. John, 860. 

Lectures upon the Devotion to the Most Sacred 
Heart of Jesus Christ, 720. 

Lefebvre's Louise Lateau, 857. 

Lenten Sermons, 859. 

Life of Luisa de Carvajal, 986. 

Life of S. Alphonsus Liguori, 718. 

Life of S. Alphonsus Liguori, by Bjshop Mul- 
lock, 718. 

Life of the B. John Berchmans, 790. 



Life of the Most Rer. M. J. Spalding, 439. 
Life of the Ven. Anna Maria Taigi, 858. 
Lives of the Irish Saints, 718. 

Marie and Paul, 574. 

Meditations for the Use of the Clergy, 431. 

Memorial of Thomas Ewing, 859. 

Moscheles* Recent Music and Musicians, 439. 

Mailer's The Holy Mass, 858. 

Mullock's Life of S. Alphonsus Liguori, 718. 

Newman's Historical Sketches, 144. 
Newman's Idea of a University, 144. 

O'Hanlon's Lives of the Irish Saints, 718. 

O'Lcary's Bible History, 430. 

O'Reilly's Songs from the Southern Seas, 431. 

Pleadings of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, 859. 

Poetical Life of S. Joseph, 987. 

Potter's Sacred Eloquence, 141. 

Pratt's Rhoda Thornton's Girlhood, 575. 

Preston's Lectures upon the Devotion to the Most 

Sacred Heart of Jesus Christ, 790. 
Pronouncing Handbook of 3,000 Words, 987. 

Real Presence, The, 574. 

Recent Music and Musicians, 439. 

Rhoda Thornton's Girlhood, 575. 

Rituale Roraanum Pauli V. Ponlificis Maxtmi 

Jussu Editum et a Benedicto XIV. Auctum 

et Castigatum, etc., 575. 

Sacred Eloquence, 144. 

Sacred Heart of Jesus, Pleadings of the, 859. 

Saxe Holm's Stories, 574- 

Scotti's Meditations for the Use of the Clergy. 

43" • 
Segneri's Lenten Sermons, 859. 

Seven Stories, 574. 

Songs from the Southern Seas, 431. 

Soule and Campbell's Pronouncing Vocabulary, 

987. 
Spain and Charles VII.. 499. 
Spalding's Life of Archbishop Spalding, 439. 
Story of Wandering Willie, The, 439. 

Thompson's The Life of the Ven. Anna Maria 

TaJgi, 858. 
Tissot's Real Presence, 574. 
Townsend's Arena and the Throne, 575. 

Voyages aux Montagues Rocheuses et Sejour 
ches lesTribus Indiennes de TOregon, 987. 

White's Gordon Lodge, 574. 

Wiseman's Essays on Various Subjects, 4«9> 



10^^!!^ 



iSi 






THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD 



VOL. XVIII., No. 103.— OCTOBER, 1873. 



ARE OUR PUBLIC SCHOOLS FREE ? 

''OWeCjLtKoUcs their full ri^^hts ; ask nothtnti: of them you vrould not willingly concede if ycu 
•ett m VW« ^\»c«,'' — AVw VtrrA Journal 0/ Commerct, 



Thi subject oi education, the 
mtihod and extent of it, is undoubt- 
Cilly one of the foremost topics of 
discussion to-day, and will be more 
conspicuous than ever in the imme- 
diate future. And, while all men are 
agreed that a sound and sufficient 
education of the entire people is our 
only ground of hope for the perpe- 
taity of our rights and liberties — that, 
in truth, it is vital — it is not to be 
wondered at that men differing in 
the depth as well as extent of their 
individual culture, should also widely 
differ as to the constituent elements 
of a sound and sufficient education, 
lliere are, for instance, some, as yet 
happily few hi number, who, in the 
maze of confusion and Babel-like 
discussions of sectarians and false 
teachers turn their faces away in 
hopeless, helpless uncertainty, and 
suggest that rcli^on of every name 
and kind must be excluded and the 
Deity himself ignored in our public 
schools, so that public education 



shall be secular * and however much 
of " religion " of any and every sort 
may be taught, it must be in private. 
This is natural enough in those un- 
fortunate persons who so far lack a 
positive faith that they see no safety 
except in uncertainty,and hence adopt 
a kind of ^^/<f^//Wjr/^/ which, embracing 
some abstract truth, may confessedly 
also contain something of error. 

The early settlers of this country — 
this " land of liberty " — however, had 
no idea of excluding religion from 
the schools ; and if any among them 
or their immediate successors enter- 
tained even any peculiar notions as 
to what constituted religion, they 
were very summarily " squelclied 
out." 

Even ** the great expounder of the 
constitution " was in the habit of ad- 
juring his fellow-citizens " not to for- 
get the religious character of our 
origin," and to remember that the 
right to " life, liberty, and the pursuit 
of happiness " is guaranteed to us in 



Watered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by Rev. I. T. Hbckbr, in the Office of 

the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



Are Our Public Schools Free f 



that epitome of human wisdom ^vhich 
the great New Englander was born 
to defend. That right it is the privi- 
lege and the duty of each one of us 
also to maintain, especially when it 
is threatened under the specious pre- 
text of reform. 

These and other reflections are 
suggested by the perusal of a pam- 
phlet, a sort of campaign docu- 
ment, issued by the " New York 
City Council of Political Reform," 
first published in 1872, and thought 
to be of consequence enough to be 
reissued in the present year of grace 
1873. This document contains among 
others a report entitled " Sectarian 
Appropriations of Public Money." 
The very title of this report at once 
alarms and arouses us. We are 
alarmed at the dangers that menace, 
and we are aroused to defend, our 
rights as Americans. In this defence 
we invoke the genius of liberty and 
the spirit of " equal rights," and shall 
fight under the " Stars and Stripes," 
the flag of freedom, till we succeed 
in repelling the open as well as in- 
sidious ausaults of the enemies of that 
truth which only can make us free. 

The ostensible and praiseworthy 
purpose of the pamphlet in question 
is to expose the frauds upon the city 
treasury perpetrated by the late 
"Tammany Ring," which, in the 
person of the " boss thief of the 
world," is now on trial, in a sort, 
before the courts, charged with rob- 
bery^ iheft^ and perjury^ but the real 
purpose, the iniquitous and damnable 
purpose, is intimated in the following 
words of the report upon " Sectarian 
Appropriations, etc.": " Over $2,273,- 
231 taken from the treasury in 1869, 
1870, 1871. One sect gets in cash 
$1,915,456 92; besides public land, 
$3,500,000. Total to a single sect, 
$5,415,456 92." And further (on 
page 10 of the same report) : " Nearly 
$2,000,000 of the money raised by 



taxes abstracted from the public trea- 
sury of the city and county of New- 
York in the last three years alone for 
sectarian uses. A single sect gets 
$1,396,388 51, besides a large slice 
of the city's real estate." 

This "sect" means the Catholic 
Americans of the city of New York, m 
numbers somewhere about 500,000, 
or nearly half the population of the 
city ; of whom we are told elsewhere 
in this same report (page 4) that, 
" as a sect," it has during the last 
three years, by an alliance with the 
Tammany Ring drawn (taken, ab- 
stracted) from the public treasury^ in 
cash, for the support of its convents, 
churches, cathedrals, church schools^ 
and asylums, the enormous sum of 

$1,396,388 Si- 
lt is hardly worth while for our 

present purpose to verify or to con- 
tradict this total or the particulars 
of it, for the errors into which the 
report or its author has perhaps ig- 
norantly fallen, though not inconsid- 
erable in magnitude, hardly affect our 
main purpose; and after all, these " in- 
accuracies " may not, it is hoped, be 
the result of carelessness solely, but are 
due in some measure to the fact that 
many of the " sects," while they par- 
ody our practices, appropriate also 
our names, and so may conveniently 
be confounded with our Catholic in- 
stitutions. 

We will, however, point out some 
which may readily be investigated. 
For instance, on page 10 of the 
report just mentioned, we find that 
the " House of Mercy," Blooming- 
dale, with a $5,000 "abstraction" 
in 1869, is classed as Roman Catho- 
lic, and it happens to be a Protestant 
institution ; the " Sisters of Mercy " 
also, with an " abstraction " of $457. 
is Protestant ; " German-American 
School, S. Peter's Church," with its 
"abstraction" of $1,500, is Protes- 
tant ; and the " German- American 



Are Our Public Schools Free ? 



Free School," with its " abstraction " 
of $14,000 in 1869, $2,496 in 
1870, and $1,960 in 1871, is Pro- 
testant ; and the " German-American 
School, Nineteenth Ward," with its 
"abstraction" of $3,150 in 1869 
ind $2,700 in 1870, is Protestant; 
and the '* Church of Holy Name or S. 
Matthew,*" with its " abstraction " 
of $463 1 2, is also Protestant ; and 
the " Free German School," with its 
"abstraction " of $5,000 in 1869, 
$3,600 in 1870, and $4,480 in 
li)!, is also Protestant; and the 
* German Mission Association," with 
rs ** abstraction " of $5,000 in 
XS69, and $10,000 in 1870 and 
i8;i, is also Protestant; besides 
others, perhaps, improperly classed 
IS Roman Catholic. In some other 
VnsUnc^ the sums " abstracted " 
were »mp\y amounts of assessments 
in)pro/)eri/ ]2x^ and subsequently re- 

And in connection with this sug- 
gestion of errors may be noted, 
also, among the omissions (suppres- 
sions, may we not say ?) the in- 
stance of '* The Society for the Re- 
formation of Juvenile Delinquents " 
which is mentioned (on p. 16 of 
the report in question) as receiv- 
ing an " abstraction " of $8,000 in 
1870 and nothing in 187 1. This is 
a Protestant institution, and so class- 
v\ in the Report — to show, we sup- 
pose, how small an *• abstraction " 
comparatively it " took." But will 
the author of the report tell us how 
large an ** abstraction " that society 
•* took " of " public money " ? As he 
has not, and perhaps does not know, 
#e refer him to its annual report, 
where he will find as follows, viz. : 



1.': 



From Sute Comptroller, . . 

From City Comptroller, . . 

Board of Education, License, 

and Theatres, 



<l7t. State Comptroller, . 
Board of Kdu cation, 



$40,000 00 
8,000 00 

22,2X8 53 

170,218 53 

$40,000 00 

5,766 91 



making a pretty total of $70,218 53 
for 1870 and $45,766 91 for 187 1. 

There is also the " New York 
Juvenile Asylum," a Protestant in- 
stitution, which does not seem to be 
mentioned in the report in question, 
but it will be found that in 187 1 it 
" abstracted " 



From the City Treasury, . . 
From the Board of Education, 



$48,049 41 
4 015 83 

$52,065 24 



There are other " omissions" — that of 
the " abstraction " by the " Children's 
Aid Society," for instance — ^but these 
are enough for the purpose, although 
it may be added that in 1872 this 
institution " took " from the city 
$106,238 90. 

Our objection is not so much to 
the amount " in cash " stated to have 
been " taken," because the report ad- 
mits that it has not been expended 
for individual or selfish purposes, but 
in the maintenance and working of 
schools and other beneficent insti- 
tutions. We wish, however, that the 
" New York City Council of Political 
Reform " had used the means at its 
command to give an accurate and 
complete statement, and we think it 
would have been wiser to do so, inas- 
much as, while professedly carrying 
on the purpose proclaimed in its 
motto on page i of the report in 
question, to " cherish, protect, 

AND PRESERVE THE FREE COMMaN 

SCHOOLS," it has seen fit so unmis- 
takably to attack the "single sect." 
Certainly, we object to the manner in ^ 
which the " sect " is charged to have 
acquired its money, although hav- 
ing used it so wisely. This " single 
sect," comprising as it does more 
than two hundred millions (or two- 
thirds) of the Christian population of 
the world, rather objects to the term 
** sect " as applied. And if the author 
will take the trouble to consult the 
other Webster — not Daniel, whom we 



Are Our Public Schools Free t 



have already quoted — but him of the 
more venerable baptismal name, he 
will learn, very likely, however, not 
for the first time, that the term " sect " 
means **a denomination which dis- 
sents from an established church." 
And Catholics are certainly not 
aware that they are " dissenters " in 
the hitherto recognized sense of the 
word among polemical writers. 
Whether his application of the term 
is malicious or simply the result of 
ignorance, makes little difference ; it 
suited hitHy and is of no particular im- 
portance just now to us. 

But surely the author of the report 
cannot think the amount, even as 
overstated by him, to be dispropor- 
tionate to the end to be attained — " to 
cherish, protect, and preserve the free 
common schools," when it is added 
that our purpose is also " to extend " 
and to make our common schools 
*' free " indeed to all, whether Jew or 
Gentile. All that we ask is to have 
our equal rights in this land of equal 
rights, and to extend in the broad- 
est manner the freedom of the pub- 
lic schools, so that the rights and con- 
sciences of none may be restricted or 
violated. We ask simply that the 
" money raised by taxes," so large a 
portion of which we are charged to 
have *' abstracted," shall be divided 
pro ratdy and so, by dividing the diffi- 
culty, conquer it ! In the report, it 
is admitted (p. 4) that the " enor- 
mous sum " alleged or intimated to 
have been surreptitiously " taken " or 
" abstracted," was not *' taken" for 
the purpose of individual gain, but for 
"the support of convents, church- 
es, cathedrals, and church schools." 
What sum, thus expended^ can be too 
great ? In what is it enormous ? Is 
it enormous because disproportioned 
to the amount expended by other 
" sects " ? Or is it so because ex- 
pended for the support of schools 
kept in " damp basements of churches, 



so dark that gas has to be used on the 
brightest days," rather than in the 
" educational palaces " where Catho- 
lics cannot go without a violation of 
conscience, and from which they are 
practically excluded ? 

And here it is notable that in the 
report now under consideration (p. 2) 
is printed the following, purporting 
to be an extract from a report of the 
" Secretary of Commissioners of 
Charities " to the Legislature in 187 1, 
wherein it is said the secretary 
*' refers very truthfully to the already 
marked injury to the public schools of 
the city of New York caused by build- 
ing up and supporting from the public 
treasury so large a number of rixfal 
sectarian schools " (see Rep, pp. 99, 
100). The italics are not ours. 

Now, in the report of the Hon. 
Abram B. Weaver, Superintendent of 
Public Education, made in the same 
year (1871), he says: " The aggre- 
gate and the average attendance was 
greater absolutely, and in proportion 
to population, than in any former 
year" — " . . 11,700 schools were 
maintained, 17,500 teachers were era- 
ployed, and about $10,000,000 were 
expended " {Rep. Com, of Educa- 
tion^ 187 1, p. 291). **The average 
number of pupils for the whole 
state in attendance each day of the 
entire term in 1870 was 16,284, more 
than in 1869, etc." (p. 292). And in 
New York City, we are told in the 
same report (p. 301 of Report of 
Commissioners of Education ^ 1871), 
" It is interesting to note, as evidence 
of the substantial progress of free 
schools in New York City, that, 
while the whole population of the 
city has increased but about 14 per 
cent, in the last ten years, the aver- 
age attendance of pupils has increas- 
ed nearly 54 per cent, in the same 
time." Now, wherein consists the 
injury complained of? While the 
average attendance on the " free pub- 



Are Our Public Schools Free ? 



5 



ik schools " was actually increasing, 
whence came the children attending 
in these " damp basements of church- 
es," and what necessity drove them 
from the " educational palaces " ? Is 
the condition, in certain respects, of 
our public schools such as is pictured 
by the writer of the following, taken 
from the New York Herald oi Feb. 9, 

*• PUBLIC- SCHOOL ABUSES. 

"To THE Editor of the Herald : 

*'Yoiir anicles on school ventilation 

\m my hearty approval. I have sent 

tt-t two youngest boys for two successive 

wttttrs to the boys* school on Thirteenth 

R7Rt,tiear Sixth avenue (primar}* depart- 

Dcttibat each time they remained from 

oae to two weeks, and then had to remain 

home, oving to a severe cold or infiam- 

lUitioa of the lungs, which kept them 

aviT foT weeks. Having tried the school 

Amis 1 wis compelled to remove them 

this winter to a private school, where 

they lure ai/eoded regularly and have 

hcea ia good health. No judgment is 

u$«/ in tluit department in regard to ven- 

rtljtioQ. Sometimes the room is exces- 

sivelj warm ; at other times the windows 

OQ both sides of the house are opened, 

ud the current of cold air descending on 

the heads of the children causes catarrhal 

afections and pneumonia. 

"Such complaints as the following have 
been made about the girls' school, 
Twelfth street, near University place. 
A continual system of stealing is going 
•'m after ihcy leave in the afternoon. The 
desks locked up are opened and articles 
removed, even books as well as other 
Lhinf!. and if anything is accidentally 
left by the scholars it is always gone 
telore morning. Nothing is safe in that 
Khool, and the question is, who steals 
t? Complaints, I understand, have been 
r:ude, but no steps taken to correct it 
ipin. 

** The Board of Education is frequently 
implied to for necessary books and ma- 
'etial for conducting the school, and they 
I'e not supplied. No notice is taken. 
r»e teachers have to purchase themselves 
'^ necessary articles, or go without. At 
T^aeoi. 10 my knowledge, an important 
'tft of a teacher's duty is prevented 
'^«ing fulfilled by reason of not having 
'Jt nccessax)' material. Teachers are 



afraid of complaining for fear of losing 
their situations. Amicus." 

Or this, taken from the New York 
Telegram of February 13, 1873 : 

"An association has been formed by 
the women of Washington, called * The 
Societj' for Moral Education,' which has 
for its object the proper education and 
mental development of the children of 
the country. The society holds regular 
meetings, and proposes to become a na- 
tional organization. Mrs. L. B. Chan- 
dler, of Boston, is the inspiring genius of 
the movement. The members of the so- 
ciety, in an appeal for support, say: ' As 
women, teachers, and mothers, we feel it 
incumbent upon us, in view of the alarm- 
ing prevalence of intemperance and va- 
rious frightful social vices, the increase 
of pernicious knowledge among children 
and youth, the general ill-health of wo- 
men, the large number of diseased, de- 
formed, idiotic childjen born, and the ap- 
palling mortality of infants, to seek the 
means whereby future generations may 
be blessed with better knowledge of the 
laws of life, wiser and stronger parents, 
and a purer social state." 

Or tiiis, from Prof. Agassiz, embod- 
ied in an editorial article of the Bos- 
ton /^^r^/i'/ of October 20, 1871 : 

*• Year after year the chief of police 
publishes his statistics of prostitution in 
this city, but how few of the citizens be- 
stow more than a passing thought upon 
the misery that they represent ! Al- 
though these figures are large enough to 
make every lover of humanity hang his 
head with feelings of sorrow and shame 
at the picture, we are assured that they 
represent but a little, as it were, of the 
actual licentiousness that prevails among 
all classes of society. Within a few 
months, a gentleman (Prof. Agassiz) 
whose scientific attainments have made 
his name a household word in all lands, 
has personally investigated the subject, 
and the result has filled him with dis- 
may, when he sees the depths of degra- 
dation to which men and women have 
fallen ; he has almost lost faith in the 
boasted civilization of the XlXth cen- 
tury'. In the course of his inquiries, he 
has visited both the well-known 'houses 
of pleasure ' and the ' private establish- 



Are Our Public Schools Free f 



ments ' scattered all over the city. He 
states that he has a list of both, with the 
street and number, the number of in- 
mates, and many other facts that would 
perfectly astonish the people if made 
public. He freely conversed with the in- 
mutes, and the life histories that were re- 
vealed were sad indeed. To his utter 
surprise, a large proportion of the * soiled 
doves ' traced their fall to influences that 
met them in the public schools, and al- 
though Boston is justly proud of its 
schools, it would seem from his story 
that they need a thorough purification." 

Or are we driven to the conclu- 
sion that the " injury " complained 
of is like that which was chronicled 
so long agO; as suffered by Ham an 
at the hands of Mordecai ? 

"A single sect gets $1,396,388 51, 
besides a large slice of the city's real 
estate." This, of course, refers to the 
cathedral lots. That this "large 
slice " was fairly obtained, in the cus- 
tomary way of business, more than 
half a century ago, and at a time 
when no " Tammany Ring " existed, 
and when this " same sect " had no 
regularly consecrated place of wor- 
ship in this city, so insignificant were 
its numbers, is notoriously a matter 
of record — known, indeed, of all men 
who choose to know ; and the state- 
ment made in the "report" has 
been so often refuted, that the repeti- 
tion of it now is disgraceful, and is 
simply a lie " well stuck to." As to 
the other leases mentioned "at a 
nominal rental," what matters it to 
anybody but Haman so long as the 
property, however now increased in 
value for building sites or other ma- 
terial advantage to the "money- 
changers," is devoted, as the report 
in question expressly admits, to the 
cause of education — of the education 
of *' the children whose poverty pre- 
vented them from attending the pub- 
lic schools for want of clothing, and 
in many cases even of food " — as we 
are told in the following extract from 
the last published Report of the 



Board of Public Instruction (city of 
New York) for 187 1 (page 14) : "It 
will be seen from the preceding state- 
ment " (showing the average attend- 
ance at the schools under the juris- 
diction of the Board to be, for 187 1, 
103,481, and in 1870, 103,824) " that 
the attendance at the public schools 
has not increased, which is readily 
explained by the fact that many 
benevolent and charitable institutions 
have entered the educational field. 
In these institutions the children whose 
poverty prevented them from attend- 
ing the public schools for want of 
clothing, and in many cases even of 
food, are provided for." 

In the same pamphlet from which 
we have quoted is also another " Do- 
cument," designated " No. 4," em- 
bodying what purports to be a report 
made to the " State Council of Political 
Reform " in 1870 by " the Committee 
on Endowment and Support by the 
State of Sectarian Institutions." This 
"' report " contains, among other quo- 
tations from Aristotle, Washington, 
Jay, De Witt Clinton, Chancellor 
Kent, Milton, Lord Brougham, Gui- 
zot, and Horace Mann, many of 
which are so generally known and 
accepted as to have bedome truisms, 
one notable extract from Thomas 
Jefferson, which embodies very nearly 
all that Catholics desire and are con- 
tending for. Jefferson says : " A sys- 
tem of general instruction which shall 
reach every description of our citizens 
from the richest to the poorest . . . 
give it to us in any shape." This is 
what we ask. We make no war ; we 
have no " plan of attack " upon the 
public schools, as charged upon page 
5 of this Document No. 4 ; our chief 
desire is simply that expressed in the 
words already quoted from Thomas 
Jefferson ; and, with the " sectarians," 
we deny that the system now in use 
is sufficiently " general " to accom- 
plish the purpose intended, or that it 



Are Our Public Schools Free ? 



can be called a general system while 
u excludes any class whose positive 
religious convictions must necessarily 
be daily interfered with by what is 
called an ^ unsectarian '' method of 
instruction. We believe, as did the 
Puritan fathers, that a knowledge of 
and an obedience to the divine 
government are essential in fitting 
each child " to be a citizen of a free 
and tolerant republic." We believe 
in our right to say how and by whom 
soch knowledge shall be given and 
^ncb obedience shall be taught, and 
«c also believe that we are quite as 
competent to determine our methods 
iad to select our teachers as is any 
political party now in being or ever 
likely to be. We are quite as strongly 
opposed to the establishment of any 
*' state leligion " as this self-elected 
body o{ ^litical reformers are or 
affect to be; and, to quote and apply 
to ih\s body the words of " Docu- 
meatSo. 4," " we cannot yield one 
iot OT tittle of their demand, for it 
involves a principle to us sacred and 
Wtal It means the union of church 
and state." And we refer to history 
for the proof that the Catholic has 
nerer been a state church, but has 
been more frequently found in anta- 
gonism to the civil power than in 
alliance with it ; always on the side 
of liberty and the rights of the people ; 
shielding them from oppression, even 
10 the deposing of unjust rulers; en- 
forcing their rights, even to the extent 
of aiding to make war upon tyrants; 
and yet, despite this teaching of his- 
tory, we are told (on page 8 of the 
Document first referred to), under 
the pretence of saying why we '* make 
war upon the public schools," as fol- 
lows : ^ But a single sect is taught by 
•ts head, a foreign and despotic ec- 
clesiastical prince, that the civil au- 
thorities in a republic have not the 
nght to direct and control the course 
uf study, and the choice and appoint- 



ment of teachers in the public schools, 
open alike to the youth of all classes, 
but that this right belongs to the 
church." Now, this is merely a spe- 
cious falsehood- For, let us ask what 
is here. meant by "the civil authori- 
ties " ? Does the phrase mean " the 
state," which, we are also told, is a 
better educator than the church ; or 
does it mean that aggregation of in- 
dividuals, each being represented and 
having an equal voice, composing 
" the state " ? If the latter is the 
meaning, what Catholic American 
denies the right or asserts it for " the 
church" exclusively? We are yet 
to meet him. 

Catholics, and others not Catholics, 
do deny that " the state " is the best 
educator, to the exclusion of the 
church; and they do their best to 
maintain the rights of minorities as 
against the tyranny of majorities. 

There are certain words and 
phrases used in this " Document No. 
4 " which we do not altogether like ; 
as, for instance : " The state a better 
educator than the church"; for, in 
the light of certain events not long 
since occurring here and in Washing- 
ton, " the state " has come to be used, 
and perhaps understood, in a sense 
of which we are somewhat suspicious. 
The doctrine of " centralization " is 
slowly becoming something more 
than theory with a certain class of 
politicians and office-holders; and 
the words, " the state," the " civil 
authorities," and the " government/' 
are beginning to have an ominous 
ring in our ears. 

To be sure, when we are told, in a 
somewhat dogmatic way, that " the 
state is a better educator than the 
church," we may infer from the text 
illustrating thedogra|a (page 8, Docu- 
ment No. 4) that in this connection 
the state is manifest in the persons of 
the public-school authorities, and that 
they are a power in opposition to " a 



8 



Are Our Public Schools Free ? 



sect " or to " sects." And when our 
public schools are "open alike to 
youth of all classes," of all creeds, 
and Catholics are fairly represented 
among " school authorities," and are 
allowed an equal voice in direction 
and control, and in the choice of 
teachers — in short, when they have 
their rights as component parts and 
members of " the state," we shall 
probably hear no more about this 
" war upon the public schools," but 
until then probably this clamor for 
their rights will still be heard. 

All this talk, however, about secu- 
larizing education means nothing 
more nor less than the divorcement 
of religion from all public education ; 
and it remains to be seen how far 
the descendants and the heirs of that 
people who asserted that liberty of 
conscience and freedom to worship 
God (even in the school-room) meant 
something, and are paramount, will 
tolerate this " new departure." 

The Catholic barons of England 
wrung from King John at Runny- 
mede the famous Magtia Charta^ and 
the Catholic settlers of Maryland 
gave the first constitution recognizing 
equal rights for all men; and the 
" Church of Rome," as a British 
Presbyterian writer has said, " has al- 
ways been an ' independent, distinct, 
and often opposing power ' ; and that 
civil liberty is closely connected with 
religious liberty — ^with the church be- 
ing independent of the state." Every 
school-boy might and ought to be 
taught these and other like facts, for 
history mentions them ; and the as- 
sailants of the Catholic Church ought 
to be ashamed to ignore or deny 
them. And yet such ignorance and 
such denials are the capital in trade 
of the bigots aijd the fanatics who 
fear and affect to see in the spread 
of Catholicism a menace to our liber- 
ties. 

On page 5 of this " Document 



No. 4 " we are told that " the moment 
the state takes under its protection 
any church, by appropriating public 
money or property to the uses or 
support of that church, or the teach- 
ing of its peculiar tenets or practices, 
it in that act, and to that extent, 
unites church and state. The union 
of church and state, in all ages and 
in all countries, has led to oppression 
and bloodshed." Now, if this is not 
arrant nonsense, what is ? 

The practice of " appropriating 
public money or property " to church- 
es, so called, is coeval with our nation- 
al birth. And in this country church 
and state have, according to the 
logic of this statement, been very- 
much united — very much married, 
like Brigham Young and his multitu- 
dinous wives — and yet the ** oppres- 
sion and bloodshed " sure to follow 
have not yet come upon us — in fact, 
" churches " and state have always 
in this country been united, and we 
did not know it ! Through what un- 
known dangers have we passed ! 

This " Document No. 4 " is not 
honest in this kind of talk — the 
union of church and state means a 
form of religion established by law, 
and pains and penalties inflicted 
upon dissenters. 

Not a great many years ago, in 
Prussia, of which we hear so much 
upon the " educational question," by 
command of the king, the " Prussian 
Calvinist and Lutheran, who had 
quarrelled for three hundred years 
about the real presence and predes- 
tination, abandoned their disputes, 
denied their faith, and became mem- 
bers of the * Evangelical Church of 
Prussia * " — a church whose simple 
creed is thus stated : " Do ye believe 
in God? then must ye believe in 
Christ. Do ye believe in Christ ? 
then must ye believe in the king. He 
is our head on earth, and rules 
by the order of God. The king has 



Church Postures 



ippeared in the flesh in our native 

and !" This was a state religion — 

1 union of church and state, and is 

about as likely to be established here 

as that the " Document No. 4 " is to 

be adopted as a text-book in our 

public schools. Tbis union of church 

and state is about as sensible a cry, 

2nd quite as malignant, as the old 

'•No Jews, no wooden shoes !" ad- 

ilressed to the mob in England, and is 

framed and uttered in the spirit of the 

ssnK " sectarian " and bigoted hate. 

Now, one word as to "secular 

cdcation" — there is no such thing, 

if God*s work is our work. If his 

glory requires the dedication of all 

the powers he has given us, it is 

irreposterous to talk about an educa- 

tioa from which he and his existence, 

and the knowledge of him and his 

purposes and laws, are excluded. 

Wc may endow, and send our chil- 

drtn to colleges where no priest or 



clergyman shall ever come, and no 
creed shall be taught or even men- 
tioned, and call the education there 
received secular and unsectarian, as 
was intended to be done at the 
"Girard College" at Philadelphia, 
and yet we shall find the education 
unsatisfactory, and no " state " has 
yet adopted the plan. 

In conclusion, we demand, in the 
language of the resolutions " unani- 
mously adopted " and appended to 
the report in " Document No. 4," 
"... free of cost, to every child in 
the state, a generous and tolerant 
education — such an education as 
qualifies him for the duties of citi- 
zenship"; and, moreover, such an 
education as shall recognize and 
protect the first and most important 
of all the righ/s of citizenship — the 
right of conscience, which is grossly 
violated by the system of atheistical 
education. 



CHURCH POSTURES. 



Ye would not sit at ease while meek men kneel 
Did ye but see His face shine through the veil, 
And the unearthly forms that round you steal 
Hidden in beauteous light, splendent or pale 
As the rich Service leads. And prostrate faith 
Shroudeth her timorous eye, while through the air 
Hovers and hangs the Spirit's cleansing Breath 
In Whitsun shapes o'er each true worshipper. 
Deep wreaths of angels, burning from the east, 
Around the consecrated Shrine are traced, 
The awful Stone where by fit hands are placed 
The Flesh and Blood of the tremendous Feast, 
But kneel — the priest upon the altar-stair 
Will bring a blessing out of Sion there. 

— Faber, 



10 



Grapes and Thorns, 



GRAPES AND THORNS 



BY THE AUTHOR OF ** THE HOUSE OF YORKE.*' 



CHAPTER V. 



SHADOWS AND LILIES. 



Mr. Schoninger came early to the 
rehearsal that evening, and, in his 
stately fashion, made himself unusu- 
ally agreeable. There was, perhaps, 
a very slight widening of the eyes, 
expressive of surprise, if not of dis- 
pleasure, when he saw Miss Ferrier's 
critics, but his salutation did not 
lack any necessary courtesy. He 
did not lose his equanimity even 
when, later, while they were singing 
a fugue passage, a sonorous but 
stupid bass came in enthusiastically 
just one bar too soon. 

" I am glad you chose to do that 
to-night instead of to-morrow night, 
sir," the director said quietly. " Now 
we will try it again." 

And yet Mr. Schoninger was, in 
his profession, an object of terror to 
some of his pupils, and of scrupulous, 
if not anxious, attention to all ; for 
not only did he possess notably that 
exalted musical sensitiveness which 
no true artist lacks, but he concealed 
under an habitual self-control, and 
great exactness in the discharge of 
his duty, a fiery impatience of tem- 
per, and a hearty dislike for the 
drudgery of his profession. 

" If your doctrines regarding fu- 
ture punishments are true," he once 
said to F. Chevreuse, " then the phy- 
sical part of a musician's purgatory 
will be to listen to discords striving 
after, but never attaining to, harmo- 
ny, and his hell to hear sublime har- 
monies rent and distorted by discords. 
I never come so near believing in an 
embodied spirit of evil as when I 



hear a masterpiece of one of the 
great composers mangled by a tyro. 
I haven't a doubt that Chopin or Schu- 
mann might be played so as to throw 
me into convulsions." 

And F. Chevreuse had answered 
after his kind ; " And your spiritual 
purgatory, sir, will be the recollection 
of those long years during which 
you have persisted in playing with 
one thumb, as a bleak monody, that 
divine trio of which all the harmonies 
of the universe are but faint echoes." 

Nothing of this artistic irritability 
appeared to-night, as we have said. 
In its stead was a gentleness quite 
new in the musician's demeanor, and 
so slight as to be like that first film 
of coming verdure on the oak, when, 
some spring morning, one looks out 
and doubts whether it is a dimness 
of the eyes or the atmosphere, or a 
budding foliage which has set swimr 
ming those sharp outlines of branch 
and twig. 

" He is really human," Annette 
whispered to Miss Pembroke; and 
Honora smiled acquiescence, though 
she would scarcely have employed 
such an Expression for her thought. 
She had already discovered in Mr. 
Schoninger a very gentle humanity. 

Low as the whisper was, his ears 
caught it, and two sharp eyes, watch- 
ing him, saw an almost impercepti- 
ble tremor of the eyelids, which was 
the only sign he gave. The owner 
of these eyes did not by any means 
approve of the manner in which their 
leader had given Miss Pembroke her 



Grapes and Thorns, 



II 



mask that evening, leaving the other 
bdics to be served as they might; 
still less did she approve of the cold- 
ness with which her own coquettish 
demands on his attention had been 
met It was scarcely worth while to 
submit to the drudgery of rehearsing, 
in a chorus too, if that was to be 
all the return. Rising carelessly, 
therefore, and allowing the sheet 
ot Dsusic on her lap to fall unheeded 
to the floor. Miss Carthusen saunter- 
ed off toward where Miss Ferrier's 
tro critics sat apart, talking busily, 
hiYmg, apparently, as she had antici- 
pated, written their reports of the re- 
hearsal before coming to it. 

These critics were a formidable 

piff, for they criticised everybody 

and everything. One of them added 

to a man^s sarcasm a woman's finer 

maWce, irhWh pricks with the needle- 

poiDL Dr. Person was a tall, aquiline- 

ficed^ choleric nian, with sharp eyes 

that, looking through a pair of clear 

and remarkably lustrous glasses, saw 

the chink in everybody's armor. 

Those who knew him would rather 

see lightning than meet the flash of his 

glasses turned on them, and feel the 

probing glances that shot through, 

and thunder would have been music 

to their ears compared to the short 

laugh that greeted a sinister discovery. 

The other was Mr. Sales, the new 

editor of The Aurora^ a little wasp of 

a man. He had twinkling black eyes 

that needed no lens to assist their 

vision, and a thin-lipped mouth with 

I slim black moustache hanging' at 

either comer, like a strong pen-dash 

made with black ink. Dr. Porson 

called them quotation-marks, and 

had a way of smoothing imaginary 

moustaches on his own clean-shaven 

tacc whenever the younger man said 

iay very good thing without giving 

rredit for it 

** A clever little eclectic," the doc- 
t^JT said of him. " He pilfers with the 



best taste in the world, and, with the 
innocence of a babe, believes every- 
body else to be original. He never 
writes anything worth reading but I 
want to congratulate him on his 
* able scissors.' * Able scissors ' is not 
mine," the doctor added, " but it is 
good. I found it in Blackwood's'^ 

These two gentlemen had arrived 
early, and, seated apart, in a side- 
window of the long drawing-room, 
crunched the people between their 
teeth as they entered. Between the 
morsels, the doctor enlightened his 
companion, a new-comer in the city, 
regarding Crichton and the Crichto- 
nians. 

" There's little Jones, the most irri- 
tating person I know," the doctor 
said. "Bv what chance he should 

m 

have that robust voice I cannot ima- 
gine. Sometimes I think it doesn't 
come out of his own throat, but that 
he has a large ventriloquist whom 
he carries about with him. I 
shouldn't wonder if the fellow were 
now just outside that open sash. 
Did you see the way he marched 
past us, all dickey and boot-heels ? 
A man who is but five feet high has 
no right to assume six-foot manners ; 
he has scarcely the right to exist at 
all among well-grown people. Be- 
sides, they always wear large hats. 
Not but I respect a small stature in 
a clever person," he admitted, with a 
side glance at Mr. Sales' slight figure. 
" We don't wish to have our dia- 
monds by the hundredweight. But 
common, pudding-stone men must be 
in imposing masses, or we want 
them cleared away as debris'' 

" Is Mr. Schoninger a pudding- 
stone man ?" the young editor asked, 
when that gentleman had passed 
them by. 

Dr. Porson's face unconsciously 
dropped its mocking. "If you 
should sti-ike Mr. Schoninger in any 
way," he said, " you would find him 



12 



Grapes and Thorns. 



flint. The only faults I see in the 
man are his excessive caution and 
secret! ven ess. He is here, evidently, 
only to get all the money he can, 
and, when he has enough, will wash 
his hands of us; therefore, wishes 
for no intimacies. That is my inter- 
pretation. He is a gentleman, how- 
ever. A man must have the most 
perfect politeness of soul to salute 
Mme. Ferrier as he did. While they 
were speaking together, she actually 
had the air of a ladv. See her look 
after him. It is an art which we 
critics cannot learn, sir, that of setting 
people in their best light. Of course 
it would spoil our trade if we did 
learn it; but, for all that, we miss 
something. Schoninger is a Jew, 
to be sure, but that signifies no- 
thing. Each one to his taste. We 
no longer trouble ourselves about 
people's faith. When you say that a 
man believes this or that, it*s as 
though you said, he eats this or that. 
The world moves. Why, sir, a few 
years ago, we wouldn't have spoken 
to a man who ate frogs any more 
than to a cannibal ; and now we are 
so fond of the little reptiles that 
there isn't a frog left to sing in the 
swamps." 

" But," Mr. Sales objected, " soci- 
ety has established certain rules — " 
then stopped, finding himself in deep 
water. 

" Undoubtedly," the doctor repli- 
ed, as gravely as though something 
had been said. " The Flat-head In- 
dians now, who seem to have un- 
derstood the science of phrenology, 
think it the proper thing to have a 
plateau on the top of the head. 
Their reason is, probably, a moral 
rather than an aesthetic one. They 
know that the peaceful and placable 
qualities, those which impel a man 
to let go, are kept in little chambers 
in the front top of the brain. They 
have other use for their attics. So 



they just clap a board on the baby's 
soft head, and press the space meant 
for such useless stuff as benevolence 
and reverence back, so as to increase 
the storage for the noble qualities of 
firmness and self-esteem. That is 
one of the rules of their society ; and 
I have always considered it a most 
striking and beautiful instance of the 
proper employment of means to an 
end. There is a certain subHme and 
simple directness in it. No circui- 
tous, century-long labor of trying to 
square the fluid contents of a round 
vessel, but just a board on the head. 
That, sir, should be the first step 
in evangelizing the heathen — shape 
their heads. When you want a man 
to think in a certain way, put a 
strong pressure on his contradictory 
bumps, and preach to him after- 
wards. That's what I tell our minis- 
ter, Mr. Atherton. There he is now, 
that bald man with the fair hair. 
He is a glorious base. His great- 
grandfather was a conceited Anglo- 
Saxon, and he's the fourth power of 
him. The reason why he does not 
believe in the divinity of Christ is 
because he was not of Anglo-Saxon 
birth." 

Here, across XhQ pianissimo chorus 
which made the vocal accompani- 
ment of an Alp-song, Miss Ferrier's 
brilliant voice flashed like lightning 
in clear, sharp zigzags, startling the 
two into silence. 

"That wasn't bad," the doctor 
said when she ended. 

The younger gentleman applauded 
with such enthusiasm that Annette 
blushed with pleasure. " She needs 
but one thing to make her voice per- 
fect," he said, " and that is a great 
sorrow." 

" Yes, as I was telling you some 
time ago," the doctor resumed, " we 
are a liberal and hospitable people 
in Crichton. We have no prejudices. 
Everybody is welcome, even the 



Grapes and Thorns, 



13 



dcffl- We are aesthetic, too. We ad- 
mire the picturesque. We wouldn't 
object to seeing an interesting 
umiJy of children shot with arrows, 
provided they would fall with a 
grace, and their mother would assume 
the true Niobe attitude. In litera- 
ture, too, how we shine ! We have 
reached the sublime of the superficial. 
Thoc's your Miss Carthusen, now, 
wiA her onginal poetry. How 
Licdy she dished up that conceit 
c<( Montaigne's, that somebody is 
]«cDiiar because he has no pecu- 
liaiibes. Fve forgotten, it is so long 
s£ctlread him. I haven't looked 
over the new edition that this poetess 
of ooTs has peeped into and fished 
a 6oqr out of. But yesterday I was 
charmed to see it scintillating, in 
T^yiDcd Unes, in the Olympian corner 
o( Tkt Anrora^ over the well-known 
signature of Fuur-de- lis. " 

Tie \o\iuz man looked mortified. 
He bad never read Montaigne^ and 
had announced this production as 
original and remarkable, firmly be- 
iicmg the writer to be a genius. 
Bat he did not choose to tell Dr. 
Porson that, 

"What would you?" he asked, 
raising his eyebrows and his voice in 
I ph^osophical manner. *' I must fill 
the paper ; and it is better to put in 
^ood thought at second-hand than 
tint originals. How many know the 
'i.nerence ?" 

Here Annette's voice stopped 
'>m again. 

"Strange that girl sings so well 

\*mght/' said the doctor, adjusting 

a glasses for a clearer glance. " She 

inks well, too. Must be the inspi- 

riuon of her lover's presence. That's 

* Jt kind of fellow, sir, that a woman 
^<cs a fancy to — a pale, beautiful 
•oung man with a slouched hat and 

* *ccrct sorrow, the sorrow usually 
Jvmg reference to the pocket." 

Laurence Gerald sat near his lady, 



and seemed to be absorbed in his oc- 
cupation of cutting a rosebud across 
in thin slices with his pocket-knife, a 
proceeding his mother viewed with 
gentle distress. But when the song 
was ended, he looked up at Annette 
and smiled, seeming to be rather 
proud of her. And, looking so, his 
eyes lingered a little, expressing 
interest and a slight surprise, as if 
he beheld there something worth 
looking at which he had not noticed 
before. Had he cared to observe, 
he might have known already that 
Miss Ferrier had moments of being 
beautiful. This was one of them. 

There is a pain that looks like 
delight, when the heart bleeds into 
the cheeks, the lips part with a smile 
that does not fouch the eyes, and 
the eyes shine with a dazzling 
brilliancy that may well be mistaken 
for joyousness. With such feverish 
beauty Annette was radiant this 
evening, and the excitement of sing- 
ing and of applause had added the 
last touch of brightness. 

The programme for the concert 
was chiefly of popular music, or a 
kind of old-fashioned music they 
were making popular, part-songs and 
glees. They had attained great 
finish and delicacy in executing these, 
and the effect was charming, and 
far preferable to operas and operatic 
airs as we usually hear them. It 
would have been a bold woman who 
would have asked Mr. Schoninger's 
permission to sing a difficult aria, 
Annette had once made such a re- 
quest, but with indifferent success. 

" Mademoiselle," the teacher re- 
plied, " you have a better voice than 
either of the Pattis ; but a voice is 
only a beginning. You must learn 
the alphabet of music before you 
can read its poems. When you are 
ready to be a Norma, I will resign 
you to some teacher who knows 
more than I do." 



u 



Grapes and Thorns. 



The singing was at an end, and 
the singers left their seats and wan- 
dered about the house and garden. 
Only Mr. Schonihger lingered by the 
piano, and, seeing him still there, no 
one went far away, those outside 
leaning in at the window. 

He seated himself presently, and 
played a Polonaise. He sat far back, 
almost at arm's length from the keys, 
and, as he touched it, the instrument 
seemed to possess an immortal soul. 
One knew not which most to admire, 
the power that made a single piano 
sound like an orchestra, or the deli- 
cacy that produced strains fine and 
clear like horns of fairyland. 

When he had finished, he went to 
ask Mrs. Gerald how the singing had 
gone. 

" I observed that you listened," he 
remarked, being within Dr. Porson*s 
hearing. 

Mrs. Gerald had been sitting for 
the last half-hour beside Mrs. Fer- 
rier, and the lime had been peniten- 
tial, as all her intercourse with An- 
nette's mother was. It was hard for 
a fond mother and a sensitive lady 
to listen to such indelicate com- 
plaints and insinuations as Mrs. Fer- 
rier was constantly addressing to her 
when they were together without 
uttering any sharp word in return. 
To be reminded that Lawrence was 
making a very advantageous mar- 
riage without retorting that she 
would be far more liappy to see him 
the husband of Honora Pembroke, 
required an effort ; and to restrain 
the quick flash, or the angry tears 
in her fiery Celtic heart when she 
heard him undervalued, was almost 
more than she could do. But she 
had conquered herself for God's sake 
and for her son's sake, perhaps a 
little for pride's sake, had given the 
soft answer when she could, and re- 
mained silent when speech seemed 
too great an effort. 



That coarse insolence of mere 
money to refined poverty, and the 
mistaking equality before the law for 
personal equality, are at any time 
sufficiently offensive; how much 
more so when the victim is in some 
measure in the tormentor's power. 

Mrs. Gerald's face showed how 
severe the trial had been. Her blue 
eyes had the unsteady lustre of a 
dew that dared not gather into tears, 
a painful smile trembled on her lips, 
and her cheeks were scarlet. Had 
she been at liberty, this lady could 
perfectly well have known how to 
ignore or reprove impertinence with- 
out ruffling her smooth brow or 
losing her tranquil manner ; but she 
was not free, and the restraint was 
agitating. This rude woman's rudest 
insinuation was but truth, and she 
must bear it. Yet, mother-like, she 
never thought of reproaching her son 
for what she suffered. 

" I never heard music I liked so 
well," she said to Mr. Schoninger's 
question. ** We are under obligation 
to you for giving us wl^at we can un- 
derstand. The composition you have 
just played delighted me, too, though 
it is probable that I do not at all 
appreciate its beauties. It made 
me think of fairies dancing in a 
ring." 

" It was a dance-tune," Mr. Schon- 
inger said, pleased that she had per- 
ceived the thought ; for it required 
a fine and sympathetic ear to dis- 
cern the step in that capricious move- 
ment of Chopin's. 

The fact that he was a Jew had 
prevented her looking on this man 
with any interest, or feeling it possi- 
ble that any friendship could exist 
between them ; but the thought 
passed her mind, as he spoke, that 
Mr. Schoninger might be a veiy 
amiable person if he chose. There 
was a delicate and reserved sweet 
ness in that faint smile of his which 



Grapes and Thorns, 



15 



mnnaded her of some expression she 
had seen on Honora's face, when she 
was conversing with a gentleman 
who had the good fortune to please 
ber. 

Meantime, Lawrence had been 
having a little dispute with Annette. 
*• What's this about the wine?" he 
whispered to her. " John says there 
IsQi my to be had." 

He looked astonished, and with 
reasDo, for the fault of the Ferrier 
CDtenainments had always been their 
pfTobnon. 

••I meant to have told you that I 
had concluded not to have wine," 
she said. **Two gentlemen present 
are intemperate men, who make their 
timihes very unhappy, and when 
they be^n to drink they do not 
Vnow ubcic to stop. The last time 
Mt. Lane vas here he became real- 
ly <{vaxt unsteady before he went 

*• But the others !" Lawrence ex- 
cJairoed. " What will they think ?" 
**They may understand just why 
it is/' she replied ; "and they may 
not think anything about it. I 
should not imagine that they need 
occupy their minds very long with 
the subject.*' 

'^Why, you must know, Annette, 
that some of them come here for 
nothing but the supper, and chiefly 
the wine/' the young man urged 
unguardedly. 

She drew up slightly. " So I have 
heard, Lawrence ; and I wish to dis- 
courage such visitors* coming. Peo- 
;.Ie who are in the devouring mood 
should not go visiting ; they are 
disagreeable. I have never seen 
in company that liveliness which 
comes after supper without a feeling 
yjt disgust. It may not go beyond 
l-roper bounds, but still it is a great- 
er or less degree of intoxication. I 
have provided everything I could 
ti»mk of for their refreshment and 



cheering, but nothing to make them 
tipsy. I gave you a good reason at 
first, Lawrence, and I have a better. 
My father died of liquor, and my 
brother is becoming a slave to it. 
I will help to make no drunkards." 
"Well/' the young man sighed 
resignedly, " you mean well ; but I 
can't help thinking you a little quix- 



otic. 



IT 



"The Ferriers are giving us eau 
sucrie instead of wine to-night," 
sneered one of the company to Mr. 
Schoninger, a while after. 

" They show good taste in doing 
so," he replied coldly. " There are al- 
ways bar-rooms and drinking- saloons 
enough for those who are addicted to 
drink. I never wish to take wine 
from the hand of a lady, nor to drink 
it in her presence/' 

The night was brilliantly full-moon- 
lighted, and so warm that they had 
lit as little gas as possible. A soft 
glow from the upper floor, and the 
bright doors of the drawing-room, 
made the hall chandelier useless. 
Miss Ferrier's new organ there was 
flooded with a silvery radiance that 
poured through a window. Mr. 
Schoninger came out and seated 
himself before it. 

" Shall I play a fugue of Bach's ?" 
he asked of Miss Pembroke, who was 
standing in the open door leading to 
the garden. 

She took a step toward him, into 
the shadow between moonlight of 
window and door, and the light 
seemed to follow her, lingering in her 
fair face and her white dress. Even 
the waxen jasmine blossoms in her 
hair appeared to be luminous. 

"Yes/' she said, "if you are to 
play only once more; but, if more 
than once, let that be last. I never 
lose the sound and motion of one of 
Bach's fugues till I have slept ; and 
I like to keep the murmur it leaves, 
as if my ears were sea-sliells." 



i6 



Grapes and Thorns. 



She went back to stand in the door, 
but, after a few minutes, stepped sofdy 
and slowly further away, and passed 
by the drawing-room doors, through 
which she saw Annette talking with 
animation and many gestures, while 
her two critics listened and nodded 
occasional acquiescence, and Law- 
rence withdrawn to a window-seat 
with Miss Carthusen, and Mrs. Fer- 
rier the centre of a group of young 
people, who listened to her with ill- 
concealed smiles of amusement. At 
length she found the place she 
wanted, an arm-chair under the front 
portico, and, seated there, gathered 
up that strong, wilful rush of harmony 
as a whole. It did not seem to have 
ceased when Mr. Schoninger joined 
her. She was so full of the echoes 
of his music that for a moment she 
looked at him standing beside her as 
if it had been his wraith. 

He pointed silently and smiling to 
the corner of the veranda visible from 
where they sat. It was on the shady 
side of the house, and still further 
screened by vines, and the half-drawn 
curtains of the window looking into it 
allowed but a single beam of gas- 
light to escape. In that nook were 
gathered half a dozen children, peep- 
ing into the drawing-room. They 
were as silent as the shadows in which 
they lurked, and their bare feet had 
given no notice of their coming. 
Their bodies were almost invisible, 
but their eager little faces shone in 
the red light, and now and then a 
small hand was lifted into sight. 

"It reminds me," he said, "of a 
passage in the Koran, where Maho- 
met declares that it had been revealed 
to him that a company of genii had 
listened while he was reading a chap- 
ter, and that one of them had re- 
marked: 'Verily, we have heard 
a most admirable discourse.' That 
amused me; and I fancied that an 
effective picture might be made of 



it: the prophet reading at night 
by the light of an antique lamp that 
shone purely on his solemn face and 
beard, and his green robe, with, per- 
haps, the pet cat curled round on the 
sleeve. The casement should be open 
wide, and crowded with a multitude 
of yearning, exquisite faces, the lips 
parted with the intensity of their lis- 
tening. As I came along the hall 
just now, I saw one of those children 
through the window, and in that 
light it looked like a cameo cut '\\\ 
pink coral." 

" I fancy they are some of my chil- 
dren," Miss Pembroke said, and rose. 
" Let us see. They ought not to be 
out so late, nor to intrude." 

" Oh I spare the poor little wretch- 
es," Mr. Schoninger said laughingly, 
as she took his arm. " We find this 
commonplace enough, but to them it 
is wonderful. I think we might be 
tempted to trespass a little if we 
could get a peep into veritable fairy- 
land. This is to them fairyland." 

" That anything is a strong temp- 
tation is no excuse for yielding," the 
lady said in a playful tone that took 
away any appearance of reproof from 
her words. " We do not go into 
battle in order to surrender with- 
out a struggle, nor to surrender at 
all, but to become heroes. I must 
teach my little ones to have heroic 
thoughts." 

The children, engrossed in tlie 
bright scene within, did not perceive 
any approach from without till all 
retreat was cut off for them, and they 
turned, with startled faces, to find 
themselves confronted by a tall gen- 
tleman, on whose arm leaned a lady 
whom they looked up to with a tender 
but reverent love. 

These children were of a class 
accustomed to a word and a blow, 
and their instinctive motion was X.o 
shrink back into a corner, and hide 
their faces. 



Grapes and Thorns. 



17 



" I am sorry to see you here, my 
dears," she said. " Please go home 
now, like good children." 

That was her way of reproving. . 

She %X,oo6. aside, and the little vag- 

.boads shied out past her, each one 

Irving to hide his face, and scamper- 

^7.g off on soundless feet as soon as 

le bad reached the ground. 

**So you have a school?" Mr. 
SdiODinger asked, as they went 

Tocikf through the garden. 
Ti:ercame out into the moonlight, 

as: approached the rear of the 

bouse, rhere a number of the coni- 

pnriere gathered, standing among 

*aif Sowers. 

"Iffly I have fifty, or more, of 
.'"of iiiile ones, and I find it inter- 
.-^iing. They were in danger of 
, rowing up in the street, and I had 
"oihmg else to do — that is, nothing 
ihat seemed so plain a duty. So I 
tr>ok the iargest room in an old 
l.ouse of nune just verging on the re- 
gion where these children live, and 
1 ave them come there every day." 

*• Vou must find teaching labori- 
')u^/* the gentleman said. 

**Oh ! no. I am strong and 
.ic.ilthy, and I do not fatigue my- 
-'jlf nor them. The whole is free 
• I them, of course, and I am re- 
v**>nAible to no one, therefore can 
:.>:ruct or amuse them in my own 
tr.iy. As far as possible, I wish to 
pj)Iy the incompetency of their mo- 
;.jcr5. If I give the little ones a 
.:j py hour, during which they he- 
ave properly, and teach them one 
;'iing, I am satisfied. One of the 
i 'ranches I try to instruct them in is 
r catness. No soiled face is allowed 
\ > <«f>eak to me, nor soiled hands to 
:juch mc. Then they sing and 
-ifjid, and learn prayers and a lit- 
'e doctrine, and I tell them stories. 
When the Christian Brothers and the 
>ii>ters of Notre Dame come, my oc- 
cupation will of course be gone." 

VOL. XVIII. — 2 



" I wish I might some time be al- 
lowed to visit this school of yours," 
Mr. Schoninger said hesitatingly. " I 
could give them a singing-lesson, 
and tell them a story. Little Rose 
Tracy likes my stories." 

Miss Pembroke was thoughtful a 
moment, then consented. She had 
witnessed with approval Mr. Schon- 
ingefs treatment of Miss Carthusen 
that evening, and respected him for 
it. ''The day after to-morrow, in 
the afternoon, would be a good 
time," she said. " It is to be a sort 
of holiday, on account of the fire- 
men's procession. The procession 
passes the school-room, and I have 
promised the children that they shall 
watch it." 

They went in to take leave, for- 
the company was breaking up. 

*'Ohl by the way, Mr. Schonin- 
ger," Annette said, recollecting, *' did: 
you get the shawl you left here at. 
the last rehearsal ? It was thrown on 
a garden-seat, and forgotten." 

" Yes; I stepped in early the next 
morning, and took it," he said. His. 
countenance changed slightly as he- 
spoke. The eyelids drooped, and 
his whole air expressed reserve. 

" The next morning !" she repeat- 
ed to herself, but said nothing. 

Lawrence went off with Miss Car- 
thusen; and as Mrs. Gerald anci- 
Honora went out at the same time 
with Mr. Schoninger, he asked per- 
mission to accompany them. 

" How lovely the night is !" Mrs. 
Gerald murmured, as they walked 
quietly along under the trees of the- 
avenue, and saw all the beautiful city 
bathed in moonlight, and ringed 
about with mountains like a wall. 
" Heaven can scarcely have a greater 
physical beauty than earth has some- 
times." 

"I do not think," the gentleman< 
said, " that heaven will be so much 
more beautiful than earth, but our 



i8 



Grapes and Thorns. 



eyes will be opened to see the beau- 
tics that exist." 

He spoke very quietly, with an air 
of weariness or depression; and, 
when tliey reached home, bowed his 
good-night without speaking. 

The two ladies stood a moment in 
the door, looking out over the town. 
** If that man were not a Jew, I 
should find him agreeable," Mrs. 
Gerald said. **■ As it is, it seems odd 
that we should see so much of him." 

" I am inclined to believe," Ho- 
nora said slowly, " that it is not right 
for us to refuse a friendly intercourse 
with suitable associates on account 
of any difference of religion, unless 
they intrude on us a beHef or dis- 
belief which we hold to be sacrile- 
gious." 

" Could you love a Jew ?" Mrs. 
■Gerald asked, rather abruptly. 

Honora considered the matter a 
■little while. " Our Lord loved them, 
•even those who crucified him. I 
could love them. Besides, I do not 
believe that the Jews of to-day would 
.practise violence any more than 
•Christians would. We are friendly 
with Unitarians, yet they are not 
very different from some Jews. I 
think we should love everybody but 
the eternally lost. I could more 
•easily become attached to an upright 
and conscientious Jew, than to a Ca- 
tholic who did not practise his re- 

•ligion." 

Mr. Schoninger, as soon as he had 

'left the ladies, -mended his pace, and 

•strode off rapidly down the hill. In 

.a few minutes ne had reached a 

lighted railroad station, where people 

were going to and fro. 

"Just in time!" he muttered, and 
ran to catch a train that was begin- 
ning to slip over the track. Grasp- 
ing the hand-rail, he drew him- 
"Self on to the step of the last car, 
then walked through the other cars, 
and, finally, took his seat in that 



next the engine. Once a week lie 
gave lessons in a town fifteen milc^ 
from Crichlon, and he usjaily 
found it more agreeable to take ihr; 
night train down than to go inihc 



mornmg. 



In selecting this car he had hopel 
to be alone ; but he had hardly taken 
his seat when he heard a step follow- 
ing him, and another man appeared 
and went into the seat in front of 
him — an insignificant -looking person, 
with a mean face. He turned about, 
put his feet on the seat, stretche*i 
his arm along the back, and, assum- 
ing an insinuating smile, bade Mr. 
Schoninger good evening. He had, 
apparently, settled himself for a Ion;; 
conversation. 

Mr. Schoninger's habits were those 
of a scrupulous gentleman, and he 
had, even among gentlemen, the 
charming distinction of always keep- 
ing his feet on the floor. This man's 
manners were, therefore, in more 
than one way offensive, and his salu- 
tation received no more encouraging 
reply than a stare, and a scarcely 
perceptible inclination of the head. 

Mr. Schoninger seemed, indeed, to 
regret even this slight concession, 
for he rose immediately with an 
air of decision, and walked for- 
ward to the first seat. The door 
of the car was open there as they 
rushed on through the darkness, and, 
looking forward, it was like behold- 
ing the half-veiled entrance of a cav- 
ern of fire. A cloud of illuminated 
smoke and steam swept about and 
enveloped the engine with a bright 
atmosphere impenetrable to the sight, 
and through this loomed the gig*'*"' 
tic shadow of a man. This shade* 
sometimes disappeared for a moment 
only to appear again, and seemed to 
make threatening gestures, and to 
catch and press down into the fJames 
some unseen adversary. Mr. Schoiv 
inger*s fancy was wide awake, though 



Grapes and Thorns. 



19 



^is ejes were half asleep, and this 
snDge object became to him an ob- 
ject of terror. Painful and anxious 
thoughts, which he had resolutely 
pat aft-ay, left yet a dim and mysteri- 
ous background, on which this gro- 
tsque figure, gigantic and wrapped 
m fire, was thrown in strong relief. 
He imagined it an impending doom, 
vhich might at any moment fall 
Gpon Viiin. 

Finding these fancies intolerable at 
ltngth,be shook himself wide awake, 
rose,2od walked unsteadily up and 
dowi die car. In doing so, he per- 
ceived that his fellow-passenger had 
retreated to the last seat, and was, 
appaiecdy, sleeping, his cap drawn 
bw over his forehead. But Mr. 
Schoningci's glance detected a slight 
cnange m the position of the head as 
he conmenced his promenade, and 
he could not direst himself of the be- 
.VeT lAa/, from under the low hat- 
hriro^ a g/ance as sharp as his own 
was following his every movement. 

In ao ordinary and healthy mood 

)f mind he would have cared little 

tor sQch espionage ; but he was not 

in such a mood. Circumstances had 

»riate tried his nerves, and it required 

\\ his power of self-control to maintain 

1 composed exterior. Did this man 

J<jpect his trouble, and search for, 

t*f, perhaps, divine, or, possibly, know 

r.c cause of it ? He would gladly 

are caught the fellow in his arms, 

'.d thrown him headlong into the 

iter darkness. 

He returned to his place, and, 

using close to the window, looked 

-: into the night. If he had hoped 

quiet himself by the sight of a 

^iiar nature, he was disappointed, 

*7 ihe scene had a weird, though 

Ktoaonally beautiful aspect, very. 

iijkc reality. The moon had set, 

i^jjg that darkness which follows 

* right moonlight, or precedes the 

•<«n of day, when the stars seem to 



be confounded by the near yet in- 
visible radiance of their conqueror, 
and dare not shine with their own 
full lustre. Only this locomotive, 
dashing through the heart of the 
night, rendered visible a flying pano- 
rama. Groves of trees twirled round, 
surprised in some mystic dance; 
streams flashed out in all their wind- 
ings, red and serpent-like, and hid 
themselves as suddenly; wide plains 
swam past, all a blur, with hills 
and mountains stumbling against the 
horizon. Only one spot had even 
a hint of familiarity. Framed round 
by a great semi-circle of woods, not 
many rods from the track, was a 
long, narrow pond, with a few acres 
of smooth green beyond it, and a 
white cottage close to its farthest 
shore. This little scene was as per- 
fectly secluded, apparently, as if it 
had been in the midst of a conti- 
nent otherwise uninhabited. No road 
nor neighboring house was visible 
from the railroad. The dwellers in 
that cottage seemed to be solitary 
and remote, knowing nothing of the 
wide, busy world save what they saw 
from their vine-draped windows 
when the long, noisy train, crowded 
with strangers, hurried past them, 
never stopping. What web that 
clattering shuttle wove they might 
wonder, but could not know, could 
scarcely care as they dreamed their 
lives away, lotos-eating. For the 
lotos was not wanting. 

Mr. Schoninger recollected his 
first glimpse of that place as he had 
whirled past one summer morning, 
and swiftly now he caught the scene 
between his eyelids, and closed them 
on it, and dreamed over it. He 
saw the varied green of the for- 
est, and the velvet green of the 
banks, and the blue and brooding 
sky. Like a sylvan nymph the cot- 
tage stood in its draping vines, and 
tried to catch glimpses of itself in the 



20 



Grapes and Thorns. 



glassy waters at its feet, half smoth- 
ered in drifting fragrant snow of 
water-lilies. 

What sort of being should come 
forth from that dwelling of peace ? 
Mr. Schoninger asked himself. Who 
should stretch out hands to him, 
and draw him out of his troubled 
life, approaching now a climax he 
shrank from? His heart rose and 
beat quickly. The door under the 
vines swung slowly back, and a 
woman floated out over the green, 
as silent and as gracious as a cloud 
over the blue above. The drapery 
fluttered back from her advancing 
foot till it reached the first shining 
ripple of the pond, and then she 
paused — a presence so warm and 
living that it quickened his breath- 
ing. She stretched her strong white 
arms out toward him over the lilies 
she would not cross, and the face 
was Honora Pembroke's. The large, 
calm look, the earnest glow that 
saved from coldness, the full hu- 
manity steeped through and shone 
through by spiritual loveliness — they 
were all hers. 

He started, and opened his eyes. 
Their pace was slackening, the great 
black figure in its fiery atmosphere 
was in some spasm of motion, and 
walls of brick and stone were shut- 
ting them in. 

The cars stopped at the foot of an 
immense flight of stairs that stretched 
upward indefinitely, a dingy Jacob's 
ladder, without the angels. Mr. Scho- 
ninger slowly ascended them, heavy- 
hearted again, and therefore heavy- 
footed; and, not far behind, a man 
with a skulking step and a mean face 
followed after. There was nothing 
very mysterious in this walk. It led 
merely through a deserted business 
street, by the shortest route, to a 
respectable hotel. Mr. Schoninger 
called for a room, and went to it 
immediately ; the little man lingered 



in the olflce, and hung about the 
desk. 

" That gentleman comes down 
here pretty oftea in the night, doesn't 
he ?" he asked of the clerk. 

The man nodded, without looking 
up. 

'' Does he always record his name 
when he comes ?" pursued the ques- 
tioner. 

" Can't say," was the short answer, 
still without looking up. 

*' Comes down every Wednesday 
night, I suppose ?" remarked the 
stranger. 

The clerk suddenly thrust his face 
past the corner of the desk be- 
hind which his catechiser stood. 
** Look here, sir, what name shall I 
put down for you ?" he asked sharp- 

The man drew back a little, and 
turned away. " I'm not sure of book- 
ing myself here," he replied. 

The clerk came down promptly 
from his perch. " Then it's time to 
lock up," he said. 

And when he had locked the door, 
and pulled down the curtains, with a 
snap that threatened to break their 
fastenings, he put his hands in his 
pockets, and made a short and em- 
phatic address to an imaginary audi- 
ence. 

" I don't believe there is any re- 
demption for spies," he said ; " and I 
would rather have a thief in my 
house than a sneak. You sometimes 
hear of a criminal who repents ; but 
nobody ever yet heard of one of your 
prying, peeping, tattling sort reform- 
ing." 

There being no other person pres- 
ent, no one contradicted him, a cir- 
cumstance which seemed to increase 
the strength of his convictions. He 
paced the room two or three times, 
then returned to his first stand, re- 
moving his hands from his pockets 
to clasp them behind his back, as 



Grapes and Thorns, 



21 



fcdi^ 1 more dignified attitude for a 
s«akcr. 

•If I had my will," he pursued, 
•every nose that poked itself into 
other people's affairs would be cut 

Bravo! Mr. Clerk. You have 
^ense. But if you had also that san- 
cainarvwish of yours, what a number 
of mutilated visages would be going 
about the world ! How many femi- 
rine ^es would be shorn of their 
rtimsU, or long, rooting feature, or 
ciarxs, parrot beak, and how many 
men would be incapacitated for tak- 
inq sncffl 

K:rjig delivered himself of his 
ratW extreme opinion, this excellent 
mc shut up the house and retired. 

Mr. Schoninger looked fonjvard 

»uK laicrcst to his promised visit to 

Mis PcmbroWs school, and was so 

-nxtous i}KiX she should not by any 

i<^ttk\ntss ox change of plan de- 

cnvchim of it, that he reminded her 

as they came out of the hall, after 

ihdr concert, of tlie permission she 

had given him for the next afternoon. 

*• Certainly !** she replied smiling. 

*• But how can you think of such a 

-Be after the grand success of this 

fTcniog ?" 

For their concert had been a per- 
^'^i success, and Mr. Schoninger 
i::rc5clf had been applauded with 
ijch enthusiasm as had pleased even 
::a. It was the first time he had 
incd in public in Crichton, and, 
'^.cctable as he held their mu- 

il taste to be, he had not been 
•^.ared to see so ready an appreci- 

• 1 of the higher order of instrumen- 
-i aausic. 

" 1 never saw a more appreciative 
I'iuerKc," he said. " They applaud- 
'-- at the right places, and it was a 
'"-il-brcd applause. How delicate 
»".'5 that little whisper of a clapping 
'<^r,g the prelude! It was like the 
":it rustling of leaves in a summer 



wind, and so sofl that not a note was 
lost. I have never seen so nearly 
perfect an audience in any other city 
in this country." 

" Do not we always tell you that 
Crichton is the most charming city 
in the world ?" laughed Annette Fer- 
rier, who had caught his last remark. 

She was passing him, accompa- 
nied by Lawrence Gerald. Her face 
was bright with excitement, and the 
glistening of her ornaments and her 
gauzy robe through the black lace 
mantle that covered her from head 
to foot gave her the look of a butter- 
fly caught in a web. She had sung 
brilliantly, dividing the honors of the 
evening with Mr. Schoninger, and 
Lawrence, finding her admired by 
others, was gallant to her himself. 
On the whole, she was radiant with 
delight. 

" Do not expect too much of my 
little ones," Miss Pembroke said, re- 
curring to the proposed visit. " Re- 
collect, they are all poor, and they 
have had but little instruction." 

Mr. Schoninger did not tell her 
that his interest was in her more than 
in the children, and that he desired 
to see how she would conduct her- 
self in such circumstances rather than 
take any note of the persons and 
acquirements of her pupils. To his 
mind it was very strange that a 
lady of her refinement should wish 
to assume such a work without ne- 
cessity. His conception of the char- 
acter of teachers of children was 
not flattering ; he thought a certain 
vulgarity inseparable from such per- 
sons, a positiveness of speech, an ora- 
cular tone of voice, and an au- 
thoritative air, which the employ- 
ment conferred on successful teach- 
ers, if it did not find them already 
possessed of. It amused him to 
fancy these fifty children swarming 
about Miss Pembroke, like ants 
about a lily, and it annoyed him to 



22 



Grapes and Thorns, 



think that she might receive some 
stain from them. 

" I like ladies to be charitable," 
he said to himself, as he went home- 
ward ; " but there are kinds of rough 
work I would prefer they should 
delegate to others." 

He was thinking o the physical 
part of the work; Honora of the 
spiritual. 

The school-room was the lower 
floor of a house at the comer of two 
streets, and had been used as a shop, 
the two wide show-windows at either 
side of the door giving a full light. 
The upper floors were occupied as 
a dwelling-house. These windows 
looked out on a wide and respectable 
street; but the cross street, begin- 
ning fairly enough, deteriorated as it 
went on toward the Saranac, through 
the poorest section of the city, and 
ended in shanties and a dingy wharf 
where lobsters were perpetually be- 
ing boiled in large kettles in dingy 
boats, and crowds of ragged chil- 
dren seemed to be always hang- 
ing about, sucking lobster- claws, or 
on the watch for them. Miss Pem- 
broke's charge were from this class 
of children, and one of her great 
difficulties was to keep her school- 
room from having the fixed odor 
of a fish-market. 

The room was severely clean and 
spotless, and, but that the side-walls 
were nearly covered with maps, 
bookcases, and blackboards, would 
have been glaring whi^e; for the 
walls and ceiling were white-washed, 
the wood-work painted white, and 
the floor scoured white. Two rows 
of oak-colored benches extended 
across the room, the backs toward 
the windows. The sun shone in un- 
obstructed all the afternoon. Only 
when it began to touch the last row 
of benches were the green worsted 
curtains drawn down far enough to 
keep it within bounds. Miss Pern- 



broke'i chair, table, and piano were 
in the space opposite the door. On 
the centre of the wall behind her 
hung a large crucifix, and on a 
bracket beneath it a marble Child 
Jesus stretched out his arms to the 
little ones. On larger brackets to 
right and left stood an Immacu- 
late Lady and a S. Joseph. They 
were thus in the midst of the Holy 
Family. 

These images were constantly sur- 
rounded by wreaths, arches, and 
flowers, so that the end of the room 
had quite the appearance of a bower; 
and on all his festivals, and when- 
ever prayers were said, a candle was 
lighted before the Infant Jesus, who 
was the patron of their school, and 
the dearest object of their childish 
devotion. It was delightful to them 
to know that they need not always 
approach their God in the language, 
to them, often inexplicable, of the 
mature and the learned, but that 
they could whisper their ingenuous 
petitions and praises into the indul- 
gent ear of a holy Child, using their 
own language, and asking him to 
be their interpreter. S. Joseph with 
the lily and the white Lady with 
her folded hands they worshipped 
with awe; but they were not afraid 
of the dear Infant who stretched out 
his arms to them. 

Fifty little faces, all brown, but 
otherwise various, looked straight at 
their teacher — ^blue eyes and brown 
eyes, black eyes and grey, large eyes 
and small eyes, bright and dull eyes ; 
and fifty young souls were at that 
instant occupied with one thought. 
The first faint thrilling of the silence 
with martial music was heard, and 
they were eager to take their places 
to see the advancing procession. 
But Miss Pembroke waited still. 
She had told Mr. Schoninger to come 
at three o'clock, and it lacked five 
minutes of that. Just as she was 



Grapes and Thorns. 



23 



tbrnking that she would give him two 
niioutes* grace, he appeared. 

She went at once to place the 
children, and he watched with a 
soile of pleasure and amusement the 
soldierly precision of the perform- 
iDce. The door was opened wide, 
and two of the largest boys carried 
out and placed a bench near the 
edge of the upper step. At the mo- 
uoa of a finger, the smallest boys 
ftkd out and seated themselves on 
Cn'sl^Dch, and an equal number of 
larger ones stood behind keeping 
gurd. Then the door was closed. 
At tije next silcut gesture the small- 
est tf the boys and girls remaining 
seated themselves in the low, broad 
Jedgc of the windows, the next size 
fiiaccd a bench across each window 
recess ibr themselves, and the largest 
i§ain stood behind the benches. 
Not 1 word had been spoken, not a 
child hid turned its head, not the 
slightest noise nor confusion had oc- 
curred, and all were perfectly well 
j*»aced to see. 

** What admirable order !" the gen- 
tleman exclaimed. ** You must have 
dnlied them thoroughly." 

"It dii\ not seem to me wasting 
inne,*' Miss Pembroke replied. " I 
»i>h to impress on them the necessi- 
ty of a decorous and reserved man- 
ner in public. They are too prone 
to presume, and be more than ordi- 
narily lawless on such occasions. 
Besides, it teaches them self-con- 
trol." 

The two sat back at a little dis- 
tance. The children began to stretch 
iheir heads forward, and whisper ex- 
clamations to each other. The air 
resounded with martial sounds, and 
1 solid front of superb grey horses 
appeared, well-caparisoned and well- 
ridden, the full crimped manes tossed 
over their arching necks. Behind 
liiem another and another line pressed, 
making a living wall. 



" I think one feels the influence 
of such a mass of strong life and 
courage," Miss Pembroke remarked. 
'* It seems to me it would invigor- 
ate a weak person to be near those 
horses." 

Mr. Schoninger had been thinking 
nearly the same thing. " I have 
fancied it not unlikely," he said, 
"that in a bold cavalry charge the 
horses may help to inspire the riders. 
The neighborhood of strong ani- 
mal life is, no doubt, invigorating. 
It would be fine to stand face to 
face with a herd of wild cattle, if 
they could be surely slopped in mid- 
career, to feel the air stirring with 
their breaths, and see their eyes 
glaring through heaps of rough mane. 
There would be something electri- 
cal in it, as there is in a crowd 
of men; and in both cases it is a 
merely physical excitement." 

" But a crowd of men may be 
electrified by some great thought," 
suggested Honora. 

" Not unless each had the thought 
in his single mind before, either la- 
tent or conscious. I do not believe 
that any crowd or excitement, how- 
ever immense, can put a great 
thought into a little soul. I can 
never act with an excited crowd, can 
hardly look at one with respect." 
His lip expressed contempt. " It 
is true that an eloquent leader may 
have the power of inciting people to 
some good deed ; but even so, they 
are only a machine which he works. 
Great thoughts are not vociferous. 
They float in air, with no sound, un- 
less it is the sound of wings." 

Honora checked the words that 
rose to her lips so suddenly that a 
deep blush bathed her face. She 
had been thinking of the crowd that 
roared " Crucify him !" and had re- 
collected only just in time that they 
were this man's remote ancestors. 
But she recollected also that it was 



24 



Grapes and T/torns. 



to him as original sin was to her, an 
hereditary, but not a personal, stain, 
and that baptism could wash both 
away. Her charity began at home, 
in the great Christian family, but it 
stayed not there : it overflowed to all 
living creatures. 

" I have almost an enthusiasm for 
firemen," she said hastily. " They 
sometimes perform such wonders, 
and run such terrible risks for scarce- 
ly a reward. Unlike soldiers, they 
save without destroying anything. 
How beautiful their engines are 1" 

The procession was a long and 
very brilliant one, and the compa- 
nies had vied with each other in 
decoration. The engines shone as if 
made of burnished gold and silver, 
and wreaths and bouquets of green 
and flowers decked them. 

** These processions, more than 
any others I have seen, remind me of 
descriptions of pageants in the old 
time," remarked Honora, when they 
had been silent a while. " There is so 
much show and glitter in them, and 
the costumes are so gay. How I 
would like to be transported back to 
that time for one year 1" 

Her thoughts had taken a flight be- 
tween the first and last words, and 
she was thinking of mediseval reli- 
gion, with its untroubled faith and its 
fiery zeal. 

Mr. Schoninger did not share her 
enthusiasm. Those had been bitter 
days for his people, and perhaps he 
was thinking so. 

" I imagine you would ask to be 
transported back again before the 
year was over," he said quietly. 
" Those times look very picturesque 
at this distance, with their Rem- 
brandt shading. But there was no 
more heroism then than there is to- 
day. I fiir prefer the hero of to-day. 
He is a better bred man, not so bla- 
tant as the medicBval. It seems to 
me that the admirers of that time 



are chiefly the poets, who sacrifice 
everything to the picturesque; am- 
bitious men, who covet power ; and 
— pardon me 1 — devout ladies who 
have been captivated by legends of 
the saints, and stories of ecclesiasti- 
cal pageantry, but who take litde 
thought for humanity at large." 

" But in those days," said Miss 
Pembroke, "men had some respect 
for authority and law, and now they 
despise it." 

" It is the fault of authority if it 
is despised," Mr. Schoninger replied 
with decision. " License is the in- 
evitable reaction from tyranny, and 
is in proportion to it. So long 
as man retains any vestige of the 
image of the Creator, tyranny will 
always, in time, produce rebels. The 
world* is now inebriated with free- 
dom ; let those whose abuse of au- 
thority created this burning thirst 
share the opprobrium of its excesses. 
Some day the equilibrium will be 
found. We cannot force it ; it is a 
question of growth ; but we can help. 
You are helping it," he added, smil- 
ing. 

" What you have said sounds just," 
she replied, thoughtfully; " and I like 
justice. Perhaps the abuse of legiti- 
mate authority is a greater sin than 
rebellion against it, since the ruler 
should be wiser and better than the 
ruled." 

They were again silent awhile, 
the gentleman hesitating whether to 
speak his thought, and finally speak- 
ing. 

" Trust one who has studied the 
world well," he said earnestly. " In- 
stead of being determined not to be- 
lieve, mankind at this time is longing 
to believe. But it is determined not 
to be duped. The sceptic of to-day 
was made by the hypocrite of yester- 
day, and half the scei)licism is affect- 
ed, as half the piety was affected. 
Men are ashamed and afraid to be 



Grapes and* Thorns. 



25 



augbt in a trap, and they pretend to 
disbelieve, when in lact they only 
doubt. You must now prove to 
them that truth itself is true, since 
they have so often been deceived by 
falsehood in the garb of truth. Let 
a man or a measure prove to be sin- 
cere and honest, and there was never 
a period in the histor}' of the world 
when either would win more hearty 
approval than now. It is true that 
the childlike trustfulness of mankind 
is gone, partly from growth, partly 
because it has been abused ; but the 
cobkr powers are maturing. To be- 
lieve thb, you need not give up your 
faith. I have seen the eyes of one 
of the most bitter of scoffers fill with 
teais, and his lips tremble, at a 
proof of ardent and pious devotion 
vhich vas not meant to be known. 
That man vas a scoffer because his 
common sense and sentiment of jus- 
bee hzd been insulted by pious pre- 
tcndcTs. If he could believe, he 
woaid be a saint." 

Honora Pembroke's face was trou- 
bled There could be no doubt 
that the man was honest and sincere 
in what he said, and that much of 
what he said was true. But was a 
Jew to teach a Christian ? She 
could not be sure that his judgment 
was unbiased, and that one more 
learned than she would not be able 
to refute him. She said the best 
thing she could think of. 

" False professors do not make 
uJse doctrines. And if the human 
mind is becoming so adult and strong, 
it should judge the truth by itself, 
not by the person who professes 



"You are quite right," Mr. Schon- 
inger answered. ** And that is pre- 
cisely what people are learning to do. 
It is also what many, who wish truth 
to be believed on their own testimo- 
ny, object to their doing. I repeat " 
— he glanced with anxiety into her 



clouded face — " I earnestly assure you 
that I have not uttered a word which 
conflicts with your creed, though it is 
not mine. If I were to-day to be- 
come a Catholic, I should only reit- 
erate what I have said on this sub- 
ject." 

The cloud passed from her face, 
but still she did not speak. She was 
not gifted in argument, and this sub- 
ject was complex, and, moreover, a 
bone of contention. 

"It has occurred to me," he said 
presently, " that the people in Crich- 
ton, though they appear to be very 
liberal, may still have a prejudice 
against me as a Jew. That would be 
of no consequence to me in the case 
of most of them ; but there are a few 
whom I should be sorry to know had 
such a feeling. The Jews are much 
misunderstood and slandered, though 
people have an opportunity of learn- 
ing their true character if they would. 
The majority seem to look on every 
Jew as a probable or possible usurer 
and dealer in old clothes, and a per- 
son capable of joining a rabble at any 
moment, and pursuing an innocent 
man to death. I do not, of course, 
fancy for an instant that you have 
any sympathy with such people; but 
I think it possible that you may mis- 
understand my attitude toward your 
church. I have not the slightest feel- 
ing of enmity against it as long as it 
does not do violence to me or mine, 
and while its members are true to the 
doctrines of peace and charity which 
they profess. As an artist I admire 
it. Its theology is the only one which 
still retains binding and implacable 
obligations of form, consequently, 
the only one that can inspire high 
art. I do not count the old Jews, 
who are rapidly melting away. I 
am of the reformed Jews." 

" You no longer expect the com- 
ing of the Redeemer, nor the return 
to Jerusalem, nor the triumph of your 



26 



Grapes and Thorns. 



people ?" she asked, looking at him 
in astonishment. 

" We no longer believe in them," 
he replied. 

" What, then, is left you ?" she ex- 
claimed. 

He smiled slightly. " I expect and 
long for the redemption of mankind 
by the spirit of God, and I believe 
that truth and charity will prevail, 
though they may not descend from 
heaven to become incarnate in one 
form. The Jerusalem my people 
will return to is the spiritual city of 
the children of God. Is it not nobler 
than the pretty myths which have 
been wasting our energies and divid- 
ing the brotherhood of men into 
petty clans, all hating each other 
even while they professed that love 
was their prime virtue ?" 

" But sacrifice," she said, " what 
did you mean by that ?" 

" We had truth and error mingled. 
The sacrifice was merely a remnant 
of heathen customs. Peoj^les who 
knew nothing of Judaism nor of 
Christianity had their offerings and 
sacrifices. The Jews were the cho- 
sen people, finer and more spiritual 
than any other ; and to the souls of 
the chosen among them the Creator 
revealed his truths. They renounced 
all heathenish doctrines, and into the 
few ceremonies and customs they re- 
tained they infused a spiritual signifi- 
cance. As the race deteriorated, this 
spiritual meaning was misinterpreted, 
and became more and more literal 
and gross. The people fell into sin, 
and for this the Creator punished 
them by taking away their power and 
pre-eminence, and by scattering them 
over the face of the earth." 

Honora listened intently ; and when 
he had finished, she uttered but one 
word. Clasping her hands and lift- 
ing her eyes, her heart seemed to 
burst upward like a fountain, tossing 
that one word into air, " Emmanuel !" 



Not the primeval Creator alone, 
distant and awful, but God with us ! 
Into this vast and terrible void which 
had been spread out before her, she 
invoked with passion the incarnate, 
the lowly, the pitiful, the suffering 
God. 

" We hold that sacrifice is a prac- 
tice of divine institution retained 
from our first parents, not an origin- 
ally heathen custom," she added after 
a moment, regaining her composure. 
" You are, however, obliged to give 
up your belief in it, or be inconsistent. 
I can see now that if you hold to 
the sacrifice, you must hold to the 
Redeemer ; if to the Redeemer, then 
you must believe in Christ, since the 
time is gone by for expectation ; and 
if you accept the Christ, you must 
be a Roman Catholic." 

" Precisely !" said the Jew. He 
had felt a momentary electric shock 
at the passion of her first exclama- 
tion, and had seen with emotion the 
flush and fire in her countenance. 
Now he smiled at her concise state- 
ment of the case. 

Miss Pembroke rose, for the last 
of the procession was passing. The 
children were called back to their 
seats in the same order in which they 
had left them, and a few simple ex- 
ercises were gone through with at 
the request of their visitor. All was 
well calculated to unfold and inform 
their young minds, but nothing was 
for show. 

Mr. Schoninger blushed for the 
mistake he had made in fancying 
that any occupation on earth could 
be more refined and noble than Miss 
Pembroke's, when it was conducted 
in Miss Pembroke's manner. It 
seemed an occupation for angels. 
She possessed, evidently, in a pre- 
eminent degree, the power to under- 
stand and interest children, and she 
used that power to perfect ends. 
There was none of that personal 



Grapes and Tltorns. 



V 



(amiliarity which he had dreaded to 
see, that promiscuous fondness and 
^caressing by which some women 
fcincy they please children, when, in 
fact, the finer sort of children are 
oftener than not displeased with it 
A kind touch of her fingers was to 
them an immense favor^ and a kiss 
would have been remembered for 
ever. But while they treated her with 
profound respect, they approached 
bcr with perfect confidence and de- 
li|hL They gathered about her, 
and gazed into her sympathetic face, 
bright and transparent with love from 
a bountiful woman's heart. They 
looked at her as a sky full of little 
Stan may look into a smooth lake, 
and each saw its own reflection there, 
and was happy. In her soul all in- 
nocent infantile thoughts and fancies 
were condensed, as cloud and spray 
are condensed into water, .and not 
only coald slie remember the pro- 
cess, but she could reverse it at will, 
could evaporate a thought or truth 
too strong for childish intellects, and 
give it in the form of rosy clouds to 
wide, grasping, childish imaginations. 
Only one exercise failed at first. 
ITie children were shy of singing be- 
fore the stranger. AH their voices 
{altered into silence but one, a rather 
fair voice of a little boy who was 
I>crfectly self-confident, and who evi- 
dently expected applause. 

Mr. Schoninger took no notice of 
the child. Its vanity and boldness 
displeased him. " A shallow thing !" 
he thought ; and said, '* I see that I 
must hire you to sing for me. You 
like fairy-stories, surely. Well, sing 
me but one song, and I will tell you 
the story." 

His voice and smile reassured them. 
Moreover, a gentleman, no matter 
iidw splendid he might be, who could 
icH fairy- stories, could not be very 
(IreadfuL They exchanged smiles 
and glancesy took courage, fixed 



their eyes on their teacher, and sang 
a pretty hymn in good time and tune, 
and with good expression. 

In their first essay the musician 
had caught a faltering little silvery 
note, which had failed as soon as 
heard. In the second it came out 
round and clear, a voice of surpris- 
ing beauty. He marked the singer, 
and called him forward as soon as 
the hymn was over. The boy came 
awkwardly and blushing. He was 
the ugliest and most dingy pupil 
there. Only a pair of melancholy, 
dark, and lustrous eyes, habitually 
downcast, and a set of perfect teeth, 
redeemed the face from being dis- 
agreeable. Through those eyes look- 
ed a winged soul that did not recog- 
nize itself, still less expect recognition 
from others, but felt only the vague 
weight and sadness of an unconge- 
nial life. He gave the impression of 
a beautiful bird whose every plume 
is so laden with mire it cannot fly. 

" You have a good voice, and 
should learn how to sing," Mr. Scho- 
ninger said to him kindly. " I will 
teach you, if Miss Pembroke ap- 
proves, and will make the arrange- 
ments. Of course it will cost you 
nothing." 

" He needs encouragement," the 
musician remarked when the boy had 
returned to his seat; "and he needs 
to have his position defined before 
the others. Do you not perceive that 
they despise him ? He has the voice 
of an angel, and he looks remarkable. 
And now for my story." 

The children's eyes sparkled with 
anticipation, and the teacher leaned 
smilingly to listen. Let us listen 
also, and become better acquainted 
with Mr, Schoninger. 

" Once upon a time, there was a 
great wrangle in a certain street," the 
story-teller began. " P'ive little boys 
and girls were quarreling, and two 
dogs were barking. The neighbors 



28 



Grapes and Thorns. 



put their heaos out their windows, 
and the poUceman stopped. Mrs. 
Blake put her two forefingers in her 
two ears, for the noise was near her 
step, and the five boys and girls were 
all telling her together what the mat- 
ter was, and whose fault it was. 
Then the mothers called their chil- 
dren home, and two went into Mrs. 
Blake's, for they were hers. This was 
the story she drew from them : Anne 
Blake had said a cross word to one 
of the others, that other had made a 
face at the next, the third had slapped 
the fourth, and it went round the cir- 
cle. So it seemed that Anne start- 
ed the whole by speaking a cross 
word. 

" * Since you are sorry, I will talk 
no more to you about it,' her mother 
said. * But I wish you to go up to 
your chamber and sit alone a little 
while, and think over a Chinese pro- 
verb which is written on this slip of ♦ 
paper. You are ten years old, and 
must begin to think.' 

" Anne went slowly up-stairs to her 
chamber, shut the door after her, and 
sat down in a little cushioned chair 
by the window to read her proverb; 
Its being Chinese did not prevent 
it from being good. This is what 
she read : ' A word once spoken, a 
coach and six cannot bring it back 
again.' 

" The day was warm, and the cur- 
tain at the window swung with a lull- 
ing motion, giving glimpses of blue 
sky with white clouds sailing over, 
and, below, of the top of a grape-vine 
full of leaves and small green grapes. 

" Anne gazed at the sky till it made 
her feel sleepy — gazing at bright 
things does make one sleepy — then 
she gazed at the grape-vine. Pre- 
sently, she saw something in this vine 
that looked like a tiny ladder, hidden 
among the leaves. It looked so much 
like a ladder that she leaned forward 
and nulled the curtain aside, to see 



more plainly. Sure enough 1 It was 
the loveliest ladder, or stairway, wind- 
ing down and down. Its steps were 
dark, like vine branches, and there 
was a railing at each side of twigs and 
tendrils, and it wound down and 
down, in sight and out of sight. 
And, more wonderful still, it was no 
longer a yard, with the city about, 
she saw, but a great vine covering all 
the window, and glimpses of a moon- 
lighted forest down below. 

"*I must go down,' says Anne; 
and so down she went on the beauti- 
ful stairs. 

*' Lights and shades fluttered over 
her, and the leaves clapped together, 
and httle tendrils caught at her dress 
in play. And by-and-by she stepped 
on to the brightest greensward that 
could be, full of blue and white vio- 
lets. The trees arched over her, the 
air was sweet, and there was a smooth 
pond near by. The water was so 
very smooth that she would never 
have known it was water if the banks 
had not turned the wrong way in 
it, and the trees grown down in- 
stead of up. A little white boat, too, 
had another little white boat under 
it, the two keel to keel. Swans ran 
down the shore as she looked, and 
splashed into the water, dipping their 
heads under, and making the whole 
surface so full of motion that the up- 
side-down trees and banks and b<tat 
disappeared. Words cannot describe 
how beautiful the place was. There 
was every kind of flower, and hosts 
of birds, and the moonlight was so 
bright that all 6ould be distinctly 
seen. There were also a great many 
splendid moths that looked like flow- 
ers flying about, and flapping their 
petals. 

" But the most beautiful part was 
that everything seemed to breathe of * 
peace and love. * The birds sang 
and cooed to each other, the blos- 
soms leaned cheek to cheek, the 



Grapes and Thorns. 



29 



water laughed at the stones it ran 
over, and the wet stones smiled 
back, the gray old rocks held tender- 
ly the flowers and mosses that grew 
in their hollows, and the mosses and 
flowers held on to the rocks with 
their tiny roots, like Uttle children 
dinging to old people who are fond 
of them. 

" • How beautiful it is to see them 
so loving,' Anne said. * They are a 
sort of people, too; for they look 
alive. I wish other folks would be 
as good. I'm sure I try; but then 
somebody alw^ays comes along and 
sars something ugly; and then, of 
course, I can't help being ugly back 
again/ 

*'*0h! yes, you can,' said a sweet 
voice close by. 

'* Anne looked and saw a charm- 
ing llitk lady standing beside her. 
^e was so beautiful that words can- 
not decnbe her, and she carried a 
/wnit petunia for a parasol to pre- 
serve her complexion. For she was 
exquisitely fair, and the moonlight 
was really very bright. 

** * Oh ! yes, you can,' she repeated 
when Anne looked at her. *You 
can give a pleasant answer, and then 
people will stop being ugly.* 

" * I could do it if everybody else 
would,' Anne said. *The begin- 
ning is the trouble. How nice it 
would be if there were a king over 
all the world, and he would say, 
Xow, after I have counted three, all 
of you stop being cross, and begin to 
love each other, and keep on loving 
a whole hour. If you don't. Til cut 
your heads off!' 

" ' That would not be love ; it 
would be a make-believe to save 
their heads,' the little lady answered. 
* Bat there is such a king, and he 
has commanded us to love each 
other, and . . .' 

** Here she was interrupted by a 
loud flapping of wings and a terrible 



croaking, and a great black bird, 
something like a bat, flew by ; and 
wherever it struck its wings other 
bats flew out, and the air grew dark 
with them, and all the beautiful for- 
est was changed. The stones tried 
to stop the brook, and the brook 
tried to upset the stones ; the leaves 
struck each other, the swans and lit- 
tle birds began to pull each other's 
feathers out. All was discord. 

" And then there was a rolling of 
wheels, and a trampling of hoofs, 
and a great yellow coach appeared 
drawn by six horses covered with 
foam. The coachman looked as if 
he were driving for his life, and there 
was a head thrust from each window 
of the coach, telling him to drive 
faster. All the heads wore caps like 
dish-covers, and had long braids of 
hair hanging down their necks, 
though they were men; and their 
eyes slanted down toward their noses, 
instead of going straight across their 
faces. 

" * We are trying to catch a wicked 
word that is ruining all the place,' 
they said, * but we cannot. A wicked 
word has wings.' 

" * So has a kind word wings,' 
said the little lady. * Send a kind 
word after the cross one, and perhaps 
it may bring it back.' 

" * You are right, madam,' said 
one of the Chinamen ; and he nodded 
his head till the long braid at the 
back of it wagged to and fro. And 
he kept on nodding so queerly that 
Anne felt obliged to nod too, and so 
he nodded, and she nodded, till he 
nodded his head off. And then she 
nodded her head off^no, not quite 
off; but she nodded so that she 
waked herself up. For she had been 
dreaming. 

"Then she jumped up and ran 
down-stairs and out doors as fast as 
her feet would carry her. And in 
ten minutes she was back again, all 



30 



Italian Confiscation Laws. 



out of breath, and full of excite- 
ment. * Mother,* she said * a coach 
and six can't do it, but a kind word 
can. I told Jane I was sorry, and 
she told — and we all told each other 
that we were sorry, and then we 
were glad.' The words were rather 
mixed up, but the meaning was all 
right." 

"I am truly grateful to you for 
allowing me to come this afternoon," 
Mr. Schoninger said on taking leave. 
" My visit has been to me like a drop 
of cold water to one in a fever, or 
like the sound of David's harp to 
Saul. I am refreshed." 

He looked both sad and pleased. 
" I was about to thank you for com- 
ing," Honora answered. " You have 
given me and the children much 
pleasure." 

And so, with a friendly salutation, 
they separated. 



She mused a moment. " If he 
could believe in the sacrifice, all 
would follow," she thought. 

Then she called the children to 
their prayers, but first said a word to 
them. 

"There is something, my dear 
children, that I want very much," 
she said. " Oh 1 I long for it. I 
shall be unhappy if I do not have it. 
And I want all of you to ask the 
Infant Jesus to give it to me for his 
dear mother's sake. Ask with all 
your hearts. I will tell him what 
I wish for." 

Her wish was that Mr. Schoninger 
might believe that sacrifice was a 
divine revelation, not a heathenish 
custom. 

" That is all he needs from me," 
she thought. " I trust him. If he 
has that to begin with, he will him- 
self ask God for the rest." 



ITALIAN CONFISCATION LAWS. 

REVIEWED mOH AN AMERICAN STAND-POINT. 
BY A LAWYER. 



" No state shall pass any ex pest fac- 
to law, or law impairing the obligation 
of contracts."* 

This is indeed a moral law, and 
has been recognized as such by all 
civilized nations. 

Justice Curtis, in his Lifi of Web- 
ster (vol. i., chap. 7, p. 165) thus 
notices the decision in the Supreme 
Court which first gave the scope and 
meaning of this clause in regard to 
charters of private corporations : 

" The framers of the Constitution of the 
United States, moved chiefly by the mis- 
chiefs created by the preceding legisla- 
tion of the states, which had made serious 

• Constitution of the United Sutee. 



encroachments on the rights of propert)*, 
inserted a clause in that instrument which 
declared that 'no state shall pass any ex 
post facto law, or law impairing the obli- 
gation of contracts.' The first branch of 
this clause had always been understood 
to relate to criminal legislation, the sec- 
ond to legislation affecting civil rights. 
But before the case of Dartmouth Col- 
lege V. Woodward occurred, there had 
been no judicial decisions respecting the 
meaning and scope of the restraint in re- 
gard to contracts, excepting that it had 
more than once been determined by the 
Supreme Court of the United States that 
a grant of lands made by a state is a 
contract within the protection of this pro- 
vision, and is, therefore, irrevocable. 
The decisions, however, could go but 
little way toward the solution of the 
questions involved in the case of the col- 



Italian Confiscation Laws. 



31 



lege. They did, indeed, establish the 
principle that contracts of the state itsell 
are beyond (he reach of subsequent legis- 
iMion equally with contracts between in- 
dividuals, and that there are grants of a 
^ate that are contracts. But this college 
stood upon a charter granted by the 
crown of England before the American 
Revolution. Was. the state of New 
Hampshire — a sovereign in all respects 
ifter the Revolution, and remaining one 
iftcr the federal constitution, excepting 
in those respects in which it had subject- 
ed its sovereignty to the restraints of that 
instiument — bound by the contracts of the 
KcigV.sh crown ? Is the grant of a charter 
oC tncoTporation a contract between the 
sovereign power and those on whom the 
chaner is bestowed ? If an act of incor- 
pontjon is a contract, is it so in any case 
bat that of a private corporation ? Was 
this college, which was an institution of 
learniag, established for the promotion 
of edocatioD, a private corporation, or 
WIS it one of those instruments of gov- 
Muncnt wbich are at all times under the 
control and subject to the direction of 
the leyis/a.';rc power? All these ques- 
tioos were involved in the inquir)', 
wi«(iierthe legislative power of the state 
had been so restrained by the constitu- 
tion of the United States that it could 
not alter the charter of this institution, 
a^inst the will of the trustees, without 
impairing the obligation of a contract. 
Uthis inquiry were to receive an affirma- 
lire answer, the constitutional jurispru- 
dence of the United States would em- 
brace a principle of the utmost impor- 
tance to every similar institution of learn- 
ing, and to every incorporation then 
(xistiog, or thereafter to exist, not belong- 
10^ to the machinery of government as a 
political instrument. . . . 

"On the conclusion of the argument 
the Chief-Justice (Marshall) intimated that 
1 decision was not to be expected until 
the next term. It was made in Februa- 
ry. 1819, fully confirming the grounds on 
which Mr. Webster had placed the cause, 
from this decision, the principle in our 
'f^nMitutional jurisprudence which re- 
::ards a charter of a private corporation as 
1 contract, and places it under the pro- 
jection of the Constitution of the United 
^tes, takes its date.' 

We add a passage frotn Mr, Web- 
•ler's speed) in this case, as quoted 



by the same author from a letter of 
Prof. Goodrich, of Yale College, to 
Rufus Choate : 

" This, sir, is my case. It is the case 
not merely of that humble institution ; it 
is the case of every college in our land. 
It is more. It is the case of every elee- 
mosynary institution throughout our 
country — of all those great charities 
founded by the piety of our ancestors to 
alleviate human misery and scatter bless- 
ings along the pathway of life. It is 
more ! It is, in some sense, the case of 
every man among us who has property 
of which he may be stripped, for the 
question is simply this: Shall our state 
legislatures be allowed to take that 
which is not their own, to turn it from its 
original use, and apply it to such ends 
or purposes as they in their discretion 
shall see fit ?" 

The charitable and religious insti- 
tutions of Italy and the States of the 
Church were founded under guaran- 
tees as strong at least as those which 
assured the perpetuity of Dart- 
mouth College, and were entitled to 
as much immunity from confiscation 
and intrusion for all coming time. 

When a law is in its nature a con- 
tract, and absolute rights have vest- 
ed under that contract, a repeal of 
the law cannot divest those rights, 
nor annihilate or impair a title ac- 
quired under the law. A grant is a 
contract according to the meaning 
given to the word by jurists. A 
grant is a contract executed, and a 
party is always estopped by his own 
grant. A party cannot pronounce 
his own act or deed invalid, what- 
ever cause may be assigned for its 
invalidity, and though that party be 
the legislature of a state. A grant 
amounts to an extinguishment of the 
right of the grantor, and implies a 
contract not to reassert that right. 
A grant from a state should be as 
much protected as a grant from one 
individual to another; therefore, a 
state is as much inhibited from im- 
pairing its own contracts, or a con- 



32 



Italian Confiscation Laws. 



tract to which it is a party, as it is 
from impairing the obligation of con- 
tracts between two individuals, A 
grant once made by the ruling or 
competent power, creates an inde- 
feasible and irrevocable title. There 
is no authority or principle which 
could support the doctrine that such 
a grant was revocable in its own na- 
ture, and held only durante bene 
pladto. For no ruling power, be it 
kingly, legislative, or otherwise, can 
repeal a law or grant creating a cor- 
l>orate bo<ly, or confirming to them 
property already acquired under the 
faith of previous laws or edicts, and 
by such repeal vest the property in 
others without the consent or default 
of the corporators. Such a proceed- 
urc would be repugnant to the prin- 
ciples of natural justice. A society 
or order of religious people hold- 
ing property in common or /// solido, 
may be considered in the character 
of a private eleemosynary institution 
endowed with a capacity to take 
property for objects unconnected 
with government: it receives gifts 
or devises, and other private dona- 
tions Ixrstowed by individuals on the 
faith of its perpetuity and usefulness 
— such a corporation not being invest- 
ed with any political power what- 
ever, or partaking in any degree in 
the administration of civil govern- 
ment. It is merely an institution 
or private corporation for general 
charity. It is established under a 
charter, which was a contract, to 
which the donors, the trustees of the 
corporation, and the governing pow- 
er were the original parties, and it 
was grante<l for a valuable considera- 
tion — for the security and disposition 
of the property necessary for the ex- 
istence of the community, order, or 
societv. 

ITie legal interest, in every such 
literar)' and charitable institution, is 
in trustees, and to be asserted by 



them, which they claim or defend on 
behalf of the society or community 
for the object of religion, charity, 
or education, for which they were 
originally created, and the private 
donations made. Contracts of this 
kind, creating such charitable or edu- 
cational institutions, should be at all 
times protected by the state, and 
their rights maintained by the courts 
administered by a pure and just ju- 
diciary. Conquests or revolutions 
cannot change the rights acquired 
under such contracts, and no state 
should by any act transfer the rights 
of property theretofore acquired, nor 
transfer from the trustees appointed 
according to the will of the founders 
or donors. The will of the state 
should not be substituted for the will 
of the donors, or convert an institu- 
tion, moulded according to the will 
of its founders, and placed under the 
control of people of their own se- 
lection, into government property. 
Such action is of course subversive 
of the original compact on the faith 
of which the donors invested their 
gifts, donations, or devises, and is, 
therefore, repugnant to every idea of 
honesty and good morals, for enforc- 
ing which governments are instituted. 
A grant to a private trustee, for 
the benefit of a particular ^^-x//// f''^ 
trusty or for any special, private, or 
public charity, cannot be the less a 
contract because the trustee takes no- 
thing for his own benefit. Nor does 
a private donation vested in a trustee 
for objects of a general nature there- 
by become a public trust, wliich a 
government may at its pleasure take 
from the trustee. A governniem 
cannot even revoke a grant of its 
own funds, when given to a corpora- 
tion or private person for special 
uses. It has no other remaining au- 
thority but what is judicial to enforce 
the proper administration of the 
trust. Nor is such a grant less a 



Italian Confiscation Laws. 



33 



contract though no beDeficial inter- 
est accrues to the possessor. All in- 
corporeal hereditaments, as immuni- 
ties, dignities, offices, and franchises, 
are rights deemed valuable in law, 
and whenever th^ are the subject of 
contract or grant they should be held 
as legal estates. They are held as 
powers coupled with interests, and 
consequently axe vested rights, and 
of wtuch the possessors should not 
be divested by any legislative body 
without their consent. 

Chief-Justice Marshall (in U. S. 
r. FcFcheman, 7 Peters 86) says: 
It is unusual, even in cases of con- 
quest, for the conqueror to do more 
than to displace the sovereign and 
assume dominion over the country; 
a^d that the modern usage of na- 
tions, which has become law, would 
be viokted; that sense of justice and 
n^i n'hich is acknowledged and felt 
by the whole civilized world, would 
he outraged if private property should 
he generally confiscated and private 
rights annulled. / 

Justice Sprague (Amy Warwick, 
2 Sprague 150) says: Confiscations 
of property, not for any use that has 
been made of it, which go not against 
an offending thing, but are inflicted 
tor the personal delinquency of the 
owner, are punitive, and punishment 
should be inflicted only upon due 
conviction of personal guilt 

The communities whose rights are 
now invaded and whose property is 
confiscated, ought to be protected 
under the law of nations. For, by 
this lawr is understood that code of 
public instruction which defines the 
nghis and prescribes the duties of 
nations in their intercourse with each 
'ihcr. The faithful observance of 
this law is essential to national char- 
acter and the happiness of mankind. 
According to Montesquieu, it is 
^>unded on the principle that differ- 
ent nations ought to do each other 
VOL. xvni. — 3 



as much good in peace, and as little 
harm in war, as possible. The most 
useful and practical part of the law 
of nations is instituted or positive 
law, founded on usage, consent, and 
agreement. It is impossible to sepa- 
rate this law from natural jurispru- 
dence, or to consider that it does not 
derive much of its force and dignity 
from the same principle of right rea- 
son, the same views of the nature and 
constitution of man, and the same 
sanction of divine revelation, as. 
those from which the science of mo- 
rality is deduced. There is a natu- 
ral and a positive law of nations. By 
the former, every state in its rela- 
tions with other states is bownd to. 
conduct itself with justice, good faith,, 
and benevolence; and this applica- 
tion of the law of nature has been 
called by Vattel the necessary law 
of nations, because nations are bound 
by the law of nature to observe it;, 
and it is termed by others the inter- 
nal law of nations, because it is obli-^ 
gatory upon them in point of con- 
science. 

That eminent jurist, Chancellor 
Kent, says that the science of public 
law should not be separated from 
that of ethics, nor encourage the dan- 
gerous suggestion that governments, 
are not strictly bound by the obliga- 
tions of truth, justice, and humanity 
in relation to other powers, as they 
are in the management of their own. 
local concerns. States or bodies po- 
litic are to be considered as moral 
persons, having a public will, capable 
and free to do right and wrong, inas- 
much as they are collections of indi- 
viduals, each of whom carries with, 
him into the service of the commu- 
nity the same binding law of mo- 
rality and religion which ought to. 
control his conduct in private life. 

The law of nations consists of gen- 
eral principles of right and justice, 
equally suitable to the government 



34 



Italian Confiscation Lazvs. 



of individuals in a state of natural 
equality and to the relations and 
conduct of nations ; the conduct of 
nations should be governed by prin- 
ciples fairly to be deduced from the 
rights and duties of nations and the 
nature of moral obligation ; and we 
have the authority of lawyers of an- 
tiquity, and of some of the first mas- 
ters in the modern school of public 
3aw, for placing the moral obligations 
of nations and of individuals on simi- 
lar grounds, and for considering in- 
-dividual and national morality as 
parts of one and the same science. 

The law of nations, as far as it is 
founded upon the principles of natu- 
ral law, is equally binding in every 
age, and upon all mankind. 

The law of nature, by the obliga- 
tions of which individuals and states 
are bound, is identical with the will 
of God, and that will is ascertain- 
ed by consulting divine revelation, 
where that is declaratory, or by the 
application of human reason where 
revelation is silent. Christianity is an 
authoritative publication of natural 
religion, and it is from the sanction 
which revelation gives to natural 
law that we must expect respect to 
be paid to justice between nations. 
Christianity reveals to us a general 
system of morality, but the applica- 
tion to the details of practice is often 
left to be discovered by human rea- 
son. 

Justice is of perpetual obligation, 
and is essential to the well-being of 
every society. The great common- 
wealth of nations stands in need of 
law, and observance of faith, and the 
practice of justice. 

If the question was one to be de- 
cided by the civil courts according to 
the American rules concerning rights 
to property held by ecclesiastical 
bodies, the points involved might be 
presented as follows : 

I. Where the property which is 



the subject of controversy is, by the 
express terms of the deed or will of 
the donor or other instrument under 
which it is held, devoted to the 
teaching, support, or spread of a 
specific form of religious doctrine 
and belief. 

2. Where the property is held by 
a religious congregation, which by 
the nature of its organization is 
strictly independent of other ecclesi- 
astical associations, and, so far as 
church government is concerned, 
owes no fealty or obligation to any 
higher authority. 

3. The third is where the religious 
congregation or ecclesiastical body 
holding the property is but a subor- 
dinate member of some general 
church organization in which there 
are superior ecclesiastical tribunals 
with a general and ultimate power 
of control, more or less complete, in 
some supreme judicatory over the 
whole membership of that general 
organization. 

Respecting the first of these classes, 
it does not admit of a rational doubt 
that an individual or an association 
of individuals may dedicate property 
by way of trust to the purpose of 
sustaining, supporting, and propagat- 
ing definite religious doctrines or 
principles, provided that in doing so 
they violate no law of morality, and 
give to the instrument by which their 
purpose is evidenced the formalities 
which the law requires. 

And it is then the duty of a court 
of law, in a case properly brought 
before it, to see that the property 
so dedicated is not diverted from the 
trust which is thus attached to its 
use. So long as there are persons 
qualified within the meaning of the 
original dedication, and who are also 
willing to teach the doctrines or prin- 
ciples prescribed in the act of dedi- 
cation, and so long as there is any 
one so interested in the execution of 



Italian Confiscation Laws, 



35 



the trust as to have a standing in 
court, it must be that they can pre- 
Tcnt the diversion of the property or 
fond to other and different uses. 

This is the general doctrine of 
courts of equity as to charities, and 
it is also applicable to ecclesiastical 
matters 

In such case, where the trust is 

confided to a religious congregation 

or church government, it is not in 

the power of the majority of that 

congregation, however preponderant 

by TtaK)n of a change of views on 

religion, to carry the property so 

confided to them to the support of 

new and conflicting doctrine. 

A pious man building and dedica- 
nog a house of worship to the sole 
md exclusive use of those who be- 
lieve m the doctrines of the Holy 
Roman Catholic Church, and placing 
it under the control of those who at 
the time kcld the same belief, has a 
right to expect that the law will pre- 
vent that property from being used 
for any other purpose whatsoever. 
The law should throw its protection 
around the trust, and it is the duty of 
courts of law to enforce a trust clear- 
ly defined, and to inquire whether 
die party accused of violating the 
trust is using the property so dedica- 
ted as to defeat the declared objects 
cf the trust. In such cases, the right 
to the use of the property must be 
determined by the ordinary principles 
which govern voluntary associations. 
The same rule prevails as to the 
class of cases coming within the 
view of the third proposition, as to 
property acquired in any of the 
usual modes for the general use of a 
religious congregation which is itself 
part of a larger and general organi- 
zation, with which it is connected 
by religious views and ecclesiastical 
government, and which appeals to 
the courts to determine the right to 
the use of the property so acquired. 



That is, where property has been pur- 
chased for the use of the congrega- 
tion, and so long as any such body 
can be ascertained to be of that con- 
gregation, and is under its control 
and bound by its orders and judg- 
ments, or its regular and legitimate 
successor, it is entitled to the use of 
the property. 

In this class of cases, the rule of 
action which governs the civil courts 
of the United States, as enunciated 
by the highest legal tribunal, the 
Supreme Court, is founded upon a 
broad and sound view of the rela- 
tions of church and state, and is, that 
wherever questions of faith or of dis- 
cipline, or ecclesiastical rule, custom, 
or law, have been decided by the 
highest of these church judicatories 
to which the matter has been carried, 
the legal tribunals must accept such 
decisions as final, and as binding on 
them in their application to the case 
before them.* 

In delivering the opinion of the 
court in that case, the learned Mr. 
Justice Miller said : 

"In this country the full and free right to 
entertain any religious belief, to practise 
any religious principle, and to teach any 
religious doctrine which does not violate 
the laws of morality and property, and 
which does not infringe personal rights, 
is conceded to all. The law is not com- 
mitted to the support of any dogma, the 
establishment of any sect. The right to 
organize voluntary religious associations, 
to assist in the expression and dissemi- 
nation of any religious doctrine, and to 
create tiibunals for the decision of con- 
troverted questions of faith within the 
association, and for the ecclesiastical 
government of all the individual mem- 
bers, congregrations, and officers within 
the general association, is unquestioned. 
All who unite themselves to such a body 
do so with an implied consent to this 
government, and are bound to submit to 
it. But it would be a vain consent, and 
would lead to the total subversion of 
such religious bodies, if any one aggriev- 

• Watson V. Jones, ii Waltact 729. 



36 



Italian Confiscation Laws. 



ed by one of their decisions could appeal 
to the secular courts and have them re- 
versed. It is of the essence of these reli- 
gious unions, and of their right to es- 
tablish tribunals for the decision of 
questions arising among themselves, 
that those decisions should be binding 
in all cases of ecclesiastical cognizance, 
subject to only such appeals as the or- 
ganism itself provides for. 

"Nor do wc see that justice would be 
likely to bo promoted by submitting 
those decisions to review in the ordinary 
judicial tribunals. 

"The Catholic Church has constitu- 
tional and ecclesiastical laws of its own 
that task the ablest minds to become 
familiar with. It cannot be expected 
that judges of the civil courts can be as 
competent in the ecclesiastical law as 
the ablest men in the church. It would 
therefore be an appeal from the more 
learned tribunal in the law, which should 
decide the case, to one which is less so. 

" These views are supported by the 
preponderant weight of authority in this 
country." 

And according to the American 
rule, where the subject-matter of dis- 
pute, inquiry, or decision is strictly 
and purely ecclesiastical in its charac- 
ter, it is a matter over which the civil 
courts should not exercise any juris- 
diction — a matter which concerns 
theological controversy, church disci- 
pline, ecclesiastical government, or 
the conformity of the members of the 
church to the standard of morals re- 
quired of them, the civil court has 
not and should not have any jurisdic- 
tion. If the civil courts were at 
liberty to inquire into the whole sub- 
ject of doctrinal theology, usages, and 
customs, the written laws and funda- 
mental principles would have to be 
examined into with minuteness and 
care, for they would be the criteria 
by which the validity of the ecclesias- 
tical decree would be determined in 
the civil court. And that would de- 
prive the authorities of the church 
of their proper right and power to 
construe their own church laws, and 
would open the way to the evil of 



transferring to the civil courts, where 
the rights to property were concern- 
ed, the decision of all ecclesiastical 
questions.* 

Of all the cases in which this doc- 
trine is applied, no better representa- 
tive can be found than that of Shannon 
V, Frost,f where the principle is ably 
supported by the learned Chief-Justice 
of the Court of Appeals of Kentucky, 
wherein he says : 

** This court, having no ecclesiastical 
jurisdiction, cannot revise or question 
ordinary acts of church discipline. Our 
only judicial power in the case arises 
from the conflicting claims of the parties 
in the church property, and the use of it. 
We cannot decide who ought to be mem- 
bers of the church, nor whether the ex- 
communicated have been justly or un- 
justly, regularly or irregularly; cut oflf 
from the body of the church." 

The same principle was laid down 
in the subsequent case of Gibson v. 
Armstrong,} and of Watson v» Avery. § 

One of the most careful and well- 
considered judgments on the subject 
is that of the Court of Appeals of 
South Carolina, delivered by Chan- 
cellor Johnson in the case of Har- 
mon v» Dreher.ll That case turned 
upon certain rights in the use of 
church property claimed by the min- 
ister, notwithstanding his expulsion 
from the synod as one of its mem- 
bers : 

*' He stands," says the chancellor, 
"convicted of the offences allege.d against 
him by the sentence of the spiritual body 
of which he was a voluntary member, and 
whose proceedings he had bound himself 
to abide. It belongs not to the civil 
power to enter into or review the pro- 
ceedings of a spiritual court. The struc- 
ture of our government has for the pre- 
servation of religious liberty rescued the 
temporal institutions from religious inter* 

• See Cardcross case, McMillan v. General 
Assembly of the Presbyterian Church, 22 I). 
{Scotch Ci. 0/ Sess.) 270, decided 23d December, 
1859. Attorney-General v. Pearson, 3 MtrivaU 
353 ; Miller v. Goble, a Dtmio 492. 

t 3 ^. Monroe 253. X 7 B. ATonroe 481. 

I a Buxh 339. I 9 Speers' Equiiy 87. 



Italian Confiscation Laws. 



37 



ference ; on the other hand, it has secured 
religious libertjfrom the invasion of the 
civil authority. The judgments, there- 
fore, of rclig^ious associations, bearing on 
their own members, are not examinable 
iiere ; and I am not to enquire whether 
the doctrines attributed to Mr. Dreher 
nrcre held bjr him, or whether, if held, 
were anti-Lutheran, or whether his con- 
duct was or was not in accordance with 
the duty he owed to the synod or to his 
denomination. . . . When a civil right 
dej'Cnds upon an ecclesiastical matter, 
it is the civil court and not the ecclesias- 
tical which is to decide. But the civil 
tnl^unal tries the civil right, and no more, 
taking the ecclesiastical decisions out of 
which the civil right arises as it finds 

This principle is reaffirmed by the 
same court in the John's Island 
Church case.* And in Den v, Bol- 
ton ♦ the Supreme Court of New 
]er«y asserts the same principle. 

The Supreme Court of Illinois, in 
the cose of Ferfaria v, Vascouelles, 
rc/cTs to the case of Shannon v. 
Frost with approval, and adopts the 
language of the court, that the ju- 
dicial eye cannot penetrate the veil 
of the church for the forbidden pur- 
pose of vindicating the alleged 
wrongs of excised members; when 
they became members, they did so 
upon the condition of continuing or 
not as they and their churches might 
determine, and they thereby submit 
to the ecclesiastical power, and can- 
not now invoke the supervisory 
power of the civil tribunals. 

And in the case of Chase v, Che- 
ney, recently decided in the same (Il- 
linois) court, Judge Lawrence says: 
**llie opinion implies that in the ad- 
ministration of ecclesiastical disci- 
pline, and where no other right of 
property is involved, their loss of 
the clerical office or salary incident 
to such discipline, a spiritual court is 
the exclusive judge of its own juris- 
diction, and that its decision of that 

• a Rich»rd5on's Equity 215. 
t 7 HAlftfad 2c6. 



question is binding on the secular 
courts." 

In the case of Watson v. Ferris, * 
which was a case growing out of the 
schism in the Presbyterian Church 
in Missouri, the court held that 
whether a case was regularly or irreg- 
ularly before the assembly, was a 
question which the assembly had the 
right to determine for itself, and no 
civil court could reverse, modify, or 
impair its action in a matter of mere- 
ly ecclesiastical concern. 

The opinion of the Supreme Court 
of Pennsylvania, expressed in the 
case of the German Reformed 
Church V, Seibert, t sets forth that 
the decisions of ecclesiastical courts, 
like every other judicial tribunal, 
are final, as they are the best 
judges of what constitutes an offence 
against the word of God and the 
discipline of the church. Any other 
than those courts must be incompe- 
tent judges of matters of faith, disci- 
pline, and doctrine ; and civil courts, 
if they should be so unwise as to at- 
tempt to supervise their judgments on 
matters which come within their 
jurisdiction, would only involve 
themselves in a sea of uncertainty 
and doubt, which would do anything 
but improve religion and good 
morals. 

In the subsequent case of Mc- 
Ginnis v, Watson, \ this principle is 
again applied and supported by a 
more elaborate argument. 

Lord Chancellor Eldon, upon de- 
livering the opinion of the House of 
Lords in the celebrated test-case of 
Craigdallie v, Aiknian, reported in 
2 Bligh, 529 ( I Dow, i), said: That 
they (the law lords) had adopted 
this principle as their rule and guide 
for cases of dispute respecting the 
right to property conveyed for the 
use of religious worship — that it is 

• 45 Missouri 183. + 3 Barr agi. 

$ 41 Ptnnxylvania State ai. 



38 



Italian Confiscation Laws. 



a trust which is to be enforced for 
the purpose of maintaining that reli- 
gious worship for which the property 
was devoted, and in the event of 
schism (the original deed having 
made no provision for such cases) 
its uses are to be enforced, not on 
behalf of a majority of the congrega- 
tion, nor yet exclusively in behalf of 
the party adhering to the general 
body, but in favor of that part of the 
society adhering to and maintaining 
the original principles upon which 
it was founded : the exclusive stan- 
dard or guide by which conflicting 
claims are to be decided is adher- 
ence to the church itself. 

Regarding, therefore, church pro- 
perty, or the property of religious 
societies, communities, or orders, in 
the same manner as the private pro- 
perty of any other corporation or 
individual, it may with safety be as- 
sumed as a settled and fundamental 
law that ought to be recognized by 
every Christian and civilized state, 
that it is bound to make just indem- 
nity and compensation to the citizen 
or subject, society, or corporation, or 
community, for all property taken 
under the pressure of state necessity 
for the public good, convenience, or 
safety. The eminent domain of the 
state should be so exercised as to 
work no wrong, to inflict no private 
injury, without giving to the party 
aggrieved ample redress. This doc- 
trine was not engrafted on the public 
law to give license to despotic and 
arbitrary sovereigns. It has its foun- 
dation in the organization of society, 
and is essential to the maintenance 
of public virtue in every government, 
whether a republic, a monarchy, or a 
despotism. It is of the very essence 
of sovereignty, for without it a state 
cannot perform its first and highest 
duties — those required by justice and 
righteousness. Whenever, therefore, 
from necessity a state appropriates to 



public use the private property of an 
individual or of a corporation, lay or 
religious, it is obliged by a law as im- 
perative as that by which it makes 
the appropriation, to give to the party 
aggrieved redress commensurate with 
the injury sustained. Upon any other 
principle the social compact would 
work mischief and wrong. The state 
might impoverish the citizen it was 
established to protect, and trample 
on those rights of property, security 
for which was one of the great objects 
of its creation. 

All the elementary writers of au- 
thority sustain these views of the 
duty and obligations of states. 

Justice requires, says Vattel, that 
the community or individual be in- 
demnified at the public charge. 

The taking, says Grotius, must be 
for some public advantage; as, for 
instance, in time of war, the erection 
of a rampart or fortification, or where 
his standing com or storehouses are> 
destroyed to prevent their being of 
use to the enemy, in which case the 
person injured should receive a just 
compensation for the loss he suffers out 
of the common stock. The state is 
obliged to repair the damage suflered 
by any citizen out of the public funds. 
The conversion cannot take place 
either to gratify any whim^ caprice, or 
fashion ; it must be an actual public 
necessity. For, do we not read of an 
instance where some king, perhaps 
of Prussia, was erecting a magnificent 
palace at his capital, and, in order to 
carry out the design of the architect, 
it became necessary to remove a 
small unsightly tenement, the pro- 
perty of a poor man, who, though 
so poor, would not sell his place 
or consent that it should be re- 
moved, and there it remained for 
years, an eyesore perhaps to many, 
and yet the king, as the chief deposi- 
tary of justice, would not permit it to 
be disturbed, although urged by his 



Italian Confiscation Laws. 



39 



flatterers and courtiers to do so, until 
in lapse of years the owner died, and 
his successors consented to sell. The 
historian recalls the justice of the 
king, that all honest and honorable 
rulers and men might follow such a 
noble example of honor and justice. 
But can any one reasonably praise 
such an act, and approve of the 
confiscation of the houses of re- 
ligious and charitable associations in 
Italy, and the very suppression and 
wiping out of the corporation or so- 
ciety itself, without trial, or charge of 
oSimce or crime other than the offence 
of doing good to the human race 
without pay, fee, or reward here, but 
looking only to heaven for recom- 
pense. 

If the Italian government or par- 
bament may to-day confiscate or es- 
cheat the property of Catholic cora- 
munitieSy and thus commit a breach 
of the pact made by former rulers, 
emperors, or governments with the 
(bunders of such communities, disre- 
garding all inherent rights of succes- 
MOQ and perpetuity, may it not to- 
morrow also commit a breach of its 
own compacts or implied guarantees, 
and con^scate or escheat all the 
property of churches, school-houses, 
colleges, of other denominations who 
have lately or are now building them 
within Italian jurisdiction ? For 
what obstacle is to prevent it doing 
so ? Having outraged and set aside 
as nought the moral or human law, 
styled law of nations, in this respect, 
may it not do so again in any other, 
from either whim or caprice ? Un- 
less there is some power left in public 
opinion to restrain it, this is a di- 
lemma from which all the arguments 
of theoretical political economists or 
logicians cannot relieve them. 

Therefore, is it not a question now 
well worthy the consideration of all 



honest-thinking men, whether or not 
they should aid public opinion in 
sending forth a note of warning 
against this doctrine of confiscation 
— for else, perhaps, the disease may 
make a wider sweep over the eartli, 
and parliaments or congresses be 
elected for the purpose of confiscat- 
ing or escheating other property be- 
sides church property or the property 
of religious or charitable houses or 
communities ? 

Judging froni the tenor and tone 
of American decisions — upon the 
question involved — pronounced by 
some of our ablest and purest men, 
this " confiscation," or, more expres- 
sively, this " spoliation " of the prop- 
erty of the church and of religious or- 
ders, by Victor Emanuel, under color 
of parliamentary enactments, and test- 
ed also by recognized rules of inter- 
national law, to say nothing of that 
higher law which commands us to 
" do unto others, etc.," such " confis- 
cation " is utterly indefensible upon 
any doctrine other than that set forth 
in the nefarious maxim, *'To the 
victors belong the spoils," and any 
acquiescence on the part of the 
Christian nations, Catholic or non- 
Catholic, is simply disgraceful, and 
an act of homage to the prince of 
this world which is in itself an act of 
dishonor towards God. 

And as any title so acquired can 
only be maintained so long as the 
usurper has the material power to oc- 
cupy and defend, it is certain that 
with the destruction of that power 
the true and rightful owners may re- 
vive and assert their rights of owner- 
ship and possession, as the lawful suc- 
cessors of the original grantors and 
founders, regardless of any claims or 
incumbrances whatsoever made or 
suffered by intervening holders or 
intruders. 



40 



How George Howard was Cured. 



HOW GEORGE HOWARD WAS CURED. 



To give up the battle of life at any 
age is bad, so long as a flicker of 
life is left. It is like deserting the 
doomed ship whilst the groaning 
planks hold together; like refusing 
to make one in the forlorn hope, but 
choosing rather to sit down with 
closed eyes, and let death come as it 
may. But to give up the battle of 
life at five-and-twenty, when the 
battle can scarcely be said to have 
begun, whilst the future lies hidden 
behind an uncertain mist, when the 
sinews are braced, the eyes clear, the 
heart hopeful, the hair unsilvered — 
to give it up then is like deserting 
the ship whilst all is fair sailing, like 
sneaking from the ranks at first scent 
of the enemy. It is as cowardly as 
for the sentinel to abandon his post 
or the ensign to surrender without a 
blow the colors which he swore to 
defend to death; nay, as for the 
husband to desert the wife he chose 
out of all the world before God to be 
his until death. Yet this was what 
George Howard had done. 

Of course a woman was in it, as 
she is in most difficulties here below. 
And is it not her province ? If she 
sometimes happen to be " in it " a 
little too much, rather in the light 
of an obstacle than a helper — well, 
the best and not the worst must be 
made of her under the awkward 
circumstances. The first man, if 
Mr. Darwin will excuse the heresy,, 
set us a good example in this way. 
It was a pity that Eve did not turn 
her ear away from the voice of the 
charmer; but as she did the other 
thing, and so wrought upon her hus- 
band that he followed her example, 



after all he made the very best of a 
very bad bargain, and, like a true 
man, stuck to his wife. But to re- 
turn from Adam to his XlXth cen- 
tury descendant, Mr. George How- 
ard : Why had that promising 
young gentleman metaphorically 
" thrown up the sponge," and drawn 
aside like a coward from the broad 
road of life, to linger on uselessly in 
this little out-of-the-way Fre»ch town 
where nobody knew him, where no- 
body heard of him from the great 
city at the other side of the ocean, 
which he left one fine morning a 
year or more ago without a word 
of warning or a single good-by to 
the many friends whose kindly eyes 
had looked hopefully upon him, and 
whose friendly lips had prophesied 
success ? Why had he gone out 
from this busy heart of the New 
World, palpitating with promise and 
half-defined yearnings, to bury him- 
self away in this silent nook in an ob- 
scure comer of the south of France, 
doing nothing, caring nothing, plan- 
ning nothing, wearily waiting for life 
to end ? 

As is generally the case with de- 
spairing five-and-twenty in the mas- 
culine, and despondent seventeen or 
eighteen in the feminine, sex, it was 
one of those peculiar difficulties 
known as " affairs of the heart." 
Nobody ever knew the exact ins and 
outs of it; how far the lady was to 
blame, and how far George had him- 
self to accuse. Like many a pas- 
sionate, high-souled young man, 
where he bestowed his heart he ex- 
pected that heart to absorb and fill 
up the life and soul of the woman 



Haw George Howard was Cured. 



41 



be loved. That effect does follow 
generally, but by degrees more or 
less slow. George was apt to love too 
fiercely and too fast. But young, 
high-spirited girls like to be wooed 
before they are won. Though their 
hearts may have been virtually taken 
by storm long before the besieging 
party so much as suspect that a 
breach has been made in the stub- 
bom fortress, still they like to make 
a show of surrendering at discretion, 
and marching out with all the honors 
ot var, rather than be instantly and 
absolutely overwhelmed by love. 
There is such a thing as a surfeit 
of happiness. George Howard had 
probably made this mistake. Such 
lovers as he are apt to start at sha- 
doirs, imagining them realities. The 
end of it was that George's fortress 
suncndered to somebody else, mar- 
ried the conqueror, and was disgrace- 
fully happy. Wliether or not she 
e%'er cast a thought back on the 
bright young fellow that once loved 
her so fiercely, who can tell ? Prob- 
ably not. She made a good match 
— and contented wives soon drop 
romance ; sooner than husbands 
often. It is astonishing how easily 
the goddess we adore before marriage 
descends from the clouds, walks the 
earth like a sturdy woman, and be- 
comes a practical, sensible wife. It 
may be a little unromantic at first 
sight, but it is undoubtedly by far 
the best thing she could do under 
the circumstances. But when poor 
George saw his goddess riding about 
smiling and happy by the side of her 
husband, and that husband not him- 
Klf, he could not endure the sight. 
After lingering a little in misery, he 
threw up his connections, and left 
the city for what destination nobody 
knew. 

George Howard was alone in the 
vorhi. His mother had died early; 
hi& uiher went off when George was 



twenty, leaving him fortune enough 
to help him to make life as pleasant 
as he chose to make it for himself. 
He was advancing rapidly in his pro- 
fession — law — ^and had made a host 
of friends when the collapse came. 
As is so often the case, his pride, 
instead of sustaining him, sank under 
the blow. Most probably, if the 
truth were told, the wound inflicted 
on his self-esteem rankled deeper 
than that which had killed his love. 
The thought that another man could 
succeed where George Howard had 
failed would have been gall and 
wormwood to him in any case ; but 
when the object of rivalry was a 
woman's heart, and George Howard's 
were the rejected addresses, death 
would be a small word to express 
the consummation of that gentle- 
man's misery ; it was the annihilation 
of all that made life worth the living. 
" Howard the jilted," he seemed to 
read in everybody's eye, when per- 
haps not half a dozen persons knew 
anything about the affair. Jilted by 
a girl ! How could a man recover 
such a blow ? What was there in 
the wide world to fill up the void left 
in one when his mighty self shrank 
to such insignificant proportions ? 

Common sense might have suggest- 
ed that there was more than one 
woman in the world, and that there 
lay a deeper fund of love in the heart 
of a man than could be exhausted 
on the first girl he chanced to meet 
and admire. It might have suggest- 
ed also that failure in love did not 
necessarily mean failure in matters 
which, after all, as far as the world 
outside of our little selves is concern- 
ed, are of far more importance than 
love. Man is not sent into this 
world for the one purpose of being 
" married and done for," as the 
phrase goes. But when did common 
sense find the ear of a lover, particu- 
lariy of a lover rejected ? 



42 



How George Howard was Cured. 



So here was George Howard, 
clever enough, good-looking enough, 
and by no means a bad fellow, self- 
stranded on the barren sand-banks 
of life, with a short five-and-twenty 
years behind him, a future full of 
fair promise still before him, hugging 
a useless sorrow in silent sadness, and 
making that his bride. 

He lived on listlessly from day to 
day. He mixed with no circle; he 
knew nobody. He took his meals at 
his hotel, addressed a few common- 
places to those he happened to meet, 
and passed most of his time in the 
open air, taking long strolls into the 
country, walking up and down the 
beach by the sea, watching the 
solitary sails that came and went 
and faded out of sight — sadly, it 
seemed to him sometimes, as though 
beckoning him back to a living 
world. There were few visitors at 
the little town, save just during the 
hottest of the summer months. Such 
as did come hurried away again as 
fast as they could. The train rushed 
through it day after day, a crowd of 
peering faces would show themselves 
a few moments at the windows of 
the cars, strange eyes would stare 
curiously at the strange place, and 
pass on a moment after as inditferent 
as before. Something of the instinct 
which prompts a wounded animal to 
seek out a silent covert where it may 
lie down with its wound and die 
alone, must have conducted George 
Howard to this spot. 

Yet to a man who had only gone 
there for a short holiday, weary 
awhile of the rush, and the struggle, 
and the incessant strain and roar of 
a busier life, the little French town, 
with its quaint look and quaint ways, 
might have offered a refreshing relief 
from the dust, and the turmoil, and 
the worry of the world of politics and 
money, railroads and trade. Many 
a one doubdess has at some time or 



other had the wish to wake up some 
morning a century or two ago in a 
world that had gone away. To such 
the placid evenings by the sea, the 
homely looks of the inhabitants, the 
clean blouses of the men, the white 
caps of the women, the busy tongues 
of the children, the long silver hair 
of M. le Cur6, the dances by the 
sea as the sun went down, the slow 
wains drawn by drowsy oxen, the fuss 
and bustle of the weekly market-day, 
the big gendarme with his clanking 
sword, the white houses and their an- 
tique gables, with the beat of the surf 
on the beach for ever, and the fresh 
odor of the ocean pervading all places, 
would have seemed the delicious 
realization of many a picture looked 
on and lingered over in a gilded 
frame. 

But on the deadened senses of 
George Howard these simple scenes, 
and sights, and sounds fell as you 
might fancy the roll of the muffled 
drums to fall on the one stretched 
out in the coffin who is being borne 
speedily on by the living to his grave. 
They wake no life in him ; he makes 
no stir ; he is let down into the earth 
— ^a farewell roll, and the grave is 
closed over him for ever, whilst the 
bright world above seems to smile 
the merrier that another dead man 
is hidden away. 

Of course, this kind of life and 
mode of thought were rapidly tell- 
ing on him and bringing nearer and 
nearer the consummation he seemed 
to desire. The step grew slower, 
the eyes began to lose their quick 
lustre, the cheek its flush, the body 
its swing and half-defiant bearing. 
The simple people round about look- 
ed at him silently, shook their heads, 
and sighed as he moved by without 
noticing them. He grew more and 
more attached to the beach, where he 
would stroll up and down and sit 
for hours on the yellow sand, staring 



How George Hoivard was Cured, 



43 



oot blankly at the broad water, cast- 
.og a pebble into it from time to 
^tinie, and watching the circles that 
.t made. There was something con- 
;'eDial to his nature in the changeable 
face and mood, the smile, the frown, 
ihc hoarse breathing, the sob, the 
>igh, the roar, the rage of the ocean. 
To all these changes something with- 
in him gave a voice, until the very 
<l*irit of the mysterious deep seemed 
to creep into his being, and make it 
an abode there. 

So he lived on, never writing to a 
fnend, never yearning to go back to 
the voHd he had quitted, and which 
sdli held out its arms to him. All 
j.Tibitioo, all desire of achievement, 
ail common feeling with the world 
:n!oirhich he had been born, seemed 
:3 have gradually oozed out of him. 
He had staked his happiness and 
ijii, and now he only wished for the 
end to come soon. It never occur- 
re«i to him that he had possibly stak- 
ed his happiness at too low a figure. 
He only saw before him an empty 
life with a dreary existence. At such 
stages, some men commit suicide. 
He was not yet coward enough for 
that, though not Christian enough 
t J perceive that this world was not 
aude for one man and one woman 
only, but for all the children of 
Adam. 

But happily, however man may 
rcjert Providence, and close his eyes 
10 a Power that shapeth all things for 
good, Providence mercifully refuses 
to reject him without at least giving 
^im plenty of opportunities, human- 
ly called chances, to come back to 
the possession of his senses, and the 
fulfilment of the mission which is ap- 
jomtcd unto every man. And one 
t George Howard's chances came 
-tOut this wise. 

A favorite walk of his was along a 
binding road leading some distance 
'dt of the little town up a lofty hill, 



from the summit of which the eye 
could scan the sweeping circle of the 
waters, stretching out in its glittering 
wonder to the verge of dimness, or, 
inland, where miles and miles of fair 
pasture-land and vineyards spread 
away in gentle undulations, with 
smoke rising from hollows in which 
hamlets slept, and church spires 
clove the clear air, and airy villas 
crowned the pleasant hills. Alter- 
nate gleams of sea and land shot 
through the tall poplars that lined 
the road as it circled round the hill. 
At the top, buried amid trees, and 
fronted by a garden filled almost the 
year through with delicious flowers, 
was the Maison Plaquet, a sort of 
caf^^ where visitors could procure a 
cup of coffee, a glass of eau sucr/e, 
or the good wines du pays. This 
establishment was presided over by 
Mme. Plaquet, a buxom dame with a 
merry eye and kindly voice, whose 
pleasant face had become quite a 
part of the landscape. There was 
understood to be a M. Plaquet 
somewhere, but he did not often 
show himself to visitors. He left 
the whole business to madam e, hav- 
ing a strong suspicion that there was 
no woman like her in the world, and 
spent most of his time trimming 
the flower-beds, pruning the trees, or 
tending to the vineyard. 

George was a frequent visitor at 
the Maison Plaquet. He would 
spend hours in the garden dreaming. 
Madame was won by his handsome 
face and the fixed sadness in his eyes, 
which always lighted up, however, in 
response to her genial greeting. She 
half suspected that it was something 
more than a love of nature which 
sent the pauvre gar(on, as she called 
him, away firom friends, and home, 
and family, to sit there day after day 
dreaming in her arbor, beautiful as it 
was. With the chatty good-nature 
which in a Frenchwoman never 



44 



How George Howard was Cured. 



seems offensive, she would sometimes 
try to drion when you only 
know how to do it, and can find no 
other employment." 

" Why, what else can a fellow 
do?" 

Ned was fairly taken aback at this 
question. To ask him what a fellow 
could do in this world was like ask- 
ing him why he had teeth, or hands, 
or a head, or life altogether. After 
an amazed stare at his friend, he 
answered : 

" Well, I suppose that what a man 
can do is generally best known to 
himself, when, like you, he has life in 
his veins, brains in his head, and 
money in his pocket. At all events, 
it is scarcely likely that you were 
made for the precise purpose of bury- 
ing yourself alive here." 

** Oh ! I don't know. It is not 
such a bad sort of life," said George 
wearily. " Here I have no cares, 
and fuss, and bother, no visitors to 
bore, and no bores to visit. Nobody 
comes to borrow or beg. There is 
no necessity for playing at comj))'- 
ments with people for whom you do 
not care a straw, and who care for 
you less. Here is, instead, the sea, 
and the shore, and the woods, and 
the hills, a fair table, a good enough 
washerwoman, and people around 
you who never speak till they are 
spoken to. What more can a fellow 
want ?" 



How George Howard was Cured 



49 



Ned made no reply. He was 
pofluig his cigar in silence, and 
following the curling smoke with his 
eye as he blew it against the light — a 
favorite fashion of his when thinking 
to himself. He was thinking now, 
rapidly, how changed was his friend 
ID so short a time. He was wonder- 
ing where all the ardent spirit and 
high hopes that fired him a few years 
back had gone. Contact with the 
world, instead of crushing, had raised 
his own hopes the more. Why had 
it not done the same for Howard ? 
He could find no solution to the 
ftifficnhy; for life to him was a 
gbrioQs battle, and inaction worse 
than death. His friend must have 
enooontered some great shock, some 
{)ftter disappointment, at the outset. 
He was seeking the clew in the 
SDoke apparently. After a painful 
pause, he at length asked: 

"How long have you been here 
now, George ?" 

" On and off, a year or more. I 
go and come. I make short excur- 
sions round about for a week or 
so sometimes, but I always return 
here," 

"You entered a firm on the other 
side, did you not ?" 

" No ; I was about to do so." 

"And why didn't you? Were 
ihcy cheats ?" 

" No." 

"Did they fail?" 

" No." 

" Did you fail ? Did you lose any 
money in any way ?" 

** No, what makes you ask ?" 

" Because I want to find out what 
the trouble is with you. You are 
not in love ?" 

"Good God! No I" exclaimed 

George almost fiercely, as he rose, 

strode to the window, and stood there 

looking out at the moon. 

The bitterness of his tone, the 

i^ptness of his action, told the 
VOL. xvin. — 4 



observant Ned that unwittingly he 
had touched the right chord. He 
indulged in a silent whistle to him- 
self, and shook his head as a good- 
hearted physician might over a hope- 
less case. Ned confessed himself a 
bad hand at ministering to the love 
complaint That was the only ill for 
which he would advocate the calling 
in of a female physician. For heart 
disease of this nature, Ned would, on 
his own authority, grant a diploma 
to any suitable lady doctor ; for he 
was convinced of the utter inability 
of man to handle such a delicate 
affair. So he shook his head de- 
spondently. 

Whilst these thoughts were pass- 
ing through the brain of the now 
very wide-awake Mr. Fitzgerald, 
George seemed to have recovered 
his usual dead calm, and, leaving the 
window as he proceeded to light a 
fresh cigar, inquired, with a smile 
that seemed to anticipate a charac- 
teristic answer : 

** Ned, have you ever been in 
love ?" 

It was now Ned's turn to rise. 
He tore about the room frantically 
a moment, dashed his hand through 
his hair, and finally, coming to a 
stand-still before his amused friend, 
burst out : 

" In love ! Have I ever been in 
love? What a question to ask a 
man! Don't you know my name? 
Did you ever hear of a Fitzgerald or 
any other of his race who had not 
been in love ? Why, man, I fall in 
love every day of my life. How 
can I help it when every woman I 
see for five minutes falls in love with 
me. I might say I have lost my 
heart so often that I don't think 
there's a bit of it left to lose now; 
and still I go on falling in love by 
sheer force of habit." And Ned 
"hove to" with a comic burst of 
despair. 



50 



How George Howard was Cured. 



«*You are a happy man, Ned," 
said George, laughing. 

" Happy ?" questioned Ned, half 
to himself, and as though the idea 
had struck him for the first time in 
his life. "Well, I suppose I am. 
I don't see much advantage to be 
gained by being otherwise." 

" Nor I ; but, for all that, people 
differently constructed from your for- 
tunate self cannot always help be- 
ing otherwise." 

" Bah ! Of course they can ; par- 
ticularly in love matters. Love was 
not meant to make a man mope, 
but to stir him up. Those old fogies 
in the middle ages had a much truer 
idea of love, as of many other things, 
than we have nowadays, with all our 
boasting. Ah I love then was the 
genuine article. Not all sighs, and 
tears, and millinery, and newspaper 
paragraphs, and mothers-in-law, and 
the lovers playing cat's-cradle to 
each other. No ; but the man went 
about his business, bearing his love in 
his heart for a year and a day. He 
wore his lady's gage on his helm, and, 
if his business happened to be the 
giving and taking of hard knocks, 
why, he gave and took, his love and 
himself against the world. He rode 
in the lists under his lady's eye, and 
proved himself a brave man for her 
sake. Love nerved his arm, whilst 
it purified his heart and softened 
his soul. Why did the wife gird 
the buckler on her lord ? Love was 
akin to religion then, marriage a sac- 
rainent, and not, as it naw is . . ." 

" A social exchange, a trade carried 
on by the great Mother-in-law Com- 
pany^ Unlimited— a thing of barter 
and loss, where dollars are wedded to 
dollars by the magistrate, where youth 
and beauty sells herself to old age for 
so much a year and her own car- 
riage. Ned, Ned! what a pity we 
were not born in the middle ages !" 

" Hallo !" said Ned, " I did not 



mean to go quite so far as that, 
George. After all, they were men and 
women then, just as we are; and, 
though one cannot help breaking out 
now and again on modern notions, 
one thing is certain — ^for every true 
knight there is somewhere a true 
lady." 

" Have you found yours yet, 
Ned ? " 

" Perhaps not, perhaps yes," said 
Ned, dropping a moment his light 
tone. '* Perhaps because I am not 
a true knight; perhaps because, 
though I found a true lady, she was 
meant for somebody else. Because 
I may have made one mistake, that 
is no reason why my true lady should 
not be waiting for me somewhere, 
nor why I should fail to rejoice at 
seeing two others happy, though my 
own toes may have been trodden on 
a little bit. After all, the world is 
very wide and full of happy possi- 
bilities." 

Something unusual in Ned's tone 
seemed to spring from real feeling 
that lay concealed under his usual 
airy manner ; perhaps suffering, with 
which his good-nature cared not to 
trouble the sufliiciently trouble-laden 
world. For the first time in his life, 
George Howard felt a little ashamed 
of himself, and conscious of something 
akin to selfishness in his nature which 
he had never suspected there before. 
It takes a very long time to see our- 
selves. Self-knowledge comes piece- 
meal, and the pieces that go to make 
the human mosaic are sometimes 
very ugly when seen alone, though 
they may pass muster in the whole, 
and merge and be lost in its com- 
mon symmetry. 

When he awoke the following 
morning, and the thought came to 
him that the usually dreary day was 
to be enlivened for once by the pre- 
sence of Ned Fitzgerald, the thought 
was not an unpleasant one; and 



How George Howard was Cured. 



Sr 



vbcn that gentleman burst into his 
room with a bundle of sea-weed in 
bis hand, speckled all over with curi- 
ous little shells, which he said he 
would keep for Mary, the look of 
joung, active, earnest life in his 
bright eyes and diffused over his 
whole person seemed in some inde- 
scribable manner to make the sun 
brighter and the air clearer. George 
began to feel young again, and ex- 
amined the shells and the slimy 
weed, over which Ned gloated and 
expatiated, with an interest that 
wotdd have been a marvel to him 
yesterday. 

^ And who is Mary ?'' he asked, 
as that name passed Ned's lips more 
than once. 

** Hliy, the sister I was telling you 
about." 

" Oh !" said George, and wassilent. 

That evening, it was arranged that 
Ned should go the next day, and 
bring Mary back with him. As he 
found the little town so quaint and 
quiet, he determined to stay a week 
or so with his old friend, instead of 
going on directly to Paris, as he had 
intended ; and George, to pass the 
interval, made his first visit since the 
accident to his friend, Mme. Plaquet. 

That good dame was as angry as 
she could be with him. Why had 
he not come to see her for so long ? 
What had he been doing ? Was he 
sick from the dragging that mechanty 
the horse, had given him ? How 
did she know about it ? Why, had 
not M. de Lorme and the ladies been 
there almost every day since, and all 
on purpose to meet him and thank 
him for his brave service ? And now, 
was not mademoiselle going away, 
and her heart breaking because she 
could not see her preserver, and 
thank him for saving her life ? And 
there was the card and the letter 
of M. de Lorme waiting for him all 
these days. She would not have it 



sent, because she expected monsieur to 
come every day. Ah I it was cruel ! 

George opened the letter, and 
found that it was an eulogium of 
M. de Lorme on his gallantry and 
devotion, to which he was indebted 
for the life, probably, of his charming 
young friend ; that her brave but un- 
known preserver would confer an 
honor on her and on M. de Lorme 
by favoring them with his distin- 
guished friendship; that it was 
cruel of him to escape from them 
whilst they were all engaged with 
his charming young friend ; that he 
hoped he would •excuse this mode 
of addressing him, as, owing to the 
peculiarity of the circumstances, he 
knew of no other ; and that, as his 
charming young friend was about to 
leave them, he would no longer deny 
them the opportunity, so much de- 
sired, of paying the deep debt of 
gratitude they owed him, by allowing 
them to testify in person their admi- 
ration of his admirable courage and 
chivalrous devotion. 

" Well, and what do you say ?*' 
asked Mme. Plaquet, as, with arms 
folded and a general air of mistress of 
the situation, she surveyed her myste- 
rious young friend, whilst, with a half- 
amused countenance, he read M. de 
Lorme's missive. 

"Oh!" said George, "I don't 
know. What a fuss you French peo- 
ple make about stopping a horse! 
There — don't say any more about 
it. I have a friend staying with 
me who knows how to arrange all 
these matters, and I will consult him. 
To-morrow or the day after he shall 
come to see you. You will like him. 
Is the lady quite recovered ?" 

** Entirely. But she looked so sad 
when she came, and came, and never 
found you. Ah ! if I were a handsome 
young man, how many horses would 
I not stop, only to get one such glance 
from such lovely eyes !" 



52 



Haw George Howard was Cured, 



The next morning, Ned was to re- 
turn with his sister, and George went 
down to the railway station to meet 
thenu If he showed himself a trifle 
more careful than he had been lately 
in his selection of a tie and in his 
dress generally, and if anybody had 
entered at the time and told him so, 
George would probably have been 
angry at the idea of his returning to 
such weaknesses. There was Ned s 
pleasant face at the window ; there he 
is waving his hat; and here he is now 
introducing Miss Mary Fitzgerald to 
his old friend, Mr. George Howard, to 
the mutual astonishment and evident 
confusion of that lady and gentleman, 
who blushed and turned pale by 
turns like guilty things. Even Ned 
was dumfoundered a moment, and 
argued to himself, from these silent 
but unmistakable signs of recognition 
between the parties, that his cere- 
mony of introduction was quite a 
superfluous piece of etiquette. 

He broke the awkward silence in 
his characteristic fashion : 

" Well, if you people know each 
other already, you had better say so 
at once, and not let me make an ass 
of myself by going through a formal 
introduction — a thing I always hate. 
Mary, do you know George, or don't 
you ?" 

There were tears in Mary's large 
eyes, as, clinging a moment to her 
brother, she sobbed rather than said : 

" O Ned ! this is the gentleman I 
told you of, . . . to whom I owe my 
life, ... of whom we were all speak- 
ing. . . ." And then, turning the lu- 
minous and still tearful eyes full on 
George, who could scarcely stand up 
against the rush of mingled feelings 
that oppressed him, said, with a 
genuine simplicity and native grace 
which were most moving, as she took 
his hand in her own with an action 
at once gentle and natural : •* Sir, it 
was a bitter thought to me that I 



should be compelled to leave France 
without knowing and thanking the 
brave gendeman who risked his life 
to save mine. I had hoped to see 
you at M. de Lorme's, and had so 
much to say to you. But now that 
I meet you," glancing at Ned, "in 
this ... in this way, my heart is 
so full I can say nothing. . . ." 
And the gathering tears began to fall. 
It was time for Ned to intervene : 
" Oho I So you are the unknown 
knight whom M. de Lorme and the 
ladies have been raving about ; who 
goes around in sable sadness, rescuing 
charming young ladies from perilous 
situations, and disappearing as mys- 
teriously as you come. Faith, my 
friend, there is a nice romance con- 
cocted over you. But, George, my 
boy, I could say a great deal more 
than my eloquent sister has done on 
this subject, only I know it would be 
distasteful to you. However, we shall 
have it out together on the quiet some 
day. But what a shame i" Ned rat- 
tled on as they made their way to the 
hotel. " Here is all my nice little plot 
spoiled. Mary, I gave him such a de- 
scription of you. Let me see, George, 
what was she like? Red-haired, 
freckled, middle - aged, and stout ; 
short of breath and tall of body; 
weighing one hundred and seventy 
pounds after dinner, and a trifle less 
before." George looked disgusted, 
and Mary was laughing. " You 
took snuff, Mary, and wore your car- 
roty curls in little whisks of brown 
paper half through the day. You 
had a vixenish temper, a liking for 
toddy, and would insist on speaking 
French to the servants with a beauti- 
ful Gal way accent, and swore at them 
like a trooper for not understanding 
you. It was only oiit of pure regard 
for your handsome brother and for 
the sake of * auld lang syne ' that 
my friend George would tolerate your 
presence at all. And here you are 



How George Howard was Cured. 



53 



the whole time old and valued friends, 
under mutual obligations to each 
other — you for saving my middle-aged 
relative from being run away with 
and dashed to pieces by a vicious 
brute, and my middle-aged relative 
for being gracious enough to allow 
you to do anything of the kind. I 
declare it is shameful, and almost 
makes one take the rash oath of never 
telling a good-natured lie again." 

This harangue of Ned's set them 
both at their ease as though they had 
known each other all their lives. 

^' And may I ask, Miss Fitzgerald, 
if this conscientious brother of yours 
gave an equally accurate description 
ofhisoki school-fellow?" said George, 
laughing. 

** Mary, don't tell. . . . He'll mur- 
der me. . . ." 

** I was instructed all the way along, 
to be particularly kind and attentive 
to a dapper . . ." 

" No, not dapper . . ." interjected 
Xed. 

•' Yes, dapper, Mr. Howard ; I re- 
member the word distincdy. A dap- 
per little old gentleman with a bald 
head and only one eye, who was as 
deaf as a post, but would not allow 
any one to consider him so. I was 
led to understand that he made excel- 
lent company at table, only that he 
simply followed out his own train of 
thought, and his remarks consequent- 
ly were generally rather mal-h-propos ; 
and in fact quite a lot of other things 
that I cannot remember, save that I 
was to take him his drops every 
rooming at half-past eleven pre- 
cisely, and always put six lumps of 
sugar in his coffee, and none in his 
lea." 

There was a merry dinner-party 
that evening at the hotel, and a long 
ramble by the beach afterwards under 
the moon. 

Mary had a great deal of Ned's 
happy nature in her, and between the 



two, what with sailing, and riding, and 
long strolls, George could not well 
help throwing off his despgndency. 
The light soon came back to the eye, 
the color to the cheek, the spring to 
the step, the gaiety to the young 
heart, the belief that, after all, life was 
not such a bad thing, and that there 
were pleasant places even in this mis- 
erable world for those who sought 
them in the right spirit. 

" Your friend George is getting 
quite gay," remarked Mary one eve- 
ning, as brother and sister sat alone, 
during the temporary absence of the 
subject of that young lady's remark. 

" Yes, poor fellow. He was in a 
sad way when I dropped on him. 
Going to the dev — I mean the grave, 
fast." 

" Why, what was the matter with 
him ?" 

" Oh ! I don't know. Put his foot 
in it somehow." 

" Put his foot in what ?"* 

" In the wrong box, of course. 
How stupid you women are 1" 

" But what wrong box, Ned ?" 

That gentleman looked ineffable 
disgust at his beautiful sister, whose 
eyes were fixed a little anxiously on 
his. Then taking the peachy cheeks 
between both hands, he drew her 
face up to his own and kissed her, 
saying, " There, Mary. . . . There 
are only two women in the world to 
whom I would do that. , . . You 
are one — " 

" And the other ?" asked Mary, a 
little bewildered. 

" Is to come," answered Ned enig- 
matically. " It will take some time 
perhaps to find her. One makes a 
mistake sometimes among so many. 
When he does, he puts his foot in the 
wrong box." 

" And you think he — that is, Mr. 
Howard has quite recovered now ?" 
asked Mary, after a pause. 

" Well, it looks as though he were 



54 



How George Howard was Cured, 



very near it ; but here he is to speak 
for himself," said Ned, as George half 
bounded into the room, flushed with 
exercise, and looking as handsome as 
any young lady could wish. 

But why give the stages of what all 
know so well and have heard thou- 
sands of times told and retold ? One 
morning, some months after, the little 
French town looked very gay. There 
were green rushes strewn at the door 
of the hotel, and all the towns-people 
turned out in gala attire. There was 
the carriage of M. de Lorme, and an 
enormous bouquet in the coachman's 
button-hole. There were more car- 
riages, and more coachmen, and 
more bouquets. Soon the church was 
filled with a buzzing and excited 
crowd that hushed into silence as a 
Dridal party moved up the nave and 
stood at the steps of the altar, whilst 
the venerable cur/ in the name of God 
joined the hands together which no 
power on earth may sunder. The 
sunlight fell softly on them through 
windows of pictured saints. Mme. 
Plaquet was there, wiping her eyes, 
and weeping silently, as she praised 
the good God, who had saved the 
pattvre garfon and brought it all about 



so wonderfully. M. Plaquet was 
there, more convinced than ever that 
his wife was a wonderful woman ; for 
had not she made the match ? Old 
women, and tender girls wept as the 
sweet bride passed out a wife, amid 
showers of blossoms strewn in her 
path by little white-robed children. 
They blessed her for an angel, and 
her handsome husband, whom they 
all knew so sad, and who now looked 
so happy. There was another happy 
face, with bright eyes and a sunny 
smile, that attracted many an eye — 
the face, the eyes, and the smile of 
Mr. Edward Fitzgerald. If the read- 
er would know more of George's his- 
tory, it is being made. He has found 
his true lady-love, and is proving him- 
self a true knight. Ned, gay Ned, 
is as merry as ever. He is called 
uncle now by a chubby-cheeked 
youngster with sturdy legs and the 
large eyes of his mother, into whose 
innocent face his father often gazes 
half anxiously, wondering will he ever 
come to imitate him in his short-lived 
folly. Ned has not put his foot in 
the right box yet; so he says, but 
rumor tells another tale. He may 
meet us again some day. 



RECENT POETRY. 



BY AUBREY DE VERE. 



We looked for peach and grape-bunch drenched in dew :- 
He serves us up the dirt in which they grew. 



Crime — lis Origin and Cure. 



55 



CRIME— ITS ORIGIN AND CURE. 



It is no exaggeration to say that 
there is scarcely a man or woman in 
the community who, upon taking up 
a morning newspaper, is not prepared 
to find recorded in its pages at least 
one case of wilful murder or some 
other atrocious infraction of the law, 
human and divine. Whether it be 
homicide or uxoricide, attempt at 
either, or the criminal indulgence of 
the baser passions; whether the re- 
suit of artificial excitement or the 
wilful premeditation of bad or dis- 
eased minds, the effect is the same on 
the public, 'and the dreadfully fre- 
quent recurrence of such offences — 
that the lives of the most harmless 
among us are put in jeopardy equally 
with those of the most belligerent; 
while the law, the first office of which 
is to protect the life, honor, and 
property of tlie citizen, is practically 
ignored and defied. 

This terrible prevalence of crime 
has been a fruitful subject of com- 
ment, and while the supineness of the 
legal guardians of the general welfare 
and the unaccountable stupidity or 
weak sentimentality of jurymen have 
been unsparingly denounced, very 
little has been done in the way of 
intelligent legislation to check the 
ever-flowing stream of criminality. 
It is true that the common and the 
statute laws have long ago prescrib- 
ed death as the penalty for the com- 
mission of murder, arson, treason, and 
one or two other high crimes, long 
terms of imprisonment in state- prisons 
and penitentiaries for felonies, and 
shorter terms in local prisons for 
minor offences, but all these wise 
enactments do not appear to check 
the onward march of outrage and 



lawlessness. The result is that 
abroad the good name of the Repub- 
lic suffers, while at home the very 
familiarity with deeds of violence 
and dishonesty created by the sensa- 
tional and minute newspaper reports 
is debasing the youth of the country, 
and, by throwing a halo of romance 
over their commission, robs them of 
half their repulsive and disgusting 
features. 

Still, while much indignation and 
more apprehension have been mani- 
fested at the growth of crime and 
the apathy and ignorance of those 
entrusted with the duty of repressing 
it, very little has been done either to 
remove the causes which lead to its 
perpetration, or to visit it with con- 
dign punishment when all other 
efforts have failed. This mere theo- 
rizing over what is a tangible evil is 
deeply to be deplored. Surely noth- 
ing can be more worthy of the atten- 
tion of the statesman and the philan- 
thropist than the study and analysis 
of this frightful social phenomenon, 
with a view of limiting its growth, 
even though it were found impossible 
to lesson appreciably its present 
gigantic proportions. It is well re- 
cognized that it is the primary duty 
of all civil governments to protect 
the lives, liberties, and property of 
their subjects, and our own national 
and state organizations, clothed as 
they are with such ample powers 
and supported by popular approba- 
tion, ought to be the foremost in dis- 
charging this trust. Under arbitra- 
ry or usurping governments, such as 
those which dominate Poland, Ire- 
land, and Italy, it is generally difficult 
to execute what is called the law, for 




56 



Crime — Its Origin and Cure, 



the oppressed people are at enmity 
with their oppressors, and take every 
opportunity to oppose and thwart 
what is styled the administration of 
justice. They feel, and properly 
feel, that " the world is not their 
friend, nor the world's law;" but 
with us it ought to be far diflferent. 
Here the laws are made by the peo- 
ple, and it is understood for the peo- 
ple, and hence every good citizen 
should feel a personal interest in the 
rectitude and exactitude of their ad- 
ministration. He is not only injured 
in person and property by imperfect 
and ignorant legislation, through his 
own carelessness, but he violates his 
obligations to his fellow-man when 
through neglect, or from unworthy 
motives, he does not do all in his 
power to prevent it. 

However, to act intelligently as 
well as conscientiously in matters of 
such gravity, the study of the origin 
of the evils which afflict and disgrace 
our country, and the sources from 
whence they generally spring, re- 
quires more attention than has usual- 
ly been given, even by those who 
most deplore their existence. It will 
not do to throw down your news- 
paper after perusing accounts of 
three or four cases of murder, and 
ask to what is the world coming? 
It is almost equally useless to occa- 
sionally hang a criminal, or to send 
another to prison for life. For the 
one so punished, a score at least es- 
cape, and the demands neither of 
retributive nor distributive justice are 
satisfied. The evil-disposed gratify 
their revenge by the commission of 
these crimes, while their chances of 
punishment are no more than one 
in twenty. Thus the plague that in- 
fests society daily becomes more 
noxious and, as it were, epidemic. 

Crime has its latitude and longi- 
tude, its nationality, classes, and 
castes, its peculiar inciting causes, as 



well as the great vital cause — ^Ihe 
absence of true religious faith and 
practice. For instance, it might 
be easily demonstrated that the 
many-nationed people of the United 
States are addicted to special classes 
of crime, as distinct and almost as 
obvious as their language, habits, and 
intellectual idiosyncrasies. We speak 
now of the more flagrant violations 
of the social compact, not with the 
intention of discriminating against 
any class or race in the commu- 
nity, nor with the object of holding 
the mass of any people, no matter 
what their origin or country, respon- 
sible for the acts of a few among 
them — for after all the criminals are 
in a small minority, fortunately, 
among all nations — but to point out 
the nature and peculiar nnotives for 
the commission of offences against 
the law as they exist among differ- 
ent classes of our population, so that 
suitable remedies may be applied to 
the respective cases. 

Outrages against law and justice 
depend to a certain extent on local- 
ity for their distinctive character. 
The desperate hand-to-hand en- 
counters which have so long charac- 
terized a certain class of society in 
the border states, are as different in 
motive from that of the cool Connec- 
ticut poisoner, as the assassin of our 
aristocratic circles is dissimilar to the 
ruffian of the slums. 

When we ascribe homicide to the 
criminal classes of America, we do 
not assume it to be a national sin, 
for though of late we have read of 
some cases in New England and the 
West, and know of many deliberate 
ones in this vicinity, we refer special- 
ly in our analysis to the remote 
Southern and Southwestern states, 
where the bowie-knife, the rifle, and 
the revolver are considered much 
more efficacious and prompt in the 
settlement of disputes than the 



Crime — Its Origin and Cure. 



57 



tfower and less exciting appeal to 
iyt courts. It may be said that this 
h the natural consequence of the 
war, the termination of which has 
thrown out of employment many 
desperate men habituated to the use 
of arms; but this is only partially 
true, for the same state of society ex- 
isted in New Orleans, Arkansas, and 
along the banks of the Mississippi 
many years anterior to the late inter- 
necine contest Lawless men of 
every grade, gamblers, horse- thieves, 
the idle, and the debauched, have for 
nearly two generations infested those 
and neighboring^ localities; deadly 
quanels were constantly springing 
up, and were decided in a moment 
by tlie death of one if not of both 
disputants; and the public authorities, 
fhencvcr they dared to interfere, were 
sore to be set at defiance, if not mal- 
treated. The same state of affairs 
(lists to this day, but in a modified 
form, and there seems to have been 
no way discovered to alter it. 

Still, the American people as a 
whole are not responsible for what 
might be called a local disorganiza- 
tion of society, grown out of their 
rapidly-extending settlements, whence 
fiock naturally many outcasts, vaga- 
bonds, and reckless men, anxious to 
escape the odium of public opinion 
and the chastisement that awaited 
them in the older and more thickly 
setded communities of the East. But 
oar country, with a better show of 
reason, may be accused of condon- 
i"2, if not of actually encouraging, a 
widespread system of political and 
fjmracrcial dishonesty, an offence 
^ich, though not by any means as 
M as the taking of human life in 
i*s direct consequences, indirectly en- 
ujuragcs and promotes the commis- 
•:<»n of the greater crime. A legisla- 
tor or a judge who can be guilty of 
taking bribes, is sure, the one to 
ttakc bad laws and the other to 



execute good ones corruptly. Crimi- 
nals who have political or moneyed 
influence are allowed to escape with 
impunity, with a carte blanche to con- 
tinue their nefarious business. Who- 
ever has read the proceedings of the 
several investigating committees in 
Washington during the last session 
of Congress, and of our State Senate 
acting as a court of impeachment dur- 
ing the summer of 1872, will hardly 
doubt the truth of this assertion. 

This spirit of bribery, false swear- 
ing and peculation we find prevail- 
ing, among some of the most promi- 
nent members of the national Con- 
gress, who, these investigations have 
shown, are not above the acceptance 
of paltry bribes for the use or abuse 
of their high delegated authority ; 
we find it in many of our state legis- 
latures, particularly when a United 
States senator is to be elected or the 
interest of a railroad company, a cor- 
poration, or a wealthy private indi- 
vidual is to be subserved by forc- 
ing or retarding legislation ; and it 
is a matter of public notoriety that 
atnong the officers of municipal cor- 
porations, notably our own, where 
integrity, if in any place, should find 
a home, the most unblushing robbery, 
swindling, and false swearing have 
prevailed for years. Again, let us 
look at the history of our large 
banks and insurance companies. 
There is scarcely a week passes but 
we hear of defaulting officers and 
clerks who, after years of secret, con- 
tinuous stealing and false entries, 
finally decamp, leaving it to be dis- 
covered that the aggregate amooBl 
of their individual abstractions reach- 
es tens and hundreds of thousands. 
What makes this " respectable " spe- 
cies of larceny so heartless and re- 
prehensible is, that the money so 
stolen does not actually belong to 
the institutions themselves, but to 
the public, and generally the poorer 



58 



Crime — Its Origin and Cure. 



classes, who are depositors or policy- 
holders. It is significant that in 
proportion to the number of count- 
ing-houses superintended by their 
owners to the number of banks and 
insurance companies the trust-funds of 
which are in keeping of paid officials, 
the number of defalcations in the 
former are as a mere nothing com- 
pared with those of the latter. Why ? 
In one case, the merchant is liable to 
lose his own money by negligence; 
in the other, the president and direc- 
tors lose only that of other people, 
and thus a criminal betrayal of trust 
is added to swindHng. 

Now, these blots on the national 
escutcheon are of comparatively re- 
cent date, and are the result mainly 
of two causes : the late war, which 
suddenly ^elevated an ignorant and 
ignoble class to enormous wealth, 
and the corruption of politics and 
politicians by the unguarded and 
unchecked abuse of universal suf- 
frage. The shoddyites and the po- 
liticians, having no claim on the 
respect or esteem of honest men, 
commenced a career of extravagance 
and vulgar display, which, if it did 
not win the approbation of the judi- 
cious and refined, certainly was well 
calculated to dazzle the moral vision 
of the vain and unstable. Palaces, 
diamonds, and resplendent equipages 
became the order of the day, and 
tlieir effect on the integrity of the 
staid men of business was marked and 
deleterious in the highest degree. 
Mrs. A., whose husband before the 
war was doing a thriving little busi- 
ness and was content with an occa- 
sional drive in a hired light-wagon, 
now enjoyed the luxury of a private 
carriage and liveried servants ; conse- 
juently Mrs. B., whose husband was 
cashier in a bank at two or three 
thousand a year, must have one simi- 
lar. Mr. C, who was a resident of 
the Sixth or Seventh Ward previous to 



his election to office, and occupied 
part of a comfortable house, now 
lived in a handsome mansion on 
Madison or Fifth avenues; hence 
Mr. D., who was confidential clerk 
in a large importing house, abandon- 
ed his cosy cottage in the suburbs 
and followed his old friend's example. 
Now, how are B. and D. to support 
this luxury? Clearly, not out of 
their salaries. Having control of the 
funds and enjoying the confidence 
of their employers, they abstract the 
money and rush into Wall or New 
Streets to gamble in gold or stocks. 
They are not common thieves — oh! 
no; they only borrowed from time 
to time large sums of cash from the 
true owners, intending to return it; 
but they never do so I For a short 
time they are lOcky, and are able to 
keep place in a course of wild dissi- 
pation with A. and C, but sooner or 
later a crisis arrives, there is " a panic 
in the street," and they lose all. 
Then follow flight, detection, and 
public exposure — in any well-regula- 
ted community, we might add dis- 
honor. But it is not so ; for, you see, 
this is the age of progress and en- 
lightenment. The public think very 
lightly of such matters, probably 
from their very frequency, and soon 
forget them ; the " knowing ones " 
condemn the fugitives only for not 
having been "smart" enough; the 
bank or insurance authorities com- 
promise the felony for a considera- 
tion, for it is only the public, not 
themselves personally, who have suf- 
fered ; and, after a brief sojourn in Eu- 
rope or Canada, the criminals return 
to the bosom of their families pre- 
pared to enter on some new field of 
peculation. 

As for the political rogues, no one 
seems to heed their depredations. 
Public opinion has become so vitiated 
that it is expected every man in office 
will steal; in fact, some persons go 




Crime — Its Origin and Cure. 



59 



so far as to say they ought to steal, 
holding it a trivial affair to appropri- 
ate large amounts of the people's 
money, while they would hesitate long 
before advising any one to rob a till 
(Mr strip a clothes-line. We recollect 
an official in this city who for a 
wonder was so honest that he was 
poorer when he resigned than when 
he accepted office. Upon being 
Toet on an occasion by a friend and 
congratulated on having been able 
to purchase one of the largest hotels 
in New York out of the " spoils," the 
gentleman indignantly resented the 
insult in no measured terms. His 
acquaintance laughed quietly, and 
walked away with an expression of 
mingled pity and contempt on his 
countenance. 

Now this lust for gain, this inordin- 
ate love of display, which leads the 
inexperienced and weak-minded into 
so many unworthy actions, should be 
abated, if we hope to preserve any- 
thing like commercial honor and 
political purity. They are eating 
into the very vitals of society, infect- 
ing the very highest as well as the 
lowest class in the community ; and 
though the consequences to which 
they lead may not appear so heinous 
as other crimes, they are so far-reach- 
ing and so general that they might 
well be classed with those to which 
the law attaches its severest penalties. 
There was a time, not very far distant, 
when the idea of attempting to bribe 
a senator, or what is called " buying 
up " a state legislature, would have 
been considered preposterous, and 
when the counting-house and the 
banker's desk were considered the 
temple and altar, as it were, of 
honesty and integrity. Why is it 
that so lamentable a change has 
taken place, and in so short a time ? 
Clearly, because an insatiate longing 
fcr the acquisition of wealth, speedily 
wd with as little labor as possible, 



has taken possession of the present 
generation, and in a headlong pursuit 
of fortune, honor, reputation, and 
conscience are too often cast aside 
and forgotten. This should not be 
so in a country like ours of unlimited 
resources, and where industry and 
ability need never look in vain for a 
competency. 

But a more diabolical crime against 
all law, natural, human, and divine, 
is the system, so prevalent in some 
sections of this country, of mothers 
depriving their inchoate offspring of 
existence even on the very threshold 
of their entrance into the world. 
So unnatural is this offence that it 
is beyond the power of language 
to reprobate it adequately, and in 
charity we hope that the guilty 
votaries of ease and fashion, who 
perpetrate such horrible atrocities, do 
not realize the full turpitude of their 
acts. We had long refused to believe 
that such a violation, not only of 
God's law, but of the strongest and 
most beautiful instincts of our nature 
— the parent's love for her child — ex- 
isted to any great extent, but we have 
been so often assured of it by 
physicians and other reputable per- 
sons conversant with such matters, 
that we have been forced to admit 
as true the existence among us of a 
crime that would disgrace the veriest 
savage. We are assured that in 
certain localities, which we shall not 
particularize, the evil is not only 
widespread but is growing into a 
custom, and this extraordinary fact 
is adduced as one of the reasons why 
the children of native-born parents 
are so few in proportion to those ot 
foreigners. If we were to look for 
a primary cause for such barbaric 
criminality in merely human motives, 
we should fail to find one at all 
commensurate with the enormity of 
the guilt. The wish of married women 
to be freed from the care of young 



6o 



Crime — Its Origin and Cure. 



children, so that they, being unincum- 
bered by household duties and cares, 
may participate in outdoor pleasures, 
attend the opera, the theatres, con- 
certs, and ball-rooms, has been ad- 
vanced with some force as one of 
the reasons; but this is not sufficient, 
for we find the heinous practice 
prevailing in remote towns and vil- 
lages where no such attractions are 
presented. The laws of civil mar- 
riage and of divorce, as recognized 
in most of the states of the Union ; 
that curse of what is called modern 
civilization ; that fatal legacy handed 
down to us by the " Reformers," has 
much to answer for in this respect. 
Protestantism has reduced the holy 
sacramental bond of matrimony 
beneath the level of a limited cO' 
partnership, degraded the nuptial 
contract below the most trivial 
commercial obligation, annihilated 
its responsibilities, destroyed its safe- 
guards, and even wishes to go further 
— to . ignore the very shadow of mar- 
riage, from which it has long since 
taken the substance. The purchase 
of a piece of land or the delivery of 
a bale of goods is now attended with 
more ceremony than that sacred rite 
at which our Saviour himself attended 
in Galilee and at which he performed 
his first miracle ! How deeply has 
humanity been made to suffer for the 
beastiality of Henry Tudor and the 
apostasy of the monk of Augsburg ! 
Is it anv wonder then that a link, 
so thoughtlessly accepted and so 
lightly worn, should be as uncere- 
moniously sundered, and that the 
woman, who does not know but 
on the morrow she may be either 
plaintiff or defendant in a divorce 
suit, should be adverse to bringing 
into the world children which either 
parent may claim or disown ? 

But the grand motive cause is to 
be found still deeper. If the truth 
must be told, the masses of the peo- 



ple of this noble country are fast 
sinking into intellectual paganism, 
beside which that of imperial Rom^ 
was harmless and innocuous. Pro- 
testantism, as has often been predict- 
ed, has nearly reached its logical 
conclusion — infidelity. Read the 
sermons of the prominent sensational 
preachers, their newspapers and pe- 
riodicals, and what do you find in 
them? No stem lessons of Chris- 
tian morality; no appeala. to the 
moial conscience or exposition of 
the beauties of the cardinal virtues ; 
no dogma, as befits heaven-appoint- 
ed guides ; no doctrine such as only 
the ordained of God can preach and 
teach ; but, instead, stale tirades 
against Catholicity, rehashed lyceum 
lectures, and fragments of stump- 
speeches delivered before the last 
election and interlarded with pious 
ejaculations to suit the occasion, 
apologies for being Christii.ns at all, 
and occasional efforts to explain 
away Christianity itself — all covered 
over with a thin veil of cant and 
mock philanthropy. 

Do we find these so-called minis- 
ters telling their congregations that 
marriage is an indissoluble tie, which 
no man can burst asunder ; that the 
object of it is to enable husband and 
wife to live together happily and to 
bring up their children in the love 
and fear of God; that to take the 
life of an infant ante-natal is a dark, 
deadly, mortal sin ; that no living hu- 
man being who has not received 
baptism can ever see the face of God ; 
and that whoever wilfully deprives 
her helpless babe of that ineffable 
delight will have to account for that 
lost soul to its Maker? Oh I no; 
that might shock the sensibilities of 
their audiences, and might lead to 
their own expulsion from their livings. 
Is it surprising, then, that a vice so 
much in harmony with the working 
of human passions, as apparently de- 




Crime — Its Origin and Cure. 



6i 



void of all moral responsibility as it 
is free from civil punishment, should 
be so frequently and so freely indulg- 
ed in by those whose base inclina- 
tions are unchecked and unregulated 
by anything like true Christian teach- 
ing ? 

But what most surprises us is the 
appearance in the public prints for 
the past two or three years of numer- 
ous cases of suicide. This *'self-. 
slaughter " was a crime, we thought, 
confined to the older nations of Eu- 
rope almost exclusively. The Amer- 
icans are neither a despondent, an 
impoveiished, nor a sentimental peo- 
ple; and yet we have been exceed- 
ingly pained to read of men well-to- 
do in the world, many of them being 
comfortable farmers and most of 
them advanced in years, deliber- 
ately taking that life which God 
gave them for wise and useful pur- 
poses, and voluntarily going before the 
judgment^eat of their Maker with 
the crime of murder on their souls. 
The policy of the old common law 
was to consider every suicide insane, 
but that was merely a fiction to save 
hb goods from confiscation by the 
crown ; we would fain believe that 
the numerous instances among our- 
selves were the result of aberration 
of mind-— doubtless some of them 
were ; but others have been planned 
and executed with such forethought 
as to preclude the possibility of such 
a supposition. As we write, we have 
before us a copy of a New York 
journal in which no less than four 
suicides of Americans in various 
parts of the country are recorded.* 

It has been debated whether the 
act of a suicide is, humanly speak- 
mg, one of courage or cowardice : we 
are inclined to the latter opinion, but 
the question is immaterial What- 
ever be its character in that respect, 

• New York Titmety, May 13, 1873. 



it is sure to originate in the absence 
of any belief which afiirms a here- 
after, or in that morbid form of 
idiocy known as spiritualism, which 
runs into the other extreme. In 
either case, it can only be prevent- 
ed by moral suasion, for the civil 
law is of course utterly powerless in 
the matter ; yet of all known crimes 
it is the most seductive, and even 
might be called contagious. 

Let us now turn to another class 
of our people — the adopted citizens, 
and consider the peculiarities of their 
criminal classes. The largest pro- 
portion of our immigrant population 
is firom Ireland, and, coming from 
a misgoverned and plundered land, 
many of them, indeed we think a 
large majority, are very poor indeed, 
so destitute that they have not means 
to bring them to the West, or into 
the rural districts, and consequent- 
ly remain in the large cities for life. 
We have observed that deeds of 
violence committed by a certain 
class of Irish-Americans are dispro- 
portionately large, when compared 
with the native population or with 
those of other countries. We regret 
to be obliged to say so. 

We yield to none in our respect, 
nay affection, for the children of long- 
sufiering and persecuted Ireland, but 
we would be untrue to ourselves and 
unjust to the bulk of our fellow-citi- 
zens of Irish birth were we to ignore 
or deny that but too many of them 
allow themselves to be led into the 
commission of acts of violence not 
unfrequently ending in deadly quar- 
rel 

This should not be. As a rule, an 
Irishman is social, humorous, and 
kind, affectionate in his family rela- 
tions and disinterested in his friend- 
ships. In this country he has all 
the advantages that religion can 
afford, the churches are open to him 
every day, he is not restricted in his 



V 



62 



Crime — Its Origin and Cure. 



attendance at divine service on Sun- 
days, he has always, particularly in 
cities and large towns, an opportuni- 
ty of hearing good, practical, and in- 
structive sermons and discourses on 
the duties of life, at least once a 
week ; and the strength to resist temp- 
tation, which the sacraments alone 
can give, is always within his power 
to obtain. 

Whence, then, originates this un- 
governable passion, this desperate 
recklessness that resists all control, 
and, disregarding consequences, rush- 
es madly into sin, makes man an 
outlaw among his fellows, and drags 
him to the dungeon and the scaf- 
fold? AVe must not attribute it to 
his defective education, the result of 
a jealous and tyrannical system of 
government in his native country, 
though it may have something to do 
with it; neither will the fact that 
many who had golden dreams before 
they reached our shores failed to 
realize them, and so became heedless. 
Poverty and destitution have been 
pleaded in extenuation, but they are 
more a result than a cause ; for no 
able-bodied man, if well-conducted, 
need be in that sense either poor or 
destitute in this country, where labor 
is ever in demand. No ; the secret, 
if it be a secret, lies in one word — in- 
toxication, and, as a consequence, in 
the neglect of the religious duties 
taught and performed in their young- 
er days. Intoxication is the demon 
that creeps into their souls, fires their 
heated blood, plunges his victims into 
an abyss of crime and transforms 
man, the noblest work of the Creator, 
into a ferocious brute. We are aware 
that instances of forgery, arson, 
swindling, and premeditated homi- 
cide — in fact, all offences requiring 
skill and deliberation — are exceeding- 
ly rare among our Irish-born popu- 
lation, but that is no reason why a 
few men born and baptized in the 



church, as little children taught the 
great truths of religion in the simple 
words of the catechism, and as adults 
weekly and almost daily within 
reach of moral instruction and a par- 
ticipation in the benefits of the sac- 
raments, should by their neglect of 
religion, and their insane desire for 
deleterious stimulants, disgrace the 
race from which they have sprung 
and bring obloquy on the religion they 
profess to respect, but never prac- 
tise. Who ever heard of an Irish 
adopted citizen, a teetotaler or even 
a uniformly temperate man, commit- 
ting an atrocious crime or a deliber- 
ate breach of the laws of his adopt- 
ed country ? 

No better illustration can be given 
of the beneficial effects of temperance 
on the Irish character than the fol- 
lowing official statistics taken from 
the Life of Father Mathew. The au- 
thor says : 

" As a conclusive proof that the diminu- 
tion of crime [in Ireland] was one of the 
necessary consequences of the spread of 
temperance among those classes of the 
community most liable to be tempted to 
acts of violence or dishonesty, some few 
facts from the official records of the time 
may be quoted here. They are taken 
from the returns of * outrages specially re- 
ported by the constabulary/ from the year 
1S37 to the year 1841, both included. 
The number of homicides, which was 247 
in 1838, was only 105 in 1841. There 
were 91 cases of * firing at the person ' in 
1837 and but 66 in 1841. The ' assaults 
on police ' were 91 in 1837 and but 58 in 
1841. Incendiary fires, which were as 
many as 459 in 1838, were 390 in 1841. 
Robberies, thus specially reported, di- 
minished wonderfully from 725 in 1837 to 
257 in 1841 ! The offence of ' killing, cut- 
ting, or maiming cattle ' was also seriously 
lessened ; the cases reported in 1839 
being 433, to 213 in 1841 ! The decrease 
in cases of ' robbery of arms * was most 
significant ; from being 246 in 1837 there 
were but iii in 1841. The offence of 
* appearing in arms ' showed a favorable 
diminution, falling from 110 in 1837 to 
66 in 1841, The effect of sobriety on 



^9 



Crm^-^/ts Ovigin mmd Cure. 



63 



'tjaioD fights' was equally remarkable. 
Tbcre were 20 of such cases in 1839 and 
\ in 1S41. The dangerous ofTence of 
'rescuing prisoners/ which was repre- 
sented bj34 in 1837, had ^^ return in 
1941. 

** Without entering further into details, 
Lhe following returns of the number com- 
miiied during a period of seven years, 
from 1S39 to i345> must bring conviction 
home to the mind of any rational and 
dispassionate person that sobriety is good 
(or tbeindhridual and the community : 
ToUl 

»«39 ■... x».«M9 

»i*» x«i»9* 

X841 9»»87 

»*4a 9i«75 

" The nomber of sentences of death 
and transportation evidenced the opera- 
tion of some powerful and beneficial in- 
tioence on the public morals. The num- 
ber of capital sentences in eight years, 
(roio 1839 to 1846, was as follows : 

No. of I No. of 

Senteoccs. Year. Sentences. 

66 1843 16 

43 X844 20 

40 X84S 13 

as 1846 14 

"The sentences to transportation dur- 
in| the same period, from 1839 to 1846, 
eihibited the like wonderful result : 



Total 
Tear. No. 

1843 8,69o 

1844 8»o4a 

1845 7»xo7 






No. of 
Sentences^ 
.... 916 
.... 7SX 
.... 643 
... 667 



Year. 

x«43. 
X844. 
1845., 
X846. 



No. of 
Sentences. 

... 5*6 

... 4a8 

.... 504 



"The figures already quoted are most 
vaJuable, as they prove, beyond the pos- 
&t^ility of a doubt, that national drunken- 
ness is the chief cause of crime, and that 
^riety is, humanly speaking, one of the 
b«$t preservatives of the morals of a 
people."* 

WTien we recollect that during 
the years above reported tiie con- 
sumption of ardent spirits had de- 
'*eascd one-half, though the popu- 
'jtion had increased by at least a 
laaiter of a million, the inexorable 
•>gic of the figures above quoted be- 
comes irresistible — intemperance is 
- greater enemy of the Irish race 
^an even her hereditary foe, Eng- 
Iffld. 

* t'Uktr MMiJUw: A Biogr^upky. By John 
[JtttA Magttlre, M.P. New YorktD. & J. 
*ffietACo. tl7i. 



With the Germans it is different. 
They are by no means given to 
indulgence in violent stimulants, 
though they, too, are a social people, 
fond of enjoyment and of their na- 
tional beverage, beer ; yet crime, and 
that of a very serious character, is 
not unusual among them, particu- 
larly the killing of females. And 
here again we have the evidence of 
the terrible havoc which the great 
rebellion of the XVIth century 
against the church and her authori- 
ty has wrought in the social relations 
of mankind. Germany was the origi- 
nator, the centre, and the main sup- 
porter of that revolt on the Conti- 
nent of Europe, and, having been 
violently wrested from the seat of 
Catholic unity, has ever since been 
groping in the dark, oscillating be- 
tween heathenism and transcenden- 
talism, without stability or any sort 
of fixed principles. The blight of 
the Reformation, so called, has eaten 
into the very marrow of their family 
relations, and what would be deem- 
ed infamous for women of other 
countries to do, is considered among 
a certain class of this people, limited, 
it is true, a matter of course. 

Once again, let us not be misun- 
derstood. In ascribing this species 
of offence to the Germans in the 
United States, we do not mean to 
say that it is general to the whole 
body ; on the contrary, we are happy 
to know that it is confined to a few, 
for, as a whole, the people from the 
north of Europe are perhaps the 
most law-abiding portion of our citi- 
zens. We are well aware that in 
this city, and in the West and South, 
there are many learned professors, 
devoted priests, and devout congre- 
gations, all of German birth, as well 
as many reputable merchants, me- 
chanics, and professional men of the 
same nationality, who worship God 
according to their hereditary cus- 



64 



CrifHe — Us Origin mnd Cmn. 



toms ; but we think we do not go too 
far in saying that the majority of 
German-Americans have practically 
no religion, that they never enter a 
church, say a prayer, or perform any 
of the ordinary duties of a Christian. 
Some years ago, the writer was in- 
troduced into a Germania society in 
a neighboring city which consisted 
of over three hundred members, all 
gentlemen of education and wealth. 
He subsequently visited it three or 
four times on various Sundays, and 
aJways found its spacious suite of 
"^ooms crowded. Upon enquiring 
>vhere those persons went to church, 
his friend placidly replied : " I don't 
think there is one of us ever goes to 
church ; you know I do not*' If 
«uch an example is set by the ** high- 
^'t classes*** what can we expect from 
thvvse in the lower scale of social 

We oj:en ha\'e had occasion to 
*^Uwinf the WAV in which the Ger- 
U^x%x>s <^i,»x^\ iI\cu>so'vcs on week-da>-s 

ty^UoxxN' X xx^uh )V'0\A:i at their 

|<-^;^x*, .^\ 5 unr :?vv^.^st a:vI ins:ru- 

%Uv-«;,*l i^,, v>\ Aiut :>,e fac; tha: they 

4fti^«\> :v j^ >fci/^x t>.osu their wix-es 

'A^^xt v' v.u':\ K^ jMJuke of tlieir en- 

»>^\,uos ^iar ^^^m- ^ti^^'actioa at 

*^>N . \< I ^ ,u ^s^ Kv l^<^ rural retreats 

>^4K .^ v. s *\ UKMniui*, aud return 

|^>\*nnn4'> ri i:>c evening after a 

»nv^< n^x wa i,au>,>al pleasure, has 

l^sx^ XV .»u,vial'lv Icssvuevl by the 

*|-^vxxl .. . I Ml iu> portion of the 

>i^N, .. '-;^;^^ /ay of prayer as 

x> N . u .. .. ,c. ha* lx,H.n^ dcvotevi by 

> »* Uu ■ ,. .^ ^•''•r' ^'^ <f»e service 




and weakens the sanctified tie that 
binds husband and wife. J t is therefore 
with more sorrow than surprise that 
we read of so many oases among 
our German fellow-citizens of men 
and women living with other per- 
sons' wives and husl>ands. Such 
conditions are unlawful and short- 
lived, the fruitful source of anger, 
jealousy, and discontent, and not un- 
usually culminate in ill-treatment, 
blows, and even death. 

While we also ascribe the crime of 
the destruction of offspring to the 
Germans, we do not mean to say 
that it is practised to any extent 
among them, but that the foul crime 
is perpetrated in this and other large 
cities almost exclusively by German 
quack doctors, male and female; 
their victims being generally from 
other nationalities. For this the 
German people are not so much to 
blame as our own press, which pub- 
lishes the advertisements of those 
miscreants and scatters them broad- 
cost on the world for a paltry con- 
sideration ; and our state legis]atzi/e5, 
which have neglected until lately to 
enact proper laws ; and our prosecu- 
tir.i; aiiomevs, who have (ailed to 
cn:brce such enactments as we have 
on our statute-books against this class 
of rank murderers. 

Onences against property SLre a/- ^ 

most exclusively in the hands of our '? 
English criminals, if we except the -^ 
horse>stealing of the Southwest Our ^ 
most expert pickpockets, our most ■/ 
dexterous sneak-thieves, daring high- ' 

waymen, and scientific burglars come J 
from London, many 01 whom have ? 
served her Majesty for a term of U 
years in her penal colonies, SLnd ^ ■'> 
so well known to the detectives o( -f 
the British metropolis that tliey have 
sought new fields of enterprise in ^^ -^ 
country. They have been preceded .5 
or accompanied by prize-fig^^^'^ ^^ 
gamblers, and keepers of lov dei'S ^^ 



■A 




Crimt — Its Origiu and Cure. 



65 



called concert-saloons. The former 
thej make the partners in their labors 
and gains, and in the latter hot- beds 
of infamy they find shelter and con- 
cealment. It may be said that this 
class of crimes is far less reprehensi- 
ble than those above enumerated, 
and so they would be were it not 
that highway robbery and burglary 
sometimes terminate in the taking 
of human life. Still, it must be said 
in justice that we hear of very few 
cases of wilful homicide being perpe- 
trated by the English among us, 
though, like the French, suicide is 
not unknown to them, but arises 
from different causes. The Briton 
" shuffles off this mortal coil " through 
rooroseness and despondency; the 
Gaul gaily prepares to smother 
himself with carbonic acid gas from 
a morbid sentimentality, and a con- 
tempt for the precious gift of life 
vhich he is about to throw away. 

Now, if all these offences were 
simply infractions of the municipal 
law, we would naturally look to our 
legislatures, our courts, juries, and 
v.eriffs for their prevention or punish- 
ment, but they are not only that, but 
breaches of the divine law, and we 
must depend likewise on the effica- 
cy of moral suasion to prevent if not 
to correct them. Public opinion can 
do much to repress crime, the legis- 
lative, administrative, and judicial 
branches of our various local govern- 
ments, each in its sphere, might efifect 
far more good ; but it is on the teach- 
ings of true Christianity alone, and 
all the consequences that flow from 
It, that we must rely if we wish to 
stem the tide of misery, vice, and 
outrage which are fast surging over 
every portion of our fair land. 
The strong arm of the civil power is 
potent to punish when the crime has 
been committed, but weak indeed to 
prevent its perpetration. This high- 
er and nobler duty is reserved for re- 
VOL. xviii. — s 



ligion, and for religion alone. It is 
well enough to make concise and 
exact punitive laws, though this is 
not always done ; and to administer 
them fearlessly, honestly, and intelli- 
gently, though the reverse is gener- 
ally the case; still, experience has 
taught us that wise enactments and 
impartial judges have very little 
power to stay the promptings of bad 
hearts or repress the temptations 
ever presenting themselves to men 
of vicious habits or defective moral 
training. The church, and only the 
church, can rule the mind and heart 
of man, can train him from his 
infancy, before he knows or is re- 
sponsible to any civil law, can 
strengthen him with the graces of the 
sacraments, arm him with the most 
potent of all weapons against sin — 
prayer — place constantly before his 
eyes the certainty of everlasting bliss 
or eternal damnation, keep him in 
the " narrow path," and thus prevent 
the possibility of his being an enemy 
to society and an outcast of heaven. 
Next to the church comes the 
school. The importance of educa- 
tion to the well-being of society can 
never be overstated. It may be well 
said that it is in the school-room the 
seed's of vice or virtue are first sown, 
it is there that the future benefactor 
or the enemy of his kind commences 
his career in life, and it is upon the 
proper or vicious method of teaching 
which he receives as a boy depends 
mainly his future course in the world. 
No wonder, then, that the Catholic 
Church is so desirous of superintend- 
ing the training of those little ones 
who by the sacrament of baptism 
have been made children of God and 
heirs to the kingdom of heaven ; that 
the zealous parish priest should 
mourn over the loss of hundreds 
of the youth of his congregation, 
who, taught in Protestant or infidel 
schools, have fallen away from the 



^ 



9: 



66 



Crinf£ — Its Origin mmd Cure. 



faith to plunge into sin and vice. Is 
he to be blamed if he exhausts every 
resource and strains every nerve to 
establish for his people a school 
where their offspring will be guard- 
ed from worldly contamination, and 
trained in all the beautiful morality 
of Catholic doctrine ? Few seem to 
jnderstand the comprehensive mean- 
mg of the word education. The 
mere acquisition of worldly knowl- 
edge is not education, the develop- 
ment of the highest intellectual pow- 
ers is not education, but only a part, 
and a secondary part at that, of a 
complete education ; for without in- 
culcating morality, justice, a high 
sense of honor, a noble disregard for 
self, and a sympathy for the suffering 
and unfortunate, you curse man with 
a disposition that is its own Nemesis, 
with unlawful desires that " make the 
food they feed on," and simply en- 
large his capacity for doing evil. 

That this is the result of our pre- 
sent common-school system cannot 
well be gainsaid in view of the gen- 
eral spirit of peculation and corrup- 
tion which prevails in those very por- 
tions of the country where such 
schools are most numerous and best 
attended and supported. And this 
view is not ours alone. Already we 
find the secular press, hitherto the 
strongest opponents of denomina- 
tional education, clamoring for a re- 
form in our method of public instruc- 
tion. " We must have," says a lead- 
ing daily paper of this city, " a higher 
system of morals taught in our pub- 
lic schools"; though the writer does 
not condescend to say how morals 
can be taught without religion, or 
who are to be the teachers. Is it the 
fagged-out teacher who tries to earn 
his salary by the least possible labor, 
and who perhaps, in this respect, is 
as deficient as the children them- 
selves ; or is it the trained priest or 
the lowly Christian Brother, who has 



devoted himself heart and soul to 
the service of God and of his crea- 
tures, and whose reward is not of this 
world ? 

Our common schools, with some 
modifications, are decidedly a New 
England invention, but none the 
worse for that, for the early settlers of 
that much-abused region, whatever 
may have been their other faults, 
were neither an irreligious nor an 
immoral people. On the contrary 
they were deeply imbued with a 
sense of the dignity of religion and a 
reverence for its ministers, according 
to their limited and erroneous but 
honestly entertained ideas; and be- 
ing all of one way of thinking, they 
established schools, at the public ex- 
pense it IS true, but they took care 
that their peculiar theological no- 
tions should go hand-in-hand with 
secular teaching. The minister, the 
elder, or the deacon generally unit- 
ed with his clerical ofhce that of 
schoolmaster, and the morals as well 
as the intellectual qualities of the 
pupils were sedulously developed and 
cultivated. Now all this is chang- 
ed. The foundation upon which the 
public-school system was built has 
crumbled into dust, and the super- 
structure cannot and ought not to 
stand longer. Our country is now 
composed of many nationalities, be- 
lieving in various creeds, and the 
task of educating the rising genera- 
tion should be remitted to each de- 
nomination to take care of and in- 
struct its own members. If we want 
to inculcate true lessons of morality 
and integrity, to stop bribery, forgery, 
perjury, dishonesty, infanticide, and 
homicide, we must change our sys- 
tem of education, or it is possible 
that society, laboring under so heavy 
a burden of sin and dishonor, will 
in the near future be crushed to 
pieces. 

But for the adult immigrants who 



T 



The Trouvere. 



67 



bave never felt the baleful influ- 
ence of our public schools, what is 
the remedy ? For the Germans we 
would say, a more general attendance 
at divine service. They are pre-emi- 
nently an organizing people : why 
do not those good German Catholics 
who are so constant in their devotions 
establish more societies, with a view 
to induce their erring compatriots to 
give up at least a portion of that time 
now wholly devoted to pleasure to 
the worship of God ? This would be 
a work of great charity, and if ear- 
nestly undertaken would doubtless 
be successful. The panacea that lies 
before our Irish feilow-citizens is tem- 
perance — that observed, we venture to 
say that they will be found among the 
3iost moral and orderly portion of our 



population. In this connection we 
are glad to observe the untiring en- 
ergy exhibited by prominent laymen 
to organize and unite temperance so- 
cieties, and the encouragement given 
them by priests and bishops. Our 
Irish friends must not forget that not 
only the honor of their native land 
and the prosperity of their children 
in that of their adoption depend on 
their good conduct and sobriety, but 
that, to a great extent, the Catholic 
Church in America is contemned or 
revered in proportion as they act 
against or in harmony with her doc- 
trine and discipline. If woe be de- 
nounced against whosoever gives 
scandal, a blessing is also promised 
to those who, by their actions, glorify 
the name of God. 



THE TROUVERE.* 

BY AUBREY DE VERE. 

I MAKE not songs, but only find : — 
Love, following still the circling sun, 

His carols casts on every wind. 
And other singer is there none ! 

I follow Love, though far he flies ; 

I sing his song, at random found 
Like plume some bird of Paradise 

Drops, passing, on our dusky bound. 

In some, methinks, at times there glows 
The passion of a heavenlier sphere : 

These, too, I sing : — but sweetest those 
I dare not sing, and faintly hear. 



Th« Greeks called the poet ** the Maker.'* In the middle ages^ aome of the beat potta took ju 
ff« modest tiUo— that of " the Finder." 



r 



68 



Madame Agtus. 



MADAME AGNES. 

PSOX THE FKEXCR OF CHAKLHS DUBOIS. 

CHAPTER xxnr. 

LOUIS IS DISMISSED. 



Such, then, was the state of affairs 
when Louis, after an absence of ten 
days, returned to his usual occupa> 
tion. The evening was somewhat 
advanced when he arrived. Mr. 
Smithson, who was not in the habit 
of doing anything hastily, thought it 
better to defer the inter\'iew till the 
folio win £j day. The order to the 
porter was therefore countermanded, 
and a servant sent to inform Louis 
that Mr. Smithson wished to see him 
the next morning. Louis was quite 
startled at receiving so unexpected a 
summons. 

*' What has happened ?" he said to 
himself. "Can Mr. Smithson be 
displeased at my long absence ? . . . 
Has he heard of Adams' intended 
conversion? . . . Perhaps Albert 
has obtained my dismissal." There 
was nothing cheering whichever way 
he turned. He therefore passed a 
restless night. Fortunately, he had 
a support that was once wanting: 
he trusted in God, and could pray. 
Prayer does not remove our fears, 
but it calms them. Besides, what- 
ever misfortune threatens the Chris- 
tian, he feels it will never befall him 
unless it is the will of God. How- 
ever rude the blow, it is even chang- 
ed into a blessing to him that turns 
with confidence to the* Hand that 
chastens. God is ever merciful, es- 
pecially toward those who truly hope 
in him. 

Eugenie, better informed than 
Louis as to what had taken place, 
but less pious, was at that very hour 
tormenleii by a thousand apprehen- 
sjnnQ r^llv justified bv the circum- 



stances. She saw the storm ap- 
proaching, and was sure it would 
overwhelm the one she loved. But 
what could she do ? She had already 
got into trouble by undertaking his 
defence. She could onlv await in si- 
lence the result which was at hand. 
Then, perhaps, she could decide on 
something, or wait still longer before 
deciding. Thwarted affection more 
than any other sentiment in the 
world rehes on the help of time. 

The next morning, Louis went to 
Mr. Smithson*s office at the appoint- 
ed hour. They had not had a special 
interview for a long time. Louis 
appeared as he usually did at that 
period— easy in his manners, but 
cold and taciturn. Mr. Smithson, 
on his side, had recovered his usual 
calmness. He ceremoniously offered 
the engineer a chair, and thus began 
the conversation : 

" Monsieur, I have thought it 
proper to have an immediate expla- 
nation with vou. Your Ions: absence 
has been unfortunate on many ac- 
counts. Moreover, a fact has recent- 
ly come to my knowledge, or rather, 
a series of facts which have occurred 
in my manufactory, by no means 
agreeable to me." 

" I acknowledge, sir," replied Louis, 
•' that my absence was long — much 
longer than I could have wished. 
But you would regard the motives 
that kept me away from the mill as a 
sufficient excuse, if vou knew them." 

"I am alreadv aware of them, 
monsieur, and admit that they were 
reasonable. But as vou had a suffi- 
cient excuse for absenting yourself, 







Madanu Agnes. 



69 



j-ou did wrong not to c.>)?: ..uiilcate 
it before leaving." 

"It would have been better to do 
so, I acknowledge; but I was sent 
for in haste, and obliged to leave 
without any other notice than a note. 
I have since been so absorbed in 
care as to hinder me from thinking 
of anything else." 

** Very well, monsieur, we will say 
no more about that. There remains 
the other occurrence that has vexed 
me. You have excited religious doubts 
in the mind of a poor fellow of my 
own belief who is young and inexpe- 
rienced — considerations that should 
have checked your propensity to 
make proselytes." 

" Excuse me, sir, if I beg leave to 
correct an inexactness — quite invol- 
untary, I am sure, but a serious one 
—in the expressions you have just 
made use of. I made no effort to 
induce this man to abandon his re- 
ligion. He first came to me, and 
said . . ." 

" What he said was prompted by 
certain things in your evening in- 
structions. You dwell on the neces- 
sity of the Catholic faith ; you in- 
fuse doubts in the minds of the work- 
men who do not partake of your 
convictions." 

" I have never directly attacked 
any religion." 

" Your indirect attacks are more 
dangerous." 

" What could I do ?" 

" Your course was all marked out 
beforehand. Employed in an estab- 
lishment the head of which belongs 
to a different faith from yours ; exer- 
cising an influence perhaps benefi- 
cial to the workmen by means of 
your evening-school, your library, 
and your visits to their houses, but 
exercising this influence in my name 
and under my auspices, you ought 
not to have allowed yourself to wan- 
der off to religious subjects." 



** Excuse me, sir, I did not and 
could not. Have the goodness to 
listen to my reasons. Morality with- 
out religion is, in my opinion, merely 
Utopian. That the Anglican reli- 
gion sanctions morality I do not deny. 
Nor can you deny that it is sup- 
ported in a most wonderful manner 
by the Catholic Church — indeed, my 
conscience obliges me to say the 
faith is its most efhcient support. 
In talking to the workmen, who are 
nearly all Catholics, I give them 
moral instructions in the name of 
the belief they practise, or ought to 
practise." 



u 



That was a grave error, as it 
soon proved. In consequence of 
your imprudent course, a weak-mind- 
ed man was led to the point of 
changing his religion. As I am of 
the same faith, this was an insult to 
nje. Such a thing could not occur in 
my establishment without my con- 
sent, and it was inadmissible. If 
Adams had persisted, I should have 
discharged him. Toleration has its 
limits." 
• " Ah ! he has not persisted ?" 

" No ; his fears were imaginary, 
and only needed calming. I have used 
no other means of leading him back 
but persuasion. Friendly reasoning 
brought him back to the point where 
he was a month ago. Nevertheless, 
I do not wish a similar occurrence 
to take place. We must decide on 
the course you have got to pursue. 
My wishes may be summed up thus : 
either you must give up attempting 
to exercise any influence over my 
workmen, apart from your official du- 
ties, or you must bind yourself by 
a promise never to touch on reli- 
gious subjects before them, either in 
public or in private." 

" Does this prohibition apply 
equally to the Catholic workmen 
and those of other religions ?" 

*' To all indiscriminately. I roust 



I 



70 



Mmdmiu Agiun. 



say to you, with my habitual frank- 
ness, that you manifest a zeal for 
proselyting that displeases me and 
excites my fears." 

"What fears, monsieur?" 

"I fear that, knowingly or un- 
knowingly, you are the agent of the 
priests. They always seek, I know, 
to insinuate themselves everywhere, 
and to rule everywhere. I will not 
tolerate it on my premises." 

" You have a wrong idea of the 
Catholic priesthood, monsieur. The 
love of power imputed to the clergy 
it would be difficult to prove. I am 
not their agent, for the reason that 
they have no agents. If I desire to 
do some good to those around me, 
this wish is inspired by the Gospel, 
which teaches us in many places to 
do all the good we can. Now, to 
bestow money or food on the poor, 
to instruct the ignorant in human 
knowledge merely, is but little. We 
should, above all, give spiritual alms. 
The alms their souls need is the 
truth. . . . For me, the truth is 
Catholicism." 

" I suppose, then, monsieur, with 
such sentiments, you cannot accept 
the conditions I propose ?" 

" No, monsieur, I cannot. Doing 
good in the way you wish would 
have but little attraction for me. I 
had the serious misfortune to live for 
many years as if I had no belief. 
Now I have returned, heart and 
soul, to the faith, I wish to make 
myself truly useful to others, and to 
repair, if possible, the time I have 
losL I wish, therefore, to take the 
stand of a Catholic, and not of a 
philanthropist — to be useful, not to 
appear so." 

" Monsieur, I have always had a 
high respect for people of frankness 
and decided convictions, and they 
entitle you to my esteem ; but, your 
convictions being opposed to mine, 
we cannot live together." 



" I regret it, sir, but I am of your 
opinion." 

" I assure you, monsieur, that my 
regret is not less than yours. But 
though forced to separate for grave 
reasons, there need be no precipita- 
tion about it." 

"Just as you please, monsieur." 

"Well, you can fix the day of 
your departure yourself." 

Mr. Smithson and Louis then sep- 
arated. Mme. Smithson had suc- 
ceeded! A quarter of an hour later, 
she imparted the agreeable news to 
Albert. 

" We are rid of him !" said Albert. 
" Well, for lack of anything better, I 
will content myself with this semi- 
victory. I shall never forget, aunt, 
the service you have done me on 
this occasion. I have no hope now 
of marrying Eug6nie, but I am sure 
the other will never get her, and 
that is a good deal !" 

"You give up the struggle too 
readily," said Mme. Smithson, in a 
self-sufficient and sarcastic tone. " I 
am more hopeful about the future 
than you." 

Eug6nie was likewise informed 
that very morning of all that had 
taken place. Her mother took care 
to do that. The news, though an- 
ticipated, agitated her so that she 
came near betraying her feelings. 
But she saw in an instant the danger 
to which she was exposing herself. 
Making an energetic effort to recov- 
er herself, she laughed as she said : 
" My cousin ought to be quite satis- 
fied. Poor fellow ! if he undertakes 
to rout all he looks upon as rivals, 
he is not at the end of his troubles. 
There are a great many men I pre- 
fer to him !" 

While this was taking place ^^ 
Mr. Smithson*s, Louis was so dis- 
tressed that he shut himself up in 
his chamber to recover his calmness. 
He came to see me that very eve- 




M 0d m$t Agnes. 



71 



ningy and related all that had oc- 
curred. 

'< I cannot blame Mr. Smithson," 
he said. ** Every means has evident- 
ly been used to prejudice him against 
me. There is some base scheme at 
the bottom of all this. I have quiet- 
ly obtained information which has 
convinced me of Adams' hypocrisy. 
He never intended to change his r^r 
ligion. His only aim was to get ^ me 
into inextricable difficulty. He has 
succeeded. It remains to be discov- 
ered who prompted him to do all 
this. ... I have tried in vain to 
get rid of a suspicion that may be 
wrong, for I have no proofs ; but it 
is condnually recurring to me." 

"And to me also. Yes, I believe 
Albert is at the bottom of it all." 

" Well, that is my idea. But what 
can I do ? Unmask him ? That 
is, so to speak, impossible. Even 
suppose I succeeded, it would not 
destroy the fact that Mr. Smithson 
regards me with distrust, and has 
people around him who depict me 
in odious colors. And in the end, 
how could I confess my love for his 
daughter ? I have lost my property 
through my own fault. I am not 
sure that Mile. Eugenie loves me. 
Even if she cherished a profound 
affection for me, I have reason to 
believe her parents would regard it 
with disapprobation. Whichever way 
I look at things, I cannot hide from 
myself that my hopes are blasted! 
... It is the will of God : I submit ; 
but the blow is terrible." 

" Poor friend ! you remained too 
long with me. It was your prolong- 
ed absence that has endangered 
everything. Allow me, by way of 
consoling myself for my regret, to 
give you my advice. I feel as if it 
were Victor himself who inspires me : 
he loved you so much ! . . . Remain 
at Mr. Smithson's some days longer. 
Instead of manifesting any coolness 



towards him, appear, as you used to. 
Everything is not lost as long as you 
retain his esteem. If you meet with 
Mile. Eug6nie, do not avoid her. 
The time has come when she ought 
to know you as you are. Yes, we 
have at last arrived at the decisive 
hour which Victor spoke of the night 
before he died. Mile. Eug6nie must 
now be enabled to appreciate you as 
you deserve. She must pity you. . . . 
She must love you ! If this is not 
the case, however sad it will be to 
give up an illusion without which it 
seems impossible to be happy, re- 
nounce it, and acknowledge without 
shrinking : * She does not love me ; 
she never will love me; she is not 
the wife God destines me.' But do 
not act hastily. Believe me, if she 
is intended for you, whatever has 
been done, nothing is lost But it is 
my opinion she is intended for you." 

These words did Louis good. " I 
hope you are not deceived," said he, 
" and this very hope revives me. I 
will try to believe you are right. 
We will do nothing hastily, therefore. 
But do you not think I could now 
venture to disclose my sentiments to 
Mile. Eug6nie, if I have a favorable 
opportunity, and see it will give no 
offence ? One consideration alone 
restiains me — I fear being suspected 
of seeking her hand from interested 
motives." 

"The time for such suspicions 
is past. If Eugenie still cherishes 
them, it will lower her in my estima- 
tion. She is twenty-two years of 
age. She has a good deal of heart 
and an elevated mind, and is capa- 
ble of deciding her own destiny. I 
therefore approve of your plan. If she 
loves you, she will have the courage 
to avow it to her parents. If she 
does not love you, she has sufficient 
courage to make it evident to you." 

<* How I wish the question already 
decided 1" 



T 



72 



Maimtu Agmn. 



" No youthfuUrapulsiveness I You 
need more than ever to be ex- 
tremely cautious while feeling your 
way. Your situation is one of great 
delicacy. Act, but with delibera- 
tion," 

Such was pretty nearly the advice 
I gave Louis, often stopping to give 
vent to my grief, which was as pro- 



found as ever. He left me quite 
comforted. Though he did not say 
so, for fear of being deceived, he 
thought Eugenie loved him, and be- 
lieved, with her on his side, he 
should triumph over every obstacle. 
When a person is in love, he clings 
to hope in spite of himself, even 
when all is evidently lost. 



CHAPTER XXV. 



ALL IS LOST ! — ^THE PROSPECT BRIGHTENS. 



Louis spent several evenings in 
succession with me. He briefly re- 
lated how the day had passed, and 
afterwards took up the different 
events, ^nd enlarged upon them. 
He often found enough to talk about 
for hours upon the sometimes un- 
grateful theme. I can still see him 
sitting opposite my mother and my- 
self in the arbor in the little garden 
behind our house. Everything was 
calm and delightful around us in 
those beautiful autumn evenings. 
Louis alone was troubled. In vain 
we tried to restore peace to his soul : 
it was gone ! 

I never comprehended so thor- 
oughly all the power of love as then. 
The profound sadness in which I 
was at that time overwhelmed ren- 
dered me inaccessible to such passion- 
ate outbreaks — ^such fits of elevation 
and depression as Louis was then 
subject to. I gazed at him with a 
cool, dispassionate eye, but with the 
affectionate compassion with which 
we regard a friend who is trying to 
make himself unhappy. I was as- 
tonished; sometimes I was even — 
yes, I acknowledge it — irritated to 
see how utterly he gave himself up to 
the passion he had allowed to devel- 
op so rapidly in his heart. Doubt- 
less my poor friend remained resign- 
ed to the will of God, but not so 
completely as he thought. It is 
true, even when his mind was appar- 



ently the most agitated, we felt that 
piety was the overruling principle; 
but then, what a struggle there was 
between the divine Spirit, which al- 
ways seeks to infuse calmness, and 
the gusts of passion that so easily 
result in a tempest ! 

Ah ! I loved my husband too 
sincerely, and I recall other loves 
too pure, to dare assert that love is 
wrong. But believe me, my young 
friend, I do not exaggerate in adding 
that, if love is not always censurable, 
it is in danger of being so. We are 
told on every hand that love en- 
nobles the heart and tends to elevate 
the mind ; that it is the mainspring 
of great enterprises, and destructive 
of egotism. Yes, sometimes; . . • 
but for love to effect such things, 
what watchfulness must not a person 
exercise over himself! How much 
he must distrust his weakness! 
What incessant recourse he must 
have to God! Without this, the 
love that might ennoble is only de- 
basing, and to such a degree as to 
lead unawares, so to speak, to the 
commission of acts unworthy, not 
only of a Christian, but a man. 

Allow me, my friend, continued 
Madame Agnes, to make use of ^ 
comparison, common enough, but 
which expresses my idea belter than 
any other. Love is like generous 
wine. It must be used with sobriety 
and caution. Taken to excess, Jt 




Msd0mi Agnes. 



71 



pf& to the head, and makes a fool 
of the wisest. You are young. You 
have never loved. Beware of the 
iotoxication to which I allude! If 
)ou ever do love, watch over your- 
self; pray with fervor that God will 
give you the grace of self-control. 
The moment love becomes a passion 
—an oveuuling passion — ah! how 
its victim is to be pitied! When 
reason and conscience require it, 
vou can — I mean with the divine 
ass'istance — ^banish love from the 
heart where it reigns; but believe 
me, it will leave you as an enemy 
leaves the country it has invaded 
—with fearful destruction behind. 
.And first of all, it destroys one's 
peace of mind. The soul in which 
passion has reigned continues to 
bear marks of its ravages a long 
time after its extinction ! . . . 

Louis had arrived at this deplo- 
rable state ; he had not full control 
over his heart ; his happiness depend- 
ed on the success of his love. Eu- 
genie's image beset him everywhere. 
The word is hard, I confess, but it is 
true. He attached undue importance 
to whatever had the least bearing on 
this predominant thought. One day, 
he announced he had seen Albert 
volking with a melancholy air. He 
vas sad, then. But why should he 
be sad unless his cousin had treat- 
ed him coldly ? And Louis hastily 
added by way of conclusion : " Mile. 
Eugenie knows all I have to annoy 
me; she follows me in thought, she 
participates in my sorrows, she re- 
pays me for them. . . ." Another 
rtay he had really seen her. She 
passed by his window, lovelier than 
oer, but more thoughtful. She was 
<>oubtless as anxious as he to be 
freed from the suspense in which 
they both were. 

At last he came with important 
news. He had had the unhoped- 
for happiness of meeting £ug6nie. 



She was advancing towards him, 
blushing with embarrassment, and 
was the first to greet him, with an 
expression so friendly as to leave no 
doubt of her sentiments. He re- 
turned her salutation, but was so 
overpowered with emotion that he 
could scarcely speak. After some 
words of no importance, he said: 
" I am going to leave you, made- 
moiselle." 

Eugenie replied that she should 
regret to see him go. Then, as if 
to intimate he had enemies in the 
house, she added : " More than 
one — I wish I could say all — will be 
as afflicted as I at your departure. 
I refer to those you have benefited, 
and to whom you might continue to 
do good." 

" Yes," said Louis, " it is hard to 
have to leave my work incomplete. 
However limited it is, my soul is in 
it. But I must not make myself out 
a better Christian than I am. It is 
not my work I shall leave with the 
most regret . . ." He dared not 
complete the expression of his 
thought. 

Eugenie, generally so self-restrain- 
ed, was visibly affected and intimidat- 
ed. She was about to reply, when 
Mme. Smithson suddenly made her 
appeajrance. It looked as if she kept 
watch over her daughter. When 
she saw her talking with Louis, she 
could not conceal her annoyance. 
Saluting him in a freezing, insolent 
manner, she said : " Eug6nie, what 
are you doing here ? Your cousin 
is hunting everywhere for you to go 
to town with him I" 

" There is no hurry," replied Eu- 
genie, resuming her habitual coolness 
and dignity. She went away, taking 
leave of Louis with a visible air of 
decided sympathy. 

This brief interview was sufficient 
to render Louis* hopes legitimate. 
I agreed with him that £ug6nie 



74 



Madatm Agmn^ 



would have behaved very differently 
if she regarded him with antipathy, 
or even with indifference. 

" There is no doubt she knows all 
that has taken place," said I to my 
friend. " If there is any plot against 
you, she cannot fail to be aware of it, 
or, at least, suspect it. Under such 
circumstances, the very fact of her 
showing you unmistakable sympathy 
is a sufficient proof that she loves 
you." 

At this time, an occurrence took 
place that had an unfortunate effect 
on me, and created new difficulties 
in Louis* path. It was then in the 
latter part of the month of Septem- 
ber. The summer had been rainy 
and unpleasant. The rains increas- 
ed in September, and soon caused an 
alarming rise in all the rivers. I was 
then at the end of my stay in the 

little village of St. M , where I 

lived unknown to the Smithsons. 
Faithful to my request, Louis had 
told no one of my temporary resi- 
dence in the vicinity. 

Excuse me for giving you here 
some topographical details, perhaps 
somewhat difficult to comprehend, 
but necessary for you to know in 
order to understand what follows. 

St. M is situated in a charm- 
ing valley. In ordinary weather, the 
current of the Loire is below the 
level of the valley through which it 
winds with a majestic sweep. When 
a rise occurs, the plain would at once 
be inundated were it not protected 
by a dike which the water cannot 
cross. This dike did not extend to 
Mr. Smithson*s manufactory, though 

but a short distance from St. M . 

When, therefore, the river got very 
high, the mill ran the risk of be- 
ing inundated. The dwelling-house 
alone was out of danger, being on 
an eminence beyond the reach of the 
waters of the Loire, even when it 
joined, swelled by the junction, the 



small stream that drove Mr. Smith- 
son's machinery. 

Having given you some idea of 
that region, I will now resume 
my story. One evening, then, to- 
wards the end of my stay at St. 

M , Louis told me the Loire was 

rising fast. He assured me, however, 
before leaving, that there was no 
danger. " No matter how strong 
or high the current," he said, " the 
dike secures you from all danger. 
It is as firm as a rock." 

My friend was mistaken. The 
bank had certain weak places which 
the water had undermined without 
any one's being aware of it. 

Towards eleven o'clock, there was 
a tremendous noise in every direc- 
tion. People were screaming and 
rushing around the house : the dike 
had given way 1 The water had 
reached the ground floor. My 
mother, my sister, and myself were 
lodged on the first story. The pro- 
prietor, beside himself, and frighten- 
ed enough to alarm every one else, 
came up to tell us we must make 
haste to escape ; his house was not 
solid; we were in danger of being 
carried away. 

" The water is only rising slowly," 
he said. " By wading two or three 
hundred yards, we can reach the 
causeway. There we shall be safe ; 
for the ground is firm, and the 
causeway extends to St. Denis. 
The inundation cannot reach that 
place, for it is built on a height" 

I did not lose my presence of 
mind in the midst of the alarm. 
Victor's death had destroyed all 
attachment to life. If my mother 
and sister had not been in danger 
as well as myself, I should have re- 
mained where I was, trusting in God, 
not believing I was under any moral 
obligation to escape from a house 
which might withstand more than 
was supposed; as it did, in fact. 






75 



fiat mj mother and sister lost all 
reasoDy so to speak. Wild with ter- 
ror, they fled, and I followed them. 
When we got down to the ground 
floor, we found the water had risen 
to the height of about six inches. 
There was a mournful sound in every 
direction which made us tremble. 
We sprang towards the causeway. 
I was at that time in delicate health. 
I had been suddenly roused from 
sleep. The distance I had to wade 
through the cold water had a fearful 
effect on me. When we reached the 
causeway, they had to cany me to 
St Denis: I was incapable of walking. 

WTiile we were thus flying from 
^tuigi^j Louis committed a series of 
generous but imprudent acts which 
became a source of fresh difficulties 
to him. He was sitting alone in his 
chamber, when, about half-past ten, 
he heard a dull crash like a dis- 
charge of artillery at a distance. 
He hastily ran down into the court, 
entered the porter's lodge, and inquir- 
ed where the noise came from that 
had alarmed him. 

"I do not know, monsieur," re- 
plied the man, " but I have an idea 
that the levee has given way. At a 
great inundation twenty years ago, 
the Loire made a large hole in the 
dike, which caused a similar noise. 
I know something about it, for I 
was then living near ..." 

This was enough to alarm Louis, 
and just then a man passed with a 
torch in his hand, crying breathless- 
ly : " The dike has given way at 

St M 1 Help! Quick! The 

village will be inundated!" 

These words redoubled Louis' 
terror. St. M would be inun- 
dated; perhaps it was already. . . . 
I was there ill, and knew no one ! 

** Is there any danger of the water's 
reaching us?" asked Louis of the 
porter. 

*' The mill ? Yes, ... but not 



Mr. Smithson's: that is impossible. 
The house stands twenty feet above 
the river." 

Eug6nie and her parents, then, 
had nothing to fear. I alone was 
in danger — in so great a danger that 
there was not a moment to be lost. 

"Go and tell Mr. Smithson all 
that has happened," said Louis. " I 
am going away. I am obliged to. 
I shall be back in half an hour, or as 
soon as I can." 

Of all the sacrifices Louis ever 
made, this was the most heroic. In 
fact, had he remained at his post, he 
might have saved the machinery, 
that was quite a loss to Mr. Smith- 
son. Instead of that, he hurried off 
without any thought of the construc- 
tion his enemies might put on his de- 
parture. To complete the unfortu- 
nate complication, Mr. Smithson had 
an attack of the gout that very day. 
When I afterwards alluded to his im- 
prudence in thus risking his dearest 
interests, as well as life itself, Louis 
replied : " I knew Eugenie had no- 
thing to fear; whereas, you were in 
danger. I had promised Victor on 
his death-bed to watch over you as 
he would himself. It was my duty 
to do as I did. If it were to do 
over again, I should do the same. 
Did Victor hesitate when he sprang 
into the water to save me ? And he 
did not know who I was." 

The house I had just left was 
about half a league from the mill. 
The water was beginning to reach 
the highway, though slowly. Louis 
kept on, regardless of all danger, 
and arrived at our house in feverish 
anxiety. I had been gone about fif- 
teen minutes, and the water was 
much higher than when we left. 
Louis learned from a man who re- 
mained in a neighboring house that 
I was safe : we had all escaped by 
the causeway before there was any 
danger. He added that I must be 



^t 



^Km 9^W9^^^^W9 '^^B, 




St St. Denis by that time. Louis, re- 
assured as to my fate, succeeded in 
reaching another road, more elevat- 
ed, but not so direct to the mill. 
This road passed just above the Vin- 
ceneau house. VVhen Louis arrived 
opposite the house, he saw the water 
had reached it. He heard screams 
mingled with oaths that came from 
the father, angry with his wife and 
daughter. Having returned home a 
few moments before, the drunken 
man was resisting the efforts of both 
women to induce him to escape. 
Louis appeared as if sent by Provi- 
dence. He at once comprehended 
the state of affairs. His look over- 
awed the drunken man, who left the 
house. They all four proceeded to- 
ward the mill. There was no nearer 
place of refuge. The first people 
they saw at their arrival were Du- 
rand, Albert, and some workmen. 
An insolent smile passed over Al- 
bert's face. He evidently suspected 
Louis of having abandoned every- 
thing for the purpose of saving 
Madeleine Vinceneau. But he did 
not dare say anything. Louis in- 
timidated him much more than he 
could have wished. He resolved, 
however, to make a good use of 
what he had seen. Louis at once 
felt how unfortunate this combina- 
tion of circumstances was, but the 
imminent danger they were in forced 
him to exertion. It was feared the 
walls of the manufactory might give 
way under the action of the water, if 
it got much higher, and it was grad- 
ually rising. 

Louis set to work without any de- 
lay. The workmen, who had has- 
tened from every part of the neigh- 
borhood to take refuge at Mr. Smith- 
son's, began under his direction to 
remove the machinery that was still 
accessible. They afterwards propped 
up the walls, and, when these various 
arrangements were completed, LouiS| 



who had taken charge of everything, 
occupied himself in providing tem- 
porary lodgings for the people driven 
out by the inundation. 

Mme. Smithson and her daughter 
had come down to render assistance. 
The refugees were lodged in various 
buildings on a level with the house. 
Louis would have given everything 
he possessed for the opportunity of 
exchanging a few words with Euge- 
nie at once, in order to forestall the 
odious suspicions Albert would be 
sure to excite in her mind. But he 
was obliged to relinquish the hope. 
Mme. Smithson and Albert followed 
her like a shadow. Louis could not 
approach her without finding one or 
the other at her side. Overcome 
by so fatiguing a night, he went 
towards morning to take a little re- 
pose. He felt sure fresh mortifica- 
tions awaited him in consequence of 
what had just taken place, and he 
was right. 

When he awoke after a few hours' 
sleep, his first care was to go and 
see Mr. Smithson. He related what 
he had done, without concealing 
the fact of his abandoning the mill to 
go to my assistance. Mr. Smithson 
was suffering severely from the gout. 
He was impatient at such a time to 
be on his feet, and was chafing with 
vexation. 

" I cannot blame you, monsieur," 
he said. "The life of a friend is 
of more consequence than anything 
else. Whatever be the material loss 
I may have to endure at this time m 
consequence of your absence, I for- 
bear complaining. But it was un- 
fortunate things should happen so. 
If I had only been able to move! 
. . . But no. . . . You will 
acknowledge, monsieur, that I ani 
the victim of misfortune. . . • ^^^ 
you succeed, after all, in saving the 
person whose fate interested you 
more than anything else ? . • • 



Mmd^nne Agnes, 



77 



" She had made her etcape before 
mj arrival. I hurried, back, but, on 
the way, a new incident occurred. 
Ail unfortunate family was on the 
point of perishing. I brought them 
vith me, as there was no nearer asy- 
lum." 

'*Are these people employed at 
the mill ?" 

*' ITi'e woman works here; her hus- 
band elsewhere." 

** What Is their name ?" 

" Vinceneau." 

*'l think I have heard of them. 
The father is a drunkard ; the mother 
is an indolent woman." 

" You may have learned these facts 
from Mi\t, Eugenie, who takes an in- 
terest in the family, I believe. I re- 
commended them to her.'* 

'* Was that proper ? . . . I have 
everv reason to think otherwise. . . . 
But it is done. We will say no more 
about it And since I am so inoppor- 
tunely confined to my bed, I must 
l>eg you to continue to take charge 
..1 my place, watch over the safety of 
t:;e inundated buildings, provide for 
the wants of the people who have 
uken refuge here, and, above all, 
".».ive everything done in order." 

Louis was uneasy and far from 
l>cing satisfied. There was a certain 
stiffness and ill-humor in Mr. Smith- 
-on's manner that made him think 
Albert had reported his return to the 
mill with the Vinceneau family. He 
attempted an explanation on this del- 
icate subject. 

'* Af(m Dieu / you seem very anx- 
ious about such a trifling affair," said 
Mr. Smithson. " It appears to me 
there is something of much more ira- 
[>ortance to be thouglit of now. . . . 
h \% high time to try to remedy the 
harm done last night. . . ." 

Louis fe!t that, willing or not, he 
mast duait a more propitious time. 
He went away more depressed than 
cvor. 



The whole country around was in- 
undated. I was obliged to send a 
boat for news concerning my young 
friend, and give him information 
about myself. The unfortunate peo- 
ple who had taken refuge at Mr. 
Smithson*s were at once housed and 
made as comfortable as possible. 
It happened that Durand and some 
others were put in the same building 
with the Vinceneau family. Nothing 
occurred the first day worth relating. 
Louis watched in vain for an oppor- 
tunity of seeing and speaking to 
Eugenie. He only saw her at a dis- 
tance. The next morning — O un- 
hoped-for happiness ! — ^he met her on 
her way to one of the houses occupied 
by the refugees. She looked at him 
so coldly that he turned pale and his 
limbs almost gave way beneath him. 
But Eugenie was not timid. She had 
sought this interview, and was deter- 
mined to attain her object. 

"Whom have you put in that 
house?" she asked, pointing to the 
one assigned to the Vinceneaus, 
which was not two steps from the 
small building occupied by Louis 
himself. 

" The Vinceneau family and some 
others," replied Louis. 

At that name, Eugenie's lips con- 
tracted. An expression of displea- 
sure and contempt passed across her 
face. Then, looking at Louis with a 
dignity that only rendered her the 
more beautiful, she said : " Then you 
still have charge of them ? I thought 
you gave them up to me." 

"I have had nothing to do with 
them till within two days, mademoi- 
selle. It was enough to know you 
took an interest in their condition," 
He then briefly related all that had 
taken place the night of the inunda- 
tion, and ended by speaking of the 
letter I had written to relieve his 
anxiety. He finished by presenting 
the letter to Eugenie, under the pre- 



78 



Madame Agnes. 



text of showing her the reproaches 
I addressed him. I wrote him that, 
before troubling himself about me, 
he ought to have been sure he was 
not needed at Mr. Smithson's. 

Eug6nie at first declined reading 
the letter. Then she took it with a 
pleasure she endeavored to conceal. 
Before reading it, she said : 

"Why did you not tell me your 
friend was at St. M ?" 

"I have been greatly preoccu- 
pied for some time, and \ seldom 
see you, mademoiselle. It was in a 
manner impossible to tell you that 
my poor friend had come here to 
be quiet and gain new strength in 
solitude." 

" I should have been pleased to 
see her." So saying, Eugenie, with- 
out appearing to attach any impor- 
tance to it, read my letter from be- 
ginning to end. 

Thus all Albert and Mme. Smith- 
son's calculations were defeated. 
There is no need of my telling you 
the inference Louis' enemies had 
drawn from the interest he had man- 
ifested in the Vinceneau family. 

" He left everything to save them, 
or rather, to save that girl," said 
Mme. Smithson. " He would have 
let us all perish rather than not save 
her." 

My being at St. M , and my 

letter, threw a very different light on 
everything. Thenceforth, Louis, dis- 
missed by her father, and calumniat- 
ed by her mother and Albert, was, 
in Eugenie's eyes, a victim. Aiid he 



had risked his own life to save that 
of his friend It is said that noble 
hearts, especially those of women, 
regard the rdU of victim as an attrac- 
tive one. 

When £ug6nie lefl Louis, there 
was in the expression of her eyes, 
and in the tone of her voice, some- 
thing so friendly and compassionate 
that he felt happier than he had 
for a long time. ... To obtain 
this interview, Eug6nie had been 
obliged to evade not only her mo- 
ther's active vigilance, but that of 
her cousin and Fanny. This vigi- 
lance, suspended for a moment, be- 
came more active than ever during 
the following days. It was impossi- 
ble to speak to Louis ; but she saw 
him sometimes, and their eyes spoke 
intelligibly. . . . 

The water receded in the course 
of a week. Louis profited thereby to 
come and see me, and make me a 
sharer in his joy. I was then some- 
what better. I passed the night of 
the inundation in fearful suffering, 
but felt relieved the following day. 
My dreadful attack of paralysis did 
not occur till some weeks afterwards. 
I little thought then I had symptoms 
of the seizure that has rendered my 
life so painful. 

The refugees were still living at 
the manufactory, the Vinceneau fam- 
ily among them. Louis had scarce- 
ly returned to his room that night, 
when he heard a low knock at 
his door, and Madeleine Vinceneau 
presented herself before him. 



TO BB CONTIMUBD. 



The Napoleonic Idea and its Consequences. 



79 



THE NAPOLEONIC IDEA AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 



FROM THB CIVILTA CATTOLICA. 



I. 

For several weeks past, we have 
heard much of Louis Napoleon Bo- 
naparte.* Nothing less than his 
mournful physical death, on the 9th 
of January, 1873, was needed to draw 
him from the oblivion to which Ital- 
ian liberals consigned him after his 
polidcal death of September 2, 1870. 
It would seem that from the im- 
penal grave opened at Chiselhurst 
wtnt forth a bitter reproach against 
the unexampled ingratitude of those 
who saw the tombstone of Sedan 
dose over his empire with mute im- 
passibility and secret joy. Now to 
the cowardly silence of two years 
succeeds an uproar of elegies and 
praises. Remorse for having left the 
conqueror of Solferino in the mire 
of the Mcuse is lulled to sleep by 
the wailing of hired mourners ; as if 
the shame of basely forsaking him 
could be masked behind a block of 
unblushing marble. 

No man was ever more fatal to 
himself than Napoleon III. All 
which was his by usurpation or right 
turned against him in the end. His 
worst humiliations were the work of 
his own hands. He destroyed him- 
self, and the words of the Christian 
Demosthenes were truer of him than 
of others : Nemo nisi a se ipso iaditur. 

Now, by a final mockery of for- 
tune, he is punished after death by 
having bier and tomb dishonored 
with the apotheosis of the Italian 
party who laud to the skies the wea* 
pon that worked his ruin — the ruling 
idea of his reign. 

This idea, which necessarily failed 

* Thto wfts wTltteD toon after the deaUi of 
t^eeie Mspolcoii. 



because it was impracticable, and in 
its failure reduced him to nothing, is 
his sole title to compassion or glory 
in the opinion of this faction. But 
as the cruel irony contains a histori- 
cal lesson, useful for the present and 
the future, we will study it by the 
light of facts, incontestable except to 
the blind. 

II. 

Such were the contradictions, per- 
plexities, and duplicity of Louis Na- 
poleon Bonaparte upon the throne, 
that he was often believed to be a 
prince reigning at hap-hazard. In- 
deed, it is said, now that he has left 
the earth, that the history of his 
incomprehensible reign will be the 
most difficult work ever undertaken. 
This seems to us a mistake, if a dis- 
tinction be made between the man 
and the prince, his life and his reign. 
The man and his life will always 
seem inextricable, for he used all 
means that suited his convenience, 
and in their choice gave preference 
to no moral rule or principle of hon- 
esty; following openly or hiddenly 
the mutable interest of each day. 
But the prince and his reign, in spite 
of apparent contradictions, are easily 
understood by the simple study of 
the political end which he invariably 
proposed to himself. 

This end is not hidden. His 
youthful writings, and the series of 
his imperial documents, read by the 
light of the actions of his administra- 
tion, make it plain. He aimed at re- 
establishing and consolidating in his 
dynasty the power of the First Em- 
pire, and at the elevation of France 
to the headship of Europe, reorgan- 



8o 



The Napoleonic Idea and its Consequences. 



ized in its territorial divisions accord- 
ing to the law of nationality, and in 
its institutions in accordance with 
the forms of Caesarean democracy. 

An author who has read his books, 
and confronted them with the achieve- 
ments of his reign, thus sums up the 
new Napoleonic idea constantly pur- 
sued by Louis in his youth, middle 
life, and old age, in exile, in prison, 
and on the throne : 

" Peoples distributed according to 
their needs and instincts, belonging 
each to a self-elected country, pro- 
vided each with a constitution fixed 
yet democratic; devoted at their 
choice to works of civil industry des- 
tined to transform the world ; Eu- 
rope, free in her various nations, con- 
solidated almost into a federated re- 
public, with France as its centre; 
France aggrandized and forming the 
clasp in the strong chain of free 
intercourse; universal exhibitions to 
encourage nations in the exchange 
of reciprocal visits ; European con- 
gresses, where governments, laying 
aside arms, could compose their 
differences; Paris, the imperial city 
par excellence^ wonderfully embellish- 
ed, raised to the honors of capital of 
the world, metropolis of wealth and 
wisdom, under the wing of the Na- 
poleonic eagle, offering to the two 
hemispheres the rarest discoveries in 
science, masterpieces of art, exqui- 
site refinements of luxury and civili- 
zation."* 

Divisum imperium cum Jove C^tar habet I 

Such was the intoxicating dream 
of the life and reign of Napoleon III., 
the idea which he believed himself 
created to carry out — a combina- 
tion of the designs of Henry IV. and 
the aspirations of Augustus, mount- 
ed on the frail pedestal of the princi- 
ples of 1789. 

• "La politique du second empire, essai d'his- 
toire contemporaine, d'apr&s les documents, par 
M. Anatolc Lcroy-Ueuulieu "— /f^»«r des Deux 
Mondes^ April i, 187a, pp. 55a- S3. 



In fact, proceeds our author, 
" Within and without the confines of 
the Empire, this idea was reduced to 
two words: reconstruction and re- 
conciliation, based upon the princi- 
ples of the French Revolution. 
Here was to be the general synthesis 
of all external and internal politics 
in France and Europe : Reconstruc- 
tion of nations founded on national 
will within and without ; effected by 
a single instrument — universal suffrage 
— applied to the determination of the 
nationality as well as of the sovereign 
and the government ; reconcilia- 
tion of nations among themselves, 
and of the divers classes composing 
them, thanks to an equal satisfaction 
of the rights and interests of all."* 

That nothing might be wanting to 
the enchantment of his fair dream, the 
young prisoner of Ham contempla- 
ted a double mission of giving peace 
and glory to France. " War was to 
consolidate peace, imperial battles 
were to give repose to the world. 
Thus the famous device. The Empire 
and Peace ^ came to bear a sublime 

significance."t 

In short, the Napoleonic idea had 
for its ultimate aim the aggrandize- 
ment and European omnipotence 
of France under the dynasty of the 
Bonapartes, through the universal 
means of popular suffrage with 
pUbiscites^ forming a basis of a new 
national and international right, op- 
posed to the old historical right ot 
peoples. The other three principles 
of territorial compensation, non-inter- 
vention and accomplished facts, were 
special means and passing aids to 
be used according to opportunity for 
carrying out intentions. 



III. 
Louis Napoleon received his poli- 
tical education from his uncle exiled 

* Revue des Deux Mondes^ p. 554. 
t Ibid. p. 553. 



The Napoleonic Idea and its Consequences. 



8i 



in the Island of St. Helena, and from 
the Carbonariy among whom Giro 
Menotti enrolled him in Tuscany, 
in the year 1831.* In these two 
schools he acquired the fundamen- 
tal idea of reconstructing European 
countries according to nationality. 
But he did not see that, in the hands 
of Napoleon I. and of the Carbonari, 
this idea was a strong weapon of de- 
struction, not a practical or powerful 
argument for reconstruction. Bona- 
parte, gaoler of European potentates, 
and the Carbonari, persecuted by 
them, wished to use it to destroy the 
order of things established by the 
Holy Alliance in the treaty of Vienna 
of 1815, upon the right, more or less 
dc&ntd^ of legitimacy. On the pre- 
text of restoring political national- 
ity to {peoples, the first Napoleon be- 
queathed to his heirs the command 
to excite Italy and Hungary against 
Austria; Poland against Russia and 
Prassia; Greece and the Christian 
principalities against Turkey ; Ireland, 
Malta, and the Ionian Isles against 
England ; hoping that the changes 
originating in this movement, and 
the gratitude of these nations, would 
make easy to his heirs the exten- 
sion of French boundaries and the 
recovery of the imperial crown. 

The Carbonari worked with the 
same pretext to overthrow princes 
and substitute themselves, with a 
view of introducing into states their 
anti-Christian and anti-social systems. 

The so-called principle of nation- 
ality resolved itself, then, with Napo- 
leon I. and the Carbonari, into a pure 
engine of war — into a battery which, 
after destroying the bulwarks of the 
opposite principle of legitimacy, 
should give into their hands nations 
and kingdoms. That Louis Napo- 

• Lm Reint H^rttnt* tu Italie^ en France^ en 
Amgi^ttrre^ P*nd«ni CannJe 1831 ,■ /ragmentt 
exirnitM d€ see m^ moires in^ditSy Merits par elle 
mtfme, pp. ss-s6. Paris, 1834. 

VOL. XVIII. 6 



leon, in prison, a fugitive, a conspir- 
ator, should support himself with this 
flattering principle, and dexterously 
dazzle with it the eyes of those who 
could help him to recover the scep- 
tre of France, can be easily under- 
stood ; but that, after obtaining this 
sceptre by a network of circumstan- 
ces wholly foreign to the principle 
of nationality, he should adopt that 
principle as the final aim of his em- 
pire and the corner-stone of his own 
greatness and of French power — 
this, in truth, is hard to understand. 

But that it was the case is only too 
clear. He spent the twenty years 
of his dominion over France in col- 
oring the design which he had puz- 
zled out twenty years before, dream- 
ing over the memories of St. Helena, 
and plotting in the collieries of the 
Carbonari. 

IV. 

To a sagacious mind which had 
well weighed the true worth of the 
Napoleonic idea, even before the 
new emperor attempted its fulfilment, 
terrible dangers and obstacles must 
have presented themselves. 

After a succession of wars and 
successful conspiracies had led na- 
tions to an independent reconstruc- 
tion within natural frontiers, what in- 
crease of territory could have accrued 
to France ? 

Suppose Italy, Poland, Hungary, 
and Iberia adjusted on this princi- 
ple, would their power have remain- 
ed so equalized as to leave France 
secure of preponderance ? 

If Germany had been so recon- 
structed, to the certain advantage of 
Prussia, was there not a risk of ex- 
posing France to a shock which 
might have proved fatal ? 

According to the theory of natu- 
ral limits, the aggrandizement which 
France could have demanded in 
compensation for protection and 
successful warfare would have been 



82 



The Napoleonic Idea and its Consequences. 



reduced to some additions towards 
the Alps, the Pyrenees, and in Flan- 
ders ; to a few thousand square kilo- 
metres, and perhaps three or four 
millions of inhabitants. Towards the 
Rhine, we cannot see what the Em- 
pire could have claimed without 
contradicting the theory itself. 
Germany has maintained that Alsace 
and half of Lorraine, incorporated 
with French soil, are German, and 
has forced them to a legal annex- 
ation to her territory. 'Now, were 
these slender acquisitions, so dis- 
proportioned to the acquisitions 
of neighboring countries, worth the 
cost of turning Furope upside down, 
and subjecting France to a chance 
of political and military ruin ? 

Louis Napoleon rejoiced in the 
thought of one day resuscitating the 
fair name of Italy, extinguished for 
many years, and restoring it to pro- 
vinces so long deprived of it. This 
sounds well; but was this resurrec- 
tion to end in a united kingdom, or 
in the simple emancipation from 
foreign rule ? And granted that 
unity could not be prevented, and 
that it should prove equal to the 
imaginary union of Spain and Por- 
tugal, was it really advantageous to 
create alongside of France, from a 
platonic love of nationality, two new 
states of twenty-five millions of souls 
each, capable of supplanting her 
later in the Mediterranean.* And 
if Prussia, taking advantage of the 
loss of Italy and Hungary to her 
rival Austria, had united in a single 
political and military body the scat- 
tered members of Germany, would 
it have been useful and hopeful for 
France to feel herself pressed on the 
other side by a kingdom or empire 
of fifty millions of inhabitants, a 
military race of the first order ? 

Moreover, what would have be- 

* Id^et NapoUonUnnety p. 143. 



come of the Roman Pontiff in this 
renovation of countries, governments, 
and juridical laws. The Pope is a 
great moral power, the greatest in 
the world. If his independence 
were to give way before the princi- 
ple of nationality, what would be- 
come of his religious liberty, so ne- 
cessary to the public quiet of con- 
sciences. Could a pope, subject to 
an Italy constructed in any way so- 
ever, increase the light, peace, and 
tranquillity of France and the rest of 
Europe ? Would the palace of the 
Vatican, changed into a prison, have 
accorded with the imagined splen- 
dors of the Tuileries ? 

Finally, a new international and 
national right, which should have 
sanctioned, in accordance with popu- 
lar suffirage, the obligation of non- 
intervention and accomplished facts, 
far from reconciling nations and va- 
rious classes of citizens among them- 
selves by superseding the inalienable 
right of nature, would have become 
a firebrand of civil discord, an incen- 
tive to foreign wars, and a germ of 
revolutions which would have plunged 
Europe into the horrors of socialism. 

An eagle eye was not needed to 
see and foresee these weighty dan- 
gers. However affairs might have 
turned, even if they had succeeded 
according to every wish, it is indubi- 
table that the ship of Napoleonic 
politics, following in its navigation 
the star of this idea, must eventually 
have struck on three rocks, each one 
hard enough to send ship and pilot 
to the bottom: the Papacy, Ger- 
many, and Revolution. The Papa- 
cy, oppressed by the Italy of the 
Carbonari, would have taken from 
France her greatest moral force. 
Germany, in one way or another, 
strongly united in her armies, would 
have tried, as in 1813, to overwhelm 
the Empire. Revolution, kindled 
and fed from without, would have 



The Napoleonic Idea and its Consequences. 



83 



gathered strength in France to the 
ruin of the Empire. 

These rocks were not only visible, 
bat palpable to touch. Napoleon 
IIL saw them, felt them, and used 
ail the licit and illicit arts of his 
administration to avoid them. In 
vain ; it was impossible. He should 
not have followed the guidance of 
his enchantress, his idea ; following it, 
perdition was inevitable. 

v. 

Perhaps history offers no other ex- 
ample of a roan who has grasped the 
sceptre under conditions so propitious 
for good and so opposed to evil as 
those under which Louis Napoleon 
Bonaparte began his reign; or of 
one who has so pertinaciously abused 
his advantages to his own ruin and 
that of others. 

The vote of the better and larger 
portion of the French nation had 
raised him to the throne, that he 
might save them from the hydra of 
socialism, and stop the course of po- 
litical changes in France. Europe, 
just recovering from terrible agita- 
tions, welcomed his elevation as a 
pledge of order and peace. Catho- 
lics of every country rejoiced over it 
almost as the reward of the uncon- 
tested restoration in Rome of the 
principality of S. Peter. Interest 
and conscience seemed to unite in in- 
ducing him to take the triumphal 
road of justice which must lead to 
certain glory. 

But cum in honors esset non intel- 
lexii, * He seemed to wish to take 
this path. But, in iact, he showed 
that he was preparing to follow an- 
other by the ephemeral light of that 
idea which he worshipped on the im- 
perial throne with the same devotion 
which he had professed in prison 
and in exile. 



The Crimean war, to a participa- 
tion in which he invited litde Pied- 
mont, predestined by him to enjoy 
the benefits of Italian resurrection, 
helped him to cut the knot of the 
Holy Alliance, to humble Russia 
and set her at enmity with Austria, 
to create by 2.pUbi5cHe the first of his 
national unities — that of the Rouma- 
nian Principalities — and to introduce 
at the Congress of Paris that subal- 
pine diplomacy which, endorsed by 
him, sowed the seeds of the contem- 
plated Italian war. 

Meanwhile, the daggers and bombs 
of the Pianori, Tibaldi, and Orsini 
came to remind him that, before being 
Emperor of the French, he had been 
an Italian Carbonaro, and that he was 
expected to keep his oaths. It is said 
that, after the explosion of Orsini's 
bombshell, a friend of the assassin, to 
whom Napoleon complained confi- 
dentially of this party persecution, 
replied: "You have forgotten that 
you are an Italian." 

" What shall I do ?" asked his ma- 
jesty. 

" Serve your country." 

" Very good. But I am Emperor 
of the French, a nation hard to gov- 
ern. Can I sacrifice the interests of 
my people to accommodate those of 
Italy?" 

" No one will prevent you from 
studying the interests of France when 
you have promulgated the indepen- 
dence and secured the unity of your 
country. Italy first of all." * 

But he had less need of spurring 
than was supposed. 

After the secret negotiations of 
Plombi^res, he attacked Austria in 
the plains of Lombardy, and, having 
subdued her, he inaugurated the re- 
surrection of Italy according to his 
idea, which, presiding over the work, 
showed itself unveiled, with all the 



•PMlmzIylU.*!. 



• Univtrty Jan. ar, 1873* 



84 



Tlie Napoleonic Idea and Us Consequences. 



magnificence of territorial compensa- 
tion, universal suffrage, non-interven- 
tion, and accomplished facts, as we 
all know. 

VI. 

But the Napoleonic ship got lost 
irreparably among the three rocks 
above named. Between the Mincio 
and the Adige it met Germany in 
threatening guise ; in Rome, the be- 
trayed pontiff rose up ; and in Paris 
revolution lifted her savage head. 
For eleven years Bonaparte struggled 
to save the ship from the straits into 
which his Italian enterprise had driven 
it ; but the more earnest his efforts, 
the worse became the entanglement, 
until the tempest of 1870 split the 
vessel in the midst with awful ship- 
wreck. 

His crimes towards the Pope, the 
ignoble artifice of insults couched in 
reverential terms, of perfidy, lies, and 
hypocrisy, alienated from him not 
only Catholics, but all those who 
honored human loyalty and natural 
probity. The so-called Roman ques- 
tion, a compendium of the whole 
Italian question, ruined the credit 
of Napoleon III., unmasked him, and 
made him appear as inexorable his- 
tory will show him to posterity — a 
monster of immorality, to use the apt 
expression of one of his former syco- 
phants.* 

* He was in science a phenomenon, in history 
in adventurer, in morality a monster {JL* SiMe^ 
Jan. xa, 1873). Amid tlie labyrinth of contradic- 
tions in which Bonaparte enveloped his thoughts 
concerning the political condition In which he 
meant to place the Roman PontifF, it is impos- 
sible to decide what was his true conception, or 
whether he had formed any fixed and definite 
plan. In 1859, when he dreamed of three king- 
doms in Italy, one subalpine, a second for his 
cousin Jerome, and a third for his cousin Murat, 
Napoleon III. traced upon the map of the Penin- 
sula with his own hand a small circlet enclosing 
the new Pontifical sUtc. including Rome, and 
five provinces. At the end of that year, the 
dream vanished through the opposition of Lord 
Palmerston in the famous oputcuU^ Tht Pope and 
the Congrtu^ where he showed a wish to restrict 
the dominion of the Holy Father to Rome, con- 
verted into something lilce a Hanseatic city. In 
Sept, 1863, according to the revelations of Mar- 
quis Carlo Alfierl {Vltaiia Liberale^ p. 83), who 



Prussia, after checking him at the 
Mincio in 1859, cut short in his 
hands the thread of the web woven 
in 1863 ^^ regenerate Poland on the 
plan of Italy. God did not permit a 
good and noble cause like that of 
Poland to be contaminated by the 
influence of the Napoleonic idea; 
and this seems to us an indication 
that he reserves to her a restoration 
worthy of herself and of her faith. 
Prussia also held him at bay during 
the Danish war, into which he threw 
himself with closed eyes, in the mad 
hope of conquering Mexico, and mak- 
ing it an empire after his own idea. 
This whim cost France a lake of 

declares himself well informed, Bonaparte con- 
sented to the ** gradual withdrawal of Frencli 
troops from Rome, so arranged that, on the de- 
parture of the. last French battalion, the territo- 
rial dominion of the Pontiff should be reduced 
to the city of Rome, the suburban campagoa, 
and the road and port of CivitA Vecchia.** So 
the Pope would have remained king of a city, 
a road, and a port. In 1867, when the nation 
obliged Bonaparte to go to the aid of the Ponti(T, 
assailed by the irregolari of Italy, he wished 
the state to remain as it was left lUler the dis- 
memberment of i860, and commanded the Ital- 
ian regulars to withdraw from Viterbo and Fro- 
sinone, which they did with military punctuality. 
In that year, and during the perplexities (says 
rArmonia of Jan. 12, 1873), there came to visit 
him in Paris an illustrious Italian who enjoyed 
his confidence, and had been decorated by bis 
Imperial hand with the cross of the legion of 
Honor. This gentleman, engrossed with the 
position of the Pope, was lamenting it with Xa- 
poleon III., and remarked that, unless reparation 
were made, the Revolution would eater Rome. 
The ex -emperor replied : **So long as Pius IX. 
lives, I shall never permit it. After the death of 
Pius IX., I will adjust the affairs of the church." 
If we question whether after his dethronement 
the unhappy man approved the accomplished 
fact of Sept. so, 1870, VOpiniont of Jan. 16, 1871. 
removes all doubt. It tells us that an individual 
(generally supposed to be Count Arese, a great 
friend of his), visited him at Chiselhurst, and, 
" when the conversation turned to Rome, where 
the Italian government ¥ras established. Napo- 
leon III. said with entire frankness that he had 
personal engagements with the Pope, to which 
as emperor he could never have proved faith- 
less; but that, since his dethronement, Italian 
politics had passed beyond his action. And he 
added : '* This was to be foreseen as being in the 
order of facts, and it is not an occaaon for 
turning back." From which we may infer that 
he wished tne temporal power of the popes to 
cease with Pius IX., without caring to substitute 
for their necessary liberty any other guarantee 
than that of chance. This will be enough to 
convince posterity that Napoleon III. was not 
a statesman of the first order. 



The Napoleonic Idea and its Consequences. 



85 



blood, many millions of francs, and 
an indelible stain ; it cost the unfor- 
tunate Maximilian of Austria his life, 
and his gifted wife her reason. Prus- 
sia solemnly mocked at him in the 
other war of 1866, when, leagued 
with Italy by his consent, she at- 
tacked the Austrian Empire. 

It was the beginning of that political 
and military unity of Germany which 
was destined to make him pay dear 
for the work of unity accomplished 
beyond the Alps by so many crimes.* 

Lastly, Prussia, choosing the occa- 
sion of the vacancy of the Spanish 
throne, and seconded by him in the 
promotion of an Iberian unity like 
that oi Italy, and prepared by a sub- 
alpine marriage, drew him into the 
toils where he left his crown and his 
honor. 

Step by step with the barriers op- 
posed by Prussia to the foolish policy 
of Napoleon III. in Europe went 
the anxieties caused in the empire by 
revolution. Losing gradually the 
support of the honest Catholic plu- 
rality of the French, he thought to 
reinforce himself by flattering his 

* Ap«rti«An or well-wUher has tried to repre- 
«eflt Napoteon as an edifying Catholic. The 
I'mren-s of Jnouary 25, 1873^ has a curious pane- 
tyric, in which it is affirmed that he loved our 
Lordjesaa C-hrist. In the Gospels, our Lord 
hat (aught us a rule for judging those who love 
hio and do not love him: By their fruits you 
iJka/i ki9p9f tAem iidMtt. v'l'u z6). Now, the long 
and crafty war oif Bonaparte against Christ in 
h.s vicar, and the unbridled license given to 
Renao and to irreligious papers to blaspheme at 
wUI ih: divine majesty of Jesus Christ, while he 
Kvcrelv punished those who offended his own 
ia^erial ma|esCy, give the true measure of his 
Ivire for Jesus Christ. By the argument of facts 
Constant, public, and notorious. Napoleon III. 
h judged. He has been for the church and for 
Chrtstian society a great scourge of God, one of 
tbe wor^t precursors of Antichrist. We shall 
Mieve in his pretended conversion when we 
btvc teen a single action which shall disclaim 
and make amends f«>r the immense scandal of 
hisjalianic persecution of Catholicity. His re* 
fjeaiance at the hour of death, of which we have 
no Milid proof, wc leave to the infinite mercy of 
(»>d. who certainly could inspire him with it 
hut tt IS not out of place to remember the words 
r>f S. Aogusttne about similar conversions : Of 
irrt'in esaroplcs we have but one— the good 
I »icf on Calvary. i^Mfts est ne desj^eres, but 
n'tts est nf frmsumAt, 



enemy, demagogism, and by un- 
chaining gradually passions irreli- 
gious, anarchical, destructive to civili- 
zation. Taking all restraint from 
the press, he removed every bar to 
theatrical license, gave unchecked 
liberty to villany, free course to ne- 
farious impiety and a Babylonish lib- 
ertinism, and finished by opening the 
doors to public schools of socialism. 
But as outside France his duplicity 
and cowardly frauds had drawn 
upon him the hatred and contempt 
of accomplices and beneficiaries, so 
at home they excited discontent and 
distrust among all parties. 

On the 2d and 4th of Septem- 
ber, 1870, he reaped at Sedan and 
in Paris the crop sowed by him in 
1859. Germany broke his sword, 
and the Revolution his sceptre. The 
Napoleonic idea touched the apex 
of its triumphs. 

VII. 

The old Prince Theodore of Met- 
ternich, after 1849, predicted of Louis 
Bonaparte, then only President of 
the French Republic, that he would 
restore the Empire, and ruin himself 
as revolutionary emperor in Italy. 
Donoso Cortes, Marquis of Valde- 
gamas, predicted a little later that 
Bonaparte, after becoming emperor, 
would work very hard, but the fruits 
of his labors would be enjoyed by 
another; by whom he could not say. 
Both these shrewd statesmen knew 
Louis Napoleon, the secret chains 
which bound him to his party, and 
the idea which clouded his mind, 
and both hit the mark; for Napo- 
leon in. made every effort through- 
out his reign to play the revolution- 
ary emperor in Italy ; and, with all 
his refined policy, he worked for no 
one but the King of Prussia. Thanks 
to this policy, William enjoys the 
vassalage of the only two national 
unities created by the Napoleonic 



86 



The Napoleonic Idea and its Consequences. 



idea : the Roumanian, whose head is 
a Prussian prince, and the Italian, 
whose kingdom has become a Prus- 
sian regiment of hussars. He enjoys 
the German Empire reared on the 
ruins of that of France ; and, more- 
over, he enjoys European supremacy, 
taken from France with the keys of 
Paris, and five milliards poured by 
her into the Prussian treasury, to 
pay expenses. In his own good 
time we shall see for whom Bis- 
marck has made and still makes the 
King of Prussia work. 

Such are the weighty consequen- 
ces of that idea whose execution 
Bonaparte believed was to make the 
world over again, and raise his race 
and France to the summit of power — 
a political calamity, military ruin, and 
a dynastic downfall the most terrible 
which history has to record. 

In conclusion, the dogma of na- 
tionality for which French liberalism 
played the fool with Napoleon has 
caused the loss to France of two 
provinces as opulent as those which 
Bonaparte took from Italy in hom- 
age to the same dogma. The prin- 
ciple of non-intervention, so carefully 
guarded by Bonaparte at the cost 
of the Roman Pontiff, and so loudly 
applauded by French liberalism, has 
borne fruit to France in her hour of 
sorest need, in the desertion of all 
those states, and especially of Italy, 
who owed their existence to French 
' blood, and gold, and honor. 

The new right of 1789, perfected 
by Napoleonic Carbonarism, of which 
Bonaparte, with the approval of 
French liberalism, made himself the 
apostle in Europe to the disturbance 
of the best- ordered countries, has 
sprung up for France in the joys of 
Sept. 4, 1870, in the delights of the 
Commune of 1871, and in the com- 
fort of her present peace and se- 
curity. 

Thus has Bonaparte's idea crushed 



him and reduced him to nothing. 
The unhappy man has had not only 
the anguish of suffering historical 
dishonor while yet alive, but also 
that sharpest pang of seeing all the 
most celebrated works of his reign 
destroyed. The destniction, militar)', 
moral, political, and in part material, 
of France, which he hoped to raise 
to the summit of greatness; the 
destruction of the palaces of Saint 
Cloud and the Tuileries, embellished 
by him with Asiatic magnificence; 
the destruction of popular votes, 
those wings which bore him from 
exile to the throne; of the treaty 
of Paris, that crowned his Crimean 
victories ; of the glory of the French 
name in Mexico with the empire 
founded by him ; of the treaty of 
Prague, for which he well-nigh sweat- 
ed blood in opposing the union of 
Germany under Prussia: in short, 
all his enterprises have resulted in 
smoke. Only one remains — the 
subalpine kingdom of Italy, for whose 
formation and support the wretched 
man staked crown and honor. But 
before closing his eyes for ever, he 
tasted the sweetness of his last 
treachery in seeing that kingdom 
pass from his bondage to that of the 
conqueror of France. If God still 
allows it to his soul, he may now see 
his beloved Italy, with a Prussian 
helmet on her head, bend over his 
tomb, and shed two crocodile's tears 
— the only kind of tears which he 
deserved. Let us see what the 
Napoleonic idea has lavished upon 
her blind idolater — the defeat at 
Sedan, the burning of Paris, the 
lonely tomb at Chiselhurst. It was 
an idea conceived without God and 
his Christ, and against them, and 
therefore unable to bring forth any- 
thing but ruin and death. And cer- 
tain ruin and death it will bring on 
him who shall hope to live and grow 
great under its influence. 



My Friend and His Story. 



87 



MY FRIEND AND HIS STORY. 



I HAD been spending the winter 
with a friend in poor health in the 
South of France. I will not name 
the place, but it was one of the love- 
Uest spots on the northern Medi- 
terranean coast. Perhaps I shall 
have something to tell of it at an- 
other time. 

After prolonging our stay till we 
begin to feel that a change would 
be benefidaly we travelled on along 
the glorious old Cornice road into 
Italjy and sat ourselves down among 
the palms and olives of a region that, 
on account of its eastern vegetation 
and general likeness to the Holy Land, 
is often called *' the Jericho of the 
Riviera.* For, in truth, when the 
traveller climbs the steep slopes and 
staircases of that old town, pierced 
by narrow, winding troughs of streets, 
tied together, as it were, by old 
crumbling bridges and arches, built 
as a protection against continual 
earthquakes; and after groping 
through what is more like a labyrinth 
of subterranean caves than a town 
of civilized build, he gains the crest 
of the hill, and looks down from 
tiie sanctuary of the Blessed Virgin 
which is its crown, the actual Holy 
Land itself seems spread below his 
feet. There are the very outlines of 
Palestine : The stony slabs and tilt- 
ed strata of crag and ridge; the 
aromatic shrubs; the wealth of sad 
olives, fruit-bearing to an extraordi- 
nary degree; the vast tanks, haunted 
by briglu-green, persistently serenad- 
ing frogs ; the lizards darting in the 
hot glare; the flat-topped, low houses, 

•Tbe RiTier» »»di Poaente" and "dJ Le- 
irante" is the Medtterranean coast from Nice 
to Genoa aod beyond. 



and the women carrying jars of 
the identical Eastern forms on their 
heads. The very dark-skinned men 
and women themselves have the like 
sad, sweet, mournful Eastern eyes; 
for throughout the Riviera there is 
a large admixture of Arab blood, as 
many Arab words are crystallized in 
the strange, rough J>atois of the 
speech. 

In this wild, bright, solemn coun- 
try, I found and made the friend 
whose story I am going to tell ; and, 
if it is disappointing at first to the 
expectant, I shall ask them to wait 
till they near the end. 

We lived in a not very comfort- 
able boarding-house outside the town, 
chosen on account of its position, 
and being quite removed from the 
noise of the sea, which those ac- 
quainted with the Mediterranean will 
thoroughly understand; for there is 
no noisier or more aggravating sea- 
shore than that which is poetically 
the tideless, waveless, sapphire -like 
mirror of the old Tyrrhenian. In 
this house I soon made out my 
friend — a white dog with black 
points, shaven to the shoulders, and 
of Spitz breed, as his tail, put on 
very high up, and twisted with a 
jaunty, self- asserting swirl over his 
back, denoted, but with an undoubt- 
ed bar sinister in his shield — some 
English spaniel or terrier "drop," 
which, strange to say, gave him a 
power of persistence, a dauntless 
courage, and loving faithfulness, such 
as I never saw in any dog before; 
and yet I know about dogs and 
dog ways, too. 

The first thing my friend did — his 
name was Cicarello, abbreviated to 



88 



My Friend and His Story, 



Cico, and anglicized to Chick — was 
to lift himself up very high on his toes, 
erect every hair into a wire, and 
growl so as to show all his beautiful 
young white teeth at my approach 
and outstretched hand. 

" Chick ! how dare you, sir ? Come 
along, be a good little dog, and let 
me scratch your back; you don't 
know how nice it is, dear !'* 

But the growling and defiant looks 
continued, as Chick lay down on his 
own chosen step of the stairs. I 
pushed him with my foot, and said 
emphatically : 

" Chick ! you're a nasty little 
dog!'* At which candid opinion, 
Chick, sulkier and crosser than ever, 
settled himself to sleep. 

It was not long, however, before 
Chick, like all other dogs, suc- 
cumbed to the dog mesmerism of 
that hearty good-will and affection 
in which dogs are apt to trust w^ith 
a much more generous confidence 
than men. He began by licking my 
hand, then came to my room for 
water, and at last was won from his 
disreputable habits of straying from 
one wine-shop to another about the 
town, into which he had fallen from 
not being made happy and comfort- 
able at home. One day, he conde- 
scended to offer himself for a walk, 
and we went through sundry tortu- 
ous lanes to some olive-terraces 
above the town. Once there, the 
dog's unbounded delight was pretty 
to see. He rolled among the fresh 
grass and hop-clover, thickly sprinkled 
with lovely red gladioli ; he career- 
ed in and out of the olive-trees, as 
if weaving some mystic, invisible 
witch- web; and then, rushing back 
to me, barking sharply in a high fal- 
setto, he sprawled at full length on 
the ground, wagging his bushy plume 
over his back, and saying, in the 
clearest speech of his wonderful 
brown eyes, " I am not a nasty little 



dog now. Thank you for making 
me so happy !" 

My friend, whom I had long loved 
with all my heart, was easily made 
happy. The one thing necessary to 
him was some sort of master whom 
he could love. With any such, his 
queer, sullen temper brightened, his 
thoroughly obstinate will grew do- 
cile, his eyes watched every motion 
and indication showing his master's 
wishes, and, if anything were given 
into his charge, no amount of tempt- 
ing or frightening could win or scare 
him from his trust. His chiefest de- 
light was running after a stone or 
cork, in which also his ways were 
special to himself. When the stone 
was found or dug up— that very 
stone and no other — Chick would 
stand with one paw placed upon it, 
looking down at it with crest and 
tippet erect, and exactly as if it were 
some sort of live game. If no no- 
tice were taken of his dumb appeal, 
he would snatch up the stone, and 
carry it on, but always with appeal- 
ing looks to have it thrown again. 
On the olive-terraces, among the 
grass and wild flowers, where he al- 
ways became intensely excited, he 
would run round the stone, growling, 
roll upon it in a kind of frenzy, and 
snap at every one who came near. 
When I gravely called or spoke to 
him, he would relinquish this Berserk 
mood, and, wagging his brush, lick 
my hand as if to beg pardon for 
such childishness, and return to the 
decent sobrieties of ordinary life. I 
need scarcely say that it was only 
because the over-excitement was bad 
for himself that he was ever con- 
trolled in his fancies and conceits; 
for dogs, even more than children, 
should be allowed to express their 
own character and make tlieir own 
happiness, in unimportant things, in 
their own way. 

Chick attached himself to me in 



My Friend and His Story. 



89 



the most persistent way. He took 
valks with me, scratched at the 
room doors to be where I was, ran 
op and down stairs after me on every 
errand, used my room, like the dogs 
at home, as the " United Dogs' Ser- 
Tice/' and slept on a chair at the 
foot of my bed. Even when left at 
the church door during daily Mass, 
when I vainly thought him securely 
pent within gates and rails, the pad- 
ded door would be shoved open, 
and Chick, with his ears and twisted 
tail 

*' Cocked fu' sprush," 

and his whole bearing that of " the 
right man in the right place," would 
scuttle over the stone pavement, 
scent me out, and ensconce himself 
beside my chair. At meals he took 
his seat beside me, in which he 
vould rear himself up unbidden in 
the drollest way, lolling back with 
perfect ease, and gracefully holding 
one forepaw higher than the other, 
as if addressing the party. Some- 
times he would even emphasize his 
remarks by bringing one paw down 
on the table, and, amid the shouts of 
laughter he occasioned, would look 
us steadily in the face, as if enjoying 
the joke as well as the rest. He 
learnt to sit up with a shawl round 
him, a napkin-ring on his nose, and 
one crowning his head; to hold 
biscuit on his nose untouched till 
bidden to eat, and even to stand 
quite upright in the corner, watching 
with the gravest intelligence till he 
was told to come out. In short, as 
1 said before, if the one motive-power 
of love were found. Chick's genius 
seemed to know no limit. 

But, meanwhile, the day was draw- 
ing near when the deep and most 
real grief must be suffered of leaving 
my friend. Our temporary rest was 
over, and our faces were bound to 
'-•e turned towards home. Chick, 
Ai>o, took good note of the prepara- 



tions for departure, and I read in his 
eyes that he guessed their import, 
and knew that our separation was 
drawing near. Never for an instant 
would he let me move out of his 
sight, except for Mass, when I lock- 
ed him up in my room. His ex- 
ceeding joy at my return was one of 
the most touching things I ever felt. 
When every other demonstration had 
been made, he would get up on his 
hind legs, and gently lick my face, 
not as a dog usually does, but just 
putting out his tongue, and touching 
my cheek. This special act always 
seemed to say, " Can you go away 
and leave me behind ? Why not 
take me with you ?" 

The consciousness of this feeling 
wrought so strongly that the question 
was seriously mooted between my 
friend and me of buying Chick and 
carrying him with us to England. 
But there were great difficulties in the 
way. The expense was no small 
addition, besides the anxiety and 
added fatigue of another fresh thing 
to lead about and struggle for in 
stations and waiting-rooms, being, 
as we were, only a party of women, 
neither strong nor well, and already 
burdened with a superfluity of lug- 
gage and impedimenta. So the 
mournful decision was come to that 
it could not be. Our last walks 
were taken, our last gambols on the 
olive-terraces played out, and it 
seemed to me as if every hour 
Chick's eyes became more tenderly 
loving and more devotedly faithful. 
And soon I should be far out of 
reach and ken, while he must be left 
in the careless, indifferent, dog-igno- 
rant hands to which he belonged. 
Doubtless the many well-read and 
cultivated people who are in the 
habit of reading this periodical have 
already set me down as a remarka- 
bly foolish person ; but what will they 
say when I confess there were mo 



90 



My Friend and His Story. 



nients when the very thought of 
leaving Chick without* certain bed 
and board, water at will, and sympa- 
thy in his ways and love, made me 
weep real, scalding tears, and not a 
few ? 

Out of the very abundance of 
thoughts and pain some light ap- 
peared ; and one fine day, when the 
heat was fierce, I put on my hat, 
Chick took up a stone, and we both 
made our way to a large villa in 
the neighborhood, occupied by a 
family from Wales, whose acquaint- 
ance we had happily made: what 
sort of people they were the story 
of my friend will show, at least to 
those, in my eyes, the truest aris- 
tocracy of the world — the people 
who have an inbred love of dogs! 
On this visit, I remarked that Chick, 
instead of walking on his toes and 
wiring his hair as he usually did with 
strangers, accepted the whole party 
as friends, and showed off all his 
stock of accomplishments with as 
much docility as if we had been at 
home by ourselves. On the other 
side, Mr. and Mrs. Griffith — as I 
shall call them — thoroughly appre- 
ciated the dog, and, seeing this, I 
made my proposition — an unblush- 
ing one, considering that they had al- 
ready rescued two other dogs from ill 
usage — that they should also possess 
themselves of Chick. Having once 
broken the ice, I launched into a mov- 
ing description of his wretched plight, 
and greater misery when we should 
have gone, as well as the reward 
they would reap from Chick's de- 
lightful ways. They laughingly took 
it all in good part, and said, if they 
had not already an Italian Spitz 
which they had sent home, and a 
dancing dog just brought on their 
hands, they might have thought of 
Chick. I took poor Chickie home, 
therefore, with a heavy heart, though 
I did not yet give up all hope; and, 



because I did not, I put him under 
S. Anthony's care, and asked him to 
suggest to these dear people to buy 
Chick and give him a happy home. 

The eve of our departure was a few 
days after this, and, when Chick fol- 
lowed me up-stairs to bed as usual, 
I took him in my arms, and told 
him I was going away; that no- 
thing on earth should ever have 
made me leave him but the be- 
ing obliged to do so; that I had 
put him under S. Anthony's care, 
who I was sure would find him a 
friend ; and that he must be a good, 
brave little dog, and hold on for 
the present without running away. 
Chick licked away my tears, looking 
at me with his brave brown eyes 
full of trust, as I kissed him over and 
over again before going to bed. But 
afterwards I could never tell how 
many more tears I shed at leaving 
Chick friendless and alone. 

The next morning very early, I 
wrote a last appeal to Mrs. Griffith, 
which I carried out to the post my- 
self, that it might be sure to reach 
her ; and then the carriage came to 
the door, and wc drove away, see- 
ing Chick to the last on the door- 
step, sorrowfully looking after us with 
his steady brown eyes. 

It was a long time before I my- 
self learnt the second chapter of 
my dear friend's story. Mrs. Griffith 
duly got the note, and, being much 
touched by it, she went to the board- 
ing-house to call on me, thinking 
that I had been left behind for a 
week, not yet recovered from an 
illness, and also wishing to get 
another view of Chick. Neither of 
these objects being gained, she return- 
ed home with a strong feeling " borne 
in " upon her mind that Chick must 
be rescued at any inconvenience to 
themselves. Not long afterwards, 
she and her husband were a.sked by 
the owner of the boarding-house to 



My Friend and His Story, 



91 



go and look at it, as she wished to 
sell or let it on lease. They both 
accoxdingly went, chiefly with a view 
to seeing Chick. After a long visit 
and much conversation, Mrs. Griffith 
did at length see the poor little dog 
lying panting in the sun in the garden, 
where there was not an atom of 
shade. She called the attention of 
the owner to him, and told her that 
the dog was suffering and in great 
want of water. His mistress made 
some careless reply as usual, and 
passed on, still talking, down the 
stairs, when, at the front door, Mrs. 
Giiflith chanced to look down into 
the court, and there saw poor little 
Chick stretched on his back in the 
Wolent convulsions of a fit. She 
hisxjly summoned her husband, who, 
after one glance, vanished into the 
lower regions, instinctively found a 
pump and a large pan, and reappear- 
ed to drench the poor little dog with 
a cold-water bath, strongly remon- 
strating with his owner the while 
that any one with eyes or ears could 
have seen how suffering the animal 
had been from heat and thirst. 

Ah ! Chickie ! Chickie ! did any 
thought cross your dog's mind then 
of the *' United Dogs' Service " of my 
room ? Alas ! when I heard of it, 
how did I not feel for my dear little 
friend, proclaiming by every mute 
appeal his urgent need, and bravely 
suffering on in silence near to death, 
while not a hand was lifted to give 
him even the cup of cold water 
which brings with the gift its reward ! 
By dint of much bathing and rubbing 
for nearly an hour from Mr. and 
Mrs. Griffith, while his owner looked 
on in stupid amazement at this waste 
of time and trouble on " only a dog," 
Chick recovered breath and life 
ind was able to take some physic 
administered by the same kind 
hands. And then, at last, an agree- 
ment was entered into that he should 



be made over to these generous 
friends on certain conditions, one of 
which was that he should be left to 
guard the house where he was for 
the present; for though much was 
not given to my poor little friend, 
much was required from him by his 
wretched masters. 

A few days afterwards, Mrs. Grif- 
fith felt restless and uneasy, and told 
her husband she should like to have 
Chick in their possession before the 
time stipulated ; for she felt afraid he 
might come under the fresh police 
regulations for putting an end to all 
stray dogs during the raging heat. 
Mr. Griffith laughed at her "fidgets," 
but went to the boarding-house, 
nevertheless, to comply with her 
wishes. He was met at the door 
with the announcement that Chick 
had run away, and had not been 
heard of for two days ! Grieved and 
completely disgusted at the heartless 
neglect which had again driven the 
poor dog from his so-called home, 
Mr. Griffith hurried back to his 
wife with the news, and she, like the 
true woman and mother she is, sat 
down and burst into tears. Mr. 
Griffith caught up his hat, and hur- 
ried out to the police, set several 
Italian boys whom he taught; and 
who loved him well, to search every- 
where for the missing Chick, and did 
not return to his own house till late, 
completely worn out with the heat 
and worry. 

Some time later, he was told that 
one of his Italian boys had come, and 
was asking to see him; and, as soon 
as he was ordered in, the boy, who 
knew what pain he was giving, sor- 
rowfully told his news that the police 
had seized upon the " bravo Cico " 
— ^the half-shaven dog whom every- 
body knew and loved — " and "... 

"Well, and where is he?" cried 
Mrs. Griffith, her husband, and the 
child in one breath. 



92 



My Friend and His Story, 



" Ah ! signora, Cico h morto 1" 
(Cico is dead). 

" Dead ! How do you know ? 
Where ?" 

" Signora, the police take the dogs 
they find to the Mola (breakwater), 
and, if they are not claimed before 
the next night, they make away with 
them. Ah ! Cico was a bravo, bravo 
canino I" (a brave little dog). 

Looking at his wife's face, Mr. 
Griffith quickly despatched the boy, 
and, once more taking up his hat, 
this brave and good man again 
sought the police office, where the 
news was confirmed that Chick was 
dead. Still hoping against hope, 
Mr. Griffith said, " There are many 
white and black dogs ; I should like 
to see his dead body." 

This, backed by other arguments, 
admitted of no demur. The for- 
eign English lord must -be humored 
in his whim, and he should be con- 
ducted to the poor dead Chickie's 
dungeon. On the way, Mr. Griffith 
amazed his wife by rushing into their 
house like a '' fire-flaught," calling out 
for a piece of cold meat and a roll 
and butter " as quick as possible !*' 

" But Chickie's dead — the poor 
dog's dead!" she began. But he 
waved his hand and vanished, running 
down the street with his coat flying in 
the wind. He, too, almost flew across 
the reach of sand and driftwood to the 
Mola, and up to the prison door of 
the dark, airless, filthy hole into which 
poor little Chick had been thrust, like 
a two-legged criminal guilty of some 
horrible crime, from the last Satur- 
day afternoon till this present Mon- 
day night. Not a single drop of wa- 
ter had been vouchsafed him; but 
the fiendish cruelty which character- 
izes people ignorant of the habits and 
sufferings of animals, while denying 
tlie do^ this one necessary, had insti- 
gated the police to leave him a large 
piece of poisoned meat. 



" Signore," said a magisterial voice 
from among the idle crowd which 
had gathered to see what miracles the 
English lord was going to work— 
" signore, if the dog will not eat, he 
is mad, and you must not take him 
away !" And a lump of hard, mouldy 
black bread was thrown down before 
the seemingly lifeless body of poor 
little Chick, who of course made no 
sign. 

" E matto ! E matto i" (he is mad) 
cried many voices. 

" Chickie ! Chickie ! dear little dog- 
gie, come and speak to me!" cried 
Mr. Griffith, who was nearly beside 
himself at the bare sight of what the 
bright, happy little creature had be- 
come, and the thought of what his 
sufferings had been. Chickie heard 
the voice, recognized his kind helper, 
opened his eyes, and, feebly dragging 
himself up from the ground, came 
forward a step or two towards the 
door, which caused a general stir of 
dread and horror among the spec- 
tators, and made the police half 
close the door, lest the terrible mon- 
ster should break loose upon them. 
Mr. Griffith forced himself into the 
opening, and threw his bit of cold 
meat to Chick ; but he had suffered too 
much to be able to eat it, and turned 
from it with disgust, though he feebly 
wagged his brush in acknowledgment 
to his kind friend. Almost in despair, 
but calling the dog by every coaxing, 
caressing name he could thhik of, Mr. 
Griffith then held out to him a mor- 
sel of well-buttered roll, and, again 
wagging his brush. Chick smelt at it, 
took it, and ate the whole of it in the 
presence of the august crowd. 

Mr. Griffith felt that he could throw 
up his hat, or dance for joy, or mis- 
behave in any other way which was 
most unbecoming to a staid country 
gentleman; but all he actually did 
was to pull a piece of cord quickly 
out of his pocket, and say, "I can 



The Lave of God. 



93 



take the dog home with me now, 
can't I ?" 

'* You can take him to the owner, 
signore. And on payment of ten 
francs to the police" (for the 
poisoned meat?)> "and with the 
owTier's consent, the dog will be 
yours." 

The prison door was then opened 
a little wider for the cord to be tied 
round Chick's neck, when, behold ! 
he spied the moment of escape, and, 
refreshed with his morsel of roll, and 
not knowing what more the cruelty 
of man would devise, the plucky little 
dog rushed through the crowd, and 
raced along the shore to the town 
as bard as he could go, Mr. Griffith 
after him at the top of his speed, to 
a certain low wine-shop, where also 
Chick had a true friend. And there 
Mr. Griffith found him, after drinking 
nearly a bucketful of water, in the 
convulsions of another and most terri- 
ble fit ! His generous friend carried 
him home in his arms, tucked up his 
sleeves and gave him a warm bath, 
physicked him, nursed him, washed 



and combed the vermin of his loath- 
some prison-hole from him, and, with 
untiring pains and a love that never 
wearied, brought the brave little dog- 
gie back to life and health. 

The story of my friend is told. 
Chick's last appearance in his native 
town was when making a triumphal 
progress through it in a carriage with 
his master and mistress; he sitting 
up on his hind legs in his old fash- 
ion, lolling back against the carriage- 
cushion with one paw raised, while 
every man and boy they met salut- 
ed the English lord and lady with 
lifted hats and delighted cries of 
" Cico! Cicarello! Bravo! bravo can- 
ino 1" Chick was eventually brought 
home to England by that best of 
masters whom S. Anthony had found 
for him, to whom he has attached 
himself so devotedly that nothing but 
force will induce him to leave him by 
night or day. And that master and 
I are of one mind — that a braver, 
cleverer, more loving, or more faith- 
ful dog could never be found. 



THE LOVE OF GOD. 



The chief thing that is to be re- 
garded in him that doth anything, is 
the will and love wherewithal he 
doeth it. O Redeemer of the world ! 
although thou has done much for 
us, and given us great gifts, and 
hast delivered us from many mis- 
chiefs, and hast promised us thy 
eternal and everlasting bliss, yet is 
all this, being so much that it mak- 
clh one astonished and afraid, far 
less than the love that thou bearest 
us. For love thou gavest thyself 
unto us: thou earnest down from 
heaven, thou tookest flesh, and 



diedst ; and through the unspeakable 
love that thou borest us, thou hast 
created and redeemed us, and gav- 
est thyself unto us in the Blessed 
Sacrament of the Eucharist, and de- 
liveredst us from so many evils, and 
promisest us so great goods. Thy 
love is of such force towards us, that 
the least favors that thou doest us, 
coming polished with such singular 
fine love, we are never able to be 
sufficiently thankful for it, nor to re- 
quite, although we should thrust our- 
selves into flaming furnaces for love 
of thee. — Southwell, 



94 



A French Poet. 



A FRENCH POET.* 



It is often said among those who 
assert much and investigate little 
that the control of science, of litera- 
ture, and of art has passed beyond the 
domain of the ancient church, that 
her children have given up the con- 
test, and that she no longer produces 
distinguished men. It seems to be 
an understood thing that sound Cath- 
olicism is not consistent with profici- 
ency in any branch of the higher pur- 
suits, and that every artist, scientist, 
and littSraieur ceases to be a good 
Christian in proportion as he is suc- 
cessful in his profession. There has 
been some apparent excuse for such 
an impression gaining ground, but it 
is none the less an erroneous impres- 
sion. Especially of late years has it 
been triumphantly refuted, and no- 
where with more Mit than in the very 
stronghold, the sanctum sanctontm 
of free thought and private judg- 
ment — England. There has arisen in 
that land of successful and jubilant 
materialism, that citadel of rational- 
ism in matters of religion, a knot of 
men formidable for their learning, 
their eloquence, their taste, and their 
wit. But if even in England, under 
the shadow that was yet left hanging 
over the church from the effects of 
three hundred years of repression, 
the vitality of the old " olive-tree *' t 
was amply proved by the grafting 
in and prosperous growth of so many 
new branches, still more was the fruit- 
fulness of the ancient mother and 
mistress of all knowledge shown 
forth in Ca th olic France. That coun- 

• Leitrts d« Jtan Rebaul de Ntmes^ ovtc un* 
Introduction par M. de Ponjoulat. Michel L^vy 
Frfcres. Paris, 1866. 

t Romans zi. 34. 



try has suffered sorely ; it has been 
the experimental plaything of the 
world, it has been torn by unchristian 
politicians, gagged by Caesarisni, 
drenched in blood by demagogism ; 
it has been deluged with a literature 
as shameless as it was attractive, until 
the name of France has become iden- 
tified in the minds of many with de- 
liberate and organized immorality. It 
is asserted that the names of her 
most famous novelists are synonymes 
of licentiousness ; that her philosophers 
openly preach the grossest material- 
ism ; and that those of her liitiraieurs 
who are not absolute libertines are un- 
disguised Sybarites. Never was coun- 
try so thoroughly and deplorably mis- 
represented as this Catholic land, 
whence have come three-fourths of 
the missionaries of the world, armies 
of Sisters of Charity, the most impetu- 
ous and the bravest of the Pope's de- 
fenders, the most indefatigable scien- 
tific explorers, the purest of political 
reformers. If France must be judged 
by her literature, she can point to 
Montalembert, Ozanam, Albert de 
Broglie, Eug6nie de Guerin, Louis 
Veuillot, Dupanloup, Rio, Lacor- 
daire, Mme. Craven, Pontmartin, La 
Morvonnais, as well as to Balzac, 
Dumas, Eugene Sue, George Sand, 
and Alfred de Musset. If by her 
art, De la Roche, Ary Scheffer, Hip- 
polyte Flandrin, vindicate her old 
Catholic historical preeminence; if 
by her science and her philosophy, 
there are Ampere, Berryer, Villemain, 
even Cousin. Everywhere the old 
sap is coursing freely, and in the 
ranks of all professions are champions 
ready to do battle for the old faith 



A French Poet. 



95 



that made France a "grande nation.^* 
But those we have mentioned, espe- 
cially the distinguished and brilliant 
cluster, Montalembert, de Broglie, 
Lacordairey and Dupanloup, had es- 
chewed the old legitimist traditions, 
and, without detracting from their 
fame, we may say that they were em- 
inently men of the XlXth century. 
The charm and poetry of chivalry, 
fid^ty to an exiled race, the spell 
of the white flag and the golden 
JUur-de-lis^ were in their minds things 
of the past ; noble and beautiful wea- 
pons, it is true, but useless for the 
present emergency, like the enamel- 
led armor and jewelled daggers which 
we reverently admire in our national 
moseams. The old monarchical tra- 
ditions needed a champion in the 
6eki of literature where their con- 
scientious and respectful opponents 
were so brilliantly represented, and 
this they found in Jean Rebou], the 
subject of this memoir. 

One would have thought that the 
legitimist poet would have arisen 
from some lonely castle of Brittany, 
and have borne a name which twenty 
generations of medtseval heroes had 
made famous in song. One would 
have pictured him as the melancholy, 
high-spirited descendant of Crusaders, 
orphaned by the Vendean war, in- 
spired by the influence of the ocean 
and the majestic solitude of the 
landes.^ 

He would be likely to be a Chris- 
tian Byron, a modem Ossian, far 
removed from contact with the 
world, almost a prophet as well as a 
poet. But as if to render his 
personality more marked, and his 
partisanship more striking, the 
champion of legitimacy was none of 
these things. Instead of being a 
noble, he was a baker; instead of 
a solitary, a busy man of the world 

* Unc«Uirated tracts of land bordering the 
— -^ - of BrliUny. 



— even a deputy in the French As- 
sembly in 1840. Who would have 
dreamt this ? Yet when God chose 
a king for Israel, he did not call a 
man of exalted family to the throne, 
but '^ a son of Jemini of the least 
tribe of Israel, and his kindred the 
last among all the families of the 
tribe of Benjamin." * So it fell out 
with the representative who, among 
the constellation of more than 
ordinary brilliancy which marked 
the beginning of this century in 
France, was to uphold the old 
political faith of the land. There 
was doubtless some wise reason for 
this singular and unexpected choice. 
Reboul was a man of the people, a 
worker for his bread, that it might 
be known what the people could do 
when led by faith and loyalty ; he was 
from Nimes, in the south of France, 
not far from Lyons and Marseilles, 
that his attitude might be a perpetual 
protest against the wave of commu- 
nism and revolution which had its 
source in the south; he was, so to 
speak, a descendant of the Romans 
— for Nimes was a flourishing 
Roman colony and its people are 
said to retain much of the massive- 
ness of the Roman character — that he 
might rebuke the mistaken notion 
of those who make of the old repub- 
lic a type of modern anarchy, and de- 
secrate the names of Lucretia and 
Cornelia by bestowing them on the 
tricoteuses\ of 1793, or X\\q peiroieuses 
of 1870. It must have been a 
special consolation to the exiled 
representative of the Bourbons, the 
object of such devoted and romantic 
loyalty, to follow the successes and 
receive the outspoken sympathy of 
so unexpected and so staunch an 



* X Kings U. ax. 

t This name was given to the market-woinen 
who had their regular seats around the guillo> 
tine, and knitUd diligentlyf at the same time 
insulting the victims while the executioner did 
his bloody work. 



96 



A French Poet* 



adherent. Uncompromising in his 
championship of the " drapeau blanc,'* 
Reboul was politically a host in him- 
self, and, untrammelled as he was 
by the traditions and prejudices that 
hedged in the nobles of the party, 
he was able to mingle with all classes, 
speak to all men, treat with all par- 
ties, and yet to carry his allegiance 
through all obstacles, unimpaired and 
even unsuspected. 

Jean Reboul was born at Nimes 
on the 23d of January, 1796. His 
father was a locksmith and in very 
modest circumstances. His mother 
was early left a widow, with four 
young children to provide for. Jean, 
who was the eldest, and of an equally 
thoughtful and energetic character, 
soon contrived to relieve her of the 
anxieties of her position, by estabHsh- 
ing himself in business as a baker. 
Whatever ambitious and vague long- 
ings he might have had even at that 
early period we do not know, but 
can easily guess at, and his sacrifice of 
them already endears the future poet 
to our hearts. How he ever after 
preferred the claims of his family to 
his own convenience, and refused to 
take from them the security which his 
lowly trade gave them, and which 
the precarious success of a literary 
career might have taken away, we 
shall see later on. But Reboul did 
not forego his poetical aspirations ; he 
published various detached pieces 
in the local journals of Nimes, he 
circulated MS. poems among his 
friends, and his name began to be 
well known at least in his native 
town. It was not till 1820, however, 
that the outside world and the lite- 
rary assemblies of Paris knew him. 
He gave half his day to the labor 
of his trade and half to intellec- 
tual work and hard study, and the 
activity of his character, as well as 
the rigorous measurement of his time, 
so arranged as never to waste a 



moment, made this division of labor 
prejudicial to neither one employ- 
ment nor the other. 

In physique he was tall, athletic, 
and stately enough for a Roman sena- 
tor. His features were cast in a large 
and massive mould, his dark, brilliant 
eyes were full of meridional fire, and his 
abundant black hair seemed a fitting 
fi'ame for his manly, fearless counte- 
nance. Even in old age and when 
dying, a friend and admirer recorded 
that "his face has suffered no con- 
traction, but has wholly kept the 
purity of those sculptural lineaments 
so nobly reproduced by the chisel 
of Pradier ; it even seemed to have 
borrowed a new and graver majesty 
from the dread approach of death ; 
. . even death appeared, as it were, to 
hesitate to touch his form, and seem- 
ed to draw near its victim with the 
deepest respect." His vigorous life, 
his active intelligence, his inflexible 
uprightness of character— everything 
seemed to point him out as a man 
beyond the common run of even 
good men. We shall see his charac- 
ter as developed in the admirable let- 
ters which form the basis of this 
sketch. Type of a Christian patriot, 
he towers above his contemporaries 
by sheer nobility of soul, and is an ex- 
ample of that moral stature to which 
no worldly honors, no political posi- 
tion, no hereditary rank can add " one 
cubit." F*v Deo, Patria ei Rege was 
his lifelong motto, and it may safely 
be said that if France had many such 
sons, no one in the past or in the 
future could have rivalled or could 
hope to rival " la grande nation." 

His first volume of collected poems 
was published in 1836, and one by 
one eminent men of letters, struck 
by the beauty, severity, and freshness 
of his diction, sought out the new 
light and entered into brotherhood 
with him. His lifelong friendship 
with M. de Fresne, however, dated 



A French Poet. 



97 



from 1829, when he had already pub- 
lished T/ie Angel and the Child;^ in 
a Paris magazine, and other pieces 
at various intervals in local periodi- 
cals. A traveller from the capital 
knocked at the miknown poet's door, 
and the tie knit by the first external 
homage that had yet come to Re- 
boul, was never dissolved. The let- 
ters from which we draw his por- 
trait, as traced by himself, were all 
addressed to this first friend. In 
1838, another and more illustrious 
viator came to the baker's home 
at Nimes, the patriarch of revived 
Qmstian literature in France, the 
immortal Chateaubriand. He tells 
the story of his visit himself: 

" I found him in his bakery, and 
spoke to him without knowing to 
whom I was speaking, not distin- 
guishing him from his companions 
in the trade of Ceres; he took my 
name, and said he would see if the 
person I wanted was at home. He 
came back presently and smilingly 
made himself known to me. He 
took me through his shop, where we 
groped about in a labyrinth of flour- 
5^cks, and at last climbed by a sort 
of ladder into a little retreat {r^duit) 
something like the chamber of a 
windmill. There we sat down and 
talked. I was as happy as in my 
brjTi in London, t and much happier 
than in my minister's chair in Paris." 
Rcboul was an ardent Catholic, 
an uncompromising " ultramontane," 
as their enemies designate those who 
refuse to render unto Caesar the 
things that are God's. He took a 
keen and sensitive interest in the 
struggles of religion against infidelity, 
the prototypes, or rather the counter- 
parts, of those we see now waging in 
Italy and Germany. On the occasion 



* See • translation of this poem in The Catho- 
uc WoKLD for July. 

*Alliidio|? to his own Ticiisttudes daring the 
'rcaek emifrmtion. 

VOL. xvin. 7 



of one of these attacks on the church 
in 1844, he writes these trenchant 
words : 

" The sword is drawn between the 
religious and the political power : if 
I were not a Frenchman before be- 
ing a royalist, and a Catholic before 
a Frenchman, I should find much to 
rejoice at in this check to the hopes 
of a certain part of the episcopate who 
honestly believed in the reign of re- 
ligious freedom, on the word of the 
revolutionists. But, good people ! 
if revolution were not despotism, it 
would not be revolution." 

The unity of the church struck 
him as immeasurably grand. Speak- 
ing of the great Spanish convert Do- 
noso- Cortes and his religious works, 
he says : 

" What a marvellous faith it is 
which makes men situated at such 
distances of time and place think 
exactly alike on the most difficult 
and deepest subjects !" 

A most striking passage in his 
writings is the following opinion on 
the Reformation : 

" Forgive my outspokenness," he 
writes to his friend M. de Fresne, " if 
my opinion differs totally from yours. 
No, the Reformation was not an out- 
burst of holy and generous indigna- 
tion against abuses and infamies. 
This indignation possessed all the 
eminent and virtuous men in the 
church, but it was not to be found 
among the reformers. The Reforma- 
tion, on the contrary, came to lega- 
lize corruption and bend the precepts 
of the Gospel to the exigencies of 
the flesh. Luther was literally the 
Mahomet of the West. Both acted 
through the sword : the one estab- 
lished polygamy, the other divorce, a 
species of polygamy far more fatal 
to morals than polygamy proper. 
If you would know what the Refor- 
mation really was, look at its found- 
ers and abettors, and see if chastity 



98 



A French Poet, 



was dear to them. Henry VIII. 
married six wives, of whom he di- 
vorced two and executed two more ; 
Zwinglius took a wife, Beza took a 
wife, Calvin took a wife, Luther 
took a wife, the landgrave of Hesse 
wished to take a second wife during 
the lifetime of his first, and Luther 
authorized him to do so. The 
caustic Erasmus, whose Catholicism 
was not very strict, could not 
help saying that the Reformation 
was a comedy like many others, 
where everything ended with mar- 
riages. The real reformers of the 
church, those who reformed her 
not according to the gospel of pas- 
sion, but the Gospel of Jesus Christ, 
were S. Charles Borromeo, S. John 
of the Cross, S. Teresa, S. Ignatius 
Loyola, and thousands of holy 
priests and bishops." 

Not to weary the reader by con- 
stant comments on the text which 
reveals this great Christian thinker's 
mind, we will append the following 
significant quotations from his let- 
ters with as few breaks as possible. 
They are gathered from a collection 
extending over a period of more than 
thirty years : 

" The secrets of the church are 
ruled by a divine order, and to judge 
of them according to merely human 
fears or prudence, is to mistake the 
nature of the church, and to ignore 
her past. Time takes upon itself 
the vindication of decisions arrived 
at by a legitimate authority, even 
though it be a temporal one ; . . . . 
truth will come to the surface, and 
is often manifested by the very men 
apparently most earnest in combat- 
ing it I believe this work 

(a religious publication of M. de 
Broglie) is an event, as much be- 
cause of the author's character and 
the principles which his name is un- 
derstood to represent, as because of 
the epoch of its publication. This 



frank confession in the belief of the 
supernatural in the teeth of the pub- 
lic rationalistic teaching of the day— 
ever striving to wrap Christ in its own 
shroud of philosophical verbiage and 
to bury him in the grave fi-om which 
he had risen — makes us pray to God 
and praise him, . . . \}ci2X his kingdom 
may come, . . . The struggle nowa- 
days is between God made man, and 
man making himself God. ... I 
wonder that you take the trouble to 
break your head thinking about 
these German dreamers (atheists); 
for my part, I gave orders long ago 
to the door-keeper of my brain., 
if any of these gentleman should 
ask for me, to say that I was ' not at 
home,^ These old errors served up 
with the new sauce of a worse dark- 
ness than before seem to me very 
indigestible. 

"Genius which devotes itself to 
evil, far from being a glory, is but a 
gigantic infamy. Plato is right when 
he calls it a fatal industry. 

"The French Revolution has done 
in the political world what the Re- 
formation did in the religious world ; 
it has taken from reason her leaning 
staff, and reason, trying to stand 
alone, has caused the things we have 
seen — and so, alas 1 at this moment, 
the Revolution cries out for a princi- 
ple, but is itself the negation of all 
principle." 

In politics, as we have seen, Re- 
boul was a staunch legitimist, but 
a shrewd observer. He was no 
dreamer, though his belief in the 
ancient Bourbons was with him a 
perfect cultus. He never swerved 
from the road which he had traced 
for himself. As a poet, his native 
city was proud of him, France held 
out every honor to him, fellow-/////rj- 
ieurs of all shades of opinion wel- 
comed him as a brother, govern- 
ments flattered him, the people 
looked up to him. Had he been 



A French Poet. 



99 



smbitious, civic and parliamentary 
honors were ready for him ; had he 
been venal, his career might have 
been brilliant, lucrative, and idle. 
In 1844, the mayor of Nlmes, M. 
Girard, proposed to him a change 
of occupation, offering him the posi- 
tion of town-librarian, as more suited 
to his tastes than the trade he fol- 
lowed. He was assured that this 
appointment would entail no politi- 
cal obligation, that perfect independ- 
ence of speech and action would be 
guaranteed to him, but, says M. de 
Poujoulat : " Reboul, intent above 
all on the services he could render 
the cause among his own surround- 
ings, and solicitous of hedging in the 
^\^\\y of his life with the most 
spotless integrity, refused the mayor's 
offer. He did not even seek to 
make a merit of his refusal ; his 
fHends knew nothing of it; M. de 
Fresne alone was in the secret, and 
it was not divulged till years after." 
The Cross of the Legion of Honor 
was twice offered him : once by 
the government of Louis Philippe, 
through the agency of the minister 
M. de Salvandy, who was fond 
of seeking out honest and inde- 
pendent talent, but the loyal poet 
answered briefly : '* He who alone 
has the right to decorate me is not in 
France"; and again by the empire, 
when it was urged that the decora- 
tion was a homage such as might 
have been respectfully offered in 
Us Arenes (the Roman amphitheatre 
at Nimes). Reboul proudly yet 
playfully replied that "he had not 
)ct quite reached the state of a 
monument," and feeling plenty of vi- 
tality left in him, did not need the 
red ribbon. He explains to his 
friend M. de Fresne that he asked 
the God of S. Louis to enlighten his 
perplexities, to lift his soul above all 
small vanities, to deliver him from 
political rancor, if he harbored any. 



and to guide him to a decision which 
would leave him at peace with him- 
self. " I have not the presumption," 
he adds, "to think that I received 
an inspiration from above, but I be- 
lieve in the efficacy of prayer. I 
know not if I was heard, but at any 
rate I did my best." 

There is a grand Christian sim- 
plicity in this, which marks Reboul 
as a man far beyond the average. 
Nothing dazzles him, because he al- 
ways has the glory of God before his 
eyes. His friend M. de Poujoulat 
says of him : 

** I find in Reboul a penetrating 
and serious good sense, broad views, 
as it were luminous sheaves of 
thought ; I see in him an unpreju- 
diced and discriminating observer of 
the affairs of his day. The noise of 
popularity is not glory, and the- 
stature our contemporaries make foe 
us is not our true one, but one rais- 
ed by artifice and conventionality.. 
Here was a man who looked down, 
from the height of his solitude, said, 
what he thought, and in his judge- 
ment forestalled the verdict of pos- 
terity. Reboul was interested in the 
individual works of his day, but he- 
had only scant admiration for the 
age that produced them. His con- 
science was the measure of his ap- 
preciation both of men and events,, 
and it was a measure hardly advan- 
tageous to them." 

In 1836, a few of his friends clubbed 
together to offer him at least a pension,, 
in the name of" an exile " (the Comte 
de Chambord) , but he refused even this 
with touching disinterestedness, say- 
ing : " There is but one hand on earth 
from which I should not blush to- 
accept a gift : the representative of 
Providence on earth. The gifts of this 
hand increase the honor and inde- 
pendence of the recipient, and bind, 
him to nothing save the public weal, 
but adverse circumstance having seal- 



lOO 



A French Poet, 



ed this fount of honor, I could not 
dream of drawing aught from it, for 
Pexil a besoin de ses viiettes^ * and it is 
rather our duty to contribute to its 
needs than to draw on it for our 
own." Later, when pressing neces- 
sity made it incumbent upon him to 
accept help from his friends and his 
sovereign, as he loyally called the 
exiled Comte de Chambord, it was 
so great a sorrow to him that he could 
scarcely enjoy the material benefit 
of such help. The poor and faith- 
ful poet had "dreamed of leaving 
earth with the memory of a devotion 
wholly gratuitous," and was sincerely 
grieved because it could not be so. 
He received several letters from the 
Comte de Chambord and his wife, 
some written in their own hand, 
others by their secretary, and he ad- 
dressed himself several times to these 
objects of his cuUus in terms of 
impassioned yet dignified loyalty. 
Henri V. fully appreciated his hom- 
age, and treated him as a friend ra- 
ther than a stranger. Reboul visited 
the royal family at Frohsdorf, their 
Austrian retreat, and received the 
most flattering marks of attention. 
To him it was not a visit so much as 
a pilgrimage; his devotion to the 
person of his sovereign was but the 
embodiment of his principle of fealty 
towards hereditary monarchy. Speak- 
ing of the Requiem Mass celebrated 
at Nimes, in October, 1851, on the 
occasion of the death of the Duch- 
esse d'Angoul^me, daughter of Louis 
XVI., he says: 

" She had made a deep impression, 
and left durable memories among the 
working classes of our town, on her 
passage through Nimes some years 
ago. . . . The people, my dear 
friend, the Christian people, recog- 
nizes better than ks beaux-esprits what 
true greatness is, and is ever ready to 

• Literally, " Exile needs even its I'ery 
crumbs." 



bow before the majesty of a nobly- 
borne sorrow. No orator could ade- 
quately describe the appearance of 
our church to-day. This great ga- 
thering en blouse ou en vesie* these 
faces browned by toil and want, bore 
an expression of nobility and gravity 
fully suitable to such an occasion. . . . 
When one still has such courtiers, is 
exile a reality ?" 

Reboul would never allow that the 
irregularities of its representatives 
were enough of themselves to con- 
demn a system. We have seen how, 
while recognizing the degeneracy of 
many churchmen in the XVIth cen- 
tury, he yet denounced the pretended 
reformers who sought this pretext 
for attacking the church, and in poli- 
tics his judgments were equally clear 
and impartial. ** If," he says, " it is 
still possible to be a republican de- 
spite the Reign of Terror, it is not 
impossible to be a royalist despite a 
few moral deviations which have dis- 
graced some of our kings. Was the 
Directoire (a genuine republican pro- 
duct) an assembly of Josephs ? And 
the houses of our day — are they not 
of glass ? It is not wise, therefore, to 
be incessantly throwing stones. . . . 
After all, I return to my original argu- 
ment: notwithstanding the shadows 
which darken the great qualities and 
high virtues of many of our kings, 
can you find anytliing better ?" 

Reboul's political faith is traced at 
length in the following paragraph, 
which may be called statesmanUke, 
since it contains a theory of govern- 
ment: "The sovereign is by all 
means a responsible agent, but I add 
to this, that the people also, when it 
makes itself sovereign, is equally re- 
sponsible. The habit of thought 
which separates the one from the 
other is one of the misfortunes of our 
times. Without sovereignty there can 

* Smock-frock, or woridag-clothet. 



A Frenek Ppet. 



lOI 



be no nation y nor even a people. 
There remains but an agglomeration 
of individuals. When I say sovereign 
you know, if you understand the lan- 
guage of politics, that I mean any 
legitimate form of government. This 
is applicable to all governments. Be 
sure that it is nonsense to talk of a 
nation as making its own sovereign. 
A •'nation" which as yet has no 
sovereignty is no more a nation than 
a body without its head is a real 
body." 

Reboul not only believed in sove- 
reignty, but in an aristocracy as a 
necessary part of a sound national 
system. Commenting upon a poli- 
tical article by M. de Villemain, he 
gii-es his ideas thus : " He is mistaken 
\i he believes, as he says he does, that 
a people can enjoy freedom without 
an aristocracy, or, if this word is too 
much of a bugbear in the ears of our 
age, without an interme4iate class be- 
tween the sovereign and the people. 
Equality is a fine thing, but revolu- 
tionary journalists must make up their 
minds that equality can only be ar- 
rived at by the raising of one man 
and the lowering of all the rest. It is 
almost a truism to say so, but these 
truisms are not bud things in politics, 
being so often borne out by expe- 
rience, and, alas ! by the convulsions 
of empires." 

Our poet and politician could be 
witty when he liked, and, had he not 
been so earnest a Christian, his sati- 
rical humor would have been more 
often exercised on those from whom 
he differed so widely in opinion. This 
humor crops out sometimes, as when, 
on the occasion of an agricultural 
show (no very congenial f(§te to a 
man of his stamp), he quaintly says : 
" I do not demur to any rational 
encouragement given to agriculture, 
but I fancy Sully, to whom it owes 
so much, would not have been quite 
so extravagant in the choice of honors 



suth 5is*are now heaped upon it. A 
public, an^ gratuitous show, convoca- 
tion of ^ife Academy, the municipal 
council, tiie prefect of the depart- 
ment, all that .fdss.for the coronation 
of a few dumi3^-"!imjnals! Do you 
not see in this a ptQvidenjial sarcasm 
—a people allowed to.*crown swine 
after uncrowning its ki^gs^^.*. 

A significant prophecy''ifir*6oQ4,^ined 
in the last words of the 'foHtfwing 
paragraph: "I begin to doubt; iliQ 
efficacy of all these intellectual struft-.' . 
gles ; our times need a stronger logic /. 
than that of pamphlets, and I feaf 
(God forgive me for the despairing 
thought) — I fear that some great mis- 
fortune alone is capable of curing 
France." How terrible the cure was 
when it came we all know, but we 
have yet to see whether it has been 
efficient. 

His brief career as deputy to the 
Constituent Assembly in 1848 de- 
rives a peculiar interest for the reader 
by reason of the seeming contradic- 
tion it presents to his settled political 
creed. But Reboul judged things 
by a higher standard than that of 
party prejudice. " A Frenchman be- 
fore a royalist," he vindicated his 
patriotism by active measures in those 
stormy days when more voices were 
needed to speak for the right ii> the 
councils of the nariou. No doubt, 
with his unfailing discernment, he saw 
the incongruity of his actual position 
as a man of the people with that re- 
fusal of office which was in a certain 
sense becoming — nay, required — in a 
legitimist of noble birth. He says of 
his nomination : " I had firmly re- 
fused before, being certain of my own 
incompetency, but our population 
would not hear reason. These good 
people imagine that, because one 
can scribble verses, one can therefore 
represent a borough. I was not able 
to disabuse them; it was made a 
question of honor and oatriotism, 



102 



A Fftnfh Poet. 



« • 



and how could I refuse any Idngpr ? 
Here am I, therefore, wh^'.li^Ve al- 
ways lived far from pQ^tficafi gather- 
ings, I a man of retirofA^it ind study, 
thrown into your .-w^tripool without 
well knowing whSi will happen to me 
there." 

He was nbt happy as a deputy. 
M. de Petr^idat says that Reboul's 
counUfnlOOCe in those days was that 
of ^ nfifr bored to death. When, the 
fijlfos^mg year, he retired from these 
'/wpVonted honors, he thanked God 
'••\foV "having rescued him from the 
storm," and wrote to a friend : " I am 
quite happy again, and do not at all 
regret the honors I have left. I won- 
der what interest there can be in such 
heated disputes about vulgarized is- 
sues! I never felt more at home 
than I do now, and nothing whispers 
to me that I have had any loss." 

Of a young and unfortunate col- 
league in the Assembly, a man who 
had mistaken an irrepressible mo- 
mentary exaltation for a genuine vo- 
cation, and from a porter had vaulted 
to the position of a deputy, while he 
further aspired to that of a poet, 
Reboul says with grave sympathy 
and sterling sense : " His blind ambi- 
tion often astounded me, but it was 
so candid and so genuine that I had 
not the heart to condemn it. I have 
often grieved over this frank nature, 
this child who, in his gambols, would 
handle as a whip which he could use 
the serpent thaf was to bite him. 
The best thing for him would be to 
go back to his trade in the teeth of 
the world, and to make use of his 
strength and youth; he would find 
in that a truer happiness than in the 
shadow of an official desk, or in the 
corruptions of the literary * Bohemia,* 
but such an effort, I fear, is beyond 
his strength of mind." With what 
special right Reboul could give this 
sound, if stern, advice, we shall see 
presently. 



In poetry Reboul's inspiration was 
purely Christian, austere in its moral- 
ity, and trusting rather to the matter 
than the form. He believed that the 
times required a poetic censorship, 
incisive, rapid, and relentless ; poetry 
was " the mould that God had given 
him in which to cast his thoughts,*' 
and he felt bound to use it in season 
for God's cause, without stopping to 
elaborate its form and perhaps weak- 
en its effect. Thus it came about 
that he was essentially a poet of 
action, mingling with his fellow-men, 
following the vicissitudes of the day 
and bearing his part valiantly in the 
battle of life. He was not of the 
contemplative, subjective order of 
poets, nor was he among the sensual- 
ists of literature. His art was to him 
neither a personal consolation, oc- 
cupying all his time and plunging 
him into a selfish yet not unholy 
oblivion of the world, nor yet an in- 
strument of gain and a pander to the 
evil passions of others. It was a 
mission, not simply a gift ; a " talent " 
to be used and to bring in five-fold 
in the interests of his heavenly Mas- 
ter. Many of his friends objected to 
the crudity of form which soraetimey 
resulted from this earnest conviction, 
and later in life he did set himself tc 
polish his style a little more. All his 
verses bear this imprint of passionate 
earnestness; he speaks to all, kings 
and people; he tells them of their 
duties in times of revolution, he 
urges men to martyrdom, if need 
be, that the truth may triumph ; he 
exalts patriotism, fidelity, and disin- 
terestedness, and loses no opportu- 
nity to wrap wholesome precepts in 
poetic form. His style is vigorous 
ana impetuous, yet domestic affec- 
tions are no strangers to his pen. 
The world knows him as the author 
of "The Angel and the Child," 
which has been translated into all 
languages from English to Per- 



A French Pcet. 



103 



sian* and inspired a Dresden painter 
with a beautiful rendering of the song 
on canvas. He says of himself: 
** With me, poetry is but the veil of 
philosophy," and in this he has un- 
consciously followed the dictum of 
a great man of the XVth century, 
Savonarola, who, in his work on the 
Division and Utility of all Sciences^ re- 
cords the same truth : " The essence 
of poetry is to be found in philoso- 
phy; the object of poetry being to 
persuade by means of that syllogism 
called an example exposed with ele- 
gance of language, so as to convince 
and at the same time to delight us."t 

Comeille was his favorite French 
poet, and his admiration for the 
Chrisdan tragedy of " Polyeucte " 
prompted him to write a drama in 
the same style, called the " Martyr- 
dom of Vivia." The scene was 
placed in his own Nimes, in the 
time of the Roman Empire. The 
piece was full of beauties, and above 
all of enthusiasm, but, as might have 
been expected, it was hardly a thea- 
trical success. He says himself: 
'* Tlie glorification of the martyrs of 
old is not a sentiment of our day"; 
but when " Vivia " was performed 
under his own auspices in his native 
town the result was far different. It 
created ^ furor ^ and everything, even 
the accessories, was perfect Every 
one vied with each other to make it 
not only a success in itself, but an 
ovation to the author. Reboul, when 
he once saw it acted in Paris, was so 
genuinely overcome by it that, lean- 
ing across the box toward his friend 
M. de Fresne, he whispered naively 
with tears in his eyes : " I had no 
idea that it was so beautiful." 

As a poet, he utterly despised 
mere popularity, and has recorded 

* By Monchharem, a youni; Persian attached 
tD the ttaff of Marshal Paskievlcz. 

tSee ibe second article on Jerome Savooarola, 
Catmouc Womu>, J ulf , 1873. 



this feeling both in verse and in 
prose. In his poem " Consolation 
in Forgetfulness " he asks whether 
the nightingale, hidden among the 
trees, seeks out first some attentive 
human ear into which to pour its 
ravishing strains ? Nay, he answers, 
but the songster gives all he has to 
the night, the desert, and its silence, 
and if night, desert, and silence are 
alike insensible, its own great Maker 
is ever at hand to listen. But it is 
useless to translate winged verse into 
lame prose; the next verse we will 
quote in the original : 

" Ua grand nom codte cher dans les temps ou 
nous sommes, 
11 fant rompre avec Dieu pour captiver Ie& 
hommes.** 

The same idea is reproduced in 
his correspondence : 

"The revolution has for a long 
time usurped, all over Europe, the 
disposal of popularity and renown, 
and, alas ! how many Esaus there are 
who have sold their birthright for a 
mess of celebrity ! . . . . Our excel- 
lent friend M. Le Roy had a quality 
of soul capable of harmonizing with 
the sad memories of fallen greatness ! 
Our si}cle de grosse caisse * has lost 
the secret of those high and sublime 
feelings which the reserve of a sim- 
ple-minded man may cover." 

When, in 1851, his friends wished 
to nominate him as a candidate for 
the French Academy, the highest 
literary honor possible, Reboul an- 
swered M. de Fresne thus : " Your 
kind friendship has led you astray. 
What on earth would you have me do 
in such a body ? Though I may, in 
the intimacy of private life, have 
spoken to you of whatever poetic 
merits I have, I am far from wishing to 
declare myself seriously the rival of 
the best talent of the capital. Such 
pretension never entered my head. 
Nay, in these days I might have 

* Literally " big -drum century." 



I04 



A French Poet. 



written Athalie and yet deem myself 
unfit for the Academy. In revolu- 
tionary times, things invade and 
overflow each other, and nothing 
is more futile than the lamentations 
of literary men over the nomina- 
tion of politicians to the vacancies 
of the French Academy. The rev- 
olution has always jealously guarded 
her approaches ; the Insiitui is her 
cotmcil." Ten years later he con- 
gratulates himself that things have 
so far mended among academicians 
as that " one may pronounce God's 
holy name in the halls of the acade- 
my " ; but he steadily refused to be 
nominated for SifauteuiL 

RebouVs relations with the great 
men of his day were active and cor- 
dial. No party feeling separated 
him from any on whom the stamp 
of genius was set equally with him- 
self. He corresponded with distin- 
guished personages of all countries, 
English, French, Italian, etc., admir- 
ed and appreciated the literature of 
foreign lands, followed the intellec- 
tual movement of Europe in every 
branch of learning, and supplied by 
copious reading of the best transla- 
tions his want of classical knowl- 
edge. The Holy Scriptures and the 
patristic literature of the church were 
familiar an<l favorite studies with 
him; in every sense of the word, he 
was a polished and appreciative 
scholar. The accident of his birth 
and circumstances of his life in no 
way intcrfcrctl with this scholarship, 
and it would be a great mistake to 
suppose iliat he was but a phenome- 
non, a freak of nature, a working- 
man turned suddenly poet, but hav- 
i'lK beyond the gift of ready versifi- 
cation ncy further knowledge of his 
art or j^rasp of its possibilities. In 
18} I, JjaviiiK addressed to Lamen- 
t)'d{% a j>oetic*ai warning and renion- 
i»(ranccv '"*^ says that, receiving no 
answer, ** iie is api>alled by the silence 



of this man. Heaven forefend tliat 
the pillar which once was the firmest 
support of the sanctuary should be 
turned into a battering-ram ! . . ." 
The Christian world knows that 
this prophecy came true, but there 
are those who believe that on his 
death-bed the erring son was drawn 
back to the bosom of his mother. 

In 1844, Reboul was chosen as 
spokesman by the deputation of 
Nimes to the reception awarded M. 
Berryer by the town of Avignon. 
He says : " The illustrious "^ orator 
said so many flattering things to me 
that I was quite confounded. He 
called me his friend. . . . Then, ad- 
dressing us all, his words seemed so 
fraught with magic that the immense 
audience hung breathless on his lips, 
but when he began to speak of 
France his voice, trembling with love 
of our country, took our very souls 
by storm, and you should have seen 
those southern faces all bathed in 
tears of admiration. We had need 
of a respite before applauding — but 
what an explosion it was 1" At anoth- 
er time he writes: " Where has Ber- 
ryer lived that he should be able to 
escape the influence of the hazy 
phraseology of our age and keep in- 
tact that eloquence of his, at once so 
clear and so trenchant ?** 

Manzoni's genius seemed to make 
the two poets, though not personally 
acquainted, companions in spirit. 
M. de Fresne, who knew the Mil- 
anese litterateur^ was charged with 
RebouVs homage to him in verse, and 
Reboul himself speaks thus of the 
impression made on a friend of his 
by Manzoni's Itnii Sacri : 

** We read and admired everything 
in the book. The hymn for the 
5th of May particularly struck Ga- 
zay ; he was quite beside himself, as 
I knew he would be. This natiue, 
rugged and trenchant {osseuse et 
brct'e\ which is so impatient of the 



A French^Poet. 



105 



milk-and-water* style of literature, 
found here a subject of enthusiasm; 
he rose from his chair, walked up 
and down the room with gigantic 
smdes, and barely escaped breaking 
through the floor." 

His judgment of Victor Hugo is 
both interesting and striking. In 
1862, when L^s AfisirabUs was pub- 
lished, he comments thus on the 
great herald and apologist of revolu- 
tion: 

'*It is always the same glorifica- 
tion of the convict-prison and the 
house of prostitution, a theme which 
has for many years been dragged 
over our literature and our drama. 
I do not like Hugo's bishop any 
more than Bc-ranger's cur^ ; the former 
ii a fool and the latter a dnmkard. 
The author of Les Mis/rabies is vig- 
orous in his style, no doubt, but he 
cames the defects of this quality to 
the last pitch of absurdity. The 
style \s vigorous and rugged, true — 
but c€$tdu * casse-poitrine '* eidu^ sacri 
chien* d€ VeaU'de-vie de pommes-de- 
tint, f I do not know what to ex- 
pect from the next two volumes, but 
up to this it all seems to me to 
breathe the air of a low public-house 
[bui'eite d€ faubourg). The ostenta- 
tious praise of the socialist organs 
confirms this opinion. The multi- 
tude, as well as kings, has its flatter- 
ers. I think that honest poverty, 
lacking everything, and yet shutting 
its eyes and ears to temptation, would 
have been a type worthier of the au- 
thor's reputation, if it were only for a 
change !" 

A year later, in 1863, we see Re- 
boul reading with interest a criticism 
'.^t Lamartine on this same work, 
md recording his satisfaction at the 

'More expressive In the original, le blane 

^«/ **t//*— literallv "white of eggs beaten 
■p- 

t UotrmnslaUble : the meaning K that the 
^•cw IS that of a prize-fi;;hter, the ruggednesa 
aM of a phUosopher, but of a low raffia.a. 



implied condemnation. " But," says 
our poet, " it is only, alas ! the blind 
leading the blind. One is aston- 
ished to see the devastation created 
in these two great intellects by the 
forsaking of principle." 

His relations with Lamartine were 
close and aflectionate, but his admi- 
ration for the poet yet left him a 
severe measure for the man. In 1864, 
he wrote him an address in verse 
on dogma, or rather, as he calls it, 
divine reason, as the foundation of 
all legislation, and from his reasons 
drew consequences not over-favor- 
able to the " historian-poet." " But," 
he says, ** I tried to be respectful 
without ceasing to be frank." La- 
martine answered him a few months 
later, and promised him a visit. Re- 
boul then says of him : " I found 
him as amiable, as much a friend as 
ever; there must be something great 
in the depths of that man's heart. 
May Providence realize one day my 
secret hopes for his sours welfare." 
When seven years before Lamartine 
came to see him at Nimes, Reboul 
was his cicerone to the ruins and 
sights of the Roman colony, and the 
exquisitely graceful compliment of 
the world-known poet to his brother 
artist was thus worded : " This is 
worth more than all I saw during 
my Eastern journey." Of Lamar- 
tine's poetical genius, and Victor 
Hugo's claims to the renown of pos- 
terity, Reboul has no doubt, for he 
says that the former's Imc and the 
latter's lyrics " will never die." 

The reader may like to know the 
opinion of Lamartine himself on Re- 
boul. We find it in his Harmonies 
Fo^iiqtieSy where he dedicates a piece 
to him entitied ** Genius in obscuri- 
ty," and appends the following anec- 
dote, which will remind us of Cha- 
teaubriand's earlier visit. This was the 
first time the two poets met, and, 
like most of Reboul's friendships, it 



io5 



A French Poet. 



was sought by the greater man — or 
rather, should we not say the higher- 
placed rather ihzn greater ? 

" Every one knows the poetical 
genius, so antique in form, so noble 
in feeling, of M. Reboul, poet and 
workman. Work does not degrade. 
His life is less known ; I was igno- 
rant of it myself. One day, passing 
through Nimes, I wished, before go- 
ing to the Roman ruins, to see my 
brother-poet. A poor man whom I 
met in the street led me to a little, 
blackened house, on the threshold 
of which I was saluted by that deli- 
cious perfume of hot bread just from 
the oven. I went in ; a young man 
in his shirt sleeves, his black hair 
slightly powdered with flour, stood 
behind the counter, selling bread to a 
few i)oor women. I gave my name ; 
he neither blushed nor changed 
countenance, but quietly slipped on 
his waistcoat, and led me upstairs 
by a wooden staircase to his working 
room, above the shop. There was 
a bed, and a writing-table, with a 
few books and some loose sheets 
of paper covered with verses. AVe 
spoke of our common occupation. 
He read me some admirable verses, 
and a few scenes of ancient tragedy, 
breathing the true masculine severity 
of the Roman spirit. One felt that 
this man had spent his life among 
the living mementos of ancient 
Rome, and that his soul was, as it 
were, a stone taken from those mon- 
uments, at whose feet his genius had 
grown like the wild laurel at the foot 
of the Roman bridge over the Card. 

" I saw Reboul again in the Con- 
stituent Assembly. His was a free 
soul, born for a republic; a heart 
simple and pure, and whose like the 
people needs sorely to make it keep 
and honor the liberty it has won, but 
will lose again unless it be tempered 
by justice and hallowed by virtue." 

It will be seen that Reboul him- 



self did not agree with Lamartine's 
estimate of him, nor indeed with many 
of the great poet's religious and politi- 
cal views ; but the tribute to our hero 
is only rendered more honorable by 
this dissidence of opinion. 

Many other names might be added 
to the list of Reboul's literary ac- 
quaintances. Montalembert, at whose 
request he paraphrased in verse the 
famous article published in the Cor- 
respondant^ " Une Nation en deuil," 
a plea for Poland written by the au- 
thor of The Monks of the West ^ Pere 
Lacordaire, Mgr. Dupanloup, M. 
de Falloux, Mme. R6caniier, Mine, 
de Beaumont, a graceful poetess, 
Canonge, his fellow-poet of Nimes, 
Charles Lenormand, and hosts of oth- 
ers. Artists too he held in great hon- 
or : Sigalon, a painter full of promise, 
of a poor family in Nimes, and whom 
Reboul characterizes as one who, had 
he lived, would have been a modern 
Michael Angelo ; Orsel, of whom he 
speaks in these enthusiastic terms: 
** I showed my friends some of Orsel's 
sketches, which they found more inu 
and more holy than Raphael's style. 
I will not go so far, for the judgment 
of ages and of so many connoisseurs 
unanimously proclaiming the supre- 
macy of the great Italian is a strong- 
er authority in my eyes than the ex- 
clamation of a few men in a given 
moment of enthusiasm. Still I was 
astounded. Some vague remorse 
seized me when I reflected that I 
ha^ regarded this man with indiffer- 
ence, not yet knowing his works! 
But when I think that I actually read 
so many of my bad verses to one 
who had before his mind's eye such 
holy and beautiful types, and that 
he was good enough to listen patient- 
ly, it is not admiration, but veneration 
that I feel towards him." 

Reber, the musician, who in 1853 
was deservedly elected member of 
the Institut de France^ and Rose, a 



A French Poet. 



107 



young sculptor, whose Christian ge- 
nius was worthy of being placed in 
contrast (in his admirable bassi-relievi 
of the Stations of the Cross in the 
church of S. Paul, at Nimes) with the 
perfection of Hippolyte Flandrin's 
magnificent frescos, were also among 
Reboul's artistic friends. In a com- 
parison instituted by our poet be- 
tween popular and high art, we find 
the following pungent comment: 
** M. Courbet has painted women 
fitted, by the rotundity of their di- 
mensions, to be exhibited at a fair, 
and his name is incessantly in the 
papers. On the other hand, M. 
Ingres is seldom if ever mentioned !" 
Reboul's voluminous letters to M. 
de Fresne trace unconsciously a most 
noble moral portrait of the writer. 
Here are a few characteristic touches, 
putting in relief his manliness and 
fi-eedom from petty vanities or weak 
susceptibilities. There was not the 
shadow of a meanness in Reboul's 
mind; his soul was simplicity itself, 
and was rather like those dark, deep 
waters of some of the American lakes, 
at whose bottom every pebble is dis- 
tinctly visible. 

** One of the advantages of the po- 
sition in which it has pleased God to 
place mc," he says, " is that I hear 
the truth told me point-blank and 
without any circumlocution what- 
ever, and, thank God, I am inured to 
this. I have found out since that 
what once galled my pride has had 
other and important results, so that 
both friend and foe have served me. 
... I bow to nothing save that 
which is beautiful everywhere and at 
all timeSf and progress to my mind 
signifies only the fashioning of my 
works more and more according to 
this eternal standard. If I do not 
succeed, therefore, be sure that it is 
through human helplessness and not 
intentional profanation." 

He thus distinctly recognizes his 



art as a mission, a sacred thing to be 
reverently handled, and not profaned 
by compromises with the local and 
accidental spirit of the age. And 
again : " If the poet condescends to 
these intrigues behind the scenes, he 
loses what should be his greatest 
treasure : the consciousness of his 
own dignity.* Theatrical plaudits, 
success, all that is outside ourselves : 
the poet should seek to live at peace 
with his own soul, for alas ! man 
cannot fly from himself, and woe to 
him if he has need to blush for his 
deeds before the tribunal of his own 
conscience. . . . There is too much 
water in the wine of success to 
inebriate me. . . . Time, which is 
God's mode of action, deprives us lit- 
tle by Httle of everything which can 
be salutary guardianship, until that 
supreme moment when it leaves us 
face to face with itself alone. Let 
us strive to prepare ourselves for 
this awful tiie-h-teter Reboul pos- 
sessed the true pride of a noble heart 
which consisted in doing simply 
every duty required of him alike by 
his poor condition and his admirable 
talent. Of the former he never 
showed himself ashamed and repeat- 
edly refused to change it; yet this 
refusal was perfectly honest. If he 
was in no ways ashamed of his low- 
ly origin, at the same time he was 
equally far from making it a boast. 
On the publication of his Traditio- 
nelles (a volume of detached poems) 
M. Lenormand devoted to it a lau- 
datory and appreciative article in the 
Correspondant. Reboul noticed this 
in the following words: " I have only 
one observation to make, however : 
I would rather they had left the 
* baker ' out of the question, certain- 
ly not because the allusion humili- 
ates me, but because I fear that it 



* Simpler tod more forcible in the originnl: 
U sentiment de iui-mime--^ the conscioumess 
Of himself." 



io8 



A French Poet. 



points towards making an exception 
of my verses, as a moral lusus natures, 
and it is my ardent wish, on the con- 
trary, to be judged quite outside such 
circumstances. I can say this the 
more frankly, because I have never, 
in my Traditionelles, disguised my 
origin, and indeed, did I not fear to 
be suspected of that hateful plebeian 
pride, I should even say that I would 
not exchange my family for any 
other. This is between ourselves." 

And again, when the question of 
his nomination to the French Aca- 
demy was under discussion, he w^rote 
a very similar sentence: "I can 
hardly tell you why I would not 
accept this candidature. This, per- 
haps, will best render my idea : I am 
not of the stuff of which academicians 
are made. This is no outburst of 
plebeian pride — the most insolent 
pride of any; it is merely my true 
estimate of my own position." At 
another time he said, excusing him- 
self for not having asked a person of 
high position and a friend of his to 
the funeral of his mother: " Whatever 
ignorance and enviousness may say 
to the contrary, there are barriers be- 
tween the different classes of society 
which cannot be disregarded with- 
out unseemliness. My * neglect ' was 
but the consequence of this convic- 
tion." 

He has left carelessly here and 
there embedded in the text of an 
every-day letter some phrase which 
seems hke a proverb, so beautiful and 
comprehensive is it. For instance, 
speaking of the costliness of the Paris 
salons^ he says: *• The most beautiful 
abodes, my dear friend, are those 
where the devil finds nothing to look 
upon." Of the degeneracy of modern 
thought he speaks thus: "These 
noble convictions are passing away, 
and every thing is subjected to the 
feeble equations of reason ; all things 
are discussed, calculated weighed, 



and the heart would appear to be a 
superfluity of creation, so little are 
its holy inspirations followed !" 

And of books and their readers he 
says : " We do not all read a book 
ahke, but each takes from it only 
what his individual nature is capable 
of appropriating. The prej udices of 
divers schools of literature, the rivalry 
of various political, philosophical, and 
religious opinions, are all so many 
spectacles through which we judge 
the beauties or defects of any work." 

Reboul's domestic life was a calm 
and simple one ; his mind craved no 
pleasures beyond its silent circle, save 
those which he found in books ; and 
his attachment to his native city and 
his humble home was as touching as 
it was sincere. His trade gave him 
enough for a modest and assured way 
of life, and he coveted no more. It 
was a less precarious source of gain 
than literature alone would have 
been; it supported his family in com- 
fort, and, above all, left his own mind 
at ease ; and it was only towards the 
end of his life that, having generously 
assisted a relation in financial diffi- 
culties, he found himself in real want 
Then only, and not till then, did he 
accept, with touching sadness and 
humility, the help his friends and 
his heart's sovereign, the Comte de 
Chambord, had repeatedly pressed 
upon him in happier days. His 
greatest relaxation was an hour spent 
with his familv or a few chosen lite- 
rary friends in his mazet, an encloseil 
garden with a little dwelling attached, 
in which were a sitting-room and a 
kitchen, but no bed-rooms. We do 
not know if this is a peculiar institu- 
tution of Nimes alone or of the whole 
south of France. It is constantly men- 
tioned by Reboul, and his letters are 
often dated from it — nay, his verses 
were sometimes composed there. It 
was a luxury of his later days, not of 
the time when he received Chiteau- 



A French Poet. 



log 



briand and Lamartine in the " wind- 
mill chamber." 

Reboul suffered for ten years be- 
fore his death from a constitutional 
melancholy, which the distraction of 
several interesting journeys in Italy, 
STttzerland, and Austria only tem- 
ix)rarily relieved \ his general health 
gave way by degrees, and he died on 
the 29th of May, 1864. He who 
had vowed his life to the glory of 
God and his church was called away 
from earth on the feast of Corpus 
Christi, having been completely par- 
alyzed on the left side three days 
before. He recovered neither speech 
nor — to all appearance — conscious- 
ness, and his death was as peaceful 
as a child's. His native town cele- 
brated his funeral with all the pomp 
of civic and religious honors; the 
Bishop, Mgr. Plantier, made a fune- 
ral oration over his grave, and a mon- 
ument was soon raised to his memo- 
ry by his grateful and admiring fel- 
low-citizens. More than that, the 
city of Niraes took charge of his 
family and assured their future, as a 
fitting homage to the man whose 
lite had been so nobly independent, 
so proudly self-supporting. The Ro- 
man colony could not bear to see 
RebouFs helpless relatives the pen- 
sionaries of a stranger, and the care 
it extended to them was delicately 
ofered not as a boon but a right. 
People of all classes, all religions, all 
political opinions united in mourn- 
ing their great compatriot. We can 



end with no tribute of our own more 
fitting than M. de Poujoulat's warm 
and eloquent words : " Noble tri- 
umph of honest genius, of sublime 
and modest virtue ! many things will 
have fallen, many footsteps have 
been effaced, while yet Reboul will 
be remembered. The only lasting 
glory is that in which there is no un- 
truth. Reboul has left like a Chris- 
tian a world and an epoch which 
often grieved his faith. He has gone 
to 'that heaven which he had seen in 
his poetic visions, and in which his 
imagination had placed so many 
noble types. He himself has now 
become a type such as the Christian 
muse would fain see placed in the im- 
mortal fatherland of the elect." 

The recording angel may well 
have sung over his tomb these tri- 
umphant words of the Gospel : 

** Well done, thou good and faith- 
ful servant ; because thou hast been 
faithful in a few things, I will set 
thee over great things: enter thou 
into the joy of thy Lord." 

We have thus endeavored to pre- 
sent a portrait of a character not often 
met with in our literature. This 
man of the people, and yet a royal- 
ist; this delicately-toned poet, and 
yet a man of sturdy common sense, 
affords a curious and interesting 
study. What has won our especial 
admiration is his inflexible adher- 
ence to principle in all that con- 
cerns faith and the rights of the Holy 
oee. 



1 lO Mary. 



MARY. 

Dear honored name, beloved for human ties, 
But loved and honored first that One was given 

In living proof to erring mortal eyes 
That our poor flesh is near akin to heaven. 



Sweet word of dual meaning : one of grace, 
And bom of our kind Advocate above ; 

And one by memory linked to that dear face 
That blessed my childhood with its mother-love, 



And taught me first the simple prayer, " To thee. 
Poor banished sons of Eve, we send our cries." 

Through mist of years, those words recall to me 
A childish face upturned to loving eyes. 



And yet to some the name of Mary bears 
No special meaning, or no gracious power ; 

In that dear word they seek for hidden snares, 
As wasps find poison in the sweetest flower. 



But faithful hearts can see, o'er doubts and fears. 
The Virgin link that binds the Lord to earth ; 

Which to the upturned, trusting face appears 
Greater than angel, though of human birth. 



The sweet-faced moon reflects on cheerless night 
The rays of hidden sun to rise to-morrow ; 

So unseen God still lets his promised light. 
Through holy Mary, shine upon our sorrow. 



More about Brittany, 



III 



MORE ABOUT BRITTANY: ITS CUSTOMS, ITS PEOPLE, AND 

ITS POEMS. 



All great Dational gatherings 
dating from an early period have a 
religious origin. The assemblies of 
the Welsh, Bretons, and Gauls were 
coDvoked by the Druids, and in the 
laws of Moelmud are designated 
"the privileged synods of fraternity 
and union which are presided over 
by the bards." These, in losing 
their pagan character under the influ- 
ence of Christianity, nevertheless 
retained many of their forms and 
regulations, together with the custo- 
mary place and time of meeting. 
True to her prudent mode of action 
among the peoples she was convert- 
ing, the church, instead of destroy- 
ing the temples, purified them, and, 
instead of overthrowing the menhir 
and dolmen, raised the cross above 
them. 

It was almost invariably at the 
solstices that the Christian assem- 
blies of the Celtic nations were ac- 
customed to take place, as the 
pagan ones had done before them, 
when, in the presence of immense 
multitudes, the bards held their 
solemn sittings, and vied with each 
other in poetry and song, while ath- 
letes ran, wrestled, and performed 
various feats of agility and strength. 
In Wales, the sectaries who divided 
the land amongst them have depriv- 
ed these assemblies of all religious 
character and association whatso- 
ever, and the manners, language, 
and traditions are all that remain 
unchanged. In Brittany, on the 
contrary, the religious element is the 
dominant one, and impresses its 
character not only upon the antique 
observances, but also upon the rus- 



tic literature — that is to say, the 
poesy — with which the land abounds. 
The most favorable opportunities 
for hearing these popular, ballads 
occur at weddings and agricultural 
festivities, such as the gathering-in 
of the harvest and vintage, the Una- 
deky or flax-gathering — for it is believ- 
ed that the flax would become mere 
tow or oakum unless it were gath- 
ered with singing — the fairs, the 
watch-nights, when, around the bed 
of death, the relatives and neighbors 
take their turn to watch and pray, 
while those who are waiting pass 
much of the time in singing or lis- 
tening to religious ballad-poems of 
interminable length, or ditties like 
the following, Kimiad ann Ene — 
** The Departure of the Soul "—which 
chiefly consists of a dialogue be- 
tween the soul and its earthly tene- 
ment: 

TKS DBPARTUKB OF THB SOUL. 

Come listen to the song of the happy Soul's de- 

parture, at the moment when she quits her 

dwelling^. 
She looks down a little towards the earth, and 

spealcs to the poor body which is lying on its 

bed of death. 

SOUL. 

" Alas, my body ! Behold, the last hour is come ; 
I must quit thee and this world also. 

" I hear the rapping of the death-watch. Thy 
head swims ; thy lips are cold as ice ; thy vis- 
age is all changed. Alas, poor body 1 1 must 
leave thee!'* 

BODY. 

" If my visage is changed and horrible, it is too 
true that you must leave me. 

** You are, then, unmindful of the past ; despis- 
ing your poor friend, who is, alas ! so disfigur- 
ed. Likeness is the mother of love : since yoa 
have no longer any left to me, lay me aside." 

SOUL. 

" Xo, dearest friend, I despise you not. Of all 
the Commandments, you have not broken one. 

" But it is the wiU of God (let us bless his good- 
ness) to put an end to my authority and your 



112 



More about Brittany. 



subjection. Behold us parted asunder by 
pitiless death. Behold me all alone between 
heaven and earth, like the little blue dove who 
flew from the aric to see if the storm was 



over. 



•* 



BODY. 



" The little blue dove came back to the ark, but 
you will never return to me." 

SOUL. 

*'Nay, truly, but I will return to thee, and 
solemnly promise so to do ; we shall meet again 
at the Day of Judgment. 

^* As truly shall I return to thee as I now go 
forth to the particular judgment, the thought 
of which, alas 1 makes me tremble. 

*^ Have confidence, my friend. After the north- 
west wind there falls a calm on the sea. 

*' I will come again and take thee by the hand ; 
and wert thou heavy as iron, when I shall have 
been In heaven, I will draw thee to me like a 
loadstone." 

BODY. 

'' When I shall be, dear Soul, stretched in the 
tomb, and destroyed in the eiuth by corrup- 
tion; 

When I shall have neither finger nor hand, nor 
foot nor arm, in vain will you try to raise me 
to you." 

SOUL. 

He who created the world without model or 

matter has power to restore thee to thy first 

form. 

He who knew thee when thou wast not shall 

find thee where thou wilt not be ! 

As truly shall we meet again as that I now go 

before the terrible tribunal, at the thought 

whereof I tremble. 

Feeble and frail as a leaf in the autumn wind." 



\\ 



»i 



\\ 



tt 



\\ 



God hears the Soul, and hastens to answer it 
saying. Courage, poor Soul, thou shalt not be 
long in pain. Because thou hast served me in 
the world, thou shalt have part in my felici- 
ties. 

And the soul, always rising, casts again a glance 
below, and beholds her body lying on the fune- 
ral bier. 

" Farewell, my poor body, farewell ! I look 
back yet once more, out of my great pity for 
thee." 

BODY. 

** Cease, then, dear Soul, cease to address me 
with golden words. Dust and corruption are 
unworthy of pity." 



SOUL. 



it 



Saving thy favor, O my body I thou art truly 
worthy, even as the earthen vessel that has held 
sweet perfumes." 



BODY. 

'* Adieu, then, O my life ! since thus it must be. 
May God lead you to the place where you de- 
sire to be." 

" You will be ever awake and I sleeping in the 
grave. Keep me in mind, and hasten your re- 
turn. 

" But tell me, why is it thus that you are so gay 
and glad at leaving me, and yet I am so sad ?" 

SOUL. 

*' I have so exchanged thorns for roses, and gall 
for sweetest honey." 



Then, joyous as a lark, the soul mounts, mounts, 
mounts, ever upwards towards heaven. When 
she reaches heaven, she knocks at the gate, and 
humbly asks my lord S. Peter to let her enter 
in. 

" O you, my lord S. Peter ! who are so kind, will 
you not receive me into the Paradise of Jesus ?" 

S. PETEK. 

'* Truly thou shalt enter into the Paradise of Je^ 
sus, who, when thou wast on earth, didst re- 
ceive him into thy dwelling." 

The soul, at the moment of entering, once more 

turns her head, and sees her poor body like a 

little mole-hill. 
*^ Till we meet sgain, my body— and thanks— till 

we meet again, till we meet again in the valley 

of Jehosaphat. 
** I hear sweet harmonies I never heard before. 

The day breaks, and the stiadows are fled away. 
** Behold, I am like a rose-tree planted by the 

waters of the river of life." 

This dialogue bears a remarkable 
resemblance to at least three similar 
compositions by S. Ephrem S3TUS, 
Deacon of Edessa, who died a.d. 372. 
With the Breton poem it may not be 
uninteresting to compare the follow- 
ing wild Northern dirge, which may 
be unknown to some amongst our 
readers : 

SCOTTISH LYKB-WAKB DIRGE. 

" This ae nighte, this ae nighte. 
Every nighte an* alle. 
Fire, an' sleet, an' candle-light. 
An* Christe receive thy saule. 

** When thou from hence away art paste. 
Every nighte an' alle. 
To whinny-muir thou comest at laste, 
An' Christe receive thy saule. 

" If ever thou gavest hosen or shoon, 
Every nighte an' alle. 
Sit thee down an' put them on. 
An' Christe receive thy saule. 

" If hosen an' shoon thou never gavest nane. 
Every nighte an* alle* 
The whinnes shal prick thee to the bare bane, 
An* Christe receive thy saule. 

" From whinny-mutr when thou mayest passe, 
Every night an* alle. 
To Brig o* Dread * thou comest at laste. 
An' Christe receive thy saule. 

" If ever thou gavest meate or drinke. 
Every nighte an* alle. 
The fire shall never make thee shrinke. 
An* Christe receive thy saule* 

" From Brig o* Dread when thou mayest passe. 
Every night an* alle. 
To Purgatory fire thou comest at laste. 
An* Christe receive thy saule. 

* ui some versions, " To Rauar Brii thou com- 
est at laste.** 



More about Brittany. 



"3 



** If xnait cr drink tbou never gavest nane, 
Erery nighte an" alle, 
The fire will bum thee to the bare bane, 
An* Christe receive thy saule. 

** This ae nighte, this ae nighte, 
Every nighte an* alle. 
Fire, an* sleet, an* candle~light. 
An* Christe receive thy saule.** 

Not in Brittany alone, but also in 
most of the country parts of France, 
the villagers have a custom during 
the winter of assembling in each 
other's cottages — or in a barn, if no 
other room of convenient size should 
offer — for ihtjileries du soir^ when, by 
the light of a single candle, or the 
blazing logs upon the hearth, round 
which all sit in a circle, the women 
sew or spin, while some of the com- 
pany take it in turn to sing or tell 
stories, or occasionally to read aloud 
for the amusement or instruction of 
the rest Besides singing ballads 
which are already known, it not un- 
frequently happens that the villagers 
compose a new one amongst them- 
selves during one of these veilUes, 
Some one arrives, it may be a pil- 
grim, a beggar, or a neighbor, and 
relates something which has just hap- 
pened ; while the hearers are talking 
it over, probably another person 
comes in, bringing fresh details ; in- 
terest becomes more and more excit- 
ed, and all at once there is a general 
cry, " Let us make a song about it." 
llie poet most in renown amongst 
the company is called upon to make 
a beginning, to which he accedes, 
after the customary amount of en- 
treaty has been gone through. He 
improvises a strophe, which every one 
repeats after him ; a neighbor contin- 
ues the song, which is again repeated 
by aU ; a third adds his share, and so 
on, every new verse being taken up 
by all present, and repeated with the 
rest; and thus a new ballad, the com- 
position of all, repeated and learned 
by all, flies on the following day from 
parish to parish, on the wings of its 

VOL, XVIII.- 



refrain^ from vdlUe to veiiiSe, and 
speedily finds its place among the 
poetry of the land. Most of the Bre- 
ton ballads are composed thus by 
collaboration, and this manner of pro- 
ducing them has its name in the lan- 
guage ; it is called diskan (repetition), 
and the singers are diskanerien. 

But it is especially at the J^ardons, 
or feasts of the patron saints, that are 
to be heard in their greatest perfec- 
tion historical ballads, love-ditties, 
and songs on sacred subjects; and 
we turn again to the interesting pages 
of M. de Villemarqu6, from which we 
have already drawn so largely, for a 
description of these festive occasions. 

Every great Pardon lasts at least 
three days. On the eve, all the bells 
are set ringing, and the people busy 
themselves in decorating the church. 
The altars are adorned with garlands 
and vases of flowers, the statues of 
the saints clothed in the national cos- 
tume, the patron or patroness being 
distinguished by the habiliments of a 
bridegroom or a bride. The former 
has a large bouquet, tied with long 
and bright-colored ribbons ; the white 
head-dress of the latter glitters with 
a hundred little mirrors. As the day 
declines, the church is swept and the 
dust scattered to the winds, that it 
may be favorable to those who are 
coming to the morrow's festival. Af- 
ter this, every one places in the nave 
the offering he has brought the patron 
saint. These offerings generally con- 
sist of sacks of com, bundles of flax, 
soft white fleeces, cakes of wax, or 
other agricultural productions, just as 
in the days of Gregory of Tours, who 
mentions the " multitudo rusticorum, 
. . . exhibens lanas, vellera, formas 
cerae, etc." • 

Dancing then begins, to the sound 
of the national binioUy the bombardo, 
and tambourine, in front of the church, 

* ** Multitude of peasants, . . . exhibiting wool, 
fleeces, forms of wax, etc." 



114 



Mare about Brittany. 



or by the fountain of the patron saint, 
or it may be near some ancient dol- 
men, which serves as a seat for the 
fiddlers : it is even stated that not 
more than a century ago dancing 
took place in the church itself — a pro- 
fanity which the clergy invariably set 
themselves against, the bishops ex- 
communicating obstinate offenders. 

In some places, bonfires are lighted 
at night upon the eminence on which 
the church is built, and on the neigh- 
boring hills. As soon as the flame 
leaps up the pyramid of dry leaves 
and broom, the crowd walks in pro- 
cession twelve times round it, reciting 
prayers or singing. The old men 
surround it with a circle of stones, 
and place a cauldron in the centre, 
in which, in ancient times, meat was 
cooked for the priests, but in the pre- 
sent day it is filled with water, into 
which children throw pieces of metal, 
while a circle of beggars, kneeling 
around it bare-headed, and leaning on 
their sticks, sing in chorus the le- 
gends of the patron saint. It was 
exactly thus that the old bards sang 
hymns in honor of their divinities, by 
the light of the moon, and round the 
magic basin encircled with stones, in 
which was prepared the " repast of 
the brave." 

On the following morning, at 
break of day, arrive from L6on, Tr6- 
guier, Goelo, Comouailles, Vannes, 
and all parts of Basse Bretagne, 
bands of pilgrims, singing as they 
proceed on their way. As soon as 
they descry from afar the church- 
spire, they take ofif their large hats, 
and kneel down, making the sign of 
the cross. The sea is covered with 
a thousand little barks, from whence 
the wind brings the sound of hymns, 
whose solemn cadence keeps lime 
with the stroke of the oars. Whole 
cantons arrive, with the banners of 
their respective parishes, and led by 
their rectors. As they approach their 



destination, the clergy of the Birdon 
advance to receive them, and, at the 
moment of their meeting, the crosses, 
banners, and images of the saints 
are bent towards each other by way 
of mutual salutation, as the two pro- 
cessions form themselves into one, 
while the church-bells make the air 
resound with their joyous clamor. 
When Vespers are ended, the pro- 
cession comes forth, the pilgrims 
arranging themselves according to 
their different dialects. The peasants 
of L^on may be recognized by their 
green, brown, or black habiliments, 
and bare, muscular limbs; the Tr6- 
gorrois, whose gray garb has about 
it nothing particularly original, are 
remarkable among the rest for their 
full and melodious voices ; the Cor- 
nouaillais for the costliness and 
elegance of their richly embroidered 
blue or violet coats, their puffed-out 
pantaloons and floating hair; while 
the men of Vannes, on the contrary, 
are distinguishable by the sombre co- 
lor of their apparel. The cold, calm 
aspect of their countenances and 
bearing would scarcely lead one to 
suspect the determination of this ener- 
getic race, of whom neither Caesar 
nor the Republican armies could 
break the will, and whom Napoleon 
designated as '^frames of iron, 
hearts of steel." 

As the procession pours forth 
from the church, nothing can be 
more curious than to observe these 
close ranks of peasants, in costumes 
so varied and at times so strange, 
with their heads uncovered, their 
eyes cast down, and the rosary in 
their hands; nor anything more 
touching than the hands of weather- 
beaten mariners in their blue shirts 
and bare-foot, who are come to pay 
the vow that has saved them from 
shipwreck and death, bearing on 
their shoulders the fragments of 
their shattered vessel ; nothing more 



More about Brittany. 



"S 



impressive than the sight of this 
countless multitude, preceded by 
the cross, traversing the sandy or 
rock-scattered beach, while the 
sound of its litanies mingles with 
the murmurs of the ocean. 

Certain parishes, before entering 
the church, halt first at the cemetery. 
There, among the graves of their 
forefathers, the most venerable pea- 
sant with the lord of the canton, and 
the most exemplary village-maiden 
with one of the young ladies of the 
manor, stand on the topmost step 
of the churchyard cross, and, with 
their hands placed on the Holy Gos- 
pel, solemnly renew their baptismal 
vows in their own names and on 
behalf of the prostrate multitude. 

The pilgrims pass the night in tents 
erected on the plain, and do not 
retire to repose until a late hour, re- 
maining to listen to the long narra- 
tive poems on sacred subjects which 
the popular bards wander singing 
finom tent to tent. 

This first day is wholly consecrat- 
ed to religion, but secular pleasures 
awake with the sound of the hautboy 
on the following morn. 

The lists are opened at noon. The 
tree of the prizes, laden with its 
strange variety of fruits, rises in the 
centre, while at its foot lows the chief 
prize of all — the heifer — ^with its horns 
gaily decked with ribbons. Num- 
berless competitors present them- 
selves. Trials of strength or skill, 
wrestling, racing, and dancing, con- 
tinue without intermission until the 
evening is far advanced. 

The first two nights of the Pardon 
are devoted to wandering singers of 
every description, such as the millers, 
the tailors, the ragmen, beggars, and 
ban; but the last is exclusively the 
right of the kloer or kler^ of whom, as 
well as of the first-named personages, 
we will mention a few particulars. 
The chief difference between the 



miller and the other popular minstrels 
is that he returns every evening to his 
mill; but, like them, he makes the 
round of the country, passing through 
the cities, towns, and villages, enter- 
ing the farm-house and the manor, 
going to fairs and markets, and hear- 
ing news, which he puts into rhyme 
as he goes on his way; and his songs, 
repeated by the beggars, who are 
rarely the composers of ballads 
themselves, soon find their way from 
one end of Brittany to the other. 

The tailor's special characteristic 
is caustic wit and raillery. " His ear 
is long," says the Breton proverb,, 
"his eye open day and night, and 
his tongue as sharp as his needle."" 
Nothing escapes him. He makes a?, 
song upon everybody without dis- 
tinction, saying in verse that which 
he would not dare to say in prose,, 
and yet often so disguising his satire 
that it is keenest where at first sight 
least evident. All the value of his. 
songs depends upon their actuality. 
He is learned in all the gossip of the 
place, and if perchance on his home- 
ward way he lights upon a couple of 
lovers, happy in the seclusion of a 
wood, they find themselves next day 
the subjects of his malicious muse,, 
and their mutual appreciation pro- 
claimed to all the neighborhood. Of 
the miller and the ragman much the 
same may be said ; and yet it is but 
just to add that, with all the pleasure- 
they find in laughing at their neigh- 
bor, they are never guilty of calumny 
against him. 

The barz occupies a higher place 
in the order of singers than any other, . 
the kloer only excepted. He repre- 
sents the wandering minstrels, shades, 
of the primitive bards, who were re- 
proved by Taliessin for their degen- 
eracy even in his day, and for living 
without regular occupation or fixed 
dwelling-place, serving as echoes of 
popular gossip, and spending their 



ii6 



More about Brittany. 



days in wandering from one assembly 
to another. The self-same reproach- 
es one hears at this present day, ad- 
dressed to the same class of people 
by the Breton priests. 

And yet some few rays of their 
former glory linger around the race. 
Like their ancestors, they celebrate 
noble and worthy deeds, dispensing 
praise or blame impartially to small 
and great. Those of the ancient 
bards who were blind made use of a 
sort of tally-stick, of which the ar- 
rangement of the notches served to 
fix certain songs in their memory. 
This species of mnemonics, which is 
known in Wales as Codbren y Beirdd 
— the Alphabet of the Bards — is still 
in use among the barz of Brittany. 
They also invariably observe the old 
bardic law which forbade them to 
enter any house without previously 
asking permission by singing the 
customary salutation at the door : 
" God's blessing be upon you, people 
of this house: God's blessing be 
upon you, small and great!" and 
never entering unless they receive 
the answer : " God's blessing be also 
upon you, wayfarer, whoever you 
may be." If they do not hear this 
speedily, they pass on their way. 

Like the ancient Cambrian bards, 
they are, by virtue of their profession, 
a necessity at every popular festival. 
They betroth the future husband and 
wife, according to antique and unva- 
rying rites, previous to the perfor- 
mance of the rehgious ceremony; 
•they enjoy great liberty of speech, 
and exercise a certain amount of mo- 
Tal authority over the minds of the 
people; they are loved, sought for, 
and honored almost as much as were 
their bardic ancestors, though mov- 
ing in a less elevated sphere. 

The name of kloer {kloarek in the 
singular) is given to the youths who 
are studying with a prospect of enter- 
ing the ecclesiastical state. They 



are identical with the Welsh kler^ or 
school-clerk, and in the time of Ta- 
liessin occupied, as they still occupy, 
the place of bards, forming a class by 
themselves of scholar-poets. 

The Breton kloer generally belong 
to the peasantry or to the trades-peo- 
ple of the country towns. The an- 
cient episcopal sees of Tr6guier and 
L6on, Quimper and Vannes, attract 
them in the largest numbers. They 
arrive there in bands from the depths 
of the country, in the national cos- 
tume, with their long hair, and their 
rustic simplicity and language ; most 
of them being from about eighteen 
to twenty years old. They live to- 
gether in the faubourgs; the same 
garret serves for bedroom, kitchen, 
dining-room, and study. This is a 
far different existence from that 
which they led among the woods 
and fields, and it is not long before 
a complete change has come over 
them. With the lessening of muscu- 
lar strength, their intellect and im- 
agination develop themselves. The 
summer vacation takes them back to 
their village homes at the season in 
which, says a Breton poet, " young 
hearts expand with the flowers," and 
when temptations abound ; thus it 
not unseldom happens that the kloa- 
rek returns to his studies with the 
thorn of a first love in his heart 
Then there arises a tempest in his 
soul — a struggle between the love of 
the creature and the Creator. Some- 
times the former is the stronger; iso- 
lation, homesickness, leisure, contri- 
bute to develop a sentiment of which 
the germ only exists. A remem- 
brance, a word, a melody, or the 
sound of some wild instrument which 
breaks on his ear and recalls his 
home, makes it suddenly burst forth. 
Then he throws his class-books into 
the fire, renounces the ecclesiastical 
state, and returns to his native village. 

But it is ^ oftener that the higher 



More about Brittany, 



117 



devotion wins the day. In either 
case, however, the scholar-poet must, 
according to his own expression, 
" comfort his heart " by maJcing his 
confidences to the muse. 

By an instinct natural to all but 
truly popular poets, the kloer never 
write their compositions. They are 
wise in this, " The memory of hear- 
ing," as it was called by the ancient 
bards, is much more tenacious than 
the " memory of letters." To write 
and print their songs would be to 
give up having them learnt by heart, 
and repeated by generation after 
generation. 

Once become priests, the klotr bum 
that which they have worshipped; 
thus Gildas declaims against the 
bards, forgetting, in his monk's habit, 
that in his youth he had made one 
of their number. As kloer ^ these 
scholar-poets disdain the songs of the 
wandering minstrels; as priests, they 
equally disdain the lays of the kher. 
And yet, as priests, they do not cease 
to sing ; but that which lingered on 
the earth now finds its wings and 
takes a heavenward flight, and the 
sacred songs and canticles which ex- 
press the warm devotion of their 
hearts imprint themselves on the 
memory of the people, and are, like 
prayers, transmitted from age to age. 
It is thus impossible to know the 
date of their compositions, except by 
knowing the exact period at which 
tlieir authors lived. 

With regard to the religious events 
which are the theme of the legends, 
it is different. These compositions 
belong to the domain of historical 
songs and ballads, and owe their pop- 



ularity to their being the expression 
of traditions already widely known 
among the people. 

We close our notice with the trans- 
lation of a little poem by a young 
kloarek of L6on. It is his farewell to 
earthly love — a farewell whicli is ap- 
parently made more easy by outward 
accidentals than can always be the 
case under similar circumstances. It 
is entitled 

ANN DROUK-RANS ; OR, THB RUITURB. 

Ah ! knew I bow to read and write as I know 
how to rhyme, 

A sonjif all new I would indite, and in the short- 
est time ! 

Behold my little friend, who comes! towards 

our house comes she. 
And, if the chance befals, sheMl may-be speak 

awhile with me. 

"Sweet little friend, but you are changed since 

last I saw your face ; 
*Twas in the month of June, when you \}xt pardon 

went to i^race." 

**And if, young man, so changed I am, what 

wonder can there be ? 
When, since the pardon of the FolgoSt, death 

has stood by me ; 
For 'twas a raging fever that has made the 

change you see." 

** Sweet friend, come with me to the garden ; 
there a little rose 

First opened out its dewy bud when Thursday 
morning rose. 

Upon her stalk, so fair and gay, her new-born 
beauty shone ; 

The morrow came— her beauty and her fresh- 
ness all were gone. 

" Sweet friend, the door of your young heart I 

bade you well to close, 
That naught might enter to disturb that garden's 

still repose ; 
But, ah ! you did not listen, and you left ajar the 

door. 
And now the flower is withered up that showed 

so fair before. 

" For fairer things than love and youth this 
world has not to give. 

But in this world nor love nor youth have ofl- 
times long to live ; 

Our love was like a summer cloud that melts in- 
to the sky. 

And passing as a breath of wind that dies with 
scarce a sigh." 



ii8 



A Visit to the Grande Chartreuse, 



A VISIT TO THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE. 



It was a glorious September morn- 
ing ; the freshness of the night was 
still perceptible, although the rays 
of the sun were filling the air with 
a genial warmth, when, issuing from 
the fortified gates of the beautifully 
situated town of Grenoble, I turned 
my steps towards the celebrated mo- 
nastery of the Grande Chartreuse. 

I made an early start, as the road 
before me was long, consisting of an 
uninterrupted series of steep ascents, 
with the exception of the first few 
miles that lay along the banks of the 
Is^re. This level and comparative- 
ly uninteresting country is soon pass- 
ed, and the traveller, quitting the 
high-road at the village of Voreppe, 
strikes into the mountains. On 
reaching the brow of the hill that 
rises above that village, a most beau- 
tiful panorama presents itself to the 
view. The fertile and far-famed val- 
ley of Gr^sivaudan spreads far away 
to the left and right, shut in on 
either side by rocky mountains, cap- 
ped by dark pine forests. The snowy 
crests of the Alps are conspicuous, 
while, through the centre of the val- 
ley, the Is&re, in its sinuous course, 
gleams in the sun like a silver thread, 
contrasting with the dark, luxuriant 
green of the hemp and the gay au- 
tumnal tints of the vine. 

Commanding a like enchanting 
view, and nestled in the hills a few 
miles from Voreppe, is the Convent 
of Chalais. Founded as a Benedic- 
tine abbey in the Xlth century, it 
became later on a dependence of the 
Grande Chartreuse. At the Revolu- 
tion, it was sold as national proper- 
ty, but it was destined once again to 
revert to its pious use; for in 1844 



it was bought by the P^re Lacor- 
daire for the sons of S. Dominic, 
whose order he had just restored in 
France. Often in after-years did he 
seek there, in the presence of na- 
ture's loveliest aspects, some slight 
repose for his ovenvorked body and 
ardently active mmd. 

The road from Voreppe to St. 
Laurent du Pont appeared to me 
exceedingly dreary and monotonous, 
more so, perhaps, than it really was, 
from the contrast its bare and rug- 
ged hills presented to the luxuriant 
and richly varied scene on which I 
had just been gazing. So pleasant, 
however, were the anticipations that 
filled my mind that the distance was 
accomplished in a very short time; 
and a few minutes sufficed for refresh- 
ment at St. Laurent. 

The village is poor; its. church, 
which is a new building, was built, 
like most of those in the neighbor- 
hood, by the charity of the monks 
of the Chartreuse : indeed, the village 
itself has been several times rebuilt 
by their generosity, having frequent- 
ly, owing to the quantity of wood 
used in the construction of its houses, 
been burnt almost to the ground. 

The most beautiful part of the 
whole journey is now at hand. Within 
a mile of St. Laurent is the entrance 
to the famous gorge that bears the 
name of Desert of S. Bruno. My 
expectations were raised to the high- 
est pitch; for I had always heard 
that the scenery of this gorge would 
alone repay the traveller his journey 
thither, even if the monastery and 
its surroundings were entirely devoid 
of interest I was not, however, free 
from misgivings ; for how often does 



A Visit to the Grande Chartreuse. 



119 



that which in itself is really beautiful 
disappoint us when compared to the 
bright visions that had charmed our 
imagination ! Such at least was the 
lesson experience had taught me ; but 
to-day I was to learn something new, 
for the reality far surpassed my most 
sanguine expectations. Never shall 
I forget the majestic grandeur of the 
scenery that continued to unfold 
itself to my view at every turn of the 
road until I reached the monastery. 
The most striking scene of the whole 
journey, and the one to which the 
memory loves best to revert, is with- 
out doubt the entrance to the Desert 
de S. Bruno ; here both nature and 
man seem to have combined to ren- 
der the features of the landscape pic- 
turesque and sublime. The mind is 
totally unprepared for what is com- 
ing. During the first mile after leav- 
ing the village, the road has been 
pleasantly winding along the banks 
of the Guiers Mort, among wooded 
hills, and through rich mountain pas- 
tures — nature in its softer rather than 
in its grander aspects — and it is at a 
sudden turn of the road, at a point 
where the valley seems shut in on all 
sides, that the entrance to the gorge 
bursts upon the sight, seemingly as 
if the rocks had been rent in two to 
form a passage just sufficient to admit 
the foaming torrent, while the road 
b carried along the face of the 
mountain, now rising perpendicular- 
ly from the water's edge to an im- 
mense height. A ruined archway, 
on which is still visible the arms of 
the Carthusian order, here marks the 
limits of the former domain of the 
monastery, and, with the bold, single- 
arched bridge which carries the road 
across the stream, and the rustic iron 
forge that crouches under the oppo« 
site rocks, adds a picturesque beauty 
to the grandeur of the spot. 

Until you reach the convent — that 
is to say, for about eight miles — the 



beauty of the scenery never for a 
moment diminishes ; the road, which 
shows great engineering skill, fol- 
lows the course of the torrent, which 
it crosses several times. At each 
turn the view varies ; sometimes dis- 
tant glimpses of the snowy peaks 
of the Alps are obtained; at other 
times you are so completely shut in 
by the mountains that nothing is 
visible save the magnificent forests 
that cover their sides. The size of 
some of the pines in these forests is 
very remarkable; one could almost 
imagine that they dated back as far 
as S. Bruno. I could not refrain from 
thinking, as I gazed on them, what 
scenes they must have witnessed, 
and what strange tales they could 
unfold were they able to speak ; of 
how many could they tell who pass- 
ed along that road after bidding the 
world an eternal farewell — ^men who 
had seen life in all its gayest moods, 
and, having tasted its unsatisfying 
honors and delights, sought peace 
and happiness in repentance and 
self-denial; youths who wore still 
unsullied their baptismal robes, and 
fled hither to preserve that inno- 
cence that fears even the contact 
of a sinful world. They could tell 
how the great S. Hugh had returned 
sorrowfully along that road from the 
calm home of his dear Chartreuse, to 
accept, for God's greater glory, the 
far distant see of Lincoln, and the 
dreary task of struggling against an 
unprincipled king and a corrupt 
court ; they could tell of many others 
who, like him, had humbly trod that 
path, thinking to hide themselves 
from dignities and honors, but had 
been recalled by the all-penetrating 
wisdom of the church to wear the 
mitre or the purple. 

About midway between St. Lau- 
rent and the monastery there rises 
by the side of the road a most sin- 
gular pinnacle-shaped rock, ascend- 



120 



A Visit to the Grande Cftartreuse. 



ing perpendicularly to a considera- 
ble height, and called the Pic de 
L'CEillette. In connection with this 
rock an amusing story is told of an 
Englishman, who, having heard that 
no one had ever reached its summit, 
determined to secure that honor for 
his country. Accordingly, he com- 
menced the task with a thorough 
good-will, and, after much labor, suc- 
ceeded in accomplishing it to his 
satisfaction. As soon as his enthu- 
siasm, which showed itself in the 
form of three genuine British cheers, 
had in some measure subsided, he 
began to think of descending; to 
his dismay, he discovered that to 
descend would be more than diffi- 
cult — indeed, to all appearance, im- 
possible ; and it was not until he had 
passed several hours in his very un- 
comfortable position, meditating, let 
us hope, on the vanity of human 
greatness, that he was able to let 
himself down in most inglorious fash- 
ion by the aid of ropes brought to 
him by some peasants. 

Owing to the height of the sur- 
rounding mountains and narrowness 
of the gorge, no distant views of the 
monastery are obtained ; and the tra- 
veller comes very suddenly on the 
imposing pile, which, from its extent, 
resembles a small village. Without 
being remarkable in architecture, it is 
decidedly picturesque; the high pitch 
of the roofs, rendered necessary by 
the heavy falls of snow which occur 
during seven months of the year, 
and its six belfries rising to various 
heights, give it a striking and quaint 
appearance. 

Before entering its solemn portals, 
a few words on the origin and his- 
tory of the monastery may not be 
out of place. S. Bruno, after quitting 
the world, selected this spot, at the 
invitation of S. Hugh, the holy 
Bishop of Grenoble, as a suitable 
place where, in imitation of the 



fathers of the desert, he, with six 
disciples, might lead a life of solitude 
and prayer. At first each recluse 
built himself a separate cell ; but in 
time, as their number increased, the 
rude huts grew into a large and re- 
gular monastery. The site of this 
early settlement, now marked by the 
Chapel of S. Bnmo and Notre Dame 
de Cassalibus, was higher than that 
of the present structure, which was 
chosen some thirty years after the 
death of the holy founder, when the 
original buildings were destroyed by 
an avalanche. During its long exist- 
ence, many have been the vicissi- 
tudes the convent has experienced; 
frequently burnt almost to the 
ground, pillaged by ruthless nobles 
or fanatical heretics, it has always 
risen again from its ruins; and in 
riches or in poverty, in prosperity 
or in adversity, its inhabitants have 
given the same noble example of 
austere virtue, unbounded charity, 
and generous hospitality. 

The Revolution of 1789 found the 
Carthusian order at the height of 
its prosperity; in France alone it 
counted no less than seventy houses, 
with immense possessions in lands 
and revenues. These, of course, were 
seized by revolutionary greed, and 
the poor monks driven forth into 
the world, even from the uninviting 
solitudes of S. Bruno's desert. Wjth 
181 5 came the restoration of religion 
in France, and the return of the 
scattered members of the religious 
orders. The Grande Chartreuse once 
more afforded shelter to the children 
of S. Bruno, but bereft of all its lands 
and forests, which had been either 
expropriated by the state or sold as 
national property. In July, 1816, 
possession was taken in the name 
of the order by Dom Moissonnier, 
superior-general. A happy day it 
was for the inhabitants of the sur- 
rounding country, who had not for- 



A Visit to the Grande Chartreuse, 



121 



gotten the kind and generous friends 
of whom they had been deprived 
for twenty-four years; and the wel- 
come they gave the returning fathers 
proves that then, as to-day, the cry 
igainst religious orders proceeded, 
DOt from the people, but from that 
class, more noisy than numerous, 
whose sole aim is the destruction of 
Chnstianity and the gratification of 
their own evil passions. 

The part of the building reserved 
for the reception of strangers forms 
one side of the spacious courtyard, 
into which you enter through the 
principal gateway; it contains four 
large dioing-halls and a great num- 
ber of bed-rooms, often, however, 
insufficient for the visitors who in 
the summer crowd to view this love- 
ly spot, and to see something of that 
wondrous, and in our days unfamil- 
iar, institution — monastic life. 

During one's stay at the monastery, 
which, unless by special permission, 
is limited to three days, one must be 
content with Carthusian fare — a curi- 
ous mixture of vegetable soups, ome- 
lettes, carp — of which there seems 
to be a never-failing supply — and 
«ild fruits from the mountains. 
Meat is never allowed within the 
precincts of the convent; not even 
m case of serious illness is the rule 
relaxed for the monks. 

The long walk and the invigorat- 
ing purity of the mountain air had 
sharpened my appetite, and I did 
ample justice to the viands placed 
before me, meagre in quality certain- 
ly, but not in quantity, finishing with 
a glass of the famous liqueur, I 
contented myself with a short stroll 
alter dinner, as at so high an altitude 
the air is cool after sunset; indeed, 
few are the evenings here, even at 
midsummer, that people are not glad 
to assemble for a short time around 
the glowing logs before retiring to 
rest 



At midnight, the great bell tolls 
forth for matins, at which the visi- 
tor is permitted to assist in a small 
gallery looking into the church. A 
solitary lamp lights but dimly the 
large and naturally sombre interior. 
It is an impressive sight to behold in 
that solemn gloom the white-robed 
monks entering one by one, and, after 
prostrating themselves before the al- 
tar, noiselessly take their places in 
the choir. The office lasts until two 
in the morning. The chant is low and 
monotonous, unaccompanied by any 
musical instrument. 

Every morning at ten, a father 
whose special duty it is to entertain 
visitors shows you over the monas- 
tery, explaining everything with the 
most genial courtesy, answering with 
perfect affability the oftentimes fool- 
ish and ignorant questions that are 
addressed to him. The visit lasts 
about an hour and a half. 

The chapel is spacious and lofty 
but exceedingly plain, and contains 
nothing to interest the antiquarian. 
The largest room in the building 
is the chapter-hall, which is finely 
proportioned, and is decorated with 
portraits of the first fifty generals of 
the order, and copies of the celebra- 
ted paintings by Lesueur represent- 
ing the life of S. Bruno. 

By far the most interesting part of 
the whole convent is the cloister, in 
shape a very long parallelogram, the 
two side galleries being 721 feet in 
length ; into them open the cells of 
the monks. In the centre of the 
cloister is their burial-ground; and 
thus their abode in life is separated 
by but a few steps from their final 
resting-place. The graves of the 
generals of the order are alone mark- 
ed by stone crosses; all others lie 
beneath the greensward unmarked, 
unnamed. The cells are now but 
rarely shown. They are all alike, con- 
sisting of two rooms one above the 



122 



A Visit to the Grande Chartreuse. 



other; each has a small garden. 
Food is passed to the inmates through 
a wicket opening into the corridor 
of the cloister ; for it is only on Sun- 
days and certain feast-days that the 
monks dine in common in the re- 
fectory; even then the strictest si- 
lence is observed. 

llie library is not extensive; the 
most valuable books and manuscripts 
were given, at the Revolution, to dif- 
ferent public libraries. The liqtteur 
for which the Grande Chartreuse 
is so renowned, and which now 
forms the principal source of income 
for the convent, is manufactured in 
a house quite apart from the main 
buildings. The process is, of course, 
not shown to visitors, for the recipe 
used — aromatic herbs of various 
kinds — is kept a secret ; and hitherto 
all attempts to imitate this liqueur 
have been failures. The manufac- 
ture occupies a large staff of lay bro- 
thers. The fathers take no part in it; 
their lives are purely contemplative. 
It takes fully two days to explore the 
environs, and more time may profit- 
ably be spent in doing so should the 
tourist happen to be either an artist 
or a botanist. The former will find 
numberless points of view worthy to 
adorn his album, while the latter will 
revel in the luxuriance of the won- 
drous flora which clothes the neigh- 
boring hills. The lover of mountain- 
climbing will find a pleasant and 
easy day's work in the ascent of the 
Grand Som, and on a fine day will be 
amply repaid by the extensive pros- 



pect the summit commands. The 
less enterprising will probably be 
satisfied with the many pleasant 
walks through the woods and sloping 
pastures that surround the monastery, 
of which varied and striking views 
may be obtained at every turn. 

It was not without a feeling of sin- 
cere regret that, on the last evening 
of my stay, I ascended one of those 
slopes to take a farewell view of the 
venerable pile. The last rays of the 
setting sun lit up the high-pitched 
roofs and cross-topped belfries; a 
solemn silence reigned in cloister and 
courtyard, in chapel and cell. It was 
a scene on which one could gaze 
with unmixed pleasure, awakening as 
it did in the mind feelings so calm 
and peaceful — a scene so full of all 
that spoke of future hopes, so empty 
of all that recalled the fleeting joys 
of the present ! 

But the sun had sunk behind the 
horizon, and the shades of evening, 
fast closing around, warned me that 
it was time to cease my musings, and 
seek, for the last time, the shelter of 
the hospitable convent-roof. 

Early next morning, I was back 
again to the noisy world, with its 
crowded streets, bustling hotels, and 
busy railways ; but I shall ever bear 
in my memory the pleasant recollec- 
tions of that wonderful combination 
of the austere charms of monastic 
life with the most varied beauties of 
nature, which I have endeavored to 
describe in these few pages on La 
Grande Chartreuse. 



To Nature, 123 



TO NATURE. 

Nature, to me thy face has ever been 
Familiar as a mother's ; yet it grows 
But younger with the wearing years, and shows 

Fresher — unlike all others I have seen. 

The "beings of the mind," though "not of clay" — 
" Essentially immortal," • and " a joy 
For ever " t — even these may pall and cloy, 

For all that poets gloriously say. 

Yea, and thy own charms, Nature, when portrayed 
By hand of man, become the spoil of time. 
The seasons mar, not change, them : in sublime 

Repose they reign — ^but evermore to fade. 

"Whence comes, then, thy perennial youth renewed ? 

Thy freshness as of everlasting morn ? 

God's breath is on thee. Of it thou wast born. 
And with its fragrance is thy life bedewed. 

Nor can I need aught sterner than thy face 
To wean me from the things that pass away. 
Not by autumnal lesson of decay. 

Or vernal hymn of renovating grace. 

But by this fragrance of the Infinite ; 
For here my soul catches her native air, 
And tastes the ever fresh, the ever fair. 

That wait her in the Gardens of Delight. 

Lake George, August, 1873. 



* ** The beings of the mind are not of clay: 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brighter ray 
And more belov'd existence." 

--Byron, 
t " A thing of beauty is a joy for ever." 

— ATm//. 



124 



Parts Hospitals 



PARIS HOSPITALS. 



PROM THB FXBNCH OP M. L ABBB O. DELARC. 



Hospitals convey two very dif- 
ferent impressions. If gone over on 
the day specified for public admit- 
tance, everything will be found in 
perfect order, every article used, 
every place, will shine with cleanli- 
ness; the patients will be seen lying 
under white coverlets behind the 
folds of neatly drawn curtains, and 
the men in attendance will be attired 
in their best uniforms. Every repul- 
sive object has been put out of sight. 
But should the visitor command suffi- 
cient influence to obtain admission 
when he is not expected, when no 
preparations have been made for the 
public, he will acquire a more cor- 
rect idea of human infirmity. The 
atmosphere is thick and heavy, the 
flickering night-lamp scarcely sheds 
its pale light around. Here lies one 
whose groans disturb his fellow-suf- 
ferers; there shrieks the victim of 
fever, endeavoring in his delirium to 
tear away from the infirmier who is 
holding him down ; further on, half- 
closed curtains insufficiently conceal 
the mortal remains of such or such a 
" Number," who expired a few hours 
ago. Other details, too harrowing 
to retrace, shall be omitted, but their 
fearful reality may not be lost sight 
of in a faithful account of what scenes 
do occur in a hospital. A heavy 
coffin is from time to time viewed at 
the foot of one of the beds. It awaits 
the corpse of the sufferer, with whom 
his nearest survivor may have ex- 
changed converse on the preceding 
day. These, in short, are some of 
the sights witnessed without the de- 
lusive cover of science or prepara- 
tions for a public exhibition. 



The aversion of the poor for bene- 
volent institutions of this kind is 
hereby explained, although incessant 
efforts are being made in France to 
improve the condition of hospitals in 
* a material point of view ; and all the 
objections now made are to be attri- 
buted to mismanagement in the past 
rather than to shortcomings in the 
present. In spite of progress, never- 
theless, the word " hospice " and the 
thing itself have retained a significa- 
tion which is replete with mournful 
forebodings. On the other hand, re- 
pugnance for hospitals is perfectly 
legitimate when grounded on serious 
motives, and especially when inspired 
by a feeling of family love. That 
man would be worthless indeed who 
could abandon his relatives to public 
charity without experiencing some 
kind of sorrow at being unable to 
keep them, through a trying illness, in 
his own home. Examples of moral 
desertions are nevertheless too fre- 
quent in Paris. Physicians are well 
acquainted with those sham patients 
who prefer hospital bread to any 
other, because they have not to earn 
it. There are, however, certain aci- 
versities here below which defy r.!l 
human foresight, which destroy old- 
established positions, and render ilie 
efforts of a whole laborious lifetime 
unprofitable. A large portion of 
some lives is spent in contending 
with unforeseen, unsuspected vicissi- 
tudes. Many may therefore die in a 
hospital who deserved better; but, as 
a general rule, this end is brought on 
by a long course of dissipation, and 
by oblivion of the most sacred du- 
ties. A hospital is not unfrequently 



Paris Hospitals. 



125 



tlie last stage on which retribution is 
played out. 

When families are averse to trust 
tlieir sick to pubh'c charity for rea- 
sons given above, it is wise not to 
argue with natural pride, founded, 
after all, on a praiseworthy motive ; 
yet all who are anxious to relieve 
the suffering members of Jesus Christ 
arc none the less bound to improve 
the present condition of hospitals, as 
for as they have it in their power so 
to do. 

The following pages are published 
for the purpose of showing how 
rauch there is to be done. Not all 
the good-will nor all the experiments 
tried by physicians, managers, and 
almoners for the alleviation of bitter 
suffering, will ever be superfluous. 
Objections ever will be made to hos- 
pital treatment that cannot be reme- 
died ; and, do what we may, the most 
active Christian charity will never 
replace the tender care of a mother, 
daughter, or sister. 

After a careful examination of the 
question, the first lesson acquired is 
that home relief is the best solution 
to the problem of misery and illness 
in needy families ; it encourages the 
lower classes, besides, to perform 
^leir domestic duties. 

In one case out of ten, it is highly 
\ rejudicial to remove a patient from 
his surroundings ; moreover, it loosens 
tlie family tie, and in Paris especial- 
ly, where these bonds are so slight 
^nd so incessantly undermined by 
fil-ie theories, it is a more damaging 
course than elsewhere. 

Statistics are very justly resorted to 
'''T the solution of many of our prob- 
irrms, but their conclusions cannot be 
-lindly adopted in medical cases; 
i'.iysicians themselves often warn us 
-gainst glancing them over without 
.r.7cstigation. Figures do, however, 
Mdeniably prove that mortality in 
tiusjjitals is much larger than in pri- 



vate dwellings. A considerable num- 
ber of patients, to whom fresh air is 
a boon, cannot breathe a vitiated at- 
mosphere with impunity. Crowding 
is particularly prejudicial to the 
wounded and in lying-in hospitals, 
" In 1 86 1," says Dr. Brochin, in his 
Encyclopadia of Medical Sciences, " the 
proportion of patients cured by home 
relief was 49 to 100, while the pro- 
portion of deaths in private dwell- 
ings was 9 to 100. During this 
same period, deaths in the hospitals 
were 13 to 100. The average space 
of time required for the treatment of 
each patient in his own home is from 
14 to 39 days ; in the hospitals, from 
25 to 83. The average cost of a pa- 
tient per day is i fr. 19 c. ; the 
entire treatment of each, 16 frs. 90 c. ; 
whereas, in the hospitals, a patient 
costs 2 frs. 25 c. per day, and 61 frs. 
45 c. for an entire cure. These fig- 
ures plead in favor of home relief. 

A great deal has been said in these 
latter times of those immense edifi- 
ces pompously called " Model Hos- 
pitals." There is Lariboisi^re, for 
instance, and the new Hdtel Dieu. 
It would have been wiser had the 
government spent less in one instance, 
and been more lavish in another; for, 
while these magnificent buildings 
were being erected, palaces were also 
in course of construction all over the 
capital, and the laboring classes, thus 
driven from their workshops, were 
compelled to seek lodgings up in 
attics or in out-of-the-way localities. 
If some trouble had been taken to 
cleanse and widen the poor man's 
tenement, or had something been 
done towards putting him in the way 
of getting food at little cost, we should 
boast fewer facades, fewer sumptu- 
ous edifices, but the work would be 
more meritorious. 

Physicians have energetically op- 
posed the idea of accumulating so 
large a number of patients in the 



126 



Paris Hospitals. 



H6tel Dieu as it was originally in- 
tended it should contain. Let us 
trust the observations of experienced 
men will be taken into consideration, 
and that the number of beds will be 
diminished before final arrangements 
are completed. 

HOSPITAL BEDS. 

Our beds are too close; and 
another thing which strikes a for- 
eigner on visiting our hospitals is that 
the divisions which are supposed to 
seclude one patient from his neigh- 
bor, are perfectly useless for that pur- 
pose. In many cases, they are done 
away with altogether. The prox- 
imity of beds varies, however, ac- 
cording to the different asylums. 
Some of the buildings were not 
intended for hospitals, and their man- 
agers have had to turn rooms into 
wards in the best way they could, in 
spite of defective architecture. It is 
difficult to specify the exact distance 
kept between the beds ; but an idea 
can be conveyed when I state that 
any patient, by stretching his arm 
out, without any great exertion could 
easily touch his neighbor's hand. 

In many hospitals, the beds have 
been coupled by two and two, so 
that, if two patients are thus closer to 
each other on one side, the distance 
is larger from other patients on the 
opposite side. 

There is, however, always space 
enough left for a night-table between 
every two beds. In most hospitals, 
beds are hung round with white ca- 
lico curtains; but in some asylums 
they are omitted, and in these there 
is literally nothing to hide patients 
from view. Such a system of total 
exposure is perfectly inhuman. I 
should say it originates in a spirit of 
medical socialism; for it compels suf- 
ferers to exhibit their wounds to each 
other during the doctor's visit. Some 
men and all women cannot endure 



this ordeal without a struggle. Why 
not sympathize with that which can 
be alleviated, if not entirely cured ? 
What would be our feelings if, when 
brought low by fever and diet, we 
had to lie near a man who is breath- 
ing his last, and to remain in full 
view of his corpse for long hours after 
he had expired? But, as before 
said, the larger number of hospital 
beds are hung round with curtains, 
maintained in opposition to our Paris 
doctors, who have repeatedly pro- 
tested against them, insisting Uiat all 
hangings draw unwholesome miasms, 
and are therefore receptacles of con- 
tagion. This objection is not un- 
founded ; eminent practitioners expe- 
rience great uneasiness on the sub- 
ject, and the curtain difficulty has 
often been debated by managers of 
sanitary institutions. 

Endeavors have been made to ob- 
viate the evil by a renewal of hang- 
ings every six months; in spite of 
the great expense, the difficulty ex- 
ists. It is next to impossible to ven- 
tilate a ward encumbered to excess 
with beds and hangings ; and, if the 
principals of hospitals do still advo- 
cate curtains, it is because they are 
actuated by motives of a moral order. 
In M. Husson's Study of Hospitals 
we find : " These calico divisions are 
a great comfort to female patients; it 
is a great relief to them to be able to 
conceal their diseases from the pub- 
lic gaze, and thus to isolate them- 
selves from surrounding wretched- 
ness. This feeling of modesty, or 
shyness in other cases, will long re- 
sist the most eloquent exhortations 
of our doctors on general salubrity." 

Our present hospital regulations 
do not carry out the purpose for 
which curtains are intended. It is 
usual to draw them all back at eight 
A.M., and they are left open until the 
doctor's visit is over and the wards 
have been swept. This lasts till 



Paris Hospitals. 



127 



about mid-day. The consequence of 
this arrangement is that, during the 
most delicate operations, such as the 
dressing of wounds, the doctor's ex- 
amination, and the change of a pa- 
tient's linen, there is no sort of privacy 
around the sufferer, no more consid- 
eration shown for women and young 
girls than for others. In the day- 
time, another regulation prevails. In- 
spectors forbid concealment behind 
the curtains on account of the diffi- 
culty they would experience on sur- 
veying proceedings in the wards. 
For these reasons, the curtains are 
elegantly looped aside, and contri- 
bute more to the decoration of the 
beds than to use. 

Every ward contains two rows of 
beds, placed along the lateral walls 
in such wise that the patient's head 
is near the wall, and his feet turn to- 
wards the centre of the ward. Why 
could not a low partition, covered 
over with stucco, be raised between 
each bed ? This separation need 
not exceed i metre 50 centimetres 
in height, nor i metre 50 centime- 
tres in width. It would part the 
Ih^, and not obstruct ventilation in 
the upper regions or down the cen- 
tral passage. If the ward were light- 
ed hy a sufficient number of windows 
to allow of one being opened in each 
of these ** cells," the circulation of so 
much fresh air would greatly benefit 
the sick. 

The front of each cell being open, 
surveyors would find their task ren- 
dered easy, neither would their in- 
>pection be hindered by a small iron 
rud being affixed to the outer side 
of each partition, on which two light 
curtains might be drawn in case of a 
death, or wlien it were absolutely 
necessary that a patient should enjoy 
privacy. The slight screens would 
not entail the same inconvenience as 
laose which are in use at present, as 
they are mounted on a very com- 



plicated plan all around the beds. 
Whenever a decease occurs, the 
stucco coating of the low divisions 
should be washed with a sponge. It 
is well known that stucco is not a 
receptacle for contagion in the same 
degree as drapery. 

Such is the kind of cabinet each 
patient should have to himself, and 
it should be wide enough for a chair 
and night-table to find place by his 
bedside. These and a crucifix are 
the indispensable articles every pa- 
tient has a right to. This system 
would greatly simplify our hospital 
beds, now consisting of so many and 
such cumbersome pieces, 

A little space might possibly be 
lost ; a ward now containing twenty- 
five patients would only hold eigh- 
teen ; but, on the other hand, what an 
improvement, and how much health- 
ier an arrangement in a medical point 
of view ! 

Patients have certain communica- 
tions to make to their friends on the 
days set aside for public admission 
which are not intended for the hear- 
ing of strangers ; and, when the hour 
of death is nigh, it is but natural they 
should be allowed to hold converse 
with their relatives without any wit- 
nesses. Even this semi-retirement is 
denied them under the present system ; 
whereas the plan proposed would se- 
cure the preservation of family secrets. 
It will, perhaps, be alleged that the 
patient would thus be isolated from 
his fellow-sufferers. By no means. 
As above remarked, the cells would 
be open down the central passage, 
and each patient could see his 
opposite neighbor. This, added to 
the going to and fro of infirtniersy 
doctors, sisters, and regular visitors, 
affords quite enough excitement for 
an invalid. 

Neither is this an innovation. It 
was once tried at Munich, and, if but 
imperfectly carried out, no hygienic 



128 



Paris Hospitals. 



objection was made to it. We find 
this organization existed in one of 
the oldest hospitals in France, the 
Tonnerre Hotel Dieu — a monument 
described by M. Viollet Leduc in his 
work, Dictionnaire Raisonni de PAr- 
chiiecture Frangaise du XI, an XVI. 
Steele. The learned writer says this 
institution can bear comparison with 
the most boasted foundations of the 
present day. In the archives of the 
Tonnerre Hospital we find the fol- 
lowing document. I quote because 
it forcibly reminds us of S. Vincent 
de Paul : " The poor are provided 
for in this institution, and the conva- 
lescent are kept a whole week after 
their cure, when they are sent away 
with a coat, a shirt, and a pair of 
boots. A chapel will be added hav- 
ing four altars. The brothers and 
sisters in charge are twenty in num- 
ber ; they are bound to provide food 
and drink for the wayfarer ; to board 
pilgrims and strangers, clothe the 
poor, visit the sick, comfort the pris- 
oner, and bury the dead. The broth- 
ers and sisters will not take their 
meals before the sick have been at- 
tended to. . . ." 

On closing this paragraph, a ques- 
tion arises whether people in the dark, 
middle ages were not more solicitous 
for the poor than in the XVII Ith 
century. A glance down a report 
written for Louis XV. on the Hotel 
Dieu will corroborate this. 

We shall doubtless hear it objected 
that partitions between hospital beds 
will inconvenience the doctors and 
medical students ; that it will be diffi- 
cult to approach patients; and young 
physicians will declare they cannot 
follow the chefs instructions near 
enough. It will be said, further, that, 
when any operation is going on, the 
limited space allowed by a narrow 
cell must exclude the use of surgical 
instruments. 

The following considerations clear 



the first of these objections ; but, in a 
strict sense of the word, the only es- 
sential thing is that the physician 
should not be impeded in his move- 
ments round the sufferer. He, his 
assistants, and about seven or eight 
more are all the spectators neces- 
sary, and these form a sufficiently 
large audience. The central passage 
down all wards affords room for 
more. Even as the beds are now 
placed, it is not easy for a larger 
number to get nearer. 

As to operations, they are carried 
on in a special hall, to which the pa- 
tient is carried; patients never are 
operated on in the wards. 

THE doctor's visit. 

The great every-day occurrence in 
a hospital is the doctor's visit. It be- 
gins at about eight a.m., and lasts till 
eleven. The chef^ a term designating 
the head -physician, examines each 
sufferer in turn, inquires into his or 
her state, and dictates prescriptions, 
which are taken down by an outdoor 
student. He is also attended by 
indoor students, other outdoor stu- 
dents, postulants, and auditors. The 
two latter must have gone through a 
course of two years* study before they 
are privileged to walk the hospitals. 
The postulant is not admitted before 
he has gone through a special exami- 
nation, and then becomes an outdoor 
student. The highest degree under 
doctor is that of an indoor student ; 
all are, therefore, familiar with medical 
science excepting the auditor, who, 
though he may have studied t%'0 
years in the schools, is but a dilettante 
— a kind of amateur authorized by the 
chef to follow him on his rounds with 
the students. Many even call them- 
selves auditors who slip in unper- 
ceived with the crowd. When tiic 
head-doctor is followed by all these 
young men, his cortege is very nume- 
rous. There are often as many r.s 



Paris Hospitals. 



129 



fifty in our principal hospitals, seldom 
less than thirty in the minor ones. 
Thus, without any amplification of a 
known fact, a patient has to see 
about forty strangers round his bed 
every day. He is operated on in 
public. Not a line of his features 
contracted by pain escapes the notice 
of indifferent spectators ; not a mo- 
tion oi his muscles is unheeded. The 
professor meanwhile develops his 
medical theories on the living body, 
studying the " case " with care. 

Let us for a moment imagine that 
your own daughter is lying at the 
hospital She is twenty ; you have 
brought her up with all the care and 
solicitude parents owe to their chil- 
dren; you have often said in her 
hearing that modesty is the loveliest 
adornment; that it replaces what- 
ever else is wanting, and can be re- 
placed by nothing. For twenty years, 
jou have watched the growth of her 
budding virtues; her Christian ad- 
vancement has been your daily care. 
Her state now requires she should see 
an eminent physician once every day. 
Look into your heart. What is the 
sensation you feel there at the idea 
of her being examined by forty or 
fifty medical students besides? 

It is an indignant protest against 
their attendance. 

■ ••••• 

It is the mission of a priest to be 
made the confidant of many sonows ; 
he has to suffer with the sufferer, to 
moura with the mourner ; and he can 
state that, of all trials which attend 
medical treatment in hospitals, there 
is not one more distasteful than the 
doctor's visit, especially to women. 
I appeal to any who have heard pa- 
tients converse together; I appeal to 
uiy brother in the ministry. Is this 
not the great cause of repugnance for 
hospiuls ? 

On the other hand, medical science 
lus certain rights; doctors have to 

VOL. XVIII.- 



go through an apprenticeship, prac- 
titioners must follow a course of prac- 
tice on living beings before they are 
qualified for operations; it is there- 
fore indispensable that the head-doc- 
tor should be followed by disciples, 
and the height of absurdity to re- 
quire he should go round the wards 
alone. It is necessary, likewise, that 
postulants and students should be 
present; for it frequently occurs that 
they are called on to dress wounds 
during the doctor's absence. 

Their attendance is consequently 
unavoidable ; but, this being the case, 
it is all the more desirable, in the 
name of female modesty, and in the 
name of common respect for a needy- 
suffering female, that the presence of 
noisy auditors should be done away 
with. They crowd the wards, and 
learn very little. It should be with 
medical science as with every other : 
students ought to have become fa- 
miliar with the rudiments and theo- 
ries of their profession before they 
practice ; and a few years in the private 
schools should be gone through before 
beginners walk the hospitals. The 
crowd is perfectly intolerable at the- 
hour of the doctor's visit in our best 
hospitals, especially at the Ciiniqws 
and Charity. This might be reme- 
died by each medical student being 
bound to keep to one asylum for an 
allotted space of time, let us say 
one year, after which he could be 
removed to another. One of the- 
good effects instantly resulting from 
this would be that our central city 
hospitals, instead of being crowded* 
to the neglect of others, would find' 
the number of spectators greatly 
thinned for the benefit of minor hospi- 
tals now forsaken. The great thing' 
in all questions relating to benevo- 
lent asylums is to examine whence- 
the stand-point is taken for their 
consideration. Two principles pre- 
sent themselves : common sense and 



130 



Paris Hospitals. 



humanity say that physicians and 
surgeons are intended for hospitals, 
not hospitals for physicians and sur- 
geons. Medical science — and here 
we allude to the materialistic and 
unsound brandy of that science — 
replies : " By no means. Inconveni- 
ence must be tolerated, science and 
progress go foremost." 

Let us manfully, though sadly, 
give up a share for scientific progress 
(which is not an imaginary thing) ; 
and, on looking into it, let us reflect 
on the bitterness of that irony which 
so often leaves us to utter the word 
equality y coupled with that other word, 
fratertiity^ which is just as little under- 
stood. Hospitals will not answer 
the end for which they were in- 
stituted until the smallest of those 
who flee hither to hide their misery 
and suflerings obtain the same re- 
spect, deference, and care lavished 
on the man who owns a yearly in- 
come. 

Some time ago, a woman afilicted 
with an internal disease was carried 
to a hospital. The head-doctor ex- 
amined her on the following morning, 
and immediately concluded that her 
case was too grave to be remedied. 

He declared any attempt made 
to operate on her would prove fatal 
and hasten death ; the only thing he 
could do was to prescribe lenients, in 
order to alleviate intense agony so 
long as life held out. The young 
students around him urgently in- 
sisted on the operation being per- 
formed ; whereupon the physician, 
turning towards them, and finding 
expostulation unprofitable, said : " If 
this patient were my wife, gentle- 
men, I should not attempt what you 
suggest, I should leave her in peace ; 
you must, therefore, not expect me 
to do otherwise by this woman. . . ." 

Such words as these should be 
engraved in letters of gold on the 
hearts of all practitioners. 



THE POOR MAN S DEATH. 

A fact that has often been set 
forth by Christianity is that the se- 
crets of man are revealed on his 
death-bed. Then it is that every syl- 
lable he utters, every motion of his 
spirit, are full of significance. The 
smallest sign, is a ray of light by 
which a whole lifetime can be read ; 
and, if the amount of faith in a man 
is thus disclosed, how easy it is to 
compute the amount of faith in a na- 
tion from what is supplied by obser- 
vation in so many single cases ! 

O mors ! bonum est judicium tuum / — 
O death ! thy judgments are equita- 
ble ! 

No man is better qualified than 
the priest to look into tliis matter. 
A large portion of his time is spent 
by the dying, and my own personal 
experience has confirmed me in the 
following observations. 

The most striking features as re- 
gards faith in the dying are moral 
dejection and an almost total absence 
of hope. These are the inevitable 
consequences of the efibrts which 
have for some time been made to 
uproot religious principle from the 
hearts of the people. It is no won- 
der that hope fled with her divine 
sister, faith. Can any thinker form a 
notion of the state of a man who has 
been down-lrodden all his life, who 
has been looked on as a bearer of 
burdens and a miserable ^ and who 
has nothing to hope for in a future 
state ? 

We read in Holy Writ that, when 
the waters of the deluge began to de- 
crease, and Noe looked out of his 
ark after his arduous struggle with 
the elements, he saw a dove, bearing 
an olive-branch, fly towards him ; 
the bird was the herald of good 
news, the harbinger of future deliver- 
ance. 

Our poor, when exhausted by long 
adversity, look out in vain for the 



Paris Hospitals. 



131 



dove, and that hope which carries 
peace and help seldom brightens 
their last moments. Death to such 
as these is nothing but acquiescence 
in blind fate. What can a priest do 
in such cases ? Teach and enlight- 
en. Very true; but the patient's 
physical condition does not give him 
much time to do this thoroughly, 
nor can the sufferer always attend to 
the little the priest can do. The 
thing left to be tried is the awaken- 
ing of the dying man's memory. 
The priest therefore recalls the scenes 
of boyhood, talks of a mother's teach- 
ings, of the village church, the long- 
forgotten first communion, etc., etc. 
If the poor man come from the South 
or from Alsace, the patois of his na- 
tive place rouses wonderful reminis- 
cences; but it is useless to attempt 
reasoning. A plain-spoken state- 
ment of fact that is neither common- 
place nor trivial often creates a great 
impression. It is a mistake to use 
unrefined phraseology in the hope 
of redeeming the illiterate by de- 
:>cending to the level of their intelli- 
gence ; the lower classes prefer plain 
l>m elevated language, and value the 
price of the liquid according to the 
cost of the vase in which it is con- 
tained. Returns to God in the last 
day are very scarce and always leave 
much room for the mercy of the Al- 
mighty; but it is something to have 
brought about a desire for the last 
sacraments, and to have been able 
to set forth, though imperfectly, one 
or two of the great truths of Christi- 
anity. 

Three dissolving elements have 
greatly hastened the degenerate con- 
(iition of Paris workmen, and, in 
general, of the lower classes in this 
capital They are the wine-shop, the 
club, and the journal. 

The enormous rate at which wine 
was taxed under the Empire forced 
ihc heads of small families to give 



up keeping a provision of ordinaire 
in their cellars ; and, as wine could 
not be kept at home, it had to be 
fetched from the nearest wine-shop. 
There was also an additional reason 
why the usual barrel could not be 
kept Houses no longer afford the 
luxury of a cellar to each flat, and 
those who could have afforded to 
pay the duties had no room for a cask 
of wine from the provinces. But 
there was the wine-shop ; and alco- 
holic mixtures, colored with dyeing 
tinctures or logwood, were resorted 
to instead of the wholesome draught 
of thin but unadulterated wine -which 
every Frenchman, a few years ago, 
was so accustomed to. When once 
the habit is acquired of turning in at 
a wine-shop, many are the baneful 
results which ensue; first drunken- 
ness, then extravagance, bad asso- 
ciates, low talk and discussions round 
the counter, broils — all of which soon 
get the better of an originally upright 
conscience unsupported by firm prin- 
ciple. 

The evil effects of drink were never 
known to breed in France such a 
cankerous wound as that which has 
spread among us since the siege and 
the Commutie, Prior to these me- 
lancholy events, alcoholic patients 
were only now and then brought to 
our hospitals, but they have increased 
out of all proportion within the last 
few years. There can be no mistak- 
ing such cases with the following 
symptoms : delirium, inflammation 
of the lungs, extraordinary irritability, 
then languor and that sudden debility 
which is the forerunner of death. No 
sooner did a Communist suffer am- 
putation than he expired; for it is 
almost impossible to operate on men 
who are in a continual state of in- 
toxication. 

Paris clubs were first heard of to- 
wards the end of the Empire. M. 
Emile Ollivier thought a good deal 



132 



Paris Hospitals. 



of these gatherings ; but they have, in 
reality, proved to be a most disastrous 
institution. The only good they ac- 
complished was to propagate a cor- 
rect idea of the intdUciucU and moral 
degeneracy of our people. The lower 
classes met for no other purpose than 
that of uniting all their ignorance 
and hates. What errors, what curses, 
fell from those short-lived tribunes ! 
What frantic applause welcomed false 
theories ! No European nation could 
have resisted this trial, much less than 
any other the French, who are so 
credulous, so fickle, so sensitive to 
all outward impressions. The seeds 
which bore such noxious fruit under 
the Commune were first sown within 
Paris clubs. 

As to the public press, it would be 
loss of time and space to demonstrate 
how that has Contributed to general de- 
moralization. The Si^cle^ the Opinion 
NationaU^ etc., are read at all wine- 
shops. The smallest fault or misde- 
meanor committed by any one con- 
nected with the clergy is exposed by 
these journals to general scandal, ag- 
gravated by spiteful comment, exag- 
gerated, then thrown as a rare morsel 
to open-mouthed multitudes. Such 
manoeuvres are very hurtful with an 
unenlightened populace, who never 
discriminate between religion and 
those who profess it. To them the 
priest and the faith are synonymous. 
If the former is immoral, the latter 
can be good for nothing. A certain 
amount of logic is wanting by which 
the contrary could be demonstrated ; 
but the larger proportion are incapa- 
citated for so intellectual an effort. 
It would lead too far were I to ana- 
lyze more closely the workings of the 
three causes which have destroyed 
our religious and moral convictions. 
Suffice it that the wine-shop, the 
club, and the journal have exercised 
a pernicious influence, and that our 
working-classes have not the means 



in their power wherewith to avert 
it so long as their education is con- 
sidered complete at the age of twelve. 
From the day a mechanic commences 
an apprenticeship, he never hears the 
name of God, unless it is coupled with 
some curse on the lips of his elders. 
The church, Jesus Christ, the sacra- 
ments, soon become objects of de- 
rision. 

In short, the end of such an edu- 
cational system and of such a life is 
that the poor man who is carried to 
a Paris hospital, there to die, knows 
that he will no sooner have breathed 
his last than his body will belong to 
medical students; and as to his soul, 
that better part which, had it been 
cultured, would have been a glorious 
harvest for eternity, he cannot com- 
prehend any discourse concerning it ; 
if compelled to listen because he can- 
not help himself, he falls back on his 
pillow in morose indifference. 

When a nation, once so devout, 
has come to this, some anxiety is felt 
for its future; and the words' ad- 
dressed to Ezechiel the prophet rise to 
our lips : " Lord, can a new life ever 
animate these scattered bones ?" 

THE POOR man's BURIAL. 

The deeper we dive into the sub- 
ject of Paris hospitals, the more are 
we impressed by the melancholy 
spectacle of extreme misery present- 
ed. It is as if we stepped into 
Dante's circles, and saw nothing be- 
fore us but horror; only here we 
look stem facts in the face, and have 
nothing to do with grand poetic con- 
ceptions. It is life, it is reality, it is 
anguish in a most poignant form ; for 
I have now to speak of the mortal 
remains of Christians, of brothers, of 
men like ourselves. When a death 
occurs in the Paris hospitals, the 
corpse of the departed remains for 
one or two hours in the ward, after 
which space of time it is enveloped 



Paris Hospitals. 



133 



in a sheet and carried out on a litter 
by two infirmiers. 

None who have ever seen this 
abandoned cortege will forget it. 
The corpse is instantly conveyed to 
an amphitheatre, where it is left, after 
being stripped of tvtxy thread of 
linen which covered it. Here it 
lies for forty-eight hours or more, ac- 
cording to the arrangements made 
by relatives, or to orders received 
from the authorities. When no ob- 
jections are made by relatives, in- 
door and outdoor students proceed to 
the autopsy of the body. 

Laws and regulations have been 
laid down, by which a certain num- 
ber only of dead bodies are allowed 
for medical science ; but these rules 
arc frequently infringed, and too 
much precipitation has often been 
the cause of needless distress in poor 
families. 

When the necessary formalities 
have been gone through, the corpses 
in the amphitheatre are divided into 
two series : those claimed by rela- 
tives, and those which are left to 
public charity. 

We shall see what becomes of both, 
after a few preliminary considera- 
tions. 

The mortal remains of all Chris- 
tians are sacred in the eyes of Ca- 
tholics, We never erect a temple, 
or build an altar, without consecrat- 
ing a spot therein for the relics of a 
saint, which lie thus honored, like 
the corner-stone of an edifice. 

Neither does the church authorize 
Mass to be said in any place not 
having a consecrated place for relics ; 
and on such alone may the body 
and blood of Christ rest during the 
holy sacrifice. 

Our belief in the resurrection of 
the body; our assurance that Chris- 
tians will, on a future judgment day, 
cither rise in glory or stand to hear 
their eternal condemnation, renders it 



impossible for us to look on the mor- 
tal remains of Christians as do mate- 
rialists and the professors of unbelief. 
What to the latter is nothing but a 
dead body, a fit object for study, is 
to us a sacred deposit whence im- 
mortality will germinate. It is, there- 
fore, no wonder if Catholics are so 
solicitous to obtain proper burial for 
such remains. In this instance, as 
in all others, Christianity is in perfect 
harmony with the tenderest aspira- 
tions of our kindred. 

When it so happens that relatives 
of the deceased can afford to pay 
down the sum of fourteen francs 
(eight for a coffin, and six for the 
municipal tax), a bier is provided, and 
the body is buried ; if the deceased 
leaves behind enough money to cover 
the above expenses, he is buried in 
like manner, and, if any sum remains 
over, it is employed according to the 
will expressed by the deceased. In 
some cases, survivors are willing to 
incur more expense than that which 
is included in an outlay of fourteen 
francs ; for, although this insignificant 
sum is sufficient for a coffin, it does not 
suffice for a €hroud nor for any body- 
linen.* Moreover, if the family can- 
not afford to pay fifty francs over and 
above the fourteen required, the body 
is interred in the common grave. 

The common grave! What a 
train of sad thought this lugubrious 
idea gives rise to I It is no longer, 
thank God! what it was; the bodies 
are not now thrown, as before, pell- 
mell in a deep grave. A coffin is 
provided for each, according to the 
rule given above; but even in our 
days, the burial of a poor man is not 
what it should be. 

Fancy a long ditch, in which the 
coffins are sunk as close as possible, 
and in juxtaposition ; the spaces be- 

* When an invalid enters a Paris hospiul, the 
shirt he had on is taken from him. It would be 
but charitable to return it to the family in case of 
death. 



^34 



Paris Hospitals. 



tween are filled up with children's 
coffins, so as to leave no intervening 
space. When the soil is covered 
over this vast grave, it is not possible 
for each to have a cross above, and 
it is impossible, likewise, for relatives 
to know the exact spot occupied 
by the remains of a beloved parent. 
Grave-diggers have, of late, had 
orders to allow more room for the 
coffins ; but until a radical rule is en- 
forced, and until each corpse is 
authorized to have a separate grave, 
relatives of the departed are at the 
mercy of grave-diggers. 

However narrow and confined the 
space thus left for each coffin in the 
common grave, that small share is 
only allowed for five years. Afler 
that short length of time, the bodies 
are exhumed, and the bones gath- 
ered to the catacombs. The big 
ditch, now vacated, again yawns for 
what the diggers call " a fresh set," 
and soon the work of decomposition 
again silently commences for another 
term of five years, and so on for all 
time. 

Leaving every other consideration 
aside, does it not strike every reader 
that the period allowed for rest in the 
common grave is much too short? 
Many bodies are dug up in good 
preservation when thus brutally dis- 
turbed, and there are persons who 
can testify to the horror they have 
experienced when called on, by some 
untoward circumstance, to be pre- 
sent at these impious exhumations. 

I shall not add to it by overdraw- 
ing this sufficiently painful picture; 
it does not become the pen of a priest 
to color with such ghastly elements. 
My object is simply to state plain 
facts — to be exact, and not leave 
room for the slightest contradiction. 

Arguments have been advanced 
in favor of the good influence of 
this supreme misery of the common 
grave. It is hoped that such an end 



will be avoided, and that it will car- 
ry a lesson with it — a horror for rely- 
ing on public charity ; but it never- 
theless deals a direct blow at every 
feeling of respect for kith and kin. 
Is not the grief caused by eternal 
partings deep enough, without being 
increased by our acquiescence in the 
total abandonment of the tomb ? 

Any one in authority who could 
suppress the common grave, and give 
every poor man separate burial — any 
one who, having done this, could ren- 
der such a tomb inviolable for a rea- 
sonable term of years, would confer 
an immense blessing on Parisians. 

When M. Haussmann gave out 
the project of a large burial-ground 
at Mery-sur-Oise, it met with opposi- 
tion in all quarters. It was alleged 
that to send corpses out of Paris by 
special railway conveyances would 
be considered disrespectful to the 
dead. But, we would inquire, is the 
present system of interment in the 
common grave calculated to inspire 
respect? The distance of a few 
miles, of even a few leagues, would 
be nothing compared with the privi- 
lege of a separate tombstone over a 
separate grave.^ and it would be much 
wiser to have remote cemeteries, pro- 
vided they were hospitable. This 
question of the common grave not 
only interests those who die within 
the hospitals ; it is also of importance 
to the indigent wherever they die in 
misery — a state many have fallen into 
since the war and the Commune, 

The above disclosures are certain- 
ly very melancholy, and yet I have 
only described the case of the more 
fortunate among the poor — of those 
who have, after all, a hallowed spot 
to rest in after death. There are 
some to whom even this boon is de- 
nied. 

The interests of science and those 
of families being here antagonistic, it 
is necessary to quote a few figures : 



Paris Hospitals, 



135 



On the ist January, 1867, the num- 
ber of sick in the Paris hospitals was 
6,243. I" ^^^ course of that year, 
the number was increased by 90,375 ; 
total, 96,618. Out of this total, 79,- 
897 left the hospitals cured ; 10,045 
had died. There remained, therefore, 
on the 1st January of the following 
year, 6,676 sick p>ersons. In 1869, 
the number of invalids in the hospi- 
tals was 93,355, out of which 82,283 
left cured; 10,429 had died on the 
31st December of the same year. 

We have, in short, an average of 
10,000 deaths every year; and the 
result shown by the above further- 
more is that the proportion of deaths 
to invalids is about that of i to 8^. 
I will not dwell on this latter conclu- 
sion, which, however, proves the dan- 
ger of accumulating a large number 
of cases under the same roof, and 
also the necessity of a reform in our 
establishments. I will pass on to 
the 10,000 deaths resulting from the 
report. In this average number, 
there are from 1,000 to 1,500 claim- 
ed by relatives, who purchase a right 
of separate burial for fifty francs ; 
and there are from 3,500 to 4,000 
who are conveyed to the common 
grave. The remaining 5,000, not 
claimed by any relative or friend, 
are dissected, either at the Ecole de 
Medecine or at the Rue Fer-k-Mou- 
lin. These corpses are used after 
dissection for the manufacture of ske- 
letons, for anatomical institutions, for 
museums, etc., etc. The detritus col- 
lected when thesfc purposes have been 
accomplished are carried promiscu- 
ously in biers to the Hospital Ceme- 
tery, which is situated near the Fort 
of Bicbtre, not far from Turg. 

No spectacle can be more dis- 
tressing than that of this cemetery, to 
which access is gained by a side 
door in the wooden palings that fence 
it round. It is a dreary plain, and 
has no sign to show it is consecrated 



to the departed. The ridges look 
more like trenches than graves. No 
living being has been led here by 
love to mark the mounds with a 
cross, neither is this sign of redemp- 
tion erected over the door, as it is in 
the smallest hamlet; no holy-water 
is sprinkled over these graves. Why 
should no difference be made here 
between a churchyard and a public 
field ? I again repeat that these 5,000 
corpses are those of the deceased not 
claimed by relatives; and this it is 
which constitutes a striking inequal- 
ity between the indigent who die in 
their own homes, and those who die 
in the care of public charity. When 
a poor man dies on his own bed, and 
has not left any provision for his 
burial, the mairie of his arrondisse- 
ment has to provide a coffin gratis, 
and the municipal tax is suppressed 3 
whereas no such generosity as a 
coffin is granted in the hospitals. A 
man dying here without the fourteen 
francs mentioned is carried to one or 
other of the amphitheatres. There is 
no favor shown, even were the de- 
parted your own mother. Fourteen 
francs for a ransom, or the heart of 
the parent that beat for you is the 
prey of medical students. A priest 
is sent for when the corpses have 
been dissected. It is then his duty 
to stand up, facing the mutilated re- 
mains, and to read the prayers for 
the dead. When this ceremony is 
over, they are conveyed to the hos- 
pital cemetery. Need I insist that 
the religious rite performed as I have 
described is of little consolation to 
those who are left behind ? It is not 
a separate service for each of the 
deceased ; several bodies lie together, 
or rather, the members of their bod- 
ies — a galling sight, which surviving 
relatives avoid. Neither can it be de- 
fended ; for, until the religious cere- 
mony has been performed, the re- 
mains are not collected in a coffin ; 



136 



Paris Hospitals. 



they lie unshrouded, a hideous expo- 
sure of human flesh. 

I here repeat that I am not op- 
posed to medical science, nor to the 
dissection of certain corpses ; it is an 
unavoidable process for the benefit 
of progress in surgery, and for that 
of the living ; what I have in view is 
the welfare of the state as acquired 
by respect for ties of kindred, and 
by veneration for the mortal remains 
of Christians. 

There is a middle course to be 
adopted very evidently — a course by 
which surgery and science generally 
would be promoted and the religious 
convictions of Christians not tram- 
pled under foot. I propose that, 
when any person claims the body of 
a parent or relative in the first degree, 
that person should be privileged to 
obtain gratuitous burial, if he or she 
prove utter incapacity to meet the 
expenses. This proof is acquired by 
a certificate from the almshouses, 
by receipts from the Mont de Piiti 
(Loan Bank) , by a line from the mairU^ 
and other sources. A relative in the 
first degree implies a father, mother, 
wife, husband, son or daughter, bro- 
ther or sister. Even were grandfath- 
ers and grandmothers included, the 
5,000 corpses left to hospital char- 
ity would not be greatly diminished ; 
4,000 bodies would remain at least 
for dissection — those of wandering 
strangers, of lawless, unknown per- 



sons mostly — ^and surely this is a high 
figure for the indigent population of 
one capital. There are no better sur- 
geons in £urope than those of Got- 
tingen, Wurzburg, Salerno, Mont- 
pellier, Vienna, and Berlin, and yet 
these cities have not near so many 
dead bodies in their amphitheatres. 

I say that a Christian must feel 
deeply for those who are left without 
proper burial, a sign on their tombs, 
a stone to perpetuate their memory 
for a few years. All this is replaced 
by the jests of indifferent students; 
and, instead of the friendly parting 
kiss, there is the surgeon's instrument 
on a loved brow. 

O old reminiscences of the early 
catacombs ! how far off, how faint, are 
you now. Who is there in this 
large city that remembers what a 
work of mercy it is to bury the dead ? 
O village churchyards! in the cen- 
tre of which rises the humble church- 
spires ; O graves I over which the fer- 
vent kneel every Sunday — graves that 
never open to give up their dead; 
O hallowed spots! around which 
thoughts of God are united with 
thoughts of our dear ones, and where 
the past is folded, as it were, hand 
in hand with the future, how do I 
prefer you to these grand ceme- 
teries, in which there is so much 
show for one or two, and nothing 
for the poor man who will want no 
more! 



A Week at the Lake of Cotno. 



137 



A WEEK AT THE LAKE OF COMO. 



For perfect quiet and certain in- 
spiration, the poet or artist could 
hardly choose a more suitable sum- 
mer roost than any one of the vil- 
lages that fringe the Lake of Como ; 
while for health the advantages of 
this neighborhood are unrivalled. It 
combines the beauty of softened lines 
and veiled colors that distinguishes 
Italy with that more bracing atmos- 
phere peculiar to Alpine countries. 
The Jake is there for luxurious mid- 
night expeditions under the Italian 
sky— romantic glidings in boats 
which, if neither so graceful nor so 
mysterious as the gondolas of Ve- 
nice, are yet picturesque enough in 
their— only apparent — cumbersome- 
ness; the mountains are there for 
English pedestrian exercise, for long, 
delightful, tiring walks over crag and 
scanty vineyard, and, beyond that, 
through chestnut woods and cypress 
clearings, till the limit of bareness 
begins to warn you of Alpine snows ; 
excellent little hotels are there, hard- 
ly spoiled by the many but quickly 
fleeting guests whom the shabby 
hide black steamboat brings in car- 
goes three times a day— hotels with 
dean, dapper bedrooms and bay win- 
dows overlooking the lake — hotels 
where you can always get plenty of 
fresh milk and graceful Italian civili- 
ty. Then there are villas by the 
score, some to be hired, and many 
more utterly forlorn and deserted; 
others well cared for, pleasantly ten- 
anted by happy, unpretending Ita- 
lian families, and wearing a general 
»tr of attractive, half-civilized rus- 
ticity. You feel that life must go 
on very smoothly within their walls ; 
that bright, ardess women and chil- 



dren chatter and laugh away their 
brief summer holiday in those spa- 
cious verandas and vine-trellised piaz- 
zas; and that conventional restraint 
is an unknown spirit there. You wish 
that you had a right to enter such 
an abode, or money enough to cre- 
ate one for yourself just for three 
months at a time ; then may be you 
pass by another kind of dwelling, 
with broad, grass-grown steps meet- 
ing the water like those of the pala- 
ces of Venice; with a great rusty 
iron gate and railing showing tar- 
nished remains of heraldic gilding; 
with a garden now overgrown with 
weeds, but whose tall hedges of box 
or ilex suggest the statuesque style 
of the XVIItli century; with melan- 
choly fountains innocent of water, 
and Etruscan-shaped stone vases 
once filled with flowers, and now 
holding only a little stagnant rain- 
water ; with another flight of gaunt 
steps leading up to a porch and in- 
numerable stone balconies and terra- 
ces notched with half-ruined carvings 
of the Renaissance ; moss and mould 
everywhere, life nowhere ; funereal cy- 
presses mounting guard over muti- 
lated statues of fauns and wood- 
nymphs; rats and mice peopling in 
reality the marbled-paved halls of 
the mansion; and ghosts — in your 
imagination^pacing up and down 
the broad, deserted corridors. Then, 
if you are of a poetic turn of mind, 
you forget the brightness, the free- 
dom, the laisser-alier of the peopled 
villas, and wish that you were lord 
of this vast, melancholy, romantic 
pile, the natural scene of some state- 
ly poem, the fitting frame of some 
picture like Millais' pathetic '' Hu- 



138 



A Week at the Lake of Canto, 



guenot Lover," the sure source of 
an inspiration lofty, noble, vague, 
and richly proportioned. Every- 
thing is on a scale of magnificence, 
such as suggests only extravagance 
to our dwarfed notions of the pro- 
prieties of life; a modem visitor 
feels a pigmy in those vast, re-echo- 
ing halls; he almost expects some 
Brobdingnag halberdier in cloth of 
gold and scarlet to catch him up by 
the hair as some insect curiosity, or at 
least to order him out as an imper- 
tinent intruder; the great marble 
staircase seems to be alive with the 
shades of the noble throngs who, 
in Spanish doublets, jewelled toques y 
needle-like swords, and stiff neck- 
ruffs, used to parade the courtly 
scene — ^in fact, he finds himself utter- 
ly overwhelmed by the phantoms of a 
greatness that is dead ; swamped by 
the flood of modern days that has 
brought in a generation of monkeys 
to consume their lives in efforts to 
fill the place of a generation of lions. 
Again, the traveller may find other 
sights among the villas of the Lake 
of Como — less pleasant sights, too, 
and jarring on the artist's sense of 
fitness ; as, for instance, when he finds 
a wealthy and prosaic paterfamilias ^ 
of the class who do not know and 
care less what antiquity means — 
unless it may mean shabbiness — 
established in placid and ludicrous 
possession of some stately abode such 
as we have named. Of course, this 
unappreciative being, with his robust 
wife and chubby olive-branches, is 
of the great, dominant, self-sufficient 
Anglo-Saxon race, with its grand 
physical contempt of everything that 
is foreign, but its keen national de- 
termination to take timely advantage 
of everything that is cheap. He 
may be from our own or the other 
of the Atlantic shores; from the 
cotton-mills of England or the oil- 
wells of America ; but he will invaria- 



bly be a man of prosaic and practical 
tendencies, quite impervious to the 
romance of his new home, but perfect- 
ly alive to its value as a good specu- 
lation and an economical venture. 
You will never find an artist or a 
scholar thus established ; they will be 
penned up in a whitewashed room 
of some peasant's cottage, or, if lucky 
members of their craft, in the " best 
room" of the Signor Curators little 
presbytery. They, too, are on the 
lookout for cheap lodgings; but 
what is cheap to the careful million- 
aire is the height of impossible extra- 
vagance to the gifted brain-worker. 
And for our part, if we had to share 
the home of either of these two 
classes of lake tourists, we should 
much prefer a shake-down at the 
whitewashed cottage, with the human 
counterweight of the artist, than the 
surroundings of marble halls, spacious, 
deserted gardens, and ghost-haunted 
staircases, if balanced by the in- 
congruous presence of the prosper- 
ous family before mentioned. What 
poetic justice is it which sternly for- 
bids the tenantship of such abodes to 
be interchanged ? 

Just such a beautiful place — but. 
luckily, not thus tenanted — is a villa 
on the Lake of Como, just oppo- 
site the sharp end of the tongue 
of land which, jutting into the lake 
to the distance of half its length, 
cuts it into the shape of a Y. We 
passed it every day on our way to 
the chapel. It was formerly, if >ve 
remember rightly, the pleasure-house 
of Queen Caroline of England during 
her^ exile. No one ever goes there 
now, and its aspect is as suggestive, 
as gloomy, as pathetic, as Edgar Poe 
or Mrs. Radcliffe could have wished. 
Just beyond it, on the narrow slip of 
land which runs parallel to the lake 
at the foot of the abrupt mountains, 
is a private chapel, built over the 
family vault of the Marquises of 



A Week at the Lake of Como. 



139 



A and Counts of S , an old 

Savoyard family of great piely and 
high origin. The land around here 
is part of their patrimonial estate, 
and the chapel contains two or three 
very beautiful monuments of white 
marble, exquisite in carving and fin- 
ish, but hardly very Christian in 
taste. 

Further up, and to be reached by 
a pleasant, rugged path right behind 
our little hotel, was another church — 
a village parish church this time, a 
much more homely and homelike place 
— served by a gentle old curato. The 
view over the lake from the jasmine- 
covered parapet surrounding this 
church was lovely — so peaceful that 
it suggested rather the possible sur- 
roundings of a holy soul just released 
from the body than the actual home 
of a busy, struggling, mortal life. 

To heighten the illusion, the moon 
rose slowly as we descended the 
same path, and her broad silver 
shield, as it passed seemingly behind 
the crags of the mountains on the 
opposite shore, became momentarily 
stamped with the irregular outline of 
dark rocks, simulating to our imagi- 
nation the turrets and spires of a 
spectre city. Soon the path of light 
traced by her rays upon the waters 
began to shine like the Israelites' 
guiding pillar in the wilderness, and 
we felt tempted to try a water-excur- 
sion as a fitting ending to our day. 
The beauty of the scene, as the sha- 
dows grew darker and the moonlight 
more intense, is indescribable. Our 
silent party in the boat did not even 
attempt to admire it out loud. The 
hills, purple-black in the foreground, 
rising out of the lake as walls of onyx 
trom a crystal fioor, grew stone-gray 
as they receded from sight and min- 
gled their colors with the unearthly 
white of tlie Alpine snow-peaks in the 
far distance. These last seemed as 
though hung like a bridal wreath 



between earth and heaven, resting on 
the dark, undistinguishable masses of 
the chestnut woods covering the lower 
spurs. Now and then a bell would 
ring out in the still night air — a brazen 
voice rolling from some village belfry 
— ^and waking the mountain echoes till 
its sound died away in a silver mur- 
mur, mingling with the plashing of 
our steady oars, and gently reminding 
us that our lives had floated one hour 
nearer to God. But lovely as the 
scene was by night, it is difficult to 
call it less lovely by day. Opposite 
our temporary home was Bellaggio, 
one of the most frequented of the 
lake villages — a tiny hamlet of white 
houses clustered together in a grove 
of cypresses, and perched on a rocky 
ledge overlooking the shore. The 
tall, columnar trees scattered among 
the houses almost suggested the idea 
of a peaceful burying-ground, the 
white cottages from a distance seem- 
ing no bad substitutes for marble 
tombstones. A gray-blue mist — the 
last Italian beauty that clings to this 
fairy-like outpost of Italy, invaded by 
Alpine breezes and watched by craggy 
sentinels — hangs over the dormant 
village; the fir-trees of the neigh- 
boring villa — the show-place of the 
lake, the Villa Serbellone — waft their 
scented breath over its houses, while 
at its foot he the hot-houses and 
orangeries, etc., by which the owner 
of this beautiful garden property tries 
to emulate English taste. The Villa 
Serbellone is almost a tropical mar- 
vel; the profusion of flowers; the 
scent of southern blossoms, cultivated 
with assiduous care; the ivory-like 
magnolia, framed in its dark and 
massive foliage; the starry orange 
flowers ; the pineapple, in its luscious 
perfection of growth — all denote the 
sunny land of spontaneous produc- 
tiveness; while the velvet lawns, 
emerald-colored and closely shaven ; 
the trim gravel-walks, rolled to the 



T40 



A Week at the Lake of Como. 



exact point of firmness required in an 
English garden; the marble vases, 
overflowing with creepers of carefully 
chosen and judiciously contrasted 
shades ; and the thousand-and-one 
dainty little contrivances to make the 
most of every natural advantage, dis- 
play the art of that northern land to 
which its very disadvantages of cli- 
mate have taught the secret of en- 
hancing every beauty and almost 
creating new ones by its industry. 
There is little to distinguish the Lake 
of Como beyond its beauty of atmo- 
sphere and scenery — ^little or no his- 
torical interest, no ruins, castles, or 
towns with momentous remembrances 
of troubled times in the past. The 
churches are plain, and generally in 
bad taste — in fact, beyond the reach 
either of gorgeousness or even of 
simple restoration ; for the mountain 
population and the fishermen of the 
shore are very poor, and the inhabi- 
tants of the lake-side villas only come 
to Como for the summer. But these 
poor parishioners have spiritual riches, 
if not temporal comforts: the faith 
of the Italian, and the naive enthu- 
siasm of mountaineers. One day, 
after landing for a moment during 
one of our boat excursions, we fell 
into conversation with an old woman, 
her brown, wrinkled face lighted up 
by eyes of the intensest black, spark- 
ling with a vigor strangely in har- 
mony rather than in contrast with her 
age, and her dress, in its picturesque, 
but we fear uncomfortable dilapida- 
tion, quite a study for a painter. She 
was very devout, and, when she found 
that we were forestQri^ anxiously 
asked if we were Christians. This 
reminds us of what happened in the 
North of Ireland to a Catholic 
English lady of distinction. Her 
husband was a Protestant, and she 
accordingly started alone one day to 
find the church, which she knew to 
be somewhere in the neighborhood 



of the place at which she was tempo- 
rarily staying. It was not a Sunday. 
She lost her way, and, meeting an old 
woman, asked her to set her on the 
right road for the Catholic " Chapel." 
The old dame looked very suspi- 
ciously at the elegant costume of the 
questioner, and well knowing, by the 
accent, that she was foreign to Ire- 
land, asked her in return, with incre- 
dulity stamped on every expressive 
feature : " Shure, she was not a Catho- 
lic ?" And, indeed, the English con- 
vert did not succeed in persuading 
the old Irishwoman that she was her 
sister in the faith, until, opening her 
dress, she showed her the scapular 
round her neck, and put the rosary 
into her hand. These marks of or- 
thodoxy quite convinced the staunch 
old Catholic, and the English lady 
reached the church at last. Hav- 
ing satisfied herself, with a sort of 
joyful surprise, on this cardinal 
point, our Italian friend discoursed 
very volubly of the Madonna, her 
own priest and mountain church, and 
the Pope. We had some beads with 
us blessed by the Holy Father, and 
offered her the choice of one of the 
set. She was reverently delighted 
with the opportunity, and with many 
blessings and thanks, as gracefully 
expressed as a poet could have 
wished or done himself, she made her 
selection. How her precious spiritual 
nearness to the Holy Father, rendered 
more palpable by the sight of the 
plain brown rosary, seemed realized 
in her mind's eye! She kissed the 
beads again and again in a transport 
of devotion, and in simple, straight- 
forward language expressed her love 
and loyalty to the Supreme Pontiff. 
There are few women in Italy, high 
or low, who have not the same feel- 
ing for the head of the church; and 
those who have it not are by no 
means among the most exemplary 
wives and mothers. 



A Week at the Lake of Como. 



141 



We were at Como — or rather, on 
the shores of the lake — in March as 
well as in June. The spirit of the 
scene was just a little more dreamy 
in the former month than even in 
the latter, chiefly because there were 
very few tourists, and the steamboats 
went up and down the lake at longer 
intervals than in the summer. The 
great heat showed no signs of its ad- 
vent ; the vegetation was tender and 
yellow-green, yet not scant; for the 
hills, whose cold breath tempers the 
torrid heat of Lombardy, also pro- 
tect the lake from the biting winds 
that one is used to associate with the 
mention of March. It was possible 
to go out boating and walking even 
at noon, though the nights were 
none the less beautiful and inviting ; 
but perhaps, at that time of the year, 
the loveliest hour was early morning. 
It was with such a remembrance that 
we left the lake. After five o'clock 
Mass, we rowed over to the project- 
iDg tongue of mainland that cuts 
the waters in two, and got into a 
light open carriage of the country, en 
route for Milan. The air was de- 
lightfully fresh, the sun had just 
risen, and a rosy, hazy tint lay over 
everything. It might have been the 
Bosporus, so tranquil and softened 
was the scene. Indeed, many tra- 
vellers have likened this lake to 
the Bosporus, its narrow, river-like 
course between the shelving moun- 
tains being, they say, quite a repro- 
duction of the oriental marvel, though 
it does not produce the oriental 



languor characteristic of the other 
Our road for some time lay in a di- 
rection in which we could see both 
branches of the lake ; then, swerving 
to one side, we passed through minia- 
ture mountain passes, green mea- 
dows with many water-mills, and 
pretty villages embowered in trees. 
There was somewhat of northern 
dampness in the atmosphere, but its 
effect on the pasturage was certainly 
satisfactory, the turf in many places 
being almost worthy of the Emerald 
Isle. As the hours sped on, our ap- 
petite began to make itself felt; we 
had brought nothing with us, not 
even sandwiches, and the drive was 
lengthening beyond our original cal- 
culations. The wayside inns were 
practically useless, the wine was 
like vinegar, and bread not always 
forthcoming. At length, at a place 
where we changed horses for the last 
time before reaching Milan, and 
after we had been enjoying the 
beauties of nature for ten hours on 
an empty stomach, we found some- 
thing eatable, though not in a super- 
fluous quantity. Not long after, we 
were regaling ourselves on a ban- 
quet of fish fried in oil, and an ade- 
quate supply of bread and butter, serv- 
ed in the irreproachable Milan hotel, 
once the palace of a fallen family, and 
where our privato dining-room had 
formerly been the Sala di Giusidzza, in 
which feudal lords sat dispensing 
justice to their clan of retainers or 
hangers-on ! And with this, farewell 
to the queen of Italian lakes I 



142 



Odd Stories^ 



ODD STORIES. 



IV. — THE INDIA-RUBBER MAN 



One thousand three hundred and 
ninety-seven years ago, the city of 
Cadiz was startled by rumors of 
the presence of a mysterious person, 
whose irrepressible activity was the 
fear and wonder of many. Perhaps, 
from a certain dusk which pervaded 
his countenance, it came to be gos- 
sipped that he was an Indian by 
birth, and had arrived in Spain by 
way of Africa. If, however, his color 
was no fair sign of his origin, the 
manuscripts found in his apartments 
betrayed his affinity with the Orien- 
tal stoics. Be this as it may, the 
devices and doings of Don Ruy 
Gomia de Coma had so impressed 
the traditions of Cadiz that the 
maker of ballads, Gil Cantor, sung 
of him in language the puzzling 
quaintness of which we have endea- 
vored to smooth out as follows into 
modern English : 

Oft have I seen, e'en now I see. 

The presence I would ban ; 
'Tis he, the Afreet of my dreams, 

The India-rubber man ! 

I pick him out among the crowd 

As nimbly he goes by, 
And points his gum^elastic nose, 

And blinks his vitreous eye. 

'Tis said he prowls the streets at oight. 

And, spite of the police. 
With India-rubber ease commits 

Ingenious robberies. 

Abounding Mephistopheles 

On stealthy tiptoe comes. 
And, as he chokes you for your purse, 

He shows his frightful gums. 

Avoid, my friend, his outstretched hantW- 

That hand of gum and glue ; 
And, ere he catches you, beware 

The friend of caoutchouc. 

Fate tries in vain to crush him out, 

She studies how to kill ; 
But, no— this grim contortionist 

Is standing, springing still. 



One day, ten ruffians clubbed him down — 

He wasn't dead for that ; 
Up, grinning in their faces, sorang 

That horrid acrobat. 

An agile politician, now 

The public back he mounts. 
And much the rabble like him for 

His gumption and his bounce. 

He rises with the rise of stocks, 

No crisis keeps him down ; 
And, dancing on a dividend, 

He goes about the town. 

He pesters busy men of trade. 

And on their beds at night 
A gum-elastic nightmare sits. 

And will not quit their sight. 

Ofl have I marvelled at the man. 
And searched his meaning more ; 

So many people set him down 
A terror and a bore. 

Elastic, everlasting soul ! 

In gloomy ages back 
They must have tried to stretch him out 

A martyr on the rack ! 

Victor, alas ! and victim he — 

His wretched fate I scan ; 
And much I pity,' if I scorn, 

The injured rubber-man. 

Doubtless the whimsical Gil has 
here turned a venerable legend to a 
subtle purpose of satire \ for it ap- 
pears, from a number of traditions, 
that Don Ruy distinguished himself 
as a trader, courtier, gallant, and 
knight-errant. He grew rich, be- 
cause no debtor ever got rid of him 
till payment, and, as a cavalier, the 
grace and flexibility of his carriage 
and motions were the admiration of 
ladies. Thus it was that, though 
denounced by jealous grandees as 
one sprung from the vulgar, and, in 
fact, an upstart, his first appearance 
at court was a triumph, and all the 
more so from the great ease of his 
genuflexion, and the modest liveli- 
ness of his manner and deportment. 
The fact, however, which first drew 



Odd Stories. 



143 



the general attention of Cadiz to 
the new cavalier was an open insult 
which, it was alleged, he had cast 
upon the proud escutcheon of the 
fair Dona Gumesinda Yinagrilla de 
Mirafiores de Albujuera y Albu- 
querque, Countess Delamar and Mar- 
chioness Delcampo. 

The story runs that tlie marble 
heart of Dona Gumesinda had never 
nelded except to the blandishments 
of the bold and nimble Don Ruy. 
One day, addressing her at the court 
io terms of insinuating gallantry, he 
stretched out his arms with so fine 
a gesture of command and entreaty 
that the noble maid all at once re- 
solved that no one should win her 
love save the flexible and fascinating 
philosopher; being well assured of 
the softness of his heart and the ten- 
acity of his affections. Good right, 
then, had Don Ruy to stand one 
night under her leafy bower, and, 
according to the fashion of the 
times, sing a piteous ditty : 

Mi corazon es suare 

Como la goma dulce, 
Mis lajErimas »e corren 

CoQ la resina triste ; 
Old mi cancion elastica. 
Old mi cancion, aefiora ! * 

Having thus appealed to the fair 
Gumesinda, he ascended at a leap 
into a leafy refuge formed by the 
vines and trees near her window, 
and prepared to finish his song, 
when he felt that one of his legs was 
being pulled violently from below. 



* My heart is soft 
As sweetest gum, 
M7 tears thev flow 

With resin sad; 
Hear my elastic song, 
Hear my song, lady I 



Nothing daunted, he allowed his 
covert enemies to pull it quite to the 
ground, while, still seated near his 
lady's bower, he sang in strains that 
moved her heart to more purpose 
than his disturbers had moved his 
limbs. Tired of their vdin attempt 
to budge him, they let go of his leg, 
to their no small surprise at the sud- 
denness of its springing back. Im- 
mediately he leaped down, and laid 
about him; and, though twice he was 
hit in vital parts by the infuriated 
relatives, and, in fact, should have 
been run through, he was so invul- 
nerably spry and spirited that he 
killed a dozen or more of them 
before he embraced the terrified 
Gumesinda with his outstretched 
arms, and carried her away, bending 
somewhat under his burden. A 
large force of aiguaciis barred his 
path, however, and he was brought, 
not without trouble, before the chief 
magistrate of the city, who, being 
also a relative of Dona Gumesinda, 
put him immediately to the rack. 
Vain, and all too vain, was the cruel 
act of torture to extenuate the body 
and bones, or conquer the irrepressi- 
ble being, of Don Ruy Gomia de 
Goma. Gliding on tiptoe behind 
his jailers, he one day escaped, and 
in the night danced a fandango on 
the bed and body of the Governor of 
Cadiz. Who was he? the good 
folk of Cadiz asked themselves time 
and again. Some few visionarie? 
said that he was the spirit of free 
inquiry, that could never be put 
down or put out; and other wise- 
acres averred that he was the verita- 
ble spirit of mischief, always upturn- 
ing and turning up. 



144 



New Publuatfans. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



Historical Sketches. Third Series. By 

John Henry Newman, D.D. 
The Idea of a University, defined 
and illustrated. By the same. Lon- 
don : Basil Montagu Pickering. (New 
York : Sold by The Catholic Publica- 
tion Society.) 

It would perhaps be proper to say that 
the revised edition of Dr. Newman's 
writings bears the same relation to their 
original publication that fulfilment and 
prophecy sustain to each other. In the 
one we see the germ, the promise, and in 
the other the matured and mellowed fruit. 
In the former, we foresee the inevitable 
result of the principles set forth, on a 
mind so single and intent on the truth. 
And it is because they do not reflect the 
perfect image of the truth he now holds 
that he would blot some of the lines 
therein written. In the latter, readers 
will again meet the same wise simplicity 
and transparency of style which charmed 
them before, and which mark all the pro- 
ducts of his pen. 

As a study of diction. Dr. Newman's 
works are richly worth whatever they 
cost. We doubt if any author of the time 
has done more to bring both writers and 
speakers down from the stilts formerly 
thought essential in the expression of 
thought. Almost unconsciously, the 
leaven of his pure idiomatic English has 
worked, until its influence is shown in 
a large number of written and spoken 
productions, both at home and abroad. 
As a reflex of a truthful, honest soul, 
deeply solicitous for the spiritual welfare 
of his kind, they have a pathos and unc- 
tion which will have an ever-increasing 
influence as time goes on. 

The first of the above-mentioned vol- 
umes embraces the matter which bore the 
title, The Church of the Fathers, on its first 
appearance in the British Magazine ; and 
the latter was published as The Scope and 
Nature of University Education, 



Sacred Eloquence; or. The Theory 
AND Practice of Preaching. By 
Rev. Thomas J. Potter. Troy: P. J. 
Dooley. 1873. 

This work is too well known to require 
any notice at our hands, having received 
the warmest commendation of the hier- 
archy and press on its first appearance in 
England. While this edition will hardly 
please those who are fastidious in the 
matter of print and paper, it presents an 
argument to the pockets of purchasers 
which many of our seminarians will 
highly appreciate. Our clerical readers 
are already aware that the Sacred Elo- 
quence was prepared for the author's own 
class in the Missionary College of All 
Hallows, and resulted from the necessity 
felt for a work adapted to English-speak- 
ing students in that department. 



BOOKS KBCEIVSD. 

From Burns. Oatbs A Co., London (New York: 
Sold by The Catholic Publication Society): 
Sermons for all Sundays and Festivals of 
the Year. By J. N. Sweeney, D.D. Vol. II. 
samo, pp. vi. 498.— Spain and Charles Vll. 
By Gen. Kirkpatrick. 8vo, pp. 87. — A 
Theory of the Fine Arts. By S. M. Lanigao, 
A.B., T.C.D. xamo, pp. xiii. 194. 

From D. ft J. Sadlier A Co., New York : Bible 
History* By Rev. James O'Leary, D.D. 
xamo, pp. 480. 

From Hbnry Holt A Co. : Dimitri Roudine. By 
Ivan Turg^nicfif. x8mo, pp. 271. 

From Bknzicer Bros., New York : Neue Fibcl, 
Oder : Erstes Lesebuch, f Ur die Deutschen Ka- 
tholischen Schulen in den Vereinifirten Staaten 
von Nord-America. Bearbeitet von mehreren 
Priestem und Lehrern.— Zweites Lesebuch, 
und Drittes Lesebuch, of the same series 
xamo, pp. 58, lao, and 376. 

From Kellv, Pibt ft Co , Baldmorc : A Course 
of Philosophy, embracing Logic, Metaphysics, 
and Ethics. By Rev. A. Louage, C.S.C. 
xamo, pp. 




THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD 



VOL. XVIII., No. 104.— NOVEMBER, 1873. 



SPIRITUALISM. 



CHAPTER I. 
*SpiritassantTmg;i, elinsincerffpervoIantesetperscruUntes.**'— 5.^<Mr. Taur.^ Tract, iV., Camf. Pag; 



It can hardly be denied that the 
question of spiritualism is forcing it- 
self every year more and more upon 
the pubHc attention ; and that a be- 
lief 'in the reality of its phenomena, 
and, as almost a necessary conse- 
quence, a suspicion of their at least 
partially preternatural character, is 
on the increase amongst honest and 
intelligent persons. By preternatural 
phenomena, I mean manifestations of 
tlie operation of intelligences that 
are not clothed in flesh and blood ; 
for with other than such as are so 
clothed, in the way of the senses, 
which is the way of nature, we have 
00 acquaintance. 

1 believe that few will examine seri- 
ously and patiently the phenomena of 
spiritualism as a whole without com- 
ing upon much that they cannot, with- 
out doing violence to their natural 
instincts, attribute to anything but 
preternatural agency. Whether they 
reduce this to white spirits or black, 



red spirits or gray, will depend for the 
most part on the religious preposses- 
sions of the inquirers. I have said 
the phenomena as a whole, because 
some of these, such as cases of tables 
turning, upon which the hands of the 
company are resting, and, again, many 
of the communications through me- 
diums speaking in trance or other- 
wise, do not necessarily suggest pre- 
ternatural interference. 

The phenomena on which I am 
inclined to lay most stress are, 1st, 
physical manifestations — the move- 
ment or raising in the air, without 
contact of any sort, of heavy bodies, 
whether animate or inanimate ; 2d, 
intelligent manifestations involving 
the communication of true informa- 
tion through a human medium, which 
was unknown at the time both to 
the medium and recipient. Such 
phenomena are not unfrequent at 
successful stances, and spiritualists 
have a right to demand that we 



Metered tccordiog to Act of Co^firress, in the year 1873, by Rev. I. T. Ubckbr, in the Office ot 

the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



146 



Spiriiualism, 



should criticise their successes rather 
than their failures. 

For examples of the phenomena 
of modern spiritualism, we shall de- 
pend mainly upon two volumes : Ex- 
periences in Spiriiualism with D, D. 
Home^ and the Report of tlie Commit- 
tee of the London Dialectical Society. 
The former is a well-known though 
unpublished relation of seventy-eight 
s6ances; the relaters are gentlemen 
whose names are guarantees for in- 
telligence and honor. Of these 
stances, some were held in rooms 
which Mr. Home had never before 
entered, others in a variety of rooms 
belonging to gentlemen taking part 
in the proceedings. The supposi- 
tion of concealed machinery, possible 
enough were it question of the ma- 
gician's own den, is thus effectually 
precluded. The Report is a still 
more remarkable volume. Even if 
spiritualism were exploded absolutely, 
this volume would still retain its in- 
terest as a unique collection of men- 
tal photographs representing every 
attitude which it is possible for 
the human mind to take up w^iih 
regard to spiritualistic phenomena, 
from irreconcilable repulsion, through 
every shade of intelligent hesitation, 
to complete acceptance. 

The Report consists of the reports 
of the stances of six experimental 
subcommittees, minutes of the ex- 
amination before the General Com- 
mittee of spiritualist witnesses, letters 
on spiritualism from a great number 
of literary and scientific persons, and 
communications in the shape of ex- 
periences and speculative essays on 
spiritualism by some of its principal 
adherents. 

Subcommittee No. i (Rep,y p. 9) 
declares itself to have '* established 
conclusively " " the movements of 
heavy substances without contact or 
material connection of any kind be- 
tween such substances and the body 



of any person present." This is 
confirmed by Subcommittee No. 2, 
and embodied in the general report. 
Amongst a great mass of well-attest- 
ed phenomena, I select the following : 
** Thirteen witnesses slate that they 
have seen heavy bodies, in some in- 
stances men, rise slowly in the air, 
and remain there without visible or 
tangible support" " Fourteen wit- 
nesses testify to having seen hands 
of figures not appertaining to any hu- 
man being, but lifelike in appearance 
and mobility, which they have some- 
times touched and even grasped." 
" Eight witnesses state that they have 
received precise information through 
rappings, writings, and in other ways, 
the accuracy of which was unknown 
at the time to themselves or to any 
persons present, and which, on sub- 
sequent inquiry, was found to be cor- 
rect." Many of these experimental 
stances took place without the pre- 
sence of any professional mediums. 
Subcommittees i and 2 declare that 
they have never used thetn, and 
these were particularly fertile in in- 
stances of independent movement, 
No. I having witnessed no less »^ ^'i 
fifty such motions. 

There is absolutely no room for a 
suspicion of trickery, neither is it 
more rational to suppose that the 
phenomena had no objective exist- 
ence, but were the mere phantasms 
of the excited imagination of the 
company ; for the witnesses testify 
that they were in no such state 
of excitement, and their recorded 
conversation and behavior are incom- 
patible with any such supposition. 
Again, such excitement acts spas- 
modically and irregularly; but, as a 
rule, the phenomena are seen by all 
equally. In the few cases in which 
individuals have manifested abnor- 
mal excitement, the seances have 
been frustrated. Subcommittee No. 
2 sent for a neighbor to witness the 



Spiritualism. 



147 



phenomena when in full operation, 
and they presented precisely the 
same aspect to him as they did to 
the members of the stance. 

There remains, then, a large num- 
ber of objective phenomena of the 
kind mentioned which have to be 
nccounted for. Three hypotheses 
have been advocated with more or 
less success, which I shall proceed to 
consider in order. 

I St. Unconscious cerebration ex- 
pressing itself in unconscious muscu- 
lar action. 2d, Psychic force. 3d, 
Spirits. I would remark that the 
first and second agree, in so far as 
they make the source of the phe- 
nomena internal ; they differ in that 
the first would make them the result 
of a known law, the action of which 
had been previously detected, whilst 
the second supposes a previously un- 
known law or force of which spirit- 
ualistic phenomena are the sole evi- 
dence. 

I. 

The doctrine of unconscious cere- 
bration is thus expressed by Dr. Car- 
penter (-^<^., p. 272): "Ideational 
changes take place in the cerebrum, 
of which we may be at the time 
unconscious for want of receptivity 
on the part of the sensorium, but of 
irhich the results may at a subsequent 
period present themselves to the 
consciousness, as ideas elaborated by 
an automatic process of which we 
have no cognizance." Dr. Carpen- 
ter's ground for " surmising " that 
" ideational changes " may be re- 
ceived unconsciously, and subse- 
quently recognized, and that the 
consciousness or unconsciousness of 
the reception depends upon their be- 
ing presented or not in the sensori- 
um, is the following analogy : The 
cerebrum, "or ratjier its ganglionic 
matter in which its potentiality re- 
sides," stands in precisely the same 



anatomical relation to the sensorium 
that the retina does; but visual 
changes may be unconsciously re- 
ceived in the retina when the senso- 
rium is inoperative, and may be sub- 
sequently recognized. The reality 
of this automatic reception and elab- 
oration of ideas is confirmed by the 
phenomena of somnambulism, which 
show "that long trains of thought 
may, with a complete suspension of 
the directing and controlling power 
of the will, follow the lead either of 
some dominant idea or of suggestion 
from without." This doctrine, when 
applied to explain the intelligent 
manifestations of spiritualism, comes 
to this, that you cannot argue, from 
the fact that a man informs you truly 
of something which he could not 
possibly have learned elsewhere, and 
which you know you were never 
aware of in the ordinary sense of the 
word, that he is informed by a supe- 
rior intelligence; for you may have 
received unconsciously into your ce- 
rebrum the information in question, 
or have unconsciously elaborated it 
from premises so received, and may 
have communicated it to your infor- 
mant by unconscious muscular ac- 
tion. 

I must do Dr. Carpenter the jus- 
tice to admit that he nowhere, so far 
as I have seen, attempts to apply his 
doctrine in detail to the higher phe- 
nomena of spiritualism. He is con- 
tented with stating it as indicating 
the direction in which a solution of 
such phenomenal difiiculties as do 
not seem to him wholly incredible is 
to be looked for. 

I have every wish to speak on 
matters of physiological experiment 
with the modesty befitting my com- 
parative unfamiliarity with the sub- 
ject I have no difficulty in admit- 
ting all that Dr. Carpenter says, in 
his article on " Electro-biology and 
Mesmerism" {Quart,, Oct., 1853), on 



148 



spiritualism. 



the action of dominant ideas, whether 
original or suggested, in the produc- 
tion of the phenomena of somnam- 
bulism and mesmerism ; but I hesi- 
tate as to the possibility of receiving 
in the form of an unconscious idea- 
tional change such a piece of infor- 
mation as this : " I have another sis- 
ter besides those I am used to reck- 
on " ; and of its recovery, not as an 
image or sensation such as a dream 
might leave, but as an unequivocal 
assertion of a fact clothed in all 
its native confidence. The nerve 
modification, which I suppose the 
'^ideational change" comes to, is 
here understood to play the part, not 
merely of a bell whose prolonged 
vibrations, when taken cognizance 
of, may more or less suggest the in- 
dividual visitor, but of a photograph- 
ic negative, set aside, indeed, and 
overlaid, but from which at any mo- 
ment exact representations may be 
taken. This theory appears to me 
to belong to the category of those 
wliich, to borrow Dr. Carpenter's ex- 
pression (art., p. 535), "cannot be 
accepted without a great amount of 
evidence in their favor, but which, not 
being in absolute opposition to re- 
cognized laws, may be received upon 
strong testimony, without doing vio- 
lence to our common sense." I 
must add that I have met with no 
such evidence either in the Quarterly 
Review or elsewhere. When we ask 
for instances, in which modern sci- 
ence is ordinarily so fertile, it is at 
least suspicious that the only at all 
adequate examples produced in the 
brilliant article, " Spiritualism and its 
Recent Converts" (Quart,, vol. 131, 
1871), are taken from the very spiri- 
tualistic phenomena under discussion. 
Let us, however, for the moment 
grant all that is expressly demanded 
on the score of unconscious cerebra- 
tion, and then see how far it aflfords 
an adequate explanation of the phe- 



nomena of spiritualism. Of course, 
independent physical manifestations, 
such as the subcommittees report, 
fall entirely without the sphere of 
this explanation ; and Faraday's in- 
genious machine for testing muscular 
action has no place where there is 
no contact of muscles. But what 
are we to say to communications such 
as the following {Rep., p. 195), made 
to Signor Damiani, at Clifton ? He 
asked of the rapping table, " Who is 
there ?" " Sister," was rapped out in 
reply. "What sister?" «* Mariet- 
ta." " Don't know you ; that is not a 
family name. Are you not mistaken ?" 
" No ; I am your sister." He left the 
table in disgust, but afterwards join- 
ed in another stance at the same 
house. " Who are you ?" he asks. 
" Marietta." " Again ! Why does not 
a sister whom I can remember 
come ?" " I will bring one." " And 
the raps were heard to recede, be- 
coming faint and fainter, until lost in 
the distance. In a few seconds, a 
double knock, like the trot of a horse, 
was heard approaching, striking the 
ceiling, the floor, and, lastly, the ta- 
ble. * Who is there ?* * Your sis- 
ter Antonietta.' That is a good 
guess, thought I. 'Where did she 
pass away ?* * Chieti.' * When ?' 
Thirty-four loud, distinct raps suc- 
ceeded. Strange ! My sister so 
named had certainly died at Chieti 
just thirty-four years before." " How 
many brothers and sisters had you 
then ? Can you give me their 
names ?" " Five names (the real 
ones), all correcdy spelt in Italian, 
were given. Numerous other tests 
produced equally remarkable re- 
sults." He is much perplexed, natu- 
rally, about this sister " Marietta," 
and writes to his mother about her. 
He is answered that, ** on such a date, 
forty-four years before, a sister had 
been born and had lived six hours, 
daring which time she had been bap- * 



Spiritualism. 



149 



tized by the midwife by the name of 
Mary." Now, this is not a case of 
an isolated bit of information that 
may have been given and forthwith 
wholly disconnected from the current 
of life, as an Indian child might 
have been told, on the eve of its 
voyage to England, that a certain 
tropical berry was poisonous, which 
it never saw again. In Signor Da- 
miani's case, the sleep of unconscious 
cerebration must have been very 
deep that so interesting a fact should 
not have been waked up by all the 
friction it must have sustained every 
time of the thousand of times that 
he asserted himself and his five 
brothers and sisters to the exclusion 
of any others. 

But these difficulties sink into the 
shade when we try to carry out the 
explanation a step further. We have 
to explain not merely how Signor 
Damiani knew, but how the medium 
knew, the astonishing fact. I can 
understand how emotions of various 
kinds may be read in muscular mo- 
tions; how the almost inevitable 
slight hesitation at certain critical let- 
ters may suggest them to the keen 
and practised observer; but how, 
amongst all the threads of thought 
which cross the human mind, the 
very one which must needs be the 
slenderest and most remote should 
get itself expressed by unconscious 
muscular action, and how another 
should read the hieroglyph, I simply 
cannot conceive. Nothing I have 
met with in the wildest spiritualism 
is half so difficult to believe. 

Here is another instance, from the 
testimony of Mr. Eyre {Rff,^ p. 1 79). 
This gentleman wanted the register 
of Uie baptism of a person born in 
England, and who had died in 
America a century ago. He was led 
to suppose that this would be found 
cither in Yorksliire or Cambridge- 
shire. He hunted for it for three 



months, and then, in broad daylight, 
without saying who he is or what he 
wants, consults a medium. He says : 
" Before leaving home, I wrote out 
and numbered about a dozen ques- 
tions. Among them was the question, 
* Where can I find the register of the 
baptism I am searching for ?* The 
paper with the questions I had fold- 
ed and placed in a stout envelope, 
and closed it. When we sat down 
to the table, I asked, after some 
other questions, if the spirits would 
answer the questions I had written 
and had in my pocket. The answer 
by raps was, * Yes.* I took the en- 
velope containing the questions out 
of my pocket, and, without opening 
it, laid it on the table. I then took 
a piece of paper, and as the ques- 
tions were answered — No. i, 2, and so 
on — I wrote down the answers. When 
we came to the question, where 1 
could get the register of the bap- 
tism, the table telegraphed, * Stepney 
church,' and, at the same time, Mrs. 
Marshall, senior, in her peculiar man- 
ner, blurted out, * Stepney.* Being at 
that time a stranger in London, I 
did not know there was such a place. 
I went on with the questions I had 
prepared, and got correct answers to 
all of them. A few days afterwards, I 
went to Stepney Church, and, after 
spending some days in searching, I 
there found the register of the bap- 
tism, as I had been told." 

Here the medium had not even 
the light of the questions by which 
to read the unconscious expression 
of unconscious cerebration. One 
cannot help wondering what may be 
the muscular expression for " Step- 
ney church." 

The writer in the Quarterly Re- 
vietVj to whom I have before referred, 
shall give us the next example from 
his own experience (vol. 131, p. 
331). He owns that, on one occa- 
sion, he was "strongly impressed" 



ISO 



Spiritualism. 



by a- spiritualistic manifestation. 
** He (the medium, Mr. Foster) an- 
swered, in a variety of modes, the 
questions we put to him respecting 
the time and cause of the death of 
several of our departed friends and 
relatives, whose names ws had writ- 
ten down on slips of paper, which 
had been folded up and crumpled 
into pellets before being placed in 
his hands. But he brought out 
names and. dates correctly, in large 
red letters on his bare arms, the red- 
ness being produced by the turges- 
cence of the minute vessels of the 
skin, and passing away after a few 
minutes like a blush. We must own 
to have been strongly impressed at 
the time by this performance; but, 
on subsequently thinking it over, we 
thought we could see that Mr. Fos- 
ter's divining power was partly de- 
rived from his having the faculty of 
interpreting the movements of the 
top of pen or pencil, though the 
point and what was written by it was 
hid from his sight ; and partly from 
a very keen observation of the indi- 
cations unconsciously given by our- 
selves of the answer we expected." 
Indubitably in the case of two ac- 
complices, a preconcerted system of 
movements of the top of the pencil 
might be made to indicate what was 
written; but, considering the enor- 
mous variety of ways of writing, that 
any one can acquire the art of 
so reading chance writing is incredi- 
ble. At best this explanation only 
applies to the questions. The an- 
swers, which were given "correct- 
ly," in the shape of dates and causes 
of death, etc., in red letters on 
the medium's arm, must have been 
read in the reviewer's unconscious 
contortions. The force of the re- 
viewer's admission of the accuracy 
of these communications is not af- 
fected by the fact that when another 
way of answering questions was 



adopted — viz., the questioner point- 
ing successively to the letters of 
the alphabet, until interrupted by 
the rap— there were indications of 
his manner being read by the me- 
dium. Again, it is little to the pur- 
pose that "the trick by which the 
red letters were produced was dis- 
covered by the inquiries of one of 
our medical friends " — a most cu- 
riously vague statement, hy the bye — 
for the mystery to be explained is 
not the red letters, but the correct- 
ness of the information they con- 
veyed. There is nothing in the 
necessity of some sort of rappon 
existing between the medium and 
his questioner inconsistent with the 
spirit hypothesis; there is nothing in 
the subsequent experiments of the 
reviewer even tending to a natural 
explanation of what had so strongly 
impressed him ; and yet he is able to 
shake off the strong impression tri- 
umphantly. One begins to appreci- 
ate the eloquent words of Professor 
Tyndall : * ** The logical feebleness 
of science is not sufficiently borne in 
mind. It keeps down the weed of 
superstition not by logic, but by 
slowly rendering the mental soil unfit 
for its cultivation." 

I recognize with gratitude, as on:: 
of the many services Dr. Carpenter 
has done to science, his full admis- 
sion of a series of facts in connection 
with mesmerism and animal magne- 
tism, until the other day looked upon 
with suspicion by medical men and 
physiologists; and, further, I am 
ready to admit that the influence of 
unconscious cerebration upon some 
of the phenomena of spiritualism is 
probable enough. But I maintain 
that it is distinctly inadequate as an 
explanation. Its main use, as ap- 
plied to spiritualism, has been that of 
a learned label to attract the atten- 

♦ Scientific Scra/t, 



spiritualism. 



151 



tion of scientific men — a scientific 
rag wherewith spiritualism may cover 
its nakedness, but which all the in- 
genuity in the world cannot convert 
into clothes. 

II. 

Numbers of intelligent persons, 
men distinguished in science, in liter- 
ature, in the learned professions, but 
whose '* mental soil " has not been 
rendered wholly unfit for the cultiva- 
tion of all germs foreign to the philos- 
ophy of the day, have acknowledg- 
ed that the phenomena of spiritualism 
are not only veritable, but inexplica- 
ble by any known law. " The abso- 
lute and even derisive incredulity 
which dispenses with all examination 
of the evidence for preternatural 
occurrences," • of which Mr. Lecky 
boasts as one of the results of civili- 
ution, has certainly lost ground of 
late. Professor De Morgan says : <' I 
am perfectly convinced that I have 
both seen and heard, in a manner 
which should render unbelief impos- 
sible, things called spiritual which 
cannot be taken by a rational being 
to be capable of explanation by 
imposture, coincidence, or mistake. 
So far I ifeel the ground firm under 
me."t Mr. Edwin Arnold {Rff.^ p. 
258) speaks to the same effect: ^'I 
regard many of the < manifestations ' 
as genuine, undeniable, and inexplica- 
ble by any known law or any collu- 
sion, arrangement, or deception of the 
senses." And so we come very 
much to what S. Bonaventure said 
in the Xlllth century: "Some 
have said that witchcraft is a nonen- 
tity in the world, and has no force, 
save merely in the estimation of men, 
who, in their want of faith, attribute 
many natural mishaps to witchcrafts; 
but this position is derogatory to 
law, to common opinion, and, what 



is of more importance, to experience, 
and so has no foothold." ^ Law has, 
indeed, long ceased to have anything 
to say on the subject, and popular 
sentiment, if not converted, has at 
least been reduced to shamefaced 
silence; but once again experience 
claims her rights, and, in a great 
wave extending across two hemi- 
spheres, the experience of spiritualism 
breaks upon us, and the opposite 
opinion is found to lack foothold. 
Even in this XlXth century, men 
are beginning to admit that magic 
or mysticism, call it what you will, 
though overrun as ever with trickery 
and delusion, is for all that no non- 
entity, but a long-ignored reality, 
worthy, not of derision, but of pa- 
tient examination. True many of 
those who go furthest in their recog- 
nition of the genuineness of the phe- 
nomena do not attribute them to 
spirits ; still, however this may be, no 
advocate of psychic force can deny 
that many of the so-called marvel - 
mongers of the middle ages were at 
least no mere blind leaders of the 
blind, but the witnesses of phenome- 
na none the less true because it has 
been for so long the fashion to ignore 
them. 

In the middle ages, people thought 
that these marvels were the w^ork of 
spirits good or bad, or at least tlie 
result of their co-operation with man. 
For such an hypothesis, modern 
science has an almost invincible re- 
pugnance, in which I think there is 
much that is excusable. It is not 
that the man of science necessarily 
disbelieves in the existence of spirits ; 
but the idea of their possible interfer- 
ence in phenomena which he has to 
consider exercises a disturbing influ- 
ence upon all his calculations. He 
is as irritated as though he should 
be called upon to submit to, and 



• Hisi, 9/ Rat., chap. 1. 

t Pref. to From Matter to Spirit. 



• Ub. ir. dUt. 34, art. •. 



152 



spiritualism. 



make allowance for, tne tricks of 
mischievous children who jerk his 
arm or clog his machinery. Again, 
he is haunted with the notion that, 
by admitting the spirit hypothesis, he 
is contributing to the inauguration 
of an era of disastrous reaction. To 
tlie eye of his imagination, the bright, 
open platform, the familiar instru- 
ments, each a concrete realization, in 
honest metal, of a known law, the in- 
telligent modern audience, his own 
classical tail-coat and white neck- 
cloth, melt away, and he sees him- 
self propitiating fickle spirits with un- 
couth spells, at the bottom of a me- 
diaeval grotto : 

" A shape with amice wrapped around, 
With a wrought Spanish baldric bound, 
Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea." 

Not that the evil dream could ever 
be realized in its integrity ; but still, 
when once a spiritualist reaction has 
set in, who will venture to fix its 
limits ? And so, forgetting that the 
spirit hypothesis in nowise excludes 
the operation of psychic conditions, 
he insists upon every indication of 
such conditions, as though they were 
the key to everything, sjid there 
were no indications of any other 
agency. His "mental soil," per- 
haps, does not permit him to deny 
the reality of the phenomena of spir- 
itualism, or to talk of unconscious 
cerebration as a sufficient explana- 
tion ; and so he is contented to raise 
his altar to an unknown god, pro- 
vided only he may baptize him into 
the dynasty of science by the name 
of " Psvchic Force." 

Psychic force has still to be de- 
fined. It is the unknown cause of 
certain effects, taking its color from 
them only. With reference to inde- 
pendent physical manifestations, it is 
ihe power to produce " the movement 
of heavy substances without contact 
or material connection." In this 
sense, Arago " is stated " to have re- 



ported to the Academy of Science, 
" that, under peculiar conditions, 
the human organization gives forth 
a physical power which, without 
visible instruments, lifts heavy bodies, 
attracts or repels them, according to 
a law of polarity, overturns them, 
and produces the phenomena of 
sound." ♦ When considered in rela- 
tion to the whole mass of spiritualis- 
tic phenomena, its vague, unsatisfac- 
rory character becomes still more 
apparent. The nearest approach to 
a definition of psychic force, in its 
larger sense, that I have met with 
occurs in Mr. Atkinson's communica- 
tion {Jftep.^ p. 105) : " It is nothing 
more than the ordinary and normal 
power of our complex nature acting 
without impediment " (consciousness 
being one of the impediments), " and 
diverted from its usual relations, 
though in some cases abnormal con- 
ditions clearly favor the develop- 
ment." It is hardly possible to mis- 
take the pantheistic character of this 
passage; for this unconditioned na- 
ture, underlying personal conscious- 
ness, which, in virtue of its being 
unconditioned, knows all and can do 
all, what else can it be but a com- 
mon nature, an anima tnufuii, a 
world-god ? according to the pan- 
theistic conception of Averrhoes, ** an 
intelligence which, without multipli- 
cation of itself, animates all the indi- 
viduals of the human species, in re- 
spect to their exercising the func- 
tions of a rational soul."t I am 
convinced that psychic force, if 
drawn out as the one solution of 
spiritualism, can end in nothing short 
of this; but, on the other. hand, I 
readily admit that the '*' anima mundi^^ 
or rather, " spirit of nature," as advo- 
cated by Dr. H. More, Glanvil, and, 
if he is not misrepresented, the 

♦ Dr. Tuke, Influence 0/ the Mind uppn tkt 
Body, p. 355. 
t Biog^ Brit.y Baconthorp. 



spiritualism. 



153 



famous Carmente aoctor, John Ba- 
con,^ is not pantheistic. More, formal- 
ly rejecting the doctrine of Averrhoes 
as " atheism," insists that the " spirit 
of nature" is substantially distinct 
from, though in intimate relations 
withy individual souls. He defines 
it to be *' a substance incorporeal," 
how lar possessing '' sense and ani- 
madversion " he may not determine, 
but certainly " devoid of reason 
and free-will," " pervading the whole 
matter of the universe, and exercis- 
ing a plastical power therein, accord- 
ing to the sundry predispositions 
and occasions in the parts it works 
upon, raising such phenomena in 
the worid, by directing the parts of 
matter and their motion, as cannot 
be resolved into mere mechanical 
powers," t 

As capable of holding automatic 
thought, processes, or their embryons, 
such a spirit might lend itself as a 
vehicle of direct intellectual influence 
between soul and soul, as also, of 
course, between souls and spirits of 
another sort But it must be remem- 
bered that, if this might in some 
measure account for the intercom- 
munication of thought, it in no way 
tends to explain the genesis of infor- 
mation of which all concerned are 
ignorant That some such brute in- 
telligence acts as intermediary would 
seem to be borne out by the frequent 
s{>aces of hopeless incoherency, like 
nothing so much as the shaking up 
of loose type, which prelude and 
mtemipt spiritual communications 
when the intelligent will that would 
fain direct matters has not yet seized 
the reins, or has dropped them from 
.ts grasp. 

Whatever may be thought of the 
tlieory, the following passage from 
the 6nt edition of Glanvil's Vanity 

*H«ir<su« Lm Pkiioto/hie Sckolasiiquey tome 
t Tk* Itmmartaiiijf e/tks Souly op. p. axa. 



of Dogmatizing is worth quoting. 
The story in it was suppressed in 
subsequent editions, as too romantic 
for the taste of the day : * '* That 
one man should be able to bind the 
thoughts of another, and determine 
them to their particular objects, will 
be reckoned in the first rank of im- 
possibles ; yet, by the power of ad- 
vanced imagination, it may very 
probably be effected ; and history 
abounds with instances. Ill trouble 
the reader but with one, and the 
hands from which I had it makes me 
secure of the truth on*t. 

" There was very lately a lad in the 
University of Oxford, who, being of 
very pregnant and ready parts, and 
yet wanting the- encouragement of 
preferment, was by his poverty forc- 
ed to leave his studies there, and to 
cast himself upon the wide world for 
a livelihood. Now, his necessities 
growing daily on him, and wanting 
the help of friends to relieve him, he 
was at last forced to join himself to a 
company of vagabond gypsies, whom 
occasionally he met with, and to fol- 
low their trade for a maintenance. 
Among these extravagant people, by 
the insinuating subtility of his car- 
riage, he quickly got so much of their 
love and esteem as that they discov- 
ered to him their mystery; in the 
practice of which, by the pregnancy 
of his wit and parts, he soon grew so 
good a proficient as to be able to 
outdo his instructors. After he had 
been a pretty while exercised in the 
trade, there chanced to ride by a 
couple of scholars wbo had formerly 
been of his acquaintance. The scho- 
lars had quickly spied out their old 
friend among the gypsies, and their 
amazement to see him among such 
society had well-nigh discovered 
him; but by a sign he prevented 
their owning him before that crew, 

♦ BUg. Brit. 



154 



spiritualism. 



and, taking one of them aside pri- 
vately, desired him with his friend to 
go to an inn not far distant thence, 
promising there to come to them. 
They accordingly went thither, and 
he follows; after their first saluta- 
tions, his friends inquire how he 
came to lead so odd a life as that 
was, and to join himself with such a 
cheating, beggarly company. The 
scholar-gypsy, having given them an 
account of the necessity which drove 
him to that kind of life, told them 
that the people he went with were 
not such impostors as they were 
taken for, but that they had a tradi- 
tional kind of learning among them, 
and could do wonders by the power 
of imagination, and that himself had 
learnt much of their art, and improv- 
ed it further than themselves could ; 
and, to evince the truth of what he 
told them, he said he would remove 
into another room, leaving them to 
discourse together, and, upon his re- 
turn, tell them the sum of what they 
had talked of; which accordingly he 
performed, giving them a full account 
of what had passed between them 
during his absence. The scholars, 
being amazed at so unexpected a 
discovery, earnestly desired him to 
unriddle the mystery. In which he 
gave them satisfaction by telling 
them that what he did was by power 
of the imagination, his fancy binding 
theirs; and that himself had dictat- 
ed to them the discourse they held 
together while he was from them; 
that there were warrantable ways of 
heightening the imagination to that 
pitch as to bind another's ; and that, 
when he had compassed the whole 
secret, of some parts of which he 
said he was yet ignorant, he intend- 
ed to leave their company, and give 
the world an account of what he had 
learned. 

" Now, that this strange power of 
the imagination is no impossibility. 



the wonderful signatures of the foetus, 
caused by the imagination of the 
mother, is no contemptible item. 
The sympathies of laughing and gap- 
ing together are resolved into this 
principle; and I see not why the 
fancy of one man may not determine 
the cogitation of another, rightly 
qualified, as easily as his bodily mo- 
tion. This influence seems to me to 
be no more unreasonable than that 
of one string of a lute upon another, 
when a stroke on it causeth a propor- 
tionable motion in the sympathizing 
consort, which is distant from it and 
not sensibly touched. Now, if this 
notion be strictly verifiable, it will 
yield us a good account of how 
angels inject thoughts into our 
minds, and know our cogitations; 
and here we may see the source of 
some kinds of fascination. If we arc 
prejudiced against the speculation, 
because we cannot conceive the 
manner of so strange an operation, we 
shall indeed receive no help from the 
common philosophy; but yet the 
hypothesis of a mundane soul, lately 
revived by that incomparable Pla- 
tonist and Cartesian, Dr. H. More, 
will handsomely relieve us ; or, if any 
would rather have a mechanical ac- 
count, I think it may probably be 
made out some such way as follows : 
Imagination is inward sense; to 
sense is required a motion of certain 
filaments of the brain, and conse- 
quently in imagination there is the 
like ; they only differing in this, that 
the motion of the one proceeds im- 
mediately from external objects, but 
that of the other hath its immediate 
rise within us. Now, then, when any 
part of the brain is strongly agitated, 
that which is next, and most capable 
to receive the motive impress, must 
in like manner be moved. Now, we 
cannot conceive anything more ca- 
pable of motion than the fluid mat- 
ter that is interspersed among all 



Spiritualism. 



155 



bodies and is contiguous to them. 
So, then, the agitated parts o.f the 
brain begetting a motion in the prox- 
inte ether, it is propagated through 
the liquid medium, as we see the 
motion is which is caused by a stone 
thrown into the water. Now, when 
ihe thus moved matter meets with 
anything like that from which it re- 
ceived its primary impress, it will 
proportion ably move it, as it is in 
musical strings tuned unisons; and 
thus the motion being conveyed from 
the brain of one man to the fancy of 
another, it is there received from the 
instrument of conveyance, the sub- 
tile matter, and the same kind of 
slhngs being moved, and much what 
after the same manner as in the first 
imaginant, the soul is awakened to 
the same apprehensions as were they 
that caused them. I pretend not to 
>ny exactness or infallibility in this ac- 
'ount, foreseeing many scruples that 
"nust be removed to make it perfect. 
It is only an hint of the possibility of 
mechanically solving the phenome- 
non, though very likely it may re- 
quire many other circumstances com- 
pletely to make it out," 

There are abundant records of the 
marvels wrought by the imagination, 
when, under the influence of desire 
or fear, or even simple expectation, 
the attention is concentrated upon a 
particular spot or a particular set of 
circumstances; but of the conditions 
and nature of the operation almost 
nothing is known. It would seem as 
if there were a tendency in every act 
of the imagination to create that 
which it conceives, although it is 
only in rare cases that any palpable 
result ensues. Various cases of recov- 
er)- from the gravest illness, some of 
«hich involved the arresting active, 
organic mischief, are recorded as 
^irought about by the vehement im- 
pression made upon the imagination 
by a remedy supposed, but never 



really applied. The action of im- 
agfnative sympathy is even more 
startling. Dr. Tuke relates the fol- 
lowing'of a lady well known to him : 
"^One day, she was walking past a 
public institution, and observed a 
child, in whom she was particularly 
interested, coming out through an 
iron gate. She saw that he let go 
the gate after opening it, and that it 
seemed likely to close upon him, and 
concluded that it would do so with 
such force as to crush his ankle; 
however, this did not happen. ' It 
was impossible,' she says, * by word 
or act, to be quick enough to meet 
the supposed emergency; and, in 
fact, I found I could not move, for 
such intense pain came on my ankle, 
corresponding to the one I thought 
the boy would have injured, that I 
could only put my hand on it to 
lessen its extreme painfulness. lam 
surf I did not m&ve so as to strain ot 
sprain it. The walk home — a dis- 
tance of about a qiliarter of a mile — 
was very laborious, and, in taking off 
my stocking, I found a circle round 
the ankle, as if it had been painted 
with red-currant juice, with a large 
spot of the same on the outer part. 
By morning, the whole foot was in- 
flamed, and I was a prisoner to my 
bed for many weeks." * In another 
case referred to by Dr. Tuke, "a 
lady of an exceedingly sensitive and 
impressible nature, on one occa- 
sion when a gentleman visited her 
house, experienced a very uncom- 
fortable sensation so long as he was 
present, and she observed a spot 
or sore on his cheek. Two days 
after, a similar spot or sore appeared 
on her cheek, in precisely the same 
situation, and with the same charac- 
ters." ♦ 

I have no fault to find with Dr. 
Tuke for extending this same princi- 

* Inftu9nce 0/ tkt Mind u^am ikt B^dy^ p. a6o. 
t tbid,^ p. 498. 



156 



Spiritualism. 



pie of sympathetic attention to the 
case of stigmatization, when he says 
of S. Francis, absorbed in ardent 
realization of the Passion of Christ, 
" So clearly defined an idea, so ar- 
dent a faith intensifying its operation, 
were sufficient to reflect it in his 
body." • 

I cannot help thinking that the 
Fathers recognized the creative power 
of the imagination when they de- 
nounced so fiercely the masquerading 
in beast-skins on the calends of Janu- 
ary. " Is not all this false and mad 
when God-formed men transform 
tliemselves into cattle, or wild beasts, 
or monsters ?" f The numerous ac- 
counts of the were-wolf transforma- 
tion, both in classical and mediaeval 
times, all point in the same direction ; 
and Mr. Baring- Gould brings good 
authority for thinking that the ety- 
mology of the " Barsark " rage of 
the Norsemen designates it as an 
outcome of their bear-skins. 

The direct action of the imagina- 
tion upon external objects, attributed 
to Avicenna (Muratori delta Fantasia^ 
p. 268), is, of course, something fur- 
ther. The Arabian philosopher is re- 
ported to have said that, " by a strong 
action of the fancy, one might kill a 
camel." At the same time, the signa- 
ture on the foetus, not merely of the 
emotion of the mothers fear or desire, 
but of the object or occasion of it, 
would seem to imply some action ab 
extra^ as well as such cases as that 
of the sympathetic bruise referred to 
above. 

That the ordinary acts of the im- 
agination, for all their airy and impal- 
pable play, do leave behind them 
most momentous results, forming, as 
it were, the very mould and measure 
of our whole life, is a matter of con- 
stant experience. Hence it is that 
castles in the air are often so costly, 

* Influence of ike Mind u^k the Dody^ p. 8a. 
t t S. Max. Taur., Horn. xvi. 



to say nothing of the danger that, 
though we have built them ourselves, 
we may find them haunted. 

I am quite prepared to admit what 
the Germans have called a night-side 
of nature — that is, various rudimental 
powers of doing many things ofaseem- 
ingly miraculous character, which 
powers do very probably often co- 
operate in the production of spiritual- 
istic phenomena, and under peculiar 
organic conditions, without any spi- 
ritual influence, may be brought into 
considerably developed action. More- 
over, as it is, of course, in the inves- 
tigation of these natural bases of magic 
that science will succeed so far as it 
succeeds at all, it is only right that it 
should expatiate in them. My com- 
plaint is that the modern attempt to 
reduce spiritualism to psychic force 
involves an inadequate analysis of the 
facts presented ; and spiritualists have 
surely some ground to complain of 
^^ prima facie disingenuousness of a 
manoeuvre which, in regard to the 
same phenomena, began with, " This 
is not natural, therefore it is certainly 
not true," and ends with, " This is 
true, therefore it is certainly natural." 

However much the scientific mind 
of the day may dislike the preterna- 
tural stand-point, yet it may be that, 
seeing " an absolute and derisive in- 
credulity " is no longer regarded as 
the one scientific attitude, some ex- 
amination of the views entertained 
by Catholic writers on the subject 
may not be without interest. Many 
of the acutest amongst them for 
ages have given great attention to 
the phenomena of mysticism, although 
mainly engaged in the consideration 
of their moral and ascetical bearings. 
Before leaving this second hypothe- 
sis, I propose to bring together such 
passages from the schoolmen as seem 
to make the largest allowance on the 
side of psychic force. Whilst tliere 
are, I think, sufficient indications that 



spiritualism. 



IS7 



the scholastics generally admit psy- 
chic force as a natural basis and con- 
corrent cause in many of the pheno- 
mena of both divine and diabolic 
mrsiicisrn, it must be allowed that 
passages dwelling at any length on 
this point have at least the merit of 
rarity. 

Gorres taught, reasonably enough, 
I conceive, in his Mysiik^ that there 
is a physical basis for the great mass 
of miracles wrought by Almighty 
God in and through his saints; that 
is to say, that they do not, ordinarily 
speaking, involve the creation of an 
entirely fresh power, but are rather 
the result of a divine excitation of a 
power already existing in germ. Of 
course, he who " of these stones can 
raise up children to Abraham " only 
subjects himself to the laws which he 
has made in so far as it pleases him 
to do so ; and the scholastics were 
right in their insistence upon what 
they called the "obediential " power 
of things — that is, their inherent ca- 
pacity of becoming anything in the 
lauds of their Creator. Of course, 
too, it is often impossible to ascertain 
r.1 a given case whether God is using 
that alium dominium which he pos- 
sesses as Creator, or, on the other 
hand, is merely developing previous- 
ly existing powers. Everything tends 
to persuacle us that all nature, and 
especially the human soul, is full of 
rudtmental powers which may be de- 
veloped, ist, by the special, imme- 
diate action of the Creator ; 2d, by 
>pintual influences, good and bad ; 
3*i, by certain abnormal conditions 
of the bodily organism. I coftceive 
that these rudimental powers form 
1 common natural basis for the great 
m£ss of both divine and diabolic 
miracles, and that sometimes they 
oiay attain to a considerable degree 
of development without any special 
influence, divine or diabolic. The 
existence of such a common basis 



would seem to be implied in the fact 
that the devil has been able to imi- 
tate successfully and really, as in the 
case of Pharao's magicians, so many 
of the divine miracles ; for we know 
that he can at most develop what 
already exists, without having the 
least power to create what is not 
We cannot imagine that God would 
ever create where he might develop, 
according to the scholastic principle 
which Sir William Hamilton has 
translated into the Law of Parsimony : 
Deus non abundat in superfluis. To 
take a particular example, Gorres 
maintains that the ascetic and mystic 
process which the mind of the saint 
goes through by abstraction from 
earthly things, and the habit of celes- 
tial contemplation, does really co-ope- 
rate in the phenomenon, so common in 
ecstasy, of levitation. In which case, 
the saint would be rather aided by 
God, acting upon his body through 
his soul, to rise in the air, than, pro- 
perly speaking, lifted up by him. 
This levitation is common enough in 
the best authenticated cases of dia- 
bolical possession; and, if it does not 
occur in cases presumably natural, at 
least a wholly abnormal lightness 
and agility is not unfrequent in some 
of the movements of somnambulism. 
We find an example of this in the 
following narrative, taken from a rare 
treatise of the Benedictine Abbot 
Trithemius (saec. 15), entitled Cu- 
riosiias Re^a (p. 29) : " Let any 
one who knows nothing of nature 
tell me if the specific gravity of the 
body can be lightened by the action 
of the mind. I, with two witnesses 
to back me, will relate what I myself 
experienced when a boy at school. 
One night, we were four of us sleep- 
ing in one bed ; my companion rose 
from beside me, as asleep as ever he 
was, the moon in its fifteenth night 
shining in upon us, and wandered all 
over the house as though he were 



158 



Spiritualism. 



awake, with his eyes shut. He climb- 
ed the walls more nimbly than a 
squirrel. He a i-'econd and a third 
time clambered up on the bed, and 
trampled upon all of us with his 
feet ; but we felt no more of his 
weight than if he had been a little 
mouse. Wherever his sleeping body 
came, at once all the fastenings of 
the doors fell back of their own ac- 
cord. With exceeding swiftness, he 
got to the top of the house, and, spar- 
row-fashion, clave to the roof. I am 
telling what I saw, not what I heard 
in idle talk. This would seem to be 
the part, not of a body, but of a 
spirit which freely uses its native 
power, so to speak, when the cor- 
poral senses are bound, and it wan- 
ders outside the mansion of the body. 
. . . We do not suppose that this 
will appear wonderful to the wise, 
who have a true conception of the 
power and nobility of the human 
mind, which in some respects is ac- 
counted the equal of the angels, be- 
ing only separated from them by the 
interposition of the body." 

After speaking of the miracles 
wrought, first by the invocation of 
faith, second by sanctity, which com- 
mands the ministration of angels, 
third by the assistance of demons 
through explicit or implicit compact, 
he continues : " Some persons add 
to these three ways a fourth, saying 
that the mind or spirit of the man 
himself can naturally work its mira- 
cles, provided only it knows how to 
withdraw itself from the accidental, in 
upon itself, above the exercise of the 
senses, into unity. Those who can 
compass this undertake to work mar- 
vels, to predict the future, to lay 
open the secrets of men's hearts, 
to dispel diseases, and suddenly to 
change men's counsels." Trithemius 
is willing to admit that some such 
power exists, whilst denying that it 
can attain to any perfect exercise 



without some external assistance from 
good or evil spirits. He gives the 
same account with Gorres of the 
ecstatic voiatus, viz., that the power 
of God co-operates with the energy 
of the saint's soul. 

William of Auvergne, Bishop of 
Paris, in the beginning of the Xllllh 
century, recognizes the reality of 
several of the phenomena of spiritual- 
ism, and indicates a natural basis. 
Thus, speaking of the mirrors upon 
which magicians make their patients 
look, he says that no images are seen 
in the glass, but that what takes place 
is "a bending back of the mind's 
edge upon itself— of his mind, 1 say, 
who looks upon such an instrument; 
for its brightness forbids the mind's 
vision exteriorating and directing it- 
self, and flings it back and reflects it 
in such sort that it cannot but look 
into itself."* Within the mind, he 
says, all sorts of wonders may be 
read, for therein abides the light " to 
which our souls in respect to their 
noble powers are most closely united ; 
and one of the wisest Christians sailh 
that * this light is the Creator ever 
blessed,* meaning by these words 
that betwixt our minds and the inte- 
rior light, which is God, there is no 
intermediary, according to the pro- 
phet's word, which, addressing the 
Creator, saith, * The light of thy coun- 
tenance is sealed upon us, O Lord ' ; 
that is, thy hghtsome countenance, 
which is naught else but thyself." 
Whilst acknowledging that this light 
is " sealed," and that its rays do but 
break out like lightning flashes in a 
dark iiight, and confessing that he has 
long been cured of that error of his 
youth, the notion that the purification 
and abstraction necessary for such 
inward vision could be profitably 
achieved without the "grace of the 
Creator," he yet maintains that this 

* De UnivtrM^ pan iii. cap. i8, 90. 



Spiritualism. 



159 



light is, up to a certain point, commu- 
nicated according to a natural law, 
analogous, it would seem, to that of 
liie infusion of life. He considers 
that a melancholy temperament fa- 
vors this abstraction, and insists that 
melancholy madmen, in virtue of 
their abstraction, do receive true ir- 
radiations of this divine light, al- 
though indefinitely fragmentary (par- 
ticulaias et obtruncaias\ " wherefore 
naturally they begin to discourse like 
prophets of divine things, yet con- 
tinue not to talk so, save for a little 
while, but lapse into words of accus* 
toniecl folly." He attributes this re- 
lapse to their shattered condition and 
the excess of the melancholy fumes 
vhtch overpower them. 

Whatever may be thought of the 
ii«eory, few can have seen much of 
mad persons without noticing the 
noble fragments with which their 
tlisjointed talk is not unfrequently 
imerspersed. The present writer has 
liUen heard one of the persons con- 
cerned relate the following story of a 
madman's prophecy : 

Hie narrator, with two lady friends, 
had just been received from Angli- 
cariism into the Catholic Church in 
Italy, and they were anxiously look- 
ing forward to the new phase of life 
awaiting them in England. They 
were all three going over a lunatic 
asylum at Palermo, when suddenly 
one of the inmates strode up to them, 
and with great solemnity, touching 
each of them in turn, said to one of 
the ladies, "// Paradiso^^ ; to the 
other, " La MadaUna'^ ; and to the 
gentleman, ** Molto^ molio d^Argento,^^ 
Of the two ladies, the first died a 
ivoly death on the threshold of her 
Catholic life, whilst the other entered 
10 order devoted to the reformation 
uf fallen women. The third part only 
remains unfulfilled, and may possibly 
m^rk the relapse into our author's 
dtstpUnlia consueta. 



William of Auvergne extends these 
natural divine irradiations even to 
the minds of animals, for which he 
entertains a most unscholastic-like 
respect: "Yea, this light (splendor) 
is given to dogs to hunt out the most 
secret thieves ; ... for the dog per- 
ceives not the thief himself, and the 
sense of smell represents him not ; for 
a thief, as such, has no odor." 

Trithemius and William of Au- 
vergne may be regarded as authors 
who lay an exceptional stress upon 
the natural basis of the supernatural. 
The former indicates the possibility 
of the alteration of the specific grav- 
ity of the body by the action of the 
soul within it ; the latter suggests a 
system of natural revelation akin, it 
would seem, to what one meets with 
in the mesmeric or somnambulistic 
trance. 

The somnambulistic and mes- 
meric states would seem to be sub- 
stantially identical, although the lat- 
ter involves a relation of subjection 
to the will of another which is not 
necessary, though possible, at least in 
some degree, to the former. Som- 
nambulism very frequently produces 
the phenomenon of the exaltation of 
the natural powers; for instance, 
wh^n in a somnambulistic state, the 
singer sings more sweetly, the dancer 
dances more gracefully, than in their 
normal condition. The same exalta- 
tion of natural power has been stated 
sometimes to take place in deranged 
persons, as Lamb indicates was the 
case with himself, in his letter to Cole- 
ridge : " Dream not, Coleridge, of 
having tasted all the grandeur and 
wildness of fancy till you have gone 
mad. All seems to me now vapid, 
comparatively so." I remember 
being told by an intelligent person 
very fond of singing, who was subject 
to occasional fits of derangement, 
that, when mad, his voice gained in 
compass a good octave ; even if this 



i6o 



Spiritualism. 



proves to be nothing but a lunatic's 
delusion, it is sufficiently curious 
that somnambulism should effect in 
reality what madness vainly imagines. 

From time to time, somnambulism 
seems to open a door in the soul to a 
source of natural revelation, such as 
William of Auvergne speaks of. The 
following authentic instance is par- 
ticularly noteworthy, because the 
possibility of expectation, having pro- 
duced, as it often does, what was ex- 
pected, is precluded. At a school at 
Thorp Arch, in Yorkshire, at the be- 
ginning of the present century, a boy 
was known to be a somnambulist. 
One night, the usher saw him rise 
from his bed and wander down- stairs 
into the school-room. He followed, 
and saw the boy go to his desk, take 
out his slate, and write. On looking 
over his shoulder, he read : " On such 
a day of such a month next I shall 
die." The boy almost directly after 
went up to bed, and the usher took 
the slate to the head-master. They 
agreed to say nothing about it, and 
another slate was substituted. The 
boy went on with his routine life, ap- 
parently quite unconscious that any- 
thing was impending ; and, indeed, it 
is on all hands admitted that som- 
nambulists in their waking state recol- 
lect nothing of their somnambulism. 
When the day came, the boy died. 

Sister Anne Catherine Eraerich 
( 1 774-1824), an ecstatica of West- 
phalia, has expressed herself with 
considerable precision on the sub- 
ject of mesmerism. Whilst earnestly 
warning people against its use as to 
the last degree dangerous, she admits 
Uiat the phenomena are objective, 
and ihat the power brought into 
action is substantially natural. What 
she says is so remarkable that I 
shall not hesitate to quote at some 
length.* 

• V'ie^ par £!chmoefrer, tome i., p. 484 // uq. 



" My impression in regard to it 
[mesmerism] was always one of horror, 
and this sprang less from the thing itself 
than from the enormous danger to which 
I saw such as practised it almost always 
fall a prey. 

" The practice of magnetism borders on 
that of magic ; in the former, indeed, there 
is no invocation of the devil, but he 
comes of himself. Whoever gives him- 
self up to it plucks from nature something 
that cannot be lawfully won except in the 
church of Jesus Christ, and which cannot 
keep its power of healing.and sanctifying, 
except in her bosom. Nature, for all 
such as are not in active union with Jesus 
Christ by true faith and sanctifying grace, 
is full of Satanic influences. Magnetic 
subjects see nothing in its essence and 
in its relation of dependence upon God ; 
they see everything in a state of isolation 
and separation, as if they were looking 
through a hole or crack. They see one 
ray of things ; and would to God this ray 
were pure — that is to say, holy ! It is in 
God's mercy that he has veiled and sepa- 
rated us from one another ; that he has 
raised a wall between us. Since we are 
all full of sin, and exercise influence one 
upon the other, it is well that we should 
be obliged to interpose some preamble 
before seducing one another and recipro- 
cating the contagious influence of the 
evil spirit. But in Jesus Christ, God 
himself made man is given us as our 
head, in union with whom we can, when 
purified and sanctified, become one— one 
body — without bringing into this union 
our sins and evil inclinations. Whoever 
would bring to an end in any other way 
this separation which God has establish- 
ed is uniting himself, after a most dan- 
gerous fashion, to fallen nature, in which 
he reigns with all his allurements who 
drew it to its fall. 

" I see that magnetism is essentially 
true ; but in that veiled light there 
crouches a thief who has broken his 
chain. All union amongst sinners is 
dangerous, interpenetration more espe- 
cially so. But when this befalls a soul 
that is altogether cloudless ; when a state, 
the condition of whose clairvoyan::e is its 
simplicity and directness, falls a prey to 
artifice and intrigue, then ont of the fa- 
culties of man before his fall^a faculty 
which is not quite dead — is in a certain 
manner revived, to leave him more un- 
armed, more mystified, and exposed in- 
ternally to the assaults of the demon. 



spiritualism. 



i6i 



This state is real — it exists ; but it is cov- 
ered with a veil, because it is a spring 
poisoned for all except the saints. 

" I feel that the state of these persons 
follows a course in certain respects paral- 
lel to mine, but moving in an opposite 
direction, coming from elsewhere, and 
having other consequences. The sin of a 
man with only the faculty of ordinary vi- 
sion is an act wrought by the senses or in 
their forum. The inward light is not 
thereby darkened, but speaks in the con- 
science, and urges from within, like a 
judge, to sensible acts of repentance and 
penance. It leads us to those remedies 
which the church administers under a 
sensible form — the sacraments. Then the 
sensitive part is the sinner, and the inward 
light the accuser. 

" But in the magnetic state, when the 
senses are dead, when the inward light 
receives and yields impressions, then that 
which is holiest in a man, the interior 
watcher, is exposed to deadly influences, 
to contagious infection of the evil spirit, 
such as the soul in the state of ordinary 
wakefulness can have no consciousness 
of, owing to the senses, subject as these 
are to the laws of time and space. At 
the same time, it cannot free itself of its 
sins by the purifying remedies of the 
chorch. I see, indeed, that a soul alto- 
frether pure and reconciled with God, 
etrcn in the state in which the whole in- 
terior life is open, may chance not to be 
wounded by the devil. But I see that if 
^e has previously consented to the least 
temptation, as very easily happens, espe- 
cially to those of the female sex, Satan is 
free to play his game in the interior of 
the soul, which he always manages in a 
way to dazzle her with the semblance of 
sanctity. The visions become lies, and, 
if she perchance discover some way of 
healing the mortal body, she pays a cost- 
ir price for it in the secret defilement of 
an immortal soul.'* 

With regard to another kindred 
phenomenon, viz., the projection of 
the thinking soul in a visible envel- 
ope, there is a remarkable passage 
in S. Augustine (De Civ, Dei,^ lib. 
xviii. i8). He is speaking of a story 
he heard when in Italy of men being 
turned into asses by enchantment, 
ind made to carry burdens : 

" To say nothing of the soul, I do not be- 
VOL. XVIII. — II 



lieve that a man's body could any how by 
demons-craft be turned into bestial limbs 
and lineaments ; but the fantastic part of 
man*s nature (which, in the processes of 
thinking and dreaming, is countlessly 
specificated, and which, though itself no 
body, yet with wondrous swiftness, when 
the man's bodily senses are holden in 
sleep or bondage, adapts to itself the 
images of bodies) may be presented in 
some I know not what ineffable way, 
under a bodily form, to the senses of 
others, the while their bodies be else- 
where alive, indeed, but with their senses 
much more heavily and mightily bound 
than in sleep. And that fantastic part 
appears to the eyes of others, as it were, 
incorporated m the likeness of another 
creature ; and such the man seems to 
himself to be, and to carry burdens. 
While burdens, if they be real bodies and 
not fantastic, the demons carry to deceive 
spectators, who see on the one hand the 
burdens, which are real ; on the other the 
beasts, which arc mere appearances." 

The phenomenon described, or ra- 
ther suggested, by the saint is substan- 
tially identical with that of the wraith, 
or apparition of the spirit of a living 
person, when the soul is supposed to 
be projected in a visible envelope 
under the influence of some strong 
emotion, the bonds uniting soul and 
body being indefinitely stretched^ 
without being broken. Fanciful as 
this sounds, the apparition of the 
wraith is perhaps the best autlicnti* 
cated of all ghost phenomena. 

Plutarch {De Gen, Soc. p. 266) 
would seem to indicate the same 
phenomenon. The Neoplatonic in- 
terlocutor, having distinguished the 
intelligence (voi5?) from the soul 
(tpvxff), inasmuch as the former is 
not properly the body at ail, except 
by reflection, as light in a mirror, but 
floats above the man's head, bound 
to the incorporated soul and yield- 
ing light for its conduct, says, in re- 
spect to the case of one Hermodorus, 
whose soul was supposed periodical- 
ly to leave his body : " But this is not 
true, for his soul did not go forth 



1 62 



spiritualism. 



from his body, but, slackening and 
loosing the reins to the intelligence 
(the dai/icov, as the wise call it, re- 
garding it as something external), al- 
lowed it circumgyration and circura- 
frequentation {nepiSpoptrfv xal 
7r6pi(pitTj(Ttv)f and, when it had 
seen or heard anything, to bear in 
the tidings." 

Catholic theologians, although 
commonly denying that the soul can 
be separated from the body in natu- 
ral or diabolical ecstasy, admit gen- 
erally that, in the case of the divine 
raptusy this separation, or rather pro- 
jection — for death is supposed not to 
ensue — may take place; although 
many of them — amongst others Bene- 
dict XIV. iJDe Beatif,^ lib. iii, cap. 
49) — deny that, in fact, such separa- 
tion ever does occur. On this ques- 
tion. Cardinal Bona (De Discret, Spir,y 
cap. 14) says: "Whether the soul, 
in the higher or more vehement rapt, 
sometimes leaves the body, or can 
leave it, is a doubtful and difhcult 
question ; for the apostle, caught up 
into the third heaven, professed that 
he knew not whether this was in the 
body or out of the body ; and what 
so great a man did not know it is not 
for us to define. 'For who,' saith 
Augustine, most learnedly disputing 
of the rapt of Paul, * would dare to 
say he knew what the apostle said he 
did not know ?' The same igno- 
rance possessed S. Teresa's mind; 
for, describing the effects of rapture 
in The CasiU of the Soul^ mans. 6 
c. 5, she says : * Whether in the body 
or out of the body these things take 
place, I cannot tell : I certainly dare 
not affirm on my oath either that the 
soul is then in the body, or that the 
body can, in the meanwhile, live with- 
out the soul.' Then, making use of 
some similitude to explain the mat- 
ter, she ends by saying she knows 
not what to say. But S. Catherine 
of Sienna, herself a divine patient 



{EpisL xii. ad P. Raym.), does not 
hesitate to affirm for certain that her 
soul sometimes lefl her body and 
tasted the sweets of immortality; 
which occasional separation of the 
soul and body it is manifest could 
take place, not by the powers of na- 
ture, but by the omnipotence of 
God." I would suggest that separa- 
tion or projection would seem to 
admit of degrees, some of which may 
be possible to other powers short of 
omnipotence. 

To this phenomenon of projection 
I should be inclined to reduce the 
majority, if not all, the cases of repli- 
cation or bilocation recorded in the 
lives of the saints. Benedict XIV. 
{De Beatify lib. iv. pars. i. cap. 32), 
when discussing the apparitions of 
living saints, is careful to explain that 
he is not pretending to entertain the 
question of the possibility of "one 
and the same body of a living man 
being at the same time in two places, 
which philosophers call replication." 
Both S. Thomas and S. Bonaventure 
insist upon the intrinsic impossibility 
of the presence of a body " extensive " 
— />. clothed in its dimensions — at the 
same time in more than one place. 
That this is so, De Lugo, whilst ad- 
vocating against Vasquez the con- 
trary opinion, intrepidly admits. We 
may add that the fact of trilocation 
being unheard of is, so far, an argu- 
ment against the possibility of repli- 
cation ; for once admit that replication 
is possible, and there is no reason for 
limiting to duality of presence. 

It would seem to be essential to 
the phenomenon of projection that 
the body remain in a trance during 
the process. When simultaneous in- 
telligent activity has been proved, the 
hypothesis is shown to be insufficient. 
The best authenticated cases, how- 
ever, of so-called bilocation seem to 
me to fail precisely in this proof of 
simultaneity. Take, for instance, the 



spiritualism. 



163 



wonderful miracles of this kind re- 
lited of S. Alphonso Liguori, such 
as his preaching in the church and 
hearing confessions in the house at 
the same time ; the possibility either 
of his having passed, with miraculous 
rapidity of course, from the one 
place to the other, or, again, of the 
projection of his soul, does not seem 
to me to have been fairly disproved. 
Setting aside the hypothesis of 
replication, the apparitions of saints 
simultaneously existing elsewhere 
need not be the result of projection, 
as it is quite conceivable that they 
may be represented by their angels. 
This seems to be suggested by S. 
Augustine {De Cura Gerenda pro 
Mortuis^ cap. 10), Such representa- 
tion would cover simultaneous acti- 
vity should this be proved. For the 
perfection of the phenomenon of pro- 
jection, we require the patient's own 
testimony that he and no other has 
been consciously acting in some place 
where his body was not, and, in de- 
feult of witnesses, some proof that he 
has been there. For obvious reasons, 
such self-testimony is very rare in the 
lives of the saints. The most remark- 
able I have met with is the following 
from the Life of S, Alphonso Liguori 
(vol. iiL p. 417, Orat. Series). It is 
unfortunately defective in there hav- 
ing been no witnesses at the term of 
projection : 

** In the morniag of the 21st of Septem- 
ber, 1774, after Alphonso had ended 
Mass, contrary to custom, he threw him- 
self into his arm-chair ; he was cast down 
and silent, he made no movement of any 
sort, ne%'er articulated a word, and said 
nothing to any one. He remained in 
this state all that day and all the follow- 
ing night ; and, during all this time, he 
took no nourishment, and did not at- 
tempt to undress. The servants, on see- 
ing the state he was in, did not know 
what was going to happen, and remained 
«p sod at his room door, but no one 
dared to enter it. 

" On the mornins^ of the 22d, he had not 



changed his position ; and no one knew 
what to think about it. The fact was that 
he was in a prolonged ecstasy. How- 
ever, when the day became further ad- 
vanced, he rang the bell to announce 
that he intended to celebrate Mass. This 
signal was not only answered by Brother 
Francis Anthony, according to custom, 
but all the people in the house hurried 
to him with eagerness. On seeing so 
many people, his lordship asked what 
was the matter, with an air of surprise. 
*What is the matter?' they replied. * You 
have neither spoken nor eaten anything 
for two days, and you ceased to give any 
signs of life.' * That is true,' replied Al- 
phonso ; ' but you do not know that I 
have been with the Pope, who has just 
died.* . . . Ere long, the tidings of the 
death of the Pope Clement were received ; 
he passed to a better life on the 22d of 
September, at seven o'clock in the morn- 
ing, at the very moment when Alphonso 
came to himself." 

To all appearances, precisely the 
same phenomenon is to be found 
both in the diabolical and the na- 
tural order. Innumerable instances 
are recorded of diabolical projection. 
Here is one quoted by Gorres from 
Senert {De Morbis Occultis) .• " A wo- 
man, accused of being a were-wolf, 
anointed her body in the presence of 
the magistrate, who promised her her 
life if she would give him a specimen 
of her art. Immediately after the 
anointing, she fell on the ground, and 
slept profoundly. She awoke three 
hours after, and, on being asked 
where she had been, answered that 
she had been changed into a wolf, 
and had torn to pieces a sheep and 
a cow close to a little village, which 
she named, and which was situated 
a few miles off They sent to this 
village, and, on inquiry, found that 
the mischief she claimed to have per- 
petrated was a reality." 

The following narrative of presu- 
mably natural projection is charac- 
terized by Gorres {Mystik^ tom. iii. 
p. 267, French Trans.) as " very 
noteworthy and perfectly authentic " : 



164 



spiritualism. 



" Mary, the wife of John Goffe, of Ro- 
chester, was attacked by a lingering ill- 
ness, and was removed ten miles from 
her home to her father's house at West 
Mailing, at which place she died June 4, 
1691. On the eve of her death, she was 
possessed with a great longing to see her 
children, whom she had left at home with 
their nurse. She besought her husband 
to hire a horse, that she might go to Ro- 
chester and die with her children. They 
pointed out to her that she was not in a 
condition to leave her bed and mount on 
horseback. She insisted that anyhow 
she would make the attempt. ' If I can- 
not sit upright,' said she, ' I will lie down 
on the horse ; for I must see my dear 
little ones.' The clergyman visited her 
about ten o'clock at night. She seemed 
perfectly resigned to die, and full of con- 
fidence in the divine mercy. ' All that 
troubles me,' said she, ' is that I am not 
to see my children any more.' Between 
one and two in the morning, she had a 
kind of ecstasy. According to the state- 
ment of Widow Turner, who was watch- 
ing beside her during the night, her eyes 
were open and fixed, and her mouth shut. 
The nurse put her hand to her mouth and 
nostrils, and felt no breath ; she therefore 
supposed that the sick woman had faint- 
ed, and, indeed, was not clear whether she 
was alive or dead. When she came to 
herself, she told her mother that she had 
been to Rochester, and had seen her chil- 
dren. ' Impossible,' replied the mother ; 
* you have never for a moment left your 
bed.' ' For all that,' rejoined the other, 
' I went to-night and saw my children 
during my sleep.' The Widow Alexan- 
der, the children's nurse, declared on her 
side that, a little before two o'clock in the 
morning, she saw Mary Goffe come out 
of the room next to hers, where one of the 
children was sleeping by itself, with the 
door open between them, and enter her 
room ; and that she remained about a 
quarter of an hour close to the bed where 
she was lying with the youngest child. 
Her eyes moved and her lips looked as 
if they were speaking ; but she said no- 
thing. The nurse professed herself will- 
ing to affirm on oath in the presence of 
the authorities all that she had said, and 
to take the sacrament upon it. She added 
that she was perfectly awake, and that the 
dawn was beginning to break, as it was 
one of the shortest nights of the year. 
She sat up in bed, .ind watched the appa- 
rition attentively. She heard the clock 



on the bridge strike two. After a few 
moments had passed, she said, 'In the 
name of the Father, and the Son, and the 
Holy Ghost, who are you?' At these 
words, the apparition vanished." 

Here is another example from Mr. 
Varley's evidence (Report on Spirit- 
ualism) : 

" My sister-in-law had heart disease. 
Mrs. Varley and I went into the country 
to see her, as we feared, for the last time. 
I had a nightmare, and could not move 
a muscle. While in this state, I saw the 
spirit of my sister-in-law in the room. I 
knew that she was confined to her bed- 
room. She said, ' If you do not move, 
you will die,' but I could not move ; and 
she said, ' If you submit yourself to me, 
I will frighten you, and you will then be 
able to move.' At first I objected, wish- 
ing to ascertain more about her spirit- 
presence. When at last I consented, my 
heart had ceased beating. I think at 
first her efforts to terrify me did not suc- 
ceed ; but when she suddenly exclaimed, 
* O Cromwell ! I am dying,' that fright- 
ened me exceedingly, and threw me out 
of the torpid state, and I awoke in the 
ordinary way. My shouting had aroused 
Mrs. Varley ; we examined the door, and 
it was still locked and bolted, and I told 
my wife what had happened, having not- 
ed the hour — 3:45 a.m. — and cautioned her 
not to mention the matter to anybody, 
and to hear what was her. sister's version, 
if she alluded to the subject. In the 
morning, she told us that she had passed 
a dreadful night, that she had been in 
our room, and greatly troubled on my 
account ; and that I had been nearly dy- 
ing. It was between half-past three and 
four when she saw I was in danger. She 
only succeeded in rousing me by ex- 
claiming, 'O Cromwell! I am dying.' I 
appeared to her to be in a state which 
otherwise would have ended fatally." 

In considering the psychic - force 
hypothesis, I have been anxious 
to do justice to every slightest 
indication of such abnormal power 
in the speculations and experiences 
of Catholic writers. For this rea- 
son, I have spoken of projec- 
tion, although I am not aware that 
any attempt has been made by the 
advocates of psychic force so to ex- 



Spiritualism. 



i6s 



plain it Whilst reiterating my be- 
lief that the mind has many mysteri- 
ous powers capable of being brought 
into active operation by various influ- 
ences, and that these are, in all 
probability, operative in several of the 
phenomena of spiritualism ; granting, 
moreover, that it is hardly possible 
to define precisely the extent of the 
soul's co-operation in the production 
of these phenomena, I contend, not- 
withstanding, that the psychic-force 
hypothesis is the result of a non-natu- 
ral and inadequate analysis of the phe- 
nomena of spiritualism. For, ist, in 
the form in which it has been pre- 
sented, it is indubitably obnoxious to 
the charge of being an expedient to 
escape a recognition of spiritual influ- 
ence, which recognition, in a XlXth- 
century man of science, would be so 
very unsportsmanlike, to say the 
least of it. 2d. It wholly ignores the 
sense of personal dualism in spiritual 
experience, to which the history of 
spiritualism in all ages bears consis- 
tent witness. As the idealist would 



convince us that there is no external 
world distinct from the phenomena 
of sensation, so the advocate of 
psychic force would persuade spirit- 
ualists that they have been merely 
conversing with their own shadows, 
as with real beings who could hear 
and answer their questions, and 
have attributed to these, as indepen- 
dent agents, feats which they were 
themselves performing. 3d. So far as 
we have any indication of a thauma- 
turgic element in the mind, it mani- 
fests itself in the supreme efforts of 
the imagination, kindled by emotion, 
and abstracted and concentrated by 
expectation ; whereas, in the mass of 
spiritualistic experiences, imagination 
in those concerned seems distinctly 
to fall short of its highest stages. 

The third hypothesis remains for 
consideration ; but, in order to do it 
justice, I shall have to enter at some 
length into the church notion of 
magic and direct diabolical interfer- 
ence ; and this will form the subject 
of my second chapter. 



THE SON OF GOD, ARCHETYPAL BEAUTY. 



My heart's voice is to thee, my 
Lord and Eternal King, Christ 
Jesus. The work of Thy hand dares 
to address Thee with loving bold- 
ness, for it yearns after Thy beauty, 
and longs to hear Thy voice. O 
Thou, my heart's desired One, how 
long must I bear Thy absence ! How 
long must I sigh after Thee, and my 
eyes drop tears ? O Lord, all love, 
all loveable, where dwellest Thou? 
\STiere is the place of Thy rest, where 
Thou reposest all joyful among Thy 
favorite ones, and satisfiest them 
with the revelations of Thy glory ? 



How happy, how bright, how holy, 
how ardently to be longed for, is 
that place of perennial joys ! My eye 
has never reached far enough, nor my 
heart soared high enough, to know 
the multitude of the sweetnesses which 
Thou hast stored up in it for Thy 
children. And yet I am supported 
by their fragrance, though I am far 
away from them. The breath of Thy 
sweetness comes to me from afar — a 
sweetness which to me exceeds the 
odour of balsam, and the breath of 
frankincense and myrrh, and every 
kind of sweet smell. — S, Anselm. 



1 66 Dante s Pur gat or io. 



DANTE'S PURGATORIO. 



CANTO ELEVENTH. 

In the Ninth Canto Virgil decUres to Dante : 71m tei emai ai Purgaiorio gimnto—**' Thon hast 
arrived at Pur^tory now !" and it is not until the next Canto that the gate of Purgatory proper 
is unfolded to the poet The first nine Cantos being preliminary, are by Italian critics called ihe 
Ante-Purgatorio. 

In the first cornice of the true Purgatory, "Xa, devt 7 Purgatorio ha driito inizio^^ Dante meets 
a procession of spirits crouching under great burdens of stone, in expiation of their sin of pride. As 
this Tenth Canto, however, is mostly occupied with an elaborate description of certain sculptures 
around the cornice, illustrative of the same deadly sin, and might be less interesting to the readers of 
The Catholic World, we proceed to the Eleventh, where we are introduced to the spirits of Omberto 
Aldobrandeschi, Oderisi the illuminator, and Provenzan Salvani, lord of Sienna. In Omberto the 
pride of birth is especially reproved ; and in Salvani the pride of place, the arrogance of power. 
The sin of Oderisi is of the aesthetic order common to a period of larger culture. Himself an artist, 
whose fault was pride of art, he inveighs against the vanity of painters and of poets, and the empti- 
ness of a present reputation. 



PRAYER OF THE PROUD SPIRITS — A PARAPHRASE OF THE LORD*S PRAYER. 

" THOU, our Father, dwelling there in heaven ! 

Not circumscribed, save by the larger love 
Which to thy love's first offspring must be given, 

Who from the first have dwelt with thee above ! 
By every creature hallowed be thy name 

And praised thy goodness, as for man was meant 
To render thanks to thy benignant flame : 

May to our souls thy kingdom's peace be lent, 
For of ourselves we could not come thereto 

With all our intellect, unless 'twere sent : 
And even as of their will thine Angels do 

(Chanting Hosanna) sacrifice to thee, 
So to Thy Will may men their own subdue : 

Our daily manna give to us this day, 
Without which help, through this rough wilderness, 

Who strives to go falls backward on his way. 
And even as we forbear us to redress 

The wrong from others which we have to brook 
Pardon thou us, benignant One ! and less 

On our deserving than our weakness look : 
Try not our virtue, ever prone to yield, 

'Gainst the old enemy who spurs it so ; 
Deliver us from him and be our shield : 

This last petition, dearest Lord ! we know 
We have no need of ;^but for them we plead 

Who after us amid temptation go." 



Daniels Purgatorio. 167 

Thus praying for themselves and us God-speed, 

Those weary shadows, underneath a load 
Like that we sometimes dream that we endure, 

Toiled in unequal anguish* o'er the road 
Round the first cornice, all becoming pure 

From the world's tarnish. O if alway there 
For us they say such gracious words I for them 

What might be here performed in act or prayer 
By souls whose will is a sound -rooted stem : 

Well might we help them wash whatever stain 
They bore from this world, that sublimed and fair 

They to the starry circles might attain. 



VIRGIL. 

** Ah so may pity soon, and justice spare . 

You souls this load, that you may move the wing 
That lifts you upward to celestial air ! 

Show us which way most speedily may bring 
Us towards the ascent If more than one there be, 

Point us that pass the least precipitous ; 
Since he who comes and fain would climb with me 

Through flesh of Adam is encumbered thus." 
Who made their answer to these words which he 

Whom I was following unto them addrest 
Was not discernible, but this was said : 



OMBERTO. 

** To the right hand, along the bank, 'tis best 

You come with us. This way to living tread 
The pass is possible that you request : 

And were I not impeded by the stone 
Which my proud neck so masters with its weight, 

That I perforce must hold my visage down, 
This man who liveth, and who doth not state 

What name he bears, I would look up to see 
If I do know, and make compassionate 

His heart for this huge load that bendeth me. 
William Aldobrandeschi was the name 

Of a great Tuscan ; I was born his son. 
Of Latin race : whether his title came 

To your ears ever, knowledge have I none. 
Mine ancestors, their ancient blood, and what 

They wrought by prowess, rendered me so high 

* Thai U, under loads of divers weight proportioned to their degree of sin. 



i68 Dante s Pur gat or to. 

In arrogance, that never taking thought 

About our common Mother, all men I 
So scorned, that as the Siennese all know, 

I to my death at last was brought thereby. 
And every child in Campagnatico 

Knows hov7 1 there did perish for my sin. 
I am Omberto, and not me alone 

Hath pride done damage to, but all my kin 
Hath it dragged hither with myself to groan, 

And I who living never bowed my head, 
Till God be satisfied, and mercy shown, 

Must bear this burden here among the dead." 

Listening I held my visage down intent, 

And one of them, but not the same that spoke, 
Writhing looked up, beneath his burden bent, 

And recognized, and called me ; still his look 
With strained eyes fixing upon me who went 

All bowed beside them. " O !" exclaimed I then, 
" Art thou not Oderisi, Gubbio's pride, 

And honor also of that art which men 
In Paris name illuming V^ He replied : 



ODERISI. 

" Brother ! those leaves with hues more smiling shine 

Touched by the pencil of the Bolognese 
Franco, whose whole fame was but partly mine. 

Haply in life such courteous words as these 
I had not spoken, so my heart was set 

All others to excel. For such poor pride 
Here I must pay the penalty ; nor yet 

Should I be here, but that before I died 
I turned to God, still having power to sin. 

O thou vain- glory of man's boasted powers ! 
How little while thy summit keeps its green, 

Unless gross ages come that yield no flowers ! 
Once Cimabu^ thought to keep the crown 

In painting's field ; now all cry Giotto best, 
So that the former hath but dim renown : 

Thus could one Guido from the other wrest 
The glory of language, and perchance is born 

He that shall drive out either from his nest. 
Naught is the world's voice but a breath of mom 

Coming this way and that, and changing name 
Even as it shifteth side: what more shalt thou, 

If old thou cast thy flesh, enjoy of fame 
Than if death's hand had touched thy baby brow 



Dante's Purgatorto. 169 

Whilst thou wert babbling, ere a thousand years 
Have past ? which unto God's eternity 

A space more insignificant appears 
Than would the twinkle of an eyelid be 

To the least rapid of the heavenly spheres. 
Yon soul before me, moving on so slow, 

Once through all Tuscany was noised for great, 
Now scarce Sienna breathes his name, although 

He was her sovereign, when the infuriate 
Spirit of Florence met such overthrow ; 

For she, now vile, swelled then in proud estate. 
Men's reputation is the fleeting hue 

Of grass, that comes and goes ! even that whereby 
Fresh from the soil its tender verdure grew, 

The sun, discolors it and leaveth dry." 



ANTE. 

And I : " Thy truthful words teach me to seek 
Goodness in humbleness, and quell my pride. 
But who is he of whom thou just didst speak ?" 



ODERISI. 

** That's Provenzan Salvani," he replied ; 

" And he goes here because he so presumed 
In bringing all Sienna 'neath his sway : 

Thus ever since he died hath he been doomed, 
Without repose, to walk his weary way. 

Who dares too much there in such coin pays back,^"^ 



DANTE. 

I then : " If every soul who doth delay 
Repentance till the limit of life's track. 

Must wait below, nor be up here received 
Unless good prayers assist him on his road. 

Before as much time pass as he hath lived, 
How comes this largess upon him bestowed ?" 



ODERISI. 

The spirit replied: "When he was living still 
In the full glory of his most high state, 

All shame subduing, of his own free will 
Amid Sienna's public square he sate, 



170 Daniels Pur gator io* 

And there his friend to ransom from the pain, 

Which Charles had doomed him, of his dungeon's grate, 

Did that which made him tremble in each vein.* 
I say no more and know I darkly teach 

But in short while thy neighbors unto thee 
Will so conduct that thou mayst gloss my speech : 

Him from those confines did this act set free/' 

^ That is to say he begfgfed : in which act of terrible humiliation to so liaughty a spirit Dante \s 
recalling his own bitter experience. 



NOTE. 

In the translation of Canto VII., published in the April No. of Thb Catholic World, I proposed 
a new renderiosr of the 74th verse, namely, 

Indict rich woody keavtu^t lucid Hut ttrtu*^ 
for 

Indieo legno^ lucido e streno^ 

which line I would then hare read, 

Indieo UgmOy lucido tcr-tnOy 

without the conjunctioa. I had not found this reading in any edition which feUto my hands, and it 
was merely a suggestion of my own to maice intelligible what seemed to be unsatisfactory to the sense. 

In a late No. June 14) of the London Atkenaum^ Dr. H. C. Barlow, a very learned Dantean, 
confirms my reading by one of the older texts in his library, and also adds that, ^*' in the edition 
of the Divina Commedia by Paola Costa, we find the reading recently adopted by Mr. Parsons 
.... which the editor says is an emendation of Biondi, who has defended it with much learned 
reasoning." 

Nevertheless, Dr. Barlow does not accept this amendment ; but believes, with Monti, that Dante 
meant to compare the rich and varied hues of a flower-bed to something like charccal ; to wood, clear 
and dry ; for instance, ebony : and he quotes from Monti this word : *' What can be darker than the 
night? yet when free from clouds we call it serene.''* The answer whereto is tlMt when the night 
is free from clouds, and starry, or serene, it is not dark, and many objects in nature are blacker 
than such a night 

I cannot feel quite so sure of my reading as Dr. Barlow appears to be of his own interpretation, 
but I have some confidence that Dante did not mean ebony ^ for the obvious reason that ebony is not 
a brilliant color such as Dante was describing ; and the statement which Dr. Barlow takes such 
pains to prove, namely, that painters often introduce black for the sake of contrast, does not apply 
at all to a verbal description— '*fr^rirf//r aurem^'* etc. 

I am after all inclined to think that the true reading of this much-disputed verse may be 

Indieo legnOy * lucido sereno^ 

but my mind is not made up entirely, and one object of publishing these Cantos in a periodical is 
that my version, before it is completed, may have the advantage of critical suggestions, and perhaps 
elucidation, in doubtful passages, from the learning and ingenuity of such Italian scholars In Eng. 
land as Mr. Haselfoot, Dr. Barlow, and Sir Frederic Pollock. Tsamslatok. 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



171 



THE FARM OF MUICERON. 



BY MARIE RHEIL. 



PXOM THB RBVUB DU MONDB CATHOUQUB. 



I. 



What I am going to relate to you 
b a true story in every respect, see- 
ing that I had it from my late father 
— ^in his lifetime the harness- maker 
of our hamlet of Val-Saint, and who 
was never known to tell a falsehood : 
may God have mercy on his soul 1 

In the village of Ordonniers, 
which was the next one to us, and 
in our commune, where ilows ia 
Range^ lived a farmer named Louis 
Ragaud. The maiden name of his 
wife was Pierrette Aubry ; but after 
her marriage, according to our cus- 
tom, she was called by every one 
La Ragaude. 

They were rich, and no one was 
jealous of them, as it was known 
that they had commenced with no- 
things having been simply servants 
in the employ of M. le Marquis de 
Val-Saint Little by little they had 
risen, without having injured any 
one, always kind to the poor, never 
miserly or boasting ; so that, when at 
the end of twenty years they found 
they had saved enough to buy the 
beautiful farm of Muiceron, which 
they had previously rented, all the 
neighbors said: "Behold the true 
justice of the good God I" 

They had been married a long 
time, and had no children. Now, 
wealth is a great deal, but not enough 
for perfect contentment of heart. 
The good man Ragaud had fields 
and meadows that yielded rich crops, 
strong oxen, and even vines that 
bore well — though it must be ac- 
knowledged that the wines of our 
province were not very renowned. 



As for the farm buildings, except 
those of the chiteau, there were 
scarcely any in a circle of six leagues 
which were as well kept ; and never- 
theless, Ragaud sighed when Iboking 
around him — no child, alas ! and no 
family, with the exception of a cou- 
sin, who left for the army more than 
thirty years before, and had never 
been heard of since; so that, very 
naturally, he could not be counted 
upon. 

La Ragaude sighed still more. 
She was good and very devout, but 
unable to bear sorrow ; and this was 
so severe, so constant, it had ended 
by destroying all her happiness. 
Often, when looking at the neighbors* 
children playing before the doors, 
she felt her heart throb with pain, 
and would hasten to seek refuge in 
her own house, where she could give 
free vent to her tears. As this hap- 
pened more than once, and as she 
always reappeared with red eyes, it 
had been much remarked, and sun- 
dry comments made. Not that there 
is much time to be lost in the fields, 
but a reflection here and there 
scarcelv retards work. There are 
even those who say that the tongue 
assists the arm, and that gossipping 
helps push the plough. It is woman's 
tattle, I believe ; but a good number 
of men here and elsewhere have 
the habit of repeating it, and I do 
likewise, without inquiring further. 

The gossips of the neighborhood — 
above all, those who had larger 
families than incomes — were deter- 
mined to find out the true cause 
of Pierrette Ragaud's tears ; and, as 



172 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



often happens, preferred seeking for 
wicked reasons rather than stop 
their babbling. 

" It is a thing I cannot under- 
stand," said one, " why the mistress 
of Muiceron is so unhappy that she 
weeps constantly — a woman who is 
so well off. We must believe that 
things at the farm are not so well as 
they appear. Perhaps it is her hus- 
band who makes all the trouble !" 

" Her husband ! Magdaleine Pi6- 
dau ?" replied another ; " you must 
be well put to that you imagine such 
a thing. Master Ragaud is the first 
workman in the country ; and, as for 
his using bad words, that he has 
never done, any more to his wife 
than to others." 

" Bah I what you say is true," re- 
plied Magdaleine Pi6dau ; " but all 
the same, neighbor, Ragaud can fly 
into a rjge as well as any other man. 
I saw and heard him, day before 
yesterday, beside himself with anger 
against one of his yoke of oxen. 
You know Capitaine, the big black 
one ? Ah ! my dear, I pitied the 
poor beast — he beat him well 1 with- 
out counting that he swore so that 
you would not have known him. 
Bah ! don't talk to me !" 

*' Ah ! that may be, but I speak 
of people. Now, an ox is not a 
person !" 

" There you are right, thank God ! 
Men are often rough to beasts, and 
very polite to Christians ; but, in my 
opinion, we must be gentle and 
patient to both. A beast that works 
well deserves to be well treated, 
and Ragaud had no right to beat 
his ox. I don't say he would 
treat his wife so; but, at least, we 
must allow that Pierrette Ragaud 
does not always look as if her 
life were a holiday. Ah! she has 
trouble, that is very sure, poor crea- 
ture !" 

" And the reason ?" 



"The reason! Go and ask her, 
Magdaleine, if you are so curious." 

" I wouldn't dare ; for, after all, it 
don't concern me very much. What 
I have said was only in the way of 
friendly gossip." 

" In that case, we can speak of 
other things; for I don't know any 
more about it than you. We will 
leave it for God to clear up. Go 
and catch your boy, who will fall 
into the pond, Magdaleine Pi6dau, 
and lend me your sickle, that I may 
cut some grass for my cows. . . . 
But to think that Ragaud ill-treats his 
wife — no, no ; that is out of the ques- 
tion. After that, where may we 
hope to find a good man ? One don't 
know. . . ." 

" No, neighbor, one never knows 
how it is with them. You speak like a 
priest, my good woman. The de- 
ceased Pi6dau, my man, that every 
one believed so good, . . ." 

" Good-evening, Magdaleine." 

" Was a drunkard and big eater. I 
concealed it for ten years, and wept 
alone like the mistress of Muiceron." 

" Good-evening, neighbor." 

II. 

One summer day, when La Ra- 
gaude was washing her earthen pans 
in the sun, she saw the cure of 
Ordonniers advancing through the 
path in the woods. He was a wor- 
thy priest, beloved by all, and well 
deserving of it on account of his 
great charity. I have heard it said 
that, in the years when bread was so 
dear, he gave away his last measure 
of wheat, and then, having no more 
for himself, was obliged to go to the 
miller, Pierre Cotentin, and ask for 
some flour on credit. 

"It is not my custom," said he 
gaily, "and you are not bound to 
oblige me; but the times are hard, 
and you must never refuse to give 
alms, even to your ^//r/." 



The Farm of Muiceron, 



173 



The miller filled the bag willingly ; 
and as for the money, although he 
was very fond of it, he would never 
hear the word mentioned. 

Said he, " M. le Cur6 has an emp- 
ty purse. We must not ask him where 
the last cent went, poor dear man ! 
Pierre Cotentin can well feed him — it 
is justice ! Who will have the heart 
to be jealous ?*' 

And in fact, the cur^ was so re- 
spected that not a boy, no matter 
how bad he was, ever failed to take 
off his cap when passing him. 

When La Ragaude saw the black 
cassock coming towards Muiceron, 
she quickly arranged her pans, and 
threw aside her working-apron ; for 
she was a careful woman and tho- 
rough housekeeper. 

" Good-morning, M. le Cur6; how 
are you ?" she asked joyfully. 

" Very warm, very warm," re- 
plied the curi ^ ** otherwise, well." 

" My dear monsieur, why did you 
not wait until the cool of the eve- 
ning to do us the honor of visiting 
us? It is roasting in the road. I 
thought just now I would send a ser- 
vant to replace my husband in the 
fields. A storm is rising, the flies 
bite, Ragaud is not as strong as he 
was at twenty, and I am afraid of 
the beasts — they are difficult to con- 
trol when they become impatient." 
Ah ! your husband is absent ?" 
Have you something to say to 
htni, monsieur ?" 

** To him and to you also, my 
good woman." 

** Come in and refresh yourself," 
said she. 

M. le Cur6 entered, and took a 
seat near the table. He appeared 
preoccupied, and answered like a 
man who did not hear what was 
said to him. He even placed his 
cane against the bread-box, and his 
hat on top — something which he had 
never done before, as the slightest 



«< 



«i 



motion might have sent them to the 
floor. When he put his hand in his 
pocket for his breviary, he found he 
had forgotten it, which embarrassed 
him not a little; as, it must be said, 
no man was more exact and particu- 
lar than he in words as well as in 
actions. 

La Ragaude, not being a fool by 
nature, quietly replaced the cane and 
hat in a safe place, but was, in her 
turn, very much astonished to see the 
curd so absent, as it was the first 
time it had ever happened; and from 
that concluded he must have some- 
thing in his head of great impor- 
tance. What could it be ? 

While busying herself around the 
room, without showing it, Pierrette 
Ragaud had distractions also. She 
drew new wine for cider, and washed 
a glass which had not been used. 
But that I do not believe she would 
have perceived then or afterwards; 
for she was so accustomed to scrub 
everything you could have used the 
side walls of the stable for a mirror. 

M. le Cur6 tasted the wine through 
civility, but, as he said nothing, she 
began to feel rather impatient. Wo- 
men are curious. My deceased fa- 
ther was accustomed to say, from 
that came all the evil from the com- 
mencement of the world. It is true 
the dear man was rather in his do- 
tage towards the end ; but it is also 
true that I have heard others say 
the same thing. 

Pierrette at last commenced to 
question the curd very respectfully 
and gently ; for, in truth, she could 
no longer restrain herself. 

"Although the master is out, M. 
le Cur6," said she, ** will you not 
tell me what I can do to serve you ? 
— without pressing to know, you un- 
derstand, monsieur." 

M. le Cur6 raised his eyes, and 
replied as gravely as though he were 
preaching a sermon : 



174 



Tlie Farm of Muiceron. 



"I have come to know, in the 
name of the good God, Mme. 
Ragaud, if you are disposed to act 
charitably." 

" Oh ! if it is to aid those who 
are suffering and in need, my hus- 
band and I will be most happy to 
assist you," frankly cried La Ragaude, 
who spoke with her whole heart and 
soul. "Thank Godl there is yet 
money in the drawer. Tell me how 
much you want, monsieur." 

The good cur^ shook his head, 
laughing, and repeated two or three 
times, '^Good, good," which was a 
sign that he was pleased. 

"You are always ready to give 
money to the poor, I know," said 
he; "but to-day that is not the 
question. I have come to ask you 
for something of greater importance." 

" More so than money ! Heaven 
of our Lord !" said Pierrette, slightly 
amazed. "I do not know, M. le 
Cur6, how, then, I can oblige you." 

She said that, although she had a 
generous heart; but money with us 
is always the great affair. In the 
fields, as in the city, the poor man 
who eats his bread while working 
knows that the francs are not picked 
up under the horses* feet. 

" Money," replied M. le Cur6, 
" when the soul is wanting in cha- 
rity, is given, and there it ends; but 
what I have come to ask of you is 
a good work which will not end for 
a long while, and which will need 
good- will, and great patience especi- 
ally, on your part." 

" I can guess what it is," said 
Pierrette. 

" Indeed !" replied the cur^. 
**\Vell, that spares me the difficulty 
of explaining myself. Let us hear, 
Mme. Ragaud, what you have 
guessed." 

" I have heard it said vou were 
very much worried about your sur- 
plices and altar-linens, since Catha- 



rine Luguet left the country so 
shamefully, like a good-for-nothing 
girl, to seek her fortune in Paris," 
said La Ragaude, blushing — for this 
Catharine was a distant cousin — 
"and doubtless, M. le Cur6, you 
wish me to replace her, and take 
charge of the sacristy." 

"And if it were so, would you 
refuse me ?" 

" Certainly not, monsieur. I 
would wiUingly do my best to please 
you. Not that I have as light a 
hand as Catharine for plaiting and 
folding ; but for washing and ironing, 
I can say, without boasting, I am 
the equal of any one." 

" Thank you," said the cur^. " I 
accept an offer made so willingly. 
But to speak truly, I have not come 
for that. " 

"Then," replied Pierrette, in as- 
tonishment, " I cannot imagine 
what you want me to do." 

"This is it," said the curSy tak- 
ing a serious tone : " This morning, 
Pierrette, a bundle was left at my 
house . . ." 

"I bet," cried La Ragaude, "it 
was the beautiful monstrance pro- 
mised by M. le Marquis for Corpus 
Christi !" 

" No, it was a new-bom infant, a 
beautiful boy, Mme. Ragaud; and, 
since the good God has allowed 
you to remain childless, and that 
this privation has greatly afflicted 
you, I immediately thought he des- 
tined this child for you." 

" Monsieur," replied Pierrette, 
with emotion, " it is true that it is 
very hard for me to be alone in the 
house, and to think that I will die 
and leave no one after me to inherit 
Muiceron; but I prefer it to work- 
ing all my life for a child sprung, 
perhaps, from a wicked race." 

" I know where it comes from," 
said the curr ; "but still I can tell 
you nothing, as it is a secret of the 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



175 



confessional. But have confidence in 
me; as for the race, it is not bad.'* 

" It is the same thing. I don't be- 
lieve in these foundlings." 

"Say nothing further about it," 
replied the curd rather sadly ; " I 
wUl send it to the hospital." 

And then, without appearing to 
feel cither pique or bitterness, M. le 
Cur6 commenced to converse on 
other subjects, speaking of the next 
harvest, the price of the new wine, 
and of the last fair, with even voice 
and kind looks, that showed plainly 
he did not wish his parishioner to 
think he was pained by her rather 
prompt refusal. 

This kindness of a heart trulv 
charitable had more effect on good 
Pierrette than reproaches or scold- 
ing. She did her best to reply to 
the curdy but her eyes were wet 
against her will, and soon she be- 
came so absent-minded the curd with 
difficulty repressed his mirth, seeing 
that he had gained ground by the 
ell, without seeming to do it inten- 
tionally. 

"You see," said he, "by often 
hearing the bells ring, one becomes 
a bell-nnger ; and as I love all my 
parishioners, like a true pastor, I go 
everywhere, inquiring and advising, 
so that I may be useful in case of 
need. In that way, Mme. Ragaud, 
without ever having driven a plough 
or taken care of cattle, God has given 
me the grace of being able to advise 
on all rural subjects, as well as the 
first master-farmer in the neighbor- 
hood. Thus, I will say to you: 
♦When there are more pears than 
apples, keep your wine, good man.' 
This is a country proverb hundreds 
of years old. Now, as this year there 
arc more pears than they know what 
to do with, believe me, keep your 
vintage^ and you will have news to 
tell me of it by next Easter." 

" I do not know how Ragaud will 



decide," replied Pierrette; "he is 
always afraid when the cellar is 
full. . ." 

"The proverb never fails, my 
good woman; and that is easily 
understood when one reflects how 
and why proverbs have obtained 
credit." 

" But, M. le Cur6," interrupted La 
Ragaude, " if you knew where this 
poor abandoned child came from, it 
seems to me . . ." 

"What child?" said the curd, 
taking a pinch of snuff, so as to 
appear indifferent. " Oh ! yes, the 
little one of this morning. What, 
do you still think of it ? Bah ! let it 
pass ; after all, the hospital is not a 
place where one dies from want of 
care." 

" I know it ; but it is sad, monsieur, 
very sad, for one of those little 
innocents to say afterwards, *I was 
in a hospital'; that always gives a 
bad idea." 

"What can be done, Mme. 
Ragaud ? One becomes accustomed 
to everything. Come, come, don't 
make yourself uneasy. We were say- 
ing, then, . . . what were we say- 
ing ? Ah ! I remember now. I was 
telling you that proverbs must be 
believed, and for the reason that 
these little village-sayings are only 
repeated after they have been veri- 
fied by the great and long experience 
of our fathers. Thus, you will see 
that the last part of the one I just 
quoted is equally curious : * When 
there are more apples than pears, 
then, good man, you can drink.' 
Well, wasn't it a fact last year? 
There were so many apples that a 
jug of cider was only worth two 
farthings ; there was enough for every- 
body, and the wine was so abundant 
that — you are not listening to me, 
Pierrette Ragaud ?" 

" Excuse me, M. le Cur^, I am 
listening attentively ; but I was think- 



1/6 



The Farm of Muiceron, 



ing perhaps my husband would not 
return ; and, nevertheless, he should 
have a little talk with you." 

" About the vintage ? We have 
time enough until then for that," 
replied the curd with a spice of 
malice. 

"About the little innocent, dear 
monsieur. The truth is, I feel my 
heart ache when I think he will go 
to the hospital through my fault." 

" And as for me, my good woman, 
I am sorry that I spoke to you about 
it; yes, sorry," he repeated earnest- 
ly, " for I have worried you, and I 
had no such intention when I came 
to visit you. I see now that you 
are inclined on the side of the good 
work ; but I don't wish to force you 
to take it in hand. Here, now, if 
the hospital frightens you, I have 
thought of another arrangement, 
which might work well. My old 
Germaine, notwithstanding her thirty 
years of service, is still active, and 
the work in my house don't kill her. 
W'e will buy a good milking-goat at 
the August fair; until then, you will 
lend us one, and, God willing, the 
little one will remain where his good 
ingel deposited him." 

" May the Lord bless you !" cried 
•a Ragaude, the tears streaming; from 
her eyes. " But what a shame for us 
to let you burden yourself with such 
a heavy load, when you already give 
more than you can afford ! No, no, 
holy and good Virgin Mary I For my 
part, I would not sleep easy after 
such an act." 

The good curi clasped his hands, 
and in his heart rendered thanks to 
all the saints in paradise. He was 
very much touched, and as he was 
about to thank Pierrette as she de- 
served, Ragaud returned from the 
fields. 

They cordially saluted each other ; 
and, very naturally, as the good man 
saw his wife wiping her eyes, and the 



curd almost ready to do likewise, he 
asked what had excited them. There- 
upon M. le Curd commenced a long 
discourse, so gentle and so touching — 
he spoke of charity, of the rewards of 
heaven, the happiness of generous 
hearts, with words so beautifully turn- 
ed that never in the parish church, 
on the greatest festivals, had he 
preached better. Pierrette, as she 
afterwards said, thought she was lis- 
tening to the holy patron saint of 
Ordonniers, who in his lifetime, it is 
related, spoke so well that the birds 
stopped singing to listen to him. 
Ragaud remained silent, but he shook 
his head, and turned his cap around 
in his hands — signs of great emotion 
with him. 

Meanwhile, he said neither yes nor 
no, but asked time for reflection, pro- 
mising to give his answer the next 
day before twelve o'clock. He was 
perfectly right, and M. le Cure, who 
felt in the bottom of his heart that 
the cause was gained, wished even to 
wait until Sunday ; but Ragaud did 
not like to take back his word. 

" I said to-morrow, M. le Curd, and 
it will be to-morrow," said he, when 
conducting his pastor to the threshold 
of the door. 

" Dear, holy soul of the good God !*' 
cried Pierrette, looking after the cure 
as he leisurely walked down the road, 
repeating his rosary as he went along. 
" Good dear priest, that he is 1 We 
need many more like him, Ragaud !" 

" Good, holy man, in truth," replied 
the farmer; *'but what he propos- 
es to us is an affair of importance. 
You are young and healthy yet, 
wife, but in ten years your arms will 
not be as strong as now. You must 
think of that, even if God keeps you 
in good health. A child is a com- 
fort in a house, but all the burden falls 
on the mother. Suppose this little 
one should become refractory and 
vagabond, like Cotentin's son." 



or THE 



^ NEW- YORK A, 



'0 






177 



^ That is true," said La Ragaude. 
> " Suppose he should get bad ideas 
in his head, and send religion and 
honesty to the devil" 

''That would be a great misfor- 
tune," again said La Ragaude, but this 
time sighing. 

" I know you," continued the good 
man — ** you become attached to every 
one. Didn't you weep like a little girl 
because I beat Capitaine, who is only 
an ox, and who deserved it ? And hav- 
en't I seen you half crazy because Bru- 
nette had the gripes ? — and she was 
only a cow. . . . Can it be hoped that 
you would be more reasonable about 
a child who would become ours ? — 
for we must do the thing well or not at 
all; isn't it so?" 

"It is just as you say," replied 
Pierrette, sighing still louder; ''but 
what, then, shall we do ?'' 

" My opinion is that we must con- 
sider it well," answered Ragaud 

'* You only consider the bad side," 
said La Ragaude gently ; " but sup- 
pose the little one should preserve the 
blessing of his baptism, and let himself 
be well governed — later, we would be 
very happy and well rewarded." 

•• That is true," said the farmer. 

" If," continued La Ragaude, " I 
am easily worried about animals, I 
know well it would not be the same 
thing with a Christian. You see, 
husband, the poor beasts suffer with- 
out being able to complain or ex- 
plain themselves ; and, therefore, I am 
always afraid of theit being treated 
unjustly. But a boy has his tongue, 
and can defend himself. We can talk 
sense to him, and if he won't listen. 
why, we will put him to school." 

^ Bah ! you will spoil him so that 
be will be master of the house be- 
fore he is in breeches." 

•• Don't fear," cried Pierrette ; " that 
will never be, or I should think my- 
self wanting in gratitude to the good 
God." 

VOL. XVIII. — 13 



" If I could be sure of that, my 
wife, I would attempt it. But, come ; 
let the night pass before deciding." 

They did not mention it again 
until the next day ; but Pierrette took 
care, before retiring, to light a taper 
at her bedside, beneath a beautiful 
picture of Our Lady of Liesse. 

Early the next morning, she went, 
as usual, to feed her turkeys and 
drive her cows to the meadow. On 
her return, she saw Ragaud dressing 
himself in his Sunday clothes. 

" I think, wife," said he, " we had 
better, at least, see this little one be- 
fore deciding," 

Pierrette hastened to throw aside 
her apron ; and then it appeared she 
bad expected such a decision, as at 
dawn she had dressed herself in 
her new gown of gray serge, with 
her bright-flowered neckerchief from 
Rouen, which had only been worn 
at the last feast of the good S. Anne, 
in July. 

It was thus the worthy couple pro- 
ceeded on their way to the priest's 
house. As it was Thursday, and 
neither festival, nor fair, nor market- 
day in the village, the neighbors star- 
ed as they saw them pass, and, unable 
to imagine the cause, chattered non- 
sense, half from malice, half from 
spite; and Simonne Durandi well 
known for her viper tongue, said 
aloud : " We must believe the Ra- 
gauds are going to obtain the priest's 
blessing on their fiftieth anniversary, 
{Ls they are so finely dressed on a 
week-day." 

This wicked jealousy went a little 
too far, and profited nothing to the 
spiteful thing, as every one knew 
the Ragauds had only been married 
twenty years at the furthest; but, 
when the mind is full of malice, there 
is little time for reflection. 

When the good friends arrived at 
the pastoral residence, M. le Cur6 had 
just entered after saying his Mass; 



178 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



and we need not ask if he had pray- 
ed well. Germaine, his old servant, 
held the baby in her lap, and was 
feeding him with boiled goat's milk. 
Pierrette could not restrain her de- 
light on seeing what a beautiful child 
it was, and that it was at least six or 
seven months old. She snatched it 
from Germaine's arms, and commenc- 
ed kissing it, not caring that she had 
interrupted his little repast. This 
showed that the child was good-na- 
tured ; for instead of crying, as a sick- 
ly, cross baby would have done simi- 
larly situated, he crowed with joy, 
and put out his little hands, dazzled 
with the fine, flowered neckerchief of 
his new mamma. 

" How pretty and healthy he is !" 
cried La Ragaude. " My dear M. le 
Cur6, you told me it was a new-born 
child." 

" Did I say so, Pierrette ? It was 
because I did not know much about 
it." 

"So it seems," replied the good 
woman, gaily. " The little darling is 
at least seven or eight months old ; 
don't you think so, Germaine ?" 

" I know one a year old not so 
large as he," answered the old ser- 
vant. " But that is not all, Mme. Ra- 
gaud ; you see him in the day-time, 
but it is at night that he is good and 
amusing. He sleeps without stirring, 
like a little corpse. For my part, I 
would not be afraid to bring him up." 

Ragaud had not yet said a word, 
and still upon him all depended. 

" Come and talk a little while with 
M. le Cur6," said he, pulling his wife 
by the skirt. 

Pierrette quickly rose to obey him, 
according to her good habit, but she 
did not give up the young one ; so 
that Ragaud gently reproved her for 
again showing herself as ready to be- 
come attached to men as to beasts. 

We need not be sorcerers to divine 
what happened. In less than a quar- 



ter of an hour, the contract of adop- 
tion wao passed satisfactorily, without 
notary or scribbling. It was signed 
with a friendly shake of the hands ; 
and to say which one of these good 
hearts was the best satisfied would 
not be very easy. 

III. 

Now, without further delay, I am 
going to show you, as they say, the 
under-card in relation to the little 
one. True, it was a secret of the 
confessional, at least for the time 
being ; but later, it was everybody's 
secret. The story is simple, and will 
not be long. You remember that 
our ^/r/, in conversation with Pier- 
rette, led her to mention a certain 
Catharine Luguet, against whom the 
good woman appeared very much 
incensed. This Catharine was an 
orphan, whose parents, dying, left her 
when quite young without any means 
of support. Germaine watched over 
her Hke a daughter, and M. le Cur6, 
to keep her near him, paid her ap- 
prenticeship to a seamstress; after 
which, having grown up, and being 
very skilful with her needle, he placed 
her in a little room near the church, 
and gave her charge of the sacristy. 
But, unfortunately, the poor child 
was as pretty as a picture, and lov- 
ed compliments, dress, and dancing, 
which is a great danger for a young 
girl, especially in a village. Catha- 
line commenced by degrees to make 
people talk about her, and not with- 
out cause. The Ragauds, who were 
distantly related to her on the 
mother's side, at first reprimanded 
her, and finally would not see her. 
The girl was quick-tempered, resented 
the treatment, and one fine day went 
off, saying that she could easily find 
in Paris people who would be happy 
to receive her. 

Two years passed without news of 
her. Her name was no longer men- 



The Farm of Muiceran. 



179 



tioned in tfie village^ and from that 
M. le Cur£ sunnised some misfortune 
had happened. He prayed for the 
poor girl, and unceasingly begged 
the good God to mercifully receive 
her through his grace, if not during 
her life, at least at the hour of death. 
His prayer was heard at a moment 
when he scarcely expected it. One 
morning, when Germaine had left the 
village at day-dawn to make some 
purchases in the city, she took it into 
her head to pay a visit to one of her 
good friends, who was a Gray Sister in 
a large hospital They talked about 
the patients ; and the sister, very much 
affected, spoke of a young woman 
she had received the week before, 
and who appeared very near her end. 

"I have put her by herself," said 
she, *^ and I will confide to you, Ger- 
maine, that this poor afflicted creature 
has a child ; and, between ourselves, 
I very much believe she is dying as 
much of shame as of want." 

Germaine wished to see her ; but, 
at the first look, the sick woman 
uttered a loud cry, and hid her head 
under the counterpane. 

" What is the matter ?" said Ger- 
maine. " I frighten her." 

"We have awakened her," re- 
plied the good sister, "and she is 
nervous. I should have entered 
alone." 

But the poor girl sobbed without 
showing her face. At last the sister 
calmed her. Germaine, on her side, 
spoke kindly, and finally she drew 
down the covering. You can imag- 
ine the rest. 

It was Catharine Luguet, but how 
changed! She, formerly so pretty, 
so bright, and so laughing — and now 
her mother herself would scarcely 
have recognized her. The innocent 
little being that slept in a cradle by 
her side told all her story. What she 
had found in Paris, what had brought 
her back to the country, there to 



die, were dishonor, misery, and an 
orphan without a name — but also 
sincere and true repentance ; and the 
good God, who has certainly received 
her in paradise, struck the blow, that 
she might be saved. 

Who was astonished, and at heart 
happy, in spite of his sorrow, which 
can be well understood ? It was our 
cur/. Holy man that he was, he was 
happier to have his lost sheep 
brought back to him, even although 
half dead, than not to have found 
her at all. The next day, he has- 
tened to Issoudun, and remained the 
greater part of the afternoon with 
poor Catharine. 

Issoudun was the nearest large 
city to our village, and, if I have for- 
gotten to tell you so, I beg you will 
excuse me. 

Although my father gave me som^ 
slight details of the unfortunate girl's 
story, I will not relate them; for 
many long years she has reposed in 
consecrated ground, and, as the dear, 
good man wisely said, "The sins 
wliich have received the pardon of 
God should be hidden by man;" 
and this is true charity. 

It is only necessary to say that 
this first visit of our curd was fol- 
lowed by many others. Catharine 
declined visibly, and her little one, 
from whom she would not be sepa- 
rated, was a great worry to her. 
The sisters took care of him, and 
fed him to the best of their ability 
during the day, but they could not 
attend to him at night. He was 
beautiful and healthy, and grew like 
a weed — which was a miracle, con- 
sidering the state of the mother — ^but 
his first teeth commenced to appear, 
and rendered him restless and trou- 
blesome. One morning, when M. le 
Curd and Germaine went together to 
the hospital, they found poor Catha- 
rine so ill they feared she would not 
pass the day. 



l8o 



The Farm of Muiceron, 



" My daughter," said Germaine to 
her, "be reasonable; let me have 
your child. I will take great care of 
him." 

"As you please," replied Catha- 
rine. 

He was instantly carried away; 
and, that no one should penetrate 
the secret, a confidential woman, 
employed in the hospital, came in 
the night-time, and left him at the 
priest's house in the village. That 
same night, poor Catharine became 
speechless, but was conscious imtil 
the moment of her death, which soon 
happened, and never was there seen 
a more peaceful and touching agony. 
The sisters saw with admiration 
that after death she regained her 
beauty, and her face its youthful 
look of twenty years. 

" She is smiling with the angels," 
said the pious souls, and it was not 
to be doubted; for the angels re- 
ceive with as great joy the repentant 
as the innocent. 

The little one was baptized and 
registered under the name of his 
poor mother. Our cur/ easily pro- 
cured all the necessary acts; but for 
the family name, the dear innocent 
had none to bear, at least for a long 
time. He was called Jean-Louis; 
about the rest, there was silence. 
As to the secret of his birth, although 
confided in confession, Catharine, be- 
fore dying, said to the cur/ : 

" You will tell all, my father, if it 
is necessary, later, for the future of 
my child." 

And you will see in the end that 
it was a wise speech. 

Between ourselves, this'holy, good 
man of a curS, who was gentle and 
merciful, as much from a sense of 
duty as by inclination of heart, had 
always blamed the Ragauds for their 
rigorous seventy against the poor de- 
parted. Says the proverb, " In trying 
to do too much, one often fails to do 



well." Perhaps it would have been 
better to have patiently borne with 
the poor inexperienced girl than to 
have driven her firom the protection 
of her only relatives on account of 
malicious gossip. But. Ragaud did 
not understand jesting ; he was, as the 
saying runs, as stiff as a poker, and, 
as soon as the wicked tongues com- 
menced to wag about her, he said, 
"There is no smoke without fire," 
and closed his mind to all explana- 
tions, and his door to the girl. Thus 
had they acted towards Catharine, 
without thinking that then she was 
only giddy and coquettish — faults 
which might have been cured as 
long as the soul was not spoiled. 
The treatment was too harsh ; it 
caused the flight to Paris, which 
took place in a moment of anger and 
spite, and all the misfortunes that 
followed. In strict justice, the Ra- 
gauds should in a measure make re- 
paration for an action done with good 
intentions, but which had ended 
so badly. Our cur/ foresaw that 
sooner or later they would be sorry 
for it ; therefore, in burdening them 
with the child, he acted shrewdly, 
but also with great fairness. I cer- 
tainly will not blame him, nor you 
either, I think. 

IV. 

From the day that poor Catharine's 
child was installed in the house of 
her relatives, there was a change in 
Muiceron. Pierrette no longer wept, 
and, far from being grieved, as former- 
ly, at the sight of other children, she 
willingly drew them around her. On 
Saturdays, when she baked her bread 
for the week, she never failed to 
make a large crumpet of wheaten 
flour, beaten up with eggs, and a 
bowl of curds and fresh cream, for 
the sole purpose of regaling the 
young ones of the neighborhood. 
We need not inquire if, on these 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



i8i 



evenings, the house was full. The 
children were well satisfied, and their 
mammas also ; for Saturday's supper 
remained whole for Sunday, and, in 
the meantime, the little rascals went 
to bed gayer than usuaI, thanks to 
a glass of white wine that watered 
the crumpet and filled the measure 
of joy in all those little heads. 

It was also remarked that Ragaud's 
jests were more frequent at the 
meetings of the church wardens of 
the parish on the appointed days 
after Vespers. Sometimes he even 
went off in the morning to his work 
singing the aics of the country-dances, 
which was a sure proof that his heart 
was at peace ; for, by nature, he was 
a man more serious than gay, and as 
for singing, that was something quite 
out of his usual habit. 

These good people thus already 
received a holy reward for their 
generous conduct. According to the 
old adage, " Contentment is better 
than wealth " ; and now they, who 
had so long possessed riches without 
contentment, had the happiness of 
enjoying both. Quite contrary to 
many Christians, who imagine that 
the good God owes them everything, 
the Ragauds every evening thanked 
Heaven for this increase of wealth. 
Now, if gratitude is pleasing to men, 
it is easy to believe that it draws 
down blessings from on high; and 
from day to day this could be clear- 
ly seen at Muiceron. 

Little Jean -Louis grew wonder- 
fully, and gave good Pierrette neither 
trouble nor care. At his age, chil- 
dren only cry from hunger, and as 
he, well fed and well cared for, had 
nothing to complain of, it followed 
that he grew up scarcely ever shed- 
ding a tear. 

When he was one year old, it 
seemed that the good boiled goat's 
milk was no longer to his taste, as he 
put on a discontented look when he 



saw the smoking bowl. Ragaud, one 
evening, for a joke, put his glass to 
the boy's lips, and, far from turning 
his head, he came forward boldly, 
and drank the cider like a man. 
This highly delighted Master Ra- 
gaud, who wished to try if a piece 
of dry pork, in the shape of a rattle, 
would please him as well; but to 
that Pierrette objected, maintaining 
that a root of marsh-mallow was a 
hundred times better, particularly as 
the little fellow was getting his double 
teeth. 

" You wish to bring him up like a 
woman," said Ragaud, shrugging his 
shoulders; but, nevertheless, he let 
the mistress have her own way. 

There were no other disputes about 
him until he had attained his third 
year, for then his excellent health, 
which had caused so much happi- 
ness, was nothing in comparison with 
the good instincts which commenced 
to develop. He was lively and gen- 
tle, chattered away delightfully, and 
was always so obedient and tender, 
that to pay him for his good behav- 
ior, the Ragauds nearly killed him 
with kindness. In regard to his ap- 
pearance, I will tell you that in 
height he surpassed most children of 
his age, his hair was black and curly, 
his eyes dark also and very bright. 
With all this, he was not very hand- 
some, as, growing so fast, he had kept 
very thin ; but Pierrette said wisely, 
he would have time to grow fat, and 
since he ate, drank, and slept when 
he was tired, there was nothing to 
fear. 

One thing will astonish you, that 
neither of the Ragauds perceived for 
an instant that the child was the 
living image of poor Catharine Lu- 
guet; and still the likeness was so 
striking, M. le Cur6 spoke of it in- 
cessantly to Germaine, and expectec 
on every visit to Muiceron to be 
embarrassed by some remark on the. 



l82 



The Farm of Muiceran. 



subject. But whether the good people 
had really forgotten their relative, or 
did not wish by even pronouncing her 
name to recall a sorrowful remem- 
brance, certain it is that nothing in 
their words or actions, which were 
perfectly frank and simple, betrayed 
in the slightest degree that they ever 
thought of it. 

About that time, Pierrette com- 
menced to be more uneasy, as Mas- 
ter Jean-Louis often escaped on the 
side of the stables, and delighted in 
racing up and down the bank, bor- 
dered with tall grass, of the stream 
that ran behind the bleaching- 
ground of Muiceron. With such 
a bold boy, who would not lis- 
ten to any warning, an accident very 
often happens; therefore, the good 
woman placed around his neck a 
medal of S. Sylvain, in addition to 
that of the Blessed Virgin Mary, 
which he had worn ever since his 
arrival at the farm. 

S. Sylvain is a patron saint vene- 
rated in our province, who won hea- 
ven in leading the life of a peasant 
like us. Pierrette had a great devo- 
tion for him, and said that the saints 
above remember with tenderness 
those of their own former condition 
on earth; consequently, no one in 
the good God's heaven could better 
protect a child daily exposed to the 
accidents of rural life. One day es- 
pecially, when he wished to be very 
active in helping his mother Pierrette 
by putting little pieces of dry wood 
in the fire, while she was soaking the 
clothes in lye, a plank of the big tub 
gave way all at once, and the boiling 
water floated around the room, and 
only stopped within half a foot of the 
child, who might have been drowned 
and scalded, in less time than it takes 
to say it. Pierrette for two entire 
days was so overcome she could 
speak of nothing else. 

In the same manner, once, when 



Ragaud carried the little fellow with 
him to the fields, he amused him by 
placing him on one of the oxen ; but 
the animal, tormented by the flies, 
shook his head so roughly that his 
rider, about as high as your boot, was 
thrown on the ground ; but before any 
one could run to assist him he was 
already standing, red, not with fear, 
but with anger, and quickly revenged 
himself on the beast by striking him 
with a willow-wand that he used 
for a whip, and which he had not let 
go in his fall. Ragaud was terribly 
frightened at the time, but afterwards 
proudly related the adventure, and 
said to his neighbors that his son, 
Jean Louis, would be as brave a man 
as General Hoche, the hero of the 
war of La Vendue, and who, accord- 
ing to the old men of the neighbor- 
hood, never in his lifetime feared 
either man or beast. 

As for the resemblance to General 
Hoche, Pierrette cared precious little, 
not being the least warlike by nature. 
Truth to say, I scarcely believe she 
knew precisely who was this very 
great personage, notwithstanding his 
immense renown in the province; 
therefore, she simply contented her- 
self with having a Mass of thanksgiv- 
ing said in S. Sylvain's Chapel, think- 
ing that his protection was worth 
more than all the vanities of this world. 

The great love of this good house- 
hold for the little orphan increas- 
ed day by day. Pierrette and her 
husband accustomed themselves to 
call him ** My son" so often and so 
sincerely that I do believe they real- 
ly ended by fancying it was so. 
The neighbors could do no less than 
they; so that every where and by 
every one he was called the Ragauds' 
son — so true it is that custom often 
takes away reflection. 

From that grew the idea that this 
litde mite would one day be the big 
man of the neighborhood; and those 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



183 



who thought they were making a 
wise discovery, in supposing it would 
be thus, fell into the intentions of the 
Ragauds, as surely as the brook flows 
into the river ; for at this same time, 
one autumn evening, when the fire 
burnt brightly on the hearth, Ragaud, 
seated at table opposite his good 
vife, commenced all at once to com- 
pliment her talent for housekeeping, 
praising everything around him, from 
the walls and window-panes, glisten- 
ing with cleanliness, to the chests 
and benches, newly waxed once a 
month. He took pleasure in recall- 
ing his great happiness during the past 
twenty years, attributing all his bless- 
ings, after God, to the account of Pier- 
rette's virtues ; and as, like the thread 
in a needle, Jean Louis was sitting be- 
tween them, eating his soup, he seized 
him in his arms, and tossed him up 
three times nearly to the rafters. 

" You sec, my son," said he, re- 
seating himself, and still keeping the 
boy on his knees, " you drew a 
good number in the lottery; for 
although you came to us like the 
down off the thistle, you have, never- 
theless, a mother such as cannot be 
found in a hundred leagues ; and as 
for your father, my brave fellow, he 
will leave you enough crowns to make 
you as respected in life as though you 
were a prefect." 

" Happily," replied the wise Pier- 
rette, " the little one is not old enough 
to understand what you are talking 
about; for this, my dear husband, 
is a very improper speech for the 
child's ears. We would fill him 
with vanity, and not only does pride 
offend the good God, but it renders 
a man very disagreeable to those 
around him." 

"You are always right," replied 
Ragaud, without taking offence; 
^ but a good fire, a good wife, money 
honestly earned, and new cider — 



nothing like these for untying the 
tongue and making it a little too 
long. Come, go to bed, my Jeannet, 
kiss your parents, and say your pray- 
ers well; to-morrow we will go to 
gather the thatch in the fields near 
Ordonniers, and if you only bring 
me as much as will fill your apron, 
you shall have two cents on Sunday 
to buy a gingerbread." 

" Very well," said Pierrette, laugh- 
ing, *'that will be a fortune which 
will not make him too vain." 

A little while afterwards, when they 
were alone, the conversation was re- 
commenced, but they proceeded regu- 
larly about the business, and, finally, 
debated the question as to how the will 
should be drawn, according to law, 
so as to leave Muiceron to the child. 
The difficulty was that Ragaud knew 
very little about writing in any shape, 
and Pierrette nothing at all. They 
talked away, without making any pro- 
gress, far into the night, and at last 
acknowledged they would have to 
finish where they should have begun, 
namely, by going next day to con- 
sult Master Perdreau, the notary of 
Val-Saint, on the subject. There- 
upon, they went off well pleased to 
sleep in their big bed, with the canopy 
of yellow serge; and as the next 
morning the work of the thatching 
pressed, on account of the rains which 
were about to commence, Ragaud 
postponed his trip to another day. 

Now, the good God, who has 
his own designs, permitted that it 
should be entirely otherwise firom 
what these good people had intend- 
ed, and in a manner so astonishing 
that no one, no matter how wise, 
could have foreseen it; for La Ra- 
gaude, who had nearly completed her 
forty-second year, became the follow- 
ing year the mother of a beautiful 
little girl, who was most fondly wel- 
comed by the delighted parents. 



TO BB CONTINUED. 



i84 



Philosophical Terminology^ 



PHILOSOPHICAL TERMINOLOGY* 



II. 



To THE Editor of The Catholic 

World: 

In the letter which I ventured to 
address to you a short time ago 
concerning the general conditions 
required in a good English work of 
philosophy, I made some observations 
on the importance and difficulty of 
wielding the popular language in a 
strictly philosophical manner. As I 
apprehend that the title of "Philo- 
sophical Terminology," under which 
that letter was made to appear, is 
scarcely justified by its very limited 
contents, I beg leave to add a few 
other considerations on the same 
subject, that your intelligent readers 
may find in these additional remarks 
a confirmation and a further develop- 
ment of what I said about our need 
of a more copious philosophical lan- 
guage. 

There are two words which can- 
not easily be dispensed with in the 
metaphysical analysis of created be- 
ings ; these two words are, in Latin, 
actus and poientia. Metaphysicians, 
in fact, conclusively prove that in 
every created substance there are 
two essential principles : a principle 
of activity, which is known under the 
name of actus^ and a principle of 
passivity, which is styled poUntia. 
These two terms, which are so neces- 
sary in metaphysics, and so familiar 
to all the scholastic philosophers, 
might be fairly represented in English 
by " act " and " potency" ; though 
i yet neither " act " nor •* potency " 



• For the precedinfr article on the subject, see 
the July No. of The Catholic World, 



is popularly used in this philosophi- 
cal sense. 

The word " act " with us primarily 
signifies that which is produced by 
action ; for all action is the produc- 
tion, or the position, or the making 
of an act. But all action implies an 
agent — that is, a being which is already 
" in act," with its actual power 
prepared for action. On the other 
hand, nothing is formally " in act," 
but through an intrinsic " act," which 
is the formal principle of its actuality. 
Accordingly, the word " act," though 
primarily known to us as expressing 
the product of action, must, by meta- 
physical necessity, be applied also 
to that from which every agent and 
every being has its actuality. 

Hence, philosophers found it 
necessary to admit two kinds of 
•' acts " — the essential zx\d ih^ accident- 
al. The essential is that which gives 
the first actuality, or existence, to a 
being — dat esse simplicitcr. The ac- 
cidental is that which is received 
in a subject already existing, and 
which only gives it an accidental 
actuality or a mode of being — dat 
esse secundum quid. 

But the essential act (which is 
also called substantial^ though it has 
a more extensive meaning, as we 
shall see hereafter) is, moreover, to be 
distinguished from actual existence. 
Metaphysicians, indeed, very often 
speak of existence as an act; and 
hence, to avoid confusion and 
equivocation, they are obliged to 
distinguish the actus essentia from 
the actus existentia. Yet, to speak 
properly, existence is not simply an 



Philosophical Terminology^ 



185 



act; it is the actuality of the being;* 
and, consequently, the distinction 
#hich must be admitted between the 
essential act and the existence of 
a being is not strictly a distinction 
between two acts, but between the act 
which actuates the essential term of 
the being, and the actual state which 
results from such an actuation. I 
will say more on this point when I 
have explained the use of the word 
** potency." 

The English word " potency *' is 
the equivalent of the Latin fotentia. 
This Latin word, although used most 
frequently in the sense of " passive 
principle," is not, however, necessari- 
ly connected with passivity more than 
with activity ; and accordingly it has 
been used as well to designate 
'• active power." Hence, it is obvious 
that this term, potentia^ when employ- 
ed absolutely without the epithet 
activa or passrva^ is liable to two 
interpretations, and becomes a source 
of mischievous equivocations. I do 
not see what prevented our old La- 
tin philosophers from designating the 
two kinds oipotentia by two different 
words. Had they constantly used 
virtus or vis for the potentia activa^ 
and reserved potentia exclusively for 
the potentia passrva^ they would not 
have mistaken the one for the other, 
as they sometimes did. Let me 
quote a few examples of this for our 
common instruction. 

Sanseverino, a very learned man, 
and one of the best modern scho- 
lastics, while arguing against the 
Scotists, who deny all real distinc- 
tion between the soul and its faculties, 
says that if the soul and its faculties 
are really the same thing, then, " as 
the soul is always in act, the faculties 

• Eu0 ett per/gciissimum omnium ; ccmpara^ 
tur tnimadcmmia Mi actus. Nihil enim hadet 
mHualitattm nisi in quantum est : undt i/sum 
tntest actualiias omnium rerum^ ei efiam 
ipsarum /ormarum^S, Thomas. Snmma Tk.^ 
p. I q. 4 A. I. 



also must be always in act and never 
in potency." Whence he infers that 
" the soul would have no potentiality, 
and would therefore be a purus actus 
like God " ; which is, of course, a 
pantheistic absurdity.* But evident- 
ly this inference has no other founda- 
tion than the confusion of the poten- 
tia activa with the potentia passiva. 
The author, in fact, knows perfectly 
well that no being in which there is 
potentia passiva can be styled purus 
actus : when, therefore, he draws the 
conclusion that the soul, in the Sco- 
tistic theory, would be purus actus^ 
he must be understood to mean or 
imply that all potentia passiva would 
be excluded from the soul. Yet his 
premises are concerned with the 
potentia activa only ; and it is quite 
evident, that from such premises he 
could not have passed to such a 
conclusion had he not confounded 
the two kinds of potentia with one 
another. 

I would remark, also, that in his 
argument the expression, " The facul- 
ties must be always in act," cannot 
mean that the faculties must be 
always actings but only that they are 
always actual^ as the soul itself; and, 
therefore, the author cannot reason- 
ably conclude that the faculties 
" would never be in potency " respect- 
ing their proper acts. The potentia 
activa is already an " act," as it is 
known, since it is called actus primus 
agendi ; and is not called potentia^ 
except as contrasted with its acciden- 
tal operations. Moreover, a faculty 
does not cease to be potentia activa, 
even when it actually performs its 
operations. When I actually make 
a syllogism, my faculty of reasoning 
is " in act," and yet it retains its po- 
tentia activa with regard to any 
number of other syllogisms. It ia 
not true, therefore, that a faculty 

* Sanseverino, Z7^iiam//(0!^/<i, c. i. a. 1. 



1 86 



Philosophical Terminology. 



which is in actual operation ceases 
to be in potentia activa. Lastly, the 
soul itself, which, as Sanseverino 
remarks, is always in act, is never- 
theless always in potency also; for 
the actuality of all contingent being 
is always potential — that is, liable 
to modifications of different kinds. 
Hence, we not only deny the conclu- 
sion of the learned author as illegitit- 
mate, but affirm that the premises 
themselves, on which he relies, are 
untenable. It is the indiscriminate 
use of the word potentia that vitiates 
the author's argumentation. 

Another great Thomist, Goudin, 
wishing to prove that in all creatures 
the power of acting is an accident, 
argues that potentia et actus sunt idcm^ 
quamvis diver simode^ and that actus 
est semper nobilior quam potentia ad 
eum eisentialiter ordinata ; whence he 
concludes that, if a given act is an 
accident, the active power, whence 
it proceeds, must needs be an acci- 
dent too. Here, also, the equivoca- 
tion is evident. The act is nobilior 
quam potentia when we compare it 
with the potentia passiva which is 
destined to receive it — that is, to be 
actuated by it — but when an act is 
compared with the active power from 
which it proceeds — that is, with the 
potentia activa — we cannot say that it 
is nobilior quam potentia ad eum essen- 
tiaiiter ordinata: it is the contrary 
that is true. Had the author used 
the word virtus agendi instead of the 
equivocal word potentia^ he would 
soon have discovered the fallacy of 
his argument. 

I am sorry to say that even S. 
Thomas sometimes forgets to ob- 
serve the distinction between potentia 
activa and potentia passiva ; as in the 
first part of his Summa, where he com- 
pares the potentia essendi and the po- 
tentia operandi with their respective 
acts, and establishes a kind of pro- 
portion between the two potencies 



and the two acts.* No such propor- 
tion can be admitted, unless the po- 
tentia operandi and tht potentia essendi 
are both similarly connected with 
their acts. Yet whilst the potentia 
operandi is active, Xht potentia essendi^ 
according to S. Thomas, is passive.! 
They cannot, therefore, be related 
to their acts in a similar manner. 
Hence, the terms are not homologous, 
and the proportion cannot subsist 
In another place, the holy doctor 
argues that, if an act is accidental, 
the potentia from which it proceeds 
must be accidental also; because 
potentia et actus dividunt ens^ et quod- 
iibet genus entis^ and, therefore, oportet 
quod ad idem genus referatur potentia 
et actus.X But the potentia which, 
with the actuSy constitutes the being 
and every class of beings is the po- 
tentia passiva/ whilst the potentia 
from which any act proceeds is the 
potentia activa. The argumen t, there- 
fore, contains four terms, and proves 
one thing only, namely, that it is 
extremely difficult, even for the great- 
est men, to avoid equivocations when 
things that are different and opposite 
are designated by the same term. 

In English, the word potentia is 
commonly represented by " power," 
to which the epithets of " active " 
and "passive" have been attached 
by some writers, in the same manner 
as was done with the Latin potentia, 
'* Power," says Locke,§ " may be con- 
sidered twofold, namely, as able to 
make or able to receive any change." 
But " in strictness," says Webster, 
'* passive power is an absurdity in 



* Summa 7h.^ p. x q. 54 a. .^. 

t For he says that es»« non comparaiur ad miim 
ticut recipien* ad rece/tum^ ted magtM ut rece^ 
turn ad recipitnt (p. i q. 4 a. i) ; whence it is 
cleir that the potentia essendi is considered by 
him as the recipient of actual existence. The 
same he teaches Contra Cent. lib. ii. c. 53, and in 
other places. 

X Summa Tk.^ p. x q. 77 a. x. 

I Essay on tJu Human Understandings b. a. 
C. ai. 



Philosophical Terminology. 



i87 



tenns. To say that gold has a power 
to be melted is improper language ; 
jti for want of a more appropriate 
mx^fawer is often used in a passive 
icnse." 

It is not true, however, that " the 
want of a more appropriate word " 
really compeb us to use the word 
power in a passive sense. Have we 
not the word potency ? This word 
exactly answers our purpose. It is 
not only the exact equivalent of the 
Latin poUntiUy but is also the imme- 
diate relation of the terms potential^ 
poientiaUy J potentiality^ which are al- 
ready admitted in common philo- 
sophical language as expressing ca- 
pability, passiveness, and liability. 
These latter words are only subordi- 
nate members of a family, of which 
patency is the head. Therefore, to 
convey the notion oi potentia passiva^ 
we have a more appropriate word 
than ^ power," and nothing compels 
iu to employ the absurd expression 
of " passive power." On the other 
hand, the remarks above made, on 
the consequences of the promiscuous 
use of the word potentia in the active 
and the passive sense, would suffice 
to show that the word " power," even 
'd it could be used without absurdity 
in the passive sense, should, in phi- 
losophy, be restricted to the active ; 
as it is most desirable that things 
which are so thoroughly opposite 
be expressed by different words. 
Thus, the word " power " retaining its 
active meaning, the potentia passiva 
may very appropriately be styled 
** potency." 

Some will ask. Why should we use 
the word " potency " in this new sense, 
while we have already the terra " po- 
tentiality," which seems to express 
very exactly the same notion ? 1 an- 
swer that the principle of passivity, 
which we call " potency," is an essen- 
tial constituent of created beings; 
whilst " potentiality " is not an essen- 



tial constituent, but an attribute flow- 
ing from the essential constitution of 
being, on account of the potency 
which the latter involves. Accord- 
ii^gly* '^ potentiality " cannot stand 
for " potency," any more than ration- 
ality can stand for reason, or materi- 
ality for matter. 

From the foregoing considerations, 
it appears that the words '* act " and 
'' potency " cannot be easily dispens- 
ed with in metaphysics, and, therefore, 
should be freely admitted and ac- 
knowledged as philosophical terms. 
As to their definitions, however, we 
shall have to rely on philosophical 
treatises rather than on common Eng- 
lish dictionaries. The word •* act " 
is indeed to be found in all dictiona- 
ries; but, unfortunately, its meaning is 
restricted to the expression of mere 
accidents, while substantial acts are 
ignored altogether. In Fleming's 
Vocabulary of Philosophy we find: 
" Act in metaphysics and in logic is 
opposed to power. Power is simply 
a faculty or property of anything, as 
gravity of bodies. Act is the exercise 
or manifestation of a power or pro- 
perty, the realization of a fact, as the 
falling of a heavy body." On these 
words I would incidentally remark 
that " power " cannot be defined a 
" faculty" ; because, though all facul- 
ties are powers, yet there are powers 
which are not faculties. Again, 
" power " cannot be defined a " pro- 
perty " without adding some restric- 
tion; as there are properties which 
are not powers. Moreover, the " gra- 
vity of bodies" is not a power, as 
some unphilosophical scientists imag- 
ine, but is a simple tendency to fall, 
owing to the fact that the active pow- 
er of the earth is actually applied to 
the passive potency of the body. 
Nor is it true that in metaphysics or 
in logic the act is the " exercise or 
manifestation of a power." Such an 
exercise and manifestation is action^ 



i88 



Philosophical Terminology. 



that is, the position or the production 
of the act. As to " the falling of a 
heavy body," it is true that we usu- 
ally call it an act, but we evidently 
mean actuality; for, if the falling 
were an act strictly, then the tenden- 
cy to fall would be an active power ; 
which it is not. Lastly, the most 
important metaphysical meaning of 
the word " act," and of its correlative, 
" potency," is not given ; which, how- 
ever, is not owing to any oversight 
of the author, as we have already 
said that these two words were not 
used by English writers in this philo- 
sophical sense. 

In Worcester's and Webster's dic- 
tionaries, the word act is said to 
mean action, exertion of power, and 
real existence as opposed to possibil- 
ity. From the preceding remarks, it 
may be seen that, in metaphysics, 
none of these three meanings can be 
considered rigorously accurate. 

Act^ in the scholastic language, is 
that which gives existence by formal 
actuation. Potency is that which, by 
formal actuation, receives existence. 
Actuality is the result of the actuation 
— that is, the very existence of the act 
in its potency. Actuality, as we have 
already remarked, was also called 
actus existentuB ; hence, existence 
itself was considered as an act re- 
ceived in the essence, and causing it 
to be. But this view is now general- 
ly abandoned, because it has been 
shown that it is not the existence 
that entails the reality of the act and 
the potency, but the real position of 
the act in its potency that entails the 
existence of the being. Accordingly, 
existence is not an act received in 
the essence, but the result of the 
position of the essence ; and cannot 
be called an act, except in a logical 
sense, inasmuch as it gives to the 
being denominationctn existentis. 

An act is called essential when it 
gives the first existence to any essence, 



be it simple or compound ; substan- 
tialy when it gives the first existence 
to a pure potency ; accidental, when 
it gives a mode of being. The distinc- 
tion between essential and substan- 
tial acts will be explained here below, 
where we examine the different kinds 
of forms. 

Every being acts inasmuch as it 
is in act, and is acted on .inasmuch 
as it is in potency. Hence, the 
substantial act is a principle of activ- 
ity, and the potency a principle of 
passivity. 

The active power of any being, if 
taken in the concrete, is nothing but 
its substantial act as ready for exer- 
tion, and is called active power, 
because its exertion is the position or 
the production of an act. The active 
power thus considered is, therefore, 
in reality one of the constituent 
principles of natural beings; whilst 
the abstract term activity does not 
stand for a principle, but for an attri- 
bute of the being — that is, for its 
readiness to act. 

The passive potency of any being, 
if taken in the concrete, is nothing 
but the term of the substantial act as 
liable to be acted on, and is called 
passive or receptive, because it is 
actuated by the reception of an act. 
The passive potency, thus consider- 
ed, is therefore in reality one of the 
constituent principles of natural be- 
ings, whilst the abstract term pas- 
sivity does not stand for a princi- 
ple, but for an attribute of the being — 
that is, for its liability to be cuted on. 

Every one who is acquainted with 
metaphysical matters will acknow- 
ledge that it is of extreme importance 
that these terms and others of a like 
nature, which are continually employ- 
ed in metaphysical analysis, be clear- 
ly understood by all students of 
philosophy. So long as our language 
has no definite words by which to 
designate the essential constituents 



Philosophical Terminology. 



189 



of things, no hope can be entertain- 
ed of advancing the interests of meta- 
physics by means of vernacular books. 

Act 9JiA potency y in material things, 
are called yimv and /yroi/fr respective- 
ly; hence, material substance is said 
to consist essentially of matter and 
forai. The forms of natural things 
are usually divided into substantial 
and accidental. The substantial form 
is commonly defined as that which 
gires the first existence to its matter — 
qva dot materia primum esse^ or 
dmpHdter esse. It is sometimes 
defined, also, as that which gives the 
first existence to a thing — qucR dat 
primum esse rei. But this second 
definition is open to misconstruction ; 
because, when the thing in question 
is a physical compound having a 
number of material parts, the form 
that gives to it — ^that is, to the com- 
pound essence — its first existence is 
its physical composition, which is not 
a substantial, but an essential, Iform, 
as we shall see presently. 

The accidental form is defined as 
that which gives an accidental mode 
of being — qua dat esse secundum quid. 
This definition is universally admit- 
ted; but it is a remarkable fact that 
the examples of accidental forms given 
by most philosophers do not support 
it. Thus, the form of a statue and 
the form of a column are not forms 
giving to the marble any accidental 
mode of being, but are the very modes 
of beings which have resulted in the 
marble from the reception of suitable 
accidental acts. Therefore, what is 
called the form of a statue is not a 
forai giving a mode of beings but the 
mode itself, on account of which we 
give to the marble the name of a 
statue. Suarez and others have in- 
deed pointed out the necessity of dis- 
tinguishing the forms dantes esse from 
the forms dantes denominationem ; yet, 
even to this day, in our philosophical 
treatises, the definition of the former 



is almost exclusively illustrated by 
examples of the latter. True forms 
are acts^ whilst modes of being are 
cutualiiies; and therefore modes of 
being should not be called forms, but 
formalities. As, however, the word 
form is in general use in this last 
sense also, the best thing we can do 
is to retain the term, and add to it a 
suitable epithet. I would call them 
resultant forms y or consequential forms ; 
and in the same manner, when actu- * 
ality is styled act^ I would call it con- 
sequential act^ or complementary act^ 
that it may not be confounded with 
act proper. 

It is also necessary to make a well- 
marked distinction between substan- 
tied and essential forms. The neces- 
sity of this distinction is sufficiently 
shown by the very existence of the two 
scholastic definitions of form. In 
fact, two definitions imply two con- 
cepts. The first definition, Forma est 
id quod dat primum esse materia^ 
strictly belongs to the substantial 
form, as every one knows; but the 
second. Forma est id quod dat primum 
esse rei, is more general, and extends 
to all essential forms, be they substan- 
tial or not. Thus, we can say that 
velocity is the essential form of move- 
ment, though, of course, it is not a 
substantial form, as movement is not a 
substance. 

The same distinction is to be ad- 
mitted with regard to natural com- 
pounds, at least in the opinion of 
th«se philosophers who oppose the 
Aristotelic theory of substantial gene- 
rations, or teach that bodies are made 
up of primitive, unextended elements. 
Indeed, if chemical combination does 
not destroy the essence of the com- 
bining substances, it is obvious that 
the compound substance which arises 
out of the combination will have no 
special form, except the combination 
itself; and such a form, however es- 
sential to the compound substance. 



190 



Philosophical Terminology. 



cannot be a substantial form in the 
sense of the Peripatetics ; because it 
gives existence to the compound na- 
ture only, and not to its matter. 
Again, if the molecule of a primitive 
body, as hydrogen, is nothing more 
than a system of material points or 
elements connected with one another 
by dynamical ties, and subject to 
a law of vibratory movement, which 
allows the molecule to contract and 
dilate, then it is evident that the 
essential form of such a molecule will 
be Its specific composition; for the 
composition is the immediate constit- 
uent of all material compound. Ac- 
cordingly, since the scientific views 
which lead to these conclusions are 
widely received, and very well founded 
on chemical and other data, and can 
be philosophically established by the 
very principles of ancient metaphy- 
sics, the said distinction between sub- 
stantial and essential forms is to be 
acknowledged as a very important 
one in questions connected with mo- 
dem science. Lastly, essential forms 
are to be - admitted, not only in 
natural, but also in artificial and in 
moral, compounds. A clock has its 
essential form, without which it would 
cease to be a clock ; a family has its 
essential form, without which it would 
cease to be a family ; and yet it would 
be ridiculous to talk of a clock or a 
family as having a substantial form. It 
is, therefore, necessary to divide all 
true forms into substantial y essential^ 
and accidental y and to place in a sep- 
arate class all the so-called resultant 
forms above mentioned. 

Thus, tlie substantial form is that 
which gives the first being to matter. 
This definition comes from Aristotle 
himself, and has been universally re- 
ceived by all metaphysicians. 

The essential form is that which 

gives to a thing its specific nature. 

This definition coincides with that of 

' ■* substantial form whenever the 



specific nature of which we treat is 
physically simple — ^that is, without 
composition of material parts — for, in 
fact, such a simple nature receives its 
species from the same form that gives 
the first being to its matter. Hence, 
the essential form and the substantial 
form are one and the same thing so 
long as there is question of simple or 
primitive beings. But the definition 
of the essential form is no longer 
equivalent to that of the substan* 
rial form when the specific nature 
constituted by it is physically com- 
pounded of material parts; because 
such a compound nature receives its 
species fi'om its specific composition, 
which is not a substantial form^ 
though it is essential to the specific 
compound. 

The accidental form is that which 
gives to its subject an accidental 
mode of being, or an esse secundum 
quid, according to the language of the 
schools. 

The so-called resultant form is the 
actuality resulting from the position 
of any true form. As, therefore, true 
forms are either substantial, essen- 
tial, or accidental, so, also, are all the 
resultant forms. From the substan- 
tial form results the actuality of the 
primitive being, which, as primitive, 
is always free from material composi- 
tion ; from the essential form results 
the actuality of every specific nature, 
which involves composition of mate- 
rial parts; and from the accidental 
form results the actual modification 
of the subject in which it is received. 

I have dwelt purposely on these 
considerations, because the word 
form, and its derivatives, y^r/««/,y^- 
mally, formality, etc., are variously 
employed, and sometimes loosely, in 
philosophy, and because, without a 
clear and distinct notion of the dif- 
ferent kinds of forms, many funda- 
mental questions of metaphysics can- 
not be rightiy understood. I might 



Philosophical Terminology, 



191 



sij nearly as much respecting the 
word matter^ which is the metaphysi- 
cal correlative of form; but it will 
suffice to remark that matter^ in phi- 
losophy, always means a receptive po- 
tency which is actuated by a form ; 
so that, if the form is accidental, the 
word ffiTtf/Z^rr stands for material sub- 
stance itself as receptive, because it is 
the substance that receives accidental 
forais ; if the form is essential in the 
sense above explained, then the word 
ipmAW* means the totality of the mate- 
rial parts required for the constitution 
of any given specific compound, in- 
cluding their actual disposition to re- 
ceive the form in question ; and if 
the form is substantial, then the word 
maitar expresses only one of the con- 
stituent principles of primitive mate- 
rial substance — that is, the potential 
tenn of substance ; which is first actu- 
ated by such a form. 

The word matter is used analogi- 
cally in many other senses, which are 
given by our lexicographers, who, 
however, omit to mention matter as 
that potency which receives its first ex- 
istence through the substantial form. 
Webster says : " Matter is usually di- 
vided by philosophical writers into 
three kinds or classes: solid, liquid, 
and aeriform." This statement is not 
correct Philosophical writers admit 
that bodies are either solid, liquid, or 
aeriform ; but they do not admit that 
the matter of which bodies and their 
molecules are made up is either 
solid, or liquid, or aeriform. Ice is 
solid, water is liquid, and vapor is 
aeriform ; and yet the matter in all of 
them is identically the same. It is 
impossible, therefore, for philosophi- 
cal writers to divide matter into 
liquid, solid, and aeriform. The 
philosophical division of matter has 
always been into materia informis^ 
ox prima ^ oiactuabilis — that is, matter 
conceived as void of all substantial 
form ; and materia formata, or secun- 



da^ or actuata — that is, matter actu- 
ted by, and existing under, a substan- 
tial form. 

As I am not now writing a treatise 
on matter, I will dismiss this subject 
with only two observations. The 
first is, that the words first matter 
and second matter are indispensable 
in metaphysics, and, therefore, must 
be adopted in our English philo- 
sophical language, unless, indeed, 
we prefer to make use of the original 
Latin words. The other is, that in 
reading the metaphysical works of 
the scholastics, when we find the 
word materia with- the epithet prima, 
we should carefully ascertain that the 
epithet is not misapplied. For, it 
has been observed with reason that 
most of the abstruseness and uncer- 
tainty inherent in the old explana- 
tion of physical questions arises fi*om 
the fact that the matter, which was 
supposed to be actually under its 
form, and therefore in act, was very 
frequently called materia prima, 
though it is known that "nothing 
that is in act can be called by such a 
name,"* This observation is of the 
greatest importance, since it is evi- 
dent that nothing but perpetual con- 
fusion can arise from contradictory 
definitions. 

To express the relation existing 
between act and potency, or between 
form and matter, the philosophical 
Latin possesses many good phrases, 
such as the following: Forma dat 
esse materia, actuat materiam^ in/or- 
mat materiam^ terminatur ad mate- 
riam ; and, reciprocally, materia ac- 
cipii esse a forma, actuatur a forma, in- 
formatiir a forma^ terminat formam. 
In English, I presume, we are allow- 



• Maitria . . . per se nunquam potest etse : f w ut, 
quum in ratione sua non kabeat aliquam for- 
mam^ nom potest esse in actu {quum esse in aetu 
men sit nisi a /orma)^ ted so/um in potentia. Et 
ideo quidquid est in aetu non potest diet materia 
prima,— %. Thomas Opusc. De Primipiis Na- 
turte^ 



192 



Philosophical Terminology. 



ed to say that the form informs its 
matter, that the form ^ves exist* 
ence to the matter, and that the 
form actuates the matter. But 
can we say that the form is ter- 
minated to its matter, and • that the 
matter terminates^ that is, completes 
its form ? This manner of speaking 
may be considered awkward, never- 
theless its mode of expressing the re- 
lation of the form to its matter is so 
remarkable for its philosophical pre- 
cision, clearness, and universality, 
that I would not hesitate to adopt it 
in philosophy. To say that the form 
is terminated to its matter, is to say 
that the matter is the potential term 
actuated by the form. The philo- 
sophical notion of term (terminus)^ 
which is susceptible of a general ap- 
plication to all conceivable beings^ 
is a very important one in philosophy 
as well as in theology ; and since it 
can be made quite intelligible even 
to the dullest of students, I think 
that in metaphysical speculation the 
use of the words term, termination^ 
to terminate^ terminabiiity, termina- 
tivity^ etc., cannot but greatly help 
both teachers and students in their 
e^orts to explain correctly a number 
of ontological relations which it 
would be difficult to express as sim- 
ply and as correctly by other words. 
The word term in the popular use 
means the extremity of anything, or 
that where anything ends. The 
spot of ground where a stone is al- 
lowed to fall is the term of the fall- 
ing; the drop of rain acted on by 
gravity is the term of the action by 
which it is attracted; the tree at 
which I am looking is the term of 
my vision ; the concept which I form 
of anything is the term of my thought 
But all these terms correspond to ac- 
cidental acts, whereas the term which 
we ultimately reach in the analysis 
of substance, is always substantial, as 
being intrinsic to the substantial act 



of which it is the term. Hence, 
when we say that the matter is the 
term of the form, or in general that 
the potency is the term of its act, 
we mean not only that the act, or 
the form, reaches the potency or the 
matter, but that the potency or the 
matter acquires its first reality and 
actuality by the very position of the 
act or form which it terminates; in 
the same manner as the centre of a 
sphere acquires its first actuality 
through the simple position of a 
spherical form. Accordingly, the 
words act and term are correlative; 
the act actuates, the term is actuatedy 
and the formal reason of tlieir corre- 
lation is actuation. This actuation 
is not efficient, but formal ; that is, 
the act, not by its action, but by 
itself, entails the immediate existence 
of its intrinsic term, just as the spher- 
ical form by itself, and not by any ac- 
tion, entails the immediate existence 
of a centre. As a sphere without a 
centre, so an act without a term is 
an utter impossibility. Hence the 
termination of the act to its term is 
nothing less than the very constitu- 
tion of any essence that has a proper 
and complete existence. For this 
reason, I am of opinion that the 
phrase "the form is terminated to 
the matter, and the act to its poten 
cy,*' is the best we can adopt in 
speaking of created things, however 
new it may be to English ears. 

With regard to the peculiar con- 
struction of this verb with the prepo- 
sition to instead of the prepositions 
by, at, or in, which are in general 
use, I will only remark that these 
latter prepositions are not suitable 
to express what we need. The ter- 
mination at connotes a limit of time 
or space, as every one knows. The 
termination in connotes a change or 
successive transformation of that 
which is terminated into that in 
which it ends, as when a quarrel ter- 



Philosophical Terminology. 



193 



minatcs in murder. The termination 
by connotes either an obstacle to fur- 
ther advance, or at least a positive 
entity existing independently of the 
termination itself: it cannot therefore 
express the fact that a substantial 
lenn receives its very first actuality 
by the termination of the act. On 
the other hand, this fact is perfectly 
expressed by saying that the act is 
terminated to its term ; and since no 
other English phrase has yet been 
found, so far as I know, which can 
express the fact equally well, I think 
that we need have no scruple in en- 
riching our philosophical language 
with this old scholastic phrase. 

" The resources of our noble lan- 
guage in philosophy," says a well- 
known American writer, " are sur- 
passed by no ancient or modern 
tongue, unless the Greek be an ex- 
ception. It is capable in philosophy 
of receiving and assimilating all the 
riches of the Greek, Latin, Italian, 
and French languages, while it has 
in its Teutonic roots the wealth of 
the German." * This is a great en- 
couragement to English philosophi- 
cal writers. Indeed, to say that 
among the resources of the English 
language for philosophy we may 
reckon its capability of receiving and 
assimilating all the riches of other 
learned languages, is to tell us that 
our resources are still in a potential 
^late, and therefore that no one can 
reasonably blame us for freely adopt- 
ing from other languages as many 
terms and phrases as we need to ex- 
press our thoughts with philosophi- 
cal rigor. Yet the task, for obvious 
reasons, is extremely difhcult, as it 
requires a degree of judgment which 
unfortunately is common only to the 
few. ** The English language," adds 
the same writer, " only needs Catho- 



• Br9mms9m*t Quarter iy Review^ Julfi 1873, 



lie restoration and culture to be the 
richest and noblest language ever 
written or spoken. But it deterio- 
rates, as does everything else, in the 
hands of Protestants and unbelieving 
Englishmen and Americans." At 
least two things are certain ; first, 
that if the English language ever be- 
comes a perfect instrument of phi- 
losophical education, it will be due 
to Catholic writers, for they alone 
will be able to utilize for its 
healthy development all the trea- 
sures of the scholastic terminology ; 
second, that only in proportion as 
such a development will be carried 
on, shall we acquire the means of 
training our youthful generation in 
a vernacular course of philosophy. 
This thought should rouse our dor- 
mant energies into action. It was 
with this object that I undertook to 
say a few words on philosophical ter- 
minology. Our language may be 
capable of receiving and assimilating 
all the riches of other languages ; but 
so long as such an assimilation is in 
abeyance, the language remains poor 
and imperfect, nay, it continues to 
" deteriorate, as does everything else, 
in the hands of Protestants and un- 
believing Englishmen and Ameri- 
cans." We still need many philo- 
sophical words. I have given a few 
examples of such a need in the pre- 
ceding pages. 

That we also need a number of 
nevv phrases is undeniable ; but I will 
not enter into the discussion of so 
difficult a subject. I prefer simply 
to mention a few Latin phrases, which 
arem uch used by Catholic philoso- 
phers or theologians, and will allow 
the reader himself to attempt their 
translation without altering their phi- 
losophical meaning, and without in- 
fringing upon English usages. Trans- 
late: 

Actus et potentia conspirant in uni- 
tatem essentia. 



VOL. xvill — 13 



194 



Philosophical Terminology. 



Actio motiva terminaiur tnaUrialitcr 
ad mobile^ ctformaliter ad moium, 

Sicui se hab€t actus substantialis ad 
esse simpUciter^ ita se habet actus acci- 
dentdlis ad esse secundum quid, 

Facultas ordinatur ad operalionetn 
ut actus primus ad secundum, 

Quidquid sistit in suis essentiaiibus, 
nulla superadditOy est unum per se, 

Intellectus attingit objectum sub ra- 
Hone veriy voluntas autcm sub ratione 
boni. 

Actus et potentia principiant ens 
principiatione metaphysica, 

Relatio est id cuius totum esse est ad 
aliud se habere, 

Motus est actus existentis in potentia 
ut in potentia. 

These and such like phrases will 
afford matter for a great exercise of 
patience to him who will undertake 
to translate them faithfully. To con- 
spire into unity ^ to be terminated to a 
movable object ^ to be ordered to the ope- 
ration ^ etc,y are scarcely good English 
expressions : yet it is not easy to see 
what other phrases would be calcu- 
lated to express the same thoughts in 
an unobjectionable manner. 

I will conclude by giving the opin- 



ion of a competent authority on this 
very point. The Rev. F. Hill, in the 
preface to his substantial work lately 
published under the title of Elements 
of Philosophy y says : *' The Latin of 
the schools, besides being brief, is 
also peculiarly capable of expressing 
precisely, clearly, and comprehen- 
sively matters which it is difficult to 
utter through the less accurate ver- 
nacular in terms that are neither ob- 
scure nor ambiguous." And speaking 
of the Latin philosophical axioms 
and sentences, which he inserted in 
his treatise with their English trans- 
lation, he remarks: "It was not, 
however, an easy task, in some in- 
stances, to reproduce them with 
fidelity in the English phraseology, 
as the classic scholar will readily see 
from the result." Certainly, the task 
was not an easy one. Yet the author 
has most creditably carried out his 
object. May his example encourage 
others to cultivate the same field, 
and thus contribute towards develop- 
ing " the resources of our noble lan- 
guage," and making it a fit channel 
for sound philosophical education. 

A Friend of Philosophy. 



SELF-LOVE. 



BY AUBREY DE VERE. 



LiGHT-wiNCED Lovcs ! they come ; they flee : 
If we were dead, they*d never miss us : 

Self-Love ! with thee is constancy — 
Thine eyes could see but one. Narcissus. 



Madame Agnes. 



195 



MADAME AGNES. 

FROM THE FRBNCH OP CUARUSS DUBOIS. 
CONCLUOBD. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 
Fais ce que dois, advienne que pourn !" 



Louis was thunderstruck at see- 
ing Madeleine. He had not spoken 
a word to her for several days, and 
intended to maintain a reserve full 
of circumspection towards her. His 
connection with the family had twice 
given rise to the most malevolent 
interpretations, and he by no means 
wished a similar vexation to be re- 
peated. He received the young girl 
with a coldness that was almost rude. 

" What do you wish ?" said he. 

"To speak with you, monsieur. 
But I fear I have come at the wrong 
time. I will return at a later hour." 

" Not later, but elsewhere," 

" Why ?" asked Madeleine, with 
navveU, 

" But what have you so urgent to 
tell me? . . ." 

" Nothing concerning you, mon- 
sieur; it only relates to myself. I 
am so unhappy. ... If I ventured 
to come here at this hour, it is be- 
cause I feared being seen talking 
wth you. I have a secret to con- 
fide to you which rpy parents alone 
are aware of. If they knew I told 
you, I do not know what they would 
do to me." 

" Where are your parents now ?" 

"At my cousin's, a league off. 
They will not be back for several 
hours." 

Madeleine was so overwhelmed 
with grief and anxiety that Louis was 
6lled with compassion. He motioned 
for her to be seated on a lounge be- 
fore his desk, and then said : 

•* Well, my good Madeleine, what 



has happened ? Tell me your trou- 
bles. If in my power to remove 
them, it shall soon be done. What 
can I do for you ?" 

"You know Durand, the over- 
seer ?" 

"Yes, yes! . . ." said Louis, 
frowning with the air of a man who 
knows more than he expresses. 

" He and my father have become 
intimate, I know not how or why, 
within a few weeks — since you 
stopped coming to our house. He 
often came before the inundation, 
and paid me a thousand absurd com- 
pliments. I made no reply to his 
silly speeches, but they seemed to 
please my parents. The first moment 
I set eyes on that man, he inspired 
me with fear. He looks so bold — 
so false ! And besides . . ." 

" Besides what ? Madeleine, I 
insist on your telling me everything." 

" Well, he tried every way to make 
us believe you are ... I dare not 
tell you. . . ." 

"Go on, child. Nothing would 
astonish me from Durand. I know 
he hates me." 

" He says you are a hypocrite 
a — Jesuit, a dangerous man. He 
told my father you were going to 
leave the mill, and seemed to boast 
of being the cause of it." 

" I suspected it," said Louis to 
himself. " Adams was only Du- 
rand's tool. Oh ! what deceit !" 

" Is it true, then, that you are go- 
ing away ?" asked Madeleine anx- 
iously. 



196 



Madame Agnes. 



" Quite true, my child." 

" Oh ! what a hateful man ! I 
was right in detesting him ! Since 
we have been here living in the 
same house with him, he has tor- 
mented me more than ever. He 
says he wishes to marry me. . . ." 

" Has he dared go that far ?" 

" Yes ; and, what is worse, my pa- 
rents have given their consent. Du- 
rand tells them he has money laid 
up ; that he is earning a good deal 
here, and is willing to live with them 
and provide for the support of the 
whole family. . . . But I — I have a 
horror of that man ! There is nothing 
disagreeable I do not say to him. I 
have told him plainly I would never 
consent to marry him. My parents 
were terribly angry at this; my father 
beat me, and my mother loaded me 
with abuse. They ended by saying, 
if I persisted in refusing Durand, 
they would find a way of making me 
change my mind. This scene took 
place last evening. What shall I 
do ? O God ! what shall I do ? . . ." 
So saying, Madeleine burst into 
tears. 

Louis remained silent. He was 
reflecting. Self whispered : " Leave 
this girl to her unhappy fate. Do not 
embark in another undertaking that 
will get you into fresh trouble and 
may endanger everything — both Eu- 
genie's love for you, and your repu- 
tation itself. This unfortunate girl 
has already been the cause of more 
than one sad moment ; take care she 
does not at last ruin you, and like- 
wise compromise herself. . . ." 

But such selfish promptings had no 
power over a heart so generous and 
upright as that of Louis. Besides, 
he had learned such shocking things 
about Durand that, if he did not re- 
veal them in order to save Madeleine, 
he would regard himself guilty of a 
crime, and not without reason. After 
some moments of silent reflection, all 



incertitude ceased. He had decided 
on the course to pursue. 

" How old are you, my child ?" 
said he. 

" I am in my twenty-first year." 

" Well, you have hitherto devoted 
yourself generously to the interests 
of your parents. They have now 
made this impossible. There is no 
choice in the matter. You must leave 
them." 

" I have thought of it. But where 
could I go ? I have no place of 
refuge, now my aunt is dead." 

" I will give you a note to a lady 
who lives in the city. I may as well 
say at once it is my sister. She will 
take care of you, and get you a place 
as a chamber-maid, if she does not 
keep you herself." 

" Oh I how kind you are ! . . . 
You revive my courage. When can 
I go ?" 

" When you please." 

" To-morrow ?" 

" Yes, to-morrow morning." 

"And who will inform my pa- 
rents ?" 

" You yourself. Write a line, and 
leave it with some one you can trust, 
to be delivered a few hours after you 
are gone. You can tell your parents 
you are going to seek a situation in 
the city in order to escape from 
Durand. Promise to be a credit to 
them, to love them always, and even 
to render them assistance ; and I 
will say more to them when the pro- 
per time comes. Above all, I will 
tell them what Durand really is. . . . 
Thank God, my child, that he en- 
ables you to escape that man's 
snares. , . ." 

Everything was done as agreed 
upon by Louis and Madeleine. The 
latter left for town the next morning. 
Her parents were not informed of 
her departure till about noon. They 
immediately notified Durand. 

" The engineer has had a hand in 



Madame Agties. 



197 



this," said he to Vinceneau and his 
wife " He shall pay for it." 

"What makes you think he had 
anything to do with it ?" asked Vin- 
ceneau. 

" Your daughter went to see him 
last evening. . . . My police told 



me." 
" How shall we be revenged ?'* 
"By telling everybody what this 
Tartuffe is. I will see to it. Ah! 
he induces young girls to run away 
without any one's knowing where 
they are gone ! That is rather too 
bold !" 

Durand watched for an opportu- 
nity of speaking to Albert, with 
whom he kept up daily communica- 
tion. He told him what had occur- 
red, adding calumnious suppositions 
that may be imagined. Albert, de- 
lighted at the news, went at once to 
tell his aunt It was near dinner- 
time. Mme. Smithson said to her 
nephew : " Wait till we are at table, 
then relate this story without appear- 
ing to attach any importance to it. 
Ifl am not very much mistaken, this 
will be a death-blow to that trouble- 
some creature. Only be prudent, and 
do not begin till I make a sign. There 
are times when your uncle takes no 
interest in the conversation, no mat- 
ter what is said. Poor £ug6nie will 
blush well to hear of such infamous 
conduct, for she loves him. It is hor- 
rible to say, but so it is. Since I 
caught them talking together the 
other day, I have had no doubt 
about it. Besides, as you have re- 
marked, she grows more and more 
reserved toward us, while, on the 
contrary, she has redoubled her ami- 
ability towards her father. I really 
believe, if the foolish fellow had not 
compromised himself, she would in 
the end have got the better of us. Her 
father is so indulgent to her! . . . 
But after what has taken place, there 
can be no more illusion I She will 



perceive the worth of her hero ! . . . 
It must be acknowledged there is no 
alternative ! Her romance has end- 
ed in a way to make her ashamed of 
it for ever. . . . You will see, Albert, 
she will end by thinking it too great 
an honor to be your wife." 

" Too great an honor ! Hum ! 
hum ! It will be well if she consents. 
£ug6nie has more pride than any 
girl I ever saw. Humbled, she will 
be unapproachable. Believe me, 
aunt, we must be cautious in availing 
ourselves of this advantage." 

They took seats at table at six 
o'clock as usual. Mr. Smithson ap- 
peared thoughtful and out of humor, 
but that often happened. Eugenie 
was no less serious. Very little was 
said till the dessert Albert evident- 
ly longed to let fly the shaft he held 
in reserve against Louis. Mme. 
Smithson was quite as impatient as 
he, but could not find a propitious 
opportunity. However, her bitter- 
ness against Louis prevailed. To- 
wards the end of dinner, she made 
Albert an imperceptible sign, as much 
as to say : " Proceed, but be pru- 
dent !" 

Albert assumed as indifferent an 
air as possible, and in an off-hand 
way began his attack after this man- 
ner: 

" There is trouble in the refugees* 
quarter to-day." 

Mme. Smithson looked up with an 
air of surprise at the news. Mr. 
Smithson and Eugenie remained im- 
passible. 

" The Vinceneaus are in great com- 
motion," continued Albert " Their 
daughter has run away." 

" A poor set — those Vinceneaus," 
mut^ered Mr. Smithson. 

"Yes," replied Albert, "a poor 
set indeed! But this time I pity 
them. Their daughter has gone off, 
and no one knows where she has 
gone." 



193 



Madame Agnes. 



" Why did she leave them ?" asked 
Eugenie. 

" She and her parents had a vio- 
lent quarrel day before yesterday, 
but not the first; they say this 
Madeleine \s more amiable in ap- 
pearance than in reality. Anyhow, 
there is something inexplicable about 
her. It seems she was to have been 
married; then she refused to be. Re- 
sult : anger of the parents, obstinacy 
of the daughter. All that is known 
besides this is that she went all 
alone to consult the engineer last 
evening. Durand and another work- 
man saw her go to his room. This 
morning she disappeared, leaving 
word she intended to get a situation, 
no one knows where; she has not 
thought it proper to leave her ad- 
dress. . . ." 

While listening to this account, 
Eug6nie turned pale, then red, and 
finally almost fainted. Mr. Smith- 
son perceived the sad effect of the 
story on her, and was filled with in- 
expressible sorrow. Heretofore he 
had refused to believe in the possi- 
bility of her loving Louis ; but now 
he could no longer doubt it. For 
the first time in his life, he acknow- 
ledged his wife had shown more 
penetration than he — more prudence. 
The look that rested on Eug6nie 
was not of anger, however, but full 
of affection and anxiety. He loved 
her too much not to pity her, even 
though he blamed her. 

Eugenie, with characteristic en- 
ergy, recovered her self-possession in 
a few moments. Suspicions of a 
stronger and more painful character 
than any she had yet had struggled 
with the love in tliis proud girl's 
heart 

Albert was overjoyed, but con- 
cealed his satisfaction under a hypo- 
critical air of compassion. Continu- 
ing the subject, he said the workmen 
were all indignant at Madeleine's 



flight. "The engineer has done 
well not to show himself since the 
girl's departure was known," he add- 
ed. " He would have exposed him- 
self to a public manifestation of rather 
a disagreeable nature. And I do not 
see who could defend him " 

" He could defend himself, if he is 
innocent," thought Eugenie. . . . 
Then another idea occurred to her : 
" But if he has plans he cannot yet ac- 
knowledge, . . . if he loves this Ma- 
deleine, ... ah ! how he will have 
deceived me 1 . . . No 1 it is impos- 
sible ! . . . And yet it is true he has 
disappeared : I have not seen him 
to-day. . . ." 

By an unfortunate coincidence, 
Louis had been obliged to come to 
see me that day. I had been taken 
with a terrible pain in all my limbs — 
the first symptoms of my paralytic 
seizure. My mother, frightened be- 
yond all expression, sent a messenger 
to our poor friend, conjuring him to 
come with all possible speed. 

" Enough 1" said Mr. Smithson. 
"The subject does not please me. 
I do not like to be deceived, as I 
have so often been before. It seems 
to me there is some mistake here. I 
shall ascertain the truth. But this 
shall be my care. Let it be under- 
stood that no one but myself is to 
make any inquiries about the affair. 
No tittle-tattle !" 

They retired to the salon a few 
moments after. Albert offered Eu- 
genie his arm. She refused it, as if 
to show him, if Louis were driven 
from her heart, he, Albert, should 
never have a place there. She seat- 
ed herself at the piano, and played a 
succession of pieces with great effect 
Her ardent nature required the relief 
of some outward manifestation. For 
the first time in her life, she blushed 
before her parents — before the cousin 
she despised. But the torture she 
suffered from her wounded pride was 



Madame Agnes. 



199 



not the most painful. She had loved 
Louis — she loved him still, as a wo- 
man of her intelligence and energy 
alone could love — that is to say, to 
excess. And now she is forced to 
ask herself: is an affection so pure met 
only with hypocrisy, or at least an 
indifference but too easy to under- 
stand. Swayed between love and 
contempt ; by turns ashamed of her- 
self, then drawing herself up with 
pride, she would have given ten years 
of her life to be able at once to solve 
t!ie doubt that caused her so much 
suffering. 

While the poor girl was thus aban- 
doning herself to the most distress- 
ing anxiety, without any consolation, 
Mrae. Smithson and Albert were 
talking in a low tone near the fire- 
place. They appeared dissatisfied. 



" The affair has begun badly," said 
Albert. " One would think my uncle 
resolved to thwart me in everything. 
. . . Why could he not intimate to 
that fellow that there is no necessity of 
his remaining any longer ? . . . That 
is what I hoped and what I expect- 
ed ! He has certainly done enough 
to deserve being treated in such a 
way. . . . Instead of that, my uncle is 
going to undertake an investigation ! 
... I wage this arrant piece of craft 
will find some way of making himself 
out innocent." 

" That would be rather too much !" 
said Mme. Smithson. " You are 
right: we must despatch business, 
or all is lost. I will talk to your 
uncle this very evening, and make 
every effort to prevent their meet- 



ing. 



II 



CHAPTER XXVII. 



A VILLAIN S REVENGE. 



Tlie whole family were still in the 
salon^ when, about half-past eight, 
they heard an unusual noise out of 
doors, and people seemed to be 
moving about in the darkness. In a 
few moments, a servant entered and 
said a few words to Mr. Smithson in 
a low tone. He immediately rose 
and started to go out; but, before 
leaving the room, he said : " I shall 
not be gone long. I wish you all 
to remain here till my reurn." 

£ug6nie continued to drum furi- 
ously on the piano ; then, weary of 
this monotonous employment, she 
took a book, and pretended to read. 
Mme. Smithson and Albert were far 
from being at ease. Triumphant as 
they were, they stood in awe of Eu- 
genie. To keep themselves in coun- 
tenance, they began a game of cards. 

What was Mr. Smithson doing 
meanwhile? He forbade his ser- 
vants mentioning a word of what 
had happened, which they were 



aware of as well as he. Sure of 
being obeyed, he went directly to 
Louis* apartment. Entering the 
room, he found him lying all dressed 
on his bed, groaning and unable to 
utter a word. A bloody handker- 
chief was tied across his forehead, as 
if he had received a severe wound. 
At a sign from Mr. Smithson, the 
servant dismissed all the men — hands 
at the mill — who had brought the 
engineer to his room. When they 
were gone, the servant removed 
the handkerchief that concealed the 
wound. It was a long gash, which, 
was still bleeding. Louis opened- 
his eyes, and put his hand to his^ 
neck, as if there was another wound 
there. The servant untied his cra- 
vat The unfortunate young man's 
neck, in fact, bore marks of violence. 
The servant seemed greatly af- 
fected at the sight. He placed the 
wounded man in as comfortable a 
position as he could, bandaged his 



20O 



Madame Agnes, 



wounds, and tried to revive him with 
eau-de-Cologne. Louis came to him- 
self a little, and, extending his hand, 
pressed that of the good fellow who 
was tending him so kindly. Mr. 
Smithson stood a few steps from the 
bed, looking on as calmly as if gaz- 
ing at some unreal spectacle in a 
theatre. No one would have divined 
his thoughts from the expression of 
his countenance ; but at the bottom 
of his heart there was a feeling of ani- 
mosity against Louis, which was 
scarcely lessened by the sight of his 
sufferings. At that moment, he be- 
lieved Louis guilty, and what had 
happened only a chastisement he 
merited. Nevertheless, he sent in 
haste for a physician, who arrived in 
a short time. Louis' clothes were 
removed, and his wounds dressed 
with the greatest care. The relief he 
experienced, the warmth of the bed, 
and the skill of the attentive physi- 
<:ian, produced a speedy and favor- 
able reaction. He recovered the 
perfect use of speech, and, address- 
ing those around him with an at- 
tempt at a smile, he said : 

" They have brought me to a sad 
condition." 

" You will get over it," replied the 
doctor. 

" How did it happen ?" asked Mr. 
Smithson coldly. 

"It is a long story to tell," re- 
plied Louis. " I have not recovered 
from the violent concussion, and am 
still in severe pain; but I will en- 
deavor to tell you how it happened. 
It is time for you to know the truth 
about many things, Mr. Smithson. 
What is your opinion of Durand ?" 

** He is a capable hand, but some- 
what unaccountable." 

" Well, I have found him out. . . . 
He is a dangerous man. The condi- 
tion you see me in is owing to him." 

"What induced him to ill-treat 
you in this way ?" 



" He has hated me for a long 
time, though secretly. Before I 
came here, he did somewhat as he 
pleased, and was guilty of many 
base acts. He robbed you in many 
ways — ^saying he had paid the work- 
men money that was never given 
them, and having an understanding 
with one and another, in order to 
cheat you. I found out his dishon- 
est trafficking, and put a stop to it. 
This was the origin of his dislike." 

" Why did you not notify me at 
once ?" 

" My silence proceeded from mo- 
tives of delicacy. You will recollect 
the man came here with excellent 
recommendations; he was a Pro- 
testant; and you liked him, and 
thought more of him than of many 
others." 

" That is true. Go on." 

"I afterwards discovered he lent 
money on security. My reproaches 
offended him still more. Within a 
short time, he has become intimate 
with that drunken Vinceneau and his 
indolent wife, and, since the inunda- 
tion drove them here for shelter, he 
has permanently installed himself in 
their house. He only did this to 
annoy their poor daughter, Made- 
leine, with his audacious attentions. 
The girl was indignant. Young as 
she is, she felt there was something 
vile — I may say criminal — in the 
depths of his deceitful soul. But her 
father and mother countenanced him. 
They hoped a son-in-law so much 
richer than they would enable them 
to give themselves up to their shameful 
inclinations — the husband to drink, 
and the wife to idleness. Madeleine 
was, therefore, ordered — and in such 
a way ! — to accept Durand's offer. 
She came to consult me on the sub- 
ject, and said the man inspired her 
with invincible horror. On the otlier 
hand, her parents threatened her with 
the worst treatment possible if she 



Madame Agnes. 



201 



resisted their orders — a treatment al- 
ready begun. Now, I had learned 
only a few days previous the follow- 
ing particulars respecting Durand : 
His name is not Durand, but Renaud. 
He is not a Protestant, but a Catho- 
lic, if such a man can be said to have 
any religion. His fine recommenda- 
tions did not come from his employ- 
ers; be wrote them himself. He is 
not a bachelor, but is married, and 
the father of three children. Be good 
enough to open my desk, Mr. Smith- 
son. . . . You will find a letter from 
Durand's wife, in which all these 
facts are stated with a minuteness of 
detail, and such an accent of truth, 
that there can be no doubt after 
reading it. It was addressed to the 
iurf^ begging him to threaten Du- 
rand— or rather, Kenaud — with the 
lav if he did not send for his wife 
and children. They are dying of 
want at Lille, whence he fled without 
saying anything to them. They lost 
all trace of him for a year, and only 
heard of him again about six months 
ago." 

Mr. Smithson opened Louis' desk, 
and took out the letter. The details 
it contained were, in truth, so nume- 
rous and so precise that there could 
be no doubt they really referred to the 
so-called Durand. 

"What an infamous impostor!" 
exclaimed he, as he finished the let- 
ter. *♦ Continue your account, mon- 
sieur. I am eager to know how this 
sad affair terminated." 

" My friend, Mme. Barnier," con- 
tinued Louis, " has not been able to 
leave St. Denis, where she took re- 
fuge at the time of the inundation. 
A violent affection of the muscular 
system obliges her to keep her bed. 
1 learned this morning from a letter 
that she was worse, and wished to 
sec me immediately. I went to St. 
Denis. On my way back this evening 
on foot, I met Durand not three hun- 



dred steps from the mill. I cannot 
say he was waiting for roe, but am 
inclined to think so. When he per- 
ceived me by the light of the moon, 
a gleam of fury lighted up his fea- 
tures. I had no weapon of defence. 
He, as usual, carried a strong, knotty 
cane in his hand. 

" * Where is Madeleine ?' said he. 

"*At ray sister's,' I replied. In 
fact, I had sent her there with a let- 
ter of recommendation. 

" * Why did you send her away ?' 

"'Because I wished to withdraw 
her from your criminal pursuit.' 

" * Criminal ? ; . ; How was my 
pursuit criminal ? I wished to marry 
her.' 

" * You have not the right.' 

" * What do you say ? I haven't a 
right to marry ?' 

" * No, you have not. You are 
married already.' 

"' It is false.' ' 

"*I have the proof in my pos- 
session — a letter from your wife.' 
Then I told him what I knew of his 
history, and ended thus : * You have 
hitherto gone from one crime to 
another. It is time for you to reform. 
Promise to begin a new life, and I 
pledge my word to keep what I know 
to myself.' 

" * I promise — humble myself — and 
to you 1 . . . There is one man too 
many in the world, you or L By 
heaven I this must be ended.' 

" I heard no more. Before I 
could ward off the blow, he hit me, 
causing the wound you see on my 
head. Then he continued striking 
me with diabolical fury. I could not 
defend myself, but called for help. 
Two men heard me in the mill, and 
came running with all their might. 
As soon as Durand saw them, he fled 
I know not where. I beg he may 
not be pursued ; the crime is too se- 
rious." 

Louis had ended his account 



202 



Madavie Agnes, 



" Monsieur," said Mr. Smithson, 
" you have been strangely unfortu- 
nate since you came here. It has all 
arisen from a misunderstanding. I 
distrusted you. I was wrong. You 
have a noble heart. I see it now. 
What you have said explains many 
things I did not understand. You 
have been odiously calumniated, 
monsieur ! Now that we have come 
to an understanding, promise not to 
leave me. I will go further : forgive 



me. 



n 



Louis was affected to tears, and 
could not reply. 

" And now, monsieur," said Mr. 
Smithson, " can I render you any 
service ?" 

" I wish my father and sister to be 
cautiously informed of what has hap- 
pened to me." 

" I will go myself," said Mr. Smith- 
son, " and give them an account 
of your unfortunate adventure. You 
may rely on my making the commu- 
nication with all the discretion you 
could wish. Will to-morrow be soon 
enough ?" 

" Oh ! yes. To go this evening 
would made them think me in great 
danger." 

Thev continued to converse some 
minutes longer, then Mr. Smithson 
returned to the house. When he en- 
tered the salon^ he found the family 
exceedingly anxious. They suspect- 
ed something serious had occurred, 
but the servants had not dared com- 
municate the slightest particular. Mr. 
Smithson had forbidden it, and in his 
house every one obeyed to the letter. 

" M. Louis, . . ." began he. At 
this name, £ug6nie turned pale. She 
still loved the engineer, and waited 
with dread for her father to allay the 
suspicions so hateful to her, or to 
confirm them. 

** M. Louis came near being killed. 
He was only wounded, and will soon 
be well again." 



" What happened to him ?" cried 
Eug6nie eagerly. 

Mme. Smithson and Albert ex- 
changed a look of intelligence. Mr. 
Smithson related the facts he had 
just learned from Louis. In propor- 
tion as he unveiled the infamy of 
Durand's conduct, and revealed the 
nobility of Louis* nature, an expres- 
sion of joy, mingled with pride, dawn- 
ed on Eugenie's face. It was easy to 
read the look she gave her mother 
and Albert — a look of mingled hap- 
piness and triumph which seemed to 
say : " He is innocent; it is my turn 
to rejoice!" Mr. Smithson, always 
sincere and ready to acknowledge an 
error, ended his account by express- 
ing his regret at having been hard, 
suspicious, and unjust towards Louis. 
" I shall henceforth regard him with 
the highest respect; and I hope, if :iny 
of you, like me, have been deceived 
about him, that my words and exam- 
ple will suffice to correct your mis- 
take." 

Mme. Smithson and Albert pre- 
tended not to hear his last words ; 
but they struck Eugenie particularly. 
Had she dared, she would have 
thrown her arms around her father's 
neck, and given vent to her joy and 
gratitude. She was obliged to re- 
frain, but her sentiments were so leg- 
ible in her face that no one could 
mistake them. You will not be sur- 
prised to hear that Mme. Smithson 
and her nephew cut a sad figure. 

A few moments after, they all re- 
tired to their rooms. As Eugenie 
embraced her father, she could not 
refrain from timidly asking him one 
question : " If it really true that M. 
Louis' life is not in danger, father ? 
It would be very sad for so good a 
man to be killed by a villain on our 
own premises." 

" There is no danger, my child, 
I assure you," replied Mr. Smithson 
kindly. He then tenderly kissed his 



Madame Agnes. 



203 



daughter for the second time. This 
mark of affection on the part of so 
cold a man had a special value — I 
might even say, a special significance. 
** This voluntary expression of love 
from my father," said Eugenie to 
herself, *' shows he is aware of all I 
have suffered, and that he sympathiz- 
es with me." And she went away 
full of joy and hope. Once more in 
her chamber, she reflected on all the 
events of the last hvf days. Louis 
had been calumniated many times 
before, and she believed him guilty ; 
but he had alwavs come out of these 
attacks justified, so that the very cir- 
cumstances which at first seemed 
against him turned to his benefit. 
What had happened during the 
evening now at an end threw a new 
light on the state of affairs. Louis 
was an upright man. He was sin- 
cere, and the persecution he had un- 
dergone made him so much the wor- 
thier of being loved. For the first 
lime, Eugenie ventured to say to 
herself boldly : " Yes, I love him !" 
Then she prayed for him. At length 
a new doubt — a cruel doubt — rose in 
her heart : " But he, does he love 
me?" immediately followed by an- 
other question : if Louis loved her, 
would her father consent to receive 
him as a son-in-law ? ... He had 
won his esteem — that was a good 
deal ; but Mr. Smithson was not a 
man to be led away by enthusiasm. 
These questions were very embarrass- 



ing. Nor were they all. Eugenie 
foresaw many other difficulties also : 
Louis was poor ; he was a Catiiolic, 
not only in name, but in heart and 
deed. His poverty and his piety 
were two obstacles to his gaining 
Mr. Smithson's entire favor. These 
two reasons might prevent him from 
ever consenting to give Louis his 
daughter's hand. Such were Euge- 
nie's thoughts. Reflection, instead 
of allaying her anxiety, only served 
to make it more keen. 

" One hope remains," thought she, 
" but that is a powerful one : my fa- 
ther loves me too well to render me 
unhappy. 1 will acknowledge that 
the happiness of my life depends on 
his decision." 

At that same hour, Louis, in the 
midst of his sufferings, was a prey to 
similar anxiety. But he had one ad- 
vantage over Eug6nie. " It is not 
without some design," he said, " that 
Providence has directed everything 
with such wonderful goodness. I trust 
that, after giving me so clear a 
glimpse of happiness, I shall at last 
be permitted to attain the reality." 

This was by no means certain, for 
the designs of God, though ever 
merciful, are always unfathomable. 
No one can tell beforehand how 
things will end. But we must par- 
don a little temerity in the heart of a 
lover. It is sad to say, but even in 
the most upright souls love over- 
powers reason. 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 



THE BETROTHAL. 



The next morning, Eugenie had 
news that surprised her, but seemed 
a happy augury: her cousin had 
suddenly decided to go home ! His 
departure was announced by Fanny. 
As long as things remained unde- 
cided, and Albert had some hope, 
Fanny had appeared cross and dis- 



satisfied. But now she made her 
appearance as she used to be — smil- 
ing, chatty, and agreeable, without 
any one's knowing why. The artful 
soubrette felt it was high time to 
change her tactics. In consequence 
of the blunders Albert had commit- 
ted, and Eug6nie's marked antipa- 



204 



Madame Agnes, 



thy to him, he would henceforth be 
blotted out of the list of mademoi- 
selle's admirers. If, therefore, Fan- 
ny wished to reinstate herself in her 
mistress* good graces, if she wished 
to make sure of that cherished asy- 
lum — the object of all her aims for 
the last ten years — she must pave the 
way by her subserviency to her fu- 
ture patrons — Eug6nic and the hus- 
band of her choice, whoever he might 
be. With a keener eye, or at least 
bolder, than Eug6nie's, Fanny had^ 
no doubt it would be Louis. 

With the assurance of those people 
who make others forget their faults 
by appearing to be ignorant of them 
themselves, Fanny went with a single 
bound over to the side of the man 
she regarded as a personal enemy the 
night before. Eug6nie perceived the 
sudden tack. It greatly amused her, 
though she pretended not to see it. 

" Where is my father ?'* she asked 
Fanny. 

" Monsieur is going to town with 
M. Albert, and also to notify Mr. 
Louis' family of the misfortune that 
has happened to him — a painful er- 
rand. M. Louis has a father who is 
greatly attached to him, and a sister 
who is still fonder of him — a very 
amiable woman, with a strong mind." 

" Ah ! indeed ; where did you learn 
these particulars ?" 

" Here and there. Mademoiselle 
knows the good God has given me 
ears to hear with." 

" And especially a tongue that can 
ask questions, Fanny." 

Eugenie went down to the break- 
fast-room, where she found the rest 
assembled. Mr. Smithson wore a 
cheerful air. Albert was in an ill- 
humor, which he badly concealed 
under pretended elation. Mme. 
Smithson appeared anxious, but Eu- 
genie saw with delight that she was 
more affectionate towards her than 
she had been of late. 



A policeman from St. M passed 

by the window. 

" What is that policeman here for?" 
inquired £ug6nie. 

" We had to search Durand's room, 
my child," replied Mr. Smithson. 
" The man cheated me in a shame- 
ful manner. I have obtained posi- 
tive proofs of it. We found letters 
from his wife and other people which 
prove him utterly heartless and base 
— ^in short, one of the most dangerous 
men I ever saw." 

Mr. Smithson and Albert started a 
short time after. The parting between 
the two cousins was not, as you 
may suppose, very affecting. As Mr. 
Smithson entered the carriage, he 
said to his wife : " Go and tell M. 
Louis I am on my way to his father's. 
I intend to bring him back with me, 
and hope the sister will accompany 
him ; for no one knows so well how 
to take care of him, or to do it so ac- 
ceptably. Do not delay giving him 
this information ; it will do him more 
good than a visit from the doctor." 

Mme. Smithson made a brief reply, 
in which a slight confusion and a 
lingering antipathy were perceptible. 
The commission was evidently dis- 
agreeable, but she obeyed her hus- 
band. As soon as he was out of 
sight, she proceeded towards the 
wounded man's room. Eug6nie re- 
turned to the house. She expected 
her mother would be back in a few 
minutes, and was greatly surprised 
when a quarter of an hour — half an 
hour — ^nearly a whole hour passed 
without her returning. She became 
extremely anxious. She feared her 
mother had found Louis in too dan- 
gerous a state to be left till Mr. 
Smithson returned. " Perhaps," she 
also thought — " perhaps mother and 
M. Louis are having a painful expla- 
nation. Mother is very kind, blit at 
times she is dreadful ! Exasperated 
by my cousin's abrupt departure, I 



Madame Agnes. 



205 



fear she may, under the impulse of 
▼exatton or animosity, say something 
painful to the poor sick fellow. . . ." 
And at this, she gave her imagination 
full course. 

At length Mme. Smithson reap- 
peared. £ug6nie refrained from 
questioning her, but she looked as if 
she would read the bottom of her 
mother's heart. 

** We had rather a long talk," said 
Mme. Smithson, without appearing 
to suspect how anxious her daughter 
had been. " He is a good young 
man, that M. Louis ; a little serious, 
a little too gloomy, bujt that seems 
to please certain people ! . . . He is 
delighted because his sister is com- 
ing. 



. . • 



"I am not surprised," said Eu- 
genie. 

The conversation was kept up for 
some time in this discreet tone, nei- 
ther of them wishing to let the other 
see what she really thought. It 
seemed to Eugenie, however, that 
her mother, instead of manifesting 
any irritation against Louis, was 
making an effort to reconcile herself 
to him. Had she then an idea he 
might become her son-in-law, and 
did she wish to accustom herself to a 
prospect but recently so contrary to 
her views ? . . . 

The carriage arrived an hour after. 
Eug6nie felt somewhat agitated at 
the thought of meeting Louis* father 
and sister. " Shall I like them ? Will 
they like me ?" she said to herself, as 
she proceeded resolutely to the door 
to receive them. She first shook 
hands with Aline. The poor girl was 
pale with anxiety, but her very anx- 
iety increased her beauty. She made 
a conquest of Eugenie at the first 
glance. Her thoughtful air, the dis- 
tinction of her manners, her intelli- 
gent and animated countenance, were 
all pleasing to her. Eugenie felt, if 
Aline did not become her friend, it 



would be because she did not wish 
to. Their interview lasted only a few 
minutes; then Aline followed Mr. 
Smithson, who had taken her father's 
arm, to Louis' room. Eugenie was 
also pleased with M. Beauvais. He 
had a cold, stern air, but so had Mr. 
Smithson himself. 

Quite a series of incidents of no 
special importance occurred after this, 
which it would take too much time 
to relate. I must hasten to end my 
story, as you wish, I fear. 

A week after, Mr. Smithson*s house 
was en file to celebrate Louis' conva- 
lescence. Both families assembled 
on this occasion. Aline, Eug6nie, 
and Mme. Smithson, who had again 
become the excellent woman she was 
when we first knew her, formed a 
trio of friends such as is seldom 
found. And one would have taken 
Mr. Smithson and Louis' father for 
two old friends from boyhood, so 
familiarly did they converse. They 
seemed to understand each other at 
half a word. 

" What a delightful reunion /" said 
Mr. Smithson when they came to the 
dessert. " It is hard to think we 
must all separate to-morrow. But it 
is settled that you, M. Louis, are to 
come back as soon as you are perfect- 
ly well." 

" I give you my word," said Louis; 
"and promise also never to leave 
you from the time you see me again." 
" I hope you will carry out that 
intention. We will never separate 
again. But you are young, and it is 
more difficult for a young man to 
foresee what may occur." 

"As far as it depends on me, I 
can." As Louis said these words, he 
glanced at Eug6nie, who sat opposite. 
His look seemed to say : " There is 
the magnet that will keep me here 
for ever !" Eugenie blushed. Every 
one noticed it. 

" It is useless for you to say that," 



206 



Madatne Agnes. 



said Mr. Smithson. " I shall always 
be in fear of your escape till you are 
positively bound here. But how 
shall we bind you to St M ? 



^t^ 



There is one way," and Mr. Smith- 
son smiled as he spoke ; " which has 
occurred to the parents; will the 
children consent ?" 

Eug6nie and Louis looked at each 
other. In the eyes of both beamed 
the same joy. 

"The children make no reply, . . ." 
resumed Mr. Smithson. 

" Pardon me," exclaimed Louis. 
" I dare not be the first to answer." 

" Silence implies consent," replied 
Mr. Smithson. " If Eug6nie is not 
of your mind, let her protest against 
it. Otherwise I shall give my own 
interpretation to her silence." 

" I do not protest," said Eug6nie, 
unusually intimidated. 

" Oh ! what strange lovers !" con- 
tinued Mr. Smithson. " I think we 
shall have to tell them they love 
each other." 

" Perhaps we are already aware of 
it," said Louis. "At least, I have 
been for a long time." 

" And have you not confessed it to 
each other ?" 

" I had forbidden myself to do so." 

" Louis, you have a noble heart," 
said Mr. Smithson. "To keep si- 
lence in such a case requires a cour- 
age amounting to heroism. But I 
have remarked that the heroic quali- 
ties you have given so many proofs 
ot since you came here always turn 
to the advantage of those who con- 
tinue under their influence. This 



proves that God, even in this world, 
rewards the deeds of the upright 
much oftener than is supposed. 
Doubtless they are also recompensed 
in heaven, but they often have on 
earth a foretaste of what awaits them 
hereafter." 

Such was the betrothal of my two 
friends. The next day, Louis came 
to town, in order to obtain the medi- 
cal aid necessary to complete his 
cure. I had returned myself a few 
days previous. I cannot tell you 
with what pleasure I received him, 
and learned the welcome news from 
the lips of the fiancee herself, who 
greatly pleased me at the very first 
interview, and never gave me any 
reason to change my opinion. My 
intercourse with them and Aline — 
three choice spirits — was so delight- 
ful that it sustained me in the midst 
of the terrible trials through which I 
was then passing. My grief for the 
death of my husband had grown 
more calm, but his memory followed 
me constantly and everywhere. 

In addition to my mental troubles, 
I underwent physical sufferings that 
were sometimes excruciating. And 
I was filled with a dread that was 
still worse. I trembled at the thought 
I might always be a burden to my 
poor mother and sister. I had not 
fully learned that, when God sends a 
trial, he likewise gives the strength to 
bear it, and some way of mitigating 
it. How many times I have since 
realized this ! God comes to the aid 
of those whose will is in conformity 
with his. 



CONCLUSION. 



The marriage of Louis and Eu- 
genie took plnce a month afterwards. 
For them, and I might almost say for 
myself, it was the beginning of a life 
of serene happiness that lasted six 
years. The better these two souls 



became acquainted, the more they 
loved each other. They were always 
of the same mind on all subjects 
whatever, particularly when there was 
a question of doing good. Eugenie, 
under her husband's influence, be 



Madame Agnes, 



207 



came in a few months a woman of 
angelic piety. The good works 
Louis had previously begun under 
such unfavorable circumstances were 
resumed at once, and carried on with 
a zeal and prudence that had the 
happiest influence on the whole coun* 
try round. St. M was trans- 
formed into a Christian republic. 
The wicked — to be found everywhere 
— were few in number, and, instead 
of ruling over the good, considered 
themselves fortunate in being tole- 
rated. Ah! if it were thus every- 
where! . . . Every summer, I went 
to pass three months with my friends. 
I was happier there than I can ex- 
press. It was delightful to behold a 
family so admirably united, so be- 
loved and respected everywhere 
around! Mr. Smithson himself was 
hardly to be recognized. The sight 
of the wonders effected by his son-in- 
law and daughter destroyed one by 
one all his prejudices against the 
true religion- . , ; 

Alas ! the happiness of this world 
ii seldom of long duration. Eugenie 
had been married six years, and was 
the mother of two children, when she 
was seized with a severe illness that 
endangered her life. She got over 
it, however, but remained feeble and 
languid. The physicians insisted on 
her residing permanently in the South. 
A large manufactory being for sale 
on the delightful shores of the Medi- 
terranean, a few leagues from Mar- 
seilles, on the picturesque and charm- 
ing road leading from the Phocaean 
City to Toulon, Louis purchased it, 
and they all went away ! 

No words could describe the sadness 
they experienced at leaving so dear 

a spot as St. M , where they were 

greatly beloved. They likewise re- 
gretted separating from me. When 
I saw them start, I felt almost as dis- 
tressed as I was at the death of my 
husband; but I did not tell them so, 



for fear of increasing their regret. 
After they went to Provence, they had 
one more year of happiness ; but the 
amelioration that took place in Eu- 
genie's health did not last any longer. 
She died three months later. 

Some time after, Louis came to 
seek consolation from his sister and 
me. His very aspect made us heart- 
sick. His grief was beyond the 
reach of any human consolation. It 
would have been wrong had he vol- 
untarily given himself up to it. But, 
no ; he struggled against it. It pre- 
vailed, however, in spite of himself, 
as phthisis resists every remedy and 
wears the sufferer to the grave. We 
represented to him the good he 
might still effect, and reminded him 
he had one child left to bring up ; 
the other being dead. He listened 
kindly to our representations, and 
said he had had more happiness on 
earth than he merited ; that he sub- 
mitted to the divine will, and resign- 
ed himself to live as long as God 
wished. But all this was said with a 
dejection and involuntary weariness 
of everything, that was no good sign. 
Louis was one of those souls, all 
sensibility, who die as soon as their 
hearts receive a deep wound. Had 
he been an unbeliever, he would have 
taken his own life, or died of grief in 
a few months. Religion sustained 
him four years longer. 

During that time, his friends al- 
ways found him resigned. He be- 
came more devout than ever, and 
more zealous in doing good. A 
sudden illness at length carried him 
off. The physicians asserted that 
he might have recovered if grief 
had not undermined his constitution, 
once so robust. When he died, he 
left his son to be brought up by 
his sister. God gave him the hap- 
piness, before his death, of seeing his 
father-in-law enter the bosom of the 
church. 



208 



Daniel O'ComtelL 



Madame Agnes had finished her 
story. 

** Such, my friend, is the history 
of ray life," said she. " It is not 
very entertaining, I confess, but I 
think it instructive. All who had a 
part in it suffered, but they never 
lost courage. Such a misfortune 
could not happen to them, because 
they only expected from life what it 
has to give — many days of trial, min- 
gled with some that are joyful. But 
wliether their days were sad or joy- 
ful, my friends were never deprived 
of the light of the divine presence. 
They received from the hand of God 



happiness and sorrow with equal 
gratitude, aware that he disposes all 
things for the good of those he loves, 
and that in him all they have loved 
on earth will be found again. 

" My friend, imitate the example 
of these dear ones now gone ! Keep 
intact the gift of faith, which was 
their dearest, most precious treasure. 
Let it also be yours ! If you rely on 
God, you will never lack resignation 
and hope, even in the midst of the 
most bitter trials. Faith, while waiting 
to open the gates of heaven to you 
— faith, practical and ardent, wonder- 
fully softens every trial here below." 



DANIEL O'CONNELL. 



The good old saying, that it never 
rains but it pours, has received addi- 
tional illustration in the appearance 
within a very short time of two lives 
and one memoir of the great Irish 
agitator, the late Daniel 0*Connell. 
The latter, it is true, is a mere sketch, 
intended only as an introduction to 
a collection of ten or twelve of the 
most noteworthy speeches of that 
distinguished man, judiciously select- 
ed from hundreds which, as a lawyer, 
politician, and parliamentary debater, 
he had delivered in the course of a 
remarkably busy life, extending over 
nearly half a century. In this re- 
gard, if in no other, it will be found 
interesting and useful to those who 
have not leisure or inclination to 
study the history of his career in 
detail. 

Of Mr. Luby's work, published 
originally in parts, many of which 
we have carefully perused, we have 
little to say. It is evidently written 
in haste, loosely, and without due 



regard to the canons which are gen- 
erally supposed to govern composi- 
tion and narration. There are no 
facts or incidents in it bearing on 
the public or private life of O'Con- 
nell that are not already well known 
to every person of ordinary intelli- 
gence, and which have not been 
better and more lucidly presented to 
the public years ago. It has the 
demerit, also, of being altogether too 
discursive, not to say blatant, in 
style, and the author is too constant- 
ly wandering away from his subject 
to matters quite disconnected. from 
the actions and peculiarities of his 
hero. Judging from this production, 
Mr. Luby seems to be a very unfit 
person to portray the genius, aims, 
and designs of the great Irish popu- 
lar leader, lacking as he does that 
earnest sympathy which should exist 
between the biographer and his 
subject, as well as that judicial and 
philosophical insight into the secret 
springs of human action which, 



Daniel O'ConnelL 



209 



while recording patent facts, can 
comprehend and elucidate the true 
motives, designs, and probable results 
of the deeds related. Such has ever 
been considered the real end of bio- 
graphical literature. 

In this resp)ect, the Life of OCon- 
mlij by Sister Mary Francis Clare, 
is much superior to Mr. Luby's, as it 
is in every other essential quality, 
though in itself far inferior to what 
might have l>cen expected from so 
popular a writer, particularly when 
dealing with so great and conge- 
nbl a theme. In her book of 
eight hundred pages, the good reli- 
gious has shown a vast amount of 
industry, a genuine appreciation of 
the character, labors, and conduct of 
the Liberator, and considerable lite- 
rary skill in presenting them to the 
public in the most attractive and 
readable form. The correspondence 
between O'Connell and the vene- 
rable Archbishop of Tuam, now for 
the first time published, constitutes a 
most valuable, perhaps the most val- 
uable, feature in the work, and, as a 
glimpse at the inner life of the busy 
U«r)'er and untiring agitator, will be 
read with particular gratification by 
the admirers of his extraordinary 
abilities in this country. Here, we 
regret to say, our praise of Miss Cu- 
sack's book must end. As a bio- 
graphy of one of the most remark- 
able public men of this century or of 
any country, it is not a decided suc- 
cess, and, as coming from the pen of 
an experienced, facile, and patriotic 
writer, it will, we do not doubt, dis- 
appoint the majority of her admirers 
at home and abroad. With the ex- 
ception of the letters to Abp. McHale, 
alluded to above, and some original 
notes and appendices supplied by 
friends, the facts, incidents, and anec- 
dotes recounted of the Irish lead- 
er are mainly taken from such books 
as those of O'Neill Daunt, Fegan, 
VOL. xviii. — 14 



Sheil, and his own son, John O'Con- 
nell, all of which may be found in 
an anonymous compilation published 
five or six years ago.* 

We do not find fault so much with 
the fact that it is so largely a com- 
pilation, as with the crude manner in 
which the extracts from those works 
are collated and presented to the 
public. We can even point to sever- 
al instances where they are inserted 
bodily in the text, as original, with- 
out quotation-marks, foot-notes, or 
any other sign of reference. This 
may or may not be the fault of the 
printer, but the examples are so nu- 
merous as to incline us to the latter 
opinion. We have often admired the 
industry of Miss Cusack in bringing 
out so many good books in such 
rapid succession ; as well as her zeal 
in endeavoring to aid, by the pro- 
ducts of her genius, a most meritori- 
ous charity; but we hold it to be 
against the laws both of fair play 
and literary courtesy to neglect to 
accord to the labors of others a 
proper share of acknowledgment. 

We do not want to be unreason- 
able. Had the gifted authoress al- 
lowed herself more time, and related 
the dramatic story of O'Connell's 
life entirely in her own words, we 
would have been satisfied. We do- 
not expect that a lady secluded froni 
the World, necessarily devoting the 
greater part of her time to the duties 
of her calling, and consequently 
practically unacquainted with the- 
outside political world, its storms^ 
passions, and intrigues, can treat us 
to anything like a full or elaborate- 
disquisition on the circumstances,, 
dangers, and difficulties which sur- 
rounded and impeded the career of 
such a man as the emancipator of 
the Catholics of Great Britain and 



•Li/e and Times of Daniel a Connelly with 
Sketches 0/" his Contemporaries^ etc. %. TOls. 
Dublin : John MulUny. 1867. 



310 



Daniel O'ConnelL 



Ireland. Only a person who has 
devoted much time to the examina- 
tion of the history of Ireland and 
England, for the past hundred years, 
at least; who himself has been a 
participant in, or an interested spec- 
tator of, the unceasing conflict which 
during that period was naturally 
waged between the Irish nationalists 
and their opponents, can attempt 
to do so. This war was carried on 
in every relation of life ; at the bar, 
on the bench; in the pulpit, press, 
and forum ; in the workshop, the 
club, and the halls of St. Stephen; 
and the central figure, the invinci- 
ble leader of the aggressive and at 
length victorious national party, was 
O'Connell — the man who for near 
half a century dared all opposition 
and defied all hostile power in the 
championship of the cause of his 
persecuted countrymen and co-reli- 
gionists. 

However men may differ as to the 
wisdom, policy, or honesty of O'Con- 
nell, none will deny that he was a 
man of stupendous intellect and in- 
domitable perseverance. In every- 
thing he was gigantic. In physique, 
mental attainments, courage, virtues, 
and even in his errors, he was decid- 
edly great There was nothing small 
or dwarfed about him ; and as, a pop- 
ular leader while living, he seemed to 
hold in his hand the control of the 
masses of his countrymen ; so, when 
dead, the very mention of his name 
is enough to awaken the gratitude 
and evoke the admiration of millions 
of the present generation, whose ad- 
vent into the world succeeded his de- 
mise. Not only in Ireland was he 
trusted, beloved, and revered, but on 
the continent of Europe and in this 
country his name was associated with 
the cause of civil and religious liber- 
ty, and his every movement watch- 
ed with interest by all classes. And 
when at length, worn down by his 



excessive labors in behalf of faith and 
liberty, he yielded up his soul to his 
Creator, his piety and patriotism be 
came the subjects of unqualified en- 
comiums from the noblest and most 
distinguished orators in both hemi- 
spheres. Surely so great an em- 
bodiment of zeal and genius, well 
directed, deserves a fitting chroni- 
cler. 

Bom of a house never remarkable 
before nor since his time for attach- 
ment to creed or country ; educated 
far from the influences of his native 
land, we find him returning to it just 
as he had completed his majority, an 
accomplished scholar and a barrister, 
with nothing to depend upon but his 
own labors for support, yet full of 
ambition and eager for distinction. 
Had he followed the traditions of his 
family, he would have settled down 
quietly to the practice of his profes- 
sion, and in course of time, doubtless, 
would have become wealthy and a 
useful assistant to the hostile power 
that controlled the destinies of his 
nation, as too many of his profession- 
al brothers had already done. But 
the young lawyer, to the dismay of 
many of his relations, soon showed 
that he was made of sterner stuff. 
He could not "bend the pregnant 
hinges of the knee, that thrift might 
follow fawning." He had arrived 
home in time to witness the horrors 
of '98 ; he had seen his fellow-Catho- 
lics, even then four-fifths of the popu- 
lation of Ireland, bowed down to the 
very dust, sneered at, reprobated, 
and, on their own soil, denied every 
social, commercial, and political right 
to which as freemen they were enti- 
tled ; and, with a courage that never 
deserted him, and a capacity for labor 
that was truly remarkable, he ranged 
himself on the side of the proscribed, 
and took up the gauntlet cast down 
to the oppressed by the powerful and 
unscrupulous faction which then, as 



Daniel CConhell. 



211 



DOVy represented British supremacy 
in Ireland. 

His first appearance in public, be- 
ing then but twenty-three years old, 
was in 1799, when the question of a 
legislative union between Ireland 
and England convulsed the former 
tnd deeply moved the public mind 
df the latter country. At a meeting 
in Dublin, he denounced the measure 
in terms so bold, clear, and forcible 
that those who listened to him had 
little difficulty in foreseeing his fu- 
ture eminence and usefulness to the 
national cause. The scheme of Pitt 
and Castlereagh was, however, carried 
out, the Irish parliament was destroy- 
edy and the Catholics saw themselves 
at the beginning of the century not 
only without a domestic legislature, 
but shut out from all representation, 
not only in the united Lords and 
Commons, but even in the most insig- 
nificant corporation and local boards. 

Where, then, could the ardent 
joung patriot, gifted, enthusiastic, 
and impatient of the restrictions 
placed upon himself and his fellow- 
countrymen, find an audience and 
an outlet for the fiery eloquence 
that heaved and burned in his soul ? 
Clearly in popular gatherings and 
in the courts of law. But the peo- 
ple at that time were so timid, 
nay, so degraded, that they dared 
not assemble in any force to protest 
against the tyranny that had for 
ftj many generations enslaved them ; 
or, if a few hundreds did assemble 
together, the sight of a magistrate, 
or the presence of some truculent 
follower of the castle, like the infa- 
mous Maj. Sirr, was sufficient to dis- 
perse them, while the few Catholic 
noblemen and gentry yet left were 
as timid as so many hares. The 
Irish Catholics of that epoch, so 
long trodden under foot, and de- 
prived absolutely of political power 
and landed interests, were not like 



the Catholics of to-day, wlio, in all 
thankfulness be it said, are triumph- 
antly bearing aloft the banner of 
the church when so much of Europe 
is trailing it in the mire of infidelity 
and communism. Then Wolfe Tone, 
once their secretary, in his Memoirs^ 
and Wyse, in his History of the Catho- 
lic Association^ likened them to the 
servile Jews, and described them as 
deficient in manliness and self-re- 
spect They crawled at the feet of 
a hostile government, says the latter, 
fawned on their Protestant neighbors, 
and felt honored by being even no- 
ticed by persons of that creed, even 
though in every respect their infe- 
riors. Such people had very little 
business in the civil courts to give, 
and what little they had they gave 
to those who loathed their creed and 
despised themselves. 

0*Connell soon saw that nothing 
could be effected in the way of popu- 
lar demonstrations with such unprom- 
ising materials. He therefore adopt- 
ed another and a wiser course. The 
courts became his fulcrum, and his 
eloquence the lever, by which he 
sought to raise the spirit of the na- 
tion. Term after term, year after 
year, his potent voice was heard 
ringing through the halls of justice 
by an astonished bar and delighted 
and electrified audiences, in the de- 
fence of the victims of landlord 
tyranny or official persecution. His 
arguments to the bench, and his ha- 
rangues to the jury, were always full 
of fire, audacity, and logic, and 
were seldom, even in the face of 
unmitigated prejudice, unsuccessful: 
Pathos and humor, wit and vitupera- 
tion, strong appeals to the patriot- 
ism of his hearers, and stern denun- 
ciations of the rashness and folly of 
some of his compatriots, were with 
him invariably mingled with sound 
common sense and unerring legal 
acumen. So great, indeed, was his 



312 



Daniel O'ConnelL 



success as a pleader in criminal cases, 
so unlimited his resources in difficult 
motions, and so general his triumphs 
over ignorance and bigotry, that, 
before most of his fellow-practition- 
ers had earned their first fees, he 
found himself in the enjoyment of 
a lucrative practice, and, what to 
him was an object of much greater 
importance, the spokesman of the 
degraded majority, and the oracle 
of his people. His forensic efforts 
were not confined to judges and 
juries exclusively. He lost no oppor- 
tunity of throwing into his legal 
arguments and speeches some re- 
marks for the benefit of the masses 
who always throng Irish courts — 
remarks which never failed to elicit 
the wildest delight and the most 
hearty applaiTse. 

In this indirect way he was gradual- 
ly infusing into his countrymen that 
spirit of manhood which so power- 
fully moved himself. As an evidence 
of this, we may quote an extract, 
though a long one, from his speech 
in defence of Magee, editor of the 
Evening Posi^ then the most influ- 
ential advocate of Catholic rights 
in Ireland. In 1813, Magee was 
prosecuted for a libel on the Duke 
of Richmond, the retiring lord- 
lieutenant ; and as the crown officers 
in their speeches, and, as it appeared, 
by previous arraiigement, endeavor- 
ed to give to the trial — ^having first 
selected a jury to suit themselves — ^a 
political significance, Magee's counsel 
willingly joined issue with them on 
their own terms. The array of legal 
ability on both sides was propor- 
tionate to the gravity of the ques- 
tion involved. For the government 
appeared the Attorney- General, Sau- 
rin, the Solicitor-General, Bushe, 
and Sergeants Moore, Ball, and Mc- 
Mahon ; for the defence, O'Connell, 
assisted by Messrs. Wallace, Hamil- 
ton, Findley, and Philips. Saurin, in 



his opening, alluding to the Catholic 
Board, of which the defendant's news- 
paper was the organ, made use of 
these words: "If the libel only 
related to him [Richmond], it would 
have gone by unprosecuted by me. 
But the imputation is made against 
the administration of justice by the 
government of Ireland, and it forms 
only a part of a system of calumny 
with which an association of factious 
and revolutionary men are in the 
habit of vilifying every constitutional 
authority in the land." The oppor- 
tunity thus afforded O'Connell was 
instantly and dexterously seized by 
him to reply with more than his 
usual boldness and wealth of invec- 
tive. In the course of his long ad- 
dress to the jury, he said : 

" My lord, upon the Catholic subject I 
commence with one assertion of the 
Attorney-General, which I trust I mis- 
understood. He talked, as I collected 
him, of the Catholics having imbibed 
principles of a seditious, treasonable, 
and revolutionary nature ! He seemed 
to me most distinctly to charge us with 
treason ! There is no relying* on his 
words for his meaning — I know there is 
not. On a former occasion, I took down 
a repetition of this charge full seventeen 
times on my brief ; and yet afterwards it 
turned out that he never intended to 
make any such charge ; that he forgot be 
had ever used those words, and he dis- 
claimed the idea they naturally convey. 
It is clear, therefore, that upon this sub- 
ject he knows not what he says ; and 
that these phrases are the mere flowers 
of his rhetoric, but quite innocent of any 
meaning ! 

"* Upon this account I pass him by, I 
go beyond him, and I content myself 
with proclaiming those charges, whoso- 
ever may make them, to be false and 
base calumnies ! It is impossible to 
refute such charges in the language of 
dignity or temper. But if any man dares 
to charge the Catholic body, or the 
Catholic Board, or any individuals of 
that Board, with sedition or treason, I do 
here, I shall always in this court, in the 
city, in the field, brand him as an infam- 
ous and profligate liar ! 



Daniel O'ConnelL 



213 



" Piardon the phraise, but there is no 
other suitable to the occasion. But he 
is a profligate liar who so asserts, be* 
- cause he must know that the whole tenor 
of our conduct confutes the assertion. 
What is it we seek T 

- ObV/.yatf/w-^.—What. Mr. O'Connell, 
can this have to do with the question 
which the jury are to try ?" 

- Mr. CtOmneil, — You heard the Attor- 
ney-General traduce and calumniate us ; 
3roa beard him with patience and with 
temper — listen now to our vindication ! 

•* I ask. What is it we seek ? What is 
it we incessantly, and, if you please, 
clamorously, petition for? Why, to be 
allowed to partake of the advantages of 
the constitution. We are earnestly anx- 
ious to share the benefits of the constitu- 
tion. Wc look to the participation in 
the constitution as our greatest political 
blessing. If we desired to destroy it, 
would we seek to share it ? If we wish- 
ed to overturn it, would we exert our- 
s«;Ives through calumny, and in peril, to 
obtain a portion of its blessings ? Strange, 
inconsistent voice of calumny ! You 
charge us with intemperance in our 
exertions for a participation in the 
constitution, and you charge us at the 
same time, almost in the same sentence, 
with a design to overturn the constitu- 
tion. The dupes of your hypocrisy may 
bellere you ; but, base calumniators, you 
do not, you cannot believe yourselves ! 

••The Attorney-General — 'this wisest 
and best of men,' as his colleague, the 
Solicitor-General, called him in his pre- 
sence, — the Attorney-General next boast- 
ed of his triumph over Pope and Popery ; 
* I put down the Catholic Committee ; I 
will put down, at my good time, the 
Catholic Board.' This boast is partly 
historical, partly prophecy. He was 
wrong in his histor}' — he is quite mis- 
taken in his prophecy. He did not put 
down the Catholic Committee ; we gave 
up that name the moment that this sa- 
pient Attorney-General's polemico-legal 
controversy dwindled into a mere dispute 
about words. He told us that, in the 
Enfplish language, ' pretence ' means ' pur- 
pose.' Had it been French and not Eng- 
lish, we might have been inclined to re- 
spect his judgment ; but in point of Eng- 
lish, we venture to differ with him. We 
told him, * Purpose,' good Mr. Attorney- 
General, is just the reverse of ' pretence.' 
The quarrel grew warm and animated. 
We appealed to common sense, to the 



grammar, and to the dictionary ; common 
sense, grammar, and the dictionary de- 
cided in our favor. He brought his ap- 
peal to this court, your lordship, and 
your brethren unanimously decided that 
in point of law — mark, mark, gentlemen 
of the jury, the sublime wisdom of the 
law — the court decided that, in point of 
law, ' pretence' does mean ' purpose ' ! 

" Fully contented with this very rea- 
sonable and most satisfactory decision,, 
there still remained a matter of fact be- 
tween us. The Attorney-General charged 
us with being representatives ; we denied 
all representation. He had two wit- 
nesses to prove the fact for him ; they 
swore to it one way at one trial, and di- 
rectly the other way at the next. An hon- 
orable, intelligent, and enlightened jury 
disbelieved those witnesses at the first 
trial ; matters were better managed at the 
second trial — the jury were better ar- 
ranged. I speak delicately, gentlemen : 
the jury were better arranged, as the wit- 
nesses were better informed ; and, ac- 
cordingly, there was one verdict for us 
on the representative question, and one 
verdict against us. . . . 

" Let me pledge myself to you that he 
imposes on you when he threatens to 
crush the Catholic Board. Illegal vio- 
lence may do it, force may effectuate it ; 
but your hopes and his will be defeated 
if he attempts it by any course of law. I 
am, if not a lawyer, at least a barrister. 
On this subject I ought to know some- 
thing, and I do not hesitate to contradict 
the Attorney-General on this point, and 
to proclaim to you and to the country 
that the Catholic Board is a perfectly 
legal assembly ; that it not only docs not 
violate the law, but that it is entitled to 
the protection of the law; and in the very 
proudest tone of firmness, I hurl defi- 
ance at the Attorney-General ! 

" I defy him to allege a law or a statute, 
or even a proclamation, that is violated 
by the Catholic Board. No, gentlemen, no ; 
his religious prejudices — if the absence 
of every charity can be called anything 
religious, — ^his religious prejudices really 
obscure his reason, his bigoted intoler- 
ance has totally darkened his under- 
standing, and he mistakes the plainest 
facts, and misquotes the clearest law, in 
the ardor and vehemence of his rancor. 
I disclaim his moderation, I scorn his 
forbearance. I tell him he knows not 
the law, if he thinks as he says ; and 
if he thinks so, I tell him to his beard 



214 



Daniel CConnelL 



that he is not honest in not having sooner 
prosecuted us, and I challenge him to 
that prosecution."* 

Those were brave words, such as 
the ears of the English officials were 
unused to hear, but which found a 
responsive echo in the hearts of mil- 
lions of the oppressed Catholics, de- 
graded and enthralled as they were 
at that time. On the first day of its 
publication, ten thousand copies of 
the entire address were sold, and in a 
short time it was to be found in near- 
ly every house and place of public 
resort in the country. It was also 
translated into French and Spanish, 
and eagerly read and commented 
upon on the continent In fact, this 
trial may be considered the true ini- 
tial point of the great Catholic move- 
ment which culminated in emancipa- 
tion sixteen years afterwards. 

To a man of less indomitable will 
and less transcendent legal abilities, 
a course such as O'Connell had 
adopted would have been utterly 
ruinous. Then, as now, but to a 
far greater extent, the Irish judges 
were the mere creatures of the castle, 
and their least frown or sneer was 
considered sufficient to blast the pros- 
pects of any young aspirant for pro- 
fessional honors, even if he were only 
suspected of patriotic leanings. But 
in the future Emancipator they met 
their equal, not only in point of le- 
gal knowledge, but their superior in 
moral courage and in that mental 
force which, like a torrent, swept 
everything before it. The following 
anecdotes, told of O'Connell while in 
active practice, illustrate his method 
of dealing with the government ju- 
rists : 

*' Happening to be one day present in 
the courts in Dublin, where a discussion 
arose on a motion for a new trial, a young 
attorney was called upon by the opposing 

• Li/* and Speeches 0/ Daniel O'Connell^ MP, 
New Vork : J. A. McGee. zSja. 



counsel either to admit a statemeLt as 
evidence, or hand in some document he 
could legally detain. O'Connell stood 
up, and told the attorney to make no ad- 
mission. 

*' ' Have you a brief in this case, Mr. 
O'Connell?^ asked Baron McCleland, 
with very peculiar emphasis. 

" * I have not, my lord ; but I shall have 
one when the case goes down to the 
assizes.' 

** * When / was at the bar, it was not my 
habit to anticipate briefs.' 

" • When you were at the bar, I never 
chose you for a model ; and now that you 
are on the bench, I shall not submit to 
your dictation.' 

" Leaving the judge to digest this re- 
tort, he walked out of the court, accom- 
panied by the young attorney. 

" At a case tried at the Cork assizes, a 
point arose touching the legality of cer- 
tain evidence, which O'Connell argued 
was clearly admissible. He sustained 
his own view very fully, reasoning with 
that force and clearness, and quoting pre- 
cedent with that facility, for which he was 
distinguished. But it was to no purpose. 
The court ruled against him, and the 
witnesses were shut out. The trial was 
of extraordinary length, and at the close 
of the day the proceedings were not 
ended. On the following morning, when 
the case was about to be resumed, the 
judge addressed O'Connell : 

" ' I have reconsidered my decision of 
yesterday,' said his lordship, 'and my 
present opinion is that the evidence 
tendered by you should not have been 
rejected. You can, therefore, reproduce 
the evidence now.' 

" Instead of obsequiously thanking him 
for his condescension, as another would 
have done, O'Connell's impatience broke 
out : 

" * Had your lordship known as much 
law yesterday as you do to-day,* said he 
bitterly, 'you would have spared rae a 
vast amount of time and trouble, and my 
client a considerable amount of injury. 
Crier, call up the witnesses.*"* 

The career of the great criminal 
lawyer — for his civil business was 
comparatively small — lasted for more 
than a generation, and his success 
was uniform and uninterrupted, while 

* Li/e and Times 0/ Daniei (XC^nmeU. 
(Anonymous.) Dublin. 1867. 



Daniel O'Conmll. 



215 



his fees in the aggregate, for that 
time, were enormous. '*A single 
fact," says the author just quoted, 
" will demonstrate the confidence 
which the Irish public placed at this 
period in the professional abilities of 
0*ConneU. In the autumnal assizes 
of 18 13, twenty-six cases were tried 
in the Limerick Record Court In 
every one of these O'Connell held a 
brief. He was likewise retained in 
every criminal case tried in the same 
city. His professional career was 
equally triumphant and extraordinary 
in the autumn assizes of Ennis; 
while in Cork and his native pro- 
vince, Kerry, it was that year, if 
possible, exceeded. At this golden 
period of his life, his prosperity, flow- 
ing from his brilliant abilities, and his 
popularity, springing from his coun- 
try's gratitude, rendered his position 
at the bar in the highest degree envi- 
able." 

But it was not as a jurist or an 
advocate that O'Connell was destined 
to hand down his name to posterity 
covered with imperishable glory. He 
otily used his great professional suc- 
cess to further two ends. Like a 
true patriot, ^sA^h fortiori^ unlike the 
politicians of to-day, he desired first 
to establish his own independence be- 
fore attempting to obtain that of his 
countrymen, knowing well that po- 
verty, associated with ambition, is 
too often the means of leading men, 
otherwise honest, into the commission 
of acts not always honorable or meri- 
torious. Then, also, as we have before 
intimated, he desired, under the pro- 
tection of the court, to instil into the 
hearts and souls of the dejected 
Catholics a spirit of manliness and 
courage by his burning appeals to 
courts and juries — words which, if 
uttered out oi court, would have en- 
tailed on him endless prosecutions 
and proscription. 

Strictly speaking, O'Connell cannot 



be considered as the leader of the 
Irish Catholics till 1820, when Hen- 
ry Grattan died. That brilliant ora- 
tor and inflexible patriot, though a 
Protestant, always enjoyed the confi- 
dence and esteem of the persecuted 
masses ; and whether in or out of Par- 
liament, vsx College Green or St. Ste- 
phen's, his conduct was ever such as 
to command their respect and affec- 
tion. O'Connell, on the contrary, up 
to that date, was unable to control 
for any length of time the feeble 
movements which, during the previ- 
ous decade, had been made by the 
Catholic body to obtain some redress 
of their grievances. His audacious 
denunciation of the government, and 
his contempt for the advocates of 
half measures, frightened away such 
lukewarm Catholics as Lords Fingal, 
Trimleston, and French; while his 
superior foresight, skill, and perhaps 
arrogance, frequently led him into 
disputes with the less clear-headed 
and more violent of his other asso- 
ciates. A portion of the national 
press, also, looked coldly upon the 
burly lawyer, fearing his ambition; 
while many of the clergy and bishops 
hesitated to yield implicit confidence 
to a man who was once a freemason, 
and a good deal of whose leisure 
time, it was said, was spent amid the 
coiwives of the capital. The *' Catho- 
lic Committee," which was mainly his 
creation, was established in 1808, and 
easily suppressed by the government, 
after a useless existence of less than 
three years. Its successor, the *' Cath- 
olic Board," was equally powerless, 
and even more given to internal dis- 
sensions; and after its demise, in 18 14, 
nine years elapsed, during which the 
Catholics, divided, dispirited, and 
despairing, made no effort whatever 
for their rights, unless the forwarding 
of an odd petition to the English 
Parliament might be called so. 
In fact, the generation that had 



2l6 



Daniel O'ConnelL 



witnessed the horrors of '98 and the 
wholesale perfidy of the men who 
planned and passed the act of union, 
were not fit to carry on a manly, de- 
termined agitation : fear had been 
driven into their very marrow, and 
the badge of slavery was worn with a 
calmness that closely resembled con- 
tentment. It required a new gener- 
ation to conduct such a movement 
with success, and a leader to point 
the way to victory. 

Time at last brought both. The 
first sign of returning life in the peo- 
ple was evinced upon the occasion 
oi a relief bill having been intro- 
duced into the House of Commons 
in 182 1, and passed by that body 
by nineteen majority. Though of 
course defeated by the Lords, its par- 
tial success, and the unexpected sup- 
port it received from some of the 
more distinguished members, had a 
salutary effect on the public mind in 
Ireland, and aroused hopes that had 
long lain dormant in the bosom of 
the Catholic party. Meetings began 
to be held in different parts of the 
provinces, and at length a Catholic 
Association was formed in Dublin, 
April 28, 1 823. Its founder was 
O'Connell, then in his prime, phy- 
sically and mentally; his reputation 
as an orator and a statesman be- 
yond question ; his impetuosity mol- 
lified, if not subdued ; and his judg- 
ment matured by long experience 
of actual life. At first the asso- 
ciation numbered but a few indivi- 
duals; so few, indeed, that after it had 
been a year in existence, it was diffi- 
cult to get the necessary quorum of 
members to attend its stated meet- 
ings; but a combination of circum- 
stances almost providential, and cer- 
tainly unexpected, occurred, which 
gave the movement an irresistible 
impulse. The hierarchy of Ireland 
unanimously endorsed the move- 
ment ; the clergy not only approved 



of it, but were active in extending the 
organization ; the poet Moore drop- 
ped the lyre, and took up the pen 
controversial ; the illustrious '* J. K. 
L." thundered through the press; 
while the halls of Parliament rang 
with the eloquence of Brougham, 
Mackintosh, and Sir F. Burdett. 
The rent or revenue to conduct and 
disseminate a knowledge of the prin- 
ciples of the association flowed in with 
unparalleled generosity, sometimes 
as much as ten thousand dollars 
being received weekly by the trea- 
surer. 0*Connell was the head and 
front, the vivifying principle, organ- 
izer, and counsellor of this grand 
uprising of an enslaved people ; and 
his efforts were as untiring as his 
advice was judicious and well timed. 
At length the government, the 
supporters of Protestant ascendency, 
became alarmed, and at the session 
of 1825 of the British Parliament a 
bill was introduced to suppress the 
association. That body immedi* 
ately delegated 0*Connell and R. L. 
Sheil to attend the bar of the House, 
and offer their testimony as to the 
perfect legality of the organization. 
They attended, but were not heard, 
though admitted to seats in the body 
of the chamber. Still, they were ably 
represented by Brougham and other 
influential members. Speaking of 
the two delegates, the Ediftburgh Re- 
view of that day well said : " No men 
in circumstances so difficult and 
delicate ever behaved with greatei 
temper and moderation, or more 
recommended themselves to all par- 
ties by their fairness and the concilia- 
tory manner of their proceedings. 
Of necessity ignorant of the men 
with whom they were called upon to 
act, they could not avoid falling into 
some errors. . . . The sanguine 
temper which made them give ear 
to the hope [of emancipation] so un- 
accountably held out by some per- 



Daniel O'ConnelL 



215 



sons, is to be reckoned the chief of 
these mistakes ; for it led to far too 
much carelessness about the blow to 
be levelled at the association. . . . 
When the bill was prepared for 
patting down the association, a de- 
bate ensued, not, perhaps, paralleled 
in parliamentary history for its im- 
portance and the sustained excellence 
which marked the whole compass of 
its duration. Four whole nights did 
this memorable contest last, if con- 
test it might be called, where all the 
strength lay, except that of numbers, 
on one side. The effect produced 
by this debate out of doors and with- 
in the Parliament itself was truly im- 
portant. The whole range of Irish 
policy was discussed, all the griev- 
ances of Ireland were openly can- 
vassed, the conduct of the govern- 
ment freely arraigned, and such a 
death-blow given to the cry of * No 
Popery !' and the other delusions of 
the High-Church party that intole- 
rance lost more ground that night 
than it had ever hoped to regain by 
the alarm which the association en- 
abled it to excite. The conduct of 
that body was fnost triumphantly 
defended, and it appeared plainly 
that the peace of Ireland had been 
restored by its exertions and main- 
tained by its mfluence." 

Nevertheless, the act passed and 
the association was dissolved, but 
only to reappear in another form. 
The cause of emancipation had 
gained many and powerful friends, 
not the least of whom was the edi- 
tor of the quarterly just quoted. A 
new Catholic Association was formed 
the same year, and the work of 
arousing the supine masses went 
bravely on. Meetings were held si- 
multaneously in the various centres of 
population, at one or more of which 
O'Connell was generally present ; for 
he seemed ubiquitous. The patriotic 
newspapers teemed with speeches, 



communications, and extracts, all 
directed to the same purpose. The 
country was in a state of tremen- 
dous fermentation, to a degree that it 
was thought impossible it could go 
further, till the Emancipator himself, 
by a masterly stroke of policy, which 
could only have been the inspiration 
of genius, resolved to get himself 
elected to Parliament, and " carry the 
war into Africa." Ireland was now 
thoroughly aroused and organized; 
so he resolved, if he could not con- 
vince or persuade England to do her 
justice, at least to shock the latter 
into something like equity, or ex- 
pose her to the world as an oppressor 
and a hypocrite. He had seen what 
beneficial effects had followed the 
debate on the "Algerine Bill," and 
he was determined not to rest till all 
Europe, all Christendom, should be- 
come familiar with the wrongs of the 
Catholics. In 1828, a vacancy oc- 
curred in the representation of Clare. 
O'Connell presented himself as a can- 
didate, was against all odds elected, 
and immediately proceeded to Lon- 
don. 

Events, however, hurried on so fast 
that he had not time to present him- 
self to the Commons before the great 
measure for which he had so long 
struggled, and for which millions had 
prayed for years, had passed. On 
the 22d of January, 1828, the Duke 
of Wellington was appointed First 
Lord of the Treasury. Towards the 
end of that year, the Catholic Asso- 
ciation was voluntarily dissolved, in 
conformity to a preconcerted plan 
between the Irish CathoHcs and the 
British Ministry, having first passed 
unanimously the following resolution : 

" That, as the last act of this body, we 
do declare that we are indebted to Daniel 
O'Connell, beyond all other men, for its 
original creation and sustainraent, and 
that he is entitled, for the achievement 
of its freedom, to the everlasting gratitude 
of Ireland." 



2l8 



Daniel 0' Connelly 



On the 13th of April, 1^29, the 
Emancipation Act received the royal 
signature, the bill having passed the 
House by an overwhelming vote, and 
' the Lords by one hundred and four 
majority. 

Many persons fondly thought that 
this law had laid the fell spirit of 
Protestant bigotry for ever ; but it was 
not so. The snake was only scotched, 
not killed. It required another blow 
to render it completely innoxious. 
O'Connell, who had been elected be- 
fore the bill passed, claimed a right 
to a seat in the Commons, even 
though a Catholic, and in support of 
that claim presented himself early in 
the session. The scene that ensued 
is thus described by an eye-witness : 



14 



It is impossible to convey a perfect 
idea of the silent, the almost breathless 
attention, with which O'Connell was 
watched and perused, when, in compli- 
ance with the request of the speaker, he 
advanced to the table. So large a num- 
ber of peers had never been previously 
seen in that House. Two members of 
the aristocracy accompanied O'Connell, 
and, as a matter of form, introduced him to 
the House. Their names were Ebrington 
and Dungannon. As he passed the bar 
of the House, every eye was fixed on him. 
The first oath tendered to O'Connell was 
that of the supremacy, which he was seen, 
by the silent and watching multitude, to 
wave away and refuse. They heard him 
say : ' I apply to take my seat under the 
new act. I am ready to take the oath direct- 
ed to be taken by Roman Catholic mem- 
bers. I do not feel that I am bound to 
take these oaths.' As he uttered these 
last words, he passed his hand over the 
oaths which he objected to, and which were 
affixed to pasteboards. ' You will be good 
enough,* added O'Connell, ' to inform the 
speaker that I do not think I am bound 
to take these oaths.' The chief clerk 
gathered up the pieces of pasteboard, 
and hurried up with them to the speaker, 
where he was seen pointing out to that 
functionary the oaths which O'Connell 
refused to take. The speaker then rose 
and said that, unless the new member 
took the old oaths, he must withdraw. 
The speaker alluded to those blasphe- 



mous oaths whose injustice was so flagrant 
that they had been just repealed. O'Con- 
nell, it is said, requested that the oath of 
qualification, stating that he possessed 
six hundred a year, should be adminis- 
tered to him ; but this was likewise re- 
fused. During all this time, the speak- 
er's manner and expression of counte- 
nance towards O'Connell, on whom he 
fixed his regards, were extremely coune- 
ous, but the declaration that he must 
withdraw firm and authoritative. O'Con- 
nell looked round, as if expecting sup- 
port; but this failing, he bowed, and 
stood facing the speaker in perfect si- 
lence. At this moment. Brougham was 
seen to rise ; but before he could ad- 
dress the house, the speaker exclaimed 
' Order !' and again intimated to O'Con- 
nell that he must withdraw. The latter 
bowed respectfully, and, without uttering 
a single syllable, withdrew. After his de- 
parture. Brougham, who was still on his 
legs, addressed the house in a subdued 
tone, and, after some discussion, the de- 
bate was postponed. 

•* May 18, 1829, was a memorable day 
in the history of O'Connell's event- 
ful life. Peel, rising in the House of 
Commons on that day, moved that 
O'Connell should be heard at the bar—a 
motion which was carried. Accordingly, 
he advanced to the bar, attended by 
Pierce Mahony — the whole house regard- 
ing him with the most intense interest. 
He addressed the house i«i a long and 
elaborate speech, in which he clearly 
demonstraled his right. His courteous 
manner and temperate address concili- 
ated, in some degree, the good opinion 
of the members. He exhibited that flexi- 
bility of mind, that power of accommo- 
dating himself to his auditory, which 
formed his most remarkable attribute. 
When he concluded, the question was 
taken up by the lawyers, who endeavored 
to explain the meaning of the new act to 
the very men who had passed it As the 
aristocracy had previously determined 
that O'Connell should not sit, the mem- 
bers of the lower house, who always do 
their bidding, rejected O'Connell's claim. 
" Retiring with Pierce Mahony by bis 
side, O'Connell endeavored to recover 
the ^eat which he had occupied previous- 
ly to his appearance at the table. But to 
his surprise, he found two gentlemen in 
possession of it. They were Frenchmen, 
but spoke English like natives. One of 
these men afterwards reigned in France 



The Priest. 



219 



as Louis Philippe. The other was his 
son. the Duke of Orleans. 

"The following day, O'Connell ap- 
peared for the third time at the bar of the 
House. He was told by the speaker that 
unless he took the oath of supremacy, 
the House would not permit him to take 
his seat. 

"'Are you willing to take the oath of 
supremacy T asked the speaker. 

'''Allow me to look at it/ replied 
O'Connell. 

"The oath was handed to O'Connell, 
and he looked at it in silence for a few se- 
conds : then raising his head, he said : ' In 
this oath I see one assertion as to a mat- 
ter of fact, which I know to be untrue. I 
see a second assertion as to a matter of 
opinion, which I believe to be untrue. I 
therefore refuse to take this oath.' A 
writ was immediately issued for a new 
clectioo." 



He was again triumphantly elected 
for Clare, and from thenceforth till his 
death occupied a seat in the House, 
representing at various times differ- 
ent constituencies. Of his conduct 
as member of Parliament, however 
his contemporaries might have differ- 
ed in opinion, either through par- 



tiality or prejudice, posterity will do 
him the justice of according to him a 
wonderful versatility of talent, a con- 
scientious desire to forward the inter- 
ests of his country, an unswerving 
courage and dignity in meeting the 
taunts and sneers of Tory and Whig 
alike against his compatriots — a pro- 
cess of reasoning then much in vogue 
among English politicians. From 
Peel, Russell, Disraeli, and Sipthorpe 
downwards, no man, among the seven 
hundred or so that are supposed to 
represent the commons of Great Bri- 
tain and Ireland, ever dared to raise 
their crest against Catholics or Irish- 
men, but, swifter than the flight of a 
falcon on a heron, the Liberator 
pounced upon him, and, metaphori- 
cally, tore him to pieces. In the 
debates on the Reform Bill, the Poor 
Law Act, and the tithe question, he 
was generally found on the side of 
popular rights and free govrt^nment; 
and if, as has been charged, he some- 
times leaned towards the Whigs, it 
was because he accepted their mea- 
sures as the lesser evils. 



THE PRIEST. 



"And the people were waiting for Zachaxy."— 8. Luxb I. «i. 

As morning breaks, or evening shadows steal, 
Duties and thoughts throng round the marble stair. 
Waiting for Him who bumeth incense there. 
Till He shall send to bless them as they kneel. 
Greater than Aaron is the mighty Priest 
Who in that radiant shrine for ever dwells ; 
Brighter the stones that stud His glowing vest. 
And ravishing the music of His bells 
That tinkle as He moves. The golden air 
Is filled with notes of joy that dance and run 
Through every court, and make the temple one, 
^The lamps are lit; 'tis past the hour of prayer, 
And through the windows is their lustre thrown — 
Deep in the holy place the Priest doth watch alone. 



— Faber. 



220 



Grapes and Thorns. 



GRAPES AND THORNS. 



BY THB AUTHOR OP **THB HOUSB OP YORKB." 



CHAPTER VI. 



MARRIAGE BELLS. 



That green and sequestered do- 
main which Mr. Schoningcr had 
looked at across the water-Hlies and 
peopled with his fancies, which, in- 
deed, he had visited, and was per- 
fectly familiar with, was not so far 
out of the world as it appeared. It 
was in a great triangle made by three 
railroads, and there was a station- 
house a mile back from the pond by 
which the tenants of the cottage held 
easy communication with the two 
cities near. Still, the place was not 
very accessible from without; for 
this mile of country road had been 
made by simply driving over pasture 
and field, and through alder-woods, 
till a track was visible, and then con- 
tinuing to drive in the same track. 
After coming through the alder- 
swamp, the road became two yellow- 
brown lines across the greensward, 
and ended in a grove that complete- 
ly hid the barn built in it. Between 
these two yellow-brown lines, at reg- 
ular distances, were yellow-brown 
spots, showing where the horse had 
stepped. Dobbin appeared to al- 
ways step precisely in his own tracks. 

It was seldom that any one drove 
over this road except old Mr. Grey, 
whose horse and wagon were, after 
their kind, quite as old as himself. 
Mrs. Macon, zealously collecting use- 
ful articles for the new convent, had 
driven there in her light phaeton, 
and spent two hours rummaging the 
attics with Mrs. Grey, and talking 
over the relics they found; that is, 
Mrs. Grey explained, and her visitor 
listened. She had gone away with 
bundles piled up to her chin. 



One afternoon late in August, Mr. 
Grey harnessed Dobbin to the wagon 
— " tackled " Dobbin, he would have 
said — and started for the railroad 
station. He had almost reached the 
alders, which seemed to bar the way, 
when he drew the reins and listened. 
If it had been Mrs. Grey, instead of 
her husband, she would have driven 
straight on, for she was perfectly 
deaf. 

These alders leaned over, and, in 
summer, completely hid the road, 
and whatever went through there 
had to breast a tide of leaves. It had 
never occurred to Mr. Grey to cut 
the twigs away, nor, apparently, had 
it occurred to Dobbin to fret against 
them. They jogged on uncomplain- 
ingly, never in a hurry, and lived and 
let live. Mr. Grey's philosophy was 
that every person in the world is ap- 
pointed to do just so much, and that, 
as soon as his work is accomplished, 
he dies. He preferred to do his part 
in a leisurely manner, and live the 
longer. 

The sound he listened to was a 
faint noise of wheels and hoofs, in, or 
beyond, the alders. For two car- 
riages to meet in that place would . 
be a predicament more perplexing 
than that of the two unwise men and 
the two wise goats on the narrow 
bridge we have all read of; because 
here neither could turn back, nor 
walk over the other, and if one should 
be killed, still that would not clear 
the track. So the driver waited, his 
mouth slightly open, to hear the bet- 
ter, and the lash of his old-fashioned 
whip hanging motionless over his 



Grapes and Thorns, 



221 



shoulder. The old white horse drop- 
ped his nose, and went to sleep; and 
the creaking and rattling wagon look- 
ed as if it had made its final stand, 
and meant to go to pieces where it 



There was just sound enough to 
show how still it was. Some wild 
creature under a rude cage on the 
lawn snarled lowly to itself, there 
was the swift rustle of a bird's wings 
through the air, and the roll of a 
train of cars lessened to a bee's hum 
by distance. The pond was glassy, 
the rails shone hot beyond it ; farther 
still the sultry woods heaved their 
billows of light and shade ; and, far- 
thest of all, over a little scooped-out 
valley, a single mountain stood on 
the horizon. 

There was, indeed, a carriage 
among the alders, but by no means 
such an equipage as that which await- 
ed it. It was like a fairy coach in 
comparison, with a glitter of varnish 
and metat^ and snowy-white lining 
that shone like satin, and beautiful 
horses that pranced from side to side 
as they felt the soft, brushing leaves 
and twigs against their dainty coats, 
and pushing into their very eyes. 
The mice on the box wore glossy 
hats, and appeared to be very much 
disgusted with this trap into which 
they had fallen. To the birds over- 
head the whole roust have looked 
like something swimming in a sea of 
green leaves. 

The fairies in the coach were not 
fully visible from any point, but a 
clear voice rose presently from the 
submerged cushions. "There's a 
sufficient road underneath, John," it 
said. " Drive where you see the 
alder-tops lowest. There are no 
roots, if you keep the way. It is 
only overleaning branches." 

In a few minutes they emerged, 
and drew up beside the wagon. Its 
occupant did not make the slightest 



reply to the bright salutation of the 
two ladies. It was not his custom to 
salute any one. He merely waited 
to see what would be said. 

" O Mr. Grey 1" says Annette, 
'^ if I had a pair of strong shears, I 
would cut a peep-hole, at least, 
through that jungle. Did you get 
my letter ?" 

He nodded, with a short " Yes," 
looking with calm scrutiny at the 
two young women. 

" Well ?" continued Miss Ferrier. 

" Elizabeth is out on the pond," he 
said ; " but the old woman will blow 
the horn for her. She'll show you 
the flowers; and you can have 'em 
all. I can put them aboard of any 
train you settle on." 

There was a moment of silence ; for 
Mr. Grey had condensed the whole 
business into a few words, and there 
was really no more to say. Annette 
had written him to save all his flow- 
ers for her wedding, and this was his 
answer. 

" Are you going away ?" she asked, 
rather needlessly. 

'* I'm going to meet the next up- 
train," he answered, and began to 
tug at his reins, and chirrup at Dob- 
bin. 

They left him making great eflbrts 
to get under way again, and drove 
noiselessly on. 

" What a peculiarly condensed sort 
of man he is in his speech !" remarked 
Miss Pembroke. 

'* Condensed !" exclaimed the 
other. '^ His talk reminds me of 
some one whose head and limbs have 
been cut ofL It takes me by sur- 
prise, and leaves me astonished. I 
always feel as if something ought to 
be done." 

So one carriage creaked into the 
alders, and the other sparkled up to 
the house door. 

This door stood open, and within 
it sat an old woman, her hands fold- 



222 



Grapes and Thorns. 



;d in her lap, her eyes looking out 
over the water. She had a placid 
face, and looked refined. A sweet, 
faint smile greeted her visitors, and 
her voice was sweet, and was very 
low, as the voices of some deaf per- 
sons are. 

'< Elizabeth has gone out on the 
water," she said. " I will call her." 

" Don't rise !" exclaimed Annette 
quickly, preventing her. "1*11 get 
the horn for you. I know where 
everything is here." 

The old lady understood the ac- 
tion, though she had not heard the 
words, and sank back into her seat 
again. 

"She feels for everybody's pain," 
she said gratefully, speaking to her- 
self. 

Annette tripped lightly across the 
sunny, silent room, and took down 
from a nail beside the chimney 
a large ox-horn suspended there. 
With simple politeness, the old lady 
obeyed her visitor's wish, and did not 
rise even when the horn was placed 
in her hand. She merely leaned 
forward, and, placing it to her lips, 
blew a loud and prolonged blast 
that sounded far over water and 
forest. 

"That will bring her," she said, 
and gave back the rustic instrument 
for Annette to return to its place. 

The two then strolled down to the 
water-side to wait for the lady of the 
lake. They seated themselves on a 
mossy rock close to the water, under 
the shade of the only tree left there. 
It was an old pine-tree, of which the 
main part was decayed, but one 
Rtrong branch made a shade over 
them, and held firmly all its dark- 
green fasces in token of a sovereign- 
ty it would not abdicate while life 
remained. Beside the rock, in the 
warm sunshine, stood a group of 
Jftf/an lilicA. 

♦* 1 don't like them," Annette said. 



"They are beautiful in their way, 
but they look cruel and detestable. 
They seem to me like a large pink 
and white woman who poisons 
people." 

"My dear," said Miss Pembroke, 
as she bent her head over the flowers, 
" it would be well if you could con- 
trive to shut the battery of those 
nerves of yours once in a while." 

" It might be well if I could be 
changed into one like you," Annette 
responded ; but immediately correct- 
ed herself. " No 1 And I do not 
believe that the most unfortunate 
and discontented person in the world 
would be willing to change his 
individuality with another. It is 
only his circumstances he would 
change, and be still himself, but at 
his best. Perhaps that is what will 
keep us contented in heaven , though 
we may see others far above us : each 
will be himself in perfection, with all 
the good in possession that he is 
capable of holding, and will see that 
he cannot be different without being 
some one else." 

"Perhaps," said Honora dream- 
ily. 

It may be that she felt unconscious- 
ly a little of that superiority which 
the calm assume over the troubled, 
though the calm may be of the pool, 
and the trouble of the ocean, or both 
a mere question of temperament. 
She leaned over the lily, and examin- 
ed the red clots on its petals; how 
they rose higher, and strained up- 
ward toward the centre, till by their 
passionate stress they drew up the 
milky flower substance into a stem to 
support them ; as though they would 
reach the slender filaments that 
towered aloft over their heads. Two 
or three tiniest red spiders were 
picnicking on the fragrant white 
ground among these stems, and did 
not seem to even suspect the presence 
of a large black spider, with extrava- 



Grapes and Tlwrns, 



223 



gantly long legs, which walked di- 
rectly over the flower and them in 
two or three sextuple strides. 

*^The petal they stand on must 
seem to them a soft and snowy- 
white moss/' drawled Miss Pem- 
broke, half asleep with the heat and 
the silence. " I should think the 
perfume of it would be too strong 
for their little noses.*' 

"Perhaps the particles of fra- 
grance are too large for their little 
noses. Or, perhaps^ they have no 
noses," responded Miss Ferrier, 
gravely. 

A faint, responsive murmur of as- 
sent from the other. 

Annette tossed twigs into the 
water, and watched the dimples they 
made, and which way they floated. 
"That is a wild fox up under that 
cage," she said. " It is cruel to keep 
it there. I shall free it when we go 
back." 

"Perhaps Mr. Grey is going to 
stuff its skin, and may not like to lose 
it," Honora answered, having finished 
her examination of the lily. " I have 
heard that he is quite a naturalist, 
and has specimens of every animal, 
and insect, and plant about" 

Annette tossed a pebble this time 
with energy. " I hate naturalists," 
she remarked. " I always fancy 
that they have bugs in their pockets." 

"Bugs in their pockets! That 
would be uncomfortable," was the 
placid comment. 

"For the bugs, yes!" said 
Annette; then, after a moment, 
added, "Whenever it is a question 
of tormenting what Lord Erskine 
called the 'mute creation,' I am 
always for the plaintiff. Who is to 
i)e profited by knowing about bugs 
and beetles? It is a contemptible 
science, and, I repeat, a cruel one. 
I never can like a woman or a man 
whom I have once seen sticking 
pins through beetles, and butterflies, 



and bats; and I would as lief have 
a human skull for an ornament in 
a room as a stuffed skin of any- 
thing. I shall set that fox free this 
instant. I observed it as I came 
past, and it looked like a person 
going crazy. Its eyes were like fire 
and there was froth round its teeth." 

Miss Pembroke looked up in 
alarm, for Annette had risen. " Do 
be careful !" she said. *' His bite 
would kill you. Don't you remem- 
ber that Duke of Richmond who 
was bitten by a fox, in Canada, and 
died of hydrophobia a day to two 
afterwards ? He was playing with 
it, and it snapped at his hand." 

" I'm not going to play with it, 
but to free it," said Annette, and 
walked rapidly across the green. 
" I've found one fault in Honora," 
she muttered. "She is sweet and 
good to a certain length, but her 
sympathies are circumscribed." 

The cage of strong withes was 
securely fastened to the ground 
with wooden pins, and the door 
was tied with a slender chain. The 
fox was furthermore secured by a 
rope which held one of his legs. 
He faced about and glared at his 
liberator, while, from the outside, 
she cut the rope with her pocket- 
knife. His eyes were like balls of 
fire, but he did not snap at her. 
He did not trust her, but lie had 
perhaps a doubt that she meant 
him well. 

The leg free, Annette slipped the 
knob of the chain, and opened the 
door. 

"In honor of the Creator of men 
and beasts, and S. Francis of Assisi, 
go free now and for ever," she said. 

The creature stood motionless one 
instant, then, with the rush and 
speed of an arrow, it shot through 
the opening, flew across tlie green, 
and leaped into the water, that 
hissed as though a red-hot coal had 



224 



Grapes and Thorns, 



been dropped into it. Annette ran, 
laughing and full of excitement, 
back to the rock, and watched the 
swimmer. Only his nose and long 
tail showing, he made fiercely for 
the shore, his whole being concen- 
trated in the one longing for free- 
dom. 

'^ If he should run into a cage on 
the other side, I believe his heart 
would burst with the disappoint- 
ment," Annette said, standing up 
to watch him. " Bravo \ There he 
is, my dear brother, the fox." 

He leaped up the farther shore 
and over the track, and rushed head- 
long into the broad, free woods. 

** Won't he have a ' story to 
tell !" said Annette, seating herself; 
"that is, if he ever stops running. 
You may depend on it, Honora, I 
shall be a great heroine among the 
foxes ; and as years go by, and the 
story is passed down from genera- 
tion to generation, I shall undergo 
a change in the picture. My hair 
will grow to be golden, with stars 
in it, and my eyes will be radiant, 
and they will put wings on me, and 
I shall be an angel. That's the 
way the myths and marvels were 
made. But how they will get over 
my sawing off the rope with a dull 
pen-knife is more than I can tell." 

"The spirit will be true, dear, 
if not the letter," Honora answered, 
smiling. " What signifies a httle inac- 
curacy in the material part? That 
will be turned to dust before the 
story reaches the winged period." 

Miss Ferrier had something on 
her mind which she shrank a little 
from speaking of, but presently men- 
tioned in that careless manner we 
assume when we care more than 
we like to own : 

"I've been wondering lately wheth- 
er it would be silly in me to have 
my genealogy looked up. It seems a 
little top-heavy to have one's family 



tree all leaves and no roots, though 
mine is not so in reality. My father 
and mother were both very poor and 
ignorant when I was bom ; but my 
great-grandfather was a French gen- 
tleman. He became poor in some 
way, and had no idea how to do 
anything for himself. I dare say he 
was very weak, but he was immense- 
ly genteel. He and his sons lived 
in a tumble-down old stone house 
somewhere near Quebec, and ate oat- 
meal porridge out of painted china 
bowls, with heavy spoons that had a 
crest on them. There they moaned 
away their existence in a state of re- 
signed surprise at their circumstan- 
ces, and of expectation that the rich- 
es that had taken to themselves wings 
would fly back again. There was 
one desperate one in the family, and 
he was my grandfather. He grew 
tired of shabby gentility, and set out 
to work. The others cast him off; 
and I suppose he wasn't very ener- 
getic, or very lucky, for he went 
down. He married a wife from the 
working class, and they had no end 
of children, who all died sooner or 
later, except my father. My grand- 
father died, too — was glad to get him- 
self out of sight of the sun ; and my 
poor father — God be merciful to him ! 
— stumbled on through life in the 
same dazed way. All he inherited was 
the dull astonishment of that old 
Frenchman who could never be made 
to realize that riches would not some 
day come back as they had gone. 
Of course" — Annette shrugged her 
shoulders, and laughed slighdy — " it 
would be necessary to drop some of 
the later details. That is the way 
people do. Build a bridge over the 
chasm into the shining part. Miss 
Pembroke, what do you think of my 
unearthing my great-grandfather, and 
setting him up in my parlors for 
people to admire? Wouldn't it be 
more interesting than a stuffed fox ? 



Grapes and Thorns. 



225 



I im of his ancestry " — her laughter 
died out in a flash of pride. *' If 
they had any fire worthy their blood, 
I have it Some spark was held in 
abeyance, and I have caught it. I 
would like to go back and search 
out my kindred. Well! do you 
think me vulgar?" 

Honora looked at her earnestly. 
*' No, Annette ; but you are conde- 
scending too much. You are coming 
nearer to vulgarity than I ever knew 
you to before. Lineage is something, 
is much, and those who can look 
back on a noble and stainless ances- 
try are fortunate, if they are worthy 
of it. I do not wonder that they are 
pleased to remember their forefathers. 
But character is more, and does not 
need ancestry. It is sufficient to it- 
$el£ What, after all, is the real ad- 
vantage of belonging to a high fam- 
ily ? It is that one is supposed to 
inherit from it high qualities. If one 
has the qualities without the family, 
it is far higher. It is the kind of 
character that founds great families — 
that natural, newly-given loftiness. 
I should be sorry if you allowed 
yourself to take a step in this matter, 
Annette." 

"You can easily say all that," 
Annette replied, half pleased and half 
bitter. <* You have a past that you 
can look to with pride." 

"With pride 1" echoed the other. 
*' I do not understand you. If you 
mean Mr& Carpenter, I certainly 
like to think of her ; but her qualities 
were entirely personal. I have no- 
thing to be ashamed of in my family, 
and I am thankful for that ; but, also, 
I am not aware that there is anything 
to be proud oL It is a merely nega- 
tive feeling." 

" But," Annette said, " your people 
have always been well off, and some 
were very rich, and they were edu- 
cated." 

'^And you think me capable of 
VOL. xvui. — 15 



pluming myself on that — of being 
proud of an ancestry of prosperous 
traders and merchants who were pass- 
ably educated !" 

Honora flushed, and drew herself 
up involuntarily, with an awakening 
of that invincible personal haughti- 
ness which is more soaring than any 
mere royalty of blood. 

" I never give it a thought, except 
in a negative way. They merely did 
what decent people with ordinary 
sense and capacity are obliged to do. 
No, Annette, don't fancy that I can 
walk on such small stilts. If it were 
an old historical name, now, one that 
painters had illustrated and poets 
sung, that would be fine. If there 
had been great warriors and mighty 
rulers, there would be a chance for 
pride to come in. Or, better, if it 
were some hero or benefactor to the 
race, whom I could look back to ; or 
if it were a poet. I always fancy 
some grace surrounds the children of 
a poet. They may not sing, they 
may be personally commonplace; 
but, like the broken vase, 

** ^ The scent of the roses wUl hang round them 
stiU/ " 

" I think you must be descended 
from a poet," Annette said, smiling. 

" And so, child," concluded Hono- 
ra, laying her hand on her compa- 
nion's arm, '* don't condescend to 
go into the past for some reason 
why you should be respected ; find it 
in yourself. I think it right to tell 
you now what might otherwise sound 
like flattery. I, and many better 
udges than I, think you uncommon 
and admirable. You have made 
little mistakes — as who has not ? — but 
they were never mean ones. Don't 
be led into pettiness now." 

Annette blushed. 

''What set me talking of ances- 
try ?" she exclaimed. '' It's a dusty 
subject, not fit for this fresh, clear 
place. It belongs to the town. How 



226 



Grapes and Thorns. 



quiet and lovely it is here ! I would 
like to come often. In the city, I 
can't hear myself think." 

They sat a while without saying 
anything, and looked over the water. 
A shower was travelling across the 
distant mountain, trailing in a dim 
silver mist from sky to earth. It sailed 
nearer, so that drops from the edge of 
it dimpled the pond not far away. 

A boat came toward them, pro- 
pelled by a pair of strong arms. Eliz- 
abeth had heard her grandmother's 
summons, and was coming home. 
Her little boat was piled full of 
boughs of the wild cherry. Strings 
of its fruit, like strung garnets, glow- 
ed through the green leaves. With 
this was a tangled mass of clematis. 
She had hung a long spray of the 
vine over her head and neck, and its 
-silvery-green blossoms glistened in 
the loose rings of her short, black 
'hair, which it pushed over her fore- 
head, and almost into the laughing 
eyes beneath. Through this vine, and 
•the blouse that covered but did not 
hide them, the working of her supple 
shoulders could be seen. Her smooth, 
oval face was deeply flushed with 
^health, exercise, and warmth. 

She was perfecdy business-like in 
her manner, and attended strictly to 
what she was doing. Even in pass- 
ing before the young ladies, and look- 
ing directly in their faces, though 
her lips parted in a smile, she made 
no other sign of recognition. She 
brought her boat round in a smooth 
circle, not without pride, apparently, 
in displaying her skill, pushed it into 
a tiny cove, where the long, trailing 
•grass brushed both sides, sprang 
lightly ashore, and tied it to the 
mooring-ring. 

Then she made her half-embar- 
rassed salutation, and stood wiping 
away the perspiration that lay in 
large drops on her forehead, and in 
little beads around her mouth. 



If these three young women had 
been changed into flowers, the rower 
would have been a peony, Honora 
a lily, and Annette — but there is no 
flower complex and generous enough 
to be her representative. Be her 
symbol, rather, the familiar one of the 
orb just rounding into shape out of 
chaos. She was less well balanced 
than Honora, merely because there 
was so much more to balance. Her 
freak of searching out an ancestry 
would never have been acted on, 
even if her friend had approved it 
It was one of those thoughts which 
need only to be put into words in 
order to be dismissed. Annette had 
rid herself of a good many foolish 
notions in this way, and had been 
growing wiser than her critics by the 
very acts which they took as proofs 
of her weakness. 

Miss Pembroke had discovered 
this, for she looked lovingly. Others 
were astonished to find themselves 
awed to-day where they had mock- 
ed but yesterday, and professed that 
they knew Annette Ferrier only to 
be puzzled by her. 

It sometimes happens to people 
that illusory thoughts and feelings, 
which, pent in the mind, have an ap- 
pearance of reality, and even of force, 
perish in expressing themselves, as 
the cloud breaks in thunder. 

There was another difference be- 
tween these two: Annette had one 
of those souls that are bom nailed 
to their cross. 

It is usual with hasty and super- 
ficial judges, people who, as Liszt 
says, "desire to promulgate laws 
in spheres to which nature has de- 
nied them entrance," to show what 
they fancy is a good-natured con- 
tempt for these discontented beings 
who cannot accommodate themselves 
to life as it is. They mention them 
with an indulgent smile, and seem 
to take pleasure in wounding still 



Grapes and Thorns. 



222 



further these sensitive souls, not 
aware how clearly they display their 
own presumptuous selfishness. The 
ease with which they content them- 
selves with inferior aims and plea- 
sures, they dignify by the name of 
philosophy and good sense ; and they 
presume to censure those who, tor- 
mented by a vision of perfection, and 
feeling within themselves the prema- 
ture stirring of powers that can be 
employed only in a higher state of 
existence, seem so imperfect only be- 
cause to be perfect they must be super- 
humanly great. There are two ways 
in which this divine discontent may 
be silenced : the soul may degrade 
itself, and treat its ideals as vision- 
ary ; or it may find rest in God. But 
no ordinary piety suffices ; only a 
saintly holiness, flowing in and 
around the troubled soul like a 
sunny and peaceful sea, can lift and 
bear it smoothly on to that land 
where nothing sacred is mocked at, 
and the smiles are awakened by no 
sight of another's pain. 

Annette Ferrier had made this 
much progress, that she had learn- 
ed to rely on no one for a sympa- 
thy that would satisfy her, and had 
owned to herself that her heart re- 
quired other and nobler aims and 
motives than those which had oc- 
cupied her. She was half aware, 
or would have been, if the thought 
had not been rejected as treasonable, 
that if she were not already engaged 
to Lawrence Gerald, nothing would 
induce her to accept him as her 
future husband. But she had ac- 
cepted him, and there was no longer 
room to doubt or to choose, or even 
to think of doubting or choosing. 
It lacked but a week to their wed- 
ding-day, and she was making her 
last preparations. What was worth 
doing at all was worth doing well, 
she thought, and resolved to make 
ihe occasion a festival one. 



The three walked up the green 
together, Elizabeth between the two 
young ladies. Miss Pembroke step- 
ped quite independently, her hands 
folded lightly together; Annette 
held by the end of the clematis 
wreath that still hung over the young 
girl's shoulders, and looked at her 
with a caressing smile. 

" Did you buy the little writing- 
case we were speaking of when I 
was here last ?" she asked. 

" Well, not exactly," was the hesi- 
tating answer. 

" Not exactly ! That means that 
you have engaged it, or got one 
that does not suit, and must be ex- 
changed." 

Miss Ferrier had dropped the 
wreath, and was engaged in gather- 
ing up the cloud of pale blue mus- 
lin that flowed around and behind 
her, and did not observe the smile 
on the girl's face. 

"No," said Elizabeth, gathering 
courage from her visitor's kindness. 
"You see, when I sat down and 
looked at the half-eagle you gave 
me, I thought it seemed a pity to 
go right off" and spend it for a writ- 
ing-case. I could have that, if I 
wanted to, so I didn't feel quite so 
anxious about it; and there were 
other things I wanted just as much. 
It would be nice to have a little 
clock in my room, and five dollars 
would buy one. So since I could 
have that, too, I felt easier about 
not having it. Ihen, I would like a 
larger looking-glass. Well, I kind 
of thought I had it, since I could 
buy it if I would. And I could get 
any one of the half a dozen other 
things I wanted, making about ten 
in all. But when I knew that I 
could have either whenever I chose, 
I didn't feel in a hurry to get any- 
thing; and I was so sure of each 
one that it seemed to me as if I 
had them all. So I just kept the 



228 



Grapes and Thorns, 



five dollars; and while I keep it, it 
is as good as fifty to me. When I 
spend it, it will be only five dollars, 
and I shall want nine things dread- 
fully, and be sorry I hadn't bought 
one of them instead of what I did 
get." 

Annette dropped her gathered-up 
skirts from her hands to throw her 
arms around the young rustic's neck, 
and kiss her astonished face. 

" You dear little soul 1" she cried, 
in an ecstasy, " how quickly you have 
found it out !" 

Elizabeth blushed immensely, for 
she was not used to being kissed. 
" Found out what ?" she asked. 

"Why, that nothing in the world 
is very desirable except what you 
can't get." 

•* Oh !" The girl tossed her head 
back, and laughed ringingly. "I 
found that out as long ago as I 
used to cry for mince-pie to eat, 
and then cry with stomach-ache 
after I had eaten it. Grandfather 
used to tell me then that if there is 
anything in the world that we want 
so much we cry to get it, it will 
be sure to make us cry still more 
after we have it. I never forgot 
that. Grandfather knows a great 
deal about everything," she con- 
cluded, with an air of conviction. 

" Did you ever see a creature 
learn so easily?" Annette said to 
Honora. "She begins life with all 
the wisdom of experience." 

Honora sighed as she answered, 
" She reminds me of something dear 
Mother Chevreuse said the last time 
she came to see me : < Nothing is 
worth working for but bread and 
heaven.' " 

They had reached Mr. Grey's flo- 
ral treasure-house by this time, and 
the flowers absorbed their attention. 

" Bushels of asters !" exclaimed 
Annette, pausing outside the door, 
and glancing along the garden-beds. 



" And they are almost as handsome 
as roses. Those will do for the bal- 
conies and out-of-the-way places. 
And, Elizabeth, I want you to cher- 
ish every pansy as if it were a jewel. 
I don't care about the piebald ones, 
but the pure purple or pure gold are 
quite the thing. And now, Honora, 
step in here, and own that you never 
before saw fuchsias. You remember 
Edgar Foe's hill of tulips sloping to 
the water, like a cataract of gems 
flowing down from the sky ? That 
Poetical creature! Well, here's a 
Niagara of lady's ear-drops." 

When at length they had started, 
and were driving down to their alder- 
bath again, Honora leaned out of the 
carriage, and looked back. 

" What a lovely place this would 
be to spend a honeymoon in !" she 
said softly, as if to herself. 

"Which, yours or mine?" asked 
Annette. 

Honora blushed. " I was think- 
ing of honeymoons in the abstract," 
she replied. 

Elizabeth stood on the lawn, and 
looked after the carriage as long as it 
was in sight ; and when it was no long- 
er in sight, she still gazed at the green 
wall that had closed up behind it. 
Perhaps she was thinking what a fine 
thing it must be to drive in a pretty 
carriage, and have gauzy dresses 
trailing away behind one like clouds ; 
or may be she was recollecting what 
Ihey had said to her, and how that 
delicate, airy lady had kissed her on 
the cheek, and laughed with tears in 
her eyes. 

While she gazed, deeply occupied 
with whatever dream or thought she 
was entertaining, the alders parted 
again, and a man appeared, hesitating 
whether to come forward, yet looking 
at her as if he wished to speak. 
Elizabeth did not much like his 
looks, but she advanced a step to see 
what he wanted. No harm had ever 



Grapes and Thorns. 



229 



come to her there, and she had no 
thought of fear. Besides, she would 
have considered herself perfectly well 
able to put this person to flight ; for 
bis slim, little figure and mean face 
were by no means calculated to in- 
spire either fear or respect 

Encouraged by her advance, the 
man came forward to meet her. 

" My grandfather will soon be 
home, if you want him," she said di- 
rectly, holding aloof. 

The stranger did not want to see 
him ; he merely wished to ask some 
questions about the place which she 
could answer. 

They were very trivial questions, 
but she answered them, keeping her 
eyes fixed intently on him. He 
wanted to know what they raised 
there; if it was very cold in winter; 
if it was very hot in summer ; if they 
had many visitors there ; if she was 
much acquainted in Crichton ; if she 
had a piano ; if she could play ; if 
she knew any good music-teacher. 
And perhaps she had seen Mr. Scho- 
ninger ? 

No, she had not seen him. 

" Oh ! perhaps you have met him 
without knowing," the man said with 
animation, in spite of an assumed 
carelessness. ^' Seems to me I saw 
him come here this summer. Don't 
you remember a man whose buggy 
broke down beyond there, and he 
came here for a rope ?" 

The girl's eyes brightened. " Oh I 
is that a music-teacher ?" she asked. 
''His voice sounds like it, or like 
what a music-teacher's ought to be. 
Ves, I remember him. He got on 
to the wrong road driving up to 
Crichton, turned off here instead 
of going straight on, and something 
broke. I gave him a rope, and he 
went away." 

^ Let me see ; there was somebody 
^ here at the same time, wasn't 
there ?" he asked, with an air of try- 



ing to recollect. " Wasn't there a 
woman here getting things for the 
new convent ?" 

The disagreeable eagerness in her 
questioner's eyes chilled the girl ; but 
there seemed no reason why she 
should not answer so insignificant a 
question. She did so reluctantly. 
" Yes, Mrs. Macon was here." 

" And her carriage was standing at 
the door ?" he added, nodding. 

"Seems to me you're very much 
interested in our visitors," said Eliza- 
beth abruptly, drawing herself up a 
little. 

The man laughed. "Why, yes, in 
these two. But I won't ask you 
much more. Only tell me one thing. 
Did you see this Mr. Schoninger com^ 
up to the door, and go away from it ?" 

" I saw him come up, I didn't see 
him go away," she said. 

The truth was that Miss Elizabeth 
had admired this stranger exceeding- 
ly, but had not wished him to sus- 
pect it. So instead of frankly look- 
ing after him as he went out, she had 
turned away, with an air of immense 
indifference, then rushed to the win- 
dow to look when she thought him 
at a safe distance. 

"Then you didn't see him when 
he passed by the phaeton that stood 
at the step ?" pursued the questioner. 

She shook her head, and pursed 
her lip out impatiently. 

" He had a shawl over his arm 
when he came. Did you notice 
whether he had it when you saw him 
going away ?" was the next question. 

" I don't know anything about it," 
she said shortly ; but recollected even 
in speaking that she had said to her- 
self as she watched the strange gen- 
tleman going, " How does he hold 
his shawl so that I can't see it ?" 

" Now, one more question, and I 
have done," the stranger said. His 
weak, shuffling manner had quite dis- 
appeared, and he was keen and busi- 



2iO 



Grapes and T/iorns. 



ness-like. "Was there anybody else 
about the house who saw this man ?'' 

" Yes ; grandfather was in the 
garden; but he didn't come near 
him." 

"What part of the garden? In 
sight of the door ?" 

" I won't tell you another word !" 
she exclaimed, turning away. " And 
I think you'd better go." 

When she glanced back again, 
the man had disappeared. She felt 
uneasy and regretful. Something 
was going on which she did not un- 
derstand, and it seemed to her that 
she had done harm in answering 
those questions. 

" I wish I had gone into the house 
when I saw the prying creature," she 
said to herself; " or I wish I had held 
my tongue. He's got what he came 
for, I can see that." 

He had got what he came for, or 
very nearly. 

" Shall I waylay the old man, and 
question him ?" he thought; and con- 
cluded not to. " If he knows any- 
thing, he will tell it at the proper 
time." 

The green boughs brushed him 
with their tender leaves, as if they 
would have brushed away some cob- 
webs from his sight, and opened his 
eyes to the peace and charity of the 
woods; but he was too much absorb- 
ed in one ignoble pursuit to be acces- 
sible to gentler influences. What he 
sought was not to uphold the law; 
what he felt was not that charity to 
the many which sometimes makes 
severity to the few a necessity. His 
object was money, and charity lay 
dead in his heart with a coin over 
each eye. 

That evening Miss Ferrier and 
Lawrence Gerald talked over their 
matrimonial affairs quite freely, and 
in the most business-like manner in 
the world. They discussed the cere- 
mony, the guests, the breakfast, and 



the toilette, and Annette displayed 
her lace dress. 

"It is frightfully costly," she 
owned; "but I had a purpose in 
making it so. I shall never wear it 
but once, and some day or other 
it will go to trim a priest's surplice. 
You see, I ordered the pattern to 
that end, as nearly as I could get it, 
and not have it made for me. There 
was no time for that. The ferns are 
neutral ; but the wheat is perfect, you 
see, and that vine is quite like a 
grape-vine. I shall wear a tuil^ veil." 

She threw the cloud of misty lace 
over her head. 

" Why, Annette, it makes you look 
lovely !" Lawrence exclaimed. 

" I am glad you think so," she 
responded dryly, and took it off 
again. 

Lawrence was seated on a tabouret 
in Annette's own sitting-room, which 
no one else was allowed to enter dur- 
ing these last days of her maiden 
life. It had been newly furnished 
after her own improved taste, and 
the luxury and elegance of every- 
thing pleased him. He was still 
more pleased to see her so well in 
harmony with it He was beginning 
to find her interesting, especially as 
he found her indifferent and a little 
commanding toward him. 

"And now, Lawrence," she said, 
folding carefully the beautiful Aien9on 
flounce, "you have some little pre- 
paration to make. You know you 
must be reconciled to the church." 

" I have nothing against the 
church," he said coolly. 

" The church has something 
against you, and it is a serious mat- 
ter," she urged, refusing to smile. 
" You haven't been to confession for 
— how many years ? Not a few, 
certainly. No priest will marry us 
till you go." 

" I suppose a minister wouldn't 
do ?" remarked the young man, with 



Grapes and Thorns. 



231 



the greatest hardihood, seeming mild- 
ly doubtful about the question. 

** Now, Lawrence, don't talk non- 
sense," Annette begged. "When 
one is going to be married, one feels 
a little sober." 

« That's a fact !" he assented, with 
rather ungallant emphasis. 

She colored faintly. Her gentle 
earnestness might have touched one 
less careless. " It is beginning a 
new life," she said ; " and if it were 
not well begun, I'm afraid we should 
not be happy." 

The young man straightened him- 
self up, and gave his moustache an 
energetic twist with both hands— a 
way he had when impatient. 

*'Well, anything but a lecture, 
Ninon," he exclaimed. " I'll think 
the matter over, and see if I can 
rake up any transgressions. I dare 
say there are plenty." 

•* You will speak to F. Chevreuse 
about it ?" she asked eagerly. 

He nodded. 

^ And now sing me something," he 
said. ^ I haven't heard you sing for 
an age. Is there anything new ?" 

She seated herself at the exquisite 
little piano, well pleased to be asked. 
Here was one way in which she 
could delight him, for he grew more 
and more fond of her singing. An- 
nette's was a graceful figure at tlie 
piano, and she had the gift of looking 
pretty while singing. Her delicate 
and expressive face reflected every 
light and shade in the songs she 
sang, and the music flowed from her 
lips with as little efibrt as a song 
from a bird. 

" Here is * The Sea's Answer,' " 
she said. 

Lawrence settled himself into a 
high-backed chair. '< Well, let us 
hear what the sea answered. Only 
it might be more intelligible if one 
first knew what the question was, 
and who the questioner, and why he 



didn't ask somebody else. There! 
go on." 
Annette sang : 

*« O Sea r* she aaid, " I trust yon ; 

The land has slipped away ; 
Myself and all my fortunes 

I g^ive to you to-day. 
Break off the foamy cable 

That holds me to the shore ; 
For my path Is to the eastward, 

I can return no more. 
But ev^er while it stretches — 

That pale and shininsr thread~> 
It pulls upon my heart-strings 

Till I wish that I were dead." 

Then the sea it sent its ripples 

As fast as they could run. 
And they caught the bubbles of the wake, 

And broke them one by one ; 
And they tossed the froth in bunches 

Away to left and right. 
Till of all that foamy cable 

But a fragment lay in sight. 
And on the circling waters 

No clue was left to trace 
Where the land beyond Invisibly 

Held its abiding-place. 

«* But, oh ! " she cried, " it follows— 

That ghostly, wavering line- 
Like the floating of a garment 

Drenched in the chilly brine. 
It clings unto the rudder 

Like a drowning, snowy hand ; 
And while it clings, my exiled heart 

Strains backward to the land.** 
Then the sea rolled in its billows. 

It rolled them to and fro ; 
And the floating robe sank out of sight. 

And the drowning hand let go. 

" O Sea !'* she said, " I trust you ! 

Now tell me, true and bold, 
If the new life I am seeking 

Will be brighter than the old. 
I am stifling tor an orbit 

Of a wider-sweeping ring ; 
And there's laughter in me somewhere, 

And I have songs to sing. 
But life has held me like a vise 

That never, never slips ; 
And when my songs pressed upward. 

It smote me en the lips. 

*' And. Sea." she sighed, *'I*m weary 

Of failure and of strife ; 
And I fain would rest for ever. 

If this is aU of life. 
Thy billows rock like mothers' arms 

Where babes are hushed to rest ; 
And the sleepers thou dost Uke in cliarf e 

Are safe within thy breast. 
Then, if the way be weary, 

1 have not strength to go ; 
And thy rocking bosom, Ocean, 

Is the tendere»t I know." 

Then the sea rose high, and shook her. 

As she called upon its name. 
Till the life within her wavered. 

And went out like a flame. 
And stranger voices read the Word, 

And sang the parting hymn, 



232 



Grapes and Thorns. 



As they dropped her o*er the ship's side 

Into the waters dim. 
And the rockiof;^ ocean drew her down 

Its silent ones amonsr. 
With all her Isughters prisoned, 

And all her songs unsung." 

There was silence for a little while 
when the song ended ; then Lawrence 
exclaimed, with irritation, " What 
.sets people out to write such things ? 
The whole world wants to be cheered 
and amused, and yet some writers 
seem to take delight in making every- 
thing as gloomy as they are. Why 
can't people keep their blues to them- 
selves ?" 

The singer shrugged her shoulders. 
" You mistake, I think. I always 
fancy that melancholy writing proves 
a gay writer. Don't you know that 
school compositions are nearly always 
didactic and doleful ? When I was 
fifteen years old, and as gay as a 
lark, I used to write jeremiads at 
school, and make myself and all the 
girls cry. I enjoyed it. When a 
subject is too sore, you don't touch it, 
and silence proves more than speech." 

Lawrence kept the promise he had 
made, though he put its fulfilment 
off as long as possible. The morning 
before his wedding-day he was at 
early Mass, and, when Mass was 
over, went into F. Chevreuse's con- 
fessional. It would seem that he had 
not succeeded in " raking up" many 
transgressions, for ten minutes suf- 
ficed for the first confession he had 
made in fifteen years. But when he 
came out, his face was very pale, and 
he lingered in the church long after 
every one else had left. Glancing 
in from the sacristy, after his thanks- 
giving, F. Chevreuse saw him pros- 
trate before the altar, with his lips 
pressed to the dusty step where 
many an humble communicant had 
knelt, and heard him repeat lowly, 
" Enter not into judgment with thy 
servant ; for no one living shall be 
justified in thy sight.'* 



The priest looked at him a moment 
with fatherly love and satisfaction, 
then softly withdrew. 

The spiritual affairs of her future 
husband attended to, toilet, decora- 
tion, ceremony, reception, all planned 
and arranged by one brain and one 
pair of hands, Annette had still to 
school and persuade her mother to a 
proper behavior. She, the daughter, 
had conquered Crichton. They no 
longer laughed at nor criticised her, 
and were in a fair way to go to the 
opposite extreme, and regard her as 
an authority on all subjects. For 
the Crichtonians had the merit of be- 
lieving that good can come out of 
Nazareth, and could become enthu- 
siastic over what they conceived to 
be an original genius victoriously 
asserting its independence of a low 
origin and of discouraging circum- 
stances. 

But the mother was, and ever 
would be to them, a subject o( 
quenchless mirth. Her sayings and 
doings, and the mortification she 
inflicted on her daughter, were an 
endless source of amusement to 
them. 

" Now, do keep quiet this once, 
mamma," Annette begged pathetical- 
ly. " You know I shall not be able 
to hover about and set people to 
rights when they quiz you. You 
will have to take care of yourself. 
Don't trust anybody, and don't quar- 
rel with anybody." 

For once the mother was disposed 
to yield entire obedience. She had 
begun to assume that mournful face 
which, according to Thackeray, all 
women seem to think appropriate at 
a wedding ; and there was far more 
danger of her being inarticulate and 
sobbing than of her showing either 
pugilism or loquacity. 

*' I'm sure I sha'n't feel much like 
saying anything to anybody when 
I see my only daughter getting mar- 



Grapes and Thorns. 



233 



ricd before my eyes," she said re- 
proachfully. 

"Suppose you saw your only 
daughter growing into an old maid 
before your eyes, mamma/' said An- 
nette, laughing, and patting her mo- 
ther on the shoulder. " Would you 
like that any better ?" 

"Well," Mrs. Ferrier sighed "I 
suppose you may as well be mar- 
ried, now you've had the fuss of 
getting ready. All I care about 
is your happiness, though you may 
not believe it. I'm no scholar, 
and I know people laugh iX me ; 
but that doe^'t prevent my having 
feelings. You deserve to be happy, 
Annette, for you have been a good 
child to me, and you were never 
ashamed of me, though you have 
tried hard to make me like other 
folks. I couldn't be anything but 
what I am ; and when I have tried, 
I've only made a greater fool of my- 
self than I was before. But for all 
that, I'm sorry I've been such a 
burden to you, and I'm grateful to 
you for standing by me." 

This was Mrs. Ferrier's first confes- 
sion of any sense of her own short- 
comings, or of her daughter's trials 
on her account, and it touched An- 
nette to the heart. 

The outside world, that she had 
striven to please and win, faded 
away and grew distant. Here was 
one whom she could depend on, the 
only one on earth whom she could 
always be sure of. Whatever she 
might be, her mother could not be 
estranged from her, and could not 
have an interest entirely detached 
from hers. 

"Don't talk of being grateful to 
roe, mamma," she said tremulously. 
" I believe, after all, you were nearer 
right than I was; and I have far 
more reason to be ashamed of my- 
self than of you, I have been strain- 
ing every nerve to please people 



who care nothing for me, and to 
reach ends that were nothing when 
reached. It isn't worth the trouble. 
Still, it is easier to go on than to 
turn back, and we may as well take 
a little pains to keep what we have 
taken much pains to get. I'm sorry 
I undertook this miserable business 
of a show-wedding. It disgusts me. 
A quiet marriage would have been far 
better. But since it is undertaken, I 
want it to be a success of its kind." 

« Oh ! as to that," Mrs. Ferrier 
said, " I like the wedding. I don't 
like to see people get married be- 
hind the door, as if they were asham- 
ed of themselves. You don't marry 
every day, and it may as well be 
something uncommon." 

They were conversing more gen- 
tly and confidentially than they had 
for a long time; and the mother 
appeared to greater advantage than 
ever before, more dignified, more 
quiet. Annette pushed a footstool 
to the sofa, and, sitting on it, leaned 
on her mother's lap. 

" Still, I do not like a showy 
marriage," she said. " It may do 
for two young things who have 
parents and friends on both sides to 
take all the care, while they dream 
away the time, and have nothing to 
do or think of but imagine a beau- 
tiful future. For serious, thoughtful 
people, I think the less parade and 
staring and hurly-burly there is, the 
better. But then, that quiet way 
throws the two very much alone 
together, and obliges them to talk 
the matter over ; and Lawrence and 
I would find it a bore. We are 
neither of us very sentimental." 

She spoke gently enough, but there 
was a faint touch of bitterness in her 
voice that the mother's ear detected. 

"I don't know why he shouldn't 
like to talk the matter over with 
you," she began, kindling to anger : 
but Annette stopped her. 



234 



Grapes and Thorns. 



" Now, mamma, there must be an 
end put to all this," she said firmly. 
**And since there is no other way, 
let me tell you the true story of my 
engagement. You seem to think 
that Lawrence was very anxious to 
get me, and that he has made a 
good bargain, and ought to be grate- 
ful. Well, perhaps a part of the last 
is true ; but the first is not I've got 
to humiliate myself to tell you ; but 
you will never cease to reproach him 
unless I do." A burning blush suf- 
fused her face, and she shrank as 
if with a physical pain. " Lawrence 
knew perfectly well that I liked him 
before he ever paid the slightest 
attention to me; and when he be- 
gan to follow me ever so little, I 
encouraged him in a manner that 
must have been almost coaxing. He 
knew that I was to be had for the 
asking. Of course, I wasn't aware of 
this, mamma. Girls do such things, 
like simpletons, and think nobody 
understands them ; and perhaps they 
do not understand themselves. I 
am sure that Lawrence was certain 
of me before I had the least idea 
what my own feelings were. I knew 
I liked him, but I never thought how. 
I was too romantic to come down 
to realities. Of course, he had a 
contempt for me — he couldn't help 
it — though I didn't deserve it; for 
while he thought, I suppose, that I 
was trying to win him for my hus- 
band, I was only worshipping him 
as superior and beyond all other 
men. If girls could only know 
how plainly they show their feelings, 
or rather, if they would only restrain 
and deny their feelings a little, they 
would save themselves much con- 
tempt that they deserve, and much 
that they do not deserve. So you see, 
mamma, Lawrence might at any 
time, if you reproach him, turn and 
say that I was the one who sought 
him, and say what is half true, too. 



I didn't mean to, but I did it for all 
that. Now, of course, it is different, 
and he really wants to marry me. 
He is more anxious than I am, in- 
deed. But the less said about the 
whole matter the better. When I 
think of it, I could throw myself into 
the fire." 

" Well, well, dear, don't think about 
it, then," the mother urged soothing- 
ly, startled by the passion in An- 
nette's face. *' It doesn't make much 
difference who begins, so long as both 
are willing. And now, don't tor- 
ment yourself any more, child. 
You're always breaking your heart 
because you have done something 
that isn't quite up to your own no- 
tions. And I tell you, Annette, I 
wouldn't exchange you for twenty 
Honora Pembrokes." 

Annette leaned on her mother's 
bosom, and resigned herself with a 
feeling of sweet rest and comfort to 
be petted and caressed, without criti- 
cising either grammar or logic. How 
mean and harsh all such criticisms 
seemed to her when brought to check 
and chill a loving he^rt ! 

" Mamma," she whispered, after a 
while, *' I almost wish that we were 
back in the little cabin again. I can 
just faintly remember your rocking 
me to sleep there, and it seems to me 
that I was happier then than ever 
since." 

" Yes," Mrs. Ferrier sighed, " we 
were happier then than we are now ; 
but we shouldn't be happy to go 
back to it. I should feel as if I were 
crawling head-foremost into a hole 
in the ground. We didn't know how 
happy we were then, and we don't 
know how happy we are now, I sup- 
pose. So let's make the best of it 
all." 

The wedding proved to be, as the 
bride had desired, a success of its 
kind. The day was perfect, no mis- 
hap occurred, and everybody whom 



The Cathedral of Charires, 



235 



the family had not invited invited 
themselves as spectators. Policemen 
were needed to keep the way clear to 
the church door when the bridal party 
arrived, and the heavens seemed to 
rain flowers on them wherever they 
went. 

Seeing Mr. Gerald bend his hand- 
some head, and whisper smilingly to 
the bride, as they entered the church, 
sentimental folks fancied that he was 
making some very lover-like speech 
suitable to the occasion. But this is 
what he said: "Annette, we draw 
better than the giraffe. Why hadn't we 
thought to charge ten cents a head ?" 

Her eyes had been fixed on the 



lighted altar, just visible, and she did 
not look at him as she replied, 
" Lawrence, we are in the presence 
of God, and this is a sacrament. 
Make an act of contrition, or you 
will commit a sacrilege." 

And then the music of the organ 
caught them up, and the rest was 
like a dream. 

"How touching it is to see a 
young girl give herself away with 
such perfect confidence," remarked 
Mr. Sales, who was much impressed 
by the splendor of the bride. 

" Give herself away 1" growled Dr. 
Porson in return. " She is throwing 
herself away." 



TO BB CONTINUED. 



THE CATHEDRAL OF CHARTRES. 



The story of the erection of the 
Cathedral of Chartres is an epic from 
beginning to end. Before it arose in 
the amplitude and majesty which the 
great epoch of Christian art knew how 
to bestow upon its works, nothing 
less was required than the greatest 
courage, the most indomitable perse- 
verance, and a determination of will 
which no difficulties or reverses could 
turn from its purpose. The building 
of this cathedral was a struggle 
against fire and sword, against bar- 
barians and the elements — a long 
conflict, which in the end left piety 
and devotion victorious. 

No sooner was the era of persecu- 
tion closed by the conversion of Con- 
stantine, A.D. 312, than a church was 
raised over the Druidic grotto, and 
thronged incessantly by the multi- 
tudes of pilgrims who came to vener- 



ate the sacred image. The wood 
covering the hill, no longer possess- 
ing, as formerly, any sacred charac- 
ter, was cut down, in order that the 
town might extend itself in that di- 
rection ; and houses began forthwith 
to cluster round the foot of the tem- 
ple, as if seeking the immediate pro- 
tection of Mary. 

Of this earliest structure it is im- 
possible to give any description, as 
no account of it remains. It was in 
all probability a basilica resembling 
others of the period, built with much 
less splendor than solidity, and exist- 
ed through several centuries until the 
year 850. Charles the Bald was 
then on the throne, and Frothold 
was Bishop of Chartres, being the 
forty-second prelate of that see. The 
times were very troubled. Charle- 
magne had years before gone to his 



236 



The Cathedral of Chartres, 



glorious repose, leaving to his degen- 
erate successors a sceptre too heavy 
for tlieir feeble arms to wield — a vast 
empire without cohesion, and which, 
lacking the firm hand of a sagacious 
ruler, was already torn with dissen- 
sions. The incursions of the North- 
men, invariably accompanied by fire 
and carnage, were continual upon 
the hapless kingdom of the Franks. 
Hasting, the Danish chieftain, laid 
siege to Chartres, which was at this 
epoch surrounded with strong and 
solid walls, and held out courageous- 
ly, well knowing its fate should it fall 
into the hands of the barbarians. 
After spending some time in ineffec- 
tual endeavors to effect a breach, the 
wily Northman had recourse to craft, 
causing the bishop to be informed 
that he was ready, with all his fol- 
lowers, to accept the Christian faith, 
and humbly requesting admittance 
into the city. Scarcely had he en- 
tered, when he threw aside the mask ; 
the bishop and most of the inhabi- 
tants were massacred, the church de- 
stroyed, and the city given up to the 
flames. This exploit was no sooner 
performed than rewarded as it de- 
served. Before the savage invaders 
had time to hasten back, laden with 
plunder, to their vessels, the Franks 
of the surrounding country fell upon 
them and slew them without quar- 
ter. 

Soon the church and the city arose 
again from their ashes. The new sanc- 
tuary was but an humble erection. 
The people gave to God the best they 
could, but they were impoverished, 
and in that age of iron the arts had 
sunk to the lowest condition ; more- 
over, another century had not elaps- 
ed before a similar disaster seemed 
about to befall the building. 

In those barbarous ages, the sack- 
ing and burning of towns and the 
slaughter of their inhabitants were 
events always possible, often impend- 



ing. In the year 911, Chartres was 
besieged by the fierce Norman chief- 
tain, Rollo, at the head of a formid- 
able army provided with powerful en- 
gines of war. The Dukes of France 
and Burgundy, with the Count of 
Poitiers, hastening to the succor of 
the city, gave battle outside its walls ; 
but they were hard pressed, and to 
the anxious watchers on the ramparts 
seemed likely to be overborne by the 
foe. The bishop, Ganthelm or Gaa- 
celin, was not only a warrior in time 
of need, but was also full of devotion 
to Mary. In the heat of the combat, 
he put himself at the head of the 
Chartrians, taking with him the reli- 
quary containing the greatest treasure 
of his church — the sacred tunic of 
Our Lady — and fell upon the inva- 
ders. This vigorous sortie was so 
successful that the Northmen were 
utterly defeated and with so great a 
slaughter that, according to the ac- 
count of the monk Paul, the river 
was choked with their corpses. 

The holy tunic just mentioned 
had been given to Charlemagne by 
the Emperor Nicephorus and the 
Empress Irene, who previously kept 
it at Constantinople, whither it had 
been brought from Ephesus in the 
year 460, in the reign of the Emperor 
Leo. Charlemagne, who meditated 
an Empire of the West, of which the 
capital should be Aix-la-Chapelle, 
had at first placed the relic in that 
city. His successors, being unable 
to carry out his designs, nevertheless 
recognized the importance of pre- 
serving so great a treasure to France, 
and Charles the Bald, removing it 
from Aix, presented it to the church 
of Chartres. The history of this 
double translation may be seen por- 
trayed in the great window of the 
chapel of S. John Baptist; the ar- 
chives of the cathedral and the fioem 
o/the Miracles 3igTecmg with these re- 
presentations in their account of the 



The Cathedral of Chartrcs. 



237 



^cts, with regard to which the poet 
Maitre Nicolas Gilles, writes : 

*' Lon prinrent la sainte chemise 
A la M^re Dea qui fut prise 
Jadis dans Constantinople. 
Piecieuz don en fit et noble 
A Chartres un grand Roi de France ; 
Charles le Chauve ot nom d*enfance. 
Gil roy k Chartres le donna." * 

But the effects of protection from 
on high are not such as to permit a 
people and its rulers to do evil with 
impunity. Some time afterwards, Thi- 
bault le Tricheur — 1>. the "sharper" 
or " cheat " — ce chevalier fel et engi- 
turns — " this dangerous and deep-skill- 
ed knight," as he is called in the chro- 
nicles of the time, who by some un- 
known means obtained possession of 
the county of Chartres, made an ex- 
pedition against the town of Evreux, 
which he took by stratagem, and, go- 
ing on from thence as far as Rouen, 
so utterly devastated the country 
that, in all the land through which he 
had passed, " there was not heard so 
much as the bark of a dog." Dur- 
ing his absence, the Normans and 
Danes together laid siege to Char- 
tres, which they took by assault, and 
again burnt the town, together with 
the church. Thibault, returning to 
find his son slain and his town in 
ruins, went mad with anger and 
grief. 

Towards the close of the IXth 
century was a period of great ca- 
lamities and sinister predictions. 
There was a general spirit of dis- 
couragement and gloom. Men said 
that the end of the world was ap- 
proaching, for the year one thousand 
was close at hand. They built no 
more churches ; for to what purpose 
would it be ? Still, Our Lady must 
not surely be left without her sanctu- 
ary at Chartres, nor could the people 

* " Then they took the holy garment, which 
iMd belonged to the Mother of God, formerly In 
Constantinople; and a great king of France 
■lade of It a precious and noble gift to Chartres^ 
Charlet the Bald, so caUed from his name of in- 
hacy. This king presented it to Chartres." 



themselves dispense with it ; they set 
to work, therefore, and the destroyed 
building was speedily replaced by a 
new one ; yet, as they had no hope of 
its long continuance, wood had a 
larger place in its construction than 
stone. A few years later, however, 
when the unchecked course of time 
had belied the prophecies of popu- 
lar credulity, it seemed as if Heaven 
itself willed to teach the Chartrians 
that God and their blessed Patroness 
must be more worthily honored ; for 
in the year 1020, under the episco- 
pate of Fulbert, on the Feast of the 
Assumption according to some, on 
Christmas Day according to others, 
the church was struck by lightning, 
and wholly consumed. 

Bp. Fulbert was a holy man, and 
also a man of intelligence and cour- 
age. He felt that God had given 
him a mission. Amid the smoking 
ruins of his episcopal church, he laid 
the foundations of a noble structure 
which should be fitted to brave the 
injuries of time, and not be liable, 
like the former ones, to the danger 
of conflagration. In order to carry 
out his design, Fulbert needed trea- 
sure. He at once devoted all his 
own fortune to the work, and then 
appealed to his clergy, who imposed 
on themselves great sacrifices to sat- 
isfy their generosity; the people of 
his diocese also aiding eagerly with 
their contributions. Not satisfied 
with all this, he addressed himself 
to the princes and nobles of France, 
and especially to King Robert, who 
has been called the father of reli- 
gious architecture, and who could 
not fail to take a lively interest in the 
erection of a sanctuary to Our Lady 
of France. The princes of the whole 
Christian world were in like manner 
invited to assist in the undertaking, 
and the King of Denmark in particu- 
lar signalized himself by his munifi- 
cence. 



238 



Ttie Cathedral of Chartres. 



Gifts arriving from all parts, Ful- 
bert was enabled to commence the 
works, as he had desired, on very 
large proportions, and to push them 
forward with so much activity that 
in less than two years the crypt was 
finished — ^this crypt which is probably 
the largest and finest in the world, 
and which is still admired as a mar- 
vel of the architecture of the Xlth 
century. This sanctuary of Noire 
Dame de Dessoubs-tetre, or " Our 
Lady of Underground," more wor- 
thy than any which had preceded it 
of the Druidic Virgin, was then 
opened to receive, through long cen- 
turies, successive generations of the 
faithful. Nevertheless, this was but 
the root of the majestic tree which 
was to rise and expand above this 
favored spot. Fulbert devoted the 
remaining years of his life to the 
work, so that when he died, in 1029, 
it had made great progress ; and, be- 
ing continued with equal energy by 
Thierry, his successor, was consid- 
ered sufficiently advanced to be con- 
secrated in 1037, although still re- 
quiring much for its completion. 

After the death of Thierry came a 
period of marked relaxation in ac- 
tivity. Several bishops in succession 
made no progress in the erection. 
S. Yves, one of the most illustrious 
prelates who ever filled the episco- 
pal throne of Chartres, confined him- 
self principally to the interior adorn- 
ment of the cathedral. Munificent 
gifts from Maude, Queen of England, 
enabled him to replace the ancient 
and already dilapidated roof by one 
of lead. A new impetus being given 
to the undertaking, in 11 15 were 
laid the foundation of the two spires, 
so remarkable and so well known to 
the world. In 1145, the works were 
in full activity, and it was wonderful, 
observes Raymond, • Abbot of S. 
Pierre sur Dive, to see with what 
ardor, perseverance, and piety the 



people set to work to bnng about 
the, completion of their church. 
" What a marvellous spectacle !" he 
writes. " There one sees powerful 
men, proud of their birth and of 
their wealth, accustomed to a life of 
ease and pleasure, harnessing them- 
selves to the shafts of a cart, and 
dragging along stones, lime, wood, 
and all the materials necessary for 
the construction of the sacred edifice. 
Sometimes it befalls that as many as 
a thousand persons, men and wo- 
men, are harnessed to the same wa- 
gon, so heavy is the load ; and yet 
so great a silence prevails that there 
is not heard the faintest murmur." 

It was chiefly during the summer 
season that these labors were carried 
on. At night, tapers were lighted 
and set on the wagons, while the 
workers watched around the church, 
singing hymns and canticles. Thus 
it was at Chartres that the custom, 
afterwards so prevalent, began of the 
laborers assembling together to pass 
the night as well as the day near the 
building in course of erection. 

The old spire being at last com- 
pleted, and the new one reaching 
to the height of the roofs, in 1194 
another fire broke out, the cause of 
which was unknown. It had seem- 
ed as if a strange fatality pursued the 
pious undertaking, were not every 
event providentially permitted or 
arranged. The faithful of those days 
so understood this fresh catastrophe, 
acknowledging that it was the chas- 
tisement of Heaven for those sins 
from which, in spite of their zeal, the 
toilers in this work had not always kept 
themselves free. It is easy to com- 
prehend that, notwithstanding all pre- 
cautions, these large and prolonged 
assemblages could not have been 
without great dangers. Some con- 
sidered the disaster as a manifestation 
of the divine will that the work was 
not carried on to a sufficient degree 



The Cathedral of Chartres. 



239 



of perfection ; whfle others again re- 
garded it as an effect of the jealous 
hatred of the arch-enemy, and, ac- 
cording to the historian Mezeray, 
declared that demons, under the 
form of ravens, had been seen flying 
over the cathedral, with red-hot em- 
bers in their beaks, which they let 
fall upon the sacred edifice. This 
time the destruction was immense. 
Nothing was saved but the crypt 
and the two spires, with the connect- 
ing masonry forming the western por- 
tal. The latter, not having as yet 
been joined to the main building, 
were unharmed by the flames. 

Historians of the XVI th century 
and later do not mention this fire, 
and suppose the edifice which at 
present exists to be almost entirely 
the work commenced by Bp. Fulbert 
— ^an error only to be accounted for 
by the most complete ignorance of 
the laws of ecclesiastical architecture. 
Contemporaray writers, as, for in- 
stance, William le Breton and Ri- 
gord, monk of S. Denis, as well as 
Robert of Auxerre, who adds that 
a portion of the town was also con- 
sanned, are unanimous as to the date 
and principal particulars of the dis- 
aster. 

Melchior, the legate of Pope Ce- 
iestine III., was at Chartres at the 
time of its occurrence, and it was he 
who revived and sustained the spirit 
of the people, overwhelmed as they 
were at first by their calamity. As- 
sembling them around the ruins of 
their church, he did his utmost to 
console and cheer them, winning 
from them the promise to raise a 
cathedral which should not have its 
equal in the world, and which should 
be built entirely of stone, so as to 
render its destruction by fire impos- 
sible. 

The impulse was easily given. At 
the conclusion of the legatees stirring 
address, the bishop, Regnault de 



Mougon, and all the canons of the 
cathedral, gave up their revenues for 
the space of three years towards the 
expenses of the building, as may be 
seen in the Po^me des Miracles of 
Jehan le Marchant; Philip Augus- 
tus adding his offerings to those of 
the clergy with a royal liberality. 
The towns-people, also, considering 
that their misfortune was not so great 
by far as it might have been, seeing 
that the reliquary containing the 
sacred tunic of Our Lady was 
saved, thanks to the devotion of cer- 
tain courageous men, who bore it 
from the burning church into a place 
of safety, felt bound to show their 
gratitude by depriving themselves of 
part of their possessions in favor of 
the work. 

A powerful and irresistible current 
of devotion seemed in those days to 
carry along with it the hearts of men ; 
and the enthusiasm of the Crusades 
having been chilled by reverses, the 
religious sentiment 6f the people 
found its outlet in another channel- 
raising sanctuaries of which the mag- 
nificence should be a marvel to suc- 
ceeding ages. 

Moreover, it must not be forgotten 
that, in those ages of faith and fervor; 
the fabulous sums which would be 
required in our days for similar 
erections were not necessary, even 
taking into account all proportions 
with regard to the respective value 
of money. The time had not then 
arrived for none but master-masons, 
working for ready money only, and 
of that a free supply ; they who had 
nothing but their strength and good- 
will cheerfully gave the alms of their 
toil, thus sharing equally with the 
rich and great in forwarding the 
enterprise. Everywhere architects 
arose, ready to translate into stone 
the religious thoughts and aspirations 
of the time, which was not a period 
of popular enthusiasm only, but that 



240 



The Cattiedral of Chartres. 



in which Christian art was rapidly 
expanding into its most remarkable 
development, and replacing the heavy 
and massive edifices of the Romano- 
Byzantine style by those possessing 
a boldness, freedom, and splendid 
gracefulness hitherto unknown. 

Where was found the marvellous 
genius capable of conceiving and 
executing the plan of the Cathedral 
of Chartres ? — this man who, careless 
of human fame, and careful only to 
work for God, has left no record of 
his name, and is called by Jehan le 
Marchant simply // mestre de Pccuvre. 

The ** master of the work " for 
three years wrought with incredible 
ardor. The idea had sprung from 
his mind complete, and he longed to 
see it realized in its colossal harmo- 
ny. It is only in the crypt, in the 
old spire, and in the western portal, 
spared by the fire of 1194, that the 
ancient style is to be recognized; 
everywhere else the art of the Xlllth 
century triumphs, and we behold the 
poem of stone as it was hewn out in 
the first purity of its beauty. 

At the end of three years resources 
failed, and the work could not go on. 
" Then," says the poet Jehan, with 
all the simplicity of a mediaeval 
chronicler — " then the Holy Virgin 
prayed her divine Son to work fresh 
miracles in her Cathedral of Chartres, 
in order that the increase of alms 
and offerings might be such as to 
secure its completion :" 

*' La haute Dame glorieuse 
Qui voloit avoir merveillettie 
Iglise, et haute, et loague, et Ide, 
Si que sa per ne fust trov^e. 
Son douz Filt pria doucemeat 
Que miracles apertemeot 
En SOD Ef^lise k Chartres feist, 
Que tout le peuple le vetst. 
Si que de toutes parts venissent 
Gens qui oflferendes tous feissent, 
Que achevde fust siglise. 
Qui estoit k (aire emprise/* * 

• ** The high tnd glorious Lady, who willed to 
have the church all marvellous, and high, and 
long, and large, so that Its equal nowhere might 
be found, prayed sweetly to her gracious Son 



Miracles, which in this place had 
at all times been numerous and re- 
markable, and which we might cite 
by thousands, are said to have now 
greatly multiplied. Those which at 
that period excited the enthusiasm 
and gratitude of the people to the 
highest degree were the cures of a 
terrible malady very common in the 
middle ages, and known by the 
name of the *' burning sickness." 
The unfortunate persons who were 
attacked by it, besides being consum- 
ed by fever, suffered internally as if 
from torture by fire, while outwardly 
their bodies were covered with fright- 
ful ulcers, of which the pain was in- 
tolerable. The victims of this mala- 
dy came from all parts for relief and 
healing to Our Lady of Chartres. 
According to Jehan le Marchant and 
other contemporary writers, the dis- 
ease never failed to disappear, either 
during or immediately after the nove- 
na which it was customary for each 
sufferer to make in the church. 

This increase of favors revived 
the ardor of the faithful. Gifts and 
thank-ofiferings were made in great 
abundance, and the building of the 
church went on, with what vigor may 
be gathered from the fact that, in lit- 
tle more than twenty years afterwards, 
the cathedral was built and covered 
with what William le Breton calls its 
merveilUuse et tniraculeuse roof of 
stone. It is in the year 1220 that 
he writes : '* Entirely rebuilt anew in 
hewn stone, and completed by a 
vaulted roof like the shell of a tor- 
toise, the cathedral has no more to 
fear from fire before the day of judg- 
ment.'* 

The new tower received a spire like 
that of the old, excepting that it was 

that manifest miracles might be wrought in her 
church at Chartres for all the people to behold, 
so that from all parts there might come persons 
who should make offerings wherewith the 
church might be finished as it was undertakca 
to be done " 



The Cathedral of Chartres. 



241 



constructed of wood and lead, and 
destined to perish in the very partial 
fire of 1506, to be replaced by the 
beautiful and delicately sculptured 
steeple of the X Vlth century, still so 
greatly admired. The porches were 
finished,* as well as the sculptures, in 
their finest details, and the windows 
put in. On the 17th of October, in 
the year 1260, the edifice was com- 
plete, and on this occasion the Bi- 
shop of Chartres, Pierre de Maincy, 
ieventy-fifth successor of S. Aventine, 
solemnly consecrated his cathedral, 
in presence of the king, S. Louis. 

Description^ however picturesque, 
is utterly inadequate to convey a 
worthy image or idea of a Gothic 
cathedral in all the mysterious ful- 
ness, richness, and variety of its de- 
tails. Chartres must be seen, must 
have received many quiet hours of 
contemplation, before its magnifi- 
cences will have shown to what 
heights Christian art was raised by 
Christian devotion in those early cen- 
turies of enthusiasm and of faith. 

And yet we cannot leave the rea- 
der at the threshold without inviting 
him to glance with us rapidly, and 
therefore most imperfectly, within. 

How grand is the perspective which 
opens upon the view, when, look- 
ing from the " Royal Gate " towards 
the sanctuary, the eye takes in this 
triple nave, with its forest of pillars, 
amongst which fall, in rich and soft- 
ened splendor, warm rays of light and 
color from the higher windows 1 All 
the dimensions are on a scale of 
grandeur. In its elevation, the cathe- 
<iral is divided into three parts, the 
idea of the Blessed Trinity ruling this 
irrangeraent. The arcades, springing 
ifom the ground, form the first line, 
under the triforium, which forms the 



* Except cerUia ptrtsof the side portals, some 
6f ihc sutuet of which arc of the XlVth century, 
t*ie three gables, the chapel of S. Piat« that of 
VcQd&me, and the enclosure of the choir. 

VOL. XVIII. — 16 



second, while above this rises the 
third height, containing the clere- 
story windows, which are lofty, double 
lancets, each surmounted by a rose. 
The lower walls are pierced by simple 
lancets of very large size. To the 
right and left of the nave are aisles 
without side chapels; but in the 
double aisle which is carried round 
the choir are seven apsidal chapels, 
of which the centre one, dedicated to 
Our Lady, is the most important. 
The pilla# of the nave are massive in 
their proportions, to bear the weight 
of the lofty superstructure. There 
are sixteen circular or octagon pillars 
round the choir, with well-sculptured 
capitals; and in the centre of the 
transept rise four colossal pillars, 
around which cluster a number of 
smaller ones, which are carried up to 
the spring of the roof. The latter 
was the most beautiful in the world, 
and was called t/ie Forest ^ being 
constructed of fine chestnut-wood, 
which time colors with a sort of 
golden hue, and which attracts 
neither dust nor spiders. The roof 
of Sl Stephen's Hall at Westminster 
gives a good idea of what this must 
have been, with its exquisite fan 
tracery and graceful pendants, until, 
on the fourth of June, 1836, the 
whole was destroyed by fire. The 
iron roof by which it has been re- 
placed, though excellent in its kind, is 
far from approaching the worth and 
beauty of the ancient Forit. 

The church is paved throughout 
with large slabs of stone, not one of 
which is a grave-sionQy as would be 
the case in almost every other cathe- 
dral, under the pavement of which 
are buried numbers of ecclesiastics 
and other persons; but this is virgin 
earth, wherein no sepulture has ever 
taken place. We give the reason in 
the words of Sebastian Rouillard: 
" The said church has this pre-emi- 
nence as being the couch or resting- 



242 



The Cathedral of Cfiartres. 



place of the Blessed Virgin, and in 
token thereofhas been even until this 
day preserved pure, clean, and entire, 
without having ever been dug or 
opened for any burial." 

The choir is the largest in France, 
and one of the most splendid in ex- 
istence, notwithstanding the unfortu- 
nate zeal of the chapter in the year 
1703 to alter and disfigure its medi- 
aeval beauties according to their own 
ideas, which appear to have been 
warped to the lowest degeneracy of 
" Renaissance." Happily, however, 
the prodigious expense to which they 
put themselves resulted in but a par- 
tial realization of their plan, in which 
ancient carving and mural frescos 
were swept away to give place to 
gilding and stucco, marble and new 
paint, to say nothing of kicking 
cherubs and arabesques gone mad. 
It was at this time that the groups 
representing the annunciation of Our 
Lady and Our Saviour's baptism 
were placed at the entrance of the 
choir, which, even if they were 
the work of a more skilful hand, in- 
stead of being that of a very medi- 
ocre artist, would yet be out of har- 
mony with the church; and the same 
may be said of the group, in Carrara 
marble, of tlie Assumption, which 
rises behind the high altar, and which 
is the work of the celebrated Bridan, 
who finished it in 1773. 

When, two centuries before, the 
choir was still without enclosure, the 
XVIth century provided for it one 
of the rarest specimens of late Gothic 
art ever seen. Jehan de Beauce, who 
had been charged with the building 
• of the new spire, was chosen to make 
the designs and direct the work ; and 
though he died whilst it was still un- 
finished, his plan was carefully car- 
ried to its completion. In this mar- 
vel of conscientious labor there are 
forty groups, each containing nume- 
rous figures, nearly the size of nature, 



representmg the Legend of Mary and 
the principal events in the life of Our 
Lord. Around these groups cluster 
pillars and arches, turrets, crocketed 
spires, everything that can help to 
give them, as it were, a framing and 
background as full and elaborate as 
possible, while all sorts of odd and 
Liliputian creatures are playing in 
and out of the pediments, or clinging 
to the columns in the most capricious 
and fantastic manner. Besides these 
forty principal subjects, the enclo- 
sure is further enriched with thirty- 
five medallions, the first of which re- 
presents the siege of Chatres by RoUo, 
followed by subjects from the Holy 
Scriptures, and then, strange to say, 
by others taken from heathen myth- 
ology ! The pagan spirit of the Re- 
naissance was already daring to in- 
vade the sanctuaries of the Catholic 
faith. 

Before proceeding to mention other 
architectural details, two of the espe- 
cial treasures of the cathedral re- 
quire some further notice. Besides 
the Druidic Virgin, of which we have 
already given the history, and whose 
chapel has, since the Revolution, 
been carefully restored, as well as the 
twelve other subterranean chapels of 
this marvellous crypt, there is in the 
upper church another statue, almost 
equally venerated, which dates from 
the first years of the XVIth century, 
and is called " Our Lady of the 
Pillar," from the columnar pedestal 
on which it rests. This figure is 
enthroned, and adorned with gold 
and painting of good execution, as 
far as may be seen under the abun- 
dant vestments of lace, silk, and gold 
with which the loving piety of pil- 
grims, greater iu devotion than good 
taste, delights to load this statue, of 
which the dark but beautiful face 
has an expression of great sweetness 
and benignity, as well as that of the 
divine Child, whose right hand i^ 



The Cathedral of Chartres. 



243 



raised in benediction, while his left 
rests upon the globe of the world. 

It wa.s to this venerable image of 
N&tr€ Dame du PilUr that the Sove- 
reign Pontiff, Pius IX., granted the 
signal favor of a solemn coronation, 
which took place on the last day of 
the month of May, 1855, in the pre- 
sence of seven prelates and a con- 
course of clergy and people so im- 
mense that the church could not 
contain the multitudes. The dogma 
of the Immaculate Conception had 
just been promulgated, and a special 
jubilee in honor of Our Lady of 
Chartres had been granted by the 
Holy Father, and the whole city 
was in a state of indescribable joy. 

With regard to the vestment of 
Our Blessed Lady, to which allusion 
has so frequently been made, and 
which appears to be of indisputable 
authenticity, we will give the re- 
mainder of its history up to the pre- 
sent time. Wlien this was present- 
ed to the cathedral by Charles the 
Bald, it was enclosed in a chest of 
cedar-wood covered with gold. The 
veneration with which the precious 
relic was regarded did not allow of 
the chest being opened without ne- 
cessity, and its form was naturally 
supposed to be that of a tunic or 
undergarment. Numbers were made 
after the imaginary pattern, and, after 
being laid upon the reliquary, were 
greatly valued as pledges of Our 
Lady's protection, especially by those 
about to become mothers. As to 
one detail, however, everybody was 
mistaken, the vestment not being by 
any means of the form supposed. 
This was for the first time discover- 
ed in 1712, when, by order of the 
bishop, Mgr. de Merinville, the cof- 
fer, which was falling to pieces from 
extreme age, was opened with the 
most extraordinary care and precau- 
tions. A kind of gauze, embroidered 
with silk and gold, enveloped the 



sacred relic, which proved to be a 
veil of great length, woven of linen 
and silk. It was then, in presence 
of Mgr. de Merinville and other wit- 
nesses, enclosed in a chest of silver, 
and placed again in the ancient reli- 
quary, which had been strengthened 
and repaired. This, being most rich- 
ly ornamented with precious stones, 
was, in December, 1793, carried off 
by the men of the Revolution, who 
took the relic to Paris, and submitted 
it to be examined by the members 
of the Institute, without giving them 
any information respecting it, and 
anticipating from their verdict a tri- 
umphant proof of its being nothing 
more than a cheat and deception of 
" the priests." It was with less satis- 
faction, therefore, than surprise that 
they were informed by the learned 
members that, " although they found 
it impossible to give the exact age 
of the fabric, it was evidently of very 
great antiquity, and the material was 
identical with that of the long, fold- 
ing veils anciently worn by women 
in the East.^* Owing merely to this 
character of remote antiquity, it was 
allowed a place among the curiosi- 
ties of a museum. When the Reign 
of Terror was over, certain pious per- 
sons obtained possession of it, but 
had the want of judgment to divide 
it, giving larger or smaller portions 
to different churches and individuals. 
In 1820, Mgr. de Lubersac succeeded 
in collecting several of these portions, 
and, after having had them carefully 
authenticated, he placed them in a 
reliquary of coral, which has since, 
by Mgr. Clausel de Montals, been 
replaced by one of greater richness, 
so arranged as to allow the precious 
relic to be visible. 

We must, before taking leave of 
the cathedral, bestow at least a pass- 
ing glance upon its glorious windows. 
Here and there one has been broken 
by revolutionary or other anti-reli- 



244 



The Cathedral of Chartres. 



gionists, one or two others have had 
a deep-toned color clumsily replaced 
by one of brighter hue by certain 
of the aforesaid XVII I th century 
canons, who required more light to 
read their office ; but, on the whole, 
they are in admirable preservation. 
We can linger but to read some few 
of the characters of this vast book of 
light, which is justly called by the 
Council of Arras " The Bible of the 
laity " ; for months would be insuf- 
ficient to decipher its glowing pages. 

There are one hundred and thirty- 
five large windows, three immense 
roses, thirty-five roses of a middle 
size, and twelve small ones. These 
are almost all of the date of the 
Xlllth century, and are the gifts of 
kings, nobles, ecclesiastics, burgesses, 
and workmen of every trade, as may 
be seen in each window, which usual- 
ly contains a kneeling figure of the 
donor. The great roses are marvel- 
lous in their splendor. That of the 
north transept, which, from being 
the gift of S. Louis, is called the Rose 
of France, represents the glorifica- 
tion of the Blessed Virgin, who occu- 
pies the centre, bearing in her arms 
her divine Son. The five great 
windows beneath the rose make the 
complement of the subject. In the 
centre is S. Anne, with Our Lady as 
an infant. On the right and left 
stand Melchisedech and Aaron, types 
of our Lord's priesthood ; David and 
Solomon, the types of his royalty. 

The southern rose was given by 
the Count of Dreux, and has for its 
subject the glorification of our Lord, 
which is also that of the sculpture 
over the western entrance. In the 
centre window of the five below is 
the infant Saviour in the arms of his 
Mother, while to the right and left 
are the four greater prophets, bear- 
ing on their shoulders the four Evan- 
gelists, to symbolize the support 
which the New Law receives from 



the Old. The western rose repre- 
sents the Last Judgment. The three 
splendid windows beneath it are 
more ancient than the rest, and are 
said by those who are learned in 
stained glass to date from the Xllth 
century at the latest. One of these 
is the far-famed " Jesse Window," in 
which the tree of Jesse bears among 
the verdure of its branches the royal 
ancestors of Our Lord; the second 
represents scenes from his life, and 
the third those of his passion and 
death ; while above appears the re- 
splendent figure of Mary, known by 
the name of Notre Dame de la Belle 
Verriere^ and justly celebrated for its 
admirable beauty. In the seven 
great windows of the apse, Mary is 
still the centre. In those of the 
choir occur amongst others the 
figures of S. Louis, S. Ferdinand of 
Castile, Amaury IV., Count of Mont- 
fort, and Simon de Montfort, his 
brother. The lower windows are 
filled with scenes from the Holy 
Bible and the Golden Legend, and 
contain a great number of figures of 
small size, while the higher ones are 
principally occupied by grand and 
separate figures of prophets, apostles, 
and saints. 

Standing in the middle of the tran- 
sept, one sees the extremities dark- 
ened by the great masses of ihe 
porches, but above them shine the 
great roses, whose rainbow hues play 
upon the entrance of the choir ; the 
aisles and chapels are softened by 
that sort of half-luminous obscurity 
in which we find ourselves on enter- 
ing the church ; but the shadows flee 
more and more before the light, 
which, ever increasing, streams down 
in torrents as we approach the centre 
of the cross, making the sanctuary 
resplendent with emerald and ruby 
rays. And this marvellous picture 
has ever-changing aspects, beauties 
ever new, according to the hour oi 



The Cathedral of Chartres, 



245 



the day, the brightness of the sun, 
and the season of the year. Reader, 
when in propriA fersond you make 
your pilgrimage to Notre Dame de 
Chartres, you will feel how poor and 
how inadequate has our description 
been, and, with the Presence that is 
ever there, will own that it is heaven 
in all but the locality. 

We will conclude our sketch with 
a few historical notices of interest, 
without which it would be incom- 
plete. 

Although we have lived to see oc- 
casionally something approaching to 
a renewal of the ancient throngs of 
pilgrims, and notably so on the last 
27th-3oth of May, when a multi- 
tude of more than sixty thousand 
persons, including twelve prelates, 
besides six hundred other ecclesias- 
tics, two generals, one hundred and 
fifty officers, and one hundred and 
forty members of the National As- 
sembly, went from Paris and various 
parts of France on a pilgrimage to 
Chartres, still this does not recall 
the continuous concourse of former 
days, when it often happened that 
the town was not large enough to 
contain the crowds of strangers, so 
that on the ev« of certain festivals it 
was necessary to allow great num- 
bers of them to remain all night for 
shelter in the church itself. The 
parvis of the cathedral, which slopes 
downwards from the choir to the 
western door, rendered easy the 
cleansing process which followed in 
the early morning, when floods of 
water were thrown upon the pave- 
ment. 

This eager devotion of the com- 
mon people has in it sometliing more 
touching even than the innumerable 
visits of the rich and great .to this 
chosen shrine. In the course of the 
Xllth century, Chartres numbered 
among its pilgrims no less than three 
popes and five kings of France; 



Philip Augustus being accompanied 
by his queen, Isabella of Hainault, 
who came to ask Our Lady's inter- 
cession that she might have a son. 
Whereupon, says William le Breton, 
even whilst the queen was making 
her prayer, the candles upon the 
high altar suddenly lighted of them- 
selves, as if in token that her request 
was granted, and which accordingly 
came to pass. 

Before the completion of the 
church, it had been visited by two 
princesses greater for their sanctity 
than for their rank — namely, Blanche 
of Castile, the mother of S. Louis, 
and the gentle and pious Isabelle, 
her sister. They were followed not 
long afterwards by the holy mon- 
arch himself, who, on his first visit, 
was accompanied by Henry III., of 
England, and on his second, in 1260. 
was present at the consecration. 
Philip the Fair, who attributed his 
success at the battle of Mons en 
Puelle entirely to the protection of 
Mary, came thither to do her hom- 
age by offering the armor he had 
worn in the combat; and in like 
manner Philip of Valois, after the 
victory of Cassel, gave to the church 
of Chartres his charger and his arms. 
And when the times darkened over 
France, and her king, John the 
Good, was the prisoner of Edward 
III., the latter refused to listen to 
the entreaties of the Dauphin and 
the Papal legate that he would 
grant peace on reasonable terms, 
although " the Father of Christen- 
dom had again and again with his 
own hand written letters to the 
English king, calling on him to 
* forbear from the slaughter of souls 
redeemed by the Blood of Christ * " ; 
success had made him relentless, and, 
leading on his victorious army, he 
laid siege to Chartres. We learn 
from Froissart, among other chroni- 
clers, how Our Lady signalized her 



246 



The Cathedral of Chartres. 



power, not only in saving the city, 
but in leading, humble and submis- 
sive, the lion of England to her feet : 
" For there befell to the King of Eng- 
land and all his men a great miracle : 
a storm and thunder so great and 
horrible came down from heaven on 
the English host that it seemed as 
if the end of the world were come ; 
for there fell down stones so great 
that they killed men and horses, and 
so that even the boldest trembled." * 
. . . "Thereupon the King of Eng- 
land, leaping down from his saddle, 
and stretching out his arms towards 
the church of Our Lady at Chartres, 
devoutly vowed and promised to her 
that he would no longer refuse to 
grant peace upon any terms consis- 
tent with his honor." When, there- 
fore, he entered the city, it was not 
as a warrior, but as a pilgrim ; for he 
repaired at once to the cathedral, in 
company with the Prince of Wales, 
the Duke of Lancaster, and many 
other English knights, and shortly 
afterwards signed the Peace of Bre- 
tigny. 

Charles V., having revived the 
glory of the French arms, was not 
unmindful of his gratitude to Our 
Lady of Chartres, to whom on two 
occasions he made a pilgrimage bare- 
foot, prostrating himself before the 
sacred image; "considering," as he 
declares in his letters-patent, " the 
splendid, great, and notable miracles 
which our Lord God works day by 
day in the said church," and pray- 
ing for the peace and prosperity of 
his kingdom. 

One other fact connected with the 
kings of France ought not to be 
omitted — namely, the sacring of Henri 
IV., which, instead of taking place at 
Rheims, according to, we believe, in- 
variable precedent, was, by his own 
special desire, solemnized in the 

* Lts CramUs Chr^miqutM, torn. iv. ch. 46. 



church of Our Lady of France at 
Chartres, when he made, as it were, 
a second abjuration by thus publicly 
declaring himself to be henceforth a 
devoted client of the Blessed Virgin. 
" Thus," observes the Abb6 Hamon, 
Cur^ of S. Sulpice, " Protestantism, 
which had flattered itself with the 
hope of mounting on the throne of 
France, was broken at the feet of 
Our Lady of Chartres, where also 
paganism had expired before it in 
the defeat and subsequent conver- 
sion of RoUo." 

Were we to attempt to name the 
saints who have gone as pilgrims to 
Chartres, from S. Anselm and S. 
Thomas h. Becket to S. Francis de 
Sales, S. Vincent de Paul, M. Olier, 
and the Blessed B. Labr6, the enu- 
meration would be endless; and 
though it would require, not pages, 
but volumes, to recount the favors 
obtained by the intercession of the 
Blessed Virgin for her city, we can- 
not refrain from selecting a few well- 
authenticated historical facts in addi- 
tion to those already mentioned. 

In the year 1137, Louis le Gros, 
having great cause of displeasure 
against Thibault, Count of Chartres, 
resolved to chastise him in a signal 
manner, and advanced against his 
city, with the resolution to raze it to 
the ground. The inhabitants were 
in the utmost terror and distress, 
knowing their helplessness before the 
power of the irritated monarch. 
The bishop, Geoffrey de Lieues, 
causing the reliquary containing Our 
Lady's tunic to be taken from the 
church, carried it in procession with 
his clergy and people outside the 
gates, and advanced to the royal 
tent. At this sight, the anger of 
the king subsided. He fell on his 
knees before the sacred relic, which 
he then devoutly followed, entering 
alone into the city, not to destroy it, 
but to grant it special privileges. 



The Cathedral of Chartres. 



247 



More than four centuries later, in 
1568, Chartres was besieged by the 
Huguenots under Cond6. They 
opened a heavy fire against the Porte 
Drouaire, above which gate the 
Chartrians placed an image of the 
Blessed Virgin. This greatly excited 
their fury, and their utmost endea- 
vors were used to shoot it down. 
But the sacred image remained un- 
touched, though every stone near it 
was shattered. The rampart was 
nevertheless so far weakened as to 
be unable longer to stand against 
the powerful artillery. A large 
breach was opened, towards which 
the besiegers crowded, that they 
might carry fire and desolation into 
the city. But while the defenders 
believed that all was lost, the whole 
of the population not in arms was 
praying in the cathedral. In the 
very moment of their success, the 
enemy lost courage; the trumpets 
sounded a retreat, and the Huguenot 
Army left the city, never to return. 
It was in memory of this signal de- 
liverance that a chapel was raised 
between the Porte Drouaire and the 
river Eure, dedicated to " Our Lady 
of the Breach," and which, after be- 
ing destroyed in 1789, was in 1844 
rebuilt. 

Whenever Chartres has been 



threatened with pestilence or famine 
it has been customary for the bishop 
and dean of the chapter to bear the 
holy tunic in procession from the 
cathedral to the Abbey of Josaphat, 
in the midst of an immense concourse 
of the faithful, kneeling in the dust, 
with heads uncovered. Even in our 
own time there has been a recurrence 
of these expiatory solemnities. The 
cholera, which in 1832 made so 
many victims in Paris, appeared also 
in Chartres, and deaths multiplied in 
the city. But no sooner had the 
inhabitants, with all the religious 
pomp and devotion of ancient days, 
borne the venerated relic through 
the streets, imploring her succor who 
had for ages proved her right to the 
title of Tutela Cartiutum^ than the 
plague was stayed. All the sick 
were cured, and two more deaths 
only occurred — the deaths of two 
persons who had publicly insulted 
the procession on its way. A gold 
medal was struck on this occasion, 
having the following inscription ; 
" Voted to Our Lady of Chartres, by 
the inhabitants of the city, in grati- 
tude for the cessation of the cholera 
immediately after the solemn proces- 
sion celebrated to obtain her power- 
ful intercession, on Sunday, the 26th 
of August, 1832." 



248 In Thy Light shall We see Light. 



IN THY LIGHT SHALL WE SEE LIGHT* 



The moon, behind her pilot star, 
Came up in orb^d gold : 

And slowly near'd a fleecy bar 
O'er-floating lone and cold. 



I look'd again, and saw an isle 

Of amber on the blue : 
So changed the cloudlet by the smile 

That softly lit it through. 



Another look : the isle was gone — 
As though dissolved away. 

And could it be, so warmly shone 
That chaste and tender ray ? 



I said : " O star, the faith art thou 
That brought my life its Queen — 

In her sweet light no longer now 
The vapor it has been. 



" Shine on, my Queen : and so possess 
My being to its core, 
That self may show from less to less — 
Thy love from more to more." 

A touch of the oars, and on we slid — 

My cedar boat and I. 
The dreaming water faintly chid 

Our rudeness with a sigh. 

Lake George, September, 1873. 

* Ps. ZXZT. 



Ttte See of S. Francis of Sales. 



249 



THE SEE OF S. FRANCIS OF SALES. 



The " arrowy Rhone " and Lake 
Leman have become in modem lite- 
rature the counterparts of the classic 
Anio and Nemi of antiquity. Pe- 
culiar memories cluster about their 
shores ; they have been the intellect- 
ual battle-field of systems, even while 
poets and dreamers were seeking to 
make a Lethe of their enchanted 
waters; and perhaps on no other 
northern spot in Europe has God 
lavished such beauties of color, of 
atmosphere, of outline, and of luxu- 
riant vegetation. Geneva rivals the 
south in its growth of orange, ole- 
ander, and ilex, in its lake of sapphire 
hue, its sunsets of intense variety of 
color, and its profusion of white 
villas, homes of summer luxuriance, 
and temples of delightful idleness. 
The clearness of the mountain air, 
the irregular outlines of the smaller 
hills, the view of the Alps beyond — 
above all, that of Mont Blanc — the 
quantity of hardy Alpine flowers, the 
dusky, mediaeval beauty of the town, 
and the unmistakable energy of its 
sturdy-looking inhabitants, denote the 
northern character of Geneva. Ihe 
old Cathedral of S. Peter, where 
Calvin's chair is now the greatest curi- 
osity and almost the greatest orna- 
ment (so bare is the church), and the 
new Cathedral of Notre Dame, a build- 
ing hardly large enough for the now 
numerous Catholic congregation of 
Geneva, speak of the change that has 
come over the town in the last four 
hundred years. The religious phases 
that have come and gone in this 
small and seemingly insignificant spot 
form an epitome of the religious his- 
tory of Europe. The age of faith, 
the age of fanaticism, the age of 



indifferentism, have reigned succes- 
sively in Geneva. In the Xlllth 
century, as in many an earlier one, 
High Mass was sung at S. Peter's, 
and monks or canons sat in the 
stalls which yet remain in the choir ; 
in the XVI th, Calvin and Beza sat in 
plain black gown, teaching justifica- 
tion by faith alone, and burning 
Michael Servetus for tenets that 
disturbed the new " personal infalli- 
bility" of the Reformers; in the 
XlXth, Socinianism is the creed of 
the " national " church, and Catho- 
lics, Evangelicals, and Anglicans have 
each handsome and roomy buildings, 
crowded on Sundays, and adorned 
with every outward sign of freedom 
of worship. Catholics form half the 
population of the canton, and nearly 
half that of the city itself. There 
are few conversions, however, so that 
this proportion does not sensibly in- 
crease. Many of the suburbs are 
entirely Catholic. The diocese ex- 
tends to many Savoyard parishes, 
which are, of course, altogether Cath- 
olic. Until the recent outbreak 
against perfect liberty of conscience, 
when that liberty was to be applied 
to the old church, the position of 
Catholics, clergy and laity, was com- 
paratively satisfactory; the bishop 
(of whom we shall speak later) was 
universally beloved by his people, 
respected by his liberal opponents, 
feared by his illiberal enemies ; the 
moderate party in politics, consisting 
of the class corresponding to an 
aristocracy, and all of them men of 
polite bearing and strong religious 
(Evangelical) convictions, were al- 
ways on the side of Catholics in up- 
holding their privileges as citizens of 



250 



Tlie See of S, Francis of Sales, 



the state, voters, and freeholders; 
the two churches, S. Germain on 
" the hill," and Notre Dame on the 
plain (among the new hotels and 
villas), besides other chapels on the 
Savoy side of the lake, and the new 
suburb of Plainpalais, were always 
crowded, and there were many 
schools for rich and poor under reli- 
gious teachers. The Sisters of Cha- 
rity bad a house, to which tradition 
pointed as the house of Calvin ; and 
many English visitors knocked at 
their door, to beg to be allowed a 
peep into the courtyard, where they 
would pluck a blade of grass as a 
memento or relic. These have now 
been suppressed : the clergy, who 
were originally salaried by the state, 
have been thrown on their own re- 
sources; the bishop has been sent 
beyond the frontier. He is said to 
have remarked to the Holy Father, 
h fropos of this measure : " Your 
Holiness sent me to Calvin; Calvin 
sent me to Voltaire (the bishop's 
retreat is Ferney) ; but I have great 
hopes of outliving them both." 

Still, we would fain insist upon the 
great difference between this mark of 
intolerance and the old rules of the 
Calvinistic theocracy. The Conscil 
d^Etat does not represent Calvin and 
his personal fanaticism; it speaks 
a language of its own, and one 
which Calvin himself would be hor- 
rified to listen to — the language of 
state supremacy defying God. If 
Calvin were alive, he would no 
doubt feel a hearty satisfaction in 
l)urning Mgr. Merraillod; but he 
would have as great a relish for the 
burning of Prince Bismarck. Cal- 
vinism was at least sincere in its 
fanaticism; the Bismarckian animus 
is not even that of a fanatic, but of a 
cynic. So it is not the spirit of the 
pale, nervous reformer of the XVIth 
century that is responsible for the 
recent outrage against freedom of 



conscience at Geneva; but a spirit 
more potent, more ambitious, more 
grasping, and, above all, more far- 
seeing — the spirit of open infidelity 
boasting of its material power of 
repression. 

Of the political attitude of Geneva 
we need not speak, further than to 
say that its acknowledged neutrality, 
and the intellectual culture of its in- 
habitants, have given it a new life, and 
made of the focus of the only " Re- 
formation " that had any sincerity or 
inherent strength in it a new focus 
of peaceful and dignified repose. 
From the cfiamp clos of Calvinism, it 
has become the arena of the world, 
especially of diplomacy, and the city 
of refuge of all exiles, royalist, Maz- 
zinist, and social. Among the latter 
came one who has contributed to 
Geneva's glory — Byron, the gifted 
prodigal, who is among poets as the 
"morning star" once was among 
angels. We meant, however, to 
speak rather of one of Geneva's citi- 
zens than of the historic city itself; 
though such are the manifold charms 
of the place that only to name it is a 
temptation to plunge at once into a 
thousand speculations as to its past 
and a thousand theories as to its fu- 
ture. 

Mgr. Mermillod, the successor of S. 
Fimncis of Sales, is a native of Ca- 
ronge, a suburb of Geneva, and was 
born of a Catholic family, poor '\n 
the world's goods, and obscure in its 
estimation. He has a vivacity rather 
French than Genevese, but with a 
solid foundation of that more serious 
character which distinguishes his 
countrymen. As an oratof, he is 
hardly second to the Bishop of Or- 
leans, Mgr. Dupanloup ; as a lecturer 
to pious women on the duties of 
womanhood, he is superior to most 
ecclesiastics. In the guidance oi 
souls, the enlightened discrimination 
between what is in itself wrong, and 



The See of S. Francis of Sales, 



251 



what harmless if done in a proper 
spirit, he seems to have inherited the 
special gift of S. Francis of Sales in 
directing women of good family, liv- 
ing at court or otherwise, in the 
world. His singular prudence and 
the graciousness of his manner are 
essential helps to him in the pro- 
minent position he holds towards 
modem governments, and the daily 
contact which confronts him with 
modern sentiment. He is the weapon 
expressly fashioned for the last new 
phase into which the eternal struggle 
against the world, the flesh, and the 
devil has entered. Like S. Francis, 
he wraps his strength in gentleness, 
and carries out the suaviter in modo^ 
fariUer in re. In conversation, of 
which he is fond — for his is not the 
monastic ideal of holiness — ^he is 
sprightly, witty, and accurate. His 
power of crystallizing ideas into a 
mot is quite French, and the childlike 
joyousness of his demeanor is no less 
so. The word ascetic seems to imply 
the very antipodes of his nature ; and 
yet his private apartment, which we 
were once privileged to see, is almost 
like a cell. Here is a description of it, 
gathered from the impressions of two 
worthy visitors : " I felt," says one, 
" in this little buco (hole) as if I were 
in the cell of a saint, and examined 
everything with veneration. That little 
prie-Dieu^ so simple in its build, which 
daily witnesses the prayers and sighs 
of the pastor, anxious for his flock and 
the souls entrusted to him by God ; 
of the Christian humbling himself 
and praying for his own needs. . . . 
Perhaps some day this litde room will 
be visited as S. Charles Borromeo's is 
now at Milan. I am favored in that 
I know it already. Two purple 
stocks and the tasselled hat alone 
recalled the bishop, while the framed 
table of a ' Seminarist's Duties,' taken 
in connection with the simplicity, nay, 
poverty, of the room, might make one 



think it the habitation of a young 
cleric." 

And another account adds : " What 
a memory to have seen this room, so 
narrow, so humble, so evidently the 
home of a saint ! We shall always be 
able to fix the picture of the bishop 
in our memory, night or day, praying 
or working, at all tin>es ; . . . and 
that beautiful print of Blessed Mar- 
garet Mary Alacoque, and that tiny 
prie-Dieu /" 

The bishop's library, his ordinary 
working-room, was also a very simple 
retreat, and often fireless in the cold- 
est days of winter. The house stood 
next door to the cathedral, and the 
rest of the clergy, four or five in all, 
lived there in community. Among 
them was the old vicar, the second 
priest to whose charge the reconsti: 
tuted parish of Geneva had been 
entrusted before being raised to the 
dignity of a bishopric. It was very 
touching to watch this old man lov- 
ingly deferring to the young bishop, 
who was formerly but a curate under 
him, and rejoicing as a father in the 
elevation of one of whose fitness for 
the episcopal office he, above all, had 
reason to be certain. 

" No man securely commands but 
he who has learned well to obey,"* 
Another of the clergy was a very re- 
markable man, the type of a charac- 
ter found nowhere in these days save 
under the cowl of the monk, and 
even among religious probably no- 
where save in the Benedictine Order. 
He was the bishop's private secre- 
tary, and his right hand in the busi- 
ness of the diocese. He belonged to 
the Reformed Benedictines of Soles- 
mes, and was a friend and spiritual 
subject of Dom Gu6ranger, author 
of the invaluable Liturgical Year, the 
beautiful History of S, Cecilia^ and 
other works. It was only by a spe- 

* Following of Christy b. 1. c. zz. t. a. 



252 



The See of S. Francis of Sales. 



cial dispensation that he was allowed 
to hold his present position and live 
outside his cloister; but having, in 
early life, been the schoolmate of the 
bishop, and being eminently fitted to 
wield ecclesiastical sway, this privi- 
lege (which was none to him, how- 
ever) had been obtained by Mgr. 
Mermillod. He was called rather by 
the title of his religious profession, U 
p^re^ than by his name in the world 
— a name since become known as 
that of the author of a learned and 
voluminous Life of S, Dunsian. He 
was, as it were, a stranded pilgrim in 
this age of compromise — a stem, 
heroic soul cast in the giant mould of 
the Xlllth century; rather a Ber- 
nard of Clairvaux than a Francis of 
Sales; in learning a descendant of 
Duns Scotus, and a disciple of Aris- 
totle ; an ascetic, a scholastic, a rigid 
disciplinarian, an unerring director. 
In person tall, dignified, spare of 
form, with keen, eagle glance, clear- 
cut, largely -moulded features; in dress 
simple to rusticity, and a fit model 
for an old monkish carving at the 
foot of a pulpit or on the boss of an 
arcli. 

They completed each other, these 
two saintly characters, the bishop and 
the monk, bound together in a mystic 
marriage for the production of spi- 
ritual children for God and the 
church; and the contrast between 
them seemed, as it were, typical of 
that other union of distant ages, one 
with another, for the furtherance of 
a principle ever the same, whether 
its accidental exponent be Peter the 
fisherman, Hildebrand the Reformer, 
Bernard the monk, Francis of Sales, 
the gentle bishop, or Pius IX., the 
yet more gentle and more persecuted 
Pope. 

Our stay at Geneva covered three- 
fourths of a year, so that we grew 
familiar with the beauties of the 
neighborhood in its different aspects 



of summer, autumn, and winter. It 
would be diflScult to chronicle every 
detail of these beauties of earth, sky, 
and water, which, as the seasons 
brought them severally into promi- 
nence, seemed to form a series of 
cabinet pictures for memory to dwell 
upon ever after. There is nothing 
like a long stay in one place to make 
one feel its loveliness; the transient 
wayfarer among the most enchanting 
scenes sees not a quarter as much 
natural beauty as the constant dweller 
in a less favored spot In the wild 
rush, named with unconscious satire 
a tour^ the traveller sees a kaleido- 
scopic mixture of incongruous, dis- 
cordant beauties, and of each in de- 
tail he sees but one phase, sometimes 
an abnormal one, sometimes an ob- 
scured one, and not seldom he sees 
but the vacant place where this beauty 
should be. His opinions are hastily 
formed, and, strange phenomenon ! 
the more hastily the more ineradi- 
cably, and they are often erroneous, 
or at least one-sided. A man looking 
for the moon during the week when 
the moon is new, and concluding, 
therefore, that no moon exists or is 
visible at any time, would not be a 
rasher tale-teller than he who asserted 
that because he passed twenty-four 
hours in Venice during a fog, there- 
fore the sun never shone in the 
Adriatic city ; or that since in a week's 
scamper through the environs of 
Naples he never came across a beau- 
tiful woman, therefore the type of the 
Grecian goddess was extinct among 
the women of Parthenope. Sweeping 
statements are as invariably wrong as 
they are temptingly easy to make ; it 
is needless to say how intellectually 
absurd they are. Give your experi- 
ence as your experience, and you 
will have contributed something to 
the sum total of acquisition on any 
given subject ; but do not give it as 
the only, absolute, indisputable, and 



The See of S, Francis of Sales. 



253 



final result of research. All know- 
ledge is but partial; it is subject to 
ftli kinds of qualifications. Few men 
can speak with authority of more than 
a grain of it at a time, and it is equally 
unwise and undignified to put your- 
self in the position of the Pharisee 
whom the lord of the feast directed 
to give place to a guest of worthier 
and seemlier station. But this is a 
digression. We began by saying that 
long residence in one place is the 
true way to see, learn, and probe its 
beauties; as well as its resources. 
Until your htzxt grows to a place, you 
do not know it, and no place unas- 
sociated with family or patriotic con- 
nections can teach your heart to grow 
to it without long residence. Perhaps 
there are exceptions, corresponding 
to " love at first sight," but even this 
in human relations is only an excep- 
tion. We remember one place, seen 
for one day only, for which this 
sadder feeling of kinship and yearn- 
ing grew up in our heart — it was 
Heidelberg ; but intimate knowledge 
in ordinary cases is the only channel 
to a great and appreciative love. 

Geneva won its way to our love 
thus, and, more than any one spot we 
visited — not excepting even Rome — 
came to represent to the memory the 
happiest, most peaceful, and most 
fruitful period of our lives. We shall 
be forgiven if we draw a sketch of 
the surroundings which are associated 
with our knowledge of the Bishop 
of Geneva. In all our reminiscences 
bis figure is the central one, and the 
group of persons who formed our 
circle of friendship seems naturally 
to revolve around his person. Our 
summer life was spent in a shy little 
villa, invisible from the high-road, and 
embowered in groves of pine, chest- 
nut, and oak ; our winter days were 
passed, perforce, at the unconge- 
nial but perfectly appointed Hotel 
de la Paix. The party consisted of 



our own family only, with one or two 
accidelital additions from England 
for a week at a time. The house was 
slightly built and cottage-like, with a 
flight of steps on each side, the front 
stoop being festooned with a jessa- 
mine-vine, and the wide, grand drive, 
flanked by a bed of flaming balsam- 
flowers, sweeping up to the door un- 
der the shade of two or three mas- 
sive horse-chq^tnuts. No room in 
the house was carpeted, and only 
the drawing-room hdidvi parquet floor. 
The bed-rooms were miracles of sim- 
plicity and cleanliness — milk-white 
boards, white-washed walls, no cur- 
tains to bed or window, and an ab- 
sence of any furniture, save a narrow 
bed, a washstand, a dimity-covered 
table, and one cane chair, making 
them seem so many dormitory sec- 
tions partitioned off. We made the 
" best " room a little more pictur- 
esque, as that of a loved invalid never 
fails to be, by the help of crimson 
velvet coverlets, blue silk and knitted 
wool in cushions, a portable easy- 
chair, muslin bed- curtains, and a dis- 
play of cut-glass bottles with gold 
stoppers — in short, the contents of 
an English dressing-case on the 
pretty, white-robed table. Books, 
also, and any pretty thing that struck 
our fancy in the treasure-houses of 
the town, accumulated here, and 
made of it the choicest room in the 
house. We had a severer try sting- 
place on the ground-floor, where 
reading was carried on systematically, 
illuminating and ecclesiastical em- 
broidery filled up many an hour, 
and our journals (from which we 
have already quoted) were com- 
piled. But there was a rarer treasure 
yet — a chapel. A tiny room, dark- 
ened air Italiana^ with red curtains, 
and containing a portable altar suit- 
ably draped, recalled the oratories 
of Roman palazzi ; and here was 
often seen the tall figure of le plre and 



254 



The See of S. Francis of Sales. 



K little chorister from Notre Dame, 
as we had Mass said there generally 
twice a week. It was a sanctifica- 
tion to the house, and we felt it an 
incitement in our " labor of love " of 
reading and manual work. Another 
gathering-spot was the wall on the 
garden side, forming the parapet be- 
tween the terrace and the lower 
level of meadow-land. There was a 
whole colony of spiders nestled in 
the miniature grove of jessamine that 
hid the wall j and, as we sat with our 
books on the steps leading from the 
terrace, we assisted, as it were, at a 
perpetual natural history lecture in 
actti. The webs were generally very 
perfect, and, as the autumn came on, 
tlie early dews transformed them into 
a jewelled network, shining rainbow- 
wise, with the loveliest prismatic 
hues. Sometimes, when they were 
broken, they seemed like a cordage 
of diamonds — the tangled ruins of 
some fiiiry wreck clinging to the 
mast, represented by a green twig. 
But there was in the grounds another 
more sylvan and lonely retreat still — 
our own especial haunt. It was a 
damp valley, below the level of the 
high-road, carpeted with periwinkles 
and decaying leaves, and shut out 
from human observation by a grove 
of oaks and chestnuts. A peculiar 
darkness always brooded over it, and 
one might have forgotten the exist- 
ence of noontide had he spent 
twenty-four hours in its gloom. A 
little brook ran along the bottom, its 
waters carrying miniature freight- 
barks in the shape of half-opened 
horse-chestnuts or curled and brown- 
ed oak-leaves. If anything so small 
could bear so lofty a likeness, we 
should say that this sombre valley 
was akin to a Druidical grove. 

Our outdoor pleasures were few, 
as the world understands them ; they 
mostly consisted of long drives into 
the interior, where we wouid often 



pass dignified, melancholy-looking 
iron portals, let into a wall festooned 
profusely with the Virginia creeper, 
and giving a glimpse of some desert- 
ed, parklike expanse of meadow. 
Other less pretentious entrances 
"showed a wilderness of roses, flower- 
ing shrubs, and vines, but always in 
contrast with the luxuriant Virginia 
creeper, which nowhere else in Eu- 
rope grows in such perfection. A 
variety of shades absolutely Western 
greets the eye and delights the imag- 
ination ; the hues of the Indian sum- 
mer seem concentrated in this one 
plant, and, from its rich glow, an artist 
can easily guess what a forest of inde- 
finitely multiplied trees, painted in the 
colors of this creeper, would look 
like. Two of our visitors were wel- 
come additions to our party and sym- 
pathetic sharers in our pleasures — 
one, a lady well known for her ener- 
getic and active charity, whose pre- 
sence in anyplace pointed invariably 
to some hidden work of mercy to be 
performed there, and whose mission 
just then was to comfort a lonely 
and despairing widow under pecu- 
liarly trying aggravations of her sor- 
row ; the other an artist whose name 
in his public capacity has already ap- 
peared more than once in the pages 
of The Catholic World, and whose 
character of childlike simplicity and 
reverent earnestness has endeared 
him to us in private life as a friend 
and a model. 

People staying at Geneva — at least, 
English people — always make a 
point of going through the arduous 
expedition to Chamouni and the 
Mer de Glace. We do not mean to 
disparage the spirit which inevitably 
urges on our countrymen and coun- 
trywomen to put their necks in jeo- 
pardy on the slightest provocation ; 
but, turning the adventurous instinct 
of our Anglo-Saxon blood to a better 
purpose, we chose rather tamake Xvfo 



The See of S. Francis of Sales. 



2S5 



or three expeditions to sites hallowed 
by the presence of the Apostle of 
Geneva — S. Francis of Sales, Mont 
Blanc could not, from any point of 
view, appear more majestically beau- 
tiful than it does from the shores of 
Lake Leman; and we preferred to 
gaze upon the monarch with the eye 
of an artist rather than that of a gym- 
nast. We here lean upon the au- 
thority of Ruskin, whom we are glad 
to appeal to in an instance where his 
naturally reverential mind makes him 
a safe and unbiassed guide. Our 
first pilgrimage was to the Castle (fes 
AilingeSy on the Savoy side of the 
lake, a ruin now, but where, in for- 
mer days, the saint often said Mass 
in a chapel, which is the only part of 
the castle still untouched. There is 
no lack of visitors to this shrine dur- 
ing the summer, and each party is 
generally accompanied by a priest. 
We were happy in persuading U p}re 
to be our companion, and started 
overnight for the village of Thonon. 
The lake was unruffled, and the sun 
ihining tropically, as the little steam 
boat carried us over the waters. 
Thonon is a Catholic village, with an 
ugly church, adorned by carved and 
gilded cherubs and other unsightly 
excrescences ambitiously striving to 
be Michael Angelos and Donatellos. 
Frogs never can let oxen alone, es- 
pecially in art. We slept at the inn, 
a picturesque and proportionately dir- 
ty hostelry, very little changed, we 
should say, from what it was in the 
days of S. Francis. It stands on a 
high terrace above the lake, the top 
of which terrace forms a drilling- 
ground ; for Thonon has fortifications 
and the ghost of a garrison. The 
road from the boat-landing winds up 
through stunted vines to a dilapidat- 
ed gateway, and is often dotted by 
the curious one-horse vehicle of the 
country, called char-h-bafic — />. a sort 
of diminutive brougham turned side- 



ways, and hardly capable of holding 
two persons — a kind of side-saddle 
locomotion rather curious to any one 
accustomed to sit with his face to the 
horses. The view over the lake bv 
sunrise the next morning was dream- 
like in its beauty — each rounded 
peak veiled in mist, and t])e motion- 
less waters lying at their base as a 
floor of azure crystal. As we went 
further up into the mountains, the 
sun's rays flashed on hill after hill, 
throwing a softened radiance over 
each, and shooting darts of gold 
across the clear blue of the lake. We 
met carts laden with wheat-sheaves, 
and men and boys going to their 
day's work ; passed farms and dairies 
before coming to the heathery waste 
that separates the lonely hill-top of 
les A Hinges from the cultivated lands 
below; jolted over the stony path, 
called, in mockery, a road ; and, hav- 
ing seen in a short two hours' drive as 
many beauties as we could conve- 
niently remember, arrived at the 
Chapel of S. Francis. It has been 
changed since his time, but the altar 
is said to be the one at which he 
celebrated Mass. The chapel is a 
white-washed room like a rough 
school-room, fitted up with painted 
benches and cheap prints; but the 
feeling that draws so many Christian 
hearts to this refuge of the mission- 
ary Bishop of Geneva hallows the 
bare walls and open poverty of the 
chapel, and a spirit seems to rise 
from the altar recess to rebuke any 
worldly sense of disparagement or 
even disappointment. The manner 
in which ie p^re said Mass was 
enough to make one feel the solem- 
nity of the occasion and the grati- 
tude that ought to possess one after 
having had the privilege, doubtless 
not to be repeated in a lifetime, of 
praying on this consecrated spot. 
We all received holy communion 
during Mass. An old man is station- 



256 



TIte See of 5. Francis of Sales. 



ed at les Allinges as custos, sacristan, 
and Mass-server ; and his little gar- 
den, in full view of the lake, makes a 
pretty domestic picture grafted on to 
the mediaeval one of the " ruined cas- 
tle ivy-draped." 

S. Francis, so says tradition, often 
wandered day and night over this 
mountain on his apostolic missions, 
and, being once overtaken by dark- 
ness, found no better resting-place 
than the fork of a chestnut-tree. 
Wrapped in his cloak, he there went to 
sleep, lulled by the howling of the 
wolves, which abounded in that 
neighborhood. Many similar stories 
are told in Savoy of his missionary 
adventures; one of them recording 
that one day he presented himself, 
with two or three companions, at one 
of the gates of Geneva. The guard, 
not knowing him, asked who he was, 
before he would allow him to pass ; 
the saint calmly and smilingly re- 
plied, " I am VMque du lieu " (the 
bishop of the place). The guard, 
concluding he was some foreign 
visitor, and that Dulieu was the 
name of his diocese or manor, non- 
chalantly opened the gate, and let 
him in. When the magistracy discov- 
ered who had thus got entrance into 
the city of Calvin, there was a terri- 
ble outcry; the too innocent guard 
was summoned and threatened with 
death for his gross neglect of his 
duty, and a hasty search was begun 
for the hated Papist bishop. S. 
Francis had by that time quietly fin- 
ished his business and left the hostile 
walls of Geneva. This is not unlike 
the incident related by Cardinal 
Wiseman in Fabiola, where a Chris- 
tian substitutes for the watchword 
Numen Imperatorum^ without repeat- 
ing which he could not pass out to 
his secret worship in the catacombs, 
the words similar in sound, though 
widely different in meaning, Nomen 
Imperatorum, and succeeds in cheat- 



ing the guard, who was a Pannonian, 
and whose knowledge of Latin was 
but elementary. It was probably 
during one of these stolen visits that 
S. Francis administered the sacra- 
ments to a poor Catholic servant-girl 
in the cellar of the Botel de VEcu 
d'or — an old inn still standing at Ge- 
neva, and where the identical apart- 
ment is now shown. 

From Thonon we took the boat to 
Lausanne, on the opposite side of the 
lake, visited the Castle of Chillon, 
and returned to Geneva, after an- 
other night spent at the Vevay end 
of Lake Leman; where the moun- 
tains, purple and rounded ; the vege- 
tation, southern in its quality and 
luxuriance ; the winding road by the 
shore — all contribute to remind you 
of the Bay of Naples and the Sor- 
rento road along the Mediterranean. 

Lausanne itself, its cathedral, mon- 
uments, fortifications, and general 
quaintness of architecture and beauty 
of position, was the goal of another 
expedition, in which our English 

friend, Mr. B , accompanied us, 

and became our commentator and 
artistic guide. 

There were many other places we 
also visited ; one of us was indefati- 
gable, and followed the bishop to 
Thonex, where he solemnly deposited 
a corpo sanio; to CoUonge, where he 
blessed a new cemetery with all the 
pomp of ritual, made easy by this 
village being situated on Savoyard 
ground; and to Caronge, where he 
distributed the prizes at a girPs 
school, and gave an excellent and 
appropriate lecture on the education 
of women in this century. 

But the most beautiful ceremony 
of all was the consecration of the 
new parish church of Bellegarde, 
the French frontier post and cus- 
tom-house. This village is a mere 
handful of white- washed cottages 
dropped among the spurs of the 



The See of S. Francis of Sales. 



257 



Jura range. The mountains, though 
not high, have all the beauty of 
the Alps; their varied outline, their 
abrupt gorges, and their swift tor- 
rents being yet more beautiful be- 
cause embowered in a vegetation of 
softer aspect than the monumen- 
tal pineries which close-clothe the 
Alps. Within half a mile of Belle- 
garde is a curious natural phenome- 
non — laferte du Rhone, The river, 
here scarcely more than a moun- 
tain brook, after struggling through 
a barren, sandy bed, strewn with 
boulders of a porous white stone 
worn by the action of the water 
into strange shapes of vases, caul- 
drons, and urns, suddenly plunges 
under an arched entrance in a wall 
of rocks, and disappears. Its subter- 
ranean course is some miles long, 
and it re-emerges,. on a lower level, 
a placid, shallow stream. Around 
the mouth of this unknown cavern 
the scenery is very striking; deep 
clefts of rock, with fringes of Alpine 
fiowers, alternate with thick growths 
of oak and chestnut; and from 
every peaklet of the mountains some 
charming pastoral scene comes into 
view. The new church was a plain 
white building, of no architectual 
pretensions, but strong and impervi- 
ous to the weather. The internal 
decorations were simple in the ex- 
treme ; no frog emulation here, as 
in ambitious Thonon. For once we 
saw French peasants au naturel ; 
they really seemed the fervent, hos- 
pitable, unsophisticated people one 
longs to see. The Jura protects 
Bellegarde from Geneva; there is no 
large town near on the French side, 
and there is neither hotel, nor miner- 
al springs, nor iron mines, nor natu- 
ral resources of any kind to attract 
the acquisitive mind of the XlXth 
century. So God still reigns undis- 
turbedly in this narrow kingdom — 
narrow, indeed, if measured by the 
VOL. xviii — 17 



numerical strength of its inhabitants, 
but noble and precious if measured 
by the worth of each immortal soul 
which it holds. The people were 
collected outside the church, as the 
full ceremonies of consecration were 
going to be performed, and many of 
these take place before the people 
can canonically be admitted into 
the interior. A priest stood on the 
natural pulpit of a low stone wall, 
describing to the faithful the sym- 
bolic meaning of each ceremony, as 
the bishop and his assistants passed 
round and round the walls, chant- 
ing psalms and anointing the building, 
or, entering the portals, inscribed the 
Greek and Latin alphabets in the form 
of a cross on the floor of the church, 
made seven crosses on the different 
internal walls, and recited psalms 
and litanies before each. The men 
stood in the burning sun, bare-head- 
ed and motionless, often kneeling 
in the dust, and singing hymns in 
French corresponding to the mean- 
ing of the Latin prayers ; a line of 
Gardes Nationaies, in uniforms rather 
the worse for wear, and many wear- 
ing the Crimean medal, stood op- 
posite the entrance, while an ex- 
cruciating brass band played with 
a will a mixture of national and 
religious airs. When at last the con- 
gregation all poured into the church, 
High Mass was sung, the brass band 
doing duty in a scarcely less subdued 
tone than before, but being as much 
of an improvement upon the theatri- 
cal and sensuous exhibitions nick- 
named sacred music in many grander 
churches, as a rough but pious print 
is — religiously speaking — an improve- 
ment on a lascivious Rubens. The 
sermon (we forget whether preached 
by the bishop or not) was a touching 
exhortation to the people to remain 
knit in heart and soul to this church, 
the emblem at once of their hopes in 
the future and their spiritual struggles 



258 



The See of S. Francis of Sales. 



in the prcaent. In the afternoon, 
the bishop sang solemn Vespers, and 
towards dusk we all returned to 
Geneva, happy in having witnessed 
a ceremony so seldom seen in its 
beautiful entirety. Mgr. Mermillod 
was throughout the summer our fre- 
quent guest at the vijla, and as we 
purposed staying through the winter 
as well, he promised to accompany 
us to Annecy, in Savoy, to visit 
S. Francis of Sales* tomb and other 
places hallowed by his memory, on 
his own feast (29th of January). We 
started on the eve in two or three 
close carriages, with postilions. The 
road lay over a low pass of the 
Savoy Alps ; the cold was intense — 
such as we have never felt in any 
other temperate climate in Europe, 
and which nothing but the unexpect- 
edly rigorous winters of the Northern 
States have surpassed in our Ameri- 
can experience. The road was lined 
with trees, and valleys here and there 
opened a vista which in summer 
must have been gorgeous. It was 
scarcely less lovely now. Each 
slender twig was sharply defined, 
and covered with a clinging garment 
of frost; the white mist wreathed 
itself round the mountain-tops, fall- 
ing down the river-sides like sha- 
dowy waterfall?, and, mingling with 
the white sky overhead, formed, as it 
were, a vast dome of snow. No 
noise disturbed the silence save the 
creaking wheels of our vehicles, and 
as far as eye could reach there was 
no sign of life but our own presence. 
We might have been in cloud-land, 
or below the surface of the ocean, 
among hedges of gigantic white 
coral ! After two hours of this elf- 
like journey, we came to a ravine 
over which was thro\vii an iron sus- 
pension bridge, and here the intense- 
ly earthly resumed its dominion and 
made itself clearly felt in the prosaic 
necessity of paying toll and listening 



to profane language, rendered yet 
more uncouth by the Savoyard 
patois, 

Annecy is a little, old-fashioned 
town, with a cathedral in not mucli 
better taste than the church of Tho- 
non. The place wears a deserted 
look, and, the cold being terrible, 
yet fewer of the inhabitants cared to 
be seen loitering in the public squares. 
We adjourned first to the inn (we 
fear modern pilgrims are less fervent 
than of old), but could get no fire. 
Grates are unknown, and a miserable 
stove, badly managed and half filled, 
is the starveling and ineflScient substi- 
tute. The old inn was a character- 
istic place. We went through the 
kitchen, the general meeting and 
tabk'd^hdte room, to our upper 
chambers. The staircase was wide 
enough for a palace, of beautiful 
carved oak, as was all the wood- work 
in the house. The next morning the 
bishop said Mass for us at the shrine 
of S. Francis. The building of great- 
est interest after this is the Convent 
of the Visitation, a rambling house 
with a large kitchen-garden, which 
we crossed to reach it. W^e were 
shown, through a double grating 
(the Visitation nuns are enclosed), 
the various relics which form the 
spiritual wealth of the convent. They 
have the original manuscript of S. 
Francis' Treatise on the Love of God 
written by his own hand, the pen 
with which he wrote it, and a shirt 
embroidered for him by S. Jeanne 
Fran9oise de Chantal. In the lower 
part of the house, corresponding to 
the position of a cellar, is a little 
chapel partly hewn in the rock, 
which serves as the foundation, 
where S. Francis gave the veil to S. 
Jane and one companion, or rather, 
blessed the first serai-religious cos- 
tume which the founders of the order 
wore. This consisted of a black 
gown and cape, and a large, close, 



The See of 5. Francis of Sales. 



259 



white cap in one piece covering the 
neck and shoulders as well as the 
head. This house then belonged to 
Sw Jane in her own right. In the 
chapel to the right of the altar is a 
picture of her in this dress, and on 
the other side a description of the 
simple ceremony. Later on, when 
the order was constituted, the dress 
became thoroughly monastic, as it has 
remained ever since. The cell of S. 
Jane is exactly as she left it; not 
made into a regular chapel, but, on 
days connected with her memory or 
that of S. Francis, Mass is said there 
at a temporary altar. Her cloak is 
kept in a press in the room, and one 
of us was privileged in having it 
thrown over her shoulders for a few 
minutes by the superioress. The 
order is not at all austere, but there is 
an immense deal of moral sacrifice 
imposed by the spirit of the rule. S. 
Francis designed it rather as a disci- 
pline of the mind than of the body ; 
and since saints have differed about 
this point, we are not at a sufficient 
elevation to pronounce upon it. 
Individually, however, we prefer the 
spirit of the older and more ascetic 
orders, as involving a more complete 
oblation of the whole being to God ; 
but — ^to every age its own institutions, 
and. we might add, its own saints. 

Mgr. Mermillod is surely one of 
those saints of our day. Indefati- 
gable in preaching (once the dis- 
tinctive duty of a bishop), his own 
flock sometimes complain, not with- 
out reason, that he is always away, 
preaching a retreat here, a mission 
there — Lent in Paris, Advent at 
Lyons, etc.; but in the winter of 
1866, he fortunately preached hve^on- 
firences at S. Germain, at Geneva 
itself. The church was in the old, 
hilly part of the town, but neither 
that nor the difficulty of approach — 
the frost made steep roads impassable 
that winter, and even the cabs went 



on runners — seemed to diminish the 
ardor of the people. All denomina- 
tions were represented at these even- 
ing lectures, and the subject was in- 
variably one accessible to the under- 
standing and commanding the inter- 
est of all. One, on the regeneration 
of fallen man, was peculiarly fine; but 
the arguments were perhaps inferior 
to the language in which they were 
clothed. It wound up with a forci- 
ble peroration on that " brutal and 
atheistical democracy which, in its 
most hideous exponent (the French 
Revolution of 1793), prostrated it- 
self before a courtesan, and knelt 
before a scafifold. When the wor- 
ship of God perished, the worship of 
shame was the substitute ; and when 
the blood of God ceased to flow upon 
the altar, the blood of man began to 
flow on the guillotine." The orator's 
enthusiasm in speaking sometimes 
carried him beyond his argument, 
and he even lost the thread of his 
similes in the ardor of his utterance. 
His watch invariably stopped before 
he had been twenty minutes in the 
pulpit, and this entratnement was all 
the more vivid from being quit^ 
spontaneous, as he never wrote his 
sermons, but preached extempore 
from a few scattered notes. How 
much study he must have gone 
through at a previous time to make 
him so polished, as well as so forci- 
ble, an orator, we can only conjec- 
ture. 

In ordinary social intercourse, his 
charm was chiefly sweetness and 
sprighdiness, with a certain happy 
diction which is a special gift, seldom 
found except among Frenchmen or 
those to whom French has become 
a second mother-tongue. Our long 
winter evenings at the H6tel de la 
Paix (the cold having driven us 
from the villa) were often enlivened 
by his genial presence; other friends, 
too, came sometimes, and one, a 



26o 



The See of S, Francis of Sales. 



Russian and an acute thinker, M. 

S , was one of the most welcome. 

He was blind, but his infirmity only 
seemed to enhance his powers of 
conversation, and made his company 
more agreeable than it might other- 
wise have been. One night, the 
bishop was speaking of Lamennais 
and his more hidden life. There 
were soul-struggles and temptations 
assaulting him even in his chosen 
retreat of La Ch^naie, in the midst 
of his triumph, when the Christian 
youth of France clustered round 
him, and sat at his feet as his hum- 
ble disciples. He sometimes fan- 
cied himself irretrievably destined to 
eternal loss, and experienced parox- 
ysms of terrible agony. The Abb6 
Gerbet, his confessor, once surprised 
him in one of these fits of despair, 
and did his best to strengthen and 
comfort him; but the demon was 
not to be laid so easily. The bishop, 
telling us this, added : " The three 
greatest geniuses of France in this 
age have fallen, the one through 
pride, the others through vanity — 
Lamennais, Victor Hugo, and Lamar- 
tine." The conversation having 
rested upon these two failings, some 
one quoted the saying that " The 
greater part of mankmd is in- 
capable of rising to the level of 
pride." A Russian lady who was 
present then said: "Indeed, one 
ought to have a great deal of pride 
to save one*s self from petty vanity." 
Thereupon M. S quickly re- 
marked : •* Oh ! therefore, we should 
bum down a city to prevent fires." 
Our Russian friend was very sharp at 
repartee. Another evening, when he 
brought with him a young German, 
the conversation fell upon Duke 
Krnest of Saxe-Coburg, Prince Al- 
bert's brother. He had lately had an 
immense forest awarded to him as 
damages for some losses sustained 
during the Austro-Prussian war of 



the previous summer ; so S 

said : 

"There are people who make ar- 
rows out of any wood, but he has 
contrived to make wood out of any 
arrow." This is a French rendering 
of "*Tis an ill wind that blows no 
one good"; but the connection in 
this case between an arrow, a wea- 
pon typical of the war, and the wood, 
or forest gained in compensation, is 
better expressed by the French form.* 
Later on, some one remarked that in 
that war the telegraph had been 
Hiissianized throughout Germany; 

and when the young German, S 's 

friend, was trying to give us an idea 
of Duke Ernest's ticklish position, 
S interrupted : 

"Yes, yes; I know what you 
mean ; in short, he played the part . . . 
of the telegraph 1" 

Mgr. Mermillod had a winning 
way of turning everything into a 
moral, and at the same time giving 
balm to a rebuke and strength to a 
counsel. For instance, one day, as he 
visited a sick penitent of his, whose 
mental energy was for ever soaring be- 
yond her physical capabilities, he said : 

" You will do more good on your 
sick-bed than you could in the best 
of health in the London salons. Re- 
member that Our Blessed Lord lay 
but three hours stretched upon the 
cross, and thereby converted the 
world; while, during his three years' 
ministry, he scarcely converted a 
handful of Jews." 

On New Year's Eve, 1866-7, he 
gave us a few little books of devo- 
tion as a souvenir, and then, mak- 
ing the sign of the cross on each of 
our foreheads, said : 

" Here are crosses to disperse the 
crosses of 1S66 and frighten away 
those of 1S67." 



* Tlte original proverb sottads less ponderoos 
ly : ** n en est qui font fl^he de toot bois, mM\. 
lui, U a fait bob de toote IKcbe.*' 



Catholic Literature in England since the Reformation, 261 



Another time, on one of his peni- 
tents going to him with a load of 
doubt, uneasiness, almost despair, he 
gave her the wisest and gentlest coun- 
sels, after which he said sympathiz- 
ingly, comprehending the whole in a 
dozen words: 

" I understand, my child ; you go 
from one extreme to another — from 
sadness to laughter, from melancholy 
to irony." 

Once when some one in his pre- 
sence expressed a wish that all priests 
were like him, he answered humbly : 
•* My dear child, every priest is in 
some sort an incarnation of the Spirit 
of God." * 

It is sad to think of Geneva with- 



* The Catholic reader will not misttnderstand 
the itiU more forcible original : *^ Tous les pr€trcs 
c^otune petite incarnatioa du bon Dieu." 



out the presence of its pastor, so 
admirably fitted as he is to carry 
on the work of S. Francis and 
execute the designs of God in 
this important see. The faith is 
most vigorous just where the attack 
is hottest, and it is on the missionary 
bishoprics, flung thus into the warring 
bosoms of non-Catholic nations, that, 
humanly speaking, the future — and 
let us say the triumph — of the church 
very much depends. 

With such internal bulwarks as the 
Benedictine secretary of Mgr. Mer- 
millod represents, and such external 
champions as the eloquent, energetic, 
and enlightened bishop himself, it is 
not too much to say that not even 
the faintest heart has reason to dread 
the fall of the rock-built citadel of 
Peter. 



C.\THOLIC LITERATURE IN ENGLAND SINCE THE REFOR- 

M ATI ON. 



It is not surprising that Catholic 
literature was at a low ebb for many 
years after Henry VIII., of evil me- 
mory. Deprived of the means of 
knowledge in their own country 
under Edward VI., Elizabeth, and 
James I., Catholics were compelled 
to seek education abroad in col- 
leges where they forgot their mother- 
tongue and the writers of their native 
land. As to their brethren who re- 
mained at home, it was dangerous 
for them even to possess books, and 
they seldom had time or opportunity 
to make themselves acquainted with 
their contents. A prayer-book, black 
with use and carefully secreted, was 
all the library of those who were lia- 
ble at any moment to be ferreted out 
of vaults and wainscots, and hanged. 



drawn, and quartered for believing in 
the Papal supremacy. The Puritan 
movement in the time of Charles I. 
and the Commonwealth was highly 
unfavorable to literature in general ; 
and the Catholics who joined the 
royal standard were more anxious 
to wield the sword than the pen. 
But the fewer the authors who broke 
the long literary silence of the Cath- 
olic body in England, the more their 
names deserve to be cherished. We 
will endeavor, therefore, to make a 
catena auciorum^ and to offer a few 
comments on each link in the chain. 
Though all of them were Catholics 
at some period or other of their lives, 
they were not all persistent in their 
faith nor exemplary in their practice. 
It will be understood that they are 



262 Catholic Literature in England since the Reformation. 



cited in their literary capacity, and 
not as saints, martyrs, and confessors 
in a calendar. 

Robert Southwell, however, must 
head the list, as he was both author 
and martyr. He published many 
volumes in prose and verse, though 
his life was closed prematurely in 
his thirty-fifth year. Educated at 
Douay, he labored in England eight 
years during Elizabeth's reign. He 
was a member of the Society of Jesus, 
and he touched the hearts of his suf- 
fering brethren by his tender and 
plaintive verse. S, Jeter's Complaint, 
with Other Poems, appeared in 1593, 
and Maonia^ or Certaine Excellent 
Poems and Spirituall ffymneSy in 1595, 
the year in which he was hanged, 
drawn, and quartered at Tyburn, 
under a false charge of being en- 
gaged in a political movement. His 
real offence was that of the Bishop 
of Ermeland and the Jesuits of Ger- 
many in the present day — his allegi- 
ance in spiritual matters to the autho- 
rity of the Holy See. Robert South- 
well's memory is still cherished in 
England, and it is not long since 
selections from his poems were read 
to a crowded audience in Hanover 
Square Rooms, London, by the 
Rev. F. Christie, S.J. They do 
not rise high in poetic merit, but 
they are full of noble, just, and de- 
vout sentiments. "Time Goes by 
Turns " is found in most collections 
of British poetry. The following are 
the last stanzas of his " Conscience " : 

" No change of fortune's calms 
Can cast my comforts down; 
When fortune smiles, I smile to think 
How quickly she will frown. 

** And when in froward mood 
She moves an ani^ry foe. 
Small gain I find to let her come, 
Less loss to let her go." 

Religious writings — sermons, medi- 
tations, and even works of contro- 
versy — had more importance, in a 
literary point of view, in Queen Eliza- 



beth's reign than they have now. 
At that time, people read little ; books 
were few and dear. Books of piety 
cultivated the mind, though used 
chiefly to edify the heart. They 
exercised many persons in the art of 
reading, who, but for that branch of 
literature, would have read nothing 
at all. They kept up a habit which 
was good on secular grounds, apart 
from the higher spiritual consider- 
ation. Looked upon in this light, 
the tracts and letters of such holy 
men as Campion, Persons, and Allen 
(afterwards cardinal) had a twofold 
value. Edmund Campion was an ac- 
complished scholar. He received his 
education at S. John's, Oxford, and 
being courteous and refined, as w^ell 
as clever, he was universally beloved. 
After leaving college, he went to Ire- 
land, and wrote a history of that coun- 
try, which was highly esteemed. Hav- 
ing been reconciled to the church, he 
repaired to the new college at Douay, 
that he might there study theology ; 
and after following the usual course, 
he was admitted into the Society of 
Jesus, and sent to England to com- 
fort and strengthen his brethren who 
were contending for the faith. His 
friendship for Persons, his publication 
of a work written by that father, en- 
titled Reasons for not Going to Church 
(that is, to the parish Protestant 
church), and the seizure of a private 
press, which a Catholic gentleman 
had given to the friends, that they 
might work off edifying books and 
tracts, led to his apprehension. He 
was dragged through the streets of 
London, with a paper fixed on his hat, 
stigmatizing him as '* Campion, the 
seditious Jesuit" (July, 1581), and 
being tried for treason, of which he 
was quite guiltless, he was barbar- 
ously executed, after suffering the 
most horrible tortures. The life oi 
Cardinal Allen, if carefully written, 
would be an important addition to 



Catholic Literature in England since the Reformation. 263 



English Catholic literature, and in- 
volve numerous particulars of th rill- 
ing interest respecting the political 
and domestic history of the times. 
His writings lie in the border-land 
between theology and politics. His 
Apology or Defence of the yesuits and 
Seminarists was a reply, written in 
1582, to the proclamations of the 
government which denounced the 
Catholic priests as traitors. Persons 
engaged in the same controversy, 
dwelling chiefly on the dogmatic and 
practical side of the question. All 
honor to these heroes of the cross, 
whom literature as well as religion 
claims as her own ! 

In placing ** Rare Ben Jonson " 
among Catholic authors, it is not 
meant to claim him altogether as one 
of the church's children. In early 
youth, he bore arms and served a 
campaign in the Low Countries. 
His troop being disbanded, he took 
to the stage ; but a hot temper often 
led him into brawls, and in one of 
these he had the misfortune to kill a 
brother actor. Being in prison, he 
contracted an intimacy with a fellow- 
prisoner, a Catholic priest, which 
ended in his conversion. During 
twelve years he remained a Catholic, 
and then returned to the Established 
Church. It was the only pathway 
to worldly success, and he became 
a favorite with James I., as Shake- 
speare had been with Queen Eliza- 
beth. We name them together, for, 
indeed, tliey were rivals ; yet what a 
difference between the texture and 
the productions of their brains ! Ben 
Jonson was made poet-laureate, 
and wrote comedies and masques 
without number. Here and there 
we find in his works noble senti- 
ments worthily expressed, as in 
that classical drama, Catiline^s Con- 
spiracy, We find also rhythmical 
sweetness, as in the song, "To 
Cclia," 



"Drink to me only with thine eyes/' 

and in the " Hymn to the Moon," 

^ Queen and huntress, chaste and fair." 

Now and then he touches a more 
sacred chord, and such as might suit 
a Catholic lyre, as in the following 
hymn : 

" Hear me, O God ! 
A broken heart 
Is my best part. 
Use still thy rod, 
That I may prove 
Therein thy love. 

*']fthouhad&tnot 
Been stern to me, 
But left me free, 
I had forfi^ot 
Myself and thee ; 

** For sin *s so sweet. 
As minds Ul bent 
Rarely repeat. 
Until they meet 
Their punishment.'* 

The way had been prepared for 
Ben Jonson's success as a dramatist 
— not to speak now of Shakespeare, 
Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger, 
and Marlowe — by the miracle plays 
or mysteries of the middle ages, simi- 
lar to those which are acted at the 
present time among the Indians in 
Mexico, and the famous Ammergau, 
or Passion Play, in Bavaria. In 
these plays, The Fall of Man, The 
Death of Abel, The Flood, Lazarus, 
Pilate s IVife's Dream, SL Catharine's 
Wheel, and the like, were brought on 
the stage with the approbation of the 
clergy, in order that they might bring 
home the mysteries of the faith to 
people's heart and imagination, and 
supply in some measure the place of 
books. The miracle plays had been 
succeeded in time by moral plays, 
which, from the early part of Henry 
VI. *s long reign, had represented 
apologues, not histories, by means 
of allegorical characters. Vices and 
Virtues, however, did not stand their 
ground long at the theatre. They 
gradually changed into beings less 
vague and shadowy, who, while they 



264 Catholic Literature in England since the Reformation. 



represented vices or virtues in the 
concrete, had, in addition, the charm 
of resembling real life. 

Richard Crashaw's fame as a poet 
rests mainly on one line, and that in 
Latin ; nor was the rest of his poe- 
try of sufficient force and merit to 
enable him always to retain the cre- 
dit of that single line. It has over and 
over again been attributed to Dry- 
den and other hands. Yet it is posi- 
tively his, and a poem in itself. It 
is to be found in a volume of Latin 
poems published by Crashaw in the 
year in which he graduated at Cam- 
bridge (1635). The line is a penta- 
meter — on the miracle at Cana of 
GaUlee — and consists of two dactyls, a 
spondee, and two anapests. It is often 
quoted inaccurately, but we give it 
exactly : 

Nympha pudica Deum vidit^ et eruhuit. 
** The modest water saw its God, and blushed/' 

The author's mind was devotional 
from his earliest years. He had al- 
ways been hearing about religion ; for 
his father preached at the Temple, 
and took part largely in the contro- 
versies of the day. There was one 
favorable feature in the religious 
polemics of that period — both sides 
professed belief in God and in the 
Christian religion ; now our warfare is 
with atheists, deists, pantheists, posi- 
tivists, with whom we have scarcely 
any common ground. After his elec- 
tion as a Fellow of Peterhouse in 
1637 — about the time that Hampden, 
Pym, and Cromwell himself were 
embarking for New England, and 
were forcibly detained from sailing — 
he became noted in the university 
as a preacher, and passed so much 
of his time in devotion that the author 
of the preface to his poems says : " He 
lodged under Tertullian's roof of an- 
gels. There he made his nest more 
gladly than David's swallow near the 
house of God. There, like a primi- 



tive saint, he offered more prayers in 
the night than others usually offer in 
the day. There he penned these 
poems : Steps for Bappy Souls to climb 
to Heaven by" 

In 1644, sorrow came to his calm 
nest ; and as he would not sign the 
covenant, he was driven from the 
university he loved and from sur- 
roundings increasingly dear. Ac- 
complished in Hebrew, Greek, Latin, 
Italian, and Spanish, skilled in draw- 
ing, music, and engraving, he was still 
more noted for his talent in the higher 
art of poetry. He belonged to what 
is called the fantastic school of Cow- 
ley, which is full of conceits. But 
"conceits" are often original and 
beautiful ideas quaintly expressed. 
The poetry of conceits was a reflex 
of the times, and is, with all its faults, 
far preferable to classic platitudes in 
flowing verse. 

The overthrow of the Church of 
England by the Commonwealth was 
to Crashaw a cause of poignant 
regret. He could no longer bear to 
look on the towers and spires of ven- 
erable churches given over into the 
hands of bawling, nasal Puritans. 
He quitted England, and, crossing 
the Channel, found that, in France, 
he was a member of no church at all. 
His own communion was extinct, 
and he was a stranger to the Catho- 
lic Church, before whose altars he 
now stood as an alien. But he had 
taken up his residence in France, and 
it was not long before he decided on 
embracing the faith which that land 
prized as its most precious heritage. 
After the decisive battle of the Civil 
War had been fought at Naseby, the 
poet Cowley, who was an ardent 
royalist, visited Paris, and found 
Crashaw in great distress. He rep- 
resented his case to Henrietta Maria, 
the exiled queen of England, and 
presented him to her. He received 
kindness from her majesty, and letters 



Catliolic Literature in England since the Reforfuation, 265 



of recommendation to her friends 
in Italy. Having made his way to 
Rome, he became secretary to one 
of the cardinals, and was subsequent- 
ly appointed canon of the church 
of Our Lady at Loretto. Here he 
resided during the remainder of his 
days, and died " a poet and a saint " 
(as Cowley calls him) in 1650, the 
year after the execution of Charles I. 
Two years after his death, a vol- 
ume of his posthumous poems was 
published; and his memory was 
honored by Cowley in what Thomas 
Arnold calls *' one of the most loving 
and beautiful elegies ever written." 
His Steps to the Temple: Sacred 
IhcmSj and other Delights of the Muses ^ 
which appeared in 1646, had reached 
a second edition before his decease, 
and a third was published in 1670. 
In 1785, his entire poems were pub- 
lished in London, and included a 
translation of part of the Sospetto di 
If erode of Marini. His style resem- 
bled that of Herbert, and a few lines 
breathing a Catholic spirit shall be 
quoted from his works. It is called 
A Hymn to the Nativity : 

' Gloomy night embraced the place 

Where the noble Infant lay : 
The babe looked up, and showed his face — 
In spite of darkness, it was day. 

" We saw thee in thy balmy nest, 
Bright dawn of our eternal day ; 
We saw thlae eyes break from the east, 

And chase the trembiing shades away. 
We saw thee, and we blessed the sight : 
W<«tw ekte by tkint own noett light, 

"She sings thy tears asleep, and dips 

Her kisses in thy weeping eye / 
She spreesds the red leaves of thy lips 

That in their buds yet blushing lie. 
Yet when young April's husband-showers 

Shall ble&s the faithful Malays bed, 
We'll bring the first-born of her flowers 

To kiss thy feet and crown thy head : 
To thee, dread Lamb ! whose love must keep 
The shepherds while they feed their sheep." 

Sir William Davenant was another 
poet -convert to the Catholic Church, 
and his conversion took place nearly 
at the same time as Crashaw's. ^ike 
that poet, also, he was in the favor 



of Queen Henrietta Maria during 
her exile in France. His life was 
full of adventure. As a child, he was 
acquainted with Shakespeare, who 
frequented the Crown Inn in the 
Corn Market, Oxford, kept by his 
father. That father rose to be 
mayor, and William entered at Lin- 
coln College. Leaving Oxford with- 
out a degree, he became page to the 
Duchess of Richmond, and subse- 
quently was attached to the house- 
hold of the poet, Lord Brooke. Ex- 
hibiting a decided talent for dra- 
matic composition, he was employed 
to write masques for the court of 
Charles I. These light plays, of 
which Milton's Comus is the best 
specimen ever produced, were highly 
popular, and served for private theat- 
ricals in the mansions and castles 
of lords and princes. William 
Davenant had fame enough to be 
celebrated in his time, and to be 
made poet-laureate when Ben Jonson 
died ; but his writings had not body 
of thought, original conception, or 
sweetness of expression enough to 
preserve them long from oblivion. 
His ballad, " My Lodging is on the 
Cold Ground," seems to have had 
more of the principle of life in it than 
anything else he wrote. During the 
Civil War, like many other authors, 
he flung aside his books, and girded 
on the sword. He was then known 
as General Davenant, and he nego- 
tiated in the king's name with his 
majesty's friends in Paris. Twice 
captured, and having twice escaped 
to France, he nevertheless returned, 
took part in the siege of Gloucester, 
and was knighted by the king for his 
services on that critical occasion. 
In 1646, we find him in France, in 
the service of the exiled Queen of 
England, attending Mass, and con- 
forming to the discipHne of the Catho- 
lic Church. Living in the Louvre 
with Lord Jermyn, he had once 



266 Catholic Literature in England since the Reformation. 



more leisure to cultivate his taste for 
poetry. There he began writing his 
longest poem, and a very tedious 
production it is. 

But his versatile mind was now 
occupied by a new scheme. He 
promoted an emigration of colonists 
from France to Virginia, and, having 
embarked for the distant settlement, 
the ship in which he was sailing fell 
into the hands of one of CromwelFs 
cruisers. He was captured and ta- 
ken to Cowes Castle, and is said to 
have escaped trial for his life through 
the kind intercession of his brother 
poet, Milton. It was not till after 
two years of imprisonment that he 
regained his liberty; and when at 
last he did so, all his efforts were di- 
rected to a revival of dramatic per- 
formances, which the austere Puri- 
tans had entirely suppressed. He 
succeeded at last in establishing a 
theatre, and, gaining support by de- 
grees, he ultimately restored the 
regular drama. With the return of 
Charles II. his difficulties ended. 
King and people alike heaped their 
favors on him. He died at his house, 
in Lincoln's Inn Fields, in 1668, and 
was buried with distinction in West- 
minster Abbey. He was very hand- 
some, of ready wit and a singularly 
fertile mind ; but it is to be supposed 
that his attachment to the Catholic 
religion was not by any means a 
prominent feature in his character 
and career. 

Like several of those already men- 
tioned, John Dryden is but an im- 
perfect link in the chain of English 
Catholic authors since the Reforma- 
tion. It was not till a late period of 
his life that he entered the true 
church, but he lived long enough to 
impress on liis works a decidedly 
Catholic stamp. Indeed, The Hind 
and the Panther^ published in 1687, 
some months after his conversion, was 
looked upon as a defence of Catho- 



licism. The hind represented the 
Roman Church, and the panther the 
Church of England. It was a singu- 
lar circumstance, to which, so far as 
we have observed, attention has 
never been drawn, that three poets- 
laureate in succession, Ben Jon- 
son, Sir William Davenant, and Dry- 
den, were converts to Catholicity. 
The life of the last of these poets 
was too long and too eventful to al- 
low of our recalling even the chief 
occurrences by which it was marked. 
Suffice it to say that before he was 
twenty-eight years old he had passed 
from Westminster School to Trinity 
College, Cambridge, and had acted 
as secretary to his kinsman, Sir Gil- 
bert Pickering, who stood high in the 
Protector's favor, and went by the 
name of " Noll's Lord Chamberlain." 
On the death of Cromwell, Dryden 
wrote an elegy upon him, which was 
also a eulogy; and soon after the 
Restoration, he commenced writing 
for the stage coarse comedies and 
stilted tragedies. Married to a daugh- 
ter of the Earl of Berkshire, he was 
appointed poet-laureate, with ;£2oo 
a year. This was in 1670, the tenth 
year of the reign of his licentious 
majesty, Charles II. 

When that sovereign expired (hav- 
ing been reconciled on his death-bed 
to the Catholic Church), Dryden 
eulogized him as he had eulogized 
Cromwell, and in the same poem 
turned with alacrity to the praises of 
James II. Nor was it long before 
he embraced the religion of the Duke 
of York. The motives which induced 
him to take this step have often been 
made the subject of debate. The 
authority of Lord Macaulay is con- 
stahtly adduced in support of Dry- 
den's venality and insincere conver- 
sion. But in opposition to this, it 
must be remembered that Dr. John- 
son and Sir Walter Scott arrived at 
a different conclusion. The latter 



Catholic Literature in England since the Refor^nation. 267 



biographer of Dryden contends that 
the poet's writings contain internal 
evidence of his convictions having 
been in complete accordance with 
the step he took, and that many 
external circumstances contributed 
to make it easy for him to act in 
the way he thought right. Duty and 
interest are not always at variance ; 
and if Dryden gained by the change 
in the first instance, when James II. 
was on the throne, he lost eventually 
many temporal advantages. Having 
refused to take the oaths of allegiance 
or forsake his religion, he was dis- 
missed, under William III., from his 
offices of poet-laureate and historio- 
grapher ; he had the mortification of 
seeing Shadwell, the dramatist, whom 
he had often ridiculed, promoted to 
wear his laurel ; and for the rest of 
his life, he was more or less harassed 
by the ills of poverty. He educated 
his children in the faith which he 
had embraced, and they showed the 
strongest signs of heartfelt attachment 
to the person of the Sovereign Pon- 
tiff and the church of which he is the 
head. One of them entered a reli- 
gious order, another was usher of the 
palace to Pope Clement XI. In 
writing to them both in September, 
1697, Dryden said: "I flatter not 
myself with any manner of hopes, 
but do my duty and suffer for God's 
sake, being assured beforehand never 
10 be rewarded, even though the 
times should alter. . . . Remem- 
ber me to poor Harry, whose pray- 
ers I earnestly desire. ... I never 
can repent of my constancy, since 
I am thoroughly persuaded of the 
justice of the cause for which I 
suffer." This is not the language of 
one who had sold himself for a pen- 
sion office a year. Dryden did 
not, like Chilling worth, return after a 
time to the Established Church. He 
died in the religion of his choice, and 
many of his poems, particularly the 



paraphrase of the Veni Creator^ and the 
two odes on St. Cecilia's Day, breathe 
alike the devotion and the well- 
ordered ideas of a Catholic. There 
is much force in the closing line of 
this stanza : 

* ** Refine and clear our earthly parts. 
But, oh ! inflame and fire our hearts ! 
Our frailties help, our vice control ; 
Submit the senses to the soul ; 
And when rebellious they are i^rowa, 
Then lay thy hand, and hold thtm down^ 

When Dryden, in The Hind and the 
Panther^ describes the different Pro- 
testant sects, he very naturally gives 
the preference to the Church of Eng- 
land, and speaks of her with a be- 
coming tenderness, she having been 
the church in which he was nurtured : 

" The panther, sure the noblest next the hind, 
And fairest creature of the spotted kind. 
Oh ! could her inborn stains be washed away. 
She were too good to be a beast of prey ! 
How can I praise or blame, and not offend. 
Or how divide the frailty from the friend ? 
Her faults and virtues lie so mixed that she 
Not wholly stands condemned, nor wholly free. 
Then like her injured lion (James II.) let roe 

speak, 
He cannot bend her, and he would not break. 
If, as our dreaming Platonists report. 
There could be spirits of a middle sort. 
Too black for heaven, and yet too white for 

hell. 
Who just dropped half-way down, nor lower 

fell; 
So poised, so gently she descends from high. 
It seems a soft demission from the sky.'* 

Dryden*s successor on the throne 
of letters in England was Alexander 
Pope, who was also a Catholic, 
though not a convert. His father, a 
linen merchant of Lombard Street, 
London, was a Catholic befure him, 
and had been led to embrace the 
faith by a residence in Lisbon. 
His were the days of penal laws and 
various disabilities, among which was 
exclusion from the public schools 
and universities. Alexander's educa- 
tion, therefore, was private, and not 
of a first-rate kind. He may almost 
be called a self-taught man. He had 
seen Dryden when a boy, and he 
knew Wycherley, the dramatist, who 
is here mentioned because he was in 



268 Catholic Literature in England since the Reformation, 



the number of those who adopted the 
Catholic profession under the auspices 
of James II. Wycherley was, as 
Arnold calls him, " a somewhat bat- 
tered and worn-out relic of the gay 
reign of Charles II." Macau lay has 
little respect for him, for the very 
reason that he could interest us — 
because he became a Catholic. He 
styles him " the most licentious and 
hard-hearted writer of a singularly 
licentious and hard-hearted school." 
But the gentle Charles Lamb was 
more indulgent to his memory and 
his works. " I do not know," he says, 
in the Essays of Elia, "how it is with 
others, but I feel the better always 
for the perusal of one of Congreve's — 
nay, why should I not add even of 
Wycherley's ? — comedies. I am the 
gayer, at least, for it; and I could 
never connect those sports of a witty 
fancy in any shape with any result to 
be drawn from them to imitation in 
real life. They are a world of them- 
selves almost as much as fairy-land." 
We will not pause to discuss the 
soundness of this criticism ; we 
have to do with Pope, and chiefly 
with his religious character. No 
one can read his " Dying Christian's 
Hymn," beginning, 

" Vital spark of heavenly flame," 

without being convinced that the au- 
thor was capable of the deepest reli- 
gious feeling. The times were not fa- 
vorable to a Catholic poet, nor is it in 
Pope's writings that we must look for 
the strongest evidence of his faith. The 
" Letter of Eloisa to Abelard," indeed, 
could hardly have been written by a 
Protestant ; but it says nothing of his 
personal religion. We find, however, 
by his correspondence with Racine 
and others, that though infidelity and 
gallantry were the fashion of his day, 
he was known among his friends as a 
Papist^ and that he speaks of himself 
as such unreservedly. The words of 
Dr. Johnson on this subject are as 



follows : " The religion in which he 
lived and died was that of the Church 
of Rome. . . . He professes him- 
self a sincere adherent. ... It does 
not appear that his principles were 
ever corrupted, or that he ever lost 
his belief of revelation. . . . After 
the priest had given him the last sa- 
craments, he died in the evening of 
the 30th day of May, 1 744." 

It is pleasing to reflect that this 
illustrious poet, so distinguished by 
his deep thought, his affluent imagery, 
his pathos, his scathing satire and 
matchless versification, recoiled in his 
solitude and sickness from the false 
philosophy of his friends, and closed 
his weary and painful existence at 
the foot of the cross ; that he depart- 
ed hence, not only with laurels on 
his brow, but with the Viaticum on 
his lips and the church's blessing on 
his drooping head. But it was not 
at the awful hour of death merely 
that he began to prize the religion 
which England proscribed. There 
is a little anecdote related of him 
which shows that he had a distinct 
and warm feeling on the subject long 
before he came face to face with the 
last enemy. He and Mrs. Blount 
had been invited on one occasion to 
stay with Mr. Allen, at Prior Park, 
near Bath, on a visit. Pope left the 
house for a short time to go to Bris- 
tol ; and while he was absent, it 
happened that Mrs. Blount, who was 
a Catholic as well as himself, wish- 
ed to attend Mass in the chapel in 
Bath, and requested the use of Mr. 
Allen's chariot for that purpose. But 
her host, at that time being mayor of 
the city, had a decided objection to 
his carriage being seen at the doors 
of such a place, and begged to be 
excused lending it. Mrs. Blount 
felt deeply offended at this time-serv- 
ing, and, when Pope returned, told 
him her feelings on the subject. The 
poet was so incensed at this offence 



Catholic Young Men's Associations. 



269 



offered to his religion and his friend 
that he, and Mrs. Martha Blount too, 
abruptly quitted the house. 

There is, happily, no need of our 
contending for the places which 
Dryden and Pope should occupy 
among literary celebrities. Their at- 
tachment to Catholicism at a time 
when it was especially distasteful to 
the English people— during the 
reigns, we mean, of William the 
Third and Queen Anne — did not 
detract from the popularity of their 
writings even while they lived. The 
striking genius of Dryden as a trans- 
lator, his racy language and manly 
style, have been fully appreciated by 
posterity ; and if we put Pope above 
him in the rank of poets, it is bemuse 
we discover in the latter more pro- 



found philosophy and rhythmical 
sweetness. He enjoyed, too, an ad- 
vantage over his distinguished pre- 
decessor in that he was not a convert, 
but had from childhood been imbued 
with the doctrines of the ancient 
faith. The Catholic system, even 
more than he knew, lent force and 
color to his imagination, restrained 
his philosophic speculations within 
orthodox bounds, and imparted a 
certain majesty and consistency to 
his verse, even when it was con- 
cerned with purely secular topics. 
It had done the like for Dante, 
Chaucer, Calderon, and Comeille 
before him, and it has done the 
like since for Thomas Moore, as we 
shall endeavor to show in a future 
number. 



TO Bl CONTINUBO. 



CATHOLIC YOUNG MEN'S ASSOCIATIONS. 



The saying is becoming almost 
trite that the Catholic Church has 
done wonders in this country. Its 
rapid rise, growth, and spread are 
little short of miraculous. Half a 
century ago, the church was scarcely 
known here, save in a misty way, as 
something very remote and power- 
less. To-day it stands up as a factor 
to be counted in American polity. 
It points to its five or six millions of 
believers. It points to its cathedrals, 
its magnificent churches, its splendid 
educational establishments, its paro- 
chial schools, its illustrious hierarchy, 
its active and zealous priesthood, its 
religious orders and societies of men 
and women, its lay associations for va- 
rious pious purposes, its newspapers, 
and its multiplying writers. It has 



seized upon the very genius of this 
new people. It lags not behind, but 
keeps apace with their enterprise; 
and scarcely are the piles driven in 
for the building of a new city or 
town than the cross is seen above 
the growing settlement. 

Protestants have recognized this 
fact. They are daily bearing wit- 
ness to its truth. It is but recently 
that the press, secular and religious, 
was alive with a discussion on " The 
Decline of Protestantism," here, in 
this very land. And the two foes 
that Protestantism had most to dread 
were, as all agreed, the one from 
without — Catholicity ; the other from 
within — infidelity. It was expected the 
Evangelical Council would take into 
consideration the same subject : the 



270 



Catholic Young Mens Associations. 



best means to be adopted in order to 
beat off those two terrible foes — Ca- 
tholicity and infidelity. 

All this is well. It is well that the 
foes of the church should themselves 
testify to the irrepressible spread of the 
truth ; that they should cut the divid- 
ing lines so clearly between Catholi- 
city and infidelity — their Scylla and 
Charybdis, either of which is destruc- 
tion to them. It is well that the men 
who within living memory despised 
the church should now come forward 
and testify that that church has con- 
quered them. That they themselves 
should thus bear witness to the spread 
of Catholicity and the corresponding 
decline of Protestantism is flattering 
enough, if mere human feeling were 
allowed to enter into a question 
which involves man's eternal salva- 
tion ; but it is well^ also, that Catho- 
lics lay not too flattering unction 
to their souls. 

They may occasionally point with 
pardonable pride to their swelling 
numbers and all that has been indi- 
cated above ; but at the same time, 
it would be a fatal mistake to im- 
agine that everything has now been 
done for the church of God ; that it 
has nothing to do but run on smooth- 
ly in the eternal grooves fixed for it, 
sweeping triumphantly through the 
country, and bearing away all in its 
track. A young and a new Catholic 
generation is coming into possession. 
It does not know, and can scarcely 
appreciate, at what terrible cost, after 
what long and painful struggles, 
cathedral after cathedral, church 
afler church, college after college, 
school-house after school-house, were 
built. It finds them there and is 
content, as an heir finds the woods 
and the fields won inch by inch by 
the toil and the sweat of his father. 
If the young generation would not 
squander its inheritance, would not 
we it dissipated before its eyes, and 



slip away out of its nerveless grasp, 
it must be up and doing while the 
morning of life is on it; tilling, 
trenching, delving, casting out the 
weeds, watching for the enemy that 
would sow tares among the wheat, 
that it may leave a larger, a richer, 
and a brighter inheritance to its own 
children when it is gathered to the 
soil of its fathers — the good soil con- 
secrated by their bones. 

Yes, a goodly inheritance has fall- 
en upon the young Catholic gene- 
ration of America to-day; and a 
goodlier yet is in store, to be won by 
their own endeavor. Never in this 
world's history was there a fairer field 
to fight the battle of God in than in 
this •great country ; and never yet, 
take them all in all, were there fairer 
foes and less favor to contend against. 
But let it be borne well in mind, the 
battle is a severe one ; all the severer, 
perhaps, because the field is so open 
and Catholics are so free. Here in 
America there is nothing of the glory 
of martyrdom to sustain us — a glory 
that turns defeat into victory, and by 
one death wins a thousand lives. 
Ours is not the clash of arms and of 
battle, but of intellect. We have to 
reason our way along. The cry of 
*' the decline of Protestantism " is a 
cry well grounded. The churches 
are losing their children. A reaction 
against Puritanism has set in as de- 
cided and as disastrous in its results 
as that which set in in England on 
the accession of Charles II. The 
children throw off even the gloomy 
cloak of religion to which their fathers 
clung long after the many deformi- 
ties and defects it concealed had 
shone through the threadbare gar- 
ment. The thought of young Ameri- 
ca to-dav is, " Let the doctors wran- 
gle about their creeds. All we know 
or care to know is that we have life, 
and let us enjoy it while we may." 

And thus the battle of the age is 



Catholic Young Men^s Associations. 



271 



coming to be fought out among 
and by the young — young America 
Catholic and young America non- 
Catholic. True, our ranks are swell- 
ing daily, and nowadays principally 
by native growth. The birth-rate, if 
classified as Catholic or non- Catho- 
lic, is so strikingly in favor of the for- 
mer as to attract the universal atten- 
tion of the medical faculty. Con- 
verts, too, crowd in upon us ; but, nu- 
merous as they are, they are only 
driblets compared to the vast ocean 
that roars outside. Five or six mil- 
lions is a mighty number; but there 
are thirty millions or more left. 
Were it not remembered that God, 
although the God of battles, is not 
always on the side of the big batta- 
lions, our hearts might sicken at the 
mustering of the forces — our six mil- 
lions surrounded, absorbed, as it 
were, by that mighty army five times 
greater, stretching away dim in its 
immensity, yet meeting us at every 
turn, and, directly or indirectly, con- 
testing stubbornly every inch of 
ground. 

It is true that they are broken 
whilst we are one. They fight under 
a thousand different banners; and 
even while presenting a united 
front against us, they are rending 
each other in the rear. The deserters 
from our side are few — practically 
none — and such as do go become 
objects of infamy even to those who 
make a show of welcoming them. 
But besides the two directly opposing 
forces. Catholics, and Protestants of 
some professed creed, there is a 
neutral ground, vaster than either, 
and equally opposed to both — infidel- 
ity; and thither is young America 
drifting. 

And truly it looks a fair region for 
a young man to enter. There is no 
constraint upon him beyond the plea- 
sant burden, light to bear, of fashion- 
able etiquette. A dress-coat and a 



banker's account will pass him any- 
where. The man under the dress- 
coat does not matter much ; and the 
inquiry as to how the banking ac- 
count came into his hands is not 
scrupulously close. He will meet 
there the lights of modem science 
and literature — men who can trace 
the motions of the world, and find no 
Mover; who have sifted the ashes of 
nature, to find only matter ; who have 
analyzed the body of man, to find no 
soul in him ; to whom life is simply 
life, and death, death. There is the 
abode of wit, and scoffing, and irre- 
ligion, and bold speculation, and the 
unshackled play of the undisciplined 
intellect, and under it all the power 
to do as you please, because you may 
believe as you please, provided you 
sin not against the laws of etiquette. 

Now, the work of the church is to 
break up that neutral ground, which, 
indeed, is the most formidable of the 
day. It must keep its own young 
men from being drawn thither, and 
win those that are there into its bosom. 
But although in very truth the yoke 
of Christ is sweet and his burden 
light, it takes a long time to impress 
that fact upon youth in the heyday 
of life. And with all the power of 
the prayer of the faithful, with the 
voice of the preacher, and the attrac- 
tions of the ceremonies of the church, 
there is no merely human agency to 
win youth like youth itself; no ser- 
mon so powerful as the unspoken 
sermon preached by a Christian 
young man, set in the midst of a 
world that practically knows not 
Christianity. And this is one great 
point of the present article. 

Our young men and' young women 
who mix daily in the army occupy- 
ing that neutral territory of infidelity 
are, or may be made, our best mis- 
sionaries. There the voice of the 
preacher never or rarely penetrates. 
His voice is as " the voice of one 



272 



Catholic Young Mens Associations. 



crying in the wilderaess." But 
though the preacher's words may not 
reach there, the effect of his words 
may be visible in the conduct of those 
whom his words do reach — the Cath- 
olic youth who live and move in the 
daily world. 

Hitherto this point has been, per- 
haps necessarily, much neglected. 
Catholics have not half utilized their 
forces. They have not made use 
enough of the young. Indeed, the 
work of reclaiming them at all has 
been a severe one, and is still far from 
eveii the full means of accomplish- 
ment; for it may here be noted 
how Protestants cling to the godless 
school system, though many of their 
best thinkers and leading organs ac- 
knowledge that a system of educa- 
tion founded on no faith at all must 
naturally produce scholars of no 
faith at all. But it is time for Cath- 
olics to see that if they would not 
only keep their own — hold fast to 
the inheritance that their fathers be- 
queathed them — but also win more, 
something more definite must be 
done to hold together the young, and 
unite them in one common cause. 
If you want missionaries, you must 
educate them. If you wish the 
young to be Catholic, not on the 
Sunday only, but always, you must 
take the proper means to that end. 

Our meaning is this: Catholicity 
must not be confined to the churches 
only. Half an hour's Mass weekly 
is undoubtedly a great deal when 
rightly heard ; but it is, after all, only 
a portion of the spiritual food neces- 
sary to carry a man safely through 
the week. The poison of the atmos- 
phere of utter worldliness that our 
young people breathe ' can only be 
counteracted by an antagonistic Ca- 
tholic atmosphere; and this can 
only be created by having Catholic 
centres of attraction under church 
auspices, where Catholics* may meet 



occasionally to converse, to read, to 
hear a lecture, or to amuse them- 
selves in a healthful manner. 

It is not long since, at the '^ com- 
mencement season," we were listen- 
ing to the young orators of the gradu- 
ating classes of our various educa- 
tional establishments. Kind eyes look- 
ed on as they poured forth their elo- 
quent ten minutes of benison on the 
heads of the comrades they were 
leaving behind them. It was plea- 
sant to hear the words of wisdom, of 
eloquence, and the soundest moral- 
ity fall from their lips. But the 
listeners, the admiring parents or 
friends, felt, nevertheless, that their 
boys were speaking comparatively 
from "the safe side of the hedge," 
and that it remained to be seen how 
far the good thoughts to which they 
gave utterance on leaving the col- 
lege would guide them and rule 
them in the real battle of life that 
was only then about to begin. 

What has become of the thousands 
of young men who have gone out 
and continue to go out, year after 
year, from our colleges ? For the 
most part, they are lost to the ^yt^ 
of those who trained their boyhood. 
They may continue to hold fast by 
the principles they imbibed at school, 
or they may not. In our large 
cities and towns, there are always 
more or less of our Catholic college 
graduates, most of whom are un- 
known to each other, or rarely meet. 
How diflferent would it be had they 
places in which to assemble ! Some- 
thing has been done to meet this very 
striking want. Very many churches 
have attached to them this or that 
young men's association, devoted 
generally to literary pursuits; but 
for the most part^ these excellent 
associations have not effected much ; 
not because they have not the right 
spirit and energy, but purely from 
lack of organization, from not know- 



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saopocjd puc sSuupca) aq) o) Xjippi) ui 
uaui SunoX niioq)e3 \{b aidoicxa Xq aSe 
-jnoDua o) puc 'X)piioq)C3 anj)jo juidsc 
sjaquiaux s)[ Suouic aAjic ds9'S[ o) sadoq )( 
'jaqjo q3ca q)iM sSupaaui juanbajj jpqi Xq 
puc 'Xpn)s puc sJcaX ajntcui jo uaui q)iAv 
uoi)cpossc Xq 'suopsanb 9noM)^0 J^ "<>.» 
-ouasaidaj jadojd puc jcin^oj c Xg „ 

'SJaq 
-uiaui s)i JO luaoidAOjduii |cjoui puc ]C} 
*uaui aq) q^oq MaiAui scq uoiuf^ siqXi* 

'pauiJOj uaaq scq uoi 

•ufi iaiACX oqi 'Xpoq snoiJSipj Xpjiid v 

JO adoDS aq) uupiA\ Xpoiijs )ou spua a^q 

-cjisap jaqio laajja O} puc 'spafqo s)i ino 

Ajjko oi jauaq 'Xpicuipui ajoui sjaquiaui 

s)i aiiun o) japjo ui 'Xpoq siq) uiojj „ 

'suojga pa)iun jpq} Xq sisaja)ui apoqicQ 

JO uopouioid aq) puc '[sfjoj^ ^^^N] ^^^ 

su{) JO uaui JSunoX aipqicQ paiconpa aqi 

JSuoujc Xjaid ucpsijq3 puc anuiAjo luauj 

-aScjnoDua aqi laafqo sii joj iSuiAcq puu 

'£981 u! paqspqosa Xjapog c — Xjiicpog 

luuiniv jaiAcx aqi Jo sjaquiani *uaui 

-apuaJS JO jaquinu c Xq ^iZgi 'qajcp^ ut 

paK|uc^jo SCM uoiufi jaiAcx 3qx i> 

— „SAM?|-Xa pu'B uopninsuoQ „ psjuud 
sji JO „ a[quir»j(i „ di\\ s^onb ox 

'SJdquidui psjp 
-unq OM) sjdquinu Apvoiye 'oSc sjbsX 
OM} A\uo paqsqq'Bisa qSnoqi *qDiqA\ 
*uoiufi JaiA^x aqi Suiuds seq Xiqvpos 
9q) JO )no )s|iqM i Supsdui Xj9A9 ^v 
pdSBdJOui Supq si jsquxnu siqx *Xip 
9q) Suwe^i sj9qui9Ui Xq puB q)Bdp Xq 
S9SS0I SuipuB)sq)iM]ou 'pdjpunq anoj 
jdAo JO jsquinu 9q) o) U9|ioms dAcq 
o3b sjBdX U9) JO sjdquidui udzop b ji^q 
9q) )BU) )3Fj 9q) uiojj psSpnf oq ;sdq 
Xbiu *)i Xq pduicuB ssdDons 9q) puv 

*6)39J|3 S)X ')U9UI9)'C)S )JOqS Siq) UIOJJ 

pduiScuii XpuiBj 9q Xbui sdioudpusi 
{BDipcjd puB quoM duinudS 9soq.iv 
*X)iiBpcs 9q) o) paqoB))? ssDuaSppui 
irpsds JO jsquinu v 9)inb 9jb OJsqx 

,/)uaaiXo|du]a ^cuoissajojd Jo 
aipucDjaoi ajnaojd o) uaui SunoX jsissv 
o) aq i[cqs saiinp sii [*q)uoui XjaAa jo 
Xcpung )sjy aq) uo laaoi sjaquiaui aqxj 
'SupaauiXjcnucf aq) )c uiiq Xq pa)U!oddc 
'Xiiicpog aq) JO sjaquiaui xis puc )uap 
•Tsajj aq)jo Supsisuoa puc /)uauiXo|dui3 
UO aa))iaiui03 , aqi pa|iC3 83)]iuiuioa 



'suotfvpossy su^JV Sunoj[ otjaiitvj 



nz 



'ssujj^ siqi )c jsissr o) paioodxa die 
Ajijt'pos sqj JO sjdqujoui oqx 'luoiuaAUOD 
si: qirdp siq JSiji: uoos sc jaqiudui pastido 
-np c JO inos aqi jo gsodsj oqi joj sstjj^ 
uiainbo^ b oq n^qs ajsqx '08 'oas .. 

*uiiq ijSiA o) sjaqnidoi 9JOUi jo 
auo )aioddc ^rqs (sjr«:iaiaui aq)Xq puv jo 
po)3ai9 SI oqA\) juapisajj dqi pat: J0^09i 

aq) JO jaquiaui Ann asvs u] 'ill *33S „ 

'ivajidj |ienjuids .sXcp aajqi jo 'uinnp 
•tjx V '^ papaoajd aq n^qs uoianuiu]03 
]vjoua^ )sji| aqx ')sissi: o) paioadxa 
oq {[uqs sjaquiaui ]ii: qoiqAV )i: *uoiunui 
-lucD lujauaS r oq ll«qs ajaqi'auiii-ja^s^g 
>iinjnp Xrpung v uo pun *8 jaquiaodQ 
IJuiAvoiioj X^pung 9\{i UQ "•'I 'Das »» 

: pug aA\ „ SAvrf-Xg „ 

Sqi JO SU0nD3S guiA\0l|0j 31(1 UJ 

. -siCAjaiui po)c)s icsSuiiaaai {cpos pue 
snoiiJiiaj pui:'s)uauirj3i:s aqijouoiidaoaj 
A'q)joA\ puc )uanbajj aqi *suot)OAap uic)J93 
JO oDijDCjd Xiiup aq) .{n^dpuud aq ucqs 
puo siq) uiTijqo oj suuaui aqx *II„ 

sjsajaiui onoqitQ JO uoi)ouiojd aqj puu 
'.Mi^ aSaiiOD Jioqi )3>'uunp luaq) Xq pauijoj 
sciiqspuoijj JO uoiicmadjad aqi'uauiapua^ 
.i!loqii!3 pajconpa duouii: uiSji^ passaig 
aq) o) uoi)OAap puv 'X)a!d urpsuq^ 
'an)jiA JO )uaiuaSvjno9Ud aqx 'I i» 

: „uon 
-•nnsuo^ „ p^niu^ ^^'^ ^O'U Suponb 
Xq i\}io} 39S oq )S9q Xrui s^Ddfqo 
s)j *u3ui I'euoissdjojd pur ssduisnq 
ui s)uisqDJ9ui osp si; ^uiof o) 9SOoq3 
U|Siiu oqM aSanoD Ojioqiu^ Xur jo 
luuini'e 9q) ui d^r) o) sis os dcloos sn 
pauspiM XjasiA\ Xj3a pur XnrnpraS 
J I 'sjaquistti udzop v }[e\\ ;noqr 
qiiM urSaq jj -jaiABX spurjj 'g jo 
oS9{p3 o\\x }o sui9pn)s-xd pur ssir 
-nprjS aqj 'saqduii auiru sn sr *X||bu 
-jSiJO p9pu9)ui srAi Ji 'tpgi *g Jsq 
-IUSD9Q uo 3|jo;^ A\s|^ u! p9qsi|qris3 
SUM Xj!{rpos uittiniv JSJArx ^MX 

'USUI SunoX dqi qiiAv X[uo 
siHdp qoiqM ^djopjr )U9Sdjd sq) uiojj 
pdUiuio X|pauSis3p si *uoiu/^ ^ll^qi 
-r^ 3q; *uonrpossr 3|qrJiuipr ?rqx 
•uouiji JSJArx oqj 'aAprpuoD sn 
puTJ X^iirpog luuiniv -^^lArx ^^} si 
s!MX XoutJjui sji ui )soui[r SujiSSnjjs 



gl — 'HI AX '10 A 

IfTis SI u qSnoqj 'ssooDns v *^Drj m 
*sr 1 J33Drjrq'j s^i ui 'pjauaS ?nq 'irDOf 
Xpjnd jou SB * 2uup3iuospDA9upr 2ui 
-Arq SB ;uiod wso *X|p2a3U33 3ui5|r3ds 
*3[i0j^ Aiajsj JO soqoqir^ aqi ipiqAv 
o) uopr posse 9U0 Xpo si dJsqj, 

*spurq UMO sii ui )S9J 
uoqrinddj pur jouoq sij *uonrz 
•lurSjo pur uopddouoo ui d^qriioi 
-pr Xpirydo si )i 'sjn^nj s^i jo )U9s 
-did s]i 9q Xrui J9A9)rqM 'pur i pur| 
9loqA\ 9q; Suusaoo 9Jr s;>snoq qourjg 
•Xjiunoo aqi 5noq3nojqi ^nq *Xip 
9\\i ;noqSnojqj Xpo jou *jps;i psqd 
-U[ntti srq ii 'sasq dois uoqrpossr 
siq; S3op JOfi^ "luaq; jraq oj Xjp 
9q) jO spMOJO oq) Mrjp pur quoj 
pioq p|JOM sqi jO sj9jn)39i ^sajqr 
sqj ajaqM ^nrq-wnp^i pur 'oinisru 
-mXS 'suiooj-Sui)39Ui pur Suipr^j pip 
-usids s^i q^iM *uoiirpossv uwsuq^ 
s,u3j\; 3uno;t 3q; sr ua\ou3i uoqrzi 
-urSao 9i\\ ui duop OArq siurjS3}0J<i 
9q) ;rqM dss o) ssApsjno jo pduirqsr 
aq 0} iqSno soqoqjr^ s^ 'Xjipsads 
pdipduidj pur 'Xpsop p9)rSi)S9AUi 
Suiaq JO Xq)jOA\ Suiq) r si siqi 'AiO|<^ 

•qSnous . 

uoiprj))r uiaqi ui pug ;ou op Xaqi 
asnroaq 'uidq) uiof jou ]iim pur ;ou op 
oqM |]ns qjnoX oqoqirQ jo sjaquinu 
js^raaS pur *X^p sq; qSnoaq; psjswras 
qmoX oqoq^r^ jo suoprpossr jo sjaq 
-uinu 'uijoj JO ddrqs suo ui 'djr aiaq) 
*ss3pqiJaA3f^ •waqMOf^ I Xirjqn 
*uiooi-2uipraj 'qnp *|\rq oqoipro 
ano SI 9J3qA\ i uaux 2unoX aqj w« 

3J3qAV — SJOUI JO SJ3drdSM3U Xl^39A 

u32op r j]rq q;iM Jsuijg ssautsnq 
aSjrj pur *u3ai iruoisssjojd *s4U9p 
-is3i Dqoqjrf) XqqrsAi Xurui os qij*^ 
i suonrSajSuoo Xq^irsM Xj3a qjf^ 
uiaqi JO 3U10S 'saqojnqo iu3DijuiSbui 
Xuroi OS 9Arq Xsq) dJsqM f pasjo Jpi}) 
JO uoqiiui r jfrq jo 3sroq soqoqjro 
dJdqAk 'dour^sui joj ^^lO]^ ^^R ^I 

•spunjjo^^TtJl 
UIOJJ X|irJ3U9S pur *suonrpossr-MOi 
-pj q^iM pajiun Supq ;ou uioJj*op oj 
;ou )rqM jo op o) ^rqM Xporxd Sui 



iiz 



'SUotftn:?ossy su?j^ 3unoj{^ ^tjot/^vj 



THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD 



VOL. XVIIL, No. 105.— DECEMBER, 1873. 



A TALK ON METAPHYSICS. 



One of the greatest obstacles to 
the spread of philosophical education 
is the false opinion which, through 
the efforts of a school of low scien- 
tists, has gained much ground — viz., 
that metaphysics, the central and 
most important part of philosophy, is 
only a mass of useless abstractions 
and unintelligible subtleties ; a science 
hpriariy telling us nothing about facts ; 
a dismal relic of mediaeval ignorance 
and conceit ; a thing, therefore, which 
has no longer a claim to hold a place 
in the world of science. This is a 
shameless misrepresentation, and as 
such it might be treated with the 
contempt it deserves; but it is so 
carefully insinuated, and with such an 
assurance, that it succeeds in making 
its way onward, and in gaining more 
and more credit among unreflecting 
people. We intend, therefore, to give 
it a challenge. A short exposition of 
the nature and object of metaphysics 
will suffice, we hope, to show our 
young readers the worthlessness of 
such mischievous allegations. 

What is metaphysics ? // i>, an- 
swers one of the most eminent meta- 



physicians, Francis Suarez, that part 
of philosophy which treats of real 
beings as stuh. This definition is 
universally accepted. It is needless 
to remark that a being is said to be 
real when it exists in nature ; whereas 
that which has no existence except 
in our conceptions is called a being 
of reason. But it is well to observe 
that the expression, real being, is used 
in two different senses. In the first 
it means a complete natural entity, 
which has its own separate existence 
in nature, independently of the exis- 
tence of any other created thing ; as 
when we say that Peter, yohn, and 
yames are real beings. In the se- 
cond it means some incomplete entity, 
which has no separate existence of 
its own, but is the mere appurtenance 
of some other thing to the existence 
of which it owes its being ; as Peter's 
life, John's eloquence, James* stature. 
Of course, every substance, whether 
material or spiritual, simple or com- 
pound, is a complete entity; but 
every constituent, attribute, property, 
or quality of complete beings is an 
incomplete entity, inasmuch as it has 



Sattred acconUng to Act of Congress, in the year x873« ^V I^^^* 1* 1** Hacaaa, io the Office of 

the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



290 



A Talk on Metaphysics. 



no separate existence, but only par- 
takes of the exigence of the being to 
which it belongs. 

A real, complete entity is said to 
be a/^j^j^tf/ being, because it posses- 
ses all that is required to exist separate- 
ly in the physical order of things. On 
the contrary, a real, incomplete entity 
is said to be a metaphysical being. 
Thus, movement^ velocity^ time, force, 
attraction, repulsion, heat, cold, weight, 
work, resistance, figure, hardness, soft- 
ness, solidify, liquidity, etc., are meta- 
physical beings. Those modern men of 
science who shudder at the very name 
of metaphysics would do well to con- 
sider for a while this short catalogue 
of metaphysical entities. They would 
find that it contains the very things 
with which they are most familiar. If 
metaphysical entities are only abstrac- 
tions — empty and useless abstrac- 
tions, as they declare — what shall we 
say of all their scientific books ? Are 
they not all concerned with those 
dreadful metaphysical entities which 
we have enumerated ? Yet we would 
scarcely say that they treat of useless 
c^stractiotis. Certainly, when a drop 
of rain is falling, the action by which 
it is determined to fall is not an 
abstraction, the velocity acquired is 
not an abstraction, and the y^// itself 
is not an abstraction. In like man- 
ner, the rotation of the earth, the 
hardness of a stone, the sound of a 
trumpet, are not abstractions; and 
yet all these are entities of the meta- 
physical order. Therefore, to con- 
tend that metaphysics is a science of 
pure abstractions is nothing but an 
evident absurdity. The object of 
metaphysics is no less real than the 
object of physics itself. 

It may, perhaps, be objected that, 
though the material object of meta- 
physics is real and concrete in nature, 
we despoil it of its reality as soon as 
we, in our metaphysical reasonings, 
rise from the individual to the uni- 



versal ; for universals, as such, have 
no existence but in our conception. 

The answer is obvious. The meta- 
physical universals must not be con- 
founded with the logical universals. 
The logical universal — as genus, differ- 
ence, etc. — expresses a mere concept 
of the mind, and is a mere being of 
reason, or a second intention, as it is 
called ; but the metaphysical univer- 
sal — as figure, force, weight, etc., vi 
not a mere being of reason ; for its 
object is a reality which can be found 
existing in the physical order. It is 
true that all such realities exist under 
individual conditions, and therefore 
are not formally but only fundamen- 
tcUly, universal ; for their formal uni- 
versality consists only in their mode 
of existing in our mind when we drop 
all actual thought of their individual 
determinations* But, surely, they do 
not cease to be realities because tlie 
mind, in thinking of them, pays no 
attention to their individuation ; and, 
therefore, metaphysical universals, 
even as universal, retain their objec- 
tive reality. 

We might say more on this subject, 
were it not that this is hardly the 
place for discussing the merits of 
formahsm, realism, or nominalism. 
We can, however, give a second an- 
swer, which will dispose of the object- 
tion in a very simple manner. The 
answer is this : Granted that abstrac- 
tions, as such, have no existence but 
in our intellect. Nevertheless, what 
we conceive abstractedly exists con- 
cretely in the objects of which it is 
predicated and from which it is ab- 
stracted. Humanity in our concep- 
tion is an abstraction, and yet is to 
be found in every living man ; velo- 
city, likewise, is an abstraction, and 
yet is to be found in all real move- 
ment through space ; quantity also, 
is an abstraction, and yet is to be 
found in every existing body. There- 
fore, abstract things do not cease 



A Talk on Metaphysics 



291 



to be real in nature, though they are 
abstract in our conception. This 
is an evident truth. If the adversa- 
ries of metaphysics are bold enough 
to deny it, then they at the same 
time and in the same breath deny all 
real science, and thus forfeit all claim 
to the honorable tide of scientific men. 
Statics and dynamics, geometry and 
calculus, algebra and arithmetic, are 
abstract sciences. No one will 
deny that they are most useful ; yet 
they would be of no use whatever if 
what they consider in the abstract 
had no concrete correspondent in 
the real world. Chemistry itself, and 
all the experimental sciences, inas- 
much as they are sciences, are ab- 
stract. Atomic weights, inasmuch 
as they fall under scientific reasoning, 
arc abstractions ; genera, species, and 
varieties in zoology and botany are 
abstract conceptions; crystalline 
forms in mineralogy are as abstract 
as any purely geometric relation. 
Indeed, without abstractions, science 
is not even conceivable ; for all sci- 
ence, as such, proceeds from abstract 
principles to abstract conclusions. 
But though the process of scien- 
tific reasoning be abstract, real 
science deals with real objects and 
real relations. And such is exactly 
the case with metaphysics, which is 
the universal science of all reality, and 
the queen of all the real sciences. 

Tliese general remarks suffice, with- 
out any further development, to vindi- 
cate the reality of the material object 
of metaphysics. But here the question 
arises, Are all real beings without 
exception the object of this science ? 

Some authors, in past centuries, 
thought that the only object of meta- 
physics was to treat of beings above 
nature ; and accordingly taught that 
God and the angels alone were meta- 
physical beings— that is, beings rang- 
ing above nature. On the contrary, 
man and this visible world — that is, all 



creatures liable to local motion — they 
called natural beings, and considered 
them to be the proper and exclusive 
object oi physical science. This view 
was grounded, apparently, on the 
latent assumption that metaphysics 
icitzxiXabove physics ; which, however, 
is not correct, as jiBta does not 
mean abovey but after ; and therefore 
metaphysical is not synonymous with 
supernatural. * On the other hand, 

• Flemlngr, in his Dictionary 0/ Philosophy (7. 
MeUphysics), says : " In Latin, motaphysica it 
synonymous with tupernaiuralia : and Shake- 
speare has used metaphysical as synonymous 
with supernatural; 

' . . . . Fate and metaphysical aid doth seem 
To have thee crowned.' 

-^Macheth, act i., scene 3. 
Clemens Alezandrinus {Strom, i.) considered 
metaphysical as equivalent to supernatural : 
and is supported by an anonymous Greek com- 
mentator, etc." 

That Shakespeare's metaphysical aid means 
the aid of some mysterious power above nature 
may be conceded. But that in Latin metaphy^ 
sica is synonymous with supernaturalia is an 
assertion which can be easily refuted by a sim- 
ple reference to any of the great Latin works of 
meUphysics. Nor is it true that Clemens Alcjt- 
andriaus considered metaphysical as equivalent 
to supernatural. He only remarks that Ari*. 
totle's Metaphysics is that part of philosophy 
which Plato at one time styled '*a contempla- 
tion of truly great mysteries/* and at other times 
" dialectics "—that is, " a science which investi- 
gates the reasons of the things that are " (riic 

Now, the science which investigates the reasons 
of the things that are extends to all real beings. 
It is not true, therefore, that Clemens Alexan- 
drinus considered M^/a/A^xxVa/ as equivalent to 
supernatural. The truth is that he does not 
even use the word metaphysics as his own, but 
only says that Aristotle*s Metaphysics contains 
the investigation and contemplation of '* myster- 
ies"— that is, of abstruse things. And since 
Arlstotie's metaphysics is not a science of the su- 
pernatural, Clemens Alexandrinus, In quoting 
the word metaphysics in connection with Aristo- 
tie, cannot have considered it as equivalent to 
the science of the supernatural. Lastly, Cle- 
mens Aiexandrinus explains that the science 
which Aristotie called metaphysics^ and Plato 
dialectics^ has for its object the consideration of 
things, and the determination of their powers and 
attributes, from which it raises itself to their 
vtxy essence, whence again it ventures to go 
further, even to God himself, the master of the 
universe. Eirurxoirov^a rd irpdyM^ara, «ai ths 

vti wtpt TJiy wanmav KparivTiiv ovaiaVf roAfi^ rt 
iwiKtiya 4nl twv SAmf Ocbr (Strom., lib. i. c. a8). 
This shows that metaphysical science, accord- 
ing to Clemens Aiexandrinus, extends to the 
investigation of all natural things. It cannot, 
therefore, be said that he considered metaphysi' 
eal as equivalent to supernatural,, whatever may 
have been the opinion of the anonymous Greek 
commentator. 



292 



A Talk on Metaphysics, 



God and the angels are undoubtedly 
physical beings; for they are com- 
plete beings, having their complete 
physical nature and their separate 
existence. We cannot call them 
metaphysical beings ; for we know of 
no beings which deserve the name 
of metaphysical but those incom- 
plete entities which are attained 
through the intellectual analysis of 
physical and complete beings. 

As to man and all the other 
natural things, every one will see 
that though they are, in one respect, 
the proper object of physics, yet they 
are also, in another respect, the pro- 
per object of metaphysics ; and this 
too, without in the least confounding 
the two branches of knowledge. 
The attributions of physics and of 
metaphysics are, in fact, so distinct 
that there can be no danger of the 
one invading the province of the 
other, even though they deal with 
the same subject. The office of the 
physicist is to investigate natural 
facts, to discuss them, to make a 
just estimate of them, and to discov- 
er the laws presiding over their pro- 
duction. This, and no other, is the 
object of physics, to accomplish 
which it is not necessary to know the 
essence of natural things. Hence, 
the physicist, after ascertaining the 
phenomena of nature and their laws, 
cannot go further in his capacity of 
physicist. But where he ends his 
work, just there the metaphysician 
begins ; for his office is to take those 
facts and laws as a ground for his 
speculations in order to discover the 
essential principles involved in the 
constitution of natural causes, and 
to account by such principles for 
all the attributes and properties of 
things. This is the duty of the 
metaphysician. Thus natural things, 
although an object of physics when 
considered as following certain laws 
of action or of movement, are never- 



theless an object of metaphysics 
when considered in their being and 
intimate constitution. 

On this point even physicists 
agree. "Instead of regarding the 
proper object of physical science as 
a search after essential causes," says 
one of the best modern champions of 
scientific progress, ** it ought to be, 
and must be, a search after facts and 
relations." * Hence, physical science 
deals with natural facts and their 
relations exclusively; the search 
after causes and essential principles 
constitutes the object of a higher 
science; and such a science is real 
philosophy, or metaphysics proper. 

I was surprised at finding in Web- 
ster's English Dictionary (v. Meta- 
physics) the following words : 

" The natural division of things 
that exist is into body and mind, 
things material and immaterial. The 
former belong to physics, and the 
latter to the science of metaphysics." 
From what we have just said, it is 
clear that this division is not accurate. 
We must add that it is not consist- 
ent with the definition of metaphysics 
given by the same author only a few 
lines before. Metaphysics, says he, is 
" the science of the principles and 
causes of all things existing." Now, 
if material things existing do not 
belong to metaphysics, it evidently 
follows that either material things 
existing have no principles and no 
causes, or that such principles and 
causes are no object of science. But 
it is obvious that neither conclusion 
can be admitted. Furthermore, it 
is well known that all metaphysicians 
treat of the constitution of bodies — ^a 
fact which conclusively proves that 
material things are not excluded 
from the object of metaphysics. 

Here, however, we must observe 
that some modern writers, while con- 

• Grove, Corrtlati^n ^/ Phyucai Ffrc*** 



A Talk on Metaphysics. 



293 



ceding this last point, contend that 
material things must be mentally freed 
from their materiality before they can 
be considered as an object of meta- 
physics. Their reason is, that this sci- 
ence is concerned with real things on- 
ly inasmuch as they consist of prin- 
ciples known to the intellect alone. 
Matter, they say, is not an object of 
the intellect Therefore, the object 
of metaphysics must be immaterial — 
that is, either a thing which has no 
matter of its own, or at least a thing 
which is conceived, through mental 
abstraction, as free from matter. 

But we should remember that, ac- 
cording to the common doctrine, the 
true and adequate object of meta- 
physics is all real being as such, 
whether it be material or immaterial ; 
and that it is, therefore, the duty of 
the metaphysician to divide substance 
into material and immaterial, and to 
give the definition of both ; for it be- 
longs to each science to point out 
and de&ne the parts of its own ob- 
ject. Hence, the metaphysician is 
bound to explain how things material 
differ from things immaterial, and 
has to ascertain what metaphysical 
predicates are attributable to material 
substance on account of its very ma- 
teriality.* Now, it is evident that 
nothing of the kind can ever be 
done by a philosopher who, through 
mental abstraction, considers material 
substance as freed from its matter. 
For when, by such an abstraction, 
be has taken away the matter, what 
else can he look upon as a ground 
of distinction between material and 
immaterial beings ? We must admit, 
then, that material things, inasmuch 
as they are real things, and only in 
that manner in which they are real 
(that is, with their own matter), are a 
proper object of metaphysics. 

To the patrons of the opposite 

* Saarcz, Mrtm^k, DtM^t., \. sect. 9, a. 35. 



view we confidently answer that their 
argument has no sound foundation ; 
for though it is true that no material 
thing, owing to the complexity of its 
simultaneous actions on our senses, 
distinctly reveals to us its material 
constitution, yet it is not true that 
material things cannot be understood 
by our intellect unless they are men- 
tally stripped of their matter. To 
understand them thus would be sim- 
ply to misunderstand them. Matter 
and form are the essential constitu- 
ents of material substance, as all 
metaphysicians admit ; it is, therefore, 
impossible to understand the essence 
of material substance, unless the in- 
tellect reaches the matter as well as 
the form.* Let us add that those 
very authors who in theory affect to 
exclude matter from the object of 
metaphysics find it impossible to do 
away with it in practice, and, in spite 
of the theory, devote to matter, as 
such, a great number of pages in 
their own metaphysical treatises. 

Thus far we have defined the ob- 
ject of metaphysics. We now come 
to its method, on account of which 
it is so frequently assailed by the vo- 
taries of experimental science. Me- 
taphysics, they say, is a science h pri- 
ori; it is, therefore, altogether incom- 
petent to decide any matters of fact ; 
and, if so, what is the use of meta- 
physics ? To this reasoning, which 
claims no credit for perspicacity, 
many answers can be given. 

And first let us suppose for a mo- 
ment that metaphysics is a science 
altogether h priori. Does it follow 
that it has no claim to our most care- 
ful attention ? Geometry, algebra, 
and all pure mathematics are h priori 
sciences. Are they despised on this 
account ? We see, on the contrary, 

*S. Thomtssafs: InUlUctus poltsi inttlliitrt 
mliquam/armam absque individuantibu* princi 
pii*^ non tamtn absque materia^ a qua dtpendit 
ratio itlint formte (in % De A nima^ lecL 8). 



294 



A Talk on Metaphysics. 



that for this very reason they are 
held in greater honor and lauded as 
the most thorough, the most exact, 
and the most irrefragable of all sci- 
ences. Some will say that the ob- 
ject of mathematics is not to estab- 
lish natural facts, but only relations ; 
but this is equally true of meta- 
physics. The metaphysician, when 
treating of physical subjects, assumes 
the facts and laws of nature as they 
are presented to him by the physicist ] 
he has not to establish them anew, 
but only to account for them by 
showing the reason of their being. 
Metaphysics would, therefore, be as 
good, as excellent, and as interesting 
as geometry, even if it were an h 
priori science. 

But, secondly, what is the real 
case? To proceed h priori is to 
argue from the cause to the effect, 
and from antecedents to consequents ; 
whereas, to proceed h posteriori is to 
argue from the effect to the cause, 
and from consequents to antecedents. 
Now, it is a fact that in metaphysics 
we frequently argue from the cause 
to the effect, as is done in other sci- 
ences too; but it is no less a fact 
that we even more frequently argue 
from the effect to the cause. The 
very name of metaphysics^ which is 
the bugbear of our opponents, clear- 
ly shows that such is the case. Real 
philosophy, in fact, is called metaphy^ 
sics for two reasons, the first of which 
is extrinsic and historical, the second 
intrinsic and logical. The historical 
consists in the fact that Aristotle's 
speculations on those incomplete en- 
tities which enter into the constitu- 
tion of things were handed down to 
us under the name of metaphysics. 
The logical is, because the knowledge 
of such incomplete entities must be 
gathered from the consideration of 
natural beings by means of an in- 
tellectual analysis, which cannot be 
made properly without a previous 



extensive knowledge of the concrete 
order of things. This latter know- 
ledge, which must be gathered by ob- 
servation and experiment, constitutes 
physical science. Hence, the ration- 
al knowledge which comes after it, 
and is based on it, is very properly 
called meta-physical^ and that part of 
philosophy which develops such a 
knowledge meta-physics — ^that is, after- 
physics. 

Now, all analysis belongs to the 
h posteriori process ; for it proceeds 
from the compound to its compo- 
nents, and therefore from the effect 
to the cause. Therefore, metaphy- 
sics, inasmuch' as it analyzes natural 
beings and finds out their constitu- 
ents, is an h posteriori science ; and 
since such an analysis is the very 
ground of all metaphysical specula- 
tions, we must conclude that the 
whole of metaphysics is based on 
the h posteriori process, no less than 
physics itself. 

Thirdly, that metaphysics cannot 
decide any matter-of-fact question 
is a silly objection ; as it is evident 
that to establish the existence of 
God, the spirituality of the human 
soul, the creation of the world, etc., 
is nothing less than to decide mat- 
ters of fact. It may be that, in the 
opinion of the utilitarian, such facts 
are not very interesting; they are 
facts, however, as much and as truly 
as the rotation of the earth, atmo- 
spheric pressure, and universal at- 
traction are facts ; and they are much 
more important, too. 

We might also maintain that meta- 
physics is mainly a science of facts ,'^ 
for there are facts of the intellec- 
tual as well as of the experimental 
order. That every effect must have 
a cause is a fact That every circle 
must have a centre is another fact 
That a part is less than the whole 
is a third fact. Intellectual facts are 
as numerous and as certain as the 



A Talk on Metapkysici. 



295 



Hicts of nature; and it is through 
them that our experimental know- 
ledge of natural things is raised to the 
dignity of scientific cognition. For 
there is no science, whether induc- 
tive or deductive, without reasoning, 
and no reasoning without principles ; 
and every principle b a fact of the 
intellectual order. Those critics 
who are wont to slight metaphysics 
• as an ^ priori science would, there- 
fore, do well to consider that no true 
demonstration can be made but by h 
priori principles, and that true de- 
monstration constitutes the perfec- 
tion of science. 

We may here remark that meta- 
pliysics is usually divided mto general 
and specicUy and that the h priori 
character, for which it is assailed, 
belongs to general metaphysics only. 
General metaphysics treats of the 
constituents, attributes, and properties 
of being in general, and is called 
ontology. Ontology is considered 
as a necessary preparation for the 
study of special metaphysics, which, 
from the knowledge of being in gen- 
eral, descends to the examination of 
the different classes and genera of 
beings in particular. Our men of 
science, accustomed as they are to 
the inductive method, do not ap- 
prove of this form of proceeding. 
On what ground, they ask, db you 
impose upon the student notions, de* 
finitions, and principles h priori^ as 
you do in ontology, affirming in gen- 
eral that which has not yet been ex- 
amined in particular, and taking for 
granted what has yet to be establish- 
ed and verified ? 

The answer is obvious enough. 
General metaphysics assumes nothing 
but what is already admitted as evi- 
dent by all mankind. It is mainly 
concerned with th< notions convey- 
ed by such words as beings cause^ 
effect^ principle^ essence^ existence^ sub^ 
stance^ accident, etc. These notions 



are common, and their methodical 
explanation is based on common- 
sense principles — that is, on evident, 
intellectual facts. Thus far, there- 
fore, no one can say that we invert 
the natural order of science; for we 
start from what is known. 

Next comes the analysis of the 
notions just referred to. The object 
of this analysis is to point out dis- 
tinctly the different classes of being, 
the different genera of causes, the 
variety of principles, reasons, etc., 
implied in those general notions, to 
show their ontological relations, and 
to account for their distinction. This 
important investigation, as well as 
the preceding one, is based on com- 
mon-sense reasonings, but sometimes 
not without reference to other truths, 
which are established and vindicated 
only in special metaphysics, to which 
they properly belong. Thus, it is 
the custom to treat in ontology of 
the intrinsic possibility of things, and 
its eternity, necessity, and immuta- 
bility ; but it is only in natural theo- 
logy that such matters find their full 
and radical explanation. Of course, 
whenever an assertion is made, of 
which the proof is totally or partially 
deferred to a later time, the assent 
of the student to it is more or less 
provisional. It is not, however, in 
metaphysics only that a student must 
accept certain things on trust; he 
thus accepts the equivalents in chem- 
istry, the distances of the planets 
from the sun in astronomy, and the 
logarithms in trigonometry. 

Yet we confess that philosophical 
writers and teachers sometimes ex- 
pose themselves to just criticism by 
treating in general metaphysics cer- 
tain matters which it would be better 
to reserve intact for special treatises. 
It is doubtless necessary, immediately 
after logic, to treat of the nature of 
being, and its principles and its pro- 
perties in general ; but it is extreme^ 



296 



A Talk on Metaphysics. 



\y difficult, and even dangerous, to 
undertake the settlement of some 
questions of ontology connected 
with the physical department of 
science before these same questions 
are sufficiently explored by the light, 
and disentangled by the analysis, of 
special metaphysics, to which their 
fill investigation really appertains. 
What is the use of giving, for instance, 
an unestablished, and perhaps pre- 
posterous, notion of corporeal quan- 
tity to him who has as yet to learn 
what is the essential composition of 
bodies? Is a student prepared to 
realize the true nature of the quantity 
of mass, or of the quantity of volume, 
who has never yet explored either the 
mysterious attributes of formal con- 
tinuity or the intimate constitution 
of material substance? Certainly 
not. He may, indeed, make an act 
of faith on the authority of his pro- 
fessor; but philosophy is not fait-h, 
and no professor who understands 
his duty would ever unnecessarily 
oblige his pupils to admit anything 
as true on his own sole authority. 
Questions connected with the physi- 
cal laws of causation and movement, 
or with the nature of sensible quali- 
ties and properties, should similarly 
be deferred to a later time; for no 
one will be able to deal successfully 
with them, unless he has already ac- 
quired a distinct knowledge of many 
other things, on which both the 
right understanding and the right 
solution of these questions essentially 
depend. Accordingly, such matters, 
instead of being treated lightly and 
perfunctorily at the beginning of the 
course of metaphysics, should be 
treated with those others to which 
they are naturally allied, in order 
that they may be fully examined and 
competently decided. 

From this it will be seen that we 
do not want a metaphysical science 
based on a priori grounds. In all 



times, metaphysics has been a science 
of facts ; and it could not be other- 
wise, since its object is real, and all 
that is real is a matter of fact. Ex- 
periment and observation have al- 
ways supplied the materials of its spec- 
ulations. All its conclusions about the 
nature of the soul are drawn from the 
facts of consciousness ; all its affirma- 
tions concerning the constitution of 
bodies are founded on the facts and 
laws of the physical world ; and all its 
theses on God, his existence and his 
attributes, are likewise deduced from 
a positive knowledge of contingent 
things. To suppose that metaphysi- 
cal knowledge can be obtained other- 
wise is such an absurdity that no- 
thing but the most stupid ignorance 
can be made to believe it. And yet 
this absurdity is what many of our 
modem scientists fall into .when they 
contend that metaphysics is an h 
priori science. 

It is not difficult, however, to ac- 
count for such a dislike of metaphy- 
sical reasonings. The greatest num- 
ber of our scientific men have been 
brought up under the influence either 
of Protestantism or of its legitimate 
offspring, indifferentism ; and abso- 
lute truth, such as is attained by rig- 
orous metaphysical reasoning, is not 
congenial to their habit of thought 
Protestantism is a system made up of 
half-truths, half-premises, and half- 
consequences. A Protestant must at 
the same time believe the authen- 
ticity of the Bible, and reject the 
authority by which alone the Bible 
can be proved to be authentic ; he 
must conciliate the liberty of his 
private judgment with the obedience 
due to the teaching of his church ; he 
must have the courage to believe that 
true Christian religion is not that 
which, from the apostolic times down 
to our own, has farmed so many gen- 
erations of saints, changed the face 
of the world, confirmed its own divine 



A Talk on Metaphysics. 



297 



origin by a peq>etual succession of 
prodigious works, but that which, 
starting from Luther or some other 
mischievous innovator, has never and 
nowhere produced any fruit of high 
sanctity or witnessed a single miracle. 
Hence, to a Protestant mind, truth 
in its entirety must be embarrassing ; 
since the very essence of Protestant- 
ism is to cut truth into pieces, to be- 
lieve and relish a portion of it, and to 
reserve some other portion unbeliev- 
ed and unrelished, lest nothing should 
be left to protest against. 

It is clear that minds so disposed 
in religious matters cannot be much 
better disposed in other branches of 
speculative knowledge ; and it is but 
natural that they should despise 
metaphysics altogether. "To the 
healthy scientific mind," says a mo- 
dem writer, " the fine-spun arguments 
and the wonderful logical achieve- 
ments of metaphysicians are at once 
so bewildering and so distasteful that 
men of science can scarcely be got to 
listen even to those who undertake to 
show that the arguments are but cob- 
webs, the logic but jingle, and the 
seeming profundity little more than a 
jumble of incongruous ideas shrouded 
in a mist of words," * Indeed, when 
men of science are thus satisfied with 
tlieir ignorance of philosophy, and 
shut their eyes and their ears, lest the 
light, or perhaps the jingle, of logic, 
compel them to learn what mere ex- 
perimentalism cannot teach, we cease 
to wonder that they countenance 
such theories as the Descent of Man^ 
the eternity of matter, or the meteor- 
ic origin of the principle of life. 

We. do not wish to deny the pro- 
gress of modem science; we fully 
acknowledge that experimentalism 
has led to the discovery of important 
facts. But this is no reason why our 
men of science should disregard phi- 

^Smtur9^ ft Jourotl of Science, March 13, 1873. 



losophy. An increase of positive 
knowledge regarding facts, far from 
bringing about the exclusion of 
philosophical reasoning, extends its 
range, enlarges its foundation, and 
makes its employment both easier 
and surer. Accordingly, while we 
profess gratitude to the modern scien- 
tists for their unceasing labors and 
untiring efforts towards the develop- 
ment of experimental knowledge, we 
beg leave to remind them that this 
knowledge is not the tu plus ultra of 
natural science. Subordinate sciences 
account in a certain measure for 
such things as form their special 
object; but philosophy, the highest, 
the deepest, and the most universal 
of sciences, not only embraces in its 
general scope all the objects of hu- 
man knowledge, but accounts for them 
by their highest principles and causes, 
and makes them not only known, but 
understood. To know facts is an ex- 
cellent thing; yet the human mind 
craves something higher. We are 
all born to be philosophers. In- 
deed, our rational nature teaches us 
very early the first elements of phi- 
losophy, and compels us to philoso- 
phize. As soon as we acquire the 
use of reason, we detect ourselves 
tracing effects to causes, and conclu- 
sions to principles; and from that 
time we experience a strong tendency 
to generalize such a process, till it 
extends to all known objects and to 
the ultimate reasons of their being. 

Yet we should reflect that our 
rational nature, while thus prompting 
us to such high investigations, does 
not lead us freely to the goal, but 
leaves it to our industry to acquaint 
ourselves with the proper methods ef 
discoverin g philosophical truth. Neg- 
ligence in the study of such methods 
hinders intellectual advancement, and 
leaves men exposed to the snares of 
sophistry. Such a negligence on the 
part of men who are looked upon as 



298 



A Talk on Metaphysics. 



die lights of modern science is one 
of the great evils of the day. Dis- 
taste for philosophical instruction, 
when confined to the lower classes 
of society, is of little consequence : 
even in the middle classes it might 
be comparatively harmless if men 
were ready to own their ignorance, 
and forbore judging of what tran- 
scends their intellectual acquirements. 
But in an age like ours, when everyone 
who has a smattering of light litera- 
ture or of empirical science thinks 
himself called upon to decide the 
most abstruse and formidable ques- 
tions; when countless books and 
periodicals of a perfidious character 
are everywhere spread by the unholy 
efforts of secret societies ; and, when a 
confiding public allow themselves to 
be led like sheep by such incompetent 
authorities, then ignorance, supported 
by presumption or malice on the one 
side, and by credulity on the other, 
cannot but be the source of incalcu- 
lable evils. 

Hence it is that all prudent and 
experienced men have come to the 
conclusion that one of the greatest 
necessities of our times is to popular- 
ize the study of sound philosophy. 
Young America needs to be taught 
that there is a whole world of impor- 
tant truths ranging above the grasp 



of the vulgar, uncultivated mind, un- 
known to the pretentious teachers of 
a material and spurious civilization, 
and unattainable by those who are 
not trained to the best use of their intel- 
lectual powers. It needs to realize 
the fact that modem literature and 
thought in general is full of deceits. It 
needs to be instructed how to meet a 
host of high-sounding assertions, plau- 
sible fallacies, and elaborate theories, 
advanced in support of social, religi- 
ous, or political error. It needs to be 
enabled, by a sound, uniform, and 
strong teaching, gradually to form 
into a compact body, held together 
by the noble ties of truth, powerful 
enough to stem the torrent of infideli- 
ty, and always ready to defend right 
and justice against learned hypocrisy, 
as well as against ignorant sophistry. 
Grown-up men cannot be reclaimed ; 
they are too much engrossed with 
material interests to find leisure for 
the cultivation of their higher facul- 
ties; but we are glad to see that 
our brilliant and unbiassed youth can 
be given, and are ready to receive, a 
more intellectual education. Let us 
only convince them of the import- 
ance of philosophy ; let us provide 
them with good, kind, and learned 
teachers, and the future will be 
ours. 



EPIGRAM. 



Inconstant thou ! There ne'er was any 
Till now so constant — ^to so many. 

Aubrey Ds Vbrs. 



Dante s Purgatario. 299 



DANTE'S PURGATORIO. 

fcANTO FOURTH. 

This Caoto, belog^ somewhat abstruse, was passed oyer at its dua place in the series of these 
trsBSlatJooa. As its omission has been re^rretted by some students of Dante, it has been thought 
best to publish it now, although the first portion of it maj seeih a little diflBcult to any but a mathe- 
matical reader. Perhaps its dryness may be somewhat relieved at the close by the humorous pic- 
ttireofthelasy sinner Belvcqua, which is the first slight touch of the comic in this most grave 
ootoedy, ard here for the first time Dante confesses to a smile. 

Whene'er the mind, from any joy or pain 
In any faculty, to that alone 

Bends its whole force, its other powers remain 
Unexercised, it seems (whereby is shown 

Plain contradiction of th' erroneous view 
Which holds within us kindled several souls). 

Hence, when we hear or see a thing whereto 
The mind is strongly drawn, unheeded rolls 

The passing hour; the man observes it not : 
That power is one whereby we hear or see, 

And that another which absorbs our thought ; 
This being chained, as 'twere — the former free. 

A real experience of this truth had I, 
Listening that soul with wonder at such force, 

For now the sun full fifty degrees high 
Had risen without my noticing his course, 

When came we where the spirits, with one voice all, 
Cried out to us, " Behold the place ye seek 1" 

A wider opening oft, in hedge or wall, 
Some farmer, when the grape first browns its cheek, 

Stops with one forkful of his brambles thrown, 
Than was the narrow pass whereby my Guide 

Began to climb, I following on alone, 
While from our way I saw those wanderers glide. 

A man may climb St. Leo, or descend 
The steeps of Noli, or Bismantua's height 

Scale to the top, and on his feet depend ; 
Here one should fly I I mean he needs the light 

Pinions and plumage of a strong desire, 
Under such leadership as gave me hope 

And lighted me my way. Advancing higher 
In throvgh the broken rock, it left no scope 

On either side, but cramped us close; the ledge 
O'er which we crept required both feet and hands. 

When we bad toiled up to the utmost edge 
Of the high bank, where the clear coast expands, 



300 Dante s Purgatorio. 

" Which way," said I, " my Master, shall we take ?" 
And he to me , " Let not thy foot fall back ; 

Still follow me, and for the mountain make, 
Until some guide appear who knows the track." 

Its top sight reached not, and the hillside rose 
With far more salient angle than the line 

That from half- quadrant to the centre goes. 
Most weary was I : " Gentle Father mine,** 

I thus broke silence, " turn and see that if 
Thou stay not for me, I remain alone.*' 

" Struggle, my son, as far as yonder cliff, 
He said, and pointed upwards to a zone 

Terracing all the mountain on that side. 
His word so spurred me that I forced myself 

And clambered on still close behind my Guide 
Until my feet were on that girdling shelf. 



Here we sat down and turned our faces towards 
The East, from which point we had made ascent 

(For looking back on toil some rest affords) ; 
And on the low shore first mine eyes I bent. 

Then raised them sunward, wondering as I gazed 
How hi^ light smote us from the left. While thus 

I stared, he marked how I beheld amazed 
Day's chariot entering 'twixt the North and us. 

" Were yonder mirror now," the Poet said, 
" That with his light leads up and down the spheres. 

In Castor and Pollux, thou wouldst see the red 
Zodiac revolving closer to the Bears, 

If it swerved nothing from its ancient course ; 
Which fact to fathom wouldst thou power command, 

Imagine, with thy mind's collected force. 
This mount and Zion so on earth to stand 

That though in adverse hemispheres, the twain 
One sole horizon have : thence 'tis not hard 

To see (if clear thine intellect remain) 
How the Sun's road — which Phaeton, ill-starred. 

Knew not to keep — must pass that mountain o'er 
On one, and this hill on the other side.** 

*' Certes, my Master, — ne'er saw I before 
So clear as at this moment," I replied 

(Where seemed but now my understanding maimed), 
'* How the mid-circle of the heavenly spheres 

And of their movements — the Equator named 
In special term of art — which never veers 

From its old course, 'twixt winter and the Sun, 
Yet for the reason thou dost now assign, 

Towards the Septentrion from this point doth run. 
While to the Jews it bore a South decline. 



Daniels Purgatorio, 301 

But if it please thee, gladly would I learn 
How far we have to journey ; for so high 

This hill soars that mine eyes cannot discern 
The top thereof. " He made me this reply-: 

'' Such is this mountain that for one below 
The first ascent is evermore severe, 

It grows less painful higher as we go. 
So when to thee it pleasant shall appear 

That no more toil thy climbing shall attend 
Than to sail down the way the current flows, 

Then art thou near unto thy pathway's end ; 
There from thy labor look to find repose. 

I know that this is true, but say no more. ' 
And this word uttered, not far off addressed 

Me thus a voice : ** It may be that before 
That pass, thou wilt have need to sit and rest." 

At sound thereof we both looked round, and there 
Beheld a huge rock, close to our left hand. 

Whereof till now we had not been aware. 
Thither we toiled, and in its shade a band 

Behind it stood with a neglectful air, 
As men in idleness are wont to stand. 

BELACQUA THE SLUGGARD. 

And one was seated, hanging down his face 
Between his knees, which he with languid limb, 

Looking exhausted, held in his embrace. 
" O my sweet Seignior!" I exclaimed, " note him ! 

Lazier-looking than had laziness been 
His sister- born." Turning towards us, at length 

He gazed, slow lifting o'er his thigh his chin. 
And drawled, " Go up, then, thou who hast such strength." 

I knew who thai was then ; and though the ascent 
Had made me pant somewhat, I kept my pace. 

Spite of short breath : close up to him I went, 
And he droned forth, scarce lifting up his face, 

<' Hast thou found out yet how the Sun this way 
O'er thy left shoulder doth his chariot guide ?" 

His sloth, and what few words he had to say. 
Made me smile slightly, and I thus replied : 

" No more, Belacqua, do I mourn thy fate ; 
But tell me wherefore in this place I see 

Thee sitting thus ? Dost thou for escort wait, 
Or has thy old slow habit seized on thee ?" 

And he — ** O brother ! what boots it to climb ? 
God's Angel sitting at the gate denies 

Me way to penance until so much time 
Be past as living I beheld the skies. % 



302 Dante's Purgatorio. 

Outside I must remain here for the crime 
Of dallying to the last my contrite sighs, 

Unless I happily some help derive 
From the pure prayer ascending from a heart 

That lives in grace : a prayer not thus alive 
Heaven doth not hear : what aid can such impart ?" 

Now before me the Poet up the height 
Began to climb, saying, " Come on, for o'er 

This hill's meridian hangs the Sun, and Night 
Sets foot already on Morocco's shore." 



NOTE. , 

The Rev. Bdward Rverett Hale, in a most interestUii: paper intended for pretentaUon to Uie 
American Antiquarian Society, in Bioston, malcesthis record : 

'* When Columbus sailed on his fourth Toyage, he wrote to Ferdinand and Isabella a letter which 
contains the following statement with regard to the South Sea, then undiscoyered, knowa to tv( as 
the Pacific Ocesn : 

** * I believe that if I should pass under the equator, in arriving at this higher region of which I 
speak, I should find there a milder temperature and a diversity in the stars and in the waters. Not 
that I believe that the highest point is navigable whence these currents flow, nor that we can mount 
there, because I am convinced that there is the terrestrial paradise, whence no one can eater but by 
the will of God.' 

^ This curious passage, of which the language seems so mystical, represents none the less the Im- 
pression which Columbus had of the physical cosmogony of the undiscovered half of the vrorld. It 
is curious to observe that the most elaborate account of this cosmogony, and that by which alone it 
has been handed down to the memory of modern times, is that presented in Dante's Divina C^m- 
turdia, where he represents the mountain of Purgatory, at the antipodes of Jerusalem, crowned by 
the terrestrial paradise. It is this paradise of which Columbus says, * Nb one can enter it but by 
the will of God.' 

*^ Of Dante's cosmogony a very accurate account is given by Miss Rossetti, in her essay on Dante, 
recently published, to which she givevthe name of 'The Shadow of Dante.' Her statement is io 
these words : 

*'* Dante divides our globe Into two elemental hemispheres— the Bastern, chiefly of land; the 
Western, almost wholly of water.' " 

It is much easier to praise Mr. Hale's valuable comments than to agree with Miss Rossetti. To us 
it seems that her confused account lets no light in upon Dante's cosmogony, which was simply that 
ot the age he lived in, i>oetized after his own fashion. According to the interpretation of Tnk 
Catholic World's translation, Dante divides our globe into two hemispheres— ^(vrMrrn and 
Southern, In the story of Ulysses {Inferno^ Canto zxvi.) he alludes to a Western hemisphere, and, 
as far as we remember, nowhere else. Mr. Hale says in conclusion of his able paper, " I am not 
aware that any of the dis'inguished critics of Dante have called attention to the fact that so late 
as the year 1503, a navigator so illustrious as Columbus was still conducting his voyages on the 
supposition that Dante's cosmogony was*true in fact." 

This, indeed, is quite curious, but ought not to surprise one who reflects that the cosmography of 
Columbus was not much advanced from the time of Dante. In this very canto the poet shows 
that he koew about the variation of the ecliptic aud the retrogression of the equinoxes. From his 
age to that of the great navigator, science had hardly taken a forward step. In fact, before 1300, 
Dante was ac<^uainted not only with the sphericity of the earth, but with the first law of gravitatioa 
—the tendency of things to their centre. Few consider how very slow was the growth of science 
from that which Dante had learped in Florence, and Columbus had studied in Pavia and Sienna, up 
to the time of Copernicus, at whom, so late as 1695, Lord Bacon had the hardihood to give this fling : 
" Who would not smile at the astronomers — I mean, not those carmen which drive the earth about, 
but the few ancient astronomers, which feign the moon to be the swiftest of the planets in motion, 

etc. ?" 

The pages of this magazine will not permit us to prolong an inquiry that may hereafter, and 
which ought to, be made as to the Ptolemean astronomy of the schools in the age of Dante. The 
one scholar In this country most capable of such investigation is too busy— we mean Professor 
Peirce, of the U. S. Coast Survey.— Translator. 



Grapes and Thorns. 



303 



GRAPES AND THORNS. 



SV THB AUTHOR OP " THB |pOUM OP YORXB.*' 

CHAPTER VII. 



MOTHER CHEVRSUSE AGAIN. 



Ir one would take flie trouble to 
search into the subject, it would, 
perhaps, be acknowledged that the 
apparently unreasonable emotion 
that women display on occasions 
when men find themselves unmoved 
is not, after all, entirely ridiculous. 
It may«be annoying, it may partake 
of the hysterical ; but, if genuine, it 
is the sign of a more subtile, though 
often vague, perception. 

A woman whom the Creator has 
endowed so nobly with intellect as to 
make it a source of painful regret 
that the infinitely higher supematu- 
ral gifts are lacking in her has written 
words which may be quoted in this 
connection : *' That element of 
tragedy which lies in the very fact 
of frequency has not yet wrought 
itself into the coarse emotions of. 
mankind; and perhaps our frames 
could hardly bear much of it. If we 
had a keen vision and feeling of all 
ordinary human life, it would be like 
hearing the grass grow and the 
squirrel's heart beat, and we should 
die of that roar which lies on the 
other side of silence. As it is, the 
quickest of us walk about well wad- 
ded with stupidity." 

Had George Eliot been gifted 
with faith as with reason, she could 
not have written that paragraph 
without recollecting that the saint on 
earth is an exception to her rule ; that 
the soul illumined by the Holy Spirit 
has so keen a perception, not of 
natural things as such, but of natural 
things in their relations to God ; that 
but for the divine strength and peace 
which accompany the holy presencCi 



it could not endure that vision of 
eternal results hanging on apparent- 
ly trivial causes. To such a soul 
there are but two paths, and every 
smallest step is in the road to heaven 
or the road to hell. 

Look at those saints, and listen to 
them. They were worn and pallid ; 
they were consumed by a fiery zeal 
because of this awful tragedy they 
saw in the perpetually recurring 
common events of life. They heard 
for ever that roar of eternity from the 
other side of the silence of death. 

But regarding the natural, of which 
our author speaks, she is right. The 
greater number of us are '* well- wad- 
ded with stupidity," though women 
are by nature far less so than men. 
Their view is often distorted and 
vague ; they tremble at shadows, and 
do not know where to look for 
the substance which casts them ; but 
the substance is there, nevertheless. 
They feel the tragedy hidden in com- 
mon things, whether they can explain 
it or not. It roust be remembered 
that while man was made of the slime 
of the earth, woman was formed of 
flesh \ and that the material part 
which is the veil between her spirit 
and the outer world has felt twice 
the refining touch of the Creator's 
hand. 

Is all this too large an hpropos to 
the tears which women are accused 
of shedding whenever they see a 
marriage? Think a moment before 
deciding. Not the happiness or 
misery of these two alone is in ques- 
tion, but that of an endless line of 
possible descendants. There is, in- 



304 



Grapes and Thorns. 



deed, no kind of tragedy which may 
not follow on a marriage. 

After this long preamble, we may 
venture to say that both Mme. 
Ferrier and Mrs. Gerald were moved 
to tears at the marriage of their chil- 
dren ; the former crying openly and 
naturally, the latter showing her 
emotion with that restraint which 
conventional life imposes. Each 
understood the other, and was cor- 
dially drawn to the other for, perhaps, 
the first time in all their acquaintance. 
They stood side by side on the 
wharf as the steamer which bore the 
young couple left it, and gazed after 
their children, who waved handker- 
chiefs and kisses to them from the 
deck. A few hours in the steamer 
would carry them to the city, where 
they were to take the cars for Niaga- 
ra. Annette wished to see the falls 
when the autumn foliage should form 
a setting for them, and Lawrence 
had his own reason for liking the 
place. 

" I have the greatest sympathy 
and affection for waterfalls," he said ; 
*' and I would like to live near Niaga- 
ra. One gets so tired of hearing of 
rising and aspiring that it is a real 
relief to see some object in creation 
that lets things slide, and lays all its 
cares on the shoulders of gravity. I 
like to see those green waters just go 
to sleep and tumble along without 
troubling themselves. As I remem- 
ber that river, it looked like melted 
chrysoprase." 

"It is true, my son," the mother 
had answered, tremulously tender 
and smiling. " But to let things 
slide, as yOu express it, is to go d jwn- 
ward." 

" And just as inevitably," he re- 
joined, kissing her, " does my pretty 
mother find something to moralize 
about in every random word her 
worthless son utters." 

They were going, then, to Niagara. 



The steamer threw the waters of 
the Saranac backward from her prow, 
and left a snowy wake, like a bridal 
veil, trailing after her. The sun was 
going down, and the new moon hung, 
a crescent of fire, in the cloudless 
west. 

" The new moon is over our right 
shoulders. Let's wish," said Law- 
rence. " That is one of my pet super- 
stitions." 

The bride shook her head playful- 
ly. " Then I must forbid your wish- 
ing. We are going to be very good, 
you know, and not commit the least 
sin to-day." Seeing a faint shade 
•came over his face at her chiding, 
she made haste to add : " We will 
convert this superstition into some- 
thing good. Fancy Our Lady stand- 
ing on that crescent, and say an Ave, 
And since we are making the stars 
our rosary, we will look for the three 
magi. Spanish sailors call by that 
name the stars in Orion's belt. He 
should be in the east before long. 
These sailors say that he who sees 
the three magi is not far from the 
Saviour. Whenever I see them, and 
think of it, I make acts of faith, hope, 
and charity. Will you say them 
with me to-night ?" 

Lawrence Gerald looked intently 
and curiously at his young wife. If she 
had been a stranger to him, he would 
have been captivated by her. " An- 
nette," he said, " I don't feel so well 
acquainted with you as I thought I 



was. 



n 



" It will take us a good many 
years to become well acquainted 
with each other," she answered quiet- 
ly. " Now let's take a seat at the 
other side of the deck, and look for 
the three magi. Good-night, Crich- 
ton I" 

She leaned over the rail, and look- 
ed back for one moment at the city. 
Whatever thoughts may have surged 
up, whatever fears, hopes, or regrets, 



Grapes and Thorns. 



305 



they found no utterance. No one 
saw the look in her eyes. Then she 
took her husband's arm, and crossed 
the deck. 

" There come the Pleiades, like a 
little cluster of golden grapes, and 
there is Aldebaran \ and now, Orion, 
buckle on your belt, and come forth." 

" By the way," said Lawrence, 
struck by a sudden thought, "you 
are Mrs. Gerald ; did you know it ?" 

** Are you sorry for it ?" she asked, 
and tried to make the question sound 
playful, but with ill success. 

" I am rather astonished," he repli- 
ed ; and seemed really to find the 
thought a new one. 

Annette could not restrain a 
momentary outburst, though she 
blushed with mortification for it as 
soon as the words were spoken. 
*• O Lawrence ! cannot you speak 
one word of kindness to me ?" As 
though that could be kindness which 
waits till asked for. 

He took the appeal jestingly. " You 
shall dictate. Only tell me what 
you would be pleased to have me 
say, and I will repeat it, like an 
obedient husband." 

Then, seeing her blush, and that 
she shrank from him with a look that 
was almost aversion, he spoke seri- 
ously. 

" I do not mean to be unkind to 
you, Annette. Have patience with 
me. You have made a bad bargain, 
but I am, perhaps, more grateful 
than I appear ; and I like you better 
every day." 

She made no reply, but leaned 
back and looked at the stars coming 
out, one by one. There was no de- 
light in her heart, but a greater peace 
and sweetness than she had even 
hoped for. " I like you better every 
day." How softly the words echoed 
in her ears ! 

When the steamer had disappear- 
ed around a curve of the river, Mrs. 



Ferrier turned her tear-drenched face 
to Mrs. Gerald, and sobbed out, 
" They are gone ! They are not our 
children any more." 

Mrs. Gerald did not trust herself 
to speak ; but she laid a kind hand on 
the mother's arm, and tried to smile. 

** Do come home with me !" Mrs. 
Ferrier begged. " It is so lonesome 
there I can't bear to go into the 
house. Come and stay to tea, you 
and Honora." 

But Mrs. Gerald had promised to 
drive out with Mrs. Macon to see 
the Sisters, and the bright little lady 
was waiting impatiently for her; so 
to Honora was left the task of com- 
forting Annette's mother. 

On their way home, Mrs. Ferrier 
started up suddenly, and ordered the 
coachman to stop. " I don't care 
if he is a Jew," she said, having 
caught sight of Mr. Schoninger. 
" He's good enough to be a Chris- 
tian ; and I'm going to ask him to 
supper." And before Honora could 
prevent it, even if she had desired to, 
the gentleman had been beckoned 
to the carriage, and the invitation 
given and accepted. 

" I'm not what people call a lady," 
Mrs. P'errier said, as they drove on 
again, " but I believe I know a 
gentleman when I see him ; and if 
there ever was a true gentleman, he 
is one. How he does it I don't 
know ; but he some way makes me 
respect myself. He doesn't flatter 
me ; I am sure he doesn't care for my 
money, and that he knows I am no 
scholar ; but it seems to me as if he 
thinks there is something respectable 
in being an honest woman, no matter 
how ignorant you are ; and I'm just 
as sure that that man never laughs- 
at me, and is mad when other people 
do it, as I am that I sit here. In my 
house, when some of those little 
upstarts have been talking to me,, 
and trying to make me say things — 



3o6 



Grapes and Thorns, 



I knew all the time what they were 
up to ! — I've seen him come marchr 
ing across the room to me like a 
king, and scatter them as if they were 
mice, with just one glance of his eyes. 
I'm not a fool, and I know my 
friends." 

Honora's visit was a short one ; 
and after an hour of pleasant talk, 
she started for home, accompanied 
by Mr. Schoninger. They had been 
speaking of the Moonlight Sonata; 
and, since the hour was early, the 
gentleman asked permission to go 
in and play it on Miss Pembroke's 
piano. 

" I was about to ask you to," she 
said cordially. " It has been on my 
mind that I never heard you play 
that ; and I fancy that my piano is 
just the instrument for it, the tone 
is so soft and rich." 

Mrs. Gerald had not yet returned. 
The night was very warm, and the 
doors and windows all stood open, 
the parlor being lighted only from 
the next room. Honora seated her- 
self by an open window, and listened 
with a perfect enjoyment to which 
nothing was wanting. She was in 
the mood to hear music, the compo- 
sition and the rendering were both 
excellent, and the half-light in-doors 
and out not only veiled all defects 
in their surroundings, but invested 
them with a soft and dreamy grace. 

Her mood was so happy that, 
when the sonata was ended, she did 
not feel obliged to praise it, nor to 
speak at all; and they were silent a 
little while, Mr. Schoninger touching 
octaves with his right hand so ex- 
quisitely that they faltered out as 
the stars come — faint at first, yet 
ending brightly. 

" I like to look on the whole of 

•creation as a symphony," he said 

presently. ** The morning stars sang 

together. What a song it must be 

to the ears that can hear it ! Fancy 



them setting out on that race, their 
hearts on fire, their orbits ringing as 
they rolled, their sides blooming, 
light just kindled ! The stars, then, 
being tuneful, everything on their 
surfaces and beneath them mus<t 
have been harmonious. How com- 
plex and wonderful — large and 
small, from the song of the sun to the 
song of the pine-needles ! The ocean 
had its tune, and the rivers, and 
there was music in the clouds that 
rose from them. How ethereal it 
must have been ! Yes, nature was 
born singing, and everything was 
musically ordered. The days were 
grouped in octaves. They climbed 
from Sabbath to Sabbath." 

He had spoken slowly, as if to 
himself, or to some sweeter self, and 
let a note drop here and there into 
pauses. He paused a moment now, 
then added : " What is music ? It 
is harmonious action ; and in action 
the mystical number is seven." 

He lifted his head, but not his 
eyes, and seemed to await a reply. 

"And in being, the perfect num- 
ber is three," Honora said quietly. 

He did not answer for a moment, 
and, if he understood her meaning, 
did not reply to it when he spoke. 
" I had not thought of that ; but I 
catch a glimpse of truth in your re- 
mark which I should like to follow 
out. In nature, there are the three 
colors for one item. In art — ^say, 
architecture — there are the three 
types : the rectangular Greek, round- 
ing up into Roman, as if lifted over 
a head passing under, and the 
Gothic, shaped like a flame. Those 
may be the signs of the material, the 
intellectual, and the spiritual. Yes, 
I must follow that oul." 

The light was too dim to show 
how Miss Pembroke's cheeks red- 
dened as she said, "The feasts in 
the church carry out this musical 
idea, and have their octaves; and 



Grapes and Thorns. 



307 



for the Supreme Being, there is trin- 
ity." 

Was it fair or wise to catch him 
so? She doubted, and awaited his 
next remark in some agitation. 

" Miss Pembroke, I respect your 
opinions and your beliefs," he said, 
with a dignified emphasis which 
might be meant to reassure or to re- 
prove her. In either case, it was 
impossible for her to pursue the sub- 
ject. 

Feeling slightly embarrassed, she 
caught at the first subject that pre- 
sented itself. " You have done a 
great deal for music in Crichton, Mr. 
Schoninger," she said. "You have 
taught our musicians, and improved 
the public taste immensely. Our 
people are musically inclined ; and 
I hope the time may come when we 
shall have great artists among us 
who will do something besides pre- 
sent the works of others. I do not 
profess to be a critic, or learned in 
the art; but it seems to me that it is 
not vet exhausted, and that in the 
way of musical declamation there is 
much to be done. I have often 
thought that words do not belong 
with the highest kinds of music that 
we have at present, with the one ex- 
ception of that wonderful Miserere^ 
which one hears in perfection only 
in Rome. I would like to have a 
chant or recitative style for sublime 
und beautiful thoughts, so that the 
words should be more prominent 
than the tune, yet be delivered as one 
might fancy they would be deliver- 
ed in heaven. That is the kind of 
music I wish to have grow up here. 
It would suit us better than the other. 
It is more rapid and impetuous.** 

Mr. Schoninger half uttered a 
doubtful « yes !" 

" But art needs a warm atmosphere 
and an ardent people," he added ; 
•' and the kind of music you describe, 
which is in form like improvisation, 



is a failure if without enthusiasm in 
the singer and the listener. Ornate 
music may be sung by an almost 
soulless performer so as to produce 
an impression of meaning something, 
because the notes tell all ; but de- 
clamatory music is a dead body, into^ 
which a singer must breathe a soul." 

" So much the better," she replied. 
" Give the notes that tell all to the 
instrument. But when the text has 
great meaning, let a human voice 
interpret it, without help of florid 
ornamentation. But you, an artist, 
are content to breathe this cold at- 
mosphere 1" 

" I am at once contented and dis- 
contented." His voice softened. 
** For I behold at last what I want, 
yet do not possess it." 

He stopped, as if for some sign or 
question; but Honora did not utter 
a word. His voice, far more than 
what he said, startled and silenced 
her. 

He turned gently toward her. 
" Would it be possible, Miss Pem- 
broke, that I should find favor in 
your eyes ?" 

" You are, then, a Catholic ?" she 
said quietly. 

It was not necessary for her to say 
any more; yet he would not yield 
without a struggle, vain as it was. 

" You exaggerate the difference 
between us," he said earnestly, com- 
ing nearer. " It is one of form 
rather than meaning. If I choose 
to walk by the pure, white light, and 
you prefer the prismatic colors, still 
both are but different conditions of 
the same light, and what I adore is 
the source of all that you adore. 
Your Christ quoted as the greatest 
of all the Commandments the very 
one which is greatest to me. You 
would have perfect freedom with me, 
Honora, and a greater love than 
words can tell." 

•* Mr. Schoninger," she exclaimed, 



3o8 



Grapes atid Thorns. 



" can you for one instant believe 
that I would be the wife of a man 
who scorns as an impostor him 
whom I adore as a God ?" 

** I could not scorn where you 
adore," he replied. ** The mistake is 
not yours, and the imposture is not 
his. I find him good, and noble, 
and sweet, and Idvely almost beyond 
human loveliness. Do you forget 
that he also was a Jew ? All that 
you see in the Son, and the saint, 
and the apostle I see in God. These 
beings you honor are but scattered 
rays of the great Luminary. We 
are not so different as we appear." 

" You believe in the God who 
created, and loved, and preserved," 
she said ; *' but you do not believe in 
the God who loved even unto death. 
My God has suffered for me. The 
diflference is infinite. It cannot be 
set aside. The memories that pierce 
my heart leave you unmoved. The 
Shepherd who went in search of his 
lost sheep you know nothing of. 
The despised and rejected One 
weeping over Jerusalem you care no- 
thing for. That humility, so astound- 
ing and so touching, of a God mak- 
ing himself small enough for me to 
possess, what is it to you ? Nothing 
but a stumbling-block. Is your God 
a Father in heaven ?" 

Mr. SchOninger was standing now, 
and his earnestness was fully equal 
to Honora*s. " My God is a father, 
and more than a father," he said; 
** and he is pitiful to his children, 
even while he afflicts them. I see in 
him the beneficent Provider, who 
every day for his children works 
miracles greater far than those re- 
corded in the New Testament. He 
renews the seasons, the light Every 
day is a creation. He gives us the 
fruits of the earth. He lavishes 
beauty everywhere to please us. He 
sees men unmindful of the laws which 
he wrote on the tables of their hearts. 



and yet he pities and spares them. 
Oh ! I am talking to the wind!" 

'' It is indeed useless for us to talk 
on this subject, Mr. Schoninger," 
Honora said firmly. 

He stood a moment leaning against 
the side of the window where she sat, 
and looking down at her face, that 
showed pale even in that dim light. 
" You reject me only because I am a 
Jew ?" he asked. " Pardon me !" for 
she had made a slight movement of 
displeasure. '* Do not forget that I 
love you. Is that no claim on your 
kindness ?" 

'* I do not feel any unkindness for 
you ; but since you are not a Chris- 
tian, I cannot tell how I would feel 
if you were one." 

The reply sounded cold. 

Mr. Schoninger bowed, with an 
immediate resumption of ceremony. 
" I have, then, only to ask your par- 
don for having intruded a disagreea- 
ble subject on you," he said. " Good- 
evening!" 

She watched him going out, and 
saw that at the gate he was joined 
by F. Chevreuse, who was just re- 
turning home from a sick-call. 

** Oh ! what will F. Chevreuse say 
to me ?" she murmured. " What 
would dear Mother Chevreuse have 
said to me ? It is all my fault ! I 
had too much confidence in my own 
wisdom! They were right: there 
should be no intimacy with unbeliev- 



ers. 



it 



"And so you hate creeds?" F. 
Chevreuse was saying, in reply to 
an exclamation of Mr. Schoningefs. 
" And what of your own, pray ?" 

The Jew drew away, with a slight- 
ly impatient gesture, when the priest 
made a motion to take his arm. He 
had no desire to advance a step 
toward that barrier against which he 
had just bruised himself. The warn- 
ing, " Thus far shalt thou go, and no 
farther," was too fresh in his memory. 



Grapes and Thorns, 



309 



** My creed," he answered, " is not 
one of those inexorable ones that life 
dashes men against, as the sea dashes 
them on the rocks. It does not 
preach chanty and practise hate. 
It does not set up barriers between 
man and man, and treat nine-tenths 
of the world as heathen. It does 
not profess the most sublime reliance 
on God, and then practise the most 
subtile worldly wisdom. It is not 
even the old Jewish belief in its for- 
mality. That was as the roots of a 
plant of which true Judaism is the 
blossom. We cling to the old name, 
and some cling to the old belief, 
merely because it has been hated 
and persecuted. If my forefathers 
refected and crucified him whom you 
call the Christ, your church has ex- 
cluded and crucified my people till 
they have bled at every pore. They 
have been mocked, and beaten, and 
spit upon ; and yet you say that the 
dying prayer of your Model was, 
* Father^ forgive them, for they know 
noi what they do^ However it may 
be with individuals in your church — 
and I have found them noble and 
charitable — as a sect, 

** Their life Uugbs throug^h, and spits at their 
creed/' 

If they had practised the charity 
they professed, there would not now 
be an old-creed Jew in the world." 

F. Chcvreuse saw how vain it 
would be to combat the man in his 
present mood, and he strongly suspect- 
ed what trouble lay at the bottom 
of it. Had he been less truly charita- 
ble, he might have persuaded him- 
self that it was his duty to make a 
counter attack or a convincing argu- 
ment — a mistake sometimes made by 
people who like to think that they 
arc zealously indignant because God's 
truth is assailed, when, in reality, there 
may be a good deal of personal feel- 
ing because some one has spoken 
lightly of their belief, F. Chevreuse 



made neither this mistake nor that 
other of throwing away argument on 
an excited man. The end he sought 
was the glory of God in the conver- 
sion of souls; and if, to accomplish 
that, it had been necessary for him to 
stand, like his divine Master, '' open- 
ing not his lips," while truth was 
reviled, he would have done it 

" I am a better Jew than you are, 
then," he said gently, and put his 
arm in Mr. Schoninger's, who, in 
the surprise at this unexpected tone, 
did not shrink from him. ^* I am 
proud of that ancient people of God. 
In the morning of humanity, it was 
the pillar of cloud which was to give 
place to the pillar of fire at the gloam- 
ing of the race. To me, all the 
glorious points in their history are 
literally true. Moses wears his two 
beams of light ; the bush burns with- 
out being consumed ; at the stroke 
of a rod, water gushes from the rock, 
or is piled up in a wall — it is literally 
true, not a figure. But the sacrifice 
was above all. Those poor exiles 
from Eden were deprived of present 
happiness; but they were full of 
knowledge, and comforted by hope. 
They were but just from the hand 
of the Creator, and were more per- 
fect in mind and body than any 
since. They had spoken face to 
face with God, He condemned 
them for their sin, but promised them 
a Redeemer, and gave them the 
sacrifice as a sign. I have always 
thought that there was something 
very touching in the sacrifice which 
Cain and Abel offered up. They 
were commemorating the sin of their 
own parents. Then, see how wonder- 
fully that idea of an offended God 
demanding a propitiatory sacrifice 
clung to the human mind! The 
universality of the belief would prove 
its truth, if there were no other proof. 
How it must have been branded on 
the souls of Adam and Eve to last 



310 



Grapes and Thorns. 



so! The race grew, and broke into 
fragments that scattered far and wide. 
For centuries they never met, and 
they lost all memory of each other. 
Their habits and their languages 
changed; the faces of some grew 
dark ; there was scarcely a sign of 
brotherhood between them. If they 
met, they were as strange to each 
other as the inhabitants of different 
planets. Some adored one God, 
some believed in many. In spirit- 
ual matters, there was only one point 
which they held in common. You 
have, perhaps, seen the little Agnus 
Dei that Catholics wear — a bit of 
wax with a lamb stamped on it. Well, 
sir, every soul that God sent into the 
world had the sacrificial idea stamp- 
ed on it, like that lamb on the wax. 
The devil blurred this image, of 
course, till men fell into all sorts of 
errors, and even sacrificed each 
other ; but he could never efface it 
1'he hand of God graves deeply, and 
the inscription wears out the hand 
that rubs it. 

" But the Jews, my sublime spirit- 
ual ancestors, kept the truth. They 
adored the one God, Jehovah ; and 
by their sacrifice they were perpet- 
ually reminding him of the Redeem- 
er he had promised them. It is true, 
they became corrupted, and rejected 
him when he came; but I do not 
forget that he was a Jew, that his 
first followers were Jews, and that 
his Immaculate Mother was a Jewess. 
I tell you, I glory in the history of 
that people. It is you who throw 
contempt on them, not I. Catholic- 
ism proves and honors Judaism. If 
all were false, we might then be de- 
luded; but the Jews would be the 
deluders. We only complain of 
them because they call themselves 
liars. Judaism, past and present, 
would fall with Catholicism, and 
fall underneath. All the truth held 
by the reformed Jews is a weak re- 



flection of the light cast by the Cath- 
olic Church back on old Judaism. 
To deny the authority of the church 
is as though the moon should pro- 
claim herself the source of day, and 
try to extinguish the sun. If it were 
possible for the attempt to succeed, 
the result would be an utter spirit- 
ual darkness, followed by barbarism. 
Christ is the light of the world ; and 
all the light there was in the world 
before his coming was like the morn- 
ing light before the sun touches the 
horizon. The patriarchs and the 
prophets were the planets and the 
moon of the spiritual system; they 
saw him afar off, and told of him. 
Strange inconsistency 1 Men usually 
laugh at prophecies till they are 
fulfilled, then pay them a retrospec- 
tive homage; but in this, they bow 
to the prophecy till the instant of 
its fulfilment, then reject and scorn 
both together. If you believed in 
Christ, all your altars would blaze 
up again, making a spiral circle of 
fixt. from the creajtion to the redemp- 
tion. He rounds the circle. */ tf« 
the beginning and the end^ he says." 

Whether he perceived or acknow- 
ledged any truth in what he heard, 
or not, it certainly had the effect of 
making Mr. Schoninger ashamed of 
his ill-temper. 

" I have to apologize, sir," he said, 
" for having made a personal attack 
instead of using argument, and for 
having acted like a whipped school- 
boy. My only excuse is that I was 
smarting under punishment. I am 
usually just enough to judge a prin- 
ciple by itself, not by its upholders." 

They had now reached the step of 
the priest's house, and paused there, 
Mr. Schoninger declining mutely a 
mute invitation to enter. 

** That is a point — that relating to 
persons — which we will discuss some 
other time, when we both feel more 
like it," F. Chevreuse said. "But, 



Grapes and Thorns. 



3" 



my friend," he added, with impassion- 
t!d earnestness, 'Met the faults of 
.individuals, and communities, and 
nations go. They are irrelevant. 
Let God be true, though all men 
may be false. Ecce Agnus Iki ! If a 
haughty conqueror should demand 
your submission, I could understand 
why you would feel like rebelling. 
But here there is nothing but love to 
resist. Here there is only infinite 
sweetness and humility. Did he 
ever per^cute you ? Did he ever 
revile you ? He wept over you. 
• O Jerusalem, Jerusalem I' " 

Standing on his own threshold, the 
priest suddenly put his arm around 
the Jew's shoulder. " Love him, 
then hate whom you can. Love 
him, and do what you will,'' he said. 
** I don't ask you to listen to the 
church, to listen to me, to listen to 
any one, but only to behold the Lamb 
of God. Look at him, study him, 
listen to him. O my God ! that I had 
the tongue of an angel ! I love you ! 
I am longing for your conversion, but 
I cannot say a word. Good-night ! 
May God bless you and speak to 
you 1" 

The Jew was alone, overpowered 
by the sudden and tender passion of 
that appeal, feeling still the pressure 
of that more than brotherly embrace. 
If his mind had recognized any truth, 
he did not at the moment perceive 
or think of it, so moved was his 
heart at the vision of love that had 
been opened to him. If divine love 
was added to the human, he did not 
inquire; he only knew that the 
priest was sincere, and was at that 
moment on his knees praying for 
him. He would have liked to go in 
and beg his blessing, not, perhaps, as 
that of a priest, but as that of an 
incomparably good and loving man. 

He checked the impulse, though 
it led him so far as to extend his 
hand to open the door. 



Ah I if we did but yield to gener- 
ous and affectionate impulses as we 
yield to bad ones, how much happier 
the world would be I How often 
they are checked by distrust of 
others or of ourselves, or by the petty 
fear of being unconventional, when, 
if followed, they might warm a little 
this cold human atmosphere, in which 
we stand so frozen that one might 
almost expect our fingers to rattle 
like icicles when we shake hands. 

But though Mr. Schoninger did 
not go in, neither did he turn care- 
lessly away. We wonder if any of 
our readers will understand how 
much affection was expressed in 
what he did. It was a trifling act, 
apparendy. He laid his right hand, 
palm forward, against the door, and 
let it press the panel a moment 
From some it might not mean much, 
but this man never gave his hand 
lightly, nor used it lightly; and it 
was one of those hands which seem 
to contain in themselves the whole 
person. It was a hand with a heart 
in it ; and while it rested there, his 
face wore an expression more tender 
than a' smile, as if he gave both a 
benediction and a caress to all within 
those walls for the sake of one who 
dwelt there. Then he turned away, 
and walked slowly down the street. 

Mr. Schoninger was essentially and 
sufficiently manly. If the long pur- 
suit of money had been dry and 
distasteful to him, he had made no 
complaint of the necessity, even to 
himself. That which must be done 
he attempted and carried ouf as best 
he might, feeling, it may be, a certain 
pleasure in exercising his will ; per- 
ceiving, also, a goal ahead where 
such sordid strife would end. It 
may be that even in the fascinating 
and delightful exercise of his art, there 
had still been a sense of something 
lacking; for the artist is, above all 
things, human, and this man was 



312 



Grapes and Thorns. 



alone; but he made no sentimental 
moan. The want, if it had a voice, 
was never listened to. It was only 
now, in the moment of a sharp and 
bitter pain that had cleft his heart, 
and a soothing sweetness that had 
'fallen on the wound like an unguent, 
that he realized how utterly without 
sympathy his life had been, and how 
all that had made it tolerable had 
been a looking forward to something 
better. He was hke one who, wan- 
dering long in a frozen desert, sees 
unexpectedly the warm, red hearth- 
light shining toward his feet. It was 
not his home-light, but another's; 
yet it touched him so that his heart 
woke up with a cry, and demanded 
something in the present, and could 
no longer be satisfied with a vague 
expectation. 

He was angry with himself that he 
had not refrained from speaking to 
Miss Pembroke, or that, having spok- 
en, he had not been more persistent. 
He would not believe that he could 
give so much and receive no return ; 
and it seemed to him certain that by 
waiting he could at least have suc- 
ceeded so far as to render it impossi- 
ble for her to refuse him without a 
regret too great for concealment. 
That was all he now thought attain- 
able, and, in comparison to what he 
had, it appeared to him happiness. 
That is a cruelty without which no 
love can exist ; it demands the power 
to make its object unhappy in part- 
ing, if it is denied the privilege of 
making it happy in union. 

" I was a fool !" he muttered, toss- 
ing the hair back from his burning 
face and head. " I took my refusal 
as promptly as though I had asked 
for a flower. A woman who is 
ready with her confession of love at 
the first word of asking must have 
expected and prepared herself for the 
proposal. Even a profound affec- 
tion may be a little hidden from her 



till after it is asked for, though visi- 
ble to others. Besides, she some* 
times draws back from timidity, or to 
see if a roan is reallv in earnest 
That proposal which he foresees and 
intends takes her by surprise, and, 
even when willing to advance, her 
instinct is to retreat at first How 
inconsistent we are to expect and 
require that shrinking modesty in a 
woman, and then complain of her 
for it !" 

He wandered on through street 
after street, glancing at the lighted 
windows of many a city home. In 
some houses, the curtains had been 
pleasantly left up, and he could see 
the charming tableau of a family 
gathered about the evening lamp. 
They read or sewed, raising their 
faces now and then to smile at each 
other ; they conversed, or they rest- 
ed, leaning back in their chairs. 

Coming to a secluded little cot- 
tage in a quiet street, he leaned on 
the garden fence, and looked into the 
sitting-room. He was acquainted 
with the people there ; they met him 
pleasantly in public, but it had never 
occurred to them, apparently, to 
invite him to their home. All his 
friends, indeed, were of that public 
kind. 

The room was lighted by a shad- 
ed lamp that made a bright circle on 
the table under it A man sat at 
one side sketching what a nearer 
view would have shown to be a 
Holy Family. Now and then he 
lifted his head and gazed at the 
group opposite him, the models of 
his Mother and Child; and the ex- 
pression of his fine, spiritual face 
showed how his soul strove to fan 
that visible spark of human affection 
into a flaming vision of divine love. 

The woman sat weaving bright 
wools into some fleecy shape, her 
slight fingers flying as the work pro- 
gressed under them. Her eyes were 



Grapes and Thorns. 



313 



downcast, and a faint smile shone 
on her happy face. One foot kept 
in gentle motion a cradle, wherein a 
babe slept, its rosy little hands curl- 
ed up under its chin, like closed 
flowers. Now and then the mother 
bent above the sleeper, seemed to 
hover over it, like a bird over its 
nest, when the drapery her artist- 
husband had arranged on her hair 
would drop forward and hide her 
profile from him. Once, when he 
wanted an outline, he stretched his 
arm, drew her face round by the 
chin, and seemed playfully to chide 
her excessive baby- worship. But it 
seemed that the soft, blue fold had 
hidden something more than a mere 
loving gaze ; for a tear slipped from 
the brown lashes as they appeared. 
She clasped the chiding hand in 
hers, and uttered a few words . 

How well the looker-on outside 
could guess what sad thought had 
called up that tear ! She had feared 
that her happiness was too great to 
last. 

llie husband's answer was, evi- 
dendy, cheerful and reassuring; and 
soon the work and the drawing went 
on, and the smiles were restored. 

Recollecting himself, Mr. Scho- 
ninger continued his walk. What had 
he to do with such scenes ? He 
was as shut out from all intimate 
friendships as though he had been 
invisible to those about him. If he 
should be ill, the doctor and the hir- 
ed nurse would take care of htm ; 
if he should die, strangers would 
bury him, without pity and without 
gritrf; and his possessions in Crich- 
ton, such little belongings as friends 
cherish when those they love are 
gone, would be tossed about and 
prized only at their money value. 

Never had he felt more despondent. 
The momentary pleasure derived 
from the friendship of F. Chevreuse 
(aded away like sunlight from rocks, 



leaving only hard and sombre facts 
behind. There never could be a 
real friendship between him and the 
priest. An insurmountable obstacle 
separated them. 

This solitary walk brought to his 
mind one night, months past, when 
he had walked the streets of Crichton, 
as solitary and wretched as now, firom 
evening till daybreak. "I will not 
think it !" he muttered, and cast 
the recollection aside. " O my 
God! who shall pray for me, who 
cannot pray for myself ?" 

A sound of singing caught his ear. 
He was passing a Protestant church, 
where they were holding an evening 
meeting, and they were singing a 
plain chant, with only a thread of 
accompaniment. It sounded tuneful 
and earnest, and he stepped into the 
vestibule to listen. 

They sang : 

** Hear, Father, hear our prayer ! 
Wandering unknown In Uie land of the stranger, 
Be with all trav'lersvin sickness or danger, 
Guard thou their path, guide their feet from the 
snare. 

Hear, Father, hear our prayer !'* 

Some one was praying for him 
without being aware of it! Theie 
was in the world a charity which 
stretched out beyond the familiar, and 
touched the unknown, sufferer. 

As he was leaving the vestiblile, 
he noticed two men, one standing at 
either side, on the steps without the 
door. Rather annoyed at being found 
in such a place, he passed them 
hastily, and went on. When he 
thought himself free from them, his 
memory went back to that prayful 
strain : 



\\ 



Guard thou their steps, guide their feet from the 



snare. 



n 



Yes, they were praying for him, these 
strangers, who had seemed so alien. 

Presently he became aware that 
he was not free from the persons 
who had been observing him at the 
church door. The steps of two men 



314 



Grapes and Thorns. 



were following him. He quickened his 
pace, and they also quickened theirs. 
He went into a side street, and per- 
ceived that they were still on his 
track. There was no escape. His 
feet had not been guided from the 
snare. A chilly sensation passed 
over him, which might be either an- 
ger or fear. He paused one instant, 
then turned and faced his pur- 
suers. 

The next morning, after Mass, 
Honora Pembroke went in to see F. 
Chevreuse, waiting in the church till 
she thought he had taken his break- 
fast. 

" I did not see you at communion 
this morning," he said, after greeting 
her pleasantly. " Why was that, 
young woman ?" 

They were in the sitting-room that 
had belonged to Mother Chevreuse. 
Her son now occupied these rooms, 
and all the little tokens of a woman's 
presence had disappeared. No work- 
basket, with shining needles and 
thimble, glittered in the sunlight ; no 
shawl nor scarf lay over any chair- 
back ; no flower nor leaf adorned the 
place. All the grace had gone. 

Honora perceived, by the momen- 
tary clouding of the priest's face, that 
he understood the glance she had 
cast about the room and the involun- 
tary sigh that had followed it, and 
she hastily recalled her thoughts. 

" I am an unfortunate sister of 
Proserpine," she said. " Some one 
sent me a pomegranate yesterday as 
a rarity; and this morning, while I 
was dressing, and thinking of my 
communion too, I ate two or three 
of the seeds." 

" You are a careless girl !" F. Chev- 
reuse exclaimed, with that pretence 
of playful scolding which shows so 
much real kindness. " But, fortunate- 
ly, your banishment is not so longfiis 
that of your Greek sister was." 



" I was not thinking without dis- 
traction," Honora continued. " There 
was something else on my mind, 
or I should have remembered my 
fast. On the whole, I am rather 
glad that I could not go to commu- 
nion this morning, for I was not so 
quiet as I ought to be. I have come 
to tell you about it." A faint blush 
flitted over her face. She looked up 
for the encouraging nod and •* Yes!" 
which were not wanting, and then 
told half her story in a sentence: 
" Mr. Schoninger told me last night 
that he thinks a great deal of me." 

F. Chevreuse nodded again, and did 
not look quite so much astonished as 
she had expected him to be. 

The other and most troublesome 
part of the story followed immediate- 
ly, breathed out with a kind of ter- 
ror: ''And after I had refused him, 
and he had left the room, and walk- 
ed away with you, I felt pained, not 
for him, but for myself. I almost 
wanted to call him back ; though, if 
he had come, I should have been 
sorry. I do not understand it." 

She looked like one who expects a 
severe sentence, and scarcely drew 
breath till the answer came. 

The priest spoke quite carelessly : 
" Oh ! it is natural that we should 
feel a kind of regret in refusing an 
oflering meant to be good, though it 
may not be good to us. You need not 
accuse yourself of that. Of course, 
you are not going to marry a Jew, 
nor to wish to marry one. That is 
out of the question. And there is no 
need of searching too scrupulously 
into those vague and complicated 
emotions which are for ever troubling 
the human heart. It will only con- 
fuse the mind and sully the con- 
science. They are like mists that 
float over the sky. Keep your eyes 
steadily fixed on the Day-star, and 
do not fear an occasional waft oi 
scud. As long as the star shines, all 



Grapes and T/tarns. 



315 



is welL When you no longer see it, 
then is the time to fear." 

Honora looked relieved, but not al- 
together satisfied. *' But must there 
not have been some fault in me, when 
1 could feel even the slightest regret 
in rejecting one who has rejected 
(iod ?" she asked. 

** I have but to repeat what I have 
said," was the answer. ** You need 
not disturb yourself about the mat- 
ter. Dismiss it from your mind, ex- 
cept so far as it is necessary for you 
to think in order to conduct yourself 
properly toward him in future. I 
take for granted that your intercourse 
must be a little more reserved than 
it has been." 

"Oh! yes," she exclaimed. "I 
would rather not see him any more. 
And there was my fault, father. I 
have been very presumptuous. Both 
Mrs. Gerald and dear Mother Chev- 
reuse were dissatisfied to have me 
associate with him. I could see that, 
though they said nothing. But I 
fancied that I was more liberal than 
they, and that I could decide per- 
fectly well for myself. I had almost 
a mind to be displeased with them 
for wishing to keep him at a distance, 
as if they were uncharitable. Now 
I am punished, and I know that I 
deserve it." 

" Oh ! well," the priest said gen- 
tly, his face growing thoughtful and 
sad at the allusion to his mother. 
" We all make mistakes ; and to per- 
sons who wish to be generous, 
but have not much experience, pru- 
dence seems a very cold virtue, 
sometimes almost a vice. But be- 
lieve me, my child, it is possible for 
really kind and generous feelings to 
lead to results far worse than even an 
excess of prudence might liave caus- 
ed. Don't distress yourself! Only 
have a care of going too far in either 
wav." 

Their talk was here interrupted by 



a ring of the door-bell so unusually 
loud as to betoken an excited visitor. 

" A sick-call," said F. Chevreuse, 

They heard Jane open the door; 
then a light step ran through the 
entry, and, without any ceremony of 
knocking. Miss Lily Carthusen burst 
into the room. 

" O F. Chevreuse !" she cried, 
" Mr. Schoninger is in jail." 

The priest looked at her without 
comprehending, and also without 
speaking. When sudden and terri- 
ble news have come upon us once, 
casting us to the earth, as though by 
a thunder-stroke, any startling ad- 
dress awakens in us ever after some- 
thing of the same terror and distress. 

Jane had followed Miss Carthusen 
to the sitting-room door, and, the 
moment she heard her announce- 
ment, broke out into exclamations : 
" I knew it ! I have known it all the 
time ! O poor Mother Chevreuse !" 

F. Chevreuse stood up, as if to 
take freer breath, and his face grew 
crimson. 

" In what way does this arrest 
concern me particularly, Miss Car- 
thusen ?" he asked, striving to speak 
calmly, 

" F. Chevreuse, cannot you 
guess ?" she returned. " Many others 
have suspected, if you have not. I 
believed it almost from the first." 

" I do not believe it !" he exclaim- 
ed, and began to pace the room. ** I 
will not believe it ! It is impossi- 
ble !" And then, whether believing 
or not in this accusation, he felt 
anew the whole force of that terrible 
blow. " O mother, mother I" he cried, 
and burst into tears. 

" I suspected him on account of 
the shawl," Miss Carthusen went on. 
" His has not been seen in the house 
since that day ; and ..." 

F. Chevreuse was leaning up 
against the wall, with his face hidden 
in his arm ; but he recovered his 



3i6 



Grapes and Thorns, 



self-possession immediately, and put 
a stop to these revelations. " Say no 
more !" There >vas a certain severi- 
ty both in his voice and gesture. " I 
do not wish to hear anv surmises nor 
particulars. I should suppose that 
some person in authority ought to 
bring me this information. But I 
thank you for taking the trouble; and 
perhaps you will be so kind as to 
stop at Mr. Macon's door on your 
way home, and ask him to come to 
me. He cannot have gone out yet. 
I would like to see him at once." 

The young lady had no choice. 
She was obliged to go. 

Mr. Macon was, in fact, already 
on his way to the house ; and soon 
the story received authoritative con- 
firmation. 

" He did not seem to be at all sur- 
prised, sir," said the officer who had 
made the arrest. "He is a very 
cool sort of man on the outside; 
though I would not have liked to go 
after him alone." 

" Did he say anything ?" demand- 
ed the priest. 

" Not a word !" 

" Did not he ask to see me ?" 

"No, sir!" 

The face of F. Chevreuse darken- 
ed with perplexity and disappoint- 
ment. After what had occurred 
between them the night before, if the 
man had trusted him then, and if he 
were innocent, surely he would have 
sent for him at once. 

" When I have said that I love 
him," he thought, " how could he 
suffer me to rest a moment in ignor- 
ance of what had happened, or to 
wait for his assurance ? Or does his 
very silence prove his trust in me 
and confidence in his own acquittal ? 
Well, even if it does, I prefer a confi- 
dence that speaks." 

He looked the officer steadily in 
the face. "Sir," he said with em- 
phasis, " I wish every one to under- 



stand that I believe this accusation 
to be a mistake, and th^t I regret 
it exceedingly. I shall go to see 
Mr. Schoninger, if I am permitted, 
and say the same to hiiu. And 
now, gentlemen, if there is nothing 
more necessary to be said, will you 
spare me the saying anything un- 
necessary on the subject ?" 

Jane had been trying to talk to 
Miss Pembroke, who put her back 
gently, without answering a word; 
and as soon as their visitors had 
withdrawn, she approached F. Chev- 
reuse, and attempted to finish the 
story which Miss Carthusen had be- 
gun. But he stopped her even more 
peremptorily than he had done the 
other. 

" That young lady is not a Catho- 
lic," he said, "but you are. Do 
not forget charity. You have no 
right to hold any person guilty till 
his guilt is proved, and even then 
you should not rejoice over his 
condemnation. I forbid your say- 
ing any more on this subject to me 
or any other person, except when 
you are questioned in court. I am 
displeased at the spirit you have 
shown." 

Jane withdrew, convicted, and, 
perhaps, a little indignant. 

Then F. Chevreuse looked at 
Honora Pembroke. She had sat 
perfectly pale and silent through it 
all. " Can you go home without 
assistance, child ?" he asked. 

She understood his wish to be 
alone, and rose with an effort. " I 
am not faint ; I am horrified," she 
said. " It is a monstrous injustice. 
I wish you would come to us by- 
and-by." She looked at him im- 
ploringly. 

" I will go to Mrs. Gerald's direct- 
ly after having seen him," he promis- 
ed. 

When he was alone, F. Chevreuse 
locked the door, and began to pace 



Sleep. 



317 



the room, tears running down his 
cheeks. •* O my sweet mother !" 
he said, " so it's all to be dragged up 
again, and your dear name associated 
with all that is cruel and wicked in 
crime !" 

He opened a closet, and took 
down a little faded plaid shawl that 
his mother had used for years to 
throw over her shoulders in the 
house when the air was chilly. It 



hung on the nail where she had left 
it; and while he held it at arm's 
length, and looked at it, her form 
seemed to rise up before him. He 
saw the wide, motherly shoulders, the 
roll of thick, gray hair, the face faint- 
ly smiling and radiantly loving. 
And then he could see nothing; for 
the tears gushed forth so passionate- 
ly as to wash away both vision and 
reality. 



TO BR CONTINUBD. 



SLEEP. 



rSOM THB ITALIAN. 



O sleep! O missing first-born of the night! 

Child of the silent-footed shadow, thou 

Who comfortest the sick, and makest light 

Of ills, bringing forgetfulness of woe ; 

Succor the broken spirit that faints for sight 

Of thee ; these limbs, that travail hath brought low^ 

Refresh. Come, sleep, and on my temples light, 

And make thy dark wings meet above my brow. 

Where is sweet silence which the day forsakes ? 

And the shy dreams that follow in thy train, 

The silly flock that scatters at a touch ? 

Alas ! in vain I summon thee : in vain 

Flatter the chilly dark. O thorny couch ! 

O heavy watches till the slow dawn breaks I 



3i8 



Spiritualism, 



SPIRITUALISM. 



CHAPTER II. 



Before considering the merits of 
the third hypothesis for accounting 
for the phenomena of spiritualism, I 
propose to draw out at some length 
the church theory of magic and for- 
mal diabolic interference. 

Magic, in the sense of a systema- 
tized use of and intercourse with the 
spiritual world by other means than 
authorized prayer and ritual, has 
been an idea familiar to all races and 
to all times. Its hostile or conscious- 
ly diabolical character has depended 
upon the vividness with which it has 
appreciated the nature of God and 
his sanction of the religion which it 
is confronting, and upon its conse- 
quent inability to regard itself as an 
appendix to, rather than a contradic- 
tion of, religion. Hence, it has been 
peculiarly virulent when it has had 
to manoeuvre in the face of the pre- 
cise enunciations of Catholicism, as 
was the case in mediaeval Christen- 
dom ; whilst, on the other hand, in a 
system of tolerant eclecticism like 
that of pagan Rome or modern Amer- 
ica, it has naturally adopted a mild- 
er form. 

The accounts given of the origin 
of magic in pagan and rabbinical tra- 
dition are almost identical, and read 
much like a rude allegory of Chris- 
tian theology. In the first, the fair 
and proud Lamia, beloved of Zeus, in 
revenge for being herself ousted and 
her children slain by Hera, takes gen- 
eral vengeance upon the subjects of 
2^us. In the second, Lilith, Adam's 
first wife, is ever seeking to destroy 
the children of her successful rival. 
Eve. According to the more com- 



mon Catholic teaching, sundry of the 
angels, God's first creation, destined 
to be the first partners of his bliss, 
fell for resisting God's designs in be- 
half of his second creation, man, 
whose nature he was to espouse in the 
Incarnation ; whence the devil's ha- 
tred of the children of men. 

The fathers* considered that the 
rebel angels first taught men magic 
in the evil days before the Flood, and 
that the seeds of the black art were 
carried on into the new world by 
Cham. His grandson, Mesraim, or 
Zoroaster, was said to have used it 
extensively to give life and reality to 
the false worship which was his le- 
gacy to his children, the Egyptians, 
Babylonians, and Persians. 

The worship of the hosts of hea- 
ven — the sun, moon, and stars — would 
seem to have ^ been the earliest form 
of false worship, and all mythologi- 
cal research tends to show that this 
is, in fact, the core even of those cults 
which at first sight would seem most 
unlike it. The Persians were fire- 
worshippers, but fire was stolen from 
heaven ; and one of the miracles re- 
corded of Zoroaster was his drawing 
magic sparks from the stars. The 
name given him by his disciples was 
«* the Living Star." The host of dei- 
ties with which the Greek and Roman 
world was peopled, many of whom 
would at first sight suggest a purely 
terrestrial origin, for the most part 
group themselves round central fig- 
ures, which, on examination, prove to 
be earthly reflections of astral influ- 

• Cotelerius in lib. ir. Rtcogn. S. CUmtntii^ 
p. 45*. 



spiritualism. 



319 



ences — ol the sun or moon gods and 
their supposed satellites. 

According to the fathers, magic 
was the very life and soul of Idola- 
try, and pagan worship was regard- 
ed as a union of conventional decep- 
tion and diabolic energy, the one or 
other element predominating accord- 
ing to circumstances. Thus diablerie 
lay beneath such orderly institutions 
as, for instance, the national cultus 
of ancient Rome, like the volcafiic 
fires of Vesuvius under the rich vine- 
yards which they have in part created 
and for a while sustain. 

But whilst it is to a great extent 
true that paganism was substantially 
little better than an organized dia- 
bUriey and the devil, as the strong 
man in the Gospel, was keeping his 
house in comparative peace, still the 
very elements of man's nature, de- 
spite his fall, did in various ways 
protest against the enemy and im- 
pede his action. The idea of a su- 
preme God could not be wholly 
withdrawn from the minds and hearts 
of men, and many true prayers, de- 
spite the demon's elaborate machin- 
ery to intercept them, pierced the 
heavens. Nay, the very forms them- 
selves of idolatry would often sug- 
gest thoughts and acts of worship 
which no evil influence could con- 
trol; for the world had been given to 
men, and not to the demon. Even 
the senses, for all they were so many 
inlets of temptation, did, by bringing 
men under the wholesome influence 
of external nature, and by their equa- 
ble excitation of his mental powers, 
tend, in fact, to break the fascinating 
grasp which the fiend would hold 
upon his imagination. The material 
world at once spoke to him of God, 
and housed him from the pitiless 
storm of spiritual influence with 
which he was assailed. Common 
sense was not without its power of 
natural exorcism, and true aflection 



often grew and flowered where the 
devil only thought to have nurtured 
lust. 

In the cults which express the 
religious sentiments of the more 
civilized nations, we meet with much 
that is humane and noble, whilst, at 
the same time, we are often shocked 
by manifestations of a very diffierent 
character — rites in which the fire of 
the pit seems to have found a direct 
vent. 

On the whole, in pre-Christian, as 
compared with Christian, times, the 
devil reigned. When the apostle 
would woderate in her practice, and often 
singularly lenient. It was such speci- 
mens of provincial ecclesiasticism as 
the Spanish inquisition, in which the 
secular interest had the lion's share, 
that went furthest in active persecu- 
tion ; and these, again, in their cruel 
persecution of witches, as the learn- 
ed fditor of HudibraSy Dr. Zachary 
Grey, confesses, the sectaries of Eng- 
land and Scotland " much exceed- 
ed."* Perhaps this was owing to 
their still further separation from the 
centre of Christendom. 

• Note to ctoto iil. 



324 



Spiritualism. 



The arguments against execution 
for witchcraft of Spee and De Cusa 
come pretty much to this : ist. The 
imaginations of these unhappy peo- 
ple are in such a condition that you 
cannot make out how much is real- 
ity, how much delusion, nor, again, 
how far they are free agents. 2d. 
The whole subject is one on which 
people's imaginations are so excit- 
able, and imagination has so large 
a share in the productions of witch- 
craft, that fire -and -sword persecu- 
tion breeds more mischief than it 
destroys. 

If ever a belief in the substantial 
reality of spiritualism becomes estab- 
lished as of old, and — as will inevit- 
ably happen — spiritualism is used, not 
merely for amusement, but for mis- 
chief, the champions of civilization 
may be glad to avail themselves of 
these almost forgotten Catholic argu- 
ments against persecution. 

This so-called chapter of Ancyra 
is so interesting an exhibition of the 
blending of classical and mediaeval 
diablerie that I shall make no apolo- 
gy for interposing a detailed exami- 
nation of its mythology. It will 
subserve my argument against Ja- 
nus, by bringing out the idolatrous, 
and so far unreal, element of magic 
as that which naturally presented it- 
self to the early church as the object 
of its denunciations. 

Diana (Dia Jana) was one of the 
deities of ancient Latium ; although 
a Latin federal temple was erected 
to her by Servius TuUius on the 
Aventine Hill, she never took any 
very high rank amongst the divinities 
of Rome, but remained the special 
patron of slaves and rustics — that is 
to say, the immediate cultivators of 
the soil.* Livy and Strabo tell us 
that this goddess was identical with 
the Ephesian Artemis — an acquaint- 

• See DttUinger'a CtHiiU and Jtw (Darnell's 
transUtion), vol. ii. p. 49. 



ance with whose cult the Latins 
might have obtained through the 
Phocean colony at Marseilles. Dr. 
DoUinger describes the Ephesian 
goddess as "a kind of pantheistic 
deity, with more of an Asiatic than 
an Hellenic character. She was 
most analogous to Cybele as phy- 
sical mother and parent of all. S. 
Jerome {Proosm. ad Ephes,) says 
that the Ephesians worshipped Di- 
ana, ''not the huntress who carries 
the bow and is high-girt, but that 
many-breasted one, which the Greeks 
call TCoXvpLaaxTfiJ^ 

The cultus of Diana in Italy, 
though substantially of a benignant 
character, seems to have been early 
qualified by the sterner rites of 
Thrace, where bloody flagellations 
had been accepted as a compro- 
mise for human sacrifice. Aricia, 
one of the oldest towns in Latium, 
boasted that its image of the goddess 
had been brought from Tauris. 

Originally, Dr. Dbllinger reminds 
us, neither the Roman Diana nor the 
Grecian Artemis were connected in 
any way with the moon. As the an- 
cient Latin sun-god Janus' sister, 
Diana was the female divinity of 
the sun. iSschylus is generally said 
to be the first author who speaks 
of Artemis as the moon-goddess; 
whereas Hecate was an original 
goddess of the moon and of the 
night. Hence, when she came to 
be identified with Artemis, and 
through her with Diana, by an 
amalgamation of rites, Diana be- 
came undisputed goddess of the 
moon and of the mysterious realms 
of the night, the resort of ghosts 
and fays. Hecate was a Titan, the 
only one who retained power under 
the Zeus dynasty ; hence her name, 
Titanis, or Titania, with which Shake- 
speare has familiarized us. Statius 
{Thebaid^ lib. i.) applies this epithet 
to the moon : 



Sfiritualism. 



325 



** lHanis late mundo subTecta lUenti 
Rorifent gelidam tenuAvermt ASn biga. 



»» 



Virgil doubtless gives this title to the 
stars as to the moon's supposed satel- 
lites (^fi^idy lib. vi.) : 

* Locentemque globum lunac Titaniaque astia." 

In Lucian we have frequent men- 
tion of Hecate and her dogs ; in a 
fragment of S. Maximus of Turin 
the same *' aerial dogs'' are refer- 
red to, and S. Hippolytus speaks of 
Diana and her dogs appearing in 
the magician's cauldron. 

The amalgamated worship of He- 
cate and Diana, the queen of ghqsts 
and the goddess of fertility, presents 
precisely those apparently incon- 
gruous elements which strike us in 
fairy mythology, where fairies, and 
ghosts, and witches combine so odd- 
ly in the web of mediaeval folk-lore. 
It was very long before the pagan 
element to which the chapter wit- 
nesses — the Manicheism which holds 
that there is something " divine and 
godlike beside the one God" — had 
ceased to hold a prominent place 
in the fancy of persons professedly 
Christian. S. Maximus of Turin, 
in the fifth century, thus warns the 
Christian farmers of North Italy of 
their responsibility in the idolatry of 
their servants : " My brother, when 
you know that your farm-servant sa- 
crifices, and you do not prevent his 
immolation, you sin. Though you 
give him not the wherewithal, yet 
leave is granted him. Though he 
do not sin by your orders, yet your 
will co-operates in the fault. Whilst 
you say nothing, you are pleased at 
what your servant has dope, and 
perhaps would have been angry if 
he had not done it. Your subordi- 
nate sins, not only on his own score, 
when he sacrifices, but on his master's 
who forbids him not, who, if he had 
forbidden him, would certainly have 
been without sin. Grievous indeed 
is the mischief of idolatry ; it defiles 



those who practise it; it defiles the 
neighborhood ; it defiles the lookers- 
on ; it pierces through to those who 
supply, who know, who keep silent. 
When the servant sacrifices, the mas- 
ter is defiled. He cannot escape 
pollution when partaking of bread 
which a sacrilegious laborer has rear- 
ed, blood-stained fields have produc- 
ed, a black barn has garnered. All is 
defiled, with the devil in house, field, 
and laborers. No part is free from 
the crime which steeps the whole. 
Enter his hut, you will find withered 
sods, dead cinders — meet sacrifice for 
the demon, where a dead deity is en- 
treated with dead offerings ! Go on 
into the field, and you will find altars 
of wood, images of stone — a fitting 
ministration, where senseless gods are 
served on rotting altars ! When you 
have looked a little further, and found 
your servant tipsy and bleeding, you 
ought to know that he is, as they call 
it, a dianaiicy or a soothsayer." 

In the Vlth century, S. Caesarius 
of Aries, in an almost contemporary 
" Life," is said to have cast out " a 
devil, which the rustics call a di- 



ana. 



" ♦ 



In the Xllth, Xlllth, XlVth, 
and XVth centuries, this idolatrous 
cultus was not extinct. Montfau- 
con quotes part of a decree, in 
which Auger of Montfaucon, an an- 
cestor of his own, Bishop of Con- 
serans, in the South of France, at 
the close of the Xlllth century, 
found it necessary to denounce dia- 
naticism : " Let no woman profess 
that she rides by night with Diana, 
goddess of the pagans, or with He- 
rodias, or Bensozia, and raise a route 
of women to the rank of deities ; for 
this is a diabolical illusion." f 

In the Bollandist Zi/e of S. 

yames of Bevagna in Umbriay who 

died in 1301, we are told that the 

^ Act, Sanei, Aug., »7. 
t VAntiq, Extliq.y Ub. Ui. 



326 



Spiritualism. 



saint distinguished himself ** by re- 
buking those women who go to the 
chase with Diana"; and in 13 17, 
John XXII., in his bull addressed 
to the Bishop of Frejus, denounces 
those " who wickedly intermeddle 
with divinations and soothsay in gs, 
sometimes using Dianas." 

In the XVth century, Cardinal 
de Cusa speaks of examining two 
women who *' had made vows to a 
certain Diana who had appeared to 
them, and they called her in Italian 
Richella, saying she was Fortune." • 

John of Salisbury, Bishop of Char- 
tres in 1136, talks of this " Sabbath " 
company in language which is a 
curious medley of classical and medi- 
aeval phraseology. He speaks of the 
delusion of those "who assert that 
a certain night-bird {nociiculam, or, 
according to the generally received 
emendation, nocU lucam^ the night- 
shiner, a synonyme for Hecate), or 
Herodias, or the lady president of the 
night, solemnize banquets, exercise 
oOices of diverse kinds ; and now, ac- 
cording to their deserts, some are 
dragged to punishment, others glori- 
ously exalted." f 

William of Auvergne, Bishop of 
Paris in 1224, tells us a good deal 
about this queen of the ladies of the 
night. They call her, he says, " Satia 
{a satUtate), and the Lady Abundia, 
from the abundance she is said to 
bestow upon the houses which she 
frequents." He goes on to say that 
these ladies are seen to eat and drink, 
yet in the morning the things are as 
they were. The pots and jars, how- 
ever, must be left open, or they will 
go off in a huff. To guard against 
such visitations, Alvernus' thinks, it 
was prescribed in the Levitical law 
that vessels should be covered, or ac- 
counted unclean. He speaks of the 
" old women amongst whom this de- 

•ri/B, Hartzhelm, l.i. 
t P^ycrat.y I. ii. p. 13. 



lusion abides " ; but it is evidently the 
cultus he regards as a delusion, and 
the belief that there are spiritual be- 
ings independent both of God and 
Satan, not the belief that these are 
real diabolical phenomena.* Even 
in classic times, it would seem that 
Diana and her crew fulfilled in some 
measure the office of household fairies: 

** Ezac^iUnt et Itr et turba Diania fares '* ; t 

and in another passage of the same 
poet we find what seems to be an 
early indication of the connection 
between witches and the feline race. 
When worsted by the first onslaught 
of the Titans, the gods thus chose 
their hiding-places : 

" Fele soror Phoebi, nivcH Saturnia racca, 
Pisce Veauslatult, Cyllenius ibidis alvo/* % 

But to return to the " ladies of the 
night." Alvernus says, " Tiiey some- 
times enter stables with wax tapers, 
the drippings of which appear on the 
hairs and necks of the horses, whilst 
their manes are carefully plaited." 
May we not exclaim with Mercutio, 

'' This is that Tcry Mab 
That plaits the manes of horses in the night. 
And bakes the elf locks in foul^ sluttish bain *' ? 

Alvernus' expression is *^^ ^ittatos 
crines^^ . wax-clotted hairs. Shakes- 
peare's Mab seems to have playe " 
the same trick upon human beings. 

The Lady Abundia is distinctly 
identified with Diana's crew, nay, 
herself represents that goddess, in a 
most curious passage from an early 
MS. of the Roman tie la Rose, 
which was a composition of this 
same thirteenth century: 

*^ Et les cinq sens ainssi dc^oivent 
Par les fantosmes quMls recoircnt 
Dont maintesgens par leurfolies 
Quident estre par nuit estries 
Errans arecque dame Ifahonde 
Et dient que par tout le moadc 
Le tiers enfant de nascion 
Sont de cette condition ; 
Qu*ils vont trois fois en la semaina 
Si 9on destin^e les mainne, 

• De Univ.^ p 948. 

t Ovid, Fasti, lib. v. line 141. 

X Metam. w. fab. 7. 



Spiritualism. 



327 



Bt par toasles ostiez se booteot 
Ne clos ne barres ne redoutent 
Ains* sen entrent par lea fendaces 
Par charnieres et par crevaces 
Etse partem des cors les ames, 
Et ront avec les bonnes dames 
Pftr lieua forains et par maiaons." * 

Bensozia, or Bezezia, as she is call- 
ed in the Gbssarium Novum from 
some MSS. statutes of S. Florus, has 
been a great puzzle to antiquarians. 
Montfaucon is inclined to identify 
her with the domina noctis, or Abun- 
dia. The Glossarium Novum sug- 
gests desperately that it may be a 
name for Herodias' daughter. Mr. 
Baring-Gould, following Grimm, has 
unwittingly furnished, I think, the 
true solution. He thus comments 
upon a remark of Tacitus in his 
Germania — " a part of the Suevi 
sacnfice to Isis " : " This Isis has 
been identified by Grimm with a 
goddess Ziza, who was worshipped 
by the inhabitants of the parts about 
Augsburg. Kuchlen, an Augsburg 
poet of the XlVth century, sings : 



*Tbey built a ffreat temple therein 
To the honor of Zize, the heathen goddess.* 



*» 



This Ziza, Mr. Gould suggests, is 
no other than Holda, or Holle, the 
wandering moon-goddess of the Teu- 
tons, in other parts called G6de, under 
which name she resembled Artemis 
as the heavenly huntress accompa- 
nied by her maidens ; in Austria 
and Bavaria, Berchta, or Bertha (the 
shining) ; in Suabia and Thuringia, 
Horsel, or Ursel ; in other places, the 
night-bird, Tutosel. Bezczia would 
there be Bena Ziza — the good Ziza. 
Alyernus' " Satia " is, in all probabili- 
ty, an attempt to Latinize the sound, 
as " Abundia " the sense ; and so the 
three names are reducible to one. 

Although the suggestion of the 
Glossarium Novum is inadmissible, 
I cannot but feel that its attempt to 
introduce Herodias* daughter into the 
" Sabbath " crew is reasonable enough. 



I should myself be tempted to think 
that Herodias should be understood 
as Herodias Junior. Not only is 
there a propriety in. this, considering 
the daughter's antecedents, but it is 
clear that fancy was early busy with 
her name; witness the weird story 
told by the Greek histonan, Nicepho- 
rus, of her setting to dancing on the 
ice in her mother's sight, and persist- 
ing therein until she gradually broke 
through, and finished by dancing her 
head off against the sharp edge. On 
the other hand, this is, of course, in 
the teeth of what must be accepted 
as the authentic account given by 
Josephus, who calls her Salome, and 
allots her two husbands and three 
children. Moreover, Cesare Can til is 
able to produce a myth accounting 
for the mother's presence, though he 
ojnits all reference to his authority, 
which I have vainly attempted to dis- 
cover. It is at least ben trovato : " Cre- 
devasi pure che Erodiade ottenuto il 
teschio del Battista voile bacciarlo, 
ma quello si ritrasse e sofRo, di che 
ella fu spinta in aria, e ancora si va 
tutte le notte."* There is nothing 
surprising in meeting with Jewish 
features in the rites of medixval ma- 
gic, since Jews were notoriously the 
leading magicians, both in Christian 
and Moorish states ; as, indeed, they 
had been before the Christian era, 
wherever they had been known 
throughout the pagan worid. The 
term " Sabbath," as applied to the 
magic gathering, naturally suggests 
itself; but I think it is not really any 
direct outcome of Jewish influence. 
The word, before its use in diablerie^ 
had come to be a general expression 
for a feast in the Spanish Peninsula, 
and had thence no doubt found its 
way into France and Germany. The 
Glossarium Novum gives an extract 
from the will of Sancho of Portugal 



^ Ducangty sup. (Diana). 



^Storia Umiv,^ lib. xx. cap. 15. 



328 



Spiritualism. 



(a.d. 1269) : " Item ad unura Sab- 
batum faciendum mando duas libras." 
The idea of Diana, Herodias, and 
Bezezia as a magic trinity, or, rather, 
as a triform manifestation of one 
deity, Latin, Jewish, and barbarian, 
was no unnatural outcome of a mixed 
race such as peopled Gaul and North 
Italy in the first centuries of the 
Christian era, and to such an idea 
the common image of the triple 
Hecate, *' Tergeminamque Hecaten 
tria Virginis ora Dianas," easily lent 
itself. Dr. DoUinger says : " Hecate 
was represented with three bodies 
or with three heads, as the goddess 
of the star of night, energizing in 
three spheres of action — in heaven, 
and earth, and sea — and at the same 
time in allusion to the three pha- 
ses of the moon. " ♦ As Ben Jonson's 
witch sings: 

"And thou three-formed star that on these 

nights 
Art only powerful, to whose triple name 
Thus we incline once, twice, and thrice the 

same." t 

The extraordinary way in which 
polytheism has sought by an amal- 
gamation of rites, and so of proper- 
ties and personalities, to regain that 
unity of worship of which it is the 
formal negation, is a great distrac- 
tion to antiquarians, who would 
fain distinguish precisely the various 
cults of paganism. Almost all the 
female deities occasionally inter- 
change offices. Diana is especially 
a central figure, in which they all 
meet. Venus, Juno, Minerva, ordi- 
narily representative of such oppo- 
site functions, are, under certain as- 
pects, identified with Diana. Of Isis 
Dr. DoUinger says : " She often step- 
ped into the place of Demeter, Per- 
sephone, Artemis, and Hecate, and 
became dispensatrix of food, mistress 
of the lower world and of the sea, 



and goddess of navigation. In some 
inscriptions she is pantheistically call- 
ed * the one who is all.' " ♦ 

" Fables," Sir Francis Pal grave 
says, truly enough, " have radiated 
from a common centre, and their 
universal consent does not prove 
their subsequent reaction upon each 
other, but their common derivation 
from a common origin." t None the 
less, however, the " subsequent reac- 
tion " is in many cases most real and 
important ; itself testifying, doubtless, 
to a common origin, but at the same 
time productive of results of a dis- 
tinctly conglomerate character. Of- 
ten, too, properties which belonged 
to the original parent cultus, and 
which have been lost, or have fallen 
into abeyance in a derivative, have 
been restored to this last by amalga- 
mation with another cult For in- 
stance, the Ephesian Artemis, the 
parent, as is generally supposed, of 
the Latian Diana, was always asso- 
ciated with the practice of magic. 
Her garments wers covered with 
mystic sentences, which obtained the 
name of " Ephesian Letters," and 
which were supposed to be potent 
charms. The deciphering and appli- 
cation of these sentences was a regu- 
lar art in Ephesus ; hence the magic 
books which the Ephesians burned 
in such numbers under the influence 
of S. Paul's preaching. On the other 
hand, the Latian Diana seems to 
have derived the most part of her 
magic properties from her amalgama- 
tion with Hecate. 

Evidence is not wanting to show 
that the mediaeval magical cultus 
owes its conglomerate character to 
something more than the accidental 
mingling of races, or the spontaneous 
action of polytheism which I have 
noticed. 

The Gnostic heretics, and espe- 



♦ Vol. i. p. xoi. 

t Masqut 0/ Queens, 



• Vol. ii. p. 177. 

t Quart. Rev,, voL ZJdi. p. 37a 



spiritualism. 



329 



dally the disciples of Basilides, have 
left numerous records of their teach- 
ing and practice in the shape of 
engraved gems called abraxi, which 
have been discovered in great num- 
bers throughout North Italy, Gaul, 
and Spain. If we look through the. 
pages devoted to the illustration of 
these extraordinary relics in Mont- 
faucon, we shall find almost all the 
peculiar emblems of mediaeval magic, 
such as cocks and serpents, abraca- 
dabra, the triple Hecate, etc. But 
beyond this there is conspicuous the 
medley, so characteristic of mediaeval 
magic, of sacred and profane. Chris- 
tian and pagan, divine and diabolical ; 
the names of God and of our Lord 
mixed with those of Latin and Egyp- 
tian deities. Old Testament prophets 
and local genii, piety and lewdness, 
grace and brutishness — ^loathsomely 
incongruous, one should fancy, even 
to unchristian eyes, as some royal 
banquet which harpies have defiled 
with blood and ordure. 

Basilides himself (a.d. 125) seems 
hardly to have been responsible for 
these indecencies. He was an eclec- 
tic of the Hebrew-Alexandrian school, 
and, if we are to believe Neander, 
meant to teach a not unrefined mono- 
theism by means of a vocabulary of 
symbols gathered from all quarters. 
But he had prepared a powerful ma- 
chinery for evil, of which his unscru- 
pulous disciples were not slow to 
avail themselves. The diabolical guild 
spread with extraordinary rapidity, 
and struck deep root on all sides. 
S. Irenaeus writes against it and the 
kindred sect of the Valentinians in 
the lid century, and S. Jerome in the 
Vth century testifies to its influence 
in Gaul and Spain. 

These Gnostics seem to have gra- 
dually identified themselves with 
another and even darker sect of the 
same family — the Ophites, or wor- 
shippers of the serpent ; witness the 



vast number of serpent gems amongst 
the abraxi. With these Ophites, as 
with the Cainites, who closely re- 
semble them, the demiurge, creator, 
or world-god, is not merely subordi- 
nate, but imperfect and evil, and 
hostile to the everlasting wisdom 
symbolized by the serpent. The ma- 
lignant creator, jealous of his creature, 
throws about him the net of the law, 
restraining him from the tree of the 
knowledge of good and evil ; and from 
out of this net, the eternal wisdom, by 
the serpent as its intermediary and 
symbol, delivers him. And so it is 
that, in this perverse system, man's 
fall becomes his triumph, and the 
devil his redeemer. This principle 
was only carried out by the Cainites 
when they upheld Cain and Judas 
as the representatives of the higher 
wisdom and examples of heroic re- 
sistance to the tyranny of the demi- 
urge. It must be admitted that it 
would be quite in keeping with their 
usual. manner if they are responsible 
for the deification of Herodias. Of 
the Ophites, Origen reports that they 
admitted none to their assemblies 
who did not curse Christ.* This sys- 
tematic, detailed perversion of Chris- 
tianity is so perfectly in accord with 
what we are told of the mediaeval 
Sabbath, where Christ was renounced 
and the Blessed Trinity reviled as a 
three-headed Cerberus, that, loath as 
are such historians as Neander and 
Gieseler to entertain anything so bi- 
zarre as devil-worship, they hardly 
know what else to call it. Amongst 
many special indications of a connec- 
tion between Gnosticism and medi- 
aeval diablerie^ I would remark the 
following: Alvernus speaks of the 
magic book in use in his day, enti- 
tled Circulus Major, wherein are in- 
structions how to form the greater 
circle for the evocation of dcn\ons ; 

* CohS. Ceh.y lib. ti. c a8. 



330 



Spiritualism. 



also of a "greater" and "lesser" 
circle, and of other figures called 
" Mandal " and " Aliandet," wherein 
convene the four kings of the East, 
West, North, and South, with other 
demons beside.* Now, Origen speaks 
of the " greater and lesser circles " as 
rites of the Ophites, It is true that 
in Origen*s description we do not 
hear of four kings, but of seven, who 
are styled the " seven princes," 
" lords of the seven gates "t " of the 
seven heavens"; but the number 
does not seem to be marked with any 
great precision ; for Origen (cap. 31) 
reduced them to six, and it is the 
worship of the six angels that S. 
Boniface is said to have abolished 
in Germany in the Vlllth century.f 
Again, Alvernus admitted that his 
circles contained other demons be- 
sides the four kings. 

The four kings are identified as 
a Gnostic subdivision of the seven 
spirits by Feuerardentius, § who says 
that, according to the Rabbins, Za- 
mael was one of the four kings of 
evil spirits, and reigned in the East, 
and also one of the seven planetary 
spirits, and presided over Mars. He 
was the accuser of the Jews, as Mi- 
chael was the defender. The Jews 
are said to pray in their synagogues, 
" Remember not, O Lord, the accusa- 
tion of Zamael, but remember the 
defence of Michael." Michael is an- 
other of the seven planetary spirits, 
ruling, according to some, in Mer- 
cury, according to others, in the sun, 
and wielding the east wind. The 
Ophites, with their instinct for dese- 
cration, blended Michael and Zamael 
into one, calling them the ** Serpens 
projectibilis^' with two names. || Of 
Adalbert, the heretical worshipper of 
the six angels, who was discomfited 

* De Univ.^ torn. I. p. 1037. 

t Coni. Ce/i.^ lib. vi. c. 38. 

% Li/t^ by Mrs. Hope, p. 186. 

I Iren.^ Ed. Ben. Var. Annot., p. 93a 

I /rr«., cap. xzz. p. ixt. 



by S. Boniface, we are told that " he 
pretended to hold intercourse with 
S. Michael." 

It would seem that something 
very much like the ancient rites for 
evoking the four kings is still in use 
in Africa. Alvernus* account is: 
"The master smites the ground in 
front of him, toward the eastern 
quarter, with outstretched sword, and 
saith these words : * Let the great king 
of the East come fortli * " ; and so on 
with the others. In the description 
of a modern incantation in Algiers, 
related in Experiences with Home^ 
p. 158, we are told, " Loud thrusts and 
blows were heard on the ground, and 
several forms became visible, appar- 
ently issuing from the earth." 

We can hardly avoid the conclu- 
sion that mediaeval magic is a Gnostic 
tradition, and so additional light is 
thrown upon the vehement language 
in which the "chapter" denounces 
as heretical, and more than heretical — 
as something worse than paganism — 
every feature of a system which ap- 
parently aimed at nothing less than 
a pantheistic identification of good 
and evil through the deification of 
the devil. 

I shall now proceed to show that 
antecedently to, and contempora- 
neously with, the legislation of the 
"chapter," there existed in the 
church a belief in the power of Sa- 
tan and in the reality of magic dif- 
fering not at all from that which pre- 
vailed in the middle ages. It is easy 
to make, as Maffei has done, a cate- 
tia of fathers who speak in contempt 
of magic, some going so far as to 
call it a "nullity." The great fact 
that impressed the early Christians 
with regard to magic was that every- 
where it was shrinking back before 
Christianity; that simple children, 
armed with the cross, were more 
than a match for the masters of dev- 
ilish lore. They were full of that 



spiritualism. 



331 



triumphant disenchantment and puri- 
fication of nature so gloriously ex- 
pressed in the concluding stanzas of 
Milton's " Nativity " ode. But men 
do not celebrate a triumph over no- 
thing, neither can nothing be brought 
to naught. The question is, Did the 
fathers think it "heretical to attri- 
bute superhuman effects to the aid 
of demons " ? It will be to the pur- 
pose to collect a few examples of the 
way in which they talked of two of 
the earliest and most generally ac- 
cepted relations of magic — the ac- 
count of Simon Magus' magic pow- 
ers and Peter-stinted flight, and the 
legend of Cyprian and Jovita. It is 
altogether beside the point to insist 
that one or both of these relations 
are mere legends; the question is, 
what the fathers thought it consistent 
with the Christian faith to believe. 
I shall confine myself to passages 
which unmistakably exclude the hy- 
pothesis of mere jugglery. 

Of Simon Magus, Justin Martyr 
(A.D. 133, ApoL, i. 26) says that " he 
did mighty acts of magic by virtue of 
the art of the devils acting in him.'' 

S. Hippolytus (a.d. 220, Rrfut,h\i, 
vi.) says that he did his sorceries 
partly according to the art of Thra-^ 
symedes, in the manner we have de- 
scribed above, and pardy also by the 
assistance of demons perpetrating 
his villany, " attempted to deify 
himself" This testimony as to the 
reality of the diabolical intervention is 
the more remarkable, as Hippolytus 
was a most keen exploder of the 
tricks of pagan magicians, amongst 
whom was Thrasymedes, and gives, 
in the work from which I quote, de- 
tailed accounts of how they pro- 
duced their effects by powders and 
reflectors, so that people saw Diana 
and her hounds, and all manner of 
things, in the magic cauldron. Ar- 
nobius (a.d. 303, Advers, GenUs^ 
lib. ii. ) says, '* The Romans had seen 



the chariot of Simon Magus and his 
fiery horses blown abroad by the 
mouth of Peter, and utterly to vanish 
at the name of Christ." 

S. Cyril of Jerusalem (a.d. 350, 
CaU vi. Ilium,) : " After Simon had 
promised that he would rise up aloft 
into the heavens, and was borne 
up in a demon chariot and carried 
through the air, the servants of God, 
throwing themselves on their knees, 
and manifesting that agreement of 
which Jesus spake — * If two of you 
be of accord concerning whatsoever 
thing you shall ask, it shall be grant- 
ed ' — by the javelin of their concord 
let fly at the magician brought him 
headlong to the ground." 

S. Maxim us of Turin (Serm, in 
Ftst S, Ftiri) : " When that Simon 
said he was Christ, and declared Ihat 
as a son he would fly up on high to 
his father, and straightway, lifted up 
by his magic arts, began to fly, then 
Peter on his knees besought the 
Lord, and by his holy prayers over- 
came the magic levity." The story 
of Cyprian and Jovita records the 
repeated but fruitless attempts of the 
heathen magician, Cyprian, to over- 
come the chastity of the Christian 
virgin, Jovita, by means of a lascivi- 
ous demon, whom he employs as his 
agent, and how Cyprian is finally 
converted. 

S. Gregory Nazianzen (Orat, 24) 
does not hesitate to speak thus : 
"He (Cyprian) tried all the more, 
and employed as his procurer no 
ancient hag of the sort fit for such 
things, but one of the body-loving, 
pleasure-loving demons; since the 
envious and apostate spirits are keen 
for such service, seeking many part- 
ners in their fall. And the wage of 
such procuration was offerings and 
libations, and the appropriation of 
the fumes of blood ; for such reward 
must be bestowed upon those that 
are thus gracious." 



332 



Spiritualism. 



As to S. Augustine, even Janus 
admits that this father does furnish 
an awkward passage {De Civ. Dei^ 
XV. 23) about the commerce of 
demons with women, which "the 
Dominican theologians seized on"; 
" but the saint used it in mere blind 
credulity," and, though he never 
exactly retracted it, did retract " a 
similar statement (Reiracty iL 30)." * 
Unfortunately for Janus, no two 
statements could be more dissimilar. 
The statement which S. Augustine 
retracts is one limiting the devil's 
power ; the statement which he does 
not retract is one in which it is 
precisely Janus* complaint that he 
exaggerates it. In matter of fact, S. 
Augustine is the great storehouse 
from which the scholastics have 
obtained almost all they have to say 
on diablerie^ 

S. Augustine, in his treatise, De 
Triniiate (lib. iiL cap. 8), having 
distinguished the creator of the " in- 
visible seeds," the first elements of 
things, latent everywhere through- 
out the frame of nature, as the Crea- 
tor, whereas all other authors are 
but produeerSy thus speaks (cap. 9) : 
" What they (the evil spirits) can do 
by virtue of their nature, but cannot 
do through the prohibition of God, 
and what they are not suffered to 
do-by the condition of their nature, is 
past man's finding out, except through 
the gift of God, which the apostle 
commemorates, saying, *To another 
the discernment of spirits.' We 
know that man can walk, though 
walk he cannot unless he be permit- 
ted ; so those angels can do certain 
things if allowed by more powerful 
angels at God's command, and can- 
not do certain other things, even if 
these allow them, because he suffers 
it not from whom their nature hath 
its native bounds, who, through his 

• p. 2sa. 



angels, very often prevents them do- 
ing such things as he allows them to 
be able to do." 

De Civ, Deij lib. xxi. cap. 6 : " De- 
mons are allured to dwell with men 
by means of creatures which not they, 
but God, has gifted with sweetness 
diverse after their kind; not as brutes 
are attracted by food, but as spirits 
by signs which are congruous to each 
one's pleasure — ^by various kinds of 
stones, herbs, trees, animals, charms, 
and rites. But in order that they 
should be so allured by men, they 
first seduce them with astutest cun- 
ning, either by breathing into their 
hearts a secret poison, or even by 
appearing in the deceitful guise of 
friendship, and make a few their 
scholars and the teachers of many. 
Neither would it be possible to learn, 
unless they first taught it, by what 
name they are invited, by what com- 
pelled ; whence magic arts and their 
adepts have taken rise. . . . And 
their works are exceedingly numer- 
ous, which, the more marvellous we 
acknowledge them to be, the more 
cautiously we must avoid." 

S. Isidore (Etym,^ lib, viiL cap. 9) 
says of magicians: "These trouble 
the elements, disturb men's minds, 
and, without any poison-draught, by 
the mere force of their charm, de- 
stroy life." 

Venerable Bede, in the Vllth 
century (in Z«^., lib. iii. cap. 8), says 
of the commerce of incubi and sue- 
cubi, which Janus tells us was an in- 
vention of the Dominicans, that " it 
is a matter as really true as it looks 
like a lie, and is notoriously attested 
by numbers." He tells us that a 
priest of a neighboring parish related 
to hfni that he had to exorcise a 
woman so beset, and to heal the 
ulcers which the devil had left upon 
her. These were all cured by blest 
salt, except the largest, which was 
*"ot healed until the priest was told 



Spiritualism. 



333 



what to do by his patient. "If," 
said she, " you mix the oil consecrat- 
ed for the sick with the same medi- 
cine {Le. the salt), and so anoint 
me, I shall be at once restored to 
health; for I whilom saw in the spirit, 
in a certain far-off city, a girl affected 
with the same calamity cured in this 
way by the priest." He did as she 
suggested, and at once the ulcer con- 
sented to receive the remedy, which 
it had before rejected. Hincmar {De 
Divori, Loth, tt Tetb,^ p. 654) says 
that certain women "a Dusiis in 
specie virorum quorum amore arde- 
bant concubitum pertulisse inventa 
sunt"; and the context shows that 
he is not merely quoting S. Augus- 
tine, but bearing his own testimony ; 
for he speaks of their exorcism. He 
proceeds to give an account of vari- 
ous kinds of witchery, with an un- 
mistakable conviction of their reality, 
and clinches them with the wonder- 
ful story from the Life of S. Basils by 
the pseudo-Amphilochius, in his time 
newly translated out of the Greek, 
it is the same story which Southey 
has turned to such good account in 
his AU for Love ; and certainly few 
mediaeval legends surpass it in the 
realism of its diablerie, A young 
man obtains for his wife a girl, who 
is on the eve of taking the veil, by 
means of a charm got at the price 
of a compact written in his blood, 
surrendering his soul to the evil one. 
When the young man repents, and 
the devil insists on his bargain, S. 
Basil discomfits the fiend before the 
whole congregation, and wrings from 
him the fatal writing. Now, Hincmar 
was the leading prelate in the Gallic 
Church in the IXth century — that is 
to say, in the very church and the 
very century in which was almost 
certainly composed the f* chapter" 
in which Janus supposes that all 
belief in witchcraft was condemned 
as heresy. 



Ivo of Chartres, in the Xlth 
century, one of the very authors 
whom, because they transcribe the 
"chapter," Janus appeals to as re- 
presentatives of what he regards as 
the ancient tradition, speaks thus on 
the interpretation of Genesis vi. 2: 
" It is more likely that just men, 
under the appellation of angels or 
sons of God, sinned with women, 
than that angels, who are without 
flesh, could have condescended to 
that sin; although of certain de- 
mons who maltreat women many 
persons relate so many things that a 
determination one way or the other 
is not easy." * 

When we come to the great scho- 
lastics of the XII Ith century, we 
find that where they have varied in 
aught from the teaching of their pre- 
decessors on the subject of magic, it 
was, on the whole, in the direction 
of moderation, or what would be 
called nowadays rationalism. For 
instance, in considering the question 
of diabolical intercourse with women, 
a belief in which, as we have seen, 
they had inherited from a line of 
theologians, they gave an explana- 
tion which, whatever may be said of 
it, at least repudiated the idea of 
an actual mixture of carnal and 
spiritual natures. Again, they were 
very careful to guard against the 
notion that there is anything that 
can be called with propriety an art- 
magic — i,e. that there is any other 
than an arbitrary connection between 
the charms used and the results ob- 
tained — which is more than can be 
said of some of their predecessors. 

Janus (p. 258), with the operose 
mendacity which is his characteristic, 
pretends that the authority " of the 
popes, Aquinas, and the powerful 
Dominican Order" established the 
reality of the Sabbath rides; that 

* Dtcrtt.^ pan zi. cap. 105. 



334 



Spiritualism. 



in the XlVth and XVth centuries 
you might ^*be condemned as a 
heretic in Spain for affirming, and in 
Italy for denying, the reahty of the 
Sabbath rides " ; that some Francis- 
can theologians in the XVth cen- 
tury, amongst others Alfonso de 
Spina, in his Forialitium Fidfi, 
maintained the ancient doctrine as- 
serting " belief in the reahty of witch- 
craft to be a folly and a heresy " ; 
that Spina " thought that the inqui- 
sitors had witches burned simply on 
account of that belief." " Tot verba 
tot mendacia " ! The question of the 
reality or non-reality of the Sabbath 
rides has always been an open ques- 
tion. S. Thomas says nothing about 
them one way or the other. It is 
much more probable than not that 
he regarded those rides as fan- 
tastic, in accordance with the teach- 
ing of his masters, Albertus Magnus* 
and Alexander Hales.+ That he 
never committed himself to the op- 
posite view is pretty well assured by 
the fact that the great representative 
of " the powerful Dominican Order " 
in the XVth century, Cardinal Tur- 
recremata, is an advocate of the 
view which makes the rides fan- 
tastic. We may add that his 
eminence got on very comfort- 
ably during his long residence in 
Italy, without being molested for his 
Spanish heresy. 

As to Alfonso Spina, he, indeed, 
asserts the fantastic character of 
the Sabbath flights ; but so little is he 
a disbeliever in diablerie that, not 
contented with maintaining its reality 
[FortaL^ f. 146, p. i, col. i),J he 
contributes a rather grotesque in- 
stance of it from his own experience 
(f. 151, p. I, col. 2). 

He nowhere says that inquisitors 

•Tom. xviil. tract vili. qu. 30, art. ■, 
memb. 9. 
t Pars ii. qu. x66, memb. $. 
X Edit. Nuremberg, 1485. 



had witches burned '' simply on ac- 
count " of their belief in the reality of 
the Sabbath. He recounts the burn- 
ing of certain witches in Dauphiny 
and Gascony, who did hold their 
Sabbath meetings to be real, which 
view, as attributing a certain divine 
power to the devil, Spina thought 
could not be persisted in without 
heresy. (See fol. 152, p. 2, col. i.) 
But they were burned because they 
were witches who had done real ho- 
mage to the devil, although sundry 
of its circumstances might be imagi- 
nary. 

The following passages may be 
accepted as examples of the doctrine 
on spiritualism of the principal scho- 
lastics of the Xlllth century. 

S. Thomas, Sum, i. qu. no, lays 
down that God only can work a 
miracle properly so called — Le, a 
work beyond the order of the whole 
of created ciature ; " but since not 
every virtue of created nature is 
known to us, therefore, when any- 
thing takes place by a created virtue 
unknown to us, it is a miracle in re- 
spect to us ; and so, when the devils 
do something by their natural power, 
it is called a miracle, quoad ncs ; 
and in this way magicians work mira- 
cles by means of devils." (In 4 Dist, 
vii. qu. 3.) "The devils, by their 
own power, cannot induce upon 
matter any form, whether accidental 
or substantial, nor reduce it to act, 
without the instrumentality of its 
proper natural agent. . . . The 
devils can bring to bear activities 
upon particular passivities, so that 
the effect shall follow from natural 
causes indeed, but beside the accus- 
tomed course of nature, on account 
of the variety and vehemence of the 
active virtue of the active forces 
combined, and the aptitude of the 
subjects;* and so effects which are 

• Cf. Scidus Ox0n , Ub. ii. dist iS. 



Spiritualism. 



335 



outside the sphere of all natural 
active virtues they cannot really pro- 
duce — as raise the dead or the like — 
but only in appearance." 

De MaiOy qu. xvi. art. 9 : " The 
devils can do what they do, ist, 
Because they know better than men 
the virtue of natural agents. 2d. 
Because they can combine them with 
greater rapidity. 3d. Because the 
natural agents which they use as 
instruments can attain to greater 
effects by the power and craft of the 
devils than by the power and craft 
of men." 

Alexander Hales, Sum,^ pars 2, 
qu. 42, art. 3, says {hat nothing, how- 
ever wonderful, " is a miracle which 
takes place in accordance with the 
natural or seminal order, but every 
miracle holds of the causal ratio 
(creative cause) only," (L.C. qu. 43). 
He admits that these marvels of the 
seminal order are miracles secun- 
dum modum facUndi — a term equiv- 
alent to S. Thomas* quoad nos. 

Albertus Magnus, (?/., torn, xviii. 
tract viii. qu. 3, art. i, points 
out that the miracles of Pharaohs 
magicians are called lies, " not be- 
cause the/ are unreal {falsa in se)^ 
but because the devils have always 
the intention of deceiving in those 
works which they are allowed to do." 
To sum up, the doctrine of the 
scholastics on the subject of the 
devil's power comes to this: The 
devil is a great artist, who can present 
incomparable shows to the senses 
and the imagination, and a supreme 
chemist, who can combine natural 
agents indefinitely, and can elicit in 
A twinkling the virtual contents of 
each combination ; but he can cre- 
ate, and, strictly speaking, originate, 
nothing external to himself. They 
knew that, in mercy to mankind. 
Almighty God was ever restraining 
the devil in the exercise of this pow- 
er; but they conceived that the power 



itself continued unaltered. It was 
generally admitted that the devil 
could not raise a dead man to life, 
or restore a sense, as the sight, when 
really destroyed. But such acts were 
regarded by the scholastics as precise- 
ly instances of the creation or origina- 
tion of such a mode as could not be 
the outcome of any mere combina- 
tion of natural agents, and which, 
therefore, must require the fiat of the 
Creator. At the same time, it must 
be admitted that they often found it 
difficult to distinguish in fact between 
the operation of the limits of the 
devil's finite nature and the result 
of the habitual reservation of Al- 
mighty God. 

And here it may not unnaturally 
be objected that the large allowance 
I have made to natural powers, and to 
the devil's power of manipulating 
them, tends to lessen the effect of the 
argument from miracles. No doubt 
it tends to reduce a considerable 
number of miracles from the category 
of logical proof to that of rhetorical 
argument Where the miracle is 
supposed wholly above nature, it is 
a proof that God is with those who 
work it ; but where it is not beyond 
the sphere of universal nature, it can, 
for the most part, only offer a greater 
or less persuasion dependent upon cir- 
cumstances. However, such natural 
miracles, so to call them, approxi- 
mate more or less closely to logical 
cogency in proportion as they mani- 
fest themselves as the victors in a 
war of miracles; for it cannot be 
supposed that in such a war God 
should allow himself to be worsted, 
or that Satan should be divided 
against himself. When God first 
presented himself as a wonder-work- 
er before human witnesses, it was as 
developing and modifying in a super- 
natural manner the powers of nature 
— nay, of local, Egyptian nature — and 
outdoing and discomfiting the magi- 



336 



Spiritualism, 



cians *' who did in like manner." A 
recent Catholic commentator, Dr. 
Smith, in his very learned work, 
Th^ Book of Moses, points out in de- 
tail " the analogy which most of the 
plagues present with the annual phe- 
nomena of the country."* Of the 
prelude to the plagues, the conver- 
sion of the rod of Moses into a ser- 
pent, he says : " Even at the present 
day, the descendants, or at least re- 
presentatives, of the Psylli . , . can 
change the asp into a rod stiff and 
rigid, and at pleasure restore it to 
flexibility and life by seizing the tail 
and rolling it between their hands." 

In his treatment of the first plague, 
he gives the following account of the 
annual phenomenon : <' For some 
time before the rise, the Nile assumes 
a green color ; it then becomes putrid 
and unfit to drink. Gradually, about 
the 25th June, a change comes on ; 
the green color and putrid odor 
disappear; the water becomes clear 
again, then takes a yellow tinge, 
which passes int6 an ochreous red ; 
until for ninety days before the inun- 
dation gains its greatest height, it is 
popularly called the red water, * On 
the first appearance of the change,' 
says an eye-witness, * the broad, tur- 
bid tide certainly has a striking re- 
semblance to a river of blood.' t 
... At the moment foretold by 
Moses, the miraculous rod is lifted 
up and waved over the stream ; in- 
stantaneously the red attains all its 
intensity of color ; the fish, which in 
ordinary years live on through the 
gradual habituation to a different 
state, now perish in numbers from 
the very suddenness of the change ; 
and the putrid odor, which usually 
exhales from it before the rise, comes 
back again in consequence of this 
mortality. The blood-red hue is not 
confined to the spot where Pharao 

• Vol. I. p. 320 ct seq. 

t Osbura, Isra4l in Egy^. 



and his magicians stood. It spreads 
at once into the various channels 
into which the river divides itself, 
into the canals which are carried 
through the land for irrigation, into 
the lakes and ponds which served as 
reservoirs, into all the collections of 
Nile-water, and the very vessels of 
stone and wood which were com- 
monly used both in town and coun- 
try for private cisterns. The conse- 
quence is that at the very time the 
water begins to sweeten, it becomes 
again undrinkable; the Egyptians 
loathe the water, a draught of which 
is esteemed one of the greatest luxu- 
ries they can enjoy; and, as the in- 
habitants still do when anything 
prevents them from drinking of the 
river, ' they digged round about the 
river for water, for they could not 
drink of the water of the river.* " 

Of the plague of frogs, the same au- 
thor remarks : '* Such a nuisance was 
not unknown in some other countries, 
and there are instances of the inhabi- 
tants being in consequence driven 
from their settlements, as Athenaeus 
remarks of the Poeonians and Darda- 
nians, Diodorus of the Antanats of 
Illyna, and Pliny of some Gaulish 
nation. But in Egypt they are not 
unfrequently equivalent to a plague. 
Indeed, Hasselquist believes that 
every year that would be the result, 
were it not for the species of stork, 
called ardea ibis, which in the month 
of September comes down in large 
flocks to feed upon the small frogs 
then beginning to swarm over the 
country." 

As regards the third plague, that 
of the cifiiphs, or Egyptian mosquito. 
Dr. Smith tliinks that the magicians 
could not produce them, because at 
that time of the year they were not 
yet out of the egg. This, as we have 
seen, is not the doctrine of the scho- 
lastics, and is hardly consistent with the 
idea that the magicians were any- 



spiritualism. 



337 



thing more than conjurers. I would 
suggest that the mosquitoes had to 
do something more than show them- 
selves and crawl in order to vindi- 
cate their reality as plagues. Doubt- 
less the magicians and their familiars 
hatched the eggs; and there the efifete 
creatures were, with knock-knees, and 
flaccid trunks, and languid appetites ; 
but they were as though they were 
not when the orthodox mosquitoes 
sounded their horns for the banquet, 
and put in their stings with all and 
more than all their native vigor. 
Well might the magicians exclaim in 
anguish, " This is the finger of God."* 
Abbot Rupert, a writer of the Xllth 
century, gives precisely the same ra- 
Uonak of the magicians' failure, whilst 
maintaining that their successes were 
of the nature of phantasmagoria. 

Of the remaining plagues, the 
fourth, that of flies, was too like 
the third for the magicians to 
hope for success; and when at the 
sixth plague they seem again to 
take heart, behold, they cannot 
"stand before Moses for the boils 
that are uoon them." The dreadful 



• In Bzod. viii 



sequel, closing in darkness and death, 
would seem to have simply swept 
them away in its tide of horror. 

So far, then, from there being any 
reason for shrinking from the idea of 
a miraculous competition, in which 
the spirit of man, the demon, and 
Almighty God enter the lists toge- 
ther, we ought rather to rejoice at 
the recurrence of the very conditions 
which God is wont to choose for the 
scene of his most triumphant mani- 
festations. 

I have thus drawn out the Catho- 
lic idea of diablerie^ because I believe 
that one of the causes most active in 
spiritualism — a cause necessary to the 
evolution of a great number of its 
phenomena— is the devil. In matter 
of fact, to this cause these phenomena 
have been for ages universally attri- 
buted. It may, then, fairly claim to 
be the hypothesis in possession. In 
the concluding chapter, I hope to 
consider the amendment which spiri- 
tualists, as a rule, suggest — viz., that 
the spirits whom they admit with us 
to be the causes of the phenomena 
are not devils, enemies of God and 
man, but the souls of the departed 
in varying stages of perfection. 



TO BB C0NT1KUBO. 



VOL. XVIIL— 23 



338 



The Farm of Muiceran. 



THE FARM OF MUICERON. 



BY MARIE RHEIL. 



FBOM THB KBTUB DU MONDE CATHOUQUB. 



V. 

Those who are fond of singular 
events in this world had here a chance 
to be satisfied ; for, certainly, this 
affair surpassed anything in the or- 
dinary run. Pierrette quickly recov- 
ered, and nursed her little one with- 
out fatigue. Far from becoming 
even the least pale or thin, it was 
remarked, even by the envious — and 
there are always some of the tribe 
around the happy — ^that she was 
rejuvenated, fresh as a cherry, and 
the baby in her arms made her resem- 
ble the good S. Anne, mother of our 
Blessed Lady, whose chapel was 
near our parish church. 

Besides, the great esteem felt for 
the Ragauds, their charity, honesty, 
and well-known piety, caused it to be 
acknowledged — and it was true — that 
this new blessing, the choicest and 
most unexpected they could have 
desired, was the recompense of the 
Lord God on account of little Jean- 
Louis. M. le Cure said it to who- 
ever would listen to him ; and, as we 
have seen he was fond of repeating 
proverbs, he did not fail to add : " If 
there is one truth that each and 
every one of us can prove if he wishes, 
it is * that a good action is never lost.^ 
Now, if this is always true in regard 
to men, judge if we should believe it 
when the good God, all-powerful, \s 
our creditor !" 

M. le Marquis de Val-Saint was 
the first and most sincere in rejoicing 
at the happiness of his good farmers. 
Mademoiselle, his daughter, asked to 
be godmother, and had made under 
her own eyes, by her maids, a complete 



outfit of fine Holland linen, of which 
all the little garments were scalloped, 
embroidered, and trimmed with lace; 
such as are only displayed in the 
shop-windows of the city. 

M. le Marquis naturally stood god- 
father with mademoiselle, and, not to 
be behind her in presents, ordered that, 
on the day of the baptism, there should 
be feasting and village-dances on the 
lawn before the chiteau. 

It was a day to be remembered in 
the neighborhood. As for the eating, 
singing, and laughter, you can well 
think nothing was wanting; thej 
spoke of it for months afterwards. 
Only one person wore a rather long 
face, and that was our cur^ ^ not that 
he was ever the enemy of pleasure 
and enjoyment, but that, contrary to 
his advice, M. le Marquis had three 
casks of old wine, reserved for his 
own table, tapped ; and the conse- 
quence was that, out of two hundred 
persons present, men, women, and 
children, not one, towards twilight, 
was able to walk straight on his legs. 

Apart from that, everything passed 
off splendidly ; and, to conclifte, I will 
tell you that they had awaited the 
complete recovery of Mother Pier- 
rette, so that she might be present 
at the celebration with her litde girl 
in her arms ; which, to my mind, was 
the prettiest part of the show. 

The little Ragaudine had three 
beautiful names — Nicole- Eveline, af- 
ter M. le Marquis and mademoiselle, 
her god-parents; and Jeanne, in ho- 
nor of our great S. John the Baptist, 
on whose feast she had the good for- 
tune to be born. One fact, which 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



339 



would have touched devout hearts 
if they had known it, was that little 
Jean-Louis had also come into the 
world on S. John's day, four years 
before. M. le Cur6, who had it from 
poor Catharine, but who could not 
breathe a word of it, was nevertheless 
so inspired by the thought that he 
made at the baptism a speech which 
drew all the handkerchiefs out of the 
pockets \ and if I have one regret, it 
is that I cannot give a full report of 
his touching words. But I was not 
bom at that time, and my father, 
from his great age, had forgotten 
them when he related this story to 
me. 

If you fancy that this event affect- 
ed in the least degree the condition 
of Jean-Louis, you are vastly mista- 
ken. True, there was no longer 
thought of his inheriting Muiceron ; 
but the tenderness and care of his good 
parents were the same afterwards as 
before. Pierrette would have thought 
it a sin to have acted otherwise ; for 
she was always the first to say : " It 
was the boy's guardian angel that 
obtained for me my little girl from 
the good God." Ragaud thought the 
same as his wife, but was a little more 
anxious than she about the temporal 
prospects of the boy. It was evideint 
that, between the fear of injuring 
his daughter, and the dread of leav- 
ing Jeannet in want, his good heart 
did not know which side to turn. 
Finally, in his embarrassment, he de- 
termined to consult M. le Cur6; and 
the good pastor, who had always an 
answer ready, solved the difficulty in 
fifteen minutes' conversation. Ac- 
cording to his advice, it would suffice 
to place aside every year a small sum, 
drawn from the harvest of such and 
such a field, and never to touch eith- 
er capital or interest In that way, 
Wore twenty years, Master Jean- 
I/)uls would find himself, without 
any injury to the little girl, master of 



a nice little treasure, and capable, in 
his turn, of being a land-owner. This 
affair settled, Ragaud returned home 
perfectly satisfied, and told the whole 
story to Pierrette, who highly approv- 
ed of the step. 

Thus, instead of one child at Mui- 
ceron, there were two, and that was 
all the difference. The little things 
grew up calling themselves brother 
and sister, there being nothing to 
make them doubt but that it was 
really so. Never were quarrelling 
or bad words heard between them. 
Ragaud often repeated to Jeannet 
that, as he was the eldest, he should 
live patiently and amicably with his 
young sister; and Jeannet, from his 
gentle heart and natural sweetness 
of disposition, easily put the counsel 
in practice. 

It is commonly said that girls are 
more forward than boys, as much in 
body as in mind ; and another proof 
of the truth of this remark was evi- 
dent as the Ragaud children grew 
up. At six years old, the little girl 
was so bright, so cunning, so bold, and 
had such a strong constitution, you 
would have thought her the twin- 
sister of Jean-Louis; but with all 
that, there was no resemblance, either 
in face or disposition, even though 
they say that, by living together, peo- 
ple often grow to look alike. Jean- 
ne Ragaud had very light hair, was 
joyous and petulant, a little quick- 
tempered and rough in her actions, 
like her father ; Jean had a thought- 
ful look, and although he was always 
ready to i^lay, his tastes were rather 
quiet. They both loved to lead 
the sheep to pasture in the field 
near La Range ; but when it was 
the turn of the little boy, you would 
have said the sheep took care of 
themselves, so quiet was it around 
them ; and the reason of this was, 
that the shepherd was stretched in 
the wood, in the shade of an old 



340 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



willow-tree, face to the sky, watch- 
ing the clouds pass over his head. 
Very different was it when Jeannette, 
armed with a switch, left the farm, 
driving the flock before her in the 
noisiest style ; she drove ofif the dog, 
ran faster than he after the sheep 
which tried to get away from her; 
and if she ever sat down, it was only 
because she was forced to do so 
from want of breath. As for the 
clouds, little did she care for all that 
Jean pretended to see in them — the 
beautiful and moving things that 
kept him lying on the grass for entire 
hours, silently gazing with fixed eyes 
on the blue sky above him. She 
obstinately declared that a cloudy 
sky pleased her more than one en- 
tirely blue, because generally clouds 
brought rain ; and nothing, according 
to her taste, was more delightful than 
a good soaking, which obliged the 
shepherdess and sheep to return 
together at full gallop to the house, 
running and paddling through the 
pools of muddy water. 

This divergence of character grew 
more and more perceptible every 
day, and led Pierrette to exclaim : 

** Come next S. Martin's day, and 
if this continues, my little chickens, 
I will have you change clothes; 
for, in truth, I begin to see that I 
was mistaken, and that Jeannette 
is the boy, and Louisieau the little 
girl." 

These words did not fall on the 
ear of a deaf person ; for, after that. 
La Ragaudine became bolder and 
more resolute than ever. She dom- 
ineered over father and mother, who 
were weak enough to be amused by 
it ; and as for Jean-Louis, when he 
ventured to offer a little friendly ad- 
vice, she replied proudly, with her 
chin in the air : 

" Hold your tongue ; mother said I 
was the boy. " 

Thereupon good Jeannet was terri- 



bly confused, and could not find 
words to reply. 

Soon the time came when they 
must think of school. In those days, 
there were no parish schools taught 
by the Sisters and Christian Brothers, 
as now. Our good curi^ through 
pure zeal, had taken charge of the 
boys' education, and Germaine did 
the same for the girls. Thus the 
Ragaud children did not have to 
accustom themselves to new faces 
in this little change of their everyday 
life. But old Germaine could not 
say as much; for until then, having 
only taught the village girls, who 
were very obedient, even though a 
little stupid, she thought the devil 
himself possessed the school the 
day that Jeannette put foot in it. 
What tricks and drolleries this little 
witch of eight years invented to dis- 
tract the others would be difficult 
to enumerate. Threats, scolding, 
shameful punishments, had no effect 
At the end of a fortnight, she had 
received all the bad marks of the 
class, and the fool's cap appeared to 
be her ordinary head-dress, so that 
the greatest wonder was if she by 
chance was seen without it. 

Jean-Louis, in the adjoining room, 
accomplished wonders. In less than 
four months, he learned to read and 
write ; as for his catechism, he knew 
it so well he could explain it like a 
priest. Never did he go to sleep 
without knowing his lessons for the 
next day ; so that M. le Cur6 held 
him in high favor, and taught him 
many things that are found in books, 
but which are not generally known 
in the country. 

Thus it turned out that all the 
praises and dainties fell to the lot of 
Jeannet as a reward for his good con- 
duct. Every Thursday he returned 
to the farm, holding up with both 
hands the front of his blouse, filled 
with fruit and candies of Germaine's 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



341 



manufacture. Jeannette kept dose 
to his side, not at all displeased at 
having nothing — you can well imag- 
ine why. The cunning monkey knew 
that hardly would they have turned 
on their heels, before Jean-Louis 
would open his blouse, and say, 
** Here, little pet, choose." 

So that, without giving herself the 
least trouble, that imp of a Jeannette 
feasted at will on the choicest mor- 
sels. Our euri was not long duped ; 
without scolding Jean-Loui^, who by 
acting in that manner only proved 
his good heart, he warned Germaine 
that she must try some other 
means of correcting the headstrong 
Jeannette, who could not be allowed 
to grow up with such perverse habits. 
Germaine, very much hurt, replied 
that she had used every punishment 
unsuccessfully, except whipping, which 
she had never dared. 

"Well," said the curi, " the next 
time she misbehaves, whip her, Ger- 
maine. I authorize you to do it." 

They had not to wait long. One 
very rainy day, Jeannette managed 
to arrive the last at school, and seeing 
all the children's wooden shoes and 
leather leggings rapged outside of the 
tloor, she gathered up the greater 
part of them in her skirt, and ran off 
to the well, that she might throw 
ihem to the bottom, running the risk 
of tumbling in herself at the same 
lime. Germaine, who was still light- 
footed, and feared something wrong 
was contemplated, spied her through 
the window, rushed after her, and 
caught her just in time to prevent 
the act. 

" This is the way," cried she, holding 
the young one tightly by the arm — 
* this is the way you, wicked good-for- 
nothing child, employ your time, in- 
stead of learning your lessons !" 

For the first time, Jeannette, in 
spite of her daring spirit, was so over- 
come she could not say a word irf 



defence. She saw quickly that she 
would be well punished, and returnea 
to the class very downcast. 

Germaine commenced by making 
her pupil kneel in the middle of the 
room, and then, seating herself in her 
straw arm-chair, with a severe and 
troubled look, related the whole af- 
fair, taking care to make it appear in 
its worst light. 

" Now," added she, looking around 
at her little audience, who showed a 
just indignation, " if I ask you, my 
children, what punishment Jeanne 
Ragaud deserves for having attempt: 
ed to enjoy herself in such a mali- 
cious and shameful manner, you will 
doubtless answer that I should ex- 
pel her from the class; but do you 
think that would be a great sorrow 
for a girl so careless of her duties ? 
No, no, I say that would only please 
her; and therefore, Jeanne Ragaud, 
you will immediately receive a severe 
chastisement, but which, nevertheless, 
is not equal to your great fault." 

Thereupon Germaine readjusted 
her spectacles, drew from the bottom 
of her big work-bag a leather whip 
with several thongs, and Jeannette, 
more dead than alive with anger and 
shame, received in full view the well- 
deserved punishment. 

She neither cried, nor wept, nor 
made any protestation, not even an 
attempt to defend herself; but she 
did not ask pardon either, and sat 
straight up on her bench, whiter than 
Mother Germaine's cap. It was the 
only day they had ever seen her 
quiet and good. 

Towards evening, Jeannet, as usual, 
took his post where he could meet 
her, that they might return home to- 
gether; but great was his surprise 
to see the little thing advance witli 
measured steps, instead of running 
and bounding according to her cus- 
tom. What astonished him still fur- 
ther was that she neither spoke nor 



342 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



laughed. Her little face was all 
changed \ but whether from grief or 
anger he could not discover. It end- 
ed by making him feel very anxious, 
as he feared she was ill. 

" What is the matter ?" he asked gen- 
tly. '* Surely, Jeannette, something 
troubles you ; for this is the first time 
in my life I have ever seen you 
sad." 

The child turned away her head, 
and pretended to look at the trees. 

" You will not answer me," con- 
tinued Jean- Louis \ " and yet I only 
question you from pure love, not 
from curiosity. When one is trou- 
bled, It is a relief to speak to a friend. 
Am I not strong enough to defend 
you by tongue and arm, in case you 
lued it ?" 

" Nothing is the matter," replied 
Jeannette. " What do you fancy 
ails me? Let us hurry, it is grow- 
ing late ; the crows are beginning to» 
flutter around the steeple." 

" I am not thinking now about 
the crows, nor you either, Jeannet- 
te," said he, taking in his own her 
little, trembling hand; "and as for 
going faster, that is not possible ; we 
are already walking at such a rate 
we can scarcely breathe," 

Jeanne stopped short, and quickly 
drew away her hand. 

"Then, don't go any further," cri- 
ed she in a rebellious tone. 

" Come, now, be good ; we can't 
think of stopping here. Why do you 
speak to me so roughly? Don't 
you know that I am your friend and 
your brother ?" 

"When you will know what has 
happened," replied she impatiently, 
" well— then—then — " 

"Then I will console you as 
well as I can, my Jeannette." 

" Oh ! yes, but you can't do it, 
Jean- Louis; in my trouble nobody 
can console me." 

"Let us see," said he. 



"There is nothing to see," she 
cried. " I won't tell you anything." 

" Then it will be difficult," he re- 
plied sadly. " Jeannette, if I were 
unhappy, I would not make such a 
fuss about telling you." 

They continued on in silence. 
When they reached the top of the 
hill in the meadow of Fauch6, from 
which could be seen the buildings 
of Muiceron, Jeannette suddenly 
stopped, and all the anger heaped 
up in her little heart melted into 
sobs. 

" What will mother say when she 
sees you return with red eyes ?" said 
good Jeannet, terribly distressed. ** I 
beg of you, my darling, speak to me; 
you would never cry like this for 
nothing." 

" O Jean-Louis ! I am so tin- 
happy," she cried, throwing herself 
in his arms; "and if they make me 
go back to school, I will certainly 
die." 

" Now, stop ; don't cry any more. 
You shall not go back," said he, kiss- 
ing her; " for none of us wish to see 
you die." 

Jeannette tnis time did not need 
urging, but frankly related all her 
wrongs and the affair of the whip. 
Jean-Louis for the moment was so 
furious he would willingly have 
beaten Germaine; but after a little 
reflection, he thought that after all 
the correction was not altogether 
unjust. 

He spoke wisely to the little thing, 
and succeeded in calming her in a 
measure ; but he could not make her 
change her mind about returning 
to school. On this point it was as 
difficult to make an impression as 
on a stone wall. 

" What will we do ?" said he. " For 
you see, Jeannette, father has al- 
ready received so many complaints 
about you he will most assuredly 
not consent to let you remain idle 



The Farm of Muiceron 



343 



at the farm. To-morrow we will 
leave without saying a word. Do 
ii^at I tell you; say your prayers 
well to-night ; and as, after all, you 
were a good deal in fault, the best 
thing will be to ask Germaine's par- 
don, which she will willingly grant." 
'' I would rather run off into the 
woods," cried the rebellious child. 
''I would rather be eaten up by 
the wolves." 

** No, no, that is foolish," said he 
*'they would hunt for you, and the 
woods around Val-Saint are not 
so big but what they could find 
you; and then everybody would 
know your fault, and father would 
be so angry." 

" Very well," said she resolutely. 
•• 1 will go see my godmother." 

" That can easily be done," repli- 
ed Jeannet ; " and it is a very good 
idea. Dry up your tears now; to- 
morrow morning we will go together 
and see mademoiselle; she will 
know what to do." 

This agreement made, Jeanne's 
great sorrow was quickly dissipated. 
She recovered her good humor, her 
lively manner, and was as full of fun 
and frolic as ever. The grief of child- 
ren is like the clouds in the sky — a 
mere nothing causes them, a nothing 
scatters them ; and the sun appears 
more beautiful than ever after a 
shower. Jean and Jeannette reach- 
ed the house, running together hand 
in hand. Neither Ragaud nor Pier- 
rette suspected anything; and nev- 
ertheless, that night, without any 
one even dreaming of it, the whim 
of a little eight-year-old witch led to 
many new events which changed 
the life of our good friends, as you 
will see in the end. 

VI. 

It is time that I should tell you 
about the chdteau of our village, and 
of its worthy lord, M. le Marquis de 



Val-Saint. The chiteau was an im- 
posing edifice, so high and wide, with 
such thick walls, and so well sur- 
rounded with deep ditches filled with 
running water, that my father truly 
said such a building had nothing to 
fear from either time or man. Before 
the great Revolution, our lords lived 
in great style. I have heard it said 
that one of them, who was a great 
warrior, could lead into the field more 
than a thousand soldiers, all of them 
his tenants, armed and equipped at 
his own expense. What makes me 
believe this was not false is the fact 
that there still remains in front of the 
chiteau a great lawn, flanked on each 
side by buildings of such length 
they must surely have been used for 
barracks. But as to that, he that 
chooses may believe ; I cannot posi- 
tively affirm it, and, besides, it has 
very little bearing on the story of 
Jean-Louis. 

As was to have been expected, our 
lords were driven away at the time 
when the masters had to fly, that 
their valets could take their places. 
Thank God! this fine condition of 
things did not last long. At the end 
of a few years, the legitimate owner 
of the chiteau of Val-Saint, who was 
a little child at the time the family 
left France, was put in possession of 
his property. He afterwards mar- 
ried, and had an only daughter, the 
godmother of Jeannette. 

Never was there seen a happier 
family or better Christians; from 
father to son, they were models. M. 
le Marquis always remembered the 
time when he was in poverty and 
exile, obliged to earn his bread as a 
simple workman. It made him kind 
and compassionate to the poor, and, 
consequently, he was adored by all 
around him ; and I have heard that 
Madame la Marquise even surpassed 
him in excellence and charity. Fre- 
quently in the winter she was seea 



344 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



visiting the cottages, followed by her 
servants carrying bundles of wood 
and bowls of soup, which she loved 
to distribute herself to the most 
needy. 

Contrary to many great ladies, who 
flock to the city for amusement and 
gaiety in the winter, she made her 
husband promise that they would 
remain at Val-Saint during the entire 
year; for, said she, "in summer 
nearly every one has what is neces- 
sary ; but in winter there is much suf- 
fering among the poor, and if we are 
not at home to succor and relieve the 
indigent, who will replace us ?" You 
will agree with me that she spoke as 
a true Christian ; and you will also 
allow that if all our fine ladies 
thought and acted in like manner, 
they would gain in the benedictions 
of the poor what they might lose in 
pleasure, and it would certainly be 
f(»r the best. Between ourselves, M. 
le Marquis did not give in very wil- 
lingly to this proposition ; it was not 
that the dear man was fond of foolish 
dissipation ; but after passing through 
so much trouble, and having the 
happiness to see his true king once 
.more on the French throne, he could 
not resist the temptation of going to 
Paris occasionally to salute him, and 
was very desirous that madame 
should appear at court. She always 
excused herself on account of her 
delicate health ; and this reason, alas ! 
was only too true. Besides, she was 
quick-witted, like all women, and, 
without saying anything, saw that a 
new revolution was not far off. M. 
Je Marquis, on the contrary, boldly 
maintained that, as his dear masters 
Jiad only returned by a miracle, 
they would not be off very soon 
again. 1830 proved that our good 
lady was right. After that, there was 
no further talk about going to Paris ; 
but it was very sad at the chdteau. 
M. le Marquis became gloomy and 



half sick from grief, and madame, 
who had not been well for a long 
time, felt that the blow woidd kill 
her; in fact, she died shortly after- 
wards, leaving a little daughter, ten 
years old, and poor monsieur, \tTy 
lonely in his fine chiteau. 

As he feared God, he knew that a 
brave Christian should not sink under 
trials. By degrees he appeared re- 
signed to his fate, and resumed his 
ordinary occupations. Besides the 
care of his large estate, he hunted, 
fished, and visited his good neighbors 
He gave large sums for the resto- 
ration of our church and several 
chapels in the neighborhood. All 
this, and his great watchfulness over 
the peasants who were his tenants, 
made his time pass usefully. The 
evenings were rather wearisome. Our 
cur^ noticed it, and frequently visited 
the chdteau towards dusk, so that he 
could entertain him with the little 
news of the district, and read the 
public journals to him. They dis- 
cussed politics. When I say dis- 
cussed, it is only a way of speaking, 
as the curi and his lord always were 
of the same opinion ; but they could 
regret the past together, and build up 
new hopes for the future ; and in that 
manner bed-time came before they 
knew it. 

Little mademoiselle was brought up 

■ 

very seriously, without companions 
of her own age, or any amusements 
suitable to her rank. She was under 
the care of an old governess, named 
Dame Berthe, who was tall and se- 
vere in appearance, very well educa- 
ted, but so soft-hearted in regard io 
her pupil she always said amen to all 
her caprices, only regretting she could 
not guess them beforehand. 

M. le Marquis exercised no con- 
trol over his daughter ; his great con- 
fidence in Dame Berthe made him 
refer everything to her. All that nc 
asked of mademoiselle was that she 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



345 



should always look well and happy ; 
and in these two respects he had every 
reason to thank the good God. As 
for the rest, he used to say it would 
take a very skilful person to find any- 
thing to reprimand in such a sweet, 
good girl ; and there he was right. 

All the petting in the world could 
not spoil such a lovely nature, and 
every year she became more attrac- 
tive. You may tell me there was 
nothing very wonderful in that, since 
she had all she desired. I will an- 
swer that, on the contrary, many in 
her place would have become for 
that very reason wicked and disa- 
greeable. But mademoiselle inherit- 
ed from her departed mother, besides 
a gentle and sweet face, a soul still 
more gentle and sweet. She would 
not have hurt a fly ; her temper was 
so equal it resembled the tranquil 
water of a lake ; she knew that she 
was a rich heiress, and remained sim- 
ple in her manners, never haughty 
to others, always ready to be of ser- 
vice, and succeeded wonderfully in 
calming monsieur, her father, who, 
notwithstanding his goodness, was 
liable sometimes to be carried away 
with anger. Finally, I can say, with- 
out extravagance, that this last 
daughter of our dear lords had, by 
the grace of God, ail the virtues of 
her race united in her. Nevertheless, 
as nothing on earth is absolutely per- 
fect, I must add that she had two 
defects — one of body ; for when she 
was approaching her fifteenth year, 
having grown too fast, it was very 
evident that her spine was becom- 
ing curved ; and notwithstanding the 
greatest medical skill was employed, 
she became fearfully crooked. M. 
le Marquis was greatly afflicted ; but 
as for her, she quickly made her de- 
cision. 

" No one will want me," she said 
sweetly ; " and so, dear father, I will 
always remain with you." 



This idea consoled her perfectly. 
Being lively and gay, she laughed 
about her deformity so pleasantly 
that the people of the chateau 
ended by thinking it not the slight- 
est misfortune, quite as an acci- 
dent of the very least importance ; 
and, far from no one seeking her 
hand, the suitors came in procession 
to ask the honor of alliance with her. 
She was too keen not to see that her 
great wealth was the principal cause 
of their eagerness, and consequently 
refused all offers of marriage firmly 
and decidedly; and on that point 
the whole world could not make her 
change her mind. 

Her second defect was of the heart ; 
her great good-nature made her weak, 
as she never knew how to refuse 
when any one wept before her ; neith- 
er could she deny herself anything 
where her innocent whims and capri- 
ces were in question. It was certain- 
ly a fault; for having in her own 
hands wealth, power, and no superior 
to control her, you can imagine that 
'her kindness of heart would make 
her liable to fall frequently in the 
pathway of life, and drag others after 
her. 

Now we will again take up the 
story of the little Ragaudins at the 
time when we left them. 

You will remember that the foolish 
little Jeannette was resolved not to 
return to school, from shame of the 
whipping she had received that day, 
and was determined to go with the 
willing Jean-Louis, and complain to 
her godmother. They left the 
farm the following morning at the 
usual hour, passed right by the 
priest's house, and slowly ascended 
the slope before the chdteau. 

Mademoiselle had just come in 
from Mass, and was sitting in the 
parlor of the grand tower that over- 
looked the whole country. Dame 
Berthe was preparing her breakfast ; 



346 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



for although there were in the ante- 
room four or five big valets, who 
passed their time in gossiping for 
want of work, she thought no one 
but herself was capable of pouring 
the chocolate into the large silver 
cup, and presenting it to her dear 
mistress. Mademoiselle, as it hap- 
pened, felt a little bored that morning, 
and gently reproached Dame Berthe 
for not having found something to 
amuse her. 

" If I were not eighteen years old," 
said she, throwing herself in her big 
arm-chair, "I would willingly play 
with my doll. You have done well, 
my poor Berthe; I feel like a Htde 
girl, and mourn for my playthings. 
What can you invent to-day ? Fa- 
ther went away last evening. I am 
too tired to walk ; tell me a story. . ." 

Dame Berthe thought a moment; 
but in regard to stories, she scarcely 
knew any but those she had told 
and retold a hundred times. Mercy 
knows, that was not astonishing ; two 
persons who are always together, 
know the same things, and have' 
never anything new to tell each 
other. 

Mademoiselle looked at her gov- 
erness laughingly, and took an inno- 
cent delight in witnessing her em- 
barrassment. It was just at this 
moment that the Ragaud children 
emerged from the chestnut grove 
before the chiteau, and advanced 
straight to the bridge that led to the 
grand entrance. 

Mademoiselle, who was rather 
near-sighted, scarcely distinguished 
the little things; but she heard the 
wooden shoes, which went click-clack 
on the stone bridge, and requested 
Dame Berthe to see who it could be. 

" It is little Jeanne of Muiceron, 
and her brother, Jean-Louis, who 
have doubtless come to make you a 
visit,** she replied ; " for they are in 
their Sunday clothes." 



Here the good lady was mistaken ; 
for Pierrette held the holiday clothes 
under lock and key, and would not 
let them be worn on a week-day 
without explanation. 

Mademoiselle rose up joyfully; she 
dearly loved her god-daughter and 
all the Ragaud family, and, more 
than that, in her frame of mind, it 
was an amusement that came like a 
gift from heaven. 

" Make them come in, poor little 
things," said she ; " and I beg of you, 
Berthe, to run to the kitchen, and 
order cakes and hot milk, as I wish 
them to breakfast with me." 

Jean- Louis was the first to enter 
the parlor. Jeannette kept behind 
him, much less assured than you 
would have imagined. Until now she 
had scarcely ever seen her mistress, 
except on Sunday, when coming out 
from High Mass. Twice a year, on 
New Year's day and the anniversary 
of Jeannette's baptism, all the farm 
came in great ceremony to present 
their respects to monsieur and made- 
moiselle. Besides this, the visits to 
the chiteau were very rare ; and to 
come alone, of their own free wUl, 
and clandestinely, was something en- 
tirely out of the usual run. Jeannette 
began to understand all this, and felt 
more like crying than talking. 

Happily, mademoiselle took the 
thing quite natarally, and asked no 
questions. She kissed and caressed 
her god-daughter, seated her on her 
lap, and petted her so much that for 
the first half-hour the little thing had 
only permission to open her mouth 
that the bonbons could be put in. 

She thus had time to regain confi- 
dence, and Jean- Louis, who feared to 
hear her scolded, recovered his spirits. 
Notwithstanding all this, both were 
slightly overcome when mademoi- 
selle, after breakfast, suddenly asked 
them if they had not some favor to 
ask, promising to grant any request 



TIu Farm of Muiceron, 



347 



on account of the trouble they had 
taken in coming to visit her. 

This was the critical moment. 
Jeannet became red with embarrass- 
ment, and the little girl appeared stu- 
pefied. Dame Berthe gave her a 
slight tap on the cheek, to encourage 
her not to be ashamed before such a 
good godmother; but that did not 
untie her tongue. 

" Speak now," said Jeannet, push- 
ing her with his elbow. 

"Speak yourself," she replied in a 

whisper. " I don't know what to say." 

*' What is it that is so difficult to 

obtain ?" asked mademoiselle. " Is it 

something beyond my power ?" 

"Oh! no, no," said Jean-Louis. 
**" If mademoiselle wished, she has 
only to say a word . . ." 

" I will say it, my child ; but still, 
I must know what it is about." 

" Very well, mademoiselle, this is 
it — Jeanette does not wish to return 
to school." 

" She must be very learned, then," re- 
plied mademoiselle, smiling. " Come 
here, Jeanne; read me a page out 
of this big book." 

Only think of the blank amaze- 
ment and terror of Jeannette at that 
moment ! She did not know A from 
B, and found herself caught like a 
mouse ,in a trap. One last resource 
was left — it was to burst into tears. 
This was quickly done, and she was 
heard sobbing behind l\er godmother's 
arm-chair, where she had hidden 
herself at the first mention of read- 
ing. 

Mademoiselle, already very much 
moved, profited by this incident, and 
asked an explanation of the whole 
affair, which Jeannet related, trying 
his best to e.xcuse the little thing. 
Mademoiselle was very much amused 
at the recital, and was weak enough, 
instead of scolding Jeannette, to 
praise her for her spirit. She replaced 
her on her lap, wiped her tears, and, 



without further reflection, decided the 
case in her favor. 

" But," said she, " I do not wish 
my god-daughter to be as ignorant 
as a dairy-maid. Isn't that true, 
Jeanne ? You will not make me blush 
for you ? I don't want you to go any 
longer to Germaine's school, but it is 
on condition that you be a good girl, 
and learn to read and write. I will 
teach you myself; how will you like 
that ?" 

"O godmother!" cried the little 
one, enchanted. 

" Very well," replied mademoi- 
selle ; " then it is all arranged. Jean- 
Louis will return to Muiceron to tell 
your parents, and in future I will 
take care of you and teach you." 

And it was thus that the good 
young lady, without understanding 
the consequence of her act, in an 
instant changed the destiny of 
Jeanne Ragaud. Dame Berthe 
dared not object, although she saw 
at a glance there was much to blame 
in this decision. " Indeed, where the 
goat is tied, there he should browse," 
said our cur^, Jeanne, the child of 
peasants, should have remained a 
peasant, instead of becoming the 
plaything of a marquise. But made- 
moiselle's intention was not bad ; and, 
for the time being, to have \aken away 
her distraction would have been cruel, 
and Dame Berthe, although very 
wise, had not the courage to do it. 



VII. 

In the village, every one had his 
own idea on the subject. The Ra- 
gauds were happy, and rather proud ; 
M. le Cure shrugged his shoulders, 
keeping his remarks for a later pe- 
riod; Germaine was silent; Jean- 
Louis willingly sacrificed the com- 
pany of his little sister for what he 
thought her greater good; and, for 
the rest of the people, some said it 



348 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



was foolish, others that the Ragauds 
were always lucky. 

Jeannette was puffed up with joy 
and pride. It is justice to say that 
in a little while she became another 
child; her mind was so well occu- 
pied she lost all her wilfulness, de- 
voted herself to her studies, and was 
no longer disobedient and rebellious. 
M. le Marquis, enchanted to see his 
daughter so happy in her new duties, 
cheerfully approved of the measure, 
and declared the chiteau was a dif- 
ferent place after this humming-bird's 
warbling was heard in the house. 

As long as the summer lasted, the 
thing went on without great incon- 
venience, as the little one often went 
home to sleep, and thus did not 
entirely lose sight of her first destiny ; 
but with the bad weather, made- 
moiselle feared she might take cold 
by being so much exposed, and sent 
word to the Ragauds that she would 
keep hefall the time. 

Henceforward Jeannette was treat- 
ed like a daughter of the chateau. 
She had her own little room, well 
warmed, and a servant to obey her 
orders; her hair was braided in 
tresses that hung below her waist, 
which soon made her discover that 
she had the longest and thickest hair 
of any child in the village. Her cos- 
tume was also changed. She had 
fine merino dresses, prunella shoes 
with rosettes, and the calico apron, 
with big pockets, was replaced by a 
little silk affair, which only served to 
look coquettish. In the morning 
she read with her godmother, or em- 
broidered at her side; after dinner 
she drove out in an open carriage, 
and on Sundays assisted at Mass and 
Vespers, kneeling in the place re- 
served for the chateau, whilst her 
parents remained at the lower end of 
the nave, admiring her from a dis- 
tance. 

In the village were some sensible 



people, who openly condemned the 
whole proceeding ; especially Jacques 
Michou, formerly a comrade in the 
same regiment with Ragaud, and his 
great fiiend, who one day, in virtue of 
his long friendship, ventured a re- 
monstrance on the subject 

*^You see," said he to Ragaud, 
" the preferences of great ladies never 
last long. Suppose mademoiselle 
marries, or takes another caprice, 
what will become of Jeanne, with 
the habits of a nobleman's daughter ? 
Sl]e will not be able to wear wooden 
shoes or dress in serge; and her 
stomach will reject the pork, and 
cabbage, and rye bread. As for her 
mind, it will be pretty difficult ever 
to make her feel like a peasant again. 
Believe what I say, Ragaud, take 
your daughter home; later she will 
thank you, when her reason shall 
have been matured." 

It was certainly wise counsel ; but 
Ragaud had two reasons, sufficiently 
good in his opinion, to prevent his 
accepting such advice. In the first 
place, he thought it a great honor to 
see his daughter the friend and com- 
panion of M. le Marquis. This came 
from the heart on one side, as he was 
devoted body and soul to the good 
masters who had made his fortune; 
but I would not swear, on the other 
side, that it was . not mingled with a 
good deal of pride. Old Ragaud 
was easily puffed up with vanity, and 
sometimes at the wrong time, as will 
be seen in the sequel. 

The second reason was, he had 
long been persuaded that made- 
moiselle led too secluded a life. 

"So many crowns, and so few 
amusements," he often said. " Poor, 
dear soul ! it must be hard for her." 

Therefore, he regarded as a fortu- 
nate stroke her love for Jeannette; 
and if it would have drawn down the 
lightning from heaven on the roof of 
Muiceron, he could not, as much 



The Farm of Mukeron. 



349 



from conscience as from pity, have 
deprived mademoiselle of the daily 
pleasure that gave the busy-bodies 
so much to talk about. And then, 
it must be acknowledged that even 
among our most intelligent farmers 
there prevails a pernicious mania, 
which pushes them to elevate their 
children above themselves. They 
thus act contrary to the designs of 
God, who lets the seed fall where 
the tree should grow; and against 
themselves, as they are often, in the 
end, humiliated by what should have 
been their glory. But what can you 
expect ? A man is a man. 

You cannot pour more water in a 
pitcher than it will hold, and in a 
head more truth than it can under- 
stand. 

Ragaud was ill at ease when he 
perceived mademoiselle's splendid 
white horses draw up before the 
church door. Only fancy that before 
the eyes of the entire parish those 
fine horses were used as much for 
Jeannette as for the daughter of M. 
le Marquis! It was precisely on a 
Sunday, a little before High Mass, 
that our friend, Jacques Michou, had 
offered his good advice ; the moment 
was unpropitious, and Ragaud thus 
replied to his old comrade : 

*' Friend Jacques, I thank you for 
your words, as they are said with 
good intention ; but I nevertheless 
believe that I have not arrived at 
my age without knowing how to 
manage my own affairs ; which I say 
without wishing to offend you. As 
for dressing in serge, my daughter, 
being my only child, will have enough 
money to buy silk dresses if she 
should desire them; and that will 
not diminish her wealth. As for the 
pork, do you think it never appears 
on the tables of the nobility ? Who 
knows to the contrary better than I ? 
Twice a year M. le Marquis has a 
supply from Pierrette. Thus, my 



daughter will not lose at the chateau 
the taste of the meals at the farm. 
If we speak of rye bread, which is 
certainly the ordinary country food, 
' we have ours half mixed with flour, 
that makes the bread as fine as the 
best made in the city. I can tell 
you that mademoiselle will not refuse 
it to Jeannette, as she often eats it 
herself; in proof of which she fre- 
quently sends to Muiceron for some, 
without inquiring whether the flour 
is fresh or stale. So you may rest 
quiet, and let each one act as he 
pleases." 

And so, you see, without being im- 
polite, a man can be made to feel his 
advice is despised. 

We will now, if you please, leave 
Jeannette to parade her flne dresses 
in the chiteau, like the linnets that 
sing and hop in the sun, never car- 
ing for sportsmen or nets, and return 
to Muiceron and Jean-Louis. 

I think the dear fellow thought 
pretty much as Jacques Michou in 
relation to the little one ; but it was 
in the secret of his heart, and, as his 
friends appeared happy, he asked 
nothing more. His character as a 
child, so gentle and devoted, did not 
change as he grew up. Different 
from Jeannette, who became a young 
lady without learning much, he re- 
mained a peasant, but advanced in 
knowledge like a schoolmaster. His 
love of books did not interfere with 
his rustic labors. After one year in 
class, M. le Cur6 was obliged to teach 
him alone, as he knew too much to 
go with the others. But as Ragaud 
could not do without an assistant on 
the farm, and disHked to take a stran- 
ger, Jeannet returned to Muiceron, 
contented himself with one lesson on 
Sunday, and studied by himself the 
rest of the week. 

After his flrst communion, which, 
at his own request, was made rather 
late, but with perfect comprehension 



350 



The Farm of Muiceron, 



and a heart filled with love, he be- 
came still better. He was at that 
time a fine boy of thirteen, larger 
than usual for his age, with a hand- 
some face, brunette complexion, and ' 
beautiful, large, dark eyes. M. le 
Marquis remarked his distinguished 
air, which meant that he did not 
resemble the other young village 
boys. The truth was, Jeannet, who 
always had lived a peasant, had the 
manner and bearing of a gentleman 
dressed from caprice in a blouse; 
and yet I can assure you it was 
neither vanity nor pretension that 
gave him that appearance. 

Who would imagine that about 
this time he nearly committed a 
fault from excessive love of study ? 
And nevertheless, it so happened in a 
way which you will soon understand. 
One day, M. le Cur6, wishing to 
know how far this good child's mind 
could follow his, amused liimself by 
explaining to him the Latin of his 
Breviary. Jean-Louis caught at 
this novelty like a fish at a bait. He 
became passionately fond of the lan- 
guage, and, as he had no time dur- 
ing the day, gave up the greater 
part of the night to its study. Now, 
the young need good, sound sleep ; 
above all, when wearied with work- 
ing in the fields. Ragaud soon 
understood it ; I do not know how. 
He was very angry, and was not al- 
together wrong ; for, besides the fact 
that Jeannet lost flesh every day, 
he was afraid of fire, as his room 
was next to the grain-loft. Ragaud 
scolded Jean-Louis ; M. le Cur6 also 
came in for his share of reprimand ; 
and for the first time these three 
persons, who had always agreed so 
perfectly, were very unhappy on 
each other's account. 

"If you wish to wear the cassock," 
said Rugaud to his son, " say it. 
Although it will be a great sacrifice 
for me to lose your company and 



assistance, I will not prevent you 
from following your vocation. But 
if not, I beg of you to give up all 
this reading and writing, which keeps 
you up so late. I think that to tend 
the cows and till the earth, the village 
language is enough. You will know 
one day that for you, more than for 
others even, the work of the hands is 
more useful than that of the mind." 

Thereupon he turned his back, 
and Jeannet, who was going to ask 
his pardon, and assure him of his 
submission, could not reply. As he 
was very quick under his quiet man- 
ner, he pondered all the rest of the 
day upon his father's last phrase. 
What did it mean ? What was he to 
know one day ? What harm was there 
in becoming learned, as he would 
eventually be rich ? The poor boy 
suspected nothing ; and yet from that 
moment a secret and profound sad- 
ness entered into his heart. He 
bundled up his books, and took them 
back to M. le Cur6 with many 
thanks. Our cur^ admired his obe- 
dience, and Jeannet profited by the 
opportunity to conhde his grief to 
his dear friend. 

The good pastor reflected a mo- 
ment. It was, in truth, a great pain, and 
one which he did not expect so soon, 
to be obliged to confide to this child 
the secret of his birth ; but sooner or 
later he must know it, and whether 
to-day or to-morrow mattered little. 

" My son," said he, " you are good 
and reasonable ; I hope your conduct 
will never change. Sit down there 
near me, and listen." 

He related to him what we already 
know. He did it with gentle and 
holy words, fitted to pour balm into 
the wound that he was forced to 
make. He endeavored especially to 
show forth the mercy of God and the 
generosity of the Ragauds. Poor 
Jeannet little expected such a blow; 
he became pale iis death and for an 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



351 



instant appeared overwhelmed with 
astonishment and grief. His head was 
in a whirl; he rose, threw himself on 
his knees, weeping and clasping his 
hands. Our curd let this first burst 
of grief exhaust itself; and then, with 
kind remonstrance, finished by prov- 
ing that, after alt, grateful joy was 
more seasonable than this great 
affliction. How many in his place 
had been abandoned, without parents, 
without support, without instruction, 
condemned to want and suffering, 
and doubtless lost both for this world 
and paradise? Instead of such a 
fate, the good God had warmed the 
little bird without a nest, had preserv- 
ed him from evil, had provided for his 
wants; and now to-day, thanks to all 
his blessings, he was, more than any 
other, fitted to become a man worthy 
to rank with those around him. 

" It is true ! it is true !" cried Jean- 
Louis. ** But how can I reappear at 
the farm ? Alas ! I left it thinking 
myself the son of the house, and I 
will re-enter it a foundling 1" 

" There you do not speak wisely, 
Jeannet," said our cur/ ; " you will 
re enter Muiceron such as you left it, 
with the only difference that you are 
now obliged to be still more obedi- 
ent, more industrious, and more de- 
voted to your parents than ever in 
the past. It is not by having learn- 
ed the truth that your position is 
changed ; on the contrary, by not 
knowing it, you ran the risk of injur- 
ing it. When you believed yourself 
the son of the house, you naturally 
thought it allowable to follow your 
inclinations, and act as you wished. 
Now you must feel that is no longer 
possible. * An honest heart must 
pay its debts.' I know your heart; 
as for the debt, you see now how 
important it is. Your life will not 
suffice to pay it, but you can greatly 
lessen it by taking upon yourself the 
interests of your benefactors ; by re- 



lieving Ragaud, who is growing old, 
of the heaviest work in the fields ; by 
caring for good Mother Pierrette, who 
is a true soul of the good God ; and 
even by continuing to consider Jean- 
nette as your sister ; which gives you 
the right to offer her good advice. 
For remember what I tell you : * The 
distaff is known by the wood'; which 
means that it needs a strong ash-stick 
to support a roll of hemp, whilst a 
mahogany wand is only suitable for 
silk. Hence, I warn you that Jeanne 
Ragaud, after being accustomed to 
display herself in the marquis' car- 
riages, will one fine day fancy herself 
a silken distaff, and we will have to 
untwist the thread." 

" Jeanne will one day know I am 
not related to her," said Jean-Louis, 
weeping. '' What then can I say to 
her ?" 

" Why will she know it ? It would 
be useless to tell her. And besides, the 
little thing's heart is not spoiled ; she 
will remember that you are the friend 
of her childhood and her elder." 

" Father Ragaud," replied Jean- 
net, " told me this morning, if I wish- 
ed to wear the cassock, he would 
not hinder me." 

" Well, then ?" 

" Well, then, M. le Cur6, if I am 
ever sufficiently learned, can I not 
aspire to that great favor ?" 

" Before our present conversation 
would you have thought of it, Jean- 
net ?" 

" I believe not," replied he frankly, 
lowering his head. 

" Then, ray boy, give up the idea. 
To wear the cassock is, as you say, a 
great favor ; who knows it better than 
I, who, after wearing it forty years, 
acknowledge my unworthiness ? But 
you must not start on a road without 
knowing where it leads; and the 
cassock, taken through vexation or 
disappointment, carries its wearer 
direct to the path in which he walks 



352 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



with his back to heaven. You can 
save your soul by remaining on the 
farm, which I would not answer for 
if you followed a vocation formed in 
half an hour." 

" Yes, I will remain a farm-laborer," 
said Jeannet; <' tliat is my fate for all 
time." 

" You are vain, God pardon me !" 
cried M. le Cur6. " I never before 
noticed this monstrous fault in you, 
which has caused the loss of so many 
of the best souls. Farm-laborer 1 
that means a tiller of the fields and 
shepherd. My son, it is one of the 
noblest positions in the world; it 
was the calling of Abraham, of Jacob, 
of the great patriarchs of the Bible^ 
that I wished you to imitate; and 
they were not minor personages. If 
I were not a priest, I would wish 
to be a laborer; at least, I would 
gather with my own hand the wheat 
that I had planted, instead of receiv- 
ing it as the gift of a master, often a 
capricious and bad Christian. Yes, 
yes, my Jean, take care not to be 
more fastidious than the good God, 
who took his dear David, from mind- 
ing sheep, to be the ancestor of our 
Saviour. And then, I will ask you, 
how would your destiny be elevated 



if you were really the legitimate child 
of the Ragauds. Would you desire 
to be greater than your father? And 
what is he ?" 

Jeannet was convinced by all these 
good reasons, uttered in rather a firm 
tone, but which did not indicate dis- 
pleasure. He threw himself into the 
curb's -arms, and acknowledged his 
fault with a contrite and penitent 
heart His excellent good sense 
showed him that, in reality, it was 
only vanity that had made him speak 
thus. He promised to return to 
Muiceron, to preserve his secret, and 
to be the model of field laborers. 

Our curi gave him his blessing, 
and watched him, as he returned to 
the farm, with much emotion. Ah ! 
if poor Catharine had known how to 
sacrifice her self-love as her child 
had just done, how different would 
have been his fate! "But," sighed 
the good pastor, " there will always 
be frogs who will burst with the 
ambition of becoming oxen ; and if 
the ox, who thought the frog foolish, 
had known the elephant, undoubted- 
ly he would have acted ia the same 
manner. Poor human nature ! poor 
beasts ! The true Christian is the only 
wise man !" 



TO BB CONTINUU). 



The Evangelical Alliance. 



353 



THE EVANGELICAL ALLIANCE. 



"We meet," said the Rev. Dr. 
Adams, in his address of welcome 
to the members of the Evangelical 
Alliance in New York, " to manifest 
and express our Christian unity. 
Divers arc the names which we bear, 
both as to countries and churches — 
CJerman, French, Swiss, Dutch, Eng- 
lish, Scotch, Irish; Lutheran, Re- 
formed, Anglican, Presbyterian, Epis- 
copal, Methodist, Baptist, Indepen- 
dent — but we desire and intend to 
show that, amid all this variety of 
form and circumstances, there is a 
real unity of faith and life ; believing, 
according to the familiar expression 
of our common Christian creed, in 
the * Holy Catholic Church and the 
communion of saints.' " Dr. Adams 
only gave expression to a thought 
which was uppermost in the minds 
of nearly all those five or six hun- 
dred gentlemen who assembled in 
this city from the four quarters of 
tlie globe in the early part of Octo- 
ber, and filled the newspapers with 
hymns and speeches, and professions 
of love, and little disputes and quar- 
rels. "We are living," continued 
Dr. A'lams, " in times when, all over 
the world, there is a manifest longing 
for more of visible unity." So the 
first business of the conference, after 
the preliminary survey of the condi- 
tion of Protestantism in the midst of 
the Catholic populations of Europe — 
the review and inspection, so to 
speak, of the army in the field — was 
to devote a whole day to the discus- 
sion of Christian unity, in the hope 
of persuading themselves and the 
'^t of mankind that these warring 
sects were really one body of Chris- 
tian believers, and this theological 
VOL, xvni, — 23 



battle, in which they pass fifty-one 
weeks of the year, was nothing else 
than the communion of saints. In- 
deed, a day was not too long for such 
a task. Anglicans and Baptists, 
followers of John Wesley and disci- 
ples of Calvin, the clergy of Calvary 
and the preachers of the Greene 
Street meeting-house, deans of the 
English Establishment and dissenters 
who hate prelacy as an invention of 
the devil — they were all here togeth- 
er, trying to agree upon something, 
and to reconcile the fact of their 
Alliance with the fundamental doc- 
trine confessed by Dr. Hodge, of 
Princeton, as the motto of the con- 
ference as well as the excuse for its 
existence, that **The Church of 
Christ is one." We say it was no 
easy matter to reconcile the fact of 
the Alliance with the confession of 
this truth. An alliance supposes 
independent forces, acting together 
for a special and temporary purpose, 
but preserving distinct organizations, 
and acknowledging different com- 
manders. There can be no " alli- 
ance" between the members of 
the "one body in Christ," any 
more than there can be an 
alliance between the right and left 
eyes, or the foot and the great toe. 
Every one of the speakers was pain- 
fully conscious of this false position. 
" There is no more common reproach 
against Christians," said l5r. Hodge, 
" than that they are so much divided 
in their belief. There is some truth 
in this ; but, my hearers, we are one 
in faith." We confess we do not fully 
comprehend the distinction. Matters 
of faith, according to Dr. Hodge's 
definition, seem to be those great 



354 



The Evangelical Alliance. 



truths which all members of the 
Evangelical Alliance hold in com- 
mon; and matters of belief or opi- 
nion are everything else. The exist- 
ence of God, the Trinity, the Incar- 
nation, the resurrection of the dead, 
the punishment of hell, the rewards 
of heaven, and a few other doctrines, 
more or less— these are the Evangelical 
articles of faith. But on what autho- 
rity does Dr. Hodge restrict his creed 
to these few points ? Every sect re- 
presented in the Alliance has a more 
or less extensive formulary of belief, 
resting upon supposed divine revela- 
tion, and including a good many 
other tenets besides the half-dozen or 
so held up by Dr. Hodge. All de- 
pend upon precisely the ^same sanc- 
tion. AH are supposed to be drawn 
from the same source. The Baptist 
has just the same ground for insisting 
upon immersion that he has for be- 
lieving in the resurrection. The Cal- 
vinistic doctrine of total depravity 
has the same basis as the Calvinis- 
tic belief in a divine Saviour. The 
Anglican theory of an inspired but 
occasionally corrupt and lying church 
is just as well supported as the Angli- 
can's faith in the Trinity. What right 
have the members of the Alliance to 
decide that this dogma is a matter of 
faith, and that other is only a matter 
of opinion ? All the contradictory 
doctrines, they tell us, are found in the 
Bible. Who has the right to decide 
which are binding upon the con- 
science, and which are open to indi- 
vidual choice; which are certain, and 
which are only probable ? Oh ! these 
reverend gendemen will tell us, the 
essential joints of faith are those upon 
which we all agree. Very well Whom 
do you mean by " we " ? What right 
have you to restrict the company of 
the faithful to your eight or nine sects ? 
You are not a majority of the Chris- 
tians in the world. You are even a 
small minority of those who believe 



in the very points which you make the 
test of evangelical Christianity. There 
are more than two hundred millions 
of Christians who believe, just as you 
do, in God, in the Incarnation, in the 
resurrection, and in heaven and hell; 
but you do not pretend to be one 
body with them. If all who accept 
what you style the points of faith are 
fellow-members with you, why do you 
not include Catholics ? And, besides, 
if you are to arrive at unity by a pro- 
cess of elimination — throwing out one 
dogma after another until you reach 
a condition of theological indifferent- 
ism where a certain number of sects 
can meet without quarrelling — why 
should you stop at one point rather 
than another? There is no logical 
reason why you should not eliminate 
the doctrine of eternal punishment, 
and take in the Universalists ; or the 
Trinity, and take in the Unitarians ; 
or Christian marriage, and take in 
the Latter Day Saints ; or the whole 
'Bible, and take in evolutionists, and 
pure theistSy and the prophets and 
followers of free religion. Once be- 
gin to make arbitrary discriminations 
between faith and belief, as you now 
do, calling everything upon which 
your various denominations agree a 
matter of ascertained truth, and every- 
thing upon which they differ a sub- 
ject of individual opinion, and it 
becomes impossible to say why your 
common creed should not be nar- 
rowed down to a single dogma — for 
example, to the omnipotence of God, 
or the existence of matter, or the 
atomic theory, or the nebular hypo- 
thesis. Then, at least, you would be 
consistent, and your Alliance would 
be a much more powerful body than 
it seems to be at present. 

This difficulty seems to have been 
passed over by the Conference in 
New York; but the fact of denom- 
inational differences could not be for- 
gotten. It stared the meeting in 



Thi Evangelical Alliance. 



355 



the face at every turn. It got into 
nearly all the speeches. It appeared 
in almost every prayer. One after 
another, the preachers and essayists 
were moved to apologize for it and 
explain it. Dr. Hodge laid down 
the rule, with great applause from 
his uneasy listeners, that any organi- 
sation formed for the worship of 
Christ was a church, and every 
church must be recognized by every 
other; that churches differed so 
radically about the great truths of 
religion was no more to be wonder- 
ed at, and no more to be regretted, 
than that men and women should be 
organized into different towns, and 
states, and nations ; and, as a conse- 
quence, he held that the sacraments 
of one church were just as good as 
the sacraments of another, and the 
orders of one just as good as the or- 
ders of another. In fact, said he, 
** no church can make a minister any 
more than it can make a Christian.'' 
This remark was also received with 
applause, in which it is to be hoped 
that the Church of England delegates 
and the Episcopalians cordially join- 
ed. There were three bishops of the 
Protestant Episcopal Church in the 
Conference; and after the centuries 
of war which their denomination has 
• waged for the validity of Anglican 
orders and the unbroken apostolic 
succession, it must have been an in- 
expressible comfort to them to be 
told by the Alliance that they were 
no more bishops than Henry Ward 
Beccher, and Octavius B. Frothing- 
ham, and the Rev. Phoebe Hanaford. 
TTiey took it meekly, however, and 
did not even mind being told that 
their church could not make a bishop 
or any other minister. The Dean of 
Canterbury was there, as the repre- 
sentative of the Primate of all Eng- 
land, and he took the rather singular 
position, for a churchman, that de- 
nominational differences are rather 



an advantage than otherwise. God's 
works in nature, he said, are marked 
by variety. All creation, from inani- 
mate objects up to man, is char- 
acterized by diversity. So it is also, 
he continues, with religions. The 
parallel, of course, supposes that the 
religions are imperfect and " natural " 
works, which we hardly expected 
an Anglican dean to admit. An 
imperfect religion is one that is part- 
ly true and partly false; that is to 
say, it is a system of human devis- 
ing, and not a revelation from 
God. And Dean Smith confesses 
that all the churches embraced in 
the Alliance are natural rather than 
supernatural works when he accounts 
for their diversities by the limitations 
of human reason. '* The gift of 
instinct," he tells us, " is perfect, and 
produces uniformity ;" but " reason 
is full of diversity." It is " tenta- 
tive." " It tries and fails, and tries 
again, and improves its methods, and 
succeeds partially, and so advances 
indefinitely onward, and, it may be, 
at times falls back, but never becomes 
perfect." All this means, if it means 
anything, that the cardinal points 
of agreement between the so-called 
Evangelical sects, or their faith, as 
Dr. Hodge terms it, are the only 
points of any creed which are not 
subject to constant change. The 
dogma which is professed to-day may 
be repudiated to-morrow, and taken 
up again next week. The creed for 
which Cranmer went to the stake 
may be denounced as heresy by the 
Archbishop of Canterbury, and 
preached as " moderately true " by 
the Archbishop of York. In fine, 
Anglicans get their faith in God and 
the resurrection by instinct, and the 
rest of the Thirty-nine Articles by rea- 
son ; and the result, of course, is that 
the proportion of truth there may be 
in religion is regulated entirely by the 
intellectual capacity of the believer. 



356 



The Evangelical Alliance, 



Salvation, according to this view, is 
largely the result of a school edu- 
cation. 

Moreover, says the dean, if we knew 
just what to believe, we should 
not take much interest in religion. 
" Truth and the Bible are nowhere 
valued, except where there is discus- 
sion, and debate, and controversy 
about them." It adds wonderful 
zest to a dogma to have to dig for 
it ; and faith, like the biceps muscle, 
is developed by violent contention. 
But if this is so, what does the world 
want of Evangelical Alliances? If 
religious truth is only struck out in 
the heat of religious wranglings, like 
sparks from the contact of flint and 
steel, the more fighting the better. 
The Church of England must have 
found out pretty much everything 
worth knowing in the persecuting 
days of Edward and Elizabeth, and 
forgotten more than half of it in the 
subsequent years of peace; while 
the era of brotherly love, towards 
which the Alliance looks with long- 
ing eyes, will be a period of religious 
indifference or of almost universal 
negation. 

Dean Smith is logical in one 
thing. "If our state," he says, " is 
not one of attainment, but one of 
progress ; if, at the most, we are feel- 
ers and seekers after God," why, 
then, of course, we must look upon 
all denominations with equal favor. 
One is just as good as another 
where none has any faith. But 
what, then, becomes of the Anglican 
idea of a visible church and an 
apostolic succession ? Where is that 
depository of divine truth to which 
churchmen comfort themselves by 
referring ? What is the meaning of 
that prayer in the litany of the 
Anglican and Episcopal service, 
"From heresy and schism good 
Lord deliver us " ? Dr. Hodge, in- 
deed, believes that "no church can 



make a minister"; Dut the Protest- 
ant Episcopal Church is very positive 
and particular about its orders, and 
is entirely satisfied that it can make 
bishops, priests, and deacons; that 
nobody else among Protestants can 
make them ; and that they are neces- 
sary to the legitimate administration 
of sacraments and the well-being of 
Christian society. Pray, how are 
these contradictions to be settled ? 
There was a charming illustration of 
unity one Sunday during the ses- 
sions of the Conference, when six 
clergymen, representing five or six 
different denominations, joined in a 
celebration of the Lord's Supper at 
the Madison Square Presbyterian 
Church; and a very pretty row 
there was about it afterwards. The 
service was held in the afternoon, 
and the company of celebrants includ- . 
ed the Dean of Canterbury (Angli- 
can), the Rev. Dr. Adams (Presby- 
terian), the Rev. Matteo Prochet, of 
Genoa (Waldensian), Narayan Shes- 
hadri, the Bombay convert, who has 
been ordained, we believe, accord- 
ing to th^ rite of the Free Church 
of Scotland, Bp. Schweinitz (Mora- 
vian), and Dr. Angus, of London 
(Baptist). So far as we can under- 
stand the ceremony, nc^ particular 
liturgy or custom was followed, but 
the representative of each sect threw 
in a little of his own religion. Dr. 
Adams opened the exercises with a 
prologue. The dean followed with 
an apology, and then read the Apos- 
tles' Creed and a collect, from the 
Book of Common Prayer, Dr. Angus 
" gave thanks for the bread," his 
prayer serving, apparently, instead 
of a consecration. Then the bread 
was handed around by the lay dea- 
cons of the church, " Bp. Schwei- 
nitz was called on to give thanks for 
the cup, which was afterward passed 
to the congregation." After some 
further address, the dean dismissed 



The Evangelical Alliance, 



357 



the assemblage with a benediction. 
We can understand how the vari- 
ous dissenting ministers might rea- 
sonably take part in such a cere- 
mony ; but the spectacle of a dignitary 
of the Church of England in such a 
situation would be incomprehensible, 
had not long experience taught us 
that all manner of amazing and in- 
consistent things are to be looked 
for in the Anglican Church as matters 
of course. No sooner had the story 
of this joint-communion service ap- 
peared in the newspapers than the 
bubble of Christian unity burst with a 
tremendous report. An ex- bishop of 
the Anglican Establishment, the Right 
Rev. Dr. Tozer, of Central Africa, 
who happened to be in New York, 
addressed a letter of remonstrance to 
the Protestant Episcopal bishop of 
this diocese. He was shocked at the 
dean's breach of ecclesiastical order, 
and terrified at the consequences 
which might follow his rash and 
insubordinate conduct. If one ser- 
vice is just as good as another, why 
DaturaUy, says JBp. Tozer, people 
will run after the attractive worship 
of the Church of Rome; and *' the 
promise held out by the Episcopal 
Church in this land, of becoming a 
haven of rest to men who are tossed 
to and fro by the multiplicity of 
contending creeds and systems, is 
nothing else than a mistake and a 
delusion." Dr. Tozer's letter found 
its way into the newspapers; and 
then a bitter controversy broke out 
among the Episcopalians, bishops, 
priests, and laymen berating one an- 
other in the secular press, and striv- 
ing in vain to determine whether 
their church was a church or not. 
Only one thing seems to have been 
finally settled by the quarrel, and 
that was, that on two of the most im- 
portant of religious questions— one 
relating to the very foundation of 
the visible church organization, the 



other to the most solemn of religious 
rites — the Anglican denomination has 
no fixed belief at alL That very dig- 
nified and exclusive body, which sets 
so much store by the apostolical 
succession, and has strained history 
and reason for so many years to es- 
tablish the validity of its own orders, 
has practically treated ordination as 
a thing of no consequence whatever. 
It has admitted Presbyterian preach- 
ers to its benefices, and recognized 
the validity of priestly functions per- 
formed by men to whom it denies 
the priestly character; and the best 
explanation its defenders can give 
of such inconsequent conduct is 
that the "intrusion of unordained 
persons into English livings '' was 
one of the "irregularities of the 
Reformation period." (See letter 
of " Theologicus " to the New York 
Tribune of Oct. 20, 1873.) With 
regard to the Lord's Supper, the 
position of the Anglican and Pro- 
testant Episcopal Churches is still 
more curious. All the members of 
those two organizations believe it to 
be a sacrament of peculiar, if not 
awful, sacredness. The majority pro- 
bably hold that the body and blood 
of our Lord, in some mysterious and 
indefinite way, are communicated to 
the devout receiver of the consecrat- 
ed bread and wine, if they are not 
literally present with the visible ele- 
ments; and some High Churchmen 
actually believe in the real presence. 
Yet, in the face of all this, we find 
the Episcopal Church admitting that 
the proper celebration of the Lord's 
Supper does not require the interven- 
tion of a regularly ordained minister. 
Any kind of a service will do, and 
any kind of a celebrant, even a lay- 
man. It is a great mistake tO sup- 
pose, as some Episcopalians did, that 
there was anything novel or unbe- 
coming in the Dean of Canterbury's 
participation with heretics in the per- 



358 



The Evangelical Alliance. 



formance of a mutilated and non- 
descript service. The Dean of 
Westminster (Dr. Stanley) did a 
similar thing at the meeting of the 
Evangelical Alliance in Berlin in 
1859, and an overzealous church- 
man who complained of it to the 
Archbishop of Canterbury was rebuk- 
ed for his pains. Dr. Muhlenberg, 
one of the leading Protestant Episco- 
pal clergymen of this city, expressed 
the only logical Protestant view of 
the joint communion question in an 
address before the Alliance on the 
last day of its meeting. The Lord's 
Supper, according to Dr. Muhlenberg, 
is " the highest social act of religion, " 
and the custom of restricting its cele- 
bration, each denomination to itself, 
is in the highest degree objectionable. 
As a matter of convenience, it is bet- 
ter, as an ordinary rule, that com- 
municants should have their own 
'* church homes, so to call them, 
where, under their own pastors, and 
amid their families and friends, they 
feel it a good and pleasant thing so 
to participate in the sacred feast. 
They have an indisposition to go for 
it beyond these companies of immedi- 
ate brethren. Nor is this unsocial, if 
it be merely a preference for their 
own associations, for the sacramental 
modes and customs to which they, 
like their fathers before them, have 
been accustomed ; but . when they 
do it on religious grounds, when they 
make it a matter of conscience, when 
they would forego the communion 
altogether rather than partake of it 
outside of their own societies, then it 
is that unsocialness, to call it by its 
mildest name, which it is hard to 
reconcile with aught of hearty reali- 
zation of membership in the one 
body of Christ." 

Dr. Muhlenberg's position is so 
peculiar that we have given his state- 
ment of it in his own language, lest 
we may be accused of misrepresenting 



him. It never occurred to ns to 
complam of heresy and schism on the 
ground that they are '* so unsociable," 
and we never supposed that the most 
liberal of Protestant sects defended 
denominationalism on the plea of 
custom and education. The manner 
of taking communion, according to 
Dr. Muhlenberg, seems to be as much 
the result of habit as anything else 
— ^like the manner of dining or thew- 
ing tobacco. An Episcopalian has 
no better reason for kneeling reve- 
rently at the chancel-rail, and con- 
suming the consecrated bread and 
wine, rather than sitting at ease in 
his pew while unconsecrated food 
and drink are passed to him by lay 
deacons, than the reason that he was 
brought up to that fashion, and feels 
more comfortable in the society of 
his own friends and neighbors. This 
being the case, it follows, of course, 
that the bread and wine are just as 
good without consecration as with it; 
just as much the body and blood of 
Christ in the bakery and the wine- 
shop as on the altar; and the most 
rigorous Anglican will be entirely 
justified in communicating according 
to any rite that he fancies. Indeed, 
Dr. Muhlenberg declares that the 
various sacramental rites and cere- 
monies are all more or less agreeable 
to Scripture, but not essential. The 
sacrament is just as good without 
anv of them. Our Lord command- 
ed us to celebrate the holy com- 
munion in remembrance of him. 
Well, then, let us go and do it, each 
in his own way, each after his own 
idea of what it means, each admitting 
that every other way is good, and 
perfectly indifferent to the tremen- 
dous question whether the elements 
are the body and blood of the Saviour 
or only common bread and wine. 
Nay, there is no need of an officiating 
ministry. The Christian eucharist is 
only the antitype of the Jewish Pass- 



Tlu Evangelical Alliance. 



359 



over ; and as '* an of&ciatfng ministry 
was not required for the ancient 
priestly dispensation, surely none can 
be demanded for the antitype under 
the unpriestly dispensation of the 
GospeL" That simplifies the adminis- 
tradon very much ; but it occurs to 
us that a sincere Episcopalian, of less 
liberal views than Dr. Muhlenberg, 
might be embarrassed by the joint 
communions which he so strongly 
recommends. We can imagine such a 
man going into Dr. Adams's church, 
while the Dean of Canterbury, and 
the Presbyterian and Baptist, and 
other ministers, stood grouped to- 
gether before the pulpit, and asking 
what the ceremony meant. A deacon 
answers, *' Oh ! it is nothing but the 
commwiion service ; you had better 
join us." " But what is your com- 
munion service ? Is it the participa- 
tion of the bod Y and blood of Christ ?" 
^ Not at all ; it is merely the highest 
social act of religion." " Have the 
bread and wine been consecrated ?" 
" Oh ! yes — ^that is to say, no; well, you 
see, these gentlemen don't all think 
alike about it. One says it is the 
sacrament of the body and blood of 
Christ, and another says it is nothing 
but a rite of hospitality \ and we let 
every man choose for himself." " But 
has there been no blessing of the 
elements ? No prayer over them ?" 
" Yes; a plenty of prayers." " And 
what was the intention of the cele- 
brant? The intention, of course, 
regulates the quality of the act." 
"Oh! there were five or six inten- 
tions; for there were h\t or six cele- 
brants, and no two of them meant 
the same thing." Here the inquirer, 
if he had any sense, would probably 
conclude that the ceremony was 
nothing but a sacrilegious travesty 
on the holy communion, and would 
retire deeply scandalized; and re- 
membering, first, that the Thirty- nine 
Articles of his creed forbid '^ any man 



to take upon him the office of minis- 
tering the sacraments before he be 
lawfully called and sent to execute 
the same," and, secondly, that the pre- 
face to the ordination service of the 
Episcopal Church declares that no 
man shall be suffered to execute any 
of the functions of a minister in 
Christ's church except he be duly 
ordained by a bishop, he will doubt- 
less be not a little puzzled to account 
for the presence of a dignitary like 
the Dean of Canterbury in such a 
motley assemblage. 

The protests against joint commu- 
nion are not confined, however, to 
the Episcopal denomination. The 
Baptists are likewise exercised in 
mind about it. They refuse to re- 
cognize the validity of infant baptism, 
or to admit to the Lord's Supper 
those who have not been duly bap- 
tized; and hence, with the great 
majority of Christians they do not 
feel at liberty to communicate. The 
Baptist clergyman from London who 
participated in the performance at 
Dr. Adams's church has exposed him- 
self to violent criticism from his own 
brethren, and, like Dean Smith, is 
accused of forgetting ecclesiastical 
discipline and theological orthodoxy 
under the impulse of a moment of 
gushing enthusiasm. What a charm- 
ing illustration of Christian unity 
this joint-communion service has 
afforded ! 

The more closely we look into the 
Alliance, the more preposterous appear 
its attempts to jumble up conflicting 
doctrines, mingle contradictions, and 
confuse intelligence. If it is right 
for different sects to communicate 
together, it must be right for them to 
perform all other religious services 
together, and doctrine and ritual be- 
come alike insignificant. Hence, \Ke 
are not surprised to find among the 
papers presented to the Conference 
an essay on the Interchange of Pul- 



36o 



The Evangelical Alliance, 



pitSy in which the Rev. Mr. Conrad, 
of Philadelphia, argues that it is a 
Christian duty for £pisc6pal congre- 
gations sometimes to listen to the 
sermons of Baptist preachers, and for 
Baptists to invite the ministrations 
of a Presbyterian, and so on — ^hands 
across, down the middle and up 
again ; orthodox to-day, heretic next 
week. Is it necessary to believe 
anything ? Is there any such thing 
as faith ? Is there any reality in 
religions which have no dogmas, 
and which look upon truth and 
falsehood, worship and blasphemy, as 
perfectly indifferent? Surely this is 
reducing Protestantism to absurdity. 
You gentlemen have adopted the 
principle of individual infallibility, 
first, to declare that the church of 
God is the mother of falsehood, and 
then to accuse each other of error 
and deceit; and after multiplying 
your subdivisions till there is danger 
of universal ruin and dissension, you 
come together and declare that there 
is no such thing as religious certi- 
tude; no choice between one sect 
and another; no difference between 
God's messengers and the lying 
prophets of Baal. Your plan of 
composing controversies is to obliter- 
ate the distinction between good 
and evil ; and if we can believe Mr. 
Conrad, the plan of the apostles 
was the same. They founded inde- 
pendent congregations, and gave 
them such lax notions of faith that, 
as Mr. Conrad remarks, "the primi- 
tive church was inoculated with er- 
ror." Nevertheless, the apostles 
and their first disciples went about 
freely from church to church, ex- 
changing pulpits, so to speak; and 
we do not read that the denomination 
to which Peter belonged had any 
objection to an occasional sermon 
from Paul, or that the Beloved Dis- 
ciple was not welcomed as a good 
Christian minister when he visited 



the sect established by S. Luke. In 
those blessed days there was, we be- 
lieve, a true interchange of pulpits. 
But Mr. Conrad neglects to explain 
the warning which S. Paul gave to 
the Christians at Rome : 

" Now I beseech you, brethren, to 
mark them who cause dissensions 
and offences contrary to the doctrine 
which you have learned; and to 
avoid them. 

"For they that are such serve 
not Christ our Lord, but their own 
belly: and by pleasing speeches, 
and good words, seduce the hearts 
of the innocent." * 

What have the Episcopalians, with 
their fiction of a hierarchy, to say of 
this plan of undenominational preach- 
ing ? How are we to reconcile the 
presence of a Presbyterian parson in 
one of their pulpits with the rule, al- 
ready quoted, which forbids the exer- 
cise of ministerial functions by one 
who has not received Episcopal or- 
dination ? And what would a Bap- 
tist say to a service conducted in 
one of their churches by a Methodist 
who had been sprinkled in infancy, 
and therefore, according to the Bap- 
tist view, not baptized at all ? 

The plain truth of the whole mat- 
ter is that there is no such thing as 
Christian unity in any of these peri- 
odical performances of the Evan- 
gelical Alliance. The sects are not 
drawing closer together. Denomina- 
rional differences are not disappear- 
ing. The quarrelling is as angry and 
as noisy as ever. But Protestantism 
has taken alarm. It is confronte<l 
by two dangerous enemies, which are 
growing stronger and stronger every 
day, and it is anxious to keep the 
peace for a little while in its own 
family, that it may the better look 
after its defence. One of these dan- 
gers is the philosophical infidelity 

* Bomans xfi. 17, iB. 



The Evangelical Alliance, 



361 



which Protestandsm itself has bred. 
The other is the Catholic faith, against 
which Protestantism is a rebellion. 
An address, prepared by the late 
Merle d'Aubign6 for the conference 
which was to have beenjield three 
years ago, was presented at the meet- 
ing in New York. The historian of 
the Reformation tells his brethren 
some plain and unwelcome truths 
about their condition. " The despot- 
ic and arrogant pretensions of Rome," 
he says, " have reached in our days 
their highest pitch, and we are conse- 
quently more than ever called upon 
to contend against that power which 
dares to usurp the divine attributes. 
But that is not ail. While supersti- 
tion has increased, unbelief has done 
so still more. . . . Materialism and 
atheism have in many minds taken 
the place of the true God. Science, 
which was Christian in the finest in- 
tellects of former days, in those to 
whom we owe the greatest discoveries, 
has become atheistic among men who 
now talk the loudest. . . . Eminent 
literary men continually put forward 
in their writings what is called posi- 
tivism, rejecting everything that goes 
beyond the limit of the senses, and 
disdaining all that is supernatural . . . 
Unbelief has reached even the minis- 
try of the word. Pastors belonging 
to Protestant churches in France, 
Switzerland, Germany, and other 
Continental countries, not only reject 
the fundamental doctrines of the 
faith, but also deny the resurrection 
of Jesus Christ, and see in him 
nothing more than a man who, ac- 
cording to many among them, was 
even subject to errors and faults. A 
Synod of the Reformed Church in 
Holland has lately decreed that, when 
a minister baptizes, he need not do it 
in the name of the Father, and of the 
Son, and of the Holy Ghost. ... At 
^n important assembly held lately in 
German Switzerland, at which were 



present many men of position, both 
in the church and state, the basis of 
the new religion was laid down : * No 
doctrines ' was the watchword on that 
occasion ; * no* new doctrines, what- 
ever they may be, in place of the old ; 
liberty alone.' Which means liberty 
to overthrow everything; and too 
truly some of those ministers believe 
neither in a personal God nor in the 
immortality of the soul^ Nor was 
Merle d'Aubign6 alone in his bitter 
judgment of European Protestantism. 
The same feeling is more or less 
clearly manifest in the essays of vari- 
ous foreign delegates. Mr. Prochet, 
the Waldensian minister from Genoa, 
in presenting a sketch of the religious 
condition of Italy, laid great stress 
upon the close union, brotherly feel- 
ing, and unflagging energy of the 
priesthood. "The clergy," said he, 
" with few exceptions, have gathered 
themselves more closely around the 
Holy See, determined to stand or 
fall with it." Father Hyacinthe lec- 
tured in Rome; " but the clergy left 
him alone, or his few adherents were 
such that nothing of any importance 
could be done by them." Among 
the laity there is a large proportion 
of devout adherents of the church. 
There is a great multitude which does 
not practise any religion, and takes 
more interest in politics than in faith ; 
but this party has not renounced its 
allegiance to the church, and believes 
in Rome as far as it believes in any- 
thing. Atheists are not numerous, but 
their influence is constantly increas- 
ing. Protestants are the fewest and 
the weakest of all. There are con- 
gregations of foreign Protestants, but 
" their influence is of very little value." 
The Waldensians have a theological 
school at Florence; but we are puzzled 
to know what they can teach, for " it 
is open to students of every denomi- 
nation ; they are never asked to leave 
theur religion to join another." Alto- 



362 



The Evangelical Alliance. 



gether, the Protestants of Italy, mere 
handful as they are, are divided into 
ten different denominations. The 
Rev. M. Cohen Stuart, of Rotterdam, 
gave a somewhat similar sketch of the 
situation in Holland. Nowhere, he 
said, has the Pope more pious de- 
votees and more zealous adherents 
than in the land which gave England 
William of Orange and sheltered the 
Pilgrim Fathers. If the church is 
not increasing there in numbers, it is 
daily adding to its power and influ- 
ence. " There is no rent of heresy 
in the solid mass of that mediaeval 
building save the remarkable schism 
of the so-called Jansenists ; . . . but 
this sect, with its few thousands of ad- 
herents, is far more interesting from its 
history than important from actual in- 
fluence." Protestantism, on the other 
hand, shows little but dissension, with 
a strong tendency towards scepticism. 
" There is a tide of neology, a flood 
of unbelief, which no dikes or moles 
can keep back. ... A great many, 
a sadly increasing number, are more 
or less forsaking the Gospel and be- 
coming estranged from Christian 
truth. Materialism and irreligion 
are slaying their tens of thousands in 
the ranks of so-called Christians." 
Mr. Stuart draws a fearful picture of 
the disputes of the different Protest- 
ant theological schools, and con- 
tinues : " It is evident, indeed, that 
the utter confusion into which the 
Reformed Church of Holland has 
fallen cannot last very long, lest it 
should lead to a total disorganization 
and overthrow of the whole. . . , 
Nothing for this moment is left but 
to bear, though not without earnest 
protest, a state of things too abnor- 
mal and too absurd to last." Of 
Switzerland, again, we have almost 
precisely the same story. The Rev. 
Eugene Reichel, of Montmireil, com- 
plained of the activity of the Catho- 
lic Church in his little republic, and 



the great increase of infidelity among 
Protestants. '*A deplorable unbe- 
lief has led captive the masses of the 
people. They have left their church- 
es to engulf themselves in the vortex 
of business and worldly pleasure. . . . 
On every side infidelity is become 
rampant, and much more aggressive 
than in former years. Better organ- 
ized than once, and finding an effi- 
cient support both in the indifierence 
of the people and the countenance 
afforded by government, this insidi- 
ous foe, closing up its ranks, is not 
slow to assail the truth." Of Spain 
Mr. Fliedner gave a vague and not 
overbrilliant account, and of Greece 
Mr. Kalopathakes could only say 
that Protestants had a very hard time 
of it there, and that there were very 
few of them. American missionaries 
have been sustained in Greece for 
forty years, and yet there is only 
one meeting-house in the kingdom. 
Mr. Decoppet, of Paris, declares that 
'^ the Protestant population of France 
is still but a feeble minority, which 
holds its own, but does not sensibly 
increase," while the church is evident- 
ly gaining every day in influence; 
and, moreover, Protestantism is torn 
by internal discords, and weakened 
by rationalistic tendencies, which 
give its enemies '* a plausible pre- 
text for their assertion that Protest- 
antism leads necessarily to negation, 
and that it is on the high-road to 
dissolution." In Denmark, accord- 
ing to Dr. Kalkar, of Copenhagen, 
Catholicism has made rapid and ex- 
traordinary progress. In Protestant 
Sweden, " unbelief has spread among 
the people, especially among the 
educated classes," and " the moral 
condition of the people is tolerably 
low." 

Upon the discussion of the various 
methods proposed in the conference 
to combat the enemies of Protes- 
tantism we do not know that we 



Catholic Literature in England since the Reformation, 363 



need linger. lofidel philosophy en- 
gaged most of the attention of the 
German and American delegates; 
but how could Protestantism do bat- 
tie with its own offspring ? The de- 
bate on the Darwinian theory was 
empty — nay, it was almost childish. 
The essays on the same subject were 
timid and inconsequential. And 
slrange to say, when the day for de- 
molishing the Pope of Rome came 
around, the fiery, aggressive spirit 
which animated the Alliance in former 
(lays was wanting. There were rumors 
of dissatisfaction among the breth- 
ren at the time-honored attitude of 
the Evangelical Alliance towards the 
Scarlet Woman of Babylon ; and it 
was thought that while atheism was 



so rife, and faith so weak, and Pro- 
testantism dying, so to speak, of 
inanition, it was unwise to quarrel 
with any kind of Christianity which 
seemed able to arrest the downward 
progress. Those who judged thus 
instinctively felt, what they would be 
slow to acknowledge, that between 
the Catholic Church and no faith at 
all there is not a middle position. 
The whole Conference teaches the 
same truth. Protestantism drifts 
away into the darkness and the storm, 
but the Rock of Peter stands im- 
movable, the same yesterday, and to- 
day, and for all time. 

'' Upon this rock will I build my 
church, and the gates of hell shall 
not prevail against it." 



CATHOLIC LITERATURE IN ENGLAND SINCE THE 

REFORMATION. 



CONCLVDBD. 



After the death of Alexander 
Pope, in 1744, it was a long time be- 
fore English Catholic literature could 
boast of any living name. Prelates, 
indeed, and priests there were, whose 
admirable writings circulated among 
their co-religionists, but few who were 
known to the public generally as 
successful aspirants for literary fame. 
Yet the devotional and controversial 
writings of the time — the works, for 
example, of Bps. Hay, Challoner, 
and Milner — took no mean part in 
the cultivation of the intellect and 
taste. The influence of classical 
authors from without was discovera- 
ble in their style, and they kept pace 
in general with the enlarged experi- 
ence of the age. There is no philoso- 
phy so deep as Catholic philosophy ; 



none so comprehensive, affecting, and 
complete. It embraces all other 
philosophies so far as they are sound ; 
and far from being at variance with 
any branch of human science, it in- 
corporates all knowledge into itself 
as parts of a system of universal 
truth. It is the philosophy of life 
and of society ; the philosophy of the 
soul, her joys and sorrows, her aspira- 
tions and ends. It solves all the 
questions which vex the inquiring 
spirit, so far as it is possible for them 
to be solved under our present condi- 
tions of being. Catholic philosophy, 
under this point of view, is set forth 
in the most touching manner by 
Bp. Challoner in his Meditations for 
Every Day in the Year, Apart from 
the edifying character of these reflec- 



364 Catholic Literature in England since ike Reformation. 



tions, it is impossible to read them at* 
tentively without allowing them dis- 
tinct literary merit. While they evince 
a tenderness and pathos that are sure 
to win on the reader's heart, they 
exhibit also much art in composition. 
The sentences are well balanced and 
musical ; the subject is always expos- 
ed methodically; and the appeals, 
however addressed to the feelings, 
are controlled by strict reasoning. 

Take, again, Bp. Milner's End 
of Controversy — a series of letters 
addressed to the Protestant Bishop 
of St. David's. It is a coAiplete 
armory. If Dr. Challoner's Medi- 
tations was fitted to implant the 
divine philosophy of Catholicism 
deeply in the breast, Dr. Milner's 
End of Controversy was no less calcu- 
lated to arm the sincere Catholic 
with every needful weapon of defence 
against the assailants of his creed. 
If luminous arrangement, clear 
reasoning, and profound learning 
constitute claims to literary merit, 
that book possesses it in no ordinary 
degree. Edition after edition has 
been published, and it has been pro- 
duced in so cheap a form as to be 
accessible to readers in the humblest 
circumstances. Though the face of 
controversy between Catholics and 
Protestants has much changed of 
late years in England, firstly by the 
Anglo-Catholic or Tractarian move- 
ment, and, secondly, by the wide 
spread of infidel opinions under the 
form of positivism, yet the old argu- 
ments in support of Catholicism re- 
main unchanged, and there are few 
cases of heavy resistance which Dr. 
Milner's letters will not meet even 
now. Ingenious additions and vari- 
ations have been made by subsequent 
controversialists to supply passing 
needs, but, after all, these grand old 
field-pieces, when brought fairly into 
line, will be found equal to the task of 
demolishing any bench of Protestant 



bishops and any assembly of Presby- 
terian elders. 

The Lives of the Saints, by the Rev. 
Alban Butler, appeared for the first 
time in 1754, ten years after Pope's 
death. The venerable author was 
Principal of the English College at 
St. Omer, then the principal semi- 
nary for English ecclesiastics. The 
wide celebrity of the work, and the 
fact of its having been made a refer- 
ence-book in every good Catholic 
library, render it needless to dwell on 
its excellences. Suffice it to say that 
it exhibits a profound acquaintance 
with the subjects of which it treats, 
and preserves a wise medium between 
credulity and disbelief. The copious 
notes, containing accounts of the 
writings of sainted fathers and doc- 
tors, are invaluable to literary men ; 
and the Lives in general shows that 
the author's knowledge and research 
extended far beyond the bounds of 
theology, hagiology, and church his- 
tory. His nephew, Charles Butler— 
himself a well-known literary charac- 
ter — published an Account of the Life 
and Writings of tlie Rev, Alban Butler^ 
in which he gives, as nearly as possible, 
a list of the principal works and sour- 
ces from which the author of the 
Lives of the Saints derived his infor- 
mation. He then goes on to say 
that literary topics were frequently 
the subject of his uncle's familiar 
conversation, and quotes from mem- 
ory many of his criticisms on Hero- 
dotus, whose style he greatly admir- 
ed, Cicero, Julius Caesar, the works 
of Plato, and the modem Latin 
poems of Wallius, together with the 
relative merits of the sermons of 
Bossuet and Bourdaloue. 

Charles Butler always took a laud- 
able pride in dwelling on his uncle's 
merits, and in making them better 
known to the public. To his editor- 
ship is owing the publication of the 
Notes of Alban Butler's travels during 



Catholie Literature in England since the Reformation. 36^ 



the jrears 1744-46. He informs us in 
a short preface that in many places 
they were little more than mere 
jottings, and not intended for publi- 
cation ; that their meaning, also, was 
frequently difficult to decipher. By 
his care and diligence, however, they 
were brought into a readable form ; 
and the volume, published in Edin- 
burgh in 1803, ^"^ ^^^ rarely to be 
met with, is valuable as showing the 
highest degree of knowledge of Ital- 
ian ecclesiastical affairs then attain- 
able by a cultivated and inquiring 
traveller. Seldom has a book of 
travels had more facts condensed into 
it. It is a monument of close obser- 
vation; and at a time when hand- 
books were very few and very imper- 
fect, it must have been a precious 
vade mecum in the hands of Catholic 
travellers, and particularly ecclesias- 
tics. The writer seems, in every 
spot he visited, to have gathered up 
all that could be collected respecting 
it either from books or individuals. 
The amount of statistics is enormous, 
and the attention to details truly 
laudable. Had these Travels been 
written for the public, and graced 
with the flowing style and the free 
and copious reflections which abound 
in the Lives oftJte Saints, they would 
have been read frequently to this 
day, and have ranked high among 
compositions of a similar kind. 

The writings of Charles Butler are 
of no mean value, in consequence of 
his having directed his attention to 
English Catholic history at a time 
when scarcely any other writers 
thought it worth their while to obtain 
accurate information on the subject, 
and still less to record it for the bene- 
fit of others. Charles Butler made 
it his business to preserve everything 
of importance which he could collect 
respecting the political and religious 
condition of his co-religionists in 
England since the time of the Refor- 



mation ; and all subsequent historians 
have, in such matters, been greatly 
indebted to his Historical Memoirs 
and Reminiscences, His style, it is 
true, is very sketchy, and his matter 
reads like notes and memoranda ; but 
the intrinsic value of what he places 
on record atones in some measure 
for this defect. In his opinions he in- 
clined rather to the liberal school of 
thought, and this fact brought him 
into serious collision with Bp. Mil- 
ner on the subject of the veto and 
other matters then in debate. There 
can, however, be no doubt of his 
sincere attachment to the Catholic 
religion, while his love of literature 
and all that concerns mental progress 
is no less apparent in his works. 
Acquainted as he was with most of 
the distinguished men of the day, he 
had ample opportunities of observing 
their peculiar gifts and habits. The 
remarks which he makes in his Remi- 
niscences on the parliamentary elo- 
quence of Chatham, North, Fox, Pitt, 
and their compeers, whom he had 
seen and heard, have this merit, that 
they were derived from no second- 
hand sources. His Mora Bibiica, 
Germanic Empire, Horce ^uridicte, 
his numerous biographies, his HiS' 
torical Memoirs of the Church of 
France and of English, Irish, and 
Scottish Catholics, were not merely up 
to the standard of his time, but often 
beyond it, in consequence of the 
peculiarity of the materials that he 
brought together. While he was 
familiar with a wide range of litera- 
ture, English, foreign, and ancient, 
he was also conversant with algebra, 
musi** and other fine arts. The 
motto he adopted for his Reminiscen- 
ces from D*Aguesseau shows his love 
of study: Le changetnent de V etude 
est toujours un dilassement pour moi — 
" A change of study is always a relaxa- 
tion for me." If he is sometimes for- 
mal and verging on priggishness — as 



366 Catholic Literature in England since the Reformation. 



when he styles himself all through 
two volumes " the Reminiscent "— 
the fashion of his day, which was far 
more stilted than we should approve, 
must be his excuse. If we had en- 
joyed the pleasure of his acquaint- 
ance, we should, no doubt, have pro- 
nounced him " a gentleman of the 
old school" 

The Rev. Joseph Berington was 
another Catholic of the last century 
who has embalmed his memory in a 
useful work. Charles Butler wrote 
of his Literary History of the Middle 
Ages : " It presents the best account 
in print of that important subject." 
The Biographie UniverselUy that Pan- 
theon of genius, contains a very im- 
perfect but interesting monument to 
his memory. He was a contemporary 
of Charles Butler, and a link in the 
chain of English Catholic authors 
since the great overthrow of religion. 
Between the years 1776 and 1786, he 
published several controversial works 
directed against infidelity and Pro- 
testantism. He then published the 
History of Abelard and Heloise, with 
the genuine letters of those around 
whom Pope's poem had thrown much 
romantic interest. It soon reached a 
second edition, and was followed by 
a History of Henry IL and his Two 
SonSy vindicating the character of S. 
Thomas ^ Becket. But it was not 
till 1 8 14 that he published the work 
on which his reputation mainly rests, 
77ie Literary History of the Middle 
Ages, By that time his experience 
had matured, and he had collected a 
large body of materials from number- 
less sources. His work, when it ap- 
peared, was the best compendium to 
be found ; but since that period the 
researches of Maitland, Kendm Dig- 
by, and many others have thrown 
open to our view more clearly the fair 
fields and wealthy mines of mediaeval 
lore. This volume served as a stimu- 
lus to the inouiries of other students, 



and it was thought worthy of repub- 
lication so late as 1846. What we 
admire in it is the taste of the writer 
and his genuine love of the subject 
on which he treats. He does not 
write like a dry bibliographer, but in 
a genial way — like one whose learning 
has not eaten out his individual hu- 
man heart. 

But the merit of Berington and 
Charles Butler fades into insigni- 
ficance when compared with that of 
Lingard. Before his time, English 
history was almost unknown. The 
Catholic side of a number of ques- 
tions had never been fairly presented, 
and the true sources of history had 
either not been discovered, or were 
very scantily resorted to. It was Dr. 
Lingard who first made the public 
sensible of the value of documents 
brought to light by the Record Com- 
mission ; the Close and Patent Rolls 
extant in the Tower; the Parliament- 
ary writs; the papers and instru- 
ments of the State Paper Office; the 
despatches of De la Mothe F6nelon, 
the French ambassador in London in 
the reign of Elizabeth ; the letters 
and speeches of Oliver Cromwell; 
and the archives of the Minis^e dei 
Affaires Etrangtres in France. Ac- 
customed as we now are to see his- 
tory written by the lights of such in- 
contestable evidence, we often wonder 
how our forefathers could have ac- 
cepted with complacency the jejune 
records founded in too many cases 
on tradition and fancy. To Dr. Lin- 
gard and Miss Strickland is princi- 
pally due the praise of having intro- 
duced a more respectable and reliable 
method. 

Historians generally train them- 
selves unconsciously for their larger 
works by the composition of some 
smaller ones. It was thus with Lin- 
gard, who published, in 1806, his 
Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon Church, 
and lived to watch over its success, 



Catholic Literature in England since the Reformation. 367 



and improve it in numerous editions, 
during a period of forty-five years. 
He availed himself gladly of the 
labors of other workers in the historic 
field, and saw, with singular pleasure, 
the laws, charters, poems, homilies, 
and letters of our Anglo-Saxon ances- 
tors collected and published. But no 
work on the Anglo-Saxon portion of 
English history is more valuable and 
interesting than his own. He causes 
the church of that epoch to live before 
us with its laws, polity, doctrines, 
sacraments, services, discipline, and 
literature. He consults the original 
authorities, and, putting aside weari- 
some controversies on points of de- 
tail, confines himself to facts well 
ascertained. 

It was during his residence at 
Pontpp and Crook Hall, and before 
removing to Ushaw — in a neighbor- 
hood where Weremouth and Jarrow 
recalled the memory of Bede, and 
where Tynemouth, Hexham, Lindis- 
fame, and many other spots spoke 
eloquendy of the past — ^that Lingard 
used, in his spare moments, to com- 
pile the several papers on the relig- 
ion, laws, and literature of the Anglo- 
Saxons, of which his work is compos- 
ed. Seated by the evening fireside, 
he would read them to his compan- 
ions, and their interest in his theme, 
and surprise at the extent of his 
learning, increased with every read- 
ing. When, at length, the series 
reached its dose, his friends earnest- 
ly requested him to publish them as 
a conn^.cted history ; and thus the 
foundation of his future reputation 
and useiolness was laid. If amateur 
authors would more frequently try 
their strength in this way, without 
rushing unadvisedly into print, they 
would ke spared much disappoint- 
ment and expense, and the standard 
of current literature would be raised. 
The publication of The Anglo- 
Saxm Church naturally led to Lin- 



gard's being solicited to extend his 
history to a later period. Why 
should not he, who was evidently 
so competent, trace the fortunes of 
the church through the Norman, 
Plantagenet, Lancastrian, and York- 
ist periods ? Nay, what reason was 
there why he should not give the 
world a Catholic version of the histo- 
ry of the Reformation, so commonly 
and flagrantly misrepresented ? How 
many old Catholic families would be 
delighted to peruse a faithful record 
of events in which their ancestors 
were concerned! Might not he 
throw a halo round many illustrious 
Catholic names, and tear up by the 
roots many Protestant historic false- 
hoods? Had not several of the 
Stuart kings shown a bias, and more 
than a bias, towards the ancient 
religion ? And who could exhibit 
the different phases in the career and 
character of those kings so well as 
he ? If Queen Mary had been un- 
duly reviled, and Queen Elizabeth ex- 
travagantly praised, on whom could 
the task of rectifying these mistakes 
be devolved so safely as on Lin- 
gard? Such questions stirred his 
activity and laud^^ble ambition ; for 
he was not unconscious of his ability 
to write the history of his country. 
At first, indeed, he modestly shrank 
from so serious an undertaking, and 
contemplated only an. abridgment 
for the use of schools ; but a seclud- 
ed mission like that of Hornby, to 
which he had retired, is highly fa- 
vorable to the composition of im- 
portant works. The Abridgment 
was revised when he had buried 
Henry VII., and, after being rewrit- 
ten, was thrown aside. The scaffold- 
ing was thrown down, but the house 
stood. 

When Lingard visited Rome in 
181 7, he was, in the first instance, 
discouraged by the reception he^ met 
with. It was intimated to him by 



368 Catholic Literature in England since the Reformation. 



a member of the Sacred College that 
Dr. Milner had already sufficiently 
exposed and refuted the calumnies 
contained in Hume, and that further 
researches for the purposes of En- 
glish history were unnecessary or 
of slight importance. Every writer 
of eminence has met with similar 
rebuff. Lingard was mortified, but 
not deterred from the object he had 
in view. Before he left Rome, the 
archives of the Vatican had been 
opened to him without reserve, his 
admission to the libraries was facili- 
tated, and transcripts of such unpub- 
lished documents as he might re- 
quire were promised him. Unfortu- 
nately, the privilege of consulting the 
Vatican treasures was of little use, 
seeing that the French Revolution 
had thrown the codices into much 
confusion. 

In the early part of 18 19 the three 
volumes of the History of England^ ex- 
tending to the death of Henry VII., 
were published, having been pur- 
chased by Mawman, the publisher, 
for a thousand guineas; and other 
volumes followed at irregular inter- 
vals, till, in 1830, the whole history 
down to the Revolution of 1688 
had appeared. For the first and 
second editions the author received 
altogether ^4,133 — an extraordinary 
amount, considering the unpopular- 
ity of Catholics at the time of its ap- 
pearance, and the small number of 
English Catholic readers. But its 
fame extended beyond the English 
shores; translations in French and 
German were published; and an 
Italian translation was printed, by 
the Pope's desire, at the press of the 
Propaganda. His Holiness subscrib- 
ed for 200 copies of this translation ; 
and Cardinal Cristaldi, the Tr/soriere 
G^n&aUy for a yet larger number. 
It was reproduced in America, and 
in Paris by Galignani, and read 
at Rome with enthusiastic delight. 



Pius VII., in August, i8ai, conferred 
on the author the triple academical 
laurel, creating him at the same time 
doctor of divinity and of canon 
and civil law. Leo XII. invited him 
to take up his residence in Rome; 
but from this Lingard excused him- 
self by saying that it was necessary 
he should examine original papers 
which could be found in England 
only. On his departure, the same 
pontiff presented him with the gold 
medal which is usually reserved 
for cardinals and princes, and he is 
said to have designed for him the 
dignity of the cardinalate. 

As time went on, Lingard's know- 
ledge of English history widened 
and deepened. He availed himself 
eagerly of the new sources of infor- 
mation which this century has opened 
so abundantly, and, by the constant 
revision of his work, he rendered it 
increasingly valuable. It would be 
difficult to overstate its merits, one 
of the highest of which is its im- 
partiality and fearless statement of 
what the writer knew to be true. He 
avoided all appearance of controversy, 
and often refuted Hume without ap- 
pearing to do so. His great aim was 
to write a history which Protestants 
would read, and in this he succeed- 
ed. In 1825, the President of the 
English College at Rome, Dr. Grad- 
well, wrote to him, saying: "Your 
History is much spoken of here as 
one of the great causes which have 
wrought such a change in public 
sentiment in England on Catholic 
matters." Dr. Wiseman, writing to 
Lingard in July, 1835, said: "All 
the professors at Munich desired me, 
again and again, to assure you of the 
high esteem they entertain for you, and 
the high position your work is allowed, 
through all Germany, among histoh^ 
cal productions. Prof Phillips, for- 
merly professor of history at Baden, 
now at Munich, requested me to in* 



Catholic Literature in England since ilte Reformation, 369 



form you that he owes his conversion 
(ivhich made immense sensation, on 
account of his well known talents) 
chiefly to your History, which he un- 
(itrtook to review." A few weeks 
only before Cardinal Wiseman*s 
death, he thus expressed his sense of 
Dr. Lingard*s merits, both as an au- 
thor and a man : " Be assured of my 
affectionate gratitude to you for mucli 
kindness in my early youth, and still 
more for the great, important, and 
noble services which you have ren- 
dered to religion through hfe, and 
^'hich have so much contributed to 
overthrow error, and give a solid his- 
torical basis to all subsequent contro- 
versy with Protestantism." 

In mentioning those writers who 
have helped to construct an English 
Catholic literature, it would be im- 
IK)ssible to omit the name of Thomas 
Moore. Though an Irishman by 
Inrth, the English, among whom he 
chiefly resided, are accustomed to 
reckon him among their own ; and 
though, unhappily, he ceased, at an 
eariy period of life, to observe regu- 
larly the duties of his religion, he 
never ceased altogether to frequent 
the services of the Catholic Church ; 
and in his writings he maintained to 
the last the truth of Catholicism, and 
the immense superiority of its system 
over all modern forms and sections of 
Christianity. His Travels of an Irish 
GfntUman in search of a Religion is 
no less forcible in argument than 
humorous in style ; and numberless 
passages in his diaries and poems 
prove that Catholicism retained its 
hold over his heart as well as his un- 
'lerstanding, though it did not always 
' 'fluence duly his practice as a mem- 
^*er of the church. Probably his 
passion for society, and his fondness 
''>r the great, were in some measure 
ihe causes of his conforming out- 
wardly to Protestant observances, 
*nd allowing his children to be edu- 
VOL. xviii. — 24 



cated in the doctrines and usages of 
the Church of England. Certain it 
is that his own affections were never 
weaned from the faith of his parents ; 
and one of his most intimate friends, 
Lord Russell, who was also his bio- 
grapher, assures us that, when in Lon- 
don, it was his custom to frequent the 
Catholic chapel in Wardour Street. 

We cannot in this place discuss as 
fully as it deserves the question of 
Moore's personal Catholicity. Sufllice 
it to refer to a passage in his Diary\ 
under the date November 2 to 9, 
1834, and to the following, dated 
April 9, 1833 : " In one of my con- 
versations with Lord John (Russell), 
we talked about my forthcoming 
book, and I explained to him the 
nature of it, adding that I had not 
the least doubt in my own mind of 
the truth of the case I undertook to 
prove in it — namely, that Popery is in 
all respects the old, original Chris- 
tianity, and Protestantism a depar- 
ture from it." Such was the lesson 
which the Travels of an Irish Gentle- 
man in search of a Religion was in- 
tended to teach ; nor could anything 
less than a deep sympathy for the 
faith of the people of Ireland have 
inspired Moore with such touching 
lamentations over their wrongs and 
sufferings. The frame of his mind 
was essentially religious; and those 
who have been wont to think of 
him as a dissolute devotee of fashion 
will feel surprised to discover in the 
authentic records of his life a fond 
and faithful husband, an affectionate 
son, a loving parent, and, as far as 
his feelings were regarded, a devout 
Christian. His Sacred Songs were 
not efforts of the imagination merely ; 
they expressed the genuine emotions 
of his inmost heart ; and how beauti- 
fully, and in numbers how inimitably 
melodious! There is a disposition, 
among some critics to disparage 
Moore's poetry, and to treat him- 



370 Catholic Literature in England since tfie Reformation. 



merely as a love-sick rhymer; but 
his fame is proof against such pitiful 
assailants ; and his poems will awak- 
en echoes in the human heart when 
their artificial and obscure poetizings 
shall 

** . . . bind a book, or line a box, 
Or serve to curl a maiden's locks." 

There cannot be a doubt that his 
writings contributed largely to the 
success of the movement in favor of 
Catholic emancipation, and that his 
Irish Melodies in particular conspired 
with the speeches and addresses of 
O'Connell to kindle in the breasts 
of Irishmen and Irishwomen the de- 
termination to set their country free. 
The enthusiasm, even to tears, which 
they excited on the lake, in the grove, 
in the music-hall : nd the banqueting- 
room, when sung to the soft notes of 
the piano or harp, burst forth sooner 
or later in action, and produced re- 
sults by which senates were moved 
and populations stirred. The power 
which poetry has over men's hearts 
and actions is a test of its merits that 
rises far above the technicalities of a 
pedantic school ; and Moore's lyrics 
are not found wanting when tried by 
•this standard. They are truly " mag- 
netic." They have fired many a 
» soldier on the field of battle, and 
excited many an orator at the hust- 
ings; they have comforted many 
a solitary mourner, and smoothed 
many a touch of sickness and pain. 
We have, of course, no apology to 
offer for some of those in which he 
• celebrates earthly love ; though it 
must be admitted he has not been 
unmindful of that higher, that divine 
Wove, which alone can crown earthly 
affections with true happiness. No 
one Jias sung more sweetly than 
Moore the truths that God is '* the 
life and light of all this wondrous 
world " ; that he dries the mourner's 
tear ; that " the world is all a fleeting 
siiow"; that there is nothing bright 



but the soul may see in it some fea- 
ture of Deity, and nothing dark but 
God's love may be traced therein. 
What hymn book contains a spiri- 
tual lesson more true and beautiful 
than this ? 

*' As morning^, when her early breeze 
Breaks up the surface of the seas. 
That in their furrows, dark with night. 
Her hands may sow the seeds of light, 

"Thv grace can send its breathings o>r 
The spirit, dark and lost before. 
And, freshening all its depths, prepare 
For truth divine to enter there !" 

But it is in Moore's national poems 
that we must look for the principal 
gauge of his influence on public opi- 
nion. Their effect in England was 
no less magical than in Ireland, 
Wherever they were sung or read, 
they turned enemies into advocates: 
and mammas little dreamed that po- 
litical treatises were entering their 
homes in the shape of rolls of music 
By adapting modem words to an- 
cient airs, they appealed to listeners 
by the twofold charm of antiquity and 
novelty. They surpassed the plain- 
tive sweetness of Carolan, being ad- 
dressed to more refined audiences 
than had ever gathered round Erin's 
minstrels of old. During one-and- 
twenty years, from 1807 to 1828, the 
Irish Melodies transmitted the "light 
of song " " through the variegating 
prism of harmony"; and the cruel 
acts against minstrels in the reigns 
of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth were 
atoned for by the rapturous welcome 
given in England under the last two 
of the Georges to the most tuneful 
expressions of patriotism that ever 
broke from lip and lyre since the days 
of " the swe^t Psalmist of Israel." 
They laid bare the bleeding heart- 
strings of the Irish cotter, exile, and 
emigrant; they pleaded for the re- 
dress of his wrongs, centuries old; 
they invoked a Nemesis on his op- 
pressor; they enlisted on his side 
the suffrages of the noble, the tender- 



CatJiolic Literature in England since the Reformation. 371 



hearted, and the brave. They cou- 
pled Ireland with Poland in the minds 
of all lovers of political justice ; and 
they even suggested analogies be- 
tween the Irish and the persecuted 
and outcast people of Israel. That 
they promoted indirectly, and still 
promote, the cause of Catholicism is 
certain ; for the sequences of mental 
associations are governed by rules as 
fixed as those which attend the se- 
quences of natural products. Under 
the symbol of lovers, which all can 
understand, they frequently set forth 
the relation between the Irishman 
and his country, including his reli- 
gion. To the true Irishman, indeed, 
of that period, the ideas of his native 
land and his father's faith were in- 
separable, and he would have thought 
that which was disloyal to either to 
have been treason against both. 
Moore's Catholic education — the 
never-forgotten lessons of Catholic 
parents, whom he fondly loved — con- 
stituted a large element in the power 
and charm of his ever- varied and in- 
comparable Melodies, 

The practical importance of jour- 
nalism as a branch of literature can- 
not be too highly rated ; for, though 
in itself it seldom reaches the highest 
literary excellence, it brings it down 
to the level of ordinary understand- 
ings and retails to the public what 
in the wholesale they would not buy. 
In the beginning of 1840, the Catho- 
lic field in England was sufficiently 
extended, and its prospects were so 
promising that a weekly organ of 
greater ability and wider scope than 
any which then existed was impera- 
tively required. No one appeared 
better able to conduct such a journal 
successfully than Frederic Lucas. 
Born of Quaker parents, and educated 
at the London University, he had, at 
an early age, been distinguished for 
his ardent pursuit of literature in 
preference to art, science, or mathe- 



matics. Skilful as a debater, and in- 
satiable in his historical researches, 
he was attracted to the subject of re- 
ligion by its controversial and historic 
side. The works of Bentham, and 
the stirring events of the revolution- 
ary period of 1830, drew him deep 
into politics, while the poetry of 
Byron, Shelley, and Wordsworth 
strewed his pathway with shells and 
flowers, and colored every object 
around him with rainbow hues. 
Called to the bar in 1835, he became 
intimately acquainted with Thomas 
Carlyle, personally and as an author. 
The writings of this eminent historian 
and philosopher had for him a special 
charm, to which the peculiarity of 
their style was no drawback. He 
took great interest in the lectures on 
Heroes aftd Hero Worship when they 
were first delivered ; and it was from 
his accurate notes that a full report 
of Lecture No. i was published in 
the Tablet, Though the tendency of 
Carlyle's works is towards anything 
but Catholicism, they had, strange to 
say, an indirect tendency that way in 
Lucas* case. They called up many 
sympathies in favor of the middle 
ages, and pointed to increase of faith 
as the grand remedy for human ills. 

There was about this time a great 
stirring of the public mind on religious 
subjects, and Lucas, reflecting deeply 
on the chaotic state of Christendom 
and the ever-multiplying forms of 
schism, became attracted to views 
set forth with great ability by Oxford 
divines, tending to revive mediaeval 
practices and produce a tranquil reli- 
ance on ancient ecclesiastical autho- 
rity. But he felt no inclination to 
stop at the halfway house. To ex- 
change Quakerism for Anglicanism 
would, he thought, be a loss rather 
than a gain ; for the doctrines of the 
Society of Friends could, at least, be 
stated definitely, whereas those of the 
Church of England were matter of 



372 Catholic Literature in England since the Reformation, 



ceaseless debate between three par- 
ties — High Church, Low Church, 
and Broad Church. He therefore 
broke through every barrier, and rup- 
tured many ties of friendship, inter- 
est, and old association. His Reasons 
for becoming a Roman Catholic was 
a pamphlet remarkable for the poetic 
exuberance of its style, and still more 
from the fact of its being addressed 
to Friends, and its defending Catho- 
licism from a Friend's point of view. 
A few articles published in the Dub- 
lin Revie70 established Lucas* literary 
reputation among his co-religionists, 
and he was soon invited to edit a new 
Catholic weekly journal, which he 
named the Tablet, The first number 
appeared on the i6th of May, 1840, 
and during fifteen years Lucas con- 
tinued to direct the undertaking, and 
to take a leading part in its composi- 
tion. Some of the literary and mis- 
cellaneous papers were, in the early 
days of the publication, contributed 
by non-Catholics; but it was then, 
and has ever since been, regard- 
ed as an exponent of Catholicism — 
not, indeed, absolutely authoritative, 
but in the highest degree weighty, 
and semi-ofHcial. 

It can scarcely be necessary to 
speak of the ability which this jour- 
nal displayed in Lucas' hands. One 
anecdote will suffice to prove the 
intellectual .readiness and aptitude of 
the editor. An article which appear- 
ed in the Dublin Review in 1849, on 
the " Campaigns of the Duke of Marl- 
borough," at once attracted the notice 
of Sir William Napier, the historian 
of the Peninsular War. Competent 
judge as he was, he supposed the 
article to be written by a soldier, and 
could not conceive that any other 
than a military man could exhibit so 
much familiarity with the manoeuvres 
of armies and the tactics of generals. 
When he learned that it was a civilian 
who thus described and commented 



on the battles of Blenheim, Ramil- 
lies, Oudenarde, and Malplaquet, he 
hastened to make his acquaintance, 
and offered him every species of en- 
couragement. 

But if English Catholics were for- 
tunate in having a really literary man 
at the head of their most popular 
journal, they were still more so in 
possessing an archbishop who was a 
connoisseur in art, skilled in science, 
and profound in ancient and modem 
lore. There were few subjects with 
which Cardinal Wiseman was not 
conversant ; and when weary of busi- 
ness and serious study, he would of- 
ten refresh his own mind and enter- 
tain his friends by discussing topics 
altogether outside the ordinary grave 
circle of a prelate's discourse. He 
could talk of pancakes and posy-rings, 
of " Cymbeline " and " Peter Bell," 
as fluently as of general councils 
arid the Acts of the Marfyrs, His 
EssaySy reprinted from the Dublin 
Review^ his Connection between Science 
and Revelationy\i\s Fabiola^ a Tale of 
the Catacombs, and his Lives of the 
Last Four Popes, abundantly establish 
his literary reputation, and are equally 
creditable to his research, observation, 
and inventive faculty. The story of 
Fabiola was composed, as he tells us, 
" at all sorts of times and places, 
early and late; in scraps and frag- 
ments of time, when the body was 
too fatigued or the mind too worn- 
out for heavier occupation; in the 
roadside inn, in the halt of travel, in 
strange houses, in every variety of 
situation and circumstance, some- 
times trying ones." In the midst of 
his episcopal labors, he found time 
for the delivery of numerous lectures 
on secular subjects, which attracted 
public attention to many curious 
points in literature, art, and science. 
In the present age, when every field 
of knowledge and experiment is 
crowded with eager students, and 



Catholic Literature in England since the Reformation. 373 



waen a disposition is seea everywhere 
to subordinate all discoveries and 
researches to high, if not always 
correct, views of religion, it seems to 
be of the utmost importance that 
Catholics in general should, as far as 
they are able, copy the example of 
Cardinal Wiseman in cultivating the 
happy and hallowed alliance of truth 
divinely revealed and truth humanly 
ascertained, feeling sure that, however 
the two may seem here and there to 
clash one with another, the discrep- 
ancy between them is only apparent, 
and will vanish on closer investiga- 
tion. 

Dr. Newman has adopted a per- 
fectly unique mode of enriching the 
Catholic literature of his country. 
He is now, in his advanced age, 
republishing all his works from the 
commencement of his author-life. 
Many of these appeared while he 
was still a clergyman of the Church 
of England ; but to these he appends 
qualifying or explanatory notes, thus 
laying before his readers both his 
first and second thoughts. This of- 
ten gives him an opportunity of 
rebutting his former errors, and, by 
a brush of arms, laying low many 
a favorite Anglican defence. The 
series serves, also, to fill up various 
parts of his biography which had 
been sketched only in the Apologia 
pro Vita Sua, It is, therefore, welcome 
to the reading public in general, to 
whom his earlier life has never lost 
its interest in consequence of his con- 
version. The avidity with which his 
works are read by non-Catholics is 
no small proof of their merit intel- 
lectually considered. Indeed, to use 
the words of one writing in a hostile 
spirit in the Pall Mall Gazette of Sept. 
23, 1872 : " The extreme beauty of 
his language, the rarity of his utter- 
mces^ his delicate yet forcible way 
<>f dealing with opposition when 
obliged to do so — all these things 



have invested his image with a kind 
of halo, to which, for our parts, we 
scarcely remember a parallel." 

Nothing could prove more conclu- 
sively the esteem in which he is held 
by the English public than the recep- 
tion given to his Apologia, Though 
this publication was polemical, though 
Dr. Newman's adversarv was a Pro- 
testant clergyman and professor in 
the University of Cambridge, the ver- 
dict given by the leading journals 
and reviews of the day was emphati- 
cally on the side of the Priest of the 
Oratory — the convert from Anglican- 
ism ! Mr. Kingsley was universally 
condemned as having advanced what 
he could not substantiate ; and the 
beautifully naive account which the 
assailed gave of his own life, opinions, 
literary and ministerial career, was 
welcomed and hailed with praise, 
admiration, and delight. The Spec- 
tator (than which no review in 
England stands higher) styled the 
Apologia : " An interior view of one 
of the greatest minds and greatest 
natures ever completely subjected to 
the influence of reactionary thought "; 
and it added : " Mr. Kingsley has 
grievously wronged a man utterly 
uninteUigible to him, but as incapable 
of falsehood or of the advocacy of 
falsehood as the sincerest Protestant.*' 
The Union Review^ a High Church 
organ, said of the same work : " Since 
the Confessions of S. Augustine were 
given to the world, we doubt if 
any autobiography has appeared of 
such thrilling interest as the present." 
The Saturday Review was scarcely 
less emphatic. " Few books," it said, 
" have been published, in the memory 
of this generation, full of so varied an 
interest as Dr. Newman's Apologia." 
To these extracts we must add one 
more from a writer in the Times: 
"So far as one can judge from the 
opinions of the press, it is univer- 
sal! v acknowledged that Dr. Newman 



374 Catholic Literature in England since the Reformation. 



has displayed through his whole life, 
and never more so than at the time 
he was most bitterly assailed, the 
most transparent idea of an honora- 
ble and high-minded gentleman." 

It is not so much to the theologi- 
cal as to the literary character of Dr. 
Newman's works that we wish to call 
attention. As a writer of sermons, he 
has never been surpassed. Old as 
fhe Christian religion is, he never 
failed in preaching to present some 
portion of it in a new light. The 
Scriptures of the Old Testament in 
his hands acquire new meaning and 
import; and the subtlety of his 
thought is only equalled by the lim- 
pid clearness of his style. To those 
who remember him only as he ap- 
peared in the pulpit of S. Mary the 
Virgin's, Oxford, his image is that of 
a seer piercing the depths of nature 
and redemption, and enunciating, un- 
der the influence of a divine afflatus, 
truths full of awe and tenderness, 
but often too vast for the comprehen- 
sion of his hearers. 

Tlie test of any work of art is this — 
(hat it will bear the closest inspection. 
The fine gold of Dr. Newman's ser- 
ixion- writing becomes more evident 
when his discourses are molten down 
ill the crucible of severe criticism. 
They have nothing to fear from dis- 
section ; rather they court the anato- 
mist's knife. Their beauty does not 
lie on the surface merely, though that 
surface is passing fair; they have 
that interior charm and sweetness, 
that plaintive and mysterious tender- 
ness, which belongs to the notes of a 
Stradivarius violin when played by a 
master-hand. They suggest more 
than they say ; they are replete with 
thoughts that often lie too deep for 
tears, and make us feel that we are 
greater than we know. They win upon 
our hearts like a living voice, and make 
us love the writer, whom we have 
perhaps never seen. ** Eloquent " 



would be a poor and vulgar adjective 
to apply to them. They are more 
than eloquent; they are poetry, reli- 
gion, and philosophy combined in 
prose, which is prose only because it 
is not in rhythm. 

Largely as Dr. Newman is gifted 
with the imaginative faculty, he has 
not acquired, nor, indeed, deserved to 
acquire, the same honors as a poet 
as by his prose writings. His verses 
entitled " Lead, kindly Light," are 
faultlessly beautiful, and some parts 
of Gerontius are very fine; but in 
his poetry in general there is a want 
of color and detail. His mind has 
not been turned sufficiently to the 
minuter qualities and phases of natu- 
ral objects to make a consummate 
poet. He is too abstract, chill, and 
classical for the luxurious require- 
ments of modern verse. But when, 
in his prose, he launches into matter 
highly poetical in its nature, as in 
Callista^ when he describes the rava- 
ges of the locusts, or in his SermonSy 
when he dwells on the assumption 
of Our Lady'8 body into heaven, his 
language is equally copious and 
brilliant, reaching the highest fonn 
of speech without any sacrifice of 
simplicity, point, or color. Whatever 
Dr. Newman writes, be it sermon, 
history, or fiction, it has the air of an 
essay. It is a charming disquisition— 
the outpouring of the thoughts of a 
great and original mind on some 
point which deeply interests him, and 
the connection of which with other 
matters of high import he sees more 
clearly than other men. But he is 
not discursive ; he does not straggle 
about from one subject to another, 
but keeps closely to that which is in 
hand. Hence, to cursory readers he 
often seems to be forgetting some 
truths, because he dwells so fully and 
forcibly on others. It is their minds 
which are at fault, not his. All paru 
of a large system of Christian philo- 



Catholic Literature in England since the Reformation. 375 



sophy are present to his view at all 
times; and for this very reason he 
can afford to spend himself on each 
in detail and labor upward from the 
particular to the universal. In this 
respect he resembles Plato, while in 
others he has been compared, not 
unjustly, to S. Augustine : 

*' Whene^r I coo the thoughtful page 
My youth so dearly prized, 
I say. This foremost of his age 
Is Plato's self baptized ! 

** But kindling, weeping, as I read, 
And wondering at his pen, 
I cry. This Newman is indeed 
Augustine come again. 

"* The sweet, sublime * Athenian Bee ^ 
And Hippo's seer, who ran 
Through every range of thought, I sea 
Combined in this ntw mam.^* 

Wlien Thomas Moore was visiting 
Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford, near- 
ly fifty years ago, they both agreed 
that much of the poetry then ap- 
pearing in periodicals, and passing 
comparatively unnoticed, would, not 
many years before, have made the 
reputation of the writers. If they 
were alive now, with how much 
stronger emphasis would they make 
a similar remark ! Magazine poetry 
in England now is as superior to that 
of 1825 as that of 1825 surpassed 
that of 1775. There are not a few 
poets at this moment, whose names 
are scarcely known, who would, at an 
earlier period of English literature, 
have been crowned with laurel by 
general consent. The great poets of 
this century have raised the standard 
of poetry, and verse nowadays is what 
Scott and Wordsworth, Byron and 
Moore, Shelley and Tennyson, have 
made it. Mr. Aubrey de Vere, in the 
lime of Daniel, Carew, Drummond, 
and Drayton, would have been a 
star of the first magnitude ; whereas 
i»e is now, partly on account of his 
Catholic principles, observed and 
adn»ired by the public far less than 
he deserves. Born of a Protestant 



family, and educated in the Protestant 
religion, he has in ripe years chosen 
the better part, and embraced the 
fiith of the large majority of his 
countrymen. He has thrown him- 
self into the views of Irish Catholics 
on political subjects, and has, with- 
out disloyalty to the existing govern- 
ment, reproduced in modern verse 
the passionate sentiments of Irish 
chieftains, captives, exiles, emigrants, 
and serfs of the soil in days long past. 
Residing, however, chiefly in Eng- 
land, and representing, as he does, the 
later colonists of Ireland, we may 
venture to class him among English 
authors, or, at least, to consider his 
poems as a contribution to English 
Catholic literature. Occasional ob- 
scurity and faulty rhymes are, in his 
case, redeemed by poetry's prime ex- 
cellence — originality of thought and 
expression. Lines pregnant with 
truth and beauty are constantly re- 
curring, and the deeply religious 
feeling which pervades :M has the 
great advantage of not being express- 
ed in hackneyed and conventional 
language. The May Carols is a per- 
fect conservatory of lovely images 
clustering round the central figure of 
immaculate Mary. The 2 ist carol, on 
" The Mary less Nations," is perhaps 
better known in the United States 
than in England, for it is said that 
this prophet is less honored in his 
own country than in America ; yet it 
may fairly be quoted here as a very 
favorable specimen of Mr. Aubrey de 
Vere's reflective verse : 

"As children when, with heavy tread. 
Men sad of face, unr.een before. 
Have borne away their mother dead. 
So stand the nations thine no more. 

" From room to room those children roam, 
Heart-stricken by the unwonted black : 
Their house no lon;erse*ms their home ; 
They search, yet know not what they lack. 

*' Years pass: self-will and passion strike 
Their roots more deeply day by day ; 
Old servants weep ; and * how unlike ' 
Is all the tender neighbors say. 



376 Catholic Literature in England since the Reformation. 



** And yet tx moments, like a dream, 
A mother's ima(;e o*er them flits ; 
Like hers, their eyes a moment beam. 
The voice grows soil, the brow unknits. 

**Such, Mary, are the realms once thine 
That know no more thv golden reign. 
Hold forth from heaven thy Babe divine ! 
Oh ! make thine orphans thine again. "- 

There is another " May Carol '* 
which has always striick us as par- 
ticularly beautiful, because so highly 
figurative. Metaphor and music 
make up the soul of poetry. It is an 
apostrophe to the south wind, and is 
headed by tlie motto, AdoUscentula 
amaverunt te nimis, a text from the 
Canticles y which sufficiently explains 
the mysticism of the lines : 

'* Behold ! the wintry ratns are past. 
The airs of midnight hurt no more ; 
The young maids love thee. Come at last : 
Thou lingercst at the garden door. 

*• * Blow over all the garden ; blow. 

Thou wind that breatbest of ihe South, 
Through all the alleys winding low, 
With dewy wing and honeyed mouth. 



a % 



But wheresoe'er thou wanderest, shape 
Thy music ever to one Name ; 
Thou, too, clear stream, to cave and cape 
Be sure to whisper of the iame. 

' By every isle and bower of musk 
Thy crystal clasps as on its curls ; 

We charge thee, breathe it to the dusk. 
We charge thee, gr^ve it in thy pears.' 



^' The stream obeyed. That Name he bore 
Far out above the moonlit tide. 
The breeze obeyed ; he breathed it o*er 
The unforgetting pines, and died." 

This is the very algebra of language, 
and all the terms employed are raised, 
as it were, to their highest powers. 
Such verse could proceed only from 
one of 

" The visionary apprehensive souls 
Whose finer insight no dim sense controls." 

There is another poem by Mr. Au- 
brey de Vere, which deserves to be 
quoted for its ingenuity ; nor can we, 
in reading it, but be reminded of 
what was said of Euripides, and 
might, with equal truth, be said of 
him ; " In all his pieces there is the 
sweet human voice, the fluttering hu- 
man heart." The Irish race in ihese 



verses is compared to a great religious 
order, of which England is the foun- 
dress : 

** There is an order by a Xorthern sea. 

Far in the west, of rule and life more strict 
Than that which Basil reared in Galilee, 
In Egypt Paul, in Umbria Benedict 

" Discalced it walks ; a stony land of tombs, 
A strange Petnea of late days, it treads. 
Within Its courts no high-tossed censer fumes; 
The night^rala beats its cells, the wind its 
beds. 

*' Before its eyes no brass-bound, blazoned tome 
Reflects the splendor of a lamp high hung; 
Knowledge is banished from her earliest home 
Like wealth : it whispers psalms that once it 
sung. 

" It Is not bound by the vow celibate. 

Lest, through its ceasing, anguish too might 
cease ; 
In sorrow it brings forth, and death and fate 
Watch at life's gate, and tithe the unripe 
increase. 

'* It wears not the Franciscan's sheltering gowo. 
The cord that binds it is the stranger's chain : 
Scarce seen for scorn, in fields of old renown 
It breaks the clod ; another reaps the grain. 

** Year after year it fasts ; each third or fourth 
So fasts that common ifasts to it are feast ; 
Then of its brethren many in the earth 
Are laid unrequiemM like the mountiio 
beast. 

*"" Where are its cloisters ? Where the felon 
sleeps ! 
Where its novitiate? Where the last well 
died! 
From sea to sea its vigil long it keeps- 
Stem Foundress ! is its rule not mortified ? 

" Thou that hast laid so many an order waste, 
A nation is thine order! It was thine 
Wide as a realm that order's seed to cast, 
And undispensed sustain its discipline !" 

The Catholic press in England, 
which at the commencement of this 
century was smitten with barrenness, 
now teems with ceaseless productions. 
Few of them, however, except those 
we have mentioned, are destined to 
form part of standard literature. 
Even Miss Adelaide Anne Procters 
verses are not as widely appreciated as 
they deserve to be, though, d\iring 
her lifetime, they obtained for her the 
reputation of being one of the mo«i 
tuneful moralists that ever sung or 
breathed. Mrs. William Pitt Bynic 
has earned well of the public by the 
lively manner in which she has dc- 



Catholic Literature in England since the Reformation. 377 



scribed so many Catholic countries, 
and the diligence with which she has 
collected her materials. Her works 
on Belgium, France — Paris in parti- 
cular — Spain, and Hungary have sup- 
plied amusement and instruction to a 
large number of subscribers to circu- 
lating libraries, and have thus accora- 
plilhed a great part of the purpose 
for which they were written. F. 
Faber's numerous volumes are too 
well known to need much comment 
on this occasion. They are intense- 
ly devotional, full of fervid eloquence, 
and rich with the coloring 'of a poet- 
ic mind. Many of his Hymns arc 
popular; and will long remain so, be- 
cause they are simple, forcible, and di- 
rect. Lady Georgina Fullerton has 
succeeded as a religious novelist, and 
has been the first as an English Cath- 
olic to occupy the ground which is 
now especially hers. Kenelm Dig- 
by's Agxs of Faithy Compitum^ and 
other works have a special charm for 
those who love choice quotations 
and pictures of mediaeval piety ; Mr. 
T. W. Allies has ably and valiantly 
defended the Papal supremacy ; Mr. 
John Wallis has rendered Heyn^s 
Sonp in graceful English lyrics ; Mr. 
Charles Walerton's Wanderings are de- 
servedly prized by naturalists; Mr. 
Richard Simpson's Life of Campion dis- 
plays much historical research ; F. 
Morris has depicted admirably the suf- 
ferings of Catholic martyrs and confes- 
sors under the Reforming sovereigns ; 
the Life of the Marquis of Ibmdai, by 
the Conde da Carnota (an English 
work), though too favorable to the Por- 
tuguese prime minister, is highly valua- 
ble so far as it is documentary; and 
the papers read before the Academia 
of the Catholic Religion, and publish- 
ed in two volumes, supply in them- 
selves a test of the literary proficien- 
cy of many distinguished members 
of the church in England at the pre- 
sent time. The following works also 



deserve to be mentioned as valuable 
additions to the stock of English 
Cathohc literature : T/ie Evidence for 
the Botpacy, by the Hon. Colin Lind- 
say ; The Ufe of Cardinal Howardy 
by F. Palmer; Buckley's Life and 
Writings of the Rev, Father O'Leary ; 
Christian Schools and Scholars, by the 
author of The Knights of S, yohn ; 
Dr. Husenbeth*s Life of Bishop Mil- 
ner ; Mr. Maguire's Rome, its Ruler 
and its Lnstitutions ; and Dr. Rock's 
Hierurgia, 

Among Catholic poets, we ought 
not to forget Mr. Coventry Patmore, 
whose playful, pleasing, and thought- 
ful octosyllabics — The Angel of the 
House and Faithful for Ever — found 
many admirers ten or twelve years 
ago. There is in these fluent produc- 
tions a simplicity which at first sight 
strikes one as namby-pamby, but 
which, on further consideration, is 
seen to be a light veil of serious 
thought and genuine emotion. There 
are minds which can never appreci- 
ate poetry of the highest order ; who 
admire it only because they are 
taught that they ought to do so, 
but cannot love it,, even though it be 
stamped with the approval of ages. 
" None ever loved because he ought^^ is 
true in reference to more subjects 
than one ; and it is well that second- 
rate poetry should be written and 
preserved for second-rate apprecia- 
tions. Mr. Coventry Patmore's works 
fulfil a purpose, and are therefore not 
to be despised, though they will 
never obtain a large reward. 

It is to be hoped and expected 
that, as time goes on, Catholic litera- 
ture in England will enlarge its 
borders without declining in ortho- 
doxy. Colleges and universities yet 
to be founded will encourage learn- 
ing in all its branches, and prove to 
the world by new examples that 
science and religion mutually sup- 
port each other. The more firmly 



378 



The Song of Roland. 



the children of the church are rooted 
in the faith, the more strength will 
their intellect acquire, and the more 
freedom will they be able to indulge 
with safety. The literary spirit, ani- 
mated and guided by the true reli- 
gion, will ever find new fields of use- 
ful speculation and research; and 



the rebuke of ignorance, so often 
cast on members of the church, 
will fall pointless when^ they are 
able to meet non-Catholic historians 
and professors on their own ground, 
and to rob them frequently of a 
crown in the arena of literary com- 
bat. 



THE SONG OF ROLAND, 



Among the epic romances of the 
middle ages, the first place must be 
given to the Song of Roland, It 
deserves this, not only on account of 
its antiquity, but also for the impor- 
tance of the hero, and for the trium- 
phant loss, as Montaigne would have 
called it, which it immortalizes. It 
is a chanson de geste, supposed to 
have been composed by Turold or 
Theroulde, a troubadour who lived 
during the first thirty years of the 
XI th century, though the only place 
where he is mentioned is the line 
with which the Bodleian MS. of the 
Chanson de Roland terminates. 

This poem is a curious example 
of the work of popular imagination 
upon actual events, and shows, with 
remarkable unity and originality, the 
power of this species of transforma- 
tion. 

The historical narrative, as related 
by Eginhard, son-in-law of Charle- 
magne, recounts a grievous and un- 
avenged disaster — the complete de- 
struction of the rear-guard of the 
French army, which, after a succes- 
sion of victories, was returning from 
Spain, and, being surprised by moun- 
taineers in the gorges of Roncevaux, 
left no hving witnesses. 

But Charlemagne's nephew, Ro- 



land, with all his peers, were among 
the slain ; it was needful, therefore, to 
do honor to his fall, and wash away 
the affront against the arms of the 
always victorious king. Grief and 
admiration combined to accomplish 
the task, and we have before us the 
legend, which not only perpetuates 
the memory of the catastrophe, but 
which makes of a death-dirge a hymn 
of victory. 

The most ancient manuscript of 
this poem extant is, without doubt, 
the copy in the Bodleian library at 
Oxford, which is supposed to be of 
the Xllth century. Among other 
considerations, the brevity of this 
manuscript as compared with others 
is a proof of its greater antiquity. 
It has not more than four thousand 
lines, whereas others have six, and 
even eight, thousand. But whether 
even this is the primitive version, 
without alteration or addition, we 
have not the means of knowing. 

That which, in the first place, dis- 
tinguishes the Chanson de Roland 
from all other productions of the 
mediaeval poets anterior to Dante 
is its unity of composition ; but there 
are also other noticeable differences. 
The first is in the subject itself, which 
is matter of actual history, as we have 



The Song of Roland, 



379 



seen from the testimony of Eginhard, 
who adds, " This reverse poisoned in 
the heart of Charles the joy of all the 
victories which he had gained in 
Spain." It was not a simple skir- 
mish, but the utter defeat of a valuable 
portion of his army — the only defeat 
he had known during the thirty-eight 
years of his reign. It is easy to un- 
derstand how profound would be the 
impression produced by the catastro- 
phe, which, moreover, was indelibly 
deepened, when, half a century later, 
the army of one of the sons of Charle- 
magne, by a fatal coincidence, was 
cut to pieces in this same defile. 

The imagination of the people was 
not long in merging these two disas- 
ters into one, and in gradually 
changing nearly all the accessory 
circumstances of the first event. 
But it matters little that Charles is 
invested with the imperial purple 
more than twenty years before the 
time; that he is represented as a 
white-bearded patriarch, when, actual- 
ly, he could not have been more than 
Ihirty-five years of age ; that his rela- 
tionship to the hero of Roncevaux is 
more than doubtful ; that the Gascon 
mountaineers are transformed into 
Saracens; and that, instead of their 
chief, Lopez, Duke of Gascony, of 
whom the charter of Charles the 
Bald speaks as '* a wolf in name and 
in nature," we have two personages — 
King Marsilion and the traitor Gane- 
lon. All these transformations, which 
are easy to be accounted for, alter in 
nothing the basis of the poem, which 
is historic truth, while legendary 
truth has become its surface and 
superstructure. 

Another point to be remarked is 
that in the Chanson de Roland the sub- 
ject is national. In other composi- 
tions of the period, the heroes are 
Normans, Provencals, Gascons, and 
so forth, animated by a patriotism 
cither as circumscribed as their own 



domain, or as wide as the world 
which they traversed in search of ad- 
ventures. In the poems recounting 
their acts and deeds, the name of 
France, when it happens to be men- 
tioned, has merely a geographical 
sense, being used as simply desig- 
nating the province of which Pa- 
ris was the capital — " La France," 
"La douce France," so often in- 
voked in the " Lay of Roland " ; and 
the glow of true and loving patriotism 
which warms this poem would alone 
distinguish it from every other chan- 
son de geste that has been written. 

The figure of Charlemagne next 
demands our attention. £y a strange 
contradiction the Carlovingian po- 
ems, so called because they glorify 
the companions of the great emper- 
or and the deeds performed by 
them during his reign, are, with 
scarcely any exception, nothing more 
than so many satires upon Charle- 
magne himself, who is represented 
either as a mute and doting imbe- 
cile, or else as a capricious despot; 
all the wisdom and courage of the 
time being monopolized by the great 
barons. The reason is not far to 
seek. At the epoch when these po- 
ems were written or '* improved," 
royalty in France was struggling to 
recover the power of which the 
great crown vassals had possessed 
themselves at its expense, and the 
feudal league defended its acquisi- 
tions not by force of arms alone. 
One of the most effectual means at 
that period of acting upon the pop- 
ular mind was by the influence of 
minstrelsy — ^that is to say, by poesy 
and song; and the troubadours and 
jongleurs of the time willingly gave 
their services to promote the inter- 
ests of their more immediate protec- 
tors and patrons. Under the name 
of Charlemagne, it is, in fact, Louis 
le Gros or Louis le Jeune whom 
they attack, glorifying his epoch, but 



38o 



The Song of Roland. 



depreciating himself, as in ^'Les 
Quatre Fils d'Aymon" and similar 
sarcastic romances. . Turold is al- 
most alone in showing us the king 
"^ la barbe grifaigne," with the 
authority and grandeur befitting so 
great a monarch, and as one who rises 
a.bove his peers more by his dig- 
nity than by his lofty stature. The 
knights by whom he is surrounded 
are noble and valiant, but he sur- 
passes them all. 

In this homage rendered to the 
personal glory of Charlemagne, and 
in this sentiment of nationality, which 
is a remnant of the old monarchical 
unity, of which, in the Xlllth cen- 
tury, the remembrance had long 
been extinguished, but which, to- 
wards the close of the Xlth, still ex- 
isted, we have two characteristics 
which stamp the date of this poem 
more unmistakably than could be 
done by any peculiarities of ortho- 
graphy or versification. 

It is marked by two other special- 
ties : the absence of gallantry or amo- 
rous allusions, and the austerity of 
the religious sentiment. Scarcely a 
line here and there lets us know that 
Roland has a lady-love. It is his 
own affair, with which the public has 
nothing to do. In the whole poem 
two women only appear, and these 
only in slightly sketched outline. 
One is Queen Bramimonde, who 
appears for an instant, as she un- 
fastens her bracelets, and lets their 
priceless jewels sparkle temptingly 
before the eyes of Ganelon; while 
later on we are again given a passing 
glimpse of her, first as captive, and 
then as Christian. In the other, '' la 
belle Aude," the affianced bride of 
Roland, we have a momentary vision 
of beauty and faithful devotion even 
to death. She appears but to die of 
love and grief too deep for words. 
A few centuries later, could any 
French poet have been able to resign 



so excellent an opportunity for pour- 
ing forth a flood of sentimental verses ? 
Even the poets of the Xlllth and 
XlVth centuries have lengthened 
out this tempting subject in endless 
variations. 

As we pass on to the last conside- 
ration, we meet with other contrasts 
between the forefathers and their 
posterity. Religion, in the time of 
Wace andof Chrestien of Troyes, was 
still powerful and honored. Their 
heroes, even the most worldly and 
pugnacious, are exact in saying their 
prayers, kneeling devoutly, and con- 
fiding their souls to the care of the 
Blessed Virgin ; still, in times of great 
solemnity or extremity, in the midst 
of danger, or face to face with death, 
we do not find the calm and serene 
fervor, the submission as well as 
faith, which fill the heart of Roland 
and his companions. 

With regard to another point; if 
the " Lay of Roland," or, rather, if the 
popular tradition which gave it birth, 
makes Saracens instead of Gascons 
appear at Roncevaux, it is not pure 
fiction. After the death of Charle- 
magne, the Saracens had so often 
quitted their province of Castile to 
make inroads upon Aquitaine, and 
Western Europe had them in such 
terror, that the fear of present misfor- 
tune had soon effaced the remem- 
brance of the old combats of Christian 
against Christian on the Spanish 
frontier. A fixed belief had grown 
that every enemy ambushed in the 
Pyrenees could not at any period 
have been other than an army of mis- 
believers ; and to this may be added 
the idea, which was germinating, that 
a day would come when, in defence 
of Europe and of the faitlj, it would 
be necessary to destroy the vulture m 
its nest by carrying the sword into 
the country of Mahomet. It ^v^^ 
not only that the slaughter of Ronce- 
vaux cried out for vengeance; the 



The Song of Roland. 



381 



Holy War was in the spirit of the 
times, and naturally passed into the 
poems. These, without preaching a 
crusade, prepared the way a century 
beforehand, and the idea, dimlv sha- 
dowed, it is true, but actually present, 
is expressed in the last five or six lines 
of the poem, which is, moreover, espe- 
cially noticeable as being one which 
immortalizes defeat and death. It is 
ihe glorification of courage, in misfor- 
tune and in success, vain as to this 
world, but of eternal value for the 
next, where the glory of the warrior 
pales before the glory of the martyr. 

And this thought leads us to our 
last consideration, namely, the mean- 
ing of the vowels A O I, with which 
every stanza terminates. From the 
moment that Roland had died fight- 
ing against the Mussulmans, he be- 
came a saint, whose name must forth- 
with be inscribed in the popular 
raartyrology. It was, therefore, only 
fitting to consecrate to him a poem 
ifter the model of the hymns of the 
church, so many of which, as well as 
the Latin poem on S. Mildred, are 
teraiinated by the vowels e u o u a e 
—the modulation of sacuhrwn amen. 
This is the opinion of the learned 
Abb6 Henry, although neither he nor 
any of the other writers whom we 
have consulted mention their suppo- 
sitions as to the exact meaning of the 
vowels AOL 

The Song of Roland is men- 
tioned in numberless romances, was 
imitated in almost every language of 
Western Europe, and appears to have 
been made use of as a war-song by 
the French armies before it had de- 
veloped itself to the proportions in 
which it has reached us. There is 
no reasonable doubt that it was parts 
of this poem that were sung by Tail- 
lefer on the advance of the Normans 
at the Battle of Hastings, and not the 
" Song of Rollo," their first duke, as 
several modern authors have sup- 



posed. We quote the words of Ro- 
bert Wace : 

" Taillefer, qui moult blen canUit, 
Sur un cbeval qui tost allait, 
Devant as (eux) s'en alait cantant 
De Carlemanne et de Roilant, 
Et d'Olivier et des vassaus 
Qui moururent k Rainceraus." * 

Although we are not about to give 
a translation of the whole poem of 
four thousand lines, we will present 
the reader with an abridgment con- 
taining not only the thread of the 
narrative, but also all the principal 
parts of the poem, without change or 
abbreviation; commencing with the 
first stanza in the original French, as 
a specimen of the rest : 

LA CHANSON DE ROLAND. 

I. 

Carles li rels, nostre emperfere mag^nc, 
Set aos tuz pleins ad ested en Espaigne« 
Tresqu'en la mor cunquist la tere aliaigne, 
Ni ad Icastel ki devant luiYemaig^ne, 
Mur ne citet n*i est leines k fraindre 
Fors Sarraguce, k'i est en une munta^gnc. 
Li reis Marsilie la tient. ki Deu n>nai(net ; 
Mahummet sen e Apollin recleimet 
Ne s'poet guarder que mals ne 11 ateignet, 
AOLt 

ABRIDGED TRANSLATION OF THE 
SONG OF ROLAND. 

Charles the king, our great em- 
peror, has been for seven full years 
in Spain, where he has conquered 
the mountainous land even to the 
sea. Not a castle which has held 
out before him, not a town which he 
has not forced to open its gates; 
Saragossa on the height of its moun- 
tain alone excepted. King Marsilion 
holds it, who loves not God, serves 
Mahomet, and invokes Apollo (!) 
Nor can he hinder that evil shall be- 
fal him. 



* "Taillefer, who ezcelleatly sang, Mounted 
upon a charger swift, Before them went forth 
singing Of Charlemagne and Roland, Of Oliver 
and of the vassals Who died at Ronccvaux.** 

t The ancient MS. of Versailles, now in the 
possession of M. Bourdillon, begins, 

** Challes It rois & la barbe grrifaigne 
Sis ans toz plens a este en £spaigne,'* etc., 

the thirteen lines of the stanza all ending with 
tho same rhyme. 



382 



The Song of Roland. 



King Marsilion is reclining in his 
orchard, on a marble terrace, in the 
shade of the trees, and surrounded 
by more than twenty thousand men. 
He takes counsel of his dukes and of 
his counts how to escape death or an 
affront ; his army not being strong 
enough to give battle. He asks, 
What shall be done ? 

No one answers. One only, the 
subtle Blancandrin, then ventures to 
speak. " Feign submission," he 
says ; " send chariots, laden with 
gold, to this proud emperor. Pro- 
mise that, if he will return to France, 
you will there join him in his chapel 
at Aix on the great feast of S. Mi- 
chael ; that there you will become his 
vassal, and receive his Christian law. 
Does he demand hostages, we will 
give them. We will send our sons. 
At the risk of his life I will send mine. 
When the French shall have returned 
to their homes far away, the day will 
arrive, the term will pass by ; Charles 
will have no word from us, no news 
of us. Should the cruel one cut off 
the heads of our hostages, better is it 
that they should lose their heads 
than we our fair Spain." 

And the pagans answered, He is 
in the right. 

King Marsilion has broken up his 
council. He commands that six 
beautiful white mules be brought, 
with saddles of silver and bridles of 
gold. To Blancandrin and nine 
others who are faithful to him he 
says : " Present yourselves before 
Charles, carrying olive branches in 
your hands in token of peace and 
submission. If by your skill you 
compass my deliverance from him, 
what gold, what silver, what lands 
will I not bestow upon you !" 

The messengers mount their mules, 
and set forth upon their journey. 

The scene changes. We are at 
Cordova. There it is that Charles 
holds his court. He also is in an 



orchard. At his side are Roland, 
Oliver, Geoffrey of Anjou, and many 
others, sons of sweet France ; fifteen 
thousand are there. Seated upon 
silken stuflfe, they pass their time in 
playing ; the oldest and wisest exer- 
cise themselves in the game of chess, 
the young knights in fencing. 

The emperor is seated in a chair 
of gold, in the shade of a pine-tree 
and an eglantine. His beard has the 
brightness of snow, his figure is tall 
and nobly formed, and his counte- 
nance majestic. Any man seeking 
him has no need to be told which 
is he. 

The pagan messengers, alighting 
from their mules, humbly salute the 
emperor. Blancandrin then address- 
es him, showing the rich treasures 
which his master sends him, and say- 
ing: "Are you not weary of remain- 
ing in this land ? Should you return 
to France, the king, our lord, promises 
to follow you thither." Thereupon 
the emperor raises his hands towards 
God ; then, bending down his head, 
he begins to reflect. This was his 
wont, never hasting to speak. Pre- 
sently raising himself, he says to the 
messengers, " You have spoken well ; 
but your king is our great enemy. 
What shall be a pledge to me for 
the fulfilment of your words ?" 

" Hostages," replies the Saracen. 
" You shall have ten, fifteen, or even 
twenty, and among them my own 
son. What more noble hostage 
could be given ? When you shall 
have returned to your royal palace, 
on the great feast of S. Michael 
my master will follow you thither. 
There, in those baths which God has 
made for you, he desires to become a 
Christian." 

And Charles made answer, " He 
may, then, yet be saved !" 

The day was bright, the sun shin- 
ing in full splendor. Charles caused 
a large tent to be prepared in the or- 



The Soug of Roland, 



383 



chard for the ten messengers. There 
they passed the night. 

The emperor rises betimes. He 
hears Mass and Matins, and thence 
going forth, under the shadow of a 
tall pine-tree prepares to take counsel 
with his barons ; for without them he 
will do nothing. 

Soon they are all before him : the 
iluke Oger, the archbishop Turpin, 
Roland, the brave Oliver, and Gane- 
lon, the one who would betray them 
all. 

The council opens. Charles re- 
peats to his barons the words of 
Blancandrin. ** Will Marsilion come 
to Aix," he asks. " Will he there 
make himself a Christian ? Will he 
be my vassal ? I know not what to 
deem of his words." 

And the French reply, Beware of 
him. 

Roland rises, saying : " Trust not 
Marsilion. Seven years have we 
been in Spain, and during all that 
time naught have you had from him 
but treachery. Fifteen thousand of 
his pagans have already been to you, 
bringing olive branches and the same 
words as to-day. Your counsellors 
advised you to allow a truce. What 
did Marsilion ? Did he not behead 
two of your counts, Basan and his 
brother Basil? Continue the war. 
Continue it as you have begun it: 
lead your army to Saragossa, besiege 
the city, and avenge those whom the 
felon has caused to perish." 

While listening to him, the em- 
peror's countenance darkens. He 
strokes his beard, and answers no- 
thing. All the French keep silence. 
Ganelon alone rises, and, advancing 
to the emperor with a haughty air, 
thus addresses him : " Heed not 
the headstrong! Heed not me nor 
any other, but your own advantage. 
When Marsilion declares to you with 
joined hands that he desires to be 
your liege-man^ to hold Spain from 



your hand, to receive your sacred 
law, are there those who dare to 
counsel you to reject his offers ? 
Such have scant regard to the sort of 
death they are to die. It is a coun- 
sel of pride which ought not to pre- 
vail. Let us leave fools to them- 
selves, and hold to the wise." 

After Ganelon rises the duke Nay- 
mes. In the whole court there is no 
braver warrior. He says to Charles : 
" You have heard Count Ganelon. 
Weigh well his words. Marsilion is 
conquered ; you have razed his 
castles, overthrown his ramparts ; his 
towns are in ashes, his soldiers scat- 
tered abroad. When he gives him- 
self up to your mercy, offering you 
hostages, wholly to overwhelm him 
would be a sin. There ought to be 
an end to this terrible war." 

And the French said, The duke 
has well spoken. 

" Lords barons," resumes Charle- 
magne, "whom, then, shall we send 
to Saragossa to King Marsilion ?" 

" By your favor, I will go," answers 
Naymes. " Give me, therefore, the 
gauntlet and the staff." 

" No," says the emperor. " No, 
by my beard ! A sage like you go 
so far away ? You will in nowise go. 
Sit down again." ..." Well, my 
lords barons, whom, then, shall we 
send ?" 

** Send me," says Roland. 

*i You !" cries Oliver. " Your cour- 
age is too fiery. You would not 
fail to get yourself into some difficul- 
ty. If the king permits it, I can very 
well go." 

*' Neither you nor he," answers 
the emperor ; " both of you hold 
your peace. In that place not one 
of my twelve peers shall set his 
foot !" 

At these words, every one keeps 
silence. However, Turpin rises from 
his seat— Turpin, Archbishop of 
Rheims. He, in turn, asks for the 



384 



The Song of Roland. 



\ 



glove and staff; but Charles com- 
mands him to sit down, and not say 
another word. Then addressing 
himself once more to his barons, he 
says, " Free knights, will you not, 
then, tell me who shall carry my 
message to Marsilion ?" 

And Roland answers : " Let it be 
my father-in-law, Ganelon." Andnhe 
French agreed, saying : " He is the 
man you want; for a more skilful 
one you could not find." 

Ganelon at these words falls into 
a horrible anguish. He lets slip 
from his shoulders his great mantle 
of marten ; his figure is imposing, 
and shows well under his coat of 
silk. His eye sparkles with anger. 
" Fool I" he says to Roland, " whence 
this madness ? If God permits me 
to return, the gratitude I owe thee 
shall end but with thy life 1" 

" I heed not your threatenings," an- 
swers Roland. " Pride takes away 
your reason. A wise messenger is 
needed. If the emperor gives me 
leave, I set out in your stead." 

" Nay," replies Ganelon, " I go. 
Charles commands me, and I must 
obey him ; but I would fain delay my 
departure for a little season, were it 
but to calm my anger." 

Whereupon Roland began to 
laugh. Ganelon perceived it, and 
his fury was redoubled, insomuch 
that he was well-nigh out of his 
senses. He darted words of wrath 
at his son-in-law, and then, turning 
towards the emperor, said : " Behold 
me ready to do your bidding. I see 
well that I must go to Saragossa ; and 
he who goes thither returns not. 
Sire, forget not that I am the husband 
of your sister. Of her I have a son, 
the most beautiful that could be seen. 
Baldwin will one day be brave. I 
leave to him my fiefs and my do- 
mains. Watch over him, for never 
shall I see him more !" 

And Charles made answer : " You 



have too tender a heart. When 1 
command it, you must go. Draw 
near, Ganelon ; receive the staff and 
gauntlet. You have heard that our 
Franks have chosen you." 

*' No, sire, but it is Roland's work ; 
therefore, I hate him — him and his 
dear Oliver, and the twelve peers 
likewise, who love him so well ! I 
defy them all before your eyes !" 

The emperor silences him, and 
commands him to depart. Ganelon 
approaches to take the gauntlet from 
the hand of Charlemagne, but it falls 
to the ground. Heavens ! cry the 
French; what may this forebode? 

"My lords," says Ganelon, "you 
will know by the tidings." He then 
turns to the emperor for his dismissal, 
saying, " Since I must go, wherefore 
delay?" Charles with his right 
hand makes him a sign of pardon, 
and places in his hands a letter and 
the staff. 

Ganelon, retiring, equips himself in 
preparation to depart, fastening on 
his heels his beautiful gold spurs; 
and with his good sword Murglels at 
his side, he mounts his horse Tache- 
brun, while his uncle Guinenier 
holds his stirrup. The knights oi 
his liouse entreat him with tears to 
let them accompany him. " God 
forbid !" he answers. " Better that I 
alone should perish than cause the 
death of so many brave knights. Go 
home to sweet France. Salute on my 
behalf my wife, and Pinabel, my 
friend and comrade; likewise, Bald- 
win, my son. Aid him, serve him, 
and hold him for your lord." Hay- 
ing said thus, he departed on \as 
way. 

He had not ridden far before he 
came up with the Saracen messen- 
gers ; Blancandrin, in order to wait 
for him, having slackened his pace. 
Then began between them cautious 
words. It is Blancandrin who speaks 
first: "What a marvellous man is 



The Song of Roland. 



38s 



this Charles ! He has conquered 
Apulia, Calabria, passed the sea, 
and acquired at St. Peter's the tribute 
of the English ; but what comes he 
to seek in our land of Spain ?" 

And Ganelon makes answer: 
"Thus his courage wills it. Never 
will any man hold out before him !" 

" The French," replies the other, 
"are an exceedingly brave people; 
but these dukes and counts who give 
council to overturn and desolate 
everything do great wrong to their 
lord." 

*' Of such I know but one,*' says 
Ganelon ; *• it is Roland, and he shall 
repent him yet." Thereupon he re- 
lates that on a certain day, before 
Carcassone, the emperor being seat- 
ed in a shady meadow, his nephew 
came to him, clad in his cuirass, and 
holding in his hand a rosy apple, 
which he presented to his uncle, say- 
ing: "Behold, fair sire, of all the 
kings in the world I offer you the 
CTowns 1" " This mad pride will end 
ia his ruin, seeing that every day he 
exposes himself to death. Welcome 
will be the stroke that shall slay him ! 
What peace would then be ours I" 

" But," said Blancandrin, " this 
Roland, who is so cruel — this Roland, 
who would have every king at his 
nicrcy, and take possession of their 
^lominions — ^by whose aid will he ac- 
complish his design ?" 

" By the aid of the French," answer- 
ed Ganelon. " They so greatly love 
him that never will they suffer any fault 
to be laid at his door. All of them, even 
to the emperor, march but at his will. 
He is a man to conquer the world from 
l^ence to the far East." 

By dint of talking as they rode 
^ong, they made a compact to work 
(He death of Roland. By dint of 
f^^ing, they arrived at Saragossa, 
*nd under a yew-tree they got down. 
King Marsilion is in the midst of 
his Saracens. They keep a gloomy 
VOL. xvixi. — 25 



silence, anxious to learn what news 
the messengers may bring. 

" You are saved !" exclaims Blan- 
candrin, advancing to the feet of 
Marsilion, and holding Ganelon by 
the hand — " saved by Mahomet and 
Apollo, whose holy laws we observe. 
Charles has answered nothing ; but 
he sends this noble baron, by whose 
mouth you shall learn whether you 
will have peace or war." 

" Let him speak," said the king. 

Ganelon, after considering a mo- 
ment, thus begins : " May you be 
saved by the God whom we are all 
bound to adore! The will of the 
puissant Charlemagne is this : you 
shall receive the Christian law ; the 
half of Spain will be given you in 
fief. If you refuse to accept these 
terms, you shall be taken and bound, 
led to Aix, and condemned to a 
shameful death." 

At this discourse the king grows 
pale, and trembles with fury. His 
golden javelin quivers in his hand; 
he is about to cast it at Ganelon, but 
is held back. Ganelon grasps his 
sword, drawing it two fingers* length 
out of the scabbard, and saying, 
" My beautiful sword ! while you 
gleam at my side, none shall tell our 
emperor that I fell alone in this 
strange land ; with the blood of the 
best you shall first pay for me." 

The Saracens cry out : Let us hin- 
der the combat. At their entreaties, 
Marsilion, calming himself, resumed 
his seat. " What evil possesses you ?" 
said his uncle, the caliph, *' that you 
would strike this Frenchman .when 
you ought to hear . him ?" And 
Ganelon, meanwhile, composed his 
countenance, but kept his right hand 
still on the hilt of his sword. The 
beholders said to themselves, " Truly, 
he is a noble baron !" 

Gradually he draws nearer to the 
king, and resumes his discourse: 
" You are in the wrong to be angry*. 



386 



Tin Song of Roland. 



Our king bestows upon you the half 
of Spain ; the other half being for 
his nephew Roland, an insolent com- 
panion I admit; but if you do not 
agree to this, you will be besieged in 
Saragossa, taken, bound, judged, and 
beheaded. Thus says the emperor 
himself in his message to you." 
So saying, he places the letter in the 
pagan's hands. 

Marsilion, in a fresh access of 
rage, breaks the seal, and rapidly 
glances over the contents. " Charles 
talks to me of his resentment ! He 
calls to mind this Basan, this Basil, 
whose heads flew off at my bidding ! 
To save my life, I am to send him 
my uncle, the caliph; otherwise he 
listens to no terms !" 

Upon this the king's son exclaims: 
** Deliver Ganelon to me, that I may 
do justice upon him." Ganelon hears 
him, and brandishes his sword, setting 
his back against a pine. 

The scene suddenly changes. The 
king has descended into his garden ; 
he is calm, and walks with his son 
and heir, Jurfalen, in the midst of his 
vassals. He sends for Ganelon, who 
is brought to him by Blancandrin. 

" Fair Sire Ganelon," says the king, 
" it may be that I received you some- 
what hastily, and made as if I would 
have stricken you just now. To make 
amends for this mistake, I present 
you with these sable furs. Their 
value is more than five hundred 
pounds of gold. Before to-morrow, 
still more costly ones shall also be 
yours." 

" Sire, it is impossible that I should 
refuse, and may it please Heaven to 
recompense you ! " 

Marsilion continues : " Hold it for 
certain. Sir Count, that it is my desire 
to be your friend. I would speak 
with you of Charlemagne. He is 
very old, it appears to me. I give 
him at least two hundred years ; how 
worn out, therefore, he needs must 



be ! He has spent nis strength in so 
many lands, when will he be weary 
of warfare ?" 

" Never," said Ganelon, " so long 
as his nephew lives. Roland has not 
his equal in bravery from hence to 
the far East. He is a most valiant 
man, and so, likewise, is Oliver, his 
companion, and these twelve i>eers, 
80 dear to the emperor, who march 
at the head of twenty thousand 
knights. Can you expect that Charles 
should know fear ? He is more pow- 
erful than any man here below !" 

" Fair sire," replies Marsilion, *' J, 
also, have my army, than which a 
finer cannot be found. I have four 
hundred thousand knights wherewith 
to give battle to Charles and his 
French." 

"Trust it not at all," the other 
answers ; " it will cost you dear, as 
well as your men. Lay aside this 
rash boldness, and try a little man- 
agement instead. Give the empe- 
ror riches so great that our French 
will be dazzled by them, and give him 
twenty hostages. He will then return 
into the sweet land of France, leaving 
the rear-guard to follow, in which, I 
trust, may be Count Roland and the 
valiant Oliver. Only listen to my 
counsel, and, believe me, they are 
dead." 

"Show me, fair sire (and may 
Heaven bless you for it !), how I may 
slay Roland." 

" I am well able to tell you. When 
once the emperor shall be in the great 
defiles of Cisaire, he will be at a great 
distance from his rear- guard. He 
will have placed in it his beloved 
nephew and Oliver, in whom he so 
greatly confides, and with them will 
be twenty thousand French, Send, 
then, a hundred thousand of your 
pagans. I do not in any wise pro- 
mise that in a first conflict, murderous 
as it will be to those of France, there 
will not also be great slaughter of 



The Song of Roland. 



387 



your men ; but a second engagement 
will follow, and, no matter in which, 
Roland will there remain. You will 
have done a deed of exceeding bra- 
very, and through all the rest of your 
life you will have no more war. What 
could Charles do without Roland? 
Would he not have lost the right arm 
of his body ? What would become 
of his wonderful army ? He would 
never assemble it more. He would 
lose his taste for warfare, and the 
great empire would be restored to 
peace." 

Scarcely has he done speaking, 
when Marsilion throws his arms 
round his neck, and embraces him ; 
then offers, without more delay, to 
swear to hina that he will betray 
Roland. 

" Be it so, if so it please you," 
answers Ganelon ; and upon the relics 
of his sword he swears the treason, 
and completes his crime. 

Marsilion, on his part, causes to be 
brought, on an ivory throne, the 
book of his law, even the book of 
Mahomet, and swears upon it that, 
if he can find Roland in the rear- 
g^iard, he will not cease fighting un- 
til he has slain him. 

Thereupon Valdabron, a Saracen, 
who was formerly the king's guar- 
dian, draws near, and, presenting his 
sword, the best in the world, to Gane- 
lon, says : " 1 give you this for friend- 
ship's sake; only help us to get rid 
of Roland, the baron." 

"With all my heart." And they 
embrace. 

Another, Climorin, brings him his 
helmet : ** I never saw its like. Take 
% to aid us against Roland, the mar- 
q\as." 

"Most willingly," says Ganelon; 
^^ they also embrace. 

Comes at last the queen, Brami- 
"ionde. She says to the count, " Sire, 
I love you well, seeing that you are 
^ery dear to my lord and to all his 



subjects. Take these bracelets to 
your wife. See what gold, what 
amethysts and jacinths! Your em- 
peror has none like these; they are 
worth all the treasures of Rome ! " 

And Ganelon takes the jewels. 

Marsilion then summons Mauduit, 
his treasurer. " Are the gifts prepar- 
ed for Charlemagne?" 

" Sire, they are in readiness. Seven 
hundred camels laden with gold and 
silver, and twenty hostages of the 
noblest under heaven." 

Then, with his hand on Ganelon's 
shoulder, the king says to him: 
"You speak fair and fine; but, by 
this law which you hold to be the 
best, beware of changing purpose to- 
wards us." After this, he promises 
that every year he will send him, as 
rent, ten mules laden with gold of 
Arabia; he gives him the keys of 
Saragossa to be carried to Charle- 
magne. "But, above all, see that 
Roland be in the rear-guard, that we 
may surprise him, and give him mor- 
tal combat." 

Ganelon replies, " It seems to me 
that I have already tarried here too 
long." And he mounts his steed and 
departs. 

At daybreak he reaches the em- 
peror's quarters. " Sire," says he, 
" I bring you the keys of Saragossa, 
twenty hostages, and great treasure ; 
let them be guarded well. It is Mar- 
silion who sends them. As to the 
caliph, marvel not because he does 
not come. With my own eyes I saw 
him embark on the sea with three 
hundred thousand armed men ; they 
were all weary of the rule of Marsi- 
lion, and were going forth to dwell 
in the midst of Christians; but at 
four leagues from the coast a furious 
tempest overwhelmed them, so that 
all were drowned. If the caliph had 
been living, I would have brought 
him hither. Believe me, sire, before 
a month is overi Marsilion will have 



388 



Laus Perennis. 



joined you in France; he will receive 
the Christian law, and will, as your 
vassal, do you homage for the king- 
dom of Spain." 

"Then God be praised!" said 
Charles. " You have well delivered 
your message, and it shall profit you 
well." 

The clarions sound. Charles pro- 
claims the war at an end. The sol- 
diers raise the camp ; they load the 



sumpter horses ; the army is in mo* 
tion, and on its way towards the 
sweet land of France. Nevertheless, 
the day closes; the night is dark. 
Charlemagne sleeps. In a dream he 
sees himself in the great defiles of 
Cisaire, with his lance of ash-wood 
in his hand. Ganelon seizes hold of 
it, shaking it so violently that it flies 
in pieces, and the splinters are scat- 
tered in the air. 



TO BB CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH. 



LAUS PERENNIS.* 



In the early days of emigration, 
before the industry of the Old World 
had cut down the forests and mud- 
died the streams of the New, a young 
man sat at noontide by the banks of 
a river, an insignificant tributary of 
one of those mighty veins that inter- 
sect the continent from Canada to 
Florida. His face was a study. He 
had the features of the North, with 
thick, fair hair and glittering blue eyes, 
but his form was slighter, though not 
less sinewy, than a Saxon's. Nerves 
of steel and a will of iron, generosity 
and self-sacrifice, the bravery of an 
Indian and the fidelity of a dog — such 
was the tale revealed by his exterior. 
His history was simple. He was 
the son of a petty farmer in Norman- 
dy, and the foster-brother of the 
Baron de Villeneuve. He had been 



* It was the custom in many of the monasteries 
of the Vlth and Vllth centuries, especially those 
of the rule of S. Columba, for the monks to be 
divided into choirs, alternately officiating in the 
church, and by means of which the divine praises 
were uninterruptedly sung during the whole 
twenty-four hours. The ** Perpetual Adoration " 
is the only similar institution in our da^ ^nd 
the small number of communities accounts for the 
discontinoaoce of the custom. 



brought up with the young baron, an 
only child, and had been his compan- 
ion in his studies as well as his sports. 
Every one noticed how refined his 
manner was, how noble his bearing ; 
and yet his village friends never had 
reason to complain of any supercil- 
iousness in his deportment towards 
them. His mother, feeling that his 
superiority would be wasted '\( he 
remained in the groove in which it 
seemed his natural destiny to travel, 
earnestly wished for a dififerent career 
for her favorite, and urged him to en- 
ter the priesthood. This he was too 
conscientious to do, feeling no call to 
so high an office ; and his foster-bro- 
ther, in his turn, warmly recommend- 
ed the army. Napoleon was then 
in the full blaze of his military glory, 
and merit might win the metaphori- 
cal spurs of what remained as the 
substitute of knighthood, without the 
weary delays of official routine. But 
the young Norman was insensible to 
military glory. There was no fair 
damsel, with high cap and ancestral 
gold necklace^ with spinning-^heel 
and a dowry of snowy, home-spufl 



Laus Perennis. 



389 



linen, who had made his heart beat 
one second faster than it had in child- 
hood. If his foster-brother had had 
2 sister, Robert Maillard would have 
been the very man to have loved 
her as the knights of old loved the 
lady of their dreams, hoping for no 
reward save a knot of ribbon and a 
pitying glance of faint approval. He 
had read of such love, and of fairies, 
elves, and witches, of impossible 
quests, and of princely donations ; but 
he felt that the world had changed, 
and that these things could never be 
again. Strong and brave as he was, 
he began life with a secret hopeless- 
ness, knowing that it could never 
give him the only things he longed 
for. One day, in the midst of his 
irresolution as to what work he should 
undertake, knowing all work to be 
but a passe-temps until eternity gave 
him the life he coveted, an old sea 
captain made his appearance in the 
inland village, and electrified the in- 
habitants by tales of discovery and 
adventure, of which curious proofs 
were not wanting in the shape of 
carved idols two inches long, min- 
eral lumps of diminutive size, a 
string of wampum, etc., etc., and, 
above all, a tame monkey. Robert 
listened to the ** ancient mariner " 
with delight, and, never having seen 
the ocean, was suddenly fired by a 
wild wish to try his fortune across the 
Atlantic. Here was a land as wild as 
the Armorican forests in the old tales 
of chivalry and legends of monasti- 
cism — a virgin land of practical free- 
dom, where new empires might be 
carved by the strong and willing 
hand, and new mines of knowledge 
laid open by the daring intellect. It 
was not money that the simple 
Norman thought of; it was excite- 
ment, adventure, vague possibilities, 
limitless solitudes where hermits and 
hunters might live and dream. To 
leave Normandv was not exile to 



him ; to leave all those he loved was 
not separation ; but do not think he 
was heartless. He only lived in a 
shadow-world of high, heroic deeds, 
and the commonplaces of bucolic, 
life palled upon him. Instinct bade 
him seek something beyond home, 
with its petty interests; and never 
slow to execute his resolutions, once 
they were formed, he bargained with 
the old sailor to take him to Amer- 
ica as soon as he recrossed the 
ocean. From his father he received 
his portion of the scanty inheritance 
due to him, and left home as the 
prodigal — so said his weeping moth- 
er. His foster-brother loaded him 
with weapons of all kinds, and forced 
upon him clothes enough to last a 
lifetime in a country where fashion 
seldom changed. The first sight of 
the ocean was a poem to Robert. He 
thought of the galleys of the Crusa- 
ders, as they sailed to the Land of 
Promise ; of Columbus and his unbe- 
lieving crew on their perilous way 
to the land of faith. The glorious 
western sunsets awoke a new feel- 
ing in the heart of the adventurer ; 
he felt that this new "Ultima 
Thule " was the land of the poet as 
well as of the warrior, and that its ma- 
jesty, its serene massiveness, should 
be, not the prey of murderous pas- 
sion, but the field of a new-born art. 
Here was a land whose history, if it 
had any, had been blotted out, but 
whose immc.tal beauty was a pic- 
ture of the lost Eden — the true home 
of enthusiasm, the virgin parchment 
on which to write a new hymn to 
the God whom its beauty revealed 
almost in a new light. Such were 
not the thoughts of most pilgrims to 
the New World ; if they had been, 
people would have said that the 
millennium had come. 

A Sir Galahad walks the earth but 
once in a century, and he has no 
compeers. Such was our Robert. 



390 



Laus Perennis. 



Why does the world call those men 
dreamers whose ideal is the only true 
reality, while the life of the world 
around them is one long nightmare ? 
Robert's life, after he had landed 
in one of the old sea-coast cities, was 
a checkered one. He fled from the 
civilization that had stifled him at 
home, and which he saw with dis- 
may roughly reproduced in the com- 
munities of the sea-board; he found 
few men whose talk did not jar 
upon him; even in the wilderness, 
when he came to a log-cabin, he 
heard the oaths of low city haunts ; 
in pastoral settlements, he found 
no pastoral innocence; and even 
among the friendly Indians they 
asked him for spirits, when he would 
have spoken of God. Discouraged 
and oppressed, he persisted in setting 
his face ever westward, till at last he 
came to a river, as it seemed to him ; 
a brook, as it would figure on the 
map. He wondered if man had ever 
been here before, but smiled to him- 
self the moment after, knowing that 
the red man, the natural possessor of 
this' princely inheritance, must have 
often breathed his prayer to the 
Great Spirit by the banks of this 
stream. He began to think how use- 
less the discovery of this new conti- 
nent had been, since hitherto the 
country had been but a new field for 
the white man's sins, a new theatre 
for the red man's sorrows. He fell 
to thinking of his own far-off ances- 
tors, roaming morass and forest, like 
these sturdy men of bronze, hunting 
the deer, and wolf, and bear, like them, 
painting their bodies like them, wor- 
shipping bloody gods of war, rearing 
children indefatigable on sea and 
land — Scandinavian vikings, fair, and 
ruddy, and golden-haired, each man 
a chief in stature, and their chiefs 
giants. How like the race that still 
lorded it over these new realms! 
But God's messengers had come 



among the Norsemen and daunted 
their fierceness, turned their vices 
into virtues, and leavened, with a true 
and manly, a Christian, civilization, 
their hardy, freedom-loving tribes. 
Robert knew of the many efibrts of 
the missionaries among the Indians; 
but he knew, also, that it was the e>'il- 
doing of the whites that made these 
efforts so fruitless. It seemed as if 
wherever the human race set foot it 
must disturb God's working ; and in 
sudden disgust at his kind, he vowed 
never willingly to enter again any 
community of whites. Commerce 
was imposition, respectability was 
hypocrisy, civilization was cruelty. 
" God and my dreams alone re- 
main," he cried; "with them I will 
walk, and forget that any other build- 
ing exists save a church ; that there 
is any language save prayer; any 
human beings save God's worthy 
ministers!" Before long, the scent 
of the pines and cedars lulled him to 
sleep, and, happy in his isolation, he 
did not resist the drowsiness that, by 
the banks of Norman streamlets, had 
often preceded the sweetest moments 
of his life. 

Soon the pines began to sing in 
the strong wind that rocked them, 
and the song shaped itself into a 
hymn of praise, the words seeming 
to echo the form of David's psalm: 
" Then shall all the trees of the wood 
rejoice before the face of the Lord, 
for he Cometh. . . . Praise him, ye 
strong winds that fulfil his word ; . . • 
fruitful trees and all cedars." 

A voice came out of the rocks, as 
if wafted over miles of space, and, 
mingling with the song of the pines, 
chanted with it, "The treasure- 
house of the Lord is in the stones of 
the earth ; from my bosom flow the 
rivers of life-giving waters " ; and gen- 
tly the sound of tinkling rivulets was 
added to the deep song of praise. 
It seemed as if all creation, bent upon 



Laus Perennis. 



391 



doing the task respectively allotted 
to each of its parts, had met ia con- 
clave round that obscure Western 
river, before the tribunal of a sleep- 
ing mortal. As the shadows grew 
darker, the howl of wild beasts was 
heard, inexplicably free from the im- 
pression of ^terror, and strangely fit- 
ting in with the hymn of inanimate 
nature. At twilight, a concert of 
sweet scents rose from the earth, and 
vaporous clouds bore up the prayer 
of the fruitful soil, a gentle sound, as 
of crystal bells, accompanying the 
sacrifice. 

*' Let your prayer arise before me 
as an evening ofifering," came faintly 
fix>m somewhere, and the cry of 
myriads of insects rose to greet the 
echo. Nothing seemed discordant. 
Robert, as it were, heard the world- 
pulse beat, and yet was neither ap- 
palled nor astonished; it was the 
same voice, whose whispers he knew, 
M'hich was speaking to him now, only 
it sp>oke aloud. A moaning sound, 
muffled and sad, but grave as the 
voice of a teacher, now rose above * 
the others, and the sleeper knew that 
it was that of the ocean : 

''The floods have lifted up their 
waves with the voices of many 
waters. Wonderful are the surges 
of the sea ; wonderful is the Lord on 
high." 

Robert thought how true and how 
grand was this remorseless servant of 
the Almighty will. It does its work 
though fleets brave its decrees, and 
science peers into its secrets like a 
child feebly grasping a two-edged 
sword. It obeys God, and its work, 
not its voice, is its hymn of praise. 
Uut there is another mighty angel at 
woik in the heavens, and the trumpet- 
tones of his voice ring in the thuu- 
<ier behind those fast-coming clouds. 
Tawny gold and ashen gray, like the 
shroud of a fallen world, those clouds 
sweep up on the horizon ; blades of 



light rend them for a moment, and a 
livid radiance darts into every crevice 
of the forest; the song of the pines 
is hushed, and the hymn of the storm 
peals out : 

"Holy and terrible is thy name. 
. . . Fire shall go forth before thee ; 
. . . thy lightnings shine upon the 
world; ... for thou art fearfully 
magnified 1 " 

A cathedral of ice seems to grow 
suddenly out of the, pine forest; the 
trees are turned to crystal pinnacles, 
a world of untrodden snow lies all 
around, and within the silence of the 
grave. Rose-colored lights play on 
the fairy turrets, and turn the ice- 
pillars to amber and topaz. More 
sublime than any dream of mediaeval 
enchantment, Robert gazes spell- 
bound on this crowning marvel, and, 
though no articulate words strike his 
ear, he is conscious of a life permeat- 
ing this realm of silence ; of a link 
with all other creatures of God, which, 
if it spoke, would utter the words that 
well spontaneously from his own 
heart : 

"Thy knowledge is become too 
wonderful for me. . . . Whither shall 
I go from thy spirit, and whither shall 
I flee from thy face ?" 

But he is no idle gazer, treating 
the world as a show ; he is a disciple — 
the Dante of Nature, led by her to 
the song-halls of her everlasting con- 
cert, taught by her that all things 
have a voice to glorify God and a 
mission to execute for him. He may 
not stay in the heart of the pole, for 
other lessons are all around him, and 
the time to learn them is so short — 
never more than a hundred years, 
seldom even tlie third of that time ! 

The silent world melts from sight, 
and the earth seems to recede ; the 
blue vault of heaven is nearer; a 
rushing sound, so awful that his hu- 
manity shudders at it, yet so beauti- 
ful that it deadens the remembrance 



392 



Laus Perennis. 



of the gentle sounds of the pine-trees, 
the cr)'stal flower-bells, the wind, and 
even the rolling of the sea, wraps his 
being into itself, and holds him in its 
mighty spell. Worlds of light flash 
by him ; of their size he knows naught, 
of their qualities less ; but their radi- 
ance seems to him the face of God, 
" which no man can look upon and 
live," while their voice is as that of a 
thousand cataracts, each ringing forth 
a separate and harmonious note. 
"The heavens declare the glory of 
God, and the firmament proclaimeth 
the works of his hands." Did these 
words come out of the sound, or 
were they in his own heart, and did 
the sound draw them into itself, as 
the great ocean would draw back to 
its bosom some lonely fragment of 
its realm, stranded for a moment by 
the last wave that kissed the shore ? 
Robert could not tell. He scarcely 
breathed. He would fain have kept 
this vision for ever; he trembled at 
the idea of leaving a world after 
which his own would look like a hive 
of b^es, and whose sounds were so 
potent that all the sounds of earth, 
massed together in one, would barely 
seem a whisper in comparison. But 
his pilgrimage was not a reward, 
not even a trial ; it was only an ap- 
prenticeship. Hardly a transition, 
save the coming of dawn and a con- 
sciousness of some void, and again 
Robert gazed upon familiar scenes 
of earth. The sun's forerunner was 
flushing the sky, and a wall of living 
water stood before him. He watch- 
ed intently; no sound came to his 
ears. Yet he could see the coronal 
of rainbow-tinted foam rising at the 
feet of the cataract, and felt as if this 
must be the very passage through 
which God's people of old had come 
dry-shod in the bed of the sea. As 
he stood below, breathlessly waiting, 
the crown of the waterfall quivered 
with a new light, and the sun a crim- 



son disk, rose slowly into sight It 
seemed as though a bleeding Host 
were lifted up to heaven in a chalice 
of living jewels. A murmur began 
to rise from the clouds of spray; it 
grew louder and stronger, and Robert 
knew that the voice of the cataract 
had reached his ears at last. It was 
but a faint echo of that ineflfable hymn 
of the spheres which rang yet in his 
memory, but it was none the less the 
sublimest sound he had heard on 
earth. Vaguely came to his under- 
standing ^ fragment of its meaning : 

" Glory to the Power whose breath 
has built us into a wall, and whose 
breath could hurl us like a flood over 
the corn-fields of man." 

When Adam disobeyed God in 
Eden, this cataract was already thou- 
sands of years old, and for ages had 
done God's bidding, calm as eternity, 
regular as the course of the planets. 
Robert pondered on this sublime 
obedience of all strong things to the 
law of the Creator, while man, the 
weakest of creation, thought it h* 
shame to follow any will but his own. 
But even as he stood thinking, the 
earth seemed to tremble beneath him, 
and he sank gently into its heaving 
bosom. A darkness that bred more 
awe than terror encompassed him, 
and he felt that he was in the pre- 
sence of one of God's most dreaded 
ministers. Strange thunders echoed 
around him, and a bewildered con- 
sciousness of some mysterious agency 
being about him came to his wonder- 
ing spirit. Out of the darkness grew 
a twilight, in which objects began to 
be distinguishable; precious ore glis- 
tened on the face of the rocks; metals 
and jewels, heaped in confusion, met 
his eye; silver daggers hung within 
reach of his hand, like bosses from a 
Gothic roof; columns of sparkling 
minerals shot up like enchanted trees 
by his side; while the plashing of 
fountains, the rushing of lava-rivers. 



Laus Perennis. 



393 



and the dull, perpetual thunder of 
ascending flames reached his ear — a 
dusky kingdom, awful in the force it 
suggested, but hushed and chained 
by a power greater still; a silent 
kingdom, the workshop of nature, 
where our dreamer feared but to 
tread, lest a volcano might be set in 
motion on the earth, or an earthquake 
overwhelm a score of cities. But not 
before hearing the credo of this mighty 
world could he leave its regions ; it 
smote upon him from out the roar 
of a furnace, whence a stream of 
blinding light ran slowly into a rocky 
channel Molten iron flowed at his 
feet, and a voice sang in his ear : 

"The earth is the Lord's; the 
compass of the world, and all that 
dwell therein." 

Like hammer-blows came the 
dread words ; no spirit in living shape 
was near, yet a living presence seemed 
to glow in each fiery stream or glit- 
tering rock : the guidance of a will 
that, millions of ages ago, spoke one 
creative word, was enough to lead 
the revolutions and point the un- 
erring road of this grim realm till 
time should be no more. 

Slowly the walls of darkness dis- 
solved, and the hard floor of metals 
turned to a fine white powder, soft 
yet firm; trees grew up, but they 
were white as with hoar-frost; and 
a marvellous vegetation sprang into 
being, the mosses swaying to and fro, 
the flowers moving from rock to rock, 
the fields of greenest grass swaying as 
if with animal life. Jewels hung from 
the fairy rocks, but they closed a 
strong grip on the finger that touched 
them; pearls lay scattered on the 
sandy floor, and back and forth fled 
swift creatures all lace and film, like 
animated cobwebs. Robert felt, by 
instinct, that as he had visited the 
bowels of the earth, so now he was 
roaming the garden of the ocean. In 
reverent wonder he paused, looking 



upward as if to the sky ; and in the 
liquid firmament wandering stars of 
fitful radiance shone out upon him. 
They came now singly, now in strings 
like the milky way, or again in fields, 
as if a flag had been studded with 
glow-worms. As he could not tell 
why in the heart of volcanic fires he 
had been neither. stifled nor consum- 
ed, so now he knew not why he was 
not drowned ; but with the water veil- 
ing everything around, dripping in 
the coral caves, beating against the 
rocks, stirring the living petals of 
millions of sea-flowers, he stood up- 
right, waiting for the voice that must 
swell the everlasting song. It rose 
at first, as though muffled by the 
water, grew stronger and clearer, till, 
in a tone of triumph, it gave forth its 
glad paean : 

*< Bless the Lord, all ye seas and 
floods; . . ^ all that move in the 
waters; ... ye dragons of the 
deep." 

" Is man, then, the only rebel in 
creation," Robert thought sadly, " the 
only ungrateful one, who thinks it a 
loss of time to sing the prailies of 
God?" And an answer seemed to 
knock at his heart, saying : 

" Work is prayer, work is song." 

Again the sea-walls broke, the jewel- 
flowers disappeared, and a change 
came over the dreamer. Snowy moun- 
tains ; fleecy peaks, purple-shadow- 
ed where the sunset light caught 
their sides; level horizons of gold, 
suggesting far lands of miraculous 
radiance ; banks of crimson by dun 
oceans, seeming the grave of a thou- 
sand worlds ; a solitude oppressive 
and sublime; a silence which not 
even the riving asunder of the gray 
mountain or dissolving of the tawny 
shore into the ocean of blue can 
break — ^such was the new scene on 
which Robert gazed. Entranced 
with its beauty, he told himself that 
this was lovelier than even the ice- 



394 



Laus Perennis. 



cathedral amid the soundless world 
of snow; and here would he fain 
build him a home, and wander out 
his pilgrimage ; for " this is the 
threshold of heaven." Now the sun 
came from behind the translucent 
masses, and left streaks of opal and 
amethyst where his footprints had 
pressed the fleecy snow; and the 
dreamer started as the device of this 
world of amazing beauty and abso- 
lute obedience flashed into his eyes 
from out the great, golden heart of 
the sun. Here there was no voice, 
as elsewhere; but the words were 
burned into Robert's mind as he gaz- 
ed at the mighty orb : 

" He has set his tabernacle in the 
sun; hereafter ye shall see the Son 
of roan sitting at the right hand of 
the power of God, and coming in the 
clouds of heaven." 

No sooner had the dreamer gath- 
ered this new verse of the world-song 
into his memory, than the mountains 
and plains, the valleys and the sea, 
began to dissolve in mist. He stretch- 
ed out his hands imploringly, as if to 
stay the wondrous vision in its flight ; 
but he struck at empty air, and sank 
gently towards the earth. An echo 
from afar wafted him an answer, which 
seemed a promise that the cloud- 
land would receive him once more at 
some distant day, but the words were 
rather a command than an encourage- 
ment : 

" Work is prayer, work is song." 

And now a scene broke upon his 
sight, which made him think he was 
back among the apple-orchards and 
smihng farms of Normandy — a fair 
and tranquil scene: wide meadows, 
with flocks of kine grazing, fields of 
corn ripe for the sickle, and orchards, 
round which girls and boys were 
frolicking in holiday costume. Be- 
yond that was a village of white huts 
and a church all of wood, its porch 
hung with evergreens, and a wed- 



ding-party grouped beneath; and 
through the landscape the same river 
on whose banks Robert thought he 
had fallen asleep once years ago, 
when it flowed through the heart of 
the primeval forest. Higher up in 
the distance were still the old pine- 
woods ; but there was much timber 
felled, and great rafts were paddled 
down the stream, laden with the 
wealth of the forest. Robert knew 
that civilization had come to this 
spot with a cross in its hand instead 
of a sword, and baptismal dews 
instead of " fire-water." He saw the 
bronzed, athletic men of the New 
World working like brothers side by 
side with the stalwart, golden-haired 
pilgrims from the Old ; and he looked 
around to see who had thus brought 
about that which his former experi- 
ence h^4 sadly told him was an im- 
possibility. Just then there rose a 
chant from the village church : 

" Sing to the Lord a new song. 
Offer up the sacrifice of justice and 
hope in the Lord, . . . who showeth 
us good things. ... By the fruit of 
their corn, and wine, and oil are 
they multiplied"; while from the 
fields where the red man and the 
white toiled together rose an answer- 
ing chorus : " Behold how good and 
pleasant it is for brethren to dwell 
together in unity." Then from the 
church came a long file of dark-robed 
men, with cowls of ancient make, like 
those that the Norman boy had seen 
carved on the monuments of the 
abbots in his own land — nay, his own 
village (for Villeneuve had once be- 
longed to the Benedictines) — and they 
marched in slow procession to a spot 
of ground a mile beyond the gather- 
ing of white huts. 

Here a large area was marked out 
in the shape of a cross, the outline 
being drawn in wreaths of gaily-col- 
ored autumn leaves. Many Indians 
stood round the enclosure, and one 



Laus Pcrennis. 



395 



old chief kept in his hands a quanti- 
ty of wampum belts. Opposite him 
was a man of athletic build, nearly 
seventy years old, in whom Robert 
thought he saw a great likeness to 
himself as he might become in a 
happy and prosperous old age. The 
chief of the dark-robed men lifted up 
his voice, and addressed this figure : 

« Robert Maillard "—and the 
dreamer started to hear his own name 
— " this day you end a noble work ; 
you crown a life worthy to be held 
in remembrance for ever. You came 
to this spot a wanderer without an 
aim, at war with man, almost despair- 
ing of 'God. You stand here, after 
half a century has gone over your 
head, the father of your people, the 
benefactor of two races, the founder, 
so to speak, of a new kingdom. You 
crown the sacrifice of a lifetime used 
in God's service by a free gift of your 
choicest possession to his everlasting 
majesty. To all ages will a school of 
holy discipline and of sacred song 
plead for you at the throne of God, 
and the iaus perennis of holy lives 
shall represent the ceaseless hymn of 
inanimate creation to its Lord." 

Then the old man turned to the 
Indian chief, and called him. ** My 
brother," he said, " I have only 
given to God what you gave me ; 
without a fair title to your land, I 
durst not have offered it to the God 
whose eldest child on this side of the 
sea is the red man; and half the 
blessing which this reverend minister 
of our Lord has promised me falls 
to your share." 

" My pale-faced brother speaks 
words of justice and of wisdom," 
answered the chief; '* his God shall 
be my God, and his people my peo- 
ple, because his faith has taught him 
inith and honesty towards his red 
brother. The black-robe hath spok- 
en well, and Great Eagle is glad to 
hear him praise the friend of his peo- 



ple, and he who hath taught the In- 
dian maidens to sing the song of the 
stars and the clouds." 

So saying, he laid at the priest's 
feet a wampum belt; and as each 
ceremony of the laying of a first stone 
was completed, he laid down another, 
as if ratifying the compact after the 
manner of his people. The dreamer 
stood apart in silent wonder; the 
dark-robed choir intoned the psalm 
Lauda Jerusalem : 

" Praise the Lord, O Jerusalem ! 
Praise thy God, O Sion !" 

"For he hath strengthened the 
bars of thy gates; he hath blessed 
thy children within thee. 

" He hath made peace within thy 
borders, and filleth thee with the fat- 
ness of corn." 

At last the procession turned back 
towards the white church, and all the 
people, Indians as well as white men, 
joined its ranks. Robert followed 
last of all, and an echo to the song 
of joy and praise rose from his en- 
lightened heart, whispering : 

" Work is prayer, work is song." 

He looked around ; he knew the 
spot well; a litde higher up the 
stream was the place where he had 
rested at noontide, before his eyes 
were opened to the true mission al- 
lotted him in life. He knew that 
this was the warning, which, if he 
neglected it, would make of him no 
longer an innocent dreamer, but a 
useless vagabond, a rebellious crea- 
ture of God. If poetry and beauty, 
truth and honesty, were things of the 
past, it was at least the duty of every 
Christian to do what he could to 
make them once more things of the 
present. No man who owed allegiance 
to the great Maker of all things could 
go idly through life, a vain mourner 
oiFer an impossible ideal ; he must 
bear his share of work, and do his 
utmost to build up anew the spiritual 
temple of truth. And he, above all, 



30 



Laus Perennis, 



who had been led through the secret 
treasure-houses of nature, and had lis- 
tened to the ceaseless hymn of praise 
which the creatures of God sang as 
they followed the immutable laws set 
down for them by their Lord — he, 
above all, dared not stand still nor 
refuse the tribute of his voice. He 
would not be an alien among his 
brethren, the children of God. With 
these thoughts, he slowly followed 
tlie crowd as it filled the little church, 
and broke out again into strains of 
solemn gladness, singing: 

" Now dost thou dismiss thy ser- 
vant in peace, O Lord, according to 
thy word ; for my eyes have seen thy 
salvation." 

The song grew fainter, and the 
multitude seemed to dissolve before 
his eyes, as Robert, standing up, 
gazed around him. Everywhere the 
primeval forest hemmed him in ; the 
river flowed at his feet, clogged with 
mossy boulders, and fringed with 
delicate fern ; the squirrels rattled in 
the trees with a sound like castanets ; 
and the silvery disk of the moon was 
just visible over the tree-tops. The 
young wanderer knew that he had 
slept for many hours ; but he awoke 
a new being. Reverently he gazed 
upon the silent landscape, to which a 
fellowship beyond the expression of 
human tongues now bound him ; and, 
as he repeated slowly the prayers 
that he had said at his mother's knee 
in the old Norman homestead, he felt 
that at last his life's work had been 
pointed out to him. He had read 
the pages of a book more wonderful 
than the romances of troubadours, 
the .tales of the Minnesingers, and 
even the chronicles of olden abbeys ; 
he had heard how the world was 
bound by a chain of song, never 
ceasing, never wearying ; and hence- 
forth his frail human life must not 
mar this awe-inspiring harmony; his 
heart must throb with the world's 



heart, his voice sing in unison with 
the great voice of creation. Night 
passed, and he scarcely slept ; morn- 
ing came, and found him still in his 
holy rapture. Before long, an Indian 
approached him — ^a tall and stately 
son of the forest, one still uncorrupted 
by the thinly veiled heathenism of the 
white "children of the sun." He 
had never seen a white man, though 
he had often heard of them. Robert 
knew a little of some of the Indian 
tongues, but not that of the new- 
comer. What with signs and a few 
words akin to those which the Indian 
spoke, they gradually made friends; 
but the red man still gazed upon 
Robert with an awe not unmixed with 
terror. He handled his weapons and 
his garments, touched reverentisilly 
his fair and tangled locks, and at in- 
tervals drew long breaths of astonish- 
ment and admiration. He tnen led 
him to the assembly of his tribe, and 
Robert soon learnt enough of their 
language to be able to speak fluently 
with them. He told them how he 
came there, and spoke to them of the 
true God ; and, though at first they 
listened quietly, they soon grew grave. 
They had heard of the cruelty and 
treachery of white men, who all pro- 
fessed to believe in this true God, and 
they dared not trust to this teaching. 

Then Robert had a happy inspira- 
tion. He told them of his dream, 
and they brightened up at once ; this 
was language such as they loved to 
hear; these were parables such as 
they instinctively understood. He 
told them of his life in Normandy, 
of his journey across the great salt 
water, of his longings after a beauti- 
ful land of brotherly love, such as 
had been shown to him in his dream. 
He asked them to help him in his 
work for God. 

We cannot dwell longer on the 
details of the story of this settlement 
in the wilderness, but some things 



Laus Perennis. 



397 



must be briefly touched upon. In 
due time, the Indian tribe gave 
Robert a grant of many miles of land, 
and he, in return, promised them pro- 
tection, justice, equality, and peace. 
One priest at first, then gradually 
others, came to preach the Gospel ; 
and the path of truth was exception- 
ally smooth in this strange oasis. 
Robert called his settlement by a 
name which few at first could under- 
sUnd — Perpetual Praise. Parts of the 
forest were cleared ; a thriving lum- 
ber trade was established ; cottages 
sprang up ; many emigrants from fair 
Normandy flocked in, yet settlers of 
other lands were all welcomed as 
brothers; a civilization that was 
rather that of the monastery than of 
the factory sprang up, and Indians 
and whites worshipped God side by 
side in joy and peace. 

As years went by, Robert took an 
Indian wife, and loved her as faith- 
fully as though she had been the 
princess of some chivalric romance : 
he had found his ideal at last. Some- 
times—it was impossible that it 
should be otherwise— there would be 
a ripple of adversity over the smooth 
waters of this pastoral life; crime 
might throw a shadow on the settle- 
ment ; but peace was prompdy restor- 
ed, and Robert became known as the 
justest and most merciful judge for 
hundreds of miles around. He was 
the arbiter and referee of every feud, 
Ihc father of his colony, the terror of 
evil-doers. Over his house-door — a 
wide, open-armed porch where his 
Indian sons, with locks of bronze, 
playeJ the games of infant Samsons 
at his feet — was carved in crimson 
letters this brave motto : 
"Work is prayer, work is song." 
As his years advanced, he grew 
more thoughtful yet. One idea re- 
mained unrealized ; and now that the 
settlement had had a life almost as 
long as the third of a century, he felt 



that it was time to begin the new 
and crowning work. He negotiat* 
ed with the Benedictine abbeys of 
France, and held out hopes to them 
of the free gift of at least five hundred 
acres of land for the foundation of a 
priory of their order, together with a 
school of missionaries for the Indians, 
and for the revival of sacred chant — 
a study Robert had greatly at heart. 
He received very favorable answers 
and, before he died, he saw the wish 
of his heart in a fair way to be ac- 
complished. 

The day of the arrival of the first 
Benedictine monks was a festival 
throughout the settlement. Indian 
and European decorations vied with 
each other; beads, feathers, flags, 
lanterns of painted birch- bark, flow- 
ers strewn on the paths, wreaths 
hung from tree to tree, all represented 
but poorly the heartfelt enthusiasm 
of the people. In a few months, the 
old chant of the church in the early 
ages echoed through the woods and 
corn-fields of the New World; the 
Divine Office was sung in the inter- 
vals of agricultural labor; seven 
times a day did the bells utter their 
summons to prayer, yet the fields 
and flocks thrived none the less for 
this continuous intercession. The 
boys of red and white race mingled 
their locks of black and gold, poring 
over the books of church psalmody ; 
the maidens and matrons joined in 
from their seats in the body' of the 
church. The wilderness became 
populous, great artists came to sketch 
the stately figures of the monks and 
the innocent faces of the choristers 
as they moved fi-om choir to plough- 
ed field, from school to pasture ; cu- 
rious folks came to visit the little 
spot of land where a great experiment 
had been tried and had not failed ; 
musicians came to seek rest for their 
minds and inspiration for their art; 
poets came to describe the hew Ar* 



398 



English Sketches. 



cadia, and holy men to praise God 
in the temple where such great gia- 
ces had been conferred. 

Robert Maillard began to fear that 
such publicity would endanger the 
very perfection which was the theme 
of admiration, arid with redoubled fer- 
vor did he pray for his beloved work* 
As last came a day when he knew 
that his earthly task was over; like 
a patriarch among his people, he 
gathered the heads of the little com- 
munity around ^ him, and blessed 
them, exhorting them to persevere 
in the happy and innocent life of 
** Perpetual Praise." His wife knelt 



at his feet, his sons stood around 
him, and one of them led by the 
hand a young child, whose eyes 
were Indian eyes, but whose skin was 
nearly as fair as that of her grand- 
father. 

The Benedictine monks stood 
around Robert's bedside, chanttog 
the Divine Office ; but suddenly the 
dying man raised ^is hands to hea- 
ven, and, mingling his voice with 
the song of Compline, called out 
clearly and joyously, as if in answer 
to some interior voice : '^ I come, O 
Lord ! Work has been prayer ; be it 
now song." 



ENGLISH SKETCHES. 



II. 



RUINS OF AN OLD ABBEY. 



In the year of grace 1121, Henry 
I. was reigning in England. On the 
sudden death of his brother, William 
Rufus, he had seized the crown, which 
devolved by right on* the next elder 
brother, Robert of Normandy, Ro- 
bert being just then absent in the Holy 
Land, where, by military exploits of 
high renown and sweet courtesy of 
manner, he was winning the hearts 
of his soldiers and of Christendom. 
Hearing how things were going in 
England, he set sail in haste for 
Normandy ; and there calling a fleet 
together, he steered towards Dover, 
where the usurper, apprised of his 
arrival, stood with an army drawn up 
upon the shore awaiting him. For 
three days and nights the brothers 
stood at bay, like two tigers ready 
to fly at one another's throats, but 
neither daring to strike the first blow 
in their fratricidal war. Presently we 



see gliding high up along the cliffs a 
venerable figure, clad in priestly garb, 
and bearing an olive branch in his 
hand. His name is Anselm. He 
has been roughly handled by Rufus, 
and has little kindness to expect from 
his successor. But Anselm heeds not 
his own interest or his life ; he goes 
boldly forward, and with outstretched 
hand entreats the brothers to desist 
from their bloody intent, to exchange 
the kiss of peace, and settle their 
quarrel as became men and Chris- 
tians. They hearkened to the voice 
of the saindy primate. This was his 
first service to Henry, and it was 
quickly followed by others so nume- 
rous and so important that the scho- 
larly king, moved partly by gratitude, 
and partly by a desire to atone for 
certain of his own and his prede- 
cessor's misdemeanors towards the 
church, resolved, in 1 121, to build a 



English Sketches. 



S99 



monastery which should be one of the 
glories of his reign, and bear witness 
to the end of time to his devout alle- 
giance to the faith. With this view 
he built the Benedictine Abbey of 
Reading. It was on so royal a scale, 
both of magnitude and architectural 
splendor, that even now, in their utter 
dilapidation, the fragments of the 
Cyclopean ruins give us no inadequate 
idea of what it must have been in the 
days of its strength and glory. The 
gigantic skeleton walls, as they stand 
out gaunt and ragged against the sky, 
resemble rather rocks than the re- 
mains of the work of puny human 
hands. The style was in the massive 
and lofty Norman Gothic of the pe- 
riod, as may be seen from the few 
bold arches that have withstood alike 
the ravages of time, the artillery of 
Cromwell, and modern depredations. 
The abbey was one of the wealthiest 
in the kingdom, and the mitred abbot 
was counted among the notable au- 
thorities of the land. He not only 
took rank with tlie highest nobles, 
but he enjoyed, likewise, many of the 
supreme prerogatives of royalty ; he 
was privileged to coin money, and to 
confer the honor of knighthood. He 
exercised hospitality to kings and 
princes, and that right royally. King 
Henry, the founder, was a frequent 
guest at the monastery with his court, 
who were entertained there for weeks 
at a time with regal magnificence. 
The king was extremely fond of the 
abbey and the monks, and made it 
his custom to spend Holy Week 
there every year. After performing 
his Paschal duties in company with 
his (amily and his court, and passing 
the solemn week in fasting and prayer, 
he celebrated the joyful Easter dawn 
*ith a festive merriment, in which all 
the town was invited to join. Bon- 
fires blazed on every surrounding hill, 
*le ran in the gutters, the poor were 
dad and fed, and all within reach of 



the royal bounty felt the joy of the 
Paschal alleluia. Queen Adeliza 
shared her husband's partiality for 
this lordly monastic retreat, and at 
various festivals through the year re- 
paired to it, sometimes with her son, 
sometimes only with her women-in- 
waiting. When Henry died of over- 
indulgence in his favorite dish of 
lampreys, at Rouen, he directed that 
his heart should remain there, but 
that his body should rest under the 
roof of his beloved Benedictine ab- 
bey. After his demise, it still con- 
tinued to be a royal residence, and 
was often frequented by Henry II., 
who held a parliament there for the 
first time in 1184 — an example which 
was followed repeatedly in the course 
of the succeeding reigns; the calm 
of the cloister offering a fitter atmos- 
phere for grave deliberation to the 
law-makers than the hall of West- 
minster, disturbed as it was by courtly 
intrigues and political agitations. In 
1452, Parliament was adjourned to 
Reading Abbey from Westminster, on 
account of the sudden outbreak of 
the plague, and later, in 1466, for the 
same reason. It was the scene of 
other meetings not devoid of histori- 
cal importance. Here the Patriarch 
of Jerusalem, Heraclius, visited Henry 
II., and presented him with the keys 
of the Holy Sepulchre and the royal 
banners of the city, in hopes of 
luring him to undertake another cru- 
sade for the deliverance of the holy 
places. 

Henry III. passed more of his time 
at Reading Abbey than at any of his 
own palaces; here he convoked as- 
semblies of the nobles, and received 
brother princes and European guests 
of distinction. It was in the west hall 
of the monastery that Edward IV. re- 
ceived his fair young queen, Elizabeth 
Widville. In this same hall Long- 
champ, Bishop of Ely, who had the 
regency in the absence of Richard 



400 



English Sketches. 



Coeur de Lion in Palestine, was put 
upon his trial. Two other ecclesias- 
tical councils were held here in the 
reign of John. When Richard II., 
through the intervention of John of 
(raunt, was reconciled to his nobles, 
he chose Reading Abbey as the 
ground of meeting. So it continued, 
up to the reign of Henry VIII., the 
resort of kings, and nobles, and pre- 
lates, until that ruthless despoiler pass- 
ed an act for the suppression of 
monasteries, and converted the sacred 
])recincts into a palace for his own 
sole use. The monks were scatter- 
ed, and their brave and loyal abbot, 
Hugh Farringdon, having dared to 
denounce the iniquitous edict and 
defy the king, was sentenced to be 
hanged, drawn, and quartered. With 
him closes the line of the Benedic- 
tine abbots. It is curious to see 
Henry VIII., after thus uprooting the 
church in his dominions, plundering 
her treasure, and persecuting her in 
every way, leaving a large sum of 
money in his will for " Masses to be 
said for the deliverance of his soul." 
He had made it high treason to hold 
the doctrine of purgatory, or to pray 
for the dead ; and the act of saying 
Mass was punishable with death. He 
had overturned altars and banished 
priests ; yet, when he came to die him- 
self, he turned, in abject and cowardly 
fear, towards the church that he had 
so outraged, and besought her help in 
his extremity. Speaking of this act 
of Henry's, which throws such a 
sinister light on his fanatical hatred 
to Catholicism, and his violent en- 
forcement of the " reformed religion," 
as it was styled, Hume, whose state- 
ments are as accurate as his views are 
false, remarks naively that it is a 
proof of the tenacity of superstition 
on the human mind, and says that it 
was one amongst so many of " the 
strange contrarieties of his conduct 
and temper," that he who had '* de- 



stroyed those foundations made by 
his ancestors for the deliverance of 
their souls," should when it came to 
be the hour of death " take care to 
be on the safer side of the question 
himself" At the time of the dissolu- 
tion, the revenues in money of this 
royal abbey did not exceed the 
small sum of £(»!$ a year. Its 
wealth consisted not in accumulated 
riches, but in lands, and fisheries, and 
flocks, and herds. Many English 
sovereigns had bequeathed their dust 
to the consecrated shelter of Reading 
Abbey ; amongst others, the Empress 
Matilda, wife of Henry I., and 
mother of Henry II., had been inter- 
red in its vaults. Their ashes found 
no mercy at the hands of the infuri- 
ated fanatics, who seemed bent on 
erasing from the face of the country 
every vestige of its ancient faith. 
The majestic pile, which had wit- 
nessed so many royal marriages, and 
echoed to the dirges of so many sov- 
ereigns, fell before the cannon of 
Cromwell, planted on Caversham hill. 
The beautiful church of S. Thomas 
i Becket, where the unfortunate 
Charles I., with a little band of his 
trusty cavaliers, had halted and knelt 
in prayer for protection against the 
mad soldiery before whom they fled, 
fared no better than the rest. The walls 
that still exist bear traces at every 
point of this savage act of vandalism. 
What the fury of the Roundheads 
left unfinished the more recent van- 
dals have completed. The ruins have 
been plundered of every vestige of 
stone-facing; and tliose immense 
blocks that gave the old pile, even in 
its decay, such an air of imperishable 
strength and grandeur were, at great 
cost of labor and money, torn away 
and carried to Windsor, to serve in 
building the Poor Knights* Hospital. 
Some were condemned to the more 
ignoble use of erecting a bridge over 
the Wargrave Road. It is difficult 



English Sketches. 



401 



to go beyond mere speculation in 
fixing the spots illustrated by so 
many memorable associations in the 
iiistory of the old abbey. There can 
he no mistake, however, about the 
Chapter Hall, where the parliaments 
were held, and where kings and pre- 
lates feasted. There is a tradition 
that after the battle of Newbury, 
Charles I. and all his troops were 
daily fed for a considerable time in 
the refectory of the monks, one wall 
alone of which is now standing, but 
which quite justifies the supposition 
of this wholesale hospitaUty when we 
see the area formerly occupied by 
the apartment. The site of the 
church is also discernible, but the 
relative positions of the altars, tran- 
septs, and nave are but dimly sug- 
gested by the broken bases of the 
four enormous pillars that supported 
ilie towering dome. The present 
beautiful little Catholic church, with 
its adjoining presbytery, is built entire- 
ly from the ruins, so cruelly disman- 
tled by successive goths. But all 
tucir efforts have failed to obliterate 
ilie royal aspect of the wreck, or to 
rob it of its air of immortality. The 
walls are built of sharp, small flint, im- 
bedded in mortar that has now be- 
come as hard as iron — a circum- 
stance which we may hope will put an 
ei\d to any further devastation, as the 
tools of the workmen break like glass 
in the effort to penetrate it and dis- 
lodge the flint. 

A fact that added to Reading Abbey 

a higher kind of interest than any 

earthly privilege can convey was 

that it possessed the hand of S. James 

tbe Aposde — a relic which had been 

brought from Germany to France 

'7 the Empress Matilda, and given 

''jy her to her father, Henry I., who 

presented it to the Benedictine monks 

encased in a rich shrine of gold, 

*here devout worshippers came 

ffo:n j;reat distance^ to venerate it. 

VOL, xvui. — 26 



When the dissolution of monastic 
orders was decreed, the sacred relics 
which each community possessed were 
secreted in secure places, and often 
defended from outrage at the peril 
and sacrifice of life; but no mention 
is anywhere to be found of similar 
precautions being employed in the 
case of the famous Benedictine trea- 
sure. The Roundheads desecrated 
the tombs of the kings, and threw to 
the winds the bones of the monks 
who slept in the vaults around them ; 
but we find no trace of insult offered 
to the hand of S. James, nor is any 
notice taken of it in the local chroni- 
cles of Reading from tliis time forth. 
There was a vague rumor of its hav- 
ing been conveyed to a convent in 
Spain ; but no evidence of the slight- 
est description supports this notion. 
About seventy years ago, some work- 
men, employed in breaking down a 
portion of the walls, came upon a 
small wooden box containing a hu- 
man hand ; it was bought as a cu- 
riosity for a mere trifle by a physician 
of the town, and after a while, we 
know not how or wherefore, it found 
its way to the Museum of the Poly- 
technic, where it remained until that 
institution was broken up ; then the 
hand was transferred to the Athe- 
naeum, in Friar Street. Meantime, 
the circumstance of the discovery 
had travelled far beyond Berks, and 
some devout persons, believing this 
could be none other than the lost 
relic of S. James, offered considerable 
sums for it ; but, for some reason 
that we can neither discover nor sur- 
mise, these offers were declined, and 
• the hand remained " amongst other 
nick-nacks" to which some interest, 
historical or otherwise, was attached. 
Finally, the vicissitudes of fortune car- 
ried it to a shop-window, where it 
was long to be seen under a glass 
case so insecurely guarded that any 
expert thief might easily have pur- 



402 



English Sketches. 



loined it. A Scotch Catholic gen- 
tleman saw it here, and offered fifty 
pounds for it. It was sold to him 
for this sum, and he placed it in the 

care of Canon B , the dean of 

the church which is built on the 
original resting-place of the real relic, 
and dedicated to S. James. It was 
with the understanding, however, 
that he would claim the hand as 
soon as he had a suitable place for 

it in his own house. Canon B 

himself was strongly inclined to dis- 
believe in the genuineness of the relic. 
In the first place, the box in which it 
was found bore no sign or symbol 
of its being a reliquary, and there 
was no mark or seal attached to the 
contents indicating their character; 
then, again, the hand was small and 
the fingers tapering, much more like 
the hand of a woman than of a rude- 
'limbed fisherman like the Apostle 
-of Spain. There was one way of 
•ascertaining with certainty that it 
was not the real hand, and this 
•was by learning whether the body 
'of S. James, which is preserved 
'in the Cathedral of Compostela, 
•wanted one hand. If the two were 
•there, there was an end of the con- 
'troversy, and it would be clearly prov- 
• ed that the hand found at Reading 
Abbey had been, at some unknown 
•date, returned to its place. If one 
hand was missing, and if that cor- 
responded to the one in his possession, 
it was at least a strong argument 
on the side of its genuineness, which 
•other steps should be thenceforth 
taken to prove. At the canon's 
request. Dr. Grant, the late saintly 
Bishop of Southwark, wrote to the * 
Archbishop of Compostela, asking 
him to allow the shrine to be open- 
ed and the necessary inspection 
of the relics m.ade; but the arch- 
bishop replied that he could on no 
pretext, however laudable, consent to 
«uch an act, which, in his eyes, ap- 



peared like a desecration of their ven- 
erated patron. The question fell back, 
therefore, into impenetrable doubt as 
before. The hand remained at Read- 
ing, until at last the purchaser arrived 
and claimed it. He was persuaded 
that it was the real hand of S. James, 
and as such claimed to have it in his 
possession and under his roof. Ca- 
non B gave it up at once ; but it 

was remarked by a pious Catholic at 
the time that if it was the real relic, 
the act oi purchasing it for private 
possession, and removing it from a 
church dedicated to the apostle to 
whom it was supposed to belong, to 
a private house, could bring no bless- 
ing on those connected with it. 
These warnings were laughed at as 
superstitious by the owner of the 
relic; but they were strangely and 
fearfully fulfilled before long. He 
and three clerical friends were one 
day seized at dinner with agonizing 
pains, and, after a few hours* suffer- 
ing, expired. One of the dishes had, 
by some unaccountable accident, 
been poisoned by the cook, who had 
employed some venomous root in 
mistake for horse-radish. We do 
not attach for a moment any super- 
natural significance to the incident, 
but merely give it as a strange co- 
incidence. After this violent and 
sudden death of its owner, the hand 
passed into the possession of a relative, 
to whom he bequeathed it. Perhaps 
this short record of its recent history 
may meet the eye of some one who 
may be induced to search out the 
missing limb, and clear away the 
mystery that still hangs over the sup- 
posed relic of the apostle who warn- 
ed us so solemnly against the iniquity 
of idle words. Who knows ? Per- 
haps we may yet live to see a Benedic- 
tine monastery rise on the site oi the 
ancient one where his hand was so 
devoutly venerated ; monks, weanng 
the dark cowl of the inspired author 



Tlu Court of France in 1830. 



403 



of the Regula Monachorum^ may 
again tread the hallowed ground of 
the old abbey, where in bygone 
days their fathers lived grand and aw- 
ful lives under the serene and solemn 
shadow of their mighty cloisters, ad- 
justing the strife of nations and of 
kings, teaching Christendom, feeding 
the poor, and taking the kingdom 
of heaven by violence amidst long 
vigils, and fasting, and humiliation, 



and the heroic practice of Christian 
sanctity ; the old stones may yet 
echo to the chant of psalms as 
in the days of our forefathers, and 
the song of praise resound again 
in the desert — the same words, 
with other voices ; for God changes 
not, neither does his church; for, 
like her Founder, she is immutable, 
the same yesterday, to-day, and for 
ever. 



THE COURT OF FRANCE IN xZ^o* 



BY M. MENNECHET. 



mOM PARIS, OU LB LIVRB DBS CBNT-BT-UN. 



You think, my dear friend and edi- 
tor, that the place occupied by the 
Tuileries in the panorama of Paris is 
so prominent a one that you desire to 
include a variety of accounts of it in 
the rich gallery of description you 
are now giving to the world, and 
you ask me, unskilful artist though I 
am, to draw you a faithful picture of 
its interior as I once knew it. You 
say that, having for fifteen years in- 
habited this palace, I must necessarily 
be well acquainted with all the details 
of it, and you wish me to take upon 
myself the office of introducing your 
numerous readers, and of giving 
them a nearer view of the chief per- 
sonages of this royal domain. I 
may, you add, imagine myself once 
more at my bureau, distributing to 
curiosity or to attachment tickets of 
admission for some feU or ceremony, 
and that this will perhaps prove, for 
the time being, a pleasant illusion 
for me. Dreams like these, however, 

* Wc tranilftte the following chapter from a 
work pablisbed ia Paris maoy years aipo, oo ac- 
cottot of its historical interest, containing, as it 
does, reminlftceocea of the youth of Comte de 
Chambord and other characters since become 
prominent.~ED. C. W. 



would possess no attraction for me. 
I have been too near a spectator of 
the court for it to have any illusions 
for my mind. In this respect, I may 
compare myself to an actor at the 
theatre, over-familiar with the scenes 
of the green-room. I need realities 
now to awaken my interest; and 
since the course of events has plung- 
ed me again into my original obscu- 
rity, I can no longer abandon myself 
to reveries of pride or of ambition. 
Nor had I risen so high that there 
was any danger that my fall would 
distract my reason or shake my phi- 
losophy. I had reached only that 
elevation which gives to objects their 
due proporrions. I was neither too 
near nor too far, neither too high 
nor too low, not to be able to see and 
to judge calmly ; and it is in my for- 
mer • observatory that I am now 
about to replace myself, in order to 
comply, as far as it may lie in my 
power, with your request. Perhaps 
I ought to fear that it may be said 
of me, He served the exiled family 
for fifteen years ; he was indebted to 
them for his maintenance and that 
of others connected with him ; he is 



404 



The Court of France in 1830 



biassed by feelings of gratitude; we 
cannot but distrust what he is about 
to tell us. God forbid that the re- 
proach of fidelity and gratitude 
should ever offend me: these are 
virtues too rare for any one who is 
conscious in his own heart of pos- 
sessing them to be ashamed of the 
fact. If, therefore, I should be ac- 
cused of flattery, I shall not feel 
much grieved at the charge ; for at 
least I shall have flattered only the 
unfortunate. Had not the sanguina- 
ry events of July shattered at one 
blow the crown of Charlemagne, 
the sceptre of S. Louis, and the 
sword of Henri IV. ; did the family of 
Charles X. now reign at the Tuileries, 
I might be silent, lest my encomiums 
should be deemed interested; or 
were I to take up my pen, it would 
only be to demonstrate that the lib- 
eral ideas of the youth of the pre- 
sent day were even then admitted 
to the court; there was no exclu- 
sion, excepting for revolutionary prin- 
ciples. 

Here might be a fine opportunity 
for me to enter upon a chapter of 
politics. I might prove to the parti- 
sans of the sovereignty of the people 
that they alone invoke the divine 
right, since the voice of the people 
passes for the voice of God — Vox pop- 
iili, vox Dei ; or, on the other hand, 
that their adversaries do well to 
range themselves on the side of he- 
reditary right, which is a principle 
of order and security, as well for 
governments as for families — a right 
sacred and inviolable, and which has 
existed unquestioned from the days 
of Adam until the present time. 

But 1 should find myself quite out 
of my sphere in the domain of poli- 
tics, having always withheld myself 
from its complications. I therefore 
give your readers notice that I shall 
not introduce them into the great 
cabinet in which the councils of the 



ministers were held. I was not ad- 
mitted there myself; and as I never 
listened at the doors, it would be 
impossible for me to relate anything 
that took place. All I know is that 
under the last ministry they used 
three sheets of paper too much, since 
the latter kindled so deplorable a 
conflagration. 

The exterior aspect of the Tuileries 
is doubtless well known to my read- 
ers, at least firom description, or 
through pictures or engravings. But 
those who have never had the oppor- 
tunity of penetrating further I now 
invite to follow me into the interior, 
while I endeavor to bring before them 
some of thtfiies and ceremonies of 
the court of Charles X. Unless you 
are in full dress, let us not enter by 
the great staircase. There we should 
find a man, who is called a Suisse^ 
although he is a Frenchman, who 
would tell you that etiquette does 
not permit you to enter the palace of 
the king wearing boots. You might 
exclaim against etiquette, forgetting, 
however, that, at least, it imposes up- 
on vanity the obligation of enriching 
labor. The staircase by which I 
shall introduce you is free from such 
restrictions. You will find the steps 
much worn. They lead to the trea- 
sury of charities — a treasury quite the 
opposite of the cask of the Dan aides ; 
for although it be constantly drawo 
from, it is never empty. 

Let us ascend another flight, and 
cross the black gallery ^ where, on the 
right and left sides, are lodged, in 
narrow and inconvenient rooms, the 
great lord and the valet de cAambre, 
the viaitre (Vhoiel and the physician, 
the aide-de-camp and the chaplain, 
the gentleman and the plebeian. 
Here all ranks, all grades, all digni- 
ties, are confounded. When we shall 
repair to the final judgment, I sup- 
pose we shall all pass through a black 
gallery, in which, like that of the 



The Court of France in 1830. 



405 



Tuileries, will be mingled all social 
ranks. We will now descend a flight, 
and enter the apartment of the first 
gentleman of the chamber, one of the 
great officers of the household. Let 
us request of him tickets of admission 
to the ceremony of the Supper ; and, 
when we shall have obtained them' 
from his habitual complaisance, let 
us hope that there may not have 
been, the night before, between him, 
the captain of the guards, and the 
grand-master of ceremonies, any dis- 
pute regarding the rights, privileges, 
and attributes of their respective 
offices. In that case it is by no 
means certain that the life-guardsman 
would permit us to enter, the pass- 
word being frequently regulated by 
some petty revenge of the chief. 
This time, however, all is harmonious ; 
the life- guardsman has made no ob- 
jection, the usher has taken our tick- 
ets, and the valet de chambre has 
indicated our places behind the ladies. 
What an interesting tableau is pre- 
sented by this religious solemnity ! 
The chapel of the chiteau being too 
small for the occasion, the gallery of 
Diana has been arranged for the cere- 
niony. I see you smile as you raise 
your eyes to gaze upon the rich 
paintings which decorate the ceiling 
of this galler}'. Cupid and Psyche, 
Diana and Endymion, Hercules and 
Omphale — all these gods and god- 
<^esscs of paganism appear, litde in 
keeping with the scene of a Christian 
celebration. But lower your eyes; 
look at this simple altar, at this pul- 
pit, from which the minister of God 
will shortly speak, and you will no 
longer be tempted to smile, for you 
will have realized the distance which 
separates truth from error. 

At one of the extremities of the 
gallery is laid an immense table, on 
^'hich thirteen dishes of different 
kinds are thirteen times repeated. 
Each one of them is decorated with 



fragrant flowers, which exhale a deli- 
cious perfume. Along the entire 
length of the gallery are placed, 
right and left, three rows of benches. 
On one side are seated the ladies, 
whose elegant costumes are, it is true, 
somewhat worldly; but the books 
they hold in their hands attest, at 
least, their pious intentions. 

Facing the pews reserved for the 
royal family, and on more elevated 
benches, are ranged thirteen poor 
young children, representing the thir- 
teen apostles; for, at the time of the 
Supper, Judas had not denied his 
Master. Behind these are placed 
the musicians of the king, at their 
head Cherubini and Lesueur, and 
directed by Plantade ; this combina- 
tion of talent exhibiting a taste and 
power of execution unrivalled at that 
period, and which will still be remem- 
bered by many who have had the 
privilege of listening to them. 

But suddenly a voice is heard — 
" The king." All advance, lean for- 
ward, and endeavor to obtain a view 
of him. He salutes all with the grace 
so natural to him ; and respect alone 
represses the demonstration which 
his kindness seems to encourage. 
The divine office begins; at its con- 
clusion comes the sermon ; and finally, 
carrying out the pious custom of the 
kings of France, he himself washes 
the feet of the thirteen apostles as a 
token of Christian humility. The 
impious may smile at these touching 
solemnities of the worship of their 
forefathers ; had they once assisted at 
a ceremony like this, they would smile 
no more. Afterwards, the officers of 
the household advance in a proces- 
sion, holding in their hands the insig- 
nia of their office and bouquets. - Af- 
ter them marches the dauphin of 
France, followed by the high officers. 
Thirteen times in succession they ap- 
proach the table to seek the bread, 
the wine, the different dishes intended 



4o6 



The Court of France in 1830. 



for the representatives of the apostles. 
They carry them to the king, who 
deposits them in baskets at the feet 
of each child. To these gifts he adds 
a purse for each, containing thirteen 
five-franc pieces. Then the ceremony 
is over, and the king may say to him- 
self, '^ I have not only fulfilled an act 
of devotion and humility ; I have also 
made thirteen families happy.'' 

Having beheld the Most Christian 
King stooping ffom his royal majesty 
to those whom P^re Bridaine called 
the best friends of God, let us now 
view him in that ceremony which 
alone, until lately, recalled the an- 
cient traditions of chivalry. Here he 
is not only King of France; he is 
Grand Master of the Order of the 
Holy Ghost. This order, founded 
by Henri IH., and which all the 
sovereigns of Europe were proud and 
happy to wear ; this order, which de- 
corated the breast of Henri IV., of 
Louis XIV., and of all the great war- 
riors and statesmen of the last two 
centuries ; this order, the most glori- 
ous recompense, and the one most 
coveted by the celebrated personages 
of the beginning of the present epoch, 
is at an end — the late revolution did 
not choose that it should survive the 
monarchy. 

The last ceremony of the Order 
of the Holy Ghost took place on 
May 30, 1830, at Whitsuntide. The 
most perfect taste and the greatest 
luxury were displayed in the hangings 
which decorated the great vestibule 
and the stone gallery that lead to 
the chapel; the ingenious and va- 
ried talents of Hittorf, Lecointe, and 
Ciceri being brought into requisition 
on this occasion. The chapter of the 
order was held at eleven o'clock in 
the grand cabinet. There were as- 
sembled, in their rich costumes of 
black velvet, embroidered with gold 
and faced with green silk, the knights 
already received into the number, 



wearing crosswise the collar of the 
order, and on their cloaks the silver 
plates — the brilliant insignia of their 
dignity. The king, the natural no- 
bility of whose appearance was en- 
hanced by this picturesque costume, 
opened the assembled chapter; then 
the cortege took up their march to 
the chapel, where the knights lately 
promoted were to be received. They 
marched in double-file through rows, 
on either hand, of ladies elegantly 
dressed ; the bystanders gazed eager- 
ly on the knights as they advanced, 
and many satirical remarks were 
made upon the singular junction of 
the new celebrities with the members 
of the old aristocracy. 

There walked together the Due 
la Tremouille and M. Lain^, M. 
Ravez and the Due de Montmo- 
rency. 

To show how ambition may attain 
its ends by different paths, the Due 
de D6caze and the Comte de Villete, 
the Comte de Peyronnet and the 
Due de Dalmatie; and as if to demon- 
strate how differently two gentlemen 
may comprehend the duties of their 
position, the Due de Mortemart artd 
the Vicomte de Chateaubriand. 

An especial circumstance added 
the attraction of curiosity while it 
lent a more touching interest to thb 
scene ; the king received as Chevalier 
of the Order of the Holy Ghost the 
young Due de Nemours, in the pre- 
sence of all his family. All those 
who were present on this occasion 
cannot fail to remember the noble 
and gracious air of the young prince, 
and the deep emotion perceptible in 
the voice of the august old man as 
he defined the duties of a true knight. 
One might have supposed him a 
father, happy and proud to find m 
his son a heart in which the seeds 
of honor and loyalty must necessaril) 
germinate. All the spectators ^'^^ 
moved. A mother wept Would 



The Court of France in 1830. 



407 



that these had been the last tears she 
was destined to shed ! 

Let us now pass from this grave 
and imposing ceremonial to those 
animated and joyous fetes which 
took place every year at Saint- Cloud 
on the day of S. Henri. Shall I 
show you the Trocadere, filled with 
games of every description, shops of 
ail kinds, in which the most famous 
actors of the capital, transformed 
into foreign merchants, distributed to 
all comers songs, toys, bonbons, and 
flowers, all for the trifling remunera- 
tion of thanks ? Will you assist with 
the whole court at that brilliant re- 
presentation of the heroic drama oi 
Bssuftf in which Franconi and his 
actors, men and horses, give proofs 
of such rare intelligence and address P 
At the conclusion of this spectacle, 
the Due de Bordeaux* assembles 
his little army of children, and before 
the eyes of the astonished crowd 
causes them to manoeuvre with all 
I he coolness and experience of a vet- 
eran captain ; then he leads them to 
the gymnastic games, in which he 
surpasses them all in strength, daring, 
and skill. Then, mingling with the 
soldiers of a neighboring post, he 
plays at quoits with the latter as if 
with comrades ; but he takes care to 
lose the game just as he is on the 
point of winning it, so as to be gener- 
ous without the appearance of it. 
Perhaps you might be interested to 
know that this promising child like- 
wise ardently devotes himself to his 
studies under the care of his admi- 
rable instructors, MM. de fiarande 
and Colart, and more especially to 
the history of his country ; he obsti- 
nately refuses to call the Constable 
of Bourbon anything but the doii Con- 
iiad/e, asserting that he has forfeited 
his right even to his name, having 
l>oroe arms against his sovereign. 

* AAerwmrds Comte de Cbambord. 



But whither have ray reminiscen- 
ces carried me ? Here we are at 
Saint-Cloud; the games of a child 
have made me forget the pomps of a 
court, and, besides, I was only to 
speak to you of the Tuileries. 

This court was not wanting in 
brilliancy; its luxury, however, was 
by no means extreme. These three 
hundred gentlemen of the chamber, 
these equerries, these officers of cere- 
mony for the household and hunt- 
ing service, richly dressed in vest- 
ments embroidered in gold, were 
tributaries to industry, and willingly 
paid the tax of vanity. We to oof- 
ten forget that the bread of the poor 
is in the hands of the rich, and that it 
is better for the former that this bread 
should be t]^e price of labor than the 
gift of charity. 

In order to reconcile ourselves 
with this luxury, which many un- 
thinkingly condemned, let us assist 
at those j'eux du nuy to which all the 
social notabilities were invited. 

A week before the invitations had 
been issued, it would be known in all 
the workshops of Paris that a recep- 
tion was to take place at the court, 
and more orders would be received 
than could be executed. Tailors, 
dressmakers, embroiderers, modistes^ 
hair-dressers, jewellers, etc., all rejoic- 
ed; and the happiness of the invited 
guest, who repaired to the fete in a 
showy equipage, was shared by the 
workman who saw him pass. 

Let us hasten to follow the line of 
those thousand carriages which ad- 
vance in order towards the Tuileries 
some time before the hour indicated 
by the card of invitation; for here it 
is quite different from those balls of 
society where the fashion is to arrive 
late in order to produce a sensation ; 
on the contrary, every one desires 
to be among the first to obtain a 
glance from the king. Already 
crowds are pressing into these vast 



408 



The Court of France in 1830. 



drawing-rooms, where innumerable 
wax candles shed so favorable a light 
over the beauty of the women and 
their superb dresses. It is impossi- 
ble to imagine, without having seen 
it, the magnificent spectacle present- 
ed by the throne-room and the Gal- 
lery of Diana ; on entering these, the 
dazzling ensemble could be taken in 
at a glance, and each one stops for a 
moment, lost in admiration, to con- 
template it. 

Here are assembled the late 
minister, thinking how he may seize 
again the reins of power; the present 
minister, absorbed in the fear of los- 
ing them ; and the future minister, 
musing over the chances he may 
possess of obtaining them. All three 
salute each other, press each other's 
hands affectionately : one might mis- 
take them for friends. Here are 
grouped peers of France, proud of 
their hereditary rights, and confident 
in the stability of them, calculating 
how much the son of a lord may 
be worth, and by what dowry 
the daughter of a banker may pur- 
chase the title of countess and the 
entrde to the court. Here we be- 
hold the former senators of Napo- 
leon, who have not, perhaps, renounc- 
ed their own ideas and illusions; see 
beside them old generals, who, from 
the epoch of the Republic down to 
Charles X., have served all the differ- 
ent governments. The banner has 
changed, but what does that matter ? 
Military honor has not suffered ; that 
is to be placed only in courage. 

These officers, with their large epau- 
lettes, appear to cast disdainful glanc- 
es on the crowd of men in blue 
coats, the collars of which, embroi- 
dered in fieur-de-Us^ designate civic 
functions. The supporters of the 
ministry are surprised that so many 
members of the opposition should 
have been invited; the latter com- 
plain that there are so few of their 



own party present compared with the 
number of their adversaries. There 
is, however, for the time being, neither 
Right side, Left side, nor Centre — ^all 
appear harmonious; and should a 
vote now be taken, the urn would be 
filled with white balls, so great in 
those days was the influence of an 
invitation from the king — almost 
equal to that of a ministerial dinner 
at the present time. 

But to the hum of conversation 
suddenly succeeds a profound silence ; 
the king appears, followed by all the 
royal family. He circulates slowly 
through the apartments, and his 
kindness of heart suggests to him 
what to say, so as to please each one 
in turn. None are forgotten ; and in 
addressing himself to the ladies, he 
perfectly understands the art of com- 
plimenting so as to flatter without 
embarrassing them. I must not 
omit, in my description of these bril- 
liant assemblies, to speak of the 
members of the diplomatic corps, 
the richness and variety of whose 
costumes enhanced the magnificence 
of the scene; nor can I conclude 
without some mention of the cour- 
tiers of Charles X. I know it is a 
usual thing on the stage, and perhaps 
elsewhere, to depict a gentleman of 
the court as a low-minded, grasp- 
ing, insolent imbecile. Those who 
view them all in this light resemble 
the traveller who, passing rapidly 
through a town, and seeing at a 
window a woman with red hair, 
came to the conclusion, and wrote, 
that all the women of the place were 
red-haired. 

The gentleman of the court, such 
as I have usually known him, since 
the Restoration, is proud of his birtii 
and of his name ; but he knows that 
he has no more reason to pride him- 
self upon their possession than a 
singer has to boast of the voice with 
which nature has gifted him, or a 



The Court of France in 1830. 



409 



rich man of the fortune left him by 
his father. Devoted to the king, he 
does not consider himself the humble 
servant of the ministers; and when 
his conscience prescribes it, he places 
himself in the ranks of the opposition. 
He is extremely polite, knowing that 
this is the surest means of securing 
the recognition of his social superiori- 
ty. He does justice to merit, and 
admires it frankly and without envy ; 
but should this merit exist in a man 
of equal rank with himself, he would 
be tempted to dispute it. He is 
generous, for he knows that generosi- 
ty is a great and noble virtue ; and 
even should it not be a pleasure, it 
is a duty, for him to exercise it. 
Without being learned, he is not ig- 
norant of any of the sciences, and he 
has a tact which enables him to ap- 
pear a connoisseur in art even when 
such is not the case; but he no 
longer takes upon himself to be 
the protector of artists; he is their 
friend. He understands that the em- 
pire of the white plume and of the 
red heel is at an end, and that, in 
order to be respected, he must deserve 
to be so. 

Finally, his morals are good, -and 
this is, perhaps, the greatest change 
effected by the revolution. 

Such, as a general rule, were the 
courtiers of my time, and amongst 
them were men full of talent, cou- 
rage, and energy, sincerely devoted 
10 the true interests of the people, 
who hated without knowing them ; 
men of noble and loyal souls, filled 
with devotion to their country, and 
possessed of that strong, real, and 
passionate eloquence which astonish- 
es, moves, and persuades those who 
are resolved to oppose them ; men, in 
short, who, finding it impossible to 
clothe good they desire, and unwill- 
ing to participate in the evil which 
may be done, retire into private life, 
carrying with them the regrets and 



the admiration of their fellow-citizens. 
I do not need to name them. The 
days devoted to jeux du roi were 
not the only ones on which person^ 
of various stations were invited to 
the court. The birthday of the 
king was the fete of the people ; on 
that day, every cottage was made 
happy, every family was supplied 
with bread. But as this fete was not 
celebrated in the year of grace 1830, 
I will speak only of New Year's day, 
on which, according to custom, all 
the different state corporations come 
to renew to their sovereign, whoever 
he may be, their pledges of fidelity 
and attachment, to pay their hom- 
age and proffer their good wishes. 
To these uniform speeches, prescribed 
by etiquette, expressive of sentiments 
more or less real, and couched in 
l»hrases more or less high-sounding, 
according to the taste or ability of 
the orator, Charles X. had the 
faculty of returning answers marked 
by kindness and good sense, render- 
ed with a grace and facility of execu- 
tion which no one has ever thought 
of disputing. 

The custom which obliged the 
king to dine in public on New Year's 
day was not an unpleasant one to 
Charles X. He had no reason to 
fear that he might be compared to 
those Oriental monarchs who, when 
they have dined well themselves, 
think that none of their subjects 
ought to feel hungry. He knew that 
the wish of Henri IV. had been real- 
ized, and that the chicken in the pot 
was wanting neither to the industrious 
artisan nor to the hard-working labor- 
ers. 

If, however, these state dinners 
were not destitute of charm for him, 
how much more did he enjoy that 
family reunion on the jour des rois, 
which, with its simple pleasures, is an 
inheritance of past generations ! The 
customs attending this festival, on 



4IO 



The Court of France in 1 830. 



which royalty is freed from all 
cares or regrets, are of long stand- 
ing. The ancients, when they de- 
sired to render a feast an espe- 
cially gay one, always appointed a 
king, who was elected for the time. 
Neither is the use of beans, as a dis- 
tinctive mark of power, a modem 
idea. The Greeks employed them in 
the nomination of their magistrates; 
and when Pythagoras told his dis- 
ciples to abstain from beans, he gave 
them a wise counsel, of which every 
one does not comprehend the enig- 
matical and mysterious meaning. 

Amongst us, however, the bean is 
attended by none of the dangers 
dreaded by Pythagoras. How happy 
is the king of the bean! He has 
neither courtiers who flatter him nor 
ministers who betray him; his sub- 
jects are his friends ; he chooses his 
queen without regard to political con- 
siderations; he eats, he drinks, and, 
fortunate man, his reign is but for a 
moment ! 

The delights of this passing royalty 
were never more keenly experienced 
than at the Tuileries on the 6th of 
January, 1830. All appeared pros- 
perous in the kingdom, and the de- 
scendants of Henri IV., assembled at 
a family dinner, were united in opi- 
nion and in affection. It was difete 
day for all, and especially for the 
children, who rejoiced at the un- 
wonted freedom from the restraints 
of etiquette. Around the royal table 
were seated, first the august old man, 
whose goodness of heart ever shone 
through the dignity of his character. 
On one side of him was placed the 
Duchess of Orleans, the happy mother 
of a numerous and handsome family ; 
on the other the dauphiness, who 
endeavored to console herself for the 
want of the same happiness by adopt- 
ing all the unfortunate — a woman 
sublime in misfortune, heroic in dan- 
ger, and who, passing through every 



stage of affliction, at length reached 
that height of virtue before which all 
human glory must bow. Beside her 
was the Due d*0rl6ans,* who, when 
exiled in foreign lands at the same 
period with Charles X., had given 
proofs of fidelity, affection, and devo- 
tion ; he had shared the same trials, 
and conceived the same hopes. Then 
came the Duchess de Bern, handsome, 
happy, proud of her son, imparting 
gaiety and vivacity to all around her, 
little dreaming of the future which 
awaited her, and certainly very far 
from imagining that, ere long, the 
poor and afflicted of her asylum at 
Poissy would be obliged to petition 
for the charity of the public. We 
must not forget to mention, in this 
family group, the dauphin, Mile. 
d'0rl6ans, the Dues de Chartres, de 
Nemours, d'Aumale, the Prince de 
Joinville, the two young and pretty 
Princesses of Orleans. The Due de 
Bourbon is not able to be present; 
his infirmities confine him to his cha- 
teau of Saint- Leu, where he had, at 
least, expected to die in pyeace. But 
let us reserve our attention for this 
child who is about to play so impor- 
tant a part among the guests. 

By this time, the first two courses 
have exhausted the patience o( these 
young hearts, but respect restrains 
any expression of this feeling in thero. 
At length, however, the wished-for 
moment has arrived, and all eyes are 
turned towards an officer of the table, 
who carries on a silver salver, coverea 
with a napkin, fifteen cakes, one of 
which contains the coveted bean. It 
falls to the lot of the Due d'Aumalc, 
as being the youngest, to distribute 
them among the guests, taking care 
to keep one for himself. Each one 
makes haste to ascertain his fate, and 
exclamations of disappointed ambi- 
tion are heard on all sides. One 

* Afterwards Louis Philippe. 



TIu Court of France in 1830. 



411 



child alone blushes and is silent ; not 
that he is embarrassed by the rank 
about to devolve upon him, but he 
does not wish to mortify his competi- 
tors by giving vent to his innocent 
delight. His new majesty cannot, 
however, long remain incognito, and 
the Due de Bordeaux is proclaimed 
king of the bean by universal accla- 
mation. Then, following the exam- 
ple of their new sovereign, the chil- 
dren all give way to an extreme of 
gaiety, which the king encourages 
and partakes, and which the dauphin- 
ess does not seek to restrain. Soon 
the choice of the queen is made ; it 
is the Duchess of Orleans, who will- 
ingly lends herself to receive an 
honor which, perhaps, she might not 
have coveted ; and the dinner is con- 
cluded amidst shouts of laughter and 
cries of T%e king drinks ! The queen 
drinks / frequently re-echoed. 

The august personages seated 
around the royal table are not the 
only ones who share the cakes of the 
king. Pieces of these cakes are pro- 
fusely distributed throughout France. 
Poets, authors, artists, actors, arti- 
sans, old and infirm servants of the 
Republic and of the Empire, destitute 
widows and orphans partake of the 
cake of the king and the bounty of 
Charles X. on this occasion. 

But the time has come to rise from 
table, and Charles X. requests a mo- 
ment of silence, which he succeeds 
with difficulty in obtaining. 

^Sire," he says to his grandson, 
''your reign will be at an end in 



about five minutes ; has your majesty 
no orders to give me ?" 

" Yes, grandpapa. I wish . . ." 

" You wish ! Take care ; in France 
the king always says we wish,^* 

" Well, then, we wish that our 
governor would advance us three 
months of our allowance.'' 

" What will you do with so much 
money ?" 

" Grandpapa, the mother of a brave 
soldier of your guard has had her 
cottage burned down, and this will 
not be too much to build it up 
again. . . ." 

**Very well. I will undertake 
it " 

" No, grandpapa ; because, if you 
do it, it will not be I." 

"And how will you do without 
money for three months ?" 

" I shall try to gain some by the 
good marks I get from my teach- 
ers, and for which you always pay 
me." 

** Ah ! you depend upon that ?" 

" Certainly ; for I must dress my 
poor people. I have my poor peo- 
ple, like you, like mamma, like my 
aunt. ... Oh ! I have made my 
calculations, and I am quite satisfied. 
When I shall have given ten francs 
to the poor woman in the Bois de 
Boulogne, who has a sick child, I 
shall still have twenty sous left for the 
prince." 

At these words Charles X. ten- 
derly embraced his grandson, and 
exclaimed, " Happy France, if ever 
he should be king ! " 



412 



The Fur Trader. 



THE FUR TRADER. 



A TALE OF THE NORTHWEST. 



Few men are now living who re- 
member Montreal as it was in the 
beginning of this century, when the 
Northwest Fur Company had reach- 
ed the summit of its prosperity, and 
the Frobishers, McGillivrays, Mc- 
Tavishes, and McKenzies, with a 
host of their associates, were " names 
to conjure withal " ; so potent had they 
been made by a long and uninter- 
rupted series of successful adventures 
in the fur trade of the northwestern 
wilds. 

The princely hospitality exercised 
by the partners in their Montreal 
homes, and the fitful deeds of profuse 
generosity with which they delighted 
to surprise the people on both sides 
of the border, served to spread their 
fame far and wide, and to keep their 
*^ memory green " by many a seques- 
tered hearthstone long after the 
Northwest Fur Company had ceased 
to exist, and its members had all pass- 
ed away. 

For many years the fireside legends 
of rural hamlets on the frontier were 
made up in a great measure from 
narratives of startling adventures, 
hazards, fatigues, and privations en- 
countered by the clerks, agents, voya- 
gatrs^ and coureurs des bois employ- 
ed by this most energetic and enter- 
prising, if at the same time most un- 
scrupulous, corporation. Its schemes 
were devised with masterly skill, and 
executed with reckless daring. Not 
content to limit its transaitions within 
the extensive regions allotted to its 
sway, it extended them north into 
territories over which the Hudson's 
Bay Company had long held control, 



and south into a large domain be- 
longing to the United States, and 
occupied to some extent by traders 
under the protection of our govern- 
ment. 

These invasions of the rights of 
others brought the servants of the 
company into frequent collision with 
its rivals ; but the men appointed to 
such posts were selected from a large 
band of trained and tried veterans in 
the service, and the dashing promp- 
titude with which they met or evad- 
ed opposition and obstacles seemed 
like magic to the opposing parties of 
trappers, free-traders, and half-breeds 
thus encountered, and gained them 
the reputation, among that supersti- 
tious class, of being in league with 
the father of all evil. 

These collisions and outbreaks 
among the disciples of Mammon, as 
well as the pernicious influence gain- 
ed and exercised by them over the 
savage tribes with whom they were 
engaged in traffic, were the occasion 
of great grief and anxiety to a widely 
different class of men, who had long 
occupied those territories, and brav- 
ed the difficulties, dangers, and hard- 
ships of those bleak and desolate 
regions, on a widely different errand. 
Dauntless sons of Loyola, they had 
steadfastly pursued their vocation, 
" in journeyings often, in perils of 
waters, in perils of the wilderness, 
in labor and painfulness, in much 
watching, in hunger and thirst, in 
fastings often, in cold and naked- 
ness," proving their allegiance to the 
Prince of Peace and their claim to 
his apostolic mission, while proclaim- 



The Fur Trader. 



413 



ing the Gospel of salvation to the 
native children of those boundless 
deserts. 

And so it befell that the servants 
of lucre, who traversed the same dis- 
tricts, at later periods, in pursuance 
of their vocation, not unfrequently 
took advantage of the openings thus 
prepared, and pitched their outposts 
side by side with the humble chapel 
and lodge of the missionary. Then 
the conflict between good and evil, 
between avarice and generosity, sel- 
fishness and benevolence, which had 
always agitated the Old World, was 
renewed in the wilderness, and carried 
on as earnestly as if rival crowns 
Here striving for the mastery. An 
unequal strife it must always prove, 
so long as poor human nature pre- 
ters to be the victim of evil rather 
tiian the serv»int of virtue. 

Many years • ago — and long before 
CaiiioUc missions interested us fur- 
ther than to excite a certain vague ad- 
nv.ration for the self-sacrificing zeal 
ttith which they were prosecuted — 
^ve listened to the following recital 
Jroni the lips of an old clerk of the 
Aonhwest Company, which we re- 
peat as it was told to us, to set forth 
some of the difficulties that encom- 
passed the missionaries among the 
Indians of the Northwest, tending to 
impede, if not frustrate, the object of 
iheir efforts. 

On a fine day in the month of 
^ptember, 18 — , a fleet of canoes was 
sweeping down one of the large rivers 
*'hich flow through the northwestern 
portion of our country. They were 
banned by Canadian voyageurs^ the 
plash of whose paddles kept time 
*ith the gay chansons^ which were 
borne in such unison upon their 
blended voices as to seem, except 
'"^r the volume of sound, the utter- 
ance of but one. 

In the leading vessel of the little 
^luadron, well enveloped in the 



folds of a magnificent fur mantle, 
to shield from autumnal chills, which 
settle early upon those regions, their 
commander reclined at his ease. He 
was a person of imposing presence 
and stately manners, whose face, 
grave and thoughtful for one from 
which the flush of youth had scarcely 
passed, presented that fine type of 
manly beauty peculiar to the High- 
land Scotch. 

He seemed too entirely absorbed in 
his own thoughts to notice the songs 
of his light-hearted companions, the 
merry chat with which they were in- 
terspersed, or even the sly jokes 
that, with the freedom produced 
by the lawless habits of the wilder- 
ness, were occasionally levelled at 
himself and the confidential clerk 
who was his inseparable attendant. 
Nor did his reflections seem to be of 
an agreeable nature ; for at times his 
dark eye would flash fiercely, and 
his brow contract to an ominous 
frown, and again his countenance 
would subside into its habitual and 
somewhat pensive expression. 

Twilight was closing around them 
as they approached a trading-post 
of the Northwest Company, which 
had been recently opened near a 
long-established missionary station, 
the spire of whose humble chapel 
was lifted above the numerous huts 
that formed an Indian village of con- 
siderable extent along the bank of 
the river. 

Here their commander ordered 
them to land, and, after securing the 
canoes for the night, to transfer their 
cargoes to the storehouse of the com- 
pany. He directed in person the 
removal of the must valuable mer- 
chandise, and, entrusting the remain- 
der to the care of his clerk, proceed- 
ed with haughty strides toward the 
lodge of the resident missionary. 

He was met at the entrance by a 
reverend father in the habit of 



414 



The Fur Trader. 



the Society of Jesus, and saluted with 
a distant politeness which quite un- 
settled his accustomed expression 
of composure and easy indifference. 
An embarrassing silence followed his 
admission within the lodge — a silence 
which the good father seemed in no 
haste to break — when the gentle- 
man began with a hesitating manner, 
as if his proud spirit disdained what 
he was about to say in opening the 
conversation : 

" I regret to hear, reverend father, 
that we have been so unhappy as to 
incur your displeasure in the course 
of our transactions with the natives; 
and I frankly confess that this regret 
is greatly increased by our know- 
ledge of your influence over them, 
the exercise of which we would glad- 
ly have secured to promote the in- 
terests of our trade." 

" It is not a question of my dis-, 
pleasure," the priest replied sadly. 
"To my Master you must answer 
for the crying injustice you have prac- 
tised towards his children of the 
wilderness, and for the sinful courses 
into which they have been beguiled. 
You have betrayed his cause with 
those who trusted you on account 
of the name of Christian, which vou 
so unworthily bear, and to him you 
must answer for it. As to my influ- 
ence, it would have been easily se- 
cured, if your dealings with these 
untutored natives had been govern- 
ed by justice and integrity. But I 
warn you, that unless you repent the 
wrongs you have inflicted yourself, 
and by the hands of your agents, 
upon them, making such requital 
as remains within your power, a 
fearful retribution awaits you in this 
world, and eternal despair in the 
next. 'Vengeance is mine, saith 
the Lord, and I will repay.' " 

"Pardon me, good father; but I 
think you greatly exaggerate the 
wrongs of which you speak. It is 



not possible for men of your calling 
to estimate or understand the scope 
of vast commercial enterprises and 
the course of great mercantile op- 
erations. Your imagination has 
brooded over the transactions which 
you so sternly condemn, until it has 
given them a false magnitude. They 
transpired in the ordinary course of 
business, and though followed by 
results which I deplore as deeply as 
yourself, I do not feel disposed to 
take blame to myself or our com- 
pany for them." 

** You will not plead * commercial 
enterprise ' or ' mercantile transac- 
tions ' before the bar of the great 
Judge in excuse for eternal interests 
which have been sacrificed to your 
greed for gain; for confiding and 
innocent souls that have been betray- 
ed and lost by your fault Through 
your iniquities and those of your 
servants in 'dealing with these chil- 
dren, once so willing to be taught 
and to practise the duties of our 
holy religion, they have been trans- 
formed into demons of revenge; 
and, disregarding our remonstrances, 
have committed, and will continue 
to commit, deeds of bloody vengeance 
at which the world will stand aghast. 
Alas ! the world will never know the 
provocations that goaded them to 
madness; for who will tell the story 
for the poor Indian ? Merciless 
slaughter and extermination is all 
they have to look for at the hands 
of men calling themselves Christians." 

" Good father, your imagination 
or ambition, or both, have led you 
astray in these matters, and hood- 
winked your reason. You wish to 
be the sole power among these peo- 
ple, and are jealous of intruders who 
may endanger your sway. Your 
order, if it has not been greatly 
belied, has more than once mistaken 
worldly ambition for zeal in the ser- 
vice of God." 



The Fur Trader. 



415 



" One would think," the priest re- 
plied, smiling and casting his eyes 
around the comfortless apartment 
and its meagre furniture — " one 
would think that the scattered sons 
of a suppressed and persecuted order, 
who must toil diligently with their 
own hands to procure their suste- 
nance, while they break the bread 
of life to these poor savages, might 
have escaped such accusation, if any 
servant of their Master might ; but I 
thank him that he thus permits our 
enemies to set the seal of sacred 
verity upon the bleakest altars of our 
sacrifice !" 

" All this is foreign to the purpose 
of my visit. I do not wish to dispute 
the glories of your exalted mission 
or to interfere with its dominion, 
but simply to inquire if we may not 
in some way propitiate your favor in 
the interests of our business. I am 
a man of few words, more accustom- 
ed to command than to entreat, and 
go directly towards the object at 
which I aim, instead- of seeking out 
crooked paths. We will furnish 
money, if that will gain your patron- 
age, to build and decorate temples 
and houses for your missions in these 
deserts that shall dazzle the senses 
of their savage tribes, and allure 
their souls to Christianity ; for a mas- 
ter of the craft needs not to be told 
how easily they are impressed by 
external splendor. You would be wise 
to accept our proposal, were it only 
to promote the great ends for which 
you are striving." 

" Sell the flock to the wolf, for the 
purpose of building and embellishing 
the fold! But in what direction do 
you wish our influence with this peo- 
ple to be exercised ?" 

"To draw back to us the trade 
wiiich they withheld at first through 
fiislike of our agents, and are now 
preparing to transfer to our rivals, 
ihese newly established American 



companies, greatly to our disadvan- 
tage. We have incurred enormous 
expense and labor to organize and 
provide our trading-posts at points 
accessible to them on the northern 
rivers, for their convenience as well as 
our own, to prevent the necessity for 
frequent and tedious journeys to 
Montreal; and it is unjust to deny us 
the benefit of them, and transfer it to 
rival associations. Then, these Amer- 
icans have interests opposed to ours 
in every respect. I should think that 
you, who are a Canadian citizen, 
from Montreal like myself, would 
naturally take our part against our 
Protestant rivals." 

" As befits my calling, I shall most 
approve those who deal most justly 
with my flock, of whatever name or 
nation. As to religion, I greatly 
fear it holds but feeble sway, by any 
name, among those who are fighting 
the fierce battles of Mammon ! The 
oflftcers and agents of the new estab- 
lishments, like those of the Hudson's 
Bay Company, have, however, given 
an example, which you would do well 
to follow, by treating the missionaries 
and their cause with great respect, 
and refraining from defrauding the 
natives or seducing them into evil 
practices by the unlimited sale of 
liquors, by which they are changed to 
demons. The persuasions and ex- 
ample of your coureurs desbais have 
done much to demoralize the Indians ; 
but your own conduct has done 
more, as your conscience must testify. 
Though you renounced the name of 
Catholic when you turned your back 
upon the obligations it imposes, your 
apostasy will not shield you from the 
consequences of your acts." 

The gentleman started suddenly 
to his feet, as if stung by the words, 
his voice trembling with agitation as 
he said : " I see I but waste time and 
words in this parley, since you are 
resolved to magnify trifling faults 



4i6 



The Fur Trader. 



into enormous crimes. But remem- 
ber, should these natives persevere 
in their present savage schemes, and, 
from refusing to trade with us, pro- 
ceed in their senseless anger to deeds 
of blood, it will be easy to fasten 
the odium of instigating their crimes 
upon you and your fraternity, who 
have stubbornly refused our proffered 
friendship." 

As he gathered his mantle about 
him to depart, the priest replied 
meekly : " Your threats are vain ; 
we have planted the grain of mus- 
tard-seed in these wilds, and it will 
grow and flourish. It matters not 
whether our hands or those of 
others shall carry on the work 
we have begun. Our times are 
in the hands of God, and not of 
men." 

As his visitor withdrew, the rever- 
end father opened his Breviary, and, 
pacing the apartment with measured 
steps, soon forgot the griefs, annoy- 
ances, and discouragements of his 
position in the consoling occupa- 
tion of reading his Office, which 
now entirely absorbed him. 

While he was thus engaged, the 
door was opened quietly, and a sin- 
gular-looking stranger entered with- 
out hesitation or ceremony, deposit- 
ing his rifle at the door. After 
peering inquisitively around the 
room, and casting sundry furtive 
glances towards the deeply abstract- 
ed priest from keen, gray eyes, which 
were deeply set under shaggy eye- 
brows, he proceeded to divest him- 
self of a large package of furs and 
a miscellaneous assortment of traps 
that had been thrown over his 
shoulder, and, taking the place late- 
ly occupied by the lordly comman- 
der of the post, seated himself on 
one of the rude settles which served 
as chairs in the simple furniture of 
the lodge, with the careless ease of 
one accustomed to make himself 



quite at home wherever he might 
chance to halt. 

The appearance and dress of this 
free-and-easy guest were so peculiar 
as to merit description. He was 
very tall, of lean and bony but mus- 
cular frame. He wore a hunting- 
frock, made from the dressed skin 
of the antelope, and confined at the 
waist by a leathern girdle buckled 
firmly ; from which depended, on his 
right side, a sheath, into which a 
large hunting-knife was thrust, and 
on his left a shorter one for another 
knife of smaller size, used in skinning 
the animals taken. By the side of 
the latter hung a powder-horn and 
a large leathern pouch for other 
ammunition. His nether gear was 
a compromise between civilized and 
savage attire, as it served the united 
purposes of trowsers, leggings, and 
hose, being laced on one side with 
thongs of deer's tendons from the 
knees to his huge feet, which were 
encased in stout moccasins made of 
buffalo-hide. 

He sat very composedly, resting 
his elbows on his knees and his chin 
on his clasped hands in a musing 
attitude, his battered, sunburnt, and 
hardened face wearing an expres- 
sion curiously compounded of shrewd 
intelligence, simplicity, inquisitive- 
ness, and good-humor, over whicii 
a slight dash of veneration cast an • 
unwonted gleam of bashful timidity 
as he threw occasional sidelong 
glances towards the good father, 
who, when he had finished his Office 
and closed the Breviary, noticed the 
presence of his guest for the first 
time, and, approaching to greet him, 
asked whom he had the pleasure to 
address. 

"Wa'al," he replied in a voice 
cracked, as it were, by the northern 
blasts to which he had long been 
exposed, and marked by the sharp 
nasal twang of his native State— 



TIu Fur Trader, 



417 



'*wa'al, I'm Herekiah Hulburt, at 
your sarvice. I hail from Conneti- 
cut, and follow trappin' for a livin'. 
The Injins call me Big Foot, and 
they've told me 'bout you and your 
devvins. Though I haint no great 
pinion of 'em, wild or tame, and 
don't put much faith in what they 
say, I conclude, from all I've seen 
and heard, that you're a preachin' 
the Christian religion among 'em 
under consid'able many difficulties. 
An Injin needs more 'n a double 
load of Gospil truth to overbalance 
the evil that's in him, and then's, 
Uke's not, the fust you know, his 
Christianity '11 kick the beam when 
opportewnity sarves. I know the 
critters well ; and here, a while ago 
when our Methodist preachers under- 
took 'em, I told 'em 'twas no go, 
the Christian religion wouldn't fit an 
Injin no how ; and they found t'was 
so. Mebbe you'll come eout better ; 
and I guess likely you will, for you 
seem to know better how to go to 
work with 'em and keep the right 
side on 'em, which is everything 
with Injins. And then, you've got 
tnoie things to 'tract their attention, 
and help to 'splain and 'spound 
Scripter truths to an Injin's idees. 
But this an't what brought me here 
ncow. I come to have a little talk 
with you 'bout the doins of these 
here fur companies that are kickin' 
up such a shine among themselves 
and the trappers. It's gittin' to be a 
plaguy risky bizness to trade with 
any on *em, they're so 'tarnal jealous 
^^ one another, and each one's so 
mftd if a fellow trades with any but 
themselves. Nat'rally enough, I 
take to my own folks, and would 
Hither trade with the new company, 
^^ti *8 they're Americans and my 
own flesh and blood, as a body 
flight say. Now, in this awfully 
*prcad-out country, for one who's 
ooly a pilgrim and sojourner, as 
YOU XVIII. — 27 



'twere, like myself, and who has 
nothin' but his own broad shoulders 
to depend on for carrying his mar- 
chandise, it makes a sight of odds 
whether he can trade it off near by, 
or has to foot it across the plains, 
and as like's not clean to the big 
lakes, 'fore he can onshoulder it. 
I'm a man of peace, and haint no 
)iotion of goin' in for a fight with 
'em, du what they will. But they 
better look out for them Injins! 
These Nor'westers haint seen the 
airthquake yet that's to foller that 
are bizness of the Big Feather; but 
when it comes, it*ll shake 'em in their 
shoes for all their big feelin's, and 
swaller their proud and scornful 
leader quicker 'n a feller could wink. 
I wash my hands of the whole con- 
sarn, but I've hearn the rumblin' on 't, 
and it's a-comin' as sure's my name 
is Hezekiah, if suthin' an't done, an' 
pretty quick time, tool *Revingeis 
an Injin's religion ; and be he Chris- 
tian or be he pagan, what's bred in 
the bone stays long in the flesh." 

The attention of the reverend fa- 
ther was now thoroughly awakened. 
He had heard from the Indians of the 
friendly Big Foot and the frequent 
assistance he had given to protect 
them from the dishonesty of the- 
traders. He proceeded at once to 
draw from the trapper further par-^ 
ffculars of an affair, the rumor of 
which had reached him and been^ 
alluded to by him in his interview 
with his preceding guest, but of 
which he could gain but little infor-- 
mation from the natives. 

The facts communicated were, that, 
as soon as the new company was. 
formed, the Northwest traders had 
scattered their spies among the In*, 
dians to watch any symptoms of an. 
intention to transfer the trade, with- 
held from them on account of their* 
dishonest conduct, into the hands of. 
their rivals. 



4i8 



The Fur Trader. 



These scouts had reported a gene- 
ral movement of all those tribes to 
whom the American stations were 
accessible, indicating their intention 
to unite among themselves, and open 
a friendly traffic with the new traders. 

The " Northwesters," as those con- 
nected with the old company were 
called, took the alarm at the prospect 
of seeing a large and very lucrative' 
branch of their business pass to the 
benefit of rivals, who were the more 
formidable from being on their own 
territory and under the protection of 
the United States government. 

Their leader in that department, 
who visited the lodge of the mission- 
ary, was a man of unlimited resources ; 
clever and crafty in scheming, un- 
scrupulous in executing his devices. 
He entered without delay upon a 
systematic course of harassing and 
perplexing measures to clog the ma- 
chinery and impede the operations 
of his competitors. There is reason 
to believe he found efficient aid in 
these from former partners and clerks 
of the Northwest Company, who, in 
accordance with the terms of agree- 
ment between the two companies at 
the time the American association 
was organized, had unfortunately 
been retained in its service. 

He also enlisted a motley crew 
•of voyageurSy coureurs des bois^ half- 
breeds, free trappers, and renegades 
from civilization, to carry out his well- 
concerted plans for embarrassing the 
enterprises of his rivals by land and 
water, and discouraging their officers 
and agents in every department. All 
these designs were accomplished with 
such silent adroitness as not only to 
baffle detection, but to avoid awaken- 
ing any suspicion in the minds of 
his victims, who found themselves 
thwarted and defeated at every point 
without being able to discover the 
cause. 

As part of his general policy, he 



dispersed a large body of hirelings 
among the tribes who had formerly 
been hostile to those embraced in the 
newly contemplated alliance (but 
whose animosity had been quelled, 
and mutual friendly relations between 
the factions established, by the dili- 
gent exertions of the missionaries), 
representing to them that their ancient 
enemies were about to unite, under 
the approbation of the missionaries, 
with the American companies, to de- 
stroy them and take possession of 
their hunting-grounds ; that the mis- 
sionaries had been insincere in their 
professions and instructions, aim- 
ing only to keep them quiet until 
measures were perfected for their 
ruin. These emissaries were also in- 
structed to offer them arms and am- 
munition, if they would waylay the 
different parties on their course to the 
American trading-posts, and prevent 
their reaching them ; and the highest 
price for any peltries thus obtained. 

The most considerable body of In- 
dians, bound for one of these posts 
with a large amount of valuable furs, 
was under command of the great 
chief. Big Feather. Against this band 
the hostile force was directed. It was 
surprised, completely routed, and the 
chief, with many of his followers, 
killed. All the goods were conveyed 
by the victors without delay to the 
nearest station of the Northwest 
Company. 

Their operations were equally suc- 
cessful in other quarters, and the 
trade entirely secured for that season. 

The free trapper whom the Indians 
called Big Foot had held himself 
neutral, but had noted, with the keen 
shrewdness of his race, the course 
affairs were taking, and had traced 
the disturbing cause to his own satis- 
faction. He exerted all his influence 
to pacify the outraged Indians, so 
cruelly betrayed and plundered, aad 
used his best efforts to convince the 



The Fur Trader. 



419 



victors of the stratagems and false- 
hoods by which they had been de- 
ceived. 

Both parties listened with cool de- 
corum to his arguments, but would 
make no reply. This silence was 
deemed an ill omen by the priest 
and the hunter. 

Now, this chief, Big Feather, had 
a young daughter, who was the de- 
light of his heart and the glory of 
the whole tribe. She was beautiful, 
graceful, and modest; with a quiet 
stateliness of manner that distinguish- 
ed her among the daughters of her 
people, and was attributed by them 
to the power of the Christian faith, 
which she was the first of her nation 
to profess, and soon led her father 
and brother also to receire. 

She had been so unfortunate as to 
captivate the unprincipled command- 
er of the Northwestern trading-posts, 
who had used every artifice to gain 
her young heart, and, it was well 
known, had long sought an oppor- 
tunity to get her within his power. 
On the night of the ambush and at- 
tack by which her father lost his life, 
the quarters where she was left were 
also attacked, some of the women 
and children cruelly massacred, but 
her body and that of her nurse, or 
attendant — with whom she was pro- 
vided, as daughter of the chief, ac- 
cording to the custom of the na- 
tives — were not to be found among 
the slain. Her people suspected 
^^ey had been carried captive to the 
headquarters of the company. 

The trapper was convinced that 
her brother, who escaped from the 
fatal affiray, and was now chief in the 
place of his father, was preparing to 
make a vigorous effort to recapture 
^et and avenge the death of the old 
chicC It would need little persua- 
sion to bring all the natives friendly 
to his tribe to make common cause 
vith him in such a conflict, and 



scenes of firightful bloodshed must en- 
sue, the end of which could hardly 
be conjectured. 

The question discussed with pain- 
ful anxiety between the missionary 
and the trapper was, whether any- 
thing could be done to prevent this 
shocking result To this end, a 
Christian brave of the village was 
summoned, and the subject of their 
conference explained to him. 

" And now," said the reverend fa- 
ther, " if you know of any plans of this 
kind, or of any means by which their 
execution can be prevented, it is your 
duty, and I conjure you, to reveal 
them." 

" The voice of our father is good," 
replied the Indian with great re- 
spect, '<and, when he speaks for 
the Great Spirit, his words are strong; 
but would he make of his son a bab- 
bling woman ? Who drew the knife ? 
Was it the hand of thy children that 
dug up the hatchet ? And shall they 
talk of peace when the blood of their 
chief and his men cries to them for 
vengeance. When the daughter of 
our nation is seized for the wigwam 
of him whose words filled the coverts 
with creeping foes to drink our blood, 
shall we give him our Bird of Hea- 
ven and say * it is well * ?" 

" But if she could be recovered 
without the shedding of blood ; it 
a council of the Indians on both 
sides could be called, that the truth 
of this matter might be fully revealed 
and understood, would it not be bet- 
ter thdn useless strife ? The traders 
care not for your race. They care 
not if you fight until there is no one 
left of your tribes to tell the tale ; and 
will you give them that satisfaction ? 
They have set you against each 
other. They have deceived your 
brothers with lying words ; and will 
you crown their lies with success? 
Above all, shall it be said that we 
have delivered the message of peace 



420 



5, Catharine of Ricci. 



and the commands of the Great 
Spirit to his children of the wilder- 
ness in vain ?" 

" If he loves his children, why 
did he not smite their foes? The 
tongue of the pale-face is long; its 
words reach afar. They are sweet 
as honey, while his heart is full of 
poison. His ann is strong, and the 
knives in his camp are sharp. His 
coverts in the wilds are many, and 
past finding out. Who shall find and 
bring back our daughter, if we take 
not the war-path to the strong house 
of the pale chief?" 

" I'll warrant ye I will!" exclaim- 
ed the trapper, unable to remain 
silent any longer. "I haven't wan- 
dered through this awfully mixed-up 
part of God's creation, where the 
woods and the waters, the mountains 
and the valleys, lay round in a per- 
niiscus jumble that 'd puzzle a Phila- 
delphy lawyer, for these twenty 
years, without sarchin' out as many 
hidiu'-places as there's quills on a 



hedgehog. And to say that I've 
sojourned all that time among Injins 
of all sorts, on the freendliest tarms, 
and 'thout a heard word with any on 
'em, drunk or sober, heathen or 
Christian, to be carcumvented by a 
pesky Britisher at last, is an idee 
that 'd raise a Yankee's dander if any- 
thing would. No, no! Just you 
jine hands with me, and he'll find 
he's no match for Injins and a Yan- 
kee, or my name an't Hezekiah! 
We'll be too much for the 'tamal 
sarpent !" And he fell into a series 
of low chuckles expressive oi his 
foregone persuasion of victory. 

" Enough !" said the Indian grave- 
ly. "The ear of the young chief 
shall be filled with the words of our 
father and the Big Foot, and his 
voice make reply." And he departed. 
The missionary requested the trap- 
per to remain with him through 
the night and until the answer of 
the young chief should be made 
known. 



TO BB CONCLUDED NBXT MONTH. 



S. CATHARINE OF RICCI.* 

[The foUowing sketch of a great Dominican saint is from the pen of a member of the same ordei 
who escaped in an extraordinary manner from the massacre of Paris. We are pleased tolearothst i 
colony from the French proTinoe so auspiciously restored by F. Lacordaire is about to be establish- 
ed in St. Hyaciathe, Canada.— Ed. C. W.] 



" All the mysteries of Jesus Christ 
gleam with the same brightness," 
says Bossuet ; they are stamped with 
the mark of that divine folly which is 
the summit of wisdom, and of which 
S. Paul spoke when he confessed 
that he knew nothing but Jesus 
Christ crucified, and wished no other 

• Lift o/S. Catkarint 0/ Ricci, Religious of 
the Third Order of S. Dominic. By R. P. Hya- 
oiath Bayonne, O.S.D. 



glory than his sublime ignominy. 
Now, this scandal of the cross is es- 
pecially manifested in the lives oi 
the saints ; for the saints are the most 
faithful images of Jesus Christ cruci- 
fied. The world does not understand 
these magnanimous souls, all of 
whose desires tend to' the things 
above ; it is offended by this scandal, 
and sympathizes only with those 
lives in which the mysteries of di- 



S. Catharine of Ricci, 



421 



vine love are closely concealed. It 
does not understand the Gospel, and 
is, as it were, blinded by these words 
of Jesus Christ. " Father, I thank 
thee that these things have been 
corxealed from the proud, and re- 
vealed to the humble of heart" 

"Whenever," again says Bossuet, 
" we attempt to fathom the depths of 
divine wisdom by our own strength, we 
are lost and confounded by our pride ; 
whereas the humble of heart may 
enter therein undisturbed." Such 
are the maxims to be kept in view 
whilst reading the lives of the saints, 
and especially the admirable life of 
S. Catharine of Ricci, wherein God 
pleased to manifest to the world all 
the riches and all the folly of his 
love. 

S. Catharine of Ricci was bom at 
Florence on the 23d of April, 1522. 
On the day following, she was bap- 
tized in the church of S. John the 
Baptist, and received the name of 
Lttcretia Alexandrina Romola. Her 
father was the head of the family of 
Ricci, one of the most illustrious in 
Florence, and her mother was the 
last ofispring of the noble house of 
Ricasoli. From her earliest years 
Alexandrina gave evidence of the 
eminent sanctity to which God had 
predestined her. When only three 
years old, she began to devote her- 
self to prayer. She sought solitude 
v^d silence, that she might more 
freely converse with God, who wish- 
ed to draw to himself the earliest 
Sections of this chosen souL When 
^od predestines a soul to heroic 
**nctity, he generally bestows on her 
oiany special graces, even before the 
development of free will gives to 
the creature the full possession of 
herself. True, there are many ex 
Options ; God calls to himself some, 
who, having allowed themselves to 
^e deceived by the artful smiles of 
^e world, bring to the foot of the 



altar only the shattered fragments of 
their hearts ; but in general, he comes 
before the dawn, knocks at the door of 
the heart, and cries out, as in the Can- 
ticle : " Open to me, my sister, my 
spouse ; for my head is covered with 
dew, and my locks with the drops of 
the night." 

It was at once evident that Alex- 
andrina was not made for the empty 
and turbulent pleasures of worldly life. 
God could not permit so pure a cha- 
lice to be profaned ; so sweet a flower 
could blossom only under the quiet 
shelter of the cloister. It was in the 
convent of the Benedictine nuns of 
S. Peter de Monticelli that the daugh- 
ter of Pier Francesco de Ricci was 
initiated into the monastic life. It 
was a house of education, and Alex- 
andrina entered there as a pupil. The 
religious, seeing the angelic piety of 
the child, doubted not that she would 
one day take the habit of their order. 
Unfortunately, the primitive fervor, 
charity, self-abnegation, and humility 
ceased to dwell within these cloisters ; 
and Alexandrina, perceiving that she 
could not there make her permanent 
abode, at the age of nine years re- 
turned to her father's house. There 
she continued, as well as she could, 
the customs of the convent, without 
objection from her father, who, con- 
sidering them as innocent plays of a 
puerile piety, allowed her full liberty 
to exercise her devotions. 

But Alexandrina had higher views. 
Already had she decided^ in her own 
mind, to become a religious. One 
day, two lay Sisters of the Monastery 
of S. Vincent de Prato came to Pier 
Francesco to beg alms. Alexandrina 
was so edified by their piety, their 
modesty and recollection, that she 
decided at once that the convent of 
Prato was the one to which God 
called her. She acquainted her father 
with her determination ; but he, un- 
willing to be separated from a child 



422 



5. Catharine of Riccu 



who was all his joy, replied by a 
formal refusal. He knew not that 
when God calls a soul to himself, 
even the heart of a father must yield 
to the irresistible attraction of that 
love in comparison with which all 
other affections, even the most holy, 
are incapable of enchaining a soul 
which listens to the voice of Jesus 
Chiist. Therefore, rather than see 
his daughter wither like a plant kept 
from its native soil, he permitted 
Alexandrina to receive the veil in the 
convent of Prato. She received the 
habit of S. Dominic on Whitmonday, 
May i8, 1535, having completed her 
thirteenth year. She took the name 
of Catharine, in memory of her mo- 
ther, who had been dead several 
years. The fervor of the young no- 
vice can be easily imagined; but 
God, who had destined her to the 
most sublime revelations, wished to 
cast into the depth of her soul the 
foundation of all solid virtue — humil- 
ity ; therefore, he permitted that this 
precious treasure should not be ap- 
preciated by the community during 
her year of novitiate. The super- 
natural gifts which had ahready been 
bestowed upon her rendered more 
difficult the obligations of common 
life. Meanwhile, she was admitted 
to profession on the 24th of June, 
1536. From that day the order of 
S. Dominic received a new and most 
pure glory. This glory had been 
foretold by Savonarola, who, one day 
pointing to a place in his neighbor- 
hood, said to some religious of S. 
Dominic: "There a fervent com- 
munity of pious sisters will be soon 
established." As soon as the soul of 
Catharine, like an altar prepared for 
a long sacriiice, was consecrated by 
her religious vows, Jesus Christ sur- 
rounded her with his sweetest favors, 
and illumined her with his most bril- 
liant lights. 
But lest the sublimity of these 



revelations might weaken the pro- 
found humility of this soul, God per- 
mitted that the Sisters of Prato, far 
from admiring in her the wonders of 
the divine operations, understood 
nothing of these ecstasies, which thej 
attributed to the most common causes ; 
and, in fine, she was afflicted by two 
terrible diseases, which lasted two 
years, after which she was miracu- 
lously cured by blessed Jerome Sa- 
vonarola. At this time the Sisters of 
Prato began to judge more rightly 
their holy companion, and her con- 
fessor commanded her to tell him 
faithfully all that God deigned to re- 
veal to her in these intimate commu- 
nications. 

It is here begins that wonderful 
succession of extraordinary favors 
bestowed on S. Catharine de Rial. 
Her life seemed one continual ec- 
stasy ; her visions participated more 
and more in the divine light; her 
union with Jesus Christ, consecrated 
by a nuptisd love and the stigmata, 
became more intimate; the report 
of her sanctity spread itself abroad; 
the most important personages of 
Italy came to Prato to consult and 
venerate the humble religious, whose 
whole life is an eloquent teaching 
and living representation of Jesus 
Christ crucified. This part of the 
saint's life contains facts of too ele- 
vated a character to be completely 
treated of in a synopsis ; it is neces- 
sary to read those chapters in which 
the author has so well treated of the 
most difficult questions of mystical 
theology. But it is easier to follow 
S. Catharine in the government of her 
monastery and her salutary influence 
abroad. 

She was elected prioress in the 
first month of the year 1552. Her 
immediate duty was to instruct her 
sisters, and to inspire them with an 
appreciation of their sublime voca- 
tion. Often she called her comma- 



5. Catharine of Riccu 



423 



nity to the chapter-room, and, ad- 
dressing to them a doctrine which 
came from God himself, she taught 
her spiritual daughters the way they 
were to follow in order to reach the 
summit of religious perfection. She 
has left us an abridgment of her mys- 
tical teaching in a letter which she 
addressed to a religious. " At first," 
says she, " we must endeavor to be 
disengaged from every earthly affec- 
tion, loving no creature but for 
God's sake; then, advancing a de- 
gree, we must love God, not only 
from self-interest, but purely for him- 
self and because of his supreme 
excellence. 

"Secondly, all our thoughts, 
words, and actions should tend to- 
wards God ; and by our prayers, ex- 
hortations, and good example, we 
should aim only at procuring his 
glory in ourselves and in others. 

"Thirdly, and lastly, we should 
rise still higher in the fulfilment of 
God's will, to such a degree as to 
have no longer any desire in regard 
to the misfortunes or joys which hap- 
pen to us in this miserable life. 

" But we shall never arrive at this 
height of perfection unless by a firm 
And courageous denial of our own 
will. To acquire such self-abnega- 
tioi^ it is absolutely necessary to lay 
the foundation of profound humility, 
that, by a perfect knowledge of our 
own misery and fragility, we may as- 
cend to the knowledge of the great- 
ness and goodness of our God." 

It appears that the whole spiritual 
doctrine of S. Catharine is contained 
in these two fundamental points-^ 
self-abnegation and humility, in order 
^0 deserve the enjoyment of divine 
contemplation: this is the true and 
^He only way to sanctity. 

Although the first duty of a su- 
perior is to guide those confided to 
his care, he has, however, a more 
painful task — ^he must govern them ; 



and it is here that the superior meets 
the most serious obstacles in the ex- 
ercise of his charge. It is always 
difficult to govern others; for gov- 
ernment is the application of laws 
with firmness, yet without too much 
severity. Now, human nature shrinks 
from submission, which, nevertheless, 
the superior is obliged to require, 
unless he be a prevaricator ; on the 
other side, he roust often adopt 
measures of government which can 
be discerned only by the most con- 
summate prudence and a profound 
knowledge of the weakness of hu- 
man nature. 

In a religious community the diffi- 
culty is still greater ; for the law is 
supported by conscience only, and 
it tends to guide those who have ac- 
cepted it to that ideal perfection in 
which the soul is no longer attach- 
ed to the earth. During forty years 
S. Catharine governed the convent 
of Prato with a prudence, a sweet- 
ness, and a firmness that made it the 
perfect type of a religious community. 
She combated most energetically all 
abusive exemptions from common 
life, and showed herself a faithful 
guardian of holy observances. But 
if she was the enemy of relaxation of 
the rule, she also censured severely 
the proud zeal of those souls whose 
whole perfection consisted in repeat- 
ing the prayer of the Pharisee: 
" O God, I thank you that I am not 
as the rest of men. I fast twice a 
week." 

Under the direction of a prioress 
so holy and so wise, the Sisters of 
Prato walked with rapid strides in 
the way of perfection; and how 
could it be otherwise, when they be- 
held their superioress tender towards 
them as a mother, and discharging 
her offices sometimes even in the 
raptures produced by the divine re- 
velations ? 

The influence of S. Catharine was 



424 



S. Catharine of Ricci. 



not confined to the monastery of 
Prato. God would not permit that 
this community should be the only 
witness of such elevated sanctity. 
The religious of her order — her 
brethren in S. Dominic — were the first 
witnesses of the extraordinary graces 
which she had received from heaven, 
and, on her side, S. Catharine had 
for them the greatest esteem, the 
most lively affection, regarding them, 
as laborers chosen by God to cul- 
tivate his choicest vineyard. Every 
time the fathers came to Prato to 
exercise the functions of prior, con- 
fessor, or preacher, they seemed to 
her as " so many angels descended 
from heaven, whose presence alone 
was sufficient to inspire the sisters 
with sentiments of respect, and 
whose coming was to infuse fresh 
zeal for a more perfect life." 

By degrees the influence of S. Ca- 
tharine, and the renown of her sanc- 
tity, were spread throughout Italy. 
Persons from all parts came to con- 
sult her and beg her prayers. Joan 
of Austria, Archduchess of Tuscany, 
was bound to her by a tender friend- 
ship ; she went often to the convent 
of Prato to confide to the holy 
prioress all the vexations and sorrows 
of her life. She profited so well by 
the counsels of her holy friend that 
she was no longer called by other 
name than the good archduchess. 
As if Germany envied Italy the trea- 
sure she possessed in the monastery 
of Prato, the King of Bavaria sent 
his son there to convince himself of 
that which the renown had spread 
concerning this servant of God, and to 
recommend himself and his kingdom 
to he» prayers. The influence of S. 
Catharine in the world had been 
deepest on those whom the author 
of her life so justly calls her spiritual 
sons: Antonio de Gondi, Philippo 
Salviati, Giovanni- Batisti de Servi, 
Lorenzo Strozzi, and many others. 



The first and most celebrated of 
all was of the illustrious house of 
Gondi. A branch of this family es- 
tablished itself in France at the 
commencement of the XVIth cen- 
tury, and from it descended the fa- 
mous Cardinal de Retz. 

The author, in devoting a short 
and interesting biography to some 
of the spiritual sons of S. Catharine, 
shows us what salutary influence she 
exercised over the chief persons of 
her country, and to what degree 
of eminent saqctity she conducted 
those souls who sought her direction. 
Faithful to all the suggestions of 
gratitude, she did not forget that the 
great Apostle of Tuscany had pro- 
phesied the glory of the monastery 
of Prato, and that twice she had 
been cured by his supernatural inter- 
vention; therefore, she forwarded 
in every way devotion to Savonarola. 
She charged Brother Nicholas Fabi- 
ani to revise the writings of that cele- 
brated Dominican, and she address- 
ed herself to Count Luis Capponi to 
procure a beautiful portrait of Savo- 
narola. She had for that illustrious 
character the tenderness of a daugh- 
ter and the admiration which a great 
life inspires in a soul capable of com- 
prehending it 

The last years of the life of S. 
Catharine was a union the most 
intimate with God, a continual 
succession of ecstasies; her body 
was on earth, but her soul was in 
heaven. 

Towards the month of January, 
she fell sick, and died on Friday, 
the 2d of February, in the same 
year. Numerous miracles attested the 
eminent sanctity of her life. She 
was beatified by Pope Clement 
XII. on the 30th of April, 1732* 
and was canonized by Benedict XIV. 
on the 2oth of June, 1746. 

This is an incomplete synopsis of 
the two volumes published by R* 



The Greatest Grief. 425 

P. Bayonne. This work, destined to of a perfect narration. We hope it 

make known one of the greatest glo- will soon be translated into English, 

ries of the order, recommends itself that the American public may become 

to us by the grandeur of the subject more fully acquainted with a book 

itself, and unites a solid doctrine to which takes an honorable place in 

a brilliant style, and all the charms modem literature. 



THE GREATEST GRIEF. 



FXOM THS PXEMCH OF MARIS JXNNA. 



YES,'Father 1 on the altar of the past 

We may lay down a joy, too sweet to last ; 

See the flowers wither that our pathway strewed, 

Incline our brows beneath the tempest rude, 

Behold the rainbow glory fade away 

That made fair promise for our opening day : 

And yet, like that poor stricken plant, survive, 

Blighted by frost, half dead and half alive, 

Give to the desert winds our morning dream. 

And still support our agony supreme ! 

We may beholds stretched on a bed of pain, 

The form to which we minister in vain — 

The last, the dearest, the consoling friend — 

Count every moment of his weary end, 

Kiss the pale brow, and watch each wavering breath ; 

Close the cold eyelids, murmur, " This is death 1'' 

And still once more to life and hope belong. 

O God ! thou knowest through faith the heart grows strong 

But, ah I another human soul to love 

So fondly that we tremble as above 

Its purity and beauty we incline, 

Then suddenly to mark its depths divine 

Shadowed and chilled, and from our Paradise 

Perceive an icy, vaporous breath arise. 

Whence blew sweet zephyrs, odorous with grace I 

To seek in vain religion's luminous trace 

Amid the ashes of her ruined shrine, 

To pray, to weep, to doubt, to hope, divine 

All but the truth ; and at the last to dare 

The long, deep look that tells us our despair, 

Revealing vacancy, a faith withdrawn 

Without a glance towards the retreating dawn, 

Without a cry of grief, a sigh, a prayer — 

O God 1 that loss is more tlian we can bear 1 



426 



New Publications. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



Catholicity and Pantheism — All 
Truth or No Truth. An Essay by 
the Rev. J. De Concilio, etc., etc. New 
York : Sadliers. 1874. 

This essay was first published in Ths 
Catholic World, and we are glad to 
see it published in a separate volume. 
It is not a complete treatise, but only one 
complete part of a treatise, the prima 
prinut of a more extensive work, which 
we hope the author may be able to write 
and publish. F. De Concilio is one of 
our most learned and acute philosophers 
and theologians, a disciple (k no modem 
clique or innovating system, a vender of 
no patent contrivance of his own for re- 
conciling contraries, but a modest yet 
intrepid advocate and defender of the old 
timehonored scholastic wisdom of S. 
Thomas. In its own line, his essay is 
superior to anything ever before produc- 
ed in this country, and we trust that due 
attention and a just meed of praise will 
be awarded to it by the few who will be 
able to understand it. in Europe as well 
as in America. If the author, who has 
for a long time struggled to bring his 
work into the light, is left in the lurch by 
everybody, as the learned Dr. Smith has 
been in England with his splendid un- 
finished work on the Pentateuch, it will 
be a sad proof of our intellectual degen- 
eracy. 

We will not make a critical review of 
F. De Concilio's argument in the present 
short notice, but we think a few words 
in reply to some criticisms which have 
been made, and may be repeated, either 
publicly or in private, are almost impera- 
tively called for. 

The only one of these criticisms really 
worth any attention relates to the argu- 
ment from reason for the Trinity. It has 
been objected by some very respectable 
theologians that the rational argument 
for the Trinity professes to demonstrate 
from purely rational principles of natural 
human intelligence the entire revealed 
mystery of the Trinity. We admit frank- 
ly that, if the supposition is correct, the 



censure founded on it, that the author 
has undertaken something pronounced 
by Catholic doctrine impossible and un- 
lawful, is just and inevitable. We have 
never, however, understood the author 
in this sense. We understand him to 
profess to argue in part from premises 
given by revelation, and thus merely to 
explicate a theological doctrine, and in 
part to furnish proofs from pure reason, 
first, that the rational objections against 
the dogma are invalid ; and, second, that 
the dogma as disclosed by revelation 
taken as a philosophical hypothesis, and 
it alone, satisfactorily solves certain dif- 
ficult problems respecting the divine na- 
ture, which otherwise would be insoluble. 
So far as any direct proof of the distinc- 
tion and proprieties of the three persons 
in God is concerned, we understand that 
such proof is put forward as inadequate 
and only probable, but by no means 
either a complete or strictly demonstra- 
tive argument. 

We think, therefore, with due submis- 
sion to higher authority, that the author 
escapes the censures of the Syllabus and 
the Vatican Council, and attempts no 
more than has been done by Bossuet, 
Lacordaire, and other great thinkers, 
who have never been thought to havs 
gone beyond the bounds of allowed li- 
berty. We leave the author, however, 
to defend and advocate his own cause, 
if it requires to be further vindicated, and 
merely give this statement as an expla- 
nation of our own reason for admitting 
his admirable articles into this magazine 
without any alteration. 

Another criticism, which the author 
himself has sufficiently answered, imput- 
ed to him the doctrine of a necessary 
creation and of optimism. It is*^ only 
necessary to read his book carefully to 
see how unfounded is this imputation. 

Still more futile is an objection, urged 
by the author of the criticism just now 
noticed, that F. De Concilio's opinion 
of the precedence of the decree of the in- 
carnation to the decree of the redemption 
of fallen man is contraiy to the opinion 



New Publications. 



427 



of S. Thomas and the schola generally. 
Be it so ! Bat what then ? Must we 
follow the common opinion, or that which 
is excrinsically more probable, if the con- 
trary opinion has a real intrinsic and 
extrinsic probability? Afinime genHum / 
F. De Concilio but follows S. Athanasius, 
Suarez, and other authors whose works 
have passed the Roman censorship, 
against S. Thomas ; and he gives good 
intrinsic reasons for doing so. Let any 
one who wishes to attack him do so by 
refuting his arguments; but it is most 
untheological to find fault with his opin- 
ion as any less sound and orthodox than 
the contrary. Let us be rigorous in cen- 
suring opinions which are really unsound 
and untenable, but let us beware of that 
carping and unfriendly spirit which has 
always been the bane of theological dis- 
cussions, and which throws out the im- 
putation of unsoundness without a cer- 
tain and sufficient warrant of authority. 
We do not concur in all the opinions 
which are held in the school which F. 
De Concilio follows, and which must in- 
evitably come out with greater distinctness 
in the second part of his essay ; but we 
shall look forward with pleasure to see 
him develop and defend them with his 
usual masterly ability, and we express 
our great desire that he should write as 
much as his pastoral duties will permit 
on philosophical and theological topics. 



The Christian Trumpet ; or. Previsions 
and Predictions about Impending 
General Calamities, the Universal Tri- 
umph of the Church, the Coming of 
Antichrist, the Last Judgment, and 
the End of the World. Divided into 
three parts. Compiled by Pellegrino. 
** The testimony of Jesus is the spirit 
of prophecy," Apoc. xix. 10. Boston : 
Patrick Donahoe. 1873. 

It is beyond question among learned 
and devout Catholics that many saints 
and pious servants of God in all ages 
haTe received private revelations in which 
tre contained predictions of events in a 
near or remote future time to the recipi- 
ents of this supernatural light. It is, 
moreover, certain that a number of su- 
pernatural and miraculous events of a 
most extraordinary character, and evi- 
dently intended as warnings to the 
good as well as to the wicked, and some 
▼cry credible revelations respecting great 



judgments and great mercies of God which 
are impending, have occurred in our own 
time. It must be, therefore, not only in- 
teresting, but useful, to have authentic 
and judicious accounts of grave and sa- 
cred matters of this kind published and 
circulated among the faithful. A collec- 
tion of this sort has been published in 
France by a learned priest, the Abb6 
Curicque, with the approbation of several 
bishops, entitled Voix Proph%Hques ; and 
several other critical and judicious writ- 
ers in Europe have published books or 
articles relating to different persons and 
events of this extraordinary class, which 
are truly valuable, instructive, and edi* 
fying. The end and object of the com- 
piler of the book before us is, therefore, 
one which we must approve, although we 
are sorry not to be able to give an unqua- 
lified commendation to the manner in 
which he has executed his task. That 
he is a very pious and zealous priest is 
evident at first sight. That he has laid 
down in general terms the sound theolo- 
gical doctrine about the credibility of 
private revelations, and made some very 
just reflections and timely exhortations 
about the times in which we live, and 
the sentiments we ought to cherish and 
put in practice in view of the certain ap- 
proach of the consummation of this 
world, is also obvious to any reader of 
his book. The research and painstaking 
which he has used in collecting his ma- 
terials are very great, and the greatest 
part of them are undoubtedly derived 
from respectable and trustworthy sources 
of information, and therefore entitled to 
credit. 

Nevertheless, as a whole, the compila- 
tion lacks the sobriety, discretion, and 
authority which a book of this kind 
ought to have, in order to give it proper 
credibility and weight with the general 
class of readers, who cannot judge for 
themselves or discriminate properly, and 
who need, therefore, that evidence should 
be given them by reference to standard 
authorities, and by the guarantee of 
names which are known to them and 
sufficient to warrant their belief in the 
genuineness and credibility of such re- 
markable documents as those contained 
in this compilation. An anonymous au- 
thor, whose work appears without any 
ecclesiastical approbation or recommen- 
dation of persons known to the Catholic 
public, is entitled to no credit on his 
own mere assertion. He must cite his 



428 



New Publications. 



authorities and witnesses, and must ex- 
act no assent without giving a sufficient 
motive. A translation of the work of 
the Abbe Curicque would, in our opin- 
ion, have been much more likely to ac* 
complish the end of the pious author 
than a compilation like the one he has 
made. • Moreover, there are some things 
in this book, and these the very matters 
which make the most exorbitant demand 
on the credulity of the reader, for which 
no evidence whatever is furnished but 
the on dit of certain unknown parties. 
Other things are very doubtful ; some are 
contradictory to one another. The author 
mixes up with the citations he makes 
his own favorite view of the course of 
present and coming events, especially 
about the schism and the anti-popes, 
whose coming he forebodes ; and a haze 
of the visionary, the wondrous, and the 
improbable is thus thrown over the 
whole, which envelopes even that which 
is really entitled to credence and pious 
veneration, and tends to bring the whole 
into suspicion and discredit. The hint 
thrown out that a certain cardinal, whose 
name might as well have been given, 
since every one will know who is meant, 
may become an an ti- pope, is contrary to 
Christian charity and prudence ; and, in 
general, we must notice with regret that 
the author's zeal is sadly lacking in 
discretion, and devoid of that delicate 
tact and discernment, more necessary in 
one who handles such difficult and peril- 
ous themes than in any other sort of 
writer or teacher of the people. 

It is not the fault of the author, who is 
a foreigner, that he has fallen into many 
inaccuracies of language ; but we think 
the publisher might have secured a re- 
vision of the text by some competent 
person, and that it would have been in 
better taste, as well as more befitting the 
reserve and sobriety due to matters which 
are so very serious, if he bad made a less 
sensational announcement of the book. 
It is, however, notwithstanding these 
drawb.icks, certainly a very curious col- 
lection of documents and pieces of infor- 
mation which are interesting to know 
about, and contains so much that is truly 
valuable and edifying that we hope it 
will not only gratify curiosity, but also 
do good to a great many of its readers, 
by turning their attention to the great 
subjects which it presents in such vivid 
coloiA, And in a startling proximity to the 
present and coming events of our own age. 



In order to assist those of our readers 
who may wish to have. some direction to 
guide them in perusing this book with 
discrimination and understanding, we 
will specify in part which are the most 
valuable and trustworthy portions, which 
are less so, and which are altogether 
without sufficient grounds of probability 
to entitle them to any regard. 

First, there are the prophecies of can- 
onized or beatified saints, whose authenti- 
city, is well established and their, interpre- 
tation more or less clear. These are the 
prophecies of S. Remigius, S. Cesarius, S. 
Edward, S. John of the Cross, and the B. 
Andrew Bobola, S.J. In regard to those 
of S. Bridget of Sweden and S. Francis 
of Paul, they would be entitled to equal 
respect, if clearer evidence were furnished 
of their authenticity than that given by 
the author — a matter in regard to which 
we are not able to pronounce any judg- 
ment. The prophecy of S. Malachy is one 
in respect to which there is great differ- 
ence of opinion. We give our own for 
what it is worth, after some reading on 
the subject, in its favor. After these 
come the prophecies of persons of recog- 
nized sanctity, which have gained credit 
with judicious and well-informed persons 
competent to form an enlightened opin- 
ion. The most valuable and trustworthy 
of these are from the V. Holzhauser, the 
V. Anna Maria Taigi, the V. Cur4 of 
Ars, F. Necktou, S.J., Jane le Royer, 
Soeur de la Nativity, and Mary Lataste. 
The prophecies of the Solitary of Orval 
and of the Nun of Blois have their warm 
partisans and opponents, the Abb6 Cu- 
ricque being among their defenders. The 
Signora Palma d'Orio is a person whose 
ecstatic state seems to be beyond reason- 
able doubt, yet it is difficult to ascertain 
with certainty what she has really predict- 
ed ; so that what is reported from her, al- 
though interesting, is scarcely to be con- 
sidered as having evidence enough to be 
classed among authentic predictions. The 
revelations made to Maximin and Mela- 
nie appear to us to belong to a similar 
category, as worthy of the greatest re- 
spect in themselves if we had an ample 
guarantee of their genuineness and au- 
thenticity, but as not yet placed in a suf- 
ficiently clear light to warrant a prudent 
assent. The remainder of the contents 
we pass over without any special remark, 
with the exception of those few matters 
which we have noted above as making an 
exorbiunt demand on the reader's creda- 



Nexv Publications. 



429 



lity without any eridence to warrant it. 
One of these points is the story of David 
Lazzaretti, another about Zoe Tonari, 
"destined soon to be a second Joan of 
Arc/' and the most censurable of all 
is what is said about Antichrist having 
been bom in i860, and other things con* 
nected with the same. (Pp. 265-268.) 

In connection with the wonderful nar- 
ntive of David Lazzaretti the author has 
woven a very flimsy texture of conjec- 
tures out of the materials furnished by 
some of the curious documents which he 
cites for his hypothesis of a schism and 
two anti-popes to come immediately after 
the death of Pius IX. It is with regret 
that we are compelled to touch on these 
subjects in such a superficial manner; 
they require careful handling. Excessive 
and imprudent credulity in those who 
have £aith and piety is certainly unrea- 
sonable, and may be blamable and hurtful. 

But the utter incredulity and dogged 
refusal to admit anything miraculous and 
supernatural which is exhibited by our 
modern illuminati is the very neplus ultra 
of unreason, and the acme of wilful, des- 
picable, and wicked folly. The most sen- 
sible, as well as the most pious rule is, to 
follow the church without reservation in 
all that she teaches and sanctions, and in 
those things concerning which she is 
silent to follow her saints and doctors, 
who are the most enlightened of all men. 



Spain and Charles VII. ; or, " Who is 
the Legitimate Sovereign T By Gene- 
ral Kirkpatrick. Published under the 
sanction of the Carlist Committee. Lon- 
don: Burns, Oates & Co. 1873. (New 
York : Sold by The Catholic Publica- 
tion Society.) 

This timely and clearly-written plea for 
Don Carlos places beyond a question his 
nght to the Spanish throne. The Bour- 
t>ons succeeded to the Spanish throne 
through the marriage of Louis XIV. with 
the Infanta of Spain, eldest daughter of 
Hhilip IV. Her grandson, Philip V., be- 
ctne king on the failure of direct issue 
from his grand-uncle, Charles II., the son 
of Philip iV. The Salic law, confirming 
the succession to the heirs male of the 
royal house, was established by Philip V. 
*nd his cortes, with the consent of all the 
great powers, in order to prevent the 
union of the French and Spanish crowns, 
the King of Spain relinquishing all his 



rights as a French prince. This law has 
never been validly repealed. Christina 
of Naples, the queen of Ferdinand VII., 
a most ambitious and unprincipled prin- 
cess, had this law violently and illegally 
set aside in order to make way for her 
daughter Isabella to ascend the throne. 
The base and illegal nature of the in- 
trigues by which Don Carlos and his 
family were exiled from Spain and de- 
prived of their just rights is fully exposed 
by Gen. Kirkpatrick. Charles V., the 
brother of Ferdinand VII., was succeeded 
in his claim to the throne by his son, 
Charles VI., in 1845, who, dying in 1861 
without issue, was succeeded by his bro- 
ther, Don Juan, who abdicated October, 
i863, in favor of his son, the present Don 
Carlos, who is now twenty-five years of 
age, and married to the niece of the Comte 
de Chambord. Charles V. would un- 
doubtedly have succeeded in regaining 
his throne but for the shameful interfer- 
ence of Louis Philippe of France, and the 
English crown. The party of Christina 
was composed of all the liberals, com- 
munists, and enemies of the church, and 
Isabella was merely tolerated by the 
sound and Catholic majority of the nation 
from necessity. 

The clergy, the ancient nobility, the 
peasantry, and most of the friends of order 
and religion in all classes, desire the re- 
storation of Don Carlos to the throne, 
which belongs to him by the laws of the 
Spanish constitution. It is very true that 
a mere restitution of legitimate monarchy 
is not a certain guarantee for good gov- 
ernment, and that many of the Bourbons 
have been bad rulers. It is, nevertheless, 
the only hope for Spain ; and the charac- 
ter and principles of Don Carlos give rea- 
son to hope that, taught by adversity and 
trained by experience to value the sound 
Catholic traditions of Spain, he will prove 
to be a good sovereign. We wish him, 
therefore, most cordially, a speedy and 
complete triumph, which we believe he is 
in the way to win. 



Essays on Various Subjects. By His 
Eminence Cardinal Wiseman. In Six 
Volumes. Vols. V., VI. New York : 
P. O'Shea. 1873. 

These two volumes complete the series 
of the famous cardinal's Essays. The 
Catholic reader is under great obliga- 
tions to Mr. O'Shea for the reprint of 



430 



New Publicaiians. 



these splendid compositions, the London 
edition being out of print. It is to be 
regretted, however, that the references 
adapted to that edition should not have 
been changed to suit the present issue. 
Having indicated one fault, we might as 
well inquire of the publisher why he 
wiil use perfumed paper in his books ? 
Though not a serious objection, it is an 
annoying one to reasonably fastidious 
readers, as we happen to know. 

Vol. V. opens with an article on Spain, 
which takes up more than half the book. 
It is superfluous to remark that this essay 
is of peculiar interest at the present hour. 
Next we have a vindication of Pope Bo- 
niface VIII. — ^a very important subject. 
Then a review of Montalembert's .S". 
Elizabeth of Hungary, The three re- 
maining articles are specimens of the 
writer's scholarship as an antiquarian. 
Vol. VI. contains ten essays. The first 
treats learnedly of S. Peter's chair at 
Rome. A plate accompanies the article. 
The fifth administers flagellation to 
Charles Dickens for certain things in 
his American Notes ; and also to Mrs. 
Trollope, for her Visit to Italy. Then 
follow four other essays on the subject 
of Italy : " Italian Guides and Tourists," 
** Religion in Italy," ''Italian Gesticula- 
tion," and "Early Italian Academies." 
The volume concludes with " Sense vs» 
Science." 

We are reminded, while noticing the 
completion of this work, of an article on 
the Douaiist schism,'* Catholic and Angli- 
can Churches " (p. 199, v. iii.), which " caus- 
ed in no slight degree " the doubt which 
first crossed the mind of Dr. John Henry 
Newman " of the tenableness of the theo- 
logical theory on which Anglicanism is 
based," and which we cannot, therefore, 
do better than commend to the serious 
attention of all honest and conscientious 
Episcopalians. 



Bible History, with Maps, Illustrations, 
Examination Questions, Scriptural Ta- 
bles, and Glossary. For the use of 
Colleges, Schools, Families, and Bib- 
lical Students. By the Rev. James 
O'Leary, D.D. Permissu Superiorum, 
•!• John, Archbishop of New York. 
New York : Sadliers. 1873. 

• 

We cordially recommend this excellent 
and beautifully printed manual to all those 
ibr whom the title states it has been pre- 



pared by Its learned author. It will be a 
fiavorite, especially with young people 
and children, whether used as a class or a 
reading book, particularly on account of 
its pictures, which are generally good, and 
many of which are remarkably fine. Such 
a book, which, so far as we know, is 
much the best of the kind, must do incal- 
culable good ; and we hope it will be 
appreciated by parents and teachers, so 
as to find its way into every family and 
school throughout our country and else- 
where, wherever Catholics are found who 
use the English language. The author 
has done well by taking into account 
those generally received facts and hypo- 
theses of natural science which have a 
bearing on topics handled, in their con- 
nection with the facts and truths of reve- 
lation, by the sacred writers. His state- 
ment, however, that the surface of the 
earth bears on it the marks of perturba- 
tions caused by the Deluge, and otherwise 
not capable of scientific explanation, is 
not one which geologists would admit, 
and we doubt very much its correctness. 

On page 16 the author observes that, 
" as the divinity of Christ was doubted 
before the Council of Nice, so these [deu- 
tero-canonical] books and passages might 
have been doubted before the decision of 
the church." 

The cases are not parallel. The di- 
vinity of Christ was an article of faith 
before the definition of the Council of 
Nice, and no good Catholic could doubt 
it. But the canonical authority of certain 
books was not an article of faith before it 
was defined, and might have been, as it 
indeed was, doubted by good Catholics. 

We think the author would improve 
his work by inserting a good, succinct 
historical account of the events which oc- 
curred between the period of the Books 
of the Machabees and that of the Evan- 
gelists. Moreover, we do not like the 
termination " eth " in the index, which is 
unnecessarily quaint and old-fashioned, 
or approve all the rhymes which precede 
the chapters, although some of them are 
not without a quaint poetic vigor, and 
most of them are terse and ingenious, 
likely, therefore, to strike the fancy and 
stick in the memory of children. 

It is seldom that we take the trouble to 
make so many criticisms on a book. This 
one, however, is so good and so very im- 
portant that we would like to see the au- 
thor continue to improve it in every new 
edition, and therefore offer our suggcs- 



New Publications. 



431 



tions in the most kiadly and respectful 
spirit to the reverend and learned author, 
adding to what we have already said in 
commendation of the BibU History that it 
is not merely a good school-book, but a 
work of really sound and solid scholar- 
ship. We are very glad to see that the au- 
thor has sought and obtained the approba- 
tion of the ecclesiastical authority before 
publishing his work, and we trust that his 
good example will be generally followed, 
and, moreover, that the law of the church 
will be enforced in every diocese and in 
all cases, requiring this approbation for 
all books treating de rebus sacris. 



Meditations for the Use of the Cler- 
gy, for every day in the year. On the 
Gospels for the Sundays. From the Ital- 
ian of Mgr. Scotti, Abp. of Thessalonica. 
Revised and edited by the Oblates of 
S. Charles. Vol. II. From Septua- 
gesima Sunday to the Fourth Sunday 
after Easter. London : Burns & Oates. 
1873. (New York: Sold by The Catha 
lie Publication Society.) 

We have already noticed the first vol- 
ume of these invaluable Meditations, and 
need not repeat what we then said. The 
present volume fully sustains the promise 
of the 6rst, and makes us look eagerly 
for the completion of the work. 



The Illustrated Catholic Family Al- 
manac FOR the United States for 
THE Year of our Lord 1874. Calcu- 
lated for different Parallels of Latitude, 
and adapted for use throughout the 
Country. New York: The Catho.ic 
Hublication Society. 

The season does not bring a brighter, 
pleasanter, or more useful and necessary 
^k than this cleverly executed little 
^orlc. From cover to cover the reader 
finds something to catch the eye and at- 
tract him in every page. For a wonder, 
|he title is an exact index of the book ; it 
's illustrated, and remarkably well illus- 
trated ; it is Catholic, and it is a family 
*lmanac, which the children will pore 
^▼er for hours, delighted with the pictures 
^ famous Catholic men, women, and 
places, and the short but well-written 
^Ketches accompanying them ; which their 
Pafcnis will consult in order to find all 
•«e information concerning feasts, fasts, 



and the like necessary for the coming 
year ; which all will read who wish to ob- 
tain accurate information on matters re- 
lating to the spread and progress of the 
church, particularly in the United States. 
When this has been said, there is really 
nothing more to say, as far as reconi 
mending this almanac to Catholics goes ; 
but there is a great deal to be said con- 
cerning this present number, which in 
many respects is an improvement even 
on its predecessors. For instance, in the 
matter of filling in a page with short but 
pithy notices of Catholic works, in the 
excellent but necessarily incomplete ta- 
blesof statistics of the Catholic Church in 
the United States, and in the fulness of 
the Catholic chronology for the past year, 
which forms, as it were, the headlines of 
Catholic history in this country — all this 
displays enterprise, and the excellence of 
the whole speaks tact and care on the part 
of the editor. 

Glancing at the illustrations, we find 
portraits and sketches of Abp. Odin ; 
Rt. Rev. Michael O'Connor, first bishop 
of Pittsburg and of Erie ; Bishop Fitzpat- 
rick, of Boston ; Father Southwell, S.J., 
whose poems and writings are now being 
collected and given to the public ; Father 
Lacordaire, Father De Smet, and others. 
Here is a head of Manzoni, in another 
place the Comte de Montalembert ; here 
John Banim's well-known face looks out, 
and here is genial Thomas D'Arcy Mc- 
Gee smiling at us. In another place is a 
portrait of S. Ignatius in armor, and a 
sunny picture of his birth-place. Miss 
Honora Nagle, foundress of the Ursuline 
Order in Ireland, Mother Mary of the In- 
carnation, Blessed Margaret Mary Ala- 
coque. Church of Our Lady of Lourdes, 
of S. Stephen of the Mount, Abbey of 
Cluny, and others, form subjects for illus- 
trations and sketches, all careful, accu- 
rate, and finished. Looking again at th« 
Almanac, and then considering its price, 
the publishers may congratulate them- 
selves on having accomplished that mira- 
cle of presenting to a Catholic public 
something which is cheap and excellent 
throughout. 



Songs from the Southern Seas, and 
Other Poems. By John Boyle O'Reil- 
ly. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1873. 

These Songs have a rare charm of 
novelty about them. Australia is a land 



432 



New Publications. 



yet unconquered to the muse, but evi- 
dently as fruitful in poetic themes as any 
of ** the shores of old romance." 

Our author is peculiarly at home, per- 
haps, in the scenes from which his book 
is named. Yet some of the " other po- 
ems " are of considerable merit ; such as 
" A Wail of Two Cities " (Chicago and 
Boston), " The Wreck of the Atlantic," 
and " The Fishermen of Wexford." 

We thank him for bis modest volume, 
and hope to hear from him again. 



Recent Music and Musicians, as de- 
scribed in the Diaries and Correspon- 
dence of Ignatz Moscheles. Edited 
by his wife, and adapted from the ori- 
ginal German by A. D. Coleridge. 
New York : Henry Holt & Co. 1873. 

Born in 1794, and living to the ad- 
vanced age of seventy-six, this distin- 
guished musician had the opportunity of 
cultivating an intimate acquaintance, or 
of holding more or less correspondence, 
with all the composers, artists, singers, 
and patrons of music who flourished dur- 
ing his long life. Reference is made in 
this exceedingly interesting memoir to the 
names of over five hundred of these, fur- 
nishing to the reader a vast amount of 
information concerning musicians and 
their works in this century. The book 
is written in an agreeable, vivacious 
style, and is altogether the best of the 
several memoirs of the kind which have 
appeared. 



The Story of Wandering Willie. New 
York : Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 

1873. 

We have been attracted by the beauty 
and pathos of this simple tale, and by 



its high moral tone, in which it contrasts 
favorably with many more pretentious 
works. 



The Life of the Most Rev. M. J. Spal- 
ding, D.D., Archbishop of Baltimork. 
By Rev. J. L. Spalding, S.T.L. New 
York : The Catholic Publication So- 
ciety. 1873. 

We had contemplated an extended no- 
tice of this very interesting biography, 
but were unable to finish it in time for the 
present number. We fancy, however, 
that few intelligent Catholics who art 
made aware of the subject, author, and 
superior mechanical execution of the vol- 
ume, will delay securing possession of a 
copy. 



BOOKS RBCBIVSO. 

• 

From Burns & Oatbs, London (through ^* Th« 
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VROPi;^ 



THE 



^NEW-YORK 



THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD 



VOL. XVIII., No. io6.— JANUARY, 1874. 



THE PRINCIPLES OF REAL BEING. 



All knowledge which is truly sci- 
entific rests on demonstration, and 
all demonstration depends on princi- 
ples or axionaatic truths. But, be- 
sides the principles of demonstration, 
lUere are other principles on which 
not only the knowledge, but the very 
existence of things, and their origin 
and constitution, essentially depend. 
Iliese latter principles are nowadays 
less known tlian the former, as we 
luay argue from the fact that they 
are scarcely ever alluded to in mo- 
dern speculations ; and yet they un- 
doubtedly have the best claim to the 
attention of philosophical minds, for 
it is in such principles that the real 
germs of all true science are hidden. 
I'or this reason, we have determined 
to offer our readers a short but accu- 
rate summary of the philosophical 
^^octrine on principles ; which, if pre- 
sented, as we shall try to do, with 
^>€coming perspicuity, will prove to 
^ a kind of popular introduction to 
"metaphysical studies. 



I. NOTION OF PRINCIPLE. 

By the name oi pHncipU philoso- 
phers designate that whence any- 
thing originally proceeds in any man- 
ner whatever: Id^ unde aliquid quo- 
moiiocumque procedii. This definition 
implies that there are many different 
manners of proceeding, and conse- 
quently many different kinds of prin- 
ciples. And so it is. Aristotle, how- 
ever, shows that principles of all 
kinds can be reduced to three classes ; 
that is, to those principles of which a 
thing consists, those through which 
or out of which a thing is made, and 
those by which a thing is known : 
Primum^ unde aliquid €$t^ aut fit^ aui 
csgfwsciiur.* — Arist. Metaph, 5. 

The first class comprises the prin- 
ciples through which a thing ir, viz., 
by which tlie thing is intrinsically con- 
stituted. These principles are called 
constituent or intrinsic principles, and 
are always present by their own entity 

* The prioclple whence Anjrthins^ exists, is 
made, or it Icnown. 



Watered tcewdinc' to Act of ConKress, In the year 1874, by Rer. 1. T. Hbckik, in the Office of 

the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



434 



The PrincipUs of Real Being. 



in the thing principiated ; as the mat- 
ter in the body, and the soul in the 
animal. 

The second class contains the prin- 
ciples through which a thing is made. 
These principles serve to account for 
the origin of the thing, and are call- 
ed extrinsic principles, because they 
are not present by their awn entity in 
the thing principiated. Thus, the 
motive power of the sun is not, 
by its own entity, in the planets to 
which it imparts movement, but in 
the sun only ; and the medical art is 
not in the person who has been cured 
through it, but in the doctor. There 
is, however, in the planets something 
proceeding from the motive power 
of the sun, and in the person cured 
something proceeding from the med- 
ical art, as every one will acknow- 
ledge. Whence it is obvious that 
the extrinsic principles by their very 
principiation must leave some mark 
or vestige of themselves in the thing 

. principiated. 

The third class consists of those 

I principles through which any con- 

• elusion is made known. These prin- 
ciples are general truths, which are 
made to serve for the demonstration 
of some other truth, and are called 

i principles of science. 

Among the principles of this third 

' class we do not reckon the principles 
from which the first apprehension 
and immediate intuition of things 
proceeds; to wit, either the power 

I through which the object makes an 
impression on the cognoscitive facul- 

' ty, or the faculty itself through which 
the object is apprehended. Our 

treason is that these principles, thus 

• considered, do not form a class apart. 
The power of the object to make 
its impression on the subject is an 

■ extrinsic principle of knowledge, and 
ranks with the principles of the second 
class above mentioned ; whilst the 

.power of the subject to perceive 



through the intelligible species is an in- 
trinsic principle of knowledge, as well 
as the species which it expresses within 
itself, and, therefore, is to be ranked 
among the principles of the first 
class. Accordingly, the third class 
is exclusively made up of those prin- 
ciples which serve for the scientific 
demonstration of truth; and this is 
what Aristotle himself insinuates, at 
least negatively, as he gives no in- 
stance of principles of this third 
class but the premises by which any 
conclusion is made known. 

Before we advance further, we have 
to remark that, in metaphysics, the 
first principles of science are assumed, 
not as a subject of investigation, but 
as {he fundamental base of scientific 
demonstration. Thus, the principles, 
Idem nan potest simul esse etnon es^e^ 
Non datur effectus sine causa^\ Que 
sunt eadem uni tertio sunt eadem inter 
se^ and such like, though usually 
styled *' metaphysical " principles, arc 
not the subject of metaphysical in- 
vestigation, but are simply presup- 
posed and admitted on the strength 
of their immediate and incontrover- 
tible evidence. Such principles are 
perfectly known before all metaphy- 
sical disquisition, and need not be 
traced to other principles. On the 
other hand, metaphysics, which is 
the science of reality, deals only with 
the principles of real beings ; whence 
it follows that the principles of demon- 
stration, which, like the conclusion de- 
duced therefrom, exist in the intel- 
lect alone (and therefore are hanp 
of reason^ and principiate nothing but 
other beings of reason), are not com- 
prised in the object of metaphysicni 
inquiry. Hence, the only princip^eb 
which metaphysics is bound to inves- 
tigate are those that belong to the 

* The same thing cxnnot at the nine time be 
and not be. 

t There is no effect without a canM. 

X ThinjfS which are equal to a third thiog ftr< 
equal to each other. 



Tlt€ Principles of Real Being, 



435 



first and second class above mention- 
ed ; that isy the intrinsic and the ex- 
trinsic princif^es of things : Primunt 
unde tUiquid est^ and primum unde 
aRquidJie* 

Principles and causes are often 
confounded, although it is well 
known that they are not identical. 
Hence, our next question is: In what 
does a cause differ from a principle ? 
It is commonly admitted that all 
causes are principles, but not all 
principles causes; which evidently 
implies that a cause is something 
more than a principle. In fact, when 
we use the word " cause," we wish to 
designate a being in which we know 
that there is a principle of causation ; 
whence it is evident that the com- 
mon notion of cause implies the no- 
lion of principle, and something else 
Usides — that is, the notion of a sub- 
ject to which the principle belongs. 
Thus, we say that the moon causes 
the tides by its attractive power ; the 
moon is the eause^ and the attractive 
power is its principle of causation, 
la like manner, we say that an orator 
causes great popular emotion by his 
cloquencfe; the orator is the cause^ 
and his eloquence is his principle of 
causation. 

From these instances it would be 

easy to conclude that the difference 

between a cause and a principle lies 

in this, that the cause is a complete 

^ingf whilst the principle is only an 

appurtenance of the cause. But as 

we know from theology that there 

are principles which cannot be thus 

related to causes, we cannot consider 

the above as an adequate and final 

answer to the question proposed. 

Some of the best modem scholas- 
tics account for the difference bet ween- 
cause and principle in the following 
"tanner; A principle, they say, is 
conceived to differ from a cause in 

* The principle whence anything is, and Uie 
VHodple whence anythioB is made. 



two things : first, in this, that a cause 
always precedes its effect by priority 
of nature,* whereas a principle does 
not require such a priority ; secondly, 
in this, that the cause does not commu- 
nicate its own identical nature to its 
effect, whereas the principle can com- 
municate its own identical nature to 
that which it principiates.t From 
these two differences a third one 
might be gathered, viz., that the effect 
has always a real dependence from \ 
its pause, whilst the thing principiated 
does not always really depend y>K;/// 
its principles.§ These grounds of 

* Philosophers teach that one thing can pre- 
cede another In three ways, to wit, by priority 
oitinu^ by priority of nature^ and by priority of 
treason. A thing existing while another thing is 
not yet in existence lias, with regard to this lat- 
ter, a priority of time. A thing, on the existence 
of which the existence of another depends, has, 
with regard to this latter, a priority of nature. A 
thing, the conception of which is needed to form 
the conception of another, has, with regard to this 
latter, a priority of reason. The priority of origin, 
by whicii one of the divine Persons is prior to 
another, is a priority of reason, not of nature, 
and impllee no real dependence of one Person 
from another. 

tSee Liberatore, Metaph. Gen.^ n. 195. 

% We adrisedly employ the preposition ^^wr. 
There is a vast difference between depending oh 
and depeBdingyr<?M. To depend from is pro- 
perly to be hanging from, as a lamp from the 
ceiling ; but nothing forbids the use of the phrase 
In a metaphorical sense in order to translate the 
Latin phrase, pendtrt ab, for which we have no 
other equivalent. The usual English phrase, to 
^</r/K</0», corresponds to the \jk\\vi Render e ex. 
Were we to employ it also for Render* aS^ a con- 
fusion would arise of the two different meanings. 
Certainly, the two phrases. Homo j^endet a Dto^ 
and Exitus pendet ox adjunctU express differ- 
ent kinds of dependence ; and we cannot trans- 
late them into English in the same manner with- 
out setting their differences at naught We 
would, therefore, say, that Man defends from 
Cody and that Success depends on circutnstaMces, 
la philosophy, both prepositions are needed, 
and, if used with proper discrimination, they 
will save us the trouble of many useless dis- 
putes. 

I A being and its constituent principles may 
be said to have a certain dependence on one an- 
other, inasmuch as they have such an essential 
connection with one another t}K "" -^- 

not be conceived apart frojr 
thisto>caUed **• dependency 
tion and ** mutual exige>^ 
not entail a priority 
respect to the other. 
one in its entity, thei 
act, its term, and th« 
other. The act hai 
with respect to its ef 
only a priority of ? 



436 



The Principles of Real Being. 



distinction between principles and 
causes have been thought of, with 
the avowed object of paving the way 
to explain how the Eternal Father 
can be the principle, without being 
the cause, of his Eternal Son, and 
how the Father and the Son can be 
the principle, without being the cause, 
of the Holy Ghost. 

But we roust observe that there are 
four genera of causes and of princi* 
pies: the efficient^ the material^ the 
formal^ and i}^^ final ; and that|he 
two differences alleged by these writers 
between principle and cause do not 
apply to principles and causes of the 
same genus, but are applicable only 
when some principle belonging to 
one genus is wrongly compared with 
some cause pertaining to another 
genus. 

That there are four genera of 
causes we will take for granted, as it 
is the universal doctrine of philoso- 
phers. That there are also four gen- 
era of principles corresponding to 
the four genera of causes is evident ; 
for every cause must contain within 
itself the principle of its causality; 
and, in fact, Aristotle himself clearly 
affirms that there are as many causes 
as principles, and that all causes are 
also principles,* in the sense which 
we have already explained. Lastly, 
that the two aforesaid differences 
between principle and cause do not 
apply to principles and causes of the 
same gentts can be easily verified by 
a glance at each genus. Let the 
reader take notice of the following 
statements, and then judge for him- 
self. 

The efficient cause (the agent) and 
the efficient principle (its active 
power) are both^ by priority of nature, 

formal actuality. They de|>end on one another 
in the sense explained, but not from one 
another. We shall treat of them In a future 
article. 

* Totitt autem eamm quo^ut dieunhtr (que- 
tigs /rinci/fa) .• omnesnamque causm Principia 



prior to the thing produced or prin* 
cipiated, and bdk have a nature nu- 
merically distinct from that of the 
thing produced or principiated. 

In the same manner the final 
cause (the object willed) and the 
finalizing principle (the known good- 
ness and desirability of the object) 
both are, by priority of nature, prior 
to the act caused or principiated, and 
both have a nature numerically dis- 
tinct from that of the act caused or 
principiated. 

Thus, also, the material cause (ac- 
tual matter) and the material princi- 
ple (the passiveness of matter) aie 
both^ by priority of nature, prior to 
the thing effected or principiated, and 
both identify themselves with the 
thing effected or principiated. 

Accordingly, with regard to these 
three kinds of causation and princi- 
piation, it is quite impossible to ad- 
mit that the difference between a 
cause and a principle is to be ac- 
counted for by a recourse to the tvo 
aforementioned grounds of distinc- 
tion, so long as the causes and prin- 
ciples, which are compared, belong 
to one and the same genus. 

As to the formal cause and the for- 
mal principle, we shall presently see 
that they are not distinct things ; but, 
even if we were disposed to consider 
them as distinct, such a distinction 
could not possibly rest on the two 
grounds of which we have been 
speaking; for the formal cause and 
the formal principle have no priority 
of nature * with respect to the thing 
caused or principiated, and both iden- 
tify themselves with the same. We 
are, therefore, satisfied that the opin- 
ion which we have criticised has no 
foundation in truth. 



* Priority of nature implies in that which is 
prior an existence Independent of that which is 
posterior ; but a mere formal act has no existence 
independent of the beinf: of which it is a consti- 
tuent ; therefore, the fonnal act Is not prior, by 
priority of nature, to such a beia|r« 



Tlu Principles of Real Being. 



437 



Let usy then, resume our previous 
explanation, and see how the difficul- 
ty above proposed against its com* 
pleteness can be solved. We have 
shown that the notion of cause implies 
the notion of principle, together with 
that of a subject to which the princi- 
ple belongs. We must, therefore, ad- 
mit that a principle differs from a 
cause of the same genus, as an in-' 
complete or metaphysical entity differs 
from a complete or physical being; 
or, in other terms, that a real cause, 
rigorously speaking, is a complete be- 
ing, wluch gives origin to an effect ; 
vhilst a real principle, properly 
speaking, is only that through which 
the cause gives origin to its effect. 
The cause is id quad causat ; * the 
principle is id quo causa causat,\ 

The formal principle, however, is 
an exception to this general doctrine, 
as formal principles do not differ from 
fonnal causes. The form, in fact, 
not only has within itself something 
through which it is fit to cause its 
effect, but also is itself that very 
something, and through itself brings 
its effect into existence. Thus the 
soul, which is the form of the body, 
through itself and not through any 
of its faculties, actuates the body and 
vivifies it On this account, then, 
any form might be indifferently call- 
ed either a formal cause or a formal 
t^^ple. But we must further con- 
^<ier that a form, as such, is an in- 
complete entity, since no formal act 
can exist apart from its essential 
term ; \ and on this ground we main- 
^inthat the name oi principle suits 
It better than the name of cause. 

*Tlttt which MUMS. 

«I!^ by which the cause causes. 

tToaty tii^ tiiQ hunmn loul can eiitt ipart 
^ran the body, It no objecUon. Our soul is not 
"^'«l7 s fonnal act ; it Is a Mubtistent being— 
iw U, as set haviaff its own intrinsic term, and 
wtrcfore possesaiag an independent existence ; 
^■ich csanot be said of other forms. And on 
wiKcooot the soul is the onlf form which 
««iWt Improprietf night be called a formal 
'««<' u weU u a formal principU, 



And this conclusion will be approved 
even by those philosophers whose 
opinion concerning the distinction 
between cause and principle we have 
just refuted ; for the two differences 
which they allege as characteristic of 
cause in opposition to principle have 
no room in formal causation or princi- 
piation, since we have seen that the 
formal act has no priority of nature 
with respect to its essentisd term, and 
dentifies itself with the thing of 
which it is the act. Consequently, 
the form, even in the opinion of 
said philosophers, is not a cause, 
but a principle. 

We hope to give a fuller explana- 
tion of this point on a later occasion ; 
but what we have just said suffices to 
show what we at present intend, 
viz., that the doctrine which considers 
principles as appurtenances of causes 
admits of a remarkable exception in 
the case of formal principles, and by 
such an exception is competent to 
account for the existence of other 
principles importing real principiation 
without real causation. Now, this 
is exactly what the theological doc- 
trine on divine processions requires. 
The fact, therefore, that the proces- 
sion of one of the divine Persons 
from another involves no causation, 
but only principiation, can be ac- 
counted for by a simple reference 
to the nature of formal principiation. 
The Eternal Father is certainly not 
the efficient, but Xh^fomuil^ principle 
of His Eternal Son : and this alreadv 
suffices to explain how the being of 
the Son is not a new being made by 
the Father, but is the very* same be- 
ing of the Father communicated 
identically to the Son. Thus, also, 
the Holy Ghost not efficiently, but 
formally^ proceeds from the Father 
and the Son, through their conspira- 
tion into a simple actuality of love ; 
and this suffices to explain how the 
Holy Ghost is not mcuie by the 



438 



The Principles of Real Being. 



Father and the Son, but is the very 
actuality of the one in the other. 

To sum up : Formal principiatton 
is not causation ; hence, that which 
immediately proceeds from a formal 
principle is not caused by it, but 
only principiated ; it is not its effect, 
but its connatural term \ it has not a 
distinct nature, but the very nature 
of its formal principle identically 
communicated ; lastly, it has no real 
dependence ^(C?;/r its formal principle, 
but only real relative opposition ; for 
real dependence has no place where 
there is identity of nature. This is 
eminently true of God, and, by imi- 
tation, of every primitive contingent 
being, which is strictly one in its 
entity, and consequently also of all 
the ultimate elements into which a 
physical compound can be* resolved ; 
for the ultimate elements of things 
cannot but be primitive beings. 

The preceding remarks regard 
those formal acts which enter in the 
essential constitution of being as 
such, and which are called strictly 
substantial acts. Of accidental forms 
we have nothing to say in particular, 
as it is too evident to need expla- 
nation that they are not causes, but 
mere principles. It is, therefore, to be 
concluded that the distinction be- 
tween cause and principle applies 
only to efficient^ material^ and final 
causality and principiativity. Thus, 
as we have said, the sun is the effi- 
cient cause of certain movements, 
and its attractive pa^ver is the efficient 
principle of those movements; the 
object is the final cause that moves 
the will, and the goodness^ through 
which the object moves the will, is 
the finalizing principle of the volition : 
the steel is the material cause of the 
sword, but the material principle of 
the sword is the passive potency of the 
steel, which allows it to receive the 
form of a sword or any other form. 

^^'^ must not forget, however, that 



the words cause and principle have 
been, and are, very frequently used 
without discrimination by philoso- 
phical writers, even of the highest 
merit It is by no means uncommon 
to find, for instance, the premises 
described as the cause of the codc1u< 
sion, the rules of the art as the cause 
of an artificial work, the exemplar as 
the cause of that in which it is re- 
produced or imitated. In these ex- 
amples, the word cause stands for 
principle. The old Greek theolo- 
gians even said that God the Father 
is the cause of his Eternal Son ; the 
word cause being undoubtedly used 
by them in the sense oi principle. 
We should not be astonished at this. 
Indeed, while we ourselves persist in 
giving the name of cause to the 
formal principle, we should be the 
last to be surprised at the Greek 
fathers doing the same. 

And now, let us come to another 
part of our subject. Philosophers, 
when wishing to give a full account 
of things, besides principles and 
causes, point out metaphysical reasons 
too. We think it our duty to show 
in what such, reasons consist, and in 
what they differ from principles. 

A reason, in general, may be 
defined as that from which anything 
immediately results ; and since a for- 
mal result is not made, but simply 
follows as a consequence from a 
conspiration of principles, we can 
see at once that a reason, or the 
formal ground of a given result, most 
consist in a conspiration of given 
principles. There are logical reasons, 
which give rise to logical results; and 
there are metaphysical reasons, which 
give rise to metaphysical results. 
We will give an example of each. 

In a syllogism, the consequence is 
the result of a conspiration of two 
propositions, called premises. The 
propositions themselves are the Z^^' 
ciples firom which the conclusion )& 



The Principles of Real Being. 



439 



to follow ; but the actual following 
of the conclusion depends on the 
actual comparison of the two proposi- 
tions, and on the actual perception 
of the agreement of two extreme 
terms with a middle one. It is, in 
fact; through the middle term that 
the two premises conspire into a de- 
finite conclusion. Hence, when we 
are asked the reason why a conclu- 
sion follows from two premises, we 
point out not only the fact that the 
two premises are true, but especially 
the fact that the extreme terms, 
which are to be directly united in the 
conclusion 9 are alres^y both linked, 
in the premises, with the same mid- 
dle term. For it is evident that the 
whole strength of a legitimate con- 
clusion lies in the universality of the 
axiom, Qbur sunt eadem uni iertiOj 
sufti eadenB inter se. The words, sunt 
eadem uni tertioj * express the formal 
reason, and the words sunt eadem 
inter se\ express the formal result. 
In scholastic language, the premises 
would be called the principium for* 
male quad X of the conclusion, and 
the suitable connection of their terms 
would be called the principium for- 
mate quo^ § or the ratio formaUs || of 
the conclusion ; whilst the conclusion 
itself would be called the rationa- 
turn. ^ 

For an example of the metaphy- 
sical order, we will take a known sub- 
ject, animal life^ and ascertain its 
formal reason. Every one knows that 
the soul is a principle of life; but 
animal life, besides the vivifying 
soul, requires also an organic body 
as its other principle. These two 
principles, however, are, with respect 
to animal life, in the same relation as 
the two premises with respect to 

* Are equal to « third. 
t Arc equftl to emch oth«r. 
I The format priociple which, 
I Tbe formal prlactple by which or through 
wfcich. 
iThe formal reaMn. 
1 The product of reasoning. 



their conclusion. For as the conclu- 
sion proximately results from the 
connection of the premises and their 
bearing on one another, as we have 
just explained, so, also, animal life 
results from the connection of soul 
and body — that is, from the actuation 
of the latter by the former, and con- 
sequently by the completion of the 
former in the latter. Hence, the 
formal reason, or the principium 
formate quo^ of animal life is the 
very information of the body by the 
soul, while the soul and the body 
themselves, taken together, consti- 
tute l\it prifuipium formate quod. 

From these two examples, to 
which it would be easy to add many 
more, it is manifest that what we call 
formal reason is a conspiration of cor- 
relative principles towards a common 
actual result. All results are relations 
between terms, or principles, com- 
municating with one another, either 
through themselves or through some- 
thing which is common to them. 
In the first case, the result, or rela- 
tion, is transcendental, and is no- 
thing else than the actuality of one 
principle in the other-— of the soul 
in the body, for instance. In the 
second case, the result, or relation, 
is either predicamental or logical 
(according as its principles and its 
formal reason are real or not), and 
is nothing else than the actuality of 
the terms as correlated. 

Let the reader remark that we 
have pointed out three kinds of so- 
called formal principles, viz., the form, 
or actf which is a principium formate 
properly, and without qualification ; 
then the principium^ formate quod of 
a resultation, consisting of correlated 
principles conspiring together into a 
common result; lastly, the princi- 
pium formate quo^ or the proximate 
reason of the resultation, consisting 
in the very conspiration of the cor- 
related principles. In Fnglish, the 



440 



The Principles of Real Being. 



better to distinguish the one from the 
other, it would be well to retain the 
name oi formal principle for the first 
alone; the second might be called 
the formal origin^ and the third the 
formal reason^ of a resuUation. Thus 
the name o{ formal principle would 
be preserved to its rightful owner, 
without danger of mistaking it for 
a formal reason, or vice versa. 

Before we conclude, we beg to 
add, though it may appear unneces- 
sary, that the conditions of causation 
are not principles. We make this 
remark because nothing, perhaps, is 
more common in ordinary speech 
than to confound conditions with 
principles and causes. It is not un- 
instructed persons only, but educat- 
ed people and men of science too, 
that express themselves as if they be- 
lieved that conditions have their own 
active part in producing effects. If 
a weight be suspended by a thread, 
the cutting of the thread is popular- 
ly said to cause the fall of the weight. 
He who throws a piece of paper in- 
to the fire is said to burn the paper. 
He who rubs a match is said to light 
the match. A change of distance be- 
tween the sun and a planet is said 
to cause a change of intensity in the 
central forces. Now, it is scarcely 
necessary to show that cutting the 
thread, throtving the paper, rubbing 
the match, etc., are only conditions 
of the falling, the burning, the light- 
ing, etc., respectively; and condi- 
tions are neither causes nor princi- 
ples of causation. A condition of 
causation may be defined to be an 
accidental relation betiveen principles or 
causes^ inasmuch as they are concern* 
ed in the production of an effect. 
Causes and principles cause and 
principiate in a different manner, ac- 
cording to the difference of their 
mutual relations, but do not cause 
or pnncipiate through such relations, 
as is evident 



A weight suspended by a thread 
falls when the thread is cut. But 
he v/ho cuts the thread is not the 
real cause of the falling. The true 
cause is, on the one hand, the earth 
by its attractive power, and, on the 
other, the body itself by its receptive 
potency. Cutting the thread is only 
to put a condition of the falling. 
The fall, in fact, depends on the con- 
dition that the body be free to obey 
the action of gravity ; and this con- 
dition is fulfilled when the thread is 
cut In like manner, he who throws 
a piece of paper into the fire does 
not bum it, hv\ only puts it in the 
necessary relation with the fire, that 
it may be burnt; and he who rubs 
the match does not light it, but 
only rubs it, the rubbing being a 
condition, not a cause, of the lighting. 
In fact, the lighting of the match is 
caused by the actions and reactions 
which take place between the mole- 
cules of certain substances on the end 
of the match ; and such actions and 
reactions depend on the rubbing 
only inasmuch as the rubbing alten 
the relations of distance between 
molecules, disturbs their equilibrium, 
and places them in a new condition 
with respect to their acting on one 
another. Of course, the rubbing is 
an effect, and he who does the rob- 
bing is a cause; but he causes the 
rubbing only. So, also, the change of 
distance between the sun and a plan- 
et is neither the cause nor the prin- 
ciple of a change of intensity in the 
mutual attraction. The action of 
celestial bodies follows a law. Wt'i 
such or such relation of distance be- 
tween them, they act with such oi 
such intensity; but distance is evi- 
dently not an active principle, and 
therefore a change of distance is 
only the change of a condition of 
causation. 

As we have just mentioned the 
fact that celestial bodies are suhject 



The Serious " Vive la Bagatelle^ 



441 



to a law of action^ it might be asked 
whether law itself be a real principle. 
We must answer in the negative; 
for law is nothing but ihe necessity 
for every agent or patient of conform- 
ifig to its own nature in the exertion 
of its powers y and in the subjection of 
its potency. Such a necessity is per- 
manent, since it arises from the de- 
termination of nature itself, and may 
be divided into maraly physical^ and 
logUal^ according as it is viewed in 
connection with different beings or 
powers ; but it is certainly neither an 
active power nor a passive potency, 
but only a natural ordination of the 
same, and accordingly is not a cause 
nor a principle, but an exponent of 



the constant manner in which causes 
and principles bring about the var- 
ious changes we witness throughout 
the world. 

These few notions may suffice as 
an introduction to what we intend to 
say about the principles of things. 
We have seen that a principle is less 
than a cause, a reason less than a 
principle, and a condition less than 
a reason ; and we have determined 
as exactly as we could the general 
character of each of them, by ascer- 
taining the grounds of their several 
distinctions. This was our only ob- 
ject in the present article; and there- 
fore we will stop here, and reserve 
particulars for future investigation. 



TO BK CONTINUED. 



THE SERIOUS " VIVE LA BAGATELLE." 

Bright world ! you may write on my heart what you will^ 

But write it with pencil, not pen ; 
Your hand hath its skill : but a hand 5ner still 

What you write soon erases again. 

To the moment its laugh, and its smile to the flower I 

Not niggard we give them ; but why ? 

Old Time must devour the year as the hour : 

Remain^ but Eternity. 

Aubrey de Verb, 



442 



The Farm of Muiceron, 



THE FARM OF MUICERON. 



BY MARIE RHEIU 



FROM TIIS RBVrB DU MONDE CATHOLIQUB. 



VIII. 



Jean-Louis, on leaving the cur/^ 
went to pray in the church, which 
remained open all day for the con- 
solation of devout souls. In the 
presence of God he reviewed the sad 
history of his life, shed many tears, 
but soon felt wonderfully strengthen- 
ed. This fourteen-year-old boy had 
a more resolute heart than many a 
man of thirty. What he swore be- 
fore the altar of God and the statue 
of Our Blessed Lady was the oath 
of a Christian, who knows the value 
of an engagement made in the face 
of heaven. It was the contract of 
liis whole life that he then signed, 
and it will be seen if he knew how 
to keep it His first weakness on 
learning the secret of his birth had 
passed ; he determined to be coura- 
geous, humble, and docile, should it 
cost him his heart's blood; and full 
of these brave resolutions, he retook 
the road to Muiceron. 

Nevertheless, he failed in one, and 
you as well as I will excuse him 
for it. 

As he had remained rather long in 
the village, Pierrette, who had heard 
him reprimanded, and had seen him 
depart with his books under his arm, 
became very anxious, fearing that he 
had been more hurt than he had 
shown. She was standing on the 
threshold of the door, watching the 
path by which he would return ; and 
when she perceived him, she could 
not conceal her joy, for the child's 
face was bright and animated, and 
oeemed the mirror of a happy heart. 

'* Oh ! I am so happy to see you, 



my Jeannet," cried the good woman 
in a hurst of joy. 

"Were you alarmed at my ab- 
sence?" asked Jean-Louis, runniog to 
her. 

" Alarmed ?" said she. " No . . . 
that is to say, yes, I was a little. . . . 
Your father sometimes conceals his 
great kindness under rather too quick 
a manner. A child like you, who 
never deserves to be scolded, will be 
easily hurt at a severe word \ and I 
thought, on seeing you go away so 
quickly, you were unhappy. But 
now you are at home again, are you 
neither hot, nor hungry, nor troubled ? 
Where do you come from ? What 
do you think of doing ? Tell all to 
your mamma, who loves you so 
dearly." 

These gentle questions pierced the 
soul of the poor child more than the 
severest words would have done. 
Gratitude and grief choked him and 
prevented him from replying, and 
made his emotion the greater, as 
these two sentiments seldom go to- 
gether. He looked at his dear mo- 
ther, Ttrith his great, black eyes filled 
with tears, and could only take her 
hand and press it to his bosom. 

Thus they entered the house to- 
gether, and Ragaud, whom they 
thought in the fields, but who had 
returned by the door that opened on 
the bleaching yard, was standing be- 
fore the hearth, as if awaiting them. 
You doubtless know, as you must 
have many times experienced it, that 
when one suddenly sees somebody, 
thought to be half a league away, with- 
out wishing it, he looks rather taken 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



443 



abacky as we say. You can well be- 
lieve that Pierrette and the child so 
looked, as they remained dumb as 
6sh, like poachers hiding from the 
forest-guard. 

"Well," said the good man in a 
loud voice, " what is the matter with 
you both? It seems I was not ex- 
pected. And the supper, wife ?" 

" Here it is," Pierrette hastened to 
reply ; ** only move a little to one 
side, that I may take off the pot." 

And in the twinkling of an eye, 
the excellent green-cabbage soup 
was smoking on the table; but Jean- 
net, who stood like one petrified, did 
not move. 

'* You are not hungry, then ?" asked 
Ragaud. " What is the matter ? You 
look as if you had been crying." 

" Excuse me," replied Jeannet. ** I 
do not feel like eating this evening." 
" None of that," answered Ragaud ; 
"to punish his. stomach is the act 
of a spoiled child. Sit down and 
eat ; be quick about it, do you hear ?" 
}eannet obeyed, but only to sit 
tlown ; eat, he could not. 

*' See here," said Ragaud in a jok- 
ing manner, looking at him, '* you 
are of the true modem style. For- 
merly, my boy, when parents reprov- 
ed their children, they did it oftener 
with the hand than the voice, and 
things were not the worse for it. My 
father used to give us blows with 
his cudgel without counting them ; in 
hii opinion, it was a language easily 
understood, and which he preferred 
to reasoning, as it saved his time. 
We rubbed our backs, and it was 
over; none of us thought of losing 
OUT appetites, still less of crying. 
But nowadays children must be 
hat\dled with gloves ; and even with 
that they think themselves martyrs. 
The parents must endure everything 
without a murmur, even to see the 
house catch fire. Ha I ha ! — is what 
1 say true ?" 



" Oh ! yes," said Jean-Louis, " you 
have always been good and kind to 
me ; and believe me, believe me when 
I say that I am truly grateful, that I 
thank you with my whole soul. I 
was guilty without knowing itf but I 
am penitent and sorry for having 
offended you. I have canied back 
my books, which, in reality, I did 
not need, and never again will you 
have to reproach me about them." 

"That is right, that is right," 
said Ragaud. " You are a good child, 
Jeannet, and now it is ended. What 
I said, you see, was to your own 
interest ; so now eat and be cheerful. 
I don't like tears, above all in a 
boy who will soon be a man ; give me 
your hand without any bad feeling." 

" No, no ! embrace him," said Pier- 
rette. "His heart is full; isn't it so, 
my son ?" 

" Kiss me, if you wish," said Ra-- 
gaud, extending his honest, bearded 
face. " Generally I don't like these 
baby-kisses ; but if it is necessary, in 
order that you may eat your soup, 
make yourself happy, boy." 

Just at this time it was too much 
for Jean-Louis; nearly fainting, he 
fell on his knees by the side of Ra- 
gaud ; he threw his arms around him, 
pressed him to his breast, and kissed 
him in the tenderest manner, to the 
great astonishment of the good far* 
mer, who could not understand such 
a wonderful display of affection. 

" Good, good," said he ; " but be 
easy, Jeannet Don't I tell you I am 
no longer angry ?" 

*'0 my father! my dear father!" 
cried the child, " how can I ever re* 
pay you?" 

And seeing that Ragaud looked at 
him in amazement, he added, sobbing, 

** Father, mother, I know all . . ." 

"Explain yourself," said Ragaud, 
beginning to understand what he 
meant. "What do you know, my 
child ?" 



444 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



" Aii^ he repeated in a tone 
which expressed everything. 

" There," cried good Pierrette, her 
heart melting with pity, " I under- 
stand. I know now what he means. 
But after fourteen years that the 
secret has been so well kept, where 
has the creature been found wicked 
enough to make this poor child so 
unhappy ?" 

** Dear mother," exclaimed Jean*' 
Louis, " he who told it to me did it 
from true kindness of heart; you 
must not be displeased with him. 
It is to him I owe my life, after God 
and you. Do not mistake my tears ; 
they do not come from grief, but 
from the gratitude which will last 
through all eternity." 

" My dear, dear child," said Pier- 
rette, " you have already well repaid 
us by your tender affection and good 
conduct. Isn't it true, Ragaud ?" 

" Yes," replied he ; " and I will 
add, my boy, that the Lord God, 
through love of whom we received 
you, made joy and prosperity enter 
into the house at the same time with 
you. Thus, although I like the gra- 
titude which comes from a truly filial 
heart, in good conscience I think 
we are quits." 

" Oh ! never, never," cried Jean- 
net. *' At the moment of my death I 
will still thank you." 

" On condition that you die before 
us, which is scarcely probable," said 
Ragaud, smiling. " Come, child, get 
up, and let it all be over. Since, 
from what I can make out, no other 
than our curd has told you the story, 
I am happy to think we are all ' big 
John, as before ' — that is to say, that 
nothing is changed. You will remain 
our child, the elder brother of Jean- 
nette, and the prop of my old age." 

'* Your servant and your slave for 
ever!" cried Jean-Louis. 

" Bah ! bah ! No slave, Jeannet ; 
that is an accursed word to fall from 



your lips. Let it all remain io the 
curd*s library, which it never should 
have left As for me, I am not 
learned \ but, to my mind, a slave is a 
man changed into a beast of burden. 
I ask you if I have brought you up 
in that way ? No, my son, you will 
serve me — it is my wish — but in work- 
ing as a free man by my side, accord- 
ing to your strength. Is it well un- 
derstood ?" 

*' I have BO other desire but to 
please you ; and I pray to God, my 
father, that I may prove it to you 
every day." 

•*I hope so, my boy. The past, 
they say, is the guarantee of the 
future; and never have you caused 
me serious displeasure. As for the 
little affair of this moniing, I tell you 
it was nothing. Don't regret it ; the 
only result will be that we will love 
each other still more." 

^' I think so, too," said Pierrette, 
" if it is possible." 

** O my dear parents I" crieti 
Jeannet, kissing them both, '* if ever 
the history of your kindness could be 
written, who would believe it true ?" 

<< Don't let that trouble you," said 
Ragaud, laughing heartily, '' there is 
no chance of its being written ; and, 
besides, things do not improve by 
being known to men, as evil is more 
easily believed than good." 

"It is very well," said Pierrette, 
"that mademoiselle kept Jeannette 
at the chiteau this evening; she 
would have been in the way, dear 
little thing I" 

" As regards that," replied Ragaud, 
" I request you, Jean-Louis, never to 
breathe a word to Jeannette of what 
has just been said. Do you under- 
stand me ? I have my own idea 
about it." 

"I promise you, my father," an 
swered Jeannet. 

The name of the little girl, thus 
pronounced by chance, led to further 



The Farm of Mntceran. 



445 



conTersadoii about the two children. 
They remembered the infatit plays, 
where she was so Hvdy and wilful, 
her great romps with the shepherd's 
dog, and many other litde details, 
which recalled the innocent pleasures 
of her infancy and gave such zest to 
their tranqtril country life. Jeannet, 
well consoled, and with lightened 
heart, told his parents a crowd of 
little events, which he loved to relate 
in praise of Jeannette, and which 
proved the goodness of her heart and 
mind, to the great delight of the Ra- 
gauds. From that to remarking that 
the little girl had nearly disappeared 
from the iiaimily was but a step, and 
which, in xny opinion, was a leap 
easily made. In the meantime, Ra- 
gaud, who appeared half asleep-^I 
rather think so as not to talk up* 
on the subject — suddenly awakened, 
and ended by acknowledging that if 
Jeannet were not at Muiceron, the 
house would be as destitute of chil- 
dren as it was fifteen years before. 

** My dear husband," said Pierrette, 
" it is not to-day that we are to learn 
that parents must sacrifice every- 
thing to the happiness of their chil- 
dren." 

" For their happiness, yes," replied 
Kagaud ; " but it remains to be seen 
if Jeannette will always be as happy 
as she is now." 

And as he was clear-sighted, when 
the momentary vanity had passed, he 
»*lated with earnestness the conver- 
sation with Jacques Michou, which he 
had so unwillingly heard at the time. 
'* There," said Pierrette, " is some- 
thing which does not please me. If 
people already commence to talk 
about our daughter, it is a sign that 
>ve should think about our course 

in regard to her, and perhaps change 
il.'» 

"Think about it we should," rt- 
P^'cd Ragaud ; ** but to change it 
« another question. For then we 



would have to take Jeannette from 
mademoiselle ; and as her regard for 
our little girl is a great honor for us 
and a great happiness for her, never 
will I bdiave in that manner to the 
daughter of our lords, seeing that I 
owe them everything." 

" It is very embarrassing," said 
Pierrette, who spoke rather from the 
feelings of the heart than of the 
head. 

" Not so very much," replied Ra- 
gaud. '^ By acting with gentleness 
and respect, without causing pain to 
mademoiselle, we can, in the end, 
make her wishes accord with ours." 

" Oh I if Jeannette could return," 
cried Jean-Louis, ''what happiness 
for us all, dear father !" 

" You I" said Ragaud. " You may 
boast of being very brave in her 
absence ; but I can remember seeing 
you many and many a time racing 
together over the meadows ; the girl 
would torment you to her heart's 
content, and you, like a big simple- 
ton, never once stumbled so as to 
humbug her in return. Thus you 
accustomed her to think herself the 
mistress, which she did not hesitate to 
show." 

"She is so sweet," said Jeannet, 
''and so good-natured; if she had 
half killed me, I would not have 
minded it." 

"If you only wished to know 
Latin that you might talk such non- 
sense," replied Ragaud, " you did 
very well to give up the study. 
You, too," added he, turning towards 
Pierrette, forgetting he should be the 
first to accuse himself— "you, too, have 
so completely spoUed Jeannette, I 
will be obliged to undertake the 
difficult task of repairing your work. 
But patience; to-morrow I will take 
the shovel and tha spade. I will 
do it.' 

" What are you going to do ?" 
asked Pierrette, alarmed. 



446 



Tlu Farm of Mutaron. 



n 



I am going to see," said Ragaud, 
^ if my daughter is of the good and 
true blood of her father. I will ask 
mademoiselle to give her to me for 
the octave of S. Martin ; and during 
that time I will make her resume her 
peasant*life as though she should 
never quit it again. If she becomes 
sullen and cross, I won't say what I 
will do; but if, as I believe, she 
will appear happy and contented, we 
will know that the chiteau does not 
injure her, and then we will sleep in 
peace. How do you like that ?" 

'* Oh ! tlvit is a capital idea I 
never would have dreamt of," said 
Pierrette, clasping her hands in ad- 
miration. 

Ragaud appeared pleased at be- 
ing thought so brilliant; he resettled 
himself in his big linen collar, drank 
a glass of good cider, and knelt down 
to say the Our Father and Hail 
Mary, which he always did before 
retiring. 

Jeannet made no remark ; he had 
too much sense to think that this lit- 
tle trial would be sufficient and sa- 
tisfy every one; but he would see 
Jeannette for a whole week, and he 
decided to amuse her in such a way 
that she would not regret her life at 
the chdteau. 

Ragaud's plans were fully carried 
out. Mademoiselle willingly gave 
up Jeannette, thinking by that means 
she would have still stronger claims 
for keeping her afterwards ; and the 
little one, led by her father, returned 
to Muiceron the eve of S. Martin's 
day, which is, among us, the feast of 
the vine-dressers. 

If you are anxious to know how 
she behaved, I will inform you that 
the very next day, and without any 
one having to tell her, she tumbled 
over the things in the chest to find 
her woollen skirts and coarse linen 
apron. She had grown so much, she 
was obliged to rip and remake for a 



full hour before she could put them 
on, which caused much talk and 
laughter that rang through the 
house. Her wooden shoes, which 
had remained in a comer during the 
past fifteen months, were likewise too 
small; and. as that could not be 
remedied by the needle and thread, 
it was a real difficulty ; but Jeannette, 
who had not lost her habit of hav- 
ing an answer for everything, declared 
she would wear Pierrette's, You can 
imagine the amusement .this caused ; 
and, in fact, at her first step she 
stumbled, and nearly fell down. 

Thereupon Jeannet darted off like 
an arrow, and brought a new pair 
from the harness- maker at Ordon- 
niers. 

Jeannette was equally well pleased 
with the eating, sleeping, and all the 
old habits of her country life. Never 
had she appeared happier, more ac- 
tive, and better disposed to assist 
her*inother in her household labors. 
It could be well imagined that, having 
heard of the gossiping about her, she 
wished to prove by every means the 
good people were wrong; and Ra- 
gaud had only one wish, which was 
that the busy-bodies of the village 
could look through the key-hole and 
see her at work. 

This was scarcely possible ; but he 
could, at least, satisfy Jacques Michou, 
the first grumbler, whom he had so 
well repulsed, as you .may remem- 
ber. 

For that purpose, without mention- 
ing the return of Jeannette to the 
farm, with a frank and simple air, 
he asked his old comrade to come 
and break bread with him on S. 
Martin's day. M. le Cur6 was also 
invited, and on the morning of the 
feast Ragaud gave Pierrette her 
lesson : 

«* Understand well this day I wish* 
you to be quiet. You can tell the 
child all that must be done, not 



The Farm of Muieeron. 



447 



only for the cooking, but for the ta- 
bic and the serviDg of it. I don't 
wish to have the shame of seeing the 
children seated at table, whilst the 
mother is going around the hearth, 
skirts pinned up, doing the servant's 
work ; which is not proper. It is very 
well to be a good woman, always 
ready to sacrifice herself; but it is al- 
so well every one should know there 
is but one mistress of Muieeron." 

" Jeannette is too little," Pierrette 
gently objected; "she could not 
reach up to the stove, and I am 
afraid the dishes will be too heavy 
for her arms to carry, little darling !" 

" You will make Marion, the dairy- 
maid, aid her in the heavy work," 
said Ragaud. *< I don't ask impossi- 
bilities, and I would be the first to 
iear if our litde girl ran the risk of 
burning herself. What I wisli is that 
she, and not you, should have all the 
trouble," 

Pierrette yielded to this good ar- 
gument, although a little afraid that 
Jeannette would have too much 
trouble. As for the little girl, she 
was very proud to give orders to 
Marion, and commenced immediate- 
ly to play her part of mistress of the 
farm. 

Then could be seen how bright 
she was. She came and went, pass- 
ing from the bam -yard to the wood- 
house, from the wood-house to the lin- 
en-chests; bravely looking on when 
they bled the chickens and cut up 
(he meat; selecting the beautiful, 
white table-cloths ; superintending, 
polishing the glasses, dusting, flying 
about like a will-o'-the-wisp. Big 
Marion trotted after her on her heels, 
scarcely able to follow her, stifled 
half with heat and half with laughter 
at the sight of such an active young 
"distress. 

Who would have thought, on see- 
^l her thus occupied, that the very 
evening before she had been seated 



at the right of mademoiselle in her 
beautiful carriage, driving around the 
country ? It was really wonderful i*> 
see her so quick at everything, young 
as she was; and you would have 
been as much surprised as the Ra- 
gauds, who gazed at her in astonish- 
ed admiration — parental vanity easi- 
ly forgiven in this case — ^and asked 
each other where Jeannette could 
have learned so much that even 
housekeepers of thirty hardly knew. 

The truth was, she had never 
learned anything from anybody or 
anywhere ;- but she was precocious in 
every respect It was enough for her 
to hear or see a thing once always to 
remember it; so she had only to 
tliink an instant to put in practice 
what she had observed. Add to tliis 
she was as sly as a fox, and ardently 
loved to give satisfaction, and you 
will easily understand there was no- 
thing very astonishing in her per- 
formance. 

About twilight, Jacques Michou 
made his appearance, accompanied 
by the o/r/, whom he had overtaken 
on the road. Jeannette came forward 
to meet them, and made a low rever- 
ence in true peasant style, totally un- 
like the bows made in M. le Marquib' 
salon. It was a great surprise for 
these honest souls, who had been 
conversing along the way about the 
blindness of Ragaud in regard to 
his daughter, and they were both too 
frank not to show their satisfaction. 

"So you have come back, my 
child?" said the cur/^ patting her 
kindly on the head. 

" To wait upon you, M. le Cur6," 
she sweedy replied. 

" And your beautiful dresses ?' 
asked Jacques Michou. 

" They are hanging up in the ward- 
robe," said Jeannette, laughing. 

" Indeed 1 And do you like to have 
them there as much as on your back, 
my little giri ?" 



448 



The Farm of MuueroHn 



" Why not ?*' she replied " I am 
happy here with my father, my mo- 
ther, and Jeannet** 

*' It is your best place/' said the 
^-//r/. '^ I am delighted, Mme. Ra- 
^aud, to see your daughter at home. 
Is it for some time f 

** If mademoiselle does not reclaim 
her," said Pierrette, blushing, for she 
never would speak falsely, ''it will 
be <bt ever." 

** Well, I hope it will be so," said 
he. ** And you, Jeaanette, do you de- 
sire it also ?" 

<< I am always happy with my dear 
parents," replied the tittle one ; '' but 
rnademoiselle is so kind and good, I 
atn always happy with her also. If 
niy mother sends me to the chiteau, 
I will go ; and if she commands me to 
return, I will come back." 

They could not help being pleas- 
^tl with this speech of the good, 
obctlient little girl, and they took 
I heir places at table without any 
rurth^*" questions or raillery. Jean- 
neil«?f ciuring the supper, rose more 
than twenty times to see that all 
^i\A right; and Ragaud, you can well 

iinai5»"^» ^*^^ "ot fe«l to inform his 
guests that everything had been pre- 
pared under his daughter's eye. It 
^as strictly true, as they clearly saw ; 
and, consequently, the compliments 
were freely bestowed. Nevertheless, 
when the dessert was brought on, 
Ragaud could not resist saying to 
lilichou, wth a significant look, as he 
held up his glass : 

iiVVell, my old fellow, will you 
no*v give me credit for knowing how 
to bring up my children ?" 

Jacques nodded his head, and, 
holding up his glass, replied, « I will 
come to see you eight years from 
no XV, comrade, and then I will an- 
swer yo«>^ question." 

*« Very good," said Ragaud " M 
le Cur6, you will be witness. * I pro- 
nusc to give a cow to Jacques Mi- 



chou, if, at that time, Jeannette is not 
the best housekeeper in the couo- 
try." 

" I Uke the bet," replied Jacques, 
-laughing; *<and I add that I hope 
to lose it as surely as the good God 
has no master." 

" Come, come," said the atr/ 
gravely, "it is not worth such an 
oath. Between good men, my friends, 
it is enough to say yes or no. 1 
consent to be witness, and I also say 
I hope that Jacques will lose the 
bet." 

They stopped as they saw Jean- 
nette, who returned to the table, 
crimson with pleasure. Behind her 
came big Marion, carrying, with 
great care, a large dish, upon which 
stood, erect on his claws, a beautiful 
pheasant that seemed ready to crow. 
As it was at the end of the meal, 
every one looked at it with amaze- 
ment, especially Pierrette, who had 
not been let into the secret. It was 
a surprise invented by Jeannette, 
who clapped her hands and laughed 
heartily, and then wished them to 
guess what it was. After she had 
thoroughly enjoyed their astonish- 
ment, she rapidly took out the feath- 
ers, and then tliey saw it was a de- 
licious pudding, stuffed with plums, 
which she had manufactured, with 
Marion and Jeannet's assistance, af- 
ter the style of M. le Marquis' cook. 
Pierrette, it must be acknowledged, 
wept tears of admiration ; for this was 
a wonder that surpassed her* imag- 
ination. 

This magnificent performance in- 
creased Ragaud*s good humor ; aad 
I verily believe, but for the presence 
of M. le Cur6, he would have emp- 
tied more than one bottle in honor 
of Jeannette and the pheasant But 
our good pastor, without being the 
least in the world opposed to inno- 
cent enjoyment, did not like the ga* 
iety which comes firom drinking, as 



The Farm of Muiccron. 



449 



▼e already know. Consequently, 
ihey soon rose from the entertain- 
ment, and wished each other a cor- 
tiial good-night. The little pet was 
so worn out with her extraordinary 
efforts, she soon after fell asleep in 
her chair, and they had to carry her 
off to bed. She was thoroughly tired, 
and Pierrette observed it was not 
surprising, after such a day's, work, 
which, perhaps, she herself could not 
have stood. 

IX. 

That night something occurred 
which appeared of small importance at 
the lime, but that had great results, 
which many persons never under- 
stood, and that I will reveal to you at 
ihe proper time and place. For many 
years it was a great mystery ; and I 
remember, when I was young, my ho- 
nest and pious father was conversing 
in a whisper one evening, in the dim 
twilight, with an old friend, and I hid 
myself under a chair to find out 
what he was saying; but not one 
word of the secret could I make 
out. Nevertheless, one fearful expres- 
"iion I remembered for a long while. 
When my father was tired with talk- 
ing, he dismissed his chum, saying : 
*' Now we will slop ; and be silent 
« the grave. You know you might 
lose your head !" 

And at these terrible words, the 
triend replied by placing the finger 
of his left hand on his lips, and with 
l»s right pulled down his cap over 
his ears, as if to make sure that his 
I'ead was still safe on his shoulders. 
It was really a gesture which froze 
^ne with terror; and as for me, I 
Wok so I thought I would overturn 
I'^e chair which served me for a hid- 
'"S'Place. 

And now, I beg of you not to be 
^ curious as I was, for you would 
gain nothing by it. I am only going 
^0 IcU you what happened the night 
*fter the dinner on S. Martin's day. 
VOL. XVI II. — 29 



No matter how late it might be 
Ragaud, excellent manager as be 
was, never went to bed without hav- 
ing carefully made the tour of all his 
buildings with a dark lantern. He 
remained seated by the fire, while 
Pierrette carried off the little girl to 
bed, and Jean-Louis retired to his 
room. When all was still, he rose 
and went out softly to commence his 
round. 

It was a beautiful night, rather 
dark, but mild for November. Ra- 
gaud walked through his little or- 
chard, from whence could be seen 
the stables and barns, behind which 
rose the tall fir-trees, unruffled by a 
breath of wind. He passed into-- 
the barn-yard, silent likewise ; chick- 
ens, geese, ducks, and turkeys slept 
soundly, heads under their wings, on 
the perches appropriated to them by 
Pierrette. All was quiet and in good ' 
order, and Ragaud, content with him- 
self and the world, prepared to re- 
enter, when, accidentally raising his . 
head, he saw in the distance some- 
thing so astonishing he remained as 
though nailed to the spot, and nearly 
dropped his lantern in the excitement 
of the moment. 

The chiteau of Val-Saint, which 
could be seen from a certain point in 
the garden, like a great, black mass 
in the horizon, appeared as though 
lighted up with sparks of fire. A 
light would be seen first at one win- 
dow, then at another, and then dis- 
appear as quickly as it came. Good ' 
Ragaud could not believe his eyes. 
Surely something extraordinary was . 
taking place at the chdteau; for M. 
le Marquis and mademoiselle, with 
all due respect, went to bed with the 
chickens, and the servants were not 
allowed to remain up. 

" What the devil is the matter 
with me tonight?" thought Ragaud. 
"Am I dreaming on my feet, or must 
I fancy the two or three glasses of 



450 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



white wine more than usual at des- 
sert have turned my brain ?" 

Not a bit of it ; he saw perfectly 
clear. The light danced about the 
windows, as though to mock him, 
and finally went out entirely. But 
now comes the crowning mystery. 
A great, blue star appeared on the 
summit of the high tower, and rose 
upward until it was hidden by a 
cloud. 

At the same instant, Ragaud felt 
two heavy hands resting on his shoul- 
ders and somethfhg breathe heavily 
on his neck. 

Indeed, only put yourself in his 
place. There was something to fear ; 
and so the brave fellow, who in his 
youth had fought in our great battles, 
was all over goose-flesh. But it was 
only momentary ; for, quickly turning, 
he saw that he had on his back the soft 
paws of his dog Pataud, who, mak- 
ing the rounds at his side, took this 
means of caressing him. 

" Down, Pataud, old fellow !" said 
he gently ; " it is not daybreak. Go 
lie down! Be quick 1 Be off to your 
kennel I Do you hear me ?" 

Pataud heard very well, but obedi- 
ence was not to his taste that night. 
He wagged his tail, and appeared in 
splendid humor ; one would think he 
suspected something was going on at 
the chdteau. ^ 

" So you think there is something 
in the wind up there, do you ?" asked 
Ragaud, snapping his fingers in the 
air. " Will you come with me, and 
see what it is all about ?'* 

At these words, he started as 
though to leave the garden, and Pa- 
taud this time seemed to consent. 

" This comes from having an ani- 
mal well brought up," thought Ra- 
gaud. "If you could speak, my cun- 
ning old fellow, doubtless you would 
tell me what I wish to know ; but as 
that can't be expected, I must remain 
very anxious until the morning." 



He re-entered the house after thb 
reflection, having obliged Pataud to 
remain quiet by giving him a friendly 
kick over the threshold of the kennel. 

To sleep was difficult ; he had Uie 
faithful heart of an old servant, who 
could not repose when he feared evil 
was impending over his masters. 
He remembered that ten years be- 
fore, on a similar night in November, 
lights appeared in every window the 
whole length of the fa9ade of the 
chiteau, and on the next day, alas! 
it was known they had been lighted 
during the agony of our beloved mis- 
tress, Mme. la Marquise de Val-Saint, 
Was it not enough to make him ap- 
prehend some misfortune for hb dear 
lord? 

Poor mademoiselle's health was 
not very robust, and she frequently 
said, in such a mournful tone, that 
the country air was not good for her. 

" To-morrow," said Ragaud to 
himself, " I will take back Jeannettc 
the first thing in the morning; \i 
mademoiselle is sick, it will do her 
good to see her again ; anme is to be on the 
entrance of the king into Paris; for I 
expect the daughter of the command- 
er-in-chief to be the first to salute 
her sovereign ; and I will immediate- 
ly commence to embroider the satin 
train, so as to be ready." 

" How good you are ! You think 
of everything!" said mademoiselle, 
very much overcome. " I wish I 
was there now I . . ." 

" Oh !" cried Dame Berthe, " only 
be patient." 

After leaving the ch&teau, Ragaud, 
with his hands in his pockets, went 
off in search of his old comrade, Jac- 
ques Michou, that he might consult 
with him over Dame Berthe's reve- 
lations. Jacques lived alone — being 
a widower and childless — in a little 
house close to the t^gt of the woods 
that bordered La Range. He had 
no one about him but a niece of his 
late wife, whom he fed and clothed ; 
in return for which, she cooked for 
him and cleaned his hunting-gun. 
The girl was little trouble to him ; 
she was idiotic and half dumb, and, 
among other little eccentricities, liked 
to sleep with the sheep. So, in the 
summer she camped out on the 
meadow with the flock, and in win- 
ter slept in the sheep-fold, which cer- 
tainly had the advantage of keeping 
her very warm, but could have had 
no other charm. From this habit 
she had acquired the name of Bar- 
betU throughout the country ; and it 
was not badly given, as with us a 
great many shepherd-dogs are called 
Barbets, on account of the race ; and 
since the poor girl shared their oilice, 
she had at least a claim to the name 
if she so pleased. 



456 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



Jacques Michou, on his side, had 
kis particular fancies. First of all 
was the idea (which he would only 
give up with his life) that, in virtue 
of his badge and his gun^ he was the 
head-keeper of M. le Marquis de 
Val-Saint. Now, we must acknow- 
ledge it was mere show, there was 
nothing in it; for our good lord ne- 
ver wished to displease any one, not 
even the poachers. He said there 
was always some good in those men ; 
and as in everything he pursued one 
aim — which was, as you know, to en- 
rol one day or other all our boys in a 
regiment for the benefit of the king — 
he preferred to be kind to these bold 
and cunning rascak, who were not 
easily hoodwinked. After a while, 
Jacques Michou became weary of 
carrying the delinquents before M. 
le Marquis only to see them gracious- 
ly dismissed, so it ended by his let- 
ting them alone ; and at the end of a 
few years, his principal occupation 
was to carefully keep to the right of 
the estate in making his rounds 
when he knew the poachers were 
at work on the left. However, he 
took pride in letting them know that 
each and every one could be caught 
at any moment he wished ; he knew 
every path in the woods as well as 
the bottom of his sauce-pan,- and all 
the thieves as though they belonged 
to his family. When he met the 
rascals, he threatened them with 
loud voice and gesture, and swore 
tremendous oaths that made heaven 
and earth tremble. " But," he would 
shout, "what can I do? Robbers 
and vagabonds that you are, if M. 
le Marquis allows himself to be plun- 
dered, the servant must obey the 
master's orders; but for that, you 
would see !" And the end of the story 
•was — ^nothing was seen. 

You can understand very well that 
the brave old fellow, having only the 
title of keeper, and nothing to show 



for it but the fine silver badge, en- 
graved with the arms of the family 
of Val-Saint, which he wore on the 
shoulder-strap of his game-bag, dung 
all the closer to the empty honor, 
and allowed no joking on the subject. 

When Ragaud entered his friend's 
house^ he found him carving play- 
things out of cocoanut-shells — ^some- 
thing which he did wonderfully well— 
and in a few words related what had 
taken place at the chiteau. 

"We will find ourselves flounder- 
ing in the mire," said Ragaud. " As 
for me, I am ready to promise before 
the good God that I will give my 
life to fulfil the commands of our 
dear master; but it remains to be 
seen if many around here are of my 
opinion." 

" Many ?" exclaimed Jacques, 
shrugging his shoulders, "fiah! I 
am very sure you will not find one 
out of a dozen I" 

"If it is true," replied Ragaud, 
with hesitation ; " I wonder if it is 
really true about the insurrection in 
Anjou ?" 

" Nonsense," said Jacques Michou. 
"That poor M. le Marquis is 
crazy on one point, which takes him 
out of the country every five or six 
years for change of air, and that is 
good for his health; for every man 
needs hope to keep him well. That 
b the truth of the business." 

" Do you think, then, we had bet- 
ter not attempt to fulfil his orders ?" 
asked Ragaud. 

" As for that, a good roaster must 
always be obeyed, old fellow; we 
can say a few words here and there 
quietly. You will find the people 
as stupid as owls, and they will un- 
derstand you as well as though you 
spoke Prussian. We shall have done 
our duty. As to monsieur, he will 
return before long, a little cross for 
the moment, but not at all discou- 
raged — take my word for it " 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



457 



'* It is a great pity/' said Ragaud, 
*' that a man of such great good sense 
couldn't listen to reason t " 

" Why so?" replied Jacques. *' A 
great lord hke him is bound in hon- 
or to be devoted^ t>ody and soul, to 
his king; for you see, Ragaud, the 
king who is not on the throne is the 
real one — ^do doubt about that But 
often one tumbles over in running 
too fast ; and since it appears not to 
be the will of the good God that 
things should return to the old style, 
it would have been much better not 
to have sent off letters, gone off at 
night, and fired off signals. It is just 
as if they had played the flute. Men 
stop a moment, listen, and then, the 
music ended, each one returns to his 
plough." 

"You speak capitally," said Ra- 
gaud; '*it is just what I think also; so 
I will do as you say — ^neither more nor 
less. But we will agree on one point, 
old fellow, which is, to have an eye 
on the chiteau, so that we can de- 
fend the doors if the women are 
threatened." 

'' Bah ! bah ! No fear about that," 
said Michou, shaking him by the 
hand. **I will give my life for all 
that belong to the house of Val-Saint, 
comrade. I would as willingly fire 
a pistol in defence of monsieur, 
mademoiselle, and the old fool of a 
governess, as for the hares and rab- 



bits on the estate. But for these 
it would be powder thrown away, 
as monsieur, we must believe, only 
likes butcher's meat, and prefers 
to leave his game for those devils 
of thieves !" 

Thereupon the worthy old souls 
refreshed themselves with a jug oi 
cider, and conversed together for 
some time longer, principally repeat- 
ing the same ideas on the same sub- 
ject, which was the one we have just 
related — ^something which often hap- 
pens to wiser men than they, and, 
therefore, I consider it useless to tell 
you any more of their honest gos- 
sip. 

They separated about mid-day, 
and I will inform you what was the 
result of the great insurrection. At 
Angers, as with us, it was as Mi- 
chou had predicted. M. le Marquis 
returned from his trip rather fa- 
tigued and thoroughly disgusted with 
France, which he called a ruined 
country. Mademoiselle wept for a 
week that she could not go to Paris. 
Dame Berthe commenced Novenas 
to the Blessed Queen Jeanne, in 
order that the next enterprise, which 
would not be long delayed, might 
succeed better than the last; and 
the result of all was that Jeannette 
remained more than ever at the chi- 
eau, as she was the greatest conso- 
lation to her dear godmother. 



I think we will do well, at this pe- 
riod of our story, to pass over several 
years, during which time nothing of 
great importance occurred. In the 
country, days succeed each other 
in undisturbed tranquillity, unmark- 
ed by many great events. Accord- 
ing as the spring is rainy or dry, the 
villagers commence the season by 
making predictions about the sum- 
wer, which, twenty times out of twen- 



ty-two, are never fulfilled. It must 
be acknowledged that we peasants 
seem afraid to appear too well pleas- 
ed with the good God; and, though 
it is a great fault, unfortunately 
it is not rare. Men grumble and 
swear, first at the sun, and th*en at 
the wind, for burning and parching 
their fields ; and when the rain com- 
mences, there is another cause for 
displeasure; and most of all, at the 



458 



The Farm of Muiceron, 



end of summer, when, after these 
doleful repinings, the harvests have 
been plentiful, far from thanking the 
Lord God, who, instead of punishing 
them, has sent blessings, they in- 
stantly commence to worry about 
the approaching vintage. And so 
S. Sylvester's day finds them with 
well-stacked barns and cellars filled 
with barrels of wine, but not to 
make them wiser the year after from 
such experience, which should teach 
them faith in divine Providence. 

Whence I conclude that men are 
only incorrigible, gabbling children, 
and that the good God must have 
great patience and mercy to tolerate 
them. Much more could be said on 
this subject ; but, not being a priest, 
I prefer to leave off moralizing, and 
return to our friends. 

Therefore, we will, if you please, 
resume our narrative about seven 
years from where we left off, at 
which time Jeannette Ragaud had 
nearly completed her sixteenth year 
and Jean-Louis his twentieth. 

Weeks and months, rapidly passing, 
had brought them from childhood to 
youth without their knowing it, and 
they had each followed their inclina- 
tions, as might easily have been fore- 
seen. Jeannette, well educated, co- 
quettish, and extremely pretty, was 
the most charming little blonde in 
the province. She scarcely ever 
came to Muiceron, except on Sun- 
days and festivals, between Mass 
and Vespers ; and if you ask me how 
this could have happened, so con- 
trary, as you know, to the wishes of 
father and mother Ragaud, I will 
reply that I know nothing, unless 
there is a special wind which blows 
somelimes over men's desires, and 
prevents their ripening into facts. 
To be convinced of this truth needs 
only a little unreserved frankness. 
See, now, you who listen to me, 
you may be more learned than 



a schoolmaster, and more malicious 
than a hump-back — that I will not 
dispute; but if you will swear to 
me that everything in this life has 
happened as you desired, without 
change or contradiction, I will not 
hesitate to think you, but for the 
charity which should reign among 
Christians, the greatest liar in your 
parish. 

If any one spoke to Ragaud about 
the dangerous road in which he had 
placed his daughter, and that there 
was no longer chance to retrace his 
steps, he did not show displeasure or 
excuse himself, as heretofore. His 
serious and rather sorrowful air, join- 
ed to a very convenient little cough, 
showed more than by words that he 
did not know how to reply, and the 
poor man was truly sensible of his 
weakness and error ; but what could 
he do ? Something always happen- 
ed to prevent him from carrying out 
his intention of taking Jeannette from 
the ch&teau. 

Sometimes mademoiselle was sick ; 
sometimes it was a festival oi the 
church that needed a reinforcement 
of skilled embroiderers to make 
vestments and flowers for the altars ; 
another day Dame Berthe had gone 
off for a month's vacation. In win- 
ter the pretext was that Jeannette's 
health would be endangered if she 
resumed her peasant life, as she could 
not bear the exposure; and when 
that was over, the summer days 
were so long, mademoiselle would 
have died of ennui without her dar- 
ling Jeannette ; and all this mademoi- 
selle explained with such a gentle, 
winning air, old Ragaud never could 
refuse her ; so that at last he was so 
accustomed to ask and be refused 
each time that he went for Jeannette, 
he finally abandoned the attempt; 
and seeing that his visits to the 
chdteau were mere matters of forffit 
he submitted with good grace, by 



The Farm of Mukeron. 



4S9 



none at all, at least with 
that intention. 

As for good Pierrette, she remain- 
ed quiet ; but accustomed to submit, 
and filled besides with admiration 
for the great good sense of her hus- 
bandy she told all her troubles to 
the good God, and awaited, without 
complaint, the time when he would 
decree a change. But yet I must 
say things were not so bad as you 
might fancy. Life at the chateau 
had not spoiled Jeannette's heart. 
She was rather light-hearted, and the 
vanity of fine clothes had more efifect 
on her than that of position ; but as 
for her parents, she adored them, 
and overwhelmed them with embra- 
ces and kisses on her visits to the 
farm, which gave her undisguised 
pleasure. Our cur^^ who watched 
her closely, and who never liked to 
see country girls quit the stable for 
the drawing-room, was forced to ac- 
knowledge that the affair had not 
turned out so badly as he appre- 
hended; and although he did not 
hesitate to scold mademoiselle for 
spoiling Jeannette — which he had 
the right to do, as he had known her 
from her birth, and had also baptized 
her — it was easy to see, by his fond, 
paternal air, that he loved the child 
as much as at the time when Ger- 
maine whipped her. 

I will also tell you that this good 
pastor was beginning to feel the 
weight of years. He lost strength 
daily, and, like all holy men, his 
character softened as he drew nearer 
to the good God. Besides, fearing 
tlut soon he would be unable to visit 
his beloved flock, he 'thought rightly 
it was better not to be too severe, as 
it might wean them from him. 

** For," said he, " if it is true that 

flies are not caught by vinegar, it is 

still more evident that men are never 

von by scolding and threats." 

It was a sound argument, and, con- 



sequently, who was more venerated 
than the curi of Val-Saint ? I will 
give only one proo£ His parishion- 
ers, seeing that walking fatigued 
him, consulted among themselves at 
a fair, and resolved to buy him a 
steady animal, with a sheep-skin sad- 
dle and leather reins, embroidered in 
red, according to the country fash- 
ion. 

It so happened that just at that 
moment a pedlar, owning a good 
mule, wished to barter it for a 
draught-horse, put up for sale by 
a farmer from Charbonni^re. The 
bargain was made after a short par- 
ley, and our good friends returned 
home joyfully, and, without saying a 
word, tied their present to the tree 
before the priest's house. It was 
too good an act to be kept silent; 
the next day the curi and all the 
parish knew it. I need not ask 
who was deeply moved. The fol- 
lowing Sunday our dear curS thank- 
ed his flock with words that repaid 
them a hundred-fold ; and really, if 
you know anything about country 
people, you roust say, without mean- 
ing any wrong by it, they are not 
accustomed to be generous; there- 
fore, a little praise was fully their 
due. 

As for the mule, it was a famous 
beast. She was black, and sniffed 
the air at such a rate, she always 
seemed eager to start ofl' at full gal- 
lop; but, fortunately for our dear old 
curi^ it was only a little coquetry she 
still practised in remembrance of 
her youthful days, and never went 
further. After making six or seven 
paces, she became calmer, dropped 
her head, and trotted along as quietly 
as a lady taking up a collection in 
the church. Otherwise she was gen- 
tle and easily managed, except at 
the sight of water, into which she 
never could be induced to put her 
foot 



4^0 



Tke Farm of Muiceron. 



'' But who has not his faults ?" as 
the beadle of Val-Samt was accus- 
tomed to say to his wife, when she 
scolded him for returning home rath- 
er the worse for having raised his 
elbow too often. 

In speaking a little here and there 
about each and every one, don't 
think that I have forgotten Jean- 
Louis ; on the contrary, I have kept 
the dear boy as the choicest mor- 
sel 

You must not expect me to relate 
in detail all his acts and gestures. In 
the first place, he spoke little, and 
what he said was so kind and gentle 
that, if he was forced to deal with 
the noisiest brawler in the neighbor- 
hood, he soon conquered him by his 
mildness. One reason of this was 
that, having learned so young the 
painful circumstances of his birth, and 
being proud by nature, he controlled 
himself before people, in order not to 
provoke any insolence. I must also 
add that the greater part of our 
young men get into trouble over 
their wine ; and for Jeannet there was 
nothing to fear in that respect. Why, 
you can easily guess: because he 
knew nothing of the tavern, but the 
entrance and the sign — ^just what could 
be seen in passing along the street. 

The good fellows, his companions, 
loved him dearly; the wicked were 
forced to respect him, and feared him 
also, as Jeannet had grown up tall, 
and had arms strong enough to stop 
a mad bull ; and as for work, no one 
could compete with him. Only one 
thing on earth he feared, and that 
was to commit a sin. And do you 
know, that those who have only this 
fear can overcome, with a sign, a rag- 
ing madman ? It daily happens, as 
much in the city, among the black 
coats, as in the village, among the 
blouses. Try it, and you will be 
convinced, and then you will ac- 
knowledge I speak the truth. 



The Ragauds, as they iratched 
this pearl of a boy grow up, learned 
to love him more than many parents 
do their legitimate sons. He was 
worth five hired men, and Ragaud, 
with his strict sense of justice, had 
calculated the value to the last cent, 
and for the past ten years had plac- 
ed to his credit in the savings-bank, 
every ist of January, one thousand 
francs, upon which the interest was 
accruing. Jean- Louis knew nothing 
of the secret, and never did be 
dream his labor was worth remune- 
ration. The boy's mind and heart 
were so thoroughly at ease that, 
knowing he had not a cent, and 
nothing to expect on the death of 
his parents, as they had a daughter, 
he never troubled himself about the 
present or the future, believing firmly 
that the good God, who had given 
him a family, would provide for his 
daily wants ; for this second blessing 
was nothing, in his eyes, in compari- 
. son with the first. 

Pierrette was careful that her Ben- 
jamin's pocket was never empty. 
At Easter and on S. John's day she 
always gave him a five-franc piece; 
and even this was often too much, 
as Jeannet's clothes and linen were 
always kept in perfect order by his 
devoted mother, and, consequendy, 
as he never indulged in dissipation, 
and seldom joined in the village 
games, he did not know how to spend 
it. He would have liked sometimes 
to treat himself to a book when the 
pedlar — the same who had sold the 
mule to the farmers for M. le Cure— 
came around, and Ragaud, sure now 
of his good conduct, would certainly 
not have objected; but one day, 
after having searched over the pack- 
age, he bought for thirty sous what 
he thought was a good and entertain- 
ing work, as it bore the seal placed by 
■ the government on all publications 
peddled through the country; but, to 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



461 



his horror, he found it filled with 
villanous sentiments. This saddened 
and disgusted him for several days ; 
these thirty sous laid heavy on his 
mind, not from the avaricious 
thought that he had thrown his 
money to the wind, but from the 
idea that he had wronged the poor ; 
for thirty sous was the exact price of 
a six-pound loaf of bread of the best 
quality. Between ourselves, I verily 
believe he accused himself of it in 
confession, as what I ever heard of 
the good boy makes me think it most 
likely he would do so. 

Perhaps you would like to know 
if Jean-Louis had grown up handsome 
or ugly. Well, he was ugly, at least 
according to common opinion; we 
villagers admire red faces and those 
who look well fed, and dress showily. 
Jcannet's fac^was long and pale ; his 
features delicate; teeth white and 
beautiful, in a large mouth that sel- 
dom smiled ; and his deep, dark eyes 
were brilliant as stars; and when 
those eyes looked in displeasure at 
any one, they were fearful. Besides, 
Jean-Louis, who was tall, appeared 
so thin you would have thought 
Iiiin a young gray-beard, ready to 
break in two at the first breath of 
wind. With us, thin people who 
have not a pound of flesh on their 
bones are not admired, and it is 
quite an insult to be called thin. I 
think that is all nonsense, for vigor 
«l<)es not come from fat, but from 
i;ood health, flesh strengthened by 
exercise and good habits; and as 
]eannet was acknowledged to be the 
strongest boy in the neighborhood, 
i»c was only called thin from jealousy, 
*s he certainly could thank God for 
heing a sound young man, as strong 
u the foundation of a barn. 

'ITie only amusement he allowed 
himself was sometimes, on great fes- 
tivals, to assist at the pigeon-shoot- 
i"g which M. le Marquis had estab- 



lished on the lawn before the chiteau. 
It was a difficult game, which de- 
manded good sight, coolness, and, 
above all, great strength of wrist. 
Jeannet, on two successive years, car- 
ried off the prize; the first was a sil- 
ver goblet, the second a beautiful 
knife, fork, and spoon of the same 
metal. On these occasions his pale 
face became red with pleasure; do 
you think it was from vanity ? Not 
at all. If his heart beat quickly,' it 
was at the thought of the splendid 
presents he would make his good 
mother Pierrette ; and, in reality, he 
made her promise she would never 
drink a drop or eat a mouthful but 
out of the goblet or with the knife 
and fork. We must say, in spite of 
the crowns heaped up at Muiceron, 
the earthen pipe and tin cups were 
alone used. At first Pierrette was ill 
at ease with her silver service, but 
she nevertheless accustomed herself 
to the use of it, so as to please Jean- 
net ; and at last, to make her feel 
more comfortable, Ragaud, on his 
next trip to the city, bought himself 
a similar set, very fine, for eighty- 
four francs, which he constantly said 
was rather dear; but at heart he 
thought it very suitable, as it was 
not proper for his wife to eat with 
silver and he with tin ; and to Jean- 
net's mind, who regretted that he 
had not drawn four prizes instead of 
two, so as to delight both liis dear 
parents, a brighter idea had never 
entered his good father's head. 

If I relate all these little anecdotes 
at length, it is to show you Jeannet's 
good heart ; and without speaking ill 
of little Jeannette, who had also her 
fine points, I think her brother sur- 
passed her in delicate attention to 
their parents, which I attribute to 
the difference in thtir education. 
Believe me, it is always better to let 
a cabbage remain a cabbage, and 
never attempt to graft a melon upon 



46i2 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



It. You will make nothing worth 
eating; for the good God, who creat- 
ed the cabbage on one side, and the 
melon on the other, likes each to re- 
main in its place, without which you 
will have a hybrid vegetable, which 
will not really be of either species. 

Pierrette, like a true woman, know- 
ing Jeannet's excellence, often thought 
he could make some woman y^xy 
happy, and that it was her duty to 
speak to him of marriage, since he 
was twenty years old, and they knew 
he would never have to enter the 
army, even though he should draw 
the fatal number. One evening, when 
she was spinning beside the hearth, 
with Jean-Louis near her, making 
a net for catching birds, she com- 
menced to speak of the happiness of 
her married life, the blessings she had 
received from heaven, and her per- 
fect contentment on all points. Jean- 
Louis listened with pleasure, and ac- 
knowledged that a happy marriage 
was something to be envied, but, ac- 
cording to his custom, never thinking 
of himself, he did not dream of wish- 
ing this fine destiny might one day 
be his. 

"And you, my Jean, would you 
not like to marry ?" 

Jean-Louis dropped his shuttle, 
and looked at Pierrette with aston- 
ishment. 

" What an idea !" said he. " I have 
never even thought of it, dear mo- 
ther." 

" It is- nevertheless very simple, 
my son. Ragaud was your age when 
he married me, and, when his parents 
asked him the same question, he 
thought it right, and instantly re- 
plied, yes !" 

" Doubtless he knew you, and 
even loved you ; then I could easily 
understand it." 

"That is true," replied Pierrette, 
slightly blushing; " for a year before, 
the dear man had cast glances at me 



on Sundays at High Mass ; at kasi, 
he told me so after we were engaged. 
Why don't you do likewise ?" 

" For that, I should be obliged to 
think of some of the giris around as, 
and I have never troubled myself 
about them yet" 

" That is queer," said Pierrette in- 
nocently. " You are not like otfier 
men ; for without showing particidar 
attention, it is allowable to look at 
the girls around when one wishes to 
be established." 

" Bah !" said Jeannet ; " but I don't 
care about anything of the kind. 
When I am in the village on Sun> 
day, I have something else to think 
about." 

" About what, dear boy ?" 

" Well, then, I think that we will 
all be quiet at Muiceron until eve- 
ning, and I hasten to retym, so as to 
sit down near you, as I am now, and 
laugh and talk to amuse you ; and I 
don't wish any other pleasure. Be- 
sides, it is the only time in the week 
wlien we can see Jeannette ; and, to 
speak the truth, dear mother, I would 
not give that up for all the marriages 
in the world." 

" All very well," replied Pierrette ; 
" but without giving up those plea- 
sures, you can take a wife." 

" Oh !" said Jeannet, " I see tliat 
you are tired of me, or else you 
would not speak thus." 

" What do you say ?" replied Pier- 
rette, kissing him on the forehead. 
"It is not right to speak so, and 
surely you do not mean it. On the 
contrary, whether you marry or 
remain single, I never wish you to 
leave me. There is room enough for 
anotiier woman, and even for chil- 
dren. What I proposed, my Jean, 
was for your happiness, and nothing 
else." 

" Well, then, dear mother, let me 
remain as I am ; I never can be hap- 
pier than now." 



V^ ofTKe 



<; 



NBW^YORK 



Tkt Farm of Muicenm» 



^i9^ 



*" But when we come to die, it will 
be so sad to leave you elone!" 

Jeannet started up, and leaned 
against the mantel. A clap of thun- 
der at the time would not have as- 
tonished him more than such a 
speech. He to be left alone in the 
worid, no longer to have his father 
and mother beside him ! And never- 
theless it was something to be an- 
ticipated ; but his life flowed on so 
smoothly and happily, the thought 
of such a misfortune had never be- 
fore stmck terror to his heart. 

He remained silent a moment, 
looking fixedly at the bright wood 
fire that burned upon the hearth; 
and suddenly, as it often happens 
when some remark has penetrated 
the very soul, he saw, as in a picture, 
his dear good i!nother Pierrette and 
father Ragaud stretched on their 
biers, and laid in the cold ground, in 
the dread repose of death that never 
awakens. But^ no ! it was not possi- 
ble; and yet it happens any day, 
sometimes for one, sometimes for an- 
other. Muiceron, where they all liv- 
ed in tranquil happiness, was truly 
a paradise on earth, but most assur- 
edly not the celestial paradise where 
immortality alone exists. 

For the first time since the me< 
morable day when he had suffered 
so cruelly oa learning the secret of 
his birth, Jeannet felt his poor heart 
ache with a similar grief. Pierrette, 
^ho thought it perfectly natural to 
We opened his eyes to such a de- 
sirable event, continued her spin- 
^^og. Seeing Jean-Louis in deep 
thought, and receiving no answer>, 
she simply fancied her argument had 
l>een conclusive, and that he felt the 
necessity of establishing himself, and 
^ was debating in his own mind the 
relative attractions of the girls in the 
^t^gnborhood. Besides, Jeannet's 
•^ick was to her, and she did not 
see the change in his face. 



« Think a little," said she, pur- 
suing her idea ; " there is no greater 
pleasure for parents who feel them- 
selves growing old than to see their 
children well married. Then they 
can die in peace, thinking that, after 
they are gone, nothing will be 
changed; only, instead of the old 
people, young ones will take their 
place, the work will go on, all hearts 
wiU be happy, and kind prayers and 
fond recollections will follow them 
to the tomb." 

" Oh !" cried Jean-Louis, covering 
his face with his hands, '^ if you say 
another word,. I will die I" 

"What!" said Pierrette, *'die— 
of what ? Are you ill ?" 

Jeannet, in spite of his twenty 
years, burst into tears like a Httle 
child; he clasped Pierrette in his 
arms, fondly embraced her, and said 
in a tone melting with tenderness : 

" My mother, my dear, dear mo- 
ther, I shall never marry— never, do 
you hear ? And I beg of you never 
to mention the subject again. I 
have but one heart, and that I have 
given you undivided ; nothing remains 
for another. When you speak of 
marriage, it makes us think of death 
and the grave; and that is beyond 
my strength — I cannot speak of it. 
If the good God calls you before me, 
ray dearest mother, it will not be 
long before I rejoin you; and thus it 
will be better for me to die single 
than to leave a family after me. And 
now, as I do not wish to marry, and 
you only desire my happiness, do not 
urge me further." 

" Your heart is too gentle for a 
man," said Pierrette, feeling the tears 
of her dear child on her brow ; " you 
make me happy, even while opposing 
me, and 1 see that I have made you 
unhappy without wishing it. Be 
consoled, my Jeannet ; we will never 
speak of it again. If you change your 
mind, you will tell rac. Meanwhile, 



464 



The Farm of Muiceran. 



we will live as before. Don't be 
worried; it will be a long time yet 
before we leave you. I am in good 
health, and your father also ; and so 
Muiceron will not change masters 
soon." 

" No, no, thank God !" cried Jean- 
Louis; " the Blessed Virgin will watch 
over us. We have not lived together 
for twenty years now to separate, my. 
darling mother !" 

Truth to say, this was not very 
sound argument, for, whether twenty 
years together, or thirty, or forty, 
friends must separate, all the same, 
at the appointed hour; but Jeannet 
spoke with his heart torn with sorrow, 
and Pierrette was perfectly willing to 
acknowledge, in her turn, that she 
really desired things should happen 
as he wished. 

From that time the question of 
marriage was put in her pocket, and 
never taken out again. God and his 
holy angels looked down with delight 
upon this innocent household, full of 
tenderness and kindness, and did not 
allow evil to overshadow it. How- 
ever, the child Jeannette deserved to 
be cured of her little sins of vanity, 
and you will see the means taken by 
tlie Heavenly Father to make her a 
Christian according to his will. 

XI. 

About this time came a year which 
is still remembered, although a good 
long time has since elapsed. Swarms 
of locusts devoured the young wheat 
before it ripened, while the field-mice, 
moles, and other villanous pests, 
gnawed and destroyed it at the roots. 
Corn especially suffered in this un- 
lucky season; not a plant escaped. 
Before it had grown ten feet in height, 
it was blighted, and then withered 
and died. It would take too long 
to enumerate all the difficulties that 
overwhelmed the peasants. Hail- 
storms beat down the meadows at hay- 



making time ; splendid cows died of 
the pest; sheep were suddenly at- 
tacked and perished ; and as for the 
horses, decimated by the glanders, 
which became epidemic, and was 
very dangerous, as it often passed 
from animals to men, it would be im- 
possible to count the victims. 

This year, at least, those who had 
begun the season by prophesying 
evil had their predictions fully accom- 
plished; but, thank God I such an 
unfortunate season rarely happens. 
The poor people were fearfully dis- 
couraged; and, in sooth, it was not 
strange that men dreaded the future, 
in face of such a present. 

Nevertheless, greater activity was 
never seen in the fields. To save x\^ 
little that remained, each one did his 
best, even down to the little children, 
in reaping, gathering the harvest, pil- 
ing the carts, in spite of the locusts, 
the hail, and the devil, who was said 
to have a great deal to do with the 
affair, and which I am very much in- 
clined to believe. The people even 
worked until late in the night. It was 
a devouring fever, which made every 
one half crazy, and it was a miracle 
that no one died of it; for, in our 
province, we are accustomed to work 
slowly, without hurry or excitement, 
and it is commonly believed every- 
thing happens when and how it is 
decreed, but none the worse on that 
account; but I wish to prove that 
they could hurry up when occasion 
required. 

Our friend, Jean-Louis, did won- 
ders in these sad circumstances. He 
seemed to be everywhere at once— in 
the fields, the stables, at the head of 
the reapers, at the barn when the 
carts were unloaded; encouraging 
some, urging on others, in a friendij' 
way; hurrying up the cattle; whe« 
necessary, giving a helping hand to 
the veterinary surgeon ; and, with- 
al, gentle and kind to everybody. 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



465 



You think that, with order, energy, 
aud intelligence, work will always be 
rewarded with success. He who first 
said, " Help yourself, and Heaven 
will aid you," did not speak falsely. 
Ood does not work miracles for those 
who fold their arms in idleness, but 
he always gives to humble and perse- 
vering labor such abundant reward 
that, for many centuries, no matter 
wliat may be the suffering, the truth 
of the Holy Scriptures has always 
been verified, that "never has any 
one seen the just man die of hunger, 
or his seed begging their bread.*' 

In virtue of this rule, it came to 

pass that, at Muiceron, the harvest 

of hay, as well as of wheat, rye, and 

corn, was far better than could have 

been expected by the most sanguine. 

The unfortunate ones, who lost nearly 

all their crops, said that Ragaud had 

dealt in witchcraft to protect himself- 

from the prevailing bad luck. This 

nonsense made every one laugh, but 

(iid not stop their envy and jealousy ; 

and so unjust do men become, when 

iheir hearts are envenomed by rage 

:md disappointment, that some of the 

worst — the laziest, undoubtedly — 

went so far as to declare openly, in 

the village inn, that it would be for 

the good of the public if some of the 

splendid hay-stacks at Muiceron were 

burned, as the contrast was too great 

between the well-kept farm and the 

ruined fields around. 

Fortunately, our friend, Jacques 
Michou, was drinking in a corner 
while this delightful conversation 
took place ; he rose from his seat, 
and, placing his hand on the shoulder 
''f him who had been the loudest in 
liueats, declared he would instantly 
• oniplain of him to the police ; and 
tim, merely for speaking in such a 
manner, he could be sent to prison 
for a month. No further grumbling 
*as heard after this speech, and it 
can be easily understood no wicked 
VOL, xviii. — 30 



attempt was made. So true is it 
that a little courage will easily defeat 
the most wicked plans; for vice is 
very cowardly in its nature. 

While all the country around Val- 
Saint, Ordonniers, and many other 
neighborhoods, were thus afflicted, 
M. le Marquis had been busy with 
some of his grand affairs, of which 
we have already heard, and started 
on a journey for some unknown- 
place. He returned this time a little 
happier than usual, as it was near the 
beginning of 1847; and it is not ne- 
cessar)' to remind you that it preced- 
ed 1848. At this time even the stu- 
pidest felt that a revolution was ap- 
proaching, and our good lord and allv 
his friends were doubly certain of 
the impending storm. He was there- • 
fore excusable in having neglected 
the care of his large estate, so as. 
to devote himself to that which was 
the first desire of his heart. But he- 
who should have watched over his 
interests in his absence, the superin- 
tendent Riponin, he it was that was 
every way blamable ; for, whether in- 
tentionally, that he might continue 
his orgies in the midst of disorder, or 
through idleness and negligence, he: 
had allowed the place to fall into a 
fearful state of ruin. Nothing was. 
to be seen but fields devastated by 
the ruin, or grain rotting as it stood ; . 
the animals that died had not been . 
replaced ; and even the vegetable 
garden of the chiteau presented a. 
most lamentable picture of disorder r 
and neglect. Ragaud and Michou 
had seen all this ; but they were too 
insignificant to dare say a word, and? 
too proud, besides, to venture a re- 
monstrance, which certainly would 
not have been received. 

M. le Marquis, on his return, was 
anything but agreeably surprised. 
He summoned Riponin before him, 
and reprimanded him in a mannej 
which he long remembered. Our 



466 



The Farm of Mutceron. 



master was gooaness itself, but he 
could not be unreasonably imposed 
upon ; his old noble blood would 
fire up, and he could show men that 
for more than five hundred years his 
ancestors, as well as he, had been 
accustomed to command and obey 
only the laws of the Lord God. 

Riponin was a coward ; he trem- 
bled and asked pardon, promised to 
do better, and gave a hundred poor 
excuses. M. le Marquis would not 
receive any such explanation ; he or- 
dered Riponin out of his presence, 
and seasoned the command with 
several big military words, which I 
will not repeat. It was a sign that 
he was terribly angry. Thus the un- 
faithful steward was obliged to re- 
tire without further reply; and, be- 
tween ourselves, it was the best he 
could do. 

Thereupon M. le Marquis, still in 
a fury, sent off for Ragaud, who 
came in great haste, easily divining 
what had happened. 

" Ragaud," said the master, " you 
are no better than the rest. I will lose 
forty thousand francs on my crops; 
and if you had seen to it, this would 
not have happened." 

" Forty thousand francs !" quietly 
replied Ragaud. " I beg your pardon, 
M. le Marquis; but you mean sixty 
thousand francs, and that, I think, is 
the lowest calculation." 

M. le Marquis was naturally cheer- 
ful; this unexpected answer made 
him smile, instead of increasing his 
anger. He looked at his old ser- 
vant, whom he highly esteemed, and, 
folding his arms, said : 

" Is that your opinion ? Come, 
now, let us say fifty thousand ; I think 
that is enough." 

" No, no, sixty," replied Ragaud. 
" I will not take off a crown ; but 
there is yet time to save half." 

** Is that so ? What can I give 
you, if you do that much ?" 



" Nothing, M. le Marquis, but 
permission to be master here for a 
week, and the honor of serving you." 

*' Old fool !" said the marquis. 
" And your own work, what will be 
come of it ?" 

"It is all finished," replied the 
good farmer; " don't be uneasy, my 
dear master, only give me, as I said 
before, full power." 

" Be off, then. I know your devo- 
tion, and I have full confidence in 
you ; but you will not object to ray 
making a present to your children ?" 

•* Presents !" said Ragaud, much 
moved. " What else have you done 
for the past twenty years, M. le 
Marquis ? Is it not the least you can 
do to let me be of some use to you 
for once in my life ? I owe every- 
thing to you, down to the roof that 
shelters me, my wife, and the chil- 
dren. Presents ! No, no, if you 60 
not wish to pain me." 

*' Proud and obstinate man th:u 
you are," said the marquis, smiling, 
" have everything your own way. 1 
am not so proud as you ; you offer to 
save me thirty thousand francs, ami 
I don*t make such a fuss about ac- 
cepting it. Isn't that a present?" 

"It is thirty thousand francs that 
I will prevent you from losing," said 
the obstinate Ragaud. 

"Yes, as though one would say 
grape 'juice was not the juice of the 
grape," replied the marquis, who was 
highly amused at the replies of his 
old servant. " Well, if I ask you to 
drink a glass of old Bordeaux with 
me, will you take that as the o&tr oi 
a present you must refuse ?" 

"Certainly not," said Ragau;). 
" but it is too great an honor for ni 
to drink with my lord." 

M. le Marquis made them brin;, 
refreshments on a silver waiter, and 
kept Ragaud in close conversatii>ii 
for a full hour, knowing well that 
this friendly manner of treating hj'" 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



467 



was the greatest reward he could 
give the good, honest soul, to whom 
God had given sentiments far above 
his condition. Afterwards, he dis- 
missed him with such a warm shake 
of the hand that Ragaud was nearly 
overcome and could scarcely restrain 
his tears. 

** Well," said he, returning to Mui- 
ceron, where he found Jean-Louis 
occupied 'with arranging the wood- 
pile, "what do you think we are 
going to do, my boy, after having 
worked like ten men to get in our 
crops and fill the barns ?" 

**I was thinking about that,'* re- 
plied Jeannet; "and, meanwhile, I 
Uave put the fagots in order, so that 
mother can easily get at them, when 
I am not at hand, to make the fire." 
" You have never thought to take 
a little rest ?'* asked Ragaud, who 
knew well beforehand what would 
be the reply. 

** Why, yes," said Jean-Louis, " an 
hour's rest now and then is very 
pleasant ; but after that, my dear fa- 
ther," he continued, laughing, " I 
Uke to stretch my legs.*' 

"Well, then, let us imagine no- 
thing was done at Muiceron, and 
that, at this very moment, we should 
be obliged to begin ; what would you 
say?" 

" All right ; and I would instantly 
begin the work. I hope you don't 
doubt me?" he replied, with his 
Msual air of quiet resolution. 

"No, I do not doubt you, my 
good boy," resumed Ragaud; "and 
to prove my confidence in your 
courage and good-will, I have to-day 
Promised to undertake an enterprise 
which, in honor, we are bound to 
'^tcomplish." 

And he related to him what we 
already know. 

"Hum!" said Jean-Louis, after 
having listened attentively ; " it will 
^ pretty hard work, but with the 



help of God nothing is impossi- 
ble." 

"That is just what I think," re- 
plied Ragaud ; " but for that, I would 
not have undertaken such a task. 
Now, Jeannet, we must begin to put 
the place in order to-morrow at the 
latest." 

" That will be time enough, father, 
and we will do our best," said Jean- 
Louis. 

The subject was dropped for the 
rest of the evening. Ragaud did not 
trouble his head about the means his 
son would employ ; and Jeannet, with- 
out being otherwise sure of himself, re- 
mained tranquil, like all those who 
ask the assistance of divine Provi- 
dence in the management of their af- 
fairs. Nevertheless, it was a diffi- 
cult task, not only on account of the 
severe manual labor, but also from 
the certainty of incurring the deadly 
hatred of Riponin, who was a very 
wicked man. The thought of' it 
somewhat disquieted Ragaud, and 
Jean-Louis from the first understood 
the full danger; but what could be 
done ? Duty before everything. 

The next morning Jean-Louis- 
was up before sunrise. During the 
night, he thought over his plan, like 
the general of an army ; he remem- 
bered having read somewhere that 
a troop can do nothing, unless con- 
ducted by able chiefs. He would 
need one hundred hands, and, for 
one all alone, that would be a great 
many. His first care was to knock 
at the window of a fine young man 
of his own age, who, from infancy, 
had been his most intimate friend. 
He was called Pierre Luguet, and 
lived in the hamlet of Luchoni^res, 
which is a small cluster of twelve or 
fifteen houses a little lower down 
than Ordonniers, but on the other 
side of La Range. By good fortune, 
the stream at this place is so choked 
up with a big heap of gravel and old 



468 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



stumps of wiliow-trces, which serve 
as stepping-stones across the water, 
that any one who is light-footed can 
cross as easily as on a narrow bridge. 

This name of Luguet, I suppose, 
strikes your ear oddly. He was 
really the nephew of poor Catha- 
rine, and thus first cousin of Jean- 
Louis, who undoubtedly knew it, as 
you can imagine. Perhaps it was 
the reason these two young men 
were so much attached. They say 
the voice of blood cannot be smoth- 
ered ; and although it is not always 
true, in this case it was very evident 
that, whether for that reason or sim- 
ply from similarity of character and 
pursuits, good conduct and age, 
Pierre Luguet was the only one of 
the neighborhood whom Jeannet 
ever sought, and that Pierre was 
never happier than when he could 
detain Jean-Louis for several hours 
in conversation or some innocent 
amusement. 

Jean-Louis went straight to the 
house of his friend, who, recognizing 
his voice behind the shutter, quickly 
opened it and let him in. He liv- 
ed in a little room in front of the 
farm-buildings, and, consequently, the 
noise did not awaken his parents. 
Jeannet entered by the window, and, 
without losing any time, explained 
his plans to Pierre, while he rapidly 
dressed. 

" You," said he, " must be my lieu- 
tenant. We must get together one 
hundred young men, each one re- 
solved to do his part. M. le Mar- 
quis will not begrudge the crowns; 
we will promise them good wages, 
and they must work all night, if neces- 
sary; and, to encourage every one, 
we will keep a roaring fire in Michou's 
house, so that Barbette will always 
have the soup warm and a tun of 
cider ready for tapping. In this man- 
ner the laborers will be contented, and 
not obliged to return home twice a-day 



for their meals. As for you, Pierre, 
be assured that M. le Marquis will 
reward you most generously for your 
work ; and, besides, you will be doing 
a good action, for it is a great sin to 
see the estate of the master worse 
cared for than that of his servants." 

'^ I am not thinking about the 
price," said Pierre Luguet, putting 
on his blouse. ^^ I ask no more than 
you will have." 

" That is good ; we will see about 
it," replied Jeannet, laughing in his 
sleeve ; for he knew well that he was 
going to work for the honor of it, and 
he did not wish to make Pierre go 
by the same rule, knowing that he 
supported his old parents. 

They decided upon the places 
where they would expect to find the 
best men, and separated, one to the 
left, the other to the right, promis- 
ing to meet again at twelve o'clock. 

Tl^ere was really great rejoicing 
when the young men of Val-Saint 
and Ordonniers learned that they 
were required to work for M. le Mar- 
quis under the lead of the two best 
men of the neighborhood. They had 
nothing to fear from brutality and 
injustice, as in the time of Riponin; 
and the news of his disgrace put all 
the brave fellows in the best humor. 

Riponin was cordially detested, and 
for double the pay not one would 
have volunteered to serve under him, 
or have undertaken such a disagreea- 
ble and bungled affair ; but with Jean- 
net it was another thing, and although 
he warned them beforehand that 
he would allow neither idleness nor 
bad language, and that they roust 
work long and steadily, they follow- 
ed him, singing as joyously as though 
they were going to a wedding. 

Before noon, the two bands met 
on the edge of the wood, where 
dwelt our old friend, the game-keep- 
er. Pierre Luguet, after leaving 
home, had taken care to pass by, so 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



469 



as to forewarn him. Jacques Mi- 
chou threw up his cap at the news ; he 
also despised Riponin, and, more than 
any other, he had good reason for 
hating him. He therefore laid his 
plans, and borrowed from the cha- 
teau a huge kettle, such as is used 
during the vintage for pressing the 
grapes, which he put up, for their 
service, in his little barn. Every- 
thing was ready at the appointed 
hour, and I can assure you the de- 
lightful surprise was fully appreciated 
by our young friends. The two lead- 
ers had taken the precaution to tell 
each one of the boys to bring half a 
loaf of bread, a piece of goat's cheese, 
and a slice of pork ; so the soup was 
doubly welcome, as it was not ex- 
l)ected, and the cider still more so, 
as they had counted only on the river- 
water. This good beginning put 
them in splendid humor ; and when, 
after being fully refreshed, they 
marched up to the chiteau to pay 
their respects to M. I9 Marquis be- 
fore beginning their work, one would 
have said, from the noise and sing- 
ing, that it was a band of conscripts 
who had drawn the lucky number. 

They instantly put their shoulders 
to the plough. Jcannet wisely made 
them commence with the worst fields, 
so that, when the first excitement 
was over, and they would be rather 
fatigued, they could find that they 
had not eaten the white bread first. 
Thus, having been well selected, well 
^«d, well paid, and, above all, well 
led, our boys did wonders, not only 
^hat afternoon, but on the following 
^ays. The weather, however, was 
decidedly against them; rain drench- 
ed the laborers, and strong winds 
pjevented them from building up the 
hay-stacks; but their ardor was so 
S^eat that nothing discouraged them ; 
. *^^ often, when Jeannet, moved by 
*yropathy, put it to vote whether 
*ey should continue or not, he saw 



with pleasure that not one man de- 
serted his post. 

At the end of a week, half the 
work was so well under way it could 
easily be seen that, in spite of the 
bad season and worse management, 
M. le Marquis would not lose all his 
crops this time, but that, on the con- 
trary, his barns would make a very 
good show, if not. in quality, at least 
in quantity. The worthy gentleman 
came several times himself to visit 
the laborers and distribute extra pay. 
On these occasions it was admirable 
to see the modesty of Jean-Louis, 
who always managed to disappear, 
leaving to Pierre Luguet the honor 
of showing the progress of the work 
to M. le Marquis \ and as workmen 
are generally just when they are not 
found fault with, brow-beaten, or ill- 
treated, they rendered to Jean-Louis 
greater honor and respect the more 
he concealed himself from their ap- 
plause. In short, everything went 
on well to the end without inter- 
ruption. 

The given fortnight was not over 
when the last cart-load, ornamented 
on top with a huge bouquet of flow* 
ers and sheaves of wheat tied with 
ribbons, was conducted in triumph, 
accompanied with songs of joy, under 
the windows of mademoiselle, who 
appeared on the balcony, with Jean- 
nette Ragaud on her right and Dame 
Berthe on the left. M. le Marquis 
was in the court of honor, enchanted 
with the success of the measure ; and 
Ragaud and Michou could not re- 
main quiet, but clapped their hands, 
and cried " Bravo !" to the brave 
young men. 

Jean- Louis tried to escape this 
time also, but was not allowed. His 
friends raised him in their arms, and 
placed him on top of the cart with 
his good comrade, Pierre Luguet; 
and thus they made their appear- 
ance, both standing alongside of the 



470 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



bouquet, Jeannet crimson with shame 
and vexation, whilst Pierre sang loud 
enough to crack his throat 

You can imagine that this cart, 
upon which had been heaped the 
last gleanings of the harvest, was 
piled up immensely high, so that the 
top was on a level with the first floor 
of the ch&teau, and mademoiselle 
could thus conversq at her ease with 
the young men. 

She spoke most graciously to Jean- 
Louis, and congratulated him witJi 
words so complimentary that the 
poor fellow wished himself under the 
grain, rather than on top. What 
embarrassed him still further was to 
see his sister Jeannelte playing the 
part of great lady as much as her 
mistress. With hk usual good sense, 
he considered it out of place, and 
would have been much better pleased 
if she had appeared ill at ease in her 
false position ; but, far from that, she 
leaned over the balcony, laughing and 
talking like a vain little parrot, and 
even raUied Jean-Louis on his sub- 
dued manner. 

He did not wish to spoil the afiair 
by looking severe and discontented, 
but he was grieved at heart, and 
hastened to put an end to the scene. 

Mademoiselle, at the close of her 
complimentary remarks, presented 
each of the two friends with a httle 
box of the same size, wrapped in 
beautiful paper, and tied with pink 
ribbon, 

**They arc filled with bon-bons," 
said she in her sweet, gentle voice ; 
** and you will not refuse to eat them 
in remembrance of me ?" 

Then she made them a most 
friendly bow, which they returned 
with great respect, and the big cart 
WAS (iiiven otf to the barn to be un- 
loaded. 

" Bonbons!" said Pierre to Jean- 
net, taking out his box after they 
had descended from their high post 



of honor. " What do you think, Jean- 
Louis? It seems to roe this play- 
thing is too heavy only to contain 
candies." 

" At any rate," replied Jean-Louis, 
^' they can't do us any harm, as the 
boxes are not very large." 

They quickly untied the pretty 
pink ribbon, and found in* Pierre's 
box fifteen bright twenty-franc 
pieces, while Jeannet*s contained a 
beautiful gold watch, with a chain 
of equal value. 

To add to the general happiness, the 
sky, which until then had been cloudy 
as though threatening rain, suddenly 
cleared, and the sun went down m 
the full splendor of August, and shed 
a brilliant light over the bare fields, 
as Jean- Louis was carried in triumph 
by his conirades, who cried out that 
surely he controlled the weather, as 
the very winds seemed to obey him ; 
and, strange as it may appear, the sea- 
son continued so fine thai never was 
there a more delightful autumn than 
after the unfortunate spring and sum 
mer. 

If I dared express my opinion, 1 
would tell you that, without calling it 
miraculous, the good God scarcely 
ever fails to send joy after sorrow, 
peace after war, heat after cold, as 
much to the visible tilings of the 
earth as to the secret ones of the 
heart. It is, therefore, well not to 
throw the handle too quickly after 
the axe ; and, to prove this, I will tell 
you a short and true story, which I 
just happen to remember. 

It relates to Michel Levrot, of 
the commune of Saint-Ouaire, who, 
against every Ix^dy's advice, mamed 
a woman from near Bich6rieux. 
She was a bad Christian and totally 
unworthy of the good little man, who 
was rather too gentle and weak in 
character. For a year they got along 
so-so, without any great disturbance ; 
but gradually the wicked acalure 



The Farm of Muiceran. 



471 



grew to despise her poor husband, 
for no other reason but that he was 
too good for her, and let her have 
her own way completely. She wast- 
ed money at fairs, bought more fine 
clothes and silver jewelry than she 
knew what to do with, kept up a row 
in the house from morning until night, 
and ended by being neady always 
drunk; all which made Michel 
Levrot so unhappy that one sad day 
in a moment of despair, without 
stopping to think of his eternal salva- 
tion, he threw himself headlong into 
the river Coussiau, which, fortunately, 
was not so deep as La Range, al- 
though nearly as wide. 

As he was out of his head, and 
acted without thinking, his good 
angel most assuredly took care of 
him ; for, if he had been drowned, he 
certainly would have lost his soul; 
but, although he did not know how 
to swim, he floated on his back, and 
the current carried him to the bank 
of the stream, where he was picked 
up, half-dead and in a swoon, by 
some of the neighbors, who rubbed 
and warmed him, and managed to 
bring him back to life. Those who 
had saved him were good, pious men, 
who spoke to him in such a Chris- 
tian manner, they made him feel 
ashamed of his cowardice and want 
of confidence in the Heavenly Father ; 
so he promised to go and see our 
f«r/, who lifted him upon his beast — 
that is to say, made peace enter his 
soul; after which he explained to 
him that, having no children, he had 
the right to leave this wicked and 
perverse woman, who deserved a 



severe lesson, and not return home 
until she should be converted or 
dead. 

He left that part of the country, 
entirely cured of his desire to kill 
himself, and made the tour of France, 
honestly earning his bread by work- 
ing at his trade, which was that of 
an upholsterer. From time to time 
the neighbors sent him news of his 
abominable wife, who led such a 
scandalous life it was easy to pre- 
dict she would not make old bones ; 
for, if strong drink and vice soon 
kill the most robust men, they are 
still more fatal to women. After 
a few years, he received the welcome 
intelligence that his house was rid 
of its baneful mistress. He then re- 
turned to Saint-Ouaire, and was char- 
itable enough to give fifty francs for 
Masses for the unfortunate soul. 
Some time after, he married the 
daughter of Pierre Rufin, a good 
worker and housekeeper, who, besides 
other excellent qualities, never drank 
anything stronger than honey and 
water that she took for a weak sto- 
mach, which she had from child- 
hood. They lived most happily, and 
had a family of five handsome chil- 
dren. I knew him when he was very 
old, and he always loved to relate 
this story of his youth, never failing 
to return thanks to the good God, who 
had saved him from drowning. 

" For," said he, " my dear children, 
if I had been drowned that day from 
want of a little patience, I should 
have lost my soul, besides the good 
wife you see here and all my present 
happiness." 



TO BB CONTINUBO. 



47^ Ordinandus. 



ORDINANDUS. 

The goal — and yet my heart is low, 
When rather should it brim with glee f 

They tell me this is ever so. 

Ah I well, I cling to one I know : 
Sweet Virgin, keep thou me. 

O thou for whom I venture all — 

The fragile bark, the treacherous sea 
(I needs must serve my Lady's call, 
Her captive knight, her helpless thrall)— 
My pilot, keep thou me. 

From tyranny of idle fears, 

And subtle frauds to make me flee^ 
Distorting unto eyes and ears 
The burden of the coming years — 

My mercy, keep thou me. 

From shirking the accepted cross 

For all the galling yet to be ; 
From seeing gold in what is dross. 
And seeking gain in what is loss, 

My wisdom, keep thou me. 

From lures too strong for flesh and blood- 

With show of ripe philosophy. 
That points the fallen, who had stood, 
Contented with the lesser good — 
My victory, keep thou me. 

O Lady dear, in weal, in woe. 
Till Heaven reveal thy Son and thee, 

Thy true love's mantle round me throw; 

And tenderly, calmly, sweetly so, 
My glory, keep thou me. 



NOVKMBBR, 1S7O. 



One Chapter from Hester Hallanis Life. 



473 



ONE CHAPTER FROM HESTER HALLAM'S LIFE. 



" Ah ! Hester, Hester, keep back 
your tears. Be the brave little wife 
and woman now. Have faith, hope, 
and courage ; the year will . soon 
speed by, and, lo ! here shall I find 
you again ! God grant it ! And good- 
by, roy wife, my children — my all 
and only treasures." 

They are engraven on my memo- 
ry—these last words of Henry Hal- 
lam, my husband, my beloved. They 
were spoken hopefully, cheerfully, 
though I knew they were intended 
to cover the sorrow of a heart that 
ached, even as did mine, at our final 
parting. 

Henry Hallara was to go to South 
America as chief engineer of a pro- 
posed road from some inland city 
to the Pacific. After a marriage of 
eight years, this was our first separa- 
tion. I never did consent to it. Bet- 
ter poverty and the humblest life to- 
gether than that mountains and seas 
should divide us, I argued. 

But Henry was proud, as he was 
tender and loving ; he could not bear 
to see his wife, delicately reared, do- 
ing menial service ; nor his little girls 
<leprived of waxen doll§, because 
they would usurp the ragged dollar 
that must go for bread. 

Our situation had fallen from bad 

to worse ; an expensive law-suit had 

^en decided against us, to liquidate 

the cost of which an out- West piece 

^t land, that was to have been our 

children's fortune, had to be sold at 

a sacrifice; and when all was paid, 

except our scanty furniture, we had 

out three hundred dollars in the 

world. We lived in a rented house 

»n the beautiful suburbs of Brooklyn ; 

"^«e months' rent would consume 



our all. Meantime, upon what should 
we live, and wherewithal should we 
be clothed ? This was a serious ques- 
tion, which vexed my husband for 
many days. He suddenly answered 
it by accepting with alacrity this lu- 
crative position in South America. 
My only living relative in all Ame^ 
rica was one sister, widowed and 
childless. She came fi'om the West 
to abide with me during my hus- 
band's absence. She, too, had com- 
parative poverty for her dowry, her 
only income arising from the interest 
of less than a thousand dollars. 

Na thought of poverty haunted us, 
however; heretofore all our wants 
had been supplied, and we had liv- 
ed almost luxuriously, counting upon 
the fortune which had been for six 
years dwindling to less and less in 
courts of law. 

It was with no dread of poverty, I 
repeat, that I saw my husband take 
his departure. I thought only how 
the light had gone fi-om our house, 
and joy from .existence. I am dis- 
tressed whenever I read of the ever- 
recurring matrimonial quarrels and 
divorces which appear now the order 
of the day. I could have lived with 
Henry Hallam through the countless 
eternal years, and — God forgive me ! 
— desired no other heaven. 

We had no particular creed or 
faith. The Hallams had been Me- 
thodists; the Griffeths, my father's 
family over in Wales, had been mem- 
bers of the Church of England. 

Henry and I, reading here and 
there indifferently, had become some- 
what inclined to Swedenborg's theo- 
ries. We read Dr. Bushnell and 
his colleagues with some faith and 



474 



One Chapter from Hester Hcdlanis Life. 



more interest. But we fashioned the 
great hereafter — the heaven we all 
talk of and dream so much of — after 
our own ideals. Those may have 
been in the right, thought we, from 
whom Shelley and many another 
' poetical dreamer imbibed the idea 
that the Godhead was but the uni- 
versal spirit pervading and animating 
nature ; that man was immortal, and 
was to arise from the dead, clothed in 
purity and beauty, and was to wander 
endlessly in some limitless, enchanting 
paradise, where should be all things 
lovely to charm the eye, all sounds 
to entrance the ear, all spirits gentle, 
and wise, and good for communion 
of intellect and heart In this hea- 
ven stood no stately throne upon 
which sat a God of justice, receiving 
one unto life, banishing another unto 
everlasting perdition. It was the 
same here as upon earth ; the beauty, 
bloom, fragrance, and glory were 
permeated with an essence subtle, 
invisible, intangible, but present, 
the life and source of all — and this 
was God ! The ancients had a hea- 
ven and a hell, which Christianity 
had adopted; but we lived in the 
XlXth century, and we need not pin 
our faith to such notions borrowed 
from the heathen. Were youth and 
health on earth immortal, we would 
prefer never to pass through the iron 
gate of death and the pearly gate 
of 4ife ; since, however, all must yield 
to the inexorable fiat, and all men 
must die^ we would make a virtue of 
necessity, and be willing to go to 
that sensual heaven, which wore all 
the beauty of earth, with naught of 
its thorns and blight. Ah ! we, Hen- 
ry and I, were still in the glow of 
youth and hope ; life seemed^ a beau- 
tiful vista, and the end far offl Of 
the great beyond we but carelessly 
dreamed — as carelessly as if our feet 
were never there to stand, nor our 
souls to tremble upon its awful brink. 



With Henry gone, I was like a 
child bereft of its mother. I wept 
and would not be comforted. I 
counted the hours of every day; 
they seemed so inconsiderable, deduct- 
ed from the almost nine thousand 
which the three hundred and sixty- 
five days yielded. I see now how 
foolish, weak, and wicked I was ! 

I was seized with a slow fever, which 
lasted me through the summer. In 
my weakness and wakefulness I sanr 
visions and dreamed dreams which 
haunted me constantly. I began to 
iancy that I was to die. I would 
have been satisfied to have fallen in 
a sleep that should have known no 
waking until the dread year was 
over. 

Early in September I heard from 
my room an unusual bustle in the 
house — the feet of men, and the 
unwonted sound of boxes or trunks 
laid heavily upon the floor. But 
why need I go into details ? 

Henry Hallam had died of yeltow 
fever, and his trunks had been sent 
home ! 

In my despair, one thought over- 
powered me. I had made myself 
wretched counting over the hours 
until Henry should return. Now he 
would never, never come back, no 
matter how many hours; I migbt 
count for an eternity, and he would 
not come at the end. Oh ! could 
he but some time come, even in the 
distant years, when his step was fee- 
ble and his hair was gray, how pa- 
tient I would be, how hopeful, cheer- 
ful, in the waiting for tliat certain 
timel 

Why had I not been happy when 
I knew that he still lived ; when the 
fond hope was mine that, after a fe* 
months, I should again behold him? 

We never know — alas I we never 
know! With my beloved gonc^ ' 
fancied myself sunk in the lowest 
depth of desolation. 



One Chapter from Hester HallanCs Life. 



475 



More than two years elapsed. My 
sister struggled bravely to keep a 
roof above our heads and the wolf 
of hunger from our door. Notwith- 
standing her closest economy, untir- 
ing industry 9 and fertile ingenuity, 
her small principal had become re« 
iluced one- half. Her zeal and energy 
were a reproach to me, and I had al- 
ready commenced heroic endeavors 
to imitate and assist her. We might 
still have done well, educated xay 
two little girls, and taken comfort in 
each other, now tliat my hopeless 
grief had become partially assuaged, 
and I had begun to take an interest 
in the management of our affairs. A 
fresh grief, however, was in store for 
me. Maria, my sister, upon whom 
alone I had come to depend, was 
sthcken with an incurable disease, 
and, after lingering through months 
of pain, which often amounted to 
torture, died, and was buried. 

I was not allowed to remain in my 
stupor of grief after I had beheld the 
cruel grave close over my only sis- 
ter. The fact that but a trifle remain- 
ed after all expenses had been paid 
aroused me to most painful apprehen- 
sions for th e fate of my children. But 
for them I fully believe I should have 
adopted the advice of his friends to 
Job, the patient — curse God, and die 1 
The dear little children, however, 
who had no friends but their unhappy 
mother, and who clung to me as if 
they had in me all that was sufficient 
and all the world, were an incentive 
to further endurance and fresh exer- 
tion. 

In a moment of discouragement 
uid gloom I wrote an unaccustomed 
letter of six pages to a lady who had 
beeii my friend while sojourning in 
the West. I had spent a year with 
iQy husband in a growing village 
^Y^ the banks of the Mississippi 
where this lady resided. She had a 
d^ightful home in the midst of 



charming grounds, an indulgent, de- 
voted husband, three lovely children, 
with wealth enough to command the 
desirable and good things of this 
world. We had corresponded for a 
time, but since my great affliction I 
had written no letters. 
. Without delay came Mrs. Bell's re- 
ply. In my selfish grief I had not 
thouglit that upon others also might 
be falling showers of the self-same 
woe. The thought of Mrs. Bell, with 
her happy surroundings, had formed 
a pleasant picture, comforting to dwell 
upon. Ah 1 how my eyes filled and 
my heart tlirobbed as I read her 
letter ! 

The beautiful home, with its pic- 
tures, books, its nameless household 
gods, was in ashes; the husband, 
really the handsomest, most elegant 
gentleman I have ever met, full of 
health, vigor, and cheerfulness, a year 
after the fatal fire had died suddenly, 
leaving his large property in an in- 
volved and unavailable condition ; 
and my friend was living in a small 
cottage amidst the ashes and black- 
ened trunks of trees — which stood 
like weird spectres about her former 
home. The letter,* half read, fell from 
my nerveless grasp, and I clasped 
tightly my trembhng hands, bowing 
down upon them my throbbing head| 
murmuring : 

" Doth €Ul of beauty fade to blight, 
and all of joy to gloom ? Are nU 
human loves so v^in and transient ? 
Are all hopes and dreams fleeting 
and unsubstantial as the ' goodly 
shadow of a summer cloud ? Is it 
true of cdl beneath the sun, ^ ashes 
to ashes, dust to dust ' ?" Gathering 
courage to finish the letter, another 
surprise awaited me. My friend had 
become a Roman Catholic. After 
giving brief details of her conversion^ 
she thus addressed me : 

" At this moment I feel more sor- 
row for you than for myself. My dear- 



476 



One Chapter from Hester Hallam^s Life. 



est earthly loves and hopes lie, like 
yours, in ashes. But out of my deso- 
lation hath sprung the green branches 
of heavenly peace. I weep not 
unavailing tears at the loss of what 
so charmed my heart as to separate 
my soul from God. Arise out of the 
ashes watered with your tears. Go 
to the nearest Catholic priest; ask 
him for books, counsel, and prayer 
that shall' lead you upward and on- 
ward toward the kingdom of rest. 
Make the effort, I entreat you, in the 
name of God. If you find no peace 
to your soul, what will you have 
lost ? If you find comfort and rest, 
will not all have been gained ?" 

Had I learned, in the midst of my 
happiness, that Miriam Bell had be- 
come a Catholic, I might have won- 
dered, thought strange of it, but set 
it down as one of the unaccountable 
things, and not puzzled my brain by 
studying into it. But now it was 
different. Her afflictions, ^o similar 
to my own, brought her very near to 
me in sympathy. I would have as 
soon thought of myself becoming de- 
luded by the snares of Popery as my 
friend, Mrs. Bell. Yea, sooner; she 
was more matter-of-fact, calm, philo- 
sophical, more highly educated, with 
a mind more thoroughly disciplined, 
and naturally more inquiring and 
comprehensive than my own. And 
she had heartily embraced this reli- 
gious faith which, without ever hav- 
ing bestowed much thought upon, I 
had naturally regarded as one of su- 
perstitions and lies. 

The sun went down, the twilight 
fell. Charlotte and Cora helped 
themselves to a slice of bread, and 
lay down to rest. The sewing-ma- 
chine had for hours been idle, and 
the unfinished white shirt, suspended 
by the needle, looked like a ghost in 
the gathering gloom; and still I 
held my hands and deeply thought, 
or walked the floor with stilly tread. 



And so Miriam Bell had found a 
balm for her sorrow, a light amid her 
darkness. How ? By becoming a 
Catholic. And what was it to be 
come a Catholic ? To believe im- 
possibilides, and to worship idols; 
to behold, in a tiny wafer of human 
manufactufe, the body and blood, 
soul and divinity, of an incarnate 
God ? Does Miriam Bell believe 
this ? If she can believe it with all 
her heart and soul, then might she 
well be comforted! To fall upon 
one's knees before the relics of a 
saint, and beg his prayers, as if he 
could see and hear? To implore 
the Blessed Virgin to succor and de- 
fend, as if she were not a creature, 
but omnipotent and divine? To 
reverence the priest as a being im- 
maculate, an angel with hidden 
wings walking upon earth, unto 
whose feet you must kneel, and un- 
veil, as unto God, all the thoughts 
and interests of your heart ? I pon- 
dered over this last suggestion. 
Standing in the white moonlight 
that silvered a space of the floor, 
I lifted up both weary heart and 
waiting hands, and, with eyes to- 
ward the unknown and infinite, I 
cried: 

" Unto God would I pour forth the 
sins and sorrows of my soul ; but I 
am all unworthy. He whom I have 
disregarded and failed to acknow- 
ledge is shut out from ray vision and 
approach. Between him and me is 
the thick wall of my oflences. Oh I \i, 
in his infinite mercy, he could send 
forth one little less than an angel— 
who should have something of the 
human, that he might compassionate 
and pity ; of the divine, that he might 
comprehend, guide, and assist— to 
that one I might yield in reverence. 
All the sins, and follies, and rebellions 
of my life should be poured into his 
ear ; perhaps, oh 1 perhaps the hand 
of such an one might lift me into the 



One Cliapier from Hester Hallatiis Life. 



477 



light, if light there be indeed for soul 
so dyed as mine." 

How this fancied being, uniting the 
human and angelic, became gradual- 
ly, and by slow degrees, associaited in 
my mind with the Catholic priest, I 
know not< Certain only I am that, 
after a few days of mental struggle, of 
resolve and counter-resolution, I com- 
plied with my friend's entreaty, and, 
accompanied by my little girls, sought 
the nearest priest. 

I took this step not with faith, nor 
yet altogether with doubt. I went, 
not wilUngly, but as if irresistibly im- 
pelled, I was like one shipwrecked — 
doating in maddened waters, threat- 
ened death below, an angry sky 
above, and darkness everywhere. A 
friend in whom I trusted had point- 
ed out to me a life-preserver. 

** Stretch forth thy hand, hold it 
fast; it will save thee," she had said. 
"It is but a straw," I murmured, 
clutching at it, drowning. 

The priest entered the parlor a few 
moments after our admission by a 
domestic. 

I scanned him narrowly as he 
walked straight up to us, rubbing 
one hand against the other, slightly 
elevating his shoulders. He was a 
middle-aged man, whose benevolent 
countenance wore the reflection of a 
liappy, cheerful soul at peace with 
C^od and man. 

My first thought on viewing him 
was of the woman who wished but to 
" touch the hem of our Saviour's gar- 
ment"; and, when he uttered his 
first salutation ; " And what can I 
do for you, my child ?" I said invol- 
untarily : " Oh I that I may be made 
whole." 

'* Ah ! you would go to confession. 
^^0 into the church, and pray before 
the altar; I will be there presently." 
And he turned to leave the room. 

I did not speak nor move. At the 
door he said : 



" You are a stranger in the city ?" 

" No— yes — that is, I have lived 
here several years, but I have no 
friends; I am indeed a stranger." 

" You understand and attend to 
your religious duties ?" 

" I have no religious duties ; I have 
no particular religion. I am begin- 
ning to think myself a heathen." 

" And have you not been brought 
up a Catholic ?" he questioned in 
surprise, returning to where I still 
sat. 

"The furthest from it. If you 
have time to listen, 1 will tell you 
what has brought mc to you." And I 
went on to tell him of the advice of 
my friend, received in the depth of 
my afflictions and despair. If my 
conversion to the Catholic faith, en- 
tire, absolute, blessed, thanks be to 
God ! was not instantaneous ; if, be- 
ing blind, I received not sight, being 
deaf, I received not hearing, in a 
moment, in the twinkling of an eye, 
as did those whom Christ himself 
touched and healed, still do I believe 
it to have been the work of Almighty 
God, and marvellous unto my own 
eyes. If God commissioned Miriam 
Bell, instead of his own holy angel, to 
direct me to the priest of his own 
anointing, I believe myself no less 
to have been sent to pious F. Cor- 
rigan than was Paul sent to Anna- 
nias, or Cornelius to Simon. 

From regrets and lamentations, 
from dulness and despair, my heart 
bowed low unto God in rejoicing and 
thanksgiving. 

Aside from this, the Catholic re- 
ligion and the history of the church 
became to me an attractive, fasci- 
nating study. I seemed philosophiz- 
ing with sages, praying with religious, 
meditating with saints. The whole 
world seemed newly peopled, un- 
numbered voices joining in that grand 
chant that the church for almost 
nineteen centuries hath sung : " Glo- 



478 



One Chapter from Hester Hallam*s Life, 



ry be unto God, and on earth peace 
to men of good- will." 

F. Corrigan had sent a young 
priest to a new town in the interior, 
made by the opening up of new rail- 
roads. Here F. McDevitt had built 
a small church, and, in his report to 
his superior, spoke of having need 
of a teacher for a parish school. F. 
Corrigan offered me the situation, and 
in one week I was at Dillon's Station. 

On the first day of our arrival, F. 
McDevitt asked my eldest little girl 
her name. 

" Chariotte Griffeth Hallam," she 
replied promptly. 

" Charlotte Griffeth ?" he repeated ; 
then turning to me: 

" And for whom was she named ?" 

" For my mother," I replied. 

" And is your mother living ?" 

" She died in my infancy." 

" She must have been the person 
advertised." And taking a slip of 
paper from his memorandum-book, 
handed it me. 

It was an advertisement for Char- 
lotte Griffeth or her heirs in Ameri- 
ca, to whom an estate in Wales had 
descended, valued at one hundred 
thousand pounds ! And what inte- 
rest had this possessed for F. McDe- 
vitt ? His brother had a short time 
previously married a Miss Griffeth, 
and it was to send in a letter to his 
brother that he had extracted from 
the paper this brief paragraph. Was 
not this too much ? I closed my eyes 
to keep back the tears, and pressed 
my hand against my side, to still the 
tumultuous throbbings of my heart. 

God ! my God ! so long time from 
me hidden, giving me now the true 
iaith, and then this unexpected for- 



tune! What should I do with it? 
A few months before, I would have 
purchased a splendid house, perfect 
in all its appointments. I would 
have gathered about me all that 
would have pleased the taste and 
gratified the senses. 

Now was it thrown in my way 
as a temptation ? Before the sun 
had set upon this wondrous change 
of fortune, my decision was formed. 
I would go on in the way I had in- 
tended. It had evidently been God's 
way chosen for me, and I would fol- 
low in it. I would go into a tempo- 
rary cabin, and teach the children 
of the Irish laborers. 

The fortune should be divided 
into three shares. My children 
should have two; the third, which 
was mine, should go to build a home 
for widows and orphans. 

And I ? Every morning, with my 
troop of little girls and boys, I go to 
the holy sacrifice of the Mass, where 
adoration is perpetually blended with 
thanksgiving — the latter one of the 
deepest emotions of my heart I never 
expected to be so content and happy 
in this world. 

Through thee I have found, 
God ! that " thou art the fountain oi 
all good, the height of life, and the 
depth of wisdom. Unto thee do I 
lift up mine eyes ; in thee, O my God ! 
Father of mercies, do I put my 
trust. 

" Bless and sanctify my soul with 
heavenly benediction, that it may be 
made thy holy habitation and the 
seat of thy eternal glory; and let 
nothing be found in tlie temple of thy 
divinity that may offend the eyes o\ 
thy majesty !" 



Am English Christmas Story. 



479 



AN ENGLISH CHRISTMAS STORY. 



I. 
The winter wind is howling over 
the bleak moor, and Christmas is 
ushered in with a sore famine that 
has already made many a hearth 
desolate. Tlie stout-hearted folk of 
Yorkshire have borne it well up to 
this, but the recurrence of the espe- 
cial festival of good cheer makes their 
lot seem harder in December than it 
did two months before. On these 
Northern moors are scattered many 
Catholics, whose family traditions 
point to unknown martyrs as their 
ancestors, and whose honest pride in 
their forefathers is as strong as that 
of the descendants of the cavalier 
families. But though there may be 
famine and wretchedness on the 
moor, there is a worse squalor in the 
town. There no helping hand comes 
from the " Hall," bearing relief and 
consolation ; the hovels and tall, crazy 
tenements are full to the brim of un- 
known human misery; and, for the 
poor, Christmas this year means little 
less than starvation. Those were not 
the days of subscription-lists, benefit 
societies, soup-kitchens, and clothing- 
dubs; spiritual and temporal relief 
^•ere both scarcer than they are now, 
Ji«d the wars of the previous twenty 
years had made people button their 
pockets tight and repeat the axiom 
that " charity begins at home." 

Through the manufacturing town 
of Weston, on a chill Christmas eve 
^^ the early part of this century, 
talked a thoughtful, almost middle- 
^^ed man, wrapped in a rich furred 
cloak, and preceded by a youth bear- 
^H a lantern. He had first ieft the 
^own-hall, where he had assisted at 



a political meeting, and heard a few 
pompous speeches hung upon the 
scantiest may-pole of facts. AVhile 
these worthies had been declaiming, 
thought he, how many poor men, 
out of employment, uncared for by 
their pastors, must have been mur- 
muring or swearing at their ill-luck 
and the apathy of their superiors ! 
How many might be driven to crime 
or suicide by their wretched circum- 
stances ! He had heard that the Dis- 
senters helped their poor rather more 
effectually than the "church" peo- 
ple did ; and, luckily, in a manufac- 
turing population there were always 
plenty of Dissenters ! The Catholics, 
too, about whose " emancipation " 
there had been so much said lately 
in the Whig meetings, were gen- 
erally a charitable set, and there 
were more of them in the North 
than anywhere else in the kingdom ; 
but they were mostly country peo- 
ple, and the great houses had enough 
to do to support their own village 
poor. Could not something be done 
on a generous scale by the talkative 
municipality of the town ? Should 
he suggest something to that effect ? 
But he was only a visitor and travel- 
ler, and had but lit^e interest with 
the magnates of Weston. General 
knowledge there was none at that 
time; and it mattered nothing to the 
local authorities here that he had 
travelled in the East, was a professor 
of ancient history in a French uni- 
versity, and corresponded with half 
the savants of Europe. To the in- 
sular mind of a trading community, 
he was a mere nameless atom of hu- 
manity, whose doings only concerned 



48o 



An English Christmas Story* 



Weston as far as the paying of his 
reckoning at the inn, and his con- 
sumption of the most costly items 
that the scarcity of the times render- 
ed a fair source of j^rofit to the land- 
lord. 

As he was sunk in these half-deri- 
sive thoughts, he was suddenly ac- 
costed by a man, whose figure, as far 
as the light of the lantern revealed it, 
was the very reverse of a highway- 
man. He had a pistol, however, and 
held it threateningly to the gentle- 
man's heart. In a hollow, unsteady 
voice he quickly asked : 

"Sir, hand me your money; you 
know what I can do, if you refuse, and 
I see you are unarmed." 

llie man's manner contrasted 
strangely with his present occupa- 
tion. He was no experienced rob- 
ber, that was evident; and his eyes 
rolled from side to siiie like those of 
a hunted animal. Our friend, who 
called himself Prof. John Stamyn, 
very quietly replied : 

*' My good friend, you have come 
to the wrong man. You will have 
no great booty from me. I have only 
three guineas about me, which are 
not worth a scuffle; so much good 
may you do with them. But you 
are in a bad way." 

The man did not answer or recrimi- 
nate. Hanging his head and lower- 
ing his pistol (an useless weapon 
enough, since the trigger was broken 
off and the barrel was cracked), he 
took the money offered him, and 
moved quickly 'away. Mr, Stamyn 
stood looking thoughtfully after him, 
then he said to the j'outh : 

" Mind, James, and watch that 
man carefully, that he may not be 
c-tware of you; but be careful to see 
him housed, and bring me word of 
everything." And shaking his head, 
as if in pity, he walked back alone to 
his hotel. 

Meanwhile, the boy, proud of his 



mission, cautiously started on his pur- 
suit of the seeming robber. Many a 
time he had to darken his lantern 
with his cloak, or flatten himself 
against doors, as the man he pursued 
turned round, gla#:ing fearfully be- 
hind, and then, mending his pace, 
hurried on again with unsteady foot- 
steps. Once he paused before a 
large, brightly lighted shop. Loaves 
and cakes of all shapes were piled in 
the window; but behind the counter 
sat two resolute-looking men, whose 
expression, as they gazed on the hun- 
gry face outside, was certainly the 
reverse of encouraging. The poor 
wayfarer turned away with a sigh. 
and dived down a side street. Squalid 
little booths alternated with equally 
squalid dwelling-houses along the 
sides of the alley, and grim, fierce, 
animal faces gathered in evil-looking 
clusters round the doors. The poor 
wretch hastened on ; apparently none 
knew him, as the boy, who followed 
him, noticed that no one paid any 
attention to him. At last he stopped 
at a baker's shop — a dirty place, \ery 
different from the respectable one he 
had looked into so wistfully before. 
The boy waited at a convenient dis- 
tance, and, by skilfully shading his 
lantern, remained there unperceived. 
There was no light, save what came 
from the shop — a dull flare at best 
After a few minutes, the man came 
out, carrying a large brown loaf oi 
the cheapest kind that was then sold 
in Weston. He now entered another 
street, and turned various corners, 
so that it was like threading a laby- 
rinth to follow him. The youth then 
saw him disappear in the doorway 
of a tall, dilapidated house. The 
door was open, and hung awry from 
one rusty hinge; a nauseous smell 
greeted the nostrils, and shrill, dis- 
agreeable voices were heard m sova^ 
up-stairs roost. The man began to 
scale the rickety steps, one or two 



An English Christmas Story, 



481 



of which were missing here and 
there, and made a break-neck gap 
lor the undoing of careless climbers. 
Kach landing-place seemed more 
<:isreputable than the last, mitil the 
fourth was reached. It required a 
jiood deal of ingenuity in Mr. Stamyn's 
messenger to creep un perceived up 
iliese dangerous ladders, never start- 
ling the man he followed, and, above 
all, never helping himself along by the 
tell-tale light, whose radiance might 
have betrayed him. At last the poor 
•• robber " entered a ro.om, bare of 
any apology for furniture, and un- 
li^hted, save by the frosty rays of the 
moon. The wind whistled through 
It, crevices in the wall there were 
plenty, and not one pane of glass 
Ml the grimy window was whole. 
The boy crouched outside, and lis- 
ttned. A crevice allowed him to see 
a woman and four children coiled up 
;ii a heap, trying to keep each other 
uarm. The man threw the loaf on 
tiie floor, and a sort of gurgle rose to 
uelcome him. Bursting into tears, 
lie cried, in a voice half-defiant, half- 
•-licked with grief: 

*• There, eat your fill ; that's the 
clearest loaf I ever bought. I have 
lo'j'oed a gentleman of three guineas^ 
^o let us husband them well, and let 
me have no more teasings ; for sooner 
'>r later these doings must bring me 
I'j the gallows, and all to satisfy your 
• lamors I" 

Here the wife mingled her lamen- 
tations with his, and the hungry chil- 
tlren set up a howl of sympathy, all 
iiie while eying the loaf impatiently. 
The poor woman, whimpering faintly, 
l>roke off four large portions, and dis- 
tributed them among the starving lit- 
lie ones, reserving smaller pieces for 
i^erself and her wretched husband, 
who was leaning despairingly on the 
window-sill. 

When hunger was a little appeased, 
the group sat together as before, try- 
voL. XVIII. — 31 



ing to keep each other warm by the 
contact of their frozen limbs, and 
drawing over their feet the few rags 
of clothing they possessed. At last 
the man broke out into sobs : 

" God forgive me ! wife, this cannot 
go on. This money weighs like lead 
in my pocket." 

*' Dear," said the woman timidly, 
" I heard a priest say once that a 
starving man might take a loaf out 
of a baker's shop to stay his hunger,, 
and do no sin." 

" Ay," said the man gloomily,. 
" if the baker would let him take it. 
But he would have put me in jail if 
rd done it. I'd as lief go to jail as 
not, if it wasn't for you here; but I 
thought that would not do, and I 
know a gentleman is less likely to. 
make a fuss, and Jim's pistol did 
the business; but hang me if I'll do 
it again, if we do have to starve 
for it." 

The listener outside took up his 
lantern. " So the man's a Catholic/' 
he wondered. " I heard master say 
the Catholics helped each other;, 
anyhow, I'll go home, and report 
about what I've seen." 

Cautiously he got down the dan- 
gerous stairs, and looked well about 
him, that he might know the land- 
marks of the region again. ?ie 
reached the inn about an hour after 
Mr. Stamyn, who was sitting in his 
room, waiting anxiously for him. He 
told his tale, not forgetting to make 
much of .his own dexterity in follow- 
ing the poor " robber." His master 
listened attentively, then gave orders 
to the boy to call him at six the next 
morning, when he would follow him. 
to the man's dwelling. The morn- 
ing was clear, frosty, and bright. 
The dawn was just breaking, and, if 
the town could look peaceful at any 
time, it did then. On the way, or, 
rather, in the immediate neighbor- 
hood of the poor man's abode, Mr. 



482 



An English Christmas Story, 



Stamyii stopped to inquire what the 
man was who lived in such a cham- 
ber with a wife and four children. 
He was told that he was a shoema- 
ker, a very good kind of a man, very 
industrious, and a neat workman ; but 
being burdened with a family, and 
the times being so bad, he had fallen 
out of work, and had a hard struggle 
to live. 

The two then climbed the stairs, 
"which were hardly safer in the morn- 
ing's uncertain light than they had 
seemed in the dark the night before, 
and stopped before the shoemaker's 
•door. 

They knocked, and the crazy door 
was opened by the unfortunate man 
himself. He no sooner perceived 
who his visitor was, than he dreaded 
to learn the motive of the visit, which 
must surely be the speedy punish- 
ment of last night's robbery. He 
threw himself at the feet of Mr. 
Stamyn, saying in a broken voice : 

" O sir ! indeed it was the first 
time, as it will be the last, that ever 
I touch what does not belong tome; 
but I was drove to it by my poor 
children here. Two days had they 
been without bread, sir, and they 
cried that pitiful I couldn't stand it 
no longer. I was ashamed to beg, 
sir, and folk mostly say no to a story 
as looks so like a ready-made one. 
Surely, sir, you won't go to punish 
me, . . . and these poor things de- 
pendin' on me ? I swear I'll die 
sooner than do such a thing again. 
It was against the grain I did it, sir; 
indeed it was." 

Mr. Stamyn had taken up the 
youngest child in his arms, and was 
hushing its cries. 

" No, my poor fellow, it was not 
to reproach or punish you I came. 
I have not the least intention of 
doing you any harm. You have a 
good character among your neigh- 
bors; but you must expect to be 



quickly cut short in such freedoms 
as you took with me. Hold your 
hand ; here's thirty guineas for you to 
buy leather. Live close, and set your 
children a commendable example; 
and to put you further out of temp- 
tation with such unbecoming doings, 
as you are a neat workman (they tell 
me) and I am not particularly hur- 
ried, make for me and this boy two 
pairs of shoes each, which he shall 
call upon you for." 

The poor man, dumfounded and 
almost in tears, stood before his 
benefactor, gazing at him and at ihe 
shining coins in his own open hand. 
The wife cried softly to herself, and 
the children, growing accustomed to 
the stranger, began swarming about 
his legs. Mr. Stamyn's servant then 
laid down a good -sized basket, and 
took off the lid. The children rush- 
ed to this new attraction, and began 
diving into the recesses of the bas- 
ket with their poor, skinny little 
hands. The woman went up to Mr. 
Stamyn : 

" Oh ! sir, we'll bless you to our 
dying day. And never fear ; my hus- 
band is a good workman, and he will 
work night and day with a will to 
make you the finest oair of shoes 
that ever was. . . . And, oh ! sir, the 
children shall pray for you, that Goti 
may reward what you've done for a 
poor, starving family. No ; ray hus- 
band, he never stole before in his 
life, sir." 

Here the husband, recovering his 
powers of speech, joined in, and 
rained blessings on his kind patron, 
who left the miserable place in a far 
more cheerful frame of mind than he 
had enjoyed at the great meeting 
last night. Just before he left Wes- 
ton, the shoes were brought to hmi 
by the wife and her eldest child, who 
loaded him again with the most 
grateful blessings, and promised to 
pray that, if he were not a Catholic, 



An English Christmas Story. 



483 



still God would " grant him grace to 
save his soul." 

Mr. St a my n smiled sadly, and 
bade his new friends good-by, hav- 
ing learnt their name, and promised 
in return never to forget it, should 
he happen to be in Weston again. 
Christmas had been a happy season 
with him this year ; and though, by 
his present to the poor shoemaker, 
he had curtailed his own pleasure- 
jaunt, he felt that, after all, he had 
chosen the better part. . . . 

II. 

It was Christmas once more. 
Forty years had come and gone, and 
prosperity reigned in the North of 
England. A famine worse than 
that early one had swept over the 
land — a famine of work and cotton — 
but even the traces of that dire mis- 
fortune had gone now, and mills and 
factories were as busy as they could 
be. 

In the neighboring county of Cum- 
berland, in a retired little town, agri- 
cultural and pacific, stood a pretty, 
old-fashioned house, half-mansion, 
half-cotlngc. One side, with its dig- 
nified portal of granite, faced the 
street; but its garden, with bow-win- 
dows and porches jutting out among 
the flowers, almost leaned on the 
mountain. The family room looked 
into the snow-covered garden ; the 
deep windows were embowered in ivy, 
bearing a fringe of tiny icicles, while 
inside wreaths of holly hung festoon- 
ed over the dark curtains. Over the 
large and very high mantelpiece, 
where a fox's brush and head mingled 
with the branching antlers of the red 
deer, there hung a framed device, 
illuminated in mediaeval letters: 
" Peace on earth to men of good 
will"; above the door was a large 
bunch of mistletoe. 

The window was partly open, the 
huge fire warming the room auite 



enough to allow of this ; on the sill 
was scattered a feast of bread-crumbs 
steeped in milk, at which two or 
three robins were pecking industri- 
ously. 

This was the mayor's house. He 
was ah old man of seventy-five, uni- 
versally respected for his incorruptible 
honesty and his steady, reliable cha- 
racter. He had been born in the 
town, but had left it while yet a baby 
in arms, had then returned a grown 
man and father of a family, gone into 
trade, become a successful business 
man, and seven years ago retired 
honorably into private life. Of his 
sons, one x^as a mill-owner near Man- 
chester, ine had succeeded to his fa- 
ther's local business and factory, and 
one, his youngest, had died at sea, 
leaving a little girl, his only child, 
to the care of its grandparents. The 
old man's only daughter was a nun 
in a Carmelite convent in the South 
of France. 

No one but the mayor, his wife, 
and grandchild lived in this cosey 
house, and a very happy household 
it was. The girl had been partly 
brought up abroad, and had acquired 
many graceful foreign traits as a set- 
off to her English complexion and 
somewhat hoidenish manners. She 
was the apple of their eye to the 
old couple, who let her rule them 
and the house like a young empress. 
The mayor was i%othing but a great 
baby in her hands, and people knew 
that the surest way to his heart or 
his purse was through that saucy 
little beauty, Philippa Mason. Stran- 
gers passing through the town used 
to marvel how it was that a Catholic 
had been elected mayor; but they 
were assailed by such a torrent of 
eulogies on " the best, most gene- 
rous, most public-spirited, most con- 
scientious of our citizens" that they 
were glad to take all for granted, 
and applaud the choice of the firee- 



484 



An English Christinas Story, 



men of Carthwaite without further 
explanation. 

One other inmate of the mayor's 
house will be found worthy of notice 
— old Armstrong, or Uncle Jim, as he 
was mostly called. Verging upon 
sixty, he was still tall, slight, and 
erect in stature; his manners had 
some degree of refinement, and he 
was wont at times to hint mysterious- 
ly at his former connection with 
the gentlefolk of the land. Every- 
body liked him and laughed at him. 
He was the most good-humored and 
the most unlucky of mortals. He 
spoke loftily of the fortune he lost in 
his youth through cards and wine; 
and every one knew that when Mr. 
Mason, twenty years before, had 
kindly set him up in a small business 
of his own, he had not waited six 
months before he owned himself a 
bankrupt. Not a stain was on his 
character, but everything he touch- 
ed seemed doomed. Money oozed 
through his fingers like water, while 
there was no visible cause for it; 
and the poorer he became, the mer- 
rier he was. At last, he had taken 
refuge with Mr. Mason, and become 
a part of his establishment. No one 
knew or inquired about his origin ; 
people were glad enough to let the 
character of his patron vouch for the 
respectability of the harmless, amus- 
ing, kind-hearted old oddity. 

As these four sat in the study (for 
so Philippa would have her favorite 
room called), they discussed their 
plans for the ensuing festival week. 

" Uncle Jim has been invaluable," 
said the girl ; " he has been my head- 
carpenter for the stage in the school, 
and has made such a grotto for the 
crib, and, above all, he has carved 
two wonderful alms-dishes for the 
collection to-morrow morning." 

"Thank God! the church is to 
be opened to-morrow, wife," said the 
mayor, seeking his wife's hand. " I 



may not live to see anotner Christ- 
mas nor hear another midnight Mass. 
In our young days, we little thought 
we should see such things — when 
priests would ride forty miles to 
a dying bed, booted and spurred, 
with pistols to fight the highwaymen. 
Why, even in town, it was as much 
as we could do to get to our duty at 
Easter every year." 

" Grandpapa," said Philippa, " by 
next summer the spire will be finish- 
ed, and we can have the banner of 
the cross floating there, as of old 
the city standard used to fly over 
the cathedrals." 

*' Child," answered Mr. Mason, 
" by next summer your bridal train 
may set the bells of the church a-ring- 
ing ; and if I live to see that, I'll ask 
no more of Heaven." 

" Nobody knows where to look for 
the bridegroom yet," said Philippa 
saucily. 

" Hush !" put in the grandmother. 
"On the day when God gave his 
own Son to the world, and gave to 
your grandfather and me such a great 
blessing — years ago — no one must 
speak lightly of the gifts he may yet 
please to send or no." After a 
pause, Uncle Jim said hesitatingly: 

"The good Lord certainly feeds 
the sparrows, as the Bible says, and 
I suppose that's why Miss Mason, 
she must feed the robins, just to fol- 
low the path we're told to ; but it 
seems to me, if I'd waited for Him 
to feed tne one day that I well re- 
member, I'd have gone hungrier than 
you ever did, master, in the days oi 
your trouble." 

Philippa looked up with an expect- 
ant smile; she always anticipated 
fun when the old man adopted the 
mock-serious tone. 

"Yes," continued the narrator, 
pleased to have at least the encourage- 
ment of an indulgent silence extend- 
ed to him; "and I was prancing ifl 



An English Christmas Story. 



485 



the best blue broadcloth and the 
most shining buttons you ever saw, 
and had on beautiful new boots that 
1 never paid for . . ." 

"You rascal!" softly said the 
mayor. 

**And a hat with such a curly 
brira," continued Jim imperturbably. 
"Well, it was in the summer, the 
only time I really was hungry — I 
don't mean the summer, but that that 
occasion was the only one when I 
was nigh starving — and I and two 
friends, who had helped me to empty 
ray purse, were at Bath. None of 
us had any money left ; in fact, they 
never had of their own, but were of 
those whose tongue is their fortune; 
but hungry we all were, and must 
have something to eat. * I have it !' 
I cried, for I was not a bad hand 
at imagination, * Follow me to the 
^Vhite Hart ; * and on the way I ex- 
plained my plan. You will hear 
later what it was. Now, you will 
say, Mr. Mayor, that I had better 
have laid myself down by a haystack, 
and slept there on an empty stomach ; 
and indeed, after a good supper, 
such as we had to-night, it would be 
•-asy enough for vu to say so ; but 
just then it wasn't likely to be my 
opinion. So we walked into the 
hotel, as bold as kings, and ordered 
a private room and dinner for three — 
trench soups and oyster patties, fish 
^od game, and foreign sauces and 
^^^» just as / knew it should be, and 
Madeira and champagne, of course. 
\Vhcn we had done (and, in the inter- 
vals when the waiter had gone for 
the next course, we pocketed as much 
as our pockets would stand of any- 
thing that was solid), we called for 
^he bill, and the waiter brought it, 
•^s pompous as you will, on a silver 
salver. I put my hand in my pock- 
% whereupon one of my friends, he 
?*ys: * Come, come, I'll stand this; 
^^ was I who proposed it and chose 



the wines.' And he puts his hand 
in his pocket. * Bless mel* cries 
the other. * Gentlemen, I protest ; it 
was I who ordered the dinner, and I 
request, as a favor, you let me pay ; 
the cost is but a trifle." And he put 
his hand in his pocket. The waiter 
stood grinning and smirking, and 
thinking this great fun. 'An idea 
strikes me,' I then said. * Waiter, we'll 
blindfold you and shut the door, 
and whoever you catch first will 
settle the bill.' At this my friends 
clapped their hands, and the waiter, 
as proud as a peacock at the conde- 
scension of such fine young gentle- 
men, gives us a napkin to tie over 
his eyes, and lets us spin him round 
two or three times, that he may be- 
gin fair. * Now !' I cried, and he 
began feeling about, afraid to upset 
the table ; but he knew the room well, 
and went first to a closet beside the 
further door. While he made a 
noise opening it and feeling inside, 
I slid to another door, and gently 
pushed it ajar. In a twinkling we 
were all three walking leisurely out 
of the White Hart, looking like in- 
dependent gentlemen, who did the 
host the great honor of approving 
of his cook ! That afternoon, we 
drew lots which should sell his fine 
suit to pay travelling expenses, and 
it fell on me ; so good-by to my gay 
plumage, says I, and never dropt a 
tear, but got the money and played 
valet to the other two till we got to 
London, where I made them pay me 
what they owed through a lucky 
stroke at cards. And then we parted 
company, nothing loath on my side. 
So that is how I read the saying, * The 
Lord helps them as helps them- 
selves."* 

Every one smiled at the privileged 
old man, though Philippa held up a 
warning forefinger and whispered : 
" Grandpapa told me once that you 
were not half so bad as yqu make 



486 



An English Christmas Story. 



yourself out to be. Why did you not 
put on ladies' clothes, and go and beg 
ibr a dinner ? They could not have 
said no to a pretty face, and it would 
have been better than stealing." 

« Hark at that !" said Uncle Jim 
aloud. " You women are born to fool 
us. If I had my life to begin again, 
I should take advantage of that sug- 
gestion. The truth was, high so- 
ciety ruined me; and here I am, a 
destitute waif without a home. It is 
the first chapter of the Prodigal Son ; 
but I shall never get into the second." 

He looked with comical gravity at 
Mr. Mason, whose glance of affection- 
ate amusement perfectly satisfied him 
in return; and then the old man, 
drawing Philippa towards him, said 
gently to her : 

" On your next birthday, as you 
know, child, you will become entitled 
to all my fortune, and with this pre- 
sent will enter, too, into great respon- 
sibilities. Now, to give you an idea 
of what wealth is, what it can do, and 
how grave a trust it is, I will tell you 
a story too, but more humbly than 
good Uncle Jim, because my fault 
was more reckless, and because God 
has been more merciful to me in 
making it bring forth real good. 
Your father and your uncles were all 
little things then, and do not re- 
member it, except very dimly ; and 
since that Christmas, forty years ago, 
I have never repeated the tale." 

And in simple, forcible language 
the Mayor of Carthwaite told his 
grandchild the story .of the distress in 
Weston in the year i8 — , the fam- 
ine and the wretchedness, the temp- 
tations of starving men, and finally 
the incident in which Mr. Stamyn 
and the poor shoemaker had figured 
side by side forty years ago. " And 
your grandmother and I have prayed 
for that good man every night with- 
out ever missing," added the old 
man, " and taught your father to do 



so ; you yourself, child, have prayed 
for the kind friend, whose conver- 
sion to the true faith was our great- 
est wish. But his name and what 
his kindness was I never told a soul 
till now." 

Philippa was silent. Uncle Jim hid 
his face, and sobbed. The old cou- 
ple clasped hands by the fireside, 
and looked into each other's faces, 
as they remembered the bare attic 
where they had shivered and starved, 
and been nearly driven to become 
criminals by the sheer force of hun- 
ger. Nearly two generations had 
passed, and they were still together, 
thanking God that he had put it into 
the heart of man to relieve his fel- 
low-man that night, when a life of 
crime and disgrace had so nearly be- 
gun to drag them down to the level 
of a "jail-bird." Philippa crept up 
to them softly, and kissed tliem both. 

" I understand your life and your 
charities so much better now," she 
said ; " and when I have the same re- 
sponsibility thrust upon me, believe 
me, I will do as you have done." 

The bells began to chime, and the 
party bestirred themselves to go over 
to the chap>el, where the midnight 
Mass was to be said for the last time. 
To-morrow the church was to be 
opened and dedicated to " Our La- 
dy and S. Crispin," and the chapel 
was to become a school. Uncle Jim 
was Philippa's special escort, for the 
old couple would never separate. 

" Did you know that story ? " she 
whispered to him as they crossed the 
silent streets. 

" Ay, but he told nie never to 
speak of it till he gave me leave. 
He did not tell you who the lad was 
that spied upon him that night; it 
was poor Uncle Jim." 

Philippa looked aghast. 

" Yes," he went on, " and I left 
Mr. Stamyn some years after, and 
tried to live as a gentleman on my 



An English Christmas Story, 



487 



earnings ; but, as I told you in jest, 
a heap of rascals helped me to empty 
my purse, and it was soon drained 
of all. I remembered your grand- 
father, had taken a fancy to him in 
Weston, went back, and found him. 
He took me in, and was very good 
:o me, useless as I was. I was al- 
ways a shiftless fellow, and never 
could keep what money I got. So 
he thought it better just to keep me 
at home, and I tried to be useful, and 
could be, too, when there was no 
question of money; and so it has 
i)een for nigh a score of years. Here 
we are at the chapel. That's one 
thing I never saw — your religion; 
but then, Mr. Mason is the best man 
1 ever saw, and he's a Catholic. 
Anyways, there's no other religion I 
like better." 

And Uncle Jim went in and deco- 
rously assisted at the service, just as 
if it was quite familiar to him and he 
liKed it. I suspect he did, as far as 
he understood it. What the Ma- 
sons believed could not be very far 
wrong. 

The next morning there was a 
grand ceremony at the new church, 
and an unlimited amount of beef and 
pudding distributed by tickets among 
the poorer inhabitants of Carthwaite. 
After service, a carriage drove up to 
Mr. Mason's door. 

A very old gentleman, followed 
by a much younger one, stepped out, 
and inquired for the mayor. They 
were shown into the study, where all 
the Masons — cousins, uncles, etc. — 
had now assembled. The servant 
announced " Mr. Stamyn." 

Uncle Jim, recovering the instincts 
of his youth, suddenly stood up re- 
si)ectfuUy before his former master, 
vho, however, did not seem to have 
the slightest recollection of him. 

Mr. Stamyn went up to Mrs. Ma- 
son. " My dear friends," he said, 
"you both told me not to forget 



your name; it was five years ago 
that I returned to Weston, and I did 
not fail to make inquiries, but hard- 
ly hoping that I should find you. 
They told me you had left, and I 
was lucky enough to find a clue to 
your subsequent career. I need not 
say how happy I am to redeem my 
promise to visit you again ; I should 
certainly have been so, had I found 
you still in smoky old Weston, but 
here doubly." 

Every one, especially Philippa, was 
struck by the old-time courtesy, pre- 
cise, formal, yet most cordial, with 
which Mr. Stamyn spoke ; his young 
companion glanced admiringly at 
the girl, instinctively distinguishing 
her from the more buxom damsels 
assembled round the family hearth — 
her cousins of Manchester and Carth- 
waite. Mr. Mason asked his friend 
and patron to stay with them, and 
sit at his board as the chief Christ- 
mas guest ; he gladly complied, and 
said laughingly that he had ex- • 
pected to be asked. It was not 
until after the family meal that Uncle 
Jim revealed himself to his former 
master. His awkward self conscious- 
ness and hurried glances had amused 
Mr. Stamyn in secret all the time, 
though his own perfectly controlled 
manner had given no sign of surprise 
or amusement; but when Jim, mys- 
teriously bending over Mr. Stamyn's 
chair, feelingly asked what had be- 
come of the boy James, the old gen- 
tleman's eyes began to twinkle with 
premonitory signal-fire. 

" He left me a few years after our 
Weston adventure, and, I very much 
fear, went to the devil !" was the an- 
swer. 

" No, sir ; Mr. Stamyn," said Jim, 
shaking with excitement, ** he went 
to Mason." 

"James," said his master serious- 
ly, " you could not possibly have done 
better; I congratulate you." 



488 



The Song of Roland, 



Uncle Jim looked triumphantly at 
Philippa, who was talking to the 
young man, Mr. Stamyn's compan- 
ion. By her next birthday she was 
married to him — he was Mr. Sta- 



myn's great-nephew and heir — bat 
the two old men did not live to see 
another Christmas. Mrs. Mason and 
Uncle Jim remain yet, and tell the 
story to the rising generation. 



THE SONG OF ROLAND. 



CONCLUDED. 



The night flies away, and the 
white dawn appears. Charles, the 
majestic emperor, mounts his charger, 
and casts his eye over the army. 
** My lords barons," lie says, " behold 
these dark defiles, these narrow gor- 
ges. To whom do you counsel me 
to give the command of the rear- 
guard ?" 

" To whom ?" replies Gr.nelon. 
" To whom but to my son-in-law 
Roland ? Is he not a baron of great 
valor ?" 

At these words the emperor looks 
at him, saying, " You are a ver}' de- 
vil ! What deadly rage has entered 
into you ?" 

Roland approaches ; he has heard 
the words of Ganelon. " Sire father- 
in-law," he says, " what thanks do I 
not owe you for having asked for 
me the command of the rear-guard ! 
Our emperor, be assured, shall lose 
nothing ; neither steed nor palfrey, 
cart-horse nor sumpter-mule, shall be 
taken, or our swords shall make more 
than the price." 

'* I believe it well," rejoins Gane- 
lon. 

" Ah ! son of an accursed race !" 
cries Roland, who can no longer 
contain his anger, " thou thoughtest 
that the glove would fall from my 
hands as it did from thine." Then, 



turning to the emperor, he prays 
him to give into his hand the bow 
which he grasps with his own. 

The emperor's countenance dark- 
ens; he hesitates to place his ne- 
phew in the rear-guard. But the 
Duke de Naymes says to him, " Give 
the bow to Count Roland ; the rear- 
guard belongs to him of right, since 
none other could conduct it so well 
as he." 

And the emperor gives Roland 
the bow, saying, " My fair nephew, 
know you what I desire ? I would 
leave with you the half of my army. 
Take it, I pray you ; it shall be for 
your safety." 

" Nay," cries Roland, " I will have 
no such thing. God forbid that I 
should belie my race! Leave rac 
twenty thousand valiant Frenchmen, 
and set out with all the rest. Pass 
at ease through the defiles, and, 
while I am alive, fear no man in the 
world." 

Roland mounts his charger. He 
is joined by his faithful Oliver, then 
Gerer, then Berenger, and the aged 
Anseis, Gerard of Roussillon, and 
the Duke Gaifier. " I, too, w.li be 
there," says the Archbishop Turpni, 
" for I ought in duty to follow my 
chiefs* 

" And I also, "says Count Gauthier. 



The Song of Roland. 



489 



" Roland is my liege lord, and I must 
not fail him." 
The vanguard begins its march. 
How lofty are these peaks ! What 
sombre valleys ! How black the 
rocks; the defiles how profound! 
The French, in these dark gorges, 
seem oppressed with sadness. The 
sound of their footsteps may be 
heard full fifteen leagues away. 

When they draw near to their mo- 
ther-country, within sight of the land 
of Gascony, they call to mind their 
fiefs and their possessions^ their ten- 
der children and their noble wives. 
The tears start into their eyes— 
those of Charles most of all ; for his 
heart is heavy at the thought that 
he has left Roland among the 
mountains of Spain. 

He hides his face with his mantle. 
" What ails you, sire ?" asks the Duke 
Naymes, riding by his side. 

" Is there any need to ask ?" he 
answers. " In the grief that I am in, 
how can I refrain from groaning ? 
France will be undone by Ganelon. 
In a dream this night an angel has 
made this known to me. He broke 
my lance in my hands — he who 
caused me to give the rear-guard to 
Roland, leaving him in this ungentle 
land. Heavens ! were I to lose Ro- 
land, I should never see his like 
again !'* 

Charles wept ; and a hundred 
thousand Frenchmen, touched by 
his tears, shuddered as they thought 
«pon Roland. Ganelon, the felon, 
has sold him for gold and silver, and 
shining stuffs; for horses, and camels, 
and lions. 

King Marsilion has sent for all the 
barons of Spain : dukes, counts, and 
viscounts, emirs and sons of the sena- 
tors. He assembles four thousand 
of them in three days. 

Tile drums beat in Saragossa ; the 
image of Mahomet is set on its 
highest tower; and there is no pagan 



who does not feel himself inflamed 
at the sight. Then, behold, all the 
Saracens set forth, riding at double 
speed into the depths of these long 
valleys. By dint of haste, they have 
come in sight of the gonfalons of 
France and of the rear- guard of the 
twelve brave peers. By evening they 
lie in ambush in a wood of fir-trees 
on the sides of the rocks. Four hun- 
dred thousand men are hidden there, 
awaiting the return of the sun. O 
heavens ! what woe ! for the French 
knew naught of this. 

The day appears. Now it is the 
question in the Saracen army who 
shall strike the first blow. The ne- 
phew of Marsilion caracoles before 
his uncle. " Fair my lord the king," 
he says, with a joyful countenance, 
" in severe and numerous combats I 
have served you so greatly that I 
ask as a reward the honor of conquer- 
ing Roland." 

Twenty others follow in turn to 
boast before Marsilion. One says : 
" At Roncevaux I am going to play 
the man. If I find Roland, all is over 
with him. What shame and sorrow 
for the French ! Their emperor is so 
old that he is imbecile. He will not 
pass another day without weeping." 
" Never fear," says another. ** Ma- 
homet is stronger than S. Peter ! I 
will meet Roland at Roncevaux ; he 
cannot escape death. Look at my 
sword ; I will measure it against his 
Durandal, and you will then soon 
hear which is the longest." " Come, 
sire," says a third, "com? and see 
all these Frenchmen slain. We will 
take Charlemagne, and make a pre- 
sent of him to you, and will give you 
the lands of the rest. Before a year 
is over, we shall have fixed ourselves 
in the town of St. Denis." 

While they thus excite each other 
to the combat, they contrive, behind 
the fir-wood, to put on their Saracen 
coats of mail, lace on their Saragossa 



490 



The Song of Roland, 



helmets, gird on their swords of 
Viennese steel, seize their shields and 
their Valencian lances, surmounted 
by white, blue, and scarlet gonfalons. 
They mount neither mules nor pal- 
freys, but strong steeds, and ride in 
close ranks. The sun shines; the 
gold of their vestments sparkles and 
gleams ; a thousand clarions begin to 
sound. 

The French listen. "Sire com- 
panion," says Oliver, " we may soon 
have battle with the Saracens." 

*' God grant it !" replies Roland. 
" Let us think of our king. We ought 
to know how to suffer for our lord, 
bear heat and cold, let our skin be 
slashed, and risk our heads. Let 
every one be ready to strike hard 
blows. We must take heed to what 
sort of songs may be sung of us. 
You have the right, Christians, and 
the pagans the wrong. Never shall 
bad example be given you by me." 

Oliver climbs a tall pine-tree, 
looks to the right in the wooded val- 
ley, and beholds the Saracen horde 
approaching. ** Comrade," he cries 
to Roland, " what a din and tu- 
mult is there on the Spanish side! 
Heavens ! how many white hal- 
berds and gleaming helmets ! What a 
rough meeting for our French ! Gane- 
lon knew it — the felon ! the traitor !" 

" Peace, Oliver," answers Roland. 
"He is my father-in-law ; speak not 
of him." 

Oliver dismounts. "Lords bar- 
ons," he says, " I have seen even now 
so great a multitude of these pagans 
that no man here below has ever be- 
held the like. We shall have a bat- 
tle such as there has never been be- 
fore. Ask God for* courage !" And 
the French reply : " Woe to him that 
flees ! To die for you, not one of us 
all will be found wanting." 

" Roland, my comrade," says the 
prudent Oliver, " these pagans are 
a multitude, and we are very few. 



Heed me, and sound your horn ; the 
emperor will hear, and will lead back 
the array." 

" Do you take me for a mad- 
man ?" answers Roland. " Would 
you have me lose my honor in sweet 
France ? Let Durandal do its work- 
strike its heavy blows, and steep it- 
self in blood to the haft ; all these 
pagans are as good as dead, I war- 
rant you !" 

" Roland, my comrade, sound 
your olifanty that the emperor may 
hear and come to your aid." 

" Heaven keep me from such cow- 
ardice! Count upon Durandal; you 
will see how it will slay the pagans." 

" Roland, my comrade, sound your 
oli/anty that the emperor may hear it 
and return." 

"Please God, then, no!" replies 
Roland once more. "No man here 
below shall ever say I sounded my 
horn because of the pagans. Never 
shall like reproach be brought against 
my race !" 

" What reproach ? What would 
you have people say ? These Sara- 
cens cover the valleys, the moun- 
tain, the high-lands, and the plains. 
I have just beheld it, this innumer- 
able host; and we are but a feeble 
company." 

"My courage grows at the 
thought," says Roland. "Neither 
God nor his angels will suffer it that 
by me our France shall lose her re- 
nown. Sire comrade, and my friend, 
speak no more to me thus. We will 
stand our ground. For us will be 
the blows; our emperor wills it. 
Among the soldiers he has confided 
to us ii.ere is not a single coward; 
he knows it Our emperor loves us 
because we strike well. Strike, then, 
thou with thy lance, and I with my 
good sword Durandal — Charles' gift 
to me. If I die, he who gets it shall 
be able to say, this was a brave man's 
sword 1" 



The Song of Roland, 



491 



At this moment, the Archbishop 
Turpin put spurs to his horse, gained 
an eminence, and, calUng the French 
around him, said to them, " Lords 
barons, our emperor has left us here, 
and for him we ought to die well. 
Remember that you are Christians. 
The battle draws on; you see it. 
rhe Saracens are there. Call to 
raind your sins; cry God's mercy. 
I will absolve you for the health of 
yoiir souls. If you die, you will all 
be martyrs, and will find good place 
in the heights of Paradise!" The 
French dismount from their horses, 
and kneel on the ground, while the 
archbishop blesses them on the part 
of Gody and for their penance bids 
them strike hard blows. Absolved 
and rid of their sins, they rise and re- 
mount their horses. 

Roland, in his shining armor, is 
beautiful to behold, mounted on his 
good charger, Vaillantif. The gold- 
en reins ring in his hand, and on the 
top of his lance, which he holds with 
its point to heaven, floats a white 
gonfalon. The brave knight advan- 
ces with a clear and serene counte- 
nance, followed by his companion, 
and then by all these noble French, 
whose courage he makes strong. 
He casts his lofty glance upon the 
iiaracens, and, gently turning his head 
to those about him, says, ** March, 
n)y lords barons, without haste. 
These pagans are hastening to their 
destruction." While he speaks, the 
two armies approach, and are about 
to accost each other. 

"No more words," cries Oliver. 
''Vou have not deigned to sound 
your oli/ant There is- nothing to ex- 
pect from the emperor ; nothing for 
which to reproach him. The brave 
one, he knows not a word of that 
which is befalling us; the fault is 
'^one of his. Now, my lords ba- 
tons, hold firm, and for the love of 
,^<Ki, I pray you, let us not fear 



blows ; let us know how to give and 
take. Above all, let us not forget 
the cry of Charlemagne." Where- 
upon the French all shouted, Mont- 
joU ! Whoso had heard them would 
never all his life lose the remembrance 
of that shout. 

Then they advaace — heavens ! 
with what boldness. To be brief, the 
horsemen have charged. What bet- 
ter could they do ? 

The pagans do not draw back; 
the meUe begins. They provoke 
each other by word and gesture. 
The nephew of Marsilion, with insult 
in his mouth, flies upon Roland. 
Roland with one stroke of his lance 
lays him dead at his feet. The king's 
brother, Falsaron, desires to revenge 
his nephew's death ; but Oliver fore- 
stalls him by planting his lance in 
his body. A certain Corsablix, one 
of these barbarian kings, vomits forth 
slanders and bravadoes. Abp. Tur- 
pin hearing him, bears down upon 
him in full force, and with his lance 
stretches him dead upon the ground. 
Each time that a Saracen falls the 
French cry, Monijoie ! — the shout of 
Charlemagne. 

Defiances and combats succeed 
each other fast on every side ; every- 
where the French are the conquerors ; 
there is not a pagan who is not over- 
thrown. Roland advances^ thrust- 
ing with his lance as long as there 
remains a fragment of its wood in his 
hand. But at the fifteenth stroke the 
lance breaks; then he draws his 
good sword Durandal, which carves 
and slices the Saracens right valiantly, 
so that the dead lie heaped around 
him. Blood flows in torrents around 
the spot, and over his horse and his 
arms. He perceives in the meUe 
his faithful Oliver breaking with the 
but-end of his lance the skull of the 
pagan Fauseron. " Comrade," cries 
Roland, " what do you ? Of what 
use is a stick in such a fight ? Iron 



492 



The Song of Roland. 



and steel are what vou need. Where 
is your Hauteclaire — your sword 
hafted with crystal and gold ?" 

" I cannot draw it," said the other. 
" I have to strike the blows so thick 
and fast, they give me too much to 
do." 

Nevertheless^ with knightly skill 
he snatches it from its scabbard, and 
holds it up to Roland, the next mo- 
ment striking with it a pagan, who 
falls dead, and cutting also through 
his gold-enamelled saddle and his 
horse to the chine. " I hold you for 
my brother," cries Roland. *' Such 
are the blows which our emperor 
loves so much." And on all sides 
they cry, Montjoie / 

How the fight rages ! What blows 
fall on every side ! How many bro- 
ken lances covered with blood ! 
How many gonfalons torn to shreds ! 
And, ah ! how many brave French- 
men there lose their youth ! Never 
more will they see again their mo- 
thers, their wives, or their friends in 
France, who wait for them beyond 
the mountains ! 

During this time, Charles groans 
and laments : to what purpose ? 
Can he succor them by weeping? 
Woe worth the day that Ganelon did 
him the sorry service of journeying 
to Saragossa! The traitor will pay 
the penalty; the scaffold awaits him. 
But death, meanwhile, spares not our 
French. The Saracens fall by thou- 
sands, and so, also, do our own ; they 
fall, and of the best ! 

In France, at this very hour, arise 
tremendous storms. The winds are 
unchained, the thunder roars, the 
lightning glares; hail and rain fall in 
torrents, and the earth trembles. 
From S. Michael of Paris to Sens, 
from Besan9on to the port of Wis- 
sant, not a place o/ snelter whose 
walls do not crack. At mid-day 
there is a black darkness, lit up only 
by the fire of the lightnings ; there is 



not a man who does not tremble ; and 
some say that, with the end of the 
century, the end of the world is 
coming. They are mistaken; it is 
the great mourning for the death of 
Roland. 

Marsilion, who until then had kept 
himself apart, has beheld from afar 
the slaughter of his men; he com- 
mands the horns and clarions to 
sound, and puts in motion the main 
body of his army. 

When the French behold on every 
side fresh floods of the enemy let 
loose upon them, they look to see 
where is Roland, where is Oliver, 
where are the twelve peers ? Every 
one would seek shelter behind thera. 
The archbishop encourages them all. 
" For God's sake, barons, fly not I 
Better a thousand times die fighting! 
All is over with us. When this day 
closes, not one of us will be left in 
this world; but paradise, I promise 
you, is yours." At these words their 
ardor rekindles, and again they raise 
the cry, Montjoie ! 

But, see there Climorin, the Sara- 
cen who at Marsilion's palace em- 
braced Ganelon and gave him liis 
sword. He is mounted on a horse 
more swift than the swallow, and has 
even now driven his lance into the 
body of Angelier de Bordeaux. This 
is the first Frenchman of mark that 
has fallen in the meUfe^ and quickly 
has Oliver avenged him ; with one 
blow of his Hauteclaire the Saracen 
is struck down, and- the demons bear 
away his ugly soul. Then this other 
pagan, Valdabron, strikes to the 
heart the noble Duke Sanche, who 
falls dead from the saddle. What 
grief for Roland ! He rushes on 
Valdabron, dealing him a blow which 
cleaves his skull, in sight of the ter- 
rified pagans. In his turn, Abp. 
Turpin rolls in the dust the Afri- 
can Mancuidant, who has just slam 
Ans^is. Roland overthrows and 



The Song of Roland. 



493 



kills the son of the King of Cappa- 
docia; but what mischief has not 
this pagan done us before he died ? 
Gerin and G6rer, his comrade, Beren- 
uer, Austore, and Guy de Saint An- 
toine, all died by his hand. 

How thin our ranks are growing ! 
The battle is stormy and terrible. 
Never saw you such ^ heaps of dead, 
so many wounds, and so much blood 
flowing in streams on the green grass. 
Our men strike desperate blows. 
Four times they sustain the shock, 
but at the fifth they fall, saving sixty 
only, whom may God spare ! for 
(iearly they will sell their lives. 

When Roland sees this disaster, 
• Dear comrade," he says to Oliver, 
'how many brave hearts lying on 
the ground ! What grievous loss for 
our sweet France I Charles, our em- 
peror, why are you not here ? Oliver, 
my brother, what shall be done, and 
how shall we give him of our ti- 
amgs ? " 

•' There is no means," dnswers Oli- 
ver \ " it is better to die than shame- 
fully to flee. 

'*I will sound my olifanty^ says 
Roland. " Charles will hear it in 
the depths of the defiles, and, be 
assured, he will return." 

" Ah ! but what shame ! And of 
your race, my friend, do you then 
think no more ? When I spoke of 
this anon, nothing would you do, nor 
will you now, at least not by my 
counsel. Your arms are bleeding ; 
you have not now the strength to 
sound it well." 

"Sooth, but what hard blows I 
have been giving ! Nevertheless;, we 
have to do with too strong a force. 
I will blow my olifant, and Charles 
will hear." 

*'Nay, then, by no means shall 
you do this thing, and by my beard 
1 swear it. Should I ever see again 
«y noble sister, my dear Aude, never 
shall you be in her arms !" 



"Wherefore this anger?" Roland 
asks. 

" Comrade," the other answers, 
*' vou have lost us ! Rashness is not 
courage. These French are dead 
through your imprudence. Had 
you believed me, the emperor would 
have been here, the battle would be 
gained, and we should have taken 
Marsilion, alive, or dead. Roland, 
your prowess has cost us this mis- 
hap. Charles, our great Charles, we 
never shall serve more." 

The Archbishop Turpin hears the 
two friends, and runs to them, ex- 
claiming, " For God's sake, let alone 
your quarrels ! True, there is no 
longer time for you to sound your 
horn; but it is good, notwithstand- 
ing, that the emperor should return. 
Charles will avenge us, and these 
pagans shall not return into their 
Spain. Our French will find us here, 
dead and cut to pieces, but they will 
put us into coffins, and with tears 
and mourning carry us to be laid in 
the burial-grounds of our monaste- 
ries ; at least, we shall not be devour- 
ed by dogs, or wolves, or wild boars." 

** It is well spoken," answers Ro- 
land ; and forthwith he puts the olifant 
to his li^js, and blows with all the 
strength of his lungs. The sound 
penetrates and prolongs itself in the 
depths of these far-reaching valleys. 
Thirty long leagues away the echo is 
repeating itself still ! 

Charles hears it; the army hears 
it also. " They are giving battle to 
our people," cries the emperor. 
" Never does Roland sound his oli- 
fant but in the heart of a battle." 

" A battle, indeed !" says Ganelon. 
" In another mouth one would have 
called it a lie ! Know you not Ro- 
land ? For a single hare he goes 
homing a whole day. Come, let us 
march on. Why should we delay ? 
The lands of our France are still far 
away." 



494 



The Song of Roland, 



But Roland continues to blow his 
olifant He makes such great efforts 
that the blood leaps from his mouth 
and from the veins of his forehead. 

" This horn has a long breath," says 
the emperor; and the Duke de 
Naymes replies, " It is a brave man 
who blows it; there is battle around 
him. By my faith, he who has be- 
trayed him so well seeks to deceive 
you likewise. Believe me; march 
to the succor of your noble nephew. 
Do you not hear him ? Roland is 
at bay." 

The emperor gives the signal. 
Before setting out, he causes Ganelon 
to be seized, abandoning the traitor 
to his scullions. Hair by hair they 
pull out his moustache and beard, 
striking him with stick and fist, and 
passing a chain round his neck, as 
they would round that of a bear, and 
then, for the extreme of ignominy, 
setting him on a beast of burden. 

On a signal from the emperor, all 
the French have turned their horses* 
heads, and throw themselves eagerly 
back into the dark defiles and by the 
rapid streams. Charles rides on in 
haste. There is not one who, as he 
runs, does not sigh and say to his 
neighbor, " If we could only find 
Roland, and at least see him before 
he dies! How many blows have 
we not struck together !" 

Alas ! to what purpose are these 
vain efforts! They are too far off, 
and cannot reach him in time. 

Yet Roland glances anxiously 
around him. On the heights, in the 
plain, he sees nothing but French- 
men slain. The noble knight weeps 
and prays for them. " Lords bar- 
ons, may God have you in his grace, 
and may he open to your souls the 
gate of his paradise, making them lie 
down upon its holy flowers ! Better 
warriors than you I have never seen; 
you have served us so long, you 
have conquered for us so many 



lands! O land of France! my so 
sweet country, behold, thou art wid- 
owed of many brave hearts ! Barons 
of France, you died by my fault. I 
have not been able to save you 
or guard you; may God be jour 
helper — God, who is always trael 
If the sword slay me not, yet shall I 
die of grief Oliver, my brother, let 
us return to the fight." 

Roland appears again in the mt- 
Ue, As the stag before the hounds, 
so do the pagans flee before Roland. 
Behold, however, Marsilion, coming 
forth as a warrior, and overthrowing 
on his way G6rard de Roussillon and 
other brave Frenchmen. " Perdi- 
tion be your portion," cries Roland, 
"for thus striking down my com- 
rades ! " And with one back-stroke of 
Durandal he cuts off his hand, seiz- 
ing at the same time the fair hair of 
Jurfalen, the king's son. At this 
sight the Saracens cry out, " Save us, 
Mahomet ! Avenge us of these ac- 
cursed ones: they will never give 
way. Let us flee I let us flee !" So 
saying, a hundred thousand of them 
took flight, nor is there fear that they 
will ever return. 

But what avails it that Marsilion 
has fled ? His uncle, Marganice, re- 
mains in the field with his black-vis- 
aged Ethiopians. He steals behind 
Oliver, and strikes him a mortal 
blow in the middle of the back. 
"There is one," he cries, "whose 
destruction avenges us for all we have 
lost!" Oliver, stricken to death, 
raises his arm, lets fall Hauteclaire 
on the head of Marganice, makes 
the diamonds sparkling on it Ay 
around in shivers, and splits his head 
down to the teeth. " Accursed pa- 
gan," he says, " neither to thy wife 
nor to any lady of thy land shait 
thou boast that thou hast slain me. 
Then he calls Roland to his aid. 

Roland sees Oliver livid and color- 
less, with the blood streaming dowo* 



The Song of Roland. 



495 



At this sight he feels himself faint- 
ing, and swoons upon his horse. 
Oliver perceives it not; he has lost 
so much blood that his eyes fail ; he 
sees neither things far-oflf nor near. 
His arm, which goes on wishing to 
strike, raises ITauteclaire, and it is on 
the hemlet of Roland that the blow 
falls, cutting it through down to the 
nasal, but without touching his head. 
At this blow, Roland looks at him, 
and asks gently, " My comrade, did 
you purpose to do this? It is I, 
Roland, your dearest friend. I know 
not that you have defied me/' 

And Oliver answers, *' I hear you ; 
it is your voice, but I see you not at 
all. If I have struck you, pardon 
me, my friend !" 

*• You have done me no hurt, my 
brother," answers Roland, " and I 
forgive you here and before God." 
At these words they bend towards 
one another, and are separated dur- 
ing this tender adieu ! 

Roland cannot tear himself away 
from the body of his friend, stretch- 
ed lifeless on the earth; he con- 
templates him, weeps over him, and 
aloud reminds him of so many days 
passed togctlier in perfect friendship. 
Oliver being dead, what a burden to 
him is life 1 

During this time, without his hav- 
ing perceived it, all our French had 
perished, excepting only the arch- 
bishop and Gauthier. Wounded, but 
still standing, they call to Roland. 
He hears and joins them. The pa- 
gans cry out, " Tliese are terrible 
^^en; Jet us take, heed not to leave 
one of them alive." And from all 
sides they throw themselves upon 
them. Gauthier falls ; Turpin has his 
Mmct cloven, his hauberk torn, four 
wounds in his body, and his horse 
I^illed under him. Roland, thinking 
^^f the emperor, again seizes his oli" 
fiint, but he can only draw from it a 
feeble and plaintive note. 



Charles hears it notwithstanding. 
" Woe betide us !" he cries. " Roland, 
my de^r nephew, we come too late ! 
I know it by the sound of his horn. 
March ! Sound clarions I" And all 
the clarions of the host sounded to- 
gether. The noise reached the ears 
of the pagans. " Alas !" they say to 
each other, " it is Charles returning ! 
It is the great emperor. O fatal day 
for us! All our chiefs are in the 
dust. If Roland lives, the war will 
begin again, and our Spain is lost to 
us. Never will he be vanquished 
by any man of flesh and blood. Let 
us not go near, but from afar oft" cast 
at him our darts." Thereupon they 
withdraw, and rain upon him, from 
a distance, darts and arrows, lances 
and spears. Roland's shield is pierc- 
ed, his hauberk broken and unfasten- 
ed ; his body is untouched, but 
Vaillantif, wounded in twenty places, 
falls dead beneath his master. This 
blow given, all the pagans flee at 
full speed further into Spain. 

Roland, without horse, is unable 
to follow the fugitives. He goes to 
the succor of the archbishop, unla- 
ces his helmet, binds up his gaping 
wounds, presses him to his heart, and 
gently lays him on the grass. Then 
he says to him softly, " Shall we 
leave without prayers our compan- 
ions who lie dead around us, and 
whom we loved so well ? I will 
fetch their bodies, and bring them 
before you." 

** Go," answers the archbishop, " we 
are masters of the field ; go, and re- 



turn agam. 



>f 



Roland leaves him, and advances 
alone into the field of carnage, 
seeking on the mountain, seeking 
in the valley. He finds them— his 
brave comrades and the Duke San- 
che, the aged Ans6is, and Gerard, 
and Berenger. One by one he 
brings them, laying them at the knees 
of the priest, who weeps while he 



496 



The Song of Roland, 



blesses them. But when it comes to 
the turn of Oliver; when Roland 
would carry the body of this dear 
comrade, closely pressed agamst his 
heart, his face grows paie, his 
strength forsakes him, and he falls 
fainting on the ground. 

The archbishop at this sight feels 
himself seized with a deathlike grief. 
There is, in this valley of Roncevaux, 
a running stream ; if only he could 
give some water to Roland ! He 
seizes the olifant^ and tries, with slow 
steps, to drag himself tremblingly 
along. But he is too feeble to ad- 
vance. His strength fails, and he 
falls, with his face to the earth, in the 
pangs of death. 

Roland revives, and sees the 
prostrate warrior. With his eyes 
rnised to heaven, and with joined 
hands, he makes his confession to 
God, and prays him to open to the 
good soldier of Charlemagne the 
gate of his paradise. Then he ap- 
proaches the bleeding body of the 
holy prelate, raises his beautiful white 
hands, and lays them cross- wise on 
Ins breast, bidding him a tender 
arlieu. 

But Roland in his turn now feels 
that the hand of death is upon him. 
He prays to God for his peers, sup- 
phcating him to call them to himself, 
and invokes the holy angel Gabriel. 
Taking in one hand the olifant^ and 
Durandal in the other, he climbs an 
eminence looking towards Spain, and 
there, in the green corn, underneath 
a tree, he lets himself sink upon the 
ground. 

Near at hand, behind a marble 
rock, a Saracen, lying in the midst of 
the corpses, his face stained with 
blood, the better to counterfeit death, 
was watching him. He sees him 
fall, and, suddenly springing up, he 
runs to him, crying out, " Conquer- 
ed ! the nephew of Charles ! His 
sword is mine; I will carry it to 



Arabia!" He tries to draw it, but 
Roland has felt something, opens hi§ 
eyes, and says, " You are not one of 
our people, it seems to me;" and 
with a blow of his olifant lays him 
dead at his feet. '* Miscreant," he says, 
*' thou art very bold^ — some would 
say very mad — thus to lay hands on 
me. However, 1 have split my oU- 
fant; the gold and precious stones 
are shaken from it by the blow." 

Little by little Roland finds that 
his sight is failing him. He raises 
himself on his feet, trying to support 
himself as best he may ; but his coun- 
tenance is colorless and livid. On a 
rock hard by he strikes ten blows 
with Durandal. He would fain breai; 
it, his valiant sword. What grief and 
mourning would it not be to leave it 
to the pagans ! May this shame be 
spared to France ! But the steel cuts 
into the rock, and does not break. 
Roland strikes anew upon a rock of 
sardonyx. Not the least fiaw in the 
steel ! He strikes again. The rock 
flies in pieces, but the steel resists. 
" Ah ! " he cries, " Holy Mary help 
me ! My Durandal, thou who didst 
so brightly gleam in this resplendent 
sun; thou, so beautiful and sacred, 
who wast given to me by Charles at 
the command of God himself; thou 
by whom I have conquered Brittany 
and Normandy, Maine and Poitou, 
Aquitaine and Romagna, Flanders, 
Bavaria, Germany, Poland, Constan- 
tinople, Saxony, Iceland, and Eng- 
land, long hast thou been in the 
hands of a valiant man ; shalt thou 
fall now into a coward's power? 
Ah ! sacred Durandal, in thy golden 
guard how 'many precious relics arc 
enshrined ! — a tooth of S. Peter, the 
blood of S. Basil, some hair of S. 
Denis, a portion of Our Lady*s robe 
— and shall ever any pagan possess 
thee ? A brave man and a Christian 
has alone the right to use thee." 

Even as he utters these words, 



The Song of Roland, 



A97 



death is stealing over him, until it 
reaches his heart He stretches him- 
self at length upon the green grass, 
laying under him his sword and his 
dear oiijhni; then, turning his face 
towards the Saracens, that Charles 
and his men should say, on finding 
him thus, that he died victorious, he 
smites on his breast, and cries to God 
for mercy. The memory of many 
things then comes back to him — the 
memory of so many brave fights ; of 
his sweet country ; of the people of 
liis lineage ; of Charles, his lord, who 
nourished him ; and then his thoughts 
turn also to himself: " My God, our 
true Father, who never canst deceive, 
who didst bring Lazarus back from 
the dead, and IDaniel from the teeth 
of the lions, save my soul ! Snatch it 
from the peril of the sins which I have 
committed during my life ! " And so 
saying, with his head supported on 
his arm, with his right hand he reaches 
out his gauntlet towards God. S. 
Gabriel takes it, and God sends his 
angel cherubim and S. Michael, 
called « di4 PMi:* By them and by 
Oabriel the soul of the count is borne 
into paradise. 

Charlemagne has returned into 
this valley of Roncevaux. Not a 
rood, not an inch of earth, which is 
not covered by a corpse. With a 
loud voice Charles calls the name of 
his nephew ; he calls the archbishop, 
and G^rin, and Berenger, and the 
Duke Sanche, and Ang^lier, and all 
his peers. To what purpose ? There 
are none to answer. "Wherefore 
was I not in this fight ?" he cries, 
tearing his long beard and /ainting 
with grief; and the' whole army la- 
ments with him. These weep for 
their sons, those for their brothers, 
their nephews, their friends, their 
lords. 

In the midst of all this mourning, 
the Duke Naymes, a sagacious man, 
approaches the emperor. " Look in 
VOL. xviii. — 32 



front," he says. " See these dusty 
roads. It is the pagan horde in 
flight. To horse! We must be 
avenged I " 

Charles, before setting forth, com- 
mands four barons and a thousand 
knights to guard the field of battle. 
" Leave the dead there as they are," 
he says. " Keep aw^y the wild 
beasts, and let no man touch them, 
neither squires nor varlets, until the 
hour, please God, of our return." 
Then he bade them sound the charge, 
and pursued the Saracens. 

The sun is low in the heavens; 
the night is near, and the pagans are 
on the point of escaping in the eve- 
ning shadows; but an angel de- 
scends from heaven. " March," he 
says to Charles. '^ Continue march- 
ing; the light shall not fail you." 

And the sun stays in the sky. The 
pagans flee, but the French overtake 
and slay them. In the .swift-flow- 
ing Ebro the fugitives are drowned. 
Charles dismounts from his charger, 
and prostrates himself, giving thanks 
to God. When he rises, the sun is 
set. It is too late to return to 
Roncevaux; the army is exhausted 
with fatigue. Charles, with a mourn- 
irfg heart, weeps for Roland and his 
companions until he sinks to sleep. 
All his warriors sleep also, lying on 
the ground; and even the horses 
cannot remain standing. Those 
which want to feed graze as they lie 
upon the fresh grass. 

In the night, Charles, guarded by 
his holy angel, who watches by his 
side, sees the future in a vision ; he 
sees the rude combat in which short- 
ly he will need to engage. 

During this time, Marsilion, ex- 
hausted, mutilated, has managed to 
reach Saragossa. The queen utters 
a cry at the sight of her husband, 
cursing the evil gods who have be- 
trayed him. One hope alone re- 
mains. The old Baligant, Emir of 



498 



The Song of Roland. 



Babylon, will not leave them without 
succor. He will come to avenge 
them. Long ago Marsilion sent let- 
ters to him \ but Babylon is very far 
away, and the delay is great. 

The emir, on receiving the letters, 
sends for the governors of his forty 
kingdoms ; he causes galleys to be 
equipped and assembled in his port 
of Alexandria, and, when the month 
of May arrives, on the first day of 
summer he launches them into the 
sea. 

This fleet of the enemy is immense ; 
and how obedient to the sail, to the 
oar, to the helm ! At the top' of these 
masts and lofty yards how many fires 
are lighted ! The waves glitter afar 
off in the darkness of the night, and, 
as they draw near the shores of 
Spain, the whole of the coast is illu- 
minate'd by them. The news soon 
flies to Saragossa. 

Marsilion, in his distress, resigns 
Iiimself to do homage for Spain to 
the Emir Baligant. With his left 
hand, which alone remains to him, 
he presents his glove, saying, " Prince 
Emir, I place all my possessions in 
your hands; defend them, and, 
avenge me." The emir receives his 
glove, and engages to bring him the 
head of the old Charles; then he 
throws himself on his horse, as he 
cries out to the Saracens, " Come, let 
us march ; or the French will escape 
us." 

At daybreak Charles sets out for 
Roncevaux. As they draw near, he 
says to those about him, " Slacken 
your pace somewhat, my lords; I 
would go on before alone to seek 
my nephew. I remember that, on a 
certain festival at Aix, he said that, 
should it be his hap to die in a for- 
eign land, his body would be found 
ill front of his men and of his peers, 
with his face turned towards the land 
of the enemy, in token that he died 
a conqueror— brave heart !" So 



saying, - he advances alone, and 
mounts the hill. He recognizes on 
three blocks of rock the strokes of 
Durandal, and on the grass hard by 
the body of his nephew. "Friend 
Roland," he cries out in extreme 
anguish, as he raises the corpse with 
his own hands, — "friend Roland, 
may God place thy soul among the 
flowers of his paradise, in the midst 
of his glorious saints! Alas! what 
hast thou come to do in Spain I Not 
a day will there be henceforth in 
which I shall not weep for thee. 
Relations still I have, but yet not 
one like thee 1 Roland, ray friend, 
I return to France ; and when I shall 
be in my palace at Laon^ people will 
come to me from every quarter, say- 
ing. Where is the captain ? And I 
shall make answer. He is dead in 
Spain! My nephew is dead, by 
whom I gained so many lands. And 
now, who shall command my armies ? 
Who shall sustain my empire? 
France, my sweet country, they who 
have caused his death have destroy- 
ed thee !" 

When he had thus given free 
course to his grief, his barons re- 
quested that the last duties should 
be performed for their companions. 
They collect the dead, and bum 
sweet perfumes around them; then 
are they blessed and incensed, and 
buried with great pomp, excepting 
Roland, Oliver, and Abp. Turpin, 
whose bodies are laid apart to be car- 
ried into France. 

They were preparing for departure 
when in the distance appeared the 
Saracen vanguard. The emperor tears 
himself away from his grief, turns his 
fiery glance upon his people, and 
cries aloud with his strong and clear 
voice, "Barons and Frenchmen, to 
horse and to arras !" 

The army is forthwith put in rea- 
diness for the combat. Charles dis- 
poses the order of battle. He forms 



The Song of Roland. 



499 



ten cohorts, giving to each a brave 
and skilful chief, and placing him- 
self at the head. By his side Geof- 
frey of Anjou bears the oriflamrae, 
and Guinenant the olifani, 

Charles alights and prostrates him- 
self, with an ardent prayer, before 
God, then mounts his horse, seizes 
his spear and shield, and with a 
serene countenance throws himself 
forward. The clarions sound, but 
above the clarions there rings the 
clear note of the olifant. The sol- 
diers weep as they hear it, thinking 
upon Roland. 

The emir, on his part, has passed 
his Soldiers in review. He also dis- 
poses his army in cohorts, of which 
there are thirty, as powerful as they 
are brave; then calling on Maho- 
met, and displaying his standard, he 
rushes with mad pride to meet the 
French. 

Terrible is the shock. On both 
sides the blood flows in streams. 
The fight and slaughter continue with- 
out ceasing until the day closes, and 
then, in the twilight, Charles and the 
emir encounter each other. They 
fight so fiercely that soon the girths 
i>f their horses break, the saddles 
turn round, and both find themselves 
on the ground. Full of rage, they 
draw their swords, and the deadly 
combat begins anew between them. 

Charles is well-nigh spent. Stun- 
ned bv a blow which has cloven his 
helmet, he staggers, and is on the 
point of falling; but he hears passing 
by his ear the holy voice of the an- 
gel Gabriel, who cries out to him, 
'•Great king, what doest thou?" 
At this voice, his vigor returns, and 
the emir falls beneath the sword of 
France. 

The pagan host flees ; our French 
])ursue them into Saragossa; the 
town is taken, and King Marsilion 
«1ics of despair. The conquerors 
make war against the false gods, and 



with great blows of their battle- 
axes break the idols in pieces. They 
baptize more than a hundred thou- 
sand Saracens, and those who resist 
they hang or burn, except the Qiieen. 
Bramimonde, who is to be taken as a. 
captive into France, Charles desir- 
ing to convert her by gentle means. 

Vengeance is satisfied. They put 
a garrison into the town, and return, 
to France. In passing through Bor- 
deaux, Charles places upon the altar 
of S. Severin his nephew's olifant ; 
there pilgrims may see it even to this 
day. Then in great barks they 
traverse the Gironde, and in S. Ro- 
main-de-Blaye they bury the noble 
Roland, the faithful Oliver, and the 
brave archbishop. 

Charles will not again halt on his 
way, nor take any repose, until he 
reaches his great city of Aix. Be- 
hold him arrived thither. He sends 
messengers through all his kingdoms 
and provinces, commanding the pre- 
sence of the peers of his court of jus- 
tice to take proceedings against Gan- 
elon. 

On entering his palace, he sees 
coming to him the young and gentle 
lady, the fair Aude. •* Where," she 
asks, " is Roland — Roland the Cap- 
tain, who promised to take me for 
his wife ?" Charles, upon hearing 
these words, feels his deadly grief 
awaken, and weeps burning tears. 
" My sister and dear friend, he of 
whom you speak is now no more ! ' 
I will give you in his place a spouse 
worthy of you — Louis, my son, who • 
will inherit all my kingdoms; more 
I cannot say." 

" These are strange words," she • 
answers; "God forbid, and the an- 
gels and saints likewise, that, Ro- 
land being dead, Aude should live !" ' 
So saying, she grew pale, and, fall- 
ing at the feet of Charlemagne, she 
died. God show to her his mercy ! 

The emperor will not believe but 



5CX) 



The Song of Roland. 



that she has fainted: he takes her 
hands, lifts her up; but alas, her 
head falls down upon her shoulder; 
her death is only too true. Four 
countesses are commanded to watch 
by her all the night, and to cause her 
to be nobly buried in a convent of 
nuns. 

While they are weeping for the 
fair Aude, and Charlemagne renders 
to her the last honors, Ganelon , beat- 
en with rods and laden with chains, 
awaits his sentence. 

The peers are assembled. Gane- 
lon appears before them, and de- 
fends himself with subtlety. " I am 
avenged," he says, " but I have be- 
trayed no one." The judges look at 
each other, and are inclined to be 
lenient. "Sire," they say to the 
emperor, " let him live ; he is a good 
nobleman. His death will not restore 
to you Roland, your nephew, whom 
we shall never see more." And 
Charles exclaims : " You all betray 
me !" 

Upon this, one of them, Thierry, 
brother to Geoffrey of Anjou, says to 
the emperor : " Sire, be not disquieted ; 
I condemn Ganelon. I say that he 
is a perjurer and a traitor, and I con- 
demn him to death. If he has any 
kin who dares to say that I lie, I 
have this sword wherewith to answer 
him." 

Forthwith Pinabel, the friend of 
Ganelon, brave, alert, vigorous, ac- 
cepts the challenge. At the gates of 
Aix, in the meadow, the two cham- 
pions, well- confessed, well- absolved 
and blessed, their Mass heard, and 
their swords drawn, prepare them- 
selves for the combat. God only 
knows how it will end. 
^ Pinabel is vanquished, and all the 



barons bow before the decision of 
God. All say to the emperor, " He 
ought to die." 

Ganelon dies the death of a traitor 
— he is quartered. 

Then the emperor assembles his 
bishops. •* In my house," he says to 
them, " a noble captive has learnt so 
much by sermons and examples that 
she desires to believe in God. Let 
her be baptized ; it is the Queen pf 
Spain." They baptize her, therefore, 
under the name of Julienne. She has 
become a Christian from the depths 
of her heart 

The day departs ; night covers the 
earth. The emperor sleeps in his 
vaulted chamber. The angel known 
to Charles, S. Gabriel, descends to 
his bedside, and says to him on the 
part of God : " To the city which the 
pagans are besieging, Charles, it is 
needful that thou march. The Chris- 
tians cry aloud for thee." 

"God !" cries the king, "how pain 
ful is my life." And, weeping, he 
tears his long white beard. 

Here ends the song which Turol- 
dus has sung. 

We will conclude, as we began, 
with the words of the original, giving 
the last stanza of the poem (ccxcvi ) 

" Quant Temperfcre ad faite sa justise. 
K eacUrj^e est sue g^rant ire, 
En Bramidonie (Bramimonde) ad chrestieotel 

mise, 
Passet li jurz, >a nuit est ascrie, 
Culcez s'est li rei en sa cambre voIUce. 
Seint Gabriel de part Deu li vint dire, 

* Carles, semun les oz de tun empire, 
Par force iras en tere de Bire ; 
Reis Vivien si sucuras en Imphe 

A la citet que paien unt asize, 

Li chrestien te recleiment e crient* 

Li emperfrre n'i volsist aler mie : 

* Deus !' dist 11 reis, * si penuse est ma Tie ! 
PI u ret des oilz, sa barbe blanche tireL' 

— Ci fait la geste que Turoldus declineL 

A 01. 



Veni/e, Adoremus, 501 



VENITE, ADOREMU&* 

God an infant — born to-dav ! 

Born to live, to die for me I 
Bow, my soul : adoring say, 

" Lord, I lire, I die, for thee." 
Humble then, but fearless, rise : 
Seek the manger where he lies. 

Tread with awe the solemn ground ; 

Though a stable, mean and rude, 
Wondering angels all around 

Throng the seeming solitude : 
Swelling anthems, as on high, 
Hail a second Trinity.t 

'Neath the cavern's % dim-lit shade 

Meekly sleeps a tender form : 
God on bed of straw is laid ! 

Breaths of cattle keep him warm I 
King of glory, can it be 
Thou art thus for love of me ? 

Hail, my Jesus, Lord of might — 

Here in tiny, helpless hand 
Thy creation's infinite 

Holding like a grain of sand ! ' 
Hail, my Jesus — ^all my own : 
Mine as if but mine alone ! ' 

Hail, my Lady, full of grace ! 

Maiden- Mother, hail to thee ! 
Poring on the radiant face. 

Thine a voiceless ecstasy ; 
Yet, sweet Mother, let me dare 
Join the homage of thy prayer. 

Mother of God, O wondrous name ! 

Bending seraphs own thee Queen. 
Mother of God, yet still the same 

Mary thou hast ever been : 
Still so lowly, though so great ; 
Mortal, yet immaculate I 

^ Thh It A fl0coB4 edition of a lyric thmt appeared in Tkb Cathouc World four yfltil tfo. The 
tUerations are to considerable as to make it a nevr poem. 
t Jesttt, Mary, and Joseph are called *' The Earthly Trinity.'* 
X It was a cavern used lor a liable. 



502 



The Fur Trader. 



Joseph, hail — of gentlest power ! 

Shadow of the Father • thou. 
Thine to shield in danger's hour 

Whom thy presence comforts now. 
Mary trusts to thee her cliild ; 
He his Mother undefiled. 

Jesus, Mary, Joseph, hail ! 

Saddest year its Christmas brings. 
Comes the faith that cannot fail, 

With the shepherds and the kings : 
Gold, and myrrh, and incense sweet 
Come to worship at your feet. 

*SeeFaber*i Btthlehtm, 



THE FUR TRADER. 



A TALE OF THE NORTHWEST. 



CONCLUDED. 



The next morning, at a very early 
hour, it was apparent that an assem- 
blage of Indians at the council lodge 
had been summoned, to consider the 
proposal of the missionary. His 
hopes were encouraged when he no- 
ted that many of the old men and 
earliest converts were mingling with 
the fierce warriors and young men 
of the vicinity, on their way to the 
place of meeting. 

After some time, a delegation, with 
the brave who had borne the mes- 
sage of the priest to his chief at their 
head, proceeded with measured and 
stately steps from the council lodge 
to that of the missionary, where they 
were received with the silent and 
ceremonious solemnity so dear to 
Indians. 

Tlie result of the debate, which 
they communicated, was, that their 
foes should be requested to meet 



them — under guaranty of the mis- 
sionary for their good faith, and the 
assurance that the injured party would 
meet them unarmed, if they also 
would leave their arms behind — that 
the proposed council should be sol- 
emnly held. Should its decision be 
for peace, all should join in the pur- 
suit and recapture of the maiden ; if 
otherwise, time should be allowed 
for the foe to regain their camps be- 
fore her people should take the war- 
path. 

The trapper departed immediately 
to proclaim these decisions in the 
nearest camps of the hostile party, 
and to secure their general diffusion 
among those tribes. The missionary 
soon set out to notify the residents 
of other missions, after seeing that 
the young chief had despatched run- 
ners to summon a full attendance of 
his own people and friends. 



The Fur Trader. 



503 



There is wonderful despatch in the 
simple machinery set in motion by 
the aborigines of our country upon 
such occasions, executing their pur- 
pose with a speed which proves their 
ignorance of the wise " circumlocu- 
tion offices " of civilization. 

Immediate preparations were set 
on foot at the appointed rendezvous 
for entertaining a multitude. Large 
parties were sent out in quest of 
game. The women of the vicinity 
assembled to prepare the meats, the 
camash^ the wappato^ and the bitter 
root, for a great feast. 

During the three days succeeding 
the transactions related above, mul- 
titudes were to be seen gathering 
from all quarters, and taking their 
course to the village where they were 
to meet, in profound silence, and 
with the grave composure befitting 
an assembly before which the tre- 
mendous issues of life and death 
were to be discussed. 

The trapper came with a large 
party of the fiercest warriors whom 
the wiles of the " Northwester" had 
deceived. Several priests from scat- 
tered missions, more or less remote, 
with their converted Indians, arrived. 
Numerous savages of both sides ad- 
vanced in parties by themselves, car- 
ing for nothing but blood and plun- 
der should war be the word, or feast- 
ing and revelry should it be peace. 
French Creoles, half-breeds, Canadian 
vayageurSj coureurs dts bois^ and free 
trappers, completed the list of this 
wild and miscellaneous assemblage. 

Arrangements were made with 
great precision for the opening of 
the council. When the council 
lodge was in readiness, notice for 
the assembling of the various dele- 
gates was proclaimed from its roof 
by an Indian crier. 

The missionaries passed in first, 
followed by the chiefs, and seated 
themselves on a semicircular platform 



slightly elevated from the earthen 
floor at the further end of the lodge, 
the priests sitting in the centre, be- 
tween the two parties, as umpires. 
Then the elders, the delegates, and 
the warriors took their seats upon 
the floor along each side of the 
lodge. 

The oldest chief of the injured 
confederates arose, and proceeded 
with calm dignity to explain the rela- 
tions which the two parties, although 
ancient enemies even unto blood, 
had maintained with each other 
since they had been mutually moved 
by the message of peace, delivered 
by the holy Black Gowns, to bury 
the hatchet and live, as Christian 
brethren should, in peace and amity. 
He showed how faithfully those of 
his side, on their part, had kept the 
compact, depicting in vivid colors 
their grief and horror at the perfidy 
of their brothers, and the cruel 
slaughter of their innocent and un- 
suspecting friends. When he de- 
scribed, the ambush, the sudden at- 
tack, the death of the old chief, and 
the murder of his followers; the 
plunder of their goods, the massacre 
of the women and children, and the 
capture of the cherished daughter of 
her race, it was fearful to see among 
the warriors the kindling passion for 
revenge flashing from fiery eyes 
which glared like those of the tiger 
thirsting for blood, though their man- 
ner remained otherwise cool, collect- 
ed, and subdued. 

At the close of this harangue, he 

called upon his brother,* the oldest 

chief of the opposite party, to reply, 

and state what he could in justifica- 

. tion of their conduct 

With the same lofty composure, 
the respondent recapitulated and 
confirmed all that had been stated as 
to the former enmity and the friendly 

* Indians always address their equals as 
'* brolben.'* 



">''; 



: yr \ 



504 









*s*^". 






yA^ -Fur Trader* 



relations promoted and established 
between them by the labors and in- 
fluence of the Black Gowns. 

He then set forth in glowing lan- 
guage the dismay with which his peo- 
ple and their allies had heard that 
these their pretended friends were 
joining among themselves and with 
the new American companies — under 
the sanction of the missionaries — for 
their destruction and the possession 
of their hunting-grounds. That 
their good friends of the Northwest 
Company had warned them of their 
impending ruin, and furnished arms 
and ammunition, that they might 
avert the calamity by making the 
first attack themselves. That this 
was their sole motive for the act, 
and in self-defence, for self-preserva- 
tion, they were ready to pursue the 
war-path as long as a man was left 
of their tribes to fight. But as to 
the massacre at the encampment, 
and abduction of the maiden, he in- 
dignandy denied for himself, his 
people, and their allies, all knowledge 
of any such place, or aid in its fulfil- 
ment, or of the instruments by whidi 
it had been executed. 

Convictions of the crafty fabrica- 
tions by which the Northwest Com- 
pany, through its wily commander, 
had beguiled them, fastened gradual- 
ly upon the minds of both parties, as 
their history was thus opened. 

The missionaries now proceeded 
to re-establish peace, in which they 
were so successful that the calumet 
was duly passed from one to another 
through the whole assembly. Before 
the close of the council the terms of 
a new alliance were fully settled, and 
all parties pledged to fidelity in main- 
taining it, and diligence in seeking the 
lost maiden. 

Muttered threats were breathed 
against the Northwest Company, and 
especially its false commander, and a 
determination to take his life vehe- 



mently expressed. The missionaries 
reproved these threats so sternly 
that they were accused of befriend- 
ing him, and the trapper was again 
obliged to exert all his influence in 
quelling the rising distrust 

Meanwhile, preparations i<x a grand 
banquet, after the most approved and 
bountiful mode of savage magnifi- 
cence, had been going on, and the 
village was redolent of savory odois 
from every variety of meat and vege- 
tables in process of cooking accord- 
ing to the Indian fashions. 

The great assemblage regaled 
themselves plentifully, but with staid 
decorum. The mirth, the dancing, 
and the songs, customary upon such 
occasions, were omitted, out oi re- 
spect for the memory of the departed 
chief and the sorrows of his son. 

At the close of the feast, the Rosa- 
ry was recited by the missionaries 
and their converts; after which the 
parties who were to set out in quest 
of the maiden were duly orgaaiKed 
and equipped with arms and ammu- 
nition, procured for the purpose from 
the nearest American station. These 
were so dispersed as to surround by 
a long circuit the principal trading 
post of the Northwest Company— at 
which the commander made his bead* 
quarters — and draw towards it by 
narrowing circles, to intercept aoy 
party which might be sent to convey 
the object of their search to some 
other place should news of their ex- 
pedition reach the post before their 
arrival. A runner accompanied each 
party to notify the next of any impor- 
tant incident touching the interests of 
their expedition. 

As they were patiently and gradual- 
ly converging toward their destination, 
one detachment met a party of trad- 
ers from the Hudson's Bay Com- 
pany, who informed them that the 
" Northwester " whom they sought 
was absent 



The Fur Trader^^^F.xTlV^^^ 505 



He bad failed to meet them, as he 
had agreed, to arrange terms of re- 
quital with them lot plunder commit- 
ted upon their territory by his agents ; 
and had departed a day or two be- 
fore, with a fleet of canoes and a 
large party of voyagcurs, down the 
river to an American station which 
was commanded by a former partner 
in his company, with whom he was 
on terms of suspicious intimacy, con- 
sidering their rival interests. 

There were a number of women in 
the canoes, supposed to be the wives 
of the twyageurs. 

This intelligence changed the 
course of the expedition. The sever- 
al bands were notified, and united as 
speedily as possible, to make their way 
to the station indicated. 

When they reached its vicinity, 
they found a great carousal was on 
foot there. The boisterous mirth and 
revelry that prevailed made it easy 
to reconnoitre without detection. 
They soon discovered the quarters 
where the women were assembled. 
It was a large tent or camp, guarded 
from intruders by a detachment of 
vcyageurs and their wives. The 
Connecticut trapper sauntered care- 
lessly up to one of the sentinels, and 
began playing off some rough jokes 
of the wilderness upon him, in the 
mingled jargon of Indian dialects 
and Canadian /a/i7i> used among that 
class. 

He found the fellow sulky and 
silent ; not too well pleased with the 
duty assigned him, and impatient to 
join the revellers. He very kindly 
offered — " bein' a man of sobriety 
and havin' no hankerin' for such 
doin's " — to relieve the watcher, and 
take his place for a time. As he was 
a Yankee, who, as the Canadian 
stranger supposed, might belong to 
the station, he did not hesitate to ac- 
cept the offer. 
From this tent, on the west side, a 



patch of very high grass extended 
to a dense dump of bushes at some 
distance. After the new guardian 
had surveyed the premises for some 
time, with his habitual air of careless 
indifference, he caught a glimpse 
through the door, over which a buf- 
falo robe had been hung to close it, 
of the woman who attended the 
daughter of the chief. All doubt of 
the maiden's presence vanished before 
that vision. But how to give notice 
that friends were near ? Pacing slowly 
back and forth close beside the tent, 
he uttered distinctly, in a low voice, 
the sacred name given the maiden in 
baptism, and known to none here 
but her attendant — " Josephine !" and 
was delighted lo receive a quick re- 
ply, "S. Joseph!" He continued 
pacing, and humming carelessly, in 
her native dialect, a short of chant, 
as if for his own amusement, the words 
of which conveyed a distinct idea of 
the grass and the bushes west of the 
tent, and a hint that she could creep 
through the one unobserved, and find 
friends concealed in the covert of the 
other. 

Another sentinel accosted him, in 
derision, as a " merry singer," when 
he complained of this tedious busi- 

' ness of watching the women, and 
wished the fellow he had relieved 
would finish his frolic, and come 
back. 

<< He will be in no haste to do 
that," his companion replied. " Ga- 
briel is a sad gossip, and too fond of 
the drinking-cup to quit it without 

' compukion." 

Our trapper, favoring the impres- 
sion this man also had received that 
he belonged to the station, said he 
must be released to meet an engage- 
ment at this hour, or break the rules 
of the post ; when Gabriers daughter 
was called to go and summon her 
father. An interval elapsed which 
seemed an age to the trapper, whose 



5o6 



The Fur Trader. 



wonted coolness almost forsook him 
before the truant appeared, highly 
elated with liquor, and loth to resume 
his irksome duty. 

The relieved sentinel vanished to 
meet his " engagement," the result of 
which was that the ground in the 
high grass was speedily filled on both 
sides with armed and prostrate In- 
dians, listening for the rustle which 
would betray the presence of their 
coveted prize. 

Nor did they wait long ; and, when 
the maiden with her attendant crept 
stealthily by them, she was informed 
that a swift-footed pony was concealed 
in the covert of the bushes for her 
use. Her friends soon had the satis* 
faction of seeing them mounted, and 
flying, with the speed of the wind, in 
the direction of their distant home ; 
for the trapper had found a moment 
in which to direct her as to the course 
she was to take, and the maiden was 
no stranger to the use of the noble 
animal, in the management of which 
her people are trained from their in- 
fancy. 

Scarcely were they out of sight 
over the vast plain before their escape 
was discovered. A wild sortie of the 
revellers ensued. 

The commander, with the friend 
whom he was visiting, and his fa- 
vorite clerk, who was always with 
him, mounted on swift horses, started 
in pursuit of the fugitive, while his 
followers engaged in a bloody com- 
bat with her friends. The " North- 
wester" was the first to descry her in 
the distance, and his horse was gain- 
ing rapidly upon her frantic flight, 
when she suddenly changed her course 
toward the river, which here rushed 
through a gorge bounded by a preci- 
pice on each side. Putting his horse 
to its utmost speed, and shouting his 
entreaties that she would refrain from 
fulfilling the intention he too clearly 
divined, he plunged madly on, reach- 



ing the bank only in time to see the 
pony struggling in the wild waters; 
but the maiden had disappeared from 
his sight for ever 1 

While he was still lamenting, with 
frenzied exclamations, his own folly, 
and the dire calamity in which it had 
resulted, a pursuing party of her friends 
arrived. It was terrific to mark the 
fierce flash of eyes that fixed their 
blazing regard upon him from all 
sides, as his savage foes encircled 
him ! 

He seemed too completely lost in 
the tumult of his own grief, disap- 
pointment, and passion to heed their 
approach, or the imminent peril in 
which he stood, as one after another 
of the band drew up his rifle and pre- 
pared to fire upon him at a word 
from their leader, when the tall form 
of the trapper stalked into the circle, 
and his ringing voice gave the com- 
mand that was instinctively obeyed. 

" Down with your rifles, ye bloody- 
minded sarpints" — ^suiting a gesture 
to the word, that was understood in 
a twinkling. Then, addressing thera 
in their own tongue : " Are the red 
men wolves, that they would drink 
the blood of the pale chief without 
hearing what he has to say ? How 
will they answer to the holy Black 
Gown for the deed, or how will 
they face the pestilence and famine 
which will surely follow every life- 
drop that flows from the veins of the 
great medicine-man of the palefac- 
es ?" he added, appealing to the faith 
of the converted Indians, and to the 
superstitions of the unconverted, and 
whispering a brief sentence in the 
ear of the young chief, who had been 
maddened at the loss of his sister, 
but was subdued by the presence 
and words of the trapper. Then re- 
suming his own language, he said to 
himself as if musing — indulging a 
habit formed during his long a^*^ 
lonely wanderings — "I'm wiJlin' to 



The Fur Trader. 



507 



own the chap has many ways that 
a man of peace and justice like roy^ 
self can't approve by any manner of 
means, for they don't square with 
ray notions of what's right. But it 
may be more the misfortune of the 
critter than his fault, seein' he comes 
of them Britishers, whose blood, I 
conclude, carries its pesky pizin 
down from father to son to the third 
and fourth generation, as the holy 
commandments say both good and 
evil is carried. But there's two sides 
to every story, and I an't agoin' 
to stand by and see the life of a fel- 
ler-critter taken, if he tr a son of Sa- 
un, without hearin' both. Them In- 
jins an't sich angils of innocence 
either as to have the right to cast the 
first stone at the wicked. I'm not a 
prejudiced man, I hope, but 'cordin' 
10 my notion there an't a truer thing 
in natur 'cept the Holy Bible— which 
I uke to be the truest of all — than 
that they 're a tamal pack, take 'em 
l>y and large, and 'ud ruthcr drink 
blood than water any day, every mo- 
ther's son on' em, savin' and exceptin' 
always-«as lawyer Smith used to 
say— the Flat-heads and the Pendo- 
rays, who 're 'bout the likeliest folks 
I've met this side of the univarsal 
^orld, and have as nat'ral a twist 
towards Gospil light as the sunflower 
has to the sun. But all this is neither 
here nor there" — he said, rousing 
himself from his soliloquy, which the 
natives had heard to a close with quiet 
gravity, being accustomed to his man- 
ner ; and, striding up to the " North- 
wester," who remained sitting motion- 
less on hb horse, with his back to his 
pursuers and his eyes fixed upon the 
rushing flood, as if so petrified by 
^ne shocking event he had witnessed 
^ to have eyes or ears for nothing else 
— " Are you crazy, or a fool ? " ex- 
claimed the trapper in a low voice 
w he approached — " to sit here as 
unconsamed as if you was in a 



lady's parlor, with a hundred rifles 
raised to draw your heart's blood, 
and your long account with etamity 
all unsettled I What on airth is the 
critter thinkin' of I Speak quick ! or 
I wouldn't give the glim of a light- 
nin'-bug for all they'll leave of the 
vital spark in your carkiss in less'n 
the twinklin* of its wings ; they'll put 
daylight in its place, and your scalp'll 
be danglin' from the belt of the young 
chief in less time than it takes to 
speak the words — a sight I should 
greatly mislike, bein' a man of peace, 
though no great admirator of your 
race, any more'n I be of the In- 
juns." 

Suddenly assuming the careless 
manner natural to him, and turning 
towards the maddened throng with 
the scornful indiflerence which sel- 
dom forsook him, and was the best 
weapon he could have opposed to 
the fury of his savage foes at this 
critical juncture, the young man re- 
lated in a few words what had hap- 
pened. 

With a sneer of contempt, the In- 
dian appointed to speak for the band 
replied : " Did the Great Spirit give 
his bird wings that she might fly from 
the white chief to the home where his 
falsehood has sent her father ? or is 
she a flsh that she may cleave the 
waters of that flood and escape from 
him? No, no, our daughter lives! 
When the white chief says she went 
over the rock, his words are to de- 
ceive ; and when he bewails the fate 
of the maiden, he is making a false 
face. He sent the horse over the 
rock to blind the eyes of her people. 
He has a long arm and a strong 
voice, and can call his braves from 
every covert. He knows where he 
has hidden our daughter. But we will 
follow him even unto the homes of 
the palefaces, and lie in wait until 
more moons are counted than the 
hairs on his scalp would number, to 



5o8 



The Fur Trader, 



drink his blood at last Our feet will 
be swift to pursue and our knives to 
find his heart, even to the piercing 
of stone walls !" 

<* Lord give us patience with their 
Injin nonsense !" the trapper ejacu- 
lated Then, speaking in their lan- 
guage : *' Will nay red brethren waste 
time in idle words like prattling wo- 
men ? The white chief will go with 
us to the lodge of the holy Black 
Gown, whose words are truth, and 
whose counsels are wise and just. 
That's as true's you're alive, Heze- 
kiah," he proceeded, resuming his 
own tongue; and, as if moved by 
an irresistible impulse — " Talk about 
your Methodist preachers, your Pres- 
byterers, your Baptists, and all sorts, 
who deny that these missionaries hold 
to Gospel truth ! But let 'em obsarve 
how they follow out Gospel rules by 
layin' aside all critter comforts, for- 
sakin' father and mother, brother and 
sister, housen and lauds, and, comin' 
into these howlin' deserts, without 
scrip or staff, wives or children^ labor 
with their own hands for a livin', 
sharin' and puttin' up with all the 
poverty and hardships of the shiftless 
critters they come to teach — whose 
souls, I make no dispute, are of as 
much value fcnr the next worid, and in 
the sight of their Maker, as if they 
belonged to thoroughgoin', giniwine 
Yankees — though their works don't 
amount to much in this, even in the 
line of their callin' in furs and sich, 
at which a Connecticut trapper 'ill 
beat 'em all hollow any day." Then, 
suddenly recollecting himself, he again 
addressed his wild companions: " The 
Big Foot will {^edge his own life to 
his red brothers, against that of the 
white chief, that he prove not false 
in this matter ; and they will let the 
Black Gown say what his children 
shaU do." 

After some consultation the pro- 
posal was accepted, and without any 



great delay they all departed in the 
direction of the mission. 

When the missionary had exam- 
ined the matter after their arrival, he 
became convinced that the life of the 
young commander would be in dan- 
ger while he remained widiin reach 
of his exasperated foes, and would 
hardly be safe in his Montreal home 
from their revengeful pursuit He 
therefore advised him to leave with- 
out delay. 

The advice was scornfully rejected 
at first, but soon perceiving that \\ 
would be folly to provoke a £ue 
which flight only could evade, he 
joined a party who were leaving foi 
Lake Superior, to proceed thence by 
the usual route to Montreal, and was 
seen no more in those Northwestem 
regions. 



Many years had elapsed since 
these events took place. A dark 
and rainy night had succeeded a 
tempestuous autumnal day, and set- 
tled down like a wet mantle over 
Montreal, wrapping the city in its 
chilling folds. 

The street-lamps with which it 
was dimly lighted in the early even 
ings of yore — when oil furnished an 
obscure foreshadowing of this era of 
gas, that served only to make " dark- 
ness visible" — had gone out one by 
one, leaving the narrow streets, with 
their high stone houses overhanging 
on either side, in utter gloom. 

The twinkling of a lantern borne by 
an invisible pilgrim might be seen— 
like the transient dancing gleam of a 
will-o'-the-wisp— revealing occasioDai 
glimpses of a tall form by his side 
clad in the habit of the Society of 
Jesus, They were threading the 
narrow course of old St. Paul Street, 
which they followed until they 
reached a road that turned and as- 
cended a rising ground to the west, 
in the direction of a ^\xia nhere 



The Fur Trader. 



509 



here had formerly been a beaver 
•neadow of considerable extent, 
through which flowed a sluggish 
brook, but which was rapidly assum- 
ing the features now presented by 
that part of the city lying in the 
neighborhood of Beaver Hall Block. 
Into this road they turned, and, 
passing the district mentioned, took 
a path to the left, which led them to 
the base of the hill on the summit of 
which the city water-works and res- 
ervoir are now situated. 

In those days the ascent was by 
no means easy, and the aged father 
had to pause frequently to take 
breath during the course of it Hav- 
ing reached the height, and rested 
for a brief space, they turned again 
to the left into spacious, neglected 
grounds, surrounding a very large 
stone mansion which stood unfinished 
on the side of the mountain, as entire- 
ly isolated on that lonely height as if 
in the midst of vast solitudes, instead 
of the suburb of a populous and 
thriving city. So chilling, gloomy, 
and repulsive were all the features 
of the lofty edifice and its bleak en- 
virons, which had been an open 
common for many years, that even 
the reverend father, long accustomed 
to encounter such varied forms of 
desolation as the missionary in savage 
regions must continually meet, re- 
coiled unconsciously as he passed 
the dismal portal, which no door had 
ever closed, into the damp atmo- 
sphere within. Here the mouldy 
walls appeared to give shelter only 
to a multitude of owls and bats, 
whose wings flapped indignantly at 
the unwonted gleam of light in their 
dark dominion, and equally rare in- 
trusion of a guest upon the silence 
of their retreat. 

The man with the lantern passed on 
in advance, followed slowly and cau- 
tiously by his venerable companion, 
over a narrow platform constructed 



by laying planks on the timber of 
the framework, tmtil they came to a 
remote comer of the building, in 
which a small room had been awk- 
wardly prepared, and arranged in a 
manner to render it barely habitable. 
A more comfortless abode could 
hardly be imagined. Before the door 
of this rude apartment they paused, 
the guide inserted a key in the huge 
lock, the bolt of which yielded slowly 
as if fearing to betray its trust, the 
door creaked harshly on its rusty 
hinges and gave admittance to the 
reverend guest. 

Guided by the faint glimmer of a 
taper — standing on a rough block 
beside a bed on which the form of a 
man tossing in restless agony was 
dimly visible, the priest approached 
the sufferer, addressing some soothing 
words to him. 

" Ah, reverend father ! is it you ?" 
he faintly gasped. " It was kind of 
you to come through the storm this 
dismal night, and, after your long 
journey, to seek the lost sheep so 
utterly unworthy of your care ! I am 
near the close of a misspent and 
wasted life ! Will the worthless 
wreck offered at the eleventh hour 
in penitence and tears be accepted ? 
O father ! how true were the 
words you uttered when reproving 
my sinful course : * Unless you repent 
the wrongs you have inflicted, mak- 
ing such requital as remains within 
your power, a fearful retribution 
awaits you in this world, and eternal 
despair in the next.' The first part 
has been fulfilled — wife, children, 
family, and friends have fallen from 
me one by one, and for long years 
the victim of his own folly and ini- 
quity has lingered on desolate and 
alone— haunted by visions of retribu- 
tion and despair. But I have tried 
to be contrite, and to offer such con- 
trition as I could gain, in anguish 
and tears at the foot of my Redeem- 



510 



The Fur Trader, 



er's cross. May I not hope it will 
be accepted ? How I have longed, 
reverend (ather, for your return to 
Montreal ! The first emotion of joy 
my heart has known for years was im- 
parted when I heard from my attend- 
ant that you had at length arrived — 
jiist in time to hear my last confes- 
sion and console my dying hour, if 
there is indeed comfort for such a 
sinner. The blood of that Indian 
chief — ^singled first of all from his 
followers for death by my command 
(because he set his authority against 
my designs) — and that of his innocent 
daughter and her nurse, who perished 
by my means, have set a burning 
seal upon my guilty soul ; while the 
phantom of my injured wife, taken 
from me while I was pursuing my 
unhallowed passion, joins with theirs 
to reproach and haunt me. I am 
lost, lost in the horrors of remorse 
for the triple murder, added to an 
endless list of misdeeds 1 

" Peace, my son I" the reverend 
father said tenderly and firmly — 
*' though your sins are as scarlet, 
their guilt has not surpassed the 
bounds of Infinite mercy ! Nor has 
it reached so far as you suppose. 
The Indian maiden lives. A holy 
nun in an American convent, she 
has never ceased her supplications 
for the salvation of your soul, and 
for the pardon of her own weakness 
and disobedience to her father, in 
yielding her young heart's affections 
to your importunities before she 
learned, as she did on the voyage 
down the river, that you were already 
married, and sought only to make 
her your dishonored dupe. 

" She urged her horse over the 
precipice according to instructions 
from the trapper, who told her to fly 
with all speed in that direction, and 
at what point to turn to the river, if 
pursued and in danger of being over- 
taken. He also warned her to make 



no resistance to the cun:ent, or 
avoid being drawn into whirl 
but to let it carry her throng 
gorge to a place where the \ 
spread into a small lake, on the 
of which, near the foot of the 
she would find a singular cave 
ing toward the water, and easih 
where she must secrete hersel 
he should bring her brother t 
In all this she succeeded by th 
in swimming which seems to I 
of an Indian's nature. Wh( 
trapper and her brother sou^ 
hiding-place — with but faint h' 
deed of finding her — so great v 
dread of your power and of h 
weakness, that she entreated t 
keep the fact of her escape con 
and arrange for her departure 
company of traders belonging 
American stations, who were 
ing to leave with their wiv( 
pass the winter in a distant 
the United States. They 
left her, first providing me 
which her servant could obta 
food; and after the return 
party to me, those arrangemei 
made. Upon her arrival in tl 
and delivery of a letter fron* 
the superior of a convent tb 
was received into the hou 
soon after entered upon her i 
as one of its members." 

" And now, my son," he co 
** it only remains for you to 
for the solemnities of the a] 
ing hour, with deep humij 
contrition. I am sent by m; 
Master to call, *not the just, 
ners to repentance.' " 

The holy man remained 
dying penitent through tli 
and, while the morning be^ 
city were proclaiming the 
our salvation on the wing 
Angelas^ the spirit, so long ] 
with agonizing throes of ren 
at length reconciled and refr 



The Fur Trader. 



5" 



the healing dews of divine grace, 
passed to the tribunal before which 
it had so dreaded to appear, trusting 
solely in the merits of that Redeemer 
born of a Virgin for us, and who was 
now to be its Judge. 

He was the first and last occupant 
of the gloomy mansion that had been 
designed for the abode of almost 
regal magnificence. The phantoms 
of horror with which his distorted 
imagination had filled the vacant 
spaces within those extensive walls, 
and even the surrounding premises, 
led him to confine himself entirely to 
his room. And thus he lived for 
years, a prisoner in that dimly light- 
ed and cheerless apartment, attended 
only by the faithful servant who pro- 
vided his food, and haunted by dark 
remembrances of the past. 

The shadows of those visions still 
linger around the empty walls, and 
pervade the silent precincts, nourish- 
ing a firm belief in the minds of 
many that they are peopled by mi- 
earthly forms, and investing them 
with a mysterious influence that 
keeps all intruders at a distance. 

The Canadian driver, as he con- 
veys the stranger in his cab or carLole 
to different points of interest about 
the city, pauses a moment on the 
Iieight opposite the frowning mansion, 
and points it out — standing in dis- 
mal grandeur among the brambles 



of its neglected grounds — with the 
half-whispered explanation, "Yon- 
der is the Haunted House of Mon- 
treal." 

We questioned the narrator as to 
the fate of the Big Foot, and learned 
that he made profession of the Cath- 
olic faith soon after the departure of 
the " Northwester" for Montreal; and 
from that time until his death, a few 
years later, attached himself to the 
service of the missionary whom he so 
venerated. 

" And the confidential clerk of the 
fur trader ?" we inquired. 

Rising to his feet, and drawing his 
tall form to its full height, our narra- 
tor replied, with a proud self-assertion 
of which none but a Scotch High- 
lancjer is fully capable, and which 
no pen can describe — " I am myself 
that clerk. His grandfather was 
chief of the clan to which my family 
belonged. When his father came to 
Canada, mine came with him. I 
was but little younger than this oldest 
son, and we were brought up togeth- 
er. When he was sent to the North- 
west, I was permitted to go with 
him, and never left him until- the 
grave closed its inexorable door 
between us." 

He turned away to hide his emo- 
tion, and left us pondering upon the 
strange things that happen in this 
world of ours 1 



512 



ArcMis/wp Spalding. 



ARCHBISHOP SPALDING.* 



The late Archbishop of Baltimore 
was an admirable type of a class 
of Catholics, hitherto containing but 
a small number of individuals, though 
not without considerable influence 
and importance in the history of 
the American Church. Those of 
our faith who have risen to the 
highest distinction in this country, 
either in the sacred ministry or in 
literature, have rarely been what we 
may call indigenous Catholics. By 
birth or by race they have either not 
been Catholics or not been Ameri- 
cans. Immigration and conquest 
are still the main dependence of the 
young church of the United States. 
What sort of fruit its own will be, 
when it comes into full bearing, the 
world has hardly had a chance to 
judge. Abp. Spalding may be taken, 
however, as a specimen. His an- 
cestors for several generations were 
American, and, so far as the record 
goes, they were never anything but 
Catholics. They came from England 
to America in the early days of the 
Maryland colony, and were possibly 
among the two hundred families 
brought over by Lord Baltimore in 
1634. They lived for nearly a cen- 
tury and a half in St. Mary's County, 
and thence Benedict Spalding, the 
grandfather of the Archbishop, mov- 
ed to Kentucky in 1790. Benedict 
was the leader of a little colony of 
Catholics who left their native state 
to seek their fortunes together in the 
wilds of what was then the far West 



• The Life of the Most Rev. M. J. Spaldingy 
Jy,D.s Archbishop of Baltimore. By J. L. Spal- 
ding, S.T.L. New York: The Catholic Publi- 
cation Society. 8ro, p. 463. 



They settled in the valley of the 
Rolling Fork River, in Central Ken- 
tucky, not far from Bardstown, where 
another offshoot from the Maryland 
church had established itself a few 
years before. There Martin John 
Spalding was born, May 23, 18 10. 

" Kentucky," sajrs his biographer, *^ was 
in that day covered with dense forests and 
tangled woods. There was scarcely a 
place in its whole territory that might be 
dignified with the name of village, and 
the only roads were the almost untrodden 
paths of the forest, on either side of which 
lines of blazed trees showed the traveller 
the route from point to point. 

" The forests were filled with a luxu- 
riant undergrowth, thickly ]nterspersc<l 
with cane and briers, which the inter* 
twining wild pea-vine wove into an al- 
most impenetrable net-work ; so that, in 
certain parts, the only way of getting frorc 
place to place was to follow the path< 
worn by the migrating buffalo and other 
wild beasts. The Indian still hunted on 
the * Dark and Bloody Ground** or prowl- 
ed about the new settlements, ready to 
attack them whenever an opportunity was 
offered. It has been stated on good au- 
thority that, from 1783 to 1790, fifteen 
hundred persons were killed or made 
captive by the Indians in Kentucky, or 
in migrating thither. 

" In 1794, the Indians appeared on the 
Rolling Fork, and killed a Catholic bv 
the name of Buckman. This produced 
a panic in the little settlement, which 
caused many Catholics to move fora tiin<^ 
to Bardstown, where the population wa< 
more dense. But Benedict Spalding r<-" 
mained at home, and the Indians dis^ip 
pcarcd without committing further out 
rage. 

" The early emigrants to Kentucky had 
to endure all the hardships incident to 
pioneer life. Even the ordinary comforts 
were not to be had in the wilderness in 
which they had taken up their abode, and 
they not unfrcquently suffered the wan « 



Archbishop Spalding. 



S13 



of the most indispensable necessaries. 
To obtain salt, they had to go to the 
Licks, travelling often many miles through 
a country infested by savages. They 
dwelt in rudely-constructed log-cabins, 
the windows of which were without glass, 
whilst the floors were of dirt, or, in the 
t/ciicr sort of dwellings, of rough hewn 
boards. After the clothing which they 
had brought from Virginia and Maryland 
became unfit for use, the men, for the 
most part, wore buckskin and the women 
hoRicspun gowns. The furniture of the 
cabins was of an equally simple kind. 
Stools did the office of chairs, the tables 
we re made of rough boards, whilst wooden 
ressels served instead of plates and china- 
ware. A tin cup was an article of luxury. 
The chase supplied abundance of food. 
All kinds of game abounded, and, when 
the hunter had his rifle and a goodly 
supply of ammunition, he was rich as a 
prince. This was the school in which 
was trained the Kentucky rifleman, whose 
aim on the battle-field was certain death. 
The game was plainly dressed and served 
up on wooden platters, and, with corn- 
bread and hominy, it made a feast which 
ihc keen appetite of honest labor and 
freehearted ness thought good enough 
lor kings." 

Martin was sent to a school kept 
by a Mr. Merrywether in a log-cabin 
near the Rolling Fork, and soon dis- 
tinguished himself by his proficiency 
in mathematics. He learned the 
whole multiplication table in a single 
day when he was eight years old. 
At the age of eleven, he entered S. 
Mary's College, near Lebanon, Ken- 
tucky, being one of the first students 
enrolled in that institution; and by 
the time he was fourteen, he was act- 
ing as teacher of mathematics, and 
was famous throughout the country as 
the boy-professor. From S. Mary's 
he went, at the age of sixteen, to the 
theological seminary at Bardstown, 
then under the personal direction of 
iH>' Flaget and his coadjutor, Bp. 
David. Francis Patrick Kenrick 
was one of the professors in this 
home of learning and piety, and 
soon became Mr. Spalding's intimate 
VOL. XVIII. — 32 



friend. F. Reynolds, afterwards Bi- 
sliop of Charleston, was there, and 
the Rev. George Elder, founder of 
S. Joseph's College, was another of 
the little company. Mr. Spalding 
remained at Bardstown four years, 
dividing his time, according to the 
system pursued in several of our 
American seminaries, between the 
study of theology and the instruc- 
tion of boys in the college which 
formed a part of the institution. 
He paid no more attention to his 
favorite science of mathematics, and 
never developed the extraordinary 
powers in that branch of learning 
of which he had given such eviden- 
ces in boyhood ; but his aptitude 
for theology was so marked, and his 
personal character so amiable, that 
Bp. Flaget determined to send him to 
Rome to complete his studies at the 
Propaganda. It was a long and 
rather difficult journey in those days. 
He set out in April, 1830, and did 
not reach Rome until August. On 
the way, he visited Washington and 
Baltimore, and made the acquaint- 
ance of some notable persons, of 
whom he makes interesting mention 
in his letters of travel. He seems to 
have been strongly impressed by the 
Rev. John Hughes, afterward Arch- 
bishop of New York, whom he met 
in Baltimore ; and he writes with pa- 
triotic ardor of the venerable Charles 
Carroll, of Carrollton, whose " good- 
will and benediction " it was his for- 
tune to receive on the eve of de- 
parture from his native land. Our 
young Kentuckian, as might have 
been supposed from his ancestry and 
education, was an enthusiastic lover 
of his country. "I am sure," he 
wrote some time afterwards from 
Rome, " that my attachment to the 
institutions of my country has been 
increased by my absence from it." 
Nothing could exceed the warmth of 
his enthusiasm for the sacred city 



514 



Archbishop Spalding, 



and all its religious associations ; but 
he never forgot his home, and, like 
most of his countrymen who have 
been educated under the shadow of 
the Vatican, he came back as ardent 
an American as he went away. 

After completing his studies with 
brilliant success, and sustaining a 
public defence of two hundred and 
fifty-six propositions in theology, 
church history, and canon law 
against the most formidable adversa- 
ries Rome could send to the encoun- 
ter (a highly interesting description 
of which intellectual tilt is given by 
Bp. England), he returned to Ken- 
tucky with the title of doctor, and 
was made pastor of the Cathedral at 
Bardstown and professor of philoso- 
phy in the seminary. His keen ap- 
preciation of the pecular needs of the 
American Church is illustrated by the 
zeal with which he immediately en- 
tered into the scheme of his associ- 
ates in the seminary for the establish- 
ment of a Catholic periodical. The 
S, yosfpKs College Minerva^ to which 
he became the principal contributor, 
was a monthly magazine, which lived 
for about a year, and was then suc- 
ceeded, in 1835, by the weekly Cath- 
olic Advocate^ of which Dr. Spalding 
was chief editor, with Fathers Elder, 
Deluynes, and Clark for his assist- 
ants. 

" With Americans, Dr. Spalding used to 
say, newspaper reading is a passion 
which amounts to a national characterise 
tic. In the Propaganda the American 
students were proverbial for their eager- 
ness to get hold of journals, whether re- 
ligious or secular. Now, he argued, this 
craving must be satisfied. If we do not* 
furnish our people with wholesome food, 
they will devour that which is noxious. 
He believed the American people to be 
frank, honest, and open to conviction. 
Their dislike or hatred of the church he 
ascribed to misapprehension or ignorance 
of her history and teachings. Hence he 
believed that if the truth were placed be- 
fore them plainly, simply, and fearlessly, 



it could not fall to make a fav( 
impression upon them. He the 
thought that to the Catholic press 
United States had been given a 
dential mission of the greatest ' 
tance. 

" Americans have not time, or >v 
take the trouble, as a general th 
read heavy books of controversy. 
paratively few Protestants ever en 
churches, and, even when there, 
thing seems strange, and the sen 
tended for Catholics most frequeti 
to tell upon those who have n< 
And yet we must reach the noni 
mind. * The charity of Christ u 
Apathy means want of faith, 1 
hope, want of love. Besides, th< 
must act intellectually as well a 
ly. If it is her duty to wrestle < 
the corrupt tendencies of the 
heart, to poiof to heaven when 1 
to see only this earth, to utter tl 
nant protest of the outraged si 
they would fain believe themsc 
animals, it is not less a p«irt ( 
vine mission to combat the in 
errors of the world. We obsc 
history of the church that peil 
tellectual activity are almost 
characterized by moral earnes 
religious zeal. On the other h 
ignorance invades even the 
and priests forget to love knov 
blood of Christ flows sluggish 
the veins of his spouse, and t 
of men she seems to lose sot 
her divine comeliness. Indei 
an essential connection be 
thoughts of a people and ih 
especially in an age like ours 
suffer a sectarian and infid 
control the intellect of the < 
words will fall dead and 1 
upon the hearts of our counti 

The Catholic press of A 
then in its infancy, yet Ca 
troversies were assuming 
portance. The Hughes 
inridge discussion was rag 
ladelphia. Protestantism 
apparently at the rapid \ 
the American Church, 
where assuming an attitud 
sion, and the country wai 
of one of those periodic 
of anti-Catholic bigotry 



Archbishop Spalding. 



515 



fkted to disturb every now and then 
the course of national politics. Dr. 
Spalding was fully sensible of the 
wants of the day. He wrote fre- 
quently to the Propaganda of the con- 
dition of the American Catholic press 
and his efforts to extend its influence 
and direct its attacks. His pen was 
incessantly busy. Though he was 
personally one of the most amiable 
and peaceful of men, he allowed no 
assault upon the faith to pass unno- 
ticed ; and his life for some years was 
almost an incessant battle. The Ad- 
vocaUj the United States Catholic 
Magazine, the Catholic Cabinet, the 
Metropolitan, were all enriched by 
his contributions. He was one of 
the editors of the Metropolitan for 
several years, and, after the death of 
the Acfuocate, he founded the Louis- 
NiUe Guardian, for which he continu- 
ed to write until it was suspended in 
consequence of the troubles of the 
civil war. Dr. Spalding well knew 
that, next to a newspaper, his coun- 
trymen loved a speech. He resolved 
that this passion also should be turn- 
ed to the advantage of the church. 
Bp. Flaget had removed his cathedral 
from Bardstown to Louisville, and 
Dr. Spalding, being called thither as 
\icar-generai in 1844, began a series 
of popular evening lectures with the 
co-operation of the Rev. John Mc- 
Gill, afterward Bishop of Richmond. 
So great was the interest aroused by 
these discourses, and so great the 
crowd of Protestants who flocked to 
hear them, that the Presbyterian, 
Baptist, and Methodist preachers of 
the city united in a "Protestant 
League," to counteract the influence 
of the priests by a series of lectures 
on the abominations of Popery. The 
resuh, of course, was exactly the re- 
verse of what they expected. The 
weekly throng at the cathedral be- 
came greater than ever. The lec- 
tures assumed a more distinctly con- 



troversial character. The Catho- 
lics were roused to greater ambition. 
For three years Dr. Spalding contin- 
ued his lectures every Sunday eve- 
ning during the winter months, com- 
posing thus the essays which he after- 
wards revised and published under 
the title of Evidences of Catholicity, 
In a very short time he was recog- 
nized as one of the foremost Catho- 
lic apologists of the day, holding 
very nearly the same position which 
Bp. England had occupied before 
him, and in which the late Abp. 
Hughes was so highly distinguished 
in Philadelphia and during the ear- 
lier part of his career in New York. 
Dr. Spalding, however, was less of a 
polemic than either of those great 
men. His comprehension of the 
popular wants amounted almost to 
an instinctj and he felt that the ob- 
jections to the church which were 
then commonest rested rather upon 
historical and political than doctrinal 
prejudices, and that the great work 
of the Catholic apologist was to dis- 
pel the ignorance of Protestants re- 
specting the faith of the middle ages, 
the alliance of church and state, the 
influence of the Papacy upon civili- 
zation, and the harmony betwasn 
Catholicity and republicanism. 

" An American, he knew his country- 
men, and admired them ; a Catholic, he 
loved his religion, and was convinced of 
its truth. That, in his person, between 
faith and patriotism there was no con- 
flict, was manifest. He loved his coun- 
try all the more because he was a Ca- 
tholic, and he was all the sinccrer Ca- 
tholic because no mere human authority 
was brought to influence the free offer- 
ing of his soul to God's service. He ac- 
cepted with cheerful courage the posi- 
tion in which God had placed his church 
in this young republic, and he asked for 
her, not privilege or protection, but jus- 
tice, common rights under the common 
law ; and such was his confidence in God, 
and in the truth of his cause, that he had 
no doubt as to the final issue of the 



5i6 



Archbishop Spalding. 



struggle of religion, free and untrammel- 
led, with the prejudices of a people who, 
however erroneous and mistaken their 
views might be, were still fair-minded 
and generous. Admiring much in the 
past, he still did not think that all was 
lost because that past was gone. Let the 
old, he thought, the feeble, the impotent 
complain ; those to whom God gives 
youth and strength must act ; and the 
church is ever young and ever strong. 
God is infinite strength, and of this attri- 
bute, as of his others, his spouse partici- 
pates. If the latest word of philosophy, 
both in metaphysics and natural science, 
is force ; if the old theory of inertia has 
been dropped, since the power of analy- 
sis has shown that everywhere there is 
action, motion, force, let it be so. The 
church, too, is strength. She has a force 
and an energy of her own. Daughter of 
heaven, she has brought on earth some 
of that divine efficacy by which all things 
were made. Christ is the strength of 
God, and from his cross he poured into 
the heart of his spouse, together with his 
life-blood, his godlike power. . . . 

" Without entering into the coinplex and 
delicate question of the proper'relations 
of the church and state, he accepted the 
actual position of (he church in this coun- 
try with thankfulness and without men- 
tal reservation. In this matter, he neither 
blamed the past nor sought to dictate to 
the future, but put his hand to the work 
which God had placed before him. He 
saw all that was to be done, and, without 
stopping to reflect how little he could do, 
he began at once to do what he could. 
Taking a moderate, and possibly a just, 
estimate of his own ability, he considered 
that his mission as a writer and public 
teacher demanded that he should be 
useful and practical rather than original 
or profound. Hence he neither wrote 
nor spoke for posterity, but for the gene- 
ration in which he lived. His first aim 
was to remore the prejudices which false 
history and a perverted literature had 
created in the minds of his countrymen. 
The influence of the church on society, 
on civilization, and on civil liberty was 
wholly misunderstood ; her services in 
the cause of learning, of art, and of com- 
merce were ignored ; her undying love 
lor the poor and the oppressed were for- 
gotten." 

During the Know-Nothing excite- 
menty which culminated after his 



elevation to the episcopate (he had 
been consecrated coadjutor to the 
Bishop of Louisville in 1848, and 
succeeded to the see in 1850), Bp. 
Spalding's course was remarkable 
alike for prudence, charity, and cour- 
age. He used all his influence dur- 
ing the riots in Louisville to restrain 
the pardonable anger of the Catholic 
population; and it is the testimony 
of one who knew him intimately that 
during those trying days, when Cath- 
olics were murdered or driven from 
the city, and houses were burned, 
and the mob was threatening to 
destroy the cathedral, "he mani- 
fested a more than usual peace of 
mind. He spent the greater part of 
his moments of leisure in the sanctu- 
ary in prayer, and seemed through 
communion with God to grow un- 
conscious of the trouble which men 
were seeking to bring upon the church, 
and which he could not but feel 
most keenly." His only great share 
in the published controversies of the 
period was a discussion with the late 
Prof. Morse as to the authenticity of 
an anti-Catholic phrase attributed to 
Lafayette — a dispute which attracted 
a great deal of notice while it lasted, 
although, of course, the subject was not 
of permanent interest. This, we say, 
was his only direct share in the po- 
lemical literature of that day ; but 
his collection of Miscellaneay which 
appeared in 1855, answered all the 
piurposes of a formal discussion with- 
out assuming a controversial tone. 
The essays and reviews comprised in 
this book were written, says the bio- 
grapher, in " a free, oft-hand, straight- 
forward style, peculiarly suited io the 
American taste. They covered the 
whole ground of what was then the 
Catliolic controversy in the United 
States, and, by facts resting upon 
unexceptionable testimony, by argu- 
ments which appeal at once to the 
good sense and fair-mindedness o\ 



i 



Archbislwp Spalding. 



517 



:he reader, and by the whole spirit 
ia<i temper in which they are written, 
'iirnish a defence of the church, as 
1 gainst the attacks of her accusers, 
Lhe strength of which could not be 
easily broken." Bp. Spalding had 
none of the ambition of a scholar or 
a man of letters. He cared nothing 
for literary reputation. He set no 
store by the graces of a polished style. 
He wrote for present effect, and not 
for future fame; and if his essays 
could be read and discussed whUe 
they were wet from the press, he had 
no particular desire that they should 
hold a place on the library shelves 
of posterity. Whatever he wrote had 
an occasional — we might almost say 
an evanescent — appearance, because 
his sole impulse in writing was some 
immediate want of the American 
church. His pen was powerful, 
because it was alwajrs employed on 
timely themes, and he had a wonder- 
fully happy art of suiting his style to 
the tastes and capacities of his read- 
ers. With all his scholarship and cul- 
ture, he spent no great pains upon 
learned research, simply because he 
knew that, under the circumstances 
in which he was placed, such pains 
would be wasted. His books, how- 
ever, will long survive the generation 
for which they were written ; and his 
History of the Protestant Reformation 
especially, though it is ostensibly 
nothing more than a caustic review 
of D'Aubign6 and other Protesunt 
writers, is universally esteemed as 
one of the most valuable works in 
American Catholic literature. 

If \^t, Spalding's single-hearted 
devotion to the church was conspi- 
cuous in his literary labors, it was 
still more remarkable in the other in- 
cidents of his busy career. The story 
of his life is one long record of untir- 
ing effort to advance the glory of 
the church and extend her conquests. 
Ilie question of education always 



engrossed a great deal of his care. 
Soon after his consecration, he went 
to Europe to obtain the services of 
some teaching brotherhood, and suc- 
ceeded in securing a community of 
Xaverians; and in the pastoral ad- 
dress which, as promoter of the First 
Provincial Council of Cincinnati, he 
was deputed to write to the clergy 
and laity of the province (1855), he 
spoke with great earnestness of the 
need of parochial schools; and time 
after time he returned to the subject, 
denouncing the system of godless 
education, and urging the faithful to 
fresh exertions and more generous 
expenditure for the religious instru - 
tion of their children. One result of 
his opposition to the common-school 
system was a vigorous controversy 
with George D. Prentice, of the 
Louisville youmaly in the course of 
which the bishop reviewed not only 
the Catholic position on the school 
question, but the whole dispute as to 
the bearing of Catholic principles 
upon the social and political condi- 
tions of the country. The founda- 
tion of the American College at Lou- 
vain was almost entirely his work. 
The American College at Rome 
found in him a firm and active 
friend. In the Second Plenary 
Council of Baltimore he proposed 
the establishment of a Catholic uni- 
versity in this country; and we 
certainly can never forget the affec- 
tionate interest which he manifested 
in the Catholic Publication Society, 
aiding it by his advice, his encour- 
agement, and his earnest recommen- 
dation to the bishops and pastors 
of the country, and writing the first 
tract which appeared from its press. 

After what we have said of his 
devotion to the church, and the en- 
thusiasm with which he bent every 
energy to her service, it can hardly 
be necessary to explain with what 
dispositions he took his place in the 



518 



Archbishop Spalding, 



Vatican Council. Strangely enough, 
however, his relations with that ven- 
erable assemblage have been some- 
what misunderstood, and his biogra- 
pher has been at commendable pains 
to remove all mistake and obscurity. 

"Archbishop Spalding had always be- 
lieved in the infallibility of the Pope. 
This belief was a tradition with the Mary- 
land Catholics, fostered and rendered 
stronger by the Jesuit fathers, who for 
so many years were their only religious 
teachers. His fathers had taken this 
faith with them to Kentucky. It was the 
doctrine which he had received from Fla- 
get and David. Neither the Catholics of 
Maryland nor their descendants in Ken- 
tucky were tainted with even a tinge of 
Gallicanism. Indeed, it may be affirmed 
that, as far as we have a tradition in this 
country, it is thoroughly orthodox. It is 
the special pride of the American Church 
that it has not only been faithful to the 
Vicar of Christ, but has ever had for him 
the tenderest devotion. 

" * Thank God,' wrote Archbishop Spal- 
ding to Cardinal Cullen in 1866, just 
after the close of the Second Plenary 
Council of Baltimore — ' thank God, we 
are Roman to the heart.' The confession 
of faith of both the Plenary Councils of 
Baltimore is as full and complete on this 
point as it was then possible to make it. 
When, after the convocation of the Vati- 
can Council, the question, whether or not 
it would be opportune to define the infal- 
libility of the Pope, first began to be dis- 
cussed, Archbishop Spalding inclined to 
the opinion that a formal definition would 
be unnecessary and possibly inexpedient. 
He thought that Gallicanism was dead, 
and that Catholics ever>'whcre believed 
in the infallibility of the Holy See. 
Hence, he argued, there could be no 
necessity for a formal definition. He 
believed, too, that much time would be 
consumed in conciliary debate, in case 
the question of fixing the precise limits 
of Papal infallibility should be submitted 
to the fathers. 

" These considerations led him to think 
that the most proper way of proclaiming 
the dogma of Papal infallibility would be 
to condemn all errors opposed to it ; and 
this was his opinion when he went to the 
council. It was, however, merely an 
opinion, formed, as he himself felt, with- 
out a perfect knowledge of all the circum- 



stances in the case, and one which, upon 
fuller information, he might see cause to 
change. He was not a partisan. He had 
in him none of the stuff out of which par- 
tisans are made. He was simply a Cath- 
olic bishop, who had never belonged to 
a party eitlier in the church or out of it. 

"On the 27th of March. 1869, eight 
months before the assembling of the 
council, he wrote as follows to a distin- 
guished theologian who was at that time 
in Rome : 

"•I believe /r////K the infallibility of 
the Pope, but incline to think its formal 
definition unnecessary and perhaps inex- 
pedient, not only for the reasons which 
you allege, but also on account of (be 
difficulty of fixing the precise limits of 
doctrinal decisions. Where they arc for- 
mal, as in the case of the Immaculate 
Conception, there is no difficulty. Bur 
are all the declarations of encyclicals, 
allocutions, and similar documents to be 
received as doctrinal definitions? And 
what about the decisions of congregations, 
confirmed by the Pope?' 

'* And again, in August, he wrote: 

** ' While maintaining the high Eotnan 
ground of orthodoxy, I caution much 
prudence in framing constitutions.' 

** In both these letters. Archbishop 
Spalding seems to take for granted that 
a definition will be made ; and he simpir 
indicates his preference for an implicit 
rather than a formal definition. 

" In August, 1869, two months before 
leaving for the council, he wrote to Car- 
dinal Barnabo, giving his views on van- 
ous subjects which he supposed wouM 
be brought before the fathers. One of 
these he designates as ' The Infallibility 
of the Sovereign Pontiff teaching /jr^a/^* 
dra* * I have not,* he says, * the leist 
doubt of this infallibility, and there are 
very few bishops who do duubt of if- 
The only question which may, perhaps, 
arise will relate to the utility, advis- 
ability, and necessity of making an exfi*'''^ 
definition in the council. It will have to 
be considered whether a definition of this 
kind would not be likely to excite coniro 
versies now slumbering and almost ex 
tinct ; whether an implicit definition— a" 
amplification of that of the Council of 
Florence — which would define the dogm* 
without using the word, would not be 
more opportune and of grtater service to 
the cause of the church. 

" ' Should the fathers deem it expedi 
ent to make a formal definition, its lioiits 



Archbishop Spalding. 



S19 



should be accurately marked, and» in the 
accompanying doctrinal exposition, state- 
ment should be made whether and how 
far, in the intention of the fathers, this 
iDfallibility should be extended to ponti- 
fical letters, allocutions, encyclicals, bulls, 
and other documents of this nature.' 

" This letter affords sufficient evidence 
that Archbishop Spalding had all along 
contemplated the contingency of an ex- 
plicit definition, and that he did not look 
upon it with any alarm. In fact, he held 
that a definition, either implicit or expli- 
cit, was necessary. If he did not, in the 
beginning, advocate a formal definition, 
he was still less in favor of abstaining 
from the unmistakable affirmation of the 
faiih of the church on this point." 

He expressed his views more fully 
in a posiulatum drawn up after his 
arrival in Rome — a document assert- 
ing the infallibility of the Pope in 
the most unmistakable manner, but 
suggesting an implicit and indirect 
instead of an explicit and direct de- 
finition, because such a course would 
be likely to command " the approval 
of almost all the fathers, and would 
be confirmed by their quasi-unani- 
mous suffrage." Soon after this me- 
morial was drawn up, Abp. Spalding 
was made a member of the commit- 
tee of twelve cardinals and fourteen 
prelates appointed by the Holy Fa- 
ther to consider all posiulafa before 
they were brought before the coun- 
cil, and he consequently refrained 
through delicacy from pressing the 
consideration of his own scheme; 
but it was energetically discussed in 
various quarters, and Abp. Spalding 
came to be looked upon as a lead- 
er of the so-called "third party," 
which was supposed to hold a posi- 
tion between the opportunists and 
the non-opportunists in the council. 
Meanwhile, it became evident to the 
archbishop that, to quote his own 
language, but two courses lay before 
the fathers— either to place themselves 
openly on the side of the Pope, or on 
^hat of the opposition ; and he wrote 



a letter to Bp. Dupanloup, repudiaf 
ing the false construction which had 
been placed upon \i\& posiulatum^ and 
the false inferences drawn from it, 
and declaring himself emphatically 
in favor of the plainest possible defi- 
nition of the doctrine. " When the 
history of the Vatican Council comes 
to be written," says an English au- 
thor, " not many names will be writ- 
ten with more honor than that of 
the wise and prudent Archbishop of 
Baltimore ; nor will any extra-conci- 
liary document be recorded in future 
generations with deeper satisfaction 
or warmer gratitude than the letter in 
which Mgr. Spalding vindicated him- 
self and his colleagues from all com- 
plicity with Gallican doctrines and 
intrigues." In a pastoral address 
to his flock, written immediately after 
the definition, the archbishop made 
a very clear statement of the doc- 
trine, and pointed out some of its 
consequences. He answered the 
objection that it was in conflict with 
civil and political liberty, which he 
believed could flourish only under 
the shadow of the altar and the 
cross, and he reminded his people 
that the same theories of government 
upon which the American republic 
is founded were taught by the Cath- 
olic schoolmen three hundred years 
before Washington was born. 

We have not attempted, in this 
brief survey of the character of the 
late Archbishop of Baltimore, to 
sketch the incidents of his episcopate 
— and, indeed, they were very few — 
or even to enumerate the most impor- 
tant works which occupied his busy 
brain. Our purpose has rather been 
to select from the valuable pages 
before us a few indications of those 
peculiar qualities of mind which 
made him pre-eminently a represen- 
tative of the young and vigorous 
American Church, so strong in the 
faith, so ardent in attachment to the 



S20 



Archbishop Spalding. 



Holy See, so reverent of Catholic 
tradition, and withal so quick to 
adapt itself to the special wants of 
a free and growing country. We 
would gladly have paused for a little 
while over the attractive story of Bp. 
Spalding's early pastoral peregrina- 
tions through the primitive settle- 
ments of Kentucky, his charity, his 
gentleness, his love for children, the 
touching scenes when he visited the 
orphan asylums, in which he took 
such a tender interest, or the beauti- 
ful picture of the great preacher and 
prelate sitting humbly in the school- 
room with the little ones about his 
knees. All this would draw us too 
far away from our proper subject; 
but we nrust allow ourselves one ex- 
tract from the few scattered passages 
in which the biographer has told us 
of his private life : 

*' I shall never forget the pleasant jour- 
neys which, when quite a small bo}^ I 
had the happiness to make with him. 
His merry laugh, that might have been 
that of a child who had never known a 
sorrow or a care, the simple and naive 
way he had of listening to the prattle of 
children, the whole expression of the 
countenance showing a soul at rest and 
happy in the work which he was doing, 
are still present to my mind, like the 
remembrance of flowers and sunshine. 
And I remember, too, with what warmth, 
and reverence, and love he was received 
everywhere, and how his presence was 
never connected in my mind with any- 
thing morose or severe. Eyes that 
seemed to have looked for his coming 
grew brighter when he had come ; and 
when he was gone, it was like the ceasing 
of sweet music which one would wish 
to hear always, but which, even when 
hushed, keeps playing on in the soul, at* 
tuning it to gentler moods and higher 
thoughts. He was full of human sympa- 
thies and human ways. The purple of the 
bishop never hid the man ; nor did he, be- 
cause he belonged to the supernatural or- 
der, cease to be natural. There was, indeed, 
a certain elegance and refinement about 
him which no one could fail to perceive, 
the true breeding of a gentleman ; but 
withal he was as plain as the simplest 



Kentucky fanner. He rarely talked 
about learned things ; and when he did, 
he did not talk in a learned way. He 
possessed naturally remarkable powers 
of adaptation, which enabled him to feel 
perfectly at ease in circumstances sind 
companies the most dissimilar. There 
was not a poor negro in his whole dio- 
cese with whom he was not willing to 
talk about anything that could be of ad- 
vantage to him. I remember parttcularly 
how kindly he used to speak to the old 
servants of his father, who had knovn 
him as a child. He had a special srmpa- 
thy with this whole race, and I have 
known him, whilst Archbishop of Balti- 
more, to take the trouble to write a long 
letter to an old negro in Kentucky who 
had consulted him concerning his own 
little affairs. 

" He frequently wrote to children ten 
or twelve years old, from whom he had 
received letters. In company where 
there were children, he never failed to 
devote himself to their amusement, even 
to the forgetfulness of the claims of more 
important persons. When at home, he 
usually passed the forenoon in writ- 
ing, or in receiving those who called 
to see him on matters of business. 
After dinner, he spent some time in 
conversation, which he always enjoyed, 
then withdrew to his room to say 
vespers, with matins and lauds 'for the 
following day. In summer, he kept 
up an old Roman habit of taking a short 
repose in the afternoon. He would then 
walk out, calling in here and there to 
visit some school or convent, or to spend 
a few moments with some Catholic fami- 
ly. On the street, he would stop to greet, 
with a few pleasant words, almost ever)' 
acquaintance he chanced to meet. Fre- 
quently he would remain to tea at the 
house of a friend, after which he returned 
to his room to write or read until the 
hour for retiring for the night arrived. 
The rule in his house was, that everyone 
should be in at ten o'clock, when the 
door was locked. Apart from this regu- 
lation, he never interfered with the tastes 
or hours of the priests of his household 
In the cathedral, he had his own confes 
sional,and, when at home, he was gene- 
rally found there on Saturday afternoon : 
and it was his custom to preach at tlif 
late Mass on Sunday." 

The Rev. F. Spalding, to whom 
the task of writing this biography 



Archbishop Spalding', 



521 



was committed by the archbishop's 
literary executor, had the advantage 
of a somewhat intimate knowledge 
of his distinguished uncle, and of free 
access to manuscript sources of infor- 
mation. He has done his work ably 
and conscientiously, with an accurate 
judgment of the salient points m the 
story, and no slight skill in the ar- 
rangement of his abundant materials. 
His style is simple and unaffected, 
and his whole book, from the first 
chapter to the last, is thoroughly 
readable ; while, as a contribution to 
the ecclesiastical history of the Unit- 
ed States, its value is of course very 
considerable. 

As a biography of an able and 
successful prelate, whose career was 
most honorable and useful — of a man 
who was virtuous and holy from his 
childhood to his grave, and who has 
left a bright example of loyalty to God 
and the holy faith of Christ in a cor- 
rupt age — it is of greater value than 
any similar work which has hither- 
to been published in this country. 
This great and holy prelate is wortliy 
to be classed among those noble and 
illustrious rulers of the church in 
past ages and the present whose his- 
tory is an ornament to ecclesiastical 
annals. Apart from his career as a 
bishop in the administration of the 



important churches committed to his 
care, his share in the successful issue 
of the first session of the Vatican 
Council and in that most auspicious 
event, the definition of the infallibility 
of the Pope, entitles him to the per- 
petual remembrance, not only of the 
American Church, on which he re- 
flected so much lustre, but of the 
Catholics of the world. The history 
of his pure and holy life, so highly 
marked by devotion, integrity, fidel- 
ity, and singleness of high purpose, 
and closing with a death so beauti- 
ful, ought to produce, as we hope it 
will, a powerful and stimulating effect 
upon the studious Catholic youth of 
our country. 

It is a great good fortune to a man 
whose life is worth writing to find an 
affectionate, just, and skilful biogra- 
pher. In this respect Abp. Spalding 
has been more fortunate than those 
other great ornaments of the Ameri- 
can hierarchy, England and Kenrick ; 
though we hope the lack may yet be 
supplied in the case of these two pre- 
lates. We have all along expected that 
this biography would become very 
soon one of the most popular, widely 
circulated, and useful books which has 
ever issued from the American Catho- 
lic press; and we feel confident that 
our expectation will not be unfulfilled. 



C22 



Travels with a Valetudinarian. 



TRAVELS WITH A VALETUDINARIAN. 



I. 
The summer solstice again, and 
the metropolis an oven ! Why should 
I remain in it and be baked ? There 
was just one reason that detained 
me : I could not make up my mind 
to what point of the compass to 
peregrinate. On my return from 
last year's ramble, I had determined 
to join an Alpine club on my next 
holiday, and wander in search of the 
grand in mountainous districts. It 
only wants lungs and muscle, I 
thought, and I considered myself 
equal to the undertaking. The 
smaller the quantity of luggage the 
better, was my next reflection. But 
I was completely put out of conceit 
of Alpine climbing on visiting my 
friend Mount. I saw Mount six 
weeks ago, and all my calculations 
of enjoyment were upset. Mount 
was already in training for his jour- 
ney, as if for a boat-race ; he was 
eating, drinking, taking exercise, 
gymnastic and pedestrian, and 
sleeping just so many hours, to a 
minute, on the most approved sys- 
tem. Then, he had such a collec- 
tion of what he termed indispensable 
companions for his travels — such 
optical instruments, theodolites, 
grappling - irons and sharp-pointed 
staves, that I was persuaded that 
his peace of mind would be endan- 
gered in looking after them, to say 
nothing of wanting a dromedary to 
carry them. I, who never make 
pleasure a toil, wished my friend an 
agreeable time of it, and respectfully 
declined participating. I am fully 
aware that I shall be told by-and-by 
that I have missed a great deal; 
and I am equally sure that I shall 
uncompi^ningly submit to my loss ; 



but if ever I ascend mountains in 
quest of the sublime, rather than 
prepare so laboriously, I will char- 
ter a balloon. 

I was still negativing suggestions 
that thronged upon me from many 
estimable friends, and was still far 
from determining my particular 
destination, when I stumbled on an 
agreeable, middle-aged bachelor ac- 
quaintance, Mr. Stowell. 

" I am rejoiced to see you look- 
ing so well," I began. 

"Appearances are deceptive, my 
dear Lovejoy," he replied. " But I 
am better, thank you. Ah I what a 
blessing is health." 

" It is, indeed." 

"And yet how men squander it 
away ; yes, Mr. Lovejoy, squander 
it just as they do money ; and of the 
two it is the more precious! It 
should be an object of unceasing 
care — to be husbanded with wise 
frugality." 

" Well, it is, sir, as you instituted 
the comparison, to be treated like 
money in certain respects. There is 
an old saying that, if we look to the 
pence, the pounds will take care of 
themselves ; and in like manner, if & 
few simple regulations patent to every 
one are attended to, health is to be 
attained by the bulk of mankind.'* 

"There, sir, excuse me, you are 
wrong. I have made the subject 
my study, and my conclusion is 
that the matter is much more com- 
plex than the care of pence. Con- 
sider its conditions." And the 
worthy gentleman told them off on 
his fingers very deliberately. " There 
is," said he, "proper nourishment, 
temperance, exercise, repose, suita- 
ble raiment, salubrious locality> 



Travels with a Valetudinarian, 



523 



cleanliness, ventilation. And where 
is the man who is mindful of the 
harmonious working of all these 
agencies ; for the neglect of one of 
them is mostly fatal to the rest ?'' 

" Then, there are such a number 
of complications in the constitution 
of healthy I think we must withdraw 
the charge of squandering; for the 
mass of men could never be hemmed 
in by a series of sanitary rules only 
partially understood and only par- 
tially practicable, though they might 
be like children throwing away trea- 
sures without a knowledge of their 
value. Squandering implies, to my 
mind, wilful waste." 

" No, sir ; I maintain that squan- 
der is the right word, and I accept 
your meaning of it, I say it is every 
man's duty to study health, and, if he 
does, he will find the complications 
I have spoken of exceedingly easy 
of comprehension. But, sir, men 
will not learn; they will put them- 
selves to no trouble at all ; and they 
I squander their days away, because 
they heed not the value of them. 
Their daily conviction makes them 
conscious of that value, but they sti- 
fle it — yes, sir, they squander 1" 

*^I will not argue the question 
further. I perceive you have given 
it more attention than I have." 

" I own it, and I am proud of it. 
And now, if you will add a favor to 
the concession you have just made, 
you will join me, be my compagnon 
^ vcyage out of this furnace, which, 
we shall both agree, is only suited 
to the constitution of a salamander." 
" You flatter me by your invita- 
tion ; but I have not settled in my 
mind what direction to take." 

" Leave that to me, sir. If you 
will gratify me by giving me the 
pleasure of your company, I would 
propose to change about from place 
to place — now inland scenery, then 
seaside, different parts of the coast, 



a .last view of the country rich in au- 
tumnal tints, and then home before 
Boreas is too rough for us." 

" That will do admirably. You 
speak like one who had well consid- 
ered his plans." 

'* I have, sir ; it all comes under 
the study of health." 

" Really, you will make a convert 
of me." 

" All in good time. We will get 
oflf first; let us start to-morrow, if 
not too soon for you." 

"With all my heart. I love 
promptitude in action. But by land 
or water ? And whither ?" 

" We will take the Great Slaugh- 
terton Railroad, in the first instance. 
That's imperative I" 

" My dear sir, there was a fearful 
accident on that line only yesterday — 
a hundred and sixteen persons killed, 
besides loss of limbs, dislocations, 
contusions innumerable !" 

" The very thing for us ! A nine 
days* wonder ! That line will be 
particularly careful for a whole week 
to come while the public eye is on 
it We shall be quite safe, sir ; but 
the earlier, the better. To-morrow, 
tlien ?" 

Assent was given, and I was book- 
ed for the Great Slaughterton. I 
was a little startled at my friend's 
precipitation, which seemed at vari- 
ance with his usual deliberation ; but 
he had given a reason for expedition 
on the route he had selected, and, 
on accompanying him home, I found 
that his preparations had been made. 
He showed me all the latest contri- 
vances for comfortable travelling, in 
a variety of valises, Dortmanteaus, 
leather bags, satchels, baths, and a 
mahogany box which reminded me 
of a liquor case or cabinet of choice 
revolvers, 

"You see I am all but ready," 
he said. 

" Indeed you are," I replied. 



524 



Travels with a VaJeiudinarian. 



" But I shall overtake you, though I 
have not begun to pack ; for I travel 
in a more primitive style. I leave 
behind me all I can do without, and 
trust to civilization to supply wants 
that may come upon me. A purse 
and the least possible encumbrances 
are what I look to. You are not, I 
suppose, going to burden yourself 
with that mahogany case, though I 
perceive it is labelled." 

" My life-preserver, sir I" 

" Oh ! I thought it might be a 
strong box for your valuables, and I 
was about to suggest your entrusting 
it to your bankers. We are not, 
however, going into any dangerous 
quarters where firearms . . ." 

" No dangers, sir, while I have the 
honor to be your guide! It is my 
medicine- chest — an indispensable part 
of my equipment !" 

" Ha I You cannot trust country 
apothecaries ; and you, of course, un- 
derstand something of physic." 

" A person at my time of life, sir, 
is usually said to be a fool or a physi- 
cian. Not that I despise the facul- 
ty — we may have to call in their aid 
before we return." 

" I hope not, Mr. Stowell ; and 
present appearances are not in their 
favor, I am happy to say." 

" You have not, I see, made health 
a study." 

" You have the advantage of me 
there," I rejoined, as speedily as I 
could relieve myself of the sentiment, 
fearing another dissertation ; and the 
occurrence of the topic impressed 
my mind with some alarm that our 
difference of mental organism might 
compromise ^ur good-fellowship be- 
fore we came to the end of our jour- 
ney. Dwelling for a moment on 
this idea, I thought I would venture 
to insinuate terms of concord; so I 
followed up my hasty remark by a 
suggestion of mutual forbearance 
while we were birds of passage. 



'' It may not be thought out of 
place," I said, " if I take this early 
opportunity of pointing out that our 
minds do not work in the same 
groove; and that we may find it 
necessary to give and take, as the 
saying is, while we shall be together. 
For my part, I may claim a little in- 
dulgence for some hobby of my own, 
possibly; and I trust you will bear 
in mind how completely I give in to 
you on all that appertains to the laws 
of health." 

Mr. Stowell fidgetted about in his 
chair, and seemed scarcely to take in 
the scope of my observation. 

" All I would recommend," I add- 
ed, '' is that we should endeavor to 
*play fair' — in our intellectual con- 
flicts, I mean. Let * Put yourself in 
his Place ' be a lesson to each of us, 
and I have no doubt that nothing 
will occur to ruffle our temper or 
lessen our enjoyment." 

" Temper, sir !" replied my fiiend. 
" I am glad you spoke of it You 
will only find me too much of a 
lamb. I detest bickerings and dis- 
agreements. No, sir, you will have 
an easy time of it with me. A little 
humoring of some whim of mine 
might be judicious, not to say friend- 
ly; but, beyond that, you will not 
find anywhere a less quarrelsome 
and more conciliatory being than 
Benjamin Stowell." 

** Then there is every prospect, I 
rejoice to say for both our sakes, of a 
lasting understanding between us.** 

^'As firm and durable as ada- 
mant!" exclaimed Mr. Stowell ener- 
getically, emphasizing the remark by 
a smart blow on the arm of his 
chair. 

II. 

We started on the Great Slaughter- 
ton Railroad next day, and it duly 
consigned us to our destination — a 
romantically situated town on a fine 
table-land. The main street in the 



Travels with a Valetudinarian. 



525 



town, at its extremity, commanded 
an extensive view of a beautiful 
country, which promised us some re- 
freshing breezes as they swept over 
the expansive plains, and many sha- 
dy retreats from the fiery sun under 
the umbrageous arms of lofty trees 
that relieved the prospect from mo- 
notony. We took lodgings, Mr. 
Stowell undertaking to suit our tastes 
and pockets in this important matter, 
and claiming from the landlord sev- 
eral extra indulgences without addi- 
tional cost, on the score of infirm 
health. Our journey had been very 
enjoyable, and it had sharpened our 
appetites ; for the prospect of a repast 
after a good bath in a capacious 
washstand, which seemed to cool the 
atmosphere of each of our bed-cham- 
bers, put us both in good humor. 
Everything was well arranged, and, 
in an incredibly short space of time, 
we sat down to an excellent table 
tempting us with its burnished silver 
and its covering of whitest damask. 
We both, as it seemed to me, did 
justice to our meal, and I was a 
Utile surprised, therefore, when my 
friend exclaimed : 

" Very provoking, is it not ? Tra- 
velling has a most peculiar effect on 
me: it creates the semblance of an 
appetite; but the moment I sit down 
^0 eat, I have no relish for any- 
thing." 

^* Then have I made all this ha- 
voc?" I inquired, with something, 
perhaps, of a dubious air, pointing to 
the reduced state of the viands. 

" I don't wish to be rude, sir, but 
I have been envying your enjoy- 
ment." 

" I was sharp-set, I confess ; and I 
must have been too busy to observe 
your inactivity," I replied, feelmg 
sv\re that Mr. StoweU^s incisors had 
"cen no more idle than my own, 
and wondering what they would go 
through when their owner gave them 



their allotted amqunt of work on 
a more favorable occasion. 

" Always a small eater, sir !" re- 
marked my friend, speaking of him- 
self in a tone of regret. 

" Little and often, perhaps ?" I 
asked. 

" Not at all, sir \ loss of appetite is 
one of my troubles. Weak digestion ! 
If you should be afflicted in that way, 
I possess an excellent specific, and I 
have with me one or two valuable 
treatises on the stomachic functions." 

<' But have they not failed in your 
own case ?" 

"They have lost some of their 
efficacy, I allow; but they had a 
marvellous effect at first I take it, 
all remedies wear themselves out, so 
that we need continual change." 

" Of diet ?" 

" Of regimen, sir ! You will find 
it so, if you will make health your 
study." 

" I won't dispute your conclusions, 
but I am in the habit of leaving mat- 
ters to nature, and she has served 
me hitherto excellently well." 

" Very true ; but she wants reno- 
vating perpetually. It is fatal to 
rely upon her unassisted efforts. 
The artificial Ufe.we lead is too much 
for her. Cooks have done for na- 
ture, and doctors are called in to re- 
store her powers." 

" But you would not physic a man 
in health merely because he lives, as 
is contended, artificially ?" 

" Certainly, most certainly I Pre- 
vention is better than cure," 

" I prefer to wait until a cure is 
needed." 

" Contrary to all sound system 
when prevention is possible 1" 

"Your theory will make the for- 
tune of the doctors." 

" A noble profession 1" 

Mr. Stowell now suggested a walk, 
which had my advocacy, and we 
sallied out. 



526 



Travels with a Valetudinarian, 



**We will allow ourselves exactly 
one hour/' said my friend, taking out 
his watch. " I go on system, as you 
will see. Now, which way is the 
wind ? Westerly. Ay, that will do !" 

" A very fine evening ! We shall 
be able to proceed down the chief 
thoroughfare, and go a little distance 
on the high-road beyond." 

" No, sir, we shall have the wind 
in our teeth !" 

" It is too balmy to hurt us !" 

" I am not sure of that. I never 
face the wind if I can help it. I 
have known numberless evils result 
from a little want of attention to such 
an apparently insignificant point." 

Accordingly, we took a northerly 
direction, and we were rewarded 
with a sight of some beautiful scen- 
ery on that side of the town, so that 
the caprices of my friend caused me 
no disappointment. 

We returned to our lodgings after 
a most delightful stroll of an hour 
and a quarter. Mr. Stowell looked 
at his watch with a dissatisfied air. 

" I must be aware of you," he 
said, ** a second time ; you have be- 
guiled me into a transgression. I 
am not angry, sir, not angry, but I 
shall feel the effect of it." 

" Pray, what have I done ?" 

" Sir, you have talked me into at 
least fifteen minutes* excess beyond 
my regular exercise. I shall suffer 
for it." 

" Do not blame me. Say, rather, 
that the freshness and novelty of 
the scenery have led us astray. You 
are not tired ?" 

" Not at all. But I ought to be !" 

**Then I will prophesy that you 
will not come to harm." 

" Were you not to give in to me 
in all matters appertaining to health ? 
Don't contradict me again, I beg. 
I know my own constitution so thor- 
oughly. I shall not be able to sleep 
without an opiate 1" 



" I am sorry to hear that ; but let 
me suggest your first trying the ef- 
fect of the change of air ?" 

"Really, sir, you are ignorantly 
striving to undermine the study of 
my life. Don't suppose for an in- 
stant that any scenery would keep 
me on my legs ^vt minutes past my 
time, or that air has anything to do 
with provoking sleep. In primitive 
times, such might have been the 
case, and it may be so even now 
with juveniles; but too much artifi- 
ciality surrounds adults. I shall be 
obliged to have recourse to my chest, 
and I shall give you a treat when I 
open it for inspection. It w a mul 
turn in parvoi Make your mind 
quite easy that, come what will, I 
have almost every remedy, not mere- 
ly within call, but within reach. 
There's consolation for you !" 

I bowed my acknowledgraent. 
which I could not find words, I own, 
to express. 

Presently my friend proposed that 
we should have half an hour's reading; 
and, on his asking me if I had any 
skill in elocution, I replied that, hav- 
ing some taste for it, I should be 
happy to read aloud to him, if it 
would afford him any pleasure. 

" Well, you won't be offended," he 
said, *' if I ask you to stop, should I 
not like your style ?" 

" Certainly not — the moment I fa- 
tigue you," I replied. 

" And on no account exceed half 
an hour. Never mind breaking off 
in a fine passage — we can have that 
another time; but I could not en- 
dure a book more than thirty min- 
utes, not even a newspaper, which, 
for diversity of contents, perhaps '"& 
the best kind of reading." 

I accepted the conditions, and, 
finding a volume of Montaign^s Es- 
says on a shelf, I took it down, and 
raised the question whether the old 
Gascon would be to ray companion's 



Travels with a Valetudinarian, 



527 



taste. He replied in the affirmative, 
and declared his conviction that the 
art of essay- writing was lost, and 
that no essayist was comparable to 
Montaigne. So lively an author he 
could hear, he continued, with a good 
deal of enthusiasm, for the allotted 
time, with the greatest pleasure and 
without a yawn. 

Fortunate in the selection of ray 
author, I opened the volume without 
looking for any particular subject — for 
we both agreed that it was impossible 
to alight on a dull place — and com- 
menced reading. 

" Capital l" exclaimed my friend, in 
less than five minutes. " Capital ! 
What a marvellous digestion that 
man must have had ! You can see it 
in the clearness of his ideas ! Let's 
see, he was before Galen, wasn't 
he ? Go on, don't let me interrupt 
you ; we will settle these points after- 
wards. Don't forget what just oc- 
curred to me about his digestion — ^it's 
important. You may not think so, 
ha! ha! but I know. Don't stop." 
And he composed himself as if for 
attentive listening, with his head 
thrown back in his chair, and his 
arms folded across his broad chest. 

I had paused during this slight in- 
terruption, but, at the bidding of my 
companion, resumed our essay. Mr. 
Stowell seemed deep in thought as I 
occasionally caught sight of him, but, 
becoming more and more interested 
in my author, I glanced at him less 
frequently. Mr. Stowell's watch lay 
ou the table before me, probably 
with a view of confining the lecture 
within the stipulated limits. My eye 
noted the hour as I progressed. I 
^^d been reading exactly twenty 
ttiinutes— two-thirds of my prescribed 
time. I proceeded a few minutes 
longer, forgetful of everything but 
the book, which was enchaining my 
attention. A hoarse noise came from 
"*y friend's chair on the opposite 



side of the table. I was too busy to 
look up, and the noise grew louder 
and thicker. Was it possible ? Was 
that the heavy breathing of my 
friend, yielding to the influence of the 
air and our lively Gascon ? An- 
other volume, not of print, but of 
sound, and it was an unmistakable 
snore ! I raised my eyes, and there 
was my friend fast asleep. 

I read on until my time was up, 
lest the cessation of my voice should 
disturb his slumbers. When my 
half-hour had fairly expired, I satis- 
fied myself that neither the stoppage 
of any accustomed sound nor the 
raising of an uncommon one had 
any effect on the sleeper, so securely 
was he locked in the arms of Mor- 
pheus. 

in. 

For the next two hours I read to 
myself, but there was no change in 
the attitude of my friend, unless he 
had become more musical in the 
double bass of his nasal intonations. 
A reflection crossed my mind. Was 
I not in a dilemma ? Mr. Stowell had 
fallen to sleep without his opiate! 
He would be very testy at finding 
his theory at fault, and an ignoramus 
like myself right ! It was dangerous 
to awake him ; and, if I allowed him 
to sleep on, he would be angry when 
he awoke to discover that he was not 

in bed. 

• 

Twelve o'clock struck. I con- 
tinued reading. One o'clock struck, 
two, three — no change I Four 
o'clock ! Montaigne had deeply in- 
terested me, but at last I was tired 
and inclined to rest. Should I retire ? 
Was my freedom of action gone ? I 
did not wish to be thought incon- 
siderate, but was I shackled by the 
companionship of a middle-aged 
bore ? Again I took refuge in my 
book. Five o'clock — broad daylight 
again! Seven hours* sleep for Mr. 
Stowell, and not a wink for me I I 



528 



Travels with a Valetudinarian. 



could put up with it no longer. I 
called to him by name, shouted, 
whistled, walked about, treading 
heavily on the floor. To no purpose. 
I opened the window, and let in the 
streaming sun and the refreshing 
morning breeze. An extra snort 
from. Mr. Stowell, nothing more! 
At length I repaired to my chamber, 
which adjoined our sitting apartment. 
I had just undressed, when my friend 
was evidently on his legs. 

** What a bore !" I overheard him 
exclaim. " I told him not to read 
more than half an hour, and he must 
have prosed on till dawn. I must be 
rid of him !" 

" Thank heaven 1" was on my 
lips, when he slammed the door of his 
chamber with great violence. Here 
is a recompense, I thought, for oblig- 
ing a friend. 

We were late at breakfast. I was 
taking my seat at the break fast- table, 
when Mr. Stowell savagely accosted 
me. 

" I am a lamb in temper, but I 
can't stand this, Mr. Lovejoy I I 
will thank you to read to yourself 
another evening. A pretty thing to 
keep me up, and then leave me ex- 
posed to the chill dews 1" 

I restrained myself as a man does 
with right on his side. 

" I read at your request," I calmly 
replied, '' and not a moment longer 
than you desired. I remained up 
with you until five, not liking to dis* 
turb you. It is I, sir, who have rea- 
son to complain." 

'<I don't care. I won't have it. 
If there is one thing I detest, it is 
being up all night 1 Young men can 
do without sleep; my constitution 
requires full seven — ^" 

" Hours' sleep, and, to my positive 
knowledge, it had it ; while I have 
not had three." 

" A dog sleep, sir — an unnatural 
sleep, sir— no sleep at all, sir. I shall 



feel the want of rest for days to come. 
Ha! I know why it was: you 
thought to deprive me of my opiate ! 
But I understand my constitution. 
I will have my opiate in spite of you. 
You compel me to have recourse to 
my chest. I should but for you have 
made up my morning's prescription 
overnight. It must be taken fast- 
ing." 

Patiently I listened to this tirade^ 
and did not condescend to answer. 
Mr. Stowell brought out his medicine- 
chest, and busied himself for some 
time in weighing and pounding. At 
length he gulped down some kind of 
mixture. I occupied myself mean- 
while with the morning paper. The 
mixture or its preparation had one 
good effect — ^it restored my friend's 
good humor. 

"There, I will not be angry;- 1 
never am ; I cannot be. I wish you 
would let me recommend you a dose. 
I will mix it directly ; I will, indeed. 
It will do you a wonderful amount of 
good." 

The offer I politely declined. 

" I see," he continued, " you have 
lost your temper. Now, what can I 
do to recover it?" His eye then 
caught a programme of a morning 
concert on the table. " The very 
thing 1" he added. " This very day ! 
We'll go! I>et me persuade you. 
' Music hath charms, etc' Say yes, 
and oblige me." 

Not wishing to appear churlish, I 
assented, simply pointing out that 
the thermometer would range high 
in a concert-room. My objection 
was overruled, and we both sat down 
to breakfast I was glad to see my 
friend enjoy his meal with what I 
thought a decided relish, for he had 
been very actively employed ; and I 
was on the point of asking whether 
his mixture had not produced an ex- 
cellent appetite, when he amused me 
by saying : 



Travels with a Valetudinarian. 



529 



"Positively, I never can take a 
breakfast! Everything very tempt- 
ing, though* But then, want of sleep ! 
Ah I I can't get over that," 

By this time, I knew better than to 
contradict my friend, and I suffered 
his remarks, therefore, to pass un- 
challenged. In due time, we went to 
the concert. Several songs by dis- 
tinguished artists were sung, the chief 
burden of them being the pleasures 
of summer, bright, sunny days, golden 
dawns, and glorious eves. These 
appropriate subjects and the heat of 
the room made me^ sigh for some 
shady retreat under a leafy canopy, 
such as had charmed my eye during 
our saunter of the previous evening. 
The concert came to an end. 

" Do you know," said my friend, 

when we found ourselves in tlie open 

air, " I don't much care for music ?" 

** Not on a hot day, perhaps," I 

replied. 

" No, sir, it is not that; but I have 
turned the occasion to some profit." 
" I am glad of it." 
" Yes, sir ; I shall write an article 
for the MedUO'Chirurgical Observer^ 
I am convinced that vocalization in- 
jures the larynx. I can prove it. The 
demonstration became quite painful 
at last, but I sat it out." 

"Then we may bless our stars that 
we are not singers ?" 
" We may, indeed ! A fatal gift." 
" I will wait to see you in type," I 
remarked, in the expectation of clos- 
>^g a discussion which began to ap- 
pal me. 

On our return, we encountered a 
strange-looking individual habited in 
a very long coat, and wearing a hat 
*'th a brim of extraordinary breadth. 
Mr. Stowell let this oddity pass, then 
stopped and looked after him. A 
youth approached us as we tarried. 
Mr. Stowell beckoned to him. 

" ^ray, who is that gentleman ?" he 
*«^ed the boy. 

^OL, xviii.— 34 



'* Dr. Brambleton, if he be a doc- 
tor," said the boy. 

" Thank you," said my friend to 
his informant ; then, turning to me, he 
added, ** A most remarkable man, I 
am sure I" 

"An empiric," I suggested. "I 
saw his gout specifics, and a column 
of his testimonials in to-day's paper." 
I laughed slightly, then exclaimed, 
" Only one more infallible cure for 
gout 1" 

Mr. Stowell looked very grave, and 
the boy, who lingered to hear our re- 
marks, ran off, cackling a good imi- 
tation of " quack, quack " as he went 
along. 

"That's all prejudice," said Sto- 
well. " He, Dr. B., may be a bene- 
factor of his race. I say he may be \ 
but I am certain of this — I felt some 
singular twinges in my big toe while 
we were on the Great Slaughterton, 
and I have not been entirely free 
from them since." 

" You are not a gouty subject ?" 

" I can't say what I may come to. 
I should very much like some talk 
with Dr. Brambleton." 

" Nonsense, my dear sir." 

" I am only curious to hear what 
he would say. I could tell in a min- 
ute whether he was a pretender." 

Mr. Stowell now labored under a« 
itching desire to call in Dr. Bramble- 
ton, and I continued to combat his 
folly, as I conceived it. Nothing 
else for the remainder of the day was 
talked about except various human 
ailments, their propagation, and the 
means of their eradication. It was 
impossible to turn the conversation 
into any other channel. I was so 
worn out at last that my replies be- 
came shorter and less courteous. I 
grew dogmatic in my turn, and back- 
ed my objections with more force as 
I plunged into topics out of my 
depth. Mr. Stowell was now frantic, 
and abused my ignorance. I retort- 



530 



Travels wUh a Valetudinarian. 



ed by ridiculing hi» credulity. We 
got so personal in our remarks that 
it was a relief when bedtime came ; 
and we retired to our respective cham- 
bers in no very pleasant mood. 

That night, a thunder-storm broke 
over the town. The storm was suc- 
ceeded by a sudden fall in the tem- 
perature, and the air became as cold 
as it is sometimes in the early spring. 
A sharp easterly wind was blowing 
when I arose the following morning. 
Before I left my chamber, I heard 
Mr. Stowell in altercation with our 
landlord. 

*' I told you I was in infirm health," 
said Stowell. 

"You did, sir," replied the land- 
lord. 

" Then, how could you put me in 
a room with an easterly aspect ?'^ 

"Why did you not choose the 
other room ?" 

" Because some people know how 
to take care of themselves." 

At this I opened my door, and 
rushed into our sitting-room. 

" Mr. Stowell," I exclaimed, « I 
am not accustomed i<S have imgener- 
ous reflections cast upon me. The 
choice was your own ; but you have 
before expressed a wish to be rid of 
me, and I reciprocate the sentiment. 
My room is at your service ; I shall 
not inflict my society on you any 
longer, and I shall seek more genial 
companionship than I have found in 
a confirmed valetudinarian." 

Without waiting for an answer, I 
hurried out of the house, breakfasted 
at a hotel, conned the newspaper, 
and proceeded to the railroad depot. 



partly for a walk, and partly to make 
sure of the time of arrival of the " up " 
train. I did not return to my lodg- 
ings until just in time to take away 
my luggage. 

In the sitting-room, I found Mr. 
Stowell and Dr. Brambleton. Mr. 
Stowell was sittiog on a chair, with 
his bare feet on what I took to be an 
electric battery, but which resembled 
a coal-scuttle. He held a wire in his 
hands, and on his head he wore a 
cap encircled, as I supposed, with 
magnets. 

" Good-day," I said, in a conciliat- 
ing tone, as I was on the wing, and 
ray fancy was tickled at the ridicu- 
lous appearance of my friend. 

" Don't think any more of it," re- 
plied Mr. StowelL " My temper 
emanated from gout! My first at- 
tack, I assure you." 

" A most decided case 1" chimed 
in Dr. Brambleton. " But he bears 
it like a Job." 

" A speedy recovery I" I answered. 
" You are in good hands, I hope ?" 

« Excellent," said Mr. StowelL " I 
have the fullest confidence." 

" He knows where he is, sir," put 
in the doctor slyly. "But I will 
stake my reputation on a cure." 

And wishing the patient and doc- 
tor a final adieu, I departed, rejoicing 
in my deliverance from both quacks 
and quacked. I should distinguish 
myself in Alpine climbing while un- 
der the stimulus imparted by freedom 
regained ; but experience will make 
me wary of a travelling companion 
until I have tested bis congeniality 
of disposition. 



The Child RiSiored. 531 



THE CHILD RESTORED. 

nt02l THE PRBNCH OF MARIS JEKMA. 

So long had wept this mother, so implored, 
So pressed against her heart the hea4 adored, 

The livid forehead of her dying child, 
That to the frozen breast the marble brow, 
As by a miracle, returned the glow 
Of life and light ; and, with a fervent joy. 
She thanked the God who gave her back her boy ; 

But from that hour the infant never smiled 1 

Three months had passed since then, and still the gloom' 

That seemed to linger from his unfilled tomb 

Remained unbroken ] one might almost think 

That, when the spirit trembled on the brink 

Of death, some pitying angel made a change 

To soothe maternal grief. So sad and strange 

Was the young, drooping head, the silent mood. 

His mother dared not, in her gratitude. 

Missing his joyous laugh, his happy voice 

And glance, even in embracing him, rejoice. 

From open casements song and laughter ring, 

From turrets high the chimes their carols fling. 

" Listen, my Louis. Tis the happy day 

When the New Year bids little children play 

With their new gifts, all merry for his sake ! 

What playthings will my little Louis take ? 

Wilt have this snow-white sheep, with silken string, 

That thou canst lead to pasture in the spring ? 

Not this ? Well, then, these paints, these brushes, made 

To color paper flowers that will not fade ? 

Or, see ! this gay, rebounding woollen ball. 

That falls and springs from earth, again to fall ? 

Thou dost not love to play ? Thou canst not run ? 

What shall I give thee, then, my cherished son ? 

" Tell me thy secret in one little word ; 
Thy mother fails to guess thy baby need. 
Say, wilt thou have this pretty, gilded sword 
To make thee a great captain ? * No, indeed ! 
Then this thatched cottage, with its drooping eaves. 
This open book, with all its pictured leaves ? 



533 



Madame de Stail, 



No ! still the little, mournful, waving hand. 
Would that thy mother had a fairy wand 
To bear thee something that would make thee smile ! 
Might not these singing birds thy thoughts beguile, 
These blooming flowers ? Whisper me, tell me, love, 
While I embrace thee — I who love thee so — 
Louis, what wantest thou ? My darling, say I" 
He murmured — " Only wings to fl^e away." 



MADAME DE STAEL. 



Anne Louise Germaine Neck- 
ER, Baronne de Holstein-Stael, the 
most remarkable female writer of our 
century, was born at Paris on the 
2 2d April, 1766. At that time her fa- 
ther was very far removed from the 
high position he was one day to occu- 
py, being simply a clerk in Thellu- 
son's bank. Mme. Necker herself un- 
dertook the education of her daugh- 
ter — a task for which she was singular- 
ly unfitted, being cold and stern by 
nature, and a pedant to boot. 

M. Necker was much more lov- 
ed by his child, and he understood 
her disposition better. He liked to 
draw her out and make her talk, and 
for that purpose he used playfully to 
tease her: she invariably met him 
with that mixture of gaiety and ten- 
derness which characterized their in- 
tercourse. Deeply grateful for his 
affection, Anne put the utmost good- 
will in the execution of his slightest 
wish. When only ten years old, she 
was so struck by the admiration he 
showed for Gibbon the historian, that 
the idea occurred to her to marry 
him, and thereby secure to her father 
the constant presence of one "^hose 
conversation he so much appreciated. 
Undismayed by Gibbon's repulsive 
ugliness, the child actually made 



the proposal to him herself. What 
makes the comical incident more 
curious is the fact that her mother 
had been, when little more than a 
child. Gibbon's first love. It was 
said of Anne Necker that she had 
always been young, and yet had 
never been a child. Her favorite 
pastime was fashioning doll kings and 
queens, and making them act. trage- 
dies of which she improvised the va- 
rious parts. This innocent amusement 
was at last forbidden by her Calm 
istic mother, but Anne used to hide 
herself and carry on her dramatic 
little games in secret. 

In her mother's salon^ Anne early 
made the acquaintance of some of 
the clever men of the day — amongst 
others, Grimm, Marmontel, and the 
Abb6 Raynal. At the age of nineteen 
her intellectual faculties had become 
developed in the highest degree, but 
so much to the detriment of her 
health as to cause the greatest alarm 
to her parents. The famous Dr. 
Tronchin was called in, and ordered 
the young invalid to be taken to the 
country, where the mind should lie 
fallow, and the time hitherto devoted 
to study be spent in the open air. 
No prescription could have been 
more unwelcome to Mme. Necker, 



Madafne de Sta^l, 



533 



for it involved a relaxation, or rather 
a complete abandonment, of the se- 
vere r/gifm she had adopted for her 
daughter. As it turned out, this was 
the best thing that could have hap- 
pened. Instead of hardening into a 
learned prodigy, Anne's moral na- 
ture was allowed to put forth its full 
luxuriance. Her father came con- 
stantly to St. Ouen, and in the 
charms of his daughter's society he 
sought rest from the cares of the 
ministry. In this pleasant retreat he 
and Anne learned, if possible, to love 
each other better. M. Necker was 
not, however, a foolishly fond parent ; 
his tenderness never obscured his 
judgment; and Anne declared her^ 
self that his eye, so far from being 
blinded by affection, was quicker to 
detect her faults than her merits. 
'* He unmasked all affectation in me," 
she writes; "from living with him, 
1 came to believe that people could 
see clearly into my heart." 

Anne made her^w/r/f into society at 
an early age, and immediately as- 
sumed there the position her talents 
merited. As the daughter of a pow- 
erful minister, and a future heiress, 
it was supposed she would marry at 
once, but it was not so. Mile. Necker 
attained the in those days compara- 
tively mature age of twenty before she 
gave her hand to the Baron de Stael- 
Holstein, ambassador from the court 
of Sweden. 

Immediately after her marriage, 
the Baronne de Stael was presented 
at court. On this occasion she ac- 
quired a character for eccentricity by 
omitting one of the innumerable 
fourt courtesies; but what stamped 
iier irrevocably as an oddity was that, 
b^^'ng a few days later to visit the 
J^uchesse de Polignac, the young 
^>.ironess walked into the room with- 
out her head-dress — she had dropped 
^^ m the carriage. Those who were in- 
dined to laugh at her, however, soon 



desisted, seeing that she was herself 
the first to relate her misdemeanors, 
and to laugh at them. 

But a great event was at hand 
which was to turn the current of 
Mme. de Stael's thoughts into other 
channels: the French Revolution 
broke out. The daughter of the 
minister who was the immediate 
cause of that volcanic eruption was 
not likely to remain a cool spectator 
of the national upheaving. Misled 
by her own enthusiasm for the laws 
and constitution of England, and 
still more by the ephemeral homage 
paid to Necker, who had made his-, 
cause triumphant in the king's cabi- 
net, Mme. de Stael honestly believed; 
that the dawn of true political liberty 
was at hand; but this short-lived^ 
chimera was changed to horror when , 
she realized the true motives, the 
aim and object, of the demagogues. 
The arrest of Louis XVI. and the • 
queen at Varennes filled her with 
regret, the sincerity of which it is im-> 
possible to doubt when we read her 
account of this event in the Cotisidc- 
rations sitr la Revolution Franfaise, 

Her knowledge of the men who- 
were the prime motors of these 
momentous changes enabled her to 
foresee the terrible catastrophe of the 
loth of August. With great courage 
and clear-sightedness, Mme. de Stael • 
drew up a plan of escape for the 
royal captives. M. Bertrand de 
Moleville, one of the king's ministers, 
gives the details of this scheme, which > 
its author forwarded with a letter to 
M. de Montmorin, one of his col- 
leagues in the ministry. Her idea was 
to convey the royal family to the 
coast of Normandy, whence they 
were to sail for England. Whether 
the plan was practicable or not, was 
never tested ; M. de Montmorin 
knew too well that it was utterly use- 
less to place it before the king. 

The murder of.the king and queen 



534 



Madame de StaiL 



filled the heart of Mme. de Stael with 
indignation and dismay. Such was 
the effect that this crime had upon 
her, that for a long time she was 
quite broken-hearted, all her faculties 
were absorbed and, as it were, para- 
lyzed by the deeds of blood that 
were being perpetrated arOund her. 
When at last she roused herself to 
resume her pen, it was on behalf of 
the unfortunate Marie- Antoinette ; 
she addressed to the monsters who 
then ruled France an article entitled 
" Defense de la Reine." We can 
easily imagine what consummate skill 
and prudence were necessary at 
such a moment in dealing with the 
tigers she was striving to disarm. 
But not even at this crisis would 
Mme. de Stael descend to flattery; 
her talent and her spirit were alike 
above such arts. While scorning to 
propitiate them by insulting the 
queen, or using any of those invec- 
tives against royalty then in vogue, 
•she tried to merge the sovereign in 
the woman, the mother, and the de- 
voted and coura.geous wife. Strong 
and deep reverence, joined to a de- 
licate and ingenuous pity, breathe 
throughout this noble appeal. 

If Mme. de Stael had written 
nothing else, this article alone would 
have sufficed to ensure her fame. 

Shortly after the fall of Robes- 
pierre, she published two pamphlets, 
one entitled Reflections on Peace at 
Home, the other Reflections on Peace, 
addressed to Pitt and to the French. 
This latter work received a tribute of 
praise from Fox in the House of 
Commons. 

Mme. de Stael took a deep interest 
in the government formed under the 
new constitution of 1795, but in her 
desire to become acquainted with 
I the men who were likely to be chosen 
members of it, she formed intimacies 
with some who were unworthy of 
•her; even her literary reputation 



suffered from th^se sa called friend- 
ships. The public rarely discrimi- 
nates wisely between the character 
of an author and that of his or her 
surroundings. 

Just at this time Mme. de Suel 
became the centre of a circle of po- 
liticians, who used to meet at the 
Hdtel de Salm under the title of the 
Constitutional Club : this society had 
been formed to counterbalance die 
doctrines of the Clichy Club, which 
were ultra-revolutionary. Benjamin 
Constant was one of the principal 
speakers at the " Constitutional." 

Thibaudeau, in his memoirs^ lately 
published, declares that Mme. de 
Stael secretly favored the Directory^ 
and even attributes to her influence 
the reappearance on the political 
stage of one who had long forfeited 
the position he formerly held there. 
"M. de Talleyrand," says Thibau- 
deau, "had just returned from the 
United States without any money, 
when, through the influence of a 
woman famous for her wit and her 
spirit of intrigue, he was introduced 
into the intimacy of Barras." 

But enthusiastic as this famous wo- 
man was for glory and talent, she was 
far too shrewd to be deceived by the 
fine talk of the young conqueror, who 
came with the spoils of Egypt in 
his knapsack to dictate to France, 
promising to replace the "ignoble 
Directory by a splendid and solid 
government." Her knowledge ol 
human nature enabled her to foresee 
with certainty what tlie result would 
be when the despot was raised to 
power ; it would be war to the knife 
against liberty in every sliape and 
form, and against all its supporters. 
One of Bonaparte's paneg}rists has . 
attempted by a base and monsuous 
calumny to exonerate his petty ))er- 
secution of a woman by attributing 
to her a woman's vindictive spite as 
the motive of her resistance to him 



Madame de SiuiL 



535 



and his policy. This worthy servant 
of his master declares, on the word 
of the latter, that Mme. de Stael was 
in k>ve with BcHiaparte, and that his 
coldness to the femme savante was 
the real motive of her opposition. 
The story is as worthy of the husband 
of the loving and divorced Josephine 
as it is unworthy of Mme. de Stael. 
Her real crime in his eyes was her 
unyielding integrity of principle, and 
the preternatural insight of her genius, 
which made it impossible for him 
to dupe her. He verified all her 
previsions to the full. No sooner 
bad he seized the reins of power 
than he used it to paralyze liberty in 
every form ; most, above all, when it 
was handled by talent Mme. de 
Stael was imprudent enough to boast 
of her prophetic instinct on this score 
to Joseph Bonaparte, who was her 
frieud, but who was also the brother 
of the First Consul. He entreated 
her to be more guarded in her words, 
and soon after warned her that the 
conversations of her salon found 
their echo in the Tuileries. When 
she laughed at his friendly informa- 
tion, he tried to convince her by a 
more powerful argument. Necker 
had deposited two millions in the 
royal treasury, and this sum should 
be restored to his daughter if she 
would so far condescend to recognize 
the First Consul as to ask him for 
it. Mme. de Stael replied that she 
would never sue where she had a 
right to exact, and instead of concili- 
ating the great man, she urged Ben- 
jamin Constant to pronounce imme- 
^tely his famous speech denounc- 
ing the covert tyranny of the First 
Consul, which so roused the wrath 
^ ^e latter against him and her that 
from this time forth Mme. de Stael 
^*s to know no peace. The daring 
*ct sealed her doom. Friends, terri- 
"cd at her boldness and its conse- 
<iucnccs, deserted her saion. Fouch6, 



the minister of police, summoned her 
to his presence, and informed her in 
his master's name what she already 
knew, that no one might brave his 
anger with impunity. 

A few days after this official inter- 
view she went to a fSie given by 
Gen. Berthier, having accepted the 
invitation in hopes that some violent 
outburst from Bonaparte would fg^v^ 
her the opportunity of taking a wo- 
man's vengeance, and sharpening her 
wit on him. She actually tells us 
that she rehearsed an imaginary scene 
between them, and wrote down her 
own answers, polishing them off till 
they were sharp as steel. It was 
time and wit wasted, however; Bo- 
naparte only accosted her with some 
vulgar platitude that afforded no 
op^iing for pert reprisals. Not 
long after this disappointment she 
met the enemy again, this time by 
chance^ and fortune served her better. 
Mme. de Stael was discussing some 
political question with great anima- 
tion when tlie First Consul came up 
to the group of admiring listeners, 
and said brusquely : 

'^ Madame, I hate women who talk 
politics." 

•* So do I, General," replied his ad- 
versary, looking him coolly in the 
face ; " but in a country where men 
persecute them and cut their heads 
off, it is well to know why." On an- 
other occasion, when he accosted her 
in a gracious mood, she made bold to 
ask him what woman in France he 
was proudest of. " The woman who 
has most children," was the coarse 
rejoinder. 

Mme. de Stael made frequent jour- 
neys to Coppet, her father's residence. 
This was another crime in tlie eyes 
of the First Consul, as Necker was 
supposed to have been helped by his 
talented daughter in his work, PoH- 
tics and Finance — a book which Bona- 
parte resented furiously as an attack 



536 



Madame de StaeL 



oa his own policy and system of 
finance. 

On Mme. de Stael's return to Paris 
after the appearance of the work, she 
was warned that her personal liberty 
was in danger. Regnault de Saint- 
Jean d*Ang61y, who was her friend 
though in Napoleon's service, got her 
safe out of Paris, and secured her the 
hospitality of a relative of his in the 
country, where, she tells us, she used 
often to sit at her window of a night 
watching for the arrival of ih^gens" 
darmes to seize her. She soon left 
this kindly shelter for the home of 
her friend Mme. R6camier, at Saint 
Brice. In the security of this quiet 
retreat the fugitive fancied herself for- 
gotten by Napoleon, and decided to 
settle down at a small country-house 
about ten leagues from Paris. Scarce- 
ly had she done so when the happy 
illusion was dispelled. A comman- 
dant of gendarmerie presented him- 
self at her door with an order signed 
by the First Consul, bidding her with- 
draw forty leagues from the capital 
within twenty-four hours. 

Joseph Bonaparte and General Tu- 
nat had interceded for her, but in 
vain. Mme. de Stael, exasperated, 
refused the privilege of remaining in 
France on such conditions, and de- 
cided to seek refuge in Germany, 
where she could "confront the 
courtesy of the ancient dynasty with 
the impertinence of the new one that 
was striving to crush France." 

Her first resting-place was Weimar, 
the German Athens of that day. Here 
she learned German under such pro- 
fessors as Goethe, Schiller, and Wie- 
land. In 1804, she visited Berlin, 
where she met with the kindest recep- 
tion from the king and queen ; but 
her stay there was short; she was 
summoned hence to her father's 
death- bed, and arrived too late to 
embrace him. This was a fearful 
blow; she strove to Assuage her 



grief by collecting his MSS., with 
a view to publishing them, but her 
health, shaken by so many vidssi* 
tudes, gave way, and she was obliged 
to seek change and rest in Italy. 
The sight of Rome and of Naples 
awoke a new life within her, and 
restored to her the power of writing, 
which for a time she had lost. 

But nothing could long console 
her for her absence from her ovn 
beloved country. The longing to see 
France at last so far subdued her 
proud spirit that she determined to 
avail herself of the privilege of ap- 
proaching within forty leagues of 
Paris ; she returned accordingly, and 
settled at Rouen. This was indeed a 
violation of the permitted limits, but 
Fouche shut his eyes to it, and the 
exile remained undisturbed at the 
residence of her friend M. de Castel* 
lane, where she finished Corinne^ 
and corrected the proof-sheets. The 
work appeared in 1807, and awoke 
a very trumpet-blast of applause all 
over Europe. But fame was a crime 
in one who had incurred the tyrant's 
displeasure, and the author received 
a peremptory order to quit France. 
Broken-hearted and despairing, she 
returned to Coppet, where she was 
accompanied by a few faithful friends, 
who braved all to share her solitude. 
Here she continued to occupy her- 
self with her great work, Germany. 
Feeling, however, that a more perfect 
knowledge of the country was neces- 
sary before completing it, she resolv- 
ed to spend the winter of 1807 at 
Vienna. She met with a flatteriflg 
reception there from the Prince de 
Ligne, the Princesse Luboroinka, 
and most of the distinguished per- 
sonages of the court, and returned in 
the spring to CoppeL 

As soon as her book on Germany 
was ready for the press, Mme. de 
Stael set out for France, and placed 
herself at the distance prescribed^ 



Madame de Stail. 



537 



forty leagues. She took up her abode 
at the old castle of Chaumont, for* 
uierly the residence of the Cardinal 
d'Amboise, Diana of Poitiers, and 
Catherine de' Medicis. 

While passing a few days with her 
<iear and valiant friend, M. de Mont- 
morency, the persecuted author re- 
ceived the terrible tidings that 10,000 
copies of her new work just issued 
bad been seized by the minister, al- 
though she had taken the precaution 
of submitting the proofs for approval 
to the censorship. This tyrannical 
measure was followed by an order to 
leave France within three days. She 
begged for a short delay, hoping, by 
means of a German passport, to land 
in England ; but to this request the 
Due de Rovigo sent a positive re- 
fusal. Mme. de Stael revenged her- 
self later by placing the duke's letter 
in her second edition of Germany, 

From Foss^ she fled to Coppet. 

Here she found that the prefect of 

Cieneva had received orders to destroy 

any proofs or copies of her work that he 

could discover. At the same time, he 

hinted to Mme. de Stael that she 

weight soften the tyrant by seizing the 

opportunity to write an ode on the 

new-bom « King of Rome." " My 

best wish for his infant majesty," she 

replied, « is, that he may have a good 

nurse." This impertinence came to 

Napoleon's ears, and Mme. de Stael 

expiated it by a prohibition to move 

two leagues from Coppet. Her friends 

were finally included in her disgrace. 

^^.Schlegel, her son's tutor, was order* 

ed to resign his position in her family, 

*^d M. de Montmorency was exiled 

fot daring to give her the protection 

of his presence in return for the cou- 

I'^geous hospitality he had received 

from her during the Terror. Mme. 

*^ecamier was similarly punished for 

her boldness in befriending the woman 

^\^o defied Bonaparte. Hunted to 

^*«h while she remained on French 



soU, Mme. de Stael felt that nothing 
remained to her but to seek peace 
and security in flight. But whither 
should she fly ? Bonaparte's spies 
were spread like a network over the 
Continent They would vie with each 
other in setting traps for her. Russia 
alone offered some chance of rest ; so, 
one bright spring morning, Mme. de 
Stael went out for a drive, and, instead 
of returning home, posted on through 
Switzerland and the Tyrol to Vienna, 
She quickly discovered that it was 
not possible for her to tarry here; 
the tyrant's tools were on her track. 
" March 1 march 1" was still the cry 
of fate ; and, like the Wandering Jew, 
she sallied forth once more on her 
wanderings. Moscow seemed like a 
promised land where she might rest 
ayhile ; but, scarcely had she drawn 
breath amidst the unmelted snows of 
the northern city, when the hunter 
was down upon her. The Grafide 
Arm^e was advancing rapidly on the 
Russian capital. '* March ! march 1" 
And again the fugitive was on tlie 
road, flying to St. Petersburg. Here 
at last came a respite. The emperor 
and empress received her like a de- 
throned sovereign; the nobility fol- 
lowed suit, partly out of admiration 
for the gifted exile, partly in hatrecl 
to her foe, who was theirs also. She 
was entertained at public banquets, 
and became the lion of the hour. At 
one of these magnificent /<?/« given in 
her honor, the toast, " Success to the 
Russian arms against France!" was 
proposed. Mme. de Stael seized her 
glass, and, with a sudden inspiration 
of patriotism, cried out: "No, not 
against France! against her oppres- 
sor I" The amendment was adopted 
with applause. But St. Petersburg was 
no safe retreat for the baroness while 
the French legions were at Moscow. 
She was advised by friends to fly, and, 
once more folding her tent, she car- 
ried it to Stockholm. Here she was 



538 



Madame de Sfaii. 



allowed to recruit her wearied limbs 
and more wearied spirit for some 
months. She employed the interval 
of quiet in writing the recollections 
called T4rn Years in Exiie. On leav- 
ing Sweden she set sail for England, 
with a view to publishing her famous 
AlUmagne — the work which had been 
the immediate cause of her recent 
persecutions, having exasperated Bo- 
naparte beyond all powers of endur- 
ance. It was not until the fall of her 
enemy that Mme. de Stael ventured 
to return to France. Her joy, how- 
ever, at this twofold event was of 
short duration. The despot who kncAV 
no mercy to the weak was not to be 
bound by the chains of honor. He 
broke his plighted word, fled from 
Elba, and landed one morning on 
the shores of France. It was the 
signal for Mme. de Stael to fly from 
them. Filled with patriotic grief and 
personal dismay, she started immedi- 
ately for Coppet. She had barely 
arrived there when a letter followed 
her with the unexpected order to re- 
turn to Paris, "where the emperor 
considered her presence would be 
useful in establishing constitutional 
ideas." But she, whom threats and 
exile had not daunted, was not to be 
beguiled by flattery. "Tell your 
master," she replied to the writer of 
the singular invitation, — ^** tell your 
master that since he has got on for 
twelve years without me or the con- 
stitution, he can do without us a little 
longer, and that at this moment he 
hates one about as much as the 
other." 

What wonder if the health of this 
intrepid woman gave M'ay, in spite 
of her indomitable spirit, under this 
long spell of mental and physical 
fatigue, and ceaseless vexation and 
disappointment. Her declining years 
were consumed in intense suffering, 
borne with the utmost courage and 
ition. She returned finally to 



France after the Restoratbn, and 
was treated with every maik of es- 
teem by Louis XVIII. He delight- 
ed in her conversation, and gave her 
a more substantial proof of good- will 
by restoring to her the two milKons 
that her father had deposited in the 
treasury before his fall. This act of 
justice bound her by ties of enduring 
gratitude to the king and his dynasty. 

But she was not spared long to en- 
joy the honors that now surrounded 
her. Sorrow, and the despondency 
consequent on great bodily exhaus- 
tion, had tempted Mme. de Stael into 
the deadly habit of using opium, and 
when once contracted she had not 
strength to relinquish it, even after 
the cause that made the stimulant 
a necessity of existence to her had 
disappeared. Her friends used every 
argument and every stratagem to 
cure her, but in vain. She fell into 
a state of lethargy, or rather into a 
succession of lethargic slumbers, 
broken by sudden gleams of her old 
brightness. Her patience was \'eTy 
touching, and many evidences are 
preserved to show that she drew it 
from her unshaken faith in Christian- 
ity, however imperfect the form in 
which she had been reared, and to 
which she was outwardly attached. 
Once, on awaking from her slumbroas 
state, she exclaimed to those who 
surrounded her bed : " It seems to 
me that I know now what the pas- 
sage from life to death is ; and I feel 
how God in his mercy softens it to 
us." She expired on the 14th of July. 
181 7, the anniversary of the very day 
on which her father's false theories 
and blind self-confidence had put the 
match to the powder and kiodled 
that terrific conflagration which en- 
veloped France in flames. Her re- 
mains were deposited at Coppet, in 
the tomb she had raised to the me- 
mory of the great financier. 

Those who were present at the 



Madame de Sta9L 



539 



reading of her will, heard for the first 
time of her marriage with M. de 
Rocca. In that document she bade 
her children proclaim the fact, as also 
the birth of a boy by this union. 
A relative and intimate friend of 
Mme. de Sta€^l*s gives us an account 
of her first meeting with her second 
husband : 

" A young man of good birth ex- 
cited much interest at Geneva by the 
stones current about his bravery, and 
by the contrast between his age and 
his firagile appearance and shattered 
health; the result of wounds re- 
ceived in Spain, where he had served 
in a French hussar regiment. A 
few words of sympatiiy addressed to 
him by Mme. de Stacl produced a 
most wonderful effect ; his head and 
heart took fire. * I will love her so 
well,' he vowed, ' that she will end 
by marrying me !' and he was right. 
Their affection for each other was of 
the deepest and tenderest kind. She 
lived in perpetual fear of losing him, 
owing to his delicate health ; and yet 
it was he who survived her, but only 
a year; he died at Hy^es, more 
from grief than firom his infirmities, 
in his thirty-first year." 

We have said nothing of the per- 
son of this singularly gifted woman. 
'* She was," to quote the words of a 
contemporary, ** gracefiil in all her 
movements ; her face, without being 
handsome, attracted your attention, 
wd then fixed it ; a sort of intellec- 
tual beauty radiated from her coun- 
tenance, which seemed the reflex of 
ner soul. Genius was visible in her 
^yes, which were of a rare splendor; 
^^ glance had a fire and strength 
^hat resembled the flash of the light- 
"*^gf and was the forerunner of the 
thunder-roll of her language; her 
'^^ge and well-proportioned figure 
save a kind of energy and weight to 
^^« discourse. To this was added a 
certain dramatic effect. Though free 



from all exaggeration in her dress, 
she studied what was picturesque 
more than what was the fashion. 
Her arms and hands were beautiful, 
and singularly white." 

This picture is an attractive one, 
and paints Mme. de Stael in very 
diflRn'ent colors from those generally 
used by her portrayers. It is only 
natural that a woman who had all 
her life been before the world, should 
be variously judged by various people. 
A celebrated writer of her own day, 
who knew the author of Corinne 
both as an author and a woman, 
said that she would not be impartial- 
ly judged until a century had gone 
by. Napoleon raised her to a pe- 
destal of martyrdom by his unmanly 
and cruel persecution, and the iclai 
of her genius hid her individual 
faults and errors in a haze of glory. 
She was hated by the flatterers who 
fawned on the tyrant because she 
dared to defy him. Some considered 
her a cold, masculine woman, who 
had none of the charm of woman- 
hood about her; while others, daz- 
zled by her talent, idealized her as a 
sort of demigod. Distance enables 
us to estimate her more justly. She 
was a woman of unrivalled energy 
of character, of incomparably bril- 
liant parts, and endowed with a 
heart equal in tenderness to the 
power of her genius. Her written 
style gives but a faint idea of the lus- 
tre of her conversation. She was, 
perhaps, quite unparalleled in this 
last Sphere. The play of wit, logic, 
and grace never flagged for an in- 
stant, but kept her hearers spell- 
bound as long as her voice was 
heard. Once, at a soirie at Mme. 
R6camier's, she got into a discussion 
with the Archbishop of Sens, as to 
whether it was an advantage or a 
misfortune for a nation to be in 
debt ; the archbishop took the latter 
view of the question, and they kept 



540 



Madame de SiaeL 



up the ball for two hours, until the 
excitement among the guests be- 
came so great that they stood upon 
chairs in the adjoining salon to enjoy 
the brilliancy of the intellectual com- 
bat. She was, as her death attests, a 
devout believer in Christianity. On 
one occasion, after listening to some 
metaphysicians crossing lances over 
their pet theories, she remarked: 
"The Lord's prayer says more to 
me than all that." 

From the repetition of this divine 
prayer during her long nights of 
sleeplessness she drew patience and 
resignation. By birth and education 
a Protestant, she never allowed her 
lofty mind to be prejudiced against 
Catholics, and often spoke with en- 
thusiasm of the heroic courage of the 
martyred pnesls and bishops of the 
memorable 2d of September, 1792. 
The ImUaiion of Christ was her con- 
stant companion and solace during 
her long iUness. This woman of 
genius was a devoted mother. Her 
literary pursuits did not interfere 
with her maternal duties : she super- 
intended the education of her chil- 
dren herself, and often impressed upon 
them that, "if they fell away from 
the path of honor and duty it would 
be not alone an irreparable sorrow, 
but a remorse " to her, as she would 
accuse herself of being the cause 
of it. 

She was not happy in her first 
marriage, which was purely one of 
" arrangement." There was no sym- 
pathy of taste or ideas between her 
and the Baron de Stael ; her separa- 
tion from him was nevertheless a 
deep source of pain to her, and she 
never would have consented to it but 
for tiie ruinous state into which his 
imprudence and extravagance had 
thrown her financial affairs, and 
which must have led to the utter 
ruin of his family if they had been 
left longer in his hands. \Vhen his 



increasing years and illness demand- 
ed the consolation of her companion- 
ship, she returned to her husband 
with affectionate alacrity, and devo- 
ted herself to him until his death. 

The multiplicity of Mme. de StaeVs 
writings earned for her the sohriqwt 
of "the female Voluire," She be- 
gan to write when most girls of her 
age are still in pinafores \ her early 
works are like the flights of a young 
eagle, betraying the fearless temerity 
of conscious power, combined with 
the inexperience of youth— she 
plunges into depths, and soars to 
heights of metaphysics and philoso- 
phy with all the audacity of untaught 
genius. The Influence of the Rs- 
sions on the Happiness of Nations and 
Individuals is one of the most strik- 
ing of those juvenile feats, and was 
quickly followed by others in the 
same field. Her novels are un- 
doubtedly the first of her claims on 
enduring fame. Delphine is sup- 
posed to be Mnae. de Stael as she was, 
and Corinne as she wished to be. 
They are both masterpieces of the ro- 
mantic school prevalent in that day, 
and they both inaugurated a new 
reign in fiction. The dosing years 
of the author's agitated life were 
devoted to the compilation of the vol- 
umes entitled Considerations on thi 
French Revolution — a work of great 
magnitude, and which was intended 
to embrace the full exposition and 
justification of her father's poh'cy 
and life, and a philosophical analysis 
of the theories of all known forms of 
government, as well as an elaborate 
history of the causes and effects of 
the Revolutionary crisis. The plan 
was colossal in scope, and almost in- 
finite in the variety of subjects \i in- 
cluded ; but death did not wait for 
her to finish it. Amongst her ear- 
liest literary productions we must not 
refuse a passing mention to her dra- 
matic efforts. She was not twenty 



Father Sebastian Rale^ S.J. 



541 



when Sophie and yane Grey earned 
for her a place amongst the most 
mature and brilliant writers of the 
period. There is no doubt, if she had 
had leisure to pursue this vein, Mme. 
de Stael would have enriched the 
French language with some remark- 
able comedies and tragedies. Her 
works were collected after her death 
by the Baron de Stael, her son, and 
form a series of eighteen large vol- 
umes. 

The interest of the subject has led 
us into a somewhat lengthy sketch 
of the life of this distinguished lady. 



French annals furnish a study, almost 
unique, of women who were models 
of all womanly virtues, and yet by 
their brilliancy, wit, and conversance 
with public affairs were fitted to be 
the advisers of rulers and states- 
men. We are very far. from wishing 
to see the sex drawn out of their 
proper sphere, but when by natural 
and acquired talents they evince 
a vocation for affairs of state, we 
think that governments may wise- 
ly Accept their counsel, and that 
their services are worthy of per- 
manent record. 



FATHER SEBASTIAN RALE, SJ. 



The rivalries of the French and 
English for dominion in the north- 
western corner of our republic have 
deeply impressed themselves upon the 
pages of our history. The element 
of religious controversy was not the 
least of the exciting causes which 
made that frontier the scene of an- 
gry strife. The French carried the Ca- 
tholic faith wherever they erected the 
arms of their kings, and the natives 
flocked with ardor and conviction 
around the standard of the cross. 
Whatever may have been the merits 
of the respecrive parties in the con- 
test for dominion, it is now the set- 
tled voice of history that the Catho- 
lic missionaries were actuated by mo- 
tives far above all earthly considera- 
tions, and that their cause was that 
of no earthly king, but was the sacred 
cause of the King of Heaven. 

Sebastian Rale was born of a good 
family in Franche-Comt^, in the year 
'^5^- At an early age he entered 
'^'e ^ocifti^ of Jesus. After passing 



through the novitiate, he was engag- 
ed in teaching at the College of 
Nismes. To fine natural abilities he 
added great industry, and thus be- 
came an accomplished scholar. A 
foreign mission was the object of 
his holy aspirations ; and, after his or- 
dination, he received directions from 
his superior to embark for Canada. 
He sailed from Rochelle on the 23d 
of July, 1689, and, after a voyage 
without accidents, arrived at Quebec 
on the 13th of October following. 
As his destination was the mission 
among the Abnakis, the Menof-the- 
East, he employed his time at Que- 
bec in studying their language. 

It was not long, however, before 
he was sent on the mission to St. 
Francis, an Abnaki village, containing 
about two hundred inhabitants, most 
of whom were Catholics. Among 
these, the gentlest of the Indian 
tribes in the North, his first essays 
at his favorite vocation were made 
by this illustrious missionary. 



542 



Father Sebastian Rale, S.% 



He had commenced the study of 
the Abnaki dialect at Quebec; sur- 
rounded, as he now was, by the Ab- 
nakis themselves, he prosecuted that 
study with great industry. While 
acquiring their language, he was also 
engaged in writing his Abnaki cate- 
chism and dictionary. Every day he 
spent some time in their wigwams, in 
order to catch from the lips of the 
Indians the idioms of their language ; 
and he often subjected himself to 
their merry laugh by uttering some 
sentence for the proposed catechism 
in his broken Abnaki, which, as they 
rendered in the pure idiom, the pa- 
tient student copied in his book. 
After two years' labor at St. Francis, 
he was selected by the superior to 
succeed the missionary of the Illi- 
nois, who had recently died, because 
that mission required a father who 
had already acquired some one of 
the Algonquin dialects. 

Before setting out for his Illinois 
missions, he spent three months at 
Quebec, studying the Algonquin lan- 
guage. On the 13th of August, 1691, 
lie launched his little bark canoe, for 
his long and arduous voyage to the 
West. Slowly they moved onward ; 
he and his companions landed night 
after night to build their fire and 
erect their tent, which consisted 
of their little canoe turned up, as 
their only shelter from the storms. 
After those long days of labor and 
fasting, their slender meals were made 
upon a vegetable, called by the 
French tripe de roche,^ His com- 
panions were so exhausted on reach- 
ing Michilimackinac that he was 
obliged to stop and winter there. 
Well may the historian remark of 
these expeditions of the Catholic 
missionaries to the West that " all 
must feel that their fearless devoted- 
ness, their severe labors, their meek 

* ladian name Kan^^h^saanak ; botanical, Um- 
bilicaria MuhleobergU. 



but heroic aelf-siacrifice, have thrown 
a peculiar charm over the early his- 
tory of a region in which the restless 
spirit of American enterprise is going 
forth to such majestic results." * 

F. Rale wintered at Michilimacki- 
nac with the two missionaries station- 
ed there, one of them having the care 
of the Hurons, and the other of the 
Ottawas. Here, with the aid of F. 
Chaumonot's grammar, he learned 
sufficient of the Huron tongue-*the 
key to most of those spoken in Ca- 
nada — ^to assist the Huron missionajj. 
Scarcely had the spring opened, when 
F. Rale was urging his canoe along 
the western coast of Lake Michigan. 
He passed by the villages of the 
Mascouteps, Sacs, Outagamis or 
Winnebagoes, Foxes, and others, till 
he came to the bottom of the Jake: 
Having reached the Illinois partly 
by river and partly by portage, he 
launched his canoe on that river, and 
glided down its stream one hundred 
and fifty miles, till he came to the 
great town of the Illinois Indians. 
This town contained about two thou- 
sand five hundred families, and the 
rest of the nation were scattered 
through eleven other villages. F. 
Rale was welcomed to their counti}' 
by the greatest of Illinois feasts, 
" the Feast of tlie Chiefs," at which 
the appetite was penanced by feeding 
on dogs, which were esteemed the 
greatest of delicacies among the 
Indians, and of which a large num- 
ber had been served up on this occa- 
sion in honor of their distinguished 
guest To every two persons an co- 
tire dish was allotted. The father 
manifests no great relish for the 
food he received, but he expresses 
the greatest admiration and astonish- 
ment at the powerful eloquence and 
wild beauty of the oration with which 
he was regaled on this occasion. 

• Fnmcis* Life o/RaU^ in Sp«/I» 



Father StbastioH Rale, S.y. 



543 



F. Rale devoted himself with zeal 
to the care of his new flock. His 
principal difficulty consisted in over- 
coming in them the practice of poly- 
gamy. •• There would have been," 
he writes, " less difiiculty in convert- 
ing the Illinois did the Prayer permit 
polygamy aoiong them. They ac- 
knowledged that the Prayer was good, 
and were delighted to have their 
wives and children instructed; but 
when we spoke on the subject to the 
braves, we found how hard it was to 
fix their natural fickleness, and induce 
them to take but one wife, and her 
for life." Again, the father writes: 
" When the hour arrives for morning 
and evening prayers, all repair to the 
chapel Not one, even the great 
tnedicine-men^that is to say, our 
worst enemies — but sends his children 
to be instructed, and, if possible, bap- 
tized." The good missionary had the 
consolation of baptizing numbers of 
sick infants before death carried them 
off, and there were among the adults 
many devout Christians, to whom the 
faith was dearer than their lives. 

After two years thus spent among 
the Illinois, his superior recalled F. 
Rale for other duties about the year 
1695. During the return to Quebec, 
he instructed fully in the faith, and 
baptized, a young Indian girl, whose 
edifying death afterwards this zealous 
father esteemed an ample consolation 
and recompense for all the trials and 
hardships of his life. On arriving at 
Quebec, he was assigned to the mis- 
sion in the heart of the Abnaki coun- 
try, which F. Bigot had re-established. 
But this lield, which F. Rale now 
entered as a minister of the gospel of 
peace, had become, during his absence, 
the scene of war. While he had been 
^boring on the distant banks of the 
Illinois, the Abnakis had sustained 
injuries from their English neighbors 
which provoked them to take up the 
^fttchet in defence and retaliation. 



Maj. Waldron, of Dover, had, in 
1675^ seized four hundred Indians of 
their tribe, and sold them into slavery 
in the^West Indies. Though deeply 
incensed at this revolting crime, the 
Indians remained quiet till 1688, 
when, upon a breach of the peace of 
X678 on the part of the English, they 
could no longer restrain their fury. 
The war-cry was sounded through 
the land, bands of infuriated and in- 
jured braves rushed upon the English 
fix>mier, Dover was taken, and Wal- 
droB himself fell a captive into their 
hands, and suffered a death most 
shocking, it is true, but one which all 
must admit he had deserved as many 
times over, if that were possible, as 
there had been victims of his rapa- 
cious inhumanity. Pemaquid was 
next taken, and destruction was vis- 
ited upon the entire line of frontier 
settlements. The colonists now pro- 
posed a peace, but the Indians had 
already suffered too much from the 
violation of treaties. They exclaimed : 
" Nor we, nor our children, nor our 
chOdren's children will ever make a 
peace or truce with a nation that kills 
us in their halls." 

But the Abnakis, unsupported in 
the war by the French, were finally 
constrained to accept the offer of 
peace — a peace as deceptive as for- 
mer ones had proved. 

The following year the great and 
brave chief Taxus went to Pema- 
quid, with some others, to propose an 
exchange of prisoners : admitted into 
the fort for this purpose, they were 
treacherously fired upon, two of 
them were killed, and Taxus killed 
two of the garrison in cutting his 
way through to make his escape. 

This being the condition of the 
country at die time that F. Rale was 
sent there by his superior as mis- 
sionary to the Catholic Abnakis, it 
may be easily judged how far that 
state of things is justly attributable 



••V 



sirr^y 












544 




m/ier Sebastian Rale, S^y, 



to what Mather calls "the charms 
of the French friar." From what 
has already been related, it is quite 
certain that there existed suQicient 
causes for war on the part of the 
Indians without any influence from 
F. Rale, had he been there to exert it. 

So far from instigating or counte- 
nancing acts of cruelty or blood on 
the part of his flock, his oflice and 
his labors were those of peace and 
charity. His mission was to an- 
nounce the glad tidings of the Gos- 
pel: "Glory to God on high, and 
peace on earth to men of good-will." 
And we have authority, not preju- 
diced in favor of his cause, for the 
assertion that he was not faithless to 
his sacred duty. Thus Gov. Lincoln 
says : " His followers were not only 
the bravest, but the trwst sparing^ of 
the fierce race to which they belonged; 
and though spoil and havoc were their 
element, they could sometimes be 
generous and forbearing. But when 
the old man expired by the side of 
the altar he had reared, the barbarism 
he had only in a measure controlled, 
broke loose with a ferocity not soften- 
ed by the dogmas he had taught." * 

The village of Narrantsouac, on 
the Kennebec, still called Indian Old 
Point, became the residence of F. 
Rale. Here he found, on his arrival, 
a little church and a flock of con- 
verted Indians remarkable for their 
devotion and sincerity. They enter- 
tained a profound attachment to the 
Prayer, and great veneration lor him 
who was its minister. Besides this, 
they soon learned to love and es- 
teem F. Rale as their best friend ; he 
was their arbitrator in all disputes, 
their physfcian in sickness, and their 
consoler in all their distresses. Reli- 
gion was the reigning sentiment in 
this truly Christian community, and 
the little chapel, erected by the 

• Maimg Hist. Soc, CoHtctions^ v. i. p. 339, and 
Shta, 



hands of the neophytes, became at 
once the object of their love and the 
scene of their unalloyed devotion. 

As game was scarce, the Abnakis 
bestowed much care and labor in 
the cultivation of their fields. After 
planting the seed in the spring, they 
sallied forth on fishing parties to the 
sea-shore, accompanied by F. Rale. 
In these expeditions, a rustic altar, 
covered with an ornanaeDtal cloth, 
was carried along, and the chapel- 
tent was pitched every evening for 
prayer, and struck in the morning 
after Mass. On reaching the sea- 
shore a large bark cabin was erected 
for the church, and the wigwams of 
the Indians were arranged around it 
Thus arose, as by the magic power 
of religion, a beautiful village on the 
distant sea-shore, with its chapel, 
priest, and flock, and there were 
heard the pious chant and fervent 
prayer, there the mysteries of the 
faith were taught to docile hearers, 
there devout confessions heard, and 
there the bread of life distributed. 
The priest was truly the father o( the 
faithful. He was also their compan- 
ion and sympathetic friend. Hun- 
ger, thirst, and fatigue he bore with 
them, and their sorrows, as their joys, 
were common. Yet in this rude and 
simple mode of life the faithful Je- 
suit conformed himself to the suict- 
est rules of his order. His hours 
of rising and retiring, his Oflice, medi- 
tations, and all his spiritual exercises 
were as regular as those of his breth- 
ren in the colleges of Europe. In 
order to avoid interruptions while say- 
ing his Office or performing his other 
devotions, he would refrain from ail 
conversation, except in cases of ne- 
cessity, from evening prayers till af- 
ter Mass. His annual retreat was ob- 
served at the beginning of Lent with 
the same scrupulous exactness. Tne 
pension which he was allowed by 
the French government he distributed 



T«t 



<ft 







Father Sebastian Rah^ 






545 



among the more needy of his spiri- 
tual children. 

In 1697, F. Rale heard, with so- 
licitude for his flock, that a strange 
and unconverted tribe — the Amalin- 
gans — were coming to settle near to 
Narrantsouac. He feared for the 
faith and morals of his neophytes 
when exposed to the tricks of the me- 
dicine-men and the seductive games 
and dances of such superstitious 
neighbors. He was engaged in the 
confessional all the evening before 
Corpus Christi and during the morn- 
ing of the festival till near noon. 
In the meantime, deputies from the 
newly arrived Amalingans came, bear- 
iag presents, according to the Indian 
custom, for the relatives of some 
Abnakis recently destroyed by the 
English. Towards noon the proces- 
sion of the blessed sacrament began 
!• move with a degree of magnifi- 
cence that astonished those natives 
of the wilderness. Struck as were the 
Amalingan deputies with the solemn- 
ity, the earnestness, and the majesty of 
the scene, they listened with convic- 
tion to the fervent and eloquent words 
of the father^ who ^seized upon so 
favorable an occasion to acquaint 
them with the existence and attri- 
butes of the Deity, whose worship 
they then beheld. How sublime 
and beautiful must have been the 
appeal which the zealous missionary 
made to those astonished warriors 1 
1'he deputies were convinced, but 
they could not accept the prayer be- 
fore laying the words of the Black 
^own before the assembled sachems 
of their tribe, who were expected to 
^^ive in the autumn. During the. 
5»ummer, the father sent them a mes- 
^^ge, reminding them of his words 
and their promise. In due time the 
answer was returned, that they de- 
sired to embrace the Prayer, and 
llicy invited the Black Gown chief 
^0 come among them, and bring the 
VOL. xviii. — 35 



wampum of the faith. It happened 
that Narrantsouac was then deserted 
by its inhabitants, who were on one 
of their excursions ; and F. Rale set 
out in his canoe for the village of 
the Amalingans, who received him 
with every honor, and welcomed him 
with a salute of musketry. Soon a 
cross was raised in the centre of the 
village and a bark chapel was erect- 
ed. The missionary visited the 
cabins and instructed the catechu- 
mens. After Mass every day, three 
public instructions were given; be- 
tween these they received private 
instructions in their cabins. Four 
chiefs and two matrons were first 
baptized; then followed two bands, 
of twenty each, and finally the entire 
tribe publicly received the Prayer 
and were baptized. A public assem- 
bly was then held, and the mission- 
ary received the simple but touching 
tokens of their gratitude and love,, 
and then he returned in his canoe to 
Narrantsouac, while the Christian 
Amalingans departed for the sea- 
shore. F. Rale found no difficulty 
afterwards in uniting in one nation 
the two tribes that were now mera-- 
bers of the one fold of Christ. 

In 1698, F. Rale, by the aid of 
means- and skilful labor sent from . 
Quebec, succeeded in erecting a neat 
but simple chapel at his village of 
Narrantsouac, or Norridgewock. Wi . 
this their new chapel the Abnaki 
Christians assembled to unite with 
the universal church in the solemn 
rites of the Catholic worship. It 
was there in their own native wilder- 
ness that those Men-of-the-East were 
contented to worship God in secur- 
ity and peace. But, strange as it 
may appear, the New England set- 
tlers, themselves professing Christian- 
ity, saw with jealousy and dislike a- 
Christian temple erected by the Ab- 
nakis for Christian worship, while all 
the heathen tribes of New England 



546 



Father Sebastian Rale^ S.J 



were left free and uncared for in 
their horrid superstitions and brutal 
sacrifices. This feeling on their part 
appears the more extraordinary, since 
at that time Acadia had been restor- 
ed to France by the treaty of Rys- 
wick, in 1697 ; that the Catholic faith 
had been professed by the Abnakis 
for half a century; and the Jesuit 
missionaries had been their pastors 
during all that period. 

The interval of peace now en- 
joyed seems not to have resulted in 
strengthening the friendship nor in 
conciliating the good-will and con- 
fidence of the Indians. Fresh aggres- 
sions were from time to time commit- 
ted upon them by their white neigh- 
bors. But a blow was struck at their 
chosen and beloved pastors which ex- 
hibits the true sentiments entertained 
on the one side and the grievances en- 
dured on the other. On the 15th of 
June, 1 700, a law was passed, which re- 
cited : *' Whereas, divers Jesuit priests 
• and Popish missionaries, by their sub- 
tile insinuations, industriously labor 
'to debauch, seduce, and. withdraw 
•the Indians from their due obedience 
unto his majesty, and to excite and 
stir them up to sedition, rebellion, 
and open hostility against his majes- 
ty's government," and then proceed- 
ed to enact, in reference to the same 
priests and missionaries, that " they 
Aall depart from and out of the 
same province on or before the loth 
day of September, 1 700." In case any 
one of them should be found in the 
province after that time, it was pro- 
vided that he " shall be deemed and 
accounted an incendiary and disturb- 
er of the public peace and safety, 
and an enemy to the Christian re- 
ligion, and shall be adjudged to suf- 
fer perpetual imprisonment. And if 
any person, being so sentenced and 
actually imprisoned, shall break pri- 
son and actually escape, and be af- 
terwards retaken, he shall be punished 



with death." ♦ Gov. Bellamont, by 
his influence, secured in New York 
also the passage of a law " for hang- 
ing every Popish priest that carae 
voluntarily into the province, which 
was occasioned by the great number 
of French Jesuits who were continu- 
ally practising upon our Indians." \ 

Upon the accession of Gov. Dudley 
to office, in 1692, he solicited a con- 
ference with the Abnakis, and ac- 
cordingly a conference was held on 
an island in Casco Bay. The object 
of the governor was to secure the 
neutrality of the Indians, in case the 
French and English went to war. 
Penhallow and such as follow him 
contend that the governor succeeded 
in his purpose, and secured a promise 
from the Indians not to join their 
allies, the French, in case of war. 
But treaties had been imposed upon 
those unlettered warriors which th^ 
never understood, and, consequentlv. 
never entered into. Besides, P 
Rale, who had the advantage over 
Penhallow of having been present at 
the conference, gives quite a different 
statement of the affair. F. Rale, a: 
the request of the Indians, accompa- 
nied them to the conference. " Thus. ' 
he relates himself, " I found myself 
where neither I nor the governor 
wished me to be." The govenior 
and the missionary exchanged the 
usual civilities, and then the former, 
stepping back among his people^ 
made his propositions to the Indians 
in an address, which he concluded 
with an offer to supply their wants, 
take their furs, and supply them ii'Jth 
merchandise in return *' at a moder- 
ate price." An EngHsh minister ac- 
companied the governor, whose pr<^- 
sence could have had no other object 
in view than a tender of his senice^ 
to the Abnakis in lieu of those 
F. Rale ; but the latter supposes t.iat 

• Francis's Li/e p/Fatktr Rait. 
t SmiUi^s Hiitwy o/Srn lart. 



Father Sebastian Rale, S.J. 



547 



his own presence disconcerted that 
portion of the plan. When the In- 
dians retired to consult together, 
Gov. Dudley approached F. Rale, 
and said : " I beg you, sir, not to 
induce your Indians to make war 
upon us." " No, sir, my religion 
and my sacred calling require me to 
give them only counsels of peace," 
was the prompt and appropriate 
reply. The Indians soon returned 
and gave the following answer 
through their orator : " Great chief, 
you have told us not to unite with 
the Frenchman if you declare war 
against him. Know that the French- 
man is my brother ; we have but the 
same Prayer, we dwell in the same 
cabin — he at one fire, I at the other. 
If I see you enter towards the fire 
where my brother, the Frenchman, 
is seated, I -watch you from my mat 
at the other. If I see a tomahawk 
in your hand, I say, What will the 
Englishman do with that hatchet? 
and I would rise to see. If he raise 
it to strike niy brother, I grasp mine, 
and rush upon him. Could I sit 
still and see my brother struck? 
No! no I I love my brother, the 
Frenchman, too well not to defend 
him. I therefore tell thee, great 
chief, do no harm to my brother, 
and I will do none to thee. Remain 
quiet on thy mat; I will remain so 
on mine." "Thus," says F. Rale, 
" the conference ended." 

Peace was soon interrupted. War 
broke out between England and 
France in 1703, and involved their 
respective colonies on this continent 
"I the contest. The Abnakis of 
Maine joined their French allies, and 
both sides felt the ravages of war to 
a fearful degree. The Indians, who 
^d long been impatient under the 
encroaching policy of their white 
JJcighbors, carried on the war with 
destructive fury. Casco was taken, 
the New England villages, forts, and 



farms were pillaged, and six hundred 
of the inhabitants led away captives. 
As a minister of peace and mercy, 
F. Rale endeavored to subdue the 
wild passions of his injured and in- 
furiated Indians, as has been seen 
above by the testimony of Gov. 
Lincoln; but the people of New 
England visited upon him all the 
blame for the calamities which their 
own wrong policy had occasioned. 

Among the hostile movements of 
the English during the war was an 
expedition against Norridgewock, the 
residence of F. Rale. In the winter 
of 1705, " when the snow lay four 
feet deep," and " the country looked 
like a frozen field," Col. Hilton led 
an expedition of two hundred and 
seventy men against Norridgewock. 
The village, all deserted as it was 
by its inhabitants, was easily taken. 
The intended victim, however, was 
not there; fgr the missionary was 
absent with the tribe, as it was his 
habit to accompany them to the sea- 
shore. But the cabins and the cha- 
pel were there ; the torch was ap- 
plied, and soon one blaze enveloped 
the church and the village. When 
the missionary returned, he shudder- 
ed at the sacrilege he saw, and wept 
over the calamities of his people. A 
bark chapel soon rose from the ashes 
of the church which had been de- 
stroyed, and in it he dispensed the 
consolations of religion to his flock 
for several years. 

During this year, F. Rale had the 
misfortune to sustain a fall of such 
violence as to break his right thigh 
and left leg, and in this condition he 
was compelled to make the painful 
journey to Quebec for surgical aid. 
The fractured parts were so imper- 
fectly cemented together that he had 
to submit to the severe operation 
of having his leg broken again and 
reset. During his sufferings, not a 
groan escaped him ; and the surgeon 



548 



Father Sebastian Rale^ S.% 



who attended him has expressed his 
wonder at such an exhibition of 
Christian patience and love of suf- 
fering. As soon as his wounds per- 
mitted him to return, he was again 
at his post in his litde sanctuary in 
the wilderness, where, amid personal 
dangers the most appalling, he con- 
tinued calmly and without fear the 
discharge of his sacred duties. 

In the meantime, the English were 
determined to get rid of him, and 
the General Court of Massachusetts, 
in November, 1720, passed a resolu- 
tion for that purpose. John Leigh- 
ton, Sheriff of York, was commis- 
sioned to arrest him. If not found, 
he was to demand him of the In- 
dians ; upon their refusal, the Indians 
themselves were to be taken and 
carried to Boston. Every effort was 
made to induce the Indians to be- 
tray their pastor into the hands of 
his enemies, or at least to send him 
away from the country. They made 
many attempts to seize him by force 
or take him by surprise, and an offer 
of ^1,000 was made for his head. 
Such was their horror of Jesuit sor- 
cery! **I should be too happy," 
says the object of their hatred, " were 
I to become their victim, or did God 
deem me worthy to be loaded with 
chains, and shed my blood for the 
salvation of my dear Indians." This 
was said in no spirit of bravado or 
vain display ; for the sequel will show 
how firmly, yet how meekly, he laid 
down his life for his altar and his 
flock. 

In the midst of the wars that deso- 
lated the country, it was his mild 
spirit and humane counsels that serv- 
ed to moderate the natural ferocity 
of the Indian character. Instead of 
urging the infliction of cruelty upon 
those who had so long sought his 
life, he endeavored to secure for his 
enemies every mildness consistent 
with the laws of war. '* I exhorted 



them," says F. Rale, " to maintain 
the same interest in their religion as 
if they were at home; to observe 
carefully the laws of war ; to practise 
no cruelty ; to kill no one except in 
the heat of battle ; and to treat the 
prisoners humanely." His solicitude 
for peace during the period of which 
we have been speaking, at the very 
moment that his enemies accused 
him as an instigator of mischief, and 
his kind sentiments towards them, 
may be seen from the following letter 
addressed to the authorities at Bos- 
ton: 

Narrantsoak, Nov. 18, 1712. 

Sir : The Governor-General of Canada 
advises me by a letter, which reached here 
some days ago, that the last royal vessel, 
arrived at Quebec Sept. 30, announces 
that peace is not yet concluded between 
the two crowns of France and England ; 
thatp however, it was much talked oL 
Such are his words. 

Other letters, which I have received, 
inform me that the Intendant, just come 
out in that vessel, says that when on the 
point of embarking at Rochelle, a letter 
was received from M. deXallard, assuring 
them that peace was made, and would be 
published in the latter part of October. 

Now, this cannot be known in Canada, 
but you may know it at Boston, where 
vessels come at all seasons. If you 
know anything, I beseech you to let me 
know, that I may send instantly t% Que- 
bec, over the ice, to inform the Governor- 
General, so that he may prevent the In- 
dians from any act of hostility. I am, 
sir, perfectly your very humble and obe- 
dient servant, Seb. Rals, S.J.* 

At length the tidings of the peace 
of Utrecht, 30th March, 17 13, arrived, 
and restored quiet to New France 
and New England. Gov. Dudley 
called the Indians together in con- 
ference at Portsmouth in July, ly^ji 
and announced to them that peace 
had been made, and proposed to 
them : " If you are willing, you and 
we will live in peace." He then in- 
formed them that the French had 

•Mast, HiH, Soc, C0ll€ctiont, t. tUL p. •5«- 



Father- Sebastian Rale^ S,% 



549 



ceded Placentia and Port Royal to 
the English. The Indians, through 
their orator, replied that they had 
taken up the hatchet because their 
allies, the French, had taken it up, 
and they were willing now to cast it 
away, since the French had laid it 
down, and to live in peace. Then 
the orator added : ** But you say that 
the Frenchman has given you Pla- 
centia and Port Royal, which is in 
my neighborhood, with all the land 
adjacent He may give you what he 
pleases. As for me, I have my land, 
which the Great Spirit has given me 
to live upon. While there shall be 
one child of my nation upon it, he 
will fight to keep it." Penhallow 
gives a somewhat different account 
of this conference; but that of F. 
Rale is more in keeping with the 
previous history of the Indians, and 
more consonant with their character. 
If they acknowledged themselves 
subjects of Great Britain, they knew 
no better in this than in previous 
similar instances what they were 
doing, for they understood not the 
language attributed to them. 

It may be judged how welcome 
peace must have been to F. Rale 
from the alacrity with which he avail- 
ed himself of it to attend to the reli- 
gious interests of his people. To re- 
build his church was the first object 
of hb solicitude. As Boston was so 
much nearer than Quebec, the chiefs 
sent deputies to the former place, in 
order to procure workmen for rebuild- 
ing the church, for whose services 
they offered to pay liberally. The 
governor gave them a most friendly 
reception, and, to their astonishment, 
offered to rebuild their church at his 
own expense, " since the French go- 
vernor had abandoned them." Their 
astonishment, however, was soon 
changed into indignation when they 
heard the condition annexed to this 
apparently generous offer, which was 



that they should dismiss their own 
pastor, and receive in his place an 
English minister. " When you first 
came here," replied the indignant 
deputies by their orator, "you saw 
me a long time before the French 
governors, but neither your predeces- 
sors nor your ministers ever spoke to 
me of Prayer or of the Great Spirit. 
They saw my furs, my beaver and 
moose skins, and of these alone they 
thought; these alone they sought, 
and so eagerly that I have not been 
able to supply them enough. When 
I had much, they were my friends ; 
but only then. One day my canoe 
missed the route ; I lost my way, and 
wandered a long time at random, 
until at last I landed near Quebec, in 
a great village of the Algonquins,* 
where the Black Gowns were teach- 
ing. 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 joy, and was so 
pleased with his words that I re- 
mained in the village to hear 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 happiness, and wished 
to partake of it. They, too, went to 
the Black Gown to be baptized. Thus 
have the French acted. Had you 
spoken to me of the Prayer as soon 
as we met, I should now be so un- 
happy 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 burnt and destroyed. 



550 



Father Sebastian Rale^ S.J. 



Keep your men, your gold, and your 
minister. I will go to my French 
father." 

The required aid was obtained 
from the French governor; workmen 
were sent from Quebec, and the 
church was built soon after the peace. 
"It possesses a beauty," says the 
missionary, " which would cause it to 
be admired even in Europe, and 
nothing has been spared to adorn it." 
Subsequently two little chapels were 
erected, about three hundred paces 
from the chapel, by workmen obtain- 
ed probably from Boston ; and these 
chapels are probably what Hutchin- 
son in 1724 alludes to as having 
beea " built a few years before by car- 
penters from New England." One 
of them was dedicated to the Blessed 
Virgin, the other to their guardian 
angel. There, in his new church and 
chapels, with the aid of rich vest- 
ments and sacred vessels given by 
some of his friends, and with the 
seraphic music of forty innocent In- 
dian boys, all dressed in cassocks 
and surplices, F, Rale conducted the 
solemn offices of the church in the 
wilderness with a splendor and beau- 
ty not unworthy of more favored 
lands. The processions on Corpus 
Christi were quite unique and beauti- 
ful. On these occasions the church 
and chapels were ornamented with 
the tiinkets and fine work of the 
squaws, and burning tapers made by 
the Indians from the wax teenies 
growing on their own native shores, 
and were thronged with ardent and 
sincere worshippers — the simple chil- 
dren of the forest gathering around 
the Holy of Holies, and presenting 
a scene in which angels themselves 
might love to mingle. 

The following account of F. Rale's 
daily life cannot but prove interest- 
ing : '' He rose at four, and, after 
meditation, said Mass at daybreak, 
which all the Indians heard, and 



during it chanted their prayers aloud ; 
at its close he generally, on week- 
days, made a short exhortation, to 
inspire them with good thoughts, 
then dismissing them to the labors 
of the day. He then began to cate- 
chise the children and the young ; the 
aged, too, were there, all answering 
with the docility of children. Then, 
after a slight meal, he sat in his cham- 
ber to despatch the various matters 
laid before him — their plans, their 
troubles, domestic disquiets, or intend- 
ed marriages — in a word, to direct 
them all. Towards noon he would 
go to work in hb garden, and then 
split his wood to cook his little mess 
of hominy ; for this may be said to 
have been his only food. Wine he 
never tasted, even when among the 
French. 

. " After this frugal repast, he visit- 
ed the sick, and went to particular 
cabins to give instruction where it 
was more needed; and if a public 
council or feast was to take place, he 
must be present ; for they never pro- 
ceeded to the one without first hear- 
ing his advice, nor to the other with- 
out his blessing on the food, which 
was ready to be placed on the bark 
plates, which each one brought, and 
with which he immediately retired to 
his cabin. 

" The evening was left him to say 
his Breviary and give some time to 
prayer and reading; but this was so 
often intrenched upon that at last he 
made it a rule never to speak from 
before evening prayer till after Mass 
on the following day, unless he was 
called to a sick-bed." * 

In the course of a few years, the 
free spirit of the Indians began to 
grow impatient under the encroach- 
ments of the whites. Not only their 
hunting-grounds, but even their ficWs 
for cultivation, were circumscribed. 



Father Sebastian Rale, S.J. 



551 



A conference with Gov. Shute was 
held at Georgetown in August, 171 7, 
but it was evident that redress for the 
Indians formed no part of the gov- 
ernor's designs. He refused to treat 
with them otherwise than as subjects ; 
he would not acknowledge their nat- 
ural liberty nor their hereditary title 
to their hunting-grounds; nor would 
he fix a boundary beyond which 
the encroachments of the white men 
should not extend. They were told, 
however, that the English wished 
them to become of one religion with 
themselves; an English Bible was 
given to them, and the governor told 
them that the Rev. Mr. Baxter, who 
accompanied him, would become 
their teacher and pastor. Thus it 
seems that the governor with one 
hand presented them a Bible, and 
with the other grasped their lands; 
When a letter from F. Rale, pleading 
in behalf of his children, was handed 
to the governor, he treated it with 
great contempt. "He let them 
know," says Hutchinson, "that he 
highly resented the insolence of the 
Jesuit." ♦ Another mock treaty was 
now entered into by the aid of inter- 
preters. F. Rale always protested 
against it as fraudulent, and an- 
nounced to the New Englanders that 
the Norridgewocks did not recognize 
it. He never ceased his paternal 
efforts in behalf of his Indians, and 
repeatedly addressed letters to the 
governor and other leading men of 
New England, demanding justice for 
thera.f 

Having tried every means of gain- 
ing over the Indians to their cause 
*n vain, the New Englanders next 
attacked them in the point which 
^etned to attach them more than 
any other to the French; this was 
ll^eir religion. The Rev. Mr. Bax- 
^cr» a minister of ability and educa- 



tion, as well as of an ardent zeal 
against Popery, undertook to evan- 
gelize the Abnakis. "Thus," says 
Bancroft, "Calvin and Loyola met 
in the woods of Maine." The 
Protestant minister established at 
Georgetown a school, which was 
supported by the government, and, 
by means of every attraction and in- 
ducement which he could present to 
them, endeavored first to gain the 
children. But their hearts had al- 
ready been too deeply impressed 
with religion by the Catholic mis- 
sionaries to receive the Prayer from 
any person other than the Black 
Gown. He then endeavored, but 
with the same result, to gain his point 
by addresses and harangues to the 
parents, the chiefs, and braves of the 
tribe. " He next assailed the reli- 
gion of the Indians. He put vari- 
ous questions concerning their faith, 
and, as they answered, he tunied 
into ridicule the sacraments, purga- 
tory, the invocation of saints, beads, 
Masses, images, and the other parts 
of the Catholic creed and ritual." • 

F. Rale saw at once that he must 
meet the danger thus threatened to 
the faith of his flock. He addressed 
a respectful letter to Mr. Baxter, 
covering an essay of one hundred 
pages, in which he undertook to de- 
fend and prove, "by Scripture, by 
tradition, and by theological argu- 
ments," those tenets and practices 
of the Catholic Church which the 
minister had endeavored to ridicule. 
In the letter enclosing the essay he 
remarked that the Indians knew how 
to believe, but not how to dispute, and 
the missionary felt it to be his duty 
to take up the controversy in behalf 
of his neophytes. Mr. Baxter's reply 
treated F. Rale's arguments as puer- 
ile and ridiculous. Finding, how- 
ever, that his mission was a fruitless 



• Ffiodt't Xiy# €/RaU. 



t Chmlmtrt, 



* FniQCit*! Li/io/RaU, 



552 



Father Sebastian Rale^ S.J. 



one, Mr. Baxter returned to Boston. 
The correspondence did not cease 
here ; but, after Mr. Baxter's return 
to Boston, the letters turned upon 
the purity of their Latinity, rather 
than the theology of the respective 
controversialists. F. Rale remained 
at his post, the faithful guardian of 
his fiock. 

The grievances of which the In- 
dians had been long complaining still 
remained unredressed. In 17 19 an- 
other conference was held, but with 
no better result than the previous 
one at Georgetown. Fresh causes 
of resentment were added. Some 
Indians entered an English house to 
trade, when suddenly they found 
themselves surrounded by a force 
ten times stronger than their own. 
When about to cut their way 
through, their arms were arrested by 
a request on the part of the English 
for a parley, and they were told that 
the English only wished to invite 
some of their number to visit the 
governor at Boston. Four chiefs 
consented to go, and, when they 
arrived, they were detained as hos- 
tages, to secure the payment of a 
large ransom demanded by the 
English for damages sustained by 
them from depredations committed 
by the tribe. The prisoners ap- 
pealed to their countrymen for relief, 
and the ransom was accordingly 
paid ; but even then the English re- 
fused to release them. A confer- 
ence was invited by the governor, 
but this was done merely to prevent 
an immediate rupture. At the desig- 
nated time, July, 1721, the chiefs, ac- 
companied by F. Rale ; La Chasse, 
the superior of the missions ; Croisel, 
and the young Castine, repaired to 
Georgetown, but the governor did 
not meet them there. La Chasse 
then drew up a letter in Indian, 
French, and English, setting forth the 
claims of the Indians, and sent it to 



Gov. Shute. No notice was ever 
taken of it 

In December, 172 1, the English 
N seized the young Castine, son of the 
Baron de Castine by an Indian wife, 
and a great favorite with the Abna- 
kis. "The ungenerous and unjust 
arrest of this young man," says Dr. 
Francis, "incensed to the highest 
degree the countrymen of his mother, 
among whom he had always lived." 

Still, the Indians refrained from re- 
taliation. Another act of aggression 
soon followed \ a detachment of two 
hundre(} and thirty men, towards the 
end of 1 72 J, or early in 1722, were 
sent to seize the Catholic missionary. 
As this party entered the Kennebec, 
two young braves, hunting near the 
shore, saw them, and, after following 
them for some distance unobserved, 
struck into the woods and gave the 
alarm at Norridgewock, which was 
then nearly deserted. Scarcely had 
F. Rale time to consume the conse- 
crated host on the altar to save it 
from sacrilege, and secure the sacred 
vessels. He fled precipitately lo 
the woods, impeded as he was by 
the painful condition of the wounds 
received in the severe fall he had 
received as related above. The 
English arrived in the evening, and, 
having waited till morning, pursued 
him to the woods. They carefully 
scoured every place, and at one time 
came within eight steps of their in- 
tended victim, and yet passed away 
without seeing him, though only half 
concealed behind a small tree. The 
pursuers then returned disappointed 
to Norridgewock, where they pillaged 
the house of God and the missionary's 

• 

residence, and then retired, carryn'g 
away with them everything belong- 
ing to F. Rale— his desk, papers, ink- 
stand, and the Abnaki Dutwnary, 
which he had commenced at Si. 
Francis in 1691. He suffered the 
extremes of hunger while thus m 



Father Sebastian Rale, S,y. 



553 



the woods, flying from the pursuit of 
his enemies ; yet bis courage and re- 
solution remained firm and cheerful. 
So great were the dangers that threa- 
tened him at every moment that 
his affectionate neophytes, and even 
his superior, advised him to retire for 
the present to Quebec. He always 
answered : '* God has committed this 
flock to ray care, and I will share its 
lot, being too happy, if permitted, to 
sacrifice my life for it." In a letter 
to his nephew he asks : " What will 
become of the flock, if it be deprived 
of its shepherd ? I do not in the least 
fear the threats of those who hate me 
without cause. ' I count not my life 
dear unto myself, so that I may finish 
my course with joy,' and the ministry 
1 have received of the Lord Jesus." 

While thus the object of deadly 
pursuit on the part of the English 
colonists, F. Rale enjoyed the purest 
consolation in the love and affection 
of his devoted flock. On one occa- 
sion, while he was accompanying 
them on a hunting party, they sud- 
denly perceived that he was missing, 
and the report was started that the 
English had broken into his cabin 
and carried him off. Their grief was 
only equalled by their fury, and at 
once the braves began to prepare for 
an effort to rescue their pastor at the 
hazard of their lives. Two of their 
number, however, afterwards went to 
his cabin, and there they found him, 
^ting the life of a saint in their own 
language. Transported with joy, 
they exclaimed : " We were told that 
the English had carried you off, and 
our warriors were going to attack 
the fort, where we thought they had 
doubtlessly imprisoned you !" " You 
5^> my children," replied the father, 
" that your fears were unfounded ; but 
your affectionate care of me fills my 
heart with joy ; it shows you love the 
Player." But as some of the warriors 
"^^^ starting, he added : " Set out, 



immediately after Mass, to overtake 
the others, and undeceive them." 

Oh another occasion he was with 
them at a great distance from home, 
when the alarm was given that the 
English were within a few hours* 
march of the encampment. All in- 
sisted on his flying back to the vil- 
lage. At daybreak he started with 
two Indians as his escort. The jour- 
ney was long, the provisions were 
out, and the father had for his only 
food a species of wood, which he 
softened by boiling. In crossing a 
lake, which had begun to thaw, he 
narrowly escaped being drowned 
himself in his effort to assist another. 
Saved from this danger, he was not 
the less exposed to death from cold. 
On the following day they crossed 
the river on broken pieces of ice, 
and were soon at the village. He 
was welcomed back by a sumptuous 
feast, consisting of corn and bear's 
meat ; and when he expressed his as- 
tonishment and thanks for such a 
banquet, the Indians replied : " What, 
father I you have been fasting for 
two days ; can we do less ? Oh ! 
would to God we could always re- 
gale you so!" But while he was 
thus feasting, his children elsewhere 
were mourning over his supposed 
death. His deserted cabin on the 
shore led some, who knew nothing 
of his flight, to believe that he had 
been killed. One of these erected a 
stake on the banks of a river, and to 
it attached a piece of paper-birch 
bark, on which he had drawn with 
charcoal a picture of some English 
surrounding F. Rale, and one was 
represented cutting off the Black 
Gown's head. When the main 
body of the Indians came th^t way, 
and saw the pictorial writing, its 
meaning sank deep into their hearts, 
and they were overwhelmed with 
grief. They tore out the long scalp- 
locks from their heads, and then sat 



554 



Father Sebastian Rale, S,y. 



on the ground around the stake, 
where they remained motionless and 
without uttering a word till the wsxt 
day. Such was their mode of mani- 
festing the most intense grief. But 
what must have been their joy, when, 
on returning to the village, they saw 
their beloved father reciting his Of- 
fice on the banks of the river ! 

It would appear, from a letter in 
the Massachusetts Historical Collec- 
tions, attributed to F. Rale, that he 
accompanied the expedition that de- 
stroyed Berwick. It is quite evident, 
from what has been related of the 
determination of the English to de- 
stroy him, and of the repeated efforts 
they made to accomplish that dead- 
ly purpose, that F. Rale would not 
have been safe at Norridgewock or 
anywhere apart from the main body 
of his people. It is not likely that 
his devoted children, who saw his 
danger, and were solicitous for his 
safety, would permit him to remain 
behind, exposed to the constant at- 
tempts of his enemies upon his life. 
His presence in the expedition 
against Berwick was enough, with 
his enemies, to confirm their charge 
that he led them on to war against 
the English. The truth is, their 
own pursuit of him rendered his 
presence there justifiable, as neces- 
sary for his own safety, if it were 
not justifiable on the ground that he 
was their chaplain in war as in peace, 
and that his presence among them 
was more necessary for the religious 
consolation of the dying, as well as 
for moderating, by the counsels we 
have already seen him giving them, 
the usual cruelties of war. It does 
not become his accusers, however, to 
dwell i^on this charge, who them- 
selves have boasted of the warlike 
feats of the Rev. Mr. Fry, who scalp- 
ed and killed his Indian in Lovell's 
expedition, and was killed fighting in 
the thickest of the engagement. 



It has already been seen how the 
Indians were, by repeated injuries, 
driven at last to take up the hatchet. 
When once at war, they prosecuted 
it with terrible energy and destruc- 
tive fury. And though their human- 
ity on several occasions contrasted 
with the cruelty of their civilized an- 
tagonists, the young settlements of 
New England suffered much at their 
hands during this contest. 

In the summer of 1724, hostilities 
on the part of the Indians had be- 
gun to moderate, and peace was al- 
ready spoken of between the respec- 
tive parties. But this did not re- 
strain the fury of the English. On 
the 23d of August an expedition of 
little over two hundred, consisting 
of English and their Mohawk allies, 
rushed suddenly from the thickets 
upon the unconscious village of Nor- 
ridgewock. The first notice the In- 
dians received was the rattling of 
the volleys of their assailants among 
their bark cabins. Consternation 
seized upon the inhabitants; the 
women and children fled, but the 
few braves who were then at the 
village rushed to arms to defend 
their altar and their homes. The 
struggle was indeed a desperate one. 
F. Rale, when he perceived the cause 
of the excitement in the village, 
knew that himself was the chief ob- 
ject of the enemy's pursuit Hop- 
ing, too, to draw off the fury of the 
assailants from his neophytes upon 
himself, he went forth. No sooner 
had he reached the Mission Cross, 
where the fight was raging, than a 
shout of exultation arose ftt)m two 
hundred hostile voices, and, though 
a non-combatant, a discharge of 
musketry was immediately levelled 
at his venerable form. Pierced with 
balls, he fell lifeless at the foot of the 
cross. Seven principal chiefs lay 
dead around their saintiy pastor and 
devoted father. The battle was no«r 



Father Sebastian Rale^ S.% 



5SS 



over, but the victory seemed too 
easy for the victors; they approach- 
ed to wreak further vengeance upon 
the lifeless form of F. Rale. They 
hacked and mutilated the corpse, 
split open the head, broke the legs, 
and otherwise brutally disfigured it 
liien proceeding to the house of 
God, the assailants rifled the altar, 
desecrated the sacred vessels and the 
adorable Host, and then committed 
the church to the devouring flames. 
After the English had retired, some 
of the orphaned flock of Norridge- 
wock returned to their desolated 
home ; they first sought for the body 
of their good father, and, having 
found it, they piously interred it be- 
neath the spot where the altar stood. 
After reading the incidents of the 
life of F. Rale, the reader would be 
astonished to peruse the accounts 
given by New England writers. But 
the latter bear on their face the evi- 
dence that they were the result, not 
of candid investigation, but of the 
bitterest partisan prejudice. There 
may be some explanation of their 
tone, though no voucher for their 
accuracy, in the fact that Penhallow 
derived his accounts from interpreters, 
who were known not to be faithful. 
Charlevoix and De la Chasse knew 
f « Rale personally, and they give us 
the strongest assurances of his inno- 
cence, his sanctity, and his many 
heroic virtues. M. de Bellemont, 
Superior of the Sulpician Seminary at 
Montreal, entertained so exalted an 
opinion of his merits that he did not 
hesitate to apply to him the words 
of S. Augustine : " Injuriam facit 
"iartyri, qui orat pro eo." 

The accounts hostile to F. Rale 
have been derived chiefly from Pen- 
hallow, who was actuated by the 
strongest party feeliiig. A single 
specimen from his pen will show how 
he felt towards the person, as well as 
the religion, of F. Rale ; it contains 



a repetition of the old calumny about 
the merit of destroying heretics, 
which no educated person would in 
our day repeat : " We scalped 
twenty-six besides M. Rale, the Jesuit, 
a most bloody incendiary, and instru- 
mental to most of the mischiefs done 
us by preaching up the doctrine of 
meriting salvation by the destruction 
of heretics. He even made the of- 
fices of devotion serve as incentives 
to their ferocity, and kept a flag on 
which was depicted a cross surround- 
ed by bows and arrows, which he 
used to hoist on a pole at the door 
of his church when he gave them 
absolution previous to their engag- 
ing in any warUke enterprise." Now, 
the flag that awakened so much horror 
in the breast of the New England 
chronicler was a simple Indian Sun- 
day-school banner, than which noth- 
ing could have been more innocent. 
F. Rale, artist as well as priest, had 
decorated his Indian church with 
pious paintings executed by himself, 
to excite the piety and zeal of his 
neophytes. Amongst other similar 
representations, suitable for pleasing 
the simple tastes of the natives, was 
the flag in question, ornamented 
with the cross and the arrow, em- 
blems of the faith and of the coun- 
try. A glance would have convinced 
any passer-by that it was the banner 
of an Indian church, and no sensible 
person in our day could object to see 
such an one used by the Indians of 
Florida, Oregon, or other hostile 
Indian country within our territory 
or bordering on our frontier. 

Dr. Francis, who in his life of Rale 
follows by preference the New Eng- 
land accounts, sums up his estimate 
of our missionary's character as fol- 
lows: "But whatever abatements 
from indiscriminate praise his faults 
or frailties may require, I cannot 
review his history without receiving a 
deep impression that he was a piou% 



/ 



SS6 



Father Sebastian Rale^ S.J. 



devoted, and extraordinary man. 
Here was a scholar, nurtured amid 
European learning, and accustomed 
to the refinements of one of the most 
intellectual nations of the Old World, 
who banished himself from the 
pleasures of home and from the at- 
tractions of his native land, and pass- 
ed thirty-five years of his life in the 
forests of an unbroken wilderness, on 
a distant shore, amidst the squalid 
rudeness of savage life, and with no 
companions during those long years 
but the wild men of the woods. 
With them he lived as a friend, as a 
benefactor, as a brother; sharing 
their coarse fare, their disgusting 
modes of life, their perils, their ex- 
posures under the stern inclemency 
of a hard climate; always holding 
his life cheap in the toil of duty, and 
at last yielding himself a victim to 
dangers which he disdained to es- 
cape. And all this that he might 
gather these rude men, as he believ- 
ed, into the fold of the church ; that 
he might bring them to what he 
sincerely held to be the truth of God 
and the light of heaven." 

Mr. Bancroft thus describes the 
life and character of the subject of 
this memoir : " At Norridgewock, on 
the banks of the Kennebec, the ve- 
nerable Sebastian Rale, for more than 
a quarter of a century the companion 
and instructor of savages, had gath- 
ered a flourishing village round a 
church, which, rising in the desert, 
made some pretensions to magnifi- 
cence. Severely ascetic — using no 
wine, and little food except pound- 
ed maize, a rigorous observer of the 
days of Lent — he built liis own 
cabin, tilled his own garden, drew 
for himself wood and water, prepar- 
ed his own hominy, and, distributing 
all that he received, gave an exam- 
ple of religious poverty. And yet 
he was laborious in garnishing up 
his forest sanctuary, believing the 



faith of the savage must be qoicken- 
ed by striking appeals to the senses. 
Himself a painter, he adorned the 
humble walls of his church with pic- 
tures. There he gave instruction 
almost daily. Following his pupils 
to their wigwams, he tempered the 
spirit of devotion with familiar con- 
versation and innocent gaiety, win- 
ning the mastery over their souls by 
his powers of persuasion. He had 
trained a little band of forty young 
savages, arrayed in cassock and sur- 
plice, to assist in the service and 
chant the hymns of the church ; and 
their public processions attracted a 
great concourse of red men. Two 
chapels were built near the village, 
one dedicated to the Virgin and 
adorned with her statue in relief, 
another to the guardian angel; and 
before them the hunter muttered his 
prayer on his way to the river or the 
woods. When the tribe descended 
to the sea-side in the season of 
wild fowl, they were followed by 
Rale ; and on some islet a litde cha- 
pel of bark was quickly consecrated." 
The scene so peaceful, so hap- 
py, so beautiful, in the days of F. 
Rale, that it has been appropriate- 
ly called one of " nature's sweet re- 
tirements," is described by the poet 
Whittier after the rude hand oi war 
had blasted its beauty and destroyed 
its altar and its priest, as it appeared 
to some Indian warriors who revisit- 
ed the field after the battle, in the 
following lines : 

** No wlffwam smoke is curliaff there, 
The very earth Is scorched tnd bare ; 
And they pause and listen to catch a sound 

Of breathinjf life, but there comes notooe, 
Save the fox's bark and the rabbit's bound ; 
And here and there on the blackened pouod 

White bones are glistening in the sun. 
And where the house of prayer trose, 
And the holy hymn at da vlight's close, 
And the aged priest stood up to bless 
The children of the wilderness. 
There is naught but ashes sodden wd dtns. 

And the birchen boats of the Korridgewocir, 

Tethered to tree, and stump. Md rocK, 
Rotting along the river-bank I" 



From Egypt to Chanaan* 557 



FROM EGYPT TO CHANAAN. 

My God, while journeying to Chanaan's land, 

For peace I do not pray ; 
Nor seek beneath thy sheltering si^eetness, Lord, 

To rest each circling day. 
I cry to thee for strength to struggle on, 

But do not ask that smooth the way may be ; 
Sufficient for thy servant 'tis to know 

That earth's bleak desert ends at last with thee. 

When heavenly sweetness floods my heart, dear Lord, 

I magnify thy name; 
When desolations weigh my spirit down, 

I bless thee still the same. 
Keep me, O God ! I cry with streaming eyes, 
From love of earth and creatures ever free : 
Far sweeter are than Eden's fairest blooms 
The blood-stained blossoms of GethsemanL 

I do not ask of thee that loving friends 

Should wander by my side. 
Or that my hand should feel an angel's touch, 

A guardian and a guide. 
But, Israel's God, do thou go on before, 

An ever-present beacon in the way ; 
A fiery pillar in dark sorrow's night, 
A doudy column in my prosperous day. 

I do not ask, O Master dear ! to lean 
My head upon thy breast ; 
Nor seek within thy circling arms to find 

An ever-present rest. 
I beg from thee that crown of prickly thorn 

That once thy sacred forehead rudely tore ; 
And I will press those crimsoned brambles close 
To my poor heart, and ask from thee no more. 

But when, at length, my scorched and weary feet 

Shall reach their journey's end, 
And I have gained the longed-for promised land 

Where milk and honey blend ; 
Then give me rest, and food, and drink, dear Lord ; 

For then another pilgrim will have past. 

As thou didst, o'er the wastes of barren sand 

From Egypt into Chanaan, safe at last. 



558 



The Year of Our Lord 1873. 



THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1873. 



Will a new year ever dawn? is the 
question that must present itself in some 
shape or form to the one who glances at 
the records of the years as they go by. 
Eighteen hundred and seventy-three of 
them have passed since that song was 
heard at midnight on the mountains of 
J udea, " Glory in the highest, and on 
earth peace " ; yet to-day the chant is as 
new and strange as it then was. There 
is no pagan Rome, but there is a Chris- 
tian Germany ; the dead ashes of the di- 
vine Emperor Tiberius were long ago 
blown about the world, but the divine 
Emperor William lives ; there is no 
Herod, but there is an Emanuel, whose 
name is as characteristic of the man as 
the word Eumenides of what it was in- 
tended to represent. Who shall say that 
there are no Pilates still, who would fain 
wash their minds of conviction and their 
hands of the blood of Christ with a little 
water? Are none living who cast lots 
for his seamless garment? Ever>' per- 
son, everything existing at the birth and 
death of Christ, has its living counterpart 
to-day ; which is to say that human na- 
ture is still human nature ; that the last 
chapter of the world's history has not yet 
been written ; and that, beautiful and sub- 
lime as parts of it may be, "the trail of 
the serpent is over it all." 

The year now closing is bigger with 
portent than event, as far, at least, as 
events touch humanity at large. A 
glance at the principal states of the 
world, east as well as west, though 
with a drowsier movement in the Orient, 
will bring before the eye many of the 
same symptoms throughout ; more or less 
of transition, of rapid and often violent 
national change, which naturally shows 
itself among peoples of a thousand creeds 
in the relation of the governed to the 
governing, of the individual to the state. 
On this subject there are two extremes — 
personal absolutism, on the one hand, and 
communism, on the other. Both are 
equally disastrous to humanity, both 



are opposed to the law of Christ ; hence 
the believer in the law of Christ, the in- 
dividual who founds and builds his li/e 
and that of his family on the law of 
Christ— the Christian, the Catholic— is 
equally objectionable to both, and alike 
an object of hatred to Prussian imperi- 
alism and French liberalism. We are 
living in dangerous times ; the world 
seems at the crisis of a fever. God in 
his mercy grant that it pass safely, and 
that the patient awake from the long 
delirium to its senses and the road to 
recovery, however slow and toilsome I 

In American history the year of our 
Lord 1873 will probably be known as. 
thus far at least, pre-eminently the year of 
scandals. Early in this year, the Con 
gress of the United States, as if in emu- 
lation of the example set by some of our 
state legislatures and municipal corpora- 
tions, did, in the now famous Credit Mo- 
bilier transaction, furnish a chapter apart 
in the annals of political malfeasance and 
corruption. It shocked and shook the 
confidence of the nation. The out-going 
Vice-President escaped impeachment by 
a vote so narrow as to imply a conviction 
of his guilt ; his successor entered with 
the shadow of the same offence on his 
character. The rank-and-file were wor- 
thy of their leaders. Men stared blankly 
in each other's faces, and asked whether 
such a thing as honor existed in political 
life. The result showed itself in general 
apathy at the elections, while the tide, 
such as it was, turned again to the oppo- 
site party. 

Corruption, fraud, embezzlement— em- 
bezzlement, corruption, fraud ! Such are 
the chief headlines which the futort 
historian will find in the national anna!- 
during this year of grace. The same 
story is as true of private individuals a> 
of our public and representative men. 
The fashionable crimes of the year-- 
always after murder and suicide, 
course — have been embezzlement and de- 
falcation on the part of gentlemarrfy antf 



Tke Year of Our Lord 1873. 



559 



well-educated bank and insurance officers. 
A batch of American citizens gave us a 
world>wide celebrity by their long trial, 
ending in conviction and severe punish- 
ment, for astounding forgeries on the 
Bank of England ; so that it is doubtful, 
as matters stand, which epithet would 
convey the severest imputation on char- 
acter— "As honest as a cashier," or 
" As honest as a member of Congress." 

The early spring was signalized by, per- 
haps, one of the last efforts of the Indians 
against the whites. A small band of 
Modocs, under the leadership of their 
chieftain, " Captain Jack," who seemed 
to have had serious causes of complaint, 
after considerable negotiation, resolved to 
die in harness rather than wait for what, 
to them, was a lingering death on a nar- 
row reservation. They commenced oper- 
ations by treacherously murdering Gen. 
Canby, a brave officer, and a peace com- 
missioner, during a peace parley. Re- 
tiring to their caves, which afforded 
them an admirable shelter, they for a 
long time maintained a successful re- 
sistance to the United States forces de- 
spatched to destroy them, inflicting severe 
loss on the troops. So successful was 
Captain Jack's battle that at one time it 
was feared the other tribes would rise 
and join him. Run to earth at last, he 
surrendered with one or two companions 
who remained faithful. After due trial, 
they were taken and hanged. A poor 
issue for a Christian government ! 

Troubles loomed in Louisiana. Fac- 
tion contended with faction for the gov- 
ernment at a sacrifice of many lives. 
When blood once flows in civil strife, it 
>s bard to tell where or when it will stop. 
As civil war threatened, and as Congress 
was not sitting, President Grant was 
compelled to resort to the expedient of 
ordering in the United States troops, not 
only to preserve the peace, but to sustain 
one of the parties in power. The coun- 
try looked with a natural jealousy on 
^^•*. at the time, apparently necessary 
movement ; for if all civil quarrels are to 
|>c decided by federal bayonets, central- 
ization and consequent personal govern- 
"™cnt must sooner or later ensue. At 
'he same time, it is impossible to allow 
local contests to be fought outviffannis, 
Ifihe states cannot conduct their internal 
affairs in a civil fashion and in the spirit 
^f the constitution, there is apparently 
'lo medium between centralization and 
^*»nioiion 



The South was making rapid strides 
towards commercial recovery ; the cot- 
ton crop for the year was excellent, as, 
indeed, were the crops generally ; but the 
recent financial disasters have crippled 
trade as well as commerce. People will 
neither buy nor sell. Stock lies idle in 
the market ; large business firms close or 
suspend, and the farmers cannot forward 
their products ; so that the country is 
faced* by a long winter with nothing to 
do, aggravated by a bad business season, 
for which the strikers of the preceding 
year have themselves partially to blame ; 
and all ostensibly because one large 
banking firm suspended payment ! 

The only remedy for everything is a 
restoration of confidence among all ; but 
that is the precise thing that is slow to 
come. The money market has been in 
the hands of commercial gamblers and 
tricksters so long that, with our paper 
money, which in itself is demoralizing, 
commercial gambling seems to be the 
acknowledged and legitimate line of 
business. Honest men cannot contend 
with a world of rogues. American credit 
has suffered terribly. If in political af- 
fairs it be true, as Prince Bismarck as- 
sured the world no later than last March, 
that " confidence is a tender plant, which, 
once destroyed, comes never more," it is 
doubly true in matters affecting a man's 
pocket. 

There is something ominous^'as well as 
startling in this sudden collapse of all 
business, all commercial transactions, in 
a young, wealthy, powerful country such 
as this, in consequence of the failure of 
one or two men. It could not be unless 
the roots of the evil that wrought their 
failure had taken wide and deep hold of 
the national heart. There are dangers 
more immediate and more fatal than 
Cssars or centralization threatening our 
republic. There is something like a rot- 
ting away of the national virtue, purity, 
and honor which in themselves consti- 
tute the life of a nation. When we find 
dishonesty accepted as a fact, or a state 
of affairs rather, against which it is hope- 
less to contend ; when we find money ac- 
cc()ted as the lever which Archimedes 
sought in vain, and that money itself 
based on nothing — paper — taken on trust, 
which does not exist, we have arrived at a 
state very nearly approaching to national 
decay, and it is high time to look to our 
salvation. This can be brought about 
only by an adherence to the doctrines of 



56o 



The Year of Our Lord 1873. 



Christianity, an education of our children 
in the laws of Christianity, so as to save 
at least the coming generation. Only 
one thought will save a nation from dis- 
honesty : the consciousness that a dis- 
honest action is a sin and a crime against 
Almighty God. When that doctrine is 
taught and enforced in our public schools, 
and impressed indelibly on the plastic 
mind of innocence, the generation will 
grow up honest, true, and manly. While 
perfectly aware that reasoning of this 
kind will scarcely be appreciated "on 
the street," nay, would not even be un- 
derstood, that is no reason why promi- 
nence should not be given it by those 
who have the future of their country at 
heart. The generation that grows up 
without a Christian education will not 
know the meaning of such words as pri- 
vate or commercial morality. 

The history of the year in Europe is 
told in a sentence written long before 
Rome was founded : " The kings of the 
earth stood up, and the princes met to- 
gether, against the Lord and against his 
Christ." In Germany, the work of the 
construction and consolidation of the 
new empire is advancing bravely. Tne 
new German Empire is founded on a 
military code strengthened by penal 
statutes, executed with all the prompt- 
ness, vigor, and rigor of military law. 
The great feature of the year has been 
the passing of the ecclesiastical bills, 
into the particulars of which question it 
is unnecessary to enter now, as it has al- 
ready been dealt with at length in The 
Catholic World.* The present aspect 
of affairs may be summed up in a sen- 
tence : To be a Catholic is to be a crimi- 
nal in the eyes of the state. 

Every Catholic society of men, and wo- 
men even, living in community together, 
have been expelled from Prussian territo- 
ry within the year, for the simple reason 
that they were Catholics. As an excuse 
in the eyes of this keen, honest, liberal 
world of the XlXth century for such an 
outrage on human liberty, the govern- 
ment which boasts as its head Prince 
Bismarck, whose very name has become a 
byword for sagacity and foresight, contents 
itself with no better reason than that 
these quiet men and women, whose lives 
are passed out of the world, are a danger 
to the nation that conquered Austria and 

• " Church and State in Germany," Catholic 
W0rld July, 1872. 



France ; and the keen, honest, liberal 
world finds that reasoning sufficient. 
To be logical, the government should 
expel all the 8,000,000 Catholics in Prus- 
sia, or the 14,000,000 in the Empire, who 
are left behind ; for there is not one 
shade of difference in the Catholicity of 
the societies expelled and that of the 
vast body remaining. But as it would 
be a difficult undertaking bodily to expel 
14,000,000 of human beings from an cm 
pire, and as it would be a costly proceed 
ing in the end, the half a dozen or more 
men who legislate for this vast empire 
of 40,000,000 do the best they can under 
the circumstances, and strain theiringenu- 
ity to devise means for purging Catho- 
licity out of the souls of this vast body, 
as though the religion of Jesus Chrisi 
were a fatal disease and a poison. 

Consequently, the first thing to do was 
to change the Prussian constitutioo, 
which guaranteed religious freedom in- 
dependent of state control. By an altera- 
tion in Articles XV. and XVIII., religion 
was brought under complete subjection 
to the state: Prince Bismarck being com- 
pelled to pack the Upper House with his 
creatures in order to secure a majority 
for the measure. It passed, and its result. 
as far as the Catholic Church is conceni- 
ed, is easily told. 

Catholic bishops, the successors of 
the apostles, may no longer exercise 
apostolic jurisdiction without permission 
from a Protestant government. A Cath- 
olic bishop may not excommunicate a 
rebellious Catholic without permission 
from a Protestant government, under the 
severest penalties. 

A Catholic bishop must, under pain 
of the severest penalties, acknowledge a 
schismatic as a priest ; retain him in his 
parish, pay him a salary, and allow him to 
say Mass and preach false doctrine to his 
Catholic congregation. 

A Catholic bishop may not, under the 
severest penalties, ordain a Catholic 
priest, unless the candidate for holy 
orders receive the approval of Protestant 
government officials. 

Catholic seminaries, where students 
for the Catholic priesthood are trained, 
must accept the supervision of a Protes- 
tant official and the programme of educa- 
tion prescribed by a Protestant govern- 
ment, which has declared war against their 
religion. If the bishop does not accept 
these conditions, the seminary is closed. 
Catholic candidates for holy 'orders 



The Year of Our Lord 1873. 



S61 



cannot be exempted from military ser- 
vice: the term of military service embra- 
ces a period of twelve years. 

Catholic candidates for orders may 
not be admitted to holy orders before 
passing three years at a state university 
under the lectures of Protestant or infidel 
professors. On their entrance to the 
university they must matriculate to the 
satisfaction of those professors, and on 
leaving it they must pass a rigorous ex- 
amination, also to the satisfaction of 
those professors. 

A Catholic bishop may not appoint to 
or remove a Catholic priest from any 
parish without the permission of the 
Pro(estant government. If he does so, 
(he marriages celebrated by such a priest 
are not recognized by law, and the children 
are consequently illegitimate in the eyes 
of the law ! This too under a government 
nhich recognizes and encourages by every 
means in its power civil marriages, with- 
out the form of any religious ceremony 
ivhatsoever. Surely this is an Evangelical 
power ! 

Such, in brief, is a sketch of what these 
ecclesiastical bills mean. The sketch, 
hasty and incomplete as it is, requires no 
(ommcnt. A running comment is kept 
up every day, as readers may see for 
themselves, by cable despatches announc- 
ing penalties inflicted upon this bishop 
and that for refusing to obey laws that 
not only the Gospel of our Lord Jesus 
Christ and the apostolic writings forbid 
him, under pain of losing his soul, to obey, 
but against which the heart of any man 
with an ounce of freedom and honesty in 
his nature must revolt as from a foul of- 
fence. But the cable tells not a tithe of 
the story. Every penalty of the law in all 
the cases mentioned above has been and 
is being rigorously, nay bitterly, enforced ; 
nnd a milder mode of treatment is scarce- 
ly to be looked for from the recent return 
of Prince Bismarck to the Prussian pre- 
miership, with full control this time over 
the cabinet. 

It is difficult, in these days and in this 
<*ountry of all others, to write or speak 
with calmness of this cool assumption of 
^hsolutc power over soul and body — the 
souls and bodies of 40,000,000 of human 
'^ings whom God created — by one or two 
men, and of its hypocritical justification 
^' appeals to the Deity himself. * It is 

• See the response of the Germaa Emperor to 
the Pope, in the correspondence recently pub- 

litbed. 

VOL. xvni. — 36 



still more difficult to speak or write with 
calmness of the undisguised or ill disguis- 
ed approval which such barbarous enact- 
ments have evoked in free America in 
the columns of Protestant religious or - 
quasi-religious journals. Is religious 
freedom one thing here and ar)othcr thing 
in Germany? Or is this country in- 
deed, as some allege, ripe for absolut- 
ism ? 

The spirit that would wipe out the 
church of Christ if it could, that stifles 
every breath of religious freedom, natural- 
ly and as a matter of course laughs at 
such a thing as pretensions to political 
freedom in any sense. Consequently, it 
was no surprise to see, in the face of the 
protest of the majority, the civil as well as 
foreign polity of the states that compose 
this German Empire, scarce yet two years 
old, transferred to the bureau that sits at 
Berlin. These states were free three 
years ago, governing themselves by their 
own laws. They must now be ruled in- 
ternally as well as externally by the laws 
of the empire, that is to say, by Prussia ;^ 
for the imperial chancellor is the Prus- 
sian premier, with full control over the 
cabinet. In a word, Germany is to bet 
Prussianized. Prince Bismarck is no 
lover of half measures. Already it was> 
decreed, in spite of opposition, that the. 
Prussian military code should serve for 
the whole empire. The bill for the or- 
ganization of the imperial army retains 
the main features of the former organiza- 
tion. The term of military service is fix-, 
ed at twelve years, and, as already seen, 
not even^thc orders which indelibly stamp 
a man as the consecrated priest of God. 
can save him from becoming a man of 
war. 

Now, this one item of itself is sufficient 
to condemn this government in the eyes 
of humanity. What is the meaning of< 
the words, ** twelve years of military 
service"? Prussian military service is 
no playing at soldiers, be it remembered, 
like our militia here or in England. Ihc 
average life of a man in these days pro- 
bably does not much exceed thirty-six 
years. Yet in this new German empire 
the men who go to compose its 40,000,000 
of human souls are compelled to devote 
onethird — the best twelve years of their 
lives — to what? 

To serve in the armies of a tyrannical 
despot, who styles himself "William, by 
the grace of God" — to spend those best 
twelve years of their lives in learning the 



562 



The Year of Our Lord 1873. 



most expeditious method of killing their 
fellow-Christians ! And that is what the 
glorious German Empire means. 

What wonder that Germans should al- 
ready fly in such numbers from this glori- 
ous and consolidated empire as to cause 
the same government that forbids freedom 
of religion to prohibit freedom of emigra- 
tion ? As all the world has seen, the Ger- 
man government is compelled to throw 
every obstacle in the way of its subjects 
to prevent their flying to this country. 
Does that betoken soundness, and a 
government grateful to the people? In 
the face of that one fact, it is needless to 
call to mind the riots that have continued 
at intervals throughout the year in various 
parts of the country, and the cruelty with 
which they were put down. What won- 
der that, even in the face of a military 
power, the Catholic party, persecuted as 
it is, should have gained, on Protestant 
concession, a small but decided increase 
on the vote of last year? What wonder 
ihat the liberty of the press should be 
attacked, and the journals that dared to 
publish the Papal Allocution confiscated? 

It has been alleged all along that Catho- 
lics have been the foes of the unity of Ger- 
many. The allegation is utterly false. It 
is alleged by the Prussian government 
that they conspire against the empire, 
from the bishops down. Give us the 
proofs, say the Catholics ; lay your finger 
on the words or the acts of conspiracj'. 
The government refuses to take up the 
open, manly challenge. It knew that its 
charge was false. But had it, by any 
chance, been true, who shall s,Ty that a 
government that enforces such barbarous 
laws as those above given, which is com- 
pelled to resort to force in order to keep 
its subjects in the countrj', which compels 
every man to devote the best part of his 
life to preparation for war, whose reve- 
nues go only to swell vast armaments and 
fortify frontiers, which denies not only all 
religious but all political freedom — prac- 
tically one and the same thing — is not a 
curse rather than a blessing to mankind ? 
The German Empire, as it stands to-day, 
is nothing else than a rampant, military 
Prussian despotism — a danger not only 
to its sister nations in Europe, but to the 
world. 

In Italy the story is much the same ; 
and the wonder is the sufferance, in these 
davs of vaunted enlightenment and free- 
dom, of the utter violation and disregard 
on the part of governments of every hu- 



man right, even to the seizure of private 
property. The bill for the appropriation 
by the state of church property passeil 
through the Italian parliament. These 
fine words, "appropriation," "'parlia 
ment," "debates," in this "bouse" and 
in that, seem to throw dust in the eyes of 
men who, when their own property is 
touched, are particularly keen-sighted, 
though the " appropriation" go not be- 
yond a single dollar. This high-sounding 
measure simply means that the Italian 
parliament has forcibly taken possession 
of three millions' worth and upwards of 
property to which, in the face of earth and 
heaven, it had not one jot, one tittle, one 
shade of claim in any form. 

Three years ago, the present Italian 
parliament — Italian by courtesy — was not 
known in Rome. The Pope was as much 
a sovereign as Victor Emanuel. The 
withdrawal of the French troops left (he 
Sovereign Pontiff defenceless, and let in 
the King of Sardinia. Unprovoked and 
uninvited, he took violent possession oi 
the slender remnant of the Papal Staits 
left to the Pope, and proclaimed bimsel; 
King of Italy — the Pope still remainin? 
on the soil which his predecessors owned 
and governed before the race of Victo' 
Emanuel existed. Under the Papal niU. 
certain religious corporations — the reli- 
gious orders and societies — rented, pur- 
chased, or owned certain property. Thi- 
property belonged to those corporations 
as surely and as sacredly as property an 
belong to any man or body of men. 01 
course, when this Italian government laid 
its sacrilegious hand on the domain of the 
Vicar of Jesus Christ, it was scarcely to 
be expected that, with the example of 
Henry VIII. of England and, more re- 
cently, of William of Prussia before if< 
eyes, it would stop short at the propeny 
of religious corporations. Consequently, 
we hear of a bill for the appropriation oi 
this private property by the state. It i< 
debated, and, after the usual objections m 
what is already a foregone conclusion, the 
property is seized by the state, and the 
owner*; turned adrift over the world. 

When men, and by no means aduiir 
able men, calling themselves goveri- 
ments, play thus fast and loose wih everv 
vested right, Catholics arc told, becau^ 
they are so bold as to defend their o»t'», 
that they are and, cannot be other th.n 
disloyal to that nowadays obscure thine. 
a state ! The Vicar of Jesus Christ lilt-* 
up his voice, and, after his many warn- 



The Year of Our Lord 1873. 



563 



ings^pionounces the solemn sentence of 
major excommunication on all who have 
bad hand, act, or part in these sacrile- 
/;ious transactions, which the science of 
jurisprudence itself condemns utterly — 
and free men, with sound ideas on the 
rights of property, whatever may be their 
opinion on the rights of religion, find in 
his utterances insolence or ravings. 

Treasures of art» libraries that are his- 
torical relics, relics of the sainted dead, 
all that the monasteries and convents 
held, flood the Italian market, and are 
bought up "for a song"; while the 
property itself is up at auction to the 
highest bidder. And what has this gov- 
ernment done for the country? Has it, 
in a manner, justified its eizure by im- 
proving the condition of the people? 

It only needs to read any of the Roman 
correspondents of the English or Ameri- 
can press to know that never did bri- 
j^andage exist in a more flourishing con* 
(lition in Italy than since the entry of 
Victor E)manuel into Rome. Many Pro- 
testant correspondents, be it remembered, 
intimate plainly enough that the authori- 
ties wink at the brigands. Capture, of 
course, is made once in a while ; but so 
occasionally as only to serve **pourencou' 
ragerUsautres.** But, after all, there i? no 
barometer like a man's pocket ; and the 
rise and fall of taxation is a very safe in- 
dicator of the state of the political mart. 
On this point a little comparison will be 
found instructive. 

The New York Herald, in the spring of 
this year, in an article entitled " The 
Debts of the State — Important Questions 
for Taxpayers," mentions, as the revela- 
tion of " a startling fact," that " the ag- 
gregate debt of the several counties, 
cities, towns, and villages of the State of 
Xcw York, for which the taxpayers are 
responsible, exceeds two hundred and 
fourteen million dollars. This is more 
than ten and a half per cent, upon the 
assessed valuation of all property in the 
State. . . . If to this total debt of the 
sub-divisions of the State be added that 
of the State itself, . . . we have as the en- 
tire corporate debt of the State $239,685,- 
902— almost twelve per cent, of the whole 
assessment of property." " This is a heavy 
encumbrance upon every man's and 
every woman's estate. 1 1 has grown out of 
^ long course of reckless abuse of power, 
'f>o tightly confided to legislative and the 
various representative bodies which con- 
trol the State in its several divisions. 



Lavish extravagance has been too often 
authorized in expenditures for the public 
account, by men who carefully guard 
their private interests and credit, and it 
is no secret that many of the burdens im- 
posed upon the taxpayers have enriched 
those who macW the appropriations. How 
are these onerous cfbligations to be met ? 
Or are they to be paid at all ?" 

It is doubtful whether many of the tax- 
payers in New York State will feel in- 
clined to call in question the strictures 
here involved. At all events, the ex- 
Tammany chieftain has recently been 
consigned to the penitentiar)*. Turn we 
now to the taxation in Rome since the 
commencement of the Emanuel regime. 
A Herald correspondent, who was de- 
spatched to describe the death of our 
Holy Father, and the election of his suc- 
cessor, and, finding his time heav>' on his 
hands — as the Pope, in the face of an out- 
raged world, refused to die before his 
Master called him — collected and sent 
back the following little items : 

Comparative Table of Taxes on an Annuai 
Income of 70,000 Lire {Francs) paid i'-r 
1869 to the Pontifical Government^ and 
in 1873 to the Italian Government, 

TAXES PAID TO THE PONTIFICAL GOVBRNMSNT. 

Francs. Per Cent. 
State taxes on property in 

Rome, 467.20 

State taxes on property in the 

country, .... 948.75 



Total, 715 95 or 1.02279 

Communal taxes on property 

in Rome, .... 864.95 
Communal taxes on property 

in the country, . . . 613.70 



ToUl, 



Total of all taxes paid under 
the Pontifical Govcrn- 



1,478.65 or 9.1x936 



ment. 



«,z94.6o or 3.13515 



TAXES PAID TO THE ITALIAN GOVBRNMSNT. 

State taxes on property in 
Rome, 6,950 

State taxes on property in the 
country, .... 940 



Total, ..... 
Communal taxes on property 

in Rome 

Communal taxes on property 

in the country, 

Total, 

Income taxes on 59,497 francs 
Mortmain taxes on total of 

70,000 trancs, . . . 
Mortmain on buildings which 

give no rent, but arc taxed, 

Total of all taxes paid un- 
der the Italian Govern- 
ment, ..... 



7,190 or 10.62857 
4,650 



7.854 


or 

or 


7.572f6 

11.33 


9,800 


or 


4.00 


X.500 


or 


9.14286 



94,^45 O' 2S-S^4«« 



564 



The Year of Our Lord 1873. 





SUMMARY. 










Increase 








of Taxes 


Pontifical 


Italian 


under 


Govern- 


Govern- 


Itolian 




ment. 


ment. 


Gov't, 


Per Cent 


Per Cent. 


Per Cent 


Stole tax— real es- 








ute, . 


1. 03 


X0.63 


9.6Z 


Communal and 




^ 




provincial toxes 


a.tz • 


757 


S.46 


Income tax, . 


— 


it.aa 


xi.aa 


Mortmain, . 


— 


4.00 


4.00 


Mortmain on 








building^s not 








paying rent. 


— 


a-M 


a. 14 



Total, . . 3.»3 3556 32.43 

This schedule refers only to clerical property. 

This is an increase of 32}^ percent., 
or, not including the extra tax on mort- 
main property, 283^ per cent., within, at 
the time of writing, about two years.* 
Would the taxpayers of New York, who 
are presumably more wealthy than those 
of Rome, consider such an increase of 
taxation as that in two or three years *' a 
startling fact"? And what is there to 
show for it? Absolutely nothing. All 
sorts of fine schemes for improvement 
of the city and such like are in exis- 
tence — upon paper ; unfortunately, they 
remain there. There is a grand new 
opera-house to be built, however. That 
is something. And then those royal 
visits to Austria and Germany must have 
cost something. And Victor Emanuel 
himself and hjs worthy son Humbert lead 
rather expensive lives. In the account 
of New Year's Day at Rome, a twelve- 
month since, we find the president of the 
chamber requesting his majesty to take 
more care of his health. And his ma- 
jesty in response acknowledges the ne- 
cessity of so doing, while he assured 
the president that arrangements existed 
which would ensure that the unity and 
liberty of Italy would in no case be en- 
dangered. 

And here the Roman correspondent 
of the London Times ^ who, like most 
special correspondents of tthat journal, 
hates the Pope and the Papacy with a 
solid Saxon 4iatred that not even what is 
passing under his own eyes can remove, 
furnishes us with a little further informa- 
tion on the same point : 

*' The rigorous exaction of the taxes, 
referred to in former letters, has been a 
great element of discontent, especially 
in the south, which has suffered in many 
respects from the formation of the Italian 
kingdom. The only chance of rescuing 

•The New York Tablet^ July 19, 1873— »• A 
Truly LIbeial Government," 



the country [What country? — ^Thc ex- 
chequer of Victor Emanuel.] from its 
severe financial difficulties and probably 
from bankruptcy, was in such an exac- 
tion, but it has not the less pressed fery 
cruelly on many needy classes. And it 
must be owned that, instead of seeking 
to soothe the sufferings of the taxpayers, 
Signor Sella has rather increased them by 
his cynical mode of treatment. People 
think it bad enough to be mulcted until 
they have scarcely enough left to live 
upon, and are not in a mood to be made 
game of also " — and much more in the 
same strain.* 

Of the banishment of the religious or- 
ders and societies from Italy, which re- 
cently came into effect, the same only 
can be said as of the German expulsioa. 
Our Holy Fatfier, in receiving the gen- 
erals of the various religious orders oa 
January 2, said in reply to their address: 
" It is the third time during my life that 
religious orders have been suppressed. 
These corporations have always been the 
support of the church, and it is a dispen- 
sation of God that they should from time 
to time undergo such vicissitudes. This 
is a secret of Providence which I may 
not unravel, but I strive to sec whether 
an angel may not be coming to aid the 
church. I do not say that I desire the 
destroying angel who visited the host of 
Sennacherib in order to save the chosen 
people of God. No, I have not fbat 
thought. I wish for an angel who might 
convert all hearts. We are in exile ; we 
must come before God with the powerful 
arm of prayer, in order to obtain, if not 
what we wish, at least some assuagement 
of our misfortunes." 

At the beginning of summer the world 
was excited by a rumor of the Popes 
sickness unto death, and it was curious 
to observe the effect of the rumor upon 
the non-Catholic world. Pius IX. has 
already seen more than "the years of 
Peter." He has sustained in his ovn 
person the trials of Peter. But whatever 
the end may be which Jesus Christ has 
reserved for the close of the f^otiO\xs ca- 
reer of his true Vicar, Pius IX. will leave 
this world, his soul borne up on the 
prayers and blessings of two hondrcd 
million hearts, while his name will for 
ever shine resplendent on the glittering 
scroll of the successors of Peter. 

" On his return from Versailles, M. 

• The London Times, Januiry, 187J. 



The Year of Our Lord 1873. 



S65 



Thiers was greeted at the railway station 
by a crowd which was awaiting him there 
wiih loud cries of Vive M, Thiers I Vive 
kPrhideni!** So runs a despatch from 
Paris on New Year's Day, 1873. How 
oddly it reads now ! Le President est 
mort : Vive le President! M. Thiers is 
politically as dead as he that was laid in 
bis quiet grave at Chiselhurst in the first 
month of the year. It almost requires 
a strained effort of the mind to recall the 
fact that a short year ago M. Thiers was 
the master of the situation in France, re- 
ceiving deputations and congratulations 
on New Year's, and talking of his presi- 
dential visit to the Vienna exhibition. 
A quiet but significant little despatch of 
the same date may partly explain the 
rapid collapse of M. Thiers: "Many 
persons of political distinction left their 
names at the residence of the Orleans 
princes.'* The Catholic World for last 
January, in its review of the year 1872, 
said on the French question : " But 
Thiers cannot last, and what is to follow? 
Tlie country would not bear the rule of 
the man of Sedan. . . . The speech of 
the Due d'Audiffret-Pasquier, on the 
army contracts, killed Napoleonism for 
the nonce. We can only hope for the 
best in France from some other and no- 
bler sprout of former dynasties ; we can- 
not foresee it." 

It is needless to tell here the story of 
how M. Thiers was overthrown, or to 
comment on it, beyond the timeworn 
illustration that as a rule it is a radical 
mistake for any one man to set himself 
up as a necessity for a nation ; yet such 
a mistake is the commonest indulged in 
by rulers {in esse or in posse ^ as may be). 
In the midst of intense excitement in 
that most excitable of capitals, Paris, 
Marshal MacMahon was summoned by 
*be majority of the Assembly to succeed 
M. Thiers. He placed himself as an im- 
personal instrument in the hands of the 
Rovernmcnt, promising by the aid of 
"God and the army" to guarantee 
peace. He chose a conservative govern- 
ment. Order has been kept. The last 
'arthing of the indemnity to Germany has 
been paid, and the last German soldier 
^as quitted France. 

A volume might be written on those 
»cw words — the indemnity has been paid : 
'be last German soldier has quitted 
'ranee. There is nothing but silent 
wonder for this marvellous feat, which in 
lis way casts into the shade even the 



German conquest of France. A nation 
whose armies were one after the other 
shattered in a few months, an empire de- 
stroyed, an emperor led into captivity ; 
its great fortresses beaten down, its 
capital besieged and taken twice over, 
first by the foe, after by its own soldiers 
from the hands of its suicidal children ; 
two provinces, rich and fair, with their 
cities and peoples, amounting to a mil- 
lion and a half, taken away ; its raw levies 
scattered into mist at a ruinous waste of 
life and money ; its government over- 
thrown and the entire national system 
overturned, so that men turned this way 
and that, and nowhere found a ruler. 
Men, money, provinces, cities, emperor, 
empire, rulers — all gone ; commerce de- 
stroyed, the heart of the nation sore with 
resentment and stricken with sorrow : 
and all this crowded into a few months ! 
Yet within less than three years this 
fickle, false, degenerate French nation — 
for such was the general character at- 
tributed to it after the late war — has re- 
stored its armies, has maintained peace, 
although even yet it can scarcely be said 
to have a permanent government, has set 
its commerce again afloat, and has rid 
itself of the foe at a cost that, when pro- 
posed, the whole world deemed fabulous. 

One cannot help wondering now 
whether Prince Bismarck was prescient 
enough to foresee that France could 
afford to pay the fabulous sum for which 
he stipulated — more than a billion dol- 
lars. The figures are easily written down 
on paper, the words slip glibly from the 
lips, yet they signify a sum of money 
whose immensity, and the power that it 
contains for good or for evil, it is well-nigh 
impossible for the mind of man to con- 
ceive. When first bruited, the whole 
world looked aghast and refused to con- 
sider the idea that Prince Bismarck, es- 
pecially after what the nation had suffer- 
ed, could stipulate for the payment of so 
vast a sum — one that simply implied na- 
tional bankruptcy. The world misjudged 
Prince Bismarck, and possibly he mis- 
judged the power and vitality of the nation 
that lay quivering under his iron heel, or 
he might have demanded more. Yet here 
two years afterwards the almost impossi- 
ble sum is told out to the last farthing, 
and the Germans arc over the border 
again, with their gripe still on two French 
provinces, hastening fast to fortify and 
defend them from attack. 

With what France has accomplished 



566 



The Year of Our Lord 1873. 



in these short months before our eyes, 
how irresistibly the thought comes to 
one — would it not have been wiser, truer 
patriotism, a loftier statesmanship, to 
have left those two provinces to France, 
and not hold them up for ever before her 
eyes as the fairest prize pitilessly wrung 
from her in her hour of anguish? Has 
not Prince Bismarck, or the Emperor, or 
Von Moltke, or whomsoever's doing it 
was, left the germ of future wars as a 
legacy to be fought by those yet un- 
born, when they shall be rotting in their 
graves ? 

A month or two ago, and the crown 
that once belonged to his race seemed 
to offer itself to the grasp of the Count 
of Chambord. Our readers know the 
story too well to repeat it here. All that 
need be said is, he refused it. Henri 
Cinq is very unlike Henri Quatre, the 
founder of his race. That Protestant 
gentleman deemed a throne worth a 
Mass ; his Catholic descendant deems a 
throne insufficient to compensate him for 
a broken word or a wavering in princi- 
ple. It is a lesson to kings ; and if there 
be such a thing as royalty in these days — 
ro)'alty as men once knew, or thought 
they knew, it — surely it belongs to the man 
who could quietly turn aside from a 
crown within his reach when he could 
not wear, as the brightest jewels therein, 
truth and honor untarnished. Verily 
Henri Cinq is the most royal of the Bour- 
bons, and the line of crowned heads is 
redeemed in the person of their crown- 
less descendant. Vive la France ! Vive 
Henri Cinq I 

The crown which all felt to be virtually 
offered to him being refused, the conser- 
vative government, with MacMahon at 
its head, still remains in otiice, and a 
provisional government is voted for se- 
ven years. It is doubtful whether it will 
live that time. France is still open to 
eruption. Yet the present government 
deserves well of the country. It has 
shown itself wise, calm, and moderate. 
The debt was paid off, and the nation 
scarcely seemed to recognize the fact. 
How that vast sum of money was col- 
lected so rapidly and transferred to Ber- 
lin, where it came from, and how it 
was brought together at so short a no- 
tice, without any one apparently feeling 
the worse for it, is, and will probably re- 
main, one of the mysteries of finance. 

It is as impossible this year as it was 
last to forecast the French horoscope. 



The nation has accomplished wonders, 
and shown itself capable of everything 
save choosing a government which could 
satisfy the whole body. Probably such 
a go^^rnment is impossible. Republi- 
canism, in our sense of the word, is as 
far off from France as ever. SooDer or 
later some man will again possess him- 
self of the power in France, unless, as is 
still not improbable, the nation invite the 
Count of Chambord. The Due d'Au- 
male has " won golden opinions from all 
sorts of men," and continues to win 
them. He is conducting the trial of Mar- 
shal Bazaine with great keenness and 
discretion. 

'* The man of Sedan " went to sleep ai 
last as the year opened. He is reported 
to have died a Christian death, though 
the evidence of adequate reparation for 
his past crimes is wjinting. Whatever he 
may have been, he left many close per- 
sonal friends behind him. He did more 
than this : he left a party, or the germ of 
one, in that fatal legacy of the " Napo- 
leonic idea," to his young son, who, if 
his life be spared, will probably guard it 
well, and follow closely in the footsteps 
of his father, if he have the chance to do 
so, which God forefend ! His English 
education will not harm him ; and he 
has seen too much of France and impe- 
rialism to relinquish an empire which, 
unless God give him grace to learn a 
better wisdom than that which his father 
bequeathed, he cannot f^il to consider 
his by right. For the present he is harm- 
less enough personally ; but if France 
continues in its unsettled state, and if 
the son inherit any of the power and 
scheming of the race, he is as likely as 
any other to be the coming man. We 
trust, however, that neither of these con- 
ditions will be verified. 

The death of the Emperor Napoleon 
undoubtedly lightened France. This is 
not the time to examine his actions 
or his policy. He is now part, and a 
very large part, of history ; and histof}' 
will paint him as it has painted better 
and greater men — in light and shade. 

The pilgrimages to the various French 
shrines were a feature of the rear, draw- 
ing the eyes of the world to France, and 
the blessing of heaven on France. Mil- 
lions of pilgrims of all classes, ages, and 
cast of politics visited La Salette, Paray- 
leMonial, Our Lady of Lourdes. and a 
multitude of other shrines. The whole 
world looked on with wonder. There 



The Year of Our Lord 1873. 



567 



iras abundance of ridicule among a class 
of writers from whose pens commenda- 
tion would be an insult. One pilgrimage 
went from Protestant England under the 
leadership of the Duke of Norfolk, here- 
iiitar}' Earl Marshal of England. The lead- 
ing secular newspapers, as a rule, gave 
very fair and respectful accounts. If it 
were not invidious to select from many, 
(he letters of the correspondents of the 
London Times in England, and of the 
New York HeraUi in this country — par- 
ticularly the latter — were admirable in 
tone, spirit, and style. Pilgrimages were 
prohibited in Italy and Germany, on the 
ground that they were political assem- 
blages. They seem rather likely to in- 
crease than to duninish in the coming 
vcar, and undoubtedly they have imparted 
a fresh impetus to faith, and returned a 
solemn answer to the " men of the time," 
the philosophers of the age, who find it 
so easy to disbelieve in God. 

1873 will be memorable in Spanish 
annals. The heart sickens and shrinks 
from going over the dismal record. It is 
almost startling to read of "the king" 
receiving deputations on New Year's, 
and that king Amadeus. His abdication 
can scarcely have caused surprise to per- 
sons who had the slightest inkling of the 
real state of affairs in Spain. The Cath- 
olic World, in its review of last year, al- 
though matters smiled on Amadeus at 
the time, said : " We do not expect to 
ilnd Amadeus' name at the head of the 
Spanish government this day twelve- 
month." It said also, "A good regent, 
not Montpensier, might bring about the 
restoration of Don Alfonso ; but where 
is such a regent ? Don Carlos possesses 
the greatest amount of genuine loyalty 
to his name and cause, and he would be 
the winning man, could he only manage 
his rising in a more efficient manner." 
How far those predictions have been 
verified by events our readers may satis- 
fy themselves. They required, indeed, 
no very keen insight to make. 

Previous to the abdication of Amade- 
us, the Carlist insurrection, under the 
leadership of Prince Alfonso, the brother 
of Don Carlos, Saballs, and a number of 
other chieftains of greater or less note, 
^f?ain broke forth with renewed vigor. 
After his abdication, the government was 
all a sea ; and from that time to the pre- 
^nt date there has been nothing but 
* succession of changes of government, 
<)"€ as incapable as another, until the 



country no longer presents the appear- 
ance of a nation. Don Carlos appeared 
at the head of his forces early in the 
year. Frequent reports of Carlist anni- 
hilation have kept the telcg'raph wires 
busily employed ever since ; yet, singular 
to relate, Don Carlos at present is actual 
king in the north of Spain. The forces 
sent against him have been defeated in 
every important engagement, and he 
only needs artillery to advance into the 
heart of the country. How it will go 
with him during the coming winter, which 
is rigorous in the north, remains to be 
seen. Insurrections broke out in various 
parts of the countr)% resulting, in some 
places, in scenes of horror and inhumani- 
ty, compared with which the horrors of 
the Commune in Paris were humane. 
Men seemed possessed by fiends, and 
the Spanish idea of a federal republic 
took the form of every petty town its own 
absolute sovereign. There was serious 
danger more than once of such insignifi- 
cant governments embroiling themselves 
with foreign powers. Part of the fleet 
revolted, and is still in revolt. Part of 
the army endeavored to do so more than 
once. They cannot but despise wild 
theorists of the Castelar type, who would 
heal a bleeding nation with windy 
speeches. The future looks dark for 
Spain; and its only hope now lies in 
Don Carlos gaining the throne as speed- 
ily as he may. The country is over- 
whelmed with financial dangers, and it 
will take a cycle of peace and sound gov- 
ernment to atone for the untold evils of 
these few years of excess. As matters 
now stand, victory sits on the helm ol 
Don Carlos, and the coming year will 
probably find him King of Spain. We 
hope and believe that he will prove him- 
self worthy of the vast sacrifices which 
have been made in his favor, and show 
as a wise, temperate, and truly Catholic 
sovereign over a noble race run mad 
with riot. As for a Spanish republic. 
Alcoy and Cartagena indicate what that 
means. 

In this connection it would seem that 
we should take some notice of the case of 
the Virginius ; but, at the time of sending 
this to press (Nov. 29), the question is too 
incomplete and unsettled to enable us to 
announce the final solution, which will 
have become a fact when these lines arc 
read. To pronounce our own judgment 
on the merits of the case, in the brief and 
superficial manner to which our limits 



568 



The Year of Our Lord 1873. 



would restrict us, we are unwilling. We 
merely say one thing, which is obvious on 
the face of things, that there was no suf- 
ficient reason to justify the hurried and 
summary massacre of the prisoners cap- 
tured on the Virginius. Filibustering we 
detest as a crime. Nevertheless, Cuba 
has been frightfully misgoverned. The 
reconciliation of Cuba to Spanish rule is 
impossible. If it can be rightfully made 
a free state, or annexed to the United 
States, we think it will be a benefit to 
the Cubans to be set free from Spanish 
rule. 

The great feature of the English year 
has been the educational question — a 
question that at present is agitating the 
world, and is debated alike throughout 
all Europe, in our own country', in the 
states of South America, in India even, 
and in Australia. It is summed up in 
this : Shall education be Christian or not ? 
If Christian, it tends to make the coming 
race bad citizens, inasmuch as it teaches 
children that there is a God, whose laws 
even governments must obey. There arc 
side issues, but that constitutes the main 
point, however governments may seek to 
disguise the fact. If unchristian, the 
children learn that they are only gra- 
duating to become capable citizens of 
the state, and that that is their highest 
duty. This is paganism, and to this doc- 
trine of education Christians cannot con- 
seni. 

Mr. Gladstone, finding his party shak- 
ing, once more strove to consolidate and 
make it a unit on an Irish question. He 
took up the Irish educational grievance — 
and undoubtedly a sore grievance it is — 
and tried to construct a university which 
should be equally acceptable to all creeds 
and no creeds. As might have been ex- 
pected, it proved acceptable to none. Mr. 
Gladstone's model university was to o<- 
clude chairs of theology, philosophy, and 
history. The very proposal is sufficient 
to show how impossible it was for Catho- 
lics to support such a measure. The 
Irish vote very rightly turned the scale 
against him, and Mr. Disraeli was cre- 
dited with a victory. After a threatened 
dissolution, the Gladstone government 
resumed, and the conservative gains have 
gone on steadily increasing, so that it is 
not at all improbable that Mr. Disraeli 
will find himself and the conservative 
party in power after the next general 
elections. 

The British government paid to the 



United States the amount of the Geneva 
award — ^;£^3,500,ooo. 

A war is being waged against the 
Ashantees, successfully so far. The Aus- 
tralian colonies are advancing in wealth 
and independence. From Bengal, at the 
close of the year, comes a dr«£ad rumor 
of famine that seems to be only too well 
founded. There was an increase in the 
price of coal, resulting, apparently, from 
a report of its scarcity. 

In the early part of the year, a strike 
of the miners and iron-workers of South 
Wales, by which 60,000 men were thrown 
out of employment, extended over two 
months. It was finally settled by mutu.il 
concessions on the part of masters and 
men. It evinced the growing power of 
trades-unions; but, at the same time, a 
few figures, furnished by the correspon- 
dent of the London Times , give sad evi- 
dence of what a losing game strikes realiy 
are when they can possibly be avoided. 

The correspondent writes from Mcr- 
thyr, February 9, while the strike was 
still in progress : " A few figures, show- 
ing the cost of the present struggle, are 
instructive. To-day the strikers enter 
upon the seventh week of its duration. 
Not a stroke of work has been done bv 
over 60,000 persons since the 28ih De- 
cember last. In giving that figure, the 
number is under-estimated rather than 
exaggerated. The average weekly earn- 
ings of this industrial host was £tofloo. 
while at the monthly pays or settlements 
it would not be going beyond the truth 
to say the payment exceeded the ordinary 
weekly draws by from 50 to 60 per cent. 
In the six weeks of idleness, therefore, 
the workmen have lost, in round figures, 
;f400,ooo. The withdrawal of this vast 
sum from the circulation of the district 
has created such a dearth of mooe)' as 
no tradesman has ever experienced be- 
fore. The strike payment of the Miners' 
Union has amounted at the utmost to 
only ;f 15,000— a miserable pittance com- 
pared with the sum which would have 
been distributed through the various chan- 
nels of trade had the works continued 
in operation." The past almost unprece- 
denledly dull business year in New York 
was owing, in great measure, to the 
strikes in the busiest season of 1873. 

In Ireland, and among the Irish in 
England and Scotland, the agitation for 
home rule has spread with a vigor thai 
promises success. Recently the Irish 
prelates have given in their adherence 



The Year of Our Lord 1873. 



569 



to the programme, and thus sanctioned 
ihe movement by the voice of the church. 
A cable message informs us that Mr. 
Disraeli has seized upon this fact to warn 
the world generally, and Mr. Disraeli's 
proverbially slow-witted parly particu- 
larly, that the contest between the Catho- 
lic Church and the world is rapidly com- 
ing to a head, and will probably soon be 
fought out by ordeal of battle. Mr. Dis- 
racli inherits a keen scent for what is 
likely to take in the market, whether of 
politics or a more vulgar kind of com- 
modity. He is at a loss for a party-cr)% 
and has happily seized upon one that 
of all others is likely to commend itself 
to the British bucolic intellect. In 
the meantime, the Irish at home may 
remember that in all their struggles, 
while they very wisely look to themselves 
10 right themselves, they may count on 
fast friends, chiefly of their own race, 
scattered through every English-speaking 
people, whose voices, at least, will be 
lifted up in their favor. Let them con- 
tinue to show such clean calendars as in 
the past year's assizes — in itself a ver)' 
strong proof for the right, since it involves 
the power of self government — and self- 
Rovernmenl cannot tarry much longer. 
The solemn consecration of the whole 
country to the Sacred Heart, and of 
Armagh Cathedral, are two events that 
will live in Irish history. The general 
wonder evoked by the revolt of an Irish 
priest against his bishop furnished a 
striking testimony to the unity of the 
church. 

Russia has advanced a step farther in- 
to Asia and closer upon the British pos- 
sessions. Khiva was captured, after a 
show of resistance by the forces of the 
khan. The collision between these two 
powers in the East is not far distant. 
Russia has not yet forgotten Sebastopol ; 
and England showed a restive spirit at the 
advance of its great rival into the East 
^hai at one time threatened to burst forth 
, into open opposition to the expedition. 
The contest is only delayed for a time. 
Russia internally is not as calm as it 
niight be. We hear from time to time of 
ihe eruptions of strange secret societies. 
Undoubtedly socialism is at work ; and 
in these d,iys, not despotism, but ration- 
al freedom, is the only bulwark against 
its advance. The year opened with the 
illness of the czarowitz. He recovered 
^viCRcicntly to absent himself from St. 
I^cieisburg just before the kaiser entered 



to greet the czar. The love of the 
czarowitz for the Prussians is too well 
known not to give a significance to his 
hurried departure on the arrival of their 
emperor in his father's capital. 

Austria opened a universal exposition* 
at Vienna with a financial panic. The 
country has under consideration the Ic- 
gislation of the period — a bill for the regu- 
lation of the afifairs of church and state. 
Austria is not too strong as it stands ; it 
will gain little if it join in the universal 
attack upon the church of Christ and 
his Vicar. 

Switzerland has essayed the r6li of 
Bismarck admirably. It has turned every- 
body in and everybody out, and church 
and chapel topsy-turvy, in right royal 
fashion. All the ecclesiastical laws of 
Prussia have been introduced there, with 
the addition that the curh were elective. 
Of course, Catholics could not vote for 
the election of their curh ; consequently, 
they did not appear at the polls in this 
matter. But there are Catholics enough 
in Switzerland, and Italy also, to make 
themselves felt at the polls in other mat- 
ters, and it seems that the chief remedy 
for their evils rests in their own hands. 
In Germany, as was seen, the Catholics 
have gained a decisive increase on their 
vote of last year, however small ; and, to 
judge of the future by the past, those 
German delegates will fight the battle of 
God and freedom nobly. In England 
Catholics are active at the polls, and, 
small a minority as they are, their vote 
tells. 

Turning now to the East, every year 
seems to bring it nearer to the West, and 
possibly to the fulfilment of the promise 
that F. Thebaud brings out so strongly 
in his powerful work on The Irish Race — 
to the time when the sons of Japheth 
shall " take possession of the tents of 
Sem." During the past year, the Empe- 
ror of China made a concession unpre- 
cedented in Chinese history, and doubt- 
less many an old political head shakes 
over the headlong rate at which the 
Chinese constitution is being driven to 
destruction. The Brother of the Sun — 
we believe that is the relationship— has 
allowed foreign potentates to present 
themselves at court after the fashion of 
the outer barbarians. This, however, is 
really an important concession, inasmuch 
as when the representatives of civilized 
governments have access directly to the 
person of the emperor, European and 



570 



The Year of Our Lord 1873. 



American subjects resident in China 
stand a better chance of having the many 
annoyances and grievances put in their 
way redressed ; and the moral effect of 
the imperial concession on the narrow- 
-minded Chinese nation cannot fail to be 
of benefit. 

Japan seems earnest in its endeavor to 
l^ecome Europeanized as rapidly as pos- 
sible. But it was as near, or nearer, cen- 
turies ago, when S. Francis Xavier con- 
futed the Bonzes. The narrowness 
and selfishness of European traders 
alone prevented the nation from becom- 
ing Christian, probably, at that time. 
Much depends, therefore, on the repre- 
sentatives of foreign governments. If 
ihcy are wise and large-hearted Christian 
men, they may prove apostles to this 
nation, which seems to possess so many 
admirable elements; but if, as so often 
seems the case, they are only second- 
hand agents of Bible societies and nar- 
row-minded bigots, we may as well re- 
sign all hope of Japan. Some outrage 
is sure to recur sooner or later with la- 
mentable results. Certainl}', as a rule, 
our own foreign diplomats are not a 
class of men who reflect too much credit 
on the American nation. They appear 
to have been chosen blindly or at hap- 
hazard, in return for some electioneering 
service. Such is not the spirit that 
should move the government of a nation 
like ours, or any nation, to select repre- 
sentative men. They should be truly 
representative men of this great people, 
large and liberal-minded, with no bias 
whatever, but an eye single as that of 
justice. 

Persia has also opened her gates and 
let forth her king to see the world. 
What impression the "civilized" world 
made on Nasr-ed-Deen * would be some- 
thing worth knowing. He traversed 
Europe. He went to Russia, and the 
czar showed him armies ; he visited Ber- 
lin, and the kaiser showed him other 
armies ; he went to Austria — ^armies 
again ; England — armies, a navy this 
time, and a lord mayor ; France — more 
armies ; Italy — armies still ; and the 
king of kings went back again to Persia 
to open his kingdom to civilized govern- 
ments. Belgium showed him the inside 
of a Christian temple for the first time, 
as he assured the Papal Nuncio, when 

♦ Possibly the spelling of the ntme is incor- 
rect ; but there is such a variety to choose from 
that the correct form is a nice questioB. 



expressing his regret at not being able 
to visit the Sovereign Pontiff. Can we 
wonder that the shah was soon wear>' 
of his journey ? Civilization could show 
him no grander sight than millions of 
men drawn up in battle array and all the 
paraphernalia of war. It exhausted itself 
in that — armies and nothing more. Yes, 
there was something more — ballets. 

The shah seems to have pawned his 
kingdom for a period of twenty years to 
Baron Reuter, who is to do w^hat he 
pleases with it in the interim in the con- 
struction of railways, canals, and othei 
means of internal development, he p.13'- 
ing the monarch ;f2o,ooo annually and 
a tithe of the income resulting from 
the improvements. It seems a hazardous 
undertaking in such a country'; but the 
man who undertook it doubtless *' count- 
ed the costs " beforehand. 

The mission of Sir Bartle Frere from 
the British government to the interior ol 
Africa, with a view to the putting a stop to 
the barbarities of the slave-trade, promis- 
es, in connection with the expedition un- 
der Sir Samuel Baker, to open up a road 
to European intercourse with the natives 
of the interior. Some German scientists 
in Berlin also set on foot during the past 
year an association for the promotion of 
the exploration of Africa. 

In the states of South America the same 
strife that we have witnessed in Europe is 
being waged, which, under the name of 
church and state, really means the abso- 
lutism of the state. The members of the 
Society of Jesus and of other societies 
and orders have been expelled from 
Mexico and several other states. Mexico 
has decreed civil marriage, as has also 
Brazil, whose Masonic premier and cabi- 
net are entering on a persecution of the 
bishops for excommunicating members 
of secret societies. During the year, the 
city of San Salvador was utterly destroy- 
ed by an earthquake. The political or- 
der in these South American states corre- 
sponds very closely with their natural or- 
der. They exist in a chronic state of * 
revolution and eruption. 

In the natural order there have been 
furious storms, fraught with disaster 10 
life and property ; although lives lost iu 
this manner have been insignificant in 
number compared with loss resulting 
from wrecks owing mainly to neglect, as 
in the case of the NorihjUet and the At- 
lantic^ and several railroad disasters on a 
large scale. Boston was again visited 



The Year of Our Lord 1873. 



571 



by fire, but escaped with a loss less se« 
vere than before. The flooding of the 
Po once more brought disaster upon 
Italy, as did our own annual freshets 
upon us in the spring. With the excep- 
tion of the threatened famine in Bengal, 
the seasons have been propitious, and 
:be want which threatens the United 
Mates particularly during the coming 
\car is due mainly to financial panics 
and strikes. 

Within the past year, Berlin, Vienna, 
and New York have known panics, all 
seemingly resulting from the same im- 
mediate cause — the failure of one or two 
ureal houses ; while the markets of the 
world have been threatened in conse- 
quence. Failures of one or two great 
houses could not possibly affect in so 
terrible a manner all kinds of business 
were it not that there was something 
radically wrong at the bottom — an evil 
leaven ihat has spread to the whole com- 
mercial mass. It would probably be a 
puzrlc, even to a financier, to lay before 
(be world the secrets of these periodical 
panics, resulting in ruin to so many out- 
side of the comparative few immediately 
concerned. It looks as though, in this 
money-getting age, and among our own 
money.getling people particularly — on 
which subject the Holy Father this year 
addressed to us a special warning — the 
mass of men were animated by the prin- 
ciple, "Get money at all costs; never 
raind the means." Even the greatest 
houses live on a system of puff. In pri- 
vate Rfc the man who lives beyond his 
means must sooner or later come to grief, 
and face ruin or roguery. In business 
the same rule must hold good. Vast 
establishments arc conducted on a sys- 
|cm vitally unsound. Probably there ex- 
ists scarcely a house to-day that, if called 
«n at any one moment to pay all its out- 
standing debts, could do so. But when 
the majority of houses are conducted on 
principles that on a limited capital base 
a business involving an outlay of per- 
haps twenty times its amount, we must 
be prepared for these periodical disasters. 
The evil is that this essentially dishon- 
t'st system has become the only recogniz- 
ed style of conducting business in these 
^^ys ; so that commerce has come to be 
•» game of speculation, where the clevcr- 
^^) and most daring rogue generally 
»ins— a game fostered by the excessive 
'ssuc of paper money. 
Among events that attracted some at- 



tention during the year was the still lin- 
gering trial of the Tichborne claimant, 
which was not thrown into the shade by 
the trial of Marshal Bazaine. There have 
been meetings of the internationalists and 
other societies. New York was enter- 
tained or bored, as may be, for a week, by 
a meeting of Protestant gentlemen, mostly 
clericals, of all shades of belief, who call- 
ed themselves an Evangelical Alliance. 
They were not quite agreed as to the 
particular object of (heir meeting, from 
which nothing resulted. 

SeVeral Catholic nations and numerous 
dioceses have been solemnly dedicated to 
the Sacred Heart of Our Lord Jesus Christ 
during the past year, the province of 
New York among the number, on the feast 
of the Immaculate Conception, Decem- 
ber 8. Dr. Corrigan was consecrated Bi- 
shop of Newark, and F. Gross of Savannah. 

The last point has come : the mention 
of the dead. '.The Emperor Napoleon was 
the first of note to go ; his empire went 
with him, for from first to last it was essen- 
tially a personal government. As his will, 
drawn up in his still palmy days, said, 
"Power is a heavy burden." He forced 
himself upon a nation of 30,000,000 of 
human souls; he voluntarily assumed 
the responsibility of the absolute guid- 
'ance of that mighty multitude. He nevci 
had a fixed principle to guide him. He 
never daied honestly say, "This is right," 
"This is wrong." The power which he 
voluntarily assumed and kept to himscU 
so long — one solitary man the ruler ol 
30,000,000 — ended in disaster for that 
mighty multitude and himself. 

This death dwarfs all the others. Never 
theless, many a man was laid in his grave 
last year whose name will live after him. 
The church has lost Mgr. Losanna, 
Bishop of Biela, the oldest Italian bishop ; 
F. de Smet, the apostolic missionary 
among the Indians; and here, in New 
York, Vicar-General Starrs. Literature 
has suffered in Manzoni, whose death the 
Italians rightly viewed as a national cala- 
mity. Edward Bulwcr, Lord Lytton, a 
man of many and great gifts, has at last 
gone to tell " what could he do with them." 
History will not soon find again an Ame- 
dfee Thierry. Col. James F. Meline, a 
frequent and very able contributor to 
The Catholic World, is a loss to Ameri- 
can Catholic literature. The Anglican 
Bishop of Winchester, a gifted orator, but 
a churchman of no very fixed opinions, 
was killed by a fall from his horse. On 



572 



The Year of Our Lord 1873. 



the same day died Lord Westbury, a man 
of a singularly acute and powerful intel- 
lect, who has left his mark on English 
legislation. Our Chief-Justice Chase is 
gone, and it will be difficult to find his 
equal. Rattazzi, the Italian minister, is 
gone to his place. John Stuart Mill, who 
could not well be dismissed in a sentence, 
is dead. He was a singular mixture of 
philosophical acumen and practical stu- 
pidity. Art has lost Landseer ; science, 
Maury and Liebig, the chemist ; while 
medicine laments Nclaion. The Aiperi- 
can, French, and English stage mourns 
respectively Forrest and Macready, the 
once rival tragedians, and Lafont, a prince 
of comedians. Royalty has lost the Em- 
press Dowager of Austria, a very holy 
woman ; the Empress Dowager of Brazil ; 
the King of Saxony, a scholar and a Chris- 
tian, and the Duke of Brunswick, who 
was famed for anything but holiness. 
General Paez, who once was famous, is 
dead. The death of Captain Hall adds 
another to the list of brave, adventurous 
spirits who so far have wasted their lives 
in the endeavor to discover the North 
Pole. His death involved the failure of 
the Polaris expedition, which was fitted 
out by the American government. The 
story of the rescue of the Polaris crew 
belongs to the romance of histor)'. 

Bcrnstorff and Olozaga, the ambassa- 
dors respectively of Germany and Spain, 
have dropped from diplomatic circles in- 
to that circle where the finest diplomacy 
cannot cover the slightest delinquency. 

There is little to add. Another j'ear has 
happily passed over our heads without a 
serious war, but the future threatens to 
make ample and speedy atonement for 
this lamentable deficiency. Last year 
The Catholic World closed its review 
by saying that "Europe was arming." 
This year it may say Europe is armed. 
Prussia, Russia, France, Austria, Italy^ 
what are they? Nations of warriors. 
Had the Persian king asked the mean- 
ing of these armed nations, he would 
probably have been answered, with a grim 
jocularity, that civilized powers found 
such the only method of keeping the 
peace and preserving that imaginary 
thing — equi^brium. The Russian expedi- 
tion into and capture of Khiva, the de- 
feat of the Dutch by the Atchinese in the 
Island of Sumatra, the English war with 
Ashantce, make the three ruptures of in- 
ternational peace during the year. Eng- 
land seem* particularly choice in her se- 



lection of foes : Abyssinia, the Looshai 
tribes, and now — Ashantee. She is jea 
lous of her turbulent neighbors, and must 
vindicate her ancient prestige. 

The main events which have moved 
the world during the past year have now 
been touched upon hastily and crudel) 
enough, but sufficiently, it may be hoped, 
to give the reader some idea of the main- 
springs which move this busy world, of 
which we form a part, and in which each 
one is set to play a part and render an 
account of it. What was said at the be- 
ginning may be more readily appreciated 
now, or denied — that the year of our Lord 
1873 is bigger with portent than event, 
and a portent that bodes ill, as far as hu- 
man eye can see, for the church of 
Christ, built upon Peter. Mr. Disraeli's 
party-cry may contain more truth than 
the crier, wise man though he be, 
dreamed : there is such an intense, bit- 
ter, determined, and general hostility, on 
the part of ** the kings and the princes of 
the world, against the Lord and against 
his Christ"; the opposition is fast be- 
coming so intolerant and absolutely un- 
bearable to Catholics ; while protest and 
opposition in words alone seem vain and 
idle when addressed to ears that are 
deaf. 

In the meanwhile, Catholics must not 
budge an inch. They arc not only fight- 
ing for their religion, but fof human free- 
dom. To yield the smallest point of prin- 
ciple is to be false to their conscience. 
The more persistent is the non-Catholic 
world in false theories of human rights 
and human wrongs, the more persistent 
must they be in adhering, at any sacrifice, 
to what they know to be right, and what 
was right when modern nations were 
unborn. Catholics must remember that 
all are fighting the same battle, and all 
are bound to take a hand in the stnig- 
gle. What the Pope fights for, that all 
Catholics fight for — from the bishop to 
the priest, from the priest to the one 
whose voice is heard in the halls of legis- 
lation, to the editor in his oflSce, to the 
merchant in his counting-house, to the 
very beggar in the street. There is no 
difference, no line to be drawn. We must 
be one, and, if ri^ht must win, then victory 
is ours. 

For, for what do we contend? To b- 
Christian ; to be free to obey the churc'i 
which our Lord Jesus Christ founded. 
Allegiance to a foreign power? Whu 
folly ! Allegiance to Pius IX. is alle- 



New PttblicatioHS. 



573 



giance to Jesus Christ. Nothing more, 
nothing less. Arc Catholics not Ameri- 
cans, or Germans, or Irishmen, or £ng- 
ii.shmcn, for bein^ Catholics ? How, when, 
where, was it ever shown that they were 
not ? Why, when Protestantism was not 
known, were Catholics not nationalists — 
when Christendom was one ? 

A new year is opening before us — a 
\ear of trial, not so much in this coun- 
try, but to the universal church. Where 
Ireedom is left to Catholics, as in this 
'ounlrj', they must never cease, by pray- 
t r. by the pen, by the voice, by every 
means that the occasion calls forth, to 
h'.lp their persecuted brethren ; not look- 
ing to this government or to that to help 
ihcin, but basing their cause on their na- 
tural rights. There is not a civil, reli- 
gious, or political right anywhere exist- 
inj; on this earth, belonging to non-Ca- 
iltoiics. which does not also belong to 
Catholics. They must get that idea fast 
ill their minds, and fight on that which is 
.1 lawful and just issue. No Protestant 
( .m claim a right which does not belong 
usually to a Catholic. No Protestant, be 
lie individual or government, can say to 
.» Catholic : You must not believe this 
'loctrine or that ; you must not take the 
i*ope for an infallible guide in religion, 
I'm yourself; you must not educate your 
• Inldrcn in your religion, and so on. 
Tliis is the language, open or secret, of 
tbc day which is addressed to Catholics. 
It must be met with no hesitation, but 
with the response : Our freedom is your 
irccdora ; our rights are your rights ; our 
interest is your interest ; nay, after all, 
our God is your God. Let us fight our 
l>attles of opinion civilly. But when you 
i^i>uc paper constitutions every day, and 



tell us that we must obey such and such 
an iniquitous law — a law revolting to our 
conscience, our reason, and every srpira- 
tion of freedom — we throw your paper 
constitution to the winds, and refuse t( 
obey it. // is necessary to obey God rathn' 
than man ! We conclude by wishing to all 
our readers a. happy New Year, to our 
Holy Father a speedy triumph, and to 
ourselves the pleasure of recording, at 
the end of 1874, the history of the con- 
fusion and rout of the enemies of the 
church. 

Of events accidentally omitted in the 
preceding record of the year, were the 
ravages of the yellow fever in the South, 
particularly at Memphis and Shreve- 
port, where many Catholic priests and 
religious sacrificed their lives in the 
service of the sick. To the list of disas- 
ters at sea resulting from carelessness 
must be added the recent wreck of the 
Vilie du Havre, with a loss of upwards of 
200 lives. The festival of the Catho- 
lic Union at Boston also deserved men- 
tion, as it evoked a demonstration of 
Catholic strength and Catholic feeling 
that was an honest source of pride. 
Among names omitted in the death-roll 
were those of Dr. H. S. Hewit, a noble 
man who sacrificed much for his country 
and his faith ; Hiram Powers, the sculp- 
tor; Laura Keene, the actress, an es- 
timable woman and a good Catholic ; 
Sir Henry Holland, Henry W. Wilber- 
force, brother of the Anglican bishop, 
and for a long time editor of the London 
Weekly Jiegister {Cdii\\o\\c)\ General Har- 
dee, and a name once very famous, Abd- 
el-Kader. A new Atlantic cable was 
this year laid by the Great Eastern between 
Valentia and Heart's Content, N. F. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



T»«E Ark op the People. By Plato 
Punchinello. Translated from the 
French by a Friend of Christian Civili- 
«»ion. Phaadelphia : P. F. Cunning- 
ham. 1873. 

A very timely book, whose publication 
>s very welcome. It is one of a class very 
Jjumcrous at present in France, which we 
i^ope to see becoming common in our own 



country. That is to say, it treats of the 
horrible consequences in the social order 
flowing from the prevalent infidel, here- 
tical, anti-Catholic theories,, maxims, er- 
rors, and illusions of the age, vamped up 
by sophists and charlatans, and palmed 
off upon their dupes and victims as philo- 
sophy, science, advanced ideas, principles 
of progress and improvement in civiliza- 
tion. It treats also of Catholic principles 



574 



A^nv Pub I teat ions. 



as the principles of true social and poli- 
tical order and well be in^. It is lively 
and brilliant, and we recommend it most 
earnestly as a book most useful and en- 
tertaining, specially fitted to counteract 
the false notions which are but too current 
even among Catholics. 



Lascine. By an Oxford Man. New 
York : Applelons. 1873. 

Seven Stories. By Lady Georgiana Ful- 
Icrton. London : Burns &Oates. 1873. 
(New Vork : Sold by The Catholic Pub- 
lication Society.) 

Marie and Paul. By "Our Little Wo- 
man." Same publishers. 

The Baron of Hertz. A Tale of the 
Anabaptists. From the French of Al- 
bert De Labadye. New York : O'Shea. 

1873. 
Gordon Lodge. By Miss M. Agnes 
White. Baltimore : Kelly & Piet. 1873. 

Here is quite a supply of works of 
fiction by Catholic writers to help while 
away the dreary winter months. Lascine 
is a storj- whose incidents are taken from 
the experience of an Oxford convert. A 
number of very good stories of this kind 
have appeared since the great move- 
ment began ; and the movement itself, 
besides its serious importance, is cer- 
tainly very fertile in romantic incidents, 
and furnishes abundant stuff for a skilful 
novelist. Lascine is a book which can be 
read with great interest, and is by no 
means lacking in cleverness. Its prin- 
cipal fault is an excess of sentimentality. 
We think it promises a great deal for the 
future success of its young author. 

Anything written by Lady Georgiana 
Fullerton must of course be excellent. 
The first and last of these stories are par- 
ticularly good, and the last one ought to 
be read by all our young people, espe- 
cially young ladies who aspire to become 
literary stars. 

Marie and Paul is a very pretty and 
pathetic tale. 

T/ie Baron of Hertz has a great deal of 
historical instruction about the crimes 
and horrors of the German Reformation, 
couched in the form of a stirring and 
most tragic story. 

Miss White's debut is verj- creditable 
to her. She has originality of concep- 
tion and power of delineation and de- 
scription. There are certain inaccuracies 
*n respect to the English titles of nobilitj', 



and some other minor faults of style 
which indicate the need of a more care- 
ful attention to details and a more accu- 
rate revision. As a whole, the storj; is a 
very successful effort. 



The Real Presence. By Rev. P. Tis- 
sot, S.J. New York: P. O'Shca. 
1873. 

An excellent little book, solid, simple, 
and pious, good alike for old and youni;. 
The doctrinal gravity of the treatise i<; 
relieved in an agreeable and edifying 
manner by some interesting narrations of 
miraculous events relating to the Bleswd 
Eucharist. F. Tissot has chosen these 
incidents with great judgment, selecting 
those which are both extremely wonder- 
ful and at the same time very well au 
thenticated, and taking care to give th( 
proof as well as the histor}'. There can 
not be anything more stupid or more pro- 
voking than the ignorant, supercilious, 
and flippant manner in which the writers 
for the secular and soi-disaut r€\\%\ou^ 
press, sneer at these Catholic miracles, 
without pretending to reason about ilu 
evidence on which the truth rests. There 
are some who think it the best policy to 
keep silent about them ; but it is ouropin- 
ion that we ought to bring thera constant- 
ly before the face and eyes of the unbe- 
lieving world, although the light which 
flashes from them may be disagreeable to 
many who do not wish to be disturbed in 
their fatal slumber. 



Saxe Holm's Stories. New York : Scrlb- 
ner. 1874. 

A most peculiar school of fiction, 
which we may call the " transcendental." 
has grown up among the New England- 
ers and their semblables within our own 
remembrance. Some of its productions 
are of fine quality, and it oscillates in 
morality between the two extremes ot 
Catholicity and pantheism. Neverthelcs*. 
as a dear friend, who lived and died a 
Unitarian minister, once remarked to u"*. 
the prevailing tendency of this eno/^' 
transcendental movement is a veiy cir- 
cuitous return to the religion of our Catho- 
lic forefathers. The stories of this vol- 
ume, written, we conjecture, by a W)*' 
are a sample of the kind of literature re- 
ferred to. The first story, "DiaxyMil- 



New Publications. 



57S 



ler/' is a chef tfoeuvre. It may seem odd 
that we should perceive a Catholic un- 
dcr-tone in a story the heroine of which, 
after marrying a minister in a wild coun- 
try hamlet of New Hampshire, takes 
charge of the preaching for a year after 
her husband's death. Female preaching, 
and the whole set of strong-minded 
female notions, we abominate, of course. 
But Draxy Miller's last epoch of life, as 
the passing umbra of her husband, is so 
described that the repulsive aspect of the 
pastoral office in petticoats is hidden. 
And as an ideal character Draxy is ex- 
quisite. "Reuben Miller's Daughter" 
wins the heart of the reader, as she did the 
hearts of the old captain, the stage-driver, 
ihc elder, and the elder's parishioners. 

"The Onc-Legged Dancers" is capital 
also, and the other stories are written 
with skill and effect. There is rather too 
strong an infusion of transcendental no- 
tions about love, yet the moral tone is 
much higher than is usually found in 
novels, and the author appears to recog- 
nize the stringent obligation of wedlock. 
We rank this volume of stories decidedly 
in the first class. 

In the advertisements at the end of the 
volume we perceive the announcement 
of a translation of Jules Verne's De la 
Ttrre h la Lune^ together with another 
similar book, describing a journey to the 
centre of the earth. 'The first of these 
oxtraordinaryy>M.r d* esprit has given us so 
much pleasure in the original, overflow- 
ing as it is, with humor, poetry, and 
scientific knowledge, that we call the at- 
tention of our readers, in a spirit of pure- 
ly disinterested philanthropy, to the fact 
that they can get this book and its fel- 
low, io English. They will help very 
materially the effort to pass a merry 
Christmas. 



Thr Arena and the Throne. By L. T. 
Townsend, D.D., author of Cndo, etc. 
Boston : Lcc & Shepard. 1873. 

The principal object of this book is 
one in which we heartily sympathize, 
leing the refutation of the ordinary shal- 
low arguments which some persons con- 
sider as conclusive in favor of what is 
^nown as the " plurality of worlds" and 
•^Jc maintenance of the dignity of man as 
^ worthy possessor of the universe of 
^*od. The material universe is insignifi- 
cant compared with a single soul. We 



need not take so much pains to try to 
utilize it. The convenience of one man 
would be a sufficient reason for its exis- 
tence. The physical arguments, drawn 
from actual observation, in favor of the 
uninhabitability of the worlds with which 
we have become in any degree acquaint- 
ed, are well put. 

Rhoda Thornton's Girlhood. By 
Mary E. Pratt. Boston : Lee & She- 
pard. 1873. 

A pretty, simple story of New England 
life ; a good book for a school prize. 
The usual hearty country pleasures — 
husking and quilting parties. Thanks- 
giving, etc., are well and truly described ; 
a healthy, tone runs through the story, 
which is a natural and probable one. 
The little heroine, Rhoda, a thoughtful, 
womanly child, begins her life in an 
alms-house, and then spends a few years 
on an old-fashioned farm. She turns out 
to be the great-granddaughter of a lost 
member of an old family, whose heirs 
and representatives she and her brother 
become. The incidents are not violently 
improbable, and the disintegration nat- 
urally arising in such a family through 
imprudent marriages and removals to 
distant and unreclaimed territories very 
adequately accounts for the myster>'. 
The style is free and simple ; studied 
ornament or any silly rhetorical flourish 
is avoided. 



RiTUALE ROMANUM PAUM V. PONTIFK IS 

Maximi Jussu Editum eta BeNEDIC'H) 

XIV. AUCTUMETCASTIGATUM : CUI NO- 
VISSINfA ACCEDIT BeNEDICTIONUM ET 

Instructionum Appendix, Bultimori : 
Excudebat Joannes Murphy. 1873. 
i2mo, pp. 546. 

This is the first entire edition of the 
RituaU published in this country, and wc 
take pleasure in commending it as one 
very creditable to the publisher. The 
type is large, the paper white and clear, 
and very excellent register is observed in 
printing the rubrics. If there is any sug- 
gestion we would offer, it is that the next 
edition be printed on thinner paper, so 
that the volume may be reduced to a more 
portable size without any diminution in 
legibility. The imprimatur of the Arch- 
bishop of Baltimore obviates any neces- 
sity for comment on the text. 



576 



New Publications, 



The Acts of the Early Martyrs. By 
J. A. M. Fastr6, S.J. Third series. 
Philadelphia: P. Cunningham & Son. 

1373. 

The first and second series of this valu- 
able and suggestive work have received 
due notice in these pages at the time of 
their publication. We have before us 
now the third series, chiefly treating of 
the martyrs of the IVth centur)% under 
the tenth general persecution — that of 
Diocletian. The contents are most inter- 
esting, the more so as some of the saints 
here mentioned are less known than 
those whose acts filled the first two vol- 
umes. The great and foremost reason 
why we rejoice to see the sufferings and 
constancy of the early martyrs brought 
before the remembrance of our people is 
that these sufferings have some analogy 
with the present condition of the church 
in many lands. Although the physical tor- 
tures of early days are out of fashion, the 
moral persecution is not less ingeniously 
spread over the whole life of a Catholic 
than it was in former times. The same 
kind of constancy is required to conquer 
ihc latter as was needed by the martyrs 
to overcome bodily pain. In those early 
limes social ostracism, exile from honor- 
able professions, and confiscation of pro- 
perty, were as frequcmtly as now the 
guerdon of him who embraced the un- 
popular religion, as we see in the case 
of S. Tarachus and his companions. In 
every instance the bribe held out by 
Satan to the confessors of the faith was 
the favor of the emperor, the honors and 
emoluments of the magistracy, great 
riches, and high position, as we see spe- 
cially in the case of S. Clement of An- 
cyra. His is the most wonderful life re- 
counted in this little book. Eighteen 
years of incessant martyrdom ; the most 
heroic constancy and patience ; the most 
singular and miraculous Providence 
watching over him ; the powers of persua- 
sion which converted his jailers, his exe- 
cutioners, and thousands of pagans in 
the various places where he was tortured 
and confined ; the manner in which it 
pleased God to make him whole no less 



than six times after the devil had done 
his best to render his body unrecogniz 
able — all contribute to make of his life a 
tissue of a more wonderful and awful ro- 
mance than any imaginary tale of medi- 
aeval marvel. To S. Blasius of Scbasic 
we would also call attention, as having 
forestalled S. Francis of Assisi in his 
god given power over the lower creation. 
In the story of S. Polyeuctus the reader 
will recognize the foundation of Cor- 
neille's sublime Christian drama of 
PolyeucU^ written at the instance of Mnie. 
de Maintenon. The style of this book 
is flowing and correct ; simple, as befits 
the subject, which cannot be raised high- 
er by any flight of human fancy or adorn- 
ment of human fashion ; is accessible to 
the understanding of the unlearned, and 
cannot fail involuntarily to touch the 
hearts of all. Is it not a strange thought 
to dwell upon, that, among all the con- 
versions wrought on the spot by the su- 
pernatural courage of the martyrs, then- 
should be hardly one instance on re- 
cord of it having converted their judge: 
The sudden judgment executed on sonic 
governors and prxtors is indeed men- 
tioned in a few cases. Are we to sup- 
pose that they were really beyond per- 
suasion, being possessed by a devil wiio 
had complete control over their facul- 
ties? It is a very awful thing whereon 
to meditate, but these stories of our fore- 
runners in the good fight certainly 
strongly suggest the idea. 

Announcement. — ^We shall begin in 
our next number the publication of a 
new story by Mrs. Craven, author of A 
Sister's Story, FUurange, etc. The work 
will be issued simultaneously with its 
appearance in Le Comspondant^ the trans- 
lation being made from the original MS. 
with the special sanction of the author 
from whom the exclusive right of publi- 
cation in this country has been pur- 
chased. 

The continuation of Grapes and Tkonti. 
which has been delayed by the departure 
of the author on an European tour, wiil 
be resumed in the Februarj' number. 




THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD 



VOL. XVII I., No. 107.— FEBRUARY, 1874. 



THE PRINCIPLES OF REAL BEING. 



II. 



EXTRINSIC PRINCIPLES OF BEING. 



As in chemistry, so also in meta- 
physics, the labor and difficulty at- 
tending the analysis of complex 
things is proportional to the degree 
of their complexity. Hence in the 
search after the principles of real 
being, which we are about to make, 
we judge it expedient, for the greater 
convenience and satisfaction of our 
philosophical readers, to start from 
the principles of the most simple 
among the subjects of metaphysical 
analysis — that is, from the principles 
of primitive beings. 

By "primitive" being we mean a 
being not made up of other beings, 
hut" stricdy one in its entity " — unum 
ptr se in rations entis — and therefore 
leaving nothing of which it can be 
<leprived without ceasing to be al- 
together. 

It is to be observed that a primi- 
tive being may be conceived to exist 
cither contingently or through the 
necessity of its own nature. Of 



course, a being which exists through 
the necessity of its own nature is 
perfectly independent of all extrinsic 
things, as it contains in its own na- 
ture the adequate reason of its being, 
and therefore admits of no extrinsic 
principles of any kind. But a being 
which exists contingently is a being 
which has not within itself the ade- 
quate reason of its existence ; whence 
it follows that its existence cannot 
be accounted for but by recourse 
to some extrinsic principle or princi- 
ples. As the knowledge of extrin- 
sic principles is calculated to throw 
much light also on the intrinsic con- 
stitution of primitive contingent be- 
ings, let us make such principles the 
subject of our first investigation. 

We affirm that the extrinsic prin- 
ciples of every primitive contingent 
being are three; for to the ques- 
tion, ** Whence any such being pro- 
ceeds," three different answers can 
be given, and three only. 



»Bter«d aocordinflf to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by Rer. 1. T. Hbckbr, in the Office cf 

the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



578 



Tlu Principles of Real Being. 



First, we can assign the reason 
why, or the end^r the sake of whichy 
a being has been made to exist. 

Secondly, we can point out the 
agency through which a being has 
been made to exist. 

Thirdly, and lastly, we can men- 
tion the terra out of which a being 
lias been brought into existence. 

These three principles virtually 
contain the whole theory of creation. 
If we were now writing for unbe- 
lievers, we would be obliged to com- 
mence by establishing some pre- 
liminary truths, such as God*s exist- 
ence, the contingency of the world, 
and the philosophical impossibility 
of accounting for its origin without 
recourse to the dogma of creation. 
But as our habitual readers are pre- 
sumed to be sufficiently instructed 
about these fundamental truths, we 
think we may here dispense with a 
direct demonstration of the same, 
and avoid a digression which would 
lead us too far from the subject now 
under examination. As, however, 
this article may possibly fall into the 
hands of some dupe of modern in- 
fidelity, we propose to make a few 
incidental remarks on their usual ob- 
jections, and to lay down, before we 
conclude, some of the arguments by 
which unbelievers can be convinced 
of the absolute truth of what we now 
assume as the ground of our expla- 
nations. 

We assume, then, that there is a 
Creator, a God, a being infinitely 
intelligent and infinitely powerful, 
eternal, and independent. Such a 
being, as infinitely perfect, is infinite- 
ly happy, and experiences no need 
whatever of anything outside of him- 
self. He therefore does not create 
anything, unless he freely wills; nor 
wills he anything, unless it is for 
some good which he freely intends; 
for nothing but good can be the ob- 
ject of vohtion. Now, the only good 



which God in his infinite wisdom can 
freelyLintend is the exterior manifes- 
tation of his divine perfections. It 
is, therefore, for this end that crea- 
tures were brought into existence. 

Our first answer to the question 
above proposed points out this jinal 
principle of creation — that is, the 
manifestation of God's perfections in 
such a degree and manner as he him- 
self was pleased freely to determine. 
To attain this end, it is obvious that 
God was obliged to bestow upon hb 
creatures such a degree of reality as 
would enable them to show in them- 
selves and in their finite perfections 
a finite image, and, so to say, a re- 
flex of the perfections of their Crea- 
tor. Hence the final principle, on 
which the existence of contingent 
beings originally depends, comprises 
not only the manifestation of Goci's 
perfections in a determinate degree. 
but also, and more immediately, the 
bestowal of a proportionate degree 
of entity upon creatures, that they 
may carry on such a manifestation 
according to the design of their Crea- 
tor. Thus the ultimate end of crea 
tion is indeed God's glory, or the 
manifestation of his perfections; but 
the proximate end of creation, and 
that which is immediately obtained 
in the very act of creation, is the ex- 
istence of the created things with 
that degree of reality and with those 
endowments which make them /it 
instruments for the aforesaid mani- 
festation. Accordingly, when asked 
whence a primitive contingent being 
proceeds, our first answer must l>e 
that it proceeds from God's design 
of showing his existence and infinite 
perfection by communicating contin- 
gent existence and finite perfections 
outside of himself. 

Let us here take notice thai 
" modern thought " ignores final pnn- 
ciples altogether, and pretends that 
arguments from design have no value 



The Principles of Real Being. 



579 



in science. In this pretension we 
unmistakably recognize the material- 
istic propensities and the lack of phi- 
losophical reasoning by which our 
age is afflicted. When our mod- 
ern sages will prove that creation 
does not proceed from a will, or that 
a will can act without an object, then 
ihey will be entitled to the honor of 
a serious refutation. As it is, their 
negative position is sufficiently refut- 
ed by a simple appeal to common 
sense. 

To those who, without denying 
final causes, maintain that we cannot 
ascertain them, nor make them an 
object of science, we reply that, 
although we do not know all the 
particular ends which each creature 
may be destined to fulfil, we never- 
theless know perfectly well the gen- 
eral end of creation. Now, nothing 
more is needed for establishing the 
reality of the first extrinsic principle 
on which the existence of every con- 
tingent being depends. 

Our second answer points out the 
efficient principle of creation — that is, 
God's omnipotent power. Ration- 
alists and materialists have tried to 
do away with this most necessary 
principle. Besides the old pagan 
a? sumption of self-existent matter, 
which many of them adopted in order 
to supersede the necessity of a crea- 
tor, they have tried to popularize 
other inventions of more recent think- 
ers, who for the God of the Bible 
have substituted what they style the 
Absolute^ and pretend that what we 
call "contingent beings" are mere 
apparitions of the Absolute — that is, 
the Absoluie manifesting itself. With- 
out stopping here to refute such 
a strange theory, we shall content 
f»urselvcs with observing that what 
is altogether absoluie is intrinsically 
^nmodifiabU^^ truth which needs 
"0 demonstration, as it immedi- 
ately results from the compari- 



son of the two terms ; whence it 
follows that, if the Absolute wishes to 
manifest itself, it cannot do so by as- 
suming any new form, but only by 
means of something extraneous to 
its own nature, and consequently 
through the instrumentality of some 
being produced by it, perfectly distinct 
from it, and which may admit of 
such modifications as we witness 
everywhere around us, and as we 
know to be irreconcilable with the 
nature of the Absolute, This suffices 
to show that no apparition or mani- 
festation of the Absolute can be con- 
ceived without implying an exertion 
of efficient power.* We say, then, 
in our second answer, that it is 
through divine omnipotence that con- 
tingent beings were actually brought 
into existence by such a communica- 
tion of reality as was proportionate 
to the design of their Creator. In 
other terms, God's omnipotent power 
is the efficient principle of all primi- 
tive contingent being. 

Our third answer points out the 
terminus ex quo of creation — that is, 
the term out of which every con- 
tingent being is primarily educed. 
Such a term is mere nothingness ; for 
whatever primarily begins to exist 
must come out of absolute non-exist- 
ence. It is against this that our 
modern pseudo-philosophers most 
loudly protest, as they stoutly pro- 
claim that " nothing comes out of 
nothing" — ex nihilo nihil fit. We 
may well smile at their useless pro- 
testation ; for the fact is that nothing 



*This argument could be employed against 
all other forms of pantheism ; but we must ab- 
stain at present from the discussion of particular 
systems, as we cannot de^l fairly with them 
within ihe narrow compass of a single article. 

As for sei/-ejci stent matter, we need only say 
that nothing which can receive new determin:t- 
tionsis self-existent; and since matter receives 
new determinaiions, therefore matter is not self- 
existent. Hence the conception of eternal and 
uncreated matter cannot be styled a philosophi- 
cal opinion, but only a dream of unreflecting or 
uneducated minds. 



58o 



The Principles of Real Being. 



is ever brought into existence but 
from its contrary — that is, from its 
non-existence. It would be vain to 
object that, to build a house or a 
ship, materials are needed. Of 
course they are needed, but a house 
is a compound, not a primitive, being ; 
and to build a house is not to produce 
the house, but only to effect the ar- 
tistic arrangement of its materials. 
Now, undoubtedly, before the house 
is built, such an arrangement has no 
existence. The only tiling, therefore, 
that the builder efficiently produces 
springs out of non-existence. We fully 
admit that a physical compound can- 
not be made up without materials — 
viz., without pre-existent components 
— but, to be sure, the first components 
do not themselves depend on other 
components, because the first compo- 
nents are primitive beings, and, as 
such, cannot be made of any pre-ex- 
isting material. Yet they must have 
been made, since they exist and are 
contingent ; and, if made of no pre- 
existing material, certainly brought 
out of nothing. 

But as our readers need none of 
our arguments to be convinced of a 
truth of which they are already in 
possession, we will set aside all further 
discussion on this subject, and con- 
clude, from the preceding remarks, 
that when we are asked whence a 
contingent being originally comes, our 
last answer must be that it comes out 
of nothing as the term of its eduction. 
Nothingness, in this case, holds the 
place of the material principle, which 



is wantmg. 



It is clear, then, that all primitive 
contingent beings can, and must, be 
traced to three extrinsic principles. 
This doctrine contains nothing diffi- 
cult, far-fetched, or mysterious, and 
its great simplicity proves that meta- 
physics, after all, may be less fright- 
fully abstruse than some people are 
apt to believe. This same doctrine 



is also the universal doctrine of all 
philosophers who did not lose them- 
selves in the dreams of visionary 
systems. It is true that they do not 
always mention, as formally as we do, 
the final object of creation as a dis- 
tinct principle ; but they do not deny 
it. In treating of the origin of things, 
they usually consider the final and 
the efficient principle of creation as a 
single adequate principle, on the 
ground tliat finality and efficiency, 
viewed absolutely as they are in God, 
are but one and the same thing. 
They also omit very frequently the 
mention of the term out of which 
things are educed, not because they 
do not acknowledge it, but because 
they know that it has no positive 
causality. Nevertheless, a little re- 
flection will show that such a course 
is not the best calculated to give a 
distinct idea of the principiation of 
things; on the contrary, the ven- 
nature of the metaphysical process 
demands that each of the three ex- 
trinsic principles be kept in view 
very distinctly and explicitly. 

We admit, of course, that the final 
and the efficient principle of creation, 
viewed absolutely as they are in Go^i. 
are really and entitatively the same 
thing ; but we consider that the in- 
tention, or volition of the end, has 
its connection with created beings, 
not on account of its absolute entity, 
which is necessary, but on account 
of its extrinsic termination, which is 
contingent.; for, evidently, no act 
can be conceived as the principle of 
a being, except inasmuch as it is con- 
nected with the sanie being. Ac- 
cordingly, God's volition is the pri'j- 
ciple of things, not inasmuch as it is 
an absolute act, entitatively necessa- 
ry, but inasmuch as it is an act hav- 
ing a contingent termination. On 
the other hand, God's infinite power 
must indeed be conceived as connot- 
ing an infinity of beings that can be 



The Principles of Real Being, 



S8r 



created, but is not conceivable as 
connoting determinate beings that 
wiU be created, unless something be 
found that connects it especially with 
the same determinate beings. Now, 
what is it that connects God's om- 
nipotence with any determinate being 
which is to be created but his voli- 
tion of a contingent determinate ob- 
ject — that is, his volition as having a 
contingent termination ? Omnipo- 
tence, therefore, acquires a special 
connection with a determinate con- 
tingent being only on account of the 
extrinsic termination of divine voli- 
tion; and thus divine omnipotence 
and divine volition have, under this 
consideration, a kind of relative op- 
position, on account of which the 
one that induces the special connec- 
tion is to be distinguished from the 
other that acquires it. 

Moreover, in the investigation of 
first principles we must continue our 
analysis as far as we can — ^that is, un- 
til we reach the ultimate terms into 
which the subject of our investigation 
can be resolved. Now, it is evident 
that omnipotence, as freely connect- 
ed with the production of a determin- 
ate being, is not the ultimate term 
of analysis; for we can go further, 
and assign the reason of that free 
connection — ^viz., the actual volition 
of an end. Hence the final and the 
efficient principle of creation, though 
not really distinct in God, afford a 
real ground for two distinct concepts, 
and are to be considered as two dis- 
tinct extrinsic principles with respect 
to all created things. 

The third extrinsic principle — that 
is, the term out of which contingent 
beings are originally educed — is very 
frequently overlooked as irrelevant, 
because it has no reality. We are 
of opinion that it should be kept in 
view by all means, and prominently 
too, for many reasons which will be 
hereafter explained, and especially 



for the easier refutation of pantheism. 
Such a term has, indeed, no reality; 
but it is not necessary that all the 
extrinsic principles of being should be 
realities. Common sense teaches, on 
the contrary, that when a thing is to 
be first brought into existence, it is 
necessary that it should pass from its 
non-being into being; whence it is 
manifest that its non-being is the 
proper term out of which it has to 
be educed. Now, the non-being of 
a thing is its nothingness ; and, there- 
fore, its nothingness is the proper 
term out of which it must be educed. 
For the same reason, the school- 
men uniformly taught with Aristotle 
thRt privation also was to be ranked 
among the principles of things, al- 
though privations are not positive 
beings;* and therefore the nothing- 
ness of the term from which crea- 
tures are educed is no objection to 
its being placed among the extrinsic 
principles of contingent beings. 

As, however, that which is looked 
upon as a principle is always conceived 
to connote the thing principiated, and, 
on the other hand, absolute nothing- 
ness has no such connotation (for 
connotation is virtual relativity, and 
cannot spring from nothing), it fol- 
lows that nothingness^ when con- 
ceived as a term out of which a 
being is educed, is to be looked upon, 
not as an absolute negation of being, 
but as a negation out of which divine 
omnipotence^ by the production of an act^ 
brings the creature into being. In 
other terms, nothingness is to be 
considered, under God's hand, as a 

* The Aristotelic meaning of the word /riva- 
Hon wilt be easily understood from the foUow- 
ing example : If a cylindrical piece of wax be 
mude to assume a spherical form, the sphericity 
will be educed, as the schools say, from tbe 
cylindrical wax, not inssmuch as it is cylindri- 
cal, but inasmuch as it is non-spherical. Such 
a non-sphericity is a privationy which is more 
than a ntgatioHytA it implies not only ihe ab- 
sence of sphericity, but also the presence of its 
contrary— that is, of the cylindrical form. Pri- 
vaUon is usually defined cartutia forma in sub-^ 
jtcto npto. It is a priiiclple>#r acciJetu. 



582 



The Principles of Real Being, 



negative potency of something real, 
which can be actuated ; and, with 
regard to any individual reality, as 
the potency of that individual reality. 
When viewed in this manner, no- 
thingness assumes a relative aspect, 
in opposition to that reality of which 
it is the potency, and thus becomes 
apt to connote that same reality, in 
the same way as silence connotes 
talk, darkness light, absence pre- 
sence, informity form. Hence we 
took care to say that a thing is 
brought into being out of its non- 
being ; because, as the fool only by 
divesting himself of his foolishness 
can grow wise, so a reality which is 
to come out of nothing — say, a point 
of matter— cannot be educed out of 
the non-bemg of an angel or of any 
other thing, but only out of its own 
non-being. Consequently, non-be- 
ing, or nothingness, as the term out of 
which a point of matter is to be 
educed, means nothing but the po- 
tency of that real point ; and thus no- 
thingness, under the hand of the Om- 
nipotent, acquires, in regard to that 
which is educed out of it, that rela- 
tivity which is sufficient to make it 
a principle, according to the nature 
and manner of its principiation. 

Some may ask why, among the 
extrinsic principles of things, we did 
not mention God's archetypal iciecLs ; 
for it seems that, when we are 
asked whence a contingent being 
primarily proceeds, we might answer 
by pointing out God's ideas as the 
patterns to which creatures must , 
conform, and by saying that things 
primarily proceed from the divine 
ideas as from their archetypal princi- 
ple ; and if this answer — which is by 
no means absurd — be admitted, the 
extrinsic principles of contingent be- 
ings will be four, and not three. 

But it is to be observed that God's 
ideas precede all decrees concerning 
creation, and are the archetypes not 



only of all the things that are creat- 
ed, but of all the things also which 
will never be created ; and, therefore, 
God's ideas have, of themselves, no 
connection with the existence of con- 
tingent beings, but only with their 
intelligibility. Hence we may argue 
in the following manner: The ex- 
trinsic principiation of a contingent 
being cannot be traced back to any 
special principle prior to that which 
is the ^rst reason of their creation. 
But God's ideas are prior to God's 
volition, which is the first reason of 
creation; therefore, the priiK:ipiation 
of contingent beings cannot be trac- 
ed back to divine ideas as a special 
extrinsic principle. 

Nevertheless, since God cannot 
intend to create anything but accord- 
ing to his own idea of it, we must 
own that the divine ideas sliare in 
the causality of things, inasmuch 
as such ideas are implied in the 
volition of producing the objects 
they represent ; and though, of them- 
selves, they are not a distinct and 
special principle of creation, yet, as 
included in the Creator's volitiou, 
they make up the whole plan of ere 
ation, and thus they have a bearing 
on the nature, number, and order of 
all created things. 

Such is the doctrine which we find 
in S. Thomas* Huological Summ, 
where he explains how God's ideas 
are the cause of things. " God's 
ideas," says he, " are to all created 
things what the artist's ideas are to 
the works of art. The artist's ideas 
are the cause of a work of art, inas- 
much as the artist acts through his 
understanding ; hence the form or 
idea which is in his understanding 
must be the principle of his opera- 
tion, in the same manner as heat is 
the principle of the heating. But it 
must be remarked that a natural 
form is a principle of operation, not 
inasmuch as it is the permanent 



The Prificiplcs of Real Being. 



583 



form of the thing to which it gives 
existence, but inasmuch as it has a^ 
leaning towards an effect. And in a 
similar manner the form which b in 
tlie understanding is a principle of 
action, not inasmuch as it is in 
the understanding simply, but inas- 
much as it acquires, through the will, 
a leaning towards an effect; for an< 
intellectual form is not more connect- 
ed with the existence than with the 
non-existence of the thing of which 
it is the form (since one and the 
same is the science of contraries) ; 
and, therefore, such a form cannot 
produce a determinate effect, unless 
it be brought into connection with 
one of the two contraries ; which is 
done by the will. Now, God, as we 
know, causes all things through his 
understanding, for his understand- 
ing is his being ; and, therefore, his 
science, as united with his wiliy must 
be the cause of all things." * 

It might be here objected that if, 
for the reason just alleged, archetypal 
ideas are not to be considere'd a dis- 
tinct principle of creation, then nei- 
ther can omnipotence be considered 
as a distinct principle ; for as arche- 
typal ideas do not principiate any- 
thing unless through free volition, so, 
also, omnipotence principiates nothing 



* We give the original text : Sic enim scientia 

/Vi te habet ad omnet res creaiasy sicui scientia 

^rtificit se kabet ad artificiata. Scientia an- 

itm artijicis est causa artijlciatorum^ eo yuod 

nrti/ex operatur per suum intellectum. Unde 

*P**'t*t quod f<yrma intcllectus sit principium op- 

f^tianisySicut cator est principium cale/actio- 

•". Sed consider andum esty quod forma natu- 

*'^iisyim quantum est forma man*ns in eo cui 

*•' #«/, non nominat principium actionisy sed 

*fctindum quod kabet inclinationem adeffectum. 

J't similiter forma inielligibilis non nominat 

P'^tncipium actionis secundum quod est tantum 

'» i^tetligtntey niii adjungatur ei inclinatio ad 

'fft^umy qu/B est per voiuntatem. Quum enim 

/^fma inteHigibtlis ad opposita se habeat {jquum 

'^dtm sit scientia oppositorum) non produceret 

^f^trminatum effectunty nisi determinaretur 

^dunumper appetitumy ut dicitur in 9. Metaph. 

^fanf/estum est autem quod Deus per intellec' 

f^m suum causat res, quum suum esse sit suum 

'^Mligtrc : unde necesse est quod sua scientia 

lit causa rerum secundum quod kabet vo/unta- 

*'^cot^jHnctam{p. i,q. 14, «. 8). 



but in consequence of the same vo- 
lition; and, therefore, if archetypal 
ideas on this account are not a dis- 
tinct principle of things, on the same 
account omnipotence cannot be taken 
as a distinct principle. 

To this we answer that the assum- 
ed parity has no legs to stand on. 
That archetypal ideas are not a dis- 
tinct principle of creation was proved 
above, not simply by arguing that they 
cannot principiate anything indepen- 
dently of free volition, but by showing 
that it is not from them, but from the 
volition alone, that the real principia- 
tion of things begins. Now, this proof 
applies to ideas, but not to omnipo- 
tence. In fact, ideas, even in God, 
must be conceived as having a certain 
priority with respect to volitions; for 
it is true, even in God, that nothing 
is willed which is not foreknown — 
nihil est volitum^ quin pracognitum. 
If, therefore, God's ideas were a dis- 
tinct principle of creation, there would 
be something in God, prior to his will, 
which would entail the existence of 
created beings; which is impossible 
to admit so long as we maintain that 
God's will must remain free in its ex- 
trinsic operations. We cannot, there- 
fore, admit, without absurdity, that 
the archetypal ideas constitute a dis- 
tinct principle of things. But, as to 
divine omnipotence, no such absurd- 
ity is to be feared ; for God's om- 
nipotence has no priority with respect 
to God's will; and thus the above 
argument cannot be used to prove 
that omnipotence is not a distinct 
principle of creation. 

We conclude that the extrinsic 
principles, to which the first origin of 
contingent beings is to be traced, are 
not fewer, and not more, than three. 
Our Catholic readers will be satisfied, 
we hope, that this conclusion has been 
fairly established on what they know 
to be secure foundations. Infidels, 
of course, will object; for they will 



584 



The Principles of Real Being. 



think that the whole of our discus- 
sion has been based on hypothetical 
grounds. In fact, we have supposed 
that there are "primitive" beings, 
that they are " contingent," that they 
need " a creator," and that the creator 
must be an "infinite being," a god. 
If a Comtist or a materialist happens 
to read the preceding pages, he will 
surely say that we have built nothing 
but a cob-house. But we do not care 
much what may be objected by such 
a class of frivolous and unreasonable 
philosophers. We know that their 
favorite theories have been a hundred 
times exploded, and their futile ob- 
jections a hundred times answered. 
When a foe is defeated, what is the 
use of prolonging the contest ? And 
when noonday light is dazzling the 
world, what need is there of light- 
ing candles ? Let them, therefore, 
only open their eyes, if they really 
want light. There is no scarcity of 
good philosophical works, which, if 
lonsulted by them in a spirit of can- 
vlor, will afford them all the light that 
a ni«in can reasonably desire for the 
mil attainment of truth. 

Vet the solidity of the ground on 
winch we have taken our stand may 
I).; established in a very few words. 

That there are contingent beings is 
( pi lie certain ; for nothing which ne- 
icssarily exists is liable to change or 
modification. But all that surrounds 
us in this world is liable to change and 
modification ; therefore, nothing that 
surrounds us in this world necessarily 
exists. Accordingly, all that we see 
in this world exists contingently. 

That contingent beings are either 
primitive or made up of primitive 
beings is, again, a well-known fact; 
for all being which is not primitive 
is a compound, and can be traced to 
Its first physical components — that is, 
10 the first elements of its composi- 
tion. But the Jirst elements of com- 
position cannot possibly be made up 



of other elements, and accordingly 
must be primitive beings. There- 
fore, primitive beings exist every- 
where, at least (if nowhere else) in 
all the compounds of which they arc 
the first physical components. 

That every primitive contingent 
being must have had its origin from 
without is a plain truth; for that 
which has no origin from without 
must have the adequate reason of its 
existence from within ; and, therefore, 
it carries in its essence the necessity 
of its existence. But evidently con- 
tingent and changeable beings do not 
carry within their essence the neces- 
sity of their existence ; therefore, con- 
tingent beings must have had their 
origin from without 

That every such being must have 
come out of nothing is not less evident ; 
for a primitive being cannot possibly 
come out of pre-existent beings as its 
material principles. It roust, there- 
fore, be prodtued either out of God's 
substance or out of nothing. But 
not out of God's substance, for di- 
vine substance is not susceptible of 
contingent forms; therefore, out of 
nothing — that is, by creation pro- 
perty. 

Lastly, that the Creator is an eter- 
nal^ infinite being can be easily proved, 
independently of many other argu- 
ments, by the following general theo- 
rem, to which modem philosophers 
are invited to pay close attention. 
The theorem is this : All efficient caiae 
is infinitely more perfect^ and of an in- 
finitely better fiature, than any of its 
effects. If this proposition be true, it 
immediately follows that the Creator 
of the universe is infinitely more per- 
fect than the whole universe, and has 
a nature infinitely better, nobler, and 
higher than that of any contingent 
being, and therefore is a necessar)' 
and independent being, the supreme 
being — God. Let us, then, dcmwn- 
strate our theorem. 



The Principles of Real Being. 



585 



It is a known and incontrovertible 
tnith that every efficient cause emi- 
nently contains in itself (that is, pos- 
sesses in an eminent degree) all the 
perfection which it can efficiently 
communicate to any number of ef- 
fects; and it can be proved, more- 
over, that the efficiency of a cause is 
never exhausted, and not even weak- 
ened, by its exertions, however long 
continued and indefinitely multiplied. 
I1ie earth, after having for centuries 
exerted its attractive power and 
caused the fall of innumerable bodies, 
has preserved to this day the same 
power whole and undiminished, and 
is still acting, with its primitive energy, 
on any number of bodies, just as it 
did at the time of its creation. Our 
soul is not exhausted or weakened 
by its operations; but, after having 
made any number of judgments, 
reasonings, or any other mental ac- 
tions, still retains the whole energy 
and perfection of its faculties with- 
out waste, effeteness, or decay. A 
molecule of oxygen, after having for 
ages, either free in the air or confin- 
ed in water or in other compounds, 
produced such a number of effects as 
bewilders and beats all power of imag- 
ination, retains yet its efficient causal- 
ity as entire and unimpaired as if it 
were of quite recent creation. These 
facts show that the efficient cause 
suffers no loss whatever by the exer- 
tion of its power, and therefore is 
fully equal to the production of an 
endless multitude of effects. 

Some may say that this conclusion 
cannot be universal, as we see that 
natural forces are very often exhaust- 
ed by exertion. We answer that, 
when natural forces are said to be 
exhausted, the efficient powers from 
whicli those forces result remain as 
intact and as active as before. We 
say, indeed, that a man or a horse 
is exhausted by .fatigue ; that our 
brab, after hours of mental work, needs 



rest to recover its lost energy, and 
many other such things; but, in all 
such cases, what we call exhaustion 
is not a diminution of efficient power 
in the agents from the concurrence 
of which the natural forces result, 
but either the actual disappearance 
(by respiration, perspiration, etc.) 
*of a number of those agents, or a 
perturbance of the arrangements and 
conditions necessary for their united 
conspiration towards the production 
of a determinate effect. Natural 
force y in the sense of the objection, 
is a combination of agents and of 
efficient powers, which produce their 
effect by many concurrent actions 
giving a different resultant under dif- 
ferent conditions ; and as any given 
effect proximately depends on the 
resultant of such actions, the same 
powers, though unaltered in them- 
selves, must, under different condi- 
tions, give rise to different effects. 
Take a car and four horses. If the 
horses act all in the same direction, 
the car will move easily enough ; but 
if two of the horses act in one direc- 
tion, and two in the other, the result 
will be very different. Yet the pow- 
ers applied to the car are in both 
cases the same. Again, take an army 
of fifty thousand men facing the en- 
emy. If the men are well arranged 
so as to present a good line of bat- 
tle, the action of the army will be 
strong ; but if the men are disorderly 
scattered, the action will be weak, 
though the men are the same and 
their powers and exertions undimin- 
ished. Now, all bodies and all com- 
plex causes are in the same case; 
which is evident from the fact that 
with all of them a Tavorable change 
of conditions, all other things remain- 
ing the same, is always attended by 
an increase of the effect. There- 
fore, the so-called exhaustion of nat- 
ural forces is not a diminution of the 
efficient powers of which they are the 



586 



The Principles' of Real Being. 



result, but a state of things in which 
the same active powers are exerted in 
a different manner, or have to perform 
a different work, according to the 
different conditions to which they 
are actually subjected. We there- 
fore repeat that efficient causes suf- 
fer no loss whatever by the exertion 
of their efficient powers, and that 
consequently they are fully equal to 
the production of an infinite multi- 
tude of effects ; and since every ef- 
ficient cause, as we have premised, 
must contain within itself, in an 
eminent manner, the whole perfec- 
tion which it can communicate to its 
effects, we are forced to conclude 
that the nature of every efficient 
cause infinitely transcends in perfec- 
tion the nature of its effects. 

The theorem could be further con- 
firmed by considering that all the 
acts produced by efficient causes of 
the natural order, either spiritual or 
material, are mere accidents, where- 
as the causes themselves are substan- 
ces; and it is manifest that the na- 
ture of substance infinitely trans- 
cends the nature of accident. 

It might be confirmed, again, by 
another very simple consideration. 
The efficient cause does not com- 
municate any portion of itself to 
its effect.* In fact, efficient causation 

* Parents, however, communicate a portion of 
their substance to their offspring. The reason 
is that parents are not only the efficienty but also 
the mater ialy cause ot their offspring^. As mate- 
rial causes, they supply the matter of which the 
fixtus will be formed : but, as efficient causes, 
they only put the conditions required by nature 
lor the organization of this matter. The position 
of such conditions is an accidental action as well 
ftB the subsequent organization. Therefore, pa- 



is production; and production is 
not a transfusion, translocation, or 
emanation of a pre-existing thing, but 
the origination of a new entity which 
had no previous formal existence. It 
follows that the efficient cause, while 
producing an effect, retains its entire 
entity, and therefore is never exhaust- 
ed. Thus a syllogism is not a por- 
tion of the mind that makes it ; and 
the making of it leaves intact the 
substance and the faculty from which 
it proceeds. Thus, also, the actual 
momentum of a falling body is not a 
portion of the terrestrial power by 
which it is produced ; the power re- 
mains whole and undiminished in 
the substance of the earth, as already 
remarked, always ready to produce 
any number of changes, and always 
unchanged in itself. This is the rea- 
son why every efficient cause infi- 
nitely transcends the nature of its ef- 
fects. 

Our theorem is, then, demonstrated 
both by facts and by intrinsic reasons. 
We are confident that all honest 
philosophers, no matter how much 
their intellectual vision may have 
been distorted by false doctrines, will 
see their way to the right conclusion, 
and conflfes the absolute necessity 
of an independent, self-existent, infi- 
nite Creator, from whom all beauty, 
goodness, and perfection proceed, 
and to whom all creatures — philoso- 
phers not excepted — owe allegiance, 
honor, and glory. 



rents, as efficient causes, produce nothing but 
accidental acts. The matter of which the foetus 
Is formed is, of coarse, all pre-exisUng. 



TO aa CONTINUKO. 



Dante s Pur gator io. 587 



DANTE'S PURGATORIO. 

CANTO TWELFTH. 

Paired, like two oxen treading under yoke, 
That burdened soul and I as far had gone 

As the loved Tutor let. But when he spoke 
These words : " Now leave him ! We must travel on, 

For here 'tis good with spread of sail and stroke 
Of oar, to push his boat as each best may ;" 

I made myself, as walking needs, erect, 
But only in body; just it is to say 

My thoughts were bowed, my spirit was deject. 
Still I was moving, and with willing feet 

Followed my Master ; both began to show 
How light we were, when thus he said : ** Tis meet 

That, walking here, thou bend thine eyes below, 
So to observe, and make the moments fleet, 

Over what kind of bed thy footsteps go." 

Even as, that so their memory may survive. 

Our earthly tombs, above the buried, bear 
The graven form of what they were alive ; 

Whence oft one weeps afresh'the image there. 
Pricked by remembrance, — which doth only give 

To souls compassionate a sting of pain-- 
So I saw figured o'er, but with more skill 

In the resemblance, all the narrow plain 
Which formed our pathway, jutting from the hill. 

Him * there I marked, on one side, noblest made 
Of all God's creatures, stricken down from heaven 

Like lightning ! Opposite, there was displayed 
Briareus, cast from where he late had striven, 

Smit by celestial thunderbolts, and laid 
Heavy on earth and in the frost of death. 

I saw Thymbraeus, Pallas too, and Mars, 
Still armed, around their sire, with bated breath 

Viewing the giants, their torn limbs and scars ! 
Nimrod I saw, at foot of his great tower, 

As if bewildered, gazing on the tribes 
That showed with him such haughtiness of power 

In Shinar's plain, as Genesis describes. 

* Lucifer. 



588 Dante* s Purgatario. 

Niobe ! with what eyes, full of woe, 

Mid thy slain children, upon each hand seven, 

1 saw thee carved upon the road ! And, O 
Saul ! in Gilboa, that no more from heaven 

Felt rain or dew, how dead on thine own sword 

Didst thou appear ! Thee, mad Arachne, there 
I saw, half spider 1 fumbling the deplored 

Shreds of that work which wrought for thee despair- 
O Rehoboam 1 there no more in threat 

Stands thy fierce figure ; smit with fear he flies, 
Whirled in a chariot, none pursuing yet : 

Showed also that hard pavement to mine eyes 
How young Alcmaeon made his mother sell 

With life the luckless ornament she wore 
How, in the temple, on Sennacherib fell 

The sons, and left his corpse there on the floor. 
The cruel carnage and the wreck it showed 

Which Tomyris made, when she to Cyrus, cried: 
Blood thou didst thirst for / now I give thee blood ; 

And showed th' Assyrians flying far and wide 
In utter rout, with Holofernes dead. 

And all the slaughter that befell beside, 
And the grim carcase by the bloody bed. 

Troy next I saw, an ashy, caverned waste : 
O Ilion ! how vile the work showed thee 

Wiiich there is graven, — how utterly abased ! 
What master of pencil or of stile * was he 

Who so those traits and figures could have traced 
That subtlest wit had been amazed thereby ? 

Alive the living seemed, and dead the dead ! 
Who saw the truth no better saw than I, 

While bowed I went, all underneath my tread. 

Now swell with pride, and on with lofty stalk. 

Children of Eve ! nor bend your visage aught 
So to behold the sinful way ye walk. 

More of the mountain than my busied thought 
Had been aware of we had rounded now. 

And much more of his course the sun had spent; 
When he, who still went first with watchful brow. 

Exclaimed : " Look up I — to accomplish our ascent 
Time no more suffers to proceed so slow. 

See yonder angel hastening on his way 
To come towards us ! and from her service, lo ! 

The sixth returning handmaid of the day. 
Give to thy mien the grace of reverence, then, 

That he may joy to marshal us above. 
Think thus : this day will never dawn again** 

I had so often felt his words reprove 

^ Stile here means a sculptor's tool, and not a writer's ttyU, 



Dante's Purgatorio. 589 

My slowness, warning me to lose no time. 

That on this point I read his dark words right 
With sparkling face, as glows at rosy prime 

The tremulous morning star, and robed in white. 
That being of beauty moved towards us, and said. 

Opening his arms and then his pinions wide, 
" Come, here the steps are ! — easy to the tread 

And close at hand : now upward ye may glide." 
But very few obey this Angel's call : 

O human race 1 born high on wings to soar, 
Why at a little breath do ye so fall ? 

He brougnt us where the rock a pass revealed 
Hewn out, his pinions on my forehead beat 

And with his promise my safe-going sealed. 

As, to the right, in climbing to the seat 

Of the fair church • that looketh lordly down 
Over the bridge that bears the name this day 

Of Rubaconte, on the well-ruled town, t 
The sharp ascent is broken by a way 

Of stairs constructed in the old time, ere 
Fraud was in measure and in ledger found ; 

Thus the steep bank is graduated there 
Which falls abruptly from the other round : 

. On either side the tall rock grazes though. 
As we turned thitherward, were voices heard, 

Beaii pauperes spiritu ! singing so 
As might not be exprest by any word. 

Ah ! these approaches — how unlike to Hell's ! 
With chant of anthems one makes entrance here ; 

Down there with agony's ferocious yells. 

Now, as we climb, the sacred stairs api>ear 

More easy than the plain had seemed before : 
Wherefore I thus began : " O Master ! say, 

What heavy load is tak'n from me ? No more 
I feel that weariness upon my way." 

" When every P, upon thy temples traced, 
Almost obliterate now/' he answered me, 

" Shall be, like this one, totally erased, 
So by right will thy feet shall vanquished be. 

That they not only no fatigue shall know, 
But ev'n with pleasure shall be forward sped." 

Then did I like as men do when they go 
Unweeting what they carry on their head. 

Till signs from some one their suspicion waking. 
The assistant hand its own assurance tries, 

*Tbis Is the well-known church of S. Miniato, which orery boy who has besn to Florence mast 
^••n remember. 
t Kloreace, in irony. 



590 



The Epiphany. 



And seeks and (indeth, such discovery making 
As may not be aflforded by the eyes. 

Spreading my right-hand fingers, I could find 
Six * letters only of the seven which he 

Who bore the keys had on my forehead signed : 
Observing which, my Master smiled on me. 

*The Ang^el, sitting: at the gate of Purgatory, had described (as the readers of the Ninth Cante 
m<iy remember, V. ixa) the letter P seven times with the point of his sword on the forehead of 
Dante, in sign of the seven deadly sins,— Peccata— one of which, and Danie's worst, the sin of 
pride, now vanishes from his soul as the letter fades from his forehead. 



THE EPIPHANY. 



Let us, then, also follow the Magi ; 
let us separate ourselves from our 
barbarian customs, and make our 
distance therefrom great, that we may 
see Christ, since they too, had they 
not been far from their own country, 
would have missed seeing him. 
Let us depart from the things of 
earth. For so the wise men, while they 
were in Persia, saw but the star ; but 
after they had departed from Persia, 
they beheld the Sun of Righteousness. 
Or rather, they would not have seen 
so much as the star, unless they had 
readily risen up from thence. Let 
us, then, also rise up ; though all men 
be troubled, let us run to the house 
of the young Child ; though kings, 
though nations, though tyrants, inter- 
rupt this our path, let not our de- 
sire pass away; for so shall we 
thoroughly repel all the dangers that 
beset us; since these too, except 
they had seen the young Child, 
would not have escaped their danger 
from the king. Before seeing the young 
Child, fears and dangers and troubles 
pressed upon them from every side ; 
but after the adoration, it is calm and 
security ; and no longer a star, but an 
angel, receives them, having become 
priests from the act of adoration ; for 
we see that they offered gifts also. 

Do thou, therefore, likewise leave 
the Jewish people, the troubled city, 
the blood-thirsty tyrant, the pomps 



of the world, and hasten to Bethle- 
hem, where is the house of the Spirit- 
ual Bread ; • for though thou be a 
shepherd, and come hither, thou wilt 
behold the young Child in an inn; 
though thou be a king, and approach 
not here, thy purple robe will profit 
thee nothing; though thou be one of 
the wise men, this will be no hindrance 
to thee; only let thy coming be to 
honor and adore, not to spurn, the 
Son of God ; only do this with trem- 
bling and with joy, for it is possible 
for both of these to concur in one. 

But take heed that thou be not 
like Herod, and say. That I may come 
and worship him, and, when thou art 
come, be minded to slay him. For 
him do they resemble who partake 
of the mysteries unworthily ; it being 
said that such an one shall be ^iUy 
of the Body and Blood of the Lord, 
Yes ; for they have in themselves the 
tyrant who is grieved at Christ's 
Kingdom — him that is more wicked 
than Herod of old — even Mammon. 
For he would fain have the dominion, 
and sends them that are his own to 
worship in appearance, but slaying 
while they worship. Let us fear, then, 
lest at any time, while we have the 
appearance of suppliants and worship- 
pers, we should indeed show forth 
the contrary. — S. John Chrysosi^fn, 

* Betlilehem stgniBes io Hebrew ** the bouse 
of bread." 



J 



Grapes and Thorns. 



591 



GRAPES AND THORNS. 



BY THB AUTHOR OF " THB KOU^B OF YORKB. 



CHAPTER VIII. 



«> 



SUMMER FRIENDS. 



F. Chevreuse did not allow him- 
self a long indulgence in his own 
sorrows. Before half an hour had 
elapsed, he was stepping through the 
portal of the city jail, all private grief 
set aside and lost sight of in the 
errand that had brought him. 

Sensitive as he was, the gloom and 
dampness inseparable from a prison 
would have chilled him, but that pity 
for him who was suffering from them 
so unjustly, as he believed, startled 
his heart into intenser action, and 
sent an antagonistic glow through 
his frame, as though by force of love 
alone he would have warmed the 
stones and chased away those depress- 
ing shadows. 

A few swift steps along the stone 
corridor brought him to the cell 
assigned to Mr. Schoninger. Looking 
with eagerness, yet shrinkingly too, 
through the grating, while the jailer 
unlocked the door, he saw the prison- 
er standing there with folded arms 
and head erect, regarding him coldly 
and without the faintest sign of re- 
cognition. The place was not so dim 
but he must have seen perfectly who 
his visitor was; yet a man of stone 
could not have stood more unmoved. 

The jailer was not long unlocking 
the door, yet, brief as the time was, 
it sufficed to work a change in the 
priest. It was with him as with the 
fountain which tosses its warm waters 
into a chilly atmosphere : the spray 
retains its form, but not its tempera- 
ture. "I am shocked at this, Mr. 
Schdninger!" he exclaimed, hasten- 
ing into the cell. " I will do any- 



thing to relieve you ! Only tell me 
what to do." 

The words, the gesture, the empha- 
sis, all were as he had meant ; but a 
something in the whole manner, which 
tells when the heart outleaps the 
word and the gesture, was lost. It 
was possible to think the cordiality of 
his address affected. 

Mr. Schoninger bowed lowly, with- 
out unfolding his arms or softening 
the expression of his face. • ** I thank 
you for your offers of service," he 
said ; " but they are unnecessary. 
I have employed counsel, and what 
the law can do for me will be done. 
Meantime, it is not for you and me to 
clasp hands." 

His look conveyed not only pride, 
but disdain. He seemed less the 
accused than the accuser. 

"Whose hand, then, will you 
clasp ?" the priest exclaimed, impa- 
tient at what seemed to him an un- 
reasonable scruple. " You are a 
stranger here, and can be sure of no 
one. I am the very person whose 
good-will will be most valuable to 
you." 

It was only the embarrassment 
resulting from an unexpected rebuff 
which could have made F. Chev- 
reuse appeal to the motive of self- 
interest. To tell a proud and bitter, 
perhaps a guilty, man that he stands 
in his own light, is only to make him 
blacken yet more his immovable 
shadow. But as a man sometimes 
relaxes the severity of his manner at 
the same time that he increases the 
firmness of his resolution, Mr. Scho- 



592 



Grapes and Thorns. 



ninger unbent so far as to offer his visi- 
tor a seat 

" Please excuse the roughness," he 
said, indicating a rude bench. " Tlie 
furniture is not of my choosing." And 
seated himself on the bed, there being 
no other place. 

F. Chevreuse remained standing. 
The mocking courtesy was more chill- 
ing than coldness. , 

" I followed an impulse of kind- 
ness in coming to you," he said, 
looking down to hide how much he 
was hurt. '< I did not stop to ask my- 
self what was conventional, or wise, 
or politic. My heart prompted me to 
fly to the rescue, and I took no other 
counsel." 

There was no reply. Mr. Schonin- 
ger*s eyes were fixed with an intent 
and searching gaze on the priest, 
and a faint color began to creep up 
over his cold face. As F. Chevreuse 
raised his eyes and met that gaze, 
the faint color deepened to a sudden 
red ; for the priest's glance was dim- 
med by tears of wounded feeling he 
had striven to hide. 

" You distrust me !" he said re- 
proachfully ; " and I do not deserve 
it. I would serve you, if I could. 
I would be your friend, if you would 
let me." 

It was Mr. Schoninger's turn to 
drop his eyes. To look in that face 
unmoved was impossible. The re- 
proach, the pain, the tenderness of it 
had shot like an arrow through his 
heart, steeled as it was. But his 
habit of self-control was proof against 
surprise. After the blush had left 
his face, there was no sign visible of 
the struggle that was going on within. 
He seemed to be merely considering 
a question. After a moment, he 
looked up. 

" You seem to think me innocent 
of this charge ?" he remarked calmly. 

F. Chevreuse was silent with aston- 
ishment. 



" You probably do think so," Mr. 
Schoninger went on, in the same 
tone. '' But whatever your opinion 
may be, you do not know. Crimes 
are committed from various motives 
and under various circumstances. 
Some are almost accidental. Neither 
is crime committed by the low and 
rude alone, nor by the bad alone. 
There is nothing in the character or 
circumstances of any man which 
would render it impossible that he 
should ever be guilty of a crime. I 
repeat, then, that you cannot be sure 
of my innocence ; and, till it is prov- 
ed, there can be no intercourse be- 
tween us. I am willing to give you 
credit for a charitable impulse; but 
I do not want charity. I want jus- 
tice !" His eyes flashed out, and his 
face began to redden again. Mr. 
Schoninger had not become cool by 
spending a night in jail. 

F. Chevreuse did not stir, though 
he was in fact dismissed. Mr. Scho- 
ninger, seeing that his visitor did noi 
sit, rose, and stood waiting to bow 
him out. 

" I cannot go away and leave you 
so, in such a place!" the priest ex- 
claimed after a moment, during 
which he seemed to have made an 
inner effort to go. ** It is monstrous ! 
Cannot you see that it is so ? Why, 
last night we were like friends ; and 
I insist that there is no reason why 
we should not be friends to-day." 

"What! Even if I should be 
guilty ?" asked the prisoner in a low 
voice. 

F. Chevreuse made a gesture of 
impatience, and was about to utter a 
still more impatient protest, when he 
met a look so cold, yet so thrillmg' 
with a significance he could not inter- 
pret, that he drew back involuntarily. 
The Jew;'s face darkened. " Your 
convictions are, apparently, not so 
deep as you had supposed, sir," he 
said freezingly. " I am afraid you 



Grapes and Thorns, 



593 



would find yourself disappointed as 
to the extent of confidence you 
would be able to repose in me. The 
sober second thought is best. Our 
paths are separate." 

For the first time something like 
anger showed momentarily in the 
priest's face, and gave a certain stern- 
ness to the first words he spoke ; but 
it was over in an instant. " You are 
(juite right, sir !" he said. " It is im- 
possible for me to go with you, unless 
I ara met with entire frankness and 
(onfiiience. If you choose that our 
paths shall be separate, I will not 
three myself on you; but we need 
ii'^t be antagonistic. Farewell !" 

He turned and groped in the door- 
wn.y for the passage-step, his own 
shadow beiiig added to those which 
already wrapped the place in an ob- 
scurity almost like night. He saw 
the jailer in the long corridor before 
him, waiting to lock the door, and 
he had just found where to set his 
foot, when he felt a warm touch on 
his hand that still held by the stone 
iloor-w&y inside the cell. The touch 
Vas sligWt, but it was a caress, either 
a kiss or the quick pressure of a soft 
palm. He had hardly time to be 
tally aware of it before he stood in 
the corridor, and the jailer was lock- 
ing the door behind him. 

He stopped, and looked through 
the grating, but could not see the 
prisoner. Only a narrow line of 
black, like the sleeve of a coat, seem- 
ed to show that Mr. Schoninger had 
thrown himself on to his bed. The 
priest put his face close to the bars, 
and whispered, " God bless you !" 

The line of black moved quickly 
>Mth a start, but there was no reply. 

Pale and dispirited, F. Chevreuse 
left the prison, and took his way 
slowly to Mrs. Gerald's. He would 
rather not have gone then, but he 
had promised. He wondered a litde 
within himself, indeed, why he felt 
VOL. xviii. — 38 



such reluctance to see persons who 
had always been faithful and sym- 
pathizing friends to him, and why he 
would rather, were the choice left to 
him, have gone to Mrs. Ferrier, or, 
still better, to Annette. 

As soon as the true reason occurred 
to him, he put it aside, and refused 
to think on the subject. 

Mrs. Gerald was evidently on 
the watch for him ; for as soon as 
he approached the house, she came 
to the door to meet him. The color 
was wavering in Ler face, her blue 
eyes were suffused with tears, and 
looked the sympathy her H])s did not 
speak. But the sympathy was all 
for him — for the terrible wound torn 
open again, for the new wound add- 
ed, perhaps, of a misplaced confi- 
dence. No look seemed to glance 
p£ist him and inquire for the one he 
had left behind. 

Honora sat by a fire in the sit- 
ting-room, leaning close to the blaze, 
with a shawl drawn about her shoul- 
ders, and seemed to shiver even then. 
There was a frosty paleness in her 
face as she rose to meet their visitor, 
as though the blood had all flowed 
back to her heart, and stopped there, 
and the hand she gave him was cold. 
But an eager, questioning glance 
shpped from her eyes, swift and 
shrinking, that went beyond him and 
asked for news of the prisoner. 

" Well," said F. Chevreuse, glanc- 
ing from one to the other, " there is 
nothing to tell." 

Honora sank into her chair again, 
and waited mutely, looking into the 
fire. 

" Nothing of any consequence, 
that is," he continued, folding his 
hands to«j;ether on the back of a 
chair, and looking down at tiiein. 
** 1 went to the jail; but Mr. Scho- 
ninger has so quixotic a sense of pro- 
priety that he will not allow me to 
do anything for him. It was in vain 



594 



Grapes and Thorns. 



for rae to urge the matter ; he abso- 
lutely sent rae away." 

" He was quite right in that," Mrs. 
Gerald remarked coldly. 

Honora's eyes were again eagerly 
searching the priest's face, but Mrs. 
Gerald was in turn looking away 
from him. 

" And why was he right, madam ?" 
demanded F. Chevreuse. 

She did not look up to answer, 
and her expression was of that stub- 
born reserve which some good peo- 
ple assume when they cannot say 
anything friendly, and are determined 
not to be uncharitable. " I may be 
wrong," she said, carefully choosing 
her words, " but it does not seem to 
me that you are the person of whom 
he should take advice now. Pardon 
me, F. Chevreuse ! I do not mean 
to criticise you nor dictate to you, 
of course. But I am glad that you 
are to have nothing to do with this. 
You should be spared the pain." 

He was too sore-hearted to argue 
the point; and he knew, moreover, 
ihat ' argument would be thrown 
awav. He was well aware that the 
most of his friends thought his gen- 
erosity sometimes exaggerated, and 
were more likely to check than to 
encourage him. When he went out 
of the beaten track, he had never 
found sympathy anywhere but with 
the one whose loss he felt more 
and more every day, unless it might 
be with Annette Ferrier and her 
mother. 

"It seems that I am not to have 
anything to do with it," he said; 
** though I fail to see why I should 
not. Let that pass, however. I 
pity the poor fellow from my heart, 
though his detention will be a short 
one, since the trial, they tell me, is to 
come on immediately. It is a miser- 
able condition, being shut up in that 
place, and loaded with such an out- 
rageous accusation. I do not won- 



der it made him bitter and distrustful 
of me." 

Mrs. Gerald lifted her eyes quick- 
ly, and gave F. Chevreuse a glance 
that recalled to his mind that look 
from which he had shrunk in the 
prison. He could not understand 
it, but it made him shiver. Not that 
it expressed any suspicion or accusa- 
tion ; it seemed only to ask search- 
in gly if there were no suspicion in his 
own mind. 

" Well, good-by !" he said hastily. 
" Let us all beware of uncharitable- 
ness in thought, word, and deed." 

When he had reached the street- 
door he heard Miss Pembroke's 
step following him. 

" You have really nothing to tell 
me ?" she asked, trembling as she 
held her shawl about her. " Recol- 
lect that I and this man have spoken 
together as friends. Am I still to 
believe in him ?" 

"Oh! fie, Honora Pembroke!" 
the priest exclaimed sorrowfully. 
" Is that the kind of friendship you 
give, that you doubt a person at the 
first wild charge made against him ?'* 

" It is not so much that I doubt, 
father," she said faindy. " But no- 
thing so terrible has ever come near 
me before, and it is confounding. I 
want to be reassured." 

" Cast all doubt out of your mind, 
then," he said emphatically. " And 
if you should send some liitle mes- 
sage to Mr. Schoninger by a proper 
messenger, saying that you hope he 
will soon be delivered from his trou- 
ble, it would be a kind and Christian 
act." 

She drew back a little, and made 
no reply. 

" You are not willing to do it ?" 
he asked. 

" I would rather not, father," she 
answered deprecatingly. "I really 
hope and pray that he may soon be 
delivered, and I am willing he should 



Grapes and Thorns. 



595 



know it — ^he must be sure of it, if he 
gives the subject a thought — but I 
would not like to send him a mes- 
sage. There will be men to go and 
speak kindly to him; he has many 
friends. If Lawrence were here, he 
would go. I would not like to take 
any step in the matter." 

F. Chevreuse sighed. " You must 
be guided by your own feeling and 
sense of right in this," he said. " I 
did not mean to advise, but only to 
suggest." 

He kn6w, as be went away, that 
she lingered in the door, looking 
after him in painful uncertainty, and 
he almost expected to hear himself 
called back and begged to be her 
messenger. But no call came ; and 
he went away from his second visit, 
as from the first, chilled and disap- 
pointed. 

For one moment the thought which 
he had thrust aside on coming start- 
ed out again, and made itself felt. 
It seemed to him, in that brief glance 
at it, that there is nothing on earth 
which can be more cruel than a 
strict and scrupulous respectability." 
Then instantly he began to make ex- 
cuses, and to find reasons why peo- 
ple, women especially, should be less 
demonstrative than he might have 
wished. 

" What ! you will not recognize 
me ?" said a voice at his elbow. 

It was a voice to arrest attention — 
deep, musical, and penetrating; and 
the speaker was not one to be passed 
with only a glance. He was of me- 
dium height, broad-shouldered, and 
had an exceedingly handsome face, 
with brilliant blue eyes, and wavy, 
dark hair just beginning to be thread- 
ed with white. This was F. C Don- 
ovan, whose parish, a small one, lay 
two miles, or more, from that of F. 
Chevreuse. Besides these two, there 
was no other priest resident within a 
radius of forty miles. 



"Brother!" exclaimed F. Chev- 
reuse, and grasped the hand the 
other extended to him, and for a mo- 
ment seemed to be on the point of 
yielding to an emotion natural to one 
who, having long borne without hu- 
man help his own burdens and the 
burdens of others, sees at length a 
friend on whom he can lean in turn, 
and to whom he can venture to con- 
fess his human weakness. " I thought 
you were at home, swathed in flan- 
nels," he added, recovering himself. 

F. O'Donovan shrugged his 
shoulders. He had been a good 
deal in France, and had, moreover, 
as all graceful and vivacious persons 
have, a natural inclination to use a 
good deal of gesture. " Rheuma- 
tism, my friend, is not invincible. 
Yesterday I was helpless ; this morn- 
ing at seven o'clock I was helpless. 
At ten minutes past seven I heard 
news which made me wish to see you ; 
and here I am — sound, too. It was 
only to say. Get thee behind me, 
Satan 1 and I could walk as well as 
you. From which I conclude that 
my rheumatism, if it had existence 
outside my own imagination, was 
Satan in disguise." 

F. Chevreuse pressed the arm he 
had taken, and they walked on to- 
gether a little way in silence. The 
news his brother priest had heard 
need not be spoken of. His silent 
sympathy and companionship were 
enough. 

" Has it ever occurred to you that 
the saints must have been consider- 
ed in their day rather disreputable 
people ?" the elder priest asked pre- 
sently. " Leaving violent persecu- 
tion out of the question, what a rais- 
ing of eyebrows, and shrugging of 
shoulders, and how many indulgent 
smiles, and looks of mild surprise, 
and cold surprise, and gentle dismay, 
and polite disapprobation, and all 
that they must have occasioned !" 



596 



Grapes and Thorns, 



" By which I understand," re- 
marked the other, " that somebody 
has refused to fly in the face of so- 
ciety at your request." 

" Taken with the usual allowance 
required by your interpretations of 
me, that is true," F. Chevreuse ad- 
mitted. 

His friend smiled. There was al- 
ways this little ■ pretence of feud be- 
tween them, and each ardmired the 
other heartily, though the Frenchman 
was unconventional to a fault, and 
the Irishman scrupulously polished. 
A fastidious taste and a cautious 
self-control, learned in a large and 
varied experience of life, stood in 
constant ward over F. O' Donovan's 
warm heart and high spirit. F. 
Chevreuse, in his trustful ardor, was 
constantly bruising himself on the 
rocks ; his friend looked out for and 
steered clear of them, yet not with a 
selfish nor ungenerous caution. 

" Brother Chevreuse," he said in 
a voice to which he could impart 
an almost irresistible persuasiveness, 
" you are older and wiser than I am, 
and I only remind you of what you 
know when I say that conventionality 
is not to be reprobated. It is on 
the side of law and order. It is the 
friend of propriety and decency. It 
is the rule, to which, indeed, excep- 
tions are allowed, but not too readily. 
You speak of the saints as though they 
were all persons who have lived be- 
fore the world peculiar and exception- 
al lives. Of course, even while I 
speak, you remember that the church 
does not pretend to have canonized 
all her holy children, and that she 
has appointed a day to commemo- 
rate those who have won the heaven- 
ly crown without drawing upon them- 
selves the attention of mankind. I 
do not believe that any breath of 
slander or of injurious criticism ever 
touched Our Blessed Lady. She 
used every cart to preserve herself 



from them. Why should not women 
be as careful now, even at the risk of 
seeming to be selfishly cautious ? Is 
the high reputation which they have 
labored to acquire to be lightly 
perilled, even for an apparently good 
end ? Besides, in performing that 
one good act, they may, by drawing 
criticism on themselves, have lost the 
power to perform another effectually. 
You defend an accused person, never 
having done so before, and you may 
save him. Do it a second time, and 
people will say, * Oh ! he is always 
defending criminals * ; and your power 
is gone." 

" It is hard to see a person wrong- 
ly accused, and not protest against the 
wrong," F. Chevreuse said gravely. 

"It is more than hard, it is wick- 
ed," the other replied with earnest- 
ness. " But first be sure that the 
person is innocent ; and then, having 
ascertained that, try to recollect, my 
dear friend, that you alone are not to 
right all the wrongs of earth. Some 
must be endured, some must be rec- 
tified by others than you. And, 
after all, I am inclined to believe 
that, as a rule, no innocent person 
falls into serious difficulty without 
having been faulty in some way, as 
regards prudence, at least Now, 
how is such a person to learn wisdom 
by experience, if there is always some- 
body at his elbow to save him from 
the consequences of his own act. .It 
is not pleasant to be obliged to check 
a generous impulse in ourselves or in 
others ; and it is not pleasant, when 
we are in trouble, to be left to fight our 
way out of it alone. But if we are al- 
ways performing works of supereroga- 
tion, we may unfit ourselves for per- 
forming duties. And as to finding our 
track, unassisted, through difficult 
ways, and learning by sharp experience 
how to avoid them, it develops our 
inward resources, and is good for us, 
though bitter." 



Grapes and TJiorns. 



597 



The last words were delivered with 
an incisive emphasis so delicate as to 
be observable only in one who seldom 
spoke with emphasis, and it touched 
the listener deeply. F. O'Donovan 
never complained, and he had never 
made any special revelations to his 
friend ; but one who knew his life 
could not doubt that he had learned 
to take his very sleep in armor. He 
had risen from poverty and obscurity, 
as the sparks rise; had borne the 
jealousy of those whom he left be- 
hind, and of those he had eclipsed in 
his higher estate ; had been obliged 
to control in himself a haughty spirit 
and a tender heart; yet had never 
made a misstep of any consequence, 
nor given his most jealous detractor 
an angry word to remember. 

His place was in a metropolitan 
church ; but, at his own request, he 
had been sent for a time to a quiet 
country parish, that he might have 
l-isure to complete a literary work for 
wliich city Ufc and the demands of a 
host of admirers were too distracting. 
He had followed F. Chevreuse 
from his own house to the prison, 
and from the prison to Mrs. Gerald's, 
and he understood perfectly what he 
would wish to do and where he had 
been disappointed, Honora had, in- 
deed, told him, half weeping, of the 
request she had refused, and had pro- 
ix>sed to make him the bearer of her 
retraction. 

" To think I should have set up 
my sense of right against his !'* she 
exclaimed. " To think that 1 should 
have refused him anything !" 

And yet, though she was sincere 
in her regret, she was greatly reliev- 
ed when F. O'Donovan declined to 
carry her message, assuring her that 
F. Chevreuse would doubtless, on 
second thought, approve of her refu- 
sal. To have sent a direct message 
to a m:in who stood before the world 
charged with a horrible crime, and, 



perhaps, to have received a message 
in return from him — to have placed 
herself thus in communication with 
one of the most darkly accused in- 
mates of that jail which she had pass- 
ed frequendy during her whole life 
without ever dreaming of crossing 
the threshold, even for a work of 
mercy — the very possibiUty plunged 
Miss Pembroke into confusion and 
distress. Tiie regions of crime were 
as far removed from her experience 
as the regions that lie outside of 
human life ; and, of herself, she would 
as soon have thought of following 
any one to purgatory as to prison. 

That scrupulous correctness and 
propriety which we admire in these fair 
women, whose whole lives are passed 
in the delicately screened cloisters of 
the world, shows sometimes a reverse 
not so admirable. They are seldom 
the friends in need ; and when a fear- 
less heroism is wanted, they do not 
come forward. They draw back in- 
stinctively those garments they have 
been at pains to preserve so white 
from contact with the blood-stained, 
dusty One who goes staggering by 
with the thorns on his head and the 
cross on his shoulders. A look of 
pity and horror may follow him from 
the sa e place where they stand ; but 
it is not they who pierce their way 
through the rabble, with Veronica, to 
take the imprint of his misery on to 
their stainlessness, nor they who weep 
around his tomb throu<^h dews and 
darkness, careless c/f the world in 
their unspeakable sorrow, and tioaiing 
above the world in the unspeakable 
ecstasy to which that sorrow gives 
place. No, the charity of the human 
angel is limited. Only the angels of 
God, and those generous souls whose 
anguish of. pity for the suftering is a 
constantly purifying fire, can go down 
into the darker paths of life and re- 
ceive no stain. 

" I am glad F. O'Donovan came," 



598 



Grapes and Thorns. 



Mrs. Gerald remarked when their 
second visitor left them. " I feel 
better for being reassured by him. 
Of course, we all know that we can- 
not throw ourselves away for every- 
body, as dear F. Chevreuse's impulse 
is ; yet he is so good, so much better 
than any one else, one feels almost 
guilty in not following him every step 
he wishes. His utter unselfishness 
and generosity are very disturbing to 
one sometimes ; for we must think of 
ourselves." 

" It is well for the world that there 
are those who see no such necessity," 
Miss Pembroke replied briefly. 

Her companion said nothing more 
for a moment. She had been con- 
scious that Honora was not satisfied, 
but had preferred to take no notice 
of it, and to quiet her without seem- 
ing aware that she needed quieting. 

" Poor Mr. Schoninger !" she said 
presently. "I pity him with all my 
heart. It is, of course, impossible 
to believe that this arrest is anything 
but a mistake which will soon be 
corrected. Still, the affair must be 
very painful to him. How indignant 
Lawrence will be ! I wish he might 
hear nothing of it till he comes home, 
for I really think he would come 
sooner if he knew what has happen- 
ed. He thought a good deal of Mr. 
Schoninger." 

"Yes, it must soon be corrected," 
repeated Honora, passing over the 
rest. " I cannot imagine on what 
grounds the arrest was made ; but 
some are ready to believe of a stran- 
ger what they would never listen to 
if said of one they knew. One might 
parody that proverb about the ab- 
sent, and say that the foreigner is 
always wrong. Only imagine what 
it must be, Mrs. Gerald " — Honora's 
brown eyes dilated with a sort of ter- 
ror, — "imagine what it must be to 
find one's self in trouble and dis- 
grace alone in a foreign land. No 



person has any special interest in the 
stranger; no one knows him well 
enough to defend him ; his reputation 
is a bubble that the first breath may 
break; and if he is wrong, no one 
understands what excuses may be 
made for him. Fancy Lawrence 
alone in some European country, 
and arrested for a great crime." 

Mrs. Gerald had listened at first 
with sympathy ; but at the name of 
Lawrence her face changed. 

" My dear Honora," she said with 
decision, " I cannot possibly imagine 
my son, no matter how far away, 
nor Iiow firi endless he might be — 1 
cannot imagine him being arrested 
on a charge of robbery and murder! 
It is too great a flight of fancy, and 
too unjust. But that does not pre- 
vent my pitying Mr. Schoninger." 

Mrs. Gerald would not have 
shown such asperity, probably, had 
her son never given people any- 
thing to forgive in him. Trembling- 
ly alive to his faults, she gladly seized 
on any charge which it was possible 
to cast indignantly aside. 

Honora perceived too well her 
feelings and the mistake that she 
herself had made to be in the least 
annoyed at the reply. It may be 
that she understood better than ever 
before what might be the pain of 
one whose affections are engaged by 
an object which has not her entire 
approval. Not that she loved Mr. 
Schoninger, or for a moment fancied 
that she did ; it was only that he had 
come near enough to excite her im- 
agination on the subject of love. 

" Fortunately," she said, after a 
thoughtful pause, "the people of 
Crichton are liberal." 

It was such an opinion as might 
have been expected from her charac- 
ter and experience. Life had shown 
her but little of those deeper causes 
which underlie so much of the appa- 
rent inconsistency of mankind She 



Grapes and Thorns. 



599 



had not learned to distinguish be- 
tween that firm liberality which is 
founded on principle, and is but an- 
other name for justice, and its un- 
stable namesake, which floats on 
the surface of a soul that has no 
convictions. The former can be re- 
lied on ; •the latter may at any time 
give place to a violent bigotry. It 
has an immense vanity beneath, and 
6ercely resents on others its own 
mistakes. 

The gradations of the change 
might have been precisely calculated 
beforehand. At first, an astonishment 
which was unanimous ; followed, af- 
ter the natural pause, by individual 
voices in various tones, the loud ones 
harmless, the whispering ones poi- 
sonous. Crichton was a city where 
there could be but one sensation at 
a time. Whatever of moment hap- 
pened there, everybody knew it and 
everybody talked about it. The 
loud voices grew lower, the whispers 
increased. We have heard orchestra 
music like that, where, after the first 
crash and pause, the instruments 
start their several ways, and one 
scarcely hears the whisper of violins 
that runs through the heavy brass, till 
jiresently that whisper becomes an 
audible hiss, then a sharp cry, and 
finally its shrieks overtop trumpet 
and organ. 

People could not imagine on what 
grounds Mr. Schoninger had been ac- 
cused, but considered it a matter of 
course that there must have been 
some proof against him ; and they 
immediately set themselves to recol- 
lecting everything they had observed 
in him, to magnifying every pecu- 
liarity and perverting every circum- 
stance connected with his life. Some 
had always said that strangers whom 
nobody knew anything about were 
received altogether too readily in 
Crichton. It was only necessary that 
a man should be good-looking, or 



clever, or have a romantic appear- 
ance, or be enveloped in a mystery, 
for him to be made the hero of the 
hour. And here the men bethought 
themselves, like true sons of A^am, 
to lay the blame on the women. 
Another class, made up of both 
Catholics and Protestants, remind- 
ed the public that they had from 
the first protested against Christians 
mingling in friendly intercourse with 
Jews. It was a treason against their 
Lord to do so, these Christians said, 
and he had shown his displeasure by 
allowing this wolf, whom they had 
admitted into the fold, to destroy one 
of the chosen ones. Others there 
were, microscopic critics, who had 
always found something peculiarly 
sinister in certain expressions of the 
Jew's face, and who recollected per- 
fectly having shivered with fear when 
they had encountered these peculiar 
glances. 

The sound grew up and gathered, 
and at the end of a fortnight public 
opinion in Crichton had half con- 
demned the man without having 
heard a word of testimony against 
him. 

Doubtless his own scornful silence 
had not predisposed any one in his 
favor ; and, besides, he was reported 
to have spoken slightingly of an in- 
stitution which it is not safe to attack. 
Rumor accused him of having said 
that a jury hinder more than they 
help the cause of justice; and that if 
public sentiment is not high enough 
to educate and elect a proper judge, 
it is folly to call in from the street to 
his aid twelve men who are probably 
still more incompetent, and certainly 
less responsible. 

The judges may have been not ill- 
pleased at this ; but few others heard 
the story without indignation. 

The newspapers also soon became 
either cold or unfriendly; for though 
they had all expressed the most cour- 



6cx> 



Grapes and Thorns. 



teous surprise and regret at his arrest, 
he had not allowed one of their re- 
porters so much as a glimpse of him. 

One after another the friendly 
voices grew faint or fell into silence, 
till only three or four were left. F. 
Chevreuse had written Mr. Schonin- 
ger a line, " Whenever you want me, 
1 shall be ready to come," and had 
refrained from all other approach. 
But he did not cease to insist on his 
belief in the prisoner's innocence. 
Mrs. Ferrier, also, was loud and 
warm in her championship. She 
visited Mr. Schoninger in prison, and 
stood at the grate, the jailer by her 
side, with tears running down her 
cheeks, while she poured forth her 
incoherent but most sincere indigna- 
tion and grief; and she scraped the 
skin from her fat hand pushing it 
through the bars to take that of the 
prisoner. 

She also made arrangements for a 
larger and lighter cell to be given 
him, and had begun to furnish it most 
luxuriously, when he found out what 
she was doing, and absolutely refus- 
ed to move. 

" My dear Mrs. Ferrier," he said, 
** it is not the bare stones and the 
hard bench that makes the place in- 
tolerable ; and I will not consent to 
any change. I should be no more 
at ease locked up in a palace. Let 
me remain as I am while I stay 
here." 

"But look at that bed!" she 
cried ; and the diamond glittering 
on the indignant finger she pointed 
through the bars was outshone by the 
tear that welled up and hung on her 
eyelashes. " The idea of a man like 
you sleeping on that sack of straw 
with a gray blanket over it! It's a 
sin and a shame 1" 

" But, my friend, it is good enough 
for a criminal," he answered, with 
fcomething like a faint smile on his 
face. 



*' A criminal !" And we hope the 
reader will pardon the next two words 
uttered by this dear, good soul in the 
heat of her generous trust and pity. 
She said, " Shut up !" 

" I know what nonsense you talk- 
ed to F. Chevreuse," she went on ; 
" but I won't listen to it. You ought 
to be ashamed of yourself for driving 
that man away. You can't serve me 
so. I shall come here, and I shall 
take up for you; and — now, Mr. 
Schoninger, don't be silly, but let mc 
fix up that other room for you. The 
sun shines into it all the afternoon ; 
and I've got a nice carpet on the 
floor, and two arm-chairs, and some 
wax candles, and a red curtain to 
draw over the grating, and I'll make 
it as comfortable as if my own son 
was going to be in it. Do give your 
consent, now !" 

Still he was inflexible, though he 
softened his refusal with every expres- 
sion of gratitude. " There are reasons 
why it would be very painful and em- 
barrassing for me to consent," he 
said ; " and since your wish is to give 
me pleasure, I am sure you will not 
urge this when I tell you that I should 
be more uncomfortable there than 
here. Your kinaness does me good ; 
but I cannot receive your bounty." 

Mrs. Ferrier was not to be so 
thwarted, however. She had to re- 
linquish her project of furnishing a 
room for him, but she made amends 
to herself by supplying his table ex- 
travagantly. It was in vain for him 
to protest. The waiter gravely assur- 
ed him that the dishes were sent in 
from the prison kitchen ; the jailer 
as gravely added that his wife over- 
looked that partof theestablisbmcnf, 
and he knew nothing about it ; am! 
Mrs. Ferrier, when the prisoner 
questioned her, declared, with an air 
of the utmost innocence, that she did 
not send in his food, and diil noi 
know what he had. The irmh was 



Grapes and Thorns. 



6oi 



that she had ordered the keeper of a 
restaurant near by to send Mr. Scho- 
ninger the best that he could supply ; 
and she flattered herself that the 
waiter could with truth obey her or- 
der to say that the dishes ca^e from 
the jail kitchen. " You're not oblig- 
ed to tell him that they come in at 
one door of the kitchen 'and out at 
another," she said. 

Flowers lined the cell, fruit arrived 
there in profusion, and illustrated 
papers and books, the text of which 
betrayed the simple taste that had 
selected them, piled the one table 
and filled the window-ledges— all 
sent anonymously. Mr. Schoninger 
found himself obliged to capitulate to 
this persistent and most transparent 
incognita. 

In a few weeks another friend, 
quite as decided, though less demon- 
strative, was added. Lawrence Ge- 
rald, returning with his wife to Crich- 
ton, went immediately to see Mr. 
Schoninger and offer any service in 
his power to render him. 

" li is folly to waste breath in abus- 
ing the detectives or whoever has 
made this miserable blunder," he 
said calmly. " Of course, nobody is 
safe from suspicion. l*m rather sur- 
prised they hadn't hit upon me, for I 
was hard up at that time. The point 
is, however, can J do anything for 
you ? You will be out of this soon, 
of course ; but, in the meantime, I 
should be very glad if I can serve 
you in any way." 

Mr. Schoninger assured his visitor 
that he needed no services; but his 
manner of declining the assistance 
offered him was far more natural and 
cheerful tlian it had been when F. 
Chevreuse or Mrs. Ferrier came. 
Lawrence Gerald's friendship was, in- 
deed, of more value to him in this 
matter than theirs could have been ; 
for as Lawrence was a man of the 
world, and not too likely to have 



much faith in any one, men of the 
world would respect his opinion, 
while they might laugh at the cham- 
pionship of a woman and look upon 
the ideal charity of a priest as a feel- 
ing which they could not be expect- 
ed to sympathize with nor be influenc- 
ed by. 

This friendly act of Lawrence's 
greatly pleased his mother-in-law; 
and, since Annette looked quite con- 
tented and happy, she was still more 
disposed to be complacent toward 
the young man. 

" I wouldn't have believed he 
thought so much of Annette," she 
said confidentially to F. Chevreuse. 
" But he follows her about like her 
shadow. It's all the time, * Ask 
Annette,' or, * What does Annette 
say ?' or, * How will Annette like it ?' 
and he will hardly go down-town 
unless she goes with him. I only 
hope it may last," sighed the mother, 
fearful of being loo sanguine. 

It was quite true that Lawrence 
Gerald showed far more affection for 
his wife after than he ever had be- 
fore their marriage, and Mrs. Ferrier 
scarcely exaggerated in saying that 
he followed her about hke her 
shadow. He perceived more and 
more every day how strong and re- 
liable she was, and how full of re- 
sources for every emergency. Be- 
sides, he had a cause for gratitude 
toward her of which her mother was 
not aware. During that lime when 
they had been alone, undisturbed by 
discordant interruptions, undisturbed 
also by any excessive happiness in 
each other's society, she had perceiv- 
ed that something more than indif- 
ference to herself preyed upon his 
spirits, and had at length succeeded 
in drawing from him a confession of 
his difficulties. He owned that the 
story her mother had heard of his 
debts was true, and that he had been 
able to silence his persecutois only 



6o2. 



Grapes and Thorns, 



for a short time. On the very day 
of his marriage one of them had de- 
manded payment, and a second letter 
had followed him to their bridal re- 
treat. 

" My dear Lawrence, why did you 
not tell me at once ?" his wife inter- 
rupted as soon as she caught the 
purport of his stammering explana- 
tion. "It was not treating me with 
confidence \ and surely I deserve your 
confidence." 

" It isn't pleasant for a man to 
own that he has been a fool, and 
a liar besides," he replied bitterly, 
" You know I denied it to your 
mother. I couldn't very well tell her 
that it was none of her business, 
though I wanted to." 

'' It isn't pleasant for any one to 
own that he has failed to live quite 
up to his own idea of what is right," 
she said quickly. " I often blush at 
the recollection of some mistake or 
folly in my life. But where one un- 
derstands you, Lawrence, and is 
bound to you for life, for better or 
for worse, you should not be too re- 
served. All that 1 have is yours. My 
first wish is to spare you pain, and I 
could have no greater pleasure than 
to have you confide in me. Do not 
be afraid of hearing any lectures or 
of seeing me assume the right to 
criticise you. I only ask to help you 
when I can." 

This had been said with a haste 
that gave him no time to interpose 
or reply ; and before the last words 
were well spoken she had left his 
side, and was opening a little writing- 
desk in another part of the room. 
Her husband leaned on the window- 
ledge and looked out, appearing to 
regard intently the mist that htftig 
over the unseen cataract before him, 
and to listen to the soft thunder of 
its fall; but the color of his face, 
burning with a mortification insepa- 
rable from such an avowal as he had 



made, and the faint lines of a frown 
that seemed to be graven between 
his brows, showed that his mind was 
far from being occupied with the 
beauties of nature. The only thought 
Niagara suggested to him at that 
moment escaped his lips in a whisper 
as he leaned out into the air: **lf 
my foot had but slipped a little fur- 
ther to-day !" 

Annette came back and leaned out 
beside him. " How soft and sunny 
the air is for September I" she said. 
" It is more like June." 

He felt her small hand slip under 
his arm, and push a roll of paper into 
his breast-pocket while she spoke. 

*' Do you not think, husband," 
she went on, " that we might like to 
go to Montreal instead of South? 
It would be pleasanter to go to 
Washington during the season." 

And that was all that was said 
about the matter, except that, the 
day after their return to Crichton, 
Lawrence told his wife that the debt 
was paid. 

'* Oh ! yes," she said lightly, as if 
such a debt were quite a matter of 
course. " I'm glad that is off your 
mind." And would have changed the 
subject. 

But he, looking at her very grave- 
ly, knew well that the lightness was 
assumed to spare him, and that the 
affair was only less painful to her 
than to himself. 

They were in their own sitting- 
room, and Annette was filling a vase 
with late flowers that she had just 
brought in from the garden, while 
he sat near the table by which she 
stood. He stretched his hand and 
drew her to him, holding her slender 
fingers that held a cluster of heart's- 
ease she had just taken from the 
basket. 

** Let me speak of it once roorc, 
Ninon," he said. " You did not ex- 
act any promise from me, dear; but 



Grapes and Thorns. 



603 



I have one to make you. If my 
word or my will ate good for any- 
thingy I will never again play a game 
for pleasure even, still less for money. 
I have no temptation to now ; and 
if I had, the recollection of what 
play has cost me would be enough 
to save me from yielding." 

His face and voice said more than 
the words, and the regret, the shame, 
and the gratitude they expressed 
were almost more than she could 
bear. It hurt her cruelly to see him 
whom she had exalted as an idol so 
liumbled and sorrowful before her. 
He looked weary ; she had thought 
that for some time ; and though the 
outlines of his beautiful face were too 
delicate to show readily a loss of flesh, 
she could see that he had grown per- 
ceptibly thinner. 

'* 1 was sure of you, without need- 
ing any promise," she said, and tried 
to smile on him, but with tremulous 
lips. " And now, do not let it trou- 
ble your mind any longer. I'm go- 
ing to give you a charm." She smil- 
ed brightly this time, for he had kiss- 
ed her hand. " With this magical 
flower I bar all unrest from you, and 
assure you peace for the future." 

She fastened the cluster of heart's- 
case in his button-hole, then return- 
eil to her flowers. 

Her husband could not but re- 
member the time when a tender 
word or act of his would bring the 
blush to her face and set her in a 
tremor of delight. He would some- 
times have been a little more demon- 
strative and affectionate, if the effect 
had not been so annoyingly great on 
her. But now, without the slightest 
appearance of coldness or anger, in 
simple unconsciousness, it seemed, 
of having changed her manner, she 
was altogether changed. She receiv- 
ed him kindly, there was no sign of 
an estranged heart, but she only re- 
ceived ; she did not invite, lior follow, 



nor linger about him. Quite natu- 
rally and calmly she attended to 
whatever employment she might 
have in hand when he was present ; 
and though she undeniably liked to 
have him near her, it was possible 
for her to forget his presence for a 
moment. Looking at her now, as 
she began quietly arranging her 
flowers again, the thought glimmered 
dimly in his mind that Honora Pem- 
broke herself could not have behav- 
ed with a sweeter or more dignified 
tranquillity. But the moment of this 
consciousness was brief. Honora's 
image had too long been enthroned 
by him as queen in all things woman- 
ly to be disturbed by this slight fig- 
ure with her glow-worm lamp. 

Still, the development of his wife's 
character made its impression on him ; 
and, half needing her, and half curi- 
ous aboyt her, he felt himself con- 
stantly attracted to her society. 

They passed a good deal of time 
alone together, sometimes walking or 
driving in the pleasant autumn days, 
sometimes shut up in their own room, 
where Annette read, sang to, and 
otherwise amused her husband. He 
was going into business ; but the two 
or three months of necessary prepara- 
tion and delay were to him very much 
leisure time, and hung rather heavily 
on his hands. 

" I shall be glad to get to work," 
he said to her. *' Idleness is tolerable 
only in a pleasant atmosphere; and 
the atmosphere of Crichton is any- 
thing but pleasant now. Sometimes 
IVe half a mind to run away till this 
ridiculous trial is over and people 
can talk of something else." 

" The same thought has occurred 
to me," his wife replied. ** I am 
growing nervous and low-spirited witli 
these horrible images constantly be- 
fore my mind. I have begged mam- 
ma not to mention the subject again 
at the table, nor anywhere else with- 



604 



Grapes and Thorns. 



out necessity. Some people — I don't 
mean mamma, of course — ^but some 
people seem to enjoy tragedies, and 
to be quite angry if one doesn't put 
the most terrible construction on 
every circumstance. I have no pa- 
t jnce with them." 

She looked, indeed, quite pale and 
irritated. Like all persons of a lively 
imagination, she was nearly as much 
affected by the description of a scene 
as she would have been on witnessing 
it ; and the frequent repetitions and 
amplifications with which others of 
duller natures had found it necessary 
to revive their own impressions had 
been both painful and annoying to 
her. Besides, she had a source of 
disquiet which she confided to no 
one, not even to F. Chevreuse, since 
she never alluded to his mother's 
death when in conversation with him. 
While wondering, in spite of herself, 
what proof sufficient to justify an 
indictment could have been found 
against Mr. Schoninger, she had re- 
collected the shawl he left in her gar- 
den the night Mother Chevreuse was 
killed. It did not seem an importSHit 
circumstance; yet it constantly re- 
curred to her in connection with other 
points not so trivial. She did 'not for 
a moment believe him guilty; but 
her imagination, seizing on this one 
fact, held it up suggestively, so that 
it cast on her mind various and 
troublesome shadows that were out 
of all proportion to itself. Why had 
he appeared startled when she men- 
tioned the shawl to him ? And could 
it be possible he was sincere in say- 
ing that he came for it in the morn- 
ing, when she had plainly seen some 
one remove it at night ? She com- 
bated these disagreeable thoughts 
with all lier strength, and souglit to 
atone to Mr. Schoninger for the wrong 
sht; believed they did him by entering 
hc.iriily intq all her mother's plans 
fur Ills comfort ; but she could not 



banish them so entirely but they tor- 
mented her into wishing tolly to some 
place where she might at least hope 
to forget the whole subject. 

" If every one were like Mrs. 
Gerald and Honora," she said to her 
mother, "how much smoother and 
deeper life would be ! I am sure they 
think of dear Mother Chevreuse vcr\ 
often, and always with bleed inij 
hearts ; yet they never spealc of her, 
except, in a pleasant way, to recall 
some saying or some kind act of hers ; 
and one would not know, from what 
they say, that she had not been as- 
sumed bodily into heaven, or, at 
least, died tranquilly and beautifully 
of old age. I have no sympathy, 
mamma, with these noisy people who 
come here wringing their hands and 
uttering maledictions on Mr. Scho- 



nniger. 



Mrs. Feirier felt a little touched at 
that part of the speech which referred 
to the wringing of hands, for that was 
her most frequent manner of express- 
ing distress of mind, and she was not 
sure that her daughter did not mean 
to give her an indirect reproof or 
warning. Her reply, therefore, was 
a dissenting one; and the compari- 
son she used, though not elegant, 
was somewhat strong. 

" It's all the same difference as 
there is between a wild horse and a 
horse that's broke," she said. " And 
you can't deny that the creature los- 
es half its spirit before it bears the 
bit and the rein. And so I believe 
that your fine, quiet people kill some 
of the life out of their grief when they 
teach it to be so polite, and that they 
forget the friend they have lost while 
they are thinking how they shall be- 
have themselves and cry in a gen- 
teel manner. When I die, Annette, 
may the Lord give me just such 
'mourners as Mother Chevreuse has 
in those poor people 1" 

" Oh ! don't, mamma 1" the daugh- 



Grapes ami Thorns, 



* OF THE ^^T" \ 

^NFiW-YORK \!) 



605 



ter said coaxingly ; for Mrs. Ferrier 
had ended by bursting into tears. 
" I didn't mean to vex you, only I 
am nervous and distressed by all 
this excitement. There! don't cry 
any more, and I will own that you 
are at least half right." 

•* Not but that they do provoke 
me when they talk about Mr. Scho- 
ninger," Mrs. Ferrier admitted, wip- 
ing her eyes. "But then, the poor 
things ! it's a relief to their sorrow to 
he mad with somebody about it." 

It was undeniable that whatever 
relief could be found in lamentation 
for their dear lost friend, and in in- 
voking retribution on her destroyer, 
very few hesitated to avail themselves 
of. Besides what the law could do, 
it needed all the influence that F. 
Chevreuse had, both with his own 
flock and with non-Catholics, to pre- 
vent the people who were constant- 
ly gathering outside the jail from 
throwing missiles into Mr. Schonin- 
ger's cell. 

" How strong is accusation !" he 
exclaimed. " People appear to think 
that man condemned already, though 
he is sure to be triumphantly ac- 
(piitled. It is astonishing how en- 
tirely a grave charge, no matter Iiow 
unproved, removes those we have 
loved and respected beyond the pale 
of our sympathy. It is as though 
we had never heard of innocence be- 
ing accused, and believed it impossible 
that we could ever be calumniated 
ourselves." 



He was speaking to Mr. Sales, the 
editor of The Aurora^ who received 
his remarks rather uneasily. The 
Aurora had of late been interesting it- 
self very much in the history of the 
Jews, both ancient and modern, the 
items it scattered through its columns 
with apparent carelessness not beii^g 
always calculated to inspire the read- 
er with an increased afiection for tliat 
ancient race ; and " Fleur de Lis " had 
every week, from her corner on the 
first page, bewailed in facile and 
dolorous lines the sorrows and suf- 
ferings of that Mother and Son to 
whom, in the prose of everyday life, 
she was far from conspicuous for de- 
votion. 

" I have observed, sir," Mr. Sales 
said, feelin ^obliged to say something, 
" that people who have the reputation 
of being the most correct and irre- 
proachable are often the most unmer- 
ciful toward wrong-doers. It gives 
one an unpleasant impression of reli- 
gion." 

" Not justly," the priest replied. 
** What you say of some good people 
is quite true — they are moral skele- 
tons ; since, after all, good principles 
are only the vertebrse of a character. 
But there are many charitable Ciiris- 
tians in the world. I find fault wiiii 
their imaginations chiefly ; they can- 
not fancy themselves accused with- 
out being guilty." 

And thus, in the midst of an increas- 
ing excitement, Mr. Schoninger's trial 
came on. 



6o6 



Spiritualism. 



SPIRITUALISM. 



CHAPTER III. 



The spiritualists who protest 
against the attribution of spiritualis- 
tic phenomena to the devil may be 
divided into two classes : ist, Those 
who believe there is no such a being 
as the devil ; 2d, Those who, believing 
him to exist, think it unreasonable to 
attribute such phenomena as those 
under consideration to such a being. 

To these first I can but admit that 
there is no demonstrating the devil ; 
but, on the other hand, I would re- 
mind them that, in denying his exis- 
tence, they are opposing themselves, 
I St, to the religious instinct of the 
great mass of mankind, who are per- 
suaded that life is a warfare, that 
there is an enemy. 2d, To the un- 
wavering, explicit tradition of the 
Christian church. It is impossible 
to read the Gospels and the other 
records of the early church with- 
out having the idea of a battle, and 
an enemy against whom it is wag- 
ed, brought prominently before you. 
Our Lord came to break the power 
of Satan, and to take away " the ar- 
mor in which he trusted " ; and the 
church was instituted for his detailed 
discomfiture. Every soul that is 
saved is regarded as a spoil snatched 
from the hand of the enemy ; every 
one who is cast out of the church is 
delivered over to Satan. 

Some of the earliest words of the 
church's ritual are words of defiance 
and adjuration of the enemy upon 
whom it was her mission to trample. 
Her exorcisms, for instance, in the 
baptism service testify to a conscious- 
ness* of the devil's presence which is 



simply startling in its realism. He 
is never forgotten from the moment 
when, gently breathing on the child's 
face, she charges the unclean spirit 
to give place to the Holy Ghost, to 
the moment when he is cast out head- 
long, followed by the renunciations 
of his rescued victim. 

The extreme antiquity of these ex- 
orcisms is sufficiently vindicated by 
the poetic paraphrase of Prudentius 
in the 1 Vth century : 

Intonat antistes Domini : fiige callide serpens 
M&ncipium Christi, fur com&ptiasime yexas 
Desine, Christus adest humani corporis ultor 
Non licet ut spolium rapias cui Christus iaiioesi: 
Pulsus abi Teatose liquor Christus Jubet, esi.* 

Moreover, though the devil is ex- 
pelled in baptism, the church never 
lets her children lose sight of him. 
She is ever warning them in the words 
of S. Augustine : " Take care, afflicted 
mortals, take care that the evil one 
defile not ever this house of the 
body ; that, introduced by the senses, 
he debauch not the soul's sanctity, 
nor cloud the intellectual light. This 
evil thing winds through all the in- 
lets of the senses, moulds itself i» 
forms, blends with colors, weds with 
sounds, lurks in anger and guileful 
speech, clothes itself in scents, trans- 
fuses itself in savors, and by a Hoo^ 
of troublous movement obscures 
the mind with evil desires, and fills 
with vapor the channels of the under- 
standing, through which the soul's 
ray might shed the light of reason, "f 
Voltaire was quite in the right when 



* Apotk. 1. 409. 

t Lib, d* Divers, Quttst., qu. ifc 



Spiritualism. 



607 



he set down a priest who would fain 
compromise with infidelity by throw- 
ing up the devil, in this wise : '< Belief 
in the devil is an essential point of 
Christianity : no Satan, no Saviour." 

Those who, admitting the devil to 
exist, deny that spiritualistic pheno- 
mena are diabolical, urge various 
pleas which I purpose to examine in 
detail. They insist upon, ist, the in- 
nocent and friendly character of the 
phenomena. 2d, The difficulty of be- 
lieving that the devil would be allow- 
ed to take so great a liberty with re- 
spectable persons without some sort 
of understanding on their parts. 3d, 
The fact that spiritualism is a great 
and most efficient exponent of the 
immortality of the soul and the exis- 
tence of God in a materialistic gene- 
ration. 

Now, as regards the first plea, I 
simply deny the fact of the innocence. 
I submit that pantheism and the 
non-existence of eternal punishment 
are immoral doctrines, the spread 
of which is calculated to make the 
world worse ; and that these are pre- 
eminently the doctrines of spiritual- 
ism, taught always indirectly, and 
standing out more and more clearly 
in proportion as the pious twaddle in 
which they are incorporated for the 
sake of weak brethren is laid aside, 
and the spiritualistic element can give 
itself free way. 

Demoralizing, also, is the distaste 
which spiritualism creates for all 
religion, inasmuch as religion lives 
by faith. An example of this is giv- 
en in Experiences with D. D. Homey 
p. 60. The party of spiritualists had 
been conversing, as they imagined, 
with the spirit of the child of one of 
them, lately dead, the body, in its 
coffin, being in the room in which 
ihcy were sitting. After the burial, 
we are told, •* On our way home, every 
one remarked that the burial-service, 
which \Sp in general, so impressive, 



had that day, while in church, sound 
ed strangely flat and unprofitable. 
Mrs. Cox asked how it was that the 
clergyman had not used the words, 
' dust to dust, ashes to ashes, earth to 
earth.' We assured her that he had ; 
but she declared she had not heard 
them, although standing as near to 
him as any of us." 

In other respects spiritualism is by 
no means innocent. It is impossible 
to set aside the strong testimony, not 
merely of medical men, who might 
be supposed prejudiced, but of so 
many who have either practised spir- 
itualism themselves, or had spiritual- 
ist friends, as to the gradual exhaus- 
tion of the vital powers which it 
produces when persevered in to any 
extent. And, again, it is by far the 
most efficacious destructive of the 
barriers of propriety, particularly be- 
tween the sexes. No one can read 
much even of the most respectable 
s6ances without feeling that the 
worthy persons who take part in 
them, whilst securing, may be, the 
perfect propriety of the particular 
seance in which they are engaged, 
are lending the cloak of their respec- 
tability to an institution especially 
marked out for the dissemination of 
corruption. My contention is that 
the devil has in spiritualism the pros- 
pect of an excellent harvest of evil, 
of which he has received a very suffi- 
cient earnest. 

With regard to the gentle beha- 
vior, which is supposed to be in- 
consistent with the character of one 
who is spoken of as " a roaring lion," 
I would observe that this, gentleness 
on the part of the spirits is by no 
means invariable; see the violent 
scene {Experiences, p. 154) in which 
Home is tormented and screams \ or, 
again, where the company is struck 
by the "disagreeable and fearful 
glowing" of his eyes {Rep,, p. 208). 
However, it must be confessed that the 



6o8 



Spiritualism. 



general character of the manifestations 
is gentleness itself; but of this sort of 
gentleness there are plenty of exani.- 
ples in accounts of mediaeval magic, 
when spirits have persevered for a 
considerable time in gentle, not to 
say pious, behavior, and, indeed, 
only came out as devils when wor- 
ried by the church. The following is 
taken from the Gloria B)sthuma S, 
/gnatii* 

A little girl of nine, the daughter 
of an artilleryman at Malta, was 
made quite a pet of by spirits, who 
were always bringing her little pre- 
sents of jewelry and fruit, at one time 
giving her fresh figs in January. She 
was frightened just at first ; but they 
talked so charmingly of their being 
creatures of the good God as well as 
she, and seemed to know so much 
about the inside of churches, that 
the child could not but think well of 
them. They did her a wonderful 
number of kind services of various 
^orts. For a long time the child's 
parents, who never saw the spirits, 
but only the effects they produced, 
acquiesced, and seemed to think it 
rather a good joke. There was only 
one thing that troubled them, and 
which ultimately made them call in 
the priest, and this was that the spi- 
rits, who showed themselves amiably 
enough disposed towards the family 
in general, had an exceptional spite 
against one little boy. They never 
saw him come into the room without 
showing disgust and saying all sorts 
of unpleasant things about him to 
their little proUg^e, There was 
nothing peculiar about the boy, ex- 
cept that he served Mass every morn- 
ing. When the priest was sent for, 
and the house exorcised, the amiable 
spirits, as is invariably the case under 
these circumstances, lost their tem- 
per, and went off in ugly shapes, vo- 

•Sce GOrrcs, AOf/i'>(, torn. iti. p. 346, French 
trans. 



miting fire; in fact, to boirow the 
spiritualist expression, showing them- 
selves very unformed spirits indeed. 

With this account we may com- 
pare Mr. Fusedale's extraordinary 
letter {Rep,^ p. 255), in which he says 
that the spirits habitually play with 
his children and amuse them br 
showing them pretty scenes in a 
polished globe. He tells us that he 
has himself seen one of these scenes— 
a ship hemmed in by ice in an Arctic 
sea — and that he has often witnessed 
his litde boy shoved across the room 
in a chair, his legs being too short to 
reach the ground, and " no human 
agency near." The two accounts 
are not unlike, except that in the se- 
cond story the materials for playing 
out the last scene are wanting. 

As regards the second plea, no 
doubt there is something odd, at first 
sight, in so many respectable persons 
having got into such intimate rela- 
tions with the devil without knowing 
anything about it ; and though there 
are not wanting individual instances 
in the history of diablerie^ I must 
confess that I have met with nothing 
of the sort on so large a scale. But 
then, we must remember that there 
never has been a time when respecta- 
bles as a body were so irreligious, 
and it is religion that is the great ob- 
stacle to such unconscious intercourse 
with Satan. No Christian who 
knows anything of the way in which 
the ancient world was exorcised need 
be surprised at the devil's being able 
considerably to enlarge his sphere, as 
the church has been compelled to 
narrow hers. 

At first, indeed, it seemed as if this 
was not to be the case. The philoso- 
phy of the last century boasted, with 
some plausibility, that it had done 
what the church, with all her exor- 
cisms, had never succeeded in doing 
— that it had swept away SaUn alto- 
gether, along with his great adversary. 



spiritualism. 



609 



Church and devil had gone down to- 
gether ; and for a time people persuad- 
ed themselves that the devil, anyhow, 
had gone. In the solemn obsequies 
of the whole caste of superstition, as 
tthe world fondly thought it, the devil 
was carried out first, dead, hopeless- 
ly dead, free-thinking priests, such as 
Voltaire rebuked, bearing up the pall. 
Though many a mocking requiescat 
has been chanted over his grave, 
like that of the church, it has proved 
to be a cenotaph ; and now that he 
appears again, we can hardly wonder 
if he finds himself more at home than 
ever since Christianity came into the 
world. 

Satan has ever been, as the school- 
men called him, God's ape [simius 
Dei)^ reproducing in the mysteries of 
the " Sabbath " the rites, and even the 
organization, of the church; but now, 
after the worid's reiterated rejection 
of Christ, it would seem that the 
enemy has been permitted to carry 
the parody a step further. No| only 
wherever two or three are gathered 
together in his name is he in their 
midst, but, good shepherd-wise, he is 
allowed to seek the sheep that had 
been lost. Uninvited he seeks them 
in the unromantic circle of XlXth- 
century life, entrenched as this is 
amongst elements the least promis- 
ing, one shoyld think, for mysticism 
of any sort. In bright, cheerful, 
modem rooms, amongst the rustle 
of innocent commonplaces, he finds 
his opportunity and his profit, and 
gently and genially weans his victims 
from what fragments of dogmatic 
religion they may still retain to the 
liberty of his children. At least, there 
is nothing unnatural in this view. 

The third plea is, in the spiritua- 
list's mind, irresistible, and it has had, 
doubtless, considerable influence in 
preventing various religious persons 
from condemning spiritualism. The 
great evil of the day is materialism ; 
VOL. xviii. — 39 



now, then, it is asked, is it conceiva- 
ble that the devil should appear as 
the advocate of the two great spirit- 
ual doctrines of the immortality of 
the soul and the existence of God ; 
nay, should actually convert numbers 
to a belief in these doctrines ? I 
answer, ist, that when the devil first 
came forward as the champion of 
human liberty, he certainly did 
preach both the immortality of the 
soul and the existence of God. '^ Ye 
shall not die." "Ye shall be as 
gods." True, he was denying in 
one breath the death of the body 
and the death of the soul ; but this is 
quite in the fashion of spiritualism, 
which invariably denounces any use 
of the word " death." 2d, That the 
doctrine of the immortality of the 
soul loses all disciplinary force when 
converted into that of endless, inevita- 
ble progression. The possibility of 
a miserable finality has been accept- 
ed by the noblest philosophers as a 
necessary phase in that melody of a 
future life which, to use the expres- 
sion of Socrates (PhadoyCx^. 63), it is 
" so necessary for each man to sing 
to himself." There are some, he had 
said (cap. 62), whom " a befitting fate 
casts into Tartarus, whence they 
never come out." And in the last 
book of the Republic^ where hu- 
man life is described as going on in 
an indefinite series of metempsycho- 
sis, we are shown, as the generations 
sweep round, a pit into which the 
very bad fall out of the circle, never 
to join it again. Nor is the doctrine 
of the existence of God when con- 
verted into pantheism of more avail. 
A deity who is the mere terminus 
ad guem of necessary evolution can 
neither be feared as judge nor wor- 
shipped as God. 

Long experience has taught the 
evil one that man cannot do without 
religious sentiment; so he aims at 
getting its circulation into his own 



6io 



Spiritualism. 



hands by coming forward boldly as 
the advocate of its cardinal points. 
He is determined to risk no more 
disappointing losses, by striving to 
feed men on the dry husks of mate- 
rialism, which are insufficient to 
support life, and are sure, sooner or 
later, to provoke nausea and repul- 
sion. As to those \vho have been 
really converted from scepticism by 
the spirits, nay, have been landed, as 
has sometimes been the case, in the 
bosom of the Catholic Church, I can 
only say. Blessed be God ! who has 
ever exercised seignorial rights upon 
the devil's fishing. 

So much for the spiritualist amend- 
ment I shall now proceed to con- 
sider the positive arguments and evi- 
dence tending to show that spiritual- 
ism is diabolic. 

I St. I notice its shrinking and 
disgust for all active Catholicism 
which extends to the use of fragments 
of Catholic truth in the hands of 
zealous sectarians. This antipathy, I 
contend, is invariable; but I must 
guard against being misunderstood. 
I admit that the spirits have indulg- 
ed from time to time in a consider- 
able amount of Catholic, or, I should 
rather say Ritualist, talk. Several in* 
stances may be found in Mr. Home's 
stances in which holy-water and 
crucifixes are spoken of with a cer- 
tain amount of unction. I admit, 
too, that though sometimes the spirits 
are discomfited by the mere presence 
of a religious object — a medal, relic, 
etc. — this is by no means ordinarily 
the case. It is quite possible for re- 
ligious objects to be so presented as 
in no way to embarrass the spirits, 
who have been sometimes permitted 
to carry them about with apparent 
tenderness, even as Satan was allow- 
ed to carry our Lord and set him on 
a pinnacle of the temple. A sword 
requires to be handled with a certain 
amount of vigor and intention if it 



is to avail as a weapon. li holy 
objects are brought out simply as so 
many Catholic testimonials and or- 
ders of merit for the spirits, I know 
nothing in the nature of things or in 
the promises of God to prevent the 
devil wearing them in his button-hole. 
On the other hand, a man uncertain 
of the spirits' character, but with aa 
honest and lively intention of reject- 
ing them so far as they are God's 
enemies, "fugite partes adversae," 
if he adjures them in his name, will 
either reduce them to silence and 
impotence, or extort the confession 
that they are devils. 

It would be easy to produce num- 
bers of instances of the extraordinarily 
hostile sensitiveness of the spirits in 
regard to the use in their presence 
of Catholic prayers, medals, relics, 
etc. In fact, in order to avoid being 
a non-conductor, if not an obstruc- 
tive, a certain undogmatic attitude of 
mind is required. We need not, in- 
deed, /eject Christ, but we must be 
prepared to look for another be- 
side him, if not in his place. Mr. 
Home (Rfp^y p. i88) says that, for the 
medium's success, "the only thing 
necessary is that the people about 
should be harmonious." He ex- 
plains that " the ' harmonious' feeling 
is simply that which you get on go- 
ing into a room and finding all the 
people present such as you feel at 
home with at once. . . . Scepticism 
is not a hindrance; an imsympathetic 
person is." I have no doubt that 
this account is perfectly accurate so 
far as it goes. A Christian's hatred of 
what he suspects to be the devil, and 
Professor Tyndall's contemptuous dis- 
gust for what he considers a piece of 
cheating, are both no doubt natural 
impediments to spiritualistic mani- 
festations; although, in the former 
case, it may well be that it is some- 
thing more. 

The following scene from Pru- 



Spiritualism. 



6ir 



dentius {ApotfLy 460-502) illustrates 
what I have said as to Christian rite 
and formulary availing against sor- 
cery, not as a charm, but as a weapon 
of faith. It must be remembered 
that Julian had been baptized, but 
his baptism had no effect in break- 
ing the magic rites. We venture 
thus to render it : 



^ To give ipreat Hecate her glut of blood. 

Whole troops of cows and lowing heifers stood 
About her sllar, every frontlet crowned- 
With shadowy cypress twisted rpund and 

round. 
And now the priestly butcher drives his brand 
Into the victims, and with bloody liand 
Gropes keenly in the entrails chUling fast, 
To connt each fluttering life-pulse to the last. 
When suddenly he cries, dead-white with fear, 
* Alas ! great prince, some greater god is here 
Than may suffice these foaming bowls of milk. 
The blood of victims, flowers, and twisted silk. 
Yon summoned shades are scattering in dis- 
may, 
And scared Persephone glides fast away. 
With torch averted and with trailing scourge, 
Tbessalian charms are powerless to urge 
The troubled gods to face the hostile thing. 
In vain our spells and mystic muttering ; 
The flame has withered in yon censer's core. 
The blinking embers shrink in ashes hoar. 
The server with the plate can scarcely stand, 
The rich balm dripping from his trembling 

hand. 
The flamen feels his laurel chaplet go. 
The victim leaps, and shuna the fatal blow. 
Assuredly some Christian youth has dared 
To enter here, and, as their wont, has scared 
The assembled gods, and of their rites de- 
spoiled. 
Avaunt! avaunt! thou that art washed and 

oiled ! 
That so anew fair Proserpine may rise.' 
He shrieked, and swooning fell, as though his 

eyes 
Had seen Christ angry and in act to slay. 
In a like fear the pnnce now thrusts away 
His royal crown, and gaxes all about ; 
For the fond youth had dared his spells to 

flout 
By bearing on his brow the Christian sign. 
Lo ! one, dragged forward from the brillian; 

line 
Of royal pages, flaxen-haired and bright. 
Resigns his arms, and owns that they are right : 
That he Is Christian, that his forehead bears 
The wondrous sign that every witchcraft 

scares. 
The surtled monarch, leaping from his seat. 
Upsets the pontiff in his swift retreat. 
And flees the chapel, while the rest atone 
Their impious deed, seeing their master gone. 
And bowing low their heads in awe and shame. 
In faltering accents call on Jesu's name." 

The fathers have the completest 
confidence in the efficacy of Christian 
weapons in Christian handstand even, 



when used honestly, in hands not yet 
Christian, to defeat sorcery. 

TertuUian (Apol, c. 23) throws out 
this bold challenge : " Let any one, 
known to have a devil, come before 
your tribunal. That spirit, if bidden 
speak by a Christian, shall as truly 
confess himself a devil as he has 
elsewhere falsely declared himself a 
god. Or. bring forward some one of 
those who are thought to be divine 
patients, who, sniffing up the altar's 
deity, conceive of the steam, violent 
retchers with panting utterance ; the 
heavenly Virgin herself, the promiser 
of rain, ./Esculapius too ; ... if they 
do not all confess themselves devils, 
not daring to lie to a Christian, then 
and there shed that insolent Chris- 
tian's blood." 

Nor is it only the passionate Ter- 
tuUian who can speak thus. S. Atha- 
nasius {De Incam., num. 48) is hardly 
less energetic : " Let any one come 
who wishes to test what we have said ; 
and let him, in the midst of the mani- 
festations of demons, and the guiles 
of oracles, and the marvels of magic, 
use the sign of the cross, which these 
mock at, or merely name Christ, he 
shall soon see how quickly the demons 
are routed, the oracles silenced, the 
whole magic art and its charms utterly 
wiped out." 

The instances of modem spiritual- 
ist manifestations being stopped by 
religious adjuration are very frequent. 

Mr. Glover {Rep,, p. 205) had been 
asking the spirits about the time of 
our Lord's coming; they had answer- 
ed glibly enough, and had pointed 
out several texts in the Bible, when, 
apparently on a sudden impulse, " he 
made a cross in a circle, and asked, 
in the name of the Father, Son, and 
Holy Ghost, if the communications 
were of God, and the answer was 

* No.' He then asked if they were 
of the devil, and the answer was 

* Yes.' " 



6l2 



spiritualism. 



Mr. Chevalier {Rep,, p. 218) says 
that, after having received several 
communications purporting to come 
from his recently-lost child, " One 
day the table turned at right angles, 
and went into a corner of the room. 
I asked, * Are you my child V but 
obtained no answer. I then said, 

* Are you from God ?' but the table 
was silent. I then said, ' In the name 
of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, 
I command you to answer ; are you 
from God ?* One loud rap — a nega- 
tive — was then given. * Do you be- 
lieve,* said I, *that Christ died to 
save us from sin ?* The answer was, 

* No.' * Accursed spirit ! * said I, 

* leave the room.' The table then 
walked across the room, entered the 
adjoining one, and quickened its 
steps. It was a small, tripod table. 
It walked with a sidelong walk. It 
went to the door, shook the handle, 
and I opened it. The table then 
walked into the passage, and I re- 
peated the adjuration, receiving the 
same answer. Fully convinced that 
I. was dealing with an accursed spirit, 
I opened the street-door, and the 
table was immediately silent ; no 
movement or rap was heard. I re- 
turned alone to the drawing-room, 
and asked if there were any spirits 
present. Immediately I heard steps, 
like those of a little child, outside the 
door. I opened it, and the small 
table went into the corner as before, 
just as my child did when reproved 
for a fault. These manifestations 
continued until I used the adjuration, 
and I always found that they changed 
or ceased when the name of God was 
used." 

Miss Anna Blackwell (Rep., p. 220) 
gives her evidence immediately after 
Mr. Chevalier's. Whilst admitting the 
fact that the spirits often call them- 
selves devils, she suggests a twofold 
explanation: ist. That they are 
coarse, undeveloped spirits. 2d. That 



they are vexed at the rude treatment 
they have received. She is speaking 
of her sister's mediumship : " The 
spirit would use her hand to write 
what communication had to be 
made. The spirits wrote what was 
good and bad. One wanted to sign 
himself Satan and Beelzebub ; but," 
continues Miss Blackwell, " my sister 
did not believe in the existence of 
any such a spirit, and she said, ' No ; 
if you are permitted to come to me, 
it is not to tell such outrageous lies. 
If you persist in trying to impose 
upon me, you sha'n't write.' I have 
been present at many such little 
fights. She would resist the spirit, 
and, when she saw the capital S of 
Satan being written, would twist her 
hand. The spirit has then writ- 
ten, ' I hate you, because I cannot 
deceive you.' . . . We never begin 
without prayer. We say to the 
spirits that wish to deceive us, ' Dear 
spirits, we are all imperfect; we will 
endeavor to benefit you by our 
lights, in so far as they are superior 
to yours.' Sometimes tliey would 
overturn and break the table; yet 
they were rendered better by our 
kindness. We would never dream 
of addressing one as an 'accursed 
spirit' From one who was very vio- 
lent, and by whom I have been my- 
self struck, we have received pro- 
gressive messages, saying, * We are 
going up higher now; we have, 
through your help, broken the chains 
of earth, and we leave you.' When 
my sister found the S being written, 
or the capital B for Beelzebub, she 
would say with kindness, but firm- 
ness, * Dear spirit, you must not de- 
ceive; it is not for such tricks, but 
for a good end, that you are permit- 
ted to come.' " 

It is often said that the education 
question is the question of the day; 
but I was hardly prepared to find that 
it embraced the spirit- world. I know 



spiritualism. 



613 



not which to pity most, those to 
whom the responsibility has been 
brought home of having to educate 
a vast number of imperfect spirits, 
who are, as Miss Black well admits, 
"all in a manner devils," or the 
wretched spirits who have thus to 
begin all over again as day-scholars 
at a dame's school. 

According to Miss Blackwell's 
theory, the church is evidently re- 
sponsible for the existence of the 
devil. So far as he can be said to 
exist at all, he is the church's crea- 
tion; for, instead of doing her best 
t<i instruct and humanize the rude 
but well-meaning spirit Arab thrown 
upon her hands, she has goaded him 
to desperation by addreissing him as 
^^MaUdicte damnaur Oh! if she 
had only called him "dear spirit," 
with Miss Black well, he might ere 
now have comported himself con- 
formably, instead of masquerading 
under such uncomfortable names as 
Satan and Beelzebub and doing a 
world of mischief. 

My second argument is the simi- 
larity between spiritualism and me- 
diseval witchcraft. I have already no- 
ticed incidentally several points of 
resemblance, and would now draw 
attention* to what is, perhaps, the 
most important point of all. Of 
course, such similarity has no argu- 
mentative force if Miss Black well's 
theory be admitted. 

As I have before remarked, one 
of the most prominent characteristics 
of mediaeval magic was its being a 
parody of the church. The princi- 
pal ceremony of the " Sabbath "was a 
diabolical burlesque of the Mass, in 
which the devil preached, and the 
celebrant stood on his head, and the 
servers genuflected backwards. Now, 
amongst modern spiritualists I have 
discovered no such violation of de- 
cency ; the parody is not so com- 
plete, and, on the wholcj it is a deco- 



rous one ; but it unmistakably exists, 
and is oh the increase. It is by no 
means uncommon to assemble the 
spirit circle Defore an altar with cru- 
cifix and candles. In Experiences 
with D, D, Home we find that that 
gentleman has quite a craving in 
this direction. He baptizes with 
sand, he stretches himself in the form 
of a cross, imitates the phenomena 
of Pentecost, the rushing wind, the 
dove, the tongues of fire, and is 
perpetually anointing his friends with 
some mysterious substance, which ap- 
parently emanates from his hands. 

Against what has been said on 
behalf of the devil hypothesis the 
spiritualist can urge nothing, except 
the by no means unwavering testi- 
mony of the spirits themselves, and 
the spiritualist's own recognition of 
the identity of his departed friends. 
As to the spirits' testimony, it is 
worth just nothing. Evil spirits 
have always personated the dead, 
as philosophers, fathers, schoolmen 
with one accord testify. As to the 
recognition of friends, I should wish 
to treat with all due consideration 
the natural craving of friends to ob- 
tain some intelligence of their de- 
parted friends; but, on the one hand, 
minute imitations of manner are cer- 
tainly not beyond the devil's power ; 
on the other, affection is anything 
but keen-sighted, and the rapture of 
a communication at all, when once 
the idea is admitted, is apt to throw 
all minor details into the shade. 
Was not Lady Tichbourne able to 
trace the features of her drowned 
boy in the Claimant's photograph ? 

Wherever the spirits have repre- 
sented persons of known character 
and ability — men, for instance, who 
have left a gauge of their mental 
qualities in their writings, like Shake- 
speare or Bacon — the personation has 
been invariably a lamentable and 
most palpable failure. That the spi- 



6i4 



Spiritualism, 



rits of clever men do not at all talk 
up to the mark is notorious and gen- 
erally admitted by candid spiritual- 
ists. Mr. Simkiss (-^^., p. 133) says, 
" Beyond solving the important ques- 
tion, 'If a man die, shall he live 
again V by the very fact of spirits 
communicating and proving their 
identity, there is to me little that is 
consistent or reliable in what is re- 
vealed through different mediums." 
Mr. Varley (p. 168) endeavors to ex- 
plain the feebleness of spirit- talk by 
want of education and development 
on the part of the mediums by which 
their communications are condition- 
ed. I do not say that there is not 
something in this; but surely the 
communications of genius would, 
under the most adverse circumstan- 
ces, take the form rather of broken 
sense than fluent twaddle. 

The extreme irritation invariably 
manifested by the spirits towards any- 
thing like suspicion, particularly if it 
take the form of trying to subject them 
to a religious test, is surely grotesquely 
unnatural in the case of spirits who 
have shuffled off the coil of mor- 
tality, with whom hfe's fitful fever 
has passed. We have at least 
some right to expect that persons 
who in their lifetime had a reason- 
able amount of dignity and patience 
shoukl have increased rather than 
diminished their stock of virtue with 
their enlarged experience, unless, in- 
deed, they have so lost God as to 
have lost themselves. 

It is difficult to conceive a justifi- 
cation for the spiritualist who, believ- 
ing that he is dealing with spirits, 
refuses to entertain the idea that 
these may be devils, and makes no 
attempt to bring them to a test. His 
best excuse, perhaps, would be that 
the world has to such an extent lost 
its standard of faith and morals 
wherewith to test anything. 

Spiritualists may object that some 



thing, at least, of what I have urged 
against them avails as much, or even 
more, against the devil hypothesis. 
Thus, if the spirit of Bacon is too 
nonsensical for Bacon, h fortiori he 
is too nonsensical for Lucifer, who 
must needs be the cleverer spirit of 
the two. Upon this I observe that 
the retort shows a complete igno- 
rance of the devil's character and 
position. *' The character of a 
myth," some one interposes. Well, I 
am not iiow discussing his existence. 
Even a myth must be in keeping. 
You have no right to give Cerberas 
four heads, or make him mew instead 
of bark, for all he is a myth. I sup- 
pose people have been seduced by 
Milton's grand conception of the 
''archangel fallen" and the splendid 
melancholy of his solemn rhetoric; 
hut the devil of theology never says 
anything wise or fine. He is, indeed, 
understood to retain the natural pow- 
ers with which he was created ; but 
he is wholly averse from the God 
whom all wise and fine utterances 
do, in their measure, praise. Where- 
fore all such are in the highest de- 
gree repugnant to Satan. Neither 
are such costly and uncongenial de- 
ceits necessary to beguile man. Self- 
interest and curiosity may be gratified 
at a cheaper rate. 

The concessions of spiritualists 
themselves in reality reduce the dif- 
ference between us very considerably. 
I have gained all that I care for, if it 
be conceded that these spirits may be 
the spirits of the damned, who are 
equivalently devils ; and Miss Black- 
well admits that these spirits are '* in 
a manner devils," and Mr. Home 
(ExperienuSy p. 167) says of some 
of them: "1 tell you you do not 
know the danger, tliey are so fearfully 
low— the very lowest and most mate- 
rial of all. You might almost call 
them * accursed.' They will get a 
power over you that you cannot 



Spiritualism. 



615 



break through." The one great dif- 
ference between us is that consistent 
spiritualists bold that there is no final- 
ity; that these irrepressible devils — 
for they are always obtruding them- 
selves amongst the respectable spirit 
guests — may be reformed. But even 
so, would it not be well to consider 
whether the chances are not in favor 
of our being ruined before they are 
restored ? Once and again it may be 
that a spirit speaks to them who is 
from God, even as God spake some- 
times in the high places of Baal.* 
But God is not wont to reward impru- 
dence, andy on their own showing, 
spiritualists stand convicted of the 
most extraordinary rashness in thus 
exposing themselves to the whirlwind 
of spirit influence without having a 
spiritual constitution, so to speak, or 
any canons or habits of spiritual life 
wherewith the influence can be tested. 
Man, as Alvemus finely says, is a 
being created " upon the horizon of 
two worlds '* — the world of sense and 
the world of spirit. But in the sensi- 
ble world only is he at home, where- 
in his material nature is sufficiently 
developed for him to hold his own ; 
whereas, in the spirit-world, with 
which he is also in contact, the God 
of both worlds must be his guide, or, 
horsed upon his excited imagination, 
he may easily be lost in the wilder- 
ness, and fall a prey to lawless spirits. 
Nothing can be more striking than 
the contrast between the sobriety of 
the Catholic Church in her dealings 
with the spirit- world and the rashness 
of spiritualists. The church has al- 
ways recognized as a reality spirit 
communications of various kinds, 
good and bad; but she has always 
tested most rigidly the character of 
the spirits ; and even when these have 
satisfied every test, she has only al- 
lowed their sanctity to be highly pro- 



bable ; she has never, so to speak, 
granted them her testamur. They 
are ever on their trial, inasmuch as 
she insists that the lessons they com- 
municate shall be in strict subordina- 
tion to the rule of faith and morals ; 
in other words, to the ordinary duties 
of life. The church has ever shown 
herself keenly alive to the dangers 
of supernatural intercourse. She has 
been jealously on her guard against 
overwrought sentimentalism, vanity, 
or any strained or undue development 
of one part of the patient's moral na- 
ture at the expense of the rest 

Whilst she prizes amongst the 
choicest of her devotional treasures 
the private revelations of her saints, 
such as those of S. Bridget, S. Ger- 
trude, S. Catharine of Sienna, and 
many more, yet if one consults the 
great masters of Christian spiritualism, 
if I may so speak — such as S. John of 
the Cross, for example — who have 
themselves experienced the favors of 
which they treat — the ecstasy, the 
vision, and the prophecy — one is 
more struck than by anything else by 
the stem common sense of their pre- 
cautions against deception, and the 
sad sobriety of their confession that, 
after all, you can hardly ever be quite 
sure that you are not the victim of an 
illusion. 

That a certain moral discipline is 
necessary in order not to be deceived, 
even when you are deahng with one 
who has a true spirit of prophecy, is 
implied in the words of Ezechiel, cap. 
xiv. : " For every man of the house 
of Israel, and every stranger among 
the proselytes in Israel, if he separate 
himself from me, and place his idols 
in his heart, and set the stumbling- 
block of his iniquity before his face 
and come to the prophet to inquire 
of me by him : I the Lord will an- 
swer him by myself. . . . And when 
the prophet shall err and speak 
a word, I the Lord have deceived 



6i6 



Spiritualism, 



tliat prophet. . . . According to the 
iniquity of him that inquireth, so shall 
the iniquity of the prophet be." 

S. Augustine {De Gen. ad Z//., lib. 
xii. c. 13, 14) might be warning those 
spiritualists who place their security 
in the peacefulness and truthfulness 
of their communications : " The dis- 
cernment of spirits is very difficult 
When the evil spirit plays the peace- 
ful (quasi tranquillus agit), and, hav- 
ing possessed himself of a man's spi- 
rit without harassing his body, says 
what he is able, enunciates true doc- 
trine, and gives useful information, 
transfiguring himself into an ingel of 
light, to the end that, when persons 
have trusted him in what is clearly 
good, he may afterwards win them 
to himself. I do not thhik he can be 
discerned except by means of that 
gift of which the apostle saith when 
speaking of the diverse gifts of God : 
* To another discernment of spirits.' 
It is no great thing to discover him 
when lie has gone so far as to do 
anything against good morals or the 
rule of faith, for then he is discovered 
by many ; but by the aforesaid gift, 
in the very beginning, whilst to many 
he still appears good, his badness is 
found out forthwith." 

Again {Confess,, lib. x. c. 35), he 
speaks of the danger of seeking 
supernatural communications : "In 
the religious life itself, men tempt 
God when they demand signs and 
marvels, not for any one's healing, but 
simply for the sake of the experience. 
In this vast wood, full of snares and 
dangers, what have I not had to drive 
away from my heart ! What sugges- 
tions and machinations does not the 
enemy bring to bear upon me, that I 
may ask for a sign ! But I beseech 
thee that even as all consent thereto 
is far from me, so it may be ever fur- 
ther and further." 

Amort, De Rev, Priv,, p. 20, from 
Gravina, says : " It is often easier to 



establish the certainty of the deceit- 
fulness of an apparition than of its 
truthfulness, because bad angels have 
their own characteristics, which good 
angels never imitate ; on the other 
hand, the bad often imitate the ap- 
pearance and manner of the good." 

Amort, 1^^., p. 104, from S. John 
of the Cross, says : " All apparitions, 
visions, revelations, consolations, 
sweetnesses, sensations, etc., which 
are received by the external senses, 
should ever and always be refused 
by the soul as much as in it lies. . . . 
In most cases they are diabolical. . . . 
When they are from God, they are 
sent in order that they may be de- 
spised, and that the soul, by means of 
the victory wherewith it overcomes 
these pleasures of the senses, divine 
though they be, may be led to the 
things of the understanding." 

Ibid,, p. 115 : " When the words in 
any supposed revelation take the 
form of a process of reasoning after 
the application of the soul in con- 
templation, God, the natural reason, 
and the devil may all three concur in 
the same process." 

No test of the holiness of a mani- 
festation is considered quite satisfac- 
tory save that of a continued increase 
in virtue, especially in humility, in 
degrees corresponding to the increase 
of the favor; for the devil will not 
consent to be a master of virtue. 
When S. Teresa had scruples as to 
the source of her favors, it was thus 
her director consoled her. 

So cautious is Catholic mysticism ; 
whilst spiritualists are not afraid to 
keep a sort of spirit-ordinary, where 

" White spirits and black, red spirits and gray. 
Mingle, mingle, mingle ; those that mingle may. 

I repeat it, spiritualists who think they 
are communicating with spirits, and 
take no pains to test their character, 
as though the hypothesis of a devil 
were absurd, are inexcusably silly. 



spiritualism. 



biy 



I must now consider some objec- 
tions in the mouth of persons who, 
without pretending that they have 
found any satisfactory solution of the 
question in the theories of uncon- 
scious cerebration or psychic force, 
are nevertheless exceedingly impress- 
ed by the strong psychic element in 
the phenomena of spiritualism — the 
apparent necessity for the presence 
of one or more persons of a peculiar 
nervous organization, for a certain 
harmonious mixture, or rather melo- 
dious articulation, of the company, in 
order to produce the desired effect. 
«* Surely," they say, " such law, />., 
such regular alternation of cause and 
effect, as can be discovered is psychic. 
So far as we can subject the phe- 
nomena to ordinary scientific tests, 
everything points to their being the 
product of the psychic force of a 
certain peculiarly constituted compa- 
ny." This is the tone of Mr. Cox's 
recent letter to the Tim€S^ and Mr. 
Edwin Arnold's letter in the Report 
is quite in the same key. 

My answer is that I admit all that 
they say. Of course, so much of law 
as is detected is psychic. There is 
no other law at work within the 
sphere of our discovery. The ques- 
tion is whether there are not indica- 
tions of an influence at work which 
is irreducible to psychic laws, whilst 
using, in a partially abnormal manner, 
psychic force. 

Mr. Lewes will urge (letter, JRep.^ 
p. 264) : " I might propose as an 
hypothesis that the chair leaped be- 
cause a kobold tilted it up; . . . 
but you would not believe in the 
presence of a kobold, because his 
presence would enable you to ex- 
plain the phenomena." Most indu- 
bitably I should, if no less an hypo- 
thesis would explain the phenomena ; 
particularly if I had otherwise reason 
to believe in the existence and opera- 
tion of kobolds. I should hold 



the likelihood of the hypothesis of 
his action in the particular case as 
steadily increasing in proportion as 
the other hypotheses tended to break 
down. 

"No guess," Mr. Lewes insists, 
" need be rejected, if it admits of 
verification ; no guess that cannot be 
veriJUd is worth a momenfs attention^ 
The last part of this trenchant dictum 
is worth a moment's attention. If it 
simply mean that it is not worth a 
scientific man's while to attempt a 
direct scientific examination of what 
clearly admits of no such treatment, 
I can only say that, however much 
the scientific man may sometimes 
need the lesson, it is neither more 
nor less than a truism. If it mean 
that no hypothesis is to be regarded 
by any one as " worth a moment's 
attention " which science can never 
hope directly to verify, it is con- 
spicuously untrue. Even a terra 
incognita is not without scientific 
interest as marking a boundary ; nay, 
it may be scientifically proved to con- 
tain a place known to exist and 
proved not to exist in any known 
lands. 

Of course, the devil, or kobold, if 
Mr. Lewes prefers it, cannot be veri- 
fied in the sense of caught and hand- 
ed over to scientific men as a speci- 
men of spiritualistic fauna. Neither 
do I suppose he can be really de- 
tected, except by the standard of 
Catholic truth, by Catholic tests, and 
Catholic weapons; and even then, 
in the eyes of unbelievers, he will be 
no further identified than as an ad- 
verse intelligence in a very bad tem- 
per. But surely this is enough, 
where men's minds have not been 
reduced to mere machines for regis- 
tering rigid scientific results, to se- 
cure the devil hypothesis something 
more than " a moment's attention." 

What law we detect in spiritualis- 
tic phenomena I conceive to be the 



6i8 



Spiritualism. 



working of the conditioiis in subor- 
dination to which the devil is able 
to communicate with man. This 
subordination is probably owing, in 
part, to the nature of things which 
compels certain things to accost cer- 
tain other things in one way and not 
another, in part to the mercifu) re- 
servation of God. It would seem as 
if the spirits were, on the whole, pre- 
vented from being more irreligious 
than the prevailing tone of the com- 
pany, or at least of the most irre- 
ligious portion of it. It may very 
well be that the conditions limiting 
diabolical intercourse are more com- 
plex and imperious, where the spirit 
^^ quasi iranquillus agit, without ha- 
rassing the body." In mediaeval 
diablerie^ the xlemon is often repre- 
sented as hindered or assisted by in- 
struments of a purely physical cha- 
racter; thus Coleridge makes Chris- 
tabel lift the enchantress over the 
threshold. A crowd, by neutralizing 
individual resistance, may present 
fewer obstacles to the devil — nay, 
may supply a medium of its own; 
just as frightened cattle huddled 
together in a thunder-storm are said, 
by the steam-column arising from 
their tightly compacted bodies, to fur- 
nish a conductor for the lightning. 

I have indicated in several places 
of these essays what I conceive to be 
the objects the devil has in view in 
lending himself to spiritualism. His 
main object, I can hardly doubt, is to 
do with religious sentiment what we 
are told Mr. Fisk tried to do with 
the gold currency of America — " cor- 
ner it," get its circulation into his 
own hands. In the numberless cases 
where religion is nothing more than 
sentiment, he is only too likely to suc- 
ceed ; second-sight is so much more 
satisfying to the imagination, and at 
the same time so far more modest in 
its demands upon the will, than faith. 
The spread of spirituahsm in the 



last few years is notorious, and there 
is every prospect of its continuing. 
Whether it will ever enter upon a 
new phase of existence, and become 
a fact pubhcly acknowledged by sci- 
entific men, is a question. It has 
never been so recognized amongst 
civilized nations. Whatever miracles, 
divine or diabolical, were meant to 
effect, it was not to overbalance the 
general sway of purely human power, 
of which this world is the appointed 
stage. As a general rule, the brilliant 
series of miracles by which the 
Christian martyr has baffled death 
in the presence of admiring crowds 
has ended in quiet decapitation at 
a convenient mile-stone. Many a 
time, doubtless, has the Roman heads- 
man flattered himself that his good 
straight-down blow effectually upset 
that fine story made up out of a 
drugged lion and a fagot of green 
wood, which had somehow imposed 
upon so many stupid people. Not, 
of course, that I am denying that 
there have been miracles which im- 
periously asserted themselves over 
all obstacles, like the series which 
ended in Fharao's drowning; but, 
as a general rule, God has spoken 
once and again, and then prosaic 
obstinacy has been given its way. 
On these occasions, God has no 
doubt submitted himself to a general 
law which he has made for all di- 
rect spiritual interference, and which 
he mercifully enforces with especial 
strictness in the case of the devil. 

Any civilized nation engaged in 
active pursuits will always be likely 
to contain, one should think, a ma- 
jority among its scientific men who 
will be unfitted to experience, and 
indisposed to believe in, and still 
more to acknowledge, the phenomena 
of spiritualism. But it is impossible 
to say; the spiritualistic system as 
developed by Allan Kardec (see Miss 
BlackwelFs communication, Rtp.y p. 



6i9 



2S4) seems to lend itself in a remark* 
able way to some of the most promi- 
nent scientific tendencies of the day. 
If ever Darwinists should stand in 
need of the consolations of religious 
enthusiasm, they might find a con- 
genial home in spiritualism. In the 
vast system of metempsychosis to 
which Miss Blackwell introduces us, 
we have all the Darwinian stages 
and to spare. First in order comes 
the *< primordial fluid," "contain* 
ing all the elements of derived exist- 
ence," " the first substantiation of 
creative thought." " There are three 
orders or modes of substantiality " — 
"psychic substance," and "corpo- 
real substance," and " dynamic sub- 
stance, or force," which last is stated 
to partake of the nature of the two 
other modes, and to be the inter- 
mediary between them. • 1 

(P. 300) " Every state of the psy- 
chic element determines correspond- 
ing vibrations of the dynamic ele- 
ment, which, effecting corresponding 
aggregations of the atoms of the 
material element, produce the sub- 
stance or body which is the material 
expression of that state." The soul's 
magnetic envelope, " perisprit," is at 
ODce its first garment and the instru- 
ment by whichi it aggregates to itself 
the elements of its body. 

This system embraces a twofold 
metempsychosis — that of formation 
and that of reformation. The first 
is the process by which the imper- 
sonal psychic element is gradually 
prepared for individualization or 
the attainment of conscious person- 
ality by being transfused progress- 
ively through the mineral, vegetable, 
and animal worlds — the same pro- 
cess, but with a different final cause, it 
would seem, as that described by the 
poet : 

** SpirUaK intus allt. totamque infun per artus. 
Men* Agiut Diolemet magoo ae corpora miscet.** 

The psychic element is presented, 



not as feeding, but as feeding on suc- 
cessive worlds, like a silk-worm on 
mulberry-leaves, leaving geological 
strata behind it, for instance, as the 
refuse of its mineral sojourn. 

Souls are first individualized in the 
fluidic or atmospheric world ; and if 
they are docile to the instruction of 
that world, they never " incur the 
penalty of incarceration in bodies of 
planetary matter, and cpnsequently 
never become men," but remain in 
this or that fluidic world until ripe 
for the highest or " sidereal or^ler." 
On the other hand, the spirits who 
are indocile enter upon the second 
series of metempsychosis, " having 
brought upon themselves the penal- 
ty of exile in a planet corresponding, 
in the compactness or comparative 
fluidity of its material constituents, to 
the degree of their culpability. " 

(P.309) "The moral and intellec- 
tual state of the soul decides the cor- 
responding niagnetic action of the 
perisprit, and thereby decides the 
nature of the body which is formed 
by that action." 

(319) "While accomplishing the 
new series of incorporations in pro- 
gressively nobler forms, in higher 
and higher planets, the spirit goes 
back, at each disaggregation of its 
material envelope, into the fluidic 
sphere of the planet in which its last 
material embodiment has been ac- 
complished." 

' (322) " The fluidic world being 
the normal world of souls, we remain 
in intimate (though usually uncon- 
scious) connection with the fluidic 
sphere of the planet, while incarnated 
on its surface. We return to it dur- 
ing sleep, when, through the elastic- 
ity of the perisprit (which has been 
seen by clairvoyants elongated into a 
sort of luminous cord connecting the 
soul with the sleeping body), we are 
enabled to visit our friends in the 
other life." 



620 



Spiritualism, 



(326) " The more extended vision 
of the fluidic sphere shows (its in- 
habitants) a wide range of human ac- 
tions and intentions, aAd thus enables 
them to forecast with more or less 
correctness, and, when permitted to 
do so, to predict the same with more 
or less exactness, according to the 
flexibility of the medium." 

S. Augustine has a fine passage in 
his De Divinatione DcRmonutn^ cap. 
iii., comparing the keenness and 
swiftness (acritnonia sensHs et cderi- 
tas moHis) which the devils possess 
in virtue of their fluidic state {aerium 
corpus) to the vulture's knowledge, 
who, " when the carcase is thrown out, 
flies up from an unseen distance"; 
and to theosprey's, who, floating aloft, 
is said at that vast height to see the 
fish swimming beneath the waves, and 
fiercely smiting the water with out- 
stretched legs and talons, to ravish 



It. 



II 



I can conceive the attractions of 
such a system, combining, as it does, 
the ingenuity and fulness of Platon- 
ism with something of the color and 
rhythm of modern science. If any 
concordat is to be made between 
religious enthusiasm unattached and 
science, I do not think the chances 
of spiritualism are to be despised. 
Just at present, however, although 
some scientific men have taken up 
spiritualism, there can be no doubt 
that, on the whole, spiritualism and 
science are at daggers drawn. There 
is no mistaking the utter loathing ex- 
pressed in Professor Huxley's letter 
{ReP'f p. 229), in which he declines 
to take any part in the committee's 
investigation, on the ground that, 
"supposing the phenomena to be 
true, they do not interest me." He 
has a perfect right to compare spirit- 
ualistic talk to " the chatter of old 
women and curates in a cathedral 
town " ; but his anger has made him 
quite miss the logical point of the 



position. The privilege he declines 
as worthless is the opportunity, not 
of listening to such conversation, but 
of examining and testing the hitherto 
ignored faculty ; and this no man can 
seriously reject as uninteresting. 

There is no difficulty in understand- 
ing the bitterness with which modem 
science regards spiritualism. It had 
been for so long carrying everything 
before it ; it had weighed so many 
things on earth and in the heavens ; 
it had reduced so many apparently 
eccentric phenomena to law ; its dis- 
coveries had been so brilliant, and 
its still more brilliant projections 
were so plausible, that it flattered it- 
self that all idea of the supernatural 
was fairly relegated to the obscure 
past or to the obscurer future. The 
philosophy of the XlXth century 
^as being fast reduced to a bare 
statement of the contents of sensa- 
tion, and the philosophers of the day 
were looking for an easy victory over 
the most respectable of dogmatic 
traditions, when, lo ! full in the calm 
scientific light, the singularly gro- 
tesque form of spiritualism lifts its 
head, and the warrior who had so 
loudly challenged the king to mor- 
tal combat finds himself set upon by 
the court fool. When earth, accord- 
ing to the poet's dream, should be 
** lapped in universal law," up starts 
a mass of phenomena not merely in- 
explicable by any known law, but, in 
popular estimation at least, incom- 
patible with any hypothesis but that 
of supernatural agency. It has been 
the more intolerable that spiritualism 
had affected an imposing vocabulary 
of scientific terms, recommending it- 
self to its audience by an appeal to 
partially known laws, such as mag- 
netism and electricity, whilst really 
indulging in the most unblushing 
necromancy. Thus the scientific 
formulae have been given somewhat 
the role of captives in the triumph of 



spiritualism. 



621 



su|>er5tition. No wonder scientific 
men are angry. But whilst they " do 
well to be angry," I think they do by 
no means well to refuse to investi- 
gate the subject because on various 
accounts it is offensive to them. 

Scientific men frequently complain 
that spiritualists will not submit their 
seances to the test of a public exam- 
ination in broad daylight. Now, this is 
really not a fair statement of the case. 
Spiritualists say that they have 
found by experience that a certain 
class of phenomena require dark or 
twilight ; but a vast number of inde- 
p>endent physical manifestations do 
take place in broad daylight. On 
the other hand, when the scientific 
investigator insists upon interfering 
with the constituents of the stance, 
the arrangement of the circle, etc., 
the spiritualist answers, fairly enough, 
that, since under the most favorable 
conditions the success of the stance 
cannot be reckoned on, it would be 
absurd to allow the abandonment 
of what experience has shown to be 
a necessary condition of success. 
'* With the phenomena of magic we 
can experimentalize but little ; neither 
can we evoke the least of them at 
our good pleasure. We can but ob- 
serve them where they present them- 
selves, gather them into correspond- 
ing groups, and discover among 
them common features and common 
laws " (Perty, Mystisch, Erschei- 
nungen — Vorrede^ p. xi.) This being 
understood, spiritualists invite the 
representatives of science to make 
what observations they please in 
broad daylight, when, at least, they 
will be able to discount such disturb- 
ing conditions as they may not elim- 
inate. It is an oHus^ certainly, for 
the investigator to have to form a 
part of what is going on ; but this is 
no more than the detective undergoes 
when he plays the accomplice in or- 
der to discover the tliief. Say that 



spiritualism is a folly, a disease, what 
you will, it is at least of the highest 
scientific interest and practical im- 
portance that we should understand 
its conditions and action as thorough- 
ly as possible. If scientific men 
have no more serious scruple to 
keep them aloof than the dignity of 
their order — for, after all, this is what 
Mr. Huxley's excuses come to — the 
exigencies of the case require that it 
should be put aside. If the mountain 
will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet 
must go to the mountain. 

Nothing is more calculated to bring 
out the inherent diversities of the 
human mind than the investigation 
of spiritualism \ for it nd only in- 
volves an examination of some of the 
most difficult problems relating to 
evidence, but, indirectly at least, an 
examination of the whole process by 
which each individual concerned re- 
jects or assimilates his mental pabu- 
lum. Hence the extraordinary diffi- 
culty of conducting such an inquiry 
without incessant wrangling. The 
Committee of the Dialectical Society, 
to whose Report I have so often 
referred, is quite a case in point. Its 
Report is the record of a schism, 
of an irreconcilable clash of opinions. 
If the committee had waited until 
these had been reduced to harmony, 
the Report would never have been 
published. One of the principal mem- 
bers — Dr. Edmunds — was, I think, 
exceptionally tried. His own opin- 
ion was and is that spiritualism is a 
mixture of trickery and delusion ; but 
his own dining-room table habitually 
took sides against him, and this in 
the most treacherous manner. It 
used to wait until he had left the 
room, and then, in the presence of 
the other investigators, run around 
with nobody touching it. 

You might almost as well meddle 
with a man's digestion as with his 
belief. Prove that his convictions 



622 



Spiritualism, 



are groundless, and he feels as out- 
raged as though you had affixed a 
register to his waistcoat which show- 
ed the world that his favorite dish 
had disagreed with him. Dr. Garth 
Wilkinson {R^f., p. 234) is by no 
means singular in his experience 
" that nearly all truth is temperamen- 
tal to us, or given in the affections 
or intuitions, and that discussion and 
inquiry do little more than feed the 
temperament." And what a variety 
of temperaments will inevitably be 
found in any committee of investiga- 
tion — men who, like Mr. Lewes, con- 
sider the possibility of an hypothesis 
which cannot be rigidly tested un- 
worthy of consideration, or like Mr. 
Grattan Geary (^<^., p. 95), who, on 
finding that many eminent men are 
spiritualists, is simply impressed by 
the number of eminent men who are 
enjoying an unmerited reputation 
for sanity. After all, men make 
more account, as a general rule, of 
one little bit of experience, the real 
iorce of which is incommunicable, 
and which, when put into words for 
another's benefit, is often to the last 
degree trivial, than of all the argu- 
ments in the world. A charming ex- 
ample of this is given by Dr. H. 
More in a letter to Glanville, pub- 
lished at the beginning of the latter's 
Sadducismus Triumphaius : " I re- 
member an old gentleman in the 
country of my acquaintance, an ex- 
cellent justice of the peace, and a 
piece of a mathematician ; but what 
sort of a philosopher he was you 
may understand from a rhime of his 
own making, which he commended 
to me on my taking horse in his 
yard, which rhime is this : 

An ena is nothing till sense find out. 

Sense ends in notliinB, so naught goes abou t ; 

which rhime of his was so rapturous 
to himself that, at the reciting of the 
second verse, the old man turned 
himself about upon his toe as nim- 



bly as one may see a dry leaf 
whisk'd round in the comer of an or- 
chard-walk by some little whirlwind. 
With this philosopher I have had 
many discourses concerning the im- 
mortality of the soul and its distinc- 
tion. When I have run him quite 
down by reason, he would laugh and 
say, * That is logick, H./ calling mc 
by my Christian name. To which I 
replied, 'This is reason, Fr. L. (for so 
I and some others used to call him), 
but it seems you are for the new 
light and direct inspiration,' which, I 
confess, he was as little for as for the 
other; but I said so only by way of 
drollery to him in those times. But 
truth is, nothing but palpable expe- 
rience could move him ; and being a 
bold man, and fearing nothing, he 
told me he had tried all the ceremo- 
nies of conjuration he could to raise 
the devil or a spirit, and had a most 
earnest desire to meet with one, but 
never could do it. But this he told 
me: when he did not so much as 
think of it, while his servant was 
pulling off his boots in the hall, some 
invisible hand gave him such a clap 
on the back that it made all nng 
again. So, thought he, now I am 
invited to the converse of my spirit; 
and therefore, so soon as his boots 
were off and his shoes on, out he 
went into the yard and next field to 
find out the spirit that had given him 
this familiar clap on the back, but 
found none neither in the yard nor 
field next to it. But though he M 
not feel the stroke, albeit he thought 
it afterwards (finding nothing come 
of it) a mere delusion, yet, not long 
before his death, it had more force 
with him than all the philosophical 
arguments I could use to him, thou^^h 
I could wind him and nonplus as / 
pleased; but yet all my arguments, 
how solid soever, made no inipressio/i 
upon him. Wherefore, after several 
reasonings of this nature, whereby 1 



Spiritualism, 



623 



would prove the soul's distinction 
from the body, and its immortality, 
when nothing of such subtile consid- 
erations did any more execution on 
his mind than some lightning is said 
to do, though it melts the sword, 
upon the fuzzy consistency of the 
scabbard, well, said I, Fr. L., though 
none of these things move you, I 
have something still behind, and 
what you yourself acknowledged to 
me, that may do the business. Do 
you remember that clap on the back 
when your servant was pulling off 
your boots in the hall ? Assure 
yourself, said I, Fr. L., that goblin 
will be the first that will bid you 
welcome into the other world. Upon 
that his countenance changed most 
sensibly, and he was more confound- 
ed with this rubbing up of his mem- 
ory than with all the rational and 
philosophical arguments I could pro- 
duce." 

Whilst admitting that the Report 
of the Dialectical Society indicates 
a very considerable initial success, I 
cannot but feel the undiminished im- 
portance of W. M. Wilkinson's rather 
caustic warning (Rep,^ p. 231) : " The 
first thing in such an investigation is 
to assume nothing, not even that a 
committee of the Dialectical Society 
can 'obtain a satisfactory elucidation - 
of the phenomena.' No committee 
has ever done so yet. A committee 
of professors of Harvard University, 
amongst whom was Agassiz, after 
they had made an examination, did 
not think proper to publish their re- 
port, though they had published 
their intention to do so, and were 
frequently and publicly asked for it." 
The London Society has, at, least im- 
proved upon the example. 

I have maintained throughout that 
neither the hypothesis of trickery 
nor of delusion can be sustained for 
a moment as an adequate explana- 
tion of the phenomena of spiritual- 



ism, on grounds which may be thus 
summarized : i. Many of these phe- 
nomena outdo all conjuring. 2. 
They take place where the possibil- 
ity of trickery has been eliminated. 
3. The exhibition of imaginative 
excitement is, on the whole, incon- 
siderable, and there is no appreci- 
able proportion between the degrees 
of excitement and the phenomena. 
But, at the same time, I am far from 
maintaining that there is no trickery 
amongst the mediums, and no pre- 
disposition in the company tending 
more or less to disqualify them from 
detecting it. I am inclined to think 
that more or less trickery forms part 
of the stock in trade of most me- 
diums, but that its share in the pro- 
duction of phenomena is compara- 
tively slight. 

Mr. Browning's marvellous con- 
ception of Sludge the Medium is bas- 
ed, I admit, upon a real, existing 
unscrupulosity on the one side, and 
on a real, existing gullibility on the 
other; but these are magnified into 
colossal and perfectly unreal propor- 
tions so far as Sludge is to be taken 
as a representative of his class. In 
many cases a single fraud may fairly 
be taken to vitiate the whole projec- 
tion. If in a chemical demonstra- 
tion, for^ instance, we were to discover 
the secret substitution, by the opera- 
tor, of an ingredient not in the pro- 
gramme, we might fairly conclude 
that the whole thing was a pretence ; 
that there was nothing in it. But 
this is not necessarily so in the case 
of spiritualism ; the lie or trick does 
not always imply the total absence 
of other force, but may be an initial 
ceremony, preparing the company by 
quickening their expectations, and 
propitiating the evil influence by an 
acceptable sacrifice of human honor. 

It must be confessed that there is 
something very suggestive of trickery, 
and of silly trickery, in the attempts 



624 



Spiritualism. 



made from time to time by the spirits 
to flatter into good-humor the anti- 
spiritualistic critic of the company ; as 
when Professor Tyndall was dubbed 
" Poet of Science," • and when Dr. 
Edmunds' portrait was given in such 
glowing colors that, except in the 
character of a sceptic, he would have 
been ashamed to reproduce it {Re^ 
fort). Again, that something like 
systematic trickery has sometimes 
been attempted would seem to be 
established by the very remarkable 
evidence of Mr. W. Faulkener Sur- 
geon (R^p.y p. 125) : " He said that 
for years he had been in the habit 
of supplying magnets for the produc- 
tion of rapping sounds at spiritual 
seances. . . . Some of these magnets — 
as, for instance, the one he had brought 
with him — were made for concealment 
about the person ; while others were 
constructed with a view to their at- 
tachment to various articles of furni- 
ture. . . . He had never himself 
fitted up a house with these magnets, 
and he only knew of one house, Mr. 
Addison's, that is so fitted up. He 
also stated that he had not supplied 
any of these magnets for two or three 
years." 

• 

As regards the company's predis- 
position to believe in spiritualism, I 
admit that a sufficient predisposing 
reaction against materialism has taken 
place, giving room for a man to con- 
stitute what " Sludge " calls 

** Vour peacock perch, pet post 
To strut, and spread the tail, and squawk upon, 
Just as you thought, much as you might ex- 
pect. 
There be more thing^s in heaven and earth, 
Horatio." 

Nay, I admit that the following 
fiercely graphic catalogue of the me- 
dium's patrons only sins by omission : 

t. *' Fools who are smitten by Imaginary ante- 
cedent probabilities. 

• TyndaH, Scitmti^c Scrm/t, 



a. . . . ** their opposites 

Who never did at bottom o( their hearts 
Believe for a moment— mea emasculate. 
Blank of belief, who played, as eunuchs ube, 
With superstition safely. 

3. *' The other picker-up of pearl 

From dung-heaps, ay, your literary man, 
Who draws on ois kid gloves to plsy with 

Sludge 
Daintily and discreetly ; shakes a dost 
Of the doctrine, flavors thence he well knows 

how 
The narrative or the novel — half believes 
All for the book's sake, and the public stare, 
And the cash that's God's sole solid in this 

world. 

4. " There's a more hateful kind of foolery— 
The social sage's Solomon of saloons 
And philosophic diner-out, the fribble 
Who wants a doctrine for a choppifig*blodt 
To try the edge of his faculty upon ; 
Prove how much common sense he'll back 

and hew 
In the critical minute 'twixt the soup and fish: 
These were my patrons. . . ." 

And far stronger than any such 
predispositions is the intense and 
' widespread feeling, so pathetic even 
in its uncouthest manifestations, to 
which Dr. Edmunds refers {H^f.f p. 
57) : " Prior to the experience gained 
in this inquiry, I never realized the 
vast hold which the supernatural has 
upon mankind. Minds which hare 
broken away from the commonplace 
lines of faith, and thrown overboard 
their belief in revealed religion, have 
not cast out. the longing after immor- 
tality." And I may add, that when 
all religious assurance of what the 
soul must needs desire is absent, the 
longing for some visible, palpable 
witness becomes proportionably in- 
tenser. And so just now, from the 
very lack of faith, there is an excep- 
tionally vehement desire that some 
one should come with unmistakable 
credentials from beyond the grave, 
and make us see, and feel, and kno'A* 
what we cannot help longing for; and 
it is difficult to say to what extent 
the wish may not be father to the 
thought. 

I admit that all this constitutes a" 
adverse momentum of antecedent pro- 
bability. But, after all, spiritualists. 
as a whole, are not persons who have 
given any indications that this yearn- 



Spiritualism, 



625 



ing has so wnolly overbalanced their 
critical faculty as to make them in- 
competent witnesses. Moreover, we 
have, as witnesses to spiritualistic 
phenomena, not merely the spiritual- 
ists proper, but persons who, as re- 
gards the predominance of this sen- 
timent, are their extremest opposites — 
viz., the advocates of psychic force. 
It must be admitted that these per- 
sons are either without the yearning 
for evidence of a future life, or at 
least hold it iu complete subordina* 
tion to the critical faculty. 

It may easily be contended that I 
have been overrating the progress 
and prospects of spiritualism, for that 
the public prints as a rule make fun 
of it. I may be reminded that Mr. 
Browning has exposed it, in the 
region of poetry, in his Sludge the 
Medium ; Professor Tyndall in that 
of prose, in his delicious account of 
a s6ance^ in which he discomfits the 
medium and plays spirits himself, to 
the great edification of the company, 
who rebuke him solemnly for his 
want of faith in his own make-be- 
lieve ; that the keen critics of the 
Saturday and the BsUl Mall invari- 
ably treat spiritualism as unmitigated 
humbug. 

In reply, I point to the Report ; to 
the testimony of an antagonist like 
Mr. Geary, as to the number of emi- 
nent men who believe in spiritualism ; 
to the notorious fact that scientific 
men, as a whole, in Germany and 
America have ceased to regard spirit- 
ualism as a mere delusion; to the 
recent correspondence in the Ttmes^ 
and particularly to the article of 
December 26, 1872, wherein the 
writer, after reviewing the Report^ ex- 
claims that " it is high time compe- 
tent hands undertook the unravel- 
ling of this gordian knot. It must 
he fairly and patiently unravelled, 
^nd not cut through. The slash of 
tbei^Iexandrian blade has been tried 
VOL. xviii. — 40 



often enough, and has never sufficed* 
Scientific men forget that, in the 
matter of spiritualism, they must 
make themselves fools in order that 
they may become wise." The writer 
then proceeds to relate how he went 
o£f to examine for himself. He tells 
us that he and his friend enter a 
room, the furniture of which consist- 
ed of a table and a few cane-bottom- 
ed chairs, which he previously ex- 
amines ; that in an inner room, during 
a dark stance, in which the medium's 
hands and feet have been carefully 
secured, a chair is lifted up and 
thrown upon the table; that after- 
wards, in the outer room, " the furni- 
ture became quite lively, and this 
in broad daylight; a chair jumped 
three or four yards across the carpet, 
our hat fell to our feet, and numer- 
ous other phenomena occurred " ; 
but the mediums are firee, and he is 
nervous about them. In another 
stance, the same writer, whilst the 
medium's hands and feet are in cus- 
tody, has various things thrust into 
his hand, and once ^'felt distinctly 
the touch of a large finger and 
thumb." Several times during the 
stance he takes the opportunity, free- 
ly accorded, of carefully searching 
under the table with a lamp. He 
confesses there was nothing during 
the whole evening, except the phe- 
nomena themselves, to suggest im- 
posture. " We tried our best to detect 
it, but found no trace of it." And 
then he ends with ^'a slash of the 
Alexandrian blade," after all, and 
suggests that still trickery it must be. 
Spiritualism indubitably affords, and 
in all probability will continue to 
afford, an abundant and legitimate 
field for the satirist of human folly, 
even when its substantial reality has 
been admitted; for it is a con- 
descension to a great vulgar want, 
and its supplies are detailed, for the 
most part, through the unwashed fin- 



626 



Spiritualism, 



gers of very scurvy fellows indeed. 
Neither is there anything in the dis- 
cipline necessary for the development 
of a medium, so far as I know, which 
makes his refinement as a class pro- 
bable. 

Educated men are naturally shy 
of admitting their connection with 
anything involving so much that is 
low and disagreeable, except as a 
sort of " casual ward '* experience ; 
just as men are usually shy of its 
being known that they eat strange 
meats, such as rats, out of siege-time. 
But once let an heroic rat-eater 
come forward, impelled by a sense 
of public duty, to tell the world what 
a noble viand it is neglecting, when, 
lo ! it appears, from confessions on this 
side and on that, that numbers know 
all about it, and have been secretly 
indulging in the. rat feast. So it is 
with spiritualism and its adherents ; it 
is only now and again that the cur- 
tain is lifted up, and we are enabled 
to appreciate the hold which it is 
steadily making good on the public 
imagination. 

As to the line taken by the Ihll 
Mali and the Saturday^ the ques- 
tion is whether the critics who write 
in these periodicals could, under any 
circumstances, adapt their method 
and style, I will not say to the sup- 
port, but to the fair discussion, of an 
uncouth, ill-conditioned, sensational 
enthusiasm like spiritualism. As it 
was the Crusader's boast that he 
never touched the unbeliever save 
with the sword, so, it would seem, 
some of our critics plume themselves 
upon never touching enthusiasm but 
with a sneer. Our present school 
of critics is the result of a reaction 
from the enthusiastic Young England 
school of forty years ago, who were 
romanticists, patronizing religious en- 
thusiasm as one of the many forms 
of romance. We can hardly expect 



that a school which is inclined to re- 
gard all religious sentiment as some- 
thing essentially weak and finikin; 
which can talk of Joan of Arc as 
a " crazy servant-girl," * should be 
civil to an exhibition of enthusiasm 
much weaker, and vulgar to boot. 
Neither do I see how it would be 
possible to write a trenchant cri^que 
of such a nondescript medley, ex- 
cept by treating it as a form of mania. 
It admits of no precise scientific 
treatment, for it falls under no one 
category. Spiritualism, to discuss, 
not to banter, would be as uncon- 
genial a subject for the I^ll Mall 
or the Saturday as a case oi chronic 
bronchitis for a brilliant public ope- 
rator. 

When the " Jupiter " of the latter 
days is engaged in duly chronicling, 
for the edification of the pubUc, 
the splendid spiritualistic phenomena 
with which Antichrist will dazzle the 
worid, should the Fall Mall and 
Saturday still exist, we should not 
look for them even then amongst the 
enthusiastic crowd. Though em- 
ployed in the government interest, 
they will surely be allowed to do 
their old work in their old way, and 
we shall find them engaged i? the 
congenial task of mocking the last 
miracles by which Enoch and Elias 
are gathering in the remnant of the 
elect. 

It may be insisted that the one 
effectual way of repressing spiritual- 
ism is to pooh-pooh it. Surely it )S 
too late; you must give its many 
sober adherents some better reason 
against trusting their own senses 
than its making other people laugh. 

Assuredly spiritualism can never 
be safely despised until its reality 
has been discounted and its author 
recognized. 

• This was in Uic S^tctmUr^ but surely not of »«• 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



627 



THE FARM OF MUICERON. 



BY MARIE RHEIL. 



PXOM THB RBVUB DU MONDB CATHOLIQUB. 



XII. 



The Sunday after the last day of 
the harvest, M. le Marquis invited all 
the boys up to the chateau, where a 
magnificent banquet was prepared, 
and they were expected to remain 
until the evening. He ordered a 
splendid repast, and music besides; 
tJie principal barn, which ordinarily 
was crammed full at this season, but 
that, owing to the bad season, was 
comparatively empty, was decorated 
for the occasion. Our master desired 
that nothing should be spared to 
make the f^te a great success. All 
the fine linen of the chateau — and 
the closets were heaping-full of it — 
the china, and silver were put into 
requisition, so that there never was 
given a more superb banquet to 
great personages than to our delight- 
ed villagers. As for the fricass^e^ it 
is remembered to this day; it was 
composed, to commence with, of a 
dozen kinds of poultry, so well dis- 
guised under different sauces that 
one ate chicken in confidence as 
chicken, because it was so written on 
little strips of paper laid beside each 
plate, but without being positive that 
it was not turkey or pigeon ; and 
every one agreed in acknowledging 
that such a delicious compound had 
never passed down country throats, 
and that the wines, if possible, sur- 
passed the eating ; so that the good 
fellows commenced to be merry and 
perfectly happy when the roast ap- 
peared. 

Of this roast I will say a word be- 
fore passing to other things, for I 



fancy you have seldom seen it equal- 
led. With all respect, imagine a huge 
hog, weighing at least a hundred 
pounds, roasted whole, beautifully 
gilded, and trimmed with ribbons, and 
reposing so quietly on a plank cover- 
ed with water-cresses you would 
have thought him asleep. 

It was really a curious and most 
appetizing sight, and sufficiently rare 
to be remarked ; but see how stupid 
some people are ! On seeing this 
superb dish, whose delicious perfume 
would have brought the dead back 
to life — that is to say, if they were 
hungry — some of the fellows said 
that M. le Marquis might have better 
chosen another roast, as pork was 
something they ate all through the 
year. Whereupon Master Ruinard, 
the head-cook of the chateau, made 
a good-natured grimace, and apostro- 
phized them as a heap of fools, but 
without any other sign of displeasure ; 
and thenr seizing his big knife, that 
he sharpened with a knowing air, he 
cut the animal open, and out tumbled 
snipe, woodcock, rennets, and par- 
tridges, done to a turn, and of which 
each one had his good share. As 
for the hog, no one touched it, which 
proved two things — first, that you 
must not speak too soon ; secondly, 
that when a great lord gives an enter- 
tainment, it is always sure to be re- 
markably fine. 

At the dessert, which was abun- 
dant in pastry, ice-cream, and fresh 
and dried fruits, they served a deli- 
cate wine, the color of old straw, 
the name of which I don't know ex- 
actly, but which was sweet and not 



6?8 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



at all disagreeable. At this time, M. 
le Marquis, accompanied by made- 
moiselle, Dame Berthe, and Jeannette, 
entered and mingled with the guests, 
who rose and bowed low. Our good 
master thanked the young men for 
the great service they had rendered 
him ; and as he could not drink with 
each one, he touched his glass to 
that of Jean-Louis, saying it was to 
the health of all the commune. They 
cried, " Long live M. le Marquis 1" 
until the roof shook ; and as their 
heads were as heated as the boilers 
at the big yearly wash, they whisper- 
ed among themselves that it would 
be well to carry Jean-Louis again in 
triumph, as much to please the mas- 
ter as to render justice to him who 
was the cause of all this festivity. 

Now, our Jean-Louis was the only 
one who remained composed after 
all this eating and drinking. He 
had eaten with good appetite, and 
fully quenched his thirst, but not one 
mouthful more than was necessary. 
He heard all that was said without 
appearing to listen ; and when others 
might have felt vain, he was displeas- 
ed ; he therefore watched his chance, 
slid under the table, and, working his 
way like an eel between the legs of 
his comrades, who were too busily 
occupied to notice him, in three 
seconds was out of the door, running 
for dear life, for fear of being caught. 

He was delighted to breathe the 
fresh air, and did not slacken his 
pace until he had gone a good quarter 
of a league, and was near Muiceron. 
Then he stopped to take breath, 
laughing aloud at the good trick he 
had played. 

"Thank goodness!" thought he, 
" I have at last escaped. They can 
run as fast as they choose now ; there 
is no chance of catching up with me. 
What would M. le Marquis and the 
family have thought to have seen 
me hoisted up on the shoulders of 



those half-tipsy fellows, and paraded 
around the court, like a learned beast 
on a fair-ground ? Not knowing that 
I bad come to the chiteau only to 
oblige the master, who had besides 
given me a valuable watch, it would 
have looked as though I wished to 
receive in vain applause what I re- 
fused in money. None of that, none 
of that for me ; there is enough non- 
sense going on, without ray mixing 
myself up in it. They cah drink and 
dance until sunrise to-morrow, if they 
so please, it is all the same to me ; 
and I will go home to bed, after hav- 
ing told all to my dear mother, who 
will not fail to approve of my conduct, 
and laugh heartily at my escape." 

As he said this to himself, he enter- 
ed the wood, of which we have al- 
ready spoken, that skirts La Range 
and throws its shade nearly to the 
fir-trees which surround Muiceron. 
It was such a delightful spot, either 
by night or day, that it was difficult 
to pass through it without feeling a 
disposition to loiter and meditate, 
particularly for such a dreamer as 
Jean-Louis. After all, now that he 
was safe, there was nothing to hurry 
him home for at least half an hour. 
He therefore put his hands in his 
pockets, and strolled along, resting 
both mind and body in a dreamy 
reverie for the benefit of the one, and 
walking slowly to the great good of 
the other. 

Really, the evening was delicious. 
The great heat of the day had been 
succeeded by a fi-esh breeze, which, 
passing over the orchards around, 
brought into the wood the sweet 
odor of young fruit, mingled with 
that of the foliage and bark of the 
trees, damp with the August sap. 
The hum of insects was heard^ and 
not far off the joyous murmur of the 
stream leaping over the stones. As 
the ground had been thoroughly 
soaked for several weeks past, quan- 



The Farm of Muiceran. 



629 



titles of wild flowers strewed the soil, 
and added to the balmy air a taste 
of spring, entirely out of season. 
You surely must have felt, at some 
time or other, how such nights and 
such scenes enervate the brain. The 
will cannot resist the bewitching in- 
fluence ; insensibly we become dream- 
ers, and feel a strong desire to 
converse with the stars. August 
nights especially are irresistible, and 
I imagine no one, unless somebody 
depraved by wicked deeds and 
thoughts, or a bom idiot, can fail 
to understand and acknowledge the 
effect. 

Judge if our Jean-Louis, with his 
pure soul and young heart of twenty 
years, was happy in the midst of 
these gifts of the good God. He 
was like a child who hears for the 
flrst time the sound of the bagpipes ; 
and I beg you will not sneer at this 
comparison, for the reveries of an in- 
nocent heart have precisely the same 
gentle effect on the soul as the grand 
harmonies that roll through vast 
cathedrals on the great festivals of 
the church. 

Doubtless, that he might better 
listen to this music, he seated him- 
self on the moss at the bottom of a 
birch-tree, rested his head against 
the trunk, and looked up at the 
leaves, shaken by the wind, his feet 
crossed, and in the most comfortable 
position possible, to dream at his ease. 
Now, whether he was more fatigued 
than he imagined, on account of his 
week's hard labor, or whether the 
unusual feasting at the chdteau made 
him drowsy, certain it is that he first 
closed one eye, then both, and ended 
by falling as soundly asleep as 
though he were in his bed at Mui- 
ceron. 

It happened that, during this time, 
a storm arose behind the hill of 
Chaumier, to the right of the river 
that runs through the parish of Val- 



Saint and Ordonniers — something 
which our sleeper had not foreseen, 
although he was very expert in 
judging of the weather. Ordinarily, 
the river cuts the thunder-clouds, so 
that this side of La Range is seldom 
injured by storms; but this time it 
was not so. At the end of an hour 
or two that his sleep lasted, Jean- 
Louis was suddenly awakened by a 
clap of thunder which nearly deaf- 
ened him ; and in an instant the rain 
commenced to fall in great drops 
that came down on his face, and of 
which he received the full benefit as 
he lay stretched out on the grass. 

He rose at a bound, and started 
off* on a gallop, that his best clothes 
might not be injured. Muiceron 
was not far distant, and the storm 
had just commenced; he therefore 
hoped to reach the house in time to 
escape it. Not that he thought only 
of his costume, like a vain, effeminate 
boy, but because his mother Pierrette 
was very careful, and did not like to 
see his Sunday suit spoiled or spotted 
with the rain. 

But the storm ran faster than he ; 
the rain fell as from a great watering- 
pot in the trees, lightning glared on 
all sides at once, and one would have 
said that two thunder-clouds were 
warring against each other, trying 
to see which could show the greatest 
anger. 

In the midst of this infernal noise, 
Jean-Louis suddenly saw what he 
thought, by the flash of lightning, to 
b& a little brown form trotting before 
him in the middle of the path. He 
was not a boy to be alarmed by 
the raw-head-and-bloody-bones stories 
with which we frighten children to 
make them behave, and which many 
grown-up men, with beards on their 
chin, half believe to be true ; but, 
nevertheless, the thing appeared 
quite unusual. He hastened his 
steps, and, as sometimes he could see 



630 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



in the lightning-glare as well as at 
noon-day, he soon recognized the 
costume of the women of the coun- 
try, or at least the cloak they throw 
over their clothes when the weather 
is threatening. 

" Oh !" said the kind-hearted Jean- 
net, " here is a poor little thing half 
frightened to death on account of 
the storm. I must catch up with her, 
and offer to take her to the village." 

For Jean-Louis, although he had 
very little ever to do with girls, was 
so kindly disposed he was always 
ready to be of service to his neigh- 
bors, whether they wore blouses or 
petticoats. 

But as he hurried on, that he 
might put in practice his charitable 
thought, there came a flash of light- 
ning that seemed to set the woods 
on fire, and, immediately after, a ter- 
rible clap of thunder as loud as 
though the heavens were rent asun- 
der. Jeannet involuntarily closed 
his eyes, and stopped short, fastened 
to the ground like a stake. It was 
what the savants call — an electric 
shock. But don't expect me to ex- 
plain that expression, for I know 
nothing about it, and, besides, I 
don't worry my head about such 
things. 

When our boy opened his eyes, 
after one or two seconds, which ap- 
peared to him very long, his first 
care was to explore the path, in order 
that he might discover the unknown 
country-girl ; but there was nowhere 
to be seen a trace of a girl, a cloak, 
or anything that resembled a human 
being. 

" Well, this is at least singular," 
said he very uneasily. " Has my sight 
grown dim ? No ; I would stake my 
head that I saw before me a flesh - 
and-bone woman. I saw it — that I 
am positive and sure. If she has 
been hurt by this stroke of lightning, 
which must surely have fallen near 



here, she must be lying on the ground ; 
for I have never heard that the storm 
kills people by making them melt 
like snow under the March sun." 

This sudden disappearance excit- 
ed him to such a degree that, with- 
out thinking of the rain, which was 
pouring down in torrents, and had 
drenched his new coat of Vierzon 
cloth, he resolved to enter the copse, 
at the risk of losing his way, and 
search around until he would discov- 
er the lost girl. But before leaving 
the beaten path, by a sudden in- 
spiration, he cried out with a loud 
voice : 

"If there is any one here who 
needs assistance, let her speak. I 
will bring two strong arms to the 
rescue." 

Instantly a faint voice, stifled and 
weeping, replied, " Oh ! for S. Syl- 
vain's sake, good people, have mercy 
on me !" 

" Holy Virgin Mary !" cried Jean- 
Louis, " is not that the voice of my 
sister Jeannette? She is the last 
person for three leagues around I 
would have expected to find in such 
a plight at this hour of the night. 
But I must be mistaken ; it can't be 
possible." 

And with that, more dead than 
alive from the violent palpitation of 
the heart which suadenly seized 
him, Jean- Louis rushed towards a 
thicket of young chestnut- trees that 
bordered the path, and from which 
seemed to come the weak, mournful 
voice that implored pity. He pushed 
aside the branches with a vigorous 
hand, and soon discovered a girl, in 
cloak and hood, crouched upon the 
ground, and so doubled up in a heap 
she could have been mistaken at 
first sight for a large ant-heap or 
bundle of old rags left there by some 
passing beggar. 

" For the love of our Lord and 
Saviour, tell me who you are, and 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



631 



don't be afraid of me," said Jeannet, 
leaning over the poor little thing. 

She raised her head, and instantly 
let it fall again on her knees, around 
which her hands were clasped; but 
as the lightning continued without 
ceasing a moment, the movement 
sufficed for Jean- Louis to recognize 
her. 

It was really Jeanne Ragaud, but 
so paralyzed with fear, so wet and 
fainting, she seemed about to breathe 
her last. Her piteous moans were 
enough to break one's heart. Her 
whole body trembled, and thus hud- 
dled up in the middle of the mud in 
the dense underbrush, her situation 
was so perilous I verily believe she 
would have met her death in that 
lonely spot, but for the assistance sent 
by Heaven. 

"Jeanne, Jeanne!" cried Jean- 
Louis, coming close to her, "keep 
up your courage, my darling. Rouse 
up, I beg of you. Be brave ; you are 
already chilled through. It is danger- 
ous to remain in the woods in such a 
storm." 

But the poor little creature did not 
move. The fright and cold of the 
terrible tempest had totally bewilder- 
ed her. Jeannet vainly shook her by 
the shoulders, trying to raise her on 
her feet, and to unclasp her hands, 
which had stiffened around her knees. 
He could not make her change her 
position in the least. What could be 
done? He did not know precisely 
how long she had wandered in the 
wood before falling down; and al- 
though he had just heard her speak 
a moment before, he feared that she 
was about to die, as perhaps she had 
been struck by lightning. 

Pie made the sign of the cross, and 
invoked the angels of paradise. Im- 
mediately he remembered that not 
far from this grove was a miserable 
cabin, used by the wood-cutters, 
half tumbling down, but still suffi- 



ciently sound to shelter a Christian. 
This thought gave him fresh strength ; 
and taking the little thing, doubled 
up as she was, in his arms, he raised 
her from the ground, and carried her, 
without stopping, to the wretched 
hut. 

Well was it that he thought of 
this retreat, and, still better, that it 
was not far distant ; for Jeannette, al- 
though slender and not tall, was in 
a dead faint, and consequently so 
heavy that Jeannet was perfectly ex- 
hausted when he reached the shel- 
ter. 

By a still greater mercy, he had 
his flint in his pocket, and, luckily, it 
had not been injured by the damp- 
ness. He thus was able to strike a 
light, after having laid the poor girl 
on the dry earthen floor. He quick- 
ly lighted some handfuls of brush 
and straw that strewed the ground, 
and by their smoky light discovered, 
in a comer of the cabin, a good moss 
mattress, which the wood-men used 
when they came to sleep in the 
place, and near by a little board, up- 
on which laid a packet of auribus — 
little resin candles very much used in 
our province. 

" May God be praised for helping 
me !" thought the brave boy, delight- 
ed at having found poor little Jean- 
nette. "It is a poor bed-room in 
comparison with the fine apartments 
at the chateau, but worth a palace 
when we think of the thicket just 
now." 

He unfastened his sister's cloak, 
with a thousand respectful precau- 
tions, just as he would have touched 
the veil that covers the statue of 
Our Lady, and in the same manner 
took off" her shoes and stockings, 
which he found very difficult, as, ow- 
ing to the dampness, the fine thread 
stockings clung tightly to the skin. 
That accomplished, he built up the 
fire with all the rubbish he could find, 



632 



The Farm of Muiceran. 



and, turning the moss mattress in such 
a manner that Jeannette's feet were 
in front of the fire, he stretched her 
gently upon it, and seated himself 
beside her, waiting for her to recover 
her senses. 

Thus passed half an hour without 
the little one stirring; fortunately, 
her cloak was very thick, so that the 
rest of her clothes were not wet, and 
he could thus hope for the best. 
But it was the first time Jeannet had 
ever watched by the side of a faint- 
ing girl ; and, not knowing by expe- 
rience what to do in such a case, the 
time seemed to him very long be- 
fore she revived He himself was 
dripping wet, and, although he scarce- 
ly gave it a thought, he shivered as 
one who might soon have the chills- 
and-fever. 

" It would be very queer if I also 
should have an inclination to faint ; 
what then would become of us ?" 
thought Jean-Louis, who really began 
to feel very uncomfortable. 

As this idea entered his head, Jean- 
nette moved her little feet before the 
fire, and began to sigh, and then to 
yawn, which was the best sign that 
there was no danger of dying, as 
there is always hope as long as a 
sick person can yawn. A minute 
afterwards, she raised herself, and 
looked around with astonished eyes 
that asked an explanation. 

"Well," said the happy Jeannet, 
** how do you feel, my poor little sis- 
ter ?" 

" Is it you ?" she asked, still trem- 
bling. " O Jeannet ! how frightened 
I was. " 

And as she spoke, she tried to 
throw her arms around his neck, like 
a child who seeks refuge in his mo- 
ther's breast. Jean-Louis drew back 
— something which was entirely dif- 
ferent from his usual manner of re- 
ceiving her caresses. 

•* Are you angry ?" said she. " I 



have done nothing wrong, except t< 
venture out to-night to return home 
but the weather was not bad when \ 
started, and I did not dream of sucl 
a storm." 

" I angry ? Why should 1 be ?" cri 
ed Jean-Louis, kissing both her hands 
" No, no, my pet ; on the contrary, ] 
am most happy to see you a little re- 
stored. But I am thoroughly drench- 
ed with the rain; that is the reason ] 
don't wish you to touch me." 

" That is true," said she ; " I did 
not notice it before. What were you 
doing before this good fire, instead 
of drying yourself ?" 

" I was looking at you," replied 
Jeannet innocently. 

" Big goose !" cried the little thing 
laughing heartily with her usual good 
humor. " Hadn't you any more sense 
than that? And now you are just 
ready to catch the ague." 

" Don't be uneasy, Jeannette; it is 
not the first time I have had a check 
of perspiration. What I hope is that 
you will not suffer by this adven- 
ture, any more than I. But tell me, 
why did you run away from the fete 
at the very moment the dancing was 
about to commence ?" 

" I cannot say why," replied Jean- 
nette. "Sometimes we have ideas 
we must follow, whether or no. It 
is as though some one stronger than 
we were pushing us by the shoulders 
the way he wished us to go. To 
speak frankly, I saw you leave has- 
tily, and I instantly became more 
serious, and felt less desire to be 
amused. I said to myself, Doubtless 
Jeannet, who is better than I, knows 
that father and mother are alone 
waiting for him at Muiceron, and he 
cannot bear the thought of their sit- 
ting up for him until late at night. 
And I, what am I doing ? Am I 
not also a child of the house ? Jean- 
net will relate all that happened at 
the dinner, and they will ask, * And 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



633 



Jeannette?* *0h! yes, Jeannette; 
does Jeannette think of anything else 
but amusing herself and talking non- 
sense far away from her parents?' 
At these thoughts my heart throb- 
bed so I nearly burst into tears; 
just then mademoiselle was busy 
replying to the compliments every 
one was offering her; so I left the 
bam, and went after my cloak, and, 
without further reflection, started for 
Muiceron. You know how afraid 
I am of thunder and lightning; 
when I saw the storm coming up, I 
became bewildered, and don't know 
which way I went, but I suppose it 
was the wrong one. When I regain- 
ed what I thought was the right 
path, the storm was still raging, and 
I would have died of fright, but for 
you, my old fellow." 

" Thank God you escaped this 
time!" said Jean-Louis, very much 
touched by the simple recital, which 
showed the good heart of the little 
girl; "but, nevertheless, you ran a 
great risk. Now, Jeannette, let us 
hurry home ; we must quit this place, 
as it must be late." 

** I suppose it is," said she. 
** Haven't you your watch to see what 
time it is ?" 

" I left it hanging up in my room," 
replied Jeannet. " I did not wish 
to wear it when at dinner in the 
chiteau, for fear it might look as 
though I wished to display it before 
those who had none ; and it is well 
I did not take it, as it would have 
been ruined by the rain." 

" How can I walk barefooted ?" 
asked Jeannette. " I can't put on 
my wet stockings." 

" And your shoes still less," replied 
her brother, laughing. " But if you 
will let me, Jeannette, I can carry 
you." 

" Poor Jeannet ! Not at all ; it 
would be too much for you," said 
she. *' Go to Muiceron, and bring me 



my wooden shoes. It is all quiet now 
outside ; I don't hear any noise, and 
I will not be afraid to remain here 
alone for a little while." 

It was really the best and shortest 
way of getting over the difficulty. 
Jean-Louis opened the door of the 
cabin, and saw that the sky was 
clear and bright ; not this time with 
the lightning's glare, but with the 
soft rays of the moon and beautiful 
stars of the good God. All was 
quiet and peaceful, except that great 
drops fell from the trees, still wet 
with the heavy rain, and that the 
ruts in the road were filled with 
water, that made them look like little 
rivulets. 

" Watch the fire, Jeannette, and be 
patient ten minutes," said he ; " and 
in two strides I will be there and 
back again." 

It took a little longer time than 
that to return, as on entering the 
farm he met Ragaud, who was look- 
ing to see if the storm had injured 
the palings around the barn-yard, 
and was therefore obliged to stop 
and in a few words relate the night's 
adventure. 

The good man, while grumbling 
and scolding at the imprudence of 
his daughter, who, he said, had no 
more sense than a child six years old, 
felt fearfully anxious, as was easily 
shown by the rapid questions he ask- 
ed Jean- Louis. To assure himself that 
nothing was kept behind, and that 
the boy, from kindness of heart, had 
not disguised the truth, he hastily 
took down his big woollen scarf from 
the hook, and hurried off. 

" I will lecture the giddy child 
well," said he. " Go before, Jeannet ; 
I will follow you. It is not far, so 
hurry." 

" Mother will be anxious," said 
Jeannet " Let me go alone ; I will be 
back the sooner." 

" Your mother has been asleep a 



634 



The Farm of Muiceron, 



long time," replied Ragaud, " or else 
she would have been on our heels 
before this, and we would have had 
to carry her back also. Fasten the 
bolt, without any noise, and let us be 
off." 

With that they started. Ragaud 
was quick and light for his age, and 
they proceeded at a rapid rate, which 
soon brought them to their journey's 
end. Jean-Louis carried a bright 
lantern and a bundle of woollen stock- 
ings and wooden shoes he had taken 
at random out of the chest ; for it was 
all-important that Jeannette's feet 
should be well warmed, and that she 
should be in her comfortable bed as 
soon as possible, so as to prevent 
fresh chills. 

It was nearly midnight when they 
reached the hut, which enables us to 
see what a long time had elapsed 
since Jean-Louis' flight from the 
chateau, what a good sound sleep 
he had had in the wood, and proves 
that the storm and Jeannette's swoon 
were not slight affairs. 

As soon as they entered — ^Jeannet 
the first, Ragaud behind him — they 
saw that the lantern was a wise pre- 
caution. The heap of brush-wood 
was burnt up, and there was no 
light, except from a little pile of red 
ashes, as even the resin candle glued 
to the wall was flickering and falling 
in big drops, which announced its 
speedy death. 

" Here we are, my Jeanne," cried 
Jean-Louis from the threshold of the 
door. " Father is with me, and we 
have brought fresh lights." 

No answer. The child was so 
weak and faint, it looked as though 
she had swooned again. Ragaud, 
at this sight, forgot the scolding he 
intended giving his daughter by way 
of welcome, and, leaning over her, 
placed his hand on her forehead, 
which was icy cold. 

*' She is very ill, I tell you," mur- 



mured the good man. "Bring the 
lantern here, Jeannet. God have 
mercy on me, how pale the poor 
child is I . . . Jeanne, Jeanne, don't 
you know us ?" 

" Ah 1 yes, niy father," she whis- 
pered, looking languidly at him. '^ I 
hear you, but I am so sleepy , . . 
so sleepy ... I can't talk." 

" But you must wake up, and leave 
this place," said Ragaud. " Try and 
rouse yourself, my child ; in five min- 
utes we will be at the house." 

She made the effort, and tried to 
stand on her feet; but for Jeannet, 
who was near and caught her, she 
would have fallen down. 

" I am so tired !" she said again, 
dosing her eyes. 

I " Shall we carry you on a chair 
to see ilu king?'^ asked Jean -Louis. 
" Perhaps that will be the best way." 

" Yes, yes," said she, smiling at 
this remembrance of her childhood; 
" that will be fun." 

Undoubtedly you know what is a 
chair to see the king? It is a child's 
play, which generally is done by 
three persons — two boys and a girl ; 
the boys clasp hands in such a man- 
ner that a good seat is made for the 
girl, who thus, without any fatigue to 
the bearers, can be carried as easily 
as in a carriage. 

Ragaud highly approved of the 
idea. Jeannet, who thought of every- 
thing, tied the lantern to a piece of 
cord, and suspended it to Jeannette's 
neck, who recovered enough strength 
to laugh ; and thus, well lighted and 
very happy, they started on their re- 
turn to the farm, which they soon 
reached safe and sound. 

They entered Muiceron by the 
kitchen door, so softly that Pierrette, 
who was sleeping in the big front 
room, did not hear the slightest 
noise. Jeannette appeared perfectly 
restored ; she was gay, although still 
pale and shivering ; but she assured 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



63s 



them the warmth of the bed would 
soon make her feel better. So they 
embraced, and, after many good- 
nights, retired to their rooms. 

The next morning Ragaud told 
Pierrette all the events of the pre- 
ceding night, but forbade her entering 
Jeannette's room, for fear she .might 
be awakened too soon after her great 
fatigue; but at the same time, unable 
to restrain his own curiosity, he took 
off his wooden shoes, softly lifted the 
latch, walked on tiptoe to the bed, 
and peeped between the curtains, 
just to see, for a second, how the 
child was resting. 

Alas! poor Jeannette was sitting 
up in bed, her face on fire, her eyes 
wandering in delirium, her whole 
body burning with fever. She knew 
no one. Her excitement was so great 
she beat the air with her bare arms, 
while her throat was so choked up 
the voice was nearly stifled. Ragaud 
thought she was dying ; he uttered a 
loud cry, which brought Pierrette to 
the bedside, where the poor mother 
fell down, half fainting with grief and 
fright. 

In an instant the whole farm was 
in a tumult. Big Marion set up a 
blubbering, crying that the child was 
dying; the cow-herds and stable- 
boys burst into the room, and, seeing 
every one in tears, began to whine 
in their turn without exactly know- 
ing why. Jean-Louis alone, when 
he saw his sister's dreadful condition, 
did not shed a tear or make a sound, 
but, darting out of the room like an 
arrow, leaped on a horse's bare back, 
and galloped off for the doctor, who 
lived half a league beyond Val-Saint, 
towards the large town of Preuilly. 

By good fortune, he found him at 
home, as it was quite early; and, 
while explaining the pressing case 
that brought him, spied the doctor's 
wagon under the shed, and quickly 
harnessed to it the horse which he 



had ridden, so that, in less time than 
it takes to say it, doctor, wagon, 
horse, and Jean- Louis were on the 
way to Aluiceron, and reached there 
before any one else had thought 
that; before such great lamentation, 
no matter what was the trouble, it 
would have been better to have run 
promptly for assistance. 

And here you will excuse me if I 
add, by way of advice, that presence 
of mind, which is not counted among 
the virtues, is one nevertheless, and 
not at all to be disdained in the life 
of this world ; and, therefore, I beg 
of you always to keep a good share 
in reserve, for I do not doubt you 
may soon find use for it, if not to-day, 
perhaps to-morrow, and you will al- 
ways do well to remember what I 
say. 

XIII. 

The doctor, on seeing the room of 
the patient filled with people lament- 
ing from useless tenderness of heart, 
instead of doing something for her 
relief, began by being very angry. 
He was a good man, rather rough 
and coarse in manner, but skilful in 
his profession, and understood per- 
fectly how to manage peasants, for 
he had always practised in the coun- 
try, and was himself of the upper 
class of villagers. 

" What is such a lot of noisy, lazy 
bawlers doing around a sick girl, 
who needs air and quiet ?" he cried. 
" Get out of here, the whole of you, 
and don't one dare come within ten 
yards. You, Ragaud, can stay if 
you choose, but keep as quiet as you 
are now, and don't look as if you 
were more dead than alive, with your 
miserable face a foot long; you, 
Mme. Ragaud, stop hugging your 
daughter. Let her go; don't you see 
you are smothering her? And above 
all, don't be dropping your tears on 
her face ; she don't know you. Jean- 
Louis, don't stir from here ; you are 



636 



V 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



reasonable and courageous, and will 
be useful to me. And now open the 
window, and let out this smell of the 
stables brought by those abominable 
cow-herds, who ought to have been 
driven out with a pitchfork. Gbod. 
Now tell me what has happened to 
this child." 

All being thus quieted, and the 
room purified by the fresh morning 
air, which came freely in through the 
open window, a slight change for the 
better was soon seen in Jeannette. 
She let them lay her head on the 
pillow, and, although she was still in- 
sensible, her pretty face, crimson and 
swollen with the fever, looked less ex- 
cited. The doctor counted her pulse 
while he listened to the night's ad- 
venture, which was correctly related 
by Jean- Louis, as neither the father 
nor mother could have put two ideas 
together at that particular moment. 

" Just as I thought," said the doc- 
tor ; " a violent fever brought on by 
exposure to the cold, and wet feet. 
All the danger is in the head, and I 
do not deny that it is very great. 
The child has a cerebral fever; do 
you understand ? Cerebral means of 
the brain. Now the brain is the in- 
side of the head ; so the sickness is 
there, under this beautiful blonde 
hair, which you must instantly cut 
off. I hope, Mme. Ragaud, you will 
not hesitate to sacrifice your daugh- 
ter's hair to save her life ?" 

" O my God !" cried poor Pier- 
rette, sobbing. " Do what you please, 
my dear doctor ; if it would be of any 
use to cut off one of my arms, I 
would willingly allow it." 

" Yes, my good woman, but that 
would not help you much, and her 
not at all; so keep your arms, we 
will need them for something else. 
Come, we must relieve her. Jump 
in the wagon, Jeannet, and go to the 
chateau, and tell them to send me 
some ice, mustard, and other things 



that I will write on this slip of paper; 
and remember to tell mademoiselle 
not to be uneasy, and not to put her 
foot in this house short of a week. 
While waiting for the return of Jean- 
Louis, Mme. Ragaud, draw a bucket 
of water from the well, and bring it 
to me immediately." 

Poor Pierrette obeyed without say- 
ing a word, which was very beautiful 
in her; for hearing it announced that 
her daughter was ill from cold, the 
words ice and well-water confused 
her terribly. She had already been 
horrified when commanded to open 
the window. Indeed, ll)r. Aubry 
was no fool, as had been well proved 
for twenty years ; and the best way 
was to think that he knew what he 
was about, no matter how unreason- 
able his words might sound. 

Jean-Louis performed his errand 
with his usual promptitude; he 
brought back what was needed for 
the first applications. During his ab- 
sence, the doctor had constantly ap- 
plied bandages, soaked in very cold 
water, to Jeannette's head ; but that 
was not effective enough, and, as 
soon as the ice was brought from the 
chiteau, he prepared to use it. It 
was the moment to accomplish the 
sacrifice of Jeannette's beautiful hair, 
which was still dressed as for the 
previous night's dance. To tell the 
truth, the thick, heavy braids were 
enough to weigh down the poor sick 
head. Pierrette showed great cour- 
age ; she only cared for the relief of 
her child. As for the doctor, he 
thought no more of cutting off this 
splendid hair than of pulling up a 
bunch of netde out of the flower- 
beds in his garden. 

Ragaud sat as though nailed to his 
chair, and seemed neither to hear nor 
see anything passing around him. You 
would have pitied the poor old man. 
But our Jeannet, so brave until 
then, could not look on indifferently 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



637 



at the murderous play of the scissors 
around that dear head, which would so 
soon be shorn of its crowning beauty. 
As the doctor cut off a tress and 
threw it on the floor, as if it were a 
noxious weed, he picked it up and 
smoothed it with his hand, as 
though to repay by caresses the con- 
demnation it had received. Thus 
he soon had all the fair hair in his 
hands ; and then, as he thought that 
soon — too soon, perhaps — it might be 
the only living vestige of Jeannette, 
his courage vanished ; be sank on a 
chair near the window, hid his face 
in the mass of hair, that was still 
warm, and sobbed as though his 
heart would break. . . . 

This touched Dr. Aubry, who was 
kind-hearted under his rough exte« 
rior. He never talked sentiment, 
being too much accustomed to tears 
and lamentations around sick-beds; 
but he loved Jeannet, and thought 
him more refined and superior in 
tone to the surrounding boys. So 
he approached the poor child, and, 
tapping him on the shoulder, he said 
by way of consolation : " Bah ! you 
big ninny, that will improve her hair; 
in one year it will be handsomer and 
thicker than ever, and you will have 
enough of this to make a hundred 
yards of watch-chain." 

" In one year !" cried Jean-Louis, 
who only heard this word of all the 
fine consolation. " Then you don't 
think 'she will die?" 

" What are you talking about ? 
Die ? A beautiful young girl of sev- 
enteen, who has always been healthy 
and good, don't die from having got 
her feet soaked on a stormy night. 
Be reasonable, follow my orders, 
keep everything around quiet and 
fresh, don't fatigue her with words 
and embraces when she recovers her 
senses, and, with the help of God, I 
will answer for her." 

" Oh !" said Jean-Louis, throwing 



his arms around the doctor's neck, 
*' may Heaven listen to you, M. Au- 
bry !" 

These cheering words brought old 
Ragaud back to life ; big tears rolled 
from his dry, fixed eyes, and relieved 
him greatly. Pierrette fell on her 
knees by the bedside; for, before 
thanking the doctor, it was right to 
raise her heart to God, who saw fur- 
ther still than he. 

M. Aubry again repeated his or- 
ders, which he always did — oftener 
six times than once with his village 
patients; for it must be acknow- 
ledged we are very stupid about 
nursing, and, outside of the common 
remedies, which are purgatives, emet- 
ics, and quinine to break the fever, 
all the rest of the medical gibberish 
appears to us very strange, and often 
rather contrary to good sense. That 
is the reason those who are cured 
burn a candle to S. Sylvain. But 
for his kind protection, there would 
be as many deaths as sick people ; 
and if you find fault with that ex- 
pression, I will tell you that I am 
very sorry for it, but that is the way 
we talk, and I cannot express myself 
differently or more delicately than I 
was taught 

The doctor drove off in his wagon, 
to which the farm-horse was still 
harnessed, and he had the privilege 
of keeping it several days, which was 
a great convenience to him, as his 
own beast was out at pasture. He 
took care to pass by Val-Saint, 
where he found mademoiselle very 
anxious and sad about her god- 
daughter's accident. As soon as she 
heard it was a serious illness, she 
rushed to the bell, crying that she 
must have the carriage immediately 
to go to her darling; but M. Aubry, 
who had his own way with every 
one, caught her by the arm. 

" I beg your pardon," said he ; 
'' but you are not going there at all." 



638 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



** Why not ?" she asked. " I can- 
not stay here without seeing my 
Jeanne, when I know she is suffer- 
ing." 

" You shall not go," repeated M. 
Aubry firmly. " It would be danger- 
ous for you ; and I am your physician 
as well as hers." 

" What nonsense !" said made- 
moiselle, who, gentle as she was, 
did not like him to oppose her. " You 
will never make me believe a brain 
fever is contagious." 

" That is yet to be seen," replied 
M. Aubry, who could lie when neces- 
sary as well as any dentist ; '' and, if 
you should get sick, I declare that, 
daughter of a marquis as you are, I 
would not have the time to take 
care of you. At this moment I have 
more sick people — maimed, wounded, 
and down with fever — than I can 
manage, and I don't want another 
case; without counting that your 
chdteau is perched up as high as the 
devil, and, to get up here, I would lose 
half a day." 

" You horrid man I" said made- 
moiselle, who could not help smiling, 
for she knew the doctor's way, and 
never took offence at what he said. 
" You talk like a car-driver ; but you 
are perfectly capable of doing as you 
say, so I dare not risk it. But when 
can I go ?" 

" We will see about that ; neither 
to-morrow nor next day, nor for 
several days after. I will come and 
bring news of her." 

" But how will you find time, with 
all your patients ?" asked made- 
moiselle, delighted to catch the doctor 
in a little falsehood. 

" You give me the change for my 
money," said M. Aubry, laughing in 
his turn. " I see you are as malicious 
as ever. Well, then, to speak frankly, 
it is not the contagion that I fear, 
but your chattering and gabbling, 
which never stop. If La Ragaudine 



recovers, it will depend upon quiet 
and repose. Not even the buzzing of 
a fly must be heard in her room for 
a week ; therefore, it would be useless 
for you to go there. But now you 
can act as you think proper." 

" You should have told me this at 
first," said mademoiselle. " I will not 
go ; but promise me you will always 
tell the truth about her, and never 
conceal any danger." 

" My God ! no," said the doctor 
quietly; " and, to commence, since you 
do not wish me to disguise the truth, 
I will tell you that, if Jeanne Ragaud 
does not recover her senses to-night, 
she will be dead to-morrow at twelve 
o'clock." 

" But you are a monster !" cried 
mademoiselle, the tears streaming 
from her eyes. " How can you be so 
hard-hearted as to tell me such news 
without any preparation ?" 

" There !" said the doctor, " you 
are off again. I thought you wished 
me to tell you the whole truth." 

" My poor Jeanne ! Dead to-mor- 
row !** sobbed mademoiselle. 

" One moment — pay attention to 
what I say — if she does not recover 
her senses to-night; but she will, for 
she was already a little better before 
I left Muiceron." 

** Oh 1 I wish you would go away !" 
cried mademoiselle. " I hate to hear 
you talk ; you will set me wild. . . . 
Come now, doctor, speak seriously : 
is poor dear Jeannette really in dan- 
ger ?" 

" I tell you yes, but I have great 
hope. And now I am going away ; 
you are not angry with me, dear 
mademoiselle ?" 

" I will have to forgive you," sai<l 
she, giving him her hand; " but know 
well that I detest you from the 
bottom of my heart, and, when I am 
sick, I will send for another doc- 
tor." 

" Bah ! I bet you won't," replied 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



639 



M. Aubiy, perfectly unmoved ; " you 
are so amiable and gentle when the 
fever comes on !" 

Mademoiselle laughed through her 
tears; she knew from experience it 
was not easy to have the last word 
with M. Aubry, and she let him go 
without further discussion. 

The good God showed that he 
loved Muiceron. For three days 
Jeannette was very ill, after which 
her youth and good constitution 
overcame the disease. M. Aubry de- 
clared he would answer with his 
head for hers, and soon the dear 
child recovered strength and color. 
But this was the moment to be 
careful ; for convalescence is very 
uncertain and dangerous, they say, in 
such a case, and the least imprudence 
will suffice to cause a relapse. There- 
fore the doctor for ever repeated : 

" Attend to what I say ; because 
she is better, that is no reason to 
think she is cured. Don't let her 
stir any more than you would let 
loose a chicken among the fir-trees ; 
these affections of the brain are terri- 
ble if there is a relapse." 

That word, affeciionSy was another 
that Pierrette could not manage to 
understand; each time he said it 
she was terribly perplexed, and look- 
ed intently at the doctor, to see if he 
could not use a more appropriate one 
in its place. 

" For," thought she, " I see no- 
thing affectionate in such a wicked 
fever that nearly brought my daugh- 
ter to the threshold of the grave. 
Whoever does or speaks ill is always 
called a great enemy; and I don't 
think an enemy can ever be affection- 
ate, or friendly, or anything else of 
the sort." 

And you will acknowledge the ar- 
gument was not bad for a good 
countrywoman, who knew nothing 
except to read her Mass-prayers by 
force of habit. 



It is not necessary to inform you 
that all the people around were very 
much interested in Jeannette's illness ; 
and if there is a consolation that sof- 
tens the bitterness of grief, it is surely 
that which is given by friends who 
offer to share trouble. Many of the 
neighbors were anxious to relieve 
Pierrette by taking her place at night ; 
but you understand that a mother is 
always mother, and, unless she had 
fallen dead at her daughter's bedside, 
she would yield her post to no one. 
Happily, the great danger which de- 
manded such extreme care did not 
last long ; and as at the end of a week 
the fever left Jeannette, and she then 
slept tranquilly the greater part of the 
night, Pierrette consented to lie down, 
without undressing, on a little bed 
temporarily placed in the sick-room 
by Jean- Louis, and thus was enabled 
to obtain some rest. 

But many weeks elapsed before 
Jeannette was strong enough to re- 
sume her accustomed life ; and as she 
daily felt herself improving, the great 
difficulty was to keep her quiet in 
bed, and furnish her amusement, so 
that she would not get up too soon, 
at the risk of falling ill again; and 
here, again, Jean-Louis, with his de- 
votion and thoughtfulness, provided 
a remedy. 

Not far off lived a beautiful young 
girl, a year or two older than Jean- 
nette, and the friend of her childhood, 
named Solan ge Luguet, the sister of 
Pierre ; she was tall, rather thin and 
pale, like Jean-Louis, whom she 
somewhat resembled in features and 
character. This will not astonish 
you, as I have already told you they 
were first-cousins without knowing 
it ; and, whether legitimate or illegiti- 
mate, near relatives generally have a 
certain family resemblance. 

Solange led a retired life, some 
said from piety, others from shyness. 
She was a skilful seamstress, and em- 



640 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



broidered beautifully; consequently, 
she never wanted work, and passed 
her time by her little window, sewing 
from morning till night. Jean- Louis 
was very fond of her. He often 
wished Jeannette's tastes and habits 
were as quiet, and he sometimes held 
up Solan ge to her as a model. But 
Jeannette's character was entirely 
different, and what seemed to Solange 
the perfection of happiness would 
have been miserably tiresome for her ; 
nevertheless, the two girls were great 
friends, and were always happy to 
meet 

It was, therefore, Solange Luguet 
whom Jeannet thought of as a 
means of distracting Jeannette during 
her convalescence. He went to her, 
and begged that she would come and 
pass several hours every day with 
Jeannette. Solange willingly con- 
sented, as she could take her work 
with her, and whether she embroider- 
ed at home or at Muiceron was all 
the same to her ; and, besides, she 
could be useful to her friends, especi- 
ally Jean-Louis, for whom it was 
easy to see she felt a great prefer- 
ence. 

Now, Solange, in spite of her repu- 
tation for piety and shyness, was 
very lively and bright. The first 
day she came to the farm Jeannette 
was quite subdued; without saying 
it, she was afraid her companion 
would be very serious and frown at 
the least joke. But it was just the 
contrary; Solange amused her so 
much with her stories, and gossip — 
which was never ill-natured — ^and 
songs, that Jeannette never let her 
go until she promised to return next 
day. This pleasant arrangement 
suited everybody. Ragaud and 
Jean-Louis gradually resumed their 
outdoor work, and Pierrette was less 
tied down. We all know that weari- 
ness of mind is the worst of ills, as it 
renders one sad, and sadness makes 



both body and soul sick : so this litde 
spoiled Jeannette, who laughed and 
chatted from morning till night, re- 
covered four times as rapidly, thanks 
to Solange's agreeable company, and 
was soon able to sit up an hour or 
two about noon. 

Who had caused all this happi- 
ness ? Even he who never gave it 
a second thought, and to whom it 
was so perfectly natural to serve 
others that it seemed a part of his 
everyday life; for the excellent 
Jeannet spoke so seldom of himself, 
neither Jeanne nor the Ragauds ever 
dreamt of thanking him for having 
brought Solange, seeing that they 
knew nothing, and simply thought 
the Luguet girl came of her own free 
will, which certainly she never would 
have done, if even the idea had ever 
entered her head. 

As soon as mademoiselle received 
permission, she hastened to Jean- 
nette's side. Every other day her 
beautiful caniage was seen coming 
down the road, and, a minute after, 
she alighted, accompanied by Dame 
Berthe, who always brought a little 
basket filled with dainties and deli- 
cacies fitted to tempt an invalid's 
stomach. 

Poor mademoiselle found the days 
very long since Jeanne had left, and 
was very impatient for her complete 
recovery, that she might carry her 
back to the chiteau. She did not 
hesitate to express her desire at each 
visit before the Ragauds, never re- 
marking that neither ever replied to 
her proposition. The reason was 
that Ragaud had received such a 
severe shock by the narrow escape 
of his daughter, he had promised 
and sworn never again to expose the 
child to such a fearful risk, which 
had so nearly proved fatal. He saw 
in this terrible sickness a warning 
from the good God; and, as he felt 
it in the bottom of his heart, he ac- 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



641 



knowledged in the end that if Jean- 
ne had not led a life above her posi- 
tion, nothing like it would have hap- 
pened. 

Between ourselves, mademoiselle, 
who was much better informed than 
Ragaud, should have even more 
clearly understood it. Still further, 
as M. le Cur£, who you can well im- 
agine came constantly to Muiceron 
since the accident, had been confi- 
dentially told by Ragaud of his good 
resolutions, which he highly approv- 
ed, and cautiously approached the 
subject whenever an opportunity of- 
fered of conversing with mademoi- 
selle. But *' none are so deaf as those 
who will not hear," said this good 
pastor; *'and even without a scene 
mischief will come of taking Jean- 
nette from the chdteau. Her ac- 
quaintance there is too long formed." 

It did not happen precisely so. 
Jeanne, without scenes or difficulty 
with any one, had been forced to 
seek refuge under the paternal roof, 
and should have remained there un- 
til the present time from her own 
free will and accord ; but when one 
has strayed ever so little from the 
right path, it is not easy to return to 
it, even when it has not gone as far as 
mortal sin; and you will see this 
time again that I have strong proofs 
to support what I have advanced, as 
Jeanne Ragaud had to undergo 
severe and bitter trials before she 
could entirely give up the half-noble 
position she had involuntarily filled, 
and resume fully the simple peasant 
life. 

XIV. 

One day, when mademoiselle was 
making her accustomed visit, after 
she had talked and laughed, and 
played dinner-party with the fruits 
and delicacies she had brought to 
Jeannette, she suddenly exclaimed : 

"You are looking admirably, my 
child — as pretty as a picture; your 
VOL. xviir. — 41 



color is more brilliant than even be- 
fore you were sick, and your short 
hair, which made me feel so sad the 
first time I saw it, is more becoming 
than the way in which you formerly 
wore it; but you are very badly 
dressed. What have you done with 
all the dresses I gave you ?" 

" They are still at the ch^eau, god- 
mother," replied Jeannet "I have 
not needed them for a long time. 
If you will send me some of them, I 
will try and look better at your next 
visit." 

" You are very much thinner, poor 
little thing, so that none of them will 
fit you ; besides, it will be a long while 
yet before you can go out. What 
you want is a dressing-gown, and I 
will have one made for you, if you 
will promise me to wear it." 

"When you come, I will," an- 
swered Jeannette, who knew well 
such a dress did not suit her posi- 
tion, and that her parents would not 
like it. 

" No, I wish you to wear what 1 
will send, and not only when I am 
here, but every day ; do you under- 
stand, child ? I wish it^" 

"O godmother!" said Jeannette, 
" I beg you will not insist upon it ; 
such a dress is very well at the cha- 
teau, but here I cannot dress differ- 
ently from my mother." 

" I do not wish to transform you 
into a princess," replied mademoi- 
selle ; " but neither do I like to see 
you dressed, as you are, in serge. 
I have my own reasons for it." 

Jeannette bowed her head, al- 
though at heart she was very much 
dissatisfied. Pretty Solange, who 
was silently working away in her cor- 
ner by the window, gave her an en- 
couraging glance, to keep her firm 
in her good resolution; but for ten 
years Jeannette had given in to all 
her godmother's whims and caprices, 
and dared not answer. 



642 



The Farm of Muiceron, 



Two days afterwards, a large band- 
box, directed to Jeannette, was 
brought to Muiceron. She was still 
in bed, and was quite curious until it 
was opened ; and there was the pro- 
mised dress, made of beautiful blue 
cashmere, so fine and soft it looked 
like silk. As to how it was made, I 
really cannot describe it; but it is 
enough to know that mademoiselle 
herself could have worn it without 
impropriety, so that it can easily be 
understood it was not suitable for 
Jeanne Ragaud. 

" Isn't it . beautiful ?" exclaimed 
Jeannette, admiring the dress, fit for 
a marchioness. " But I will never 
wear it ; do you think I should, 
Solange ?" 

" No, indeed," said Solange, 
" Don't do it for the world, Jean- 
nette; it would be very wrong for you 
to wear it, and the neighbors would 
laugh at you." 

" Help me to get up," replied 
Jeanne. " It will be no harm to try 
it on once; it will amuse us. Can 
I?" 

" Yes, to be sure," said good So- 
lange ; " I should like to see you for 
once dressed as you were at the 
chateau." 

Jeannette jumped quickly out of 
bed, and Solange, to amuse her, 
bruslied her short hair in such a way 
that she looked like a little angel; 
then she put on some fine white pet- 
ticoats, and, last of all, the beautiful 
robe, which fitted her splendidly. 
Thus dressed, Jeannette was one of 
the prettiest young ladies you can 
imagine; and I rather think she 
looked at herself in the mirror with 
great satisfaction. 

She sat down in the big arm-chair 
her godmother had sent her from the 
chdteau as soon as she was conva- 
lescent, and it was easy to see she 
"'"•5 not ill at ease in her beautiful 
% but that, on the contrary, 



was infinitely satisfied, and not at all 
anxious to take it off. 

However, she feared the arrival 
of her parents, and did not wish 
them to see her in such a costume. 
Solange, from the same thought, had 
not resumed her work, and remained 
standing before her, ready to undress 
her. You see the will was good, 
but the devil was upon the watch. 
At the very moment that Jean- 
nette, with a little sigh of regret, 
was about to put off her gay trap- 
pings and don her peasant dress, the 
big white horses of mademoiselle 
were heard pawing the ground in the 
yard. 

" It IS my godmother 1" said Jean- 
nette, blushing. "Well, I am not 
sorry ; she will see that I do honor to 
her present." 

Mademoiselle entered immediate- 
ly after, and, seeing Jeannette so pret 
ty and so stylish in her beautiful 
dress, kissed her heartily, and loaded 
her with praises. • 

"You are perfectly lovely," said 
she; "and for the penalty, I have 
prepared a great surprise. There is 
a handsome gentleman, who has 
come with me, and wishes very much 
to see you." 

" Will you please tell me who it 
is ?" asked Jeannette. 

" No ; I wish to see if you will 
recognize him. Come in, Isidore," 
cried mademoiselle to some one 
who was waiting outside the door. 

The said Isidore immediately ap- 
peared — a tall young man, well made, 
and dressed in the latest Parisian 
style. His hair was elaborately curl- 
ed, and his cravat, gloves, and shoes 
were so elegant he looked as though 
he had just been taken out of a 
bandbox. He made a low bow to 
Jeannette, and paid her a compli- 
ment such as we read in books. 

Jeannette, much amazed, rose with- 
out speaking, and, as her astonished 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



643 



look showed she did not recognize 
him in the least, mademoiselle laugh- 
ingly relieved her embarrassment. 

"What I" said she, "you don't 
remember Isidore Perdreau, the son 
of Master Perdreau, my father's no- 
tary, and the playmate of your child- 
hood ?" 

" You must excuse me," said 
Jeanne; " but he is so much changed." 

" In size, perhaps," said M. Isidore, 
" but not in beauty, as you most cer- 
tainly are." 

" He has returned from Paris, and 
will in future live at Val-Saint. It 
is very good in him," said mademoi- 
selle, " for his life will be very differ- 
ent ; but his father wishes to associate 
him with himself in business." 

"To all true hearts one's native 
place is dear," replied M. Isidore, 
placing his hand on his waistcoat. 

" Don't you remember the young 
girl by Jeannette ?" asked mademoi- 
selle. 

" Not precisely," he replied. 

" I am the sister of Pierre Luguet, 
with whom you used to go hunting 
for blackbirds." 

** Pierre Luguet? Ah! yes, little 
Pierre ; and where is he now ?" 

"Always in the same place," re- 
plied Solange, without stirring. 

M. Isidore did not condescend to 
continue the conversation with one 
so little disposed to talk, and, turning 
towards Jeanne, lavished upon her 
some more foolish compliments, 
which, without being exactly to the 
taste of the child, were not displeas- 
ing to her vanity. 

It was evident that mademoiselle 
encouraged Isidore, and thought him 
very charming. It was not because 
she was wanting in sense or pene- 
tration, but the custom of living alone 
in her big ch&teau, where she rarely 
saw any one but country people, and 
the new distraction of carrying out a 
plot that she had concocted, and 



which you will soon guess, made her 
see things dimly ; and whilst Solange, 
simple girl as she was, saw at the 
first glance that young Perdreau had 
become an insolent, ridiculous fop, 
this high-born young lady, who had 
read so many books, was ready to 
faint at the least word of that simple- 
ton — for simpleton was the name 
he well deserved until after-circum- 
stances proved that he was worthy of 
a still more odious title. 

Dame Berthe behaved just like her 
mistress; but, as the good creature 
had scarcely any common sense, that 
can very easily be understood. Isi- 
dore, since his return three days be- 
fore, had never ceased to flatter 
her and relate long stories about 
Paris, principally his own inventions, 
but to which, nevertheless, the old 
governess, with eyes, ears, and mouth 
wide open, listened with devoted at- 
tention. So, when Solange showed 
such coldness to her old school- 
fellow, mademoiselle looked at her 
with anything but a gentle expres- 
sion, and Dame Berthe instantly 
shrugged her shoulders and made 
big eyes at her. 

But Solange remained perfecdy in- 
different ; in the first place, because 
her back was turned to the ladies, 
and, secondly, because she worked 
away as though she expected to be 
paid a franc an hour. 

Meanwhile, Pierrette and Ragaud 
came back from the pool Saint-Jean, 
where they had commenced to soak 
the hemp, and Jean -Louis soon fol- 
lowed. When they saw such fine 
company in the room, they all three 
stopped, rather ashamed of their 
working-clothes, which was doubt- 
less the reason they did not observe 
that Jeannet, in her elegant costume, 
was a great contrast to them. 

Ragaud, as you already know, was 
rather given to vain-glory, and his 
vanity was easily tickled. It was 



644 



Tlu Farm of Muiaran. 



the only defect of this good man, but 
it must be acknowledged this defect 
clung to his heart as a tree is tied 
by its root to the ground; so that 
in Isidore Perdreau he only saw the 
favorable side — to wit, a young man, 
brought up in the capital, very rich 
and handsome, who could be re- 
ceived in the best houses, and who 
did not disdain to hasten to greet 
old friends so far beneath him. Pier- 
rette, without further reasoning, was 
very sensible of what she likewise 
considered a great honor. So the 
excellent couple, whose honest souls 
were rather stupefied for the mo- 
ment, quite overwhelmed Perdreau 
with the warmth of their reception, 
and pressed him so earnestly to re- 
peat his visit you would really have 
thought they were welcoming the re- 
turn of their own son. 

Mademoiselle was in a gale of de- 
light, and, when she re-entered the 
carriage with her attendants, the 
lackeys' faces were in a broad grin 
at seeing her so gay, and even the 
horses made two or three little jumps 
on starting, as though they, too, par- 
ticipated in the good-humor of their 
mistress. 

" Well, what did I tell you ?" asked 
mademoiselle of Isidore, who was 
seated opposite to her. " Is she pretty 
enough, well-bred enough ? And, in 
spite of all your Parisian acquain- 
tances, do you think she is a woman 
to be scorned ?" 

"O mademoiselle!" cried Per- 
dreau, " she is adorable, delightful 1 
But you brought her up; isn't that 
enough ?" 

"She will make a lovely bride," 
said mademoiselle ; ** and it will be 
the happiest day of my life when I 
shall see you both leave the church 



arm-m-arm. 



n 



t( 



How becoming the wreath of 
orange-blossoms will be to her !" 
cried Dame Berthe. 



"But will she have me?" asked 
Isidore in a hypocritical tone. 

" Bah ! be assured she will be 
most happy, and her parents im- 
• mensely honored," replied mademoi- 
selle ; *' besides, I have only to say a 
word, as you know." 

"You are an angel!" said M. 
Perdreau, as he kissed mademoiselle's 
hand; "and if I had not seen you 
again before Jeanne Ragaud, my 
happiness would make me crazy. I 
can only say that you are the most 
beautiful and graceful woman in the 
world, and she is the second." 

Poor mademoiselle, who was hump- 
backed and anything but handsome, 
and, besides, nearly thirty, smiled 
nevertheless at this insolent speech, 
so out of place from the mouth of 
her notary's son ; so true is it that 
compliments are swallowed as easily 
as ripe strawberries, no matter how 
false they may be, if the mind is not 
properly balanced, and cannot rise 
above the frivolity and nonsense 
heard on all sides in this world. 

While the carriage rolled away to 
the chiteau, each one at the farm 
had something to say, and Perdreau 
was there, also, the subject of conver- 
sation. 

" He is a very pleasant fellow," 
said good Ragaud, " not at all proud, 
and much better-looking than when 
he left home. He must have stud- 
ied very hard in Paris, and his dear, 
good father will have a worthy suc- 
cessor." 

" When I think," replied Pierrette, 
" how readily he accepted your invi- 
tation to supper, never raising the 
slightest difficulty, that proves he 
has a good heart." 

" We won't know what to say to 
liim," remarked Jeannette, " he is so 
much more learned than we." 

" Yes, but very simple with it all." 
said Pierrette. "I will not be the 
least embarrassed. I am sure he will 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



645 



like to talk over all his boyish tricks 
and adventures — ^how he stole ap* 
pies from Cotentin's garden, and how 
he would keep M. le Cur6 waiting 
when it was his turn to be altar-boy." 

" He was always full of fun," re- 
plied Ragaud, ''and is so still; but 
that is no defect/' 

" Oh ! certainly not," cried Jean- 
nette. 

" For what evening have you in- 
vited him ?" asked Jean- Louis, who 
had not yet expressed an opinion. 

"Next Sunday," said Ragaud; 
" that will not take us from our work, 
and we can bring him back with us in 
the wagon after Vespers." 

«* What a beautiful dress you have 
on !" said Jeannet, looking at his^ sis- 
ter. 

"Mademoiselle gave it to me," 
she replied, looking down. " I put 
it on to receive her ; but I will not 
wear it again." 

" Until Sunday ?" asked Jean- 
Louis. 

" Certainly," said Pierrette, " Jean- 
nette must be prettily dressed in 
honor of Isidore." 

Jean-Louis said nothing ; he walk- 
ed to the (Window where Solange was 
sitting, and leaned on the back of her 
chair, apparently absorbed in watch- 
ing her embroider, 

"Jeannet," said Solange, without 
raising her eyes, " what do you think 
of all this ?" 

" It makes me sad," he replied. 

" You have reason to feel so," said 
she. " That smooth-tongued Isidore 
has turned all their heads. Mademoi- 
selle is even more carried away than 
the others ; and, from the way things 
are going on, there will be trouble 
before long." 

Jean-Louis sighed. As they had 
spoken in a low tone, and the Ra- 
gauds were conversing with Jeannette, 
their little conversation had not been 
remarked. 



" Will you go home with us after 
Mass next Sunday?" continued So- 
lange. "Pierre will be glad to see 
you, and Michou has promised to 
dine with us at noon, and taste our 
boiled com." 

" Thank you," said Jeannet, " I 
will go with pleasure." 

This was on Tuesday; the four 
following days Isidore Perdreau 
came constantly to Muiceron, some- 
times with mademoiselle, sometimes 
alone, and was most cordially re- 
ceived by the Ragauds, and Jean- 
nette also, I regret to say. 

If you are of my opinion, you will 
allow that nothing is pleasanter than 
to listen to a story when there is 
only question of good people and 
happy events. It makes our hearts 
glad, and we forget for a little while 
that life is like the clouds in the sky, 
streaked with white, gray, and black, 
and that often the dark clouds over- 
shadow the light ; but as truth must 
be loved above all, I am very sorry 
to tell you that for the present I 
have nothing good to relate. You 
must pardon me, then, if I am oblig- 
ed to sadden you by the recital of 
sinful and criminal acts, and believe 
me that, if it is painful for you to 
have to listen to them, it is not less 
so for me to recount them to you. 

When mademoiselle once becairle 
possessed with the charming idea of 
'marrying her god-daughter to Isidore, 
never was the caprice of a woman 
without occupation more obstinately 
pursued and more firmly fastened in 
the very bottom of her brain. Very 
true, she only sought the happiness 
of her beloved Jeannette, and thought 
she had thereby secured it. She in- 
cessantly repeated to Dame Berthe 
that it would be the greatest misfor- 
tune if Jeannette should marry a 
peasant, that after all the care she had 
lavished upon her for ten years 
she could not bear to see her milking 



646 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



the cows, and hardening her hands 
by washing and working in the 
fields. On the other side, she would 
not risk the happiness of her pet by 
marrying her to a man she did not 
know ; consequently, she should mar- 
ry some one in the neighborhood ; 
and Isidore was the only person 
around who united all the requisites 
desired by mademoiselle, as the 
other young men were only of the 
laboring class. She communicated 
her idea to M. le Marquis, who, with 
out making any objections, thought 
the project might be attempted. 
He himself went to see M. Perdreau, 
the father, and announced to him 
his wishes upon the subject, and Isi- 
dore was immediately recalled from 
Paris. 

Old Perdreau, the notary, passed 
for one of the most honest men in 
his profession. For thirty years 
M. le Marquis had closed his eyes 
and left him the entire control of his 
affairs, which, truth to say, were not 
very complicated, as the principal 
wealth of the chateau consisted of 
fertile land, woods, meadows, and 
vineyards, the revenues of which he 
received and controlled. 

More than that — and this was the 
worst — our master made him the 
special confidant of his most secret 
expeditions. Thus, when he left 
home on one of his mysterious jour- 
neys, where he expected to encounter 
great dangers, Perdreau alone knew 
exactly the hiding-places of M. le 
Marquis, the plots that were there 
concocted — in a word, the great con- 
spiracies that monsieur and his 
friends thought legitimate in their 
souls and consciences, althougii they 
could scarcely be called such in my 
opinion. 

This was very astonishing, it must 
be acknowledged, as it bound M. le 
Marquis hand and foot to his notary. 
But what could you expect ? My 



late beloved father, who had been 
an enthusiastic Chouan, contrary to 
most of the people of his province, 
who did not care a fig for all that 
fuss, said that perfectly honest souls 
can never think ill of any one, and " 
that is the reason they are often 
duped and vilified without their even 
dreaming of it. 

For it is time to let you know that 
Master Perdreau, the notary of Val- 
Saint, was, and had been always, the 
most cunning rascal, not only of our 
neighborhood, but of the whole 
country for twenty leagues around, 
including all the towns, little and big. 
His only idea was to make money, 
and for that he would have sold his 
master, his conscience — in case he 
had one — his best friends, his soul, 
and even the sacred vessels of the 
tabernacle. In the way of hypocrisy, 
deep wickedness, theft, stinginess, 
and falsehood he had nothing to 
fear from any rival, saving, perhaps, 
his only son, Isidore, who was rapid- 
ly learning to play the knave, and 
promised, with the help of the devil, 
to become very soon the true pendant 
of monsieur, his father. 

In order to perfect this shameful 
education, Isidore had finished his 
studies in Paris, and Master Perdreau, 
I need not say, had chosen a college 
for him where he would neither 
learn virtue nor the fear of God. 

For the consolation of good peo- 
ple, evil-doers seldom profit by their 
crimes. Thus, at this period of our 
story. Master Perdreau was on the 
eve of reaping the fruits of thirty 
years of criminal conduct, and it was 
precisely the opposite of what he had 
sought all his life that was about to 
happen to him. 

Holding in his hand the secrets 
of M. le Marquis, he had used them 
to obtain large sums from the poor 
deluded man, under the pretence of 
advancing his interests; and with 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



647 



this money, added to other thefts, he 
had first supplied his son with means 
for continuing his dissipation in Paris, 
and then speculated so often and so 
well in a place not very Christian — 
called, I believe, the Exchange — that 
he had nothing left he could call his 
own but his little country office and 
debts enough to drive him crazy. 
Judge, then, if he thought himself 
favored by fortune when M. le Mar- 
quis came and proposed Jeanne Ra- 
gaud to him for daughter-in-law. 
Never did a drowning man grasp 
more eagerly at the plank held out 
to keep him from death. The girl's 
fortune was well known. Muiceron 
and the adjoining property was worth 
at least one hundred thousand francs ; 
and to rightly estimate the money 
good Ragaud laid by every year, one 
would have to count on his fingers a 
tolerably long while. Further, Jean- 
nette was an extremely pretty girl, 
brought up as a young lady, and 
there was no doubt her godmother 
would leave her — perhaps might give 
her at her marriage — a very hand- 
some present All being thus arrang- 
ed to the satisfaction of this scoun- 
drel of a notary, he had only to rub 
his hands and chuckle at the idea 
of having fooled everybody during 
his whole life. 

I will not sadden you by relating 
what was the conversation on the 
subject between father and son on 
the evening of Isidore's arrival in the 
village, and the means which they 
proposed to accomplish their ends, 
which was to wheedle old Ragaud 
into giving up all the property to his 
daughter, only reserving for himself 
a modest annuity. As for the shame- 
ful way in which these arrant swin- 
dlers held up to ridicule M. le Mar- 
quis, whom they called " old fool," and 
mademoiselle, whom they stigmatiz- 
ed as the "yellow dwarf," on ac- 
count of her crooked figure, it would 



make roe sick to relate all they 
said. However, in saying that Per- 
dreau deceived everybody, I have 
rather exaggerated, for two men in the 
village saw thrqugh his villany, and, 
thank God, they were two of the 
most worthy — ^namely, Jacques Mi- 
chou, and our dear, holy cure. The 
first, who, as you know, had never 
been drawn into the promising con- 
spiracies of his good lord, had always 
suspected Perdreau for catching so 
readily at the alluring bait. He had 
watched him closely, and, to fully un- 
ravel his plans, pretended to become 
very intimate, with M. Riponin, the 
steward, who was scarcely any better 
than the notary, but who owed Per- 
dreau a grudge for his having duped 
him in some knavish trick they un- 
dertook together. Since then, Mi- 
chou, who knew how to play one 
against the other, in order to serve his 
master, made one thief steal from the 
other, and fully I succeeded in his de- 
sign. As for our r«r/, he knew both 
the good and the bad, and looked 
out for a squall. The great misfor- 
tune was that mademoiselle was so 
fully possessed with her idea of the 
marriage she neglected to consult 
him and ask his advice. 

Alas ! I am bound now to avow 
that poor little Jeannette, whose sin 
was more of the head than the heart, 
allowed herself to be very quickly 
caught in the net held out to her. 
Never did a giddy, inconstant little 
fish make the leap as willingly as 
she. In a village marriages are 
soon arranged. The parties are sup- 
posed to be well acquainted. At the 
first proposition, when the interests 
agree, they have only to say ye§ ; 
and so it happened no later than the 
second Sunday after the arrival of 
Isidore Perdreau. 

Every one assisted to hurry up the 
affair with lightning speed. Jeanne 
solemnly believed all the nonsense 



648 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



poured into her ear by Isidore, 

thought herself adored by him, and 
regarded him as infinitely superior to 
all other raen in style, manner, and 
fine speeches. Ragaud and Pier- 
rette were puffed up with pride ; mon- 
sieur and mademoiselle did not con- 
ceal their satisfaction ; and the people 
around, with the sole exception of 
Michou, who was looked upon as a 
cross, peevish old fellow, hastened to 
congratulate the fortunate couple. 

Sickness was no longer thought of. 
Jeannette, happy and triumphant, 
rapidly regained her strength. The 
poor silly child only thought of her 
new dresses and of the promised 
visit to Paris after her marriage, the 
delights of which Isidore dwelt upon 
in glowing terms, which would have 
turned a stronger head than hers. 
Never, in fact, did a family rush blind- 
folded and more willingly into a bot- 
tomless abyss. 

However, there was one person at 
Muiceron whose presence tormented 
M. Isidore, and whom he had hated 
from the first day. You can guess 
it was Jean-Louis. Each time that 
he entered the house and saw that 
tall figure, the face pale and serious, 
silently seated in a corner, the only 
one who did not receive him with 
joy, his eyes flashed with anger, and 
he would turn his back on him in 
the most contemptuous manner — 
something which the Ragauds would 
certainly have resented in any one 
else; but the poor people were so 
bewitched they were unjust enough 
to be angry with Jean-Louis, and 
even to fancy that he was jealous, 
whilst he was only very properly 
grieved at what had happened. 

His life had become very different. 
No more friendly talks, no more 
watching for him, no more tender 
caresses ; not that they had ceased to 
love him, but there was no time for 
these innocent family recreations, 



and, besides, it would have embarrass- 
ed them to make a display of affec- 
tion before M. Isidore, who thought 
all such country performances be- 
neath him. Poor Jean-Louis, who 
for so many years had always enter- 
ed Muiceron with joyful heart at the 
thought of embracing his dear moth- 
er, now came in with sad and trou- 
bled brow. Pierrette always appeared 
busy and worried. She would rapidly 
say " good-evening " in reply to Jean- 
net's gentle salutation whispered in her 
ear, and immediately go on with her 
work ; for there were always sauce- 
pans to overlook, or orders to give to 
Marion, who was not the least be- 
wildered of them all. As for Jean- 
nette, the cold manner in which Jean- 
Louis always treated her intended, 
and, above all, the wicked insinuations 
Isidore made against him, aroused 
her displeasure ; and, if Pierrette was 
always absorbed in her household 
cares, Jeannette pained him still more 
by her frigid manner, bordering on 
sullenness. 

Jean-Louis felt all this most keenly. 
He was not a person who liked to 
complain or ask explanations; be- 
sides, what would he have gained by 
it ? He knew too well the reason of 
their conduct to be obliged to ask 
whjr. In a moment he could have 
changed all by appearing as delight- 
ed as the rest ; but that was precisely 
what he would not do. In truth, 
when we see those we love at the 
point of drowning, how can we ap- 
plaud ? 

Still worse was it when the family 
circle of Muiceron was increased by 
the presence of old Perdreau, who 
nearly every evening showed his 
weasel-face at the table, and drank 
with great friendliness to the health 
of the good people whose ruin he 
was mercilessly plotting. Jean-Louis 
two or three times bore it patiently ; 
then he felt he could take himself off, 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



649 



and be missed by no one; so one 
fine evening he mustered up courage, 
left the farm before supper, and M'ent 
off to the house of his friends, the 
Luguets. 

As usual, he found the little house 
quiet, dean, and shining with neat- 
ness. Pierre was reading aloud the 
life of a saint, while Solange, always 
employed, was sewing by the lamp. 
Their old parents and Jacques Mi- 
chou, seated around the fire, listened 
in silence, and the dog lay snoring 
on the warm hearth-stones. Jeannet 
on entering motioned with his hand 
for them not to stir, and seated him- 
self by Solange, who nodded to him. 

" My friends," said Jean -Louis 
when the reading was over, " I have 
come to ask for my supper this eve- 
ning, and perhaps I may again to- 
morrow." 

" Whenever you please, my boy," 
said Luguet. 

" Things don't please you at Mui- 
ceron, eh ?" asked Michou. 

** Ah !" replied Jeannet sadly, 
"perhaps I am unjust and wrong; 
but I cannot bring myself to help in 
that marriage." 

" What difference does it make to 
you ?" said Pierre ; " when people are 
possessed, they will do as they please. 
You are too sensitive, Jean ; after all, 
you will not have to marry Per- 
dreau." 

" I am so sure," replied Jeannet, 

that poor child will be unhappy." 

** No one forces her !" said Pierre. 

She wishes it, so do the Ragauds, 
so do M. le Marquis and mademoi- 
selle. All agree ; well, then, let them 
run the risk !" 

"Be still, Pierre," said Solange; 
** you speak as though you had no 
heart. Remember that Jeannette has 
been from her infancy like a sister to 
Jean-Louis; would you like to see 
me marry Isidore ?" 

" Ah !" cried Pierre, " I would 



« 



4< 



sooner cut his throat; but you are 
not like Jeannette." 

** Don't say anything against her," 
replied good Solange with warmth. 
" She is the best girl in the world ; 
and because her head is rather light 
and giddy, that does not prevent her 
having an excellent heart. I under- 
stand Jean-Louis* feelings, for, cer- 
tainly, Isidore Perdreau's reputation 
is not very good. But who knows ? 
Perhaps, when he is married and set- 
tles down, he may make Jeannette a 
good husband." 

" Thank you, Solange," said Jean- 
net, taking her hand, " it is so kind in 
you to defend her; it makes me feel 
happy. If I could only show a little 
friendship for Isidore, I think I would 
be less miserable ; but I cannot con- 
quer myself; I cannot change. . . " 

** It is not worth while trying to do 
it, boy," said Michou; " when we see 
misfortune coming, and cannot pre- 
vent it, the best we can do is to keep 
at a distance, and not meddle." 

"Then, M. Michou, you really 
think trouble will come of it ?" asked 
Jeannet. 

"Yes, my son, such overwhelm- 
ing trouble," answered the game- 
keeper, " that until the day I see 
them standing before the mayor 
and the curS^ I shall hope the good 
God will work a miracle to prevent 
it. The Ragauds at present are like 
men who have taken too much 
brandy — that is to say, they are as 
tipsy as a beggar after the vintage. 
They can neither hear nor under- 
stand. But mind what I say ; you 
others who are in your senses. I will 
tell you what sort of men they are, 
that infamous notary and his rascal 
of a son, and then you will see 
whether Jean-Louis is right or wrong." 

Thereupon he recounted to his 
astonished friends what we already 
know, but went into greater details 
than I have thought necessary. 



6so 



The Farm of Muiceron, 



" We can only pray to God," said 
Solan ge when he had ended. " Alas ! 
poor Jeannette, what will become of 
her ? M. Michou, you must warn the 
Ragauds," 

" You think that would be easy ?" 
said Michou. " In the first place, 
they would not believe me. Monsieur 
and mademoiselle would be indig- 
nant. The Perdreaux are too thorough 
scoundrels not to have at hand a 
crowd of proofs and protestations 
which would make them appear as 
white as snow. Every one is against 
us, up to that obstinate Jeannette, 
who is dead in love with Isidore, so 
they say — hare-brained little fool !" 

" It is only too true," said Jeannet, 
much overcome. 

" As for you," resumed Michou, 
" in consequence of your peculiar 
position, you can say less than any 
one else ; but if I were in your place, 
I would not remain an indifferent 
spectatoirof such a sad affair." 

" What can I do ?" said Jeannet. 
*• How can I abandon them ?" 

" Come and stay with me a while. 
I am clearing a part of the wood; 
you can overlook the workmen, and 
we can manage to keep house with 
Barbette, if you are not very difficult 
to please about the cooking." 

" Oh ! I would like it very much, M. 
Michou, and you will do me a great 
favor. But I must ask my father 
about it; will you see him, and get 
his consent ?" 

" To-morrow we will have it all 
arranged," replied Michou. 

" Jeannet," said Solan ge, " the 
wood of Val-Saint is not very flir 
from here ; when your day's work is 
over, you must remember there is 
always a place at our table for a 
friend. Come, and we will console 
you. Don't worry yourself too much 
about all this affair ; often the storm 
is so terrible we expect every mo- 
ment to be struck with lightning, and 



then the clouds break, the sky clears, 
and, after all the fright, nobody is 
killed." 

Jean-LouiSy notwithstanding his 
sadness, could not help smiling at 
these hopeful words, spoken by this 
good and beautiful girl, so reason- 
able in all things, and still always so 
cheerful. He pressed her hand, and 
helped her set the table for supper. 
Michou, reflecting on these words of 
Solan ge, wisely remarked that the 
future being in the hands of God, 
who always concealed it from us 
through mercy or to grant us agree- 
able surprises, it was unbecoming in 
us to torment ourselves too much 
about it. 

At which speech good Pierre, who 
never liked trouble, loudly applaud- 
ed ; and then, the repast being ser\'ed, 
all sat down to table, and, while eating, 
conversed on various topics not the 
least connected with Muiceron. 

XV. 

According to his promise, Mi- 
chou the next day paid an eaily 
visit to the Ragauds, accompanied 
by his old blackened pipe, which he 
always kept firmly between his teeth 
when he feared he might become 
impatient or angry in conversation. 
He said that, without it, the big 
words would rush out of his mouth 
before he had time to prevent them ; 
but that, with it, while he smoked, 
shook it, or relighted it, he regained 
his composure, and gathered time to 
arrange his ideas. And never was 
puffer-^2.% he called his pipe— more 
necessary than on this visit to Mui- 
ceron. Seeing his friends on the 
point of throwing themselves into 
the enemy's clutches, and knowmg 
that remonstrance would avail no- 
thing, he felt that anger and sorrow 
might carry him to any extremity-^ 
in words only, let it be well under- 
stood. 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



651 



He found Ragaud seated before 
the door, shelling gray peas, while 
Pierrette was washing dishes; for, 
since she had commenced to feed 
the Perdreaux, all the crockery was 
in use, and they went to bed so late 
half the work remained for next day. 

" I wish you good-morning," said 
Michou to his friends. " I see you 
are very busy, but I have only come 
to remain a few moments." 

" Come in," said Pierrette. 

" No, I prefer to remain outside," 
replied Michou. " I like the fresh air. 
Kagaud, do you feel inclined to do 
nie a favor ?" 

" What a question !" said the good 
man. " I am always ready for that, 
my old friend." 

" Thank you, it is not a very great 
request. Can you spare me Jean- 
Louis for a fortnight ? I have twenty 
men at work in the wood of Mon- 
treux, and no one to oversee them. 
The young fellow can help me a 
great deal." 

" Very willingly," said Ragaud ; 
** the hemp is nearly ready, and I do 
not want Jeannet just now." 

" He will take his meals with me," 
replied Michou, "and sleep at my 
house the nights. He will be oblig- 
ed to work late ; so you need not be 
uneasy if he does not return home 
sometimes." 

"Agreed," said Ragaud. "Do 
you employ the wood- cutters of the 
neighborhood ?" 

" Deuce take it, no !" replied 
Mialiou. " I hire them right and 
left, and truly they are the stupidest 
asses. The way they talk makes 
one's hair stand up under his cap." 

" Bah ! what do they say ?" 

" Devilish nonsense ! Why, they 
talk of nothing but revolution, over-, 
throwing everything and everybody, 
massacring the nobility, and theft. 
1 remember how my father, long ago, 
told me about the people before the 



Reign of Terror, and I imagine these 
men must be something of the same 
stamp. Some of them disappear some- 
times; when they return, they speak 
in whispers, and, when I order them to 
go to work, you should see the way 
they glare at me. It is very well I 
don't know what fear means ; but, re- 
inforced by Jeannet, all will go well." 

" Take him right away," said Ra- 
gaud ; " and if he is not enough, well, 
send for me ; I will give you a help- 
ing hand." 

" You ?" replied Michou, who 
commenced to mumble over his pipe. 
" You are too busy in this house with 
the wedding." 

" Oh ! it is not going to be to-mor- 
row," said Ragaud ; " the day of be- 
trothal is not yet fixed. I leave all 
that to good M. Perdreau. He is tak- 
ing a great deal of trouble ; and I am 
glad he is, for I know precious little 
about legal matters." 

" So, then, you don't bother your- 
self with anything ? — very pretty con- 
duct on your part." 

« What should I do ?" asked Ra-^ 
gaud innocently. " Each one has 
his part to play. M. Perdreau was 
brought up among books, and I at 
the plough. When he has the pa- 
pers ready, he will tell me where to 
sign my name." 

" And you will sign it ?" 

" Undoubtedly, after he has read 
them to me. " 

" All very nice," said Michou. " If 
I were in your place, I would sign 
without reading them; it would be 
more stupid. . . ." 

'' What do you say ?" asked Ra- 
gaud. 

" I say," replied Jacques, " if you 
will allow me to oifer a word of ad- 
vice, you will not only make them 
read your daughter's marriage con- 
tract to you, but also have it read 
to others — to M. le Cur6, for example ; 
he is learned also — that he is." 



6s 2 



The Farm of Muiceron, 



''That would be insulting to M. 
Perdreau." 

" Not at all. Two such learned 
men would soon understand each 
other. After all, you know, you 
must do as you think best. Good- 
morning ! Thank you for Jean-Louis ; 
send him to me quickly. I must hur- 
ry off to my rascally wood-cutters in 
the wood of Montreux." 

And the game-keeper turned his 
back without waiting for an answer, 
puffing away at his pipe so tremen- 
dously his cap was in a cloud of 
smoke. 

Ragaud continued to shell his peas, 
but it was easy to see he felt rather 
anxious. Nevertheless, when he had 
ended his work, he re-entered the 
house without showing any discom- 
posure. 

Jean-Louis left home that morning 
to spend a fortnight with Michou, 
depressed in spirits, but still hoping 
the best. On passing through Val- 
Saint, he stopped at M. le Cure's, 
who confirmed all that Michou had 
said about the Perdreaux. That 
dear, good man was much distressed, 
but could not think of any remedy for 
the evil ; but he promised Jeannet to 
say Mass for the family, and highly 
approved of his leaving Muiceron for 
a time. 

Meanwhile, the Ragauds acted as 
though they were bewitched. Dur- 
ing the first week after the depar- 
ture of Jeannet, his name was scarce- 
ly mentioned, even by Pierrette. 
They appeared to have lost all recol- 
lection of the services the excellent- 
hearted boy had rendered his adopt- 
ed parents. No one thought of him 
or noticed him when he returned 
sometimes late at night from his hard 
day's work; and, had it not been 
for the good Luguets, poor Jean- 
Louis would have been as isolated in 
the world as if he had been brought 
up in a foundling asylum —his first 



destination. But God did not aban- 
don him, and, although always very 
sad, he did not lose courage. Every 
evening, whether he returned or not 
to Muiceron, he visited his friends, 
and there, with Pierre and Solange, he 
recovered his good- humor, or at least 
maintained his gentleness and resig- 
nation. His friendship for Solange 
increased day by day. He suspect- 
ed nothing, nor she either; for al- 
though very friendly and intimate, 
they only felt toward each other like 
brother and sister. However, all 
was known in the village — better, 
perhaps, than elsewhere — and the 
gossips commenced to say that the 
devout Solange jumped at marriage 
as quickly as any other girl. Several 
of the girls even commenced to tease 
her about him ; all of which she re- 
ceived gently, and smiled without 
being displeased, contenting herself 
with the remark that, after all, she 
might choose worse; and her work 
was continued more faithfully than 
ever. 

One evening, when Pierre and his 
parents remained rather late at the 
fair at Andrieux, which is three good 
leagues from Ordonniers, and which 
is only reached by roads very diffi- 
cult to travel in the bad season, 
Jeannet, as usual, went to the Lu- 
guets, and was surprised to find So- 
lange all alone. She blushed slightly 
when she saw him, not from embar- 
rassment, however, but only, I imag- 
ine, because she remembered the re- 
ports that were circulating in th^vil- 
lage. Jeannet took his usual seat, 
which was always near hers. The 
month of November was nearly 
ended, and that morning Michou 
had told Jean-Louis that Jeannette's 
betrothal would take place a little 
before Christmas, and the marriage 
soon after. The poor fellow was 
overwhelmed with sorrow ; he poured 
ail his grief into Solange's ear, and 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



653 



so great was his confidence in her 
that he allowed himself to weep in 
her presence. 

" You have lost your courage and 
become thoroughly hopeless," said 
Solange gently. ** I don't like that in 
a man, still less in a Christian. " 

" How can I help it ? Am I made 
of stone ?" replied Jeannet, his head 
buried in his hands. ''Alas! alas! 
Solange, I believed your words. I 
thought that God would have mercy 
on us, and that this unfortunate mar- 
riage would not take place." 

"I don't see that it has yet," re- 
plied Solange. " In the first place, 
they only speak of signing the con- 
tract a month from now, and up to 
then the mill will turn more than 
once; and, after all, does not God 
know better than we what is good 
for us, poor blind things that we 
are ?" 

"That is true; but to see Jean- 
nette the wife of that man, without 
faith or fear of God or law; to see 
my old father and dear, good mother 
reduced to want ; to be obliged to 
leave the country, and never see 
Muiceron again! For think, So- 
lange, that Jeannette, when she signs 
her marriage contract, will know that 
I am not her brother ! I will not 
wait to be told that my place is out- 
side of the house. God knows I have 
worked for my parents, and their 
tenderness never humiliated me, but 
to receive a benefit from Isidore — 
no, never !" cried Jean-Louis, raising 
his eyes that flashed with honest pride. 

" You are right in that," said So- 
lange quietly ; ** but listen a moment, 
. . . and first sit down there," she 
added, gently placing her hand on 
his arm. " Come to your senses. 
There, now, can you yet listen pa- 
tiently to me ?" 

" Go on," said Jean-Louis obedi- 
ently ; " you need not talk long to 
calm me." 



"Well," resumed Solange, resting 
her elbow on the table in such a 
manner that her sweet face nearly 
touched Jeannet's shoulder, "I will 
repeat again that the story is not yet 
ended; but as this good reason is 
not weighty enough for your excited 
brain, I beg you will tell me why 
you think Jeannette will despise you 
when she will learn that you are not 
her brother." 

" But how can you expect it to be 
otherwise, my dear friend ? Is it not 
against me that I seem to be in- 
stalled in her house for life ? that I 
have had half the hearts of her pa- 
rents ? Do you think that Isidore, 
who detests me, will not tell a thou- 
sand falsehoods to prejudice her 
against me? Ah! Solange, I have 
suffered terribly during the last 
month ; but to see Jeannette regard 
me as an intruder ; to have her crush 
me with her scorn, and make me feel 
that I am a foundling, picked up 
from the gutter — it is beyond all hu- 
man strength, and the good God 
will not compel me to endure such 
agony. I will not expose myself to 
such a trial." 

" But what can you do ? You 
cannot get work in the country with- 
out running the risk of meeting her 
at every turn." 

" I will manage it," said Jean- 
Louis. "France is a kind mother, 
Solange, and has never refused food 
to one of her sons, even though he 
had no name but the one given in 
baptism. I know that my dear fa- 
ther intended to procure a substitute 
for me ; but, in the present situation, I 
can no longer accept a cent of Jean- 
nette's inheritance, which will one day 
be Isidore's." 

" Good," said Solange. " But wait 
another moment. All this is still in the 
future, since you can only be drawn 
next year; so put that aside. I 
will only say that you have spoken 



654 



, The Farm of Mutceron. 



like a good-hearted fellow, for which 
I don't compliment you, as I knew 
you were that before. But, to return 
to what we were speaking of, why do 
you think you will be scorned by 
Jeannette ? Come, now, tell me all. 
You love the little thing ? and . . . 
more than a brother loves a sister ?" 

" Ah !" cried Jeannet, hiding his 
face, which he felt crimsoning, like a 
young girl surprised, " you drag the 
last secret from my heart Yes, I 
love her, I love her to madness, and 
that adds to the bitterness of my de- 
spair. May God pardon me ! I have 
already confessed it, but with my 
great sorrow is mingled a wicked 
sentiment. Solange! I am jealous; 
I know it well. What can you ex- 
pect? I was so before I knew it, 
and I cannot drive it from me. Did 
I ever feel that she was not my sis- 
ter ? No, not once until the day 
that there was question of her mar- 
riage; and yet," added he clasping 
liis hands, " God, who hears me, 
knows that if she had chosen one 
worthy of her, I would have had the 
strength to conquer it for the sake 
of her happiness. But so many mis- 
fortunes have made me what I am, 
and — what I only avow to you — in- 
capable of surmounting my jealousy 
and dislike." 

While he spoke thus, beautiful 
Solange smiled, not like a scornful 
woman, who has no pity for feelings 
to which she is insensible, but like a 
mother who is sure of consoling her 
sick child. Her clear, tranquil eyes 
rested upon Jean-Louis, who gradual- 
ly raised his, that he might look at 
her in his turn ; for everything about 
this girl of twenty years was so gen- 
tle and calm, and at the same time 
so good, one always expected to re- 
ceive consolation from her. 

** You wish to scold me ?" said 
Jean-Louis. "If so, do it without 
fear, if you think I am in fault." 



" Not at all," she replied ; " there 
is nothing wrong in what you have 
confided to me, Jeannet. I pity you 
with my whole heart, only I scarcely 
understand you." 

" Why so, Solange ? You are, 
however, very kind, and certainly have 
a heart." 

"I hope so," said she ; " but when a 
creature is loved so dearly, she should 
be esteemed in every respect." 

** Don't I esteem Jeannette? 
Solange I why do you say that ?" 

" But I only repeat what you first 
said, my child," she replied in her 
maternal tone, which was very sweet 
in that young mouth. "You think 
her capable of despising you, and 
imagine that she will disdain you 
when she learns the misfortune of 
your birth ; therefore, you do not 
esteem her, and so, I repeat, I can't 
understand such great affection." 

" You can reason very coolly 
about it," said Jeannet ; " but if your 
soul were troubled like miAe, you 
would not see so clearly to the bot- 
tom of things." 

" It is precisely because you are so 
troubled that the good God permits 
this conversation to-night," she re- 
plied. " Let me tell you now why I 
still liope. Jeannette at this moment 
sins by the head, but her heart is un- 
touched; and here is the proof: the 
secret you so dread her knowing she 
has known as well as either of us 
for more than three months. Have 
you seen any change in her man- 
ner ?" 

" Oh ! is it possible ?" cried Jean- 
net. ** And who told her ?" 

" I myself," answered Solange. 
" She had heard at the chateau j^onie 
words dropped by Dame * Berthe, 
which excited her curiosity. After 
her sickness, when I went to stay 
with her, she one day asked an ex- 
planation of her doubts; and as 1 
feared, if she questioned others, she 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



655 



would not be properly answered, I 
told her all." 

'' You did right ; and what was her 
reply ?" 

"She threw herself in mv arms, 
and thanked me," said Solange. " For 
more than an hour she spoke of her 
great affection for you, which time 
had augmented instead of diminish- 
ing. She wept for your misfortune, 
and thanked God that her parents 
had acted so well, as by that act 
they had given her a brother; and 
never did I see her so gentle, tender, 
and kind. She made me promise I 
would never tell you that she knew 
your secret ; but the poor child did 
not then foresee the necessity that 
compels me to speak to-night on ac- 
count of your wicked thoughts." 

" Dear, dear Jeannette !" said 
Jean-Louis, with tears in his eyes. 

" I have heard lately," continued 
Solange, " that she came near send- 
ing off Isidore, because he presumed, 
thinking she knew nothing, to make 
some allusion to the subject. She 
declared that she considered you 
her brother, and those who wished 
to be friends of hers must think the 
same." 

" Say no more," said Jeannet. 
" I will love her more than ever." 

"No," replied she, "it is useless. 
Only don't despair. Take courage, 
for there is always hope when the 
lieart is good ; and the moment this 
poor child, who is now acting with- 
out reflection, will know she should 
despise Isidore, she will dismiss him 
and drive him away as she would a 
dangerous animal." 

" But will she ever know it ?" said 
Jean-Louis. 

" Hope in God," replied the pious 
girl. " Has he ever yet abandoned 
you ?" 

" ^% him to make me as confident 
as you," said he, looking at her with 
admiration. "What good you do 



me ! How can I repay you, Solange, 
for such kind words ?" 

" Perhaps," said she seriously — 
" perhaps, one day, I may ask you to 
do me a great service." 

" Really ! Let me know it now. 
I will be so happy to serve you," 

" Yes ? Well, then, I will," re- 
plied Solange, after a moment's hesi- 
tation. " You have laid bare your 
heart to me ; I will return your confi- 
dence. Jean- Louis, I also have a 
secret love in my soul, and I will 
die if I do not obtain what I de- 



sire. 



>} 



" You !" said Jeannet, astonished ; 
" you, dear Solange ! I always 
thought you so quiet and so happy 
in your life." 

" It is true," said she, sighing. " I 
look so, because I cannot let people 
see what they could not understand. 
But with you, Jean-Louis, it is differ- 
ent ; I can tell you everything." 

" I hope, at least," said Jeannet, 
smiling, " that he whom you love is 
worthy of your esteem." 

" Oh ! yes," she replied, crossing 
her arms on her breast, while her 
pale, beautiful face crimsoned with 
fervor — " oh ! yes, for he whom I love 
is the Lord our God. I wish to be 
a Sister of Charity, Jeannet, and un- 
til then there will be no happiness 
on earth for me." 

Jean-Louis for a moment was 
dumb with surprise at this avowal; 
then he knelt before her, and kissed 
her hands. 

" I might have suspected it," said 
he, much moved ; " you were not 
made to live the ordinary life of the 
world. God bless you, dear Solange, 
and may his holy angels accompany 
you ! But what can I do to aid you 
in your holy wishes ?" 

" Much," she replied ; " you can 
inform my parents, and afterwards 
console them; reason with Pierre, 
who will be half crazy when he hears 



6s6 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



of my departure; and perhaps you 
can even accompany me to Paris, 
for I am afraid to go alone. I have 
never been away from home, and I 
would not dare venture on that long 
journey." 

" But, dear Solange, you will need 
a great deal of money for that." 

" Oh !" said she, laughing, " do 
you think me a child ? For two years 
I have deprived myself of everything, 
and I have more than enough. 
See," she added, opening a little box, 
which she kept hidden under a plaster 
statue of the Blessed Virgin, which 
stood near her bed. " Count !" 

" Three hundred francs !" said 
Jeannet, after having counted ; " and 
ten, and twenty, and thirty more — 
three hundred and sixty, besides the 
change. There are nearly four hun- 
dred francs." 

" There will be when I am paid 
for what I am now embroidering," 
said she. " Is that enough ?" 

" Ten times too much," replied 
Jeannet. " Poor dear Solange ! what 
happiness to think that I shall see 
you until the last moment !" 

" And afterwards again," said she 
gaily ; " the white comets are made 
to go over the world. We will meet 
again, don't fear !" 

It is truly said that example is 
better than precept. Jean-Louis be- 
came a man again before that beau- 
tiful and pious girl, so brave and so 
good. His heart was comforted, his 
soul strengthened. He would have 
blushed now to weep about his sor- 
rows, when Solange was about to 
sacrifice her whole life to the sorrows 
of others. She commenced to play 
her part of Sister of Charity with him, 
and God doubtless already blessed 
her; for never did balm poured into 
a wound produce a more instant 
effect. 

They finished their little arrange- 
ments just as the Luguets returned 



home. Pierre was rather gay, as he 
could not go to the fair without 
drinking with his friends ; and when a 
man's ordinary drink is water colored 
with the skins of grapes, half a pint 
is enough to make him feel jolly. 

Therefore, when he found Solange 
and Jeannet in conversation, looking 
rather more serious than usual, he 
commenced to lopk very wise, whis- 
tled, winking from one to th^ other, 
to let them know he understood what 
was going on. Jean- Louis was seat 
ed near the fire, and p>ondered over 
the mutual confidences made that 
evening. He paid little attention to 
Pierre's manoeuvres ; but Solange saw 
them, and, while laying the cloth for 
supper, begged her brother to explain 
in good French what was on his 
mind. 

"Yes, yes, my pretty one!" said 
he, trying to put his arm around 
her waist, something which she did 
not permit even in him ; " we know 
something al|out you." 

" Nothing very bad," she replied, 
laughing; "here I am before you in 
fiesh and blood, and you see I am 
not at all sick." 

"Don't be so sly," he answered; 
" this is not the time. We returned 
from the fair with lots of acquaintan- 
ces, and every one told us you were 
going to be married, and tliat your 
bans would be published next Sun- 
day." 

" It is rather too soon," said Solange 
quietly ; " the consent of the parents 
will be needed, and I don't know 
yet whether it will be given. And 
to whom shall I be married ? Those 
people who are so well informed 
should have told you that." 

Thereupon Pierre, without answer- 
ing, struck Jean-Louis on the shoul- 
der. 

" Look up, sleepy-head I" cried he 
in his ear. " Can you tell me who js 
going to marry my sister Solange ?" 



Epigram. 



6S7 



"Who? What?" answered Jean- 
net, like one coming out of a dream 
" What are you talking about ?" 

" I say that you and Solange can 
keep a secret famously," said he, 
rather spitefully. " It is well to keep 
it secret, when you are only thinking 
of marriage, and I don't object to 
your first arranging it between your- 
selves; but now that everybody 
knows it except us, it is rather pro- 
voking for the family." 

" You are crazy," said Jean-Louis. 

"A big baby, at least," said So- 
lange, shrugging her shoulders. 

" All very well," said Pierre j *' we 
know what we know. We say no- 
thing further. When you choose to 
speak of your affairs, well, we will be 
ready to listen to you." 

Jeannet was about to reply, but 
Luguet and his wife, who all this while 
had been in the barn, giving a look 
at the cattle, to see that all was safe 
for the night, re-entered the room, 
and Solange motioned to Jean-Louis 
not to continue such a useless con- 
versation before her parents. 



But whether Pierre was more ob- 
stinate than usual that night on ac- 
count of the wine in his head, or 
whether his great friendship for Jean- 
net inflamed his desire for the al- 
liance, certain it is he would not give 
up his belief in the approaching mar- 
riage, and continued throughout sup- 
per to make jokes and clack his 
wooden shoes underneath the table ; 
in fact, he acted like a boy who is 
sure of his facts and loves to torment 
people. Jean-Louis several times 
was on the point of telling him to be 
quiet, but Solange, with her gentle 
smiles, always prevented him. 

You can well perceive this confirm- 
ed Pierre in his belief that they un- 
derstood each other, as honest lovers 
have the right to do ; so that, if he 
was a little doubtful on his return 
from the fair, he was no longer so at 
the end of the supper, and went to 
bed so firmly persuaded that he 
would soon have Jeannet for brother- 
in-law, they could easier have cut off 
his right hand than make him believe 
to the contrary. 



TO BS CONTINUBD. 



EPIGRAM. 

TO DOMITIAN, CONCERNING S. JOHN, COMMANDED TO BE CAST INTO A CALDRON OF 

BURNING OIL. 

Thou go unpunished ? That shall never be, 
Since thou hast dar^d to mock the gods and me. 
Bum him in oil I — The lictor oil prepares : 
Behold the saint anointed unawares I 
With such elusive virtue was the oil fraught 1 
Such aid thy olive-loving Pallas brought ! * 

— Crashaw. 



• The alluflloii la to wrestlers anointing themselvet to prevent tbeir adveneries gmspinc them. 
VOL. XVIII. — 42 



658 



Nano Naglc, 



NANO NAGLE: 



FOUNDRESS OF THE PRESENTATION ORDER. 



There is no fact more apparent or 
more full of significance in the his- 
tory of the church than the constant 
acting and reacting upon each other 
of races and nations in the perpetual 
struggle between civilization and re- 
ligion with barbarism and infidelity, 
light with darkness. While the faith 
seems dimmed and its professors the 
victims of persecution in one land, in 
another the torch of learning and 
piety is slowly but surely kindling 
into brilHancy, and the ardor of 
apostolic zeal is being awakened, 
even by the supineness and apostasy 
of its neighbors. That this should 
be permitted or ordained by divine 
Providence is a mystery to all, but its 
effects can easily be perceived by 
any ordinary student of history. 

For proof of this mutation and 
transition we need not go beyond 
our own day and generation. Eu- 
rope of the XlXth century presents 
a spectacle, if not alarming, at least 
discouraging to many who have the 
cause of Christianity sincerely at 
heart. In one country we perceive 
a direct attack on the Sovereign 
Pontiff, wholesale spoliation of his 
temporal possessions, restriction of 
his personal liberty, and a general 
onslaught on the religious orders — 
those most efficient agents for the 
propagation of morality, charity, and 
intelligence — which surround him — 
and that, too, by a prince of Catholic 
origin and education, who claims the 
right to govern twenty millions of 
subjects. In another we have a sto- 
lid, sordid imperator^ instigated by a 
intellectual but not less arbi- 



trary minister, not only claiming 
complete dominion over the lives 
and property of twice that number, 
but assuming also the right to dictate 
the terms upon which they shall wor- 
ship their Maker, what shall be their 
faith, and who may be their teachers 
and guides in the way of salvation. 

Again, in such countries as Aus- 
tria, France, Spain, and Belgium, 
until very recently considered the 
bulwarks of Catholicity on the Con- 
tinent, indifferentism, communism, 
and open infidelity, if not yet trium- 
phant, have certainly of late made 
rapid strides towards power and au- 
thority, and to the human eye se- 
riously threaten the very existence of 
society, of all order and all law, hu- 
man and divine, in those distracted 
nations. And still, a prospect such 
as Europe now presents, though 
seemingly gloomy, is actually full of 
hope and promise. While the hith- 
erto supine Catholics of the Italian 
peninsula are being aroused into 
earnestness by the outrages daily 
perpetrated on the Holy Father and 
the religious orders, and their core- 
ligionists of Germany are forming 
themselves into a solid, compact, and 
energetic array in defence of their 
rights, elsewhere the cause of the 
church is progressing with a rapidity 
and uniformity that equally astonishes 
and alarms her enemies. 

Take oiu: own republic, for exam- 
ple, with its seven archbishops, its 
forty-nine bishops, thousands of 
priests, and millions of earnest and 
obedient spiritual children, where a 
century ago a priest was an object 



Nana Nagle. 



659 



of curiosity to most of the people, 
and a Catholic was generally re- 
garded with less favor than is now 
shown the Chinese idolaters. Now, 
what has wrought this change ; what 
has scattered broadcast over this 
vast continent, and engrafted in the 
heart of our vigorous young repub- 
lic the doctrines of the church, but 
the persecutions which our coreligion- 
ists have endured and are still endur- 
ing, in the Old World ? To the irreli- 
gious maniacs of the French Revolu- 
tion, to the penal code of Great 
Britain, and now to the mendacity of 
Victor Emanuel and the truculent 
tyranny of Bismarck, are we mainly 
indebted, under Providence, for the 
origin, growth, and increase of Ca- 
tholicity among us. Like a subter- 
ranean fire, the spirit of the church 
can never be repressed. Subdued in 
one place, it will burst forth in an- 
other with redoubled force, intensi- 
fied by the very attempts made to 
confine it. 

Then let us look at England — 
England which among the nations 
was the land of the Reformation ; 
who not only stoned the prophets, 
but whose annals for nearly three 
centuries are the most anti-Catholic 
and intolerant to be found in the 
records of modern history. She, also, 
as in the early ages of her conversion, 
felt the effect of continental bar- 
barism and persecution. At the very 
time when the faith seemed to have 
been utterly extirpated within her 
boundaries, the French Revolution 
drove to her shores many Catholics, 
lay and clerical, of gentle birth, culti- 
vated manners, and varied accom- 
plishments, and to those exiles does 
she owe primarily the revival in her 
bosom of the religion planted by S. 
Augustine. She has now sixteen 
archbishops and bishops, sixteen hun- 
dred priests, over one thousand places 
of worship, where assemble large 



congregations, including many of the 
most eminent and distinguished of 
her sons. 

The Catholics of Ireland, always 
true to the faith and loyal to the 
head of the church, were common 
sufferers with their coreligionists 
across the Channel, and, though in a 
different manner and at an earlier 
period, they were equally the gainers 
with those of England, and from 
causes almost similar. The property 
of that cruelly tried people was not 
only confiscated by the penal laws, 
their clergy outlawed, and their per- 
sons subjected to all sorts of pains 
and penalties, but they were denied 
the poor privilege of acquiring the 
principles of the commonest educa- 
tion. The consequences of such 
persecution, continued generation 
after generation, were what might 
have been, and no doubt was, expect- 
ed to be — that the people, persistently 
refusing to yield to cajolery or threats 
in matters of conscience, within two 
centuries after the " Reformation " 
had almost universally sunk into ab- 
ject poverty and secular ignorance. 
In fact, had it not been for their tra- 
ditional knowledge of the great truths 
of religion, and the instruction some- 
times stealthily given them by some 
fugitive priest in remote mountains 
and the fastnesses of the bogs, they 
must inevitably have degenerated 
into something like primitive barbar- 
ism. 

However, such an anomalous state 
as this could not last for ever. All 
Christendom was about to cry out 
against it, and an incident occurred 
in 1745, under the administration 
of the celebrated Lord Chesterfield, 
which awakened at home general at- 
tention to the wretched manner in 
which four-fifths of the inhabitants of 
the country were obliged to worship 
their Creator. It happened that in 
that year a small congregation was as- 



66o 



Nano Nagle. 



sembled secretly in an old store, in an 
obscure part of Dublin, to hear Mass, 
when the floor gave way, and the en- 
tire body was precipitated to the 
ground below. F. Fitzgerald, the 
celebrant, and nine of his parish- 
ioners, were killed, and several others 
severely injured. The viceroy, who, 
whatever may have been his other 
faults, was certainly less bigoted 
than his predecessors, thereupon 
took the responsibility of allowing 
the Catholics, under certain restric- 
tions, to open their chapels, and wor- 
ship in public. This limited conces- 
sion was the commencement of a new 
era in the affairs of the Irish Catho- 
lics. The number of priests be- 
gan to increase ; churches, rude and 
small of necessity, sprang up here 
and there, generally in secluded lo- 
calities, as if afraid to show them- 
selves ; and incipient efforts for the 
education of the masses of both sexes 
were soon noticed. 

In this latter great work of bene- 
volence the most zealous and efficient 
was the lady whose name heads this 
article. She seems to have been en- 
dowed by Providence with all the 
gifts, mental and moral, necessary to 
constitute her the pioneer of that 
host of noble women who, since her 
time to the present, have devoted 
themselves to the education and 
training of the females of Ireland. 
Born of an ancient and thoroughly 
Catholic family of considerable 
wealth and. wide popular influence, 
she grew up amid home scenes of 
comfort, peace, and charity, a devout 
believer in the sanctity of religion, and 
in perfect accord with the instructions 
of indulgent but watchful parents. 
The position her father held among 
his poorer and less fortunate neigh- 
bors, his charity to the needy, and 
It is protection to the helpless, afiford- 
eil her, even in her extreme youth, 
many opportunities of stuching the 



wants of the distressed, and of sympa- 
thizing with their afflictions : princi- 
ples which, then perhaps nourished 
in her heart unconsciously, were in 
after-years destined to grow and fruc- 
tify into those nobler deeds of charity 
that have made her memory so cher- * 
ished and revered. 

Honora, or, as her friends and 
beneficiaries loved to call her, Nano 
Nagle, was the daughter of a gende- 
man named Garret Nagle, of Bally- 
griffin, near Mallow, in the county of 
Cork, where she was bom kj^ 1728. 
Through both parents she was relat- 
ed, not only to many of the old 
Catholic houses, but to several of the 
most influential Protestant families 
in the South ; which is only worthy 
of remark as furnishing a clew to the 
fact of her parents' wealth and social 
standing in times when those of the 
proscribed religion were not only 
disquahned from accumulating or 
holding property in their own right, 
but were personally objects of con- 
tempt and contumely to the domi- 
nant class. It may also, perhaps, ac- 
count for the impunity with which 
Mr. Nagle, despite the numerous 
statutory enactments, was enabled to 
send his favorite child to the Conti- 
nent to complete an education the 
rudiments only of which could be ob- 
tained in the privacy of her family. 

Accordingly, at an early age, Nano 
quitted her pleasant and cheerful 
home by the Blackwater for the re- 
tirement and austerity of a convent 
on the banks of the Seine, in which 
institution she acquired all the ac- 
complishments and graces then con- 
sidered befitting a young lady of 
position. 

Having entered school a mere 
girl from a remote part of a semi- 
civilized country, untutored, undevel- 
oped, and, it is even said, a little 
petulant and self-willed, she now, at 
her twenty-first year, emerged from 



Nana Nagle, 



66i 



the shadow of the convent walls into 
the sunshine of Parisian life, an educat- 
ed, beautiful, and self-sustained wo- 
man. Her family had many friends 
in the French capital, particularly in 
the households of the Irish Brigade 
officers and other Catholic exiles, 
and her entrance into the best soci- 
ety was unimpeded, and was even 
signalized by rare scenes of festivity 
and mutual gratification. Her na- 
tive fiaiveU and buoyancy of spirits, 
tempered with all the well-bred 
courtesy and dignity of a French 
education under the old rigime^ 
made her a general favorite; and 
though it does not appear that she 
was in the least spoiled by tlfb ad- 
miration and adulation that every- 
where awaited her, there is little 
doubt that she participated in the 
fashionable dissipations of the gay 
capital with all the ardor and impet- 
uosity latent in her disposition. Ad- 
mitted to such scenes, it is little won- 
der that for a time she forgot the 
land of her birth, its persecutions 
and tribulations, its degraded pea- 
santry and timid and degenerate aris- 
tocracy. One so young and so ca- 
pable of appreciating the refinements 
and elegancies of the most cultured 
city in Europe, might well have been 
excused if she found it difficult to 
exchange them for the obscurity and 
monotony of a remote provincial 
town. 

But the spell which at this time 
bound her was soon to be broken. 
The still, small voice of duty and 
conscience was soon to find a tongue 
and speak to her soul with the force 
almost of inspiration. The circum- 
stances of this radical change in her 
life are thus graphically described in 
a very valuable book recently pub- 
lished : 

'* In the small» early hours of a spring 
morning of the year 1750, a heavy, lum- 
bering carriage rolled over the uneven 



pavement of the quartier Saint Germain 
of the French capital, awakening the 
echoes of the still sleeping city. The 
beams of the rising sun had not yet 
struggled over the horizon to light up the 
spires and towers and lofty housetops, 
but the cold, gray dawn was far advanced. 
The occupants of the carriage were an 
Irish young lady of two-and- twenty, and 
her chaperon, a French lady, both fa- 
tigued and listlessly reclining in their 
respective corners. They had lately 
formed part of a gay and glittering crowd 
in one of the most fashionable Parisian 
salons. As they moved onward, each 
communing with her own thoughts, in 
all probability reverting to the brilliant 
scene they had just left, and anticipating 
the recurrence of many more such, the 
young lady's attention was suddenly at- 
tracted by a crowd of poor people stand- 
ing at the yet unopened door of a parish 
church. They were work-people, wait- 
ing for admission by the porter, in order 
to hear Mass before they entered on their 
day's work. 

'• The young lady was forcibly struck. 
She reflected on the hard lot of those 
children of toil, their meagre fare, their 
wretched dwellings, their scanty clothing, 
their constant struggle to preserve them- 
selves and their families even in this 
humble position — a struggle in many 
a case unavailing ; for sickness, or inter- 
ruption of employment, or one of the 
many other casualties incidental to their 
state, might any day sink them still 
deeper in penury. She reflected serious- 
ly on all this ; and then she dwelt on their 
simple faith, their humble piety, their 
thus 'preventing the day to worship 
God/ She contrasted their lives with 
those of the gay votaries of fashion and 
pleasure, of whom she was one. She 
felt dissatisfied with herself, and asked 
her own heart. Might she not be more 
profitably employed ? Her thoughts next 
naturally revertcJ to her native land, 
then groaning under the weight of perse- 
cution for conscience' sake — its religion 
proscribed, its altars overturned, its sanc- 
tuaries desolate, its children denied, 
under grievous penalties, the blessings 
of free education. 

•' She felt at once that there was a great 
mission to be fulfilled, and that, with 
God's blessing, she might do something 
towards its fulfilment. For a long lime 
she dwelt earnestly on what we mny now 
regard as an inspiration from heaven. 



663 



Nano Nagie, 



She frequently commended the matter to 
God, and took the advice of pious and 
learned ecclesiastics ; and the result was 
that great work which has ever been since, 
and is in our day, a source of benedic- 
tion and happiness to countless thou- 
sands of poor families in her native land, 
and has made 'the name of Nano Nagle 
worthy of a high place on the roll of the 
heroines of charity."* 

Miss Nagle then set out for Ireland, 
firmly determined to commence the 
noble work so suddenly contemplated 
and so maturely considered \ but on 
her arrival in Cork, she found her 
friends exceedingly lukewarm, and the 
amount of ignorance and destitution in 
that city so appalling that she shrank 
from the very magnitude of the diffi- 
culties to be overcome, and began to 
fear that she had, in a moment of en- 
thusiasm, overrated her ability and 
mistaken her vocation. This was na- 
tural. What could a young lady, 
scarcely entered on womanhood, de- 
licately nurtured, and hitherto ac- 
customed only to the society of the 
most fastidious — what could such a 
frail scion of aristocracy do to remove 
even an infinitesimal part of the in- 
cubus of poverty, ignorance, and 
crime, the result of centuries of mis- 
government, which then weighed so 
heavily on the people ? 

She therefore resolved to visit the 
French capital again to consult emi- 
nent clerical friends, and to lay be- 
fore them all her doubts and diffi- 
culties. They heard her explana- 
tions and arguments with attention, 
weighed her objections with proper 
gravity, and finally, having dispelled 
her doubts and strengthened her 
self-confidence, assured her that in 
their opinion — and it was a unani- 
mous one — God had evidently called 
her to be the succor and comfort of 
her afflicted countrywomen — ^a deci- 
sion which subsequent events proved 

• Ttrra Incognita: or^ The Convents of the 
United Kingdom, Uy John Nicholas Murphy. 
London : 1873. 



to have been little short of prophetic. 
Thus reassured, and casting aside 
once for all the allurements of life, 
the rational pleasures which youth, 
beauty, and wealth might reasonably 
command, Miss Nagle resolved to 
eschew the things of the world for 
ever, and devote herself heart and 
soul to the self-imposed duties from 
the performance of which she had 
lately shrunk, more from a conscious- 
ness of the weakness of her position 
than from any lack of intention to 
perform them faithfully. The re- 
solve she so solemnly made then she 
kept till the day of her death, thirty 
years afterwards, with unflinching 
fortitude and fidelity. 

In 1754 we find her back in Cork, 
steadily but quiedy, almost secretly, 
as the spirit of the times demanded, 
initiating her crusade against squalor 
and ignorance. With what preco- 
cious circumspection she commenced 
her labors is best shown in a letter to 
a friend, Miss Fitzsimmons, then in 
the UrsuUne Convent at Paris. The 
extract is long, but it will repay 
perusal, as it may be considered an 
exact reflex of the working of her 
strong, simple, but thoroughly earn- 
est mind. She writes under date 
July 17, 1769: 

" When I arrived, I kept my design a 
profound secret, as I knew, if it were 
spoken of, I should meet with opposition 
on every side, particularly from my own 
immediate family ; as, to all appearances, 
they would suffer from it. My confessor 
was the only person I told of it ; and as 
I could not appear in the affair, I sent my 
maid to get a good mistress, and to take 
in thirty poor girls. When the little 
school was settled, I used to steal there 
in the morning. My brother thought 1 
was in the chapel. This passed on very 
well until, one day, a jjoor man came 10 
him, to speak to me to take his child into 
my school ; on which he came in to his 
wife and me, laughing at the conceit of a 
man who was mad and thought 1 was in 
the situation of a schoolmistress. Then 
I owned that I had set up a school ; on 



Nano Nagle. 



663 



which he fell into a violent passion, and 
said avast deal on the bad consequences 
that may follow. His wife is very zeal- 
ous, and so is he; but worldly interests 
blinded him at first. He was soon re- 
conciled to it. He was not the person I 
most dreaded would be brought into 
trouble about it ; it was my uncle Nagle, 
who is, I think, the most disliked by the 
Protestants of any Catholic in the king- 
dom. I expected a great deal from him. 
The best part of my fortune I have re- 
ceived from him. When he heard it, he 
was not at all angry at it ; and in a little 
time they were so good as to contribute 
largely to support it. And I took in chil- 
dren by degrees, not to make any noise 
about it in the beginning. In about nine 
months I had about two hundred children. 
When the Catholics saw what service it 
did, they begged that, for th6 convenience 
of the children, I would set up schools 
for children at the other end of the town 
from where I was. to be under my care 
and direction ; and they promised to con- 
tribute to the support of them. With this 
request I readily complied, and the same 
number of children that I had were taken 
in ; and at the death of my uncle, I sup- 
ported them all at my own expense. I did 
not intend to take boys, but my sister-in- 
law made it a point, and said she would 
not allow any of my family to contribute 
to them unless I did so ; on which I got 
a master, and took in only forty boys. 
They are in a house by themselves, and 
have no communication with the others." 

This letter, it will be observed, was 
written fifteen years after the first 
school was founded, and already there 
were in active operation, in various 
parts of the city, two schools for boys 
and five for girls, all under the super- 
vision of Miss Nagle, and supported 
from her private purse, or by a contri- 
bution of one shilling per month, 
which she was in the habit of collect- 
ing from a few of the more wealthy 
of the citizens. In these nurseries 
of intelligence and morality — model 
schools, in fact — the children of both 
sexes were taught to read and write, 
to say their daily prayers, learn the 
catechism, and, in the case of the 
older girls, to acquire a familiarity 
with such useful work as befitted 



their condition. Those who were of 
sufficient age heard Mass every morn- 
ing, went to confession monthly, and 
to communion as frequently as their 
confessor considered advisable. 

In supervising so many schools, 
and constantly instructing hundreds 
of pupils, whose moral as well as 
mental culture had been neglected 
hitherto most wofuUy, this heroic 
woman's self-imposed labors, it may 
well be imagined, were of the most 
arduous description, and we are not 
surprised to find that her health be- 
gan to show signs of giving way 
" In the beginning," she says, " being 
obliged to speak for upwards of four 
hours, and my chest not being so 
strong as it had been, I spat blood, 
which I took care to conceal, for 
fear of being prevented from instruct- 
ing the poor. It has not the least bad 
effect now. When I have done prepar- 
ing them at each end of the town, I 
feel like an idler that has nothing to 
do, though I speak almost as much 
as when I prepare them for their first 
communion. I find not the least diffi- 
culty in it. I explain the catechism 
as well as I can in one school or 
other every day; and if every one 
thought as little of labor as I do, 
they would have little merit. I often 
think that my schools will never bring 
me to heaven, as I only take delight 
and pleasure in them. You see it 
has pleased the Almighty to make 
me succeed when I had everything, 
I may say, to fight against. I assure 
you I did not expect a farthing from 
any mortal towards the support of 
my schools ; and I thought 1 should 
not have more than fifty or sixty 
girls until I got a fortune; nor did I 
think I should in Cork. I began in 
a poor, humble manner ; and though 
it has pleased the divine will to give 
me severe trials in this foundation, 
yet it is to show that it is his work, 
and has not been effected by human 



664 



Nana Nag^e. 



means. I can assure you that my 
schools are beginning to be of 
service to a great many parts of the 
world. Tliis is a place of great trade. 
They are heard of; and my views 
are not for one object alone." The 
fortune here so delicately alluded to 
was left her by her uncle Nagle, who, 
profoundly penetrated with a sense 
of her discretion and of her devotion 
to the friendless, bequeathed her the 
bulk of his property. It was a very 
considerable sum, and was unstinting- 
ly devoted by her to further the great 
objects she had ever in view. 

As her schools multiplied, and the 
attendance on each increased, with 
a rapidity that astonished every one, 
Miss Nagle saw the absolute neces- 
sity of calling in other and, if possible, 
organized assistance, that thus, by 
making her system more perfect, she 
might perpetuate the good work al- 
ready so auspiciously begun. She 
therefore resolved on a bold measure 
— one that could have entered only 
the mind of a dauntless spirit, fortified 
by implicit faith in the protection of 
Providence. She determined, in fact, 
despite the many inhuman and in- 
genious penal statutes against monas- 
tic institutions, to establish a convent 
in Cork. 

For this purpose, some time previ- 
ous to the date of the above letter, 
four young ladies, representing some 
of the best / families in the neighbor- 
hood, were sent to the Ursuline Con- 
vent of S. Jacques, in Paris, to enter 
their novitiate, while Miss Nagle, 
with her usual generosity and pru- 
dence, set silently to work to build a 
suitable house for their reception on 
their return. That event took place 
in 1 77 1, and marks a new era in the 
history of the church in Ireland and 
England. The young novices who 
thus not only abandoned the allure- 
ments of the world, home, friends, 
and future, to serve God, but braved 



the terrors of the penal laws and the 
sneers of the anti-Catholic rabble, 
deserve to have their names handed 
down for the admiration and homage 
of their sex in every age and clime. 
They were " Miss Fitzsimmons, the 
special friend and correspondent of 
the foundress ; Miss Nagle, her rela- 
tive ; Miss Coppinger, of the Barrys- 
court family, and cousin of Marian, 
Duchess of Norfolk ; and Miss Ka- 
vanagh, related to the noble house 
of Ormonde." They were accompa- 
nied by Mrs. Margaret Kelly, a pro- 
fessed sister of the UrsuUne Convent 
of Dieppe, none of the sisters of S. 
Jacques being willing to undertake 
so hazardous an enterprise. ^ 

They arrived in May, and on Uie 
1 8th of September following took for- 
mal possession of their convent, and 
from that day may be dated the rein- 
troduction of the conventual order into 
the United Kingdom of Great Bri- 
tain and Ireland.* 

Thus in the wise designs of God, 
while the Encyclopedists and the 
secret societies of the Continent were 
maturing their plans of attack on the 
church and her institutions, when 
monasteries, convents, colleges, and 
hospitals from one end of Europe to 
the other, already feeling the pre- 
monitory symptoms of that monstrous 
earthquake of immorality and infi- 
delity which was soon to be felt 
throughout Christendom, were shak- 
ing to their very foundations, in an 
obscure little city in the South of 
Ireland were planted the seeds of reli- 
gion and Christian instruction which 
have since grown up and produced 
such marvellous fruits. The inci- 
dent becomes even more interesting 

* There are now in En{rUnd and in Wales 
alone two hundred and thirty-five convents, con- 
taining about three thousand nuns of various 
orders and congregations. Among these is the 
Presentation Convent in Manchester, to which is 
attached a female orphanage, a poor school at- 
tended by four hundred and seventy-five day 
and five hundred Sunday-school scholars. 



i 



Nano Nagle. 



665 



when we consider that the five ladies 
who commenced this beneficent work 
were all educated in that country 
and city, which ere long were to fur- 
nish the deadliest enemies of Cath- 
olicity. • 

It is not to be supposed that so 
daring an act as that of the intrepid 
Nano could pass unnoticed. Though 
the sisters studied the greatest seclu- 
sion, it was at one time proposed by 
the local authorities to enforce the 
laws against them ; but better coun- 
sels prevailed, and the humble com- 
munity grew rapidly in popularity 
and usefulness. A few months after 
its establishment, a select school, 
with twelve young ladies as pupils, 
was founded, and this number was 
quickly augmented by children from 
the more wealthy Catholic families 
of the adjoining counties. There 
are now five houses of this order in 
Ireland. 

At first Miss Nagle lived in the 
convent ; but her impatient soul, lier 
burning love for the children of the 
lowly, was not yet satisfied ; for though 
the good Ursulines devoted all their 
available time to the instruction of 
the poor, while perfecting in the 
higher branches of education those 
destined in turn to become teachers, 
she felt that another and a more 
comprehensive organization was ne- 
cessary to combat so vast an array 
of popular error, ignorance, and des- 
titution. A society that would de- 
vote itself, as she had so long done, 
individually, exclusively, and gratui- 
tously to the service of the impov- 
erished and untrained masses was 
what she desired, and what she felt 
called upon to form and direct. 
With that indomitable energy which 
ever characterized her, though en- 
feebled in health, reduced in fortune, 
and prematurely old from incessant 
labor, at the age of forty- four she re- 
tired from the companionship of her 



friends 2Xid ptoUg^s, the Ursulines, to 
a house adjacent to the convent, pur- 
chased by herself, and, gathering 
around her some pious women, form- 
ed a society that was to be known 
as " Of the Presentation of Our Bless- 
ed Lady in the Temple." The ob- 
jects of this association were : " Go- 
ing through the city, looking after 
poor girls ; inducing them to attend 
school, and instructing them in their 
religion ; and, further, visiting, reliev- 
ing, and consoling the sick poor in 
their own homes and in the public 
hospitals — duties analogous to those 
now discharged by the Sisters of 
Charity and Sisters of Mercy.'** 
Being approved by the bishop of the 
diocese, the Rt. Rev. Dr. Moylan, 
it began its pious labors on Christ- 
mas day, A.D. 1777, by entertaining at 
dinner fifty poor persons, the foundress 
being the presiding genius, or rather 
angel, of the entertainment. She 
also established, in connection with 
the home, an asylum for aged fe- 
males. 

This was the origin of what is now 
known as the Presentation Order, and 
was the last and crowning glory of 
Nano Nagle's remarkable career. 
Though of exclusively Irish origin, 
and notwithstanding that the original 
design of its foundress has been some- 
what changed, and its field of labor 
circumscribed and partly occupied by 
other orders or congregations, the 
institution founded by her with such 
limited means and materials has, ^^ith 
God's blessing, flourished with amaz- 
ing rapidity, and has spread its influ- 
ence, not only over the native land 
of the foundress, but to Great Bri- 
tain, the lower provinces of North 
America, and even to India and 
Australia. In Ireland alone there 
are at least fifty convents of the 
order, with poor schools, industrial 

• Terra Incognita, 



666 



Nafw NagU. 



schools, and asylums for the aged 
attached.* 

In 1 79 1 the society was feorganiz- 
ed and founded into a congregation 
at the request of the Bishop of Cork. 
The brief of Pope Pius VI. granting 
the prayer, directed that the members 
should observe as near as possible 
the rules governing the Ursulines, 
taking, after proper novitiate, simple 
vows of chastity, poverty, and obedi- 
ence. Sixteen years later the con- 
gregation was changed into an order 
by brief of Pius VII., under the title 
and invocation of the "Presentation 
of the Blessed Virgin Mary." The 
rules and constitutions governing 
the congregation and order were, at 
the request of His Holiness, drawn up 
by Dr. Moylan, approved by the 
archbishops and bishops of Ireland, 
and upon being forwarded to Rome, 
and upon proper examination, re- 
ceived the Papal sanction. 

The six or seven years spent by 
Miss Nagle as head of the Society 
of the Presentation were perhaps the 
most useful of her life ; for not only 
did she create and perfect a plan of 
practical instruction and discriminat- 
ing charity which has since been of 
infinite benefit in promoting the 
cause of religion and industry in other 
parts of Ireland ; not only did she 
inculcate in others who were to sur- 
vive her, principles of order, charity, 
and self-denial, but she organized a 
system of relief and a scheme of in- 

• The convents are those of the city of Cork, 
South, opened in 1777, in which is also an asylum 
foraged women ; the city of Cork, North ; Ban- 
dom. Doneraile, Voughal, Midleton, Kermoy, 
Michelstown, L'merick, Killarney, Tralec, Din- 
gle, Milltown, Cahirciveen, Millstreet, Listowel, 
Castleisland, Thurles, attached to which is an in- 
dastrial school ; Cashel, with an orphanage and 
an industrial school ; Kethard, Ballingary, Water- 
ford, Dun8:arvan, Clonmcl, Carrick-on-Suir ; 
Lismore, George's Hill, Dublin ; Roundtown, 
near Dublin, Maynooth, Clondalkin, Lucan, 
Kilkenny, Castlecomer, Mountcoin, Carlow, 
Maryborough, Kildare, Ragnalstown, Clane, 
Strsdbally Porta rling ton. Mount Mellick, Wex- 
ford, Enniscorthy, Droghcda, Raban, Mullingar, 
Granard, Tuam, Galway, and Banmore. 



struction which were of infinite benef 
to the deserving poor of Cork, an 
which were afterwards applied wit 
equal advantage by other religiot 
bodies in other cities and town; 
None ]cnew so well as she did t 
whom to give and whom to refuse 
though it may be well imagined thn 
her gentle heart, when it erred, lear 
ed in favor of the latter. 

Nor must we suppose that tli 
early years of what might be calle< 
her missionary labors were devote( 
exclusively to tlie instruction of he 
little waifs. On the contrary, mucl 
of her time — all, in fact, that could b 
spared from her private devotion 
and her beloved schools — was devot 
ed to the visitation of the sick anc 
the relief of the starving ; for starva 
tion, be it remembered, was ever 
then chronic in the South of Ireland. 
On her return from France, she a? 
first mingled occasionally in society 
as much to conceal, perhaps, her im- 
mature plans as in deference to the 
wishes of her friends ; but gradually 
she withdrew from all association 
with those of her own station, and 
devoted her entire time to acts oi 
practical charity. Even the most 
inclement winter weather could not 
deter her from her duty; and it 
is said that before daylight she 
might be noticed wending her way 
to the little North Cork chapel, to 
hear Mass as the commencement of 
a long day's labor, and that far into 
the night, in the unlighted streets oi 
Cork, a female figure, closely enwrap- 
ped in a cloak and bearing a lantern, 
could be seen hurrying to the death- 
bed of some poor sufferer, regardless 
of rain or snow or the cutting night- 
blast. So familiar had this appari- 
tion become to the citizens, and so 
well her errands of mercy were 
known, that the vilest of both sexc5 
passed her with respect, and she 
trod the lanes and alleys of the worst 



Nam Nagle. 



667 



parts of the city with perfect safet^. 
At the sight of that little lantern in 
the distance, the drunken brawler, as 
he reeled home, ceased his ribald 
song or stayed the half- uttered oath ; 
and the ill-starred wanderer, the pa- 
riah of her sex, fled to some hiding- 
place, or came forth for a k\y words 
of gentle admonition, which fell like 
healing balm on her wounded, sin- 
ful soul; for Nano Nagle, in hum- 
ble imitation of her Redeemer, had 
charity for all, even for the most de- 
graded of mankind. 

It is unnecessary to say that, in all 
her toils and struggles, Miss Nagle 
enjoyed the respect and esteem, and, 
when required, the assistance, of all 
the more wealthy and respectable of 
the citizens of Cork, Protestant as 
well as Catholic; but it was amid 
her children and in the hovels of the 
poor that she was best beloved, be- 
cause best known. Where famine 
hollowed the cheek and glazed the 
eye, she was to be found, with her 
brave words of comfort and hope, 
and, better still, with her well- filled 
basket and open purse ; where sick- 
ness and disease lurked, and the at- 
mosphere of the miserable dwellings 
of the fever-stricken was laden with 
almost certain death, her place was 
at tlie bedside of the dying, con- 
soling and solacing; now administer- 
ing the cooling draught to the poor 
patient's burning lips ; now, by prayer 
and spiritual instruction, endeavoring 
to smooth the path to a better world 
of the soul that was struggling to be 
free. No danger daunted her, no 
sight, however repulsive, stayed her 
persistent charity ; and it is even said 
that the once brilliant and accom- 
plished favorite of the Rue St. Ger- 
main did not hesitate, when she con- 
sidered herself called upon to do so, 



to perform the most menial of do- 
mestic offices for her sick or aged 
pensioners. 

Thirty years of such unremitting 
labor was more than a constitution 
of ordinary strength could well bear ; 
and even Miss Nagle, buoyed up 
as she was by intense devotion to 
the poor, felt that the hand of death 
was upon her, and that she was 
about to receive the eternal reward 
of her virtues, her charity, and her 
zeal in the service of God. Early in 
1784 her health completely broke 
down, and, thus timely warned, she 
prepared, with Christian sincerity and 
humility, to leave the scenes of her 
earthly labors, and pass through those 
portals which, for the just, open to an 
infinity of happiness. In the house 
of the society, and surrounded by its 
members, her spirit calmly took its 
upward flight on the 26th of April, 
1784. Her last advice to her little 
community was : ** Love one another 
as you have hitherto done.'' 

Such, in brief, were the life and la- 
bors of one whose name even is sel- 
dom heard, and of whose heroic ef- 
forts in the cause of religion and 
education so little mention is made 
beyond the boundaries of the locality 
in which she wrought and which she 
sanctified. Judging her by the sac- 
rifices she made, there may be found 
many even of our own day equally 
meritorious ; but considering the age 
in which she worked, the dangers 
and difficulties which constantly 
beset her path, the invincible energy 
with which she surmounted all obsta- 
cles, and the widespread and benefi- 
cent character of the results of her 
thirty years' toil, we may assuredly 
place her among the most remark- 
able and most devoted of the daugh- 
ters of the church. 



668 



Grace Seymour's Mission. 



GRACE SEYMOUR'S MISSION. 



In a small village of New Eng- 
land, elm-shaded and far from the 
resorts of travellers, there lived, a 
great many years ago, two people in 
easy circumstances, the owners of a 
lovely cottage — a father and his only 
daughter. 

They were well descended, and 
fully showed it; moreover, the girl's 
mother had been an Englishwoman 
of high birth, the daughter of a great 
house which, in the past, had also 
been allied to that of the man she 
married. Edward Seymour had 
once been the pastor and the favorite 
of the village of Walcot, an upright, 
believing, uncompromising Calvinist, 
a kind of Cromwell with all the am- 
bition turned heavenwards, and all 
the hardness tempered by a warm, 
generous nature. His wife also had 
been a vigorous believer in the same 
theology. Sprung from a family 
noted for its " Low Church " views 
in England, she had been strongly 
interested in the narrative of the 
American missionary, in the days 
when he, fresh from the university, 
and filled with vehement but practi- 
cal enthusiasm, had gone to the 
" mother country " on a tour of alms- 
asking and receiving. From inte- 
rest sprang attraction ; then love, 
with its impulsive and whole-hearted 
logic, rushed in and pleaded the 
cause of the disciple with that of the 
reUgion, and suggested forcibly that a 
fortune thrown at the feet of the 
minister would eventually find its 
way to the feet of God. Sweet argu- 
ment of the heart! though in this 
case an argument misapplied. 

So it fell oiit that, despite warnings 
and shakings of heads and holding up 



of hands, Elizabeth Howard and li 
fortune (not a princely one, thoug 
crossed the seas, and Edward Si 
mour presented a fair young forei 
enthusiast to his congregation as 1 
beloved and hard-won bride, unc 
the fire of a rude battery of eyes I 
longing to the startled maidens whc 
charms had long since (in their o^ 
individual minds, at least) been d< 
tined for the minister's solace ai 
support. She won her way into t 
hearts of all, this young English O 
vinist, full of pure-hearted sinceril 
gende yet steadfast as '< Prisciila, t 
Puritan maiden," courageous in se 
denial that the poor might profit I 
her privations, a confidant the mc 
unhappy ever found sympathetic, ai 
the most guilty, indulgent. H 
husband used to say of her th 
the Scriptures had never receive 
a more fitting and perfect fulfilmer 
a more ideal accomplishment c 
true womanhood, as set forth 
the many sentences where wise an 
holy women are depicted, than Eli 
abeth had proved herself to be. 

In household matters she was n 
less at home than in those grav< 
concerns of the parish and the sou 
life of her husband's spiritual peopl' 
A good deal of the old earnestnei 
regarding religious truth remainei 
in the little favored community o 
Walcot, and serious, intelligent inves 
ligation was one of the many sturcl 
though reverential habits of though 
that yet lingered with these world 
forgotten villages. To Seymou 
himself the place was a paradise 
the work was not such as to over 
tax his bodily strength to that cie 
gree that leaves but little energy foi 



Grace Seymour s Mission, 



66g 



the intellectual requirements of his 
calling ; neither was the stress upon 
his imagination so unwholesomely 
great as it is with too many of his 
successors, whose brain, in order 
to froth up according to their Sun- 
day audience's expectations, must 
be in a moral ferment for the previ- 
ous six days of the week. His 
wife, no frivolous gossip to whom 
tea and petty scandal are dear, no 
mere drudge from whom household 
cares have worn away the bloom of 
poetry and the fireshness of early en- 
thusiasm, was to him a living guide, a 
true helpmate, bearing his burdens 
and sharing his joys, a gospel-law 
written in sweetest, most natural hu- 
man characters, and a most winning, 
womanly embodiment of the stern 
and glorious word " Excelsior." 

Was it a reward for her many vir- 
tues, or a trial for his strong and 
faithful nature, that God should call 
her hence, and close the book ab- 
ruptly which had been to her hus- 
band a living commentary on the 
divine law ? Yet it happened so, 
but not at the outset of their purified 
love-career ; for when Elizabeth Sey- 
mour came to die, she saw not only 
her husband near her, with faith sub- 
duing sorrow in his inspired eyes, 
but two children, one a girl of fif- 
teen, the other a boy of four years, 
the only ones she had had, but upon 
whom she had lavished the holy mo- 
ther-love that would have been in- 
tense still for each had her children 
numbered as many as the sons of 
Jacob. 

Grace— she had been called so be- 
cause it was through earnest prayer 
alone that her mother had survived 
her birth — was holding her father's 
hand, while his other one and her 
own were clasped in the dying 
woman's wasted fingers ; and as the 
little one at her feet pulled uncon- 
sciously at her long dress, she felt her 



heart throb strangely, solemnly, when 
her mother said : 

" Grace, I leave you my place ; be 
a helpmate to your father, be a moth- 
er to little George. Bring him up a 
brave. Christian man, like his father — 
like my father, for whom he is named. 
Never let him do wrong, though the 
greatest worldly advantages might 
be the result. Remember that, my 
child; offer your life to the Lord 
sooner than sec your brother offend 
him. God bless you, my precious 
Grace !" 

The sick woman turned her long- 
ing eyes earnestly upon her husband, 
and he, half kneeling, sank on the 
floor, and supported her head on his 
shoulder. The burden was feather- 
light, but the strong man shook and 
swayed as in mortal weakness, and 
his voice was low and broken. Grace 
took the child's hand, and turned 
away. Those last moments were too 
sacred even for a daughter's eye to 
gaze upon ; angels alone listened to 
the secret heart-speech of those two, 
whose lives had been as the two 
strands of one rope. They had been 
all in all to each other. The husband's 
love, if the greatest, had not been 
the less faithful; but the burden was 
now for him, the reward for her. 
Strange dispensation — and yet one 
that no lover would alter if he could 
— that the deepest love should be 
but an earnest of the deepest suffer- 
ing; that the higher the heart goes 
in its sublime learning, the greater 
should be its privilege of agony. 
And yet this thorny path is a very 
Via Triumphalis, and those who 
tread it would not give one drop of 
the royal purple that dyes their weary 
feet for all the kingly mantles of rare 
and costly hue that grace the throne 
of the earthly monarch or strew the 
path of the earthly victor. Edward 
Seymour had a double right to this 
brotherhood of sublimest sorrow; 



670 



Grace Seymour's Mission^ 



for in his heart his love had grown 
so strong that not once, but many 
times, it had held unholy struggles 
with the higher, wider Love, to whom 
he had vowed himself from his child- 
hood, and he had had to wrestle 
mightily with its strength, and had 
only overcome because, after all, the 
enemy he fought was human, and 
the weapons he used were of God's 
eternal fashioning. In Elizabeth's 
calmer, more even nature, love had 
never risen to that height; it had 
flowed a tranquil stream in the chan- 
nel of duty, and, if deep, had never 
been turbulent The trial had never 
come to her which had threatened 
shipwreck to her husband ; she had 
never even known of it, for it had 
been the one secret of his frank and 
pure life. Tlie awful moment came 
at last ; Grace and little George had 
come nearer again, and all three 
said afterwards that *' Jesus " was the 
last sound that passed the dying 
woman's lips. For a few minutes a 
trembling stillness reigned ; it was as 
if those left behind were listening to 
the feet of the bearer-angels that had 
come to carry their mate away. 
Could they but have listened at the 
same time to the wondrous revelation 
of lightning-like truth that flashed 
from those angels' solemn eyes, and 
transformed the blind belief of the 
living woman into the exultant faith 
of the heaven-illumined Catholic ! 
Strange and awful thought! that 
those from whose mortal sight the 
scales have only just been taken by 
death should, on the instant, enter 
into such communion with the un- 
known, unsuspected truth, and be 
borne so far deeper in its blessed 
knowledge than those who spend 
lives of long and humble search on 
earth. Elizabeth Seymour knew now 
where truth had always been, and 
yet she must look with spirit-eyes 
on her loved ones bending over her 



beautiful, senseless body, all UDcon- 
scious of that truth, all unknowing 
of their dark and dangerous pathway. 
Would her agonized prayers ever 
bring them to her new resting-place ? 
Would God ever allow them to join 
her in the other world ? And mean- 
while, the minister, with his dear bur- 
den still in his clasped arms, lifted 
his head, and poured forth a prayer 
into which his very life was breathed, 
ending with a passionate flinging of 
his whole nature into the bosom of 
the all-knowing, all-loving Father— 
" Thy will be done, not mine !" 

As he lifted the inanimate form 
gently on the pillows, closed the eyes, 
and pressed a kiss of all but despair- 
ing grief upon the white, warm fore- 
head of the lost one, his daughter, 
letting the child go, seized his hand, 
and pressed it to her bosom, kissing 
it passionately, as if, from the very in- 
stant of her mother's departure, she 
was taking possession of the precious 
trust made over to her on the same 
spot only a few short moments be- 
fore. 

He, ever mindful of others before 
himself, felt his child's signal, and 
pressed her hand in return, leading 
her gently from the room, while the 
old nurse, his wife's attendant from 
her «arly childhood by the sunny 
brooks and fragrant meadows of 
Gloucestershire, performed the Lost 
necessary duties towards the loved 
remains. 

Day after day the dead lay in a 
darkened room, with flower- wreaths 
framing her simple coffin, a queen in 
death as she had been in life, with a 
touching court about her of widows 
and orphans, of mourners comforted, 
of children and old men, of strong 
young laborers whose minds she had 
turned soul- wards, and whose rever- 
ence for her had been little less than 
that — so misconstrued by those very 
men — of Catholics for a patron saint. 



Grace Seymour* s Mission. 



671 



At night, when the stream of villagers 
would cease, the husband and the 
daughter watched hand-in-hand by 
the one they could not think of as 
really gone from them while her 
sleeping form lay so n'sar their own 
resting-place. Now and then the 
minister would say a few words, half 
in soliloquy, half to his companion, 
and she, with her clear, pitying gray 
eyes upturned, would look at him in 
dtimb sympathy, and a pang would 
shoot through his heart, as he read 
the mother's expression in the daugh- 
ter's face. They renewed the flowers 
and rearranged the internal drape- 
ries of the coffin ; they spoke in whis- 
pers, as one does in a sick-room, 
fearing to wake the happy dreamer 
whom the first sleep has just come 
to relieve from a load of burning 
pain and constant restlessness; lit- 
tle George was even allowed to bring 
his quiet toys, 'and crawl over the 
floor round the strange bed where he 
was told his mother was sleeping — 
at first sight of the coffin, he had ask- 
ed gravely. Was that a cradle, and 
had a new baby come to play with 
him ? — and, in a word, the death- 
. veiled chamber seemed more like 
home than any other part of the cot- 
tage. Then came the last day, and 
the lid was to bfe fastened over the 
white-robed, white-crowned sleeper. 
Grace brought her father a bunch 
of heliotrope to lay in her mother's 
hands ; it had been her own and her 
husband's favorite flower in life ; and 
just over her heart, together with a 
heart-shaped paper, on which the 
name " Jesus " was illuminated in 
red and gold, was placed a triple tress 
of hair, and attached to it a scroll 
with the names of " Edward — Grace 
" — George." Thus something living, 
something of her earthly treasures, 
went down with her to the tomb; 
and on the day of the great awaken- 
ingy who shall say that those tokens 



will not make the wife and mother's 
heart throb with a deeper joy, as she 
rouses herself to meet those whose 
last pledge of undying love she will 
find thus laid on her breast ? 

Slowly the procession moved to 
the meeting-house, and slowly on to 
the churchyard ; a neighboring minis- 
ter performed the simple service, and 
the three bereaved ones walked im- 
mediately behind the coffin. The 
villagers were more awed by the face 
of the husband than by the black- 
palled coffin of the wife; and some 
one remarked, " It was more as if the 
minister had been walking between 
two angels to the judgment-seat of 
the Almighty than as if, a father and 
a widower, he was leading his orphan 
children to a new-made grave." 

The silent ^cottage, buried under its 
wealth of flowering creepers, seemed 
very cold and desolate when the 
mourners returned; tea was laid in 
the cosey library, the blinds were 
drawn up, and the little birds twitter- 
ed in the veranda; everything was 
ordinary and as usual again, the 
same it had been just one week ago, 
the day before she died ; but it seemed 
so different 1 Mr. Seymour threw him- 
self in an arm-chair by the window, 
and took up a paper-knife mechani- 
cally ; little George had been taken 
up-stairs, and the third chair at the 
tea-table was for the kind clergyman 
who had come to help his brother in 
his affliction. 

Grace had taken off* her bonnet 
and shawl, and was making tea in 
the tea-pot that, together with the 
high, old-fashioned English urn, had 
been one of her mother's most cher- 
isiied wedding- gifts. Tears came to 
her eyes and blinded her, and her 
hand shook as she touched the tea- 
caddy of old English oak and 
wrought iron. Still, with all these 
homely mementos rendering her 
sad inauguration of new duties sad- 



6/2 



Grace Sfymaur's Mission. 



der still, she bravely thought of her 
. trust, and struggled successfully to be 
calm, at least in outward seeming. 
Her father's friend now came in, and 
sat down in silence in a low chair 
opposite Mr. Seymour. Grace laid 
her hand on her father's arm : 

" Will you have your tea here by 
the window, on the little, low table ?" 
she said tremulously. 

" No, my pet," he answered, taking 
her hand, and stroking it gently ; ^' let 
us sit down together, as usual." And 
he led her to her new place at the 
head, as if he wished her to see that 
he would not shrink from the every- 
day details of sorrow that each trivi- 
ality of life would be too certain to 
throw into relief. 

They made no pretence of talking 
beyond the few necessary questions 
of even the smallest assemblage at 
tea; but when Mr. Ashmead, their 
guest and the minister of the neigh- 
boring parish, said that he thought he 
must leave on the morrow early, both 
his host and his young, grave hostess 
begged he would stay for a few more 
days, till next Sunday even, if he 
could. 

And so the new life began — the 
life we meant to start with at the 
beginning of our story, but which has 
seemed so to need its introduction, 
to be so much more interesting 
through it, that we could not help 
putting in this long, explanatory pre- 
lude. 

The long days of winter passed, 
and a year was gone since the day 
that saw Elizabeth Seymour's burial. 
Grace was growing tall and woman- 
ly, and had taken her mother's place 
with as great seriousness as success. 
She it was who taught her httle 
brother all he was capable of learn- 
ing at his age ; she who helped the 
worn-out teacher in the school ; she 
who copied out her father's sermons. 



and looked out his texts and quota- 
tions. 

The father and daughter, now knit 
together by a doubly tender tie, and 
fully realizing all its happy solemnity, 
turned to the welcome occupations 
of study to fill the many vacant hours 
their duties allowed them. Mr. Sey- 
mour's library was extensive, and 
every month brought from Boston 
some valuable and interesting addi- 
tions. Of course, theology figured 
mainly among the subjects treated of 
in these old and new books ; but not 
alone the theology of his own sect, 
for he had the early fathers' magnifi- 
cent works, those Thebaids of litera- 
ture where the vastness of the seem- 
ingly endless desert is only a veil for 
the innumerable caves of deepest 
science, and hidden recesses filled 
witii most beautiful dogmas. The 
councils, too, were not unrepresent- 
ed on his shelves, though the earlier 
ones were to him the best known 
and the least obnoxious. Among 
them was a dusty little book, in 
ancient type, evidently a very hermit 
of a book, whose solitude had not 
been disturbed since, by some ac- 
cident, it had once made its way 
there among the miscellaneous col- 
lection of a small library purchased 
nearly twenty years ago. We may 
have occasion to refer to it again. 

Mr. Seymour, confident of the 
truth of his own doctrines, never hesi- 
tated to simulate doubts and ask 
questions, or propound religious pro- 
blems for the further mental training 
of his daughter's inquiring disposi- 
tion \ but this habit of constant inves- 
tigation at last produced in her a tu- 
mult of the brain which she found 
she no longer had the power to quell. 
Questions forced themselves upon 
her, doubts wrestled for mastery in 
her mind, all things began to take 
strange, hitherto undreamt-of shapes, 
and truths, elusory yet alluring, 



Grace Seymour's Mission. 



573 



seemed to rise out of axioms which 
she thought she had long ago laid 
aside as proved and dangerous errors. 
She strove to hold on to her once 
blind and unreasoning acceptance of 
her father's teaching. She would have 
welcomed any superstition, could it 
only have promised her peace; but 
the restless spirit, once roused in her, 
hurried her remorselessly, till at last, 
in sheer despair, she turned to sweep- 
ing and systematic denial of every- 
thing she had been taught to look 
upon as truth. 

At first she did not speak to her 
fiither about these strange experi- 
ences ; she clung to the idea that it 
was physical excitement, a fever of 
the brain, which would subside and 
let her see her landmarks plainly 
once more. But the tempest grew 
wilder and more hopeless ; questions 
rose up, and would not be crushed 
out of existence — faced her and 
mocked her, and would not be an- 
swered by the catechism formulas 
she strove to oppose to them; her 
life seemed resolving itself into an 
eternal, tormenting, unspoken, but 
ever suggested *'why?" that rose 
and took the shape of a demon she 
could not lay nor yet would listen 
to. Importunate voices were all 
around her, chasms opened on every 
side ; and while she taught her litde 
brother, and wrote out her father's ser- 
mons, it seemed as if a stern and 
pitiless query sounded within her 
very heart, demanding why she abet- 
ted the enslaving of other minds to 
codes of which she herself felt the 
utter insufficiency. The keenest mis- 
ery to her was that this mocking voice, 
whose every vibration pulled down 
a stone of her former religious tem- 
ple, and sent it echoing in hollow 
tones of fiendish triumph down the 
recesses and depths of her torn heart 
— this voice never suggested one 
idea upon which she might have 
VOL. XVIII. — ^43 



seized and made the comer-stone 
of a new organization of truth. 
The strange demon that beset her 
seemed, to her agonized mind, the 
spirit of heartless destruction only, 
not even of the most perishable and 
paltry substitution. Hollow, empty, 
heartless, seemed life to her; faith 
gone^ or proved an illusion good 
only for those whose weak brain 
could not bear the spiritual loneliness 
of unbelief; the world a charnel- 
house, in which death-doomed fools 
quarrelled about precedence in an- 
other worid, whose very existence was 
a myth of their own miserable crea- 
tion ; life a journey aimless and use- 
less, and the faiths men carried 
through it only so many wind- 
threatened torches they bore for 
their own deception — was this all, 
was this the beginning and the end ? 
Blindly her heart cried out, <* Some- 
where there must be a God, some- 
where there must be happiness!" 
and the fiend within her brain made 
answer : <' There is no God save the 
one the coward imagines ; there is no 
happiness save that which the fool 
finds in ignorance." 

One day, after many months of 
this life-wearing struggle, Grace 
spoke of her state to her father; and 
strange indeed was the shock to 
the earnest, clear-thinking minister. 
Grave and tender, he tried to handle 
the wounded child, but Grace was 
not to be soothed into faith ; it was 
conviction she required. . Firmly 
yet patiently she heard him, and an- 
swered : 

*' All that I have said to myself, 
but it is of no avail." 

He tried to speak to her of her 
mother — of her belief, her unwavering 
hope in God, her sure knowledge of 
Jesus, her feeling of rock-bound se- 
curity at the moment of her death ; 
but to all this Grace answered : '' I 
know it all, but I cannot feel it; 



674 



Grace Seymour^s Mission, 



tell me something else, something 
more." 

Then the father, roused out of his 
half-hopeful state as to her difficulties, 
and out of his hitherto so sweet re- 
liance upon her kindred strength, 
turned to the dogmatic aspect of his 
faith, and prayed fervently that the 
Lord would open his child's eyes 
once more, and draw her in out of 
the cold desert where her soul wan- 
dered, a shivering stranger. But, alas ! 
those apparently clear*K:ut arguments, 
those knife-like dogmas, so trenchant, 
so uncompromising, those technicali- 
ties of crystallized religion, so satisfy- 
ing to the old exiles and first settlers of 
New England, fell unheeded on the 
ear of Grace, who, had she believed 
them, would have been as competent 
a teacher of them as her own father, 
as far as her thorough knowledge of 
their slightest details went. Mr. 
Seymour was trying to do God's 
work ; he was trying to create^ to give 
life to a lifeless organization, to put 
a quivering human soul into a shape- 
ly but ice-cold form« 

Grace had once said she did not 
want example nor personal experi- 
ence, but clear, frigid demonstration. 
She was right as to the seeming want 
in her soul — the want of absolute, in- 
controvertible truth ; she was wrong 
as to the lire from heaven, which 
was her real want — the purely person- 
al gift of faith, direct from God, 
which only can descend and strike 
the waking soul as a sacrifice, and 
enkindle it for ever, no more to be 
extinguished by error or by doubt. 

Another year passed, and things 
were unchanged. No, not un- 
changed, for Mr. Seymour, in his 
great anxiety to bring his daughter 
back to the old belief in which he 
and his ever-remembered wife had 
been so carefully reared, had ex- 
plored hitherto sealed books and 
commentaries in the vain hope that, 



since none of the old arguments 
touched her, some newly suggested 
ones might. He did not expect to 
find anything in these works which 
would strike him as either proving or 
disproving his settled belief; still, he 
thought chance might throw into 
his hands some demonstration that 
would have the desired effect upon 
Grace. She seemed to be inclined 
to magnify beyond his utmost powers 
of toleration the absolute indepen- 
dence and free will of man ; she proud- 
ly took her stand on human reason, 
insisting that if there were a creative 
God, and if it were really he who bad 
given reason to man, it followed that 
this regal gift must be allowed full 
play in determining the object of 
faith. His Calvinism rebelled and 
retreated to its old entrenchments, 
denouncing reason as the natural 
enemy of faith, as an inventive prin- 
ciple ever actively evil and godless. 
But he once read in a work of one of 
the '' great " reformers these strange 
and somewhat coarse words : 

** The devil's sole occupation is to 
get the Romish priests to measure 
God's will in his works, with reason." 

He was staggered. He searched 
his book-shelves for some work of 
Catholic theology. As he was pass- 
ing his hand along the volumes, and 
running his eye down their tides, the 
little, dusty book we have mentioned 
fell down. He picked it up, and, 
looking at it carelessly, saw its name, 
Catechism of the Coumil of TVent, 
Curiosity at once made him forget 
the first motive of his expedition 
among the books, and he sat dovn 
to examine the newly-found volume. 
By and by he got interested, and 
from page to page his eyes ran 
eagerly, now sparkling with defiance, 
now widening in astonishment, and 
anon his brow contracting with in- 
tense earnestness, as clear dogmas re- 
vealed themselves firom out the an- 



Grace Seymour s Mission. 



67s 



cient text— dogmas directly opposite 
to his own, it is true, yet at every 
moment appealing to rational and 
unbiassed human nature. 

Here man was represented as a 
grand monument of God's glory, a 
being worth redemption in the eyes 
of God, a creature endowed with in- 
tellectual gifts to lead him rationally 
towards faith and virtue, even as he 
was provided with feet to carry him 
to the clear mountain-spring, and 
with hands wherewitli to till the 
yielding, fruitful soil. Here he be- 
held a humanity not degraded to 
brutishness by the fall, but redeem- 
able through the very qualities God's 
grace had yet left to it; here he saw 
reconciled man's dignity and God's 
majesty ; here, in a word, a religion 
which, claiming to be divine, was 
consequently not afraid to acknow- 
ledge and to guide the good tenden- 
cies whose very humanness put them 
beyond the pale of competition with 
herself. Mr. Seymour had always 
been taught to adhere to the Bible 
as the one infallible rock of salva- 
tion ; he now saw the Bible merged 
into a system he had once called 
idolatrous, but could not at present 
stigmatize as such. He determined 
to read the Bible from the point of 
view of the Council of Trent, for 
pure intellectual curiosity's sake, he 
said to himself. Alone and almost 
hiding from his daughter's still hope- 
less but always eager inquiries, he 
began this study, with what result 
would be almost useless to mention. 
The Council of Trent had seemed 
plausible when studied by itself; but 
when referred to the book he had al- 
ways called the rule of faith, this 
council was irrefutable. Could he 
have been mistaken all his lifetime ? 
could it be that God had purposely 
left him in ignorance so long ? Or 
was not his belief at least as good as 
the faith of the Council of Trent ? 



But then came his clear philosophi- 
cal training to the rescue; for, it said, 
how can contradictory axioms both 
be true ? Hitherto he had unhesitat- 
ingly held the Catholic doctrines to 
be intrinsically, nay blasphemously 
untrue, and it followed that his own, 
their direct contradictories, must be 
right; but if, upon examination, the 
reverse was evidently the case, then 
his former opinions — for doctrines he 
could no longer call them — ^must be 
radically, irredeemably false. One 
day he spoke to Grace about it, and 
was surprised at the calm manner in 
which she received a communication 
whose mere rudiments had been such 
a shock to him. To her mind, this 
curious development of her father's 
researches was a really interesting 
study, quite apart from its religious 
bearing, and considered principally as 
a \og\QQJi passeiemps. But to her fa- 
ther it was a heart-stirring reality, 
which he pursued with all the hith- 
erto pent-up passion that his cold 
creed had forced to run in such nar- 
row channels. Once he said to his 
child: 

" Grace, I used to believe the Bi- 
ble was the only rule of faith ; but I 
never saw that the Bible presup- 
posed a church, a heaven-ordained so- 
ciety to shelter it from the conflicting 
explanations and interpolations of 
men; presupposed, also, a willing 
obedience on the part of the faithful 
to believe it as it is written, not a de- 
sire to shrink from its plain teach- 
ings and explain away its doctrines. 
How could we, without a church to 
interpret it to us, be sure that we 
were not following some far-fetched 
human adaptation of its teaching, or 
pandering to some cowardly modi- 
fication of its code of morals ? No ; 
the Bible presupposes the church, 
and, without it, would be more of a 
dead letter than the Hebrew is a 
dead language." 



6/6 



Grace Seymour* s Mission. 



Grace was silent, and wondered. 
Her own feelings were as unsettled 
as ever, but she tried to live less in 
her own hopeless struggle than in the 
noble, fruitful, self-forgetting life that 
was dawning for her father. As his 
convictions grew deeper and took 
stronger root, his anxiety for his child 
waxed more and more terrible. Would 
the grace of God that had come to 
him through the yellow pages of an 
old book never touch her with its 
rod of power ? Had reason no in* 
fluence on her logical-seeming mind, 
had sentiment no power on her un- 
doubtedly loving heart? She went 
about her self-imposed duties as 
usual, bringing consolation wherever 
she went, cheering others with words 
that were powerless to cheer her own 
heart, kind and considerate to the 
poor, amiable to all. Her father, 
smitten with dread as to her bodily 
as well as spiritual welfare, asked 
himself how he could expose her at 
this moment to the poverty that 
must result from the only step he 
knew he ought to take. To leave 
Walcot as a convert meant to throw 
himself and his children — Grace es- 
pecially — ^into the most absolute pen« 
ury. He could endure it, George 
would hardly feel it, but his daugh- 
ter, brave and affectionate as she 
was, could her shattered heart bear 
up under so unexpected a necessity ? 
So he cheated himself and hesitated 
yet ; but the evil spirit was to be de- 
feated soon. God could not allow 
his returning son and no longer 
blinded servant to wander long in 
human weakness outside the holy 
fold. 

Grace was sitting at a reading- 
desk in her father's library one Sun- 
day evening in June, the purple sun- 
set streaming in and giving the lilacs a 
deeper hue, and the laburnums a more 
burnished shade, when a young man 
swung open the garden gate, and, 



with free and unfettered step, al- 
most ran up to the house-door. 

Seeing he was a stranger and a 
gentleman, Mr. Seymour opened the 
library window, and leaned out, say- 
ing in a courteous tone: 

'' I am Mr. Seymour, if you are 
looking for me. I'll let you in di- 
rectly." 

The young man paused with his 
hand on the door-knocker, and wait- 
ed till his host came round. 

'* You must excuse my abruptness," 
he said pleasantly, as he handed his 
card to Mr. Seymour. '< I am already 
presuming on a relationship you may 
choose to ignore." 

" Why ignore it ? The nephew of 
my dear wife is as welcome to my 
house as if he were my own son/' 
answered Mr. Seymour, laying the 
card on the table. '* Come," he con- 
tinued, " let us be at home at once. 
I'll introduce you to my daughter, 
your cousin." 

They went into the library to- 
gether, and the father, turning to 
Grace, said : 

<* Here is a cousin from over the 
sea, child — George Charteris." 

Grace had heard her mother talk 
of her younger sister's marriage to a 
Mr. Charteris years before she herself 
was married, so the name was fami- 
liar to her. 

" I wish, my boy," said the host, 
"that God had spared your dear 
aunt to see you here ; but he knows 
best. And you have come to stay 
with us a little before you go home 
again, I hope ? Have you seen any- 
thing yet ?" 

" I only landed in Boston yester- 
day," answered the young man, " and 
have had hard work to get here so 
soon. I came on business, to tell 
the truth." 

" Really 1" 

" You see, letters are very unccr 
tain ; and I just felt in the humor, so 



Grace Seymour^s Mission. 



677 



1 came across myself. I have got 
important papers for you. My un- 
cle, George Howard, died five weeks 
ago at his place in Gloucestershire, 
and, as he left no children, the estate 
goes to the next of kin — your son, 
George Seymour." 

Grace and her £stther looked at 
each other in solemn, strange won- 
derment. 

" My son 1" he said slowly, " my 
son !" 

" Yes, the son of the eldest sister. 
My mother was the younger sister, 
you know. And so I came over 
about it; I am supposed to be a 
lawyer, but the fact is, business is 
not overpowering with us young fel- 
lows, and, as I had enough money to 
spare, I thought I would sooner go 
myself than pay a man to make a 
mess of it You and my father are 
appointed guardians during the mi- 
nority of the heir." 

" And they will expect him to go 
and live in England?" said the 
father thoughtfully. 

" Of course ; will there be any 
difficulty about that ?^ 

Seymour did not reply; he only 
glanced at his daughter with an awed 
expression about his face. She was 
looking at him intendy. Young 
Charteris noticed how ill she seemed. 

The rest of the evening passed very 
sociably, and, having shown his young 
guest his room, Seymour returned in 
his dressing-gown and slippers to the 
library. Grace stole in sofdy, still 
dressed, and looking anxious. She 
drew a chair beside him, and, taking 
his hand in her own, said solemnly : 

" Dear father, it was ordained we 
should leave this place." 

"Was such your idea also, my 
child ?" her father asked. 

" Of course ; and if I have not 
spoken of it before, my dear father, 
it was only because I was waiting for 
you to mention it first." 



It seemed a reproach ! Was God 
using this blind instrument to show 
him mere forcibly where his duty 
lay? . 

" I know, father," continued Grace, 
'^what that means for you in the 
circumstances you newly stand in. 
It means that you will not be allow- 
ed to be guardian to your son, that 
you will be denied access to him, 
that he will be brought up a Protest- 
ant before your eyes, and that prac- 
tically you will be as homeless as the 
outcast you would have made your- 
self from this village and this church. 
But remember, whatever happens, 
Grace is always with you — will always 
be, whether she believes or not, hap- 
py or wretched, poor or rich, until 
it shall be your own pleasure to drive 
her from your side. Although thy 
God may not be my God, yet thy 
people shall be my people, and we 
will stand or fall together !" 

"My brave child!" was all the 
father could answer through his 
tears. 

" But, father dearest," she resumed 
in a quick, decided voice, " if George 
is to be brought up as you wish, the 
first thing to secure is his being 
rightly baptized ; and you can do that 
this very next day. I shall be allow- 
ed to see George, and thus my mo- 
ther's trust will be in my hands yet." 

" O my girl ! it is hard, you can- 
not tell how hard." 

" I have lost what you have won, 
father. Think you the loss of faith 
a lesser evil than the changing of it ?" 

"Poor child! poor child! God 
grant you may see it one day." 

" God grant I may," she answered 
frankly, « if it be the truth." 

They spoke far into the night, and 
Seymour determined to announce 
from the pulpit next Sunday his 
unshaken conviction of the truth of 
the Catholic faith, and to take a final 
leave of his congregation. Young 



678 



Grace Seymour* s Mission. 



Charteris knew nothing of it 
George was baptized the following 
morning. The week passed by, and 
the young English cousin was more 
than ever attracted by the strange, 
silent, preoccupied manner and the 
serious, anxious beauty of his girl- 
companion. A gay young man, with 
hardly any surface of religion about 
him, he yet had that deep observa- 
tive faculty which renders some men's 
perceptions so acute and true in the 
field of religion. Half an unbeliever 
himself for fashion's sake, he was yet 
quick to detect how really far from 
unbelief the seemingly cold, doubting 
girl's heart was; and he smiled to 
himself as he shrewdly thought how 
both Puritanism and this present 
phase of feeling would be rudely 
shaken when brought face to face 
with the hot-pressed life of wealthy, 
bewildering London. But something 
whispered to him that neither father 
nor daughter would allow the bril- 
liant world to stand between them 
and their convictions, whatever those 
might be. Meanwhile, Charteris 
romped with little George, who was 
wisely kept in ignorance as to his 
new honors, and the days sped fast 
towards the eventful Sunday which 
was to have so strange and stormy 
an ending. 

The Saturday previous, Mr. Sey- 
mour sat at the window of his library, 
in his favorite arm-chair, his daughter 
leaning her head upon his knee, and 
holding one of his hands clasped to 
her bosom. For a long time there 
was ^ silence ; then, like the evening 
breeze just born among the tree-tops, 
a faint whisper of conversation began 
to stir the quiet of the darkened 
room. The sun was gone down, and 
the crescent moon was rising in white 
mistiness behind the shrubbery. 

" It was just such a night, Grace," 
said the minister, " that we sat here 
with Ashmead more than two years 



ago — the day we began our new life 
without your dear mother ; and now 
we have turned another leaf already, 
and are on the threshold of another 
new life !" 

"Yes, my own darling," said his 
child ; " but it is not without me thai 
you are going to begin it. In any 
case, I shall never leave you. And 
if we are parted from little George, 
why, what can we do but cling more 
and more to each other ?" 

" Have you thought, Grace, that 
it may be a life of toil that we are 
going to meet?" asked her father 
earnestly. 

" Father dearest, would my mother 
have shrunk from entering it with 
you ? And do you think / love you 
less than she did ?" 

*•• My brave girl !" he answered, 
with a soft light coming into his 
dreamy eyes. Presently he said: 
" But, Grace, you will have little 
consolation, little support, for my 
principles are leading me ; but you ?" 

" My love for you is my guide !" 
she said fervently. 

" Truly, my child, you are even as 
Ruth, who clung to Naomi for very 
love, and thereby reaped the reward 
of faith. God grant you may be led 
to the same end through my humble 
instrumentality." 

There was a pause. The father, 
after a few moments* earnest thought, 
spoke again. 

" Grace, darling," he said, and she 
started, as if collecting her runaway 
thoughts. 

"Yes," she answered, with a loving 
look. 

"Do not blame me for speaking 
abruptly, Grace," her father resumed ; 
" for circumstances are such as allow 
us little spare time for forms oi 
speech. Has it ever struck you that 
you will most likely marry? And 
have you noticed your cousin's man- 
ner towards you ?" 



Grace Seymour's Mission. 



679 



At the first hint of mairiage Grace 
had lifted her great, startled eyes to 
her father's face ; then, on the second 
and more personal question, she 
looked quickly down, and a burning 
blush came like sunset hues over her 
usually pale cheeks. But she never 
hesitated nor wavered in her answer, 
for the blush was more that of sur- 
prise than consciousness. 

" I never thought of my cousin in 
that way. Did you ? And I have 
thought vaguely some day I might 
be a good man's wife — a minister's, 
most likely; but now these strange 
doubts have come to me, I could 
have no peace in any new relation in 
life. In conscience, my father, I 
could enter upon none." 

*' Well, child, I am glad so far. 
But if your cousin had many oppor- 
tunities, depend upon it he would 
love you. I only say this to cau- 
tion you. You know your own heart ; 
you know I could approve such a 
marriage under certain circumstan- 
ces, always provided you do not 
come to the happy truth I have 
reached. Now, you can act as your 
conscience and your reason impel 
you ; but it is always better, I think, 
to work in the full daylight." 

'' I could not marry as I am now. 
Besides, I could not leave you." 

" You might have to leave me." 

" Father !" cried the girl, startled. 

" Never mind," he said soothingly, 
but not offering to explain himself, 
and then went on : '* Supposing a thing 
to be possible, still, in the case that 
you remained out of the church, 
would you let your cousin be your 
helpmate and your protector ?" 

" If you wish it, I will think of it, 
and question my own heart," said 
Grace ; but the words were measured, 
and the tone was cold. Her father 
felt it. 

"Grace, I did not wish to hurt 
you, child. I cannot tell you all 



I meant, for I hardly discern yet 
what is God's voice within me, and 
what the voice of my own earthly 
enthusiasm, perhaps even ambition, 
But, my own precious daughter, our 
hearts will always be one ; and after 
God, there is no one on earth more 
dear to me than you are." 

Grace laid her head on her father's 
knee again. 

"So if your cousin Charteris 
should speak to you on the subject 
of marriage before your views of re- 
ligion are changed, you will answer 
deliberately and calmly, will you not, 
having searched your innermost 
feeUngs well ?" said the father. 

" I will," said Grace firmly. 

The next day dawned fair and 
bright; the very air had a holiday 
feel ab6ut its quiet, fresh-scented 
crispness ; the birds sang softly in the 
vivid-painted trees, and it seemed as 
if nature had reserved a very jubilee 
of delights for the lovely summer 
afternoon. Crowds came soberly to 
church, the children glancing longing- 
ly at the tempting hedges, the young 
people now and then looking into 
each other's eyes the things they 
dared not put in words, and would 
have spoilt in the saying had they 
done so; to some, older and more 
spiritually-minded persons, came, on 
the fragrant breeze, faint suggestions 
of the fabled millennium, in which 
they believed with the grasping 
faith of disappointed souls; to all 
came, on the wings of this Sunday 
morning, impressions of peace, of 
happiness; perceptions of a life 
holier and higher than that of the 
present; vague stirrings of the soul, 
as if some mystery, both dread and 
beautiful, were coming out to meet 
them from the unusual radiance of 
this never-to-be-forgotten day. 

Very solemn indeed did the day's 
brightness seem to the earnest minis- 
ter ; a new bridal, far different from 



68o 



Gr4ue Seynumr^s Mission. 



the bridal eighteen 3'ears before in 
the very country for which he was now 
again bound — a bridal of the soul 
with sorrow and with sacrifice, a tak- 
ing up of the crown of thorns and 
the cross of dereliction. He would 
walk into the old meeting-house, a 
hero among his people; he would 
leave it, an outcast and a leper 
among his brethren. He would meet 
his flock a revered pastor, an ac- 
knowledged guide ; he would go out 
of that pulpit, his no longer, an exile, 
a suspected impostor, an accursed 
and condemned man. And not 
there only was the sting; beyond 
and far above it was the human 
sense of deep humiliation at having 
to unsay his teaching, to renounce 
the doctrines he had taught for twen- 
ty years, to warn his people of the 
very faith he had believed in from 
his cradle. It is no slight thing for 
a man, learned and looked up to, an 
eager and practical theologian, to 
stand before a congregation of intel- 
ligent, sharp-witted hearers, and say, 
" I was mistaken !" For when you 
feel that every word you speak is 
changed, as it falls on their ears, into 
a barbed weapon against yourself, 
and will be handled by remorseless 
and unsympathizing fellow-men un- 
til twisted into meanings you never 
dreamed of and deceptions you 
would scorn, then it is that the 
painful, human side of the great and 
heroic sacrifice is revealed, and that 
our fleshly weakness has to turn per- 
force in helpless and blind reliance 
upon God. 

Solemn also, and far sadder, seem- 
ed the glorious beauty of that Sun- 
day morning to Grace Seymour by 
her open window, through which came 
the scent of lilacs and blossoming 
horse-chestnuts ; her books ranged in 
melancholy silence on the shelf 
above the mantel, the old family 
Bible lying solitary and unopened on 



a little table by itself, an air of deso- 
lateness hanging over the simple, in- 
nocent-looking room, with its chintz 
hangings and two or three old prints 
and faded pictures. Some were of 
sacred subjects, and these, unless this 
were the spectator's fancy, seemed 
more forlcH-n than any others ; Grace 
herself thought so sometimes, as she 
would give a pathetic survey to the 
room that had known no change 
since her childhood, save when the 
great change of death had wafted in- 
to it some of the old mementos of 
her English mother's youth. 

On the eve of this last change, that 
was almost another death, the young 
girl sat with clasped hands on the 
wide window-sill, and gazed with sad 
yet steadfast eyes on the beauty of 
the breaking day. To her it was 
indeed a setting forth on a journey 
without scrip or staff, without guide 
or compass. In her love for her 
father, she gloried in his grand, manly 
act, though it drove her forth into 
the desert world ; but though she re- 
joiced at his stem following of princi- 
ple, as at a deed of heroism in itself, 
yet what comfort was there for her in 
the dreary waste of an untried world ? 
To set out on the road to heaven, 
leaving the paths of men, was one 
thing; but to leave the known for the 
unknown, the real life of human sym- 
pathy for a dark, companionless one 
among things that were only shadows 
and mocking figures of mist — what 
was that ? And would human love 
carry her through ? Could she follow, 
by the glow-worm light of an earthly 
though hallowed feeling, the same 
path in which a fiery pillar preceded 
her father's soul, and angels guided 
his footsteps ? But come what mightt 
she would try ; so she had resolved 
from the beginning. Besides, was it 
not she who had, according to the 
instinct of her true nature, decided 
for her father the step his own con- 



Grace Seynumr^s Mission. 



68i 



science had counselled, but from which 
his human love still weakly recoiled ? 
And, therefore, was she not bound to 
share his fortunes, even though love 
had not impelled her to do so ? She 
could not pray that this day's work 
might end in good, she could not 
pray for strength or guidance; she 
could only helplessly gaze upon the 
familiar home-scene she had watched 
so often from that window — the spread 
of orchard and garden and meadow- 
land beyond, the golden lights flick- 
ering among the shrubs, and playing 
with the soft, changing shadows — all 
the beauty that had been her soul's 
book for years, and was now the only 
book she could still read and love as 
of old. A sort of dumb prayer was 
that wistful gaze, the hopeless, half- 
conscious murmur of paralyzed lips 
striving to form once more sounds 
tl)at long ago, they remember, used 
to mean something to the understand- 
ing. Little George at this moment 
ran across the lawn after a yellow 
butterfly, and looked up fearfully at 
the library-window, as if expecting to 
be reproved for such unwonted exer- 
cise on the sacred day. 

Grace started and looked at her 
watch. It was time; the bells had 
been ringing some minutes, and the 
hour was drawing nigh. She stole 
down to her father's side, very solemn 
and quiet, and took his hand. He 
turned and clasped her in his arms. 

" God will bless you yet, my little 
one," he said, with an earnest look 
into her brave eyes, " for all you are 
to me." 

Hand-in-hand they walked the 
short distance between their cottage 
and the meeting-house. The great 
trees stood protectingly round the 
little church, shading it like a temple, 
with broad shadows flung like cur- 
tains before its doors, as if to supple- 
ment the bareness in which human 
hands had left it. The people were 



crowding in ; some stepped aside as 
the minister passed, making room 
for him ; others nodded to him, and 
were startled at the unwonted look 
in his far-searching eyes. Grace, on 
the contrary, seemed almost defiant, 
as if she thought of nothing save the 
storm which one short hour would 
bring about her darling's head. The 
congregation seated themselves with 
that undertone of quiet rustling pecu- 
liar to country audiences. Grace 
sat directly facing her father; but she 
had turned herself so that her fea- 
tures were visible to those who sat 
in the nearest pews behind. Edward 
Seymour slowly came up the pulpit 
stairs, and stood before his people. 
One long, sweeping glance he gave 
them, then his eyes went upward, and 
a light came into them, as of some- 
thing more than human* 

The crowd was thrilled, and men 
and women gazed at each other in- 
quiringly. 

Then he began : " My friends, I 
have come to say farewell to you. 
This is no sermon, but an explana* 
tion which is due to you. I am not 
going to leave you for the city, nor 
for another flock, nor for the retirement 
of a college-Hfe. It is not a man 
who has called me, it is not the world 
or my own interests that have bid- 
den me leave you ; it is God. 

" Truly, * God's ways are not our 
ways, nor his thoughts our thoughts.' 
If you will bear with me, I will show 
you how this has been borne in upon 
me, and will give you, what you have 
a right to hear, the brief history of 
the change which is calling me away 
from you." 

The interest of his hearers was 
acutely, if not painfully, awakened ; 
every one waited breathlessly for the 
novel experiences of one who had 
always seemed so strong in the be- 
lief he taught. Some thought he 
had turned to the Methodist views, 



682 



Grace Seymour's Missum. 



some suspected him of Episcopalian 
leanings ; of the truth, not one had 
the slightest inkling, for, to their 
minds, such a change was more irra- 
tional than suicide, and more awful 
a judgment than insanity. 

Step by step, with clear, sharp-cut- 
ting words, he developed the doubts 
and fears of his soul; he dissected 
his life for the last year, and shower- 
ed Bible texts upon his hearers in 
his rapid way that would have been 
impassioned had he let it be; and 
when, one after the other, he had 
sapped all the axiotns his former 
teaching had rested on, and had 
carried the mind of his audience, 
against its will, out of the sphere of 
certainty, he then paused a moment, 
and said in a more gentle voice than 
he had used in his dogmatic course : 

" And now, my friends, what re- 
mains to be said ? This : to con- 
fess my mistake before you all, to hum- 
ble myself at the feet of God, whom 
I have so long misunderstood and 
mistaught, and to ask your forgive- 
ness for having given you, in my igno- 
rance, stones when you asked for 
bread, serpents when you cried for 
food. You know the church which 
alone teaches all that God has now 
shown me to be true ; you know that 
it is a church flouted and condemn- 
ed, persecuted and poor — none other 
than the Holy Roman Catholic 
Church (here the stir was like an elec- 
tric shock among the rapt audience, 
and Grace half rose up in her seat, 
and looked defiance from her flash- 
ing eyes upon her nearest neighbors), 
none other than was founded in the 
poverty of Bethlehem, the ignominy 
of Calvary, the secrecy of the cata- 
combs. 

" I have but few words left to say 
to you, my friends. We have walk- 
ed together for many years, seeking 
God. I knew not that I had not 
found him ; now I know that I walked 



in darkness and in the shadow of 
death. I pray that each of you, in 
God's appointed time, may be led, 
like me, to find him. I thank him 
that this grace should come with 
sorrow, exile, and poverty in its train, 
I take up the cross willingly, and 
leave home and country, and a be- 
loved grave, and a people to whom 
my soul was knit, to follow humbly 
where God shall lead me. And 
now, once again farewell, and may 
God bless you, every one, and re- 
ward you for all that your friendship 
and your fidelity have ever done for 
him who was once your pastor." 

With a grave and simple saluta- 
tion, he went down the pulpit stairs, 
passed out of the church, his daugh- 
ter eagerly joining him and linking 
her arm in his. Her English cousin, 
who had come in late to the service, 
hastened after them, and frankly ex- 
pressed his astonishment at the sud- 
den turn of affairs. The people, who 
streamed out after them in hurried 
groups, as if anxious to get into the 
air, that they might talk over this ex- 
traordinary event, eyed them askance 
as they walked home; the deacons 
spoke together in shocked whis- 
pers, and the older men and women 
quoted texts about wolves in sheeps' 
clothing. Some of the younger 
church members were scared and 
disturbed more by the uncompromis- 
ing arguments than by the tangible 
result; while others, the reckless and 
the more " unregenerate," boldly 
said they admired the minister's 
" pluck." 

George Charteris dwelt very se- 
riously on the exclusion from thi 
guardianship of his son which this 
course of Mr. Seymour's would in- 
evitably entail ; but the father only • 
answered sadly : " The Lord did 
not speak to me of such things; 
those affairs are in his hands, and 
his secrets are not for us to inquire 



Grace Seymour^s Mission. 



683 



into. So far as I saw my way clear, 
I have answered the call of God." 

Several friends called in the eve- 
ning to speak to the minister about 
the incredible announcement he had 
made that morning ; they found him 
the same as ever, patient, kind, and 
courteous, and his young daughter 
more beautiful and more attractive 
than before ; for the determined way 
in which she supported her father's 
conduct gave her a touch of the 
heroine. 

" Late that night the two visited 
the moonlit grave near the little 
church. Great elm-shadows veiled 
it, and the night-wind rustled the 
violet and primrose leaves that bor- 
dered it all round. In the summer 
a cross of heliotrope grew at its head, 
but as yet it had been too cold to put 
the plants out. In his new-found 
faith, the husband could now kneel 
and pray, and speak to the angel 
guardian of liis lost wife, and send 
messages to the soul that knew all 
he had so lately learnt, and knew it 
so much better than he. But the 
great thing of which he spoke was 
the future of his children and hers, 
praying that they too, especially 
Grace, should be brought to the 
same knowledge and saved through 
the same faith. Grace stood like a 
statue, her hands clasped and rest- 
ing on her father's shoulder, her 
slight form bending forward as he 
knelt. When he rose, she pressed 
his arm and drew him towards her, 
looking up into his tear- veiled eyes 
with looks of hungry love. It was a 
rare and a piteous sight to see the 
strong man weep, to see the wave- 
like emotion of this solemn hour 
bow the head of the deep thinker, 
the calm and kingly scholar. It 
made him more sacred in her sight, 
and kindled her rapturous feelings to 
that degree that she could gladly 
have died, that he might be spared 



one pang more in his future path of 
thorns. 

He hardly suspected all that he 
was to his child ; for great though his 
love was, broad, and deep, and still, 
it was silent as the great ocean that 
sleeps round the islands of coral, be- 
neath the changeless radiance of 
southern constellations. But few 
outward signs passed between father 
and daughter, for his grand, noble 
nature was self-contained and grave ; 
and for that very reason Grace hon- 
ored him in her heart, calling him to 
herself a hero among men. Was it 
strange that, by his side, other men 
seemed dwarfed, that their virtues 
seemed shallow, and their very vices 
more contemptible than horrible? 
Was it strange that his intellect, so 
far-reaching, and his practical busi- 
ness abilities, so clear and straight- 
forward, should make other men 
seem only half men, with one side of 
their nature alone monstrously de- 
veloped, till it grew to overbalance 
the other, and make the whole into 
a grotesque travesty of humanity, 
a moral satyr, more beast than man, 
and more fool than either ? 

I do not say that such ungracious 
thoughts came to her when she no- 
ticed her cousin, George Charteris ; 
but something hollow and unreal 
suggested itself to her, as she listened 
to his brilliant, frivolous talk or his 
cynical, off-hand observations. She 
thought, if that is what modern fash- 
ion breeds in men, the world of to- 
day is no better than a smelting-fur- 
nace, obliterating all but the chang- 
ing current of mingled ore and dross 
constantly running with aimless speed 
through its many channels. Sh&* 
looked forward to any contact with 
it as a trial, and only stayed herself 
with the idea that everything noble 
and pure and dignified was embodi- 
ed in her father's life, in which she 
would always be wrapped up. Yet 



684 Cui Bono f 

she had promised to think of mar- tied and their plans quite undecided, 

riage ! From that day Edward Seymour 

The day following this eventful again felt that a new journey had 

Sunday the Seymour family left Wal- begun for him ; and where his soul 

cot. Their cottage, which was their would be landed he knew not, nor 

own property, was to be let for a cared to know, so God was before 

year, as their affairs were still unset- him and his daughter at his side. 

TO BB CONCLUDBO NXXT MOMTH. 



CUI BONO? 



Pale star, if star thou be, that art 
So fain to shine, though far apart 

From all thy stately peers; 
Thou whom the eye can scarce discern- 
Oh ! who hath set thee there to burn 

Among the spheres ? 



Thou com'st too late : the firmament 
Is full, and thou wast never meant 

For yonder gorgeous steep ; 
The night hath counted all her pearls, 
And, pillow 'd on her casket, furls 

Her wings in sleep. 



The night needs not thy tardy ray ; 
Thou canst not usher in the day, 

Nor make the twilight fair ; 
What sailor turns to thee at sea ? 
What mourner doth look up to thee 

In his despair ? 



Mournful or glad, no eye shall chance 
To light on thee ; no curious glance 

Thy motions shall discern ; 
No lonely pilgrim pause to catch 
Thy parting ray, nor lover watch 

For thy return. 



Cut Bono f 68s 

Oh ! leave the world that loves thee not — 
For who shall mark the vacant spot ? 

Oh I drop into the cloud 
That waits to take thee out of sight. 
Beyond the glare of yonder bright 

And chilly crowd ! 



" I may not, if I would, return 
Into the dark, or cease to burn 
My spark of light divine : 
For he that in my lamp distils 
The sacred oil, he surely wills 
That I should shine. 



'' I fret not at the blaze of spheres, 
The distant splendor that endears 

The night to men ; but strive — 
Finding strange bliss in perfect calm — 
To keep with these few drops of balm 

My flame alive. 



'< It may be that some vagrant world. 
Or aimless atom, toss'd and whirled 

Through windy tracts of space. 
Perceives by me the Hand that tends 
It ever, and the goal that ends 

Its tedious race. 



" I know not : me this only care 
Concerns, that I for ever bear 

My silver lamp on high^ 
Nor lift to God a laggard flame. 
Because on earth I cannot claim 

A partial eye." 



686 



The Jansenist Schism in Holland. 



THE JANSENIST SCHISM IN HOLLAND. 



JANSENISM IN THE CHURCH OF UTRECHT. 



FKOM LBS BTUDES RBLICIBUSBS. BV C. TAN AKEN. 



I SHALL not undertake to write 
the history of Netherland Jansenism. 
I have a more special purpose in 
view ; it is to demonstrate the actual 
existence of that heresy in the so- 
called Church of Utrecht. To this 
end, I shall, after showing what the 
principles of Jansenism are, make it 
clear that the errors of Baius, as de- 
veloped, or, so to- say, amended, by 
Jansenius, are reproduced by Ques- 
nel, and are to be found in the false Sy- 
nod of Pistoia. This assembly, held 
in 1786, under the authority of Leo- 
pold II., Grand Duke of Tuscany, 
and presided over by Scipio Ricci, 
Bishop of Pistoia and Prato, merits 
our attention ; for the principal doc- 
uments I shall make use of in this 
paper concern the official adhesion 
given by the schismatical clergy of 
Holland to the synod.* As to the 
events which are related and admit- 
ted by all historians, I shall only re- 
fer to them in order to point out their 
significance, or to dissipate the ob- 
scurity in which the recent promoters 
of the schism have sought to envel- 
ope facts. 

" Jansenius had been a great rea- 
der of S. Augustine ; but he brought 
to the study of this author far more 
of zeal than of prudence or real 
knowledge. In some passages he 



•Dc Potter, In his Li/e 0/ Sci/^io Ricci, 
points out the identity of the Netherland schis- 
matics with the Jansenists of Pistoia. The Mar- 
quis of Ricci's whole collection of documents 
was open to him ; but he has not published those 
which we give further on. 



renders the thoughts of the Doctor 
of Grace well enough ; almost every- 
where else, and even in the most 
important points, he is grossly in 
error. An extensive reader he was 
not ; one author alone absorbed his 
whole life, and the more he dwelt 
upon his author, the less he under- 
stood him. His posthumous work 
is bad, impious, and truly heretical. 
Calvin, as Jansenius presents him, is 
no longer Calvin." 

Thus writes F. Denis Petau (au- 
thor of Dogmes Th^ologiques and Doc- 
trine des Temps) to F. BoUandus, 
August 9, 1641, shortly after the 
publication of the celebrated Angus- 
tinus. The Calvinists of Holland 
have taken the same view as F. Pe- 
tau ; for them Jansenius is an ally, 
a friend, whose opinions are less op- 
posed to theirs in substance than in 
form. Did not the Bishop of Ypres 
candidly acknowledge that he ^''al- 
most entirely " approved the Calvi- 
nist Synod of Dordrecht? The 
Abb6 of Saint-Cyran, another patri- 
arch of Jansenism, remarked : " Cal- 
vin thought justly, but expressed 
himself ill — bene sensit, male locutus 
estr However, there are important 
differences between the two heresies; 
but it would take us too much out 
of our way to indicate then| in detail. 
These words of the false jSynod of 
Pistoia perfectly expness tlie germi- 
nal idea of Jansenism : ** In these 
latter days a general obscurity prevails 
in regard to th^ most important truths 



The Jansenist Schism in Holland. 



687 



of religion. ... It is necessary, there- 
fore, to remount to the pure source 
of the principles which have been 
obscured by novelties, in order to es- 
tablish a uniformity of doctrine which 
shall be a subject of edification for 
the faithful, and gratify the wishes 
of our most religious prince. . . . 
To establish this unity of principles, 
the enlightened sovereign suggests 
to the bishops to take for their rule 
the doctrine of S. Augustine against 
the Pelagians and the semi-Pelagi- 
ans, who, through their system, have 
destroyed the spirit of the Christian 
religion, and preached a new gos- 
pel."* It must needs follow from 
this that the authority of the church 
is not an efficacious remedy against 
error, since it was possible for the 
general belief of the faithful to be 
obscured for centuries in regard to 
the most important truths. 

Is this in any wise dififerent from 
what the reformers of the XVI th 
century pretended? Did not Cal- 
vin, especially, have always in his 
mouth the name of the great Bi- 
shop of Hippo? Jansenius deve- 
lops the same thought in his prelim- 
inary work, DeRatione et Au€toritate.\ 
Baius had prepared the way for him.| 
For the authority of the teaching 
church, always youthful and full of 
life, as S. Irenaeus says, the Jansenists 
substituted S. Augustine, who was no 
longer at hand to protest against the 

• Synodt d« Ptstoity translated by Du Pac dc 
Rellegarde, and approved by the Schismatics of 
Utrecht, p. 239 tt srq. Pistoia, 1788. 

t See, especially, chapters xiL, xiil., zvU., zxi., 
xzH., xiiii. 

X Edition Gerberon, pp. 489, 940, etc. In his 
first reply to Philip Marnix de Sainte-Alde{?onde 
Baius thus expresses himself: " But because 
Holy Scripture, which can neither deceive nor be 
mlsuken, contains within itself truth Itself; and 
the church is not enlig^htened except by the 
truth writtei^ in the sacred books, and, Z/// to 
herself^ could easily fall back into her darkness ; 
ihere/ortyW. is more suitable to say that Holy 
Scripture gives authority and dignity to the 
church of Christ, than the reverse." We know 
that the project of Jansenius was first to publish 
only the Vindicia Mtchttii* Bait, The AugUf 
Hmut took its source from this. 



abuse that had Seen made of his 
words — words often rugged and ob- 
scure. So much for the general 
ground ; let us now enter into detail. 

Following Baius, Jansenius sets 
out with this fundamental axiom, 
which is, as it were, the culminating 
point whence one takes in his whole 
system : The complete man is not a 
compound of body and soul only (as 
the Catholic doctrine declares, in 
consonance with sound philosophy) ; 
but a third principle, the Holy 
Ghost, the sole source of all wisdom, 
of all charity, is necessary, in order 
to complete the rational being, and 
to render him worthy of his Creator 
and of his natural destiny.* Without 
'this grace — for so Jansenius consider- 
ed it — body and soul constitute only 
a sensual and animal being, defence- 
less against all evil desires, and in- 
capable of rising to the knowledge 
and love of good. The immediate 
consequence of these principles is 
that God could not create man with- 
out bestowing upon him the Holy 
Ghost and all the other gifts which 
faith manifests to us in our first pa- 
rents.t 

These were, no doubt, so many 
graces, says Jansenius; but these 
graces were none the less due to 
human nature, which without them 
would have been incomplete.^ 

^'The first man was created in a 
state of perfect innocence, and could 
not come forth otherwise from the 
hand of God. The idea of any 
other state whatever is a chimera 
which would degrade humanity and 
openly conflict with the perfections 
of a sovereign Providence. Faith 
teaches us that Adam was establish- 
ed in justice and charity. He therc- 

• Baius, De Prima Ifominis Justitiay b. 1. Jan- 
senius, De Gratia Primi Hominis^ c. i ; De Strttu 
Prima Natura^ b. i. c. iii. et seq.; b. ii. c. i. et 
seq, 

t Loc. cit.f Quesnel in //. Cor. 5, etc. 

ijansenius, De Statu Pmra Naturee^ b. i. c. xx. 



688 



The Jansenist Schism in Holland. 



fore loved his Creator, and had with- 
in himself no perverse inclination."* 
Thus speak the sectaiies of Pistoia, 
faithful interpreters of Jansenist 
thought The church has condemn- 
ed this conclusion; she teaches us 
that God could have created man as 
he is born at present, without sin, to 
be sure, but still without that perfect 
innocence which consists in the super- 
natural and purely gratuitous gifbs of 
charity and integrity, t 

However, sin entered into the 
world, and at one blow man lost all 
the gifts of the Holy Ghost : he had 
fallen into that abnormal state of 
incompleteness in which God could 
not have established him in the be- 
ginning. *^ He hastened from dark- 
ness to darkness, from error to error, 
from sin to sin : powerless to deliver 
himself from that love which held 
him attached to himself." % But " the 
infected root must (by a physical 
necessity, as Jansenius says) § pro- 
duce defective and corrupt fruit. 
He transmits to his children, there- 
fore, in the order of generation, igno- 
rance of good and a vicious inclina- 
tion to evil."|| This is original sin, 
according to the Jansenists. 

The Catholic Church, in whose 
eyes sin is above all a moral disorder, 
teaches that ignorance and concu- 
piscence are not sins, but the conse- 
quence of the first transgression, and 
the occasion to man in his fallen 
state of voluntarily committing new 
sins. 

Jansenius exaggerates fi-om the 
first the extent of the wound which 
ignorance caused in us. The fallen 
man, according to him, is no longer 

*■ Synod* de Pisioi*^ p. 849 • 

t Bull of S.Pius V. against Baius, prop. ai» 55, 
78, 34, a6. Bnll ofCUment XI. against Quesnsl^ 
prop. 35. Buft A uctorem Fidei against the False 
Synod 0/ Pistoiay Nos. x6, 17. 

X Synode d* Pistoie^ p. a 13. 

\ De Statu Pur. Nat.^h. 1. Calvin, Institut.^ b. 
ii. c. i ; Luther in Psalm LI, 

I Synode d* Pistole^ p. 344. 



possessed of organs for perceiving 
the truths which concern the higher 
interests of the soul; God, the future 
life, natural right, are so many closed 
books, which revelation alone can 
open for us. * This is a sort of reli- 
gious scepticism, often revived since, 
and always rejected by sound theolo- 
gy. It is the real source also, we 
may be sure, of the peculiar mysti- 
cism which has flourished among the 
Jansenists from the beginning. By 
a natural consequence, Jansenius 
treats reason and science as enemies 
of faith ; he would have them ban- 
ished aikr from theology. It is not 
intelligence, says he, but memory, 
and, above all, the heart, which pene- 
trates revelation, t Is this the same 
as to say that the adversaries of the 
Augusiinus have opened the door to 
modem rationalism, as Sainte-Beuve 
insinuates ? By no means. Between 
the two errors lies the truth as pro- 
claimed by the Scriptures and the 
fathers, maintained by the sovereign 
pontifis, and definitely decided in the 
Holy Council of the Vatican.! 

Ignorance, the fruit of sin, is itself 
imputed as sin, say the Jansenists ; 
in other words, we are guilty before 
God of the faults into which ignorance 
causes us to fall unwittingly and in 
spite of ourselves. § This is also the 
teaching of Scipio Ricci*s false synod. 
Pelagius, we are told by it, " could not 
understand why the ignorance of 
good which is bom with us, which is 
necessarily transmitted to us in the 
order of generation, and by which 

* De Rations et Auctoritate^ c. iv., vil., et se^. 
Baius, De Prima Horn. Just.^ b. L c. viii.; D* 
Ckaritaie^ c. ▼. 

t/^tV. For consisteat Jansenists, science in 
the natural order, especially in what appertains 
to man, is impossible. When one has only an 
Incomplete being; to study, all of whose harmo- 
nies are in disorder, how can we have any certi- 
tude as to the nature of that being ? 

t Session III. De Fide. 

I Jansenius, De Statu Natnrte La^ee^ b. il. c. 
ii.-vii. Quesnel, in Rom. i. ig and //. TkessaL, iii. 
18. Prop, Condemned ^4,0 etseq. Prop. Condemned 
by Alexander VI I L^ itk December ^ i690« 



The Jansenist Schism in Holland. 



689 



man falls into errof without wishing 
to, and in spite of himself— /Viz^i/oy ac 
nolens — ought not to excuse sin." * 

Pelagius, who denied the fact of 
the original fall, would not admit 
that ignorance, the consequence of 
the fall, was an evil or a weakness, 
especially in view of man's super- 
natural end; but faith, equally with 
good sense, forbids our maintaining 
that one can be guilty without willing 
to be so — invitus ac nolens. 

The second wound of man in his 
fallen state is denominated concupis- 
cence. In the system of Jansenius 
" it is a movement of the soul which 
leads to the enjoyment of self and of 
other creatures for some other end 
than God. It is, therefore, an affec- 
tion of the soul contrary to order, and 
bad in itself. Hence it vs that man 
without grace (that is, deprived of 
grace), and under the slavery of sin, 
since cupidity reigns in his heart, 
whatever effort he may make to with- 
draw himself from its influence, re- 
fers everything to himself, and by 
the general influence of the love 
which dominates \i\Xi\ spoils and cor- 
rupts all his actions, f * This error of 
Jansenius has been stigmatized as it 
deserves in the bulls directed against 
Baius and Quesnel.f These writers 
present the error under forms the 
most various ; for example, " All that 
man does without grace is sin. All the 
works of infidels are sins. The sinner, 
without grace, is free only for evil." 

According to Catholic doctrine, 
man by his fall has become the slave 
of sin, and has from himself only sin 
and falsehood, in the sense that of 
himself he is for ever incapable of jus- 
tifying himself from the stain of ori- 



• Synod* d* Pistoie^ p. 846. t Ibid. p. 947. 

t Jansenius, Ve Statu Nat. Laps. ^h.W.c, viL 
// teq.: b. lii. c. ix. *t seq. ; b. iv. c. xviii. 
Qaesnel, inLuc^ xvl. 3 ; in yonnn.^ viii. 34, 36 ; 
yv<»/. Condemn fd^ 38, ^9, 45, 46, 48, 41, etc. Kaius, 
De I'irtut. Impiorumy c. vi. Prop. Condemned^ 
>6, »5» «?» 301 3S» 3^. 37, 401 6x et stq. 

VOL. XVIII. — 44 



ginal sin and from the sins he has 
voluntarily committed; he can do 
nothing, absolutely nothing, towards 
his supernatural destiny ; his weak- 
ness is so great that, without assistance 
from on high, he cannot but fall fre- 
quently and grievously, especially 
when assailed by powerful tempta- 
tions. In these truths there are mo- 
tives enough for humbling our pride, 
without needing to go so far as the 
J ansenists, and say that the necessity 
of our sinning is an absolute and con- 
tinual necessity. This theory would 
be less repulsive if, with the fathers, 
the abundance of grace were also 
proclaimed. Christ's redemption, 
the latter tell us, embraces all time ; 
but his grace is more palpable to us 
in these days, and more generally 
diffused. Divine assistance is always 
at hand, say they unanimously, at the 
moment it is wanted ; so that man 
can at least call upon God for help, 
and thus obtain the strength of which 
he stands in need. Jansenius, on 
the contrary, pitilessly restrains the 
measure of liberating grace. Let us 
hear what the Synod of Pistoia h;is 
to say on this subject : 

" The Lord willed that, before this 
plenitude of time [the time of our Sa- 
viour's appearance upon earth], man- 
kind should pass through different 
states. It was his will that man, 
abandoned to his own lights^ should 
learn to distrust his blind reason, and 
that his wanderings should thus lead 
him to desire the assistance of a su- 
perior light. This was the state of 
nature in which man knew not sin, 
and suffered himself to be drawn by 
concupiscence without being aware of 
it." * Thus, then, there was a long se- 
ries of centuries in which mankind in 
general were abandoned to ignorance 



• Synodc de Pistoif, p. 249 ei stq. Prop, Cond , 
18, 19,31. Jansenius, Dt Gratia Christ i Saiva- 
tor is, b. i. QuesncI, in llehr.y viii. 7 ; Oaiat., v. 
x8 : MnrCy xii. 19, etc. Prop, Cond.^ 6, 7, 64, 65. 



690 



The Jansenist Schism in Holland. 



and cupidity, and when, without know- 
ing it, without wishing it, they fell from 
sin to sin. Is this not frightful ? But 
what follows is still more cruel : *' God 
then gave him a law which brought 
him to a knowledge of sin. But man, 
being powerless to observe it, be- 
came a prevaricatcM: under the law. 
Sin became even more wide-spread, 
either because the law forbidding it 
heightened the desire for it, or because 
prevarication — that is, contempt of 
the law — was added to its violation. 
. . . The law, therefore, was given by 
God, . . . not to heal the wounds of 
mankind, but to acquaint him with 
the malady and with the necessity of 
a remedy." * Thus viewed, the law 
of Sinai is an injustice and a subject 
of derision. 

Finally, " The Son of God descend- 
ed from the bosom of his Father and 
brought salvation." f Now, at least, 
grace, like a current of life, will pass 
into the veins of languishing human- 
ity! Alas! no; the further we ad- 
vance the more disheartening be- 
comes the doctrine of Jansenius. 
He acknowledges at the outset that 
progress in the individual follows 
the same course as in the species. 
I will explain his thought : many 
men, even under the Christian law, 
have not the gift of faith — they are 
in the state of nature ; others are en- 
lightened by the rays of divine reve- 
lation or by. the interior light of 
grace — they are in a state analogous 
to that of men under the law. 
"While earthly love reigns in the 
heart, the light of grace, if it be 
alone, produces the same effect as 
the law. ... It is necessary, there- 
fore, that the Lord should create in 
the heart a holy love, that he should 
inspire it with a holy delectation, con- 
trary to the love which reigns there. 
This holy love, t/iis holy delectation, is, 



* Synodi H* PistoU^ foe. cit. 



\Ibid. 



properly speakings the grace of yesus 
Christ/ it is the grace of the New 
Testament. . . . Dominant love is a 
holy passion which operates in man, 
in regard to God, the same effects 
which dominant cupidity operates 
therein in regard to the things of 
earth."* Millions of men are thus 
excluded from all participation in re- 
deeming grace. Jansenius says dis- 
tinctly that the graces indispensable 
to salvation are not accorded at all 
times except to the small number of 
the elect ; all others receive nothing, 
or only temporary and insufRcient 
helps, which serve but to render them 
more guilty. In this sense, the Jan- 
senists refuse to admit that Christ 
died for the eternal salvation of all 
men; the predestined alone were 
comprehended in the great contract 
by which Jesus^ in dying, offered his 
life, and the Eternal Father accepted 
his stainless oblation as the price of 
justifying grace. It is in this sense, 
also, that the fifth proposition of Jan- 
senius has been condemned as he- 
retical : " It is a semi-Pelagian en-or 
to say that Christ died or shed his 
blood for all men in general." t 

Hence arose that horrible Jansen- 
ist doctrine of predestination, borrow- 
ed from Calvin, in which God is 
made to appear pitiless even in his 
mercies, the reprobate as a victim 
less guilty than unfortunate, and the 
elect one as a spoiled child who 
ought to blush at his immortal 
crown.f . 

I shall return to this latter point 
hereafter. Meanwhile, let us point 
out another consequence of the doc- 

♦ /did., p. ns^, a59. Pro/. Cond., 21, 25. Btius, 
De Char Hate, c. v. Pre^. Cond., 16, 38, etc. 
Jansenius, De Gratia Ckristi Salvat., b. «". 
QuesncU/rtJj/w. /»r«!»/. Cw»«/., 40* 44t 45-67- 'T^** 
testation du P. Quesnel (17x5. without any oUier 

date), p. 190, et sef. . . ^ , s y. \\\ 

t Jansenius, De Gratia Christt SaivaS., b. n' 

c. XX., xxi. Quesnel, /'ro/. G»iw/., 3«. a9- ^'»"" 

Quesneliiana^ p. i88 et sef. 

X Calvin, De Pradestinat., b. iii. v. ; /«/''- "'• 

it c. V. Janseaius, ibid» b. ix. 



The Jansenist Schism in Holland* 



691 



trine here laid down. If it be true 
that man is often abandoned by 
grace, and if, in consequence of his 
impotence, he necessarily violates the 
divine commands, must we, then, be- 
lieve that God orders what is impos- 
sible? No doubt of it, reply the 
Jansenists; Pelagius first dared to 
deny this consequence — that the just 
themselves do often lack necessary 
grace.* This monstrous error is ex- 
pressed in the first proposition of 
Jansenius, as follows: "Some of 
God's commandments are impossible 
to the just in the state of their pre- 
sent strength, whatever will they may 
have, and whatever efforts they may 
make ; and the grace through which 
these commandments would become 
possible to them is wanting." t Ca- 
tholics, with the Council of Trent 
(session vi. chap, xi.), say quite the 
contrary. It is a doctrine universal- 
ly held in the church, and borne out 
by the unanimous consent of the fa- 
thers, that no one is deprived of the 
graces indispensable to salvation, ex- 
cept through his personal fault. 
Theologians also, for the most part, 
teach, with reason, that God confers 
the grace of conversion on sinners 
the most obstinate and hardened. 

How is it that Jansenius was un- 
able to perceive one of the clearest 
points of Christian revelation — the 
infinite mercy of God towards the 
sinner ? It was the inevitable con- 
sequence of his doctrine concerning 
liberty. { In his eyes, the equilibrium 
of the human will has been irrepara- 
bly lost; man naturally follows the 
attraction which dominates him. 

^Jaosenius, ibid. b. lii. c. vil. // uq.f Di 
ttartii Peiag.^ b. iv. c. xvi. Biius, /V<>>. Cond.^ 

54- 

t JaaseniuB, D« Gratia Christ i Salvat.^ b. ill. 
c. xiil. 

t Baius, De Libero Hominis Arbiirio^ c. il.iv. et 
seq. Prop, Ccnd.^ 39. Jan&eniua, De Statu Nat. 
Lapa.y b. Iv. c. XXI. et stq, De Gratia Chrisii 
Sa/vat.^ b. VI. c. V. et seq.^ x\\y. to the end. 
^uesnel in Luc^ viii. 24, etc. Prop. Cond.^ 10, 
3a-4s, 38, etc. 



Without grace, our poor will tends 
irresistibly to the depths of sin; an 
evil cupidity dominates it. But let 
the delectation of divine love take 
possession of this entirely passive 
and powerless heart, and it will be 
drawn to good by an equal necessity. 
Now, we see but too well that this 
holy passion which operates in man, 
in regard to God, the same effects 
which the dominant cupidity ope- 
rates in regard to the things of earth, 
is the privilege of but a small num- 
ber. One only explanation is possi- 
ble — all the rest are without grace. 
Be it observed that, according to the 
Jansenists, every grace is charity, ir- 
resistible, victorious delectation. The 
X^ugusiinuSy it is true, speaks of cer- 
tain Utile graces which do not at 
once carry the soul to the heights of 
perfection. Such as they are, they 
are none the less efficacious; if their 
power is not greater, it is because 
God has not given them more force 
than they in effect possess. The 
grace called by the theologians suffi- 
cient is held in aversion by the Jan- 
senists; it is a grace which has for 
them the demerit of not being effica- 
cious.* The three following proposi- 
tions from Jansenius on liberty and 
grace have been pronounced hereti- 
cal: 

" In order to merit or demerit in 
the state of fallen nature, it is not 
necessary that man should have a 
liberty opposed to necessity (as to 
willing) ; it suffices that he should 
have a liberty opposed to con- 
straint." t " In the state of fallen 
nature, we never resist interior 
grace."} "The semi- Pelagians ad- 
mitted the necessity of an inierioi 

* Jansenius, De Gratia Ckristi Saivat.y b. li. 
and vl. Qucsnel, in Matth.^ viii*. 3, etc. ; Prop. 
Cond.^ 0» xo, XI, 19, ao, etc. Protestation du P. 
Quesnel^ p. 109 // teq. 

t jansenius, De Statu Nat. Laps.y b. iv. c. xxt. 
et seq., cited above. 

% Tliird proposition. See Di Gratia Ckristi 
Saivat.t b. ii. and vi. 



692 



The Jansenist Schism in Holland, 



and preventing grace for all actions, 
even for the beginning of faith ; they 
were heretics in so far as they assum- 
ed that grace to be such that the 
human will could resist it or obey 
it." * 

Quesnel renewed every one of these 
errors, f and the Synod of Pistoia 
gives Quesnel's book an unreserved 
approbation.J Ricci and his adhe- 
rents tell us, with Jansenius, that the 
equilibrium of the human will is lost, 
and that " this idea of equilibrium is 
a rock against which the enemies of 
grace " (that is. Catholic theologians) 
" have dashed themselves." They 
themselves ignore every grace from 
Jesus Christ, exceptthat which creates 
in us a holy love, a holy delectation.^ 

The efficacy of grace, say they, 
" does not depend on our will, but 
produces it by changing us from not 
willing to willing, through its all-prnv- 
erf ul force. , . . Far from waiting 
our consent, grace creates it in us." || 
In the synod's whole body of doctrine, 
by means of which it aims to bring 
back the faith to its primitive purity, 
we find not a word in contradiction 
of the heretical system of Jansenius ; 
it everywhere follows, on the contra- 
ry, the spirit of that system, but 
carefully avoids reproducing literally 
any one of the famous five proposi- 
tions. But we do find in the acts of 
the synod that celebrated conclusion 
which concentrates in itself the poi- 
son of the Jansenist heresy in its full 
force : " There are in man two loves, 
which are, as it were, the two roots 
of all our actions — cupidity and char- 
ity; the first is the bad tree, which 
can produce only bad fruit, and the 
second the good tree, which alone 

♦ Fourth proposition. See Dr H^tresi Peia£r„ 
b. vii., last chap. ; b. viti. c. vi.« viii. De Gratia 
Ckritti Stthtat.y b. ii c. xv . 

t See preceding notes and Causa Quesneliiana^ 
p. 165-193. 

X Edit, cit., pp. 196 and 547 ; Appendix (v. ii.), 
p. -)40 €t s«q. 

I SyncfU de Pistoity p. 943. i Ibidy p. 353. 



produces good works. Where cupid- 
ity dominates, charity reigns not ; 
and where charity dominates, cupid- 
ity reigns not." * As if there were 
not, remarks Pius VI., lying between 
culpable love and divine charity, 
which conducts us to the kingdom 
of heaven, a legitimate human love ! f 
When our common humanity is 
thus debased and disparaged, a dis- 
tance is necessarily placed between it 
and its sole mediator, Jesus Christ, 
himself man also, but evidently in- 
capable of taking upon himself a na- 
ture as incomplete as ours. Hence, 
the disciples of Jansenius have gen- 
erally manifested an antipathy to de- 
votions which bring us into intimate 
relations with the sacred humanity 
of our Saviour. The tender and 
Christian devotion to the Sacred 
Heart of Jesus is especially intoler- 
able to them. J As to the Blessed 
Virgin Mary, her title of Mother of 
God, so solemnly defined in the 
Council of Ephesus against Nesto- 
rius, hardly finds favor among them. 
To the Jansenists, Mary is certainly 
not the Immaculate One who crushes 
the head of the infernal serpent. 
They represent her the most fre- 
quently as the Virgin depicted by 
Michael Angelo, trembling and al- 
most hiding before the glance of 
Christ the judge, on the last day, g 
Her greatness is terrible ^ said the 
Abb6 de Saint-Cyran to M^re An- 
g61ique. Could it be otherwise ? 



♦ Synode de Phtoie^ p. 353. Pro/. Cand.y 33, 94, 
35. Baius, De Charitate. c. vi. Prop. Cond.^ 38, 
etc. Jansenius. De Gratia Ckritti Saivat.^ b. v. 
c. iii- Protestation du P, Quesnel^ p. 190 et se^. 
Prop. Cond., 44, etc. 

t Bull Auctorem Fidei^ No. 24. 

X Synode de Pistoie^ p. 531, 538. Prop. Cond.^ 
61 et seq. 

% Rivifcre, Le Kestorianisme Renaissattt^ ad 
part (1693). Van der Schuur (Utrecht, 1699), Dr 
Kleyne Getyden. Synode de Pistoie^ p. 359 rt scq. 
Prop. Cond.y 69. ; Jbid..^ appendix, p. lai et *.>'. 
Baius, Prop. Cond.y 73. We know that the 
Jansenist bishops of Holland loudly protested 
against the proclamation of the dogma of the 
Immaculate Conception. See Port Royal^ vol. i. 
P 833. 



The Jansenist Schism in Holland. 



693 



Could Jansenist fatalism give more 
room for confidence than for inter- 
cession ? 

May I be permitted to add a last 
word to this already long analysis? 
It is said that Jansenism has had the 
merit of recalling Catholics to a re- 
spect for the sacraments.* Is this 
said seriously ? Luther had made 
all spiritual life centre in faith; the 
sacraments were thus nothing but 
ceremonies proper to excite this prin- 
cipal sentiment. In place of faith, 
Baius and Jansenius have substitut- 
ed charity. Redeeming grace, the 
divine adoption, justice, holiness, all 
these they identify with love, as Lu- 
ther identified them with faith. 
Now, I ask, what is it that renders 
the sacraments so worthy of vene- 
ration ? Christian tradition replies 
with one accord : it is their efficacy ; 
the sacraments are truly the causes 
and the instruments of grace and 
charity; they are, as it were, vases 
filled with redeeming blood. But 
the Jansenists do not so regard them. 
According to them, the sacraments 
do not confer sanctity ; they suppose 
it. f Before baptism, and before 
penance, the adult must have domi- 
tiant charity in his heart; without 
this, his repentance, and even his 
prayers, would be but movements 
of the dominant cupidity, and, con- 
sequently, new sihs. It may be 
thought that I exaggerate; I sub- 
join, therefore, passages from the 



• Port Royaly vol. I. p. 446 ; vol. ii. p. 189 et 
t*g.s i54i etc. 

t Baius, De Sacrameniis in Centre^ c. iii. v. 
Prop. Cond., 33, 43, 70, 10. 12, 31 et ttq.^ 57, etc. 
Saint-Cyran in Aurdius follows the principles 
of BaiuB on this point. 



Synod of Pistoia, in which Ques- 
nel and Jansenius speak again : 
"When we have unequivocal signs 
that the love of God reigns in 
a man's heart, we may with reason 
judge him worthy of participation 
with Jesus Christ in the reception of 
the sacraments. This is the rule 
which should be observed in the tri- 
bunal of penance (in the question of 
granting absolution). Works alone 
afford a morally certain proof of con- 
version. When the love of God 
takes possession of the soul, it be- 
comes active and efficacious."* 
Again: "The first disposition for 
praying as we ought is a perfect de- 
tachment from all created things 
and a kind of disgust for all earthly 
consolations."! Until the sinner 
has received this grace of the Holy 
Ghost, he is unworthy of absolution 
quite as much as of communion. 
The words of Saint-Cyran to poor 
Sister Mary Clare are well known: 
" It is necessary to come, living, to 
penance. This is why I have kept 
you waiting so long. I have left you 
to live ; for five months you have been 
living a spiritual life." So far no sac- 
raments. The practice was still worse 
than the theory, as we well know. 
And this is the way in which J an sen. 
ism would recall Catholics to a re- 
spect for the sacraments I It has, at 
one blow, narrowed Christ's functions 
and those of the church. | 

* Synode de Pistoie^ p. 857 et seq.^ 37<5-397. 
Prop. Cond., 35, 34. 35, 36, 37. 38, etc. 

+ Jbid.y p. 516. Sec (Juesoel, Prop. Cond.y 59 et 
seq. 

X On this point, to which I can only refer en 
Paxsanty see Llnscnmann, Michael Baius und 
die Crundlegung dei Jansenismus^ c. V. (Tubin- 
gen, 1867). 



TO BB CONCLUDBO NBXT MONTU. 



694 



An Englisk Maiden's IfOve. 



AN ENGLISH MAIDEN'S LOVE.* 



The third Crusade had com- 
menced. The cry, " God wills it," 
had gone forth from many a manly 
breast, and akeady Frederic of Ger- 
many, Henry II. of England, and 
Philip Augustus of France had re- 
ceived the cross from William, Arch- 
bishop of Tyre. But a more power- 
ful monarch than Saladin, against 
whom their combined strength was 
to be directed, struck Frederic before 
he reached Palestine, and called 
Henry IL, whom domestic difficul- 
ties had detained in England. Death 
gives not back that which he takes, 
and, for the want of a leader, the 
German army was broken up. 

Richard, the brave Coeur de Lion, 
took his royal father's place, both 
on the throne and in the Crusade, 
and, with Philip of France, started on 
his glorious mission. Among those 
brave men who gathered around 
England's standard, joying to be led 
by so bold a king, who, with his 
lion's heart, dared every danger of 
sea, land, or fierce and cruel Mos- 
lem, was one of the oldest and 
proudest of Norman blood. His 
forefather, who had fought by the 
side of William the Conqueror, had 
distinguished himself by many a 
daring deed, and had won from his 
royal master, in recognition of his 
bravery, an earlship over a fair and 
smiling province of "merrie Eng- 



*Some years ag^o, a poem appeared in an 
English weekly with the same title, '' An Eng- 
lish Maiden's Love.*' The author stated that, 
when a mere girl, she read the incident in a 
very stupid old novel founded upon the same 
subject, and which she never could succeed in 
meeting with again. We have not seen the 
novel, but have ventured to borrow the inci- 
dent, and offer it to the readers of Thb Catholic 
World In its present form 



land"; then, renouncing his Nor- 
man tide in behalf of a younger son, 
and marrying his eldest to the daugh- 
ter of a Saxon knight, he established 
his right to the soil of his adopted 
country. Much of his fearless nature 
seemed to have come down with the 
blood of Robert de Bracy, who, at 
the ripe age of fifly-five, had found 
himself unable to resist his monarch's 
call, and to whom Coeur de Lion 
himself owed much of wise counsel. 
Robert de Bracy was a man of stem 
aspect, but withal so compassionate 
and forbearing, that he won the 
love of every one who came in con- 
tact with him. His bravery had al- 
\ ready been proved when, as a young 
man, he fought beside Henry II. dur- 
ing the war against France; and. 
later, in that most dreadful invasion 
of Ireland — dreadful, because of the 
blow it gave to Irish independence, 
and for the gradual sinking of her 
people, from that time, from the 
eminence in erudition and lore for 
which they were renowned among 
the nations, and which, be it to 
their credit said, they are using 
every effort to regain. A man per- 
fectly incapable of the least dishon- 
orable action, he was revered as a 
knight " without stain or reproach/* 
A fervent Catholic, his religion was his 
pride, and he never was ashamed of 
kneeling in church beside the poorest 
beggar, nor felt insulted because pov- 
erty's rags touched his velvet robes. 
But the good earl's heart received a 
terrible blow when he heard of the 
murder of Thomas ^ Becket. Hi* 
faith in his king was shaken, and 
nothing but the stern duty of alle- 
giance could have induced Robert 



An English Maiden's Lave. 



69s 



de Bracy to remain in England. So 
when the Crusade was preached, he 
gladly seized the opportunity to 
show his love for the crucified King 
— for him whose throne was a cross, 
and whose crown was of thorns — 
and enrolled himself among the 
Crusaders. He was joined by his 
only son and Sir John de Vere, who, 
like himself, was of Norman blood — 
a brave, honest man, of strict integ- 
rity, whose character will be better 
seen in the unfolding of the story. 
The earl was deeply attached to the 
young knight, and the highest proof 
he could give of his love was in his 
willing consent that, on their return 
from Palestine, Sir John should wed 
his daughter, Agnes de Bracy, whose 
heart was no less pure than her face 
was lovely. "An' we'll make an 
earl of thee, my lad !" cried the im- 
petuous King Richard when the 
betrothal was announced to him. 

The court of the earl's castle was 
crowded with armed retainers, 
knights, and esquires, who formed 
the retinue of De Bracy and De 
Vere. Even on and beyond the 
lowered drawbridge might be seen 
bands of neighing steeds, their im- 
patience checked ever and anon by 
their riders, who awaited the earl to 
head and lead them to the rendez- 
vous of the Crusaders. Court and 
castle alike resounded with the clank 
of steel and tread of armed men, 
while buxom waiting-maids and mer- 
ry lads hastened to and fro in the 
bustle attendant on such a depart- 
ure. Here and there stood a page 
giving tlie finishing polish to his mas- 
ter's sword, and, again, others assisted 
in the girding on of the armor. Every 
now and then might be heard the 
wailing of some fond wife or mother, 
contrasting somewhat strangely with 
the jests of those who had no tie to 
make the parting a sacrifice in the 
good cause.' Apart from all this, in 



one of the inner rooms of the castle, 
were gathered the earl and his family. 
Lady de Bracy's loving eyes wan- 
dered sadly from her honored hus- 
band to the manly features of her son, 
kneeling by her side, and back again 
to the earl, who was soothing the 
grief of his youngest child, Mary, 
just old enough to know that her 
father was going over land and sea, 
and that she might never see him 
again. In the deep embrasure of 
one of the windows, partly concealed 
by heavy curtains, stood Sir John 
and his betrothed. Agnes had been 
weeping, but being calmed by Sir 
John, whose grief partook more of the 
nature of joy than fear, since on his 
return he was to claim her as his 
bride, she rested her head quietly 
against his breast, both her hands 
clasped around his neck, while her 
uplifted eyes sought to read every 
expression of his noble face. 

" Beloved," he said in a low tone, 
"it will not be for lore;, please Cod, 
though I would that thou wert 
my wife e'en ere I go. And," he 
added, continuing his whispered 
tones, "I were no Christian kiiight 
to doubt thy faithfulness. I'll prove 
thee mine on our return from the 
holy wars." 

Agnes looked steadily at the face 
so lovingly bent over her, and, un- 
clasping her hands, she drew from 
her girdle a scarf, such as was worn 
in those days, and bound it on Sir 
John's sword-belt. Then, returning 
her head to its resting-place, and 
feeling his arm drawing her tightly to 
him, as though by the very motion to 
thank her, she said : 

" An' there is thy love's guerdon ; 
thou shalt wear it in battle, and, when 
thine eyes fall on it, remember that 
one is praying for thee in bonnie 
England." 

Any further discourse was pre- 
vented by the earl, who cried : 



696 



An English Maiden's Love. 



" Sir John, we have no time to lose; 
the men are ready, the steeds drawn 
up, and our presence alone is need- 
ed for immediate departure. Come, 
Agnes, my daughter." And as he 
placed one arm around her, with the 
other he drew his wife gently to him. 
Raising his eyes to heaven, he ex- 
. claimed : " O God ! protect these 
dear ones while I am fighting the 
good fight in thy name and for thee. 
And this child," he added, as, tenderly 
kissing his wife and Agnes, he loos- 
ened his hold and took Mary in his 
arms — " this child, Mother of God, 
belongs to thee; keep her pure, that 
thy name, borne by her, may be ever 
spotless !" Then, calling the knights, 
he hastily quitted the apartment, not 
daring to look back. The son tore 
himself from his mother's farewell 
embrace, and quickly followed; but 
Sir John still lingered. At last, sum- 
moning his courage, he strained Ag- 
nes to his breast : 

*• Farewell, my beloved ! God have 
thee, my own, in his keeping for so 
long as it seems best to him that we 
be parted." 

As the drawbridge was raised be- 
hind the retreating soldiers, Agnes 
stood at the loophole of the main 
turret, where, with her mother, she 
watched till the men, horses, and 
banners disappeared, shut from sight 
by the declivity of a distant hill, when 
she sank on her knees, and prayed 
fervently for the loved ones who had 
started on their perilous journey. 

We have said that Agnes de Bracy 
was lovely; that word can hardly 
convey the true nature of her charms. 
Personal beauty she had, and much : 
dark eyes, a clear complexion, a per- 
fect mouth, disclosing perfect teeth, 
and breaking into a smile of wnnning 
beauty, together with a graceful form; 
a character of womanly sweetness, 
and great strength of will. But as 
Spenser hath it : 



" Of the 80ttl« the bodie forme doth uke ; 
For soule is forme, and doth the bodie make." 

It was the soul in Agnes de Bracy, 
rich in God's sweet grace, which gave 
her that wonderful expression; the 
pure heart, " without guile," which 
caused her eyes to gleam with a look 
that made Sir John once exclaim, 
" Methinks, Agnes, thine eyes would 
soften the stony heart of the Mussul- 
man himself, and e'en make a Chris- 
tian of him." 

Nor was Sir John deficient in those 
qualities which would be apt to win 
the admiration and love of such as 
she. Like the earl, he was a most 
devout Catholic. With a full, heart- 
felt appreciation of his holy faith, he 
could not — ^as many, alas I do — put it 
on and off with holiday attire, but 
every word and action proved how 
thoroughly it was a part of himself, 
and how, without it, in spite of great 
natural talents, he would be — no- 
thing. 

To follow the Crusaders on their 
journey, every step of which was 
fraught with danger; to watch the 
course of events as they shaped 
themselves during the march of the 
two armies, is not the province of 
this story. About three years later, 
the earl, with wounds scarcely healed 
and a heavy heart, stood before the 
drawbridge of his castle, which was 
being rapidly lowered at the unex- 
pected blast of his bugle. The clank- 
ing of the heavy armor was a joyful, 
long-looked-for sound to the inmates 
of the castle, who had assembled in 
the court to welcome back the earl 
and his followers. Weary and dust- 
laden, they passed under the portal 
of the gateway, a sad remnant of 
their former numbers, greeting those 
who stood expectant with joy or fear. 
Suddenly a loud wailing arose, as 
many a mother looked in vain ior 
the well - remembered form of her 
brave lad, who died fighting ihe 



An English Maiden's Lave. 



697 



Saracen ; and the sounds of glad re- 
joicing were hushed in the presence 
of the angel of sorrow. The earl and 
his son made their way rapidly to the 
same room that had witnessed their 
farewell, and there their loved ones 
awaited them. A thrill of terror 
passed through Agnes' frame as she 
missed the features of Sir John ; and, 
seeing a strange look in her father's 
eyes, which were fixed so tenderly 
but sorrowfully on her, she clasped 
her hands tighdy, and cried out : 
"My God! my God! thy will, not 
mine, be done ; but, oh ! if /le is 
dead !" 

** Agnes, my child, my precious 
child !" — and Robert de Bracy drew 
his daughter to him — " God knows 
my heart is heavy enough with the 
story I have to tell thee, yet it is not 
what thou dost expect. Sir John is 
living, strong and well, but" — and 
his lips quivered with emotion — 
" but he is Saladin's prisoner; and I 
fear me greatly that neither gold nor 
silver will ransom him." 

" Saladin's prisoner, my father ? 
Saladin's prisoner ? And will nothing 
ransom him ?" And bowing her face 
in her hands, she wept bitterly. But 
her violent grief was not of long du- 
ration ; her nature was too thoroughly 
schooled. She checked its first out- 
burst; and, trusting to Him who had 
always given her help in her troubles, 
she breathed a short, fervent prayer. 
Then, raising her head, she turned to 
the earl, and in her sweetest voice : 

" Forgive me, my father," she said, 
" for that I have not been thy daugh- 
ter, and, in my selfish sorrow for what 
God has ordained, I have forgotten 
to bid thee welcome home." 

" Agnes ! Agnes ! " And the old 
earl nearly broke down under the 
weight of his sorrow — sorrow all the 
keener for the suffering of his daugh- 
ter. ** Agnes, we will not give up all 
hope. I would have begged of Sala- 



din on my knees for his ransom, but 
it could not have been ; I was ordered 
away, and no respite granted." 

" Give up all hope ? No, indeed, 
my father. Far from me be such a 
thought I God will help us, and my 
beloved shall be ransomed if it is his 
will; for he gave him to me, and he 
can take him away." 

• • • • . . 

Lo ! Damascus is rising before us ; 
not the Damascus of to-day, but the 
quaint, beautiful Oriental city of the 
Xllth century. The golden cres- 
cents of her domed mosques flash in 
the light of the Eastern sun. Her 
thoroughfares are crowded with men 
in their Turkish garb, and women 
veiled after the manner of their na- 
tion. Her shops are resplendent 
with jewels, pearls, and jacinths; 
fragrant with the perfumes of musk, 
ambergris, and aloes-wood; glitter- 
ing with rustling silks and heavy 
brocades, interwoven with gold, and 
scarlet, and silver. Houses, beauti- 
ful in their quaint architecture, meet 
the eye at every comer, together with 
palaces, the residences of emir and 
vizier. But with naught of these 
have we to do. Our story takes us 
into the heart of the city to the palace 
of Saladin, Sultan of the Turks. As 
we enter, we behold banners un- 
furled. Shields, helmets, every spe- 
cies of armor decorate the main hall, 
along whose sides are ivory benches, 
where the eunuchs wait their master's 
orders. A great dome is overhead, 
and the sun, pouring down tlirough 
its latticed windows, floods the hall 
with light, and causes the steel of the 
armor and the jewels of the hall to 
sparkle and flash with brilliancy. At 
the further end is a heavy curtain of 
brocade, richly wrouglit with various 
kinds of embroidery in white, red, and 
gold. Two tall armed men guard 
the corners. We will imagine the 
curtain lifted for us, and enter. There 



698 



An Engiish Maidens Love. 



sits Saladin on his throne. His fol- 
lowers are around him. Rich are 
the robes which fall from his shoul- 
ders, well befitting the Sultan of the 
East. If the hall was gorgeous in 
its beauty, the room of the throne is 
no less so. The hangings on the 
walls are figiu'ed with various wild 
beasts and birds, worked with silk 
and gold. The sandal-wood work 
gives out its own peculiar perfume. 
In fact, all betokens a royal presence. 
And of what sort is Saladin ? Great 
talents in him combine for mastery ; 
great activity and valor. The seve- 
rity and rigor, so inflexible as to make 
the bravest heart quail with fear be- 
fore him, was oflen replaced by such 
kindness, such generosity, that the 
poor, the widowed, and orphaned 
did not hesitate to appeal to his 
mercy. And as he sits before us, we 
must draw back and continue our 
story. 

An eunuch has presented the 
bowl and vase, and, having perform- 
ed the ablution, Saladin turned slow- 
ly round, gazing steadly at the stern 
faces before him. "By Allah!" he 
exclaimed, as his eyes rested on the 
one nearest him — "by Allah! I 
trow, Moslem chiefs, you are brave, 
yea, very brave and very skilful. 
You have beaten back the Christians. 
You have proved yourselves true 
sons of Mahomet; but, for all that, 
I know a braver man than you. 
Eunuch ! bid the Christian slave 
come forth." At his sultan's orders, 
the eunuch made a low bow, and 
retired behind one of the hangings. 
In a few moments he returned, follow- 
ed by a guard of men, and Sir John 
de Vere in their centre. As they 
approached with him, Saladin waved 
them back, and bade the Christian 
only to remain before the throne. 
Then suddenly he made a sign — a 
sign dreaded alike by vizier and 
eunuch. It was obeyed, and a 



soldier, stepping forward, waved a 
sharp and gleaming scimitar over 
the head of the captive ; but he did 
not flinch, nor move a muscle of his 
face, but continued gazing with stem, 
unshrinking eye straight forward 
The sultan, as if satisfied with the 
courage the prisoner evinced, mo- 
tioned the soldier back. Then he 
said: 

" John de Vere, thy father's land, 
thine ancient home, thou shalt see no 
more ; but I have great need of men 
like thee. I command thee, forsake 
thy Christian faith ; and, if thou wilt 
adore Mahomet and God, there is 
no favor thou shalt ask, by my 
royal word, that shall not be granted 
thee. I will set thee above all men. 
I alone will be above thee. I will 
make thee my son. I will give thee 
palaces, gold, and precious gems; 
and from all the queenly maidens 
thou shalt choose one and wed her 
as thy bride. Thou canst not ^^ 
fuse that which my caliphs strive for 
years to obtain, and which to thee is 
given in one day. I bid thee re- 
ply." 

As Saladin finished, he sank back 
on his throne, and a quiet smile play- 
ed around his lips as he awaited his 
captive's answer. Sir John listened 
to him calmly and patiently. Then 
having bowed low, he raised his 
head erect, and made the Christian's 
mark — the sign of the cross — upon 
himself. 

" Saladin," he said," Sultan of the 
Mussulmans, since thou dost bid me 
reply, I will first return thanks for all 
the favors I have received at thy 
hands. From the first day of my 
captivity till now thou hast loaded 
me with kindnesses ; for these I am 
grateful, though gratitude may not 
seem to be in the answer I make 
thee. Know, then, I, a Christian, 
cannot renounce my faith. I am a 
sworn soldier of my God— of him 



An English Maiden's Lave. 



699 



who died for me. Dost thou think 
that I, who bear the cross upon my 
shoulder^ could on that cross bring 
scorn ? Thou dost promise me a 
Moslem wife. In that far-off land — 
which God grant I may see before I 
die! — I have a love, whom as my 
very life I love. To her sweet heart 
I will not be false. Saladin, I can- 
not bear a Moslem name nor wed a 
Moslem maiden." 

•'Ah!" cried the sultan, "thou 
dost not know woman's heart. Per- 
chance she whom thou lovest so 
fondly is the bride of another; nor 
doubt me, that heart, fickle and 
false as any woman's, which swore 
such fealty to thee, belongs now per- 
haps to thy rival. Never yet was 
woman known to be constant. Ah I 
John de Vere, thou hadst better re- 
main with me." 

As he ceased, the curtain was rais- 
ed, and two by two came those holy 
men vowed to ransom Christian cap- 
tives from the hands of the Turks. 
They approached Saladin's throne, 
and, opening their bags, they poured 
out with lavish hand an untold trea- 
sure at his feet. 

Then the chief monk said : 

" The bride of Sir John de Vere, 
O Sultan Saladin ! sends all she 
hath, gold and gems, and bids thee 
take them, but to restore to her her 
betrothed." 

"The other captive knights may 
go with thee," replied the sultan; 
" but as for all these gems and gold, 
his lady-love would give them for a 
dress. Sir John de Vere may not go 
with thee. No wealth can ransom 
him, for I love him with a more than 
brother's love, and hope to win his in 
return. Why, I would give a hun- 
dred slaves, if he would renounce 
his Christian faith. So thus to thy 
lady this answer; for I will prove 
how Christian maidens love. Tell 
her that, before I yield my thrall, she 



must cut off her own right arm and 
hand, and send it hither to ransom 
John de Vere I" 

" Saladin," said the captive, " thy 
permission for one word to say to 
these monks before they go. I bid 
you, brothers," he added, turning to 
them, " to speak of me as dead. 
For, O sweet-heart! my betrothed 
bride, well do I know that not only 
arm and hand, but even life itself, 
thou wouldst willingly give for me ; 
and I cannot prove thy death, that I 
may live. Do not tell her the sul- 
tan's cruel words. O brothers ! I beg 
you do not 1" 

As sole reply, they gathered up 
the useless treasure, and, returning to 
their ships, they sailed for England. 
With mournful hearts they landed on 
the shore, and travelled day and 
night till they reached De Bracy's 
castle. There they laid down their 
full bags, and told Agnes that for 
neither gold nor silver could Sir John 
be ransomed ; but if it was still her 
heart's wish that he should see his 
native land again, the sultan had 
promised that for one gift her be- 
trothed should go free. 

" And that gift ?" said Agnes. 

" Is," replied the head monk slow- 
ly, " thine own right arm and hand, 
cut off for his sake. This is the ran- 
som asked. Thou canst not prevail 
on Saladin to take a meaner thing." 

Every face grew white at these 
cruel words. They shuddered as 
they listened to the monk ; only Ag- 
nes preserved her usual calmness. 
The earl clutched his sword, and 
could hardly refrain from vowing 
death to every man of the Moslem 
race. Little Mary cried out, clasping 
her sister tightly, " Sure, Agnes, such 
a wicked man cannot be found." 
But quieting the child, she looked at 
Lady de Bracy, The face of the 
mother was marked with keen suffer- 
ing. It was a dreadful moment for 



700 



An English Maiden^ s Love. 



the brave spirit of Agnes ; she knew 
she must make answer, and that at 
once. But how could she tell those, 
who suffered so much at the very 
thought of the deed, of her resolution ? 
** My God ! it is hard ; but as we love 
in thee, thou must help me to do 
what is right," was the prayer which 
rose from her heart, as with her lips 
she framed her answer. 

" My dear ones, your daughter 
need not say how much she grieves 
for your sakes that she must suffer. 
Cruel is the ransom asked ; who could 
know it better than I ? But God 
loves us, and did he not, because of 
his love, give his own beloved Son ? 
And do we not see every day how 
churls and nobles give their lives for 
their king ? * Greater love than this 
no man hath, that a man lay down 
his life for his friends.' That, my fa- 
ther, we know from the holy Gospels. 
Wouldst thou have thy daughter 
shrink duty, thou, my lord and father, 
who hast bled by Coeur de Lion's 
side ?" She hesitated a moment, 
then, her sweet voice growing clearer 
and stronger, she continued : 

" I am John de Vere's betrothed, 
and to him I owe my fealty, even 
though it should cost my life. My 
lord and father, what is my life ? 
Long years spent in pleading with 
God to end the banishment of my 
love. And at last he has heard, at 
last my prayer has been granted. 
Only it must be proved that my love 
is pure ; so he sends me pain, and I 
will take it, grateful to endure ; for is 
not the reward great ?" 

• ff • ■ • ■ ■ 

Once again the holy friars found 
themselves in the beautiful city of 
Damascus. Eagerly they threaded 
tlieir way through its broad but de- 
vious thoroughfares till they reached 
the palace of the sultan. Within, in 
the room of the throne, sat Saladin 
^e. By his side stood Sir 



John de Vere. He still retained the 
badge of slavery, for he was too true 
to give up his faith ; but to Saladin's 
councils he was often summoned. 
When any measure to be taken 
against the Christians was the theme 
of debate, he remained respectfully 
but firmly silent. Against his brothers 
he could not in conscience speak: 
to do so for them he knew would 
prove more than useless. But yet 
many were the subjects on which his 
knowledge and fine sense of justice 
could be brought to bear ; and Saladin 
was not the man to fail in taking 
advantage of his wise judgment. 

Some such serious business had 
called around the sultan his advisers, 
and, as usual, Sir John stood foremost 
among them. They had all but 
finished the subject under considera- 
tion, when the folds of the curtain 
were lifted, and a herald entered the 
royal presence. 

" Sultan, our lord," he said, " the 
monks appointed to ransom the 
Christians stand without They 
crave an audience again." 

** Let them enter," was the com 
mand given, and swiftly obeyed 
Again the curtain was lifted upon the 
holy men, and again it fell, shutting 
them from the outer hall, as they 
stood in the presence of Saladin. 
The superior stepped forward : 

"We thank thee, sultan, for the 
favor thou hast accorded us in this 
audience. But we bid thee learn, 
monarch ! a lesson we bring thee— 
a lesson of how great, in a nobler 
faith than thine, is love's purity and 
power." A dim foreboding seized 
Sir John at the monk's words, and 
his whole form shook with ill-sup- 
pressed emotion, as he listened to 
the conclusion : 

" Monarch ! what are women to 
thee ? Slaves, toys of an idle hour, 
the playthings of passion. What 
women of thine would do for thee 



An English Maiden's Love, 



701 



as Agnes de Bracy hath done for 
him who stands beside thee — him 
whom thou callest thy slave ? Thy 
cruel words have been heeded. Lo ! 
the answer." And he laid at Saladin's 
feet a casket, richly wrought in gold 
and silver. Sir John looked as one 
frenzied, then seizing the casket 
pressed it to his ^eart : 

** Why did you tell her, O cruel 
monks ? Did I not ask you to speak 
of me as dead ? O fair arm ! O 
dear, sweet hand ! that thou shouldst 
cut it off, my beloved, and for my 
I)Oor sake !" 

Saladin stretched out his hand to 
take the casket; but Sir John only 
pressed it the tighter, and sobbed 
aloud. At this, the superior of the 
monks, coming forward, said some- 
thing in a low voice, which caused 
the young knight to lift up his face 
and look at the brother. Then, turn- 
ing to the sultan, he placed the cas- 
ket reverently before him. Saladin 
took it and opened it; as he raised 
the lid, the • perfume of aromatic 
spices escaped therefrom. Lifting the 
linen, he looked steadily for a mo- 
ment, then large tears were seen to 
escape from his eyes and roll down 
his cheeks. All the higher nature 
of the man seemed to be aroused. 
Calling his nobles around him, he 
held the casket silently for their in- 
spection. Within it lay embalmed 
the lily-white right arm and hand of 
Agnes de Bracy. There was no 
mistakinj? the delicate form of the 



arm, the shape of the tapering fin- 
gers. Severed from the shoulder of 
that noble girl, they lay in all their 
beauty, a reproach to the cruelty of 
the sultan. In that throne-room not 
one man but was moved to tears. 
Then Saladin closed the casket, but, 
still keeping a firm hold on it, he 
cried out : 

" Mahomet and God witness for 
me! with a deep brother's love I 
love John de Vere, and I thought I 
might retain him by me if I asked 
this ransom. But now I would give 
my kingdom to recall those words. 
Haste, John de Vere, haste to thy 
noble love. O fair arm ! O fair 
hand ! True, brave heart ! Oh ! that 
I could claim such love as thine! 
John de Vere, tell that noble woman 
that Saladin yields his selfish love. 
Take to her gold, gems; load the 
ship with all of wealth and beauty I 
have; but they would vainly prove 
Saladin's grief. She who has proved 
thee such a noble love will make thee 
a noble wife, John de Vere. But 
thou canst not take with thee this 
precious casket. Among my trea- 
sures I shall store it away. It will 
prove to future ages how Christian 
maidens keep their troth, and how 
pure is their love." 

... . • • 

More than this the legend tells 
us not. But it is said that in a 
church in England may still be seen 
a statue of the knight and his noble, 
one-armed ladv. 



702 



Our Masters. 



OUR MASTERS. 



Freedom is the boast of half the 
civih'zed world, and the envy of the 
other half. It is the embodiment of 
the desires of our age, the goal of 
the individual, as well as the collec- 
tive life of nations. It is a treasure 
jealously guarded or a prize passion- 
ately longed for, the pretext for riot 
and disorder, the burden of diploma- 
tic messages, the ostensible object of 
all civic government. England re- 
cords in the words of a national song, 
"Britons never will be slaves," her 
proud determination to grasp it; 
America asserts elasticity of perso- 
nal liberty as the chief attraction 
of her territory; everywhere the cry 
is, " We will do as we like, and accept 
no dictation from any man." It is 
a somewhat strange commentary on 
this fierce vindication of one man's 
rights that they invariably clash with 
the rights of all other men, provided 
the latter happen to differ in the in- 
terpretation of freedom. Again, it 
is a curious psychological phenome- 
non that this much-vaunted freedom 
generally ends in a frantic appeal to 
the state to force one particular set 
of principles upon a large majority 
to whom these principles are repulsive. 
In some countries " freedom " means 
expulsion from a quiet retreat delib- 
erately chosen years ago by men and 
women in full possession of their 
senses : witness the depopulated mo- 
nasteries and the poor religious 
thrust out to starve or beg. In 
others it means the minute supervi- 
sion of state officials over the educa- 
tional and religious interest of thou- 
sands — a sort of domestic inquisition 
in perpetual session on moral sub- 



jects, which the individual inquisitors 
do not pretend even to have studied. 
In conjunction with this species of 
freedom we have the ravenous appe- 
tite for unbelief of all shades, for lax- 
ity of morals, for the elasticity of the 
marriage- tie, for a pleasant and dig- 
nified way of losing our souls, for 
decorous but unrestrained indulgence 
of our passions — in short, for the mani- 
fold attractions of the " broad road." 
This is the serious side of the ques- 
tion — the one to be dwelt upon by 
preachers and philosophers, and 
that which the heedless actors in the 
world's drama are apt to pass by as 
a matter of course — a thing taken for 
granted long ago. 

But there is another aspect, more 
personal and more intimate, in which 
this question appears to us. We 
boast of being free, and at every 
turn the commonest circumstances 
of our daily life belie us. Free! 
why, we are tied as fast as we can be 
to a perpetual pillory ; like the priso- 
ner of Chillon, we can just walk 
round and round our post at the 
length of our chain, and wear a 
groove into the hard stone of our 
surroundings. Free ! with a hundred 
masters : the gout, dyspepsia, the doc- 
tor, the cook, society, the weather. 
Free ! with the newspaper to dictate 
our ideas and opinions, to choose, 
recommend, and pufF our candidates, 
to lay down the law in criminal 
cases, to patronize the jury and pass 
sentence on the prisoner 1 

It would be hard to find a condi- 
tion in life which is not eminently a 
bondage, and a bondage the more 
galling because the bonds are so in- 



Our Masters. 



703 



significant. It is almost equally hard 
to know where to begin the record 
of our abject submission to external 
trammels. You are tired, and want 
to sleep an extra hour in the morn- 
ing. Of course, you think you have 
only to will this, and it is done. 
But you are not allowed to sleep ; 
the noise in the street increases ; the 
bells of the cars mingle in determin- 
ed clangor with the whistle of the 
steamboat; an organ-grinder takes 
up his position under your window, 
and serenades you into madness; 
the " horn of the fish- man is heard 
on the hill " (Murray Hill) ; presently 
the fire-alarm sounds, and the clatter 
of engines follows close upon it; 
while all the time the flies are in- 
dustriously reconnoitring your face, 
walking over your eyelids, losing 
themselves in your hair, and, despite 
your half- unconscious protest, you 
must own after all that you are 
awake. 

Then the whole tenor of your mind 
for the day may depend upon the 
exact degree of tenderness in the 
customary beefsteak or on the extra 
turn given to the crisp buckwheat. 
So the wire-pulling is done in the 
kitchen, and your vaunted indepen- 
dence as a man and a citizen goes 
down ignominiously before the fiat 
of the cook. This kind of thing is 
interminable. You are at the mercy 
of your tradesmen, and, for the 
sake of peace, you pay the hills 
and submit to be cheated with 
inferior provisions while paying the 
price of superior ones. The news- 
paper is not always ready to your 
hand when you feel inclined to look 
at the news of the world, and straight- 
way your mind becomes uneasy, 
your temper rises, and you have 
again surrendered your freedom. 
You order your horse, but find he is 
lame, and so you must forego your 
plans for the day; you make up 



your mind to start by the early train 
to-morrow, and enjoy a day in the 
country, and find, when you open 
your window in the morning, that 
the rain is pouring with dismal 
steadiness, and promises to do so for 
many hours to come. Sometimes 
your wife keeps you waiting fifteen 
minutes for dinner, and, on sitting 
down, you find the soup cold and 
the €ntrdes spoiled; and it is well 
known that not even Job could have 
stood that ! The wind and tide wait 
for no man ; and so you are hurried 
out of bed against your will at un- 
seasonable hours of the night or 
morning, and packed on board the 
steamer bound for Europe while yet 
half asleep and as sulky as a bear, 
your free-will practically gone as 
much as if you were a bale of goods 
being shipped and checked for Liv- 
erpool. 

Social customs are no less a hid- 
den tyranny. If you would not ap- 
pear eccentric, you must do as others 
do — wear a dress-coat when you would 
fain be in your shirt-sleeves, and 
a smile when you are dying for an 
opportunity to yawn. If you are a 
silent man, you must nevertheless 
join in the gossip of your fellow- 
guests, and laugh at unmeaning jokes, 
for fear people should call you a 
misanthrope, and avoid you as a 
** wet blanket" to conversation. If 
you have any decided opinion, you 
must keep it to yourself, and avoid 
the vacant stare of astonished good- 
breeding which is the penalty of any 
energetic statement. It is vulgar to 
be too demonstrative or to have any 
settled opinions; enthusiasm is out 
of fashion, antl indifference has at 
least the advantage of never com- 
mitting you to anything. If a little 
deviation in manner from the recog- 
nized standard is not reprehenbible, 
then it is voted amusing, and the 
self-asserting individual is considered 



704 



Our Masters. 



a good butt ; but no one dreams of 
asking his advice or even crediting 
him with common sense. All his 
real qualities are lost sight of, and he 
is judged by the mere accident of 
" originality." No one takes the trou- 
ble furtlier to investigate his charac- 
ter ; he is " odd," and people either 
drop him as a bore, or run after him as 
a lion. 

If a man has a hundred invisible 
masters, a woman has five hundred. 
From the cook to the dressmaker, 
from the nurse to the baby, she is 
surrounded by tyrants. She is at the 
mercy of the coiffeur^ who comes in an 
hour behind time, and tumbles her 
hair into shape in a violent hurry, 
so that she is late at the ball; she 
lives with the sword of Damocles 
above her head in the shape of the 
dressmaker, who will send in a ball- 
dress so loosely sewn together that it 
splits in many places before the eve- 
ning is over ; if she is poor, she is the 
slave of desire, perpetually tantalized 
by the splendors she cannot reach, 
eating her heart out because Mrs. 
Jones has got a new bonnet so far 
finer than her own, or Mrs. Smith's 
rich uncle gave her a cashmere shawl 
impossible to outrival; if she is mar- 
ried, the regulating of the domestic 
atmosphere will cost her many an anx- 
ious thought, a curtailed hour of leis- 
ure, an uneasiness regarding a possible 
storm when Harry comes home and 
finds his new hat mangled by the pet 
puppy ; if she is single, she will be al- 
ways scheming for an escort, and fret- 
ting lest she should be overlooked, and 
so oil through every variety of possible 
female situations. To this picture 
there is a companion. See the unhap- 
py bachelor of moderate means, in a 
forlorn boarding-house, pining for the 
simplest luxuries or the innocent 
liberty of stretching at full length on 
a lounge without taking off his work- 
ing-clothes; sighing for a variety in 



the round of his monotonous meals, 
and for the possibility — without ha- 
zard of starvation — of an occasional 
morning snooze when the inexorable 
breakfast-bell calls him to the renew- 
ed treadmill of existence. But woe 
to the man who rashly turns to 
matrimony, and surrenders, without 
mature deliberation and cogent rea- 
sons, the liberty — such as it is — which 
still remains to him. His change 
may be from the " frying-pan into the 
fire," and the nightly fate of the 
wretched Caudle, of curtain-lecture 
memory, may claim him for life. Is 
the rash Benedict " free," when the 
irreproachable wife begins to make 
her hand felt, and, together with the 
immaculate table-linen, the punctu- 
al and succulent meals, the orderly 
household, the never-failing news- 
paper always at hand at the right 
moment, yet silently conveys to 
him the awful imoression that she is 
heaping coals of fire on his head? 
A man may be in prison, and, if he 
can pay for them, may yet enjoy 
every luxury and attention ; still, it 
would be rather stretching the point 
to say that he was therefore free. 
So both sexes know how to tigliten 
invisible bond^ around each other's 
claims, and " freedom " is practically 
as meaningless as the apparent lil^* 
of a still green tree woven roaml 
by the graceful and fatal vine. 

The majority of mankind are quite 
debarred from any tangible freeiiom 
by the lack of means with which to 
procure it. A poor man can/ior, 
physically speaking, be a free agent; 
but, in compensation, the richer anil 
higher placed a man is, the more 
social and moral trammels will I'c 
encounter. Excess of want and excej> 
of possession often end by producin:, 
the same result. The poor man can- 
not move from his post, because he has 
not the money to do so ; the rich n)J'i 
cannot move from it, because he has too 



Our Masters. 



70s 



much money to watch over. Wealth, 
too, brings its responsibilities; and 
a conscientious man, in whose hands 
lie the life and comfort of hundreds 
of his fellow-creatures, cannot leave 
his post because his tenants or ope- 
ratives would suffer through his ab- 
sence. In fact, no one, in a certain 
sense, can be " free," except an un- 
principled man and an unbeliever. 
Selfishness is the only road to such 
animal freedom as would content a 
sensualist. A Christian, be he poor 
or rich, cannot aspire to this worldly 
freedom, because his religion tells 
him that he is not free to desert those 
with whom God has linked his for- 
tunes. Family circumstances fetter 
one to an incredible degree; con- 
science is a perpetual trammel ; and 
even the exigencies of position are 
sometimes a legitimate restraint on 
our actions. Many persons of narrow 
minds, not particularly influenced by 
moral forces, fall a prey to Mrs. 
Grundy, and dare not face the opin- 
ion and comments of their neighbors. 
In the most trivial things we are 
slaves to the verdict of society. Who 
would not rather have danger than 
ridicule ? How many things, wheth- 
er lawful or unlawful, are we not 
ashamed to do, because of what " peo- 
ple would say," quite irrespective of 
the intrinsic right or wrong, expedi- 
ency or uselessness, of the thing itself? 
It nuy well be said that it is less a sin 
in the eyes of the world to break every 
one of the Ten Commandments than 
to enter a room with your hat on, or 
ask a girl to marry you on nothing a 
year. It would require more pluck 
to stand up for an unfashionable 
religion, or defend an unpopular per- 
son in a cultivated assemblage array- 
ed on the opposite side of the ques- 
tion, than it would to storm a citadel 
or rescue a sinking ship. To contra- 
vene one- quarter of an article of the 
impalpable code of society entails 
VOL. xviii. — 45 



downright ostracism ; and the lynch- 
law administered to social delin- 
quents effectually keeps people in 
this imaginary groove, where the 
invisible penalties of religious codes 
are unavailing to enforce good 
morals. How hollow the system is 
which thus intrenches itself behind 
such paltry defences we need not say ; 
but how infinitely more galling and 
more belittling is this servitude than 
the yoke of God which men fly from ! 
Absolute hardships, real privations, 
men will cheerfully undergo, provid- 
ed it is with a worldly object; no- 
body minds being a slave when the 
devil is master and the livery is cloth- 
of-gold. 

One of the axioms of the day is 
that marriage should be a profitable 
speculation. To what lengths do 
not men and women proceed in 
order to fulfil this inculcation to the 
letter? The writer once heard the 
hunt after wealthy marriages likened 
to the vicissitudes of S. Paul on his 
journeys. The likeness was forcible, 
thougl) hardly elegant; but, at any 
rate, it was earnestly and not irreve- 
rently meant. The best of it was that 
it was so startlingly true, and that 
no part of the world, no system 
of society, could escape the allusion. 
Perils by sea and land, perils by rob- 
bers, perils by false brethren, watch- 
ings and hunger, cold and nakedness 
— there was not one detail which did 
not find its counterpart in the modern 
race after matrimonial advantages. 
People undergo for the world more 
hard penances than would suffice to 
bridge over purgatory, did they suffer 
them for God, Wolsey, in his disgrace, 
cried out that if he had served his 
God but half so well as he had served 
his king, he would not now be reap- 
ing a meed of contempt and ingrati- 
tude. So with the world ; it despises 
those who toil for it, and no one is 
less respected by it than the very 



7o6 



Our Masters. 



man who has sacrificed principle to 
win its hfe-homage. As to the mar- 
riage lottery, there is very little that 
is not staked for a lucky throw of 
the dice. Health is ruthlessly sacri- 
ficed ; delicate girls brave the night 
air, the draughts in the corridor, the 
sudden change from a fetid heat to 
intense cold, the unwholesome meal 
at abnormal hours, the loss of actual 
rest, all for the questionable pleasure 
of attending a ball every night in tlie 
week, and being seen " everywhere." 
Economy is disregarded, and reckless 
outlay on flimsy, temporary dress in- 
dulged in without a murmur; deli- 
cacy and modesty are tacitly put by 
as unfit considerations in the present, 
however useful they may prove in the 
future; underhand inquiries' as to a 
young man's habits and associates, 
his fortune and his prospects, are un- 
blushingly made, quite as a matter of 
business ; snares and pitfalls are judi- 
ciously contrived for the coroneted 
or gilded victim ; pride of birth, of 
which, at any other time, the practised 
diplomatists of the salons are so tena- 
cious, is pocketed at the approach 
of some plebeian prize, and the son 
or daughter of a self-made man is 
welcomed with admirably simulated 
rapture when duly weighted with 
the parent's hardly-earned money. 
Stranger than all, this mania of 
gambling in marriage — for it is no- 
thing less — seizes even persons whom 
you would naturally suppose would, 
by instinct or principle, be averse to 
any such transactions; but though 
you will find them proof against 
every other meanness, the very sha- 
dow of this one will unsettle their 
minds. Good people seem impelled 
to join this race as by an irresistible 
fatality, and will actually blind them- 
selves to the repulsiveness of such a 
course by glossing it over as an out- 
growth of a sacred instinct, parental 
love, and solicitude. Needy and idle 



men, seeking a fortune by marriage 
with an heiress, are not a whit better- 
nay, a shade more despicable — than 
mercenary women on the same look- 
out. 

But it must be confessed that 
there is a healthier and nobler side 
to human nature which is too often 
obscured by the supposed require- 
ments of our worst tyrant— society. 
There are women who, being rich 
and high-minded, view this pursuit 
of themselves with disgust ; and there 
are men, equally high-minded, but 
poor, who love these women, but, for 
fear of being classed with interested 
suitors, and sometimes for fear of a 
contemptuous refusal, never come 
forward and acknowledge their love. 
The woman who sees this may love 
such a man, but maidenly dignity 
forbids her making it too plain ; and 
** society " thus manages to make 
two honest hearts wretched for yeara, 
sometimes for life, and perhaps in the 
end to efface in them even the belief 
in true and disinterested affection. 
And we dare to call ourselves " free " ! 

Business and our material inte- 
rests are so many burdens and tram- 
mels to our liberty. Say that we arc 
easy-going and indolent, fond of 
sedentary pleasures ; but a long and 
uncomfortablejourney becomes neces- 
sary, and, under the penalty of ma- 
terial losses, we are obliged to choose 
the lesser of the two evils. Or re- 
verses swoop down so suddenly upon 
us that, having been used to elegant 
leisure and comparative security, wc 
are incontinently thrown on our own 
resources, and obliged to work, if we 
would not starve. Even the choice 
of work is not always open to us, or we 
may happen to choose some unreraun- 
erative work, which fate and our hard- 
hearted neighbor will persist in 
making useless to us. Even with 
prosperity work itself becomes a ty- 
rant; and when the lucky worker 



Our Masters. 



707 



thinks of enjoying his earnings in 
peace and retirement, the restless de- 
mon of habit steps in to make his very 
retirement wretched. He is allowed 
no peace, but sighs for the counting- 
house or the workshop ; and one has 
heard of such haunted men going 
about disconsolately beneath the 
weight of fortune, until solaced by 
a miniature feint of the old work — 
a place where, far from the satin, 
gilding, and ormolu of the fashion- 
able mansion, they can plane and 
turn common chairs and tables, or sit 
in a leathern apron, cobbling their 
own boots. Poor millionaire ! are you 
" free " ? 

Other men are slaves not so much 
to their passions as their tastes. Such 
an one undergoes tortures if another's 
collection of china is better than his 
own, or if a rival bids higher than he 
can afford to do for an old Italian or 
Flemish picture. This man would 
give himself more trouble to secure 
an old carved secretaire of English 
oak or Indian ebony than he would 
to promote some work of charity; 
another has a hobby about sumptu- 
ous bindings, or rare lace, or any brk- 
a-brac of the kind; inartistic furni- 
ture is an eyesore to him, inhar- 
monious colors upset his equanim- 
ity, and everywhere, even in church, 
any defect of form irritates and re- 
pulses him. He is hardly master of 
his own thoughts, and is apt to form 
hidden prejudices; he lives in the 
clouds, and often makes himself dis- 
agreeable to those who do not. 

The tyrannous custom of making 
funerals and weddings an occasion 
of useless pomp is perhaps one of the 
most reprehensible of all. The fash- 
ion has insensibly grown till one's per- 
verted sense of what is ** fitting " has 
almost acknowledged it to be a neces- 
sity. So the mourners are disturb- 
ed, their privacy broken in upon, 
delicacy outraged in every possible 



way, the curiosity of strangers grati- 
fied, an unseemly hubbub substi- 
tuted for the solemn stillness natural 
to the presence of death — all in order 
that the world's fiat may be duly 
obeyed. People pretend that all this 
fuss is to honor the memory of the 
dead. No such thing ; it is to feed 
the vanity of the living. It must 

not be said that Mr. S did not 

provide as good a table, as handsome 
any array of carriages, as great a pro- 
fusion of flowers, as richly ornamen- 
ted a coflin, for his wife's funeral, as 

did Mr. R last year on a similar 

"melancholy occasion," any more 
than in the lifetime of the two la- 
dies could it have been suffered to 

have gone abroad that Mrs. S 's 

rooms were not as uncomfortably 
crowded for a reception as Mrs. 

R 's, or her carriage not of the 

same irreproachable build. 

The world has undertaken to de- 
cide for us, in the privacy of home as 
well as beyond its walls, exactly the 
degree of outward respect to be 
shown to the dead. Such and such 
a particular texture, and crape of 
such and such a particular width, is 
the measure of the widow's, the 
daughter's, or the sister's grief; less 
would be indecorous, more would be 
eccentric ! The milliner tells us in a 
subdued voice how much jet is allow- 
able, and how soon the world expects 
the appearance of a white collar in 
place of a black one, just as the 
world dictates the exact length of a 
court-train, and mentions the appro- 
priate number of feathers to be worn 
in the hair. In England, a widow's 
cap is de ngtteur^ and not to wear it 
would be to brand one's self with the 
mark of a flirt and a questionable 
character. In other countries in 
Europe, it is not in use, and the 
character of French and Italian wi- 
dows is not dependent on an extra 
frill of white crape. How a poor 



7^3 



Our Masters. 



and proud woman, unwilling to be 
behind her neighbors in respect of 
decorous mourning- robes, can man- 
age the enormous expense of a thing 
so perishable and so dear as crape, 
in such quantities as to entirely cover 
a dress, is a mystery which the per- 
emptory laws of society do not care 
to enter into and do not pretend to 
solve. 

Weddings are hardly, under the 
iron hand of custom, what one might 
reasonably expect them to be — Le,, 
family festivities. They are not oc- 
casions of personal rejoicing over the 
happiness of your nearest and dear- 
est — oh I no, that is humdrum and 
" slow " ; so the wedding-day is turn- 
ed into a gorgeous manifestation of 
your worldly wealth — a day of hollow 
ostentation and often of hidden sad- 
ness. The extravagance of your 
floral decorations, and the judicious 
display of the bride's presents, cost you 
more thought than the solemn cove- 
nant about to be made ; the adjust- 
ment of the pearl necklace, the 
graceful folds of the bridal veil, the 
perfect fit of the white kid glove, are 
of far more importance than the vow 
pronounced so lightly at the altar. 
It is the reception, not the sacra- 
ment, that predominates in most 
minds. Instead of a family gather- 
ing, reverently waiting in prayer for 
the happy consummation of a very 
solemn and awful contract, you have 
a mob of slight and careless acquain- 
tances, down to the very scourings of 
your visiting-list, assembled to stare 
and gape at the show, to talk slang 
and make unseemly jokes, to criticise 
your hospitality, and make bets as to 
how soon the marriage may be fol- 
lowed by a separation. Everybody 
asks how much money has the bride, 
what is the standing of the bride- 
groom, what are the settlements, etc. 
When they go away, they do not 
even thank you for the lavish expense. 



whose fruits they, and they alone, 
have enjoyed; but, instead of that, 
they abuse your champagne and re- 
buke your extravagance. Privacy — 
a necessary condition of domestic 
happiness — is impossible on this great 
day ; prayer is almost out of the ques- 
tion; reflection is scared away. It 
might be hoped that the young couple 
would now be allowed to retire into 
private life, after this free exhibition 
of themselves as the central figures 
of a puppet-show. But, no; fashion 
pronounces otherwise. A wedding- 
trip, though not deemed quite indis- 
pensable by the code of society, is still 
favorably looked upon, and, if possi- 
ble, is a still worse thing than the 
wedding itself. Dissipation is the 
order of the day; the change of 
toilets becomes the all-absorbing 
topic of the bride's thoughts and con- 
versation ; the tour must mclude the 
showiest watering-places,- perpetual 
motion and a full meed of frivolity 
are ensured, a kaleidoscope of dis- 
creet admirers provided, little mild 
triumphs of flirtation enjoyed, with 
the added zest of perfect security 
from embarrassing proposals, and 
equal immunity from the new-made 
husband's wrath, since he could not 
thus early begin to lay down the law ; 
and a most miserable foundation is 
laid for the after- comfort of home. 
Besides, what does a wedding-trip 
imply ? That life is a drudgery, and 
a respite is necessary before taking 
up the burden. The home is thus 
made a vision of imprisonment — 
scarcely a wise preparation. Then 
the foolish and utterly useless ex- 
penditure probably cripples the 
young couple, in ordinary cases, for 
some time to come. The month's 
trip has swallowed what would have 
covered half the year's expenses, and 
"going home," instead of holding 
out a bright prospect, is connected 
with dulness, retrenchment, and mo- 



Our Masters. 



709 



notony. This is what society and its 
tyranny have succeeded in making 
of marriage. Are such couples " free " 
agents ? 

Who is free on this earth ? Who 
is not the slave of petty caprices, 
even if he escapes the worse servitude 
of degrading vices ? The drunkard, 
the sensualist, the gambler, are vic- 
tims of low passions that destroy 
health and sap vitality, while they 
surely lead to a lonely or a violent 
end; but with such aberrations we 
do not propose to deal. But even 
those who pride themselves on their 
freedom from any vice or bad habit, 
what are they, often, but puppets 
swayed by absurd influences radiat- 
ing from such sources as the loss of 
a night's rest, the delay of a meal, 
the failure to reach a certain train ? 

Children and pets are well-known 
tyrants, not only to the mother or 
the maiden aunt, but to the male 
creation in general and the old gene- 
ration in particular. The grandfather 
is ready at all times to be made 
a hobby-horse, the grandmother to 
drudge for king baby. The children's 
dinner is the event of the day ; Har- 
ry's destructiveness of his first pair 
and all following pairs of trousers is 
the burden of the household lament ; 
little Cissy's first tooth is a matter of 
deep interest; baby Maggie is allowed 
to pull mother's hair down just before 
dinner, unrebuked — nay, even encou- 
raged. Pet poodles and favorite par- 
rots, and, indeed, all tame compan- 
ions of mankind, absorb a wonderful 
amount of human interest and atten- 
tion, and often demand it at unsea- 
sonable hours ; compelling idleness, 
or at least encouraging loss of time. 
In fact, our lime and mind are ever 
occupied with supplementary things, 
forced upon us by custom or ca- 
price ; and we secredy but helplessly 
rebel, incapable, we think, of either 
resistance to our own follies, or 



courage to laugh in the face of Mrs. 
Grundy. 

It is impossible to stand absolute- 
ly free in the world, but there is free- 
dom and freedom. Of all freedoms, 
that of the free-thinker is the narrow- 
est. Uncertainty is a grievous spirit, 
doubt a bad master; and the poor 
free-thinker finds that his mental 
companion and philosophic guide of- 
fers him but slight comfort under mis- 
fortune. Moral restraints are to him 
but chaff in the wind, religious forms 
mere dust shaken off his shoes; but 
what remains? He deems himself 
king of the world of thought, but 
he finds his kingdom turned into a 
desert; he acknowledges no ties or 
duties, undertakes no responsibility, 
works (if he works) for himself alone, 
and then finds that what he earns he 
cannot enjoy unshared. Temporary 
human companionship on earth has 
no charms for him; for he reflects 
that annihilation follows death, and 
it is therefore useless to make bosom 
friends of men who will so soon be 
less than nothing, and whose only 
memento will be in the richness of 
the crops grown over their graves. 
The mental solitude of the free-think- 
er is not an agreeable or a soothing 
one; much less is it fruitful in high 
thoughts or heroic actions. 

If any ask in an earnest spirit, 
where are the fewest masters, and 
where freest men ? — we would answer, 
in the cloister. 

A startling answer to the world- 
ling ; a suggestive one to the think- 
er. Let us examine it, and see wheth- 
er it can be substantiated. Religious 
are the men supposed to be the 
most subjected to authority in the 
world — those whose duty it is to have 
not only no will of their own, but 
even no individual thought, no opin- 
ion of any kind. Even so, in a 
sense ; and on that account, not de- 
spite it, bui because of it^ are they ilic 



7IO 



Our Masters. 



freest men on earth. The secular 
clergy are comparatively free, because 
they have one object only ; that is, one 
Master. Priests are not burdened 
with family and household cares, 
scarcely with social necessities; but 
none the less are they sometimes 
vexed by circumstances which they 
cannot control, and are made to pay 
the tithe of that slavery which any 
contact with the world, even for the 
world's good, and by men who are 
not of the world, necessarily entails. 
Religious even of active orders are 
still freer, because they are less of the 
world ; but the man who stands be- 
fore God in silent contemplation, as 
the eagle pauses before the sun and 
looks into its deptl^s, is the freest of all. 
A purely contemplative order, whose 
mission, higher yet than that of the 
captains of Israel, is that of Moses 
praying with uplifted arms for the 
triumph of the people of God — such 
is the home of the highest and truest 
freedom. 

The ascetic has found the secret 
that philosophers seek for in vain, 
that attitude of godlike calm in the 
midst of all transient storms of life. 
The supremest exercise of freedom is 
to surrender that freedom itself, with 
full confidence that the person into 
whose hands it is surrendered is the 
representative of a higher power. A 
king would not be free were he pre- 
vented from abdicating his kingship ; 
the religious vow is the abdication of 
a kingdom greater than is constituted 
by so many thousands of square 
miles. This renunciation once made, 
no earthly event can be of the slight- 
est interest to the disenthralled man. 
No care for his body, no solicitude 
for his reputation, remains; he has 
disrobed himself of his earthly be- 
longings, and let slip every vestige 
of the garments of worldliness. A 
spirit — ^practically almost disembodied 
—he looks above for inspiration, 



comfort, guidance, knowledge. The 
miseries of earth, if poured into his 
ear by some despairing fellow-mortal, 
gain from him the divine pity of an 
angel rather than the passionate 
sympathy of a man ; he is raised 
above the wants of nature, the wran- 
gles of society, even the perplexities 
of the intellect Taught no longer 
by men or by books, he speaks lice 
to face with God in his long prayers 
and meditations, and no human in- 
terest ever distracts his mind from 
this exalted colloquy. Insensible to 
the influences of time, place, aiid 
circumstance, he is still as free as air 
when hunted from his retreat by men 
to whom his whole life is an enigma ; 
the oracle speaks to him in the 
midst of a crowd, and he no more 
hears the murmur of those around 
him than if he were at sea, a thousand 
miles from land ; a palace, a prison, 
or a scaffold are all reproductions of 
his cell, for the same all-filling Pre- 
sence surrounds him, blinding him 
to all else. His indifference is 
so galling to his enemies, his freedom 
so mysterious and so provoking, that 
they would rather put him to death 
than witness the unutterable calm 
they can neither disturb nor emulate; 
but that death is only the one more 
step needed for his perfect bliss — the 
one veil to be yet lifted between the 
ascetic philosopher and the freedom 
that taught him his philosophy. 

Serene land of passionless perfec- 
tion, which men call the monastic 
life! How many, even among re- 
ligious, scale thy furthermost heights ? 
Yet it is a consolation to mankind to 
know that there w, even on earth, a 
sanctuary where human nature, be it 
only represented by ever so few, can 
reach to that ideal state of perfect 
communion with God and perfect 
contempt of all trammels which 
alone should be dignified with the 
name of philosophy. 



A Lookit^Back. 



711 



A LOOKER-BACK. 



** For as he forward mov'd his footing old 
So bftckward still was turn'd his wrinkled fitce."— J^a/riV Quettu. 



There are some people, in the 
world who, like the sad mourners 
that come up through Dante's hollow 
vale with heads reversed, have not 
the power to see before them. Their 
eyes are always peering into the 
past, they go groping in the dim twi- 
light of bygone days; they wander 
ofif the highway of ordinary life, till 
they lose their place in its sphere; 
they have no knowledge but legenda- 
ry lore, no wisdom but that of past, 
generations. And when, by some 
accident, they cross the current of 
the present age, they grasp at the 
very first relic of the past as a link 
with the receding shore. 

It was such a one that found him- 
self adrift on the high tide at Char- 
ing Cross^which Dr. Johnson so 
loved ; and, amazed and confused by 
the incessant, tumultuous flow of a 
life in which he had no part, took re- 
fuge in the thousand sanctuaries of 
the past to be found in London. 
Belonging by a peculiar grace, as one 
born out of due time, to the ancient 
church — for ever ancient, for ever 
new! — he turned particularly to 
those old Catholic foundations around 
which cluster so many associations, at 
once religious, historical, and poetic. 
Having read of them from childhood, 
and learned to connect them with 
the past glory of the church, and 
familiar with all the romantic and 
legendary lore concerning them, 
when he found himself in their midst 
his heart and soul and imagination 
were at once aflame. It was then 
to such places as Westminster Ab- 
bey, Christ's Hospital, the Charter- 
House, and the Temple that his 



heart instinctively turned on his ar- 
rival in London. 

Not that he actually visited them 
first. The Divine Presence, alas! 
no longer dwells in them incarnate ; 
and it was of course, as became one 
with pilgrim-staff and scallop-shell, 
to the foot of the Tabernacle he has- 
tened, the first time he issued from 
his lodgings, to offer up his prayer of 
thanksgiving to yisus-Hostie for a 
safe voyage across the Atlantic. But 
at his very threshold he could see a 
spot associated with many terrible 
memories, marked by a stone : '* Here 
stood Tyburn Gate." Here the 
last prior of the Charter-House was 
executed, and Robert Southwell, the 
Jesuit poet of Queen Elizabeth's 
time, whose last words were expres- 
sive of his attachment to the Society 
of Jesus and his happiness to suffer 
martyrdom. Many others, too, of 
religious and historic memory, ascend- 
ed here from earth to heaven. Close 
beside the spot is the Marble Arch 
of Hyde Park. "Beyond Hyde 
Park aU is a desert I" said our pilgrim 
with Sir Fopling Flutter, glad to be 
diverted from memories too sad for 
one's first impressions of a foreign 
city. Two serene-looking " Litde 
Sisters of the Poor," providentially 
crossing the path, directed him to the 
French chapel — a modest sanctuary, 
but where such men as Lacordaire, 
De Ravignan, and other distinguish- 
ed French pulpit-orators have been 
heard. The way thither was through 
Portman Square, once the property 
of the Knights of S. John of Jerusa- 
lem. Here the celebrated Mrs. Mon- 
tague once lived. In one corner of 



712 



A Looker^Back, 



the square stands apart — in a large 
yard, a square old-fashioned brick 
house with an immense portico in 
front, and a two-story bow window 
at the end — one of those houses that 
we at once feel have a history. This 
is Montague House, where Mrs/ 
Montague used to give an annual 
dinner to the London chimney-sweeps, 
'*that they might enjoy one happy 
day in tlie year " — a house frequent- 
ed by the literary celebrities of the 
time — where Miss Burney was wel- 
comed, and Ursa Major grew tame. 

A short distance from the French 
chapel is the Spanish church, dedi- 
cated to S. James, with its S. Mary's 
aisle lighted from above, giving a fine 
chiarO'Oscuro effect to the edifice. It 
was pleasant to find an altar to the 
glorious Patron of Spain in a city 
where he was once so venerated, and 
whose name has been given to one 
of its social extremes. The devotion 
of the English to S. Jago di Compos- 
tella was extraordinary in the Middle 
Ages. So general was it, that the Con- 
stable of the Tower, in the time of Ed- 
ward II., used to receive a custom of 
two-pence from each pilgrim to Spain 
going or returning by the Thames. 
Rymer mentions 916 licenses to visi- 
tors to that shrine in the year 1428, 
and 2,460 in 1434. And here, in this 
modern English church, is a statue 
of the saint, with the scallop-shell on 
his cape, first assumed by pilgrims to 
Compostella as a token that they had 
extended their penitential wanderings 
to that sainted shore. English Catho- 
lics of the olden time seemed to have 
had a special love for pilgrimages, 
and we hail a renewed taste for such 
a devotion as a revival of the spirit 
of the past. 

It was the good fortune of our 
modern pilgrim to hear the Arch- 
bishop of Westminster preach a few 
days after in the Spanish church on 
*^^ state of the soul after death — a 



preacher that narmonizes at once 
with the past and the present — 
full of sympathy with the present, full 
of the spirit of the past. A S. Je- 
rome from his cave, a S. Anthony 
from the desert ! is the first thought, 
and his wonderfully solemn style of 
preaching is in harmony with his as- 
cetic appearance. Nothing could be 
more impressive and affecting. Nei- 
ther did our wanderer forget the ivy- 
clad oratory at Kensington, still per- 
fumed with holy memories of F. 
Faber. He felt the need of thanking 
him here for the thousand precious 
words he had spoken to his soul 
through his beautiful hymns and in- 
valuable works on the inner life ; 
soothing it in sorrow, and arming it 
against the transitory evils of life. 
Such evils follow every one, even the 
pilgrim, and it was good to repeat 
here Faber*s lines : 

" These surface troubles come and go 
Like rufflings of the sea ; 
The deeper depth is out ot reach 
To all, my God, but thee !" 

What a round of sweet devotions in 
this church, with the taper-lighted 
oratory of Mary Most Pure! Oh! 
how near to heaven one gets there ! 
— the beautiful shrine-like chapel of 
S. Philip Neri, and the solemn Cal- 
vary where, between the two thieves, 
the Divine Image is outstretched 
on the huge cross, embalming the 
wood — 

** Image meet 
Of One uplifted high to tura 
And draw to him ^1 hearts in bondage sweeL" 

Many pious hearts seem drawn 
here to meditate on the Passion, and, 
one after another, go up to kiss the 
blood-stained cross. Oh ! how many 
ways the church has of leading the 
soul to God I Guido declared he had 
two hundred ways of making the eyes 
look up to heaven. The church has 
many more with its multiplied popu- 
lar devotions, each peculiarly adapted 



A Looker^Back. 



713 



to some cast of soul. It would be 
heaven enough below to have a cell 
somewhere near this sweet school of 
S. Philip's sons and the beautiful al- 
tars they have set up. 

While thus gratifying the devotion- 
al instincts of his heart, some reli- 
gious monument of bygone ages 
was constantly falling in our pilgrim's 
way. How could he pass S. Pan- 
cras-in-the-Fields without falling into 
prayer, as Windham in his diary tells 
us Dr. Johnson did, recalling the 
Catholic martyrs burnt here at the 
stake in Queen Elizabeth's time? 
The bell of S. Pancras— O funeral 
note of woe ! — was the last to ring for 
Mass in England at the time of the 
so-called Reformation. A wonder 
it did not break in twain as it sound- 
ed that last elevation of the Host ! 
Has it ever uttered one joyful note 
since that sad morn, when the altars 
were stripped, the lights one by one 
put sorrowfully out, and the Divine 
Presence faded away ? No, no ; it 
has the saddest tone of any bell in 
London, at least to the Catholic ear. 
As it was here he was laid away, it 
is no wonder that faithful Catholics, 
down to the present century, were in 
the habit of coming to S. Pancras at 
early morning hour to seek some 
trace of their buried Lord. Perhaps 
he sometimes appeared to such de- 
vout souls, as of old to his Mother 
and Magdalen. It is certain that, at 
least, he spoke to their hearts as they 
lingered here to pray — pray that he 
might rise again ! And here they 
wished to rest after death, till they 
were again allowed to have a ceme- 
tery apart. This was the burial- 
place of the Howards and Cliffords, 
and others of high lineage, both for- 
eign and native. One old friend lies 
here, John Walker — well known from 
his Dictionary^ once extensively used 
in America, a convert to the Catho- 
lic Church, and a friend of Dr. Mil- 



ner's, who calls him " the Guido 
d'Arezzo of elocution, who discover- 
ed the scale of speaking sounds by 
which reading and delivery have 
been reduced to a system." 

S. Pancras was once a popular 
saint The boy-martyr of Rome, 
whose blood was shed in the cause 
of truth, was regarded in the middle 
ages as the avenger of false oaths. 
The kings of France used to confirm 
treaties in his name. The English, 
with their natural abhorren<;p of ly- 
ing, so honored him as to give his 
name to one of the oldest churches 
in London. Cardinal Wiseman has 
popularized his memory in these days 
through Fabioia, 

Again, what a flood of recollec- 
tions comes over the pilgrim in pass- 
ing through Temple Bar, or going 
across London Bridge, first built by 
the pious brothers of S. Mary's Mo- 
nastery in 994. The old bishops 
and monks were truly the pontifiees 
of the middle ages — not only as 
builders of 

" The invisible bridge 
That leads from earth to heftTen," 

but good substantial arches of stont 
over stream and flood. The Pont 
Royal over the Seine was built by a 
Dominican. So was the Carraja at 
Florence. The old bridges of Spain 
were mostly due to the clergy. 

Bridge-building was esteemed a 
good work in those times, and pray- 
ers were offered for those engaged in 
it. At the bidding of the beads, the 
faithful were thus invited : ** Masters 
and frendes, ye shall praye for all 
them that bridges and streets make 
and amend, that God grant us part 
of their good deeds, and them of 
ours." 

London Bridge was rebuilt of stone 
nearly two centuries later. Peter 
of S. Mary's, Colechurch, began it, 
Henry II. gave towards it the tax on 



714 



A Looier-Back. 



wool, which led to the saying that 
" London Bndge was built on wool- 
packs." Peter did not live to com- 
plete it. That was done by Isenbert, 
master of the schools at Xainctes — 
a builder of bridges in his own coun- 
try. He finished London Bridge in 
1280. Near the middle of it was 
a Gothic chapel, dedicated to S. 
Thomas k Becket, and under the 
wool-packs — that is to say, in the 
crypt — a tomb was hollowed out of a 
pier of the bridge for Peter of Cole- 
church. When this pier was remov- 
ed in 1832, his remains were- found 
where they had lain nearly six hun- 
dred years. On the Gate-house 
of London Bridge was hung the 
liead of Sir William Wallace. Bish- 
op Fishers (of Rochester) was hung 
here the very day his cardinal's 
hat arrived at Dover ; and two weeks 
after, that of his friend. Sir Thomas 
More. Here, too, were suspended 
the heads of F. Garnet, of the Socie- 
ty of Jesus, and scores of Catholic 
priests in Queen Elizabeth's time. 

Yes, London is full of Catholic 
memo'ries. Bridewell, Bedlam, Minc- 
ing Lane, Tooley St., and many more 
are names of Catholic origin, now 
corrupted, the derivation of which it 
is pleasant to recall as they meet the 
eye. One strolls through Paternos- 
ter Row, and Ave Maria Lane, and 
by Amen Corner, out of love for 
their very names, reminding us of the 
Catholic processions around Old S. 
Paul's. Shall it be confessed ? — pro- 
fa ner thoughts here mingle with such 
memories. Passing through Pater- 
noster Row, one naturally looks up, 
expecting to see tlie splendid Mrs. 
Bungay come forth to take her drive 
with a look of defiance at the chaise- 
less Mrs. Bacon at the opposite win- 
dow! 

Not far from here is Christ's Hos- 
pital, so familiar to us all through 
' '•mb, Coleridge, and Leigh Hunt. 



It is at once recognized oy the bus 
of Edward VI. over the entrance. 
'It is pleasant to be allowed to wan- 
der through the arcades and quadran- 
gles at one's pleasure, with no guide 
to disturb the delightful memories 
evoked by such a place. Going into 
a quadrangle, surrounded by a kind 
of cloister hung with memorial tab- 
lets, the first thing noticed is a mar- 
ble slab on the wall to the right, in- 
scribed : 

" In memory of the Rev. James 
Boyer, who for many years was head 
grammar-master of this Hospital. He 
died July 28, 18 14, aged seventy-nine 
years." 

One could not help pausing to 
read and copy this tribute to so old 
an acquaintance. To be sure, ** J. 
B. had a heavy hand," which was 
rather too familiar with a rod of fear- 
ful omen, but he ground out some 
fine scholars, and has been immor- 
talized by the great geniuses that 
expanded under his tuition. I 
can see Master Bover now, as 
Charles Lamb describes him, calling 
upon the boys with a sardonic grin 
to see how neat and fresh his rod 
looked ! — ^see him in his passy, or pas- 
sionate wig, make a precipitate entry 
into the school-room from his inner 
den, and, with his knotty fist dou- 
bled up, and a turbulent eye, single 
out some unhappy boy, roaring: 
" Od's my life, sirrah ! I have a 
mind to whip you " ; and then, with 
a sudden retracting impulse, return 
to his lair, and, after a lapse of some 
moments, drive out headlong again 
with the context which the poor boy 
almost hoped was forgotten : ** And 
I «//'//, too 1 " — treating the trembling 
culprit to a sandwich of alternate 
lash and paragraph till his rabidus 
furor was assuaged. 

Lamb, in his delightfid essay, JRe- 
collections cf Chris fs Hospital^ dwells 
on some of his fellow-pupils whose 



A Looker-Back. 



71S 



memory one cannot nelp recalling 
while lingering under these arches. 
And chief among them, " Samuel 
Taylor Coleridge, logician, metaphy- 
sician, bard — who in these cloisters 
unfolded in deep and sweet intona- 
tions the mysteries of Jamblichus or 
Plotinus, or recited Homer in his 
Greek, or Pindar, while the walls of 
he old Grey Friars re-echoed to- the 
accents of the inspired charity boy." 
He tells us, too, of Thomas Fan- 
shawe Middleton, *'a scholar and 
a gentleman in his teens," but said 
afterwards to have borne his mitre 
rather high as the first Protestant 
bishop of Calcutta, though a more 
humble and apostolic bearing <* might 
not have been exactly fitted to im- 
press the minds of those Anglo- 
Asiatic diocesans with reverence 
for home institutions and the 
church which such fathers watered." 
There is a monument to the memory 
of Bishop Middleton at S. Paul's, 
where he is represented, in his robes 
of office, in the act of confirming 
two East Indians, but the hand rais- 
ed over their heads lias all the fin- 
gers broken off but one. Let us hope 
what apostolic authority he possessed 
was centred in that digit ! 

Above all, at Christ's Hospital one 
recalls the gentle Elia himself. Per- 
haps in yonder dim corner he fur- 
tively ate the griskin brought from 
the paternal kitchen by his aunt. 
" I remember the good old relative," 
he says (in whom love forbade pride), 
'^ squatting down upon some odd 
stone in a by-nook of the cloisters, 
disclosing the viands (of higher re- 
gale than those cates which the ra- 
vens ministered to the Tishbite), and 
the contending passions of L. at 
the unfolding. There was love for 
the bringer, shame for the thing 
brought and the manner of its bring- 
ing." 

Under these pillared arches, so 



shadowy to-day with the heavy Lon- 
don fog, Richardson perhaps con- 
ceived hts first dramatic scenes, and 
Leigh Hunt began to weave the 
delicious fancies that have since 
charmed us all. Yonder was the 
dormitory the young ass was smug- 
gled into, which waxed fat, and pro- 
claimed his good fortune to the world 
below, setting concealment any long- 
er at defiance. 

While thus musing, an instalment 
of the eight hundred boys at the Hos- 
pital came out to their sports in their 
quaint costume of black breeches, 
long yellow stockings to the knees, 
and a dark-blue gown down to the 
heels, garnished with bright buttons 
bearing the likeness of Edward VI., 
and confined by a leather belt. 
White bands at the neck give them a 
clerical look by no means at variance 
with so monastic a place. They had 
innocent, open faces, such as we find 
in our monastic schools, reminding 
one of Pope Gregory's well-known 
exclamation : '' Non Angh sedangeii,*^ 
They tucked up their skirts and be- 
took themselves most heartily to their 
sports. It was queer to see their 
long yellow-stockinged legs flying 
across the quadrangle. They have 
caps, it is said, about the size of a 
saucer, which they dislike so much 
that they prefer going bareheaded, 
but they did not mind the fog, now 
almost amounting to rain. Children, 
we all know, are, as Lamb says, 
''proof against weather, ingratitude, 
meat under-done, and every weapon 
of fate." One of them stopped to 
pump some water for the visitor to 
offer as a libation to the memory of 
Charles Lamb. 

" Pierian spring !" scornfully shout- 
ed Master Boyer to a young writer 
of a classical turn : *' the cloister 
pump, you mean 1" 

The school-room visited bore marks 
that would have done credit to 



7i6 



A Looker^Back. 



a Yankee jack-knife, and revived 
pleasant reminiscences of youthful 
achievements in a New England 
school-house. The chapel, too, with 
its mural tablets, and flag tomb- 
stones, and painted window, of 
Christ blessing litde children, is in- 
teresting. At the right of the chan- 
cel is a remnant of old monastic 
charity. An inscription in yellow 
letters on a claret-colored ground an- 
nounces that " the bread here given 
weekly to the poor of the parish of 
S. Leonard's is from a bequest of Sir 
John Trott and other benefactors," 
and on the other side in equally 
glaring characters : " Praise be to 
thee, O Lord God, for this thy gift 
unto the poor!" There is rather a 
more amusing inscription of a similar 
nature at S. Giles', Cripplegate, op- 
posite the monument to Milton : 

** This Brsbie, wiUtng to reeleve Uie poore with 

fire and withe breade. 
Did give that howae wbearein he dyed then 

called ye Queene's beade, 
Fovr fvUe loades of ye best charcoales he vrovld 

have broTght each yeare. 
And fortie dosen of wheaten breade for poore 

howseholders heare : 
To see these thlages distribTted this Bvsby pvt 

in trvst 
The Vicar and Chvrch warden es thinking them 

tb be iTST : 
God grant tbat poore howseholders here may 

thankfvll be for svch. 
So God will move the mindes of moe to doe for 

them as mvcb : 
And let this good example move svch men as 

God hath blest 
To doe the like betore they goe with Bvsby to 

there rest : 
Within this chappell Bvsbie's bones in drst a 

while mvst stay. 
Till He that made them rayse them vp to live 

with Christ for aye/* 

The said Busby is represented 
above this curious inscription, in bold 
relief, as a beruffed man of jovial 
type, holding a bottle in one hand, 
and a death's-head in the other, so 
that one does not know whether to 
laugh or cry. It would be more 
reasonable to cry over the grave of 
that dreadful prevaricator Fox, called 
the Martyrologist, said to be buried 
m the same church, only one does 



not know where to weep, as the 
precise spot is not known. So one 
has to be satisfied with sighing 
before a huge stone set up to his 
memorjr at the end of the church, 
and thinking with Lessing that "if the 
world is to be held together by lies, 
the old ones which are already cur- 
rent are as good as the new." What 
a pity Fox had not belonged to S. 
Pancras' parish! However, that 
saint seems to have kept an eye on 
him, and avenged the cause of truth. 
We do not suppose there are many 
now who are credulous enough to 
accept Fox as reliable authority con- 
cerning the history of those sad 
times. And if we stop to look at his 
tablet here, it is with something of 
the same feeling that we turn down 
Fetter Lane to see where " Praise 
God Barebones" and his brother 
" Damned Barebones " lived, and 
wonder how any one house could 
hold them both. 

But to return to Christ's Hospital. 
It must not be supposed that, mean- 
while, it has been ^orgotten that this 
institution was originally a Catholic 
foundation. It was the first thought 
at entering, nor could the pleasant 
associations of later years prevent a 
regret that so monastic a building 
is no longer peopled by the old Grey 
Friars. Keats' lines recurred to 
memory : 

^* Mute Is the matin bell whose early call 

Warned the Grey fathers from their humb)€ 
beds ; 
Nor midnight tsper gleams along the wall. 
Or round the sculptured saint its radiance 
sheds ! *' 

It was on the second of Februa- 
ry, 1224, during the pontificate of 
Honorius III. and the reign of King 
Henry III., S. Francis of Assisi be- 
ing still alive, that a small band of 
Franciscan friars landed at Dover. 
There were four priests and fiwc lay- 
brothers. Five of this number stop- 



A Looker-Back, 



7^7 



ped at Canterbury to found a house, 
and the remainder came on to Lon- 
don. The simplicity of their manners 
and mode of life made them popular 
at once, and they speedily acquired 
the means of building a house and 
church. Among other benefactors, 
John £win, or Jwin, a citizen of Lon- 
don, gave them an estate, as he says in 
the deed of conveyance, "for- the 
health of my soul, in pure and perpet- 
ual alms," and became a lay-brother in 
the house, leaving behind him, when 
he died, a holy memory as a strict 
and devout observer of the rule. 
A large church adapted to their 
wants was completed in the year 
1327, and dedicated to " the honor 
of God and our alone Saviour Jesus 
Christ." It was three hundred feet 
long, eighty-nine feet broad, and 
seventy-four feet high. Queen Mar- 
garet gave two thousand marks 
towards it, and the first stone was 
laid in her name. John of Brittany, 
Karl of Richmond, and his niece, 
the Countess of Pembroke, gave the 
hangings, vestments, and sacred ves- 
sels. Isabella, the mother of Edward 
III., and Philippa, his queen, also 
gave money for its completion. The 
thirty-six windows were the gifts of 
various charitable persons. The wes- 
tern window, being destroyed in a 
gale, was restored by Edward III., 
** for the repose of the so^il " of his 
mother, who had just been buried be- 
fore the choir. In 1380, Margaret, 
Countess of Norfolk, erected new 
stalls in the choir, at a cost of three 
hundred and fifty marks. Many 
nobles were buried here — four queens, 
four duchesses, four countesses, one 
duke, two earls, eight barons, thirty- 
five knights — in all, six hundred and 
sixty-three persons of quality. Among 
them was Margaret, the second wife 
of Edward I., and grand-daughter 
of S. Louis, King of France. She 
was buried before the high altar. 



In the choir lay Isabella, wife of 
Edward II. — 

** She-wolf of France with onrelenting fangs. 
Who tore Uie bowels of her mangled mate '*— 

beneath a monument of alabaster, 
with the heart of her murdered hus- 
band on her breast I Near her lay 
her daughter Joanna, wife of Edward 
Bruce of Scotland. Here too was 
buried Lady Venitia Digby, so cele- 
brated for her beauty, the wife of 
Sir Kenelm Digby, who erected over 
her a monument of black marble. 

In the middle ages the great ones 
of the world, at the approach of 
death, the all-leveller, feeling the 
nothingness of earthly grandeur and 
riches, often sought to be buried 
among Christ's poor ones, and not 
unfrequently in their habit, not think- 
ing "in Franciscan weeds to pass 
disguised," but as an act of faith in the 
evangelical counsels, and a recogni- 
tion of the importance of being 
clothed with Christ's righteousness. 
It was a public confession that the 
vain garments they had worn in the 
world had been as poisonous to them 
as the tunic Hercules put on. Dante 
laid down to die in the cowl and 
mantle of a Franciscan. Cervantes 
was buried in the same habit Louis 
of Orleans, who was murdered by the 
Duke of Burgundy, was buried among 
the Celestin monks in the habit of 
their order. Anne of Brittany, twice 
Queen of France, wore the scapular 
of the Carmelites, and wished it to 
be sent with her heart in a golden 
box to her beloved Bretons. 

The Grey Friars* church was de- 
stroyed at the great fire, and the 
monastery greatly injured. There 
are still some portions of it remain- 
ing, however, which are at once re- 
cognized. Some of the books of tlie 
old monastic library are still pre- 
served — a library founded by Sir 
Richard Whitlington, thrice Lord 



7i8 



New Publications. 



Mayor of London, the hero of the 
nursery rhyme, to whom the Bow- 
bells sounded so auspiciously. He 
laid the foundation of this library in 
142 1, and gave four hundred pounds 
towards furnishing it. The remainder 
of the books were given, or collected 
by one of the friars. 

It seems that, after all, Edward 
VI. was not the founder of the mo- 
dem institution of Christ's Hospital. 



He merely gave it its name, and 
added to the endowment When the 
monastery was suppressed by his 
father, it was given to the muni- 
cipality of London, and the city 
authorities conceived the idea of con- 
verting it into a refuge for poor chil- 
dren. It was chiefly endowed by the 
citizens themselves, though aided by 
grants from Henry VI 1 1, and Ed- 
ward VI. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



The Life of S. Alphonsus Liguori. 
By a Member of the Order of Mercy. 
New York : P. O'Shea. 1873. 
The Life of the Same. By the Rt. Rev. 
J.^ Mullock, D.D., Bishop of New- 
foundland. New York : P. J. Ken- 
edy. 1873. 

S. Alphonsus has never found a per- 
fectly competent biographer, and perhaps 
never will. F. Tannoja has written full 
and minute memoirs, containing all the 
facts and events of his life, but he wrote 
under the fear of the Neapolitan censor- 
ship, and could not speak openly of the 
miserable infidel Tanucci and the other 
Jansenists and infidels, or faithless Ca- 
tholics, of the wretched period in which 
the saint lived, and the corrupt court 
with which he had to contend. More- 
over, Tannoja had not a sufficiently ele- 
vated and comprehensive mind to be 
able to appreciate and describe the life 
and times of S. Alphonsus in their higher 
and broader relations. The Oratorian 
translation of his life 'is a most wretched 
and shabby affair in respect to style and 
accuracy. The religious lady who has 
prepared the first of the lives placed at 
the head of this notice has therefore done 
a very great service to the Catholic pub- 
lic by compiling a careful and readable 
biography from the other earlier works of 
the kind, and adding some interesting 
particulars concerning the history of the 
modern Redemptorists. 

Bishop Mullock's life of the saint is 



quite brief and compendious, but of the 
best quality so far as it goes. The pub- 
lisher has made a great blunder in omit- 
ting the title of Doctor of the Universal 
Church, which has been given to S. Al- 
phonsus since Dr. Mullock's life was first 
published, on the title-page. 

Archbishop Manning, who has given, 
though in brief form, the best appreciation 
of the character and work of the great doc- 
tor which we have seen, truly says that S. 
Ignatius, S. Charles, and S. Alphonsus are 
the three great modem leaders of the 
church in her warfare. As one of this great 
trio, S. Alphonsus deserves to be univer- 
sally known and honored among the faith- 
ful, and we rejoice in the publication of the 
biography compiled by the accomplished 
Sister of Mercy as the best we have in 
English, wishing it a wide circulation, as 
a means of promoting devotion to the 
latest of the doctors and one of the great- 
est of the saints. 

Lives of the Irish Saints. Vol. I., No. 

I. By Rev. John O'Hanlon. Dublin : 

Duffy & Co. 

It is not often that we have the privi- 
lege of noticing such a work as this — 
the labor of a lifetime, the history of a 
whole nation's sanctity. Since Alban 
Butler, no such hagiographcr as F. 
O'Hanlon has appeared, nor has anv 
work on hagiology so full of interest and 
importance been given to the world. Tp 
to this time the saints of Ireland, with 



New PttblicatioHS. 



719 



few exceptions, were nidden saints; of 
the three or four thousand souls who 
have shed upon her the light of their 
sanctity, and earned for her the glorious 
title of the " Island of Saints/' the world 
knew scarcely anything. It was in vain 
that the ancient annalists compiled toIu- 
mi nous records for the benefit of pos- 
terity ; those that escaped the hands of 
the spoiler were left unexamined, and 
the learned of the nation seemed to have 
forgotten that their country had a holy 
and heroic past, whose history it was their- 
sacred duty to look into and perpetuaxe. 
No attention was given to traditions of 
bygone days ; no light was thrown 
upon them ; they were fast becoming dim 
and obscure, and what was, in reality, 
fact, the rising generation was beginning 
to regard as fable. This neglect, so ruin- 
ous, and even criminal, might have gone 
on till it became irreparable, had not 
this learned and devoted priest under- 
taken the great task of redeeming the 
past of Erin's sanctity from the oblivion 
into which it was rapidly sinking. How 
carefully he prepared himself, and how 
well qualified he is to perform this labor 
of patriotism and love, the first number 
of his work gives ample^ proof. His ac- 
quaintance with Irish lore, his erudition 
and research, his fine style, all combine 
to make him the fittest person that could 
have engaged in so great a work. 

Were we disposed to find fault with 
him at all, we should say he is rather cri- 
tical ; at least, we fancy we perceive in 
him a tendency to conform to the critical 
spirit of the age, which perhaps is pru- 
dent, after all, and may enhance the his- 
torical value of the work, though it will 
mar somewhat, we think, the poetic 
beauty it ought to possess. 

No literary effort has yet been attempt- 
ed that appeals so strongly to the national 
and religious sentiments of the Irish 
people ; and none should receive so 
large a share of their interest and sup- 
port. F. O'H anion's Livts of the Irish 
Sainh^ when completed, will be a noble 
monument to Erin's faith and Erin's glo- 
ry, to which his countrymen in every 
land should feel proud to contribute ; 
the appreciation that he meets with may 
encourage others to enter the compara- 
tively unexplored mine of Irish history, 
and bring to light the treasures it con- 
tains. 

Wc learn that F. O'Hanlon, who is a 
citizen of the United States, has copy- 



righted the work here, and it is to be 
hoped will make arrangements for its 
reissue in this country. Meanwhile, in- 
tending subscribers may address the au- 
thor directly, or order the book through 
"The Catholic Publication Society." New 
York. It will be published serially, and 
the American price is fifty cents per 
number. 

Jesuits in Conflict ; or. Historic 
Facts illustrative of the Labors and 
Sufferings of the English Mission and 
Province of the Society of Jesus in the 
Tiroes of Queen Elizabeth and her Suc- 
cessors. By a Member of the Society 
of Jesus. London : Bums & Oates. 
1873. (New York : Sold by The Catho- 
lic Publication Society.) 

Another publication throwing light on 
the period of the Elizabethan persecu- 
tion of Catholics, and more especially on 
the part borne by the Jesuits themselves 
in this heroic struggle. So many books 
have appeared lately on this subject that 
we may almost say that a new branch of 
Catholic literature has been opened in 
the English language. The "getting up" 
of this book is worthy of the subject, and 
we rejoice that it is so ; for, to take a 
simile from a passage in this very volume, 
we may say with truth of the outward ap- 
pearance of a book in these times what 
the holy lay-brother, Thomas Pounde, 
considered his rich dress in prison to be : 
"A means of inspiring Catholics with 
greater courage, and conciliating autho- 
rity" (p. 42). The history of the three 
confessors of the faith, Thomas Pounde, 
George Gilbert, and F. Darbyshire, is 
very interesting. In the two former we 
have examples of lay sanctity and con- 
stancy, as distinguished from that of 
priests, though both saints were in heart 
members of the Society of Jesus, to which 
one was affiliated by extraordinary dis- 
pensation of the ordinary novitiate, and 
the other received the habit and pro- 
nounced his vows in articulo mortis, Tho- 
mas Pounde, of Belmont, a man of old 
family and high connections, had all tlie 
burning zeal of a convert whose soul had 
narrowly escaped the everlasting infamy 
of the life of a court minion. Not only 
his fearlessness and constancy, but his 
high intellectu.il attainments, claim our 
attention. Thirty years of perpetual im- 
prisonment had not enfeebled his mind, 
and his one desire was a public disputa- 
tion with his adversaries, nay, "with 



720 



New Publications. 



Beza and all the doctors of Genera/' if 
it pleased his foes to reinforce themseWes 
with such noted aid. In a lengthy paper, 
written in 1580 to show that the Bible 
alone is not the true rule of faith, he 
brings forward the same reasons which 
we hear so much about in our day, and 
after specially dwelling on the many ar* 
tides of universally held Christian faith 
that are not directly and plainly traceable 
to Scripture, he says pointedly :. " Do not 
these blind guides, think you, lead a trim 
daunce towards infidel itic ?" He could not 
have spoken otherwise had he meant his 
apology for the XIX th instead of the 
XVIth century. 

George Gilbert, also of a good English 
family, was one of those rich men who, in 
truth, make themselves the stewards of 
the Lord. With him originated the use- 
ful and ingenious Catholic Association, 
in which young men of the world bound 
themselves to become the temporal guides, 
helpers, couriers, furnishers of the priests 
who labored spiritually for the conversion 
of England. The companion of F. Par- 
sons, as Pounde had been of F. Campion, 
he, too, was a convert not only from 
courtly vanities; but from actual Calvin- 
ism. Ardently desiring martyrdom, he 
nevertheless embraced obediently and 
lovingly the cross of a " sluggish death 
in bed " ; but at least the pain of exile had 
been added to imprisonment, for he was 
banished from his native land, and died 
at Rome in 1583. His whole substance 
was offered to the service of God, and 
what little remained at his death he left 
to the Society for the spiritual needs of 
his country. It was not till he lay upon 
his death-bed that he pronounced his 
vows. 

F. Darbyshire was as learned as he was 
zealous. While in France preparing for 
his perilous Engtish mission, he refused 
the honors of the pulpit and the pro- 
fessorial chair, and confined himself to 
giving catechetical instruction ; but God 
so rewarded his humility that grave scho- 
lars and theologians would flock to hear 
him, and make notes of the wonderful 
learning he displayed, while they admired 
the eloquence he could not hide. He and 
his friend, F. Henry Tichborne, might 
well congratulate (hemsclves, later on, on 
the holy efficacy of persecution, which had 
caused the "confluence uf the rares and 
bestes wittes of our nation to the semina- 



ries,'* and of the happy increase n tne num- 
ber of fervent inmates of the foreign sciui- 
naries. They descant, too, on the unwise 
policy of persecution, and the fact that no 
religion was ever permanently established 
by the sword. The faith might have been 
reft of one of its greatest glories in Eng- 
land had not a short-sighted fanaticism 
resorted to violent means to uproot it. 
F. Darbyshire died in exile in France in 
1604, in the very same place, Pont-&- 
Mousson, where he had so signally dis- 
tinguished himself for learning and for 
modesty in the beginning of his apos- 
tolate. 

This book is written in simple, Saxon 
style. The author trusts rather to facts 
than to rhetoric, just as of old the acts of 
the martyrs were chronicled without much 
comment, whether descriptive or panegr- 
rical. The volume bears " First Series" 
on its title-page, as a promise that it is 
but the prelude to other biographies as 
interesting. Let us hope that the promise 
will be speedily fulfilled. 

The Life op the Blessed John Berch- 
MANS. By Francis Goldie, S.J. (F. 
Coleridge's Quarterly Series, Vol. VII.) 
London : Burns & Oates. 1S73. (New 
York: Sold by The Catholic Publica- 
tion Society.) 

At last we have in English a biographr 
of this angelic imitator of S. Aloysius, as 
charming as himself. The other lives we 
have seen are edifying but tedious. This 
one is equally edifying, but as fascinating 
as a romance, and published in an attrac- 
tive style. It is specially adapted for the 
reading of young people. 

Lectures upon the Devotion to the 
Most Sacred Heart of Jesus Christ. 
By the Very Rev. T. S. Preston, V.G. 
New York : Robert Coddington. 1S74 
We cannot do more than call attention 
to the publication of this work, just issued 
as we go to press. It embraces steno- 
graphic reports of four extempore lectures 
by the pastor of St. Ann's, New York, upon 
a bubjcct of special interest at this time. 
In an appendix is given the pastoral of 
the archbishop and bishops, announcing 
the consecration of all the dioceses of 
this province to the Most Sacred Heart o( 
Jesus; together with a Novena, from the 
French of L. J. Hallez. 



?R0^ 

Cr THE ■ 



THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD 



VOL. XVIII., No. io8.— MARCH, 1874. 



JOHN STUART MILL.* 



In 1764, Hume met, at the house 
of Baron d'Holbach, a party of the 
most celebrated Frenchmen of that 
day; and the Scotchman took oc- 
casion to introduce a discussion 
concerning the existence of an 
atheist, in the strict sense of the 
word ; for his own part, he said, he 
had never chanced to meet with 
one. " You have been unfortunate," 
replied Holbach ; " but at the pre- 
sent moment you are sitting at table 
with seventeen of them." 

Whether or not the leading men 
among the positivists and cosmists 
of England to-day are prepared 
to be as frank as the Baron 
d'Holbach, we shall not venture 
to say; at all events, John Stuart 
Mill, to whom they all looked up 
with the reverence of disciples for 
the master, has taken care that the 
world should not remain in doubt 
concerning his opinions on this 

^AmMiagra^Ay. By John Stuart Mill. New 
York : Holt ft Co. 1873. 



subject, which, of all others, is of 
the deepest interest to man. Among 
those who in this century have la- 
bored most earnestly to propagate 
an atheistic philosophy, based on 
the assumption that the human 
mind is incapable of knowing aught 
beyond relations, he certainly holds 
a place of distinction, and, as a re- 
presentative of what is called scien- 
tific atheism, the history of his opi- 
nions is worthy of serious attention. 

It was known some time before 
his death that he had written an 
autobiography; and when it was 
announced that his step-daughter. 
Miss Tayloi, whom he had made 
his literary executrix, was about to 
publish the work, the attention of 
at least those who take interest in 
the profouhder controversies of the 
age was awakened. 

As an autobiography, the book 
has but little merit; though this 
should not be insisted on, since 
success in writing of this kind is 



Batered acoordlnf to Act of Congrwt, In the year 1874, by Rer. I. T. Hicxn, In the Office of 

the Ubrarian of Confreie, at Washington, D. C. 



722 



yokn Stuart Mitt. 



extremely rare. If it is almost as 
difficult in any case to write a life 
well as to spend it well, when one 
attempts to become the historian 
of his own life, there is every 
probability that he will either be 
ridiculous or uninteresting. Mill, 
too, it must be conceded, had but 
poor material at his command. 
His life was uneventful, uninviting 
even, in its surroundings ; and when 
the patchwork of his philosophical 
opinions is taken away, there is lit- 
tle left in it that is not wholly com- 
monplace. 

He was bom in London, in 1806, 
and was the eldest son of James 
Mill, who was a charity student of 
divinity at the University of Edin- 
burgh, but, becoming disgusted 
with the doctrines of Presbyterian- 
ism, gave up all idea of studying for 
the ministry, and in a short while 
renounced Christian faith, and be- 
came an avowed atheist, though 
his atheism was negative; his be* 
lief in what is called the relativity 
of knowledge not justifying him in 
affirming positively that there is no 
God, but only in holding that the 
human mind can never know 
whether there be a God or not. 
He, however, did not stop here, 
but, scandalized by the suffering 
which is everywhere in the world, 
forgot his own principles, and main* 
tained that it is absurd to suppose 
that such a world is the work of an 
infinitely perfect being, and was ra- 
ther inclined to accept the Mani- 
chean theory of a good and evil 
principle, struggling against each 
other for the government of the 
universe. But of God, as revealed 
in Christ, he had a hatred as satani- 
cal as that of Voltaire. 

"I have a hundred times heard 
him say," writes his son, '' that all 
ages and nations have represented 
their gods as wicked, in a constant- 



ly increasing progression ; that man- 
kind have gone on, adding trait after 
trait, till they reached the most 
perfect conception of wickedness 
which the human mind can devise, 
and have called this God, and pros- 
trated themselves before it. This 
ne plus ultra of wickedness he con- 
sidered to be embodied in what is 
commonly presented to mankind as 
the creed of Christianity"* In 
other words — for Mill can mean no- 
thing less — he held that the charac- 
ter of Christ, as portrayed in the 
Gospel, is the highest possible con- 
ception of all that is depraved and 
repulsive; that Christ, instead of 
being incarnate God, is the essence 
of wickedness clothed in bodily 
form ; that, compared with him, or at 
least with the God whom he called 
his father, Moloch, Astarte, Jupiter, 
Venus, Mars, and Bacchus are pure 
divinities ; and from the manner in 
which the son narrates these opin- 
ions of his father, he evidently dr 
sires that we should infer that they 
are also his own. 

The elder Mill, who seems to 
have been a natural pedagogue, 
took the education of his son ex- 
clusively into his own hands, and 
was most careful not to allow him 
to acquire any impressions contrary 
to his own sentiments respecting re- 
ligion. Instead of teaching him to 
believe that God created the hea- 
vens and the earth, he taught him to 
believe that we can know nothing 
whatever of the manner in which 
the world came into existence, and 
that the question, "Who made 
you Y^ is one which cannot be an- 
swered, since we possess no authen- 
tic information on the subject. 

To show, however, his father's 
conviction of the logical connection 
between Protestantism and infidel- 

• P. 41. 



yohn Stuart Mill. 



723 



ity, he records that he taught him 
to take the strongest interest in the 
Reformation, *' as the great and de- 
cisive contest against priestly tyran* 
ny for liberty of thought." 

''I am thus," he adds, "one of 
the very few examples in this coun- 
try of one who has not thrown off 
religious belief, but never had it; 
I grew up in a negative state, with 
regard to it."* 

How he could grow up in a neg- 
ative condition with regard to reli- 
gion is not easily understood when we 
consider that his father instilled into 
his mind from his earliest years the 
doctrine that the very essence of reli- 
gion is evil, since it is, and ever has 
been, worship paid to the demon, the 
highest possible conception of wick- 
edness ; though he was at the same 
time careful to impress upon him 
the duty of concealing his belief on 
this subject ; and this lesson of pa- 
rental prudence was, as the young- 
er Mill himself informs us, attend- 
ed with some moral disadvanta- 
ges, t 

These moral disadvantages, in 
his own opinion at least, were with- 
out positive influence upon his 
character, since through the whole 
book there runs the tacit assump- 
tion of his own perfect goodness. 
I am an atheist, he seems to say, 
and yet I am a saint; and he is 
evidently persuaded that his own 
life is sufficient proof that the no- 
tion that unbelief is generally con- 
nected with bad qualities either of 
mind or heart is merely a vulgar 
prejudice. 

" The world would be astonish- 
ed," he informs us, " if it knew how 
great a proportion of its brightest 
ornaments, of those most distin- 
guished even in popular estimation 
for wisdom and virtue, are com- 



plete sceptics in religion 

But the best of them (unbeliev- 
ers), as no one who has had oppor- 
tunities of really knowing them will 
hesitate to affirm, are more genuine- 
ly religious, in the best sense of the 
word religion, than those who ex- 
clusively arrogate to themselves 
the title."* 

This is probably not more ex- 
travagant than the assertion that 
the God of Christianity is the em- 
bodiment of all that is fiendish and 
wicked. 

We cannot, however, pass so light- 
ly over this portion of Mill's book, 
or dismiss without further examina- 
tion the assumption that the best 
are they who refuse to believe in 
God, and hold that man is merely 
an animal. 

The real controversy of the age, 
as thoughtful men have long since 
recognized, is not between the 
church and the sects. Protestantism, 
from the beginning, by asserting 
the supremacy of human reason, de- 
nied the sovereignty of God, and in 
its postulates, at least, was atheistic. 
Hence Catholic theologians have 
never had any difficulty in showing 
that rebellion against the authority 
of the church is revolt against that 
of Christ, which is apostasy from 
God. To this argument there is 
really no reply, and the difficulties 
which Protestants have sought to 
raise against the church are based 
upon a sophism which underlies all 
non-Catholic thought. 

The pseudo-reformers objected 
that the church could not be of 
Christ, because in it there was evil ; 
many of its members were sinful ; 
as the deists hold that the Bible 
is not the word of God, because of 
the many seeming incongruities 
and imperfections which are every- 



• P. 43. 



tP.44. 



•P.4«. 



724 



John Stuart Mill. 



where found in it ; as the atheists 
teach that the universe cannot be 
the work of an all-wise and omnipo- 
tent Being, since it is filled with 
suffering and death ; and that love 
cannot be creation's final law, 
since nature, "red in tooth and 
claw with ravin," shrieks against 
this creed. 

If the imperfections and abuses 
in the practical workings of the 
church are arguments against its 
divine institution and authority, 
then undoubtedly the " measureless 
ill " which is in the world is reason 
for doubting whether a Being infin- 
itely good is its author. 

Hence the traditional objections 
of Protestants to the church are, in 
the ultimate analysis, reducible to 
the atheistic sophism, which, be- 
cause there is evil in the creature, 
seeks to conclude that the creator 
cannot be wholly good ; not per- 
ceiving that it would be as reason- 
able to demand that the circle 
should be square as to ask that the 
finite should be without defect. 

The church is, both logically and 
historically, the only defensible 
Christianity ; as Jean Jacques Rous- 
seau long ago admitted in the well- 
known words : " Prove to me that 
in matters of religion I must accept 
authority, and I will become a 
Catholic to-morrow." There is no 
controversy to-day between the 
church and Protestantism which is 
worthy of serious attention. < All 
that is important has been said on 
this subject, and Protestants them- 
selves begin to understand that it is 
far wiser for them to try to hold on 
to the shreds of Christian belief 
which still remain to them than to 
waste their strength in attacks on 
the church, which, as they are 
coming to recognize, is after all the 
strongest bulwark of faith in the 
>ul and in God. 



The ground of debate to-day is 
back of heterodoxy and orthodoxy; 
it lies around the central fact in 
all religion — God himself. 

The scientific theories of the pre- 
ent time, if they do not deny the 
existence of God, are at least based 
upon hypotheses which ignore him 
and his action in the world; and 
the few attempts which have been 
made to construct what may be 
called a philosophy of science all 
proceed upon the assumption that, 
whether there be a God or not, 
science cannot recognize his exis- 
tence. 

The faith which the elder Mill 
taught his son — that of the manner 
in which the world came into ex- 
istence nothing can be known— is 
that which most scientists accept. 
The desire to organize society upon 
an atheistic basis is also very mani- 
fest and very general. 

'* Reorganise^ sans Dien ni rol 
P&r le cuUe systematique de rHumanit^.*" 

The idealistic philosophy of Ger- 
many, invariably terminating in pan- 
theism, is another proof of the athe- 
istic tendency of modem thought. 

Mill, in his Autobiography^ has of 
course made no attempt to prove 
that there is no God. On the con- 
trary, as we have already stated, he 
has admitted that this proposition 
cannot be proved ; but he believes 
there is no God, fails to percei\;c 
any evidence of design in the uni- 
verse, and, from a morbid sense of 
the evil which abounds, feels justifi- 
ed in concluding that the cosmos is 
not the work of an infinitely good 
and omnipotent Being. 

Dr. Newman, in his Apologia^ a 
work of the same character as the 
Autobiography of Mill, but which 
will be read with delight when Mill 
and his book will have been forgot- 
ten, has seen this difficulty, and 



John Stuart Mill. 



72s 



given expression to it in his own 
inimitable manner. " To consider 
the world," he writes, " in its length 
and breadth, its various history, the 
many races of man, their starts, 
their fortunes, their mutual aliena«- 
tion, their conflicts ; and then their 
ways, habits, governments, forms of 
worship ; their enterprises, their aim- 
less courses, their random achieve- 
ments and acquirements, the impo- 
tent conclusion of long-standing 
facts; the tokens, so faint and 
broken, of a superintending design ; 
the blind evolution of what turn 
out to be great powers or truths; 
the progress of things, as if from 
unreasoning elements, not toward 
final causes ; the greatness and little- 
ness of man, his far-reaching aims, 
his short duration, the curtain hung 
over his futurity, the disappoint- 
ments of life, the defeat of good, 
the success of evil, physical pain, 
mental anguish, the prevalence and 
intensity of sin, the pervading idol- 
atries, the corruptions, the dreary, 
hopeless irreligion, that condition 
of the whole race so fearfully yet 
exactly described iii the apostle's 
words, ' having no hope, and with- 
out God in the world ' — all this is a 
vision to dizzy and appall, and in- 
flicts upon the mind the sense of a 
profound mystery which is abso- 
lutely beyond human solution." * 

But, as Dr. Newman expresses 
it, ten thousand difficulties do not 
make one doubt. Difficulty and 
doubt are incommensurate. When 
we have sufficient reasons for ac- 
cepting two seemingly contradic- 
tory propositions, the fact that 
we are unable to reconcile them 
should not be a motive for rejecting 
them. The human race has accept- 
ed, in all time, the existence of 
(iod with an assent as real as that 



with which it has believed in the 
substance that underlies the phe- 
nomenon. To a countless number 
of minds, the difficulty to which 
Mill has given such emphasis has 
presented itself with a force not 
less than that with which it struck 
him. 

Millions have approached the 
mystery of evil, and have asked 
themselves 



»i 



Are God and nature, then, at strife, 
That nature lends such evil dreams ?*' 



But they have not weakly refused 
to believe in God because they 
could not comprehend his works. 
They saw the evil ; but the deepest 
instincts of the soul — the longing 
for immortal life, the craving for 
the unattainable, the thirst for a 
knowledge never given, the sense 
of the emptiness of what seems 
most real ; the mother-ideas of hu- 
man reason — those of being, of 
cause, of the absolute, the infinite, 
the eternal, the sense of the all- 
beautiful, the all-perfect — made 
them fall 

'' upon the gieat world's alur-stairs 
That slope through darkness up to God," 

and stretch hands of faith, and trust 
the larger hope. 

We do not propose to offer any 
arguments to prove that God is, or 
to show that his existence is recon- 
cilable with the evil in the world, 
since Mill has not attempted to es- 
tablish the contradictory of this; 
but we wish merely to state that 
his apprehension of the difficulties 
which surround this question is not 
keener than that of thousands of 
others who have seen no connection 
between apprehending these diffi- 
culties and doubting the doctrines 
to which they are attached. Whilst 
admitting that science can never 
prove that there is no God, Mill 
evidently intended his Autobiogra- 



726 



John Stuart Mill. 



phy to be an argument against the 
usefulness of belief in God for mo- 
ral and social purposes ; " which," 
he tells us, '^ of all the parts of the 
discussion concerning religion, is 
the most important in this age, in 
which real belief in any religious 
doctrine is feeble and precarious, but 
the opinion of its necessity for mor- 
al and social purposes almost uni- 
versal ; and when those who reject 
revelation very generally take re- 
fuge in an optimistic deism — k wor- 
ship of the order of nature and the 
supposed course of Providence — 
at least as full of contradictions 
and perverting to the moral senti- 
ments as any of the forms of Chris- 
tianity, if only it is as fully realiz- 
ed."* Confessing the inability of 
the scientists to prove that there is 
no God, he thinks that they should 
devote their efforts to the attempt 
to show that belief in God is not 
beneficial either to the individual or 
to society. We shall, therefore, turn 
to the question of morality, which is 
enrooted in metaphysics, out of 
which it grows, and to which it is in- 
debted both for its meaning and its 
strength. 

Can the atheistic philosophy 
give to morality a solid basis ? To 
deny the existence of an infinitely 
perfect Being is to affirm that there 
is no absolute goodness, no moral 
law, eternal, immutable, and neces- 
sary, no act that in itself is either 
good or bad, no certain and fixed 
standard of right and wrong. 

Hence atheistic philosophy can 
give to morality no other foundation 
than that of pleasure or utility : 

** Atque IpM nUlitos jtttU prope mater et aequi. 
Nee natura potest Justo aecemere ioiquam." 

And, in fact, this has been the doc- 
trine, we may say, of all those who 
have denied the existence of God. 



Epicurus, Lucretius, Hobbes, 
Helvetius, Volney, and the whole 
Voltairean tribe in France, have 
all substantially taken this view 
of the question of morality; and 
Miirs opinion on the subject did 
not, except in form, dififer from 
theirs. His father was the friend 
of Bentham, an advocate of the 
utilitarian theory of morality, 
which he applied to civil and crim- 
inal law; and young Mill became 
an enthusiastic disciple of the Ben- 
thamic philosophy. 

"The principle of utility," he 
writes, " understood as Bentham un- 
derstood it, and applied in the man- 
ner in which he applied it through 
these three volum<;s, fell exactly 
into its place as the keystone which 
held together the detached and 
fragmentary component parts of 
my knowledge and beliefs. It gave 
unity to my conceptions of things. 
I now had opinions, a creed, a 
doctrine, a philosophy; in one 
among the best senses of the word 
a religion ; the inculcation and dif- 
fusion of which could be made the 
principal outward purpose of a 
Ufe." * 

Bentham sought to save the eth- 
ics of utility by generalizing the 
principle of self-interest into that 
of the greatest happiness; and it 
was this " greatest-happiness princi- 
ple " that gave Mill what he calls a 
religion. Though less grovelling 
than the theory of self-interest, yet, 
equally with it, it deprives morality 
of a solid foundation, substitutes 
force for right, and consecrates all 
tyranny. 

If there be no God, and interest 
is the sole criterion of what is good, 
in the name of what am I command- 
ed to sacrifice my particular inter- 
est to general interest ? If interest 



•p. JO. 



•P. 67. 



I 



John Stuart Mill. 



7^7 



is the law, then my own interest is 
the first and highest. If happiness 
be the supreme end of life, and 
there be no life beyond this life, in 
order to ask of me the sacrifice of 
my happiness, it must be called for 
in the name of some other princi- 
ple than happiness itself. 

And if " the thoughts of men are 
widened with the process of the 
suns, 

*' What 19 that to him Uiat reaps not harvest of 

his youthful joys, 
Tho* the deep heart of existence beat for ever 

like a boy's ?" 

Besides being false, this '^ greatest- 
happiness principle" is impossible 
in practice. Who can tell what is 
for the greatest good of the greatest 
number ? It is very difficult, often 
impossible, when we consider only 
our individual interest, to decide 
what actions will be most condu- 
cive to our happiness, in the utilita- 
rian sense of the woid. How, then, 
are we to decide when the interests 
of a whole people, of humanity, and 
for all future time, are to be consult- 
ed.^ Would any atheist of the 
school of Mill, who is not wholly 
fanatical, dare affirm that the great- 
est number would be happier, even 
in a low and animal sense, with- 
out faith in God and a future life ? 
And yet, according to his own 
theory, unless he is certain of this 
when he attempts to destroy the 
religious belief of his fellow-beings, 
his act is immoral. 

Was it not in the name of, and in 
strict accordance with, the princi- 
ples of this theory that Comte plan- 
ned what Mill calls ^^ the complet- 
est system of spiritual and tempo- 
ral despotism which ever yet. ema- 
nated from a human brain, unless, 
possibly, that of Ignatius Loyola — a 
system by which the yoke of gener- 
al opinion, wielded by an organiz- 
ed body of spiritual teachers and 
rulers, would be made supreme 



over every action, and, as far as is 
in human possibility, every thought 
of every member of the community, 
as well in the things which regard 
only himself as in those which 
concern the interests of others " ? * 

There is yet another vice in this 
system. If the good is the greatest 
interest of the greatest number, 
then there are only public and so- 
cial ethics, and personal morality 
does not exist. Our duties are to- 
wards others, and we have no duties 
towards ourselves. Thus the very 
source of moral life is dried up. 

Let us come to considerations 
less general and more immediately 
connected with Mill's life. 

Of his father's opinions on this 
subject he says : " In his views of 
life, he partook of the character of 
the Stoic, the Epicurean, and the 
Cynic, not in the modern but the 
ancient sense of the word. In his 
personal qualities the Stoic predom- 
inated. His standard of morals, 
was Epicurean, inasmuch as it was 
utilitarian, taking as the exclusive 
test of right and wrong the tenden- 
cy of actions to produce pleasure 
or pain. But he had (and this was^ 
the Cynic element) scarcely any be- 
lief in pleasure, at least in his later 
years, of which alone, on this 
point, I can speak confidently. . . . 
He thought human life a poor thing 
at best after the freshness of youth 
and of unsatisfied curiosity had 
gone by. . . . He would some- 
times say that if life were made- 
what it might be by good govern- 
ment and good education, it would 
be worth having; but he never 
spoke with anything like enthusiasm 
even of that possibility." \ 

This certainly is a gloomy, not 
to say hopeless, view of life, and 
one which, in spite of Mill's attempt 



♦ p. S13. 



tP. 48. 



728 



yohn Stuari Milt. 



to produce a contrary impression, 
pervades the whole book. The 
thoughtful reader cannot help feel- 
ing that Mill's state of mind was 
very like that described by the 
apostle : " having no hope, and with- 
out God in the world. " A deep and 
settled dissatisfaction with all he 
saw around him, the feeling that all 
was wrong — society, religion, gov- 
ernment, the family, human life, the 
philosophic opinions of the whole 
world except himself, together with 
an undercurrent of despair, which 
made him doubt whether they would 
ever be right, gave a coloring of 
melancholy to his character which 
he is unable to hide. Life was no 
boon, and not even the faintest ray 
of light pierced the black gloom of 
the grave. 

Of his father he writes : " In 
•ethics, his moral feelings were en- 
ergetic and rigid on all points which 
*he deemed important to human 
well-being, while he was supremely 
indifferent in opinion (though his 
indifference did not show itself in 
personal conduct) to all those doc- 
trines of the common morality 
which he thought had no founda- 
tion but in asceticism and priest- 
craft. He looked forward, for ex- 
ample, to a considerable increase of 
freedom in the relations between 
the sexes, though without pretend- 
ing to define exactly what would 
be, or ought to be, the precise con- 
ditions of that freedom." * 

Here we have an instance of the 
truth of the inference which we 
have already drawn from the prin- 
ciples of the utilitarian ethics — ^that 
they take no account of personal 
purity of character, and teach 
that man's duties are towards 
others, and not towards himself. 
There is a still more striking ex- 



ample of this in Mill's Autobio^ 
graphy. 

He early in life made the ac- 
quaintance of a married lady, for 
whom he conceived a very strong 
affection. He spent a good deal 
of his time with her, and says : ** I 
was greatly indebted to the strength 
of character which enabled her to 
disregard the false interpretations 
liable to be put on the frequency 
of my visits to her while living 
generally apart from Mr. Taylor, 
and on our occasionally travelling 
together"; though their relation 
at that time, he tells us, was only 
that of strong affection and con- 
fidential intimacy. The reason 
which he assigns for this is certain- 
ly most curious : " For though," he 
says, " we did not consider the ordi- 
nances of society binding on a sub- 
ject so entirely personal, we did 
feel bound that our conduct 
should be such as in no degree 
to bring discredit on her husband, 
nor therefore qn herself."* 

In other words, Mill recognizes 
no obligation of personal purity, 
even in the married, but holds that 
unchastity is wrong only wben it 
brings discredit on others ; though 
he was unfaithful even to this loose 
ethical code, since, according to his 
own account, his conduct was such 
as to be liable to misinterpretation, 
and, therefore, such as might bring 
disgrace upon the husband of the 
voman with whom he was associat- 
ing. 

His hatred of marriage and of 
the restraints which it imposes is 
seen in several parts of the work 
before us. 

Of the Saint-Simonians he says : 
" I honored them most of all for what 
they have been most cried down 
for — the boldness and freedom 



• P. 107. 



• P. 910. 



John Stuart MilL 



729 



from prejudice with which they 
treated the subject of the family, 
the most important of any, and 
needing more fundamental altera- 
tions than remain to be made in 
any other great social institution, 
but on which scarcely any reformer 
has the courage to touch. In pro- 
claiming the perfect equality of men 
and women, and an entirely new 
order of things in regard to their 
relations with one another, the Saint- 
Simonians, in common with Owen 
and Fourier, have entitled them- 
selves to the grateful remembrance 
of future generations." * 

A man who puts himself forward 
as the advocate of free-love should 
not, one would think, insist espe- 
cially on the moralities, or give 
himself prominence as a proof that 
belief in God is not useful either to 
the individual or to society. 

Mill's social ethics are of the 
same character. He is a socialist 
of the most radical type, and con- 
siders the great problem of the fu- 
ture to be how to unite the great- 
est individual liberty of action with 
a common ownership in the raw 
material of the globe, and an equal 
participation of all in the benefits 
of combined labor; though the 
" uncultivated herd who now com- 
pose the laboring masses," as well as 
the mental and moral condition of 
the immense majority of their em- 
ployers, convince him that this 
social transformation is not now 
either possible or desirable. Still, 
his ethics lead him to hope that 
private property will be abolished, 
and that the whole earth will be 
converted into a kind of industrial 
school, in which every man, woman, 
and child will be required to do 
certain work, and receive in remu- 
neration whatever the controllers of 



the general capital may see fit to 
give them. Thus, in the name of 
the greatest good of the greatest 
number, personal purity, the family, 
private property, society, are all to 
be no more, and the human race is 
to be managed somewhat like a 
model stock-farm, in which every- 
thing, from breeding down to the 
minutest details of food and exer- 
cise, is to be under the control of 
a supervisory committee. 

As we have already seen, Mill, 
after reading Bentham, got what he 
called a religion : he had an object in 
life — to be a reformer of the world. 

This did very well for a time; 
but in the autumn of 1826, whilst, 
as he expresses it, he was in a dull 
state of nerves, he awakened as 
from a dream. He put the ques- 
tion to himself: "* Suppose that 
all your objects in life were realiz- 
ed^, that all the changes in institu- 
tions and opinions to which you 
are looking forward could be ef- 
fected at this very instant ; would 
this be a great joy and happiness 
to you V And an irrepressible self- 
consciousness distinctly answered, 
* No !' At this my heart sank with- 
in me; the whole foundation on 
which my life was constructed fell 
down. ... I seemed to have noth- 
ing left to live for. 

" At first I hoped that the cloud 
would pass away of itself; but it 
did not. ... I carried it with me 
into all companies, into all oc- 
cupations. Hardly anything had 
power to cause me even a few min- 
utes* oblivion of it. . . . The lines 
in Coleridge's * Dejection * — I was 
not then acquainted with them — 
exactly describe my case : 



<i 



' A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, 
A drowsy, stifled, unimpassioned prief, 
Which finds no natural outlet or relief 
In word, ot sigh, or tear.' " ♦ 



♦ P. 167. 



730 



John Siuart MUL 



He now felt that his father had 
committed a blunder in the educa- 
tion which he had given him ; that 
the habit of analysis has a tendency 
to wear away the feelings and dry 
up the fountains of pleasurable 
emotions; that it is a perpetual 
worm at the root both of the pas- 
sions and of the virtrues ; and, above 
all, fearfully undermines all desires 
and all pleasures which are the ef- 
fects of association. 

^^ My education, I thought, had 
failed to create these feelings in suf- 
ficient strength to resist the dissolv- 
ing influence of analysis, while the 
whole course of my intellectual cul- 
tivation had made precocious and 
premature analysis the inveterate 
habit of my mind. I was thus, as 
I said to myself, left stranded at the 
commencement of my voyage, with 
a well-equipped ship and a rudder, 
but no sail; without any real de- 
sire for the ends which I had been 
so carefully fitted out to work for ; 
no delight in virtue or the general 
good, but also just as little in 
anything else. ... I frequently 
asked myself if I could, or if I 
was bound to, go on living, when 
life must be passed in this man- 
ner. I generally answered to my- 
self that I did not think I could 
possibly bear it beyond a year."* 

This sad state of mind was the 
protest of the soul against the skele- 
ton of intellectual formulas into 
which it had been cramped. A 
man is not going to live or die for 
conclusions, opinions, calculations, 
analytical nothings. Man is not 
and cannot be made to be a mere 
reasoning machine, a contrivance 
to grind out syllogisms. He is a 
seeing, feeling, contemplating, be- 
lieving, acting animal. We cannot 
construct a philosophy of life upon 



abstract conclusions of the analyti- 
cal faculty; life is action and for 
action, and, if we insist on analyz- 
ing and proving everything, we shall 
never come to action. Humanity 
is a mere fiction of the mind, and 
can be nothing, whilst God, to 
most men at least, is a living reality, 
to be believed in, hoped in, loved. 
Were it possible for us to accept 
the doctrines of Stuart Mill, we 
should feel the same interest in his 
humanitarian projects that we do in 
Mr. Bergh's society for the preven- 
tion of cruelty to animals. We 
pity the poor brutes, but we butcher 
them and eat them all the same. If 
there is nothing but nature and na- 
ture's laws, it is perfectly right that 
the few should live for the many, 
and that thousands should sweat 
and groan to fill the belly of one 
animal who is finer and stronger 
than those he feeds upon. Neither 
the law of gravity, nor that of the 
conservation of forces, nor that 
which impels bodies along the line 
of least resistance, nor that which 
causes the fittest — ^which means the 
strongest — ^to survive, can impose 
upon us a moral obligation not to 
do what we have the strength to 
do. These infidels talk of the in- 
tellectual cowardice of those who 
believe. Let them first be frank, and 
tell us, without circumlocution or 
concealment, that there is nothing 
but force ; that whatever is, must be ; 
and that nothing is either right or 
wrong. If we are permitted to swal • 
low oysters whole, to butcher oxen 
and imprison monkeys in mere wan- 
tonness ; and if these are our forefa- 
thers, why may not the strong and 
intelligent members of the human 
race put the weak and ignorant to 
any use they may see fit ; or why 
may we not imitate the nM>re natu- 
ral savage who roasts or boils his man 
as his civilized brother would a pig? 



John Stuart Mill. 



731 



It is easy to make a show of de- 
spising the argument implied in 
this question ; but, admitting the 
atheistic evolutionary hypothesis, it 
cannot be answered. 

Cannibals hold that it is for the 
greatest happiness of the greatest 
number that their enemies should 
be eaten ; and, after all, what is 
happiness, in the utilitarian and 
animal sense, but an affair of taste, 
to a great extent even of imagina- 
tion? Have not slave-owners in 
all times held that it was for the 
greatest good of the greatest num- 
ber that slavery should continue to 
exist? Or has the greatest-happi- 
ness principle had anything to do 
with the abolition of slavery among 
the Christian nations or elsewhere ? 

Men appealed in the name of 
right, of justice, of the inborn dig- 
nity of the human soul, of God-giv- 
en liberty, and the conscience of 
the nations was awakened. They 
gave no thought to the idle theories 
of brains, from which the heart and 
soul had been strained, about a 
greatest-happiness principle. What 
have atheists ever done but talk, 
and mock, and criticise, and seek 
their own ease whilst discoursing on 
the general good? 

Mill takes the greatest care to 
record, in more than one place, 
that he and his father occasionally 
wrote articles for the Westminster 
Review without receiving pay for 
them ; thinking it, evidently, worthy 
of remark that an atheist should 
even write except for money. Here 
we may note a vice inherent in 
atheism, which proves at once its 
untruth and its impotence. It leaves 
man without enthusiasm, with- 
out hope, without love, to fall back 
upon himself, a wilted, shrunken 
thing, to mix with matter, or to van- 
ish in lifeless, logical formalism. It 
has no heroes, no saints, no mar- 



tyrs, no confessors. Its advocates 
either abandon themselves to lust 
and the senses, or, making a divin- 
ity of their own imagined superior- 
ity, worship the ghost they have 
conjured up, whilst looking down 
upon the rest of mankind as a vul- 
gar herd still intellectually walking 
on four feet. Mill makes no effort 
to conceal his contempt for the 
mass of mankind; and contempt 
does not inspire love, which alone 
renders man helpful to man. 

The gloom which settled around 
the life of John Stuart Mill, when 
he once fully realized that, holding 
the intellectual opinions which he 
held, nothing was worth living for, 
and that he was consequently left 
without a motive or an object in 
life, never really left him. He tells 
us, indeed, that the cloud gradually 
drew off, and that, though he had 
several relapses which lasted many 
months, he was never as miserable 
as he had been; but it is quite 
evident, from the whole tone of this 
Autobiography^ that his disappoint- 
ed soul, like the wounded dove, 
drew the wings that were intended 
to lift it to God close to itself, and, 
hopeless, sank into philosophical 
despair. Happiness he considered 
the sole end of life ; and yet he says 
that the enjoyments of life, which 
alone make it worth having, when 
made its principal object, pall upon 
us and sicken the heart. "Ask 
yourself whether you are happy, 
and you cease to be so. The 
only chance is to treat, not hap- 
piness, but some end external to 
it, as the purpose of life." 

In other words, in Mill's philoso- 
phy, the end of life is happiness, 
which can be possessed only by 
those who persuade themselves that 
this is not the end of life. The 
doctrine of philosophical necessity, 
during the later returns of his 



». • 



* •' Am •» — 



732 



7^;iff 5/i/ar/ Mi/I. 



despondency, weighed upon him 
like an incubus : " I felt as if 
I was scientifically proved to be 
the helpless slave of antecedent 
circumstances ; as if my character 
and that of all others had been 
formed for us by agencies beyond 
our control, and was wholly out 
of our own power. I often said to 
myself, What a relief it would be 
if I could disbelieve the doctrine of 
the formation of character by cir- 
cumstances !"* 

He tries to escape from the fatal 
web in which his soul hung help- 
less ; but sophisms and quibbles of 
the brain cannot minister to a 
mind diseased or pluck sorrow from 
the heart. 

But the saddest part of Mill's 
Autobiography is the portion devot- 
ed to the woman whose friendship 
he called the honor and chief bless- 
ing of his existence. The picture 
which he has drawn of his child- 
hood is at once painful and ludi- 
crotis. 

He does not even incidentally 
allude to a single fact which would 
lead one to suppose that he had a 
mother or had ever known a mo- 
ther's love. 

The father, as described by the 
son, was cold, fanatical, morose, al- 
most inhuman, acting as though he 
thought children are born merely 
for the purpose of being crammed 
with Greek roots and logical for- 
mulas. John Stuart was put at 
Greek vocables when only three 
years old. His father demanded 
of him not only the utmost that he 
could do, but much that it was ut- 
terly impossible that he should do. 
He was guilty, for instance, of the 
incredible folly of making him read 
the Dialogues of Plato when only 
seven years old. He never knew 

• p. 169 



anything of the freshness or joyous- 
ness of childhood, or what it is to 
be "boy eternal." He grew up 
without the companionship of chil- 
dren, blighted and dwarfed by the 
abiding presence of the narrow 
and unnatural man who nipped the 
flower of his life in the bud, and 
repressed within him all the sen- 
timents and aspirations which are 
the spontaneous and healthful pro- 
duct of youth. He was not taught to 
delight in sunshine and flowers, and 
music and song; but even in his 
boyish rambles there strode ever 
by his side the analytical machine, 
dissecting, destroying, marring 
God's work with his lifeless, hope- 
less theories. The effect of this 
training was, as we have already 
seen, that when the boy became a 
man, he found himself like a ship on 
the ocean without sail or compass, 
and there gathered around his life 
the settled gloom of despair, which 
his philosophical opinions tended 
only to deepen. 

Without a mother's love, without 
a father whom it was possible to 
love, without friends of his own 
age, without God, dejected, despon- 
dent, hopeless, he met the wife of a 
friend of his father, who, from the 
manner in which she controlled 
her first and second husbands, must 
have been a clever woman, and he 
became an idolater, giving to her 
the adoration which his father had 
taught him to withhold from God. 
That there is no exaggeration in 
this statement every one who will 
take the trouble to read the seventh 
chapter of Mill's Autobiography will 
be ready to confess. 

He married this woman in 1851, 
when he was forty-five and she but 
two years younger, and seven years 
later her death occurred. Mill 
wishes the world to believe that 
this woman was the prodigy of the 



John Stuart MilL 




XlXth century, surpassing in intel- 
lectual vigor and moral strength all 
men and all other women ; that to 
her he owed all that is best in his 
own writings; and that he is but 
the interpreter of the wonderful 
thoughts of this incomparable wo- 
man, whom others have deemed 
merely a commonplace woman's 
rights woman. 

" Thus prepared," he writes, " it 
will easily be believed that when I 
came into close intellectual com- 
munion with a person of the most 
eminent faculties, whose genius, as 
it grew and unfolded itself in 
thought, struck out truths far in 
advance of me, but in which I 
could not, as I had done in those 
others, detect any mixture of error, 
the greatest part of my mental 
growth consisted in the assimilation 
of those truths ; and the most valu- 
able part of my intellectual work 
was in building the bridges and 
clearing the paths which connected 
them with my general system of 
thought.'** 

Mill seems to have been incapa- 
ble of a healthful sentiment of any 
kind. The same quality in his 
stunted and warped moral nature 
which caused him to have a false 
and exaggerated sense of the evil 
that is in the world, leading him to 
atheism, made him a blind and 
superstitious worshipper of the im- 
aginary endowments of his wife. 
But one must read the book itself 
to realize how far he carried this 
idolatry. 

When she dies, he again sinks 
into the gloom which his supersti- 
tion had seemed to cause him par- 
tially to forget ; and if he continues 
to work, it is only with the feeble 



strength " derived from thoughts of 
her and communion with her me- 
mory." Her death was a calamity 
which took from him all hope, and 
he found some slight alleviation 
only in the mode of life which best 
enabled him to feel her still near 
him. 

She died at Avignon, and he 
bought a cottage as close as possi- 
ble to the place where she was bu- 
ried ; and there he settled down in 
helpless misery, feeling that all that 
remained to him in the world was 
a memory. 

" Her memory," he writes, " is to 
me a religion, and her approbation 
the standard by which, summing up, 
as it does, all worthiness, I endeavor 
to regulate my life." * 

He did not believe in God, in the 
soul, in a life beyond life ; he had 
scarcely any faith in the practical 
efforts of the age to improve the 
condition of the masses, upon whom 
he looked as the common herd; 
his own countrymen especially he 
despised as selfish and narrow 
above all other men, grovelling in 
their instincts, and low in the ob- 
jects which they aim at ; happiness 
he held to be the sole end of exis- 
tence ; and at the close of his life, an 
old man, in a foreign land, in im- 
medicable misery, he stood beside 
a grave, and sought with feeble fin- 
gers to clutch the shadow of a 
dream, which he called his religion ; 
and so he died. 

We have never read a sadder 
book, nor one which to our mind 
contains stronger proof that the 
soul longs with an infinite craving 
for God, and, not finding him, will 
worship anything — a woman, a 
stone, a memory. 



• P. 843. 



• p. n*. 



734 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



THE FARM OF MUICERON. 



BY MARIE RUEIL. 



raOM THB RBVUB DU MONDS CATHOUQDB. 



XVI. 



However, our good friends at 
Muiceron had not become, believe 
me, so entirely perverted by vanity 
as to lose all remembrance of the 
past. They could not have lived 
twenty years with a boy as perfect 
in conduct and affection as Jean- 
Louis without missing him as the 
days rolled on. 

I acknowledge, nevertheless, that 
the first week passed so quickly in 
the midst of the flurry and fuss of 
the marriage contract and presents 
— ^bought on credit — that the ab- 
sence of the good child was scarcely 
felt; but, towards the end of the 
second week, one evening Pierrette 
asked Ragaud if the time had not 
nearly expired that Jean-Louis had 
been lent to Michou for the clearing 
of the forest of Montreux ; " for," 
said she, " I cannot live any longer 
without him, he was of so much use 
to me, and the house is so empty 
without him." 

" I gave him for a fortnight," re- 
plied Ragaud, "and I would not 
disoblige Michou by reclaiming him 
before ; but I think we will see him 
next week, and then I hope he will 
be over his little miff." 

" What miff?" asked Pierrette. 

" Bless me ! wife, you are a little 
too simple if you have not noticed 
long before this how sullen the boy 
has become." 

" He never says much," replied 
Pierrette, " and we have all been so 
very busy lately, it has made him 
more silent even than usual." 



" That is precisely it," said Ra- 
gaud. " You have petted him so 
much, he fancied everything was his; 
and when he saw us so occupied 
with Jeannette*s marriage, he took it 
in dudgeon, and became offended." 

"That would be very wrong in 
him," replied La Ragaude, " and I 
don't believe Jeannet capable of 
such wicked sentiments. Jealousy 
is not one of his faults ; on the con* 
trary, he always thinks of others 
before himself." 

" That may be, that may be, but 
you cannot judge of wine, no mat- 
ter how old you may know it to be, 
before tasting; and, in the same 
way, you cannot answer for any 
quality of the heart until it has been 
tried. So it was very easy for 
Jeannet not to be jealous when 
there was no subject for jealousy; 
but, if you were not always blind 
and deaf to his defects, you would 
acknowledge that from the day that 
Isidore put his foot in this house he 
has changed as much as milk turned 
into curds." 

" That may all be," said Pierrette, 
who could not answer her husband's 
objections. 

" That may all be so easily that it 
is positively so," replied Ragaud, 
^ and Jeannet will not re-enter this 
house until I have spoken ver> 
plainly to him, and made him pro- 
mise to treat Isidore as a brother." 

" That is just what I think," re- 
plied good Pierrette, who loved 
peace above all things, "and you 
always speak wisely." 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



735 



Jeannette, for her part, had a 
little secret annoyance that she 
carefully concealed, but which made 
her more irritable and less docile 
than usual, greatly to the astonish- 
ment of Pierrette, who thought her 
to be at the summit of happiness. 
After being rather sullen with Jean- 
net, because he did not appear de- 
lighted with her marriage, and, 
above all, with her intended, she 
was now displeased to see Isidore 
parading before every one — and to 
her the first — ^his great satisfaction 
at the departure of Jean-Louis. He 
even seemed to seek every occasion 
to speak injuriously of him before 
her parents, and allowed no one to 
praise him in his presence. The 
child was not very patient, we al- 
ready know, and, as Solange truly 
said, her head alone was dazzled; 
her heart was not spoiled enough to 
make her lose her good sense. Still 
further, she began to feel very un- 
easy on a subject which she wished 
to understand clearly before finally 
engaging herself — it was that of re- 
ligion. She had felt the ground 
around Perdreau, and, although he 
was as hypocritical as the devil, he 
had attempted several very dis- 
agreeable jokes about the church 
and her ceremonies which, I must 
say, provoked Jeannette to such 
a degree, she openly showed her 
displeasure. Thereupon Isidore, 
seeing that he had gone too far, 
and that he must be more careful 
or he would lose her dowry, tried 
to play the part of a saint in his 
niche ; but it was a comedy in which 
he was not well skilled from want 
of practice, and Jeannette, more 
and more worried and unhappy, 
commenced to regret that the good 
and wise Jeannet was no longer at 
her side to aid her with his advice, 
of which she had never before felt 
such urgent need. 



So she, in her turn, hazarded the 
same request as Pierrette, and ask- 
ed her father when they might ex- 
pect the return of Jean-Louis. 

Ragaud made her nearly the same 
reply as he had done to his wife, 
without mentioning his ideas in rela- 
tion to Jeannet 's supposed jealousy ; 
and Jeannette patiently awaited 
him. 

But the fortnight went by with- 
out any sign of the boy, and it 
could be easily perceived that 
Jeannette was becoming nervous — a 
kind of sickness little known in the 
country even by name, but which 
mademoiselle's example had taught 
Jeannette to attempt whenever 
things did not go on exactly as she 
wished. However, affairs went on 
precisely as those rascally Per- 
dreaux desired. The marriage- 
contract was prepared, and, after 
an immense scrawl of big words, 
which Ragaud did not understand, 
it concluded by making the good 
man abandon all his personal and 
landed property to his daughter, 
only reserving for himself a mod- 
erate annuity. Ragaud was asham* 
ed to avow that all this waste paper 
was entirely above his comprehen- 
sion. He tried to look very wise, but 
proved by his questions that he 
was caught in a trap ; for, after the 
reading of the knavish document, 
which stripped him of everything, 
he innocently asked if he would re- 
tain the right to manage Muiceron, 
and live there as master during his 
life. 

"Undoubtedly," replied the no- 
tary ; " your children would be un- 
natural to let it be otherwise. I 
have done all for the best, for I 
suppose you do not wish to oblige 
my son to marry under the dotal 
iaw r 

"What is the dotal lawf said 
Ragaud. 



736 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



^* It is the greatest disgrace that 
can be imposed on a man," gravely 
replied the notary. 

"Oh! I beg pardon, M. Per- 
dreau ; and so in your paper there 
is no question of that ?" 

" Certainly not," said the notary. 
" I have drawn up the papers for 
the good father and honorable man 
that you are." 

" Then it is all right, and L have 
nothing more to do but to thank 
you," said the honest farmer. 

" We could both sign it this 
evening," said the head rascal. 

" There is no hurry," said Ra- 
gaud; "we will do that when all 
the family are present, before my 
wife and the children. I wish 
Jeannet to sign it also." 

" Sign ? Your Jean-Louis can't 
sign it," said the notary, " as he has 
no name ; the law, M. Ragaud, does 
not recognize illegitimate children." 

" Really ! That is cruel for the 
boy, monsieur; at least, I would 
like him to hear the paper read." 

" For what reason ?** 

"To please him, that is all; he 
has been like a child to us for 
twenty years, and has never deserv- 
ed to be driven from the family." 

" As you please ; I think it use- 
less. In business, you see, there 
is no such thing as sentiment ; how- 
ever, if you prefer it . . ." 

" I certainly do prefer it," replied 
Ragaud firmly. " I have been a just 
man all my life, monsieur, and I do 
not wish now to act unjustly to- 
ward a child who has always served 
me so faithfully." 

The notary did not reply, but his 
ugly weasel-face showed such bitter 
displeasure that Ragaud, already 
dissatisfied with the conversation, 
suddenly remembered Jacques Mi- 
chou*s remarks, and promised him- 
self to keep his eyes open. 

Fortunately, the good God gives 



to honest men a sense of distrust 
which is easily sharpened- The 
peasant, in particular, is never en- 
tirely at ease when spoken to in 
more difficult language than two 
and two make four. Now, Ra- 
gaud, on account of his vanity, did 
not wish to acknowledge before 
others that he understood nothing 
of all the fine writing on the stamp- 
ed paper, but he avowed it to him- 
self, and, putting on a perfectly in- 
nocent air, he said to Perdreau : 

" Will you have the kindness to 
let me have the papers for a few 
days? I would like to read them 
over again when I have time." 

" Very willingly," replied the no- 
tary, well convinced — ^and there he 
was right — that good Ragaud could 
not decipher the handwriting, and 
that it would be all Greek to him. 
" I was even going to propose it to 
you. Take them, M. Ragaud, and 
read them at your leisure; but 
I need not tell you that it must re- 
main a secret between us until the 
day the contract is signed." 

" I understand," replied Ragaud. 
" I know how to be discreet, mon- 
sieur, and I am not more desirous 
than you that my daughter's affairs 
should be known all over the neigh- 
borhood." 

He did not speak falsely in pro- 
mising it ; for to a Christian the 
word of a priest is sacred, and he 
only intended to let the cur/ read 
the contract under the seal of con- 
fession. 

The next day it so happened 
that M. Perdreau went to the city, 
where he expected to pass two days, 
to plan an affair still worse than the 
rest, which you will know in due 
time. Ragaud, thus having the 
field clear, hurried off to Val-Saint, 
with the papers carefully folded 
under his blouse. 

That morning Jeannette was not 



The Farm of Muiccron. 



711 



in good humor. Three weeks had 
gone by without any news of Jean- 
net, who did not even return to 
sleep at Muiceron. She received 
her loving Isidore like a spoiled 
child, shrugged her shoulders when 
he told her she was charmingly 
pretty, and ended by telling him 
he must find out something about 
Jean-Louis, and bring him back to 
• her as quickly as possible, or else 
she would not believe he loved her. 

Isidore, who had every defect — 
above all, the silly vanity to think 
that he was fully capable of turning 
the heads of all the girls, which is, 
in itself, a proof of presumptuous 
folly — pretended at first to take it as 
a joke, imagining that Jeannette 
wished to provoke his jealousy. 
But seeing her serious and resolute, 
he replied in an angry tone that 
such a commission was not to his 
taste. 

" In that case," she replied, " it 
is not to mine to talk to you to- 
day. " 

" Then I will take my leave," 
said he, touching his hat. 

She did not detain him, and 
contented herself with smiling, 
which he thought another little 
coquettish trick. 

" You are like all women," said 
he slowly, " who do not mind sacri- 
ficing their hearts for a whim." 

" What do you call a whim ?" 
replied Jeannette. " Is the desire 
to see my brother again a whim.? 
Very well, then, I declare to you 
that I will regard nothing decided 
as to our marriage until Jean-Louis 
has returned home." 

" Do you think, my little beauty," 
said he, turning red with anger, 
" that I will let you call that vaga- 
bond of a foundling brother after 
you become my wife .'" 

" We will see," replied she ; " but, 
meanwhile, I do not intend to 
VOL. xviii. — 47 



change, and neither will I allow 
Jeannet to be insulted in my pre- 
sence ; it is not the first time I have 
told you so, M. Isidore." 

" And so you are capable of be- 
coming seriously angry with me, 
who adores you, on account of your 
pretended brother ?" 

"If you are unreasonable and 
unjust," said she resolutely, " I 
will no longer love you." 

"You scarcely love me now," 
said he sullenly. " I did not believe 
that the day would ever come when 
you could think so little of me." 

" I have always thought," she 
replied, " that husband and wife 
should agree upon all points. Ever 
since I can remember, I have al- 
ways had a respect and friendship 
for Jean-Louis, and never has he 
behaved otherwise than well in 
this house; where he is looked upon 
as a son. I don't know why my 
marriage should change my feelings 
in regard to him ; and that is a ques- 
tion I confess we had better settle 
at once before going any further. 

" Very well," said M. Isidore, 
speaking like one who had sudden- 
ly decided upon some plan. " I am 
very sorry to be obliged to pain 
you, but I will not bother myself 
about this bast — about this Jean- 
Louis, and that because it is time 
you should know the truth about 
him ; he is far from being worthy 
of your esteem, my dear Jeanne." 

" Oh ! indeed !" said she. " Here 
is something very new; and the 
proof, if you please V 

" You insist upon knowing it .?" 

"Absolutely and quickly," re- 
plied Jeannette, who began to grow 
impatient. 

"You will certainly be grieved, 
and there is reason for it," said Isi- 
dore in a sad tone. "Know, then, 
that this Jean-Louis, whom you 
fancy dying with grief because he 



738 



The Farm of Muiceron^ 



no longer sees you, is all the while 
enjoying himself immensely." 

" How can he amuse himself?" 
asked Jeannette. " You are telling 
stories. Jeannet is in the wood of 
Montreux, where he has too much 
to do, in clearing out the forest, to 
think of anything else ; besides, 
he is not naturally very gay, poor 
boy!" 

^"^ Poor boy ! Don't pity him so 
much ; he would laugh if he heard 
you. Clearing the wood of Mon- 
treux — ^he } It is a mere pretence 
to hide his game ; he wishes to be 
more at ease to court Solange Lu- 
guet. 

" M. Isidore," cried Jeannette, 
starting up, pale with anger, " keep 
on speaking ill of Jean-Louis — ^he is 
a man, andean defend himself; but 
to speak thus of my cousin Solange 
is a cowardly falsehood !** 

"How pretty you look!" said 
Isidore insolently. " Anger is so be- 
coming to you, I would always like 
to see you so, if it were not so pain- 
ful to me to excite you thus. No, 
Jeanne, I do not lie. M. Jean- 
Louis, who owes his life to your 
parents, and whom you call brother, 
at this very instant ridicules the 
whole household. He is going to 
marry Solange, and I don't believe 
he will even inform you of it." 

"Who told you so.?"asked Jean- 
nette, amazed. " People will gossip 
so. 

" I had it from Pierre Luguet. 
It is true it is common talk, but I 
would not have believed it, if So- 
lange's own brother had not said 
it." 

" Can you swear it to me V said 
she. 

" I can swear to it positively. 
Ask Pierre ; you see I am not afraid 
of being proved a liar." 

"I believe you," said Jeanne, 
who sought in vain to keep back 



the tears that filled her eyes. 
" Never, I confess, would I have be- 
lieved that of Jean-Louis." 

" You understand now why I 
did not care to start in search of 
that gentleman. I am indignant at 
his conduct ; it is frightful ingrati- 
tude. To think that he had here 
a father, a mother, a sister, and 
that he abandons all to go off and 
be secretly married ! Is it not 
proof in itself that he renounces 
and despises you .^" 

" Oh ! it is very wrong, very 
wrong!" said Jeannette, much ex- 
cited. " You were right — I can 
no longer call him brother." 

" I hope not ; it would be affec- 
tion very badly bestowed, and 
which would make you the laugh- 
ing-stock of the village. Are you 
still angry with me, my dear Jean- 
ne.?" 

"Pardon me," said she, extend- 
ing her hand ; " you see, I have 
had good reason for sorrow." 

And then 'she burst into tears, 
no longer able to restrain them, Init 
without exactly knowing the cause 
of so real a pain. 

Isidore did not expect to siu- 
ceed so well. This time he had 
not lied ; he really believed Jeannet 
would be married, as that giddy- 
brained Pierre had announced the 
fact to him. And yet he did nut 
like to see Jeanne weep for such a 
little thing. It made him think 
that the affection of these two chil- 
dren, who had lived together as 
brother and sister for so many 
years, was much stronger than he 
had believed, and he was more de- 
termined than ever to put a stop to 
it after he was married, and even 
before, if he could. 

He left Muiceron very much dis- 
satisfied. Jeannette was sad ; she 
let him go off without scarcely no- 
ticing him. When she was alone, 



The Farm of Muiceron, 



739 



the wish to seek some consolation 
led her to go after her mother, to 
see if she had heard the news, and 
to talk with her about it. 

But, behold ! just as she left the 
room she ran against some one, 
and who should it be but Jean- 
Louis, who had come after some 
changes of clothes to carry off to 
the wood, and who, knowing that 
she was with her intended, did not 
wish to disturb her. 

At the sight of her brother all the 
readiness of her character came back 
and took the place of her vexation. 
She assumed an air so haughty 
that Jeannet, all ready to embrace 
her, stepped back, dumb with as- 
tonishment. 

"You there?" said Jeannette, 
with a frown on her brow. 

" You there ? Why do you speak 
so to me V asked he, astonished. 

" You must not forget," continu- 
ed Jeanne, who proudly raised her 
head as she spoke, " that I am en- 
gaged to Isidore Perdreau." 

**Yes, I know it," said Jean- 
Louis. 

" Consequently," she replied, " it 
is no longer possible for me to 
treat you as formerly. You know 
why ?" 

"I know it," answered he, lower- 
ing his head. 

" It is no longer proper," said 
she, " for us to behave as brother 
and sister, since we are not so real- 
ly." 

" That is true," said Jeannet, his 
heart aching with mortal agony. 

" That is all I have to say," add- 
ed Jeannette in a still haughtier 
tone ; " and now, Jean-Louis, I wish 
you much joy and happiness — this 
I say in remembrance of our friend- 
ship!" 

" Are you bidding me farewell V* 
asked he. 

" I will see you later — and — and 



your wife also ; but you under- 
stand ?" 

" My wife ?" said Jeannet. 

"Enough," replied Jeanne; "I 
do not wish to know your secrets. 
It is useless for you to seek my 
father and my mother." 

And with that she rapidly cross- 
ed the room, and hurried off; for, 
between ourselves, this great anger 
was not very real, and the longer 
she looked at the pale, beautiful 
face of her brother, whom she had 
not seen for such a long time, the 
more she felt like throwipg her 
arms around his neck, instead of 
ill-treating him. But her words 
had been too cruel ; they had en- 
tered the soul of Jean-Louis like so 
many sword-thnists. It was all 
ended for him. Proud as he was, 
and always overwhelmed with the 
secret grief of his birth, to have 
it recalled to him by so dear a 
mouth was deadly suffering. He 
remained an instant as though his 
senses had left him, not knowing 
what to do or to think ; then all at 
once his reason returned. He had 
just been driven out, and, after all, 
they had the right to do it. He 
made the sign of the cross on his 
heart, and left the house, with the 
intention of never returning. 

He went back to Michou, and 
passed the evening with him at the 
Luguets*. He said nothing of what 
had happened to any one. Dear, 
good Solange noticed that he was 
sadder than usual, but that was not 
astonishing ; she knew he had been 
that day to Muiceron, and she very 
truly thought he had possibly heard 
things which could not contribute 
to lighten his heart and make him 

gay. 

It is now time to tell you that 
old Perdreau was one of the leaders 
of a band of ruffians who assembled 
in a lonely field every week in our 



740 



Tlu Farm of Muiceron. 



city of Issoudun, where, after taking 
the most frightful oaths, they plot- 
ted, murder, arson, and the rob- 
bery of the ch4tea*'x and churches. 
It was what is called a secret soci- 
ety, and was known by the name of 
la Martine ; and some weeks after- 
wards, when the Revolution of 1848 
broke out, which caused such 
havoc among us, there was a well- 
known man, so I have been told, 
who bore the same name, and who 
placed himself at the head of the 
insurgents, believing them, in good 
faith, to be the most honest men in 
the world. This man, who was as 
good as any one you could find, 
and even a passable Christian, my 
father assured me, bit his thumbs 
until the blood came when he saw 
himself despised and his counsel 
disregarded. But it was too late ; 
the evil was done. Undoubtedly 
you know much more about it than 
I, and so I scarcely dare venture 
to say any more on the subject. 
You must only know that the curs- 
ed notary had used all the money 
of M. le Marquis to pay the rabble 
of ia Martine^ with the understand- 
ing that, when they pillaged the 
chateau, he should have half the 
estate, including the dwelling-house. 

As for Isidore, he was fully up to 
the business, and worked at it as- 
siduously, as much at Paris as else- 
where. The men who worked in 
the wood of Montreux belonged to 
the gang; he knew them all by 
name, and kept them all near Val- 
Saint, so as to be ready for the con- 
templated insurrection. But in 
case the thing should not succeed, 
or would be delayed, he did not 
think it beneath him to provide 
himself with a pear to satisfy his 
thirst, and that was his marriage. 

Our good Ragaud returned from 
his interview with M. le Q\xx€ rather 
depressed in spirits. The contract. 



as read by the holy man, did not 
appear to him as captivating as 
when explained by the notary. He 
had learned still further, from a few 
words discreetly uttered, that it 
would be well not to place implicit 
faith in Master Perdreau, and be- 
lieve him the personification of 
honor, as until then he had inno- 
cently imagined. What now could 
be done to arrange, or rather disar- 
range, affairs so far advanced ? The 
poor man was devoured with care 
and anxiety. He dared not speak 
to his daughter, whom he thought 
to reduce to desperation at the 
mere mention of the word rupture ; 
and then to withdraw from the con- 
tract now would lower him tremen- 
dously in the eyes of the world 
around. No longer able to see clear- 
ly, Ragaud kept quiet, locked the 
documents safely in his chest, and 
waited — which, in many circumstan- 
ces, is the wisest policy. 

A long week passed ; then came 
the festivals of Christmas and New 
Year. Old Perdreau was half dead 
with impatience, but nevertheless 
dared not say a word, or even ap- 
pear too anxious. What bothered 
him, besides, was that the rascally 
gang in the wood of Montreux 
were constantly receiving messages 
from their infernal society to hurr)' 
up affairs, and, therefore, they 
threatened to commence the dance 
before the violins were ready, 
which would have spoiled all the 
plans. Pushed to extremity, he 
determined, one fine day, to send 
his son secretly to allay the storm 
by speaking to his worthy compan- 
ions in roguery. 

Isidore, who feared nothing an^ 
no one, ridiculed his father's anx- 
iety. He promised to quiet them 
that very night, and about eleven 
o'clock, in spite of the bad weather 
— ^for it was snowing, and the wind 



The Farm qf Muiceron. 



741 



was very high — ^he left for Val- 
Saint. 

The place they were clearing was 
quite far from M. Michou's little 
house, where Jean-Louis slept, to- 
gether with the game-keeper. The 
men, as is customary among wood- 
cutters, had constructed a large re- 
treat formed of the trunks of trees, 
cemented with mud and moss. It 
was towards this spot that young 
Perdreau directed his steps ; and 
never did a stormier night fall upon 
an uglier traveller. 

XVII. 

It is not difficult to conjecture 
that Jeannet, in spite of his heart- 
troubles and sorrows, had not been 
— sharp as he was — ^blind to the 
character of the men who worked 
under his orders in the wood of 
Montreux. In the first place, Mi- 
chou warned him from the begin- 
ning to be watchful, and not to al- 
low the slightest infringement of 
discipline or drunkenness among 
men, who were unknown and of de- 
cidedly doubtful appearance. One 
warning sufficed; he observed for 
himself, and caught at random more 
than one stray expression which he 
chanced to overhear. And then, 
what could be expected from men 
who seemed to be without family or 
friends, who never frequented the 
church, and shunned the places 
where the honest people of the 
commune were accustomed to as- 
semble } Certainly, our good Jean- 
Louis was not wanting in penetra- 
tion, and old Michou, who prided 
himself upon seeing very far into 
everything, was as distrustful as 
he ; consequently, they agreed that 
every night one or the other should 
take a turn around the retreat of 
the wood -cutters, and see what was 
going on in this nest of mischiev- 
ous rascals. To do this, Jeannet 



had skilfully managed to make an 
opening in the angle opposite to 
that where the men had established 
their fire-place, so that, the room 
being well lighted inside, everything 
could be clearly seen outside. 

Usually, and for many nights, all 
was quiet and orderly; the greater 
part of the band of la Martine^ 
tired out with the day's labors, 
slept soundly all the evening, 
stretched pell-mell upon heaps of 
dried leaves strewed over the floor 
of their bivouac. Only a few re- 
mained drinking by the hearth ; so 
that the watchers, after a glance 
around, went off to sleep in their 
turn. 

On the night of which I speak, 
Michou should have made the 
round, but Jean-Louis, who since 
the scene at Muiceron had been 
miserably unhappy, and could not 
sleep, asked leave to fulfil the extra 
duty. 

" It is very stormy," said he to his 
old comrade. *' Remain at home, 
M. Jacques ; I will go to Montreux 
in your place." 

" Be off, then," said the keeper, 
without waiting to be asked twice, 
" you are young and not rheumatic ; 
and I will smoke my pipe while 
waiting for you.** 

Jeannet threw over his shoulders 
a heavy brown wrapper, and was 
off in a flash. 

When he reached the retreat, he 
was surprised to see light shining 
through the two or three little win- 
dows under the roof, and a big 
column of smoke coming out of the 
chimney. Just at this moment Isi- 
dore entered from his side ; he 
made them open the door, by 
means of a signal well known 
among men of that stamp ; they re- 
ceived him with much honor, and 
rekindled the fire, which was burn- 
ing rather low. 



742 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



Jeannet looked through the open- 
ing; judge of his astonishment 
when he recognized Jeannette's in- 
tended, and saw the cordial wel- 
come extended to him by the men, 
who grasped him by the hand, and 
made room for him among them. 
He was dumfounded, almost fancied 
himself in a dream, but, at the 
same time, shook with anger, shame, 
and sorrow. 

But this was only the beginning 
of his surprise. If the insiSe could 
easily be seen, the conversation 
was as plainly heard through the 
wooden walls, lined with moss ; and 
what he heard froze the blood in 
his veins. Isidore first spoke, and 
made an eloquent discourse, which 
was several times interrupted by 
the bravos of his audience ; in 
which speech he showed precisely 
what he was — a pagan, an agrarian, 
a complete villain, without either 
faith or justice. He encouraged 
his friends, the ruffianly crew before 
him, to proceed to arson and pillage 
— to murder, if necessary — for the 
one purpose, said he, of gaining the 
triumph of the holy cause. This 
word holy^ which he did not scruple 
to repeat, sounded so horribly in 
his blasphemous mouth that poor 
Jean-Louis shuddered while listen- 
ing to him ; not from fear, but from 
the furious desire to avenge the 
name of holy, which he had dared 
to pollute with his tongue. 

"O my God!" thought he; 
" that the husband of Jeannette ! 
And is it on account of such 
a vagabond that I have been 
treated so harshly 1 Poor, poor 
Jeanne !" 

After Isidore had finished his 
frightful speech, his companions 
began to curse and swear all at 
once. Glasses of brandy were 
passed around, and their heads, al- 

'^v heated by wicked passions, 



became still more excited; so 
that they began to dispute among 
themselves as to whom should be- 
long this and that piece of the 
estate of Val-Saint. This one 
wanted the fields, another the wood, 
a third such or such a farm, and so 
on with the rest, until Isidore, com- 
manding silence, reminded them, 
with threats and oaths, that the 
chateau should belong to his father, 
and that whoever failed to comply 
with his promise would be answer- 
able to him personally. 

" Come, come," said one of the 
men, " we will see a little about 
that ; he is going rather too far. Is 
it because he is going to marry a 
devotee — eh, Isidore?" 

Perdreau turned livid with anger 
at being thus addressed — not that 
he respected Jeannette or her prin- 
ciples, but because he was as proud 
as a peacock ; and as he held every 
one around him in sovereign con- 
tempt, he did not recognize their 
right to meddle in his private af- 
fairs. 

"I will marry whom I please," 
said he haughtily; "and the first 
one that finds fault has only to 
speak." 

"Bah! bah! Isidore, don't be 
angry," said an old wood-cutter, 
who went by the name oi Blackbeardj 
on account of his savage look. 
" What they say is only for your 
good; w^e have heard tell of your 
marriage, and it alarms us. The 
truth is that if the thing is true, 
you will be tied for ever to that Ra- 
gaud, who belongs to the sacristy 
clique." 

" Ha ! ha !" replied Isidore, some- 
what pacified ; " the moment you 
talk sense, I am willing to answer. 
Tell me, then, what would you do 
if a chestful of gold came under 
your hand V* 

" What nonsense even to ask such 



The Farm of Mtiiceron, 



743 



a question ! Why, I would pick it 
up, of course." 

"That is just what I am doing," 
replied Isidore, laughing ; " and as 
for the piety and all that stuff, I 
don't bother myself. When I will 
have the principal, I am capable of 
regulating the rest." 

" Do it, and joy be with you," 
said Blackbeard; "we understand 
each other. So no one will be al- 
lowed to interfere with Isidore ; he 
is worthy of our esteem 1" 

The rascals applauded, and re- 
commenced their shameful jokes 
and infernal proposals. Isidore, 
once more master of the assembly, 
spoke at greater length, and ended 
by exacting an oath that no one 
should move in the cause until a 
given signal from Paris. They all 
swore as he wished, and, as the 
night was far advanced, honest Per- 
dreau took leave of his good friends, 
fearing that daylight might sur- 
prise him before he could regain 
his house. 

Jean-Louis needed all the 
strength mercifully granted by the 
good God in such a trying moment 
to listen until the end to all these 
horrors. The blood boiled in his 
veins ; he felt neither the snow, 
nor the biting north wind, and 
more than once his indignation was 
so great, he stepped forward and 
clenched his fist, as though he would 
throw himself in the midst of those 
demons, without reflecting that a 
solid wall separated them from him. 
Happily, he restrained himself; for 
courage is not imprudence, and, if 
he had failed in coolness, he would 
have lost all the results of the im- 
portant discovery he had just made. 
He went back to Michou's cabin, 
whom he found awaiting his return, 
according to his promise, and who 
had commenced to feel very anx- 
ious about his long absence. 



" M. Jacques," said he, on enter- 
ing, " I came very near not return- 
ing. ..." 

And in a few words he recounted 
all he had heard and seen. 

Michou said not a word. He re- 
lighted his pipe, and paced the floor, 
plunged in thought. 

" I knew the Perdreaux were fa- 
mous scamps," said he at last, " but 
not quite so bad as that !" 

"Oh!" cried Jeannet, "if my 
death could have saved Jeannette 
from that rascal, I would have 
broken in the door and fallen in 
the midst of them without hesita- 



nt 



tion. 

" A very stupid thing you would 
have done, then," replied Michou ; 
" they would have killed you, and 
to-morrow announced that you had 
fallen from a tree. That would 
have been a lucky thing for Per- 
dreau." 

" God watched over me," replied 
Jean-Louis. " And now, what shall 
we do ?" 

" That little Ragaud," said Mi- 
chou, " deserves it all for her fri- 
volity and vanity ; and, as a pun- 
ishment, we should let her go to 
the end of the rope with her Isidore." 

" Never, never !" cried Jean-Lou- 
is. " You are not speaking serious- 
ly .^ The daughter of your old 
brother-in-arms V 

"Ha!" replied the old fellow, 
"my old brother-in-arms! Ten 
years ago I predicted what would 
be the end of his nonsense." 

" This is not the time to wish it 
now," replied Jeannet. " Let us 
save them, M. Michou ; I can do 
nothing without you." 

" Why not ? You have a tongue 
like me; more than that, you saw 
and heard all; go to-morrow to 
Muiceron." 

" Impossible," said Jeannet, much 
embarrassed. 



744 



The Farm of Mukeron. 



"Impossible? There is some- 
thing behind that !" 

"But was it not you yourself 
who made me promise not to re- 
turn to my parents ?" 

" Most certainly, my child ; but 
the case is urgent, it seems to me, 
and they should know in time, so 
as to change their minds before it 
is too late." 

" I will lose my self-control if I 
meet Isidore face to face." 

" Jeannet," said Michou, " you 
have a good heart. I know all, my 
boy ; they drove you from Mui- 
ceron. Marion heard that little 
magpie of a Jeannette dismiss you, 
and she related the story to me, 
weeping all the while, good fat girl 
that she is. I wished to see how 
far your generosity would carry 
you. Evil be to them who treated 
you in that manner ; they deserve 
what has happened." 

" No," said Jean-Louis, " they 
are blinded, that is all ; and now I 
have forgotten those words, said 
without reflection. M. Jacques, I 
beg of you help me to save Jean- 
nette." 

" You will have a fine reward, 
eh?" 

" Oh ! what is it to me ? After 
all, can I, for a few cruel words, 
lose the memory of twenty years of 
tenderness and kindness ?" 

" If you do not have your place 
in heaven," said the keeper, raising 
his shoulders and voice at the same 
time, to conceal his emotion, which 
was very visible, " I think our cure 
himself cannot answer for his. 
Come, let us see what we can do to 
save this hare-brained Jeannette. 
In the first place, to morrow, at the 
latest, I intend that M. le Marquis' 
place shall be cleared of those 
rascals that encumber it. The 
thing is easy ; I will tell them that, 
owing to the bad weather, we will 



postpone the clearing of the forest 
until spring, as the work advances 
too slowly, and give them two 
weeks' pay . . . no, I won't; one 
week is enough. And then you— 
you must writfe; do you hear? 
Write. Writing remains, and scenes 
and conflicts are avoided ; you will 
therefore write six lines, carefully 
worded, to Perdreau. You will tell 
him you were at the meeting in the 
wood that night. How ? That is 
none of fiis business — it is enough 
that you were there ; then you will 
add : * I give you three days to 
disappear, after which I will warn 
the police.' And for the expla- 
nation at Muiceron, I will see to 
it." 

Jean-Louis saw at once the good 
sense of this arrangement, and 
obeyed immediately. In reality, it 
was the only means of bringing 
things to the best possible conclu- 
sion. 

The next day Michou went to 
the wood, as usual. He fotmd the 
men at their -work, as though no- 
thing had happened, and taking aside 
old Blackbeard, who appeared to 
have some control over his com- 
panions, he told him very quietly of 
his intention. Now, you will have 
no difficulty in seeing that for men 
who reckoned upon dividing a do- 
main worth five hundred thousand 
crowns in a few days, to be free 
from work and receive a week's pay 
was a clear and enticing advantage. 
Michou was applauded ; and, but 
that it went against the grain, he 
would have had the happiness of 
shaking hands with the whole crew. 
But as he was not very desirous of 
that pleasure with such a set, he 
was entirely rewarded for his pains 
by seeing them file past him ann- 
in-arm, and watched them as they 
went down the road^ singing at the 
top of their lungs. 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



745 



That same morning Jean-Louis* 
letter left for its destination, and 
in the evening the letter-carrier de- 
posited it at the notary's house. 

It has been remarked that villains 
are not brave. The good God, 
who protects honest men because 
they scarcely think of defending 
themselves, has put cowardice in 
the hearts of their enemies, and it 
serves as a rampart always raised 
before virtue, which prevents the 
wicked blows of vice from piercing 
it to death. Do not be astonished 
at that beautiful phrase ; I acknow- 
ledge I am not capable of invent- 
ing it ; but, in order that I might 
repeat it to you, I carefully copied 
it from a big book, full of wise say- 
ings, formerly lent to me by the 
Dean of Aubiers. 

If the lightning had fallen upon 
the notary's house, it would not 
have produced a greater shock 
than Jeannet's simple letter. The 
Perdreaux, as they were better 
educated than the mass of the poor 
people, whom the ringleaders of the 
revolution use for their own pur- 
pose, did not doubt but there would 
be great trouble and an overthrow 
of thrones, but were not the less sure 
of the universal division of pro- 
perty, which they looked forward to 
with such eagerness. But the safest 
and strongest plank of salvation for 
them was the marriage of Isidore, 
and it was most important that it 
should take place now, or else the 
prison-doors would soon be open- 
ed. Old Perdreau was annihilated. 
For thirty years he had had the 
boldness to calumniate his neigh- 
bors on every occasion ; he was on 
the eve, if he could, of causing the 
ruin, and perhaps the death, of our 
gobd lord by delivering up his pro- 
perty and betraying his secrets; 
but before this paper, which con- 
tained only a few lines without 



threats or anger, written by a found- 
ling, he turned livid and trembled 
with fright, and his ugly face, ordi- 
narily so bold, was covered with a 
cold sweat. Isidore also was as 
pale as he ; from time to time he 
read Jean-Louis* letter, crushed it 
in his hand, trampled it under foot, 
swore by the holy name of the Lord, 
and struck the tables and chairs 
with his clenched fist. But that 
did not help the matter. The fa- 
ther and son dared not speak to 
each other. At last Isidore took 
the paper up again ; and as if that 
scare-crow, by disappearing, could 
mend affairs, he tore it into a thou- 
sand pieces. 

" We are lost, lost !" repeated old 
Perdreau, clutching his gray hair 
with both his hands. 

" That remains to be seen !" cried 
Isidore. " Father, instead of sink- 
ing into such despair, you had bet- 
ter think of some plan. It was by 
your order I went to Montreux. I 
knew there was no need of such 
hurry." 

*' What could I do ?" asked the 
unhappy old man, ready to humili- 
ate himself before his son. "We 
were menaced on all sides." 

" It was only you who saw all 
that," replied Isidore harshly ; " I 
always listened to you too much." 

" We can deny it all," ventured 
Perdreau. 

" That is easy to say. But I am 
not sure of our men, if they should 
be questioned. That cursed found- 
ling will be believed before all of 



us. 



>» 



" Lost ! lost !" repeated the nota- 
ry, in the last state of despair. 

" We won't give up," said Isidore. 
" Go to bed, father ; you are in no 
condition to talk. I will reflect for 
both." 

"Ah! think of something, no 
matter what ; we must avert the 



746 



Tlie Farm of Muiceron. 



blow," said old Perdreau, as he 
staggered to his room. 

" Avert the blow !" repeated Isi- 
dore ; " the devil himself would not 
succeed — unless — unless . . .'* 

He paused, as if some one would 
listen to his thought. A frightful 
idea entered his head, and all that 
night the notary, who groaned and 
shivered with fever in his bed, 
heard him walking about, taking 
great strides across the floor, whilst 
he uttered disconnected words. 

The next day the servant found 
her masters in a sad state ; one 
sick, almost delirious, the other 
asleep, all dressed, in a chair, with a 
face haggard from the effects of the 
terrible night that had just passed. 

But two hours afterwards, affairs 
resumed their accustomed train. 
Isidore bathed and changed his 
clothes, drank a bowl of hot wine, 
in which he poured a good pint of 
brandy. He swallowed this com- 
forter, eat a mouthful, and appeared 
fresh and well. But an experienced 
person would easily have seen that 
his eyes looked like balls of fire 
under the red lids, and that every 
moment he made a singular move- 
ment with his shoulders ; you would 
have thought he shuddered, but 
doubtless that Avas owing to the 
heavy frost the night before. 

He went to see Jeannette, as usu- 
al, and was wonderfully polite ; the 
little thing was sad, but gentle and 
quiet. She willingly spoke of the 
marriage, of the contemplated jour- 
ney, and the presents she wished. 
But yet it was easy to see that 
each one of the betrothed was 
playing a part in trying to appear 
at ease, and scarcely succeeded. 
Jeannette, in the midst of a fine 
phrase, would stop and look out 
of the window, and Isidore would 
profit by the opportunity to fall 
into a reverie, which certainly was 



not suitable at such a time. The 
reason was that the slight friend- 
ship that was felt on one side 
had taken wings and flown away ; 
whilst on the other that which 
perhaps might • begin threatened 
to be cut short by circumstances: 
but whose fault was it .^ 

" As you make your bed, so you 
must lie," said our r«r/, and Isi- 
dore, who had stuffed his with 
thorns, should not have been sur- 
prised if he felt them. No one 
can describe, because, very fortu- 
nately, no one can understand, the 
disordered state of this unhappy 
young man's mind. He had form- 
ed a resolution whose result you 
will soon see ; and on whatever side 
he looked, he saw a bottomless 
abyss open before his eyes. He 
was afraid — this yet can be said in 
his favor, for indifference to crime 
is the state of finished scoundrels— 
and he would not now have gone 
so far, if, as we hope, he had not 
previously lost his senses. 

He prolonged his visit to Mui- 
ceron as long as he could. Little 
Jeannette was tired out and did not 
attempt to conceal it, which suffi- 
ciently showed how much pleasure 
she took in the presence oi her 
future husband. She even yawned 
two or three times, which any other 
day he would have resented; but 
now it escaped his notice. 

At nightfall he at last decided 
to leave, and then it could be seen, 
by his pallor and the manner that 
he passed his hand across his brow. 
that the great deep pit of which I 
spoke caused him a greater vertigo 
than ever. 

Nevertheless, he started resolute- 
ly on the road for the wood ot 
Montreux, and, when he was near 
the wood-cutters* retreat, he looked 
as if he wished to enter it ; but sud- 
denly he retraced his steps, and 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



747 



afterwards appeared so absent and 
buried in his own reflections, he 
did not notice that the cabin was 
empty, and no work going on in- 
side. 

One man, however, was walking 
among the huge piles of timber, 
half ready for delivery; it was 
Michou. He at once perceived 
Isidore, and followed him with his 
eyes a long distance ; but it was not 
necessary to accost him, and he let 
him pass on, with the idea that he 
was seeking the high-road to Issou- 
dun, in obedience to the letter of 
Jean-Louis. 

"The hawk is caught," said he 
to himself. "Well, let him go in 
peace, that he may receive his last 
shot elsewhere." 

During this time, Perdreau di- 
rected his steps towards the game- 
keeper's house. He easily entered, 
as the door was only closed by a 
latch; Michou, in his isolated abode 
counting more on his gun, which he 
always kept loaded at his bedside, 
than on the protection of bolts. 

Isidore knew that each night 
Jeannet came to eat and sleep in 
the little house ; but he also knew 
that he worked until late in the 
night, and that there was no risk 
of meeting him at this early hour. 

As he expected, he found the 
idiot Barbette alone in the house. 
The poor girl was preparing the 
soup Jean-Louis was accustomed 
to eat on returning home, and near 
her was her dog, who never left 
her, not even at night, when both 
went out together to sleep with the 
sheep. 

She knew Isidore, as she had 
seen him roaming around the coun- 
try. Except to say good-morning 
and good-evening, she scarcely 
knew how to speak, and therefore 
showed neither astonishment nor 
fear, as is the case with children 



deprived of reason, who are not 
conscious either of good or evil. 

Isidore sank into a chair without 
speaking; Barbette nodded to him, 
and continued stirring her stew-pan. 

" What are you making there ?" 
asked Perdreau, after a few mo- 
ments' silence. 

The idiot burst out laughing, as 
though the question was very fun- 
ny. 

" Soup," she replied, still laugh- 
ing loudly. 

" Is it for your uncle V 

" No, my uncle has dined." 

" Who is it for. then .>" 

" For the other one." 

" The other one t Is it for Jean- 
Louis r 

"Yes." 

" You are very sure.^" 

" Y'es, yes!" said she, laughing 
louder than ever. 

" Very good," njuttered Isidore 
between his teeth. He suddenly 
arose, and gave the dog a furious 
kick. 

Barbette uttered a shrill scream. 
Her dog was her only friend ; she 
threw herself between Isidore and 
the poor beast, which she clasped 
in her arms. 

During this movement, which 
was very quick, the wretched Per- 
dreau sprang towards the stove, 
threw into the soup a paper of 
white powder, which he had kept 
hidden in his hand, and disappear- 
ed in a second, like one who feels 
his clothes catching fire. 

Soon all was again quiet and si- 
lent. Little Barbette understood 
nothing, except that the wicked 
man who had beaten her dog with- 
out any cause had left, and that she 
could return to her cooking. She 
recommenced stirring her soup, 
laughing softly to herself, but tak- 
ing care, however, that her dog was 
close to her side. 



748 



The Farm of Muiceron* 



Michou entered about a quarter 
of an hour later. He was fatigued 
with his day's work, and thought 
no more of Isidore, whom he be- 
lieved far away. Besides, if he 
had given him a thought, the idea 
would never have entered his head 
to question Barbette, who was not 
in a condition to render an account 
of anybody or anything. 

The game-keeper had his bed 
and Jeannet's also (straw mattresses, 
laid on trestles) placed in a re- 
cess at the end of the room, so 
that, upon retiring, they could draw 
the curtains, and be as private as 
though in another room. He un- 
dressed quietly, and stretched him- 
self upon the bed to take his much- 
needed rest, knowing well that 
Jean-Louis often came in late, but 
made so little noise he was never 
disturbed. 

A long time passed. Michou was 
sleeping soundly, when he heard 
Barbette call him. 

" What do you want V* he asked, 
raising himself up in his bed. 

" Uncle," said the poor idiot, 
" Jean-Louis has not returned." 

" Well, what of that ?" 

" I am hungry," she replied, for 
she never ate supper until her work 
was finished. 

" Eat," said Michou. " What is 
there to prevent you V* 

" Can I eat Jean-Louis' soup V* 
she asked. 

" Faith," thought the game-keep- 
er, " he must have supped with the 
Luguets. Yes," said he aloud, 
" eat, and be off to bed." 

Barbette did not wait to be told 
twice. She emptied the soup into 
a bowl, swallowed half of it with a 
good appetite, and gave the rest to 
her dog. 

Then she went out, fastening the 
latch as well as she could, and Mi- 
chou turned over in his bed, where 



he was soon asleep again, and no- 
thing else happened to disturb him, 
as Jeannet that night did not re- 
turn home. 

xviii. 

The night was terribly cold, and 
the following morning the sky was 
dark and heavy from the snow that 
fell unceasingly ; so that our superb 
wood of Val-Saint, so delightful in 
summer, looked horrible and deso- 
late enough to make one think of 
death and the grave, all around 
was so still and quiet in its white 
winding-sheet. Michou, who had 
nothing to do after he sent off the 
workmen, rose later than usual, and 
was rather astonished to see Jean- 
net's bed still vacant. It was the 
first time the dear boy had slept 
away from home without giving 
warning. He knew him too well to 
think that it was from want of at 
tention : what could have happen- 
ed.? 

He thought again of Perdreau, 
whom he had seen roving around 
the premises the night before ; and 
for the first time in his life the 
game-keeper felt a thrill of terror. 

" The good-for-nothing is capa- 
ble of anything," thought he ; ** he 
may have watched for Jean-Louis 
in some out-of-the-way place to 
harm him." 

But after this reflection, he reas- 
sured himself by thinking of Jean- 
Louis' extraordinary strength and 
great height, which surpassed Isi- 
dore's by at least a head. 

" That puppy has no more nen'e 
than a chicken," said he. " Jean- 
net could knock him down with 
one blow; and as for drawing a 
pistol, he would be afraid of the 
noise." 

However, good Jacques hurried 
with his dressing, so that he might 
go to the Luguets', to inquire after 



i 



Tlu Farm of Muiceron. 



749 



Jean-Louis. While doing so, he 
looked at his big silver watch, 
which hung on a nail by his bed- 
side, and saw with astonishment 
that it was nine o'clock. 

**This is something strange!" 
said he ; *' it is the first time in ten 
years I have slept so late." 

He went to the door, but, as he 
put out his head, he was driven 
back by a whirlwind of snow which 
struck him in the face, and at the 
same time a man presented himself 
upon the threshold. 

" M. Michou," said the new- 
comer, who was no other than the 
letter-carrier of the commune, " it 
is unfortunate you have some cor- 
respondent in this awful weather." 

*' That is true ! You are not 
very lucky," replied the game- 
keeper ; " for this is the first letter 
you have brought me in two years." 

It was from Jean-Louis, and con- 
tained but a few words : 

" M. Jacques : Do not be un- 
easy about me. I am in good 
health, but I will not return before 
three days, as I am going to Paris 
on important business. 

" Your ever-faithful 

"Jean-Louis." 

"What the devil can that child 
have to do in Paris .^" thought Mi- 
chou. " Never mind, this letter is a 
great relief; I would rather know 
he was off there than here." 

He gave the carrier a warm 
drink, and conversed with him 
some time before the hearth, upon 
which burned a good armful of vine- 
branches. Then, when he had 
taken his departure, the thought 
of Barbette suddenly entered his 
head. 

"What is she doing?" said he. 
'* The poor child has forgotten my 
breakfast ; I suppose she has also 
slept late." 

He opened the door; the snow 



was not falling quite so thick and 
fast, and the sky appeared less 
sombre. 

He left the house, and went to 
the sheepfold, to see what had be- 
come of his idiotic niece. 

Alas ! If you have listened to 
me until now, you can well guess 
what had taken place in that gloomy 
night ! And yet, upon entering the 
enclosure, nothing at first forebod- 
ed the misfortune which was about 
to startle the good game-keeper. 
The sheep bleated and tumbled 
pell-mell, climbing on one another's 
backs, browsing contentedly upon 
the hay scattered here and there; 
but down at the end of the sheep- 
fold, in a little comer, poor Barbette 
was extended, stark dead and al- 
ready cold, the mouth half-opened 
and the face rigid from its terrible 
struggle. Close to her, with his 
head laid across her feet, her dog 
also slept, never more to be awak- 
ened. 

It was evident the innocent 
'child had suffered fearfully. Her 
poor body seemed longer by three 
inches than before, as though the 
limbs had been stretched in her 
dreadful death-struggle. Her lit- 
tle, shrivelled hands still clutched 
bunches of wool that she must 
have torn from the sheep in her 
agony. With all that, she looked 
tranquil and at peace, as if an 
angel of the good God had come at 
the supreme moment to bear away 
her soul, exempt from sin. 

Michou fell on his knees beside 
the little dead body. He tried to 
raise her, but she was so stiff he 
had to move her like a wooden 
statue. Certainly, many hours must 
have elapsed since her death; the 
dog, also, was frozen to the touch, 
and as hard as stone. There was 
no doubt these two creatures, so 
attached to each other during life, 



7SO 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



had met together a violent death 
Nothing more remained to be done 
but to make the necessary declara- 
tions and hold the inquest usual 
in such cases. The good man 
bent over the agonized face of the 
child a few minutes; one or two 
tears fell upon his gray beard, and, 
while wiping them off with his coat- 
sleeve, he recited a Pater and a De 
Profundis ; then he brought several 
planks and bundles of straw, which 
he placed around the poor corpse, 
so that the sheep should not injure 
it while playing around. He left the 
dog lying on the feet of his mistress. 
Barbette ; and mere creature, with- 
out soul, as the good God had made 
him, he deserved this respect, hav- 
ing died faithful as he had lived. 

Jacques Michou left the sheep- 
fold, his otter-skin cap in his hand, 
and on the threshold turned again 
and made another sign of the cross. 
His old heart was heavy with pain 
from the shock; but he did not 
dream for an instant of what we 
know, and at that you must not be' 
too much astonished. The good 
man was perfectly honest, and 
could not at first conjecture that a 
great crime had caused this extra- 
ordinary death. He rather imag- 
ined that Barbette, who had been 
given to wandering around like all 
innocents, had gathered some poi- 
sonous weed, or drank by mistake 
from a vessel in which remedies 
were prepared for the sheep when 
afflicted with the mange, which are 
always composed of a decoction of 
tobacco or other noxious prepara- 
tion ; which cures, if applied exter- 
nally, but is certain death when 
taken internally, if the directions are 
not followed. Thus plunged in sad 
and bitter meditation, he arrived, al- 
most before he knew it, at the vil- 
lage of Val-Saint, and thought to 
continue still further, to warn Dr. 



Aubry. " He will be able to tell 
me," thought he ; " with his learn- 
ing he can say what killed the poor 
child." 

Just then he raised his head, and 
saw that he was before the notary's 
house, and recognized the doctor's 
horse and wagon before the door. 

" This is lucky !" thought he. " I 
will find out all the sooner." 

He entered without having to 
knock, probably because M. Aubry, 
who was always absent-minded, had 
neglected to close the door, ordi- 
narily shut tight ; so that the game- 
keeper found himself standing in 
the middle of Perdreau's dining- 
room before any one had given no- 
tice of his entrance. 

Isidore was there, so wan, and 
haggard, and wild-looking, you 
would have doubted, at the first 
glance, whether it was himself or 
his shadow. There was nothing 
terrifying in Michou 's aspect ; he 
appeared sad and quiet, and only 
wished to meet the doctor, that he 
might relate his lamentable storj*. 
But criminals see in every one and 
everywhere justice and vengeance 
ready to fall upon them. Isidore 
no sooner recognized the honest 
game-keeper, than he uttered a cry 
of terror, and endeavored to es- 
cape. 

That movement, the terrified 
face, and, still further, we must be- 
lieve, the inspiration of the good 
God, made Michou divine, in the 
twinkling of an eye, what he had 
not even suspected the moment be- 
fore. You will understand me if 
you will only recall some remem- 
brances of the past ; for surely you 
must once or twice in your life have 
experienced the same effect. An 
event takes place — no one knows 
which way to turn ; all is dark ; 
suddenly a light breaks forth, shed- 
ding its brilliant rays on all around, 



The Farm of Muiceron. 



751 



and in an instant everything is clear 
to the mind : is it not so ? To ex- 
plain how this great secret fire is 
lighted I cannot, but to affirm that 
it happens daily you must acknow- 
ledge with me, no matter how poor 
your memory may be. 

The presence of Perdreau the 
evening before in the neighborhood 
of the wood of Montreux, his som- 
bre and agitated look at the time, 
the preceding letter of Jean-Louis, 
finally, that soup, destined for an- 
other than Barbette, and eaten by 
her — all this passed in a second be- 
fore the eyes of the game-keeper, 
like so many actors playing in the 
same piece. As the truth, in all its 
horror, flashed before him, his face 
became terrible, and Isidore, whose 
eyes, starting from his head with 
terror, glared fixedly upon him, 
saw this time, without mistake, his 
judge and the avenger of his 
crime. 

The two men looked at each 
other a moment. Isidore advanced 
a step, in the vague hope of reach- 
ing the door. Michou stepped back, 
his arms crossed, and barred his 
passage. 

" Let me go out," at last gasped 
Isidore between his closed teeth. 

" Wretch !" .said the game-keeper 
in a deep voice, " whom did you 
come to poison at my house last 
night ?" 

"Michou, you are crazy!" re- 
plied Isidore ; " let me out, or I will 
call." 

" Call as loudly as you please," 
answered Michou, standing straight 
and firm with his back against the 
door; "call Dr. Aubry, who must 
be somewhere about. You will 
tell him that I have come in search 
of him to prove the death of Bar- 
bette, whom you killed, cowardly 
villain that you are !" 

" Barbette ! What do you mean ? 



You are drunk, Michou," stammer- 
ed Isidore, becoming each moment 
more and more livid. 

"Neither drunk nor crazy, you 
know well, accursed wretch," repli- 
ed Jacques. " Your insults do not 
harm me. Ha ! you were not very 
skilful in your crime, but you were 
also mistaken. Jean-Louis is safe 
and sound ; you only killed a child 
deprived of reason, and you will 
finish on a scaffold; for if I were 
allowed to kill you with my own 
hand, I would not, so as not to 
stain the hand of an honest man." 

" Michou," said Isidore, his teeth 
chattering with fear, "have mercy 
on me ; I will explain myself later. 
I am sick. . . . My father is 
dying. . . . You are not cruel. . . . 
Let me go out." 

" Ha ! ha ! you are a coward. . . . 
Faith, I am glad of it; it takes 
from me the slightest compassion 
for you. Traitor ! scoundrel ! you 
were not so much afraid yesterday, 
when you thought of killing a brave, 
defenceless boy. To-day it is not 
repentance that makes you tremble, 
but the justice of men, who will not 
spare you. You feel them on your 
heels; you are not deceived. I 
have you; try to stir." 

And he seized him by the arm 
with so vigorous a hand, the wretch 
felt his bones crack. 

" You hurt me ; let me go ! " 
yelled Isidore, writhing under that 
iron hand. 

" Shut up ! Avow your crime ; did 
you come, yes or no, to poison 
Jean-Louis V* 

" He had provoked me. I was 
wild, I was mad — ^let me go. ..." 

" You avow it, then ; what poison 
was it y 

" I don't know ; I know nothing 
further. . . . Michou, in the name of 
(Jod, let me go. . . ." 

" Do you dare pronounce the 



752 



Tlie Farm of Muiceron. 



name of God ?" cried Michou, grasp- 
ing him still more firmly. " Do you 
believe, then, in him, whom you 
have blasphemed since you were 
able to speak? You don't know 
what poison you used ? After all, 
it matters little ; M. Aubry will 
know — yes, he and the judge also. 
The case is clear, and, if I could 
drag you myself before the police, 
I would only leave hold of you 
at the door of the prison." 

Isidore, prostrated and speech- 
less from pain — for Michou, whose 
strength was trebled, crushed his 
arm with redoubled force — fell to 
the ground in the most miserable 
state that can be imagined. 

" There," said Michou, pushing 
him aside with his foot, 'Sf I did 
not still respect the mark of your 
baptism, I would wish to see you 
die there like a dog. Ah ! you can 
weep now ! See to what your life 
of debauchery and idleness has 
brought you ; but you are not ca- 
pable of understanding my words. 
Listen ; it is not you that I pity, but 
the remembrance of an honest girl, 
who, to the eyes of the neighbor- 
hood, was your betrothed, the un- 
fortunate creature! In the name 
of Jeanne Ragaud, I will save you 
from the scaffold that you deserve ; 
but on one condition. . . ." 

" Speak, speak ! I will do what- 
ever you wish," cried the wretch, 
raising himself upon his knees. 
" I promise you, Michou ; but save 
me!" 

"Miserable coward!" said the 
game-keeper with disgust, " your 
prayers and your tears cause me as 
much horror as your crimes. You 
have not even the courage to play the 
part of a murderer! But what I 
have said I will do. Get up, if 
you have still strength to stand on 
your legs. Mark what I say. You 
must disappear. I give you, not 



three days, like Jean-Louis, but 
two hours, in which I will go and 
remove the body of your victim, 
and warn the police. In two hour^ 
I will have declared on oath thai 
Barbette was poisoned by you, and 
the proofs will not be wanting. 
Do what you please — hide yourself 
in a hole or fly. In two hours, 1 
repeat, the police will be on your 
track, and, if the devil wishes to 
save you, that is his affair." 

" Thanks," said Isidore, rising. 

" Your thanks is another insult," 
said Michou. He opened the door 
himself, and pushed the wretch out- 
side with such a tremendous blow 
of his fist that he stumbled and fell 
across the threshold. 

Owing to the bad weather, the 
village street was deserted. Michou 
saw Isidore disappear with the 
quickness of a deer. He closed 
the door again, and sat down, rest- 
ing his head upon his hands, to 
gather together his ideas. 

"My God," said the excellent 
man, raising his eyes to heaven 
with the honest look of a Christian. 
" perhaps I have done wrong. But 
thou art powerful enough to repair 
the effect of my too great mercy, 
and I have saved from a disgrace 
that could not be remedied thy 
servants, the poor Ragauds." 

All this had not taken much 
time, and Michou was meditating 
upon the events of that terrible 
night, when he felt some one strike 
him on the shoulder; it was M- 
Aubry. 

" It is you, M. Jacques V said the 
doctor. " What are you doing here, 
old fellow?" 

"I was waiting for you, mon- 
sieur," replied he quietly, for he 
had entirely recovered his self- 
possession. " Is any one sick here .' 

" Eh ?" said the doctor. " It is the 
old man, who was seized with a 



The Farm of Mukeron. 



753 



fever yesterday, and is now deliri- 
ous. His brain is affected. It is an 
attack which I anticipated ; I don't 
think he will recover." 

"So much the better!" said 
Michou. 

" What do you say ? So much 
he better ? It can be easily seen 
he is not in your good graces. 
Faith ! I must say, if I were not 
his physician, I would think the 
same. I don't generally believe all 
the gossip floating around ; we can 
take a little on credit, and leave 
the rest ; but, in my opinion, M. le 
Marquis did not place his confi* 
dence within the pale of the church 
when he gave it to that old ape ; he 
may yet have to repent of it. Well, 
and you — ^what can I do for you ?" 

" Come with me to the wood of 
Montreux," said the game-keeper, 
" and I will tell you on the way." 

" Is the case urgent ? Between 
ourselves, Michou, if your patient 
is not in danger I would like to 
put it off until to-morrow. My 
carriage is open, and Cocotte is not 
rough-shod. It is beastly weather 
to go through the forest." 

" Alas ! monsieur," replied Jac- 
ques, " the patient who requires 
you can wait until the last judg- 
ment, for she is dead. But I must 
carry you off all the same, as this 
death does not seem natural to me, 
and I wish your opinion." 

" Let us be off," said M. Aubry, 
without hesitating; "you can tell 
me the whole story as we go along." 
Which Jacques Michou did, 
whilst Cocotte, with her head down, 
trotted along, not very well pleased 
to receive the snow full in her face. 

The poor beast excepted, neither 
of the travellers in the wagon felt 
the horrible weather. The doctor, 
while listening to the game-keeper, 
looked serious and severe, which 
was not at all his usual custom. 

VOL. XVIII. — 48 



Michou had nothing to hide. He 
related every detail of the mourn- 
ful story, without omitting any fact 
or thought necessary to enlighten 
M. Aubry. When he came to 
speak of his terrible explanation 
with Isidore and the wretch's crime, 
the doctor swore a round oath, 
which marked his disapproval, and 
Cocotte received such a famous 
cut with the whip, she started off 
on a furious gallop. 

" I did not think you were, at 
your age, such a snivelling, senti- 
mental baby as that," said he in a 
rage. "What were you dreaming 
about .^ To have had your hand 
on the villain, and then to let him 
go ! You deserve to be locked up 
in his place !" 

" Monsieur," replied Michou, 
"what I did I would do again. 
Have you thought that it would 
also have been a frightful trial for 
the Ragauds ? Would they not all 
have been called upon to testify? 
And think for a moment what a 
disgrace it would have been fui 
that unfortunate young girl, who 
was on the eve of marrying the 
scoundrel. No, no, M. Aubry, in 
the bottom of your soul you cannot 
blame me. Believe that the good 
God will bring it all right ; but such 
a scandal in our province, an exe- 
cution, perhaps, in the square of 
Val-Saint — what shame, what mis- 
ery!" 

" Jeanne Ragaud and her family 
owe you a fine taper," replied the 
doctor, a little softened. " There is 
some truth in what you say ; but, for 
all that, I would have been better 
pleased to have seen that danger- 
ous animal caged !" 

" Be easy," replied Michou ; " he 
will never hurt any one else unless 
himself. Without wishing to ex- 
cuse him, I am inclined to believe 
he was out of his mind — pushed 



fS4 



Tke Fartn of Muiceron. 



to extremity by the great danger 
in which Jeannet's discovery had 
placed him. When a man is ac- 
customed to crime, monsieur, he 
bears the consequences more bold- 
ly. I saw Isidore Perdreau so com- 
pletely demoralized, his crime was 
written on his brow, where I read 
it at the first glance, and which 
any one else could have done as 
easily in my place. So be convinced, 
neither God nor man can blame me 
for letting him go, and I certainly 
do not regret it." 

" All very well," said the doctor ; 
"but that would not prevent me 
from acting very differently if I 
should catch him this evening." 

"Nor I either," replied Michou; 
"for if he should fall under my 
hand this evening, I would see 
clearly that the good God did not 
wish him to be saved, at least in 
this world." 

As he finished speaking, they 
stopped before the sheepfold, and 
the doctor, together with Michou, 
entered, their heads uncovered. 
All was as Michou had left it, only 
that the cold and the hours which 
had elapsed had rendered the little 
body still stiffer than at the moment 
of discovery. The effects of the 
poison began to appear, as great 
black spots were visible on the 
face of the dead girl, which gave 
her such a suffering and pitiful 
look, the tears fell from their eyes. 

M. Aubry had not to examine 
very much to be convinced that 
the poor idiot had been poisoned 
by taking a dose of arsenic capable 
of killing three men. As this poison 
is infallible against rats, nearly all the 
country people obtain permission 
to keep a small quantity on hand ; 
and nothing had been easier than 
for Isidore to take a little from his 
father's own kitchen, where the 
servant complained of the ravages 



of the mice among the cheeses and 
other provisions. Thus, step by 
step, everything was terribly brou^t 
to light, and yet with much simpli- 
city, as is always the case with 
events incontestably true; there- 
fore, it was easy for M. Aubry to 
prepare his statements, affirmations, 
and declarations according to his 
conscience, in the report which he 
read before the official authori- 
ties. 

One very sad thing, but which 
they scarcely thought of at the mo- 
ment, was to give a rather more 
decent bed than the straw of the 
sheepfold to the poor innocent vic- 
tim. But this they could not do, as 
they were obliged to let her lie as 
she was until the arrival of the dis- 
trict attorney, the sheriff^ and the 
chief of police. 

Michou would willingly hare 
watched by her side, but this was 
not possible either. M. Aubry aid- 
ed him to construct a solid bar- 
rier of planks; then they covered 
the body with a blanket ; and on the 
breast the game-keeper placed, with 
profound respect, a cross made of 
branches. This devout duty accom- 
plished, Jacques Michou locked the 
sheepfold, put the key in his pocket, 
and left with the doctor to warn the 
authorities. 

You can imagine that in all this 
coming and going much more time 
had elapsed than the two hours 
accorded to the fugitive. Michou, 
who desired it from the bottom of 
his heart, for the good reasons we 
already know, and which he did not 
regret, was not sorry at the delay. 
M. Aubry, on the contrary, growled 
and stormed, whipped Cocotte with 
the full strength of his arm, and tried 
to hurry up affairs with the greatest 
diligence. But impossibilities can- 
not be performed, and, with all his 
efforts, the usual formalities in these 



Thi Farm of Muiceron. 



755 



sad circumstances were not fulfilled 
until late in the afternoon. 

Then the news spread from 
mouth to mouth as rapidly as the 
waves of our river during an inun- 
dation. The curious assembled in 
the public square, where the servants 
of M. le Marquis, who never were 
bothered with too much work, 
were the first to appear. They 
talked, they gesticulated, said heaps 
of foolish things, mixed with some 
words of common sense. Our mas- 
ter learned from public rumor that 
young Perdreau was suspected, and 
that he had disappeared. It can 
be easily understood that he was 
indignant at such a calumny, and 
generously offered to guarantee his 
innocence. Mademoiselle wept. 
Dame Berthe imitated her, and 
these two excellent ladies wished 
immediately to rush off to Jean- 
nette, to console her in this great 
trial. But poor mademoiselle had 
to be content with her benevolent 
wishes, for neither coachman nor 
footman, nor even a simple groom, 
could be found ; all had run off to 
the wood of Montreux in search of 
news. 

As they were obliged to pass Mui- 
ceron to reach the wood, you may 
well imagine that more than one of 
the hurried crowd lagged behind to 
talk to the Ragauds, and thus they, 
in their turn, heard of the terrible 
affair. The consternation was un- 
paralleled, for there, as at the cha- 
teau, no one would believe the wick- 
ed rumors afloat concerning Isidore. 
Jeannette, who cared but little for 
her intended husband, and had de- 
sired to be freed from her engage- 
ment, was indignant as soon as she 
thought he was in trouble, and de- 
fended him warmly, which made 



people believe she loved him de- 
votedly. The truth was, this little 
creature's soul was generous and 
high-strung, and, like all such na- 
tures, she defended him, whom she 
willingly would have sent off the 
night before, only because she 
thought he was unfortunate. 

But days passed, and each one 
brought new and overwhelming 
proofs of the truth. The police 
searched the neighborhood in vain, 
and soon all hope of seeing Isidore 
reappear (which would have pleaded 
in his justification) faded from the 
eyes of those who wished to defend 
him. M. le Marquis, after having 
conversed with M. Aubry, Michou, 
and the judicial authorities, was 
overcome with grief, and acknow- 
ledged that he could not conscien- 
tiously mix himself up with the af- 
fair. As for old Perdreau, he never 
recovered' his consciousness, and 
died shortly after. They placed 
the seals on his house, where, later, 
they discovered the documents and 
correspondence which revealed his 
wicked life ; and now you can judge 
if there was anything to gossip about 
in a commune as peaceable and 
tranquil as ours. In the memory 
of man there had never been such 
a terrible event, and nothing will 
ever happen again approaching to 
it, I devoutly wish. 

Mademoiselle, who was not very 
well, was seriously injured by all 
this trouble ; and as M. le Marquis 
loved her dearly, and, besides, 
heard the rumbling of the revolu- 
tion in the capital which he had so 
long ardently desired, packed up, 
and was soon off, bag and baggage, 
for Paris, where he hoped to dis- 
tract poor mademoiselle, and drive 
off mournful recollections. 



TO •> COMTCNUSD, 



756 The Little ChaptU 



THE LITTLE CHAPEL. 

It stands within a narrow, quiet street, 
And well-worn steps ascend at either side, 

Where, all day long till twilight, pious feet 
Softly and silently forsake the tide 

Of feverish life, to rest a little space 

Within its calm, and gaze upon his face. 

The dead Christ, lying on his Mother's breast. 
May not uplift those lifeless, closed eyes : 

O helplessness divine ! O sweet behest ! 
Rigid and white beneath the cross he lies, 

That here, before this holy altar-stone. 

Our miserable pride be overthrown. 

The dull, gray walls with simple Stations hung, 
The stained windows, blending liquid rays 

Of red and gold in lucent amber, flung 
Across the chancel like a hymn of praise 

From spirit-voices flowing — all of these 

Make endless peace and wondrous harmonies. 

And when at evening hour the solemn strain 
Of some quaint Tanium Ergo^ strange and sweet. 

Tunes the full soul to perfect chords again. 
And fronj the beaten pathway weary feet 

Turn heavenward once more, unchained and free, 

It is a dear and blessed place to be. 

Slowly the heavy waves of incense rise. 

Parting amid the arches overhead. 
Start, fervent tears of peace from burning eyes ! 

Mount, happy prayers ! Despair, lie prone and dead I 
Open, ye perfumed clouds, and give them room, 
While Benedicite pierces the gloom. 

It is a quiet spot — the busy feet 

Of toil and turmoil pause before its gates. 

And turn aside, with reverent steps, to greet 
The Holy One of Ages — ^him who waits, 

With patient hands outstretched, to love and bless 

The lowliest soul that craves his tenderness. 



PkUdsophicat Ttrminoldgy. 



757 



PHILOSOPHICAL TERMINOLOGY. 



III. 



To THE Editor of The Catho- 
lic World: 

In my last letter, while criticising 
an incorrect definition of the word 
act, I made the remark that "the 
gravity of bodies is not 2i power, as 
some unphilosophical scientists im- 
agine." * When writing these words, 
I had to confine myself to a mere 
statement of the scientific error; 
but it occurs to me that in an age 
in which most of the so-called men 
of science are so little acquainted 
with philosophy as to mistake effects 
for causes, and yet so proud of their 
achievements as to aspire to the 
leadership of the public mind, some 
precautions must be taken, lest our 
philosophical terminology be in- 
fected with such improprieties as 
are now too leniently tolerated in 
the language of science. It is the 
abuse of one word that does the 
greatest mischief in the department 
of physics. This word is force. 
Its frequent misapplication tends 
to confound and falsify the whole 
doctrine of physical causation. It 
is therefore of great importance, 
even in a scientific point of view, 
to determine within what limits the 
use of such a word should be re- 
stricted in accordance with the laws 
of philosophical terminology. Such 
is the main object of my present 
communication. 

The theory of physical causation 
deals with natural causes, powers, 
actions, forces, movements, and the 
results of movements. When these 

* Catholic Wokld, November, 1873, p^gt 187. 



terms are properly defined, all rela- 
tions between agents and patients, 
between causes and effects, and 
consequent phenomena, can be eas- 
ily expressed with philosophical 
precision ; but when the causes, 
the powers, the actions, and the 
movements themselves are all con- 
founded under one common name 
o( force, as it is now the fashion in 
the scientific world to do, no one 
need be surprised if such a course 
ends in philosophical inconsisten- 
cies. To show what great propor- 
tions this evil has taken, innumer- 
able passages of modern writers 
might be adduced. But, not to 
perplex the reader with conflicting 
quotations from different sources, I 
will give only a few extracts from 
one of the best representatives of 
modern science. I have before me 
the Correlation of Physical Forces, 
by Mr. Grove. It is a well-known 
little work, much esteemed by phy- 
sicists, and one which certainly 
transcends the average merit of 
many modem productions of the 
same kind. Now, what is Mr. 
Grove's notion of cause, of force, 
of power, as compared with one 
another and with the phenomena 
of nature ? The following passages 
will show. He says : 

" In each particular case, where 
we speak of cause, we habitually 
refer to some antecedent power or 
force ; we never see motion or any 
change in matter take effect, with- 
out regarding it as produced by 
some previous change " (p. 13). 

Here force, power, and cause are 



758 



Pkilosopkical Terminotogy. 



taken as equivalent ; moreover, mo- 
tion^ or a change in matter, is con- 
sidered as " produced " by a previ- 
ous change; which implies that a 
previous change or movement is 
the efficient cause of a subsequent 
change or movement. Hence, ac- 
cording to such a terminology, 
movement, force, power, and cause 
should be accepted as synonymous. 
But philosophy cannot admit of 
such a wholesale confusion. 

"A force," says he, "cannot 
originate otherwise than by devolu- 
tion from some pre-existing force or 
forces. . . . The term * force,* al- 
though used in very different senses 
by different authors, in its limited 
sense may be defined as that which 
produces or resists motion. ... I 
use the term ' force ' as meaning 
that active principle inseparable 
from matter, which is supposed to 
induce its various changes " (p. i6). 

Here force is again confounded 
with power and with cause^ inas- 
much as " active principles " are 
powers^ and " that which produces 
or resists motion " is a cause* We 
are told at the same time that the 
active principle is not a primordial 
and essential constituent of materi- 
al substances, but an accidental re- 
sult of devolution from other active 
principles residing in other substan- 
ces. Philosophy cannot admit of 
such a phraseology ; for, as the 
active principle of a substance is a 
constituent of its nature, if the ac- 
tive principle of any substance were 
thus communicated to it by acci- 
dental devolution, such a substance 
would have no definite nature of 
its own, and would be nothing ; and, 
in spite of this, it would also be 
capable of becoming anything, ac- 
cording as its active principle might 
originate from different pre-existing 
forces. Now, we know that the 
first elements of any given substance 



have a definite nature, and a defi- 
nite active principle independently 
of devolution from other substan- 
ces ; and that, according to the re- 
sults of a constant and universal 
experience, they are not liable to 
exchange their nature for anything 
else, but keep it permanently and 
unalterably amidst all the vicissi- 
tudes brought about by the inter- 
ference of surrounding bodies. It 
is, therefore, plain that the "active 
principle inseparable from matter " 
cannot originate in devolution from 
other pre-existing forces. But let 
us proceed. 

"The position which I seek to 
establish in this essay," says Mr. 
Grove, " is, that the various affec- 
tions of matter which constitute 
the main object of experimental 
physics — viz., heat, light, electricity, 
magnetism, chemical affinity, and 
motion — ^are all correlative, or have 
a reciprocal dependence; that 
neither, taken abstractedly, can be 
said to be the essential cause of the 
others, but that either may produce, 
or be convertible into, any of the 
others " (p. 15). 

Every one, of course, will admit 
that heat, light, electricity, etc., are 
"correlative." I also admit that 
they are not " essential causes " of 
one another; but the fact is that 
they are no causes at all; since 
heat, light, electricity, etc., are only 
modes of motion and " affections 
of matter," as the author acknow 
ledges, and are therefore to be con- 
sidered as mere phenomena or 
effects, of which the one can be the 
condition, but not the cause, of the 
other. I know that the popular 
language admits of such expres* 
sions as "heat causes dilatation/ 
" light causes an impression on the 
retina," "chemical affinity causes 
combination," "movement causes a 
change of place." But these and 



Phihsepkical Termifiology. 



759 



other similar expressions, though 
used by scientific writers, and even 
by philosophers, are by no means 
philosophically correct. We shall 
see presently that substances alone 
have efficient powers, and therefore 
no mode of being and no affection 
of matter can display efficient cau- 
sality. Hence light, heat, electric- 
ity, and the rest, are neither efficient 
causes nor efficient powers ; and, 
inasmuch as they are affections of 
matter, they cannot even be called 
forces in a philosophical, but only 
in a technical, sense, as we shall ex- 
plain hereafter. 

As to the mutual " convertibility " 
of these various affections of matter 
into one another, I would observe 
that, although the expression may 
be correctly understood, yet, as in- 
terpreted by Mr. Grove and by 
other physicists, it cannot be 
admitted. What do we mean 
when we say that progressive mo- 
tion, for instance, is converted into 
heat ? We mean that in proportion 
as the progressive movement of a 
body is resisted and extinguished^ a 
correspondent amount of heat, or 
of molecular calorific vibrations, is 
produced by mutual actions and re- 
actions. In this sense the conver- 
sion of one mode of being into an- 
other is perfectly admissible, no 
less indeed than the passage from a 
state of rest to one of movement. 
But Mr. Grove does not understand 
it so. He thinks that the progres- 
sive movement of a body is never 
extinguished, but only transform- 
ed by subdivision into molecular 
calorific vibrations ; and, therefore, 
that the same accidental entity 
which was to be found in the pro- 
gressive movement is still to be 
found identicalhy though subdivid- 
ed, in the calorific motion. Let us 
hear him : 
"It is very generally believed 



that, if the visible and palpable mo- 
tion of one body be arrested by 
impact on another body, the motion 
ceases, and the force which produc- 
ed it is annihilated. Now, the view 
which I venture to submit is that 
force cannot be annihilated, but is 
merely subdivided or altered in 
direction or character " (p. 24). 
" Motion will directly produce heat 
and electricity^ and electricity, being 
produced by it, will produce mag- 
netism " (p. 34). " Lastly, motion 
may be again reproduced by the 
forces which have emanated from 
motion " (p. 36). 

Such is Mr. Grove's theory of the 
"convertibility of forces." It is 
nothing but a wrong interpretation 
of the old theory of the " conserva- 
tion of vis viva ** by the modern 
conception of "potential energy," 
which admits " forces stored up " 
in bodies, and ready to show them- 
selves in the form of velocity, heat, 
light, or any other kind of move- 
ment. This notion and others of 
a like tendency constitute the mar- 
row of the new physical theories, 
and are the pride of our men of 
science. Let us hope that a time 
will come when these able men 
will see the vanity of such fashion- 
able doctrines, and blush for their 
adoption of them in their scientific 
generalizations. 

The conservation of vis viva is, 
within certain limits, that is with 
regard to ponderable bodies im- 
pinging on one another,* an estab- 
lished fact; but its interpretation 
as given by advanced physicists is 
a huge blunder. " It is very gen- 
erally believed,*' says Mr. Grove, 

* This limitation is neccssiry. A stone thrown 
up ▼ertically soon loses its vt* viva without 
compensation. The case is one in which there 
is no impAci. An imponderable body, as lu- 
minlferous xther, if it forms, as it is most proba- 
ble, an unresisting^ medium, acquires vis ru'va 
without interferiag with the vis viva of the ce- 
leatlal bodies. 



760 



Philosophical Terminology. 



" :hat if the visible motion of one 
body be arrested by impact on an- 
other body, the motion ceases." 
Of course, it is believed ; and, what 
is more, it is demonstrably true, 
whatever Mr. Grove may say to the 
contrary. Yet it is not true, nor is 
it very generally believed, that " the 
force which produces it (the mo- 
tion) is annihilated." When the 
movement of a body is arrested, its 
velocity is extinguished ; but that 
velocity was not the force which 
produced the movement. When a 
stone falls to the ground, its move- 
ment is produced, not by its velo- 
city, but by the action of the earth 
on it. Velocity is only the formal 
principle of movement, and is itself 
included in movement as a con- 
stituent, not as an efficient power. 
To say that velocity produces 
movement is, therefore, to confound 
formal with efficient causation, and 
to admit that movement produces 
itself. This is one of the conclu- 
sions for which I hope, as I said, 
physicists will blush hereafter. 

But the force, we are told, "is 
not annihilated, but merely subdi- 
vided or altered in direction or 
character." This cannot be. The 
word force here means a quantity 
of movement, which is nothing but 
the product of the velocity into the 
mass of the body. Now, the ve- 
locity of a body is not subdivided 
when the movement is arrested, but 
is really extinguished. I say ex- 
ting uisked^ not annihilated ; because 
annihilation, as well as creation, re- 
gards substances, not accidents. 
Velocity is an accident ; it is there- 
fore neither created nor annihilated, 
but originates in a determination 
produced by an agent, and ends by 
exhaustion or neutralization under 
the influence of an antagonistic 
agency. I say, then, that the move- 
ment of the body, though not anni- 



hilated, is extinguished and not 
subdivided. It is impossible to 
conceive of divisions where there is 
nothing divisible. On the otber 
hand, nothing is divisible which has 
no extension and no material pam. 
Now, where are the material part> 
or the extension of velocity .> Ve- 
locity in each primitive particle of 
a body is a simple actuality, which 
can increase or decrease by degrees 
of intensity, but cannot be taken to 
pieces in order to be apportioned 
among the other particles of the 
body, and therefore the pretended 
subdivision of velocities is a mere 
absurdity. 

Nor does it matter that force can 
be " altered in direction or charac- 
ter." We must not forget that fom 
is here a sum of velocities, and ac- 
cordingly cannot change direction 
or character unless such velocities 
are intrinsically changed. But they 
cannot be changed with regard to 
either character or direction with- 
out some new degree of velocity 
being produced or extinguished by 
some efficient cause. For the char- 
acter of velocity is to actuate the 
extension of the movement in pro- 
portion to its own intensity. This. 
and no other, is its character ; and, 
therefore, velocity cannot be altered 
in character without its intensity 
being increased or diminished by 
action. And the same is to be said 
of the change of direction, which 
cannot be conceived without action. 
Now, if action can modify motion, 
and diminish to any extent its ve- 
locity, it remains for our scientists 
to explain how a certain action can^ 
not stifle movement and velocity 
altogether. 

They will say that the "inde- 
structibility of force " is the only 
hypothesis consistent with the the- 
ory of the conservation of ris tivtU 
and consequently that the two roust 



Pkiioiofkical Termm&iogy. 



761 



stand or fall together. But die 
truth is that the conservation of 
zns viva needs no such hypothesis, 
since it depends on a quite different 
principle, viz., on the equality of 
action and reaction. 

When two billiard-balls impinge 
on one another, they act and react. 
Their molecules urge one another 
(by their mutual actions of course, 
not by their velocity), and become 
compressed. All the work they do 
up to the maximum of compression 
is styled action. But reaction soon 
follows ; for, as compression brings 
the neighboring molecules into an 
unnatural position where they can- 
not settle in relative equilibrium, 
the molecular exertions tend now 
to restore within the bodies the ori- 
ginal molecular distances; which 
work of restoration is properly call- 
ed reaction.* And since reaction 
must undo what the preceding ac- 
tion had done, hence the amount 
of the reaction must equal the 
amount of the action, and thus no 
energy is lost ; for the same quan- 
tity of movement is produced in 
one ball as is extinguished in the 
other. 

I do not wish to enlarge on this 
topic, which is of a physical rather 
than metaphysical nature. I only 
repeat that the mistake of our phy- 
sicists lies in sup[x>sing that the 
quantity of movement which is lost 
by one body still exists in nature, 
and passes identically into another 
body; whilst the fact is that the 
quantity of movement lost by the 
first body is altogether extinguish- 
ed, and the quantity acquired by 
the second body is a new produc- 
tion altogether. To send an acci- 

* rhysicists sometimes give the name of action 
and reaction to tlie opposite eflfortii of t« o con- 
flictioff bodies. But, properly speakinfp, the two 
efforts are two actions; the reaction only begins 
at the end of compression, and takes place most* 
If within each body separately. 



dental mode, ftuch as velocity, 
travelling about from one substance 
to another without support, as an 
independent and self-sufficient be- 
ing, may be a bright device of mo- 
dem progress ; but when the time 
comes for repenting of other scien- 
tific blunders, this bright delusion 
will, I am sure, be reckoned among 
the most grievous philosophical sins 
that science will have to regret and 
to atone for in sackcloth and ashes. 
These remarks go far to show 
that the terminology of our modern 
scientists concerning physical cau- 
sation is philosophically incorrect. 
I have more to say on this same 
subject ; but to make things plainer 
I wish to give beforehand what I 
consider to be the true distinction 
between cause, power, action, and 
force, as implied in the causation 
of natural phenomena. To do this 
in the most simple and intelligible 
manner, I lay down the following 
propositions : 

I. It is a principle philosophical- 
ly certain that the substance of all 
natural things has been created by 
God for his extrinsic glory — that is, 
for the manifestation of his power 
and other perfections. According- 
ly, every created substance has re- 
ceived a natural aptitude and fit- 
ness to manifest in some manner 
and in some degree the power and 
perfection of its Creator. 

II. Therefore, every creature na- 
turally, /rr sCy not accidentally, but 
by the very fact of its creation, is 
destined to act; for manifestation 
is action, and consequently pos* 
sesses permanently and intrinsically 
such an active power as is propor- 
tionate to the kind and degree of 
the intended manifestation. In 
other terms, every created sub- 
stance is destined to be the efficient 
cause of determined effects. 

III. The power of created sub- 



yCt 



Philciffkieal Tirmimokgy. 



stances is finite, and its exertion is 
subject to definite laws. All finite 
power, according as it is exerted 
under more or less favorable con- 
ditions, gives rise to effects of 
greater or less intensity. Hence 
different effects may proceed from 
one and the same cause, and equal 
effects from different causes, acting 
under different conditions. 

IV. The exertion of power is 
called action^ and its intensity, in 
the material world, depends on the 
distance of the agent from the pa- 
tient. 

V. The amount of the exertion, 
or the quantity of the action, is 
measured «by its true effect, which 
is the only true exponent or repre- 
sentative of the degree of the exer- 
tion; for, all matter being equally 
indifferent to receive motion, the 
amount of its passion must always 
agree with the amount of the ac- 
tion received ; and thus the one is 
the natural and necessary measure 
of the other. 

VI. The amount of the exertion, 
as measured by the effect it is able 
to produce, is what in the scientific 
language can be styled force pro- 
perly. 

VII. The amount of the effect, 
as measuring the amount of the ex- 
ertion from which it arises, or by 
which it is neutralized, is again 
called force^ but improperly, and 
only in a technical sense, as it is in 
fact a mere measure of force. 

These propositions are so logi- 
cally connected with one another 
that, the first of them being ad- 
mitted, all the others must follow. 
I might, therefore, dispense with all 
discussion with regard to them; 
yet, to help the scientific reader to 
form a philosophical notion of 
forces, I will endeavor to throw 
some additional light on my sixth 
ixTxiK ceventh propositions. 



And, first, I observe that since 
forces can only be measured by 
their effects, the mathematical ex- 
pression of a force always exhibiu 
the quantity of the effect which such 
a force is competent to cause ; and 
as such an effect is a certain quan- 
tity of movement, hence forces are 
mathematically expressed in terms 
of movement. So long as physi- 
cists preserved their old philoso- 
phical traditions, a distinction was 
kept up between force and move- 
ment. A quantity of movement 
was indeed called a force^ inas- 
much as it was the true measure of 
the action from which it had origi- 
nated, or by which it could be de- 
stroyed ; but such a force was not 
confounded with the action itself. 
The action was called vis matrix, a 
motive force, whilst the quantity of 
movement was called vis simply, 
and was not considered as having 
any efficient causality. Thus be- 
fore Dr. Mayer's invention of ** po- 
tential energies," the word font 
was used with proper discrimina- 
tion: I St, as a quantity of action 
actually producing movement ; 2d 
as a quantity of action actually op- 
posed by a resistance sufficient to 
prevent the production of move- 
ment; 3d, as a quantity of move- 
ment and a measure of action. 

A quantity of action followed by 
movement was called a dynamicd 
force, and was measured by the 
quantity of movement imparted io 
the unit of time. Its mathematical 
expression in rational mechanics 
was, and is still, a differential coef- 
ficient of the second order represent- 
ing the product of the mass acted 
on into the velocity which the ac- 
tion, if continued for a unit of time, 
would communicate to it. As in- 
stances of dynamical force, we may 
mention the action of the sun on 
the planets, of the planets on their 



Phihsophical Termimlogy. 



763 



satellites, of the eaitli on a pendu- 
lum, on a drop of rain, etc. 

A quantity of action not followed 
by movement was called a statical 
force, and was measured by the 
quantity of movement into which it 
would develop, if no obstacle ex- 
isted. Its mathematical expression 
in rational mechanics is a differential 
coefficient of the first order repre- 
senting the product of the mass, 
whose movement is neutralized in- 
to its virtual velocity. By virtual 
velocity we mean the velocity which 
the mass would acquire in a unit 
of time, if all resistance to the 
movement were suddenly sup- 
pressed. As instances of statical 
force, we may mention the action 
of a weight on the string from 
which it hangs, or on the table on 
which it lies. 

A quantity of movement, or the 
dynamical effect of all the actions 
to which a body has been subjected 
for any length of time, was called a 
kinetic force. As kinetic forces 
cannot be destroyed except by ac- 
tions producing equal and oppo- 
site quantities of movement, hence 
every kinetic force can be taken as 
a measure, not only of the amount 
of action from which it has result- 
ed, but also of the amount of action 
by which it can be checked. The 
mathematical expression of a kinetic 
force is the product of the moving 
mass into its actual velocity. As 
instances of this force, we may men- 
tion the momentum of a cannon-ball, 
of a hammer, of wind, falling water, 
etc. 

To obviate the many abuses 
which this notion of kinetic force 
has engendered, and to cut the 
ground from under the feet of those 
blundering theorists who reduce 
all forces to movement, it is impor- 
tant to remark that kinetic force 
could be defined as " that quantity 



of action which a moving body can 
exercise against- an obstacle until 
its velocity is exhausted." This 
definition would change nothing in 
the mathematical expression of ki- 
netic forces; for the quantity of 
the action which a moving body 
can exercise against the obstacle is 
exactly equal to the quantity of 
movement, or momentum, by which 
the body is animated. The only 
change would be in the termi- 
nology, which, instead of technical, 
would become philosophical. As 
instances of kinetic force thus de- 
fined, we might mention the quantity 
of action of a cannon-ball, of the 
hammer on the anvil, of the wind 
on the sails, etc. 

The division of forces into dy- 
namical, statical, and kinetic has 
been long recognized by all compe- 
tent judges as very good and satis- 
factory. But our men of progress, 
in the innocent belief that, before 
they appeared on the scene, every- 
thing in this world was darkness, 
have changed all that. All forces 
are now stated to consist in nothing 
but "mass animated by velocity.'* 
Dynamical forces are rejected, it 
would seem, because they imply 
what modern science cannot, or 
will not, understand — i.e. real pro- 
duction (they call it creation) of 
movement. On the other hand, 
statical forces are not masses ani- 
mated by velocity, and thus are set 
aside because they originate no 
real movement. Such is the con- 
sistency of our progressional friends. 

Yet so long as all effect will need 
a cause, there can be no doubt that 
statical forces must be real forces. 
Two weights balancing one another 
at the ends of a lever certainly act 
on one another, as every one must 
admit who observes the change 
produced by taking away one of 
the two. A weight which actually 



764 



Philosophical TetMinology. 



prevents another weight from fall- 
ing surely exerts a positive influ- 
ence on it, and therefore displays 
power and brings forth an amount 
of action. So also, when a weight 
is at rest on a table, gravity does 
not remain dormant with regard to 
it, but urges it toward the table 
with unyielding tenacity. Hence 
the table must continually react in 
order to keep the body at rest. It 
is evident, therefore, that the weight, 
while at rest on the table; exerts its 
powers and is engaged in real ac- 
tion; for nothing but real action 
can awaken real reaction. Again, 
when we try to raise a weight, we 
feel that we must overcome a real 
resistance ; and when we support a 
weight, we feel its action upon our 
limbs. Hence pressure is a real 
force, though it be not mass ani- 
mated by velocity ; and the same is 
evidently to be said of traction, tor- 
sion, flexion, etc. It is, therefore, 
impossible to ignore statical forces. 

That dynamical forces are like- 
wise indispensable in science I 
think it would be quite superfluous 
to prove. Rational mechanics is 
wholly based upon them, and no 
phenomenon in nature can be ex- 
plained without them. If modem 
science finds it difficult to under- 
stand the production of local move- 
ment, let her consider that, after 
all, it would be less damaging to her 
reputation to confess her philo- 
sophical ignorance than to deny 
what all mankind hold and know to 
be a fact. 

From this short discussion we 
may safely conclude, with the old 
physicists, that there are in nature 
dynamical and statical as well as 
kinetic forces, and that the word 
force should be uniformly used in 
philosophy as expressing a quantity 
of action measured by the quantity 
of its effect, or by something equiva- 



lent. But we have not yet done 
with our advanced theorists. 

It is curious that, after having re- 
duced all forces to '^ mass animated 
by velocity," they have not hesitat- 
ed to introduce into science a force 
which is neither mass animated 
by velocity nor a common statical 
force, but something quite different, 
to which they gave the name of 
"potential energy." The first to 
imagine this spurious force was, if 
I am not mistaken, the German Dr. 
Mayer, one of the great leaders of 
modern thought, who, considering 
that a body raised from the floor 
would, if abandoned to itself, fall 
down and acquire a momentum 
calculated to do an amount of work. 
conceived the raising of the body 
as equivalent to a communicatioo 
of latent energy destined to become 
visible at any time in the shape oi 
movement as soon as the bodv is 
left to itself. Such an energy, as 
still unevolved, was called " poten- 
tial energy." 

** If we define * energy ' to mean 
the power of doing work," says a 
well-known English professor, '*a 
stone shot upwards with great velo- 
city may be said to have in it a 
grhdX deal of actual energy, because 
it has the power of overcoming up 
to a great height the obstacle inter- 
posed by gravity to its ascent, just 
as a man of great energy has the 
power of overcoming obstacles. 
But this stone, as it continues to 
mount upwards, will do so with a 
gradually decreasing velocity, until 
at the summit of its flight all the 
actual energy with which it starred 
v/ill have been spent in raising it 
against the force of gravity to this 
elevated position. It is now mov- 
ing with no velocity — ^just, in fact. 
beginning to turn-^and we may 
suppose it to be caught and lodged 
upon the top of a house. Here, 



Pkilosophical Termmolagy. 



765 



then, it remains at rest, without the 
slightest tendency to motion of any 
kind, and we are led to ask, What 
has become of the energy with 
which it began its flight? Has 
this energy disappeared from the 
universe without leaving behind it 
any equivalent P Is it lost for ever, 
and utterly wasted? . . . Doubt- 
less the stone is at rest on the top 
of the house, and hence possesses 
no energy of motion ; but it never- 
theless possesses energy of another 
kind in virtue of its position ; for 
we can at any time cause it to drop 
down upon a pile, and thus drive it 
into the ground, or make use of its 
downward momentum to grind com, 
or to turn a wheel, or in a variety 
of useful ways. It thus appears 
that when a stone which has been 
projected upwards has been caught 
at the summit of its flight and lodg- 
ed on the top of a house, the ener- 
gy of actual motion with which it 
started has been changed into an- 
other form of energy, which we de- 
nominate energy of position, or po- 
tential energy, and that, by allowing 
the stone again to fall, we may change 
this energy of position once more 
into actual energy, so that the stone 
will reach the ground with a veloci- 
ty, and hence with an energy, equal 
precisely to that with which it was 
originally projected upwards."* 

Such is the theory. It is scarce- 
ly necessary to say that the whole 
of it is a delusion. First, the velo- 
city imparted to the stone is not a 
working power, but only a condi- 
tion for doing work, as I shall pre- 
sently show ; and, therefore, it can- 
not be styled "energy." 

Secondly, when the stone is 
caught at the summit of its ascent, 
and (according to the strange phrase 
of the author) is moxnng with no iv- 

* Balfour Stewart, Leu^n* im EhmemUry Pky^ 

ticty D. lOI. 



locity^ it possesses nothing more 
than it possessed when lying on the 
ground. Its elevated position is 
only a new local relation, which 
confers no power, either actual or 
potential. It is indeed possible ^o 
let the stone drop down ; but then 
its fall will be due to the action of 
the earth, and consequently to ex- 
trinsic causation, not to anything 
possessed by the stone on account 
of its elevated position. 

Thirdly, the words ^' potential 
energy" cannot be coupled with 
one another without absurdity; 
for " energy," according to all, 
means power to act^ whilst " poten- 
tial " means liability to be acted on. 
Hence " potential energy " would 
mean either a power to act which is 
ready to be acted on, or a power 
which is to be acquired by the body 
through its being acted on. The 
first alternative confounds act with 
passive potency, and action with 
passion ; the second assumes that 
the velocity to be acquired by the 
body is a real working power, 
which it is not. 

Fourthly, it is against reason to 
admit that " the energy of actual 
motion is changed into another 
form of energy." For where is the 
causality of the change ? The only 
causality concerned with the modifi- 
cation of the upward movement of 
the stone is the action of gravity ; 
and this, being directly antagonistic 
to the ascensional velocity, tends to 
destroy, not to transform, it. 

Fifthly, a stone created originally 
on the brink of a precipice would 
be ready to fall into it, although it 
has never been thrown up ; on the 
contrary, a stone thrown up to such 
a height as to reach the limits of 
the moon's effectual attractioa 
would never come down again, not- 
withstanding the enormous amount 
of pretended " actual energy " ex- 



766 



PkUosapkUal TerminoUgy, 



pended in the mighty ascent. Hence 
the upward flight has nothing what- 
ever to do with any so-called " po- 
tential energy." It is, therefore, a 
gross delusion to hold that by al- 
lowing the stone again to fall, *' we 
may change the potential energy 
into actual energy," it being evident 
that the actual velocity of the fall- 
ing stone is not a result of transfor- 
mation, but the product of continu- 
ous action. 

We cannot, then, adopt the phrase 
**^ potential energy " in metaphysics. 
The phrase means nothing; for 
there is nothing in nature which 
can be designated by such a name. 
Energy is synonymous with power ; 
and power cannot be in a potential 
state. To be in potency to receive 
any amount of velocity is not energy, 
but passivity. On the other hand, 
the power of doing work is not a 
mere^rr^, as assumed by the mod- 
em theory, but is something much 
higher and better. Forces are only 
variable quantities of action ; the 
power, on the contrary, in one and 
the some body is always the same, 
and yet is competent to do more or 
less work, according as it is exerted 
under more or less favorable condi- 
tions. The stone that is hurled 
against a pane of glass exerts, in 
breaking it, the very same power 
which it exerted before being Hurl- 
ed ; only the conditions of the ex- 
ertion are quite different, inasmuch 
as its velocity brings it against the 
glass at such a rate that, before its 
movement can be checked by the 
action of the glass, the stone has 
time to outrun it, dashing it to 
pieces. Yet it is by its action^ not 
by its velocity^ that it does such a 
work. Of course, its action is pro- 
portional to its velocity, and its work 
is proportional to the square of its 
velocity ; and thus the velocity serves 
^n measure both the work and the 



a<:tion, but it does not follow tibatthe 
velocity is the active power. Velo- 
city is an accidental nK>de of being; 
and nothing accidental is activt. 
This important philosophical truth 
can be easily established as follows: 

In all things the principle of be- 
ing is the principle of operation, as 
philosophers agree; whence the 
axioms, " By what a thing is, by that 
it acts," and " Everything has ac- 
tive power inasmuch as it has be- 
ing." Now, all substance has its 
being independently of accidents; 
therefore, all substance has its ac- 
tive power independently of acci- 
dents. On the other hand, acci- 
dents give to the substance a modi 
of being, and nothing more ; there- 
fore, they also determine its modt 
of acting, and nothing more. But 
as to be in this or that state presup- 
poses beingy so also to have a power 
ready to act in this or that manner 
presupposes power. Hence no ac- 
cident gives active power to the 
substance of which it is the acci- 
dent ; or, in other terms, accidents 
are nothing more than conditions 
determining the mode of applica- 
tion of the active powers that pre- 
exist in the substance. 

Again, all natural accidents* are 
reducible to three classes ; as some 
of them are accidental acts produced 
by some agent and passively re- 
ceived in some subject, others are 
intrinsic modes of being resulting 
from the reception of such acciden- 
tal acts, and, lastly, a great many art 
mere relativities or relative modes. 
Now, that relativities can act no 
one has ever pretended to assert. 

* I My neUural ftccfdeats. The tpectes ef 
bread nod of wine ia the Holy Eucharist are »- 
pernatural accidents, and have no less acttre 
power than the substances theoitelTes. Tbe 
reason is that they imply in their ooastitutiofl 
" the act and tbe activity of the substance ^—^^ 
turn ei vim iukttantiit-^iA S. Tboaas teaches.- 
and " all that which belongs to matter "-^a' 
illud fmvdad ntaitriam ptrtitut. Sec the 5a«* 
ma TktQLy p. 3, q. 77, a. 5. 



PkU0s»pkical Termmakgy* 



767. 



That intrinsic modes of being can 
act, is implicitly assumed by all 
who consider yelocily as an active 
power ; for velocity is an intrinsic 
mode of being. Yet if we ask 
them whether the exisie$ui of things 
is competent to act, they will cer- 
tainly answer tto ; and they will be 
right. But, I say, if existence can- 
not act, still less can a mere mode 
of existing act. For a mode of ex- 
isting is a reality incomparably less 
than existence itself. Accordingly, 
since they concede that not the ex« 
istence, but the thing existing^ is a 
principle of action, they must also 
^ fprti^ri concede that the thing 
modified, and not its mode, is a 
principle of action. Finally, with 
regard to the accidental act, it is 
evident that its reception in the 
substance cannot impart to it any 
new activity, since its formal effect 
simply consists in a new mode of 
being, which, as we have just seen, 
is not active. It is clear, then, 
that no natural accident has active 
power. 

Omitting other reasons drawn 
from theoretical considerations, and 
which might be usefully developed 
in special metaphysics, I will only 
add an ^ posteriori proof, which 
physicists will probably find more 
congenial to their habit of thought. 
It consists in the fact that bodies 
act on one another without being 
animated by velocity, or without 
their velocity having any share in 
the production of the effect. Thus 
a book at rest on a table acts on 
the table ; and a liquid, or a gas, at 
rest in a jar acts on the jar. On 
the other hand, the earth, though 
not at rest, attracts bodies, not by 
its diurnal rotation or by its annual 
revolution, but by a power depen- 
dent only on its mass; and the 
same is to be said of the sun and 
the planets. This shows that the 



pofwer from which the motive action 
of bodies proceeds is not their vekK 
city; whence it follows diat velo- 
city is only an affection of bod- 
ies, and has no bearing upon the 
active powers of the same, but on- 
ly on the mode of their application* 
Now, since all the accidents which 
have been supposed to involve ac- 
tive power can be resolved into 
kinds of movement, it must be own- 
ed that such accidents have no real 
activity ; for all kinds of movements 
consist of velocity, and velocity 
does not act. 

Hence, whatever scientists may 
say to the contrary, heat, li^t, elec- 
tricity, etc., axe not efficient powers, 
but modes of movement, on winch 
the mode of acting of bodies de- 
pends. When heat was thought to 
be a subtle imponderable substance, 
philosophers could consistently call 
it an efficient power; but since it 
is now decided that heat is only '^ a 
mode of motion," how can we still 
attribute to it what is the exclusive 
property of substances ? If heat is 
only a mode of motion, a bar of 
iron, when hot, has no greater 
powers than when cold ; it has on- 
ly a greater movement. So also, if 
light is only a mode of motion, lu- 
miniferous aether has no greater 
power when undulating in the open 
air than when at rest in a dark 
room. In the same manner air, 
when perfectly srill, has the same 
powers as when actually propagat- 
ing any variety of sounds. When, 
therefore, physicists speak to us of 
such movements as powers, let us 
not be imposed upon by their phra- 
seology, if we wish to be consistent 
in our reasonings, and avoid useless 
and troublesome disputes. 

Yet it was to be expected that our 
physicists in their technical lan- 
guage would confound heat, light, 
and other modes of movement with 






2PkiU$0^ical Terminology. 



forces and powers. The correla^ 
tion between such movements and 
the actions of the bodies subjected 
to them is, in fact, such as to allow 
ojf the former being taken for mea^ 
sure of the latter. Thus a given 
amount of mechanical action may 
give rise to a definite amount of 
heat, and via versa ; hence the one 
can be technically considered as the 
equivalent of the other, inasmuch 
as the one is the measure of the 
other. But does it follow that ac« 
tion and heat belong to the same 
category? Certainly not. It is 
not the action itself, but its me- 
chanical effect, that should be taken 
as the true equivalent of the heat 
generated. And when we are told 
that *' heat is expended in generat- 
ing mechanical movement," we 
must not fancy that calorific move- 
ment causes another kind of move- 
ment, as the phrase seems to imply, 
but only that, while the calorific 
movement is diminished by a given 
cause, the same cause generates the 
mechanical movement. We should 
always bear in mind that the lan- 
guage of modem science, though 
correctly expressing the correspon* 
dence of effects to effects, is very far 
from expressing as correctly the re- 
lation of effects to causes. Physi- 
cists should learn to distinguish be- 
tween efficient causes and conditions 
determining the mode of their causa- 
tion. Heat is one of such condi- 
tions, and to call it a force is to 
endow it with efficient causality; 
for the term force always conveys 
the idea of causation. They should 
either cease to describe heat as a 
force, or, if this cannot be done, 
explain more explicitly than they 
do the technical restrictions modi- 
fying the philosophical meaning of 
the word. We can hardly expect 
that they will follow our advice; 
but, at any rate, it is to be hoped 



that philosophers at least will take 
care to follow it, and guard against 
the corruption of their own termin- 
ology. 

Besides heat, light, electricity, 
and magnetism,* there are many 
other modes of being technicaily 
called forces. Centrifugal force is 
one of them ; for, in fact, centrifu- 
gal force, in spite of the name, is 
nothing more than '' that quantity 
of movement which is extinguished 
by centripetal action in the unit of 
time." 

The force of inertia — vis inertut- 
is another technical or convention- 
al force. For it is plain that inertia 
cannot act ; and thus it is impossi- 
ble to conceive any true force of 
inertia. But, technically, vis inertU 
means '' the quantity of the effort 
by which a body, when enduring: 
violence from without, resists com- 
pression, traction, or any other al- 
teration of its molecular structure. ' 
This effort proceeds, not from iner- 
tia, but from the active powers re- 
siding in the molecules of the body : 
and yet it has received the name of 
vis inertia^ because it develops itself 
in the lapse of time during which 
the body, inasmuch as inert—ix- 
incapable of leaving its place before 
the whole mass has acquired 2 
common velocity — is still loth to 
start, and thus compelled to strug- 
gle against the invading body. Phi- 
losophers, by keeping in sight thi> 
definition of vis inerticBy will be abk 
to solve many sophisms of moderr 
scientific writers. 

Again, the weight of a body i-^ 
called 2iforce^ and is represented by 
the product of the mass of the body 
into a velocity which it has noU but 
which it would acquire through the 
action of gravity in a second oi 
time, if it were free to fall. If the 
mass be called M^ and the velocity 
which it would acquire ^, the pr^^- 



Philosophical Termin 




dtict Mg will represent the weight 
of the body. Now, when the body 
is at rest on a table, the pressure 
exercised by it on the table is said 
to be Mg, Does this mean that 
the weight of the body acts on the 
table ? Not at all ; for the body 
does not act by its weight, which is 
not an active power. The truth is 
that the table by its resistance pre- 
vents the body from acquiring the 
momentum Mg ; and since this re- 
sistance of the table must be equal 
to the pressure exercised on it by 
the body, hence the pressure itself 
is also equal to Mg j and thus a 
true force — a quantity of pressure 
— is technically identified with the 
weight of the pressing body. This 
identification tends to give a false 
idea of the nature of the fact, and 
therefore should be carefully avoid- 
ed in philosophy. 

Modem physicists have laughed 
at a philosopher of the old school 
(Arriaga), who, as late as 1639, ** was 
troubled to know how, when sever- 
al flat weights lie upon one another 
on a board, any but the lowest 
should exert pressure on the board." 
It would have been more prudent 
on their part to ask themselves 
whether the question was one 
which the modern school could an- 
swer at all. If we ask how two 
equal weights can exert equal 
pressures on the board from ««- 
equal distances, what can they an- 
swer? If they wish to be consis- 
tent with their notions, they can 
only answer that "the actions are 
transmitted from one weight to an- 
other till they meet the board." 
Now, this is a great philosophical 
blunder ; for actions are accidents, 
and therefore cannot travel from 
one subject to another. Neither 
action nor active power are ever 
transmitted; not even movement 
is properly transmitted, but only 
VOL. XVI n. — 49 



propagated by a series of succes- 
sive exertions from molecule to 
molecule. Were we to admit in 
philosophy any such transmission, 
we would soon be entangled in in- 
numerable contradictions. 

Mechanical work also is often 
styled a foree^ though it is nothing 
but th€ process by which z. force 
is exhausted. The notion of work 
is very simple. A body moving 
through space against a continuous 
resistance is said to do work. Work 
is therefore so much the greater 
according as a greater mass mea- 
sures a greater j;^r^ under a greater 
resistance ; and thus the work which 
a given body can perform may be 
represented by the product of three 
factors, viz., the mass, the mean re- 
sistance, and the space measured. 
This is the philosophical and ana- 
lytical expression of work; and 
mathematicians show that this ex- 
pression in all cases (viz., whether 
the resistance be constant or varia- 
ble) is equal to half the product of 
the mass into the square of its ini- 
tial velocity. Now the question 
comes: Is work a force .^ It is 
not difficult to anticipate the an- 
swer. Since the adoption of the so- 
called " living forces," or vires vivce^ 
of Leibnitz, physicists have called 
vis viva the sum of the works of 
two conflicting bodies; and conse- 
quently the work done by either of 
the two was said to be one-half of 
the vis viva. But, with all the re- 
spect due to the memory of Leib- 
nitz, I would say that neither the 
work nor the so-called vis viva is 
a force in the philosophical sense 
of the word. When a mass, M^ ani- 
mated by a velocity, F, encounters 
a resistance and begins its work, its 
momentum is MV. This momen- 
tum, while the work is being done, 
is gradually reduced till it is finally 
destroyed by the resistance. The 



770 



Philosophical Terminology. 



resistance is, therefore, equal to the 
momentum MV, But the resis- 
tance, according to the law of im- 
pact, is always equal to the exer- 
tion of the impinging body. And 
therefore the amount of the exertion 
of the impinging body is also equal 
ioMV ; that is to say, the force by 
which the work is done is an ordi* 
nary dynamical force represented by 
the usual dynamical momentum, 
and not by the amount of the work 
done.* 

And here I must close this rather 
long excursion into the field of me- 
chanics. But I cannot conclude 
without calling the reader's atten- 
tion to the reckless tendency of the 
phraseology which I have above 
criticised. It seems as if the ob- 
ject of a class of scientific writers 
in these late years has been to ban- 
ish from science all secondary 
causes, no doubt as a preliminary 
step (in the intention of the most 
advanced among them) for the ban- 
ishment of the First Cause itself. 
The words cause^ power ^ forccy and 
others of the same kind, have in- 
deed been maintained, as they 
could not be easily dispensed with ; 
but they receive a new interpreta- 
tion : they have become " kinds of 
motion," and have been identified 
with the phenomena — that is, with 
the effects themselves. Thus " move- 
ment " is now everything ; its 
boasted '* indestructibility " makes 
it independent of all secondary 
causes; and we are told that the 
existence of " essential causes " can 
no longer be proved by the phe- 

* In the New Amtrican Cyclopetdia^ edited In 
1863 (v. MtckanUs\ after the statement that '* to 
overcome all the inertia of a body moving with 
a certain velocity, or to impress on it at rest such 
a velocity, the same whole quantity of action 
must in either case be exerted and expended 
upon the body/' we are given to understand 
that this quantity is equal to half the product of 
the mass of the body into the square ot the given 
velocity. Prom what we have Just shown, it is 
•vldcot that this conclusion is false. 



nomena, and that "science" has 
the right to reject them as meta- 
physical dreams. Let us hear Mr. 
Grove again : 

'^ Though the term (force) has a 
potential meaning, to depart from 
which would render language unin- 
telligible, we must guard against 
supposing that we know essentially 
more of the phenomena by saying 
that they are produced by some- 
thing, which something is only a 
word derived from the constancy 
and similarity of the phenomtna 
we seek to explain by it " (p. 18). 

And again : '' The most general- 
ly received view of causation — that 
of Hume — refers to invariable ante- 
cedence — t, e, we call that a cause 
which invariably precedes, that an 
effect which invariably succeeds" 
(p. 10). 

And again : " It seems question* 
able not only whether cause and 
effect are convertible terms with 
antecedence and sequence, but 
whether, in fact, cause does precede 
effect. . . . The attraction which 
causes iron to approach the magnet 
is simultaneous with, and ever ac- 
companies, the movement of the 
iron" (p. 13). Yet he adds : " Habi: 
and the identification of thoughts 
with phenomena so compel the use 
of recognized terms that we can- 
not avoid the use of the word 
' cause,' even in the sense to which 
objection is taken; and if ve 
struck it out of our vocabulary, our 
language, in speaking of successive 
changes, would be unintelligible to 
the present generation " (1^. ) 

And lastly : " In all plienomeno, 
the more closely they are investigat- 
ed, the more are we convinced that, 
humanly speaking, neither matter 
nor force can be created or anni- 
hilated, and that an essential cause is 
unattainable. Causation is the will 
creation the act, of God " (p. 218). 



Late Home. 



771 



It is not Mr. Grove alone that 
entertains such views; I might 
quote other English authors, and 
many German, Italian, French, and 
American writers whose opinions 
are even more extravagant. But a 
theory which pretends to ignore 
efficient causality, no matter how 
loudly trumpeted by scientific peri- 
odicals, no matter how pompously 
dressed in scientific books, no mat- 
ter how x:onstantly inculcated from 
professorial chairs, in the long run 
is sure to fail. It bears in itself 
and in its very phraseology its 
own condemnation. It is vain to 



pretend to explain away its incon- 
sistencies by alleging that " the hab- 
its of the present generation com- 
pel the use of recognized terms ; " 
the simple truth is that the abet- 
tors of modem thought reap in 
their inconsistencies the reward of 
their vanity. Mankind will never 
consign created causality to the 
region of dreams, and we would 
remind our scientific friends who 
have not received a thorough 
philosophical training of the old 
adage, *' Let the cobbler stick to 
his last." 

A Friend of Philosophy 



LATE HOME. 

Mother, I come ! Long have thine arms, outspread 

In mercy and maternal majesty, 

Been waiting to receive me. Long have I 

Heard thy low, summoning voice in wistful dread : 

A truant child, who yearned, yet feared, to tread 

The threshold of its home, while still on high 

Blazed the broad sun within the noonday sky ; 

But, when the shadows of the evening came. 

And darkness fell, was fain to seek the flame 

Of its own hearthstone and its mother dear. 

And meet her greeting, loving, if severe. 

Her frown, which could not hide the secret tear, 

Her gaze compassionate, though sad and stem. 

Her fond forgiveness of that late return. 



n^ 



Gra^s and Thorns. 



GRAPES AND THORN& 



BY TBB AUTHOK OP ** THS HOUSE OP TOUOU* 



CHAPTER IX. 



THE VERDICT. 



The arrest was made in Septem- 
ber; in November the trial came 
on. It would have been earlier, 
but that witnesses were to be sum- 
moned from England. It was un- 
derstood in Crichton that every- 
thing was very soon to be in readi- 
ness, and that the trial would be a 
short one ; one side announcing con- 
fidently a speedy acquittal, the other 
intimating, by a grave but equally 
confident silence, their belief in a 
speedy conviction. 

" Dear Mother Chevreuse !" sigh- 
ed Honora Pembroke, who trem- 
bled with terror and apprehension 
as the day drew near, " how far 
from your heart is all this bitter- 
ness ! How far from your wish it 
would have been to see a man 
hunted like a beast of prey, even if 
he had done you a wrong ! How 
far from your peace is all this ex- 
citement!" 

Far, indeed, would such an in- 
quisition, however necessary to the 
ends of justice and the good of 
society, have been from that sweet 
and overflowing heart, where love, 
when it could not make the wan- 
dering steps seem to be searching 
for the right path, uprose like a 
flo«d, and washed out those traces 
of error from remembrance. Far 
enough, too, was all this trouble 
from the changing form that had 
once held so much goodness. One 
might guess how Nature had taken 
back to her motherly bosom the 
clay she had lent for mortal uses, 
was slowly fitting it, by her 



wondrous alchemy, for immortality; 
purifying the dross from it, bright- 
ening the fine gold. While this 
tumult went on overhead, the crum- 
bling dust of that temple whose 
ruin had brought such sorrow and 
disaster was slowly and sweetly 
going on its several paths to per- 
fection; stealing into violets, into 
roses, into humble grass-blades, into 
mists that gathered again in drops 
to refresh its own blossoms and 
foliage ! 

Who can say what countless 
shapes of constantly aspiring love- 
liness the dust of the saint may 
assume before uniting once more 
and for ever to form that glorified 
body which is to hold, without im- 
prisoning, the beatified spirit, and 
transmit without stain the sunshine 
of the Divine Presence ? 

Yes; far enough from such a 
progress was the feverish trouble 
resulting from this sudden and vio- 
lent dissolution^ Friends went to 
cover anew with flowers and green 
that grave over which the snows 
of coming winter had let fall a 
pure and shining mantle ; but the 
tears they shed were bitter, and 
their flowers withered in the frost. 
Voices of those she loved recalled 
her virtues, and repeated her wise 
and tender sayings ; but they, like 
all the world, found it easier to ad- 
mire than to imitate. At humble 
firesides, where families gathered 
at night, shivering half with cold 
and half with fear, they blessed and 
mourned the hand that had helped 



Grapes and Thorns. 



in 



them and the voice that had 
sympathized with and encouraged ; 
but their blessing was so encum- 
bered with human selfishness that 
it cast the shadow of a maledic- 
tion. Pure indeed must be that 
love in whose footprints hatred 
never lurks ! 

On the day the trial began F. 
Chevreuse lost courage. More fa- 
tigued by constant physical labor 
than he would own, he was still 
more exhausted in mind. A de- 
vouring anxiety had taken posses- 
sion of him. If he was less sure of 
Mr. Schdninger's innocence than 
he had been, no one knew it. Pro- 
bably he entertained no doubt on 
that subject. But he was certainly 
less confident that the accused 
would be able to free himself en- 
tirely from suspicion. He could 
no longer be ignorant of the fact 
that there was a very damaging 
array of testimony against him. 

" I must be allowed to be child- 
ish for once, if it is childishness," 
he said. " I cannot perform my 
duties till this is over. If a priest 
is needed, go to F. O'Donovan. 
Don't let any one come near me 
but Mr. Macon. Above all things, 
don't let any woman in." 

We pardon this last request of F. 
Chevreuse, for he was not in the 
habit of speaking slightingly of wo- 
men ; and it must be owned that few 
of them have the gift of silence or of 
ceasing to speak when they have no 
more to say. 

Mr. Macon was precisely the 
friend he needed in these circum- 
stances — quick-sighted, clear-head- 
ed, prompt, and taciturn. He was, 
moreover, a man of influence, and 
could obtain information in ad- 
vance of most persons. 

** Make yourself quite easy, F. 
Chevreuse," he said. " You shall 
know everything of consequence 



within ten minutes after it has hap- 
pened in the court-room." 

The gentleman had in his pocket 
a package of small envelopes, all 
directed plainly to F. Chevreuse, 
and each one containing a slip of 
paper. When he seated himself in 
the court-room, a boy stood beside 
him ready to run with his messages. 

In the priest's house, F. Chev- 
reuse had shut himself into his 
mother's room. A bright fire burn- 
ed on the hearth, the sun shone in 
through the eastern window, and at 
the other side could be seen a win- 
dow of the church with the cipher 
of the Immaculate Mother, white 
and gold-colored, in the arch of it, 
sparkling as if it had just been trac- 
ed there by Our Lady herself. All 
was still, the length of the house 
being between him and the street, 
so that only a faint hum of life 
reached his ears. 

" It is hard to believe that misfor- 
tune is to come again," he mutter- 
ed, glancing at the quiet brightness 
of the scene. '* And I will not be- 
lieve it. I will not think of it. In 
the name of God, all vain and evil 
thoughts begone !" 

He drew a table near the fire, 
placed several books on it, and, 
seating himself, began in earnest to 
translate a book which he had been 
fitfully at work upon in the brief 
pauses of nearer duties. It was a 
relief to him to look thus into the 
mind of another, and escape a 
while from his own. '' I am fortu- 
nate in having this to do," he 
thought, looking at the bright side 
of the situation. 

The habit of concentrating his 
thoughts on the subject in hand 
did much for him ; and when Mr. 
Macon's first message arrived, it 
found him bending with interest 
over the written page whereon he- 
had rendered well a happy thouglit. 



774 



Grapes and Thorns. 



•* That is better than the origi- 
nal," he said to himself. "The 
English is a large, loose-jointed 
language, sprawling slightly, but it 
is a sprawling Titan. It is rich and 
strong. For such a work as this, 
the French is a trifle too natty and 
crisp. Come in !" 

The door opened, and his mes- 
senger stood there. Instantly all 
rushed across the priest's mind 
again. He stretched his hand for 
the note the boy offered him, and 
tore it hastily open. It was short : 

" Nothing but preliminaries so 
far. The court sits again at two 
o'clock." 

F. Chevreuse glanced at the 
clock, and saw that it was already 
noon. Two hours had passed like 
ten minutes while his mind was 
thus abstracted. 

" Were there many people about 
the court-house ? " he asked. 

The boy had been instructed to 
give his notes without saying any- 
thing, and to speak only when spok- 
en to ; but he had not been told 
how much to say when he was spok- 
en to. The temptation to relate 
what he had seen was irresistible. 

"Oh! yes, father," he said, his 
eyes glistening with excitement. 
" There was such a crowd that I 
could hardly get out. I had to 
hold up the letter, and say it was 
for you. Then they made way." 

F. Chevreuse dropped his eyes, 
and his face grew more troubled. 
" Mr. Schbninger was not in court V* 
he asked. 

"No, sir!" The boy hesitated, 
and had evidently something more 
to say. 

" Well ?" said the priest. 

" Somebody threw a crucifix in 
at his cell-window to-day, and he 
broke it up and threw it out again," 
the messenger said eagerly. 

The priest's face blushed an an- 



gry red. " Have they no more rev- 
erence for the crucifix than to use 
it as a means of insult, and expose 
it in turn to be insulted V* he ex- 
claimed. " Was it done by a Cath- 
olic ? Do you know who did it ?" 

F. Chevreuse was putting on his 
overcoat and searching for his bat, 
to the great terror of the indiscreet 
tale-bearer. 

" I don't know who did it," be 
stammered. "I guess it was some 
boys. But that was this morning; 
and now the police drive everybody 
away from that side of the jail. 1 
am sure they won't do such a thing 
again, father." 

The priest perceived the boy's 
distress in spite of his own preoccu- 
pation. " Never mind^ Johnny," he 
said kindly, and tried to smile as 
he laid his hand on that young 
head. " You did no harm in tell- 
ing me; I ought to know if such 
things happen. Come, I am going 
out, and our roads are the same for 
a little way. You are going to din- 
ner? Well, thank your father for 
me, and say that I shall go only to 
the jail, and directly home again." 

" And what has he gone to the 
jail for ?" Mr. Macon inquired in 
surprise when he received this 
message from his son. 

The boy answered truthfully 
enough, but with a somewhat guilty 
conscience, that he did not know. 
and sat down to his dinner, which 
he was unable to eat. His round 
cheeks were burning like live coals 
with excitement, and his heart wa^ 
trembling with the thought that it 
was he who had sent the priest on 
that errand. 

" You must learn to bear excite- 
ment better, my son," the mother 
said. " It will never do for you to 
be in court every day, if it is going 
to make you lose your appetite." 

Thus admonished, Johnny called 



Grapes and Thorns. 



77S 



back his courage. ^* Oh ! I'm not 
excited at all, mother," he said, 
with a fine air of carelessness. " It 
is only that I am not hungry. Why, 
all the men in the court-house, ex* 
cept the judge, were more excited 
than I was; weren't they, father?" 

The father and mother exchang- 
ed a glance and smile. They were 
rather pleased with the self-confi- 
dence of this doughty young lad of 
theirs. 

Meantime, F. Chevreuse had 
reached the jail, and learned that 
the story he had heard was quite 
true. Some boys, encouraged, it 
was thought, by their elders, had 
Aung a crucifix into the Jew's cell- 
window, which was not far from 
the ground, and it had been tossed 
out to them, broken in two. The 
prisoner had complained that mis- 
siles were being thrown in, when 
the police had received instructions 
to keep the place clear. 

" I have not allowed any visitors 
in the corridor for several days," 
the jailer said. "People crowded 
here by scores. But you, of course, 
can always go in. They are just 
carrying in the dinner." 

"I am not sure that I wish to 
speak to him," the priest said with 
hesitation, but after a moment fol- 
lowed into the corridor. The 
waiter set the tin dishes containing 
food into the different cells, through 
a hole in the door, and retired. 
The jailer stood near the outer 
door. F. Chevreuse approached 
Mr. Schoninger's cell, not with the 
eager confidence of his first visit, 
but with an apprehension which he 
could not overcome. Other foot- 
steps prevented his own from being 
heard, and he stood at the grating, 
unseen and unsuspected by the in- 
mate of the cell. 

Mr. Schoninger sat on the side 
of his bed, his face partly turned 



from the door, looking steadfastly 
out through the window. A silent 
snow had begun to fall, tossed 
hither and thither by the wind. 
The jail was near the Immaculate 
Conception, F. Chevreuse's new 
church, and the stone Christ that 
crowned the summit of the church 
was directly opposite the window 
of the cell. It stood there above 
the roof of the building, with the 
sky for a background, its arms out- 
stretched, and now, in the storm, 
seemed to be the centre toward 
which all the anger of the elements 
was directed. The myriad flakes, 
tumbling grayly down, like flocks 
of rebel angels being cast out of 
heaven, buffeted the compassionate 
face as they passed, and, after fall- 
ing, seemed to rise again for one 
more blow. They rushed from 
east, west, north, and south, to cast 
their trivial insult at that sublime 
and immortal patience. A small 
bird, weary-winged, nestled into 
the outstretched hand, and the 
wind, twirling the snow into a lash, 
whipped it out, and sent it flutter- 
ing to the ground. Nothing was 
visible through the window but 
that solitary form in mid-air stretch- 
ing out its arms through the storm. 

On that Mr. SchSninger's gaze 
was immovably set, and his face 
seemed more pale and cold than 
the stone itself. His hands were 
folded on his knees, the rising of 
the chest as he breathed was 
scarcely perceptible, and not a 
muscle of the closely-shut mouth 
stirred. His large, clear eyes, and 
the eyelids that trembled now and 
then, alone relieved the almost pain- 
ful fixedness of his position. 

Whether, absorbed in his own af- 
fairs, the direction his eyes took 
was merely accidental, or whether 
the statue itself had drawn and 
held that earnest regard, was not 



776 



Grapes and Thorns. 



easy to decide. But a Catholic, 
ever ready to believe that images, 
whose sole purpose is, for him, to 
recall the mind to heavenly con- 
templations, will suggest holy 
thoughts even to unbelievers, must 
also necessarily hope that no eyes 
will for a moment rest on them in 
entire unconsciousness. 

F. Chevreuse, after one glance, 
drew noiselessly back. Mr. Schd- 
ninger's strong and resolute calm- 
ness, which hid, he knew not what, 
of inner tumult or repose, discon- 
certed him. Besides, he had not 
forgotten that those white hands, 
so gently folded now, had within 
a few hours broken in pieces the 
symbol of man's salvation, and 
flung them from him in scorn. 
He would offer no explanations 
nor assurances to one who seemed 
so little in need of them. Sigh- 
ing heavily, he turned away, and 
sought refuge again in his own 
home. 

Yet a faint gleam of light had 
penetrated his sombre mood from 
this visit, and, when he had closed 
the door of his room, he stepped 
hastily to the window looking to- 
ward the church, and glanced up 
at the statue above him. It had 
been wrought in Italy, and brought 
to America in the good ship Comcia^ 
and had on the voyage come near 
being thrown overboard to lighten 
the ship during a storm. Bales 
and barrels of merchandise had 
gone by the board, costly oils had 
floated on the waves, costly wines 
had perfumed them, but the heavi- 
est thing in all the freight, the stone 
Christ, had been left undisturbed 
in spite of the sailors. The cap- 
tain was a rough man, and cared 
little for any form of religion ; but 
somewhere within his large, rude 
nature was hidden, like a chapel in 
a rock, a little nook still bright and 



fresh with his youth and his mo- 
ther's teachings. 

'^ If Jesus Christ did really walk 
on the sea without sinking, then he 
can keep this image of himself from 
sinking, and us with it," he said. 
'' I'll put it to the test. If the ship 
goes down, I'll never believe in any 
of those old stories again." 

And he held to his resolution 
through a terrific storm, in spite of 
* a crew on the brink of mutiny, and 
finally sailed into port with the sa- 
cred image, which had, he believed, 
miraculously preserved them. And 
ever after, as they sailed, a little 
image of Christ sailed with theoif 
fixed in the bows; and at night, 
during storms at sea, the sailors, al- 
beit no Catholics, would bow their 
heads in passing it, and mutter a 
word of prayer for aid; and one 
old sailor, to whom for thirty years 
the land had been strange and the 
sea a home, used to tell how, on 
one terrible night of that long storm 
when the stone Christ had been 
their sole freight left, the crew, lash- 
ed to mast and spar, and looking 
every moment for destruction, had 
seen a white form glide forth from 
the hold, and, standing in the bows, 
stretch out its hands over the waves, 
which, with the gale, sank away to 
silence before them, leaving only 
the gentle breeze that had wafted 
them on their way home. 

" I leave him to you, O shadow 
of my Lord!" the priest said. 
"^ Speak to him ! call him so that he 
cannot resist you !" 

He then returned to his wort 
somewhat relieved. " No trial is 
insupportable to him who has 
faith," he thought. " And may be 
all this trouble has come upon him in 
order that he might lift his eyes and 
behold that Christ whom he has de- 
nied standing with arms outstretch- 
ed to receive him." 



Grapes and Tkerns, 



777 



But notwithstanding this faint 
comfort, the second message did 
not find F. Chevreuse so absorbed 
as the first had. He could with 
difficulty command his thoughts, 
and was constantly lifting his head 
to listen for an approaching step, 
or starting at a fancied knock at 
the door. 

Near the close of the afternoon 
the boy came, when the light was so 
dim that the note could be read 
only by taking it to the window. 

"They have opened the case a 
long way off," Mr. Macon wrote. 
" They have proved that Mr. Schd- 
ninger has a law-suit in England 
which involves a large fortune. It 
costs him every dollar he can raise, 
his opponents being an established 
family of wealth and influence, who 
have for years been in possession 
of the property he claims. They 
have proved that during the year 
ending last April his lawyers receiv* 
ed from him Afteen hundred dollars 
in quarterly payments, and that in 
April they wrote that, without larger 
advances of money, it would be im- 
possible for them to carry on the 
claim. In May, then, he sent them 
five hundred dollars, in June five 
hundred more, and on the first of 
September a thousand dollars. That 
closes the business for this after- 
noon." 

"And what is the impression 
made?" F. Chevreuse asked Mr. 
Macon, when that gentleman called 
on him in the evening. 

"The impression, or rather the 
conviction, is that Mr. Schdninger 
was in a condition to make a man 
desperate in his wish for money. 
An immense fortune might be se- 
cured by expending a few thousands 
then, and would certainly be lost if 
he had not the few thousands. 
They brought in a crowd of small 
tattlers to show that about the time 



he received this letter, and after, he 
was in great distress and agitation 
of mind ; that he lost his appetite, 
and was heard walking to and fro 
in his chamber at night. Further- 
more, it is evident that the money 
was obtained in some way after the 
first of May, though it was not all 
sent at that time. People natural- 
ly ask where the money came from, 
since he was not known to have any 
in bank, and was supposed to have 
sent before all he earned above 
what was necessary for him to live 



on. 



t» 



"Poor fellow!" said F. Chev- 
reuse pityingly. " What a trouble 
there was all the time under that 
calm exterior! For I never saw 
him otherwise than calm. Why, 
people might comment on my walk- 
ing my room at night. I frequent- 
ly walk so when I am thinking, and 
always when I say my beads." 

" I do not imagine that Mr. Scho- 
ninger was saying his beads," Mr 
Macon said rather dryly. "He 
was undoubtedly in trouble. He 
certainly had always an air of calm- 
ness, but to my mind it was not an 
air of contentment. He gave me 
the impression of a person who has 
some secret locked up in his mind. 
This affair of the contested inheri- 
tance explains it." 

" Poor fellow 1" F. Chevreuse said 
again, and leaned back in his chair. 
" He has got to have all his private 
affairs dragged up for discussion, 
and his looks and actions com- 
mented on by the curious. That is 
the worst of such a trial. A man 
fancies that he has been living a 
quiet, private life, and he finds that 
he has all the time been in a glass 
case with everybody watching him. 
The simplest things are distorted, 
and a mountain is built up out of 
nothing, and that without any wrong 
intention either, but simply by the 



778 



Grapes and Th&ms. 



curiosity and misconceptions of 
people." 

Mr. Macon said nothing. He 
respected the priest's charity, but, 
for himself, he reserved his decision 
till the judge should have pro- 
nounced. He was not enthusiastic 
for Mr. Schoninger, nor prejudiced 
against him; he simply waited to 
see what would be proved, and had 
no doubt that the truth would tri- 
umph. 

On the second day the trial pro- 
gressed rapidly, approaching a vital 
point. Mr. Schoninger had not 
slept the night before the death of 
Mother Chevreuse, but had been 
heard walking and moving about 
his room till morning. Miss Car- 
thusen, whose chamber was next 
his, gave this piece of information, 
and added that the next morning 
the prisoner looked very pale, and 
scarcely tasted his breakfast. She 
spoke with evident reluctance, and 
subjoined an explanation which had 
not been asked. " I noticed and 
remembered it, because I had heard 
of his suit in England, and was 
afraid it might be going against 
him." 

She glanced nervously at the pri- 
soner, and met a look wherein a 
softer ray seemed to penetrate the 
searching coldness. Perhaps he was 
touched to learn that one for whom 
he had cared so little had, without 
his suspecting it, sympathized with 
him, and been kindly observant of 
his ways. 

On being questioned, she said 
that Mr. Schoninger had not come 
Jiome the next night. They had 
expected him, because he usually 
told them when he was to l)e absent ; 
but did not think very strange of it, 
as he was due early the next day at 
the town of Madison, where he went 
every week to give lessons, and 
where he sometimes went overnight. 



The last she saw of him that night 
was at Mrs. Ferrier's. They had a 
rehearsal there, and he had excused 
himself early, saying that he had an 
engagement, and left alone before 
any of the company. 

Being further questioned, she ad- 
mitted having seen that he took 
with him from his boarding-house 
the shawl that he habitually wore 
on chilly evenings. 

A shawl was shown her, and she 
was asked if she recognized it. 

^' It was not easy to recognize any 
one among all the gray shawls there 
were in the world," she replied ra- 
ther flippantly, " but Mr. Schonin- 
ger's was like that; she should think 
it might be his." 

As she went out, the witness 
passed quite near the prisoner, and 
looked at him imploringly; but he 
took no notice of her. She paused 
an instant, then, bursting into tears, 
hurried out through the crowd 
clinging to the arm of her adopted 
father. Lily Carthusen found her- 
self far more deeply involved than 
she had intended. In a moment 
of pique and jealousy she had en- 
tertained and encouraged this ac- 
cusation, and even insinuated that 
she could tell some things if she 
would ; but it was one thing to sus- 
pect privately, and make peevish 
boasts which attracted to her the 
attention she so dearly loved, and 
quite another to face the terrible 
reality where a man was being tried 
for his life and she swearing against 
him. 

Yet even while grieving over her 
haste, and repenting it after a fash- 
ion, her anger rose again at the 
remembrance of that cold glance 
which had averted itself from her 
when all in the court-room could 
have seen that she mutely begged 
his pardon for what she had been 
obliged to say. 



Grapes and Thorns. 



779 



**I hope this will teach you to 
guard your tongue a little," her 
father said in deep vexation, as he 
extricated her from the throng. 
"It's about the last place for a 
lady to come to. And, moreover, I 
hope it will cure you of concerning 
yourself about the pale looks and 
bad appetite of young men who do 
not trouble themselves about you." 

" Oh ! yes, papa," says Miss 
Lily ; " since I've had a bad time, 
be sure you add a scolding to it. 
It's the way with you men." 

Mr. Carthusen wisely kept si- 
lence. He had learned before this 
that the young woman who called 
him father had a remarkable talent 
for retort. 

Where, then, did Mr. Schdninger 
spend the night the priest's house 
was entered? Not in Madison; 
for he had driven himself there 
early in the morning. He had 
waked a stable-keeper at four 
o'clock in the morning to give him 
a horse and buggy to drive to Mad- 
ison. The man had wondered at 
the prisoner taking so early a start, 
even if he had to begin his lessons 
at eight o'clock, and had thought 
that something was the matter with 
liim. He looked pale ; and several 
times, while harnessing the horse, 
the witness had glanced up and 
seen him shivering, as if with cold, 
though it was a beautiful May 
morning. Mr. Schdninger had 
seated himself on a bench near the 
stable-door while waiting, and lean- 
ed his arms on his knees, looking 
down, and had not uttered a word 
before driving away, except to say 
that he would be back at seven 
o'clock in the evening. He looked 
like a man who had been up all 
night. 

Being questioned, the witness 
testified that the prisoner wore at 
the time he saw him in the morning 



a large gray shawl, such as gentle- 
men wear; and, on still further 
questioning, he said that he had 
observed there was a little piece 
torn out of one corner. He had 
noticed and remembered this, be- 
cause the shawl hung over the 
wheel when Mr. Schdninger started, 
and he had stopped him to tuck it 
up. His first passing thought had 
been that it was a pity to injure a 
new shawl; his second, on seeing 
the torn comer, that, after all^ the 
shawl was not a new one. He 
would not, perhaps, have remem- 
bered such trivial circumstances 
but for what he heard immediately 
after. Some one came in and told 
him of Mother Chevreuse's death. 
It occurred to him that Mr. Schd- 
ninger must have heard of it al- 
ready, and that it was that news 
which had made him so sober and 
silent. He recollected, too, having 
heard that F. Chevreuse and the 
Jew were quite great friends, but 
that the priest's mother did not like 
they should have any intercourse. 
He had observed, too, that Mr. 
Schoninger's boots were muddy, 
and wondered at it a little, as the 
roads were not bad, and as the 
prisoner had always been nice in 
his dress. 

When Mr. Macon visited F. 
Chevreuse the evening of the second 
day, he found the priest looking 
quite haggard. 

" You have written me the bad, 
and the worst of the bad," he ex- 
claimed the moment the door was 
shut on them. "There must be 
something to counterbalance all 
this nonsense!" 

" On the contrary, there is some- 
thing to add," Mr. Macon replied. 
" Johnny couldn't get through the 
crowd at the. last. They would 
not make way for him." 

" Well V* the priest asked sharply. 



78o 



Grapes and Thorns. 



They had seated themselves be* 
fore the fire, and the red light of 
it shone up into one face turned 
sideways, and full of shrinking in- 
quiry as it looked into the other 
face, whose downcast eyes seemed 
to shun being so read. 

" Mr. Schoninger was somewhere 
wandering about the city all that 
night," Mr. Macon said. " He was 
seen and recognized by two or 
three persons, all of whom noticed 
something odd in his manner. He 
was seen in the lane back of the 
house here as late as eleven o'clock, 
and appeared to be going toward 
the river, but came back to the 
street on finding himself observed. 
He was not at his boarding-house 
nor at any of the hotels that night. 
Moreover, the measure taken of the 
tracks near your house corresponds 
with the size of the boots he wore." 

"I don't want to hear any 
more!" exclaimed F. Chevreuse 
passionately, and hid his face in 
his hands. 

His companion glanced quickly 
at him, then looked into the fire, 
and remained silent. 

After a moment, the priest lifted 
his face. 

"You don't mean to say that 
the case is going against him .'" he 
asked in a low voice that expressed 
both fear and incredulity. 

" It looks a little like that now," 
was the quiet reply. " But we do 
not know what to-morrow may bring 
forth." 

"I believe Jane was called to- 
day ?" F. Chevreuse remarked after 
a moment. 

The other nodded his head. 

" I hope she behaved well ?" he 
added painfully. 

Another nod. " Yes ; as well as 
one could expect he^: to." 

" The Ferricrs, too, and Law- 



v«rt/«A 1^ 



f« 



" Yes ; but their testimony was 
not of any great consequence." 

The testimony of the Ferricr fa- 
mily was, however, entirely favora- 
ble to the prisoner, and they had 
mentioned him with such respect 
and kindness as to visibly affect 
him, and to create a sort of diver- 
sion in his favor. The wealth and 
style of the party, the manner in 
which they took possession, as it 
were, of the court-room, with seve- 
ral gentlemen clearing the path be- 
fore them, made an impression. 
When they went out, the prisoner 
looked at them with a faint smile 
as they passed. Annette smiled in 
return, and Lawrence bowed with 
scrupulous respect and friendli- 
ness ; but Mrs. Ferrier, rustling in 
voluminous silks, down which her 
rich sables slipped loosely, leaned 
over the bar, and, in the face of 
the whole court and crowd of spec- 
tators, shook hands with Mr. Scho- 
ninger, and, in a voice audible to 
the whole company, made with him 
an appointment which hovered 
strangely between the tragical and 
the absurd. 

" Come to my house the minute 
you are out of this terrible place," 
she said. "Don't go anywhere 
else." Then she flounced out, wip- 
ing her eyes, and tossing her head 
disdainfully at the judge, the law- 
yers, and the crowd, whom she 
held to be, severally and collect- 
ively, to blame for these unjust and 
impertinent proceedings. 

'^You know, mamma," Annette 
said, "the judge has to listen to 
everybody, and it isn't his fault if 
people are accused. And Mr. Wil- 
son is obliged to make out his case, 
if he can, and to ask a great many 
questions. Some things that seem 
to us trivial may have a good deal 
of importance in a case like this. 
You must remember that a U'' 



Grapes and Tkorns. 



781 



court is quite difTerent from a 
drawing-room, where people can- 
not be too inquisitive without being 
checked." 

'*I shall take care that none of 
them come to my drawing-room 
again," retorted the mother with 
spirit. " To think of that Mr. Wil- 
son, who has been at my house to 
dinner, telling me to try to remem- 
ber something that he knew I had 
forgotten or didn't want to tell! 
You may depend upon it, Annette, 
that man has a spite against poor 
Mr. Schoninger. It is as plaih as 
day that he is raking up all he can 
against him. I shouldn't be sur- 
prised if the scamp were to hire 
men to tell lies about him. He 
looks capable of it. And then, to 
question me about what Mr. Scho- 
ninger had over his shoulder when 
he came to my house, and what 
time it was' when he went away, 
and to show me that trumpery old 
gray shawl — ^if that is the majesty 
of the law, I don't want to see any 
more majesty. The object — ^and a 
most ridiculous and slanderous ob- 
ject it is, too — is to find out if 
Mr. Schoninger, as fine a gentle- 
man as ever lived, broke into a 
priest's house, and murdered a 
lady and a saint, and stole a little 
package of dirty one-dollar bills. 
That's what they pretend to want 
to find out; and why don't they 
find it out in the proper way ? It 
needn't take 'em long, I should 
think. But no! they must poke 
their noses into people's private 
affairs, asking every kind of impu- 
dent question, and making you say 
things twice, and then asking if 
you are sure, and then telling you 
that it's no matter what your opin- 
ion is about things ; as if I hadn't 
a right to an opinion ! They want 
to make money, and dawdle out a 
case as long as they can — that's 



what they want. And as for the 
curiosity of women, it's nothing! 
It takes a man to cross-question." 

^'O mamma, mamma!" sighed 
Annette, with smiling indulgence. 

"Oh! yes; it's always *0 ma- 
ma!*" exclaimed Mrs. Ferrier ex- 
citedly. " But I have common 
sense, for all that. And if I'd had 
the slightest idea how they were 
going to act, I would have thought 
out a good story before I came, 
and stuck to it through thick and 
thin." 

"Why, mamma!" cried the 
daughter in dismay, " you were 
sworn to tell the truth, the whole 
truth, and nothing but the truth. 
If you had said anything else, you 
would have committed perjury." 

Mrs. Ferrier looked at her daugh- 
ter in astonishment not unmingled 
with alarm. " I didn't swear any 
such thing," she said, the tide of 
her eloquence somewhat checked. 

" Why, yes, mamma, we all took 
the oath. When we held up our 
hands and kissed the book, that 
was the time." 

" I never uttered a word," averred 
the mother with decision. 

"But the clerk said the words 
for us, mamma, and we held up our 
hands to denote, I suppose, that we 
acceded to all he said." 

" I heard him mumble over some- 
thing, I didn't know what it was," 
said the lady slightingly. " And so 
somebody else swears for you, like 
sponsors at a baby's baptism ! Well, 
if he does the swearing, then the 
perjury is his." 

" Good gracious, mamma!" cried 
Annette, " I hope you haven't been 
telling any lies!" 

Mrs. Ferrier looked at her daugh- 
ter in dignified reproof. " No, An- 
nette; I'm not in the habit of tell- 
ing lies, and I haven't told any to- 
day. And I hope I haven't told 



782 



Grapes and Thorns. 



any truths about that poor strug- 
gling creature, who is, for all the 
world, like a sheep among wolves. 
I could never bear to see even a 
wolf hunted, much less a man." 

The three were driving home, 
Lawrence seated opposite the 
ladies. While Mrs. Ferrier was 
talking, he leaned forward, with his 
arms on his knees, and softly 
smoothed the fur border of her 
velvet mantle. He had those little 
caressing ways when any one pleas- 
ed him. A faint smile now and 
then touched his lips at some simple 
or energetic expression of hers, but 
his face was so averted that she did 
not see it, and it would appear that 
her simplicity did not displease, 
though it might amuse him a little. 

Presently he relinquished the 
mantle border, and began, with deli- 
cate approach, to touch the wrist- 
lets, stroking the dark fur softly, 
and pushing his finger-tips into it ; 
and at length, when her attention, 
fluttering abstractedly toward him 
now and then, had become fixed on 
him, and she held herself still, and 
looked, with a half-surprised smile 
of pleasure, to see what sweet and 
childish thing he was doing, he 
took her two plump and well-glov- 
ed hands in his, and looked up at 
his wife. " There's no danger of 
her telling anything but the truth, 
Annette," he said. " She is too 
good and honest for anything else." 
And he actually bent his handsome 
head, and kissed Mrs. Ferrier's 
hands, first one then the other ! 

There was a momentary silence. 
Annette, startled by this unexpect- 
ed delight, could only look at her 
husband with tearful, shining eyes. 

" I tell you, Annette, she doesn't 
make half as many mistakes as — ^as 
I do, for instance." 

He dropped his face, relinquished 
the hands he had kissed, and began 



again to play with the bordei of 
Mrs. Ferrier's cloak, leaving the 
two women to their talk. 

But we have left F. Chevreuse 
and Mr. Macon. 

'^ That hateful shawl, who raked 
that out.'" the priest asked after a 
while, questioning in spite of him- 
self. 

"The whole turns upon that," 
Mr. Macon said, rousing himsdf 
from the brown-study into which 
he had fallen. *' It seems that Miss 
Carthusen went up to the convent 
to make the acquaintance of the 
Sisters, and, while there, saw a 
shawl thrown over a lounge in the 
parlor. She examined it whlk 
waiting for the Sisters to come iji, 
and found the corner torn. She 
mentioned the fact to that Renford, 
who is an amateur detective. The 
fellow's great ambition is to become 
a second Vidocq; he immediately 
offered to undertake the case, with 
the provision that, if he should suc- 
ceed in finding the criminal, he 
should be regularly employed as a 
detective." 

"Where did the Sisters get the 
shawl?" demanded F. Chevreuse. 
" Have they got to be dragged in?" 

" It would seem that everybody is 
to be dragged in," Mr. Macon said. 
" My wife got the shawl, she doesn't 
know where, when she was collect- 
ing for the convent. That is, they 
say that she brought it ; though she 
cannot recollect any person giving 
her such an article, nor recollect 
even having seen it among the 
packages. But her carriage was 
piled full that day, and she had 
called, perhaps, at twenty houses; 
so it would not be strange if she 
should forget." 

" So those poor nuns have had to 
go into court!" said F. Chevreuse, 
much distressed by the news. 
"Which one went." 



Grapes and Tlwrns. 



7*3 



''Oh! it wasn't a Sister; it was 
Anita," said Mr. Macon. "My 
wife went with the child, and stood 
by her all the time. It was Anita 
who took all the things from the 
carriage while my wife was talking 
with Sister Cecilia in the garden; 
and the girl counted and examined 
every package." 

" She must have been terrified to 
death, that poor little lamb!" ex- 
claimed F. Chevreuse, rising to 
walk about the room. " I think I 
should have been there with her. 
I would have gone if I had known. 
You keep too much from me, Mr. 
Macon. I known that you and 
others do this from kindness; but 
you must remember that it isn't for 
roe to be cowardly and shrink like a 
baby. I'm not sure but I should 
feel better to be in the midst of it 
all than to be shut up here suffering 
the torments of suspense." 

"You had a great deal better 
have nothing to do with it," his 
friend said decidedly. "You are 
not needed. F. O'Donovan was in 
court with Anita and my wife, and 
there was a body-guard of Catholics 
all about to make room for them 
going and coming. It was hard for 
the poor child; but what she felt 
most was not being in a crowd, and 
obliged to speak in public ; she did 
not appear to think of that ; but the 
thought that what she must say 
might bring trouble on any one al- 
most overpowered her. She excited 
& great deal of sympathy. While 
she spoke, you could have heard a 
pin drop in the room." 

"After all," F. Chevreuse said, 
catching at a consolation, " it won't 
hurt any of them to see one of God's 
snow-drops; and she is no more 
tender than many a martyr of the 
church has been." 

Mr. Macon's brief story did not 
give any idea of the sensation pro- 



duced in court by the appearance 
of this child, who was as strange to 
such a scene as if she had been, in- 
deed, a wild flower brought from 
some profound forest solitude. Her 
beauty, the dazzling paleness of her 
face, from which the large eyes 
looked full of anguish and fear, the 
flower-like drooping of her form as 
she leaned on Mrs. Macon's sup- 
porting arm — ^all startled the most 
hardened spectator into sympathy* 
Careless and callous as they might 
have been, feeding on excitement as 
a drunkard takes his draught, ever 
stronger and stronger as his taste 
becomes deadened, each one seemed 
to realize for a moment how terrible 
a thing it is to see a human life at 
stake, and to have influence to de- 
stroy or to save it. If she had been 
a relative or personal friend to the 
accused, the impression would have 
been less deep; but the fact that 
she would have shown the same 
painful solicitude for any one of 
them may have stirred in their con- 
sciences some sense of their own 
heartlessness. They made way for 
her, and listened in breathless si- 
lence to hear what she would say. 
Her very distress lent a silvery 
clearness to her voice, usually so 
low and soft, and every word was 
heard as plainly as the notes of a 
small bird chirping when its nest is 
attacked. 

" All I know, your honor, is this : 
Mrs. Macon drove about Crichton 
to ask for things for the convent; 
and Mother Ignatia let me go out 
to bring in the parcels she brought, 
because it pleased me. I always 
set down on a slip of paper a list of 
the articles, and the day of the 
month she brought them, and some 
of the Sisters helped me, and looked 
on. But this time no one but me 
did anything, for it was the day after 
Mother Chevreuse was killed, and 



;S4 



Gre^s and Thorns. 



everybody was in great trouble. 
Mrs. Macon said, when she came, 
that she had spent the night before 
at Madison with her sister there, 
and started early in her phaeton to 
beg for us, and had heard nothing 
of the news till she reached Crich- 
ton late in the afternoon. Then she 
drove straight to us ; and, when she 
got out of the phaeton, she ran to 
Sister Cecilia, and they threw them- 
selves into each other's arms, and 
began to cry. We were all crying, 
but I went to take the parcels out 
of the phaeton, because I wanted to 
do something. And I made a list 
of them, because I always had, and 
I carried them up-stairs. And I 
knew just how everything looked, 
because I tried to think of my work 
and not of Mother Chevreuse. And 
I do know surely that the gray shawl 
which was laid over our lounge was 
brought that day. I saw the piece 
torn out of the comer, and, when 
they arranged it for a cover, they 
turned the torn comer behind. 
That is all, your honor, except that 
Miss Carthusen came to the convent 
one day, and, when I went into the 
parlor, she was examining the shawl, 
and she said she did it because there 
was one like it missing out of their 
house. And I hope," said this sim- 
ple creature, rising, in her earnest- 
ness, from Mrs. Macon's arm, and 
leaning imploringly toward the 
judge — " I hope that what I have 
said will not hurt anybody nor be 
used against anybody. And I ask 
Mr. Schoninger to forgive me if 
what I have said displeases him; 
for, if it should do him harm, I 
shall be unhappy about it as long 
as I live." 

No one said a word as the girl 
was led, trembling and half faint- 
ing, out of the court-room. The 
prisoner regarded her with aston- 
"^t while she spoke, and when 



she turned toward him her pitiful 
face, and made her appeal for for- 
giveness, he bowed, and a slight 
involuntary motion of his hands 
looked as if he would fain have 
supported her drooping form. 
Never had he seen so simple and so 
impassioned a creature. An angel 
taking its first flight out of the 
white pdacefulness of heaven, and 
looking for the first time on the 
miseries of earth, could scarcely 
have shown a more shrinking and 
terrified pity than had been display- 
ed by this young girl, drawn from 
her peaceful convent home to the 
arena where crime and justice 
stmggle for the mastery. And yet 
that pure and tender child had 
given him a terrible blow. Perhaps 
he felt that her testimony was im- 
portant, simple as the story she 
told seemed to be ; for his face grev 
deathly pale, and for the first time 
during the trial he lost that air of 
scornful security which he had sus- 
tained so far. Averting his face 
slightly, he seemed to be studying 
out some problem, and, as he 
thought, the faint lines between his 
brows grew deeper, and those sit- 
ting near him could see the veins 
in his temples swelling and throb- 
bing with the stress of some sudden 
emotion. 

The next morning F. Chevreuse 
went out to make sick-calls after 
his Mass was over, and returned 
quite convinced that his friends 
had been right in advising him to 
remain in-doors. Everybody he 
met gazed at him, as if trying to 
read in his face what thought or 
feeling he might be striving to hide; 
people turned to look after him; 
and groups of excited talkers be- 
came silent as he approached, only 
to resume their conversation with 
increased vehemence when he had 
passed. He had been obliged to 



Grapes and Thorns. 



785 



check the woroy sympathy of some 
and the angry denunciations of 
others, who thought to please him 
by wishing ill to Mr. Schoninger; 
and more than once his heart had 
been wrung by some loud lament 
over his lost mother. 

" You were right," he said to F. 
O'Donovan when he went in. "I 
will not go out again unless there is 
need of it." 

" Then I give you as a task this 
forenoon to translate ten pages of 
that book," his brother priest re- 
plied. '^ It is needed, and should 
be ready for the early spring sales." 

F. Chevreuse laid aside his wrap- 
pings with alacrity, glad to have a 
task assigned him. " But I would 
like to go into the church a min- 
ute," he said, making this request 
with the humility of a child. " Not 
to pray," he added quickly, as if 
afraid of receiving too much credit 
for piety ; " I want to go into the 
gable, and look down to the court- 
house." 

He stopped for permission, and 
his face was so worn and troubled 
that his friend checked the slight 
smile that unconscious display of 
obedience had provoked. 

"Go, by all means, but do not 
stay long," he said. " The day is 
very cold. And, besides, it will do 
no good to watch there." 

What he called the gable was a 
long, low attic running the whole 
length of the church, and lighted 
by a small gable window at each 
end. A steep stairway led up to 
a chamber over the altar ; but from 
that the ascent was made by long 
ladders, very seldom used. The 
window over the altar gave a fine 
view of all the eastern and northern 
part of the city, and looked direct- 
ly into the square in front of the 
court-house. 

F. Chevreuse toiled wearily up, 

VOL. XVIII. — 5° 



feeling himself grown old, and stood 
in the long, dusky room. The floor 
was covered with wood-shavings 
left by the builders, and spiders 
had hung their webs in thick fes- 
toons from beam to beam. One 
side of the southern window, at the 
further end of the church, was 
gleaming brightly, where the sun 
had begun to come in, and the 
rafters near it glowed as if kindling 
with lire ; but the north window, 
that felt scarce a touch of sunshine 
in the winter-time, was covered 
deeply with frost, piled layer on 
layer through the cold night. 

He put his face to the frame, and 
breathed on it till the glittering 
coldness melted, and a drop of 
water ran down, then another, and 
presently there was a clear spot in 
the glass. He wiped this dry with 
his handkerchief; then, covering 
his mouth and nose, that his breath 
might not freeze over the improvis- 
ed loophole into the outer world, 
he leaned closer and looked out. 
For the large panorama of the city, 
spread out under a clear winter sky, 
and shot through by the two spark- 
ling rivers, he cared not. Only one 
spot attracted his attention, and 
that was the court-house and the 
square in front of it. Looking 
there, he drew back, winked to 
clear his eyes, which had, perhaps, 
been dazzled by the sharp and tan- 
gled lights and shadows of the 
place; then looked again. The 
square should have been white with 
half-trodden snow, and dotted by 
passers here and there ; instead of 
that, it was entirely black. But 
the blackness was not of the soil 
nor pavement ; it was the swaying 
blackness of a crowd. They throng- 
ed the streets, pressing toward the 
square, and stood on the steps of 
the court-house, struggling to enter. 
Even at that distance he could see: 



786 



Grapes and Thorns. 



that policemen were forcing them 
back. 

F. Chevreuse turned hastily away 
from the window, and descended to 
the churchy heartsick at the sight. 
He threw himself one moment be- 
fore the altar, then went into the 
house. As he entered, Jane, who 
was on the lookout, hid herself in 
her room till he had passed through 
the kitchen. Since the trial began, 
they had not met. She felt sure 
that he did not approve entirely of 
her conduct, and he allowed her to 
be invisible without asking any 
questions. 

F. O 'Donovan looked at him 
anxiously as he re-entered the sit- 
ting-room ; and, when he went and 
leaned on the mantel-piece, hiding 
his face in his hands, approached and 
touched him kindly on the shoulder. 

"It isn't your way, Raphael, to 
break down so," he said in that 
sweet voice of his, still sweeter with 
pity and tenderness. 

That name, the name of his boy- 
hood, when he and O 'Donovan were 
at school together ; when he was so 
overflowing with happiness that he 
could never be still, but had to be 
for ever at work or at play ; wTien he 
knew no more of care than what 
the getting of his lessons involved, 
no more of sin than the little faults 
he recounted at his confessor's 
knees and forgot the next moment, 
and no more of sorrow than the 
changing of one beloved professor 
for another who speedily became as 
dear. O 'Donovan, the beautiful 
boy, the youngest at school, had 
been his pride and idol in those 
days. He turned to him now, and, 
in the old way the English boys 
used to mock at him for, kissed his 
friend and school-fellow on both 
cheeks ; at which the Irishman 
laughed a little and blushed a good 
deal. 



" You're not much changed from 
the boy you were," said F. Chev- 
reuse. " You had always a way of 
seeming to coax, while you were 
really commanding. Well, you're 
almost always right. How the wind 
whistles !" 

It was a cutting north wind that 
broke multitudinously against the 
church, and seemed to splinter 
there into separate sharp voices. 
They went up from the narrow pas- 
sage between the church and the 
house, they rang from the chimnc)^ 
and sighed and whimpered about 
the feet of the stone Christ, as if 
some wounded creature, invisible 
to man, had crawled there to seek 
for pity. 

"What a day!" repeated F. 
Chevreuse, looking out. " December 
is certainly an ugly month, and 
January is a worse one. Februanr 
would be worst of all, but that it i? 
so near spring you can snap your 
fmgers in its face." 

He seated himself at the Uble, 
drew the books towards him, and 
glanced round at the fire, as if to 
assure himself that there w^as some- 
thing shining in his vicinity, then 
took up a pen, and laid it down 
again, shivering, not because he 
was cold, but because he knew 
there was so much cold about. 

F. O'Donovan, seated near the 
window, with his finger between the 
leaves of his Breviary, to keep ih< 
place, had observed his ever}' move- 
ment. He dropped the book on 
his knee, and spoke in a gentle, 
dreamy way that was the very es- 
sence of soothing. 

" Yes, this is now for a while one 
of the cold spots on the earth; but 
we have only to climb a litde, in 
spirit or in memory, to have a uji- 
ferent idea of December and ever)* 
thing else. How many years ago 
to-day is it that you and I saw 



Grapes and Thorns. 



787 



oranges ripening in the sun in De- 
cember, and roses blooming, and 
people pushing back their cloaks 
for the heat ? It is an anniversary, 
for I have some little reason to 
remember the date. We were in 
Rome. I had been shivering in a 
bare, sunless room at the Propa- 
ganda, when I looked up and caught 
a glimpse through the window of a 
bit of miraculous blue sky over the 
roof of San Andrea's. It was four 
o'clock in the afternoon, and time 
for a walk. I called you, and we 
started on a little exploring expedi- 
tion ; for we had neither of us seen 
much of Rome at that time. We 
muffled ourselves well, and went 
out into the Piazza di Spagna. I 
recollect you saying, as we came to 
those great stairs, that they must 
have been modelled by some one 
who had Jacob's dream-ladder in 
his mind. You said, too, that one 
reason why Rome is so much more 
beautiful than any other city is not 
because it is more artistic, but more 
natural. Each part grew for itself, 
instead of being cramped by some 
dominating idea that spoilt all in 
trying to direct all. You were de- 
lighted with the perfectly cool way 
in which a whole street would go 
up-stairs or down-stairs. Well, 
there was the whole side of a piazza 
going up-stairs. We went up, past 
the group of models, you know, who 
stand there to be stared at; the 
bearded old man who stands for S. 
Peter or Moses, the brigand and 
the brigand's wife, and the little 
brown gypsies. The calendar said 
it was December ; yet in the piazza 
below the air said it was April. 
When we paused at the first land- 
ing, and began to wish we had left 
our cloaks at home, it was May, and 
up in front of the Trinita de' Monti 
it was mid-June. The fruit-sellers 
left their large baskets of oranges 



in the sun while they sat in the 
shade and waited for customers; 
there were baskets of flowers, with 
heaps of half-open roses on the 
stone rail of the balustrade, and 
streams of rich verdure flowed wide 
or trickled brightly between the 
gray sweeps of stone. In the east 
was that unimaginable blue that can 
only be compared to a gem ; in the 
west, a dazzle of unclouded sun- 
shine ; and between the two, Rome 
floated in a silvery mist. You 
leaned on the balustrade, and — 
wretch that you were! — your first 
thought was a pagan one. You 
said that the goddess of beauty had 
sunk into the midst of the city, and 
left her drapery of cloud clinging 
all about it, and that, when she 
should withdraw, there would' be a 
vision in the sky, but Rome would 
be nothing but ashes. That was 
the best image that Raphael Chev- 
reuse could find, with the city be- 
fore him all a-bubble with the 
domes of Christian churches. You 
may recollect that I gave you a 
very pretty lecture on the subject. 
Then you pointed out to me a pillar 
of smoke wreathing slowly up into 
the sky, showing between the bold 
f.'ont of the Pincian Hill and the 
twin cupolas in the Piazza del Pop- 
olo, with the distant forest and 
mountain for a background, and 
you said that we were nothing but 
cloud-people living in a cloud, and 
that the only realities were Moses 
and the Israelites out there offering 
up sacrifice in the wilds between 
Egypt and Chanaan. Well, De- 
cember being too hot for us then, 
we walked off toward Santa Ma- 
ria Magfj^iore. Do you remem- 
ber the great orange-tree, as large 
as an apple-tree, that showed over 
the convent walls, and how thickly 
the golden oranges were set among 
its green foliage; and the symbol 



7C8 



Grapes and Thorns. 



over the convent door of two lions 
trying to get at a bird that was safe 
in the top of a palm-tree ;* and the 
vane that you said could have been 
thought of nowhere but in Italy — ^a 
rod with a cross at the top and a 
bird's wing swinging round as the 
wind changed? And when we 
walked on among the ruins, what 
superstitious young man gathered 
dandelions, because gold-colored 
flowers always brought him some 
happy chance, he said ; and then, 
in the next breath, looking at those 
mountains before us, swimming, it 
seemed, in a sea of rosy-purple va- 
pors, broke out with a psalm, 
^^Montes exultaverunt ut arietes; 
et coUes, sicut agni ovium '? You 
declared vehemently that the moun- 
tains were dancing, and I had to 
hold you to keep you from dancing 
too. A pretty sight it would have 
been to see a young Christian priest 
twirling pirouettes among the ruins 
of the temple of Minerva ! Doubt- 
less, while we are in the midst of 
the snows and frost of a northern 
morning, the sun is just going down 
over that same warm and glowing 
scene. And, doubtless, too," said 
F. O 'Donovan slowly, coming to 
the point he had started to reach, 
"outside this pain and confusion 
there is peace and happiness wait- 
ing to come in and give us our soul's 
summer in this world even. The 
storms are short, but the peace is 
long, and for ever waiting over- 
head." 

" But life is not long," concluded 
F. Chevreuse, " and it behooves me 
to be about my work." 

He drew the books toward him, 
and began to work in earnest. He 
had been comforted in one regard 
that morning: he would not him- 
self be called into court, the only 

^ The betsta of prey liATe triumphed, and the 
birds have been driven ftwey. 



points on which he could give 
evidence being better known to 
others. Jane and Andrew had 
both seen the condition of his little 
study, with its bolted window and 
locked-up desk, after he left tbe 
house that fatal night, and both F. 
O 'Donovan and Mr. Macon saw it 
in the morning before he came 
home. The other point, relating 
to the sort of bank-bills he had 
lost, was of no consequence, as the 
bankers could not say what sort of 
money Mr. Schoninger had paid 
them. Every disposition was shove 
to spare him unnecessary pain, and 
they even strained a point for that 
purpose. 

He was not needed, indeed, and 
the case was being brought rapidlr 
to a conclusion, as his first de- 
spatch showed him. 

" Old Mr. Grey, from the pond 
farm, with his granddaughter, have 
been brought in," Mr. MacoD 
wrote, " and by their help the ston 
has been made to assume form. 
Mr. Schoninger returned to Crich- 
ton that day past their place. He 
got into a rough road and broke 
his harness somewhere, and went 
to their house to borrow a rope to 
mend it. He had a shawl on his 
arm when he went up to the door. 
While the young girl was gone for 
the rope, he folded the shawl, and 
put it into my wife's phaeton among 
the other packages. My wife was 
then with old Mrs. Grey in the 
house. Mr. Grey was at work in 
the garden, and saw what was done. 
The girl also saw the shawl on his 
arm when he came, but did not no- 
tice It afterward. It is likely to go 
hard with him." 

F. Chevreuse had a very red face 
when he looked over this note. 
But he handed it to F. O'Donovan 
without a word, and resumed his 
writing again. If he knew well 



Grapes and Tliarns* 



789 



what he was writing is doubtful. 
That color did not leave his face, 
and now and then he pressed his 
hand to his forehead, as if con- 
fused. 

" Mr. Schoninger has roused 
himself at last," the next note said. 
" He seems for the first time to 
comprehend that he is in danger. 
He looks like a lion. I hope he 
may prove to have some of a lion*s 
strength, for his chances are small." 

F. Chevreuse handed the paper 
to his brother priest, who had been 
out and come in again, and watched 
his face while he read it. 

"Will you tell me frankly your 
opinion of this ?" he said then. 

F. O'Donovan dropped his eyes, 
having, evidently, no mind to be 
frank on the subject. "I cannot 
have a settled opinion on a ques- 
tion of which I have heard but one 
side," he said. " I have been in 
court this morning, and talked with 
some people there, and the chances 
at present seem for a conviction. 
But we cannot tell the strength of 
the defence as yet." 

In spite of his reserve, there was 
no mistaking his belief in the pri- 
soner's guilt. 

F. Chevreuse shut his book de- 
cisively. 

" Since I am not needed here, I 
may as well go and see the bishop," 
he said. " I was to have gone this 
week to settle important business 
with him, but he excused me on 
the supposition that I would not be 
allowed to leave Crichton. Can 
you take care of my people a few 
days longer ?" 

" A week longer, if you wish." 

" Four days will be enough — two 
to go and come, two there. You 
will know where to telegraph for 
me, if I should be wanted. I will 
go straight to the bishop's house, 
and stay there." 



"How glad I am that you did 
not say 'episcopal residence'!" 
remarked his companion. 

F. Chevreuse was already mak- 
ing his preparations for the journey. 
He glanced up rather imperiously 
from the valise he was packing. 

"Why should I say it?" he de- 
manded. "Never used such an 
expression in my life. And this 
reminds me that you have been 
criticising me before to-day, calling 
me superstitious, and I don't know 
what else. In one little corner of 
my mind I have been thinking the 
matter over ever since, and have 
arrived at these conclusions : su- 
perstition, being nothing but erratic 
faith, should be treated with great 
tenderness ; and, besides, you will 
recollect that I was at that time 
reading the pagan classics; fur- 
thermore, Rome herself was not 
born in the faith, but is a convert- 
ed pagan, and she stands there, a 
Christian Juno, with all Olympus 
kneeling about her feet; and well 
so, for any form is good that is ca- 
pable of holding a Christian soul. 
Still further, I have concluded that 
young O'Donovan, whose hair still 
looks, across the room, quite black, 
should show a becoming reverence 
for Chevreuse, who has long since 
ceased to count his white hairs and 
begun to count his black ones. I 
said an elder soldier, not a better. 
Did I say better ? Good -by. God 
bless you !" 

And he was off, glad of the noise 
and speed of the cars, of the chang- 
ing faces and scenes, of anything 
that would help to ease his mind 
by a momentary distraction. Yet, 
in spite of every eflbit, the thought 
haunted him of Mr. Schoninger 
rousing himself to do battle for his 
life. Call up whatever image he 
would to entertain his mind, that 
one intruded. He pictured to 



790 



Grapes and Thorns. 



himself the first dawn of apprehen- 
sion in the prisoner's face rapidly 
intensifying to a flash of angry ter- 
ror, the reddening or the whitening 
color, the gathering storm of the 
brows. He tried to guess what he 
wpuld do and say, by what grand 
effort he would at last fling off" in 
scorn the accusation which he had 
not believed could cling to him — 
if he should be able to fling it ofl*. 
That doubt was like a thorn, and 
he hastily called to mind something 
to banish it. He remembered what 
F. O 'Donovan had been saying of 
Rome, and tried to recollect some- 
thing of that old picture-book part 
of his life, to see again in fancy its 
shady streets and sunny piazzas, 
to enter in spirit some dim church 
starred around with lamps, and lin- 
ed with precious marbles ; but when 
he had laboriously fashioned the 
scene, a hand was outstretched to 
put it aside like a painted curtain, 
and again he saw the Jewish gladi- 
ator, alive and alert, fighting des- 
perately for his life. 

" You can see that I have run 
away to escape disagreeable scenes 
and talk," were his first words on 
reaching his destination. " And 
now to business." 

It was quite understood, then, 
that no one was to tell him anything 
relating to the trial, nor mention the 
subject to him ; so that when, on the 
evening of the third day, he started 
for home, he knew no more of the 
progress or result of it than he had 
known on leaving Crichton. 

There were but few passengers 
that evening, and F. Chevreuse es- 
tablished himself in a comer of the 
car, put his ticket in his hat-band, 
that he might not be disturbed by 
the conductor, leaned back and shut 
his eyes, that he might not be talked 
to by any one else, and took out 
his beads to exorcise troublesome 



thoughts and invoke holy ones. It 
was a saying of his that the beads, 
when rightly used, had always one 
end fastened to the girdle of Mary, 
and were a flowery chain by which 
she led the soul directly to the 
throne of God. 

They proved so to him in this 
case, and one after another the Joy- 
ful Mysteries were budding and 
blossoming under his touch, when 
presently he found himself some- 
what disturbed by the voices of two 
men who were talking behind him. 
At first the sound reached him 
through the long vista of that hea- 
venly abstraction; but soon the 
distance lessened, and then a single 
word brought him down with a 
shock. 

"He fought hard at last," one 
said, " but it was of no use. Every- 
thing was against him." 

It needed not another word to 
tell the priest who and what were 
meant ; but other words were spo- 
ken. 

" His defence was a mere mass of 
sentimentality," the speaker went 
on, " He owns to having walked 
the streets the whole night of the 
murder, but he says that it was from 
distress of mind. He had to decide 
before the next day whether he 
would abandon all hope of the for- 
tune for which he was contending, 
and lose with it all that he had ex- 
pended, or else throw into the chasm 
the few hundreds he had retained 
that an accident might not find him 
penniless. He declared that the 
state of his mind was such that he 
could not sleep, nor keep still, nor 
stay in the house. Now, that part 
of the story would not have been 
so bad if he had not been seen near 
the priest's house, hanging about 
there, and going away when he was 
observed, and if he had not declared 
that, when he went away from Crich- 



Grapes and Thorns 



791 



ton in the morning, he had not heard 
of the murder. The tracks were not 
a strong point, for Newcome makes 
everybody's boots just alike, and 
there are a good many men in 
Crichton who have as neat a foot 
as SchOninger. But the rest of the 
defence was nonsense. The shawl 
was what convicted him. It was 
his shawl; he owned it; and the 
fragment found in Mme. Chevreuse's 
hand just fitted the torn corner, 
thread for thread. I could see that 
he was confounded when that came 
up. He says he left the shawl in 
Mrs. Ferrier's garden in the evening, 
and went for it early in the morning 
before anybody was up, and that he 
found it just where he had left it. 
He owned, too, that he put it slyly 
into Mrs. Macon's carriage. He 
said he knew her and what she was 
collecting for ; had heard all about 
it at Madison. When he left his 
broken harness — which, by the way, 
was not broken, it appears, but only 
unclasped somewhere — and went to 
Mr. Grey's, he took his shawl over 
his arm absent-mindedly, and found 
it a nuisance while he was going 
through the woods. Seeing Mrs. 
Macon's carriage there full of par- 
cels, some gray blankets among 
them, it occurred to him to add his 
shawl to the pile without putting 
any one to the trouble of thanking 
him. He said that he believed those 
nuns to be very good women, and 
that he felt a respect for them for 
the sake of F. Chevreuse, who had 
been very polite to him. Fancy a 
Jew taking off his shawl to give it 
to a nun, and that to please a priest ! 
The story is too ridiculous, you 
see. Oh ! it is clear. There never 
was a clearer case of circumstan- 
tial evidence. No one could have 
a doubt. But the verdict is too 
hard." 
"You think it should not have 



been murder in the first degree V* 
another voice asked. 

" It should not," was the empha- 
tic reply. " It is almost an outrage 
to make it so. But people became 
ferocious the moment it was clear 
that he was guilty, and I believe 
they would gladly have taken him 
out and hanged him to the first tree. 
The fact undoubtedly is that he was 
pressed for money, and meant to help 
himself to the priest's. Mme. Chev- 
reuse heard him, and started to 
alarm the house, and I think he 
gave her an unlucky push. But 
nothing of that sort would content 
the prosecution nor the people. 
They must have it that at the very 
best he killed her wilfully when 
he found that she had recognized 
him. The female servant testified 
that there was a candle overturned 
in the priest's room, which must 
have gone out in falling. Madame's 
first thought would naturally be to 
light a candle. Still, that is not 
sure. That same servant wished to 
show that the prisoner had a spite 
against the priest's mother, and the 
Carthusen girl had the same story ; 
but if people had been calm, their 
gossip would have made no impres- 
sion. Schoninger's lawyer tried to 
prove that madame's death resulted 
from the fall ; but there was a bad 
bruise. ..." 

F. Chevreuse gasped for breath. 
"For God's sake, stop!" he cried 
out, half turning toward the speak- 
er, then sinking instantly into his 
seat again. 

A perfect silence followed. The 
priest was struggling with his feel- 
ings, and regretting not having 
withdrawn before his self-control 
gave way, and the gentlemen be- 
hind him were recovering the shock 
of learning who their neighbor was, 
and feeling their way to a solution 
of the difficulty. One of them had 



792 



Grapes and Thorns. 



an inspiration. ''Let's go and 
have a cigar," he said ; and F. 
Chevreuse was left to himself. 

But his solitude was full of terri- 
ble images, and in that few minutes 
all his relations with the Jew had 
been changed. He would not have 
said to himself that he believed the 
man guilty, and he would have said 
that, guilty or innocent, he wished 
him no harm ; but what his imagin- 
ation had utterly refused to do in 
connecting Mr. Schoninger with his 
mother's tragical fate the plain talk 
of this stranger had accomplished. 
He could no longer separate the 
two ; and the sight of the Jew, or 
the sound of his name even, would, 
in future, call up associations intol- 
erable to him. 

"You know all, then.?" was F. 
O'Donovan's greeting when they 
met. 

The face of F. Chevreuse showed, 
indeed, that he had no questions, 
or few, to ask. 

" The law has decided," he said, 
" and, for the present at least, I 
cannot question its decision. They 
know better than I how to arrive 
at the truth. At the same time, I 
never will say of a man that he is 
guilty till he has himself told me 
that he is, or till I have the evi- 
dence of my own senses. And now, 
what have you to tell me about my 
people ? Is it well with them V* 

" It is well," was the echo. 

The people had, indeed, settled 
into their usual quiet mode of life 
again with surprising readiness, as 
often happens to those who, giving 
themselves entirely up to an excite- 
ment, exhaust its force the sooner. 
The conviction and sentence of Mr. 
Schoninger had not only given them 
a satisfying sense of justice vindicat- 
ed, but had impressed them with 
awe. The suddenness of his fall, 
when they had leisure to contem- 



plate its accomplishment, was 
startling. But a few weeks before, | 
he had walked their streets with a 
step as proud as the proudest, and 
there was not one among them. 
whatever his prejudices, who wa> 
not pleased to receive his saluta- 
tion ; in a few months longer- 
months of misery and disgrace — he 
would be called on to suffer the 
extreme penalty of the law. 

Some of them remembered, too, 
when all was over, the defence the 
prisoner had made, if defence it 
could be called, when he was per- 
mitted to speak for himself. They 
were bitter words, full of fierce and 
haughty defiance and denunciation 
and at the time their sole effect had 
been to provoke still further against 
him the popular rage ; but, for 
some reason, there was a thrilling 
pathos in the recollection of them, 
perhaps because they had been ut- 
tered in vain, and because they 
showed with what horror he con- 
templated his impending doom. 

"You seek my destruction be- 
cause I am a Jew, not because 1 
am a criminal," he exclaimed; 
"and you condemn me without 
proof. But do not flatter your- 
selves that I shall perish so. Do 
not believe that I shall fall a victim 
to your insane and presumptuous 
bigotry. It may triumph for a 
time, but the triumph will be 
short." 

Not a very pleasant sort oi ad- 
dress to be listened to by a judge 
who had tried to be impartial, and 
meant to be honest, nor to a jury 
who were fully convinced of the 
speaker's guilt, and who had more- 
over, as juries are likely to have, a 
more than judicial sense of theii 
own dignity. Yet, for all that, 
there was not one of them who 
would have liked to face again those 
flashing eyes and that white hand 



The Religious Policy of the Second Empire. 



793 



pointing like a flame where his 
words should fall. They were ra- 
ther afraid of the man, and looked 
with equal uneasiness toward the 
execution of his sentence and the 
possibility of rescue or escape, or 
of revenge even, which he had 
seemed to threaten. 

For the present, however, the 
prison was strong and well guarded. 



and the convict, being in solitary 
confinement, had no means of com- 
municating with any friends he 
might have outside. He was still 
in Crichton, the state prison being 
near the city jail; and still, if he 
chose, he could look out from his 
grated window and see the Christ 
in air stretching out arms of loving 
invitation to him. 



TO BK CONTINUBO. 



THE RELIGIOUS POLICY OF THE SECOND EMPIRE. 



[The following is the translation of a 
remarkable memoir presented to Napo- 
leon III. by one of his Ministers of Pub- 
lic Worship. Its authenticity is guaran- 
teed under oath by Leon Pag^s, and the 
date of its presentation seems to be about 
the year iS6o. It furnishes the key to 
the religious events of the second period 
of the reign of Napoleon III., and shows 
how a government calling itself Catholic 
plotted against* and was gradually de- 
stroying the liberty of, the church. The 
perfidy and falsehoods contained in the 
document speak for themselves. The 
programme detailed in the second part 
of the same was only too faithfully car- 
ried out, not only to the ruin of the em- 
peror, but to that of France also. It be- 
gan to be put in practice in the year 
i860, and was persevered in until the 
day when all power was taken from the 
hands of its authors and abettors. The 
key-note to the whole insidious produc- 
tion is contained in the opening sentence 
— viz., that no matter what is done by 
the Catholic Church, it must be for the 
sake of obtaining influence over souls, 
not for their spiritual and eternal wel- 
fare, but for mere temporal and selfish 
ends — for worldly power. To the Catho- 
lic reader this one remark will be suffi- 
cient to place him on his guard. We 
cc»py from the Rfvue du Moude Catho- 
liqui\ — Translator^ 



I. 

The essential tendency of Ro« 
man Catholicism has been, is, 
and always will be, the spirit of 
secular domination, the inevitable 
result of transforming a man, the 
Pope, into the infallible and abso- 
lute vicar of Jesus Christ on earth. 

If, before the Revolution of '89, 
the clergy were Gallican — that is to 
say, national — it was because it had 
sufficiently attained that end of 
temporal rule. It was the first 
order of the state ; it possessed 
great wealth ; it had its own organi- 
zation, and enjoyed considerable 
privileges; its religion was the ex- 
clusively dominant one. What else 
could it ask, unless it wished to 
displace royalty itself } The clergy 
then was much more French and 
royalist than Roman, solely becauae 
it had such enormous interests at 
stake in the soil and in the consti- 
tution of the kingdom. 

Again, if we study carefully the 
so-called maxims and liberties of 
the Gallican Church, we quickly 



794 



The Religious Policy of the Second Empire. 



recognize that between the kings 
and the clergy these liberties consti- 
tuted a sort of commutative con- 
tract entered into almost wholly at 
the expense of the Papacy. The 
bishops, generously treated by roy- 
alty, in return consented to sacri- 
fice to royalty many of the Roman 
pretensions, which, however, were 
consequences of the spiritual su- 
premacy; and, with more reason, 
they allowed the sovereign to settle 
all matters of purely political inde- 
pendence. In the Galilean Church, 
the king rejected Papal infallibility, 
because it necessarily implied his 
temporal supremjicy ; and the bis- 
hops to whom the doctrine would 
perhaps in any other country have 
been acceptable, rejected it like- 
wise because it would have disturb- 
ed their privileges and their pos- 
sessions, which they owed to royal- 
ty. It ought to be added that all 
this was according to the ancient 
t raditions of the land, which had ren- 
dered better service to the church 
than any other, and which never de- 
sired any foreign interference in its 
own affairs. But certainly both the 
French clergy and bishops would 
have gone back to the pope and to 
ultramontane ideas, unless their in- 
dependence, peaceful and magnifi- 
cent, had been assured them. 

After the Revolution of '89, the 
clergy, deprived of its possessions, 
its privileges, its constitution, re- 
duced to the condition of salaried 
functionaries, feeling its utter de- 
pendence on the state, felt the ne- 
cessity of creating for itself a new 
influence by detaching itself from 
administrations over-neutral in its 
regard. For a short time it salut- 
ed Napoleon I. as the restorer of 
the altar ; then it submitted to his 
powerful hand ; but it hastened to 
desert him when conquered, calling 
him the persecutor of Pius VII. 



It came to the support of the Res- 
toration, because of the recollections 
of the past, and, above all, because 
it hoped therefrom the re-esub- 
lishment of many immunities which 
the Restoration did not dare, 
in opposition to public opinion, tu 
concede to it. This is the reason 
that, under the Restoration, it came 
to pass that the clergy was more 
occupied in caring for itself than 
for royalty, so much so that it is 
from this epoch that the first eflfom 
of return to ultramontanism datt 
their origin. No excuse can be 
offered for Louis XVIII. and for 
Charles X. for having allowed the 
Concordat of 1801 and the organic 
articles to remain in force, and for 
not having given to the chairch an in- 
demnity, as they did to the exiles. 
Under Louis Philippe, the clergy 
was not deluded ; it understood 
very well that a parliamentary and 
democratic government would neve: 
permit it to work for the re-estau- 
lishment of its power. Conse- 
quently, and under the pretext thai 
the church, accepting all de fa:i: 
governments, ought not to mix in 
the risks and responsibilities of 
politics, the clergy proclaimed it> 
absolute neutrality, which was but 
another name for a complete sepa- 
ration. Hence nothing is easier 
of comprehension that it quickly 
gave up all Gallican ideas, to rally 
to the support of ultramontane doc- 
trines. Isolated, without influence, 
without wealth, cramped in it> 
sphere of activity, it had no inte- 
rest in upholding the independence 
of the state against the Holy Sec, 
whilst everything invited it to de- 
fend once more the famous thesis 
of the Catholic Church, directini; 
kings and peoples, and giving 10 
the clergy the influence of a cUs- 
superior to all others. The ant:- 
Gallican demonstration, aided by 



The Religious Policy of the Second Empire. 



795 



the politicians of legitimacy and 
of the Catholic party, who had 
adopted as their watchword free 
education^ began to develop itself 
rapidly in the episcopate, amongst 
the inferior clergy in the seminaries 
and religious orders, and even in 
the halls of the two chambers. 
Everything was prepared for the 
solemn return to Rome, when the 
Revolution of 1848 burst forth. 

The religious party as well as the 
legitimists, its auxiliary, at first ac- 
cepted that revolution because it 
destroyed the upstart, usurping, and 
Voltairian party. It afterwards 
strove with energy to form a coali- 
tion of all the elements of public 
order, so as to escape from the 
power of the demagogues ; it was 
this same motive which influenced 
its votes in favor of the president ; 
it thus struck a blow at the demo- 
cratic and social republic. But 
when it believed that Napoleon III., 
who had become successively dic- 
tator and emperor, would consent 
to play the part of another Charle- 
magne, Episcopus ad extra^ it became 
devoted to him and enthusiastic. 
But the emperor had no such 
thought ; he only wished to attach 
the clergy firmly to the Empire by 
honorable laws ensuring its safety 
and liberty. By so doing he sup- 
plied one of the greatest social 
needs, without, however, departing 
from a wise public policy ; but he 
had no intention of handing the 
state over to the church. The cler- 
gy, on its part, easily imagined what 
he desired. Hence we see in 1852 
(and this must not be passed over) 
more earnestness and greater sym- 
pathy in that portion of the episco- 
pate which was notoriously ultra- 
montane. It was that portion 
which had been the best initiated 
by Rome into its projects of en- 
croachment, which carried them out 



with the greatest zeal, and which 
consequently sought to conciliate 
the good-will of the sovereign and to 
engage him to pursue a course of 
liberal toleration. 

Thus it came to pass that it im- 
mediately insinuated how exceed- 
ingly becoming it would be to enter 
into what was called a compact 
between the church and state — viz., 
the negotiation of a treaty which was 
to replace the organic articles. 

Now, as has been said at the be- 
ginning of this memoir, Roman Ca- 
tholicism aiming necessarily at tem- 
poral rule, the moment seemed so 
much the more favorable to advance 
in that undertaking, as the govern- 
ment seemed to give its consent so 
easily thereunto. The law of free ed- 
ucation already existed. The emper- 
or appeared unwilling to make use of 
the prohibitions of the organic law 
regulating public worship and of the 
law concerning religious congrega- 
tions of men ; consequently, provin- 
cial councils were quickly organized 
and congregations were multiplied. 

The design of gaining possession 
almost entirely of primary education 
was avowed by bringing the influ- 
ence of the curh to bear on the 
various municipal offices, and, by 
forcing the Christian Brothers to 
refuse to receive from their rich 
pupils any compensation whatever 
for attending their schools, which 
had been built and were supported 
by the municipality: in this way 
the Brothers received from the state 
a compensation of 3,000,000, at the 
expense of the lay schools. 

The famous decree of 1852 was 
then proposed to the emperor, but 
without explaining its import. 
This destroyed the ancient and 
wise legislation of the council of 
state, and allowed the almost unlim- 
ited extension of authorizations to 
establish congregations of women. 



796 



The Religious Policy of the Second Empire. 



In spite of the lively opposition 
of the majority of the bishops and 
of the secular clergy, the Roman 
liturgy was then inaugurated and 
presented to the emperor as a sim- 
ple matter of material unity in 
Catholic worship; care was taken 
not to avow that this was a deadly 
blow against the customs and con- 
stitution of the Gallican Church, 
the triumph of Romanism in France, 
and a tax of more than six millions 
on the manufactures and municipa- 
lities of the Empire. All this was 
necessary in order to obtain a brief 
from the Pope in 1858 obliging the 
clergy to recite in its liturgy the pray- 
er Domine salvum^ which had been 
excluded from the Roman Breviary. 

Whilst^ on the one hand, the clergy 
sought to gain possession of the 
people through the medium of pri- 
mary education, which was solicited 
for the religious congregations by 
all the charitable confraternities 
(of S. Vincent of Paul, of S. Fran- 
cis Regis, of S. Francis Xavier, etc. 
etc.), through a multitude of foun- 
dations of religious charity, on the 
other it strove also to enlist in its 
favor the children of the higher and 
middle classes of society through 
the numerous and immense educa- 
tional institutions of a superior char- 
acter, founded either by the bishops 
or by the religious orders of Jesuits, 
Carmelites, Marists, Dominicans, 
etc. Thus the law of 1850, hostile to 
all state education, brought forth 
its fruits. 

As to the education of girls, it 
was and it is almost exclusively in 
the hands of religious, from the 
country infant schools and protec- 
tories up to the most splendid edu- 
cational establishments of Paris; 
on this point it is impossible for the 
lay element to contend with the re- 
ligious element, which, either really 
or apparently, will always present 



far better guarantees to families for 
morality and self-devotion. But the 
point worthy of consideration here 
is that this convent education, di- 
rected by the inspiration and opin- 
ions of the clergy, is not at all ir 
sympathy either with the existing 
government or with public opinion. 

This is the reason why the 
episcopate and Rome have always 
resisted any inspection on the pan 
of the state into their institution^;, 
except a purely nominal one, alleg- 
ing that these religious congrega- 
tions could submit only to eccld- 
. astical inspection. In the regula- 
tions made in 1852 too much va? 
yielded on that point. 

It can be affirmed with truth to- 
day that there is no class of society 
which is not to a greater or less de- 
gree entangled in the meshes ^ 
admirably laid by the congrega- 
tions and associations called ht- 
nevolenf or charitable. They gain 
entrance even into the army, under 
the pretext of giving gratuitoc': 
instruction and spiritual confer- 
ences; they gather together work- 
ing-men of every condition; they 
establish a kind of freemasonry, 
and of equality amongst citizens o\ 
every rank; through their trusty 
friends and adherents they are re- 
presented in all the branches of the 
government; they have possession 
of the child and of the man in his 
prime of life, of the poor and of the 
rich; they are everywhere. This 
enormous fact becomes a most 
convincing proof, if we consider tfte 
exact meaning of the name of these 
congregations, associations, and 
works of every kind, and of the end 
each of them proposes to obtain. 
It is almost certain that, directly or 
indirectly, the Catholic idea perroc- 
ates them all ; and as the direction 
of that Catholic idea belongs more 
than ever to Rome, the conclusioJ^ 



The Religious Policy of tlie Second Empire, 



7^7 



is natural that all these means of 
action so skilfully organized form 
a kind of secret government, the 
helm of which is in the hand of the 
Roman cardinals, prefects of the 
congregations. 

The present religious agitation 
proves the truth of this assertion. 
The society of S. Vincent of Paul 
has thought and acted exactly in 
the same way as the convents, semi- 
naries, and religious orders; from 
one end of the scale to the other 
there is but one opinion, and the 
pamphlet of M. de Segur can be 
found in the salon of the nuncio as 
well as in the workshop — ^yes, even 
on the bench of the lowest primary 
school. 

But it was not enough to have 
thus securely encircled lay society 
with so many arms employed for 
the benefit of the religious element. 
It was necessary to be certain that 
these arms would always be used 
conformably to the end in view — 
viz., the Roman Catholic supre- 
macy. The bishops and secular 
clergy might perhaps grow restless 
under this ultramontane domina- 
tion ; they might perhaps, although 
desiring the development of reli- 
gion and of their own personal 
condition, either moderate a too 
cjuick movement towards, or, for the 
sake of their own independence, 
even oppose themselves to the 
absorption meditated at Rome. 
Therefore, the effort was made, es- 
pecially since the beginning of 
1852, to crush out even a show of 
resistance from the bishops and 
secular clergy; and the Univers^ 
the avowed organ of the Holy See, 
whilst praising the emperor and at- 
tacking violently the parliamentary 
or liberal Catholic party (de Fal- 
loux, de Montalembert, Lacor- 
daire, etc.), undertook to establish 
a system of ecclesiastical compres* 



sion, which in the end triumphed. 
M. Veuillot became the lay pope 
of the French ; with as much au- 
dacity as talent, he set forth the 
doctrines of the spiritual and tem- 
poral supremacy of the Holy See ; 
he thundered against the schism of 
the Gallican Church, and against 
any compact which bound the 
priest to the state. 

And at the same time the Papal 
nuncios in France surrounded the 
bishops with an almost intolerable 
servitude. Near each of them they 
had devoted ecclesiastics, who spied 
into and denounced their actions. 
Any bishop suspected of favoring 
independence or resistance was 
the object of those thousands of 
cunning tricks which Rome has 
under its command because of the 
powers it can either grant or refuse 
to the episcopate. 

Any priest of some eminence 
who did not go over to the ultra- 
montane party was made the ob- 
ject of threats and calumnies, 
which, it was said, would break his 
episcopal cross. Things came to 
such a point that a Minister of Pub- 
lic Worship, frightened at the bold 
and dogmatic tone in which a 
nuncio pronounced his veto on the 
episcopal nominees, was forced to 
make an energetic declaration con- 
cerning the rights of the emperor, 
and to tell that nuncio to bear it 
in mind. 

At the same time, also, Rome 
endeavored to render the episco- 
pate subservient to itself by in- 
terfering in the administration of 
dioceses by granting the inferior 
clergy the right of addressing the 
prefects of the apostolic congre- 
gations on all matters which con- 
cerned conscience, liturgy, or dis- 
pensations. So that the bish- 
ops, humiliated, and with their ju* 
risdiction lessened, had no other 



798 



The Religious Policy of tlu Second Empire, 



resource left them to recover their 
authority than to show themselves 
ultramontanes, and so gain the 
good 'graces of the Holy See. 

Provincial councils, wherein zeal- 
ous men domineered, only served 
to consummate that ruin of our an- 
cient church and of all opinions 
which still bound the French clergy 
to their native land. 

More yet was wanted. The bet- 
ter to secure the dependence of the 
episcopate, the gradual substitution 
of the regular for the secular clergy 
was dreamt of. This was the rea- 
son why monasteries of religious con- 
gregations were multiplied, under 
the pretext that there was need of 
auxiliary priests to help the curh 
and their assistants. They built 
churches, took possession of the 
pulpits and confessionals, directed 
the different confraternities ; they 
thus set aside and banished the 
parochial clergy. In a few years, 
things going on in this manner, 
what would hinder the Pope from 
saying to the bishops : " You have 
no further need of seminaries to 
recruit your clergy; look at the 
numerous religious houses, from 
which you can take your cur^s and 
assistants." And then what would 
happen? The clergy of France 
would no longer possess any na- 
tional character whatsoever. It 
would be exclusively a Roman 
army, under the command of the 
generals of each congregation. 
Episcopal authority would be com- 
pletely annihilated, and the church 
in France would be under the ab- 
solute command of the Pope. In 
that case, only the most violent 
struggles — a veritable civil war — 
could alone save the concordat and 
the independence of the state ! 

Nay, even nbw the Pope, abusing 
the liberty granted, affects to look 
on France as a province of his Ca- 



tholic empire. He freely promul- 
gates the acts and laws of his per- 
sonal administration, and rules here, 
just as directly as he would at An- 
cona or Perugia, the affairs of the 
episcopate and of the church ac- 
cording to the famous ultramontane 
formula : " The clergy of France is 
first Catholic, then French." 

Nothing better proves the exact- 
ness of these views than the study 
of the causes and the progress of the 
existing religious agitation about thi 
Italian question. The greater part 
of the episcopate cared but little 
for internal demonstrations; the 
Pope brought the energetic appeal 
of two encyclical letters to bear 
upon them. Each bishop was ha- 
rassed, forced, menaced in the 
name of his Catholic conscience^ In 
the name of his obligation of obedi- 
ence to the Pontiff. Three months 
were required to wring from each 
and all the wished-for pastoral let- 
ter. And what do the leaders oi 
the ultramontane party say to-day '' 
" The French Church has spoken." 
cries the Bishop of Poitiers ; ** she 
is unanimous." 

Yes, by dint of the most violent 
siege. It began by bending the 
episcopate under the imposed doc- 
trine of the infallible superiority of 
the Pope. That subjection was ac- 
complished by all the stratagems of 
the administrative power of Rome 
over spiritual matters and diocesan 
affairs ; and when, in consequence 
it was certain that there would be 
no resistance on any question what- 
soever, even were it the political 
question of the Romagna, they boast 
that the free opinion of the Catholic 
world has been given; they place 
the Pope under the protection of 
the universal church, which i^ 
judged to have spoken and actd 
freely. This is a strange use ot 
power and of trickery ! 



The Religious Policy of the Second Empire, 



799 



To recapitulate. Rome, as it 
never goes out of the path leading 
to its end, has wished and wishes to 
create its own supremacy in France, 
which has been so long prevented 
by royalty allied to the French 
clergy. 

It has found a clergy not attached 
to the soil and to the state by great 
interests of wealth and influence. 

Profiting by the situation, it has 
wished to reduce the clergy into 
bondage after a precise fashion by 
the intrusion of all of the doctrines 
of the ultramontane church, and, to 
obtain its end, has employed all the 
powers of polemics, of spiritual ad- 
ministration, and of the regular 
clergy. 

The clergy conquered, it has 
marched on to possess itself of all 
classes of society through the me- 
dium of educational institutions, of 
confraternities and congregations of 
every kind, and has established an 
organization as vast as it is formid- 
able. 

Henceforth Rome rules the clergy 
and the Church of France, and, 
through the clergy and the church, 
it means to rule the country. 

II. 

Such is a true picture of the re- 
ligious situation. 

However, if the French clergy 
seem unwilling to oppose any fur- 
ther external resistance to the doc- 
trines, plots, and encroachments of 
Rome, it must not be forgotten that 
very many of its members in con- 
science are far from approving what 
they call the excesses of ultramon- 
tanism, because they fear for their 
own safety and for that of the true 
religion. 

A great part of the episcopate re- 
alizes the fact that the effort is being 
made to reduce them to the con- 
dition of simple vicars apostolic. 



whose jurisdiction could be re- 
called, and to suppress the proprium 
jus episcopHm. They foresee that 
the nation will never go back on 
the civil and political progress 
made in order to place itself under 
any theocracy whatsoever. 

Consequently, they are not con- 
vinced of the strength of the pro- 
posed ultramontane arrangement, 
which may be set forth in these 
terms: "Be no longer a French 
episcopate; acknowledge, your ab- 
solute dependence on the Pope; 
and, in recompense, we will have all 
together the religious government 
of France." Such a plan would 
expose religion to many and inevi- 
table conflicts, in which it would be 
either swallowed up by worldly 
views, or would be gravely compro- 
mised. 

As a rule, we may also add that 
the clergy has no idea of separating 
itself from the emperor, who is the 
highest guarantee of social order, 
and whose religious loyalty it well 
knows. 

Finally, to sum up all, it clearly 
sees that it must live and die in the 
bosom of France, where it was 
born ; and that, if it does not enjoy 
the advantages it did in times past, 
it yet receives from the state what- 
ever constitutes its sphere of ac- 
tivity, its security, and its existence. 
For the national clergy to quarrel 
angrily and irrevocably with the em- 
peror and with the nation is a thing 
easier said than done, the more 
so as it hates the religious orders, 
and has no other support whatso- 
ever for its own independence ex- 
cept the laws and good-will of the 
government. 

It sees only too well what would 
become of it if the government, 
judging it irrevocably hostile, 
should all at once suppress all 
sympathy towards it, should cut off 



8oo 



The Religious Policy of the Second Empire. 



from it all sources of liberality and 
of toleration, and should brand it 
before the country as alien to the 
national feelings and blindly obedi- 
ent to ultramontane passions. Here 
is the key-note to the disagreements 
which now exist amongst the clergy. 
The dispute and the declaration of 
1682 are buried in the past. The 
controversy is not a theological one 
at all. It is exclusively one of our 
own day, exclusively political, ex- 
clusively social; and, if the ultra- 
montanists of to-day are the same 
as those of past times, the present 
Gallicans are by no means like 
those of the time of Louis XIV. 
We must live either in our own age 
or the life of the middle ages ; we 
must be either French or Roman. 
Such is the true state of the ques- 
tion. 

Under such circumstances, what 
is to be done } 

Must we, by abruptly changing our 
whole system of government, expel 
the religious congregations of men, 
modify the law concerning educa- 
tion, apply all the organic articles, 
and reach such a point that the law, 
fully carried out, will look very 
much like persecution } No ; for 
then the sincerity of the sovereign 
might be called into question on 
account of his passing so quickly 
from a generous and affectionate 
protection to all the rigors of pro- 
hibition ; it would inflict a deep 
wound on the entire clergy and on 
a vast multitude of honorable Cath- 
olics ; it would give rise to the sus- 
picion that, in spite of all to the 
contrary, a return was being made 
to Voltairian prejudices; and per- 
haps it would necessitate a defence 
against an anti-religious reaction 
which would consider all its ex- 
cesses justifiable. 

The measures to be taken ought 
not to surpass the limits of the 



abuses to be suppressed, and to 
be carried out in behalf of the re- 
spect due to the supreme power, 
for the welfare of public tranquil- 
lity and of religion well understood. 
Besides, it is well known that pub- 
lic opinion acts as a kind of police 
over the faults of the clergy. As 
often as the clergy departs from its 
true sphere of action and strives to 
encroach upon the powers and in- 
dependence of society, it creates 2 
circle of resistance and opposition 
which subdues it. To-day men 
are frightened at what they think 
are the outbursts of revolutionan 
passion, but which in reality an 
only the energetic manifestation of 
public 'opinion rebelling against the 
wishes of those in favor of theoc- 
racy. Preserve the uprightness of 
the religious sentiment of the na- 
tion ; use no violence ; bonow 
from our public law what is neces- 
sary to put a stop to insupportable 
encroachments ; in this way separate 
the course of religion as sincerely 
practiced from the arrogance and 
calculations of the Roman propa- 
ganda — such, I think, is a course of 
action well adapted to the necessi- 
ties of the hour, and will obtain tk 
approbation of the country. 

Taking these general notions for 
a basis, perhaps the following 
measures would be most oppor- 
tune: 

I St. Except in cases of local ne- 
cessity, which is to be well proven, 
to tolerate no other new establish- 
ment of religious communities of 
men, whether it be a question of 
conventual houses, churches, cha- 
pels, even under the pretext that 
they are to act as auxiliaries 
in the sacred ministry, or whether 
it be a question of institutions for 
public instruction and works ol 
public charity. The hospitality so 
generously granted by the emperor 



The Religious Policy of the Second Empire, 



80 r 



to communities of men, although 
prohibited by la^, will, in this way, 
remain inviolate. " You are numer- 
ous enough, and France has not 
been given to you to drain ; " this 
is a sensible answer, which cannot 
incur the reproach of exclusion. 
Besides, why will not those who 
force themselves into the religious 
communities enter and recruit the 
ranks of the secular clergy, the pa- 
rochial clergy ? Where is the ne- 
cessity of increasing the regular 
clergy which belongs to the Roman 
government ? There are at pre- 
sent in France 68 associations or 
congregations of men, 19 only of 
which are authorized as teaching 
and charitable communities. They 
have under their charge 3,088 insti- 
tutions or schools, they number 14,- 
304 religious and have 359,953 pu- 
pils. 

2d. Henceforth exercise the great- 
est severity in granting permission 
for the establishment of congrega- 
tions of women, only granting the 
same when the actual undeniable 
necessity of public charity or pri- 
mary education requires it ; de- 
mand certain proofs that they have 
sufficient resources for their sup- 
l)ort ; do not easily grant permis- 
sion for the conversion of local 
communities into communities sub- 
ject, to a superioress-general, which 
inundate France with their annexed 
establishments. True it is that de 
facto congregations cannot be stop- 
ped ; but, as they are not recognized 
by law, they know that every one 
of their members remains subject to 
the common law ; and the dc fac- 
to congregation, which collectively 
has no civil existence, can therefore 
neither receive gifts nor legacies, 
neither can it act as a corporation. 
At present there are in France 
236 communities of woman subject 
to superioresses-general, which 
VOL. xviii. — 51 



have, besides the 236 principal foun- 
dations, 2,066 secondary or annexed 
establishments ; and about 700 con- 
gregations or communities under 
local superioresses (each of these 
last forms a distinct establishment, 
governed by its own superioress, 
and independent of the establish- 
ments of the same religious order 
established elsewhere) ; to which 
we must add about 250 religious as- 
sociations of women not yet recog- 
nized, but existing de facto. 

3d. As to what concerns the 
authorized communities of men or 
women, let the council of state 
exercise the greatest severity in 
the matter of gifts, legacies, and 
charitable donations it permits 
them to receive. Here we must 
consider not only the condition and 
protests of families demanding a 
reduction of such donations, but we 
must also examine into the neces- 
sities of the community so reward- 
ed. There is no reason why we 
should procure for them the mean.-; 
of a useless or abusive extension, 
by authorizing them to receive 
what is necessary to defray expen- 
ses they ought never to have incur- 
red. Communities once establish- 
ed will remain what they are, if the 
fruitful source of liberality which 
they provoke and seek for be 
wanting to stimulate the natural 
tendency of these communities to 
extend themselves indefinitely. 
The spirit of rivalry which exists 
amongst them, the lust of propaga- 
tion and of power, all drive them 
on towards an incessant develop- 
ment. OiTce entered on this path, . 
they must have money, and they 
put their wits to work to find out 
and appeal for help, for donations, 
and for alms. If the regulations 
concerning such gifts and legacies . 
were more severe, if the principle 
were established that such liberality, 



802 



The Religious Policy of the Second Empire. 



which is only an encouragement to 
the extension of expenses and of 
establishments, would no longer be 
tolerated, an abrupt stop would be 
put to the excess of which we to- 
day complain. 

It must be confessed that these 
congregations, authorized or non- 
authorized, have always the means 
of evading the law and of receiving 
gifts secretly. This cannot be pre- 
vented when the affair is conducted 
•cunningly, and the congregations 
are not without skilful counsellors or 
numerous adherents ready to aid 
them in everything. But even in 
this case, the amount of these eva- 
sions or of manual gifts which de- 
prive families of the livelihood ob- 
tained for them by their author 
is easily appreciable. Whence, for 
example, have the immense resour- 
ces of the religious orders, vowed 
to poverty, proceeded, which they 
must have consecrated to their nu- 
merous and vast establishments.^ 
The real estate of the Jesuits sur- 
passes twenty millions. How did 
they buy or build them ? Certainly 
from private donations. Now, this 
being a fact, does it not follow that 
there is an obligation on the state 
not to tolerate any new establish- 
ments, which would necessitate new 
appeals to private charity, and the 
certainty that by such a prohibition 
it would act wisely ? 

4th. Maintain, as far as possible, 
without destroying the liberty of 
choice in the municipal councils, 
lay primary education. If, through 
the intelligence and firmness of the 
prefects, a stop be not put to the 
incessant plottings of the clergy, 
forcing the townships to entrust 
their schools to the Christian Bro- 
thers, there will be soon no lay 
teachers, except in such poverty- 
stricken localities as the brothers 
disdain to take. Here we must 



remark that an effort is being 
made to multiply congregations of 
so called Little Brothers^ who install 
themselves in isolated country 
places, whilst the Christian Brothers 
can only form an establishment in 
which three brothers will be in the 
same school. Townships not having 
resources and population sufficient 
to receive the Christian Brothers 
will then be attended to by these 
Little Brothers^ called after Lamen- 
nais, S. Viator, Tinchebray, etc., 
and so it will come to pass that lay 
teachers will be entirely suppressed. 
As these teachers to-day, modest 
and useful public officers, are de- 
voted to the emperor, and render 
notable service in the rural districts, 
considering that universal suffrage 
is the law of the land, we would be 
very much weakened if all primary 
instruction passed into the hands 
of congregations which depend 
more on Rome than on France. 
Nay, more, it would be wise hence- 
forth not to recognize as places of 
public utility any congregation of 
men for primary education. There 
are at present in France 49,639 lay 
schools for boys and girls, attended 
by 2,410,517 children; and 14,602 
conventual schools, attended by 
1,342,564. Moreover, we must re- 
mark that in the academies of 
young girls directed by congrega- 
tions, in the free primary schools 
entrusted to them, as well as in the 
secondary schools wherein their in- 
fluence reigns, we meet histories 
compiled to glorify monarchies of 
divine right, to exalt religious su- 
premacy, to lower indirectly the 
civil and political principles ac- 
quired since 1789. Truly these 
establishments, so numerous, are, to 
a greater or less degree, real branch- 
es of the legitimist and Cathoh'c 
party. On the contrary, it is in our 
imperial lyceums, in our municipal 



Tfu Religious Policy of tlu Second Empire. 



803 



colleges, in our lay schools, that we 
find a more robust and popular in- 
struction given, which fosters the 
national sentiments in the hearts of 
the children. Where is it that you 
hear the cry cordially given, Vive 
VEmpereurf Certainly not in the 
congregational establishments. 

5th. Uphold with energy state ed- 
cation, because it is the true nation- 
al education ; place its institutions, 
by a sufficient budget, in a condi- 
tion to enlarge their capacity, to 
perfect their staff and their means 
of instruction — ^this is the key to 
the events of the future. The Ca- 
tholic legitimist party understood 
this only too well in demanding un- 
der Louis Philippe, with so much 
ardor, liberty of education, monopo- 
lized by the university, and in 1850, 
under the presidency, in having the 
law on public instruction passed. 
Later, under the dictatorship, it had 
the hardihood to dream of the total 
abolition of state education, in or- 
der to hand it over to the clergy 
and to the congregations; but the 
emperor, fully instructed on the in- 
tent of such a measure, refused his 
consent. But it remains a fact, 
however, that, thanks to the law of 
1850, granting to every French citi- 
zen liberty to teach, the Catholic 
legitimist party has been enabled 
to perpetuate in the young genera- 
tions that division of castes and of 
ideas which would have disappear- 
ed under the system of a united 
university education. It has been 
enabled, through the pupils brought 
up in congregational houses, to give 
continued existence to its own so- 
cial and political doctrines. This 
is a great evil, no doubt ; but, great 
as it is, it is impossible to think of 
suppressing the law which guaran- 
tees the liberty of the family. That 
would necessitate an immense strug- 
gle, a bloody one, and one contrary 



to justice. There remains, then, 
but this one escape, as equitable as 
it is prudent; everything concurs 
in it : let us strengthen and favor 
state education, which fits one for 
any career in life, which is the most 
solid and most patriotic, whilst, at 
the same time, let it be made reli- 
gious, moral, and paternal. 

6th. As far as it can be done with- 
out forcing things too far, let us put 
in execution the organic regulations, 
which place salutary checks on the 
encroachments of the Papal power 
over the clergy and the state; in 
other words, let us tolerate no new 
attack against our civil legislation 
and our political constitution, whe- 
ther in writings or in the pulpit. 

Place the office of the nuncio in 
France under the same regulations 
as any other embassador of a friend- 
ly power, and do not allow him to 
correspond at all, in the Pope's 
name, with the French bishops, nor 
allow him to perform any act of 
jurisdiction, nor allow him to have 
the least say in the choice of bishops. 

With a firm hand prevent any 
act of the court of Rome from 
either being received, published, 
or distributed in France without 
the authorization of the government. 

Choose resolutely the bishops 
from pious and honorable ecclesias- 
tics, but such as are known for their 
sincere attachment to the emperor, 
and to the institutions of France. 

Suppress all religious journals, 
the need of which no one dreamt 
of before the invasion and agita- 
tions of the ultramontane party. 
The clergy has its discipline, its 
bishops, its priests, its pulpits, its 
mandates, its pastoral letters, and a 
complete government. There is 
no necessity at all of adding the 
polemics of the press Ito the ordi- 
nary means of publicity for this 
ecclesiastical government. Besides, 



8o4 



The Religious Policy of tlie Second Empire. 



the whole of that press has always 
been the instrument for spreading 
the doctrines and designs of the 
Roman theocracy, or parliamentary 
Catholicism. To-day it supplies 
the most energetic nutriment to- 
wards a religious agitation. Sup- 
press this focus of excitement, 
which is spreading into every pres- 
bytery, and the clergy will remain 
quiet. The Univers has upset the 
heads of all the younger clergy by 
preaching religious supremacy, and 
the harm done by it will not be 
effaced for many a long year. 
To impose the protection of the 
church on the state ; to sap all civil 
and political liberties; to under- 
mine all lay institutions ; to attack 
incessantly every European alli- 
ance, except that with Austria and 
the Catholic states, thus to intro- 
duce, above everything else, and 
everywhere, the influence, the ideas, 
and the power of Rome — such is 
the work of religious journals sup- 
ported by the legitimist party. 

Encourage, finally, the public 
study of the ancient French liber- 
ties, and profess everywhere and 
with spirit the conservative princi- 
ples of the independence of the 
state alongside of that of the Pa- 
pacy. 

7 th. Moreover, persevere in a 
course of loyal protection for the true 
interests of religion and of deference 
towards the clergy. Nothing would 
be wiser, and, at the same time, 
rothing more just, than to increase 
7 he honor paid to the inferior 
clergy, who in almost the whole of 
France experience the direst priva- 
tions. In this way they would be 
attached to the government. If 
the episcopate, through weakness 
or any other motive, abandoned the 
emperor, he would be compelled to 
conciliate the inferior clergy, who 
ask nothing better than to have a 



little more ecclesiastical indepen- 
dence, and who sometimes suffer 
from episcopal despotism. At all 
events, it is of great importance 
that the religibus part of the nation 
be amazed at the noise occasioned 
by these Roman quarrels, or re- 
main indifferent concerning them. 
seeing the national w^orship alwa\>> 
tranquil, protected, and honored. 
For this reason it is very useful 
that the grants of the budget be in- 
creased towards the constructioD 
and repairing of churches, presby- 
teries, and diocesan buildings. 

8th. Finally, perhaps it would be 
opportune for the government to 
turn its attention to those large lay 
associations, such as those of S. Vin- 
cent of Paul, of S. Francis Xavier, 
etc., which, by their administratioD 
and the nature of their works, are 
really in the hands of the clergy 
and of the legitimist party. The 
conferences of S. Vincent of Paul 
to-day are more than nine hundred 
in number; they penetrate every 
rank of society, and even into the: 
lyceums and colleges, where the} 
affiliate even the children under the 
title of aspirants. They are connect- 
ed to a principal conference in each 
department of the country; they 
are governed by a general council 
of that society, which has presented 
to the Holy Father at Rome a re- 
port on the general condition of 
the French conferences. It is a 
formidable association, which, as it 
has at its disposal so many members 
and such resources, forms, as it were. 
a secret and complete government. 
Our laws do not at all admit the 
independent organization of such 
associations. Recognizing the 
charitable and Christian end of thc 
Society of S. Vincent of Paul, the 
benefits which undoubtedly aretoht' 
attributed to it, the excellent spirit 
of many, of its members, it is im- 



The Religious Policy of the Second Empire. 



805 



possible not to perceive the inten- 
tions of the men who have the privi- 
lege and inspiration of its govern- 
ment ; it is impossible, also, not to 
grow uneasy at the existence of so 
vast and so skilful an organization, 
through which thousands of citizens 
can receive such or such an impulse, 
or such or such a word of command. 
Disinterested benevolence can easi- 
ly pass to such a society of pro- 
pagandists ; and charitable societies, 
in order to exist and to do good, 
have no need of going beyond their 
own district, nor of affecting a spirit 
of affiliation and of a cemented un- 
ion, which up to the present time 
has only existed in secret revolu- 
tionary societies. Is it not to be 
feared that they will in some sort 
replace the ancient Catholic asso- 
ciations of the Restoration, which 
were then named " Jesuits in short- 
tailed coats, or the Congregation".? 
There can be no doubt at all that 
there is no one who now enters 
these societies solely for love of 
charity or to satisfy his taste for re- 
ligious exercises; they are so nu- 
merous, so well filled up from all 
ranks of society, that a powerful, 
compact interest is thereby estab- 
lished which offers inducements for 
the welfare of families and for any 
career in life. The Society of S. 
Vincent of Paul, which, as we have 
seen, initiates the children in our 
lyceums and colleges, has entered 
into the polytechnic school and in- 
to every branch of the civil admin- 
istration. It is developing in the 
army, in the magistracy, at the 
bar; everywhere, in fine, it mani- 
fests its secret influence, and unites 
all its members by the bonds of 
mutual support. To be a member 
of the Society of S. Vincent of Paul 
to-day is not merely to make an 
act of religious adhesion ; it is to 
enter into a secret world, strongly 



organized, acting on all sides upon 
the opinions and the affairs of soci- 
ety ; it is to gain active and influ- 
ential protectors, and to secure for 
one's self all the avenues leading 
to success in the different chances 
or walks of life. The democrats 
would have desired to establish a 
republican unity of interests. The 
clerics and ultramontanes, allied to 
the legitimists, have established the 
mutual support of the S. Vincent 
of Paul Society. What an im- 
mense lever this could become in 
hostile hands to move political 
ideas! Yes, we must repeat, the 
power of these associations is such 
that men enter them for purely 
temporal motives. They influence 
the determinations of families more 
than one dreams of; and it is a very 
strange spectacle to see a consider- 
able number of our civil officers 
enrolled under their banners, whilst 
their children, avoiding the state in- 
stitutions, receive their instruction 
from the Jesuits, the Carmelites, 
the Marists, the Dominicans. 

This memoir has been composed 
in a spirit of pure frankness and 
truth. We have wished to dissem- 
ble nothing. Yet if the matters 
treated of in this memoir be seri- 
ous, we know full well that they do 
not constitute a fatal danger for the 
country. We can face them coolly. 
The material and moral power of 
the government of the emperor is 
immense. The majority in France 
cares very little for clerical preten- 
sions, and will never bow before 
the theocratical doctrines of Kome 
nor before the intrigues and lamen- 
tations of the coalesced political 
parties. The country has too 
much trust in the national interests, 
and too great faith in the principles 
of modern society, not to crush, by 
the very manifestation of its opin- 
ions, all this laborious restoration of 



8o6 



Grace Seymour s Mission. 



men and of the theories of the 
past. But as these are elements of 
agitation and disorder, it is the 



duty of a provident government to 
watch attentively. *' Prudence be- 
gets safety." 



GRACE SEYMOUR'S MISSION. 



CONCLUDSO. 



September was painting the 
leaves in the wooded valleys of 
Gloucestershire, and the fields were 
just bared of their golden crowns. 
A noble mansion, where generations 
of Howards had reigned, was waiting 
for its little lord to come from beyond 
the seas. In old days, the Howards 
had been among the truest and 
bravest of the champions of the old 
faith ; even now their head branch- 
es had not thrown off their alle- 
giance to the church, but the glory 
of the martyr had paled before the 
renown of the statesman and the 
fame of the soldier, in the eyes of 
at least this offshoot of the great 
Catholic house. Since the reign 
of James I., these Gloucestershire 
squires had been the main stay of 
the Low-Church party, and the fa- 
mily tradition had remained the 
same to the days of Elizabeth How- 
ard, little George's mother. 

One bright day a rather awkward 
travelling-carriage drove up to the 
oaken door of Howard Hall, and 
George Charteris, with his little 
cousin, dashed up the steps. Grace 
and her father followed ; they were 
but visitors, with no authority and 
no influence. Only one day did 
they remain there, the young law- 
yer escorting them back to London ; 
the child was left to the care of the 
elder Charteris and his family. 

The young man had not let time 



pass without making good use of it, 
and he had already been once re- 
fused by the beautiful girl, whose 
influence over him seemed so 
strange and unaccountable to him- 
self. Her father had said he was 
well satisfied at his child's conduct, 
as she was not one to speak hastily 
and then repent her words; bat 
George Charteris did not give up 
all hope. 

Grace and Mr. Seymour lived 
very quietly, even poorly ; the guar- 
dian of their little George allowed 
them a scanty sum out of* the estate. 
on his own responsibility, and on 
the condition that it should be sub- 
ject to the child's good pleasure 
when he should have attained his 
majority. Mr. Seymour had serious 
thoughts of going abroad to study 
for the priesthood, and Grace's 
peculiar religious state had suffered 
no alteration since her departure 
from America. 

Among the new convert's self-im- 
posed tasks of charity was a week- 
ly visit to one poor family, whose 
drunken son was their shame and 
endless burden. Dependent upon 
him for a precarious living, his old 
parents, both crippled by an acci- 
dent on a farm where years ago th?y 
had been employed, lodged in ^ 
miserable den, which, through a 
large-heartedness that is oftener 
seen among the poor than the 



Grace Seytnours Mission, 



807 



rich, they had shared with two 
sickly orphan children, the only 
ones left of a family of seven, car- 
ried off with father and mother 
by the small-pox. Whatever the 
drunken man brought home was 
shared with these desolate little 
ones ; whatever was given in charity 
was brought to feed them and keep 
in them the little life they had ever 
had. Four more helpless beings 
perhaps hardly existed, and all de- 
pendent upon one whose conscience 
was dead, and whose animal nature 
hideously survived the paralyzation 
of his soul's organism. Mr. Sey- 
mour and his daughter came upon 
them by the merest chance, and 
ever after remained to them the 
firmest friends, the most gentle be- 
nefactors, they had ever dared to 
dream of. But the zealous convert 
was anxious to do a greater good 
than the mere corporal works of 
mercy implied by his visits to these 
forlorn creatures. In moments 
when his demon was not on him, 
the unhappy son of these poor peo- 
ple sometimes listened to Mr. Sey- 
mour's earnest appeals to his buried 
conscience. With good results for 
a few hours the poor family had at 
first to be satisfied; then, as they 
hoped their infatuated son would 
gradually reward the efforts of his 
kind adviser, he would suddenly 
grow more brutish than before, and 
more irreclaimable. His compan- 
ions would jeer at the ^' gentleman 
missioner," in those days when 
gentlemen were the worst preachers 
because the worst violators of tem- 
perance ; and the old people would 
sometimes tremblingly speak to their 
benefactor of danger and of trouble 
to come, if he persisted too openly 
in his religious and moral advice. 

But the zeal that burnt within 
Edward Seymour was no faint light 
to be extinguished by the first taint- 



ed breath of danger-fraught oppo- 
sition; bravely he spoke and ad- 
vised and remonstrated, waiting 
only for a few preliminaries to be 
arranged, in order to leave for a 
quiet scene, where in prayer and 
study he was to prepare himself for 
tasks as dangerous and as thankless 
as were his present occupations. 

Meanwhile, his daughter, the do- 
mestic angel of his silent, shrine- 
like home, thought and read and 
pondered deeply, her love for her 
one companion in life bringing to 
her heart a longing desire to be at 
unity with him, to be a sister and a 
sharer in his faith, and, above all, a 
partaker in his sacrifice. For she 
could not bear to see him suffer in 
earthly comforts, and not feel that 
she, too, bore a part of his burden ; 
she longed to believe as he did, if 
only to suffer as he did ; for as long 
as she stood aloof from his inner 
life, she felt, after all, but as one 
who should watch sympathizingly 
on the shore while another human 
being was battling with the crested, 
storm-tossed waves beyond. Once 
or twice, with her father, Grace had 
gone to a quiet service in a lowly 
house, where a priest made a tem*- 
porary chapel whenever he could 
spend * a few days in town. His 
coming was a joy to a faithful knot 
of friends, and before his impromp- 
tu altar many ranks and stations 
in life were represented, from the 
brilliant owner of lordly estates to 
the poor Irish artisan and the 
old women who reigned, then as 
now, over the London apple-stalls. 
Among the silent, earnest worship- 
pers of this ^' tabernacle in the de- 
sert " was one whose thoughts had 
been singularly attracted towards 
Grace. He saw her sit by her fa- 
ther's side, grave and attentive, a 
sad, wistful look on her pale face, 
never joining in the simple devo- 



8o8 



Grace Seymour's Mission. 



tions which evidently were so fa- 
miliar to her companion, but often 
fixing her hopeless, passionate gaze 
upon his faith-illumined features. 
Sometimes Grace would suddenly 
feel, like to the rush of a falling star 
.through the purple sky of night, a 
glimmering perception of at least a 
possibility of truth existing in this 
persecuted religion. Perhaps the 
very persecution roused her pity and 
her sympathy, and held within itself 
a fascination uneasily resisted by a 
noble mind. 

Had the faith of her father been 
presented to her under its gorgeous 
exterior of uncurtailed ritual and 
acknowledged supremacy, her heart 
might have turned away from the 
glittering triumph ; but now, were 
the followers of this condemned 
Catholic faith not exiles and wan- 
derers, threatened with prisons and 
fines, hunted down by prejudice 
and malignity, oppressed with the 
worst oppression — social and poli- 
tical ostracism ? How could her 
heart help going out towards them, 
and crying blindly in the darkness 
that it felt for them and pitied their 
woes and admired their self-sacri- 
fice? 

The day we have alluded to was 
one of those on which such awak- 
enings were stirring in her soul, 
and the fight between the world 
and God was beginning for the 
holding of this stray prize, whose 
purchase had been made, centuries 
ago, upon the cross of Calvary. 

The good priest, who knew of her 
state through his conversations with 
her father, took care to infuse a 
little wholesome and clearly-de- 
fined doctrine into the short dis- 
course he gave after Mass. It was 
not without its effect, and Grace's 
eager, thoughtful air did not escape 
the notice of her silent observer, 
who was not long in persuading 



the pastor to make him acquainted 
with Mr. Seymour and his daugh- 
ter. 

He was a young, tall, athletic 
man, a thorough Saxon, with blue 
eyes that were truth itself, and a 
lion-like form that seemed the ven 
embodiment of unconquerable en- 
durance and indomitable braven*. 
One thought instinctively, on look- 
ing at him, of the word *' standard- 
bearer," as if that, and that alone, 
were a description meet for him, 
moral and physical in one ; the only 
adequate word wherewith to blazon 
forth his glorious perfection of 
man and child combined. As rev- 
erent towards God, as loyal to- 
wards women, as though he were 
of those who '^always see the Fa- 
ther's face," he was as uncompro- 
mising, as frank, as firm towards 
the world of daily shoals in whose 
treacherous midst he lived as if 
temptation were a mythic fear, and 
the possibility of sin a sealed book 
to his heart. The child of perst- 
cution, the royal offspring of dan- 
ger that could not appall and re- 
pression that could not crush, Ed- 
mund Oakhurst was like the moun- 
tain-bred hunter who, reared amid 
the sterile crags of unscalable 
Alps and sea-girt coasts, leaps from 
rock to rock, regardless of chasm 
and torrent, and angry tides rolling 
over the stone where a moment 
ago his venturesome but ever-sure 
foot had lightly rested. The eagles 
might scream round his head, the 
sea roar at his feet, the sky darken 
and the frail bark toss, he cared 
little, for a brave heart and a bold 
hand, with God for a guide — ^are 
they not equal to resisting the 
world's treacherous assaults.' Such 
is a slight sketch of the* young man 
who now stood before Grace, bash- 
ful yet bold, and looked up into 
her eyes with such wondering qu^- 



Grace Seymour's Mission. 



809 



tions mutely brightening his own. 
Her father was pleased with the 
stranger, and together they soon 
fell into a conversation on the posi- 
tion of the faith in America, and 
of the contrast between its present 
state and that of triumphant supre- 
macy it had enjoyed in that hemi- 
sphere when Spain was the queen 
of nations. 

The young man went home with 
Mr. Seymour, and it was evening 
ere they parted. Grace was si- 
lently entranced. The faith that 
had such children as that, and 
could draw to itself such an one as 
her father, must it not have some 
unsuspected vitality which could 
be none other than truth? Often 
and often their new friend came 
again, and each time he came the 
young girl felt a solemn enthu- 
siasm for all things great and noble 
distil from his every word and 
glance, and wrap her round in a 
bewildered dream, the voice of 
which seemed to sing for ever in 
her ears, "Go and do thou like- 
wise.'* Lights broke in upon her 
from unexpected places ; books she 
had laid down in hopeless reve- 
rence, deploring that to her their 
spiritual beauty was incomprehen- 
sible, yet sure that their beauty of 
language must be the veil of the 
hidden shrine, she now took up 
again, and, reading, began to under- 
stand. Her father, whose labors 
among the poor Edmund Oak- 
hurst now joined, was too silently 
happy to notice, save by gentle, un- 
obtrusive aid, the renovating work 
going on in his child's soul, and 
seemed to brighten under this new 
and blessed influence. Soon his 
daughter spoke openly to him, and, 
not many months after the quiet 
meeting at the chapel, she was un- 
der instruction. He delayed his 
already formed plans, to be at her 



side at this moment, and, together 
as ever, the two prayed and read 
and studied, till life seemed to 
Grace too full and happy for earth. 

George Charteris had ceased 
visiting his relations much, espe- 
cially after having once or twice 
met Edmund Oakhurst. The con- 
tact with his accustomed circle of 
by no means very intellectual or 
very sensitive friends had soon 
worn off the interest his better na- 
ture had once taken in the thought- 
ful, earnest life of the convert and 
his daughter. He, however, very 
good-naturedly continued to write 
to them, giving accounts of little 
George's health and general go- 
ings-on. 

One night Edward Seymour and 
his young friend sat alone by the 
dying fire, while the cold drizzle 
without veiled the window, and the 
damp seemed to soak in through 
every chink and cranny in the 
poorly furnished room. Both men 
wore their great-coats, but they 
hardly seemed to notice the cold. 

" It is nearly eighteen months 
now since we came," said Mr. Sey- 
mour, " and I am not off to France 
yet. However, in less than a 
month that last step will be taken, 
and I shall be at peace." 

" And the favor I have asked you 
will be mine — so you assure me," 
hesitatingly answered Oakhurst. 

" I only bid you try yourself, and 
see if I am not right," said his 
friend. " Nothing would make me 
happier ; and as to her, I have al- 
ready told you that she believes it 
was through your influence that 
God made the truth plain to her." 

" But if she should think that I 
take her at a disadvantage ; or if 
she should marry me because, being 
unprotected, she would be grateful 
for a home — or rather, a husband, 
for the hone is hers — or, worse than 



8io 



Grace Seymour s Mission. 



all, suppose she thought I was so 
poor as to need the little she has to 
give ?" 

" My dear boy, these are ground- 
less fears. She thinks of nothing 
but of God and of his leadings in 
these matters ; she never has look- 
ed at things from her childhood up 
with the world's eyes, and I think 
the mere idea of the possibility of a 
man's marrying for money would 
be to her absolutely monstrous and 
ridiculous. Remember how quiet 
and lonely her life at home always 
was, and say if she could be so 
worldly-wise V* 

" It is true. After all, I wrong her ; 
it is unworthy of me to dream of 
such things ; only I feel so utterly 
beneath her in mind and soul, so 
simple in the deep things she hides 
in her heart, so unlearned in the 
marvellous paths through which she 
has been led." 

** My son," said Seymour gravely, 
** do not wrong yourself. I never 
dreamed that I was worthy of her 
mother, but I knew that, all un- 
worthy as I was, God had chosen 
me for her guardian ; so it is now 
with you, for she is her mother 
over again. But whenever was a 
treasure given to the worthy only ? 
Think you Mary was worthy of be- 
ing the mother of Jesus, or Joseph 
of being the spouse of Mary ? Are 
any of us worthy of being sons of 
God and heirs of heaven ? Above 
all, am I worthy to be a priest of 
the Most High ? But the question 
lies not there; it lies in God's will, 
God's decrees, God's call to us, his 
children. Is the slave worthy to 
bear the priceless crown, whose 
gems flash in his dark hands, in 
some eastern procession ? But the 
king has deputed him to bear it, 
and his obedience stands for worthi- 
ness." 

'* Mr. Seymour," said the young 



man earnestly, " you are rights and, 
if it' be my blessed lot to be your 
child's guardian, God will gire me 
grace to find favor in her sight 
first, and never betray her trust in 
me for ever after. I will ask her/* 

He did ask her a few days later, 
in simple, manly phrase, and she 
answered him in silence. Her 
heart was too full for speech, and 
he loved her too well to dispute 
her first, though unspoken, behest. 
But after a few moments, she knelt 
down, and hand-in-hand they pray- 
ed, without telling each other why 
and for what, and yet each seemed 
to know. 

In the evening of the same dar 
Mr. Seymour and his friend were 
to go to the cottage of a poor fami- 
ly, where sometimes a little, infor- 
mal meeting used to take place — ^ 
forerunner of the crowded tempe- 
rance gatherings our more fortunate 
age can boast. 

Once more the father and daugh- 
ter stood close together, waiting 
for Edmund Oakhurst. The pale 
moon looked in at the narrow case- 
ment, the street was slippery with 
recent rain, and the wind was damp 
and cold. Within burned one low 

• 

candle on the table before the fire- 
place, where the coals were black- 
ening into ashes, and every nov 
and then throwing out a tongue of 
dim, red flame, only to make the 
black emptiness more noticeable. 

" I will have the fire all right 
when you come back, darling,'* 
said Grace, " and some hot 'wine 
and water ready for you. Mind 
you keep that cloak well about 
you. O my love! I cannot bear to 
think we have so few days before 
us still !" 

" Almost a few weeks, Grace," 
said her father cheerfully. 

" It seems to me as if they were 
days," reiterated the girl; "but 



Grace Seymour* s Mission. 



8u 



I know it is right. My mother 
would say so, if she could speak to 
us from her home in the spirit-land. 
Kiss me, my father, my own !" 

There was almost a despairing 
wail under that quick exclamation. 
Seymour felt strangely moved, but, 
unwilling to weaken his child's for- 
titude, he kissed her and soothed 
her in the most cheerful way he 
could, yet tenderly keeping her 
hands clasped in his. Edmund 
Oakhurst was not long, and the two 
men were soon ready to start. 
Grace took the candle, and led the 
way down the dark stairs. She 
motioned her lover to go out first, 
and then, detaining her father, said 
in a voice broken by uncontrollable 
emotion : 

" My own precious father, bless 
me before you go." 

He caught her in his arms, and 
laid one hand on her head, murmur- 
ing, "God bless you for ever, my 
child, as your father does now. 
Don't give way, my love, my little 
treasure, and think of me while I 
am gone. We will have a nice 
evening together when we come 
home, my pet." And he gave her 
a fervent, solemn kiss, and pressed 
her hands to his heart. 

In silence she let him go, but a 
passionate prayer burst from her 
lips as soon as he had crossed thie 
threshold. She shaded the flicker- 
ing light with one hand, while she 
stepped forth and strained her eyes 
after him as far as sight could fol- 
low. When he disappeared behind 
a comer, a sob broke from her, and 
she turned wearily to go up the 
stairs. A cloud scudded across 
the face of the moon, and the shrill 
laugh of a woman sounded clear 
and cutting down the street. Grace 
went back to the little room, where 
the fire was sullenly going to sleep, 
waking up now and then in a fret- 



ful, spectre-like glare and a weird 
rustle, then leaving utter darkness 
behind once more. The girl shud- 
dered ; she knew not what ailed her. 
Thoughts came in upon her, mad- 
dening her, and she paced up and 
down the small enclosure with 
rapid, unsteady steps. She had 
never felt like this before ; when 
her mother lay dying, she had step- 
ped lightly and softly, her mind 
clear, her loving heart calm, though 
crushed. What meant this fever, 
this horror of something vague, 
this dread that made her heart beat 
as the wind creaked the wooden 
stairs and shook the ill-fitting case- 
ment.^ A crucifix hung on the 
wall, a Bible lay on the table ; to 
both she looked for comfort and 
peace, but the one seemed alive 
with ruddy blood-stains, and the 
other opened at these words : " I 
said. In the midst of my days I shall 
go to the gates of hell; I sought 
for the residue of my years. . . I 
hoped till morning ; as a lion so 
hath he broken all my bones : from 
morning even to night thou wilt 
make an end of me."* Grace clos- 
ed the book with pale cheeks and 
scared expression, and flung herself 
on her knees before the burnt-out 
fire. She sank to the ground, and 
a kind of mist seemed to dull her 
senses; yet it was not sleep. A 
child awoke in the room overhead, 
and began its wailing, peevish cry ; 
otherwise the stillness was intense. 
The moon climbed the sky so that 
its light went beyond the range of 
the low window ; the radiance came, 
however, wan and misty, up from 
the street. The clock in the pas- 
sage ticked, and Grace found her- 
self unconsciously counting its pul- 
ses ; and when she tried to break off, 
a spell seemed upon her that com- 

ImIm xxjctUI. io» 13. 






12 






•■•.'i^#! < -'sCrace Seymour's Mission. 



pelled her to count on. Again she 
paced the room, and then, as if 
impatient of this unaccountable 
restlessness, she began to make 
things ready for her father's return. 
This occupied her some time, and 
she lingered over the homely task as 
if in it lay a talisman to shield her 
against this nameless fear, this im- 
portunate, impalpable horror, that 
seemed to her almost a presence. 
She said aloud, to cheat her own 
belief, " I must be ill ; this is fever;" 
but her mind was pitilessly alive, 
and refused this interpretation. 
She sat down to read ; philosophy 
would surely drive away the unholy 
phantom. But the pages grew dim 
before her eyes, and, though unclos- 
ed, those eyes saw nothing of what 
was before them. Twenty times 
she rose up to look at the passage 
clock ; the time lagged, she thought, 
as if it dreaded to become the pre- 
sent. The fire burnt brightly again, 
and hot wine and water were ready 
on the table. A few flowers that 
stood in a common cup on the 
mantel-piece she took down and 
laid gracefully in a shallow saucer, 
placing it on the table, in green 
and scarlet contrast with the white, 
transparent flagon, and the quaint 
old silver ewer. Then she thought, 
as if forcing her mind to leave her 
unnamed dread behind, of the many 
vicissitudes this piece of Howard 
plate had seen; of the drinking 
bouts of old at which it had figured 
in the days of the reckless cavaliers ; 
of the mediaeval honors it might 
have won at jousts and tourna- 
ments ; for its date was carved on a 
small shield upborn by a griffin and 
a monk, and went far back into 
the XVth century. But this specu- 
lation was disturbed by sounds of 
horrid revel in the street, and 
Grace shiveringly met the old hor- 
ror face to face again. Something 



half human seemed to brood over 
the place ; the room seemed tenant- 
ed, and, though brave, the girl was 
thoroughly unnerved. She oi>ened 
the door, the clock ticked, and she 
saw it was growing late. From the 
impatience of two hours ago she 
rushed back into a shrinking dread 
of the lateness of the time, now it 
had come. Her father was still awav 
— ^why } Had he not looked forward 
to a quiet evening after his work of 
charity was done, and would he not 
have hurried home, that she naight 
not have to wait long after the usual 
hour.? The shadowy terror that 
all the time had obstinately kept kis 
form as a sort of centre round 
which it could turn and play in 
fantastic dreams and ever-changing 
pictures, crept nearer to her hean 
now, and strangled it with a mort 
certain fear, a more defined vision. 
Then a cold wind seemed to blow 
all round her, and she looked up. 
It was only the open door into the 
passage that was swinging on its 
grating hinges, and letting in a rush 
of air from the outside. Yes ; but 
whence was the cold air that wnin*; 
the frail door? Was not that a 
sound on the stairs ? Her first im- 
pulse was to rush out, and meet her 
father; her second, a scarcelv 
shaped wish to prolong the yet 
doubtful present. Irresolutely she 
stood and listened; there were 
voices on the stairs — ^whispers. 

Then a slow tread came linger- 
ingly up, and through the half-open 
door she saw Edmund Oakhtirst. 
She knew it all now. Had he rush- 
ed up with maddening speed, as if 
human feet were not swift enoush 
for his errand, she might have hop- 
ed. As it was, she saw it all ; and 
when he spoke, she only answered : 
"Yes." 

He stood silent then, and, taking 
her hand, waited for her to ask him 



T^^^. 



f ^ ar THE 



'ft 



Grace Seymour's Missx 



OilK 



where she must follow him. She 
passed her other hand over her 
forehead, and then pointed to the 
table, with a sort of pathetic smile 
that wrung her lover's heart. 

*' He was to have had a nice 
evening, he said," she murmured 
in a dreary tone. Oakhurst hardly 
knew whether or no to answer. 

" Come, show me," she said 
again, taking her shawl, and wrap- 
ping it round her, and then, taking 
the crucifix from the wall, she 
kissed it and passed it to Edmund. 

" My only father now," she 
whispered to herself. They went 
down the old stairs in silence, the 
frightened landlady standing at the 
door, trembling like an aspen-leaf. 

"Tell me," said Grace when 
they were in the street, " how was 
it? Did he fall?" 

"Yes, he fell," answered he, 
liesitating ; she saw it. 

" You can tell me all," she said 
dreamily ; '" he was getting short- 
sighted; from study, you know. 
Did he stumble ? Or was it some- 
thing struck him ?" 

" Yes, he was coming out of the 
house — standing near the door — it 
did not hurt him much, and he was 
insensible." 

" And was it all over at once ?" 

" Before we could get him to the 
hospital." 

" Was there a doctor ?" 

"One came, and accompanied 
him to the hospital. But he said 
nothing could be done." 

" Did he speak ?" 

" Not once ; but he opened his 
eyes and looked around, as if seek- 
ing something. I said * Grace,* 
and then a light came to his eyes, 
but otherwise there was no recog- 
nition. I hardly think he knew 



me. 



>> 



" I had his blessing before he left 
me, thank God!" 



Silence fell upon them, and Grace 
sobbed softly now and then. She 
thought of the grave under the 
elms, and of the meeting of those 
two — those to whom she owed her 
being — and then of her own lonely 
heart left behind to drag out its 
weary vigil. Her self-posses- 
sion was returning, and when she 
reached the hospital, it was no 
wailing, unconscious maniac whom 
they led to the couch of the calm 
sleeper, but a g^ave, silent woman, 
wrapped in the majesty of sorrow, 
armed with the shield of peace. 
She stood a few moments steadfast- 
ly by the bed, then dropped on her 
knees, and kissed the white, still 
hand. A gash had scared the high, 
broad forehead, but its horror had 
been obliterated as much as possi- 
ble, and she felt no shrinking. Her 
long, piercing gaze had made her 
more strangely calm ; a half-smile 
came to her lips as she thought of 
the shuddering girl who had stood 
in formless terror, trembling at 
every shadow, a few hours since ; 
she could hardly believe that it was 
herself, so much had the reality of 
awful grief sobered in her the wild 
instincts of dimly perceived danger. 
The blow had come, and with it 
the grace ; the balm had been pour- 
ed in almost by the same hand that 
had dealt the wound, and the bur- 
den laid upon her had found more 
than strength enough whereon to 
rest and weigh. Crushed she 
might be, but had not the same 
silent teacher she gazed upon now 
been as crushed as she by a widely 
different yet kindred loss, and had 
not his soul risen again from under 
the flail with ten times more sweet- 
ness in its fragrance, and more 
strength in its tempered fibre ? 

She turned and whispered to 
Edmund. He inclined his head, 
and, speaking authoritativplv^ said 



8 14 



Grace Seyvtaur's Mission. 



to the bystanders that the body 
must be, at Miss Seymour's wish, 
carried to her lodgings. She then 
left, and he accompained her home, 
promising to return with her father's 
corpse. 

In a short time muffled steps 
and hushed voices were heard, and 
the strong man was borne again to 
the home he had left so cheerfully 
only a few hours before. Edmund 
and Grace were alone. All night 
through they watched, and a few 
candles burned round the sleeping 
form. ■ Towards the gray of the 
morning, when common sounds 
began to be heard again, and the 
city woke up once more to its never- 
intermitted round of strange, wick- 
ed, checkered life, the girl, rising 
and kissing the brow of her dead 
father, turned to Edmund with a 
sad look of inquiry. 

" Edmund," she said slowly, " you 
never told me what struck him." 

" An iron bar, " he answered, 
with a frightened, startled look. 
She gazed full in his eyes. 

" I do not believe," she said 
calmly, with sad reproach trem- 
bling in her voice, " that you have 
told me untruly, for that you could 
not do ; but, through kindness and 
compassion, I know that you have 
not told me all'' 

"What more is there to tell.^" 
he stammered. 

" You know," she answered; 
" for God's sake, tell me !" t 

He looked at her with strange 
meaning. " You do not know what 
you are asking, Grace. I had hop- 
ed, if I had had my way, to keep 
from you much that would cause 
you unnecessary sorrow ; and you 
could have left town, and even the 
country, so as to more completely 
take from you all association with 
this terrible grief. But you seem 
to pierce every veil, and I am not 



practised at concealing. But, 
Grace! it will break your heart! 
It well-nigh breaks my own to think 
of it !" 

" I know there is something ver) 
dreadful in the background," she 
said ; " but I have prayed all night 
for strength to bear it, and I wish 
to know it now. Do not hide one 
thing from me, as you hope for 
heaven, Edmund." 

He paused, and then, thinking 
that it would be best to get the 
shock over at once, said, intently 
watching her the while : " Grace, 
your father was called of God to 
be a priest. But God made him a 
martyr first ; for such a murder i>. in 
truth, a martyrdom." 

She quivered from head to foot, 
but, recovering herself, she said: 
" I had suspected something like 
that." 

"How, Grace?" 

" I thought I heard some whis- 
pered words that were hushed as 
soon as I went in to that awful 
place where he lay, and I had seen 
you flush, and blanch, and hesitate 
when I questioned you. It was 
God's will. Tell me everything. 
But who" — and her voice broke 
here — "who could have been so 
lost as to hate him f 

" You know, when we left you," 
hurriedly began the young man, 
" we went straight to that meeting. 
Some were there who are as good 
as cured, and some others came 
from curiosity, or brought by their 
friends. A few were not sober. 
Your father said some prayers, a.** 
usual. Then he spoke to the men. 
as you know he can speak, ven 
simply, very earnestly. There was 
a disturbance at the door. While 
he was speaking, half a dozen men, 
furious with drink, and roaring and 
swearing like demons, tried to g*'i 
in. A few opposed them, and in 



Grace Seymaur^s Mission* 



815 



the struggle the rickety door came 
down, and the long, old-fashioned 
iron hinge came loose from the 
rotten wood. One of the men 
took it up — it was Drake, the son 
of those poor old cripples. Another, 
who was of our men inside, wrench- 
ed it from him, and your father 
came down near the door to try 
and quiet the men. Those of the 
better sort grouped round him, 
fearing violence from the men in 
the front. I was close to him. I 
saw a man stoop, and the next 
minute Drake passed something to 
a comrade of his, who stole behind 
us, while he himself made a rush 
at me. I was still grappling with 
him, when there was a cry. The 
men sprang apart, and I heard 
your father say, *0 God!' just as 
he fell. I flung Drake to the 
ground with such force that he was 
stunned, and his head sounded dead 
on the stone floor. The men on 
our side had already caught the 
murderer, with the long iron hinge 
in his hand. It had struck your 
father on the back of the head, 
near the ear, and the scar on the 
forehead was made by falling for- 
ward. The police did not come 
till it was all over, and then they 
marched off Drake and the other 
man — Eldridge is his name, so I 
was told afterwards. I heard 
Drake say, with a horrible oath, 
that it was lucky for your father he 
had escaped so long ; and the mur- 
derer grinned as he heard this re- 
mark. They seemed sober enough 
the minute it was over. Drake re- 
covered very soon. The other men 
seemed stupid with horror. Grace, 
was it not a martyrdom ?" 

** Edmund," she answered/ sol- 
emnly, '* it was the noblest death 
he could die, the only one be- 
fitting him. Die for the good 
of others ! die for the spread of 



holiness, for the honor of princi- 
ple ! die that God might be better 
known and better served! — it was 
what he lived for ; it was what he 
would have chosen to die for, had 
he had the choice. O my fa- 
ther! half my soul has gone with 
him, and my life shall be one eager 
longing to be made worthy to fol- 
low him. Edmund, is it not grand, 
is it not heroic } Has he not a 
glorious crown wherewith to meet 
my mother in heaven V* 

Edmund could not help wonder- 
ing at the quaint suggestions, which, 
to his less imaginative nature, 
seemed even extravagant ; but when 
was enthusiasm ever less than ex- 
travagant, and when was it more 
meet than in this case of a glorious, 
God-ordained death? 

After a pause, Grace resumed : 

'' If I had known this sooner, I 
should have gone to Drake's pa- 
rents. I shall go now. You watch 
while I am away." 

And before Edmund could speak, 
she was gone. 

They were sitting over the em- 
bers of a mere apology for a fire, 
these two forsaken cripples, with 
the little, starveling children cud- 
dled together like frightened rab- 
bits at their feet. When the door 
opened, and Grace appeared, pale 
and worn, they shivered, and lean- 
ed one upon the other, as if they 
would gladly have fled from her, 
had they been able. They were 
dumb, and seemed to have no in- 
stinct but fear within their bosoms. 
The children stared with great 
round eyes, and crept further away. 
Grace went up, and knelt down be- 
fore the old couple, taking the wo- 
man's fingers in her own, and say- 
ing softly : 

" You are not afraid of me } 
Did you think I was angry? I 
have come to tell you I am not, and 



8i6 



Grace Seymotir's Mission. 



he would not be, could he speak to 
you. Won't you say something to 
me r 

The old woman said something, 
but her teeth chattered so it was 
unintelligible. The old man gave 
a feeble, idiotic laugh, and, for the 
moment, Grace was startled. But 
she soon saw that horror had turn- 
ed his brain, and that he was now 
beyond the possibility of suffering. 
His wife seemed verging on the 
same state. Grace took out some 
money, and put it into the poor old 
crone's hand. " You shall live on 
here, just as'usual," she said. " I will 
help you ; never mind. Take care 
of your husband, and remember I 
am not angry with you." 

The old woman mumbled some- 
thing under her breath, but appear- 
ed quite stupefied yet. '*God 
bless you !" said Grace sadly, turn- 
ing from this unsatisfactory couple, 
and going gently up to the children. 

" Can you tell me where El- 
dridge lived.?" she said. ** And if 
he has a family V* 

The children, also, seemed deaf 
and dumb for a time; but at last 
the promise of a silver piece drew 
forth from the recesses of their 
memory the address of Eldridge's 
wife. It was not far off. Grace 
left the hovel, and took her way 
down courts and by-streets till she 
reached the house where the mur- 
derer's wife lived. Up many stairs, 
and through many passages, in- 
quiring her way, Grace went, and 
at last knocked at the right door. 
Only a sound of sobbing was heard 
within. She said to herself, " This 
is no hardened woman ; " and at 
once her resolve was formed. She 
gently opened the door; a woman 
sat by the dingy window, her head 
buried in her hands, and bent down 
to her knees. She rocked herself 
to and fro, and moaned at regular 



intervals. A child lay in a cradle 
near her, but she did not heed it. 
The bed stood at one end of the 
room, tossed and untidy ; the poor 
little utensils of the wretched home 
were flung about in disorder, and 
some dark stains on the deal table 
gave out a strong, sickening odor. 

Grace went up to the woman, 
and touched her on the shoulder. 
The woman looked up. Her face 
was wild and sad, the hair strayed 
over the cheeks and forehead, mat- 
ted with tears, and the expression 
was awful in its utter despair 
Grace said : 

" You are very unhappy ; I am 
come to comfort you, if you will let 
me. 

" Who are you V said the womac 
vacantly. 

" A friend to all who are in trou- 
ble," answered Grace, with a sob 
in her voice ; " and I thought, if I 
came to you, it might relieve you. " 

The woman seemed to try ani" 
gather her faculties together. "» 
do not remember you. The visl:- 
ing ladies is not like you." 

"But you will let me visit you' 
Perhaps I can do you more good 
than they can." 

" No, no ; you are very kind, lad), 
but 'tan't no use." 

"I know what your trouble \^ 
but there is comfort even for that 
sorrow. He may repent ; have you 
any influence over him V 

She shook her head. Grace 
pointed to the cradle. 

" And has that no influence upon 
him.? To-day, when he is sober, 
it may have. Take the baby, and 
go and see him. If you 60 him 
good, it will make you happier; it 
not, you will have done your 
duty." 

"Duty!" flashed out the misei- 
able woman. "What have I ever 
done but my duty, and to him as 



Grace Seymour s Mission. 



817 



used me more as a beast than a 
woman?" 

" Hush ! hush ! God may touch 
him yet. Y>o not despair !" 

**Not despair! Lady, it's easy 
for you as is a lady to say sech 
things! God be merciful to me, Tm 
driven mad with despair!" 

" Will you tell me what it is that 
troubles your poor heart?" said 
(}race, who saw that the unhappy 
woman must speak out or die. 

" Won't I ?" was the answer, fear- 
fully prompt. "I married that 
man three years ago down in Dev- 
onshire, and I a farmer's daughter, 
with a home as never knowed the 
want of anything. And he fooled 
me with his handsome face and 
talk of Lunnon, and his fine trade 
there. Trade, indeed ! It was the 
devil's trade, if any ! And because 
I listened and liked him, my fa- 
ther he swore he'd disown me. I 
ran away, and we was married at 
the nearest church. First night, 
he came home drunk. He never 
left off being drunk, and often I 
thought I'd leave him; but father, 
he wouldn't have taken me back, 
and I didn't want for to be called 
names ! Here in Lunnon we lived 
sometimes here, sometimes there, 
worse than this often, and he al- 
ways drunk. He had heaps of 
money now and then. I know, 
lady, where it come from; but he 
never gave me any, and I don't 
know as I could have touched it if 
he had. But for days he left me, 
and I had to beg or starve; he 
would not have cared if I'd done 
worse. Then come home drunk, 
and swear because there was no- 
thing to eat. He beat me and kick- 
ed me, and, when he come home, 
wouldn't let me sleep at night. 
Other men came, too, and spoke 
about bad things in whispers ; but I 
heard. They would drink here till 
VOL. xviii. — 52 



they all slept heavy on the floor, 
and the brandy spilt over their 
clothes. Then baby was born, and 
I felt as if I could kill it first ; for why 
bring it up to be like its father? 
Three days after it came, my hus- 
band struck me terrible, and 1 
nearly died. He gave brandy to 
the child, and I in a faint. Babv 
was like to die, and I were glad of 
it. And so it went on — baby better, 
but me worse, and drink, drink, till 
he sometimes went tearing mad, 
swore he saw devils, and called 
for more drink and more. A few 
months ago, Drake came — a man 
my husband knew — and he and the 
other laughed and said ^ some one ' 
shouldn't trouble them long. They 
had money, in gold, last time I saw 
Drake. That was four days back. 
Then my husband, he came home 
drunk still, and every night it was 
the same, till last night, when he 
did not come home at all, but left 
me not one half-penny, for he had 
drunk the last in that brandy he 
spilt on the table." 

The woman paused and shud- 
dered. 

" My God, my God !" she moan- 
ed, "that I should come to this, 
with my father's home, so peace- 
ful-like, and me not daring to go 
back. Well, the last I heard of 
that man were when, at twelve 
o'clock last night, a neighbor rush- 
ed in and says to me, says she, ' Mrs. 
Eldridge, your old man's been and 
done it !' And as I looked at her, 
stupid-like, she says, ' He's killed 
that preaching gentleman as used 
to try and get all our men to leave off 
spirits.* And I fell back on the bed,, 
and knowed nothing for hours." 

Grace had listened throughout 
the pitiful story with calm, patient 
interest ; she now said soothingly : 

"Come, Mrs. Eldridge, it is a 
fearful blow, but God tempers the: 



gi8 



Grace Seymour's Mission. 



wind to the shorn lamb, does he 
not ? Tell me, you have not tasted 
anything since yesterday ; is it not 
so ? You must be faint, and, if we 
would bear up against sorrow, we 
must not lose our health. I. have 
brought you money, but I think it 
is better I should send for some 
things for you, as you will hardly 
care to go out and be seen just 
now." 

" Indeed and indeed it's true," 
sobbed the poor creature ; " but you 
are a world too good, miss." 

"I will read to you while you 
are waiting; it will soothe you," 
said Grace, as she went to the door, 
and called a girl from one of the 
multitudinous cavities of this war- 
ren-like house. She gave her money 
and instructions, and turned back 
into the room. The child in the 
cradle awoke. Grace took it up. 
The mother shuddered, saying: 
" Better it should die, lady, than 
live to be like its father." 

The girl looked curiously down 
at the infant's poor, pinched face, 
and then answered : 

" Let God settle that ; it is not 
for you or I to question his doings 
towards children. I remember my 
little brother when he was like 
this." 

" Ah ! miss, no doubt he had a 
different father." 

Grace turned pale, and did not 
answer. The woman was silent, 
but seemed merged in her own 
grief again. Then, with the child 
on her lap, the young girl began to 
read out of a Catholic Bible she had 
in her pocket. She thought Mrs. 
Eldridge would never know the dif- 
ference, and she preferred her fa- 
ther's gift to herself to all the 
Bibles she had had during his pas- 
torship. The poor woman seemed 
entranced. When Grace paused, 
she said : 



" Them visiting ladies never docs 
that, but they brings tracts and 
groceries. But how peaceful-like 
that do sound jest like our par- 
son's daughter as used to read to 
mother at home." 

" How old are you, Mrs. El- 
dridge V* asked Grace. 

" Going twenty-four, miss. But, 
ah ! I was a different woman when 
I got married. If you had a-scen 
me then, lady, you would not be- 
lieve it was me." 

And, in truth, the poor, wastel 
face looked old, and hungry, anc 
thin, as if the spirit had aged 51 
that it grew jealous of the one: 
comely mask without, and withere- 
it remorselessly with watching, an 
weepings, and sharp care. Th( 
little messenger came back to the 
door, bearing with her creaturf 
comforts, whose taste had lor* 
been unknown to the drunkard^ 
wife. Then Grace rose to lea^ 
her, saying, " You shall not want,n:' 
poor friend ; and whenever y 
wish to see your husband, 1 will V) 
and manage it for you. If there 
is any possibility of saving him, :' 
shall be done. While there is litf. 
there is hope — of the soul as well 
as of the body. He might rcpei* 
and be a help and an example tJ 
you. And then, no doubt, H 
wicked companions tempted hii 
much, and the sin was perhaps Ql 
all his own. So look to God, aw 
try and bear up, and I will coi 
again." 

She left the house with a p 
joy at her heart, praying to ( 
that he would keep her for ever 
the path on which she had enrcrt 
and feeling that, in her weak m« 
sure, she had been permitted to \>ii 
herself a little nearer to the id* 
of her dead father's life. She W 
laid upon his tomb a garbnd w 
thy of him, she had said word 



Grace Seymour s Mission. 



819 



spirit would have approved, and 
done a deed such as he himself 
would have bidden her do. 

Back again to the dark, silent 
chamber of the dead she went, and 
found her watchful lover there; but 
she did not tell him that she had 
sought out the murderer's wife. 
That day came various torturing 
details, but she allowed Oakhurst 
to spare her much of their sorrow, 
and throughout the legal proceed- 
ings she never had to appear. 
The murder caused some stir, as 
the victim was an American citizen 
and the father of the young heir 
of the Howards. George Charteris 
visited his cousin, and offered her 
his services in every way, profes- 
sional or friendly, that she might 
choose. She was touched by his 
ready sympathy, but wisely refused 
\{\%professional assistance. 

"You see, George," she said, "it 
would seem ungenerous to have 
one so nearly related to him to 
plead against his murderer ; besides, 
I would rather save the unhappy 
man from his due punishment, if it 
can be done." 

"What, Cousin Grace!" he 
echoed, unable to understand her. 

" It seems strange to you, I know ; 
but I have not lived with my father 
all my life without knowing well 
how full of Christian charity he al- 
ways was when any personal in- 
jury was done to him, and I am 
following his will, no less than the 
Christian precepts, when I say I 
would spare his unhappy murderer 
as much as lays in my power." 

" My dear child, this is perfect 
quixotism. A fellow who should 
have been hung long ago !" 

"I know you think differently; 
it is natural you should. You 
judge things by another standard, 
and from another point of view. 
Looked at in the light of the Gos- 



pel, things are very different, dear 
cousin. Do not let us speak about 
it. If it is romance to you ; it is 
life and truth to me." 

" For George's sake ! Think what 
it will be when he learns it by-and- 
by!" 

"You will not tell him now.?' 
she asked in sudden alarm, clasping 
her hands. " Oh ! do not, do not ! 
My mother gave me that boy to 
watch over and guard from sin 
with my very life, but God has 
willed that his angel should be 
alone to watch him; yet I must ask 
you, if you have any influence, do 
not breed thoughts of wicked re- 
venge in his mind — oh! do not, for, 
if you do, not only he will suffer, but 
it will fall back upon you all as a 
curse. God has made this to hap- 
pen in his childhood, as if on pur- 
pose to hide it from him ; do not, 
for pity's sake, run counter to the 
evident decrees of Providence." 

Reluctantly George Charteris 
promised his cousin he would exert 
his influence to keep the father's 
murder a secret from the child. 
And so passed the terrible weeks 
of waiting, Grace ministering al- 
most daily help to the wretched 
murderer's wife, and Edmund seek- 
ing to soothe her whom he loved 
so tenderly and so reverently. A 
priest was found to give a quiet 
blessing to the unconscious form 
they both had loved so well, and 
then the dark earth hid the body 
away, and sowed one more seed for 
the mystic coming harvest, which 
shall clothe the valley of judgment 
with such marvellous blossoming 
beauty. 

When the final conviction of the 
prisoner and his sentence of capi- 
tal punishment were made known, 
Grace was the first to break the 
news to the wretched wife, and the 
only one to soothe these dire tid- 



820 



Grace Seytnour's Mission. 



ings with suggestions of hope and 
mercy. The poor woman still re- 
fused to visit her husband, and it 
was more the shame of his crime, 
and the ignominy of his approach- 
ing death, than any spark of feeling 
left within her bosom for the man 
who had wooed and won her, that 
tortured her heart and bowed her 
head. Grace tried repeatedly to 
soften her, to melt the terrible cal- 
lousness which was alive only to 
the earthly aspect of her grief ; but 
for many weeks she tried in vain. 
The wild, horror-struck eyes of the 
unfortunate creature would fasten 
themselves upon her as she spoke — 
burning orbs, with unspeakable de- 
fiance in them, as if, from this day 
forth, the felon's wife felt herself 
to be a hunted creature, with the 
brand of her husband's sin unde- 
servedly scathing her future life 
and that of her unconscious child. 

When Grace hinted of a possible 
pardon, the poor thing stared with 
a frightened expression that only 
seemed to say : " And I must be 
his slave again," as if the thought 
of her own bondage were the only 
thing on earth that could move her. 
But at last, being appealed to in 
the name of her own self-respect, 
she seemed to have a dawning sense 
that her present course was hardly 
the one to elevate her once again 
into the sphere of tranquil content 
whence her husband's degradation 
had, three short years ago, s6 fatally 
withdrawn her. The dikes of her 
soul burst suddenly, and the flood 
of sweet memories of past days, 
and of the happy hours spent in the 
old farm-house, of the flood of wo- 
manliness and pity, of the sensibili- 
ty of the mother, of the forbearance 
of the Christian, broke over her in 
saving waves, each teaching the 
same lesson in their infinite variety 
of tenderest human voices. She 



rose, took her child in her anas, 
and followed her young protectress 
nearly as far as the prison. Grace 
would go no further, but agreed to 
wait till the interview with the con- 
demned man was over. The wo- 
man came out weeping and soften- 
ed. Her husband was at least not 
obdurate, and expressed sincere re- 
gret for what he had been led to 
do. He bade his wife implore of 
the unknown lady who had so gen- 
erously befriended them to accept 
the blessing he was not worthy to 
give, but which nevertheless was 
the last and only tribute a dyin; 
man could offer. Grace shuddere^i 
as this message was conveyed to 
her through tears and sobs, but her 
companion was too greatly busied 
with her own griefs to notice it. 

One evening, as Edmund Oak- 
hurst sat, with his promised wife, in 
the room the presence of the dead 
had hallowed to their simple, trust- 
ing hearts, he was astonished at 
her unusual agitation, and at the re- 
mark she quietly made as the ex- 
pression of it. 

" Edmund, I am going to get i 
reprieve for Eldridge, and that may 
lead to a commutation of sentence. 
He is very penitent, I hear, and, for 
his wife's sake, I should wish it." 

" But, Grace," replied her lover, 
with characteristic common sense. 
" if he is penitent and well-prepared. 
it would be safer even for his own 
soul's sake that he should sufier 
the full penalty of the law." 

"We are no judges of that, Ed- 
mund," she answered, her bright 
eyes turning, with suppressed en- 
thusiasm, towards the open window, 
all bathed in wintry sunlight. " God. 
I think, must mean otherwise for 
him, or else he would never have 
put this idea in my mind. I have 
thought of it ever since he lay 
there " (pointing to the centre of 



Grace Seymour s Mission. 



821 



the room, where the dear dead had 
rested), "and his spirit seemed to 
whisper it constantly to my heart, 
as if it were some message of God's 
mercy, of which he vouchsafed to 
make us the bearers to the rulers of 
earth." 

" Grace, I thought your training 
would have led you a different way. 
I thought you would be the first to 
see God's hand in the established 
law. Darling, this is sentimentalism. 
You can forgive the wretched man, 
and pray for him, and help the 
forsaken ones he leaves behind, 
without hindering the law in its 
operations. You will have fulfilled 
the Christian duty of forgiveness, 
without interfering with another 
sphere of equally binding duty on 
the community." 

" I think you might be right in 
an ordinary case, Edmund, but 
God seems to put this beyond com- 
mon rules, to me." 

" Is that not pride, Grace ?" 

" I trust not," she replied, gently 
but firmly ; " it is a call, a command 
from God, just as my father's con- 
version, and my still more un- 
expected one, were calls from on 
high — direct calls that took our 
hearts by storm." 

" Grace, dear, I cannot help 
thinking it presumptuous in you 
to dream of these things; you 
make them miracles almost!" 

" Surely notj Edmund. Suppos- 
ing a king were to send for his 
servant, and give him some impor- 
tant order to transmit, which, in 
the ordinary course of things, 
should have been conveyed through 
his prime minister; do you think 
the servant would be justified in 
feeling proud, or the person who 
received the order in feeling hurt, 
at the unusual way in which the 
king had been pleased to act?" 

"Grace!" exclaimed Edmund, 



"you talk just as your father used ! 
He always made me feel that he 
was right. I will not attempt to 
influence you any longer ; I will 
leave the matter in the hands of 
God, and pray that you may be 
guided by him. If I were you, I 
would speak with a priest, though !" 

" I have, dearest," answered 
Grace, looking less rapt, and per- 
haps mingling with her high 
thoughts a little unconscious hu- 
man spice of innocent triumph. 

"Oh I" said her lover, and, smil- 
ing, he relapsed into silence. After 
incredible efforts and unflagging 
energy had been spent upon the 
task, Grace succeeded in getting her 
father's murderer first reprieved, 
then resentenced to transportation 
for life. The shock of this news, 
the utter stupor of gratitude into 
which he was thrown, even though 
the name of his benefactress still 
remained a mystery to him, wrought 
a miracle in his nature, and sobered 
him for life. Faith came to the 
help of solemn thankfulness, and the 
husband and wife secretly became 
Catholics before leaving England. 
Grace, for some inexplicable reason, 
positively refused to see Eldridge, 
even at his wife's most earnest re- 
quest. The fact was that she had 
once been face to face with him, in 
days when neither dreamed of the 
strange relations they were fated to 
bear to each other, and she feared, 
in her humility, lest he recognize 
her now. But Edmund, fully aware 
as he was of how matters stood, 
resolved that, without wounding 
his betrothed's sweet lowliness, he 
would yet reveal to the recipients 
of her charity the inestimable sac- 
rifice she had made of her natural 
feelings for the sake of the " new 
commandment " of love and for- 
giveness taught by Christ's Gospel. 
So while the ^ ^'^'^'^ in a group 



822 



Grace Seymour s Mission, 



just before the departure of the con- 
vict-ship — Grace far apart with the 
mother, and her back turned to the 
convict — he slipped into the hand 
of the murderer a folded paper, say- 
ing something under his breath of its 
being of some little pecuniary use 
to them in their new home, and 
adding with a half-smile : 

" She knows nothing of it, but her 
name is written inside. Do not 
open it till you are on board." 

Grace, meanwhile, was comforting 
the mother, whose little boy was in 
her arms for the last time, as Grace 
had wished to have it brought up 
under her own care. 

"I have a little brother, you 
know," she said, " and, while I can- 
not fulfil my mother's trust with 
regard to him, I will lavish all my 
care on your child, and, please God, 
in a few years, when your husband 
earns his freedom, you shall see the 
boy again in my country, where 
nothing but good will ever be known 
ofany of you." 

So the ship sailed, and the convict's 
hand clasped the paper nervously. 
The mother was holding out her 
arms to her little boy, who struggled 
and cried in Grace's embrace. The 
man, standing on the deck, touched 
his wife's shoulder, and passed the 
paper to her. Had any one been 
close enough, he might have seen 
the swarthy cheek pale to a sickly 
hue, then flush as suddenly again. 
Those on shore only saw his face 
swiftly hidden in his hands, and his 
whole frame rock violently. Simulta- 
neously the woman dropped on the 
deck, and Grace thought she must 
have fainted with the grief of leaving 
her child behind. Indeed, she was 
too much occupied with the little one 
to notice the ship minutely. The 
poor babe wailed and then strug- 
gled by turns, and it was no easy 
-"^^^ to keep it quiet till the small 



party could find a coach to take 
them home. Edmund took care to 
look unconcerned and innocent^ 
and, thanks to his betrothed's sweet 
unsuspiciousness of disposition, as 
also to the circumstances we have 
mentioned, his secret was kept until 
a passionately grateful letter from 
the poor convict reached her in her 
own home across the ocean. Ed- 
mund was her husband by that time, 
and she could not find it in her heart 
not to forgive him ! 

But we are slightly anticipating. 

A few days after the departure 
of the convict-ship, George Char- 
teris called on his cousin, to report 
to her about certain arrangements 
which he had volunteered to take 
on his own hands. He had now 
completed them, and had found a 
responsible and aged companion for 
Grace on her homeward voyage. 
The old lady was going out to some 
relations settled in Virginia, and 
was delighted to find a young girl 
of refinement and of good family to 
bear her company on her somewhat 
tedious journey. 

Edmund had begged Grace Sey- 
mour to consent to be married be- 
fore they left England; but the girl 
had some unaccountable longing 
for her own land, which, though he 
smiled at as childish, he neverthe- 
less was too chivalrous to combat. 
He was to follow speedily, with 
George Charteris as groomsman, 
and an older friend, a priest bound 
for some of the Indian missions. 

So the ocean was crossed once 
more, and in her own home, the beau- 
tiful marriage-gift she brought her 
husband, Grace Seymour was mar- 
ried. Mr. Ash mead, whom, with 
characteristic courtesy, she would 
notexclude from her quiet, unattend- 
ed wedding, told her solemnly, as he* 
walked by her side to her mother's 
grave under the thick-shaded elms, 



Grace Seymour's Mission. 



823 



that he had had a secret once, which 
he wished to tell her now. 

In grave wonderment she turned 
her eyes upon him. " My child," 
he said sadly, but with no shame 
flushing his clear cheek, " I once 
dreamt to have you for my own, 
and I waited from the moment I 
saw you first, standing here, bend- 
ing down to look into the unfilled 
grave, till I saw your mind unfold- 
ing and blossoming, as in a clois- 
tered garden, all alone ; but when I 
knew that your faith was disturbed, 
my heart bled for you and for my- 
self, for I saw that I had no spell 
wherewith to give you back what 
you had lost. And since the day 
your father left us, the dream 
faded as a thing that God had or- 
dained not to be. So now, though 
our faiths are widely different, and 
though the memory of those times 
is very dear to me still, I can take 
your hand in all a father's freedom, 
and give you and your husband a 
father's blessing. Let us be friends 
for ever, Grace, will you ?" 

She had listened to him with a 
bright blush and attentive expres- 
sion; she now took his hand, and 
said earnestly : " Yes, Mr. Ash- 
mead ; God bless you !" 

The years sped on. Edmund 
Oakhurst soon owned estates that 
would have thrice bought the old 
homestead of his wife's early days ; 
his fields were the fullest, his expe- 
riments the most successful, his 
men the best cared for, his profits 
the largest, his prosperity the most 
steady, in the whole country around. 
People left off calling him the 
** Britisher," and spoke respectfully 
of him as the " Squire " ; even his 
religion was favorably regarded in 
consideration of his position and 
his well-known generosity. Chil- 
dren like himself rose up around 
him, and the convict's child seemed 



only like the elder brother of the 
rest. Things gradually changed, 
and Catholic schools and colleges 
made their appearance in the land. 
Oakhurst thought it more prudent 
to send his sons and his so-called 
nephew to American centres of 
Catholic education, rather than to 
the more advanced universities of 
France ; but he reserved for home- 
teaching the nameless refinement 
he wished to stamp on his children. 
His wife was the worthy successor 
of her mother, whose sweet pre- 
sence had once been so dear to the 
villagers of Walcot ; only her silent 
influence was now directed to that 
end which, after death, had become 
that of her mother too. 

When, fifteen years later, the man 
who had left England a convict 
landed in America an emigrant, he 
found his oldest boy studying for 
the priesthood, and fast and enthu- 
siastically outstripping his compan- 
ion and rival in theological learn- 
ing, Oakhurst 's own second son. 
Again another change and another 
joy had been added to Grace's life, 
when her brother, on attaining his 
majority, came over with his uncle, 
George Charteris, now a tolerably 
well-behaved married man, and 
paid her a long visit within the 
walls of the old home, untouched 
and unchanged from what he re- 
collected, save by accumulation of 
mosses, and a denser growth of 
creepers round the gables and the 
porch. 

They have all gone to their rest 
now, these friends with whom we 
have been treading the past — all, 
save the sons of Grace and Ed- 
mund, and their only daughter, 
who afterwards married George 
Howard's son and heir. The 
old name that had been alter- 
nately the watchword of Catholi- 
cism and Low-Churchism in Glou 



824 



The PriueipUs of Real Being. 



cestersh.re veered round again in 
their persons to its first allegiance, 
and contributed unwavering stead- 
fastness to the sum of heroic cour- 
age shown forth by that army 
whose chiefs in England are called 
Newman, and Manning, and that 
modern S. Bemardine of Sienna, 
Frederick Faber. 
Walcot, too, though of Puritan 



breeding, knows the sound of Ca- 
tholic bells now, and the priest's 
house is the unchanged old Sey- 
mour cottage, while the pastor 
himself is the English convict's 
child. 

Edmund Seymour's sacrifi^ce had 
sown the first grain of which Grace 
Oakhurst's children reaped a hun- 
dre()fold 



THE PRINCIPLES OF REAL BEING. 



III. 



INTRINSIC PRINCIPLES OF PRIMITIVE BEINGS. 



We have shown in a preceding 
article * that every primitive being 
proceeds from three extrinsic prin- 
ciples — the Jlna/f the efficient <^ and, if 
we may so call it, the educiional or 
pro-material principle; that is, t;he 
term out of which the being is 
educed, which term, as we there re- 
marked, holds the place of the ma- 
terial principle still wanting. 

We are now ready to prove that 
every primitive being has also three 
intrinsic principles^ not more, and 
not fewer — z. truth the knowledge 
of which is of the utmost impor- 
tance in philosophy, as it enables 
the student to point out without 
hesitation everything that may en- 
ter into the constitution of primitive 
beings, with the gratifying certainty 
that, when he has once reached the 
said three principles, his analysis 
is perfect, and can go no further. 
But as our proposition is altogether 
universal, its demonstration will 
need the employment of arguments 

THOLic World, Feb., 1874, ptge 578. 



drawn from the most abstract of all 
philosophical notions; and ocr 
readers must bear with us if we fill 
a portion of the following pages 
with dry, though not abstruse, rea- 
sonings. The determination of the 
first constituents of things needs 
precision, not ornament, as it is 
nothing more than the drawing of 
the outlines by which the whole 
building of metaphysics is to be en- 
compassed. 

Our first proof is based on the 
following consideration. Of every 
existing being two things are cog- 
nizable: the first, that it is, the 
second, 7ahat it />. In other termsv 
all complete being is knowable both 
as to its existence and as to its na- 
ture or essence. But while the ex- 
istence of any given being is simply 
affirmed as a fact, the essence \% 
understood as an object. Now, 
nothing can be understood which 
does not present itself to the intel- 
lect under the form of an intelligi- 
ble ratio ; for to understand is to 
see a relation of things, as intelligcre 



The Principles of Real Being. 



825 



is nothing but inUr-legere* ** to read 
between " — a phrase which clearly 
implies two definite terms, between 
which a definite relation is appre- 
hended. Accordingly, nothing is 
intelligible, except inasmuch as it 
implies two correlatives ; and, there- 
fore, since every essence is intelli- 
gible, every essence implies two 
principles conspiring through mu- 
tual relativity into an intelligible 
ratio. These two principles of a 
primitive essence are themselves 
intelligible only as correlated ; for 
the constituents of a primitive es- 
sence are not other essences, as is 
evident; and therefore cannot have 
a separate and independent intelli-^ 
gibility. They are therefore abso- 
lutely simple and unanalyzable, and 
of such a relative character that 
they cannot exist, or even be con- 
ceived, separated from one another. 
The same is true of existence also, 
which has no separate intelligibility, 
as it is utterly simple and unanalyz- 
able, and cannot be conceived or 
affirmed, except with reference to 
the essence to which it may belong. 
It follows, then, that every primitive 
being can be resolved into three 
simple principles, of which two 
constitute its real essence, whilst 
the third — viz., existence — com- 
pletes 'the same essence into real 
being. Such is our first proof. 

A little reflection will now suffice 
to determine the general nature of 
the two essential principles just 
mentioned, and to obtain at the 
same time a second proof of our 
proposition. Existence is the ac- 
tuality of essence. Now, actuality 
can spring only from actuation; 
and actuation necessarily implies an 
act^ which actuates, and a term^ 
which is actuated. Therefore the 
two constituents of any primitive 

• S. Thomas Sftys iniMt-leerre^ "to read wllh- 
io«'* mrhich amounta to the same. 



essence must be a real act whose 
intrinsic character is to actuate its 
term, and a real term whose intrin- 
sic character is to be actuated by 
its act ; whilst the actuality of the 
essence follows as a simple result 
from the mutual conspiration of 
these essential principles. Accord- 
ingly, every primitive being involves 
in its constitution three principles — 
viz., an act^ its iemiy and the actual^ 
ity of the one in the other. This 
last is called the complement of the 
essence. 

Readers accustomed to intellec- 
tual speculations will need no ad- 
ditional evidence to be satisfied of 
the cogency of the two preceding 
proofs. But those who are less 
familiar with philosophy may yet 
want some tangible illustration of 
our reasonings before they fully 
realize the nature of the three prin- 
ciples and of their relations. We 
hope the following will do. Physi- 
cists show that if a material point 
moves for a time, /, with a uniform 
velocity, z/, through a space, x, the 
relation of the three quantities will 
be expressed by the equation — 

V 

It is plain that the three quanti- 
ties, Sy Vy /, are the three intrinsic 
principles of movement. In fact, 
the velocity, v, is the acty or the 
form, of movement ; whence the 
epithet of uniform applied to all 
movement of constant velocity ; the 
amount, Sy of space measured is the 
term actuated by the said velocity ; 
the time, /, is the duration of the 
movement, that is, its actuality; 
for as movement is essentially suc- 
cessive, its actuality also is succes- 
sive, and constitutes a length of 
time. Here, then, we have most 
distinctly the three principles of 
movement. Let us remark that the 
first member of the equation is the 



826 



The Principles of Real Being. 



ratio of the term to its act, and 
therefore represents the essence of 
movement ; whilst the second mem- 
ber exhibits the duration of its ex- 
istence. The sign of **quality be- 
tween the two members does not 
mean that the essence of movement 
is the same thing as the existence 
of movement, but only that both 
have the same quantitative value. 
For it should be remarked that, al- 
though a ratio is usually defined as 
** the quotient of a quantity divided 
by another of the same kind," 
nevertheless the quotient is not ex- 
actly the ratio, but its result or 
value ; and is not the equivalent of 
the ratio in quality, but in quan- 
tity only. In pure mathematics, 
which are exclusively concerned 
with quantities, the distinction be- 
tween the ratio and its value may 
not be important ; but when a ratio 
is viewed in its metaphysical aspect, 
the distinction is of great conse- 
quence. For a metaphysical ratio 
is not looked upon as the ratio- of 
two quantities, of which the one 
is the measure of the other, but as 
the ratio of two realities, of which 
the one actuates the other, and 
which, though belonging to the 
same kind of being, are, however, of 
a relatively opposite character, as 
is evident from the very example 
we are considering. The space, j, 
and the velocity, Vy are, in fact, con- 
ceived as quantities of the same 
kind, only because velocity is mathe- 
matically expressed in terms of the 
space measured through it in a unit 
of time; yet velocity is certainly 
not space, but is that by which 
matter is compelled to move 
through space ; so that while the 
extent of the space measured in a 
unit of time corresponds to the ve- 
locity with which it is measured, 
velocity itself has no extension, but 
intensity only. Hence the ratio of 



space to velocity, metaphysically 
considered, is a ratio of extension 
to intensity, or of potency to act, 
as we shall presently explain. 

The third proof of our proposi- 
tion is very simple. The intrinsic 
principles of being must correspond 
to its extrinsic principles, each to 
each respectively. For were any 
of the extrinsic principles not re- 
presented in the principiated being 
by something real proceeding from 
it, and corresponding to it, such ar 
extrinsic principle evidently would 
principiate nothing, and would be 
no principle at all. Now, we have 
seen that the extrinsic principles of 
primitive being are three. It is 
evident, therefore, that its intrinsic 
principles likewise must be three. 
The extrinsic principles, as before 
stated, are God's volition of bring- 
ing something into existence, the 
term of its eduction, and the crea- 
tive power exerted in its produc- 
tion. Hence it follows that every 
thing created must contain within 
itself an act as the product of the 
Creator's action, a term as an ex- 
pression of the term of its eduction, 
and an actuality as the accomplish- 
ment and fulfilment of the volition 
of bringing it into existence. 

We may here remark that the 
act of the created being is produced 
by God as its efficient causCy pro- 
ceeds from God's omnipotence as 
its efficient principle^ and is produc- 
ed through action as the proximate 
reason of its causation and princi- 
piation. 

The term of the created being. 
on the contrary, comes out of mere 
nothingness, acquires its reality 
through the mere position of an act. 
is not made, but actuated, and 
therefore has no efficient cause, 
but only a formal principle, the 
reality of which is the sole reasoo 
why the term is called real, and the 



The Principles of Real Being. 



827 



disappearance of which would leave 
nothing behind. As a spherical 
form, by the necessity of its own 
nature, gives existence to a geome- 
tric centre, without need of an effi- 
cient cause, so does the essential act 
to its essential term. Let the sphe- 
rical form be annihilated, and the 
centre will be gone ; let the essen- 
tial act vanish, and the essential 
term will have vanished together 
with it. 

Finally, the actuality of the creat- 
ed being proceeds from the act and 
the term as making up its formal 
source, or the principium formale 
quod ; while the formal reason, or 
the principium formale quOy of its 
proceeding is the actuation of the 
latter by the former, and the com- 
pletion of the former in the latter ; 
for to actuate a term is to give it 
actuality, and to be actuated is to 
become actual ; and therefore the 
result of such an actuation is the 
actuality of the act in its term, and 
of the term in its act, or the com- 
plete actuality of the created es- 
sence and of the created being. 

Thus the whole being, by its act, 
its term, and its complement, points 
out adequately and with the utmost 
distinction the three extrinsic prin- 
ciples whence it proceeds.* 

The fourth proof is as follows : 
Every created being possesses an 
intrinsic natural activity and an 
intrinsic natural passivity. It pos- 
sesses activity ; for every creature 
must have an intrinsic natural apti- 
tude to reveal, in one way or an- 
other, the perfections of its Creator, 

^This third proof and the following apply to 
created beings only ; but creatures, as we hope 
to eiplain later, inasmuch as they are btings^ 
■re so manv imccrfect lilcenesses uf their Creator, 
■ad unmistakkbty show thiit he himself is an in- 
6nite Act acluaiii'g (out of himself, not out of 
nothing) an infiaite Term, and possessing an in- 
6nite Actuality. And accordingly, what we 
have said of trte inlrtnftic constitution of a creat* 
ed being must be true, in an eminent manner, 
of the Creator also. 



as such is the end of all creation ; 
but to reveal is to act ; and, there- 
fore, every creature possesses its 
intrinsic aptitude and determina- 
tion to act — that is, activity. It al- 
so possesses passivity ; for all con- 
tingent beings are changeable, and 
therefore capable of receiving new 
intrinsic determinations ; and such 
an intrinsic capability is what we 
call passivity^ or potentiality. The 
consequence is, that every creature 
possesses something by reason of 
which it is active, and something 
on account of which it is passive ; 
which amounts to saying that 
every creature possesses its intrin- 
sic principle of activity, or, as it is 
styled, its act^ and its intrinsic 
principle of passivity, or, as we call 
it, its potency ox its potential term. 
Hence the well-known fundamen- 
tal axioms of metaphysics : " Every 
agent acts by reason of its act," 
and " Every patient suffers on ac- 
count of its potency." * Now, since 
the same being that can act can 
also be acted on, it is evident that 
that by reason of which it can act, 
and that on account of which it can 
be acted on, are the principles of 
one and the same actual essence, 
and therefore conspire into one 
formal actuality, which completes 
the essence into being. Accord- 
ingly, in all creatures, or primitive 
complete beings, we must admit 
act zxid potency as the constituents, 
and actuality as the formal comple- 
ment, of their essence. 

These four proofs more than 
suffice to show that all primitive 
complete beings consist of acty 
ierm^ and complement as their intrin- 
sic principles. But, as I am satis- 
fied that on the right understanding 
of such principles the soundness 

• Omnt ngtHM agit in quantum est in actu : ti 
0mnt patuns patitur in quantum est inpottmtia, 
— S. Thomas, /<w«/m. 



828 



The Principles of Real Being. 



of all our metaphysical reasonings 
finally depends, I think it necessary, 
before we proceed further, to make 
a few considerations on their exact 
notion, character, and attributions. 
The term of a primitive being 
owes its reality to its act. Before 
its first actuation, it had no being 
at all ; it was only capable of ac- 
quiring it, and therefore was, ac- 
cording to the language of the 
schools, a reality in mere potency ; 
since everything that has no being, 
but can be actuated into being, has 
received the name of pure potency, '^ 
Now, pure potency, though it is no- 
thing real, is infinite and inexhaust- 
ible ; not that nothingness can have 
any such intrinsic attribute, but 
simply because no limit can be as- 
signed to the possible eduction of 
beings out of nothing through the 
exercise of God's infinite and inex- 
haustible power. And it must be 
added that such a potency is thus 
infinite not only with regard to the 
substances that can be created out 
of nothing, but also with regard to 
the accidents which can be produc- 
ed in those substances, and with 
regard to the modes resulting from 
the reception of such accidents. 
This being admitted, it is evident 
that, when the term of a created 
being acquires its first reality, a 
pure potency is actuated by an act ; 
but is not actuated to the full 
amount of its actuality, which is 
infinite and inexhaustible. Indeed, 
no act gives to its potency the 
plenitude of all being; but every 
act gives that being only which 
corresponds to its own specific na- 
ture. And therefore the term of a 
primitive being, though actuated in 
its first actuation as much as is 
needed to make it the real term of 
a determinate essence, remains al- 

* Pure potency '\s quod /^otftt esse et moh est^ ac- 
coTding to S. Thomas, O/usc. De Princ. liaturm. 



ways capable of further and further 
actuation ; in other words, such a 
term is still, and always will be, 
entirely potential in regard to all 
other acts compatible with the na- 
ture of the first by which it is actu- 
ated. 

Hence we come to the conclusion 
that every created being, for the very 
reason of its having been educed 
out of nothing, retains potency, as 
the stamp of its origin, in its essen- 
tial constitution. All creatures^ then, 
are essentially potential ^ and therefore 
imperfect ; as potency means perfect- 
ibility. God alone is free from po- 
tency^ as he is the only being that 
did not come out of nothing. 

A second conclusion is that the 
essential term of a created being 
may be considered under two as- 
pects — ^viz., as to the reality it bor- 
rows from its act, and as to the 
potentiality it inherits from its pre- 
vious nothingness. Hence such a 
term must be called a real potency ; 
the word recU expressing the fact of 
its actuation, and the word potency 
expressing its ulterior actuability. 
Reality and potentiality constitute 
passivity. 

It is not unusual to confound 
substance with the term actuated 
by a substantial act. Of course, the 
term cannot be thus actuated with- 
out the substance becoming actual; 
but, though this is true as a matter 
of fact, it does not follow that sub- 
stance can be confounded with its 
intrinsic term. Sphericity actuates 
a centre ; and yet the centre thus 
actuated is not a sphere, but only 
the intrinsic term of sphericity. 
In like manner the act actuates its 
potency ; but this potency is not 
the substance itself; it is only one 
of its constituents. 

The potential term, such as it js 



found in material substance, is 



call- 



ed the matter. Hence all that pUys 



Tlu Prituiples of Real Being, 



829 



the part of potency in any being 
whatever is called its material con- 
stituent, although such a being may 
not contain matter properly so call- 
ed. Thus we say, for instance, 
that the genus is the materflxl part 
of an essential definition, because 
the genus is potential respecting 
some specific difference, by which 
it may be further determined. In 
such cases the word material stands 
for " that which receives any deter- 
mination," whether it receives it 
in fact or in thought only. In 
English, the words material and im- 
material are sometimes used in the 
sense of important and unimpor- 
tant. This meaning may be per- 
fectly justifiable, but is not adopted 
in philosophy. 

With regard to the act by which 
the essential term of a being is first 
actuated, it is necessary fully to 
realize the fact that this act is nei- 
ther God's creative power nor 
God's creative action, but some- 
thing quite different. It is true 
that all actions are measured or 
valued by their effects, that is, by 
the acts in which they end ; thus 
we measure the amount of motive ac- 
tion by the quantity of movement * 

* We iiy movement^ not motion^ though we 
know that these two words are considered as sy- 
nonymous. Motion co-responds to the Latin mo^ 
tioy whilst movement corresponds to the Latin mo* 
tut. Motio means the motive action— that is, mo- 
tion properly — both as proceedin^f actively from * 
the agent, and as pMsively received in the pa- 
tient ; motus^ on the contrary, signifies the result 
of the motio%\stxi and received ; and this result 
is movement. As in philosophy we have to dis- 
tinn^ish between action and its result, we must 
keep up a distinction between the words also. 
Very probably movement and motion would 
never have been accepted as synonymous, bad 
the verb to mov* exclusively retained its origi- 
nal active signification ; but, as people imag- 
ined that movement was a kind of action, they 
thought it right to s«y not only that the horse 
moves the cart, but also that the cart movtSy in- 
stead of saying that it is moved. Even Newton 
has been so misled by the popular use of this 
verb as to write more than once corpus ntovet^ 
instead of corpus movetur. It was but natural 
that '^ movement," too, should be transformed 
into '* motion." Are we too late to restore to these 
two words their distinct meanings ? 



produced. Nevertheless, it is quite 
evident that the production of 
a thing, and the thing produced, 
cannot be confounded with one an- 
other. And, since action is no- 
thing but the production of an act, 
the action and the act produced 
cannot be confounded with one an- 
other, even though they are repre- 
sented by one and the same word. 
Thus the action of a painter is not 
the painting (substantive), although 
such an action is also called " paint- 
ing " (participle). Again, the mo- 
mentum of a falling drop of rain is 
not the action of the earth, although 
it is directly from it. And in the 
same manner the act produced by 
the Creator is not his creative ac- 
tion, though it is directly from it. 
Still less can we confound the act 
produced with the power by which 
it is produced; for though every 
effect is virtually contained in its 
efficient power, we know that it is 
not contained formally; otherwise 
the painting should pre-exist within 
the painter, and the momentum of 
the falling drop within the earth. 
As, then, the momentum of the 
falling drop has no formal exis- 
tence in the earth, but only in the 
drop itself while it is falling, so 
also the act which proceeds from 
God has no formal existence in 
God, but only in the term actuated. 
To say that a created act is God's 
creative action or creative power, 
is no less a blunder than to say 
that a circle described on a black- 
board is the power or the action of 
describing it. 

The act which actuates its essen- 
tial term, in the case of material 
substance, is called tlieform. Hence 
all that plays the part of an act in 
any being whatever is called its 
formal constituent. Thus we say 
that the specific difference is the 
formal part of the essential defini- 



830 



The Principles of Real Being. 



tion, because the difference is con- 
ceived as actuating the genus into 
species. In such cases the word 
formal stands for " that which gives 
any determination," whether it gives 
it in fact or in thought only. 

Finally, the actuality of the cre- 
ated being corresponds, as we have 
already explained in the preceding 
article, to the finality of creation, in- 
asmuch as it perfects the essence 
into being. This actuality has re- 
ceived different names, according 
to the different light in which it can 
be viewed and the different con- 
notations of which it affords the 
ground. It is called the complement 
of the essence, its formal existence^ 
its formal unity y its indiinduality. 
It is called " complement " of the 
essence, inasmuch as it satisfies all 
its requirements, and completes it 
into actual being ; its " formal ex- 
istence," inasmuch as it is the for- 
mal result of active and passive ac- 
tuation ; its " formal unity," inas- 
much as it arises from two princi- 
ples conspiring into unity of es- 
sence, and therefore of existence 
also; its " individuality," inasmuch 
as it is the unity of 2i concrete being; 
for individuality is nothing but 
" that on account of which a thing is 
formally one in its concrete being." 

Some philosophers of the Sco- 
tistic school hold that " individual- 
ity " and " formal unity " are differ- • 
ent things. They say that formal 
unity is not individual, but univer- 
sal ; because it does not include in 
its conception the individuative 
notes. They accordingly teach that 
the universal is to be found to exist 
formally in the individual ; whence 
they have been surnamed Formalists^ 
or Ultra-realists* But it is not 
true that the formal unity does not 
include in itself the individuative 

•See Kleutgen, Tht Old Philosophy, diss, a, 
c. 4. 



notes. In fact, all existing essence 
contains in its own principles the 
adequate reason of its individuation, 
and therefore it cannot, by the real 
conspiration of its principles, be 
formalFy one without being indhid- 
ual also. Accordingly, formal uni- 
ty, though universal in our concep- 
tion, is individual in the thing itself. 
It is evident that the actuality re- 
sulting from the act giving^ and the 
term receivings existence, exhibits 
itself as existence given and recd?td 
— that is, as complete real existence. 
On the other hand, all real resuh 
has a real opposition to the formal 
principles of its resultation ; for all 
that really -proceeds has a real rela- 
tive opposition to that from which 
it proceeds. A real relative oppo- 
sition is therefore to be admitted 
between the real essence and its 
formal existence ; and consequently 
essence and existence must be con- 
sidered as really distinct. Not that 
the essence of a real being does not 
imply its existence ; but because in 
the essential act and the essential 
term existence is contained only 
radically or virtually, not formally, 
in the same manner as the conclu- 
sion is virtually contained in the 
premises from which it follows, or 
as equality is contained in the quan- 
tities from whose adequation it re- 
sults. Hence, as in the logical or- 
der the formal conclusion is distinct 
from the premises in which it is vir- 
tually implied, so also in the real 
order is the formal existence of any 
being to be distinguished from the 
real principles of the essence iri 
which it is virtually implied. As, 
however, the act and the terra, not- 
withstanding their real relative op 
position and distinction, identify 
themselves really, though inade- 
quately, with the essence of the 
actual being, so also the actuality 
of the being, though having a real 



The Principles of Real Being. 



83 1 



relative opposition to the act and 
the term from which it results, iden- 
tifies itself really, yet inadequately, 
with the complete being of which it 
is the actuality.* Whence we con- 
clude that every primitive being, 
though strictly one in its physical 
entity, consists of three metaphysi- 
cal constituents really distinct from 
one another on account of their 
real relative opposition. 

We must here notice that the last 
of these three constituents — actual- 
ity — is scarcely ever mentioned by 
the scholastic philosophers. They, 
in fact, consider all natural beings 
as constituted of act and potency 
only. It may have appeared to 
them that by simply stating the fact 
of the concurrence of act and po- 
tency into one actual essence, the 
fact of the unity and actuality of 
that essence would be sufficiently 
pointed out. They may have had 
another reason also for omitting the 
mention of our third principle ; for 
in speculative questions it is the 
essence of things, and not their ex- 
istence, that comes under consider- 
ation; and essence, as such, in- 
volves two principles only — viz., 
the cut and the term^ as we have 
stated above. It is obvious, then, 
that in their analysis of the " quid- 
dity " of beings, they had no need 
of mentioning our third principle. 
A third reason may have been that 
the act and the potency, or the 
form and the matter, in the opinion 
of those philosophers, were two 
things separable, as the Aristotelic 
theory of substantial generations 
implied; whereas the actuality of 
the being was not considered as a 
third thing separable from either 
the form or the matter, and there- 
fore was not thought worthy of a 
separate mention. 

* We cannot here explain the different kinds 
of identity ; but we hope we shall take up this 
matter in one of our future articles. 



But, the reality of this third 
principle being universally admit- 
ted, there can be no doubt about 
the convenience, and even the ne- 
cessity, of giving it a distinct and 
prominent place in the constitution 
of any complete being. This has 
been already shown in the preced- 
ing pages ; but, for the benefit of 
those who have never paid special 
attention to the subject, we will 
give a summary of the principal 
reasons why in metaphysical treat- 
ises the actuality of being should be 
methodically granted as distinct a 
place among the intrinsic princi- 
ples of things as is allotted to the 
essential act and its term. 

First, then, all being that has 
existence in nature is something 
complete, not only materially — that 
is, by having its term — but also 
formally^ by having its own com- 
plete constitution or actuality. 
The difference between material 
and formal completion will be 
easily understood by an example. 
The sculptor carves the marble 
and makes a statue. The marble 
is the material term, and the figure 
resulting in the marble is the 
formal term, of his work. Hence 
the work of carving is materially 
complete in the marble and formal- 
ly complete in the figure,* which is 
the actuality of the statue as such. 
And it is evident that, in speaking 
of a statue, such a figure is as 
worth mentioning as the marble 
and the carving. And therefore, 
as in the analysis of being we give 
a prominent place to the term 
which completes the act, we should 
do the same with regard to the actu- 
ality, which completes the essence. 
A writer in the Dublin Review^ who 



•The same distinction may btf very property 
expressed Py sayiiiR that the carving i% ntaiiri- 
ally terminated to the marble, and farmaUy to 
the sUtue. 



832 



The Principles of Reed Being. 



has cleverly treated this subject, 
makes the following remark : ^* The 
constituents actus and terminus^ or 
forma and materiay are recognized 
in the schools. The third con- 
stituent is not expressly mentioned 
there. But you hear of essentia 
and esse ; and esse is the complex 
mentum. I have a fancy that the 
much-canvassed distinction be- 
tween the ivtpyeia and the eVrc- 
Xix^ia of Aristotle is really this, 
that ivipyaia is the actus^ and 
ivreXix^ia the complementumy^ 
This remark is very judicious ; for 
it is as certain that the complete 
being consists of essence and exis- 
tence as it is certain that the es- 
sence consists of act and term; 
and, moreover, there is no less a dis- 
tinction between the essence and 
its existence than between the act 
and its term. Hence the same 
reasons that led metaphysicians to 
give a conspicuous place to the act 
and its term in the analysis of the 
essence, show that a similar place 
should also be given to essence and 
its actuality in the analysis of the 
being. 

In the second place, the formal 
complement of being is the only 
ground on which many different 
and opposite things can be predi- 
cated of one and the same being ; 
as, for instance, activity and pas- 
sivity, action and passion, to be, to 
be one, to be good, etc. It is, 
therefore, important not to leave in 
the shade that principle, without 
which no unity of being can be 
conceived. 

Thirdly, an explicit knowledge 
and mention of such a complement 
is indispensable, in a great number 
of cases, when we have to explain 
how accidental modes not received 
in a substance can intrinsically be- 
long to that substance — a thing 

♦ Dnblim Review, January, 1873, pp. 70, 71. 



which will never be radically ex- 
plained without an explicit refe- 
rence to the formal complement of 
the being in which those modes are 
to be found. 

Fourthly, in the intellectual as 
well as in the sensitive nature the ap- 
petitive faculty cannot be account- 
ed for, nor distinguished from the 
cognoscitive, unless we have re- 
course to this same formal comple- 
ment, which constitutes the affecti- 
bility of the same natures — ^a truth 
which we must here simply state, 
as its demonstration belongs to 
special metaphysics. 

Fifthly, it is unwise to expose 
the reader to the danger of con- 
founding things having a metaphy- 
sical opposition to one another; for 
instance, the uniting with the union 
accomplished, the constituting with 
the complete constitution, the ac- 
tuation with the actuality. But if 
the actuality is kept out of viev 
when we give the principles of be- 
ings, such confusion will be almost 
unavoidable. I believe that it i> 
owing to the omission of this thirii 
principle that even great philoso- 
phers have not unfrequently mis- 
taken attitudes for acts, and actu- 
alities for forms. 

Sixthly, after we have analyzed 
a primitive complete being, ami 
found it to consist of three intrinsic 
principles, it is nothing but reason- 
able to keep them all equally in 
sight, and to make them all sene 
in their turn for the simplification 
of metaphysical investigations; es- 
pecially as the distinct recollection 
of the act, of its term, and of the 
actuality of both will also draw the 
student's attention to the corre- 
sponding extrinsic principles— viz.. 
to the creative power from which 
that act proceeds, to the nothing- 
ness out of which that term wa> 
educed, and to the last end fo^ 



The Principles of Real Being, 



833 



which that actuality obtained a 
place in the real order of things. 

Lastly, by the consideration that 
these three intrinsic and relatively 
opposite principles constitute one 
primitive complete being, it be- 
comes possible to account philo- 
sophically for the known fact that 
every creature bears in itself, in 
vesiigio at least, as S. Thomas puts 
it, a more or less imperfect image 
of God's unity and trinity — a topic 
on which much might be said, were 
this the place for discussing the 
analogy between beings of different 
orders. 

A few corollaries. From the 
resolution of complete beings into 
their intrinsic principles, and from 
the different character of these 
principles and of their principia- 
tion, a number of useful corollaries 
can be drawn, among which the 
following deserve a special atten- 
tion: 

I. It is a great mistake, and one 
which leads straight to pantheism, 
to assert, as Gioberti did, that crea- 
tures are not beings^ but only exis- 
tences. For if creatures have their 
own actual essence, they are not 
mere existences, but complete be- 
ings ; and, if they have no essence, 
they cannot exist ; as all existence 
is the actuality of some essence. 
Hence to assert that creatures are 
not beings, but only existences, 
amounts to saying that creatures 
have no essence, and that their ex- 
istence is the existence of nothing — 
that is, nonexistence. Moreover, 
mere existence is a simple actual- 
ity, and does not exhibit an intelli- 
gible ratio; hence, if creatures 
were mere existences, they would 
be intrinsically unintelligible, not 
only to us, as Gioberti pretends, 
but to God himself, who certainly 
does not understand what is intrin- 
sically unintelligible. There is no 

VOL. XVIII. — S3 



need of insisting on such an unavoid- 
able conclusion. 

That the same assertion leads 
straight to pantheism is likewise 
evident. In fact, the absurdity of 
admitting existences which would 
be existences of nothing could not 
be escaped but by trying to pin 
them on the substance of God him- 
self, and by saying, with the pan- 
theist, that all such existences are 
nothing but divers actualities, or at- 
titudes, or forms assumed by the 
divine substance. Thus, to escape 
one absurdity, we would fall into 
another. 

2. Inasmuch as the actuality of 
a given essence makes a given 
thing formally complete, one, and 
perfect according to its entitative 
degree, it is to such an actuality 
that everything owes that it is for- 
mally good, and that it answers ta 
the finality of its creation. Such a^ 
goodness implies two things: the 
first, that every creature is good in 
its absolute being, for it is in such 
a being that God's design is fuU 
filled of communicating his good- 
ness outside of himself; the other.,, 
that every creature is good in its^ 
relative being also — that is, in its in- 
trinsic aptitude and determination, 
to manifest God's perfections, in a 
manner and degree proportionate 
to the kind and degree of its entity.. 
Accordingly, every created being 
is good not only as it is a thing ^^ 
but also as it is a principle of cution. 
In the first capacity it fulfils the 
immediate end of its creation, and 
in the second it fulfils by its action 
the ultimate end for the sake of 
which it has been made to exist. 

3. Hence we further infer, thai 
the essence of every created being 
is its nature also. For nature is a 
principle of motion^ according to 
Aristotle, whether motion is taken 
as the action proceeding from. that 



834 



The Principles of Real Being, 



nature itself, or as the reception of 
an action proceeding from an ex- 
trinsic agent. Now, we have seen 
that all creatures are manifestative 
of God's perfections, and therefore 
that they have in themselves an act 
which is a principle of action ; on 
the other hand, we have also seen 
that every creature has its potential 
term, and therefore passivity, or 
receptivity of new determinations. 
Accordingly, every created being, 
by the very nature of its essential 
constituents, is a complete principle 
of motion. Essence and nature 
are, therefore, the same thing in 
reality, though they are distinguish- 
ed from one another in our con- 
ception. S. Thomas considers that 
these three words, nature^ essence^ 
and quiddity^ 3,pply to one and the 
same thing viewed under three dis- 
tinct aspects; the word nature 
meaning the essence of the thing as 
connoting operation, since there is 
no natural being without active 
power; whereas the word quiddity 
means the same essence viewed as 
an object of definition ; and the 
word essence is used to express the 
fact that in it and through it a 
thing has its own being.* Whence 
it follows that a complete being is 
no sooner endowed with existence 
than with activity, and is no sooner 
a being than an individual nature. 
And therefore a complete being 
and a concrete nature are really 
one and the same thing. Male- 
branche*s theory, denying that crea- 
tures have any true causality, is 
therefore utterly untenable, as it 
cannot be reconciled with the first 
principles of metaphysics. 

* Nomen natune ridetur si^nificare esscntiaoi 
rei Bscundum quod ha.bet ordiuem vel ordina- 
tionem ad proprlam operationem rei ; quum 
nulla res propria destituatur operationc. Quid- 
diiatis vero nomen sumltur ex hoc quod per 
dcfinitionem significatur. Sed essentia dicltur 
tecundum quod per earn et in ea res habet esse. 
— S. Thomas, Dt Ente ei Eutntia, c. i. 



4. The entity of the active pow- 
er contained in the nature of any 
being cannot be anything else than 
its essential act ; that is, the very 
act produced by God in its crea- 
tion. In fact, we have just seen 
that in all creatures the essence and 
the nature are the same reality, and 
that the constituents of the nature 
are nothing but the constituents of 
the essence. Accordingly, the na- 
ture of every creature consists of 
an essential act and an essen- 
tial term ; the one being its princi- 
ple of activity, as the other is its 
principle of passivity. " The form," 
says S. Thomas, " is that by which 
the agent acts," and " By what a 
thing is, by that it acts," and " The 
principle of being is the principle 
of acting," and " Every agent acts 
inasmuch as it is in act." These 
axioms are accepted by all real 
philosophers. Hence the active 
principle of any complete being, 
and its essential act, are the same 
thing in reality, though they are 
distinguished from one another in 
our conception, in the same manner 
as are nature and essence ; for the 
essential act connotes the intrinsic 
term of the essence, to which the 
act is essentially terminated, whilst 
the active principle connotes any ex- 
trinsic term to which the action 
proceeding from the same act is, or 
can be, accidentally terminated. 
This is what S. Thomas means 
when he says that ** a natural form 
is a principle of operation, not in- 
asmuch as it is the permanent form 
of the thing to which it gives exis- 
tence, but inasmuch as it has a lean- 
ing towards an effect."* Such a 
leaning {inciinaiio) should be taken 
to mean a natural ordination or dt- 
tcrmi nation to act. 

Philosophers agitate the question, 
whether created substances act by 

* Smmma Tkect.^ p. x, q. 14, ^ >• 



Tlu Principles of Real Being. 



835 



themselves immediately, or by the 
aid of accidents. The Scotistic 
school holds the first opinion, whilst 
the Thomistic supports the second. 
For reasons which it would take too 
long to develop in this place, we 
are inclined to believe that natural 
accidents are not active, and that 
their bearing on the action of sub- 
stance is not of an efficient, but of 
a formal, character; by which we 
mean that accidents have no play 
in the production of effects, except 
inasmuch as their presence or ab- 
sence entails a different formal de- 
termination of the conditions in 
which the agent is to exert its pow- 
er. It is true, indeed, that created 
substances never act independently 
of accidental conditions ; but it is 
true, at the same time, that they al- 
ways act by themselves without the 
aid of accidents, inasmuch as the 
active power they exert is so ex- 
clusively owned by them that it 
cannot even partially reside in any 
of their accidents. 

As the active principle is really 
nothing else than the act by which 
the agent is, so also the passive 
principle is really nothing else than 
the essential term by which that 
act is completed. Here again the 
same reality presents itself under 
two distinct aspects ; for the phrase 
fssential term connotes the essential 
act by which the term is essentially 
actuated, whilst the phrase passive 
principle connotes any accidental 
act by which the same term is liable 
to be accidentally actuated. 

5. Since a being possessing its 
three intrinsic principles is so fully 
*nd adequately constituted as to 
require nothing additional to exist, 
it is obvious that such a being con- 
tains in its perfect constitution the 
sufficient reason of its aptitude to 
exist non in alio ei non per aliudy but 
»« St tiper se ; that is, in itself and 



by itself. Now, to exist in itself is 
to be a substance y and to exist by 
itself is to be what philosophers 
call suppositum — i.e,^ a thing having 
se'parate subsistence ; and, there- 
fore, such a being, if simply left to 
itself, will be both a substance and 
a suppositum. In fact, the essen- 
tial act of a created being, though 
always needing positive conserva- 
tion on account of its contingency, 
needs no termination to, or susten- 
tation from, a subject, as it already 
holds under itself its own intrinsic 
term, by which it is sufficiently ter- 
minated and sustained. And in 
the same manner, the essence of a 
complete being needs no union 
with any extraneous nature to be 
made completely subsistent, as it is 
already sufficiently complete on ac- 
count of its formal actuality and 
individuality. Thus it is manifest 
that nothing positive is to be added to 
a complete being in order to make 
it a substance and a suppositum ; it 
suffices to leave it alone without fur- 
ther sustentation and without further 
completion. By the first of these 
two negations, the being will exist 
non in alio^ but in itself; and by 
the second it will subsist non per 
aliudy but by itself. Hence it is 
that the first negation is called 
the mode of substance^ and the se- 
cond the mode of the suppositum, 

6. To be, to be true, to be one, 
to be good, to be a thing or a being, 
are convertible expressions so far 
as their real objective meaning is 
concerned, and are distinct only on 
account of their different connota- 
tions. A thing is called a beings in- 
asmuch as it has existence. It is 
called truCy inasmuch as its act 
suits its term, and vice versa. For 
the objective truth of things — i.e.y 
their metaphysical truth — is nothing 
but their intelligibility; and the 
whole intelligibility of a being con- 



836 



The Principles of Real Being. 



sists in the agreement of an essen- 
tial act with its essential term ; that 
is, in this : that the one adequately 
satisfies the wants of the other, and 
thus constitutes with it one perfect 
intelligible ratio or essence. Hence 
the termination of the proper act 
to the proper term makes a thing 
objectively true ; just as the appli- 
cation of the proper predicate to 
the proper subject makes true a 
proposition. This objective or 
metaphysical truth is perfectly in- 
dependent of our knowledge of it; 
it has, however, the reason of its 
being in God's intellect, in which 
the archetypes of all that is intelligi- 
ble are contained, and to which the 
whole ideal order is to be traced as 
to its original source. A thing is 
called one on account of the formal 
unity of its essence and of its ex- 
istence. It is called ^£?<?//, objective- 
ly and metaphysically, inasmuch as 
it is materially and formally com- 
]>lete in the manner above described, 
and consequently perfect, so as to re- 
quire no further intrinsic endow- 
ment to exist. 

The objective goodness of any 
being arises from its truth ; for it 
is the mutual fitness of the essen- 
tial act and of the essential term 
that accounts for their mutual 
agreement in unity of existence; 
whence it follows that the being 
will naturally exist in itself, and 
subsist by itself, without any fur- 
ther addition, as though finding 
rest in its own reality. But, that 
in which anything finds rest is its 
own good ; and therefore every- 
thing that exists in itself complete- 
ly is good to itself, while its act 
and its term, as the intrinsic factors 
of such a goodness, are good also, 
))ut only of an initial and relative 
iioodness — viz., so far as the one 
IS good to the other. Lastly, the 
word thinii^ expresses the whole be- 



ing as it is in its concrete essence— 
that is, the whole reality implied in 
its three intrinsic principles. Thing 
in Latin is res ; and res^ as well as 
ratio, are connected with the verb 
reor (to judge) in the same manner 
3Lspax (peace) sjxdpactio (compact) 
are connected with the verb facts- 
cor (to make a compact) ; and ac- 
cordingly, as peace implies the 
compact, of which it is the result, 
and by which its conditions are 
duly determined, so also res im- 
plies the ratio, of which it is the 
concrete result, and by which it is 
confined between the bounds of a 
determinate quiddity. Whether the 
English words thing, thought, and 
to think bear to one another the 
same relation as the Latin res, ratio, 
and reor, we are not ready to decide. 
7. The verb to be has not ex- 
actly the same meaning, when ap- 
plied to a complete being, as when 
applied to its constituent princi- 
ples. Of the complete being we 
say that it is simply and complete- 
ly. Of the essential act we also 
say that it is, but not absolutely 
nor completely, because it has no 
existence apart from its term; ex- 
istence being the result of the posi- 
tion of the one in the other. Of 
the essential term we should not 
say precisely that it is, but rather 
that */ has being. This adjective 
predication is here employed, be- 
cause the being of the term is 
wholly due to its act, without 
which the term would be nothing. 
as we have already shown; and 
therefore the term is not a deingthui 
only has the being borrowed from 
its act, just as the geometric centre 
has no being but that which it re- 
ceives from the circumference. Of 
the complement we do not say thai 
it is, or that it exists, because the 
complement is the formal existence, 
not of itself, but of the being of 



The Principles of Real Being. 



837 



which it is the complement, and 
therefore must he predicated of 
the existent heing, not of itself. 
Thus we cannot correctly say that 
loquacity talksy nor that velocity runs : 
and for the some reason we should 
not say that existence exists j for as 
it is tAe woman that talks by her 
loquacity, and the horse that runs 
with its velocity, so it is the com- 
plete being that exists by its own 
existence. 

Nevertheless, the verb to be, when 
used in a logical sense to express 
the existence of an agreement be- 
tween a predicate and a subject, 
or any other mental relation be- 
tween objects of thought, applies 
equally to all things conceived, 
whatever their degree of reality; 
because, inasmuch as such things 
are actually known, they are all 
equally actual in our intellectual 
faculty. 

And now, with regard to the es- 
sence itself of a complete being, 
the question arises whether it 
should be held to be, or to have 
bang, in the sense of the distinc- 
tion already made. S. Thomas 
seems to hold that the essence of 
creatures cannot be said to be, but 
only to have being ; for he teaches 
that in creatures the essence is to 
its existence as a potency is to an 
act. If this doctrine were to be ap- 
plied to possible essences only, we 
might admit it without discussion ; 
but the holy doctor seems to ap- 
ply it to the actual essence also; 
for " to be,'* says he, " is the most 
perfect of all realities, because it 
performs the parts of an act with 
regard to them all ; as no thing has 
actuality but according as it is; 
and therefore to be is the actuality 
of all things, even of the forms 
themselves; and for this reason 
existence is not compared to any 
existing thing as a recipient to that 



which is received, but rather as 
that which is received to its recipi- 
ent. For when I mention the ex- 
istence of a man, or of a horse, or 
of anything else, existence stands 
for something formal and received, 
and not for that to which it be- 
longs." * 

It is clear, however, that the ac- 
tuality of anything is not an act 
really received in the essence of the 
thing as in a potency. For, ac- 
cording to S. Thomas himself, no- 
thing is educed from potency into 
act, except through an act which 
is not originated by that potency ; 
and therefore no potency contains in 
itself the formal reason of its actu- 
ation, but all potency is actuated by 
an act originated by an extrinsic 
agent. Now, such is not the case 
with real essences ; for every real 
essence contains in itself all that is 
required to give rise to its actuality, 
as we have proved; and conse- 
quently, as soon as the essential act 
actuates the essential term, the ac- 
tuality of the essence springs forth 
by spontaneous resultation, as the 
consequence from the premises, 
with no need of an extrinsic agent 
producing a new act. Granting, 
then, that existence is something 
formal, as S. Thomas truly says, 
yet it does not follow that it is an 
act received ; it is only a resulting 
actuality. And therefore the real es- 
sence is not the potency of exist- 
ence, but its formal reason. Exist- 
ence is the complement of real es- 
sence, and presupposes it ; and 
consequently gives it nothing but 

*Esse est perfectlssiinnm omnium ; comparv- 
tar enim ad omnia ut actus ; nihil enim habet 
actualitatem nisi In quantum est; unde ipstim 
este est actualitaa omnium rerum, et etiam ipsa- 
rum formarum ; unde non comparatur ad alia 
sicut recipient ad receptum, sed maji^is sicut re- 
ceptum ad recipient. Quum enim dice ess* 
hominis, yel equi, vel cujuscumque alterius. 
ipsum esse consideratur ul formale et recepium, 
non autem ut illud cui compelit ts^.—Sumtna 
Theol.^ p. z, q. 4, a. z. 



838 



The Jansenist Schism in Holland, 



the real denomination of existent — 
and, perhaps, this is all that S. 
Thomas intended to teach, though 
his words seem to imply a great 
deal more. For, on the one hand, 
he very often employs the word 
potenlia^ not in the sense of passive 
potency, but in that of virtuality ; 
and, on the other, he frequently 
gives the name of forms to those 
formalities from which things re- 
ceive their proper denomination, 
and considers them as received in 
the things to which they give such 
a denomination. But in such cases 
their reception is of course only 
logical, not real, and accordingly 
the thing denominated by them is 
only a logical, not a real, potency, as 
it already possesses the reality of 
that by which it receives its special 
denomination. Thus we say that 
in man rationality is to animality as 
act is to potency ; but this is true 



in a logical sense only, because 
man's animality implies in its con- 
stitution a rational soul, and there- 
fore is already in possession of ra- 
tionality. 

To conclude : the essence of all 
actual beings is to be said to b< 
or to exist rather than to have bein^ 
or to have existence; and in the 
same manner the essence of a pos- 
sible being is to be called a poten- 
cy of existing rather than of receiv- 
ing existence^ so far, at least, as it is 
considered in connection with its 
intrinsic principles. The reader, if 
not accustomed to metaphysical in- 
vestigations, will think that we, in 
this last question, have only amus- 
ed ourselves with splitting hairs ; to 
correct such a judgment, he has 
only to ask himself whether be- 
tween being rich and holding bor- 
rowed riches the difference be im- 
portant or trivial. 



TO Ml CONTINUBO. 



THE JANSENIST SCHISM IN HOLLAND. 

JANSENISM IN THE CHURCH OF UTRECHT. 
PROM LBS BTUDBS XBLICIBUSBS. BY C TAN AKBN. 

CONCI.UDBD. 



II. 

Such was the system of Janse- 
nius, at least as to its main points ; 
its five famous propositions form- 
ing the most important conclu- 
sions of the system. If they are 
not all to be found, tn so many 
words^ in the Augustinus — which 
neither pope nor theologian has 
ever pretended they are — they are 
the soul of the book, in the words 
of Bossuet. This soul, this breath 
of error, is revived in Quesnel and 
in the false Synod of Pistoia. Now, 



are the proofs called for of its ex- 
istence in the pretended church of 
Utrecht? Then we have only ia 
let the hierarchy intruded in Hol- 
land speak for itself through its 
letter addressed to Scipio Ricci. 
So far as I know, this letter has 
never before been published. We 
give it as faithfully transcribed 
from the original in the archives at 
Florence : * 

• RIcd CollecUon, vol. xcvU, No. 9A, I b«Tt 
done nothing but add explanatory notes txA 
UBderline the more important passages. 



Tlu Jansenist Scliism in Holland. 



839 



** MONSEIGNEUH : 

"We have just read with astonish- 
ment a bull of Pope Pius VI., in which 
the Synod of Pistoia, held by you in 
1786, is condemned, and your episco- 
pal administration calumniated, upon 
grounds which are incomprehensible. 
Conduct such as this in regard to a 
bishop and an ecclesiastical assembly of 
the highest repute'in the church, and the 
spirit of partisanship which characterizes 
the bull generally, have certainly not 
been imitated from the great Doctor of 
Grace, S. Augustine, whom the latte: 
seems intended to honor, since it is dated 
on his feast. 

** Your synod, monseigneur, was for 
years, as the public well knew, under 
examination by Roman censors; and it 
is evident that they would not have oc- 
cupied themselves with it for so long a 
time* if, instead of laboriously seeking 
for pretexts to condemn it, they had 
sought in it for that truth which is every- 
where displayed in it with clearness, dig- 
nity, and unction. We need not, there- 
fore, have expected a confirmation of this 
synod as the result of such an examina- 
tion. We are no longer in the days when 
the popes used the authority of their see 
only for edification, and not for destruc- 
tion. Your synod, monseigneur, reveals 
nothing which is unworthy of the full 
approbation of the head of the church, 
and which would not have been cordially 
received by the popes of former times. 
But God permits that those of later 
times should be swayed by prejudices 
and by the dominating influence of a 
court which, although foreign and even 
contrary to the divine institution of the 
Holy See, pretends, nevertheless, to 
identify itself with the chair of S. Peter, 
and has consequently taken upon itself 
to dictate the bulls of the popes con- 
formably to its own interests — interests 
often greatly opposed to those of the 
church and of the Holy See. f It finds 
that these human interests have not been 
made much of by the Synod of Pistoia, 
which kept in view only the good of 

^^hen the popM hasten to condemn an error, 
they are accused of actinia precipitately or from 
the influence of some passion • when they take 
their time, they are still found fault with. 

tThia distinction between the court of Rome 
and the Holy See, when there is question of sol- 
emn acts of pontifical authority, is biirhly ri- 
diculous. The so-called ''Old Catholics" of 
Germany have never committed the error of 
imitating the Jansenists in this. 



souls and the disinterestea exercise of 
the functions of the pastorate. It could 
not, therefore, approve this synod, since 
its deccees preach the new covenant, of 
which we are ministers, in the spirit and 
not in the letter. The ancient one, in which 
the spirit was sacrificed to the letter, and 
in which God was honored by the lips, 
while the heart was far from him, is 
the only one in accord with the po- 
litical maxims and views of a court en- 
tirely devoted to the iclat of the pon- 
tifical throne, and to the externals of 
religion. The fathers of the synod, 
most reasonably convinced that the true 
and only object of the ministry estab- 
lished by Jesus Christ is to give to God 
adorers in spirit and truth, have endea- 
vored, so far as these evil times permit- 
ted, to bring back Christian worship to 
its primitive purity and simplicity. But 
this could not be suffered by a court 
which applies itself exclusively to foster- 
ing abuses in ecclesiastical discipline 
and In the administration of the sacra- 
ments, and to all the new devotions and 
superstitions* which give a false idea of 
Christian piety, and cause the faithful to 
forget the true spirit of Christianity ; not 
reforming, as it ought, this Judaical wor- 
ship, but making its profit of it, and taking 
it under its protection, on all occasions. 

*' In the synod you held, monseigneur. 
there were useful reforms proposed, and 
even commenced. Still greater ones 
were desired. If the wise regulations 
made in it were put in practice and 
everywhere adopted, as they deserve to 
be ; if its wishes were attended to, true 
piety would flourish again, the church 
would possess good ministers, their labors 
would produce abundant fruits, the ob- 
servance of the canons would restore the 
salutary discipline of the early days, the 
hierarchical order would enjoy all its 
rights, its head, the Holy See, would be 
listened to and respected, but the Ro- 
man court would become nothing. It is 
this, monseigneur, which excites its re- 
sentment against you and your synod. 
It is the court alone which has produced 
this extraordinary bull, which is an in- 
jury to the chair of S. Peter, more even 
than to the Synod of Pistoia, and the 
Pope has been dishonored by causing 
him to adopt it. 

* Evidently an allusion to the decrees of the 
aynod coDcerning: the devotion to the Sacred 
Heart of Jesus, ihe cuitus and invocation of the 
•aints, etc. 



830 



The Principles of Real Being. 



tion, because the difference is con- 
ceived as actuating the genus into 
species. In such cases the word 
formal stands for " that which gives 
any determination," whether it gives 
it in fact or in thought only. 

Finally, the actuality of the cre- 
ated being corresponds, as we have 
already explained in the preceding 
article, to the finality of creation, in- 
asmuch as it perfects the essence 
into being. This actuality has re- 
ceived different names, according 
to the different light in which it can 
be viewed and the different con- 
notations of which it affords the 
ground. It is called the complement 
of the essence, its formal existence^ 
its formal unity ^ its individuality. 
It is called " complement " of the 
essence, inasmuch as it satisfies all 
its requirements, and completes it 
into actual being ; its " formal ex- 
istence," inasmuch as it is the for- 
mal result of active and passive ac- 
tuation ; its " formal unity," inas- 
much as it arises from two princi- 
ples conspiring into unity of es- 
sence, and therefore of existence 
also ; its " individuality," inasmuch 
as it is the unity oi 2i concrete being; 
for individuality is nothing but 
" that on account of which a thing is 
formally one in its concrete being." 

Some philosophers of the Sco- 
tistic school hold that "individual- 
ity " and " formal unity " are differ- • 
ent things. They say that formal 
unity is not individual, but univer- 
sal ; because it does not include in 
its conception the individuative 
notes. They accordingly teach that 
the universal is to be found to exist 
formally in the individual ; whence 
they have been surnamed Formalists^ 
or Ultra-realists* But it is not 
true that the formal unity does not 
include in itself the individuative 

• See Klcutgen, Tht Old Philosophy, diss, a, 
c. 4. 



notes. In fact, all existing essence 
contains in its own principles the 
adequate reason of its individuation, 
and therefore it cannot, by the real 
conspiration of its principles, be 
formalFy one without being individ- 
ual also. Accordingly, formal uni- 
ty, though universal in our concep- 
tion, is individual in the thing itself. 
It is evident that the actuality re- 
sulting from the act giving^ and the 
term receivings existence, exhibits 
itself as existence given and received 
— that is, as complete real existence. 
On the other hand, all real result 
has a real opposition to the fonnal 
principles of its resultation ; for all 
that really proceeds has a real rela- 
tive opposition to that from which 
it proceeds. A real relative oppo- 
sition is therefore to be admitted 
between the real essence and its 
formal existence ; and consequently 
essence and existence must be con- 
sidered as really distinct. Not that 
the essence of a real being does not 
imply its existence ; but because in 
the essential act and the essential 
terra existence is contained only 
radically or virtually, not formally, 
in the same manner as the conclu- 
sion is virtually contained in the 
premises from which it follows, or 
as equality is contained in the quan- 
tities from whose adequation it re- 
sults. Hence, as in the logical or- 
der the formal conclusion is distinct 
from the premises in which it is vir- 
tually implied, so also in the real 
order is the formal existence of any 
being to be distinguished from the 
real principles of the essence in 
which it is virtually implied. As, 
however, the act and the term, not- 
withstanding their real relative oi>- 
position and distinction, identify 
themselves really, though inade- 
quately, with the essence of the 
actual being, so also the actuality 
of the being, though having a real 



The Principles of Real Being, 



831 



relative opposition to the act and 
the term from which it results, iden- 
tifies itself really, yet inadequately, 
with the complete being of which it 
is the actuality.* Whence we con- 
clude that every primitive being, 
though strictly one in its physical 
entity, consists of three metaphysi- 
cal constituents really distinct from 
one another on account of their 
real relative opposition. 

We must here notice that the last 
of these three constituents — actual- 
ity — is scarcely ever mentioned by 
the scholastic philosophers. They, 
in fact, consider all natural beings 
as constituted of act and potency 
only. It may have appeared to 
them that by simply stating the fact 
of the concurrence of act and po- 
tency into one actual essence, the 
fact of the unity and actuality of 
that essence would be sufficiently 
pointed out. They may have had 
another reason also for omitting the 
mention of our third principle ; for 
in speculative questions it is the 
essence of things, and not their ex- 
istence, that comes under consider- 
ation; and essence, as such, in- 
volves two principles only — viz., 
the act and the term^ as we have 
stated above. It is obvious, then, 
that in their analysis of the " quid- 
dity " of beings, they had no need 
of mentioning our third principle. 
A third reason may have been that 
the act and the potency, or the 
form and the matter, in the opinion 
of those philosophers, were two 
things separable, as the Aristotelic 
theory of substantial generations 
implied; whereas the actuality of 
the being was not considered as a 
third thing separable from either 
the form or the matter, and there- 
fore was not thought worthy of a 
separate mention. 

• We cftnnot here explain the different kinds 
of identity ; but we hope we shall take up this 
matter in oae of our future articles. 



But, the reality of this third 
principle being universally admit- 
ted, there can be no doubt about 
the convenience, and even the ne- 
cessity, of giving it a distinct and 
prominent place in the constitution 
of any complete being. This has 
been already shown in the preced- 
ing pages ; but, for the benefit of 
those who have never paid special 
attention to the subject, we will 
give a summary of the principal 
reasons why in metaphysical treat- 
ises the actuality of being should be 
methodically granted as distinct a 
place among the intrinsic princi- 
ples of things as is allotted to the 
essential act and its term. 

First, then, all being that has 
existence in nature is something 
complete, not only materially — that 
is, by having its term — but also 
formally^ by having its own com- 
plete constitution or actuality. 
The difference between material 
and formal completion will be 
easily understood by an example. 
The sculptor carves the marble 
and makes a statue. The marble 
is the material term, and the figure 
resulting in the marble is the 
formal term, of his work. Hence 
the work of carving is materially 
complete in the marble and formal- 
ly complete in the figure,* which is 
the actuality of the statue as such. 
And it is evident that, in speaking 
of a statue, such a figure is as 
worth mentioning as the marble 
and the carving. And therefore, 
as in the analysis of being we give 
a prominent place to the term 
which completes the act, we should 
do the same with regard to the actu- 
ality, which completes the essence. 
A writer in the Dublin Revieiv, who 



♦ The same distinction may btf very property 
expressed by sayinp that the carving is tnaUri' 
ally tcrmiaated to ihc marble, and formally to 
the statue. 



832 



The Principles of Real Being. 



has cleverly treated this subject, 
makes the following remark: ^The 
constituents iuius and Urwdnms^ or 
forma and maUria^ are recognized 
in the schc->Ls, The third con- 
siitnent is n:i cirresa^T mentioned 
there- I it xjz. bejx oi esstmtia 

lurrssjm, I jii'* x £izcT th*it the 
=. i»^-c:m-T<i<fi vLiCJZciion be- 
r^,r::fi ne £'5-T-iJi xz.d. :he **rTf- 



L>.- 



f - - - •• .rziX i^i i]ie i£i.Tajv and 
. w. ^ -:*x i.:e .jnn'. njysu w." * 

i> 'T n*irv ^ -ir^ i^iic^cus; tor 
s- IS- ----^ -.n -.:jj: ilie c-rnrLete 

. 1 ;> t > :c'^^a i-Lir r^e es- 

.-:: >\ i^iO -I -ICC ind term; 

.. r ,*- •• iT. ^.trr:: .^ 3c lessadis- 

t .>.-.'* "1 :.:i: essvinci aad 

. .> ■.•^"^, X «:!•-- iie same 
^^ -> •' .. ^-: iic-r^ ": >Kc:jii5 to 

. .> '. •:. .1 -:c i.:^ ^> cf the 

>>. ««^ . : X' ;;<^'TC^ And 

■ • * .1 , 1'^ XT- • >.s ct' the 



^ ^vV.T'j ''i.'xv. : X' formal 
^' • ^ ", •-. .1 .^*-'.i.> i2^ -^e only 
^♦. ... :t %M«>i tKL:!.- viiJerent 
. M. .-. x.>ivv r- "...^ -til be prt^di- 
'.., .1 .*\i\: uiKi *K' >vuue being; 
.^ t. 'xiMivVi tvi> i\ and pas- 
^ ;», • •,•»! i>iv M^o.oij» to be, to 

•s .>v' ♦' V ;''v,o> wtc. It is, 

.^ .,,. .♦ .vi'v- '.. loc to leave in 

N >.^ ^ *'^ •'.' Ki^'Ie, without 
, V ^ > u^ a J ^ vu bv'in^ can be 

' . . » s\ ^xic knowledge 

vi >'.! o» x.^v. i a complement 

^ V N V tv \s\ r,t a ^aut number 

. V ^ ^ N» ^c '>a^c to explain 

» X X » ' V s t'i . » * iS:\j,Vv be- 

- " . X. >N, i »^\' — a thing 



«. «. . V 



*4k.»a«>. *>*"'> :-'?«. fow rt. 



which will never be radically ex- 
plained without an explicit refe- 
rence to the formal complement of 
the being in which those modes are 
to be found. 

Fourthly, in the intellectual as 
well as in the sensitive nature the ap- 
petitive faculty cannot be account- 
ed for, nor distinguished from the 
cognoscitive, unless we have re- 
course to this same formal comple- 
ment, which constitutes the affecti- 
bility of the same natures — a truth 
which we must here simply state, 
as its demonstration belongs to 
special metaphysics. 

Fifthly, it is unwise to expose 
the reader to the danger of con- 
foimding things having a metaphy- 
sical opposition to one another; for 
instance, the uniting with the union 
accomplished, the constituting with 
the complete constitution, the ac- 
tuation with the actuality. But if 
the actuality is kept out of view 
when we give the principles of be- 
ings, such confusion will be almost 
unavoidable. I believe that it is 
owing to the omission of this third 
principle that even great philoso- 
phers have not unfrequently mis- 
taken attitudes for acts, and actu- 
alities for forms. 

Sixthly, after we have analyzed 
a primitive complete being, and 
found it to consist of three intrinsic 
principles, it is nothing but reason- 
able to keep them all equally in 
sight, and to make them all serve 
in their turn for the simplification 
of metaphysical investigations ; es- 
pecially as the distinct recollection 
of the act, of its term, and of the 
actuality of both will also draw the 
student's attention to the corre- 
sponding extrinsic principles — viz., 
to the creative power from which 
that act proceeds, to the nothing- 
ness out of which that terra was 
educed, and to the last end for 



The Principles of Real Being, 



833 



which that actuality obtained a 
place in the real order of things. 

Lastly, by the consideration that 
these three intrinsic and relatively 
opposite principles constitute one 
primitive complete being, it be- 
comes possible to account philo- 
sophically for the known fact that 
every creature bears in itself, in 
vestigio at least, as S. Thomas puts 
it, a more or less imperfect image 
of God's unity and trinity — a topic 
on which much might be said, were 
this the place for discussing the 
analogy between beings of different 
orders. 

A few corollaries. From the 
resolution of complete beings into 
their intrinsic principles, and from 
the different character of these 
principles and of their principia- 
tion, a number of useful corollaries 
can be drawn, among which the 
following deserve a special atten- 
tion: 

I. It is a great mistake, and one 
which leads straight to pantheism, 
to assert, as Gioberti did, that crea- 
tures are not beings^ but only exis- 
tences. For if creatures have their 
own actual essence, they are not 
mere existences, but complete be- 
ings ; and, if they have no essence, 
they cannot exist ; as all existence 
is the actuality of some essence. 
Hence to assert that creatures are 
not beings, but only existences, 
amounts to saying that creatures 
have no essence, and that their ex- 
istence is the existence of nothing — 
that is, non-existence. Moreover, 
mere existence is a simple actual- 
ity, and does not exhibit an intelli- 
gible ratio; hence, if creatures 
were mere existences, they would 
be intrinsically unintelligible, not 
only to us, as Gioberti pretends, 
but to God himself, who certainly 
does not understand what is intrin- 
sically unintelligible. There is no 
VOL. XVIII. — 53 



need of insisting on such an unavoid- 
able conclusion. 

That the same assertion leads 
straight to pantheism is likewise 
evident. In fact, the absurdity of 
admitting existences which would 
be existences of nothing could not 
be escaped but by trying to pin 
them on the substance of God him- 
self, and by saying, with the pan- 
theist, that all such existences are 
nothing but divers actualities, or at- 
titudes, or forms assumed by the 
divine substance. Thus, to escape 
one absurdity, we would fall into 
another. 

2. Inasmuch as the actuality of 
a given essence makes a given 
thing formally complete, one, and 
perfect according to its entitative 
degree, it is to such an actuality 
that everything owes that it is for- 
mally good, and that it answers ta 
the finality of its creation. Such a* 
goodness implies two things: the 
first, that every creature is good in 
its absolute being, for it is in such 
a being that God's design is fulr- 
filled of communicating his good.^ 
ness outside of himself; the oth£r,. 
that every creature is good in its^ 
relative being also — that is, in its in- 
trinsic aptitude and determination^ 
to manifest God's perfections in a 
manner and degree proportionate 
to the kind and degree of its entity.. 
Accordingly, every created being 
is good not only as it is a things ^ 
but also as it is a principle of action. 
In the first capacity it fulfils the 
immediate end of its creation, and 
in the second it fulfils by its action 
the ultimate end for the sake of 
which it has been made to exist. 

3. Hence we further infer, that 
the essence of every created being 
is its nature also. For nature is a 
principle of motiony according to 
Aristotle, whether motion is taken 
as the action proceeding from that 



844 



The Jansenist Schism in Holland. 



tion forms one of the bases of the 
resistance offered by that clergy to 
the definitions of the Holy See, it 
would be proper to give a brief ex- 
planation of it. 

The five famous propositions 
having been referred to the tribu- 
nal of the Sovereign Pontiff by 
eighty-five French bishops, the so- 
called disciples of S. Augustine sent 
a deputation to Rome to defend 
the sense of Jansenius. They pre- 
pared, on this occasion, the cele- 
brated Ecrit h trots Colonnes^ in or- 
der, said they, "to show fully the 
state of the controversy, and to fur- 
nish the Pope with the means of 
knowing exactly upon what he had 
to give judgment." For each pro- 
position there is distinguished, ist, 
the sense of Luther or of Calvin, 
which is condemned ; 2d, the natural 
sense, prout a nobis defenditur^ the 
sense of Jansenius — in a word, that 
said to be the sense of the church and 
of S. Augustine ; * 3d, and last, the 
Pelagian or semi-Pelagian, which is 
rejected like the fir^t. At this time, 
then, the party acknowledged, in 
an official and authentic document, 
that it defended the five proposi- 
tions in the sense of Jansenius, and 
that this sense was the only natural 
and legitimate one. The whole 
question was to know if this sense 
were heretical or not. It was upon 
this point that the Pope's decision 
was invoked both by the bishops 
and by the partisans of Jansenius. 

The decision was given the 31st 
of May, 1653, in the bull Cum oc- 
casioney which condemned the five 
famous propositions. The church 

•They added : " We are prepared to prove 
by Scripture, the councils, the testimony of the 
fathers, and especially by the authority of S. Au- 
gusiine, that the doctrine set forth in this second 
column is the true doctrine of the church." This 
promise was not carried out until after the con- 
demnation of QuesnePs R^/lexiotix Morales : the 
monstrous book of the HexapUs is the principal 
effort the Jansenists have attempted with this 
view. 



evidently aimed a blow at the spirit 
of the book, which alone conveyed 
the error. The Jansenists under- 
stood it as every one else did at 
the time, and were confounde d by 
it. But in their farewell audience, 
the deputies of the party asked the 
Pope if he had been understood to 
condemn the opinion in regard to 
efficacious grace by itself — the doc- 
trine of S. Augustine. Certainly 
not, replied the Holy Father. The 
whole of Jansenism was embraced in 
this equivocal question ; for the Jan- 
senists reasoned thus : the Augusti- 
nus contains nothing but the pure 
doctrine of S. Augustine ; we can 
therefore submit to the bull with- 
out rejecting the sense of Jansenius. 

To prevent and eliminate in ad- 
vance every pretext for disobedi- 
ence. Pope Alexander VII., in 1665, 
ordered, in a new bull, that the con- 
demnation of the fivt, propositions 
in the sense of Jansenius should be 
subscribed to ; he directed at the 
same time, according to the an- 
cient usage of the church, that the 
signature should be attached to a 

formula in these words : ** I, , 

submit to the Apostolic Constitu- 
tion of Pope Innocent X., dated the 
30th of May, 1653, and to that of 
the Sovereign Pontiff Alexander 
VII., dated the i6th of October, 
1665 ; I condemn and reject heart- 
ily and in all sincerity the five 
propositions taken from the Angus- 
iinus of Cornelius Jansenius in the 
same manner as they are condemn- 
ed by the said constitutions ; I 
condemn them in the sense of that 
author; thus I swear. May God 
help me and this holy Gospel !" 

Then it began to be said in the 
camp of Jansenius : The pope and 
the bishops may well decide if the 
propositions are heretical ; it is a 
question oi right, Criance au droit ! 
But are the propositions taken from 



Tlu Jansenist Schism in Holland. 



845 



the AugusiinuSy and do they con- 
vey its sense ? That is a question 
of fact^ in regard to which the 
church might be mistaken. Nev- 
ertheless, respect au fait! After 
this, it was signed, excUiding (en 
exceptant^ the sense of Jansenius. 
The more determined refused their 
signature ; after the time of Pierre 
Codde, the successor of Neercas- 
sel, this was the general rule. 

No one, in my opinion, has more 
fully set forth the state of this ques- 
tion than the author of the Frovin- 
cial Letters^ whose genius demon- 
strates conclusively the absurdity 
of this celebrated distinction.* He 
thus expresses himself in a passage 
wherein he maintains his opinion 
against Arnauld, Nicole, and oth- 
ers : " The whole dispute is in as- 
certaining if there be a fact and a 
right disconnected from one an- 
other, or if there be only a right ; 
that is, if the sense of Jansenius . . . 
does nothing but indicate the right. 
The Pope and the bishops are on 
one side, and they claim that it is a 
point of right and of faith to say 
that the five propositions are here- 
tical in the sense of Jansenius ; and 
Alexander VII. declares in his con- 
stitution that, to be in the true 
faith, we must say that the words, 
* sense of Jansenius,* express only 
the heretical sense of the proposi- 
tions, and that thus /'/ is a fact 
which carries with it a rights and 
makes an essential part of the pro- 
fession of faith; as if we should 
say: The sense of Calvin on the 
Eucharist is heretical, which is cer- 
tainly a point of faith,** \ 

Nothing could be better said. 
But what is the conclusion ? It is 
this, and Sainte-Beuve himself says 

• In the Provinciates^ xvil. and xviii., Pascal 
himself defended the distinction between faith 
and right. (See Maynard, Let Provinciales.) 

t (EuvrtSy ed. Bossutel biblioth. Mazarine, T., 



the same in other words:* the 
church must be denied all infalli- 
bility on the question of right ; we 
must allege that she can be mistak- 
en even as to the true and natural 
sense of her own decrees, if we 
would maintain that she could err 
as to the fact in Jansenius. In a 
word, we must either completely 
break with the church, or condemn 
the sense of Jansenius. 

M. R^ville seems to know very lit- 
tle of the question of fact as re- 
gards Jansenius. One might say 
that, to form his opinion on this 
point, he had consulted only a re- 
port of the Jansenist Bishop of 
Utrecht, which contains an account 
of the latter *s interview in 1828 
with the Papal nuncio, Mgr. Ca- 
paccini. In this, tlie representative 
of the Holy See is made to use ab- 
surd and ridiculous language; the 
author of Port Royal^ who was not 
any too well versed in theology, 
had a better knowledge of the 
question than this nuncio. How 
could M. R^ville regard this as a 
serious relation? Has a witness 
who could neither understand the 
Catholic theologians nor Pascal 
himself the right to be believed 
on his word when he reports, word 
for word, a long conversation with 
his opponent, a kind of diplomatic 
passage-at-arms, wherein it was 
greatly to his interest to make the 
best figure for himself.^ And, be- 
sides, what guarantee of exactitude 
have we in a relation published for 
the first time twenty-three years 
after the interview, and six after 
the death of Cardinal Capaccini, 
the only person able to rectify the 
assertions of his interlocutor ? f 

• Port Royals vol. iii. p. ga and further. 

tThe French account of this interview was 
communicated, it is said, by the archbishop 
himself to Dr. Trcgelles, who translated it into 
English, and inserted it in the Journal of Sa- 
cred Literature y No. 13, 1851. Ncale reproduces it 



846 



The yansenist Schism in Holland. 



That a Protestant or a free-think- 
er should encourage the "Friends 
of Holland '* in resisting the Holy 
See, that he should even go so far 
as to do honor to that resistance, 
I can conceive ; but that he should 
share in the inveterate obstinacy 
of the Jansenists concerning fact 
and right defies logic and common 
sense. M. Rdville seems likewise 
to confound the bull Unigenitus 
with that of Alexander VH. con- 
cerning the formulary. This leads 
us to speak of the second point on 
which the opposition of the clergy 
of Utrecht to the Holy See is 
founded. 

The Jansenist discussions on U 
fait and le droit were still proceed- 
ing, when the patriarch of the sect, 
the ex-Oratorian, Pasquier Quesnel, 
threw off the mask, and in his R^^ 
flexions Morales renawed the prin- 
cipal dogmas of Baius and Jansen- 
ius,* Pope Clement XI. ordered 
the book to be examined; he pro- 
ceeded in this affair, says Dollin- 
ger, ** with perfect prudence and de- 
liberation. The Jesuits had been 
charged with being bitterly oppos- 
ed to the Reflexions s he chose ex- 
aminers from religions orders whose 
teachings had the least affinity with 
those of the Society of Jesus. He 
himself presided at twenty-three 
sessions of the examiners, and the 
discussion lasted for nearly two 
whole years, f Finally, on the 8th 

in his history. A Dutch traoslAtion was published 
at Utrecht in r^^^x—yaarbocken van lVeien*ck» 
Theol.s p> 749, etc. C&paccini died June 19, i£4S« 
only a few months after his elevation to t!ie car- 
dinalate. 

*See above, our general aoalysis of the Jan- 
senist system. 

t An author, unfortunately too well known, but 
who had before htm all the original documents 
of this celebrated case, states in his Brtve If 
ttria delle Variazioni del Giansenistno (see also 
AnaUcta Juris Pontijiciiy 4th series, vol. ii. p. 
a, col. 1251) that the Pope consulted with all the 
cardinals of the Holy Office, one after the oth- 
er ; that he himseU took note of all the voles, 
which are still preserved. **The opinions of 
the Pontiff alone," he observes, ♦*fill more than 
SIX large folio volumes." 



of September, 17 13, the bull Vk- 
genitus appeared, condemning one 
hundred and one propositions tak- 
en from Quesnel's book. Among 
them are some which at first sight 
appeared inoffensive ; but they cun- 
ningly convey Jansenist error, and 
intimately coalesce with the sys- 
tem; in others, expressions are 
skilfully worded to infect the read- 
er with prejudices against the 
teachings or the general disci- 
pline of the church ; many clearly 
announce the dogmas of Janse- 
nius."* 

Here, seeing that the one hun- 
dred and one propositions were 
found word for word in the con- 
demned book, the distinction of 
right and of fact {du droit et du 
fait) was impossible. Quesnel, on 
hearing of the decree condemning 
it, exclaimed: "The Pope has 
proscribed one hundred and one 
truths !'* The whole party echoed 
this exclamation, and our Nethcr- 
land sectaries followed the impulse 
given by the patriarch of Jansenism. 
This, then, in two words, is the at- 
titude of Jansenism in Holland : it 
refuses to condemn the sense of 
Jansenius by signature to the form- 
ulary of Alexander VII. ; it refuses 
adherence to the bull Unigenitus. 
All the efforts made by the Holy 
See to bring back the Jansenists 
of Utrecht to Catholic unity have 
failed, from a persistence in this 
double refusal. Among these ef- 
forts at reconciliation, there is one 
which deserves special mention. 

In 1826, Mgr. Nazalli, Papal 
nuncio, opened a conference with 
the Holland Jansenists. He an- 
nounced to them that Rome exact- 
ed of them nothing more than an 
adhesion pure and simple to the 
constitutions of Innocent X., Alcx- 

•Handbucky ii. a, p. 827. G?«#v, mMuscript 
of 1855. 



The Jansenist Schism in Holland. 



847 



ander VII., and Clement XI., and he 
proposed for their signature the 
formula previously referred to, with 
the following addition : " I moreover 
submit, without distinction, reti- 
cence, or explanation, to the con- 
stitution of Clement XL, dated 
September 8, 1713, and beginning 
with the word Unigenitus ; I ac- 
cept it purely and simply, and 
thus I swear. May God help me 
and this holy Gospel !" * 

The bull Unigenitus was, even 
under the Gallican point of view, 
obligatory on all Catholics, since 
it had been accepted by the entire 
episcopate with that moral unanim^ 
ity of which so much was said about 
the time of the last council. How- 
ever, the schismatic archbishop and 
bishops of Holland declined the 
overtures of the Sovereign Pontiff. 
Their reply is a true model of 
Jansenist style; every member of 
a phrase hides a restriction or an 
equivocation : 

" We replied frankly {honniie- 
ment) that none of the bishops or 
clergy would hesitate to recognize 
with sincerity, by means of an un- 
equivocal declaration in general \ 
terms, all that the Holy See might 
exact on their part, and that they 
would have no difficulty in declar- 
ing, for example, that they agree, 
and that they even swear, if needs 
be, to accept, without any excep- 
tion whatever, all the articles of the 
Holy Catholic faith : not to main- 
tain nor to teach, now or hereafter, 
any opinions but those which have 
been established, determined, and 
published at all times by our holy 
mother, the church, conformably to 
Scripture, tradition, the acts of oecu^ 

* DtctaraiioH addreMed by the Archbishop of 
Utrecht and his sulTrai^Ans to the Catholic 
world In iKaft. This document is written in 
Latin ; parallel with it is a French translation, 
from which this is talcen. 

t This word is italicized in the Deciaraiiom. 



menical councils, and, lastly, to that 
of Trent ; that, besides, they espe- 
cially reprehend, reject, and con- 
demn the five propositions which 
the Holy See has condemned, and 
which are pretended to be found 
in the book of Jansenius, known as 
the Augustinusy All the rest is in 
this spirit. But what follows was 
quite unforeseen : 

" We therefore leave it to the de- 
cision of the world whether a de- 
claration so frank and so sincere . . . 
does not offer incontestable proof 
of entire submission to the Holy 
See ; and whether the general terms 
in which it. is conceived do not 
embrace all the specialties of which 
acknowledgment can reasonably be 
expected from us, but into the 
details of which we are not permit- 
ted to enter by citing bulls which 
we cannot in conscience accept — 
bulls which have not been recogniz- 
ed by the government, and which 
we are therefore not permitted to 
mention without incurring grave 
penalties. . . It is, in fact, sufficient- 
ly well known that the said consti- 
tutions (of Innocent X., Alexander 
VII., and Clement XI.) are not only 
not adopted nor obligatory in sev- 
eral countries, but that they cannot 
be adopted or enforced in a coun- 
try where they have never received 
the placet of the government, and 
where their acceptance as such is 
interdicted under threat of severe 
punishments. In the northern 
countries, to the jurisdiction of 
which the clergy of Utrecht be- 
longed, such acceptance was strictly 
forbidden by the edicts of the 24th 
February and 25 th May, 1703, the 
14th December, 1708, and of the 
20th and 2 1 St September, 1730 — 
edicts in which the principle was 
established that it belongs to the sove- 
reign alone to permit the publication 
and execution of such buils^ anr^ 



848 



A Looker-Back. 



that without his visa ox placet neither 
is permitted." * 

Can one imagine baser or more 
servile language? In presence of 
a heterodox power, the pretended 
successors of S. Boniface, of the 
martyrs and victims of Calvinist 
persecution, dare to take sides with 
power, and to concede to it a right 
to dominate over faith and ecclesi- 
astical discipline ! At that very 
time William I. was oppressing his 
Catholic subjects, and endeavoring 
to deprive the bishops of the right 
of bringing up in their seminaries 
young aspirants to the priesthood. 
Need it be added that no law in 
vigor in 1826 interdicted the accep- 
tance pure and simple of the Apos- 
tolical Constitutions of Alexander 
VII. and Clement XI. ? 

The Revolution had overridden 
ancient laws, and not a single Cath- 
olic was molested on account of 
his adhesion to the decrees of the 
Holy See. But the worship of the 

• Declaration^ pp. 17, 19, 21 . 



state as God makes progress in 
proportion as respect for the church 
is banished. For a bishop especi- 
ally independence is impossible; 
when he refuses to walk in the roy- 
al way of submission to the Vicar 
of Christ, he becomes, by a just 
punishment, the plaything of a 
party or the slave of the secular 
power. 

And this is the church which the 
neo-Protestants declare is calum- 
niated when the accusation of Jan- 
senism is brought against it ; the 
church which, infected with this 
poison at the very sources whence 
it poured itself abroad on the world, 
has always kept its arms open to 
receive the followers of Jansenius: 
which has always shown its readi- 
ness to sign formularies like those 
of Quesnel and Ricci, and has 
obstinately rejected the profession 
of Catholic faith ; this, in fine, i% 
the church which precipitated iistli 
into schism in order to remain 
faithful to the errors of Jansenius, 
and of Saint-Cyran, and of Quesnel ! 



A LOOKER-BACK. 



'* For as he forward mov*d his footing old 
So backward still was turn'd his wrinkled iACc"— Faerie Queene. 



II. 



Leaving Christ's Hospital, and 
rambling on, one soon comes to a 
church partly covered with ivy, in 
a yard filled with shrubbery and 
autumn flowers. It is S. Sepul- 
chre's, the burial-place of Captain 
John Smith, the Virginia pioneer. 
It is almost a sacred duty to pay 
a passing tribute to his memory, 
notwithstanding a lifelong grudge 
against him for not rounding off his 
romantic career by wedding the 



dusky Pocahontas. The clock of 
this church has the sad distinction 
of regulating the hanging of crimi- 
nals at Newgate. The tower has 
four pinnacles, each one bearing a 
vane with its own notions as to 
rectitude, which has given rise to 
the saying that " unreasonable peo- 
ple are as hard to reconcile as the 
vanes of S. Sepulchre's tower, which 
never looked all four upon one 
point of the heavens." 



A Looker-Back. 



849 



In old times, the bell of this 
church was tolled as criminals 
passed to Tyburn, and the bell-man 
cried : "All good people, pray 
heartily unto God for these poor 
sinners, who are now going to their 
death ; " for which he received the 
sum of one pound, six shillings, and 
eight pence. A hand-bell was like- 
wise rung for them to stop for a 
nosegay of flowers. It must have 
been a great consolation to them ! 
And yet who knows but such silent 
messengers of God might not have 
spoken to many a heart inaccessi- 
ble to human tongue ? 

In the XVIIth century a legacy 
of fifty pounds was left to S. Se- 
pulchre's on condition that, before 
execution-day, some one should go 
to Newgate in the dead of night, 
and give twelve solemn tolls with a 
hand-bell by way of calling atten- 
tion to the following appeal : 

*"* All you that in the condemned hole do lie, 
Prepare you, for to-morrow you must die : 
Watch, all, and pray, the hour is drawing near 
That you before the Almighty must appear : 
Bzamtne well yourselves, in time repent, 
That you may not t' eternal flames be sent ; 
And when S. Sepulchre's bell to-morrow tolls, 
The Lord have mercy on your souls ! 

Past twelve o'clock ! " 

Plucking an ivy-leaf from the 
wall of S. Sepulchre's, our pilgrim 
kept on his way. West Smithfield 
at the corner of a street brought 
our friend Fox and his martyrs to 
mind, and he turned down towards 
the square where John Rogers met 
his fate. A tablet of Scotch gran- 
ite fastened to the wall of S. Bar- 
tholomew's Hospital marks the 
spot. This tablet is protected by a 
grating, the upright rods of which 
terminate in gilded flames of most 
[lortentous brightness. He did not 
sec any such tablet around London 
recording the numberless Catholic 
martyrs of Henry VIII. and Queen 
Elizabeth's time. 

No dispassionate reader of history 
VOL. XVIII. — 54. 



can regard the church as respon- 
sible for the sufferings of the so- 
called " Marian Martyrs." But let 
us thank God that such severe pen- 
alties are now obsolete in Catholic 
and Protestant lands alike ! 

Smithfield was the ordinary place 
of execution before Tyburn was 
used. The patriot Wallace was 
executed here on S. Bartholome\y's 
eve, 1305. Shakespeare makes 
Henry V. say : " The witch in 
Smithfield shall be burned to 
ashes." In Henry VIII.'s time, 
poisoners were here boiled to death, 
as the old chronicles of the Grey 
Friars testify. Here is one quota- 
tion : " The x day of March was 
a mayde boyllyd in Smythfelde for 
poysing of divers persons." Eve- 
lyn records as late as 1652 : " Pass- 
ing by Smithfield, I saw a miserable 
creature burning, who had poisoned, 
her husband." 

But there are pleasanter memo- 
ries connected with Smithfield, or 
Smoothfield, as it was originally 
called. It was once a famous tilt- 
ing-ground. Froissart tells us how 
in 1393 " certain lords of Scotland 
came into England to get worship 
by force of arms in Smithfield-" 
Here Edward III. celebrated the 
victories of Cressy and Poitiers by 
jousts and feats of arms ; and 
Richard II., at the time of his mar- 
riage, ordered here a tournament 
of three days. 

Passing through Smithfield mar- 
ket, one soon comes to the Charter 
House (a corruption oi the French 
word Chartreuse), the old monas- 
tery of the Carthusians. The arch- 
ed gateway is the original entrance 
into the realm of silence of those 
old monks. Over it two lions 
grotesquely carved support an en- 
tablature. The lion is typical of 
solitude and the wilderness, and is 
often found represented, beside 



850 



A Looker-Back. 



the hermits of the desert. A por- 
ter leads the way at once to the 
chapel by a passage paved with 
tombstones and hung with memo- 
rial tablets. One familiar name 
on the wall makes the heart leap, 
though a modem name : 

GuLiBLMus Makepbacb Thackbray, 

Garth usiani Carthusiano. 

H. M. P. C. 

Natus, MDCCCXI. Obiit, MDCCCLXIII. 

Alumnus, MDCCCXXII-MDCCCXXVI. 

Beside this white marble slab is 
one precisely like it in memory of 
John Leech. 

The Elizabethan chapel is solemn 
and interesting with its dark oaken 
pews, its arched roof, on the key- 
stones of which are carved the 
Charter House arms, and the monu- 
mental tombs here and there. A 
bright coal-fire in an open grate 
gives it a comfortable, home-like 
aspect that must be grateful to the 
aged pensioners. And there are 
hassocks of straw for them all to 
kneel upon. Over one of the doors 
is an arch of modern stained glass, 
but with colors of unusual richness, 
or seemed so, coming in from the 
neutral tints of a dense fog. There 
is Magdalen with her golden hair, 
and the other Maries, with beauti- 
ful faces and purple, red, and 
amber robes. 

At the north of the chancel is the 
tomb of Thomas Sutton, the foun- 
der of the Charter House Hospital, 
in the style of James I.*s reign. He 
lies, cut in marble, on a marble 
tomb, with ruff and long gown, and 
hands folded palm to palm as peace- 
fully as if they never itched to ac- 
quire riches. Two men in armor 
support an inscription attesting his 
beneficence. Some persons of a 
qualifying turn do say that he was, 
like many others who are very 
charitable with their money when 
they see the impossibility of keep- 



ing it any longer in their grasp, 
guilty of what has been called the 
*'good old gentlemanly vice of 
avarice," and was the original of 
Volpone the Fox. However that 
may be, the many who are sheltered 
here have reason to roar as loudly 
as they can, and as we are told they 
uo, on the 12th of December, liih 
cracked voices and half-palsied 
tongues, the chorus of the Carthu- 
sian melody : 

^ Then blessed be the memorj 
Of good old Thomas Sutton, 

Who gave us lodjcing—leaming. 
And he gave us beef and mutton. 

Catholics, however, cannot forge: 
that when young he took part ;r 
the Italian wars, and was present t 
the sacking of Rome. At a latt: 
period he commanded a battery a^ 
a volunteer at the siege oi Edin- 
burgh, when that city held out fct 
poor Queen Mary. And he aidec 
in the expedition against the Span- 
ish Armada by fitting out a shi: 
named Sutton for himself, whit- 
captured a Spanish vessel won. 
twenty thousand pounds. '^^^ 
he came to London to reside- 
was reported that his purse »^^^ 
fuller than Queen Elizabeth's ex- 
chequer, and in time he bcc^"^ 
the banker of London, and had i^- 
freedom of the city. 

On the 1 2th of December then 
is a great festival here in honor 01 
the Fundator, and before \t i^ over 
the pensioners and school-boy* '^' 
semble in the chapel, which is Iw' 
ed, as Thackeray tells, "so ^^' 
founder's tomb, with its gToXaf'^ 
carvings, monsters, and heraldries' 
darkles and shines with the ^^ 
wonderful shadows and lights- . 

At the south end of the chapel 1^ 
a fine statue of Lord Ellenborou.^'^ 
by Chantrey, in a sitting po^^"'^^' 
robed as chief-justice He ^^" 
buried here at his own request'" 



A Looker-Back. 



851 



ing been educated in the Charter 
House, and one of its governors. 

As at Christ's Hospital, the visi- 
tor is allowed to wander alone 
through cloisters and quadrangles, 
as hushed and peaceful as when oc- 
cupied by the Carthusians them- 
selves. The pensioners (the school 
has been removed) seem to lead a 
kind of friar-life here, and in their 
seclusion ought to taste something 
of the peace of the cloister. They 
only lack the consecration of reli- 
gion. One of them in cloak and 
cap came up, bowing with remarka- 
ble flexion of body considering his 
years, and politely offered to show 
the way with quite an air of propri- 
etorship. His manner was gentle- 
manly, and he looked as if he might 
be some "disabled invalide from 
the campaign of vanity." In these 
days, when old people are apt to be 
regarded as unduly persistent about 
living, it is delightful to feel there 
are places of refuge for them like 
this, which confer a kind of dignity 
on fallen fortunes and declining life 
which is always a certain going 
down in the world. 

We wonder if there is any ser- 
vice in the English ritual when 
these old gentlemen take shelter 
here. There surely ought to be. 
Some Vadeinpace ought to follow 
them under these arches, dying 
away little by little with the hours 
and fragrance of life, and leaving 
behind silence and repose of soul. 

There is a touching custom here 
of giving the bell at night a number 
of strokes corresponding to the 
number of pensioners; and when 
one of them dies, his decease is 
notified by one stroke less than on 
the preceding evening. It was at 
the evening hour, as the chapel-bell 
began to toll, that Col. Newcome 
lifted up his head, said Adsum with 
a smile, and died. 



A bell like this must always have 
a knell-like solemnity of tone. It 
is a kind of curfew-bell, reminding 
the brothers that the evening of 
life has come, and its fires must be 
put out before lying down to rest. 
We can fancy them counting the 
strokes one by one every night, to 
learn if some light is for ever extin- 
guished. The thought often occurs 
how we old people will find heaven 
— ^whether a place all youth, and 
freshness, and beauty. Are there to 
be no shades and gradations in 
Paradise, no stars differing from 
one another in glory, or faces in 
sweetness and serenity? Are the 
very angels that are to minister to 
us there all so full of grace and 
loveliness, and perfection of form, 
and crowned with everlasting 
youth? "Will there not be some 
comforting ones, shabby and ten- 
der, whose radiance does not dazzle 
nor bewilder ; whose faces are worn 
perhaps, while their stars shine with 
a gentle, tremulous light more 
soothing to our earth-bound hearts 
than the glorious radiance of 
brighter spirits ?" Who that is old 
and sorrow-stricken, or belongs to 
the poor and unloved ones of this 
world, does not feel the need of 
some such spirits to greet him 
there— need of some shadowy, 
sequestered spot where the bright- 
ness and love of that ineffable re- 
gion will be tempered for us who 
have had but little cheer on earth, 
at least till our unaccustomed souls 
are fitted for loftier heights ? 

Many such — ^perhaps too human 
— dreams of heaven flitted across 
the mind while sitting on a bench 
beside some old graves in a yard 
at the Charter House that gloomy 
afternoon. Weary with climbing 
old stair-cases, going through old 
passages and old halls, where one 
only breathed the atmosphere of old 



^^■^S^S^u :.p- 



' ' *• 



IH^ 






\ 






852 

times, perhaps the soul had become 
infected by the gloom of the place. 

Borders of dull chrysanthemums 
grew along the gravelled walks — 
apparently a favorite flower in En- 
gland, for they are to be found 
everywhere. A few trees with 
blighted leaves, instead of bright 
autumn foliage as in America, stood 
around with nothing in the world 
to do but look well, any more than 
Voltaire's trees, but, like many poor 
mortals, did not succeed very well. 
They looked weary of the struggle, 
and had a certain bowed, resigned 
look that was pathetic. How could 
anything look fresh and vigorous in 
that field of death? One cannot 
imagine the place peopled with 
boys full of life and fun, as it used 
to be. 

The land on which the Charter 
House stands was a graveyard at 
the time of the great plague, five 
hundred years ago, being consecrat- 
ed to that purpose by Bishop Strat- 
ford, of London, in 1348. Distress- 
ed that so many of his flock should 
be buried out of consecrated ground 
during the prevalence of the plague, 
he bought three acres of land called 
"No Man's Land" for a burial- 
ground, and erected a chapel there- 
on, where Masses could be said for 
the repose of the dead. The place 
became known as Pardon Church- 
yard and Chapel. We read of an 
early instance of lynching on No 
Man's Land previous to this time, 
A wealthy merchant, one Anthony 
of Spain, so exasperated the public 
by an excessive duty on wine that 
a mob dragged him barefoot to this 
spot, and here beheaded him, in 
November, 1326 — doubtless on just 
such a dismal, foggy day as this, su- 
premely adapted to give one despe- 
rate views, and aggravate the natu- 
ral ferocity of the human animal. 

The plague continuing to in- 



crease, the church-yard was a< 
larged through the charity of Sc 
Walter Manny, of knightly fai&t. 
who purchased a piece of land ad> 
joining. An old ballad says : 

*• Thou, Walter Manny, Cambny*s lord. 
The brareit man those times record. 
Didst pity take on the wand'ring ghipsts 

Of thy departed friends. 
Didst consecrate to the Lord of Hosts 

Thy substance for religious ends.** 

The next Bishop of London. 
Michael de Northburg, when he 
died, in 1361, bequeathed two thou- 
sand pounds, with all his leases, 
rents, and tenements, towards the 
foundation of a Carthusian monas- 
tery at Pardon Church-yard, to- 
gether with an enamelled vessel of 
silver for the Host, another for holr 
water, a silver bell, and all his theo- 
logical works. Sir Walter Manny, 
desirous of co-operating in this 
work, petitioned for a royal license 
to build a monastery here, to be 
called " The House of the Salutation 
of the Mother of God," and gave to 
it the land he had bought for a grave- 
yard, consisting of thirteen acre^^ 
and one rod. Sir Walter's charter 
was witnessed by the Earl of Pem- 
broke, Edward Mortimer, Eari of 
March, and others. The monas- 
tery was completed in 1370, and 
was the fourth of the Carthusian 
Order in England. 

The London Charter House was 
furthermore endowed by several 
other persons. Two hundred and 
sixty marks were bestowed in per- 
petual frank-almoign to build a cell 
for a monk who should offer daily 
suffrages for the souls of Thomas 
Aubrey and Felicia his wife, as well 
as all the faithful departed. Rich- 
ard Clyderhowe, in 1418, gave up. 
"from reverence to God and the 
Blessed Virgin Mary, and for the 
health of his own soul and that 
of his wife Alicia, who was buried 
in the church of the convent, 



or THt *^> ^ 



A Looker-Back. 






a lease of land he held in Ro- 
chester, that these religious might, 
in their orisons, remember him, his 
soul, the soul of his wife, the souls 
of his relations, children, and all his. 
benefactors, and devoutly recom- 
mend them to God." 

It is pleasant to find the Charter 
House interchanging charitable ofii • 
ces with its neighbor, the priory 
o{ S. John of Jerusalem. They ex- 
change lands, and the prior of the 
Charter House offers a trental of 
Masses "that the soul of Brother 
William Hulles, Prior of the Hos- 
pital of S. John of Jerusalem, might 
the soop'"- be conveyed, with God*s 
providence, into Abraham's bo- 
som." 

In the XV th century the Char- 
ter House became, for the space of 
four years, the residence of Sir 
Thomas More, who here gave him- 
self up to devotion and prayer with- 
out taking upon himself any vow. 

This monastery flourished about 
three centuries with a constant re- 
putation for strict observance of the 
rules of the order and for holiness 
o( life. It was during the time 
of Prior John Houghton, in 1534, 
that it was visited by the royal 
commissioners appointed by Henry 
VIII. to inspect all the monasteries 
of the kingdom, and draw up an 
account of their rules, customs, and 
revenues. 

Most of the monks refused to 
subscribe to the king's supremacy, 
and the prior and procurator were 
committed to the Tower. They 
afterwards yielded to advice which 
they respected, but, suspected of 
disaffection, were summoned to re- 
new the oath, and the prior was ar- 
raigned for speaking too freely of 
the king's proceedings, and, with 
two other Carthusians, was con- 
demned to be hung, drawn, and 
quartered at Tyburn for refusing 



to acknowledge tne king head ot 
the church in England. As they 
were leaving the Tower to be exe- 
cuted, they were perceived by Sir 
Thomas More, imprisoned there 
for the same reason, who said to 
his favorite daughter, as if envying 
them: "Lo, dost thou not see, 
Meg, that these blessed fathers be 
now as cheerfully going to their 
deaths as bridegrpoms to their mar- 
riage ?" This was not long before his , 
own martyrdom. There is at the 
South Kensington Museum a paint- 
ing of Sir Thomas and his daughter, 
depicting this very scene. He stands 
looking down through the grated 
window. Margaret, tall and state- 
ly, with her father's left hand in 
hers, has her deep violet eyes rais- 
ed steadfastly to heaven with the 
most appealing expression ; her 
whole face calm and holy, but inex- 
pressibly sad. 

The heads of these monks were 
suspended over London Bridge — a 
bridge built, too, by religious — and 
Prior Houghton's mangled body was 
hung up over the gate of the Char- 
ter House. The next month three 
more monks of this house were ex- 
ecuted for a like reason, and the 
remainder were called upon three 
times in one year to take the oath 
of supremacy — a proof that they 
were regarded as specially loyal to 
the pope. Of the ten who had 
subscribed two years before, nine 
now refused, and were committed to 
prison at Newgate, where they were 
chained in a filthy dungeon and 
starved to death. Their end was 
announced to Cromwell as " by the 
hand of God." Their keeper, 
Bedyll, gave him a list of these poor 
martyrs, adding : " There be one 
hole." This ivhoie one survived 
an imprisonment of four years, only 
to be executed at last. 

All this did not take place with- 



8S4 



A Looker^Back. 



out some supernatural manifesta- 
tions to fortify the poor monks. 
It is recorded that "unearthly 
lights were seen in their church," 
and, at the burial of one of their 
number, all the lamps of the church 
were miraculously lighted, and one 
of the deceased brethren appeared 
to the monk who had nursed him 
in his last illness, saying that " the 
angells of pease did lamment and 
murn w*owt measur," and that 
my "lord of Rochester" and "o' 
Father" (Houghton) were" next 
unto angells in hevyn." 

The remainder of the English 
Carthusians went to Bruges, where 
they remained till the accession of 
Mary, who, at the suggestion of 
Philip, it is said, invited them back, 
and gave them the old Carthusian 
monastery at Shene, near Rich- 
mond. They were exiled again in 
Elizabeth's reign, and returned to 
Belgium. 

The south wall of the present 
chapel formed part of the old 
church in which were buried Sir 
Walter Manny, and Margaret his 
wife, and many other knights and 
dames. Prior Houghton's remains 
are supposed to be buried some- 
where within the wall now marked 
by a cross and a huge I. H. It is 
recorded of him that he was so 
meek and humble that if any one 
addressed him as "my lord," or 
with any unusual deference, he im- 
mediately rebuked him, saying: 
" It is not lawful for poor Carthu- 
sian monks to make broad their 
phylacteries, or to be called rabbi 
by their fellow-men." 

The Charter House was given to 
John Bridges, yeoman, and Thomas 
Hale, groom, as a reward for the 
safe keeping of the king's tents and 
pavilions which had been deposit- 
ed here, but it afterwards pass- 
ed through several hands. While 



owned by Lord North, Queen Kliza- 
beth spent four days here, which so 
diminished his lordship's resources 
that he was obliged to live in re- 
tirement the rest of his life. James 
I. also passed a few days here when 
it was in possession of Lord Thom- 
as Howard, in order to show his 
respect for a family that had aided 
and suffered for his mother. While 
here, he knighted more than eighty 
gentlemen — ^let us hope less awk- 
wardly than he knighted Sir Rich- 
ard Monopilies, of Castle CoUop \ 

The Charter House was finally 
purchased by Thomas Sutton, the 
founder of the hospital. It is de- 
lightful to step from the noise and 
bustle of the streets into these se- 
cluded courts with grass-plots to 
refresh the eye, lime-trees to gire 
shade, here a fountain in the midst 
of a garden, and there some old 
tombs, perhaps of the monks ; on 
this wall some holy symbol left 
here ages ago, but not in vain, for 
it still speaks to the heart; and 
scattered around are seats for the 
pensioners to enjoy the sun and 
air. 

The kitchen fireplace is capa- 
cious enough to roast fifteen sut- 
loins. What extensive means are 
always used to provide for the boJf 
which perisheth ! If at least equal 
provision were made, as in the 
times of the old monks, to supply 
the needs of the soul ! Does that 
get its three meals a day, and now 
and then a lunch or some refresh- 
ing draught } Are there none who 
labor day after day to supply the 
soul's hunger, as multitudes do to 
satisfy the cravings of the body? 
Yes, thank God! there is still an 
army of such spiritual people in the 
cloister and in the world, who onl\ 
live to feed their higher natures. 
If they care for the body, it i> 
merely enough to enable it to serve 



A Block of Gold. 



8SS 



the sou). The world may call them 
" drones," but they are necessary in 
order to preserve the moral balance 
of the world, as an offset to the 
materiality of the day. Yes, the 



hermit, the contemplative, contri- 
butes in his degree to sustain the 
world, and this is why the suppres- 
sion of such a class is an irrepar- 
able loss to society. 



A BLOCK OF GOLD. 



cc 



France paid the Prussian indem- 
nity like a proud debtor ; it seeming- 
ly did not cost her any trouble to do 
so. Few nations could do as France 
has done within the past two years; 
none have ever excelled her in can- 
celling a monetary obligation." One 
hears such remarks occasionally; 
they were quite common a few 
months past. But what was the 
French indemnity? Five milliards 
of francs — that is, five thousand mil- 
lions of francs, or one thousand mil- 
lions of dollars in gold ! To think 
of the sum is to make one feel cov^ 
tous of a chip of the block; to see 
the whole sum in one block of gold is 
almost enough to make one cry out 
with Timon — 

. . . "Thou valiant Mars! 
Thou ever young, fresh, lovM, and deUcate 



wooer. 



" Cf que €^€st que cinq milliards en 
cr montiaye /" 

Well, we did not exactly know what 
five milliards of francs in gold or 
copper were. The cool February 
evening in the year of grace 1873, 
we were accosted in front of No. — 
Boulevard St. Denis by the above 
question. At the same time a polite 
French boy hands us a handbill, 
which told us that un bloc d'or^ eight 
metres long, five metres high, and 
three and two-third metres deep, 
could be seen for fifty centimes — ten 



cents. This cube of one hundred 
and fifty metres contained one hun- 
dred thousand rouleaux of fifty thou- 
sand francs each; each one of the 
rolls — ^r(t?//^<zi/jf— contained two thou- 
sand five hundred pieces of twenty 
francs, and the whole two hundred 
and fifty million (250,000,000) pieces. 

We paid the admission fee, and 
were ushered into the room where 
the gilded cube stood. A stout lady 
sat near the door knitting ; the master 
of ceremonies was young and thin. 
We were the only visitor at 8 p.m. 
on the evening of February, 1873. 
We surveyed the cube, and ad- 
mired the ingenuity displayed in its 
make-up ; but it occurred to us at the 
time that, as a speculation, it was a 
failure. People, I thought, who have 
to pay a large debt don't care about 
being told the length, breadth, and 
height of their indebtedness ; that it 
would be, perhaps, a success at Ber- 
lin. We thanked the thin master 
of ceremonies for his attention, re- 
spectfully bowed to the stout wo- 
man plying her knitting-needles; and 
walked along the boulevard with our 
back to the Pont St. Denis, asking 
ourselves what we could or would do 
with one or five milliards of dollars. 

The other day we saw an old copy 
of the New Orleans Propagaieur Ca- 
iholique. It contained an article on 
the five milliards, which it credits to 



856 



A Block of Gold. 



the Christian Brothers — Les Frh^es 
des Ecoles Chr/tUnnes, It recalled 
our ten-cent investment of last Feb- 
ruary, and is so interesting, especially 
to all who are mathematically in- 
clined, that we translate it. 

In bank-notes of one thousand 
francs, the weight of each note being 
estimated at two grams,* the five 
milliards in paper would weigh ten 
thousand kilograms ;t in gold, one 
million six hundred and twelve thou- 
sand nine hundred ; in silver, twenty- 
five millions ; in copper, fiw^ hundred 
millions. It would take one hundred 
men to carry the five milliards in 
bank-notes of one thousand francs 
each, allowing one hundred kilo- 
grams to each man; sixteen thou- 
sand one hundred and twenty-nine, 
in gold ; two hundred and fifty thou- 
sand, in silver; five million, in cop- 
per. It would take a man to count 
the five milliards, at the rate of ten 
hours per day, and counting every 
minute sixty notes of one thousand 
francs — fifty pieces of twenty francs, 
sixty pieces of one franc, sixty 
pieces of five centimes — to count the 
notes, four months and nineteen 
days; the gold, nineteen years and 
ten days; the silver, three hundred 
and eighty years, six months, and 
eight days; the copper, seven thou- 
sand six hundred and ten years, four 
months, and seven days. 

To remove this great sum of money 
in bank-bills one wagon would suf- 
fice, it being capable of bearing ten 
thousand kilograms; in gold, one 
hundred and sixty-one and one-third 

* Nearly equal to fifteen and one-half grains 
Troy. 

t Equal to two pounds three ounces and 4.65 
drams. 



wagons ; in silver, two thousand fin 
hundred; in copper, fifty thousani 
Allowing ten metres* to each wagon, 
those carrying the gold would extend 
sixteen hundred and ten metres; 
the silver, twenty-five thousand me- 
tres ; the copper, five hundred thou- 
sand metres. 

Placing the notes of one thousand 
francs one upon another, and giving 
each one a space of one tenth of a 
millimetre,! they would ascend to a 
height of fi\Q hundred metres. The 
diameter of the five-franc piece be- 
ing equal to thirty-seven millimetres, 
the five milliards placed in the same 
direction, side to side, would form a 
chain thirty-seven millions of metres 
in length — almost the circumference 
of the earth, which is forty mil- 
lions. With one-franc pieces placed 
as the preceding, they would en- 
circle the globe twice and seven- 
eighths ; with fifty centimes — ten- 
cent pieces— four times and one-half; 
with sous — cents — sixty-two times 
and one-half! 

The Franco- Prussian war did not 
commence till July, 1870. Inside of 
three years the greatest of modern 
batdes have been lost and won, and 
the heaviest fine ever laid upon a 
nation paid, and without interfering 
with the commercial classes or any 
important interest or branch of busi- 
ness in the fair land. Great in 
science, in war, in religion, she has 
given the world a proof of her mag- 
nificent resources, and that her chil- 
dren are still proud of la belU France^ 
and filled widi the " sacrd amour dt 
la patrie" 

* The metre is equal to 39.37 inches, 
t The thousandth part of a metre. 



Vigil. — New Publications. 



8S7 



LSNT, 2874. 



VIGIL. 

Mournful night is dark around me, 
Hushed the world's conflicting din ; 

All is still, and all is tranquil, 
But this restless heart within ! 

Wakeful still I press my pillow. 
Watch the stars that float above, 

Think of One, for me who suff*ered — 
Think, and weep for grief and love ! 

Flow, ye tears ! though in your streaming 

Oft yon stars of his grow dim ; 
Sweet the tender grief he wakens, 

Blest the tears that flow for him ! 

R. S. W. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



Louise Lateau of Bois d'Haine ; her 
Life, her Ecstasies, and her Stig- 
mata. A Medical Study. By Dr. F. 
Lefebvre, Professor of General Pa- 
thology and Therapeutics in the Ca- 
tholic University of Louvain, Honorary 
Physician to the Lunatic Establishment 
in that town, Titular Member of the Roy- 
al Academy of Medicine of Belgium. 
Edited by J. Spencer Northcote, D.D. 
London : Burns & Oates. 1873. (New 
York : Sold by The Catholic Publica- 
tion Society.) 

We enjoy very much the chagrin and 
discomfiture of sceptical physicians, sci- 
entists, and other materialists^ both 
learned and vulgar, in view of the great 
number of preternatural facts, both di- 
vine and diabolical, which have been 
thrust upon their unwilling sight during 
this present half-century. Heaven and 
hell appear to rival each other in start- 
ling the shallow self-complacency and 
incredulity of the hard-headed set who 
have filled the world with their boastful 
pretence to have overcome the supersti- 
tions of ages by their experiments and 
inductions. They have tried hard to 
ignore all the supernatural or preterna- 
tural facts and phenomena of the mystic 



order which have multiplied around 
them and challenged their investigation. 
But this proves to be a signal failure. 
Especially when men who belong to 
their own professional fraternity, whose 
learning and ability in their own class of 
sciences are undoiibted, exhibit the re- 
sults of careful 5tudy and investigation 
by means of experiment and induction 
from observed facts, as proving, on their 
own principles, the folly of their stubborn 
unbelief, do they cut a very sorry figure 
by persisting in ignoring and giving the 
trameat to that which will not be ignored 
or passed over. The puerile banalities 
in vogue, such as " manifest imposture," 
"unscientific absurdity," "something 
which no intelligent person can believe," 
merely show to what straits the individ- 
uals are reduced who are forced to use 
them. They are like allusions to the 
color of an opponent's hair, or the shape 
of his nose, or the behavior of his rela- 
tives. 

The effort at some kind of scientific ex- 
planation of the strange phenomena of 
spiritism, or the wonders of the divine 
mystical order which the former class of 
manifestations ape, which is occasionally 
attempted, fares no better. It breaks 



8S8 



New Publications. 



down at a certain point. Up to that 
point there is a common ground of 
physiology, psychology, and the higher 
spiritual science ; and many things which 
appear to be beyond natural power or 
law may be explained and accounted 
for without supposing preternatural 
causes. But, ill-defined and uncertain 
as the boundary line may be, there is one, 
and one cannot pass it ver>' far without 
being aware of the fact. We do not 
complain of scientists for being critical 
and difficult in respect to facts and evi- 
dence. We do not. in reference to the 
present case, inculpate their refusal to 
believe on motives of pure faith. The 
charge against them is that they aie 
recreant to their own avowed method of 
investigation by experiment, observation, 
and induction. 

No one can prove this so conclusively, 
or rout them so completely on their own 
ground, as one of themselves, who is 
conversant with physics, and at the same 
time has some logic, philosophy, and 
sound theology in his head ; in a word, 
is, what they are not, a completely edu- 
cated man. The volume before us is a 
specimen of what we are speaking of. 
We need not enlarge on the case of 
Louise Lateau, of which we have spoken 
before, and which is generally known. 
Sufficient to say that the book before us 
is a treatise on her remarkable ecstasies 
and stigmata by a physician, and written 
after the method of medical science, 
which establishes beyond a doubt their 
miraculous cause and origin. 

The Holy Mass : The Sacrifice for the 
Living and the Dead. By Michael 
MUller, Priest of the Congregation of 
the Most Holy Redeemer. New York 
and Cincinnati : F. Pustct. 1874. 
This is a work written in the true 
spirit of S. Alphonsus. It is not a re- 
print of the work entitled The Holy Eu^ 
charisl our Greatest Treasure^ by the same 
author, but an entirely new treatise. Its 
theology is sound and solid, its spirit 
most devout, and its style simple and 
popular. It is surprising that so hard- 
working a priest as F. Miiller has been 
able to write so many excellent and edi- 
fying books, in a language, too, which is 
to him a foreign tongue. Every pious 
Catholic who reads this book will be 
charmed with it, and will find it most in- 
structive and profitable. We arc happy 
fn »)c able to give it our unqualified 



commendation, and to recommend it in 
the most earnest manner to all the faith- 
ful, as well as to Protestants who are 
seeking for the truth. 

The Life of the Ven. Anna Maria 
Taigi. Edited by Edward Healy 
Thompson, M.A. London : Burns & 
Oates ; New York : F. Pustet. 1874. 
Mr. Thompson's biographies are of the 
first class in every respect. This one has 
a special interest on account of the rela- 
tion which the life and prophecies of the 
venerable Roman matron sustain to re- 
cent and pending events of the greatest 
moment in human history. It is unfor- 
tunate that a most meagre and imperfect 
life of Anna Maria Taigi, which contains 
serious misstatements, afterwards disco v. 
ered and regretted by the author, Mgr. 
Leuquet, has been already translated and 
circulated in this country. That life 
states that its subject fell into a grievous 
sin against her marriage vows, and re- 
mained without confession for a consid- 
erable lime afterwards. This is proved 
to be false, and the fact is fully establish- 
ed that Anna Maria was pious and irre- 
proachable throughout her whole life, 
and especially so during her whole careei 
as a wife and the mother of a larg^e fami/y. 
Apart from her supernatural gifts, the 
sanctity and virtue displayed by this 
wonderful and admirable matron, in a 
laborious and humble sphere, present a 
most beautiful picture and a most en- 
gaging example to woman in the nxamo/ 
state. 

The extraordinary graces granted 10 
Anna Maria Taigi, her supernatural 
knowledge, and her remarkable predic- 
tions, have made her name famous 
throughout the world. This part of his 
subject Mr. Thompson has treated fully 
and judiciously. The exact fulfilment of 
the predictions she is known to have 
made of events already passed, especial- 
ly those relating to Pius IX., who was 
elevated to the pontifical throne nine 
years after her death, has awakened a 
most intense curiosity respecting some 
others attributed to her regarding the 
present time and the approaching future. 
These are under the hands of the com 
mission engaged with the process of her 
beatification, and have not been officially 
published. Those which are certainly 
known are inserted in the Lift, and 
others, which arc probably genuine, arc 
added in the appendix. 



New Publicatums. 



859 



The appendix closes with the following 
very apposite remarks, extracted from an 
extremely able and interesting article on 
modern current prophecies which ap- 
peared some time ago in the Civilth Catto- 
lUa : 

" It cannot be denied that the agreement 
of so many and various presages in divin- 
ing events the expectation of which is in 
the hearts of the greater number of Catho- 
lics, possesses a persuasive force, and is a 
kind of seal of high probability, if not 
certainty. Wise Christians are unani- 
mous in admitting that the church is a 
prey to a diabolical and universal perse- 
cution hitherto unexampled ; wherefore 
God must come to her aid with succors 
proportioned to the need, that is extra- 
ordinary. We find ourselves in this ex- 
treme case : that the salvation of society, 
no less than of the church, requires an 
unaccustomed intervention of Omnipo- 
tent power. If this be so, how should 
we not believe that come it will ?" 

Pleadings of the Sacred Heart op 
Jesus. From the French, with Intro- 
duction by a Catholic Priest. New 
York : The Catholic Publication So- 
ciety. 1874. 

This little work bears the imprimatur 
of Cardinal Cullen. The introduction 
states the devotion to the Sacred Heart 
succinctly. The work itself consists of a 
reading for every day in the month. 
Each reading contains an instruction fol- 
lowed by a " reflection "and a" practice," 
together with a suitable example. Every- 
thing is excellent. We most warmly re- 
commend the book to all who have or 
wish to acquire true devotion to the Sa- 
cred Heart. 

Lenten Sermons. By Paul Segneri.of 
the Society of Jesus. Vol. H. Now 
York : The Catholic Publication Soci- 
ety. 1874. 

The present volume seems to us to 
contain a better selection of sermons 
than the one published two years ago. 
Those on "Avoiding the Occasions of 
Min." on "Gaining a Brother," on "The 
Love of God in Afflicting us," on "The 
Cure of Disquieting Thoughts about 
Predestination," and " Encouragement 
to the Greatest Sinners to become the 
Greatest Saints," arc perhaps especially 
remarkable. A translation necessarily 
labors under some disadvantages, but 
we think that the work has really been 



well done in the present case, and that 
small blemishes and misconceptions of 
the author's meaning are not more fre- 
quent than must always be expected 
when a work is rendered from one Ian- 
guage into another. The English style 
of the book is good. 

All those who have the first volume 
will, we think, desire to supply them- 
selves with the second ; and those who 
get the second will no doubt send for the 
first also. Another volume, to complete 
the set, will, we believe, be prepared. 

The Dove of the Tabernacle ; or. The 
Love of Jesus in the Most Holy Eucha- 
rist. By Rev. T. H. Kinane, C.C, 
Templemore. With a Preface by His 
Grace the Most Rev. Dr. Leahy, Arch- 
bishop of Cashel. New York : P. M. 
Haverty. 1874. 

Though several ver}' good manuals of 
devotion to the Blessed Sacrament have 
lately appeared, this little book will not 
be a superfluity. It seems to us the most 
practical of them all, and the best calcu- 
lated to induce the faithful to frequently 
hear Mass and worthily receive Holy 
Communion. In these latter days of the 
world and of the church, the sacraments 
are more than ever the special channels 
of God's grace, and every word tending 
to increase devotion to the Most Holy 
Eucharist is peculiarly valuable. 

Memorial of Thomas Swing of Ohio. 

New York : The Catholic Publication 

Society. 1873. 

Without being a formal biography, this 
book presents us with the leading and 
many of the minor incidents in the life 
of an eminent statesman and jurist cover- 
ing a period of over fourscore years. 
The scope of the work embraces an au- 
tobiography, a brief biography by the 
Hon. Henry Stanbery, and a judicious 
collocation of original letters and selec- 
tions from current journals, thus ena- 
bling the reader to trace with little difli- 
culty the various stages of a remarkable 
career, and form an estimate of an equally 
remarkable character. The value 'of the 
volume is enhanced by some delicate 
sketches, original and selected, prepared 
by the daughter of the subject, and editor 
of the Mtmorial^ Mrs. Ellen Ewing Sher- 
man, wife of Gen. W. T. Sherman. 

The life of Thomas Ewing furnishes a 
very interesting study to the rising youth 
of our country, showing, as it does, hov 



86o 



New Publications. 



great difficulties may be overcome by in- 
dustry and perseverance, how purity of 
character and a noble ambition win en- 
during fame, and,^ above all, how one who 
was singularly free from the corruptions 
of worldly prosperity, and undebased by 
the temptations of power, found at last 
the grace and strength which the sacra- 
ments of the church impart. 

The child of an industrious frontiers- 
man, whose first lessons were conned by 
the light of a pine knot, and whose pri- 
mary education was paid for by his labor 
as a salt-boiler in Virginia, Mr, £wing 
rose to the first rank at the American 
bar, ..was twice elected United Stato^ 
senator, and made a member of two suc!^ 
cessive Cabinets. \Vithout wealth or 
friends, but with what to him was better," 
brains, industr}', and An unstained repn- • 
tation, he ascended • to some .of riie 
highest positions, in the land, and left 
them with ever-increasing, honor.- As a 
lawyer, he stood at the hea,d" bf his pro- 
fession before half' his life was «p«nt ; in 
the Senate, he was the coihpee/ of Webster, 
Calhoun, Clay, and Benton ; as Secretary 
of the Treasury under Harrison, and of the 
Interior Aind^r Ta3»lor, his foresight, hon- 
esty, and executive ability were freely 
and fully acknowledged by his associates. 

But great as was his life — if genius 
and goodness constitute greatness — he 
was even greater in his death. For near- 
ly forty years he had been contemplating 
the possibility of becoming a Catholic ; 
for, though entertaining a profound re- 
spect for Christians of all denominations, 
he could not satisfy his acute and logical 
mind with the teachings of any of the 
sects. It was, however, only a week be- 
fore his death that the grace of conversion 
was vouchsafed him, and then, at his own 
request, he was admitted into the church, 
and shortly before his death received the 
last sacraments from the hands of the 
Most Rev. Archbishop Purcell, of Cincin. 
nati. His long years of conscientious 
study and examination, his sincere pray- 
ers and unostentatious charity, were at 
length re\vardcd, and he was made a 
child of the church to which his beloved 
wife (long since deceased) belonged, and 
of which his children are faithful mem- 
bers. In these days of doubt and official 
dishonesty, few better examples could be 
held liefore the coining statesmen of the 
countrj'. 

We cannot close this notice without 
calling attention to the very elegant man- 



ner in which the Memorial has been 
brought out. The paper is superior, the 
type large* and distinct, the illustrations 
excellent, and the binding in rare good 
taste. 

The Works of S. Augustine. Vol. IX. 
On Christian Doctrine, The Enchiri- 
dion, etc. Vol. X. Lectures on S. John, 
Vol. I. Edinburgh : T. & T. Clark. 
1873. (New York ; Sold by The Catho- 
lic Publication Society.) 
We have expressed our opinion 90 
fully of the value of the previous trans- 
lations in this series, that we only deem 
it necessary to say that the high reputa- 
tion already achieved is well sustained 
by the present issues. 

BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS RECEIVED. 

From Dick & Fitzgerald, New York: Tie 
Ouly Complete Ready Reckoner. xSmo.pp. 
913. 

From P. 0*Sksa, New York : The Pride of Lei- 
ington. By William Seton. xamo, itp. 36:. 

From Kelly, Pibt & Co., BsdtimoTc: In S\x 
Months. By Mary M. Meline. i8mo.pp.a9^ 

From Burks ft Oaths, London (Sold by Tbc 
Catholic Publication Society, New York): 
True to Trust xamo, pp. 344. 

From ScRiBNER, Armstrong A Co.^ New York: 
My Kalulu. By Henry M. Stanley, rsmo. 
pp. xiv.-432. 

From Thb Society • ProceedinRS of tbe Fifth 
Annual Session of the American Phi1olo{r>cai 
Society, held at Easton, Pa., July, 1873. ^ro. 
paper, pp. 34. 

From TuE Secretary of the Ikteri«: An- 
nual Report of the Operations of the D«t«v 
ment for the year 1873. 8vo, paper, pp. 36. 

From J. R. Daly & Co., St. Louis : Response et 
the Hon. John Mag wire to a Resolution of the 
National Labor Council ; also, An Address by 
the Hon. R. F. Wingate on Americin Fi- 
nance. 8vo, paper, pp. 32. 

From P. F. Ci^ningham & Sox, Phtladelphit : 
A Sermon by the V^ Rev. James O'Conuor, 
D.D., preached at the Month's Mind for the V. 
Rev. Edward McMahon, Nov. 13, 1873. Svo. 
paper, pp. 15. 

From T., New York : Truth, bmo, paper, pp. 

46. 

From The Author : Speech of Alderman Sam- 
uel B. H. Vance in Relation to the Nomina- 
tion of Police Justices for the City of New 
York. Svo, paper, pp. 21. 

From HuRD & Hoit.hton. New York: Casar- 
ism. By " Burleigh," of the B^ien Journal. 
Svo, paper, pp. 36. 

From Masters, Lee & Stove, Syracuse : College 
of Fine Arts of tbe Syracuse University. Svo, 
paper, pp. xt. 






3 blDS 007 3S0 SIS <i ^1*3 



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STANFORD UNIVERSITY 

UBRARY 

Stanford, California